#Declaration of Disclosure

[breserker]

also re; evangelical american churches requiring naught but a sign up sheet to convert to: the easier it is to convert the closer my brain fires off to "its a cult" !!!

double check your pagan witchery isnt eating cultures like a smorgasbord (you have to check the Tendencies as a Whole not the Single Beings/Practices youve heard might be an issue. but also stop buying sage this instant the commercialization of it is killing the plant and the indigenous cultures that rely on it)

dont get me started on wicca!!

lastly i guess, different knowledge systems exists. ive heard this said as "different ways of knowing" but i feel thats so easily dumbed down or co opted. its not just "differently interpreting" something it is a complete upset of what you think "to know" is. not everybody "knows" the same way. the easiest example i think most of my followers can agree with is knowing via neurodivergence vs a non neurodivergent world. but whole cultures have different systems of knowledge too. how they look at and understand the world. this i think is why conversion should never be a sign up sheet and a "its just that easy!" and why i get wary stuff that streamlines spirituality for consumption is culty or taking advantage of you at least

n if for some reason my "i just woke up" rant makes u feel bad idk its fine. all spirituality is a journey and yours has already started. this isnt a full stop this is just turning. u know? anyway

[pucksandpower]

Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah

Lance Stroll x Reader

Summary: you celebrate Hanukkah with your boyfriend and his family for the first time

The warm glow of the chandelier fills the Strolls’ spacious dining room, casting soft golden light across the table laden with brisket, latkes, and an assortment of other dishes you can’t name but are determined to try.

Lance is at your side, leaning slightly back in his chair, one arm casually slung over the back of yours. His fingers tap absently at your shoulder as if to remind you he’s here. You appreciate it, considering the nerves humming through your body.

Chloe is mid-sentence, waving her fork with a flourish. “I’m just saying, it’s not Hanukkah without the family dreidel tournament. We’re doing it after dinner. Non-negotiable.”

Scotty laughs, his easy smile lighting up the room. “Is that because you win every year? You rig the rules.”

Chloe gasps. “Excuse me? I’m just naturally gifted at spinning a piece of wood. Don’t be jealous.”

Across the table, Lawrence clears his throat, his deep voice effortlessly cutting through the chatter. “It’s not about winning. It’s about tradition. And teaching new traditions to the ones joining us.” His gaze lands on you, warm but expectant.

You manage a smile. “I’m looking forward to it. Though, full disclosure, I’ve never played before.”

Lance grins, nudging you gently. “Don’t worry. It’s easy. You spin, you win, you make Chloe mad — just like the rest of us.”

Chloe throws a latke at him. “You wish. Y/N, you’re on my team.”

“Since when are there teams?” Scotty interjects.

“Since I just made them up,” Chloe retorts, flipping her hair dramatically.

Lawrence raises an eyebrow, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can we finish the meal before declaring war?”

You glance at Lance, whispering under your breath, “Is it always like this?”

He chuckles softly. “You have no idea.”

***

Later, the dining table is cleared of the few sufganiyot left over from dessert, replaced by a small bowl of shiny chocolate gelt and an ancient, slightly chipped dreidel. You sit cross-legged on the plush rug, between Lance and Chloe, as Scotty reads out the rules like a referee.

“Alright, reminder for everyone, especially the newbies,” he winks at you. “Nun, nothing happens. Gimel, you get everything. Hey, you get half. Shin, you give one up. Simple enough?”

“Simple,” you repeat, though the Hebrew letters are a jumble in your mind.

Chloe elbows you lightly. “Beginner’s luck is real. You’ll probably clean us all out.”

“Unless Lance decides to show off,” Scotty teases, earning an eye roll from your boyfriend.

Lance picks up the dreidel, turning it over in his hands like it’s a piece of racing equipment he’s testing for flaws. “It’s just a dreidel. Relax.”

“You’re taking forever,” Chloe says. “Y/N, you go first.”

Your stomach flips. All eyes are on you, even Lawrence’s, though his expression remains unreadable. You pick up the dreidel, the smooth wood cool in your palm. Lance leans in slightly, his voice low and playful. “Just flick it. Not too hard, or it’ll bounce into next week.”

“Great advice,” you deadpan, shooting him a look.

He grins, completely unrepentant.

Taking a breath, you spin. The dreidel whirls across the hardwood, the letters blurring. It wobbles, then falls. Gimel.

“Are you serious?” Chloe groans. “She’s taking all the gelt already?”

You laugh, half in relief, half in disbelief, as Lance tosses his hands up. “What did I tell you? Beginner’s luck!”

Lawrence leans back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement. “You’re off to a strong start.”

The game continues, the room filling with laughter and playful jabs. Chloe accuses Scotty of cheating. Scotty retaliates by stealing a piece of her chocolate. Lance spins for so long at one point that you’re convinced he’s figured out how to defy the laws of physics. Through it all, you feel yourself relaxing, the initial nerves melting away like wax from the menorah candles.

At one point, Lance nudges you with his knee. “Having fun?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you admit. “Though I think Chloe’s plotting my downfall.”

“She plots everyone’s downfall,” he says with a grin, then leans closer, his voice dropping. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

You glance at him, curious. “At what? Playing dreidel?”

“No,” he says softly, his gaze steady. “Fitting in.”

The words catch you off guard, simple as they are. You search his face, wondering if he realizes how much they mean to you. Before you can respond, Chloe interrupts, declaring, “Okay, I’m done losing. Let’s light the candles.”

***

The family gathers around the menorah, the room growing quieter. Lance stands beside you, his arm brushing yours. Lawrence picks up the shamash, his movements deliberate, reverent. He lights the next candle, the tiny flame flickering before it steadies.

The prayer begins, and you listen, the unfamiliar Hebrew washing over you like a melody you don’t know the words to but can still hum along with. Lance’s voice is low, confident, blending seamlessly with his family’s.

You wonder if he learned this as a child, if the sound of it feels like home to him.

When it’s over, Chloe turns to you with a mischievous grin. “So, Y/N. First Hanukkah with the Strolls. How’s it going?”

You hesitate, suddenly aware of all the eyes on you. “It’s … a lot to take in. But in the best way. I mean, I’ve never celebrated Hanukkah before, so this is all new. But it’s-” You glance at Lance, then back at the others. “It’s really nice. Warm. I feel lucky to be here.”

Lawrence nods, his expression softening. “We’re glad you’re here.”

“And,” Chloe adds, “you’re way better at dreidel than Lance, so you’re already winning.”

“Hey!” Lance protests, feigning indignation. “I’m right here.”

“Exactly,” she says, laughing.

You can’t help but smile, your earlier nerves now replaced by a quiet sense of belonging. As the candles burn lower, the conversations drift to other topics — racing, snowboarding, hockey, upcoming travel plans, Chloe’s latest song idea. Lance keeps his hand on your knee, a subtle anchor in the midst of the lively chaos.

Later, as the evening winds down and the family begins to disperse, Lance pulls you aside. The room is quieter now, the glow of the menorah casting long shadows. He tugs you close, his arms looping loosely around your waist.

“You survived,” he says, his voice warm with teasing.

“Barely,” you reply, though you’re smiling. “Your family is … intense. In a good way.”

“They like you,” he says simply, then adds with a smirk, “Even my dad.”

“High praise,” you tease back.

He grows quieter, his gaze softening. “Seriously, though. You were great tonight. I know this was a big deal for you, trying something new. I’m proud of you.”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks, Lance. I-” You pause, struggling to find the right words. “I just wanted to do it right. For you. For them.”

“You did,” he says firmly. “More than right.”

The flicker of candlelight dances in his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost lost in the stillness.

Your breath catches, and for a second, all you can do is stare at him. Then you smile, the kind of smile that starts deep in your chest and spreads like warmth through your whole body.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

And in the quiet glow of the menorah, with the scent of candles and laughter lingering in the air, you realize that this — this messy, lively, imperfectly perfect night — is what family feels like.

[elierlick]

What’s the real story behind “outside agitators?” Joe Biden, the NYPD, and others have been slandering anti-genocide activists with the phrase since protests began in 2023. I did a deep dive into its history via news and book archives. The term is actually much older than you might think.

The concept of "outside agitators" gained prominence to defend slavery during the Bleeding Kansas conflict of the 1850s. The fight broke out over whether to admit Kansas as a free or slave state. White supremacists claimed abolitionists were “outside agitators” and “anti-slavery squatters” (see the 3rd image). After the North won the Civil War, racist Southerners then accused progressive “outside agitators” of “deluding” the newly freed Black population into believing they were equal to whites (4th image).

The term spiked again in the early 1900s during the fights for suffrage and unions (5th-6th images). Unionists found the accusation ridiculous. Working people don’t need to be union members to participate in supporting them!

The term gained prominence again in the 1960s to defend segregation, reaching a peak in 1969. It became so prevalent that the left began to make fun of Southerners using it so often (7th image). Devout racists, including President Truman and Alabama Governor John Patterson, even called the most respectable protesters “outside agitators.”

When my friends and I were called “outside agitators” at Columbia by our mayor Eric Adams, he wasn’t entirely wrong. We weren’t students and we were there to agitate as Jews for Palestinian liberation. We are invested in our communities and want institutions in our city to reject genocide. Is that a morally harmful position to take? Or is it necessary to ensure disclosure, divestment, and amnesty for students?

They call us "outside agitators" because they know we will win. And after the dust settles, even the most milquetoast liberals will tease those declaring protesters "paid," "ignorant," or "dishonest." It wasn't outside agitators who won suffrage, unions, or healthcare, after all. It was the people.

[prokopetz]

Inadvisable tabletop RPG premises #137: a game which uses a variant of the "express" version of Eleusis as its conflict resolution mechanic. At the start of each conflict scene, the secret rule is selected from amongst a deck of pre-defined options, possibly with separate decks for easy, medium and hard conflicts (i.e., with the latter containing rules which are more complex or difficult to reason about). The rule is known only to the GM, who declares success or failure of tasks based on the legality of the associated card plays.

Possession of relevant skills/attributes allows retries in the event of an error, while elevated difficulty may be expressed by being required to correctly play two or even three cards in a row, without disclosure of which card(s) were mistaken. Hand size is initially fixed (i.e., all plays are immediately redrawn), with "damage" represented by reducing one's hand size for the remainder of the conflict. Certain character-specific "super moves" can only be activated by correctly guessing the current rule, yielding a large one-time benefit in exchange for causing a new rule to be drawn, thus invalidating all prior knowledge.

[deepdreamnights]

Using Vidu to Make Character Turnarounds

Disclosure: I am in the Vidu Artist Program.

Having (at the very least) front and back reference greatly improves the quality of character image prompting. And very often, one finds that they were lazy and only got a couple of bits of character reference. Or they have tons of it in the wrong art style.

A character like Wally Manmoth requires some good reference to work right.

Now, it's not that hard to prompt up something that matches close enough and then modifying the stuff manually until it works, such as I did with TriceraBruce and DeinoSteve:

You can tell Steve's the bad boy because he's got a cool rip in the back of his jacket.

But for Wally, I decided to try out Vidu as a means of getting turnaround frames.

So I loaded Wally's front-view pic (above) into the image-to-video feature, and prompted with:

vintage traditional animation scene (1985) humanoid mammoth/furry elephant wearing a red hawaiian shirt and blue shorts, by filmation and sunbow productions, 90s colors, friendly on green background, streamlined black line art with cel shaded vintage cartoon color, official media, character design fullbody shot on green background. The mammoth-anthro starts facing the camera, turning around to face away from the viewer, providing a view of his back.

I gave it two shots at the 720x quality setting (12 points per, total of 24), and got:

Huh. Weird it happened twice, etc.

This demonstrates both that the tech is viable for this use, and the reason you'd want to have that multi-view reference. The robot clearly assumes that a luau shirt would have a large print on the back, whereas wally's is a more basic print. That's ultra easy to fix, though.

I started by exporting the last frame of each (or close to it, picking the one that looks cleanest)

While its image editing features and often touch-and-go, one thing the Midjourney edit feature has going for it is it's utility as an upscaler. You load the image in, make your tweaks (just a little bit of background if you're just upscaling) and then upscale and at the very least you have 2048x2048 worth of resolution.

I used the midjourney edit process, that got those two images to the following state, as a test.

The results are good, but getting the large trees to erase-and-replace out took several attempts, and just doing it in photoshop then using the editor to upscale would have been faster.

This is why we do tests.

I went with the slightly-at-an-angle one for the main reference sheet. I'll be keeping the straight-on-back-shot in case it winds up being useful for specific scenes down the line.

In photoshop, I touched up the shirt print, made sure the colors where consistent, and simplified the hair coloration to something more period-plausible.

No more giant trees on the back! On the other hand, I think the feet sprouting toes on the heel is going to be something I'll be fixing frame-by-frame until there's another revision.

Human characters will induce these issues less often. I just stick with my genre of choice.

Midjourney was not cooperating with TyrannoMax (it really doesn't like giving him the proportions I like, preferring to make him a weird big-head salamander), so I went the same direction, resulting in this stage 1 front/back:

Only Midjourney refused to work with it, at all. Declaring everything that came out of it too lewd for its internal censor. Apparently, this hunky relative of cheesasaurus rex is too sexy for general consumption. Nevermind that it's a cartoon lizard in a shade tangello orange.

The workaround is too dumb for words.

Slam the hue slider until it's off anything that could be perceived as a human skintone.

Then make the modifications. Here I had to rework the leg several times, and do a lot of tweaking to remove-overinking. Then I popped it back out, droped it back into lineart, re-colored it, and and composited it back together:

And voila, a front and back for Max. I shortened his tail, as the longer tails have been causing problems with confusing the image prompting systems. The armor skirt has scallops to accommodate the tail, which looked better more consistently than the flaps folding around the tail.

The results are, thus far, encouraging.

Of course, if the back of your character has any unexpected details, you're going to have to add those in after the fact or include them in the prompting, and you're going to be making a lot of edits regardless (as you should).

Oh, and Max has a sword now.

A blade of amber crystal with a fossilized femur grip and a faceted dino-eye that should be far enough away from the Eye of Thundera for safety. A roleplay-toy friendly trademark weapon, usually a sword, was a must-have for 80s action-adventure lines despite the fact that you'd never see it used on anything that wasn't a robot, living statue, or skeleton.

Thus the sword's gimmick is it cleaves through non-living matter with ease but anything BS&P doesn't want subjected to a stabbin's is encased in amber crystal: locked in place if partially encased, put into suspended animation if fully encased. A nice, nonlethal use for a magic sword.

It's proportioned like a gladius, but is generally interpreted as larger, approaching a broadsword, in keeping with the generally ridiculous blade sizes of kidvid fantasy. They're just more fun when they're stupidly huge.

Is "Sword of Eons" too on the nose?

[coochiequeens]

This is exactly what feminists warned of.

By Marielena Meder February 8, 2025

Convicted criminals in Germany are endorsing Germany’s new gender self-identification law for allowing them to easily hide their pasts by changing their identities. One violent criminal, Mirko Guth, even spoke to local press about his plans to change his legal sex and name by claiming to be transgender.

Guth, who spent several years in prison for violent crimes and aggravated robbery, described using the gender self-identification law to hide his past as a “fuck you to the state,” complaining that he had struggled with difficulties in opening bank accounts and obtaining mobile phone plans due to his lengthy record of serious offenses.

After the Self-Determination Act came into effect in Germany on November 1, 2024, individuals were permitted to change their legal sex and name through a simple declaration at the registry office. The new law also included a disclosure ban, which prohibits passing on the real sex and former name without consent and imposes harsh penalties for those who “misgender” or “deadname” a person who has changed their legal identity.

“This is the paragraph that erases my past,” Guth told Die Welt regarding the disclosure ban. “I am bankrupt and can’t get work contracts anymore. If I become a woman, I can have a mobile phone, an Amazon account, and a Netflix account again.”

“I can’t be mistaken for a woman. I believe I don’t have a single feminine trait,” Guth, who is bald and covered in tattoos told Die Welt. “I’m doing this out of desperation.”

Guth reports that he first got the idea to take advantage of the law from a woman he had worked with at the youth welfare office. After being released from prison, Guth had attempted to offer his services as a “reformed criminal” to a youth-focused organization called “Gefangene helfen Jugendlichen e.V“ (Prisoners Help Youth). This association of former prisoners organized prison visits, conducted school prevention education, and offered anti-violence training intended to steer at-risk kids away from a life of crime.

However, the state cut off financial support for the association in 2024, leaving Guth dejected. He then pursued changing his legal sex and name.

Guth reports that many of his friends with criminal records will similarly seek to change their legal sex and names under the law. But not only do they seek to erase their past, they also plan to deliberately invade women’s washrooms and locker rooms, hoping to be thrown out so they can sue for discrimination and collect compensation.

There have been several cases in Germany involving trans-identified males demanding money after being denied access to women-only spaces. As previously reported by Reduxx, a man in Bavaria named Nicolas “Laura” Holstein was awarded €1,000 after being refused membership to a women’s-only gym.

Doris Lange, the owner of Lady’s First fitness studio, reported that one week after she was ordered to pay a €1,000 fine, she received a demand from Holstein’s lawyers for an additional €2,500 in compensation, along with a threat of a €5,000 penalty if she were to deny him access to the women-only gym in the future.

In another case, a neo-Nazi changed his legal name and sex, and is now suing a child safeguarding advocate for referring to him as a “man” without his consent. Last month, Reduxx spoke exclusively with Josefine Barbaric, the chairwoman of the association of Nein, lass das! e.V. (No, don’t do that!) for the prevention of sexual violence against children and adolescents, from whom “Maria-Svenja” Lieblich is now demanding €15,000 in “discrimination” compensation.

Barbaric is also being ordered to sign a cease-and-desist declaration, which would entitle Liebich to collect a €10,000 fine from her if she ever misgender him in the future and is raising funds for her legal defense. 

In addition to hiding their criminal past and finding an easy payday, some men have admitted to using the self-determination law to avoid conscription and commit bank fraud.

One man who spoke to Die Welt said he hoped to avoid military service by altering his legal sex to “female” in the event a war broke out in Germany. However, the law does include a specific regulation forbidding sudden “sex changes” in the midst of impending or active war.

In other cases, men have planned to open multiple bank accounts in different federal states, obtain loans, withdraw the money, and then change their gender identity and name.

Spokespersons from Commerzbank and the Federal Association of German Banks (BdB) have expressed doubts that this plan would work, as they only grant significant overdrafts and loans if regular net income, for example from salary payments, is present in the account. However, a criminal in Berlin pulled off a similar heist in 2023, prior to the introduction of the Self-Determination Act.

The 32-year-old man claimed to be “transgender” at several registry offices, and thus obtained new personal documents multiple times. With the obtained documents, he opened several bank accounts, withdrew the money, entered into contracts with mobile phone providers, and made online purchases. According to the public prosecutor’s office, further investigations are pending against the accused for the same fraudulent scheme.

The police union had previously warned that easing the regulations around changing legal documents would open the floodgates to criminals seeking to use the law to avoid detection or commit further crimes. Registrars and government officials have also expressed fears of becoming the targets of discrimination complaints if they refuse or question the motives of some change requests.

Since the implementation of the Self-Determination Act at the end of November, almost 15.000 individuals in Germany have altered their legal sex. This figure significantly surpasses the initial estimate of 4,000 changes per year.

[reality-detective]

Pay attention to Turkey. 🇹🇷

Pay attention to Iraq. 🇮🇶

Pay attention to Russia. 🇷🇺

Pay attention to Saudi Arabia. 🇸🇦

Pay Attention to Europe. 🇪🇺

Why?

Because these are the countries that are doing the dirty work by subduing Israel. 🇮🇱

Not Donald Trump!

D. Trump did his job when he offered Benjamin Netanyahu a peace deal. It was declined. You have to understand Iraq is going to be the power house next to America in the Middle East. Not Israel.

How?

Because Israel does not control the trade routes required in order to have the contracts needed to have close diplomatic ties with other countries that share their views of conquests who will support them. That is why Benjamin Netanyahu came crying to the US Congress for more money.

Everyone reading this needs to look up the Iraqi Development Road Project. This is the momentum needed in order to pull off what B. Netanyahu is attempting to do in Gaza. But he can't. Because Saudi Arabia is in the process of recognizing them as a state.

Guess who is not coming out against this?

Donald Trump. You have not seen anything on D. Trump's social media accounts denouncing this maneuver by Saudi Arabia who will ultimately defeat Israel.

Stop looking for D. Trump to verbally assault Israel.

Stop looking for D. Trump to say anything negative about Benjamin Netanyahu.

Stop looking for D. Trump to come out and denounce war against terrorism.

None of this is neccessary. When there is a sting op occurring the honey pot is placed to attract the bees away from the nest that is being removed. Who could be the honey pot(the distraction) Donald Trump?

You do not have to swat a single bee. While they are distracted with the honey you can peacefully remove the hive and get rid of all of them without using any spray. Especially if the queen is no longer there.

The Monarch gone.

The Rothschilds trapped.

The Deep State in panic.

The media is useless.

The puppet masters removed.

The Normies are clueless.

But you who are paying attention are "The New Republic".

You all need to start acting that way. You can not run around reacting to everything like the general public is doing. What use will you be once disclosure gets here and they run to you and you are just as confused as they are?

Please, nothing is happening haphazardly in any regard. You are watching a controlled demolition of the old guard in slow motion. That way as it is happening you can learn about all the agendas that were created to enslave you and be prepared to share that with others who are oblivious to everything you are reading here.

The WTO announcement already that the world is waiting on Iraq. Not Israel. They are a non factor. Which is why they are being ignored and have no major trade deals on the level that Iraq has. No competition. Why do you think China removed Israel off of their largest map platform 24 hrs after the Belfour Declaration expired late October 31st last year?

But that was just a coincidence right?

F♤ck outta here with that sh¡t. 🤔

[venus-haze]

Baby Let's Play House (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: After noticing your exhaustion in trying to balance managing Homelander’s day-to-day and your relationship with him, he decides that you’d be happier behind a white picket fence than an office desk. You initially agree, but the housewarming party you throw reveals how differently the two of you view your relationship.

Note: This can be read as being related to My Destruction Is an Hour Late, but you don’t need to read that to understand what’s happening in this. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. First time incorporating Homelander’s perspective into a fic, also I took some creative liberties on how his costume works. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: Homelander is his own warning (I never tag his stuff as yandere because that’s just how he is), but toxic relationship that includes possessive tendencies, gaslighting, guilting. Mirrorlander makes an awful, misogynistic appearance. Sexually explicit content which involves coercion/dubcon, oral (m. receiving), brief orgasm denial and choking. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Dating your direct superior was undoubtedly an ethics violation, but the trembling HR manager who signed off on Vought’s workplace relationship disclosure form couldn’t conjure up any protests when Homelander and you showed up at her office to make your relationship “HR official.” When you’d expressed concern about how dating him would affect your career, he scoffed, ‘What are you talking about? Babe, I am your career.’ You faltered under the weight of his gaze, knowing full well he could hear your heart skipping frantically along as you thanked him for his reassurance.

He’d resisted the idea at first, one you brought up almost immediately after you’d become his girlfriend and he gave you a promotion. He was The Homelander. He didn’t need Vought’s permission to date you. It wasn’t until you reframed it as a declaration rather than permission that he was on board. Stan Edgar could read the damn form and weep. No more publicity relationships, not when he had you. It didn’t take long for things to spiral out of control from there.

Your coworkers treated you differently, with a nervous politeness that was unsettling and isolating. Loneliness settled in soon after, almost as if by design. Suddenly, Homelander was the only one you could turn to, and by the nature of your job, he was almost always there, ready to fill whatever emotional void you needed filled, from co-worker to lover. He thrived off of your dependence, each display of it a hit that coursed through his veins. An addict in thought, he couldn’t get enough of you. 

When he brought up this idea to you, not long after his grandiose proposal, you welcomed it. A cozy house in the suburbs didn’t sound so bad compared to the whirlwind of your responsibilities at Vought managing Homelander’s day to day on top of your relationship with him. 

Now, as you walked up the pathway to the front door with the last of the groceries you’d needed before the housewarming party you were hosting the following night, the white posts of the picket fence that surrounded the house looked more like teeth rising out of the ground to devour you, red roses planted along the perimeter painted droplets of blood on the unhinged jaw. You knew it was never your choice. 

Most of the time, things were good, and you and Homelander fell into a comfortable, domestic rhythm. When things were bad, however, there was nothing you could do but sit back and wait for it to end. That hadn’t happened in a while, and despite your excitement for the party, you could tell he wasn’t nearly as enthused. You foolishly hoped that the night you’d been planning for weeks wouldn’t end in disaster.

Almost as soon as you finished unpacking the groceries you’d bought, you considered what to make for dinner. Despite Homelander’s enhanced palette, he wasn’t that picky when it came to your meals. You wished he expressed some preference, though, since your Pinterest board for recipes was out of hand, even with your organizing it as best as you could.

“Hey babe,” Homelander greeted you with a smack on the ass, a domestic yet outdated gesture he favored upon seeing you in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”

He never used the services of Vought’s chefs after you and he began “going steady,” even though he did like their food more than yours objectively. Getting food cooked by a chef in an industrial kitchen and then brought up by an intern was too impersonal. You cooked with love, always adding a personal touch that made even the overcooked chicken cacciatore you’d served a few nights before worth eating. 

“Do you consider soup a meal?” 

“What is this, a Seinfeld episode?” he asked. “I don’t know. I guess it depends on the soup.”

“French onion.”

“That’s basically a deconstructed French dip. Sure, that’s a meal.”

“Perfect, I’ll make that, then.” you said. “I’m so excited for the party tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a blast,” he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter and folding his arms across his chest.

“C’mon, I get to spend the whole night showing off my amazing fiance and our incredible home,” you smiled, giving him a kiss on his clenched jaw.

His pouty mood cracked just the slightest bit, though he didn’t like how your attention had been all over the place in the week or so leading up to the housewarming party rather than solely on him. It was all you could talk about, and to add insult to injury, you’d started ordering him around far too much for his liking. You’d ask about his day as if it were an obligation to do so, a segue into ‘Pick up these streamers’ and ‘Remember to ask Jason and Patricia about their baby’ and ‘Tell Vought you need to be home by five.’

His biggest reason for even getting you this house and convincing you to quit your job at Vought was so you’d have more time for him. Even though your work schedule had been mostly dictated by him, you found yourself exhausted most nights, passing out in bed almost as soon as dinner was over. That was no fun at all.

Far too soon for his liking the next day, your stupid friends made their way up the street and to the house, bottles of wine and wrapped gifts in tow. He realized that he shouldn’t have left so much of the planning to you. To his displeasure, the guests were evenly co-ed. Though your hugs and greetings to the men who entered your home were polite and platonic, he didn’t like it. Not one damn bit. Who the fuck kissed someone’s cheek as a greeting anymore anyway?

He watched as you played hostess, a tornado of hospitality as you ran yourself in circles around the house to refill drinks and jump in on conversations. You looked like you were having the time of your life, and his gloved hands balled into fists at his side every moment your attention wasn’t squarely on him, especially when you were all dressed up the way you were. None of them deserved to see how perfect you looked.

Finally, he crept up on you while you were speaking with your old college roommates who’d asked you to give the details on how you and Homelander got together. He was more than happy to indulge them, his arm tight around your waist as he took control of the narrative.

The version of the story that left Homelander’s mouth almost made you choke on your own spit. Of course, it started at work, with you harboring a crush on Homelander for far longer than he’d even noticed you. Your persistence was cute, though, and soon enough you’d wormed your way into his routine. Curious about your infatuation, Homelander would make excuses to keep you in the office late, until the projects became canoodling. He’d finally asked you out on a date, and you graciously offered to cook dinner for him. 

He’d flipped the whole thing on its head. You had helped him with one project, and in the months spent building up your reliability, he was the one who’d become infatuated with you, until almost your entire life revolved around him. His story was far more palatable, as evidenced by your friends’ expressions of congratulations and how lucky you were.

You supposed you were lucky in a way. Homelander made sure you had nothing to worry about, except for him, of course. His moods were increasingly volatile as he was slowly pushed out of the spotlight of The Seven. The glance he gave you, loving to the untrained eye, was a warning. Despite your hope that the housewarming party would open up Homelander to the idea of you getting a bit more social interaction outside of just him, it was proving to have the opposite effect. 

Then again, he never wanted to have a good time at the party, as you dejectedly reminded yourself. It was a shame, your friends all seemed to like him well enough, even if you did catch him being backhandedly rude to some of them a few times that night. He was so good at pretending when it came to the fans he supposedly hated so much. You weren’t sure why he couldn’t put up a front for a few hours for your friends.

By the time everyone left, you were exhausted. Drained physically and mentally from the demands of the party and your fiance, you were glad you’d opted for disposable plates and cups. The little clean up you had to take care of was just manageable enough to take care of before you headed up to bed.

“Glad that’s over,” Homelander said, drying the charcuterie board you’d handed him.

“Why were you so determined not to have fun tonight?” you asked.

“Excuse me if I don’t find entertaining your idiotic friends fun.”

“Then you suck it up and pretend, for me.”

“Don’t—don’t pull that.”

“Pull what?”

“That ‘for me’ thing. Everything I do is for you,” he said, huffing before lowering his voice, his icy glare making your breath catch in your throat. “You don’t need them. You don’t need anybody. Not when you have me.”

“Homelander, codependency isn’t—“

“Don’t pathologize me!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the granite countertop which cracked from the force he used. Upon noticing your terrified expression, he drew back a bit, letting out an unnerving laugh in an attempt to ease the tension he’d created. “You almost made me lose my temper there, missy.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, wide-eyed as you moved to take a tentative step back from him.

He quickly grabbed your arm, keeping you in place. “I know you are, darling, but a love like ours–it can’t be put into clinical terms.”

Fuck. You hit that specific nerve. It took him a while to open up about his childhood, the real one, not the Midwest little leaguer who loved god, mom, and the good ol’ US of A, in that order. That story sold comic books, it was comforting to watch on screen, the warm apple pie with a scoop of melting vanilla ice cream. Not even born in a lab, by his own accounts, but dumped from a test tube and caged like any other animal used for experimentation. Except Homelander had been a boy, scared and alone as white coats filtered in and out of exam rooms and testing labs, poking and prodding. Though, torturing was more like it, pushing him to see the extent of his powers, whether their unbreakable hero was truly unbreakable. Then he was unleashed onto the world, the weight of it on his shoulders.

Something was wrong with him, psychologically at least, and you knew the unhealthy fixation on your relationship as his sole source of emotional fulfillment would have sent you packing if it were anyone else. Every time you considered leaving, as if you even could, you just as quickly thought of how scared and hurt the most powerful man in the world looked when he recounted every painful experiment he endured, the plethora of human rights violations that became so entrenched in his identity. The ensuing tug of empathy and guilt at your heartstrings made you stay.

Still, you had to let him know that you wouldn’t tolerate an outburst like that just because you’d had a lapse in judgment when it came to your phrasing.

“I think you should stay at your old place tonight,” you said.

“Babe, c’mon, the counter can be fixed. I’ll have someone at Vought call a contractor tomorrow and—“

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You still love me right?” he asked, desperately searching your face for an answer. “Right?”

“Of course I do, but we both need space to cool off.”

He huffed, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Fine, have it your fucking way. As always, babe.”

He stormed out before you could get another word in, you mentally sent your apologies into the universe to whoever would end up being at the receiving end of his wrath. 

A few cars were lasered to smoldering hunks of metal on his way to Vought Tower. He didn’t care, the company had millions of dollars set aside each year for superhero-related collateral damage. After all, they weren’t even nice cars as far as he could tell. He was doing them a favor that’d go unappreciated, not unlike you.

Homelander’s arrival to his suite was devoid of any fanfare or announcements of his return. He was embarrassed to be back. Standing dejectedly in the dark doorway, he glared at every object in the room with disdain. It’d been a fine place to live before he knew any better, before he’d experienced what a home truly felt like. You’d once described it as like being in a museum, and he couldn’t disagree. At one time he thought it was to his taste. Now, the suite he’d resided for so many years without you felt cold, hollow, and unfamiliar. 

He looked out on the city, rage boiling in his veins. Things were fine when it was the two of you against the world. Your shitty friends had to come in and ruin that. No matter how hard he tried, it was like you refused to listen to reason and see that he did everything because he loved you. He loved you so much it hurt.

“Now this is really pathetic.”

“You saw how pissed she was.” Homelander argued weakly against his sneering reflection.

“She’s a woman. That’s their default state when they’re running the show.”

“She’s not running the show.”

“Really? So that’s why you’re banished to the proverbial couch?” his reflection taunted.

Homelander swallowed the lump in his throat. “What do you suppose I do, then? Flowers? A box of chocolates?”

“No. That’s practically admitting you did something wrong. Do you remember how you got her in the first place? You didn’t ask. You took.”

Homelander nodded along as his reflection spoke.

“What you do is remind her who’s in charge. You’re the man of the house. Take the respect, the devotion, you deserve.”

You awoke suddenly in the middle of the night to a figure standing at the end of your bed. At first, you thought it was a dream, until the figure began to move. Turning on the lamp on your nightstand, its soft glow illuminated your side of the bed, casting shadows over your fiance’s face.

“Homelander!” you gasped. “Oh my god, you scared me. What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he said.

“You know what I mean.”

“You know the old saying, ‘Don’t go to bed angry.’ I already forgive you for tonight, but things need to change.”

“I need you to leave.”

“You don’t call the shots, babe. I’ve been way too lenient with you,” he said, a dangerous grin spreading across his face. “Think you need a reminder of who’s in charge here.”

“Honey, what’s this about? You know I love you.”

“Sure, but you don’t respect me.”

“Of course I respect you—“

“No, you don’t. By the end of the night, you will,” he said, before beckoning you over to him with a curl of his index finger. “C’mere, sweetheart. You haven’t even welcomed me home yet.”

You felt his eyes practically burning a hole through you as you silently complied, pushing back the covers you’d been bundled under and padding your way across the room to where he stood. He somehow loomed over you, stony-faced like a marble statue honoring a god with disdain for humanity. His eyes glistened as he took in your face, though, betraying the whirlpool of emotions that rushed through him whenever he was in your presence. 

Dozens of dresses and lingerie sets had been casualties of his lust and strength, the material torn from your body like gift wrap and promptly replaced within a few days. This night was no exception, as with a flick of his wrist, your satin nightgown was a pathetic pile on the floor.

Though you expected as much, he captured your lips in a heated kiss that almost made you lose your balance with his intensity. He held you close, his arms wrapped around you the way old tree limbs twist and tangle around objects left in their course, time and nature making it impossible to separate the two without irreversible damage to both. 

“John,” you whispered against his lips.

There were plenty of men named John. It was a disgustingly common name, chosen for him by Vought to give him that relatable, everyman persona. Bullshit. He wasn’t an everyman. He was a god. People praised and worshiped Zeus, Jupiter, Jesus, Homelander—not fucking John. 

Whenever you used it, though, suddenly the name was his. His. Not some stupid placeholder the white coats gave him instead of “subject whatever.” He was grateful you couldn’t sense the crack in his facade, his heart skipping a beat at how lovingly you said his name. How could you ever expect him to want to share that? Reluctantly, he pulled back from you, releasing you from his embrace. He still had a point to make.

“Get on your knees.”

You looked almost confused by his words.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned.

Slowly, you knelt on the shredded satin that lay at your feet, and with trembling hands unbuckled his belt, avoiding eye contact with the eagle that adorned it as if the metal bird of prey were judging you. You tried telling yourself there was no reason to be nervous, you’d given Homelander plenty of blowjobs before, but his mood was always much, much lighter when you did. 

When you pulled down the spandex pants of his suit that was practically painted on him, you were greeted with an eye full of his hardening cock, already leaking with precum when you took it in your hand, eliciting a moan from him that seemed to echo through the bedroom. You stroked his cock, leaning in to give a teasing lick to the head that made his breath hitch.

“You like that baby?” you asked. “Do you want more?”

He whined, struggling to respond as you pumped his hardening length.

“C’mon, baby, use your words and—“

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he snapped, grabbing you by the root of your hair and shoving his cock in your mouth. 

You gagged, trying to adjust yourself to the sudden change. Although, you didn’t think you’d ever get used to how big his cock was. The bulge in his suit certainly wasn’t compensating for anything.

“Go on, put that smart little mouth of yours to good use,” Homelander said, fingers still tangled in your hair as he tugged at your scalp. “Or are you so helpless without me that you can’t even suck a cock on your own?”

With a whimper, you did your best to massage his length with your tongue, taking as much of him as you could, though you never managed to fit all of him in your mouth. It wasn’t without a lack of trying. You gagged again, and this time he seemed to bore of your struggle and instead began fucking your throat at a merciless pace.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re it. You’re the only one for me. Why don’t you—fuck—get that?”

Your response was a garbled choking noise as you placed one hand on his thigh to steady yourself. The other reached out to fondle his balls, prompting an erratic thrust from him that nearly knocked you over. As unpredictable as Homelander could be, if you thought too much about how much self control he used to not accidentally kill you whenever the two of you were remotely intimate, your brain would start to feel fuzzy. Or maybe it was the way you couldn’t seem to catch your breath. 

When you looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, he was barely able to keep his own open. Blonde hair flopped across his forehead, he looked at you with hooded eyelids, the faintest smirk flashing across his face before he groaned again, throwing his head back.

He never lasted all that long to begin with, woefully sensitive and touch-starved despite his experience. Normally, you found it endearing, but tonight you were grateful as you weren’t sure how much longer you could handle his mercilessly fucking your throat. 

With another involuntary thrust, his cock twitched against your tongue. You struggled to swallow his cum that was pumping into your mouth. Some of it mixed with spit as it dribbled from the corners of your lips down your chin.

As Homelander pulled his cock from your mouth, he observed your ruined state—disheveled hair, puffy lips, tears tracked down your face. Pride filled his chest as he watched you try to catch your breath. He’d never pushed you quite this far before, and he wanted so much more.

“Messy little thing, huh?” he asked, swiping what had escaped your lips on his thumb and bringing it to your mouth. 

With a shaky sigh, you wrapped your lips around his finger, weakly sucking the residue from it until he was satisfied, pulling it from your mouth.

He smiled, caressing your cheek with his wet thumb. “That’s my girl.”

You hummed in response, the most you could manage with how sore your throat felt. It was good enough for him, because he offered you his hand, pulling you up from your knees with ease. His gentleness as he laid you back on the bed felt almost foreign compared to his ruthlessness just minutes earlier. 

The reprieve was short-lived, however. As soon as he shed the rest of his suit, he pounced, his eyes betraying the intention to devour you whole. Animalistic, manic, from his predatory gaze to the prominence of his canines, he could rip your throat out if he wanted to. There was no point in trying to conceal your concerning arousal at the thought, even if he hadn’t reached between your legs to feel your wet pussy, he could smell it on you from a mile away. 

He licked his lips, leaning over you as he teased your clit while sliding his cock inside you.

“Oh my god,” you moaned.

Homelander grinned, rolling his hips against yours. “I know I am.”

He’d been aggressive in bed before, usually due to jealousy or possessiveness. The way he moved was far more calculated than impulsive, as if each thrust intentionally pushed you closer to climax as he rubbed circles on your clit instead of just him releasing pent up frustration and insecurity. 

“You love taking it all, don’t you? Love the way I fill you up?” 

His mocking tone went straight to your pussy, and you could hardly manage a coherent response as he pounded into you. Even then, it didn’t feel like enough, as you bucked your hips to get more of him.

He was studying you, observing every contortion of your face, feeling the way your wet pussy clenched around this throbbing cock as he thrust into it, the sound nothing short of obscene as it echoed with your desperate moans. Then, just as you were about to orgasm, he moved his hand away from your clit and pulled out of you so quickly, you almost started crying.

The look of hurt and betrayal on your face gave him conflicting feelings, but the one that won out was a smug superiority. He’d never loved anyone as much as he loved you, and it seemed like this ‘tough love’ approach was working. He wrapped his hand around your sore throat, his cold and intense stare as he leaned closer to your face sending a shiver down your spine that he could surely feel.

“You don’t come unless I say you can. You got that, sweetheart?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension. 

You nodded weakly, a pained whimper trapped in your throat. As soon as he gave you a wicked grin in return, you knew that he wanted you to give in to your base desires like humans do. With so much of his life spiraling out of his control, he wanted to be sure he didn’t have to worry about you. 

He released his vice grip on your throat, and, as if reading your thoughts from just a few minutes prior, leaned down, pressing a kiss to your neck before grazing his teeth down the tender flesh, feeling your racing pulse’s vulnerability.

“John,” you breathed, your voice inaudible to anyone but him.

“I know, darling. You want it so bad, don’t you?”

“Please,” you whimpered, “please.”

“It didn’t have to be this difficult, you know,” he mused, his fingers playing with your sensitive clit.

You choked out a sob at the almost painful feeling of overstimulation. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not that hard to be good for me, is it? To just do as I say?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to remind you again,” he said, his voice soft and low as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

The emptiness you felt between your legs was soon filled again by his cock. 

You fell limp at this point, no movements in an attempt to match his thrusts. His reflection had been right, he just needed to take what he wanted and remind you who was in charge. He was in control, all you needed to do was lie back, look pretty, and take it. You should be thanking him for making things so easy for you.

He kissed you, reveling in how sweetly you moaned in his mouth now that he had you exactly how he wanted you. Your heart was racing, he could tell you were getting close, and he was too, but he wanted you to come first, to be the one to fold and give in to him completely.

“It’s all right now, darling. I’ve got you,” he whispered.

It felt like all of your muscles tightened before your release, your hips rocking involuntarily as your orgasm rippled through your body. The pent up pleasure was almost too overwhelming, and you had to grab his bicep to ground yourself, digging your nails into his skin. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t like you could break it anyway. 

With the way your pussy squeezed his cock as you came, an unhinged moan and tears and vision clouded by stars, his own orgasm followed soon after. He never bothered with the pretense of pulling out. Filling you with his cum was right, it was natural, another way to lay claim to you. He hated condoms, but he knew his next course of action would be doing something about your pesky birth control soon. 

You winced as you moved closer to his chest, allowing him to hold your body against his. Your muscles ached, and you knew that in the morning you’d hardly be able to move at all. It wasn’t uncommon with Homelander, and he loved your dependence on him on those mornings when he’d carry you from room to room, a reminder of his strength. He was the most powerful man in the world, you might as well have been a feather.

“How’re you holding up babe?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said softly.

He smiled, stroking your cheek. “I’m glad we’re on the same page now. It’ll make things so much easier, babe, you’ll see.”

You gave him a weak smile before closing your eyes, knowing fully well that he could hear by your thumping heart that you were faking sleep.

[simply-ivanka]

Why Trump’s Conviction Can’t Stand

It rests on an intent to violate a state law that is pre-empted by the Federal Election Campaign Act.

By David B. Rivkin Jr. and Elizabeth Price Foley Wall Street Journal

Donald Trump runs no risk of going to prison in the middle of his campaign, thanks to Judge Juan Merchan’s decision Friday to postpone sentencing until Nov. 26. The delay gives his lawyers more time to prepare an appeal. Fortunately for Mr. Trump, his trial was overwhelmingly flawed, and a well-constructed appeal would ensure its ultimate reversal.

A central problem for the prosecution and Judge Merchan lies in Article VI of the U.S. Constitution, which makes federal law the “supreme law of the land.” That pre-empts state law when it conflicts with federal law, including by asserting jurisdiction over areas in which the federal government has exclusive authority.

Mr. Trump’s conviction violates this principle because it hinges on alleged violations of state election law governing campaign spending and contributions. The Federal Election Campaign Act pre-empts these laws as applied to federal campaigns. If it didn’t, there would be chaos. Partisan state and local prosecutors could interfere in federal elections by entangling candidates in litigation, devouring precious time and resources.

That hasn’t happened except in the Trump case, because the Justice Department has always guarded its exclusive jurisdiction even when states have pushed back, as has happened in recent decades over immigration enforcement.

The normal approach would have been for the Justice Department to inform District Attorney Alvin Bragg, who was contemplating charges against Mr. Trump, of the FECA pre-emption issue. If Mr. Bragg didn’t follow the department’s guidance, it would have intervened at the start of the case to have it dismissed. Instead the department allowed a state prosecutor to interfere with the electoral prospects of the chief political rival of President Biden, the attorney general’s boss.

Mr. Trump was indicted under New York’s law prohibiting falsification of business records, which is a felony only if the accused intended “to commit another crime” via the false record. Judge Merchan instructed the jury that the other crime was Section 17-152 of New York election law, which makes it a misdemeanor to “conspire to promote or prevent the election of any person to a public office by unlawful means.” Prosecutors alleged that Mr. Trump violated this law by conspiring with his lawyer, Michael Cohen, and Trump-related businesses to “promote” his presidential election by coding hush-money payments as “legal expenses” when they should have been disclosed publicly as campaign expenses or contributions—matters that are governed by FECA.

FECA declares that its provisions “supersede and preempt any provision of state law with respect to election to Federal office.” The 1974 congressional conference committee report accompanying enactment of FECA’s pre-emption language states: “It is clear that the Federal law occupies the field with respect to reporting and disclosure of political contributions and expenditures by Federal candidates.” Federal Election Commission regulations likewise declare that FECA “supersedes State law” concerning the “disclosure of receipts and expenditures by Federal candidates” and “limitation on contributions and expenditures regarding Federal candidates.”

The New York State Board of Elections agreed in a 2018 formal opinion that issues relating to disclosure of federal campaign contributions and expenditures are pre-empted because “Congress expressly articulated ‘field preemption’ of federal law over state law in this area” to avoid federal candidates’ “facing a patchwork of state and local filing requirements.”

In using New York’s election law to brand Mr. Trump a felon based on his actions with respect to a federal election, Mr. Bragg subverts FECA’s goal of providing predictable, uniform national rules regarding disclosure of federal campaign contributions and expenses, including penalties for noncompliance. Congress made its goals of uniformity and predictability clear not only in FECA’s sweeping pre-emption language but also in its grant of exclusive enforcement authority to the FEC for civil penalties and the Justice Department for criminal penalties. Both the FEC and Justice Department conducted yearslong investigations to ascertain whether Mr. Trump’s hush-money payments violated FECA, and both declined to seek any penalties.

Prior to Mr. Trump’s New York prosecution, it would have been unthinkable for a local or state prosecutor to prosecute a federal candidate predicated on whether or how his campaign reported—or failed to report—contributions or expenditures. In 2019 the FEC investigated whether Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign failed to disclose millions in contributions from an outside political action committee. The agency deadlocked, and no penalties were imposed. In 2022 the FEC levied $113,000 in civil penalties against Mrs. Clinton’s campaign for violating FECA because it improperly coded as “legal services,” rather than campaign expenditures, money paid to Christopher Steele for production of the “dossier” that fueled the Russia-collusion hoax. In neither instance did any state or local prosecutor indict Mrs. Clinton under state election law based on failure to disclose these contributions or expenditures properly. If New York’s Trump precedent stands, Mrs. Clinton could still be vulnerable to prosecution, depending on various states’ statutes of limitation and the Justice Department’s potential involvement.

Mr. Bragg’s prosecution of Mr. Trump is plagued by many reversible legal errors, of which the failure to accord pre-emptive force to FECA is the strongest grounds for its reversal on appeal. The prosecutor’s interference in the 2024 presidential election process has created legal and political problems. The Justice Department’s failure to intervene before the trial is a dereliction of duty.

The department aggressively prosecuted Mr. Cohen based on the same hush-money payments, so it was well aware that New York’s prosecution invaded its exclusive FECA jurisdiction. This is another stark example of the Biden administration’s incompetence—or, worse, the distortion of justice through a partisan lens. It is left to the appellate courts, and ultimately the Supreme Court, to clean up the mess Mr. Bragg and the Justice Department have made.

Mr. Rivkin served at the Justice Department and the White House Counsel’s Office during the Reagan and George H.W. Bush Administrations. Ms. Foley is a professor of constitutional law at Florida International University College of Law. Both practice appellate and constitutional law in Washington.

[lisenberry]

Do you have any kink headcanons for the 141 ?

🔥🔥🔥

I just think they'd all be the direct opposite of who they are in the field. When they're on their own time, they let their guard down and process their trauma differently.

(I'm the most vanilla, basic bitch alive. This is barely even spicy.)

Price: After making so many decisions and holding the fate of the world in his hands, he just wants to be told what to do. Don't be shy. He hates that. Grab his hair and put him where you want him. If he's talking too much, distracting you from your pleasure with his contented sighs and mindless declarations of love, stuff your knickers in his mouth or give an extra sharp tug on his leash.

Ghost: He saves his violence for his enemies, and leaves it all on the field. When he gets home, he wants candles, romance, classical music. Soft sheets and cute little outfits on a pliable dove who likes to be spoiled. The mask and the gloves come off and he'll laze around naked for days, letting his body breathe.

Gaz: He goes a bit darker. He's the voice of reason and conscience at work, so he...leans into the gray areas in his personal time. He's not going to hurt you, anymore than you can handle. But he's not going to be liberal with his restraint, either. Sign the disclosure agreement and don't forget your safe word.

Soap: His work/play lines are the most blurred. He can't shut it off. No filter and no boundaries, he'll try anything, anywhere. Blowing shit up, watching it burn, and walking away clean. In public alleys, your neighbor's pool, under your desk at work while you're on a zoom call. 'Oh, they got a show, did they? Lucky them.'

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The cost of staffing the premier’s office under Doug Ford has more than doubled since 2018, according to public salary disclosure data, spending that has far outpaced his predecessor Kathleen Wynne.

Public salary disclosures of those making $100,000 or more, also known as the Sunshine List, for 2023 show the total number of staff in the premier’s office under Ford, along with the number of people earning six figures, has grown since 2019, the Progressive Conservative Party’s first full year in office.

The increase in spending is a departure from the government’s initial declaration that Ford was ushering in a “new era of fiscal responsibility and respect for taxpayers.” The premier said that under his stewardship, his government would search for savings while remaining mindful of how Queen’s Park was spending public dollars.

In 2019, the Progressive Conservative’s first full year in office, 20 employees made the Sunshine List in the premier’s office, costing taxpayers $2.9 million in total compensation. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

The Start of Something New

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 | Week 10 | Prompt: "Just when were you planning on telling us that?"

Summary: This was the start of something completely new for Tech, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for him. POV: Hunter Rating: G (Word Count: 2971)

Read on Ao3

Notes: Yes, this is another Tech Lives story! The first part of the story takes place pre-"Tipping Point" (episode 14 of season 2); the second part of the story takes place post-epilogue/post-my other Tech Lives work. ( @domino-twinss This isn't exactly a chapter 2 for Lost and Found, but it kinda works as an unofficial follow up?)

Hunter leaned back, resting his elbows on the garden wall in Shep’s backyard, and closed his eyes briefly, welcoming the slight breeze that played across his face. He had just returned from a long but productive day helping move supplies to rebuild more of the homes damaged in the tidal wave. Tech had apparently finished his task of restoring power to the dozen or so homes that had been completed, for he had already been sitting at the table looking at his datapad when Hunter had arrived. Wrecker and Omega, who had both spent the day down at the docks, should be coming back any minute…

Hunter heard the telltale sound of running footsteps, and smiled as his brother and sister burst through the gate. Omega greeted him with a happy grin and a wave, but it was to Tech that she directed her first statement.

“Lyana says the reason why you came in late last night was because you asked Phee to go out on a boat with you,” she declared, her face bright with curiosity as she rested one hand on Tech’s forearm and slightly shook it in her excitement.

“When were you going to tell us you spent time with Phee?” Wrecker asked in barely concealed delight.

Hunter, his brows raised in mild surprise at this revelation, awaited the answer. He had assumed Tech had been on the Marauder completing one of his many research projects yesterday evening; he would never have guessed his brother had actually gone out with Phee.

Tech, who had remained completely unperturbed by Omega's enthusiasm, now glanced up from his datapad, looking slightly puzzled by Wrecker's question. “I wasn’t planning on saying anything," he replied. 

Omega and Wrecker both visibly wilted in disappointment at this answer, and Hunter had to bite back a laugh. Omega quickly recovered, though, and eagerly patted Tech’s arm again.

“Well, since we know about it… Come on, tell us! How did it go? How did you decide on taking a boat out at night?" 

Tech shrugged. "Phee mentioned she is interested in sea creatures, and many of the species found near this island have bioluminescent traits that are especially well observed at night, even with a full moon. I concluded she might enjoy some time on the water to see them.”

“You spent the entire time talking about the creatures and bioluminescence, didn’t you?” Hunter cut in drily.

“Most of the time, yes. What else were we supposed to talk about? At any rate, Phee is already remarkably well versed in marine science, and she was quite interested in learning more about the aiwhas on Kamino. I was more than happy to oblige.”

“I still can’t believe you weren’t going to tell us about it,” Wrecker protested.

“We’ve all spent time with Phee before, you know,” Tech stated, as if that fully explained his lack of disclosure.

“Yeah, but not on a date!”

 “This was not a date. It was simply a friendly outing.”

Wrecker groaned in frustration, but Omega piped up again. “Well, we’d still like to hear about them!”

At Omega’s plea, Tech sighed and capitulated. “Very well, if it’s so important to all of you…”

“Good, you’re all back!” Shep called from the doorway. “Oh, Tech, Phee told Lyana and me how much she enjoyed last night.”

“That is… gratifying to hear,” Tech said steadily, seemingly ignoring Omega’s giggle, though Hunter got the distinct impression that, in this particular situation at least, the more solemn Tech appeared, the more embarrassed he was actually feeling. 

“Dinner is about ready,” Shep continued gamely, “just a few more minutes.”

“Anything I can do to help?” Omega offered, moving toward their host.

“Well, if you want, you can help Lyana get the plates,” Shep smiled.

“I’ll come with you,” Wrecker instantly volunteered.

As the others trooped into the house, Tech silently put down his datapad and stood to follow them, turning back when Hunter spoke.

“Are you going to invite Phee to join you on more friendly outings?” Hunter asked, careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice.

“I intend to, yes,” Tech replied without hesitation, before his expression shifted; and while Tech often wore thoughtful expressions, Hunter had never before seen this particular brand of introspection on his brother’s face – it was almost as if Tech, for the first time since he had learned to speak, was grappling for the right words to express his thoughts. “She… is an exceptional woman,” he finally finished, a touch awkwardly though clearly sincere.

And as Tech made his way toward the door to join the others in the house, Hunter smiled.

This was the start of something completely new for Tech, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for him.

*******

Hunter, glancing out the cabin window, saw that Tech had returned from his visit with Phee and had taken up position standing by the low wall that separated the property from the long stretch of rocky soil leading out to the beach some distance away.

Gesturing to Batcher that she should stay where she was, curled up comfortably by the table, Hunter stepped outside to join his brother. It was perfect weather, a light breeze was stirring the air, and Omega would have been enraptured by the scenery of the sunset if she were here; but Tech had already pulled out his datapad and was taking notes. Hunter smiled a bit – despite time, aging, and critical life experiences, some things never changed, and Tech’s curiosity combined with his need to always keep his mind and hands busy were among those things that remained constant.

Any concerns Hunter may have had about Tech being able to adjust to life on Pabu with brothers who had changed so much in the intervening years had been short lived. The impossible had happened – the entire family was reunited – and the growth and life-altering changes they had each experienced in the past decade or so only served to enhance their immense gratitude for the chance they had to all be together again. Tech had offered to continue helping Omega and Echo with decryption and other coding tasks for their rebel missions, but only in a remote capacity; he sympathized with the Rebellion’s cause, of course, but he wanted to stay on Pabu. And while Phee had said nothing aloud upon hearing of this decision, none of the brothers had missed the fact that her stays on Pabu had progressively lengthened over the past year.

Hunter knew Tech and Phee had become extremely close ever since Tech’s return – the spark of mutual interest that had existed early on between them had quickly grown into a flame – and the two of them spending the entire day together had become the norm; but as he stood next to his brother now, Hunter could tell something was different, something had changed today - and Hunter couldn't be more thrilled.

“So, when were you going to tell us?” he prodded.

Tech looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised, but couldn’t keep a small smile from playing on his lips: he knew Hunter knew exactly what had happened. “Tonight,” he replied levelly, “when Omega contacts us. She always includes Echo in her transmissions, and that way we can tell the whole family at once. At least, that was the plan,” he finished wryly. 

“Do you have a date set yet?”

“If Omega and Echo can come by month’s end, we will wait for them; if not, it may be sooner. Phee and I want to be married before we begin any travels.”

Hunter was careful to keep his expression and his voice steady, even as his heart now sank. “So you won’t be staying on Pabu?”

Sometimes Hunter wondered if Tech had somehow developed enhanced senses of his own; based on the glance Tech gave him now, Hunter thought the other must have somehow sensed his dismay. “This is still our home, Hunter. Phee says she was already considering retiring for some time before I returned, and you know she hasn’t set off on any acquisition operations for months now. But the news of what the Empire did to the refugees on Ghirtin II really shook her. She says it’s high time a liberator of ancient wonders became a liberator of modern people. She wants to do more to help those displaced by the war, and I want to help her.”

Hunter nodded and even managed a smile. He had known the moment he had witnessed Tech’s face light up upon first seeing Phee again that his brother was as devoted to her as he was to his siblings, and devotion such as Tech’s knew no bounds. And Hunter had been thrilled both for his genius, quirky brother and the strong-willed, witty woman who had always been such a loyal friend to the entire family; he had known they would make each other immensely happy, and Hunter, who had only ever wanted all his family to be safe and happy, couldn’t wish for more.

But…

“What is it, Hunter?” Tech asked almost gently.

Hunter sighed. “I’m happy for you, Tech," he said sincerely. "I know you and Phee will take care of each other – and really, the two of you combined will be unstoppable. It’s just…" taking a breath to give himself time to gather his thoughts, he continued, "It’s been almost a year, but it still feels like we just got you back. I don’t…” he trailed off, feeling that it would be far too selfish and shameful for him to say aloud I don’t want to let you go again.  

It was moments like these that made him realize he had never, ever fully released the grief and shame of his failure as a leader, as a brother, as he had watched Tech fall out of sight on Eriadu. Even now, after finally and unexpectedly being reunited, and with so much good happening in their lives in spite of the stranglehold the Empire had on the galaxy, Hunter still felt the pang of regret of all the years missed, all the time Tech had spent lost and alone, working so hard on his own to regain his lost memories and discover where he belonged…

Hunter couldn’t look at his brother, and blinked rapidly to will away the tears.

He felt Tech place a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know,” Tech said in a voice that prompted Hunter to look at him despite the threat of tears; and in the long moments of silence that followed, the look in Tech’s eyes said it all: he not only knew exactly what Hunter felt, he understood – and he wished Hunter would finally forgive himself for circumstances that had been outside any of their control.

“We’ll be here on Pabu far more often than we will be away, though,” Tech now continued matter-of-factly. “Besides, compared to any trouble Phee and I may find ourselves in, we all are in significantly greater peril whenever we allow Wrecker or Crosshair to man the boats during fishing expeditions.”

Hunter snorted – this observation was unfortunately all too accurate – and Tech gave a small smile.

“Well, just let me promise you what I promised Omega: if you or Phee ever need us, we’ll be there,” Hunter said.

Tech nodded. “It is, perhaps, obvious; but if you ever are in need of anything, you only need ask,” he replied.

Grinning now, Hunter slipped his arm over Tech’s shoulders, with Tech soon following suit so that they stood arm in arm, side by side, brothers as they always had been and always would be, come what may.

The sun’s last rays were now slipping beneath the horizon, but there was still enough light in the minutes before twilight that both brothers could clearly see Crosshair and Wrecker now coming up the path to the cabin. Hunter and Tech turned to greet them, and Wrecker waved as he drew closer, before abruptly stopping and dropping the package he was carrying, a wide smile stretching across his face as he looked at Tech.

“Don’t tell me, you and Phee are getting married!” he exclaimed.

Sure hope Tech and Phee weren’t planning on keeping this quiet, because with how loud Wrecker is, the entire island knows about it now, Hunter thought with amusement. 

Tech, as usual, was unflustered as he replied, “Well, since you clearly already know about it, there's not much point in me telling you.”

Crosshair’s initial look of surprise at the revelation now turned into a smirk. “Did you ask Phee, or did she have to ask you?”

Instantly intuiting that an overly detailed explanation was forthcoming as an answer, Hunter settled in for the inevitable as Tech replied: “Well, we came to what might be termed a mutual understanding regarding our status as partners some time ago; but last week I came to the conclusion that it was time for me to issue Phee a formal request for her agreement to our eventual commitment to each other as spouses, and I completed that objective today."

"Tech, you can just call it a proposal, we all know what that is," Hunter muttered. 

"Wait, you were planning this for a week?" Wrecker said. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Yeah, we would have helped," Crosshair added. 

"That is precisely why I didn't tell you," Tech said candidly, earning outraged squawks from the other two and a chuckle from Hunter. 

"She said yes, so I guess you did it right even without our help, Tech," Hunter said, clapping his brother on the back. 

A new thought had obviously struck Crosshair, for he now frowned a little. "Wasn't Phee talking a few weeks ago about wanting to help transport refugees or something?"

"That is correct," Tech nodded. "I'll be going with her."

"So, you won't be living here anymore?" Wrecker asked, looking rather crestfallen now. 

"We will, we'll only be traveling occasionally."

"Oh, well that's alright then," Wrecker smiled, lightly knocking against Tech's shoulder. 

Crosshair couldn't hide the flash of sadness in his eyes upon hearing that Tech would be leaving, even if only for a short while; but his smile was genuine. "Good man, Tech," he said; and Hunter knew that, while any separation would be painful, Crosshair would fully support his brother in this decision. 

"You're going to tell Omega and Echo tonight, right?" Wrecker asked eagerly. 

"Yes," Tech said, adding wryly, "though at this point, if Phee and I didn't tell them, you probably would." 

"We should head in now to get all that put away before she contacts us," Hunter interjected, nodding at the large package of supplies Wrecker had dropped; and the brothers moved to act on Hunter's suggestion. 

They had put away the supplies and just settled in to await the transmission when a brisk knock sounded on the door and Phee let herself in. One look at the brothers, and Phee shook her head ruefully. 

"They all know already, don't they?" she addressed Tech. 

"Yes, though I myself did not tell them," Tech answered. 

"I should have known they'd figure it out themselves," she said, settling down next to Tech and sharing a quick kiss with him before grinning cheekily at Crosshair's usual grunt of mock disgust at the display. Tech took her hand in his, as had long since become his custom; and she squeezed his hand affectionately in return as she continued, "We just waiting on the rebels now?"

"As usual," Crosshair nodded. 

"Do you want to share your news first, before Omega catches us up on her end?" Hunter queried.

Ever since Omega had joined the Rebellion, Phee had joined in on every transmission whenever she happened to be on Pabu, and was well aware of the typical flow of these conversations. Now, she glanced at Tech before shaking her head. "Nah, let Omega go first. No need to break tradition."

"Any minute now..." Wrecker said. 

At that moment, the communications array beeped to indicate an incoming transmission, and Wrecker lunged forward to accept the message. Omega's image, with her bright smile and uplifted expression, blossomed into view before them; surprisingly, Echo appeared directly beside her, rather than coming in as a separate transmission. 

"Hi!” Omega greeted them before excitedly continuing, “Guess what? Echo and I have been assigned to the same mission! Can you believe..."

Omega's eyes had been roving over her audience; now, her gaze falling on Tech and Phee, she abruptly paused, eyes widening, before she let loose an ecstatic high pitched squeal. 

"You two are finally getting married??!?"

The surprised silence that followed was quickly broken by Wrecker bursting into a hearty guffaw, and Hunter couldn't help chuckling at the sight of Phee's stunned face. Tech, of course, remained composed as ever, though his lips curved up into a smile. 

"How could you tell?" Crosshair, clearly holding back a laugh, asked Omega. 

"I don't know," Omega replied, waving her hands helplessly at them as if this would help explain the unexplainable, "it's just obvious!"

"Good thing we didn't try to elope," Phee joked.

Tech just shook his head resignedly before saying, "If these three" - gesturing to Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair - "figured it out, I'm not surprised Omega did as well."

"Congratulations," Echo put in, nodding cordially at the pair. This was all he managed to say, however, before Omega erupted with more questions. 

"How did Tech propose? Or did you ask him, Phee? When is the wedding? It'll be on Pabu, right? Can you wait for us to come? Will you be getting your own house now?" 

And as Tech and Phee began explaining all their plans, Hunter, quietly basking in the celebratory atmosphere, sat back and smiled. 

This was the start of something new for Tech and Phee, and Hunter couldn’t be happier for them. 

@summer-of-bad-batch

[missriyochuchi]

Race to Capture the Flagbearer

Summary: On the eve of the start of the athletics events, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer race to the Stade de France, betting that whoever enters the stadium first with the Flagbearer’s cape gets to chose the method of blessing the track.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Established relationship. Sexual tension. Kissing. Very lame sexual innuendo I’m very sorry lolol

Notes: In honor of the start of the track and field events, my favorite because I used to run track, I give you this hot mess! This one really got away from me. Full disclosure: I have never been to Paris. GoogleMaps and Google Images were absolutely indispensable!

Once again, I strongly recommend reading The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer first, but if not, only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympics, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction with humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer’s horse is named Zeus. I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; otherwise, their physical descriptions are not gendered.

Read on AO3

Beyond the city center, just north of the historic hilltop of Montmartre, Paris slumbers as though it were any other balmy summer night. A few stores and restaurants remain open, hosting those too restless to neglect the City of Lights. The low murmur of conversations warms the air beneath the amber glow of streetlights and the verdant canopies of deciduous trees. On the Avenue de Saint-Ouen, the soft, unmistakable clops of a horse turn the heads of those shocked to a standstill on the sidewalk.

The Flagbearer sways in her saddle as she guides Zeus down the northbound lane at a leisurely clip. The few cars caught behind them pass when able, unhurried by the late-night hour. Whispered surprise and pointing fingers follow in their wake. She turns and nods to the few aiming cameras and smartphones in their direction. Several meters behind on the northwest corner of the Boulevards des Maréchaux, two tourists watch the hooded figure continue on her journey.

“Where’s the other one?”

“Other one?”

“They’re always together at night.”

“What are you talking about?”

From behind them, a woman points up and shouts, “Là-bas!”

Heads tilt towards the rooftops. On the east side of the avenue, beyond the cover of the streetlights’ shine, onlookers catch the faint, bright material of the Torchbearer’s hood bobbing from building to building. The gauzy fabric travels quickly, seeming to fly across the uneven architecture, unbothered by safety or gravity. 

Sounds of the spectators acknowledging the Torchbearer’s trajectory build to a wave that rolls down the road and crashes on the Flagbearer’s cape. Her hood turns around, the shadow beneath facing the line of buildings to her right. She whips forward and digs her heels into the horse’s sides. In a flash, the rider and her mount take off on a gallop, and the telltale signs of the nimble nightwalker disappear from the rooftops’ edge.

“What happened?” A fourth bystander, looking as confused as the first two, joins the three on the corner.

“Elle l'a vu.” The woman smiles and, with her fore- and middle fingers, gestures from her eyes to the rooftops to the north end of the street.

“Oh, uh, pardonnez-moi,” one of the two tourists attempts haltingly, “je ne parle pas français.”

“Dude, you don’t need to know French to know what this,” his companion mimics the woman’s gestures, “means. She said—”

“‘She saw him’ is what she said,” clarifies the fourth bystander.

“He’s chasing her?”

“Ils font la course.”

“I— Where’s my dictionary? Sorry, could you, uh— répétez, s'il vous plaît?”

“‘They’re racing.’ Dude, I’m going to strangle you.”

“What? But he can’t win. She’s on a horse!”

The woman and the fourth bystander share a laugh as they continue down the road. “Depends on where the finish line is!”

No announcements had been made declaring the particulars of this after-hours contest, but the more observant tourists and Parisians who had witnessed the two hooded figures about town before could more or less divine where they were headed. The Stade de France marked the end of their race, the venue housing the track for which their relay was honoring. No one, however, not even those with firsthand experience of past Olympic Games, could guess the particulars of their side bet.

“The athletics events begin in a few hours,” the Torchbearer had said to the Flagbearer, 90 minutes earlier, as they crossed the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot in the direction of the Seine.

She hummed and smiled, gazing at the ground and matching his stride, her hands folded behind her back. “One of your favorites,” she said fondly.

From the top of the steps leading to the Jardins du Trocadéro, the Olympic Torch was still visible in the sky. Small groups of tourists flitted about the site, aiming all kinds of photographic equipment between the Olympic Flag flying above the Place du Trocadéro to the Eiffel Tower glittering above it all.

“The stadium is about 10 kilometers away,” the Torchbearer continued, pointing in a general northeasterly direction.

“I am aware of the distance, ma chère.”

“Shall we go over the rules?”

“Zeus,” the Flagbearer lilted, turning to face her mount, “do you need to be reminded of the rules?”

Following close behind, the horse shook his head. The two Olympic guardians had spent the last few nights inventing details to include the stallion in their quirky tradition. He was forbidden from trotting faster than 12 kilometers per hour, the average speed of a human man running. Only when the Torchbearer was in sight could Zeus gallop to his top speed; once out of sight, the horse would return to an average walk. The Flagbearer had offered to send Zeus ahead to the stadium in an attempt at fairness, but even she knew her armor was a handicap in the Torchbearer’s favor. She needed her steed.

“Perhaps we should lift the ban on mechanical vehicles, just this once,” the Flagbearer offered sheepishly. She felt guilty that for all of the Torchbearer’s physical prowess and show on the rooftops during the Opening Ceremony, he was still no match for one of Earth’s fastest land animals.

“No, my love. I do not believe Zeus gives you an undue advantage. Besides, I have my own ideas for bypassing our usual rule.”

“Oh?” She stopped at the edge of the esplanade and crossed her arms. “Then perhaps I should remind you that a bicycle is a kind of vehicle and therefore forbidden.”

The Torchbearer laughed. “I know better than to repeat my own mistakes. No, I have something even less mechanical in mind.”

“Would you care to share so that I may approve your means of cheating?”

He gasped and recoiled in faux offense, bringing his fingertips to his chest in mock shock. “Darling, how dare you accuse me of such a thing! It is not in our nature to cheat!”

“I know,” she conceded carefully before resuming her command, “but just because the equipment is featured in the Games does not mean it is allowed in our little competition. However, I suppose for tonight, I can allow you to skateboard.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You still have not guessed correctly. No, I am certain these types of wheels are permissible. No human law has ever classified them as a form of transportation.”

The Flagbearer dropped her arms to her sides and squared her shoulders, straightening her posture. “Now I am intrigued.”

Light cheers and applause bubbled up around them. The two looked up in time to watch the Olympic Torch descend out of sight. Only the Eiffel Tower remained bright in the inky night.

“That is your cue, chérie.” The Torchbearer extended a hand in a show of sportsmanship. “Good luck.”

The Flagbearer accepted the gesture. “Bonne chance à toi, aussi, my dear. If you do reach me, try not to pull too hard. Falling from Zeus’s height would hurt even more in this armor.”

“I shall hold back my strength for your safety, mon amour. Now go.”

The Torchbearer watched his partner mount her steed and quickly gallop back through the esplanade, gaining more spectators with each echoing hoofbeat. When she reached the road, she brought Zeus to rear on his hind legs. Gasps of surprise followed. Once Zeus righted on all four legs, she blew a kiss to the Torchbearer who caught and tucked it into his vest against his chest. With a nod, horse and rider trotted in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. He waited for the sound of hoofbeats to fade away before running down the steps and across the garden and banking left to try to cut them off through neighboring roads.

What would normally have been a swift, straightforward race from the Place du Trocadéro to the Stade de France turned into an extended excursion into the more hidden side streets of Paris. Previous incarnations of the Olympic guardians allowed them to run unencumbered. The Flagbearer’s armored form, paired with Zeus’s presence, meant that they needed a creative twist to make up for their unique limitations. Eyeing the Flagbearer’s cape one night, the Torchbearer suggested a riff on the rules of Capture the Flag: one flag and one territory instead of the usual two each, her cape standing in for the desired marker and the stadium the sole safe place. Whoever entered the Stade de France first with the Flagbearer’s cape would win. What was once a race became a chase.

For more than 10 kilometers, the Flagbearer evades the more agile Torchbearer. She never hears him coming, his footsteps too light even in the silence of empty streets. She had been halfway through the Parc Manceau, hoping to use its lawns and trees to muffle Zeus’s steps, when she felt a rush of air graze her right leg. Her arm shot behind her and grasped her cape, its tough material caught up in the momentary gust. She sighed in relief just as the scrape of plastic wheels echoed on the pavement. She turned around and watched the Torchbearer come up from a crouched position and straighten up a few inches taller than his usual height.

“Rollerblades!” The Flagbearer was impressed. “Darling, you think of everything.”

He laughed. “They are not as quiet as I need them to be, but at least I have a chance to match Zeus’s trot.”

“It is not your speed that needs improvement.” She threw her cape behind her, taunting him as it fluttered back into place. “Your grip is lacking, my dove.”

With a swift tug of her reins, she brought Zeus to a gallop across the lawn where the Torchbearer’s wheels could not follow. He glided down a path to try to cut them off at the park’s edge, but lost sight of them behind the foliage. He stared at the five-road intersection and quickly picked up Zeus’s hoofbeats echoing down the Rue Georges Berger. Though he couldn’t see the source of the sound, he was sure of its direction. He took off down the Rue de Thann, hoping to catch them at the Boulevard Malesherbes. When he reached the corner, he found Zeus waiting riderless. The Flagbearer would repeat this strategy throughout the night.

With Zeus’s hoofbeats no longer a reliable sign of his partner’s presence, the Torchbearer takes to the rooftops for the higher vantage points. He flies freely — no cars or pedestrians to block his journey, no trees or walls to block his view. Despite the cloak of darkness hiding potentially dangerous nooks on which to trip, his step is sure. He falters only when he reaches the main thoroughfares, several lanes too wide to jump, and is forced to climb back down to the sidewalk. When he swivels around, hands on his hips and unsure of the Flagbearer’s location, a few wide-eyed tourists point him in the right direction. He nods or salutes before sprinting to the nearest building and resuming his flight across the darkened rooftops.

Meanwhile, the Flagbearer continues to use sound to her advantage. When she is not deploying Zeus as a decoy, she also relies on the few onlookers in her wake. Every time the Torchbearer nears, a low swell of claps and gasps announces his proximity, the spectators’ excitement at witnessing the phantom figure reenact his debut performance rippling through the air like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy night. The audible warning allows her enough time to pinpoint his location and break for a darker or wider street. Despite the weight of her armor and the agreed-upon limitations on Zeus’s abilities, she manages to stay ahead and out of reach of the Torchbearer.

Eventually, after breathless hours of looking over her shoulder, the Flagbearer comes into sight of the Stade de France. She is relieved but restless. It had taken longer to reach the stadium than she’d anticipated, and her daytime duties began to slip into the forefront of her mind. She senses dawn just below the horizon, hiding for another hour before warming Paris once more. She felt the urgency of concluding their game.

With no sign of the Torchbearer, the Flagbearer dismounts and walks the remaining distance to the parking lot surrounding the stadium. Zeus’s hoofbeats punctuate the whoosh of the few cars passing on the highway. They are 100 meters from a western gate when she hears the familiar roll of plastic wheels fast approaching behind her.

Without turning around, she smacks Zeus’s rump and grabs the horn of her saddle. She lifts herself high enough to put a foot in the stirrup as the stallion gallops towards the gate. She clings to her steed’s side, pushing sore muscles to their breaking point as her cape whips and drags in the wind. She pulls herself up and over to straddle the saddle and grasps for enough stability to turn her head around. She sees no hooded figure. 

Only when Zeus stops abruptly in front of a gate does she see the Torchbearer. He had rolled to a stop a few meters from her position, holding her cape aloft in his right hand and waving low with his left. The Flagbearer quickly dismounts and points for Zeus to step away from the gate.

“Looks like I won, my sweet,” the Torchbearer taunts across the distance. 

“Not yet, darling.” The Flagbearer advances slowly, cracking her neck and loosening her shoulders for what she assumes could turn into a wrestling match. “You have not entered the stadium proper. This parking lot is open space.” 

His right hand drops to his hip, her cape billowing in the breeze. “You cannot outrun me in your armor.”

“Then play fair, ma chère. You know your agility is hampered by those tiny wheels.”

He lets out an amused huff before agreeing to her concession. He kneels on her cape, alternating knees so as not to lose it to the wind, and takes off the rollerblades. From behind his jacket, he produces and quickly puts on his shoes, readjusting his leg gaiters over the treads. All the while, the Flagbearer maintains her distance.

“A lesser opponent would have rushed me by now,” the Torchbearer observes as he stands up.

“A lesser opponent would have conceded defeat,” she counters as she steps forward.

He strides to the side, and she mirrors his move. “How do you imagine this will end, my dear?” 

“With you pinning my cape back on me and blessing the track my way.”

“Darling, I would gladly pin you any day, but do tell what you had in mind if you do indeed win.”

The Flagbearer shakes her head as she takes another step closer. “As much as I enjoy your sense of humor, I would not deign to give you ideas before my victory is secured.”

“A wise move perhaps, but in truth, you read my mind.” The Torchbearer jumps several steps to the right, the entrance briefly in view, before she blocks him. “I can tell you with the utmost certainty that when I win, I shall pin you on the track.”

He is close enough to spy a smirk on her lips. She giggles and says, “And you call me insatiable.”

“My hunger burns eternal for you, my angel sweet.”

She comes up to her full height and points a finger in his direction. “You are distracting me.”

“An effective strategy, I would say. I have lured you away from the entrance.”

“By closing the distance between us.” The Flagbearer reaches out and jabs the Torchbearer’s shoulder with a firm finger. She enters into a slight crouch, palms outstretched, ready to reclaim her cape.

“Well, if we are to dance, mon amour,” he takes her cape in both hands and bunches opposing corners in his fists, “we must step closer.”

He swings the length of the cape over the Flagbearer’s head and around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. She looks up, grabs the remaining free corners fluttering above their heads, and swings them behind his shoulders. They land in each other’s arms, enveloped by the Olympic Flag.

Hidden beneath the cover of the opaque cape, the Flagbearer removes her gloves, stuffs them into her belt, and brings gentle fingertips to the bottom edge of the Torchbearer’s mask.

“You win, my love. Would you like a taste of your prize?”

She lifts the mesh just enough to expose his mouth. His breath warms her hand as she presses the pad of her thumb across his soft lips. She cradles his jaw in both hands, keeping his mask in place over his nose, as they meet for a fevered kiss.

Only the Flagbearer is privy to the face beneath the Torchbearer’s mask, the covering quickly removed during private moments behind closed doors. No rule existed banning the public exposure of their countenances, but the Olympic guardians thought it best for their appearances to remain as neutral as the intentions behind the performance of their duties. They are as much a symbol of the Games as they are its players, and only with their features hidden can they best represent the best of humanity in all its forms and functions.

From the top of the steps leading to the upper parts of the stadium, the crackle of a security guard’s radio travels through the air and interrupts the lovers. They part lips with heavy sighs, reluctant to meet the world and its inhabitants.

“Change of plans,” the Torchbearer mumbles as he chases the Flagbearer’s chin with his mouth and finds the lower edge of her cuirass with his hands. “This audience will not do.”

She giggles and runs her hands down his chest, searching for the warmth beneath his many layers. “Our race took too long. If only we had reached the stadium sooner,” she sighs as he traces her jaw with the tip of his tongue and latches his lips just below her ear, “when it was less populated.” She pulls him closer, reaching for the backs of his neck and waist.

“A simple walk must suffice.” He pulls away, lowering the Flagbearer’s hands by her wrists. “I have had enough racing for tonight.”

“Have I worn you down?” She tugs on the Torchbearer’s lapels.

He laughs as he removes her gloves from her belt and glides them over her hands, the wind at his back keeping the cape in place. “I bow to your mastery of stealth and strategy.”

“Well, I learned from the best.” She readjusts his mask under his chin before he flips the cape behind her and secures it under her spaulders. “Be honest, dear, did I tire you too much?”

“I can manage a 400-meter walk.”

“And afterwards?” The Flagbearer nudges her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing her shoulder to his, and starts towards the stadium.

“I have enough strength for my duties. You need not worry.”

“I know. I had hoped for my own blessing before sunrise.”

The Torchbearer laughs to the sky before swinging his arm around her waist and opening his side to her embrace. “Darling, you truly are insatiable.”

“I merely wish for you to claim your prize.”

“The walk around the track—”

“Is still part of our duties. Your prize for catching me is far more enjoyable.”

He stops to hold her hands and run a finger along her jawline. “Then let us race properly, quickly around the track, so I may claim you.”

The Flagbearer giggles and starts down a tunnel leading into the belly of the stadium, the weight of her boots and the drag of her cape slowing her sprint. The Torchbearer captures her quickly.

Translations: Là-bas! - Over there! pardonnez-moi, je ne parle pas français - forgive me, I don't speak French répétez, s'il vous plaît - repeat, please Bonne chance à toi, aussi - Good luck to you, too

[justforbooks]

How the world’s richest man laid waste to the US government

Elon Musk has achieved astonishing power in Trump’s administration – and spent the weekend wielding it

Since declaring his support for Donald Trump in July of last year and subsequently spending more than $250m on his re-election effort, Elon Musk has rapidly accumulated political influence and positioned himself at the heart of the new administration. Now as prominent as the president himself, Musk has begun to make use of that power, making decisions that could affect the health of millions of people, gaining access to highly sensitive personal data, and attacking anyone who opposes him. Musk, the world’s richest man and an unelected official, has achieved an astonishing level of power over the federal government.

Over the weekend, workers with Musk’s “department of government efficiency” (Doge) clashed with civil servants over demands for unfettered access to the computer systems of major US government agencies in a breakneck series of confrontations. When the dust settled, several top officials who opposed the takeover had been pushed out, and Musk’s allies had gained control.

Musk, with the backing of Trump, is now working to shut down the US Agency for International Development (USAid) – the world’s largest single supplier of humanitarian aid. He bragged on Sunday about “feeding USAid into the wood chipper”. He has also targeted several other agencies in an aggressive attempt to purge and remake the federal government along ideological lines, while avoiding congressional or judicial oversight.

Many of Musk’s actions have taken place without forewarning or transparency, sowing chaos and confusion among the thousands of people employed at the agencies like USAid that he has gone after. Humanitarian organizations that rely on US funding have halted operations and laid off staff, while government workers have been locked out of their offices. He is operating Doge as an unofficial government department with no congressionally approved mandate while he technically holds the position of “special government employee”, which allows him to sidestep financial disclosures and a public vetting process.

Musk has gleefully posted on X, the social media platform that he owns, throughout the chaos. He has accused USAid of corruption, and of being a “criminal organization” and “radical-left political psy op”, without any evidence. Why? He tweeted an explanation of simply doing Trump’s bidding: “All @DOGE did was check to see which federal organizations were violating the @POTUS executive orders the most. Turned out to be USAID, so that became our focus.” He said it was “time for it to die”.

Musk also suggested that opposition to his team will be punished, reposting a letter sent to him from the Trump-appointed federal prosecutor for Washington DC, who vowed to “pursue any and all legal action against anyone who impedes your work or threatens your people”.

The New York Democratic senator Chuck Schumer wrote on Tuesday morning: “An unelected shadow government is conducting a hostile takeover of the federal government. DOGE is not a real government agency. DOGE has no authority to shut programs down or to ignore federal law.” Musk responded that the reaction was “hysterical”.

As other Democrats and government oversight groups began to respond to the breakneck series of actions from Musk’s team, on Tuesday the Tesla and SpaceX CEO continued to plow ahead with his cuts and told his supporters: “We’re never going to get another chance like this.”

Musk takes over federal agencies

Immediately following Trump’s inauguration on 20 January, the president issued an executive order establishing Musk’s “department of government efficiency”. Rather than create an entirely new entity, the order renamed the US Digital Service, which was previously tasked with updating government IT systems, and brought the rechristened bureau into the executive office of the president.

Government accountability groups instantly saw red flags with its creation, filing four separate lawsuits that alleged Doge violated federal transparency laws while warning that the initiative was “slated to dictate federal policy in ways that will affect millions of Americans”.

The concerns from watchdog organizations have borne out. Musk and employees of Doge have gained access to sensitive government systems in the treasury department and USAid in recent days, as well as exerted control over the office of personnel management (OPM) and the General Services Administration, which handles federal real estate, with the goal of ending office leases. Two federal workers additionally sued on Tuesday for a temporary restraining order against Doge for allegedly operating an illegal server in OPM.

Attempts at blocking Musk’s team have resulted in several top agency officials being ousted. On Friday, the treasury department’s acting secretary, David Lebryk, resigned after refusing to grant Musk’s team access to highly secure systems that control about $6tn in annual payments to millions of Americans. The next day, two senior security officials at USAid attempted to stop Doge workers from gaining physical access to restricted areas at the agency – resulting in a standoff in which a deputy for Musk threatened to call the US marshals. Both security officials have subsequently been put on administrative leave, and on Sunday night staff at USAid received emails telling them to not come into work the next day.

The events unfolded swiftly and took place mostly outside of working hours, creating uncertainty over the weekend as to who was in charge and what authority the Doge team possessed. Many of the Doge team tasked with carrying out the overhauls of government agencies appear to have little to no experience in government and are extremely young. One of the engineers is as young as 19, Wired reported, while a 25-year-old who previously worked at two of Musk’s companies gained access to treasury department payment systems.

The Trump administration has maintained that all Musk’s actions have been legal and did not violate security protocols, although the details of what Doge employees are doing with access to government systems is still unclear. “No classified material was accessed without proper security clearances,” Katie Miller, a Doge spokesperson and wife of the far-right Trump administration official Stephen Miller, wrote on X.

Musk has claimed that his actions are cutting unnecessary costs and will allow for more efficient government, but he has also suggested his taskforce is ideologically opposed to liberal initiatives such as refugee services and the promotion of trans rights. He has routinely engaged with far-right and conspiracy theory-promoting accounts on X while touting his dismantling of USAid, an agency that has become a target in recent years among hardline conservatives. The far-right Heritage Foundation thinktank specifically called for reforming USAid in its controversial Project 2025 report, accusing it of spreading “climate extremism” and “gender radicalism”.

Musk acting with Trump’s backing

Trump has supported Musk’s aggressive approach to dismantling government agencies, confirming plans on Monday to shut down USAid and praising Musk as a “big cost cutter”. As backlash swelled and Democrats issued calls for action against Musk on Monday, Trump attempted to assuage some of the concerns and reassert that he was in charge.

“Elon can’t do and won’t do anything without our approval,” Trump said in the Oval Office. “We’ll give him approval where appropriate and where not appropriate we won’t.”

But there have been no public signs thus far that Trump has reined in Musk’s ambitions or prevented him from engaging in potential conflicts – he has many, as a number of his companies do extensive work with government agencies he now holds sway over. Several of Trump’s recent policy announcements also appeared to align with Musk’s worldview and personal grievances.

Trump declared on Monday that he would shut down all aid to South Africa, Musk’s country of birth, over what he alleged was a “massive human rights violation” in the form of a new land rights law. Musk has repeatedly accused the South African government of racism against white people and falsely claimed that the government is allowing a “genocide” against white farmers.

Another executive order from Trump on 31 January vowed to “unleash prosperity through deregulation” and declared that whenever a government agency issues a new regulation it must first remove 10 existing regulations. The order has echoed Musk’s longstanding calls for widespread deregulation of the federal government, which Musk reiterated in a livestream on Monday night on X, when he stated “regulations, basically, should be default gone”. He described the current administration as “our best shot” at this deregulation and “the best hand of cards we’re ever going to have”.

Musk has made sweeping and aggressive declarations about what else must change about the US government, indicating where he might strike next. He stated on Monday: “Activist judges must be removed from the bench or there is no justice,” and praised the representative Marjorie Taylor Greene for issuing calls for NPR and PBS to testify at a hearing about their operations. Greene, who is head of a “delivering on government efficiency” group within the House oversight committee that aims to support Musk’s efforts, accused the public media organizations of ideological bias – citing a PBS report that Musk “gave what appeared to be a fascist salute” during a speech last month.

It is uncertain what mechanisms may prevent further cuts by Musk. His immense influence coupled with his erratic behavior have made it difficult to quickly ascertain where the next axe may fall, such as on Monday when Musk claimed that a government agency that worked on a free IRS tax filing system was “deleted” while giving no further information. The agency’s program was still online as of Tuesday.

What is clear from Musk’s public statements is the intent to barrel ahead with accumulating more power over government agencies, while framing his crusade as an existential fight for the future of the country.

“It’s now or never,” the billionaire tweeted on Tuesday. “Your support is crucial to the success of the revolution of the people.”

Incredible things are happening already❗ 👀 🤔

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[biblioflyer]

The Cardassian War was worse than you probably think.

I wrote a lot about the Maquis with every intention of posting quite a bit more about it, but then I got cold feet. Its actually been a while since I watched some of the critical Maquis episodes. In some instances, I haven't seen them since they aired. So I decided to go back and rewatch some of them. I started with TNG 7x20 "Journey's End." Where I expected a very strident lecture on the evils of forced relocation, I found something deeply nuanced and something that also reframed how I understood the Federation's conflict with the Cardassians.

If you're in a hurry, the big revelation was that, per Picard, millions of people died in the Cardassian - Federation War.

If you haven't been part of debates about what the scale of the Star Trek setting is or are more attuned to more recent series, millions may not actually seem that many people. Star Wars and 40k fans are probably squinting and wondering what all the fuss is about.

So let me provide some additional context. This is going to be mostly Doylist in nature, i.e. "meta" commentary.

Millions of people equals thousands of Galaxy-class starships. At a time when we'd seen not more than two Galaxy-class starships on screen at the same time and per the Next Generation Technical Manual (which was quasi-canon at the time, essentially given high regard by creatives working on Trek but always subject to being overruled if the needs of the story dictated) there could be as few as five Galaxy-class starships active at the time, but perhaps eleven including the initial batch of six and assuming the six framed out but not completed hulls were built to completion and subtracting poor Yamato.

Just a few seasons before, the loss of 39 ships and 11,000 personnel at Wolf 359 was considered a pretty devastating loss.

If it were strictly Starfleet and Cardassian military personnel, millions would be staggering losses representing the equivalent of thousands of starships or some mix of ships and major stations or ground forces. My gut tells me that given the way TNG seems to be a smaller scale setting than Trek would later be depicted, this wasn't intended to be solely military losses but also inclusive of and maybe even disproportionately falling upon civilians. Given that the Federation doesn't directly target civilians as a general rule, I do have some theories on how this might come about: namely by making space warfare messier than its generally presented: Star Wars and The Expanse have both done great representation of how conflicts that play out in space can still result in collateral damage to civilian stations and planetary settlements.

Notably, later series like DS9 and Discovery will do a "soft" retcon of Starfleet to include as many as 7,000 ships in the 23rd century and perhaps around 30,000 in the 24th century (citation: Ron Moore & extrapolation based on fleet size quotes) but while this isn't a hard retcon in that it doesn't override firmly declared facts and figures, it also doesn't seem like these larger numbers were ones TNG was operating with when it threw a mere 40 ships at the Borg or had Starfleet yet again being unable to avoid pulling ships out of dock mid-refit and stuffing Enterprise crew on them to catch the Romulans smuggling arms to House Duras.

Regardless of how the numbers breakdown, this was anything but analogous to a protracted series of border skirmishes and raids ala the colonial theaters of various European imperial wars, which full disclosure, was my working mental model for understanding this conflict.

So why does this matter for understanding the Maquis?

I think it matters for understanding the Federation's motives in signing what most fans and many in universe characters feel is a "bad" peace with the Cardassians. This wasn't a vanity war that super powers sometimes find themselves in where they'll fight for years in some corner of the globe that is strategically irrelevant to the imperial heartland but has somehow gained incredible psychological significance in the minds of defense planners, politicians, and yellow journalists. This is a conflict that cost the Federation quite a bit of blood for planets that are described as having been settled for at most a few decades and, at the very least, we've never really heard anyone from the Federation complain about a lack of satisfactory M-class planets.

Of course as represented by the North American Indians (TNG's term, not mine) that had settled on Dorvan V, from the perspective of the colonists, they had roots and distinctive cultural identities that they desired to have respected and felt warranted their own planets. From the Federation's perspective, these are people who have barely settled their worlds and one world should be as good as another. If you run the numbers through "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few" then this starts looking even more tilted towards the Federation's perspective.

Now the counter argument is the bog standard opposition to authoritarianism and violent revisionists argument. This is the argument that the moral responsibility for avoiding catastrophic loss of life is on the one who is the first to use violence to try to advance their interests, at least at the level of astropolitics. In this framing it is not the responsibility of the Federation to mollify the Cardassians by conceding on irrational fears or immoral demands.

A cynical reading of this argument might find within it the notion that the Federation should just do what it wants, as long as its consistent with the Federation's values, and if the Cardassians have a problem with it up to the point of attacking, then the Federation should fight back and not stop until it reaches Cardassia and overthrows the military junta in charge or at the very least, removes any Cardassian presence from Federation borders and denudes Cardassian capacity to strike across the border.

The idea here being that conceding to the Cardassians rewards them for their willingness to use violence to achieve their goals, which further incentivizes them to use violence, and arguably did incentivize them to use violence as evidenced by accusations of poisoning wells and damaging infrastructure to drive ex-Federation citizens off the worlds that were ceded to the Cardassian Union.

But this argument has always contained within it the implicit assumption that the Federation had the capacity to rollback Cardassian warmaking capability and to keep up pressure on the Cardassians until the Cardassians cry uncle. A war in which millions died and where the Federation is trading away planets is not one that seems to imply the Federation had the capacity to hammer the Cardassians until they relented or there was a deficit of will to fight this war to the hilt, recognizing that pushing the war all the way to the orbit of Cardassia Prime would result in Union space being ungoverned and insecure until the infrastructure and ships were replaced.

Anyone who has watched the outcomes of the Global War on Terror or the various civil wars and revolutions that have happened in recent years should be very cognizant that a lack of order and security often results in problems being exported to adjacent regions. Problems meaning traumatized and impoverished refugees seeking safety and sustenance in places ill equipped to provide for them materially and often with some or a lot of mutual incoherence and mistrust happening at the cultural level as norms clash. Problems also meaning unaccounted for military equipment finding its way into the hands of revolutionaries, terrorists, and pirates who pursue their own goals and survival needs through the use of weapons on anyone who has something worth taking.

The United States did not kill a million or more people in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other MENA region countries through the use of weapons from 2001 to date. Iraq from 1991 to 2001 didn't have a million excess deaths* because of bombs detonating in people's homes, those deaths resulted from damage to infrastructure and internal supply chains because civilization is actually rather fragile and even people we regard as "less developed" are not meaningfully closer to nature and more resilient than we in the WEIRD category. If anything they exist in a more delicate state because they are often living on more marginal and stressed land with infrastructure that lacks redundancies or substantial state capacity to move people and resources around quickly to address sudden need.

*It should be noted that while these figures are widely quoted, the methodology has been questioned. I would encourage readers who want to get their historical facts correct to examine the evidence and decide whether Iraq sanctions are something one wants to use in a context other than describing the potential consequences of a fictional war.

When considering how to deal with Russia and its invasion of Ukraine, there are moral debates about how hard to press the civilian economy. Namely because so much of the infrastructure and daily necessities of life in modern countries count as "dual use." As in there are legitimate civilian uses that it doesn't seem productive to deny people: transistors are essential for access to information - both state controlled but also outside channels, and operate everything from thermostats to live saving medical equipment. The distinction between a transistor appropriate for running an insulin pump and one for a hypersonic missile is increasingly blurry.

An analogy could easily be drawn to isolinear chips and replicators. We in the fandom often assume that the Federation's ability to be precise in its application of lethal violence is practically omniscient and omnipotent, and that with its august technology, it has been liberated from having to make hard decisions. Yet if the Federation wants to destroy the warmaking capability of the Cardassians, how "deep" into the Cardassian infrastructure does it need to go?

Can you imagine Captain Picard sleeping well at night after calling a senior staff meeting to debate the legitimacy of striking a fusion reactor in a dense urban area that has been unplugged from the civilian grid and hooked up to an industrial replicator pumping out photon torpedo thrusters?

Further, the moral and political science assumptions of the Federation seem to rule out the idea that Cardassian civilians suffering and dying is an appropriate form of justice for Federation lives nor does suffering seem to predictably and reliably lead to revolution. Historical evidence is at best mixed and perhaps even damning. Try wrapping your head around the idea that Russian forces continued to fight their foreign enemies in WW1 at the same time as different Russian formations were fighting each other during the civil war that broke out as a direct consequence of World War 1. In short, while the war had certainly radicalized much of the public, there was still a lot of anger and blame directed to those who had been killing Russians before Russians were killing Russians.

So what is the Federation to do?

Keep fighting a war it probably wasn't technically losing but definitely didn't seem to be winning?

And perhaps the Federation couldn't win without paying a cost in both Federation and Cardassian lives, many of whom might be noncombatants, that was unpalatable?

What was it supposed to do after Wolf 359?

Postscript:

A bit more about the plot of the episode itself. "Journey's End" is probably one of the best TNG moral dilemma episodes. There are critiques to be made obviously. That the Indigenous people depicted seem to be a bit generic to the uneducated eye and do not claim a specific tribal / national identity feels weird at the end of 2024, but it also provokes an interesting discussion about the degree to which there isn't already a lot of syncretism among peoples who have experienced massive depopulation and loss of political agency, whether through intentional genocides, loss of territory, or disease. Its not hard to imagine this "North American Indian" identity found on Dorvan V being a syncretic identity that emerged in the 2100s once interstellar colonization really took off. Its strongly implied to be a "fresh start" movement that was itself controversial and many indigenous North Americas opted not to join them; but its membership could be plausibly drawn from many cultural identities.

However, the moral dilemma at the heart of the episode is handled with exquisite care and steadfastly refuses to make anyone objectively the bad guy. Every Federation character, even hardline consequentialist Admiral Nechayev, is respectful to the people of Dorvan V and mindful of their historical trauma even as it recognizes that the Federation's own interests are largely incompatible with respecting their demands.

Even Gul Evek, the named Cardassian leader of the show, relents after an impassioned plea from Picard. Evek admits to losing two out of three sons in the war and speculates that if the Dorvan V inhabitants leave the Cardassians alone, they will be left alone. Evek was convincing at least to this member of the audience. The framing felt hopeful rather than like everyone was being asked to swallow a Targ dung sandwich.

In checking to make sure I spelled his name correctly, I've become aware that Evek becomes a recurring character and I'm intrigued to see if there are clues to be found as to whether you could argue that he was lying or that events took on a life of their own and Evek was simply proven wrong. Its possible that Dorvan V was largely spared but the Obsidian Order or other elements of the Cardassian government decided to act in places it thought the Federation wouldn't be paying as close attention and the radicalization of the Maquis in turn radicalized Evek.

After all, since that the Cardassian Union was in effect waging a proxy war in the Demilitarized Zone, it would take little to convince some Cardassians that a guerilla movement with ex-Starfleet in almost all command roles and using Federation hardware represented a Federation proxy war with top level support. Which would in turn require the Federation to at least make some efforts at combating the Maquis in order to sell the Cardassians on the idea that the Maquis are not a plausibly deniable arm of Starfleet Intelligence.

But the Maquis are obviously are going to do what they need to do to defend their worlds, whether its their actual colonies or because they object to Starfleet sitting on its hands in the face of reports of atrocities.

In retrospect, for an era that was just testing the waters for multi-season arcs, this is such smart and tragic world building. Unlike say, the plot to destroy Qonos in Discovery or the anti-Changeling bioweapon being the Chekov's gun necessary to resolve the Dominion War, very little about the Maquis arc feels contrived and much more well supported by the world building around it.

[hezigler]

The conscious rational mind is a secondary mental function. The mind chooses what feels right to it emotionally. Then, the rational mind takes over to --- well, rationalize the decision chosen by passion. This is why a good education should inculcate students with a passion for the Truth, along with critical thinking skills.

Life is complicated. So is finding the Truth in life. The Truth is often composed of many facts that are true. But taken individually, a fact may not on its own be indicative of the total Truth itself.

Full disclosure: Much as this posting may appear to be inviting dialog, it is not. Neither is it meant to be a declaration of my politics. My politics are too deeply rooted in my passion for Truth to be limited by ideology. That's not to say that all my posts are the product of reason in the search of Truth. Despite my advanced age and attendant health problems, I'm still in possession of a sense of humor. Both my health problems and my sense of humor have been greatly aided by being in my state's medical cannabis program. So, I'm very stoner friendly. I do occasionally free associate while writing, like I was noodling riffs on a horn. Like any honest writer may admit, I write to please myself.