#Evacuation Exercises

[louve-garoue]

My god an firealarm exercise that is before midnight ??? Are they perhaps becoming reasonable ??

That or there's actually a fire right now 🤔

[adventures-with-aspen]

The heatwave is finally over—hooray! Now, the air smells like wildfire smoke. We just can’t catch a break

[jepergola]

New story today: "We Interrupt This Surgery With a Bit of an Earthquake"

[bilal-salah0]

The Story of Abdullah Khaled Al-Haj:

My name is Abdullah Khaled Al-Haj, from Gaza, and I am 21 years old. I once lived a life of comfort and hope, but recent changes have brought me immense hardship.

Before my father's passing, our lives were full of comfort and care. I wore the finest clothes, enjoyed the best foods, and lived in a comfortable home. I worked hard and had a passion for sports, especially bodybuilding and weightlifting. Each morning, I would get up to enjoy time with friends, and my mother and younger siblings, whom I now care for, were happy and hopeful.

However, things changed drastically. We lost our father, who died in my arms at the hospital while we awaited treatment that never came. This loss marked the beginning of a challenging new phase in our lives.

Today, I no longer have suitable clothing or shoes, and I struggle to secure daily sustenance. I have lost weight from 90 kilograms to 60 kilograms due to the harsh conditions. I no longer sleep on a comfortable bed but sometimes on the sand.

The city of Gaza, which was once full of hope, has been completely destroyed, including my home that held all my childhood memories and dreams. Instead of waking up to enjoy good food and exercise, I now wake each day to search for food and water for my family, often finding myself unable to meet their basic needs.

£130 raised of £50,000 goal

@abdallaalhaj

Can you share please

neptunerings @claudiasescapesubmarine @northgazaupdates2 @gaza-evacuation-funds @rhubarbspring @flower-tea-fairies @postanagramgenerator@chronicschmonic

@blackgoliath @sharingresourcestorpalestine @60309 @malcriada @jeziorO @retvolution @raydiantgarden @emathyst9 @mothblossoms @pile-of-anxiety @brutaliakhoa @alm3v@magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @schoolhater @lesbiandardevil @devilofthepit @lizlives @transmutationisms @kit-today @appsa @hametsukaishi @vetted-gaza-funds @gazagmboost @heritageposts @timetravellingkitty @a-shade-of-blue @lovewontfindherwayhome @ohwarnette @nightowlssleep

@pretendingtobeaperson @laurapalmerss @im-living-under-your-basement @komsomolka @dvanaestmrva @lonniemachin @heliopixels @zigcarnivorous @turtletoria @opencommunion @wellwaterhysteria @queerstudiesnatural @grapejuicedragoon

[proxycrit]

If this man has to haunt me, he has has to haunt you.

Meet Sweaty. He’s a 42 year old absol and lives with his human mom in Castelia, Unova.

Some Absol headcanons:

I do think part of why Absols have such a bad rep among people is partially due to folklore of them appearing before and after horrific disasters, but also because they have such a human face. Imagine seeing this mf in the dark woods watching you. Something that looks human, but is not. Something that sounds human, but is NOT. Follow this by a horrific landslide.

Do you see the problem. Humans remember human faces. Predators sometimes mimic their prey. Absols have the truly unfortunate evolutionary quirk of falling into both categories.

So yes, there was a huge stigma against absols which led to a pretty severe population decline.

In modern day (much like wolves), Absols have become media darlings, in large thanks to a the help of pokemon rangers who utilize Absol’s ability to sense weather as an indicator when to evacuate. They are a very long lived species and need lots of intense exercise, often declaring huge swaths of land as their personal territories. Absols also tend to get very anxious when they feel they do not have enough space, so keeping them with other pokemon’s usually a no no.

Sweaty’s mom used to be a pokemon ranger and found Sweaty stuck in a refrigerator. Nowadays, she lets him free roam—much to the chagrin of every other person in the area. Sweaty in turn makes himself a nuisance to the local icecream store, begging for treats.

(The kids love him. He comes home with ink and paint stained everywhere and it’s a nightmare to clean.)

Hate my human faced monstrosities? Thank @tjs-stuffs for this. Ciao!

[yuri-puppies]

We really get to see Kabru exercise his social awareness and his story-crafting skills this episode, like how he tailors his backstory differently to Toshiro and Namari (and the Floke twins out of frame!) - framing the massacre of his people as a result of elven interventionism and focusing on his personal tragedy; contrasting his hardworking mother to the faceless, dispassionate elven forces

vs how he talks about Utaya with the elves, first by making them take him seriously pay proper attention to him, indirectly invoking Milsiril's social capital to present a nepo-baby persona* that paints Kabru as not-like-the-other-tallmen, why he's practically a Canary

*i said persona. if you call him a nepo baby in my notes i will send a squad of trained skunks to your house to eat your plants and spray your kitchen counters and also block you

(baffles me. BAFFLES ME that there are readers who fell for it. at least the Japanese VA did a great job of making it sound just fake enough for the audience to clock it as a successful deception check, so it should be clearer now)

Only then he appeals to their emotion, framing Utaya as being about the elves' misplaced best efforts and the losses they suffered, framing the death of imperial soldiers as equal to the brutal massacre of a large city's worth of people. That emotional appeal and successful positioning of himself as aligned with the Canaries is what allows him to ultimately propose his plan to evacuate the dungeon.

[dadvans]

buck v. gerrard (season 8)

they'd probably play it for drama, but in a hypothetical break-up of the 118 where buck has to go report to gerrard, i can imagine him undermining gerrard in every way for pure hilarity:

gerrard tries to do the muddy boots on clean floor or chrome trick after buck is done cleaning. he gives buck a knowing look, but buck nods and is like, "don't worry, cap, i know the drill," then turns around and yells PROBIE! to get the new grad's attention, so he can delegate cleaning. the bigger problem is afterward when gerrard sees buck giving the probie a pat on the back, like, hey man, better than i've ever done it! look at that! great job! (Buck: 1, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard tries to make buck stay behind on-shift part one: buck does a full inventory, and when the truck rolls back in the house, buck is holding up new color-coded spreadsheets about regular inventory checks to be initialed by someone on each shift, x amount many times a week. surely, he won't be able to enforce it, but--

gerrard tries to make buck stay behind on-shift part two: when the truck rolls back in the house, buck has made dinner for everyone. "you hungry, guys?" he calls down. everyone goes upstairs to see a gourmet fucking meal, and the only thing that isn't absolutely spotless in the entire firehouse is buck's apron and the towel he has over his shoulder. gerrard, pissed, goes to eat his cold leftover pizza in his office, alone. (Buck: 2, Gerrard: 0)

so, after that, everyone is adhering to buck's inventory management schedule (Buck: 3, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard starts bringing buck on calls so he can't undermine him anymore, and he's heard about this kid, he's a disaster magnet and he doesn't always follow protocol, so maybe he'll be able to exercise his authority, find a clear cut path to a suspension or even (he tries not to be too hopeful) a termination. the only time buck goes against protocol is when a beam in a warehouse fire unexpectedly falls and pins gerrard to the floor when they're supposed to be evacuating, and buck's the one who turns around and saves him. (Buck: 4, Gerrard: 0)

gerrard wakes up in the hospital. buck is sitting there, fusses over him, and then in the gentlest way possible tells gerrard he's on administrative leave because of the shoulder, but it's ok! buck's been there before, i mean, when he was much younger so he's not sure what coming back from that's like at gerrard's age. before he leaves he's like, oh, and one more thing. takes out his phone, gets next to gerrard and snaps a selfie of the two of them. he then looks at the photo fondly, says, "ha. tommy's gonna love this one. okay, see ya, cap!" and leaves. (Buck: 5, Gerrard: 0)

[probablyasocialecologist]

Palestinian human rights organizations have shown that one in five Palestinians has been arrested and charged in Israeli military courts since the occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip in 1967. Each year, this figure adds approximately 500–700 Palestinian children, some as young as 12, who are detained and prosecuted in Israeli military courts.

[...] During the ongoing genocidal war across historic Palestine, Israeli carceral violence and arrest campaigns have only intensified. In the months prior to October 7, an approximate 5,200 Palestinians were detained in Israeli prisons. As of mid-March, that number exceeds 9,000. Over the past five months alone, Israeli occupying forces have arrested over 7,600 Palestinians in the West Bank, in addition to an unknown number of detained Gazans. Conditions are worsening for the imprisoned. Immediately following the war’s outbreak, the Israel Prison Service (IPS) placed prisoners in total isolation, prevented them from leaving their cells, and restricted access to water and electricity. The agency ceased providing what had already been poor-quality medical care and has dispensed inadequate food, enacting a starvation campaign against prisoners. Guards inflict violence, torture, and degrading treatment such as reportedly forcing captives to “bark.” IPS also banned visits for family members and delegates from the International Committee of the Red Cross, and severely restricted lawyer visits—cutting prisoners off from the outside world. My research inside Israeli military courts and prison visitation rooms—both as an anthropological researcher and a family member of prisoners—highlights the systematic nature of this violence and its justification through legal codes. Through an intricate web of military laws and orders, Palestinians become racialized—a sociopolitical process through which groups are seen as distinct “races” ordered in a social hierarchy. The Israeli carceral system racializes Palestinians as inherently “criminal” and thus deserving of punishment. Following the occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip in 1967, the Israeli military was vested with the ultimate authority of government, legislation, and punishment over the Palestinian population. This includes prosecuting Palestinians in military courts and charging them under the nearly 1,800 military orders that govern every aspect of daily life: conduct, property, movement, evacuation, land seizures, detention, interrogation, and trial. The orders include provisions for indefinitely detaining Palestinians without charge or trial through a policy inherited from British colonial practices. Over 3,500 Palestinians are being held in this state as of early March. Other provisions regulate the arrest and interrogation of Palestinians and how long they can be denied lawyer visits. With a near 100 percent conviction rate, Israeli military courts hand down absurdly high sentences, sometimes amounting to dozens of life sentences. Torture inside Israeli prisons and detention facilities is sanctioned by Israeli High Court of Justice (HCJ) rulings that permit the exercise of violence under pretexts of “security” and protecting “public order.” Enmeshed within this carceral reality is Israel’s labeling of most Palestinian prisoners as “security prisoners.” This designation masks the political nature of their imprisonment and sanctions violations against them. As opposed to Palestinian “security prisoners,” incarcerated Jewish settler-citizens receive rights such as making telephone calls, going on home visits under guard, the possibility of furlough, and conjugal visits. These rights are denied to the mostly Palestinian security prisoners, who are viewed and racialized from the start as criminals.

26 March 2024

[hussyknee]

Ayat Khaddura, 27, was a digital content and podcast presenter in North Gaza. She was one of the five journalists murdered by Israel's targeted air strike on Nov 20, along with her sister and grandmother in her home. She posted this video in the knowledge that these were probably her last moments.

Video description:

A young Arab woman in a hijab and abaya speaks into her camera in Arabic in a high, frightened voice. The subtitles read: "This might be the last video from me. Today the Occupation Forces dropped phosphorus bombs on the Beit Lahia residential area, and frightening sound bombs. And uhm, they dropped letters from the sky ordering us to evacuate. So of course nearly everyone evacuated for the most part. Everyone ran into the streets in a crazy way. No one knows where they're coming or going. Uhm, we're all split up and around. Me and some others stayed at home. The others evacuated and left. We don't know where they've gone, that's for sure. The situation is terrifying, the scenes are horrifying [voice breaking as she starts to cry], the situation is extremely difficult. May God have mercy on us." [She closes her eyes as she starts to cry openly. End clip.]

[New clip.] The same young woman is seated on a desk in front of a world map wearing a jacket over a t-shirt and her hijab. Large video caption reads "Message from Ayat Khaddura who was martyred yesterday". Her voice is sad and resigned, and her face is tired and tear-stained as she speaks in Arabic. Subtitles read:

"We are human beings, just like other human beings around the world. We had many big dreams, but unfortunately today our dreams are that if we are killed we will be martyred in one piece, one body (not torn to pieces) so that people can recognise us, and we will not be cut off in pieces and put in a bag. [struggles not to cry.] When we are martyred there will be a shroud for us and we will be buried in a grave. Our dreams have become that the war will stop, that we stop hearing the sound of bombing. We never imagined we would reach such a stage and live such a life that does not have the lowest basic necessities. [Blinks back tears.] There are things we can't talk about, there are things that people photographed and did not document. When the war will end, who will continue to talk to people? What happened to us, how we lived, what we saw. Everything is being destroyed before our eyes." [Looks down with a sob. End video.]

Israel dropping leaflets onto trapped and hiding people minutes before bombing them is nothing but a sick PR exercise— there's nowhere safe to go, no telling where the bombs will drop, no way to not leave family members behind while fleeing. Many people in North Gaza decided not to evacuate to the South, not only because similar calls to go South have ended in Israeli airstrikes massacring the refugees, but the possibility of being killed while trying to make the journey, the lack of food and water to sustain them, and inability to leave old and disabled family members behind. Some like Hind Khaudary, who had the opportunity to leave the Gaza strip entirely through foreign embassies, stayed behind to continue reporting the situation unfolding in the North. Meanwhile, Israel is continuing to bomb the South, despite their own evacuation orders.

Ayat is one of the fifty-three Middle Eastern journalists killed since Oct. 7. Forty-six of them were Palestinian, most massacred along with their families. Air strikes on other journalists managed to kill only their families instead. This is the deadliest period for journalists recorded by the Committee to Protect Journalists in its thirty years of existence. In fact, Israel killed one of the CPJ's own journalists documenting the murders around the same time as Ayat.

Nearly all these are targeted strikes. Israel controls the census in Gaza and therefore has information on where everyone lives. They also track journalists cellphones and use surveillance drones and quadcopters (drone snipers). Journalists and their families are known to receive threatening phone calls from unknown numbers before they're eventually attacked.

As to why Israel is so concerned about journalists? For the same reason the Biden Administration has stated openly.

But the administration remains wary about Netanyahu’s endgame and seeming lack of a plan for what to do once Hamas is defeated. There was no sense that the pause would turn into a lengthier cease-fire, a senior administration official said. And there was some concern in the administration about an unintended consequence of the pause: that it would allow journalists broader access to Gaza and the opportunity to further illuminate the devastation there and turn public opinion on Israel.

Please spread news of these journalists' murders, show their faces, say their names. While Western journalists from CNN and BCC are embedded with IOF teams to safely "report" on Gaza, Palestinian journalists who have been reporting there for years, wearing a press jacket and helmet they know won't protect them, are documenting and broadcasting the situation on the ground, watching their colleagues being picked off one by one for the last month and half, not knowing when it will be their turn. Ayat was not a combatant. She was a young woman a lot like most on this site, young and angry at injustice, armed with only a degree and internet connection to fight for her people. She wanted the world to witness her last moments: documenting the situation till the end, her terror of dying, how she clung to her faith and wanted to live. Hers and her compatriots work is to resist letting their people disappear among the vast uncounted; she resisted it to her last breath.

Empires and colonizers win wars by reducing people to numbers. When people become numbers they become collateral, cattle, "unavoidable casualties". This is what Palestinians have fought for decades to show: "We Are Not Numbers". If the West wants to kill human beings with impunity, everyone gets to see exactly which lives and loves and hopes it's snuffing out forever.

[veritas-scribblings]

buzz - @bartylusmicrofic - words: 977 [explicit / NSFW]

[inspired by @lexithwrites's post, which appeared in my feed: terribly sorry for doing this again, I will stop!]

Regulus has always been a little bit sceptical about it all. Insanity runs in his family, you see, and he has been somewhat hesitant to tempt fate. Some days, Regulus thinks that perhaps that’s where everything went wrong with his mother and Sirius, all the high-running emotions between them, the screaming, the manipulations and emotional blackmail. All the gaslighting. There’s definitely something diagnosable going on, in his not-so-professional opinion. Some days, Regulus thinks that insanity is closer to him than he would like. After the whole business with Cousin Bellatrix and that cult she’d run off to join…well, ‘fate’ seems to have a choke hold on the family.

So, when Regulus finds himself laying on the floor with Barty, drinking cider and smoking a spliff, he would like to think that his first thought was something along the lines of, ‘I should probably exercise some caution here.’

Unfortunately, though, that had not been his first thought.

His first thought had been, ‘It’s not so bad as a joint, right? Maybe the hypothetical schizophrenia won’t be so bad either.’

His second thought had been, ‘Why was I worried to begin with? What are even problems? No problems exist in my world.’

His third thought had led him to cheese, which had led him to seeking out the bag of shredded mozzarella he knows is kept in Barty’s fridge. Which had led Barty to laughing hysterically at him, and then joining Regulus in eating a good half of the bag. Which had led to even more hysterical laughing, because there they were cuddled up on the floor sharing a 500gm bag of shredded cheese and it had seemed like the funniest situation they’d ever been in. 

Honestly, Regulus isn’t too sure what had happened in the middle or who had moved first. It may have been Barty, because Barty is always handsy when he’s high (or, at least, more handsy than when he’s not high, because Barty tends to always be a bit handsy). It may have been Regulus, because about 10km back Regulus had decided that cuddles are exactly what he is all about.

Now, Regulus has discovered several things. He has discovered that Barty tastes like smoke and cider and shredded cheese. That Barty bites when he kisses. That Barty is a wicked, clever kisser and Regulus regrets not kissing him sooner. That Barty seems to enjoy cradling the back of Regulus’s neck and running his hands through Regulus’s hair. That running his tongue over Barty’s tongue piercing is a fascinating experience, though he hasn’t quite worked out what to actually do with the little ball of metal just yet. 

And now, Regulus is laying on the floor of Barty’s small one-bedroom apartment and some time ago his trousers and pants left his person, and he’s wrapped around Barty, one leg hooked around him, and he’s riding Barty’s thigh like his life absolutely depends on it. Like his body has a mind of its own. 

And it feels good. Barty feels good. Barty feels incredible. Regulus is high, and not on spliff, because there are fireworks shooting through his entire body, exploding at every rock of his hips, and his brain has clearly evacuated due to the danger. 

Distantly, he is aware that there are two thought trains travelling through his brain right now. The first thought train is headed somewhere within the vicinity of: Barty is family and we don’t do this with family and what if this fucks with everything between us, I can’t lose my best friend. The second thought train, the one Regulus has long boarded, is headed towards: why the fuck didn’t we do this sooner, this is the best idea ever, why have we wasted all these years not doing this. 

Regulus gasps, shivers when Barty’s slides his hands behind him and guides Regulus’s hips to grind down on his thigh harder. Regulus is dizzy. Everything about his world feels louder. Every brush of Barty’s skin against his is electric, euphoric, and he isn’t sure whether it’s from the spliff or from the sheer bliss washing through him in waves. 

Distantly, Regulus is aware that he’s moaning, whimpering, that his head is tipped back, that Barty is sucking and biting at his neck between saying something that Regulus can’t make out because it sounds like a huge blur of words strung together.

‘Fuck,’ Regulus gasps, ‘fuck, fuck,’ and then louder, startled as Barty pulls away to sit back on his haunches, ‘Fuck, what! What the fuck!’

Barty grins, laughing a little like he has been struck with the most amazing idea. He runs his hands over Regulus’s bare legs, trails the tips of his fingers across the wetness smeared along the insides of his thighs. His eyes are sparkling, though a little bit dazed. 

And then he goes down between Regulus’s legs; Regulus’s head spins and his breath hitches. He knows it’s coming, but he can’t grasp a single coherent thought well enough to not completely lose himself when it finally does come.

The first slide of Barty’s tongue through his wetness has Regulus weak and swearing loudly and filthily. He’s already so sensitive there and Barty doesn’t take things slowly (he never does). He runs his tongue directly over Regulus’s swollen arousal before taking him into his mouth. And he sucks mercilessly, rubbing his tongue back and forth, driving Regulus higher and higher and higher.

Barty pulls back suddenly, just a little, and Regulus whimpers at the loss of his touch, hands flying down to try and grab Barty's head to bring him back into place.

‘I knew it,’ Barty says. His grin is wolfish. He laughs, and Regulus can feel his breath in hot puffs between his legs. ‘I always knew you’d taste amazing.’

And then Barty goes back down, slides his tongue to tease between Regulus’s folds, takes Regulus into his mouth again. Regulus slams his hand down onto the carpet and swears, bucking into his mouth.

And he comes undone.

[maoistyuri]

Enlightening albeit unsurprising that the Israeli so-called "Minister of Diaspora and Combating Antisemitism" claims that Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq are not actually countries.

Machine translation follows.

Lebanon, even though it has a flag and even though it has political institutions does not meet the definition of a country. In the absence of a monopoly on the exercise of power both internally and externally, the Lebanese government is not a sovereign entity. The border area with Lebanon, which is mostly inhabited by a hostile Shiite population, is effectively controlled by the Hezbollah organization, which on October 8 started a war against the State of Israel. The organization for those who forgot was born with the landing of Revolutionary Guards officers in the Bekaa at the end of the First Lebanon War and to this day it serves as a de facto militia operating with Iranian funding and direction. In a broader view, both Syria and Iraq do not currently meet the definitions of a state in light of the fact that different militias, foreign armies and local military forces control different areas in the aforementioned countries. The drawing lines of Sykes and Pico, which were based on the distribution of areas of influence and resources between Great Britain and France, did not survive the test of time, the sectarian and religious fault lines, the topographical route and military power are the ones that shape the boundaries of truth between the different populations in the area. The current picture of reality, which led us to evacuate tens of thousands of residents from their homes for fear of a ground invasion by an Iranian militia, a fear based both on the organization's declared operative plans, and on the bitter experience of the Shiva events in October, requires us to recalculate a course regarding the border line with the entity that calls itself a state Lebanon.

[whencyclopedia]

The Civilian View of D-Day

The Normandy landings in France, which began on D-Day, 6 June 1944, involved the largest troop movement in history, but in this article, we focus on the view from civilians directly involved in that momentous day when the Allies sought to liberate Western Europe from occupation by Nazi Germany and end the Second World War (1939-45).

D-Day Preparations

As the Allies built up their troops and resources for D-Day in the south of England, to maintain secrecy and provide areas where training exercises for the landings could be conducted, some civilians were required to temporarily move from their homes and such buildings as churches were locked and surrounded by barbed wire. Betty Tab from Slapton in Devon remembers telling her mother of the rumours about this:

My sister heard the rumour in the shop when she went to get some groceries and she said to Mum that we were all going to have to move and of course Mum says, 'That's nonsense talking like that. Where we going to go?' And she says she heard in the shop. There was a meeting called then in the village hall and that confirmed that there was going to be an evacuation of the area for the American training.

My parents just couldn't believe it. I mean, Mum just said, 'Well, no, it's not going to happen because it can't. What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?' But it had to be so. So, of course, everybody had to get their thinking caps on and think, 'Well, where are we going to go?' If you couldn't get anything yourself the authorities would help but they did want you to try and get yourself fixed up, if possible, because, as you can imagine, there were hundreds trying to move. Thousands, I suppose, really. Quite an area it was.

(Bailey, 44)

Desmond O'Neill, an official cameraman for the British Army, describes his visit to a camp of troops readying themselves for the invasion:

I remember going to one unit, I think it was the South Lancashire Regiment, and taking some film of their final preparations for D-Day…they were laagered down near Roland's Castle in Hampshire, in woods there, and I went into the camp – the whole area was actually one huge camp. Very strict all the way round.

There was certainly a very excitable, tense atmosphere amongst those chaps. They'd been training presumably for a couple of years and they knew full well that they were going to be the spearhead troops and they knew therefore that there was a good chance of them getting shot. The atmosphere there was totally different to any other unit I'd ever been to. Discipline was strict but absolutely on a hairline. A very peculiar atmosphere. I know that the casualty figures had been given to them, the presumed casualty figures.

We photographed the chaps being instructed as to what was going to happen on the morning of D-Day, where they were going in and the rest. It was all mocked up. I didn't do very much filming apart from taking pictures of these chaps in the camp. They liked it. First of all they'd never seen a cameraman before. Secondly, it was a great divertissement. You know, 'The Mrs is going to see me back in Wigan,' all this kind of thing. I think it was a welcome diversion.

(Bailey, 66-7)

Continue reading...

[bisexualmcqueen]

alright this one's a little different

its a thumbnail comic of a scene from a silly fic i have YET to write (but i have half of it plotted out/partially written). was a fun choreo exercise. additional context at bottom.

had to omit some plot details for simplicity's sake, but the basic premise is as follows:

"sort of crack taken seriously in that a freak weather event occurs in radiator springs. the green and white cars are just random tourists who lightning is helping evacuate. he's borrowed one of mater's towing cables… but alas he is not a tow truck. also i throw rocks at him! {he doesn't break his powertrain [axel] just a link arm + a few other suspension bits. it's to nerf him for later to let another character do a good deed in his place} {also he has the tow cable because he was closest to rescue the tourists but everyone got separated}"

the tourists also were NOT supposed to be out exploring carburetor country, there were weather warnings posted, but they lied and went anyways and lightning had to find and rescue them </3 (and then they get detoured and This happens</3)

[bougiebutchbinch]

That Trans!A-Train Concept That's Been Haunting Me, feat. a tiny bit of Deeptrain

Rating: M

TW: transphobia, queerphobia, the threat of outing, and A-Train using 'tr*nny' self-deprecatingly. No one actually gets outed, but the fear is real. Also, Homelander is a creep. I love him, but poor A-Train does not.

###

“Deep. Blow A-Train.”

The world sharpens into focus. Reggie had been zoning, as is his habit when Homelander starts spouting shit and everyone dislocates their damn jaws to be first to agree with him. Now though, the meeting room at the top of Vought tower is inescapable – as is the weight of Homelander’s stare. That’s settled on Deep, for now, but Reggie still tenses.

No way did he hear that right. Right?

“What?” asks Deep.

Homelander’s expression doesn’t change. “Did I stutter? A-Train, stand up.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Reggie refuses to let his hands shake as he pushes back his chair, though his jaw is tensed so tight a muscle ticks in his neck. Homelander’s dead-eyed gaze remains glued to Deep, as he orders him onto his knees. But Reggie knows that this isn’t a lesson (a ritual humiliation? A sadistic game?) designed for one.

The fucker knows. He knows I sold out his Nazi bitch. He knows I’m fucking sick of eating Vought’s shit. He knows fucking everything…

Thoughts race through his head, fast as he can run. His heart – still fucking weird, to think of the hunk of muscle in his chest as his – pounds so hard he’s half-afraid of going into cardiac arrest again.

Hell, that might be a blessing. It’d get him out of this.

Deep looks up at Reggie with big spooked eyes. A silent communion passes between them. The only choice being exercised here is Homelander’s. They don’t get a say. They’re just… puppets. Fucking hand-puppets, with Homelander’s fists lodged wrist-deep.

“Sexuality’s just a spectrum,” mumbles Deep, pinching Reggie’s zipper. “Right, bro?”

Reggie rolls his eyes to the ceiling and lets them linger there. Behind his zipper, he’s dry and clenched and fucking terrified. On the outside though? Chill as a New York winter.

He has to be. The only thing worse than being publicly outed, like Maeve, is showing that you give a fuck. If you give a fuck, they can hurt you. Reggie learnt a long time ago that it’s safer to never give anyone that kind of power over you.

Down goes the zipper. Reggie doesn’t flinch at the rasp, but only because he’s doing his utmost to mentally evacuate his body, blowing out like he's emptying himself, watching from a distance, preparing for the inevitable –

“Get the fuck up,” snaps Homelander. He looks disgusted. Like he didn't just order them into these positions, on the implicit threat of burny, lasery death.

Deep springs away, relief shining bright on his dumb-bitch face. But he frowns when he notices Reggie’s hands (stupid fucking hands) wobbling too much to pull up the zipper. Doesn’t mention it though.

Thank fuck. Reggie hates the guy, not least because he’s thick as a post-pepperoni-meatfeast shit, but at least he has the sense to keep his mouth shut. It’s prey instinct, or something. The two of them cower like fluffy li’l bunnies under the piercing stare of an eagle, hoping that if they’re small enough and quiet enough, he’ll fly on by.

Reggie adjusts his packer in his boxers. He finally wrestles up his fly, and scurries back to his seat. Deep follows him. As Homelander launches into a diatribe against brown-nosing, Deep leans over.

“I wouldn’t have actually done it,” he whispers. Reggie just shakes his head and goes back to staring at nothing at all.

He’s first to leave once they're dismissed. It’s tempting to amp up the super-speed and sprint to his apartment, but caution drags teeth along the back of his neck.

Don’t show him that he got to you. Don’t show it. Don’t…

Homelander knows. That’s the worst part. He'd known ever since A-Train’s debut, back when he was all bright-eyed and shiny and unruined by the world. Like all of them start out. During Reggie's first week at the tower, the jackass cornered him in an elevator. He loomed over him, hands clasped behind his back, and breathed.

“My, oh my,” he said, head cocked to one side. Curious, almost. Like a scientist dissecting a bug. “Aren’t you excited. All this fame and power really does it for you, hm?”

Reggie hadn’t understood what he was saying. Yeah, he was revved. Sue him, he’d just come from his biggest press conference yet – fucking killed it, for the record. He’d made a save a few minutes beforehand (carefully staged, rehearsed, and captured from the optimal angles), and swaggered onstage to an eruption of applause so loud it was like Mt Saint Helens had gone for round two.

“Yeah, bossman,” he’d said, flashing a grin. “Happy to be here, I guess?”

“I’ll say. You're practically dripping.”

Reggie’s smile had frozen on his face. “Um. What?”

Homelander settled back on his heels, smiling blandly at the mirrored inside of the elevator doors. “Your cunt. It’s wet. I can smell it.”

Reggie felt like he’d grown twenty inches since strutting off stage. With those words, that extra height crumbled. Everything slowed down, like when he blurred into hyperspeed. It was always a strange feeling. Not like he’d sped up, but like the rest of the world had simply… stopped.

Homelander’s voice though? That just kept on going.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell. Why would I? It’d hardly be good for our viewings if one of us was revealed to be some sort of degenerate…” A dismissive shrug. “Whatever-you-are. Just take this as a reminder, hm? My team can enjoy whatever scratches their itches, but I do insist upon discretion.”

The elevator pinged, doors reeling open. Homelander winked – fucking winked – and strode out, leaving Reggie battling the urge to run and run and run, until Vought tower was lost to New York’s bustling skyline.

Eight years on T at that point – he’d started before he and Nate put their all into this superhero shit. Before he and his big brother took apart plain ol’ Reggie Franklin and built A-Train in his place. And for what?

Homelander sussed him with a fucking sniff.

He hasn’t brought it up since. Reggie has done his utmost not to give him a reason to.

It sickens him to think about. There’d be a media circus, like with poor fucking Maeve. Debates too, where he’d have to defend his continued presence in the Seven to their shareholders (are trans guys as marketable as lesbians?)

No one can be normal about a dude with a cunt. Ridiculous, really. For Reggie, it’s as normal as breathing.

He wants to be A-Train, fastest in the world. Not A-Train, fastest in the world, and he’s a tranny; oh my god, did you know? Let’s all sit around on a late-night chat show and discuss what’s in his pants and whether he’s a bad example for the children.

By the time he gets to his room (at normal, if slightly elevated walking speed, thank you very much) the stupid shake’s back in his hands. Reggie fumbles out his phone as soon as the door shuts. Opening his chat with Nate still happens on muscle memory, though Nate hasn’t replied to his messages in over a month.

Reggie types out a dozen versions of ‘I know you hate me and I know I deserve it and I know I fucked up and I keep fucking up, but please can I come over because I need a fucking hug from my brother’ before giving up. He backspaces the last half-formatted string of text and throws the phone on the bed, then follows it, flopping his face down in the pillows.

He hates the racist pig, but he can’t deny Bluehawk’s heart is doing a decent job. Better than his old one would’ve. He's still in tachy, no doubt about it, but there’s no warning clench in his back and down his left arm, no yawning sinkhole of dread.

He survived. Nothing happened. Nobody knows his secret but Homelander – unless he’s forgotten, which Reggie wouldn’t put past him. A-Train’s so far beneath his notice he’s practically an ant.

He doesn’t need coddling. He doesn’t need Nate. He doesn’t need anyone.

He focuses on the breathing exercises Popclaw used to make him do, until thoughts of Popclaw well up behind his eyes, along with every other fucking thing that’s gone wrong in his life. Or rather, everything he’s done wrong. Killing Campbell’s girl. Snitching on Supersonic. Not walking away from Vought while Nathan could still use his fucking legs…

Suffice to say, by the time the thump sounds at his door, Reggie is way redder around the eyes than anyone is allowed to see but the miserable face in the mirror. He unpeels himself from his damp pillow, dragging on his sunglasses.

“Fuck off!” he yells, in vague hope that’ll work. No such luck.

“Uh,” comes Deep’s low, nervous voice from the other side of the door. “Knock knock? We good, bro?”

“What part of fuck off sounds good to you?” But he’s already dragging himself to the door. Deep might be a dipshit. Might be a goddamn serial rapist with a fetish for sea creatures – but right now he’s also the closest thing to a friend Reggie’s got.

And – fuck. If that ain’t an indictment of the sorry state of the world…

Deep strolls in like he owns the place, thumbs tucked in his waistband. Reggie spent enough time studying the boys at the park, mirroring their swagger, to recognize how he’s bigging himself up.

“So,” he says, all gruff. He’s made his voice deeper, too. “That was fucking crazy, yeah?”

“Just the usual bullshit,” says Reggie, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Homelander’s screwing with us. S’how he gets his kicks.”

“Yeah.” Deep scratches the back of his head. “But you seemed… I dunno. Rattled?”

Why does he have to be a dumbass until it inconveniences Reggie most? “What’s weirder – to be freaked out by him ordering us to do that shit, or to just get on your knees?”

Deep shrinks back, eyes all big like Reggie kicked his pet lobster. Power rushes through Reggie: the sharp-tasting satisfaction of being able to hurt someone just with his words. It feels staler than it used to.

“Hey, I didn’t wanna get lasered. I’m not a queer or anything, yeah?”

“No shit,” drawls Reggie. They have different words for the sort of freak Deep is. Like fish-fucker. And pretty sure that’s a felony. “Is that all?”

Deep shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure we’re good, bro.”

I’m not your bro. But he’s the closest Reggie has to a brother too, since Nate decided he wasn't worth his spit. Even though he hates Deep's gill-slit guts and doesn’t trust him an inch.

“Yeah,” he says, sidling closer. Budging his shoulder against Deep so their biceps rest together, just for a moment, before pulling away. “We’re good. We were just playing along so we didn’t get lasered. Like you said. Now fuck off back to your aquarium.”

Deep flips him double-birds as he leaves, but his usual gormless grin is back on his face. Reggie does his best to match it.

Once Deep’s gone, he returns to his phone, tapping out a quick message to Nate and hitting send before he can wuss out.

Stay safe. I’m sorry.

That echoes all the other sorries that end his other messages, reeling up and up the one-sided text chain into infinity.

Funny, how Reggie never used to utter apologies, if he could help it – and certainly didn’t mean them, if he did. Nowadays, it feels like he can’t repeat them enough.

He selects another contact, one recently added, disguised with a picture of a massive pair of tits. This is both to dodge suspicion, should any of the Intel snoops peek at his phone, and because… well, what sorta whack-ass name is Mother’s Milk, anyway?

Just got out of a meeting, he sends. He absorbed enough of Homelander’s delusional rambling to pass on, even if it provides the Boys with no further information than ‘after executing anyone who dared stand up to him, Homelander’s suddenly decided he’s sick of sycophancy’. Still, his thumbs hover over the keys a full minute before he commits to the next words – we should talk.