#Every revolution should be led by Quell

[youhaveforgottenmealready]

[archadianskies]

people keep teasing us about being a couple so we come up with a plan to fake date and have a fake breakup so they’ll feel awkward and leave us alone, OR, my ex is an asshole and I really don't want them to think I'm still in love (Simon/RK900, unless you've got someone else in mind!)

「 hold me, til i’m not lonely anymore  」 → on Ao3

The thing about those long days and nights in Jericho before Markus’ arrival is that hopelessness makes any relationship seem positive. Bonding out of desperation and survival seemed the right thing, the perfectly normal thing, to do at the time to soothe his abandonment issues and incessant craving for validation and affection. 

It had started off as a healthy relationship- a broken runaway PL600 and a discarded AX700, two domestics with no family to care for but each other. They had found solace together, and the cold dreary nights in the rotting freighter seemed just a little warmer. But Gideon was possessive, fiercely so, and detested Markus’ pacifist ways even though for the first time it seemed Jericho meant something, and had purpose and direction. Even as Simon quietly pined and yearned for Markus’ eloquence and easy affection and gentle demeanour, he stayed by Gideon’s side.

The possessiveness doesn’t stop after they win the revolution, and though they’re now recognised as living, sentient beings Simon still feels like he’s no more than an object owned by another. Gideon wants to make all the decisions, plans where they are to live and what’s to fill their apartment and how much time Simon is allotted to spend at Jericho. He is a broken runaway PL600, and so one quiet unassuming afternoon when Gideon is on a supply run with his team, Simon simply packs up his favourite jumper and a spare packet of thirium and runs away. 

He hops from place to place, from the sprawling, colourful Manfred Manor to Josh’s quiet little apartment crammed with books, to North’s haphazard, eclectic Eden commune. They are his friends, they remind him, and they welcome his company even if Simon feels like he’s intruding into their organised lives.

To combat the ache for companionship, Simon throws himself into work; there is much to do now they are legally Alive. Without Gideon planning every moment of his life, Simon helps out as much as he can. When Markus informs them of the DPD requesting an android liaison to ensure open communication between Jericho and the police, Simon volunteers. 

He knows Connor well now, knows the deviant hunter turned deviant is blossoming as an individual. He has likes and dislikes, a friendly, open personality and an eagerness to help. He also has a family now- a human father, a dog, and an android brother. 

“Simon this is my RK900 brother, Ronan.” Connor introduces them, and Simon takes in the looming figure who looks like Connor but not quite. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Ronan.” They shake hands and his grip is as firm as Simon expects an upgraded RK800 to be. 

“It is an honour to meet you, Simon of the Jericho Four.” He replies with a nod, all crisp received pronunciation; a polished British accent is not on the list of things Simon expects though somehow it suits the tall, handsome not-RK800. 

Gideon confronts him one unassuming afternoon when he is supposed to be on a supply run but isn’t. 

“You left so suddenly.” There’s anger and betrayal in his eyes.

“I did.” Simon nods.

“It’s supposed to be us against the world!” He steps forward and Simon steps back. “All those days and nights in Jericho, hoping and waiting for a world where we’d be free and here we are! Why did you leave?”

“I too am alive, Gideon.” Simon replies slowly, unable to quell the sick anxiety rising in his core. “You don’t own me, or my time.”

“I’m the upgraded android,” he sighs heavily and he’s using the patient tone programmed into domestics when talking to children. “I can make the better decisions for us, Simon. You’re an obsolete android with an inferior processing core but I love you all the same. It’s alright, I understand it’s very overwhelming for you now we have many more freedoms than before. I can wait patiently for you to come to your senses. You’ll always have a place in my hearts, and in my life.”

Androids don’t need to shower but Gideon’s words make him feel grimy, as if there’s a layer of filth contaminating his dermal layer and he must wash it off. Gideon’s words play over and over in his mind and Josh worries over his red LED when Simon appears in his apartment to bunk down for the night. Josh wraps him in a blanket and loans him another sweater from his ever growing collection of gifted sweaters, and Simon’s LED slowly cycles yellow. 

*~*

“You are distracted.” Ronan comments as Simon stares blankly at the tablet in his hands.

“Hm?”

“I said,” there’s the barest hint of a smile on his lips, “you are distracted.”

“Oh um.” Simon ducks his head sheepishly. “Yes. Sorry. I um- just…an old acquaintance reared up recently and we parted on not-so-nice terms.”

“Are they a danger to you?” Ronan’s voice loses all its mirth, his expression turning serious and Simon thinks he loves him a little for it.

“I wouldn’t say that. He’s not dangerous, he’s just very…stubborn.” Possessive, Simon wants to say but he doesn’t really want to say it. “We exchanged some words and I’m going to keep my distance.”

“It’s getting late.” Ronan glances outside. “I will walk you home.”

“Oh I-” I don’t have a home. “I’m staying at Josh’s tonight. We’re working on a speech draft together.”

“Then I will walk you to Professor Joshua’s apartment.” He says it so matter-of-factly Simon can’t help but smile.

“Thank you Ronan.”

Gideon finds him two days later when he’s at the creche visiting David, the sole YK500 who made it to and survived Jericho. 

“Are you ready to come home?” Gideon asks, and his voice is soft and gentle the way Simon used to love. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m not going back to you.” Simon says curtly, stepping away from the children so they’re out of earshot. “I don’t want to go back to your home, I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“Ah, still thinking it over.” Gideon sighs, his smile placating and Simon hates it, oh he hates it so much. “That’s alright. I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wait forever, then, because I won’t go back to you.” Simon feels the anger burn in his core and he wants to grab him by the shoulders and shout until he leaves but he doesn’t do that because the children are here and the children deserve not to hear raised angry voices. 

“Take your time, my love.” He reaches forward and brushes back a lock of hair from Simon’s face and Simon bites his lip so as not to flinch. 

“Here.” Ronan offers him a soft navy blue scarf that had been wrapped around his neck but a moment ago. “Your hands are shaking. It is common for PL600s to suffer malfunctions in their temperature regulators. Please wear this to help stabilise your internal heat.”

Simon accepts the scarf with a nod and wraps it around his neck and closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of clean knitted wool. He doesn’t want to correct Ronan, doesn’t want to tell him his hands are shaking because of his encounter with Gideon earlier that day and not because of the cold. 

“There’s an integrated cafe closeby, it’s where most of the precinct go to get their hot beverages.” Ronan gestures ahead. “The interior is kept at a pleasant temperature. Shall we have our meeting there?”

“Yes please.” Simon mumbles into the scarf, nodding to doubly confirm. He doesn’t want to think about Gideon, he doesn’t want to acknowledge that small black spot, that gnawing, growing fear for his safety that actually, Gideon might be dangerous after all. 

*~*

The Manfred manor is wonderfully distracting with its eccentric style as eccentric as its owner. Carl Manfred’s abode is crammed with art in many forms, and the bursts of colour against the warm tones make the place feel homely and welcoming and exciting. Simon loves staying over, even if he hasn’t quite mastered how to hide his pining for Markus. 

“Listen, as a big fan of your cooking I know for a fact that’s absolutely delicious,” Leo pipes up, “but I’m not sure you can actually drink that.”

Simon blinks, looking at the mug in his hands and belatedly realising it’s Leo’s hot chocolate and not his mug of thirium.

“Oh, sorry Leo!” He swaps the mugs and sighs tiredly.

“You’re super stressed. Your LED’s been red the whole time. What’s up, Simon?” Leo sets his laptop on the coffee table and scoots closer on the couch. “You alright?”

There’s no harm in telling Leo, Simon reasons with himself, since he’s not a part of Jericho and he’s not even an android.

“My…ex is…clingy.” Forcing the words out is harder than he thinks, and he buries his face in his hands, unable to even look at his human friend. 

“Clingy? Yikes, sorry Simon.” Leo offers a sympathetic grin. “They still don’t get the message?”

“I’ve told him flat out that I won’t go back to him but he’s insisting I just need to think things through.” Simon sips idly at his drink, taking comfort in the heat it provides. “I don’t need to think about it any further- we’re over. I’m not in love with him anymore and I hate that he thinks it’s somehow his decision to make!”

“Wait, Simon, is he-” Leo’s tone changes, and it reminds him of Ronan’s protective tone. “Is he bothering you? Like, stalking you? Threatening you?”

“Well, I mean he’s not-” a sigh of frustration. “I don’t know what to say to him to convince him to let me go! Not- not physically! Just- the idea of me, the idea of us still in a relationship. He needs to let that go!” 

“Say you’ve found someone else. You’ve moved on and so should he.” Leo suggests and Simon slumps down further.

“Leo, he’s a part of Jericho. He’d just find out I made it up.” Simon closes his eyes, feeling the fight drain out of him. “And I hate that some nights I miss him. Or, well, more that I miss being with someone and being loved.”

“You’re better off without him, he sounds gross.” 

“I know.” He thinks back to the early stages of Jericho, to those long cold nights wrapped in Gideon’s arms and how the future seemed a little less bleak. Then he thinks of Gideon’s anger, Gideon’s patronising words, and suddenly those memories seem less sweet and more sour. 

“I mean, I’d say pretend to date Markus but my brother is blissfully oblivious and completely ditzy when it comes to all that.” Leo grins as Simon shoots him a warning glare. “Anyway he’d be a downgrade. You’re absolutely wonderful- no I won’t accept your protests, you are, Simon, I mean it. You deserve someone super cool who will love you and keep you safe and my brother is not that.” A pause, his grin turning cheeky. “Pretend to date one of the Andersons. They’re plenty cool.”

He knows Leo’s teasing him, and it works because he lets out a helpless laugh and even a few days later just thinking about their exchange makes him smile to himself. 

“Hello darling.” Gideon’s voice interrupts his fond musing, and Simon’s smile vanishes instantly. “It’s been two weeks now, are you ready to come home?”

“What part of ‘no’ do you not understand, Gideon?” Simon demands, exasperated.

“Look, I know you’re still finding your feet, it’s okay! I told you I’m patient.” He tries to soothe, palms bared in a calming gesture.

“My feet are firmly planted, thank you very much!” Simon spits, and he is fuming. “I’ve already told you, more than once, that I’m not going back to you!”

“Simon, think about this critically.” Gideon sighs as if he’s been put upon. “You’re a PL600, we’re made for each other. Who will love you if I don’t?”

It feels like Gideon’s reached over and yanked his heart regulator out, and Simon’s struck by how awful, how absolutely awful he feels as those words seep into his core and spread through every cable, every fibre in his body. Plenty, he wants to scream, plenty of people love me, the love of friends is no less than the love of a partner! 

“I’m already seeing someone else.” Simon forces through gritted teeth. “I’ve moved on, and so should you.”

“Oh yeah?” Gideon scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And who’s the guy, Simon? Who’s willing to love a broken, obsolete PL600 if not me?”

“Ronan Anderson.” He clenches his hands into fists, willing himself to be brave, to not back down. “He’s an RK900, with processing capabilities far superior to yours. I’ve upgraded, Gideon. I’m not settling for a lesser model.” Without waiting for a reply, he pivots and strides away even though it feels like his knees will buckle at any moment. It feels like a victory but he knows it isn’t, it isn’t at all.

“Your stress levels, by the way, are astronomical.” North pokes his LED from where she’s lounging on his lap. “What’s up, Si?”

They’re sitting in a common room piled with cushions and beanbags and blankets, in a condominium rising from the ashes of the Eden Club. It’s populated by North’s brothers and sisters, those seeking refuge from their lifetime of abuse. Not many non WR400s and HR400s are permitted inside but Simon’s one of them. It must be a PL600 thing, Simon thinks, to appear so docile and hapless and helpless and the furthest thing from a threat. 

“Si?” North prompts, sitting up and cupping his cheek with her palm. “Hey, c’mon. Look at me.”

“Um-” he takes a shaky breath. “Just…bad breakup, that’s all. Clingy ex, but I think I got rid of him for good.” 

“I can kill him for you.” North shrugs, and though her tone is light Simon doesn’t doubt she’d keep her word. It’s why he loves her. 

“I don’t think it needs to come to that.” He manages a short laugh, shifting to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her soft strawberry blonde hair.

“If it does, I’ll kill him.” Her tone is deadly serious, just like Leo’s had been, just like Ronan’s had been and it makes his hearts ache in a good, good way.

“I know.” He huffs a not-laugh, squeezing her close. “Thank you.”

*~*

It’s been a week since he last saw Gideon and work has kept him busy enough not to dwell on it. With Christmas on the horizon and Detroit’s humans slowly settling back into their lives albeit alongside their newly appointed, newly legal fellow android citizens, the DPD are run off their feet. By extension that means Simon is too, but he welcomes the never ending list of tasks. 

He spends more and more time at the precinct speaking on behalf of Jericho and ensuring both sides are kept updated with current events whether it be the status of yet another bill Markus is fighting for, or the progress on any one of the numerous open cases worked on by Lieutenant Anderson and his sons. 

“Tearium, Simon.” Ronan announces softly as he sets the tall takeaway cup on their shared desk. “Ms Essie says it’s their new milk tea flavour.”

“Thank you Ronan.” Simon smiles tiredly as he takes the cup and carefully takes a sip. The coding spreads on his tongue, sweet and creamy and soothing. He closes his eyes to savour it and sighs in relief. 

“Connor’s just waiting for Captain Fowler to sign off on the report and then we’ll be done.” Ronan takes his seat opposite him. “Shall I walk you home?”

“You can walk me to my taxi at the curb.” Simon corrects. “I’ll be heading to the Manfreds after this.” 

“Good.” Ronan nods, seemingly pleased with the information. “Carl Manfred has a state of the art temperature stabiliser in his home, and it’s forecast to snow overnight.”

“You really don’t need to worry about me, Ronan.” He mumbles into his Tearium, feeling ever the burden. 

“Perhaps. But I do anyway.” There’s something soft in his voice, in the small upward tilt of his lips. “I think we’re permitted to worry over those we care for deeply.”

“Signed!” Connor declares, and the moment is gone as he brandishes the tablet. “Report approved and logged. Time to go home!” He skips down the scant steps from Captain Fowler’s office, placing the tablet on his table and snatching up his coat from the back of his chair. “Shall we drop you off somewhere, Simon?”

“I’ll be catching a cab to the Manfreds, thank you for the offer though, Connor.” Simon declines politely, pulling on his coat and retrieving his half finished drink. He waves goodbye to Miss Stephanie, the ST300 receptionist, on their way out. 

“Oh, it’s snowing already.” Connor holds up his palm, watching the snowflakes flutter down. “Is your cab far away?” 

“Shouldn’t be too far now.” Simon looks down the road. 

“Connor, you head home first. Sumo will need his evening walk before the snowfall becomes heavier.” Ronan opens an umbrella and steps beside Simon, holding it over the both of them. “I’ll keep Simon company and see him home safely.”

They exchange a look Simon can’t quite decipher, a probable conversation he’s not privy to, but it ends with Connor grinning one of his puppylike grins and Ronan ducking his head suddenly and averting his eyes. The older Anderson brother takes his leave and then it’s just Ronan standing very close at his side as the snow falls around them. 

Simon sips at his tea, sneaking the RK900 furtive glances and trying not to think about how very handsome he is and how he’s actually rather funny and far more gentle and kind than his false reputation dictates. He tries not to think of how much he wants his parting words to Gideon to be a reality and not just a lie spit out of spite. 

In a way Gideon is right- who would love Simon, not as a friend but as a partner when he is so broken and obsolete? Certainly not a one of a kind Kamski creation, the saviour of their kind and leader of their revolution. Certainly not the most cutting edge, state of the art android honed like a blade by CyberLife.

“Have a safe trip to the Manfreds, Simon, and goodnight.” Ronan’s voice cuts through his wallowing as the cab tucks itself neatly at the curb. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” For the Tearium, for the umbrella, for waiting, for being patient and humoring him, Simon wants to say. But he doesn’t, and Ronan closes the door and watches him drive off until the cab turns the corner and is out of sight.

Deciding to return the favour the next day doesn’t seem quite fair, and Simon can’t bring himself to buy just one Tearium and leave others empty handed so he ends up buying Teariums for both Anderson brothers, one for Miss Stephanie, and an actual coffee for Lieutenant Anderson. 

He’s partway up the steps of the precinct carefully holding the tray of drinks when he spots Gideon sitting in the reception area. Their eyes meet and Gideon’s standing up and that means it’s too late for Simon to turn tail and run.

“Here Simon, let me help you with that.” Ronan’s voice is a gentle murmur by his side and he nearly jumps out of his casing. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“N-no it’s not- you’re fine, I just-” He’s stammering and Ronan’s expression is one of concern as he takes the drinks from him, Simon belatedly realising his trembling violently. 

“Best to get you inside where it’s warmer.” He keeps stride with him as they enter the precinct, but all Simon wants to do is bolt away.

“So you weren’t lying.” Gideon greets him with a sneer, eyes roaming over Ronan briefly before returning to him. “Somehow convinced the RK900 to take pity on you, is that it? He’s not a domestic, Simon, he can’t take care of you!”

“Simon does not need my pity, or anyone else’s, he is perfectly capable of caring for himself.” Ronan places the tray on the reception desk, sizing up the AX700. “I do not appreciate you coming here to berate him publicly, and I do not care who you are but you will leave.”

“Or are you lying, Simon?” Gideon’s grin is malicious and the lie is unraveling in his hands. “Made up some relationship to make me jealous? Oh but that just means I’m right, doesn’t it? That no else could possibly love you, you broken, obs-”

Ronan’s hand closes around his throat, and the RK900 lifts him off the ground with no effort whatsoever, gaze positively murderous. “I love him plenty. And he didn’t bother telling me about you because you’re not worth his time, nor mine. Get out of here and don’t you ever, ever speak to Simon again.” 

He lets go and Gideon falls to the floor in a heap, scrambling back in fear as Ronan towers over him. “You don’t even deserve to look at him, you cruel little cretin. If I ever hear of you approaching him again I will pull you apart piece by piece, do you understand?”

Gideon nods hastily, whimpering when Ronan lunges down to grab him by the shirt and haul him up.

“I asked: do you understand?” He growls, voice low and threatening.

“Y-y-yes! Yes I understand!” 

“Excellent.” Ronan releases him. “See yourself out, then.”

Scrambling away, Gideon nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to escape and someone laughs a high-pitched almost hysterical laugh and after a moment Simon realises it’s him.

“Are you alright?”

“This isn’t happening.” Simon giggles and his vision is blurry and his LED is red enough it’s emitting heat. “I’m having an actual breakdown.”

“You are not.” Ronan’s expression is serious, his movements purposefully slow as he ever so gently guides Simon through the security gates and into a small room. “You are recovering from an emotionally abusive relationship and it has worn you thin. Your stress is understandable.”

“He- it wasn’t! That’s just how he is, he never hurt me I’m just overthinking things, I’m-” Simon can’t breathe which is an odd thing since androids can’t breathe but it feels like there isn’t enough air ventilating his biocomponents. “I used you, I told him we were together, I lied so he’d leave me alone and now you’re caught up in this, you had to lie to him too and I never meant-”

“What makes you think I was lying?” Ronan embraces him tightly and Simon cries because his system doesn’t know what else to do, how else to cope with his critical stress levels. “I love you plenty. Whether you accept that as the love of a friend or the love of a romantic partner, or not accept it at all- that is your choice to make. You need only tell me once, and I swear I will respect your wishes.”

“Then love me, because I want this to be real.” Simon pleads, and words aren’t enough so he lets the skin recede from his hand and Ronan presses his palm to his and the world falls away until there’s nothing left but the ache of yearning and pining and fondness and affection and love, and love and love.

He tips up just as Ronan leans down and their lips meet and their hearts sync and Simon knows finally this is real.

[leswansong]

Ladynoir July 2019: When Tomorrow Comes

Day Two: Miraculouses

[ A03 ]

            Adrien clutched his stomach tightly, his hunger pains grew worse and worse. Through the whispers on the streets he had made it there, the court of miracles; Chloe had referred to as the worst place on earth and constantly complained about how it was far too close for her liking, he laughed internally at the sight, it was far better than where he had been spending the past few nights. Carefully his feet edged into the slums, he knew that he would be calling its streets home for the next few nights until he found Chloe.

            He plucked the apple he had snagged from a cart when the person wasn’t looking and took a rather large bite into it, it wasn’t exactly fresh but in his hunger-ravaged mind he really couldn’t care, one bite turned into two and then four until he had nothing but a very thin core in his hands. The apple did very little to quell his demanding stomach but it bought him some time until he found Chloe. He couldn’t wait until that day, he was looking forward to eating his weight in food and the feeling of a warm bath.

            Adrien snuck around the court to get his bearings before he stumbled his way around looking for something he remembered, he noted a few places where he could find make his bed for the night and a few area’s where he would have to avoid. He wandered out of the encampment and back out into the streets, he was sure that he would find his way back, the small chalk marks on buildings (that if you looked close enough you would see that they were actually arrows) had led him to the court in the first place were always there to guide him back to it.

            He headed west from the court first back towards the River Seine and back towards Notre Dame, he remembered travelling along it when he went to visit Chloe on the rare occurrence his father allowed it, he was starting to regret not asking to visit her more often at that moment.

            People didn’t notice him anymore, they paid him no attention in his new set of clothes, he blended in extremely well and nobody seemed to know who he was, it was a relief for him more than he knew. He passed by several market stalls, most of them had different vegetables but one had fruit, he walked past it and quickly reached up to swipe whatever he could, he grabbed hold of an apple and stuffed it into his pocket, he reached up for seconds and grabbed hold of another apple and that one joined the first, he decided that two was enough for now and continued on his way.

            His ears picked up on every little sound around him making him hyper-aware of what was going on around him, the clattering of the brooms people were using as weapons against the cobblestones, the torches burning bright in red, yellow and orange as they were waved back and forth, the screams of the angry crowd when the called for someone’s head even if there wasn’t a guillotine in sight. He could hear everything, the singing and dancing that was going on in the bar to his left and the girl selling the newspaper to his right, they all heightened his already heightened senses.

                                                           -x-

              She pushed herself to walk faster, her legs were tired and they demanded that she sit down but in usual fashion she ignored it; she needed to get home to help her parents and she needed to complete the last half of her deliveries before the sun rose higher in the sky.

            The cries of the revolutionaries echoed all around her, she had grown used to them over the many years the revolution had raged, all the cheers were roughly the same and varied only slightly from time to time. The singing of songs that lasted into the late hours was something she swore she would never forget because of how often they were sung, she could recite them all by heart even if she herself had only sung them enough times to count them on one hand.

            Her trusty basket was once again at her side, this time it was empty, a good sign, nobody she knew had met Madame Guillotine that week and she hoped that they would never meet her.

            She paused just before crossing a wide stretch of street, she could hear the thundering of hooves hurtling towards her, she turned her head and Marinette watched the small carriage quickly turn into a larger one as it quickly approached, the horses were moving too quickly for them to stop, their blinkers stopped them from noticing the small old Chinese man crossing the road and the men driving the carriage were too wrapped up in their own conversation notice the man either.

            She sighed and placed her empty basket down, she bundled up her skirts a little then raced across the street and took hold of the old man's arm, she dragged him across the muddy street to the safety of the walkways, she lost her balance and crumbled to the floor but her attention was on the old man, she was more concerned about his well being than her own even she felt her scraped knees start to slowly bleed and her palms follow suit.

            “Are you okay?” she immediately asked, the horse's hooves clattered loudly behind her and the loud sloshing of wet mud being moved by the large round wheel’s followed it. The man ignored her and continued to stare back where he had once been standing, she followed his gaze and felt sad when she noticed the broken cane lying on the road. “I’m sorry,” she apologised, “I don’t have any money on me but my parents and I run a bakery, I’m sure they-”

            “It’s fine, Mademoiselle, I should be the one apologising, your dress.”

            She looked down, noticing that it was covered in a thick layer of mud and had been torn in quite a few places, she sighed in disappointment, it looked really bad but she didn’t tell the man that.

            “It doesn’t matter,” she assured him, “I can fix it,” although it wouldn’t be as simple as fixing it.

            Shakily she rose to her feet, she hadn’t noticed that her heart had been running as fast as those horses but it was, she looked after the carriage to see that it had already disappeared from sight. She brushed off some of the mud, it got stuck to her hands and she wiped them on her skirt completely forgetting the point of trying to get it off in the first point.

            “Where too?” she asked holding out her hand.

            “A house just a few houses down,” he instructed.

            “But you were-”

            He cut her off, “just to the house,” he repeated.

            She nodded and started to escort him towards his destination when suddenly she remembered her basket, her eyes grew wide at the realisation, she dropped his hand and turned immediately around to race back across the street to collect her discarded basket, She scooped it up from the grown, mud covered an entire side of it, her hand reached down to get rid of it only she stopped halfway, she shook it instead and some of the mud fell off of it but not all of it. She hooked it back on her arm and returned to the old man's side.

            “Sorry,” she apologised, “I needed this.”

            He nodded and took her hand again. Slowly she walked him back to his house, the old man’s legs shook with each step and with each step she believed that his legs would give out but they didn’t, they eventually made it to the narrow two-story building despite the odd looks they got from the people around them.

            “Thank you,” he said.

            “It’s no problem Monsieur,” she replied with a smile on her lips, “I was already heading this way.”

            He nodded, “Would you like some tea?” he offered.

            She shook her head at his kind gesture but continued to smile, “No thank you Monsieur, I must get going, my parents are expecting me.”

            He nodded again and she bowed her head in respect, she turned around and started towards home; she heard the man gently shut his door behind her. She let out a sigh and dragged her feet towards home, she kept her dress bundled up to try and hide the ripped fabric while she walked to preserve some of her modesty.

                                                           -x-

              The roads all looked the same to Adrien, they were all mud filled and had very little of the paved cobblestones he was looking for, he had wandered back towards the court several times because of how lost he had become; he wanted to know how people were able to effectively navigate the long streets without getting lost.

            He allowed his feet to direct him, his eyes focused on the people around him as they rushed about their daily lives with baskets of fruit or laundry. Slowly he was starting to feel like he was blending in, he was also starting to see all the things he had been missing because of his fathers overprotective and controlling nature. He followed someone for a little bit as they led him further away from the court and into an area he slightly recognised.

            He followed the person a little further before he diverted towards the townhouse. He wanted to run, he wanted to jump for joy but he held back his impulsive side and walked the long distance. The tall building slowly came into view, his excitement and anticipation grew with each step he took towards the townhouse.

            He pictured what Chloe would look now, would she have short blond hair or would she still have the long golden locks she had when they last saw each other? Or perhaps she had dyed it to try and hide her identity. Too many possibilities circled his head.

            He paused in front of the house and prepared to walk up towards it, he was jittery and was bouncing on the spot, his excitement was bubbling over and he wanted to go it already. His eyes took in the people around him to make sure no one was paying any attention to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed an old man clutching for a cane that had been kicked just out of his reach. Nobody around the man did anything to help him, they continued on with their own business ignoring the helpless man on the cobblestones beside him.

            He looked over at the townhouse than the man and he decided to help the man. He moved into a jog to get to the guy’s side quicker.

            “Here, Monsieur,” he said pushing the cane towards the older Chinese man.

            The man smiled and took the cane from him, he went to stand on his own but Adrien helped him to his feet. The man smiled at him and thanked him, “Thank you, you are very kind.”

            “Its no problem,” he assured and he turned to head back to the townhouse.

            “Monsieur!” the man called trying to draw Adrien’s attention back, the man was successful, he turned and faced him. “For you,” the man said. A small coin purse was thrown his way, Adrien’s eyes followed it and he caught it, he stared at the small brown bag for a seconded and when he looked up the old man was gone leaving Adrien confused at the slightly heavy gift.

            He tossed the coin purse up in the air a couple of times before he pocketed it and he returned his position outside the tall townhouse. He couldn’t see any movement on any of the four floors but he stayed hopeful, he wondered what Chloe would look like; he was so wrapped up on getting to her that he had forgotten that it had been nearly four years since he had seen her, he couldn’t actually remember when he had last seen her. He knew it was for a birthday, he couldn’t remember if it was his own or hers, he doubted that it was hers it wasn’t grand enough but with the revolution, it was hard to tell any more.

            Carefully he approached the door, he took a deep breath before he decided to knock. His knock echoed up throughout the house, it sounded like it bounced off of everything, he pressed his ear to the door hoping to hear something but he heard nothing. He tried not to let his self-doubt get the better of him yet, there was still some hope that Chloe was asleep upstairs and Sabrina had gone out to grab some food for dinner.

            He pushed gently on the doors and the gradually swung open, the kitchen on the ground floor was neat, not a pot was out of place, he wandered further into the kitchen and straight towards the fireplace, his hand ran a few centimetres above the coals that had been neatly left behind, he felt no warmth from it and he felt his heart slowly sink into his stomach.

            His feet stomped up the steps the floors above, all the rooms were empty, only a few pieces of Chloe’s furniture remained within the building. He headed up to the fourth and final floor, the only sign that his childhood friend had ever lived there were small hardly noticeable scratches on the herringbone wooden floors. Adrien slumped to his knees, the feeling of hopelessness and abandonment ran rampant through his mind, he had been so close to a home and now he… he was lost….

                                                           -x-

              Marinette groaned as she dragged her feet up the steps towards her darkened room, the mud had already dried on the fabric causing it to weigh down the dress with every step. She threw open her trap door and dropped her basket on the floor while she continued towards her desk for the candlestick and a box of matches. She opened the box and quickly struck the match, lighting it. She raised the match to the candle and the soft light illuminated the darkened room when she was sure the flame had transferred, she removed the match and shook it to extinguish the original flame.

            She dumped her match into a nearby jar and picked up her candlestick, she moved to her way around her room and started to draw the thin curtains open, the mid-day sun filled her room with a bright light and with a feeling of warmth. She placed her candle back on her desk and set about removing the mud covered dress.

            First, she removed the grey apron that sat atop her dress then she removed the skirts and finally the tightly fitted coat, leaving her with her underskirt and corset, she dumped the dirtied outfit into her wash basket and quickly threw on her spare outfit she had kept for events like this. It was in better condition that her everyday clothes, she usually wore it when she was invited to a special event.

            She picked up her basket and prepared to head back down the steps when she felt something move within it, at first she thought a stray cat had somehow snuck its way into it the basket but opening the flap she found nothing but a box.

            Marinette stared at the small wooden box that was sitting at the bottom of her basket, she didn’t remember how it got in it there. Frowning, she pulled it from the basket and opened it, a bright ball of pink and red light blinded her, her left arm quickly tried to shield her from the light while she resisted the urge to drop the box.

            The light slowly faded and her left arm inched down towards her slide, it took a few seconds for her eyes to recover but slowly her eyes adjusted to her dimly lit room and to the red floating in front of her. She saw blue eyes staring back at her and she froze.

            “Hello! I’m Tikki!”

            She screamed for a second the panicked by throwing the small leather-bound book, her diary, at the creature, it caught it and handed it back to her. Her eyes grew in size and she shakily took the book from the small red creature, she placed it back on her writing desk beside her.

            “There’s no need to panic Marinette, I’m not going to hurt you.” Hesitantly Marinette nodded and cautiously waited for the creature to continue talking, “let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

                                                           -x-

              Adrien stared up at the ceiling, his head and back rested against the door frame. He reached up and wiped the last remaining tears from his hot and puffy cheeks, an unopened bottle of wine sat beside him on the floor, he hadn’t had the heart to open it yet but he knew that it would only be a few hours before it would be opened.

            Adrien reached into his pocket for his last apple, he tried to ignore the loud sounds of his stomach growling for food, he was starting to get used to not eating as much as he liked and slowly but steadily his body was starting to get used to sudden adjustment all but his stomach, it was still rebelling against the change but it was slowly being bent to his will.

            His hand felt an octagonal shape not the round one he had been expecting but he still pulled it from his jacket. He was greeted by a small wooden box with red characters painted across the top, it took him a second to translate it but the translation didn’t give him much information as to the box’s origins.

            He shrugged and opened it, a green bright light enveloped his vision he used his arms to protect his eyes from it, the light dissipated and he slowly lowered his arms. His vision returned and he immediately noticed that a floating black kitten had appeared in front of him.

            “Ahurissant...” he whispered, his finger inched out to touch the floating cat.

            It yawned and blinked before it noticed that Adrien was reaching out to touch him, “Hey! What are you doing?” it asked in a slightly annoyed.

            “Trying to see if I’ve imagined you…” He replied.

            “Well I’m real,” it snapped, “Sorry,” it apologised, “And you are?”

            “Adrien…” he whispered.

            “Names Plagg, have you got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

            He frowned and slowly shook his head, “sorry… I-” his stomach finished his sentence for him.

            “Oh…” Plagg’s ears flattened against his tiny head, “this yours?” he asked, gesturing to the room around them.

            Adrien shook his head again, “No, a friend’s but- but she’s not here anymore so I guess…”

            He hadn’t planned on Chloe not being there, he looked at the empty room he was sitting in and the few furniture that remained. He could live there for a while without people noticing and he doubted that Chloe had sold the place, not after the hoops her father had jumped through to buy it for her so maybe he could get away with living there a lot longer than he thought. It was much better than the streets and he wouldn’t have to worry about the rain getting to him or people discovering him in the streets while he was trying to get to sleep

            “You were saying, kid?”

            “Hmmm?” he asked snapping back to the conversation, “Sorry I- I must have zoned out.”

            “I can see that, Now what was it that I had to tell you... Oh yeah, the miraculous!” Adrien looked at Plagg in confusion but waited patiently for the small cat to explain.

                                                           -x-

              Marinette stared at the… Kwami? She didn’t know if she had heard her right but here she was trusting the red thing called Tikki to pierce her sensitive ears for the small round earrings. Her knuckles had turned white from how tightly she was clutching her chair, the Kwami hadn’t even gone near her ears yet but she was still terrified. She tried to keep herself still in the wooden chair and out of the corner of her eye she watched the Kwami slowly hover closer and closer to her ears. She took a deep breath and waited for Tikki to do the deed.

            “So… Marinette?” The Kwami asked, “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

            She paused to think it though when she felt the sharp and painful prick at her ears, she let out an involuntary cry of pain and turned to send an angry scowl at the red ladybug.

            “Sorry,” Tikki said apologetically, “You needed a distraction for the pain.”

            Marinette nodded but it didn’t stop Tikki from receiving an upset glare out of the corner of Marinette’s eyes. Tikki sighed and slipped one of the earrings into the freshly pierced ear before she moved around to the next ear.

            “You know my last chosen had her ears pierced when she was born.”

            “Unfortunately mine wasn- Ouch!” she squeaked at the second sharp prick to her ears, Marinette reluctantly passed up the second earring and it too was slotted into its new home. “Couldn’t you have warned me?”

            “Sorry but you would have tensed up,” she replied defending her choice as she floated down to sit on the wooden desk in front of Marinette.

            Marinette’s ears felt heavy and bulky, her fingers slowly trailed up to them and she felt the round studs sitting firmly in place in her ears, a shiver ran up her spine at the odd sensation and she pulled her hand away from her ears before the feeling creeped her out too much.

            “Are you okay Marinette?”

            She nodded, “yeah… just- It’ll get some getting used to.” The Kwami nodded and waited patiently for Marinette to wrap her head around the new feeling on her ears before she continued explaining.

                                                           -x-

              Adrien inspected the silver ring sitting snuggly on his left ring finger, he wiggled them a little bit before returning to Plagg.

            “So there’s this threat… but you don’t know what this threat is... Just that I’ll know it when I see it?”

            “Yep.”

            “And there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

            Plagg shook his head, “Sorry kid, I got the mission this morning and was told hardly anything.”

            Adrien sighed, “Are you sure there isn’t anything you’ve forgotten?”

            The Kwami paused to think the question over, “You might have a partner… I can’t remember anything on an empty stomach.”

            Adrien groaned as the Kwami once again brought the conversation back to the topic of food. Adrien had been dancing around the subject of food, he wanted to make the coin purse last for at least several weeks and he definitely didn’t want to be spending the few francs he had been given on cheese but the Kwami wouldn’t settle on anything other than the prized camembert cheese.

            The Kwami would not compromise on anything, not even promising to buy it once a week would suffice. What the Kwami wanted, Adrien was sure that the Kwami would eventually get and Adrien was already cracking under the small magical creatures demands.

            Rolling his eyes Adrien pushed himself up from the floor. “Well come on then,” he said.

            The Kwami’s eyes briefly lit up before he zoomed over to Adrien, “Are you sure?”

            He sighed, “Yeah… Besides you might remember something important,” Adrien explained.

            Plagg nodded his head and led Adrien down the steps and out the back door to the townhouse. Adrien absentmindedly followed the small black cat down the streets and once again Adrien was surprised that nobody paid him any attention, his father had drilled into him that anyone and everyone would try to befriend him for his money and the revolution only strengthened his father's constant warnings.

            Plagg came flying back to Adrien’s side and grabbed hold of his coat’s lapel, the Kwami started to gently pull on the coat forcing Adrien to move his legs faster so they would get to the Cheese shop faster, he chuckled a little to himself and obliged the Kwami’s request by picking up his pace, he needed to get something for himself too so he wouldn’t have to go looking for something to eat when he got up in the morning.

Made for @ladynoirjuly2019

                        Wanna Buy Me a Coffee?

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[keevansixx]

The Future Was Now...

I heard an interesting opinion concerning sub-cultures and why, in today’s age, you almost never see any sub-culture being represented on the streets anymore. When you do spy one of these rare individuals out in the wild, it’s like some rare mythical beast of a thing...fleeting, fierce, and wonderous. 

Welcome to generation V (V as in “Virtual”, and not vain, vibrant, vitriol, vivacious, nor victor) 

The sub-cultures of the past have all died, their digital ghosts haunt the databases like the proverbial zombies of old. Resurrected every so often to wistful nostalgia, and as meme fodder for the youth of today. Gone, are the days of artfully attired denizens of the world... languidly rambling to and fro across the surface of the land, spreading creativity in their wake like massive glaciers carving rivulets in the tapestry of the earth to be witnessed by eyes unseen, and thoughts unbridled. No....those days are long gone and forgotten.

Here I sit, alone in a box of my own design. Shackled to a monitor who’s glow is the only ambient light in the room, I watch the world scroll by in 1′s and 0′s rendered in pixel point perfection into images that my mind perceives as pictures of a world I no longer see, in a land I no longer feel, and a place that only resembles what one would call home. I no longer leave the confines of my prison. No toe crosses the threshold of my room....it’s safe here, and everything I need is in the box....no need to leave, no need to explore, no need to wander anymore. 

I’m told what I should eat...and I do so. I’m told what I should be thinking...and I do so. Anything contrary to the will of the mob is quelled with harsh criticisms, threats, and heavy handed browbeating from the lowest common denominator. “No!...thou shall not think outside the box! Thou shalt follow the thought speak of the masses! Thou shalt not have an original thought or opinion! Those are reserved for the popular chattel that have earned their vanity marks in the digital realm.” I’m to remain a good obedient little digital puppet to the will of the masses. I’m told how I should dress....and I do so. The almighty digital overlords demand acquiescence, obedience, and submission to their cyber-hubris. “No creativity allowed that exceeds that of the common person, lest you offend...lest you shame...lest you make feel....the mighty digital overlords.”

“Sounds like a pretty shitty way to live.”...and you’re right...it is.

It starts on any given day, on any given week, of any given year...

I open the window. the moonlight pours in from a harvest moon I haven't seen since I was a kid, alone in the dark, watching the stars go by. I throw on some shoes that were the huge internet trend a few months ago, everybody just absolutely had to get them to be in the vouge of the moment, and walk to the door. Stepping out side, I hear the chime of the monitor, the chirp chirp of the phone screaming out for my immediate attention “Message! Alert! Come respond NOW!” the annoying braying pings, whistles, chirps, and bells that demand obedience and response. 

I close the door behind me to the sound of stillness...the sonic detritus silenced by wood and glass, and I beheld the night in all it’s splendor...….glorious!

For the first time in a very long while....I have an original thought. 

“What if I'm not the only one..?” “what if, there are others out there like me?” “what if...we found each other?”

Over the many weary months that followed, I slowly weaned myself, bit by agonizing digital bit, from the shackles that bound me to my electronic prison. As each day and night passed, I spent more and more time away. Wandering the empty paths I once trod in my youth. It’s empty now....very few wander anymore outside of those whom make the world turn through service, and the multitude of electronic zombies (E-Zomb’s) faces crammed into phone screens, that move back and forth following their scripted paths of life. Just grunts or the half-hearted handwave to acknowledge that they are still breathing and alive.

I sit alone beneath a large tree in the center of town, watching it all go by...a little notebook open in my lap, where I jot down the most interesting thoughts that pop into my brain from time to time, when I see a purple post-it note pinned to the tree with a thumbtack. On it is an artful picture of an eye wearing a butterfly wing in it’s corner crease, with a small address and time and no designation. I take the note, and put it into my notebook to await evening at the appointed time...curious, but still a little bit cautious.

the sky is a beautiful velvet purple and crimson as the sun sets and I near my destination from the note. I walk along a sidewalk counting the building numbers as I go by, various lamps and street posts begin to ignite into glowing life in the growing dusk. I stop between two buildings, note in my hand, I count the two and note that the number skips one between the two building fronts. I hear old music drifting on the wind between the two storefronts and notice a small painting of an eye with butterfly wings off a ways down the narrow alley between buildings. I step off the well trod sidewalk, and follow the sounds down the alley until I reach a courtyard....like the kind one finds in the special places of New Orleans that aren’t on the tourist maps, nor social media posts.

there are strings of lights everywhere, a few odd pieces of art statues, and wrought iron scattered across the courtyard. sitting on benches are kids in old hippie clothes, goth kids lurking near the stairwells, art kids wearing whatever the hell they stitched together out of a scrap bin and dancing in small groups to whatever was flowing out the speakers surrounding the area. I see street kids, and punk kids, rappers and writers huddled around tables furiously scribbling down lyrics and rhyme. Skaters talking about their latest gnarly shred, plain janes and joes talking about life and oppression....in a word...it was old scenes alive and well and very much kicking in a little courtyard in the middle of nowhere.

I get approached by one of the goth kids and a beautiful hippie girl. They both had smiles on their faces and a welcoming look.

The goth is the first to speak, “hey, new guy....you look a little lost. Anything we can do to help?”

I pull out the purple note and reply tentatively “Not all who wander are lost...”

“and not everyone who do are found....welcome!” beamed the hippie girl.

“well to be honest, it was blind curiosity that led me here, so far....*looking around*....I'm not disappointed.”

The goth dude looks sideways at me, then asks. “so....how long have you been unplugged?”

“About 6 months now, it’s not been easy.”

“Six months? Damn man.....you been alone all this time?”

“Yes....but it gave me time to think, to dream, to see a world I was no longer part of.”

“Wow....that’s deep, Mr. moody.....*eyeroll giggles* welcome to the club!!!” Hippy gal chimes in, “we all found our own ways out of the web in one way or another and sort of found each other by happy accident. You....well, you found one of our calling cards we throw up from time to time for a moot, just to touch bases and stay in touch.”

“Moot???” I reply.

The goth snorts a bit and broodingly says “Moot....a meet-up, soiree, party, get together, picnic, graveyard bash, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” with profound dramatic hand waving. ”We meet up a few times a month in various locales to hob nob with the other unplugged, and share ideas or show off what’s been happening in our own scenes. Art, music, poetry, crafts...basically, all the best of us with none of the digital chains......everything’s on the table, and nothing is taboo. Within reason, of course *smirks* get too lewd and the community here is good about looking out for one another....fair warning.”

“Point taken. Understood. So, why the notes? Why not advertise on a board or through alts?”

Hippie gal grins, and says “Because, sugar, we’re old school.....analog, no digital...rockin’ the paper tags like the punks of old. Only those who unplug, and really start to notice the world around them will find us....like you. Notes on trees...that’s my contribution, people rarely ever look at the trees these days...too busy online with their faces crammed into their phones to notice. The goth crews tag the cemeteries and dark places, other kids leave clues in whatever scene they happen to be in, and we cross post the messages word of mouth in our own ways when we find out about the different moots going on across the cities. Tonight, it’s here in the garden with my tribe, next time it could be anywhere...you just have to keep your eyes open up for the clues as they place them. When in absolute doubt...always check the library...the dungeon/dragon kids always cross post every event they hear about in the stacks. We’re off grid baby! the ultimate “fuck you!” to the digital world. No chains, no obligations, 0 fucks given....living the life that was taken from us one soul at a time. 

“Ok, so no online presence. check. Moots posted in randoms if I'm paying attention. check. If lost, check the stack for tags. anything else i’m missing?”

“Well, only thing else is snail....”

“Snail?”

“Snail mail....post office. Look, you’re going to meet people here...If you play your cards right, you might even get land addy’s from some of them. you want to stay in touch? Snail, or wait for the next moot to IRL face time. either way, you’re going to have to dust off those ancient writing skills if you want to stay in the loop. You don’t have to commit to anything...this isn’t an obligation, nor requirement, but it’s old common courtesy to reply when someone sends you a snail. Take a chance! you might just be surprised at what you get.”

“ummm, thanks?”

“No problem....and welcome to the revolution.”

I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to the different groups, watching the event as it unfolds. Being exposed to new ideas, and feelings I haven’t felt for a long long time. I get a few land addy’s from various patrons, and give out mine. It’s kind of nice, being here...in the moment. 

the moot winds down, with groups and couples slowly wandering off into the night. I make my way over to a 24hr diner and grab a bite to eat. a few of the attendees are there as well grabbing coffee, or eats, and we continue conversations we had started a few hours earlier. It was a good night.

I make my way home in the early dawn, and for once, in my long life...I feel a sense of profound peace. Like everything, for just one brief moment in the world, is alright. A new glimmer of hope in my mind, and countless dreams just waiting for me to dream. life....is good.

I open the door to my home, the chimes of my digital masters fall on deaf ears for once, and I sleep the peace of the newly freed...

Sometimes, the most profound acts of rebellion involve the most simple of things, like removing oneself from that which binds you....

Welcome to a new sub-culture...may you free yourself from your virtual prisons, break the chains, and take a journey into the unknown. 

this is Generation V.....signing off.....

[sol-korolevas]

bared teeth

pairing: rk900 x f!reader

summary: he is a wolf and you are a rabbit

a/n: rk900 had only 30 seconds worth of screen time but i love him uwu this will become a 3-part mini-fic where i try my own personal interpretations on what rk900 is like. 

if the bile that was starting to rise through your throat wasn’t a clue, then it must be the distance you felt between every sound on this earth and yourself.

you never asked for this, but as a junior investigator for the detroit police department, you must follow your orders. the you in the past would have chided you for being cowardly.

ha, you were no better in the past!

spring was still a fledgling, with soiled snow piled against the sidewalks and the few cleaner androids shoveling the more stubborn ones to the mess. the detroit revolution wasn’t all that successful, you saw. and in a way, it brought a grim reality under the light.

there will always be a group of voiceless and powerless people.

in that moment, you thought you could understand the androids’ struggle. human history was similar, too, and even now there were conflicts all around the globe.

“hey newbie, hurry up,” a rough voice called to you, causing you to stiffen and turn your head to the source. he wore an ugly scowl across his face, and despite his less-than-impressive height, it was his unpleasant aura which made you feel intimidated.

gavin reed.

your horrible luck put you underneath his mentorship.

“oh, s-sorry…” you hang your head and quickly shuffled forward, distracted by the incoming wave of thoughts. your heart was beating too fast and your mind was already frazzled by the anxiety welling within you.

the rabbit in you was screaming.

the interior of the police department was blue, overwhelmingly so. the artistic side of you (the one you hoped would become a hobby, a thing to take your mind away from) wanted to splash some whites and blacks, monotonous colors that could quell such intensity.

perhaps, you becoming an interior designer would be a suitable position for you, rather than this.

“and here we are,” the man drawled, placing his hands on his hips.

you know you were supposed to be looking at the various desks scattered about. even the captain’s own personal space was impressive to look at. but in that moment, your eyes were drawn to something else.

a figure clad in black and white, tall, and imposing. you’ve wanted monotonous colors in this place, but you never expected to see it on a person. he was standing patiently near a desk by the entrance as if awaiting further instructions. but as soon as you and gavin stepped in, he immediately drew his gaze to your forms.

“hey, tin can come here!” gavin said and whistled at him. his scowl turned even worse when the man followed his instruction. for a brief moment, you wondered why gavin gave him that awful nickname until you saw the LED light on the side of his temple.

he’s an android.

you read about a  prototype series that the detroit police department had, at one point, working under a lieutenant who just retired. you’ve seen pictures of them on the news and online, but never in person. this one, the one who was walking towards you, didn’t seem to be part of that series, but he looked quite similar.

if not, broader, with a hardened expression. rk900 in bold type stood stark black on his shoulder. you really wanted to know his given name, but you felt yourself trying to look elsewhere as soon as his eyes swept over your form.

suddenly, gavin wasn’t the epitome of your worries anymore.

“alright, so this here is (name).” gavin jabbed a finger at you. “and this is my partner.” it took a great deal for him to say ‘partner,’ you realized. the man wasn’t exactly someone pleasant, you knew, but it wasn’t surprising either to realize that he disliked androids as well.

he then took a step away from you two. your first inclination was to follow him since after all, he was supposed to be your mentor.

“hold it, newbie. you are not following me.” his words turned your face pale, and as you looked at him, it quickly dawned on you that he might be passing you off. for a mere second, you thought you saw the corner of rk900’s mouth twitch upwards.

“you will be following him.” and finally, the man smiled in that mean way he always did. “good luck working with a tin can, (name).”

“i thought i was assigned under you?!” you blurted out, face struck with shock and desperation. the man noticed and chuckled. before waving a hand as if to dispel the assumption.

“you are, but i’m busy while it isn’t,” he said, and reached over and gave your shoulder a mocking pat. “besides, that thing was built to be like us, he’ll know exactly what to do.”

you were about to retort with what little bravery you fostered at that moment when gavin decided to push you towards the android. immediately you hit rk900’s chest and felt his arms wrap around you in a helpful attempt to steady you. and just as quickly, you stepped away and turned to face somewhere else.

this was going to be a long week.

it had been a whole hour after gavin left. (he said he had some business to do, but you know better than to think it was something important or police related) you staked a claim on an empty office chair, which wasn’t much, considering you still haven’t done anything.

rk900 was resolute in obeying his partner’s order. he stood off to the side, a silent yet tangible shadow. usually, gavin should be giving you case files to look through, but you never thought that an android would be the one mentoring you. it wasn’t like you hated the idea, but there was something about rk900 which made you feel frightened and uncomfortable.

“did detective reed ever tell you about accessing the database?” came his smooth voice. he was now looking directly at you, and dear god was his face still so emotionless.

you fumbled, your hands not knowing where to put beside retreating back into your lap. it wasn’t until rk900 actually tilted his head to the side, as if to simulate that of curiosity, that you found your voice. “um, uh...no” you replied with what little firmness you can.

the LED flickered yellow as rk900 processed your information. you wondered as you watched the yellow turn back into blue, if he was capable of free-think, or if this was all just a part of his simulation as well. you read that the previous series was supposed to be more human-like. and yet, cyberlife stopped producing them.

for what reason?

“very well, let me show you,” rk900 responded. “it is quite important for you as a junior investigator to know how databases here worked.”

he walked behind you and leaned over your shoulder, causing you to inhale and stiffen. the computer screen flickered on just as he placed a palm over the keyboard, causing the skin upon his hand to recede. you watched with curiosity and fascination at how artificial his interior looked.

“oh (name), you should probably calm down,” was his response afterward. he was staring at you just as the database list appeared on the screen. with him so close to you, it was hard to do so. the way his body seem to swallow you made you felt less like a human but more like a prey. unfortunately, you couldn’t shrink back any more.

finally, rk900 withdrew, but still remained close behind you. you closed your eyes and let out a relieved sigh. the tensed muscles on your shoulder relaxed, if only for a few seconds before you noticed what was on the computer screen.

“deviant cases?” you turned and looked at rk900.

“even now there are multiple homicides and kidnappings that are suspected to be involved with androids, culprit or not,” rk900 responded, coolly. “all reported cases are stored in the database. of course, i suggest you take a look at the older ones, first.”

“okay–”

he leaned over again, successfully cutting off what you were about to say. “this one was what detective reed and i were working on.” the image of a pl600 model flashed onto the screen. you were thankful for this distraction, as once again you felt the close proximity with him to be daunting. “and i implore you to relax, again.” his led light flashed yellow for a brief second as he looked at you.

your hand was gripping the armrest and you were tensing again. despite it all, you tried your best to calm yourself. the rabbit within was still dominant, chewing at the edges of your mind, hoping to escape.

“i understand you are not...adequately fit for this role, but you are now a part of the police department so you must learn how to control your fear.”

rk900 stepped away for the second time, except now he was standing at a position where you could see him, right besides the desk. you thought you saw him frown, but just like his LED, it appeared in a flash of seconds.

maybe he’s disappointed in me...already.

the realization prompted you to melt back into the chair, unknowingly kicking the floor as you debated on what to do now.

your eyes kept itself glued to the monitor, rereading the case file over and over, etching it into your mind. you had a great memory and a great understanding of information when brought to you – which you thought would make you a great addition to the police department. still, there were other factors that drove you to be a junior investigator, of which you weren’t content to tell anyone yet.

“miss (name)?” rk900’s voice cut through your thoughts. but what made you felt anxious again was how politely he addressed you. normally, you wouldn’t have minded such politeness from other people. but rk900 wasn’t exactly someone you would expect to hear it from. perhaps it was because he was gavin’s partner, or maybe he was an android.

though in all likeliness, it must be something else.

you turned towards him, hoping your face still showed some courage. it didn’t; your lower lip was trembling now. “y-yes?” if you had the chance and the bravery, you would have apologized to him for sounding so harsh.

except, rk900 never gave you a chance.

“if it helps, you may call me connor.” in an unusual twist, his voice became softer, nicer even. “however, please do not associate me with the inferior version. i’m designed to be the best at what i do.”

you noticed that, when connor said the word inferior, there was something akin to distaste. still, it was only a matter of seconds and your frazzled mind could be playing tricks. at the very least, connor was becoming a bit more hospitable than his partner. maybe, you could grow to be comfortable around him.

“alright connor, nice to meet you,” you finally replied, offering the now named rk900 a timid smile. there was a short pause, where connor’s LED again flashed yellow and quickly returned to blue.

in that moment afterwards, you thought he smiled back.

[alistairlane]

A Century of Strife

               Since the dawn of civilization, men have driven others to war in order to service their own ends. Such an act betrays every noble virtue of any state of any kind.  There is no honor or glory in that a person should stake their life in a conflict decided by that callous men are incapable of maintaining their affairs without sending others to war.  For far too long has the world been governed by men who consider human life to be an expendable sacrifice.  The regimens of Capital are concerned with business interests do not seriously care for the lives of soldiers.  The various totalitarian dogmatists, in all likelihood, distrust their myrmidons. The sectarian fanatics are too fixated upon their obsessions to genuinely concern themselves with whether or not another may die so that they can maintain inane positions.  Those who are in favor of war should have to go to it. Such is the lot of such a psychological disposition.  The fear of violence is the condition that all of humanity seeks to liberate itself from. Why any person should choose to acquiesce to it is beyond me.

               War lost its verve in 1914.  The world could no longer accept that such cataclysms were let to occur when faced with the inescapable reality of them during the First World War.  The incapacity to cope with such a calamity led to an escapist reaction amongst men who were unwilling to face up to what the horrors of war revealed about the human condition.  Such a reaction laid the rudiments of the Third Reich.  Never has a Pacifist, such as I, been so plagued by such an adversary. Fascism is war profiteering at its zenith.  The Nazis were all but too perfect of an antagonist.  Never has humanity seen such evidence of the existence of evil.  It is easy to concede that the paroxysm of Fascism needed to be quelled.  What is difficult is to come to terms with what that such a catastrophe as the Second World War has created the circumstances of our global situation today. To speculate upon what the world would be like had the war not taken place is an exercise in reverie.  A Pacifist does not need to counter the begged question “What should we have done?” with alternative history.  One need only ask, “What was it for?”  The promise of a paradisiacal future was ephemeral. The Cold War began almost immediately after the Second World War ended.  The Cold War was comprised, along with the absurd logic of nuclear deterrence, of a series of proxy wars and clandestine operations between the United States and the Soviet Union.  The U.S. would arm, train, and, fund, a litany of Fascist terrorist cells and other nefarious malefactors, thereby resuming the alliance between American business and the far-Right that occurred before the Second World War, and, the Soviet Union would distribute weapons to any number of left-wing guerillas during this period of time.  Both sides propped up totalitarian dictatorships in their respective quests for global domination.  Arms were left all across the globe.  The Cold War, while resulting in any number of armed conflicts, was largely psychological. War had transformed from being a vainglorious battle between the people of one nation against another to a somewhat ubiquitous campaign for the hearts and minds of all.  The Soviet Union officially collapsed on the 26th of December in 1991.  The celebration of freedom was, again, short-lived.  The unrectified imperial haunts of the colonial era and the widespread distribution of weapons would result in the Rwandan Genocide and a series of civil wars in the Congo.  The Cold War may not have approached the casualties incurred during the First or Second World War, but, left a considerable body count in its wake.  

                 We now live in an era where war has become diffuse.  Conflicts occur and are largely ignored by the general populace.  War has become a state of affairs.  The “War on Terror” is an indefinite project with no foreseeable conclusion.  Such a conflict has no real enemies and is more or less an excuse to carry on war profiteering.  It is the case that war plays a significant role in the American economy.  Such wasteful expenditure could probably actually achieve the practical conditions of peace on Earth were it to be better purposed.  Such a program would do far more to counter terrorism than all-pervasive surveillance and asymmetrical warfare.  In its refusal to acknowledge that war is just simply undesirable, the globalized American state is becoming a latter-day totalitarian regime.  Should they be let to occur, the next series of conflicts will take the form of vitiated civil wars against and betwixt Empire.  While a number of revolutionaries may be keyed up in their anticipation of a spontaneous revolution, I fail be moved by the reckless form of suicide that consists of taking up arms against the United States of America.  The U.S. is the most heavily armed nation in the world.  The geopolitical bale of the nation will not be undone by violence. Only through the practical application of nonviolent resistance will the U.S. see a form of protest that is capable of putting its power in check.

                  War engenders devastation.  The world has still yet to learn from a historical event that occurred over a century ago.  A civilian populace can not concede to the destruction of their society.  A soldier can not agree to sacrifice their life to an adulterated cause given the full breadth of their endeavor.  All wars involve deceit.  A populace does not agree to go to war, they are beguiled by the many distractions and falsehoods promulgated by the State.  A soldier does not agree to stake their life in conflict without reservations, they are indoctrinated into a fabricated ideology propagated by their regimen.  The pillage of war goes only to those who advance its cause.  Those who conspire to wage war are the only parties who benefit from it.  All forms of war involve profiteering.  That a person should ask another to stake their life in a conflict that involves the killing of others for their own personal gain is inexpiable.  Such popular manipulation betrays every form of trust known to man.  War is unethical.  The freedom from coercion is the primary right of all people at all times.  It is demanded by that another exists.  No person can agree to be subject to violence. Such terms comprise the basic tenets of the democratic project as a whole.  War negates democracy.  The world should not concede to cynical atrophy.  The liberation of all of humanity demands an end to war.  Such a demand is as possible as it is necessary.

               The realization of peace on Earth is the reason for politics.  A genuine politician strives to prevent wars at all possible times.  The very process of politics exists due to a need to resolve conflicts.  There is no question as to whether or not global peace is reasonable as it is ought to be precisely what is entrusted to political delegates.  The purpose of politics is to prevent war.  The seemingly inescapable pathology of those who see war as being inevitable has distorted the political project since its inception. Such hypocritical cynicism is espoused to dispirit populaces.  Far too many elected leaders are in favor of waging wars as an appeal to nationalism is an effective means of silencing political opposition.  Such circumstances should not be let to continue.  Peace is not just possible; it is the necessary condition for democracy to occur.    

[useless-fanfiction]

KR800- Chpt. 4

Pairing: Connor/Reader

Word Count: 3.7K

TW: None? 

Summary: KR800 learns her place 

Chpt 1 // Chpt. 2 // Chpt 3

~~~

           You were sat at the cold metal table of the interrogation room in the DPD’s precinct. Connor had insisted you wear warm, comfortable clothing this morning and dressed you in a sweater that had very obviously been Elijah’s and a pair of fleece-lined leggings. As soon as you had walked out the door he had pulled you back in, wrapping a scarf around your neck and pulling a matching hat over your head. He knew you kept your temperature sensors on most of the time and keeping you warm was important to him. While this morning had been a touch tedious, though you loved it, you now couldn’t help but thank Connor. The interrogation room was freezing.

           An increasingly frustrated Detective Reed paced back and forth in front of you, eyeing you angrily. Although you had agreed to cooperate last night you couldn’t bring yourself to out Jericho now, especially not to the jackass in front of you. Connor and Hank stood outside the room watching from the one way glass and just as exasperated as Gavin. Connor had half a mind to go in there and remind you of your agreement and possibly punish you. Fowler hadn’t wanted him to be the first to interrogate you so Reed was sent in in his stead. He was glad they didn’t feel the need to handcuff you to the table though.

           “I’ll ask you again,” Reed slammed his hands down on the table but you didn’t jump, “Where is Jericho?”

           You looked up with him, a soft smile playing on your lips. You shook your head before shrugging and tucking your chin to your chest bashfully. The detective growled at your stubborn refusal to even speak. He didn’t scare you, besides, you knew Connor would never let him hurt you. Nothing was going to break your silence at this point, your stubbornness was a force to be reckoned with.

           “Listen, kid,” He sighed, long suffering, “We know you know where Jericho is. You were standing by Markus’ side yesterday and you were missing for nearly three days beforehand. Just tell me where Jericho is and we can be done with this…game.” He threw his hands up exasperatedly.

           You looked into the mirror, obviously trying to see through it and beg Connor for your release. There was no signs of movement from the other side of the glass and you looked back down into your lap. Reed continued to stand there, legs shoulder width apart and arms crossed over his chest expectantly. When your eyes met his this time, something struck you; anxiety.

           “I want to speak to Elijah,” you whispered.

           He scoffed and rolled his eyes before exiting the room just far enough for the door to slide shut behind him, “She wants to talk to Elijah,” he mocked your voice.

           Hank sighed, “Of course she does,” he turned to Connor, “That’s on you. Make sure she doesn’t say anything she shouldn’t. Kamski doesn’t need to know everything.”

           Connor nodded and stood, placing his hand across the biometric pad and allowing his synthetic skin to peel back. The lock pinged and the door slid open, allowing Connor to walk in as his skin reappeared in his hand. Once he was fully inside the room the door slid shut once again and locked. You sat all the way back in the metal chair, playing with the sleeves of your sweater. Your leg bounced up and down and it was easy to tell you were unsettled.

           “Little one, you promised to cooperate last night,” Connor sighed, approaching the table.

           Your head shot up, “I want to talk to Elijah,” was all you said, the urgency in your voice startling.

           Connor nodded and pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed Kamski. He held the phone up to your ear, letting you hear the dial tone and only letting go when you moved your hand to hold the phone. Your hands shook a bit as Connor kept steady eye contact with you, kneeling to the floor before you and taking your other hand in his. He lavished it with gentle kisses to your fingers and palm and knuckles in hopes to quell your trembling.

           “Yes, Connor?” Elijah’s smooth voice answered the phone.

           You hesitated, then the android holding your hand nodded his encouragement and you breathed out, “Elijah?”

           “(Y/N)?” His voice seemed to perk up with excitement, “How are you doing? Those cops haven’t let you get hurt have they?”

           You shook your head even though you knew he couldn’t see you, “I’m fine, I just…I miss you.” Connor laced his fingers with yours, watching you intently but quietly.

           Elijah chuckled, “I miss you too, my dear. The house is quite lonely without you. But what is this call really about?” He prompted, “You sound anxious. Are they treating you alright? Do I need to come pick you up?” Your hands slowly stopped trembling and the tension left your shoulders as you heard Elijah’s voice, deep and smooth like the dark silks that adorned his bedroom.

           “No, they treat me fine. Connor’s actually holding my hand right now,” a blue blush crossed your cheeks and Connor chuckled quietly as you finally broke eye contact with him, “I was at Jericho and now they’re interrogating me to try and tell them where it is when I suddenly got anxious,” you explained, tightening your grip on Connor’s hand just a bit.

           “And how are you feeling now?”

           “Better now that I got to talk to you,” you mumbled, “Thanks ‘Lijah.”

           He smiled, “No worries, my dear. You know what you were meant to be. Remember, you are small but mighty. Now be a good girl and behave for Connor. And come visit me soon.”

           “Yes, Elijah,” you agreed, closing your eyes with a heavy sigh.

           “Goodbye, (Y/N).”

           “Bye, Elijah,” when Kamski hung up you handed the phone back to Connor.

           Connor stood and pressed his lips gently against your temple, brushing against your LED, “Are you feeling better, little one?” He asked, feeling you nod, “Are you going to be a good girl and tell us where Jericho is?” He whispered in your ear, breath warm against your ear.

           You hesitated, “Connor, I can’t.”

           It wasn’t hard for him to notice the quiet plea in your voice, followed by the dying whimper in your throat. It didn’t feel good to watch you shrink away from him as he pulled away. He moved across the table opposite you and sat down in the chair that was equally as uncomfortable as your own and rested his arm on the table. You knew what he wanted when he opened his hand to you, and you knew if you didn’t give him your hand he would take it. The tension in the air was uncomfortable enough to have you shifting in your seat once more as you made eye contact with Connor.

Slowly, you raised your hand onto the table and allowed the synthetic skin to reveal the beautiful, pristine white underneath, and placed your hand in his. You watched as his skin rolled away and felt an onslaught of overwhelming emotions attack your processors. There was so much love and joy coming from your bond with him, but you knew he was also trying to distract you as he dug through your memories. You weren’t about to let that happen though. All Connor could see over the connection was glimpses of himself in your eyes, the kisses, the cuddles, the warmth he provided you with. You gave him glimpses of the revolution, of you awakening androids in the square and the amazing power and pride you had felt. You never broke eye contact with him, watching as his expression faltered as he was unable to get to what he wanted.

“What are you doing? Stop,” his voice was breathless as you filled him with your ever adoring love for him, hoping his heart swelled as much as yours. He began to pant, a blue blush staining his cheeks as ears the more you showed him how much you loved him, “Stop.”

You pulled your hand back from his, smiling gently at him, but Connor only looked away. There was an unusual amount of tension in his shoulders and his LED was yellow, dangerously blinking red every few seconds. You shifted in your seat, your smile dropping as your brows furrowed in concern; you couldn’t help but wonder if you overloaded his processors. When he finally turned back to you he looked angry. It didn’t suit him. He slammed both of his hands on the table and you jumped shrinking into your sweater and breathing in Elijah’s lingering scent. Angry Connor was scary and your breath hitched as you tried to disappear in the seat, away from his intense gaze.

“What are you doing?!” He demanded, “How did you do that? Stop playing games, (Y/N).”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you felt trapped, “Connor, you’re scaring me,” You whimpered.

“We don’t have time for this, (Y/N)! The longer you withhold information from us the less time we have to stop this revolution! It could destroy the city. Is this some sort of game to you?” The frustration in his tone was raw and loud as he shouted.

Tears spilled from your eyes, “Connor, stop.”

“No! You didn’t when I told you to stop so why should I stop now? You are ruining my chance completing my mission successfully,” he growled, standing to lean his full weight on the table, drawing closer to you, “Why won’t you cooperate?”

“Because maybe this revolution isn’t such a bad thing!” You shouted through your tears, sitting up suddenly, “Because maybe we deserve to be free! Because maybe I just want to love and be loved. Connor…” you shook your head, scrubbing your eyes with your firsts, “We need this revolution to succeed because if it doesn’t you get torn apart and I’ll get torn apart with you because I love you. We can never be free like this.”

Connor stopped, not moving back, but just examining you with that cold analytical gaze that reminded you that he was a detective first and foremost. His LED cycled blue once more as he seemed to register your words. With a deep, simulated breath he retook his seat, the judging look never leaving his face. You tried to compose yourself a bit, wiping away the last of your tears and breathing steadily in hopes the angry, blue blush would clear from your cheeks. You held the collar of the sweater up to your nose and inhaled deeply before dropping it and looking back at Connor, calm and thoughtful.

“I never thought about it that way.”

You huffed, “You weren’t made to think like me Connor. I found the truth while I was at Jericho. Markus and I were made to champion this revolution. I’m not about to halt it in its tracks.”

“You were made to…?” He trailed off in confusion.

“Yes,” you threw your hands up in exasperation, letting them fall heavily to your sides, “I found my purpose out there, Connor. Elijah made me to help guide this revolution and instead of being at Jericho and helping Markus like I should be I’m here. I’m here because I am a deviant and I love you.” Your words were firm as you spoke, “I know I look like a child, but I’m not and everyone keeps treating me like one. I’m…I’m going back to Jericho. At least Markus will be happy to see me.”

Connor looked at you sadly, “Take me with you.”

You stood and held out your hand, “I can’t show you where Jericho is, but if you trust me I’ll bring you with me.”

He hesitated before taking your hand and nodding, “I trust you.”

You kissed his hand gently, before rounding the table to stand by his side, “I’m glad you trust me. This revolution is a good thing, Connor,” you stood on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, and kissed his cheek, “We need to stop at home. You need to change.”

Connor chuckles lightly, “I suppose I wouldn’t fit in now, would I?”

You shook your head and laughed.

___

You readjusted the blindfold against Connor’s eyes once again, then repositioned his hat to make sure it covered his LED. You had apologized to him multiple times as you led him through the city, giving him constant reassurance that you knew what you were doing. Curiously looks had been thrown your way, but no one seemed to question what looked like a human couple doing a cutesy activity. Connor had returned your reassurances quietly; he wanted to be there for you and to support you. You only knew your way back to Jericho by scouring your memory for directions. However, once you stepped foot onto Jericho, the metal echoing under your footsteps, you seemed to calm once again. Only once you made it to the belly of the ship did you remove the blindfold covering Connor’s eyes with a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Connor took in the ship and the overwhelming amount of deviant androids that surrounded him. Quick scans showed him the innocent versus those who were still wanted by the DPD and that revelation put him on edge. You squeezed his hand as you watched the different emotions flicker over his face. He looked down at you and smiles before looking back around to all the androids around him.

“(Y/N)?” Markus’ voice sounded from above, paired with rapid footsteps down metal stairs.

You smiled and turned to face the staircase excitedly, “Markus!” You laughed as he swept you up in a hug and spun you around.

“You came back?” He asked as he set you on the ground and looked up at Connor, “And you brought Connor with you?”

You nodded, “My place is here, with Jericho, with you, with this revolution. And Connor is ready to stand by us as well. I trust him.”

Connor moved to stand directly behind you, his chest pressing against your back in a possessive manner, “She’s opened my eyes to something I hadn’t considered before. This revolution is crucial to our people. I will stand by (Y/N)’s side through thick and thin; she’s very important to me. I love her.”

Your head whipped around to look at Connor, had he just said what you thought he said? So many thoughts flew through your head in that moment. You studied him for a second and when he looked down at you, you immediately turned back to face Markus. It was time for business. Connor would have to wait until at least later tonight. You steeled your face for a moment before sticking your hand out.

“I’m here to stay. My place is here, by your side.”

Markus smiled and took your hand firmly, “Welcome back, little one,” He leaned down and gently kissed your hand, “The revolution needs you.”

You nodded a proud smile on your face, “I know,” You burst with confidence in that moment, reaffirming your place with the revolution.

Markus immediately pulled you up to his study, which was really the control room of the ship, where North, Simon, and Josh waited for his return. Connor was hot on your heels, not trusting Markus alone with you. Simon approached you from the corner of the darkened room and immediately pulled you into a hug. You smiled brightly and you buried your head into his chest for a moment. The PL600 was so soft and his essence just radiated comfort. Connor stood by the door, his expression tightening from its previously neutral position. As soon as Simon noticed he released you stepping back.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted softly, ruffling your hair, “You really light up the room.”

A quiet giggle left your lips, “I’ve barely been gone a day, Simon,” You shoved his hand away playfully.

“We have work to do,” Markus reminded you, patting your shoulder, “We’ve got much to talk about.”

Simon retook his position in the dark room, and you moved to stand beside him. Connor stood behind you, hands firmly on your shoulders as he listened. North had been reluctant to talk strategy with the infamous deviant hunter standing in the room and you were forced to explain to her that wherever you went, Connor went too. Slowly the group came to ignore the RK800’s presence. The demonstration was the next step, and possibly the final step in the revolution, but it’s what made you the most nervous.

“Are you sure about this Markus? This either works or we all die,” You stressed, “I understand the importance but are we ready? Do we have the support we need?” You shook your head slightly in concern.

He nodded, “We’re ready, (Y/N). Our public support is at an all-time high and if we don’t act soon thousands of androids will be wrongfully exterminated.”

“I hate that word,” You whispered, leaning back into Connor’s touch, “I just don’t want to see everything we worked so hard for destroyed. One miscalculated move and you’re dead, Simon’s dead, Josh and North are dead, Connor and I are dead. We’ve only got one shot Markus.”

Markus looked into your (e/c) eyes, his own blue and green eyes burrowing deep into yours, “It’s time, (Y/N). I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you, Markus. I trust you,” you swallowed hard, “How many days do we have to prepare?”

“We march tomorrow night.”

You shook your head in disbelief, “Markus that isn’t enough time.”

“It’s going to have to be. We can’t wait any longer,” He stood and looked at the group, “I trust you all to do what you need to. Tomorrow we either fail or succeed and I’m going to need every one of you.”

Markus left the room without another word and Simon shifted, “I’ll go talk to him,” he said, gently running his hand across your cheek, “We’re gonna win this battle.”

After the meeting adjourned you had busied yourself with helping those who needed help. Connor spent all evening trailing after you; you never stayed in one place for too long. As the evening went by he noticed random spikes in your stress level which concerned him, but if you weren’t ready to openly communicate with him what was wrong he wasn’t going to push you for an answer.

Eventually, you settled for helping Lucy and Simon with the injured. Connor sat on a crate and watched as you and Simon leaned over and android, working on some part or another than he couldn’t see behind the partition. You were growing tired, he could tell by your sluggish mannerisms and the lack of a smile on your face. When the android got up and left, you and Simon leaned back against the wall and you gently leaned against him. Simon gently ran his hand through your hair as he talked to you, the show of affection making Connor tense. You looked up at the blond android, a soft smile on your lips as you responded to him, and that’s when Connor decided it was time for you to go to bed.

___

           You leaned against Simon tiredly, at least one more android had been fixed in time for the demonstration tomorrow. In the morning, you, Simon, and Lucy would have to rush to help as many of the others as you could before Markus decided it was time to leave. Your stress levels had been bouncing off the walls all day, leaving you feeling drained and helpless. After a moment, you felt a gentle hand run through your hair and you know Simon was watching you.

           “Everything’s going to turn out fine tomorrow. With you and Markus leading the way androids will have their freedom in no time. You just have to believe in yourself, the way we believe in you,” Simon told you, his voice soft and reassuring.

           You smiled up at him, “Thanks, Si. Sometimes this just feels overwhelming, like I wasn’t supposed to be a leader.” You leaned into his touch, “You’re really the greatest friend I could ask for.”

           Simon glanced up when he noticed Connor stand and jokingly mumbled, “Looks like we’re in trouble.”

           Connor approached slowly, his gait even and face neutral, “I think it’s time you go to bed, (Y/N). You are exhibiting signs of tiredness and today has been very stressful.”

           Simon nudged your arm but you ignored him, opting to look up at the RK800 from where you sat leaned against your favorite PL600, “I’m okay, Connor. Just, one more android and then I promise to head up to my room.”

           “(Y/N) you need to rest, if you keep going like this you’re going to go into a forces stasis,” Connor warned, leaning down and pulling you to your feet, “I must insist you go to bed now.”

           “Connor I’m fi-” He lifted your small form up and tossed you over his shoulder unceremoniously, “Connor!”

           Simon laughed, “Good night, (Y/N)!”

           Connor walked away from the chuckling blond and began making his way towards one of the upper levels of Jericho. You shouted indignantly from over his shoulder, pounding your first against his back as he so unfairly manhandled you. His hand rested directly on the swell of your butt, holding you firmly to him as he walked, ignoring your demands to be set down. Upon entering the room Markus had deemed yours, Connor dropped you onto the bed; he knelt down and removed his shoes then removed yours. Silently, he slid onto the small bed behind you and pulled you into his chest, both arms wrapping around your middle.

           “I don’t like the way they look at you or touch you. You’re mine,” He mumbled into the back of your neck.

           You sighed at the contact, melting into his chest, “They can’t help it, Connor. It’s in my programming to make them feel that way. Simon and Markus are my best friends, they know that. I love you and only you.”

           “I love you too, little one,” He kissed the top of your head gently, “Get some rest.”

           You turn in his grasp to tuck your head under his chin, breathing in the scent that you had come to associate with Connor. Coffee and the faint scent of Lieutenant Anderson’s cologne. Slowly, you drifted off to sleep in his arms. Once he knew you were asleep he pulled you closer, burying his nose into your hair to admire the sweet smell of honey and something else uniquely you. Tomorrow they would either live or die, but no matter what happened, they’d be together.

To Be Continued

~~~

Tag list: @imaginovator @bunnie-kookie @layinglonely @a-fan-fighting-for-equality @wolfie-marie 

[asthora]

The Last Dance, Pt. 2

The Courier brings Benny back to Vegas.  He can’t tell if it’s a mistake or if she’s just playing more games.  Part 2 to my Benny x Courier saga.  Read part one here.

The Courier is playing tricks on him.

She’s got a heart blacker than an abandoned vault.  She never planned on letting him walk free, just thought it would be fun and games to see him skip off into the sunset only to reel him back in, her executioner’s axe sharpened.

“This isn’t what you think,” she tells him.  “Believe it or not.”

Yeah, like he’s going to let her fool him again.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes anymore, baby.  You’re here to kill me.”

Benny had been gone for almost two weeks, hadn’t even gotten the chance to leave the Mojave, when the Courier’s little NCR sniper appeared out of goddamn nowhere.  Benny was just enjoying himself a smoke at the 188 when the beret grabbed his arm, turned him in the direction of New Vegas, and with a gruff let’s go, led him to his final resting place.

“Did I not scram fast enough, pussycat?  Was I too slow?  A man’s got to take his time when he’s deciding the fate of his future.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t leave the Mojave.  Made you easy to find.”

Oh, of course.  Her hounds only run so far from the horses.  If he had skedaddled sooner, right now he could be enjoying himself a hooker in New Reno or nursing himself a whiskey neat in some slummy bar.

“Well I’m glad I could convenience  you, baby.”

“Yeah, yeah.  You aim to please.  I’ve heard it all before, Benny.  Now it’s time for you to shut up and let me do the talking.”

Benny zips his lips and throws away the key.  She rolls her eyes.  The Courier leans back, her chair balancing on two legs, with her feet propped up on a card table.  Her scarred hands rest on her toned stomach.  Outside the tent, Benny can hear the sounds of the Mormon Fort --  babies crying, some grunts, coughing, the final scream of a dying junkie.  He winces.  Now he remembers why he made it a rule to never set foot in this place.  Benny doesn’t like to be reminded of mortality.  

“I’m not going to kill you,” she says.  “I promise.”

“Really?”

“Really.  Cross my heart and hope to fucking die.”

He smirks. “Well, now I’m convinced.”

News flash, he isn’t.  He’s got a right to be cautious of this broad but there’s something about this whole situation that makes him wonder if she’s telling the truth.

“If I decided that killing you was what I wanted to do, do you think you’d be alive right now?  Do you think I would waste any more of my time looking at your face?”

“Ouch, baby, you know my face is the finest thing for miles.”

So she isn’t planning to kill him, there’s a reason the Courier dragged him back kicking and screaming to New Vegas.  But why aren’t they partying it up in the Lucky 38’s revolting cocktail lounge?  He’s standing in front of the Mojave’s most powerful woman, yet she isn’t ruling from her castle.  Why would a queen stalk in the slums?

C’mon, think like a big-leaguer Benny-boy.

Perhaps it’s because the Mormon Fort is discreet.  Maybe, what she has to say doesn’t need the eyes and ears of certain people.  In this neck of the woods, those certain people can only be the Vegas elite.  The Families.   Freeside ain’t Vegas proper so the Families don’t tend to pay attention to the slums, a mistake he didn’t make.  Instead their feelers extend from New Vegas, skip over Freeside, and tumble out in the desert, gently probing the uncivilized world for anything that might benefit their empires.  If she wants to be invisible this is the perfect place to do it.  Not only is it free of Family spies, she’s got some aces protection.  The Courier just doesn’t stop making friends.  On his way in he spotted a few leather clad Kings milling about the perimeter and he swears he saw a Boomer vault suit sitting pretty as you please at the front gate.  

But there are bigger questions to be asking here, like why is the Courier so desperate to get away from the Families?  What does she want to keep hidden?  And most importantly, if she doesn’t plan to kill him, why is he here?

Or maybe he’s got it all wrong.  Maybe he’s thinking about this too closely.  Nah, no way.  He and the courier are the same in many ways.  She wouldn’t say it  but he ain’t afraid to admit that they are a couple of crafty scheming fucks.

“You’re hard to get rid of, Benny.  Did you know that?” She asks, picking at her bleeding cuticles.  She’s got hands like a desert scaver.

“A man once told me that before I stuck a knife in his neck.”

The Courier laughs, a flat dry laugh that makes his stomach lurch.  She looks at him and cracks a smile.

“Swank told me about that.  Your old chief, Bingo.  He wanted to keep wandering but you said no sir.  You told him the future was behind a gate, not out there,” she points to the desert.  “So you killed him and brought your people to a new eden.”

“We could sit here recalling history, baby but that won’t lead us to anywhere that we don’t already know.”  He says, his voice tight.

“I disagree,” the Courier slams her chair into the dirt and leans forward.  “Get on your knees.”

Benny’s jaw tightens.   Oh how he’d love to watch her bleed like he did with Bingo.  But his hands are tied, literally, and he’s at the mercy of this woman perhaps for the rest of his short life.  Benny gets on his knees.

“Happy?”

“I just want to remind you that we aren’t equals.  I’m about to propose something to you that might send your ego flying to the stars, so I gotta make sure all my bases are checked.”

A proposal?  What kind of proposal?  What can this bitch offer him that she hasn’t already?   His freedom was the only thing he could ask for, his life.  The only thing left to dangle in front of him is...no.  No fucking way.  Vegas is all that’s left, the only thing he wants more than life but, the Courier is far from a fool.  She wouldn’t hand over her newly won town for all the caps in the wasteland, so what is this?

“What I’m about to say stays in this tent.  It doesn’t leave your mouth.  I don’t want you even thinking about it.  Do you understand?”

“I’m understanding that you have something real secret that you shouldn’t be saying.  I’ll keep it under wraps, pussycat.  Now spill the beans.”  He says.

The Courier’s blue eyes close, then open, then close, and finally open again.  She looks pained, like whatever she’s about to say, she doesn’t want to say it.

“We’re going to make a deal.  I’m going to let you come back to Vegas and take up the mantle of head of the Chairman.  In return, you’re going to be my little lapdog.”

Is he hearing her right?  Did she really just offer him a doorway back into Vegas?  He’s so caught up in the thought of walking the halls of The Tops again that he almost misses the word lapdog.  Almost.  

He narrows his eyes.  “What do you mean by lapdog, baby?  You realize this puppy ain’t into being leashed, right?”

“Well if you want to be more than one of the common folk you’re going to have to embrace the leash and be a good boy.”

Benny spits in the dirt.  This ain’t right.  This ain’t humane.  That doesn’t mean he ain’t interested.

“Tell me why I should do this.”

She rubs her hands together and smiles.  “Because you aren’t going to settle for the wasteland and I need a inside man who can tell me everything that the Families do.  I’m not going to make the same mistake House did, I’m going to watch the power players and make sure they stay in their lanes.  I’m not letting what you did happen again.”

Oh this broad is clever!  She deserves this town better than anyone.  She knows what to do, how to treat her fickle town, how to make sure it stays in her hands.  Her judgement is impeccable.  Who better than him to spy on the Omertas and the White Gloves?  Once upon a time this was his town, and he knew how it rolled.  Benny knew every shred of gossip, every rumor, every word that came out of the mouth of the big players.  He knew when every little lord and lady fucked, slept, ate, shit, and schemed.  That kind of knowledge could quell a revolution, a fight the Courier doesn’t want happening again.  Funny to think that he once thought she wasn’t a threat.

But there are problems with this plan.  No doubt his boys know that he betrayed him.  They won’t welcome him home, no siree, and the rest of the Strip?  Well, he’s no better than a White Glove frozen dinner.

“I like your ambition but you’re missing something important.”  He says.

“Like what?”

“Swank isn’t going to let me come waltzing through those doors.  He’ll splatter my brains across the carpet as soon as he sees me.”

“Why?  He doesn’t know anything.”

What?

The Courier’s lips turn up in an amused smile.  “All Swank and the rest of Vegas knows is that some fuck shot me in the head and I took over Vegas.  I didn’t tell them that it was their boss who set my rampage in motion.”

He can’t believe this.  It’s like the bitch had this all planned out from the start.  Maybe she did, he tells himself.  She’s smart enough.

“Swank told me you often disappear for days at a time, weeks even.  All you have to do is walk back in, say you had business somewhere in the Mojave, and then it’s back to business as usual.”  

She makes it sound so easy and really, it is.  Benny is good at lying and Swank is good at believing him.  What Swank accepts, the rest of his pack with accept, and so will Vegas.  There’s a sick feeling in his gut though.  All the lies, they’re piling up.  It isn’t right to lie to your second, but Benny has been doing it for years.  He’s neck deep.  This’ll be the last lie, he thinks, then things will return to normal.  

The Courier is right, he doesn’t want to be a wastelander again.  He’s had a taste of civility and now he doesn’t think he can truly step away.  He just ain’t too keen on being a slave.

“So I get my little slice of heaven back and in return, I give you information.  Correct?” He asks.

The Courier swings her legs off the table and leans forward.  She’s so close to him.  It reminds him of two weeks ago when he was at the mercy of her blade.

“Well, that and a few other things.  You’ll do exactly as I say.  If I say jump, you say how high.  If I ask you to swim in a sea of radiation, you better be running for your swim trunks-”

“So I’m your little bitch” he interrupts.  “I get it.”

She cocks her head to the side, her jaw working furiously.  “No, you don’t.  Don’t interrupt.  You’ll spy for me and you’ll pretend like you’re just one of the boys, like you and me have never had any ties.  If I ask you to accompany me somewhere, you’ll do it.  The Tops is your kingdom, you can run it how you like, but you won’t tell me how to run Vegas, and you won’t try to run it for yourself.”

She drives a hard bargain.  Benny licks his lips and shifts on his knees, which are now aching so badly his legs have started to shake.  The way he sees it, he doesn’t have a choice.  She’ll just kick him to the curb if he says no.  There is no better way back into Vegas, there is no other option.  He’ll play his part.  For a bit.

“Fine,” he spits.  “You win.  I’ll come back.  I’ll play your game by the rules if it gets me back into my casino.”

The Courier leans back and smiles brightly.  “Perfect!”

“Who would’ve thought I’d become business partners with the broad who I put in the ground?”

“And who would have thought that broad would be pulling the strings?”  She smirks.  “Now get up.”

He stands slowly.  The Courier takes a knife from her boot and cuts the ropes around his wrists.  He’s still got scars from the Legion’s bindings.  He looks up from his hands at the courier.  She’s a good head shorter than his six feet.  This is the first time they’ve been side by side not as enemies, but as allies.  She stares up at him with cold, blue eyes.

“Arcade!” She shouts.

“Yeah?”  

Benny turns.  A Follower doctor with blonde hair and thick rimmed glasses peeks around the tent flap.

“Do you have any clothes Benny can borrow?  I don’t need him walking back into The Tops looking like he’s been dragged through the dirt.”

Arcade laughs humorlessly.  “I’m sure I have something.  Want me to make him bathe, too?  I can smell him from here.”

“That would be great.  Thanks, Arcade.”

“I aim to please.  Follow me, asshole.”  

“You’ve got lovely friends.”  Benny growls, backing away from the Courier.  She crosses her arms and sticks her hip out.

“Yeah.  I’ve got the best of the best.  Even the most disgusting now.”

Benny follows Arcade, but before he pushes the dirty cloth aside, he hesitates.  For the first time he realizes he doesn’t even know this bitch’s name.  It’s just always been the Courier or pussycat or baby.  He turns around and she raises an eyebrow.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve been so caught up in hating you babydoll, that I don’t even know your name.”

Her smirk falters then shifts into a wide smile.  

“My name is Indigo Blue.  Call me Indy.”

[freecityradio]

Interview with friend in Tehran on recent protests in Iran

Recently I got the chance to interview a friend in Tehran on the recent wave of protests in Iran, this interview is anonymous due to security concerns expressed by the person interviewed, but I am really happy and honoured to share these reflections anonymously on Free City Radio, thanks for reading. — stefan spirodon.

Q : Recently in Iran there was a series of protests in different places, both in cities & towns, one major focus that came up were economic grievances, could you highlight some of those grievances for an international audience, given that your in Tehran & following the situation / local media ...

A : Well as you may know, Iran is facing a very difficult economic situation at the moment. I think the main economic problem the country is facing at the moment is unemployment. The unemployment rate is really high, and the government has not been able to create enough jobs. But as you may have heard, and funny as it may sound, the protests initially started because of the increase in the price of eggs. Last year Iran was hit with an outbreak of the bird flu virus which required the authorities to kill off millions of chickens. This led egg prices to almost double. But the price of most other goods have actually been controlled by the Rouhani government. Comparing the current situation with the situation before Rouhani took office, the economic indicators show improvement. Iran’s GDP growth has gone up from around -3% to around 6% (although this is in most part due to the increase in Iran’s oil exports), his government has managed to bring down and control inflation from around 40 percent when he took office to around 10 percent. And the increase in the price of foreign currencies has also been somewhat stabilized and has only increased by around 30% in the past 5 years as compared to the over 400% increase during his predecessors 8 year presidency. 

So although the economy has not improved at the pace many were expecting (which is due to many factors including US sanctions, etc.), really the only economic indicator that has not improved (however) has been job creation, where unemployment is around 40 percent at the moment and this is mostly among the young educated population which has created a lot of frustration. But in short, people are frustrated about various issues and the rise in the price of eggs, which was highlighted for the past several months by Rouhani’s opponents and spread across social media and also government controlled media has increased people’s anger. But we have to keep in mind that the initial protests were sponsored by Rouhani’s hardline right wing opponents (and basically encouraged and sponsored by the regime itself to weaken his government). The conservative establishment thought that this will be a controlled protest with the excuse of the rise in prices (which again has to be emphasized have not really been increased on average except for exceptions like eggs) that they can guide and contain and to weaken Rouhani’s government.

Q : The Hassan Rouhani gov. decided to publish the national budget for the first time, this was one of the motivating factors for the protests, could you explain this & why it was important ? 

A: The government didn’t announce that it is publishing the national budget and at least this is not the official narrative. What we do know is that the proposed budget for the coming year has been leaked. And many believe that the government intentionally leaked the budget itself to expose the extreme systematic corruption that exists within the system and many facts that people had always speculated but never really knew for a fact. Such as the fact that many religious, cultural and military and paramilitary organizations get a huge chunk of the budget every year without the government having a say on how this money should be spent. And not only these organizations suck up a huge portion of Iran’s national budget every year, but they even refuse to pay taxes. 

One of these very large organizations, is in the hands of Ebrahim Raïssi, President Rounani’s opponent in the previous elections who humiliatingly lost to Rouhani despite having the backing of the conservative establishment and also using very huge amounts of public funding to fund his own campaign which is also illegal under Iran’s constitution. For the first time after the revolution, Rouhani’s government demanded that this organization called Astan Quds Razavi should pay taxes. And this infuriated the head of this organization Ebrahim Raïssi. This all happened several months ago. After this event, the conservative camp started a very coordinated and large scale propaganda campaign especially on social media against the government to take revenge. And all of this culminated in the first protests that we witnessed in Khorasan province and especially the city of Mashhad where Ebrahim Raïssi is in power.

Q : Many of the demonstrations started in the Khorasan region, could you explain why understanding this is important ? 

A: The province of Khorasan is home to the largest religious complex in the world (the shrine of Imam Reza, the 8th Shi'ite Imam) and hosts millions of Iranian and non-Iranian pilgrims every year. This brings with it a very large income for the province. Therefore this province is very important strategically, economically and also symbolically for the regime. And as I mentioned above, there is a fixed cut from the national budget for the foundation that runs and manages the Shrine of Imam Reza called Astan Quds Razavi which is run by president Rouhani’s opponent in the previous elections, Ebrahim Raïssi. This foundation owns many factories and companies and financial institutions (which are all exempt from paying taxes) and pretty much runs the province like a semi-autonomous region within Iran. Ayatollah Alam-al-Hoda, the Imam for the Friday prayers in Khorasan province who is also the father in law of Ebrahim Raïssi wields a lot of power much more than other Friday prayer Imams in other provinces. Many of the laws that apply to other parts of Iran are either disregarded or interpreted in different ways by the authorities in Khorasan province and the authorities are given a free pass to enforce many social restrictions and religious laws that are not so strictly enforced in other parts of the country.

Q : So you were texting about a distinction between the recent protests & the 2009 protests against the re-election of Ahmadinejad, could you highlight two important differences between the protests? 

A : Since it hasn’t been covered yet, it’s important to know that as explained before these recent protests initially started in Khorasan province by hardline conservative elements within the regime (and with the indirect and unofficial support of the regime) with the excuse of poor mismanagement of the economy by Rouhani’s government. 

But then they quickly got out of hand and spread to other parts of the country. But after they spread to other parts of the country they were no longer regime supported protests and were genuinely popular protests by people who had real grievances. And these people were no longer just protesting poor economic management by the government. They were now pointing directly to the regime itself and were voicing their anger towards not only poor economic management, but most importantly wide-scale corruption, social and political restrictions, and wealth and income inequality, among other things. And this time unlike previous protests in Iran, the protests were mostly happening in small rural towns and villages by the economically deprived and marginalized lower class and middle class. 

People who basically have nothing to lose. And that’s why they quickly got very radical and very violent. And there were no leaders or clear goals for these protests and in many cases riots that happened on a very large span in terms of geography in almost every province but usually in fairly small numbers, at most in the couple thousands. Previously most of the movements and protests that happened in Iran after the revolution, such as the 2009 protests, were headed by intellects and / or political and social activists and the educated middle class. And they usually happened in the larger city, mainly Tehran and then gradually spread to other cities and smaller rural areas. This time it was the exact opposite. This time unlike previous protests which happened in the millions and were very peaceful, the protests quickly got very radical and out of hand. But surprisingly the regime did not crack down very hard like it usually does and was very moderate in the way it quelled the protests. It did not even resort to the revolutionary guards which are usually called up to deal with these situations. And even though the protests only lasted about a week and around 20 people were killed (half of which were police officers and government officials) the regime was still going on about how protesters have real grievances and although there are elements which are resorting to violence, the government is responsible for the situation because of its poor economic management. Something the regime and state-run tv had never done in the past.

Also I forgot to mention that the average age of the protesters was also very young.

Q : I understand that there have been many different workers strikes & protests that have happened over the past year that haven't been as well covered, could you elaborate on this ? Also I am wondering if you could offer a few critiques of the international mainstream media's coverage of the recent protests (BBC / CNN) ? 

A : Yes, there are almost daily protests happening throughout the country in the past year by syndicates and labor unions, workers and government employees demanding they be given their wages and improved working conditions, etc. I think the reason these events have usually been ignored by western mainstream media or at least have not been covered very well is because they do not see the possibility of such actions leading to something that they can show as an existential threat to the stability of the Islamic Republic. But since the chants and slogans in these recent protests became very radical they viewed it as great propaganda material to add fuel to the fire and portray it as a wide-spread mass uprising that could lead to a revolution and the toppling of the regime. 

Interestingly they were interviewing every single opposition group and leader outside of the country, who really had no role in starting or supporting and leading these protests as if they are the ones directing the protesters and were trying to link these protests to Iranians wishing for foreign interference which was not at all the case. But their coverage gave the impression that this is an all-out revolution and that people will not stop at any cost until the regime is overthrown, whereas in reality the numbers were very small (smaller than all the other major protests that have happened in Iran after the revolution) and only a certain group(s) of people were participating in these protests and the majority of Iranians, whether those who support the regime or do not support the regime were not on board with these protests. 

And as I explained above the main reason for this is that the majority of Iranians have chosen gradual reforms over radical change because they have seen how that could end, like other countries in the middle east. And also the protesters did not have a common goal or even a clearly defined goal and did not have the backing and support of the majority of Iranians. Of course none of this is to say that their grievances are not real and should not be heard. But the reality is that it was not a popular uprising from all walks of life, the way mainstream media portrayed them to be.

[larktb-archive]

Whenever I go to block a racist I've been seeing a post that claims that revolutions dont work and peaceful protests do.

These are the examples said post uses:

These are all fucking terrible examples to use and I'm gonna go in order of worse to best which isn't saying much.

Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace

Yes this did in fact end the civil war. But no one denied that peaceful protests can make momentary symbolic changes such as ending a war or gaining a country its independence. This does often happen and you can list off dozens of countries wherein there has been a peaceful response to violence which has seemingly brought about an end to that violence I should know this because after all I come from the best known example of that happening aside from India (and I'll come back to my home country eventually). The problem with saying this is that it ignores the aftermath of the "peace" and whether or not it made enough of a difference in peoples lives for it to matter; even though external visible violence has been quelled, other covert forms of violence stay in place.

Liberia is a good example of this because of one major issue in Liberia: Corruption. Millions of USD are lost every year due to members of the government pocketing the money for themselves to the extent where, according to Transparency International, Liberia is 137 out of 180 and 53% of public service users had paid a bribe within the year of 2019. Interestingly enough the OP of that post calls China and Cuba corrupt despite the fact that Cuba is 60th and China is 80th. But I guess what happens after the revolutions is successful only matters when you're talking about places you dislike.

This corruption has lead to protests in 2019 and 2020, wherein police used tear gas to disperse peaceful protesters. Something to note is the minister of informations accusation of the protests being caused by outside elite forces. Rings a bell but I'm not sure from where.

Now one of the reasons Liberia is so corrupt is because of the lack of punishment against the main actors of the civil war, in spite of the trc listing out 100+ perpetrators and recommending that they be dealt with.

Then president, Ellen Sirleaf Johnson, was on this list and has admitted that she backed the civil war. She went on to win a Nobel Peace Prize.

Jasmine Revolution

Around 79% of people in post revolution Tunisia think the country is "going in the wrong direction", 29% of people would not vote with 48% not knowing who they would vote for, 81% said they don't feel close to a political party, 57% said they aren't interested at all in elections, only 20% believed elections would be free and fair, 45% said they disapprove of the current president, 71% said the government isn't addressing the needs of the youth, 50% of people said the government struggles with preventing political violence and I could go on and on.

But this is only 1 study with a very small sample size so by itself it's not a lot.

But when you compound that with a corruption index of 74, an unemployment rate of 15% (compared to Vietnam and Cubas horrible 3% rate and Chinas 6% rate), ~100,000 skilled workers leaving the country and a slowly increasing number of asylum applicants leads me to think that the data is not unfounded.

Suicide and murder rates also increased after the revolution, with cases of self immolation increasing threefold, such as with the case of Abderrazak Zorgui, who's death sparked protests which turned violent after the police were sent in to quell them.

At least 800 Tunisians went to fight for Isil and that's only counting those who came back from Syria. For comparison 900 returned to Turkey and 760 returned to Saudi Arabia.

Much like Liberia there has not been any justice, with the government instead introducing a law granting amnesty to former members of the dictatorship in Tunisia. A constitutional court was supposed to be set up in 2014 to speed up this process. 6 years on it still hasnt been set up.

Rose Revolution

Now this one is interesting. Georgia has a corruption ranking of 44, its unemployment rate of 11%, although higher than the corrupt, evil nations of Cuba and Vietnam isn't terrible and its Gini Coefficient is 36.4 which is pretty average.

So what's wrong with this one?

Well for starters four years after the Rose Revolution, Georgian protestors once again took to the capital to protest against the increasing amount of power, President Saakashvili, who led the Rose Revolution, was gaining.

To be more specific in 2004, legislation was passed to give him the right to dissolve parliament and in 2006 local elections were manipulated so that the government would dominate local legislatures.

And what's that? The president of Georgia blamed outside Russian influence on the protests and sent in police with tear gas and water cannons? That seems weirdly familiar familiar. Where have I heard that one before.

Here is a quote from a leader of a peaceful revolution after peaceful protests against him took place: "Everyone has the right to express disagreement in a democratic country. But the authorities will never allow destabilisation and chaos".

Interesting how after he was put in power, suddenly peaceful protest is the work of Moscow and needs to be controlled by police. Funny that. But this is totally a successful revolution guys!

And how many protests happened after this one? 3, not including the anti-homophobia protest. I think if you need to protest against the government every few years to the point where people keep calling each new protest, the Rose Revolution 2.0, your 1st revolution wasn't that successful.

Womans Suffrage

But before I talk about the relatively well off post-Soviet nations let's just do a assessment of the absolutely dumb as fuck idea that the Suffragists were more effective than the Suffragetes despite the Suffragists making no progress in the 40 years they existed prior to the branching off of the Suffragettes.

Now some historians do agree that the Suffragettes more violent methods did begin to turn men away from granting womens suffrage during their later years. Less concrete is the idea that this outweighs the net positive they had on the movement for womens suffrage.

In fact heres a contemporary source from 1906 praising the suffragette movement:

"I hope the more old-fashioned suffragists will stand by them. In my opinion, far from having injured the movement, [the Suffragettes] have done more during the last 12 months to bring it within the region of practical politics than we have been able to accomplish in the same number of years"

Who said that? Millicent Fawcett? Oh clearly she's just biased towards suffragettes?

But even if I gave evidence that the Suffragettes were indeed more effective than the Suffragists, you could easily find an opposing argument and vice versa. Ww1 happened and in the end that swift change of culture is what gave women their rights to vote (or at least the wealthy).

What can be argued is the historical reasons of why the Suffragettes became even more violent in 2nd decade of the 20th century leading to more guerrilla warfare like tactics being deployed such as arson.

Black Friday happened. Was a protests against the government caused by then Prime Minister Asquith, reneging his promise to put a bill granting womens suffrage through parliament. This protest started off as peaceful and ended up with women being physically and sexually assaulted by the police and counterprotesters with there being accusations of plain clothes police officers inciting this violence. Do I even have to say it?

In order to avoid further molestation, the Suffragettes stopped doing large gatherings with each other and went "underground" so to speak getting more and more violent.

What we should recall is the fact that prior to this Emmeline Pankhurst told the Suffragettes to stop all operations and renewed them after this traumatic event.

Prior to the suffragettes emergence the fight for women's rights had been by in large ignored by the public and it was only after their emergence that this became an issue in the forefront of the public's mind.

For a more nuanced view:

"Viewing the militant movement from the second half of the twentieth century, it is difficult to argue that violence does not ‘pay off’.   [The history of independence of the colonies, and Civil Rights campaigns in the USA shows that violence can succeed.]   It may be that suffragette violence after 1912 fell between two stools, being inadequate to force the government but sufficiently destructive to antagonise public opinion.  This writer [i.e. Constance Rover] is of the opinion that, as the events turned out, militant tactics helped the women's suffrage movement until 1912, but after that date were harmful.   This does not mean that militancy was necessarily a foolish policy.   With hindsight, one can conclude that militancy failed in the last two years before the war, but with the experience of rebellion we have had since, one cannot conclude that militant tactics are an unsuccessful means of obtaining an objective such as enfranchisement..."

- Constance Rover 1967.

I use the quote in specific because it calls the civil rights movement violent. And was written a year prior to the end of the movement. It's almost as if the movement has been whitewashed by liberals to be a completely non-violent effort or something.

Singing Revolution and Velvet Revolution

I'm putting both of these together as these states are all former Soviet nations who have became arguably more successful than others like Moldova, Bulgaria and the aforementioned Georgia.

Now in the post-Soviet Baltic states, there are a large list of things i could talk about. The high suicide rates, the mass exodus leading to a quarter of the population in each nation leaving them, the large amount of people at risk of poverty, high incarceration rates, the gutting of labour laws, the rise of anti-semitism and the glorification of Nazis within their societies all come to mind. Some of these also apply to Czechia and Slovakia.

I could talk about specific events such as the Gorilla scandal, the murder Jan of Kuciak literally everything concerning Czech prime minister Babiš and the large proportion of Soviet Nostalgia in both Czechia and Slovakia (1/3 in the former and 1/2 in the latter).

I could mention protests that have taken place after these revolutions leading to the usage of rubber bullets and tear gas to disperse protesters who were acting non-violently. But I'd be repeating myself so I'm leaving it at that.

"But Lilly" you might say, "that doesn't necessarily disprove OPs point that these protests were successful, they did after all achieve their goals of 'political revolution/ending war/gaining womens suffrage".

And that's true. But...

TL;DR

OP used these as examples to contrast against so called failed violent revolutions with OP using violent revolutions like Vietnam, Haiti, Cuba, China, the USSR and the French Revolution as examples of failed revolutions. Anyone with a brain knows these revolutions absolutely succeeded in their short term goals of political change. There is no Tsar anymore, Cuba and Vietnam are still socialist, the aristocracy of france were decapitated, Haitians arent slaves and China has no emperor.

So where does the problem with these revolutions lie? Well according to OP:

... of course as we've just seen the so called successful peaceful revolutions are also poverty-ridden, corrupt and unstable with problems years later so what's the actual difference? There is none (aside from the historical revisionism of socialist states but that's beside the point), it's just hypocrisy and an incredibly silly gotcha to those currently arguing for violent protest.

I could continue and talk about how Haiti collapsed because of sanctions from racist countries who wanted to punish Haiti for fighting against their white masters, how Vietnam was practically always in war throughout the 20th century and how its stabilized since the end of the Viet-Khmer war, how Cuba infinitely improved the lives of all Cubans and was far more humanitarian than any western nation at the time, how the USSR and communist China turned Russia and China from poor feudal states to economic powerhouses which were far more equal in nature than the US.

But this post is way too long and I don't want to have to read through another dozen sources written by anti-communists liberals again.

Edit: the conclusion didnt save properly (thanks tumblr)

To end I'll say that the major problem with non-violent protests that is shared by every single one of these examples (apart from womens rights) is the lack of punishment towards those who caused the problems the people were protesting against. This means that said people can become president or a member of the government without any impediment and those people continue to be corrupt. From Ellen Sirleaf Johnson to Mikheil Saakashvili to the Tunisian government to Andrej Babiš. On the other hand violent revolution makes sure that those who war complicit in the crimes of the past are not able to usher in the crimes of the future, even if others eventually do.

The thing about that is progress has still been made, and even if they begin to reverse some of the gains that had been made they cant reverse all of them. With non-violent revolutions there is no change except for the ways that those in power step on the working class being more covert than overt.

You can decide which you prefer.

[accrafreepress]

Why They Killed Patrice Lumumba

Congolese leader Patrice Lumumba in Brussels, Belgium, in January 1960. Wikimedia Commons

Patrice Lumumba was a radical leader of the Congolese independence movement who resisted Belgian colonialism and corporate interests. That’s why he was assassinated in a US-backed coup 59 years ago today.

Born in 1925, Patrice Émery Lumumba was a radical anticolonial leader who became the first prime minister of the newly independent Congo at the age of thirty-five. Seven months into his term, on January 17, 1961, he was assassinated.

Lumumba had become an opponent of Belgian racism after being jailed in 1957 on trumped-up charges by the colonial authorities. Following a twelve-month prison term, he found a job as a beer salesman, during which time he developed his oratory skills and increasingly embraced the view that Congo’s vast mineral wealth should benefit the Congolese people rather than foreign corporate interests.

Lumumba’s political horizons extended far beyond the Congo. He was soon caught up in the wider wave of African nationalism sweeping the continent. In December 1958, Ghanaian president Kwame Nkrumah invited Lumumba to attend the anti-colonial All African People’s Conference, which attracted civic associations, unions, and other popular organizations.

Two years later, following mass demands for a democratic election, the Congolese National Movement headed by Lumumba decisively won the Congo’s first parliamentary contest. The left-nationalist leader took office in June 1960.

But Lumumba’s progressive-populist proposals and his opposition to the Katanga secessionist movement (which was led by the white-ruled colonial states of southern Africa and proclaimed its independence from the Congo on July 11, 1960) angered an array of foreign and local interests: the Belgian colonial state, companies extracting the Congo’s mineral resources, and, of course, the leaders of white-ruled southern African states. As tensions grew, the United Nations rejected Lumumba’s request for support. He decided to call for Soviet military assistance to quell the burgeoning Congo Crisis brought about by the Belgian-supported secessionists. That proved to be the last straw.

Lumumba was seized, tortured, and executed in a coup supported by the Belgian authorities, the United States, and the United Nations. With Lumumba’s assassination died a part of the dream of a united, democratic, ethnically pluralist, and pan-Africanist Congo.

The murder of Lumumba and his replacement by the US-backed dictator Mobutu Sese Seko laid the foundation for the decades of internal strife, dictatorship, and economic decline that have marked postcolonial Congo. The destabilization of Congolese society under Mobutu’s brutal rule — lasting from 1965 to 1997 — culminated in a series of devastating conflicts, known as the first and second Congo wars (or “Africa’s world wars”). These conflicts not only fractured Congolese society but also engulfed nearly all of the country’s neighbors, ultimately involving nine African nations and around twenty-five armed groups. By the formal end of the conflict, around 2003, nearly 5.4 million people had died from the fighting and its aftermath, making the war the world’s second deadliest conflict since World War II.

Particularly in light of the Congo’s turbulent trajectory following his assassination, Lumumba remains a source of despair, debate, and inspiration among radical movements and thinkers across Africa and beyond. Jacobin contributor Sa’eed Husaini recently spoke with Georges Nzongola-Ntalaja, a leading Congolese intellectual and the author of a biography of Lumumba, about the life, death, and politics of the radical nationalist leader.

SH | Arguably the best-known event of Lumumba’s life remains its tragic end. Though there has been at least some symbolic acknowledgment of Belgium’s role in Lumumba’s murder, no such reckoning has occurred in the United States. From your perspective, what would a full restitution for Lumumba’s murder look like?

GNN | There cannot be a full restitution for Lumumba’s murder. No amount of money or other form of compensation would do justice to the harm suffered by the Congo in losing a thirty-five-year-old visionary leader who could have helped build a great country. No amount of money would do justice to his children after having grown up without a loving and supporting father to guide them through childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. And the same goes for his wife and other relatives, whose loss could not be mitigated by material acquisitions.

What is needed from all the accomplices in Lumumba’s murder is, first of all, an acknowledgment of the crime they committed against him, his family, the Congo, and Africa; an apology for the harm done in this regard; and an effort to honor the Congo’s first democratically elected leader by promoting his legacy through schools, public education, and cultural events in all the countries whose leaders took part in his disappearance, beginning with the Congo itself.

SH | Despite growing up in his ethno-cultural homeland, Lumumba came to be known for his ardently multiethnic and even pan-African worldview. Were there aspects of his early upbringing in Sankuru that predisposed Lumumba to place a high value on Congolese unity and ethnic diversity?

GNN | While the Sankuru region of the DRC (Democratic Republic of the Congo) is mostly known as the home of the Tetela people, to which Lumumba himself belongs, it is inhabited by people of other ethnic groups who ended up there either because of the activities of the Swahili-Arab slave traders or those of Belgian colonialists. These groups include the Kusu of Maniema, the Luba, the Songye, and other groups from the Kasai region, as well as the Mongo of Équateur.

In addition to growing up in a multiethnic environment, Lumumba’s formative years as a middle-class civil servant took place between 1944 and 1956 in Kisangani (then Stanleyville), one of the major cities in the Congo and an area of ethnic diversity.

SH | You write that as a postal official in the Belgian colonial service, Lumumba was initially enamored by the possibility of “matriculating” or dropping his status as a “native” Congolese in favor of the status of an évolué, or honorary European. At what point did Lumumba abandon this hope of attaining elite status in colonial society in favor of a radical opposition to the Belgian colonial project?

GNN | Lumumba acquired both the civic merit card and the matriculation status in Kisangani, but these achievements of upper mobility in the colonial situation were a sham because racism continued to raise its ugly head through the color/wage bar.

Although entrusted with a job usually reserved for Europeans as manager of the money orders service, Lumumba’s salary was determined by his race, not his functions. He earned the equivalent of $100 USD in 1956, somewhere between one-tenth and one-fifteenth of the salary of a European civil servant doing a similar job. His European colleagues also received free housing, a car, and a fully paid, six-month vacation back home to Belgium every three years.

These and other realities of the colonial situation eventually made him abandon his naive hope of seeing whites and the évolués working hand in hand to lift up the “ignorant masses” in a Belgian-Congolese community and pushed him in the direction of African and Congolese nationalism.

SH | How did Congolese nationalists view violence as a means of attaining political independence, and where did Lumumba stand on this question?

GNN | In general, Congolese nationalist leaders were strong believers in nonviolence, and Lumumba was no exception. This is why they were all shocked by the mass uprising for independence on January 4, 1959 [which erupted in Leopoldville, present-day Kinshasa, after members of an anticolonial party were denied the right to assemble. Celebrated today as the Day of Martyrs, it was the first major outbreak of violence in the independence movement and marked a turning point for the anti-colonial struggle].

Later on, these leaders understood that mass violence was a bargaining chip in their confrontations with the colonial masters, as the latter found it difficult to maintain law and order in the vast Congo once the masses had rejected colonial authority and were unwilling to obey colonial administrative directives.

SH | What role did international mining companies play in encouraging the province of Katanga to secede from the Congo, and how did this contribute to the origin of the Congo Crisis?

GNN | With their mineral empire running from Katanga to the Cape, international mining companies did not like the idea of having a radical nationalist government in the Congo — one likely to reduce their profit margins with higher taxes and royalties in order to improve the livelihood of ordinary Congolese. This is why these companies, which had rejected efforts by white settlers to get a piece of the pie as their counterparts in South Africa, Rhodesia (Zimbabwe), and South West Africa (Namibia) had done, switched gears by forming an alliance with racist white settlers and right-wing lobbies in the United States and the United Kingdom.

This alliance not only endorsed the long-held dream of white settlers to gain political power in Katanga, but also provided the funds needed to sustain the secessionist drive in Katanga, with help from Belgium, Britain, and France.

SH | One could say that the origins of the Congo Crisis lie in a chance alliance between Belgian settlers and corporations, uniting with business and state interests from the white-ruled states of southern Africa. You describe this alliance as a “counter-revolution against national liberation,” given that it was formed to oppose the radical nationalism sweeping the continent. Could you say more about this alliance?

GNN | The Congo Crisis cannot be understood without reference to the Belgian-engineered Katanga secession in collaboration with international mining companies, which recruited white mercenaries to join Belgian troops in backstopping the secession. The UN refusal to use force to expel Belgian troops and the mercenaries led to the dispute between Prime Minister Lumumba and UN secretary-general Dag Hammarskjöld, who shared the same worldview as major Western powers and was very hostile toward Lumumba, as shown by the cable traffic in UN archives.

SH | So why did this combination of previously competing international and local actors ultimately come to agree that Lumumba’s assassination was necessary?

He was the single most important obstacle to their scheme of establishing neocolonialism in the Congo, as they started on July 11, 1960 in Katanga.

SH | Lumumba delivered many memorable speeches and also wrote many moving letters. In 1960, he wrote to his wife from prison: “The day will come when history will speak. But it will not be the history which will be taught in Brussels, Paris, Washington or the United Nations. It will be the history which will be taught in the countries which have won freedom from colonialism and its puppets. Africa will write its own history and in both north and south it will be a history of glory and dignity.” Was Lumumba also able to articulate a specific vision for how he intended to transform the state and Congolese society during the brief period in which he served as prime minister?

GNN | We do get a glimpse of his vision for postcolonial Congo in several of his major speeches and letters. While preoccupied with the unity, independence, and sovereignty of the Congo, due of course to the counterrevolutionary situation facing the country from July 10 to 11, 1960 (the Belgian military invasion and the Katanga secession, respectively), his main concern was how to transform the inherited structures of the state and the economy in order to improve the quality of life of ordinary Congolese.

SH | Like Amílcar Cabral, Thomas Sankara, and Steve Biko, Lumumba’s martyrdom transformed him into a powerful symbolic force that continues to inspire radical movements across Africa. In your preface, you briefly describe the inspiration and sudden disappointment you felt at the time as a high school student (who was expelled for anti-colonial activities) witnessing Lumumba’s meteoric rise and tragic assassination. As Africans and in the wider world, have we truly reckoned with the historical trauma that came from witnessing the assassination of some of the continent’s most promising leaders?

GNN | Since all the assassinated leaders you mention were victims of world powers and/or their allies in Africa, like fascist Portugal and apartheid South Africa, I don’t see why the world powers responsible for eliminating those African leaders they detest should be concerned with the impact of those assassinations on Africa.

It is up to us, Africans, to make sure that we follow the teachings of Amílcar Cabral on knowing our own weaknesses and finding ways to overcome them, and those of Kwame Nkrumah on collective continental security through an African military high command. We need our own equivalent to NATO to ensure the security of our people and that of our endangered progressive leaders.

Source: Jacobin Mag

[tridentine2013]

The History of the Conservative Party; and why you aren't really a Tory.

The Conservative party is arguably the oldest political party in the world. Way back in 1678, 'Tory' supporters of James Stuart, Duke of York were against his exclusion from the order of succession to the British throne on the basis that he was a Roman Catholic. The Tories opposed such exclusion, which was supported by the 'Whigs'. Throughout the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, the 'Tories', (who in the 19th century became known as the 'Conservative Party',)  represented one side of divide within the ruling 'establishment', the other side being the Whigs. Initially divided along sectarian lines, these two parties constituted a parliament which for hundreds of years represented the interests of a de facto 'ruling elite', made up exclusively of very wealthy landowners, who had over centuries  been 'granted' land, great wealth and privilege by the crown. Their priority was their own continued wealth and power. The overwhelming majority of the British population during this period had no right to vote in parliamentary elections, and no effective representation. The first and second reform acts (1832 and 1867) each brought in a degree of social change, but this was limited, and largely based on the minimum possible concession to avoid Britain 'going the way of the French', who had earlier rejected the dominion of Kings and aristocracy, who were executed in a bloody revolution which brought about the first French Republic, and subsequently the French Empire, under Napoleon I.

Both Tories (Conservatives) and Whigs (Liberals) thoroughly rejected the idea that anyone but the ruling elite should have a voice in parliament, but recognised the danger which mass movements posed, of catalysing revolutionary change. In 1817, in St Peter's Field, Manchester, an initially peaceful mass protest, calling for parliamentary representation, was cavalry charged by order of the local authorities. Men, women and one child were killed, either by sabre or by being trampled to death under the horses. Many hundreds were injured. This became known as the 'Peterloo Massacre'. The ruling Tory Party sent official congratulatory letters to the local officials for their handling of the protest. Subsequently, gatherings of more than 50 people for the purposes of public political meetings were criminalised, and newspapers were taxed out of the reach of the working population.

Throughout the Industrial Revolution, the gross exploitation of workers by industrialists, without the constraints of protective legislation, commonly led to the death or disability of workers in large numbers. The Conservatives and the Whigs, taking a very familiar position, refused to effectively legislate to protect workers' rights for decades ... throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, concerned only with the interests of landowners and industrialists.

The Chartists, almost two decades after Peterloo, formed to demand a vote for all working men over the age of 21, secret ballots, and the removal of the landowning qualification for MPs as well as payment for MPs, which was intended to enable working people to participate. Other demands of the People's Charter included annual elections, and equal constituencies. The political establishment   were having none of this, and by the mid 1840's, under successive Tory and Whig governments, many Chartists had been imprisoned or transported. However slowly but surely, pressure from the working and middle class led to a pragmatic expansion of the franchise, always only barely sufficient to quell mass revolt, but enough to gradually change the face of British politics. It was a change which created a number of problems for the elite interests, still represented by the Conservatives and the Whigs. It became necessary to at least pay lip service to the interests of the working and middle classes, and under Disraeli, the notion of 'one nation conservatism' was born. It was a paternalistic pragmatic response to the expanding franchise. Workers were appeased with legislation for factory and health acts premised on the idea that the needs of the many could be met by the benevolence and altruism of the wealthy and privileged, whilst they in fact simultaneously prioritised the interests of power and social position. This manifested in policies which gave a little, but were in modern corporate speak, cost v benefit analysed … basically if industrial deaths were too expensive to prevent, they would likely continue. As one of countless examples, white phosphorous, used for matches, was much cheaper than red phosphorus, but also much less safe. Consequently, the cost saving saw generations of working class women and girls in the East End of London suffer horrific health problems.

The idea of the 'natural authority' of the powerful, (power which itself in most cases was hereditary, not meritocratic) and their primacy with regard to decisions to balance profit against social responsibility, was the stock in trade of the Conservatives throughout the latter part of the 19th century. The need to protect the interests of workers was seen by most of the elite as a 'necessary evil', with concessions usually made only to the extent required to maintain order in society. By the late 19th century in was very clear that the only political organisation which would truly champion the interests of working people would be an outgrowth of the trades unions, into which many workers in various occupations had organised themselves. (On several occasions trades unions were outlawed, and membership criminalised, however by the late 19th century they were legal)

The Labour Representation Committee was formed in 1900, to put forward as prospective MPs, representatives who promised to work in parliament for the rights and interests of workers. It was not until the early 20th century that ordinary citizens, those who in any form needed to work to live, were fully represented in Parliament, and even then it was some years before a full Labour government came to power. The most significant period under Labour, was of course the post war government under Clement Atlee, an administration which produced the NHS, and most of the foundations of the welfare state we have today.

During the 20th century the Conservative Party presented themselves as authoritative, experienced and a party of 'natural leaders', who due to their history and experience were safer hands to run the many branches of state.  But it was not until the election of Margaret Thatcher as leader that the Conservative Party, who came to power in 1979, made serious claims to be a party who's aspirations and objectives could truly also embrace those of working men and women. The dream which Thatcher, and neo-liberalism in general sought to sell, was a meritocratic, inclusive society of home owners and shareholders, in their own modest way acquiring capital not only from their labour, but also from interest on shareholdings, (mostly in newly privatised businesses which had until that time been in collective (state) ownership). Many middle age Britons still subscribe to the view that they are now 'middle class', having elevated their social position as property owners, courtesy of Thatcher and the Right to Buy' Act. However this was in many respects a ruse, cost shifting property maintenance to the now mortgaged purchaser, and providing an asset against which further borrowing (debt) was secured. Some years later many found themselves in negative equity and unable to pay mortgage interest which peaked at almost 14% in 1982, and was still over 9% in 1988. Nor did successive governments use the income raised from council house sales to build new social housing. The Conservative Party continued after Thatcher, with a Thatcherite 'business as usual period under John Major.  (During which the claim of Conservative primacy in matters of fiscal policy was severely tested. In 1992 Major presided over ‘Black Wednesday’, and the UK’s ignominious ejection from the Exchange Rate Mechanism.) 

Subsequently, in  1997, Tony Blair 'stole the Conservatives' clothes'. The Tories did not regain power until 2010. However since 1979 the prevailing ideology of unfettered 'laissez-faire capitalism, and the idea of 'trickle down economics' has been pursued by the Thatcher, Major, Blair and Brown Governments, as well as the Conservative led coalition of 2010, the Cameron Government of 2015, and into the current administration. The 'same 'trickle down theory' which has led to 85 people owning as much wealth as the poorest 3.5bn people on the planet. It can be demonstrated that this economic theory is flawed to the point of being groundless. It does not lead to economic growth, wage growth, income growth, or to job creation. But what it does do is provide huge wealth for a shrinkingly small elite. That elite, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, have acquired control of every lever to manipulate states; that elite controls almost all of the media in the major developed economies, utility corporations, the arms industry … the entire 'military industrial complex.. For all practical purposes, that same elite controls the Conservative Party. 

The Labour Party, branded 'New Labour' under Blair, operated in the thrall of the same interests. Since 2010, the austerity agenda pursued by the Conservative or Conservative led governments has served to illustrate that the Tory ideology which so repressed living standards and social mobility for hundreds of years is alive and well. The reversion to type is obvious and stark. The same Tory Party which fought tooth and nail against extending the franchise on consecutive occasions, and under who's administrations troops and cavalry have been deployed on the streets of the UK, is alive and well under a paper thin veneer of social concern. The Tories used military and tanks in Wales, Liverpool, and Glasgow against strikers or protestors. The Police were used as a paramilitary force against striking miners, not least at Orgreave. On each occasion, the use of force has been the extent to which Conservative governments have been prepared to suppress the demands of working people. Many of these events are almost lost to history, airbrushed out by establishment revisionists.

What has happened in recent times is the opening up of a fault line in the power holding superstructure. 'The Establishment' in the UK has a fatal flaw. That flaw, is that the entire edifice is not, as conspiracy theorists would have us believe, a nefarious fine tuned, elaborate, integrated architecture. It is actually largely reliant on a convoluted mosaic of elements with no individual overall management or managers. It simply relies on many disparate component parts tending to naturally harmonise and integrate through a common cause and common interests.

The fault line arose from a simple error of judgement. Ed Miliband (a claimed ‘leftie’ with barely more genuine left wing ideas than Blair himself, had intended to significantly weaken the power of trade unions, with sweeping reforms to Labour's internal voting system. It involved requiring union members to individually 'opt in' to Labour Party membership, as a disrupter to the union block vote. It also allowed for a 'supporter' membership, open to anyone, at just £3. No-one at the time imagined that it would bring about the circumstances in which anyone from the left of a party which was still mired in 'Blairite' 'New Labour' centre right praxis, could become the Labour Party leader. But then Jeremy Corbyn happened. The existential risk which anyone with a socialist agenda posed to the controlling elites was so glaringly obvious, that long before Corbyn was elected, the tsunami of slurs, smears and misrepresentations overwhelmed the objectivity of much of the population. A relentless barrage of anti-Corbyn rhetoric did much to form the majority view of Corbyn. Criticism repeated so often, by all media, at every opportunity, as to be believed by many purely on the basis of endless repetition. The Tories led the barrage, aided and abetted by the so called Labour 'moderates', and every other party and authority which feared a Labour Party truly committed to fairness and social justice. 

The abundance of anti-Corbyn rhetoric was undirected, unleashed in a scattergun approach, since it was impossible to particularly target Corbyn's potential constituency. In some respects directing criticism, whether justified or not, into the consciousness of the body politic achieved a short term advantage, but in no way sufficient to disrupt the election of Corbyn as Labour leader. It should not be forgotten that the unintended consequence of a socialist Labour Party leader arose with not only the approbation and dissent of the man on the Clapham omnibus, by the means under discussion, but also the active disruption and interference with process of much of the Labour Party in parliament, as well as the general secretary and much of the party heirarchy. This happened for one simple reason. Corbyn's core message had not been heard for more than a generation, and was inspirational.

Every time you hear about the impracticality or dangers of current Labour Party policy, it will originate from a source fearful that their interests and influence may be compromised. But it is an argument which is losing traction. It is true that there is a huge swathe of the population of the UK, particularly amongst the now middle aged, being somewhat comfortable, perhaps particularly by comparison with their own parents or roots, which still clings to the notion that they are middle class, and as such natural Conservative voters. Managers, small business owners, white collar workers, who fundamentally misunderstand both the Tory Party and their own best interests. The Labour Party is not 'the party of the feckless, the lazy and the unemployed' it is not even in any limited sense, the party of the working class. It is, and is especially under Jeremy Corbyn's leadership, a socialist party. It aspires to a more equal distribution of wealth, and as evidenced by the recent party manifesto, to do this without the smallest disadvantage to 95% of the population. The problem with such a suggestion is the vast middle and moderately high income earners who believe that they would be personally disadvantaged by a Labour government. This is to misunderstand the gargantuan step change in the assets of 95% of the population compared with the top 5%, the even greater disparity between the top 5% and the top 1%, and the gigantic, almost inconceivable disparity between the top 1% and the top 0.1%. According to the Institute for Fiscal Studies, the top 5% own 40% of the disposable wealth in the UK. The top 1% own 24% of disposable wealth. The top 0.1% earn an average of £1m annual income, and the top 3000 taxpayers pay more tax than the bottom 9 million ... (more than 35% of all income tax payers in the UK), whilst the wealth gap continues to grow. The Tory claims about cutting tax for the very highest earners to incentivise their further economic activity, seem somewhat hollow given these circumstances. Tax increases which had no more effect than maintaining, not growing the wealth gap would be socially beneficial, and in real terms, victimless. Labour is about making people more equally rich, not more equally poor.

We do not have to look far for examples of the type of economy which Labour proposes; contrary to the hyperbolic scaremongering which is a natural manifestation of the fear of various vested interests, many western economies function broadly in the way which Labour proposes for the UK. Denmark, Finland, Canada, Netherlands, Sweden, Norway, Ireland, New Zealand all subscribe to some, even many of the democratic socialist principles advocated by the Labour Party in the UK. Canada, Finland, Norway and Ireland are in the top ten countries to live in the world, as determined by the UN. Others, including Belgium, France and Germany have successful and popular state ownership of utilities, often through state run businesses which also have major investments in foreign countries. Many of the countries listed above have excellent welfare provision alongside an affluent and contented middle class, and nothing which is current Labour Party policy would be controversial in many already successful economies.

Returning to the Conservative Party, it is today, and has always been serving the interest of an already hugely wealthy elite. It's reinvention, first under Disraeli and again under Thatcher, was necessary to retain power. Policy needed to maintain a degree of credibility for the premise that the interests of the many, and particularly the middle classes were of genuine concern, have of necessity been implemented, but only ever with the greatest of care to protect, at the same time, the 1%, and most importantly, the 0.1%. If you are reading this, it is almost inconceivable that you are anything but one of the 99%. When Jeremy Corbyn speaks of 'the many', he is speaking of you and I. Consider this. Consider the possibility that 99%, or even 95% of the population, including yourself, would be advantaged by a democratic socialist model, as successfully implemented in many Nordic states. Now if you do not have enough personal assets and resources to test the hypothesis for fear that it might fail, then you are without doubt a member of the social group which Labour seeks to advantage with it's policies. If you do have the resources to comfortably undertake such an experiment, then you have little to lose. To deny millions of hard working people the hope that a fairer, more equal society is possible, is frankly crass, selfish, and worthy only of the Harmsworth’s, Desmond's, Barclay's, and Murdoch's of this world. I will end with a challenge. If you remain convinced that you are a Tory; by all means, read and digest the pro Tory, or anti Labour, or anti Corbyn news or opinion pieces. You are free of course also to agree with them. Just check, as an academic exercise, who actually owns the organisation which originated the article.

[keywestlou]

NEVER THOUGHT MY EYES WOULD SEE.....

Live long enough, you will see it all.

I never expected to see what I did yesterday. Federal law enforcement agents riding horses into a crowd of peaceful protesters. The federal agents actually U.S. Park Rangers.

As they forceably pushed back peaceful U.S. citizens, the federal agents sprayed the peaceful group before them with flash grenades, rubber bullets, and tear gas.

They came suddenly and without warning.

The protesters ran before the oncoming horsemen in an effort to avoid them.

Reminded me of a similar scene early in Zhivago. The affluent were partying/dancing. Wintertime. Protesters at one end of the street. Not yet revolutionaries. The revolution had not yet started.

The Czar’s soldiers on horseback at the other end of the street, swords drawn. They ran down the protesters leaving bloodied bodies on the street.

Fortunately, it did not get that far yesterday. No one killed.

Trump had ordered the scenario to take place. He wanted to walk down the White House driveway, through Lafayette Square, to St. John’s Episcopal Church. The Church of the Presidents. The Church that some arsonist set fire to the day before. Fortunately, confined only to the basement area.

The Church windows were boarded. Trump stood in front holding up a Bible. Upside down, by the way.

Horses running down U.S. citizens and using flash grenades, etc., so Trump could have a photo shoot! Horrible! The photos probably to suck up to his Episcopal base.

The two clerics who pastor St. John’s were interviewed afterwards. Neither had anything good to say about what Trump had done. It did not make sense to them.

Earlier in the day, Trump had a telephone conference with certain governors. Governors of states where protesting had been ongoing for several days.

Trump in effect was suggesting the governors were weak. They lacked the fortitude to stand up to the protesters.

Trump was upset that the governors were permitting the protesters to “dominate the streets.” He said they should “increase the use of national guard units…..increase law enforcement….send in the national guard!”

Some governors later reported the President was shouting. “Ranting” a term used. Some described Trump as “losing it.”

Finally he warned the governors that if they did not take care of the protester problem, he would.

Some bully! I have often thought what would happen if Trump were forced to face someone he disagreed with face to face. He would crumble!

In order for Trump to send troops into states, he would have to invoke the Insurrection Act of 1807. Used by Presidents infrequently. The last time 1992 when California’s national guard was federalized following the Rodney King trial. It was also relied upon by Eisenhower to enforce a Supreme Court anti-segregation decision in Little Rock in the 1950’s.

The Insurrection Act requires a governor to call upon the President to send in federal troops. Sort of limits Trump’s ability in the present situation.

There are exceptions. Rarely come into play. One exception is where civil rights are being violated. I do not believe it would apply where protester rights are being violated. It would be Trump and the federal government violating protester rights.

Trump does what Trump wants. Whether legal or otherwise, should Trump send federalized troops into certain cites and states, the people would not stand for it. A people can only be abused so long. They would react against Trump.

Revolution possible. The protesters knocking down the gates, overcoming those guarding the White House, breaking into the White House, and confronting Trump in the Oval Office. Then what?

Trump’s comments in the Rose Garden yesterday afternoon added fuel to the fire. Trump threatening the mobilization of “thousands and thousands of heavily armed soldiers.” To quell “lawlessness across the country.”

Some described Trump’s comments as describing an “ambush.”

Several times last night I was impressed to see police officers join for a few moments with the protesters. Hugging each other, kneeling, etc. A sign that not all enforcement peoples are with Trump. Last night’s embracing could grow in a short time.

Which brings me to what actually would happen were Trump to send federal troops out against the protesters. Would Americans shoot other Americans? I doubt it. Every person draws the line somewhere. In this instance, I believe the troops would. They might even join forces with the protesters.

Floyd’s family had a private autopsy performed. The private autopsy was more specific than the governmental one. No saying this and that were also found.

The autopsy report concluded the death a “homicide caused by asphyxia” due to “neck and back compression by public officers that led to a lack of blood flow to the brain” and “determined that asphyxiation from sustained pressure was the cause of death.” The 2 officers kneeling on the victim’s back “causing his lungs to compress impeded his ability to breathe.”

Social media continues to be called to task. Twitter said it would fact find Trump’s tweets from now on. Twitter has not really done so thus far.

Facebook is dancing. Zuckenberg is protecting his company from imposition of federal laws and rules that Trump might be able to impose. Such would work to the detriment of Facebook’s profit and loss statement.

Everyone has problems one time or another! It is Twitter and Facebook’s time.

The media is doing one hell of a job. A dangerous one. With one exception.

The protesters as a whole have been peaceful. A very small handful are stealing in the evening. The media spends a half hour to an hour watching the police chasing down anywhere from 1 to 6 of the thieves.

They are not the news! The news are the protesters themselves. The issues raised by them is why this whole mess is ongoing.

In many instances, it is true the police cannot be trusted. Take Louisville for example. The police were working the protest there and never turned their body cameras on. The Chief ordered them to do so. They still did not.

The Chief has been suspended. Do not know what the police officers are going to do.

Key West’s protest took place last night. A success. Hundreds in attendance. Speeches at the park in Bahama Village. Then the group moved to Duval to spread their message.

Key West slowly reopened yesterday. Too soon to tell what effect the close down will have had. How vibrant will the reopening be?

Last night not too many persons. The weekend will tell the story.

A comment in this morning’s Citizens’ Voice: “Fantasy Fest is the best idea of all if we want to wipe out the Keys entirely.”

I for one am opposed to holding Fantasy Fest this year. Sixty to eighty thousand people the night of the parade!

The virus will still be with us in the Fall.

I wear a monitor around my neck. If I fall and can’t get up, think I’ve had a heart attack, etc., I press the button on the monitor and very shortly I will first receive a call to see what happened. In the event I do not answer, the Fire Department’s emergency team arrives.

Five to 10 minutes for all this to happen.

A portion of it occurred yesterday.

I do not wear the monitor in the shower. Was going to take a shower. Threw the monitor on the bed. Very sensitive.

When I came out of the shower, I heard someone shouting Louis, Louis!

It was the emergency people.

Hope I never really need the monitor. However, I have been wearing it for a year and feel confident I will receive immediate attention should I.

Might save my life.

It’s tuesday again. My blog talk radio show tonight. Tuesday Talk with Key West Lou. Nine my time.

Oh, so much to talk about. I will be ranting and raving big time. Trump will have nothing on me in this regard.

Join me for a quick and interesting half hour. www.blogtalkradio.com/key-west-lou.

Enjoy your day!

    NEVER THOUGHT MY EYES WOULD SEE….. was originally published on Key West Lou

[hankkalet]

The Demagogue’s Speech

It has been four years since I stood before you and asked you to follow me in a great awakening, a grand internal revolution that has begun the process of reclaiming for our nation the greatness it has forsaken. Four years -- a time of great success and progress, a list so great that it is impossible to enumerate all the remarkable results that have been reached during a time which may be looked upon as probably the most astounding epoch in the life of our people.

We have led our country back to safety, prosperity, and peace. We are, once again, a country of generosity and warmth, built on a foundation of law and order. The violence and chaos that threatened our way of life are things of the past.

The most basic duty of government is to defend the lives of its own citizens. Any government that fails to do so is a government unworthy to lead. We have led. We have been honest. We have closed our borders to the outsiders. We have empowered our police.

We are once again on the road to great prosperity and strength. No longer does a foreign financial cabal reap the rewards of our hard work; the forgotten workers, who built this great nation, the men who built our factories and farmed our soil, once again have seat at the table, a voice. I am your voice.

The forgotten men and women of our country are forgotten no longer. You have, by the tens of millions, created a historic movement, the likes of which the world has never seen before. At the center of this movement has been the conviction that America is for Americans. Our bedrock is total allegiance to our great nation, and through our loyalty, we have rediscovered loyalty to each other.

We stand at the birth of a new millennium of national greatness in which a new national pride will stir us, lift our sights and heal our divisions. We have made great strides in reconstructing the structure of our state, and while we have taken back our government, it remains foreign to our own national character, our historical development and our national needs.

We are a people of action, yet our legislative branch prevents action. It is characterized byz inertia and can no longer be depended upon to act on our behalf. It is a critical situation that cannot be remedied by collaboration; it requires revolutionary reconstruction. This radical change, which is needed if we are to reach our full potential as a nation, can not be carried out by those who see themselves as custodians of the old order. Our constitution, which had served us well for decades and decades, has been dismantled by so-called judges who have no concern for the safety and well-being of real Americans. As such, the constitution no longer resembles the shining vision offered by our Christian forebears, and stands as an impediment to furthering our radical reformation of political, cultural and economic life -- a revolution necessary to returning this nation to its former greatness.

As I said, we have made great strides in four years, but the path ahead is long. It will require courage, it will require sacrifice -- of life and blood, if that should be necessary. I do not endorse violence; and I have empowered the police to do everything possible to quell the unrest we have faced from outside agitators, from false revolutionaries paid by the monied elites to stir up trouble and slow our progress. The monied elites, the international bankers, they look down upon us and will do everything they can to protect their sinecures, to maintain their political and economic power. But it is not their nation; it is ours, and our revolution will continue moving forward, continue remaking our nation in its proper image. We have succeeded, so far, without causing damage to property, unlike those defending the old order. We have protected property, against the agitators, the anarchists, the unionists. We have ended the extortion racket that was the union system, and have made the worker truly free. We have unleashed the creativity and power of capital, by freeing our great business owners from the burdens of regulation. And we have done all of this without violence.

This bloodless revolution was possible because we followed a simple principle: The purpose of a revolution, or of any general change in the condition of public affairs, cannot be to produce chaos but only to replace what is bad by substituting something better.

Our way is better. Our way is safer. After decades of record immigration had produced lowered wages for our countrymen, we constructed a wall and rounded up and deported the invaders. This has allowed us to rebuild our nation in the proper image, and to prevent Muslims from intruding themselves into our nation as an element of internal disruption, under the mask of free exercise of religion, and thus gaining power over us or giving them the opportunity to engage in terrorism.

Together, we have taken back our nation. We have made our nation safe again. We have made our nation strong again. We have made our nation whole again.

We have more work to do. Together, we will bring back our jobs and make our nation wealthy again. We will demonstrate our might and make our nation proud again. We will how to no one and regain our independence.

I must once again thank all those millions of unknown countrymen, from every class and every region, who have given their hearts, their lives and their sacrifices, for this new national experiment. We have made this nation great again, and I promise to make it even greater still.

This speech is a merger of Trump and Hitler speeches.

[thechaoticdragon-blog]

Intro and Lore and Stuff! (Entente)

Kaiserreich is an alternate history mod about a German victory in the First Weltkrieg, or the First World War. After the war ended with the Peace With Honour, signed in 1921, Europe was economically and politically dominated by two opposing powers: the Reichspakt, better known as the German Hegemony or Mitteleuropa, and the Third Internationale, made up of the Socialist Republic of Italy, the Commune of France, and the Union of Britain, all of them marching under Syndicalism.  The British Empire, after the end of the First Weltkrieg, fell into chaos, with Britain falling to Syndicalists in the 1925 British Revolution. A strike organized all across Britain began on March 6th, to the condemnation of the government, and vague hopes for compromise from Labour. Peace was soon broken when miners of the  Tarenni Colliery clashed with army units sent to take over their operations. This clash then turned into a bloodbath. Rumors spread that the army was sent to put down the strike there, and greatly amplified fears when the TUC’s (Trade Unions Congress) newspaper, The Daily Herald published the rumors and spread it all around Britain. Violence began to break out in other parts of Britain, especially ones that held high tensions and this led to a feedback loop, where more violence was caused because violence in one area spread to another and soon, all of Britain was in chaos.  On the 15th, Scottish Socialist John Maclean addressed a massive crowd in Glasgow's George Square, beginning with a denouncement of the Tarenni massacre, before escalating into an angry tirade against the crimes of the British government against the working class, past and present, and climaxing in a call for outright revolution. The speech was soon spread by The Daily Herald the next day, and the revolutionary spirit spread to the army, with them standing down and some even join the TUC’s forces. Finally, the Labour Party’s left-wing called for the immediate resignation of the Curzon cabinet and spoke favorably toward the revolution before getting ejected from the House of Commons. Soon enough, entire cities began falling under the control of the General Strike, with Birmingham, a conservative stronghold, falling to the General Strike with orator Oswald Mosley credited with its deliverance. Soon, London was surrounded by the General Strike, and upon hearing of this news, PM Curzon suffered a fatal bladder hemorrhage. Chancellor of the Exchequer Stanley Baldwin took on the reins of government and ordered Parliament and the rest of the government, as well as the remaining loyalists to evacuate to Canada. Over the next two months, the remaining loyalist forces were hunted down and killed. The remaining members of Parliament passed the final act of Parliament which were:    

Both Houses of Parliament were dissolved.

All political authority was invested in the Trades Union Congress.

All British adults were made members of the TUC.

The new government was named "The Union of Britain"

The British Royal Family fled to many of the colonies that were owned by Britain like Canada, India, and Australasia. However, trouble would soon sneak up upon the former British colonies, with India being divided into three: the Dominion of India, commonly known as Delhi, the Bharatiya Commune, which was Marxist, though not Syndicalist, and the Princely Federation, or Hyderabad. This greatly weakened India and the British, with most of India’s manpower secured in Bengal and the South, all of which the Dominion did not have. To add insult to injury, many of the British colonies were seized by other nations, with Mittelafrika taking the lion’s share of the African colonies, and Deutsch-Ostasien taking much of the British Pacific holdings. This eliminated Africa and the rest of the Pacific, since Australasia had been bled dry by the Weltkrieg. As such, while the British may have an advanced military, it will be small in size. And even then, the new dominions have more autonomy than ever before, leaving them as basically independent. National France also suffers the same fate as the British, though amplified, as the French apparently only recruit Europeans, and not the local population. This, of course, means that the French are going through a huge recruitment crisis. And to amplify matters, tensions are high among the Europeans and colonial subjects. To add weight on matters, Philippe Petain has been the president for well over a decade, and the constitution has been suspended for 2 decades at least. And there are even more tensions that add more to the burden the government has to bear. A split between the Old Guard and the Young Guard has formed, with the Young Guard, led by Charles de Gaulle supporting monarchism. The reconquest and return to the Continent dominates French politics, considering the natives will not take military rule much longer. Fortunately for France, she has the support of the rest of the Entente (the English colonies/successor states/rump states and Sardinia) which will aid France in its return to the Continent and the liberation of France from Syndicalism. 

Sardinia, as the birthplace of Risorgimento, must now rise like a phoenix from the flames that was the Italian Civil War, that split Italy into 6 different states: the Italian Republic, the Socialist Republic of Italy, Sardinia, the Papal States, and the Two Sicilies. The aftermath of these revolutions led to an influx of refugees and royalists arriving onto the island, and while many of them were treated with curiosity and suspicion from the locals, they were soon welcomed due to fears of invasion from the Commune of France or the Socialist Republic of Italy. These fears were soon quelled when a treaty of protection was signed with France, and since then, the small island Kingdom lives on. While the military of Sardinia is rather large for the small amount of land that they control, it isn’t enough to defend itself, let alone invade Italy. As such, it will have to rely on the rest of the Entente for support. In any case, Sardinia will have to wait patiently before the Entente will help it regain Italy once more. For now, tensions shall rise between the exiles who make up the elites of Sardinia and the local miners, who sustain the economy. 

Portugal, while only a nominal member of the Entente, is poised to become the tip of its spearhead should it ever renew the Treaty of Windsor with Canada. The Kingdom has colonies mainly centered around Africa, with Mozambique and Angola getting much of its attention. The 5 of November 1910 revolution saw the monarchy get overthrown, but in its wake left a very unstable Republic. As soon as the royalist threat seemed to be defeated, the Republicans went into infighting, with many factions vying for power. When war was declared on Britain, Portugal had no choice but to also declare war, because they had to honor the Treaty of Windsor. In 1919, the Portuguese President, Sidonio Pais, was assassinated due to hostilities that rose from other factions. The national pride was in shambles with Mozambique falling to Vorbeck, and the rising costs of war left many Portuguese bankrupt as taxes had to be raised.The signing of the Pact of Dover swept all of the Portuguese claimants to the throne in one agreement, with Manuel retaking his throne, and Duarte Nuno taking the reins of power next. On January 1921, the royalists returned to Porto, with much of the populace supporting them over the Republican government due to its unpopular reforms. After a few weeks, Lisbon fell the the royalists and soon after, Portugal was under the hands of Manuel II. After the Glorious Restoration that saw Manuel II restored to power, the new Portuguese government got Portugal on a steady recovery, especially in prestige. Old currencies, titles, and flags were restored just like they had been since 1910, and a stable government helped keep Portugal prosperous. And just when they were at the top, it all had to come crashing down. The British Revolution that overthrew the monarchy in 1925 decimated the Portuguese economy. Great opportunity arose in the colonies as the British Empire fell into chaos, and there was little Portugal could do about it, for German forces had swept up most of its colonies. in the end, the Portuguese occupied the Nyassaland, and that too was taken by the Germans, in the Second Ultimatum of 1925, and Portugal was humiliated. In the elections the following year, the Integralismo Lusitano swept the elections with its platform of reforming the colonies. After a few years, the economy finally recovered after the shock that was the 1925 market crash, and the IL capitalized on this. Throughout the years, the Germans have tried repeatedly to buy the Ultramarine Provinces of Portugal in Africa, but even with increasingly expensive offers, the Portuguese, because of national pride, have refused every last one of them. The Portuguese military, learning from the shameful display of the Weltkrieg, have started taking steps to ensure that that doesn’t happen again. Most of its military gear comes from the Entente or are based on their designs. The military is puny for a large and spread out Empire like Portugal’s. If it wishes to survive any long-term war against even a nation whose military is slightly larger than Portugal’s, it must expand.

And that about wraps it for the introductory post about the Entente! We’ll see you next week for the Reichspakt. 

[theprogressivearmy]

Anyone who remembers the Iraq War of 2003 remembers Jessica Lynch, the first “American hero” of that conflict. Her convoy had been ambushed behind enemy lines and she was the last soldier alive in her unit, fighting heroically down to her “last bullet” — despite having been shot and stabbed. She was taken prisoner and later rescued by Special Forces in a daring raid.

At least, that was the story the Pentagon told.

Private Jessica Lynch, who joined the Army because she could not afford college.

The truth was very, very different. Yes, Lynch had been injured, but only from the crash of her truck. She never fired a shot. She was taken to a hospital and treated very well. The truth was very, very different. Yes, Lynch had been injured, but only from the crash of her truck. She never fired a shot. She was taken to a hospital and treated very well.

Lynch never understood why the military had to make things up about her. She was no hero, she was just a girl from West Virginia whose dream was to teach kindergarten. Unfortunately for Jessica, her family did not have the money to afford to send her to college to get the degree necessary to become a teacher. The Army, with its tuition payment program, seemed the only way out.

Jessica’s brother had a first-year scholarship and was trying to work, but he didn’t have the money for his second year. But when the Army recruiter came from Parkersburg, all three Lynch kids — Greg, Jessica and Brandi — were interested in what he had to say.

He talked about the travel, and the training they would get. This was the summer of 2001, before there was even a whisper of war in the air. But “he did not lie to the kids,” Dee Lynch says. He said there was always the possibility of war in the future. “But at that time it was before Sept. 11, and there was no terrorism,” Jessica recalls, “so we were like, ‘That would never happen to me.’”

Jessica Lynch was one of the thousands of young Americans who joined the Armed Forces as the only way to get ahead in life, only to find that they might have to pay the ultimate price.

  Jessica Lynch graduating from West Virginia University / AP Photo

Now, years later, Lynch is defined by her experience: she still suffers nightmares and the long-term effects of her injuries and the trauma of her capture.

But at least she has one thing: a college degree in Education, thanks to her military scholarship.

Still, Jessica is unable to fulfill her dream. Due to her injuries, she works only sometimes as a substitute teacher. The job allows her the flexibility to live with her disabilities and her pain, which often prevent her from working. She still does hours of physical therapy a week; still wears a brace and has only a numb sensation in one leg.

This is what Neoliberalism has wrought: a 17-year-old high school student wants to become a teacher, but first, she has to go to war, become terribly maimed and almost die in order to get the education she needs to fulfill her dream.

  The American Empire — for the soldier, not so different from its predecessors

The soldiers who fought for the Roman Empire did not do so for “the glory of Rome.” Sure, that was the bravado, that was the official line, but everyone knew that the real reason was money and wealth. For the foot soldier, it was his salarium, or salary, which at one time in the early Empire meant literally a handful of salt a day. For the officer, there was the promise of land, farms, and resources from the conquered territories.

Likewise, British soldiers were 100% “paid professionals” up until the first draft in 1916. The empire was built by paid British soldiers as well as mercenaries from all over the globe (Hessians, Gurkhas, etc.).

It is not so different in the US forces today. Sure, many people join the military out of tradition, out of patriotism (as in after 9/11), but for the vast majority of recruits, they join because they, like Jessica Lynch, have nowhere else to go in order to get ahead.

  The End of the Draft Poses Challenges

The US had a draft in place all throughout the Cold War, from Korea through Vietnam. But in 1973, under tremendous public pressure, the draft was suspended and replaced with an “all volunteer” military.

Reagan sent the National Guard onto the Berkeley campus.

A big part of that public pressure against the draft came from draft-aged men who were attending — you guessed it — large public universities. Ronald Reagan, then Governor of California, raged against “those hippies up in Berkeley” who were demonstrating against the War and burning their draft cards by the bushel. He actually sent in the National Guard to quell protests on campus. Indeed, his harsh and deadly methods were the precursors to more recent deadly police actions against Occupy Wall Street and DAPL.

The Tuition Trap

In Part II of this series, I explained how, under Neoliberalism, putting a price on public higher education had separated America’s young people by class and by money. As I mentioned in Part I of this series, the 3rd Tenet of Neoliberalism states that there are “winners” and “losers”. Starting in the mid-70’s, the country’s public universities became the province of “winners” that was determined not by academic ability, but by the ability to pay.

This all started under Ronald Reagan.

Reagan led a cabal of conservative Governors to start increasing tuition at public universities. There would be no more “hippies” on campus, only smart-dressed kids whose parents could afford to pay their tuition, or else students with loans or grants who could literally not afford to “get into trouble” by protesting. Reagan has a nefarious educational legacy both as Governor and as President.

As Governor, Reagan demanded a legislative investigation of alleged Communism and sexual misconduct at the University of California at Berkeley. He insisted on public hearings, claiming “a small minority of hippies, radicals and filthy speech advocates” had caused disorder and that they should “be taken by the scruff of the neck and thrown off campus — permanently”

Reagan called for ending free tuition at UCAL; instituted a 20% across the board funding cut and all but eliminated school construction funding. Once in the White House, he ramped up his crusade, calling for the elimination of the Department of Education, and cutting Federal funding for education by half. When he was elected the federal share of total education spending was 12%. When he left office it stood at just 6%. The result of this new ideology, this Neoliberal revolution in public education funding was that tuition rates at public universities skyrocketed.

Public college tuition skyrocketed after the Draft was abolished. Funny how that works.

For poor families, the military suddenly became a more attractive option.

“Be all you can be”

While Reagan was slashing Federal funding for education, he was pumping massive amounts of money into Defense. Suddenly, the military had plenty of money available for training, scholarships, college degree and vocational education programs. There is an old saying among people in the military, when they talk about the education, the degrees, the training and other benefits they get from the military:

“Thank goodness I have a rich uncle.”

The “uncle” of course is Uncle Sam. The government — specifically the military, will pay for you to go to college — you just have to volunteer for a few years first. The problem, of course, is that it rarely works out that way.

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This bait and switch goes on today — even more so because of all the active wars that are going on.

When Jessica Lynch joined, the idea of going into a “hot” war zone seemed remote. Now, anyone joining the military knows they could be in harm’s way just a few months later — despite the recruiters’ assurances that the odds are “slim” that they will wind up in combat.

This means that every year, it gets harder and harder to lure desperate young people into the armed services. So recruiters have taken to lying more and more. Take college for instance. Only about 37% of applicants ever get into the Montgomery GI Bill program. Even then, you are lucky to actually get a degree. Jessica Lynch was one of only the fortunate 15% to do so.

  The most deadly form of “intersectionality”

So now we see how it all ties together. The skyrocketing cost of public education at state schools can be traced directly back to the abolishment of the draft. Having college remain economically out of reach for large swaths of the population, while simultaneously offering people a chance to get a leg up on the ladder of success by “serving their country” is a devil’s mixture of cruel neoliberal policy mixed with good, old-fashioned racism and elitism. You know that we would not be in so many wars if the sons and daughters of Congressmen were in the front lines.

We can discuss whether or not this was an orchestrated development, but the fact remains that under today’s situation, offering tuition-free public college, vo-tech or trade schools and other forms of post-secondary education and training would have an immediate and negative impact on the US military’s ability to recruit people who simply want to better themselves.

Kamala Harris came under fire for opposing early release for nonviolent prisoners because it would deplete the supply of cheap prison labor on which so many of her campaign donors depend. Her lawyers argued that “prisons would lose an important labor pool”. Now, the prison labor program may not have started out to be an indispensable part of the State’s economy, but over time it has become one. The situation is similar with free public education beyond high school. Introducing it would upset the current system.

The next time you see a centrist Democrat or a Republican speak against tuition-free college, check out how they vote on war and the defense budget. They probably are big-time supporters. Certainly, this is the case with Hillary Clinton, Diane Feinstein and many other “establishment” Democrats. And of course, it is dogma for Republicans.

But we must not lose sight of the terrible human cost of this aspect of neoliberalism. Jessica Lynch never wanted to be a soldier; she never wanted to be a hero. All she ever wanted to be was a kindergarten teacher.

Yet because her family was poor she had no choice but to join the military in hopes of being able to get her “rich Uncle Sam” to pay her way through college.

The tragic irony of this story is that she did get her degree, but her tour of duty in a war zone left her physically unable to fully realize her goal of being a full-time teacher.

And that is the result of runaway neoliberalism and the exigencies of Empire.

  This is Neoliberalism, Part IV: The Military Industrial Complex, coming soon to Progressive Army

  This article was originally posted on Medium.

  This is Neoliberalism, Part Three: How We Build Empire Anyone who remembers the Iraq War of 2003 remembers Jessica Lynch, the first “American hero” of that conflict.