#India air strike

[networkthoughts]

How bad was the Air India Express disruption in May?

April saw Vistara being impacted by crewing issues, in May it was the turn of another Tata airline, Air India Express which saw its crew reporting sick. This was followed by the new rostering software creating issues like reported by Financial Express where employees marked sick despite resuming work, and as reported by Economic Times where a pilot trained for A320 reached for a flight to be…

[werindialive]

India responded to Iran’s air strikes on Pakistan that killed 2 children and injured three civilians

On Wednesday, the Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) responded to Iran’s missile strike on Pakistan stating that India has "zero tolerance on terrorism adding that it understands the actions taken by countries in "self-defense."

"This is a matter between Iran and Pakistan. Insofar as India is concerned, we have an uncompromising position of zero tolerance towards terrorism. We understand actions that countries take in their self-defense,” the statement from MEA read.

For the uninitiated, the airstrike from Iran was targeted on terrorist bases of a Sunni militant group in the restive Balochistan. Iran launched missile and drone strikes that allegedly killed two children and injured three others. Pakistan has threatened Iran and has said that the Iranian ambassador coming on a visit to Pakistan will not be allowed to return. Also, the Pakistani ministry has canceled all ongoing and planned high-level meetings with Iran because of the strikes.

In a statement, Iran said that they have targeted bases belonged to the Baloch militant group Jaish al-Adl (JAI)

Jaish al-Adl, or the "Army of Justice", is a Sunni militant group founded in 2012 that largely operates in Pakistan. Jaial-Adl is the "most active and influential" Sunni militant group operating in Sistan-Baluchestan, according to the Office of the US Director of National Intelligence.

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[metamatar]

Since the early days of British involvement with Zionism, Churchill sanctioned the dispossession of non-Jewish Palestinians by assuring that they have no voice in the affairs of their own land. “In the interests of the Zionist policy,” he stated in August 1921 as the government minister in charge of Britain’s colonies, “all elective institutions have so far been refused to the Arabs.”

A snapshot of Churchill’s stances on Palestine and race is found in the records of the 1937 Peel Commission hearings, convened to address a major revolt in Palestine. [...]

Horace Rumbold [...] asked whether Zionist policy is worth “the lives of our men, and so on.” And did it follow, he asked Churchill, that having “conquered Palestine we can dispose of it as we like?”

Churchill replied to that and similar questions by invoking commitments given when Britain captured Palestine toward the end of 1917. “We decided in the process of conquest of [Palestine] to make certain pledges to the Jews,” Churchill said.

Apparently skeptical, the head of the commission, William Peel, asked Churchill if it is not “a very odd self-government” when “it is only when the Jews are a majority that we can have it.”

Churchill responded with a blunt argument of might: “We have every right to strike hard in support of our authority.”

The historian Reginald Coupland nonetheless told the hearings that the “average Englishman” would wonder why the Arabs were being denied self-government, and why we had “to go on shooting the Arabs down because of keeping his promise to the Jews.”

Peel, similarly, asked Churchill if the British public “might get rather tired and rather inquisitive if every two or three years there was a sort of campaign against the Arabs and we sent out troops and shot them down? They would begin to enquire, ‘Why is it done? What is the fault of these people?… Why are you doing it? In order to get a home for the Jews?’”

“And it would mean rather brutal methods,” added Laurie Hammond, who had worked with the British colonial administration in India. “I do not say the methods of the Italians at Addis Ababa,” referring to Benito Mussolini’s Ethiopian massacre of February 1937, “but it would mean the blowing up of villages and that sort of thing?” The British, he recalled, had blown up part of the Palestinian port city of Jaffa.

Peel agreed, and added that “they blew up a lot of [Palestinian] houses all over the place in order to awe the population. I have seen photographs of these things going up in the air.”

But when Peel questioned whether “it is not only a question of being strong enough,” but of “downing” the Arabs who simply wanted to remain in their own country, Churchill lost patience.

“I do not admit that the dog in the manger has the final right to the manger,” he countered, “even though he may have lain there for a very long time.” He denied that “a great wrong has been done to the Red Indians of America, or the Black people of Australia,” by their replacement with “a higher grade race.”

[ichorai]

i was just a kid ; marc spector.

track one of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; marc spector x vigilante!gn!reader

synopsis ; khonshu wanted you dead. marc just wanted you.

words ; 6.6k

themes ; action, mild angst/fluff, vigilante au, thief au

warnings / includes ; blood/injury, cursing, mentions of human trafficking/sexual assault but not at all graphic, marc is basically chasing after reader for half the fic, we're traveling the world in this fic baby !!! khonshu being Annoying, reader doesn't know marc has DID and thinks he's crazy, a steven cameo !! and one (1) mention of spider-man and daredevil <3

main masterlist.

NEW DELHI, INDIA.

The street market was crowded, bustling with chatty tourists, loud salesmen, and traveling vendors. The air was heavy with the sweet, saccharine smell of fresh mangoes, intertwined with the faintest trace of turmeric, ginger and garam masala from other stalls you hurriedly passed by. You would’ve given anything to stop and try some of the food, if not for the terrifying white-suited fucker hunting you down.

The bleeding cut on your cheek he’d given you from when he threw his crescent-shaped boomerang in your direction throbbed. You’d barely been able to duck away in time. At least here, in the busy street, he couldn’t risk hurting anyone else by striking you long-range. 

At least, you hoped so. You weren’t entirely sure how far this bastard was willing to go to get you. Sure, you’d made a lot of enemies in the past, but, to your recollection, you’d never met any moon-caped supers keen on taking your life before.

You were quick to duck through the tight-knit throng, panic setting in when you realized the market was thinning away—you were near the end of the street, and you no longer had the advantage of cover on your side. 

With agile steps, you sprinted into an alleyway, glancing up the side of an apartment.

Then, you began to climb. You scaled the small grooves in the bricks, expertly balancing your weight just right so you wouldn’t fall. You’d done this a million times before, with much smoother surfaces to climb—after all, that was the bare minimum required of a thief. 

You hauled yourself onto the rooftop, laying low so he wouldn’t be able to spot you from ground level. 

Only—he wasn’t on ground level.

A shadow loomed over you just as you crouched by the rusted air conditioning unit, and you had but a millisecond to roll out of the way before his foot came crashing clean through the metal.

Well, fuck me, he can fly, you wryly thought. 

“Glide!” the man behind the mask gruffed as he grabbed your arm and shoved you against the crumpled AC unit, the searing hot metal digging painfully into your skin. “I glide, I don’t fly!”

“I said that out loud?” you panted with a hoarse chuckle, before quickly twisting and kicking his knee, brandishing a sharp dagger from the utility belt loosely secured around your hips. Up close, his suit appeared to be fashioned from a multitude of bandages, not unlike the cheap mummies from old nineties halloween movies. “Sorry, would it be weird for me to ask why a toilet paper cosplayer is trying to murder me?”

The man offered you no response, only diving forward and landing a good punch to one side of your jaw, which made your vision go blurry with disorientation for a moment. 

There was no way you could best him with strength—you needed to get away from him. 

With quick, nimble fingers, you pulled two smoke bombs from your belt and threw them onto the ground. Large plumes of ashen white immediately ate up the space between you, and he was left blinded for a couple of seconds. You tugged a grenade out a moment later, pulling out the pin with your teeth before tossing it in his general direction and throwing yourself off the opposite side of the building, where you’d spotted a plastic-woven tarp over one of the stalls by the edge of the market.

You’d crashed straight through their booth, fruits and drinks spilling all over the street’s asphalt. The vendors started cussing at you in a language that was foreign to your ears, but you knew they were saying foul things nonetheless. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, ignoring the searing pain that ran down your leg and began running back into the crowd. 

The explosion on the building had blown Marc back several meters, and he cursed beneath his breath as he pushed himself back up. Just as he was about to set back off to track you down, Khonshu’s bellowing voice made him halt in his motions.

“Let them go,” the God rumbled. There was an undertone of mild disappointment that laid stagnant beneath his voice, as if he’d just lost a game rather than a target. “We have more pressing matters at hand. Ammit’s followers are stealing more souls in Cuba.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “Let them go? You want me to go to Cuba? That’s halfway across the world! I can finish the job, they can’t have gotten too far—”

“We have more pressing matters,” he repeated himself, this time with an edge to his voice. A headache pulsed angrily through Marc’s temple. 

“Why’d you want them dead so bad? This target—that person, were they a follower of Ammit? Huh?” 

Much to his frustration, Khonshu ignored him completely, merely brushing past his avatar. “Go to Havana,” the bird-skull rumbled over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”

And with that, he disappeared.

ASTANA, KAZAKHSTAN.

A final stream of smoke fell from Elena’s lips as she pulled the cigarette away, dropping it into the floor to stub with her boot. She fixed you with a neutral expression as you made your way to her, though the unmistakable affection in her molten brown eyes gave her away. 

“Took you long enough,” she said, glancing at the large black cloak you were wearing. Her demeanor gradually shifted into one of a more somber variety. “Verdict’s been decided. The court decided not to charge—all those police that beat my friends to death… they’re walking away free of consequence. The government’s gone to shit. Everything is more expensive now—riots are breaking out over fuel prices, which means more people are getting killed. Nobody is willing to help anymore.”

You nodded grimly. “What can I do?”

There was a dark glimmer to her eyes as she squared her jaw. “You’re going to help me burn down government buildings. I don’t know how many, but… as many as it takes for them to change.”

A hint of a grin graced your lips as you regarded your past-lover with a nostalgic kind of fondness. “It’s the first time I see you in years and you’re already throwing me headfirst into war.”

She offered you a shrug and a wry smile. “Don’t kid yourself. You live for this kind of shit.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” you hummed distantly. “Where do we start?”

It was pandemonium. 

Everybody was yelling—the protestors, the police, the civilians watching from the sides, the sparse firemen as they tried to put out the massive, roaring flames that were greedily swallowing the government building in its entirety. You had to admit, you were rather proud of your handiwork—absentmindedly wondering if Elena would be happy with it, as well.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, a foreign hand tightly seized around your wrist and began to drag you back away from the crowd. Your gaze wildly swiveled around in confusion to the man yanking you along, noting his heavy-set furrowed brows and his frustrated scowl. With as much strength as you could muster, you dug your heels into the ground and halted his motion, pulling against him with all your might. He didn’t relent, only staring you down with dark eyes that held the warbling reflections of the fire you set behind you. 

“Who the fuck are you?!” you barked, starting to get more frantic as you fruitlessly attempted to get him to let go of you. 

And when he spoke, it finally dawned on you.

Well, fuck me. It’s that bitch that chased me down in New Delhi. Wonder why he isn’t wearing his super suit… probably not to attract attention like last time. The news was all over him.

“You’re just getting more people killed,” he husked, clearly talking about the fire you’d caused, before brandishing a dark karambit knife, one that you swore gave you a cut just by looking at it. “No wonder he wants you dead.”

Fear wove down your spinal column when the blade poked your lower stomach in warning. “I’m sending a message,” you growled in reply, lips curled over your teeth in a snarl as you bristled. “And what about you? You’re gonna fix the problem by killing me? I don’t even know you! Some hero you are—those people protesting out there? They’re better than you will ever be.”

For a moment, his pupils darted back to the rioting crowd, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features, and you used the short-lived distraction to your advantage. You expertly kicked the knife out of his hand and landed a quick blow square in the center of his face, feeling his nose break beneath your knuckles. 

Not wanting to push your luck—you remembered how fast he was during your last encounter—you gave him one final shove, sending him sprawling into a trash can with a groan and a muffled curse.

By the time he forced himself back onto his feet a second later, you’d already disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck. Khonshu was gonna kill him.

PODGORICA, MONTENEGRO.

Marc still wasn’t sure why Khonshu wanted you dead so badly. Then again, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to Khonshu. 

But he knew one thing for certain—if Marc truly wanted you dead, then you would’ve been six feet under weeks ago. Which meant… he wasn’t actively trying to kill you because he didn’t actually want you dead. All the others that he’d killed for Khonshu felt like they’d deserved it—rapists, abusers, pedophiles… and though Marc didn’t know you very well, he knew you weren’t anything like the people he’d killed before.

Marc didn’t know what he was doing. 

Jaw clenched, he pulled the cap lower down his face, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jeans. He followed not too far behind you, silent as a wraith, watching as you merrily strode down the streets of Podgorica. 

Finally, when you stopped by a little coffee truck to order an iced latte, Marc stepped forward to stand beside you.

For the first minute, you idly tapped away on your phone, smiling down at the screen briefly before pocketing the device. You glanced at him, thinking nothing of the person beside you, assuming they were just another civilian—

Then you froze.

You knew that face.

After all, you’d broken that very same nose less than a week ago. Strange, it looked just fine now. 

Immediately, you hunkered down into a defensive position, backing away from him with quick steps. Then, you ran, sprinting away so quickly that Marc could’ve sworn a trail of dust kicked up beneath your feet.

The man in the coffee truck incredulously yelled out after you, followed by a string of what Marc could only assume was a creative litany of Montenegrin profanity. 

Dropping a few shillings onto the truck’s counter, Marc grabbed your coffee and ran after you, shocked at how far you’d managed to get in such a short amount of time. 

There was no denying that you were a fast runner—but as the old tale went, the quick hare would always get overly confident. You slowed down to a moderate jog when you glanced behind you, Marc nowhere in sight. With a relieved sigh, you turned the corner and slumped against a building, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. 

Damn, you’d kill for that iced coffee right about now.

As if on cue, Marc rounded the corner, catching you by surprise. You were just ready to turn tail and run away again, but his hand shot out and held onto your wrist, not unlike he did in Astana. 

You spewed out a myriad of curses, ranging from calling him an ‘insufferable cucumber-dicked motherfucker’ to ‘smooth-brained, butt-faced swine’, wildly trying to get him to let go of you. If you weren’t violently bucking against him with all the grace of a panicked mare, he would’ve laughed at the creativity of your insults. 

“Stop, I just want to talk!” exclaimed Marc, dodging when you pushed yourself forward to try and wrap your hands around his throat. 

“Last two times I saw you, you tried to kill me!” you breathlessly spat. “Sorry if I don’t quite trust you now!”

“I’m unarmed,” he gritted out, stepping back slightly to allow you to scan your gaze over him. Though you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that if Marc really wanted to kill you, you would’ve been dead long ago. “I just want to ask you a couple things. And look—I brought your coffee!”

A low hiss fell from your lips. “I’m not answering jack shit.”

With that, you lunged forward and shoved him hard—so hard that he stumbled into the jagged brick wall behind him with an oomf. The iced latte sloshed right out of its cup and spilled all over his chest. His head struck painfully against the stone and his vision went blurry for a moment, expression faltering. 

You stepped away, watching him with cautious, narrowed eyes. 

After a long, pregnant pause, the man blinked in a dazed fashion, seeming confused. 

“What? Where am I? What’s going on?” he said, accent suddenly… British. He fixed you with a genuinely miffed gaze, appearing slightly frightened at your withering glower. 

You didn’t stay to answer his question. 

As you were turning on your heel to run away, you faintly heard him mutter to himself, “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Crazy bastard.

VALENCIA, SPAIN.

Your knuckles were split. Blood dribbled down your fist, a mixture of yours and the man whose face you were caving in.

One of your hands was bunched into the collar of his shirt, holding him down as you rained punches on him. The sickening sound of his bones giving way with your strikes didn’t deter you, and you only snarled and hit him again as he blubbered out prayers in Spanish. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his busted lips. 

“Who are you praying to?” you hissed, releasing his collar in favor of wrapping your hand over his throat, squeezing tight. The dull green of his eyes flashed with panic, legs flailing weakly. “The gods will not listen to the likes of you—I’ll make sure of it.”

A strangled wail erupted from him. 

And just as you were about to land another punch, you found yourself being shoved away from the man, and promptly lifted off the floor with the scruff of your shirt collar, shoving you against a wall. You began kicking and twisting blindly, cursing furiously when you saw the man you were beating up scurry onto his feet and haggardly sprint away.

Your struggling was of no avail, and you weren’t at all surprised to see the same person that’s been trying to track you down for months now. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, brows heavily furrowed and dark eyes stormy with anger. “You were about to kill that guy!”

“He deserves it,” you bit out, glaring back at him with just as much intensity. “The fucker’s been stalking a friend of mine and sexually assaulted her daughter.”

There was a beat of silence. Marc’s cross expression seemed to drain away, but he still bore a stern face as he slowly let you go. You slid down the wall and got back onto your feet with a wince. 

“Why have you been following me?” you huffed, dusting off your pants. “You think I don’t know that if you really wanted to kill me, I would be dead by now?”

Marc squared his jaw and leveled his gaze on you. “Someone… close to me wants you dead. I want to know why first—he won’t tell me.”

“Sounds like you shouldn't be all that close to him, then,” you snorted derisively. 

“Not for a lack of trying,” the man dryly replied. 

With a scoff, you stepped forward and wiped your bloody knuckles onto his shirt, leaving a damp trail of darkening crimson. “There’s way too many reasons a person would want me dead,” you whispered, one hand patting his chest. The other trailed down, down, down…

To the high-rise potted plant beside you. You grabbed a fistful of dirt.

“See, he’s not exactly what you’d call a person—”

Before Marc could finish his sentence, you chucked the dirt straight into his face. He inhaled some of the soil and doubled over, pounding on his chest as he coughed it out. With a growl, he frustratedly swiped the remaining flecks of dirt out of his eyes, blearily looking back up. And, to none of his surprise but much of his dismay, you were already gone.

OSLO, NORWAY.

“Why aren’t they dead yet, Marc?” grumbled Khonshu in that grating, gravely tone of his. Even though the God had no eyes, Marc could still feel his stare burning straight through him. 

With a frown, Marc was quick to respond, “Because you haven’t told me why yet.”

“You’ve never needed a reason before—always blindly following my orders,” the bird-skull crooned. “What makes them so different?”

There was a bitter taste to the back of Marc’s throat. What made you so different?

“Because I don’t know if they deserve it, alright?” he retorted, crossing his arms to glare up at the tall figure. “You can’t just expect me to kill everyone who mildly inconveniences you.”

Harrumphing, Khonshu snapped back, “They are naught but an inconvenience—they are a disruption to the very balance of nature. Y/N has taken justice into their own hands, and that is a very dangerous thing for a simple mortal to do.”

Marc cast his gaze away in frustration, pacing back and forth. “But that’s exactly what you make me do.”

“Yes, because you are my avatar,” deadpanned the God. “And Y/N is not. Though, they might as well be because you are being a fool.”

He could feel one of his eyes twitch. There wasn’t ever a conversation Marc could remember where Khonshu didn’t insult him. 

“They’re doing what they think is right,” defended Marc. “They’re not hurting people just for the sake of it.”

“That is not for them to decide!” bellowed the God, which made him step back just a bit. “They have done terrible, unimaginable things in the past—though mistakes some may be—and they will continue to make them. Take a look for yourself.” With that, Khonshu swept his arm out, gesturing to the large bank across the street, large windows giving him a clear view of what was going on inside.

His heart dropped down to his stomach when he saw you. 

You were wearing a mask that covered the entirety of your features, except for your eyes and your mouth. The rest of your body was shrouded with simple, dark clothing, suitable for running. 

And, most notably, you had a gun in your hand, pointing straight at the trembling woman working behind the counter. Your mouth was moving and you gestured with lax, calm movements, despite the explicit terror written across the woman’s face.

Marc’s brow furrowed. Damn it. 

He watched as you snatched the bag of money the woman slowly slid over, and hightailed out of the bank with the gun still gripped tightly in your hand. You ran the opposite way, before disappearing down another block. Glancing over at Khonshu, only to see that he was nowhere in sight, Marc huffed out a sigh and began sprinting after you.

One downside of Oslo was that their buildings weren’t exactly the easiest to climb—which meant that you had to stick to the ground and trust your speed. 

Marc wasn’t as fast as you without his suit, that was for certain. But with his suit—he could glide. 

And so that’s how the white-caped figure dropped straight down in front of you out of seemingly nowhere, which elicited a shriek of surprise from you, nearly dropping the bag out of shock. You had pulled your mask off long ago, shoving it into the knapsack shrugged over your shoulders, along with the gun. 

This clearly wasn’t your first time doing this.

“You,” was what you incredulously breathed out, eyes wide. “You must be obsessed with me or something.”

Not in the mood to play around, Marc growled out, “Why are you doing this? Give the money back. It’s not yours.”

“Who said it was for me?” you countered, upper lip curled in contempt. You tilted your head at him, eyeing his suit with interest, before returning back to your scathing disposition. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this money’s for the small orphanage a couple miles from here. They’re barely getting by with the money the government gives them. I have a kid there I know.”

With bated breath, Marc willed the suit away, leaving him in a dark sweatshirt and a pair of woolen pants. He eyed you suspiciously, still not too sure if he should trust you.

Sensing this, you rolled your eyes and unzipped your bag. “If you don’t believe me—check my gun. It’s blank.” You fished out the small weapon and handed it over to him with the end pointed towards you so he wouldn’t think you were going to shoot him. “No bullets.”

Marc didn’t need to check it—by now he knew you were telling the truth. But he looked into the chamber anyway, finding it void of any ammunition. 

“Can I go now? We both know you’re not going to kill me. The cops will be looking,” you said, voice a bit more gentle than before. He noticed that the anger on your face had melted away, leaving only urgency and another tumultuous emotion that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

When he offered you no response, finally relenting, you nodded once to him, a glimmer of gratitude behind your irises. And with that, you began running again, effortlessly disappearing into the shadows.

“Fool,” thundered a rumbling growl from somewhere above him. Marc looked up, but the bird-skulled God was nowhere to be found.

COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Damn. Nothing hit harder than classic, greasy, American cheeseburgers with a side of curly fries and a milkshake. You shifted eagerly on the sticky red leather of the booths, shooting the waitress who’d handed you your food a flirtatious smirk and a ten dollar bill, which she took with an equally salacious wink.

You grinned down at your food before taking the first bite into the burger, a muffled noise of content falling from your throat.

“Am I interrupting something?” said a frustratingly familiar voice, the man sliding into the seat across from you. “It sounds like you were just about to have the greatest sex of your life—with a cheeseburger.”

You pointedly glared at him, though it lacked any true heat. After about a dozen deliberately slow chews, you finally swallowed down the food. Marc looked like he wanted to say something else, but you merely held up a finger, slurping on the paper straw of your milkshake. He pursed his lips with a mildly aggrieved look.

Finally, you tilted your head at him. 

“Is there something you want from me?” you asked him casually, reaching to the end of the table to grab a napkin and wipe at the corner of your lips. “Because I’m not in the drug business anymore, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or is it something else, hm?”

It seemed that Marc hadn’t completely thought this through. Sure, he’d planned out what he roughly wanted to say to you, but now that you were right in front of him, he found his tongue running dry. He fumbled for words, fists clenching and unclenching by his knees. 

“I don’t want to kill you. Or hurt you at all, for that matter.”

You scoffed, remembering the instances in which he’d hurt you plenty.

“I just… I want to know your side of the story. I want to know why you do what you do,” he said, a bit quieter. 

For a moment, Marc thought you’d just tell him to piss off. But there was a gradual shift to your features, going from obvious irritation to gentle curiosity. 

“Alright. I’ll cut you a deal,” you said, popping a curly fry into your mouth. “I tell you about my tragic backstory, and you tell me all about this… thing that’s been wanting to kill me. And before I start—I’m gonna need your name. I can’t keep mentally cataloging you as the toilet paper man.”

And for the first time since you met him all those months ago—Marc laughed. It was deep and gratingly genuine, coming from the very bottom of his chest.

“Well, first of all, it’s not toilet paper. It’s the ceremonial armor of Khonshu’s temple. And second, it’s Marc. Marc Spector.”

“Ceremonial armor of whose what now?” you balked. 

A hint of a smile graced the corner of Marc’s lips. “Khonshu—Egyptian God of the moon. I’m his avatar. He’s the one that wanted me to kill you. He called you a disruption to nature—said that you were wrongfully taking justice into your own hands.” As he spoke, the smile began to wane away, and he regarded you in a more serious light. “I want to know why he thinks that.”

You stared down at your plate of fries, stunned. An Egyptian God wanted you dead? You knew you pissed people off, but Gods too?

“And if you don’t like what you hear?” you quietly asked, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Will you drag me out of the diner and strangle me to death?”

Though you could tell he didn’t like saying it, Marc’s face was set in stone when he leveled with you. “I’ll give you a head’s start.”

Another beat of silence. You picked up another fry and popped it into your mouth. The plate slid across the table as you nudged it towards him. 

“Alright, Marc. Settle in, have some fries, order a milkshake—it’s a long story.”

And you told him everything. You told him about your childhood—rumbling stomachs, nimble thieving hands, falling off of buildings when running away from cops. You told him about your teenage years—pulling off heists, brokering deals with gangs, breaking nearly every bone in your body being reckless. You told him about your early adult years—falling in love with Elena, getting more comfortable as a vigilante, as you liked to call yourself, meeting other superheroes and helping out on occasion. Marc seemed to recognize Spider-Man and Daredevil’s names when you mentioned them in passing, his eyebrows arching up closer to his hairline. 

You told him that you now spend your days traveling around the globe helping people. 

By the time you were done spilling your entire life story, your fries and burger were cleanly polished off. 

Marc was silent for a long time, as if unsure what to say. 

“I was in love once, too,” he said in a tentative manner, gaze trained on the table. “Her name was Layla.”

“Oh, yeah?” you curiously said, sipping on the last frothy remnants of your milkshake at the bottom of the glass. “And how’d that work out for you?”

There was a sad glint to his eyes. “Not so good. We’re divorced now.” He cleared his throat before you could press him about it. “What happened with you and Elena?”

It was now your turn to stare out the window in a despondent manner. “Same as you. Except we were never married. My lifestyle was… too much for her.”

Marc nodded in understanding. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you stared at the glossy table in silence.

“You still in love with her?”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I love her, yeah—I always will. I’m just not in love with her anymore.”

The man across from you hummed. There was a newfound understanding between you two—unspoken, but the both of you could feel it. 

“Do you still love Layla?”

A ghost of a smile graced his features, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. “Not in the same way I used to. But I do.”

With a final slurp of your straw, your drink glass was emptied. “Seems like we’re a lot more similar than first meets the eye, huh?” 

Marc fixed you with a loose, awkward smile. Without another word, he pulled the bill of his cap lower down his face, and slid out of the booth. It seemed that he wasn’t going to be strangling you tonight. 

You didn’t look back when he walked out of the diner, the bell hooked by the doortop tolling with his departure.

YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA.

The bird skull was saying something. His bony beak was moving. You could feel the vibrations of his thundering voice beneath your feet. And yet—you had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

You blinked up at the God with wide eyes. 

“Could you repeat that?” you winced out, having not picked up a single word Khonshu had said in the past three minutes. The God grumbled, and somehow glared at you despite having no eyes within his bony skull. Beside you, Marc let out a muffled snort.

“You insolent buffoon,” the bony figure snarled. “Have you not been listening?”

Despite the bristling God in front of you, you found the entire situation to be amusing. “Sorry, it’s just… your head’s really big. It’s kinda distracting. Just paraphrase yourself—I don’t need all the terms and conditions.”

Marc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but he immediately sobered up when Khonshu rounded his pointed beak to him, back straightening. 

“This is a gravely serious matter—!”

“You know what else is serious?” you snapped, pulling your thick woolen coat closer to your quivering body. “Catching hypothermia! Did you really have to pick Russia of all places? We couldn’t have met on a warm beach in the Caribbeans, or something?”

If Khonshu had eyelids, you were sure they would’ve been twitching with repressed agitation by now.

A deep baritone of a sigh fell from the lanky God. He leaned his weight against his crescent-tipped staff, as if willing his own patience to hold steadfast. 

“I said—” he started again, watching you cautiously, “—that I will be letting go of your past sins. But only because my avatar is so keen on you, and because you show a consistent effort to rid the world of evil. However, if you slip up so much as once, I will personally see that to an unkind descent into the afterlife. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal!” you harrumphed, tucking your frigid nose into the collar of your fur coat. “And I did those things to people who deserved it—which is exactly the same as what you do, you bony hypocrite! Can we go inside now?”

The God grumbled something unintelligible, though you suspected it had something to do with your impertinence, and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“You’ll get used to him,” assured Marc, placing a hand on your back to lead you back inside. “He doesn’t get any better but—you’ll get used to it.”

“That’s reassuring,” you dryly responded, teeth beginning to chatter. As soon as the two of you started to walk back to the small little city hotel, you elbowed his side with a playful grin. “So… you’re keen on me, huh?”

Marc gave you an unimpressed look. Snowflakes danced with the wind and landed in his neatly-combed curls. “Khonshu had to believe that I liked you—the last thing he’d want is a sloppy, grieving avatar.”

“Mmh, I don’t know…” you said, tapping your finger against your chin in thought. “He’d probably like that, considering he’s one manipulative son of a bitch. Maybe he just secretly likes me and wants to keep me around.”

“Yeah,” snorted Marc. He halted in his tracks, forcing down a smile. “That, or I blackmailed him.”

Your eyes widened, frost clinging to your lashes and brows. “You blackmailed an Egyptian God?”

“Let’s just say that he’s had a sticky romance with the Egyptian Goddess of love—ironically, she’s one of the few beings that he’s genuinely terrified of. I threatened to get in contact with her avatar if he didn’t absolve you.”

You kicked at a small build-up of snow by the sidewalk, an excited gleam to your irises. “Crazy how even the Gods have petty dating drama to gossip about,” you commented, turning to him. His nose was tinted a faint shade of red from the cold, bits of white frost freckling his hair and his clothes. “Thanks for not killing me, by the way,” you added as an afterthought, fixing him with a warm smile. 

“Just keep out of trouble,” he gently reminded, mirroring your soft grin. The two of you were now standing in front of your dingy little motel—and Marc apparently had something to attend to halfway across the world in Cuba. 

So this was goodbye. 

For now, at least.

Without thinking, you leaned forward to press your cold lips against the warmth of his cheek, the tip of your nose grazing his cheekbone as you laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Thanks,” you whispered when you pulled away slightly, breath misting into an opaque fog. Marc was regarding you with an expression that bordered on fondness, which was certainly a new look that you found yourself craving for more. “I haven’t really properly talked to anybody in ages so… this was nice. Goodbye, Marc.”

With that, you turned on your heel and headed into the hotel, grateful for the blast of warmth from the overhead heater, though you could still feel Marc’s burning stare bore holes into your back, even as you turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA.

Blood, everywhere.

Gunshots in the distance.

Snarling men rounding the corner—human traffickers.

Your dagger glinting beneath the hot Ethiopian sun.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat. 

Gurgling.

Red on your hands. On your clothes. On your shoes. 

Two successive punches—one to your stomach, and the other to your face.

Pain blooming beneath your skin.

A fist around your throat.

Squeezing. 

Choking.

Dark spots dancing about your vision.

Your nails clawing into their eyes. 

Air.

Gasping for breath. 

Wheezing.

You desperately parried away another assailant’s knife.

A song of steel against steel.

More gunshots flying every which way.

You dove behind large metal crates. 

Sand in your shoes.

Copper on your tongue.

Crashing. Yelling. Cursing.

Your fingers flexing around the hilt of your dagger.

Bated breath.

You looked around the crate.

Marc fucking Spector.

A ghost of a smile on your lips.

Your name being called out—surprise in his tone.

“Fancy seeing you here!” you shouted.

Marc’s fist curled into one of the traffickers’ collars.

“It’s been a while!” came his mildly amused reply.

A grunt. A punch. A groan of pain.

His white cape fluttered with the wind. 

“You down for a burger or something later?”

You spoke calmly, as if you weren’t currently strangling someone with a long power cord. 

The man fell limp in your hold. 

“Sure—I could go for a burger,” he called out, 

Blood trickled down your nose and grazed your lip. 

You wiped it away with the back of your hand.

The last of the traffickers was struck down with Marc’s crescent boomerang. 

A breath of relief. 

Drenched in blood (most of which was not yours), you made your way to Marc.

“You clean up nice,” he joked.

A roll of your eyes.

“Oh, shucks, Marc,” you simpered with a mischievous grin, dragging a bloody hand down his face once he retracted his mask. 

He grimaced in disgust, but didn’t push you away. 

A laugh fell from your throat, hoarse and echoing.

You looped your aching, bleeding arms with his. 

“Let’s go get that burger.”

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

“Ow—ugh, Marc, could you go any faster?” you barked through the dirty cloth wedged between your teeth, glaring up at him with watering eyes. You’d endured pain far worse than this, sure, but Marc was taking twice as long stitching you up than when you’d do it yourself. Though, admittedly, whenever you had to patch yourself up, it was a rather shoddy job and often left a much larger, gnarled scar than it would’ve, had you properly taken care of it. 

The man above you shook his head, dark curls hanging loosely over his forehead. “Stop moving and maybe it’ll hurt less,” he replied, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he worked on your stitches. “You know, just because we work together now and I heal quickly doesn’t mean you do, too.”

With a grimace, you tore the cloth from your mouth, chucking it somewhere across the small motel room to freely speak to him. “It was just a mistake,” you replied, nearly doubling over with a strained groan when he punctured the skin of your abdomen with a small needle, where the deep gash resided, one last time. “I timed myself wrong. Happens sometimes.”

Marc let his eyes roam over your exposed skin, brows divoting ever so slightly upon seeing the multiple other scars littering your body. They were memories of your past, and you weren’t ashamed of them. 

“Doesn’t look like it only happens sometimes,” he murmured, tying off his sutures and cleaning off the last bits of flaking, dried blood on your stomach before binding the open wound with thin bandages. 

“You worried about me?”

Marc didn’t spare you a response. He busied himself by putting away the medkit and tossing the discarded, bloodied clothes into the bathroom sink. When he came back to sit on the bed beside you, you had gingerly moved positions so that you were propped up against the creaking bed’s headboard. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” you whispered. “England fucking stinks.”

Marc chuckled, a small smile curling his lips upwards, though you noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

The two of you sat in silence for a while. 

“Thanks for stitching me up,” you told him.

“Thanks for not dying on me,” he replied. His hand sought yours and your fingers laced with his. “I know we’ve only been working together for a month by now, but I’m starting to really like you.”

With one last painful shift, you moved so that your faces were only inches away. You paused when your lips were just a hairsbreadth from his, giving him time to yank you away if need be. 

But he didn’t. 

His lips met yours with a tender sort of sadness, pouring months of frustration and anger into the embrace. A warm hand came up to cradle the back of your head, angling you closer, wary of your newly-stitched wound. 

Forehead resting against his, you gently pulled away, finding solace in the fact that he chased after your lips just a bit, before cracking his dark eyes open. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” he mumbled, gaze darting back down to your parted mouth. 

“Okay,” came your broken reply.

And despite it all, he threw all caution to the wind and kissed you again. Again, and again, and again—far into the night, until the two of you passed out on the stained sheets of the motel bed, limbs intertwined and your nose pressed against his throat, where you could hear the soft thrumming of his heartbeat. 

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Khonshu was hovering on the rooftop, finding himself rather glad that his avatar had finally found someone he could trust—even if that someone was the very bane of his existence. 

“I need a new avatar,” the God harrumphed to nobody but himself, knowing full and well that he wasn’t letting go of Marc Spector and his… counterparts any time soon. 

[probablyasocialecologist]

Captivity is a constitutive part of Palestinian life under occupation. Prior to Hamas’s attack on October 7th, Israel incarcerated more than 5,200 Palestinians—most of them residents of the West Bank and East Jerusalem—across two dozen prisons and detention centers. Some West Bank residents are incarcerated due to a still-operant military order issued following the 1967 War that effectively criminalized civic activities (e.g. gatherings of more than ten people without a permit, distributing political materials, displaying flags) as “incitement and hostile propaganda actions.” There are currently hundreds of such military orders, which criminalize anything that might be construed as resistance to the occupation. This surfeit of activities made illegal for Palestinians authorizes mass imprisonment: According to a recent estimate by the United Nations, one million Palestinians have at one time been incarcerated by Israel, “including tens of thousands of children.” One in five Palestinians, and two in five Palestinian men, have been arrested at some point in their lives, and, as of 2021, more than 100 Palestinian children faced up to 20 years in prison for throwing stones.

Not all who are arrested face charges. Israel often and increasingly makes use of “administrative detention,” a relic of the British Mandate era, which allows for indefinite incarceration without a charge or trial, ostensibly for the purpose of gathering evidence. It was a hallmark of apartheid South Africa and has been used to repress opposition in Egypt, England, India, the United States, and elsewhere, especially in the context of anti-immigration and “counter-terrorism” programs. “Since March 2002, not a single month has gone by without Israel holding at least 100 Palestinians in administrative detention,” the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem notes; often the number is much higher. Prior to October 7th, more than 20% of Palestinian prisoners were administrative detainees; 233 of the 300 Palestinians on Israel’s release list negotiated last week were administrative detainees, Al Jazeera noted. According to the Palestinian prisoner organization Addameer, imprisoned Palestinians report being beaten, threatened, strip searched, and denied healthcare and contact with their families. Palestinians currently incarcerated, as well as those freed in recent days, report that conditions have worsened since October 7th. Meanwhile, even as this prisoner release proceeds, Israel continues to ramp up arrests: As of Tuesday, 180 Palestinian prisoners have been released as part of the ceasefire exchange, but during the same period, it arrested Palestinians at nearly the same rate. Today, more than 7,000 Palestinians are incarcerated in Israeli prisons.

Nowhere is Israel’s carceral regime clearer than in Gaza, the 140-square-mile area often described as an “open-air prison.” Gaza’s residents, now an estimated 2.2 million people—80% of whom are refugees or descendents of refugees forced to flee in the mass expulsions surrounding the founding of the State of Israel that Palestinians call the Nakba—have been hemmed in by a land, air, and sea blockade since 2006. As with Palestinians incarcerated in Israeli prisons, who for years have waged hunger strikes, protested, and written about the horrors of incarceration, Gazans have struggled mightily against their confinement. In 2018–19, they held weekly nonviolent protests at the border under the name Great March of Return. Israel responded with brutal violence, killing 260 people and wounding 20,000 others, many of whom were permanently disabled. A week into Israel’s current assault on Gaza, Ahmed Abu Artema, one of the co-founders of the Great March of Return, wrote an impassioned plea in The Nation, calling for the world to “help us tear down the wall, end our imprisonment, and fulfill our dreams of liberation.” On October 24th, an Israeli airstrike severely wounded Artema and killed five members of his family, including his 13-year-old son.

It is precisely in such contexts of radical asymmetry that we find the history of hostage-taking: In the last half-century, under-resourced combatants from Palestine to Brazil to the United States and beyond have used hostages to gain political leverage. Militants, whose own lives are not valued by the powers they face, capture those whose lives they assume are deemed more valuable. This strategy often succeeds in shifting the terms of the conversation—asserting the previously dismissed hostage-takers as political actors whose demands must be negotiated. But the same dynamic that leads militants to take hostages is why the tactic so often fails: The prison state fundamentally devalues life, and ultimately may sacrifice hostages to preserve its rule. Israeli officials have said as much. “We have to be cruel now and not think too much about the hostages,” finance minister Bezalel Smotrich said in a cabinet meeting as Israel launched its war.

[ltash]

Ashes to flames

Part 1

British India:

1940s.

The flames flickered and crackled ominously as they prepared the pyre. You stood there, clad in a brilliant red silk saree that shimmered under the fading light. The red dot between your eyebrows, the sindoor parted across your scalp, and the heavy gold jewellery that adorned your fragile frame all marked you as a widow, a bride bound to her husband, even in death Your pearly white skin, striking against the deep red of your garments, seemed too pure, too innocent for the fate that awaited you.

Your long, dark black hair, wavy and unbound, cascaded down your back like the night sky, and the henna tattoos that covered your slender arms and feet were still vibrant from your wedding day. Each intricate pattern felt like a mocking reminder of what should have been, but never was.

The weight of the moment pressed upon you, and memories rushed through your mind like a torrent you couldn’t stop.

You had been born into a wealthy Rajput family, one of privilege and tradition. Your parents, progressive for their time, had sent you to school with British girls. You could still hear your father's proud voice.

"You're not just a daughter," he’d said, his eyes gleaming with pride, "you're my pride. You will make your own path in this world."

But the dream of forging your own path had shattered the day he passed away. The vibrant, strong man who had nurtured your hopes and dreams was gone, and with him, your world collapsed. You remember standing there, watching as your mother stepped into the pyre beside him, her face serene with acceptance, fulfilling her role in the cruel practice of sati.

You had begged her not to go, gripping her hand tightly, but she had only smiled. "This is my duty, my child," she had whispered. "It is what we must do."

And now it was your turn.

At 23, you had been forced into a marriage with an 80-year-old man, a frail and terminal figure you barely knew. Your uncle had orchestrated it all, ignoring your protests and pleas. Your life, once filled with promise, had been reduced to caring for a dying man, a man who never loved you, never saw you as more than a young wife to be bound to his deathbed.

As you stood upon the pyre, your heart pounded in your chest, cold terror coursing through your veins. The deceased body of your husband lay beside you, his wrinkled face unmoving, eyes closed in eternal sleep. It felt like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Your uncle’s voice boomed from behind you, cold and resolute. "It is time. Your duty is clear. You belong to him, in life and in death."

Tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were an abomination, they said, cursed to burn beside your husband. There was no escape now. You looked at the faces in the crowd, their expressions a mixture of reverence and indifference.

"I don’t want to die," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible above the crackling wood and the ceremonial chants. Your body felt too fragile for the weight of what was expected of you.

For a moment, the world around you blurred, and you were back in the classroom, sitting at a desk with your British classmates, laughing and learning. You remembered the joy of those days, the dreams you had once nurtured, and the freedom you had tasted.

But it was all gone now.

The fire beneath the pyre roared to life, the heat licking at your feet, pulling you back into the present. Your breath hitched, your hands trembling as they were bound for the final rites. The crowd began to chant, their voices blending with the wind, carrying you closer to your fate.

You stood in shock, your mind screaming for escape, but there was none. The flames rose higher, and the scent of burning wood filled the air.

In that final moment, as the fire closed in, you closed your eyes and let the memories of your father, your mother, and the life you had once dreamed of wash over you. You had been a flower, once full of life, now destined to wither in the flames.

The flames raged around you, a roaring inferno that licked at the edge of your red silk saree, threatening to consume you whole. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood, filling your lungs with every breath. Your screams had become raw, a desperate plea that seemed to vanish into the night, absorbed by the rising chants of the crowd. Their faces, once familiar, now appeared distant and monstrous in the glow of the fire. Every inch of you trembled, trapped in the suffocating weight of tradition, knowing there was no escape.

Suddenly, through the deafening roar of the flames, another sound broke through, the thunder of hooves pounding the earth, fierce and unyielding. The chanting faltered, and for a moment, all eyes turned toward the source of the sound. Out of the swirling smoke, a figure emerged on horseback, riding at full gallop. The villagers stumbled back, their voices fading as the rider approached.

"Enough!" A voice rang out like a clap of thunder, so powerful it seemed to silence the world. It cut through the noise through the chaos, commanding attention.

Through the haze, you saw him, Lieutenant Admiral Simon Riley. His tall, imposing figure sat astride a powerful black horse, the silver insignias on his pristine uniform gleaming under the darkening sky. His face was set in a mask of anger, jaw clenched, eyes burning with purpose. His gaze met yours across the pyre, and in that moment, time stopped. The weight of the flames, the pressing heat, the terror, all of it disappeared as his eyes locked onto yours. They were sharp, focused, and filled with a fierce determination that left you breathless.

In one swift motion, Simon dismounted, drawing his sword in a fluid arc. The blade gleamed like polished silver, a beacon of power in the dim light. Without hesitation, he strode through the crowd, parting them with the sheer force of his presence. The people, once so confident in their cruelty, shrank back in fear.

His gloved hand reached for you. Strong, steady, unwavering, he grasped you by the waist as though you weighed nothing. With effortless strength, he lifted you from the pyre, cradling your fragile frame against his chest. The heat of the flames still crackled beneath your feet, but in his arms, the terror that had gripped you began to fade. You clung to him, your heart pounding, your body trembling from shock.

“I am taking her with me,” Simon declared, his voice low but lethal, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. His sword remained raised high, its deadly point gleaming, daring anyone to approach.

Your uncle, face flushed with rage, stepped forward. “You can not do this!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fury. “She is an abomination! The consequences, " He faltered, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and arrogance. “The consequences won’t be good. Saahib, I warn you.”

Simon’s icy blue eyes narrowed as he turned to face your uncle. “You dare threaten me?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. His grip on you tightened, his body a wall of strength and defiance. “You call her an abomination, yet you are the one trying to murder an innocent woman in the name of your backwards traditions.”

One of the villagers, emboldened by your uncle’s words, stepped forward. “She has a duty to fulfil! She must burn with her husband. It is our way!”

Simon’s jaw clenched as he glared at the crowd. “Over my dead body!” he thundered, his voice booming across the gathering. “You barbarians think you can hide behind your so-called customs? Killing an innocent woman under the guise of tradition? I will not allow it.”

His eyes swept over the villagers, daring them to defy him. No one moved. Even your uncle, who had always wielded power over your life, seemed small and insignificant in the face of Simon’s wrath.

The soldiers who had followed Simon arrived on horseback, dismounting swiftly and surrounding their commander, their faces set in grim determination. They moved into formation, shields, and rifles at the ready, forming an impenetrable barrier between Simon and the villagers. The crowd’s courage crumbled as Simon’s men stood at attention, their loyalty to him unshakeable.

Simon sheathed his sword with a sharp clink and swiftly mounted his horse, never once loosening his protective grip on you. With one fluid motion, he pulled you up onto the saddle in front of him, his arms encircling your body as he guided the reins. You pressed against his chest, your heart racing, your body trembling, still reeling from the terror of what had almost been your fate.

“Hold on,” Simon whispered, his breath warm against your ear, his voice gentle now, a stark contrast to the fury he had shown moments before.

As he urged the horse forward, the powerful animal surged ahead, hooves pounding the earth as the village disappeared behind you. The wind whipped through your unbound hair, and the world blurred around you as Simon rode with speed and precision, cutting through the night. His chest was firm against your back, a solid presence that anchored you as the remnants of the horror faded into the distance.

You glanced up at him, still too shocked to speak. His face was set in determination, but there was a tenderness in the way he held you, as if he had just saved something precious. His residence came into view on the horizon, a beacon of safety amidst the storm of chaos you had left behind.

As the horse galloped toward his estate, you knew that the life you had been condemned to, the pyre that had almost claimed you, was far behind. In Simon’s arms, you had been saved, not just from death, but from a life you had never chosen.

By the time you reached his mansion, your body had given up. The exhaustion, the terror, the sheer weight of what you had just survived had drained you of every ounce of strength. You could no longer hold on, and with a faint sigh, you collapsed in his arms, your head lolling against his chest as unconsciousness claimed you. Simon’s strong arms caught you, his grip unwavering as he dismounted his horse with practised ease, cradling your limp form close to him.

The grand doors of his mansion swung open as Simon carried you inside, his boots echoing sharply against the marble floors. His face was a mask of calm control, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the turmoil raging beneath the surface. The servants, startled by the sight of their master carrying an unconscious woman, rushed forward, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"Sati! But she is alive!" one of the servants gasped, his eyes flicking nervously between you and Simon. The whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of shock and confusion filling the air.

Simon’s eyes, cold and resolute, silenced the room. “She will stay alive,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. There was a finality in his tone, a command that left no room for doubt.

“But, Saahib… you shouldn’t have brought her here,” another servant, an older man with worry etched into every line of his face, stepped forward cautiously. He glanced nervously towards the door, his voice lowering as he continued, “They will come for her. The village… they won’t let this go.”

Simon’s eyes darkened, a flash of anger crossing his face as he looked down at you, your fragile form still limp in his arms. “She will stay here from now on,” he declared, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His gaze returned to the old servant, daring him to say otherwise.

The servant hesitated, wringing his hands together anxiously. “But, sir… she has committed...”

“She has committed nothing,” Simon interrupted sharply, cutting him off with a glare that froze the words in his throat. “What they tried to do to her, that was a crime.”

Without waiting for another word, Simon turned and carried you through the wide, opulent halls of his mansion, the luxurious surroundings a stark contrast to the horrors you had just escaped. He moved with purpose, his grip on you gentle yet protective as if he were carrying something precious and fragile. As he reached his private chambers, he nudged the door open with his boot, striding inside.

He walked toward his grand bed, the soft linens and dark wood frame a world away from the pyre you had almost perished upon. Lowering you carefully onto the bed, Simon’s touch was tender, as if he feared you might break. He adjusted the pillows beneath your head, smoothing your hair from your face as he stood over you, his gaze softening for the briefest moment.

“She has nowhere to go,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, his eyes never leaving your unconscious form. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the warmth of his touch a faint comfort against your feverish skin.

The silence hung heavy in the room as Simon stood beside you, the weight of his decision clear in the set of his shoulders. He had saved you from the flames, but he knew the storm was far from over. They would come for you. But as long as you remained under his roof, under his protection, they would have to get through him first.

And Simon Riley had no intention of letting you go.

The soft clink of your heavy gold bangles stirred the quiet room, breaking the early morning silence. You blinked your eyes open, the weight of the ornate jewellery and the lingering scent of smoke bringing back the harsh memories of the night before. Your body felt heavy and exhausted, but you were alive. The bed beneath you was soft, a far cry from the pyre you had stood on, and the air was cool and still.

Simon, who had been standing near the window, turned at the sound of your stirring. His eyes, sharp and alert, softened when they met yours. "You’re awake," he said, his voice low but gentle.

You slowly sat up, feeling the weight of your golden jewellery shift as you moved. The red silk saree you still wore clung to you, a reminder of the ritual that had nearly claimed your life. Simon watched you closely, his expression unreadable for a moment, but there was something in his gaze, something like awe. You looked like an Indian goddess sitting there, the rich red fabric and gleaming gold of your attire contrasting with the delicate vulnerability of your face. Even in your weakened state, you were breathtaking.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are safe now,” he said softly, his tone reassuring, firm. “Nobody will touch you. I will make sure of that.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten with gratitude and fear all at once. He was offering you something precious: safety. A luxury you hadn’t known since you were forced into this nightmare.

“The servant will prepare breakfast for you,” Simon continued, his voice softening as he spoke. “Whatever you wish to eat, just tell him.” He offered a faint smile, one that barely reached his eyes before turning to leave, giving you space to gather yourself.

But something inside you panicked as you watched him turn away. Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist. “They will come back for me,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the fear returning in waves. The memory of the village and the pyre still haunted you, lurking just beneath the surface.

Simon paused, his back still to you, his muscles tensing beneath your grip. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence weighing heavy in the air between you. Then, he turned his head slightly, his voice calm but resolute. “We’ll see,” he replied, his tone carrying a quiet confidence that made you want to believe him.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Simon’s servant stepped into the room, bowing slightly. “Saahib,” he said, a nervous tremor in his voice, “the village minister has come to see you.”

Your grip on Simon’s wrist tightened, fear surging through you once more. “They’re here to take me,” you muttered, dread filling your voice.

Simon looked down at you, his expression softening as he gently removed your hand from his wrist. “Relax,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “I will take care of them.”

He turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps purposeful, leaving you alone with the crushing weight of your fear. You sat there, frozen, barely breathing as you listened to his retreating footsteps echo down the hall. The walls of his grand mansion felt suffocating now, closing in around you as the threat loomed just beyond the doors.

Simon entered the living room, his posture straight, his face unreadable as he approached the man waiting for him. The village minister stood at the threshold, his weathered face lined with anxiety. As Simon drew nearer, the minister removed his turban and knelt before him, bowing his head low in submission. The gesture, one of both respect and desperation, seemed to fill the room with an oppressive air.

“Saahib,” the minister began, his voice thick with pleading, “please… I put my honour before you. Give her back to us.” He kept his head bowed, his hands trembling as he placed his turban at Simon’s feet, a symbol of his surrender.

Simon’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening at the man’s words. He took a step forward, his presence towering over the kneeling minister. “Give her back to you?” Simon’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, sharp as a blade. “So you can burn her alive again?”

The minister flinched at Simon’s words but kept his head bowed, the weight of his shame clear. “It is our way, Saahib. The village demands it… her duty...”

“Her duty?” Simon’s voice rose, cutting the minister off sharply. He took another step forward, looming over the man. “Her duty is to survive, not to be thrown into the flames like an offering to your backwards traditions.”

The minister dared to look up, his eyes wide with desperation. “Please, Saahib, you do not understand… This is how it has been for generations. The village...”

“Don't try to lecture an officer of the East India Company. I don’t care about your village,” Simon snapped, his anger barely contained. “I will not let you murder her. Not under my watch.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, and he leaned in slightly, his eyes blazing. “If you think you can come here and take her, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The minister’s face paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words, but there was no room for argument. Simon’s authority, his sheer presence, left no space for negotiation.

“Go back to your village,” Simon said coldly, stepping back. “Tell them she is under my protection now. If anyone dares try to harm her, they will face the full force of the British army.”

The minister, trembling, scrambled to gather his turban and stumbled to his feet. He nodded hastily, backing away toward the door. “Yes, Saahib. I will… I will tell them,” he stammered before turning and fleeing from the mansion, leaving Simon standing alone in the heavy silence of the room.

Simon exhaled slowly, his fists unclenching as the tension ebbed from his body. He had made his stance clear, but he knew the battle was far from over. They would return, perhaps with more men, more pressure. But for now, you were safe.

And that, Simon vowed, was all that mattered.

[the-monkey-ruler]

Journey to the West: The Demons Strike Back (2017) 西游伏妖篇

Director: Tsui Hark Screenwriter: Stephen Chow / Li Sizhen / Tsu Hark Starring: Wu Yifan / Lin Gengxin / Yao Chen / Lin Yun / Bao Beier / Battle / Yang Yiwei / Dapeng / Wang Likun / Wang Duo / Zhang Mei'e Genre: Comedy / Action / Fantasy / Costume Country/Region of Production: Mainland China / Hong Kong, China Language: Mandarin Chinese Date: 2017-01-28 (Mainland China) Duration: 108 minutes Also known as: Journey to the West: Demon Chapter 2 / Journey to the West: Demon Chapter / 伏妖篇 / 西游降魔篇2 / 西游·降魔篇2 / 西游·降魔2 IMDb: tt5273624 Type: Reimanging

Summary:

The monk Tang Sanzang finds himself as a giant in a city in India. His master congratulates him on reaching India and retrieving the Sutras, and gives him a halo as a reward. The halo, however, malfunctions and Tang awakes from his dream to find himself in an alley in a village of circus performers with his three disciples: Sun Wukong; Zhu Bajie; and Sha Wujing. Tang encourages Sun Wukong to perform for the villagers, but the disciple refuses. Angered by this stubbornness, Tang provokes Sun Wukong by calling him a "bad monkey", which causes Sun Wukong to smash the village and damage the villagers' homes in his temper. The terrified villagers present the group with money and food for their travels, but Sun Wukong continues wreaking havoc, sending Zhu Bajie and Tang flying through the air. That night, Tang whips Sun Wukong for his disobedience.

The next morning, Tang goes to find water for their breakfast congee and comes across a house. Its host, a beautiful woman in a splendid outfit, welcomes them all in for breakfast with her companions. Sun Wukong, however, sees through their disguises as spider demons; he purposely provokes them until she and the others show their true form. During the subsequent battle, the demons come together to form one huge spider. After being poisoned by the spider, Sha Wujing falls ill and slowly bloats into a fish-like creature. Sun Wukong defeats the spider and Tang attempts to exorcise her, but Sun Wukong smashes in the demon's head with one blow. Once more, Tang is annoyed at Sun Wukong's disobedience and whips him again that evening. Later that night, the enraged Sun Wukong discusses with the other disciples his plans to kill Tang, but the others fear Tang's mighty Buddha Palm powers. Tang overhears this conversation and prays to Buddha to help him and also confesses that he actually does not know, or have, Buddha Palm powers. Zhu Bajie overhears this admission and tells Sun Wukong, who challenges Tang to a fight. Just as Sun Wukong is about to strike, a blinding ray of light shines from the heavens and he retreats.

The next day, the group pass into the capital city of the Biqiu Kingdom and a minister comes out to greet them and bring them to see the king: an immature and childlike man who likes to play games. The king orders Tang to perform for him but the monk does not have anything to showcase. Sun Wukong therefore pastes an "obedience sticker" on Tang allowing Tang to copy his actions and perform stunts for the king. Sun Wukong, however, goes too far and makes Tang slap the king continuously, who throws them all out. Tang orders Sun Wukong to return and apologize, but it is revealed that Sun Wukong purposely provoked the king to make him reveal his form as the demon Red Boy. They fight and Sun Wukong defeats Red Boy, also freeing the true king of Biqiu from his cage under the throne. As a reward for helping him, the king presents them with a beautiful girl, Felicity, to accompany them on their travels. As Felicity dances for them, Tang is reminded of his deceased lover, Duan.

The group set off and on the way, Sun Wukong realizes that Felicity is actually a demon. In the meantime, Felicity takes out the nose plugs on Sha Wujing, allowing him to sneeze out the poison and turn him back into his human form. Tang, however, does not believe him, so they set off to visit Felicity's home village. Sun Wukong becomes enraged with Tang's lack of trust in him and that night he destroys the whole village, killing everyone. Tang stops him from killing Felicity, further angering Sun Wukong, who attacks Tang, but Felicity finally confesses that she is actually the demon White Bone Spirit and that the whole village was an illusion conjured by her. Sun Wukong flares up and turns into a giant Monkey King demon and swallows Tang. At that moment, the minister and Red Boy arrive and see Sun Wukong has fallen for their trick.

They had deliberately sent Felicity with the group to cause strife between Tang and Sun Wukong, so Sun Wukong would kill his master. Sun Wukong spits Tang out, however, as they had known this all the while; they only played along so that the minister would reveal her true form. They battle and the minister creates an illusion of Buddhas surrounding Sun Wukong, using them to fight him. The real Buddha, however, uses his giant palm to destroy the false Buddhas and reveals the minister's real identity as the Immortal Golden Vulture.

After the battle, Tang heads back to find a dying Felicity. He has no choice but to free her soul as there is too much demon in her. Before she dies, Felicity asks Tang if he loves her. Tang replies that he has only one person in his heart. The animosity between Tang and Sun Wukong has finally dissolved; together with Sha Wujing and Zhu Bajie, they continue their journey to the West through a desert.

In a post-credits scene, breaking of the fourth wall is invoked with the appearance of a modern movie theater, where theater employees tell both the viewer and the in-story audience that it’s time to leave and there is no post-credits scene

Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journey_to_the_West:_The_Demons_Strike_Back

Link: https://ww5.0123movie.net/movie/journey-to-the-west-the-demons-strike-back-19438.html?play=1

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Inside Climate News:

Most people are “very” or “extremely” concerned about the state of the natural world, a new global public opinion survey shows. 

Roughly 70 percent of 22,000 people polled online earlier this year agreed that human activities were pushing the Earth past “tipping points,” thresholds beyond which nature cannot recover, like loss of the Amazon rainforest or collapse of the Atlantic Ocean’s currents. The same number of respondents said the world needs to reduce carbon emissions within the next decade. 

Just under 40 percent of respondents said technological advances can solve environmental challenges. 

The Global Commons survey, conducted for two collectives of “economic thinkers” and scientists known as Earth4All and the Global Commons Alliance, polled people across 22 countries, including low-, middle- and high-income nations. The survey’s stated aim was to assess public opinion about “societal transformations” and “planetary stewardship.”

The results, released Thursday, highlight that people living under diverse circumstances seem to share worries about the health of ecosystems and the environmental problems future generations will inherit. 

But there were some regional differences. People living in emerging economies, including Kenya and India, perceived themselves to be more exposed to environmental and climate shocks, like drought, flooding and extreme weather. That group expressed higher levels of concern about the environment, though 59 percent of all respondents said they are “very” or “extremely” worried about “the state of nature today,” and another 29 percent are at least somewhat concerned.  

Americans are included in the global majority, but a more complex picture emerged in the details of the survey, conducted by Ipsos.

Roughly one in two Americans said they are not very or not at all exposed to environmental and climate change risks. Those perceptions contrast sharply with empirical evidence showing that climate change is having an impact in nearly every corner of the United States. A warming planet has intensified hurricanes battering coasts, droughts striking middle American farms and wildfires threatening homes and air quality across the country. And climate shocks are driving up prices of some food, like chocolate and olive oil, and consumer goods. 

Americans also largely believe they do not bear responsibility for global environmental problems. Only about 15 percent of U.S. respondents said that high- and middle-income Americans share responsibility for climate change and natural destruction. Instead, they attribute the most blame to businesses and governments of wealthy countries. 

Those survey responses suggest that at least half of Americans may not feel they have any skin in the game when it comes to addressing global environmental problems, according to Geoff Dabelko, a professor at Ohio University and expert in environmental policy and security. 

Translating concern about the environment to actual change requires people to believe they have something at stake, Dabelko said. “It’s troubling that Americans aren’t making that connection.”

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c18. India 0-1.

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: Where this flower blooms, Tyler, the Creator - Frank Ocean

abstract: it's Jude. this is a light chapter and the turning point of my life! my new job you know, I couldn't be happier. you're getting to know stuff about me as well, and I don't have a problem with that cause I trust you. it's someone else who just seems to know too much…

'I think you're one of the smartest people I've ever met, actually.' Kyle certainly knew how to charm women. His pearly white teeth, his dimples, his kind eyes. His face lit up when she was speaking, showing how interested he was in what she was saying. 'That's so interesting, you actually did that?' He walked her out of the building, he approached her as soon as the meeting ended. He asked her how it went with Laswell and how she was feeling about her new position. She replied that she wanted to be of help for them, and he agreed she would do just fine. He asked her a lot of questions about university and what she had studied while they walked out, the other soldiers parting ways to get back to their duties. She offered him to smoke with her, he declined saying he only smoked on night outs. Still, he was standing with his back against the wall in the smoking area outside the base. She felt his gaze on her while she lit her cigarette with her purple clipper lighter. She saw him look at her lips wrapped around the cigarette, and exhaling the smoke in the air around them. She made sure to exhale away from his figure, big clouds of smoke dissolving in then wind. She asked him where he was born, he wasn't much older than her. He asked her how many languages she spoke. She didn't include her Neapolitan dialect, which is technically considered a language, you can look it up. Plus, she had told him she was from the north, from Turin. I wish, she had thought.

'Translate my name in Italian… or Croatian', he had asked, to which she chuckled. 'It doesn't translate… it would be just Kyle.' She stubbed out the cigarette in one of the ashtrays. 'And what about your real name?', he got closer. She turned around and tilted her head the side, squinting her eyes. 'You're not supposed to know.' She replied. That made him take another step towards her. 'What if I want to find out?' His voice was lower, soothing. She looked up at him, taking in his gentle features and bronze, smooth skin. 'You can do a little digging… but you're not getting it from me' she smiled, gently teasing a step back. She already had enough of that conversation, it was starting to be way too much, too soon. She felt trapped between the boy and the wall even if she wasn't. He was holding her gaze and not moving from that position. She did the honours and stepped away from him, began her walk to her car. He followed like a happy golden retriever. 'Just a hint!' He tried. Fuck off, she thought. 'Come on! You strike me as a Cassandra… Or Juliet. Is it Croatian or English?' It's none of your business sweet boy. She opened the door to her car and put the bag in the back seat. She gave him a final glare. He was sweet, he was funny and attractive, too attractive to be smart. She didn't need anything serious or casual to do with someone who wasn't at her level, they wouldn't understand… just about everything. He was pissing her off and she didn't have time for this. Plus, your spooky Lieutenant already knows, one is enough.

'Call me however you want' she said, batting her eyelashes a tad too much to make him laugh and possibly not think she was serious. He laughed. She drove away leaving him in the parking space alone. Alone, smiling and looking at her car. Simon stared at him from the window in his office. He went upstairs straight after he saw them walking together. They looked nice, he was talking to her, scrunching down to look her in the eyes, she walked with her arms crossed, turning towards him to answer his questions. He looked at her smile at him and giggle at something he said. What did he say to make her giggle, what was so funny… He got a bit closer to Alba and Simon felt his chest tighten in jealousy, although he didn't even want to acknowledge it could be any kind of feeling. It was like being best friends with the cool kid in kindergarten and then see them play with another kid. It seemed so easy with Gaz as well, she seemed so relaxed. Earlier that morning, he thought he scared her, he thought she was annoyed at him, and rightfully so. He would think he actually could talk to her and she told him her crater story first… He started slowly coming back to reality when he was packing up his gear. He cleaned and sharpened his knifes, she would never want to have anything to do with him, and it was better this way. Setting up guns and rifles on the plane, she didn't belong in that world, she would be better off going back to counselling after that mission. The thought of her didn't leave him all day.

At night, it was the same all over. He would turn around in his bed she would be there, her lips slightly parted, her eyes shut and brows slightly frowned in that angry expression of hers. He would turn around to try and run away from her, and then his eyes would open widely at the feeling of her soft hand running up his shoulder, down his side, on his stomach. He was petrified. He would feel her forehead pressed on his back, her feet tickling his calves under the blanket. A small whimper from her mouth, she was so close he felt like she was gonna crawl inside him. She was warm. She smelled like tangerines and jasmine flowers. He would turn back to face her, she would wiggle to get closer to him, her hair loose and spread on the pillow. Go away, he wanted to say. She pressed her cheek to his chest, gripping his shirt in her fists. She would only disappear when he tried to reach for her. They had another briefing once they got to their headquarters, how the fuck was he supposed to get her out of his head if she was gonna work with him. 'Jude will give us clearance on this…' he thought about her eyes, 'Jude is gonna alert us if that…', he thought about her hands.

She was everywhere, her name was in the air, he felt like she was inside his skin, inside his head. They would attack that night, it wasn't a difficult mission per say, he endured worse. At the same time, the lack of coverage and places to hide on the side of the crater was going to be a big problem. About thirty minutes from the attack and he wasn't focused, he felt a weird sensation in the pit of his stomach, maybe he was nervous, but the mission was nothing different from the usual deals… It was her, she was going to get him killed, she was poisoning him, he could even hear her voice right now… No wait, he really heard her voice. He heard the captain speak to someone from inside the main tent they had set up and when he peeked his head through he realised it was her. She wasn't there obviously, she was speaking through a video call, but still. 'Okay, you're all sorted then… What time is it over there, 2pm?' the captain was asking, which she had replied '3, sir.'

'I'm just gonna put it out there, Alba', the captain knew her name, 'I had my superiors run a quick check on how your mom is doing, just to make sure we're in the clear with possible ties with the Middle East…' Her mom…?

'Oh for fuck's sake I already told you, why would she have anything to do with this, would you stop being so fucking…'

'Simon?'

She stopped talking. Price saw him. His face was blank, he thought about just turning around and pretending he didn't hear anything. But he did. Alba's mom, she was from Croatia. Why would she have to do anything with them… 'Come in… need something?' He realised his captain was actually talking to him. No I don't need anything I just heard her voice and I thought she was in my head, but she's not, and I'm actually loosing it. He stumbled over his words, saying something about hearing him talking from outside. 'You really don't know how to lie, don't you?' She spoke from the screen, her voice low and hoarse. He could feel the sound travel down his spine even from the speaker. His ears were red under the mask. Why, cause you lie so much Jude you know how to do it perfectly uh? Price looked down at the screen and gestured him to come closer with a nod. When he approached the table he saw her image on the tablet screen. She looked like a different person. She had her hair tied up in a slick bun, she had a black turtleneck on. She was sitting at a desk and looked like she had pens and papers scattered around her. She had the black glasses he saw in her apartment, they looked a little bit too big for her face. She looked professional, put together and capable.

I can paint the picture for you. Alba looked like Diabolik's girlfriend. If you don't know, Diabolik is one of the most popular series in Italian comics, about a nameless criminal mastermind thief, genius and assassin with a mask on, named Diabolik. His partner in crime is as clever as him, and her significant trait is her blond slick bun and black clothing. I won't give out her name, just because it might be important for the sake of the story. But I digress… When she looked at him, her smile disappeared. He realised it was her first time seeing him with the skull plate mask on. Not really a sight for sore eyes. 'This one's different…' she said, probably referring to the mask. He didn't have the chance to reply, Price's burner phone rang and he quickly excused himself out of the tent, leaving him alone with Alba on the phone. Great. Come on you kept thinking about her, now she's here, talk. She studied him form behind those huge lenses, crossing her arms on the table. She admitted, it wasn't really pleasant to look at him. The image wasn't really clear on the screen, but she felt chills down her spine nonetheless. The mask looked like a real human skull, somehow sawn on the balaclava. It was creepy. Every inch of his skin was covered, his eyelids were painted dark, he had gear and weapons strapped to his chest. Again, just a terrifying sight. It made her realise what she was gonna do in 15 minutes. Direct an operation that would bring death to a lot of people. It was starting to sound real all of a sudden. 'You ready?' he asked, snapping her back to reality. 'I'm good', she replied, a small nod.

All she wanted was for Price to come back and close that damned call, she could't look at him anymore. She thought he had noticed her discomfort because he suddenly disappeared from the screen. Shit started to go down after that. She put her headset on, turned on the microphone. She set up her screens and make sure she had her papers in order. After a few minutes, every body camera started to switch on, revealing the desert around the soldiers, them getting in position. The first thing she heard came from the Boeing aircraft. She felt her heart rate go up. 'India 0-1, this is Eagle 0-3, standard check in, over.' She cursed under her breath and switched channels. 'Eagle 0-3 this is India 0-1, loud and clear, out.' She replied. She let out a shaky breath and checked she gave the correct response with the correct form. She did. She stayed silent, hearing the conversation and radio checks from the soldiers. 'All stations, five minutes to dispatch, get ready.' She figured it was Price speaking. 'Gentlemen, say hello to India 0-1', she chucked, hearing a few voices saying hi, she thought she recognised Kyle saying a chirpy 'hey Jude'.

'Hi everyone' she replied with a small smile.

'Good luck.'

notes: I did my best keeping the conversation on the radio as close to reality as possible, but, you guessed it, I'm not in the army!!!

taglist:

@ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

[thebottomfromhell]

How do the demons react/interact with a human GN reader? Do they like foreigners? I feel like they might be racist? Does douma think of like foreign meat lol? Reader can speak Japanese so I guess they can talk if you want them to interact?

Also I love your righting! I think you are the only king writer who writes them in character, it’s so nice reading fanfic when the characters are writing well and you are the only person who writes them right, plus you write really well! Great detail! I always look forward to your writing!!!

*In History Channel II voiceover* After the American colonization by the Europeans, the Japanese folk started to distrust foreigner forces to not cause distubances in their recent adquired piece by pressing their influence, leading them to close the borders in the Edo period. It wasn't until- *static sound before it takes over the post*

Also, Douma reacting to western meat is gold, imagine if people tasted similar to their local cuisine. Bet that would make Chinese, Indian (from India, to make sure it's clear. I never refer to natives of America, as a continet, as Indians), Mexican, and Korean people his favorites (he strikes me as someone that loves spicy food, one of those who always say "It's not that spicy" while blushing and sweating).

Demons meeting foreigner Human GN Reader

Warnings: Cannibalism, Racism, Mentioned prostitution, Mentioned sexism, Mentioned/Implied reader's death (bonus dead reader), And Deshumanization? (Some of the demons get refered as "it", so does reader).

Gyutaro + Daki:

Now, let's be clear, after the borders got open again one of the places that got the most amount of foreigners was the Red Light District. Obviously, only wealthy people came, hence they went to take some entertainment while making deals and trade, besides the Japanese upper class using the attractions as a displey of power and superiority. Now, to say Gyutaro and Daki are fond of these... turists... they are not.

It's mostly mild annoyance of things that build up, like their attutide to degrade the courtesans to just serve food, drinks and sex, the dislike of their accent and disregard of errors when speaking the language, the fact they speak of the courtesans in between them in their native language, a lack of proper manner or knowledge to behave in the tables, and everything. Daki still remembers the time on threw a poem she wrote with exquisite caligrafy. It's not pleasurable, but they rarely appear, so it can be tolerated. In some senses they are not worst than first time clients, or the poorest who are expending everything in one night of entertaining, but still.

"Excuse me." It was pure coincidence you met them, you only wanted to ask for the bill of the drinks of the woman attending you, wanting to leave as the bussiness trip was taking a turn out of your comfort zone. When you entered, you found a half-naked woman using sashes to absorbe the one who was attending you. You tried ran from it by miracle, scaping to the crowd. You tray to tell it to someone, but you just were discarted as drunk because due not being your first language, the fear, and the adrenaline of the scape anyone couldn't understand your Japanese. It was the second, the mere second you weren't watched that you felt a presence, a cold breeze of air and preassure that left you dizzy, that you suddenly found yourself back inside, in a dark room.

"I got --- -----, neheh." The voice sound so distorted you can't understand it, it feels that half of what he, you think, says are sick groans and moans of pain that slur words. When you look at the source of the voice you see a... is that even human? And the woman from before, tone more childish, but at least you can understand what she says. "Not pretty enough for me, clearly not a Japanese beauty. It might make me sick! I don't want to eat that! And I don't want you to eat it neither!" They both look at you, as you tremble, not knowing what to do. "Ne. You seem to be very lucky, ne. Good for you! None of use seems interested in eating you, so you get a quick death. Ne!" It.... he says, talking slowly, as he brings his arm up and blood starts to cone out of wrtist into his raised hand in the shape of sickle. You finally find your voice, talking in panic, as you beg in your native tongue. "Hey! We don't speak... whatever you are talking! Shut up! If you are going to cry at least do it in Japanese!"

They seem annoyed, and you don't know if you might manage to raise their volume so someone might come and see before they kill you, but you try to regain composture and talk in Japanese. Talk in Japanese, Y/N. "Please, I'll do anything. Let me go.... " You beg, in that you start to mention your family, your home, fuck you don't want to die so far from home, rambling in desperation things about your culture, traditions, your favorite places while thinking that you don't want to die without that in a place your loved ones won't be able to mourn you and by the time you realize... the female.... one is actually interested.

"What does that mean?" She seems curious... in a childlike way, which would be endearing if you didn't fear for your life. The other one seems to relax and let you both be. You don't understand, but you also dom't ask, just... satiate her curiosity, not fully so she won't decide she had enough of you, yet enough to give her something worthwhile. Aurprinsinly enough, they let you go when the sun comes out, or rather, they dissapear in a rush. You take your chance to leave, not without hearing a whisper in your ear. "You better come back tommorrow night, ne." You can only tremble.

Gyokko:

Gyokko can't stand good people on a good day, now imagine him tolerating turist in a normal one. He was just stealing viewing some foreign goods that just came in a ship, some more interesting than others, when you, who probably traveled in that same ship, walked on him. You freeze the second yoy lay eyes on him, clearly anything but a human being, mouthes where the eyes should be, pale scales instead of skin, no legs as the bottom is linked to a pot, an eye on the mouth and one on the forehead. You can only stare in confusion and fear, and after a few seconds of silence, Gyokko talk. "What are you-" "AAAHHHHHHHH!" You run, as if hearing.... it talk was the last straw, what you needed for your body to activate a fight or flight response.

"You little shit!" You try to get towards the exit when you get yourself tripped with abother pot... what that.... that wasn't there earlier, was it? You don't get an asnwer, instead you see that creature getting out of this new pot, slowly and smoothly, as if it lacked bones. You are terrified, what ia this thing? "Don't run away when I'm talking! You foreigners are animals or what?! You lack any basic esucation and respect to the ones that are older!" It talks so humanly, in the same tongue of the people native to these lands, one mouth speaking at the time.

It takes you a while to be able to regain the courage to speak, even more to remember how to do so in Japanese. "What are you?" You manage to ask, you think, fluently enough. Or maybe you didn't, because now it's your turn to be stared by those creepy eyes. You get the term "oni" or something like that, but you have no idea what it means. It's a monster? A ghost? A demon? Maybe asking, considering the bridge due the language, was useless, and it embarrasses you, but now your attention is more in how to get away from this "oni". "I... I need to go. Have an appointment." That is all you can try.

Gyokko looks at you, and decides to wonder. How would your skin taste? Would it be a delicasy? Or would he loath it as much as he is loathing your manners and personality. "An appointment, you say?" Or maybe, just maybe, he can take advantage of this. If one of his pots, or several, manage to reach outside Japan, he might be able to do so as well. (Not that he knows, he might not have enough power for such a trip, but a little testing would never hurt). "Then let me apologize for keeping you here." He makes a new pot out of one of his hands before offering it to you, you don't dare to deny it... maybe it's friendly. "I might give you more if we meet again, hehehe~" and like that, Gyokko leaves, wanting to see if he can get out of Japan, to conquer forward would definetely please him. And you... you can only keep the pot in your bag and never break it or take it out. Never.

Hantengu + Clones:

Hantengu is afraid of the seas, and anything that comes from it. Some fishes, waves, even people! How can people come from the sea?! Do they breath in water?! Are they monsters?! So scary! So scary! No! No! No! It's so scary he would never steal from any of those ships! Never! It's his hands! It's his hands fault! Have some compasion towards an old, blind man! Yes! He is blind! Please don't "EEEEEEEECK!" A scream, or rather a shriek, leaves his lips once you go to get your stuff. You have no idea what is hoing on, you just cover your ears under the assault on them. Meanwhile Hantengu is just. So. Scared! So he decides to take actions.

He runs. And you just look confused, precessing what just happened. Some seconds of silence and you decide that all of that was just your imagination and you must get to the inn to sleep it off. You didn't expect is to hear a different voice, angry, from the direction Hantengu ran off. "What?! This is it? This is what we were summoned for?!" Only to find completely different figures, ascept they are not. 4 horned "humans" with bright eyes, exactly the same from one another. Escept one that has... bird limbs? Talons in his hands, feet and wings... what is- "Now, now, Sekido! Be nice! Aren't you glad we got separated?" A different voice, even if it's just the same face, except the eye color. "It's pathetic how much Hantengu has come to rely on us, so sad. This is just a mere human, one of us is enough. Why call the four of us? Really sad."

Then one of them is suddenly on top of you, the bird one, making you fall on your back as he kneels on top of you to see you in the face, closer. He has fangs... and... kanji in the eyes. "This one is different, though. I can already taste it!" What the-? "Kill it! Kill it! It's a monster! It comes from the sea!" The figure from before, except it's so small. What happened to it? Him? You don't even know that. But most of the figures just stare at it, either looking done for or confused, as the one with red eyes talks again. "What? This human? You have to be fucking with us! You got scared because of a foreigner?! You yourself can kill that shits! We should, before they infest the proper culture!"

"Oi, oi, Sekido. Isn't that a bit too harsh? To kill them inmediately would be a waste. We could at least check out if it's actually different from a, ya know, normal human. From Japan. Don't ya agree, Urogi? Aizetsu?" "A human it's a human, they are weak and die, it's sad no matter what. I don't see why put so much effort." "Well, I DO want to know how is life outside Japan!" They are all basically talking over you, and you try to push the bird figure off you, but it's a lot heavier than you expected it. Aren't birds supposed to be light to fly? "Hey human! Can you breath underwater? Can you eat fish? Oh! Oh! Can you read and write?" "You yourself don't know how to read and write Urogi." You feel crowded, but at least none of these seem to be that aggressive, except the red-eyed one, but that one seems busy with the green-eyed one.

"I would like to sit down....." At least the bird onw gets off you, even if he keeps assaulting you with questions. You answer as much as you can when you hear a shout from the other side. "Fine! But it's your responsibility, and you will get rit of them when you are done, AND deal with the main body! Understand Karaku?" There is a nod as the green-eyes one takes the small figure near the group you are with. "Good news! Ya get to live until we get bored! I reccomend you to be interest, beside, Hantengu needs to you you are just a human." He shows the sobbing creature in his hands. "Oh! Do we get to name them?" "Humans come with names most of the time, Urogi. So no."

So, two want to know about you, one wants to get rid of you, one doesn't care and the first figure is scared of your. Just what the hell is hoing on? "Y/N. My name is Y/N." The bird one deflates, but the geem-eyed one grins. "A pleasure to meet ya! Name is Karaku, and I bet we will have a lot of fun together!" You don't like how he said "fun", but you don't get much of a choice. So you play along, and wait for a chance to just run away. And you get it an hour or two the sun comes out, as the crowd starts to form. You must just have to wait for the right moment. Just wait.

Nakime:

So far, you don't regret coming to Japan, you have seen things you liked, things you disliked, and managed to try new things. It was an experience alright, not one to do so many often, considering what a nuisance it was to arrive to Japan in the first place, and you still would not abandon the comforts of home for nothing. After all, such a travel would not be possible for anyone with low resources, and you are more than happy to be able to make a travel or two for luxury every once in a while, but soon it will have to end. Not that you can't make the best of it while you are at it, that is why you are moving with some strangers as they guide you through the city, just now they showed you a very nice restaurant, where you ate and ate and made your money worth. You were about to part ways when suddenly a note of a weird instrument sounds and... you are in free fall.

Nakime doesn't deal with people. She is too important for him to remain unhidden, or at least that is what she tells herself. The only humans that step into her castle are the ones she, and any other guest (namely Muzan), will be dining for the evening. Your odds were not good when uou found yourself in a place with no ceiling, floor and wall at the same time it has millions of them, changing passages and corridors, portal doors and everything that can make a house a fantasy puzzle. And she is weirded out as you fall into a room nearby her, as the group you were with are spreaded across the castle, as she hears some weird words she has never heard before, clearly not japanese.

She looks at you with curiosity as you finish to swear due the pain of the impact, but with how long you have been falling, you guess it's a miracle you are still alive. And... what is this place? What... you can't begin to describe everything and everywhere... moving. Floating. Existing. You can't even see from where you fell, and you swore you heard the other scream as well, when a female voice makes you turn around. "Is there something you want to say outloud?" Pale skin, black hair covering her eyes, black dress, or kimono, or whatever it's called. That is all you can tell from the distance, besides the fact she has a... a guitar, you think? "Where are we?" You feel the need to ask her.

She doesn't recognize your accent. "You are not from Japan, are you?" Now, should that knowledge even change things? Should she reserve you for him? Should she just kill you and eat you? She definetely can't send you back, not that she would. But this is a new experience that might need s new resolve, and she isn't sure how she feels about it. Better to bother him more than actually needed than to do something wrong. "My name is Nakime, and you shall stay here until I can reach my master." She says as she plays her Biwa and you are... in a room, no doors, no windows, only a room, until your fate is sealed. You should have stayed at home.

Akaza:

Akaza will not admit it but... he actually forgot for the longest time there was a literal world outside Japan. Truth be told, Japan is already big enough as it is, and with his speed he has already traveled throght most of it, if not all of it with the smaller islands around being the exception. After seeing so much... repeatedly, in search for a god dammed flower, he just... forgot there is more. His life, as far as he remembers, was confided in his duty and how far his abilities would let him go, sothe second he realizes there is actually people from... outside, he gets curious. Not particulary fond, but curious.

Finding you was a coincidence, thought. And one that was not that probable to happen. He was looking for the blue spider lily, and you were just having a walk nearby the inn. And what you see is a man with weird eyes, weird hair and weird tattoos. It does startle you at first, but is human enough, even if the lack of clothes and the light coming from the eyes, says otherwise. Maybe is some coatume due a tradition, it wouldn't be the weirdest one you have seen so far in Japan. "Hello. Are you also traveling?" Akaza can tell by your smell alone, even without getting close. You are not from here, you came from the sea, it's smell still lingers on you, alongside with a scent of... unknown. Not only that, but you are so out of place you don't realize the danger you are in.

At first he is tempted to threaten you, to tell you to fuck off, basically. Akaza is not really hubgry right now and he would rather not spoil his night by having to deal with a weak human. But... when was the last time he was able to hold a converdation with a human? He remembers a hashira, years ago, one he killed after being rejected, while they were fighting. Come to think about it, the only humans he actually talks to are Hashira, so... why not make a little change just for once. It's not like he will ever see ypu again, specially after you leave Japan. "More or less, I'm Akaza. What is your name?" You at first have trouble understanding, since you use the polite tones, the ones you were taught to use, while this guy, Akaza uses a less formal one.

"Y/N." Is all you can say as you see him smile, it would be charming if it wasn't in a "I know something you don't" way. "A pleasure. I never heard that name before? Where is it from? What does it mean?" Akaza decides to just be curious, he can't get in trouble for making a few questions and not eating you. And a part of him is... happy, very relaxed, to be able to sit down and talk without any threats or status in between. There is something... nostalgic about it, but he can't put his finger on why. "I hope you don't mind if I stay with you for the night. I would like to hear about yourself." Specially since... he seems to know how to keep a conversation alive? Odd. Just odd. Meanwhile, you decide talking with a handsome stranger is not the worst thing this trip could give you. "Of course. What do you want to hear about?"

Douma:

Douma rarely ever gets to even hear about foreigners, being in a secluded cult tends to leave him a bit out of touch from society, with the exception of the few times he goes to have a walk, burn some steam, outside at night. But even then, he isn't there for light conversation, which leads to the fact that he is definetely excited to meet you, if his accelerated heartbeat is meant to say anything. You found his cult by mere coinsidence and, while you don't believe in a man being able to hear the gods (you don't even believe there are "gods", but you are not here to tell other why their religion is wrong) but you were curious about this talk of "silver hair and rainbow eyes", specially since there was a chance you didn't understand correctly because of the language.

But he does have rainbow eyes and silver hair, almost like a mytical creature. Very attractive, but still very human in his appereance, even if there is something odd. Then again, to you, every Japanese has been odd, almost completely different to how people work back home. "Why don't you spend the night here? I would love to talk with you a little more. I find myself intrigued with what else is unique about you." He offers, making you conflicted, something about him makes want to both come closer and run away. You end up going back, you already booked an inn, and you don't want the money you spend on the room and food to go to waste.

The walk is long, even by carriage or horse, it's doesn't help when suddenly the wheel broke. You were waiting for reparations when suddenly you saw something shine in the dark. When you got clored, you were suddenly pinned on the wall with your mouth covered by a cold hand, as if it just touched snow. Just like the hand of... that man, that is looking at you. There is no way he is actually anything but a human, right? But how did he get here? Alone? At night? Those were 3 hours in carriage. "Y/N? Right? I am afraid I couldn't control myself, I was just so curious. I have never had the chance to taste a human from overseas! I needed to try you out!" He says cheerfully. What does this freak mean? You don't understand at all! What does he want with you?

"Oh, don't do that. You will not be able to scape my grip, no matter how much you wiggle. Specially since I would like to talk with you, so it would make me very sad if you forced me to kill you so soon. I would even cry!" You stop in your tracks, kill you? Then you realize the guys is not even putting an effort at all, just smiling at you expectantly. Then, suddenly your mouth is free, but you are too afraid to shout for help. What is this? A demon? Like, a demon from hell? "Don't be afraid, you will see that you end up winning on the end, you will be able to exist forever within me." Just what did you get yourself into?

Kokushibou:

He is aware, of course, that there are... people, outside Japan. He remembers his father buying every once over half-a-decade an item from foreigner merchants. "Exotic tokens", he called them. Michikatsu knew better, his father didn't like those pieces of... trash any more than he did, it was just a display of wealth for when visitors came. Still, it was never of his liking, and now that he is meeting you... it's not that he is conflicted, it's that he knows that what he is thinking shouldn't be said put loud. You are... different, to say it kindly, non-traditional, and he is not fond of that.

You can't hold yourself to the same standards he always held himself, or tried to, the ones of a proper man of the samurai gentry, since your education is completely different, if you even have that. The lack of knowledge in your culture doesn't let him tell just with your clothes or manners. He doesn't know what irritates him the most, his loss when trying to read you or how different you are. It's odd, out of his comfort zone. Kokushibou hates being out of his comfort zone. It doesn't help that you are outside your comfort zone too, having troubles with the culture and language.

You just found each other a moment you walked out the inn for fresh air. The first thing you did was scream, he flinched. The second thing you did was run, he stared, inmovilized in the spot you just saw him, wondering if you are worth killing or not. Then he figures out... you might not be versed enough in Japanese for you to say anything, and people might just tell you you saw a ghost (not that he can say if they are real or not), so... it's not worth the effort. Then an intrusive thought flies through his brain.

"What if he ate you?" A part he always denies prompts in, that part that is less a samurai and more an animal than anything else, always hungry, angry, envious and greedy. And it does have a point this time, he might never get a chance to taste something different, to pretend he has some choice in what he eats, if he doesn't do it now. Is tempting, as you run away. A jump with few steps would be enough to catch up with you, or not even that, a swing of his swords with a breath would be enough to kill you as you run, slicing your body as you move. Kokushibou stays still for some seconds, heart beating fast as he contemplates, grip tight on his sword, takes a deep breath... and turns around to never see you again as long as he can do something about it. For the better for both of you.

Bonus:

Douma's hunger is being now placated by your flesh, wet sounds of the blood and tissues splashing as he rips the pieces, instead of just biting them off your dead body. He doesn't remember the taste of sticky rice in a human tongue, but if he had to describe the new taste in comparison with "not sticky rice". He can't seem to explain, the amounts of greese, iron and other tastes are just different. But he likes it. It's new, and that makes it exciting, addictive even. Part of him regrets killing you so soon, an unrealistic part of him wishes this taste could have been prolonged somehow, but not finishing to eat you now would only be a waste.

The sound of the fangs penetrating your skin, and he wonders, do all foreigners taste like this, or just you. He really, really, really wants to find out. What would it take to have him to agree to invade some neighbor country, he wonders. His heart gets giddy at the thought. More food om the way! He definetely has to try to ask. With that in mind, he finishes to eat, and the next time there is a meeting between the Kizuki, he will ask permission to start a movement to have more foreign meat. He drools at the idea, it's impossible he will be said not to.

[Spoiler: Muzan did say no. Douma is disappointed.]

[featheredclover]

Carmine Veils

Read from the beginning

Chapter Seven

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Chapter Six < > Chapter Eight

His sword sliced through air and plunged into the man’s thigh.

Arnav sighed.

He swung his sword again at a man who was heading towards him with much gusto. Their weapons clashed in a painful clang. He twisted his arm and soon enough the man’s sword lay on the ground.

His eyes took in the other soldiers fighting with effortless ease. The blaze of fire set off by the rebels burned around him.

He ran an aching arm across his face, as he paused for the first time after a relentless week of preparations and two days of war.

Khushi

The thoughts of her flooded his mind. His pulse throbbed, as the ache of longing in his heart intensified.

“ Arnav “

He looked up to see Chandragupta astride on his horse.

“ It’s over. The rest have surrendered “

Giving him a lopsided smile, he asked teasingly “ Do you have a chariot for me ?”

An unknown emotion clouded Chandragupta’s eyes.“ There is a sturdy horse waiting for you”

“Is something wrong?” he asked concerned.

“ You talk just like Aravind.”

Understanding dawned on him, as his eyes softened.

“ I hope I am just half the trouble he was, from what I have heard from ma ,Uncle”

Chandragupta grinned and glanced at the sky above as dawn skirted around the horizon.

Aravind. He is your boy through and through.

———

Arnav rode his horse, a sturdy black beauty, down a steep hill. The footsteps of the other horses being ridden down by his troops lulled him into a calm.

The white clouds surrounding the hill seemed close enough to touch. The sun was now beaming upon them in full glory.

Arnav couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the woman who had haunted his days and nights, even before he met her.

-----

Ratna rubbed her hands together with vigour, heating the oil spread across her palms. She smiled down at her son as she began to massage his luscious mop of hair. Mop it was because just like Aravind, he refused to trim it.

“ India is the land of heat. Who will take care of your hair there?! You need to chop it off Arnav!”

“ Ma, I will look like a very well kept flower boy.”

“ What’s wrong with being a flower boy? I have heard these days girls like pretty boys. Khushi would like that too!”

“ Ma. I am going there to get rid of the rebels and bring you back to your home. Not marry your precious princess. You and uncle Shashi both need to stop with all that planning in your letters”

“ Uff! Shashi said Khushi would share your interests. She excels in warrior lessons as much as in other kalas. We are not shooting arrows in the air. I have heard so much about her antics that I know she will lighten this imaginary burden you carry on your shoulders “

Ratna hit his arm lightly as she admonished him further.

Grabbing her hand mid strike, he planted a kiss on her withered palm.

“ I am not getting married Ma. My goal is to make sure there is not even a shadow of suffering on you.”

Seeing her son’s eyes misting with unshed tears, Ratna cleared her throat.

“ Toh? Who would dare let a shadow of suffering fall on a princess’s mother in law?”

“ Ma! You are too much”

-----

He had dismissed his ma’s teasing and persistence as a mother’s wish to see her grown up son married.

But he didn’t know what to think when he first met her. They had briefed him about his role and he was determined to see it to fruition.

He had not expected to see a princess, lounging with a book resting on her face and her arms carelessly petting a kitten.

Her shock at seeing him brought a smile to his face. Then it was his turn to be shocked as she began walking up to him. She raised a delicate hand to release the cloth covering his face.

He would have to be oblivious to not hear her gasp and notice her fidgeting around him.

To him she seemed so delicate, like a lone lily fluttering along with the wind.

But then he saw her wield her sword.

He was floored. He watched her perform with the grace of a panther and yet with a strong hint of the power within.

He had laughed around with her friends, in the hope that she would join in. He spoke out borrowed lines from his friends back in China, to reduce the formality with which she dealt with him.

She had instead run off. He had followed her only to find the anger in her blazing. His heart had stopped as he felt the fear of her being hurt, his own bleeding arm going unnoticed.

She had been so guilty, so anxious that night. Even holding his hand to her bosom, as he felt his blood painfully race through him. Thankfully she was too busy apologising to notice the raw hunger in his eyes. He couldn’t help chuckle and press a thumb against her lips, which was driving him mad with need.

But it was a humid night, when he woke up and felt the real fear seeping in at falling in love with Khushi. He didn’t even know if marriage was meant for him. He definitely had no plans before this beautiful girl barged into his life and freed his face from a veil. He couldn’t reason with himself, but he felt a need to not let this go on further.

Khushi deserved better. Much better. Maybe an actual prince, rather than a warrior , he thought with a pang in his chest.

He was stumped later that day, when she burst into his room demanding to know why he hated her. The pain and anguish on her face made him want to scream. He wanted to pull her close, imbibe her onto himself, run his fingers through her hair.

But he willed himself to let her go on….maybe if she hated him whatever it was between them would be easier to let go.

But his strength broke, when her voice broke as she spoke of Lavanya and his supposed preference for her. That was it.

He saw red, and the next thing he knew he held her hand in his. Her eyes wide as they stared into his, her lips quivering.

She is going to be the death of me.

That was his last thought before he kissed her with all of what he felt for her. The lust, the doubt, the love all poured out as he plunged into her mouth. Again. Again. And again.

From then on, for the first time in his life. He had let his mind take a step back, letting his heart lead on. Her words were like a soothing balm. Even if he was her “bodyguard “ it was him who felt protected. It was in her eyes, which always searched for him. Her arms, which clutched him tight as they met under the moonlight. Her lips, so pliable under his. The way she melted in his arms sends a shiver down his spine.

But that night, Arnav glowered gloomily. He had told Khushi to only meet him on nights other than when he was required to be with the rebels, earning their trust. But of course she had defied him.

He had felt his heart stop on seeing the white dupatta drenched carmine with blood. Her blood.

And the next morning, when he had wanted to shake her and scold her for putting him through the pain of her being hurt, she had presented him with a sword.

Her sword. To kill her.

She would rather be dead, than face another betrayal from him.

He had resisted the urge to drop on his knees and hold her trembling body to his. Instead he grabbed her hands and took her straight to the king. He wanted her to know the truth, to believe in him.

Shashi uncle wanted us to get married didn’t he? Would he change his mind? Has he now seen who I truly am and deemed me unworthy of Khushi?

Thoughts ran wildly in his mind, one more painful than the last.

He had seen all the emotions painted on her face, as his past was revealed to her. His fist were clenching and unclenching restlessly as he waited for her to look at him.

Khushi , he called out desperately , only to realise that he hadn’t said it out loud.

Arnav chuckled as he remembered his state. He hadn’t gotten a word with Khushi. As soon as they were ushered out of the chambers, a couple of soldiers stood waiting for him.

He had looked regretfully at Khushi. She had just shook her head and said “Go” in a soft voice.

----

He stopped in front of the Pearl Palace, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

His soldiers rode on in the direction of the cavalry, and he went ahead seeking what he was starving for.

Chapter Eight>>

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Unfairly Maligned Games, Vol. 3

Games I loved that got low scores, review bombed, or have some other weird negative stigma attached to them that I think is unfairly earned.

NOTE: I don't believe in giving games a number score or a letter grade. Maybe I'm just bad at criticism or very easy to please, whatever.

Indivisible [2019]

Mostly only known as the "from the makers of Skullgirls" game, Indivisible is another prime example of a game that was crowdfunded as one thing but turned into another, and gets a bad rap for its association with the ever-present controversiality of Skullgirls' creators. That said, I still think - as always - that it's crucial to view a game for what it is, not what it isn't. And what it IS is an extremely engaging mish-mash of genres and endearing characters, oozing with style and appeal, that fills a very particular void left behind by some of the most classic RPGs of a bygone era.

At its core, Indivisible is a 2D Metroidvania/RPG hybrid with an unusual battle system that plays similarly to an old PSX game series called Valkyrie Profile. During combat, each character's gauge will fill up, allowing them to take action(s). Your four party members are each assigned to one of the four face buttons on a controller (e.g. A, B, X, Y), and pressing that button will - in real-time - execute an attack on the enemy. Using it in combination the D-Pad allows for several different types of attack. All party members' attacks can overlap simultaneously, allowing you to string together combos to really rack up the damage, or juggle enemies to prevent counterattacks and break their defenses. The Metroidvania and platforming portion comprises the rest of the game, with a heavy focus on using those same action skills to scale massive environments, solve platforming puzzles, and dodge spikes. Typical Metroidvania stuff.

Story-wise, in our modern world of RPGs that is dominated almost exclusively by Japanese and Scandinavian narratives, Indivisible is breath of fresh air that focuses heavily on South and East Asian mythology and themes. Heavy inspiration is taken from the cultures of India, Tibet, Mongolia, and the South Pacific. This is reflected not only in the characters and their various ethnicities, but in the game's approach to spirituality, reincarnation, second chances, and being a teenager hellbent on destroying god. Our main protagonist Ajna is a teenager studying martial arts who isn't quite as in touch with her spirituality as her mentor would like her to be. When war strikes the land and burns her home to the ground, she gets pissed and sets out on a quest for retribution, discovering in the process that she actually does possess certain godlike powers of destruction, and also that she can absorb certain people into her head, which is just a cute way of lampshading having a Party System.

I've seen Reviewers and big Opinion-Havers on the internet criticize the game's writing for having a bull-headed protagonist who boldly rushes into confrontation, unleashing her wanton destruction without first considering the catastrophic consequences for civilians. It's almost like they've forgotten what being a teenager and making poor choices is like. But I say fuck 'em. I say we need MORE stories about uninformed teenagers with immense godlike powers and no sense of nuance making rash decisions and fucking up royally. That alone is crucial to understanding the rest of the game's themes about atonement, reincarnation, and understanding why you believe what you believe in. That's what Indivisible is all about. In many ways, I feel like Ajna shares a common story arc with Korra from the Avatar series, and it's very cool to see how she learns to deal with the damage she's caused and what insight that gives her when facing down the Big Bad.

Of course, what is a good story without characters to flesh it out? The characters in this game are absolutely charming and multifaceted, coming from a wide array of different cultures and personalities, many of which are vastly underrepresented in not only RPGs but video games in general. Personal favorites include, but are not limited to, big booba water mom Thorani (based on a buddhist deity of the same name), Leilani the Hawaiian sharknado (spins around in a cyclone attack using a leiomano, a Hawaiian shark-tooth sword), lesbian pirate mom Baozhai (based on the famous Chinese pirate Ching Shih), and of course, local nihilistic swamp witch Razmi (a loose mishmash of Korean and Persian Zoroastrian shamans). The full cast of characters is enormous (well over 20 playable ones alone), and each one comes with a unique moveset and playstyle that not only keeps gameplay interesting, but matches their personality and the role they play in the story.

But if there's one thing I truly want to focus on when I gush about this game, it's this. Indivisible has one thing over most other games of its genre, something that modern RPGs in particular suffer heavily from a severe lack of, and that's its strong commitment to multiculturalism. Indivisible made a clear decision to not only feature characters from around the globe, but to blend their cultures together in interesting and exciting ways that don't diminish or water them down. Every character is allowed to shine in their own way without diluting what makes them stand out in the first place, which is why you can have a game that features a gunblade-wielding cowboy, a Namibian songstress, an armless Chinese dancer, a Kamen Rider knock-off, and a Mongolian archer who people keep mistaking for Pearl from Steven Universe. This sort of melting-pot cultural stew used to be common in classic anime and 90s RPGs, but kind of fell out of fashion with the rise of gacha waifu games and Elder Scrolls derivatives. Now more than ever, I feel like Indivisible is exactly the sort of injection the gaming world needs to rekindle those flames of pure imagination that the old classic era brought us.

All that said, one of the biggest reasons Indivisible will always have a dark mark next to its name is of course due to the fact that its lead designer (the studio head) was involved in a sexual harassment case that resulted in everyone on the team either quitting or being laid off, and the rights to the work and characters getting lost in the shuffle. Additionally, the game was still finished and released as intended, but did not feature any of the guest star characters that were promised during crowdfunding, most of whom were indie darlings of the time (Shovel Knight, Hyper Light Drifter, and Super Time Force to name a few). Naturally, this has left a sour taste in many folks' mouths, so it is somewhat understandable why the game would have a negative stigma attached. There are also a few bizarre and possibly off-putting cameos hidden among the NPCs (a few outdated meme references and Zone-tan, of all people), but these are entirely skippable and serve only as background extras.

Sour grapes aside though, I wholeheartedly recommend Indivisible for anyone looking for a fresh take on action RPGs. The neat hybridization of Metroidvania and real-time RPG with fighting game mechanics gives it a very unique identity, and if the compelling spirituality of the story doesn't grab you, the charm of the characters absolutely will. It certainly took me for a ride. My only word of caution is to follow the game's own suggestion and get good at Blocking in combat as early as you can!

[your-local-simp-writers]

Silent Heroes

Word Count: 801

Warnings: Violence, mentions of assault Pavitr x Female!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶ The night sky stretched above the city, casting a dark veil over its streets. The dimly lit alleys served as a haunting backdrop, as if concealing secrets within their shadows. In the heart of the chaos, Pavitr Prabhakar patrolled the neighborhood as the Spider-Man of India, ensuring the safety of his fellow citizens.

Tonight, however, his attention was captured by a figure standing alone at the bus stop. It was you, a young woman he had seen around before. A spark of recognition ignited within him as he remembered your warm smile, which seemed to hold a hint of hidden pain.

Curiosity compelled Pavitr to keep an eye on you. From a discreet distance, he watched as you boarded the bus, your eyes weary and your body tense. His spider-senses tingled, warning him that something was amiss. With determination, he decided to follow the bus, swinging from one web to another, his heart pounding with concern.

The bus came to a halt, and you stepped off, your footsteps echoing through the empty streets. Pavitr landed silently, a guardian angel in the darkness, as he trailed behind you. He noticed the subtle shifts in your body language, the way you glanced nervously over your shoulder.

As you reached a desolate corner, the peaceful silence shattered when a group of menacing figures emerged from the shadows. Fear consumed your eyes, and panic clawed at your throat. Pavitr's blood ran cold at the sight, his heart pounding in sync with your rapid breaths.

Without hesitation, he leaped into action. Webs shot from his wrists, ensnaring the attackers, temporarily restraining their violent intentions. Pavitr's fists flew with a practiced grace, each strike fueled by his determination to protect you. He fought not only for justice but also for the hope he saw in your eyes.

As the attackers retreated, you stumbled backward, gasping for air. Trembling, you met Pavitr's gaze, your eyes wide with astonishment and gratitude. You reached out, hesitantly grasping his hand for support, the connection grounding you in a world that had almost torn you apart.

Pavitr's grip tightened, his eyes mirroring the mix of emotions within you. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, unable to find the words to express your gratitude. The night had brought you face-to-face with terror, but it had also delivered an unexpected hero—one who had saved you from the darkness threatening to consume you.

Silently, Pavitr guided you away from the scene, leading you to a nearby bench. You sat down, the weight of the night's events settling heavily on your shoulders. Pavitr stood before you, his presence both comforting and reassuring.

"You're not alone," he whispered softly, his voice like a gentle breeze. "There are people who care, who will fight to keep you safe."

His words sank deep into your soul, washing away the residual fear. It was in that moment that the invisible walls you had built around yourself began to crumble. Pavitr had become your anchor, grounding you in a world where you had lost faith.

With a trembling hand, you reached out and touched Pavitr's masked cheek, feeling the warmth that radiated from within. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

A soft smile graced his lips as he covered your hand with his own. "It's what heroes do."

In that stolen moment, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, a connection formed—a fragile thread of understanding and compassion that transcended words. It was a promise of hope, a testament to the indomitable spirit that could rise from the darkest of nights.

As the city slumbered, its heartbeat carried the whispers of your shared secret. You had found solace in the presence of a masked hero, and Pavitr had found a purpose—to protect and heal the wounds of a world that often seemed unforgiving.

Together, you would navigate the shadows, a silent alliance of two souls seeking solace in a world that so desperately needed heroes.

[girlactionfigure]

*ISRAEL REALTIME* - "Connecting the World to Israel in Realtime"

▪️CORRECTION & UPDATE - MEITAR not MITAR, previous report on school vandalized was in Meitar, near Be’er Sheva, not Mitar, near Netanya.  Two women from Hora who work at the school are suspected and were arrested by police. 

▪️HOSTAGE BABY KFIR TURNS ONE.. where is he?  Is he alive?  Why are we delivering aid and medicines with no proof of life or return?

▪️JORDAN ATTACKS INTO SYRIA.. The Jordanian Air Force attacked targets identified with drug dealers and border smugglers again tonight in southern Syria.  According to reports from Syrian opposition sources, there are about 10 dead as a result of the Jordanian attacks in Syria. Most of them are women and children.

▪️IRAN TRAINED GAZA SNIPERS.. A Shabak investigation of a terrorist showed that Palestinian Islamic Jihad terrorists from Gaza were trained on Iranian soil to be snipers.

▪️HAMAS CONDEMNS U.S… The senior member Hamas, Abu Zohri, condemned the classification of the Houthi rebels in Yemen as a terrorist organization by the Biden administration.

🚨 RED SEA-Houthis Front 

 ▪️HOUTHIS CLAIM.. The military spokesman of the Houthis:  As part of the response to the American-British attack against us, we launched several missiles at the American ship Genco Picardy in the Gulf of Aden. Target hits were achieved.  An Indian Navy ship in the Gulf of Aden responded to a distress call from a ship flying the flag of the Marshall Islands that was attacked by a drone.​​​​ The ship that was attacked in the Gulf of Aden is the MV Ginko Picardi and it flies the flag of the Marshall Islands.

 ▪️US / UK ATTACK HOUTHIS.. fourth attack by the Americans and the British against the Houthis in Yemen, targets were attacked early in the morning in Sana'a, Tez, Bicha'a, Hudaydah, Damar and Zada.

🚨 REGIONAL War 

▪️PAKISTAN ATTACKS IRAN.. the Pakistani army attacked 7 targets, some of them near the bases of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, in the Sawaran region of southeastern Iran.   According to its statement, Pakistan attacked "terrorist bases" of “terrorist organizations” in the Sistan region of Balochistan.  Pakistan: “We fully respect the sovereignty and territorial integrity of Iran.”

(( Noting that Pakistan has a very large military, is at constant conflict with India, has nuclear weapons, and buys and is trained on American weaponry including F-16’s. ))

▪️CONFLICTING REPORTS OF US EVACUATING OR REINFORCING SYRIA BASES.. one report states US moved an additional 1,500 troops to Syrian ‘anti-ISIS’ bases.  Another report (Arab media) says “US forces have evacuated the Hemo base in Syria, which is west of the city of Qamishli in Al-Hasakah countryside, after it came under multiple attacks by the Islamic Resistance in Iraq.  The forces have reportedly moved to the Tal Baydar base West of Al-Hasakah.  It is considered one of the US occupation forces' most vital bases, as it is close to Qamishli airport and contains a training camp for the Syrian Democratic Forces (SDF).”  

🔶 GAZA-HAMAS Front 

▪️Air and artillery strikes by our forces in the area of ​​Jabalia and Sheikh Radwan in the Gaza Strip.  The IDF left these areas, the residents began to return, and the terrorists along with them.

🔶 JUDEA-SAMARIA Front 

▪️NOOR-SHAMS, firefight, security forces are demolishing terrorist houses in the El Manashia neighborhood, for the 2nd day.  During the activity, terrorists throwing IED’s at the troops and using IED’s on vehicles.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

My guess has always been that Eugenie was Camilla Tominey's impeccable source. There were whispers that Harry was dating someone seriously. And then Eugenie confirmed to C.T that it's Meghan, that they had been hanging out in Canada and going on double dates etc. The info seemed air tight and it "seemed" like it was coming from Meghan's sources because of the Soho connection and because E and M's social circle intertwined a bit.

Then Camilla Tominey confirmed this with one of her palace sources, maybe someone in KP or Harry's staff. This was an unnamed source. Since she got a confirmation from Harry's team, albeit unofficially, it seemed like a go ahead to officially out the relationship.

Then someone from Soho circle Toronto confirmed it cheekily, making it seem that Meghan herself was also one of the sources. I think this bit was absolutely true, Meghan did want the relationship to be out, and did unofficially confirm it through someone. She knew that the news would be out soon. And this is why Camilla Tominey has always maintained that the couple knew and wanted this out. The paper did go to KP for a final confirmation and final comment. This is protocol. So KP also knew this would come out.

And I do believe, Meghan's social circle orchestrated the outing of this relationship somehow. Meghan's PR plan was ready to go the moment the news came out. It coincided with her rwitmans commercial and then her charity visit to India later on.

PS: her visit to India also coincided with the opening of Soho House Mumbai. It had just opened a few months back and I'm guessing that's where she stayed, and that she also met Marcus there. She made it sound like she stayed with the good friend PC who showed her around the city. That's not true. She did hangout at Soho, there were grainy pictures at the time by Indian paps. She wore skinny, torn blue jeans and a shiny black top with spaghetti straps. Then there was one with a black sleeveless maxi dress. But those mysteriously disappeared a couple of days later by the time she got back from India.

Could be. Eugenie doesn't strike me as being Camilla T.'s source, though. I always felt that Camilla's source was someone in either BP or KP. But it's very plausible

Meghan has been hanging around Soho House since she was with Trevor and still friends with Ninaki. There are old photographs of them hanging out at the LA Soho House pre-Suits.

I'm not sure if "and that she also met Marcus there" you mean Meghan met Markus for the first time at Soho House Mumbai or Meghan hung out with Markus while she was in India for "charity." If you mean the latter, then absolutely - if Markus was there for the party, he would've hooked Meghan up for anything she wanted. If you mean the former, then that's not the case; Meghan and Markus were hanging out at Toronto Soho House long before she went to India.

All roads lead to Soho House when it comes to Meghan.

[eretzyisrael]

Hamas didn’t invade Israel on Oct. 7 for its amusement. The barbaric sneak attack is a part of the pogrom intended to wipe out the Jewish state. It was a crime against humanity, and not just because of its savagery. We would all be worse off if Israel ceased to exist. The same cannot be said for Islamic terrorists.

Israel’s contributions to the modern world are momentous. When not dodging bullets, rockets, and homicide bombers, Israelis have since 1948 developed:

Copaxone and Rebif, drugs that treat multiple sclerosis, and Exelon, which treats mild to moderate dementia in Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s patients.

The PillCam, “a minimally invasive ingestible camera in a capsule that allows visualization of the small bowel.”

The water desalination process.

The Sniffphone, “that can actually ‘sniff out’ diseases.”

And SpineAssist, “​​the first-ever spine robot” that has the “ability to provide real-time intraoperative navigation.”

The Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot, Israel, responsible for some of the inventions listed above, has also produced diabetes and flu vaccines, is using T-cells to treat damaged spines, and is a pioneer in industrial — and medical — uses nano materials. 

Other impactful Israeli products include drip irrigation, a revolutionary microprocessor called the 8088, the ​​NIR heart stent, voice-over-internet protocol, the ​​USB flash drive, the Waze navigation app, ReWalk, “a commercial bionic walking assistance system,” and “the first commercially viable firewall software.” 

Our own security has benefited from Israel’s labor and work ethic.

“Many Israeli innovations are present in upgrades to U.S. Air Force fighters and Army equipment,” says the international law firm Smith, Gambrell & Russell. One important advance in particular is the helmet-mounted display system for the new F-35 Joint Strike Fighter.

So we have a country of 9.23 million, mostly desert, that is only 75 years old, is “surrounded by enemies” and in a constant state of war, which has “no natural resources,” yet “produces more start-up companies on a per capita basis than large, peaceful, and stable nations and regions like Japan, China, India, Korea, Canada, and all of Europe.” It is the only nation outside of the U.S. that Warren Buffet invests in.

Have the Palestinians or Hamas, currently at war with Israel, done anything that compares to what the Israelis have achieved? More broadly, beyond the Allahista terrorist groups, what has Islam contributed to the modern world?

Not much.

Since 1901, Jews, who total 0.2% of the world’s population, have won 189 Nobel prizes for physics, medicine, chemistry and economics. Over that same period, Muslims, who make up nearly a quarter of the global population, have won four.

If it seems as Islamic groups, Hamas and Hezbollah prominent among them, are more interested in spreading nihilism, committing atrocities, and destroying civilization than making the world a better place, well, then there’s a good reason for it. That is exactly what the heroes of an increasingly large number foolish Westerners are aiming for.

Meanwhile, Israelis see themselves “as having a role in the world to repair the world,” says Chemi Peres, managing partner and co-founder of the venture capital firm Pitango, chairman of the Peres Center for Peace and Innovation, and son of the late Israeli Prime Minister Shimon Peres.

“We call it tikkun olam, and here at the Peres Center we have a mission statement, which is to introduce innovation and new ideas and new technologies, not only for ourselves but to solve the problems of the world.”

Islam is part of that world, but too many of its adherents live to do just the opposite. 

— Written by the I&I Editorial Board