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syoddeye · 5 months ago

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big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

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housecow · 2 months ago

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i was made to live in the middle of nowhere btw. i lived in a city for 4 years and that was enough tyvm!!! i can cook well enough to not need restaurants around everywhere…

pros:

bugs

nature

stars at night (are big and bright 👏👏👏👏)

true privacy

cool rocks

generally friendly ppl if ur in TX

bomb mexican food

that filipino food truck

drive thru daiquiris and margaritas

city is ~45 mins away and makes a fun day trip

cheaper gas bc oil fields and refineries are close

cons:

local restaurants in small towns are hit or miss and a lot closed bc COVID

mostly fast food

i hate seeing ppl i know at grocery stores. you don’t need to know about my need for 3 different family sized things of oreos

necessary weekly grocery store runs

high quality ingredients depend on ur area (there is so much good meat (beef esp) where i am but im a seafood girl)

car-dependent communities

polarized political views

cows in the middle of the road at night

javelinas. hogs.

drunk ppl

#also coyotes scare the shit out of me ngl #i’m just a weenie #talk

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witchofthesouls · 11 months ago

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I would love to see you write some more culture differences between the bots and humans. If you wouldn’t mind :0 I wish we saw some in TFP

Same here. I love seeing world-building and deep lore, especially with other fantasy/sci-fi civilizations.

TFP gave us so much and so little at the same time. It's like going to a restaurant, you have a drink and great appetizers, so you're constantly waiting for the entrée that isn't coming!

TFP is also really fascinating when looking at it with the lens of the caste system and its deep roots within and among the 'bots, even their reduced circumstances. I get the feeling that Optimus is way more casual in way with his team than what the decorum would demand, even with his barriers.

The Autobots would find human cityscapes as quaint. Even the dense sprawls of megacities with towering high rises are paltry reminder of what they're used to.

Cybertron was a planet where its wilds had been tamed. Either reshaped or completely stripped. The Wastelands is/was an apt name for the baren landscapes outside the established city-states.

It wasn't just a large difference in public transport and zoning and sheer scale. It was also the functional design and architecture.

City-states mimicked the layouts of Titans' ground alt-modes. They didn't sprawl outward. Those had set perimeters based on Titans' outer defenses. Instead, the cities expanded up or down.

It wasn't limited to just a parking structure or secretive bases. Whole levels housed entire communities of what castes resided there: occupations, hospitals, sewage, refineries, restaurants, entertainment, and so much. Some mecha go without ever seeing the sunlight or feel real wind, especially those at the lowest of the system. The lowest castes are set all the way at the bottom, among ancient tech and dilapidated buildings. Sorting and recycling what could be kept and what must be sent back to the upper levels.

The concept of "open to the public" would confuse the Autobots. The Golden Age operated its society under the strict overview of a caste system, which expanded to "where" and "what" individuals of a caste could access.

Monster truck rallies fall under bloodsport to them. Bulkhead once scavenged money to watch and do small bets at high-stakes drift racing and lower-tier gladiator matches below the ground. Mecha still had to pay entrance fees to it.

Parks were under the Artisanal caste. Blending murals of legends, careful tending to fauna that are functionally extinct that was tailored to the agreed aesthetic, live music from specific pupils of masters, playing on instruments that merged with the gardens, so it was difficult to tell what was a tool and a plant or animal. And entry to any of it was only allowed for certain castes.

Universities were thriving, self-contained communities, and major points of power. No one off the list would be allowed into its grounds. All visitors and short-term guests were deeply screened and monitored. There is no such thing as "dropping by." Everything is meticulously planned and prepared. Unless a faculty member personally vouches for a guest, they must heed the numerous rules or a risk permanent banning.

Academia had long since been territorial over its talents and quality of its programs and people. They refuse to allow anyone outside its jurisdiction to bully one of its own. No matter the rank or caste, it will close its inescapable jaws around an outsider.

The fact that someone could go to a private university and simply jog upon its grounds is mind-boggling to the 'bots.

As well as libraries and their courses and workshops. So anyone can go? Anyone?! Everyone has access to the knowledge!? Can anyone simply go join a seminar on local gardening? Anyone can just go to a playground and start swinging or playing basketball or flying a kite or dancing to music? Anyone?

Bulkhead had a lot of questions for Jack and Raf since they're locals compared to Miko.

"So anyone can go?"

"Yeah. I used to spend my recess looking up bird anatomy and Ancient Greece and Egypt."

"You had a thing for ancient civilizations?" Raf asked.

"Doesn't everyone?" Jack shrugged. "Pharoahs and gladiators and old gods? We ate that up with mystery books or Goosebumps."

"I read Sherlock Holmes and the Chronicles of Narnia."

"Those are classics. Hey, did you get into The Lo-"

"Hold up," Bulkhead cut in, crouched down and leaning more forward, as if sharing a secret and quietly ask, "So anyone?"

"Yes. Anyone." Jack repeated, rapidly firing off each point with a finger. "Their family. Their friends. Their classmates. Their coworkers. Their pe-"

"Even, let's say, a construction worker. He could just go inside and pick up, I don't know, quantum physics? Anatomy of any frames? Gardening?"

"Sure." Raf squinted and moved to wipe off his glasses with his sleeves. "Clubs and people like to donate more to expand the base. Some of the college professors even leave early editions of their textbooks." Raf readjusted his glasses and beamed. "It's for easier access people and for an industrial copier."

"Oh..." There was a wealth of meaning in that small noise.

"You..." Jack struggled on the concept. Perhaps giant metal aliens didn't need books and could download information from their own internet. "You don't have libraries or schools?"

"No. We did." Bulkhead sighed. "I just wasn't allowed into them."

Out of all of them, Miko would be the to come the closest to understanding them in some ways. 出る杭は打たれる. The nail that sticks out gets hammered in.

As a transfer student from Japan, Miko does have instances of culture clashes with her American classmates and host family.

She's loud. She knows that. But Americans are a different breed with no restraint. In some ways, admirable. In others, incredibly frustrating.

Miko is used to a far heavier workload with long hours after-school and a busy city life. Jasper qualifies between a small and large town that she can't walk around easily on her own with the blazing heat and bitter cold nights and the lack of a car or a bike.

Detention in the US is a joke to her. Stay in school after it's over? She's used to doing that back at home with clubs and cleaning it. On a Saturday? Same thing. Some clubs back home ran long hours over the weekend. Do homework? She already finished it during lunch or between classes because she wants all the other time to herself and the 'bots.

Because Bulkhead gets a realization just how free the kids' social mobility is, he tries to get on Miko over her scrapping at school and her assignments, especially after Ratchet's high jacking their science projects resulted in failure. And that was another strange blow since Ratchet is a medic and a scientist. She's smart and quick and can be rough around the edges and so everywhere, and, to him, Miko deserves everything she could want in her short life. (And wasn't that also a terrifying concept to grasp? To just live and die under a single vorn?)

At first, Miko was getting annoyed because it's similar to the well-meaning nagging her host family does, but she reads the worry he has, and they have to really sit down and speak and soothe over his misunderstandings.

It comes as a huge surprise to her that Bulkhead can just download a language into him. Context and colloquialisms would be missing, and he needs work because he's a mix between extreme formality and, much to her delight, yakuza. And it's all because of her own frustration that English is her second language.

#ask #transformers #transformer prime #tfp #cultural misunderstandings #culture clash #miko nakadai #bulkhead #jack darby #raf esquivel #my writing #maccadam #ahhhh the golden age was terrible #lets agree on thay #really god damn terrible #bulkhead has motherhening tendencies pass it on

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sheep-from-rad · 2 years ago

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Stay with me, Sway with me ♡ (SAGAU) Note: This song, I love this so much. This is a request by @mehhiah, sorry it took me so long to tackle this one. Also please, if you have requests put it in the ask box so I can easily see it (also priv messages scares me sorry). Anyway, I’m absolutely involved with this song, I hope you guys enjoy it! LASTLY, MY REQUESTS ARE CURRENTLY CLOSED. Warnings: Semi-ooc (?), Prince Kaeya theory (I really love that one so I added it), bullet type, semi-yandere-ish [Masterlist 1] , [Masterlist 2]

Ever since the traveler breaks the wall that separates their lives from the dark reality about them being trapped in a game, music together with other factors has been a part of everyone’s lives. It’s not uncommon for foreign sounding music to be played everywhere, even in churches. Traveler songs being played together with new ones, old ones getting mixed up and rewritten to fit the new ones. While aware, sometimes you just forget that they are indeed alive and can interact with you.

You held the broom in your hands, pressing it close to your chest imagining a microphone, the ones that you can see at concerts and live bars. You put on your headphones, eyes fixated on the task of cleaning your room before the holiday ends. “When Marimba rhythm starts to play…”

Diluc pretends like he’s not paying attention to the song that you are currently singing. It’s not the same as the songs that he is used to hearing both from the locals and from the Bard god. It has a sensual tone on it and it bears an air of refinery that reminds him of the fallen aristocrats Mondstadts used to have. He doesn’t care about crowns and wealth but being named as an uncrowned king, he can’t help but imagine the two of us dancing in such a song. In, in his arms at the after hours of the tavern to the early hours of dawn. Maybe he’ll steal a kiss or two, that if you let him to.

Kaeya was having a late night drink when he heard the song that you are singing. It reminds him of that time he and Rosaria got so drunk they decided to climb Albedo’s laboratory but ended up watching Eula dance in the frozen waters (she chased them afterwards and chased them at work). Nobles sure love their fancy dances and he was not safe from Crepus’s dancing lessons as well. He can imagine the two of you dancing in the empty, semi-dim ballroom. Just the two of you, with the rich robes on your body and crown on his head. If he can’t run from his fate, he might just go embrace it if it means embracing you as his own.

Venti writes a song while he listens to you sing. He is so used to the songs of praise or song of tales but a song that tells about desire is something that is new to his ear. Serenades to exist in Teyvat but they don’t go as far as to tell the most intimate desires. They only go on the surface and barely scratch the realm of what love is supposed to feel. Tomorrow comes the musical revolution and for sure everyone who hears the song of the night will make something of the same liking. He hopes that before you descend, he will be able to write the best song that describes his whole heart.

Ayato finds himself a little flustered by the song. Inazuma just opened again a long time ago and the only references that he has on such subjects are those written by the locals and tales of his workers. It is safe to say that Inazuma is still in the age of conservatism even though it is now slowly advancing to be able to walk at the same pace as the other nations. He can’t help but stand up and away from his work, thinking about the lyrics of the song over and over. Bards sing about their feelings and poets make poems about the things that entices their feelings, does it mean you want someone to hold you close and bend you on the dancefloor? If so, he wants to be the one to do it.

Alhaitham was taking notes. Dances are not uncommon in Sumeru but it is also not something practiced freely until the traitorous sages fell from their thrones. Dances and arts in general are still in their toddler days and he is glad that they get references from other nations. He notes the song being sensual, a type of song that only sang on weddings or intimate dates. The type of dance that he wants to share with you. To pull you by the hand and cradle your head possessively while he glare at everyone who wants to get close. It’s not like he’s gonna let someone get close to you. Not the traveler, not the sages, and definitely not Kaveh. That or, maybe he’ll let Kaveh join in

Taglist! @tinandabin | @chihawari |@eccedentesiast-sapphic @jaxielous |@uchihaeirin |@zuri-feather

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smokescreenimusprime · 22 days ago

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I'm curious what your take of a little fic would be from just hearing the title of one of my AUs. Most are straight forward, but I think you could have some fun with this one.

Broken Holoform

All of Jasper knows you don't go to the abandoned oil refinery. People who didn't learned quick. It wasn't something talked about outright, but it was something you read between the lines, to find the thinly veiled warnings.

Every couple years there'd be someone who wouldn't listen. An out of towner who was poking around places they should, some dumb teenagers who wanted to face the local ghost story, so on so forth. It didn't matter who went, or what time.

The hushed rumors would always spike afterwards.

Tales of a ghost haunting the whole place. A ghost without a face and missing pieces of itself, who spoke in screams that grated at the ears like metal sliding on metal, who would appear out of no where and disappear the same

Some said it was scaring people off on purpose. Some thought it wanted blood, wanted the body it had so obviously lost. A rare few pondered the idea of the ghost wanting help but not being able to communicate it

no one was sure.

-or-

a Cybertronian trapped underground is running out of options and energon and turns to desperate measures

#transformers #transformers prime #tfp #autobots #decepticons #kd answers #smokescreenstuff #ask game

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idlepollingofcybertron · 1 month ago

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Elita-1 & Starscream Workshop

ELITA-1

Elita-1, originally name Aerial, is a Seeker who worked at the same Energon Refinery as Orion Pax before the war. She worked her way up from transportation to supervisor and was very active in the local community with her fellow workers. She and Orion Pax were romantically involved, which continued when she became Elita-1 and he became Optimus Prime.

Optimus remains both her lover and best friend, though she mourns their third friend who they lost due to the war. She currently has a mentee/protege that she is very close to and protective of.

Elita is a much more practical person in comparison to Optimus's more dreamy nature but is both capable and compassionate. She was always deeply ambitious which paired well with Optimus as they fed off each other and balanced out well. She is a somewhat mysterious figure to most Autobots as she is very intense and deeply private opening up to only a select few. It can cause strain even in her closest relationships given the privacy can extend into those as well.

The war has definitely effected her as her practicality and determination has evolved to make her a brutal military commander who is critical with a streak of bitterness when reflecting back over the years and losses. She has a streak of nihilism which Optimus would sometimes counter with his optimism buoying her at times.

STARSCREAM

Starscream is another Seeker much like Elita-1 though he is younger. He was equally ambitious and from a young age managed to become a scientist in Energon Production, but was disgraced and lost his qualifications due to false charges surrounding the disappearance of his best friend, Skyfire who was presumed dead. Starscream found solace with Thundercracker and Skywarp and has remained close to all the Seekers who joined the Decepticons.

Starscream has always been clever and competent to go with his ambitious nature which assisted in his rise in the Decepticon ranks as both a true believer in the cause and genuine skill. He caught the attention of Megatron who took a mentor role over him eventually resulting in Starscream as both his second in command and leader of the Seeker Air Force.

This relationship grew toxic over the years though and only exasperated Starscream's paranoia from his previous betrayals especially given his more impulsive nature and vindictive streak. He was originally very confident but the years have made him self-conscious and overly aware of his own behavior on top of paranoia concerning others. This has made it difficult for him to trust anyone outside of his pre-existing relationships.

#make a continuity #elita one #starscream

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autumnslance · 2 months ago

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FFXIV Write 2024: 11 Surrogate

A Desertwalkers Weird West AU Story (I did not intend to write any of the FC AUs, but such things happen. How the Strikers' perpetual helpfulness lands them a new home...)

“Now hold on just a minute,” Zaine said, staring at the Landsguard officer. The doppro rider stared back, impatience evident. “This was supposed to be a temporary position.”

“I am simply the messenger,” the officer replied with a shrug of his mottled shoulders. “Take it up with the city if you wish to change the terms of the contract.”

Zaine stared down at the paper before him. He had sort of fallen into helping Stonewood’s judiciary with the claims office, as he was a decent mediator, able to make friends with both locals and those coming to the plains of Xak Tural for work in the ceruleum refineries and railway expansion. There were land disputes, and water disputes, and animal issues, and crop concerns...

But he was just here for the interim. They would find a real officer from Tuliyollal to take over, and Zaine and his sister could move on, exploring the land as they had planned. Once things settled down a bit for Stonewood and the friends they had made here.

The writ from the city, delivered by the increasingly impatient Landsguard officer, not only confirmed Zaine permanently for the role, but expanded the responsibilities—as someone dealing with the local property issues would also be responsible for estate settlement and the probate of wills.

“I might have to,” Zaine said, a headache coming on. “I didn’t really think they would hire an immigrant drifter into such a position.”

Then again, he and Aeryn had stood up to Baelsar and his aggressive expansion on behalf of this town and neighboring communities. That probably had a chunk to do with it.

The officer chuckled. “What you get for being good at it,” he said. “And Tuliyollal is more concerned with what one chooses to do, than where one is from. We could not have formed our nation otherwise.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Zaine muttered. “All right, I won’t take more of your time. I’d best speak to my sister and see what we do from here.”

“Great. Have a good day,” the officer said, leaving before Zaine could get his own farewell in.

Well. All right then.

He closed up his office for the day (and it really was his office now, wasn’t it?) and stepped out into the hot, dusty street. He thought of getting a drink, thought better of it, and continued on to the schoolhouse, where Aeryn had been helping out.

Aeryn was outside, class apparently dismissed for the day. She was talking to one of the adolescent students, a petite redhead she seemed fond of. Or maybe it was the girl’s uncle, a smarmy, fair-haired, gunblade-using bodyguard for the local coven, and sometimes bouncer for the Cat’s Eye Cabaret. Normally Aeryn didn’t notice anyone who noticed her. But there was...something...in the way her and the bodyguard interacted that made Zaine’s brotherly hackles rise.

His sister saw him coming now, smiling and waving cheerfully, her student following suit. Nice girl, that Ryne. Her mum was a lovely blonde mining foreman, often busy, hence the girl spending more time with her uncle. There was some connection to the cabaret owner, too. Zaine hadn’t thought he needed to worry too deeply about complicated family dynamics around here.

Maybe he would have to start.

Ryne stayed long enough to greet him before skipping off to meet with her friends, taking the hand of a dark-haired gal as the youths rushed off. Aeryn let out a deep breath. “I have something to talk to you about,” she said with no preamble.

“I have something to talk to you about,” Zaine answered, walking with her toward the rooms they were renting. “You go first.”

“The superintendent rode out today,” she said. “They want to extend my contract.”

Zaine frowned. “Thought this teaching gig was a temporary thing?”

“I thought so too, but they’re having trouble finding anyone qualified willing to come out here, and I’m apparently doing well enough for the board and the parents both. And the children are all so good…”

“And you want to stay,” Zaine said.

“I’ve thought about it,” Aeryn admitted. “It still may not be forever, but...for awhile?” She looked over at him.

“Well,” he said. “That could work. Considering my interim position isn’t so interim now.”

“Were you fired?”

“What? No! Why is that your first assumption?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve only known you my whole life.”

“Whatever, smartypants. It’s the opposite actually. They made my role permanent.”

Aeryn hugged him, grinning. “This is a good thing, right?”

He hugged her back. “I mean, yeah. I didn’t really expect it so it caught me off guard.”

“This is what you get for standing up to Baelsar.”

“I guess. You did too, though, and that might have convinced the board to keep you around.”

She shrugged. “I helped a little. You did most of it.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t ever seem to convince her that she was, possibly, more instrumental to such actions than himself. She would continue to blow it off until getting angry if pushed, so he let her change the subject.

“If we’re staying, we need somewhere to live besides a couple rented rooms.”

“I’ve thought about it,” he said. “Funnily enough, I am aware of available land around here. There’s a couple acres just outside town that I think between the two of use we could afford and manage, with our other work.”

“When you say a couple—”

“Literally two.”

She considered that, then nodded. “It’d be nice to have our own place. Weird, maybe, but nice.”

They stopped at the same time and looked at one another. Zaine began to smile, which made Aeryn smile in return.

“All right,” he said. “I guess we’re staying.”

#final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2024 #Lyn Writing #Weird West AU #Desertwalkers #Stonewood #Zaine Striker #Aeryn Striker

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morganablenewsmedia · 10 days ago

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IPMAN Needs NNPC Approval To Lift Petrol – Dangote Refinery

IPMAN needs NNPC approval to lift petrol – Dangote Refinery, as it awaits NNPC’s go-ahead In a statement on Thursday, Dangote Refinery revealed that it was yet to receive go-ahead from Nigeria National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPCL) to supply Premium Motor Spirit, widely known as Petrol, to the members of the Independent Marketers Association of Nigeria. This revelation was made on Thursday…

#Dangote Refinery #IPMAN #Local Consumption #MEMAN #PETROAN #Petrol< Nigeria #Premium Motor Spirit #President Bola Tinubu

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thelawsofdaylight · 1 year ago

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I'm sorry if this isn't approriate, but I don't really understand why you find Les Mis a good target for a climate protest? I get that the musical has themes that align with the protesters but like... what was the good outcome? Are there really People in that audience that don't know climate change is happening? How Will this change their mind? What action is meant to be brought on by trowing soup at paintings or disrupting a performance? Does that actually help the cause of combatting climate change at all? Does it help make people more aware, does it have an effect on the mechanisms of polluters? Isn't there anything more focused that these resources (both money and the incredible bravery and drive of the People themselves) could be better focused on. These protest feels so different from like, people chaining themselves to a private jet or the schoolchildren going up to parliaments by the thousand to demand policy chances to better their future. All of the JSO actions feels so performative, I just don't see how they are actually doing anything of even the mechanism by which they are meant to accomplish anything? Which doesn't mean that the people involved aren't great people or that the reaction of the Les Mis crowd wasn't fucked up. Just... what was even the goal?

Hey! I know it's been a while since I made that post supporting the JSO protestors but I've gotten a few asks like this in the time since (and am still getting them) so I'm responding to this as the most good-faith one in my inbox and hopefully it answers others that have been asked to me in the past couple weeks as well. Disclaimer: If I'm responding to things outside the remit of this ask, it's likely that it's because someone else sent an ask about it and I've been juggling them all in my head as I've been thinking on a response.

I think in order to answer the first part of the ask we have to tackle the second. 'What has this action achieved' only works as a comprehensive criticism if we look at it in isolation to all of JSO's other actions. What I mean by this is: JSO launched by blocking oil refineries for days on end. In the two years they've been active they've done similar actions, including but not limited to disrupting fuel distribution centres, petrol stations, interrupting fossil fuel conferences, and, most recently, trying to stop the relocation of asylum seekers to prison barges. Their actions go far beyond blocking roads and disruption of public events. I think this is important to establish as I don't know how much of a working knowledge anyone not in the UK Climate movement actually has about JSO and I think it's good we're all on the same page.

But if they do all that (effective, important) direct action, then why target Les Mis? What does a West End show have to do with fossil fuel companies and climate change? And in response to these questions I'll ask one of my own: were you aware of the fact that JSO tried to stop migrants from being deported until I mentioned it just now? A lot of these actions, the ones that actually target infrastructure and confront those directly responsible, get little to no media coverage. When news of the Les Mis action first broke out, I saw so many people on Twitter with the same reactionary takes: why target Les Mis when the Conservative Party Conference literally happened the same weekend? And that's a fair and valid point- if it wasn't for the fact that JSO were at the conference. I know this because I was there too. They had a huge bloc in the march and went on to do other actions in the city after the march had ended. The whole thing, the entire 10,000+ strong protest, got maybe 30 seconds coverage on the local news and not even a mention of JSO's presence (or of climate change in general for that matter.) JSO's previous actions directed at fossil fuel companied themselves get very little, if any, coverage compared to their big flashy sports/awards show/performance interruptions.

So yeah, some of JSOs actions are 'performative'. But I don't think it's unreasonable to suggest that even performative actions have their place within the wider struggle. I understand not liking public disruption as a tactic and I understand the issues with it, but I also think it's worth reflecting on why groups like JSO use it.

Editing my draft here to report that earlier today they smashed the frame of a painting that was previously vandalised by the Suffragette movement in 1914. That's a performative action, sure, but you have to admit it makes a point. Just like the tageting of Les Mis, a play about an unjust society and the people striving to change it, makes a point about hypocrisy. It gets the media coverage. We can debate all day about the usefulness of that coverage and if chasing media headlines should be our goal in the first place... but at the end of the day, it's been proven that JSOs membership grows every time they do something like this. It gets more people to join, which means next time it comes round to blocking key infrastructure, they'll be in a stronger position to succeed.

This isn't to say don't criticise them at all! I actually think criticisms like this one are a key part of organising and, done with care, can only make our movements stronger. I have my own issues with JSO- namely, the carelessness with which arrest is actively encouraged/promoted as the only valid form of resistance- but that's a whole other conversation and one that doesn't undermine my support and solidarity for the activists who are doing those actions (and sacrificing a whole lot in the process.) I think mass direct action movements are rarely ever perfect but I also think we need to show solidarity first and foremost when people are trying to do the right thing, especially if how they're doing it is in conjunction with or as a response to other tactics.

#les mis #just stop oil #i know this is old news now but this was in my drafts and i feel like i should probably still post it given that JSO are in the news again #also disclaimer: since my last post i found out that not only do i know one of the ppl who interrupted les mis #but turns out we've actually taken direct action together in the past #and i'm not about to announce details of my ongoing court case on tumblr dot com #BUT i think it's also worth keeping in mind that a lot of these activists aren't only doing the 'performative' stuff #sometimes they also [redacted]

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threestarsaboveclouds · 3 months ago

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Do you know the geological history of the mountain you are built on/in?

Extensive geological studies of the mountain on which I stand were conducted prior to my construction. The mountains were created by the collision of two tectonic plates, which pushed the material of one plate upward, while the other was subducted and dissolved by the Void Sea. This process also pushed rare minerals toward the surface, including sediments enriched with Void Fluid inclusions.

The Void Fluid mines in my Refinery Sector were some of the first infrastructure built on my facility grounds. The minerals and void fluid extracted there were used to build the bulk of my superstructure. Eventually the massive void drills were replaced with a more sophisticated void fluid filtration system, which refined the minerals close to the bedrock horizon to extract the void fluid stored within. This installation was routed directly into my superstructure’s legs, providing power for both me and my city.

This all occurred long before my iterative intelligence model was brought online, but I have maintained the records of my own construction in my Data Archives. Building an iterator is no easy task; my construction took many generations, and many who helped build me and my surrounding infrastructure chose to ascend long before my structure was complete.

The ancestors of my former citizens migrated to the top of my can as soon as the construction of my city, Zenith, was finished. By then, my benefactors had become aware of the hazardous effects iterators could have on the local climate, and they knew the surface would not remain safe for long after my activation. At this point, the ground-based settlements they inhabited are no doubt buried under deep layers of sediment and permafrost. The only reminder of their existence is kept in the old maps and construction schematics within my archives.

And in me, I suppose. My creators may be gone, but as their creation I remain a part of their legacy.

#ooc: HI JOE!!!! ty for taking the time to check out my ask blog hehe #communications manifest

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rowandriftwood · 1 year ago

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I just watched Local Hero (1983) again, and I think it might actually be my favorite movie.

A businessman from Texas (Peter Riegert) is reluctantly sent to Scotland by the oil company he works for to buy a small coastal town and turn it into a refinery. Instead of the locals being upset at the prospect, they are all delighted about the money they will make. However, American falls in love with the place, and wishes things didn’t have to change, and he never had to leave.

It’s like a heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movie, except that instead of Christmas it’s Scotland, and instead of the big city guy falling for the small town girl, he simply falls for the small town.

Oh, and a very young Peter Capaldi runs like baby bird and falls in love with a marine biologist who might actually be a mermaid.

It’s the perfect combination of gentle humor, delightful characters, and beautiful scenery that gets me right in the feels every time. Just … magical.

As an added bonus, the music was done by Mark Knopfler, the frontman of Dire Straits, who also did the music for The Princess Bride.

#local hero #80s movies #peter riegert #peter capaldi #mark knopfler #movies #rowan's faves

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odinsblog · 9 months ago

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Executive summary

Since launching its brutal war of aggression against Ukraine in February 2022, the Russian Federation has been locked into a long and costly conflict. Russia has been diplomatically marginalized, subjected to sanctions, and shunned by most of the Western world. Many multinational companies have been forced by international pressure to shutter or sell their Russian operations, and profiting from cooperation with the Russian state is no longer considered acceptable. Russia has found itself in dire need of new allies and resources.

In this environment, the Kremlin-financed Private Military Company Wagner, or Wagner Group, has served as an increasingly important source of revenue for the Russian state. Founded in 2014 to support pro-Russian forces in Donbas, since then Wagner Group has evolved into a complex international network of private military contractors, disinformation campaign infrastruc-ture, and corporate front companies. It has deployed fighters, propaganda and disinformation campaigns, and financing as a proxy for the Russian state in numerous conflicts, from Syria and Libya to Mali, Central African Republic, and beyond

Wagner has most often been described as an independent mercenary group. This status has provided Russia with a thin veil of deniability, particularly in relation to the numerous plausible accusations of murder, rape, torture, and war crimes raised against Wagner fighters. But in reality, Wagner has always operated with the political and material backing of the Russian Federation to advance Russian state interests.

In Africa, Wagner has been deployed in a number of countries across the continent since 2017. In each country it enters, Wagner deploys military trainers, mercenary fighters, and propaganda experts to support anti-democratic regimes, drive instability, and commit human rights abuses. The mercenary group's ostensible provision of "security services" creates a framework for lucrative business contracts for the extraction of natural resources including diamonds, oil, timber, and especially gold.

This report focuses on the Kremlin's 'blood gold': Gold extracted from African countries and laundered into international markets that provides billions in revenue to the Russian state, thereby directly and indirectly financing Russia's war on Ukraine and global hybrid warfare infrastructure.

The Blood Gold Report's analysis suggests that Wagner and Russia have earned more than US$2.5 billion from blood gold since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. The report focuses on the case studies of Wagner's blood gold operations in the Central African Republic, Sudan, and Mali. In each of these coun-tries, Russia profits from the blood gold trade in different ways:

In CAR, the mercenary group has been granted exclusive extractive rights for the Ndassima mine, the country's largest gold mine, in return for propping up President Touadera's authoritarian regime. Wagner's Ndassima operations are understood to produce US$290 million of gold annually, while local miners have been pushed aside or murdered by the mercenary group.

In Sudan, through control of a major refinery, Wagner has become the dominant buyer of unprocessed Sudanese gold as well as a major smuggler of processed gold. Russian military transporter flights laden with gold have been identified by Sudanese customs officials. While tracking Sudan's unreported gold market is near impossible, estimates suggest that almost Us$2 billion in gold is smuggled out of the country unreported every year, with 'the Russian Company' in prime position to take advantage.

In Mali, Wagner is paid a monthly retainer - estimated at US $10.8 million per month - to prop up a brutal military junta Meanwhile the junta is in turn dependent on a small number of Western mining companies for the revenue it needs to pay Wagner. Mining companies contributed more than 50% of all tax revenues to the Malian state for 2022. Barrick Gold Corporation, a Canadian listed company and Mali's single biggest tax contributor, paid US$206 million in the first half of 2023 alone.

The junta is increasing its financial demands on gold mining companies. Meanwhile, the four largest gold mining companies (weighted by tax contribution) continue to plan further investments in the country, despite the well-documented abuses of the military junta and growing influence of the Wagner Group.

Wagner's blood gold operations in CAR and Sudan have been subject to sanctions, and the Kremlin-backed mercenaries have developed increasingly complex smuggling routes and corporate subterfuge tactics to move blood gold out of these countries and convert this gold into cash.

In contrast, the Malian blood gold system enables Wagner to remain one degree removed from gold production. Instead, legitimate multinational mining companies convert gold into cash for the Malian military junta without triggering international sanctions.

To secure its position in a target country's political and natural resource extraction landscape, Wagner's African playbook consists of a four-pronged attack on the host country's civic institutions and civilian population - suppressing political opposition, spreading disinformation, silencing free media and terrorising civilians.

The ultimate objective of Wagner's playbook is to increase its clients' dependence on Wagner forces to stay in power, thereby securing a long-term revenue stream for the Kremlin and fostering authoritarianism and instability throughout the region as part of Russia's wider geopolitical strategy to distract and bog down the democratic West.

Since the death of Wagner's leader Yevgeny Prigozhin, the mercenary group has formally come under the control of the Russian State. Yet the Kremlin's focus on Africa, and its blood gold operations, show no signs of changing.

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#politics #ukraine #russia #africa #wagner group #syria #libya #russian imperialism #russian colonialism #blood gold #money laundering #mercenaries #barrick gold #barrick gold corporation #russia is a terrorist state #russian fascism ☭

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