#and if you don't know about the gulags or think that they were anything but political mass murder and might still be

[lordgolden]

someone will literally be saved from certain death in the successor to the gulags, infamous "work" (death) camps, and people will go "she deserved to stay there!!! her empty vape was illegal!" think about what you're saying for one second

[miss-dollette]

Makarov • Baby Daddy Headcanons

While Makarov is a psychopathic maniac without a care for anyone, he'd definitely never abandon his own. This man values loyalty above anything and will never forsake one of his own, especially his baby mama and his child.

A visit from Makarov would be rare, but when he visited, he always made sure to bring a gift for his baby, and sometimes, even for you. Nothing cheap, of course—a necklace worth thousands. See it as a reward for being an oh-so-good woman and bearing him a child.

Don't bother with work. Call in and never come back. Makarov has you covered for the rest of your life. He'd move you away from the dingy city and have you cozy with your baby in a house you'd never be able to pay off on your own. But you wouldn't need to worry about that - Makarov made sure to pay in cash to whatever sketchy realtor he knew would never reveal your location. If they did... let's just say they'd never sell another house again.

The new addition to the Makarov family would love their father. They'd cry all day in your arms, never stopping until their father's rough cheek scratched against their own, and he shushed them in his rough Russian manner.

The first time you handed over the tiny Makarov to their father would become a bittersweet memory.

"Make sure his/her neck is supported," you softly said while passing the baby into Makarov's arms, mindful of the delicate strength his/her little neck had yet to develop.

"Perfect," you said as Makarov gently held the baby in his arms, his neck crooked down as he watched his baby's eyelids flutter, their little pink cheeks, and tufts of hair on top their head. The baby tiny fist lifted into air, and Makarov placed his lips upon their tiny knuckles.

You leaned in and placed your lips on Vladimirs rough cheek.

He'd definitely pretend he wasn't obsessed with his newborn baby's scent. You'd walk into the nursery, and he'd shoot up from the crib and act like his nose wasn't all up in his baby's scalp.

He'd be fiercely protective of his family. No one, not even his closest allies, would know. Maybe Yuri, but he'd only tell him long after you gave birth.

If he had a son, he'd definitely plan to raise him in a macho-man way. Your son's fifth birthday gift would be a Russian prison knife from the Gulag. And no, he wouldn't care if you made a fuss about it being dangerous for a child.

"Now, why the hell would you give him that? What were you thinking?"

"He's nearly a grown man, and every grown man needs a knife."

"He's five!"

"I was gifted a rifle when I was five, so be grateful!"

Now, if he had a daughter, that would be a whole 'nother story. She would definitely be his little tsarina. All she would need to do is ask, and she'd have it in her little palm.

"She'll become a spoiled little brat if you keep spoiling her like that,"

"What, like you?"

"Not funny."

"Seems funny to me. Come, My Little Tsarina, let's go pick out one of your future cars."

He grew up poor and constantly surrounded by critters sneaking around in his home. He'd bring home stray cats to make sure no rats or mice would go near his baby.

Will sometimes sleep over. You'd both sleep in the same bed, and his razor-sharp training from when he was a soldier would come to good use. Any noise your baby made would wake him instantly.

He's paranoid as hell, so be ready for him to patrol the house multiple times a day. Your baby will grow up thinking it's normal for his father to have an automatic assault rifle in hand, walking around with murder in his eyes, ready to blow apart whoever dared target his family.

The baby would giggle every time their father passed by, and you'd watch boredly as he walked past. It got boring after the first ten times.

If there ever was a break in, God bless the idiot who did so. Not even his bones would be found.

Other than that, he's a cutie patootie when it comes to his baby. But like, a scary cutie patootie.

[asimpforthe80s]

Found You, Andrei

Starring: Nikto x bestfriend!Reader

Warnings: mentions of: torture, going to the gulag, and Russian speaking. Smut: Reader riding him, unprotected p in v, and stroking his cock.

"I'm going on a mission," he said softly and leaned against the railing of the bridge, the dark and cold, murky waters of the Neva reflected in his pale blue eyes. He didn't explain anything — as usual because of his never-ending top secret assignments — but his words sounded like a death sentence this time.

"I won't be able to keep in touch for quite some time. I'll text you on your old number when I get back. Don't throw it away, рыбка."

He smiled faintly at you, trying to cheer you up a little when he saw an anxiety in your eyes. He squeezed your palm, putting a small photo card into it: there was an image of the two of you, smiling carelessly under a snow-covered scarlet mountain-ash. "You'll wait for me, won't you?" It was the last time you saw him.

You nervously smoothed out the crumpled corner of a worn photo, waiting for the next landing. The image faded a long time ago, but this is the only memento that was left of your dear friend. 6 years. 6 long years of searching, sleepless nights, smoked cigarettes, and endless stress. You've lost all your friends and family, sold all your possessions, and learned how to hold a gun. You have transferred from one PMC to another and visited, perhaps, every God-forsaken corner of the world. Hell, you even ended up in the Gulag, thinking that he was there, and managed to escape, taking advantage of the turmoil due to the escape of some crazy guy named Makarov. Now, you are one of the operators of the Shadow Company. You are stripped of your previous life completely, your ID is fake, and you don't even know if your dear friend is still alive. There's only a small bit of hope smoldering inside you.

Doing an intelligence mission, you split from the rest of the group to search through the abandoned gas factory. You ran into Nikto when you were storming a building. He now wore a mask, but you immediately recognized his icy blue eyes. It was your dear friend, your Andrei ... But he looked very changed. He was... Different.. Damaged… Broken.

"Nikto.." you said, instantly hugging him without caring about the danger signs in your head. The hug was unexpected, but not unwanted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, like they remembered how to do it despite everything. But he pulled away quickly, almost roughly, as if afraid that you'd see something in his face. Or maybe just afraid of feeling something.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was cold, detached. Yet, there was a hint of something else underneath, a flicker of warmth that made you wonder if it was real or just your imagination. "Go back to the others."

His hand reached out to push you gently, but there was no force behind it. Just a silent plea for you to leave before things got worse. Before he hurt you. "Nikto, you're coming with me." You said roughly, a complete contrast to the you he knew. "I'm not letting you disappear for 6 years only to find you and leave you again." You growled, grabbing his hand. "Nyet..." Nikto started to protest, but the grip on his hand was firm. A shiver went down his spine at the sound of your voice - it was different. Rougher. Harder. Not the soft, gentle voice he was used to hearing. But there was something else too - a hint of demand, of command.

And then he felt the hand on his, firm and unyielding. And he knew. He knew that this was it. That whatever wall he had built around himself was about to come crashing down. And he was terrified. But he also couldn't bring himself to pull away. Because despite everything, he needed this. Needed you. "You can take that new fucking attitude and burn it in hell.." you whispered as you started dragging him with you, taking him to your team. The roughness in your voice, the way you dragged him along, it was all so unlike you. But there was something about it that stirred something deep within him. Something primal and raw. As if a part of him was waking up after years of slumber.

"Nyet!" He protested again, but it came out more like a growl. He let you drag him, his body moving automatically as he followed you towards the others. But his mind was screaming at him, telling him to stop. Telling him that this wasn't right. That he should stay hidden, stay safe. But the feel of your hand on his, the sound of your voice, it was too much. Too compelling. "ты пойдешь со мной, хочешь ты этого или нет, Никто." You said, speaking his native language, 'you will come with me whether you like it or not, Nikto'.

The harshness of your words, spoken in his mother tongue, hit him like a punch to the gut. It was like a key turning in a lock, unlocking doors he thought he had sealed off forever. For a moment, he stood there, frozen, staring at you with wide, unblinking eyes.

Then, slowly, he nodded. He didn't know why he was agreeing to this. Didn't know why he was following you. All he knew was that he had to. Had to be with you. Even if it meant risking everything.

"Da..." He finally managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Я... я хочу с тобой." He said, 'I... I want to be with you. You nodded. "Good.. cause I'm not letting you leave again, lyubimaya." The word 'lyubimaya', which translated to 'beloved', hit him like a punch to the stomach. It was a word he hadn't heard in years. Years of pain and torment had erased any semblance of love from his life. And yet, there it was. Coming from you. And it wasn't just in your tone, but in your touch. Your grip on his hand was almost possessive, as if you were staking your claim on him.

"Lyubimaya?" He repeated the word, tasting it on his lips. It was bitter but not unpleasant. For some reason, it made him want to lean into your touch instead of pulling away. "Yes, lyubimaya.." You repeated, taking him inside your team's extraction helicopter. The interior of the helicopter was warm and cozy compared to the cold outside. There was a sense of camaraderie among the men, a bond that could only be formed through shared experiences and dangers. Seeing you among them, giving orders, made his heart swell with pride. You belonged here. You were meant to be leading these men, not stuck in some office job.

As he sat next to you, he felt a strange sense of contentment wash over him. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. Maybe never. And for some reason, it scared him. "когда мы вернемся на базу, ты поешь, а потом мы пойдем в мое общежитие. ты займешь мою постель без разговоров." You said, telling him that when you got back to base, he was gonna eat, go back to your dorm, and take your bed without discussion. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and laden with meaning. His post. His bed. You were claiming him. Marking him as yours in front of everyone. And for some reason, it thrilled him. Excited him.

"Dа..." He murmured, nodding slowly. "Я... я буду делать так, как ты сказала." He would do as you said. Without question. Without hesitation. Because in that moment, he would do anything for you. "Good, Andrei.." You mumbled, saying his real name. The use of his real name hit him like a punch to the gut. Andrei. A name he hadn't heard in years. A name that was as foreign to him now as if it were another language entirely. Yet, hearing it fall from your lips sent a shiver down his spine. A good shiver. One that made his heart race and his breath hitch.

"Andrei..." He echoed, testing the word on his tongue. It felt strange. Heavy. But also comforting. Like coming home after a long journey. "You're safe with us.." you said, still not letting go of his hand. Your words hit him like a bolt of lightning, searing through the fog of his mind and touching something deep within him. Safe. You were saying he was safe. With you. With your team.

The idea was so alien to him, so foreign, that for a moment, he couldn't comprehend it. Couldn't believe it. But then, he felt it. The tension easing from his shoulders. The tight knot in his stomach loosened. He was safe. Here. With you. "Now.. let me see you.." you murmured, reaching for his mask. Your fingers brushed against his mask, and for a moment, he tensed up. But then, he realized that you weren't going to hurt him. That you wouldn't do anything to harm him. So, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. He waited. Waited for the pain. Waited for the fear. But it never came. Instead, all he felt was your gentle touch. And it was... nice. Comforting. Almost soothing. As you took off his mask, you saw the many, many scars of his previous torture. Placing a soft hand on his cheek, you tried to assure him that he was safe and no one would hurt him. At least no one from your base. "Oh, Andrei.." you whispered softly in that voice he knew. Not in that rough and demanding voice he heard earlier. Your touch was soft, almost reverential as you traced the scars on his face. Each line and mark told a story of pain and suffering. But they didn't scare you. They didn't make you flinch away. They made you care. And that care...it was overwhelming. It was too much. Too intense. But at the same time, it was exactly what he needed.

"Oh, Andrei..." The way you said his name. It was like a caress. A promise. A vow. It was a name that held so much weight. So much meaning. And hearing it from your lips was... intoxicating. "любовь моя.. тебе больно.. столько шрамов.. дорогая.." you mumbled, pulling him in for a hug he so desperately needed. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of your body against his own was like a balm to his soul. It was comforting. Reassuring. It was something he craved. Needed. Desperately.

"Да..." He agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Больно... Больно много." It hurt. A lot. But as you held him, he found himself relaxing. Letting go of the fear. Of the pain. Just for a moment. "And that's okay.. A... Andrei.." you whispered with a soft stutter, taking off your own mask, discarding it on the floor along with his. Your mask hitting the floor brought him back to reality. Back to the harshness of their situation. But seeing you discard your mask too...it meant something. It meant trust. Loyalty. Friendship. Family. All things he'd been denied for so long.

"Da..." He nodded, finally opening his eyes to look at you. Really look at you. No mask. No disguise. Just you. His friend. His family. You were crying.. but.. matching. The both of you had so many scars. "Just like we used to.. we're matching.." You cried. Your tears stung his eyes, but he didn't blink. Didn't flinch. He just stood there, soaking in the sight of you. Of your tears. Of your scars. Matching. Just like old times. Only now, it wasn't just physical scars. It was emotional ones, too. Scars from the past. From the pain. From the loss.

"But why?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are we like this? Why did we have to become this?" You chuckled, drying your tears. "I wanted to find you.. I got desperate.. so I joined the same shit you did.. even went to the fucking gulag.." you cried. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Gulag. Fucking gulag. That place was hell on earth. And you went there. For him. Because you were desperate. Because you wanted to find him. Him. The monster that was Nikto.

"And you found me..." He muttered, feeling an odd mix of emotions. Pride. Relief. Fear. Guilt. All swirling around inside him like a storm. "I- I searched so many places.. и я наконец нашел тебя.." you said. Your words echoed in his mind. I finally found you. Those words were like a balm to his broken soul. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't alone anymore. That someone cared enough to look for him. To risk everything to find him.

"I'm sorry..." He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry for dragging you into this mess." You chuckled as you cried. "No, no, it's nothing.." you said. Your chuckle was like a slap in the face. It was unexpected. Unexpectedly human. Unexpectedly real. And it pissed him off. Made him angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Angry at fate. But mostly, angry at himself for bringing you into this nightmare.

"No, it's not nothing," he growled, his voice low and gruff. "It's everything." You sighed. "Andrei.. it was worth it.. so many missions.. willingly going to the fucking gulag.. getting abducted and tortured during a mission.. fuck.. it was all for you.." you said. Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Tortured. Abducted. Willingly going to the gulag. All for him. For the monster that he'd become.

"Я не достоин этого," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I am not worthy of this.' You shook your head. "No, you are.. it was worth it.. cause I found you.." Your denial was like a knife twisting in his gut. Found me. Those words echoed in his mind. Over and over again. Like a mantra. Like a prayer. They were soothing. Comforting. They made him feel less alone. Less like a monster.

But they also filled him with guilt. With shame. With regret. Regret for turning you into this. For making you go through all of this. You hugged him once more. But this time it was more for your sake. You needed him just as much as he needed you. Your hug was like a lifeline. It pulled him out of the darkness. Out of the abyss. Even if only for a moment. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous almost.

But still, he allowed himself to enjoy it. To let himself be comforted. Because sometimes, you need to be weak. To let yourself be vulnerable. Especially when you've been hurt as much as he had.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Heavy with unspoken words. Unspoken regrets. Unspoken fears. It was comfortable. Almost peaceful. Almost. His thoughts kept drifting back to those moments. Moments where he was just... human. Not a monster. Not a killer. Just a man. A man who was scared. Who was lonely. Who missed someone. Someone who was sitting next to him right now. The silence was comforting. Familiar. The two of you were sitting on your bed, still in full uniform. "Want something more comfortable?" You asked quietly. Your offer hung in the air between them, a beacon of normalcy amidst the chaos. A simple question. An invitation to shed the weight of their uniforms, symbols of duty, and responsibility. He looked down at his clothes, then back up at you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Da," he murmured, standing up abruptly. He began to undress, peeling away the layers of his identity - the uniform, the medals, the badges. Each piece was thrown carelessly onto the floor until he stood before you in nothing but his underwear. You nodded and went to get something more comfortable for him. Coming back, you had an oversized t-shirt and a paid of sweatpants. Which reminded him of something.. fuck. Those were his clothes. His clothes before he joined whatever the fuck he had joined. "Here." You said, handing him the clothes before going to change to something more comfortable, yourself. Your words were like a punch in the gut. A reminder of who he used to be. Of the life he'd left behind. He took the clothes from your hands without saying anything. Slipping into them, he could almost pretend he was back there. Back home. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he watched you change, he couldn't help but notice how natural it seemed. How comfortable. Like you belonged here. Like you were supposed to be here. With him. A man and a woman changed together like it was normal. But it didn't seem weird. It felt normal. It felt like the time before the military. The sight of you changing in front of him, so casual and unaffected, brought back memories. Memories of simpler times. Times before the military. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

For a moment, he forgot about the scars. About the pain. About the guilt. He just saw you. Naked. Vulnerable. Human. And it was beautiful. It was perfect. The feeling of the soft fabric against his skin was comforting. Familiar. It was like putting on an old pair of shoes. Worn in. Broken in. Perfectly fitting. It was a part of him. Or rather, it was a part of who he used to be. Before. Before the torture. Before the nightmares. Before the pain.

As he sat back down on the bed, he couldn't help but notice how different things were. How strange it felt. Yet, somehow, it also felt right. As you took off your shirt, he could see all the scars. Everywhere. Even your perfectly round tits had scars of torture. Your body was a canvas of pain. Every inch of your skin told a story. A story of torture. Of suffering. Of resilience. But he wasn't looking at the scars. He was looking at you. At the way your body moved. The way your muscles shifted under your skin. The way your nipples hardened slightly in the cool air of the room.

It was a fucking turn-on. Despite everything. Despite the scars. Despite the pain. You blushed as he stared at you. "What are you looking at?" You asked softly, not realizing that he was hard as a rock under the sweatpants. His gaze lingered on your body, drinking in every detail. The curve of your hips. The swell of your breasts. The way your skin glowed in the dim light of the room. He was hard. Rock-hard. But he didn't move. Didn't speak. He just kept staring.

You were beautiful. Perfect. Untouched. And he wanted you. Wanted you more than he'd ever wanted anyone or anything. You noticed his hardness pressing against the material of the sweatpants. "Fuck, Andrei..." You mumbled, biting your lower lip. Your curse made him shiver. Made him want to reach out and touch you. Made him want to take you. Right there. On the bed. Against the wall. Anywhere. Just to feel you. To hear you moan. To taste you. Fuck, to taste you.

But he didn't move. Couldn't move. Not yet. "I need you..." You whispered, closing the distance between both of you. You leaned in and kissed him softly at first, but then with passion. Your confession broke the dam. The floodgates opened. He pulled you closer, crushing his lips against yours. His tongue darted out, exploring the warmth of your mouth. His hands roamed over your body, tracing the contours of your muscles. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks.

And still, he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he finally had you. You moaned into his mouth as he explored your body with his hands. You pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, grinding your crotch against his hardness. The shift in positions only fueled his desire. Your weight on top of him, your body grinding against his, it was all too much. He groaned into your mouth, the sound muffled by your kiss. His hands found their way to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh.

He needed more. Needed to feel you. Needed to be inside you. His hands on your ass made you grind harder against his cock. You reached down and pulled down his pants, pulling out his hardness. You stroked it a few times, feeling it pulse in your hand. Your touch on his length made him gasp. Made him thrust up into your hand. He was hard. So fucking hard. Ready. Waiting. Wanting.

His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them tightly. He pulled you closer, aligning his length with your entrance. He was ready. More than ready. Your body was shaking with anticipation. You grinded against his cock, teasing yourself before slowly lowering yourself onto him. Inch by agonizing inch until you were fully seated on his lap. The sensation of you enveloping him was indescribable. He groaned, his head thrown back against the pillow. His hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding you to move. To ride him. To fuck him.

He was yours. All yours. You started moving on him, your body rocking against his. Each movement brought a new wave of pleasure coursing through your veins. You felt full. Satiated. Complete.

And you liked it. God, how you liked it. Each roll of your hips sent jolts of pleasure shooting straight to his dick. He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. All he could do was feel. Feel you. Feel your body moving on top of him. Feel your walls clenching around him. Your movements became faster, more desperate. You were chasing that climax, that release. You wanted it so badly. Needed it. Craved it. His breathing grew ragged, and his grip on your hips tightened. He could feel his climax approaching, like a freight train bearing down on him. It was inevitable. Imminent.

And he wanted you to feel it. Wanted you to feel him. Your movements became erratic as your orgasm approached. You clenched your teeth, trying to hold back the tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume you. But it was no use. It was too powerful. Too intense. "Andrei..!" You moaned as you reached your climax. Your cry of ecstasy pushed him over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, making his vision blur and his breath hitch. He threw his head back, his jaw clenched tight as he rode out the waves of pleasure.

And when it was over, he was left panting. Left spent. Left sated. You collapsed onto him, your body trembling from the intensity of your orgasms. You laid there, catching your breath while your body slowly returned to normal. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His body was covered in sweat, but he didn't care. He just held you. Held you tight. And for once, he felt... complete. You lay there in silence, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You snuggled against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. You closed your eyes, contentment washing over you. For once, he let himself relax. Let himself enjoy the moment. Enjoy you. His arms tightened around you instinctively, as if afraid you'd disappear if he let go. You nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent filled your senses, making you want to stay here forever. You felt safe. Comforted. Loved. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears. He could feel you nuzzling into his neck, could feel your breaths against his skin. And it felt... right. Perfect, even.

For once, he allowed himself to believe that maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.

[fromorigintofinality]

i dont post on here a ton but i gotta say the growing attitude on tumblr that voting in the US is somehow useless is really concerning.

just recently i saw this post that was basically making fun of people saying that voting was the way to change the system, and that's just.. wrong? like seriously, how do you think roe v. wade got overturned? its because despite everything, republicans are smart voters and know how to play the long game.

but leftists as of late have lost that quality i feel. instead of advocating for people to vote, they advocate for some "revolution" they think will solve everything. among the people in the post mentioned earlier being glorified as revolutionaries were mao zedong and stalin, and when asked why the poster was glorifying these horrific figures, they said, "yes. Mao freed my family and stalin defeated the fascists. Get with the program sugar"

do you notice anything about that? do you notice how it sounds like the way a child describes the world? "stalin defeated the fascists" like he's some hero who defeated the evil horde of thieves? the way things like the red guard, struggle sessions, all of that, are completely ignored on the side of Mao? how this person, despite having a trans flag in their pfp, is ignoring how the utterly homophobic state of the Chinese government at present is the fault of Mao? how they ignore horrific things such as the Gulag on side of Stalin? this person cannot think, and the only way they believe that the world can move forward is a revolution, and revolution's don't work when the people advocating for them do nothing.

maybe one could argue that this was just a one off type of thing, and that all of the thousands of people liking and reblogging this post are just weirdos. but whether or not thats true, this growing sentiment of praying to a revolution that will never come is indeed growing. and its not just like these people stay in their lane, they actively encourage and probably will cause people to not vote.

so i want to remind everybody. elections are not a moral choice. joe biden is complicit and actively funding a genocide, but not voting for him, third party or not (if you still think third parties are viable please look into the history behind them), will make it more likely that trump will win, and that things in palestine and other things that joe biden has failed in will get 1000x worse. candidates in elections are a bus stop to the real goal, and treating them as such is smart voting, republicans proved this with the overturning of roe v. wade.

please do not be selfish. this last bit may seem out of nowhere, but i need to say this. this type of thinking is selfish. it is selfish and almost impossible to detect as such for the people who believe in it. if you are the type of person who believes in this style of thinking, you have created a completely arbitrary moral code, and care more about your conscience than real political change. you believe yourself to have completely good morals that are universally good, and for the consequences of following these morals, you don't consider the real change that will occur, just your conscience and peace of mind. as for what happens because of that moral code, you will always find a way around looking inwards to how you contributed.

this election season may be the most important yet, please learn to take the practical route instead of the "pure" route.

[five-one-two-station]

Everybody should have their own fun, and this isn't trying to harsh anybody's buzz, but I find the impulse to make your own cutesy/badass Replika oc doing funny or heroic or badass things a little odd. Like, that character you designed as a super badass soldier, or well-armed and armored steely eyed cop type... who would they have been built to fight or police exactly? Remember who all those guns and weapons were intended for use on?

I know we're all sick of discourse over who "gets" the game, and I'm by no means scolding anybody for something that harmless, but what's interesting to me is the sense that designing overtly "cool" Replika personas and OCs, complete with the propaganda poster style imagery, feels a little...

I mean, bluntly, it's like the in-world propaganda worked, unironically, on some level, for many people. Kolibris aren't scary, they're whimsical and fun! Storches aren't notably cruel enforcers and chain gang drivers, they're Protektors! Falke isn't a camp commandant, she's a beautiful angel!

The Replikas aren't cool and heroic figures in the reality of the game. They're the carefully crafted organs of a system of control so dreadful it could do what it did to Elster and Ariane. They're victims to that system themselves too, sure - and humanising them is a nuanced and valuable observation of how totalitarian regimes maintain themselves - but that doesn't negate the fact they're also the ones who operate, enforce and perpetuate it, a big part of what the game knows and communicates about such societies. It's notable that the game makes it clear few, if any, of the Replikas actually buy into the Nation as an ideal at all - they enforce it no less pitilessly anyway, incapable or unsafe to imagine anything else.

Their affectations, pasttimes, trinkets, and even affections for each other, all serve to draw a stark contrast to how callously they regard the gestalts they keep suppressed. Their disposability is something they're conscious and fearful of themselves, but fail to recognise as a commonality with the people they brutalise every day, their business as usual. The only grief, tragedy or suffering they acknowledge is their own - they have no regard for any such things in the humans they have... well, dehumanised.

But S-23 Sierpinski was such a hellhole for most of its denizens under "normal" conditions that the nightmare it becomes is arguably an improvement; if only because there are fewer people left now to suffer it. There's a dark poetry here - because the place's banal cruelty is "off camera" to us, it's very naturally less real to us than the grief of the crying Eule. It's only natural, too, to forget how grim the Replikas' purposes are when you don't have to see anyone endure the brunt of it.

And isn't that the very same effect a state like the Nation is seeking in the first place, by disappearing people away to such dark little corners to have it done? In our world, no less than that one.

That works like a kind of propaganda too, not being able to see it - a propaganda of hidden things, as powerful as any poster. A space that's been intentionally left blank.

Kolibris are literal thought police; they intrude on people's very minds, interrogating them to death as a matter of course, with hardly a care either way. The various Protektor classes are functionally concentration camp guards and slave drivers. Falke and Adler are overseeing what amounts to a gulag, one so unimaginably awful Ariane preferred to spend years of her life alone in space to the prospect of being sent there, and inevitably worked to death, far underground.

I think there's a reason we never see one of those posters for LSTRs in game. How could we be asked to forgive our own if we ever did?

[ltghosty]

If only you would have trusted me (Simon "Ghost" Riley ﾒ Female "Cobra" Sergeant)

A/N: MW 3 broke me, don't talk to me

Summary: Makarov blackmailed you into joining his army and Task Force 141 thinks you betrayed them without hesitation. Once Ghost and Soap find Milena and you, Ghost finally confronts you about letting him down.

Warnings: curse, angst, guilt, fight, betrayal,

Wordcount: 4.7k

”I thought I was someone whom you could trust because you can be sure as hell that I still trust you with my life. Whether you like it or not."

You knew this moment was coming once Laswell had let you know that Makarov escaped the gulag and was on the move.

You didn’t want it to happen but your job wasn’t famous for making guarantees. Especially with crazy terrorists who wouldn’t stop until the world fell to its knees in front of them.

And Makarov was just like that.

Ruthless, smart, cruel and unpredictable.

While running from location to location, you started to feel getting lost. There were too many dead ends while Makarov was playing with Task Force 141 as he’d wished.

Ghost noticed how much you’d changed since Makarov broke out and wasted no time in getting his hands dirty.

You’d heard stories of him before Price and Soap managed to capture him once 4 years ago which ended in agony and cost a lot of innocent lives. You’d dealt with all kinds of criminals who wanted to build their throne out of corpses but Makarov was by far the worst and most dangerous one.

 With each mission you’d went to with the others, the less your voice could be heard. You were silent and kept checking every corner while wondering how could you finally make a step forward.

There were times when you were seated with Ghost and his favorite sniper to watch the others’ back, and while laying on the ground for hours, the lieutenant tried to get you to talk but you weren’t too bulged.

You hadn’t noticed because you were too focused on your task but Ghost always kept an eye on you when you were in his sight. He’d seen this kind of dedication before, so he understood where your change of heart had come from but he didn’t want you to completely forget who you truly were before.

He’d hated to admit but he would have done anything to bring you back to the surface. It’s been too long since he had heard your laugh or seen your beautiful smile. Hell, he even started to miss those moments when you’d happily join Soap and push his buttons while making fun of Brits.

Ghost couldn’t stand your silence, he liked listening to your voice even while you were only making small chats with him through the coms.

What Ghost had never expected – or anyone else for that matter – was you suddenly disappearing without a word and hearing from a source that you’ve been seen on Makarov’s side.

At first, he was confused and kept denying it but when Price told him that it wasn’t some sort of plan for you to get involved with the Russians, Ghost felt like someone punched him in the chest.

You’d left willingly without a word, and the next thing he knew, you were working under the hands of the enemy.

He was overwhelmed with your betrayal, he was sad, furious, and desperate to find an explanation for your treachery.

What Ghost and the others didn’t know was that Makarov had his eye on you since he escaped from the gulag. Firmly, because you knew Milena from before, and she knew that you were an unstoppable sergeant.

Makarov wanted to break Task Force 141 from the inside before he would grab a gun to put a bullet into everyone’s head, so he ordered his men to do their research on you.

It didn’t take them too long to find your family, even though you tried your best over the years to make it seem like you didn’t have them. You’d never once talked to anyone about your sister and mother who always waited for you to go home, who were always worried about you whenever you departed and had been gone for months while fighting terrorists.

For the first time in your life you didn’t know what to do, you wanted to tell Price and the others that Makarov had captured your family and gave you no choice but the Russian’s intentions were crystal clear. If you’d told anyone about this, he’d kill your family and would blame it all on Task Force 141.

You even thought about telling Ghost that Makarov had found you and backed you in the corner but you knew if the lieutenant would have found out about any of this, he’d never let you go.

Ever since you joined Makarov, the guilt has been eating you from inside, especially whenever your friends’ name was thrown around as Makarov was planning his next move.

Makarov has been calling you ’Rynda’ ever since you gave yourself up to him which you absolutely despised. Since you were his only living connection to Task Force 141, he’d given you the task of always letting him know what the special forces’s next move might be.

”Like the bell ringing when danger is around the corner,” Makarov had said back then with a wicked smile on his lips. ”I don’t want you to disappoint me, Rynda.”

”I won’t.”

Your words might have caused satisfaction in the man but your tongue was burning with the forced promise you’d had to make to him. Your skin was crawling each time he touched you and his voice crept through your ears like venom.

You hated being Milena’s present. Makarov didn’t want any women on the battlefield but he admired your strength and skills, so he ordered you to always stick to Milena and watch her back. Without his financial support, he would have had some problems getting into this whole capture-or-kill scenario.

Milena always made a sound of her whines about how she hated that you were practically babysitting her. Don’t worry, I hate it too, you’d thought.

Whenever you were alone you missed the guys, missed Price being a father figure to you, missed Gaz making fun of your looks after a horribly executed plan, missed Soap teaching you Scottish, and missed Ghost for… for being himself and keeping you under his wing.

”I admire your dedication, really,” Milena called from the other side of the room.

”Do you?”

Milena glanced up from her papers and searched your face.

”Yes, I’m surprised you betrayed your people right away and did everything Vladimir ordered you to.”

”He didn’t give me much of a choice, did he?” you asked and crossed your arms. You hated that she was able to think that you betrayed your second family easily while in reality, it was wearing you down in every way possible.

You were sure you’d never be able to look into their eyes if you saw them again.

”He knows how to win people over.”

You cleared your throat and narrowed your eyes.

”Or to force them to do something that would benefit him.”

Milena was one delusional woman, you were sure of that. You hated how spineless she was and how easily she could get under your skin within seconds.

If Makarov wasn’t so intimidating then you would have already punched her whenever she said a bad word to you. You would have enjoyed it for sure.

Gunshots and shouting emerged from the other side of the building which made you tense right away.

”What the hell?” Milena asked as she stood up and walked to the wall where the security cameras were shown.

You took a few steps, examining the figures that appeared, and felt the color drain from your face.

You wished you would have mistook them for someone else but after serving with them for years, there was no way you wouldn’t recognize them.

It was Soap and Ghost.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, and your stomach turned when you saw Soap getting closer and closer to the door that stood behind you.

With trembling hands, you grabbed your gun and spun on your heel just when the Scots opened the door.

”Special forces, show your hands!”

Raising your guns at the same time, you faced your best friend whose eyes softened the second they found you.

”Cobra…”

It’s been so long since anyone called you that, you almost dropped your gun.

Then you forced yourself to remember your family whose life was on you and how you act now, so you tightened your grip on the cold metal.

”I’d advise you to turn around and leave, Soap.”

Soap lowered his gun while his face dropped in sadness. Your voice was cold and distant, something you’d never used toward him before. You’d only given this treatment to your enemies.

”That’s not going to happen, you know it.”

”I’ll shoot you,” you said, trying to hide your nervousness as he kept your stare.

”You won’t.”

Gritting your teeth, you took a step forward, keeping the gun at him as Milena looked at you in fury.

”What are you waiting for? Shoot him for fuck’s sake!”

No matter how hard you tried, your finger couldn’t touch the trigger. Your heart didn’t let that happen.

Memories flooded and invaded your mind as you looked at John MacTavish who was your favorite partner in crime. Moments of him making you laugh and calming you down after losing a battle made your hands shake in defeat.

You didn’t want to do any of this but you had no choice.

When Soap realized you were not going to shoot him, he let out a small sigh, grabbed one of the chairs, and pushed it forward, his eyes finding Milena.

”Sit.”

You didn’t want to admit but you missed the way Soap could talk coldly to those who were on the other side.

”Fuck you.” Milena spat in hatred.

Soap kept his gaze and gun firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

”Sit down, Milena.”

Milena gave you a deadly glare before dropping her hands and taking a seat. You couldn’t say a word, it seemed like your voice ceased to exist.

”Where is your boss?” Soap asked sharply.

”I don’t have a boss. No one tells me what to do.” Milena said and you almost scoffed. Only if her words were true.

Soap glared at her for a while before turning around when heavy footsteps broke the silence. You lowered your hands, sweat appearing on your skin as you noticed a familiar tall figure moving in the shadows.

Soap turned around when Ghost walked through the door with a laptop in his hand.

”She’s not talking.”

As Ghost’s familiar dark eyes met yours, he stopped walking and you felt your heart skip a beat. Just like every other time he’d looked at you, you felt exposed and small.

Ghost’s eyes never left you as you tried to catch your breath. His eyes held many emotions, such as surprise, melancholy, and distance.

You hated the way he was looking at you like you were someone else. Like you weren’t someone who was close to him like you weren’t the sergeant who was never afraid to be honest and open with him.

Before you could realize that there was nowhere to run from him, he blinked and walked over to the table.

”She’s about to,” he grunted and put the laptop down on the table, and walked to the other side of the room.

Not wanting to look into his eyes again, you focused on Soap who opened the white laptop and extended his hand to Milena who was sitting still like a rock.

”Give me your hand.”

”Why? Or else you’ll cut it off?” Milena asked.

”Your friend over there knows that it’s true when I say to you that it’s not my style,” Soap said glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. Then tilted his head in Ghost’s direction. ”He might.”

Milena seemed to lose her patience with each second that passed by.

”Why the mask?” she snapped.

You almost rolled your eyes at the question you seemed to hear a million times.

”To hide my face.” Ghost answered with cold eyes.

You were surprised he answered even though it was an obvious and useless response.

You felt Ghost’s eyes finding you again, making your skin burn as you dropped your gaze. You were intimidated by his presence and not because you were afraid of him but because you knew for sure that you hurt his feelings when you left.

You wished you weren’t here to live through this unwanted confrontation. A part of you was happy to see them but your heart was aching by the disappointed and hurtful looks you received from them.

”Cobra.” Ghost called after you as you turned your head away. His voice reached your bones immediately and you hated how much you missed your callsign falling off his lips.

”Don’t call me that,” you said dryly, turning back to him.

Ghost gave you a challenging look as he pushed himself away from the wall and closed the distance between you two. With each step he took, you felt your chest tighten with anticipation and guilt. You wanted to look somewhere else but he firmly held your gaze.

He always did and that hasn’t changed.

”How about we give these two birds a few minutes to find a way to cooperate with each other?” Ghost asked and you felt your eyes widen.

”I’m not leaving Milena.”

Ghost gave you a meaningful look and took the gun from your hand with such ease that wasn’t surprising to either of you.

”Yes, you are.”

Remembering that you weren’t supposed to leave Milena’s sight for even a second, you felt panic and annoyance wash over you.

”You can’t just order me around. Not anymore.” You said in a cold tone that made Ghost shift in his place.

Without saying a word, he grabbed your elbow and pulled you with him as he made his way to the other door that led to another empty room.

”Hey! Get your fucking hand off of me!” You shouted in frustration and tried to free yourself from his grasp but Ghost easily dragged you with him through the door and kicked it shut with his foot.

You let out a desperate groan as you grabbed his wrist, trying to pry it off of your arm which seemed tiny compared to his.

You bit into your lower lip as you tried your best to move his fingers but he wasn’t moving an inch.

”Cobra…” his voice was calmer and more thoughtful now that you were alone with him.

You didn’t look at him, only let out a defeated sigh and stopped fighting, your skin slightly aching.

”This hurts.”

Ghost glanced down at his hand still holding onto you and let go of you the second you’d admitted your physical pain. Hurting you was something he never intended to do.

Hissing, you brought your arm to your chest and touched it with your other hand, and turned away from him. You didn’t trust yourself when he was alone with you.

”What are you doing, Cobra?” Ghost asked from behind you and you closed your eyes. Hearing confusion and disappointment hiding in his voice made you feel guiltier than before.

”That’s none of your concern anymore, Ghost.” You replied still facing the wall.

Taking deep breaths you tried your best to collect your thoughts as you heard him walk closer to you, dropping your gun to the table standing next to you.

”It is.”

His voice circled around you like clouds darkening the sky before the storm.

”Why did you leave?”

You pressed your lips against each other and turned around. You got used to his menacing presence coming firstly from his height. You felt small and weak because you knew he could see right through you.

”People change, Lieutenant. You better get used to it.”

”People change that’s for sure. But don’t betray and stab others in the back just like that. A decision like this never comes from a single thought.”

You hated how much he tried to get into your mind, still trying to find answers to his questions that have probably been burning in him since the day you left.

”I refuse to believe that after everything that happened, you’d willingly just switch sides, I know you. And I know how much you despise traitors,” his eyes never left you as he was speaking.

You didn’t say a word, not when you were on the edge of breaking down.

”Talk to me, Cobra.” Ghost said, his voice quiet.

”I can’t,” you shook your head. ”Why don’t you just do your job and get out of here?”

”I’m not leaving until you say something to me.”

”There is nothing for me to say, especially to you.”

Ghost felt his chest tighten at your coldness. He would have never expected you to speak to him this way. Not after how long it took for you two to finally let your guard down around each other.

”Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

”I do, Ghost. Believe it or not, I’m not part of the special forces anymore, so either shoot me or get out of my face.”

”You really think I’d hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and sad.

”You eliminate targets and now I’m one too,” you crossed your arms, trying to look confident.

”I know why you’re pushing me,” he narrowed his eyes. ”And I know for sure that you didn’t betray us because you felt like you could. I know there is something behind all of this that you refuse to tell me.”

You didn’t answer and that was more than enough for him to confirm his theory about you.

”What happened, Cobra?”

”I left and now I’m one of Makarov’s people, that’s what happened!”

You were desperate to try to get him out of here because your heart was breaking with each word that was exchanged between you two.

”No, don’t even say that. I know who you are.”

”You don’t, Simon. Just get over it and let me go,” you snapped and his gaze dropped for a brief second. You didn’t even realize at first that you called him by his real name until you saw the change in his eyes.

It seemed like your words had made a final straw in Simon’s heart. You hated yourself for talking to him like that and you wished you could go back to them, to him, and forget about this nightmare you’d fallen into.

”I thought I was someone whom you could trust because you can be sure as hell that I still trust you with my life. Whether you like it or not."

His words made more impact on you than they should have. They meant the world to you and knowing that even after turning your back on him, he still trusted you and wanted you to go back.

”I trusted you.”

Trusted you. Past tense which didn’t go unnoticed by him.

”You didn’t if you could leave me like I was nothing to you.” Ghost confronted you with raw honesty, not even hiding the fact of how much your decision had pained him.

”It wasn’t easy,” you admitted, hugging your stomach and your eyes filling with unwanted tears. You hated if someone saw the vulnerable side of you, you hated being vulnerable but around Ghost, you knew he wouldn’t use your pain against you. Never.

Ghost stepped closer to you, making it impossible to look at anything else but him. When he heard your voice tremble and saw your eyes become glossy, he knew he meant something to you after all.

Lifting his hand, he put his index finger under your jaw and made you look at him. His eyes mirrored his emotions as he watched you slowly letting go of the invisible mask you’d hidden behind.

”You don’t need to keep anything from me, Cobra. Have I ever broken your trust and let you down?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat as a lonely tear escaped and rolled down on your hot skin.

When you slowly shook your head, he dipped his to your level.

”Then tell me. Please.”

Swallowing your doubts, you took a shaky breath, his hand still on you.

”He’ll kill me.”

”I won’t let that happen,” Ghost promised it without a second thought.

The words were on the tip of your tongue, almost jumping down. You hated to keep secrets from anyone, especially from Simon who had proven himself worthy of your trust more than once.

”Cobra, I can’t help if you don’t let me,” he continued with sad eyes and wiped your face.

It surprised you how a tall giant like him who had a name for his ruthless methods and interrogation scenes, could act so soft and careful with you.

It was hard to believe that the hand that was confronting you and wiping away your tears had killed so many people before.

With your lower lip quivering, you felt your fear taking over you, making your knees shake. Ghost watched you with worried eyes as you let out a sob you couldn’t hold back anymore and jumped into his arms, hiding your face into his neck.

As you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, you felt the heat coming off of his body, his tenseness slowly fading away once he’d realized what you were doing.

Ghost embraced your hug, his big arms wrapping around you like a shield, silently promising to keep you safe. He felt your scent filling his nose and his heart slowing down as your bodies pressed against each other’s.

”He has my family, Simon. He’ll kill them if I don’t obey his orders,” you sobbed in pure panic, your small hands holding onto him.

Ghost exhaled and tightened his grip around you, his head dropping onto yours with ease.

”Shh… I’m here,” he scooted you as you let your tears fall onto his gear.

”I couldn’t tell anyone and he made me swear to leave you or else…”

Ghost didn’t say it was okay or that it would be all right. Because he wasn’t sure if he could keep his promise if he’d told you something you wanted to hear at the moment.

So, he just kept you in his arms and rubbed your back while his heart came to peace now that he knew the real reason why you left them.

”I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

”Hey, hey…” Ghost pulled you away slightly so that he could look into your eyes.

When you glanced up at him, his eyes didn’t make you feel anxious like a few minutes ago, they made you realize you weren’t alone and that he wasn’t blaming you for anything.

”Don’t be sorry, family comes first.” Ghost answered. ”You did what you have to, I understand.”

”But you’re also my family,” you whispered in a defeated tone and his eyes softened.

”It’s okay, Cobra. I’m not mad, I could never be mad at you,” he admitted and pulled you into his chest, his hand caressing your hair.

You sniffed and hid your face in his chest, wishing you could wake up from this nightmare.

But unfortunately, you were awake. You have been this whole time and there was no turning back from now.

”I wish you would have told me without running away,” he said quietly. ”I understand why you did it, I just wish you would have told me.”

”I wanted to,” you admitted, your voice small and vulnerable.

”Why didn’t you then?” he asked, still holding you against his chest.

You sighed and wiped your flushed face, your other hand still around his waist.

”I was afraid you wouldn’t have let me leave.”

”You’re fucking right I wouldn’t have let you do that,” he agreed immediately, causing you to giggle.

Ghost felt warmness fill his chest at your almost laugh, making it easier for him to breathe now that you were in his arms and let yourself smile.

He missed you, a lot.

”I trust you, Simon. You know, I do.”

He hummed as he let his fingertips dance on your skin a little.

”It was hard to believe otherwise when I woke up to you missing one day.”

The familiar feeling of guilt made your expression drop and your brows furrow. You really wished things would have been different.

You hated yourself for making Ghost feel like he didn’t mean anything to you. You hated yourself for making him almost lose his faith in you.

”I’d tell you that you’re coming back with us but something tells me you won’t.”

You stepped away from him, letting go of his torso with defeated eyes.

”He’ll kill them, I can’t go with you,” you said sadly. You’d never felt so lost and desperate before and Simon could see that in your eyes.

”So, what…” his voice trailed off. ”You’re just going to stay by his side and do whatever the fuck he wants you to?”

”It’s not like I want to work for him, Simon. But I have no choice.”

”We’ll figure something out,” he replied.

You sighed and ran your fingers through your hair in frustration.

”You can’t, you know it.”

Ghost shook his head. ”No, there has to be a way… We have to do something before he kills you.”

”I appreciate your concern but there’s nothing you can do for me,” you whispered in a hoarse voice.

Ghost stared at you while hundreds of thoughts had run through his mind, wondering if there was a way he could help you. Hoping he could say or do something that would make you feel better.

”I have to do something… I can’t lose you again, I won’t.”

His words made your heart almost jump out of your chest while he massaged the back of his neck. You felt physically weak at the plea of his voice while he was trying to find a solution.

But there was none.

Not when Makarov had his chains on you like on a dog.

”I’ll be fine, just go.”

Ghost looked at you with hesitation.

”I can’t, Cobra. What if I won’t see you again?”

Wiping your eyes, you took a shaky breath. Him trying to get you out of this just made the whole situation more unbearable.

”We knew what we were signing up for when we joined the special forces, Lt.”

Ghost felt his heart starting to ache in sadness as he took your defeated and exhausted sight in. You weren’t the woman who once made a race with him about getting more kills on a mission or not.

You were only a shadow of yourself and he hated to see you this way.

He would have done anything to be able to take you back with him to the base and never let you go.

It terrified him how lost he’d felt when you left the team, he could still remember how he’d stare at the ceiling of his room, wondering if he’d ever see you again.

”Don’t talk like that, Cobra.” Ghost scolded you. ”Now is not the time.”

”You know I might end up getting killed after all.”

”Don’t.” Ghost said in a stern voice, his body tensing at your words. ”Nobody is dying. Not on my watch and I’m going to keep my word.”

It made you feel better to know that Ghost didn’t hold anything against you. Your soul found peace now that he knew the why behind your decisions and betrayal. It killed you that you couldn’t go home with him and Soap.

Ghost stepped closer to you and waited for you to look into his dark eyes that led you directly to his soul.

”I’m going to get you out of this, Cobra. I promise. I’m not leaving anyone behind, especially you.”

His promise made you forget the danger that was around the corner and just for a brief second you were happy to let yourself believe what Ghost was saying.

”You better not to, lieutenant.”

Ghost huffed and touched the side of your face, his thumb softly caressing your skin. Closing your eyes, you leaned into his touch and forgot how to breathe for a moment.

Simon Riley was famous for a lot of things and keeping his promise was one of them. That was the only thing that helped you come to peace with the things you were forced to do in order to protect your family.

[apostate00]

What's your opinion on Tankie? I think he's kinda funny and cute

Ohoho THIS is gonna be a long one, strap in!

Well, my opinion on Commie is mostly negative. I HATE this guy, but it's like a passionate hate, the kind that if he were gone, things would feel empty, because he's my favorite guy to despise.

I tend to make him worse in my HCs than he is in the show, even though he's already not great either. I think part of my dislike for him also stems from them fact that he's held up in the fandom as a good guy, when he really isn't, seeing how he's blatantly disrespectful to trans/non-binary people, and would discriminate against minorities if they didn't do as he said.

Nevermind the fact that he's a tyrant and denies the holodomor, which he caused, and also brushed off Nazi's holocaust denial. Also he runs gulags, which are basically just concentration camps & slave labor, but people seem to be mysteriously brushing over that if it's commies who do it. It's a joke then.

People have told me before that the reason they like him is because he's just desperate for a family and community, but personally, that makes me like him less.

How people can ship Leftist Unity is beyond me, when Commie repeatedly disrespects Ancom and later Ansyn. He doesn't give a shit about trans people, misgendering them simply because he can. Also, we all know damn well Commie will kill Ancom the second he doesn't need quem anymore.

I think some of it also stems from me being agender myself. I generally really hate how Ancom/Ansyn's queerness was handled in the show since no one respects quis pronouns ever, and it's more played as a joke than anything.

Fuck even the fandom doesn't respect quis pronouns at times.

People prolly think that it's not that big a deal, but for me who is incredibly protective of the self and their individual identity, disrespecting someone else's to integrate them into your homogeneous view of things is so repulsive and disgusting; it's not nessecarily the act of misgendering, even though that is bad too, but the complete disregard for individuality and identity.

I read Commie as abusive, but I've gathered that some people in the fandom really don't like that lol, I got to add onto my tally of "people online told me to kms" over it. But yes, generally I picture Commie as someone who actively infantilise Ancom and makes quem adopt this uwu uwu personality we see so often, to take away quis teeth, make them submissive, follow him around and make quem less likely to stand up for quemself against him.

There's more of course but, my personal headcanons are besides the point.

I do also use this guy to project my own personal experiences and trauma onto sooo, he has become kind of an amalgamation and caricature of my abusers.

I don't know, basically everything about Commie is so repulsive to me. I can basically only tolerate him with Nazi because they're both tyrannical scum and deserve each other.

I'm pretty big on freedom & individualism so that probably also doesn't help his case in my brain 😭

People can like Commie ofc, you can love and adore characters that are pieces of shit; I'd know so since Ancap is my second favorite character only surpassed by Ancom, but you know, I know what it's like to love a character who is fucking awful.

I guess I just wish people would acknowledge Commie's shitty behaviour more often instead of treating him like this big friendly harmless guy.

But yeah, people can do whatever they want of course, that's just my thoughts about it! :3

[radykalny-feminizm]

sry if this weird but what is your opinion on communism? I think radfems here are from america or western Europe and idolize it but our families lived behind the iron curtain and had it bad. You're a Pole, what do you think about connecting Marxism and radical feminism? can radfems not be radfems if they oppose it? cause people caused big harm in the name of communism and i can't get over radfems ignoring that but maybe i'm the crazy one i don't know what to think about this there's so much generational trauma for us and they won't get it. but maybe im who's wrong i dont know

You're not wrong and I agree with you.

People who have not experienced life under a communist regime and/or during the post-communist period will not understand how communism can be equated with nazism. Communism sounds utopian on the surface, in theory. However, utopias don't exist. Communism, like any radical political system, must involve taking away freedom from certain individuals. But again, it's hard for people who haven't experienced anything like this to understand.

Generational trauma is real. It irritates me when I see privileged people from wealthy western societies who never experienced poverty describing themselves as "communists", because they wouldn't survive even a day actually living in a communist country. They don't know what it's like to have family members who were arrested and beaten by the police for possessing the "wrong" books or openly criticizing a politician. Not to mention the millions of people who died in the name of communism, in gulags or out of hunger.

I absolutely do not believe that being a communist is a requirement to consider oneself a radical feminist. The only requirement is to care deeply about all women, their well-being, and their rights.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

Keziah Niamh. Ffhjjd. This got so fucking out of hand. I LOVE YOU TY DARLING. 💖💖

König x f!OC (Rivka) / 1.8k words / NSFW

AU where for some reason, there's been a concerted effort to imprison skilled operators in the Gulag. König is used to kill whomever the guards point at--he does not question why. His reward is a visit to a solitary cell, where a woman holds his vile heart in her fist like a benison.

TW: descriptions of extreme violence and gore, machine-translated Russian.

When König’s shackled by wrist and ankle, with a chain running up to around his waist, he knows he’s one sin against his fellow man away from getting his little prize. If he were a rat, violence was a lever, and getting dragged up to solitary was a pellet, he’d stomp that fucking lever into the ground every fucking time.

No one had ever accused him of being smart, apart from one person, but there was not a person alive who had suffered the work of his awful hands that would not hesitate to call him brutal.

He’d been such a fucking problem when he was jumped and dragged to the Gulag all those months ago that he warrants a cadre of six guards in their full tactical gear to escort him down the halls to the boiler room. They like a good little show with a nasty atmosphere. It makes them think of home.

Once there, he’s aimed like a gun at another face that doesn’t matter to him. 

Older guy, beard, body hair like a werewolf. He’s got scars across his face that’ve taken one of his eyes, and when he snarls, he’s got no teeth across the bottom. Without his shirt on, König can make out eyes tattooed around his hips. Eh. Poor fuck, unlucky enough to get tagged for liking dick, it seems. Doesn’t matter. Not much of this does.

No one in the room speaks German, and he doesn’t speak Russian, and they won’t answer in English, so he just gestures for whatever weapon they want him to use on the raging asshole that’s about to become his victim. Sometimes, they get creative—hand him a pair of tongue and groove pliers or wire strippers, once even the broken wheel of an angle grinder. 

They don't give him bladed weapons, or anything that can be used like one. He kills too fast to get their rocks off like that. 

Today, it's simple. A claw hammer. His opponent is given an old skinning knife. It's not quite even odds, and König can remember a few fights that had been easier. 

When it starts, König is fast and ugly in nature and action. He's got reach, a hammer, and a lever to break off the fucking hinges. 

The bastard gets a few good slices in trying to go for his neck—a blood-groove carved over his cheekbone, a valley on his bicep that damn near splits the veins in his elbow. But König lands that first blow, and it's all over but the death rattle.

The claws fit perfectly under the windpipe. Can't rip it all the way out, but he can absolutely mutilate it. 

He's the perfection of violence with every arc of his arm drawing the hammer back—cracking it forward, pulverizing the joint on one side, ramming the claws between skull and cartilage on the other. The blood boils in his fucking veins, finally seeing the world in color, iron flooding his sinuses, thick on the soft palette, heavy on his tongue. 

The old man staggers, slurring, eyes unfocused. Trips on his own feet, goes down hard on his ass, looking around in confusion like a toddler. The guards howl like baboons showing red ass; they close in, smother, wanting a look at the damage.

König doesn't feel pity. That human feeling had been demo'ed and ripped out of him decades ago.

Slams a canvas basketball shoed foot on the gushing throat, crushes him back in a crouch with all his weight bearing down, and beats.

And beats. And fucking beats.

Might be the animal rage of being locked in a cage. Never loved a cage that he was forced into. Might be that he's named with his name, never called by his callsign. Might be that he's on an island in the middle of the Baltic Sea, and anything short of an Armageddon-sized riot would be a death sentence when eyeballing escape. Might be he just can't choose how he kills.

Might fucking be that his unit is dead, and the only thing he's got left is in the hole, and the only thing he's got left is the only reason he'd ever capitulate to these filter-faced fucks instead of killing as many of them as fast as he can, dying, but dying in defiance. 

His chest is heaving, he bleeds from the wounds cut into him, and he sits on the corpse's ribcage. He doesn't ask what the man did—wouldn't get an answer, fucker probably didn't do anything, and König doesn't care. 

Their tones change, and the tasers come out once gore streaks up across the floor and the near wall, hammer striking concrete when there's no more bone to crush.

Fuck—the meat, and blood, and bone chips are hot splattered on his legs, up the wifebeater on his chest exposed by his rolled-down jumpsuit. It burns on his exposed neck and face, and he can even detect it on the numb tissue of his warped burn scars. 

“Odinokiy. Seychas.” His voice rasps, throat hot and dry, wanting water, but he grates out the only Russian he knows, throwing the hammer away. 

Solitary. Now.

Rivka had been dumped in the hole five months ago for influencing the guards and other prisoners. For a woman with a subatomic amount of charisma, she was spilling poison in ears across a dozen languages. 

The only word he recognizes as he's paraded with his chains dragging and hobbling him through the corridors on the far side of the facility is Zabludowicz. It's the only one that matters. 

Her eyes never went back to normal—that scope glass gray he'd know in his dreams and mania now gone forever—and she still couldn't read, but she could still run her engines in the red, burning spite and ugly, fester-fuck rage for fuel.

No one needed a reason to pack her off to proverbial Siberia. They just did. And when they dragged her out of the showers, they beat her. It—broke something. In her head.

The first time König had seen her after, both her eyes were dilated black, and she slurred her words together. Told him in the halting sentences of a child that she couldn't read the Cyrillic on the labels of the guards’ gear. Couldn't read anything in the Latin alphabet, either.

König throws his hideous, hyena-pitch cackle when the guards slam him against the cast iron door casket-lidding her miserable cell, grating out, “Rivki—Schatzi—it's me,” in a gout of German that sends the guards cursing, twisting his cuffs tighter, cutting into his raw skin. 

Death is death is death, and it still stands in the place of a gift in this shithole, but they find a purgatory in leverage levied.

It's on purpose. It's all on purpose, and it all hurts, and the worst things they can do to him, they won't.

Pain upon Rivka is his punishment, and they won't kill her until they reap all the connections they can from her head. Pain upon him is her pound of flesh; they know she stops speaking when he bleeds too much, and they know she'd send him to his death with silence, even if his delivery was torture in all its many natures. 

There's coarse Russian yelling, orders and threats spat, and König is wrenched away from the door, his limbs freed and howling just as it slides open with a bang that should burst his ear drums.

He's shoved in with all the force of an aircraft carrier launched out of dry dock on bad water, and there are thousands upon thousands of fucks he can't give, because there's Rivka, against the far wall. 

Her eyes are black, and they keep shaving her head without even the guise of delousing, just degradation. Stupid shit to think they could ever degrade her. 

Not sure which one jumps first after that microsecond of recognition—the space at the bottom of lungs between breaths, where dying eventually finds its way, where the lungs prepare to intake the scent of home—but the crash is painful, and Rivka is the shrapnel edges of broken glass with her starvation-raised bones digging into his bruised muscle.

Here, in hell, is his health. 

Her hands find his wounds, and her voice is a sharper cut than the knife used against him, “The fuck are they giving out now? Scalpels? You-you-you need glue t-to close-close-close.”

Her words are precious now, so he does not interrupt, but Rivka wouldn't know the difference between a limb severe by saw and a neck slit with a straight razor, and the love König carries for her would crush him to death the moment he stopped asking it to.

“I missed you,” he says in place of a reply, feeling the quarks in his atoms want to break apart in the face of his relief and full-body shaking, “fuck, I missed you.”

Her eyes snap back to him, and her expression crumples. Her features—austere, alien, fae—animate as her humanity bubbles back up through the cracks, too strong facing him to remain trapped even with her ruthless burial.

“Missed you bad,” she says, nose wrinkled snarl-like at her recovering vocabulary. Where she lacks in words, she masters in movement, arms around his neck, pulling body against body. She grabs the strap of his wifebeater, warping it, yanking him close, and he doesn't care. He listens. She's the hand on his collar, he'll always arrive when she signals him.

She gropes for hair at his temples that has long been buzzed away. She searches for silver that exists only in stubble. She kisses him like she'll take the soul from his body, devour it bloody, and carry it for safekeeping. 

He gathers her up like there's still some chance in hell that he can protect her, dropping on her miserable bare cot of a bed, dragging her onto his chest, and between his legs, and under his arms. All he can do is wait for her vengeful brain to heal, then there will come a plan, and he will faithfully (faithfully, faithfully, faithfully—as blinded by loving obedience as Abraham on the mountain, with wood for the pyre meant for his sacrificial son) be the finger on her trigger. He will be her executioner. He will carry out her will.

Her body is too tired and worn for fucking, and he wouldn't ask or accept it anyway. If it was a matter of too many eyes, they possibly could swing it from sheer savagery, but it's not. He can't make himself ask her to expend the energy. She has so far to go still. 

But her razor-slide lips are a refrain. We'll make it through, we'll make it through, we'll make it through. 

Rivka is the only higher power König believes in.

[bravoactual]

Just thinking about Soap's journal again and the reason why 'How many times times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own?' has me in a permanent chokehold. (822 words)

Soap seeing himself in Roach.

Like Sanderson. He's a Sgt., but reminds me of what I must've looked like coming out of selection: raw, skilled, loyal to a fault.

Soap seeing Price in himself because of Roach.

Maybe it's the Villa Clara's? Five years ago, my first mission with the 22nd began with one. Yesterday, Roach and I follow suit. Then, like clockwork, fresh meat gets caught falling to certain death.

Me: Off a helicopter over the Bering Strait. Roach: An ice cliff in Kazakhstan.

But wait, there's more.

Have been looking forward to breaking Roach in. Beyond the mission similarities, He reminds me after myself after selection. Feel even more comfortable with him than Price must have with me.

And,

Afterwards, saw the Sgt. writing in a journal. Wonder if he's thinking about PT like I was. If he's wondering what Villa Clara's taste like.

Like, yes, Soap. It's only natural to think about what your captain's been tasting after he saves your life. There's no way that's something exclusive to you.

And of course, just like Price, you'd give yourself to keep your men from going first.

Bingo or not, would've crashed before leaving Roach on those rooftops.My fault, it was so close. Could have told Roach to shed more gear before the jump.

Yes, take full responsibility for Roach's fate. He's who you were and you're who he'll be.

Funny thing, watching Roach get taken down by Price in the gulag not like the old man rotted in a gulag for 5 years or anything...

It is funny isn't it, like your past and your future met at the present. And what do you do with the only tangible piece of Price you've had since he was MIA?

Felt good to give the gun back. Price's pistol wasn't just the gun that killed Imran Zakhaev - it was the gun that saved my life.

In Price's hands, not yours. Right where it belongs. And not just giving the pistol back, but giving over the task force you built and breathed and burned for. Despite the fact he's "rotted" as a POW for five years.

Good to have the Captain back in command. Best demotion imaginable.

Just say you missed him.

So yeah, was happy to follow Price and Roach over the net. Not just because it meant I was far from the mutts, but because I got to listen to the two of them working together, like we once did.

Just say you missed him.

There was that same options: Take out the target or let themHIM pass. Nice to hear Price taking Roach under his wing. Know the effect it can have.

Yeah, the effect of a lifetime of devotion, but you aren't any man and Roach isn't you.

Soon as Price went dark; right then, knew it was bad. Didn't need Ghost screaming over the net to realize it. Spoke to Price afterwards. Man knows something about the greater good.

And what if he hadn't appeased you? What was it you called Roach? Loyal to a fault.

Then you lose Ghost and Roach. You can't even keep your hand steady as you curse Shepherd on the pages. And the part of you that you protected through Roach is lost too.

And here it is, the crux of it.

Saved again. How many times now, I've lost count. Don't mean I've lost track. The questions are hard. How do I repay his debt? How many times times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own? But the answer's easy. At least to me. LOYALTY doesn't operate on a sliding scale. It's a safety. ON OR OFF.

You belong to Price. You've belonged to Price since Bering Strait. There is no off. You remained loyal even when Price was dead. You carried him with you every single day. He's your master. You're his dog.

No more drawings of Price, not even a mention of him beyond tactics. You used to find echos of him in everything and everyone. You aren't the sergeant, you can't be. The sergeant is KIA. You are the captain.

Here on out, we're for just one thing: Redemption.

The end is in sight. Shepherd took the task force you'd built and tarnished every operator's name. Your men, under your watch. The ones you'd give yourself to protect. Yourself is exactly what it costs. Redemption can only be granted to the dead if you succeed.

And then the final page, the epitaph written by Price from "The Golden Journey to Samarkand".

"We are the pilgrims, master: we shall go. Always a little further: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow, Across that angry or that glimmering sea,"

Once your name is clean, John "Soap" MacTavish will join the others KIA, engraved on the clocktower in Hereford. Until then, Price will hold the last tangible piece of you, just as you did for him.

[walkawaytall]

bring back the turkey, you cowards

Weird thing none of you know about me: from about 2015(?) until about 2019 or so, I had a very specific and weird obsession: Lisa Frank's social media presence (and, to a lesser degree, Lisa Frank's collaboration deals clearly made in an attempt at making a comeback).

Now, I will go ahead and correct a commonly held misconception amongst the people who followed me on Facebook at the time: I was not obsessed with Lisa Frank the person (as mysterious as she attempts to be, I think I have her mostly figured out), Lisa Frank the manufacturer of my favorite childhood school supplies, or even Lisa Frank the company as it stands today (though this Jezebel article, Inside the Rainbow Gulag: The Technicolor Rise and Fall of Lisa Frank, is wild and I think everyone should read it; it may not hold true today since they've had so much change and turnover, but it's still fascinating). My obsession was primarily focused on Lisa Frank's social media presence. And that's because Lisa Frank's social media presence was batshit insane.

Keep in mind, when I first started following them on social media, they were not banking on Millennial nostalgia. They were still primarily selling school supplies. The adult coloring book (not adult like smutty; adult like...those therapy coloring books that were so popular ten years ago?) sold by way of an exclusivity agreement with Dollar General hadn't been announced yet, nor had workout gear or the SpongeBob collab (sold only at HotTopic). As far as anyone knew, Lisa Frank was still that rainbow school supply company whose target audience is nine-year-old girls.

Which is why all of the housemade "memes" were absolutely bonkers.

This is peak Middle-Aged Mom Humor, so why is it being presented to me by the company making pencils and folders for elementary schoolers?

Glad to know we are encouraging fourth graders to day drink.

This one isn't actually aimed at any particular age group; I just find it funny that captains of pirate ships are inherently pirates, so I don't know what this is supposed to mean.

He won't. He will not fly. He is a flightless bird. This is a terrible lesson and you are a homicidal mother penguin. (Also using slightly altered lines from poems without attribution is theft, but whatever.)

And the image that started my obsession:

This...isn't a joke??? What is this???

I don't know who was behind these posts, but considering how small the company was at that point, I always suspected that Lisa herself was recycling old artwork with the help of an intern or something and creating the social media posts...because it just sort of seemed like that's what was happening? I have no proof of this; it was just a vibe I got.

But, during that period of time, even though the posts were inscrutable and sometime just straight-up Minion Humor, they were at least interesting.

Well, I mean, sometimes they were interesting because they were like acid to the eyes.

Okay, and sometimes they were interesting but also sported questionable messaging about one's relationship with food and exercise.

Anyway, I digress. In 2019, Lisa's son Forrest Green (yes, her sons are named Hunter and Forrest Green) took over the social media presence and it became...very palatable for the masses, I suppose. It was a lot of photo edits of old boy band pictures with Lisa Frank designs superimposed on tshirts -- it was very nostalgia-driven and very much directed at Millennials and thus I lost interest, because if there's anything I hate, it's being the target demographic for a sales pitch.

Anyway, my point is that for several years in a row, Lisa Frank would post the same holiday-themed images, so I got used to seeing a certain Thanksgiving design that is, and I cannot prepare you enough, one of the most chaotic and hideous things you'll ever lay your eyes on. But it was tradition. They posted it like three years in a row, and then as soon as Forrest took over, this design was never posted again. And all I have to say on this Thanksgiving week of 2023 is: bring back the turkey, you cowards.

[malscare]

like it's crazy that this is my first normie corpo job and it's the gulag but I don't know anything else so I assume all workplaces are like this. they terminate ppls contracts basically at random and at such a crazy rate that u slowly realize all the faces you were used to seeing when you joined are all gone & you can't pinpoint when because the way the environment is set up discourages familiarity. like you think they're just in a different part of the building one day and don't think about it too hard and then you never see them again. & there's barely any encouragement just critique and looming threats of termination so even if ive outlasted so many of these ppl & even if I'm improving and doing good im still not enough & you can't spend time being proud of the work you've already done because you could be next anyways.

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

You know about the Japan thing, I think a lot of westerners (especially ones who grew with anti American sentiments) don’t realize how brutal imperial Japan was. Iirc the Nazis told them to fucking calm down with their crimes against humanity (yes we all get the irony)

Also there a difference between usually guilt ridden Germany to what the Nazis does. Vs the Japanese government have tantrums when people bring up the atrocities they did during the war.

And yes they have changed, Japan xenophobia back in the day (and in some cases in modern times) make some of the hardcore western racists look tame.

The atomic bombs were a brutal decision, but dear god what with infantilizing of Japan during ww2? Do people look up unit 731? That some nightmare shit even the most morally bankrupt cia scientist could only imagine doing

People who love to bleat about "trusting experts" sure do love ignoring people who have actually studied history when they're talking about history. Though that makes sense, considering the all out attack on real history that's coming from the woke progressive front these days.

People can't admit that America was ever not the worst country in the world. It's, ironically, a very America-centric viewpoint. They're happy to bring up the Japanese internment camps and the illegal immigrant detention centers--which themselves are massively different things--and compare them all day to the Nazi concentration camps. But when you bring up the gulags or things like Unit 731 or even the Chinese Uyghur concentration camps, they don't want to hear it. They claim those things are propaganda or that they were actually good, as I've seen more than a few tankies say about the gulags. America needs to be the big bad guy for these people at all times, because they interact with the world the way children do. Good is always good and never anything but. Bad is always bad and never anything but. And they are the sole arbiters of what good and bad are.

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

Bells ring after the eagle cries

Chapter 2: new beginnings old memories

Summary:

Bells is on his way to re-integrate himself back into the military but old memories come bubbling up. (please comment if any grammar is incorrect or if I need to explain anything further. as always have an amazing day or night!)

Chapter Text

Bell pov: 

The helicopter looked…..run down to say at least several panels were missing and bullet holes were scattered around the hull and doors of the helo. The bullet holes make my mind tingle with old memories of Vietnam which I promptly shake off reminding myself that I wasn't there. Laswell huffs a small laugh beside me noticing my scrunched-up expression. 

“It's the best we could do with such short notice” she states as we continue to walk towards the parked helicopter whose side doors swiftly opened, revealing a tall bulky man with short slicked back hair wearing a leather jacket with a grey t-shirt underneath, a gold chain and pair of dog tags dangling from his neck resting on his chest.

On the left side of the leather jacket was a Russian flag that made me crease my eyebrows together slightly confused. I glance sideways at Laswell tilting my head. When we reach the helo, the man calls out.

“Kate, Good to see you!” he spoke joyfully, helping Laswell and myself into the helo. His voice had an obvious Russian accent to it he then turned to me and smiled “And you must be Bell?” he said tilting his head slightly waiting for my response. I simply nod “Yeah.. that's me.” I say my voice even but still a bit uneasy. He then turns back to Laswell. “The captain is waiting at the warehouse,” he says, his voice now serious.

Laswell nods in confirmation and the man walks back to the front of the helo while me and Laswell sit down and hook ourselves in. I feel us lift up off the ground I turn to Laswell and ask quietly.

“So who is that exactly?” 

“That’s Nikolai, the best pilot I know,” she replies as I stuff my duffel bag under my seat and strap it in. After a few minutes in silence, I speak up trying to start a conversation or get answers to which one I’m trying for I don't know “So. What exactly has happened in the past few centuries that you haven't told me?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, determined to see if she was lying about anything.

She looks up from her computer in her lap and glances back down at the screen before closing the laptop “Well the reason why you're on this helicopter and not a civilian plane back to America is because we need your help specifically, help with a new terrorist..he's just been recently broken out of a Russian gulag, we don't know his next target but the higher-ups believe that you could help us in tracking him down and neutralising him. From what I've read in your reports, you're a good soldier."

She speaks calmly but there's a hint of desperation in her voice. I lean forward slightly letting out a sigh “Well then. Who is he?” 

She reopens her laptop clicking her fingers on the keyboard a few times before turning it around and displaying the illuminated screen. My eyes zone in on what it says and my blood runs cold as I feel my heart drop down to my stomach as I read the name.

Vladimir Makarov

As I read the name, memories come rushing back to me, a never-ending onslaught. I can vividly remember the cries of a young boy, yelling, and burning anger at a face I can't recognise anymore.

I can feel a dull throbbing in my chest as I remember the young boy I held in my arms years ago as his mother died of blood loss on her birthing bed. I remember the relief I felt when I stood in a courtroom with the same young boy clinging to my side as I was given custody and I remember tears running down my face as Arash shot me leaving me for dead in that car. I remember not thinking of survival but praying that my nephew was safe.

…..

…

Oh dear god. How did this happen?

I feel a single tear run down my face. I suddenly feel very aware of my surroundings, of the CIA officer sitting across from me, of the fact that I am in a helicopter heading towards a place that I do not know full of people I do not know who are all hunting my nephew.

My nephew is a terrorist.

My nephew is a terrorist. 

My nephew is a terrorist. 

m̴̛��̙͐̔̋̈̓̉ẏ̸̥̜̘̟͍̮̪͆ ̸̦̖̙̣̼̳̮̓̀ǹ̸̥̲̳̔̎̈́̿̑ę̷̣̩̬̩̭̹͍̩͑̉́̑̇̿̽͆̎̔̈̆̉̾͌ͅp̵͉̼̼̑͋͐̆͆̽̍͐̑̕ḩ̵̛̪͎̮̯̣̠̳̪̣̳͋̏͊̈̽̄̈͒͂͘̚͝͠͠ͅę̷̧̠̰̘̝͎͖̝̰͒͆̌̑̾́͗̋́̿̈͜͝w̵̢̩͕̺͖̱̦̟̰͖̔́̓̊͐̃̃͘͠ ̶̡͉͇̞̰̺̲̘̂̌̄̓͊͑͛̀̚̕̕i̸̲͊͗͋̓̒̓s̵̬̰̼̻̯̺͎̦̤̗̝͐̓̿̿̅̈́̓̚͜͝ ̶̧̡̛̝̙̥̹̫̠̤̪̠̈̆̏̅̉̈͒̅̚ͅạ̸̧̢̞̮̖̬͍͚̬͍̠͇̤̌̓̓́̏̎͑̂̕͘̕͝ ̵̛͍̝͉̟̥̮͖̱͕͎͖̓̓́́́̓͗͂ͅṱ̴̢̨̡̛̛͍̦̻̭̱́̆̆̊́̿̓̀̌̕ė̵̹̝̫̞̮͍͉̜̈́̆̓̆͗̋̅͘͝ͅr̴̢̤̝͚̟̲͓̜̰̀͋̒̎̄́̇̎̂͌͊͂̏̚͘ŗ̴̡̲̗̞̹̘͍̯̯̬̮̃̌́ͅo̷̭̩̤̫̹̼͙͗̀̂̽̈́̈́̀̒͛̎̈̑͜͝ŗ̸͙̥͔̳̱̮̼̟̗̤̞̥͖̱̆́̉̊̃̿̋͝͝͝i̵͇̺̘̬̒̔̂̓͒́͑̂s̶̹̰͙̭̞͚̿̽̆̋̀͑̓t̵̢͖̮̤͈̙̹̞̘̹̼̟̾͆͒͒̓́͊͌͐͘̕͘͜ ̷̡̨̦̖̬͈̜̱̮̙̤̇́̎̋̄͊́̉̏̂̍͜͜͠ͅ

“Volodya,” I whisper I can feel tears in my eyes that I swiftly wipe with my sleeve. I hope that I was quick enough so that Laswell didn't notice I then looked up at her face. Her face was blank. I can feel my heart sinking all over again.

She turns the laptop around again now facing her she then speaks up her voice questioning and almost demanding “Do you recognise him?” I shakily let out a breath I didn't know I was holding I could feel my voice catch in my throat I felt unable to answer but I forced the words out of my mouth “Y-yeah I….. I’ve seen him before” I whisper almost quietly enough for her not to hear my voice is broken and shredded.

She nods and I can feel her trust slipping every second  “Did you know him? She asks, her tone strained and slightly demanding I wrack my brain for an answer for something I can tell her without thinking further I lie.

“N-not really I was sent with one of my COs to infiltrate a KGB headquarters. There was a school tour going on, and when we were there a kid got separated from the group. He was that kid, I helped him get back to a teacher. It's weird seeing a kid grown up especially when they….became a terrorist” I say my voice shaking. 

I don't know why I lied. But to be fair I couldn't just be like ‘Well yeah I know him he's my nephew!’ and I have a feeling if I did tell the truth it wouldn’t end well for me. 

She seems to believe me because she lets out a hum before the helicopter plunges into silence once again. Before I knew it was on solid ground again I'm still shaken from the amount of memories I regained over the past few days. I was remembering more and more of who I was before Adler. 

I unstrap my duffel bag from the binds I put it in before getting myself out of my seat, now standing Laswell exits the helo with Nikolai and me following behind her as we exit the helo onto a concrete airstrip where the warehouse is close by. 

The front of the warehouse is open revealing the interior which had a large central table sitting in the middle with chairs spread about as well as a large flatscreen TV perched up on another smaller table the outer walls had shelves of files and weaponry I let out a small whistle at the shear amount of weapons and the different types of weapons displayed on the walls. 

As we continued to walk towards the warehouse I could see several different people surrounding the central table all of them were wearing standard military tac vests and other gear. One of the men was tall, he was wearing a skull mask that looked too real for it to be fake, another was a smaller stocky man with a mohawk who was sitting with his hands folded on the central table. 

The other two were standing with both their arms crossed, one had dark skin and a cap with the British flag on it, the other was like the first man tall, well built but this one had a boonie hat on and a roughly trimmed beard. 

Laswell then speaks up beside me “Welcome to task force 141 Bell.”

AO3 link:

[your-interpol-agent]

Do you think you could find anything on how Rasputin‘s children died? He had seven, three of whom (Dmitry, Maria, Varvara) survived to adulthood. They have causes of death listed, but their siblings who presumably died in childhood (Mikhail, Georgiy, Anna, Praskovya) do not.

What we DO know:

Rasputin got married with a woman named Praskovya Fyodorovna and had seven children.

Mikhail Rasputin, born in 1889, who died the same year.

Anna Rasputina, commonly misconceived as Georgiy's twin sister, was born on January 29th, 1892, died May 3rd, 1896. The fact there's a persistent myth about Anna being Georgiy's twin sister could mean Georgiy did have a twin named Anna too (some families re-use for latter children the names they gave to still born babies) but it's a bit unlikely as Anna died after Georgiy and his elusive twin's births.

Georgiy Rasputin, born 25th of May 1894, according to some sources, on the 1st of May according to others. However, there's a discrepancy of around three weeks between the orthodox and roman calendars, and the roman calendar only started being used in Russia in 1918, which means both dates might be true. He died on september 13th of the same year at three-four months old.

Dmitry Rasputin, the boy who lived! He was born in 1895 and lived until the 1930's, when he died of dysentry in a labor camp up north, most probably in the Gulag. He had children but they died in the same camp, as well as his wife.

In 1896 was born an unnamed baby who didn't survive more than 24h.

On March 27th, 1898 was born Matrena Rasputina, who later chose the new name "Marija" (Maria) as it was more aristocratic. She died in 1977, on September 27 after making a career as a wild beasts tamer in a travelling circus then becoming a riveter on a defense shipyard during WW2. She had children herself but I won't get into details since it's not the point of this ask.

Finally, Varvara was born in 1900 and died of typhus in 1925 without children.

Now, we don't know how Mikhail, Anna, Georgiy or the unnamed baby died, but we do know the dates so let's extrapolate.

1889, 1894, 1896 (x2).

in 1891, there was a pretty bad famine in Russia, and 1892 even saw people using unsafe provisions for their stoves, which led to cataract in old and very young people.

In winter, because of poor health-related knowledge, it's not rare people died of pneumonia that had become too bad to cure, or from tape- and round-worms because of unsafe water drunk. There are ritual binge-drinking of kids as young as 9-yo. Babies regularly died of infections from not being changed after soiling themselves. A russian researcher (Semyonova) wrote that summer was the worst time for that as very young children were often left unnattended while their parents were working on the fields, most often from diarrhea after eating something bad.

Now though I doubt Mikhail died of the famine as he was born before it happened. Granted, famines don't always start at the exact point they are recorded to have started, but he died in the same year he was born. And the others were born after the famine stopped.

As for all the other poor health issues, Giorgiy might have died from diarrhea after eating dirt or weeds when left unnattended in the summer: he died in september, which is the end of the crops. Although I can't guarantee Mikhail's date of death, it's plausible it's the same.

This leaves us with the unnamed baby and Anna.

Now the same researcher claims infanticide, mainly of unwanted/illegitimate children, were common. But while Rasputin's wife might have killed that young child, it is noted that most infanticide, accidental or not (a parent rolls over in bed and smothers the child for example) happen in younger years, and she had already had multiple other children.

And also, as any post-natal nurse will tell you, if a child dies in the 24h following the birth, chances are they were just too weak to survive. Nowadays, there's post-natal care to help the runts survive but at the time, in rural Russia? None.

The four years old is the most interesting. Semyonova relates at lengths not only infanticides but also child beatings. However, Martena/Maria described her father in her Memoirs as a simple, loving man and father. Yes, she was born after her big sister's death, and yes, she was born and raised at a time where her father's fortunes had gotten better. But this still throws a doubt on whether or not Rasputin would have beaten his daughter to death. I'll choose to believe he didn't. Then, if she had died a particularly brutal death (trampled by a horse or killed in an alleyway for example) we would probably have records of it, if only because there was a wide campaign of defamation against her father at some point, but while they accused him of stealing horses and killing someone in a fight (which no records of were found in his hometown), they never accused him of infanticide, which probably means not only that she didn't get beaten up to death but also that her death wasn't suspicious at all.

The diarrhea thing is plausible: she died in may, which saw peaks in such deaths. However, she was already four years old: not to say she should have survived it, but that if she hadn't died of it earlier, there was no reason she would have died of it later. I would go with pneumonia, but it's mainly during winter that those epidemics happen. HOWEVER the late 1890's were part of the mini-ice-age which saw winters and all-year-round get considerably colder, which could mean extended winter until may. Also, it's Russia, which isn't exactly known as a tropical destination. So she probably died of some illness or food poisonning, either because of the cold or the hunger. Of course if it's for fictional purposes you could also make her drown, for symbolism, as Rasputin's older brother Andrei died drowning himself.

Now though do take into account that this is all hypothesis. Interpol was only created in 1923 and there are not secret records I can browse on the Rasputin children who died young (on the others though...)

[scruffyplayssonic]

Are the ArchieSonic comics actually an 80's/90's syndicated cartoon? Episode 62: Stuck in an elevator (part 1)

Welcome back to my look at the ArchieSonic comic series, and how it shared a lot of the same story tropes as a typical ‘80s or ‘90s syndicated cartoon! The last few episodes have had a common theme - first the characters were stranded in the ocean, then they were stranded in the desert, and after that they were stranded in the snow. So what have we got this time?

Episode 62: Stuck in an elevator 

I mean, being stuck somewhere and being stranded somewhere are pretty much the same thing, aren’t they? But sadly there’s not really any great examples of this very specific topic in ArchieSonic. In fact the only times I can think of off the top of my head where an elevator was even shown was in the non-canon Sonic Colours adaptation in Sonic #219…

…and the times that Robotnik used a sneaky escape elevator to get away when Sonic had him cornered, such as in Sonic #38. 

So yeah, short one this week huh? If there’s any instances of being trapped in an elevator I missed, let me know in the comments! Next time-

Just kidding, I wouldn’t be doing my due diligence if I didn’t try a little harder to squeeze some blood from this metaphorical stone. So I went to TV Tropes to see what I could find on this topic. And sure enough, I hit paydirt:

So instead of shaking our heads and tutting at the lack of elevators in ArchieSonic, let’s broaden the topic to cover enemies and/or rivals being locked in a room together, which I feel is in the same spirit.

Our first example is one I’ve covered before: Sonic #24, when Snively, Robotnik, and the Freedom Fighters were all abducted by the alien collector, Carheem of Wheet. 

I don’t think there’s any need to retread this one, as I’ve brought it up a number of times for various episodes. Let’s move on. 

The next example is a very brief one from Sonic #48. Sonic had been arrested after being framed for the murder of Princess Sally, and was sentenced to life imprisonment in the Devil’s Gulag.

While he was being transported to the dreaded prison, Sonic found that he was not the only future inmate being taken there. Also along for the ride was Sleuth Dawgy Dawg (no, I’m not kidding on the name), a former intelligence operative who had worked for Uncle Chuck’s spy network but had betrayed the Freedom Fighters when Robotnik made him a better offer.

Mmmm, steak. …huh? Er no, I’m not tempted to go work for Robotnik, what are you even talking about? I think the better question is why was Sleuth still wearing a swatbot disguise when he was en route to the Gulag, considering he’d been arrested 6 issues prior? You’d think the Freedom Fighters would have had time to confiscate the tech and give him a change of clothes, for crying out loud. Anyway, the plane got shot down by swatbots before Sonic and Sleuth could say anything else to each other, so like I said, it was a pretty brief example.

Don't worry, Sonic was fine. He escaped went on to do his best Harrison Ford impression.

Next up is Knuckles #18, an issue in which we saw Knuckles also go to prison. But unlike Sonic he went there willingly, to interrogate Kragok of the Dark Legion. In the previous issue Knuckles had met Tobor, his several times removed great grandfather, a Guardian like himself. Tobor’s tenure as Guardian had been brief, as not long after he was charged with protecting Echidnaopolis, the Dark Legion had escaped the Twilight Zone they’d been imprisoned in and went on the attack.

During the battle Tobor and the then-current leader of the Dark Legion, Moritori Rex, had been transported to the Floating Island and were both buried in the rubble of a collapsing ruin (don’t ask why Echidnapolis wasn’t on the Floating Island at this time, it’s a long story). Not long afterwards Tobor’s father Hawking had arrived and accidentally rescued Moritori, mistaking him for Tobor due to him being badly injured and disfigured.

Tobor had eventually managed to dig his way out of the rubble and exiled himself from the Floating Island in shame. 

Did Tobor bother to let his family know that they’d been infiltrated by a leader of the Dark Legion? No, no he did not. Instead he just bummed around on the surface of Mobius for several hundred years until he one day spotted the Floating Island overhead and decided to go check it out, leading to him meeting Julie-Su and then Knuckles. After hearing Tobor’s story, Knuckles decided he wanted more information about it. So he went to interrogate Kragok, who had been incarcerated since Dimitri’s defeat back in Knuckles #9.

Indeed, Knuckles has a massive pair of b- …er, knuckles. Ahem. Anyway, Kragok didn’t want to cooperate, so Knuckles threw out the good guardian approach and switched to bad guardian instead.

…okay, putting aside the AGAB line for the moment to ask something a bit more disturbing - what the hell, Echidna Security Team? Why would a dangerous prisoner be allowed to keep a mechanical arm that can shoot lightning bolts? You would think that when he was arrested that his arm would have been removed and replaced with a non-lethal prosthetic instead, surely? Or hell, just let him manage with only one arm - it’s not like he’s going to need two arms that much inside a prison cell. Or maybe you could rig some sort of EMP field in the cell to disable the arm? I’m just spit-balling here, but anything seems better than letting a prisoner - who I might remind you was the leader of a terrorist organisation - keep a dangerous weapon in his cell.

Anyway, what happened next?

Buggered if I know. A non-specific thing happened and somehow Knuckles and Kragok found themselves trapped in the Twilight Zone - the Dark Legion's former prison. At least at this point Knuckles was able to overpower Kragok and forced him to talk, under the threat of having his face blown off with his own arm.

And what did Knuckles learn from this?

Honestly, not much that hadn’t already been said by Tobor. The main takeaway was that Tobor being replaced wasn’t a freak accident, but actually had been planned by Moritori Rex. This explains how Tobor’s family hadn’t been able to tell that Moritori was an imposter - Moritori had been able to learn everything about Tobor prior to their battle by spying on him for years. We also learned that Moritori was Kragok’s father, but this was later retconned to say that Moritori was actually Kragok’s grandfather instead. Or I guess you could argue that Kragok had just been lying to Knuckles about his parentage, that works too. Anyway, after the exposition dump Kragok and Knuckles managed to escape back to the real world through a portal, but Kragok was intercepted by Tobor (the real one), who yeeted both himself and Kragok right back into the Twilight Zone.

Our next two characters who were locked in an elevator room together are Grand Chief Lupe of the Wolfpack and Queen Hathor of the Felidae, leaders of rival Soumerican clans who had a long history of mistrust and violence caused by territory disputes and both tribes trying to claim ownership of a gemstone called the Ancient Onyx. Dr Eggman’s Dark Egg Legion had previously tried to get their tribes to go to war against each other by stealing the Ancient Onyx, but Sonic, Sally, and Big the Cat had helped to reveal the true villains and negotiate a peaceful co-existence for both tribes.

In Sonic #237 Dr Eggman sent Mecha Sally to abduct both leaders, hoping to undo Sally's efforts by causing each tribe to blame each other for their leader's disappearance and go to war.

Not long afterwards Team Fighters arrived in the Wolf Pack Nation and were informed of Lupe’s abduction by two of her former freedom fighters, Leeta and Lyco. They joined forces to investigate and soon came across Hathor in the jungle, fleeing for her life from Eggman’s forces.

“Emissary” Hathor then explained how she and Chief Lupe had been held captive together. 

So yeah, while Lupe and Hathor were still rivals and there was still a lot of mistrust between their two tribes, they were able to begrudgingly put their differences aside to work together on an escape plan. Team Fighters, Hathor, and Leeta and Lyco were able to rescue Lupe and “the Queen,” giving us one of my favourite lines in ArchieSonic:

Sorry, Drago. This queen did not slay. 🙁

Unfortunately Tumblr’s image posting limit means that I’m going to need to make a part two for this episode. I'm attempting to upload both parts at the same time, so if you don't see the other one then treat yourself to a little refresh. :)