#became a propaganda machine for

[professorfcknmoriarty]

Big week for Capes

[mourningmaybells]

americans making fun of "i shall return" really puts into perspective how different philippine history is taught. i was taught to admire him for saying that (until everything broke down because of him it's a long story, look into The Death March, Philippines Independence while ur at it i guess etc), meanwhile everyone in 70s american media is treating it like "sure baby of course he'll call you back" from a hot guy you met at a bar. who will definitely call you later. i prommy

[brandyschillace]

The Forgotten History of the World’s First Transgender Clinic

I finished the first round of edits on my nonfiction history of trans rights today. It will publish with Norton in 2025, but I decided, because I feel so much of my community is here, to provide a bit of the introduction.

[begin sample]

The Institute for Sexual Sciences had offered safe haven to homosexuals and those we today consider transgender for nearly two decades. It had been built on scientific and humanitarian principles established at the end of the 19th century and which blossomed into the sexology of the early 20th. Founded by Magnus Hirschfeld, a Jewish homosexual, the Institute supported tolerance, feminism, diversity, and science. As a result, it became a chief target for Nazi destruction: “It is our pride,” they declared, to strike a blow against the Institute. As for Magnus Hirschfeld, Hitler would label him the “most dangerous Jew in Germany.”6 It was his face Hitler put on his antisemitic propaganda; his likeness that became a target; his bust committed to the flames on the Opernplatz. You have seen the images. You have watched the towering inferno that roared into the night. The burning of Hirschfeld’s library has been immortalized on film reels and in photographs, representative of the Nazi imperative, symbolic of all they would destroy. Yet few remember what they were burning—or why.

Magnus Hirschfeld had built his Institute on powerful ideas, yet in their infancy: that sex and gender characteristics existed upon a vast spectrum, that people could be born this way, and that, as with any other diversity of nature, these identities should be accepted. He would call them Intermediaries.

Intermediaries carried no stigma and no shame; these sexual and Gender nonconformists had a right to live, a right to thrive. They also had a right to joy. Science would lead the way, but this history unfolds as an interwar thriller—patients and physicians risking their lives to be seen and heard even as Hitler began his rise to power. Many weren’t famous; their lives haven’t been celebrated in fiction or film. Born into a late-nineteenth-century world steeped in the “deep anxieties of men about the shifting work, social roles, and power of men over women,” they came into her own just as sexual science entered the crosshairs of prejudice and hate. The Institute’s own community faced abuse, blackmail, and political machinations; they responded with secret publishing campaigns, leaflet drops, pro-homosexual propaganda, and alignments with rebel factions of Berlin’s literati. They also developed groundbreaking gender affirmation surgeries and the first hormone cocktail for supportive gender therapy.

Nothing like the Institute for Sexual Sciences had ever existed before it opened its doors—and despite a hundred years of progress, there has been nothing like it since. Retrieving this tale has been an exercise in pursuing history at its edges and fringes, in ephemera and letters, in medal texts, in translations. Understanding why it became such a target for hatred tells us everything about our present moment, about a world that has not made peace with difference, that still refuses the light of scientific evidence most especially as it concerns sexual and reproductive rights.

[end sample]

I wanted to add a note here: so many people have come together to make this possible. Like Ralf Dose of the Magnus-Hirschfeld-Gesellschaft (Magnus Hirschfeld Archive), Berlin, and Erin Reed, American journalist and transgender rights activist—Katie Sutton, Heike Bauer. I am also deeply indebted to historian, filmmaker and formative theorist Susan Stryker for her feedback, scholarship, and encouragement all along the way. And Laura Helmuth, editor of Scientific American, whose enthusiasm for a short article helped bring the book into being. So many LGBTQ+ historians, archivists, librarians, and activists made the work possible, that its publication testifies to the power of the queer community and its dedication to preserving and celebrating history. But I ALSO want to mention you, folks here on tumblr who have watched and encouraged and supported over the 18 months it took to write it (among other books and projects). @neil-gaiman has been especially wonderful, and @always-coffee too: thank you.

The support of this community has been important as I’ve faced backlash in other quarters. Thank you, all.

NOTE: they are attempting to rebuild the lost library, and you can help: https://magnus-hirschfeld.de/archivzentrum/archive-center/

[meyhew]

noah schnapp changing his tune re: his zionist views is so fucking rancid. “my views have been misconstrued, i actually wish for peace for everyone and hope we can lend each other grace moving forward” no actually u became a propaganda machine for the zionist entity, helped generate consent for genocide by spreading heinous lies, and shut out anyone who tried to tell u otherwise. now ur probably in trouble with the suits and have an agent holding a gun to ur head to be more palatable so u want ppl to be nicer and still won’t denounce zionism. fuck u. i hope u fade into obscurity and are only remembered for saying zionism is sexy while laughing and celebrating the deaths of thousands of innocent people

[wickedlyqueer]

In the movie there is a case to be made that the closeness between Elphaba and Glinda is the reason Elphaba didn't fall for Morrible and the Wizard's nefarious plan in the first place.

Like, yes, I think it's pretty much canon across all versions that Elphaba will always revolt in the end. That she can't abide to the cruelty against the Animals and will rage against the machine, so to speak.

But what if she was broken first? How much further would she have fallen for that propaganda, if Glinda had not shown her kindness? In the movie, we see Morrible approach is far subtler than the book or musical. And she even manages to redirection Elphaba's anger for the Animals' mistreatment and harness it into powerful magic.

If Morrible had been able to follow that trajectory, how far would that manipulation have gone? I can easily see an abuser/victim dynamic, where Elphaba only feels competent and important when she's being mentored or in the presence of Morrible. And why would she leave her? Morrible is the only person who ever believed in her.

But in comes Miss Bubble and Glitter. Who tells Elphie she's beautiful, and recognizes her immense talent, and worst of all, she's in the same class Morrible uses to try and train Elphaba into a pawn on her chess board. Suddenly, there is no other way but to back off on the emotional manipulation, bc suddenly she is here too…

Even before they step into the throne room, Glinda takes a moment to pause, look her in the eyes and say: "Elphaba Thropp, listen to me. You can do this. You can do anything." Reaffirming her belief in Elphaba.

And then that intimacy between Elphaba and Glinda is instantly turned against each other the moment Elphaba realizes what's actually up. Elphaba can't be manipulated like the way they planned? Fine. Blondie, you're our barging chip now. First it is done as positive reinforcement: "And hey, if it'll make you happy, possibly, your friend [can stay too]."

And then, as Elphaba actively flees, it is no longer Glinda who tells the Wizard she'll "fetch her back." No. Now Morrible is the one who tries the Glinda-as-a-bargaining-chip-tactic and demands her to get Elphaba back.

Sure, Glinda is the one who eventually gets sucked into the position that was meant for Elphaba. But how easily could the tables have been turned? Where Glinda didn't take that leap towards Elphaba at the Ozdust ballroom? Where they didn't get close and Elphaba remained an outsider, fending for herself.

In that timeline, Morrible would've been able to dig her claws in deeper, and it would not be Glinda, but Elphaba who became the Wizard's puppet instead.

[choas232]

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Part two of Chatty g/n! reader x Steb

Summary:

You’re in love with Steb. Big deal. Your plan? Repression. In which Steb tries to be as obvious as possible and you try to be as oblivious as possible.

No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them is used to refer the reader. Set after Jinx’s colour explosion thing (which my friends lovingly refer to as Piltover’s first pride parade.)

CWs: Profanity.

Word count: 3.1k

Part One: G/N Chatty reader x Steb

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You’re in love with Steb. Big deal. Your plan? Repression.

Denial has aided you in all that it can. For small moments, you allow yourself to believe that you were wrong. There is no admiration to be found, there is no affection, and there is certainly no love. Until he opens a door for you, places a hand over your chair, brushing your shoulder, to peer at your work, offers to grab you a coffee when he sees your eyebags, likely not knowing he is the cause.

You have done everything you can. ‘Feeling your feelings’ and ‘Changing your mindset’ like the self-help book you borrowed from your local library haven’t helped you, to your avail, leading you to the third and final option; running from your problems and ignoring him.

It’s easy enough.

When you first became an Enforcer, you certainly did not know how much paperwork the work included. Propaganda posters scarcely talk of office hours, and healthcare benefits, you find. Now, you thank whatever cruel gods for the blindness of your youth, holing yourself in your office, hunching over sheet after sheet and ignoring the aching of your heart.

You’re such an idiot.

It’s only on day three of this monotonous cycle, hiding from him, working, working, working, that something snaps you out of your routine.

Flowers.

You emerge from your office, stumbling to the coffee machine, when a cleared throat startles you out of your daze.

In his angular, nice— fuck, normal looking hands, a bouquet. Of wildflowers, you think. Colourful and bright, the kind that grow just outside of Piltover. Daisy-like white flowers, long slender stems with bulbous pink shapes hanging from them, dangling purple bells, and neat blue flowers with heart shaped petals.

“Oh. Hey.” You greet, before somewhere in the haze of your mind— something falls. Flowers. Why does he have flowers? Are they a gift? Who for? You open your mouth to voice this— but no. You must not. Avoidance.

But the flowers.

Okay. Casual time. “Those are pretty. Where’d you get them from?” He blinks, clearly unexpected by this train of conversation, maybe by how casual and suave you’re being right now.

You move past him— turning your back on his big, wide surprised eyes, his rolled up sleeves, his angular, large hands wrapped around the brown paper holding the bouquet—okay,that’s enough of that train of thought— and get to work on precuring some wonderful caffeine. Caffeine to help the fog of your treacherous thoughts, leading you down paths you very much do not want to go down.

“You know, there’s a place near my house, in walking distance, that I go past when I go the shops to pick up groceries. Always smells really good. Maybe I should pick some up for my house?” You turn to gauge his non-verbal reaction, but for whatever reason, he looks mightily distressed.

“What’re they for, anyways?” What. Not, who. ‘Who’ implies you were thinking about him giving them to people, and flowers are typically a sign of romance, and that you care who he gives flowers, and that is not on your brain right now. Definitely not.

His expression moves at a pace you can’t match, going from confused, to disappointed, to pained, his gills fluttering, the monochromatic yellowing light of the office lights hitting them, the glint drawing your betraying eyes.

Almost uncertainly, he points to— what for a second— looks like you.

“The office space? It is getting slightly grim in here.” You, too loudly, laugh, semi-startled from the jolt of your heart. God. Imagine that. You. Him giving you flowers. You try not to.

He, very slowly, nods.

“Great. Well than. I’ll. Uhm. Try to leave you to it?” After a too long pause where he simply unreadably stares at you, you turn on your heels and make a break for your office space.

You, like a fool, assume the last of the issue. A vase appears in the communal office-space, filled with flowers.

The next day however, he invites you to lunch.

It’s late afternoon, and you’re in the midst of packing up your office’s clutter when he raps against the door with his knuckles. Through the blinds you purposely have kept closed, you make out his tall, wiry frame, one hand fixing his, of course, already perfect hair. You quickly try to fix your own appearance, hoping a dull dragging of your fingers through your hair will perhaps make you not look like you’ve been hit by a semi-truck.

“Come in!” You call out, trying not to let him hear the betraying shudder of your vocal cords, dull from misuse. You need to call a friend or something. Talk about anything at all, at least for a couple hours. You feel like you’re going crazy.

He gently pushes the door open, surveying your small, cluttered room. His nose disapprovingly wrinkles at the mess, but he says, or implies, nothing. A small kindness. What are you to say? Sorry boss, I’ve been stuck up on getting over the massive, fat crush I have on you, and your hands, and how gently you cradled my head in the pipe in the ground, and how your finger brushed my lip and how I felt something crawl out of where I had shoved it down.

God, this love is eating you from the inside.

He looks better than usual, a fact you scold yourself from noticing. His shirt is neatly ironed, the sleeves rolled up as if to taunt you. The tightness of his office clothes compared to the bulky, bullet proof frame of his enforcer uniform makes you, for a brief, blinding moment, miss it deeply. Though, you doubt it would make much of a difference. You’re too down bad, a phrase you now understand.

His black tie is perfectly straightened, though he moves to straighten it again as he braces for whatever he is to say, and with surprise, you note the bobbing of his throat as he moves to verbally speak. “Would you like a break from your work? Perhaps get something to eat?” There’s a forced casualness to his tone, adding a clunky layer of misshapenness to his tenor; you have only ever heard him speak in sparse, important moments, yet he tries to be relaxed now.

“…Sure.” Him speaking has thrown you off. Not only is his voice remarkably attractive, it also signifies something you feel you’re missing. You can’t just ask him why he’s speaking though. That would be rude. (You did threaten to eat him last week, in your stint in the underground after you ran out of food, and than thought nothing of it. Your brain is outstandingly good at finding the worst moments to cram you full of social anxiety.)

You can’t deny this offer. You skipped lunch, for starters, or at least, that’s the excuse you tell yourself, when in reality, your heart, from deep within it’s place in your chest, reaches up to puppet the strings of your vocal cords. “Uhm, there’s this really good place close-ish to here? A noodle bar. It’s cheap, relatively good for you, I think, but you know how it is. You never know. I went there last week with Miranda, and they had this really good item on the menu… she ordered it and I ended up probably eating more than her… haha.” You make the noise nervously, more of a phonetic mimicry than a laugh.

He nods, politely.

“Is anyone else going?”

Slowly, he shakes his head, waiting as if to gauge your reaction.

Well. That’s off. Usually Maddie would tag along, or another coworker. One to one… perhaps she’s just occupied? Ever since your stint in the underground ended in disaster, captain Kiramman has been seeing her fairly frequently, or she’s been caught up in other business. (Fuck. You miss the underground. You’d never thought you say it, but you miss Vi, and her terrible Zaunite food, and you miss Loris’s calm, and you miss Maddie and you miss Kiramman, even when she had a stick up her arse about finding the blue-haired Zaunite girl. You haven’t seen Loris since then, and Lord knows where Vi is.)

“Cool. Well. Off we hop, then? Let me just clean this up…” You move to clean, turning so he doesn’t see your flushed cheeks. Cool? Off we hop? OFF WE HOP? Genuinely, what is wrong with you?

He doesn’t care about your verbal failure, nodding again, his hands instinctively resting clasped behind him, shoulders straight.

Picture perfect even as you fall apart.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You’ve missed your chats, as it turns out. Well. Is it really chats if only one of you is doing the talking? You think so, because the kind of awareness, care in his eyes, the way he almost hangs off every word, has you stumbling over your tall tales and stories.

The look in his eyes, half-lidded, is worse, devastating to your poor heart. Very rarely do people listen to you, you think, even when you were a sullen, quiet child. That’s fine. They catch every second word, the gist of it, and if you speak thrice as much, they’ll get thrice as much of the little they catch, right?

But he listens, to all of it, for better or for worse.

For worse, you think. Your heart is beating out of your chest. It’s hot in the outside area you’ve chosen to sit at, an ornate bench half cooled by shade on a narrow porch area, decorated with sweet-smelling flowers. The heat is insufferable, in Piltover. The high houses trap it, and it is suffocating, or maybe it just feels that way because every so often he moves to keep his sleeves rolled up, brush strands of hair falling back into his face.

He’s slightly hunched over, across from you, so much so you’re almost eye-level. It’s a very calculated move, from his usual perfect posture. He doesn’t fidget. Just listens. When it comes to ordering, he points to the dish that he wants— inwardly, you wonder about the schematics of him, almost mermaid eating a fish— and order for the both of you, including some water.

“It was nice of you to buy flowers for the office. Everybody’s been on edge recently, with Kiramman’s new job, and the attack, and all that trouble down in the undercity.” You tell him, when it becomes apparent there’s only so much of dodging the topic you can do.

He hums. You swear his eyebrows furrow, just for a second, as he looks away.

“Ah. Sorry to bring it up. Politics and all that can wait, huh?” You heard he was injured at the attack, and misinterpreting his source of discomfort, you change the topic, but in the dizzy mix, stumble into perhaps the worst topic your brain can hurriedly think off. “Soooo…. Our time in the underground, huh?”

He blinks, looking up, and than nods.

“How was it? For you?”

Tugging a notepad out of his pocket, this calms you, the normalcy of it, he writes, quickly, in messily stencilled letters. You threatened to eat me.

“Ah.” Dammit. “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t remember that.” You awkwardly push out, but he’s writing more.

You almost got yourself killed, than us killed, and lost our supplies.

“Ah. Sorry?” Double dammit. Guilt begins to prickle low in your gut. You did do that.

You also saved us.

He smiles. It’s terrible, the smile, one like you’re in on something together. You do not understand it. He smiles, and it is terrible. He smiles, and you are suddenly co-conspirators, privy to something you are blind to.

Your food comes, and you eat silently, trying not to think about the smile.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

There’s only so much silence you can pry out of shoving noodles in your mouth before your patience snaps.

The food is delicious, creamy, brothy, the herbs tangy and fragrant, but even that doesn’t stop how suddenly hyperaware you are of how small this table is, how mindful he has to be not to knock his long legs against yours.

Just as you think you’re finally free from it, the suffocating stillness, The waitstaff moves to clean your bowls up. You smile and thank them. They smile at you too, a knowing smile, a smile like they’re in on it. “Enjoy your date.” They say to you both. Steb nods to them as they move back indoors, balancing the bowls in their arms.

Date. Wait.

You feel as if you may be missing something.

Steb doesn’t say anything, which seems like a no-brainer, except now he’s watching you, eyebrows slightly furrowed, pouty lips pressed against one another. Waiting. Waiting for what? You to make a joke, haha, we’re not on a date. How silly, right? You tosay nothing, move on?You to ask about it? Are we on a date? Surely not?

Your options are dwindling as each second ticks by, slowly your gaping mouth and shocked look slowly becoming less and less socially acceptable.

Quick. Think fast.

“So, uhm, how was the food?”

You get the feeling you shouldn’t have said that.

He nods his head non-committedly, reaching up to rest his chin in the palm on his hand. You’re not really sure what to make of the action, except now you can see his forearms, and it’s making you feel a little crazy. “Mine was uhm… good.” You stutter. He nods, something warring in his mind, before he reaches to pick up the neat little notebook, hastily scribbling something down.

You clutch the little scrap of paper he rips out to hand to you. You have a collection of them, in the drawer of your office, reminders and praises and greetings, mundane and simple yet delightful for you. You think you would die if he ever found out, and even though your mission of repression is a strong one, you don’t have the heart to throw them out. (It’s not lovey-dovey. It’s just practical. What if he says something important and you miss it?)

The message, this time, isn’t delightful.

I’m sorry if I am making you feel uncomfortable.

“No? What do you mean?”

I didn’t know whether you understood the flowers were for you or you were implying you were uncomfortable with receiving them. If so, I’m sorry I pressured you to come out with me.

“Sorry? What?” He gives you a moment to rub your brain cells together, rereading the note, looking up at him, and than looking back down.

“The flowers were for me?”

He nods.

Calm down. Flowers don’t need to be romantic. He probably just noticed you were acting stressed and got them to calm you down! This isn’t special! “Uhm. Thank you. Sorry for… you know.”

He blinks, once. He blinks again. He ears jerk, up, than down, his lips falling open to reveal a narrow slit of flesh, his front teeth. It’s not quite a pained grimace, he’s far too reserved in his actions for that, but you think it’s the closest you’ll get.

He moves forward suddenly, grappling for the notepad, and you flinch at the sudden movement.

This is what I mean. I can never tell what you’re thinking. Just say the words, and I’ll cool any and all advances on you at once. He has underlined at once, several times.

He must think of you illiterate with the amount of time you spend rereading the words. Advances is a word that implies… but surely not? Maybe he’s worried about being pushy. But you like it when he’s pushy, berating you for your recklessness, your injuries, his careful orders when you find yourself stationed under him, how much he cares. That sounded a little too down-bad, but you like it when people are clear with you! Yeah. Why are you thinking about that, right now? You should stop. You should reply.

This conversation would probably be easier if you weren’t constantly at war with yourself.

“Oh. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, ahaha…”

He looks vaguely annoyed, now for a brief flash, his ears sliding down, before he quickly pushes the expression down. His ears do not follow.

I am trying to court you. He writes, a hand stressedly messing through his neatly slicked back hair.

Words escape you.

“What?” You say, dumbly.

“I am trying to… romance you.” He says, out loud, and now he well and truly must think you can’t read. You hate to make him think of you deaf too, because the pained look he expresses as he hastily scribbles down, Please don’t make me repeat that, is perhaps the only think keeping you from short circuiting.

“Oh.” You say, instead. “Uhm… thank you.”

Fuck. “I mean. Not thank you. Yay?” You hope, very deeply, the waitstaff comes back and smashes your head in with the noodle bowls.

His expression is less agonized, but only just. Yay? He writes. Is that good?

“Yeah.” Oh God. Why can’t you speak? Why can’t you think of something to say? Aren’t love confessions supposed to be easy, ish, once you’ve gotten past the confession bit? Isn’t this the part where you start making out or something? That was a terrible train of thought to go down, because now you’re thinking about making out with Steb, and it’s just—

“I uhm. Like you too. Were the flowers, like, to… confess to me?” Why would you say that? That was not suave. Thatwas not cool. You probably shouldn’t have said anything.

Yes. Steb writes.

“Woah.” He relaxes, maybe only because you’re so hard to take seriously it’s hard not to. His hair is still slightly messed up from how he had been gripping it, a fact you would have probably taken pride in, any other trouble-making day, but not this one. “I— sorry. I’m processing this information. Very slowly.”

He hums. Take your time. You get the feeling he is teasing you, and you get the feeling you might be smiling, a fact which is mortifying, and means you probably are smiling, giddily, like a fool. You’re smiling, and you’re not saying anything. You’re smiling, and you’re silent. In comparison, he’s been more talkative in the last three days than he is in perhaps a month.

You soak it in.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Notes:

Maybe it really is Piltover’s first pride parade…

People who asked to be tagged in part two (tell me if you’re uncomfortable with this and I will apologise profusely and remove you) ; @nixxie15 @flooftoof @mintballoons thank you for the kind comments!!

[utilitycaster]

I said this late last night but actually, I was serious: I really do feel like the stasis bubbles are ultimately at the core of Ludinus's attitude towards Aeor, and the fact that he doesn't seem to have focused on them at all is the key to understanding his agenda.

I don't believe the stasis bubbles are a lost cause. I think there's certainly failure points, ie, I think if one does not go about this with utmost care then yes, the people within will rapidly age or wither to dust and be lost. But I don't think a successful release of the Aeorians in these bubbles is impossible within the canon of Critical Role. I think it is very, very difficult, but I think it could be done.

Ludinus doesn't seem to have focused on this at all - not even a half-assed attempt. He's gone for a literal moonshot, connecting with something he didn't even know existed and destroying Molaesmyr in the process. To his limited credit I think it's entirely likely he didn't know about these stasis bubbles until Aeor excavations began about 60 years ago, but I don't think Aeor became his focus until he realized he could strip it for parts: both for its technology, and as part of his propaganda machine.

Ludinus's grudge against the gods began with the end of the Calamity, in his own youth, in those final battles, and we know that he was already studying mages like Laerryn and using the harness to extend his lifespan while he lived in Molaesmyr. He may very well have known about Aeor, but his goal was to kill the gods. He only just saw what was in the Occultus Thalamus now.

Aeor is a useful tool to him, and it's a better tool to him if he can act like it's lost forever and everyone is dead. Aeorians only help him if they're doomed corpses. If he cared about the deaths of the people of Aeor and the culture of the city, why let his general repeatedly target FCG, one of its only current survivors? Why shut down the researchers from Uthodurn and the Dynasty in the past 7 years? Why push towards this Thalamus even as his army falls to Dominox when the stasis bubbles are just outside? Are those collapses Essek noted just the ravages of time, or was he destroying the city even further?

He doesn't really care about Aeorians in the slightest. He wants to kill the gods, and treats this mass slaughter and cultural destruction of Aeor as a boon that fell into his lap so that he can say "look what they took from you" to the world that he's been ravaging and slaughtering his way through himself for the past few months (and, on a slower but no less violent scale, the last millennium). The second he lets one of the Aeormatons brought back by D speak? Or brings back one of the thousands of Aeorians who could, perhaps, survive and come back and even revive that lost knowledge? Well, then it's not lost forever at the hands of the gods now, is it, and that makes for bad press, and we can't have that now, can we, not when we're about to crack open the moon and eat the gods! Sorry that a phoenix killed your family and no one could resurrect them, but you know how it is. Let bygones be bygones, unless they're his trauma and his trauma alone.

Any claim that he cares about Aeor is a lie. He cares for himself and no one else. He loves that Aeor is gone because it's always been gone to him and, like any fossil, is only good as fuel for his own agenda. And we and Bells Hells are about to see a glimpse of life in the city that's more convenient to him when it's dead, and he thinks that's going to help his cause.

[autistichalsin]

Wasn’t the entire thing in the hunger games that Katniss wasn’t a chosen one or predestined? There was no grander plan. She was just a random unlucky girl who happened to be there at the right (or wrong) time. So why does it now like they want to tie everything back to her as if she is some special prophecy…

THANK YOU!!! That's exactly it.

Like, Katniss was just UNLUCKY. From the moment Prim's name came out of the bowl, everything was set. Prim's fate was sealed, one way or another, and so was Katniss's. Panem's fate took longer, but it happened eventually too. Katniss was a victim of a world where nothing, not her own destiny, not her love, was hers to choose. Everyone decided how she'd be presented for her. She kicked off the revolution to win her freedom not by being herself, but by having the public's perception of her beautifully manipulated every step of the way until she learned how to mimic the motions and become part of the propaganda machine too. Her tragedy was her utter lack of agency- and that is reflected in how she didn't do anything special, she was just an unlucky cog in a machine made of misfortune. That was the beauty and tragedy of her character.

In TBOSAS, a lot more started being tied to her, but it was indirect, helped by the distant timeline, so it came across as just hinting to her origins/roots. We got an impression her father was Covey and that she was in some way connected to the previous victor of 12. That's fine- that's just deepening the lore. So I thought.

But this? This is too much. Everything is getting cannibalized by Katniss's story, to the point that you almost gotta wonder if the next step is saying that the first rebellion was captained by Katniss's great-great grandpappy who loved to sing and raised jays which the capitol then took once the war started to make Jabberjays, and the injustice of losing his beloved birds was just TOO MUCH and he became a leader of the resistance. And he was the one to figure out Jabberjays could be fed false information too, probably. And he deliberately bred the Jabberjays with some mockinbirds to make mockingjays on purpose to spite the Capitol!!!

I made that all up, but I would honestly not be surprised if it actually was true at this point.

We all love Katniss, but the beauty of her character was that she was just one of many, a figurehead propped up by kingmakers who manipulated her to their own ends, for good and for bad. Now she's being presented as a sort of Chosen One in direct defiance of this, to the cost of the ENTIRE worldbuilding, lore, and generations of characters before her.

What a fucking shame.

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Giorgio Perlasca

Giorgio Perlasca was an Italian fascist and emissary of Benito Mussolini who had a change of heart and used his diplomatic status to save 5,218 Hungarian Jews from the Nazis.

Born in Como, Italy in 1910, as a young man Georgio became a fervent believer in fascism, believing it was the best system for achieving societal safety and prosperity. Dedicated to fascist ideology, he joined the Italian army to fight prime minister Benito Mussollini’s war of aggression against Ethoipia (the Second Italo-Ethiopian War, 1935-37). Italy invaded Ethiopia and sent leader Haile Selassie into exile in 1937. Still a committed fascist, Giorgio pivoted straight from Ethiopia to Spain, where he fought on the side of Franco’s Nationalists against the defenders of the Spanish Republic. 

Giorgio went back to Italy in 1938, and that’s when his world was rocked and his personal belief system made a 180 degree turn. Just as he was returning to his native land, the Nazi-allied fascist government adopted the Italian Racial Laws, which persecuted and segregated Italian Jews and African immigrants from the Italian colonial empire. The first law banned Jews from working with the public or attending college. Books by Jewish authors were burned. The next set of laws confiscated Jewish property, prohibited them from traveling, and finally arrested and imprisoned them. Italian newspapers were filled with vicious anti-Jewish propaganda and hideous caricatures.

Giorgio Perlasca, the man who’d spent the last decade fighting for fascism, was horrified. Perhaps he’d been in north Africa and Spain for so long, he wasn’t aware of the extent of Nazi persecution of the Jews. He’d joined the fascists because, young and naive, he thought they had answers to societal problems. But he never signed up for the Nazis’ “final solution.” He believed in human rights, freedom and tolerance and therefore realized he had to reject fascism.

Ironically, just as he was rejecting Mussolini’s ideology, he was rewarded for his service by being granted diplomatic status and sent to Budapest to represent the interests of the Italian government. As an emissary, Giorgio’s most urgent mission was traveling throughout Eastern Europe to purchase large quantities of meat for Italian army soldiers fighting on the Russian front. Despite his political shift, he remained committed to what he felt was honorable work procuring food for Italians who’d been drafted into the army.

On September 8, 1943, Italy surrendered to the Allied forces. Diplomats like Giorgio had a choice to make: pledge allegiance to Mussolini, or join the Allies. Giorgio switched sides and instead of returning to Italy he was arrested and detained with other diplomats sympathetic to the Allies. After several months in captivity, he used a medical pass to leave the facility. He went straight to the Spanish embassy, which was being run by Angel Sanz Briz*, a diplomat who was secretly saving Hungarian Jews. Sanz Briz enabled Giorgio to claim asylum as a veteran of the Spanish war. Giorgio called himself “Jorge” (the Spanish version of Giorgio) and as a nominal Spaniard, was untouchable by the Nazi-allied Hungarian authorities since Spain was officially a neutral country.

Giorgio Perlasca during the war.

Giorgio immediately teamed up with Sanz Briz to save Jews from the Nazi death machine, which was systematically massacring the Jews of Hungary at shocking speed. He later said, “I couldn’t stand the sight of people being branded like animals… I couldn’t stand seeing children being killed. I did what I had to do.” Giorgio convinced diplomats from neutral countries to shelter Jews in their embassies and homes. He created “protection cards” that identified Jews as being under diplomatic guardianship and therefore impossible to arrest. In November 1944, Sanz Briz was transferred from Hungary to Switzerland, and he urged Giorgio to go with him. However, instead of traveling to a safe country, Giorgio put his own life at risk by staying in Hungary so he could continue saving Jews from the Nazis.  

The Hungarian authorities got wind of what Giorgio was doing, and they used Sanz Briz’ departure from the country as an excuse to order the Spanish embassy building and residences to be emptied and shuttered. In response, Giorgio made a bold move. He announced that Sanz Briz would be returning shortly, and he’d been appointed consul-general in the meantime. This bought him enough time to continue saving Jews, providing them with sanctuary and vital supplies. He also issued fake transit visas based on a 1924 law giving Jews of Sephardic heritage Spanish citizenship. The law had expired in 1930 but Giorgio managed to keep that part secret. 

In December 1944, Giorgio stood up to high-ranking Nazi officer Adolf Eichmann – architect of the genocidal “Final Solution” – who was about to force two Jewish children onto a freight train headed to a death camp. Swedish rescuer Raoul Wallenberg later described watching Giorgio boldly defy the vicious Eichmann and rescue the Jewish boys.

Around this time the Nazi-aligned Hungarian government known as the Arrow Cross set up a squalid ghetto in Budapest for the city’s 60,000 Jews. As “acting Spanish consul-general” was privy to top-secret information, and he learned that the Arrow Cross was going to liquidate the ghetto – which meant murdering the men, women and children who lived there. Giorgio demanded – and got – a private hearing with the Hungarian interior minister Gabor Vajna. He threatened the high-ranking government official with severe repercussions against the “3,000 Hungarians” currently living in Spain. Unless the government backed down on destroying the ghetto, those Hungarian expats would be harshly punished financially, legally and professionally. The fact was, there were nowhere near 3000 Hungarians in Spain and the real number was a fraction of that. That bold threat, combined with a promise to help Vajna and his family escape the advancing Soviet army, prevented the Budapest ghetto from being liquidated, saving thousands of lives.

After the war, Giorgio Perlasca returned to Italy where he lived a quiet life as a businessman, married and raised a family. and didn’t tell a single soul about his heroic actions during the war. Meanwhile, a group of Hungarian Jews saved by Giorgio searched for him for decades. They knew their rescuer as a Spaniard named Jorge and it took 42 years for them to finally locate him. In 1987 Giorgio’s wife, children and community were utterly shocked to learn that this unassuming man had saved the lives of a documented 5,218 Jews and probably many more. The famous rescuer Oskar Schindler saved a quarter as many people as Giorgio Perlasca did.

Once Giorgio’s heroism was known, he became famous in Italy and a source of national pride. Giorgio Perlasca was the subject of a bestselling biography, “The Banality of Goodness,” which was made into a popular movie. He received many honors, including Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem, the Wallenberg Medal, the Hungarian Star of Merit, the Spanish Knight Grand Cross, the Italian Gold Medal for Civil Bravery, and many others. Noted Israeli composer Moshe Zorman wrote an orchestral piece, “His Finest Hour,” about Giorgio. There is a statue of Giorgio Perlasca in Budapest and a high school named for him, and he was featured on an Italian and an Israeli stamp. 

Giorgio died in Padua, Italy in 1992. 

For saving thousands of lives, and proving that people can change, we honor Giorgio Perlasca as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[bytelezz]

TOUGH AS NAILS

Giant wall of text below! A loredump of Aerie and I's version of So-Lo in Boingoverse lore.

MASSIVE TW FOR WAR RELATED DISCUSSIONS

@gracestellaerie and I's lore surrounding So-Lo as a character revolves a lot about wartime trauma and the effects it has on the veterans that experience it. So-Lo was relatively young when he joined the armed forces, believing war to be this noble thing fought by the most valiant and brave of men. He wished to assist his country, because he was a patriot, most kids at the time were. How could you not when you were spoon-fed propaganda about the American dream since you were young.

Well, following his basic training and subsequent deployment to whatever nondescript war (Aerie and I like to joke/say that in our boingoverse, every modern war ever happened at the exact same time, so it was likely in either europe, southeast asia, or the middle-east. pick your poison.) So-Lo very quickly learned that war wasn't as it truly seemed. He knew it would be hard, yes, though the difficulty of it was vastly underestimated by it in his mind. It makes sense, he was a kid, most kids overestimate their strength and capabilities. And like those kids, So-Lo swiftly found himself overwhelmed and terrified at the violence and death surrounding him and his peers.

If you've ever watched 'all quiet on the western front' you can start to see the picture, a child essentially groomed into fighting a war meets more than what he bargained for. It was scary, truly scary.

He found himself with the blood of other men on his hands, kids who were also in the same place as he was, traumatized, and groomed by their perspective government. So-Lo killed 3 people up close by the time things were over with, each time, seeing the life drain from their eyes and he had no other choice but to defend himself and his peers from certain annellation.

When So-Lo returned home after around 3 years of combat, he found himself changed. A wide-eyed kid with hope and ambitions in his life, soon because riddled with trauma, injury, depression, and anger/dissatisfaction with the world around him. Who wouldn't? He became rather critical of his government and how they treated veterans after they fought. His welfare benefits weren't enough to keep him stable, and therefore he had to take a job immediately after he returned home instead of resting and seeking necessary council.

Often times, while filing away paperwork, he thinks of what could've been different. Dreams of the battlefield once more, despite not wanting to. A guilty pleasure of his, returning spiritually to the battlefield as he suffers by himself with zero assistance from those around him, and especially his government. Another tally in the war machine.

[nagiwrites]

Chapter Two: The Capitol’s Rules.

Characters: Caleb, you

A/n: I swear formatting on here is a job in itself. Anyways another chap is here if u wanna be tagged feel free to tell me. Also I’ll put content warnings for this fic.

☆ Content: body stripping and forced undressing, non-consensual physical contact, loss of bodily autonomy, mild nudity and humiliation, emotional distress, depersonalization and identity erasure, as well as themes of classism and systemic oppression.

[← back] [→ next]

📌 Synopsis :

On the way to the Capitol, she learns the Games are more performance than survival. Caleb promises to protect her, but his motives remain unclear. Once inside, she’s stripped of her identity and remade for the Capitol’s stage—left feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

The hovercraft hummed through the sky, the engines too smooth, too quiet for something moving this fast. The tinted windows gave nothing away—just endless stretches of blue fading into the neon glow of the Capitol ahead.

The farther they got from District IV, the cleaner everything became. The shanty towns and dust-covered streets disappeared, replaced with pristine high-rises, gleaming transport stations, and well-maintained roads. This was the rich side. The part of the district that still belonged to the Capitol, where officials, Peacekeepers, and the privileged few lived untouched by hunger and fear.

She’d never been here before.

And she wouldn’t have time to take it in now.

Across from her, Caleb sat in perfect stillness, his hands resting against his knees. Not restrained, not worried. Like a man who chose to be here.

She still didn’t understand that.

Or him.

She leaned back, staring at the ceiling as she exhaled. “So,” she said, breaking the silence, “are you going to explain how this works, or are we just supposed to figure it out as we go?”

Caleb blinked once, slow and unreadable. “The Hunter Games?”

“No, the weather,” she said flatly. “Of course, the Games.”

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face before vanishing. He shifted slightly, adjusting his posture like this conversation was a negotiation. “There are three phases before the arena,” he said. “Training, evaluations, and interviews. All designed to entertain the Capitol before the real event.”

She frowned. “Training?”

He nodded. “Weapons, survival tactics, close combat. You’ll be assigned a score at the end of it. Higher scores mean more sponsors. More sponsors mean a better chance of making it past the first few days.”

She absorbed that, tapping a finger against her knee. “And the evaluations?”

Caleb’s gaze darkened. “Private sessions with the Gamemakers. They decide how dangerous you are.”

That made her stomach twist.

“And the interviews?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Propaganda.”

She snorted. “Figures.”

She expected him to leave it at that, but after a beat, he continued. “They want a story. Something they can sell to the people. Fear. Tragedy. Romance. It doesn’t matter as long as they can control it.”

She turned that over in her mind. The Games weren’t just about killing—they were about putting on a show. And the Capitol would twist every moment to fit whatever narrative kept the audience entertained.

Her fingers curled slightly. “And you?”

Caleb tilted his head. “What about me?”

She gestured vaguely. “You forced your way in. Which means you’re either my mentor, my handler, or some new Capitol experiment.”

He studied her, quiet for too long, before saying, “I’m here to make sure you survive.”

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Because there was something unsettling about the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just an objective. Like it wasn’t just duty.

Like it was personal.

She looked away first. Outside, the hovercraft was already descending, the glowing skyline of the Capitol stretching beneath them.

It was beautiful.

And it was a graveyard.

They were about to be thrown into a machine designed to tear them apart. And she still didn’t know why the man across from her had chosen to step inside it with her.

But one thing was clear.

Whatever his reasons, whatever he wasn’t saying—

Caleb wasn’t going to let her die.

And that might’ve been the most dangerous thing of all.

The hovercraft descended into the heart of the Capitol, the neon skyline shifting from a distant blur into something towering and suffocating. Buildings stretched high enough to disappear into the clouds, their sleek metal surfaces reflecting the glow of holographic advertisements. Bright screens displayed last year’s Hunter Games champion, a sharp-jawed boy dressed in golden armor, smiling like he hadn’t torn through twenty other tributes to get here.

The hovercraft docked on a landing platform that was too clean, too sterile. The moment the doors slid open, the artificial scent of processed air and something vaguely floral hit her nose. It smelled like a place that had never known real dirt, never known hunger or desperation.

Capitol attendants were already waiting—dressed in shimmering, impractical outfits, their skin airbrushed to perfection. She barely had time to get her bearings before one of them stepped forward, flashing a too-bright smile.

“Welcome, tributes! Right this way.”

She forced herself to move, stepping onto the platform with the same numbness she’d felt since the reaping.

Caleb was right behind her.

She didn’t know why she kept looking for him—why the solid presence of him at her back made her nerves settle instead of spike. But she did. And it unsettled her almost as much as the Capitol’s suffocating opulence.

A camera drone zipped in close, scanning them both, projecting their faces onto a screen above. The words DISTRICT IV TRIBUTES flashed beneath their images.

People in the town murmured. Some leaned forward, eager for a first look at this year’s new prey. Others watched with the detached amusement of people who would never have to step into the arena themselves.

She could already feel them assigning labels.

Would she be forgettable? A sacrifice? A tragic figure to cry over before the real show began?

And then there was Caleb.

They didn’t know what to do with him.

A colonel in the Games wasn’t normal. The murmurs grew louder, questioning. Whispering. A Capitol official in a crisp suit gestured for one of the attendants, eyes narrowing as he spoke.

She glanced at Caleb. “So… you really weren’t supposed to be here, huh?”

Caleb didn’t look at her, just kept walking forward. “No.”

The admission should’ve scared her. Instead, it made her pulse quicken for an entirely different reason.

The grand entrance of the Tribute Tower loomed ahead—a massive glass structure built solely to house the competitors before the Games. As they stepped inside, a holographic display of the Capitol’s logo shimmered above them, accompanied by a soft, artificial voice.

WELCOME, TRIBUTES. PREPARE FOR THE EXPERIENCE OF A LIFETIME.

She barely resisted the urge to scoff.

A set of attendants approached, separating her from Caleb in one swift motion.

“This way, dear,” one of them said, guiding her toward a long hallway lined with marble and gold trim. “We’ll get you cleaned up for the Opening Ceremony. You want to look your best, don’t you?”

She turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of Caleb before they pulled him in the opposite direction.

For the first time, his gaze met hers fully.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Because something unspoken passed between them in that brief second.

Something that felt suspiciously like a promise.

Then the doors closed, and she was alone.

The hallway smelled like artificial roses and something chemical, a scent so sharp it stung the inside of her nose. Everything here was too clean, too polished, too perfect—designed for the people who had never known struggle, never worked their hands raw, never bled for something they couldn’t keep.

She hated it already.

The attendants guided her into a pristine white room, the walls smooth and seamless, as if they had been molded rather than built. A glass platform in the center illuminated as she stepped onto it, a soft chime sounding as an AI scanned her body.

“Preliminary evaluation complete. Commencing preparation process.”

The attendants wasted no time. Hands—cold, impersonal—pulled at her clothes, unfastening buttons, peeling fabric from her skin. She stiffened instinctively, her breath catching as they stripped her down without ceremony.

Her clothes, the last thing connecting her to home, were tossed into a disposal chute without hesitation.

Gone.

Just like that.

She was naked before she could process it, surrounded by strangers who didn’t even have the decency to pretend to care.

“Arms up,” one of them instructed. “We need to remove all the excess.”

She barely had time to ask what excess? before a warm, sticky substance was smeared over her legs, arms, and anywhere else the Capitol deemed unworthy.

Then came the ripping.

She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

It wasn’t the worst pain she’d ever felt—nothing compared to a deep wound or the ache of hunger—but it was the humiliation of it. The raw exposure. The way they talked over her, not to her, as if she were nothing more than a project being refined into something presentable.

Her skin burned by the time they were done, stripped raw under the bright lights.

Then came her hair.

One of the attendants examined it with a critical eye, fingers prodding at her scalp. “We’ll need to smooth this out,” she murmured, already reaching for a brush.

Her stomach twisted.

She clenched her fists. She knew what was coming.

The first pass wasn’t too bad, but the second—

A sharp pull.

Her scalp screamed in protest, her head yanked back as the attendant worked with mechanical efficiency, oblivious to the sharp sting radiating from each tug.

She held her breath.

Another pull.

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

But when they reached the knots at the base of her skull, ripping through them without care, the pain sent sharp pricks behind her eyes.

She blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the tears from slipping down her cheeks.

Silent. Unnoticed.

Just another thing for them to strip away.

“Almost done,” the attendant said cheerfully, as if she wasn’t yanking her head like a ragdoll. “You’ll look stunning for the ceremony!”

She wanted to tell them she didn’t care about looking stunning. That she didn’t want to be something pretty for the Capitol to admire before they threw her into the dirt.

But she stayed silent.

Because it didn’t matter.

It never did.

By the time they finished, her body felt foreign—smooth where it shouldn’t be, styled in a way that didn’t belong to her.

They wrapped her in a robe, soft and expensive, guiding her toward another room where stylists awaited.

As they led her forward, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective wall.

She looked like a stranger.

And she hated her.

By the time they were done with her body, they moved on to her hair.

She sat stiffly in a plush chair, the fabric too smooth, too foreign against her stripped-down skin. The stylists surrounded her like architects examining blueprints, their eyes sharp with calculation.

“We should straighten it,” one suggested, running a comb through her curls with far too much force.

“No,” another chimed in, twisting a section between their fingers. “Texture is in this year. Let’s enhance it.”

She exhaled slowly through her nose, already exhausted. She wasn’t sure what was worse—the pain of them yanking through her scalp, or the way they talked about her like she wasn’t sitting right in front of them.

At least this time, they weren’t completely careless.

The hands that worked through her hair now were more delicate, though not out of kindness. It was precision. They conditioned, softened, twisted each strand into something elegant, something that would look effortless but had taken painstaking effort to achieve.

When they finally stepped back, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Her hair had been shaped into an intricate design, cascading down one side, threaded with delicate metallic strands that shimmered under the light. It wasn’t her, not really. But at least it wasn’t stripped away.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned away.

Then came the dress.

They led her to a display where rows of shimmering gowns hovered in the air, each one programmed with effects that reacted to movement. Some flickered like fire, others rippled like water, shifting colors as the fabric swayed.

“For the ceremony, you need to make an impression,” the lead stylist said, gesturing to the options. “The Capitol loves a tribute with presence.”

She barely heard them.

Her gaze had already landed on one dress, and something inside her cracked.

Her favorite color.

She didn’t even mean to laugh, but the sound burst out of her—loud, sharp, and broken.

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she covered her mouth, shaking her head. “Of course,” she choked out. “Of course they’d have one in my favorite color.”

The stylists exchanged confused glances, unsure if she was amused or unraveling.

Maybe it was both.

She reached for the dress, fingers brushing over the material. It was smooth, impossibly soft, but beneath the surface, she could feel the embedded tech, ready to activate at a moment’s notice.

The fabric pulsed, reacting to her touch. A slow shimmer ran through it, the color deepening, shifting like liquid under moonlight.

It was beautiful.

It was ridiculous.

It was hers.

“I’ll take this one,” she said, her voice steadier now.

The stylists hesitated before nodding, pleased with her choice.

As they helped her into the gown, adjusting the fit, setting the effects to highlight every movement, she stared at herself in the mirror once more.

The stranger was still there.

But this time, beneath all the Capitol’s work, there was something else.

A flicker of her.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

By the time they finished preparing her, the weight of everything settled over her shoulders like an iron chain. The gown clung to her frame perfectly, its advanced fabric shifting ever so slightly with her movements, rippling like water under the bright artificial lights.

The color—her color—stood out against the cold, sterile surroundings.

She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

A set of attendants ushered her down a corridor lined with reflective panels, the sleek, high-tech design making it impossible to forget where she was. Every few steps, the floor beneath her pulsed, scanning her biometrics. The Capitol left nothing unchecked.

Then, the doors at the end of the hallway slid open, revealing a lavish waiting chamber.

And there he was.

Caleb.

She came to an abrupt stop.

He was already dressed for the ceremony, standing with the kind of stillness that made people uneasy. His uniform had been replaced with something undeniably designed to impress—black, sharply tailored, lined with faint streaks of silver that pulsed like slow lightning beneath the fabric. The effects were subtle, but when he moved, the suit seemed almost alive, shifting with the kind of controlled power that the Capitol adored.

Of course they’d make him look like a leader. A warrior.

But she didn’t care about that.

She only cared about the fact that he was here. That the Capitol had let him be here.

That he had forced his way into this nightmare right alongside her.

He looked up, his gaze landing on her immediately.

And then—something flickered in his expression.

Not surprise. Not admiration.

Something deeper.

Something unreadable.

She swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how ridiculous she must look. Dressed up like a doll, painted, polished, made into something more palatable for the audience that would soon be watching their every move.

His gaze swept over her once, calculating, before returning to her face. “You picked that?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What, does it offend you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then, in a low, unreadable tone, he said, “No.”

Silence stretched between them.

She wasn’t sure what she had expected. A comment about the absurdity of it all? A reminder that they were about to be paraded around like showpieces before being thrown into a death match?

But he just kept looking at her, as if trying to decipher something she didn’t understand herself.

Finally, she crossed her arms. “Well? Do I look like a proper tribute now?”

Caleb’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You look like someone the Capitol won’t forget.”

She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Before she could decide, an official strode into the room, checking a holographic tablet before gesturing toward the exit. “You’re up next. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Her heart slammed once against her ribs.

This was it.

The first real moment where the world would see her. Where she’d step into the light, not as a district worker, not as a girl who had volunteered for a child she didn’t even know—

But as a tribute.

A piece in the Capitol’s game.

She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to move.

But just as she passed Caleb, his voice came low and steady, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Don’t let them define you.”

She turned slightly, meeting his gaze one last time before the doors opened—

And the world swallowed her whole.

A/n : thanks for reading maybe I’ll post more later in the night if I’m up but it’s a lot to have for format and edit this ngl. But I appreciate the likes feel free to repost with credits please.

Tags:

@mysticcollectionvoid

[pennysperfectpolls]

Blorbo Adoption Poll Finals!!!

This is where we decide who tumblr’s collective son is

“Tails” miles prower (Sonic)

Rob (the amazing world of Gumball)

Propaganda under the cut

“Tails” miles prower (Sonic) Propaganda

tails is just so . cute.. abd autism. ok so

he's 8 years old and he really really likes inventing and just machines in general. he's basically a little brother to sonic so i mean if you want to lump them together that's perfectly okay :3 anyways he's surprisingly smart for an 8 year old. he has GOT to be super fluffy. and we can see that in the movies, he certainly is!!!! he can fly a plane. he's very friendly. he has no alive and known parents in most canons (i say most because there is like. one canon where he has parents who are seen and alive)

here's some bonus propaganda if you want to group him together with sonic:

okay so first of all. you can NOT separate the brothers

but also sonic is the adhd to tails' autism. tends to come up with stuff on the spot, impatient, etc... he's really cool. he's so funny sometimes!!! also he has literally unparalleled amounts of tboy swag. hates bullies. god please i love these silly lil animals i might need to cut this off before i autism out too much so ywah

 Rob (the amazing world of Gumball) Propaganda

To put it simply, god doesn’t like Rob. Bro really said “mmmyeaa this one is kinda boring” and sent him into the void (literally). Miraculously he got out, but his home, familly and basically everything he cared for is gone. Not to mention he became physically deformed in the process. This 13 year old little boy is now homeless without a purpose. And no one seems to be concerned for him. Please give this boy a home, he needs some good parents to take care of him and a nice cup of hot chocolate.

[cinderellaenjoyer]

Something about Indina and Kristen's cameo in the movie being in a PROPAGANDA play. Something about that combined with the fact that Indina playing Elphaba in the past. Something about how had she chosen a different path Elphaba could have become just as much a Proganda machine as Glinda became

[hotvintagepoll]

Don Knotts (The Incredible Mr. Limpet, The Ghost and Mr Chicken, The Reluctant Astronaut)—Just look at him. He’s just a lil scrungly guy. Also he started entertaining as a ventriloquist, and there’s nothing scrunglier than a ventriloquist. In all seriousness, Don Knotts’ career is singularly unique. His speaking voice was iconic, and he used it to his advantage and played it up – see also the included YouTube link to his small role in No Time for Sergeants [link]. He not only played second fiddle comedic character roles, but also played leading comedic character roles. He didn’t need a sidekick for his movies but he could *be* the sidekick if needed. That’s key to Scrungly Little Guy™ behavior, in my opinion. Knotts undoubtedly influenced many comedians and sitcom characters in both his lifelong film and TV career – and I do mean lifelong, as his final role was in 2006, the year he passed away! In the 70s, he became a frequently used actor in live action Disney comedy films for kids like The Apple Dumpling Gang and appeared in many children’s programs. Knotts was said to be one of the nicest guys in Hollywood, which is important for Scrungly Little Guy™ lore.

Gert Fröbe (Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang)—if you only know my man gert from his role in goldfinger, you're in for a surprise when you see him in comedy roles! he truly shines in them bringing a silliness that plays off his big size and cartoonish use of his own accent. he also helped hide a jewish family in wwii which i think is very cool of him (he was a nazi earlier in life but renounced it)

This is round 2 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Don Knotts:

TBH, I was first introduced to Don knotts in things like three's company, the og Scooby-Doo cartoons, and later on that Disney chicken little movie. He's probably most remembered from his time on the Andy griffith show. But just look at him! Don't you just wanna put him situations?

When you say scrungly his face is just what immediately pops into my head

Don Knotts plays in most if not all of his filmography someone who is kinda dull-witted, afraid of his own shadow, or kind of cowardly. He is the scrungliest of scrungly people!  

Gert Fröbe:

[arizonaconservativegal]

As an adult, don't you get tired of reblogging the exact same reactionary shit as all the other retards parroting the right wing propaganda machine? What needs are met by pretending you are owning the libs after so many years on Tumblr? You seem slightly smarter than the rest of the MAGA deplorables on this site. You must be very lonely.

Not really but I wonder if you pose the same question to left wing tumblr who have been reblogging their own exact same reactionary shit day after day for 15+ years?

I'm mainly on tumblr for fan reasons, not political reasons. I'm not here to own the libs or whatever. I'm under no illusion that this blog is doing anything more than giving me a place to vent some frustration at the endless stream of left wing nonsense on my dash day after day. I do my real political work in the real world at my job because I work in politics. Other people on this site respond to posts or questions about things they have professional expertise in - I'm doing the same. It's just on a dedicated page because I felt it was a courtesy to not shove politics down the throats of people who were following me for other reasons back in the day. I am frankly as surprised as anyone that this became my most popular blog. Perhaps there was a need for it after all.

But if you don't like it here, you are free to fuck off any time you'd like.

[prettiestpilotpoll]

Propaganda below

Louis Strange:

This man developed a way to mount machine guns on his plane, a way for his observer to shoot while standing up and worked on a bomb chute too. Not to forget that one time during Christmas 1914 where he bombed a German airfield with footballs. He also survived a downward spiral with his plane while clinging to the ammunition drum of the Lewis gun which luckily had become stuck. If that isn't enough to already love him, one look at any photos should be enough.

Phillip Fullard:

Phillip Fullard made a name for himself as the most successful Nieuport pilot, scoring 40 victories in various Nieuport machines. Not just that, but during the three months he served as a Flight commander his flight became the most successful one in all of France without a single loss! So yeah. What a guy. The Nieuports just add to his swag

(most pictures of him seem to have been taken when he was in hospital with a broken leg)