#bigotry in plain sight

[whereserpentswalk]

Transphobes aren't the first to come up with any bigoted stereotype on the books, they're just the first to use them on trans people. You're not special for headcannoning all trans women and violent uncivilized perverts who are a danger to "real" women, that's a stereotype people have had about Black and brown women and for lesbians for a long time. The idea that trans people are hiding in plain sight trying to seduce or corrupt society, just reskinned antisemitism. The way that nonbinary people are seen as somehow both privileged people going through a rebellious phase that can be dismissed as a serious marginalized identity, and paradoxically a horrifying corruption of a once normal person whose been turned into something unnatural and inhuman, is exactly the same contradictory bigotry that atheists, pagans, and witches (and any marginalized religion that has a lot of converts from Christianity) experience. The way that trans men are seen as weak and unmanly, as well as being seen as both perverts and sexless, is a stereotype taken directly from antisemitism and racism against East Asian men (down to short skinny body types being seen as inferior). Likewise, the way that trans women are seen as hyperfeminine and hypersexual in a submissive, and seen as having a femininity that appeals to men, as contrasted with "liberated" women whose femininity comes from community with other women, is directly lifted from ideas the west has about women from any culture they consider eastern, from Russia to Japan (also note that this specific stereotype is a way that trans lesbians marginalize straight trans women from their communities as much as it is a stereotype cis women use to marginalize trans women). The idea that trans bodies are broken and lesser for their interactions with the medical system are taken from stereotypes about physically disabled people. And the idea that transmascs are confused and childlike and that giving them freedom will actually endanger them is the exact same bigoted narrative society has about neurodivergent people.

Nothing is new. Transphobia cannot be separated from racism, Christian supremacy, antisemitism and ablism. It's all part of one right wing slop. The trans experience is not alien to the experiences of cis people, we are all marginalized by the same capitalist system.

[lemotmo]

I just finished watching episode 8x04 and…

… I basically just ran to get my laptop and start writing my thoughts down, because OMG!!! SO MANY THOUGHT RIGHT NOW!!!!! 🤯

These thoughts might all be jumbled up, because I’m still flailing here. This might not make any sense. Sorry for that. 🫣

My first thought is this:

This was such a great episode. Classic 911 in so many ways. I love all of it… well, almost all of it. Let’s start with the only thing in this episode that I didn’t really care for.

That opening scene was crazy. Straight into the golf scene. I mean, we had so many theories there and it turned out it was just about Gerrard wanting Buck to choose people to fire. So unserious. I love how our theories mostly end up being wrong like this. At least we had fun theorising. 😂

It’s obvious they tweaked Gerrard’s character in the season 8 arc. He was still a terrible and selfish man, but they cut down on the racist language and most of the bigotry. They made him laughable and a bad captain, but I admit that I don’t like the way they handled his character in the end.

They redeemed him by making him the hero of the episode and giving him a happy ending. And while I understand the reasoning behind this, I still feel that more could have been done to hold him accountable for the things he did in the past.

The way he treated Hen and Chim in the past is not okay and I feel that this was swept under the rug. But they clearly wanted his character to be a bit more like a comic villain this time around, so I’ll make my peace with it. But I wish they would have handled it differently.

This also leads me to believe that the BT break up won’t revolve around Tommy’s past behaviour, but it will be focused more on the fact that Buck and Tommy just aren’t right for each other.

That brings me to all the things I did like or even loved.

I cried so hard while seeing that first courtroom scene with henren. It just broke my heart.😩 Hen pleading to the judge to get Mara back was so heartfelt. I also loved Hen’s scene with Ortiz. That actress was so good in her role. I just wanted to reach into my screen and shake her.

Gerrard recording her with the body-cam was soooo predictable. The moment he started talking to Ortiz with his body-cam in plain sight? It was very obvious what was going on.

That last scene when Mara came back home? I bawled my eyes out. So good. I’m glad we didn’t get any conflict between Henren and Madney. I was a little afraid of that, but it turned out so great for all of them. YAY! Our girl is finally where she belongs!🤗

I loved how everyone showed up at Bobby’s to talk about their problems. And YAY he acknowledged the moustache!

I did find it odd for Athena to suggest to Bobby to rebuilt the old home. I mean, if you get the chance to build a new house, why would you go for a replica of the old one you built with your ex-husband. Yikes. She should have thought this through better. I’m glad that Bobby spoke up and told her the truth. I’m excited to see their new home!

I loved the medical emergencies in this one. The tiger was insane! When Chimney was hanging in front of the window and that tiger suddenly appeared? I had to pause the video for a moment. It was such a jumpscare. And once again Buck and Eddie were attached to the hip during that emergency.

Which brings me to the part I’m most excited about:

The Eddie storyline. MY MIND IS BLOWN! I kid you not, I screamed when Eddie was talking to the cheerleader’s father. The man didn’t want to see his son because he was a cheerleader??? I love how Eddie reached in and told him that it didn’t matter who his son was, he would always be his son.

I loved how we got to see Eddie missing Christopher and how it hurts to be without him.

There is an obvious link between that boy and his father and how Eddie was raised. The toxic masculinity surrounding all of it. How Eddie was raised to be the man of the house and how unhealthy that childhood was.

This is it! This is the kick-off of Eddie’s storyline. This is where he will start to question all he’s ever known in life. He will take a step back and start rethinking the choices he made and how he was always lead by the thought of him needing to be a real man’s man. Listen, this storyline? Dare I say it?

Yeah, I do. This is the kick-off of Eddie’s queer storyline. At this point, if it turns out to be anything else than that? I would be shocked. This is the only outcome that makes sense right now. We were right. We were right all along. Feels kinda nice, doesn’t it? 😋

Also… listen, I think I drooled a little when competent Eddie appeared in the back of that ambulance. That was sooooo hot. I don’t mind them showing off Eddie’s goofy side, but once in a while, when the show travels down the ‘competent Eddie’ road, showing us quite how clever he is and what he can do? Yeah… I’m not complaining at all!

I haven’t seen the 8x05 promo yet. I’ll try to look for it later to see if they showed us anything interesting for next week’s episode.

All in all, what a great episode! They tied up all the loose ends, except for Eddie's storyline. His storyline is only beginning. 😏

I’m sure I forgot to talk about so many other things, but I’m not thinking very coherently right now. I just love this show so much!

Okay, I have a ton of asks in my ask box, so I'm going to read the all and respond to some. Excited to find you what you guys thought of this episode.

[innerlmnt]

The US Presidential debate was horrible. It only underscores how bad both actually are, and it doesn't matter to vote either.

i watched clips of the debate. the united states should be ashamed.

your senile american dust pouches suck for sure, but that's exactly why you need to vote. the people who want the orange man with the principles of bigotry and an actual American doomsday event in office will show up to vote. they showed up in 2016 and they will show up again.

from a guy living in a parliamentary republic, i wish y'all had shit like coalitions and multiple parties in government, but because the right to vote has been manipulated against you, it's beyond critical to participate and take back that right. no one in their right mind wants to vote for Biden or Trump but y'all are between a rock and a hard place right now. it's because of your primitive voting system that the free world will be led by one of these doofuses and it's best that you pick the one that will do the lesser damage, even by a little.

think of it this way. Biden isn't gonna live forever. He's older than Trump. Joe Biden has a higher chance of dying while in office, which will bring in the Vice President i.e. a younger person - to take the lead for the Oval Office - at which point it will become the United States' job to protest and turn around the Vice President rather than Trump who is more set in his ways.

y'all have been left very little choice but to try and game the system that's been playing your asses in plain sight. sadly this comes at a time when that strategy doesn't help groups worthy of immediate attention (Palestinians, BIPOC, queer people etc.). the fight in front of you all is long and hard and tough, but it's a fight worth fighting nonetheless.

[jackoshadows]

It almost feels like Catelyn’s desire to have a Stark looking kid clashes with her notions of beauty. For example, one of the reasons for why Catelyn loathes Jon Snow is because he looks like Ned unlike most of her kids.

“She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow, that made it worse.” – Catelyn, AGoT

Okay. However, there is still Arya Stark! One would assume that Catelyn would appreciate that at least one of her kids has the Stark looks that she so envied in Jon Snow. Granted, Arya is not a son and the future Stark Lord of Winterfell and maybe she wants all her daughters to look like her. I wonder if Robb ended up looking like Ned, if her POV chapters would be peppered with descriptions of him being plain and long faced.

And then there is Sansa...

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon’s mother had been common, or so people whispered. Once, when she was littler, Sansa had even asked Mother if perhaps there hadn’t been some mistake. - Sansa, AGoT 

Sansa: Jon and Arya must look this way because they are bastards!

Her disparaging of Jon’s looks based on his class and common mother completely ignores her own father 😂😂 !! How does she not connect Jon’s looks to that of their father’s given that they are supposed to look very similar? And yet Sansa inexplicably goes straight for that bigotry.

Tyrion just met Jon Snow and he sees it!

“whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son." - Tyrion, AGoT

I wonder if Sansa thought her father to be homely and plain like she did all the other Stark looking Starks - all two of them.

[t0ast-ghost]

S3 EP7 (Day Of The Dove) already has me laughing with how they beamed down.

Without further ado:

- Sulu gets Spock jumpscared

- “You killed my brother Piotr.” WHAT. CHEKOV LORE?!?

- Chekov is getting the worst fucking treatment in these past episodes. First shot to death, now tortured to death

- Good thing they’ve got a button for that

- Chekov’s like, ‘KILL THEM’

- “My wife, Mara. And my science officer.” Parallels much?

- wish I had a shiny ball of sparkles following me

- Uhura’s hair is amazing, she’s got these little side curls

- Do they even have a place they’re supposed to be exploring, almost every episode they’re being taken out of the galaxy

- SWORD FIGHT YEAHHH

- Those redshirts are going to seriously walk into sickbay with a STAB wound

- Kirk DO NOT grip the sharp end of the sword

- YEAHHH CHEKOV AND SULU FIGHTING WITH SWORDS

- Sulu is so damn confused. WAIT HE NEVER HAD A BROTHER? I love that Sulu knows Chekov

- Real image of McCoy after performing top surgery

- Scotty gets to play with swords too

- Sneaking around in plain sight… works?

- Are we going to get to see Spock fight with a sword? I just think it’d be hot- who said that

- Cannot tell if McCoy is being controlled or he’s just like that in this episode. He’s being controlled. That’s good. His eyes are so blue and I think he’s going to bite someone tho.

- The low/harsh lighting really works for Spock’s face. He looks really cool.

- “May I say that I have not thoroughly enjoyed serving with humans. I find their illogic and foolish emotions a constant irritant.” Damn that’s so right, babygirl. They have no right to say this shit to you. No but seriously what the fuck? Spock faces constant verbal abuse for being half Vulcan

- Sulu is literally the best in this episode (please involve him more. Plllleeeease)

- Okay I know sparkles is controlling everyone but did I feel a bit better when Kirk was going to beat up Chekov? Yes.

- “Gentlemen, if we are pawns, then you’re looking at one who is extremely sorry.” “I understand, Doctor. I, too, felt a surge of racial bigotry. Most distasteful.” McCoy and Spock reconcile

- Is this the episode where they beat the entity with friendship?

- Get nerve pinched, idiot

- “Captains log, star date… Armageddon.” Kirk is sooo dramatic

- YEAHHH SPOCK AND MCCOY SWORD FIGHTING (well Spock ended up nerve pinching the guy but still)

- I like how McCoy and Spock fought their way over to Kirk just to stand there

- “Let’s jump him.” Spock has to be like, ‘no, Doctor.’

- Spock is done with their antics

I’m just wondering now if the new trek is just random shit put into a season or if there’s actual plot. I don’t think there should be actual plot. (I know there’s actual plot)

Masterpost

Episode written by Jerome Bixby

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter V

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 4.6K

Beta. @/starstofillmydream

3 Helona

“These symptoms are extreme for this stage of her illness,” Healer Natasha said.

Kazi didn’t respond as she studied her sister. 

Asleep, Daria looked fragile. Easily breakable. Like the glass dolls common in Reformist households on Ceaia. The dolls with unblinking eyes, perfectly plain skin, and rosy lips. 

Sweat glistened on Daria’s forehead. Her breathing was shallow yet slowing, courtesy of the anesthetic med-spike Kazi stabbed her with an hour ago.

The fear in her sister’s eyes—the sheer terror—when Kazi pinned her to the ground was imprinted in her mind. 

It happened so fast. 

Kazi had only just returned from work. Exhausted, she visited Neyti’s empty room to place a new stuffed animal—a space whale—on the pillows. On her way back, she caught sight of Daria in her room, staring at a wall, rocking slightly.

“Daria?” Kazi asked hesitantly. 

Daria flinched. “Where are we?” she whispered. “Why am I here?”

The fear in her sister’s voice moored Kazi to the floor. She was so tired—mentally and physically worn to the bones—that she could only stare at her sister. Confused. Uncomprehending. She took one step forward but Daria collapsed to the floor. Her hands flattened against her ears. Her body curved into a ball. She panted for air. 

It was the sound of her panicked breaths that snapped Kazi into action. She snatched the med-spike from the hallway closet. The medicine had sat there, unused, for months. 

She had never expected to use it.

And she hadn’t expected Daria to start crying, begging, her not to hurt her. 

Scared and unnerved, Kazi stabbed Daria with the med-spike. Her sister fell limp beneath her. 

The only good thing about the situation: Neyti was downstairs sketching, and Commander Fox and trooper Nova were gone, so no one witnessed the ordeal. 

“I thought you said her medicine was supposed to prevent these symptoms.” Kazi faced Healer Natasha, folding her arms across her chest.

After endless appointments with Ceaian healers unwilling to treat Daria, Kazi was relieved to meet Healer Natasha. 

A decade older, Healer Natasha was quick to diagnose Daria, create a treatment plan, and enforce necessary care all within two weeks. The healer was dedicated to Daria’s treatment. Determined to ease her suffering and preserve the stability of her mind for as long as possible. Her kindly personality and patient attentiveness made her respectable and trustworthy.  

However, months ago, Healer Natasha claimed a morning and nightly potion would curb Daria’s symptoms. That severe episodes of forgetfulness and panic were improbable the first fifteen months of the disease’s three-year timeframe.

The disease wasn’t supposed to progress for another eight months. 

“The potions should be working.” Healer Natasha studied Daria’s pulse and scribbled a note onto her datapad. “Their efficacy is tested and proven. There must be something interfering…”

Kazi swallowed a bite of fear. “How much time do you think she has?” 

“Possibly a year.” Kazi blanched and Healer Natasha offered her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. I can ease the symptoms as much as possible until the next stage.”

“The next stage is—”

“Loss of memory. I advise moving her to the medical center for 24-hour care.”

“You said Stage Two won’t happen until Telona of next year. At the earliest.” Her heart was beating far too fast, and she swallowed, forcing her breaths to calm. “You said she had at least two years to live from Telona. She’s only been sick for seven months.”

“Daria’s disease is an anomaly, and one we have little information to study,” the healer said gently. “The disease has few similarities across patients and we still don’t know the cause or if it’s curable. I am operating based on what I have researched, but much is left to the unknown.”

Kazi knew all of this—they had talked about it before. But it didn’t make acceptance easier.

Seven months ago, she was working in Ceaia’s capital when she received a comm message from home. Nearly eight years had passed without word from her mother, and she had rarely spoken to Daria in that time. So the comm message shocked her. She didn’t know what to expect.

That night, she quit her job, packed her belongings, and bought a one-way ticket back home. 

The local healer didn’t know how to treat Daria and the few droids available were just as useless. Kazi threw herself into researching Daria’s symptoms, cross-referencing potential illnesses, contacting various healers across the planet and then expanding her search to neighboring systems. She argued her way into consultations with the most renowned healers. 

All of those hours researching, all of those days she spent trying to find a solution, were ultimately futile. The last healer they saw on Ceaia claimed the disease was a progressive destruction of memory and mental functions. There was no cure. 

In private, the healer had advised Kazi to stop wasting her time and monetary resources on her sister. To instead enroll Daria in a 24-hour hospice center. The pity on his face at her immediate refusal still rankled her. 

Through it all—the dozens of consultations and various healers—Daria became more withdrawn. Reclusive and quiet. Kazi assumed it was a combination of shock and grief. 

Their mother was no help. Daria was her pride, and her hope for the future, and Daria’s inability to marry into society left her depressed.

Her hopelessness didn’t matter much since she passed away a few months later. From heart failure. It wasn’t a shock considering she was in her early seventies. She didn’t have Kazi and Daria until her early forties, as Traditionalist and Reformist culture encouraged, and the combined stress of Kazi leaving home at eighteen and the onslaught of Daria’s disease was too much for her to handle.  

Kazi thought their mother’s death would upset Daria. To her surprise, her sister became less morose and reclusive. 

“I don’t have much time,” Daria said one day, her smile forcibly brave, “and I won’t waste it moping.”

Healer Natasha placed a hand on Kazi’s shoulder, her fingers dark brown and scarred. “You should prepare yourself for the possibility that Daria’s illness is progressing at a faster rate.”

“I understand.” Kazi observed Daria’s pallid features. “Thank you for coming by tonight. I know it’s not in your contract—”

“Daria is my only patient. I’m here for her.” Kazi nodded her gratitude while the healer packed her bag. Once her instruments were sequestered away, Healer Natasha straightened, a frown marring her features. “A question, Ms. Lucien: has Daria encountered anything at home that could have increased her stress levels in the past months?”

The last three months zipped through Kazi’s memories, like a holofilm fast-forwarded. The clones’ arrival was the sole anomaly. But had built a rapport with Commanders Cody and Fox, and on some occasions, she even cooked with the former. 

An indicator of high stress probably emerged from—

“We’ve had a few disagreements about the future,” Kazi admitted.

“The future?” Healer Natasha hefted her bag. “Her future?”

“No.” Kazi scrunched her nose. “Mine.”

Healer Natasha nodded in understanding, approaching the bedroom door. “It would be best to avoid stressful conversations as they can exacerbate her symptoms, especially conversations about the future. Patients suffering from terminal disease struggle with both the unknown and the desire for a future. Talks about what you will be doing in a year or two can increase distress.”

Late evening sunshine bespeckled the surrounding jungle when Healer Natasha left. Kazi locked the front door and leaned against the wall, pressing her palms to her eyes. 

Her head felt too heavy. Too full. Like it was stuffed with wet sheep wool and she couldn’t stop it from expanding and thickening. 

Deciding fresh air and the setting sun might ease her headache, Kazi wandered to the sunroom. She expected to find Neyti absorbed in a sketch. Instead, she stumbled on a puzzling sight.  

Outside, Neyti sat among the ferns, a canvas on her lap and a paintbrush in her hand. For a brief moment, Kazi was distracted by the canvas and paints. The ones Commander Cody had gifted Neyti a few days ago. She hadn’t seen Neyti use them before and the sight eased some of her tension. She made a mental note to tell the commander when he returned to the house from his mission. He would appreciate it. 

And then she took in the entire situation, and former elation gave way to exasperation.

Rather than painting, Neyti was scowling, her knuckles white against a paintbrush. Scowling at Commander Fox and trooper Nova.

The clones must have returned from the Marketplace while Kazi was speaking to Healer Natasha. Each carried a bag of groceries, but it was Commander Fox who also held a cup in his hand. He stood a few meters from Neyti and was gesturing to the cup. Behind him, Nova grimaced. 

Commander Fox took a step closer. He started to kneel. 

Eyes narrowed, Neyti brandished her paintbrush and stabbed it in his direction.

“Oh my fucking gods,” Kazi muttered under her breath. 

The commander lifted a hand in surrender, and he slowly lowered the cup to the ground. Neyti swiped at him. Again. Kazi hurried outside.

“Neyti.” The girl blinked at her. Kazi gave her a long look. “We don’t hit people with paintbrushes.” She turned on the commander. “And if she doesn’t want whatever you have, don’t pressure her to accept it.”

Commander Fox shrugged, his casual demeanor forcibly unruffled. “I was going to leave it there and walk away.”

Kazi turned her attention back to Neyti, lifting an eyebrow. Neyti glowered at Commander Fox and then lowered her brush. A frustrated huff spoke her true feelings. 

Sharing a look with Commander Fox—the clone’s mouth pressed in a hard line—Kazi accepted the cup he placed in her hands. Lemony shaved ice filled it to the brim, and she felt herself start to smile as she knelt on the ground. Neyti eyed the cup suspiciously.

“This is a treat,” Kazi explained, spooning a lump of ice.

“I told her that,” the commander said. A distinct line wrinkled between his eyes. “I thought younglings liked dessert.”

“They do.” Nova’s voice was quiet, softer than Commander Fox’s. His hair was longer than any of the three commanders and a yellow tattoo of a rising sun lightened his left cheek. “Guess the problem is you.”

Commander Fox rolled his eyes. 

Ignoring them, Kazi offered the spoonful of ice to Neyti. The girl hesitated. 

“It’s really good, I promise,” she encouraged. 

When Neyti continued to eye the cup, Kazi shrugged, taking a bite for herself. Commander Fox had opted for a simple flavor: lemon with a hint of mint. It wasn’t half bad, though she preferred lemon and lavender. 

“You know,” she said, meeting Neyti’s intrigued gaze, “shaved ice is popular on Ceaia.”

The pointed comment was a theory she had developed the last few weeks, and Neyti’s reaction—her lips parting and former suspicion melting into interest—partially confirmed it. 

Neyti set aside her canvas and paintbrush, and Kazi handed her the cup. Carefully, Neyti spooned a small mouthful of the ice and took a tentative bite. 

Her eyes widened. Fascination, and subtle delight, lit her face. She took another, larger bite.

A quiet, hoarse chuckle emanated from the clone commander, and Neyti stiffened. A disparaging glare darkened her face. To Kazi’s slight amusement, Commander Fox winked. An angry flush darkened Neyti’s face. The little girl shoved herself to her feet, huffed her annoyance in Commander Fox’s direction, and stomped toward the closest tree, collapsing among its knotted roots. 

“Good going,” Nova said. Shoving the commander in the shoulder, he grabbed both bags of groceries and strode into the house.

Commander Fox slid his hands into his trousers’ pockets, watching Neyti. “You have your hands full. With that one and your sister.”

The amusement in his tone—the suggestion behind his comment—made Kazi stiffen. He had no right to judge Neyti and her sister. He had no right to make them his entertainment. 

“Don’t talk about Neyti that way,” she said coldly. “And don’t talk about my sister, either.”

The commander blinked his bemusement. “I wasn’t—”

“I have work to do.” Stepping away, she settled her attention on Neyti. “You should go inside. I think it’s best if you don’t bother her.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw but Commander Fox inclined his head, retreating into the house. 

The moment the back door snapped shut, Kazi grimaced. Maybe she was too quick to judge him. Maybe she shouldn’t have snapped at him. And she probably should have thanked him for thinking of Neyti. For buying her a treat. 

But Kazi couldn’t muster the energy to care. To feel ashamed for her behavior. 

Stress had gnawed through her muscles and was now working on her bones, dull teeth steadily eating her away. 

She wondered how long she would last. 

It didn’t matter, really. Once Neyti was adopted and Daria passed away, there would be nothing left to concern her. And no one to know her.

The bluish glow of Eluca’s three moons washed across the first level while Kazi mopped the hardwood floors. Unable to sleep, she thought the repetitive motions would soothe the amalgamated mess of conflicting thoughts pounding inside her head. So far, it hadn’t worked.  

She needed to access the bank codes for Bash. And yet she still didn’t know how to.

She needed to research Daria’s disease and see if there was an explanation for her rapid progression. And yet she knew it was ultimately futile.

She needed to reconvene with the adoption center and confirm Neyti’s application. And yet she had to wait for Neyti’s testing. 

She needed to call a mechanic and get the kitchen fixed—the squeaky drawers, broken cabinets, weak faucet grew more problematic by the day. And yet she couldn’t muster the fucking energy to make one comm call.

The house was dirty. She hadn’t properly cleaned the kitchen, living room, and sunroom in a month, and her bedsheets were unwashed for more than three weeks, and she hadn’t dusted in a long time, and there were crumbs—fucking crumbs—on the kitchen counters because the adults in this house were too lazy to properly clean the fucking counters after a meal. 

Living room floors scrubbed and drying, Kazi made her way to the kitchen. A glance at the chrono heightened her fatigue. 

She closed her eyes, telling herself not to cry. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t. And she despised lack of sleep. Her head felt too heavy to think and her muscles too slow to respond. She would most likely opt out of a swim and then she would miss an important workout and—

Kazi opened an upper cabinet and retrieved the sole bottle of alcohol in the house. A bottle of aged red wine. 

Daria couldn’t drink because of her medicine, and Kazi disliked the lack of control she experienced when she did drink, so alcohol was in short commodity. The bottle of wine she was uncorking was a gift from the neighbor a kilometer away. An older man she hadn’t spoken to since, though she did wave whenever she saw him drive by. 

A short pop and the cork fell away. A regular glass filled to the brim. A dark red unsavory.

At the first mouthful, Kazi nearly spit it out. Gods, she hated wine. Too sweet. Too thick. Too many uncomfortable memories. 

Another mouthful and she closed her eyes. The image of Daria, pale and sweaty, begging not to be hurt, seared her mind. Her eyes flew open. She released a shaky breath.

The urge to run spasmed down her spine. The urge to leave the house, leave her sister and Neyti, and just run. 

Run far away. Away from the responsibility, away from Daria’s suffering.

Kazi stared at the dark wine, its color too reminiscent of blood. Her hand started to shake and she set the glass aside. It was pathetic, but the bloody glass reminded her of her first, and only, time fishing with her father. 

She was five, eager to prove herself a reliable sailing companion. 

They sailed to one of the islands, her father cast a line, and they sat for an hour. Waiting. It was a rare day. The sun peeked through Ceaia’s usually gray clouds, its rays a gregarious warmth. 

Little Kazi had high expectations. For both herself and the experience. 

The line snagged, and she and her father shared an excited grin, reeling in the first catch of the day: a fish longer than her arm and quite fat. She watched her father kneel on the wooden boards. The fish squirmed and struggled. Kazi no longer felt excited. 

Her father raised a long spike. She kept watching the fish try to escape. To return home and live. Her father stabbed the fish in its head.

The sight haunted her nightmares for an entire year.

The fish wriggling. Blood oozing from its scales. The sound of its tail smacking the deck.

It took a long time for the fish to quiet and then still.

Little Kazi sobbed. She sobbed over the pain and suffering of a fucking fish. 

Startled by her reaction, her father abandoned the rest of the trip and they returned home. And so began a life avoiding the signs of pain and suffering. 

More difficult to avoid than Kazi had expected considering her mother owned the local apothecary and served as a healer on most days. She had forced Kazi and Daria to accompany her during busy hours. Daria helped. Eager to ease patients’ suffering. Eager to do good. Kazi stood in the corner, hands pressed to her ears, trembling as she listened to grunts of pain. Screams.

She took to running away. To avoid it all. 

The day her father died, she was ten, and she saw him in the med-center bed. His body was broken; his face was swollen. He had reached for her. His pain was too similar to Daria’s. 

Except his death was different. 

His sudden absence left her shocked and grieving—there was no time to prepare. She had eaten breakfast with him that morning, and he was gone by dinner.

Daria’s illness prolonged her pain and suffering. 

There would come a time when her little sister no longer remembered her. A time when Daria wouldn’t even know her own name. 

And Kazi wasn’t prepared for it. No matter the façade she wore, she wasn’t prepared. 

Swallowing another mouthful of the sweet wine, Kazi drained two-thirds of the glass. She was about to force herself to finish it when the front door banged open.

The glass fell. Its shatter was as loud as a blaster shot in the silence of night. Wine splattered her freshly mopped floors. 

Heart slamming against her chest, Kazi peered around the staircase wall and toward the entryway. A glaring Commander Wolffe followed by a narrow-eyed Commander Cody shadowed the hall. The front door snapped behind them, the lock sliding in place.

The anger emanating from them was palpable enough that Kazi’s stomach dropped. Tension slithered down her spine and she retreated into the middle of the kitchen, the bar serving as a barrier. 

The clones trudged toward the bookcase, Commander Cody offering her a grim nod before disappearing into the basement. Commander Wolffe paused beside the bookcase. He tucked a small, worn notebook into his utility belt and lifted his gaze to hers. 

A blackening blob puffed his right eye. His tetchy expression reminded her of their last conversation a few nights ago. The conversation when he rudely dismissed her. 

Tapping her fingers against the counter, she studied the harsh lines of his face. 

Mouth pressed in a thin line. Shoulders rigid. Jaw clenched painfully tight. 

“Do you want to discuss the intel?” she asked.

It was like poking a shark with a fishing pole—purposeful agitation with the expectation of a reaction. She knew she should ignore him. Clean up the glass and go to bed. However, she wanted to antagonize him. Because he was rude and dismissive and she needed to know why he no longer wanted to share intel. Needed to know why she wasn’t considered good enough for him.

“I told you,” he said, voice taut with restraint, “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why.” 

The commander regarded her. Bored, unfazed by her question.

“I don’t understand you.” She chuffed a sardonic laugh. “You were the one who asked me to work on the intel—”

“I don’t believe you’re capable of handling it.”

Her lips pursed. “I attended one of the most prestigious universities in the Outer Rim. I received not only my first degree in basic analytics, but I received a second and third degree in military and political intelligence. Military analytics is my specialty. I’m more than credentialed to analyze your intelligence. More than you probably are as a soldier.”

Commander Wolffe released a scoff so full of scorn her vision reddened. The commander’s outline blurred at the edges, and she knew she needed to walk away. 

“What’s your problem?” she demanded. 

A moment of silence passed. The commander seemed to be wavering between his two options: engage or back away. His soldiery background must have won out because he squared his shoulders and let the bookcase close. He took a step closer, countenance ornery. 

“My brothers and I are the ones out there. Running missions. Risking our lives,” Commander Wolffe said. His voice was low, strained with a rising rage that set her on edge. “We don’t have room for a shoddy analytic job. We don’t have room for mistakes.” 

“My analyses are not shoddy,” Kazi hissed. “I dedicate time and effort to make sure they’re the most accurate they can be—”

“I know you don’t give a shit about the lives of my brothers. But I do.” He levelled the full weight of his glare on her. A glare full of vitriolic antipathy. “And I won’t put their lives at risk based on your analyses.”

Kazi blinked her shock, straightening her spine. This asshole was questioning her credibility. Questioning her effectiveness at a skillset she had honed for eight years. The skillset she dedicated years of her life to perfecting in order to escape the forced life of demure housewife and child-bearer. 

“I would never put someone’s life at risk.” Heated rage turmoiled beneath her skin, churning hotter and faster. “You have no right to judge my skillset—”

“I reserve every right to question your credibility. These are my brothers at risk—”

“Then why did you ask me for help?” 

“I miscalculated.” He shrugged. “I realize now you’re lacking the quality we need.”

Internally, she flinched, and it took more effort than she cared to admit to keep her features unruffled. His opinion didn’t matter. She knew her skillset was credible and refined, but she couldn’t entirely dissuade the self-doubt it procured. 

“You’re the one who asked me for help, and now all you can do is ridicule my work?” A hollow laugh broke loose. “You’re pathetic.”

Commander Wolffe jerked away, his nostrils flaring and scowl hardening into deep fissures. He took a breath. And then another. Never looking away. 

“Are you going to bring men around here?” The question caught her off guard but she didn’t miss the blatant mistrust and scorn. “I’ll need to know. For security purposes.”

Kazi eyed him for a long moment and then realization crashed into her. 

The commander had overheard her argument with Daria. A good portion of it.

The judgment in his gaze—the expectation that she would risk their operation for a��male—was despicable. And it pissed her off even more.

“That’s not a problem you need to worry about.” She fisted her hands at her sides to steady herself, both from the wine blurring her vision and the defensive anger howling to get out. “Instead of worrying about who I spend my time with, maybe you should worry about your own missions. Since they’re clearly ineffective.”

It was a low blow. A punch straight to his ego and she knew it. She relished in his nearly imperceptible flinch. 

“I thought you were running rescue missions, Commander.” She gestured to the empty entryway. “Where are your rescued soldiers?” The taunt was cruel and horrible and she would regret it the moment the conversation ended, but in the moment, she wanted him to hurt. The way she was hurting beneath his criticism of her character. “Maybe if you had an accurate analysis—”

“Shut up.” 

“What? You don’t like hearing the truth? Your missions are pointless and do nothing for the good of the galaxy—”

“I’m rescuing my men. I’m doing something. What the fuck are you doing?”

Commander Wolffe took a step closer to the bar, running his tongue along his teeth. Kazi widened her stance, refusing to balk beneath his hostility. 

“You’re a nobody from a backwater planet that thought it could rebel against the Empire.” The commander leaned across the bar. “What good did that do for your people? For the galaxy?”

Kazi suddenly felt both cold and hot. How he knew about Ceaia, she wasn’t sure, but it threw her off-kilter. An attack on a vulnerability she tried so hard to bury. An attack on the guilt she harbored for her cowardice.

“You wanna talk about doing nothing for the galaxy,” Commander Wolffe growled, “let’s start with you running from your planet. You could have stayed and fought. And instead, you saved yourself—” 

“It would have been a massacre.” Her voice was quiet, underscored by a slight tremble. “Staying would have done nothing—”

He snorted. “You’re a coward.”

“I’m trying to help others. The rebel network—”

“Is an idealistic group of people. They naively believe they can take down the Empire—”

“And is it not naively idealistic to try to rescue clone soldiers from the Empire?” She snickered and the commander stilled, his features stony. “What’s the point? There are hundreds of thousands of clones. You can’t save them all.” 

“You wouldn’t understand.” He cocked his head, his sneer belittling. “Your home life is fucked up. You have a kid who doesn’t trust you. Your relationship with your sister is estranged. You’re a shitty sister and even shittier caretaker. And you wouldn’t know the first thing about familial duty.”

The accusation burrowed into her chest and flayed open the encaged emotions she worked tirelessly to repress. Her insides felt cold and tears—from both hurt and self-righteous anger—pressed at the corners of her eyes.

“How can you judge me for my home life when you don’t even understand the meaning of it?” She swallowed, ignoring the blood welling in her palms beneath her fingernails. “You’re a clone. What do you know about familial duty?”

The commander’s upper lip curled. “I have brothers—men I care for. Men I’m trying to save. Every mission I run is for them. What have you done for your family? Nothing.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done for my family. You don’t know what I do for them. You have no right—”

“And you had no right to question me—”

“You’re a paranoid bastard.” A tear eased down her cheek and she furiously wiped it away. “You’re so fucking paranoid because you turned on your own people. Your actions allowed the Empire to rise and the Republic to crumble. And now you expect any and everyone to turn on you because you were the traitor first.”

She was done with this argument. She was so fucking done with him.

“Ridicule the network; ridicule me. I don’t care. But you’re not the selfless hero you believe you are.” Stalking toward the staircase, Kazi threw him a final glare over her shoulder. “If you don’t trust my work—or me—then you can leave.”

Masterlist | Chapter 4 | Chapter 6

A/N: This is where the fun begins.

[transexualpirate]

Hi! Saw your post on redberryterf and racism.

I'm not PoC(nebulous USA spicy white but I come from immigrants) but I've been eyeing that user specifically for a fucking minute tbh. Her posts always seemed too edgy and evocative of the alt-right to me, in a way I couldn't quite describe much less prove something wrong with. Lo and behold LOL.

The truth is racism is everywhere there's white people and especially there's racism where there's Not Supposed To Be, like radical leftist organizing.

Queer AND radical feminist spaces host plenty of racism cloaked in whatever politically correct language, because both Queer and Radical Feminist discourse spaces on the English-speaking internet are predominantly white, western, upper middle class and college-educated.

I've seen some women on here try to claim Radical Feminism is *thee* feminism of the rest of the world, but I find that disingenuous. Most American and British radical feminists are nothing like Korean or Chinese radical feminists, and who knows what would happen if we were all in the same conference as those in Mexico, Romania, Greece. A responsible feminist would not try to separate herself from racism in her own movement by claiming The PoC Agree and would instead acknowledge and address it.

Climbed in your inbox because I think it will do us all a service to discuss how racism is enabled in leftist spaces regardless of the rest of our political alignments x have a good day.

hello!! i really appreciate this, so thank you. i agree with what you said wholeheartedly (ill have to look up the poc agree, though, not very familiar with that). i think people assume that just because a space is far left it is automatically exempt from racism, which is just. factually incorrect.

i mean, to begin with, there is no community in the whole world that is fully exempt from any sort of bigotry. that just doesn't happen. there is no community like that. not the trans community, not the queer community, not the radfem community, that's just not real. the thing is that bigots are everywhere. sometimes they do it out of malice, "infiltrating" those spaces aware that what they're parroting is harmful but uncaring, but more likely it's just ignorance, completely unaware that what they're saying is Actually Bad because they've been trained to not question their own thoughts ever.

so whether it's malice or ignorance, it is a lie to say that (x) community is completely free of all bigotry, which is a feeling that i have seen, whether implicitly or explicitly, in a lot of rad-whatever spaces. i mean, have you fucking browsed the "radqueer" tag over here on tumblr? that shit has more intolerance than fucking fox news and it's all completely masked under "radical acceptance", "positivity" and "equality". that is not what you'll find in their communities, though. and though not as extreme or as obvious, the radfem community is like that in many ways.

the fact that your community has a common goal of equality does not mean that your methods are sensible or justified, and it definitely doesn't mean the members of your community are somehow magically exempt from being the sort of people that actively goes against equality.

my problem with the radfem community specifically goes a bit further than just the general lack of awareness and accountability about and to the occasional bigot hiding in plain sight. i believe the entire community is built on a narrative that ends up being a type of "slippery slope" that very often leads to bigotry. so more than the occasional bigot, i think a lot of what is in the radfem community actively leads people to be less tolerant and accepting of others, in many ways.

one of them is the fact that a lot of classic and even some modern radfem writers and activists were and are incredibly racist (and sometimes homophobic as well), which is a fact that is rarely acknowledged in radfem spaces, if at all. and it shouldn't be just acknowledged, there should be some sort of active work to push the ideas influenced by that hate out of the community.

i also believe that when put in practice, a lot of radfem beliefs make people assume that women are the most oppressed group there is, automatically putting them as winners in the oppression olympics and completely disregarding how being negatively affected by one axis of oppression doesn't erase the fact that you can still be privileged in other ways. if women are the True Oppressed Class, then they can't oppress anyone else in any other way. maybe they can acknowledge that certain women can oppress other women, but anyone outside of their class? unfathomable. and this perpetuates many harmful rethorics.

another big problem i have is, naturally, the transphobia, leading radfems to more often than not become terfs. the unwillingness to accept that someone that wasn't Born A Woman(tm) can find genuine joy and comfort in womanhood - it must be a lie to hurt women, or a mental illness acquired through degeneracy, or a mockery, because women are the True Oppressed Class, after all, that's the opposite of joy and comfort. or the unwillingness to accept that someone that was Born A Woman(tm) might not find womanhood suit for them for many reasons, not all of them born from misogyny. but i know that we're talking specifically about the racism in that community and that is fine. im just making a link to how hate is often "intertwined", and one will feed the other.

regarding racism specifically, i do think the radfem community needs to do better in acknowledging and fighting it, more than most communities considering the aforementioned points. unfortunately, the only radfems ive seen on tumblr actively work for that were menalez and another one who's url i cant remember right now.

regarding bigotry in general, i think most radfems need to rethink a lot of stuff and see where their priorities lay. i think all communities would benefit from that, truly, specially left leaning and far left ones that believe themselves to be Truly Good And Pure (free from hate) - including the trans community, for the record.

and i think people of color aren't listened enough in society, which results in us being shut down when speaking about how that reflects in our respective communities, which results in people like redberryterf feeling comfortable enough to share her horribly racist opinions freely and without a care. i personally had already gotten into a debate with her before in which i told her she had to rethink some stuff but naturally i was ignored. which is why i referred to her as a well known person in the community: i don't interact that often but i had already stumbled across her posts multiple times and a lot of them have a LOT of likes. she isn't as big as menalez or that pineapple blog, but she was definitely influential in some way. and yet no one called her out on her bigotry until it was as obvious as it can be. i mean, it doesn't get any clearer than "i don't care that im being racist". she was spoonfed so much hatred that her perception of reality was altered to the point where being racist was probably a bad thing, but it was fine as long as it was towards men. then it's warranted. she's a woman, after all, the supreme oppressed class, she could never oppress anyone else.

anyways, this was a long fucking way of saying To Fight Bigotry You Have To Study Your Roots, Acknowledge Nuance And Different Points Of View, Listen To And Spread Awareness About Marginalized People and Never Ever Assume That You Are Exempt From Bigotry. That's A Sign That You Are Parroting Bigotry.

thank you for your ask. i think it's super important to find common ground with people you disagree with, and fighting racism is always important. im sorry for the long fucking reply, i hope it was at least a little bit coherent. sorry for occasional grammar mistakes or poor english in general, it isn't my first language. and have a good day!

[intersexfairy]

your feminism is dangerously missing something if you don't acknowledge that the patriarchy gives abusive and bigoted women power to hurt other people - people of any gender. yes, men included.

the idea that women are weak leads to the belief women couldn't hurt anyone. the idea that men are powerful leads to the belief men cannot be truly hurt. bigotry can mix with genderism to turn what was once a positive stereotype into a negative one (ex: privileged men are strong vs. marginalized men are dangerous).

all these things ultimately give protection to abusive and bigoted women. it allows them to fly under the radar in plain sight. it gives them a sense of trustworthiness and justification. you need to accept that, otherwise your feminism best serves women in positions of power. at one point or another, it leaves anyone else in need of support in the dust - or worse, for dead. you need to be better.

you need to believe and protect all abuse survivors and marginalized people, period.

[myddle]

How Would Vampires Work In The Undertale Universe?

This is something I've wondered about ever since I saw Dalv in Undertale Yellow, although it's a question the fangame doesn't answer itself (which is fine, it wasn't trying to), so watch me just freeball on this question for a few paragraphs if you're interested.

Content Warning: Long Post, Opinions, Fictional Bigotry

Part 1: Biology

Now, as a mythical creature, the rules for vampires are pretty malleable, so we can pick and choose whatever best fits Undertale's setting and vibe, but generally vampires are monsters that hide among humans and parasitically feed on them, whether out of neccessity or for power, and can turn humans into vampires with a bite. Very different from your standard UT monster. In what scenario would a vampire deal with hiding when they can just steal a human SOUL for power?

Well, that depends on a few details regarding how this all works. Firstly: how manageable a monster with a Human SOUL actually is. Asriel's transformation implies it's fairly easy to spot, and while they are described as having unfathomable power, a village of humans brought Asriel to the brink of death (he wasn't fighting back, but whatever), so a vampire could get immedately ganked if they tried it. It's a thin tightrope though, as 7 SOULs apparently allows you to be invincible and control reality (unless Asriel was exaggerating, and Mr. Deletes-your-save-file-but-not-really definitely does that sometimes).

Second issue: would vampires even count as monsters with all these human-unique interactions? Answer: unclear, but probably. We can just drop the human-turning aspect in an UT implementation if we have to, and turning into dust on death is already something that vampires do, so they'd fit in just fine in that regard. The typical power level of vampires is a bit above most UT monsters other than Boss Monsters, but there is one variation that fits our purposes; vampires that only become powerful after feeding on humans, and are fairly weak otherwise. This helps them fit in with the rest of monsterkind while letting them keep their potential power, and also dodges the issue of vampires sealed under Mt. Ebott just starving to death immediately.

Part 2: Culture

Alrighty! With all that bullshit out of the way, we can get onto the baseless headcanons I actually care about; the question of how vampires would interact with Undertale's world, and it's themes of descrimination.

The big point I'm circling is this: Vampires are monsters that look like humans. A lot of UT monsters are at least somewhat humanoid, but a vampire is just a pale guy with fangs. The only other monster types that even come close are werewolves - only sometimes looking the part (and also notably absent from UT) - and skeletons - Sans & Papyrus are clearly human skeletons, but also clearly skeletons without any human on them, so that doesn't work. In contrast to most other monsters, vampires could feasibly hide in plain sight in human society, and therefore, could be outside the Underground when the Barrier was formed.

Just think about that for a moment. Monsters outside their prison, able to blend into the world of their jailors. What would they do with themselves? Would they simply play along, hiding among humans and living quiet lives? Would they take advantage, utilising the psychological powers vampires often have to gain wealth and status? Would they stay loyal to the Kingdom of Monsters, and form a resistance to try and break the Barrier from the outside? Would they walk away entirely, living out in the wilderness away from any civilisation? A mix of all of these and more, differing between each individual? The possibilities are colossal in scope.

Of course, not all Vampires would have this position. Some would undoubtably be caught in the initial war and imprisoned with the rest of monsterkind, or caught later on and simply pushed in (remember, anything can enter the Barrier, it only stops leaving). These vampires might just live the same as the rest of monsterkind - peacefully but struggling - but I have a darker yet darker thought. Hold on to something, this gets a bit heavy.

Part 3: Batthew the Vampire

Let me set the scene. The royal children have died. The humans have once again taken everything from monsterkind. King Asgore has declared war on Humanity to unify his people. Anti-Human sentiment is through the roof right now.

You have a vampire neighbor. Let's call him Batthew. You haven't seen him outside as much since the news dropped, and when you do, you see other monsters giving him dirty looks.

Monsters know what humans look like at this point in the timeline. Some of them probably met Chara. Their new source of hope, the war, has filled them with hatred for humanity, but they have no outlet for it. Batthew isn't a human. But he looks like one. And bigotry makes people do stupid things, because bigotry is inherently pretty stupid, lets be honest.

One day, Batthew's house has a broken window. A few days later, it has a "FOR SALE" sign out front. You don't know where Batthew went. Maybe he moved to some other corner of the caverns. You've heard rumors of the RUINS of the former Capital, maybe he found a way in there. Maybe he "fell down".

You no longer have a vampire neighbor.

[fanbynature]

"Smosh might have set to genuinely hire people with different personalities, backgrounds, ethnicities, etc. but perhaps can't actually handle the responsibilities that come from the cast not being all the same." THIS is what I was thinking about when I made the ask about Jackie. Like making a space for POC in the workplace doesn't mean JUST hiring, you have to include them in discussions, putting effort into highlighting their qualities just as much as any white worker, just generally making them feel welcome and having a plan for dealing with any bigotry from the fanbase/workplace or, cough, not breed bigotry in your fanbase/workplace in the first place, which Ian editors-have-to-censor-my-bigoted-jokes-lol Hecox and Anthony swaztika-funny Padilla evidently can't do. I can think of a good amount of times where people were outright disrespectful towards Jackie and (admittedly less) Chanse in plain sight in videos. Your own damn boss acting like they don't know you and not bothering to even learn what your name is.... is just not cute

Completely agree anon

[runthepockets]

Most of my experiences with emo subculture (as young kid in the late 2000s - now) was seeing a bunch of white people with admittedly cool hair and nice shoes who were sad about society and me as a black dude being like "hey, me too! Lets hang out!" and then immediately getting treated like scum of the Earth cus those little cocksuckers were not only just sad about not being able to be ignorant little kids with no responsibility forever rather than, like, being mad about poverty or world hunger or anything, but also because my presence as a black dude shook them from their lame delusions that they had it worse than anyone else in the room at any given time. Even the few black emo kids I knew (I was best friends with an emo black girl in middle school, we watched anime together and I read her chibi yaoi comics cus I like seeing black girls happy and successful even when I don't fully understand / relate) were always seen as lower on the caste, just completely expendable, cus they were easy and acceptable targets in a crew full of what was otherwise cookie cutter carbon copies of white fragility.

So yeah when I say I hate emo subculture it's not cus I'm a wet blanket who hates gender expression or vulnerability or whatever, I understand that that aspect was important and formative for a lot of people, I just know for a fact it's all encompassing of white American Protestant circlejerk that I'm always on the receiving end of it. And I single them out over most other white people because these environments foster this kind of attitude. It's a very insular, consumerist, cliquey subculture that prioritizes perpetual victimhood over self advocation, and white people eat that shit up. Emo subculture is, by nature, nothing but a huge circlejerk over who has it harder and then getting scared of outsiders on sight, cus, ykno, white people and perpetual victimhood.

Also, most of the music just plain fucking sucks. There are a couple of emo bands I cape for, but the genre as a whole is not good enough to be caping this hard for and probably never will be. I don't understand the hype, it's all fully grown men just complaining about their ex girlfriends, getting gassed up over their Metal and Hardcore and Punk counterparts via being less "barbaric" cus the former group is made up of suburban college kids who whine instead of being pissed off? They made Pete Wentz straight his fucking afro to be more accessible to white teenagers, dude. Like what the fuck. Is this classist, racist culture that's integral to these outfits only ok because the racism and bigotry is more "passive" than other music subcultures? Cus the people enforcing it went to college and have nice families in nice white picket fence neighborhoods? Cus that's whack as shit.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Preamble

We atheists and atheist allies hereby declare that from now on, March 23rd is Atheist Day. We recognize the struggle of atheists to live authentic lives in many parts of the world. The struggle to openly affirm one’s atheism. The fear of intolerant governments, mobs, and religious zealots.

This struggle often includes the risk of professional, social and familial ostracization. Sometimes, this authenticity results in paying the ultimate price — one’s life. Many of our brethren have been brutally murdered for professing the very principles that this day represents: the freedom of and from religion, the right to be free of discrimination and persecution, and the freedom to profess one’s beliefs.

Many of us happily interact with people whom we admire and trust who unbeknownst to us, are closeted atheists. The world is full of atheists who are silent about their true convictions. Why? Simply this: a fear of reprisal and discrimination based on misinformation, ranging from the subtle to the life-threatening.

People should not be persecuted for their lack of belief in a god or a religion. That’s all we’re asking.

Some people however, believe that disagreeing with deeply held beliefs is hate. But it’s not.

We wish to remind our fellow human beings that many of the most powerful ideas — ideas that changed our world — were once heretical.

Many of the most radical thinkers and reformists in past eras were blasphemers against the established order of their day.

Freedom and Self-Determination

Atheists, just like adherents of religion, deserve the freedom to openly identify, profess and promote their views. No belief system or perspective on belief should enjoy special treatment.

Rejection of Bigotry and Discrimination

While atheism is a position on only one very narrow question — the evidence for a god or gods — we the proponents of Atheist Day also share a commitment to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

As such, to be associated with the Atheist Day campaign — whether you are a believer or not — is to necessarily reject bigotry and discrimination based on religious belief (or lack thereof), on race and on sexual orientation.

Just as you don't need to be gay to support gay rights, you don’t need to be an atheist to show your support for Atheist Day.

Awareness Campaign

A central component of Atheist Day is raising awareness of the discrimination and stigma faced by atheists around the world. Atheists are your loved ones, your friends, your doctors, your social workers, your teachers, your police officers and in short, the people in your life who are hiding in plain sight.

Our awareness campaign seeks to clear some misconceptions too. We Atheists and Atheist Allies want our fellow brothers and sisters in humanity to realize that we needn’t believe in an external force to encourage correct moral action. Isn’t true morality that which is done for its intrinsic value, and not under the threat of punishment or reward? Surely it is possible to act morally from intrinsic motivations, rather than extrinsic ones.

Many atheists would argue that our modern sensibilities, our ability for empathy, and our sense of universal human rights today often surpass the moral codes of largely subscribed-to religious scriptures of the past. Proof positive that we can live moral and ethical lives without a belief in the supernatural. This perspective also does not preclude atheists showing solidarity with religious people and their right to believe and to be inspired by their respective religious traditions.

To help atheists realize that they are not alone, we will promote a unified coming out on social media. Whether an atheist or an atheist ally, please support the campaign with the hashtag #AtheistDay.

Our Atheist Day awareness campaign is focused on removing the misconceptions, removing the stigma, and remembering the fallen. We aspire to normalize atheism so that people who are atheists no longer need live double lives.

We aspire to hold information events, public talks, marches, and embassy protests for those countries who would persecute us. Events will be organized at the city level, across the world.

Whether we march in the streets or we protest in secret, our voices will be heard. Your marching with us will encourage people in the Arab world to be steadfast. Many people in such regions of the world don't know that they have your support. Show them. Let them hear you. Stand with us.

A Coordinated Coming Out

Many who leave religion are fearful of “coming out”. For those who live in a region of the world where leaving their religion doesn’t entail a risk of physical harm, we also have a coordinated coming out campaign.

This campaign is central to Atheist Day. Even if you’ve not adopted the atheist label but have chosen to leave your religion, your conscious choice to come out is what our day represents.

We believe that people who leave a religion need not keep it to themselves for lack of solidarity. Atheist Day is your day to tell your story. To share your pride in making a conscious choice to define your own identity vis-a-vis religion.

A Celebration of Life

In addition to our awareness campaign, Atheist Day will encompass a second vital theme: a celebration of life.

This is a day for atheists especially, to meet face to face. It’s a day for atheists in hiding in many parts of the world, to connect with one another, where that can be done safely. These real world connections are vital. They help atheists overcome the feeling of isolation that need not be felt.

As this life on Earth is the one and only life that we can be certain of, we believe it wise to live this life to it’s fullest potential, and to help others who are less fortunate, also do the same.

We will host dinners, parties, concerts, and festivities across the world in a celebration of life, freedom, dignity and our common humanity. As an atheist or atheist ally, you are most welcome to join us in these celebrations.

Gratitude

We the founders and proponents of Atheist Day are grateful to our Atheist Allies. You do not need to be an atheist to be a vocal supporter of Atheist Day and an Atheist Ally.

Respect for the right to self-determination, free speech and a level playing field for ideological criticism is what we and our allies all share — even those Atheist Allies who profess a strong religious belief.

It’s not about respecting ideas; it’s about respecting people and their right to choose their own beliefs.

For our Atheist Allies across the entire belief spectrum, we are truly and deeply grateful for your support. We may not share a god-belief, but know that we see you as our brothers and sisters in humanity. Gratitude, solidarity, and love.

[delafiseaseses]

You probably don't care, but people earn my respect through actions I approve of. Acting in a way I think is a good way to act. The way I intend to act.

Those actions am quite simple, these am in the order they pop into me head:

Not letting people walk all over you.

Knowing when to drop a topic and move on.

Learning from and admitting your mistakes and shortcomings.

Practice self-examination. Nothing is more dangerous than refusing to scrutinise oneself.

Don't dismiss other's struggles. Even if they sound strange to you or you think you've suffered worse.

Oh, that's a big one. Suffering is not a contest, don't treat it like it is.

Not starting fights over personal taste differences.

Understanding not everyone is like you and being good with that.

Understanding that people know themselves better than you know them.

Not expecting apologies to be accepted (I don't actually believe an apology you expect to be accepted is a real apology).

General politeness (you can be rude with people who aren't being polite themselves, there's leniency here).

Not name-calling and otherwise insulting people (again, leniency for when the other side isn't followin' this rule).

Slurs are a no-go (this don't apply to self-identification, words with numerous contexts that can be slurs or using terms when discussing said terms in conversation).

Basic respect is a big thing with me. Respectin' pronouns, gender, sexuality, nationality.

Be considerate of others.

General weariness of generailsations (especially of immutable things like ethnicity, place of birth, etc.)

A subcategory of that: Be very weary of being nationalist, even as a joke (I dislike people who insult French people for instance, nationalism is not quirky or funny).

Just don't be bigoted in general. You'll fail at this, because this is a very bigoted world, but strive for reduction of bigotry from yourself everyday.

Don't put words in other people's mouths.

Giving benefit of the doubt to a reasonable degree (there's a lotta nuance there to what 'a reasonable degree' is).

Just, generally don't jump to conclusions.

Don't dilute terms and generally try and use things properly (example: using the term 'TERF' as just 'transphobe' since that's a specific category of transphobe and transphobic ideology).

Knowing when to argue and when to simply block someone (like when you see a TERF, for instance, just remove 'em from your sight).

Listen to a wide-variety of people, hear numerous sides of a discussion. Then form an opinion. Gut instincts and knee-jerk reactions are often unhelpful (and full of bias).

Understand that nobody speaks for everybody in a category and treatin' people as ambassadors for their demographics is a bad thing to do.

Don't make assumptions about others lives or capabilities.

Oh, don't act like your views are all unequivocal 'objective fact' and everyone else is 'subjective' or use 'subjective' as a negative.

At the same time, both sidesing is not always sensible. There are sides that are just plain wrong (TERFs are a good example of this)

Generally think before you speak.

Know you don't need to share your opinion on everythin' or act like your views are somehow better than other people's views.

Don't be mean about spellin' mistakes or poor-wording. At best you'll be being mean, at worst you'll be being ableist or nationalist.

Uhh... I can't think of anythin' else of the top of my head. Why did I even write this? Felt like it. I know basically nobody is gonna be like "Oh boy, I really don't want to lose the respect of Delafiseaseses.". Now, living up to all these standards is kinda impossible, but striving for such things is a good idea. We're all everchanging, complex and contradictory creatures.

And that's good.

[empty-masks]

Book Four, Chapter Seven

CW: Strong Language, Sexual References, Graphic Violence, Fantasy Bigotry, Smoking, Alcohol Use, Light Body Horror

The Bleeding Scab isn’t the best place to lie low and wait out a quarry, but it’s chaotic enough to cover up the fact that Piper, Jules, and Lucille are very obviously not from around there. Most of the workers busy themselves with their own pockets of enjoyment, so the three oddballs just fade into the corner of the room; especially since they don’t plan on renting a room, nor are they on payroll to be accompanying potential renters. Instead, as Lucille awkwardly sits in her section of the booth with Jules right beside her, picking away awkwardly at some local type of blood sausage— not the sort of blood he needed, but fangs are meant for meat— Piper simply presses heavy spoonfuls of a thick, sludgy soup into her mouth, watching the people move and talk, her tail wrapping around the center pole of the table between them.

They’re nestled into a far corner with easy visibility of the main bar and the front entrance. Anyone who seems to notice them is disquieted by a combination of Piper’s glare, Jules’s grin, and Lucille’s covered mouth, and anyone who doesn’t is too busy going about their business. In a sense, they stick out. But, sticking out just enough to discomfort is, in itself, a fairly good way to camouflage yourself. To lack the comfort of familiarity and the novelty of strangeness both is to convince the viewer not to view at all, and is thus a good way to hide in plain sight.

The fine details of this method, something Jules and Lucille have utilized time and time again to simply wait for their quarry in a populous gathering space and then pounce at the last second, are somewhat lost on Piper. Her shoulders shift and roll to ease the tension, she tilts her head to crack her neck, and after a time the spoon settles into the bottom of the solidifying muck she had called a meal some moments earlier as she’s taken to popping each knuckle on each hand individually, slowly and methodically. Her tail twitches. As though simply to elicit some response, the tip drifts against Lucille’s leg.

This whole time, Lucille’s been staring past her companions and into the sea of people also. She’s careful not to think too hard on the way the moving of boots and feet in this place reminds her painfully of the hustle and bustle of camps in the past, or how the roaring laughter of these people, likely celebrating a finished house or some other project, echoes against those she had once called her peers. The Snake’s touch against her leg is only registered after it gets firmer and runs up her calf, when Lucille nudges it away with her boot.

Piper smirks. “I’m bored,” she says, running a finger along the rim of her bowl. “How long does this usually take?”

“It isn’t always high octane chases or intense stakeouts. Sometimes it’s just sitting in some greasy spoon waiting for somebody to show up.” Lucille’s head tilts. Her eyes linger on Piper’s own golden pair as her jaw sets.

Jules chuckles. “We’re hunters, right. Which means, Pip, that you have to learn to treat the target like they’re animals. Complicated, complex animals, but animals. Shit, that analogy doesn’t really work, huh. Think brutal reality shit, you get me.”

A grin crosses its way over Piper’s features, but she doesn’t respond to him. She’s a bit busy breaking her gaze from the staredown to follow the familiar shapes of Brie and Roxanne, accompanied by the unfamiliar Meat as they plow through the entrance and straight to the front counter. Roxanne swiftly places down a bundle of cash, raises a small ruckus, and is handed a key by the bartender. Once the charade’s complete, the three dart up the stairs and into the hall where the rented rooms reside, just as two more shapes enter.

The two figures approach the bartender, and just from a cursory glance Piper has some idea that they aren’t locals, given as one of them— a tall man, made of literal stone with small streaks of metal throughout his face and bald head like tattoos— is wearing a black suit and a horrendously patterned tie that speaks to having been picked up either in the home of an insane clothier or a low-grade alchemical mentor. The swirling red, blue, green and electric cyan patterns are hard to look at.

The other, an orc, isn’t wearing a suit but his clothes are simple, crisp, and very obviously mass produced; he’s from a real city. On top of his head is a flat cap, chequered, black and white. Similarly, his t-shirt is a simple black, his jeans white, et cetera, over his green skin.

Combined they cut a fearsome silhouette, a mountain of a man made of rock and iron glaring, stone-faced, as an Orc of nearly equal stature cracks and rolls his knuckles as though preparing a weapon. On the Golem’s lapel is a pin, and even from a distance Jules knows the symbol it bears well; after all, Leslie Carnevale wears it all the time and so do the properly initiated members of the crew, as it’s the sign of the family. The Orc isn’t wearing one, but he probably has one, Jules thinks.

Based solely on looks, he can assume who they are. There isn’t any shortage of rocky muscle in the organization but rather few get to the point where they start buying expensive suits; shows this isn’t just some brick-headed associate out to crack skulls. This is a soldier, sure, not a capo like Leslie, but give him a few years and a few more busted heads and he’s going to get there.

The Orc, he knows. Normally the guy works an entirely different track; he’s an urban collector, a soldier who doesn’t work for Leslie and probably already misses the man-made mountains and jungles of concrete, wood, and steel back in the city. Wide at the shoulders and tight at the hips, he’s practically threatening to bust that shirt open during a fight. It’d be attractive if Jules didn’t know the moment the guy gets going things are only going to hurt.

Grant “The Slab” Slate and “Lucky” Luciano. Professionals, even a little above Jules’ paygrade. Leslie’s pulling out all the stops to deal with this Notus. Someone who might be fireproof and somebody willing to put hands on a campfire. Sensible, but it stings a little to know he’s been outmoded for the moment.

The bartender doesn’t tell them anything, and unfortunately for Grant and Lucky, this isn’t a place where they can bust out pieces and have the run of the joint; the moment either one of them pulls a gun on a local, the rest’ll tear them apart. They didn’t account for Jules being there, though.

Some part of him does feel a little bad for the brief wave and the vague gesture pointed toward the stairs up, as that Meat person didn’t seem all too bad when they weren’t trying to kill one another, but family’s family, even if he himself is taking a break from it to keep rolling with his best friend to get a job done. It’s all quick, professional, and mostly painless.

Frustrated, the two goons look around. They eventually spot someone who’s entirely willing to make eye contact with them— that being Jules— who quickly and vaguely points toward the stairs nearby with a slight nod of his head. Then comes another gesture, the slight tapping of his fingers, still only using his good hand, against his chest in the spot where, were he to wear one, he would place a Carnevale pin on his jacket, mirroring the placement of Grant’s on his suit.

Daylight gangsters, the sort with very public facing personas, get pretty good at interpreting that kind of message. It’s easy enough; the two’s quarry had gone upstairs and the gray-faced and messed up looking fellow in the far corner saw, and not only that but also has connections to the family. Had they a few more minutes they’d probably find out that this fellow is, in fact, the guy whose job they just took, but they’re too busy. Instead, there’s a brief nod in response before the two storm up the stairs and past some working men and women, off to start busting down doors.

As the two disappear upstairs, Lucille turns to Jules and lets out a sigh. “Was that needed?”

“Even if I’m off that job, it’s good to stay on people’s good sides. Also, hell, at least one of those guys is on the up and up, and it never hurts to be in with somebody like that.” A fanged smile greets her from beneath a thick and recently combed mustache.

“And who’re they?” Piper asks, eyes still lingering on the staircase, mind elsewhere.

“I think a word for it is “coworkers.” People who’ve dedicated much more to the- er- family than I have.”

“Mafia goons,” Lucille adds. “Doesn’t matter, we’ve got other people to wait for. It’s just a matter of time.”

Piper’s lips purse, and the three go silent and wait for a few minutes more before she finally rises from her seat saying, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Are you?” Lucille raises her gaze to Piper’s face again, narrowing her eyes.

“Does it matter?”

“Would you be lying to us if it didn’t?”

As Piper adjusts her coat collar and sets her jaw, she shrugs. “Suppose so. Either way— you two stay here and watch for those idiots, and don’t go starting any scenes.” And then she’s off, walking right past the sign directing those inside the bar toward the restrooms and she’s heading up, heading after the two she’d seen and the three runners.

Brie’s legs want to give out after so much running and the intensity of the standoff inside the room. Her hand’s on the semiautomatic in her bag, and her eyes are focused narrowly on those of the green skinned fellow in a flat cap who’s only just barely keeping his muscled frame from pouncing on Meat who is, at this very moment, literally butting heads with a golem that’s looming over them like a bent tower.

Roxanne’s got the crossbow out, of course, but she’s not in a position for it to be terribly useful; fact is she’s not got a good shot on the Orc and the Golem is, again, made of rock. Even if it’d punch into him, he’d probably just pull it out. While the room had been something of a good bet to hide in, it’s the last place she wants to be in a real fight, especially when she can’t shoot worth a damn at this range and Meat can’t make any sparks fly for fear of lighting the whole town up. Only Brie’s got free range in this room, and even then, she’s not likely to pull the trigger.

“Mack.” The Golem’s voice is slow and heavy, deliberate like the placement of a statue. Every syllable is a perfectly placed brick. “You’re a real long way from home.”

Meat’s brow chafes somewhat from rubbing against stone and metal, as they press their neck and shoulders forward and they stand on the ball of their feet to shove their bony forehead against that of Grant. “I’m not Mack anymore. I’m not in the mood to be explaining this to people I might’ve once known, but I’m not Mack. I stopped being Mack a while ago, and if anybody calls me that again I am going to—”

“Meat,” Brie chimes in, “I do not think attempting to intimidate someone twice your size is going to do much. Sir, please do not call them Mack. They prefer Meat.”

“We come here to tussle or we come here to have tea?” Lucky spits, nose scrunching as he shoots a glare Brie’s way. “Meat, Mack, either way ends the same. Been waiting to take a swing at you for a while…”

Grant raises a hand, then stands back to his full height. “Don’t be a bitch, Lucky. Alright, Meat, I’ll call you that. Still, job’s a job.”

Meat’s arms cross, and their teeth clatter as they work their jaw wordlessly for a second. Then comes an idea, something quick and simple. “We can’t fight here. I don’t know either of you, or at least I don’t anymore, but I get a feeling you two don’t want to have too much… Collateral.”

“What, these two?” Lucky gives a quick glance over the two women before he laughs. “What’s it matter?”

Grant scowls over at him. “Shut your face, Lucky.” Afterward, he turns to look at Meat again. “You sound like you’re about to make a proposition. If it’s happening, out with it.”

“I… Uh…” Meat stops. They didn’t actually think they were going to get this far. Flying by the seat of your pants is good for a fight, but it’s not quite there as conversational tactics go.

Brie steps forward, putting up both hands in a supplicating gesture. “They are technically still working for the Carnevale. It would be in bad taste to kill a coworker before they finish their job, yes?”

“That’s it, I’m gonna shove my hand down this—” Lucky starts, stepping toward her before a large, suit-clad arm stops him.

Grant’s cold, stoic face turns to watch Brie as he says to her, “Explain.”

Meat steps back some, and Roxanne lowers her crossbow as Brie smooths out her pants and readjusts her collar. “Back in Fusillade, your employer tasked Meat with defeating the other Notus, the one known as “Blondie,” whom they— we— are currently pursuing. Blondie was not defeated in Fusillade and thus, the job is unfinished. Obviously Mr. Carnevale expects this to have been finished by the time you arrived, assuming that is who hired you in the first place.”

The Golem and the Orc exchange looks. A small, almost entirely insignificant smile pulls at the corners of Grant’s lips. “Convincing. Stupid, but very convincing. I need more than a technicality to make letting you three go worth it.”

“Unless you can beat a five-figure paycheck,” Lucky breaks in, “I don’t expect anything like this to be worth it. Let’s just kill ‘em.” Though he says this, his hands are already lowered, pressed into his pockets.

Meat rolls their shoulders. “I can’t beat five figures… Let me help them beat this Blondie guy, though. I’ll owe you one. From what I’ve gathered, that’s worth a lot. Apparently my death’s worth that paycheck.”

“And you already stood up again after that Dragon incident. No telling if you’ll stand back up after what we’d do to you, but I guess that can’t be helped. You should’ve stuck to the family life, Meat. You’re good at it. Dealing and all that. You too, sister.” Grant nods, first toward Meat and then toward Brie before he says to Lucky, “I think a favor might come in handy later on. Don’t be too sore over the check, it’ll make you look bad.”

“For a rock, you’re soft as shit.” Lucky snarls, but as everything settles, even his muscles relax.

All just in time for the door to open again and something long to swing out, lashing at the back of Grant’s knees. Unprepared, the giant of a man is sent to the ground, only catching himself by his hands on the floor. By this point another figure’s entered the room and, stepping neatly over the grounded Grant, closes the distance with Lucky.

He’s better prepared. When something bronze and long swings out, lashing toward his face, he catches it between his calloused hands as though clapping his palms to either side of a long blade. Only in the brief moment of calm after it’s stopped in his hands does he realize— it’s not a weapon, it’s a scaly tail. Before he can capitalize on this knowledge, as his soft, blue eyes dart up to gauge the enemy, his vision finds itself blotted out.

Brie, Meat, and Roxanne are dumbfounded as Piper, her tail trapped between the hands of the Orc, just having tripped up Grant, pulls out something strange, some abomination of a weapon derived from strains of crowbar, tonfa, and club. She already had it out by the time she entered, and by the point of her tail making contact with Lucky’s hands she’s spinning it. Now, as Lucky finally looks at her, looks her in the eyes, she’s carving a ragged arc from one side of his head to the other, the pointed, clawed crowbar end of the weapon digging in through one cheek and through his back teeth, through one of his tusk-like canines, and full through the other cheek.

Lucky expects a fight, something real and intense, life or death. He doesn’t expect to be absolutely stunned with cold, shooting pain as he attempts to hold his jaw where it should be on his skull. Blood sputters from his open cheeks and down his neck onto his black shirt and hands, and his attempts to speak only come out as muffled, muted gurgles. His nigh perfect stance from moments ago is ruined as he attempts to back away, tripping and falling as he continues to clutch at his face. He’s been stabbed, shot, clawed, bitten—  but this is new. This is so horrifyingly new.

Roxanne’s breathing fast and awkward, partially out of an instinctive fear, secondarily out of a learned, familiar resentment. She’s realized by now that this isn’t Blondie, it’s just his coat being worn by that foreman, Piper. But that’s just enough to send her brain into panic mode, send phantom pains shooting through her missing foot. And that’s only the beginning of her troubles. It’s one thing to be used to seeing viscera in a medical context; it’s something else entirely to watch somebody lose bits and pieces of their face to a glorified pry bar.

Meat’s been unsure of what to do this entire time. Admittedly, not having to owe him anything would be really, really nice. However, if the guy was willing to let them actually talk it out then they weren’t that bad— and if they weren’t going to condemn themselves for having been a member of the Carnevale, it’d be real hypocritical to let this guy die just because of that. And furthermore, they remember Brie’s worries. Is Brie next?

Brie’s frozen. Inside herself, she’s shut down. The time has come. To struggle is pointless when in the face of this brutality. She hadn’t gotten to see Blondie do such things, only having seen the aftermath for the most part, save for that man that Blondie’d burned to death back in Fusillade at the start of the fight, but she’s seeing it now, in Piper. And God, it’s coming for her next.

As Meat moves to place themselves between Piper and Brie, Piper’s gaze, wild and absent of expression, like the glazed but attentive stare of a predator, passes them over in favor of Grant, who’s trying to struggle his way to his feet again. Being a big man means being hard to topple when he’s ready, but if he’s caught off guard then it’s going to be a while as he gets back up.

When he’s finally on his own two feet again, a strange whistling enters his ears, like something spinning faster and faster, metal clawing the air, leather on leather. His eyes run up in time for the already bloodied metal claw on the heavy end of the weapon to strike down on his bald head.

Now everything’s ringing, swimming, and there’s trickling. Like a stream descending a mountain cliff, blood trickles between the crags and crevices in his face from the place she’d struck him. He bellows deeply, but is silenced as the whistling twirl of the weapon collides with his head again, and then again, each strike pushing him down further and further.

Each song-like swing of hardened steel finds itself a sickening, climactic crunch to cap it off. Again and again she strikes, panting, grinning now. In Piper’s mind, she’s calculating the perfect position to strike to chip more and more away. It’s just mining. Instead of groundwater, though, it’s blood.

Meat calms down alongside Roxanne, who by this point is awkwardly clutching at them and saying, “Please stop her, Meat,” between her steadily calming breaths.

Before anything can be said in response, Brie pushes out from behind the both of them and shoves herself into Piper’s path, raising her arms to take the next blow meant for the Golem now on the ground. It doesn’t land, though; Piper stops her movements, and in that second her features contort grotesquely with rage and confusion.

“If you are here for me,” Brie says, a slight tremble in her voice, “then hurt me! Don’t hurt anyone else!”

Piper glances around the room. Lucky’s clutching at his face still, looking distant and pale, and Grant’s on the floor with a good chunk of rock missing from his head, bleeding profusely but obviously not dead. Hell, she was pretty sure she only gave him the Golemnic equivalent of a concussion, or maybe a bit of internal bleeding if she’s really fortunate. Meat and Roxanne are both gawking at her like idiots but obviously they’d try to take her on if she did anything.

A smile and an almost eerily serene posture take over Piper then, and though her black coat, her weapon, and a bit of her face are all splattered with blood, she looks like she hadn’t even exerted herself. “I’m not here to hurt you, Brie.”

Brie’s arms lower and, in her confusion, she blinks. “You’re not? Then why—”

“To protect you. We wouldn’t want anything happening to our number monkeys, right? Especially not one working directly for Ms. Hickory.” A bloody, gloved hand reaches up to grip Brie’s chin. “You should be careful. They don’t like folks like us around here. We have to stick together.”

Brie’s eyes are wide and her face is hot, hot with anger and dread and all things confusing to the logical mind. “How can you be so candid after hurting them like that?” She snaps, immediately. “Look at what you did! It is all so— so needlessly cruel!”

Piper chuckles, and that hand on Brie’s chin pats her cheek before the snake turns to walk out. “Shit, write it all down in your lil’ notebook and get along with your job. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to your rescue after all. There are better things to do than protect people that ain’t even going to give me so much as a thank you.” On her way out she snags one of the several extra blankets, and as she walks out she takes the time to wipe off the blood. Luckily enough for her, the coat’s been treated— blood doesn’t stick. Blondie thought of everything when ordering these things.

In the room Brie is huffing, face vividly darkened by a flush, face for once twisted heavily in some semblance of fury. She only comes out of some hidden, angry place in the back of her mind as Meat snaps in front of her face. “Hey, I know this isn’t a great time, but Roxanne needs our help moving the gangsters.”

“As in, I need you two to drag them downstairs so that the locals can handle the rest. We have to see Sam.”

Getting the two gangsters situated in the clinic was no easy task, but the working folk of the Bleeding Scab brought forth everything they could muster to help. Roxanne found herself impressed, and somewhat missing that kind of community with her fellow folk. There’s nothing quite like the feel of everyone dropping their beers when someone’s in dire need.

But, the job isn’t finished. As she exits the clinic to a rather overwhelmed Brie and a notably on-edge Meat, she says, “There’s someone we’ve got to see. Let’s get a move on before anything else happens, yes?” Brie attempts to raise a hand, but Roxanne just replies, “We can process what happened in a bit, Ms. Brie. Right now, we’ve got to get to my friend. He’ll know what to do about all this.”

“Where to?” Meat says, eyeing the streets suspiciously.

“Samson’s place. He’s the union head here, and he’ll know how to drive Piper out, now that she’s here.” The Medic starts to walk, taking Brie’s hand as she passes by. “Keep up now, you two. We’ll be safe, but I don’t want either of you getting lost.”

==============================================================

    Covered in grease but satisfied with his inspection and installation of the Pounder nitrous canister into the truck, Cherry pushes himself out from underneath the vehicle, dragging his toolbelt along with him. Now, if he’s done everything correctly, the button on the side of the middle control panel should work for a last-ditch burst of speed.

Though, as if on-queue, Cherry had noticed something odd while working on the truck. Since he had become so familiar with the vehicle’s inner workings, he had slowly begun the process of trying out his power on it. Unscrewing and rescrewing nuts, lifting parts off the pavement for insertion into tight spaces, and other such activities that had tired him out after a while. In fact, after he had finished, he had a thought— since his power seems to consider the process of moving things as a function of building, could he, in theory, move more than one component at once?

To his surprise, he could see it happening in his mind when he closed his eyes. A wireframe map of the truck had been built in his headspace, and when he felt for a section, he could feel it begin to move slightly under his influence. Of course, this was about as strenuous as trying your hardest to lift a screwed-on piece of machinery from its frame, but nonetheless, all he had to do was wipe a bit of blood from his nose before heading inside.

That is, before Roxanne showed up in Samson’s yard with Brie and someone else.

==============================================================

    Brie and Meat stand back from the scene, waiting on the front lawn of a rather well-kept house. They watch Roxanne embrace the Hare and the human covered in motor oil sitting out on the front porch, who Brie correctly assumes to be the ones she’s been hunting this entire time, and soon after, hug the massive Hound who walks out as well. There’s brief, but fervent conversation— something about being followed to town, something about a pair of gangsters, something about Shepherd Gemstone. That last bit perks up the Hound right away, and both Brie and Meat watch as his hand naturally gravitates toward his hip. The Owl standing next to them also becomes visibly nervous, and again, from what Brie can surmise by the instructions she was given at the beginning of her contract, she’s also one of the people she’s supposed to be hunting.

In fact, two more people come out of the house, and they both fit the description perfectly. A toothless Orc and a Werewolf, but one who didn’t like to turn. Her entire quarry, right there, right in front of her. If she were someone else, she’d be leaping at the opportunity to seize them and claim her bounty, complete her contract, and leave this whole thing behind. But, beyond the fact that they looked like tough customers, she doesn’t feel obligated to do that at all. In fact, she feels as though it would be wrong, if not completely morally red, to attempt to break up their panicked reunion with the announcement of her aiming to fulfill her contract.

As she briefly turns to look at Meat, she also realizes that she’s been traveling with someone who knows what it’s like to be hunted. Though they’ve only been alive a few weeks, there’s no denying that they’ve had to have been on-edge the entire trip. And they were right to feel that way, as they nearly got themselves, as well as Roxanne and her, in serious trouble just now. Being chased like that, it must not feel very nice. She can tell somewhat by looking at their face. And when looks back at the group of folks on the front porch, something terrible occurs to her.

She’s been an unknowing predator. She’s been the chaser, not the chase-ee, this entire time, and that fills her with a sense of something she feels is unprocessable. She looks at them, discussing what to do in this dire situation, and knows in her heart that she’s been in the wrong for even thinking that taking that job had been a good idea, much less to follow through on it.

And in that moment, she also realizes that Meat has been knocked on the skull with the flat side of a familiar crowbar, sending them into the dirt face-first and entirely unconscious.

“That’s all it takes? Really?” Piper says, stalking up besides Brie. She makes sure to give Meat’s body a hearty kick as she wraps an arm around the Detective’s shoulder. “You ready to do this thing, pal?”

Brie wants to scream, but not only will nothing come out, the others have already noticed the presence of the mercenaries and have hunkered down inside the house, with the exception of Samson, who stands firm on his front porch.

He yells, “I figured they’d send a dog, but they sent me a snake instead! You’d better make this easy, girlie.”

Piper spits out a bit of venom and smiles. “What do you think, you two?” she starts, turning to Jules and Lucille. “Should we make it easy on them?”

“No,” Lucille replies, “but I think this is fucking stupid. What the hell are we doing here, Piper?”

She ignores her comments, “Good. Then I guess it’s about time you two stop dragging me down.” She releases Brie from her grip, and starts to walk over to the two mercenaries, crowbar spinning like a weed whacker’s blade. “Understand that when I say this is nothing personal, I don’t actually mean it, L. It’s totally personal. I’ve been wanting to brain you since we last met. You’ve turned into a real bitch,” she finishes, raising her weapon in a flourish.

Survival instincts begin to fire in Lucille’s brain, but they aren’t enough to protect her from the blow that she attempts to block with a combination of her left arm and shoulder. She definitely hears something crack, and by the time she’s hit the dirt, she can’t even feel it anymore. And there’s hardly any time to scream either, as it’s lights out with a swift boot to the face.

Though her sadistic side tells her to keep going, Piper decides that she might feel bad if she kept wailing on one of her old colleagues after she’d been knocked stupid. So, instead, she turns to Jules, who has fallen on his ass in the process and is clearly in no shape to fight. Something tickles her brain when she starts to approach him like a slasher flick monster, spinning up the crowbar as he tries to scooch himself away in the grass. The only thing that would make it more perfect is if there was a dramatic score, one with shrill strings overlapping a sinister bassline— or, if he were begging. He’s surprisingly silent, just staring up at her in disbelief of what he’s seeing. And that makes it weird.

“If you get up,” she says, frowning. “I’m killing you. Understood, J?” Jules scowls at her, but nods. “Good. Now, Brie,” she starts, turning back to the Detective.

Through the calls from Samson for her to come to the porch, she doesn’t budge a single inch. In a sense, she’s stalled out. It’s all too much for her to handle at the moment, and to be frank, she feels as though she could sink into the center of the world, through the ground where she stands. She jumps a touch when the Snake touches her shoulder again, and feels like nothing but crying when she’s looked in the eyes by her.

“C’mon. You and me. Let’s get this job done so we can go grab some lunch,” Piper says. “You’re on the payroll too, so we’re in this together. Get your gun and let’s do this thing.”

In a moment of clarity, she gazes down at the pocket where her nametag is hidden. She picks it up, shows it to Piper, and throws it into the road. “I will not. I quit.”

Piper frowns, unsurprised and pitying. “I knew you were soft.”

The claw of the crowbar is hooked behind Brie’s ankle and her leg is pulled out from under her, flipping her into the dirt. The wind’s knocked from her lungs, and the Detective sees the claw rise again before it digs itself into her side and hooks around one of her ribs. She can feel the cold metal up against her insides, and when she tries to scream in shock, there’s no air left to fuel it. All that’s left is the pulling, the tugging of an animal trying to lever one of her ribs from its cage.

“Hickory always had a knack for hiring trash. What do you do to help with this shit? Run around and take notes. Follow the trail, but never to the source. Find the evidence, but never the killer. Who the fuck am I kidding, you hardly even did ANY of that,” Piper chides. “So, I think I’m gonna drop you off in a trash bag at her front door. Maybe that’ll teach her a lesson, huh?”

Before Piper can start the dismemberment process, she’s sent flying off her feet with a thundercrack.

“Never seen a more disgustin’ display in all my years,” Samson sighs, ejecting the spent shell from his shotgun. He quickly makes it over to Brie, who is just now catching her breath. “We’re gettin’ you inside. This is gonna hurt a lot, and yer’ gonna start bleedin’ bad, but we can fix ya’. Just don’t move, okay?”

“You fucking dog,” Piper hisses, clutching her still-steaming stomach. Though Blondie’s vest had taken the buckshot, the force alone was enough to make her want to puke up her breakfast. It was both a jabbing, sharp pain in all the areas where the individual pellets had pushed up against her skin, and a dull pain filling in the gaps. 

She’s able to get back up, but as she does, she finds herself thrown into the street by another thundercrack, and the pain has multiplied by a magnitude of three. Her combat armour torn to shreds, she writhes on the cobbles of the road, trying to get a grip.

“Shut it, snake!” Samson yells, before turning back to Brie.

    The sunlight has become quite hazy in her eyes, and she hardly notices when Samson manages to gently finagle the crowbar out from underneath her rib. From there, time becomes a blur— but she remembers hearing Roxanne’s voice, and she can’t shake the feeling that beyond the pain, she had made the right decision. It’s an oddly warm thing. Or, maybe it’s her own blood.

After getting the Detective inside, under Roxanne’s care and with his emergency kit, Samson realizes that there’s still two people out on his lawn, one of them entirely unconscious. Piper is nowhere to be found, and only moments after tossing it aside the crowbar’s missing too. Ejecting the other spent shell from his gun, he walks back out, and approaches the Vampire.

“You two workin’ with her?” he asks, arms crossed.

“Not anymore,” Jules responds, clutching his side. He offers the Hound a weak smile. “In hindsight, it wasn’t a good idea to begin with. Can I get a hand?”

“You with Shepherd?”

“No sir. We worked security for them before they liquidated that department for people like her.”

Samson frowns. “And now?”

Jules frowns back. “I don’t know.” He gestures over to Lucille, who’s in the process of waking back up. “Ask her. But if I had to bet, we’re done chasing this fuckin’ bounty.”

“You’d better be.”

“Look,” the Vampire says, “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I also know some of those people inside. Not on good terms, but I’d like to change that, since I’ve realized how stupid I’ve been.” He gestures with his head. “Can you please help me up?” It takes a moment, but the Hound does eventually offer Jules a hand, pulling him to his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate it. And I’m sorry for all this, even if I was being a dumb lackey in it.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, can she stand?” Samson points to Lucille, who is in the process of wiping turf off her face, while nursing a noticeably broken nose.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says, wobbling as she gets up. “I think I’ve got a concussion.”

“You in the same boat as this guy?” he asks.

“Yeah. We’ve got some apologies to make.”

“Good. We can talk later over some coffee.”

“That sounds nice,” she groans, clutching her nose.

Samson snaps his fingers and gestures to Meat, who is also in the process of getting up. “You come too. Roxanne’s got some explaining to do.”

Chapter End.

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[ Table of Contents ]

Blondie & The Smokestone March is © 2020-2022 Empty Mask. All Rights Reserved.

[windsofredemption]

Hello, this is a new multiuser rp account for Dragon Ball Super, with one Canon and multiple Original Characters! I'll introduce the muses as they are brought in, but there will be only two answering questions for now. Before that, let's go over the rules! ♡

1. Please don't hound me to respond right away- if I havent responded in a few days, feel free to poke me in reminder, but I don't appreciate being poked every day.

2. My muses are all adults, and will as such have adult conversations, plotlines and relationships. Most NSFW Would be tagged with warnings first to make sure , but if there is something that makes you uncomfortable, don't be afraid to let me know! There will NOT Be taboo topics or anything like that, and it won't be tolerated.

3. Any sort of bigotry or bullying will result in a block. I will not tolerate any of that here, so don't be a dick.

4. My muses will try to build chemistry with your muse/muses, so auto relationships won't happen most of the time. If my muse rejects yours though, it is due to lack of chemistry , so please don't be angry at me about it. Also, Shipping requires plotting- if you want to ship, please dm me first before attempting.

5. Don't be afraid to dm me if you have a problem with anything in the blog , or even just to chat! I'm reasonably friendly and believe it's better to be friends with rp partners!

6. This blog is canon divergent (on Zamasu's story anyway.) , as well as lore heavy. Asks on Zamasu's past is more than accepted, as well as Pumkin! Kind of like unlocking a story as it goes along. Magic Anons hesitantly welcome- don't try to magic anything too ridiculous or inappropriate.

7. Have fun! I'll add rules if needed, but thank you in advance for reading these!

SHIPPING RULES.

1. I don't do OcXCanon unless that is returned in kind and it's been discussed in dms. Zamasu and Pumkin will not be shipped unless we discuss how it will play out.

2. I'm not likely to ship with any Goku Black muses unless it's been discussed beforehand. Just because my muse is Zamasu, doesn't mean he automatically likes Goku Black or loves him at first sight. You need to EARN his affection first.

3. Any attempts at romantic advances without discussion beforehand will either be ignored, or treated badly- as neither characters will appreciate unwanted advances.

4. I'm very selective with shipping, so if I don't want to ship with you, don't badger me or try to force me into a ship, or you will be blocked- plain and simple.

- 🌸 Mod Yaku🌸

[brilliancetheory]

Sounds like you were pretty ignorant then if you didn’t have all the mass of super explicit and easy to see racism and Jew hate in hp. She literally says black people are inferior, Asian girls are objects, and goblin bankers are like jews word for word in the books.

Well, yeah, I was ignorant. I was a child when I read those books. Most if not all of that stuff went right over my head. It wasn't until I was much older and started seeing online discussions about it that I realised how much bigotry had been hiding in plain sight.