#but the jackboot is on fire

[sponsored-deactivated20210106]

Hitler Witnesses Military Parade

Ooips—that's not it, silly 🥇🏅🎖️ 🪖 how'd that get there?

Here's the video of the self-enamored Commander-in-Chief pinning made-up medals on his cadre of sycophantic jack-booted thugs:

↑ recommended as urgent viewing for the proper development of your sense of historical context.

#crititcalthinking

[moonglowmuses]

bill was always prepared for the worst. he'd been mocked for being a SURVIVALIST for a long time. but, eventually, the end of the world did come. he'd been ready while others had not been. if it weren't for frank, he would have been content watching the universe burn. he did not know what he was doing at this person's house, but he uncomfortably settled into his seat at their dining room table. after several moments of painful silence, bill asked... "WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" he did not know what was expected of him.

@lcvenderhcze

[baeddel]

its hard to understand what a successful ceasefire with Israel would even look like. before Al-Aqsa Flood, Israel continuously barraged Gaza with air strikes. i did a search for ` "Israel" "air strike" ` narrowed by the date range 1/1/1970-6/10/2023 (ie. immediately before the war) and the most recent i found was an article about an air strike campaign in April of 2023. Israeli forces stormed Al-Aqsa, attacked Muslims praying during Ramadan and expelled them from the site. then some rockets were fired from Lebanon, and then Israel carried out a sustained bombardment campaign of Lebanon and Gaza. in Lebanon they bombed a refugee camp. in Gaza they bombed everything. hospitals, homes, farms and fields, military and training camps (Al Jazeera, 2023, click).

it's alarming that this was not considered an act of war. but it wasn't, because it was not abnormal for Israel. before that i find articles from 2022 (Le Monde, 2022, click), 2021 (Reuters, 2021, click), ... forever into the past. that's just air strikes. it doesn't include rockets, or jackboots. if you could negotiate a ceasefire with Israel, how would you even know if you succeeded?

there is no concept of peace with Israel. it will destroy everything around it or be destroyed itself.

[moonglowmuses]

"yes, he cares about me. probably more than he should." it surprised bill every single day that frank put up with his nonsense. it was a life that he struggled to believe that he deserved to live. still, he was grateful. he could not be more grateful if he tried. "he worries about me, because... well, i don't always make the BEST DECISIONS." bill was more likely to lock himself away and to say 'fuck you' to the world. he would choose to BURN THINGS DOWN, rather than to build them back up. frank was his daffodil hope, his belief in a brand new day. "it makes sense," bill agreed with a stiff nod. "i'm hoping that you will change my mind, cosmo." bill trusted therapy more than he trusted MAGIC, so that was a good start.

"Pleasure is all belonging to Cosmo." she greeted him back, yawning for a moment to see if perhaps her own state of relaxation would help calm the other who seemed to be perhaps nervous or apprehensive. "Bill." he repeated, turning her attention to him again. "It is sounding like your husband care very big much about you. Would you be thinking is true?" her tail wagged for a moment, hoping to help stir up happy memories of his partner. "Therapy not magic wand. Is more like crutch for bad leg. Will hold Bill up. But, leg not get better if Bill not try to walk without. Making sense?"

@moonglowmuses

[tlbodine]

So, Things Are Terrible and You Want to DO SOMETHING

The election is over and, ah...did not go well. While a lot of folks are doing a post mortem of the campaigns and trying to understand what happened with the vote and fighting over who shoulders the blame, we've gotta turn an eye toward the future and figure out, okay fam, where the fuck do we go from here.

I don't have all the answers on this, and I'm not an authority by any means, I'm just a horror author with a blog. But I've been thinking a lot about it and I wanted to share my thought process with others who might want to DO SOMETHING but feel they're spinning their wheels.

Buckle in. This will be a long one.

Step One: Understand the actual risks and stakes.

I think it is very easy to start panicking now about the worst possible case scenario -- jackbooted military busting into the door to disappear everyone who ever said something mean about Trump or bought a banned book or something -- and let fear turn into inaction.

I'm not saying things can't get that bad, and I'm not saying that it won't be absolutely terrifying right out the gate for some particularly at-risk groups -- but the distance between "now" and "V for Vendetta" is long and filled with a lot of intermediary steps. There will be so many opportunities to prevent the worst case scenario.

I say this because, if your mental image of "Bad Things Happening" is The Purge, it will be easy to wake up on inauguration day, look outside to see that the world is not on fire, think, hey, maybe things will be okay after all, and then completely disengage. Alternatively, you might feel so frozen with terror at the possibility of persecution that you do nothing. This is why people are saying: don't obey in advance.

It is essential for those of us with more privilege to use it to take care of those who are more vulnerable.

So. Who is most vulnerable? What does that vulnerability actually mean? What are the most likely risks of Trump's presidency? Here's a Guardian article that I think does a good job of summarizing some of the main issues. Go read that, then come back here.

Step Two: Take steps to protect yourself

You've gotta put your oxygen mask on first, right? So before you start getting involved in other causes, figure out what risks YOU are at, immediately, and do as much as you can to secure yourself. Some potential action steps depending on your circumstance may include:

Renewing your passport (helpful for leaving the country, but also for gender/name change purposes)

Getting vaccines / boosters

Securing birth control

Ensuring your necessary papers (birth certificates etc.) are where you have access to them.

Drawing up legal paperwork for spouses/partners (always a good idea, a helpful safety measure in case you lose marriage rights)

Bolstering your data privacy and online security. Here's a step-by-step guide I found that could help with that.

The specific steps you need to take here depend on what risks you, personally, face. You'll want to do some more research into this for your particular scenario.

No matter who you are, though, it's probably a good idea to start saving money and being a little more conservative with your spending and/or pay down debts to free up some cash. You don't know what kind of emergency may befall you, and having spare money for an emergency is never a bad idea.

There is a possibility that the cost of many things you rely on might go up, if Trump goes through with his tariffs plan. You will want to plan for that.

Food costs may also rise due to tariffs (we import a lot of food from Mexico and Latin America for example) as well as a loss of immigrant labor. There is also a possibility that food safety standards could fall due to overturning regulations. Now would be a good time to look into local food resources like farm share/CSA, community farms, etc., and to stock up on a few key staples like rice and beans.

Okay. Now that YOU are reasonably safe...what can you do to protect your community?

Step Three: Get Involved

Here is your mission: You need to stay engaged enough to know what's going on, without burning yourself out or exhausting yourself, and to take actual decisive actions instead of wasting your energy arguing on the internet.

Got that? Okay. Good. Here are some action steps:

Support independent journalism. Subscribe to local papers, donate to and watch public broadcast programming. I signed up for news from ProPublica, for example, as well as the news-roundup service What The Fuck Just Happened Today. The goal is to stay informed without falling down an endless rabbit hole of upsetting information.

Share news and resources with others in your circle. This can be a good use of social media. It's what I am doing right now!

If it is safe for you to do so, challenge and educate your friends/family members/neighbors/coworkers. Only if it is safe for you to do so. Do not put yourself at risk doing this. And do not waste your time arguing with people who are unlikely to change. But if you have well-meaning people in your life who you think could be won over, look for opportunities to do this - the right way. I've had some success with this, I will probably write a guide about it in the future. In the meantime, here's a good article that can help.

Join local grassroots activism groups. You'll have to do some work to decide what groups to join and which causes you want to support, because you cannot do everything. But there are tons of organizations taking direct action in all kinds of causes. Search "grassroots [cause] activists in [where you live]" to start finding things. Once you get involved in one group, you might meet people who can introduce you to other groups and causes. Yes, this means you will have to go outside and meet people. I'm sorry.

Join direct action groups. Same concept as above. You'll have to search in your area but once you know people it'll be easier to find more opportunities. Some of these groups may overlap. You might find direct action opportunities by engaging politically and vice versa. GO OUTSIDE AND TALK TO PEOPLE WHO ARE DOING THINGS TO HELP.

Get involved in local politics. Here are some quick tips. A lot of things are affected at the city level - stuff like book bans and bathroom bills are often battled first at local libraries and schools, and you can be part of those conversations! Sheriffs are elected and can have a big influence on local policing. Local elections affect how tax dollars are spent, how homeless populations are treated, and lots more. Don't snooze on local elections. Get involved and stay involved.

Look up your representatives. Get in the habit of calling, emailing, and writing letters. Figure out what legislature is being passed and then call your reps and harangue them about it - both to support bills you approve of and shoot down ones you don't. Sign petitions. Join email campaigns. Here's one you can go sign right now from the ACLU. See? Not that scary.

I think a lot of people figure that getting involved in politics doesn't matter or that it's all small potatoes but...man. The president is not god, no matter what he thinks. The sitting administration is not the sole power in the universe. There is an entire machine of government we can lean upon and act upon.

Finally, some general safety notes:

Some forms of direct action are not legal. Take steps to be safe if you choose to partake. Follow the lead of more seasoned activists for what forms of communication to use and so forth.

If you're not willing or able to put yourself at legal risk to act, you can help others by donating to bail funds and legal defense funds.

We've already seen this in some areas, and it will only get uglier - some bad actors are feeling emboldened by the change in regime and will misbehave. It's a good idea to learn some self-defense skills, in whatever way is comfortable to you, and brush up on some tenets of victimology that can help you stay safe. I'll write more about that in the future.

All right. That's all for now. It's by no means comprehensive...but should hopefully help you get started taking the next step. Stay safe out there.

[millermouth]

Summary: On your fifth birthday, the world fell apart, and survival became the only thing that mattered. That day, your dad saved you from more than just the chaos outside—he protected you from a truth you weren’t ready to face, even as it shattered the life you once knew.

warnings: parent death

It’s funny–even now, after all this time, you can still remember that day vividly. The day fungus infiltrated every corner of your life. But you do still have faint memories of before, too. Like static while turning for a radio station. They came and went as time passed, flickers of things, but never as vivid as the life after the outbreak. Memories of the TV blaring Sunday football, cookouts with the neighbors, your mom brushing your hair before school were the most foggy, but they were still there. Back then, you never realized how much you’d taken those things for granted. But how could you know? You were only a kid.

It was your fifth birthday when everything changed. That’s the day you found your mom too—the same day the military rolled into your small town, scooping up survivors and making promises of safety in quarantine zones, military aid, and FEDRA housing. News had been broadcasting for weeks about these safety zones, but even at five years old, you didn’t buy it. Maybe you were too much like your dad even then. Luckily, you’d been at his house that weekend–mom and dad had been divorced for years by then, though she still lived nearby. You were out back, dad grilling burgers just for the two of you, with ice cream cake waiting in the fridge. You can still smell those burgers—he had this way of getting the perfect char, never overdone but always juicy and mouthwatering.

There had been a lot of sirens that day, but if your dad was worried, he didn’t show it. He was tough as nails—always had been. When the military trucks started rolling through the neighborhood, though, he scooped you up and hurried you into the bunker beneath the house. The blue emergency lights flickered on, casting everything—the wall of guns, the bookshelves of survival guides, pickling recipes, and how-to’s—in cold, sterile light.

“Daddy, what’s—” you’d started to ask, but he pressed a finger to his lips, guiding you further into the cellar. He settled into his big, well-worn security chair, just as the sound of boots thundered above you. He watched the security footage from the cameras that could see the perimeter of your home, his eyes casting around at the screens, watching the men in uniform enter the house. You held your breath as his hand tightened around yours. Then, for a moment, he stared up at the ceiling as if he could see through it, tracking their movements as they stomped room to room.

Little did they know about the underground bunker your dad had built years before you were even born. Deep, below the basement, where no one would think to check. Your mom used to say he’d done it because you were born, that he became obsessed with the end of the world, and he’d needed a plan to protect you when it all inevitably went to hell. 

She called him crazy for it.

But that day, his paranoia saved you.

As the boots overhead began to fade, he finally muttered, “Not today, you New World Order jackboot fucks.”

“Daddy!” you giggled, both at the words and the fire in his voice.

He turned to you, smiling faintly as he grabbed a shotgun off the wall. Strapping on a PPE helmet with a face shield, he knelt down and said, “Don’t you worry, honey, I’ve been expectin’ this for a long damn time.” his voice echoed on the plastic between you, “Daddy’s got ya. Stay here for a minute, alright?”

When you nodded, he made his way up to the basement floor, and you could hear his quiet footsteps through the house, tiptoeing around. When you’re young, seconds felt like an eternity, and minutes were like a lifetime. The sound of his steps disappeared altogether and you sat there, fidgeting, your heart pounding in your chest. The flickering blue emergency lights painted eerie shadows across the bunker walls.

You tried to wait like he’d told you, gripping your knees and staring at the screens showing the empty house above. But the silence was unbearable. What if something happened to him? What if the men in uniforms came back?

Your eyes darted to the wall of guns. They looked huge, intimidating—and heavy. But your dad always said you had to be ready when the world went to hell, didn’t he? You stood up, wobbling a little as your nerves got the better of you, and reached for the smallest gun you could see. Even that one felt like a boulder in your hands, but you managed to yank it off its hooks.

The weight made you stumble backward, but you caught yourself, clutching the weapon tightly. "Okay," you whispered to yourself, channeling every ounce of courage you could muster. "Be brave.”

You pushed open the heavy bunker door, the cold metal scraping against the concrete floor. Step by step, you climbed the narrow staircase, the gun heavier with each step. By the time you reached the top, your arms were shaking, but you didn’t stop.

The house was eerily quiet, every sound amplified—the creak of the floorboards under your feet, your heavy, nervous breathing. You crept through the kitchen, gripping the gun like you’d seen in the movies.

When you turned the corner into the living room, you froze. Your dad was standing there, his face a mix of surprise and anger as he stared at you.

"What the hell’re you doin’, girl?" he asked harshly, crossing the room in two quick strides. His voice wasn’t loud, but the tension in it was impossible to miss.

“I—I came to help,” you stammered, holding up the gun like it was a trophy. Your arms trembled under its weight.

He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Help? Jesus, kid. That thing isn’t even loaded,” he said, taking the gun from your hands with ease. “You could’ve hurt yourself, lugging this around.”

“But I was scared!” you blurted, tears welling up in your eyes.

His shoulders softened, and he crouched down to your level, setting the gun aside. His neat beard ticked as he lowered his voice to be gentle, “I know, hunny. I get it. But I told you to stay put, didn’t I?”

You nodded, sniffling.

“I can’t keep you safe if you don’t listen to me. You’re all I got left right now, understand?”

You nodded again, biting your lip to keep from crying harder.

His hands found your arms, giving you a quick squeeze in his large hands, then stood up, grabbing the gun he’d set down. “C’mon, then. We’re gonna go see if your mom’s still home or if she went with those government assholes. She knew about the bunker, so maybe she waited me out. But you stay right next to me, ya hear? No runnin’ off, no playin’ hero. Deal?”

“Deal,” you whispered.

“Good. Now let’s get movin’.” He cocked the gun and tipped his head toward the door, his tone firm but not unkind. “Stay close, and don’t make a sound.”

You followed him out of the house, your little hand clutching his shirt as tightly as you could, determined not to let go this time.

The neighborhood was unnervingly quiet as you and your dad climbed into his old blue truck. The engine rumbled to life, a low growl that seemed too loud for the silence surrounding you. You clutched the seatbelt across your chest, staring out the window as the houses you knew so well rolled past, each one darker and emptier than you remembered.

Your dad didn’t say much, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror or the road behind, as if he expected someone—or something—to follow.

The air felt heavy, and the only sound besides the truck was the faint hum of distant sirens, carried on the wind moving further and further away. You wanted to ask if he really thought your mom would be okay, but the words kept getting caught in your throat.

When you finally reached her street, it looked exactly the same, like any other day. But knowing the houses sat there, just hollow shells with neatly trimmed lawns still pristine with blossoming gardens was enough to bring goosebumps to your skin. The truck slowed to a crawl, your dad squinting out the window as if he was searching for something—anything.

He pulled into the driveway, and you could see the front door was open, the storm door the only barrier of the threshold. So maybe she was still home. You rolled down your window, leaning out as far as your little body allowed, hands gripping the edge of the glass.

“Mommy!” you shouted, excitement bubbling in your voice.

But just as the word left your lips, you felt a hand clamp down on the back of your shirt, yanking you back into the truck. You suddenly heard your dad screaming your name: “Get down, dammit!”

“But if she’s—”

“We don’t know if she’s in there. We need to stay quiet, and you’re going to stay here,” he said firmly, his voice low but sharp as he turned to you, a finger pointed harshly at the seat next to him.

“But—”

“No buts,” he cut you off, his tone furious and unyielding, but then he lowered his voice, “I mean it this time. You don’t move from this seat. Understand?”

You nodded reluctantly, your stomach churning with unease.

The thing was, he hadn’t even needed to get out of the vehicle to see if she was home. Because from inside the house, someone—or rather, something —had heard you.

Your mother…what was your mother, now twisted into something monstrous, burst out of the storm door. She was covered in grotesque, swollen fungal growths that bulged from her face and arms like spongy mushrooms trying to break free. Her screams—god, it was still her voice—pierced the air, raw and filled with pain.

“Mommy?” you whispered, frozen in disbelief.

You watched as she barreled to the front door, her movements jerky and unnatural, as though her body no longer obeyed her. When her wild eyes spotted you and your dad in the truck, she charged. The storm door flew off its hinges as she hurled herself into the front yard, her body slamming against the passenger-side window of the truck.

You screamed as her twisted, red and yellow fungus-covered face pressed up against the glass, her hands clawing and smearing bloody streaks. The sickening sound of her infected screeches filled your ears, and you fell back into your dad’s lap, trembling and sobbing.

At the suddenness of your fall, he snapped out of his horrified trance, slamming the truck into reverse. The tires screeched as the truck lurched backward, your mother’s hands scraping against the doorframe until she lost her grip and tumbled to the ground.

He slammed the brakes, grabbed his shotgun, and rolled down the driver’s window.

“Daddy, no!” you screamed, trying to climb over him to stop him. “Don’t hurt her! DON’T HURT MOMMY! ”

“That’s not mommy anymore,” he said quietly, his voice trembling but firm.

She rose to her feet with inhuman speed, her limbs flailing wildly as she lunged down the driveway toward the truck. His hands steadied the shotgun, his jaw clenched.

“ No! ” you wailed, clawing at his arm, but he didn’t flinch.

As she reached the edge of the driveway, he pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, and the recoil sent you sprawling back onto the bench seat.

You sat there, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you stared out the window. The world seemed to tilt sideways as you took in the sight. Your mom— your mom —lay crumpled on the pavement, blood pooling around her still body. The red stain trickled down toward the sewer drain at the bottom of the driveway.

Before he could stop you, you shoved the door open and bolted from the truck. You heard him yell your name, felt his hand swipe at your arm, but you were too quick.

“Get back here!”

You dropped to your knees beside her, your little hands reaching out hesitantly. Her eyes stared blankly up at the sky, her body still twitching slightly as the fungal infection spasmed through her.

“She’s… she’s still moving,” you whimpered, tears streaking your face.

Your dad was there in an instant, pulling you back roughly. “Don’t touch her!”

“But—”

“No!” he snapped, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you lightly to snap you out of it. His voice softened, but the edge of urgency remained. “She’s gone, kid. That wasn’t her. You hear me? That wasn’t your mom anymore.”

You sobbed, shaking your head, but he pulled you into his arms, holding you tight as you cried into his chest.

When you finally pulled away, his face was pale but resolute. “We have to be strong now,” he said, his voice low and steady. “These things—they’re not people anymore. They’re dangerous. And if we’re gonna live here, we need to keep this place safe. For us. That’s what she would’ve wanted.”

You sniffled, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. He wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Okay?” he asked, his eyes searching yours for some kind of understanding.

You nodded slowly, though the ache in your heart didn’t lessen.

“Good,” he said, standing and adjusting the shotgun over his shoulder. “C’mon. We’ve got work to do.”

As he led you back to the truck, you glanced over your shoulder one last time, your mom’s lifeless body a haunting picture of the world you now lived in.

[poetry-writer]

"Prelude"

I’m not from your country. But when America breathes, the world chokes.

Your leaders speak, and markets shift. Borders tighten. Rights vanish, first yours, then ours.

We watch from across oceans, across timelines, like it's some kind of show. But the dread is real. Because we’ve seen this arc before.

The flags. The rallies. The rewriting of truth until it's unrecognizable. The way you weaponize “normal.” The way you follow men too old to fight, but young enough to send others into fire.

This isn’t just another election. It’s the beginning of something darker. The next war doesn’t come with sirens first. It comes with silence. With books pulled from shelves, with protest turned to felony, with neighbours made enemies by news anchors and algorithms.

You think fascism walks in wearing jackboots. It doesn’t. It creeps in.

Draped in red hats, wrapped in law, smiling like a saviour.

You ask, Could it happen here? But from out here, the answer is bitter and simple:

It already has. It already is.

We’ve read this chapter. You just forgot who wrote it. The Nazis studied your laws, learned from your lines: who counts as human, who gets erased with paperwork and a public that looks away.

Now you're replaying it, but glossier. Faster. With better PR.

And we, the generation meant to inherit your floods, your fires, your fascists, we're left to shout across borders:

This is the spark. Don’t call it a flame later. Don’t say no one warned you.

[ambulancevsambulance]

This is my Essay from the MCR Swarm Zine. I kept hesitating to put it up here, as I feel pretty tender about it. But after everything that happened yesterday, today. I feel like I have to put it out here. It's necessary. Needed. For myself, at the very least.

--

"'Cause you only live forever in the lights you make”

It’s June 2022, and I’m watching My Chemical Romance perform songs of anger, community, and defiance in one of my favorite cities- Prague. 

The city of my father’s family. A city that has repeatedly stared tyranny in the face and decided to rise up despite the odds.  

It’s 1945 and the citizens have rebelled to take back the city from the Nazis, street by street.

It’s the spring of 1968, and citizens fight against another oppressive regime. They are supposed to be crushed in four days. 

They last eight. Months. 

It’s 1989, another uprising, one that comes to be known as the Velvet Revolution. The city is finally free, a culmination of every revolution and rebellion that has come before. 

In each instance citizens clawed towards freedom by any means necessary, fighting in the open to stop jackbooted goons from holding onto power. To save friends, family, and complete strangers from suffering for one more moment. Each time they lost, they made sure to make it hurt, and to make the oppressor remember how hard the fight had been. 

They didn’t always win the battle,

–The good guys die and the bad guys win–

but they won the war. 

These people keenly knew that institutions will not save you. Only your fellow comrades will.

It’s June 2022. My friends and I are facing calls of discrimination, for extermination. It can be a miserable time, but I find strength in watching one of my favorite bands. I join the hundreds on livestream, watching the thousands in the stadium. Our eyes fixed on the five on stage. 

As Gerard starts crooning out the notes of Heaven Help Us for the first time in fourteen years, again I’m reminded:

They will not save you.

What is this song but a scream to be saved by outside forces? That in the midst of a cruel martyrdom, the Heavens will be silent to pleas for help. It’s the punchline to the joke, right? No higher power is coming to save you, no matter how much you cry. 

Best they can offer is to watch you burn. 

Heaven Help Us has never been a hopeful song–and it’s a struggle to feel hopeful, some days. 

But the world is an echo of the past as much as it is a march towards an uncertain future. I feel those ghosts whispering to remember this city’s history while watching MCR on stage. To remember that the only solidarity that can be found is in mutual aid–in the community of our fellow freaks and queers and fags. That without intersectionality between it all we will fucking fail. It’s hard work, and we won’t always win.

That doesn’t mean we– I – should give up. And MCR agrees. In contrast to the despair of Heaven Help Us, there is Danger Days– which speaks more to me now than any other MCR album. Songs of radical love and resistance against fascist conglomerates and an uncaring apocalyptic world…that doesn’t feel as fictional as it did before. 

In Prague, MCR plays six songs from that album (Boy Division counts, damn it). Seeing Gerard, Frank, and Ray all screaming into their microphones about an apocalypse that is crashing down around our ears lights a fire inside of me. Reminding me that changing the world might mean dying, but hell yeah lets try anyways. Your sacrifice might light the path of victory for others. You get to be the fucking detonator–and isn’t that a privlege? To have your acts of resistance inspire the next in line. 

It’s in direct contrast to the lament of Heaven. Stop asking who, what will save us, and realize we have to save ourselves. By any means possible. 

The concert ends with Kids from Yesterday, and I finish the night listening to Gerard sing that the only people we can truly count on are each other. That fighting for your friends is the purest form of love alive. 

So in the face of extermination, say fuck you.

And make damn sure your friends want to leave graffiti on your grave. 

[moonglowmuses]

there was a SPECIAL SPOT that bill returned to when he was needing some alone time. he preferred the remoteness of the woods to the bustling-nature of the inner city. bill was preparing a FIRE, taking up a stump for a seat so that he could relax a bit. he had a couple of beers, too. what more did a man need? bill turned quickly when he saw that someone had observed him and his place. "you caught me red-handed," the survivalist suggested. "i am cooking and having a fire. since you've already found my spot, you'd might as well STAY FOR A MEAL."

@lcvenderhcze

[st-just]

Unironically one of the vanishingly few bright spots in US politics right now is that for unclear reasons they seem to be gutting the jackboot-adjacent and support agencies nearly as enthusiastically as everything else.

Like yeah sure fire 60,000 paper pushers at the Pentagon I'm sure none of them were doing anything useful for the whole global military apparatus. Please.

[dandelion-bride]

what redemption looks like

the cause of a redemption arc for the Chosen of the Dead Three in BG3, including camp location and behavior

Ketheric Thorm: Ketheric is where he is because he will not grieve his dead wife. The only way he can even start to heal is by doing that. A "redeemed" Ketheric Thorm in camp is near Withers, since the totally-not-an-avatar-of-Jergal is one of the few people who wouldn't be exhausted by how much constipated mourning would come out of Ketheric's mouth. Accepting his wife's death and his loss of Isobel would also shatter his ego, and because his skill as a warrior is tied into his ego, I don't think he'd be capable of combat. I see him sitting on a stool, something low to the ground, wearing unremarkable clothes with no armor or weapon.

Orin the Red: Orin is where she is because she has grown up in a cult where her value as a person is directly tied to murdering people, and where murder is the highest form of love for another person. She is not awful, she is not terrible, she is clearly and heavily traumatized. Of all the Dead Three's Chosen, she deserves it the most. Redemption would require her to be severed from Bhaal, likely against her will, and she would very much be a feral cat angry and terrified by everything. If a Tav or Origin runthrough, she would have a tent as far away as possible from anyone else; if the PC is Durge, she puts her tent as close to the fire as possible (since Durge does not have a tent.) She wears rags on purpose. Maybe Astarion teaches her how to sew, and she teaches him a particular knife trick.

Enver Gortash: Enver Gortash is where he is because he was sold to the Hells, escaped, and chose to put his entire body and soul into working to gain power so he could be safe. He sleeps on a tiny bed and wears a jackbooted camp uniform, he made tin soldiers to protect himself. I think Hope would need to intervene to cause this to happen, to hit him in the pre-Bane psyche. Bane find him weak and rejects him. Karlach comes up to thrash him and he doesn't lift a finger to fight back – which makes Karlach stop, angry, and allows the players to intervene and save his life. Gortash has pushed through his trauma from parents and Hells all through his life, and his body has held that off as long as he's stayed working and not let himself rest. Now, he can do nothing but rest, and the body's bills come through. He'll need that cane now. He'd be as far away from Karlach as possible in camp, and she'd keep her distance. This would also be the path required to have Karlach's engine fixed up.

[moonglowmuses]

as a survivalist, bill made very little money. from time to time, he constructed a bunker for people. he provided survivalist lessons as well. the types were diverse, ranging from starting fires to learning how to control them. he taught people how to establish shelter and how to fend off foes. those side jobs were helpful, but he also made money being crafty. he could cook as well as he could fix cars. he was doing the latter now and he could not wait to get home to see frank for the rest of the evening. "you had more problems with this car than i was expecting," bill stated, reminding himself not to get too frustrated with his client. it was hard for him to keep his cool at times. "thirty minutes more isn't much. hang tight." bill nodded, not about to fight the other about his needs. "here's a chair here. take a load off. it won't be much longer."

Despite being highly skilled engineer, William didn't work on cars. He found it to be below his worth. It was too common a job. His talents were reserved for robotics. Something people would marvel at, not something they'd drive to the grocery store in. Regardless of his lack of appreciation for them, he'd become quite reliant on his own car after being attacked. He still couldn't walk without aid and a lot of the time it was simply easier to drive. "Thirty minutes? You said that forty five minutes ago. How hard can it be?" He sighed as much as his rib brace would allow for, trying to remain professional despite his frustrations. "Alright. Thirty minutes. But, I'm not leaving again. I need to sit down."

@moonglowmuses

[kittykatninja321]

if the government is sending jackbooted thugs to terrorize and kidnap your neighbors, throwing rocks at them and setting shit on fire is a completely reasonable response actually

[officialunionhr]

[COMPILING] ... ... Greetings Namless representative of Union DoJ/HR, Avolio Combat Systems has intercepted communications indicate that you wish to aid rogue Albatross elements who throw their lot in with terrorists in attacking our New Albion Garrison. Baseless rumours of our usage of Nuclear weaponry have been spread by insurgents who oppose our peaceful occupation and development. Regardless, this space falls well outside of the borders of your Union. Knowing this, do you wish to continue you "punitive" measures?

Hello!

I'm so pleased to have gotten into contact with me, I'm pleased to inform you that there is no such thing as "rogue" albatross agents and/or elements and all agents aligned with Albatross act with the full weight of the organization behind them.

And in this situation they also act with the full weight of Union behind them.

Do not worry about jurisdiction, the DOJ/HR specializes in working outside of Unions border's to kick in the teeth of any Jackbooted genocide enabling nuke Chucking sycophants such as your bosses.

I encourage you not to fire on any DOJ/HR ships or personel once they arrive in system, and to hand over your nuclear armarments to be properly disposed of.

We're humans after all, not animals, there is no conflict that warrants the use of such barbaric weapons of genocide when words can be used to end things just as fast.

Signed: [REDACTED]

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Ah, that’s the technical term!! Extinction burst!

I think that’s what Hozier described on his song Jackboot Jump (which is about the global rise of facism)

“All around the world, you’d think that things were looking rough- but the jackboot only jumps down on people standing up.”

“So you know good things are happenin’, when the jackboot needs to jump.”

Ahh, that's a great link.

It's kind of comforting that the far right is scared enough to be lashing out, but at the same time terrifying to be in the firing line.

I hope I live to see the day it goes extinct.