#feel like smashing a fascist's head in with a brick

[hegodamask]

"The Empire is a disease that thrives in darkness, it is never more alive than when we sleep."

ANDOR - S01E12 Rix Road

[cheshire-silent-cat]

Move my heart

Hobie x reader (Pt2)

What a crazy story line, I don’t even see Gwen like this but at the same time I do, I think she is very mistrusting especially in the new movie, anyways Hobie still remains my knight. I thought of this part of the story while washing my hair and because I yelled “Eureka!!” I got soap in my eyes and mouth, so take that as a sacrifice worth your likes, follows comments and all that good stuff. For those of you who actually love me, I’m fine Dw and for those who are laughing 🖕 😂. Jk love you guys and enjoy the story, pls let me know if you see any mistakes so I can fix ‘em.

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Arriving at the scene, Miguel and Hobie attempted to attack it head on, but were thrown out of the way, Hobie made impact with the solid wall, exhaustion taking over his body and he did not get up “Hobie!!” Gwen screamed, every plan thought of failed, this goblin monster was just too big, in order to keep Hobie safe, you used your web to leave him on a park bench away from the battle, the others devised a plan to manually push the monster into a portal back to HQ, and there they could try to contain the monster, using brute strength they all pushed the monster into the portal but it was resisting, roaring to keep them away, till this moment you had not exactly engaged in the fight instead you had been watching , you spotted a splinter at the root of the monster’s wing, you jumped on it’s back, “hey spider-belle, that is really not safe, get down” miles yelled out, you pull out the wood piece, and the monster lets out a huge sonic roar in pain, you pop down in-front of the monster and in tried moving back, it tried wiggling off but you were persistent, “easy….easy, you’re ok” the monster slowed down to your voice, “now, see I’m not so bad hmm? How do your wings feel” you ask hopping down and it flaps them frantically, then nuzzles it’s nose into your stomach lifting you up and you hug back “you are very welcome” it drops you down very slowly and you end up sitting on your knees with the beast’s huge head on your thighs “we allowed you go on a rampage, we must have frightened you….so much, I’m sorry, but it’s alright now” you kissed the beasts head, the beast stood up straight raising its huge hands to you and you climbed on, it moved you to its head and you both walked into the portal, you promised to visit and the machine sent the beast home.

After several hours, hobie opened his eyes, he had been laying on your thighs and he was completely embarrassed, his hands were wrapped around your waist signifying that he must have pulled you into this position, you were talking to him, he expected, you were cursing him for putting you in such a position so he pretended to still be asleep in order to hear what you had to say to him (in his sleep) but to his surprise you were humming, fiddling with the spikes on his mask, your voice was so sweet and calm he felt like he was floating, and you smelt like award winning flowers, and your waist was so small his face was buried in your open torso and to him your skin was like clouds he had never slept so peacefully, “oh you are awake” you sang and instinctively Hobie jerked up in embarrassment, “uh Yh Yh” he said looking away from you “how did you sleep” you asked trying to meet his gaze “feel like I was smashed against a brick wall” he said his thick accent attempting to soothe your worries “that’s cus you were tough guy, can you stand” you asked getting up from the bench, “don’t worry about me sweetheart I’ll be fine, I don’t believe in pain, that’s a fascist excuse for slacking off” his voiced trailed off as you looked at him with utter disbelief but you still respected him for some reason, “alright c’mon big guy” you place his hand over your shoulder, and Hobie stands up, he thinks of fighting your intentions but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse you and ends up going with it as you support a limping Hobie into a portal to his world .

“Creepy how you know where I live, love” he says, “oh this was a guess” “meaning??” “I was just going to keep portal jumping till I found your world” you both laugh and drop Hobie on his couch, you attempt to take off hobie’s mask but before you could reach it Hobie grabs your hand, and you pull back, resisting the urge to take off your own mask.

“Sorry… I’ll leave, take care of yourself ” you say stepping back to open a portal. “I got a shit ton is of pot and I don’t think I can finish it all by myself” Hobie said his hands waving around as though he was actually making efforts to look cool “pot as in weed?” You asked closing the portal, “love, I’m asking you to stay” he said in a condescending tone, “fine I’ll go start the kettle” you were met with a confused silence “what?? I don’t smoke and this place is freezing, you have your way and I have mine” you say looking away as you pour the already hot water into a cup of grass, as you are doing this Hobie gets up walks auto behind you and places his jumper on your shoulders, scared and blushing out of your mind you turn around to leave, now finding yourself cornered by him, his tall body towering over your small frame, both your eyes gazing at the masks of one another, and in that moment time stood still.

A few minutes later you found yourselves laughing at each others music and politics related jokes, making voice impressions and giggling like kids, you still had your masks on but both of them were raised above their mouth and noses as they smoked and drank the pot, although you were both pretty high, every time you drank your tea, you made a subtly unimpressed facial expression, “so how is it” he gestured to the tea, “it’s an acquired taste” you giggled, “so it’s shit” he asks “what? No” with that he picks the cup out of your hands and try out the tea, “I was right, try this” he says holding a blunt to your lips, “I’m not sure I’ll be good at it” you say attempting to slide away from him, he snakes his hand around your waist to stop you, reluctantly to take the blunt in between your lips.

See this wasn’t your first time smoking pot but you weren’t sure if it would be up to his standards, after a few drags you got up, “I should be on my way home now” you giggled, “nah nah, no portal jumping, under the influence”, “I’ll be fine tough guy-“ he got up pulling you to him and kissing you out of the blue.

The next morning, you woke in hobie’s room, wearing his jumper over your suit, next to you he was still sleeping, with his mask on revealing his nose and mouth, flashes of last night resurfaced in your memory, and you suddenly felt the urge to leave, not just because you didn’t know how much time had passed in your own world but because it had been a while since you had last kissed a person and you were not trying to catch feelings for someone you knew wouldn’t feel the same way. You snuck out of hobie’s room, gently closing the door after you, now turning around to leave, you are met with gwen’s harsh gaze, of course you did not know how to feel, she had been judging you from the moment she met you, not because she didn’t like you, it was because she did not trust you, she was used to being the only girl in the friend group, the only girl around Hobie, and not having another girl around one of her closest friends especially this super skilled, super sexy beloved spider person that is now wearing her friends jumper that she usually wears, sleeping in a home she usually sleeps in. The silence is loud, so loud that the uncomfortable atmosphere manages to wake Hobie up, a shirtless but masked Hobie walks out of his room and at that same time a portal opens and out of it appears Miles and pavitr, “hey gwenny, you’ve met y/n AKA spider belle” he says snaking his arm around your waist in attempt to dim the awkward atmosphere, “hang on, she slept here” Gwen asked sounding a tad bit ruder than usual considering the fact she was talking like you were not in the room, Hobie might be a punk but he is still a respectful gentleman which also means he won’t take shit like that, in an annoyed and defensive tone he responds to Gwen “yeah what of it”.

[asimovsideburns]

Surprise, bitch! I bet you’d thought you’d seen the last of me! Guess what? Today you get TWO session summaries—not just the archipelago, no, but also… THE CITY OF TEUCRI!!!!! WHAT???? That’s right, we did an anniversary one shot (turned two shot), so of course I have to do a session summary for it—it’s the first game I started posting these for!

Hello, and welcome to The City of Teucri. It’s been six months since we saved the city from a fascist conspiracy, and things are looking up! Tomorrow is Princess Marlowe’s 18th birthday and, almost as importantly, her coronation as Queen.

We begin our session assembled in the same place we were hired for the last job, but it’s Princess Marlowe herself instead of Guinevere briefing us on the situation. (Guinevere is definitely the one who organized it, though.)

Princess Marlowe tells us, okay, I’m coming of age at midnight, so Guinevere has arranged for me and my friends to go hang out at this bar (the legal drinking age in Teucri is 18) (don’t @ me it’s not my setting /j /j) BUT she wants you guys to tag along at make sure we don’t get into trouble. The place is called—

Smash cut to us waking up the next day at noon in an alley, four hours before the coronation, with a business card, an added modification to Rocky’s sword, a weird flask, a salt shaker of spice that Ferris, a warforged, can almost actually taste (and that deals fire damage to Atlas when they try some)… and missing Marlowe’s mother’s ring, which is not only a) magical and b) sentimental but also c) has the royal seal on it and is required for the coronation. which is, again, in four hours.

Oh, and we also don’t remember anything.

WE’VE BEEN THE HANGOVER’D!

(I have not seen The Hangover)

Those of us in the alley are Iraelin, Atlas, Ferris, Rocky, and Marlowe. We determine that Marlowe’s friends were sent home early in the night because we were going to look into something and it seemed dangerous. Atlas uses a third level spell to cast Sending to contact Bermuda, who was not there at the start of the night but we could really use their help. There is no response. Three seconds later they walk around the corner drinking an iced coffee and wearing homestuck shades (“the spiky ones”).

We send Marlowe back to the palace with instructions to tell Guinevere and only Guinevere everything (it’ll be worse if you don’t) and Bermuda’s iced coffee. We’re going to retrace our steps and find the ring.

Ferris uses Identify to figure out that the attachment to Rocky’s sword allows it so emit sunlight. Atlas gets double nat 20s to determine that the spice is a specialty item that only a few restaurants in the city carry, and the names of all those restaurants. The flask feels like it has water but nothing comes out when it’s opened and upended. Iraelin remembers the place we were supposed to go to, and has the business card she found in her pocket.

We decide to start with the place we were supposed to go to. Iraelin grabs Bermuda’s shades on the way out of the alleyway—it’s way too bright out for this.

We head to the bar, where the bartender (who is dealing with a very large, very shattered window) is super happy to see us.

We flashback.

It’s last night, and we’re at the bar. It kind of sucks. It’s a “$12 for a ‘plate’ of mozzarella sticks that’s really one mozzarella stick cut into six pieces” kind of place. Nonetheless, our night is livened up when a brick comes crashing through the window, threatening in archaic language to burn the place down if they don’t pay their protection fees. We talk to the bartender and the waitress and find out that there’s been a few people coming around to businesses in the area, giving them trouble. At the waitress’s other job, they actually did throw a molotov cocktail!

The unifying characteristic of the people making threats is that they look “kind of sick”, which isn’t a lot to go on, so in-flashback we decide to go check out the waitress’s other job (the bartender is closing the place down, anyway) (also we do tip her)

We flash forward.

We talk to the bartender a bit, Iraelin gives him the contact info for a window guy she knows, and we head off for the next place we went to last night—HGT, according to the business card. When we get there, we see that the full name is Here for a Good Time—and we flash back again.

It’s last night, and we’ve arrived. Marlowe has successfully convinced us to look into this extortion ring (or at least, we couldn’t talk her out of it), and we’ve arrived at Here for a Good Time. It is, of course, a sex work establishment, so Marlowe and Ferris have to wait outside, being 17 and 9 respectively. The rest of us go inside and discuss the attack—a while back, a sickly looking person had come by telling them that they needed to make payments, and not wanting to make waves, they had—leaving gold in a dead drop by the river. Then, more recently, they were instructed to make payments by making a reservation at a specific restaurant, ordering an off-menu item (rotwurst) at an exorbitant price, eating it, and telling the waiter to give their compliments to the chef. This was too much, and they said no. A few days ago, another sickly looking person came by and threw a molotov cocktail into the main lobby; luckily the fire was contained and the perpetrator thrown out, but this is a serious issue. There was also some kind of sigil or rune painted on their building, but it’s been washed off—we’ll have to come back tomorrow for someone to be able to draw it for us.

Flash forward again. We knock on the door (Ferris has to stay outside again, so Rocky stays with them). One of the employees (who has a photographic memory and is one of those people who’s, like, kind of annoying about it) draws us a sketch of the sigil as well as the two sickly people who had come by.

As we go to leave, Ferris demands a treat, “because it’s my birthday” (it is not their birthday) (they turned nine like a week after the end of the campaign) (however they also just found out last night that birthdays are like. A Thing.)

With sigil in hand, we head over to the Monastery to try and see if they have anything in their library that can help us figure out what’s going on. It is at this point that, knowing we’re running on limited time, I have the brilliant idea to 1) hail a horse taxi, 2) flash the Very Important Official Business paperwork that Guinevere neglected to make me return after we saved the city from the previously mentioned fascist conspiracy, and 3) tell the driver he could charge the palace double if he gets us where we’re going fast

We get to the monastery in record time, and I tell him to leave the meter running while we’re inside. Bermuda doesn’t want to go in. Bermuda hasn’t been here in the six months since we saved the city. Atlas convinces them to come inside with us anyway—you can’t hide forever, after all.

Inside, we find El’neye, who has an… unfortunate… haircut. It looks not great. It looks very specific. It looks like the bangs you give yourself after being ghosted for six months, to be exact.

We do some research with her help and find that the sigil belongs to an old, old, old group of people who promoted health through clean living and decided to go live underground. They were not heard from again.

We start spiraling about this in the wrong direction and discover that the flask we have doesn’t pour out, but does have water in it. Ferris does an identify and figure out what it is. Ferris points it at Bermuda and says “Geyser,” which produces 30 gallons of water that gushes forth in a geyser 30 feet long and 1 foot wide.

In a library.

That is in the process of recovering from being extremely vandalized about six months ago.

Luckily, Bermuda is hanging back by the door, so the water doesn’t damage anything. Ferris and Bermuda are still banned from the library. Protests of “it’s my birthday!” fall upon deaf ears. Bermuda walks out sopping wet and goes to stand by the taxi.

We say our goodbyes and then head off to the restaurant where the HGT people were supposed to order the rotwurst, which is ALSO one of the few restaurants in the city that have the spice we found. As we approach, a large goliath man in the restaurant’s uniform waves his hands and makes it abundantly clear that we are not welcome here.

We flash back.

We park the taxi around the corner and head to this restaurant, which has many people waiting for their reservation. We approach the host, and very, very casually begin what will henceforth be known as “pulling a Marlowe, Party of Six”.

To start, we name drop the princess, who is clearly with us, and pretend that we have a reservation. Obviously, we do not have a reservation. Is he sure? He’s sure that the princess can’t be served here? He goes and gets a manager, who confirms that we are, yes, a party of six people.

He, with great pain, escorts us to a table. We are not dressed for this place. Bermuda is wearing basketball shorts. A different manager is explaining to a very rich, very angry group that there has been a mix up with the reservations. People are staring.

We are seated. Except for Rocky, who insists on standing, because his job is to protect the princess from people, including rudeness, and you can’t be rude to the princess if you can’t get to the princess.

We order. Iraelin orders a drow dish, which theh definitely don’t have, in undercommon which these people definitely don’t speak. Bermuda pulls out a bag of chips and starts eating those. Atlas orders a cold dessert soup, just to see if they have it. Rocky orders a wagyu steak, pronounced incredibly wrong. Bermuda also orders one, pronounced incredibly wrong but in a different way. Atlas orders one of those but as a sandwich to dip in their soup. Ferris asks for the rotwurst, but could they put a birthday candle in it and sing happy birthday to them, because it’s their birthday? (this is the first chronological instance of birthday boy ferris.) Marlowe orders the soup du jour, but also with a birthday candle in it, because it’s her birthday, too. The manager says, it’s both of your birthdays? Human Public Figure Princess Marlowe Roberts looks at the warforged Ferris, back at the manager, and says, yes. We’re twins. Also please sing a second happy birthday song for me, because you know how when you’re twins everything is kind of for both of you and it becomes a sore spot.

The manager, who is so so sweaty and nervous, says yes, of course.

They bring out our food. They sing happy birthday, twice. They have to hold on to the birthday candle in Marlowe’s soup while they do it. People at the tables next to us are asking to be moved. Bermuda asks for a refill on the bag of chips they brought with them. Ferris pushes the rotwurst away without touching it and says “my compliments to the chef!”

The manager goes to convey Ferris’s compliments. The manager comes back to tell us that the chef would love to hear our compliments in person. We follow the manager to the kitchen, which appears completely empty. We are attacked by a full Vampire.

We deserve this.

All of a sudden, our flash-forward items make sense—a sword that sheds sunlight, a flask that produces running water.

The vampire attempts to take Marlowe’s ring. He has a +4 to the check, and rolls a natural 19. Marlowe has a +3, so she needs a natural 20.

She rolls a natural 20.

And that’s where we ended our session! We spent so long on Marlowe, Party of Six and other shenanigans that we turned it into a two-shot! I can’t wait to keep playing (I’ve got some Plans), and I’ll be back with another session summary some time after we do

[crimethinc]

Confronting the Nationalists and Their Police: A Full Report from Portland on June 4

On June 4, shortly after Jeremy Christian murdered two people who intervened when he was harassing two teenage women of color on a Portland commuter train, nationalists organized a rally in downtown Portland, inviting “patriots” such as Kyle Chapman to come speak in favor of carrying out violent attacks on anti-fascists and others. In response, anarchists and other opponents of fascism converged in downtown Portland, despite a massive police operation to reserve the space for nationalists. In this account, one participant offers a full report on the day’s events.

My crew and I were nervous going into the protest against the nationalist “Patriot Prayer” rally in Portland on June 4. We had talked in advance about what could happen; the conversation was a little bleaker than our usual planning discussions. The mainstream media has been reporting nonstop on the killing of two people and slashing of a third who stood up to defend two young women of color from white supremacist Jeremy Christian’s hostility on the commuter train a week ago, and we were all feeling the tension. “Something sketchy is going to happen” was more or less what we concluded. At the minimum, we were expecting a Berkeley-style street brawl between antifascists and alt-right LARPing patriots in gladiator costumes; at the worst, we figured some delusional, Kyle-Chapman-loving, “antifa are the real fascists” white nationalist would throw a grenade and we would lose some comrades. In the end, we decided that any risk we envisioned was outweighed by our desire not to let the nationalists organize openly, as that would embolden more racists to go out and harass, attack, and murder people of color. We prepared for the worst.

When we arrived on the scene, we saw that others had come prepared as well. The black bloc was prepared. The police were prepared. The nationalists were prepared. We passed the smaller labor rally and the timid “no masks allowed” liberal rally on the blocks surrounding the fascists; then we made our war around the lines and lines of police protecting the patriots. We felt a bit safer when we saw that the largest of the four concurrent demonstrations was the one comprised of militant antifascists. It’s hard to gauge the exact number because the participants were spread out around a park the size of a city block, but I think it is safe to say the total was around 1000.

At protests in the northwest over the past few months, police have sought to confiscate anything that could be interpreted as a weapon, essentially disarming protesters early on before anybody gets a chance to make use of them. In Seattle on January 20, the day an antifascist was shot, the Seattle PD kettled the anarchist march after only a block of marching, took all the flags, shields, and sticks, and let everyone go. In Portland, the police were taking people’s flags, flagpoles, baseball bats, shields, and anything else they could identify from the edge of the park as protesters entered. A number of people managed to slip through with shields. Plenty of people in the black bloc, and four out of the five people I came with, were wearing helmets and other protective gear. A few friends were wearing Kevlar vests under their hoodies in order not to be the next antifascist shot by a trigger-happy patriot. Based on pictures the police released later, people also managed to carry in a small arsenal of knives, brass knuckles, pepper spray, chains, flares, telescopic batons, smoke bombs, fireworks, slingshots, crowbars, and, of course, cases of Pepsi.

“Their identification with those in power is always a kind of cosplay: they can only be a pathetic imitation of the tyrants they look up to. They ape the Spartans, the Romans, the Nazis, who themselves were pathetic imitations of an idealized image of manhood, mere cogs in a military machine.”

About 50 well-armed cops acted as a buffer between the antifascists and the fascists, with a few more scattered around the edges of the park and a few hundred more at the ready. Behind them, Three Percenters and stick-waving, armor-wearing gladiators formed another line, and behind them, flag-waving, Trump-loving white people who just wanted to listen to alt-right B-list celebrities like Kyle Chapman proclaim things like “Open season on antifa. Smash on sight!” There were a few hundred nationalists. I’d be shocked if anyone put the number higher than 300.

I imagine the police were under a lot of pressure to prevent brawls between MAGA goons and antifascists, and they were mostly successful. With all the media hype, the mayor calling for the federal government to cancel the permits and then rescinding his request, and the wave of escalating antigovernment protests in Portland, their main strategy was to keep all the demonstrations separate. There was certainly no safe way to cross the street as a group or to engage meaningfully with the nationalists. The few alt-right provocateurs who made it into the park with the antifascists were quickly chased out. The sketchy photographers who were walking around trying to get close-ups of people’s faces were run off as well.

Demonstrators gently expel a “proud boy” nationalist from the antifascist area.

A lifted pickup driving by got stuck in traffic. Some mischievous individuals confiscated its American flag and “blue lives matter” flags; it was pelted with water bottles and sticks. People brought the “blue lives matter” flag to the front and burned it a few feet from the line of riot cops. One confused Proud Boy in his early 20s was discovered wandering around the park, identifiable by a shirt reading “Proud Boy.” I’m not sure if he was trying to be brave or if he was just lost, but he was surrounded by about 40 black-clad antifascists. This kid could easily have been seriously injured, and several comrades were on the verge of letting him have it. As he was contemplating his final moments, trying not to release the contents of his bladder and surely regretting his poor sense of direction, he was told, “You ought to leave.” And he did. Quickly.

For three and a half hours, pretty much nothing happened. Every once in a while, someone would get chased off and people would rush over to see what was going on. A few times, some eager young’un with a bullhorn tried to rally people to mass up in one corner of the park in order to somehow march through the line of riot cops and disrupt the fascists. While I appreciate this kind of optimism, the probability of success seemed considerably smaller than the probability of getting beat up by a hundred well-prepared cops. There was some stagnation. And the tension was still there.

Police preserving a space for advocates of nationalist violence to recruit.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the cops attacked the antifascist rally—without any kind of direct provocation.

Now, I’m not much of a fan of the “we were attacked by the cops for no reason, I swear!” line. I don’t really think it serves us as anarchists to appeal to the moral outrage of liberals who already hate us. It doesn’t make us feel better about getting attacked—and it certainly doesn’t make it enticing to anyone to join a group that is constantly getting attacked by cops “for no reason.”

They didn’t attack us for no reason, though. They have a hundred good reasons to attack us. As anarchists who are fighting against the rise of fascism, who are on the news for disrupting white nationalist events all around the country, who burn limousines and punch Nazis during important transitions of government power, who fight cops and break windows and march without permits, who advocate the dismantling of government and police and prisons, who have no respect for authority, who want to abolish hierarchy, whose ideas and tactics are gaining traction among a growing population of people who are feeling angry and need an outlet to vent their dissatisfaction and disillusionment… there are plenty of reasons police would choose to attack us.

Their official line was that unidentified people in black were collecting bricks from the top of a park bathroom, so they moved in to prevent the throwing of bricks. Conveniently, they timed their attack on the antifascist rally to take place half an hour before the nationalist rally was set to end. The park in which the nationalists were gathering was surrounded on all sides by counterdemonstrators. Presumably the police concluded that the only way to prevent roving street brawls was to push back the most militant opposition, opening space for the patriots to disperse safely.

Police firing “less lethal” munitions at demonstrators.

The police came in firing pepper balls, rubber bullets, tear gas, concussion bombs, pepper spray, and something they referred to as “aerial distraction devices,” all to the delight of the equally surprised fascists they were protecting. Demonstrators responded with rocks, sticks, water bottles, bricks, full Pepsi cans, and anything else that could be thrown. As people pelted the cops in riot gear making their way into the park, unarmored bike cops stood in the street to the side of the mêlée. It can be difficult to make split-second decisions in such circumstances, but on reflection, the bike cops were probably more vulnerable than the cops clad head to toe in expensive body armor.

A crew of well-prepared folks in black bloc were able to hold out a little longer, but most people were almost immediately pushed back by the gas, and medics were on the scene immediately treating people with eye flushes and treating various injuries. One medic I talked to treated someone who caught a brick to the cheek, presumably from friendly fire (aim better next time, comrades!). After a few rounds of less-lethal weaponry and police charges, the park was cleared and the bloc started reforming about a hundred yards back, across the street in the next section of the same park. Chants of “Walk! Don’t run!” kept the atmosphere oddly calm and dissuaded a lot of people from panicking. By this point, about half of the participants had dispersed.

The nationalist rally was now a full block away with a ton of aggressive cops blocking access to it. A barricade of construction signs and newspaper boxes appeared in the street to prevent any further police advance. As people mingled, a few in black started calling for people to regroup in bloc and march. About a hundred or so people took off chanting down the street, while the rest stayed in the park or at the barricade. The march made it about two blocks, but was outmaneuvered and turned back by riot cops who were riding around holding on to the exterior of customized personnel-carrying SUVs.

Antifascists marching through Portland on June 4.

The march swung back by the park and almost everybody else joined in, swelling the numbers to somewhere between 300 and 500. It seemed like something might have been possible, but I could sense the hesitation of the group I was rolling with. The march made it another block, then was again outflanked by the police on the SUVs and we had to make another turn. After another block, we were turned away yet again by a different group of cops. I could see more cop SUVs loaded down with riot cops zooming ahead from the side streets.

The city isn’t made of cobblestones, there weren’t any nearby construction sites, just about everything was bolted down, and almost all the flags and many of the shields had been confiscated a few hours earlier. It felt like we were being corralled. With limited means to engage, my buddy and I decided to disengage, so we made our way up a side street to de-bloc. At the time, we had mixed feelings about leaving; the size and anger of the crowd suggested that it might have some potential. Unfortunately, it turned out that our instincts were right. The march only progressed a couple more blocks before being kettled, trapping about 200 people on a city block without escape routes.

When people realized they were trapped, a giant pile of black clothing, helmets, knives, rocks, and other weapons materialized and a group of sweaty, plaid wearing Portlanders meandered about, waiting to find out what would happen. A few people managed to ascend a high wall to escape into a parking garage before the police caught on and started blasting them with pepper balls, shooting over the heads of a few disapproving bystanders. The cops began slowly processing people, letting them go after photographing their IDs. As this was taking place, the nationalist demonstration was ending and the participants were dispersing right in front of the family-friendly liberal rally.

Altogether, there were 14 arrests, and around 200 people were IDed from the antifascist march. The day didn’t feel like a defeat, but it didn’t feel like a success either. A lot of people came together to fight back against the police, but with limited resources and effectiveness. The alt-right rally was completely surrounded by people who opposed them, but it was largely unaffected by the counterdemonstrations. The police were most effective when they were acting as a buffer between the demonstrations and when they were corralling the marches. On at least two occasions, Three Percenters actively aided the police in arresting antifascists. The antifascist contingent was most effective and felt the most inspiring when we were able to maintain a space free of police, however briefly.

At the end of any major confrontation, my comrades and I ask ourselves questions and discuss what could have gone better. Could we have held space longer even under assault from heavily-armed police? Were there other ways to disrupt the nationalist rally? How can we fight in a sterilized and controlled cityscape? What would have helped us prevent the kettle? Could we have been more prepared? Helmets felt essential, and sturdy flagpoles would have been nice—but what could have transformed the fight to something that felt winnable? More shields to protect against police projectiles? Hammers to break up material? Smoke bombs? What lessons can we draw as we move forward? I hope to hear conversations like these happening as people strategize about what we can do, individually and collectively, to be smarter, fiercer, and more effective the next time we engage.

A smashed police vehicle in Portland on May Day, 2017. The events of June 4 put such actions in context.

[teachanarchy]

We talked to nine Portland activists who think violence is necessary to fight fascism.

The nine anarchists who met me one rainy afternoon in Portland, Oregon, told me they almost showed up to talk to me "bloc'd out"—in the black clothes and masks that have become something of an iconic look.

You likely know what "bloc'd out" means because you've seen photos and videos of masked anarchists, or encountered them in person at practically any left-wing protests (or at counter-protests held in response to right-wing rallies). Bandanas, scarves, or helmets are used to guard against the effects of pepper spray and tear gas; they also make it harder for law enforcement to identify them.

That's essential, as the black bloc strategy utilizes militant and often illegal tactics—smashing windows, lighting cars on fire, hurling projectiles at police, and physically challenging the opposition. It was the black bloc who set a limo on fire in DC during Donald Trump's inauguration, it was the black bloc who punched white supremacist Richard Spencer to great acclaim and controversy, it was the black bloc who rioted in Berkeley to protest the presence of far-right gadfly Milo Yiannopoulos.

Black bloc tactics have been in use since the autonomist movement in 1980s Europe, but they first garnered widespread attention in the US after the chaotic World Trade Organization protests in Seattle in 1999. During those demonstrations, anarchists broke windows, and violent clashes between protesters and police culminated in tear gas being deployed—it got so bad that the mayor declared a curfew on the downtown area.

Although the black bloc strategy has been utilized stateside many times since then, it's escalated since Trump's election, and so has the debate over political violence. Demonstrations have turned into brawls between far-right and far-left factions in Seattle and Berkeley; in my hometown of Portland, there have been fights between police and anarchists; in Washington, DC, more than 200 protesters were charged with felonies after the inauguration.

Watch: This armed group is trying to become the new face of left-wing activism

I sought out the anarchists to learn more about what they see as their role in the growing anti-Trump resistance movement, and how they justify their extreme tactics in the face of criticisms from both the left and the right.

The group of nine is multi-racial and comes from varying economic backgrounds and regions of the country, although most claim Pacific Northwestern roots. Most seem to be in the millennial age range, although they tell me the organization has "tons of old heads" working with them. Some came into the anarchist movement after Occupy Wall Street, which one called "protest school." Others were introduced to anarchism at punk shows, or were seeking out something more extreme than "typical American liberalism," which they all reject. They all have jobs, but refuse to describe them for fear of being identified—they've all been involved in various illegal protest-related activities, and only agreed to speak to me on conditions of anonymity. (All names have been changed.)

They see their brand of anarchism as an evolution of an international movement that has been standing up for the disenfranchised for decades. That mission goes beyond the tactics that have caused so much controversy. The group told me about the classes local anarchists provide in first aid, self-defense, and other topics; the left-wing community outreach group Portland Assembly; and the anarchist effort to fill some of Portland's many potholes after the government failed to do so. (That last item represents probably the only good bit of mainstream press the anarchists have gotten as of late).

Portland has been dealing with a homeless crisis for years, and during an abnormally bad storm this January, four homeless adults and a newborn baby died. The local government's approach to the storm was seen by many in Portland as insufficiently urgent, and the anarchists joined with homeless advocates and went out into the streets with blankets, sleeping bags, coffee, and soup for those living without shelter.

Still, when I asked them if it's fair to say they represent the weaponized wing of the resistance movement (literally weaponized in the case of the black bloc), they said it was—but were quick to point out their motivations extend well beyond opposition to the current president.

"The narrative that this fight is pro-Trump against anti-Trump is wrong. This is about ultra nationalism," Victor, a mountain of a man who is clearly wary of saying too much, told me. "We have people working in France; we have people like the Zapatistas… We are all fighting in defense of our communities, but we have the capacity, skills and courage to be offensive. We will not bow down to fascists in the street, to a cop in uniform, or to those in the White House."

Clay, a skinny, intense man whose voice quivers and rises with passion when he speaks, told me anarchist beliefs "are rooted in the desire for a stateless and fascism-free society, and are defending marginalized communities from a long history of white supremacy asserting itself. We want to destroy the status quo and are willing to do so by any means necessary—whether it's teaching communities to be self-reliant or something extreme like blocing up."

They all have stories of mistreatment by police. Blair, who sat quietly, librarian-like, for most of our conversation, told me she was once detained in a West Coast city she doesn't want to name after a confrontation between the black bloc and police. She said she was shown a massive book with files on her and her associates and was told, "We're watching you and your friends." (She told me she wasn't charged with a crime.)

Victor added, "We operate under the assumption that we have already been infiltrated by right-wing groups and undercover cops, and that we're being illegally monitored by law enforcement just as Black Lives Matter and Occupy were by the NYPD."

It sounds, frankly, like an exhausting way to live, but to Victor the struggle with Trump supporters and what he sees as a fascist movement taking hold in America is "quite literally a war… for us, resistance is intuitive and something we have to do."

A protester throws a brick at police during Inauguration Day protests. JEWEL SAMAD/AFP/Getty Images

These anarchists think the mainstream left has never taken the rise of the alt-right and white nationalism seriously enough. They see their destructive acts in the streets as a wake-up call for the left and a warning to the extreme right—as a call to arms and an example of how to fight what they see as fascism.

Victor laughed when I asked about if they're worried about their more controversial actions turning people off to the movement, telling me that "mainstream liberals cling to institutions like the police and elected officials that time and again have let them down—yet they continue to return to their abuser like a battered spouse."

"We're willing to put ourselves on the line for this. 'By any means necessary' is something we take very seriously."

As for the debate over whether political violence can be justified, to them it's not a debate. "I abhor violence against people for the most part—but these aren't people, they're Nazis," said an anarchist I'll call Sean, to laughter from the group.

A man who goes by Rip described how it felt to be in the bloc, charging into literal battle. "I feel more logical than emotional," he said. "There are so many things going on, from the cops, to making sure your people in the bloc are OK, to staying vigilant for a crazy Trumper with a gun… Adrenaline is definitely running high, but the result isn't so much excitement of exhilaration as it is closely observing and calculating the risks. It's a strange calmness in the chaos that's born out of vigilance and trust in your people."

When I mentioned the bad press black bloc tactics got both the election and recent May Day protests here in Portland (both devolved into violence and destruction and were declared riots by police), Clay snorts and said, "Yeah? Nobody was paying attention to the Portland protests until we made them. Suddenly the whole world's eyes were on Portland. We're willing to put ourselves on the line for this. 'By any means necessary' is something we take very seriously."

I asked the group to respond to criticism that its tactics may turn people away from the causes it endorses, and Clay, speaking with such fervor the tables behind us looked over, noted that other political parties in Germany attempted to reason with Adolf Hitler during his rise. "The neoliberals may not know it yet, but the militant anti-fascists are the ones that history will remember as fighting the rise of fascism in this country—not them."

What about the property damage done by the black bloc? When a business's window is broken, that's not violence against a state but violence against that window's owner, and in Portland odds are good that the owner is anti-Trump.

The group nodded approvingly as Clay drained his beer and coolly told me they feel no pity for "a bougie boutique that has participated in the displacement and 'death by gentrification' of neighborhoods that used to be inhabited by families from already marginalized communities."

Norm Stamper was the Seattle police chief during those famous 1999 WTO protests, which led to his resignation. "It's a mistake to underestimate the anarchists as unthinking people bent only on destruction, they're actually usually some of the most organized protesters," he told me. More than almost anyone else, he understands the difficult position police are in when confronted by violent protests, and the lack of viable options.

Though he has been open about regretting the decision to use tear gas on the protesters, Stamper says that he "was shocked by the inaction the police" in Berkeley in April when anarchists and the alt-right clashed in the street. "If they don't act, then they have abdicated their responsibility. You'll be criticized either way, and it doesn't matter which side is to blame, you must act."

Stamper added that law enforcement's use of militarized tactics often only feeds the chaos the anarchist groups seek. "They'll probably tell you to 'go pound sand' when you try to talk to them. They might say something much worse! But you have to try and engage these folks," is Stamper's advice to cops dealing with anarchists. "Violence is rarely the answer—and tear gas never is. All you've done is prove their point and caused indiscriminate harm to citizens. Move them by force if you must, but don't make the first move and don't gas them."

Stamper is more sympathetic to the anarchists than most police chiefs, and the animosity between the cops and the black bloc cuts both ways. Clay told me that the at recent protests in Vancouver, Washington, anarchist and anti-fascist flagpoles were taken by the cops but the sieg heiling Trump supporters were allowed to keep their firearms.

"As police departments around the country become more and more militarized, and as white nationalist and alt-right groups are further emboldened by the Trump regime, the need for militant tactics is higher than ever," said Sean. "At these protests, the bloc takes up a lot of law enforcement's attention, which in turn allows actions to flourish in ways they couldn't if we weren't there… I bet some of the people we've helped unarrest were glad we were there to interfere." (Sean defined "unarrest" for me as "interfering with law enforcement's attempts to detain someone in the block by using force.")

I asked Portland Police Bureau spokesman Pete Simpson about these criticisms made by the anarchists, and he told me, "It's easy to paint us as for or against a certain group, but that's just not the case. The police don't like working the protests because it's hours of very tense boredom that can suddenly turn into confused violence—violence these anarchists start."

What about the militarized police tactics so despised by protesters?

"We are always reviewing our tactics," Simpson replied. "It's almost impossible because people want us to solve things… and half feel we don't do enough at these protests and half feel we go too far. They (the anarchists) force our hand."

If dealing with the black bloc is complicated for police, it's even more so for left-leaning activists who abhor the use of violence.

A protest organizer I spoke with under the condition of anonymity echoed a refrain I heard time and again when discussing this article with those on the left: "It's an incredibly complex situation with those guys because in theory I agree with them almost completely—but I still think the best way to alter a powerful and corrupt system is from the inside and exercising your rights to free speech… and I worry about something like martial law being imposed if something goes really bad."

"The fascists are organized and collaborating nationally. We have to be as well."

Those engaged in tactics like the black bloc see these sort of concerns as part of the larger problem of bowing to a corrupt system. "In an atmosphere in which the president and his representatives can outright ignore basic truths and freedoms, more and more people are realizing there is no room for the tepid debates of the past," said an anarchist I'll call Lauren.

To understand how this group thinks, it's important to realize that when they see conflicts like the "Battle of Berkeley," they regard them as progress.

"The fascists are organized and collaborating nationally. We have to be as well," Clay said. "They are violent and empowered, and we will continue to meet them with equal aggression. They need to know this. We are ready. We're not the ones the cops are out there protecting. It's the fascists on the right getting the police escort."

The rhetoric isn't likely to cool down anytime soon. Last weekend, two men were fatally stabbed, and a third was critically wounded while defending two teenaged women, one of whom was wearing a hijab, from a man screaming racist insults at them on Portland's light rail system. At his court appearance, suspect Jeremy Joseph Christian shouted "You've got no safe place!" and "Death to the enemies of America!"

In the wake of that stabbing, Portland mayor Ted Wheeler has asked a right-wing group to call off a rally scheduled for Saturday, but they are unlikely to heed him. The anarchists I spoke with would not comment on that rally, but chances are they'll be there with masks on.

But for all the anger in the air, few people seem likely to go full black bloc, even if they believe the cause is just. To belong to the group I spoke with, you need to not just oppose the far-right thugs willing to fight in the street, but also the government and the police. That's a tall order.

Stamper surprised me during our talk when he said he thinks people hitting the streets is the most viable form of protest, and that he understands where the rage comes from. But when I asked what he thought of the black bloc, he replied, "If you think there are nothing but bad apples in the police department, why provoke them? That's a battle the anarchists will never, ever win."