#for that survivors question... yes but i gotta draw them and probably read up on their lore COUG COUGH

[ask-lovesick-au]

So, Eclipse is infected, same with the Bloodmoon twins, Lunar, and possibly earth due to the last time we saw her. Are there others? Other survivors? Do you guys know how far the infection went? It’s got to be farther then the pizza plex right?

judging by how few exoskeletons and S.T.A.F.F are around..

far.

[dangerous-disposition]

Okie dokie so I’ve been going back and forth on adding my commentary to this, I made my own post about how off the wall batshit the lack of reading comprehension and critical thinking that’s happening in the notes of this post, and I’m just gonna go for it.

So first of all:

The OP does not say that you can’t process and validate trauma through fanfiction. Just that there are ways to do it outside of fanfiction.

But I’m going to say that using fanfiction as a way to process and validate your trauma is probably one of the least productive way to do it.

Yes, a common therapy is to write about your trauma and conceptualise it from the outside. But writing it and then posting it online while you are still in the coping stage of recovery for an audience is where it leaves the realm of productive therapy.

What happens with that is you enter this echo chamber that shouts “IT’S TRAUMA” and “I’M COPING” when someone so much as sniffles in your direction to perhaps question the efficacy of your coping mechanism. This echo chamber makes it literally impossible to actually recover.

The key component to trauma therapy is learning to break the hold your trauma as on you so you can move forward with your life. Creating and joining a community in a fandom based around niche fanfiction about your trauma while you are still traumatised does not allow for that ‘letting go’ piece.

And I can’t believe this has to be said, but not all coping mechanisms are good coping mechanisms.

This sort of fandom engagement, and filing it under “coping” when anyone questions it, even slightly, can so easily fall into the self-harm category of coping mechanisms.

And some brilliant tags added to the post I made about this (I don’t want to mention them in case they would rather stay unnamed here):

but also another thing to point out is that if you start putting all your trauma into your work, you create a precedent which might lead to the conviction that good writing has to be born from trauma. or that your writing is only good because it’s based off of it. and that’s not good either, because if you really are processing and you do manage to let go and get better, eventually you will think you can’t write anymore because you’re not in pain, which is fucked up.

And like, this! This, this, this!! For the longest time I lost all ability to write because I was no longer in pain and didn’t know where to draw my creativity from anymore. I’ve obviously found my creativity in my recovery, but there was a long time where I couldn’t write anymore.

And this isn’t an “anti-dark themes” rant, this is specifically about the gratuitous posting of traumatising content being hand-waved because “i’m coping.” I will tell you right now, that if you want to write your best about trauma, in a way that is actually respectful and impactful that will actually help and/or resonate with other survivors or people with PTSD? You gotta recover. You can’t be actively grappling with your trauma to write about it in a way that isn’t just continuing the cycle of trauma.

I wrote about abusive relationships while I was in an abusive relationship and was part of that whole “i’m coping!!!” and “it’s trauma!!!” group, and looking back it was just... people were right to criticise what I was putting out into the world as entertainment because it was not coming from a place of objectivity and I couldn’t separate myself enough from it to see I wasn’t doing the topic justice. After getting out of that relationship, and recovering as much as I have today, I’ve gone back to writing about abuse and it’s a completely different tone and I’ve received so much more feedback about how much it meant to people who read it.

Just... writing it is one thing, it’s posting it that it leaves the realm of healthy coping.

Anyway, that’s it for my “learn to read and think critically challenge 2k21″ rant, and I’m literally begging my followers not to join the clowns in the notes.

a message every fandom bitch needs to hear

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (26/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option. Read from the beginning on AO3

The first story breaks in the Buenos Aires press, a front page, side column feature about mysterious footage and documents depicting an attempted abduction in the city at the height of the invasion.

There are details from the leaked After Action Report, quotes from the aftermath of the initial attack, and follow up with survivors. It’s an article focused on the facts, backed up by a respectable bit of legwork, and blessedly free from the taint of sensationalism. It’s picked up quickly by the local news, and then the national. The wire services begin to circulate it shortly thereafter.

It’s a curiosity, not a headline, a reminder to the public that, despite the devastation, there were those who fought back, who did what they could to push back the incursion wherever the aliens appeared. It is a reminder that those who fought remain cloaked in intrigue, in governmental denial and official non-existence.  She wagers the story is enough to spark the demand for more --- nothing like a mystery to spark a readership’s curiosity.

Shen seems to agree, offering her a quiet nod of congratulations as the story continues to spread.

The game is afoot.

“Commander,” Central greets her as she steps into Mission Control.

“Central. Anything interesting?”

“Dr. Vahlen would like to see you. She has concerns about recent events.”

Her heart stutters.  “Could you elaborate?”

“She’s concerned the research team’s work may not be secure.”

She draws in a small breath and lets it out slowly. We still have time, she reassures herself. “Dr. Shen made it clear the intrusion didn’t impact weapons development work or interrogation logs.  That data is still secure.”

“Her concerns were more … academic in nature.”

The comment catches her off guard. “We won a war, and she’s worried about someone scooping her credit?”

“She’s of the opinion that the discoveries made over the course of the Invasion will lead to significant advances; she’d like to ensure her name, and the names of her people, are attached.”

She can’t say she’s unsympathetic. Academia has never been kind to women, particularly not to women in the hard sciences. She can’t argue Vahlen’s brilliance or skill in managing her department. They would never have survived the initial onslaught, let alone the full scope of the conflict, without the woman’s passion, dedication, and astonishing talent for assembling disparate scraps into a coherent analysis. There is no doubt in her mind that Vahlen is deserving of accolades; she had just hoped to keep their work out of the realm of ‘publish or perish.’

“Has Dr. Shen expressed similar concerns?”

“No, but he does have an updated timeline for global Firestorm coverage.”

“How bad?”

“Start of the second week of March.”

She cocks her head. “That’s not too terrible, given the past few weeks. The update should soothe the Council’s nerves.”

Bradford meets her gaze, but is silent for a beat. The meaning is clear: Don’t kid yourself, Lizzie.

“We can only hope, ma’am.”

She hopes none of the men on duty notice the way she tries to bite back a grin. “Keep an eye on things here. I’ll go try to reassure the good doctor.”

--

She is running out of time. The scouting team is due back within the day, and she is still empty handed. She has nothing of use, save for the confirmation that she should absolutely not eat any meat offered to her.

It’s not for lack of trying. She has been out and about with the crew every night til late, being regaled by their exploits.

They’ve made in-roads, certainly. There seems to be a budding, if mostly friendly, rivalry between the sharpshooters and their Reaper contemporaries. Thomas has already been slapped by no fewer than three of their allies. No one, however, has dared to partake of the cuisine.

But, if they have uncovered anything of use, they have let to mention it in her presence.

She may be without recourse.

It is late and she is freshly dressed from an all too brief showers when the knock comes at her door.

“In!” She calls.

Central’s hands tremor, but there is a light in his eyes. “I think I got your intel.”

“What? How?”

He settles on her couch. “Sally’s a known quantity to enough of Volk’s people. They let a few more things slip around her than they really should.”

“I’m listening,” she says, settling across from him.

“There’s a growing chunk of people who think Volk’s lost his way.”

“In deciding to work with us?”

“No. That thing that took Mox? The Reapers have their own, but officially, he doesn’t exist.”

“Why would ADVENT confirm? They gain nothing from it.”

Central shakes his head. “Not ADVENT. Volk. This thing shoots up their camps and slaughters their people, but he won’t hear talk of it, let alone addressing it.”

She furrows her brow. “Why?”

“Rumor has it this thing used to be one of them.”

She weighs her next question carefully. “Is it true?” He shrugs “Volk won’t talk about it with anyone, inside the Reapers or out. I’d say that gives the claim some weight, but I don’t have proof either way.”

She chews on her lip. “So, he lost one of his own and ADVENT’s using it against him. Now, his people are suffering for it and it’s wearing thin. Is that right?” “That’s the gist of it.” She can feel a grin spread across her face. “Dissent in the ranks. God, that’s gold. How’d you get it out of Sally?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“She volunteered?”

“Sort of. Might be fairer to say she runs her mouth if she’s playing a clean game of poker.”

“She know you overheard?”

“Who do you think she was playing against?”

She chuckles. “So, things are better on that front.”

“They’re stable,” he says. “Less shouting.”

“That’s gotta be a relief.”

He lets out a sigh, and nods. “I don’t know if things will ever really be better, not after what I did. But I’ll take whatever improvements happen.”

“Life’s funny, John. You never know what’s coming.”

He meets her gaze for a moment, and she realizes what she’s said. It’s a level of familiarity, of intimacy she wasn’t intending to inject.

But, there it is. She can’t quite bring herself to regret it.

“Yeah, Lizzie. I guess you’re right.”

-- There is a giggle and a knock at her office door. She sets aside the next batch of files to be released and locks her desk before responding to the summons.

Steph Royston stands before her, ruddy cheeked and pajama clad, a box in her hand.

“Ma’am! We’re gonna get Molchetti drunk off shitty boxed wine for my bachelorette! Come celebrate!”

She can’t help the chuckle that escapes her lips. “It seems you already started.”

Royston grins. “Bernard and I got into the gin. It’s gonna be a good night.”

“You are gonna be so hung over for your wedding.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got til five o’clock tomorrow to pull myself together, then.”

Her eyes dart from Royston to her office door and then back. She has work to do, responsibilities to attend to. She can’t risk the momentum that’s begun to gather. She should stay in, should focus on the task at hand.

But it’s not every day that there is something to celebrate, let alone something as momentous as a wedding. It’s not every day she’s summoned from her professional duties to partake in some decidedly un-professional fun. It’s not everyday two people beat the odds to make a run at happily ever after.

Oh, fuck it, she reasons. You’ve never thought twice about stopping to grieve. Is death somehow more worthy than life?

“Alright,” she says. “Let’s go see you try to get Isabella to touch a drop of that stuff.”

Royston smirks. “Bernard thought I should put it in a bottle, but that seemed cruel.”

“So, you’re just gonna feed her box wine?’

“Oh, no. Devorah is.”

Looking back, she won’t be able to really explain the sequence of events that leads them up, up, and out into the cold of the Kansas night. She suspects the wine played a part, yes, along with the revelation that Hershel had gone her entire life up until that point without once having ever thrown a snowball.

There they stand, under silent January stars, beginning to shiver as the cold bites through their coats. There is snow in their hair and blood in their cheeks. Hershel cackles and lobs another wintery projectile at her girlfriend, who retaliates in kind. Steph sits on the ground nearby, and raises a toast to the moon before flopping backwards onto the powder.

When the cold finally wins out, when they can no longer tolerate the sting of the air on their skin, they stumble back into the base. Central catches her eye with a look of fond admonishment. She offers him a terrible wink, and Steph covers her mouth in a futile attempt to suppress her laughter.

“Commander.”

“Central,” she grins.

She’s asleep when he crawls into bed that night, waking only when he presses a kiss to her forehead.

“I can’t believe you broke protocol for that,” she says, quietly.

She snuggles closer to him. “Hershel had never thrown a snowball. It seemed important to fix.”

She feels his laugh deep in his chest. “Certainly, a moral imperative.”

“You ready for tomorrow?”

“Are any of us?”

She laughs. “Probably not.” --

They are gathered in Volk’s tent ��-herself, Central, Shen, Tygan, Volk, and Kate Starling, Volk’s second-in-command—as the scouting team, newly returned from the field reviews their findings.

The news is good, better than she could have hoped for, really. Pratal Mox is being held in a nearby ADVENT detention facility, one that a skilled covert operative should be able to penetrate with little difficulty.

“That’s great,” Lily offers. “But the second we cut through the security protocols on that door, the whole region’s security grid will light up. We’d have to be in and out.”

“We’ll keep Firebrand on standby and arm everyone for a tough fight,” Central says. “It’s less security than we faced for Gatecrasher, and we still managed.”

The Commander nods. “Right, Outrider, you’ll take point---“

“Oh, so you’re sending one of my people to go rescue your precious Skirmisher. I hope this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of resources, Regan.”

She closes her eyes and draws in a breath, then opens them again. “Would the rest of you excuse Volk and I for a minute?”

The others rise and make their exits. Central offers her a small nod of encouragement.

“Volikov,” she says once she’s certain they are alone. “In twenty years, you’ve held ground. I’ll give you that. In your own little corner of the universe, you’ve traded some measure of your humanity to keep ADVENT at bay. I’m not here to pass judgment.”

“What we have now, though, is a chance to push back. To retake some of what should be ours. That means working as a team. You, me, the Reapers, the Skirmishers, anyone we can get on board. And if you can’t take your head out of your ass, play nicely, and support an alliance, then I will find someone here who can.”

“Are you threatening me, Regan?”

“I’m just saying that if you can’t act in the best interest of your people, I’m sure someone here can.”

“The best interest of my people? And what would you know about that?” “Only that you’ve got a chunk of your population who thinks you’re no longer operating in the best interest of their survival. Seems your boogeyman has too much blood on his hands for them to ignore --- unlike you.”

“You know noth---“

“I know your people are tired of you hiding your head in the sand, and pretending that you don’t have something stalking you. I know, when it comes to those things, you and the Skirmishers have more in common than you’d like to think. I know that all it takes is proof that someone else has a gun that’s every bit as good as yours, and a few whispers in the right ear.” She stands, and brushes a speck of dirt from her jacket. “You placed Dragunova under my command and, until such time as she expresses a desire to leave, she will remain under my command. We’ll get the Skirmisher back, and we’ll put a stop to that thing with or without your help. But when we come marching back here with her head on a pike, I hope you’re ready to learn how loyal your people are.”

Volk stares silently up at her; she wonders if he sees the way she shakes.

“You better make sure you know damn well what you’re doing.”

“You should take your own advice. It’s my show, and I’ll run it the way I see fit.”

She turns, and makes her way out into the dark of the night. She finds her staff, along with Starling and Dragunova, gathered around a nearby campfire.

“We’ll move in the morning,” she says. “Dragunova, you’ll take point. We’ll send Kelly and Thomas for any close combat concerns, and Zaytsev in the event of needing medical care en route back. Starling,” she continues, turning her attention to the other woman. “We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve got Mox back. Thank your people again for me.”

Starling nods. “Understood.”

She falls in next to Central as they make their way back to the ship.

“And?” He asks, quietly.

“That did it,” she offers, voice barely above a whisper. “As long as I didn’t sign us up for more than we can really handle.” “More than we can handle?”

“We’re gonna have to kill the Assassin.”

“We were gonna have to do that anyway.”

“We don’t even know where she is.”

“We’ll find her.”