#forced organ transplant

[hellenic-whore]

Thinking about how many refugees are having their organs trafficked solely because of the effects of US imperialism and colonialism on SWANA countries and many,many others

You all should read the red market by Scott carney

People don't talk about how much refugees and people in similar situations are taken advantage of in ways like this.

Linking to a post I made about this issue earlier as well

[queerandprochoice]

So I’m about three weeks post-op for my hysterectomy and I’ve been thinking about something a lot lately.

I have O- type blood, meaning I’m a universal blood donor. Anyone can receive my blood, and O- is in constant demand because of this. If there’s no time to blood test in an emergency situation, O- is essential.

I’m nearly 26, and I’ve never donated blood. Why? Because I’ve never been eligible. The guidelines for donation are extremely strict in order to protect both donors and recipients. You have to meet age requirements, weight requirements, sexuality requirements, and can be ineligible because of a host of health conditions, because of certain medications, having new tattoos or piercings, travel to certain areas, etc. You can get turned away for being even slightly anemic.

Blood donations save lives; just one donation can save three people’s lives. It’s relatively quick, mostly painless, and extremely low-risk. But we don’t force anyone to donate; it’s entirely voluntary. If I was required to donate blood as frequently as possible, I theoretically could save a dozen or so people a year, but we don’t do that because that would be a violation of my rights. We don’t force people who are ineligible to donate anyway because it still might save a life. We don’t try and pressure people into donation if they don’t want to. Nobody says “well if you didn’t want to donate blood, you shouldn’t have gotten your blood typed.” There are no fake blood donation clinics that coerce you into donating if you’re ineligible or uninterested. There are no incentives or bribes or remuneration to convince people to donate blood, aside from a juice box and maybe some cookies. We don’t make cis men donate every 56 days, or cis women every 84 days. We don’t let underweight or underage people donate. We don’t deny people certain medications because they might want/have to donate blood. We protect the privacy of blood donors.

Blood donations save lives, but we only allow people to donate under extremely safe and 100% voluntary conditions. Are there some legitimate problems with some of the requirements, especially those related to gender and sexuality? Yeah absolutely, a lot of them are super outdated and homophobic. But the point is that our society values personal choice and bodily autonomy, as well as the health and safety of the donors, over potential lives saved. The same principles of consent and bodily autonomy apply to organ donation. You can’t even remove organs from a corpse to use for transplants unless that person had consented while they were alive.

Before I went into surgery, I also had to sign a consent form that would allow me to receive a blood transfusion if it was necessary.

We don’t allow forced blood or organ donations, and we have pretty stringent requirements for blood donors, because we value safety, consent, and bodily autonomy over quantity of life. And yet, anti-choicers want to force people to undergo pregnancy and birth—a far more dangerous, lengthy, and painful ordeal—because “it’s a life.” A ten year old isn’t old enough to donate blood, but is apparently old enough to carry a pregnancy to term.

It’s pretty fucked up how when it comes to abortion rights, it seems like health and safety, consent, and bodily autonomy suddenly don’t matter anymore.

Also, please consider donating blood if you can.

[she-is-ovarit]

Data spanning from 1995 to 2021 in India revealed a striking gender imbalance in organ transplants, with four men getting organ transplants for every woman. A total of 36,640 transplants took place in this period, out of which 29,000 were for men and 6,945 for women.

This substantial difference is attributed to a complex interplay of economic responsibilities, societal pressures, and deeply ingrained preferences. 

Dr Anil Kumar, director of the government-run National Organ & Tissue Transplant Organisation (NOTTO) highlighted this significant aspect of the organ donation landscape.

While more men contribute as cadaver donors, a staggering 93 per cent of total organ donations in the country come from living donors, he told the Times of India newspaper. This hints at a trend: a majority of living organ donors are women.  Socio-economic factors a driving force for women donors? A study published in the Experimental and Clinical Transplantation Journal in 2021 delved into the intricacies of living organ transplantation in India. The findings showed that 80 per cent of living organ donors are women, predominantly wives or mothers. The socio-economic pressure on women to assume caregiving roles within the family emerges as a primary factor, compelling them to step forward as donors. Men's reluctance in surgery In many cases, men, often the primary breadwinners, hesitate to undergo surgery, contributing to the gender gap in organ recipients. The study highlights that when the recipient is a male breadwinner, family members, especially wives or parents, feel a heightened responsibility to donate organs. Emotional dynamics The emotional dynamics surrounding organ donation are intricate. Women recipients, in particular, may experience guilt when their family members, especially wives or mothers, become donors. This reluctance leads to a scenario where women recipients may find themselves on waiting lists.  Notably, Karnataka has topped the charts in organ donation in the past decade. The number of donations have risen from 102 in 2013 to 765 in the first 10 months of 2023. 

A user on Ovarit added this helpful context:

"Just a little more context to this: men produce male-specific proteins (on the Y chromosome) which often get rejected by women's bodies. Since males have an X chromosome, their bodies recognize proteins from female donors. This makes it more difficult for women to receive male tissue/organs, while still being acceptable candidates for donating to men. Even still, these ratios are very disproportionate".

"As women we absolutely need to be aware of our vulnerability of being used as spare parts in a man's world. Especially when we are being socialized into believing that we need to sacrifice our bodies and lives for others- and society has developed a sense of entitlement to this sacrifice, while downplaying the suffering of women."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[justwinginglife]

hi!! may I request something again?^^

may I request soshiro found out that you can turn into a Kaiju or see you transforming into your Kaiju form. a little Angst but with happy ending please:›

You may always request something again! Also story note- for this fic, Imma just ignore that Kikoru Shinomiya exists, sorry yall, you're taking her spot now.

Half Human

Your whole life was one big irony in that your life's mission was to kill kaiju and yet you owed the very breath in your lungs to them. Your father, the Director General, Isao Shinomiya, had already lost his wife and he'd be damned if he was going to lose you too. He secretly brought a kaiju back to base alive and had several talented doctors and scientists exchange its core in place of your failing heart. The doctors weren't even sure it could be done, but when the abomination that was you was finally finished, they were all sworn to secrecy. You were to be the first and the only kaiju transplant survivor.

After all, if word got out that it was possible to enhance the human body directly with kaiju organs, without use of a suit, there would be chaos. For one, the suit industry would take an immense hit and the black market would reign supreme. Not to mention how much ungodly human experimentation could come about from failed attempts to successfully recreate the transplant. It might even make the Defense Force's job more difficult- trying to take Kaiju in alive was significantly more dangerous and strenuous than just killing them.

With all these things in mind, your father kept the tightest lid on the situation. No one but you, your father, and the team that had worked on you knew this secret. But today, one more would find out.

Your father always carefully monitored your vitals in case you ever rejected the organ, and you were always reminded to keep your emotions in check so as to not set off the kaiju side of you. You thought that you'd learned to keep most of your emotions at bay, but apparently that control you had did not apply to anything even remotely related to the Vice Captain.

One time you'd heard someone shit talking him and you accidentally stabbed through your own tongue because your anger had called your fangs to emerge. And it didn't help that the Vice Captain glimpsed the blood dripping from your lips and tried to help you. You always wondered if you'd be able to feel human emotions anymore since you no longer had a human heart, but he quickly put that fear to rest because every time he reached for you, touched you, cared for you, you felt like you could feel your nonexistent heart beating rapidly. It felt like he was the only thing grounding you in your humanity.

Your father must have caught onto this at some point because he'd frequently make excuses to call you to headquarters when he felt like you might be getting too close to Hoshina. Today was one of those days.

You had gotten the summon early this morning and you were annoyed but you knew you that as much as you wanted to rebel against your father as his daughter, as a soldier in his Defense Force you couldn't very well disobey a direct order from the Director General. Especially when no one knew the reason you were called to headquarters so regularly. So you went to him.

By the time you finally concluded your business with your father it was late (you refused to stay the night in his division and let him have anymore hold over your life as it was) and you were waiting for the next train back to the Third Division when you felt your comms buzzing in your pocket. You thought it was strange as everyone should be either asleep or going to sleep soon, but you popped the comms in anyway, eager to hear what was going on so late at night. The base was under attack. It was a Daikaiju. The Vice Captain was fighting him. And losing.

You start to get dizzy. Sweat trickles down your forehead. The world seemed to be blinking in and out. You shake your head trying to get ahold of yourself but you know it's no use. You still haven't learned to get your kaiju side under control and on the rare occasion when you slipped and went berserk only your father could bring you back from that place of darkness. You clench your fists, straining, and gripping onto what was left of your humanity but your lower half had already started to turn.

"No- don't. He needs me. I can't be rampaging in another division right now." You beg the beast inside you.

It doesn't listen.

You feel the transformation reach your neck, a growl already starting to rise up your throat.

"I said stop! Damnit, st-"

Your voice is no longer your own. All that's left of you is one half of your face now, and the beast is slowly closing in on it. It's hungry. It hasn't been let out in awhile.

You look up at the moon, blinking back tears, thinking it might be awhile before you see it again, before you're yourself again. You wonder how long it will take your dad to find you and you wonder if he will even be able to change you back this time. He was getting older, getting weaker. What if you killed him this time?

And what if when you woke up, if you ever woke up again, the Vice Captain was dead? What would you do with your life if you weren't listening for his footsteps in the hallways or listening for his laugh in the air? If he wasn't telling you a joke or complimenting your stance, would you make it through the day? If you went through life not ever having told him how you felt, would it still feel like you were living?

You start to spiral in your own dark thoughts as the transformation spreads across your face, but right before it hits your ear you here the comms crackling.

"Vice Captain! Come in, Vice Captain! Sir, please respond!" Okonogi. She's yelling for the Vice Captain. Something must've happened.

Your vision starts to go red. You punch the lamppost beside you, but you're surprised to find that it's your fist that hits the metal. Not the beast's. You look down. Only your legs are still transformed.

You actually laugh out loud. "That's more like it. Time to go." You jump once, and it propels you into the sky. You use the momentum to launch yourself towards the Third Division. Somehow your legs are faster than a moving train, bringing you bounding towards the training grounds in what seems like no time at all.

Before you can even think about the consequences of being half transformed on base where the officers are literally trained to kill kaiju like you, before you can even think about how your father will probably kill you himself for revealing the secret he's worked so hard to protect, you're already jumping in front of Hoshina as you transform your arms and block a blow that could've been deadly.

He doesn't even have time to be stunned, you're injured.

He jumps to his feet, concern on his face, as you spit blood. You've not fought anything in your kaiju form before (the most you've done is scare the shit out of some pigeons before your father found you and changed you back) and it takes some getting used to.

"Well fuck. That actually hurt, damnit!" You yell at the kaiju. It laughs at you. You raise an eyebrow. It seems to understand you. You're astounded but you don't care to think too much about it before you launch a punch at its abdomen.

It groans but then it chuckles. "Is that the best you've got?"

"Ah so you do talk. That's fucking creepy, not gonna lie." You punch its chest this time.

It staggers backwards and Hoshina takes advantage of the opening, slashing at its legs. It lands on its back.

You hurl yourself high into the air and then crash down hard on its head with a deafening blow that splits its skull. But it starts to slowly regenerate and it shakes you off of it. You land at the ground by Hoshina.

"So are we ever going to talk about the whole 'you being a half kaiju hybrid' thing?" He asks you, eyes still trained on the shuddering beast in front of him.

"Really? Now? We're a little busy Hoshina."

He laughs- he actually fucking laughs. "Oh really, because here I thought we were having a nice little tea party."

You roll your eyes but you can't help but smile at his poor comedic timing. "I'll treat you to some tea if you tell me where the damn core is."

He points to its back. "Lil fucker is hiding it in there."

You nod. "Got it."

The kaiju rises to its feet, ready for another round.

"Do me a favor and be bait, yeah?" You tell Hoshina and then before he can protest, you charge its back.

The kaiju swings at you but you duck.

"Oh I'm the fucking bait? Real classy." Hoshina grumbles but he complies, charging at its front, slashing at it and keeping it busy while you circle behind it.

You run up the stairs of a nearby building and when you reach the top, you launch yourself from the roof.

"This one is for making Hoshina bleed." You mutter under your breath before sending its organs flying as you rip through its flesh and pummel its core to bits. The aftershock sends you flying and you don't have time to land properly. You smack the floor on your side, tumbling in circles until you finally slow.

Your ribs feel like they're caving in but at least the kaiju is down for good. You lie in the dirt, coughing painfully and looking up at the night sky. You're fully human again, like the beast inside you curled up and went to bed, letting you feel the full force of the pain alone.

Hoshina rushes over to you. "Oh my god, are you okay?!"

You cough again. "Not sure if I'm up for that tea party anymore. Might've fucked up a lung or two."

He rolls his eyes. "You would make a joke at a time like this."

"And who was the one asking me stupid questions mid fucking fight?" You tease.

He laughs.

"So... are we going to talk about it now?" You swallow, wondering how he'll react to this new side of you.

He thinks for a moment. "Talk about what? As far as I know, a human saved me from the kaiju. And it looks like," He chucks a rock at the nearby drone, "The rubble badly damaged any footage that might've been captured."

You sigh, relieved, and relax against the ground.

"But... if there's anything you want to tell me later... when you're ready, I'll listen."

There were so many things you wanted to tell him and you being half kaiju was the least important of them. But you'd save that for another day, maybe when less of your limbs hurt.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"By the way, did you really brutally murder the kaiju just because it made me bleed? Your comms were on."

"Shut up, Hoshina."

[kp777]

By Max Richtman

Common Dreams - Opinion

July 30, 2024

Even after nearly six decades of Medicare’s overall success, we must continually protect it from conservatives’ attempts to cut and privatize the program.

Before Medicare was signed into law by President Lyndon Johnson 59 years ago today, nearly half of American seniors had no hospital insurance. Private insurance companies were reluctant to cover anyone over 65. Even fewer seniors had coverage for non-hospital services like doctor’s visits. Many of the elderly were forced to exhaust their retirement savings to pay for medical care; some fell into poverty because of it. All of that changed with Medicare.

In Medicare’s first year of coverage, poverty decreased by 66% among the senior population. From 1965, when Medicare was enacted, to 1994, life expectancy at age 65 increased nearly three full years. This was no coincidence. Access to Medicare coverage for those who were previously uninsured helped lift seniors out of poverty and extend their lives.

As with Social Security, workers would contribute with each paycheck toward their future Medicare benefits. Upon putting his signature on this new program, a keystone of the Great Society, President Johnson declared, “Every citizen will be able, in their productive years when they are earning, to insure themselves against the ravages of illness in old age.”

Project 2025, the right-wing blueprint for a second Trump presidency, would gut traditional Medicare by accelerating privatization and repealing drug price negotiation.

Medicare has been improved several times over the decades. In 1972, Americans with disabilities (under 65 years of age) became eligible for Medicare coverage—along with people suffering from chronic kidney disease needing dialysis or transplants. In 2003, prescription drug coverage was added to Medicare (though the program was prohibited from negotiating prices with drugmakers). The Inflation Reduction Act of 2022 finally empowered Medicare to negotiate prices with Big Pharma—and lowered seniors’ costs by capping their out-of-pocket expenses for prescription drugs and insulin.

Nearly 60 years after it was enacted, Medicare is one of the most popular and efficient federal programs. Ninety-four percent of beneficiaries say they are “satisfied” or “very satisfied” with their quality of care. Unlike many other federal programs, Medicare spends less than 2% of its budget on administrative costs.

Medicare isn’t perfect. It should be expanded to cover dental, hearing, and vision care. More urgently, though, the privatized version of the program, Medicare Advantage (MA), is gobbling up a larger share of the program despite myriad problems, including MA insurers overbilling the government and denying care that’s always offered by traditional Medicare. The Biden-Harris administration has been working to hold those private plans more accountable, but much remains to be done to protect traditional Medicare from efforts toward privatization.

Even after 59 years of Medicare’s overall success, we must continually defend Medicare against conservatives’ attempts to cut and privatize the program. Our founder, Rep. James Roosevelt, Sr. (D-Calif.), son of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, knew that Medicare (along with Social Security) would need continuous advocacy to withstand assaults from antagonistic political forces. That’s why the word “preserve” is in our organization’s name.

Many conservatives opposed Medicare from the start, labeling it “socialism” and “socialized medicine.” In 1962, Ronald Reagan warned that if Medicare were to be enacted, “One of these days you and I are going to spend our sunset years telling our children, and our children’s children, what it once was like in America when men were free.”

Today, the onslaught continues. The House Republican Study Committee’s (RSC) 2025 budget proposes to cut Medicare by an estimated $1 trillion over the next decade. The RSC would replace Medicare’s current system with vouchers, and push seniors into private plans that can and do deny coverage. Project 2025, the right-wing blueprint for a second Trump presidency, would gut traditional Medicare by accelerating privatization and repealing drug price negotiation.

Democrats by and large support protecting and even expanding Medicare. President Joe Biden tried to add dental, vision, and hearing coverage in his Build Back Better Act, but encountered resistance from Republicans and centrist Democrats. It’s still a laudable goal.

Republicans, for the most part, advocate cutting Medicare benefits and privatization. We endorsed Vice President Kamala Harris for president, because she knows the importance of Medicare to America’s seniors and people with disabilities—and has vowed to protect them. Former President Donald Trump, on the other hand, has been rhetorically all over the map on this topic, telling CNBC he is “open” to “cutting entitlements” but claiming to support Medicare. (His budgets as president called for billions of dollars in Medicare cuts.)

The 59th anniversary of Medicare is both an occasion for celebrating the program’s enormous successes over the past six decades—and a time to defend Medicare in the marbled halls of Washington, D.C., and at the ballot box this November.

Max Richtman is president and CEO of the National Committee to Preserve Social Security and Medicare. He is former staff director at the United States Senate Special Committee on Aging.

[alienpossession]

Bodies a Day 25: Choice

After my conditioning inside the model human for the past 24 hours, I'm now ordered to lay in the platform so they can extract me out from the model and then directed to my preferred bodies down on Earth. I guess this is the benefit for latecomer of a successful transplant project. We have influx of empties in our stock, and it leads to so many available option for me to choose from to ensure our project run smoothly and the continuation of the community ensured. Guess the First Settler did a bit too much with the extraction, they turned the whole college town population into empties to be used by the next batches without necessarily calculating that in order to fill 40,000 humans, we need at least 100 batch to land on Earth and started the infiltration, and I'm still the 34th Batch. But well, it's not like the First Settler known to be nothing but brute force after all, whenever they landed and no matter how much work they needed to do, they always ensured to finish the job. I heard that they settled into the lumberjack and some outcast of the town that lived nearby the woods as part of their ongoing mission of watching over newcomer and tracked whether the human government, especially the United States where we landed, aware of our presence.

Me....well, as I said, I have lots of choices available. The Committee directed me to become human male, and I spotted some desirable figures like these human male....or men that studied human's business and economic system in college. They're also known to be very active in social organization and sporting activities, which piqued my interest because it's such an interesting balance between community involvement but also full-time studying

There's also this group of younger but like-minded bunch of men to the earlier group, the description stated that most of them are pledges. They are also studying full-time per the description and still going to study for the next 3-5 years depending on the field they want to get into. Maybe I do want to learn longer? Hmm.....can't tell just yet

The other group of men are older and there's not much studying in their description. But one group is quite interesting because it stated that they are involved in an open relationship with the four of them as the core component. What does that mean? I did hear about human's sexual fluidity, but during my learning, it's stated that it's not really that common still despite recent documented spike in the past few years, especially in our landed geographical area.

The other group, well, aside from the explained "larger than average" built, I somehow found them to be rather plain. Yes they are strong and based on my notes, seemed like a desired version of men, but some others viewed them as obsessive or intimidating. I guess those kind of bodies deserved to be filled by some of the stronger member of my batch, they probably can put the body into better use or something

So, do you have any suggestion which group I should choose? It's your choice as much as mine, I really can't decide

[beardedmrbean]

The first known survivor of China’s forced organ harvesting campaign against religious prisoners said he was now ready to speak out and expose the “evil” of the Chinese Communist Party.

Cheng Pei Ming, 58, who will talk publicly for the first time in Washington on Friday, described how he still feels “extreme pain” 20 years after parts of his lung and liver were forcibly removed.

“I believed they would kill me. I’m not sure they thought I could survive, but I did,” Mr Cheng told The Telegraph as he took off his shirt to expose a scar that wraps around his chest all the way to his back.

Mr Cheng says he was detained and tortured for years by the Chinese state for practising Falun Gong, a spiritual movement founded in the early 1990s. 

The movement swept across the country, but was outlawed in 1999 and then brutally suppressed by the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), which branded it an “evil cult” and a threat to the state. 

Beijing has long viewed religious groups as a threat to social order and the party’s ideological grip on power. 

In the decades after Falun Gong was banned and its followers were persecuted, China’s organ transplantation industry exploded. Vital organs became readily available within a matter of days in state-run hospitals – a timeframe no national transplantation system elsewhere in the world has ever been able to achieve.

In 2019, an independent tribunal in London ruled that the Chinese government continued to commit crimes against humanity by targeting minorities, including the Falun Gong movement, for organ harvesting. 

The CCP has denied accusations of organ harvesting and repeatedly denied that Falun Gong practitioners have been killed for their organs.

But in 2021, UN human rights experts reported that along with Falun Gong practitioners, other minorities had been targeted, including Uyghurs, Tibetans, Muslims and Christians in detention in China.

Mr Cheng said he could not understand why they would crack down on a religion that promoted peace.

“Falun Gong teaches people to be good and to have compassion and empathy for all people. We mean no harm to society, the persecution against us should have never happened,” he said.

After 14 years of evading Chinese authorities, including five years in Thailand where he was granted UN refugee status, Mr Cheng reached the US in July 2020.

Mr Cheng was first arrested in September 1999. He said he was tortured and told to give up his faith and that when he refused he was expelled along with his family from his home in the eastern province of Shandong.

In the years that followed, he was “kidnapped by the CCP” five times, each time suffering “unbearable” torture, he said.  

“I remembered asking: ‘Why don’t you kill me instead?’ And they said: ‘It is too easy, we get great pleasure in torturing you’,” Mr Cheng said.

In 2002, he was sentenced to eight years in jail. He recalled seeing other Falun Gong inmates disappear. Some were sent to so-called “re-education” labour camps; others were tortured to death.

In July 2004, Mr Cheng said he was dragged into a hospital where agents from the CCP’s infamous 610 office – dubbed “China’s gestapo” – tried to make him sign consent forms. When he refused, they knocked him down and put him to sleep.

His family was told that he was undergoing surgery and had a 20 per cent chance of survival.

Mr Cheng woke up three days later, terrified, shackled to a bed, and with a 35cm incision across his chest. Transplant experts have since confirmed that scans show sections of Mr Cheng’s liver and left lung were surgically removed.

Two years later, prison guards took him back to hospital. “There was no reason for them to operate, so I understood I would be killed. My family were told I had swallowed knives and wasn’t likely to survive.”

But an unexpected opportunity presented itself for escape. His guard had fallen asleep, so Mr Cheng made a run for it. 

For nine years, “I lived a life of escape and hiding under false names”, he said, adding that the CCP “wanted to find men and kill me to cover up what they had done”.

He eventually escaped to Thailand where “I felt I could have been killed anytime”, Mr Cheng said. He only felt safe once he reached US soil in 2020.

In June, the US House passed The Falun Gong Protection Act, which aims to force an end to the persecution of Falun Gong by the CCP as well as forced organ harvesting from apprehended practitioners of the faith.

Mr Cheng, whose family largely remains in China, still cannot feel parts of his chest, and he struggles on a daily basis with shocks of pain that ripple through his body.

But he is now ready to tell his story. “I want the world to know how evil the CCP is. It does not only seek to harm people in China, but the world. I have to expose what has happened to the Falun Gong.”

Dr Charles Lee, a leading advocate for the Falun Gong movement, who himself was arrested and tortured for his beliefs by the CCP in 2003, told The Telegraph that the importance of Mr Cheng’s testimony cannot be overstated.

“We heard reports for decades about the extremely inhuman treatment Falun Gong faced, those that were tortured to death, their bodies cut open and organs missing. But now we have the first live witness.”

He added: “This should be an alarm to people and governments around the world that the CCP does not care for human lives.”

[fady-ahmad]

Urgent, it's important

My name is Fady Ahmed, and I am from Gaza. Like so many families in Gaza, my family and I have faced unimaginable loss. We have lost our homes, our security, and the life we once knew.

Before the 7th of October, we were a family of six—four sisters, two brothers—living together in Gaza, sharing moments of joy and love. But this war has shattered our lives, taking everything we held dear.

After the 7th of October, my family and I were forced to flee our home in Gaza City, seeking refuge in Khanyunis. My sister Manal’s building was demolished, leaving us with nothing but the clothes on our backs. We found temporary shelter with our sister Faten, but soon, Khanyunis too became unsafe as the invasion reached us. The house that once provided us warmth and safety was reduced to rubble.

My sisters’ Homes were all destroyed: Doaa’s Home, Rana’s Home and Faten’s Home, Manal’s Home

Desperate and with nowhere else to go, we moved to Rafah, believing it to be a safer place. But even there, tragedy struck. On the 8th of December, 2023, my beautiful 5-year-old daughter Mera was killed in a bombing. My wife’s leg was shattered, and I was severely injured. Physically, I survived, but the trauma has left deep scars on my soul. I’m now under anti-depressant medications, struggling to find the strength to carry on.

Our losses are beyond words. My daughter Lana, who is still so young, lost her right eye in the attack. Doctors in Turkey and Cairo believe there is hope—a chance to restore her vision with a corneal transplant. This is our only glimmer of hope in a sea of despair.

The war on Gaza has stolen our peace, our homes, and our loved ones. My family, including my mother, sisters, and their children, endured unimaginable hardships, forced to flee from one place to another, seeking refuge amidst the chaos. After multiple displacements and the destruction of their homes, they found themselves without shelter, without safety, and without hope.

In Rafah, the last place we thought we could find safety, we were bombed again, leaving us with nothing. We have exhausted every resource to support our family during this conflict. The high cost of living in Cairo, coupled with the expenses incurred from relocating and the devastation of our homes, has left us on the brink of despair.

We are in urgent need of long-term accommodation in Egypt, Medical Teatments for Lana, Sara and Heba where we can continue our journey in safety and peace.

In additions to school fees for all the children in our family as with no humanitarian residence permits, we face countless challenges—accessing basic services, finding employment, and even ensuring that our children can return to school and rebuild their lives.

Every word I write comes from the depths of my heart. I never imagined I would need to seek help like this, but the relentless grip of our circumstances has left us with no other choice. We are in a state of profound pressure and uncertainty, and we need your support to find a way forward.

Please, if you can, help us find a safe place to rebuild our lives. Your kindness could bring us the hope we so desperately need in these dark times.

[beardeddetectivepaper]

$4,836/$18,000

Help Hoda and Abdul Rahman Rebuild Their Lives and Fulfill Their Dream of Parenthood

Dear compassionate souls, My name is Hoda, and I am reaching out to you with a heart heavy with sorrow yet brimming with hope. Our journey has been one filled with hardships, dreams shattered, and a love that remains unyielding despite the cruelty of fate. My husband, Abdul Rahman, and I embarked on a journey of love and hope when we married in 2019, eagerly anticipating the joy of parenthood. However, fate had other plans for us. Despite our unwavering efforts and multiple visits to doctors over five long years, we faced the harsh reality of infertility. Driven by a relentless desire to hold our own child in our arms, we scraped every penny together to afford the costly treatment of in vitro fertilization. With the support of our families and the kindness of strangers, we finally gathered the funds necessary for the procedure. On April 15, 2023, a glimmer of hope illuminated our lives as I underwent the embryo transplantation procedure on my birthday. The joy of knowing that life was growing within me was indescribable. We named our precious son Omar, and our hearts overflowed with love and anticipation. However, our joy was short-lived as war engulfed our home, forcing us to flee for the safety of our unborn child. Amidst the chaos and devastation, Omar entered this world prematurely, his tiny body bearing the scars of conflict.

Despite our efforts to shield him from harm, Omar fell ill, his fragile health deteriorating rapidly. We watched helplessly as he struggled for every breath, praying for a miracle that never came. On April 15, 2024, exactly one year after his life began, Omar's journey came to a heartbreaking end.

Now, we find ourselves amidst the ruins of our shattered dreams, mourning the loss of our beloved son and the destruction of our home. With nothing left but the memories of Omar's fleeting presence, we cling to the hope of rebuilding our lives and fulfilling our dream of parenthood once more

*How You Can Help:** Your generous contributions will help us start anew, providing us with the means to relocate from Rafah, undergo the necessary medical treatments, and embark on the journey of parenthood once more. Every donation, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to realizing our dream. 1. **Relocation:** We urgently need funds to evacuate from Rafah, where our lives are marred by the shadows of loss and despair. Your support will provide us with the opportunity to find a safe and stable environment where we can rebuild our lives. 2. **Medical Treatment:** With your help, we can access the medical care and support we need to overcome the trauma of our past and embrace the promise of the future. Your contributions will enable us to undergo the necessary treatments to fulfill our dream of becoming parents once more. 3. **Emotional Support:** Your words of encouragement and solidarity offer us solace in our darkest hours. By sharing our story and offering your support, you become a beacon of hope in our journey towards healing and renewal. **Join Us in Rebuilding Our Lives:** Together, we can turn the ashes of tragedy into the foundation of hope. With your compassion and generosity, we can honor Omar's memory by embracing the gift of life and love once more. Thank you for standing with us in our time of need, and may your kindness be a guiding light in our journey ahead. With heartfelt gratitude, Hoda and Abdul Rahman

Detail how funds will be used.. The total amount is $18,000 .. as all know 3% of take from GFM after that Divided to To exit Gaza through Ya Hala Company Hoda 5000 Her husband, Abdul Rahman 5000 IVF opperation 3000 The remaining part is around 4000 to living and house rent during the pregnancy period

[inanewmoon]

Leaf's Ranma AU - Character Profile Uzumaki Saotome Tendo Ranma

Born around ten years after the destruction of Uzushiogakure at the conclusion of the Second Shinobi World War, to Uzumaki Nodoka and Saotome Genma, Uzumaki Ranma has been denied a permanent home since before they were born. To add to that, ever since they could walk, Ranma has been separated from their mother, taken on a more than a decade long training journey by their father.

While not officially a missing-nin, they spent most of their life on the move through elemental nations, only staying in smaller villages and taking odd missions with their father Genma. Their talent for taijutsu has earned them an entry in the bingo books as a footnote under Saotome Genma’s page as Saotome Ranma.

Known mission history includes a whole heap of D-ranks, a handful C-ranks and one B-rank that had Ranma facing off against the shinobi of Nadeshiko Village.

A training accident while trying to learn a Tanuki Transformation Technique at age six has barred Ranma from signing their name on the Tanuki summoning contract belonging to their father Genma, and messed up their proficiency in other transformation techniques, including the regular transformation jutsu.

It’s not known if Ranma has succeeded in signing any other summoning contracts, but Genma has reportedly been asking about the location of the Cat summoning contract since Ranma was eight years old and has stopped the inquiries after a visit to Nekomata Fortress.

Current place of residence - Konoha. Ranma has officially joined the Tendo Clan (engaged to Tendo Akane) and was given a rank of genin following a short evaluation of their skills in the academy, making them officially a shinobi of the Leaf.

Currently part of Team Yamato (also known as Team Four), with Hibiki Ryoga and Tendo Akane as their teammates. The newly minted team is yet to take their first mission.

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Art by the wonderful @beedokart 💙💙💙 See also https://linktr.ee/fernvbedek. I'll eventually ask her to draw all of the team four, be patient 💙 For Ryoga Hibiki, look here. And - Tendo Akane

---

This has been a draft of Tendo Ranma's profile for the Merger AU in which I have transplanted a handful of Ranma characters into Naruto (Dreaming of Sunshine) universe. I suspect that the knowledge of Dreaming of Sunshine is not gonna be needed, but I didn't wanna remove Shikako from the setting, since she's very dear to my heart. 💙 Leaf's Ranma... coming to an archive of our own... someday in the future.

This is part of a larger effort to showcase more of my writing, and an attempt to force myself to sit down and write. 💙

[racefortheironthrone]

Please tell me more about neighbourhood PMCs in renaissance Italy

It would be my pleasure! (My research into this owes a lot to the excellent Power and Imagination: City-States in Renaissance Italy by Lauro Martines.)

The first thing to note that, unlike the condottieri, these were not private military companies. Rather, the neighborhood military companies (in the sense of a military unit, rather than a profit-making entity) were self-defense organizations formed as part of a centuries-long political struggle for control over the urban commune between the signorile (the urban chivalry)/nobilita (the urban nobility) and the populo (the guilded middle class, who claimed to speak on behalf of "the people").

This conflict followed much the same logic that had given rise to the medieval commune in the first place. Legally, the communes had started as mutual defense pacts between the signorile and the cives (the free citizens of the city) against the rural feudal nobility, which had given these groups the military and political muscle to push out the marquises and viscounts and barons and claim exclusive authority over the tax system, the judicial system, and the military.

So it made sense that, once they had vanquished their enemies and established the commune as the sovereign, both sides would use the same tactic in their struggle over which of them would rule the commune that ruled the city. The signorile and nobilita formed themselves into consorteria or "tower societies," by which ancient families allied with one another (complete with dynastic marriage alliances!) to build and garrison the towers with the knights, squires, men-at-arms, and bravi of their households. These phallic castle substitutes were incredibly formidable within the context of urban warfare, as relatively small numbers of men with crossbows could rain down hell on besiegers from the upper windows and bridges between towers, even as the poor bastards on the ground tried to force the heavy doors down below.

To combat noble domination of communal government, achieve direct representation on the political councils, establish equity of taxation and regulate interest rates, and enforce legal equality between nobility and citizenry, the populo formed themselves into guilds to build alliances between merchants and artisans in the same industries. However, these amateur soldiers struggled to fight on even footing with fully-trained and well-equipped professional soldiers, and the guild militias were frequently defeated.

To solve their military dilemma, the populo engaged in political coalition-building with the oldest units of the urban commune: the neighborhoods. When the cities of medieval Italy were originally founded, they had been rather decentralized transplantations of the rural villages, where before people had any conception of a city-wide collective their primary allegiance was to their neighborhood. As can still be seen in the Palio di Siena to this day, these contrade built a strong identity based on local street gangs, the parish church, their traditional heraldry, and their traditional rivalries with the stronzi in the next contrade over. And whether they were maggiori, minori, or unguilded laborers, everyone in the city was a member of their contrade.

As Martines describes, the populo both recruited from (and borrowed the traditions of) the contrade to form their armed neighborhood companies into a force that would have the manpower, the discipline, and the morale to take on the consorteria:

"Every company had its distinctive banner and every house in the city was administratively under the sign of a company. A dragon, a whip, a serpent, a bull, a bounding horse, a lion, a ladder: these, in different colors and on contrasting fields, were some of the leitmotifs of the twenty different banners. They were emblazoned on individual shields and helmets. Rigorous regulations required guildsmen to keep their arms near at hand, above all in troubled times. The call to arms for the twenty companies was the ringing of a special bell, posted near the main public square. A standard-bearer, flanked by four lieutenants, was in command of each company."

To knit these companies organized by neighborhood into a single cohesive force, the lawyers' guilds within the populo created a state within a state, complete with written constitutions, guild charters, legal codes, legislative and executive councils. Under these constitutions, the populo's councils would elect a capitano del popolo, a professional soldier from outside the city who would serve as a politically-neutral commander, with a direct chain of command over the gonfaloniere and lieutenants of the neighborhood companies, to lead the populo against their noble would-be overlords.

And in commune after commune, the neighborhood companies made war against the consorteria, taking the towers one by one and turning them into fortresses of the populo. The victorious guilds turned their newly-won military might into political hegemony over the commune, stripping the nobilita of their power and privilege and forcing them either into submission or exile. Then they directed their veteran neighborhood companies outward to seize control of the rural hinterland from the feudal aristocracy, until the city had become city-state.

(Ironically, in the process, the populo gave birth to the condottieri, as the nobility who had lost their landed wealth and political power took their one remaining asset - their military training and equipment - and became professional mercenaries. But that's a story for another time...)

[fatphobiabusters]

Probably one of the cruelest jokes people say about fat people is when they laugh and tell a fat person, "You're not fat, you're just harder to kidnap."

Not only is that not true because kidnapping isn't just "Physically pick up a person and run," but it's pretty disgusting to make a fucked up joke about fat people having more safety than thin people when this thin-worshipping society goes out of its way to make sure to inflict as much violence on fat people as possible.

Fat people endure:

Medical abuse that leads to death, forced starvation, coerced mutilation, denial of eating disorder recovery resources, encouragement of said eating disorders in fat people, televised abuse against fat people for entertainment, raping fat people knowing full well that a fat rape victim is way less likely to receive help, the murders of fat people by police being excused as a death due to "ob*sity," bullying and harassment so intense that studies have shown fatphobia is the #1 reason children are bullied, suicide from all of that cruelty and harassment, sending children to fat camps so they can overexercise and starve for weeks on end and Disney can make an "inspirational" movie about it, putting 7 year olds on diets, putting locks on the fridge and cabinets so that fat children have to sneak and buy their own food just to be able to eat enough, forcing fat people to endure a wage gap that puts more fat people into poverty, normalizing and justifying fatphobic catcalling that easily leads to the fat person being harmed, not making clothing/infrastructure/furniture for anyone except thin people so that fat people die in a car crash because of a seat belt designed for thin bodies or on an amusement park ride by falling to their death as the the media cries about "the ob*sity epidemic," not including fat people in test trials for stuff like vaccines or medicine so that fat people can't rely on something like Plan B to work, not explaining that fact upfront either, denying fat people employment due to fatphobia, blaming a fat person's every health problem and disability on their fatness until the fat person dies from an unchecked tumor after years of telling doctors about their pain, not making evacuation plans with fat people in mind so fat people in hospitals and nursing homes are just left to die during an emergency or natural disaster, denying fat people surgeries and organ transplants because of bullshit excuses, calling depression and other mental illnesses a "symptom of ob*sity" and blaming the victim instead of what's actually causing the mental illnesses, putting fat children into foster care purely for being fat, the list goes on and on.

Fat people are not "harder to kidnap," and we sure as hell are not granted more safety and well-being in a world that would rather have more thin, conventionally attractive corpses than living, happy fat people.

-Mod Worthy

[darkmaga-retard]

Russian special forces have rescued hundreds of enslaved children from a factory farm in the Ukrainian Carpathian mountains, as President Putin’s campaign against the global adrenochrome industry intensifies.

According to Russian sources involved in the raid, the bust that liberated hundreds of children was made possible by the infiltration of an adrenochrome party organized by Marina Abramovic and attended by elites in Paris, France.

Before we dive in, subscribe to the channel on Rumble if you haven’t already, and join the People’s Voice Locals Community for exclusive and uncensored content.

Ukraine is the global capital of the child sex trade and investigators warn it is home to a network of adrenochrome factories.

Many children are born into the factory farm system, bred for slavery, without birth certificates or ID. These children never know what it is like to live a life without terror.

However, the adrenochrome industry is growing so fast it requires a constantly growing supply of children to satisfy the urges of the elite pedophiles and addicts.

This is why the streets of towns and cities across Ukraine are lined with missing children posters.

Russian President Putin formed an elite adrenochrome task forced earlier this year, expaining that Zelensky’s Kiev regime has been earning hundreds of millions of dollars per year by keeping children in degrading factory farm conditions and selling them to the highest bidder on the international market – no questions asked.

According to those on the ground in Ukraine, these children are sold as sex slaves to elite pedophiles and those who don’t find buyers are “carved up like discarded waste,” and their organs are harvested and sold for use at European and Israeli transplant centers.

[yokohama-crackhouse]

Hello,👋

‎‏I hope you are doing well.

Iam Rola Isam a mother of four children in Gaza.

‎‏I am writing to you today with hope and trust in your compassionate hearts. My family is facing very difficult circumstances due to the war in gaza, and we are in urgent need of assistance after the occupation destroyed our home in north of gaza.

I am seeking funding for my campaign to save my children, and any reblogging of my post on my account can make a big difference.

Asking for help is not easy, I ask for a small donation of only 50€ from each person, 50€ will save my family from death in Gaza

‎‏Please, if you can repost my message or contribute in any way, you will give us

a lifeline in these difficult times.

The situation here is getting worse day by day. ‏

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any support you can offer.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-me-complete-my-treatment-and-rebuild-my-destroyed-home

‼️ LOW DONATIONS

€496 raised of €60,000 target

ONLY 11 DONATIONS SINCE APRIL

Please donate if you can to help save Rola Abu Hashem and her family after the occupation destroyed their home!!

Rola's family consists of her husband, Tamer Abu Mostafa, and her four very children: Rayan, 8 years old; Ibraheem, 5 years old; Karmel, 3 years old; and her little daughter who is only about 9 or 10 months old, that has been forced to subsist on canned foods due to malnutrition. Additionally, Rola also requires treatment, urgently needing a bone transplant in her lower jaw. Please donate if you can, even $5 helps. And if you can't donate, send it to someone who can.

[blueikeproductions]

On the topic of EarthSpark factions, let’s also consider the Autobots.

Hasbro, understandably, wants to mostly use characters who sell so Optimus, Arcee, Bumblebee & Grimlock tend to be the Autobots primarily used the most in things. Lately Wheeljack and Elita-1 have become more common fixtures, and while it’s preferable to have Elita get a chance in the spotlight again over the somewhat forced Windblade and Pyra Magna back in the IDW days, it’s still a big symptom of modern storytelling. The insistence to use the same five or so Autobots over and over again is proving to be stale. It wasn’t THAT long ago we had a more varied cast but there’s only so much you can do with the same five guys and gals over and over again without completely rewriting them (Arcee being a particular stand out due to Prime and IDW).

Like the Decepticons, it feels like the Autobot cast in EarthSpark is miscast.

For instance, if GHOST is meant to be part of human relations anyway, shouldn’t some of the Autobots be public service vehicles? This show is Rescue Bots for Teens, own up to it, man!

Like where’s Inferno & Red Alert?

While never really depicted as a gay couple before, if you want an organic relationship, these two are it. It wouldn’t take much to pivot these two into being husbands. Plus, Red Alert’s paranoia could easily (and rightfully in some cases) played off against Megatron and other GHOST aligned Decepticons.

Human/TF romance is also something that could be played up with Powerglide and Sea Spray.

Powerglide for the aerial recon and support (it’s not like they do anything with Wheeljack’s drones in show anyway) with Astoria being his semi eccentric co-pilot and one of the rich sponsors that helps fund GHOST.

Alanna and Sea Spray I had it were part of GHOST, who research aquatic areas of interest related to the Decepticons.

Tow-Line! A personal fav of the RiD01 Autobots. Still following his No Parking! mantra, he’s mostly comic relief towing away Decepticons, Terrans and fellow GHOST operatives who park irregularly.

Quickshadow! Pretty much a straight transplant of her Rescue Bots self, and the straight woman to a lot of the antics of the Terrans and her teammates. Notably she’s the only Rescue Bots Autobot to make the leap to the big kids table in this scenario.

Smokescreen! I see him as a hybrid of his Prime and G1 self. Young and impulsive, but having a bit of a smoking problem which is useful for confusing Decepticons. Hes largely kept in check by Quickshadow and his human partner Jack Darby.

Strongarm! Transplant of her RiD15 self, slightly less rigid but no less by the books. She’s in on the Terrans, and drops by the Maltos to teach them what she knows of what it means to be an upstanding Robot in Disguise. The bit with her and the Terrans is a toned down version of IDW Tailgate being taught by the fastidious IDW Ultra Magnus about the Autobot code.

(Frankly I’m terrified Prowl’s upcoming role as of typing will make him an ACAB type due to IDW and current events, so Strongarm is my choice of having a competent cop that’s doing what’s she’s supposed to be doing.)

And to round us out: Grapple. The artsy fartsy type of the GHOST Autobots who leads reconstruction efforts with a squad of other construction themed Transformers like Bulkhead, Quickmix & the Constructicons. Very detail oriented and a perfectionist, buildings MUST be up to his standards to the letter. Grapple, Jawbreaker & Thrash tend to be played off in work/play scenarios where they learn from each other.

I do understand that the Terrans are meant o be the standouts and the Decepticons, due to favoritism, are getting the oddballs, but it bothers me that the GHOST aligned Autobots especially feels like an afterthought (because in a fashion they kinda were…).