#future slavery

[womenstruation]

One of the biggest ways young girls are exploited in the global South is via the “house girl” culture. I’m speaking on how it works in Nigeria as that is my experience but I know it happens all around the world.

“House girls” are domestic servants, usually late teens though I have seen girls as young as six or seven, employed by middle and upper class families. They do everything from cooking and cleaning to caring for the elderly and young children and get very little wages. Most times these girls never see a penny of their wages- it’s all sent to their families. In Nigeria, these girls tend to come from very impoverished families living in border towns and often times do not speak the language before being sent to these families that exploit them.

Due to their young age, lack of any family nearby or money, poor education, and Nigeria’s legal system, these girls are overwhelmingly subject to sexual abuse at the hands of their male employers. In fact there is a common trope in media of the “husband cheating with the house girl and replacing the “madam” of the house. And when these men impregnate these girls, they are sent back to their villages in shame while the cycle continues.

They also face lots of other abuse. One of my mother’s friends was a “house girl” in the 70s when she was just thirteen and she was only given mouldy food and left overs to eat for most of her childhood. she once told me of a time where she was so thirsty, she drank the dirty water her abusers had used to wash their hands. I have also seen “house girls” physically beaten by their abusers and subject to horrific punishments- once as a child I saw a very young girl forced to ride in the boot of a car while all the employers children threw their imported backpacks at her.

There have also been situations in which families immigrate and arrange to bring their house girls with them. They continue to abuse them and when these girls manage to break free, they face deportation and further exploitation.

Of course such experiences are usually less common but the hiring of house girls is not viewed as the exploitation it is. Some people, my parents included, seem to view themselves as saving these girls from their lives in the village where they would get married young and live in poverty with lots of children. But how is it saving them to deprive them of education and enslave them? It is said that it is easy to recognise a house girl: shaven heads, old and dirty clothes and a scarily small stature. They look nothing like girls who have been saved.

[theevilqueen69]

“Poor Carli.”

“What? Looks like she’s about to have a mind blowing orgasm.”

“Yeah. In front of everyone she knows. And that’s not the worst part.”

“?”

“Isabelle is recording everything and she’s the other brides ex.”

[transdimensional-void]

the thing is, if the unsullied really believed they were free, she would not have an army of 8,000. like, we are talking 8,000 individual human beings with 8,000 different backstories, personalities, hopes and dreams…

especially considering how traumatic their training is, there must be a (significant) number who would gladly leave fighting behind forever—if truly given the chance.

we know their training doesn’t really strip them of all individuality. some of them choose to reclaim their original names or make up new ones. in the past, when sold in too-small groups, their training would fade and they’d assimilate to whatever group they found themselves with. they do things like overindulging in food, stopping by a tavern for a drink, seeking out intimacy with women. in short, despite their traumatic pasts, they are still humans with human desires and motivations.

if they really believed they were free, some percentage would want to return home, some to travel to places they have always wanted to see, some to settle down, find love, raise families. some may be in love already and dream of a future together. some must have family who are also enslaved—like missandei—and dream of finding and freeing them.

but we’re supposed to believe that, given a choice to do absolutely anything they wanted with the rest of their lives, every last one of them chose to *checks notes* keep doing the same thing they were doing when enslaved? all of them? really? All Of Them?

unless, of course, they didn’t actually have a choice…

[paingoes]

Cuckoo Egg

(continued from here)

(Content: institutionalized slavery, military content, minor character death, fear, begging, lot of crying, blood)

tags: @echo-goes-mmm @sowhumpshaped @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @teachunks @4th-dimensional-writer

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

She leaves it there, too. She disappears again. It bleeds continuously onto the table, staining the sleeves of his uniform. He has to keep it perfectly still to stop the pain from reigniting. He sobs dryly.

The door opens again. Nicolette slinks in. She’s carrying a glass full of clear liquid. He tries to apologize again, to beg. She quiets him.

“It’s just water,” she says. With his hands bound, she has to bring the glass to his lips for him to drink. He flinches, fully convinced she will break it off in her mouth. But her hands are careful.

“If you lose a lot of blood, you get thirsty,” She explains, “And you’ve been crying a lot.”

He drinks the whole thing. She pulls the glass back, placing it on the table.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cillian says weakly. This time, she does a worse job masking her surprise.

“You’re welcome,” she says slowly, “Are you ready to talk now?”

He tries not to cry again, to immediately lose whatever hydration he just gained.

“I told you,” he whines.

 She makes a small noise at the back of her throat, “Unfortunately, I don’t have another knife.”

“Wait-“

She plucks the knife out from the table, through the layer of flesh. It hurts just as bad going out. The blood pours with renewed force. Cillian screams. 

She doesn’t get back up on the table this time. It’s too soiled now. She doesn’t want the layers of accumulated blood to strain her clothes. Cillian recoils as she presses the knife flat against his uniform, wiping his own blood on the fabric. The metal catches the gleam.

“Please stop,” he gasps. 

“I’d like to.” Nicolette is right beside him, leaning on the same side of the table that he’s chained up on. All the blood has shocked him. All the terror.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly, going into a kind of trance, “I’m trying, please. I’m trying to be good.”

“Do it, then. I’ll let you rest after. Give me something.”

“I don’t know,” he practically yells. His voice breaks, “I am domestic. I’ve never been in a warzone before. I don’t know anything.”

She holds the knife to his throat. He sobs, barely flinching.

“I don’t want to die over this. It was just supposed to be a day trip. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my choice.”

“What do you mean?” The knife moves down a little, more to the collar than the jugular. It digs into his chest, not quite breaking the skin, but still thorny and painful.

“I don’t-“ he blinks back tears, cutting himself off. It’s so hard to speak now. The pressure in his throat has grown so immense.

Nicolette cuts him, unexpectedly. He jumps in pain and shock, forcing the dagger along a longer trail. It cut through the clothes, along his chest. Its shallow, but it bleeds heavily. His hands clench up reflexively. The muscles tensing triggers pain within the new wound. 

“Stop,” he pleads. She withdraws the knife. He wants the pain stop now, not just the interrogation. But the cuts still throb and burn. There’s nothing anyone can do for that. It takes him a minute to catch his breath. A moment too long and Nicolette presses the knife to the other side of his chest.

“I was only here as a punishment,” he chokes out. His face burns. It’s such a deep instinct for him to try and evade it. The shame cuts through him. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages, “I don’t- I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not a soldier. I’m not. It was just to punish me. I’m sorry.”

He can hardly see her through his tears, “You don’t believe me.”

Without moving the knife from its spot on his chest, she traces her hand around the bare skin of his neck. He winces, expecting her to tighten the grasp. She doesn’t. She’s looking for something.

“No dog tag. Cillian, what’s your full name?”

“I don’t have one.”

The knife enters, just a little.

“I don’t, I swear. They didn’t give me one.” He rushes the words out.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” his face burns, again, deeper, “My master.”

He hates how the word feels in his mouth, but it gets her to take the knife out. 

“No name on the uniform, either. All the others had one.”

He cringes as she realizes she is talking about the dead bodies of the soldiers he’d come with. He wonders where they’re keeping them now.

Nicolette slides off the table, turning back towards the door. Cillian can’t see her expression though the tears. Even if he could, it wouldn’t tell him much.

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

She returns quicker than he expected, but it still feels like hours have gone by. Cillian had calmed down a little, just enough to stop crying. Her sudden reappearance dashed his progress. She was trailed by two men. 

“Please don’t, please, please,” Cillian panicked, his imagination already running wild.

“Tell them what you told me,” her voice is more urgent now, almost beseeching, “Why you were in the desert.”

“I don’t know!” Cillian’s voice rose in frustration, his anger only slightly subdued by the blood loss.

“No. You, specifically. You know. Tell them.” She insisted.

If his hands were free, he’d have brought them to his face, in spite of the way the blood would smear. He wants to hide.

“They sent me on the mission as a punishment. I didn’t come by choice. I’m not a soldier.” His breathing is heavy and uneven. It makes his voice pitch.

Nicolette exchanges a look with the men she brought with her. They eye the wounds he’s been given. Without any words sharped between them, they all turn to leave. Cillian collapses back in the seat, too exhausted to live.

They return shortly after and without Nicolette. There is not much in terms of discussion, but one wraps a piece of cloth around his hand and another on his elbow, stopping the blood flow and cutting off circulation. It’s a little late for that. The cuffs are undone from the table, but not removed from his wrists.

“Where are we going?” Cillian says weakly

“Infirmary. There’s been a mistake,” The man says, not exactly looking at him. It doesn’t matter. Cillian can’t even hold his head up.

=======

They find the brand quickly. Cillian had forgotten it was even there, it was the last thing on his mind. He had put a lot of effort into pretending it didn’t exist. In this instance, it saves him.

Their tone changes immediately. It is not one of apology or of outrage, but of hushed guilt. They can’t even look him in the eye. Still, he counts himself lucky just to have been left alone. The cuffs come off. They strip the bloodied uniform from his back so they can treat the shallow chest wounds. The medics there wrap his hand in a cloth bandaid. They do not seem to be in any hurry to get him a new shirt, but some of the desert heat seeps through the walls and it’s not at all unpleasant. The bed is so soft. He sits on the edge of it, still party curled in on himself. He rubs at the flesh where the metal bit him. His skin is still stained a bit pink.

He doesn’t hear it when Nicolette returns. She seems to maintain some barrier between herself and Cillian the entire time. She crosses her arms over the top of his headboard and rests her chin on top of them. Cillian jumps, scooting closer to the foot of the bed.

“Does it hurt, Cillian?” She says in the same emotionless voice. He cringes a little.

“No, ma’am,” He answers fearfully. It was true, though. The shot they gave him made his whole body numb. There’s a strange tingling feeling where the pain should be.

“Don’t call me that. I don’t like it anymore.” Her eyes are so wide. Cillian doesn’t respond.

“You are very upset with me,” She observes.

“I told you,” he hisses. He can’t hold it in. He wants to apologize for it immediately, but to his surprise, she speaks first.

“You told me what anyone in your position would say.” She readjusts herself, pulling one hand free to brush her hair back, “All the others had stories just like it.”

He shakes his head. She keeps going.

“You have to understand, Cillian. There’s nothing we find more despicable than an evil coward. Someone who can inflict pain onto others but can’t take it themselves. You’d be surprised how often we see it among the ranks. It needs to be stomped out.”

“But I didn’t do that.” Cillian says and feels as if he’s right back in the cell.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She still doesn’t blink, but her lips press into a thin line. 

The apology snaps him out of it. He’s not any less angry, but he is less afraid. He wants to cry again.

“My hand is never going to heal.” He clutches the cloth tightly. He might as well get her while he has her, before she can change her mind.

“It will,” Nicolette insists. She holds up her own palm. A jagged scar runs down the center of it.

“One of the most sensitive parts of the body, you know,” She speaks without feeling.

Cillian shivers. He did know.

“Are you going to let me go now?” He asks quietly. The room feels colder.

“Go where?” She tilts her head in that familiar motion, smooth and uncanny. 

He blinks. Back to his master, of course. Where else would he go? Nicolette eyes the brand, a deep purple against his tan skin.

“I don’t think so, Cillian,” She shakes her head, closes her eyes.

“I think we should find you new clothes.”

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot #27

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: oral dub-con, implied non-con, starvation, violence

Master and his friends had passed out, finally. After hours and hours of drinking and sex and entertainment, they had fallen asleep. 

It was late, but he couldn’t bring himself to rest. He lay on the floor, naked and cold, dried cum sticky on his sore thighs.

He stared up at the ceiling. His throat hurt, angry bruises blossoming over his skin. One of Master’s friends, Mr. Horneswood, had slammed his head against the floor, and it was only now that his vision had quit fading in and out and his nosebleed had stopped.

Master had never let them be so violent with him before. Beatings and getting choked was nothing new, and Master had chastised them for going too far several times. But not today.

He really thought they were going to kill him this time. He’d never passed out from being strangled before, and they had never hit his head until now, much less slamming it into the hard marble floor. Twice.

Hunger rumbled in his stomach.

He turned his head to see the table. It was half covered in near empty bottles and glasses, but there was food at the end.

He licked his lips. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and if everyone was asleep…

He slowly got up, wincing as he went. Master wouldn’t notice if a few rolls went missing. 

Master had put out so much food, and his friends were more interested in getting drunk, so nearly all of of it was untouched.

He ate cheeses and fruit, pastries and rolls, and even dared to sneak some of the delicious roasted duck.

It wasn’t until he was full, sitting next to the table, that he realized.

Master had forgotten his chains.

Usually Master made sure he was in shackles when his friends came to visit, just to be certain he couldn’t get away from their lust.

Not tonight. Tonight he was unrestrained. He hadn’t even noticed until now.

He looked back at Master and his friends. They were still completely passed out, sprawled out on couches and slumped in armchairs.

He could run. There was nothing stopping him.

Nothing, except… what if Master caught him? He would be so angry. Master would beat him to death if he left.

They’ll kill you if you stay, said a tiny part of him. You know they will. You can’t keep doing this.

He bit his lip. Master was all he knew, his everything. It was the only thing he was good at; serving as his slave was his entire purpose. It was what he was made for.

What else could there possibly be?

You are going to die here.

The tiny part was right.

He grabbed his discarded clothes, tugging on the threadbare shirt, boxers, and pants Master had allowed him. 

He stole a cloak off the coat rack and ran out the front door, pulling the hood over his hair.

He ran, and ran, and ran, and his legs hurt and his head pounded but it was better than death and blood and Master.

___________________

He should have stolen some shoes. He limped along, blood from the pads of his feet staining his trail. 

Dawn had come and gone, but he didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop moving.

He avoided the roads, instead sticking to the woods. He couldn’t risk being seen yet. Master had horses, and money, and might pay someone to look for him.

It was a hot day. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked his clothes, the salt stinging the cuts on his legs courtesy of the wilderness.

He tripped over a stone early in the night, and torn a toenail clean off, which hurt like hell.

His legs were sore too, knees on fire and thighs chafing from the dried cum and fabric rubbing the skin. 

Maybe it would be worth it to find some water and rest.

___________________

After hours of trekking through the woods, he heard running water. He picked up the pace, jogging towards the sound.

It was a small creek, secluded and quiet. Good.

He stripped off his clothes and waded in. It was freezing cold, goosebumps forming on his skin. He crouched down and drank some of the water, soothing his dusty throat.

He splashed some of the water on his face, wiping away the sweat. He washed off the best he could, and crawled out of the creek. There was a flat rock nearby, and he laid the cloak down on top of it. 

A few hours of rest couldn’t hurt.

___________________

He followed the creek after his nap. It would get to a river eventually, and maybe lead to a town where he could beg for some scraps.

He should have stolen the rest of the food at Master’s house. Idiot.

The creek did get bigger, but instead of bringing him to a river, it ran by a traveler’s campsite. The road must be close.

The campsite had just been used, fresh but cold ashes in the firepit, and fresh horse manure still buzzing with flies.

There were berry bushes nearby (unfortunately inedible ones), and he was struck with a thought.

His white hair was identifiable. No one had white hair, Master said so. Master said he was so pretty with white hair. It was why he was allowed to exist; it made him good enough to live despite being a stupid slave who couldn’t do things right.

Master could find him if his hair was still white.

He pulled off the berries, crushing them in his hands. He slathered his hair with them, staining the white to brown. Much better. He pulled his hood back up and followed the horse tracks to the road.

___________________

The road led to a city, and he kept his head down passing through the gates. The guards didn’t even look at him.

There was a tavern just next to the gates, and the smell of food made him hesitate. It was a busy place, even had some stables attached.

He bit his lip.

He didn’t have any money. He went around the stables, and there was a dumpster out back. He peered into the trash, but he couldn’t see anything he could eat. Damn.

The back door to the tavern opened, and he backed away. Not fast enough, because the tavern owner spotted him immediately.

He scrambled away, but she grabbed him by the arm.

“What’re you doing?” She growled. “You a nasty little thief?” She shook his arm, and he whimpered, shaking his head.

“I- I was just hungry-”

She let go of him and he stumbled backwards into the ground. “‘M sorry! I just wanted to look in your trash!” He started to cry.

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms, staring him down.

“Please don’t call the guard,” he begged, sobbing. “I’ll go away, I swear.”

“I don’t like beggars,” she said. “So come here.”

She was going to hit him, and he deserved it for bothering her. He shakily got to his feet, and limped forward.

“There’s a pile of dishes in the sink. Scrub ‘em.”

“W-what?”

“You scrub the plates,” she pointed at him, “and you get food. That way you ain’t beggin’.”

“Thank you! Tha-”

“Shut up.” She turned and walked inside, and he followed.

There was in fact a sink piled full of dishes, and he got to work scrubbing them clean. The kitchen was hot, but he didn’t dare take off his cloak. He was so hungry he was lightheaded, and the smell of food was torture to the gnawing ache in his belly.

The dishes kept coming, and he ignored the strange looks from the wait staff.

After a few hours, the tavern owner handed him a package wrapped with paper.

“Get out.”

He left without argument, opening the package and eating as he walked.

The sandwich was the best thing he ever tasted.

___________________

The second town he came across, the innkeeper let him sleep in the stables in exchange for scrubbing stains out of sheets. 

The third city tossed him out before he could offer anything, and he stole some apples from an orchard by the road before getting scared off by barking dogs.

He had a bad feeling about this next town. 

The innkeeper was at the counter, and it was not busy at all. It creeped him out. “How many nights?” asked the keeper, a flat tone to his voice as he scribbled in his ledger.

“I, um. I don’t have any money,” he admitted, “but um, is there anything I can do for you?”

The innkeeper slammed the book shut, and he jumped. The innkeeper looked him up and down, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m just hungry,” he said weakly, “do you have any scraps?”

“Nope. Get out.” 

“Please,” he tried again. “I’ll do anything.”

The innkeeper stood up. “I said leave.” He began to shove him outside, and he stumbled, bare heels digging into the wood.

“I’ll blow you,” he blurted, and the innkeeper paused. He held his breath. Why did he offer that?

The innkeeper grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the back.

The innkeeper tossed him across the room. He swallowed, his mouth going dry. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The innkeeper stalked forward, and he dropped to his knees, tongue lolling out. The innkeeper unbuckled his belt and he knew what to do.

The innkeeper was rough and impatient, and he let the innkeeper fuck into his throat. He just wanted it over. The man grunted, finishing into his mouth, and he was hungry enough to swallow the cum without hesitation.

“Good enough,” said the man, tucking himself back into his pants, and relief flooded him. “Wait here.”

He got a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread for the trouble.

“Next time offer your ass,” said the innkeeper with a nasty grin, “and maybe I’ll let you sleep the night.”

He scrambled for the door, laughter trailing behind him. There wasn’t going to be a next time.

___________________

There was a next time.

There were several next times, all of which he tried to avoid but couldn’t if he wanted to eat.

He didn’t sleep in the cities anymore, too scared after someone forced themselves on him while he slept exposed in the stables.

That time, the innkeeper was even angry to find him still in the hay the next morning, and had used a horsewhip to punish and chase him out.

He trudged along the road.

Gods, he was so hungry. He felt faint, a chill to his bones despite the sun beating down on him.

He’d been heading north the whole time, and now the cities and towns were few and far between.

The last stop was pleasant, the woman who owned the lodge only asking him to sweep the floor in exchange for a bowl of chicken and rice.

That was a week ago.

The berry bushes along the road were bare now, the birds plucking them empty. He chewed on tree leaves and ate dandelions when he could, but it did little for his stomach.

Please, he prayed to the gods, I know none of you care, but please.

Maybe he should have stayed with Master.

He shook the thought from his head. Anything was better than Master.

Even if it was starving to death in the wilderness.

___________________

The road became thin and rough. It narrowed down to a single cart wide and he wondered if he had walked to the end. But over the horizon was a blurry shape beneath the setting sun, and he dared to hope it was either a village or that he was finally dying and was hallucinating.

He kept walking.

It was a village, with an inn.

He stumbled through the door as nightfall fell.

The tavernkeeper was at the counter, and there was a small crowd in the dining room.

“Please,” he slurred, ready to offer whatever was left of him.

But the tavernkeeper held up a hand to stop him.

“I’ve heard of you,” he said, and his heart sank. Did Master know too? “You’ll do anything for a meal and a bed for the night, right?”

Not necessarily a bed, but he nodded, the effort making his head pound. 

“I want a private conversation with you in the morning,” said the keeper, his expression hard to read. “That’s all. I'll even throw in breakfast afterwards.”

He stared at the tavern keeper.

“Yes, sir,” he rasped. No one had ever offered him breakfast. Was it a trick? Too keep him here longer, so that Master would come and drag him away?

The keeper gestured for him to sit at the bar, and disappeared into the kitchen.

He returned quickly with a bowl of stew and a crust of bread, and, of all things, a mug of warm cider. 

He never had cider before. Master never allowed him to drink.

The tavern keeper told him where his room (a whole room? with a bed? and a lock?) was, and left him alone to eat.

The food was amazing, and he had to stop himself from scarfing it down and making himself sick. He’d made that mistake before, and completely lost his meal. He remembered crying over the vomit.

The bed was just as good as the food, but he couldn’t close his eyes.

What if the innkeeper told Master where he was? How long would it take Master to come for him?

He rolled over in the bed.

Surely the tavernkeeper wanted more than just talking.

If he were smart, he’d sneak out before dawn. But the keeper promised breakfast, and he wasn’t smart.

He couldn’t pass up two meals in a row. It was too tempting.

He thought about the mysterious generosity of the cider, and the sweet taste of the apples used to make it.

This could be his last night alive before he died by his Master’s hands.

He cried himself into a fitful sleep.

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @starfields08000 @littlespacecastle @mylovelyme @whump-cravings @zeewbee @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians @fanastyfinder @roblingoblin285 @whumpzone @snakebites-and-ink @astrokea @magdalena-writes @latenightcupsofcoffee @tobiaslut @whumpsoda @loserwithsyle

[hold-him-down]

“You can hold out a little longer.”

from this ask game

Notes: follows this piece in the timeline, a couple days later

TW: dehydration discussed, non-realisitc-mafia shit

✥ ✥ ✥

“He can hold out a little longer,” Ivan says, peering through the blacked out windows of the Land Rover. 

“I must disagree,” Mikhail, from the other end of the phone line, tells him. “Respectfully, sir.”

Respectfully, Ivan thinks with a laugh. The fucking joke of a doctor has gone soft in his time with the family, but he is one of the few who tolerate the particular brand of bullshit that his boys get into, and so Ivan has let him hang around. It is getting tired, though.

“Do you think I can control the fucking traffic, Mikhail?” he asks, rubbing his temples. 

The doctor, wisely, remains silent. 

Ivan groans, then leans forward in the car, turning his attention to the driver. “Think you could,” he says, gesturing around the cars. It is grass and cement, and fuck these guys, he thinks.

“Not if you don’t want to get into it with the cops,” the driver says.

“I will make note of this. Can you say it again, louder, for Doctor Mikhail Makarov, Board Certified Pain In My Ass?” 

The driver chuckles, to which Ivan smiles, because it was a joke, even though he can practically hear Mikhail's offense. I must disagree. Ivan puts the air quotes around it in his head and leans back in his seat, watching the trees move very slowly out the window.

“Sir,” Mikhail says. Ivan puts the phone on speaker and closes his eyes. His boy can and will hold out. He has not eaten in three days or had a drink in two, but Ivan has looked this up online and it is no big fucking deal because he can last three, at minimum, according to people on the internet. Plus, Ivan thinks, he’s healthy, so he can probably go four. “The director said if you kill–"

“Oh, fuck that director,” Ivan snaps. “Those rules do not apply here. If he dies, that is not my problem.” 

On the other end, Mikhail sucks in a deep breath. It is for dramatics and nothing else.

“I will be home when I get home, and we will make sure he gets more than enough water at that time.”

He disconnects the call and tosses it to the side. The reality is, he has thought about this for the entirety of his trip. He wonders, idly, how much water he can pump into one Leo-shaped body and thinks, no better time than now to find out.

[whumpsoda]

Intake Paperwork: Wesley

Masterlist cw: dehumanization, bbu/bbu adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, mentions of sedation, implied future noncon, kidnapping

——————

SUBJECT: 369719

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 12.15.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 1:44 AM

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 014, [REDACTED], USA

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Eugene Gabriel Reyes

AGE: 20

DATE OF BIRTH: 03.28.XXXX

HAIR: Dark Brown

EYES: Brown

HEIGHT: 5’10”

WEIGHT: 145 lbs 

SEXUALITY: Gay

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject attending school on a sports related scholarship. Subject refused to disclose information on sex life, or any other details.

HOBBIES: Subject refused to report, providing only various expletives as his response.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject has shown to be increasingly aggressive as well as violent, taking any measure possible to repeatedly attempt an escape. Subject has shown to be a danger to those around him, recommended and requested to be kept in solitary for the entirety of his training.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Angela Reyes, mother, and Gabriel Reyes, father. The couple was reported to have been divorced for 16 years. Both are still living.

SIBLINGS: Lewis Reyes, brother, five years older and living.

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Involuntary. 

ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject was apprehended after a night out with friends during his walk home. Subject fought back relentlessly before being injected with a sedative, although not before giving an employee a black eye. Subject was reported to have made continuous noise as an attempt at resistance during the transfer to the WRU facility.

CONTRACT SIGNED: 12.15.XXXX 2:58 PM

ASSIGNED HANDLERS: 

           PRIMARY: Amanda Reeves, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

           SECONDARY: Jermey Martinez, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

SIGNATURE PROVIDED INVOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT DISPLAYED MULTIPLE SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING, MOST NOTABLY A BROKEN NOSE.

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Eugene Reyes, aka 369719

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $150,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE:  $800,000 USD 

ADDED FEES: $50,000 AGORAPHOBIA TRAINING FEE

REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance, Agoraphobia

COMMENTS:

This one’s gonna be a pain in my ass for a while, I’m sure of it. He already is, and we haven’t even begun his training. The drip will just make his fight stronger, his desperation ever present. I’ll get him under control though, as fast as possible. I always do. I can already see him groveling at my feet, quiet and docile with a head stuffed full of cotton. I imagine agoraphobia training being an interesting perk to this trainee, though.

[nando161mando]

[diaryofaphilosopher]

It is not a coincidence that the legacy of five hundred years of settler colonialism, genocide, slavery, apartheid, and systemic racial discrimination is climate change, mass extinction, desertification, deforestation, and the increasing toxicity of the air, water, and land. They demonstrate a shared desire to control and eliminate that which is feared in the human and non-human world – the unknown and the unknowable – through either assimilation or extermination.

— Usha Natarajan, "Accepting the Unknown" in "Radical Imagining of ‘Just & Green’ Futures."

Follow Diary of a Philosopher for more quotes!

[novella-november]

Well, I now know what original story I'll be writing for Freedom February ...

👀🤖⛓️‍💥

Can't wait for people who use l33tspeak or are greek mythology nerds to immediately realize what is happening with the lore and are excited to see how it plays out.

[aldoodles]

SUDDEN GRANDPA HUG!

[shinmothra13returns]

Corporations don't care

Government always lies

Rat Race will destroy you

Getting a job is a waste of time

Billionaires are the death of us

The school system is rigged and outdated

Democrats and Republicans are wolves in sheep's clothing

We are nothing more than expendable slaves to the rich and powerful

There is no middle class

War is a waste of time and life

But in the end, is there any hope of changing any of this at all for a better future than this worthless excuse of nations on earth or is it too late.

We can change this world without the endless lies and false promises.

[eternalistic]

The stark brutality of chattel slavery is absent in today's world, but the systemic inequities and hidden forms of economic control persist, albeit in different forms. By comparing the conditions of historic slaves with modern working-class people it becomes apparent that economic exploitation and wealth disparity need to be at the forefront of today's political discourse.

Continuities:

Labor exploitation: Both systems extract disproportionate value from a specific group's labor for the benefit of others. Slaves were forced to work without compensation, while many modern workers face low wages, precarious employment, and limited bargaining power, leaving them susceptible to exploitation.

Wealth disparity: Both systems exacerbate wealth inequality. Slaves had no ownership of their labor or its fruits, while the wealth generated by modern workers often concentrates at the top of the economic pyramid, creating a widening gap between rich and poor.

Limited mobility: Both systems restrict upward mobility for the exploited group. Slaves were legally bound to their owners, while modern systemic barriers like discriminatory hiring practices, inadequate education, and debt-based control can confine individuals to lower economic strata.

Psychological impact: Both systems can inflict psychological harm. Slaves endured constant dehumanization and fear of violence, while modern workers can face chronic stress, anxiety, and powerlessness due to precarious employment and economic insecurity.

Transformations:

Formal freedom: Modern workers have legal freedoms and autonomy denied to slaves. They can choose their employers, negotiate wages, and participate in civic life.

Social mobility channels: While limited, some avenues for upward mobility exist in modern society through education, skills training, and entrepreneurial ventures, which were largely unavailable to slaves.

Social safety nets: Modern societies typically have some form of social safety net, albeit often inadequate, providing limited protections like unemployment benefits or healthcare access, which were absent for slaves.

Transformation of control: Control in modern systems is often more subtle and diffuse, operating through debt, lack of ownership, and market forces rather than overt coercion.

Hidden "Economic Slavery":

The concept of "economic slavery" suggests that modern systems can still perpetuate forms of exploitation similar to historical slavery, albeit less visibly. This can manifest in:

Debt traps: Predatory lending practices and high-interest rates can trap individuals in cycles of debt, effectively controlling their labor and choices.

Wage theft: Employers who deny overtime pay, minimum wage, or other earned wages essentially steal from their workers.

Exploitative labor practices: In some industries, migrant workers or marginalized groups face unsafe working conditions, low wages, and limited legal protections, resembling forms of forced labor.

Limited ownership: Lack of access to affordable housing, land, or productive assets limits economic agency and perpetuates dependence on wage labor.

Unveiling and Addressing Systemic Inequities:

Acknowledging the continuities and transformations is crucial for addressing the enduring legacies of economic exploitation. We need to:

Strengthen workers' rights: Promote fair wages, secure employment, and protections against exploitation.

Reduce wealth inequality: Implement progressive taxation, address wage gaps, and promote wealth-building opportunities for marginalized groups.

Increase social mobility: Invest in education, training, and infrastructure to provide equal opportunity for upward mobility.

Challenge systemic biases: Address discriminatory practices in hiring, lending, and access to resources.

Support worker movements: Encourage worker organization and collective bargaining to empower workers and advocate for their rights.

By recognizing the hidden forms of economic control and tackling their root causes, we can work towards a more equitable future where everyone has the opportunity to benefit from their labor and participate fully in society.

[nando161mando]

"Funk against fascism" (EN: English)

[echo-goes-mmm]

Pick a name

For a fae Whumpee (NOT a tiny). He's a spring, meek/shy, a bit fem

He's from this post

Whumpee is a flower fae, and his True Name is Moonflower, I just need a name for him to be called by humans