#gang violence

[alwaysbewoke]

[truth4ourfreedom]

CO. POLICE DEPT. ORDERS LOCK DOWN DUE TO ARMED GANG VIOLENCE!

Mike Davis.. never one to mince words… this is a strong warning of what we may see in the weeks and months ahead. Be prepared.

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This is not the America we grew up with. This is America turning into a 3rd World country. And it is a sad day when we cannot depend on our law enforcement brethren to protect us due to defunding, manpower shortages, and good for nothing prosecutors and DAs who let violent offenders go free quickly. I am considering buying my first firearm because living in CA, it's just a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.......

[reality-detective]

A dangerous Venezuelan gang known as the "Tren De Aragua" has infiltrated the US that you probably know nothing about but definitely should know 🤔

- Please share this 👆

Source: 👇

[uglygirlpretendingtobepretty]

Or maybe he could ruin me

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 15

Content: gang violence, killing, begging and crying

Kiraba was technically a Yellowcap, but he considered himself a mercenary for his family's farm. He'd joined up and lied about his age to be near his brother. Kiraba wasn't really 17, and he'd started to regret lying about his age after that run-in with Merc of the Guards.

Kiraba and his brother, Grime, had been called to defend one of Yellowcap's farms. It was being raided. One farm closer, their own home would be attacked. 

As he followed his brother down the road with his empty AR-15 flapping at his back, he shuddered.

"Grime?" He said. 

"Huh." Grime said.

"You have ammo, right?"

"Course."

Kiraba felt his heart flop. He was pretty sure Grime was lying. 

The alarm came from a farm called Ortiz. It was almost dusk, and Kiraba's squad was walking fast with tired legs trying to get there. Their diesel had run out a couple miles away.

They crouched down just outside an old wheat field. They had to be careful what fields they harvested from, but Ortiz still did things the old way. Then Era gave them a signal and everyone ran toward the barn, where they could hear the shooting coming from.

"Just stay out of sight." Grime told Kiraba, so he hung far back. 

He had no ammo, so he couldn't do any good anyway. It was far enough that he was pretty sure no one could see him lurking in the grass around the fence post, but he could still see what was going on.

The force showing up with guns and shouts was enough to scare off the intruders, so the Yellowcap scouts followed them down with angry shouts, with Kiraba tailing them.

The Yellowcaps shot off a few rounds, but it was weird that they seemed to be sparing the raiders. Suddenly the raiders fanned out into two directions. They were too evenly divided and grouped. The Yellowcaps slowed, but the raiders closed in on the front of them and suddenly unloaded on them--not just with guns, but with knives too. They jumped in and knifed everybody. Kiraba ran closer, but realized there was nothing he could do. 

It occurred to him that that was exactly what the other scouts were thinking... ammunition was scarce. Maybe the raiders were on to them.

He crept up closer, watching with horror as the raiders knifed anyone that looked strong enough to get back up.

One of them crouched over Grime.

Kiraba jumped out of hiding, tearing up and waving his gun at them.

"Get away! Get away! Please stop. We won't follow you." He cried.

He looked at the woman's face. She held a knife above Grime, about to stab downward into his neck, while he grimaced, waiting to be killed.

She was just doing what she was supposed to do. Eliminating a future problem. He could see the concern written on her face.

"Just him." Kiraba said, crying. He let her see his distress. "Please. He's my brother."

She stood up, tapping one of her companions on the shoulder.

"It's enough, right? Can we go get the harvest?"

"We won't bother you." Kiraba repeated. "Please."

He knelt down and crawled closer to his brother. 

The raiders stepped back over the bodies, looking at each other with small nods. Deciding that they were pretty merciful people. Kiraba would let them think that.

He looked around at the stuff they had on them, for something he could use to bandage Grime. There were bandages in his pack. Kiraba sobbed with relief. Grime had been cut on the inside of the arm.

It was shocking sometimes, how these raiders seemed to know just where to hit to make their attacks more lethal.

He wrapped it quickly, begging his brother to stay still until he could bring back help.

As he stood up, panting, he saw the other wounded lying all over the dirt road. Distressed at the choice he had to make, he wrung his hands. Leave them and bring back help, or try to save them himself?

He looked across the field. Raiders were already half-done emptying the silos. This whole little battle had been a distraction. They were so ruthlessly efficient, that it seemed like it would be impossible to actually curb their greed.

And those silos were already full of most of Ortiz's crop that year.

Kiraba rushed off, letting the wind dry the tears off his face. He had to get help.

As the town doctor ran up with some other adults, Kiraba lagged behind, exhausted from the run.

"He'll be alright." The doctor was calling back to him.

Kiraba knelt by his brother. Thank God he'd made the right decision.

"It doesn't hurt." Grime grunted, rubbing Kiraba's tears off with a handful of Kiraba's sweater. "Stop crying."

Kiraba smiled a little. This meant his brother was too injured to serve. Now Kiraba could tell the Yellowcaps the truth--he was only 12. And the 2 of them could be safe at home with their family for a while. This was going to be a good winter.

Tag list: @joyjoygorl @cepheusgalaxy

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Kindle book: Masterpost: Next:

[weemietime]

I just recently had cause to check my old Quora account (feel free to add me anyone, it's the source link) and I would like to put this on my blog as well because it is an important piece of information.

We all remember the memed out "stop Kony" shit, well I never stopped stopping Kony. I've been blasting this motherfucker for a decade. The question was asked:

Have child soldiers been condemned for war crimes?

The only person who has ever been convicted of war crimes that were committed while they were still a child, is Dominic Ongwen, formerly of the LRA. His verdict was returned in February 2021.

Ongwen’s case was particular - records indicate he was abducted between 9–14 years of age (his report differs from the reports of others, a common issue when dealing with early formative trauma) - but he eventually became a trusted, high-ranking member of the LRA and indeed participated in capturing children and perpetrating the same violence onto them as was done to him. He continued this for many years.

Ultimately the courts demonstrated with sufficient evidence that he acted of his own volition (as much volition as he was capable of having) as an adult. While he undoubtedly experienced fear and suffering in childhood, he was successfully indoctrinated and carried out many acts of abuse on his own, without the threat of duress, and was even known to refuse to obey orders he did not agree with.

It is an unfortunate case, regardless of one’s opinion on his character. Everyone involved in the trial acted with utmost respect and dignity. Everyone did everything they were supposed to do, and yet still did not find the correct answer. There can be no correct answer. No real accounting for justice, for every single person impacted by Joseph Kony - including Ongwen.

During the Charles Taylor trials, the Prosecutor David Crane opened the floor for any child over the age of 15 who had committed voluntary acts within an armed group. So, the 'cut-off' for what constitutes the capacity to reason as an adult was put at around 15. Crucially, however, no child was actually brought up on these charges.

Personally, I believe in prison abolition, and I believe that rehabilitation would be more effective for these children (of course, some of them will be too dangerous to reintegrate, but this is a case-by-case issue). If I had not gotten treatment at Romeo Dallaire, I would have been imprisoned and exposed to institutional violence. This would have made me more violent, and I would have exited the prison system and went on to perpetuate even more violence. Because I got therapy and community healing, because I was able to hang on to my relationship with my mom, and I suppose because of my intellect and schizoid, I wound up flipping the switch in my brain from unmitigated antisocial disaster to a prosocial human being. What flipped that switch in me was being given responsibility to facilitate a group of younger children. The adults around me realized that I would thrive if put in a leadership role, and I was able to see myself helping people. I realized that there are other ways to engage with the world than base violence. The real splinter that occurred, that allowed me to break through the brainwashing, was during a shoot-out that I was involved in shortly after my treatment ended (so it was not some magical happy ending, I did have re-occurring issues afterward). But during that event, I realized in that moment that what we were doing was wrong. I am just very, very fortunate that no one lost their life and no one was injured on that day.

If we are referring to condemnation in the broader, non-legal sense - the answer is yes. Many former child soldiers are rejected by their communities when the fighting stops.

The adults in these communities were often more afraid of the child soldiers than the adult soldiers - you could reason with an adult soldier, but children do not fully understand the value of life, and are undergoing an extreme and radical shift in their identities and worldviews while accompanied by radical violence and forced substance abuse. The reality is that during the fighting, the children were more brutal than the adults.

When disarmament, demobilization and reintegration processes occur, the long and arduous task of healing from the atrocities of communal violence must begin. 20 years ago, after the Liberian civil war, a group of children were followed by clinicians interested in evaluating the long-term psychosocial outcomes of child soldiering. For these children this was regrettably universally poor.

Many were homeless, uneducated, and addicted to drugs. Now, looking at those same children, the reports from 2022 are much different as our understanding of the law and trauma deepens and grows as a species. Many of these same children have some form of education, an occupation, housing, and are politically active in their communities.

Reintegration is a personal process. Often actions were taken that resulted in loss of life, permanent maiming/disability, witnessing cruelty, rapes, hacking off limbs, burning people alive - it does not matter if it’s a child or an adult subjecting you to this, it has a profound impact. But evidently the condemnation for their actions did not persist beyond the immediate aftermath.

These children were able to be brought back into the fold, and I think that is a beautiful thing.

[thechickwith-add]

Woooow Syrax , Vermithor and Silverwing at Dragstone waiting to jump Aemond on Vhagar. I had actual goosebumps I was actually screaming and jumping up in my seat!!! That's my Queen!!

[allthegeopolitics]

Mexican President Andrés Manuel López Obrador acknowledged Monday that authorities have had to set up camps for displaced people after some 4,200 residents fled a town in the southern state of Chiapas. Residents of the town of Tila fled over the weekend (Jun 8/9) after armed gangs shot up the town and burned many homes last week, state prosecutors said. It was probably the biggest mass displacement in Chiapas since 1997. Some residents recounted spending days trapped in their homes before army troops and state police showed up over the weekend to allow them to leave.

Continue Reading

[alwaysbewoke]

Why The US Won't Leave Haiti Alone

[funbearer]

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Small boys play card games on a playground in Hell's Kitchen, where only a few hours earlier on August 30, 1959, two 16-year old boys were slain in a gang attack. The victims were sitting with three other boys, all of whom were wounded, and a girl, who was unharmed, when the gang struck shortly after midnight. One victim, Robert Young, reached his apartment on the second floor of the light apartment building in the background before he fell dead. The body of the other victim, Anthony Kerzensky, was found crumpled in a hallway of the apartment building at right.

Photo: John Lindsay for the AP

[iammontewhite]

The Rise of Chicago Drill: Rap's Deadliest War

Dive into the gritty world of Chicago drill rap in our latest explainer video, "The Rise and Fall of Chicago Drill: Rap's Deadliest War." Discover how Chief Keef’s rise from the streets sparked a cultural phenomenon, only to be overshadowed by gang violence and bitter rivalries. We'll dissect the dramatic events leading to the deadliest conflict in rap history, exploring the lives and legacies of influential artists like King Von and Lil Durk. Join us as we unravel the complex narrative of a genre that both reflected and exacerbated the harsh realities of life in Chicago. If you enjoy our content, please like and share this video! #ChicagoDrill #ChiefKeef #RapHistory #GangViolence #HipHopCulture #MusicDocumentary

[vamphorica]

mattmello week vii: nothing bad ever happened au

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: M/M

Fandom: Death Note (Anime & Manga)

Relationship: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl

Characters: Matt | Mail Jeevas, Mello | Mihael Keehl

Additional Tags: Happy Ending, Wammy's House (Death Note), Separations, Foster Care, Gang Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Growing Up, Reunions, Kissing, Not Canon Compliant

Word Count: 3,127

Series: Part 7 of MattMello Week 2024 | @mattmelloweek

Summary: After the closure of the infamous Wammy's House in 2003, Matt and Mello navigate a life without the pressure of successorship.

────────────────────────────

“Congratulations on making it onto the New York Times Bestseller list, Mihael! Selling fifty-thousand copies for a debut novel is practically unheard of, I guess you really must be a genius.”

Mihael was already regretting agreeing to this publicity event that his manager had arranged, a book signing that took place only a week after the debacle that was his launch party. From what he was told, everyone had loved it, but he had not signed up for these repetitive self congratulatory occasions which felt less like an excuse for him to talk about his book, and instead an opportunity for orbiters in the industry to get drunk and engage in underhanded remarks to one another. It was impressive how creative these people could be in turning a benign compliment into a boasting competition within a matter of a few words. If he was not subject to its influence, Mihael would be somewhat amused.

Now, sitting at a small table, a long queue stood before him with people holding hardback copies of his first novel to their chest in anticipation. He had written it under the letter M, but his publishers had managed to miss the memorandum that Mihael requested anonymity due to the nature of his identity, and it was excitedly disclosed that the new book taking the world by storm was written by none other than a former Wammy’s boy. It was too good of an opportunity to avoid capitalising on, and thus followed lengthy reviews in various broadsheets about how the narrative would have most certainly been informed by the trauma inflicted on a young Keehl. The reader can sense the lingering pain of the author’s tragedy through his protagonist, and it serves as a harrowing reminder of how we as a society must take responsibility for our gifted youths.

Wammy’s House closed down in 2003, after a lengthy legal battle between social services and Interpol over the actual necessity for an L successor, at risk of harming the wellbeing of the children who resided at the orphanage. After the courts ruled that the House’s practices were technically abusive, all fourteen boys and girls were quickly relocated into foster care homes across the country. It was believed at the time that many of these prodigies had been so isolated from one another within the House that there was no real concern in separating them from one another – for the most part, many were young enough to forget their aliases and grow up into well-adjusted members of society as anticipated, the pressure of successorship a burden they were no longer required to withstand.

Many, but certainly not all.

As one of the oldest, Mihael struggled to hear himself being referred to by his real name, spoken by strangers in suits who would smile widely and slowly explain to him that he would be placed in a home with many new friends waiting to meet him. Even at the time, he had little expectation that moving from one house full of orphans to another would provide any respite, other than the fact that he lost his sense of purpose almost immediately. His whole identity revolved around the need to fight for his position as L's successor, and at a time in which the detective had yet to choose between himself and Near, having his singular ambition torn away from him by people who simply didn’t understand the culture at the House broke him. He dropped out of the local state school at sixteen soon after completing his exams. Despite his results being ridiculously good, a promising future in academia often projected by his teachers, he had no interest in pursuing further education. What was the point? There was no goal anymore, his life’s purpose was completely unfulfilled.

It was only a matter of months before he had found himself caught up in gangs, selling drugs and adopting the habit of carrying a blade whenever he stalked the streets at night. During those years Mihael – or Mello, as chose to reclaim – took solace in the few quiet moments he was afforded to write in a scrappy notebook that he had managed to hold on to from Wammy’s. It was nothing special, a throwaway birthday present from a friend who he still thought about too often, but upon being caught by police for the fourth time, it was taken away from him. Without it, he had nothing left from that time in his life, and despite everything he had gone through as a child, such a thought that he could lose that part of himself sent him into a panic.

“Your writing is brilliant.” His court appointed lawyer had told him as he flicked through the pages in front of the eighteen year old, “You’re wasting yourself with all this shit, you know? Practically begging for Kira to catch up with you, is that really what you want?” He sighed, passing the notebook back to Mello who snatched it eagerly, “Listen. I’ll get you in touch with a friend I know on the condition that you stay out of trouble, got it? I know you’ve been through a fair amount of crap in your life, but it really isn't an excuse to have become involved with the people you consider acquaintances now.”

Apprehensive at first, Mello did not understand what motivation someone might have to offer such an incentive. Perhaps the publicity surrounding the Wammy’s House scandal had given those in positions of authority an unfounded obligation of charitability to extend towards these traumatised orphans. Mello was smart enough to know he ought to take an opportunity when it presented itself, as undeserved as it might be.

Within a matter of a year, he had his work published to unprecedented success.

────────────────────────────

“Name?” Two hours had passed already and Mihael had given up with the facade of smiling at every person who emerged in front of him, ready to gush about his book, or ask questions that he had either answered several hundred times in interviews and panels. Sometimes, they were too invasive about his “terrible past”. Was he abused, beaten up, sexually assaulted? Did they torture children who failed exams? Did he meet L, and was he as evil as the tabloids made him out to be? His face ached as he scribbled ‘M’ over and over again, until the letter resembled little more to him than a wonky line of no distinct meaning or connection to himself. He kept his head lowered as another fresh copy of his book slid across the table towards him. He opened the front cover, and his pen hovered above the title page.

“Matt.”

No way. Matt was such a common name that when Mihael looked up, he expected a stranger to be staring back at him with a dopey smile and a remark about how the book really affected him. Instead, a lanky red haired teenager wearing a replica of the striped shirt he was so fond of as a child grinned, a slight colour tinting his cheeks.

“Found you, Mello.”

“Fuck, Matt… Wait, give me a moment.” Mihael scrambled up from his chair, alerting his manager who quickly appeared by his side, “I need a break – ten minutes?”

“Mihael, you still have a couple of hundred people waiting.”

“I can see that, Andrew, I need ten minutes and I will be back, okay?” In another world, he would have enjoyed the ability to order people around in such a manner, but such opportunities were rare to him in this line of work. Regardless, Andrew sighed and began telling those who had congregated to please wait for author Mihael Keehl to take a quick break. Yes, he will be more than excited to continue signing books once he has returned which, as a reminder, must be purchased from the tills over there.

────────────────────────────

“You’re becoming quite the celebrity, aren’t you, Mihael?” Matt teased gently as he lit up a cigarette. They had managed to find a small space just behind the back of the bookstore, where Mihael silently inspected every slight change his childhood best friend had undergone in the past five years. He was taller, of course, and the manner in which he spoke was significantly more relaxed, deeper than it had been the last time they spoke. Yet he still retained the familiarity of a boy who Mihael still said a prayer for every once in a while. “I’m surprised. I expected that you would lay low. No judgement – the book is really good.”

“You read it?”

“Of course I did. I was going to buy it anyway because I wanted that fucking sexy author’s photo they published on the sleeve, but yeah, I actually read it as well. Was it inspired by the House then?”

Mihael folded his arms across his chest and averted his gaze towards his feet. There was something surreal about meeting Matt again like this. He was happy to see him, no question about it, but there was a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite shift. With Matt came memories unfolding and spilling out that he had subconsciously repressed, feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, but so too surfaced the reminders of comfort that Matt had provided in those moments.

“I suppose so.”

A silence descended between the two as Matt took a long drag, smoke unfurling from between his lips. Was this a new habit of his, or had he picked it up soon after the two were separated? Mihael had experimented with all sorts of things to try and block the feeling of perpetual emptiness in those first few months after the move, only progressing onto the harder stuff as he grew older, more weary of the world around him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Matt developing the same bad habits. Mihael looked up.

“What do you do now, anyway?”

“Nothing exciting – IT consultancy. A few big companies like the idea of having a Wammy’s kid on their rota, but none of it is exactly complex stuff. I get my kicks from doing other shit.” Mihael was not about to interrogate Matt about what he meant by that, but he could imagine the redhead getting bored easily with something so goddamn corporate. It felt like it went against everything the two had grown up anticipating for themselves.

As if reading his mind, Matt continued, “I miss the House, in a weird way. I think while I was reading your book, I realised that, as fucked up as it was, there was a structure to it, you know? We were there for a reason.”

Mihael nodded, “Yeah, we were.”

“I missed you.”

“Same, Matt.”

It felt so natural to be back in one another’s arms again, clinging on as the world compressed to nothing but the heat and smell of each other. Mihael wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, to make up for the lost years by exploring Matt, examining the man he had developed into so that he could adapt himself to his body once again. He kissed Matt’s neck and felt his hand rub his back in response. I’m here now.

“Mihael! We need you back now!”

“I’ll see you later, Mello, okay?” Matt gently eased himself out of the other’s grip, smiling at him, “You still need to sign my book after all. I paid a good fifteen quid for the hardback copy.”

Mihael smiled – hearing himself being called Mello felt right, even if he could never truly go back to being that boy again. He brushed his fingers through Matt’s hair, away from his goggles, and slipped through the side door back into the bookstore. He could manage a few more hours of this, he told himself.

────────────────────────────

Matt had been moved to a small foster home in Northern Ireland, and had only settled down in London within the past year. His flat was rather large, to Mihael’s surprise, but when Matt disclosed how much money he earned from his legitimate endeavours alone, Mihael understood how he could afford living somewhere a little more spacious. It was probably just as well given how much shit he had managed to hoard.

“Make yourself at home.” Matt began busying himself with cleaning away loose wires and crisp packets hurriedly, taking Mihael back in time to their shared room at the House. He was not overly tidy himself, but kept his possessions relatively organised compared to Matt, whose clothes and consoles always had a habit of encroaching on his space anyway. At the time, he would moan about it, tossing Matt’s striped shirts back at him when he would stroll into the room. Now he was in the midst of the mess once again, Mihael suddenly did feel at home in a sense that he had not experienced for quite some time. He threw himself down on the sofa, a loud crinkling sound alerting him that the space was already occupied.

“Since when do you read newspapers?” He asked jokingly, pulling the page from beneath him. He glanced over it, and smiled, “Don’t tell me you’re fucking clipping my reviews, idiot.”

“Give me that.” Matt seized it away from him, “Well I have to frame it now that it's got Keehl’s arseprint on it, don’t I? How much would that go for on eBay?”

Mihael laughed and Matt sat down beside him, his hand tentatively resting on the other’s thigh. A small intimacy Mihael leant into. He had developed a strong disdain towards people touching him, tensing up as prospective foster parents would try to embrace him, knowing he would only be rejected yet again, or forcing himself to shake hands with men in suits who saw his writing as nothing more than a nice bonus to their massive bank balances. It was the punches, the slaps, that were Mihael’s only real opportunity to be touched in a manner he considered more genuine, from those who threatened him over drug deals and gang loyalty. Matt reminded him that people could want to place their hands on him gently, to make him feel good.

“I knew I’d find you again, eventually,” Matt said, “I was worried you wouldn't want anything to do with me, I don’t know. You were always destined for some kind of greatness, and I admired that about you.”

Mihael shook his head, “Don’t be ridiculous, Matt. You were on my mind every day, I wouldn’t have got to where I am now without you.” He tilted his face, angled just shy of Matt’s lips, “You have always been home to me.”

They kissed with the softness that lovesick teenagers engage in with one another for the first time. Mihael gently pushed Matt back sprawled atop of him while their hands ran across each other’s chests. As if there was still an inherent fear that they would be torn apart again, they traced each other to commit their features to memory. In another life, maybe their anxieties of separation would be valid, the early deaths of Wammy’s boys forever a haunting persistence in the back of their minds. Now, however, there was an experimental promise of stability. A life together that could be pursued. Whatever the headlines had made them out to be, abused prodigies whose collective trauma of their childhood would define them, they had the chance to defy it. They were a testament to their own survival.

“Call me Mello, again.”

“Mello?”

“Yeah.”

Matt hummed behind a wide smile. He cupped the blonde’s face between his hands, admiring those gorgeous blue eyes that now appeared alight with genuine promise of something better. A life worth living. They owed it to themselves to make the most of the future that presented itself to them, trusting in their ability to navigate it together. They had managed to get this far already.

“You are safe with me now, Mello.”

[defire]

Ghost of Seattle Chapter 33

Prev

Content: child soldier, gang violence, cult victims, killing, chokehold, captured whumpee

Buddy and Ghost burst through the trees just in front of the main group, weapons out. 

Most everyone was fleeing into a building, which was equipped with shutters, but they weren't getting them shut in time.

"We come in peace." Buddy declared at the top of her voice, holding out her pistol in her right hand.

She didn't give a fuck about technique when she was trying to be intimidating. It worked.

Ghost followed, walking boldly in front with her. That was what Oldman had said to do.

A shot was fired from around the corner of the long, low building.

Buddy lifted her pistol, but didn't waste a bullet.

"If you come in peace,--" The voice started to threaten.

"You wanna die?" Buddy yelled. "Come out with your hands up."

 They had like a minute before an actual gang war started; that was how fast the rest of the Cult would be to arrive. 

A kid came out, white to the lips, hands over his head.

"Please. I don't even wanna be a soldier." He begged.

"Tell everyone under the age of 18 to go to Offshoot." Buddy said, jerking a thumb behind the Shivers.

Connor had sent some people to guide the kids out of Cult territory.

"Why just the kids?" 

"Go." Buddy said. Or we execute all of you Tell 'em." 

The boy cringed back and banged on the door, repeating Buddy's message.

"Oh yeah," Buddy added. "Bloody Connor sent us."

The boy turned with a mixture of awe and relief.

Ghost heard excited voices. Suddenly the doors opened and the kids poured out and fled past the Shivers.

There were only 2 adults among them. Only adults were allowed to paint the Cult's yellow crosses on their white clothes. Their elitism would kill them today.

The Shivers grabbed them, letting the kids go. They were tired, bruised, and scared. But most of all right now, excited.

The Shivers threw the two adults to their knees and knifed them.

Ghost bared his teeth against the grimace, making himself look at the teens instead. If only all he'd done today was help some kids.

The compound's purpose seemed to have been changed. The center of the building was piled with recovered steel and smaller piles of wood, plastic scraps and cord. A few tools lined the walls and floor.

There was a massive trapdoor, already propped open, with a staircase that led down to a carefully collected treasure: an arsenal of crossbows. There were even a few guns and a case of .22 rounds.

The Shivers rushed in with a consensus of mad excitement. They seized the weapons carelessly, grabbed ammunition; cleaned the place out in 15 seconds. They knew they'd split the loot afterward, and knew to keep an arm free, for, what was already happening outside. 

More shots coming from 3 or 4 different directions.

Ghost melted into the cover of a haunted lean-to filled with garbage. The shade projected such a powerful sense of stillness that it felt like no one could possibly be there.

As soon as he saw where the main force was coming in from, he could guess where they'd hide shooters, based on the angle it would require to hit the Shivers without shooting their own. 

With how randomly they were arriving, though, it was unlikely they had that sense. Other people panicked when fighting started. Ghost didn't anymore.

Ghost retreated behind the building, scouting for an alternative route out, since the way in was clogged with escaping Shivers and Cultist teens. He wanted to get into the area that the Shiver snipers were covering, if possible. The area he was going to run into was essentially an overgrown park. He heard someone coming in front of the building. Friend or enemy, he didn't want to be seen--even a friend would show tell-tale recognition. 

He backed up, then glanced around a moment too late as an arm came smoothly around his neck, closing in neatly and pressing in on the arteries on either side. Ghost instinctively squeezed shut his eyes in a grimace, expecting to be stabbed or something. He lifted his rebar to swing it into a knee or shin, and a cold hand closed over his narrow wrist in an icy grip. 

"The Ghost, huh?" A man's voice with a grim smile said from behind his head. Ghost kicked at the guy's shins. No reaction, except that the arm around his neck tightened, pressing Ghost's skull against the man's chest. Ghost grunted and winced. He could still breathe, but the pressure in his head was bad.

He tried to smash at the guy's crotch with his left hand, and the guy chuckled and shoved his leg behind Ghost's back so he was stretched backward over the man's thigh. He panicked, eyes rolling back to see a smirk over a scruffy beard.

"Nice to meet you too." The guy said. "I'm Crippler."

Tag list: @joyjoygorl @cepheusgalaxy

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Kindle book: Masterpost: Next:

[actress4him]

Shadow of Death - Modern AU - Burned Toast

Another piece I wrote for the Whumplovers Collaborate gift exchange! This is a married modern Brumaria fic.

Kane and Bruno (mentioned) belong to Izzy.

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Contains: lady whump, panic attack, flashbacks, fire, burns, referenced parental death, referenced murder, referenced guns, implied past noncon, referenced gang violence, PTSD, service dog

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“What do you think, Shadi? Can I manage to make eggs and toast without causing any disasters?” Kamaria shuts the refrigerator door and turns to look at the American Akita, who’s sitting at attention with her head tilted to one side. “Right, I know. You just want your own food.”

Opening a cabinet and pulling out a can of dog food, she sighs and shakes her head at herself. Bruno has rubbed off on her when it comes to the pets, talking to them like they can understand. If her father could see her now, carrying on a conversation with a dog…he’d probably declare her incompetent and shoot her on the spot. 

But he’s not here. Never will be again. And just to spite him, as she sets the bowl of food on the floor she declares, “There you go. At least we know I can handle that kind of food prep.”

She turns her attention back to her own dinner, getting out the eggs and the bread and other necessary supplies - stopping to think before remembering she needs to grease the skillet. She’s made that mistake once, and doesn’t care to repeat it. 

Bruno has been trying his best to teach her how to not be so completely hopeless in the kitchen. She feels stupid every time she sets foot in the room. She didn’t even know the most basic things when they first started, like how to use an oven or stove. Not that it’s her fault, as a child her mom had to work and wasn’t around to do much cooking, and for the next fourteen years at the gang’s headquarters she wasn’t allowed to step foot in the kitchen and subsisted off of whatever shelf-stable items she could steal and hide underneath her bed. 

But she doesn’t like not knowing things. Knowledge is power. Knowledge can keep you alive.

Right now Bruno isn’t here, he’d taken his German Shepherd, Dante, and reluctantly left this morning for a short business trip. So feeding herself is entirely up to her for the first time since they got married, and she promised him she wouldn’t resort to the cans of cold beans and granola bars she used to live on. She’s done eggs before, though. They weren’t pretty, but they were edible. And toast isn’t hard, now that she knows not to trust the pictures on the dial of how black she wants it to end up. 

Or at least, toast shouldn’t be hard. Except that in the midst of focusing hard on getting the eggs right, she glances over at the toaster oven and something inside is on fire.

She’ll blame her reaction later on the fact that it’s unexpected. After all, it isn’t even that big of a fire, not much more than a candle flame, and she can handle those as long as she doesn’t stare at them. But toast isn’t supposed to catch on fire. 

Her heart immediately leaps into overdrive and she abandons the pan of eggs, diving toward the toaster. She has to fix it before it gets worse. She can’t let it grow, fire is so unpredictable, can’t let it take anything…

Instinctively, she throws open the oven door, but it’s the wrong move. The influx of oxygen makes the small flame flare to life, engulfing the bread inside and shooting out to lick at her hand. 

Kamaria launches herself backwards, her spine slamming into the counter across the small kitchen. Suddenly she’s breathing too much and not enough all at the same time. 

No no no no no no

She grips her burned hand tightly, but her shoulder hurts even worse. 

The ceiling crumbles over her head, chunks of glowing orange showering down around her

It’s not real. It’s not real, she needs to get a grip on herself, but the flames are still there, right in front of her, and she can smell the burning.

Smoke clogs her lungs, she can’t breathe

Her chest aches. She doubles over forward, clenching her eyes shut, but the flames only multiply in the darkness.

It’s everywhere, covering every wall, leaping out at her as she stumbles through the hall and down the stairs

The smoke alarm starts screaming somewhere overhead. Kamaria lets out a strangled cry and crumples to the floor, shoving herself backwards against the cabinets and burying her head in her arms. 

She can’t find her mom 

Strangers are in her house, snatching her up and running outside, but they’re not her mom, she needs her mom

The whole world is on fire, there’s fighting everywhere, she’s screaming and crying but across the street her neighbors are dying, bleeding on the pavement

A man with a gun throws a woman onto the ground and straddles her

It won’t stop. It just won’t stop. Shadi is trying her best, licking and nudging, but the memories just keep coming.

Kane’s laughing face leaning in close to hers, his hand wrapped around her throat

Taunts in her ear of how worthless she is

The fire is everywhere 

Fingers carve burning paths through her skin, touching, always touching

A loud bark in her ear jolts her back to the present. Kamaria’s eyes go wide and she gasps in a hoarse breath, taking everything in. The alarm is still blaring, threatening to drag her back under, but she can’t see fire anymore, just a stream of smoke and a burned smell permeating the air. 

Shadi starts licking her arm, doing whatever she can to make sure her owner stays alert now that she’s gotten her back. Which is good, because the images are still pressing at the edges of her mind. She can still feel his hands on her, still feels like she’s choking. 

“Shad-…” She tries to force the command out past the phantom fingers digging into her throat, panting in between each word. “Shadi…search.”

Immediately the dog is off like a rocket, checking every corner of every room in the house for intruders. Kamaria squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again, trying to figure out the best way to keep herself from slipping until Shadi gets back to help.

She knows there’s no one here. Just like she knows that the night the gang burned her neighborhood was ages ago, and that Kane is long gone, and that the fire and her captivity at his hands were completely separate events divided by seventeen years. 

But she’s learned by now that the trauma - she still hates calling it that - doesn’t care about those details. That doesn’t mean the nonsense that she feels doesn’t make her angry, because it does. She wants to be over this by now. She wants her brain to stop making her think things that can’t possibly be true, to stop mixing up and linking events for no reason. 

She also wants to stop thinking about how Roderick would use all of this against her if she was still back there, how maybe he and her father were right not to let her near the kitchen, how the former Shadow of Death shouldn’t be crying on the kitchen floor because she burned her finger. 

Shadi returns and sits next to her, ears perked as she waits for her next instruction. All clear. The house is safe. There’s no Kane, no Roderick, no other gang members lurking. 

Her next breath comes a bit easier. “Lap.” 

The dog immediately settles across her legs, still looking up at her eagerly. She isn’t trained to offer grounding pressure automatically in these situations, because Kamaria doesn’t respond well to being touched during or right after a flashback. But right now she thinks she’s ready for it. The hand that didn’t get burned begins stroking the soft fur, from head to tail, over and over in a soothing rhythm.

It isn’t even that bad of a burn. She glances briefly at it, and the skin is slightly pink but nothing like her other burns. It won’t leave a scar. Her shoulder still hurts worse than anything, and that’s just phantom pain that will hopefully ease soon. 

For a long time she just sits there, focusing on her breathing and the feeling of Shadi’s fur beneath her fingers. The smoke alarm cuts off right after the dog’s return, and she relaxes into the silence. There’s no fire, and no Kane. She’s safe. Bruno isn’t here, but he’s safe, too, and he’ll be back tomorrow.

Drawing in a deep breath, she pushes to her feet, Shadi jumping up and standing at attention. “I’m alright, girl,” Kamaria murmurs. Her head spins a little, and her legs feel shaky and half numb, but the worst of everything has passed. She purposely ignores the toaster oven for now. She’ll deal with it later. Her eggs are fried to a blackened crisp that smells horrendous, and she doesn’t want to deal with that right now, either, so she just flips the burner off and tosses the whole skillet, eggs and all, into the sink. She’s not sure the skillet will ever be the same again, anyway. 

Still leaning against the cabinet for extra support, she turns to look at Shadi, who has relaxed just a little but is still watching her. “So…it’s a hard no on the eggs and toast.” She glances at the upper cabinet next to her. “Think Bruno will be too mad if I have a granola bar for dinner?”

She knows he won’t. The man couldn’t truly be mad at her if his life depended on it, and once he finds out what happened he’ll fully understand. She should probably call him now, actually, he’ll want to know and it will help erase the last of the jittery feeling in her chest. 

So she takes her granola bar and goes into the living room, curling into a corner of the couch with Shadi tucking herself in right beside her. She turns on the tv to a classical music station for some background noise so that she doesn’t start hearing noises that aren’t there, and taps Bruno’s name in the recent calls on her phone.

A soft smile spreads across her face as soon as she hears his voice in her ear, the last of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Hey, hon. I’m…I’m good. I just, uh…thought I’d let you know that I’m never making toast again…”

[sparksinthenight]

Due to gang violence and natural disasters, half of Haitian people face crisis levels of hunger or worse.