#illegal mineral imports

[thoughtlessarse]

The European Union has been urged to clamp down on illegal imports of conflict minerals from the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) after evidence was found that current regulations had been breached. The advocacy group Global Witness (GW) said there remained a “high risk” of the EU’s mineral imports being used to fund militias and state repression in several countries. The European bloc has adopted legislation to prevent armed groups benefiting from the trade of tin, tungsten, tantalum and gold, which are used in electronics and to manufacture clean-energy technologies. The EU’s Conflict Minerals Regulation came into full force in 2021, imposing due-diligence checks on companies importing the minerals from conflict-affected countries. Member states are responsible for enforcing checks and imposing sanctions if rules are violated. But in a recent review, the EU Commission admitted that an external study had found “limited impacts among local stakeholders”. It also found “delays” and “implementation challenges”. Separately, researchers at the Antwerp-based International Peace Information Service found the regulation’s impact had been “almost negligible, with illicit mineral trade continuing to fund conflicts”. GW traced the supply chain of a European trader sourcing minerals from eastern DRC, where militias involved in the killing and rape of civilians were using the trade in minerals to fund their activities.

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[thehappyvet]

Just a reminder if you decide to illegally take a wild animal from the wild for yourself, even if you have the best interests at heart, you could be killing it.

If you feed it the wrong diet you can cause it's bones to break or other diseases associated with mineral imbalances. If you feed it too much you could cause issues associated with obesity including excessive fat stores.

If you aren't a trained wildlife rehabilitator you won't understand the importance of preventing imprinting or humanising. So you'll cuddle it, play with it, and let your pets play with it. So it will think it can only get food from humans, and that humans and domestic pets are part of its family.

If you take it while it's still young it won't learn the necessary foraging and social skills from its parents to survive in the wild. You might joke you don't even need a cage for it, but it isn't able to go anywhere because you've made it dependant on you.

If you aren't a wildlife carer or in the animal health industry you might not realise it's injured and needs treatment. This could lead to broken bones setting in ways that the animal can't perform normal functions and suffering from a life of chronic pain. Or it could lead to it suffering a slow and agonising death.

You might also not be aware that wildlife can contain diseases that can make you sick or even kill you. You could put yourself and your loved ones at risk of serious zoonotic diseases by bringing it home.

And, if you are found to be illegally holding a wild animal without the intention of rehabilitating and releasing it, the authorities are stuck. They can't release the animal because it thinks humans and domestic pets are friends. It can't forage for itself. It can't socialise with its own kind. It could have injuries or diet associated diseases that mean it can't perform normal functions, or is suffering from chronic pain. If they released it, it would die.

Is it fair for that animal that your choices have led to it not being able to experience its life in the wild as it should?

If you take something from the wild and intend to keep it, I hope this makes you think twice.

These kinds of stories are all over social media now, but none of them tell this side. They normalise putting a wild animal though an incredibly stressful experience purely for likes and engagement.

If you want to be a hero, get accredited to be a wildlife rehabilitator. Join an amazing network of compassionate humans just like you who understand that wild things should be wild, and do everything they can to get them back there.

If you find a wild animal and you're not sure what to do, call your local veterinary clinic or wildlife rehabilitation group. Trust that we have the knowledge to make the best choices for that animal. And if you want to make those choices, join us.

[dearlyya]

TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Chapter One-Persistence; When a coward turns hero.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

A/N; I don’t do taglists, sorry. I also want to thank my friend for supporting my writing, proofreading, and character creation of Wynn. Love you, bro.

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Undercity is considered an industrial stain nestled beneath the grand city of Piltover.

With air that hangs heavy, and its people feral. Towering smokestacks belch black smoke into the already smog sky, casting long shadows over the cramped alleyways and buildings. The streets are strewn with discarded scrap metal, chemical waste, and other debris of the relentless production that drives the Undercity's economy. 

The warm green glow of the gas lamps casts an eerie, shimmering light over the buzzing market stalls and their wares. Cautious eyes dart about, gripping the crate tightly, as your knuckles white with tension. You trudge through the damp, uneven cobblestone path. Your heavy boots thud, but the market muffles the sound. Wynn strides ahead of you, his boysenberry hair reflecting the green making his hair almost black.

Both of you carry large, sloshing crates of alcohol that clink and bounce with each jostle from the crowded lane. Your tattered cloak draped your form, the hood pulled low to fight against the season's coldness and obscure your face from the lingering enforcers.

You instinctively glance at the enforcers standing near a stall, their voices raised in angry conversation with the stall’s owner, who appears equally irritated. They are likely issuing citations for illegal imports or contraband. Detailed by the other armored man holding up a list and pointing at the merchandise. However, when the vendor suddenly shoves one of them, you quickly avert your gaze, choosing to ignore the escalating commotion and focus on navigating the crowded marketplace.

Fighting wasn’t something you could do against the enforcers unless you’d want a hefty prison sentence or killed. So, you allow them to conduct their inspections and searches, gritting your teeth if their hands linger on your body for far too long.

You did dream of something better, a fictional land where all is peace and harmony, but that's wishful thinking. Life gave the Undercity people the short end of the stick, so now all you want is to keep your life, provide some aid to wanders, and of course keep the tavern: The Last Drop. Afloat.

Some vendors attempt to grab your attention, but you politely shake your head. Keep your eyes trained on Wynn who glides through the people with ease. You stumble and slip between people straining to keep up with your friend. Cursing under your breath at the fact that you could’ve gotten your supply runner to fetch the cargo, but no. Coins have been getting slimmer and slimmer at the drop. One of the many reasons why your resentment, once directed at the enforcers, began to shift towards the rebels who fought against them. While their cause was just, their tactics often made life even harder for the ordinary citizens of the Undercity. Strikes, protests, and their thievery disrupted supply lines which left families and businesses like yours struggling to make ends meet. Of course, this is only rooted in fear. 

Fear of losing more.

The mines that delve deep into Runeterra. Extracting precious minerals to fuel the insatiable demand. Workers in harsh conditions, their health and safety were often sacrificed for the sake of profit. Stark contrasts the cutting-edge innovation of Piltover ‘coexisting’ with the rampant corruption and exploitation they cause the city below them.

Down in the fissures, where deep cracks in the earth have split open, a treacherous underground network of tunnels and caverns caused by the relentless mining and drilling operations. Was bustling with the activity of workers, faces smeared with grime.

You and your father worked in those mines, and many families did. Your life narrowed down to one moment. A vivid horrible memory. You knew you should’ve put up a fight, and struggled against the enforcers alongside the others. When the tears finally spilled over, streaming down your face in hot, bitter rivulets. You couldn’t help but cower. You remember his body and the way the world seemed to tilt and spin around you.

When you pushed yourself up, letting go of a rusty pickaxe. A strong arm shoved you roughly back to the ground. It sent shockwaves through your malnourished body. Your coal-covered glove scraped against the unforgiving, rocky ground as you trembled uncontrollably, shaking like a frightened animal.

A cacophony of screams and desperate cries pierced everyone's ears like shards of glass. Through ‘The Gray’ smog you saw people–workers–were fighting against the enforcers with a fury born of desperation, their voices raw as they tried to reach your father, who was knelt on the ground, clutching the back of his head. Blood, vivid red against the rocks, drips steadily from his fingers, staining the earth beneath him. A macabre work of art. The sight of it sears itself into your mind, something you still see to this day.

Your wide eyes locked onto your father, drinking in every detail of his face, committing it to memory, as the screams and shouts faded into a distant, muffled hum.

He met your gaze, his expression was steady and calm despite the chaos that raged around you. He's trying so hard not to look frightened, putting on a brave face for your sake. He gulped, and in that tiny gesture, you saw the truth of his fear reflected in his eyes. But there's something else there too, a silent message of love and reassurance that told you that everything will be okay, that he'll protect you no matter what happens to him. 

But the man behind him, the one through the smog, the one who raises his gun high above his shoulder–tells a different story. The gun glints harshly reflecting off the gold on the enforcer. Quick to get to your knees, a firm kick sends you forward along with a harsh boot on your back keeps you in place. You cried out at the pressure, as you squirmed to get closer to your father. 

It's a swift blow, brutally efficient in its execution. The butt of the gun connected with the back of his head with a nauseating crack, and he crumpled to the ground. He fell face-first onto the unforgiving rocks. His body would twitch, but the last sliver of life drained away in an instant. You barely heard the final, choked-off words that he never got to finish. His last confession of "I love you" was stolen away by the cruel hand of fate.

Your breathing gets heavy when you remember, each intact a painful reminder of the life that still flows through your veins, even as everything else feels cold and numb. You shakily grip the case. It takes a special kind of strength, and true courage to stand up despite others bringing you down, to crush your hopes and dreams beneath the weight of their fears and insecurities.

You're not sure what you believe in anymore. That day the foundations of your world were shaken when the very ground beneath your feet shifted and crumbled, leaving you feeling lost and adrift in a sea of uncertainty before you were taken by the hand and brought up to a raft. You’ll always be grateful to Wynn. Though, all you know is that life is rather unfair, especially in the Undercity, and all you want to do is survive. Is that selfish? 

Perhaps you are one of those pushovers.

You were too lost in thought when you got pushed to the side, sending you to your left, and letting go of the crate to catch your fall, gritting your teeth you look up but notice it’s those same enforcers now carrying off that vendor's supplies. The one that shoulder checks you, gives you a look, and even with its helmet on you can tell that they’re testing your reaction. You look down at your crate. It’s open and bottles–thankfully not broken–have rolled out.

Maybe you've always been that way, content to let others make the decisions, to follow the path of least resistance rather than forging your way forward. But with the aftermath of your father's lifeless body that laid before you and the weight of powerlessness bearing down on your shoulders, you can't help but wonder if there isn't more to you than that.

Maybe, deep down, buried beneath the layers of fear and self-doubt, there is a spark of courage waiting to be ignited, a flicker of determination that just needs the right circumstances to flare into life.

You carefully lift each bottle to the crate, ensuring they are securely packed. Reaching for a bottle of scotch, your hand accidentally brushes against its neighbor, sending the bottle rolling away. It clicks and clanks across the cobblestone path before disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alley.

You pause, considering whether to retrieve the wayward bottle, but the risk of Wynn ringing your neck for wasting good money has you sighing. A broke bitch during inflation is someone you don’t want to mess with. You continue to pack the remaining bottles and get back to your feet, crate in arms.

No one notices you entering the alley, with your head hanging low. 

The ground is littered with discarded metal scraps, used needles, and unidentifiable substances. Peering from beneath your hood, you scan the area for any sign of the missing bottle, but your search becomes useless. Instead, you hear labored breathing and pained grunts from further down the narrow way. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the scene before you. The glint of gold and blue uniforms mingles with the tattered red of the man's clothing. The sight is all too familiar. The enforcers’ figures huff up and down, laughing at each other in cruel satisfaction as they rain down blows on the man. Their boots connected with sickening thuds against his bloodied body. You can’t tear your eyes away from them. 

The right circumstance is all someone needs.

“Look at you, pathetic like the rest of those revolutionaries. You’re nothing but a filthy rat scurrying in the gutters and trash of refined people.” One of them coo, tilting their head at the body, you step closer.

You should move on, and let them take this man’s life if need be, so you can slip by unnoticed. It would be far more understandable than helping someone out of the kindness of your heart, but you have never felt such a surge of emotion before. The impending doom that bloomed in your gut yelling in your ear with a booming voice telling you that if you didn’t help this man you’d truly be the vermin that topside thinks you are. You can’t explain it to yourself, all your bitter-laced words and morals clashed when you heard them throwing those humiliating remarks. 

The right circumstance is all she needed.

The enforcers continue to beat him. You don’t think very much, the few thoughts that pass your mind are typically about personal survival, so thinking about beating these men into a pulp like they are with your fellow scum has you dropping the crate and racing towards them. Your heart is in your ears, bile backing up in your throat, as your coat flies off you. The knife you grip sinks into the nearest Piltie. Into their exposed armor between the helmet and chest plate. An honest, lucky blow to the neck.

He yelps, stopping his assault to cradle the wound that spurts blood between his gloved fingers. He staggers away as the other enforcer finally grasps the situation. With your dagger in the side of the other guy's neck, you quickly skimmed around the alley looking for a possible weapon, you spotted the bottle but you weren’t quick enough. The intact enforcer rushed at you and slammed you against the brick wall of a building. Your head hits it roughly dazing you. Your windpipe closes up when the enforcer pushes your throat with his forearm. His metal suit cuffs dig into your skin. You're frantic now. 

Shit–you didn’t think this through. Death was now a concrete possibility, and dying next to the man you tried so hard to save felt like the greatest irony. The pain shooting through your neck grew unbearable, causing tears to well up and cascade down your cheeks, despite the insults being thrown your way.

On this final night alive, you admit to yourself that you might have cared about the revolution after all. Your body was lifted off the ground, dangling up near this blue and gold-clad man. Both of your hands grip his gloves, trying to cause any damage by digging your nails into him. More tears roll. You weren’t crying because your own life was flashing before your eyes, but because you couldn’t save a symbol. A figure of hope.

The enforcer that you stabbed lays slumped against a gross dumpster, his hand weakly clawing at the stab wound in his neck. Crimson blood seeped through his armor, staining it a dark, glistening red. He twitched and spasmed as blood continued to spurt from the exposed injury. Despite everything a pang of guilt flickered in your chest. You had never taken a life before. Your gaze drifted to his neck, and realization dawned on you–your dagger was missing. As you slipped in and out of consciousness, the grip on your neck loosened.

The enforcer collapsed on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight as he sank to the ground his body took you with it. You coughed and gasped, and with a wave of nausea rising in your throat and bobbing pain around it you pushed the body off you. Looking up, you met the gaze of the man you had ‘saved’. He was huffing heavily, his eyes wide and wild mixed with shock on his pale face. 

Drenched in blood, sweat, and sporting bruises all over. His long hair clings to his face, some falling out of the low ponytail. His dark red tunic under a dirty gray cut-off vest. His body quivering on the brink of exhaustion. His gaze was glossy, only fueled by the last dose of adrenaline. With a final stumble, he crumpled to the ground. The knife in hand slipped away as he fell. You stare. Watching him lay defenseless, a newfound courage stirred within you, and for once in your life you know your stance. Now not cowering and licking the boots of those higher than you. You own up to the consequences, yet you still tremble. Your chest rose and fell with the rhythm of your heightened adrenaline as the footsteps of additional enforcers echoed.

You crawl to him, lowering yourself to his chest, and pray you still hear a heartbeat, and you do, it’s faint. Now kneeling, you carefully hoist his right arm over your shoulder, providing support for him to lean on. He was heavy, but his weight wasn’t overwhelming, allowing you to walk slowly with him. It was clear that he needed medical attention, and so did you. You can feel the cold blood dripping down the back of your head and the tight, painful bruise forming around your neck. You aren’t some hero, a normal citizen in a position of life and death—you’ll never become a foundation of hope in your city like in your childhood. 

And she never does. 

Your experience as a kid had given you an edge, as you used to steal from stalls and run away as they tried to chase you. Now, at the age of twenty, you thank your young self for your knowledge of the best shortcuts. It comes in handy when you hide with the unconscious man by your side, evading the enforcers who finally notice their dead brothers. From around the corner, you watch a group of them trek down the main street. You make your dash to the other side, going unnoticed.

“I got you, we’re almost there” Your voice croaks, not sure if you are trying to reassure the blacked-out man or yourself, probably the latter. There's a sign, not from Janna, but from The Last Drop. Dipping into the alley next to the tavern you head around back. Your arm that is wrapped around his slim torso is drying with his blood. More blood pools on your shoulder from his broken nose. You have to prop him up on the wall to open the cellar doors, and you both descend. 

Storage racks and unopened boxes flitter the basement. However, in the corner is a cot and stool. It’s the small medical area that you would use to aid people, usually, it was for small wounds like someone with a busted lip because they got into a fight in the bar.

So, with an injured rebel who hangs on your shoulder, you are well below practice. You manage to push the battered man off you and onto the cot. He slumps halfway off the bed, so you gently roll him back, carefully lifting his legs one by one to fully position him on the cot. Your hands tremble slightly as you work, the adrenaline running thin. 

You run a hand over your hair, feeling the back of your skull. As you bring your hand back to your eyes, you’re met with deep red staining your fingers. Your wound hits you, and you finally grasp the pounding headache you have. You slowly sit on the stool beside the cot.

“Shit” You mutter, your voice barely above a whisper, despite your possible concussion your priority is the very wanted rebel to your left. Take a deep breath to steady yourself and assess him.

His chest heaves in sparse, and uneven breaths through his busted nose. He’s still grasping onto the little energy his body has left to give. You rub up the bridge of your nose. The gravity of harboring a wanted revolutionary is not lost on you. Though at this moment, all that matters is saving his life, and not falling over while doing it. 

You lean onto your elbows while sitting, glancing at the empty bucket and washcloth, getting ready to work.

[intheholler]

On Appalachian and Southern Stereotypes

After seeing some people leap at the opportunity to insult and further harm us under my posts, even by obviously leftist accounts, I wanted to address some of the most popular stereotypes of our region.

Not as an excuse. There are many negative, violent and otherwise harmful features of the American South. We have a horrific history especially in terms of the violence we inflicted and continue to inflict upon the Black community that cannot be forgotten, and, as a culture, we do need to pay our dues.

But maybe this will help y’all apply some nuance to the situation and understand that we aren’t all your enemy.

Stereotype 1: Everyone is a Republican Racist

Absolute horse shit, my friends. There are people like me all over the south and in the hollers. We just get drowned out by the fascists, and it is all by design. 

In my home state of North Carolina alone, they are working tirelessly to make it impossible for young, often liberal (if not outright leftist) voices to be heard. They specifically target regions with heavy POC populations.

As recently as May of this year, the North Carolina Supreme Court overturned their own previous ruling which once made gerrymandering illegal. This allows Republicans free range to draw their congressional lines wherever benefits them most. 

Meanwhile, Roy Cooper, our Democratic governor, has been in office since 2017.

Gerrymandering is a real problem, and it reflects the worst of us. But it does not reflect all of us.

We are a working class, pro-union people.

We are coal miners and mill workers and farmers.

We took up arms against the government and fought for our labor rights during the Coal Wars as recently as the 1920s.

We bled for labor rights at the Battle of Blair Mountain.

It’s a myth that you keep perpetuating that we are all closed minded, bigoted regressionists. It diminishes the efforts of everyone from the coal miners to people like me while we try to make the region a better place.

It actually only worsens what you say that you wish you could ���saw off into the ocean.” 

That's my home you're talking about.

Stereotype 2: Everyone is Obese

36.3% of the overall population of the Southeast is obese. This is true.

Have you considered why that may be? For starters, Southerners are more likely to be uninsured compared to individuals living in the rest of the country.

"Among the total nonelderly population, 15% of individuals in the South are uninsured compared to 10% of individuals in the rest of the country."

Partially because they didn't even expand the same Medicaid benefits to us. and partially because we are just so fucking poor. 

17% of the American South is below the poverty line, compared to 13% in the Midwest, 13% in the West, and 13% in the Northeast.

Percentages under 5% may not seem like much, but when you consider 1% of the total United States population is around 3,140,000 people, yeah, that adds up real quick.

How does this relate? Well...

Mississippi has 19.58% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 39.1% obesity rate.

West Virginia has 17.10% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.6 % obesity rate.

Kentucky has 16.61% of its residents below the poverty line, and a 40.4% obesity rate.

Are you seeing the trend?

We, generally speaking, are more likely to be unable to afford to feed ourselves wholesome foods, and we are less likely to be able to afford medical insurance--two things that are obviously important to maintaing good health and a "healthy" weight.

By the same token... 

Stereotype #3: We're All Uneducated 

The South and Appalachia are some of the lowest ranked in terms of educational funding and spending per pupil in the entire country. We don't even break the top 30 on the list, y'all.

49. Tennessee at $8,324 per pupil 47. Mississippi at $8,919 per pupil 45. Alabama at $9,636 per pupil 42. Kentucky at $10,010 per pupil 36. North Carolina at $10,613 per pupil 35. South Carolina at  $10,719 per pupil 33. Georgia at $10,893 per pupil 32. West Virginia at $10,984 per pupil

The top three best-funded states, by comparison, receive between $18k and $20k per pupil.

In terms of higher education, student loans are a death sentence for everyone but especially impoverished kids just looking for a way out. It just isn't feasible for most of us. And that's if we even tested well after going to shitty schools our whole lives. If we had better education, we'd have better literacy in all things, including critical thinking, allowing us to better see through the bullshit we are taught. But we don't. And you aren't helping the ones who are trying in spite of that.

Stereotype 4: Bad Teeth

Quickly going to touch on this one--when we consider a lack of access to affordable, healthy food, shitty medical insurance in general and our poverty rate, this one is kind of obvious. Even so:

“Dental coverage was significantly lower than the national average in the South Atlantic (45.6%), East South Central (45.6%), West South Central (45.9%), and Pacific (48.0%) regions.”

Every time you make a toothless hillbilly joke, ask if poverty is really the butt of the joke you want to be making.

These are just the most pervasive of them, imo. And they can all be underlined by extreme poverty which is absolutely by design.

It also contributes to why it isn’t so easy to “just leave” as we are so often dismissively told to do. Moving is expensive.

And why should we have to, anyway? Why should we have to flee our homes?

Why, for those who feel safe enough and/or have no other choice, should we not stay and fight to better the region?

And why can’t you other leftists get behind us and help us in our fight instead of perpetuating harmful stereotypes? We're your people, too.

Just some food for thought. And I hope some of y’all take a big ol bite.

[acoldghostlypresence]

STEX world building headcanons

Just some shit I've been thinking about, not fully cooked but eh.

The Apollo Victoria was built in the middle of nowhere at the top of a mountain originally to profit off mining operations in the area, when those mineral and coal deposits mostly dried up their financial situation became increasingly precarious. They were only able to stay open as long as they did coasting off the tourism, fame, and funding that came with housing the American National in Poppa and thus regularly hosting the Championships when he won. When Poppa retired it became essential that they find a new champion and fast since their old freight lines couldn't support the station alone, its why Greaseball became the defacto leader of the rolling stock once he won despite how mean he can be (it might also be a contributing factor in why he felt he had to cheat.)

In recent years the station has been looking into applying to become a heritage site due to their importance in train racing history and their preservation of old steamers that most other stations have long since abandoned.

Electra's (as of yet unnamed) station is positioned in the valley just below the Apollo Victoria they've just never needed to actually go up that way until the events of the show. I imagine afterwards they go out of their way to take jobs that let them visit as often as possible to rub how well they're doing in Greaseball's face... no other reason.

All the trains have a built in radio/walkie talkie system but they can only use it to talk to other people within their station, so all the Apollo Victoria trains can talk to each other and all the Components can talk to each other but neither group can talk across those lines (the nationals, being all from different stations, can't talk to anyone. Maybe they have a nationals only group chat set up for races though.) What makes Caboose's radio special is its lack of these limitations, he can talk to whoever whenever so long as they're in range and on a frequency he can access. Because of this he gets all the gossip from all the stations in the area, he's always up to date on what's happening sometimes before even Control is. CB has also illegally modified his radio because of course he has.

I've been imaging there being far more unnamed and unimportant freight and coaches off screen we don't see in the show working at the station.

Regarding Poppa/Momma's many kids, Rusty is their biological (as biologically related as a train can be) grandson while the freight are all foster kids they took in for one reason or another. CB aged out and now lives in his own shed but still visits for tea once a week.

Boxcars come in large batches and them all having identical names is not at all uncommon. The fact that there are only three Rockies at the station is abnormal and its because the rest of their siblings work for different companies far away. They regularly get post cards, letters, and gifts from their siblings and their shed is covered in them.

The fact that the Components belong too and only work with Electra isn't that weird, in fact it's pretty common for trucks and engines to pledge themselves to each other and become exclusive in this way, usually this is done as an emotional commitment between family or lovers. Its alot more high stakes for the trucks involved than the engine though, if something happens to an engine's trucks that's bad obviously but they'll survive, trucks on the other hand generally can't get far physically without an engine to push them so if anything happens to their engine they can become stranded. It's a problem all trucks face but it gets worse when you commit to one person and can no longer ask other engines to pick you up, something I'm sure Dinah was aware of when Greaseball uncoupled her and that Pearl at least briefly considered when trying to make up her heart between Electra and Rusty.

Pearl is trans. You already know this.

[reasonsforhope]

"Brazilian President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva legally recognized nearly 800 square miles of Indigenous lands on Friday [April 28, 2023] in an effort to stop illegal logging, mining and land grabbing, reversing policies enacted by his predecessor Jair Bolsonaro, a far-right leader who encouraged development in the Amazon. Those policies spurred a frenzy of activity, including illegal gold mining and clandestine farming in Indigenous territories, devastating the environment and fueling violence.

“We are going to legalize Indigenous lands,” Lula said in a speech. “I don’t want any Indigenous territory to be left without demarcation during my government.”

Under Lula’s new designation, mining activities are now prohibited, and commercial farming and logging require specific authorization by the Brazilian government. Non-Indigenous people are forbidden from engaging in any economic activity on Indigenous lands. Under Bolsonaro, the Amazon saw a 56 percent increase in deforestation, the destruction of nearly 13,000 square miles of rainforest, and the loss of nearly 965 square miles of Indigenous territories. 

The Amazon rainforest, which is twice the size of India, holds large amounts of carbon which are crucial to fighting climate change. Studies show that protected Indigenous land holds 50 percent more carbon per hectare than unprotected areas in the Brazilian Amazon, and that protecting Indigenous territories in the region could prevent more than 15 million respiratory and cardiovascular-related illnesses. There are more than 3,000 protected areas in Brazil, and 490 recognized Indigenous areas. Those Indigenous areas cover more than 264-million acres – almost 13% of Brazil’s territory.

“Indigenous areas are crucial to preserving the Amazon, the world’s central bank for biological diversity,” said Toerris Jaeger, Director of Rainforest Foundation Norway, in a press release. “Today’s announcement is also an important recognition that indigenous people are the ones best able to guard this wealth.”

Lula’s announcement provides recognition to six territories that are home to nearly 4,000 Indigenous peoples. The largest area is the Nadöb people’s Uneiuxi Territory located in the Amazonas state. With recognition, the area has been expanded by 37 percent to 2,100 square miles of primary rainforest. 

But for some Indigenous communities, the announcement fell short. In January, Lula’s government pledged to create 14 new territories, while another 733 territories await distinction and boundary acknowledgment by the federal government. The lands of the Pataxó people in south western Bahia state is just one of the territories left out of Lula’s announcement. Renato Atxuab, a Pataxó leader, told the AP that Silva’s government must distinguish their land as soon as possible to prevent further invasions by outsiders. Over the past year, Axtuab said, there have been violent conflicts involving agribusiness, land-grabbers and drug traffickers. 

“There are still, currently, hundreds of Indigenous Lands in the country with their recognition processes pending,” said Danicley de Aguiar, a spokesperson for Greenpeace Brazil. “Several territories, despite already being officially recognized, suffer from invasions by illegal gold miners, subjecting the people living on those lands to extreme violence.”

She added that going forward, real protection of Indigenous lands will require monitoring by the Brazilian government."

-via Grist, 5/3/23

[howlingday]

Framing

Jaune: Thank you for giving me the opportunity to speak here today. My name is Jaune Arc, and the matter I bring here is one of great urgency and importance. The beginner and starter schools in Mantle both get their drinking water from water wells, and both of these same wells tap into the same groundwater aquifer. This aquifer is in imminent danger of being compromised if it has not been already. The corporation known as the "Schnee Dust Company," or SDC for short, has recently opened a mining facility near the two schools and has been disposing of toxic minerals into a large trench near the facility by illegal dumping. The trench is dangerously close to the aquifer, as well as the two wells. I have tried to bring this up to the SDC directly, and I have tried to get Councilman's office involved, but with no success.

Jaune: Look, I don't think anyone out there looks at themselves in the mirror and says, "I want to kill kids! I want to poison a bunch of children!" But, if this waste isn't disposal is not stopped, then that is exactly what is going to happen!

Jaune: (Rewinded) "I want to kill kids! I want to poison a bunch of children!"

SHOCKING VIDEO: LOCAL PSYCHOPATH JAUNE ARC SAYS HE WANTS TO POISON CHILDREN!

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

Marrow: ...

Marrow: Half-off! All you can eat chicken! Just three lien! All the chicken you can fit in your mouth!

Jaune: Oh, er, no- No thank you...

Marrow: Your loss.

Marrow: ...Wait a minute. Don't I know you from somewhere?

Jaune: Huh?

Marrow: Yeah, ain't you that kid killer?

Jaune: What?! No!

Marrow: Yeah! Yeah, you are! You're that maniac who likes to poison kids!

Jaune: Look, I know what you're talking about, but I didn't say that.

Marrow: Didn't say it? I heard you! I heard you say those exact words!

Jaune: Yes, but I wasn't saying that I wanted to kill kids!

Marrow: ...Wait, wait, wait! Are you trying to gaslight me?!

Jaune: Ugh...

Marrow: I can't believe it! You're trying to gaslight me! You're gaslighting me right here in broad daylight!

Jaune: What I said was intentionally taken out of context!

Marrow: Oh, yeah, sure! Because there's definitely a perfectly, reasonable context for a person to say they want to poison a bunch of children!

Jaune: I'm not having this conversation. (Walking away)

Marrow: Yeah, that's right! Run away! If you were innocent, you'd be defending yourself.

Jaune: I WAS defending myself! But you're not listening!

Marrow: ...

Marrow: Y'know... Someone oughtta take you out before you kill anymore kids.

Jaune: ...Was that a threat?

Marrow: I'm just saying, anyone who makes poisoning children their business deserves what's coming to them.

Jaune: Are you threatening me?!

Marrow: I'm not doing anything! I'm not saying I have a weapon on me. I'm not saying I've seen your address floating around online. And I'm definitely not saying I've got a lot of time on my hands to protect innocent, little kids from psychopaths who want to hurt them.

Jaune: ...Does the Chicken Buck know you're out here threatening customers?

Marrow: Oh, are you going to talk to my boss now?

Jaune: Maybe I will.

Marrow: Go right ahead, kid-killer. Tell my boss. Try to threaten my livelihood like how you threaten the lives of innocent children. See how far it gets you.

Jaune: ...

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

Lisa: Well, that was certainly quite the harrowing tale, Mr. Amin!

Marrow: There's a lot more in my upcoming book, "Always Watchdogs: When a Notorious Kid Killer Tried to Ruin My Life".

Lisa: And you confronted him about his startling public admission, and he tried to take away your livelihood?

Marrow: All I could think of at the time was, "As long as he was coming for me, he's not going after innocent, little children."

Lisa: Who can say how many lives you've saved that day?

Marrow: Thankfully, people are aware of the truth now.

Lisa: The online communities have been abuzz with images of people throwing chicken at him.

Marrow: The whole kingdom is really looking out for me.

Lisa: They've chased him right off the continent!

Marrow: The children of our great kingdom can rest easy at last.

Lisa: As an aunt to three children, I would like to personally thank you for your bravery, and I very much look forward to reading your book

Marrow: Thank you. That means a lot.

Lisa: Coming up next, 7 dead and 20 more in critical condition after an unexplained illness strikes two school in Mantle.

[mightyflamethrower]

California has become a test case of the suicide of the West. Never before has such a state, so rich in natural resources and endowed with such a bountiful human inheritance, self-destructed so rapidly.

How and why did California so utterly consume its unmatched natural and ancestral inheritance and end up as a warning to Western civilization of what might be in store for anyone who followed its nihilism?

The symptoms of the state’s suicide are indisputable.

Governor Gavin Newsom enjoyed a recent $98 billion budget surplus—gifted from multibillion-dollar federal COVID-19 subsidies, the highest income and gas taxes in the nation, and among the country’s steepest sales and property taxes.

Yet in a year, he turned it into a growing $45 billion budget deficit.

At a time of an over-regulated, overtaxed, and sputtering economy, Newsom spent lavishly on new entitlements, illegal immigrants, and untried and inefficient green projects.

Newsom was endowed with two of the wettest years in recent California history. Yet he and radical environmentalists squandered the water bounty—as snowmelts and runoff long designated for agricultural irrigation were drained from aqueducts and reservoirs to flow out to sea.

Newsom transferred millions of dollars designated by a voter referendum to build dams and aqueducts for water storage and instead blew up four historic dams on the Klamath River. For decades, these now-destroyed scenic lakes provided clean, green hydroelectric power, irrigation storage, flood control, and recreation.

California hosts one-third of the nation’s welfare recipients. Over a fifth of the population lives below the property line. Nearly half the nation’s homeless sleep on the streets of its major cities.

The state’s downtowns are dirty, dangerous, and increasingly abandoned by businesses—most recently Google—that cannot rely on a defunded and shackled police.

Newsom’s California has spent billions on homeless relief and subsidizing millions of new illegal migrant arrivals across the state’s porous southern border.

The result was predictably even more homeless and more illegal immigrants, all front-loaded onto the state’s already overtaxed and broken healthcare, housing, and welfare entitlements.

Newsome raised the minimum wage for fast-food workers to $22 an hour. The result was wage inflation rippling out to all service areas, unaffordable food for the poor, and massive shut-downs and bankruptcies of fast food outlets.

Twenty-seven percent of Californians were born outside of the United States. It is a minority-majority state. Yet California has long dropped unifying civic education, while the bankrupt state funds exploratory commissions to consider divisive racial reparations.

California’s universities are hotbeds of ethnic, religious, and racial chauvinism and infighting. State officials, however, did little as its campuses were plagued for months by rampant and violent anti-Semitism.

Almost nightly, the nation watches mass smash-and-grab attacks on California retail stores. Carjackers and thieves own the night. They are rarely caught, even more rarely arrested—and almost never convicted.

Currently, Newsom is fighting in the courts to stop the people’s constitutional right to place on the ballot initiatives to restore penalties for violent crime and theft.

Gas prices are the highest in the continental United States, given green mandate formulas and the nation’s highest, and still raising, gasoline taxes—and are scheduled to go well over $6 a gallon.

Yet its ossified roads and highways are among the nation’s most dangerous, as vast sums of transportation funding were siphoned off to the multibillion-dollar high-speed rail boondoggle.

The state imports almost all the costly vitals of modern life, mostly because it prohibits using California’s own vast petroleum, natural gas, timber, and mineral resources.

As California implodes, its embarrassed government turns to the irrelevant, if not ludicrous.

It now outlaws natural gas stoves in new homes. It is adding new income-based surcharges for those who dutifully pay their power bills—to help subsidize the 2.5 million Californians who simply default on their energy bill with impunity.

What happened to the once-beautiful California paradise?

Millions of productive but frustrated, overtaxed, and underserved middle-class residents have fled to low-crime, low-tax, and well-served red states in disgust

In turn, millions of illegal migrants have swarmed the state, given its sanctuary-city policies, refusal to enforce the law, and generous entitlements.

Meanwhile, a tiny coastal elite, empowered by $9 trillion in Silicon Valley market capitalization, fiddled while their state burned.

California became a medieval society of plutocratic barons, subsidized peasants, and a shrinking and fleeing middle class. It is now home to a few rich estates, subsidized apartments, and unaffordable middle-class houses.

California suffers from poorly ranked public schools—but brags about its prestigious private academies. Its highways are lethal—but it hosts the most private jets in the nation.

The fantasies of a protected enclave of Gavin Newsom, Nancy Pelosi, and the masters of the Silicon Valley universe have become the abject nightmares of everyone else.

In sum, a privileged Bay Area elite inherited a California paradise and turned it into purgatory.

[willtheweaver]

Earth Day themed prompts

• “Listen team. This next mission does not promise much pay, but it probably is the most important one of all. We’re to be deployed to the rainforest, and we’re going to stay there until there are absolutely zero illegal loggers, miners, and poachers left.”

• These city folk will soon learn why they should never cross a Druid.

• Character wishes to become immortal. When asked why, they respond “I am the last guardian of nature. A world without nature would be a sad place.”

• OC Solarpunk AU

• A story of a species brought back from extinction.

• Your mother was Demeter, your father was Cernunnos.

• Character is one of the first pioneers. Their mission: leave the shelter and repair the Earth so that one day it will be habitable again.

• You find yourself in a void. All there is beside yourself is a mound of dirt, a cup of water, and a seed. A voice coming from everywhere tells you “build a world, see it come alive and grow.”

[differentnighttale]

I am tired of being a sitting duck.

My country is in trouble. And is due to the Rich, the Privileged and the men in Power.

Galamsay:A local slang for illegal mining where the govermnt does not endorse it and since it id not endorsed. It is usaully small-scale mining and the water from the minerals seep into the water bodies making the water.Undrinkable.

My country called Ghana by 2030 at this rate would have to import water and it would lead to eventfully water insecurity. people would suffer and my already broken economy would shatter.

Our economy is already shit.

Tense political climate and corrupted Politian's--Now rotten Galamsay again.2018 banned Foreigners. Now it is back at full force.

Everyone is involving but then who can blame. The ordinary Ghana man who strives for money and yet it brings in cash flow.

But at what expense,our polluted and undrinable water bodies.

Importing water would ruin us.

People would perish and people would starve because the water is so polluted it can't be easily filtered. Even the chemicals would be so pricey and the debt we suffer is immensely and drowns us to the brine.

Our incompetent president had endorsed over 11,000 new illegal miners who ran from politians, cheifs and stool leaders to the rich man all because of the prmoise of money which dosent even go into the ecomoy but slides into the mans pocket so he ca live.Not to develop us but help them greedily buld up wealth that would feed and sustain their gernrations for deaces and decades.

Money they dont deserve to own or touch.

Our river Pra is now the colour of pale caramel and now deemed undrinkable.It has started from the Northen region to the Asante region and very soon this demonic plage would swallow as all and all would suffer.

They tell us to vote wisely but how?

Everyone sucks. Everyone votes their favourite person not the best or the great one. Just the two parties people fight even when there are other options.

Even we the citizens are at fault.

We voted for this man.

each of them want money.

Everything is stagnant, Ghana hasn't changed. Roads unpaved and peppered with portholes.

Our foolish government had imprisoned Mutiple people because of the protest. Everyone now knows that our leaders are greedy and liars. And they've been exposed.

Freedom of speech was surpressed.

From the major inflation to the Galamsay.It is obvious that the president isn't hiding it.Sice he is leaving, let him hoard our money and squander it before he leaves and the country because he can.

Even basic Ghanaians want moneys o they work for them and others don't complain since it is not their problem and others do this how to survive.

Even men who do it legally still rubs me the wrong way.Thank you.

Medase.

We are all at fault.

Protest.

FreeTheCitizens.

StopGalamsayNow.

[darcymariaphoster]

Hetalia/Hunger Games Crossover

I'd originally started this for a friend some years ago, but I lost that friendship and the motivation to write this. It was a behemoth of a concept to start with, which is why I'd decided to rush the beginning and focus mostly on the games. According to the notes I made for this, I didn't actually create most of this cast -- I'd sent my friend vague character notes and asked them to assign a Hetalia character to each one and then built the cast off of that. Which is kind of a cool concept for a gift for a friend, tbh. This was when I was still into Hetalia the first time, so it's actually not Nordic-centric for once. 😅

Below are notes and the beginnings of the idea.

This was written in 2014. (Someone tell me they can tell a difference in my writing from 10 years ago to now. 😭😂)

Happy readings!

CHEAT SHEET

District 1 *career*: [luxury items] Francis Bonnefoy & Matthew Williams

District 2 *career*: [masonry, weapons, trains] Arthur Kirkland & Elizabeta Héderváry

District 3: [electronics, mechanical] Kiku Honda & Heracles Karpusi

District 4 *career*: [fishing] Lovino Basile & Antonio Carriedo

District 5: [power] Lars Janssen & Amelie Lemmens

District 6: [transportation] Peter Dalton & Basch Zwingli

District 7: [lumber] Berwald Oxenstierna & Tino Väinamöinen

District 8: [textiles (clothes)] Roderich Edelstein & Gilbert Beilschmidt

District 9: [grain] Belle Vogel & Chloe Walker

District 10: [livestock] Wynn Taylor & Demarco Hughes

District 11: [agriculture] Sadiq Adnan & Gupta Hassan

District 12: [coal] Ludwig Glockner & Alfred Jones

→District 13: [nuclear weapons]←

Ludwig’s little brother: Alarick Glockner

Person at home who is in love with Ludwig: Feliciano Vargas

Previous Victor: Markus Marino

“Effie Trinket”: Jakob Sigurdsson

Personal Designer: Feliks Łukasiewicz

Game-Maker: Yao Wang

President: Ivan Braginski

Host: Mathias Densen

~

[Cheat for names:

Chloe: Wy

Amelie: Belgium

Belle: Liechtenstein

Mathias: Denmark

Alarick: HRE

Markus: Grandpa Rome

Jakob: Iceland

Wynn: Australia

Demarco: New Zealand

Lars: Netherlands]

~~

The Reaping

I stare around town, standing on my front porch. Light is barely breaching the horizon, dyeing the wispy clouds orange and pink while it casts an eerie glow across the land. A few people are already up -- mainly the miners, along with the butcher and baker -- but I know the rest of the town is trying to avoid the inevitable. The Reaping is today and everyone dreads it. Every year it happens; the same person -- Jakob Sigurdsson -- comes in, all dressed up in his Capitol clothes; two people are picked to represent the District. He always makes it sound like a good thing, something to be proud of, when you’re picked. And for a select few Districts, it is. But we aren’t one of those few and we see the Hunger Games for what they are -- a slaughter.

My District -- District 12 -- is one of the poorest in Panem. Nicknamed the Seam, we produce coal for our country. The entire town always seems to be covered in a thick layer of coal dust, making it look dull and grey. I watch the miners make their daily trek from home to the mines, most carrying lunch-pails but not everyone. All look tired, worn, done. I don’t know what it takes to be a miner, not really. Thought my father was one, I barely remember his schedule and his exhausted face is fading from my memory. Instead of spending all my days in the mine, I get up early to do a different task but one no less important.

I hunt.

Hunting is technically illegal because it’s past our borders that all the animals dwell. But even Peacekeepers want fresh meat and are normally fairly willing to turn a blind eye if they get a cut. So I hunt and trade for other things my family needs.

Slowly, I wander through town, heading for the border. This “border” is just a ten-foot high wire fence with “Caution: Electric” signs posted here and there. And that’s an absolute joke, since our District is lucky to get more than two hours of electricity in the evenings. Still, as I approach the fence, I pause to listen for the hum that means the wire is live. When I’m sure it isn’t, I go to the bushes that hide the weak spot in the fence -- one of many; this one just happens to be closest to home. I crouch down and step through the hole.

Once beyond the fence, I jog to the first line of trees. Coming to the woods is a reprieve. While the town seems to lack color, the woods are full of it. Greens and browns of every shade surround me and I feel okay again. I retrieve my bow and arrows from a hollow log and head deeper into the security of the trees.

“Ludwig!” I turn my head toward the voice and spot my best friend, Feliciano, waving from a small break in the trees to my left. I smile slightly, something I only seem able to do around him now, and wander over to him. “I got something for us!”

“Funny, do did I,” I say, reaching into my pocket for the goat cheese my little brother had left on the table for me early this morning. My little brother, Alarick, owns a goat that I’m grateful for because it means cheese and milk we can either use or trade. Plus, it keeps Alarick busy now and again.

Feliciano beams at me as he produces a loaf of bread from behind his back. “Ta-da! Fresh from the bakery! I traded a squirrel for it!” he explains happily.

I momentarily forget about the cheese, too surprised by this amazing treat, as I take it from him. Most of the bread we make at home is different from the bakery's, being that the Capitol takes most of the wheat for their own bread, leaving oh so little for us. This is real bread; less dense and slightly sweeter. “He must be in a giving mood…” I mutter, my mouth watering. It’s still warm. I reluctantly hand it back.

He rips it in half and gives me a section. I pull out the cheese and we sit down. “Well, I think everyone wants to feel close again,” he muses, nibbling on the bread and cheese. I rip my section in half and pocket a portion, intending to share it with Alarick later. “Considering the day and all…”

“It’s a funny time to desire that,” I mutter, looking around. I spot a bush with some blackberries and stand, going over to collect a handful for us. I offer them to him as I sit again. “I mean, shouldn’t we want to feel that all the time, not just right before a death sentence?”

Feliciano sets a berry on top of a bite of cheese and pops it into his mouth. “Maybe we’re too scared to,” he says finally. “Maybe the idea is normally just too much but, on this day, we forget to be scared of the whole thing because we’re all too scared for ourselves and our families.” He looks at me. “It’s stupid, huh?”

“It’s probably true,” I sigh, picking at the bread. “How many times did you put your name in?”

He looks uncharacteristically upset for a moment, torn between a triumph and a sickening dread, as he admits, “Eighteen.” I gape at him, horrified. “I have my siblings to think about, just like you have Alarick. So how many times did you put yours in?”

I’m reluctant to reply. I feel a bit selfish, now. See, every time you enter your name into the Reaping, your rations temporarily go up. With six other siblings, Feliciano has reason to. But I only have my mother and brother. “Eleven,” I mumble and shove some cheese and a few berries into my mouth.

He laughs, my favorite sound in the world. “We’re horrible. Our chances are so high and we do this every year!” His smile is sad when I look at him. “Let’s just go. Let’s just run and run…”

“And go where?” I ask, wishing more than anything that I could be as optimistic as he is about the idea. But I know there’s nowhere to run.

“Anywhere,” he answers easily. “There’s got to be something else besides here.” He leans back, watching the trees quiver with the slight breeze. “Anything must be better than here…”

I nod thoughtfully. “Probably. But… What about Alarick? And your family? We can’t just leave them…”

He pulls his knees up to his chest and sighs deeply. “I know. We could take them with… Maybe in a few years, when the littlest can run.” He glances at me.

“But, for now, it’s the Reaping day,” I remind him. “And the odds are not in our favor.” The words are a twist on what Jakob always says before he draws names. We look at each other and smile. I almost laugh but the sound doesn’t quite make it to my lips.

x~x

Everyone is gathered in front of City Hall. Even the miners came home early for this. We’re all dressed in our best clothes. THe youngest group of only twelve years stands in the front of the crowd and it goes back until eighteen. Parents and children too young hover behind everyone else nervously. A giant screen has been erected off to the right of the City Hall building. We’re all waiting anxiously for Jakob to step onto the stage. The waiting part of this drives me crazy. They put on a big show just to draw names. Maybe that’s important to other Districts -- like the career Districts -- but for us, it seems like a waste of time. I shift restlessly from one foot to the other, until I bump into the girl next to me and receive a dirty look. But, finally, Jakob waltzes onto the stage and taps the microphone, smiling his tiny smile when we all cringe at the backfeed it gives off. The cameras all start rolling, some on the crowd, others on Jakob.

This year, Jakob is wearing a turquoise-blue suit with gold trim. He’s done up his eyes in a similar fashion, making the dull grey of his irises that much more noticeable. His ever-changing tattoos are gold swirls up his neck and on the sides of his face. He looks ridiculous to me but I know he must be in style in the Capitol because he’d never wear anything less. “Happy Hunger Games,” he purrs into the microphone. “And what a special time. This marks the 75th annual. Exciting, isn’t it?” No one so much as coughs in response. He’s kind of used to this now, though, and his expression doesn’t change. “Let’s go straight to the clip then, shall we? We’ve changed it a bit this year so I suggest you keep your eyes open.” The way his Capitol accent highlights the last part and how his eyes seem to sparkle a bit makes me shiver. I’ve imagined that Jakob had not originally wanted the job he’s got -- doing the Reaping for District 12 and showing the tributes how to live a short Capitol lifestyle. I’ve always thought he probably wanted to be a Game-Maker and the idea that he’d be good at it makes me glad he’s stuck with us.

The clip, a short history of Panam and why the Hunger Games are held, does not seem any different to me. Jakob’s expression changes ever so slightly, causing him to look completely blissed out. When the video ends, he stares back out at the crowd. “I love that. It’s so powerful,” he murmurs, and I’m not entirely convinced that he hasn’t momentarily forgotten the microphone in front of his mouth. “Now,” he says, seeming a bit more alive. “Let us get to what we’ve all been waiting for! Let’s draw some names. And, of course, may the odds be ever in your favor.” Everyone stands a bit taller, more rigid, as he walks to the bubble holding all the names. He spins it twice and the sound echoes. Then he reaches in and pulls out a slip of paper. He moves back in front of the microphone and unfolds it. No one is breathing. “Alarick Glockner,” he announces gleefully and everyone except me lets out a collective sigh of relief.

I stare at the twelve-year olds, picking out the shimmering blond of my brother’s hair easily as he steps forward with a prompt of, “Come on, don’t be shy,” from Jakob. He looks like he’s trembling.

Everything in me shuts down and so I feel nothing as I frantically push through the crowd shouting, “Alarick, no! I volunteer! No! I volunteer!” Peacekeepers try to stop me and I see Alarick look back at me, horror on his face. “I volunteer!” I scream, pushing against the Peacekeepers in an attempt to get to my brother.

Jakob stares at me consideringly. “Let him through,” he says at last and I’m released. I immediately run to Alarick and hug him briefly before passing him to Feliciano, who has appeared just as Alarick is getting hysterical. Still feeling rather numb, I hear Jakob call me forward; I walk on leaden legs onto the stage. As Jakob takes my arm and chirps, “What’s your name?” I remember the cameras broadcasting this to the entire nation live and feel sick.

Shakily, I answer, “Ludwig Glockner…”

He’s practically beaming. “I’ll bet that was your brother, eh?” I nod. “Well, very brave indeed. Ladies and gentlemen, District 12’s first volunteer!” While he claps, everyone else in the crowd touches three fingers to their lips and raise them into the air toward me. I don’t feel brave. I definitely feel like I might pass out. I know the sign they’re giving me and it scares me. It’s a sign of respect and -- more importantly -- a sign of passing within the Districts. It hasn’t been used, to my knowledge, since the mine blew up a decade ago. It’s almost rebellious.

I glance at Jakob, to gauge his reaction, and am surprised to see that he seems uncomfortable. Rather hurriedly, he declares, “Let’s draw the second name.” He goes back to the bubble and spins it twice before fishing for a slip of paper. He finally snatches one and steps back to the microphne. “Let’s see who will be joining Ludwig this year…” He unfolds it and reads the name, “Alfred Jones.”

A blond boy, around my age, slowly steps through the crowd and I try not to roll my eyes. His expression reads uncertainty and mild fear. He walks to the stage adjusting his glasses, and, when he does, his entire persona. By the time he’s standing beside me, he looks determined and taller than my first impression had suggested. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen,” Jakob announces cheerfully, his comfort level back to normal. “District 12’s tributes for the 75th annual Hunger Games!”

[erwinrer]

Asia's fourth largest custom industry country —— Mongolia

Influenced by the Western and Korean Wave culture, young girls in Mongolia are relatively open to dress. Junior high school students can wear silk stockings and even make up in school.

The custom industry has become an important way for young girls in the country, and many women in the country face huge challenges in finding a lifelong partner, with a serious imbalance.

Mongolia is located in central Asia, with Russia in the north and China in the south. It has become one of the safest countries in the world due to its special geographical position.

With an area of 1,564,100 square kilometers, Mongolia is the 18th largest territorial country in the world and the second largest landlocked country in the world, second only to Kazakhstan.

The country is characterized by a diversity of landscapes from the towering Altai Mountains in the west to the vast Gobi Desert in the south, from dense forests in the north to grasslands across most of the region.

Mongolia's economic development is slow and people's life is difficult. The industrial structure here mainly consists of animal husbandry, agriculture, industry and mining.

Mongolia is facing severe desertification problems due to overgrazing, with 72% of the land showing signs of desertification and most young people going to urban development.

The custom industry is actually illegal in Mongolia, but due to the economic recession and the tight job market, the government chose to turn a blind eye after considering many factors.

The country is vast and sparsely populated, with the world's second largest rare earth resources, the fourth largest fluorite reserves in the world, and more than 80 kinds of proven minerals.

Mongolia's economic problems are not a single phenomenon, but the result of a combination of many factors. How to solve these problems effectively will become the challenge that Mongolia must face on the future development road.

[talesfromtheasterism]

"FOREIGN BULLET" SEIZED IN DCA RAID

THE POISEUITE - Servants of the Pandorae since 3A16 Clarissa Fortune, August 6th 5A29

In a rare public statement today, the Imperial Department of Clandestine Affairs shared details on the seizure of an unprecedented riftsmuggled good - a single firearm cartridge.

DCA special agent Carmen Duff addressed newspaper interest over a raid by Metropolitan Police in Port Poiseuille on July 30th. She said that the target was a hideout in Upper Indigo Wharf, with authorities finding controlled and illegal items including "bladed weapons, banned alchemical compounds, {and} non-transmuted foodstuffs". Seven women were arrested.

Among the items was the bullet - a "meticulously tooled" cartridge filled with gunpowder. While put together recently, it used mineral-based propellant, leaving Imperial officials baffled as to how the round made its way to the Flooding Sands.

The components used "betray it as a foreign bullet, imported to the Sands through highly skilled and organised riftsmugglers". The Imperium claims that it "succeeds in intercepting dozens of {them} every year", but this once-impossible feat casts doubt on their containment of this shadowy threat.

Riftsmugglers are criminals who transport realm-endemic items from one to another via the rifts, such as peddling exotic Void Diffuse plantlife in the Lucid Weave. Since the Awakening, Imperial authorities have struggled to understand this reclusive network of rogues and black-market entrepreneurs.

Realm travel is ordained by the Starweaver, and taking articles on one's person requires force of will depending on their nature. In her divine wisdom, she prohibits the transport of powerful weapons, including bullets, maintaining the balance of the Asteri cultures... until now, it seems.

"We have ascertained {the bullet} was manufactured in the Ash Wastes' outlands," Agent Duff continued. "Our prevailing theory is that it was transported bit by bit, a few grains of powder at a time, then reassembled by an organised and experienced criminal cell."

"The operation will have taken months. I'm sure they're sorely disappointed," she jabbed.

The three other realms of the Asterism regularly field firearms in their militaries, ranging from Whisperer muskets to advanced Bloodstar inferno weaponry. Our fair Sands, however, do not, as almost all of its scarce gunpowder components were depleted in the Disavowed War. Propellant transmuted from the Keeper's Blood is subject to airtight control; only military officers, elite markswomen units, and the venerated Royal Guard may use them, with just a handful of cartridges allotted for their whole careers.

The DCA did not provide details on the organisation responsible. However, speculation among the press and Poiseuite eyewitnesses has made a case for involvement of Suitor cultist elements.

The Suitors, an enigmatic Keeper-sect crime family headquartered in the Umbergnarl, has seen recent incursion into urban areas including Laminara, Woodlots and the capital. No firearms were found in the raid, indicating it was likely intended to be sold on the black market. This would line up with the Suitors' need for quick funding to rapidly expand their influence.

Agent Duff concluded her statement by saying that the DCA had "contained and eliminated the threat", and did not accept questions. But this reporter offers a more sobering interpretation: does this not herald a dark new age of riftsmuggling? If bullets of all things can, however slowly, be imported to the Sands, we stand on the edge of a brave new world of illicit goods. We may well soon see an influx of lethal merchandise that will change the balance of power in the Sands, between law and lawless, forever.

This writer's personal comment: may the love of the Daughter Pandora deliver us from malevolence.

{Transparency notice: this article was authored with oversight from the Department of Clandestine Affairs. Praise Her Imperial Elegance.}

Editor's note: Shit psyop even by Earth standards.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

‘I want Lula to see this’: Indigenous chief continues fight for Amazon

Raoni Metuktire Kayapó has battled against deforestation all his life and is inviting Brazil’s president to see the damage to his land

Flying low over the Kayapó Indigenous territory, the poisoning of the Amazon is starkly apparent in a string of mud polygons carved out by illegal goldminers. From a Greenpeace plane, the Indigenous chief Raoni Metuktire Kayapó stares at the scars – tinted red, blue, green, white, brown, yellow and grey – and jabs his finger in anger. “I don’t like this at all. The destruction is so big and the land will never go back to what it was.”

Raoni, a lifetime campaigner for the rainforest, has invited the Brazilian president, Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, to his territory this week for one of the most important meetings of Indigenous leaders in recent years.

Illegal mining, and its pollution of rivers, people and culture, will be high on the agenda. In the past four years, pressure on Indigenous territories intensified alarmingly under the laissez-faire presidency of Jair Bolsonaro, who encouraged a new wave of invasion by illegal miners, with the Yanomami, Munduruku and Kayapó territories particularly badly affected.

The visible damage caused by deforestation around the Maria Bonita area of Kayapó territory is only a small part of the impact from garimpos (illegal mines). A far bigger and much less understood consequence is the contamination of water systems by toxic separating chemicals and vast quantities of sediment. It is these agents and the algae that forms in the tailings ponds that make the pools change colour at different stages of production or abandonment.

“The garimpos destroy the rivers with mercury. This contaminates the fish that our people eat and then we become contaminated,” said Raoni, who has been campaigning on these issues for most of his life. He became a global figure in the 1980s, immediately recognisable by his labret lip disc, through his advocacy and friendship with celebrity supporters such as Sting, playing an important role in the government’s demarcation of swathes of Indigenous territory in the early 2010s, which is the best-maintained and protected forest in the Amazon.

Continue reading.

[beardedmrbean]

A detained Ghanaian activist who was the key organiser of the recent anti-illegal mining protest has been denied bail along with 11 others, despite being seriously ill.

Oliver Barker Vormawor appeared in court on Thursday and pleaded not guilty to multiple charges, including unlawful assembly and assault on a public officer.

Mr Vormawor will be held in police custody for two weeks and then appear in court. He has been treated at the police hospital for an undisclosed illness.

The Cambridge-educated activist organised the three-day protest to take action against illegal mining, known locally as "galamsey", which has been blamed for polluting 60% of Ghana's waters.

Some analysts have said that if the practice is not curbed, then the country could be importing water by 2030.

Last weekend, the group, calling itself Democracy Hub, clashed with the police in the capita, Accra, leading to several arrests.

Over 50 protesters have now been denied bail and are in police custody and prison.

The police accused the protesters of blocking roads, dismantling police barriers and obstructing traffic in the city.

There were reports that a pregnant woman named Vera Lamptey was among those arrested and is in police detention. But the police have denied this.

Many in Ghana have condemned the police, including opposition leader and presidential candidate, John Mahama, who has called out their heavy-handedness, describing it as an abuse of citizen's rights to protest.

Ghana is the leading producer of gold in Africa but has struggled to deal with illegal mining in recent years.

President Nana Akufo-Addo has ordered the deployment of the police and the military to crack down on illegal miners. A similar approach was used in 2017 but did not solve the problem.

The country will be electing a new president on 7 December with Akufo-Addo standing down after two terms in power.

[flipping-the-coin]

Hush; whats the best and worst parts about living in megatrons walls?

ℰ𝓁𝒾𝓉ℯ 𝒢𝓊𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈𝓂ℯ𝒸𝒽: 𝒜ℊℯ𝓃𝓉 ℋ𝓊𝓈𝒽

◇─◇──◇─◇

I'm not quite sure how you managed to get this question to me, but I'm pinning the blame on Megatron. Whatever the case, it's not a problem. I've got nothing better to do stuck up here all the time.

Let me start off by saying that there is a LOT I could ramble about here. There are plenty of great things about being the unwanted roomie, and for that same reason, there are more than a few negatives when it comes to this whole arrangement. Some of the worst parts of this whole situation include everything listed below.

Its boring as slag here. Megatron never does anything of interest, and then on the odd chance that he does, it's always for Orion and so its sappy as frag.

The funds the guard gives me are just not enough to make do. Not to be ungrateful, but I have Carnage and my two other pets to take care of. I never told Paradox about them, but well, I didn't think it was important until I started going hungry.

It gets really cold up here in the walls sometimes, usually during the rainy season. Megatron has a space heater since the sound of the actual heater that was built into the hab makes Orion twitchy. But that space heater doesn't work through walls.

Megatron and Orion interface all. the. time. I don't think I need to say much more aside from stating that I tend to take a walk when they do their thing.

Orion organizes his stuff WRONG. Nothing is put into any sort of decipherable organizational order and it drives me mad. I've tried fixing it, but then Orion gets mad at Megatron and Megatron in turn gets mad at me. So I just have to deal with it.

The whole hab is decorated in a very debatable manner, but I can mostly deal with it... except when it comes to Orion's stupid RUG. The thing is neon yellow with black stripes to make it look like miner marks. It's hideous and clashes with every other piece of furniture, but Orion loves it. Megatron tolerates it.

I've had to stop attempted murders about... twelve times now? Four where from Ratchet putting too many pills in Orion's meds, not sure if it was an accident or not. Two were from Ratchet again, but in a more physical sense. The rest where just mechs with vendettas trying to screw Megatron over in subtle ways. They suck at it by the way. Poisoning energon stopped being effective two stellar cycles into the great war.

That's about the worst of it I think. As for the good things? Let me list those in similar fashion real quick.

Megatron gives me stuff to read. It's REALLY boring up here, so every now and then he throws me a bone so to speak and offers me reading material. Pretty sure its mostly illegal, but it's something to do.

Megatron also lets me proofread his writing and edit sometimes. With no one else in the hab more often than not, I suspect he enjoys knowing someone is listening when he spends groons reading poetry. It's a nice distractor once you get used to the romantic nature of his work.

Every now and then Megatron makes me something absolutely delicious to eat. It's usually after I do him a favor, but by the Thirteen, he makes amazing pastries. I am willing to jump through hoops to get some of his cooking.

I got annoyed with Orion's garden situation so I took up the role of gardener with a disguise in place. Now once every two deca-cycles I get to have tea with him and First Aid. It's a blast.

I got to blanket as a gift from Orion once while I was using my alias. I adore that blanket.

Yeah I think that's the most notable stuff. The cons kinda outway the pros, but it is what it is. I'm happy enough I suppose. I've got my pets and I've got my little spot in the walls.

It's fine.