#inmate 01

[familiarscars]

Drive You Insane | Noah Sebastian 01

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Noah Sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. A mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex and profanity.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Grimshade Sanatorium, an isolated island of Blackridge in southern Canada.

It had been six long hours by plane from your city, three hours by boat, and now an hour and a half crammed into a private car with closed windows, traveling along a bumpy road that bordered a cliff as it climbed the hill. Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest at any moment, and your hands were sweating so much that they alternated between hot and cold.

You adjusted your glasses on the bridge of your nose after checking the map for the eighth time, dividing your attention between the aged paper in your fingers and the fog outside that made it impossible to figure out where you were. From what you could decipher, Grimshade Sanatorium was at the top of a hill, while the rest of the island was shrouded in dark, untamed vegetation. There was a single small town miles away from your lodging, and reaching it seemed daunting given the path ahead.

At that moment, you hoped you wouldn’t need anything from it anytime soon.

When you chose psychiatry as your specialization, you never imagined how difficult it would be to find a job in the field, especially as a newly graduated professional. It was tough for reputable clinics to give you a vote of confidence, given your youth and limited experience beyond mandatory internships and extracurricular activities in college.

Everything changed when a letter from Grimshade Sanatorium arrived—a glimmer of hope. You had applied to so many places you’d forgotten about that one. They sent a notice on vintage paper, resembling a direct invitation from Hogwarts, which you found amusing yet intriguing due to the details.

They were looking for a psychiatrist for the ward housing inmates awaiting their final sentences—many of them serving their time as residents. It wasn’t exactly what you had envisioned, especially after researching Grimshade and discovering it functioned like a maximum-security prison for the most dangerous, mentally unstable criminals.

“This is where the road ends for cars, I’m afraid. You’ll have to continue on foot,” the driver said over his shoulder, turning to look at you in the back seat.

Your slightly wide-eyed gaze shifted between the dark dirt road ahead and his drooping eyes beneath his cap. You didn’t want to let on that you felt a faint shiver running up your spine.

“I don’t know how to get there alone,” you said, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “Okay, I have a map, but what are the chances it won’t confuse me? Is there somewhere I can get Wi-Fi or better cell service to use GPS?”

Rebert—that’s how he introduced himself—merely furrowed his brows and shook his head briefly, as if the words that had left your lips were absurd.

“With all due respect, miss, but a cellphone on Blackridge Island is the most useless device you could own. There’s no signal tower; we barely manage to watch TV or get news from the outside world,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?” you asked, frowning as you adjusted yourself in the seat. “How do people communicate here?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Probably through letters and carrier pigeons, like a century ago.

“I need to ask one more thing. If I need to go into town, how can I call a taxi or get transportation?”

“When you get to this very intersection, you’ll see cars like mine heading toward the town. Since you’re a Grimshade employee, you’ll have unrestricted access with your ID badge. Just pay attention to the schedules and days of the week; town visits are limited to avoid coinciding with the arrival of new inmates.”

“They seem very strict about security,” you said, flexing your lips in mild surprise.

“Given the abominable creatures they house there, perhaps their measures aren’t strict enough. Strict is how I chain my dog to a post to keep him from running away. Those killers shouldn’t even have the privilege of eating and sleeping in that place,” Rebert said with a tone of contempt that left you slightly uncomfortable.

You hated when people spoke about patients that way, no matter who they were. But your beliefs and values didn’t matter much now.

“Well...” You cleared your throat, grabbing your coat and bag from the seat beside you, slinging it over your shoulder. “Thanks for the ride and the tips, Rebert.”

“Not at all, miss.”

You hauled your suitcase out of the trunk, grunting at its weight, and dragged it toward the narrower stone path. In the distance, you heard Rebert’s car pulling away, its tires crunching against the gravel. Ahead, you could make out the mansion after a steep climb, with old tree branches and dry leaves forming an archway over the path.

The journey was silent, with nothing but the sounds of nature—the raspy chirping of birds—accompanied by the soft rush of water from the cracked concrete fountain decorating the front of the sanatorium as you crossed its gates. You walked slowly around it, grimacing as you noted the general state of neglect on the facade.

The circular driveway around the fountain had cracked and darkened tiles, and the mansion’s paint was as old as the building itself, appearing white under layers of creeping vines and cracks that altered its color. You couldn’t help wrinkling your nose at the sight, the chirping of birds replaced by the distant clang of heavy metal and muffled screams as you approached.

“You must be the new doctor!” A cheerful male voice addressed you from behind, startling you as you turned fully. “I’m Travis Rune, head psychiatrist of the custody ward. I’ve been assigned to welcome you to Grimshade!”

For a moment, you considered refusing the hand he extended toward you. He could’ve arrived a little earlier and helped you carry your heavy suitcase up the hill. On the other hand, the blond man with perfectly aligned hair and broad shoulders seemed far too pleasant to snub.

“Thank you! Have you been here long, Dr. Rune?” you asked, prompting a smile as Travis gestured with his chin for you to follow him inside.

“Please, call me Travis. We’re colleagues now.” He smiled, looking at you over his square glasses, winking one strikingly blue eye.

“That’s precisely why I prefer to keep things formal,” you said without intending to sound rude, though the words slipped out as you continued assessing the mansion’s interior.

A grand staircase led to the second floor, where nurses bustled about, and various patients were being moved from one place to another—some restrained, others not. Passing by a woman banging her head against the staircase railing, Travis led you upstairs, signaling to another staff member to take care of your suitcase.

“We’ve divided Grimshade into wings and levels. You’ll identify them by the bracelets on each patient’s wrist,” he explained as you moved down the corridor, ignoring the shouting coming from one of the consulting rooms. “Level One: green bracelet. Elderly patients abandoned by their families in our asylum. Their needs are managed by the nursing staff, so you won’t have contact with them.”

You absorbed the information, looking from side to side, thinking that abandoning a family member in a place like this was the ultimate proof of someone’s character.

"Level two: yellow wristbands. Patients of random age groups with mild mental disorders also abandoned by their families, or severe cases requiring institutionalization. They are monitored by the mental health team and have a monthly consultation with me for medication adjustments."

"So, they pay to be here?" Perhaps it was a naïve question, but you needed to know.

"Their families pay an annual fee and cover the costs of keeping them here. Unless it's a custody patient, we don’t treat anyone for free, if that’s what you’re wondering."

If they had so many patients and all of them paid to be here, why keep the sanatorium in the state of an ancient asylum? You wondered as you walked past a leak dripping water from the ceiling onto your hair.

"Understood, Dr. Rune."

He seemed quite young.

Okay, he was definitely good-looking and had a pleasant way of speaking. The age gap between you and him couldn’t have been more than two years. He was definitely the kind of guy you might have had a crush on in university, without the slightest reciprocation given the countless other, more interesting options he probably had. Not that you were particularly extroverted or social, especially when it came to interacting with men.

Locking yourself up at home with your face buried in books might not have been the best idea after all.

"Last but not least, level three: red wristbands. Custody patients awaiting trial or serving sentences at the sanatorium. We use treatment to extract information that can assist authorities and contribute to investigations."

He pointed toward a consultation room where a man in a dress shirt was speaking to a girl with her head down.

"Because these are highly dangerous criminals who can’t coexist with other patients, we keep them in a separate wing, which we call the Hidden."

Dr. Rune turned the next corner, and you followed him. As you passed through the doors and descended the stairs leading to the outside, the cold hit your face, and it was impossible not to cross your arms, trying to pull your sleeves further down.

You thought the scenery couldn’t get any worse, but with each step, it became darker. As you passed through gates and two guards, it felt like stepping into a TV prison show, walking along a corridor of iron cells.

A strong stench burned your nostrils, and the screams of patients mixed with the sound of something hitting the iron were enough to make your ears ring.

"This place is the reason you’re here. Our last professional resigned, and we urgently needed to fill the position before the next evaluation cycle started," Travis shrugged as he walked.

Your confidence dropped by a few percentage points upon realizing that your hiring was out of sheer desperation. Fine, you’d deal with that later.

"They resigned?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, dodging a stream of urine aimed in your direction by a patient. "Not exactly motivating to hear that on the first day."

"It’s a tough ward; it’s not for everyone." He smiled, and you hesitated immediately. "Besides the patient files you’ll handle, you’ll need to prepare for a new detainee arriving soon."

"A new detainee?" For the first time, your question sounded genuinely intrigued.

"He’s being tried for a brutal murder. There’s little information about the case, like his motivation or even confirmation that he did it. He hasn’t spoken a word since it happened, and the judge concluded he’s not mentally sound." Travis rolled his eyes. "They dump any trash here, and it’s up to us to sort through it. Along the way, we see if we can help at all."

He was definitely fed up with this job.

"So, let me guess... you think I can make him talk?" you asked, playing with a hint of innocence as you watched Travis stop in the corridor.

"I don’t think someone as inexperienced as you can go that far, no offense." He spoke with a touch of sarcasm. "We just want you to follow protocol with him, and I’ll handle the rest."

Something prickled at the back of your neck at the way he dismissed your years of study as absolutely nothing just because your resume wasn’t as extensive as his. Your hands curled into fists, your fingers pressing into your palms, and you took a deep breath before responding.

"Of course, Dr. Rune."

The tour of the Hidden was over, and you were exhausted. Travis left you at the door of your small room with its jammed window and dusty ceiling fan. Before leaving, he emphasized the importance of being well-rested to receive the new patient the next day. After your shower, you wanted to call your mother and let her know you had arrived safely on the island after hours of travel, but without any signal, no matter where you moved in the room, this mission was impossible. Tossing the phone onto your pillow, you promised yourself you’d give her an update as soon as you had a break and could visit the town.

With a tired sigh, you sat at the desk next to the bed, drying your hair with a towel while flipping through patient files. You weren’t sleepy yet, and without the entertainment of the internet, all you could do was work.

Patient File 1: Ash A., 39 years old - Admission: June 2019 Preliminary Diagnosis: Severe psychopathy; dissociative disorder.

History: Ash was admitted after being declared legally insane during the trial for a series of brutal murders. He worked as a taxidermist, and his obsession with preserving "human perfection" led him to conduct grotesque experiments on his victims, all meticulously chosen. He claimed he was "saving" their souls by preserving them in an "immortal" form. During initial sessions, he displayed a complete lack of remorse and a disturbingly detailed recounting of his actions. Current State: Apathetic during interactions, except when discussing his “art.” Shows no signs of rehabilitation or acknowledgment of the atrocities committed.

You raised your eyebrows and jotted down notes in your notebook before moving to the next file.

Patient File 2: Mariene G., 27 years old - Admission: October 2021 Preliminary Diagnosis: Schizoaffective disorder with violent tendencies.

History: Mariene was found in a state of shock next to the body of her older brother, stabbed 23 times. Apparently, she believed he was a demonic entity trying to steal her soul. According to family testimony, Mariene began exhibiting paranoid behavior months earlier, hearing voices instructing her to protect herself "at all costs." In one interview, she stated she "had no choice" and that "his eyes burned like embers."

Current State: Alternates between periods of lucidity and paranoia. Aggressive during confrontations, requiring constant supervision.

“Mariene is a pretty name…” you murmured, assessing the photo of the woman with blonde eyebrows.

Patient File 3: Brady P., 52 years old - Admission Date: January 2020

Preliminary Diagnosis: Antisocial personality disorder; extreme persecution mania.

History: Brady was a former financial executive who believed he was being pursued by a "secret society" responsible for monitoring his every move and manipulating his life. This paranoia culminated in a public attack at a shopping mall, where Brady set fire to three stores and stabbed two security guards, claiming they were "infiltrators." He maintains that each act was a measure of self-preservation against an invisible enemy.

Current State: Rarely sleeps, claiming that "they will find him" if he closes his eyes. Displays consistent delusions despite intensive medication.

With the third file finished, you exhaled sharply, letting your lips vibrate, imagining what could have driven the previous psychiatrist to resign, leaving this position open for you.

Patient File 4: Noah S., 24 years old - Admission Date: February 2024

Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychogenic catatonia associated with borderline personality disorder and severe dissociative episodes.

History: Noah was found at dawn in a grove near the university campus, kneeling beneath a large tree. Above him hung the mutilated body of his ex-girlfriend, Rachel E., 23 years old, suspended by her ankles and bearing signs of extreme violence: deep cuts marked her skin, symbols carved into her torso, and her frozen expression suggested a slow and painful death.

Noah was covered in blood, both his own and Rachel’s. When approached by police, he remained motionless, staring blankly at her hanging body. Initial investigations revealed the two had been seen together the night before at a rival fraternity party where, according to witnesses, a heated argument occurred. The circumstances of the crime raised questions of premeditation and symbolic rituals, but Noah never provided an explanation. From the moment of his capture, Noah had not spoken a single word. Extensive psychiatric evaluations concluded that his muteness and apathy were not conscious choices but the result of a profound dissociative state combined with severe trauma. During the trial, his inert posture and lack of defense led to an insanity plea and his transfer to Grimshade Sanitarium.

Current State: Noah remains in complete silence, minimally interacting with his surroundings. Nurses’ reports mention he is often found staring into space for hours, particularly near windows or trees. His only movements thus far have been sudden bursts of rage when provoked.

Closing the file, the feeling lingered — a deep chill seemed to originate from the center of your chest, raising the hair on your arms. Noah’s face in the photograph seemed almost alive, his intense, furrowed gaze carrying something impossible to name. For a moment, you wondered what it would be like to stand face-to-face with someone harboring such silence and horror within.

But your curiosity wouldn’t have to last long — you would meet him tomorrow.

The day began with an unusual restlessness. The hot water from the shower didn’t dissipate the cold that seemed to settle in your nape, and Noah’s face from the photograph lingered like a shadow, even with your eyes closed. It was as though the intensity of his gaze was imprinted on your mind, and more than once, you caught yourself trying to divert your thoughts — unsuccessfully — while instinctively clutching your thighs.

The tattoos — intricate and dark — covering his neck and peeking from the collar of his shirt didn’t help, drawing attention to themselves. Something about that man disturbed you more than any other patient you had encountered, and the feeling only grew as you prepared, choosing an outfit that projected professionalism, though a hint of nervousness threatened to show.

Descending to reception, you found Dr. Rune waiting with a calm smile and a hot coffee. You thanked him, holding the cup with both hands, trying to savor the warmth as a fleeting comfort. Walking together toward the outside, he explained some logistical details, but his words soon faded as a growing noise filled the corridor.

Crossing the main entrance doors, you stopped abruptly, startled by the scene unfolding before you. Journalists crowded like a compact swarm, camera flashes firing in rapid succession, and visibly overwhelmed security guards struggling to contain the horde. It was a chaotic visual and auditory assault, intensifying with each passing second.

“I should’ve warned you,” Travis murmured beside you, noting your expression. “Not only is his case infamous, but Noah comes from a very influential family. The owners of Blackridge, basically. They have fortune, power... and apparently no hurry to help their precious son.”

“They’re not trying to prove his innocence?” you asked innocently.

“All signs point to them wanting to stay out of the case due to the exposure. We’re in the isolated area, but Blackridge’s noble district is so conservative it’s believed that land still exists in a time capsule that hasn’t evolved.”

“That sounds... complicated.”

“Just another piece of gossip about a random patient.”

The information landed heavily, given Travis’s mocking tone, and you tried to ignore him.

“They won’t back off anytime soon,” Rune commented, his eyes scanning the commotion with a weary expression. “Be prepared — this will complicate things inside as well. Friends of mine at the penitentiary said this guy has an ego to match.”

The chaos ahead seemed to swell with the arrival of the convoy. You barely had time to process everything — the blinding flashes, the cacophony of voices shouting questions — when the door of the central car opened. Two guards stepped out first, taking rigid positions, before pulling Noah out.

He emerged with a surprising posture. There was no resistance in his movements, but neither was there submission. With his chin raised, his face remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on an undefined point on the horizon, avoiding the cameras with a determination that seemed almost practiced. The tattoos, now more visible, climbed along the side of his neck and hinted beneath the collar of his gray shirt, creating an almost hypnotic contrast against his pale skin.

Noah seemed unperturbed, untouchable, as though the swarm of journalists and flashes were nothing more than a breeze around him. But then, something shifted. His firm steps faltered for an instant, almost imperceptibly, and he stopped abruptly.

That’s when you realized: he was looking directly at you.

The air around you seemed to freeze under the weight of his gaze, as overwhelming as in the photograph, but now there was something more — an intensity that seemed to pierce through you, as if examining something far beyond what others could see. His eyes were a blend of ice and fire, fixed on you with such deliberate focus that your stomach involuntarily tightened.

The moment lasted only seconds but felt like an eternity. One of the guards touched Noah’s shoulder impatiently, and he resumed walking as if nothing had happened. Yet, the impact of that brief exchange lingered.

“He usually doesn’t react to anything,” Travis remarked beside you, his voice low but tinged with curiosity. “That was... strange.”

Strange.

The word felt insufficient to describe what you had just experienced. As Noah was led inside, you remained frozen, trying to understand why that fleeting instant made your skin tingle, as though something inevitable was about to happen.

You were in the asylum’s forest, each step swallowed by the oppressive silence, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet. The air was dense, almost suffocating, and you knew you weren’t alone. Something—or someone—was behind you.

Your breaths were shallow and quick, every fiber of your being urging you to run, yet your legs felt rooted to the ground. Then, you heard it.

A whisper, far too close, as though it came from inside your mind:

“Run.”

The word was a command, and you obeyed without hesitation. Your body lunged forward, crashing through trees and brush with an urgency that felt primal. But the ground seemed to fight against you, each step more laborious than the last. Heat built between your thighs—confusing, strange—mixing with the adrenaline surging down your spine.

When the sound of footsteps behind you intensified, the adrenaline peaked. You could no longer think, only run, but you knew it was futile. He was too close.

Suddenly, something yanked your hair with brutal force, jerking you backward. A scream tore from your lips as your back collided with the rough surface of a tree. The pain of bark scraping against your exposed skin was eclipsed by his presence—a towering, menacing shadow.

His face was obscured, hidden in darkness, but the patterns on his neck were unmistakable. You recognized the intricate lines of tattoos that had haunted your thoughts all day. The broad shoulders and the strength with which he gripped your jaw confirmed your deepest fear.

It was Noah.

He tilted his head, studying you with a terrifying calm. The sound of his breathing was heavy, almost animalistic. Before you could react, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you between the tree and his overwhelming presence.

The heat pulsing between your thighs became unbearable, tangled in terror and tension. You tried to speak, but the words lodged in your throat as he gripped your neck with a possessive firmness, his fingers digging into your skin.

And then, like a violent wave, you woke up.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, breaths coming in ragged gasps, and cold sweat drenched your skin. The darkness of your room was suffocating, though not as much as the weight of that dream. It wasn’t merely fear—it was something deeply visceral, almost tangible, making your skin crawl and your entire body rebel against what you had just experienced.

That man was going to drive you insane.

[venusandsaturnsrings]

★彡 masterlist!

all of my significant works packed into one pretty package! <3

 *✧incel au masterlist!

 *✧ mondstadt!

international! - foxboy childe vs wolf boy diluc! double edged - diluc isn't always the nicest...

 *✧ liyue!

prof. li - professor zhongli bits second place - prof. li cucking childe eggs - dragon zhongli full form - dragon zhongli full dragon mode

 *✧ snezhnaya!

foul legacy thoughts! simpy.05 - foxboy childe! international! - foxboy childe vs wolf boy diluc! sorry isn't my forte - childe is sweet when he apologizes drink up - fratboy childe and his dubious methods simpy.06 - fratboy childe thoughts! on the hunt! - foxboy childe and lamb reader chop chop chop - slasher childe thoughts sinning in the house of god. - priest childe and sacrilege electric! - childe using his delusion on you cor.03 - werewolf childe bits fungus - childe violates a shroom with you!! so mean!! dilf - dilf childe bits <3shotgunning - smoking with childe simpy.07 - slasher childe thoughts!water - childe and watersports... second place - prof. li cucking childe vulnerability in bed! - trans childe first time with you roulette - childe loves russian roulette frat sister - fratboy childe and zhonglis little sister... cor.03 - foxboy childe babbling! pathetic - soggy, sopping wet foxboy childe :( dichotomy - the two ways you have of foxboy childe canon skull fuck - canon childe bj! yeehaw! - cowboy childe thoughts harness - childe and that damn harness... change of plans! - foxtaru april fools fic :pcannibal - childe noms you cda.04 - doberman childe! kennal - when puppy childe misbehaves instincts - puppy childe wants to breed you cat.01 - puppy childe and a rival! cda.05 - sweet fluff with puppy childe cat.02 - foxboy childe and his lamb darling spider.01 - childe when his girl is in pain mantis.01 - puppy childe punishments confetti! - childes birthday celebrations frat - fratboy childe babbling spider.03 - foxboy childe as a dad! slash - slasher childe bit trapped - stuck trope with foxboy childe prisoner - childe is the inmate, you're the guard a slight indulgence - soft vampire childe raspberry sorbet - vampire childe blood sucking and sex

that time - foxboy childe with his darling is on their period potent - childe ramblings about how he handles you reminders - childe ramblings about how he misses you denial - no sex for puppyboy childe :( yuzu - childe ramblings involving food and smells sharing - foxboy childe and wolfboy wrio... fight! - foxboy childe and wolfboy wrio fighting over you

*✧ sumeru!

sinner - priest alhaitham bit enemies to lovers? - tensions with alhaitham are high devoted little lamb! - priest alhaitham and his sacrifice

 *✧ fontaine!

sharing - foxboy childe and wolfboy wrio... fight! - foxboy childe and wolfboy wrio fighting over you

[movingonexceptnot]

Death Note except Light is actually smart not just lucky and he doesn't kill the first person to get on tv saying they are going to catch him, but instead, he searches in his dad's computer on the police's database for that name and realizes it's a death row inmate

he sees it's a trick and kills every other death row inmate, except for the one that showed up on tv, to show he isn't scared/intimidate them

maybe even kills them at the same time, except for the minutes which he uses as a code for the alphabet (think 1 is A so 12:01 is A and 12:02 is B)

[docgold13]

I hate Trump with a burning passion, too, but let's not pretend Kamala was EVER a good person.

Kamala Harris intentionally withheld information that would have proven a man on Death Row innocent, she refused to support making police wear bodycams, regularly violated the rights of defendants, knowingly allowed a corrupt technician to alter evidence, and more!

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/17/opinion/kamala-harris-criminal-justice.html

Worst of all:

"And then there’s Kevin Cooper, the death row inmate whose trial was infected by racism and corruption. He sought advanced DNA testing to prove his innocence, but Ms. Harris opposed it. (After The New York Times’s exposé of the case went viral, she reversed her position.)"

Batman and Superman would just see her as another corrupt politician, even if Trump is worse.

We're just stuck with two horrible options where we have to choose the lesser of two evils. Plain and simple.

a valid take. respectfully, I disagree.

No prosecutor's full body of work can be judged effectively based on the simplified accounts from a handful of high-profile cases.

Posing the November election as a choice between the lessor of two evils is a losing strategy for the good guys. It saps enthusiasm and runs the risk of diminishing voter turn-out. Low turn out always benefits republican candidates.

November is not going to be a choice between two horrible options... it will be a decision between a decent albeit imperfect politician and a fucking monster.

put on some rose colored glasses and get excited for the prospect of a Harris presidency. The stakes are too high to be pragmatic.

[themanitself]

†тнє נєℓℓуƒιѕн αη∂ тнє нυмαη†

Ꮪ𝐔𝘕 A𝘕𝘿 ᶬ𝞞𝞞𝘕 - Pressure X Reader

00/01/02(you are here!)

. . ╰──╮Sebastian's pov╭──╯ . .

The guards followed my every step, I knew that I never have killed those people, I never even knew any of them. and I was sentenced to death via an electric chair, but before my death sentence happened urbanshade swooped me in. Of course I should be grateful for living another day because of them, but it felt suspicious.

I stopped as I was paused by a guard,

He held his hand in front of me, a man that I presumed is a doctor shook his head and informed the guard to open the door for me.

The man took out a key card and scanned it to the door, a loud clank was heard before the iron door finally opened.

He looks at me and indicates that I follow him, we continued walking around the cold hallway.

He stopped, we were in some chamber room, in the middle of the room was a test tube filled with some liquid and what looked like a humanoid creature inside.

The room was messy, Clipboards were everywhere, crumbled paper all over the ground and pills and injections were spilled at the corner.

The creature looked at me curiously and at the doctor beside me and growled at him.

. . ╰──╮____'s pov╭──╯ . .

Great another failed mission, the other experimentations are getting more aggressive as days or months have passed. Soon there will be a new victim, Mr. Solace an inmate charged for allegedly murdering 9 people.

This information was thanks to those disgusting things they called themselves 'humans' for yapping about a new experimentation that will start for a few days. As I was saying Mr. Solace was sentenced to death by an electric chair.

Of course urbanshade saw this as a blessing to the gods and swooped him in before he could even die.

He'd be more thankful if he died than being alive right now.

My thoughts were cut off when the door finally opened revealing two men, A scientist and the inmate dressed in the orange jumpsuit.

I went close to the glass and looked at the prisoner curiously, now at the scientist with an angry expression.

The scientist of course glared at me but let me slide this time, he looked at the prisoner made him sign up a contract.

The prisoner didn't hesitate and signed the contract, the door opened revealing a fellow scientist panicking and urgently yelling at the scientist to follow him, The scientist looks at me then at the prisoner before hesitantly instructing him to guard me for a bit,

Before the prisoner could even speak the scientist left without much explanation.

I just have to follow phase 2 of my plan.

. . ╰──╮Sebastian's pov╭──╯ . .

I just nod slowly as I looked at the empty space where the doctor was previously.

A glass tap was heard in the tube, the creature beckoned me to get closer, I hesitated but continued to do so.

It pointed at a lever behind the tube asking me to crank it up, I complied and pulled the lever up.

"Why, thank you Mr. Solace."

╔⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤╗

End of 02

╚⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤╝

[offender42085]

Post 0613

Edward Saucier, Florida inmate W91579, born 1999, incarceration intake June 2022, at age 23, released December 2022, returned to incarceration March 2023, released November 2023

Burglary

Saucier was sentenced to two years in prison for committing multiple burglaries in Indian River County.

He was initially received into the Department of Corrections on 06/30/2022, and housed in Kissimmee.

While on work release, Edward Saucier reportedly cut his ankle monitor on 12/01/2022.

On 12/04/2022; The Indian County Sheriff's Office said they received information that Saucier was possibly near the area of 6400 48th Avenue. 

A resident in that area reported that someone burglarized their home — taking clothing and food.  Several police units responded and Saucier was found hiding in a nearby wooded area where he was arrested, and then transported to the Indian River County Jail.

He remained in the Indian County Jail until 03/23/2023 when he was returned to the control of the State Department of Corrections.

3l

Last reviewed November 2024

[beardedmrbean]

Haiti's government declared a 72-hour state of emergency on Sunday after armed gangs stormed a major prison. At least 12 people were killed and about 3,700 inmates escaped in the jailbreak.

Gang leaders are demanding the resignation of Prime Minister Ariel Henry, whose whereabouts are unknown since he travelled to Kenya.

Gangs control around 80% of the capital, Port-au-Prince.

Gang violence has plagued Haiti for years.

A government statement said two prisons - one in Port-au-Prince and the other in nearby Croix des Bouquets - were stormed over the weekend.

It said the acts of "disobedience" were a threat to national security and said it was instituting an immediate night-time curfew in response, which started at 20:00 local time (01:00 GMT on Monday).

How gangs came to dominate Haiti

Haitian media reported that police stations were attacked, distracting authorities before the coordinated assault on the jails.

Among those detained in Port-au-Prince were suspects charged in connection with the 2021 killing of President Jovenel Moïse.

In the capital, gangs have erected barricades to prevent security forces from encroaching on their territory, while their strongholds in Port-au-Prince's vast shantytowns are still largely on lockdown.

Schools and many businesses are closed, and there are reports of looting in some neighbourhoods.

Police have set up roadblocks and there is much uncertainty on the streets.

The latest upsurge in violence began on Thursday, when the prime minister travelled to Nairobi to discuss sending a Kenya-led multinational security force to Haiti.

Gang leader Jimmy Chérizier (nicknamed Barbecue) declared a co-ordinated attack to remove him.

"All of us, the armed groups in the provincial towns and the armed groups in the capital, are united," said the former police officer, who is accused of being behind several massacres in Port-au-Prince.

Haiti's police union had asked the military to help reinforce the capital's main prison, but the compound was stormed late on Saturday.

On Sunday the doors of the prison were still open and there were no signs of officers, Reuters news agency reported. Three inmates who tried to flee lay dead in the courtyard, the report said.

A journalist for the AFP news agency who visited the prison saw around 10 bodies, some with signs of injuries caused by bullets.

One volunteer prison worker told the Reuters news agency that 99 prisoners - including former Colombian soldiers jailed over President Moïse's murder - had chosen to remain in their cells for fear of being killed in crossfire.

They have now been transferred to a different prison.

The US embassy in Port-au-Prince on Sunday urged its citizens to leave Haiti "as soon as possible". The French embassy said it was closing visa services as a "precaution".

While Haiti has been plagued by gangs for years, the violence has further escalated since President Moïse's assassination at his home in 2021. He has not been replaced and presidential elections have not been held since 2016.

Under a political deal, Mr Henry was due to stand down by 7 February. But planned elections were not held and he remains in post.

A spokesperson for the White House's National Security Council said it was "monitoring the rapidly deteriorating security situation" with "grave concern".

They said the path forward "lies with free and fair elections" and violence serves "only to delay a democratic transition while... upending the lives of thousands".

Speaking to the BBC's Newsday, Claude Joseph - who was serving as acting prime minister when President Moïse was assassinated and who is now head of the opposition party called Those Committed to Development - said Haiti was living through a "nightmare".

Mr Joseph said Prime Minister Henry wanted "to stay as long as possible in charge".

"He agreed to step down on 7 February. Now he decides to stay, despite the fact that there are huge protests throughout the country asking him to step down - but it's unfortunate that now those criminals are using violent means to force him to step down."

In January, the UN said more than 8,400 people were victims of Haiti's gang violence last year, including killings, injuries and kidnappings - more than double the numbers seen in 2022.

Many health facilities have stopped operating because of the bloodshed.

Anger at the shocking levels of violence, on top of the political vacuum, have led to several demonstrations against the government, with protesters demanding the resignation of the prime minister.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The Bezzle excerpt (Part IV)

I'm on tour with my new novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT in SALT LAKE CITY (Feb 21, Weller Book Works) and TOMORROW in SAN DIEGO (Feb 22, Mysterious Galaxy). After that, it's LA, Seattle, Portland, Phoenix and more!

This week marks the publication of my latest novel, The Bezzle, and to celebrate, I'm serializing an excerpt from Chapter 14 in six parts:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

The Bezzle is a revenge story, a crime novel, and a technothriller. It stars Martin Hench, a hard-fighting forensic accountant who specializes in unwinding high-tech scams. Hench made his debt in last year's Red Team Blues (now in paperback!); The Bezzle is a standalone followup:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865854/redteamblues

The serial tells the tale of Stefon Magner, AKA Steve Soul, a once-famous R&B frontman whose disintegrating career turned to tragedy when his crooked manager forged his signature on a rights assignment contract that let him steal all of Stefon's royalties, which ballooned after modern hiphop artists discovered his grooves and started buying licenses to sample them. The first three installments related the sad circumstances of Stefon's life, and the real-world analogues (like Leonard Cohen and George Clinton, both of whom were pauperized by sticky-fingered managers) as well as one real-world countermeasure, copyright termination, a thing that more artists should know about and use:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/26/take-it-back/

Today's installment weaves in a major subplot for the first time in the serial: Los Angeles's notorious, murderous Sheriff's Deputy gangs. These are another unbelievable true tale: for decades, the LASD's deputies have formed themselves into criminal gangs, some of which require that initiates murder someone to be inducted:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_LASD_deputy_gangs

They sport gang tattoos, have secret signs, and run vast criminal enterprises. This has been the subject of numerous investigative press reports, and one extensive official report that called the gangs "a cancer":

https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/deputy-gangs-cancer-los-angeles-county-sheriffs-department-scathing-re-rcna73367

The sordid tales of the LASD gangs beggar belief. For example, deputies in charge of LA County jails forced inmates to pit-fight and took bets on the outcomes:

https://www.aclu.org/publications/report-cruel-and-usual-punishment-how-savage-gang-deputies-controls-la-county-jails

The taxpayers of LA have shelled out tens of millions of dollars to settle claims against LA's criminals with badges:

https://news.yahoo.com/deputies-accused-being-secret-societies-230851807.html

Periodically, LA judges and officials will insist that they are tackling the problem:

https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2023-05-17/dozens-of-lasd-deputies-ordered-to-show-suspected-gang-tattoos-reveal-others-who-have-them

But at every turn, the LA police "unions" manage to crush these investigations:

https://abc7.com/los-angeles-county-lasd-deputy-gangs-cliques/13492081/

And top cops are right there with them, insisting that these aren't "gangs" – they're just "subgroups":

https://lapublicpress.org/2024/01/former-la-sheriff-villanueva-sheriffs-gangs-are-just-subgroups/

It's very weird being an Angeleno and knowing that one of the largest, most militarized, best funded police departments in the world has been openly captured by a hyperviolent crime syndicate. When I was in the Skyboat Media studios last December with Wil Wheaton recording the audiobook for The Bezzle, Wil broke off from reading to say, "You know, someone's going to read this and google it and have their mind blown when they discover that it's real":

https://sowl.co/8nyGh

That's one of my favorite ways to turn literature into something more than entertainment. It's why I filled the Little Brother books with real-world surveillance, cryptography and security tech, giving enough detail to advance the plot and give readers an idea of what search terms would let them understand and use the concepts in the novel. That's something I'm happy to keep up with the Hench novels, unpicking the inner workings of scams and corruption. The more of us who are wise to this, the sooner we'll be able to get rid of it.

Here's part one of the serial:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/17/the-steve-soul-caper/#lead-singer-disease

Part two:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#copyright-termination

Part three:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/20/fore/#lawyer-up

And now, onto part four!

The last of the boxes had been shelved.

Benedetto rose from his chair. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to the movers, and dug a roll of twenties out of his pocket and handed each of them two of their own. He turned to me as they filed out. “You wanna get sushi? The place next door is great.”

The empty storefront was in a down-­at-­heels strip mall in Eagle Rock. On one side, there was a Brazilian jujitsu studio that never seemed to have any students training in it. On the other side was Sushi Jiro, name on a faded sign with half its lightbulbs gone. Beyond that was a vaping store.

“The place next door is good?”

He laughed. “You San Francisco motherfuckers got terrible LA restaurant radar. Put Sushi Jiro in the Mission and it’d have a Michelin star and a six-­month waiting list. Here it’s in a strip mall and only the locals know how good it is. Bet you never had a decent meal in this town, am I right?”

“I’ve had a few,” I said, “but I admit my track record isn’t great.”

“Let’s improve it.”

The sushi was amazing.

#

Inglewood Jams had the kind of books that were performatively bad, designed to foil any attempt at human comprehension.

But whoever cooked them was an amateur, someone who mistook complexity for obfuscation. Like cross-­referencing was a species of transcendentally esoteric sorcery. I don’t mind cross-referencing. It’s meditative, like playing solitaire. I had Bene­detto send over some colored post-­it tabs and a big photocopier with an automatic feeder and I started making piles.

One night, I worked later than I planned. Sushi Jiro was becoming a serious hazard to my waistline and my sleep-­debt, because when your dinner break is ten yards and two doors away from your desk, it’s just too damned easy to get back to work after dinner.

That night, I’d fallen into a cross-­referencing reverie, and before I knew it, it was 2 a.m., my lower back was groaning, and my eyes were stinging.

I straightened, groaned, and slid my laptop into my bag. I found my keys and unlocked the door. The storefront was covered with brown butcher’s paper, but it didn’t go all the way to the edge. I had just a moment to sleepily note that there was some movement visible through the crack in the paper over the glass door when it came flying back toward me, bouncing off my toe, mostly, and my nose, a little. I put my one hand to my face as I instinctively threw myself into the door to close it again.

I was too late and too tired. A strong shoulder on the other side of the doorframe pushed it open and I stumbled back, and then the guy was on me, the door sighing shut behind him on its gas lift as he bore me to the ground and straddled my chest, a move he undertook with the ease of much practice. He pinned my arms under his knees and then gave me a couple of hard hits, one to the jaw, one to the nose.

My lip and nose were bleeding freely and my head was ringing from the hits and from getting smacked into the carpet tiles over concrete when I went down backward. I struggled—­to free my arms, to buck off my attacker, to focus on him.

He was a beefy white guy in his late fifties, with watery dark eyes and a patchy shave that showed gray mixed in with his dark stubble. As he raised his fist for another blow, I saw that he was wearing a big class ring. A minute later, that ring opened my cheek, just under the orbit of my eye.

Apart from some involuntary animal grunts, I hadn’t made a sound. Now I did. “Ow!” I shouted. “Shit!” I shouted. “Stop!” I shouted.

He split my lip again. I bucked hard but I couldn’t budge him. He had a double chin, a gut, and he was strong, and used that bulk to back up his strength. It was like trying to free myself from under a boulder. That kept punching me in the face.

The strip mall would be deserted. Everything was closed, even the vaping store.

Shouting wouldn’t help. I did it anyway. He shut my mouth for me with a left. I gagged on blood.

He took a break from punching me in the face, then. I think he was tired. His chest heaved, and he wiped sweat off his lip with the back of his hand, leaving behind a streaky mustache of my blood.

He contemplated me, weighing me up. I thought maybe he was trying to decide if I had any fight left in me, or perhaps whether I had any valuables he could help himself to.

He cleared his throat and looked at me again. “Goddammit, I messed your face up so bad I can’t tell for sure. I hope to fuck that you’re Martin Hench, though.”

Even with my addled wits, this was an important piece of intelligence: he came here for me. This wasn’t a random act of senseless Los Angeles street violence. This was aimed at me.

I was briefly angry at Benedetto for not warning me that Chuy Flores was such a tough son of a bitch. Then I had the presence of mind to lie.

“I don’t know who the fuck this Mark Hendricks is.” My voice was thick with gargled blood, but I was proud of Mark Hendricks. Pretty fast thinking for a guy with a probable concussion. The guy slapped me open-­handed across the face, and as I lay dazed for a moment, he shifted, reached into my back pocket for my wallet, and yanked it—­and the seat of my pants—­free. Before I could react, his knees were back on my biceps, pinning my arms and shoulders. It was a very neat move, and fast for an old guy like him.

He flipped my wallet open and squinted at it, then held it at arm’s length, then smiled broadly. He had bleach-­white teeth, a row of perfectly uniform caps. Los fucking Angeles, where even the thugs have a million-­dollar smile.

“Shoulda sprung for botox,” I slurred.

His grin got wider. “Maybe someday I will. Got these in trade from a cosmetic dentist I did some work for.” He dropped my wallet. “Listen, Martin Hench, you stay the fuck away from Thames Estuary and Lawrence Coleman.”

“It’s Lionel Coleman,” I said.

“What the fuck ever,” he said. He labored to his feet. I stayed still. He looked at me from a great height, and I stared up his nostrils. Without warning, he kicked my ribs hard enough that I heard one of them crack.

“You’ve been told,” he said to my writhing body, and let himself out.

ETA: Here's part five!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#poacher-turned-keeper

[bighermie]

Share Link

Department of Justice Files Statement of Interest in Lawsuit from Transgender Inmate https://www.breitbart.com/politics/2024/01/09/department-justice-files-statement-interest-lawsuit-transgender-inmate/

Biden's DOJ at work

[bunny-lou]

Trigger warning for pictures of a prison, brief mentions of inhumane conditions, starvation, death and violent crimes.

I got to visit the Mansfield Reformatory in Mansfield, OH over the weekend. This place originally began as a 'midway' point for young men who had committed crimes that were too serious for juvie, but not serious enough for prison.

In 1896, the Reformatory welcomed 150 inmates and was entirely self sufficient. Any repairs needed were done by inmates, food was grown on the property, livestock were raised by inmates. Not only did this keep costs low, but it helped inmates gain skills to work after their release. In its early years, the Reformatory had an 85% success rate, meaning that 85% of inmates were not re-admitted within 5 years of their release.

April 1930 saw one of the deadliest fires in U.S. history, the Ohio Penitentiary Fire in Columbus. It's believed the fire began when a rag was left too close to a candle. Some guards left the prison without unlocking any cells. More than 300 men perished in the fire.

Of those that survived, some were transferred to the Reformatory. Again, the Reformatory wasn't meant to hold inmates with violent crimes and the administration argued against taking in these inmates, protesting that they didn't have the room or the staff and that this could be detrimental to their current reform program, but the Reformatory was forced to house inmates from the Penitentiary.

The Reformatory saw state funding being cut a few decades later. Those put into solitary were given 1 meal once per day and it was often stacked that one meal would be given at 12:01 am on one day, then not again until 11:59 pm the second day, meaning inmates would go 47 hours without food. The Reformatory had such a severe cockroach problem that inmates would sleep with toilet paper stuffed in their ears to prevent anything from crawling in. Guards were so unused to handling violent inmates that they often did not interfere with any fights or step in unless absolutely necessary. The Reformatory became a maximum security prison in the 70s and would remain as such until its closing.

In the 1980's, former inmates sued the Reformatory for its inhumane conditions. The state ruled that the Reformatory was to be closed and another facility, the Mansfield Correctional Institution, was to be built to replace it. The state pulled ALL funding from the Reformatory to put into the MCI, meaning the Reformatory had absolutely no money the last ten years it was open. More than 200 people died in the Reformatory and, unless they were claimed by family, they were buried on the property, where they still remain.

Visit mrps.org to learn more. If you are ever in the Mansfield area, I can not recommend this tour enough. Those who are working to preserve and restore the Reformatory rely entirely on donations and those who pay for tours, so please check them out!

[winterproductions]

Un-Thinkable

Chapter One

Genre: Mafia Au, Thriller, Suspense

Rating: 18+

Trigger Warnings will be given before each chapter based on the trigger.

Word Avg: 1.2K

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader, Bangtan x OC

Chapters: Preview > 01 > 02

"Officer Murphy!" The young male called out to the commissioner as he passed by. "Officer Lee." He greeted the young man that called out to him. "Officer Chan and I are about to transit inmate 007 for his mental evaluation." He informed his boss, who nodded in reply as his phone rang. He dismissed himself before leaving Officer Lee to remove the inmate from his cell and transport him to the awaiting police car.

He entered the passenger seat, looking at his partner. "All set?" Officer Chan asked as he looked in the rear view mirror to see the male in the backseat. “All set.” Officer Lee replied with a small smirk.

The sound of police sirens echoed through the art gallery as the female prepped the place for its opening. “My love.” She heard her boyfriend’s voice as he appeared from his office. “I didn’t know you’d be in today.” She whispered as she wrapped her arm around him. “Today’s a special exhibit, my love.” He kissed her softly. “What does the great Micah Stone have in store for today?” He smiled at her praise and guided her to a painting. “This. This is a painting by an artist named Moon Bin-Hyung” He began explaining. “Born and raised South Korea.”

She examined the painting, and it spooked her. “No offense, but it’s kind of….disturbing.” She considers art to based on interpretation. “It’s how you interpret it.” He told her, and she nodded in reply. “what do you see?” He asked her. “I see. I see chaos, bloodshed, and greed.” He squeezed her waist as she felt his head shake in disagreement. She slightly turned her head to him before asking “you disagree?”

He nodded before nuzzling back in her shoulder. “I see protection. A family protecting their assets from those who want to take it. Sometimes, you have to fight for what’s rightfully yours.” He whispered, making her look at the painting again to suddenly see his version of things yet simultaneously still viewing hers.

He heard his alarm from his cell phone and checked the time. “It’s time. Let’s open, shall we?” She nodded before switching the closed sign to open.

To her surprise, the crowd came rushing in, eager to see the new paintings and sculptures. She was greeted by many familiar faces of businessmen, locals, and celebrities by one stood out to see as he viewed the painting her and Micah just acknowledged.

“You’re interested in this one?” She asked the male as she approached the new visitor. He looked down at the female, smiling softly but large enough for her to notice his dimples. “Very. I’ve been looking everywhere for it.” She was taken back “Oh, you’ve seen this peace before?” She was told that the painting was recently done, probably a year, two at most.

She looked up at the male who seemingly stood at six feet.

He didn’t answer her question, though, and she was unable to continue the conversation as another visitor queried the price of a piece.

She looked over to the male once again. He was now speaking with Micah. Curiously, she approached the 61 both once again. “Ah yes, there she is. You had asked me a few moments ago if I was interested in this piece.” She nodded in agreement, looking at Micah, attempting to understand the confusion. “Oh, that’s right. I did not inform you, Y/N, this is not for sale.”

Her jaw dropped before looking at the visitor. “My sincerest apologies, I was unaware that this artwork was not for sale.” The male frustrated features softened at the baffled young lady. “Well someone needs to learn how to communicate with their staff better.” He remarked with a small taunting smile.

She saw the way Micah’s jaw locked and placed a small hand on his back. “Would you like for me to show you similar works?” The visitor shook his head. “No, thank you. Excuse me.” She watched as the male moved past both of them, steadily exiting the building without glancing at another artwork.

“Boss, may I speak with you.” Another officer from the police department asked as he entered the commissioner’s office. He nodded, gesturing for him to sit but giving him a minute to wrap up his phone call. As he hung up, he began to vent “My God, these gang violence conferences will be the death of me. The mayor is on my ass to get it under control. Anyways, what are you here for, Officer Cole?” The veteran officer cleared his throat.

“we’ve come to notice that Officer Lee and Officer Chan’s patrol car have been abandoned.” The commissioner choked on his coffee as the male a bit younger than them exposed troubling news. He looked up at the clock, it’s 7 p.m. “You’re meaning to tell me, it took everyone six hours to notice this?”

The male bit his lip “We know that the mental evaluations take a few hours, but after we noticed the car was stationed elsewhere, we called the mental institution and they informed us that no evaluations were set for anytime this week.”

The commissioner bounced up on his feet, “has anyone followed up? Did anyone go to the patrol car?” His words came out rapidly. “we wanted to confer with you first, sir.” The male exhaled, holding back the outburst he almost released. “You, you’re partner and another two go to that patrol car and find out what they are up to.” He bit his lip at he shook his head. “I believe we’re looking at a jail break.”

“Where the fuck is Namjoon!” Jungkook growled as he sat in the private plane. “Here he comes,” Taehyung mumbled as the last member entered the plane prompting one stewardess to close the door and another to alert the pilot to prepare for take-off. “Did you find it?” Jungkook asked, hopeful for one positive result. “I did.”

The group was excited but Namjoon cut it short. “It’s in an art exhibit, owned by a man named Micah Stone.”

Jungkook nodded as he listened to his co-leader. “This woman approached me, asking if I was interested in it and I was prepared to spend a fortune on it to bring it back to its rightful place, but he came to me to let it be known that the painting was not on sale, which was unbeknownst to the woman, that I assume is more than his staff.”

The group listened to the new found information. “What’s the art gallery name?” Namjoon chuckled “Stone’s Exhibition. It’s downtown, not far from the main strip.” Jungkook looked at his peers, then back to Namjoon. “What’s the plan?”

Namjoon smirked, “Well, you along with Officer Lee and Chan over here can’t show your faces here again.” He pointed to Seokjin and Jimin. “I don’t want to come back here. This place is boring and run down.” Jin scorned as he looked out the window at the lights from the city as the plane flew away.

“We were in one city. The other cities are beautiful.” Namjoon commented, making Jin shrug in response. “well I only saw so much the past five months.” Jungkook added. “it was quite the view.” He joked sarcastically. The guys chuckled before Namjoon continued.

“Anyway, you three will need to stay away until things die down. The rest of us can return and retrieve the painting.” Jungkook nodded in agreement before turning to Jimin. “we have some things we need to deal with at home anyways, and situations that need to be settled.” Jimin nodded before relaxing again. “Good Job everyone!” Namjoon commended the boys on a successful infiltrate and rescue mission.

[thewomanwholaughed]

Verse 00 - Main ; Your typical DC Earth-1 stuff. Joker, the Clown Princess of Crime. [Note: Joker can just be paired with a Batman, no details need to be adjusted just that Joker happens to be Trans. But she can also come as a package deal with my Bryce Wayne/Batwoman.]

Verse 01 - Ruined Metropolis ; This one takes place in the Suicide Squad: Kill the Justice League verse. Joker is from one of the earths being attacked by Brainiac and has been "recruited" by the Suicide Squad to fight back.

Verse 02 - Mama J is back ; This verse takes place in @avisxe's Reverse Age Sidekicks!verse. Which you can read more about here. She is also associated with my Oracle.

Verse 03 - The Arkham Rebellion ; During Batman's absence, the inmates in the Asylum are treated so horribly they band together to keep their own safe till Batman can help convince the Asylum staff. [Read more here]

Verse 04 - Asylum/City/Knight/World-star! ; Arkhamverse specifically! From Origin to Knight and all spin-offs and media in between!

[offender42085]

Post 0573

Jacob Allen Barber, Oklahoma inmate 2007100. born 1997, incarceration intake 01/06/2023 at age 25, Sentenced to life without the possibility of parole.

Murder

In January 2023, a 25-year-old man convicted of killing his father was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison.

Cleveland County District Judge Michael Tupper followed a jury’s recommendation and sentenced Jacob Allen Barber, 25, to life without the possibility of parole as punishment for killing Glenn Barber, 48.

Glenn Barber, his father, was the former youth pastor at First Moore Baptist Church.

Tupper called the case “a real tragedy.”

“The jury has clearly spoken in this case,” he said. “They had an option of doing something less in this case given the evidence they heard, and they were quite deliberate in this sentence.”

A jury in September 2022 found Barber guilty of stabbing his father to death in the summer of 2019. He was arrested near Sanger, Texas, and brought back to the Cleveland County Detention Center.

Court records indicated the father and son “argued daily and had a volatile relationship.”

“The suspect has been to several mental institutions but refuses to take his prescribed medication,” a detective wrote in a court affidavit.

After a 7-day trial, jurors voted unanimously to recommended a sentence of life without the possibility of parole and a $10,000 fine.

The trial was delayed several times due to the pandemic and for mental health evaluations. Much of the testimony during the trial centered on Barber’s mental state.

But lead prosecutor Abby Nathan argued Barber’s actions were premeditated.

“It is important to show the circumstances and the manner of this homicide,” she told jurors. “It is our duty and honor to the jury to do so.”

Two family members attended the hearing Friday but neither addressed the court.

The defendant also declined to speak.

“We know that there isn’t anything that anyone can do to change what happened, but we believe that the collaboration between the different agencies to bring justice for the victim, Glen Barber, honors Mr. Barber’s memory,” Nathan said in a statement following the hearing.

“During the trial there was one commonality among the testimonies of Mr. Barber’s family and friends. They all said he was an incredible person. We hope to honor and remember Mr. Glen Barber in that way, as the incredible person he was.”

3y

[sanctamater]

sleep meme / headcanons.

01. type of bed. amelia, given her position as columbia's matriarch, sleeps on the finest bed that money can buy - a mahogany four poster bed with a velveteen headboard (blue, of course); atop two feather mattresses. the bed curtains are a heavy, deep blue taffeta with velvet patterning in a darker blue; held back with gold curtain ties; tasseled and tacked with fringe to boot. her sheets are white silk, her comforter a sky blue silk - changed out for flannel and wool (respectively) in the winter months. 

02. number of blankets. amelia runs hot in the night! in the winter she'll opt for just her sheet and comforter but in the summer she won't have any sheets/blankets at all. with that in mind, she'll usually forgo nightdresses in the summer as well. 

03. number of pillows. just one - not too firm and not too soft; fluffed to perfection.

04. type of clothing. again, this depends on the season. in the winter she'll tend to wear longer nightdresses that button at her beck and her wrists; stopping just short of her ankles. they're usually threaded through with blue ribbons and decorated with lace, ruffles, and pintucks - and she'll wear a velvet, open dressing gown around her rooms. in the summer, she opts for lighter, near transparent linen nightgowns - short sleeves, lower necklines, hems that come up to her knees and silk dressing gowns. 

05. does it matter where they sleep. amelia is not easily put at ease in the night hours. she will only attempt to sleep in the safety of her own room and in her own bed - nowhere else.

06. what do they do if they cannot fall asleep? on nights when things are easier for her, amelia will just lie in bed until she passes out or dawn comes - whichever is first. on nights when her ptsd is bad and her paranoia high, she walks. amelia has a set routine when she does this - she will double, then triple check to make sure the door that adjoins her room with zachary's is locked - always locked from her side, and that the key is safe in her nightstand. she will pace her rooms - 5, 6 times - before taking a candle and wandering the halls of comstock house. she does not linger on the upper floors, but tends to pick her way through the main floors - the library, the music room, her study, the ballroom, the grand hall - she'll linger outside the prophet's study - it's locked, but it won't stop her from trying to open the door. she'll wander like this until she's exhausted and cannot keep moving; usually stopping near dawn. 

07. frequent dreams, nightmares. amelia usually has nightmares/ptsd flashbacks that wake her up and leave her unable to sleep. the most common ptsd nightmares she has are flashes of abuse suffered at the hands of zachary. most often, it will end with him attempting to strangle her, and she will wake up gasping for breath. sometimes, she dreams of elizabeth - either searching for her aimlessly in halls and rooms; hearing her laugh, but never quite reaching her - or always running after her daughter. sometimes, she dreams of the luteces. sometimes, the inmates below rise up and tear her and the rest of the house to pieces. sometimes, she is drowning, and it is the prophet holding her underwater. a good night is when she has no dreams to disturb her - or simply does not remember them. 

08. when do they sleep. as a creature of habit, amelia turns in to bed at 9pm on the dot every evening without fail - unless she is hosting or attending a party; in which case she will be up until dawn anyway, and simply take a nap until 9 am. she was taught to always be early to rise - and to not waste time in bed; a sentiment that still holds true even now, 38 years in to her life. 

09. what could wake them. anything? her ptsd and paranoia makes her a light sleeper - she's constantly primed for noises that are out of the ordinary. a touch of any sort could also wake her up; regardless of if she has a lover warming her bed.

tagged by: @wrench-jackie why did u do this to me tagging: @afraidofchange @thomasrainier @timeloooop @miscelliany @fauxcette

[dreamcast641]

Weak Minds

note: it is time that I make public this short fanfic I wrote with my two OCs. It was supposed to be a rp start but it never took off. I'm not good at writing, at all and this is my first stuff that I put in public. So sorry for my english.

Characters: Claire Ekaterina Makarova, Dmitry Vasilij Makarov, a random D-class Word counting: 2920 Fandom: SCP foundation Warnings: Medical reports, suicide, PTSD, panic attack, graphic description of violence, gore drawing at the end

''D-4022 appears as a white male of Caucasian ancestry no less than 40 years old, approximately 5'7 tall and weighing 163 lbs.

Neil Harden, stated name of Class D subject, was inmate on death row in Marin County, California, from ████ to ████following his sentence given on ████████ at ████ time for the murder of first degree to the detriment of his wife Melanie Frank and the newborn child.

Neil Harden was voluntarily transferred to Site 5C, following an offer to work with the foundation in exchange for his life.''

—---------------------

*Dmitry put the paper away and with his fingers slid it to the far corner of the desk in front of him. He bent his back to the right, down slightly to pick up a stack of scribbled papers placed on the drawer just below him.*

—----------------------------

''Data of the exam: ████

Time of the exam: 3:01:09 PM

Patient Name: D-4022 (Neil Harden)

Patient number: 100000205659743

Neil shows symptoms of generalized anxiety, depression and, as stated by Neil, has frequent panic attacks in work circumstances as well as muscle tension in the neck and shoulders. Neil said he often felt irritable and had difficulty concentrating. Also declared hypervigilance and feeling tired for no apparent reason.

Therapy content: The patient today told his life in general, focusing on what prompted him to commit the murder for which he was sentenced to capital punishment. Neil said he felt anxious about the future: ''I feel hopeless, I never know what awaits me when I walk through the door of those cells. Waiting for my premeditated death in the row was less excruciating than this''. Feelings of guilt were expressed.

Therapeutic Intervention: The main focus of this first therapy session was general knowledge of the patient in charge. No therapy has been prescribed at the moment.

Diagnosis: The following diagnosis is based on initial information given by the patient, it may change with other sessions.

Generalized anxiety disorder, f41.1(ICD-10) (active).

Instructions/recommendations/plan:

Return 2 weeks later or sooner if requested and permitted by director ████████ ████

Time spent in counseling: 30 min.

Session start: 3.00pm

Session end: 3.30pm

Dmitry Vasili Makarov, Medical Department.'' ------------------------------------------------------

''Data of the exam: ████

Time of the exam: 4:30:10 PM

Patient Name: D-4022 (Neil Harden)

Patient number: 100000205659743

Neil returned two weeks later for his second session. Generalized anxiety symptoms continue to be described. Neil continues to complain of increasingly recurring physical fatigue, he also adds the appearance of trembling, confusion, nightmares and declares that he hears ''a loud ringing similar to a vintage telephone''. Hypervigilance and increasingly frequent panic attacks, even after the working day.

Content of therapy: The patient talked about the problems encountered during the week. Neil says he has never experienced such physical problems and has no idea where they came from or what could have caused them.

Mental State: Neil is irritable and distracted due to constant missing hours of sleep. He struggles to generate smooth, coherent, uninterrupted speech. Pieces of his story appear to have changed and undisclosed details have surfaced last week. Neil claims to have served in the U.S. military from ████ to ████, permanently retired on ████ of ███████.

He has auditory hallucinations. Suicidal ideas have not been denied, often the patient contemplates premature death. No homicidal idea declared. More and more recurring feelings of guilt.

Therapeutic Intervention: This session focused on addressing the patient's sleep and anxiety issues. Ventilation was requested several times during the session to make the speech more coherent and easier to understand. Methods to reduce stress and to have a regular sleep cycle were discussed with the patient.

Diagnosis: The following diagnosis is based on initial information given by the patient, it may change with other sessions.

Generalized anxiety disorder, f41.1(ICD-10) (active).

Possible PTSD

Instructions/recommendations/plan:

Return 2 weeks later or sooner if requested and permitted by director ████████ ████

Blood tests and neurological tests are required to rule out any pathologies (e.g. brain tumor.)

Time spent in counseling: 1 h

Session start: 4.30pm

Session end: 5.30pm

Dmitry Vasili Makarov, Medical Department.—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Data of the exam: ████

Time of the exam: 2:31:00 PM

Patient Name: D-4022 (Neil Harden)

Patient number: 100000205659743

The patient returned to the office just one week after the last session with permission from the director (redacted). He claims that he needs immediate psychiatric intervention as he cannot sleep due to frequent nightmares encountered during sleep. He states auditory hallucination still present, possible visual hallucinations found. Fatigue, confusion, trembling, hypervigilance still present. Experienced frequent mood swings.

Therapy content: Neil brought more details of his military career in the US Army. He claimed he saw the ''horrors of war'' and lived in a prison camp in Iran from ████ to ████ and saw many (redacted) done to his comrades including ████████ with consequent ████████ and ████████████.

Mental State: In today's session neil was agitated, irritable, not fully communicative as he would stop to cry or stare at a vague spot in the corner of the office. The volume of his voice was high because, as claimed by the patient, ''I can't hear it with all this noise in my ears'' which often led the patient to request several times the questions posed by myself. Suicidal ideas were confirmed by the patient, frequent times when he contemplates his end. More recurring guilt feelings with the occurrence of auditory hallucinations. He claims to see and hear a female figure holding a newborn baby just a few days old. The patient suspects that his deceased wife is tormenting him from beyond the grave.

Therapeutic Intervention: Today's session focused on digging deeper into Neil's soldiering past. The details proved useful in diagnosing PTSD for the war. Prescribed citalopram as initial drug therapy. The patient presented the prescribed neurological examinations. No physical problems detected.

Diagnosis: The following diagnosis is based on initial information given by the patient, it may change with other sessions.

Generalized anxiety disorder, f41.1(ICD-10) (active).

Post traumatic stress disorder, f43.1 (DSM-5) (active)

Instructions/recommendations/plan:

Return 2 weeks later or sooner if requested and allowed by the director (redacted)

Requested surveillance of subject for suicidal thoughts expressed during session.

Citalopram prescribed.

Time spent in counseling: 1:30 H

Session started: 2:30 PM

Finished session: 4:00 PM

Dmitry Vasili Makarov, Medical department.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------Site 5c hallways

He suddenly stopped as soon as he saw that he was only a few steps away from meeting the woman in that long silent corridor. He knew the risks he was running with what he was about to do and how much she would not have thought twice about putting an end to the his existence, armed to the teeth like how she was, but he had reached his limit: Guilt for what he had done and the memories of his past were eating at him like a parasite does with its host. His only way out of his mind and from that place seemed like one and only one, he didn't care if she had killed him or if he had succeeded in his intent and leave as he wanted.

He whirled around after dismissing further thoughts, ran after the soldier who was now only a few meters away and threw himself on her. One of his hands firmly gripped the rifle barrel resting on her back as the other tried to yank away the cloth strap that held the weapon attached to her armor.

<<DROP IT!>>

Claire managed to exclaim as much as she felt her lungs straining to catch what little oxygen was passing through her windpipe. Both rows of her teeth gripped tightly on the tops and her voice became lower and darker than it was.

The strap had suddenly lifted from her chest and landed on her neck, both of them pulling in completely different directions. The more Claire tried to bring the rifle back on her through the fabric with which it was bound, the more he pulled back, each time harder and harder and more insistent. <<Fuck...>>

He murmured, feeling his fingers burn from the effort, he released his grip on her belt allowing Claire to breathe normally. But she didn't have time to react that his hands, before on the barrel, slid rapidly over the trigger as he ducked sharply, placing his temple as close to the tip as possible. The forefinger pressed against the cold metal of the weapon and a loud booming sounded through the whole corridor.

It all happened so fast that it took Claire nearly two full minutes to process what had just happened.

The few noises she could hear, such as the constant hum of the white lights that illuminated the corridor, were muffled and overlaid by an annoying whistling due to the dangerous proximity of her ears to the rifle barrel when the d-class subject had pressed the trigger.

She turned slowly, her first instinct was to touch her face. Something thick and liquid was dripping from her skin, wetting her gloved fingers.

She looked down, her hand covered in warm blood and she almost winced as her eyes focused on what she glimpsed between the slits that separated the fingers with eachother:

The man who, until a few minutes ago was attacking her, lay motionless on the ground. His body barely moved, taken by the convulsions of the sudden impact caused by the weapon.

His orange clothes began to soak with vermilion blood coming from his now almost non-existent head of which she could see fragments of brain matter scattered throughout the area. Some of it had even hit her, the metal walls and the ceiling of the corridor.

Claire didn't know how to react, her legs felt paralyzed in place as if her feet were stuck to the ground with super glue. She could feel her heartbeat rumbling all over her chest until it reached her throat, she had to swallow several times to get that nagging feeling out of her.

Deaths inside the foundation were the order of the day, not a week went by that someone was torn to pieces by who knows what dangerous creature just to be able to contain it. Yet it didn't explain why her body was feeling shock at that moment. Maybe witnessing someone take their own life like that was…different? She almost felt empathy for that laboratory guinea pig, whose mere existence and thinking about what crime he had committed deserved the death sentence and therefore the possibility of working with the foundation with the false promise of freedom they would never see made her stomach turn. 

She felt her head weigh down on her shoulders from too many questions that were traveling lightning inside her mind.

A familiar voice tho brought her back down to earth.

<<What a disaster, tsk tsk.>>

Dmitry shook his head in disappointment as his cold eyes scanned the scene before him. In his sarcastic tone you could almost hear a slight smug chuckle.

Claire raised her head, hearing her brother's wet footsteps stop suddenly in front of her, the two separated only by the man's corpse.

<<and yet I told him to do it without getting too dirty. What a pity>>

She couldn't understand what he was blabbering about, did he know the man? She deduced that he was one of his patients but there was something strange in her brother's words, as if he already knew what had happened or at least he already anticipated it.

<<Do you know him?>>

She murmured, interrupting that sort of monologue Dmitry was having with himself.

<< Neil was one of my patients, he came weekly to my office for a follow-up visit. You know, apparentely even the class d staff can ask for it... >>

Dmitry smiled slightly.

<<...shame that the therapy didn't go as he hoped.>>

He shrugged. The two continued to stare straight into each other's eyes and Dmitry almost seemed pleased by his sister's reaction, he could see the terror in her grayish eyes as she realized what her brother had done. She had guessed that he was responsible for the death of Neil and, perhaps, also other people that she had known in the past who had died under unknown circumstances, such as the head of the internal security department:

A totally healthy old man despite his age who, out of the blue, found himself on the hospital bed, emaciated and dying. He didn't even remember his name.

Doctors blamed dementia, a common disease for elderly people like him.

The command passed to claire who in turn gave it to her brother, she still remembered how his eyes lit up when she shook his hand after handing over the level 4 security key.

<<Did you kill him too?>>

Claire asked, her voice shaking from her.

<<He who?>>

Dmitry turned his head slightly to the side, letting his long white hair fall back onto his sweater. There were many who he had eliminated for one reason or another, just as many were those who he had visited in dreams. Site 5c staff were not left out.

<<The old boss. It wasn't dementia that killed him, was it? H- he was healthy the day before ... >>

<<Maybe, he didn't have that much left to live anyway.>>

Dmitry's arrogant tone was scaring her. She was fond of that old man despite the hard training she had to undergo for years to become the woman she is today.

<<I needed some documents. Our papers… and he wasn't going to give them to me. >> <<It took you so little?...>>

Dmitry didn't answer, just looked her up and down. Claire's eyes widened slightly already knowing the answer. Having nothing more to say, he stepped over the corpse lying in front of him. In the distance they could hear some guards approaching the scene, alerted by the gunshot.

He calmly passed his sister without even glancing at her and walked towards the end of the corridor, disappearing behind the metal door that separated one section from the next, leaving behind a long trail of bloody footprints.

He left Claire alone, frightened and trembling in the middle of a pool of blood. A shiver shot down her spine, finally realizing what had been happening in front of her nose for years, that she had been warned by many but that the love she felt for her brother had made her blinded. She felt weak, helpless and above all a complete idiot. She's an idiot for covering for Dmitry for years despite the constant verbal abuse she was subjected to. The realization that he hated her was destroying her internally, she felt her heart ache from how much it was weighing on her. She had to put a hand on her chest to squeeze it, her heartbeat quicken, her tears moisten thar scared eyes of her.

She had to start breathing through her mouth, she felt like dying, the air missing from her lungs.

<<Everything okay?>>

One of the guards who had just arrived at h

the scene asked under his helmet, gripping her wrist gently to make sure she was alright. Claire jerked her hand away, starting to back away.

She wanted to get away, find a hidden place to calm down. She didn't want to appear like that in front of so many people.

She turned and ran in the direction of the same door her brother had passed through and threw herself to the floor, curling up in the corner of the room still with her hand clutching her heart.

She couldn't understand anything anymore, she wasn't paying attention to what was around her. Her head was exploding, she was shaking and never before had she felt so scared.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Incident Report ████/████

Incident report ID#:4022

Summary: The incident started when D-4022 assaulted agent Claire Ekaterina Makarova to take her weapon to commit suicide.

The reasons for the gesture are unknown but it is suspected to be caused by post-traumatic stress disorder declared to be present in the D-Class subject by doctor Dmitry Vasilij Makarov who was then in charge of D-4022 as his patient. Doctor also stated that █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████. Permissions granted by Director ███ and ethics committee.

Agent Claire E. Makarova, the only witness to the incident, refuses to speak despite countless attempts to interview her.

—-------------------------------------------------------------

The stiff tip of the pen slipped on the sheet of paper producing a long monotonous noise that broke the silence of the room. Dmitry looked up, admiring that thin line he had drawn on the name of his now ex patient. Neil Harden.

His name confused with those of others, in a long list that seemed to never end.

His slender fingers delicately placed the pen and paper carefully in the drawer below him, remembering well to lock it immediately afterwards.

He could be satisfied with that experiment. Another time he was able to prove how fragile the human mind is and how easy it is becoming for him to manipulate people's memories through their dreams. Their unconscious revived events that had never happened and traumas they had never experienced, thus leading them to exhaustion. The mind became convinced of this, they firmly believed they were what they never were.

A slight knock on the door almost made him jump, he wasn't waiting for anyone in that time frame.

<<It's open...>>

On the other side, as it opened, a strand of blond hair peeked into the room.