#military suicide

[smalltofedsblog]

Why The Military’s Approach To Its Suicide Epidemic Is Failing

DOD active-duty suicides rose from 331 in 2022 to 363 in 2023, an epidemic that has grown across the U.S. military over the past decade. An approach is required that redefines leadership, revamps training and fosters an environment of openness and mutual support.

[ravnlghtft]

[yuripira4e]

trying to explain to other otasune fans that snake is NOT the one with internalized homophobia in their coupling

[doeletteprincess]

me and my future husband ୨୧

[threepandas]

Bad End: Superior

When you join the military, there's a certain level of assumed risk. You're already aware that they're probably going to ask you to do things. Some of which? You might not be cool with. Internally, you have to decide where you'll be drawing the line. Where "just following orders" fucking ENDS. Especially, when, you join the military... and they assign you someplace that dumps a stack of NDAs in front of you to sign.

That stack had been about as big as a toddler.

And then... then there WERE toddlers. A compound. Deep in the ass pit of no where. Technology so cutting edge, I'm genuinely surprised it doesn't bleed people to turn on. The project? Fucking Super Soldiers.

Because of COURSE it would be.

Fuck Ethics, am I right? Rights? Those are for government officials! Now follow orders and shut up, or we'll direct your attention to the miles of uninterrupted wilderness, in which NO ONE WILL EVER FIND YOU. But, hey! You can't technically call us monsters! We're PAYING you~!

So obviously it's YOUR fault!

Every day. Every SINGLE DAY. I felt sick.

This isn't what I signed up for. How the HELL does this protect anybody? Serve ANYBODY? I felt unclean. Lost weight. My sleep cycle was a wreck. I... I couldn't fucking DO this, and it SHOWED.

I was clearly the weak link.

While others settled in? I got tense. Worn down. Sick. My contract stated I HAD to finish my rotation, so that's what was going to happen. And if the medic had to put me on sleep meds? So be it. If I had to take anti-anxiety pills? Down the hatch. Everything was shit and I FELT like shit.

I should have bagged groceries, fuck "better pay".

The guys here? Were so, SO shitty to the Soldiers. Like it was THEIR fault they might replace us. Like they even WANTED too or were give a fucking CHOICE. I had no idea how any of this was legal. Was pretty sure it WASN'T. I just... I just wanted OUT.

Room to breathe. To process my fucking horror, you know?

Instead? Day after day. I got up. Swallowed more and more fucking pills. Felt more and more exhausted and run down. Checked one more god forsaken day off the calendar until I could get OUT of here. Dressed, in uniform, and looking only halfway like I wanted to die. Try to get some breakfast.

Inevitably, INEVITABLY, have to fucking stop and interfere, with some shit head messing with a Solider. Usually one of the smaller ones. The kids. Because the big ones could Fight BACK. Break a man in fuck HALF. So the cowards went after kids instead.

Fuckers.

Get to breakfast late. Oops! They tossed out the leftovers! Didn't think you were cooooming~ Bullshit. It's retribution for stopping their fucked up games. Ratting them out to the scientists. The brass. Shoves as they go pass. Make my own damn breakfast. As I always do.

Eat alone.

Go to my office. Far side of the compound. Pass a shit ton of Soldiers. The little ones always stare. Like owls. Used to be creepy, got over it. It's how they learn. Do the jackasses honestly think? That putting me in the glorified broom closet, that is the satellite security office, is a punishment? Ha!

I stole a mini fridge weeks ago. Built a fucking nest in here.

It's like a second bunk.

Unlike SOME PEOPLE, the Soldiers actually fucking behave themselves. Honestly, they behave a little TOO much. I'm technically supposed to report a lot of the little behaviors I've seen so they can be "corrected". But would you look at THAT! I was on my break! Oh look, a painting. What's this? A text? Oops. I Saw NOTHING.

Eat shit and DIE, Dr. Atrocities!

At least... that's how my day is SUPPOSED to go. Something's? Weird.

I can't place it. But no one else seems to have NOTICED, so it HAS to probably have something to do with the Soldiers. Since I seem to be the only one on this fucking compound that actually LOOKS looks at them. Notices them, you know? Alpha isn't where he's supposed to be.

He's the OG. The proof of concept. Our so called "perfect" Soldier. He's usually in the center of the pack, leading around various Soldiers task to task. Giving orders. Generally in charge. If you look for HIM, you can get a read on things. Figure out what's up. But...

Huh.

No Alpha. No first series. Not even second wave. Worse, none of the cadets. There SHOULD be at least a FEW munchkins hanging around. Observing this or that. Following SOMEBODY like lil Owl ducklings. Yet? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Just... general Soldiers...

The little hairs prickle on the back of my neck. A stone settles in my gut. I... I decide to skip breakfast. Not hungry. Don't feel like cooking. It... it has nothing to do with the fact that my office? Has some SERIOUS blast doors. Legit bunker all on its own. Even it's own air supply, for a while.

Y...you know,

In CASE.

They never told us... what "in case" WAS.

But if I walker a little faster then normal? Don't make eye contact with anybody? Can't... Can't HELP but notice? Even HERE, where there SHOULD be a shit ton of diversity? There fucking ISN'T? Well that's between me and the blast doors.

Just three doors away from my office when the Emergency Alarm System goes off.

I fucking BOLT the remaining distance.

Throwing myself inside my office, I SLAM the door closed. Engage the highest level locks possible. Something in my gut is screaming at me. The long seconds it takes to slide into place with a mountainous THUNK, feel like an eternity. Muffled, the alarm howl on outside. I... I think I hear gun fire. Shit.

I throw myself into my chair.

Systems, up. Screens, On. What is HAPPENING?

Horror awaits me. The Carnage I always half knew was coming.

The Soldiers are armed. Synchronized. As though this were just another seige simulation. There is a VICIOUSNESS to their actions, as they cut down the doctors. Hunt down the soldier's that abused them. Held them here. They are freeing themselves and will not rest until every soul in this base is DEAD.

Fuck.

I both understand but unfortunately, kinda want to LIVE.

There's no way I'll be able to get past them. Their senses are better then mine. They are faster then me. Stronger then me. Generally BETTER then me. They were DESIGNED to be. I can... can only wait them out... hopefully.

Alpha is nearly a blur. Every shot hitting its mark. The guns becoming bludgeoning weapons when bullets run out. Table and chairs, people and armor, everything around him improvised weaponry. He's grinning like he's never had more fun in his life. Like he's FINALLY been allowed to cut loose after so long holding back.

His head is on the swivel though. Searching? For what?

The other base line's try to hold the line but...

I close my eyes. Their screams echoing through tinny speakers in my tiny office. They were absolute fucking bastards. I... I HATED them. But no one... NO ONE deserves to go like this. Oh god. According to protocol, I need to send the emergency alarm again if the cut the main office.

There's a "break glass" box I've been curious about but never thought I'd ever have to OPEN. High up on a shelf. My legs feel shakey, but I get it.

They gave me a key when they assigned me to this office. Shoved in among everything else. A lazy afterthought. Part of my uniform. Now, I take it from around my neck and unlock the box.

One standard gun and a small vial of suicide pills.

Oh god.

"She's not here. Spread out."

My head snaps up to the screens. As though somehow that will change the horrifying words I just heard Alpha say. The alarms still wail, red lights flashing, but the hallways have... oh god, have fallen silent. Bodies line them. Blood staining the God forsaken white I've come to hate so much. Alpha looks so relaxed.

Pleased even. Like everything has gone exactly as he's planned.

One of the first series hand him a pad uncaring of his bloody hands. Chances are high that samn thing is connected to the servers. It looks like on of the scientists. I watch in dread as Alpha's eyes scroll across it. As it taps through several screens. Hums. He grins.

He rolls his head up, as though merely stretching his shoulders and neck, an almost loose and lazy act. If it weren't for the INTENT in his smile. The predatory look in his eyes. Up and over his shoulder. Too look behind him at the camera.

Directly At Me.

Fuck, he knows.

He hands off the pad with an almost lazy toss. Turning sharply to march forward in a way that made me think of wolves. My hand closed around the gun in the box before me, breathing turning shallow, as I watched him take a direct path towards me. Why? WHY? Is it because I'm the only one who's left?

My eyes tracked to the other screens. The agony there.

The little bottle that offered a way out.

I... fuck it, I wasn't waiting. I slammed my hand down on the back up Emergency Alarm. Even if they cut the main office now, mine would still sent the alert. And... oh god. And at least, this should be FAST. I popped the bottle open. Gun aimed at the door. Bottle in my off hand, ready to go. I tried to remember what i was told to do. Just... just pop, chew, and swallow.

It'll only hurt for a moment.

Better then THAT, I guess, but it was... it was so fucked up.

Alpha was coming down the hall. N... No more stalling. My eye sight blurred. Hands fucking shook. God, damn it. God DAMN IT! I didn't even want to BE HERE! W...WHY?! Why did it have too-!?

It... it didn't matter.

Not now.

Not anymore, I guess.

I threw the pills back. Chewed. They were bitter. Salty. Swallowed. Some part of my brain whispered... that... that wasn't right. I recognized the poison on the bottle. Shouldn't it be swee-? No, focus. Keep your gun steady. What's done is done. No going back.

Alpha was outside my office.

"Interesting door, princess." He said, projecting his voice so I could hear it through the blast doors. I could see him. Standing dead center of a squad of Soldiers. They crowded the hallway in a loose half circle. "Looks real secure! Rather safe. But why all the hiding, sweetheart? A man might get his feelings hurt. Think you're running AWAY from him or something. And you KNOW we can't have THAT!"

"So I suggest you open up... before I Do It For You."

My hands were shaking. More and more. Heart pounding. Mouth felt... dry? It was happening. Limbs felt weak. My vision swam a little then refocused. Did so again. Again... AGAIN, louder, my brain insisted that wasn't right. These were the wrong symptoms. But... but who CARED, right? Fatal is fatal.

But... but only if it IS.

What if...

A horrific screech of metal. I jerked my head to look at the screen for the hallway out side. No. No he can't possibly-! Arm wrapped in spare armor, likely taken from some poor man's corpse, Alpha's RIGHT ARM is elbow deep in the door.

I watch, numb, as he draw it to the side. Bending screeching, groaning metal out of his way as he does. Lock components carelessly ripped out. Dumped on the floor. My breathing comes faster. I can barely see. It's... fuck. It's been too long for the pills to have been what they said they were.

Someone switched them.

What the HELL did I swallow?

I watch helplessly as my supposed bunker is forced open. A flimsy wooden door the last barrier. It swings open. I fuckin shoot. No one was there, because of course not, he's not an idiot. I just... I JUST-! A hand, calloused and stronger then steel, wraps around mine. Grip tight as it gently forces the gun away and to the side. Drags it from my grip.

I can't move... my arm falls limp at my side as the last of my strength and focus fade away. Colors are blurry at the edges. Alpha LOOMS. Tall and powerful in a way that terrifies me. I tried to be polite to the guy. Keep my distance. Clearly... clearly wasn't enough... God, I'm so scared. Please...

"Oh~ Look At YOU~" he breathes, hands that wreak of copper coming up to cradle my feverish face. Crowding close as he traps me against my chair. "Tried to take the easy way out, huh? Naughty girl. That's not gonna a fun one. But you'd have to learn eventually that you can't run, so might as well, huh? Don't worry, sweetness. Alpha team's got you."

I try to move. Protest. Anything. But my limbs won't respond. I feel lips, possessive and demanding, against my own.

"God, you're so fucking cute, pathetic like this~" Alpha groans, clearly fighting the impulse to let his hands roam "Wish it was just us. I've got MONTHS to make up. Second I find us a bed, princess, I promise. I'll take you APART~"

He reaches out, casually, to shut the alarms down. The compound falling silent. The... the other alarm was deactivated. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him effortlessly type in the "all clear" code with one hand. As though he'd practiced. He... he had, hadn't he... oh god, I was trapped.

"Shhhh, sweetness. No more tears. Just you 'n me, 'gainst the world, yeah? We're going to be PERFECT. I've got it all planned out."

"Now let's get you down to the labs. It's time to make you superior."

[ganondoodle]

so with echoes of wisdom .. i havent watched any of the trailers beyond the very first one and the thumbnails/screenshots and what others have said about it-

but with the world inside the rift being called "Welt des Nichts" aka "world of nothing/void" in german ('still' in english, for some reason) and demises title in french being "avatar of nothing" ... yeah my anxiety is shooting through the roof again

(hopefully you can be a little more forgiving for me being anxious/weird about it bc demise is my blorbo)

i had similar worries with totk, that werent proven true thankfully, but the darn book is making it all worse again with all those weird lore things the game doesnt even so much as hint at AND potential retcons- im in for a really rough time huh, not just stress in real life (more in tags.. its alot) but now about my specific hyperfixation from two things even (AND artblock still..)

weird as it may sound, i dont want demise to get more lore, partly bc i dont believe theyd do anything with him that i would like (given their track record) but much more importantly- the fact that he has this little lore about him is precisely one of the reasons why i fell in love with him, i tend to like characters that are neglected by the narrative, and his story being both so flat and already done meant i can be very creative with what i come up with for him without necessarily contradicting anything in canon (which is ... or was a big point of how i wrote destiny's story and lore, working with canon in a way that reframes it all without straight up ignoring it ... but i suppose i urgently need to let go of that and accept i spend alot of time working things that will go to waste :( ) AND not having to worry that there will be more stuff with him that would massively change not only what im writing but also potentially how i feel about him since the game he was briefly in was the oldest chronologically and ended with his death- i didnt expect them to mess with anything that far back and thought theyd just go forward and leave the timeline behind and wouldnt mess with it again, given how botw seemed to be a sort of 'fresh start' that seemingly regarded the past as the past that needs to rest and that the timeline was finally no longer a discussion if everythings unified through botw and one thing going forward

but i suppose i was very wrong with that .__.

right now the only thing that motivates me still is the left over determination and spite to work on my zelda comic, since i have never gotten this far and really want to get something done for once, but i cant lie that im feeling like i should pause all work on it too to wait and see waht the book and the new game will do .. either to determine if i still have the will to keep working on it after those things are out (my love for tloz has been taking alot of hits lately ..) or if i have to change stuff (mostly bc of my lore problem trying to not ignore it ..)

[mesetacadre]

usamericans are like "damn those crazy orientals japanese really did commit suicide for their country they must have been really brainwashed" and then see no problem in joining the military

[benk52]

"This is Katana. He's got my back. He could cut all of you in half with one sword stroke, just like mowing the lawn. I would advise not getting killed by him. His heart was replaced with a Devil so he can turn into ..."

[smalltofedsblog]

What Is Learned About PTSD from A SEAL Suicide

Medical researchers have found that the nation’s Special Operations forces are suffering just as much, or more, than regular troops from post-traumatic stress disorder and brain injuries. Several dozen members of the Special Operations community have killed themselves over the last several years.

[kaeyapilled]

i am still not over the fact arlecchino is referred to as "father" by the house of the hearth kids btw. the gender of it all

[super-nova5045]

rip neil perry you would’ve loved angus tully

[dailyanarchistposts]

“Revolutionary suicide does not mean that I and my comrades have a death wish; it means just the opposite. We have such a strong desire to live with hope and human dignity that existence without them is impossible. When reactionary forces crush us, we must move against these forces, even at the risk of death.” – Huey P. Newton, Revolutionary Suicide

“It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us. But white Americans do not believe in death, and this is why the darkness of my skin so intimidates them.” – James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time

Aaron Bushnell, before self-immolating in front of the Israeli embassy in Washington, D.C., sent notice to a few radical platforms including CrimethInc. (henceforth: the Outlet) informing them of his decision to commit “an extreme act of protest” against the ongoing genocide in Gaza. He asked simply that they preserve the footage of his action and report on it. Most complied, but in the face of such a humble request, the Outlet was confused: “All afternoon, while other journalists were breaking the news, we discussed how we should speak about this. Some subjects are too complex to address in a hasty social media post.” It’s telling that they self-identify as journalists.

Still, the white man’s burden of “anarchist” journalism demanded that they not ponder too long before releasing a statement , even if half-formed. Within hours, they hastily published their garbage take. Putting Aaron’s actions in the context of another self-immolation that occurred on December 1st by a woman in Atlanta, (who, despite the Outlet’s misinformation, is still alive) they said: “It is not easy for us to know how to speak about their deaths.” Such dis-ease surely disquieted the spin-doctors and self-appointed spokespeople of revolution. For a project which only contributes to struggle by knowing what to say, the imperative to speak is paramount. In light of what they wrote, it would have been better for them to contemplate a little longer, or just say nothing at all.

After grossly overestimating their importance as journalists “speaking to people of action,” they ultimately write:

“Just as we have a responsibility not to show cowardice, we also have a responsibility not to promote sacrifice casually. We must not speak carelessly about taking risks, even risks that we have taken ourselves. It is one thing to expose oneself to risk; it is another thing to invite others to run risks, not knowing what the consequences might be for them. And here, we are not speaking about a risk, but about the worst of all certainties. Let’s not glamorize the decision to end one’s life, nor celebrate anything with such permanent repercussions. Rather than exalting Aaron as a martyr and encouraging others to emulate him, we honor his memory, but we exhort you to take a different path.”

While it would be easy to dismiss this as the Outlet cautiously mitigating any potential liability if self-immolation generalizes, the rejection of the framework of martyrdom demands attention. The question is not whether Aaron qualifies as a shahid within the Palestinian context, although demonstrators in Yemen have proclaimed Aaron a “martyr of humanity” and an argument can be made for him having become an anarchist martyr in the lineage of Louis Lingg, Avalon, and Mikhail Vasilievich Zhlobitsky. The bigger issue: the Outlet’s assertion that an individual’s death, particularly in the context of the US, is the “worst of all possible certainties” reveals a deep disconnect with the context of this entire decolonial struggle. In the days following October 7th, anti-colonial anarchist thinkers such as Zoé Samudzi argued that the figure of the martyr marked a fundamental contradiction for the secular left’s ability to fully comprehend and act in solidarity with the Palestinian resistance. The martyrs constitute a force in the present for all who live and continue to struggle. Aaron framed his self-immolation as “not that extreme” compared to the ascension to martyrdom of tens of thousands in Gaza. By implying that Aaron’s choice was too extreme, the Outlet dishonors the reality of the struggle within Palestine and undercuts the potential of Aaron’s sacrifice.

In denouncing any action taken with “such permanent repercussions,” the Outlet reproduces the anti-death paradigm of capitalism itself. The philosopher Byung Chul-Han, commenting on an exchange between the filmmaker Werner Schroeter and Michel Foucault, says:

“Schroeter describes the freedom unto death as an anarchist feeling: ‘I have no fear of death. It’s perhaps arrogant to say but it’s the truth… To look death in the face is an anarchist feeling dangerous to established society.’ Sovereignty, the freedom unto death, is threatening to a society that is organized around work and production, that tries to increase human capital by biopolitical means. That utopia is anarchist insofar as it represents a radical break with a form of life that declares pure life, continued existence, sacred. Suicide is the most radical rejection imaginable of the society of production. It challenges the system of production. It represents the symbolic exchange with death which undoes the separation of death from life brought about by capitalist production.”

The fact that an anarchist media syndicate cannot recognize the anarchic nature of a sovereign death, or the symbolic exchange of a uniformed US airman’s self-immolation (which cannot be simply reduced to suicide) is in and of itself a disgrace. Even worse, this conforms to a long established pattern where every time a comrade’s actions pass a certain threshold of intensity, the Outlet is first in line to call for restraint. While Michael Reinoehl was still on the run after shooting a fascist, they wasted no time issuing a hasty social media post denouncing his action and urging their followers to “reject the logic of the guillotine.” The Outlet preferred to remain palatable for liberal eyes, ears, and politicians, rather than express solidarity with a comrade on the run for his life.

In his “Letter to Michael Reinoehl,” Idris Robinson exposes the logic at the heart of the contradiction of those who chose to parse Reinoehl’s actions as nonstrategic:

“What the double-standard with regards to your situation reveals is how violence in America will always necessarily have a profoundly racial dimension. And it is precisely this—the terrifying core of racialized violence—that they are trying to repress when they lie to both themselves and others that their issue with what you did is a question of strategy or tactics. I mean, give me a break: in a country that is literally saturated in violence, from blind mass shooters to murderous police, no one can honestly claim that the few shots that you let off could in some way be construed as an escalation. There is simply no way to avoid the spiral of violence that began at the very moment when the first wooden ships reached the shores of the Atlantic.”

While the Outlet has no problem sanctioning enlistment in the fascist-dominated Armed Forces of Ukraine or calling for the US to keep troops in northern Syria, it seems even a single white death in the United States is a red-line they refuse to cross. For them, the self-sacrifice of a white person in the US military (a fact they fail to ever mention in their response but that was, without question, important to Aaron’s action) in solidarity with colonized people might be even worse. Rather than a liberatory or truly life-affirming position, this timidity betrays a fundamental discomfort with anything that challenges the fragile unity of whiteness and the American racial order. Neoconarchists at it again!

The Outlet quotes Kropotkin (who broke with anarchist internationalism by supporting the Allied imperialists in World War I and is therefore a fitting predecessor to their brand of pro-NATO anarcho-liberalism) on the contagious nature of courage, yet their analysis downplays Aaron’s courage again and again. They call death “the worst of all certainties,” showing that they share Western civilization’s pathological fear of death, yet feel confident in making pronouncements about the impact and efficacy of Aaron’s offering mere hours after it happened. Those who are truly comfortable with uncertainty know that it remains to be seen what the full repercussions will be. The Outlet assumes the universality of a rationalist teleological perspective in the context of a gesture that is best understood deontologically: its essence, independent of outcome, is of distinct and ineffable value.

It’s clear that the Outlet fears any form of struggle that challenges the sanctity of liberal democracy that they feel comfortable operating within. Echoing a line they have often used in the past, they frame themselves as protestors and militant lobbyists, not insurgents or practitioners of direct action (which is not about influencing government policy, but rather creating direct results of destruction and ungovernability.) They say: “The kind of protest activity that has taken place thus far in the United States has not served to compel the US government to halt the genocide in Gaza.” While Aaron did call his self-immolation an “extreme act of protest [within U.S solidarity with Palestine],” the resulting question for anarchists should not be what more effective forms of protest might be, but rather how to honor Aaron’s act of personal refusal through our own deeds. His action was directed towards the rest of us. He looks us in the eye and asks: “What will you do?”

While the authors of the Outlet have called Aaron’s decision “self destruction” and “sacrifice,” we read little in their text of the long tradition of self-immolation as an ultimate form of self-expression against repression and war. They make only a diminishing reference to Tunisian Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation to protest police bribery, which lead to the Sidi Bouzid Revolt and impelled the Arab Spring. In 1965, Thich Nhat Hanh wrote to Rev. Martin Luther King:

“The self-burning of Vietnamese Buddhist monks in 1963 is somehow difficult for the Western Christian conscience to understand. The Press spoke then of suicide, but in the essence, it is not. It is not even a protest. What the monks said in the letters they left before burning themselves aimed only at alarming, at moving the hearts of the oppressors and at calling the attention of the world to the suffering endured then by the Vietnamese. To burn oneself by fire is to prove that what one is saying is of the utmost importance. There is nothing more painful than burning oneself. To say something while experiencing this kind of pain is to say it with the utmost of courage, frankness, determination and sincerity…

The monk who burns himself has lost neither courage nor hope; nor does he desire non-existence. On the contrary, he is very courageous and hopeful and aspires for something good in the future. He does not think that he is destroying himself; he believes in the good fruition of his act of self-sacrifice for the sake of others…”

The Outlet claims that Bushnell, in the rhetorical tradition of the notion of the selfishness of suicide, was “denying the rest of us a future with [him].” But the monks who self immolated in the sixties teach us that perhaps that is the pain we must bear as witness, just as those who chose fire bore the pain of their death or injury for the expression of their will.

“But why does he have to burn himself to death? The difference between burning oneself and burning oneself to death is only a difference in degree, not in nature. A man who burns himself too much must die. The importance is not to take one’s life, but to burn. What he really aims at is the expression of his will and determination, not death.”

Pain can be a motivating factor towards life, just as the witnessing of an autonomous death can inspire us to live deeper into our convictions now.

The question remains: what is the “different path” the Outlet urges readers to take? They admit that no act of solidarity in the US, however massive or targetedly destructive, has been able to slow the war machine. And yet they claim what the ruling class fears most is “collective action.” They give no examples of what said action might be. It doesn’t take too much creativity to imagine how disenchanted members of the US military could strike against the war machine, especially if they’ve overcome the fear of death. We could list those actions of desertion, sabotage, and fragging (and their long history in the anti-war movements of generations past) and theorize on their efficacy. However, we have no desire to reduce ourselves to the indignity of the anarcho-commentariat, issuing self-serving hot-takes about the grave actions of someone more courageous. We can only imagine what they will say when (not if) the war is brought home in even more escalated ways. What are they to do when a revolution based on summering in squats in European social democracies and engaging in ritualized playfights with police is no longer intelligible? Their greatest fear is not of state or economy but of an epochal shift that will render them incoherent.

The Outlet’s pontification on the inappropriateness of Aaron’s action is beyond disrespectful. Faced with such acts of self-sacrifice, the appropriate responses are pause, prayer, contemplation, remembrance, and solidarity. Instead, the Outlet doesn’t fail to make the selfless about themselves: “Choosing to intentionally end your life means foreclosing years or decades of possibility, denying the rest of us a future with you.” Lacking any real other direction, this future seems to amount to years of patient readership and faithfully following the lead of well-platformed self-declared strategists. Their obnoxious tendency to quote their own past texts illustrates their narcissism and self-importance. This self-reference demonstrates a deepening dogmatism on their part, a commitment to stay the course on a sinking ideological ship.

The ill-timed call for recruitment is made explicit in the closing paragraphs: “Prepare to take risks as your conscience demands, but don’t hurry towards self-destruction. We desperately need you alive, at our side, for all that is to come.” Just as in recent weeks they celebrated those who fight side-by-side with the Azov Battalion in the Ukraine, they would prefer active US military personnel alive and well, ready to fight for Western interests at home and abroad.

The time has long passed to dispense with these bloggers who, through their appeals for restraint and moderation, stand in the way of the resistance movements they imagine themselves to lead. The Outlet’s inadequacy was already evident in the “both sides” narrative of their initial coverage of Al-Aqsa Flood. Instead, we choose to act out of affinity and solidarity with the resistance axis of the Palestinian struggle itself. Compare the milquetoast equivocations of the Outlet to the statement of unconditional solidarity with Aaron Bushnell and his loved ones issued immediately by the PFLP:

“The act of an American soldier sacrificing himself for Palestine is the highest sacrifice and a medal, and a poignant message to the American administration to stop its involvement in the aggression.

The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine affirms that the act of the American soldier Aaron Bushnell from the U.S. Air Force by setting himself on fire in front of the zionist embassy in Washington, D.C., in protest against the war on Gaza, which he called for the “liberation of Palestine,” confirms the state of anger among the American people due to the official American involvement in the zionist genocide war being waged on the Gaza Strip. It also indicates that the status of the Palestinian cause, especially in American circles, is becoming more deeply entrenched in the global conscience, and reveals the truth of the zionist entity as a cheap colonial tool in the hands of savage imperialism.

The Front expresses its full solidarity with the soldier’s family and all the American sympathizers who took a honorable stance and whose struggle and pressure to stop the genocide on the Strip have not ceased, confirming that the act of an American soldier sacrificing his life to draw the attention of the American people and the world to the plight of the Palestinian people, despite its tragic nature and the great pain it involves, is considered the highest sacrifice and medal, and the most important poignant message directed to the American administration, that it is involved in the war crime in Gaza and that the American people have awakened and are rejecting this American involvement, calling on the American administration to stop this support and bias for the zionist entity.

The Front sends a message to the Arab soldier to take this American soldier who sacrificed his life for a noble cause like the Palestinian cause as an example and role model, and to leave the trenches of waiting, incapacity, and move to the trench of confrontation in support of Palestine and its people who are being slaughtered, besieged, and starved in full view and hearing of the world and just a few kilometers from Arab lands and meters from the borders.

Palestine will be victorious as long as it has deeply engraved itself in the conscience and consciences of the world, and history will record in golden letters the names of all the sympathizers and free people of the world who stood with it and sacrificed their lives for its sake.

The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine Central Media Department 26-2-2024″

Those golden letters of history will not record the name CrimethInc., whose version of anarchism cannot hold, comprehend, or move with the young militants taking increasingly bold and dire action. While the pro-Ukraine anarchists continue to stumble again and again over the question of militarism, Aaron’s act of self-negation resolved the contradiction. This is not to say his was the only way to resolve the contradiction, but it was a powerful way that threatens the worldview the Outlet desperately clings to: a view inextricably affixed to Western epistemological hegemony. The decline of the neoliberal consensus indicates the inevitable illegibility of their explanation of the world. The coming days and years will surely see a proliferation of increasingly drastic actions, marked by an intensity which surpasses what the Outlet can accept or condone, positioned as it is. For the Outlet, the death of this world conjures the existential anxiety of dissociation. For others, ourselves included, the end of this world is essential for the legibility of our perspective.

Aaron left us a will. That will, in the many senses of that term, is our inheritance. It reads: “I wish for my remains to be cremated. I do not wish for my ashes to be scattered or my remains to be buried as my body does not belong anywhere in this world. If a time comes when Palestinians regain control of their land, and if the people native to the land would be open to the possibility, I would love for my ashes to be scattered in a free Palestine.”

Whatever Aaron was in the preceding years of his life, he died as an anarchist, and will be remembered as one. His action points to a new organic anarchism emerging out of the present moment, one disconnected from the scenes, subcultures, and cults-of-personality that constitute the anarcho-mainstream. This development threatens the hegemony of the anarchist talking heads as much as the rest. His death is already drawing unprecedented attention, at new levels, to the cause of Palestinian liberation, and likely to anarchism as well. Those who cannot adapt to the changing tides will be washed into historic oblivion, toward which they’re already careening. The rest of us must act within the unsayable. Deeds must speak where words fail.

[telesodalite]

This is a bit random, but I've been thinking about Misfire a lot lately, and it struck me, that with his adhd, the whole implied/hc'd substance use is only sometimes considered as a form of self-medicating? And, idk, I find the concept interesting.

Like, yeah sure, within the canon implications it's just stereotypical stuff, so it can be interpreted as wholly recreational, and whatever one might call accidentally catching a high from blood you've taken from a corpse.

But like, his adhd is emphasized as an important aspect of his character, so surely it's impacted his millions of years worth of life with its symptoms? Both good and bad?

The Decepticons in idw1 are weird, in many ways lol, but in the sense that they're the faction defined by their oddballs and rejects. They're the unwanted, the belittled, the different, the oppressed, the strange, the mad. But at the same time, any deviance from their impossible and ever-changing standards is punishable and looked down upon.

It's a classic, almost frustratingly stereotypical case of a system built against oppression becoming the oppressors. But that's not the point here.

The point is that they opened their arms and offered the idea of freedom to those who felt different from the pre-war standards, who felt belittled by it, or betrayed by it, and promptly went and turned around on these people to make them feel belittled and betrayed and made different from their own new standards.

Abuse, in many forms, runs rampant within Decepticon ranks. From the very top, to the very bottom. Any deviation or perceived weakness is an open invitation for such actions. Throw in the DJD, and there's no escape from it. No way to get out, only fit in and keep your head low, or become the very thing you originally wanted to fight against and be free from.

Substance abuse is mentioned in canon enough to assume that certain amounts of it were almost expected across both Decepticon and Autobot ranks and contingents. But considering the condition of Decepticon standards and communities, it can be assumed to be a bit more rampant in their case.

So, Misfire. We don't have much context for his background and what all he's seen and done.

It's implied he did some spywork, or at least made some cross faction connections during the war with Brainstorm, which might've been a big enough deal that it caught the attention of Skids, because he's aware of Misfire of all people, knows he changed his name right at the end of the war, and considers Misfire somewhat as a nemesis, which, might I remind thee that Skids was part of a secret special operations unit, a secret special operations unit under fucking Prowl!? So uh, possible big interesting stuff that never got explained there.

(The possible spy bit keeps me up at night I swear to god, bcs wtf were all those tiny implications supposed to mean?!? I need to know all the details of that possible spy drama so bad, omg)

Then, we know he "accidentally" killed "a dozen" other cons towards the end of the war, and that he was going to be jailed for it.

So Misfire's life obviously went down the drain before the murdering a dozen fellow soldiers bit, but considering every awful and challenging factor of being a sub-par soldier in the Decepticon army/air force, what kept him from doing something like that earlier on?

More important, what got someone like him through the war? What kept him going? What kept him alive? Well uh... the same thing that kept a lot of Decepticons going I guess. Substance abuse.

Ok so where does the self-medication angle of this whole thing come in Teles?? My answer to that would be, uh, inherently ig.

Because think about it, you're just some kinda weird guy, caught in the middle of one long ass war. You're never good enough, can't achieve the one thing you've been gunning(lol) for, and are just sorta flying by the seat of your metaphorical pants through life. You're a solider, and a victim of systematic abuse because of that, and at some point, you're possibly a perpetrator of that abuse*. On top of all that, you've also got raging adhd during all this stress and trauma, and man, quieting those racing thoughts and numbing that constant buzzing itch in your body probably feels really good when you're escaping your extremely stressful situation for just a bit.

It feels better to be more detached, to be "calmer", less caught up in a hundred thoughts at once, more focused, more in control. Eventually this becomes the subconscious focus of his using to ease the stress. It "fixes" something. Makes things "right". So casual escapist substance use tumbles into substance abuse and addiction.

How this factors into his post-war life, idk, you decide ig.

I figure the scavs being broke and cut-off from others could play a part in Misfire having to wean himself off of whatever substances were most common among his ranks, but he's also probably creative enough to make stuff from whatever they pick up. Anything considered to be "hard stuff" would likely be frowned upon or policed by Krok tho, because of the whole traumatic experience with Roadbuster and his extreme brutality due to perceived Syk abuse.

But then again, the scavs are all still very much cons with vices, and 100% constant sobriety is apprently a challenge or punishment for cons and bots alike post war.

-

*(Expanding on that bit via another ramble I had lying around that i thought i'd include)

When considering Misfire's adhd, most things emphasize the hyperactivity and impulsiveness in general without also emphasizing the negative sides.

That moment where he almost punches Grimlock comes to mind a lot.

It could be viewed as just a side-effect of perpetuated Decepticon abuse, a knee-jerk reaction that may have been turned on him during the war for his mistakes, that he in turn expresses towards others "mistakes".

Something to also consider here though, is how the impulsivity of adhd can make violent reactions worse, anger and/or frustration harder to control, and harder to hold back from expressing outwardly or physically, especially if left unchecked or untreated for a long time.

But Misfire stops and takes a second to collect himself before becoming somber as he considers Grimlock's perspective.

This instinctually violent reaction is not something he wants, or likes, and judging by how much time has passed by that point in the comic, this has been something he's been working on and is still working on.

But what about while he was still an active solider? When holding back was seen as a weak or foolish response? How did the impulsivity play into it? After being treated like that himself, struck or beaten for mistakes, at what point did it snap and he found himself standing over another solider as they stared up at him with that same fear and shock and hurt he had felt. How did that affect him to know he was capable of doing that without thought?

Because, ya know, he's done bad things too...

[3-2-whump]

Brotherhood

A Thomas Costa Backstory, as told by himself.

Happy Day-before-Labor Day for US residents, and to everyone else, happy day before the beginning of your week! Let’s complete this backstory!

Full collection of Thomas Costa Backstories here

TW/CW: military whump, dysfunctional family relationships, allusion to neglected childhood, death of a minor character, whumpee turned whumper (whumper, former whumpee), slave whump, suicidal insinuation (at the very end, but honestly you could skip it and it would still make sense)

2002

“Gentlemen, this is the group we will be working with on the joint operation,” Sgt. Robinson announced. “Get to know each other…”

The rest of the introductions faded into the background noise as Thomas stared at a familiar face amongst the new squad. A pair of dark brown eyes that looked nothing like his own stared back with apprehension, despite the placid little smile on his slim face. A nerve twitched as Thomas clenched his jaw. Though it had been six years since he’d left home in the foolish hopes of something better, he would recognize his own brother’s face when he saw it.

“Costa, is there a problem?” his sergeant asked him.

Thomas remembered where he was as several pairs of eyes landed on him. Interestingly, the squad they would work with all zeroed in on Tony with the same intense curiosity. “No, Sergeant,” he replied as he reflexively straightened his posture.

“Care to explain why you’re glaring daggers at the new squad’s private first class?” And here he thought he was being subtle. Sgt. Robinson looked at Tony, then back at Thomas, and finally put it together. “Wait, you’re both Costa.” The man groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re related or something?” 

“This is my little brother, Sergeant,” Thomas explained as he willed his tone to stay as neutral as possible. “And last I checked, we weren’t desperate enough to take high schoolers in the US military-”

“Hey, I’m twenty years old!” Tony protested.

Some brief murmurs floated from his guys and Tony’s, but they were quickly shut down by the sergeant’s cold glare as he loudly cleared his throat. “Well, shit. It would have been preferable to avoid putting family on the same mission, but we can’t operate two units at less than half-capacity, so we’re just gonna have to deal with what we’ve got,” Robinson sighed. “So, dickhead 1 and dickhead 2,” he addressed, referring to Tom as ‘1,’ “you unfuck your family bullshit and make friendly in twenty. The rest of you, make sure those dumbasses don’t do the Taliban’s work for them and off themselves.” He threw in the last part so casually, as if he were reminding these soldiers to pick up a gallon of milk. Once he’d gotten a satisfactory amount of “yes Sergeant,” the commander left them to their own devices.

As soon as he left, Thomas immediately jumped on his younger brother. Yet, unlike the times when they were kids, Tony now had enough muscle on his bones to fight back. Both brothers pushed against the other as they tried to take advantage of any weak spot their opponent had.

Half of the team was trying to break up the impromptu wrestling match, and the other half of the team cheered on their respective Costa. Eventually, Thomas took advantage of his naturally bulkier frame to pin Tony’s smaller body to the floor, grabbing him by the front of his uniform and slamming his head into the dirt. Tony’s springy legs snaked their way from between where his older brother straddled him to curl up knees to chest, finally expelling Thomas from on top of him with a well-placed kick to the stomach. Thomas lurched upwards and landed ass-first on the ground. Tony tackled him, inverting their previous position, and got a few punches in until their audience finally decided to put an end to it. The two were forcibly separated for the rest of the day as their squads formed a protective ring around them, ensuring neither Thomas nor Tony could get within arm’s reach of each other until sundown.

Thomas had gone up late at night to the balcony of the watch tower to clear his head. He pulled out his cigarettes, then cursed under his breath as he realized he forgot the lighter. Just before he resigned himself to climb down the metal stairs and go back to the bunks to fetch it, a shadowed figure stepped into view. Tony stood on the balcony too, his own cigarette glowing dimly in hand as he held out a lighter like an olive branch. Thomas muttered his thanks as he plucked it from his brother’s hand and ignited his own cigarette before he passed it back. They stared out onto the endless desert plains with nothing but the moonlight behind them, until Tony finally broke the silence between the brothers.  “I’m sorry I punched you.”

“No you’re not,” Thomas retorted.

Tony muttered his own curse under his breath before he tried his apology again. “I’m sorry I ratted on you all those times when we were kids,” he murmured, his tone sincere.

Thomas shook his head, dispelling the cigarette smoke around his head as it moved. “Don’t be sorry, I would’ve done the same thing.” As if he could imagine straight-laced little Tony openly rebelling against their grandpa. The very thought wrung a wry chuckle from his lips.

“Yeah right,” Tony argued. “You might’ve been the more rebellious of the two of us, but at least you were always loyal. If anything, you probably would’ve snuck out alongside me.”

“Probably.” Thomas took a puff of his cigarette. He turned around and leaned onto the railing of the balcony, facing his brother who was copying the action. “So, why did you always rat on me? I actually want to know.”

“Well, it wasn’t out of any malice, surprising as that may sound,” Tony answered.

“So, you really were that much of a kiss-ass?”

Tony lightly punched his older brother’s arm and threw what could only be described as a pout at him. What was once an adorable little pout on a child now looked ridiculous on a grown man wearing desert camo. “If you really must know, I wanted praise and validation, just like you did, even if you were too prideful to show it,” Tony answered.

“When had I ever wanted Grandpa Tony’s praise?” Thomas asked incredulously. “Did we even grow up in the same house?”

The younger Tony crossed his arms and leaned against the railing too as he leveled him a flat stare. “I remember more than you think I do,” he said. “I remember when you used to spend several hours with the tutor to get your grades up. I remember you training so hard and going all out on those judo competitions. And in sixth grade, it finally paid off. You finally got an A in at least one subject and a gold medal at the youth competition. Yet it was never enough, was it?” His brother’s eyes softened into an expression that made Thomas uncomfortable. “No matter how hard you tried, it was never enough for Grandpa Tony, or for Mom, was it, Tom?”

What was that look, one of pity? Thomas met his brother’s eyes with a glare of his own. “It was much easier for you,” he muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette. “You had all the brains, and the talent, and a failure of a big brother you could always exceed.”

Tony’s brow wrinkled. “You don’t really think you’re a failure, do you?” Thomas’ silence as he exhaled his smoke was a reply in and of itself. “Bro! You’re not a fail-”

“Don’t. Pity. Me,” the older brother growled. He fixed his glare out onto the desert in front of them, huffing an annoyed little plume of smoke into the night.

Tony shook his head. “We had such a fucked-up childhood, didn’t we?” The way he said it didn’t sound like a question.

The brothers stared out over the horizon. “Things are gonna be different, when we come back,” Tony said decisively. He took a drag of his cigarette, holding it thoughtfully between his lips as he stared out at a future only he could see. “You’ll come home with me-”

“I’d rather eat shit,” Thomas deadpanned.

“You’ll come home with me,” Tony insisted, “and I will argue for leniency from the boss. Then, when I take over the Costa family one day –you’re not interested in becoming the boss anymore, are you?” he interrupted himself.

Thomas shook his head. To hell with the Costa family.

Tony continued. “-so when I take over for Grandpa Tony one day, I’ll bring you back into the family, and you can be my enforcer. That’s only if you want to, of course, don’t want to force you or nothing, but you’d be great at it.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the railing before casually flicking the extinguished butt into the sand below. “I just miss you, bro,” he admitted.

In that moment, it was all too easy for Thomas to see not the young man thrown straight into war, but the little boy whom he grew up with, still holding onto a childlike optimism that Thomas envied. “Yeah, I missed you too, bro.” His lips quirked into a small smile. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone with that asshole for so long,” he replied sincerely.

“You better be,” Tony groused. “It wasn’t easy being the sole focus of Grandpa’s hopes and dreams all these years!”

“But things will be different when we come back,” Thomas repeated. He stubbed his own cigarette out and tossed it. “If you’re serious about it, then I am too. Things will be different, and you and I will be brothers like we should’ve been.”

-

2020

It was a bright and sunny autumn day when Thomas finally made it out to the cemetery. He stooped over the grass before he folded his legs underneath him to kneel in the sun-warmed patch of earth. He faced the granite headstone that bore his brother’s name.

“Sorry I couldn’t come out for your birthday,” he apologized under his breath. “This ‘running the family business’ shit is hard work sometimes!” He dug his fingers into the dirt to pluck out the dandelions and bitter cress that grew around Tony’s grave, all while filling him in on the latest news.

“Master? Who are you talking to?”

Thomas had forgotten that he didn’t come to the cemetery alone. He stopped his murmurings and turned to look over his shoulder. “Khaled, come here,” he called, waving the slave over to him. The young man set the bucket and jug of water down as he knelt alongside his master. Thomas made the posthumous introduction. “This is Tony, my brother. Tony, this is Khaled, the boy I keep telling you about.”

Khaled, to his credit, respectfully canted his head in greeting to the gravestone in front of him. “Is this where you go on Memorial Day and anniversaries when you don’t tell me where you’re going, Master?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Thomas fished out a flask from the inside of his coat and unscrewed the cap. Unlike most times he carried a flask with him, this one just held water inside. He poured it reverently over the gravestone’s top, letting it flow down the engraved granite as he instructed Khaled to pass him a sponge from inside the bucket.

“We thought we hated each other, Tony and I, and for a long while we did,” he reminisced as he cleaned away the dust and debris. “But that doesn’t change the fact he was my brother.”

A thoughtful look passed over Khaled’s face as he lowered his hand into the bucket and procured the second sponge, wetting it with water from the jug before he began scrubbing the gravestone too. They scrubbed and rinsed the tombstone in peace, with the occasional odd quips from Thomas as he recalled old memories and fresh regrets. Khaled pulled him away from the latest train of thought as he lowered the sponge and focused on the headstone to the left of them. “Luciano Antonio Costa?” he read aloud.

Thomas briefly glanced at the shabbier, much more neglected headstone. “Oh yeah, Grandpa Tony. That was the last boss, before me, and buried next to him is his wife, Augusta Francesca. And his father and mother are buried somewhere close to here.” He made a small sweeping motion around the Costa family burial plot. “And as for me, I’ll be buried here, next to my brother one day,” he said, patting the earth to the right of Tony’s grave. His right-hand man, just like we’d planned, he thought.

“And where will I be buried, Master?”

The morbid question snapped Thomas out of his thoughts as he stared curiously at his slave. “Aren’t you a little young to be worried about that yet?” he asked. Khaled stared silently back at him, his face set in a completely serious expression. The master dropped the now dirtied sponge to awkwardly rub at his neck. “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it until just now,” he admitted, “though I guess you’ll be buried here with me one day.” He caught a glimpse of something broken and defeated in the depths of Khaled’s dark eyes. “You’d better tell me what your burial customs are if we’re already talking about something like this,” he suggested. Privately, he made a note to monitor Khaled’s actions more closely from now on. If his one and only very expensive pet was feeling suicidal, the last thing he needed was to leave any razors or pills out in the open.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[the-amazing-boop]

After learning of Aaron Bushnell's final act of protest, we [Americans] are now also learning of another case of self immolation that happened December 2023 as a response to the genocide in Gaza. Supposedly, it was an African American woman also in front of another Israeli embassy, currently unidentified, and their incident was swept under the rug (not surprising). I'm not certain of whether they lived or died.

If anyone knows more, please share what is allowed and appropriate to maintain truth. If it is a matter of family privacy, respect their wishes, whatever the matter may be.

Whoever you, thank you for your sacrifice. I hope you're resting easier now.

[burnt-tortellini]

the urge to write a marauders fic in the year of our lord 2024 is TOO strong