#our government utterly failing to manage that so we went from one to the other was not

[beeseverywhen]

Mind blowing that this even needs to be said but

Neat run down of all the ways we're poorer now than in 2010. In case you come across anyone honestly asking 'are we more well off after 14 years of tory rule' no. You aren't. Even a little bit.

We analyse a key point of contention in the general election campaign: the government’s record on pay, housing, energy and food bills

It is a simple question – and it will be at the heart of the general election campaign. After 14 years of Conservative government, people are asking: am I any better off?

The answer for most people is – no, you are not better off.

[hauntedbythefanficsofmypast]

When you need a Superfriend

By Nach0Ava

On Archive of Our Own

Tumblr user: @nach0ava

So I have not really watched Supergirl however when I read the first chapter I had to share this with you all! This is the first chapter by Nach0Ava. (Second chapter is on its way as well!) Marinette gets sent away by her parents to America! Please go read Nach0Ava's story!

Summary:

When Tom and Sabine believe Lila's lies, they send Marinette off to live with an old family friend in National City. When living with a government agent and a physiologist, how long is it until she gets figured out?

Chapter 1:

“I don’t understand! Why are you sending me away?”

Marinette looked up at her parents in disbelief. They had just told her that she was going to be sent to live with a family friend. In America! Sure, she could speak fairly good English, but it still didn’t make sense!

“Your recent behaviour has led us to think that the change could be good for you. Kelly and her girlfriend Alex are lovely people, and they might be better equipped to deal with you than we are.”

As her mother spoke, Marinette felt a bitterness rise in her. Of course. Lila. She had made good on her threat, managing to turn even her parents against her. Claiming that she was involved in a gang, she had an older boyfriend, she did drugs, the list went on. And when Tom and Sabine had caught Marinette out past curfew one too many times, they took it as the truth. She couldn’t tell them that she was Ladybug, so all she had was half-hearted excuses. Still, she needed a way to stay in Paris, as she couldn’t be Ladybug somewhere else, and if there was no Ladybug, there was no-one to catch the akuma, and no-one to cast the cure, never mind all her guardian duties…

She was getting off track. She had a goal and she needed to accomplish it. Just like taking down an akuma. Except she couldn’t hit this problem really hard for it to go away.

“Is there any way I could stay in Paris? I’ll switch schools, I’ll go live with grandpa Roland, I’ll do anything!”

Tom and Sabine exchanged a look. They didn’t want to believe it, but they had to make sure.

“Honey, calm down, aren’t you worried about an akuma?”

Marinette started pacing as she rambled, mostly to herself.

“Right, I’ll get upset, then you guys will get mad at me, and then one or both of you will be akumatised and then I’ll have that whole mess to deal with.”

Tom reached out a hand to her shoulder to stop her pacing.

“You aren’t worried about you getting akumatised?”

Marinette shook her head.

“No no, I’ll be fine.”

A slight push from her bag and the looks from her parents made her backtrack.

“I mean, I’m really good at calming down before they get to me, I mean, it’s worked so far right?”

She let out a nervous chuckle while her parents stared at her.

“Marinette… Are you working with Hawkmoth?”

Marinette looked for the start of a smile from her mum, the laughter in her dad’s eyes, anything to say they were joking. When the just kept staring she burst into laughter.

“Haha, you guys… You guys really thought… Haha, that’s hilarious!”

Her parents failed to see the humour and gave her thatlook.

“Remember all those times I’ve been attacked? Reflekta, Horificator, pretty much any akuma that clones or traps people I’ve gotten tangled up in.”

Not technically a lie, she never said she got hitspecifically, but she definitely got attacked.

“Well, maybe you should get out of Paris anyway. It’s clearly not safe here, and maybe it’s best for you to leave. You’ll like it in National City, they even have their own superheros!”

Great. A reminder of what I have to give up because of Lila. She was about to keep protesting, but she felt three quick pushed on her side by Tikki. We need to talk.Her argument died on her tongue and she sighed.

“When am I meant to leave?”

Her parents exchanged relived looks.

“The plane is booked for next Friday. That gives you about a week to pack up. We could mail over a box with all of your sewing things once you get settled, if Kelly and Alex are ok with it of course.”

Marinette fought the eyebrow that was threating to raise. A week? I was hoping for some more time to test and train a new guardian, and a new holder for Tikki. It would be a rush, and there weren’t many people she trusted anymore. Still, there was work to be done, so she had to get started.

“I guess I’ll go start packing then. Can I be un-grounded so I can spend my final week saying goodbye and sorting things out?”

Her parents nodded, glad she was taking this so well.

“Of course honey, just not tonight ok? It’s getting rather late.”

Marinette nodded and ran up to her room, shutting the trapdoor quickly. She went up onto her bed and starting crying into her pillow, feeling the weight of all the kwami comforting her. Eventually she rolled on to her back, drying her tears.

“I’m sorry Tikki, you said you wanted to talk?”

She looked at her expectantly. Marinette already knew what Tikki wanted. She needed to find a new wielder and Guardian, and she shouldn’t have been putting it off, but sometimes it felt good to cry. Tikki came to settle on her lap and patted her leg comfortingly.

“Marinette I know what you’re thinking, and you don’t have to give up being Ladybug or being Guardian. So you better stop that train of thought right now missy.”

Marinette sat up, blinking. How could she… Oh.

“I’m an idiot.”

Tikki giggled while she flew up and booped her nose, while Kaalki sniffed from the corner.

“I can’t believe you forgot about me Guardian. You’ve given me out before!”

Marinette giggled at the kwami’s haughty attitude.

“Sorry Kaalki, I got a bit too emotional to think clearly.”

Kaalki just grabbed a sugar cube with a huff and flew off. Marinette climbed off her bed and grabbed her bright pink suitcase.

“So who wants to help me pack?”

~~<3~~

Chloe, Kagami, Luka and Marinette were all sitting at a table at a café during their lunch break. Luka had graduated already, so he was usually free to hang out. Chloe had come up to Marinette not too long after Lila’s takeover with an apology. Marinette had been wary at first, but Chloe was actually really nice when she wasn’t putting up an act. She had soon proven herself and had been given another chance at being a hero, under the new name Honeybee. Kagami had approached her after Adrien had asked for advice on the Lila situation. She had hated his passive approach, and when she had tried to talk to him about it, he just refused her help, ignoring the fact that he had asked for her help. Kagami had come to offer her help, and they become friends soon after. She had re-claimed the dragon, under the new name Tempête. Luka had heard Lila’s heart song and immediately knew that was someone that he didn’t want to hang around. He had tried warning Juleka and the rest of Kitty Section, but Lila had told them that having an older singer wasn’t a good look. He had been kicked out, and Marinette had been there to comfort him with pastries and musicals. After she had introduced everyone to each other, they had become a tightly knit group. So, as one could imagine, they weren’t taking this well.

“They gave you a week? That’s ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!”

Kagami made a noise of displeasure as well.

“Sending you to America seems a bit extreme, what reason did they give again?”

Marinette scoffed.

“My ‘recent behaviour’ or something like that. Also known as, Lila. Oh, that’s not even the best part.”

Marinette gave out a dry chuckle and everyone looked on in interest.

“Apparently, I’m working with Hawkmoth.”

Luka plucked a string on his guitar, sending out a loud note. Chloe just stared in disbelief, and Kagami made for her foil.

“I’m going to run them through with my sword.”

Kagami gripped it tightly, ready to get up and make good on her threat, but Marinette grabbed it from her, unbothered by the fencer’s unimpressed glare.

“No-one is stabbing anyone. I don’t really have a choice, so I just have to suck it up and deal with it. Besides, it could be good to get away from Lila.”

Chloe was the first to get up to give her a hug, followed by Luka, and then by Kagami, who Marinette wasn’t completely sure that she wasn’t just trying to get her sword back.

“It’ll be ok guys, we can still video chat through Skype or something. I won’t be able to text, because I’ll be on an American phone plan, but we can figure something out!”

Chloe pulled away and took out her phone, tapping away immediately.

“I’m going to get you an amazing phone plan, with unlimited overseas. Same for the rest of you. That way, we can all talk and not worry about the fact that there’ll be an ocean dividing us.”

Marinette slowly took the phone and added it to her slowly growing pile, pointedly ignoring the glare Chloe shot her.

“I’m sure there are other, free, ways to contact each other. I think there’s an online service, what’s the name in English? Chaos or something like that?”

Luka strummed at his guitar in thought before pulling up an app on his phone.

“Is this the one you were thinking of?”

He had opened Discord, in dark mode of course, and had his profile open.

“Yeah, that’s the one! We can talk on there, and it has the bonus of being accessible from computers! So, no reason to go overboard, ok Chloe?”

Chloe humped and opened up the app store, downloading Discord. Kagami noticed what she was doing and mirrored her. They all took a few minutes to make accounts and become friends, before Luka, the one with the most experience, had set up a server for them all. Quickly choosing nicknames, Marinette pocketed her phone with a grin.

“Now that that’s done, anyone want to come help me pick some things to take?”

~~<3~~

It felt like the week passed quickly, lessons passing by in a blur. She didn’t pay much attention, just enough to keep Mrs Bustier satisfied. She didn’t bother alerting anyone in the class (outside of Chloe) that she was leaving, ignoring their taunts and insults. Chloe and Kagami had been big helps in learning how to ignore them, so now they rolled off her like water on a duck. She made sure not to bring anything valuable, most of her stuff was in a suitcase anyway. On her final day, she only had her schoolbooks, the school assigned tablet, and three neatly wrapped gifts. As she was packing up to go meet her friends for a final goodbye, she was stopped by Alya.

“I need you to make a dress for the upcoming school dance.”

Marinette briefly noted that this was a demand, rather than a request, but she just started her usual commission speech with a sigh.

“Depending on the materials used and the time it takes to make, the dress could cost anywhere from €300 to €500. There will also be shipping costs, plus the fact I’m not taking commissions right now, so it will probably be a few weeks before I might be able to get started on it.”

Alya was staring at Marinette like she had grown another head.

“€300, what are you talking about? I’m not paying youfor a dress, and you make mine every year, so what’s the problem? I can’t wait a few weeks, the dance is next weekend!”

Marinette sighed and pushed past the taller girl.

“The problem is that I don’t have time, materials are expensive, and I made you those dresses when we were friends. But we’re not now. So, leave me alone. Goodbye Alya.”

She walked out to meet her friends, leaving Alya behind, too stunned to talk. When she snapped out of it, she grumbled to herself.

“She’ll see reason on Monday. She has no right to refuse after all she’s done to Lila! Maybe if she makes Lila’s dress too, she’ll forgive her! Lila’s nice like that, Marinette will come around after making up for everything she’s done!”

Alya walked away, satisfied, planning her new dress in her mind.

Marinette ran up to her friends, engulfing them in hugs. They all hugged right back, sad to see her go. Marinette suddenly pulled away from the hug, and grabbed three parcels out of her bag. She handed them all out, urging them to open them. Luka opened his first, finding a beanie that perfectly matched his hair, with a teal snake pattern around the rim. Chloe went next, her patience not holding any longer. She got a headband with tiny bees embroidered all along it. Kagami received a red handkerchief, with an elemental dragon on one side, and a storm cloud on the other, a lightning strike going all the way across. They all started to thank her at once, with Marinette just blushing sheepishly.

“I just took note of all your favourite heroes, and added them to a design. It’s not that big of a deal.”

They all hugged again, before the clock chimed behind them, making Marinette jump.

“I have to go! I’ll send you all a message when I land, but you better not stay up for it if it’s late here!”

A chorus of “No promises!” filled her ears as she ran home, taking in the sights one more time. She burst into the bakery to find her mum still working the counter, and her dad busy baking. Not thinking much of it, she went up to her room to grab her belongings. After some quick cuddles from the kwami, she had everything she needed. Most flew into the suitcase, comfy in the hidden area Marinette had made, lined with a soft faux fur. Only Tikki and Kaalki flew into her jacket, ready to transform if need be. They had assured her they wouldn’t show up on the x-ray, so she was fine with having them in there. As she lifted her suitcase and went downstairs, her strength from being Ladybug shining through, she was surprised to see her parents still busy at work.

“Maman, Papa, I thought we were going to the airport now?”

Her parent’s exchanged looks before Tom stopped his baking and walked over.

“Honey, we can’t afford to come with you, we need to keep the bakery open. There’s an Uber outside for you, but you’ll have to go on your own. I’m sorry.”

He pulled her into a hug, one she half-heartedly returned. She walked over to hug her mum as well, and went outside with her suitcase.

This was it.

She was really being sent away.

All because of some dumb liar.

With a comforting press coming from inside her jacket, she got in the Uber, prepared to start her new life.

[mxndoscyarika]

Honeydew (Marcus Pike/Moreno x OC) | Chapter 7

Summary: Erin He moves to DC after working for the FBI in Texas and runs into a hero in disguise; Marcus Moreno. Something about him is familiar, too familiar, yet different in a way that she can’t quite place. Although confused, she can’t deny her feelings for him; perhaps, after years of regret, she finally found the one.

Warnings: food/drink mention, mention of dead loved one (Marcus’s wife), brief nudity, kissing

Ao3

Honeydew masterlist

Like my writing? Here’s my masterlist.

Author’s Note: Here’s the next chapter! I wanted to let them have a moment to just be together after everything that happened, and this was one (of many) of them. Enjoy!

“I just don’t understand why it’s not working. It doesn’t make sense.”

Sometimes she wondered why she had to be a supervisor that knew how to code. If she were non-technical, like many of her past managers, she could have simply told the developer to do some code reviews with his colleagues. Well, it wouldn't have been that simple either way, but at least she would get to go home.

Erin sighed and sat down by Brian’s desk. The empty coffee cups and notebook with scribbled ink was a familiar sight, though his desk did seem to be missing one crucial thing: a rubber duck. “Let’s just take a step back and go through the logic, ok? So we have that….”

She and the developer went through the specifications for the updates and the high-level implementations that needed to be done. It seemed like he managed to get most of the framework for the code set up; all that was left was, well, writing the code and making sure it was correct. However, the deadline for shipping the code was coming up in the following days, and he was still at the debugging stage.

Although it had been a while since she’d programmed anything in a work-related context, she thanked the CS gods that she still remembered enough to take on some of the debugging. Conveniently, Brian had prior commitments that night and needed to leave on time–as if an engineer’s shift was ever truly over. But while there were others who could help out, something told her that it would be faster if she did some of the debugging herself. After all, she’d just spent half an hour reasoning through the logic.

“Why don’t you finish up as much as you can, push your changes to the repo, and I’ll take a look later?” she suggested, scanning the code. At first glance it looked fine–as most code normally did–but there were obviously issues somewhere that caused all the tests to fail. “I have some other work to do, but if we can get everything ready within the next couple days I don’t think they will mind the update being slightly delayed.”

With that, Erin went back to making her rounds through the work area, picking up any stray folders and getting last-minute status updates from the others. The sky was already dark, any trace of the sun long gone. Normally she would be getting ready to leave soon, but there was more work to do ahead of the op she was leading.

Ignoring the vibrations of her phone, she made her way back to her office and set up her desk to keep working. One thing she’d learned over her years of experience as a supervisor was that an organized desk was crucial for concentration. If only other aspects of her life were as organized as her desk.

It had been days since she found out about Marcus’s secret identity, but she couldn’t help but still feel utterly stupid. She was stupid to think that she could move on. That she, for once, was enough.

The truth was that she was never enough. She wasn’t enough to bring Marcus back after his disappearance, and she wasn’t enough to make hiding his past life unbearable.

She would have been lying if she said she didn’t consider breaking things off. But at the same time, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He said that he and Pike were the same, that everything they had was real. And if that was true, then maybe things would get better. They could try to make things work, and show up for each other. After all, wasn’t that what caused the mess anyways? Them not being there for each other at the most important moments?

Someone knocked on her door.

Erin didn’t look up from her work. “Come in.”

“Hi honey.”

This time she looked up, a small smile on her face. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home with Missy?”

Marcus chuckled softly. “I guess I should, but my mom convinced her to stay the night so that we could have some alone time,” he explained, sitting in the chair in front of her desk. Eyes twinkling, he lifted a paper bag. “I texted you asking what you wanted for dinner but you didn’t reply, so I got your favorite.”

Now she really was smiling. “You brought canh chua? I’m sorry I didn’t reply, I’ve been running around the department trying to get everything together.”

“It’s alright; I figured you were busy, so I wanted to make sure you at least had dinner,” he said, pulling out the container of soup along with some utensils and a couple to-go bowls. “I know you love the bạc hà, so I asked for extra. They’re in one of the small containers, so we can add them in ourselves.”

“You’re too good to me.” Erin pushed her laptop to the side so he had more room to organize the slew of containers. The tamarind-flavored soup was often a treat rather than a regular meal, one that she normally savored in the cozy atmosphere of the Vietnamese restaurant. Her heart melted a little as she realized that Marcus had to have driven across town to get it from the restaurant.

“You deserve only the best.”

Some containers were filled with jasmine rice, fragrant and pillowy. Others overflowed with toppings like aromatic cilantro, spicy Thai chilis, and crisp bean sprouts. And, as promised, there was an extra container with fresh slices of bạc hà, the spongy stem of the elephant ear plant.

Her mouth watered as she helped fill the bowls with rice and soup, letting the golden broth soak into the grains. The tomatoes and pineapple chunks were perfectly cooked and plump, brightening the salty, nearly fruity, broth.

When she pushed the bowl towards Marcus he shook his head. “You eat first, Rin. You’ve had a long day. How was work?”

“Tiring,” she scoffed lightly, adding a questionable amount of chili to her bowl. The soup was still pleasantly warm when she scooped some into her mouth, the salt giving way to the fruity sourness and inferno of chilis. She moaned in satisfaction, “This is exactly why you are my favorite person in the whole world. Thank you for bringing this, brown eyes.”

He smiled softly, adding a significantly smaller amount of chili to his bowl. “Of course, honey. Just like the old times, huh?”

At that, Erin sighed. Sometimes she forgot that her memories of Marcus Pike were really of Marcus Moreno, and it still hadn’t ceased to be jarring when that realization hit. “Yeah.”

Noticing her hesitation, Marcus looked at her apologetically. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that–”

“No, it’s okay,” she interrupted, waving him off. “I just...I missed this. Us in an office sharing food in the evening. I never thought I’d ever get to experience this again, but now you’re here.”

His eyes softened and he reached over to hold her hand in his. Stroking the back of her hand softly, he said, “I know. I missed this too.” He shifted in his seat. “And I know we can’t go back to what we were before, but I don’t want you to feel like you need to separate our memories. They’re ours, honeydew. Nothing can take that away.”

“I know,” she said, eyes burning. “I’m sorry I’m not as happy–”

“It’s alright,” he interjected gently. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

And, if she would let him, he was going to spend the rest of his days showing her how much she meant to him. It was a mistake–a huge one–to hide from her for that long. If time was money, he’d cost her so much. Maybe he wouldn’t ever be able to give those years back to her, but he could make the most of their time in the present. Now he just hoped his paperwork would get approved at HQ.

“I’m just so tired,” she said quietly.

Of everything. Of being herself, and of feeling like the biggest fool in the world for not realizing the man she loved had been in her life eight years ago.

She’d long since stopped caring about what her colleagues thought, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pride herself on her intelligence and knack for details. With everything, she wasn’t quite sure what hurt most: the blow to her pride, or the fact that Marcus had lied.

But deep down, a part of her was happy. He finally came back, and while the past was wrought with cracks, the future felt...secure. And if there was anything she knew about Marcus, it was that he wore his heart on his sleeve, and that he wanted to stay for the long run. She knew that, no matter what, he wanted to make things right.

“Why don’t we head home after this, then?” he suggested, lips quirked up in a small smile. “They can’t get too mad if the smartest woman in the bureau takes the night off.”

---

“Would you like to stay?” she asked, unlocking the door to her apartment. Marcus’s car was parked in the visitors’ parking area, and it was starting to get late. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I’d love to, if you’ll have me,” he answered, heat rushing up to his cheeks when her eyes met his. Even after all this time, he couldn’t get over the way she looked when she smiled at him like that. When she looked at him like he was everything she ever wanted.

They settled into the apartment as usual, with Erin checking on her plants and Marcus helping to plug in her laptop. Something about the way Erin moved around in the space was just...right. He’d seen her navigate government buildings and sites for operations, but at home, there was a different kind of confidence about her. It was a confidence that he knew only a select few were allowed to see.

Once they reached the bedroom, Marcus kissed her forehead and went into her bathroom. “Stay here, I’ll get a bath ready for you.”

Erin let out a huff of laughter at his eagerness, resigning to putting away her bag and changing into more comfortable clothes. As much as she loved a good suit, she also loved the warmth of sweatpants and the softness of silk. But seeing as she still needed to wash up for the night, she slipped on a silk nightgown, the hem stopping just above her knees.

Eventually, Marcus returned and led her into the bathroom, presenting her with a bathtub full of gardenia-scented bubbles and steaming water. He’d also found her electronic candles, placing them strategically so she could see in the dimmed lighting.

“It’s perfect, Marcus. Would you like to join me?” she asked, biting her lip in anticipation. The bathtub was just large enough for two people, and she wanted to know what it would feel like to be with him in her most vulnerable state. After all the secrets and waiting, she just wanted more .

He shook his head, trying to not let his mind linger too long on the way her nightgown hugged her chest like liquid gold. As much as he wanted to be with her, something told him that it wasn’t the right moment. “You’ve had to take care of yourself for so long, honey. Let me take care of you, ok?”

“But what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Their lips melded together as their resolve grew strained. She tasted sweet and intoxicating, and it took all his strength to not give in. “You deserve to be treated like a queen. You’re my queen, and I want to make you feel good. Is that alright?”

She hummed softly and kissed him again. A low moan escaped her lips. “You really know how to make a woman conflicted, Marcus.”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit.”

“I know you are. I’m just glad you’re here now,” she said. Pulling away, she stepped up next to the bathtub. Slipping the straps off her shoulders, she suggested, “If you’re not going to join me in here, why don’t you get comfortable and keep me company?”

The bath felt as amazing as it looked, the hot water melting away the tension in her muscles and the bubbles acting as a blanket to keep her modesty. Well, not that she hadn’t undressed in front of Marcus, but she wanted to keep some parts of her a surprise.

After some shy laughs, Marcus stayed by her side the entire time, sitting on the edge of the tub. It was just wide enough for him to sit comfortably, close enough that they could talk softly and he could help wash her hair. The golden glow of the candles and the warmth from the bath soothed their nerves until they were just two people in love.

Relaxed and back in her nightgown, Erin sat on her bed and checked her emails one more time. Thankfully, there weren’t any that she needed to reply to.

“Careful, hot tea incoming.”

She smiled up at Marcus, who was holding out a cup of steaming pu erh tea. Accepting it, she remarked, “I’m surprised you were able to find the tea leaves.”

“It helped that I remembered that you always have a designated cabinet.”

“I guess not that much has changed after all these years,” she said, sipping from the cup. As she did, she wondered if it was just herself that hadn’t changed.

“Dance with me?”

Her eyes widened in confusion when he broke the silence. “Hm?”

Marcus held out a hand, which she instinctively reached for. “Dance with me. Please?”

It didn’t take long for her to give in, setting the cup down on the nightstand. They swayed slowly in the bedroom, moonlight streaming in. Although there wasn’t any music, it was just what they needed. They just needed a moment in each other’s arms.

Erin’s head rested against his chest, the warmth from his body sinking into her. “I missed you so much,” she said softly.

“I missed you too.”

He missed her too.

But there was still something nagging at the back of her mind. Part of her didn’t want to disturb the peace, but she also wanted answers. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to ask him. Maybe it would undo everything. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Can you tell me about your wife? Missy’s mom? Did she..?”

Marcus sighed softly, but not out of frustration. No, it was the kind that was borne of fondness. His arms tightened around her. “Yeah. We actually met not too long after I had my documents changed back. I didn’t want to tell her. I wanted a fresh start, but I still felt very much like Marcus Pike rather than Marcus Moreno. So, I told her about my past and we went from there.” A soft chuckle. “She was definitely shocked, but it was different because she never knew me as Pike, only Moreno.”

She wasn’t you, he wanted to say.

“I’m glad she knew,” she replied, snuggling closer to him. At least he told her, the mother of his child. It was...comforting to know that he hadn’t been all alone during those years. Eight years was a long time to keep a secret. “And what about now? Do you still feel like Marcus Pike?”

“Some days I feel more like Pike,” he admitted. “But with Missy and the Heroics, I feel like I’ve settled into being Marcus Moreno. It took a few years, but….Pike will always be a part of me. It wasn’t ever not me, just…a different side.”

“I see.” When his arms shifted, Erin clung to him tighter. “Don’t leave. Please.”

Marcus kissed her temple, his lips soft and warm. “Never again, honey. I’ll be here until you’re tired of me.”

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[sondepoch]

Chapter 3

Hearts on Three (Satan x Reader)

The athlete and the nerd. The rich kid and the scholarship student. The girl who will constantly joke about breaking your knee caps and the boy who will actually do it. There are so many ways to describe your relationship with Satan. Too many, if you’re being honest. He’s your best friend. The smartest tutor you’ve ever had. He also spends thousands of dollars for you at the drop of a hat and holds your hand when you’re feeling down. And in the beginning, that's okay. Neither of you let yourselves get bogged down by labels, both of you content to just savor this newfound friendship. But deeper feelings always have a way of complicating things. And for better or for worse, you and Satan are no exception.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ✎

MASTERLIST

A small part of you scoffed when Satan told you he'd be tutoring you while helping out with your volleyball practice. He may be the smartest guy you know, but the idea honestly seemed stupid. How did he expect you to pay attention to the ball in front of you and the words coming out of his mouth at the same time? It didn't seem possible; it didn't seem practical. You went along with the plan because he promised he'd help out with your practice, not because he claimed it would help his tutoring.

You should have known better than to doubt someone like Satan, though.

This may just be the best tutoring session you've had yet.

"It's important to note that the primary reason why Americans didn't want to join WWII was that the Nye Committee spread lies about America's purpose for entering the first world war," Satan explains, continuing to explain the chapter of history you're on while helping you stretch. "The Nye Committee essentially stated that America's purpose was purely economic, and that arms manufacturers encouraged the government to enter the war so they could increase production and raise profit."

You nod your head, grunting lightly as Satan coaxes your body lower while you continue to reach for your left leg. He's surprisingly good at this; not just the helping you stretch part, but also the whole summarizing the relevant parts of the chapter while cutting out the unnecessary information part.

You almost feel bad for having ignored him this past week during all his normal tutoring sessions.

"Do you remember the senator for which the Nye Committee was named?" Satan asks you when you finally pull out of your stretch and begin reaching for the other toe. "We discussed this earlier."

You frown. You certainly do remember Satan telling you something about the Nye Committee, but you can't remember what.

"Um…"

There's an exasperated sigh from above you as Satan's palm stops pushing your back lower and he groans to himself, but the sound seems to stir your memory. You abruptly recall him making that same groan of frustration just half an hour earlier when you first arrived at the student gym, when you interrupted his explanation of the Nye Committee to set a volleyball straight in the air to him, only for it to bounce perfectly off his head.

"Gerald Nye!" You exclaim, withdrawing from your stretch to beam at Satan. "You said it was named after Gerald Nye!"

There's a flicker of hope on his face, a moment of silent pride because this is perhaps the first time you've successfully answered one of his questions without requiring hints.

"Good job," He blurts, surprised. He clears his throat immediately after, quickly continuing his explanation of the global state of affairs during WWII, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

A peaceful grin crosses your face as you continue to stretch.

There's something therapeutic about having someone talk to you while you go through your preparatory routine. Having your body occupied with warmups actually makes it easier to focus on Satan's words. This is definitely something you could get used to, a form of tutoring you'd happily partake in because it's genuinely enjoyable.

"Alright," You interrupt once you've finished stretching your legs and are now just casually flexing your arms. "Let's move on."

"To what?" Satan glances at the textbook that's still open. There are a couple pages left in the history chapter, and you need to get through this material by tomorrow for your reading check quiz. "Can't you stretch a little longer so I can finish explaining the chapter?"

"I guess," You shrug. "But I have to do a warmup jog before I can actually get started anyway, so why don't you just keep explaining stuff while I run?"

Satan shoots you an unconvinced look.

"You expect me," He mumbles under his breath, shaking his head. "To believe that you'll actually pay attention if I read to you while you're running laps?"

"Eight of them!" You exclaim, nodding eagerly.

"I don't think that's—"

"Okay, I'm starting!"

You don't bother waiting for Satan's approval before jogging over to the red line that borders the student gym. You know he could easily catch up to you if he wants. All your efforts as an athlete have failed to make you a particularly impressive runner, and you're definitely among the slower side of your team. Of course, that's never set you back, given that you'll readily dive for a ball without a second thought if you know you're too slow to sprint there on time, but it still surprises you when Satan doesn't tackle you as soon as you begin to run your laps.

You understand why in a moment.

"Woah, you really are slow."

Your eyes widen when you see Satan jogging next to you, fists lose at his side. Somehow, he's maintaining your pace effortlessly, not a hair out of place as he moves his legs in what looks more like a brisk walk than your stuttering jog.

"How are you—" You have to cut yourself off to breathe, a bubble of frustration rising when you see how easily Satan jogs at your side.

"Alright. Back to our lesson."

The blonde barely takes any time to breathe as he continues to educate you on how Nazi Germany channeled success within athleticism into socialism in an attempt to make their regime seem more prosperous, easily continuing on to explain how the development of the radio only further strengthened Hitler's influence. He maintains the same tone he would have if he were merely walking, utterly undisturbed by the fact that you're jogging and now struggling to keep up with his pace.

"Slow down," You gasp at him when you're on your fifth lap. Satan had unintentionally picked up the pace to turn it into what looks like a real jog for him (which coincidentally ended up being your sprint), and you're not sure what's suffering more: your heart rate or your ego.

"Oh, my bad."

It's almost shameful when Satan drops his pace to yours, abruptly making your jog seem like a snail's pace as compared to the rapid speed he'd been pushing earlier. At the back of your mind, you consider trying to pick up the pace, trying to sprint faster, but the memory of Satan's untroubled lecturing even as you were struggling to keep up with him tells you that he's the last person you want to challenge.

Eight laps cannot be over soon enough.

You all but collapse on the ground when you finish, nowhere near as excited as Satan about the fact that he managed to time it so that his explanation of the chapter ended the moment you completed the last lap. All you can think about is the awful fact that your nerd of a tutor who quit track three years ago is still somehow better at running than you.

And yes, it hurts your ego substantially.

"How are you so fast?" You whine as you try to regain your breath on the floor, trying not to look up at Satan because you already know that he'll look nowhere near as disheveled as you.

"Born that way," He says with a grin, walking over to your duffel bag to grab your water bottle. He takes a sip before he gives it to you. "Sorry. All that talking made my throat a little dry."

You can't help but pout at that. Your mile-run was so slow that not only was Satan able to finish a whole history lesson during it—but it wasn't even the physical exertion that wore him out. It was the talking.

"Hey, don't feel bad." He frowns when he sees your pouty expression. "You're still miles better at volleyball than I could ever hope to be. No, really. Miles."

The thought does little to console you.

"Satan. Please," You begin, taking a long sip of your water and pulling yourself to your feet only so that you can clasp Satan's hands in yours. "Teach me your ways. I want to be as fast as you."

"Let go," Satan blurts as he pulls his hands free of yours, his nose scrunching up. "You have sweaty palms."

"Satan!"

The boy laughs, a rich sound that fills the empty gym. His grin is broad when he faces you next, pride decorating his features. "You're not that slow, I promise. I'm just…"

Ridiculously fast, you think to yourself.

"A little better at running than the average person. That's all. It's stupid for you to compare yourself to me when it comes to running, just like it's stupid for me to compare myself to you when it comes to volleyball."

"It's not stupid," You grumble to yourself, taking another sip of water before tossing the bottle back into your volleyball bag. "You still haven't told me why you quit track."

"And I'll never tell you unless you start getting better grades," Satan interrupts, briskly transitioning into his tutor-mode.

You open your mouth to retort, to shoot him a mischievous comment and maybe pull him back into a longwinded conversation, but the moment the blonde walks over to your volleyball cart, it's just head-empty, and all you can think about is practice.

There's a brief transition period where Satan specifically asks you what you want him to do, because "this is supposed to help you in both your tutoring and volleyball," so he "may as well do exercises that are actually helpful." It's how you finally manage to worm him into a downball exercise, which wounds up being pretty effective because Satan seems to be sufficiently muscular such that every ball flies to the ground with impressive force but also sufficiently terrible at volleyball such that every ball is several feet away from you, making for an excellent simulation of a real game environment.

There are, of course, the questions that Satan insists on asking you in between every downball. He's moved on to explaining physics to you, now, and you don't bother asking him how he somehow has all this information memorized, merely leaving the explanations to him because they do sound an awful lot like what your teacher has been explaining in the past week.

But somehow, the practice remains enjoyable.

Every now and then, the two of you need to take a pause so you can collect the balls from the ground. Satan only brought one cart over, so the two of you do have limited resources; but the overall experience is surprisingly smooth. So smooth, in fact, that the two of you end up moving on from physics to English, English to computer science, computer science to art appreciation, and you're about to tackle another subject when the doors to the gym abruptly open and you see the familiar faces of your teammates.

"It's time for practice!" You exclaim eagerly, your face lighting up. "Satan, I gotta go!"

The blonde raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure? You've already practiced with me for nearly two hours."

"That wasn't practicing, Satan. That was studying. You made us stop for so many questions that I could barely even get my heart rate up."

The blonde shoots you another concerned look, still hesitant. "Maybe you should sit this practice out. Or at least take a short break. I don't want to be the reason for you getting injured."

"Aw, what a sweet sentiment~" You coo, slinging an arm over Satan's shoulder. Your grin is bright as you tug him toward the bleachers, towards where you dumped your volleyball bag. "I'll be fine, don't worry. I'll have to practice much longer when our actual training season starts up, anyway."

You can see Satan frown at that, his lips curving downward as he doubtlessly wonders what you mean by the 'actual training season,' but he doesn't press the issue, merely nodding his head.

"Is there anything I can do to help out?" You see his fingers flex at his side, the boy eager to do something to appease his guilt for keeping you so long but clearly not sure what.

"I usually refill my water bottle before practice, so…"

"Let me," Satan interrupts firmly, taking the metal bottle from your hands. "And sit down, at least until I return. Try to rest, even if it's only for a little."

A soft smile spreads across your face at that. Satan might have been a Varsity runner in his freshman year, but it's clear that he's forgotten just how hard athletes at your school train. Still, it's endearing how concerned he is. You nod your head at him with a smile as you take a seat atop the bleachers. The action seems to pacify him, and he quickly jogs off in the direction of the water cart, easily slipping into a pace that would surpass all of your sprints.

"So~" A voice calls from next to you, oh so mischievous and oh so familiar. "What were you doing with our student president?"

"He's my tutor!" You respond brightly, smiling at your co-captain as she takes a seat next to you. "He brought me here because apparently, I wasn't responding very well to his normal teaching attempts, so he decided to throw volleyball into the mix. It's actually working out pretty well!"

"Oh?" The setter chuckles. "No surprise there. I can't really imagine you sitting at a desk and actually learning anything."

"Hey!" You smack the girl in mock offense, clicking your tongue in annoyance as you roll your eyes. "I'm not that bad. My grades have been improving, thanks to him."

"Is that so?" The girl grins, her eyes darting down as she doubtlessly checks Satan out. "And have they been improving because he's a good teacher or because he makes for such great eye candy?"

You snort. It's not like you haven't recognized by now that Satan is one of the most attractive people in your grade, but you find it hard to pay attention to that when there's so much else going on in his personality.

"He's a good teacher. Nothing else."

"So you don't want to maybe date him one day?"

"No," You deadpan. "I don't want to maybe date him one day."

The setter by your side deflates, leaning against you with an angry mumble about how unfair it is that she never gets to tease you about liking any boys. "So frustrating," She mumbles, doubtlessly in reference to you. "He's so cute, too. And smart. And popular. And rich. And perfect boyfriend material, from what I've heard."

"He's just a friend."

Satan has reached the athletic cart on the other side of the gym, already in front of the giant water cooler. He catches your gaze, shooting you his usual, broad smile as he continues to fill your water bottle.

Keep resting, he mouths to you, gesturing for you to remain seated when you attempt to stand.

"A good friend," You correct yourself.

Satan is a firm believer that there is beauty in simplicity. It is how he has approached life and it is how he has approached tutoring you: finding the simplest route and executing it with maximum precision.

In the present moment, this has translated to Satan's agreement with you: one correct answer, one toss. One piece of evidence that you're actually improving in your classes, and one chance to improve on your volleyball hitting form. One nod at academia, one nod toward athletics.

It's an ingenious agreement, simple as it is beautiful.

The execution, though, is anything but.

"You have to toss higher," You hiss, catching your ball in midair and throwing it back to Satan before your feet have even touched the ground. "The ball needs to reach my hand at the peak of my jump, not my head."

Satan scowls at your admonishment, grumbling under his breath before tossing the ball to you again, lifting it higher.

It's been precisely four days of this volleyball-meets-tutoring agreement, and Satan's hands have already begun to cramp from the hundreds of sets per day he's been tossing you. The manicure Asmo gave him right before he left the House of Lamentation has begun to chip off, the bright green nail polish now cracked and uneven. The blonde even has a bruise on the side of his torso from getting hit by one of your jump serves two days prior, just another battle wound in his war to make you pass your classes.

The only positive to this whole arrangement is that you really are beginning to improve.

"What were Caesar's last words?" Satan asks, consciously picking a straightforward question that he expects you won't remember the answer to.

"Et tu, Brute?" You smirk, quietly beaming because you know you're right.

Satan suppresses a sigh, ignoring the ache in his palms as he tosses the ball into the air and sets it to you, making sure the ball arches unnecessarily high because you jump like a goddamn frog.

"That's better!" You cheer as your palm slams into the ball with inhuman force, hitting it to the ground and letting the sound echo through the gymnasium.

Satan shudders, thinking about the bruise he's sporting on his torso from your serve the other day. He doesn't want to imagine how much pain he'd be in if he'd been on the receiving end of that spike you just delivered.

"Again," You demand, already backing up in anticipation for another serve as Satan brainstorms up another question to ask you for your cumulative Shakespeare test tomorrow.

The truth is that he thinks you're ready. A statement he never would have imagined one week ago, but it has become reality. By combining volleyball practice and academics into one, it's as if your brain is unable to differentiate between the two and you simply have to use your full energy on both, resulting in an impressive amount of progress.

"Why is Romeo banished?"

"For killing...Mercutio? No, wait! For killing Tybalt!" A triumphant grin spreads across your face, proud and happy.

Satan tosses you another ball.

He's genuinely impressed with the level of focus you've been able to retain during these past few tutoring sessions. When you first asked him to read you the plays from your literature class, the boy was skeptical. Particularly so because you wanted him to read to you as you cycled through your conditioning exercises, and Satan doubted that reciting Hamlet's infamous monologues while you did burpees would help you learn. The blonde was pleased to discover that he was wrong, though. By the end of the day, he had found that while there's nothing you seem to loathe more than properly sitting down to read a book, you actually enjoy being read to. It's helped him teach you material in nearly every subject.

"Explain why Cordelia was disowned."

"Cordelia...Cordelia...who?"

Ah, there it is.

Whenever Satan grows a little too proud of you, you always seem to dash his hopes.

"Cordelia," The blonde mutters, already sensing what your next words are going to be. "From King Lear, the book you were supposed to finish on your own yesterday."

"Oh, that." You hide your hands behind your back, smiling sheepishly. "I, um, didn't."

Satan sighs, letting the volleyball in his hands bounce back into the cart he picked it up from.

"Wait!" You cry, trying to stop him. "Just a few more tosses, please! I've been trying out this new hitting technique where I try to hit the ball straight down instead of with an angle and I'm finally getting good at—"

"Too bad," Satan blurts, crossing his arms and interrupting you. "If you wanted me to help you practice, you should have done the reading I assigned you. That was our agreement."

"But it was a whole play! How was I supposed to read all that in one night? That's just cruel!"

"What's cruel is you choosing to ignore that play for so long. You had weeks to read King Lear. You chose to make it difficult for yourself."

Satan grabs the volleyball out of your hands and drops it in the wheeled cart, already moving to the other side of the net to pick up the remaining balls from your hits.

"But Satan!" You continue to whine, still trying to tug him backward. For the first time, though, he manages to fight your grip, internally thanking his six brothers for having taught him the art of pushing people away.

He doesn't pay you much mind when you groan and flop backwards onto the gym floor, spreading your limbs out like a starfish. The sight only makes the edges of his lips quirk up in amusement because, really, as nice as it is to see you energized and full of life, it's still nicer to be reminded that even you have your physical limits.

"Come on," He mumbles, nudging your shoe with his own. "Let's go."

"Don't wanna," You mumble in response, closing your eyes. "Tired."

You emphasize the sentiment with a yawn, and Satan would almost believe that it was genuine if not for the sneaky smile that you have to fight off your lips.

He rolls his eyes.

The boy leaves you be while he cleans up the rest of the gym, picking up all the balls from your practice and depositing them in the cart before dragging it over to the room it's supposed to be stored in overnight.

The blonde is unfamiliar with the whole action of putting athletic equipment away, not having done any sports since his freshman year of high school, but he offers every time. The small amount of time it takes him to clean everything up is virtually the only break you seem to take, and while you don't appear to notice the way your legs have begun to tremble with overexertion at the end of every day, Satan notices. And he will not hesitate to clean up the entire gym if it means you'll take these few minutes of rest.

"We still need to do math," Satan says when he grabs your volleyball bag and sits down next to you. It's the one subject that the two of you can't do over volleyball practice, the one subject that you actually need to sit down and do yourself.

"I'll do it in the morning."

"You always say that, and you never end up doing it."

"There's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

Satan doesn't bother hiding how he rolls his eyes as he pulls your water bottle out of your volleyball bag and shoves it into your hands.

"Drink," He tells you, already getting out your day shoes so you can take your volleyball shoes off and get ready to go home.

"Don't wanna sit up," You drawl, your body still lying on the ground.

"Drink, or I'll make you do math the minute we get back to the dorm."

Satan has never seen you shoot up faster, a small smile gracing his lips when he sees you pop the lid off your bottle and begin chugging it down instantly.

"Ah," You mumble after you've drunk the whole thing. "That felt surprisingly good."

Satan bites back a quiet I told you so, instead opting to gesture for you to switch your sneakers.

He ignores your quiet complaint that he's such a slave driver, that it's unfair he's making you do all this. The truth of the matter is simple: you have a cumulative Shakespeare test in less than twelve hours, and you still haven't read one of the assigned texts.

Time, unfortunately, isn't something either of you have in abundance today.

"Up," Satan demands, grabbing your hand and tugging you to your feet before he drags you out the door.

The entire walk back, you're leaning on him for support, and the blonde staggers more than once as he tries to balance the weight of your volleyball bag in one hand and you in the other. The picture is one that's graced this sidewalk more than once in these past few days, but Satan can't bring himself to care as he internally frets over how he's going to get you to pass this test when you're clearly too tired to properly have a full-on tutoring session. If your nonstop yawning weren't sufficient, the way you practically fall asleep on Satan in the elevator is proof enough that you really are exhausted.

"Take a shower," Is what his final decision is when the two of you arrive back at the dorm, at the little hallway that separates the 665 of your room and the 666 of Satan's. "It'll wake you up."

"I don't want to be woken up," You argue, trying to push against Satan to flop onto your bed.

You clearly don't care about the test tomorrow, but Satan does.

"Either take a shower or wake up some other way," The blond hisses, glaring at you. "But you are not going to bed until you've finished reading King Lear. And unlike yesterday, I will personally be supervising you to make sure you don't fall asleep in the middle again."

You scowl at that, your earlier pout turning into a harsh glare as you realize that Satan has essentially left you with no choice.

"Fine." You blurt. "I'll shower."

It's only once you've gathered your clothes and toiletries and are gone from the room that Satan realizes just how in-character it would be for you to simply choose to sleep in the shower stalls.

The blonde instantly begins to panic.

He's pacing back and forth in your room by the time you've returned, trying not to bite his nails with his book discarded on the bed because he knows that there's no way he'll be able to get you out of the bathroom if you choose to do so, and that if you really do try to hide out in the shower stalls, it's almost certain that you'll fail your test.

When his eyes catch sight of you, the tension in his body visibly disappears.

"Why were you pacing?" You ask, a teasing laugh slipping from your lips as you dump your other clothes in the hamper. "What, did you think I'd just hide from you in the bathroom?"

"Yes." Satan doesn't bother hiding the truth. "And I'm quite surprised that you didn't."

You open your mouth to speak, but the way you avoid his eyes and fidget with the edge of your T-shirt speaks louder than your refusal to deny his words.

"You did, didn't you?" Satan accuses. "You actually tried to sleep in the shower stalls."

"Madam Scream caught me." You explain quietly, refusing to meet Satan's eyes. "She told me to go sleep in my own bed, and when I tried to tell her I was trying to hide from you, she just got even madder."

A warm laugh spills from Satan's lips. He'll make sure to thank the dormitory administrator when he next sees her.

"Wonderful." He grins. "Now, sit. We have to get through this whole play, and I doubt you've even read the beginning."

"I don't want to, Satan," You plead, your hands flying together in a loose imitation of prayer. "Please, please, please don't make me read it all. I can't. I'll die. My brain will explode."

The blonde sighs. No doubt, you're being unnecessarily melodramatic, but he can see the tones of desperation coloring your eyes. That, and he's been tutoring you long enough to know that you really do loathe reading, enough to make you request to do math instead if that's what it takes to get you out of it.

"Alright," Satan mumbles, picking the book up himself. "I'll read it to you. How does that sound?"

You still look hesitant, and Satan can tell that this wasn't the compromise you were hoping for. Even after your shower, the pull of sleep looks strong, and he can practically feel your bodily exhaustion through the droop of your shoulders. Still, this is all the leeway Satan can give you.

"Fine."

Satan smiles, pulling out a chair and gesturing for you to sit next to him.

"No." Your expression is unchanging as you blink at him. "Bed."

You all but throw yourself onto the mattress, patting the spot next to you expectantly with an impish grin.

"This isn't a bedtime story," Satan hisses, trying to get you to take this seriously. "You need to actively listen to the play. You can't just—"

"I can't hear you if you're not on the bed."

The blonde is impressed with himself when he manages not facepalm.

As usual, Satan is forced to give in to your whims, and he awkwardly slots himself next to you on the bed with a scowl on his face, not bothering to be gentle as he pushes you closer to the wall to make room for himself.

"You have to stay awake," He tells you, voice even. "This is not a bedtime story."

"Yeah, yeah. Just get on with it."

And so he finally does get on with it, awkwardly resting his back against the bed frame while you fiddle with the throw blanket on your lap and listen. It still feels awkward, reading a play out like this where he has to specify the character speaking at the beginning of every new line, but this isn't the first thing Satan has read to you and it certainly won't be the last, so he grows comfortable with the material easily.

The only issue is that you keep squirming your way down to rest your head on the pillow.

"Up," Satan snaps at you when you try to do it while he's in the middle of one of Edmund's Thou Nature monologue. "You have to stay awake."

It works to snap you out of your daze, and Satan resumes reading from a few lines earlier, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you're paying attention.

Of course, this only lasts so long. Satan is only on the second act when you lean your head back on the pillow, and he just barely resists the urge to flick you on the forehead to wake you up.

"Come on," He grunts, pulling you back up into a seated position next to him. "This will all be worth it tomorrow when you get a good grade on your test."

You grunt in response.

Satan doesn't know how long this goes on for—him shaking you awake and you quietly trying to fall asleep again—but you eventually seem to have had enough, because by the time Satan is halfway through Act III, you rest your head on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" The blonde instantly snaps, his eyebrows furrowing. Your hair is still wet from your shower, and you're getting his shirt wet.

"Just try'na read better," You slur drowsily.

Sure enough, your eyes are open and you do seem to be gazing at the words on the page, but Satan is doubtful of your true intentions. After staring at you skeptically for a few moments longer, though, it's clear that you're not going to be moving unless he explicitly asks for it, so the blonde merely continues to read.

It's better this way, he thinks to himself, feeling your warm breath tickle his neck. I can at least tell if she's awake.

He tries to pay attention to the rate of your breathing at the back of his mind as he reads through the remainder of the act, gently shaking his shoulder every time he feels the rise and fall of your breaths grow a little too steady.

"Stop moving," You grumble when he shakes you awake again.

"Stop trying to sleep" is Satan's snarky response.

In the fourth act, though, Satan can't help but redirect the attention he was allotting you towards the book at hand. From Edgar's compelling narrative to Cordelia's analysis-worthy decisions, the blonde can't help but forget the outside world as he delves into the play, no longer reading out the lines but softly mumbling them under his breath as his mind lights up with visualizations of every scene. It's truly not Satan's fault that he doesn't notice when your body abruptly feels heavier, your weight no longer shifted away from him but gracelessly deposited onto him, even the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his arm only serving to further lull him into the depths of the play where nothing exists but the characters and their deeds.

Satan only realizes that you're dead asleep when the act ends, when he turns to ask you what you think and you're peacefully laying on his shoulder, long asleep and long gone.

"Hey, wake…" The boy cuts himself off before he can try to shake you awake, a surge of guilt washing over him.

You really do look exhausted.

Which is understandable, given that you had regular practice today and then some with your training-tutoring session with Satan.

He can't blame you for wanting to sleep.

The blonde sighs reluctantly as he closes the book in his hands and awkwardly tries to maneuver you off his shoulder and onto his pillow. You try to cling to his warmth the whole time, but your sleep-addled hands are useless next to Satan's cautious fingers, and within seconds, he's got you under your blankets and atop your pillow.

He'll wake you up early tomorrow, the blonde decides. And he'll finish the play with you, and he'll make sure you pass this test.

But right now, he'll let you get some sleep first.

A good decision, because Satan doesn't think he'd be able to bring himself to wake you even if he wanted to.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 5.6k

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ✎

Notes: okay so i’m trying to change my writing style so apologies if the flow of this chapter was awkward; i’m really trying to step away from some of my bad habits (while building some new ones!) so i hope that didn’t take away too much from this chapter

Comment & Like

Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[syrossa]

REVOLUTION | vkook

[Jungkook x cyborg!Taehyung]

— wordcount: 3.8k

— genre: sci-fi/ action/ oneshot/ angst

— summary: Jungkook is on the side of the Resistance, but his heart belongs to the wicked Emperor's right hand. In a world of war, he'll have to choose between saving his people or the cyborg he's fallen so tragically in love with.

— notes: previously posted on army amino as "trust me not"

Space year 3043.

After seizing the throne of Nypso 773T , its android emperor has decided to exterminate all individuals human - the last bearers of free will still standing. To execute his commands, the order of the New Inquisition has been launched. Its wicked ways continue to terrorize the planet, and many humans have gone rogue to avoid death in Nypso's compression pits. Jeon Jungkook - the latest recruit of the Resistance, has been extracted from an Inquisition's camp after a month of captivity. During his stay there, an unexpected fascination with the order's leader has emerged. Now they're torn between duty and attraction, survival and the dire need of love in the robotic arms of Nypso 773T.

Pulling on his hood, Jungkook walked into the subway station where the mass of the automated proletariat was finally retreating to its charging points. The route of line 248 resonated in a pre-recorded audio in several transgalactic languages; the outdated robots and refugees here couldn't afford infixed translation. The next train was in seven minutes. Working machines were being produced without a sense of smell, so the coolants and liquids of the entire quadrant could drain freely, channelled through the platform. Supreme androids and cyborgs could almost tell the difference between fume-saturated air and waste matter. Humans, however, were bound to sense it.

Jungkook travelled with the scraps of a filtering mask over his nose and mouth.

A heavy overcoat protected him from curious eyes. Down its lackluster length, a multitude of pockets were sewn with the purpose of convenience, but the inner one by his right hip weighed with the wired device of a hologram transmitter. The message encrypted on it was intended for the eyes of the Resistance only, and its safe transportation had been entrusted to him. Was it the shortage of confidants or Jungkook's short, yet exceptional devotion to the cause that had brought him here, he couldn't tell. One thing was certain — danger stalked him somewhere in this crowd and it moved with a bullet's speed, disguised in coy metal. All solitude amongst machines was extirpated.

He wasn't alone.

But the field of his vision allowed him to suspect and nothing more. Between the industrial smog and the firearm fume, the human eye was unable to discern too much. Few instruction panels hung low over the heads of the departees, providing the dimmest of illumination in venom-tinted yellow where the light of all other signs failed to stretch out to. Propaganda scrolled through interconnected displays in the skyscraping height.

As the train arrived in virid smoke, drunkenly quivering atop the rusted rails, the mob prepared for departure, loud and on the verge of an electric collapse. In the midst of it Jungkook joined the aggressive momentum and it hauled him to the doors. The informants from Quadrant-3 had warned him about identification scanners — each entrance had been installed two of those, in addition to a memory-extracting mechanism, so that all workers could be wiped clean of cache; Nypso liked its slaves productive.

Blazingly red, the scanning rays licked the identification numbers off all mechanic forearms. Each number consisted of uniquely stringed digits and Nypsoian letters, irreplicable and theft-proof, unless, of course, forcefully extracted. Yet such force was hardly ever applied reversibly.

So when Jungkook lifted his sleeve, baring the tattooed numerals on vulnerable display, he knew he had engraved himself with the ink and blood of another.

Collateral damage, they'd call it — the dismantled, maimed anthropomorphic remains of those who had been sacrificed for the camouflage of the Resistance. Through the scanners and the all-seeing surveillance apparatus Jungkook slithered like a ghost, a phantom of matter but never of face. He seated himself in the vacancy of a secluded section at the back of the train, and watched as the vehicle resurfaced overground.

The halved star of Nypso 337T had begun to roll out of sight. Space wind evaded the thin synthetic atmospheric layers, bringing forth what the code specifics referred to as frostnip. Nights here began with euphoria, beauty amid the blistered flesh of the universe, but escalated just as abruptly. Thousands of beings fell victims to the unforgiving cold. The corpses would be disposed of in the vast abyss of the Omicron Galaxy and left to the mercy of the antigravity and destructive cyclones. Sometimes parts of them would fall back on Nypso with the acid torrents.

The cadaverous rains.

Upon crossing the interquadrant border, the train entered a zone of electric anomaly, causing all working robots to cease operating. Jungkook rose from his uncomfortable seat immediately. He was quick on his feet; he headed to the emergency exit in the back. Moving across a high-up, scaffold-like railway with speed disproportionate to its poor technicity, the vehicle was to reach a rail intersection in a matter of minutes — the only window he'd be provided for a secure escape. The man clutched the transmitter through the fabric of the overcoat. A flicker of utter fright glistened in his eyes, the one a madman's irises would produce before he jumps off to death.

A madman, yes, but not alone in his madness.

Because when he threw himself forth in the open air, he knew he would land in the hands of his allies, the members of the Resistance. With a thump and several Nypsoian curses, Jungkook was caught by an aircraft of the forces from Quadrant-4. The second he regained balance, the pressure in his lungs and brain dispersed to free space for relief. General Kim dismissed the crew to greet him.

He grinned. "Lucky to see you here today. We barely managed to get the plane off the ground with the low temperatures."

"Thank you, sir. Captain Jung wasn't lying 'bout your piloting."

"Don't thank me. Min over there conducted the maneuvers today, the lucky bastard." And Jungkook glanced at the back of the pilot's disheveled head, hair chopped and jet black. "Do you have it?"

Derivative of the devices from before the last technological purge, the hologram transmitter was an antique of its own, coded in a long-lost language. It was technically unhackable. The greatest legacy of its predecessors, though, was the function of restricted access, touch-activated to be precise. When the device came into contact with General Kim's palm, trillions of holographic particles erected the glowing, mapped structure of a hollow sphere.

"The core powerhouse!" Jungkook gasped.

"A precise, high-resolution map of the planet's life source. After all these years of gathering data and risking the wellbeing of our entire kind, it's finally complete. We have the key to taking the emperor down, kid." The corner of the General's mouth quirked up. "We have it."

As if prompted by the glimpse of hope, the graspable salvation of mankind, intermittent flashes of red spread like rashes on the titanium insides of the plane while alarms were triggered in the cockpit. Jungkook tripped as the aircraft went into a sudden dive.

The co-pilot cried out, "Enemy crafts, sir. Attempters FM-14, annihilation mode engaged."

"Min, can you make it to the headquarters?" Kim shouted, tying himself to a seat by the plane wall.

Jungkook was still upright, shifting his weight as if hoverboarding. His eyes followed the attackers as the unmanned Attempters deployed their missiles. With a target on its silver hull, the plane of the Resistance forces looped and spiralled between the Quadrant-4 blockscape similarly to a turbulent projectile. But before even managing to be vocal about the pilot's nonpareil skills, he glimpsed the violent gush of blood from Min's shoulder.

Jungkook yelled, "Captain, you're fucking bleeding!"

"I am?," Min shrugged, reducing the throttle from the plane's inversion, motions still as steady as a surgeon's. "About time I showed these can-openers I can beat them single-handedly."

"The Resistance has evaded all attacks again, commander. I must say the human persistence is exhausting me already."

Left arm spasming from damage, Taehyung replied tremulously, "I dispatched two of our best Attempters their way. They must've anticipated an onrush."

Next to the mechanical grandness, the soul-breaking presence of the emperor, Taehyung appeared like a solitary speck of steel; a cyborg utterly defenseless against his superior. He was second to his leader; the right hand of the radically unique conqueror of Nypso 337T and scion of the mighty Omicron race — undoers of time and space. To support his position and survival, he had been recruited as commander of the New Inquisition.

Over the metal of his palms, there was overmuch human blood. The emperor, however, was still unsatisfied with its amount.

"Their defense cannot withstand our supremacy much longer. Can you perhaps figure out why, commander? Why is humankind bound to die out?"

Some deeply buried piece of Taehyung shattered, knowing that the battle he'd deliberately spared the humans was nothing but a hurdle in the long run of their eradication. All his efforts to decelerate the inevitable — governed not by the remains of his anthropoid body but by those of his human mind — were, ultimately, futile. He'd reset the coordinates of the Attempters, encrypted the outdated frequencies of the Resistance, screened the infiltration of their informant, but at what cost? He hadn't given them advantage but mere false hope.

"Because of its will, of course. The free will of humans will lead them to their ultimate end. But first, it will lead them to me." The android's speech was toneless through the holographic projection, yet his virtual presence diminished all strength of the commander's. "Our high-rank infiltrator in the Resistance has information that an assault on the powerhouse is being plotted. I want all units in position tomorrow. The rebellion must be eliminated instantly."

"Through a strengthened line of defense?"

"A lethal one. There must be no survivors. Obey your system, commander, and your emperor."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty."

Bowing to the conquerer of worlds might have felt elevating once; it may have propelled pride, safety and life, yet it only sparked misery in the metal now. Once the hologram had dispersed, Taehyung collapsed in a stroke of electric current. The fine components of his bionic system had experienced pressure unfit for his outdated build, which happened often when machines failed a designated mission. The scheme with the Attempters would cost him pain unlike any other. Pain of both flesh and robotics.

It took him twelve full minutes to regain consciousness. When he finally did, the back of his brain was burnt to charcoal black, as if he could only recall the excruciation of being electrocuted and nothing before it. He was a high-ranking Nypsoian soldier, a breed of hominid warrior blood and light steel tempered in the titanium core of the star of Adastreia, and he remembered his own pain only. Little by little, bits of data deteriorated within him and memories faded away like flashes of a time long-gone.

He was slowly being erased.

Everything he'd done to protect the man he loved on the other side of law backfired right at him. Instead of saving humanity, he slowly ceased to be human.

He needed to hear his voice more than ever.

Even if he couldn't quite retrieve the sound of it.

The jittery projection of Jungkook's face illuminated the entirety of the bunker, and his eyes bore into Taehyung's, expectant, laden with horror. Each of their rare conversations would begin with shared silence. Life was a variable — both had to be prepared for it to assume its last value at any given moment. The signal was horridly damaged as both sides had dialed from their underground hideaways, one right beneath the emperor's throne room, and the other from the fortified catacombs of Quadrant-4.

"I'm sorry I couldn't call earlier, I--"

Jungkook forced a lopsided smile, enough to hurt but not to discourage. "It's okay. You called."

"Are you alright? The Attempters went close and by the time I seized remote control, they'd fired at one of yours. The pilot."

"Min. He's fine. I guess he'd seen worse than your machine guns," The man chuckled softly. "Man, he even fired back, one hand on the panel, and the other holding a BL-544 out the perforated windshield."

Then Jungkook burst into laughter, lighthearted and paranormally unfit in the midst of the misery of all else. His eyes translated into blueish pixels, so Taehyung could barely visualize the mottle of dark-brown and grey they were in the light, or the dual glint of gravely seriousness and daredevilry inside them. At times like this, it was the eyes that made him feel entirely human. His eyes.

Elated for a brief second, Taehyung said, "I wish I could see you. I think my memory is being messed up with, and I'm starting to forget you."

"That's why we call, right? So we don't forget who the real enemy is."

Who was the real enemy?

"They're planning an attack on the core. The arsenal should be distributed by tomorrow at noon, but it'll be no surprise if you already knew that," said Jungkook, voice suddenly thicker. "What's been ordered to the defense forces?"

"A direct confrontation, fast and brutal. He wants all units charged and ready to dispatch anyone at sight. I'll try to talk him out of the melee but I don't know how much I can do about it."

"You've done more than enough already. Just...stay safe. Whole, preferably."

"Okay, I told you, what happened in Apus was an accident. It was a one-time thing. One. Time!"

Jungkook chortled, having Taehyung join him shortly after, both high on the feeling of detachment from everything and everyone. It was the two of them in this conversation, in this little world of theirs, free from barriers and pain and tyranny.

"You too," Taehyung said. "Stay safe."

"Will do. I'll see you at the end of the world, right?"

"See you then. Hey, Jungkook, I just wanted to tell yo--"

But the signal was cut off and the picture turned grainy with empty pixels all of a sudden. The muffled aggression of bangs and kicks brought down the door of Taehyung's secluded bunker and a horde of his own inquisitors rushed in, driven by electricity, bloodthirst and imperial will. The cyborg was taken hold of.

His heavy body writhed in the intruders' grip, but to no avail. In the distance he overheard his former inferiors repeat the protocol of his detainment. Only one kind of seizure required the full unrelenting force of the Inquisition androids.

The one coming directly from the emperor.

As the Resistance soldiers advanced farther into the outer Core, the grip on their assault rifles weakened, wet from the heat accumulated, bewildered by the void of the empty powerhouse. The pulsating, current-pumping heart of Nypso operated under a dome of steam and titanium systems. In its veins surged the lifeblood of an entire civilization, the supreme vigor of the Nypsoian predatory machine and the technology behind its expansive aggression.

Today its heartbeat would flatline once and for all.

Jungkook carried a Proxima L-90 — a relevantly ugly, simple ray weapon meant to inflict moderate damage — with the back of it braced against his underarm, holding the shadows at gunpoint. His face burned under a filtering mask, yet the odds of being violently poisoned were too great to succumb to convenience. Fire in his ribs and steel in his brain, he moved forward.

The promised confrontation of the emperor's forces never happened. General Kim signalled for all units to stand down.

"The motion sensors show movement in our perimeter. 100 meters ahead, 50 sources," he whispered. "Charge your weapons."

But in Jungkook that sparked suspicion so bothersome it twisted his insides, made him want to vomit. Fifty defenders appointed at the most significant structure on the planet — something didn't seem — didn't feel — right. Yet his trust in Taehyung lay unquestioned. He'd spoken to him about a frontal attack and a frontal attack was to be. Nothing but those words could force him forward.

Nothing but the belief that today could change the universe forever.

A swarm of androids emerged from the depths of the powerhouse, wearing imperial armour. They imitated human forms, carried themselves in a human manner, but didn't hesitate in their stride, unlike the Resistance whose fear pierced it through. These were machines without faces, painted in the colors of war and destruction, forged with no soul and no purpose but murder; the inquisitors. And when they charged onwards, every being of flesh shivered in frail mortality. The androids opened immediate fire.

However, the fifty of them were not alone. More crawled out of the corners, the corridors, and every spot dark became a black portal spitting inquisitors. In seconds the Resistance forces were severely outnumbered.

Back against General Kim's, Jungkook tore apart enemies with ray projectiles with insufficient speed. Like demons from neon and metal, like nightmares flooding the innocent mind, the androids burst forth and immobilized the formation of the rebellion. Soon enough, the man was fighting machines with electrocuting blades and bare hands.

"I'm almost out of ammo. We need to get to the main generator and place the bomb," the General shouted as he shot an inquisitor's head through, thus releasing Jungkook from his grip.

"We gotta make our way through."

"I'll help with that!" With one arm immobilized and the other on the trigger of a close-range blaster, Min approached the two. His stubbornness had earned him a spot in the field forces today, but his injury must've weighed him down.

The captain, though, was a survivor.

"Run!" Min cried. "I'll blast whatever follows you."

Jungkook and the General sprinted forward that instant, too overwhelmed with gunfire and smoke and adrenaline to take in the sight of the captain relentlessly throwing himself into the crossfire. As they cleaved the imperial horde, as they fired and slashed their way through — fruits of the flesh in the unhomogenous battle broth — he held back their pursuers for as long as he could. The shrill vox of Min's blaster quietened while they ran, and so did the remainder of the fight, distant but heavy on the brain.

At some point, Jungkook found himself utterly lost in the hypnosis of metal and screams.

Kim snapped him out when they reached a dead end at a corridor intersection. The map led to a hatch in the floor, then to an underground space where the generator was located. When Jungkook pulled the horizontal door open, the General jumped onto the grated platform it revealed. Nightmarish shivers creeped under the former's skin as if on the brim of something horrible and irreversible. Something of monumental grandness, yet something hellbound had been released with their appearance in the Core. Unaware of its specifics, Jungkook descended shortly after, shaken by the feeling of death pricking on his bare nape.

"We have to be quick," General Kim whispered. "The bomb will create an electromagnetic pulse that will disarm all electric systems on the planet. It must be as close to the core as we can get it, so be prepared to do whatever it takes for this to work. Promise me that, Jungkook."

The man wanted to stutter, to assure his comrade that the Resistance is once again in luck and prevailing. But empty promises had no place in his head anymore. Rather, they belonged in the ashes of the man he used to be once; of the world he once used to live in. His answer came pure of all boyish naiveness.

"I promise, sir."

"Good. This way."

Monochrome light, combat boots against the platform. They travelled in silence and dark anticipation. The generator came in sight several meters after, oblivious in its lifeless shell of titanium and wire. The two men entered the holy premises of the inner Core like only heartsick worshippers would — with their heads craving redemption above all.

The bomb was wrapped in cloth — a hastily packaged weapon of mass destruction. The General stripped it bare. His face twitched in untimely satisfaction as he carried it to the top of the generator, whose size extended kilometers under the ground, highest point peaking through a cavity in the grates.

But as the General was activating the mechanism, a splashed, abstract pattern of his blood printed itself onto Jungkook, who remained paralyzed steps away. The laser projectile went right through Kim, exiting his torso clean of guilt and hesitation.

The younger pointed his gun at the distance, at the wide, half-human frame of the attacker, tears in his eyes as he came in the luminescent light.

"Jungkook, put the gun down, please--"

Buy everything within him screamed. "Stand back! I'm warning you! Stand back or I'll fucking shoot you."

Jungkook glanced at the sprawled body of General, eyes then set on Taehyung again. He went feral, wild with betrayal and shock that his mortal stomach could feast on for days. They held each other at gunpoint, lovers in the grip of a war unfought.

"Sir, stay with me. Just hold on."

"Jungkook, listen to me. Put your gun down. Now!"

"No, you listen to me! What have you done?! We've been fighting for this for so long and now that we have a chance to change everything, you turn against your own. We are on the same side, you fool! Help me save him!"

"I'm afraid I can't," Taehyung replied, voice stern like never before. "I can't help you anymore. I've done so much for humans and I've never been one, never will be. I am who I am and I've picked a side already. I picked the one I belong to."

"I thought we belonged together."

The bomb lay semi activated next to Kim. All that stood between it and Jungkook was his unwavering machine of a lover, the leader of the Inquisition with only half flesh, half heart. And neither of the two were willing to surrender now.

Not when the love of each was at stake.

"We can't both leave this room, Jungkook. One of us will have to shoot. It's either me or you on the count of three."

"I would've died and killed for you!"

"One."

"I wanted a future with you, Taehyung!"

"Two."

"I loved you!"

"Three. I still do."

And Jungkook collapsed, trapped between the corpses of his friend and lover, finger on the trigger that had failed to protect the former and ended the latter. Tears welled in his black eyes as he enabled the electromagnetic explosive.

The faith of the universe rested in his unsteady hands. His whole world, however, had fallen cold in his feet.

In the very last seconds of Nypso, he wished to have never set foot on the goddamned planet of death and destruction.

[cornholio4]

Down with the Miracle Queen

author’s note: A comment by Gryphinwyrm7 on my End of the Queen’s Reign inspired me to do this. Consider this a spiritual sequel to that story even if it’s not the same universe. I have only seen a  bit of the episode online but I have read about it and working with what I have. Haven’t seen the first part of the finale yet (though read about it online of course) with episodes still yet to air, not because of some controversial content but because the show has the most bizarre air schedule I have ever seen for a show. I have seen episodes aired out of order before but usually they don’t do it for the season finale. In here Lukanette gets together and stays together. What does it say when I don't want a redemption for Chloe and Lila and yet I am a She Ra: Princesses of Power fan who does want one for Catra? Plus as a fan of Once Upon a Time I was rooting for Rumpel to get his redemption? But I didn't want one for Starlight Glimmer and still don't?

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had just been declared the new Guardian of the Miraculous and her mentor Master Fu was now retired. Plus while Chloe as Miracle Queen had the Miraculous box (including her own one) taken from her, she would now have to retire her temporary Miraculous holder allies since Hawk Moth now knew who they were.

It was bittersweet and Chloe losing her idol worship of Ladybug didn’t really sting, she did truly hope that Chloe would learn how to better herself. Even despite having been bullied by her for years and everything else she had done but it seemed that for Chloe, she would always go back to doing only what was best for her own self interests.

She was about to bug out when she noticed a video camera on a stand and curiously she went to inspect it and saw it was still rolling. It was at a position where it would catch what just happened.

Then a man came up to her and told her “sorry Ladybug, I forgot about it. I was doing a blog video about Paris but then everything happened and I went to hide. I can delete the footage if you want.....”

Marinette then thought about an idea and wondered if she should pull through with it. It seemed a bit mean and a bit unfair but she realised and remembered it was thanks to Chloe, Hawk Moth had so many victims from her school.

It was thanks to Chloe she had to save her parents’ life from a train accident. Just now it was thanks to Chloe that Hawk Moth was so close to winning.

“Actually, do you think I can please have that footage and I will make sure you will be credited for it.” Marinette asked and the man was happy to comply with the request from one of Paris’ superheroes. He gave his name and Marinette thanked him for it after getting the footage.

She needed to take the video footage to Alya for her plan, just because she will now have to retire Rena Rouge doesn’t mean that Alya can’t help her.

Chloe was beyond furious upon getting home to the hotel and learning that her parents were now lovey dovey with eachother. After all she had done for Paris and Ladybug herself, she does this? Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!

She will make sure Ladybug rues the day and she will find a way to get her Miraculous back one way or another and then she will make sure that Queen Bee will go down as Paris’ best superhero.

After taking a few hours to vent by punching her Ladybug stuff, she decided to text Sabrina about how unfair everything was. However she had seen that Sabrina texted her already. She looked at it and was wide eyed:

Sorry Chloe but we can’t be friends, you becoming obsessed with Ladybug was one thing but this....

Chloe blinked and then furiously wondered how that brat got off texting her like this and for what reason? Whatever, she will come crawling back just like the last time she had done this and tried to replace her with Dupain-Cheng.

She went on the computer and saw that something posted a quarter of an hour ago on Cesaire’s Ladyblog was gaining traction. She sneered and knew it would be congratulating Ladybug and Chat Noir for what happened but clicked on it.

It was titled “Direct Message from Ladybug” and there was a video with her talking to the camera:

“Greetings ladies and gentleman of Paris, I am Ladybug and I am sorry to say that today Hawk Moth came the closest he had ever come to actually winning. I am sorry to say that the secret identities of my allies except for Chat Noir have been compromised. Hawk Moth knows who they are and I can’t risk their saftey but relying on them again, I trust them but I refuse to put the saftey of them and their loved ones in jeopardy. It is all thanks to a betrayal by one of our own. Chloe Bourgeois who you know as Queen Bee betrayed us and sided with Hawk Moth.”

The video then showed the footage of what happened but anything that could reveal the identities of the other Heroes were edited out along with a caption crediting who caught the footage. It clearly showed Queen Bee continuing to fight against Ladybug and Chat Noir even without the Akuma. The audio managed to be heard as well.

Chloe fumed thinking that Ladybug was truly dead to her at last.

“I am sorry that I feel I had no choice but to post this message but you must know this. Chloe Bourgeois sided with Hawk Moth due to the fact that I didn’t want to jeopardise her saftey or her loved ones by letting her to continue being Queen Bee. I can no longer trust her and I am afraid that my previous trust in her was misplaced. I am sorry about all this: Bug out!”

The video ended and Chloe went back on her tantrum, deciding she needed air she went to her balcony only to have her ears filled with furious shouting. She looked down and saw the hotel was swarmed with an angry mob.

The video imploded with views and shares, easily becoming the most viewed and popular anything on the Ladyblog in its history. It easily eclipsed any interview with Lila Rossi.

Chloe had to stay inside for the foreseeable future for her saftey, the mob caused several VIP customers to check out in no time. The Media were in frenzy with this but then came the interviews:

Several parents of students at Francois Dupont talked about how Chloe bullied just about everyone without consequences thanks to her father’s status as the Mayor. Several parents who were in that Parents day relayed the story of how the Mayor wanted to arrest her daughter’s most bullied victim for stealing based on no evidence and fired the police officer when he refused to do so.

The interviews of the students themselves told similar stories and the most popular one came from Aurore Beaureal:

“She had directly told me that once a villain was always a villain, yet at the time I was only akumatized once and she had been akumatized twice before. I guess she was right though.”

Her father had to tell her that the school was suspending her indefinitely while this was going on. Principal Damocles had most parents refusing to let their children attend school with not only a huge spoilt bully but a willing accomplice of Hawk Moth.

But then the interviews of the ones who were on the train she caused to be out of control come out and then things really picked up more than they did before if possible:

It turns out her father had to bribe them into staying quiet about it and not seek legal charges against her. Her father had told them it was a juvenile mistake that will not be repeated and they begrudgingly agreed for the moment, especially since Queen Bee was helping the Superheroes afterwards. They were now going forward with it saying they now regret not doing it before.

Plus the fact that a couple of those passengers were the parents of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who was Chloe’s most bullied victim.

Her father resigned from office, he knew his days were numbered and felt better to do it gracefully than be forced out.

Then came the authorities from the French Government who were seeking on trying Chloe on top of the yet to be filled cases against her.

It turned out they were watching Paris intensely and were waiting for a sign of anyone working for Hawk Moth of their own free will. The Government and City Council had issued a law saying someone couldn’t be prosecuted for actions not done of their own free will while being Akumatized. But if they had done so of their own free will and out of being Akumatized........

Chloe eavesdropped on conversations her parents had with their lawyers and knew how much of a hopeless case everything seemed for their end. There were talk that they didn’t know if they could get her out of having to attend a juvenile facility and going to an adult prison when she was of age.

She tried to call her two friends Sabrina and Adrien but Sabrina had blocked her number and Adrien didn’t respond except for one message:

Sorry Chloe. I will always treasure my friendship with you.

Even her oldest friend had turned against her it seemed.

She just sat waiting for Hawk Moth to use her feelings to Akumatize her, which never came. He was angry at how close he was to winning and while he could Akumatize her now, if she failed then she would be no use to her anymore.

With her in custody he can no longer rely on her making new victims for him to Akumatize anymore. She was no use to him anymore and so was discarded as an ally. The same thing he will do so without a second thought to Lila Rossi if he saw her no longer useful.

DDDD

Marinette still couldn’t help but feel sorry for Chloe throughout it all, but deep down knew that Chloe had brought this on herself.

Things were hectic to her and not just her new responsibilities as the Guardian of the Miraculous. She had stopped going after Adrien thinking he would be happy with Kagami and now started a relationship with Luka.

She was feeling guilty that it felt like he was a backup choice but told her not to worry about it, the directions of music changes at a whim he had told her.

She admitted that she was now happy with Luka and felt the good thing about having to retire with Viperion was that she realised it could have impacted their teamwork with him being her boyfriend.

Nadja Chamack told her parents that she was fighting pressure and requests from studios executives to try and get Marinette to be her guest on Face to Face. They thought it would bring in the ratings to interview Queen Bee’s most bullied target and knew Nadja was friends with her parents. She felt that Marinette didn’t need this attention and the Dupain-Chengs were grateful.

On the bright side along with having a boyfriend, she had gotten her website set up and there were no shortages of a demand of the Ladybug and Chat Noir dolls she was selling.

After school she had Sabrina nervously walked up to her and she greeted Sabrina, Sabrina didn’t say anything but she could tell that Sabrina had quit ties with Chloe. She was always looking down and silent when Chloe was brought up and made no effort to defend her.

“Marinette, after Chloe......... I realised I don’t really have any other close friends and our partnership plus everything that happened.......... I don’t know if you want to give being friends another shot?” Sabrina asked softly and Marinette smiled in response. She may regret giving Chloe her second chance but she was confident she will not do the same with Sabrina.

After seeing the answer Sabrina jumped with joy and told her “so I am guessing you don’t want your homework done but anything you want done instead? I could help you with your website or help make everything, since we’re friends now you don’t have to pay me! I hear you babysit so I could do it for you and I hear you are going out with Luka, I could spy on him to learn all his likes for you!”

Alya and Marinette’s other friends were fighting back laughs looking at them while Marinette was exasperated. She then started their new friendship by starting a long explanation of what friends actually do and don’t do for eachother.

[throtegote]

Yung Waitloz (2012 me’s rapper name)

(If you’d like to read this off my wix blog here’s the link: https://erikatriesall.wixsite.com/tlhodia)

If you get triggered by topics concerning body image and weight loss then proceed with caution or don’t proceed at all.

I probably discuss way too much personal stuff online, but hey, who doesn’t appreciate a little oversharing every once in a while?

I have never been skinny or slim, let’s start there. Sure, I was a tiny baby, but that was about it. I have always been bigger than a lot of my classmates and even now I’m in no way built like a Victoria’s Secret model. Also, keep in mind that I’ve never been clinically obese or severely overweight. Got it? Cool.

Enter My Mom. She has been on my case to lose weight for as long as I remember. I admit, there were times when I was particularly chonky, but that’s beside the point. I remember being 8-9 years old when she spent over 15 minutes ridiculing and calling me out on how my spandex gym tights made noises as my thighs rubbed together during our uphill walk around the residential estate. She was also and still is, fond of pinching my “love-handles” (in quotes because if I remember “You can’t even call them love handles because you have nobody loving you.”),  with her long-ass, sharp nails whenever they appeared over the waistband of my pants.

(I’m not bitter or anything)

Essentially, 8-year-old me was told to lose weight enough times to try. I ate the food they gave me, and only what they gave me, and went on walks occasionally with My Mom (which I despised because I really didn’t leave the comfort of my room to be berated by my birth giver). I even started taking netball more seriously and started athletics training. What I also started doing was paying close attention to the bodies of girls around me and playing spot the difference. Not too long afterwards I learned to hate clothes shopping and hide in group photos. When I look through photo albums and my parent’s phone galleries now, it’s plain to see that I was an Olympic grade camera dodger.

Fast forward a few years. Now I’m 11-12 years old. I’ve grown taller and older, so my weight distribution has changed, but I’m still not skinny. My Mom is still on me to lose weight, even more so now that I’m older and maturing into “womanhood” because apparently, it is a crime to wear pants only a few sizes smaller than your mother of similar body structure and lesser height. Now that I’m older and more educated, I’ve realized that even though I was playing a sport and jogging and going for aerobics with my mom occasionally, I won’t get skinny unless I change my diet. In fact, there was a time when some government nurses came to do regional health checks at school and some data included body weight (there was a crowd around me when it was my turn to hop on the scale. The boys laughed, I went to the bathroom and cried. But it’s all good). The nurses then asked me questions about stuff like the bread we had at home, if I ate junk food or added sugar, stuff like that. That’s when it clicked. It clicked real hard.

A typical school lunch packed by My Mom comprised a hotdog/ham sandwich/homemade burger, a packet of chips/crisps and a juice box or Tropica when she was feeling generous. Which is what my brothers and a lot of my friends were packing to school with no problems: but I’m not built like those people so I can’t eat like them, right? The lunch had to go. And go it did. And so did pretty much all my other regular meals.

If My Mom was distracted with getting ready for work, I’d ditch breakfast and lie about it, then hop onto the school bus. Getting rid of the stuff in my lunchbox wasn’t too difficult to do because I had friends who were happy to help. This meant that for the first 12 hours of the day all I had was a juice box or nothing at all. It worked. My Mom noticed and complimented my improved physique along with a handful of relatives. But was I skinny? Not even.

Then came the Google searches. “How to lose weight quickly” “How to get skinny” “How to get a thigh gap” “How to lose thigh fat fast” Just to name a few.

That’s when I discovered the infamous pro-anorexia community. Or should I say that’s when they found me? I’m not too sure.

Over the school holidays, I started with the so-called “K-pop” diets and did YouTube workouts every night with more consistency than my prayer life. Two boiled eggs for breakfast, some milk for lunch (which was disastrous because apparently, I’m lactose intolerant), and for dinner… water, with or without lemon or tea. It really depended on the day. Not that hard to get away with, really. When the fat girl says they’re not hungry, who are you to force them?

But I couldn’t lose weight fast enough. Sure, slowly killing myself was working, but was I skinny? Nah.

So, I turned to “thinspo” and “pretty girl diet” challenges and "pro-ana" coaches to guide me. (If you're somebody who thinks it's okay to coax children into dangerous eating disorders and potentially death, you deserve a chair. But make it electric. Periodt.) My stomach was flattening, and my pants came on a lot easier, but the truth was I was utterly miserable. Getting skinny was all I thought about. And I’m not talking about Victoria’s Secret model skinny, I got to a point where I was jealous of the science lab skeleton, no jokes. Food wasn’t food anymore; it was just numbers and macros. I was always dizzy and cranky and my hair was falling out and even though I had done it for long enough to overcome the hunger pangs, there was a new pain, one that manifested in my chest and couldn’t be treated with sleep or Panado. I was the only one on holiday for three months, so nobody noticed.

I was twelve when I first tried to off myself with prescription drugs. All because I couldn’t be skinny and in my head that meant I couldn’t be pretty, or loved, or befriended. I woke up after a 8-hour “nap” to find that nothing had changed.

Why am I exposing myself by telling this story?

If you’re a parent or sibling or anyone who cares for a child who you think needs to lose weight for whatever reason (hopefully for health-related reasons, not purely aesthetics), please do not leave them to their own devices. They will search for authoritative guidance elsewhere, and the wrong people may find them. People who prescribe oxygen as a meal plan and perpetuate the notion that if you can pinch at your flesh, then you are ugly and will remain ugly until you are feather-light. Despite being one of the smartest kids in my grade, I still fell for it. (Update: I’m still not skinny. I probably only fucked up my metabolism and lost hair. -100/10, would not recommend to my worst enemy.)

Good news is at some point I got sick and tired of feeling the way I did. My suicide attempt failed miserably but instead of trying again, I uninstalled all my calorie counter and fitness apps, tossed all my magazines in the trash and talked to my mom and made it a point to talk to friends more, especially those who understood in some way or another. The Body Positivity movement was rising, and that helped a lot. Big ups to all the lovely people on YouTube who post videos on #recovery.

But experiences like this don’t just go away. You don’t forget and move on. I still have relapses, I still feel insurmountable guilt after eating, I still feel like I would rather eat baked rat than gain weight, I still go through binge-restrict cycles. All stemming from events that happened over 8 years ago.

My Mom had some level of good intention, I won't disregard that. People on her side of the family suffer from chronic illnesses that can all be prevented if not managed better through proper diet and exercise and she doesn't want her kids developing high blood pressure at age 13. Fine, I get it. But damn.

If you can avoid doing this to yourself or someone impressionable in your life, please do. Model healthy behaviours for your kids to adopt and talk health; not snatched waistlines, not thigh gaps nor scale readings. Teach your kids not to base the entirety of their worth on their appearance. And do not, under any circumstances, body shame them.

Please?

Once again, a lot of what is here is based on personal experience and opinion (‘coz it’s my blog, duh’). If you have separate ideas or any disagreements, bring them up in the comments or email me. I love a good debate.

Also, if you currently relate to anything mentioned in this post, take this as your sign to get better. Trust me, you're worth it.

xoxo

Erika

[idairsauthor]

This Fcking Impeachment: Episode 3, Ambassados and Ambassadon’ts

PLAIDDER: Good morning and welcome to the most imaginary of the Sunday morning talk shows, This Fcking Impeachment! With me in the studio is...uh...

CONN: I’m sorry, I meant to tidy up before you arrived, but I got sidetracked by the--

PLAIDDER: Conn...since our last episode...have you been...living here?

CONN: I cannot deny it.

PLAIDDER: Conn--

CONN: There’s been fnaa going down EVERY DAY! I just wanted to be READY!

PLAIDDER: Well, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to the studio, there’s a lot going on out there and I find all of this exhausting. But I did want to...

CONN: It’s all right to light candles in here, isn’t it? I mean, the whole place is imaginary...

PLAIDDER: Is that...have you built a shrine to former US ambassador to Ukraine Marie Yovanovitch?

CONN: I might have.

PLAIDDER: Conn...you’re taking this all very seriously. I think maybe you need a break. Look, Mrs. P is reading Redemption again, why don’t you just go back to your embassy and hang out in the earlier chapters for a while?

CONN: Oh, sure. I’ll just go back to my cozy little embassy and my ugly yellow sweaters and my tea and my friendly banter with Spindern, shall I?

PLAIDDER: I guess...I mean I guess this version of you can’t forget...

CONN: No, I cannot. And so...I mean it was bad enough for me dealing with a shadow foreign policy being promulgated in secret by my one subordinate. This poor Marie ni hOabhanobhaitch was being suborned from above and around as well as below. You can’t fire someone who doesn’t work for you. 

PLAIDDER: Especially when you don’t actually know what they’re doing.

CONN: It makes my blood boil. Being an ambassador is thurking hard. 

PLAIDDER: I know. I mean, I honestly think that for the duration of Redemption you were the hardest working man on the island. 

CONN: Since nobody works harder than Aine.

PLAIDDER: Indeed not. I want you to know I’m even more proud of you now than I was before, now that I’m watching this mess unfold. You were a really good ambassador.

CONN: Since you say it.

PLAIDDER: You WERE. It’s true you did some things that weren’t, strictly speaking, entirely above board or explicitly authorized...

CONN: That’s part of the job. That’s why they have a human doing this job instead of just negotiating everything via email. You’re there, you’re on the ground, you know more than your superiors do. I knew what the Seat’s goals were when they sent me, and I worked to accomplish them. And I didn’t tell them 100% of how I was doing that, because it wouldn’t have helped anyone for them to know. There’s always stuff that happens in back rooms, off the record. That’s not what’s horrifying about all this.

PLAIDDER: So speaking as an ambassador who was not corrupt, could you explain for our non-ambassador readers some of these ambassa-dos and ambassa-don’ts?

CONN: All right: first of all, DO have a clear idea of what your diplomatic mission is and what your goals are. And then DON’T do things that will undermine those goals.

PLAIDDER: So, for instance, Marie Yovanovitch’s diplomatic mission...

CONN: Well, here’s what it says on the website of the US Embassy in Ukraine:

“The United States established diplomatic relations with Ukraine in 1991, following its independence from the Soviet Union. The United States attaches great importance to the success of Ukraine’s transition to a modern democratic state with a flourishing market economy. U.S. policy is centered on realizing and strengthening a democratic, prosperous, and secure Ukraine more closely integrated into Europe and Euro-Atlantic structures.”

Put in slightly less...

PLAIDDER: Diplomatic?

CONN:...obscure language, the goal of the official diplomatic mission to the Ukraine was to stop Russia from taking the place over and thus rebuilding the former Soviet empire under new management. To keep Ukraine an ally of the US instead of a Russian puppet. Basic geopolitics. I mean you could argue about the wisdom of all that but that’s Congress’s job. As the ambassador, it’s not your job to set the goals; it’s your job to pursue them. 

PLAIDDER: Right. 

CONN: But here’s the thing. Marie Yovanovitch was carrying out the official mission. Nobody told her that there was a completely different unofficial mission to Ukraine being led by your Mr. Giuliani. That information was shared, evidently, only with this Kurt Volker and this Bill Taylor and this Gordon Sundland. And if you look at this group of shadow diplomats you realize they all have one thing in common--

PLAIDDER: They’re all men.

CONN: All right, two things. One, they’re all men; two, none of them are ambassadors.

PLAIDDER: Well, I mean...they’re diplomats, aren’t they?

CONN: Yes. But any diplomatic mission to another nation is led by the ambassador. All these other people--the envoys, the charges d’affaires--the ambassador outranks them. They take their orders from the ambassador. At least they’re supposed to.

PLAIDDER: So who did they put in as ambassador to the Ukraine after they fired Yovanovitch?

CONN: Nobody.

PLAIDDER: What?

CONN: Nobody. There is no ambassador at that embassy now. It is being run by William Taylor, the charge d’affaires. Better known to you as the man who texted Gordon Sundland telling him he thought it was crazy to hold up security aid over help with a political campaign. 

PLAIDDER: Isn’t Gordon Sondland an ambassador?

CONN: He’s your ambassador to the European Union. He was never the ambassador to the Ukraine. He shouldn’t have been doing ANY of this.

PLAIDDER: But I thought Kurt Volker--

CONN: Kurt Volker was an envoy. A part-time, UNPAID envoy. 

PLAIDDER: That’s weird.

CONN: ALL OF THIS IS WEIRD! But that’s what happens when the REAL mission is something that can’t be acknowledged in public. The REAL mission, led by the REAL ambassador, your Mr. Giuliani, appears to have been to use the power and the purse of the United States to force the new president of Ukraine to fabricate evidence that would shore up a clutch of baseless conspiracy theories which would then allow your President to tilt the next election in his favor by smearing, not only his most likely political opponent, but all of the government agencies who provided the evidence of Russia’s interference in your last presidential election. 

PLAIDDER: And you can’t put that on the website.

CONN: No you cannot. You cannot be seen to be pursuing those goals at all, because they are THOROUGHLY CORRUPT. They do not advance ANY foreign policy objective. They only benefit one man, viz., your president. That’s what corruption is. When you just say, thurk it, I don’t care about the thurking mission any more, I don’t care about my thurking country, from now on all I care about is me. 

PLAIDDER: So they had their official ambassador pursuing the official mission, and then they had their corrupt mission...and I guess really this whole house of cards started falling when they decided that the official mission was getting in the way of the corrupt mission. 

CONN: Exactly. 

PLAIDDER: Thanks for explaining that.

CONN: You’re welcome. Now. Can you explain something to me?

PLAIDDER: I will attempt it.

CONN: Why, of all the people who could have been chosen to lead this important though entirely corrupt diplomatic mission, did your president choose Mr. Giuliani?

PLAIDDER: *sigh*

CONN: Oh dear. This is going to take a while, isn’t it.

PLAIDDER: So it’s like this. Rudy Giuliani was the mayor of New York City in September of 2001. When the Twin Towers were destroyed on September 11, Giuliani became an American hero. And to some extent, legitimately. You can’t imagine the kind of shock it was. We hadn’t had an attack on US soil since Pearl Harbor in 1941. Nobody had ever imagined this, nobody had ever planned for it. Our President at the time--who is now, regrettably, only the SECOND worst president of the past half-century--utterly failed this test. He froze like a deer in the headlights, then disappeared from public view. Rudy Giuliani was out there in the spotlight doing his job, leading his city through something no mayor of New York had ever had to deal with. Even some New Yorkers who hated him for other reasons at least felt reassured that he was on the case and would get them through this. 

CONN: I’m very surprised to hear it.

PLAIDDER: Of course you are. Because I don’t know what happened, but at some point in the past eighteen years Rudy Giuliani became a decomposing husk within which the remnants of his former self have turned into a festering ball of insanity and corruption. He and Buttercup go back a ways because they were both big men in New York in the 1980s and they got to be friends. So Giuliani was one of the relatively few big-name Republicans willing to stump for him in 2016, before anyone believed he would be elected. And during that campaign, Giuliani just...abased himself. I mean Buttercup went low, he went lower. He just...I mean...he crawled, he toadied, he literally slavered. It was disgusting. But it earned him Buttercup’s favor. And I do not know why--I do not know why, Conn--these men who abase themselves before Buttercup seem to become consumed by some passion that I cannot call love but which seems to have some of its features, including infatuation and recklessness and a willingness to sacrifice one’s own good for the good of the beloved. I mean I’ve never seen anything like--

PLAIDDER:

CONN: Friend, are you all right?

PLAIDDER: Sorry, I’m just realizing that I have in fact seen this before.

CONN: Where?

PLAIDDER: This is how all of Lythril’s minions feel about her. They can’t really love her because she would never return it. And they know she will erase them if they ever displease her. And yet they fawn on her and obsess over her and try to outdo each other in their self-abasement and devotion to someone who definitely will never see them as equals, or even really as human. They do not protect themselves from her. They just render themselves up to her entirely, and she destroys them, and they just...love it.

CONN: It’s simple enough, friend. 

PLAIDDER: Really?

CONN: They worship her power. They love power and they know that she wields a kind of pure, irresistible, unadulterated power that they can’t handle. They can never HAVE it; but they want to be as near to it as they can get. 

PLAIDDER: Maybe that’s it. Buttercup is their dark user, and they’re the minions.

CONN: Well this is why I printed out this photo of Marie Yovanovitch. She’s not a minion. She knows what corruption is and she decided to fight it instead of serving it. We diplomats, you know, we can’t be shriias. But we have our own code. We have our own bright and dark. You know, with maybe more gray area in there than you would be happy about. But still. In all this, you find the light where you can. And why not set it up here where everyone can see it?

PLAIDDER: All right, Conn. But please. I beg of you. Help me clean up the remains of your last twelve Nauchtian breakfast stacks and then let’s go for a walk or something, all right?

CONN: All right.

PLAIDDER: The next episode is going to happen soon enough, I’m pretty sure.

[lhs3020b]

Boris And the Baddest of Bad Weeks

I promised an expanded entry on what’s going on at the moment in our national meltdown, so here it is...

Allow me, if I may, to walk back an earlier comment of mine. Some time ago, I was distinctly skeptical about the idea of an early general election. However, the situation has evolved. You see, there was one thing I didn't count on. I never imagined that Boris Johnson would be stupid enough to force nearly two dozen of his MPs out of his party.

That's right: I over-estimated his intelligence. Umm, whoops.

In my defence, what he did may well have been the single most utterly-stupidly self-defeating maneuver ever in British politics. The only sense I can make from it is that he's having a narcisistic breakdown. Actually, viewed in that very narrow light, perhaps it does make a little sense. If you've ever had the misfortune to have a narcissist in your life, you'll be aware that the thing they just can't cope with is any sort of rejection. The "no"-word tends to summon a meltdown - and of course BoJo faced a pretty major series of "nopes" from Parliament this week.

The other thing I didn't count on was that apparently yes, there actually are some things that some Tory MPs just won't do, even if the consequences of Not Doing The Thing runs to damaging their personal careers. This did come as a surprise to me - I'd assumed that blind partisanship and the desire for salaries would ultimately trump - or perhaps, Trump - all other concerns. But no, credit where it's due, it turns out that for at least 21 of them, there was a floor on the greed after all. Admittedly it's taken us three years of accelerating chaos to find it, but it was there.

The next factor that I didn't count on was that the opposition parties got their act together. Bluntly, there was no hint of this over the summer. The speed with which it happened has left me a little dazed. The earlier failure to call a Vote of No Confidence, the weird shenanigens over ludicrous Governments-of-National-Unity, the generalised infighting and chronic myopia ... just two weeks ago, it was not looking good. I was basically starting to quietly accept that we on the pro-Remain side were finally defeated, and worst of all, we'd been defeated mainly by our own allies.

Then the prorogue happened.

It's fair to say that it's already backfired. The obvious cynicism of the strategy, the naked contempt for all the institutions of British government, the sheer gall of it all - it was meant to energise the pro-Brexit crowd. Instead, it appears to have driven everyone on the soft-Brexit/pro-Remain aisle into a state of thermonuclear rage. And if there's one thing that can bring unlikely allies together, it's a common enemy. By pursuing his grandiose "oh look at me being so Brexity!" cock-strutting routine, Boris accidentally made himself into exactly that enemy.

The other factor was that the prorogue has imposed a sharp time-limit. Consequently, Continuity!Remain just doesn't have the luxury of descending into factional infighting. The deep irony is that putting us on a tight deadline has actually helped us. It's imposed a focus that just wasn't there even 10 days ago.

Meanwhile, as for the wider country, well, Boris's walk-about up north yesterday seems to have been a complete disaster. Random people were basically coming up to him to tell him that it had all gone wrong. Then there was that bizarre speech he gave in front of a captive audience of police recruits. It was just weird - proper delusion territory, and entirely-incoherent. I'd like to compare it to Trump, but at least Trump can manage a consistent theme. Johnson was just rambling. There was nothing there, except possibly a desperate plea for attention. A lot of the political journalists I follow are openly-speculating about whether BoJo was on drugs during the speech.

(And wouldn't that be the ultimate post-2016 banter-timeline twist? If the Prime Minister - the Prime Minister! - got busted for snorting crack?)

Meanwhile, BoJo's narc-meltdown has accidentally undone Theresa May's one significant achievement.

Contrary to what many people think, Theresa May did manage to thread one single needle. That was, she (mostly) managed to keep the parliamentary Conservative Party together. Granted a few MPs jumped ship to Change UK earlier in the year, but it stayed in single digits. There was no big split - and, significantly, the Change UK crowd got wet feet about no-confidencing her. The advantage of this was that Theresa May avoided having the Tories fall into what we might call the 1922 Trap. Here's what I mean by that: in the late 19th Century, the old Liberal Party was increasingly-split on the issue of Home Rule for Ireland. The tensions only got worse as time went on. Then Asquith went and delivered the First World War and precious little else of value. (He was notably-slimey on votes for women, and seemed uninterested in doing anything about the property qualification that 40% of men still faced. The cynic might note that Nick Clegg's behaviour is not entirely new.) Lloyd George tried to put the party back on its feet, but the damage was done. During the 1920s, the Liberals were openly-split. At elections, Liberals ran against each other in numerous constituencies. Because of the way first-past-the-post voting works, in practise this meant that Tories or Labour got elected instead. (A constituency has - say - 46% of the vote for any Liberal candidate, but two run. Each of them gets 23% of the vote. A.N. Other Party takes 24% and gets the MP's seat.)

Theresa May's political strategy - yes, she actually did have one - was predicated on avoiding having Tories run against other Tories at elections. Given their divisions, it was a narrow needle, but she mostly managed to thread it. Boris Johnson has gone and exploded that. You see, of the 21 MPs he's sacked from the party, several are saying they'll contest the next election as independents.

It's hard to know just how big a problem the 1922 Trap will be - but, their vote is already split with the Brexit Party. And even the most optimistic opinion polls have the Tories around 10pts down on where they were in 2017. They're already in minority in the House - how many votes can they afford to lose, really?

Meanwhile, there's a further problem. The Tories' drift to the political right may have taken them too far. They assume that their friends at the Times, the Sun, the Telegraph and the BBC can plaster over the cracks for them - but, can they? The media was full-throated for May in 2017, and she still lost her majority. The newspapers are hysterical and shriekier than ever - but, who reads them? I can't remember the last time I bought a physical copy of one of the main papers. I suspect that's true of many other people too. There are signs that the socially-liberal/financially-conservative chunk of voters are starting to decamp to the Lib Dems. Again, it's not clear how big this movement is - but, as I said earlier, how many votes can the Tories afford to lose? It's possible that they could be facing the nightmare scenario of a general election where the right-wing vote is split three ways (four, if you count UKIP's still-slightly-tembling corpse, though they're close to a rounding error now). If the next election was still certain to be in 2022, all this would be somewhat academic. Two and a half years is a long time, they could find a way to turn things around. All things being equal, I expect they would.

But then BoJo had his narc meltdown, didn't he?

The so-called government is now in absolute minority in the House. While their opponents can't currently agree on an alternative prime minister, nonetheless the anti-BoJo grouping now has a majority of 43. They can stop him doing anything. No legislation is going to go through this house. Finance bills are basically dead on arrival. I really can't see how he could pass any kind of Budget. And also, if he does anything at all to irritate the Opposition, they can no-confidence him any time they feel like it. Quite simply, he's on death row.

My guess is that they'll leave him be during the prorogue period. The logic here is obvious enough - let him twist in the wind. He's doing a great job of destroying himself, so let him get on with it. This way, when Parliament returns late in October, they can do the deed and it will look like a mercy-killing rather than a gang-land execution.

Hypothetically, there are four ways Boris could get off the hook:

1) He could resign. This would arguably save him some dignity, and just perhaps it might leave a little room to revive his future career. But, he won’t take this option. He’s a narc. They don’t voluntarily quit. (Plus, uh, much as I’d cackle if he was forced to quit, it just leaves his successor with the same set of problems that he failed to address.)

2) He could try to simply ignore the anti-hard Brexit law. The problem here is, it would give the opposition a prima facie grounds for an immediate Motion of No Confidence. He might get some love from the rightwing press, but the ultimate result would presumably be his removal and a new Prime Minister. It would be the most pointless constitutional crisis ever.

3) He could arrange to lose a motion of no confidence in his own government. This would arguably be constitutional, and might be a way to trigger an early election. But, it would a) look utterly-absurd, b) be an unprecedented thing to do and c) would also require him personally to face the House telling him to fuck off. I’m not sure that a narc is capable of that. Also, there’s the issue that, as we saw in 2017, there’s no guarantee that he could win a general election. I’m absolutely not sanguine about the risks of an early GE but a) that’s democracy and b) if he runs his campaign the way he’s running being PM then he could well end up roasted.

4) He could reverse the prorogue. On the one hand, un-proroguing Parliament would buy him some extra legislative time. On the other hand, his opponents have control of the House, and a wobble on the prorogue would make him look weak. There’s not much upside for him here, though it’s the most “conventional” of the four options.

Basically the TL;DR is that while he has some choices, none of them are good and all of them could cause him considerable personal pain. The opposition have set up a proper four-pronged Morton’s Fork for him. Which tine will he impale himself on?

As for Brexit? Well, one interesting detail is that the underlying political question seems to be open again. It hasn't quite gained mainstream traction yet, but apparently people are starting to ask whether Brexit is going to happen at all. The Labour Party's position has moved visibly toward hard-Remain, albeit grudgingly. The Lib Dems are having their time in the sun again (though, I suspect that glomming up Philip Lee may help them less than they seem to hope). I don't know that I think it's going to happen, but I can now imagine a situation where at the end of October, the anti-BoJo constellation No-Confidences him then pushes a quick revocation bill through Parliament. (The "party line" here would be, "We wanted a second referendum but this man's scheming hasn't left us enough time.") Again, not saying this is at all likely, but I think it is now a possible outcome.

And if nothing else, BoJo's supposed golden hour is turning out to be quite the nightmarish turkey - and isn't that just delicious?

[starswornoaths]

Top 5 favourite MSQ events.

@lightsmercy I sat on this one for a while, in part because I sort of had to mentally sift through them for the ones that I really liked/liked the way they surprised me, but mostly because I had to track down their quest names (and lemme tell you how hard it is to just look up “that one quest where that thing happened” and get what I need ;_; but thank you so much for your patience!!!) I’m going to stick to ARR quests for the sake of my own sanity (otherwise this list would be impossible to make. There’s too many, dammit) and I’ll be listing them from 5 to 1, with 1 being the one I liked the most (or in this case, “like” is more “it shocked me in a way I wasn’t prepared for but made sense in the narrative so I liked it, even if it destroyed me”) (also under the cut bc I got real rambly about it. I just like talking about literary themes/foreshadowing/symbolism in game stories, sorry ;_; HERE WE GO!!!)

5. “Escape from Castrum Centri” This one…hoo boy. The entire quest arc leading up to this is amazing, for the record (I’m also a sucker for rescue missions and the planning thereof, but I always have been,) so I was hyped as we were led up to this quest. The whole breakout of the scions was fun, but man the whole while the Scions and myself were just going around like, “but Thancred??? Where is Thancred???” and it solidified that though they give him endless amounts of shit, the second the chips are down they’re all there for each other- you know, like a family or something, and then when we saw he was possessed by Lahabrea, and that that was what had led to them being captured, even! MY HEART!!! (Also I would like to submit a formal complain to SE for making Minfilia sad enough to cry out to her possessed father figure. Why would you do that to her. How dare you, SE. She didn’t deserve that.) Thancred’s possession didn’t feel like it came out of left field, either, something that I loved: there was a lot of foreshadowing that he was going to burn himself out in a very dangerous way even as far back as our fight with Ifrit, and even his optional dialogue if you speak to him was just him not coping with anything. It still surprised me, but not in a way that made me feel like the rug was pulled out from under me in a bad way, and I love those kinds of surprises in stories. 

4. “Yugiri’s Game” This one caught me off guard (and solidified that these kids were unofficially adopted by the Scions, too and were adored and doted on at every turn,) because Yugiri had managed to teach these little kids, who had only just recently escaped their war-torn home, the basics of being a shinobi while masking it as just a game of hide-and-seek. She was teaching them how to keep silent and hidden in the event of the Garleans finding them. Having such an innocent children’s game turned into a method of teaching survival was as clever as it was heart breaking, knowing that it was a necessity, that the kids knew why they were taught this way, and that the kids were still optimistic and cheerful in spite of that knowledge. The Doman Adventurer’s Guild is run by some wonderful kiddos, and this was a wonderful way to show that.

3. “Blood for Blood” helped cement that though Haurchefant, while the staunchest ally for building relations between Ishgardians and the outside world, he was not the only one that was willing to accept the aid of an outsider when they know their own people are failing them. Really, much of the Ishgardian quests within ARR did a beautiful job of leading up to Heavensward in that it showed that thought the government was rigidly against working with the outside world, its citizens- especially the working ones who just wanted to get by and not get into the political bullshit- were more than eager to work with those outside of Ishgard, though it also did an equally amazing job of showing how scared the population was of the Holy See and its Inquisitors- with their unilateral (and as is exposed with this questline, frighteningly unchecked validity of its own) authority, they can accuse anyone who disagrees of heresy, and their trial is literally a fucking witch trial. There’s no winning in such a trial: either you die and you’re proven innocent, or you refuse, in which case they kill you. These quests really solidified for me that going into Heavensward, we were going to have to save the Ishgardian people from it’s own government just as much as we would have to save them from the dragons. 

2. “Recruiting the Realm” was…eye opening. It did a wonderful job of really cementing the world’s view of the Scions, the Leveilleur name, and what everyone really thought of Alphinaud’s altruistic but ultimately doomed endeavor. The moment it was revealed that not only did Alphinaud obtain funding from the Syndicate, but that he was utterly disinterested in neither disclosing that to us, nor entertaining our concerns about it, it confirmed two things for me: 1) that though he (and really, at that point everyone that was a major NPC in a political position) genuinely cared for us and considered us a friend, we were, before anything else, the Weapon of Light (yes, Weapon, but I’d be here all day dissecting my thoughts on that and why I come to that conclusion) and weapons aren’t exactly asked for their opinions on the wars in which they are used, and 2) that A Realm Reborn was only going to end in betrayal and tragedy because all of the players involved thought they knew better when they didn’t.

1. “All Good Things”

Look. I’ve rambled at this point for several paragraphs more than anyone likely ever wanted me to, but holy shit I can’t articulate how much this gutted me- and how I liked the way in which it gutted me without writing a thesis on it so I’m sorry again in advance but from a writing perspective I love this quest so goddamn much.

Because it could have been easier for them to just have us ring up Minfilia following our success and have the attack on the Waking Sands already happening. It would have been easier to instill a sense of urgency and “Holy fucking shit we need to go now” to get us to the Waking Sands quicker, only to find the scene that we did. That would have been the expected trope: I mean, really, how many times has that sort of thing happened in video game stories before?

But they completely subvert that by having you report in to Minfilia as usual, and she’s always so bright and cheery and relieved that you’re okay, and her dialogue was just…in hindsight, it was fucking artful.

“Pray return to the Waking Sands, where you shall receive a hero’s welcome!”

And you have a moment, where you first get to the Waking Sands, where you realize that Tataru isn’t in her usual spot on the stool at the table by the door. And you think, “oh, that’s to be expected, she’s probably with the others downstairs waiting for me!” So you go down the steps and through the door like every other time before. You expect it to be warmly lit and densely populated. You expect everyone there cheering and glad that you’re alright.

You load in, and then your stomach drops. 

The lights are off, the vases that were otherwise just background pieces to fill space are knocked over and askew, and there are dead bodies in front of you- one of which is in a Garlean uniform.

I can’t properly articulate the way I felt cold when my brain caught up with what I was looking at. And I saw that the quest marker was pointing to Minfilia’s chamber, but I didn’t go down that way. I turned left first.

More bodies. Bodies of many of the NPCs that had always been there. Characters that had dialogue that updated with your quests, characters that were working on their own accomplishments and goals alongside you, characters that cheered you on as you went about your duties. Dead.

I couldn’t remember any of their names. I couldn’t remember any of their dialogue that stood out to me at the time. I even cried over the lalafell mender that usually stood on top of the boxes in there, because I couldn’t find him, either. 

Then I went to the Antecedent’s chambers and…hoo boy that Echo. That Echo. There’s a whole new type of helplessness when you’re watching a recording of a tragedy, personal or not, where you just wish you could reach out and just make it stop, but you can’t. You just watch in horror as people are gunned down, or stabbed, or taken away. You watch as Minfilia, at the ripe old age of fucking nineteen, doesn’t flinch when Livia fires a shot near her face, tries to negotiate sparing the lives of those she’s responsible for. You watch as Livia shows the levels of cruelty to which she will sink in the way that she not only denies that negotiation, but just kills a few more people- one of her own included- just because they annoyed her.

And then you watch poor little Noraxia, who had only ever done their best, die because you couldn’t save them, either. 

The quests that follow are ones of grief, ones of mourning. Ones of a lost person meant to carry the weight of all the hopes and dreams of the dead with them as they tried to rescue those that were not yet lost, but this quest…this quest continues to hit in that specific wound for the Warrior of Light: the further into the game and expansions that you go, even and especially recent content, you’re reminded that though woe betide those who stand against the Warrior of Light, those who stand with them are no safer.

[bailesu]

July 4, 1776, 1863, and 2018

Warning:  I hate Trump with a burning atomic fury and what follows is a mixture of my family’s history, America’s history and me damning Trump to burn in Hell for eternity.  If you don’t want to read that, skip the read more and go on.  I totally understand.

This is the America’s day, for good and for ill, for America has been both a great country and a terrible one.  We sent men to the moon and set high ideals of equality and freedom... then failed to live up to them again and again.  I love my country, but sometimes it drives me crazy.  Its past is full of glory and horror, good deeds and terrible deeds, and above all greatness, but greatness can be wonderful or horrible.

On this day in 1776, the Continental Congress issued a document which declared American Independence.  But not just Independence.  It laid out the idea that all men are created equal by God, with inalienable rights of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.  This high ideal thus became one of the foundation stones of America.

It was written by a man who owned dozens of slaves and had children by one of them, who he continued to own.  Thomas Jefferson managed to embody both our highest ideals and our greatest depravities.  

One in four Americans were slaves in 1776.  Women could not vote and neither could White Men who lacked Property.  Child abuse was the normal way you raised your kids.  Threatening to murder your political rivals was basically normal.  One of our great leaders of the Revolution, Sam Adams, was basically a man who organized riots and lynching.  (Lynching of people who served Britain, rather than Blacks, but lynching is murder, whoever the victim.)

By any modern standard, America in 1776 was a terrible place, a land carved out by killing Native Americans directly to take their land and indirectly by disease.  (Mind you, every nation, including the ones we killed off, has a history of killing neighbors and taking their land; the nations without that history died.)  

But it was also the seedbed of modernity; it became a democracy, if not a very good one, and its ideals still ring across the ages and have provided leverage to every group trying to get fair treatment instead of stomping.  We helped inspire the French Revolution and the rise of Nationalism.  In 1945, when Vietnam declared Independence from France, the first lines of their declaration read:

All men are created equal; they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights; among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. This immortal statement was made in the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America in 1776. In a broader sense, this means: All the peoples on the earth are equal from birth, all the peoples have a right to live, to be happy and free.

America has always struggled with the tension between this high ideal and the deeds our country has done which are not high or noble.  We often fail, but on this day, we have to look again to this ideal and work to make it real.  

My own ancestors were all tangled up in this mess.  Three Quaker Brothers fled to America to escape persecution and the loss of their family’s lands due to the British Civil Wars, settling in Pennsylvania.  One of the brothers, Thomas, eventually went South to North Carolina.  He is my ancestor, and his family soon came to own slaves.  They were never top-tier slaveowners but they prospered.

If you are a White Southerner, your ancestors either owned slaves, supported the slave system without owning slaves, or both, unless they came South very recently.  We all have to deal with that legacy.  Many in the South don’t want to, but if this country is ever to heal the wounds inflicted by over 250 years of slavery, then we have to.

During the Revolution, Thomas’s son, also named Thomas, fought in the Revolution.  By killing Cherokees; they allied with the British to save their lands and they found out the hard way that Britain couldn’t help them.  On this day, 1776, he was sitting in a military camp, but soon they would return and drive the Cherokee out of part of North Carolina and all of South Carolina.  (Ironically, many years later, a member of the Richardson family would marry a Cherokee woman and their later descendant would marry one of Thomas’ descendants.)  He may eventually have fought the British, but we have no record of it.

Thomas’ grandson, William Alexander Christopher Biles, was born on the plantation.  His family made him go pick cotton with the slaves a lot but we don’t know why exactly; it would serve him well later when his family lost everything but we have to assume that he probably hated it at the time.  William’s father was too old to fight (In his 70s!) but William was not.  He fought in a North Carolina regiment and was shot and stabbed repeatedly, including having his skull cut open and a gut wound.  This happened during Pickett’s Charge, so he was left behind in Union hands; a doctor, his name lost, operated and saved his life after initial triage had said he wasn’t worth trying to save.  Whoever he was, he was a miracle worker, because somehow he saved WAC’s life, though he had a plate in his head for the rest of his life.  In fact, he *escaped* from the hospital and returned to duty until the final surrender at Appomatox!  We don’t know his motives for fighting, but it was probably a mixture of wanting to save slavery and loyalty to his state.  It would be nice if I could say he was anti-slavery, but he wasn’t even the Jeffersonian kind of anti-slavery, where you still own slaves, but you do limit slavery’s growth somewhat.  By 1860, your choices were basically either to say ‘SLAVERY IS AWESOME’ or flee to the North, that far South.  (In the border states, you could say ‘I hate black people, so I want to end slavery so I can get rid of them’.  This is not a huge moral step forward.)

His family’s estates unravelled; the Biles clan did not know how to get by without slaves.  He went west to Missouri and worked with his brother a while, then became a farmer; he was not good at either, but his cotton-picking skills enabled him to get by; I can only imagine he found it rather humiliating.  And as a slaveowner, he deserved humiliating.

To be White in America carries the shame of having ancestors who did terrible stuff.  Some of it was so accepted you can’t blame them too much but others *could* have done better and didn’t.  The essential problem of being descended of the winners is that they probably did terrible things to win.  (And the problem of being descended of those who lost is that your ancestors got thrown down the stairs and lost it all.)

I don’t feel guilt for my ancestors, but I do feel responsibility.  I cannot control what they did, but I do benefit from it and part of my response to that has to be to try and make a better America, to help overcome our worst impulses.  And I do that by teaching, so that those coming up will understand our past, why we did terrible things, and how we can do better.  (And how we did awesome things too, because the hardest part of history is that the same people can do wonders and horrors at once.)

Which brings us to the now.  I was describing 1920s and 30s fascism to my students and one said, “So, basically, Trump.”

And it’s certainly way too close.  I am lucky; as a White Man, I am automatically spared much of the worst of Trump and his idiot followers.  This country has always been tilted in my favor.  

Trump embodies pretty much all of America’s past sins, but also is basically the biggest drooling idiot who has ever sat in the White House, making even Harding look like a supergenius.  He knows how to work his audience, but he’s utterly incompetent at governing, to the extent you can call it governing.  He embodies sexism, racism, egomania, and cruelty.  He is a man who instinctively degrades and bullies everyone around him, who has cheated on all of his wives and abused his mistresses, a rapist, a thug, and a cheat.  He is a horrible human being in almost every possible way.  Many people who claim to be Christian flock to him because they have flushed Christ down the toilet long ago, but unfortunately, flushing Christ down the toilet has a long history in American religion.  

If there is a hell, Trump is going to roast in it and if there is not, we’ll have to make one just for him.  I want to see him fall like Lucifer from Heaven, if Lucifer fell into a mixture of broken glass, shards of metal, and lava.  But it’s important to remember, Trump is not some alien aberration; he incarnates real American flaws, mixed with his personal flaws of being a pig-ignorant, aggressively anti-thinking man-baby molester of women with vast wealth he has always abused to shield himself from consequences.  Racism, sexism, greed, and so on all have a long history in this country.  And his supporters voted for him with their eyes wide open.  We cannot expect any better from them.

America has a huge cancer and that cancer often has been driving the national bus, so to speak.  And getting rid of it is going to be a long fight.  But bringing change to this country is always a long, hard fight.

So on this Fourth of July, fuck Trump to hell, along with all his shitty supporters.  We have nearly two more years of this shithole before we can toss him on his ass.  (Impeachment takes 2/3rds in the Senate, so it’s not happening even if we take both houses, I fear).  May we sweep the Republican party, which has devolved from the people who ended slavery to a resting place for all of America’s sins, into the garbage pile in November and again in two years.  Growing up in America means I’ve watched the Republican party gradually mutate into a degenerate, feral hate society run by a mixture of greed, racism, and fake Christianity.  

Fuck the Republican party and all the morons who vote for it, whichever one of the Seven Deadly Sins drives them to spew hatred, abuse immigrants, rob the poor to make the rich richer, and to destroy all our alliances and trade relations.  They chose a feral animal as President, a molester and a bully, and I hope he destroys them all.

May they all eat shit and die.

[orbemnews]

Egypt Denied an Oxygen Failure Killed Covid Sufferers. We Discovered That It Did. EL HUSSEINEYA, Egypt — A cry pierced the evening from the balcony of an Egyptian hospital. A nurse was screaming that the sufferers within the Covid intensive care unit have been gasping for air. Ahmed Nafei, who was standing exterior, brushed previous a safety guard, dashed in and noticed that his 62-year-old aunt was lifeless. Livid, he whipped out his telephone and started filming. It appeared that the hospital had run out of oxygen. Screens have been beeping. A nurse was visibly distressed and cowering in a nook as her colleagues tried to resuscitate a person utilizing a handbook ventilator. At the very least 4 sufferers died. Mr. Nafei’s 47-second video this month of the chaos at El Husseineya Central Hospital, about two and a half hours northeast of Cairo, went viral on social media. As outrage grew, the federal government denied that the hospital had run out of oxygen. An official assertion issued the next day concluded that the 4 who died had suffered from “issues” and denied that the deaths had “any connection” to an oxygen scarcity. Safety officers interrogated Mr. Nafei, and officers blamed him for violating guidelines barring visitation and filming inside hospitals. A New York Instances investigation, nevertheless, discovered in any other case. Witnesses, together with medical employees and kinfolk of sufferers, mentioned in interviews that the oxygen strain had fallen to precipitously low ranges. At the very least three sufferers, they mentioned, and presumably a fourth, had died of oxygen deprivation. An in depth evaluation of the video by medical doctors in Egypt and the USA confirmed that the chaotic scene within the I.C.U. indicated an interruption within the oxygen provide. The deadly oxygen scarcity was the tip results of a cascade of issues on the hospital, our investigation discovered. By the point sufferers have been suffocating within the I.C.U., a aid supply of oxygen that had been ordered was already hours late and a backup oxygen system had failed. “We’re not going to bury our heads within the sand and fake all the things is OK,” a physician on the hospital mentioned, talking on situation of anonymity as a result of he feared arrest. “The entire world can admit there’s an issue, however not us.” The federal government’s rush to disclaim the episode is simply the most recent instance of the shortage of transparency in its response to the Covid disaster, which has led to cynicism and mistrust of its public assurances. For a lot of Egyptians, Mr. Nafei’s video provided a uncommon and uncensored view of the coronavirus’s actual toll on the peak of Egypt’s second wave of the pandemic. The federal government acknowledged that 4 individuals within the intensive care ward died that day, Jan. 2, however denied that it was due to an oxygen scarcity. The Well being Ministry assertion mentioned that the sufferers who died have been largely aged, that they died at completely different instances and that at the least a dozen different sufferers, together with newborns in incubators, have been linked to the identical oxygen community and weren’t affected. These elements, it mentioned, confirmed “the shortage of a connection between the deaths and allegations made a couple of scarcity of oxygen.” Medical employees verified that the hospital’s oxygen provide had not been utterly depleted, however mentioned that the strain was dangerously low. It was even worse within the intensive care unit, they mentioned, and inadequate to maintain sufferers alive. I.C.U. vents might have been on the finish of the community, they defined, or the pipeline might have had different inefficiencies. Up to date  Jan. 18, 2021, 9:46 a.m. ET Efforts by hospital employees to handle the scarcity have been thwarted by additional breakdowns. After they tried to modify the oxygen provide within the I.C.U. from the hospital’s most important tank to the backup reserve, the reserve system gave the impression to be overloaded and failed. Earlier within the day, conscious that they have been operating low, hospital officers had requested extra oxygen from the Well being Ministry. However the supply truck, which was due within the afternoon, arrived greater than three hours late. “If it had arrived by 6 p.m., none of this may have occurred,” the hospital physician mentioned. The medical specialists who analyzed the video, together with six medical doctors in the USA and Egypt, noticed particulars that assist the discovering of an oxygen failure. Within the video, not one of the sufferers look like related to the central oxygen line. One physician is utilizing a transportable tank, usually utilized in emergencies and solely quickly. And just some ft away, a gaggle of nurses are seen attempting to resuscitate a affected person with a handbook pump that doesn’t look like related to an oxygen supply. “There’s no oxygen tube related to the airbag,” mentioned Dr. Hicham Alnachawati, a New York pressing care doctor who has labored in hospital I.C.U.s. “He’s being given free air, mainly. It doesn’t occur. It’s unimaginable except you don’t have any oxygen.” One other physician who reviewed the video, Dr. Bushra Mina, the Egyptian-American chief of pulmonology at Lenox Hill Hospital who has cared for lots of of Covid-19 sufferers in New York, famous the “urgency” of the physician and nurses within the video “attempting to get emergency oxygen provide or supplementation to the sufferers.” “It may be overwhelming, even within the U.S., the place you’ve gotten a number of assets,” Dr. Mina mentioned. “So think about Egypt, the place assets are restricted and also you’re past your capability.” The oxygen disaster at El Husseineya Central Hospital might not have been the one one. Indicators of shortages at different hospitals flooded social media for every week. One hospital director issued a plea on social media for individuals to donate transportable oxygen tanks, citing a “important want.” A affected person in a distinct hospital filmed himself within the isolation ward saying, “We don’t have sufficient oxygen.” And video of a scene much like the one which Mr. Nafei had witnessed circulated on-line. These claims couldn’t be independently verified. “Is there an actual drawback?” requested Ayman Sabae, a researcher on the Egyptian Initiative for Private Rights, a human rights group. “Nobody can declare to have that data besides the federal government.” The federal government’s document through the disaster has not impressed confidence that it’s leveling with Egyptians. President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi has denounced critics of presidency coronavirus efforts as “enemies of the state.” His safety providers expelled a international journalist who questioned the official toll. The general public prosecutor has warned that anybody spreading “false information” concerning the coronavirus faces as much as 5 years’ imprisonment. And the federal government has engaged in a bitter feud with medical doctors, who revolted earlier within the pandemic over a scarcity of protecting gear. Various the medical doctors have been thrown in jail. “They’re attempting to regulate the narrative, they’re attempting to guarantee that issues appear to be they’re underneath management and part of that’s to regulate the knowledge that’s communicated to the general public,” Mr. Sabae mentioned. “I don’t have an issue with that if the federal government goes to provide us with credible data that we are able to depend on.” As a substitute, when the video of El Husseineya Central Hospital emerged, the response amounted to telling Egyptians to not imagine what they noticed. “This isn’t a scene that reveals a scarcity in oxygen,” mentioned Mamdouh Ghorab, the governor of Al Sharqiya, the governorate that features El Husseineya Central Hospital. He was talking on a pro-government tv program that didn’t interview or invite any witnesses to problem the official narrative. Even the official numbers are suspect. Egypt has reported over 150,000 Covid circumstances and over 8,000 deaths, remarkably low numbers for the area and for a rustic of over 100 million individuals. However exterior specialists and even some authorities officers say that each figures are huge undercounts, primarily due to lack of widespread testing and since the labs that do take a look at don’t all the time report their outcomes to the federal government. Even because it denied the oxygen scarcity at El Husseineya Central, officers started to take steps to handle the issue, tacitly acknowledging it. The minister of well being, Hala Zayed, acknowledged a scarcity of oxygen supply vehicles and delays in distribution. President Sisi requested the federal government to double the manufacturing of oxygen to be able to meet the spike in demand. The federal government took one other motion apparently in response to the video of the disaster in El Husseineya Central. Guests at the moment are required to go away their telephones on the door. Mona El-Naggar reported from El Husseineya, and Yousur Al-Hlou from New York. Video by Arielle Ray and Ben Laffin. Supply hyperlink #Covid #denied #Egypt #failure #killed #oxygen #patients

[sgreffenius]

The FBI never stops giving. That is, it supplies a blogger like me with endless material for ridicule. Before 9/11, the FBI acted primarily as a law enforcement agency. Of course it did it’s share of surveillance, but it’s main goal was to catch and convict criminals who violated federal laws. That it how it saw itself.

After 9/11, the bureau looked up and said to itself, as an institution, “Man, look at all the money that flows to intelligence agencies - not just the CIA and NSA,  but anything remotely connected to homeland security. Don’t you think we ought to be able to poke our noses in that trough?”

And so it was. The FBI transformed itself into an intelligence agency. That did not mean dramatic changes on the outside. As indicated, they already gathered a lot of information for analysis, which is what intelligence agencies do. Yet their organizational culture became more aligned with their brethren over at McLean, and their annual budget grew apace.

Every government agency wants to grow its budget, if it can.That’s the wonderful thing about an event like 9/11. Agencies that were supposed to protect the homeland from precisely that sort of attack failed utterly to do their jobs. Someone might say, “Well, how can you expect them to prevent state crimes? That seems pretty difficult.” I would say the opposite. I would say false flag attacks and other grave deeds perpetrated by the state, rare though they might be, would be among the easiest operations to interdict.

But no, agencies charged with protecting prominent places like the World Trade Center and the Pentagon could not manage even that. Federal employees looked up from their coffee cups on that Tuesday morning, and saw the same video on their television sets that we saw. “Oh my god,” they thought, “weren’t we supposed to prevent that?” As a sense of wonderment about these attacks spread, they might have thought, “I can think of quite a few people - start with the victims’ families - who won’t be so pleased with us about this.”

Yet the first thing that happened to these blockheads, they start to get promotions and raises. New agencies sprout up everywhere, recruiting goes through the roof, budgets balloon, and office space expands. The higher you are in the General Services pay scale, the more responsibility you have, the more rewards you receive. “Not bad,” they think. “We totally failed the country, but the country wants to give us more money. We ought to have our creatives work a little harder on these false flag scenarios.”

That’s the incentive, then. When you are in government, you don’t want to prevent attacks. Where’s the profit in that? Who gets promoted if nothing happens? On the other side, if you let things happen, this cornucopia of bureaucratic largess begins to roll in. I don’t want to suggest that everyone up and down the General Services hierarchy saw 9/11 coming, and did nothing to stop it. Most people just follow their routines. I do want to suggest, though, that no one who had responsibility to protect the United States from harm suffered any damage to their careers after 9/11. Just the opposite.

So the people at the FBI are not stupid about budgets. They may not know how to do their jobs, but they know how to get money. One way to get money is to keep your budgets secret. That’s how the CIA and NSA manage their money: no one knows how much they have. We used to know, back in the Hoover days, about how much the FBI had to spend each year. Not any more. That’s one of the first things that happens when you become an intelligence agency. You keep your budget secret, so people not only don’t know what you spend each year, they don’t know how you spend it. You don’t need to account for anything, to anyone.

Everything else goes dark as well, except naturally the public relations department. They remind us every week what a great job the bureau does. Go visit, fbi.gov occasionally, if you can take it. The bureau is happy to give us advice about how to stay safe, and give themselves back-pats for whatever Boy Scout good deeds they’ve been doing. Meantime their actual activity goes under the shroud of classified information. You will never know what they are up to, behind the PR shield.

So you attract money, you keep your budget secret, and you keep your activities secret as well, until you show up somewhere with your FBI jackets on. In those cases, the FBI wants us to know they are on the job, even if they do not want us to know what they are doing.

Beyond all these secret-police methods and manners, the FBI realizes one more major advantage from its intelligence agency vibe. It persuades some people to admire it even more than they already did. They are not sure why they like intelligence agencies, but the juvenile in us has always maintained a special place for secret agents. Mission Impossible is popular for a reason.

So as 2021 dawns on us and the world, let’s hold a glass high for the FBI. It raised itself from ignominy during the Church hearings of the 1970s, to become the paragon of secret police perfection. The bureau shines when it arrests another dodo terrorist it set up with a coach and cajoler, to plot some outlandish attack. When it announces the would-be terrorist’s capture, remember what a great bureau it is.

The FBI always adds near the end of its press release, after the boom drops on its victim, “But no one was ever in danger.” The reporters love that part. Yet if no threat existed, why should we care? Shouldn’t you devote your resources to people who are actually dangerous? No, I went to work for the FBI so I could look like an idiot at regular intervals. I want to be like Peter Strzok, Andy McCabe, and the rest of the crew. I want people to admire me.

[dailykhaleej]

Coronavirus: Filipina who helped many in the UAE now needs help

Corazon Tarcena Picture Credit score: Equipped

Each day, the lease collector calls her, demanding for the pending Dh4000 lease. That’s the value of the small room in Dubai’s Satwa, which Filipina expat, Corazon Tarcena, shares together with her daughter, and two different younger ladies. The latter two are on go to visas, and all three rely on Tarcena for meals and shelter.

“Final month I used to be in a position to pay solely Dh2000,” the anxious Filipina expat instructed DailyKhaleej, on Monday.

“Where will I possibly bring the money from? I haven’t received my salary because of COVID-19,” she added.

On the one hand she tries to barter for an extension for the lease cost, and on the different, she thinks of how to rearrange for the Dh1,600, which she’s going to quickly have to pay to a mortgage shark she borrowed cash from. “I have no peace of mind, if I miss the payment, I will incur a penalty Dh350 per month,” she added.

“First time in a bad situation”

In the final 14 years that she has been in the UAE, that is the first time, the 53-year-old Filipina has discovered herself in a whole state of paucity.

Counting the final of her financial savings, Tarcena stated: “I have managed all my life here in a salary of Dh3000, I have sent most of my money home to my family, yet never failed to pay my dues.”

COViD-19 forces Corazon Tarcena into this example for the first time in her 14 years keep in the Emirates Picture Credit score: Inventory picture

However the coronavirus pandemic has thrown Tarcena’s funds off utterly and given her “sleepless” nights.

She stated: “Today, I managed to spare some change and I bought five kilos of rice that will be enough for the next few days for me, my daughter, and the two women I brought here on visit visa. They wanted to work in Dubai, so to help them, I brought them here just this February.”

Little did Tarcena know, the pandemic was about to alter every thing.

No work, no pay

“I work in a storage in Dubai, as a receptionist. Late in March, my employer abruptly requested me to remain dwelling. The storage needed to be closed resulting from the improve in COVID-19 instances.

By finish of the month, Tarcena was in for a shock. She stated: “I wasn’t expecting it at all, but that month, I did not receive my salary.”

The scenario continued in April. She added: “I cannot even blame my employers. I know there was barely any business, I understand what is in our business account. How can they pay me?”

Her youthful daughter, who stays together with her, and often helped with funds. However, her employer at an occasion firm, requested them to go on compelled go away for 3 months.

Falling in line for charity

A couple of days in the past, as she stood on a road “somewhere in Dubai’s Al Diyafa”, she noticed volunteers distributing meals for these who had been affected by the pandemic. She stated: “I feel ashamed to fall in line for charity. I would much rather it reaches the less fortunate. But, for a few minutes I did consider standing in that queue.”

Serving to the needy

For Tarcena, philanthropy comes naturally. In the years that she has been in the UAE, she has made it her enterprise to help the much less privileged again dwelling, in the province Paluan, Occidental Mindoro, in the Philippines.

She stated: “I was a teacher there, and came here in 2006 because my salary of Dh800 was not enough to support my family and my three children’s education.”

She recalled: “Once, during my early years here, I saw some discarded, old computer parts, in Jumeirah. Where I come from, at that time, we were still using cardboards to explain to children how to use the computer. So, I collected these old pieces and sent them back to my home town. They might not work but at least the children get to see the equipment first-hand.”

In 2016, she helped folks, who had been nonetheless recovering from the destruction brought on by the 2013 Hurricane Haiyan in the Philippines, by sending them packing containers of necessities, at her personal expense.

She added: “In my initiative, ‘Your Waste Is My Gold’, I acquire outdated issues, garments, faculty provides, sneakers for the Mangyan Tribe of Paluan. I despatched Balikbayan Containers to the needy, again dwelling.”

Tarcena often used to ship charity gadgets to her hometown in the Philippines Picture Credit score: Equipped

“I by no means stopped giving ethical assist to my kabayans (nation folks) who misplaced their hopes in the UAE, for numerous causes. I’d help them attain social staff or authorities.

Household again in the Philippines

Tarcena is grateful that for now, her household again in the Philippines is managing with out her help: “Thankfully, they are receiving relief from the government. The government is providing them 5000 pesos, per house. So, I don’t have to worry about that for now.”

“My husband has a small farm. And, my son who used to work in Dubai, returned to the Philippines,” stated the mum of three.

Corazon Tarcena Picture Credit score: Equipped

She stated: “It is also good that my family gets the local fish catch for much cheaper now, due to the coronavirus restrictions.”

Her elder daughter lives in Dubai, in Worldwide Metropolis, she added.

Odd jobs

Tarcena, who got here to the UAE in 2006, labored at a free zone firm, for 2 years. She was given lodging at my employer’s dwelling. “I also tutored the employer’s son and they paid me Dh2000.”

In 2008, she discovered one other job as a receptionist in a storage for a wage of Dh3000. She stated: “I knew that my salary would not be enough to pay for my children’s college fees, so I did odd jobs on the side for some additional money. I tutored some children and made Dh1500 from that and on weekends, I would do some cleaning jobs, for about Dh100 for a few hours.”

Each month she sends round Dh1700 to her household. “I was never tired of working, she said. Every time I had extra, my children had extra. Sometimes, they needed more for the projects, or for uniforms.”

If issues went proper, Tarcena was set to complete her mortgage installments in the coming months, and retire quickly. “I love what Dubai has given me so far, it helped me take care of my family for 14 years. And, to give my children a good education,” she added.

For now, she is known as to workplace on alternate days, so there may be slight hope for this month. Tarcena added: “I am the provider in my house, the food we can still manage, with a Dh3 packet of bread. What I can’t have is a reserve of food, should the situation continue, and, the money for rent. I am thankful we have this place to live so far.”

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[chrisbransdon]

On knowing your own mind

On an episode of The Drum on August 20, feminist writer Jane Caro could hardly contain herself. The source of her distress was the Managing Director of the Women’s Forum Australia, Rachael Wong. Wong had the gall to suggest that it would be prudent to legislate informed consent for women seeking abortions. In response to Wong’s view that a woman seeking an abortion ought to be made aware of alternatives and referred to counselling, Caro shot back:

“Having had an abortion, and having known my own mind, and being perfectly capable of doing the research myself… had any doctor tried to speak to me that way I would have told them to pull their head in. I was a grown woman when I made that decision. We are perfectly capable of making intelligent judgments about our own bodies... It is incredibly disrespectful to have our rights over our own bodies dissected and discussed… It is up to women themselves….”

If Caro could hardly contain her anger at Wong’s suggestion, I can hardly contain my incredulity at her response. A large part of Caro’s journey to abortion was her ability to access and understand information regarding the procedure before she went through with it. In her words: she knew her own mind.

When Wong suggests that informed consent ought to be a necessary step towards abortion, she is in a sense agreeing with Caro. The aim of building informed consent into the process is to ensure that every woman who goes through with an abortion can say with some degree of confidence that she did in fact know her own mind.

There is no doubt that Caro is ideologically committed to abortion. It seems that she had reconciled herself to the option long before it became a personal reality. But what I would like to ask Caro is, do you really believe that your understanding and experience of abortion is universal to all women?

It is profoundly ironic to me that women like Caro, who are so ready to propound the feminist idea that middle class white men are incapable of perceiving their privilege, do not recognise their own privilege in this instance. To suggest that every woman who unexpectedly falls pregnant has had the same mental and emotional resources to adequately process her options prior to the event, let alone in the midst of it, by herself, is absurd.

“Having known my own mind and being perfectly capable of doing the research…” That kind of self-knowledge and capability is overwhelmingly the fruit of university education and a general condition of stability. And where even the most stubbornly thought through woman is concerned, unexpected pregnancies can, and do, have a disarming effect.

The fragility of a woman’s mental state during and after pregnancy features heavily in one of the court rulings that has tempered the scope of the Crimes Act 1900 (NSW) as it relates to abortion. In CES v Superclinics Australia Pty Ltd (1995) the Court of Appeal ruled in favour of the appellant who wished to claim damages against Superclinics for failing to diagnose her pregnancy early enough for her to procure a legal abortion. Essentially, the woman sued for ‘wrongful birth’ (an expression that is now standard legalese).  

The Judge in the original case ruled that any instance of abortion would have been unlawful for the woman since there was no evidence that her life, or the life of her child, was in any way threatened. However, the Appeal ruling widened the scope for lawful abortion by taking into account the mental state of the woman.

The Appeal found that the social and economic circumstances of a woman may be adversely affected by bearing a child, even a healthy child, resulting in the deterioration of the new mother’s mental health. Conveniently, the Court ruled that the full extent of such mental deterioration could not possibly be known until after the child was born. From this ruling on, a termination could be declared lawful on the grounds that it would protect the mother from any ensuing mental harm.

Perhaps the mother in this case was cut from the same cloth as Caro – a woman who had come to a clinic having already known her own mind. The facts of the case recall a woman who wanted an abortion, certainly. But they also recall a frightened and anxious woman. Even the most resolute of women navigate this space in a sort of fearful haze.

The Reproductive Health Care Reform Bill sets the bar for informed consent far too low. Firstly, it does not provide any grounds for evaluating whether or not a woman has given informed consent. For example, the Bill makes no explicit provisions for the woman to be advised of her options. Further, whether or not a woman is referred to counselling is entirely at the discretion of her medical practitioner. In an instance where a couple have fallen pregnant with a child with Down’s Syndrome for example, it seems highly unlikely that such a couple would be referred to counselling prior to abortion. Prevailing consensus amongst the medical community is that this baby should not be brought to term. What provisions will be made for a couple in situations where the medical practitioner has already decided that abortion is the best course of action? This is an utterly perverted expression of ‘choice.’

The women who ‘know their own minds’ when seeking abortion will not be at a disadvantage if offered clear options for informed consent. However, these same women who speak loudly into the public sphere about how ‘disrespectful’ it is to be given options, do a grave injustice to the women for whom these services may be, quite literally, a lifeline.

No woman will be prosecuted again in this state for procuring an abortion from a medical expert (and I don't advocate that they should be). Since the Superclinics ruling, the scope for abortion effectively provides for a prospective mother to terminate a pregnancy on the grounds that the child may prove to be an inconvenience. It paved the way for the belief that giving birth to an unwanted child is the unconscionable act, over and above the killing of that life.

In my own (short) lifetime I have seen monumental social change and yet nothing has prompted me to action like this. For the first time, I have organised my community on political matters. For the first time, I have organised to meet with my MPs. For the first time, I have called multiple members of Parliament in one sitting. For the first time, I have rallied with strangers to protest against the government of the day.

I do this because I believe that this is the final proof that our society as a whole has been taken in by an abhorrent view of morality. We believe that what is pleasurable and convenient is to be preferred to what is right. We do not have the moral imagination to find any meaning in suffering, we do not believe that sacrifice could be a form of strength. And so we pass over children who may be born with defects. We do not try to genuinely aid a woman who may wish to abort her pregnancy for no other reason than it may interrupt her life trajectory. We do not try to create a society that is guided by compassion, rather we run wholeheartedly with the Darwinian notion that every woman must fight for herself. If a woman feels she must terminate her pregnancy because the social and economic cost is too great – that is an indictment upon society. It is not the kind of society I wish to cultivate.

It has long been said that the law is consistently playing catch up with changing social mores. When it finally changes, it is said to reflect views that are widely held and deeply felt. In this instance I say firmly: not I.

[alexsmitposts]

Venezuela – a Risk to Dollar Hegemony – Key Purpose Behind “Regime Change” After the new coup attempt – or propaganda coup – Venezuela lives in a state of foreign imposed insecurity. The failed coup was executed on 30 April by Juan Guaidó, the self-proclaimed and Washington-trained and endorsed “interim President”, and the opposition leader, Leopoldo López, who was hurriedly freed from house arrest by Guaidó with a couple of dozens of armed-to-the-teeth defecting military, who apparently didn’t quite know what they were up to. Because, when all was over after a few hours, most of them asked to be re-integrated into their military units – and, as far as I know, they were readmitted. These are Washington’s puppets and “coup-makers”. When one sees that the so-called coup was defeated in a mere few hours, without any Venezuelan military interference, one wonders whether this was really planned as a coup, or merely as a “public relations” coup, for the media to ‘recharge’ their narrative of Maduro dictatorship, of a suffering people, of famine, of lack of medication and medical supply – all due to the Maduro government’s mismanagement of Venezuela’s natural riches, the lie-slander we have been used to for the last several years. For sure, the Venezuelan people are suffering. According to a CEPR report sanctions have killed some 40,000 Venezuelans. And this, not because of President Maduro’s squandering of Venezuelan resources, but because of a brutal, merciless outside interference, principally from the United States and to a lesser degree from Washington’s European vassals. If you listen to the ceaseless drumbeat for war against Venezuela and her democratically elected President Nicolas Maduro, by Pompeo, Bolton, Pence and Trump – you can only wonder and shake your head – what pathological and schizophrenic world we are living in? – And – are we all sick to the bone, that we tolerate it, that nobody of and in power – other than Russia and China – say ‘Halt’ to this deadly fiasco? This article by Eric Zuesse, including leaked documents from Pentagon’s southern command, SOUTHCOM, will give the non-believers plenty of reasons to change their minds. Western humanity has reached an abject state of mental disease. We allow the slaughter of tens of millions of people by the United States and its NATO allies, in US-provoked wars and conflicts around the world, indiscriminate killing for resources and monetary dominion. But we follow the same killer nation in accusing a quiet, peace-loving, fully democratic country, like Venezuela, to be utterly trampled on and punished with the most horrific monetary and economic sanctions – all illegal, by any standards of law – and our western “leaders” know it all. These western heads of state and their chosen minions do not have the guts or political courage to say ‘STOP’. — They could, if they had any conscience left. These so-called leaders (sic) of vassal states, they have it all in their sovereign power – they could together decide that enough is enough, separate themselves from the Washington horrors and form a real European Union, a union to say no to the tyrant, a union that is capable of calling its own sovereign shots – decide its own destiny, a destiny of alliance with peaceful countries like Venezuela, Cuba, Russia, China, Iran and more – basically all those that have decided not to bend to the dictate of Washington. Why don’t they? Have they been bought, or received death threats if they dare to deviate? – All is possible – even likely, because it is unfathomable that the leaders, the political heads of all those 28 EU countries are hell-bent to believe the lies being propagated day-in and day-out, drip-by-miserable drip. It is not possible. *** Back to Venezuela. The western public at large must never be too long without devastating smear-news about a regime the empire wants to “change”. It is clear that the nefarious pair in Venezuela, Guaidó-López, followed strict Washington instructions. Guaidó would never dare doing anything without prior approval and directives from his masters in Washington. Despite threats after pompous threats and false accusations and failed coup attempts, President Maduro holds on to a solid backing of six million voters who supported him, more than two thirds of those who went to the ballots, on 20 May 2018. He also has the solid support of the military, who have a revolutionary integrity and conscience unknown to the west. And not least, he has the support of Venezuela’s solid allies, Russia and China. Nevertheless, the United States will not let go. Why do they risk everything – even a devastating war? Well, there are several reasons. First you may think, “It’s the Oil, stupid!” – And second, the turbo-capitalist, neoliberal turning-to-neofascist US will not tolerate a socialist state in what they still consider their ‘backyard’. – Well, all of this is true. Venezuela has indeed the world’s largest hydrocarbon reserves – and it is conveniently close to The US’s Texas refineries. However, the key reason for Washington forcing ‘regime change’ is that Venezuela has stopped selling her hydrocarbon in US dollars, and, may therefore become a risk for the US-dollar hegemony around the globe. That is a punishable violation for the empire. At least two heads of state were assassinated because they dared abandoning the unwritten and unlawful, but nevertheless US-imposed rule to sell their oil and gas in US-dollars, Saddam Hussein of Iraq and Muammar Gaddafi. Both had started trading their oil in other than US-dollar currencies – and were strong advocates for others to do likewise. Some three years ago, Venezuela started selling her oil and gas in other currencies than the US-dollar, a cardinal sin. Global dollar hegemony, meaning the full control of economies throughout the globe – a control that is rapidly fading – can only be maintained by a world flooded by dollars and with a monetary system that is entirely controlled by the FED and its associated American banks, by an international transfer system, SWIFT, that channels every dollar to be moved between countries, whether it is the US or any other country – through a US bank, in either New York or London. That still being the case, the US dollar remains the key reserve currency in the world, though rapidly fading. And second, through the obligatory trading of a commodities – like hydrocarbon energy – ONLY in US-dollars. The latter also allows the empire to print as many dollars as it needs to keep the world economy under control – and punish those that do not want to bend to Washington’s rule, with sanctions and confiscation of assets abroad, because — all transactions are controlled by the US banking system. First, the dollar as a reserve currency, is fading rapidly, as ever fewer countries entrust their reserves to a largely recognized ‘fake’, fiat and debt-based currency, the US-dollar. They convert their dollar reserve holdings gradually into other assets, i.e. gold, or the Chinese Yuan which has become high in demand over the last few years. Logically, because China is already known as the undisputable strongest economy in the world, hence, the Chinese currency has a special reserve standing. However, the mainstream media do not report on this. Second, with a growing number of countries that do no longer respect the Washington imposed US-dollar rule for hydrocarbon trading – the demand for dollars decreases rapidly – a direct confrontation to the United States’ dollar hegemony over the world. Russia and China have years ago stopped trading in US dollars, not only hydrocarbons, but everything. India and Iran have started doing the same. Other countries will follow – and Venezuela, one of the vanguards with the world’s largest oil reserves – should, therefore, not be allowed to become a model for other nations. The Trump Administration and its Wall Street masters will do what it takes to stop Venezuela from abandoning the dollar. Hence, regime change and taking over the vast oil assets is of the order – with war, if necessary – “all options are on the table” – all under the blatantly fakest pretexts of “humanitarian intervention” and bringing back democracy – when the world knows that anywhere the US intervenes, democracy is abolished. In fact, what the US has managed – and wantonly so – is kill any democracy that ever existed. Under these circumstances, Venezuela’s transgression in shedding the dollar for oil trading – and for trading in general – amounts to a serious threat to the dollar hegemony and must be suffocated. That’s what these coup attempts are all about. If they succeed, the dollar-currency collapse could be postponed for a bit, and taking possession of the oil reserves would be the icing on the cake. What’s left after the dollar dominance over the world is gone, once the key tool, economic sanctions, for manipulating nations into doing the bidding of the emperor is no longer effective? – A broken US economy, one that already today depends heavily on the war and weapons industry – in fact, for over 50% of US GDP, when all associated manufacturing and services are counted. What’s left is the overwhelming firepower of that belligerent warmongering and war-dependent nation, with which the US and NATO could pull the rest of the world into oblivion. That’s what’s at stake with any nation that wants to kick the petro-dollar. Also, Iran, of course. But both Iran and Venezuela have strong protection from Russia and China – two countries that freed themselves from the fangs of the dollar system years ago. And they are offering a bright future with viable Eastern monetary alternatives, mostly based on the Chinese Yuan and other currencies linked to SCO (Shanghai Cooperation Organization) members. Venezuela – Venceremos!