#police leadership changes

[townpostin]

Rapid SP Transfers Raise Eyebrows in Jharkhand

Multiple districts see police leadership changes within months, sparking concerns over administrative stability Frequent transfers of district Superintendents of Police in Jharkhand, often within 5-8 months, challenge Supreme Court’s two-year tenure guideline, raising questions about impact on law enforcement. RANCHI – The Jharkhand government’s practice of frequently transferring district…

[not-so-superheroine]

pope francis goes, maybe lgbtq+ catholics should have some rights, and conservative catholics lose it.

liberation theology is great actually. i wouldn't know about it without conservative catholics insulting the pope about it. anyway, adopted it into my personal theology. thank you jesuits and people who are upset about them.

also, its still discriminatory. he also says very non-affirming things. yet it's still too much "acceptance" in some people's mind. what happened to loving your neighbor as yourself?

i am happy for lgbtq+ catholics, small steps, i understand. but if it makes you more comfortable in expressing your faith and being included in it, i love that for you.

a lot of people don't get why lgbtq+ persons may stay, and think it's to attract lgbtq+ persons to a non-affirming institution, but i think that's simplistic.

i think people fail to realize that it may be for lgbtq+ persons who are staying. some won't leave bc of their faith, and they should be treated well, you know?

some people simply will not leave because of their beliefs at the end of the day, so progress must be made and is a good thing. this is what i have learned through my conversion elsewhere.

[deception-united]

Worldbuilding: Questions to Consider

Government & authority:

Types of government: What type of government exists (monarchy, democracy, theocracy, etc.)? Is it centralised or decentralised?

Leadership: Who holds power and how is it acquired (inheritance, election, divine right, conquest)?

Law enforcement: Who enforces the laws (military, police, magical entities)?

Legal system: How are laws made, interpreted, and enforced? Are there courts, judges, or councils?

Laws:

Criminal laws: What constitutes a crime? What are the punishments?

Civil laws: How are disputes between individuals resolved?

Cultural norms: How do customs and traditions influence the laws?

Magic/supernatural: Are there laws governing the use of magic or interaction with supernatural beings?

Social structure:

Class/status: How is society divided (nobility, commoners, slaves)? Are there caste systems or social mobility?

Rights & freedoms: What rights do individuals have (speech, religion, property)?

Discrimination: Are there laws that protect or discriminate against certain groups (race, gender, species, culture)?

Economy & trade:

Currency: What is used as currency? Is it standardised?

Trade laws: Are there regulations on trade, tariffs, or embargoes?

Property laws: How is ownership determined and transferred? Are there inheritance laws?

Religion/belief systems:

Religious authority: What role does religion play in governance? Are religious leaders also political leaders?

Freedom of religion: Are citizens free to practice different religions? If not, which are taboo?

Holy laws: Are there laws based on religious texts or teachings?

Military & defense:

Standing army: Is there a professional military or a militia? Who serves, and how are they recruited?

War & peace: What are the laws regarding war, peace treaties, and diplomacy?

Weapons: Are there restrictions or laws regarding weapons for civilians? What is used as a weapon? Who has access to them?

Technology & magic:

Technological advancements: How advanced is the technology (medieval, steampunk, futuristic, etc.)?

Magical laws: Are there regulations on the use of magic, magical creatures, or artifacts?

Innovation & research: How are inventors and researchers treated? Are there laws protecting intellectual property?

Environmental/resource management:

Natural resources: How are resources like water, minerals, and forests managed and protected, if at all?

Environmental laws: Are there protections for the environment? How are they enforced? Are there consequences for violations?

Cultural & ethical considerations:

Cultural diversity: How does the law accommodate or suppress cultural diversity?

Ethics: What are the ethical foundations of the laws? Are there philosophical or moral principles that underpin them?

Traditions vs. change: Does the society balance tradition with progress? How?

Happy writing ❤

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[musedblues]

AMORE ~ FATI (part 1)

a/n: wait until the movie? nah. haven't stopped thinking about this freaky fucker since the trailer dropped! eat up, babes. also the horny police called and there is a warrant out for my arrest.

description: after winding up in a crime related to the royals, geta strikes up a deal with you.

warnings: down right hoe shit, sexual descriptions, gruesome descriptions, minimal historical research/ distant memories from high school test, cliff hanger. MINORS DNI

Part 1 of 2 (at least)

///

The afternoon was like any other, the day your life changed. You awoke to an empty home, gathered your cart of crafts, and headed to the stalls. You sold your paintings there and begged the clouds to cover the swelter of the sun.

For your landscape art, you accepted coin. You accepted food. You accepted a jeweled ring that afternoon, just as well. An exchange like it wasn't out of the ordinary. You pawned the adornment for cash that evening, and made the trek back home. With plans to paint pictures into the night, to sell off the next day.

Your home was quaint, once big enough for two, now only you haunted the halls. The man you'd once been forced to marry had been dead for many months now, and a certain freedom was found in his absence. But a certain monotony about your routine seemed to predetermine the days ahead as far as you could see them. So, you painted.

As you fiddled with brushes and stained your grey dress with speckles of deep amber, a bursting knock came across your door. The guest gave you no time to greet them before turning into an intruder. Two royal guards burst into your home, shouting and grabbing you and dragging you away. All so quickly.

You went fighting. You cursed as they held you in a carriage. You demanded their silence broken. But they remained stone faced as you begged to know why you'd been abducted from your home. 

Your captors rode into the city, past the colosseum, right through the gates that led to the home of the reigning family.  Your heart hammered in fear, knowing what you knew about the rulers. Caracalla and Geta had only just taken over the reign of their father, their mother looming near, picking sides; as you understood. Since the change in leadership, Rome hadn't suffered en mass. But a growing dread hung heavy over the population, knowing the brothers were struggling to join together in power. Knowing their clash divided not only their power, but all of Rome.

You were grabbed at once more, forced out of the carriage and into the great hall of the estate. Gold and red statues lined the entrance. A plum rug stretched before your feet, a welcoming cushion as the rest of your senses were drowned by harshness. Before you, pacing near his throne, Geta waited. 

You'd seen him and his brother before, trailing behind their father at rallies. Lingering near the stands at games. You'd always let your gaze settle on Geta, if ever you'd seen him. You'd always been drawn to gawk at the trimness of his figure. The enigmatic expressions he would pull. The presence he commanded. He was easy to admire, from afar. And the towns ladies often gossiped of how alluring he could be up close, if they were lucky enough to be invited to do so. No one spoke as much of Caracalla. In his name, fear and loathing often followed.

With a glare in your direction, Geta ceased pacing. He nodded toward his guards to relinquish their hold on you.

"What is all this?" You demanded, refusing to bow or humble yourself before this ruler in anyway. How could you dare offer up respect when little to none had been offered to you? Geta seemed taken aback, for a flash. His brows furrowed and his lips parted in shock, at your boldness. But then a grin flickered across his lips and his pacing started up once more.

"You're in possession of something of mine, no?" Geta alluded. Want as you might've to argue, to proclaim your innocence, you were too baffled. What could he possibly be on about?

"You were seen taking a ring as payment today, at your stall." Geta boomed, voice filling the room, echoing off the tall painted ceilings. He started into a story, then, that made things clearer. You learned that ring was a family heirloom, stolen by a servant only one night ago. That he'd sold it to a carriage driver for freedom. You learned that servant had been slain. But the ring was still gone. And you were the last person seen with the distinct bluish jewel in your palm. There were many a shopper along the street market this morning. Several were looking into your stall as you accepted the ring for payment. You couldn't deny the action. But you didn't have it any longer, anyhow.

"I exchanged it for money. With the sellers near the river." You decidedly conceded. "I've got nothing more to do with this now release me." Your voice shook, out of fear for your fate, and anger for your circumstance. 

"Names." Geta stalled his meander, a few steps away from you. His dark eyes had cast across your figure before boring right into yours. You couldn't look right at him without feeling a shiver up your spine. And you were not about to let on that Geta had this effect on you. So, you cast your gaze to the hands at his sides, and scoffed at what you saw.

"Why? Are the rings already on your fingers not good enough? You cannot be allowed to want for what you don't have, if you're in possession of more than enough already."

"What's mine is mine! No one else's." Geta yelled, keeping his eye's boring into yours. His voice shook through the halls, and fueled your rage further. Your rage for your circumstance, and for that of this nation.

"Your greed shall poison this empire." You spat at the man.

"An empire I was born to rule cannot be soured, destiny has been at work since my conception and my father's before me." Geta grinned, an all-knowing sort of smile that was meant to belittle you, you were certain. But you couldn't be made to feel so worthless.

"We are all born to die, your highness."

"Your opposition will result in bleakness if you do not answer my call for this information. Give me their names." Geta shouted, still inches from you. Geta was giving you a chance to answer. And that shocked you. You voiced your opposition only because you thought you were surely moments away from being killed, and refused to die without standing your ground. But here you still stood. Geta was letting you. 

As taken aback by his patience as you were, his arrogance and demanding shouts were only deepening your desire to withhold. To stand resolute. Who were you to ruin some poor people's lives over a bit of jewelry? Your silence was deafening, each passing moment tensing at Geta's shoulders. You watched his jaw clench, you watched his eye's dance between your own. You smiled. 

"Get her out of my sight." Geta hissed, waving his men to capture you once more. You rolled your eyes as they grabbed at you. "Keep her in the cellar until she starts talking. Do not, however... take drastic measures."

You shot a perplexed frown the rulers way as he shook his head in your direction. A scowl turned Geta's lips down. But as he watched you begin to growl in unwillingness to go, his smile curled to life.

"And what of you? What punishments are you allotted?" You yelled as the guards dragged you away. Geta kept his furrowed smirk pointed at you, a puzzled sparkle in his eye.

///

The cellar smelled damp as it felt, your feet squelching along the dirt paths. You'd been taken past a row of prisoners, all in various stages of wither. You closed your eyes too them, offering silent prayers for their fates in passing. 

"In you go," A guard shoved you toward the back of a small cell, chuckling as he locked the barred off door. "When you're ready to talk, we just might be around to listen. Let's hope we don't forget about you all the way over in this corner."

How had you ended up here? Hours ago, you'd been at peace in your quiet cottage, paint brush in hand. Now you sat on a wooden bench, senses filled with cold. How were the gods so cruel? Why did you have to accept that stupid ring? Why didn't you admire it longer? Maybe you would've found evidence of its owner, somehow, in the royal gleam of the thing. Maybe you could have returned it with honor, the promise of your home awaiting you. But none of that was happening. Now, you were unsure of everything. But you weren't going to go down without a fight. You weren't going to rat out the innocent fellow you pawned with, for simply surviving another day of this confounding life. You weren't eager to play into the rulers demands for more, as if he didn't have enough. As if he deserved to be granted assurance when himself and his brother offered Rome none.

Hours must've passed. Guards floated by time and again, jeering at you through the bars of your cell. As they passed you by, the voices grew louder yet, giving other prisoners hell. You heard shouts and screams. You heard begging for torture to cease. You heard the stabbing of flesh and the gurgle of blood. You heard the quiet from your own cell. Why were you being spared of such treatment? Why was your confinement different from the others?

As you began to question your own sanity, and the fate the gods had in store for you, a guard was passing by your cell once more. He stopped there, jamming a key into the lock. This was it. Your turn had come. You braced to be berated as the man reached in and yanked you to stand. The guard demanded you to follow as he dragged you through the cellar the same way you'd come in.

Suddenly you were in the great hall again. The purple carpet like clouds under your step. There were servants arranging decor as if an event were to be taking place soon. Your observation of the hall was short lived as the single guard dragged you up a marble staircase. The home was vast, and full of well painted statues and portraits and windows. The sun was long gone from the sky. It had to be later than midnight. As you soaked up your surroundings and let your imagination run wild, you tried not to worry how you'd be executed. You tried to remind yourself that death waited for no one. You tried to remember the last picture you'd been painting, a field of sheep under a setting sun.

Your captor stalled before a great carved door, twisting the handle. Your captor dragged you inside. 

Candles lit a room with a bed in the middle, the biggest you'd ever seen. The amber glow of the space was welcoming, despite the terror that resided about your situation. Beyond the bed was a table full of wine, bottles of all sort decorated the clothed stand. Before the table, was Geta. His slump on a stool shifted when he saw you. Moving to stand, the man dressed more scarcely than before was slow to approach you. His expression unreadable.

"Leave us." He demanded, pointing the guard to exit the room. The man's parting left chills in his wake. What was to become of you now? What was this all about?

Geta did not stay still at your front. He instead let his head roll from one side to the other as his pace turned back toward the cloth covered table. Among the bottles of wine were a scattered few chalices. He filled one with a drink. And then another. 

"We caught the carriage driver who initially accepted the ring." Geta announced, back toward you all the while. You admired the tone of his shoulders, as one was left uncovered by his robe. The cloth stayed tied among his waist. "We also captured the man you pawned the ring off to. We have the ring." Geta continued, bringing both cups of wine over to where you stood. Ah, so poison was to be your execution?

Accepting the chalice in a fist, you stayed silent all the while. Geta locked his tired gaze on yours and kept talking. 

"The ring was my fathers. Something he left just to me. Caracalla was given finery as well, just for himself. We do not do well with equity, my brother and I." Geta raised his wine for a sip and kept his dark gaze locked on your own. His eye's were red from lack of sleep, it seemed. His eyes were bright, all the while, as they peered into yours. This leader had a way of drawing you in. This leader had a way of making you forget you were probably on the verge of slaughter or worse.

"And while this mission to hunt down the ring has been my mission alone, Caracalla's wrath has still been promoted since he learned something of our fathers had gone missing." Geta explained. 

"What's become of the carriage driver and the man I sold your ring to?" You dared to wonder. 

"The servant was killed as you know, by Caracalla's own sword. The driver has been exiled at my command." Geta said. "But the man you sold it too was killed as well, by my brother's guards. Before I could get to him. You see my wrath is often equal to Caracalla's. But my bloodlust isn't as insatiable. And I can see his way of violence has stirred fear among our people. Would you agree?"  

You had to nod. 

"I do not wish death upon you. Blood should only be shed in battles and in honor. You were a simple moving part. You should not deserve to be killed in the crossfire. But you should pay for stumbling where you dared not have stepped. Otherwise, Caracalla will catch wind that I let you slip away without a punishment. And he will do worse."

"So, what is my fate?" You wondered, clutching the wine in your fist, unmoving. Mind whirring. Had you really been shown a backhanded kindness by the ruler you'd always believed to be more unyielding? His already alluring nature becoming more attractive as you understood this to be true.

"Exile seems drastic, yes. But it's an option." Geta raised his glass to gesture, moving to pace before a cushioned chaise. This room, his room, wanted for nothing. There was space and comfort and treasure promised throughout its expanses.

"Then there could be a fine. You'd be meant to pay every fortnight." Geta reasoned drinking once more. Still not entirely trusting of your own wine, you rested the chalice on a nearby chest, crossing your arms with a scowl. As if this Empire needed more money. 

"I'm too poor to keep that up." You spat, expressing displeasure in your tone. Geta raised a brow and frowned when he realized your implication, how much work needed to be done for the betterment of the population. With a sigh, Geta cast his gaze about the room. When his pace turned naturally closer to you, his eye's locked on your face as a realization dawned across his. Geta let a smirk hint at his lips as his dark eyes glanced into yours. 

"There is... another way..." Geta implied something you didn't see coming. As the man continued his languid back and forth, his gaze stayed ever fixed on your figure. And you hadn't really been ashamed of the glances you'd stolen of his, this day. He was drawing closer, as if to entice you. He didn't need to know that it wouldn't have taken much seduction. He didn't need to know that you'd already been wondering what it would be like to untie the robe at his waist.

Geta didn't need to know that you were becoming less wrought with terror by the second. You'd hoped he'd never known you were afraid, before. But now, in the flickering candlelight of his lavish room, you saw him. The persona Geta had put on all these years, all this time, was just that. You could see plain as day. Geta was full of anger, yes. But he seemed full of so much more, to you, now, too. The man seemed to hold a brewing mixture of depth about him that felt so obvious all of a sudden. Now, more endeared to the ruler, and just as attracted, you made up your mind.

"Seeing as I have no funds... let's just get this over with." You sighed, feigning impatience for the wrong reasons.

Geta circled you, eyeing you up. You wanted to melt under how hot his gaze was. But right now this was all happening far too slowly. Your interest had skyrocketed. But your time had also been heavily wasted here. You had plans, after all. He'd held you captive long enough. 

"Sit down. I'm tired of waiting." You barked at him, shoving his shoulder so he collapsed into the chaise. Geta fell seated at your order but looked up to you with an irate sneer. An anger passed over his expression but morphed into curiosity in a blink.

"Seeing as to how I'm getting what I want out of you, I don't mind giving into your demands." Geta announced, as if to remind you he was the one calling the shots. You couldn't help but grin, struggling not to roll your eyes at the man's obsession with power. Humming so he knew you heard him, you settled either knee at Geta's sides. 

As the ruler's fingers reached to grab at your hips, your day flashed before your imagination. Funny how life worked. How days could be spent so monotonously for so long only to become upturned and scattered about the next. You never imagined you'd find yourself straddling one of Rome's emperors over a payment for your latest painting. 

Geta's kiss surprised you. Not the fact that it was bruising, and harsh. But the fact that it was. You assumed this would go quickly, without much effort put into anything besides a quick and vulgar shagging. Granted, his lips didn't press into yours longer than a couple minutes, before his teeth were digging into your neck. But the way his hands wandered to grab at your limbs and claw at your skin was a welcomed affection you had not expected. 

When you finally got to untie the robe around his waist, you couldn't help but admire the build of his core, the shape of his figure. You'd heard girl's oggle over the emperor before, he was no stranger to trysts of most kind. You'd heard girl's trade deadly details of their nights spent with Geta, his lust unbridled. But the sight of his body bare before yours was better than any rumor you'd caught wind of. 

As you lowered yourself into Geta's lap, he was quick to rock his hips against yours with force you had been bracing for. His grip on your hips threatened to turn you over, but you'd be damned if you let him gain complete control. You rose a hand to the man's head, raking a set of fingers through his hair. Your fingers curled to grip with perhaps too much gusto, and your hips rolled to force Geta back, more fully seated. 

You heard the man let out a hoarse curse as his grip lightened, as he accepted your dominance. Did this really count as payment if you were getting more out of it? 

Geta pushed you away when it was all said and done, a steady hand stayed holding your side as he nudged you off of his lap. You maneuvered to stand, adjusting the skirt of your dress with a sigh.

"I suppose I should thank you for sparing my life. Surely thought you'd take it. Shame our exchange has come to an end. Didn't quite feel like a payment at all." A daring smirk painted your face as you turned to head for the door. You heard Geta lumber to stand, perhaps drunk off wine and pleasure. His feet padded as your hand reached for the handle of your escape.

"What was the painting?" Geta asked, stalling your leave and perplexing you to turn to face him. He was shrugging his robe back into place with a raised brow. "The painting bought with my ring, what was it?" 

"Oh," You realized, pursing a frown. "I- I don't exactly recall. I do a lot of landscapes. Seascapes. Could've been anything like it." You noted. Geta watched you speak, mouth opened, stalled to say more. His tongue glided over the ends of his teeth as the man nodded and sauntered back toward his table full of wine. 

"My guards will see to your return home." Geta called, back facing you. You took that as your leave, anxious for some rest after exhausting your mind with wonder all day, and your body with pleasure this night. As you shut the emperor's door with a soft click, a gratitude filled your chest. That could've gone a lot worse.

///

The next day seemed surreal. You recalled the night like a fevered dream, like a plot from a book. But there were scratches along your thighs that reminded you what had happened was very truly real. You recalled the feelings Geta stirred in you with warmth.

You milled from room to room, mind in constant awe of the way your life had been spared. Since the brothers had come into power, so many senseless killings had been threatened and followed through. So much violence had afflicted common criminals and the odd person out of place alike. Was it more to do with Caracalla? Was he truly the more cruel? Did Geta have a softness about him? Or had you just gotten damn lucky?

You went about your daily chores and sat down to paint. Your art displayed sheep dotting across greyish green land. Your setting sun was in progress. A breeze flowed through the window, and you imagined it in your painting as well. A knocking rattled your door. It's persistence grating your nerves. Only now, at least, no one was intruding. 

Maybe that's why you were shocked more so now than before, to see two royal guards at your front door. 

"Geta is demanding your audience." One of them chuckled lowly before reaching to grab at you. He was too strong to fight off, though kick and yell you did.

Oh God, he'd realized he'd let you off easy, hadn't he? You should've pretended to hate rocking against his lap in that chair. You should've begged for freedom. Or maybe it was Caracalla after all. Maybe he'd heard of your involvement with his father's stolen ring and wished you dead. And these guards were luring you in with a false promise that Geta was the one wishing for a meeting.

While your mind raced, and the carriage took off into the city and passed the colosseum, you cursed the guards for dragging you away again. For being such fowl scum of the earth to manhandle women like they did.

It wasn't long before you were being yanked from the ride and marched into the great hall with that luscious purple carpet underfoot. Geta was there, assessing a scroll with a couple of servants nearby. His shock surprised you, when his glance looked up from the papers. 

As you squirmed against the holds the guards kept on you, Geta shoved the scroll he held onto, into the grasp of a servant. He drew his sword from his side, the instrument of war and horror blinding you in its brightness. The emperors stomp in your direction was quick, his footfall shaking the building and you to your core. This was it. This was your fate.

"Release her now!" Geta yelled, directing his fury to one of the guards at your side. Before the words fully formed from the man's mouth, either of the guard's grips had unlatched from your arms. You did not see that coming. You almost couldn't comprehend that his blade had missed piercing straight through you.

"You were gone for all of a few seconds before you bring her back here?" Geta quizzed, face red with anger. He held the end of his sword to the man's chin, forcing his footsteps back. 

"You- you told us to go fetch the girl from last afternoon, is that not what we did your highness?" The guard was bold in asking, though his voice trembled. 

"I told you to ask her to come. I told you to remain at her door in patience. And you dare drag the woman back in the matter of mere moments? With force? That's a direct disregard of my orders!" With speed that rallied a gasp from your throat, Geta whipped his sword to slash at the knees of the guard that defied him. The man let out a cry as his legs gave way, sending the fellow to collapse. Geta ordered the other guard to take the injured one to a medic and stay there until he was ready to deal with them further. His blood pooled and stained the purple carpet. 

"Why am I here again?" You couldn't linger in uncertainty any longer, once again failing to greet the leader without any respect of his authority. Geta plunged his red stained sword into its sheath as he demanded his servants get out. The workers scattered at the sound of his command, scurrying toward exits. The room was filled with quiet as Geta turned to face you fully. 

"I'm sorry they dragged you here. You were only meant to show up if you so wished." Geta's voice was lower, his rage subdued. He confounded you, the way he held so much darkness and contempt about him. The way he eased into constraint. These were not the stories you had heard. This was not the man described to you by retired servants and wives of soldiers. He was more withheld, before you. And it caught you by surprise time and again. 

"But since you are here now, and you have not yet raised a hand to lash across my cheek, I shall tell you," Geta went on, letting his eyes do what they had done before. Letting his gaze sweep across your figure. "I asked you here to present to you a proposition. An invitation to spend more evenings like the one we shared just before."

"You cannot be serious." You let a breath of a laugh fan from your throat. 

"I'm hardly ever anything but." Geta reasoned with a curled lip and a shrug of his shoulder in a way you knew was meant to get you to chuckle for real. This man continued to confound you. This man contained multitudes. How had no one else, in all their gossip, mentioned this?

"Is this more to do with payment? Did our exchange not suffice?" You reasoned, still uncertain of the terms in which Geta was asking. 

"I think you know exactly how well our exchange sufficed. Well enough for me to not have stopped dreaming of doing exactly that time and time again. I'm merely asking because I wish too." Geta was so close, his breath ghosting across your cheek, his eyes searching yours. "And now you get to decide what you wish. Who am I to deny you a choice?"

"What happens should I turn to leave?" You wondered. 

"A guard would take you home. And with fair treatment, I'd make certain." 

"What happens should I stay?" 

"A servant would take you upstairs. And your imagination could fill in the rest." 

Well, this certainly wasn't how you expected your day to turn out. That painting of all the sheep and the sunset would have to wait another long day. You suddenly couldn't dream of plans outside of those featuring Rome's half reigning emperor. 

With a nod toward the door you'd seen Geta's servants go through, he grinned. 

With footsteps more certain of the direction of his room, you found yourself locked in there, waiting.

///

The next weeks were filled with plans you couldn't tell anyone without fear they'd think you'd gone mad. You spent days milling about the stalls to sell your landscape paintings, careful of the payments you accepted. You'd harvest the fruits from your garden for meals and wait until night fall, when your promised escort arrived.  

Nights were spent in Geta's room, on his floor, against his wall, in that blessed chaise. Nights were spent shoving the emperors head into the pillows as your hips rocked together. Nights were spent demanding he speed up and slow down at your desire. Nights were spent with Geta sharing wine in between drawn-out romps. You'd drink and laugh and carry on, a couple times until the sun peaked dimly into a new day. You'd stay drinking, sharing stories about where you had come from and your hardships. Things you'd hardly spoken of before. Things you couldn't believe Geta would listen so intently to.

It started off as only a few times throughout any given week. But at the end of those nights Geta would always ask about the next. You'd offer up a day or a time and he'd promise you that he'd see to it happening. He would pour you more wine and tell you the dirtiest jokes, and ask what pleased you most before those nights ended. 

But after a while, he stopped asking. And your escort showed up outside your door more nights than most. And it became a rather expected part of the schedule of either of your days.

This night as you padded across the purple carpet, following behind a servant you'd come to trust; a ruckus was sounding from the stairwell you headed toward.

There you found Geta and his brother spitting fowl words in one another's direction. The men were swarmed by guards, ready to take on any outcome of the boys spat. And while they argued about political things you weren't privy to the full details of, you understood they spoke their father's name. You heard Caracalla remind Geta that their father had decidedly upped Rome's soldiers pay to ensure their loyalties to the empire. You heard Geta shout something about how his father was dead, how the brothers needed to learn to ensure loyalties in their own manner. And then he noticed you had arrived. 

"Thank God." Geta seethed, waving his brother off, taking the stairs two at a time to lower himself to greet you. 

"For you, Geta, trust is easily earned, isn't it?" Caracalla shouted, still domineering about the stairs. "A bat of your lashed eyes toward any common whore and they come flooding through our halls." Caracalla cast a snarl in your direction that turned Geta's blood so hot you swore you could feel the smoke coming off him. With a decidedly quick hand, you rested your fingers to grip Geta's arm, stopping him from running up the staircase to rip his brother in two. You didn't care so much what Caracalla thought of you, so long as Geta's opinion remained unchanged.

"But my powers of persuasion are not so charming. And I must demand trust more harshly. And I must remain harsh to keep control. And I do control the half of this empire entrusted in my name!" Caracalla was seething, fists balled at his sides, eyes bulging with rage. You'd never known anyone to be fueled by such negativity. Geta had slowly started toward his brother, letting your grip remain on his arm. 

"We'll reach an agreement. But not till morning. Go back to your side of the estate, now." Geta demanded, taking the staircase slowly, keeping his eyes on his brother. The younger one stood shaking with fury as the elder led you to his room. Guards and servants followed, wordlessly seeing the pair of you behind closed doors. A couple of soldiers usually waited on either end of this hall, but tonight a few more lingered near in addition. These boys really hated each other.

Once locked in his room, safe from rage and question, Geta had you pinned against the wall. He'd usually greet you. He'd usually ask about what paintings you'd sold that day, or if you'd had any great stories of your family before they sold you to a husband. Or of your husband before he died. But tonight, Geta was ravenous. Tonight, he moved more accordingly to the rumors you'd once heard about him.

The emperor didn't fuss with your clothes. He didn't give you time to unravel his either. No sooner than his hand had crept up the skirt of your dress, was he rocking his hips into yours, pounding your back against the wall.

Your nails clawed at the back of his neck and your legs curled to flex around his waist. Geta was relentless as his body hammered into yours. He huffed harder with each new pulse and let out some cursed sighs when your teeth pierced into his shoulder, to keep from screeching all the same. You knew the guards could hear from the hall. But they didn't need to hear more than they had too.

His efforts had ended, his face stayed buried in your neck. But you weren't ready for it to cease.

"You think you're finished? You're only just getting started." You barked, pawing at Geta's head and forearm, shoving him downward. He didn't hesitate, his knees cracked to the floor with force you knew had to hurt. But he didn't seem phased. Geta seemed entirely entranced on bending your knee over his shoulder. Scratching his fingers along your skin. Burying his head between your legs. And he did so consciously, like a duty being fulfilled. He was relentless tonight, and you felt lucky to be relented against.

When your pleasure had ended, and you were left to slide from the wall to find footing, you found the wine too. 

"Well, I can't help solve Rome's problems," You began, pouring you each a drink. "But I hope I've just helped solve some of your own, your highness." You half mocked, but half spoke in well-meaning regard. Geta hummed somewhere behind you. His voice sounded nearby. But his hands fell to close the space between you, gripping at the hilt of your hips. 

"Dunno, might need to try a couple more times." You could hear the smile in his tone, and you felt his sultry chuckle against your neck, where he nearly dared to place a kiss, but didn't. Geta only reached ahead for his chalice, and asked about your day.

///

 You didn't need to sell paintings. You could've lived a basic enough life, fed from the food you grew in your garden, rested from the comfort of your own bed. Secure enough in your late spouses left over finances. 

You had known married life for all of five years. Wed before you'd even turned old enough to know better. All because your parents thought it best. They said you'd been sold to a husband to take care of you, in the long run. He did care for you, in his own twisted way. He kept you fed and housed until he died. And he left all his meager earnings to you in his passing. It wasn't much, but it was enough for you, for now, for a while.

You started painting when you moved in with him, to fill the days that dragged on so endlessly. You dreamed of freedom from the man for so long. And kept painting when he died, to fill those same days that were just as endless and a lot quieter to boot. He'd left you all alone in the expanses of the great wide world, yet freedom seemed even more unobtainable to you then, somehow. So, you painted. And decidedly started selling those paintings when the house filled up without room for any more of them. You kept selling them when you realized how eagerly peers bought from you.

You'd made friends down at the stalls. You found a quaint routine there, waiting in the sun to trade paintings for coins, and chattering with townspeople while the mornings stayed young. Bakers and seamstresses and writers alike shared your routine, all becoming familiar faces you were pleased to see each day.

"Goodmorning, you!" A trio of girls your age came giggling your way. Girls you'd invited over a few times. Girls you were happy to see now. 

"Listen, are you going to the games in three day's time? I'd like us all to twirl about the colosseum buzzed on vino, carefree!" The small brunette leaned across the table your art was displayed on. 

"She just wants to go to wait on Geta, afterward. He always invites girls in after the games." The blonde rolled her eyes, leaning against the post of your stall as you chuckled in understanding, and out of sudden apprehension. You and Geta agreed to your trysts because he trusted how discreet you could be. When you refused to bend your will to give the names of the people you pawned his ring to, he admired that. You couldn't give yourself away, now.

"But haven't you heard?" The redhead leaned in, waving you all to listen closer. "Geta hasn't invited any of the girls that wait at the empire gates in, in weeks." 

You'd often trailed in past that very line of girls in question, much to their growing displeasure. Luckily, none of them were from the side of the country you had resided. None of them could spread your name around in whispers, as they did not know it.

"I'm still eager to take my chances." The brunette joked, going on to beg you to come to the games at the colosseum.

"I don't know." Was the best answer you could give without disappointing your friends, or thinking up a messy lie on the spot.  

///

Another night in Geta's room was unusually spent in his bed. You'd been used to being forced against a chest of drawers, his voice growling in your ear. Or yours demanding the emperor sit on the stool before the table of wine, and wait in agony like a good, obedient, merciful ruler.

But tonight, Geta had you moving slower in his sheets. He'd closed his eyes as your hips rocked atop his, nice and easy. And when he reached to flip you over, his core pierced languidly into yours. His hand brushed across your cheek and his eyes stayed steadily locked on yours.

"Are you feeling quite alright?" You couldn't help but worry, too overcome with the silence that fell about the room. Geta had been resting at your side, his finger tracing the same pattern against your stomach forever.

"What if you stayed, tonight?" The ruler asked, after a while.

"You didn't answer my question. You realized, still confused as to what mood you'd found Geta in tonight. You'd been often surprised by his wit and his resolution. But this wasn't a way you'd known the emperor before. 

"You didn't answer mine either." He pointed, finger still dancing across the skin of your abdomen. You turned your head to find Geta's gaze. His head rested on a pillow at your side, his eyes rolling up to lock with yours. His dark brown stare was illuminating. His curls graced his head so delicately. His silence was so reticent this night. Maybe it was the fact neither of you had had any wine.

"I'll stay if you tell me what's going on in that head of yours." You shot a pointed look to the man at your side who let a lifeless smile flash across his lips as his eyes turned away from yours. Silence filled the room once more, but you got the sense that Geta was choosing his words a while. 

"Nothing... none of this is how I thought it would be." Geta spoke. You kept your eyes cast across his amber lit room, fixating on the pattern of the wallpaper. What did he mean? 

"What's this?" You quizzed. "Ruling an empire? Sleeping with me? Sobriety from wine for a night?" You tried to joke, desperate for some kind of clarity.

"None of it." Geta responded, his inflection implying everything you listed was weighing on his mind then. And that surprised you. He was always surprising you. Silence settled yet again, and stayed for a while. It was Geta who broke it, after so long. He sat up to meet your eye, searching your gaze before offering a nod. You nodded back, knowing that meant your promise to stay here had been sealed. He rose from the bed to dim the candles, and crashed back into it with a sigh. 

When Geta rested his head of golden curls on your chest, in the dark and quiet of his room, you finally understood what he meant. This was all very different now, than it started. None of it had turned out in an expected way. But you felt at ease with it all. You hadn't shared a bed with anyone since your late husband, and those times simply did not count in your mind. You did not care for that man as you had come to care for the one laying against you now. And that dawned on you in fear. But then, a realization that it didn't matter. Not now. Now, you got to rest under the weight of the emperor, for one peaceful night.

///

The next morning was bright and felt early in your bones. And it wasn't long before it hit you, the games were meant to happen today. Geta's stirring at your side was a relished wonder, as his smile widened to see you upon waking. But it all came crashing down as servants and soldiers demanded quick work of getting up and ready for the day of events. 

"It will be too hard to send you away now, with all the crowds starting to gather." Geta realized, peering from the window of his room to the public below. "I'll have some appropriate attire sent for you. You shall join us today." The emperor's smile was bitten back, but you saw it reached his eyes as his looked into yours. 

Things were shifting with Geta. Night's were turning into days with him. Festivities were offered to be shared. You knew better than to ask. You knew better than to wonder why. You simply thanked him for his offer and waited for clothes to change into as the leader headed out of his room, yelling for a guard to hurry along and follow. You milled about Geta's room, admiring the wallpaper in the daylight. Admiring the stained glass of his window. You traced your finger along carved chests and bed posts. You dared to open a drawer, finding a collection of jewelry there, a familiar blue stoned ring at the front of the collection. 

You snapped the drawer shut in a hurry when a knock came across the door. 

"Hello." A familiar face entered. Julia, the Emperors mother, twirled in the room with a stack of garments. "These are mine from seasons past. I brought a few, just in case." The woman was dear, with soft curls that matched her sons, gold earrings that brightened her blue eyes. She smiled and introduced herself as if she needed too. For her, you bowed.

"Such a pretty thing, you are." Julia cooed, resting her clothes at the foot of the emperor's bed before turning to consider you. "I've seen you come and go. Quite the feat to boast over. Geta never struggled to make friends, not like Caracalla. But he has failed to keep so many of them."

 Julia kept a studying gaze on you as you thanked her for her kindness and watched her saunter out the door. The woman told you to meet the family downstairs once you readied yourself. That's when a certain anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. What was this? What had you gotten yourself into? Worry plagued your mind as you squeezed into a bright blue and plum skirt. The fabric hugged at your figure but fell so elegantly to the floor. You never dreamed of such finery adorning you. You'd never dreamed of a life so different from the one you'd been used to living.

Downstairs, everyone had gathered, gearing up to head out. Guards of every kind kept the ruling brothers on either side of the room while Julia flitted about, laughing with a man you didn't know. Senators and councilors seemed to mingle with the family just as well, their wives and children patiently lingering on the outskirts of the gathering. 

When Julia found you descending the stairs her first greeting after a smile was to tell you how perfectly the dress fit, how powerful you seemed entering the room. She said you held a certain presence about you, keeping a watchful eye on your expression as you gushed to thank her for such continued kindness.

And then you were off, trailing with the wives and the children of the party as the royal family presented themselves before the public. They were loved and hated so that the cheers and boo's from the crowd muddled together in an indistinguishable roar. Your heart pounded to realize how close you were to the action of the day, to realize how viscerally the opinion of the public mattered to the fate of the royals.

You watched Caracalla pull some face, pointing a finger at a citizen who cursed his name on the families walk toward the colosseum. You watched women line themselves along the path Geta walked, his politics be damned. You watched as he turned to look back, smile stretching wider as his eyes found yours. You watched then, as Julia stalled to join your side, and failed to calm the quickening of your heart as she held your arm to walk with you. None of this was how it used to be.

The woman leaned in, explaining exactly how today's games were meant to go. She yammered about the history of it all and pulled a few giggles from your throat as she threw in some personal deadly details about old games she'd bore witness too.

Once you'd all reached the colosseum, the brothers were ushered off to find their royal box, while Julia strategically placed you just outside of there. She frowned when she reminded you could not be allowed to join them further than here, but smiled when she hoped you'd enjoy the day's events. You watched her saunter off, stopping a guard and pointing in your direction before she disappeared in the box all the while. The guard locked his gaze with yours, offering a respectful nod as you considered your surroundings. 

All kinds of vendors and stalls were open around every entrance of the arena. All kinds of people wandered about, sampling food and drink, playing cards at tables until the event's kicked off. You decidedly began to wander about, accepting free samples and smiling to people you'd seen in passing. You shielded your eyes from the sun and noticed that guard trailing nearby, keeping a steady eye on your every move. 

When the crowds began to clamor toward the inside of the arena, you realized the games were about to begin. You downed a free sample of wine and found your way to watch from afar. Caracalla and Geta were announced in, and greeted with that same muddled roar of praise and disregard. You watched as Geta ate up the attention. You watched as Caracalla fought against it, spitting and arguing with some poor guard in the box. There was something so volatile in the air, as if one wrong move from either of the emperors would unleash havoc. The public was only one excitable realization away from realizing their joined forces could rip the royals from limb to limb. Geta was quick to shift focus to the games, demanding the publics energy be reserved for the battles that were begun, turning the spotlight away from himself. It was a tactical move, but you worried if he and his brother did not change the course of their political actions soon, no amount of pantomime could save them.

Another few swallows of wine helped ease your nerves, all the while. You'd forgotten how on edge the public had only just seemed. You'd been entranced by Geta's presence even from so many miles away. His distraction's had worked wonders on the crowd, his excitable reactions to the winners and losers kept the arena entertained for the better, for now. He kept you entertained all the while. When he would tear his gaze from the games every once and a while, you liked to imagine he was looking for wherever you might've been.

When you wandered off to find more wine, the guard that had been following you stayed back, glued to the battle that was happening. You returned with two cups, to share. The guard tried to deny your kindness but caved with a smile at your insistence to have at least one drink. It was a day of festivities after all. 

"We thought you weren't going to make it!" A voice familiar echoed over your ear. Turning from the view of the battle, you found your friends. You chuckled as you greeted the small brunette, buzzed enough off wine to shrug your nerves away. You couldn't exactly explain how you ended up here, to them. Or how you'd come to dress so finely. But they didn't pester you too much about it, drunk all the same. The girls swarmed you with giggles and hello's and how are you's. 

"Change your mind, have you?" The blonde teased, raising her brow at you. But your mind was too slow to understand why. 

"This is the gate the royals always leave from. Isn't it obvious?" The small brunette pointed, waving her hand to gesture around. When you glanced up, you noticed a particularly increasing population of young women that had begun to collect around the area. Geta always famously exited from this path, and always famously collected a girl or two to follow him back to the royal hall.

"Oh, no, I just sort of-" You stumbled over words, "ended up on this side." How were you to explain this all away? "I actually... should be going now that it's nearing an end. Get home before sun set." This reason sounded good enough in your head to speak aloud, as you began to walk backward, waving to your friends all the while. You spun on your heels, anxious to get away, making up your mind to head home should that be your only sound escape. But you'd barely walked a dozen paces before that guard was gliding close and halting your leave.

"You're not to go. I'm to see you united with her highness when she passes through that exit."

"Is- is that what she ordered?" You asked meekly, looking up to the roman soldier who loomed over you with his bulky build, yet kind eyes. The man did not speak, but lifted a hand to spin you around by the shoulder, placing a gentle palm there to guide you back where you came from. You saw your friends notice, perplexed gaze's settled on your march as you stepped closer to where they'd stayed waiting.

Caracalla was the first one to storm through the arched entrance, scowling at you on his storm toward his chariot. But then, a spectator, too drunk for his own good, began to slur insults to the emperor. The fellow had barely began cursing Caracalla's name, before the ruler stepped close to grab the man by his throat, strong enough to lift him to the tips of his dirty toes. The citizen struggled to breathe, squirming for relief. Caracalla shouted in the man's face, something about knowing better. The ruler let go, the citizen dropped to the floor in a rattled gasp. When Caracalla demanded the guards that followed him, to slaughter the citizen still choking for breath on the ground, you'd had enough.

"Do not do that. Have you such little mercy?" It wasn't to be helped, the way your body and mind worked together to force out a shout. You should have been more afraid of the way Caracalla turned to fix his fiery gaze on you. But rage at the senseless violence was all you could feel. Yet, the guards were already slashing their swords at the belly of the the citizen, so he might suffer still before passing. 

Caracalla stood considering you, longer than you expected. The crowds fell silent, the only noises were the hoarse cries from the dying man. And your heart hammering in place. 

Caracalla moved his look from you, to the guard steady at your side, and back to you. His head shook, and a scoff left his throat. He turned to leave, kicking the man he'd murdered on his exit. Your body shook with panic. Your stomach churned at the realization that you'd escaped yet another royal execution. 

The crowds parted to let Caracalla pass, steering clear of the angry little man. Your friends seemed to think of walking closer to where the guard had stalled you to wait. But their confounded and horrified expressions morphed into something more wonder filled, as their collective eye unfocused from your position. 

You were too busy assessing your friend's questioning gazes to see he'd appeared. But instead, you heard Geta's voice in your ear. 

"I'd say you're lucky he spared you. But I think there are more powerful forces than luck working on your side."  You heard him say. Your friend's gazes had no doubt been locked on the emperor, but soon fell more perplexed onto you, yet again. And then you realized everyone's eyes had shifted to you. The entire crowd that had watched you speak against the vindictive leader just ahead. The same crow that had pushed closer to wait for a scrap of attention from the man that spoke to only you, now, was casting a collective stupefied glare right at you. 

"I'd like to take you away now, but I'll have you wait on my mother. She hasn't stopped bringing up your name since this day has begun." Geta stayed speaking lowly, and you nodded to assure you understood, keeping your nervous gaze cast on the crowd that had fixated their attentions on you. "Do not worry though, tonight we can debrief in more ways than one." 

You had to turn and grin at him then, pleased to see he'd waited to share a smirk with you. He was off no sooner though, parting through the crowd with little acknowledgement their way. Your friends kept their slack jawed gazes set on you as you wondered for a beat about saying something to them. But then Julia was sweeping you away, resting her clutch at the bend of your arm like she'd done before.

They watched you leave, just as everyone had. You shot your friends a quick shrug and an expression you hoped they'd understand meant you'd catch them all up later, if ever you could dream up a good enough fib.

Unlike your journey here, Julia asked all about you on your trek back. You gave thoughtful answers, not daring to spare the truth of your meager life to the woman, but hoping the way you spoke of it would endear you to her somehow. It wasn't like you needed to be adored by Julia. But you did long to be respected in some basic human way, by the royal woman.

///

That evening went on strangely. Caracalla locked himself away in the furthest parts of the halls. No one dared speak about him in his absence. No one had dared to allude to his fury or righteousness at all. Instead, the tone of the evening was rather merry. You shared a meal with a mile long table of strangers, glad all the while to have been welcomed in the celebrations of the day. You gabbed with socialites and senators alike, until one by one they headed for home and bed. Try as you might to take your leave, Julia would not let you. She only kept dragging you from guest to guest to introduce. Until you were the last one standing. Until even Julia had made her exit from the room, Geta too. Leaving you to wait in the parlor until further command. 

A pair of guards stood unmoving near the doors, as you sat at the head of the dirty table. There were plates and glasses and saucers left awry, covered in crumbs for the kitchen maids to come and handle. There was a steady crackling fire on the opposite end of the room. There was wallpaper that didn't put your senses at ease the way the kind in Geta's room often had.

When the sound of the door opening stirred you from blank thoughts, you shifted to stand. Julia was easing into the room, smile and curls soft as ever. Eye's full of a certain kind of knowing. Behind her, Geta followed. His mother spoke your name, as if to grab your attention, as if she didn't already have it. 

"You're not to return home." The woman began, gliding to stall before you. Geta shouldered past her, moving to stand at your side and watching as his mother spoke. "I've noticed you come and go, as I mentioned." Julia went on. "And I've noticed how my son has been less fraught, during the time you've been around. I've heard you speak, and I've seen you command a presence in any room you enter."  

"What are you on about? What is this?" Geta demanded, that brooding gaze of his beginning to darken as understanding evaded him. 

"As good as she has been for you, son, I'm certain she'll benefit our empire just as well." Julia glanced to Geta before her gaze settled unmovably on yours. Your chest filled with the weight of a realization. Your mind buzzed with wonders of her implications. "You will marry in two days time. Enough to spread the news across the public, and plan something grand."

"Marry?" You breathed, feeling your heart hammer in your stomach. 

"You actually don't-" Geta began.

"I actually am watching this empire teeter on the edge of collapse." Julia interrupted Geta, causing his jaw to clench and his brow to darken further than before. "If we do not start moving more intentionally in the direction of change, you and your brother will ruin everything. If you marry this girl, you will marry someone from the very public you've been so often accused of dismissing. This girl is clearly capable of not only earning our family greater public favor. But she would be your bride, and you two together would have a better chance of making sense of this empire than your brother. Caracalla cannot be allowed to overpower your rule, Geta. Do you realize how close that idea is to becoming our reality?" Julia was insistent. "You do not have a choice. This has to happen. For all our fates." She was looking right at you again.

You were shaken, stunned, totally unprepared. Just days ago you were living such a carefree reality, all you knew were paints and pleasure by way of the emperor's hands. But now all of a sudden, all of Rome's fate depended on if you stayed standing here or made a break to sprint for the door.

"Get out." Geta pointed, coldly dismissing his mother. She began to argue back, pleading his name to listen. "Get out! I command it!" Geta was fuming, rage becoming his entire essence. You couldn't help but screw your eyes shut at the boom of his voice. You heard a guard approach to see the royal mother out of the door. She went without a fight, but insisted Geta had no choice, insisting she was already making plans to assure this fate for the both of you. As one guard saw her out of the room, the other followed, leaving you and Geta alone in the room with the ugly wallpaper.

The fire stayed crackling in the corner. The table stayed dirty. Geta began to pace, like he did, hands on his hips, head shaking in an effort to make sense of things. 

"You are quiet." He spoke up, softer than he had spoken all night.

"I am choiceless." You warbled. Hadn't this already happened to you? Hadn't you already been forced to wed a man for the betterment of some kind of future? You thought you'd already paid your dues. You thought freedom was supposed to be promised at some point. You thought you'd had it, just days ago. But even still you were captured by the powers that be. It wasn't like you were opposed to being Geta's bride. But you were rocked to realize it didn't matter what you wanted, in this life. It was just going to keep happening to you, against you, despite you.

You watched as Geta sped up his pace, thinking. His eyes danced as if to keep up with an invisible coming together idea. And then his moving stalled. He rolled his shoulders and let his eyes rake up your figure, like they so often did. Geta's brown stare bore into yours, as if to search for an answer to a question not yet asked.

"You claim to have been born to die." Geta gestured, sauntering closer. "I claim to have been born to rule. But we have failed to consider what there could be to live for. I have reason to believe my answer to living lies within you." His speech was imploring. He meant it. He only ever spoke with authority, by that you weren't surprised. But by his meaning, by the tenderness in it, you were. "As ruler, I shall make the final decision regarding my mother's demands. But... I shall also wait here in silence as you choose your fate. I will command no guard after you should you flee. This time, this wedding, you'll be allowed to choose."

"Should I flee, will there be fines? Will I forever be in your debt somehow?"

"I shall see to it that you owe nothing to this empire if you leave it. But you must leave it entirely, you must go far from here. It's the only way I could make these guarantees."

"Should I stay..."

Geta loomed closer, until his breath fanned across your face. So close you could see the golds speckled across the brown of his eyes. Close enough to kiss.

"I would see to your value." Geta breathed, stalling an inch before you. "Your profile on coins. Your voice heard above others. Your throne... My bed... I'd see to it."

Your heart hadn't stopped pounding since this conversation spun to life. But it beat harder yet, at Geta's tone and implication now.

"Take my hand." Geta held an open face palm before you. "Or turn away." You glanced to the door. 

You considered all that lie beyond it, the quiet, the vastness. The race to the finish line of life would be slow and steady outside these doors. Your freedom would be quiet and lonely. Then you turned to Geta and saw a different kind of future to consider. And then a thought dawned on you. What if the freedom you'd always been in search of, was not just yours alone? What if an entire empires fate had always been pressed into the back of your heart, clear in the front of your mind only now that you understood everything Julia had said. You thought of your latest painting. The one with the sheep and the sunset. You wondered if maybe it was a sunrise all along. 

Your hand flexed, knuckles deciding between clenching and raising up. Until suddenly your palm was in Getas. Until suddenly your fate, and all of Rome's, had been sealed.

///

Part 2 Coming Soon...

[simply-ivanka]

PLEASE REPOST

This is who Tim Walz is.

“Let’s see how weird the Democrats’ new leadership is:

It’s weird that Walz mandated tampons in boys’ bathrooms in Minnesota schools.

It’s weird for the party that promotes itself as the guardian of democracy to install its leaders without an election.

It’s weird that Walz dawdled for three days while Minneapolis burned before calling in the National Guard during 2020’s BLM-antifa riots.

He abandoned the city’s Third Precinct police headquarters when it was overrun and set ablaze.

Walz explained his weird lack of action as a desire not to be “oppressive” to the rioters who had suffered “generations of pain” and “fundamental, institutional racism.”

It’s weird that Walz’s wife kept the windows open “as long as I could” during the riots so she could “smell the burning tires” and savor the historic moment.

It’s weird that Walz let his then-19-year-old daughter leak the National Guard’s deployment plans on Twitter so rioters knew they could keep destroying Minneapolis.

It’s weird that Harris and Walz base their campaign on “freedom” yet he was the most authoritarian governor in the country during the pandemic, ruling by decree for 15 months, enforcing draconian shutdown orders, mask mandates and curfews.

It’s weird that Walz tells Republicans to “mind your own damn business” when he created a COVID telephone “snitch line” so that people could inform on their neighbors who breached his draconian COVID restrictions.

It’s weird that Walz defended censorship of COVID dissenters by telling MSNBC: “There’s no guarantee to free speech on misinformation or hate speech especially around our democracy.”

It’s weird that Walz signed laws allowing teenagers to be sterilized and genitally mutilated without parental consent and called it “gender-affirming care.”

It’s weird that Walz signed into law a new definition of “sexual orientation” that deleted an exemption against pedophilia.

It’s weird that Walz has turned Minnesota into a “trans refuge” with a law that removes children from parents who don’t agree to their kids’ sex-change surgery and hormone treatment.

Even transgender Minnesota state Rep. Leigh Finke called the bill “beautifully weird.”

It’s weird that Walz has turned Minnesota into an “abortion mecca” with no time limit up to the moment of birth and sometimes beyond, and no requirement that minors inform their parents.

It’s weird that Walz is presented as the epitome of decency and “Minnesota nice” and yet the first time he spoke to the nation, he peddled a smutty sex joke about Vance and a couch cushion made up by the bottom feeders of internet trolling.

It’s weird that Walz has visited China about 30 times, including spending his honeymoon there.

“No matter how long I live, I’ll never be treated that well again,” he said after his first visit in 1990.

“They gave me more gifts than I could bring home.” He should compare notes with the Bidens.

It’s weird that Walz and his wife, Gwen, chose June 4 as their wedding date to commemorate the bloody anniversary of China’s brutal crackdown on democracy protesters in China’s Tiananmen Square.

“He wanted to have a date he’ll always remember,” said Gwen.

It’s weird that Walz quit the National Guard when he was about to be deployed to Iraq, then told everyone he had gone to war.

It’s weird that Walz said he wanted to provide ladders to illegal migrants so they could climb over Trump’s border wall.

It’s weird that Waltz says, “One person’s socialism is another person’s neighborliness.”

It’s weird that Harris and Walz claim they are defending “democracy” but he signed a law to give driver’s licenses to illegal aliens, the first step to voting ­illegally in elections.

It’s weird that Walz criticizes Trump for his record on law and order when crime in Minneapolis has soared on his watch.

It’s weird that he poses as a “folksy,” common-sense working man with “Midwestern dad vibes” who hunts and wears camo caps.

Yet he governs like a crazed, green-haired radical, with taxes among the highest in the country and residents fleeing the state as fast as they can.

It’s weird that Walz is a teacher married to a teacher, the son of a teacher and claims education is a priority, yet on his watch, Minnesota students’ average reading and math scores have plummeted to below the national average, according to the National Assessment of Educational Progress.

Despite record spending, for the first time majorities of K-12 students are not meeting grade-level standards, finds the Minnesota Center of the American Experiment.

Minnesota’s CNBC education ranking has dropped from fifth to 19th place in the country since he became ­governor.

It’s weird that Harris has not done a single interview since being appointed the presumptive Democratic nominee for president more than two weeks ago.

It’s weird that she laughs at her own jokes.

In psychology, attributing your own flaws to others is called projection, and Walz and Harris have a bad case of weird.”

[zvaigzdelasas]

[ABC is Private US Media]

Attacks on the international airport in Port-au-Prince generated headlines worldwide. Coordinated assaults on multiple prisons freed thousands of prisoners over the weekend. But all that could be just the beginning of what an increasing number of Haiti experts are openly referring to as a full-blown rebellion against the country's sitting government.

I was speaking to a senior diplomatic official in Haiti on Monday, a very sober and calculated person not prone to hyperbole. In discussing the situation, I used the word "gangs" and he cut me off.

"I would stop using that term if I were you," he said, arguing that gangs are what you find in American cities. In Haiti, there are multiple large criminal groups with enormous firepower, now unified with the stated goal of toppling the sitting government.

"They are armed rebel groups and this is civil war," the source said.[...]

Some 80% of the capital is under gang control, if not more, according to the UN. Those groups have fought each other and the government for years[...]

But things have fundamentally changed in the last month. We will get to the "why" in a moment, but consider the following:

-Haiti's dozens of gangs, largely grouped into two competing alliances, have seemingly set aside their differences and rather than attack each other, are working together to attack the government.

-The gangs are not hiding their goal. It is a change in government. Gang leadership, most notably a man called Jimmy Chérizier, aka Barbecue, has said the fighting won't stop until the unelected acting Prime Minister Ariel Henry is no longer in power. He's called for Henry's arrest.

-The gangs have launched a series of well-planned, massive attacks against key targets around the city. Nearly 30 police precincts have also come under fire, many completely taken over or destroyed. Government buildings have also been attacked, including one just 500 meters from the U.S. embassy. There is random, sporadic violence constantly around the city, but these attacks are strategic and targeted.

As to the why—gangs have long sought to fill a power vacuum left behind when President Jovenel Moïse was assassinated in July 2021. But an inflection point came last month.

Henry, in charge since just a few weeks after Moïse's death, had said he would step down by early February. But then, he changed course. The U.S.-backed Henry said the security situation needed to improve before he could leave and new elections could take place. Last week, he committed only to holding elections in August of 2025, a full 18 months away.

That appeared to be the final straw.

In a way, this gang-fueled violence is the armed manifestation of widespread popular anger against Henry and his government. Ordinary Haitians are furious over the ever-worsening poverty, hunger, and violence we've seen under Henry. He is a near-universally loathed public figure.

It is not hard to find people in Port-au-Prince who fully support the actions taken by the gangs, even if they are terrified that they themselves or their families could be collateral damage.

It is not that most in Haiti support the gangs or the chaos they cause. Far from it. Most despise the death and destruction they’ve wrought in the country. But for now, some feel the gangs are the only group capable of forcing Henry out.[...]

Remember this staggering fact: in this democratic country, there is not one elected leader serving at any level of government anywhere in the country. No elections have been held since 2016.[...]

So the rebellion, the attempted revolution, has begun--alongside the seemingly never-ending suffering of millions of innocents.

6 Mar 24

[matan4il]

Happy Pride month to all Jews and our true allies.

On this occasion, as someone who used to volunteer for the Jerusalem Open House (the gay community center) let me offer you a bit of info about our country's LGBTQ history (and correct some anti-Israel distortions).

This is Chaim (Herman) Cohen.

He was born in Germany in 1911, and came to Israel in 1930, to study torah at a yeshiva here. Inspired by his Jewish studies, he decided to turn to the study of law, returning to Germany for that goal and to get married. In 1933, with the rise of the Nazis to power in Germany, he decided to move to Israel permanently. In that sense, he's considered a refugee and Holocaust survivor. His younger brother Leo was murdered by the Nazis.

In 1950, he was appointed Israel's attorney general. In this role, he came across an anti-sodomy law passed by the British Mandate in 1936 (which prohibited all oral and anal sex, including between two men), and which the State of Israel automatically inherited once it was founded in 1948 (source in Hebrew). First he wanted to cancel it, but his jurisdiction fell short of that. As it was within his authority to instruct the Israeli police and state prosecution to ignore it, he did so in 1953. He explained his instruction:

"I thought it was my duty not to uphold a law, which I saw as immoral. [...] And if you should ask, in what is the immorality of the law prohibiting intercourse between men, I will reply to you that such a law against any consenting and private contact between adults contradicts the freedom of man over his own body, and depriving this freedom is a grave infringement against one of the basic human rights."

For comparison's sake, in March 1952, Alan Turing (who saved countless lives for the UK and the allies during WWII) was brought to trial for homosexual consensual private acts, was convicted, and his security clearance was revoked.

In 1978, a special committee of the Knesset (Israel's parliament) recommended several changes to laws addressing various sexual acts, including a recommendation to cancel this anti-sodomy law. In 1980, Israel's first right wing government, under the leadership of Prime Minister Menachem Begin, accepted the committee's recommendations with a corresponding bill (which eventually didn't pass). The bill was presented a second time in 1986, and was passed into law in 1988, decriminalizing same-sex intercourse in Israel (source in Hebrew).

For comparison's sake, in 1990, there were still over 110 jurisdictions in the world criminalizing homosexuality in the world. In the 2020's, RIGHT NOW, there are over 60 that still do.

This is Dr. Doron Maizel (may his memory be a blessing) on the left, with his partner Adir Steiner.

Doron was an army doctor. He was married to a woman with whom he had 3 daughters, before coming out to her in the late 1970's, getting a divorce and eventually openly moving in with his partner Adir. They were together since 1983. Being open about his sexual orientation meant that while Doron was allowed to serve, the same notion that gay men are a security threat (which was applied to Alan Turing), and therefore can't be allowed to serve in top/secret posts in the army, was to stop the promotion that he was about to get. Doron went to visit Ariel Sharon (at the time, Israel's right wing Security Minister, who's in charge of the army) in the latter's private home. IDK what was said in that meeting, but after that, Adir underwent the security check that all partners of a high ranking army officer do, and then Doron got his promotion. When Doron passed away in 1991 from cancer, Adir demanded to be and was recognized as an army widower. Doron's official army commemoration page states, "Left behind a mother, three daughters, a brother and a boyfriend."

Here's Adir with Doron's picture during a 2012 interview:

In 1993, the army order that were meant to prevent Doron and other gay soldiers from serving in certain posts was officially canceled. In 1999, a soldier born as male asked to serve as a woman, because that's what she actually was (this would have made this soldier's service shorter, and in that sense "cost" the army). The request was accepted, and since then, trans soldiers serve in the gender they identify with.

The story of Israel's LGBTQ rights isn't only glitter and fairies. Just like I can talk about a lot of progress that the state made in equalizing our rights in many domains (because I have), I could also talk about the rights we still don't have (because I've done that, too). The situation here isn't perfect (though as far as I'm aware, it isn't anywhere in the world, there are at least a few rights denied to the queer community in every country I know of). But when I look at our history, I feel like Israel isn't just one of the more queer-friendly countries in the world, it was also at certain moments at the very forefront of the struggle to recognizing queer people as deserving of equal treatment.

Which is maybe the most instinctual reason for my fury at the form of the Israel's demonization using the false notion of "pink washing." It is DERANGED to think Chaim Cohen, in 1953, gave his pro-gay instruction in relation to an occupation that Israel wasn't being blamed of until after the Six Day War in 1967, and which didn't gain attention from the regular people (as opposed to foreign politicians, who didn't give a shit about Israel's record on gay rights) until the Derben Conference in 2000. Not to mention how the idea that having a good gay rights record is something a country can brag about is probably even younger than that conference.

The pink washing accusation is de-humanizing. It suggests that it can't be that Israelis simply have a set of values which happens to align with the west's when it comes to the gay community (or women's rights, or ecological awareness, or freedom of speech, or any of the other positives Israel has, which position it high in the Freedom Index, and which anti-Israel activists label "washing" with one color or another). No, the history of these fields in the Jewish state is all about what non-Jews will say about us! It's like you can't fathom that we have an existence of our own, and minds of our own, and desires and wants and struggles of our own, and not everything is centered about what you think of us.

And the source of this self-centered thinking seems to connect with an inability to accept the Jewish state as anything other than the ultimate evil. Because Israel has to be the supervillain of the story, then it can't have a single positive. Everything about it has to be black, otherwise that challenges the black and white narrative that's been developed to demonize the Jewish state. So if it is revealed that there's any domain in which Israel is actually doing good things, reflecting a respect for human rights or a closeness to the values that the anti-Israel crowd claims to uphold, then it must be just a cover up for how Israel treats the Palestinians.

Essentially, the pink/purple/green/whatever washing accusations are as insane and antisemitic, just like claiming that Jews have won so many Nobel Prizes (a reflection of how much our people have benefited humanity) to distract the world from all the non-Jewish kids we kill to use their blood to bake Passover matzos.

But it's actually worse. Because in the process of demonizing Israel, Israeli Arab and Palestinian queers get thrown under the bus, too. As a gay activist, I'm familiar with so many gay and trans Israeli Arabs who get to have a good life thanks to Israel's good gay rights record, who are aware that if the anti-Israel crowd is successful in de-legitimizing and destroying this state, they're fucked as well. I know a lot of gay and trans Palestinians, who only catch a break when they come to the Jerusalem Open House, or generally to Israel, the only place where they can be themselves safely. I know so many queer Palestinians who are scared for their lives because of the violent intolerance of their own families, society and governments. And all the western countries from which the anti-Israel people come from refuse them entry as refugees persecuted for their sexual orientation (yes, I have gay Palestinian friends who have tried, only to be turned down by country after country, no matter how "liberal" or "pro-Palestinian" they officially claim to be).

Meanwhile, gay Palestinians can get temporary asylum in Israel (please don't tell me it's "pink washing" again, when no one from the anti-Israel crowd will even acknowledge this fact) if they fear for their lives, it's just not a proper solution, because just like Palestinian terrorists can get into Israel, carry out an attack and murder innocent civilians, Palestinian homophobes can get inside as well, and murder the queer people who had fled here.

And just to make reality a tad more complex, you know how for the anti-Israel crowd, the worst of the worst of Israeli society, are the religious ("Fanatic! Extremist! Violent!") settlers? I know of more than one case where those religious settlers are the ones who are helping gay Palestinians, but here's one that made it into the Israeli news.

Life is just not black and white, human nature is complex, Israel is a country where human beings are more than just their stance on the conflict and whether foreigners agree with it or not, and the "pink washing accusation" black and white washes all our colors away, trying to reduce us into caricatures that fit into their simplistic, reductive narrative, so they can go on playing "white/western/outsider savior" to the "poor Palestinians" without actually caring about many of the poorest, most marginalized ones.

This vid isn't a representation of all gay Israeli Arabs, but it's def a voice you will not see acknowledged on the anti-Israel side:

Happy Pride to everyone seeing us, all of us, Israelis and Palestinians, queer and straight, with all of our humanity and complexity!

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[masqueradereveler21]

Hogwarts Legacy Character Sheet - Gwendolen Hughes (EDITED/REVISED)

General Information

Full Name: Gwendolen Eira Hughes

Nicknames: Gwen, The Hero of Hogwarts, The New Fifth Year, Troll Slayer

Gender: Female

Date of Birth: April 26th, 1875

Zodiac Sign: Taurus

Personality Type (MBTI): INTJ - The Architect

Species: Human

Blood Status: Unregistered/Muggleborn (Presumed)

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Nationality: Welsh

House: Slytherin

Wand: Fir Wood, Dragon Heartstring, 12 1/2”, Rigid

Patronus: Stoat

Boggart: The mutilated corpse of Professor Fig; later on changes to Theophilus Harlow

Amortentia: Bread pudding, wax candles, old books, fresh linen

Physical Appearance

Hair Colour & Style: Black; occasionally wears down but is most often seen sporting it braided or in a ponytail.

Eye Colour: Grey

Skin Tone: Olive with golden undertones

Height: 167cm (5’6”)

Weight: 55kg (121 lbs)

Clothing Style: Neat and presentable; favors skirts, ruffled blouses, vests, and heeled boots. Almost never wears her robes. Black painted fingernails.

Personality

Positive Traits: Adaptable, determined, loyal, resilient, compassionate, curious, diligent

Neutral Traits: Independent, reserved, ambitious, rational, observant, competitive

Negative Traits: Arrogant, cunning, stubborn, sarcastic, defiant

Strengths: Capable of thinking outside the box and extremely quick-witted

Weaknesses: Thinks she knows what’s best and struggles to let people in

Likes: Cats, Summoner’s Court, Quidditch, organization, leadership, exploring the highlands, reading, Wizard’s Chess

Dislikes: Spiders, Gobstone’s, dugbogs, failure, laziness, clutter, singing in front of people, dancing

Background and Family

Gwendolen Eira Hughes was born on April 26th, 1875, in Swansea, South Wales, to a mother and father of unknown wizard of heritage. The details of her past are unsure; a carriage accident in her childhood tragically took the lives of her parents and left her with amnesia, leaving doctors and police with only documents to help piece her identity together. Her mother was an English woman named Alice Hedera while her father, Meilyr Hughes, was Welsh. After the accident, Gwen was placed in a Catholic convent where she was given an education but subjected to verbal, mental, and occasionally physical abuse. As she grew older, the convent began placing her into homes with the hope of adopting her out but she was returned each time due to her “poor behavior” and attitude. One of the families she lived with, the Trahernes, began physically abusing her which caused her magic to emerge. In a fit of anger, she caused ivy to grow throughout the entire house, damaging it and leaving the Trahernes with painful rashes. She was promptly returned to the convent and shortly after was visited by Professor Eleazar Fig.

After the events of Repository battle, Gwen’s mental health took a steep decline. The guilt and trauma she felt regarding the deaths of Professor Fig, Lodgok, and many more became too much to bear. She isolated herself within the Room of Requirement until Professor Matilda Weasley coaxed her out and comforted her during the last semester of the school year. After some consideration, Professor Weasley offered to become Gwen’s legal guardian so that she did not have to return to the convent. Gwen was initially hesitant to accept the offer, on account of her previous experiences living with adoptive families, but she eventually accepted after some convincing from Ominis Gaunt. It took a while for both of them to adjust to their new roles; Weasley did not want to overstep her boundaries but also wanted to make sure Gwen was being taken care of and provided for. Gwen kept Professor Weasley at arms length, waiting for the day it became too much and she would give up on her. But with time Gwen came to view Professor Weasley in a more maternal light (the feeling was mutual on Matilda’s end).

Biological Father: Meilyr Hughes (Deceased)

Biological Mother: Alice Hedera (Deceased)

Guardian/Adoptive Parent: Matilda Weasley

Adoptive Uncles: Graham Weasley, Phillip Weasley,

Adoptive Aunts: Dorothy Weasley (née Button), Lydia Weasley (née Hawthorne)

Adoptive Cousins: Theodore Weasley, Oscar Weasley, Garreth Weasley, Florence Weasley, Millicent Weasley, Francis Weasley, Edmund Weasley

Relationships

Love Interest: Ominis Gaunt/Sebastian Sallow…ehh its complicated…

Best Friends: Natsai Onai, Poppy Sweeting, Garreth Weasley, Imelda Reyes, Amit Thakkar

Acquaintances: Nerida Roberts, Grace Pinch-Smedley, Lucan Brattleby, Isaac Cooper, Adelaide Oakes

Rivals: Leander Prewett, Charlotte Morrison, Samantha Dale

Enemies: Ranrok, Victor Rookwood, Theophilus Harlow, Ashwinders

Pets: Vivarium beasts, eleven cats, a barn owl named Minerva

Inspirations

• Katniss Everdeen - The Hunger Games

• Annabeth Chase - Percy Jackson series

• Kat Stratford - 10 Things I Hate About You

• Raven - Teen Titans

• Mikasa Ackerman - Attack on Titan

• Beth Harmon - The Queen’s Gambit

• Artwork done by the incredible @millyillus •

[drdemonprince]

People treat American politics like sports -- and it serves very much the same function as sports. It is a source of constant new content that can be easily analyzed, repackaged, and commented upon by the media class for a profit, distracting the public and manipulating their emotions, often by amplifying fleeting, moment-by-moment shifts that won't actually be consequential.

It also defines the boundaries of American life -- what American culture supposedly is, and what it means to belong to it or to participate meaningfully in it. If you pay too much attention to it, you get to believing that all that matters is who is holding the ball, and you stop forgetting that it's all a game, and that we could all collectively change the rules at any time we wanted.

It's endlessly frustrating to me to see even the people who realize that it's theater get swept up in its ongoing mini-dramas, and take part in endlessly churning content out about it themselves. If you already recognize that the leadership of both parties represent the interests of the ruling class equally, and equally represent police militarization, the national surveillance apparatus, corporate interests, global exploitation, colonialism, and genocide worldwide (and are the source of your own economic and legal oppression, if you're a person living in the country) why would you find a debate between candidates fascinating? Why would you be rooting for one representative of the ruling class to score a dunk on the other on a stage?

I can't think of a worse use of one's time. If you know who your enemies really are, you don't start rooting for one of them simply because you like their plotline better. And if you actually recognize a solidarity between yourself and the people who are constantly having resources extracted from their lands by American companies and who are being killed in Gaza by American-made bombs, then you wouldn't be hoping for the continued existence and prosperity of an America that occasionally does one or two nice things for you to keep you quiet.

If you think that it's the American government that "gives" you the right to get an abortion or to be gay or transgender, then you're always going to be easy to manipulate into compliance. In reality, it is the state that has the power to take your freedom AWAY -- and it does so constantly, with its police-patrolled protest zones, restrictions on healthcare access, prisons, and taxes for bombs.

But if you recognize that no state should have the ability to define how you get to live and who you get to be in the first place, then you'll forever be suspicious of all the little pacifying treats and fleeting distractions that it offers you. You won't feel relieved that at least the person extracting money from your wallet to build Reaper Drones is a woman, this time. And you won't thank her for giving you the abortion pills that are prepared and distributed by workers who live all around you, and who will continue to know how to do that vital work long after the empire is gone.

[amorphousbl0b]

Arcane does a fun thing with its narrative Darkest Hour.

Or: yet another post about how insanely smart this show is and how absolutely genius its writers are (and how jealous of them I am).

For the uninitiated, the Darkest Hour is the moment just before the climax in which the heroes are at their lowest point. When the Avengers are scattered and Loki opens the portal in NYC, when the Falcon has escaped the Death Star but lost Obi-Wan, when the Fire Nation is set to annihilate the Earth Kingdom, when Frodo fails to destroy the Ring at the Crack of Doom. The heroes must confront their flaws and change for the better for a happy ending.

Arcane’s darkest hour is, of course, in Act 3. One might place it at the very end of episode 9, and that’s certainly where the story is at its most hopeless. But I’d contend it starts as early as the end of episode 8 and carries on through the entirety of episode 9.

After all, that’s when Caitlyn and Vi have separated, lost all hope, and Cait is kidnapped by Jinx. Jinx’s mind is fully gone and throughout the episode everything falls apart around her. Silco is losing control of his chembarons and may well have lost his daughter, the thing most precious to him, and is only barely keeping his powerful façade in line. Zaun has realized how ridiculously outmatched they are in a war with Piltover and the revolutionary cause has become almost impossible. Viktor has manslaughtered his assistant and may never be cured. Jayce has manslaughtered a child and finally realizes how quickly he’s losing his morals. Mel and her mother are fully separating and she is struggling with her warlike destiny. Sevika gets the absolute snot beat out of her and limps to an empty office without a boss.

So yeah. Lot of personal Darkest Hours going on.

“But what’s the interesting thing?” I hear you ask in my ear. I don’t know why I hear you. Shut up. I’m writing. Are you even real?

Excuse me.

Arcane’s interesting twist on the Darkest Hour lies in part of the trope that I didn’t mention. That’s in the villain.

Most stories with a clear-cut villain have a plot structure something like this:

Whether things are going well for one side is inversely proportional to the other. During the Darkest Hour, when the hero is at their weakest, the villain is at their most dominant.

Wait… isn’t Silco the villain of Arcane? Not to be too blunt, but he’s having a shit time. Things are falling apart for him just as badly as for everyone else.

That's the trick. Caitlyn and Vi are suffering. Jinx is suffering. Silco is suffering. Jayce is suffering. Viktor is suffering. Zaun as a whole is suffering. There is only one party in the whole story that isn't suffering, that actually is benefitting from this horrid state of affairs...

EKKO AND HEIMERDINGER

Kidding. They're not really a part of this dance. A big part of Arcane's theming is that acting to help people without an agenda is simply more virtuous than fighting for any invariably-flawed nation that innately perpetuates the cycle of violence.

No, the side that is doing fine is the other that is conspicuously absent from my two prior lists. While the characters that make up its leadership are experiencing personal Darkest Hours, the organization itself is essentially on top of the world, having just scored a huge victory and getting set to bring the war to an end before it even begins. I mentioned how poor the situation for the Undercity looks, but not its counterpart.

Piltover.

Wasn't it so that Piltover started this whole mess? Didn't their oppression cause the revolt that orphaned Vi and Powder's parents? Isn't it their actions that drive Silco to ever greater extremes? Isn't it their normalized political backstabbing that causes Jayce to sacrifice his principles because that's the only way to get ahead? Isn't it their corrupt police force that lets Silco operate his drug empire with impunity?

Silco might look the part. He might be the most personally evil character, might be the one who causes the most misery for our main protagonists Vi and Powder.

But structurally, the shining city of Piltover, its political machine, and its Enforcers are the actual villains of Arcane.

[townpostin]

Saraikela-Kharsawan SP Manish Toppo Transferred, Mukesh Lunayat New SP

Mukesh Lunayat appointed as new Seraikela-Kharsawan police chief after just 3 months Frequent changes in leadership raise questions about district administration SARAIKELA – In a surprising move, Saraikela-Kharsawan Superintendent of Police (SP) Manish Toppo has been removed from his post after serving for just three months. Mukesh Lunayat, currently serving as City SP of Jamshedpur, has been…

[mirai-e-jump]

Bakuage Sentai Boonboomger Character Book: Bark out! Get on!

Taiya Hando: He's a deliverer who fights by BoonBoom Changing into BoonRed. He has the belief of never missing a single scream, and the bigger the trouble, the more his mood cranks up. A multi millionaire, he gets whatever he wants by saying "I love it!," and uses his leadership and development skills to lead his friends.

Bundorio Bunderas: He's an alien and former racer. He serves his specialty, curry rice, to his guests and friends. He feels indebted to Taiya, who saved him from a predicament in the past, and supports him as a close friend while staying with him. He's a fan of Belora, the mascot character for Nimaji Tires.

Ishiro Meita: He's an informer who fights by BoonBoom Changing into BoonBlue. He's called "Chasshiro" by his friends. While he normally has a cool attitude, at heart, he's a passionate person and an aquarium meister. He has tremendous faith in Taiya.

Mira Shifuto: She's a driver who fights by BoonBoom Changing into BoonPink. With the intention of "taking the wheel of her own life," she volunteered to become a Boonboomger. Even Taiya recognizes Mira's straightforward and hardworking personality. She works a variety of part time jobs.

Jou Akuse: He's a police officer who fights by BoonBoom Changing into BoonBlack. With no double standards, he has a straight forward personality that's willing to protect even his fellow Boonboomger members. He tries to help out in various ways even on his off duty days, and is well liked by the people of the town.

Genba Bureki: He's a procurer who fights by BoonBoom Changing into BoonOrange. He was happy supporting the Boonboomgers, but Taiya scouted him and he became a member. He gives off a gentle vibe and is dependable. However, he's elusive and full of mystery.

Sakito Homura: He's a cleaner who fights by ByunByun Changing into BoonViolet. He lost his parents at a young age and was on the verge of despair when he met Byun Diesel and went to space. He has a personality that enjoys chaos, and after taking a liking to Taiya, he started to help out the Boonboomgers.

Byun Diesel: A rival alien who once competed with Bundorio in the "Big Bang Grand Prix," a car race held throughout the universe. His nickname is "Byundi." While running a cleaning business in space with his partner Sakito, he worried about how Bundorio was doing.

[embroid-away]

What If: Captain America Were Revived Today? #44 (April 1983) by Peter B. Gillis and Sal Buscema; Original Image by John Romita Sr.

In this What If? Marvel tale, Captain America is unfrozen in 1983 rather than the 1960s. Without the leadership of Steve Rogers, The Avengers disband. Meanwhile, a Captain America imposter, who calls himself a "real American," has decided to use his newfound influential media status to publicly support a National Identity Card to "deal with illegal aliens,” to suggest that members of civil rights groups "ought to think seriously as to whether or not their actions contribute to the strengthening of communist enemies," and declare that if those groups tear the country apart with protests, martial law is justified "for the peace to find a solution.”

Neighborhoods with large black populations (e.g., Harlem) are walled off and forced into poverty, and one character even mentions that Jewish people are being “put back into camps.” The right-wing politicians make sure that things like this aren’t shown on television, keeping the majority of the American public ignorant of the horrors committed with their indifferent support. The public are simultaneously told that with some sacrifices, America can be free once again. The fake Captain America confronts a group of peaceful protestors, and he is shot by a sniper (in what reads like an inside job), allowing the police to have “reason” to attack the protestors. The imposter does not die and instead uses the attack to provide more reason for the violent crackdown against protesting groups.

When the true Captain America is unfrozen, he is horrified to see what America has become, especially with his emblem stamped all over it. He immediately seeks out the resistance forces (who clearly represent the Black Panther Party) and joins their cause, stating that "the wrongs [he's] seen will take much more than one man to right -- but [he's] got a name to clear, a costume to unsoil-- and a country to die for!!"

By the time Steve joins them, the resistance only has one chance left to stop the American downfall: a political convention where the "America First" party will be able to secure its support to sweep the national elections and allow them "to return America to the pure and great nation [the] forefathers envisioned."

The resistance strikes just as the convention begins. The Captain America imposter is no match in a fight against the true Captain America -- especially against a Steve Rogers who's fucking pissed. ("Get up so I can knock you down!!")

With the imposter knocked unconscious, Captain America addresses the convention crowd, warning that an America that does not represent all its people does not deserve to exist at all; that liberty can be "as easily snuffed out [in America] as in Nazi Germany" and "as a people, we are no different from them."

The crowd realizes that the man speaking before them is the true Captain America and cheers. Captain America holds his hand up and silences them, stating that he will not allow them the chance to simply replace one idol with another. He alone can’t undo the horrible damage, and he pleads that there’s still a chance for the people to “find America once again.”

Fascism doesn’t change its tune, just its singers.

A 2021 Marvel Trumps Hate ( @marveltrumpshate ) commission, completed on 22-count aida cloth with embroidery floss and watercolors on a 9" diameter bamboo hoop.

[tacitoru]

pleaser (2) - gojo satoru ; geto suguru

pairing: gojo satoru/reader/geto suguru

summary: You wish someone would have told you how lonely college would be. Classmates and other students outside the newspaper staff keep you at arm's length. People tend to give you a wide berth. It's no big deal - for a journalist, you are laughably not a people person. Small talk makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Relationships are tedious. People are finicky and prone to lying. Unreliable. Getting close to the star players on the university's basketball team was only supposed to be a means to an end. And then it's a little more than that.

rating: explicit (eventual smut)

tw: basketball!au, enemies to lovers, journalism

wc: 4k

ch: 2/5

read on ao3

Then

“Your eyes will get stuck like that.” 

Your editor-in-chief is not at all surprised to find you sulking. Shoulders slumped, arms crossed as you glare petulantly across the foyer of the student union. You don’t play aloof very well.

She stands shoulder to shoulder with you and follows your gaze. 

In the distance, two basketball players donning signature sky blue jerseys draw a crowd near the student government office. They stand out among the sea of milling students like skyscrapers. The swath of unnaturally white - surely he wasn’t born like that? - hair on the tallest one is even less helpful in helping him blend in. A few passerby stutter in their steps trying to catch a glimpse of their faces. The young men have their backs to where the pair of you observe, in the middle of addressing the small audience. A mix of student government and faculty, the source of your ire stands amongst them. Kento Nanami stands at the head of the crowd with his smartphone in one hand and a tape recorder in the other held just slightly above the sea of heads. His blond hair and crisp blue button-up make him easy to pick out from the gang of suits. 

When snark doesn’t draw your full attention, Utahime calls your name instead. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

Furrowing your lips, your frown deepens. “Who the fuck even carries around a real tape recorder anymore? Does he not have the app on his phone?”

Your pseudo-boss shoulder checks you. Never one to miss an opportunity to play morality police. “Don’t be obnoxious,” she admonishes in what you think she thinks is her gentlest tone. “Not everybody has a smartphone.”

“He’s holding one, Utahime,” you snark back. 

The animosity catches you both off guard. You’re not typically one to be confrontational. In all of your years on the university’s newspaper staff, you’d suppose you’re akin to a fly on the wall. A floater, you’ve moved from section to section at the dismissal of the lead editors each year. It wasn’t that you were an incompetent writer so much as it was that no topic seemed to really stick with you. Student leadership wouldn’t let you go if they could help it - it was easier to keep and train staff members than to recruit. But they would never promote you - there was always somebody who fit the bill just a little bit better, who wrote with a little more flare. You were nearing the end of your senior year anyway. It was too late to even consider.

You’ve never really minded - never minded anything at all, really. The fact that almost all of the leadership was a year younger than you. Or the fact that you were consistently assigned fluff writing. That you had been skipped time and time again for any chance at covering anything more important than the carpets in the library being updated from green to gray, or minor changes to a dining hall’s dietary restrictions.

A perfect passive participant on staff, you follow all the rules. Do every story they assign you. More often than not, it’s the ones nobody else wants to bother with. They offer you some sort of loose camaraderie in return; a pat on the shoulder, a lukewarm invite to be a plus one to a holiday party. All of the necessary tools for social survival in college.  The news, cultures, and opinion columns shuffled you around semester by semester like a cumbersome stage prop. Comfortably standing in the shadow of your peers. You never ask for anything.

So you decide to be a little nicer to Utahime, to whom all this attitude must be coming out of left field.  

Never taking your eyes off the crowd, you ask with a little less bite, “Did they tell you when the press conference is yet?”

They , as in the athletics department, had been keeping zip tight on the details of the university basketball team’s newest arrivals since they had touched down in the States over the weekend. The pair of you watch as the shorter one, a young man (albeit still a full head taller than most of his audience) with black gauges and his hair pulled into a bun, delivers a short comment that causes a laugh to ripple through their onlookers. You think you see even Nanami, of all people, crack a smile. It’s hard to tell for sure from this distance.

It wasn’t unusual for the staff on the student newspaper to share tips and ideas or track events on campus together, but it’s irregular for you to be among them. There was no need to ask for help when your stories were practically written out for you. Today however, you had kept a keen eye out for your fellow writers on campus, ear to the ground all morning as you sought out some kind of - any kind of - hook that could solidify your claim to what was sure to be one of the most memorable feature story of the year: the athletics department's annual exchange student program.

“Do they allow players to wear gauges on the court?”

“You’re asking me a lot of questions for somebody that’s not assigned to this beat.” Utahime sighs. The awkward moment rolls off her shoulders with an ease you’re becoming familiar with. “I’m not giving you a press pass.”

“I - okay?” You wilt a little, shoulders slumped as Utahime takes the next question right out of your mouth. “I didn’t even say anything. That’s not even what I asked.”

“You didn’t have to. I can see it all over your face-,” You duck the graze of her knuckle as she moves to brush a faux tear, but the unimpressed look on her face remains. “But no. I haven’t heard anything from the coaches yet.”

You try and fail to hide your disappointment. You refuse to pout in front of your boss. Utahime had a softer spot for you than most of your fellow staff members - as a writer who had been on staff for so long with little to no promotion or department to call home in all four years of your college career, whispers of questions around the validity of keeping you on staff started to circulate well into the winter semester.

“Why were you so interested in doing this feature anyway? I got the feeling you didn’t like writing for this kind of stuff.” You never ask for favors; she tells you as much. “I’m just surprised, is all.” 

From your peripheral, Utahime looks at you curiously, a hand on her chin. Maybe it was because she was a year younger than you, and pitied the disposition she found you in after being elected into the chief position. But even that softness only went so far.

You shake your head, still watching the crowd from across the lobby. The taller basketball player, the white-haired guy, sticks out among the crowd like a dandelion, bending and swaying to an invisible breeze while he crowds into the space of his teammate. You crinkle your nose - his posture is surprisingly terrible.

“Kind of stuff?”

“Y’know, just - sports? Your strong suits have been more like…like, what kinds of water bottles have been popular on campus! Oh, or that listicle you did of all of the best fall-themed soundtracks-,”

“-that we published in the spring -,” 

Utahime waves you off. “That’s not the point.” 

She launches into a reassuring ramble, throwing a hand up when you don’t start to look any more appeased. The motion seems to catch Nanami’s attention from across the foyer’s open floor. He doesn’t crack a smile, but waves at the pair of you with his phone-holding hand, polite as ever. You wave back. When he turns away, your pout melts into a grimace. Tuning Utahime out, your eyes wander back to the head of the crowd, only to choke on your gasp. You’ve also inadvertently caught the attention of one of the exchange students - and he looks pissed . 

From where he stands, the white-haired wonder boy has twisted the whole top half of his body to bless you with the ugliest look of contempt you’ve ever had the displeasure of witnessing in your short life. He only rights himself when his dark-haired teammate corrals his focus back to the congregation ahead of them with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s enough of an interruption to make you turn your whole back on the entire debacle in embarrassment.

Utahima continues to do her best impression of placating you, hands folded above her chest as she pleads. “- And, you know, it would just be a lot easier for everybody, really, to give this to somebody who already knows if players are allowed to wear gauges on the court, and other frivolous shit like that instead of wasting time asking me.”

You make a noise like a laugh through your nose, thinking of what she considers your strong suits. “Okay.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the objects of your interest begin to make their way out of the front of the building, enticing their crowd of university staff and students along with them. An underclassman tries to give the white-haired man a high-five in passing. He dismisses him with a shrug. Your resolve wavers. You follow all the rules. You never ask for anything.

“Look,” Utahime begins in a tone that makes you think uh oh. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a capable writer. I hated turning you down so publicly at the staff meeting, and there’s no doubt that your contributions to the paper have been -,” she searches for a word “- impactful to our student body. But I need somebody who’s going to do this feature, um, quietly. I mean look how much attention those two are drawing and it’s not even time for lunch yet.” 

Two girls run straight into each other, phones clattering to the ground, their eyes glued to the spectacle making its way out of the building. You can’t help but snicker, a little less forlorn. Requesting to cover the feature story for the exchange students had been the first time you had stuck your neck out for yourself, only to be succinctly rejected in front of your peers. Utahime hadn’t even the decency to pretend to hesitate. At least you’re not the only one making a fool of yourself today.

Utahime fixes you with a look that makes you straighten up a little, all business.

“I want to get this right the first time, and it’s already going to be hard between the fangirls, the fanboys , and the limited press access during the season. Can you promise me that you won’t try to butt in?”

In lieu of answering Utahime’s question, you ask, “You’ll let me know when they do, right? When you hear back from them.”

Somehow, she manages to glare harder.

You suck your teeth, sigh, and relent, “I promise.”

The editor-in-chief doesn't look entirely convinced, but the severe expression on her face relaxes nonetheless. “There’s no need to worry,” Utahime’s phone buzzes in her pocket and she turns on her heels as she checks the notification, effectively closing the conversation. “Nanami will do this piece justice.”

The two exchange students stride towards the exit, seemingly now caught up in their own little world as they chuckle amongst themselves, hardly minding the entourage that follows. The afternoon sun floods the glass double doors with a bright light, and you watch after them as they push through. 

“But that’s what I’m worried about,” you mumble, resign, and follow her into the office.

You wish someone would have told you how lonely college would be. 

Classmates and people outside of the newspaper staff tended to keep you at arm's length once they learned of your extracurriculars, mostly for fear of one day seeing themselves among the crisp pages of the biweekly print. It was all in vain; in your four years being juggled between columns, you had never aired out anyone’s dirty laundry. You were diligent in your moral code, however gray. People tended to give you a wide berth nonetheless.

It was no sweat off your back - for a journalist you are laughably not a people person. Small talk made you want to crawl out of your skin. Relationships were tedious. People were finicky and prone to lying. Unreliable. Their stories, however - actually, maybe just as much so, but that was an entirely different thrill. And yet as graduation crept closer, your lackluster portfolio mocked you far worse than your meager contacts list. Submitting job applications felt like shooting blanks at a target while blindfolded. You needed a miracle - and fast. 

It’s just your luck that the evening you are the last to lock up the student newspaper office, two miraculous things happen at once: the lead sports editor forgets his press pass at his desk just as two of Japan’s highest-ranking athletes in men’s college basketball officially announce their transfer to your institution as part of some long-running good-will exchange program.

The first anomaly is sports editor Kento Nanami’s sudden bout of forgetfulness. In his rush to make it to the press conference early, he had left the badge on his desk. You’re nice enough to promise to drop by the auditorium where it’s being held, telling him as much over text. Your peer responds with the same level of dryness you’ve come to associate with him.

Thanks. Read 6:46 PM.

The whole thing already felt like a bad omen.

Enter anomaly number two, the two Japanese exchange students joining your school’s record-holding Division One basketball team for the year. The news had spread like wildfire across the campus of your large liberal arts college before it had even reached the newspaper. It was never a matter of why the exchange program was happening.

The university boasted an extremely impressive men’s basketball team that dominated the American college league in every sense of the word. Armed with a history of individuals who went on to become some of the highest-paid athletes in the NBA and a team of coaches with a tremendous wealth of experience, your sleepy liberal arts school has made a name for itself in the world of college-level athletics. It was inevitable that other institutions would want a piece of the pie, and Tokyo University had long established their in.

It was never a matter of why, but who.

They’re gorgeous. Inarguably so. A pair of athletes in a league of their own amongst their peers both in the States and on their home turf, both parties of which you’ve witnessed trip over themselves in a clumsy dichotomy of disdainful and overbearing eagerness already in the short time you’ve spent observing the team. Youthful, dripping raw athleticism, handsome beyond words, and worst of all, they know it - the smarmy one with shocking white hair tells you as much when you meet for the first time in the elevator.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Satoru Gojo had every right to be brash and vainglorious. More popularly referred to by his last name, the famed shooting guard from Kyoto boasts an impressive track record under his belt, stats that put even the shiniest American college basketball players to shame. His inhuman height and athleticism make him a living nightmare to oppose. The strongest , the tabloids and play-by-play sports podcasts had labeled him. Even Nanami, of all people, had described him as a monster on the court. The lead sports editor is not the type to give compliments lightly - if that could even be considered one. But if Satoru Gojo is scary on paper, he’s fucking terrifying in person.

Heat crawls up your neck, and spills onto your cheeks, your gaze quickly returns to the floor. “Sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed. Without even having introduced yourself, you’ve somehow managed to tick him off twice in the span of a few days. 

It seems as though the universe has a sense of humor tonight. You had rushed across campus to the auditorium, press pass held in your iron-fisted grip in an attempt to beat the clock. Only to end up in the elevator crammed between the very two people you’d been hoping to catch a glimpse of on your way out. While you had been hoping for some sort of miracle to be tossed your way, this..this was…

Caught off guard and underprepared, you feel brittle like a leaf in the wind under the shared weight of their gaze. Later, when you playback the recording on your phone in your pocket, you pretend not to notice when you hear your voice shake.

Suguru Getou, the other exchange student and equally formidable athlete, admonishes his teammate softly. The one who, now that you’re standing close enough to confirm, does indeed wear black gauges. His hair is loose from its bun today, inky locks tossed carelessly over one shoulder.  They both don the university’s signature jerseys once again, the cleanest they’ll probably be all season. “Satoru, please.” 

Satoru . You make note of the use of his given name, spoken gently and laced with amusement, like a parent scolding a wayward child.

You might almost believe Suguru to be sympathetic if he also didn’t look one slick comment away from laughing at your discomfort. 

“What?” His teammate flat-out whines, having complete disregard for politeness - and personal space, apparently. He reaches over and flicks the piece of plastic clutched in your hand suddenly enough that it makes you flinch.

“Ain’t this a press pass? I’m just sayin’. They’ve got, like, a whole hour to do this shit.” Gojo gripes, scratching his head. In perfect English, they talk around you. Over you, like you’re just some physical inconvenience in the middle of a conversation they were already having. You probably are. Recognizing this doesn’t make your heart race any slower.

Out of the corner of your eye, the elevator ticks closer to the mezzanine floor, where you know Kento is waiting for you. This is your chance, this is your chance!

Like an idiot, you stumble over your words, trying for something between a convincing protest and solid introduction, quickly shoving the pass into the pocket that’s empty. “No, not all! Um, actually, I did have a few-,”

The elevator dings, announcing your arrival. Internally, you swear. Twice your build and stature, Gojo shoulders you on the way out without a second glance, nearly rocking you off of your feet.  Over his shoulder, he wags his finger at you. “Ah, ah, no head starts.”

Suguru is at least polite enough to offer a smile, albeit one you can’t determine if it's sympathetic or pitiful. He gives you a once over, so quickly you might have imagined it. “Good luck out there.”

Stepping out into the hall, you watch half-stunned as the two teammates swagger in the opposite direction of your destination, off to where you assume their coach and athletic staff await. 

Could you have possibly fumbled the ball any harder? You fiddle with your phone on the way to where Kento said he was last sitting, pausing your recording.  Fumble? No, that’s football. What’s the basketball equivalent..?

Your colleague paces anxiously in the top row of the mezzanine, waiting for you to pass off his badge. If you had been paying close enough attention, you might even say he was nervous for once. Any other day, that’d be something you’d revel in. But tonight, caught up in your train of thought, you miss the look that crosses his face when you hand him the press pass without so much as a greeting. 

“Are you okay?” He asks warily, more so out of obligation than kindness. You remember with stark clarity where he had been sitting at the staff meeting when Utahime rejected your request to cover the story - his stoic, unflinching expression when she announced it had been assigned to him. You had hardly been able to look him in the eye since. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What do you call a fumble in basketball?”

Kento goes from overly cautious to puzzled. “...A fumble?”

“Ah.”

From where the pair of you stand at the height of the auditorium, the press gathered on the lower level look like a hungry, writhing mob. You observe them as they prepare for your esteemed guests, each armed with microphones and totting cameras with flash attachments the size of your fist. They face a backdrop littered with sponsorship logos, two seats, and an unimpressive table decorated in your school’s colors and laden with more microphones.

Kento moves to head to the elevator, only to hesitate at your contemplative look.

“Does this…” he sighs and starts over, fiddling with the pass slung around his neck. “I can’t bring you with me down there.”

“I know.”

“Or to any of the games.”

“I know.”

“Or interviews.”

You glance up, facing him full-on for the first time in days. Scanning his features for any sign of mockery. “...Okay.”

“But between this and the rest of the sports for this season, I’ve got my hands full.” On stage, the head coach appears to greet the slew of reporters, thanking them for coming out tonight. He begins to say a few words about the exchange students and the history of the exchange program. Kento’s eye twitches - you can feel him getting antsy. “I’m fine taking notes, but I could use some help with the drafting.”

A feeling wells up inside your chest. Amid all of the dejection, the disappointment, the worry - a glimmer of hope had appeared. Somebody was finally giving you a chance.

He offers his hand but you’re slow to take it. Eyes narrowed, you tell him rather than ask, “And I get credit.”

“Partial,” he acquiesces. “And we’ll be on the front page.”

The clamor beneath you begins to grow louder, and your colleague lurches back like he’ll jump over the balcony if that's what it will take to make it down there on time. Steel-eyed, you snatch Kento’s hand in yours before he can take anything back. 

“Deal.”

The crowd below you erupts into a thunderous roar of cheers. 

<< prev.

[zvaigzdelasas]

"Why doesn't Hamas just have elections?'

The result was a victory for Hamas, contesting under the list name of Change and Reform, which received 44.45% of the vote and won 74 of the 132 seats, whilst the ruling Fatah received 41.43% of the vote and won 45 seats.[1][...]

In the lead-up to the elections, on 26 September 2005 Israel launched a campaign of arrests against PLC members. 450 members of Hamas were detained, mostly those involved in the 2006 PLC elections. The majority of them were kept in administrative detention for different periods.[19] In the election period, 15 PLC members were captured and held as political prisoners.[20]

During the elections, the Israeli authorities banned the candidates from holding election campaigns inside Jerusalem. Rallies and public meetings were prohibited. The Jerusalem identity cards of some PLC members were also revoked.[21] The Carter Center, which monitored the elections, criticised the detentions of persons who "are guilty of nothing more than winning a parliamentary seat in an open and honest election".[22][...]

On 21 December 2005, Israeli officials stated their intention to prevent voting in East Jerusalem, which, unlike most of the Palestinian-inhabited areas that are planned to participate in the election, is under Israeli civil and military control. (Israel annexed East Jerusalem in the wake of the Six-Day War; this move has not been recognized by most other governments, or by the PNA, which claims Jerusalem as a Palestinian capital.) Israel's stated motivation was not the argument about sovereignty over the area (Palestinian voters in East Jerusalem had been allowed to vote in previous PNA elections despite the dispute) but concern over Hamas' participation in—and potential victory in—the election.[...]

The Israeli police arrested campaigners of Hamas and closed at least three Hamas election offices in East Jerusalem during the campaign.[26][27][...]

On 29 March 2006 a new government was formed by Hamas leader Ismail Haniya.

After the kidnap of Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit on 25 June 2006, Israel launched a series of raids into Gaza and West Bank. Israel destroyed civilian infrastructure and arrested dozens of Hamas supporters, including elected cabinet ministers and members of the PLC. On 28 June overnight, the army invaded Gaza and performed airstrikes, bombing infrastructure such as bridges and an electricity station. On 29 June, the IDF detained from the West Bank 8 ministers and 26 PLC members in addition to many other political leaders.[19][41] By August 2006, Israel had arrested 49 senior Hamas officials, all from the West Bank, including 33 parliamentarians, "because technically they were members of a terrorist organisation although they may not be involved in terrorist acts themselves". Most of the Hamas detainees were moderate members from the West Bank who had been calling on the Gaza leadership to recognise Israel and make the party more acceptable to the international community. Hamas has accused Israel of trying to destroy the Hamas-led Palestinian Authority.[42][...]

On 28 January 2006, Israel said it would prevent Hamas leaders, including newly elected PLC deputies, from travelling between the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. On 29 January, Ehud Olmert said that after Hamas sets up a Government, Israel would stop transferring to the PA custom duties and taxes it had collected on their behalf until it was satisfied that they would not end up in the hands of "terrorists". US Secretary of State Rice declared that "The United States wants other nations to cut off aid to a Hamas-led Palestinian Government, also ruling out any US financial assistance to a Hamas Government." [45] On 17 February, one day before the new parliament was sworn in, the then Fatah-led government returned $50 million US aid that Washington did not want to come in the hands of the new government. The money had been intended for infrastructure projects in Gaza.[46][...]

Just before the January 2006 elections, and after witnessing Hamas' gains in municipal polls, the House of Representatives passed H.Res. 575 (December 16, 2005), asserting that terrorist groups, like Hamas, should not be permitted to participate in Palestinian elections until such organizations "recognize Israel's right to exist as a Jewish state, cease incitement, condemn terrorism, and permanently disarm and dismantle their terrorist infrastructure."[54] The Palestinian Authority chose to ignore this external decision[...]

The New York Times reported in February 2006 that "The United States and Israel are discussing ways to destabilize the Palestinian government so that newly elected Hamas officials will fail and elections will be called again. The intention is to starve the Palestinian Authority of money and international connections to the point where, some months from now, its president, Mahmoud Abbas, is compelled to call a new election."[56] Just how much further matters would be taken was revealed in April 2008. Tom Segev (in Ha'aretz) reported:

a "confidential document, a 'talking points' memo,[57] was left by the U.S. consul general in Jerusalem, Jake Walles, on the desk of Mahmoud Abbas . … According to the paper left behind … he wanted to pressure Abu Mazen to take action that would annul the outcome of the elections that had catapulted Hamas to power. … When nothing happened, Walles … warned the Palestinian president that the time had come to act. Instead, Abu Mazen launched negotiations with Hamas on the establishment of a unity government. … At this point the Americans moved to "Plan B." That was a plan to eliminate Hamas by force. In fact, it was to be a deliberately fomented civil war Fatah was supposed to win, with U.S. help."[58][...]

Vanity Fair has obtained confidential documents, since corroborated by sources in the U.S. and Palestine, which lay bare a covert initiative, approved by Bush and implemented by Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and Deputy National Security Adviser Elliott Abrams, to provoke a Palestinian civil war. The plan was for forces led by Dahlan, and armed with new weapons supplied at America's behest, to give Fatah the muscle it needed to remove the democratically elected Hamas-led government from power. (The State Department declined to comment.) Some sources call the scheme "Iran-contra 2.0," recalling that Abrams was convicted (and later pardoned) for withholding information from Congress during the original Iran-contra scandal under President Reagan. There are echoes of other past misadventures as well: the C.I.A.'s 1953 ouster of an elected prime minister in Iran, which set the stage for the 1979 Islamic revolution there; the aborted 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion, which gave Fidel Castro an excuse to solidify his hold on Cuba; and the contemporary tragedy in Iraq.[59]

The Jerusalem Post confirmed that the documents cited by Vanity Fair "have been corroborated by sources at the US State Department and Palestinian officials", and added:

The report said that instead of driving its enemies out of power, the US-backed Fatah fighters inadvertently provoked Hamas to seize total control of the Gaza Strip in June 2007. David Wurmser, who resigned as Vice President Dick Cheney's chief Middle East adviser a month after the Hamas takeover, said he believed that Hamas had no intention of taking over the Gaza Strip until Fatah forced its hand. "It looks to me that what happened wasn't so much a coup by Hamas but an attempted coup by Fatah that was preempted before it could happen," he was quoted as saying. Wurmser said that the Bush administration engaged in a "dirty war in an effort to provide a corrupt dictatorship [led by Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas] with victory." Wurmser said he was especially galled by the Bush administration's hypocrisy. "There is a stunning disconnect between the president's call for Middle East democracy and this policy," he said. "It directly contradicts it.".[60][...]

The original article was cited by the Irish Times, the Israeli historian and political analyst, Tom Segev, in an article entitled "Bay of Pigs in Gaza", and also by Suzanne Goldenburg of The Guardian, who added "A state department memo put the cost for salaries, training and weapons at $1.27bn (£640m) over five years."[50]

The 2008 exposé by Vanity Fair (of plans to reverse the democratic 2006 PA parliamentary elections) confirmed a CF Report of January 2007, over a year earlier, by Alistair Crooke:

Deputy National Security Advisor, Elliott Abrams ... has had it about for some months now that the U.S. is not only not interested in dealing with Hamas, it is working to ensure its failure. In the immediate aftermath of the Hamas elections, last January, Abrams greeted a group of Palestinian businessmen in his White House office with talk of a "hard coup" against the newly-elected Hamas government — the violent overthrow of their leadership with arms supplied by the United States. While the businessmen were shocked, Abrams was adamant — the U.S. had to support Fatah with guns, ammunition and training, so that they could fight Hamas for control of the Palestinian government.

Over the last twelve months, the United States has supplied guns, ammunition and training to Palestinian Fatah activists to take on Hamas in the streets of Gaza and the West Bank. A large number of Fatah activists have been trained and "graduated" from two camps — one in Ramallah and one in Jericho. The supplies of rifles and ammunition, which started as a mere trickle, has now become a torrent (Haaretz reports the U.S. has designated an astounding $86.4 million for Abu Mazen's security detail), and while the program has gone largely without notice in the American press, it is openly talked about and commented on in the Arab media. Of course, in public, Secretary Rice appears contrite and concerned with "the growing lawlessness" among Palestinians, while failing to mention that such lawlessness is exactly what the Abrams plan was designed to create."[61]

Voice of America reported that the Bush administration had denied the Vanity Fair report.[62]

In 2016 a 2006 audio tape emerged that contains an interview by Eli Chomsky of the Jewish Press with Hillary Clinton. Clinton opined that pushing for elections "in the Palestinian territories ... was a big mistake", adding "(a)nd if we were going to push for an election, then we should have made sure that we did something to determine who was going to win."[63][...]

In June 2007 the Washington Post reported: "Hamas … leaders have accused Fatah's security services of working on behalf of Israeli and American interests because of a $40 million U.S. aid package to strengthen Abbas's forces. … The Israeli government has openly supported Fatah forces against Hamas, whose tightening control of Gaza alarmed Israeli defense officials.[67]

In a wikileaks cable dated 13 June 2007, Shin Bet security chief Yuval Diskin told U.S. Ambassador to Israel Richard Jones that: "Fatah had thus turned to Israel for help in attack Hamas", which he termed a new and unprecedented development in Jerusalem's relations with the Palestinian Authority.

In the cable sent to Washington, Jones said that Yadlin had been quite satisfied with Hamas' seizure of the Gaza Strip. If Hamas managed to take complete control then the Israel Defense Forces would be able to relate to Gaza as a hostile territory and stop looking at the militant group as an undiplomatic player, Yadlin apparently told Jones."[68]

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Rachel Leingang at The Guardian:

To hear Donald Trump tell it, America’s cities are in dire shape and in need of a federal intervention. “We’re going to rebuild our cities into beacons of hope, safety and beauty – better than they have ever been before,” he said during a recent speech to the National Rifle Association in what has become a common refrain on the campaign trail. “We will take over the horribly run capital of our nation, Washington DC.” Trump has for years railed against cities, particularly those run by Democratic officials, as hotbeds for crime and moral decay. He called Atlanta a “record setting Murder and Violent Crime War Zone” last year, a similar claim he makes frequently about various cities.

His allies have an idea of how to capitalize on that agenda and make cities in Trump’s image, detailed in the conservative Project 2025: unleash new police forces on cities like Washington DC, withhold federal disaster and emergency grants unless they follow immigration policies like detaining undocumented immigrants and share sensitive data with the federal government for immigration enforcement purposes.

Project 2025’s Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise, an extensive document breaking down each part of the federal government and recommending changes to be made to advance rightwing policy, was created by the Heritage Foundation, with dozens of conservative organizations and prominent names contributing chapters based on their backgrounds. This part of the project is another Republican attempt at a crackdown on so-called “sanctuary” cities, places around the country that don’t cooperate with the federal government on enforcing harsh immigration policies.

[...]

The threat of withholding federal funds

Republicans, cheered on by Trump, have worked to make immigration a key issue in cities across the country by busing migrants from the US-Mexico border inland, to places run by Democrats like New York, DC and Chicago, overwhelming the social safety net in these cities. The idea of using federal funds granted by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (Fema) to force immigration changes are included in a chapter about the Department of Homeland Security, written by Ken Cuccinelli, Trump’s former deputy secretary of homeland security.

The chapter’s initial recommendation is to dismantle DHS entirely, create a border-focused agency comprised of other immigration-related organizations and farm out the rest of its components to existing agencies (or privatize them, in the case of the Transportation Security Administration). It’s not directly clear whether the aim is to use all Fema funds – including those that help cities and states in the immediate aftermath of an emergency like a tornado or flood – or large grant programs for things like emergency preparedness. One line in the chapter says “post-disaster or nonhumanitarian funding” could be exempt from the immigration policy requirements. The chapter also suggests that cities and states should take on more of the burden of financially responding to disasters.

[...]

One of the conditions Project 2025 suggests is requiring states or localities to share information with the federal government for law and immigration enforcement, and specifies that this would include both department of motor vehicle and voter registration databases. This is of particular interest in many cities because 19 states and Washington DC allow undocumented people to get drivers licenses, the Niskanen Center, a thinktank that delved into the project’s immigration aims, points out. These licenses help with public safety by decreasing the potential for hit-and-runs and increasing work hours, among other benefits, the center writes. If a city or state is forced to choose between issuing licenses and then sharing this information for use by immigration authorities, or accessing emergency funds for their whole population in a crisis, it’ll be tough for them to deny Fema money, said Cecilia Esterline, an immigration research analyst at the Niskanen Center.

Donald Trump’s war on urban cities is part of the wretched far-right Project 2025 plan, including crackdowns on sanctuary cities.

See Also:

The Guardian: What is Project 2025 and what does it have to do with a second Trump term?