#privatized institutionalized slavery

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Thinking about companions (/workers/boxies) who are deemed un-refurbishable/no longer fit for external service being used as whipping boys for new trainees. It doesn't work in every case (sometimes you brainwash out the empathy, amiright?) but when it does, new companions have higher contract values because they are unmarked and unfit companions still have purpose from driving that value.

bonus: as part of punishments, a trainee is responsible for caretaking of their whipping boy after.

[fatehbaz]

When you tag things “#abolition”, what are you referring to? Abolishing what?

Prisons, generally. Though not just physical walls of formal prisons, but also captivity, carcerality, and carceral thinking. Including migration prevention and barriers to mobility; detention; national borders; indentured servitude; inability to move due to, and labor coerced through, debt; police and policing; de facto imprisonment and isolation of the disabled and medically pathologized; privatization and enclosure of land; sacrifice zones at the periphery; the urge to punish; categories of “criminality"; (and nationalism, rent, debt, capitalism, plantation monoculture, of course); etc.

In favor of other, better lives and futures.

Specifically, I am grateful to have learned from the work of these people:

Katherine McKittrick on imaginative geographies; emotional engagement with place; legacy of imperialism/slavery in conceptions of physical space and in devaluation of other-than-human lifeforms; legacies of racism/imperialism in academia and the sciences; escaping enclosure; plantation “afterlives” and how plantation logics continue to thrive in contemporary structures/institutions like debt colonies, workplace environments, prisons, etc.; a range of rebellions through collaborative acts, refusal of the dominant order, and subversion through joy and autonomy.

Ruth Wilson Gilmore on “abolition geography”.

Macarena Gomez-Barris on landscapes as “sacrifice zones”; people condemned to live in resource extraction colonies deemed as acceptable losses; place-making and ecological consciousness; and how “the enclosure, the plantation, the ship, and the prison” are analogous spaces of captivity.

Liat Ben-Moshe on disability; informal institutionalization and incarceration of disabled people through physical limitation, social ostracization, denial of aid, and institutional disavowal; and "letting go of hegemonic knowledge of crime”.

Achille Mbembe on co-existence and care; "necropolitics" and bare life/death; historical evolution of chattel slavery into contemporary institutions through control over food, space, and definitions of life/land; the “explicit kinship between plantation slavery, colonial predation, and contemporary resource extraction” and modern institutions.

Sylvia Wynter on the “plot against the plantation”; "plantation archipelagos"; the “revolutionary demand for happiness”; "secretive histories"; the remaking of the planet after Portuguese/Spanish plantation agriculture colonies from 1450s to 1490s cemented slavery and race in European practice in ways that infected discourses, sciences, institutions, ways of thinking.

Robin Maynard on "generative refusal"; solidarity; shared experiences among homeless, incarcerated, disabled, Indigenous, Black communities; to "build community with" those who you are told to disregard in order "to re-imagine" worlds; envisioning, imagining, and then manifesting those alternative futures which are "already" here and alive.

Elizabeth DeLoughrey on indentured labor; the role of plants, food, and botany in enslaved and fugitive communities; the nineteenth-century British Empire's labor in the South Pacific and Caribbean; the twentieth-century United States mistreatment of the South Pacific; the legacy of race/empire in academia and the sciences; panoptic imperial vision through cartography and aerial surveillance; and the role of tropical islands as "laboratories" for profit-oriented planting and isolated open-air prisons for Britain and the US.

AM Kanngieser on "deep listening"; “refusal as pedagogy”; and “attunement and attentiveness” in the face of “incomprehensible” and immense “loss of people and ecologies to capitalist brutalities”.

Stefano Harney and Fred Moten on “the undercommons”; fugitivity; dis-order in academia and institutions; and sharing of knowledge; refusal; practice.

Lisa Lowe on "the intimacies of four continents" and how British politicians and planters feared that official legal abolition of chattel slavery would endanger Caribbean plantation profits, so they devised ways to import South Asian and East Asian laborers.

Ariella Aisha Azoulay on “rehearsals with others’.

Phil Neel on p0lice departments purposely targeting the poor as a way to raise municipal funds; the "suburbanization of poverty" especially in the Great Lakes region; the rise of lucrative "logistics empires" (warehousing, online order delivery, tech industries) at the edges of major urban agglomerations in "progressive" cities like Seattle dependent on "archipelagos" of poverty; and the relationship between job loss, homelessness, gentrification, and these logistics cities.

Leniqueca Welcome on Caribbean world-making; "the apocalyptic temporality" of environmental disasters and the colonial denial of possible "revolutionary futures"; limits of reformism; "infrastructures of liberation at the end of the world."; "abolition is a practice oriented toward the full realization of decolonization, postnationalism, decarceration, and environmental sustainability."

Tim Edensor on urban "ghosts" and “industrial ruins”; "haunting" in debris; searching for the “gaps” and “silences” in the official narratives of nations/institutions, to pay attention to the histories, voices, lives obscured in formal accounts.

Alison Mountz on migrant detention; "carceral archipelagoes"; and the “death of asylum”.

Ann Laura Stoler on "imperial debris" and ruination; haunting and "living in (postcolonial) ruins"; "imperialist nostalgia" and European leisure tourism as a form of intellectual/immaterial colonization related to the nineteenth-century "salvage" mission of colonial/imperial ethnography.

Elizabeth Povinelli on "geontopower"; imperial control over "life and death"; how imperial/nationalist formalization of private landownership and commodities relies on rigid definitions of dynamic ecosystems.

Pedro Neves Marques on “one planet with many worlds inside it”; “parallel futures” of Indigenous, Black, disenfranchised communities/cosmologies; and how imperial/nationalist institutions try to foreclose or prevent other possible futures by purposely obscuring or destroying histories, cosmologies, etc.

Peter Redfield on how metropolitan residents try to hide slavery and torture/punishment on the periphery of Empire; early twentieth-century French penal colony in tropical Guiana/Guyana; the torture of the prison relies on the metropolitan imagination's invocation of exotic hinterlands and racist civilization/savagery mythologies.

Iain Chambers on racism of borders; obscured and/or forgotten lives of migrants; and disrupting modernity.

Kodwo Eshun on African cosmologies and futures; “the colonial present”; and imperialist/nationalist use of “preemptive” and “predictive” power to control the official storytelling/narrative of history and to destroy alternatives.

Megan Ybarra on place-making; "site fights"; solidarity and defiance of migrant detention; and geography of abolition/incarceration.

Sophie Sapp Moore on resistance, marronage, and "forms of counterplantation life"; "plantation worlds" which continue to live in contemporary industrial resource extraction and dispossession.

Deborah Cowen on “infrastructures of empire and resistance”; imperial/nationalist control of place/space; spaces of criminality and "making a life at the edge" of the law; “fugitive infrastructures”.

Jasbir Puar on disability; debilitation; how the control of fences, borders, movement, and time management constitute conditions of de facto imprisonment; institutional control of illness/health as a weapon to "debilitate" people; how debt and chronic illness doom us to a “slow death”.

Dixa Ramirez D’Oleo on “remaining open to the gifts of the nonhuman” ecosystems; hinterlands and peripheries of empires; attentiveness to hidden landscapes/histories; defying surveillance; and building a world of mutually-flourishing companions.

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson on reciprocity; Indigenous pedagogy; abolitionism in Canada; camaraderie; solidarity; and “life-affirming” environmental relationships.

Anand Yang on "forgotten histories of Indian convicts in colonial Southeast Asia" and how the British Empire deported South Asian political prisoners to the region to simultaneously separate activists from their communities while forcing them into labor.

Avery Gordon on haunting; spectrality; the “death sentence” of being deemed “social waste” and being considered someone “without future”; "refusing" to participate; "escaping hell" and “living apart” by striking, squatting, resisting; cultivating "the many-headed hydra of the revolutionary Black Atlantic"; alternative, utopian, subjugated worldviews; despite attempts to destroy these futures, manifesting these better worlds, imagining them as "already here, alive, present."

Kanwal Hameed and Katie Natanel on "liberation pedagogy"; sharing of knowledge and subversion of colonial legacy in universities; "anticolonial feminisms"; and “spaces of solidarity, revolt, retreat, and release”.

[whumpsoda]

WSFSP - “That’s all I am”

Masterlist

This takes place pretty far in their recovery!

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, multiple whumpees, arguing, blood mention

——————

“Graham.”

Every slice of carrot cut through, the knife hit a grunt against the cutting board. “Mm?”

Wesley held his arms crossed, rubbing at the fuzz of his sweater. “Can I talk to you? Please?” Graham did his best not to fall for the eyes he would always use on their master, pleading and doe like. Trained yet mesmerizing.

“Sure.” He shrugged, sticking his gaze to the task at hand.

Wesley sighed, as if he had a reason to. “Not… right here. In private.” He mumbled, face scrunching up in a wad.

“Well, I’m making dinner.”

From the corner of his vision, Graham caught as Wesley’s expression angered. “Why are you… being so weird? About my hair?” Gripping the edge of the countertop, he did his best to get in Graham’s face, bangs freshly cut and no longer falling into his hard gaze.

Graham sighed this time, nearly slicing through his thumb. “It looks good, okay? I already told you I like it.”

“Yeah, I know Graham, that’s not what I’m asking about and you know it.” He scoffed, before softening, just a smidge. “Are you… mad at me?”

“No I’m-,” his mouth twitched downward. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“If I could be there when you did it. If I could help.” Then he looked up, hazel eyes meeting brown. “You only ever ask her anymore.”

“I- I mean-,” Wesley spoke with his hands, just a little, before swiping one through his hair, “that’s just how it happened. I didn’t plan it or anything. I just wanted to.”

Chop, chop, chop. “Yeah, but you didn’t think of me at all. You never do anymore. You only think about her, all of the time, like she would get you. Like she knows what you have been through.”

“She literally does!” Wesley huffed a chuckle, arms out wide in disbelief.

“You know what I mean.”

He bit his lip, eyes growing moist. He always cried when he was angry. “Graham, our time with sir was completely different!”

“She doesn’t know you like I do!”

A slice of pain, a drool of red.

Wesley gasped. “Oh, Graham-,”

“I’m fine.” He snapped, reaching for a paper towel.

Wesley crossed around the tight kitchen, arms out and ready. “Let me help-,”

“I’m fine!”

Wesley stumbled back, hand on his chest at the place of impact. It wasn’t a real shove, but enough that it was a stinging shock to the both of them.

Wesley laughed then, quick and low. “I, I thought you were supposed to protect me, huh? Now you’re just gonna shove me around?”

“Well I’m not your fucking- your stupid puppy anymore, okay?” Graham growled, shaking his head and cradling his bleeding finger with a quivering hand.

“So then why are you acting like one trying to follow me everywhere, try- trying to be there for my every move? Being all needy?”

“Because-!” Pounding his fist to the wood, Graham roared, “Beacause I have to! You just don’t get it!”

Wesley’s voice lost it’s edge then, begging, “Then make me get it, Graham.”

“I…,” he swallowed, pausing, brain turning, “It feels like my head is going to- to fucking explode whenever I don’t know where you are because, like, what if you’re hurt or someone’s hurting you, and I hate it because I know you hate it and I just want to be me but my whole life revolves around you-,”

“But, Graham, I just-,” he sputtered a laugh, sour, “I thought you were past all of this, y’know, ‘cause you’re you, and we’re apart all the time now I… I thought you were fine.”

Graham hung his head. “Yeah… I lied. I did. I’m sorry.”

You are nothing without someone to serve.

His expression hardened, grip on his finger twisting. “I am nothing without someone to serve.”

Wesley grazed his arm, yet Graham yanked back. “Don’t- don’t say that-,”

Shaking his head, Graham clenched his fists to his side. “It is true, Wesley. Tell me one thing about me that’s not pet related. One thing.”

One second Wesley’s mouth fell wide, before it snapped shut. “Hey, that, that’s not-,”

“You can’t. Okay, Wesley?”

All you are is some stupid, loyal mutt.

“That’s all I am.”

Wesley’s brown eyes were filled with a moist redness, brows furrowed over them. “Fine. Fine! You tell yourself that and you’re not even trying to get better.” Pushing past the other rescue, he stormed back to their room, slamming the door behind him.

Graham didn’t mean to think it. He did, anyway.

Good.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[itsawhumpsideblog]

The Safehouse, pt. 20

CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, treatment of people as things, broken bones and treatment of same

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

Especially at first, rescuees see the world exclusively through the lens of their training. You will need to develop the habit of being extremely careful in your wording choices. Words like "good" or "better" are often misunderstood, because rescuees are accustomed to having these terms applied only to their behavior. Saying things like, "feel better" implies, in their understanding, that there is a correct way to feel and they have failed to achieve this standard. Instead, focus on speaking literally and clearly, using wording like, "I hope you're feeling well" or "We are giving you this medicine so that your body can heal."

It wasn't rough right away- certainly no more difficult than anyone's recovery from such a surgery would be. Mikey napped on the couch, his left arm in its cast sticking straight up in the air, while Angie and Tim began dinner. It was an excuse for them to speak privately under cover of the noise.

"We can get him through a couple of days," Tim said, "But he's going to need stronger painkillers than we can get over the counter and I have no idea where those are going to come from."

"We'll ask our contacts when we call tonight. We owe them a check-in about the surgery." Angie tried to sound confident, but she knew as well as Tim did that even their Network contacts could not work magic.

"Yeah, maybe they'll have some ideas." Tim sighed and went back to chopping vegetables. When they were done, he brushed them into the pan with unnecessary force and pushed them anxiously around.

"It'll be okay," Angie said, patting Tim's shoulder. "One way or another- he'll get through this. And we'll help."

"Sure, but-" Another sigh. "Being here was supposed to mean he won't suffer anymore."

"I know. I don't like it, either. But we're going to do our best. Only thing we can do."

Tim nodded and they finished the cooking in silence, saving their energy so that they could put on cheerful faces for the rescuees.

Nathan seemed to notice that something was wrong. He raised an eyebrow at Angie when she handed him his plate, but she just shook her head.

Later, she mouthed and he nodded and tried to even out his expression.

"Hey, buddy," he said gently, reaching over to rub Mikey's shoulder. "You want to eat? Angie's got dinner for you- she'll help you, or I can if you want."

Mikey surfaced from the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that could have been either the last of the anesthesia wearing off or the beginning of the deep exhaustion that meant his body was trying to heal. He took a deep breath, pulling air down into his lungs, and tried to remember what had happened.

His hands looked funny. One of them was wrapped in something hard and blue- a cast. Mikey turned his head very slowly and traced it along his arm and up to his shoulder, where it seemed to stop. When he tried to wiggle his fingers, they didn't want to move. The other hand was wrapped up in bandages that looked like a mitten, except for his fingers peeping out the top. He held this arm up closer to his eyes, inspecting it. He tried to turn it, to look at the palm, but hot pain shot up his arm and he lowered it back to his abdomen, cradling the arm, and tried to rock back and forth to soothe his racing mind, if not the pain in his hand. Sometimes the rocking helped him calm down when he wanted to cry. Master didn't like it when he cried.

Had he been crying? Was that why he was being punished like this? Maybe he had done something Master had said not to and that was why his hands had to be hurt and bound up, so that he couldn't do it again. Maybe Master had to hurt his hands to teach him this lesson. He tried to remember what the lesson was, so he could be better next time and Master wouldn't have to hurt him.

Mikey's lip was trembling and Nathan reached out again, gently rubbing the good shoulder.

"Hey buddy," he said again, "You're okay. You're just waking up. It's fine."

Mikey knew that voice. That was the indoor pet, who was kind to him. He could trust that voice, and it was telling him that he was safe. He blinked his eyes and the room faded into view. There was Nathan, smiling at him in a worried sort of way. And Mistress, holding a plate with steam rising from it. He sighed in relief.

"That's better," Mistress was saying in a cheerful voice. Her voice was always like that. She was kind. She had put a belt on him in the car, but she had worn one, too, as if they weren't so different.

"Now, I know you might not be too hungry yet, but if you can, try to eat at least a little. Your body needs the energy so you can start to get well," Angie explained. Mikey nodded a little vaguely and opened his mouth, looking rather like a baby bird. Angie fed him and nodded reassuringly at Nathan, who sighed in relief and turned to his own meal.

Across the room, Tim had helped Francis sit up and prop himself against the side of the couch. He blinked sleepily and stared at his meal for a few moments before reaching slowly for the fork and beginning to eat, one small bite at a time. Francis didn't need help with the act of eating, but Tim stayed by him for encouragement. Francis made it halfway through the meal before he set his fork down wearily and closed his eyes, curling up into the couch.

Tim performed the usual cursory check of Francis' forehead and smoothed his hair.

"It's been a long day, hasn't it?" he said. Because it would have required him to express an opinion, Francis didn't answer. "All that worrying about Mikey was rough on you," Tim went on. "I think it'll be early to bed for everyone tonight. Me included."

Francis felt that some response was required and he nodded wordlessly.

"What time is it?" Tim asked.

"Almost 8," Angie replied. "But as early as we were up, I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping." She caught Tim's eye and gestured to Nathan with a questioning look. Tim nodded.

"Why don't we go ahead and put these two to bed?" he suggested and Nathan could hear in his tone that Angie's "later" was probably imminent. "Then we'll come back and help you," Tim added. Nathan's palms started to sweat. He hoped Francis and Mikey didn't notice this change in routine that clearly signaled they were being left out of something.

But they seemed not to and perhaps that was not surprising. Francis seemed limp in Tim's arms as he was scooped off the couch and when Tim came back to help Angie get Mikey upstairs, Mikey was staring tiredly into the middle distance and swaying as they helped him walk.

Nathan could hear footsteps above his head and the murmuring of voices that were just slightly too far away to make out the words. The light in the front hallway dimmed as two sets of footsteps came down the stairs and turned off the light in the upstairs hallway, and finally Angie and Tim sat down on the couches.

"What a day," Angie said to nobody in particular. Nathan had noticed that they were a little different when Francis and Mikey weren't around. They were less careful in their speech and... he searched for a way to characterize their behavior. It was less determinedly cheerful, perhaps. Not less kind- the kindness seemed to be completely genuine- but there was less intention behind their smiles. They even complained sometimes, or bickered companionably. Tim had once told Nathan that they had never met before coming to the safehouse, but it was clear that the two of them had become fast and true friends.

"What's going on?" Nathan asked, looking from one of them to the other.

"Everything's going to be okay," Tim said, which wasn't an answer and also wasn't terribly comforting.

"But?" Nathan prompted him.

"The hospital didn't give Mikey enough pain medication," Angie said bluntly. "Not on purpose- they can't take more than a certain amount before they'll get caught. But the upshot is, he won't have enough."

"I'm going to try to get some more," Tim put in. "We have to call our contacts tonight and check in, so I can ask. But even if they can get it for us, it's not going to be right away."

"Shit."

"Yeah," Angie agreed. "It's gonna be shit."

"Poor Mike," Nathan said. He remembered how his leg had felt, before they had gotten him to the doctor, when he was en route for delivery and there had been a speed bump, or rumble strips. He winced just thinking about it and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"There's not much to do," Tim went on. "Except figure out how to ration it and do everything we can to get him some more. I think... we should probably prioritize nighttime, so he can get some sleep. If we have to, we could go light on it in the mornings and just give him a ton of over-the-counter meds. Then the prescription stuff to get him settled down for at least one good meal and sleep."

"But first we're making that phone call," Angie said.

"Sure. Maybe they'll be able to help."

"Anything I can do?" Nathan asked.

"Not really." Tim shook his head. Angie added, "I just thought you should know. Since you guys are so close."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"We're going to try. I don't know if he'll understand," her voice faltered slightly. "Or if he'll be able to believe us. But he should know, I guess. He has the right to."

"Agreed." Tim didn't sound any happier about it.

"He'll probably think he's being punished," Nathan said gloomily. Tim and Angie just nodded and Nathan sighed. "Well, I'll try to help you explain it to him, if I can. Thanks for letting me know."

Next Time: A very difficult day for the whole house.

Master List

Notes: Shortish, but I've missed writing this.

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds

@honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000

@whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

[hold-him-down]

Belleview Chapter Two: Triage

Notes: Don't believe anything I say about medicine, politics, or the workings of government agencies.

Belleview: Chapter 1

TW: Institutionalized slavery, a little tiny bit heavy on the exposition

✥ ✥ ✥

As far as ‘day one’s go, Lincoln thinks, it could have been worse. That is the best he can offer himself now. He looks down at his hands, which feel, no matter how many times he scrubs them, as if they are still covered in the blood, both metaphorical and physical, of the residents. They did not ask for his help, and by most metrics do not seem to want his help, and yet still, he is here. Helping? It weighs heavily on him. His hands shake, a product of adrenaline and exhaustion and, maybe, partly of desperation for some kind of emotional release.

Organizing the volunteers had gone smoothly enough. He had four doctors, eight nurses, and fifteen good samaritans (and a list of hundreds of others who were ready to step in if more help was needed), all eager to find their place in this beautiful hellscape.

After the former handler, Jared, was escorted to a waiting police car, Lincoln took a deep breath and rounded up the crew. The de facto Commissioner for the splintered Department of Labor Services in Florida, once responsible for the privatization and trafficking of low-level criminals and now responsible for sorting out the undoing of that system itself, estimated that there would be additional guidance available within two weeks and, between him and Lincoln, suspected that ultimately the residents would be placed in a sort of ‘foster’ situation, where they would be pseudo-adopted into the homes of long time opposers of the system while they accessed medical care and were slowly reintegrated. It was all a lot to stomach, and for his part, Lincoln tried not to look too closely. It was clear that the residents here all, at minimum, required some degree of inpatient medical treatment, and he was qualified to provide that, if nothing else. 

Lincoln had been contracted for four weeks, with the soft warning that it would likely extend beyond that, and the sincere gratitude of the Commissioner as well as a slew of other high ranking officials. His work is important, he was told countless times. It’ll be a hard job, but they can think of no better hands than his to leave the care of these men in. 

After accepting the position, Lincoln began forming something of a plan. He was given a budget and a list of items already at the site. He was sent lists of hundreds and hundreds of doctors, nurses, cooks, mechanics, police officers, former handlers, teachers… anything he could think of, he had available to him. People from across the country offered their support in any way they could. He selected his team, his backup team, and held a list of other local residents that he could rely on for support.

The initial team was small but mighty, fierce in their dedication to help. Four doctors. Five, including him. Twenty-one residents (with only twenty files, but that was for another day). Eight nurses. Fifteen volunteers. Enough for every resident to receive medical attention, with extra volunteers to sort out groceries and clothing and removal of the evidence of what had happened here, with extras to help keep everything flowing.

It was experimental, and no one knew exactly what it would look like. But this team was ready to throw themselves wholly into early recompense and that was all he needed. They would work the rest out as they went.

✥ ✥ ✥

The volunteers look to him for guidance as he enters the conference room and, given that he has run through his plan a hundred times in his head by now, he wastes no time in laying out the loose threads of what he is calling the ‘plan.’ There are people working throughout the building, sealing off some unused wings, repurposing others. They are irrelevant to what Lincoln is doing and have no impact on the residents he now oversees. They will not enter this unit, and his group will not be asked to leave. It does not matter what happens beyond the walls of C-wing anymore. 

There are two empty rooms at the end of the longest, main corridor, that were previously used for something adjacent to medical exams. This is not exactly the highest priority, but the easiest to get started. 

“Yang, Richmond, Jacoby, and Gilman,” Lincoln says, scanning the volunteers as people identify themselves. He hands them each a sheet of paper with a list of items that each room should have. “A truck should be arriving within the next thirty minutes,” he continues. “Start clearing out the exam rooms of anything not on this list, sanitize the hell out of them, and then work with the delivery people to get them set up. Use the south entrance so no one is wandering the halls. They’ll need to be fully functional by tomorrow at the latest.” The volunteers take to task quickly, and Lincoln moves to the next on his list.

“DeLuca and Dhar,” he says next. “Groceries were delivered earlier, let’s get everything put away. There was a large break room for the handlers here,” he says, as he points to the map on the tablet, “but no cafeteria. To the extent possible, clear it out. There are bins for anything that you find that looks remotely criminal. We’ve been asked to refrain from discarding the personal effects of the handlers or anything that might need to be reviewed down the line. Everything can go into storage, someone will come pick it up at some point this evening.”

They exit, and Lincoln is left standing with the medical staff and a small handful of remaining volunteers. He assigns four to scrubbing the common areas of all traces of abuse, the hope being that the residents can eventually comfortably navigate the wing without fear of encountering excessive reminders of their own suffering.  

“We’re going to start triaging,” he says to the medical team. “We have more volunteers ready if we need them, but I am concerned about overwhelming the residents with too much…” He gestures, and is met with nods and muted agreements. “Just, with too much.”

The residents are all, as of this moment, still locked in their rooms. Every doctor has already been assigned a caseload, the files sent out the day before, with each resident grouped first based on the severity of their need for medical attention, and second on their proximity to one another. The most severe cases get seen by the doctors first, with the nurses doing preliminary exams on the less severe cases and making modifications to the plan as needed. 

Lincoln expects four residents to require the most substantial medical support. The local hospital is prepared to provide aid in diagnostic testing, scans, or large scale inpatient procedures in the event that those needed, but all units are overwhelmed by the sudden influx of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people who require care and are in the first wave of full release.

Triage first, he reminds himself. Each of them has four or five men total to see, and he watches as they make their own plans with the nurses on their team. 

Lincoln has one file and two patients. River London, a twenty-four year old man who has been in the system for three years and in Belleview for two of those, and “Felix,” whose file is uniquely absent. The handler told him that Felix had come to Belleview a year prior, and that he wasn’t sure if the handlers were ever told his real name, but if they were, no one remembered it. They estimated his age to be around twenty-two, and the information available was all from the past year. The DOH was working to trace his origins but, to Lincoln’s understanding, his file had been sealed when he was assigned to Belleview, and unsealing it was low in the list of priorities.

“I’m Philip,” the nurse who stands next to him says, holding out his hand. “Reed. I came down from Maryland, I’ve been working with the DoLS there to help organize and staff pop-up clinics in underdeveloped cities with heavy influxes of former workers for the last couple years.”

Lincoln nods and shakes his hand. “Lincoln Prescott,” he says. He doesn’t offer any details beyond that, although Philip’s expectant gaze lingers for a moment too long.

“Did you pick the short straw or volunteer for this?” he asks as Lincoln grabs the lone file from the table.

“A little of both, I guess,” Lincoln responds, flipping open River’s file.

The good news, he thinks, is that there are ample state of the art medical supplies littered throughout the unit already. All of the volunteers brought their own supplies as well, but there is a fully stocked pharmacy and most basic supplies already in house. The bad news is that he is not one hundred percent sure where the volunteers are at with sorting through everything, and if he has to wade through sixty years worth of whips, chains, shock collars, restraints, or whatever other torture devices live within these walls, he might have a nervous breakdown before he even gets started.

The volunteers disperse, the remaining extras assigned out to sorting deliveries and, hopefully, removing any obvious remnants of what this building used to stand for.

Lincoln closes his eyes and talks himself through what the next hour will look like. Minimally, he reassures himself, he has an amazing team and the residents are in good hands. They will be given food, blankets, phones or tablets, books. They will be treated with kindness. They did not ask for their help and he will likely be met with resistance, but it is a consequence of years or abuse, and his intent here is to help. There is a voice, soft but persistent in the back of his mind, that keeps him grounded in the reality that, at least on some level, he will be acting as a captor in a new kind of prison for these men.

If he is met with resistance, he reminds himself now, he will modify his course. He will act as a stepping stone toward freedom and that is all he can do right now. His job today, within the walls of the workers’ rooms, is straightforward. When he’s done talking himself down, he stands straighter, shoves the file into his bag, and makes way to 19-C.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Belleview Taglist:

@pigeonwhumps @peachy-panic @whump-cravings @pirefyrelight @i-eat-worlds

@taterswhump @squishablesunbeam @inpainandsuffering @distinctlywhumpthing @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

[leftistfeminista]

Gender transgression, militancy and sexual political violence

This type of violence against women, in a repressive context, is known as sexual political violence.

Feminist historian Francia Jamett (2012) [2] explains that this violence is not yet classified, therefore, it is not recognized as a crime under Chilean legislation. In this way, it was an instrument of state terrorism used against militant and revolutionary women. Lawyer Camila Maturana (2014) maintains that her practice “is used to humiliate the adversary. It is a message of mutilation and castration of the enemy, a battle of men fought in the bodies of women. Rape is used by both sides as a symbolic act, it is used to demoralize the other and, on many occasions, institutionalized through forced prostitution and sexual slavery in the hands of the military” [3] .

In that sense, the feminist of the collective “Women survivors, always resistant”, Beatriz Bataszew (2015), points out that the women who experienced these sexual tortures represented with their ideology and action “a double transgression. On the one hand, they questioned traditional social and political values ​​and, on the other, they broke with the norms that governed the feminine condition that limited them to the private/domestic sphere” [4] .

Therefore, the rebellion of these women evidenced the gender relations of heteropatriarchal society, which meant that the military and repressors launched all their hatred and violence against their bodies and their lives. As Bunster and Taylor put it, “women's bodies – their vaginas, their uteruses, their breasts – linked to female identity as sexual objects, as wives and as mothers, were clear objects of sexual torture” [5] .

Presentation at the former El Morro detention and torture center. Photography by Rayén Traro.

In this way, Mildred Cáceres and Gloria Avilés (2017), from the communications area of ​​the Cultural Center Por la Memoria La Monche, reflect and propose that sexual political violence “was constituted as a permanent and legitimized practice by the military dictatorship, that is, , in a policy against women institutionalized as a disciplinary and control strategy towards women who do not ascribe to its dictatorial and sexist model” [6] . This violence endures behind the walls of silence and intimacy of the former prisoners basically because of the little that has been written about it and, furthermore, because of the few testimonies that exist, although there are many survivors and resisters, a considerable number of them even participate. actively in the current women's and feminist movement, which shows the continuum and transformations of their political trajectories.

The imaginaries and stories of the protagonists: a look against oblivion from artistic practices

The production was prepared by a group of women former political prisoners of the dictatorship, horizontally twinned with young women artists, who came together in the creation of a collective dramaturgy and staging, which, from my perspective as a feminist, not only made visible and denounced the sexual political violence that the revolutionary women of Gran Concepción experienced, but also presented, through an aesthetic and poetic proposal, a problematization and reflection on the imaginaries and life projects of the women promoted by the militant culture of the left and revolutionary of the Popular Unity (UP) [7] .

The montage recounts, from documentary and testimonial language, the militant life they had as girls, young people and adults. In some way, we learned about fragments of the types of roles they played in their political practice, the interests and concerns of social history, and the political projects they had in revolutionary and counterrevolutionary contexts. These were closely related to those profiles and actions that strengthened the social and care fabrics of the various student, union and population communities where the organic insertion of these fighters and their peers was developed, in a Leninist key, before and during the dictatorship.

The dramaturgy was configured from living texts orchestrated by multiple voices that narrated from the individual to the collective and even generational. Through the crossing of the testimonies, archives and repertoires of its protagonists, from a perspective that replaces that of traditional political historiography with one focused on the daily militant experience among women, an artistic and political representation with meanings of protest was articulated. and contempt against the views that point out that opposition and political women did not have their own history within recent social history.  

Artistic installation by Darling Maredi Andia Almendra in the former El Morro detention and torture center, Talcahuano. Photography by Rayén Traro.

Although the common thread of the montage linearly portrays one of the most horrifying, painful and traumatic experiences that a leftist revolutionary can live, it was possible to observe images and knowledge that expressed another of the meanings that, personally, moved me the most: the interweaving of historical experience with the current struggle of women. I interpreted this as an honest invitation to carry out an exercise in understanding how these women have reconstructed their biographies as political subjects and how they recognize themselves around the transformation of this neoliberal and patriarchal system - an authoritarian political, economic and cultural model, as permanently mentioned it - that never fell and whose crimes against humanity continue unpunished.

In that sense, the work offers us a range of possibilities to know how these militants experienced pain and treated trauma, in addition to exposing the updated political position to which they ascribe today; position that breaks with the idea of ​​the victim and replaces it with that of the subversive and resistant, legitimizing experiences and imaginaries as a version with feminist logic that recovers and protects the memories of the dictatorship in Chile - especially those of Gran Concepción - from a dissident path to the hegemonic ones.

[maya-the-skaven]

Much Ado About Rats: A Skaven Story

Greetings everyone and welcome to the very first of my series of posts that will follow as I write my fanfiction about Skaven in the Warhammer: Age of Sigmar setting. While my fanfiction is something rather private and will probably go through a long and thorough process of writing, editing, proofreading and even rewriting before I am comfortable publishing it, I would still like to talk about its worldbuilding, its characters and my personal headcanon on all matters Skaven.

It's easy to consider Skaven as just cannon fodder for the good guys of the setting, nothing but a mass of hungry and inherently if not comically evil vermin that exist only to multiply, destroy and die, not too dissimilar from the Tyranids of the 40k setting. They represent all the worst traits both on individual and societal level and, more importantly, they're not human and kind of ugly and monstrous, you'd get weird looks if you told anyone you empathise with them, similar to reactions you'd get from the common audience if you said you feel nothing but pity for the orcs of the Lord of the Rings setting.

However, to me the Skaven are much like the Imperium of the 40k - they are independent individuals trapped in and molded by from their very birth to their rather short death by a highly institutionalized and hierarchical society with ruthless inner politics, warlordism and a merciless system of economics and labour. The Skaven who are not ready to do everything in their power to survive and chase the power are either destined for death or slavery. They fanatically worship a god that doesn't care that much for his children if not bestows constant malice onto them, but any deviation from that worship is tightly controlled by a tyranical sect of wizard-priests. The Skaven either conquer, ruthlessly exploiting their surroundings until their utter desolation, or stagnate forced to literally cannibalize each other to survive. They are essentially trapped in a vicious circle where the society forms natural selection where the most power-hungry, cruel and vicious individuals win and these individuals, in turn, do all in their power so that this society stays that way, with them in power and their subordinates in various forms of slavery. I don't know about you, but most of the above doesn't sound to me that different from average life of an Imperial citizen in a Hive World. Moreover, isn't that also what happened in real world many times? How the ultra-rich of today stay in power, how Nazis brainwashed the entirety of Germany into genocide and complete ruin, how medieval tyrants and their aristocrat countries held entire countries in serfdom, how USSR bureaucrats reproduced their own power by what amounted to negative selection?

The main difference between Imperium and the Skaven is that, while the Imperium also exists in a constant flux of decay, misery, exploitation and treachery, it still gets many stories about individuals that manage to represent better aspects of being human, in spite of their culture, their upbringing, their status. Skaven, however, are for some reason excluded from humanity and human stories, despite having the same sapience and free will as humans do, they almost never get any stories that center them and everywhere else they are just there to do something horrible (and sometimes funny) and then be defeated by the heroes of the story. Despite this, we got more intricate glimpses of Skaven in the Queek Headtaker novel, it turns out they can be loyal, they can have a conscience, they can be brave, they can reflect on the poor state of their species, they can actually care for each other for other reasons than power, however rare that is and however corrupted and abusive that care might be.

Skaven also make me reflect a lot about our own world. In a way they are kind of like Ferengi from Star Trek series, their culture on one hand seems completely alien from ours, but on the other hand it has direct connection to our culture because it is a huge exaggeration of it. We exist, function and prop up systems that cause suffering, we compete even if that means that someone else will go hungry, we punch down our most marginalised and miserable, we entrap people into economic system where the line must go always up propped by extremely underpaid labour or everyone will be scrounging for food, we exploit and destroy our environment without care for neither other living creatures nor even other humans, our current cultural mindset is thoroughly hierarchical and power-seeking with even those critical our the current state of things rarely escaping from it. It's easy to sneer at the Skaven as the utterly evil "monster" species of the setting, but they are only doing what we are doing, but dispensing with our dislike of grotesque, with our flimsy morals and with our ever so cautious self-preservation instinct. But in our world we have many stories of people prevailing despite tyranny, misery, poverty, people going to great lengths to help each other, people protesting and fighting injustice, even if their mind was still polluted by bigotry, cruelty or selfishness. If Rom from DS9 can unionize in spite of his entire species and culture, why not give a chance at better characterisation and characters for Skaven that doesn't revolve around being comically evil? Something akin to Queek's bravery and care for Ska, even if completely insane and abusive by our standards, Ska's unquestioning loyalty, Gnawdwell's refined composure and genuine pride for Queek, Sharpwit's recognition of Skaven being doomed to be trapped in their vicious cycle and never learning from any mistakes.

Source: https://twitter.com/nan_ivel/status/1460612547887910914

My motivation for writing a fanfic about Skaven is thus motivated by this unfair treatment of simultaneously portraying the Skaven as sapient and free willed individuals completely capable of forming a society woes many traits and woes of our own and other similar societies in fiction, while they are always treated as non-persons, never get any kind of diversity despite numbering trillions and stories about them that delve deeper into their psyche are practically non-existent. My story will be focused on a band of Skaven finding their own ways and detaching their personalities from the society that made them what they are, it's an escape story, a story of change, a story of experiencing and feelings things you could never put a name to. This is not necessarily a story about redemption, bad guys becoming good, the Skaven being goodie-two-shoes, it's much more about a seed of hope that exists even for cruelest and vilest of beings to change in whatever way, it's humanising Skaven in a way how our own evil is deeply human and it's about negating the idea of evil being ontological and immutable for sapient persons of free will.

The fact that there are trillions of Skaven and tens of thousands of clans should be, on the contrary, taken as a reason for the fans and creators to experiment with imagining diverse environments, individuals, sub-cultures of the Skaven society, sprawling like a tumour, growing in every which way. Similarly the fact that there is not really a lot of actual established lore about the Skaven and either very old bits that can be easily considered not even close to canon, short paragraphs that describe the trope of Skaven, but rarely go into any nuance or expand on them or things that could be very easily supplemented by additional lore, rather than be contradicted.

For example, what is the true nature of Great Horned Rat, is he even a real god of Chaos, as his aspects, domains and character seems to change all the time? Or maybe he is the truest of them, since even his nature changes chaotically, usually following the constant dynamic flux Skaven as a whole find themselves in? What is the relationship of Skaven with gender? Are breeders just an irrelevant lore tidbit that could be disregarded, or maybe it could be expanded, for example, how clans that don't have the means to purchase Moulder monstrocities operate? What of cloned Skaven? How is Skaven biology influenced by their constant misuse of warpstone, permanent overexertion, starvation and lack of sleep? Are we to believe Black Hunger isn't a psychological reaction that a half-starved sleepless human couldn't experience? A lore purist could disregard all these questions, but they'll end up without a backbone to their faction and barely anything interesting to write or ponder, apart from them being just mindless characterless beasts of ruin.

Next posts will answer these questions and go more into detail about some of my personal headcanon that informs my fic, such as diversity and function of Skaven society, their biology and its relationship with warpstone and exertion, their reproductive cycle, basic details of Blight City are the protagonists come from and what Great Horned Rat represents in essence. But, of course, that’s just my interpretation.

[deluxewhump]

Erik's Journals pt 5: (2018)

Content Warning for entire series: institutionalized slavery of a minor (11-18), emotional abuse and manipulation, dubious comfort, pet whump, disordered eating, violence, guns, mutilation (off screen, no main characters), corporal punishment, sexual content/dubcon ( character is 18+), broken bones, death of a parent, unreliable narrator

10. Calling a Wolf

August 2018 

I have stopped sending Carlo out to the warehouse, which I will explain here. To supplement getting out of the house (for his mental well-being), I will take him on all my trips with me, and let him leave and wander as much as he wants, with my credit card and a curfew of ten pm.

If he is still restless or too bored, I may also employ a private tutor for him on a secondary education level, in whatever topic or topics he chooses. 

Back to the warehouse issue: Two of my men threatened him with a barrel of nitric acid I had shipped here to dissolve evidence. 

Carlo didn’t tell me about it. 

Keith did. He was likely afraid I’d find out anyway, and didn’t want to be on the hook for another incident like Carlo’s broken finger and bruised face a few years back. 

He says he intervened when he heard. I thanked him for doing his job and told him I’d let him know my course of action later.

Though I had more pressing matters to attend to that day, I took on the tedious task of reviewing warehouse footage that same morning, sitting with my laptop at the kitchen table. Those matters may have been more pressing, but this I took personally.

Camera three caught the entire incident. On black and white video with no audio, I saw the two men in question approached Carlo, leading him (he followed very reluctantly) to one of the barrels.

I watched from the camera’s bird's eye view as they pried off the lid, and seemed to be explaining what it was with delight. They then demonstrated with an automatic rifle magazine, which bubbled and began to dissolve and though I had no sound, I know it hissed. I looked out across the lawn, a golden late summer morning, and sighed. 

One of the men takes Carlo by the back of the neck and yanks him closer. He plants his feet and shifts his body weight to try to lean away. The other man grabs Carlo’s hair and says something, then takes his arm and pulls Carlo’s  hand uncomfortably close to the surface of the highly corrosive acid. The man holding his neck wrestles him ever closer to the edge of the barrel as he resists the best he can.  If they wanted him burned, I thought as I sipped my coffee, they’d have had it by now. He is not as strong as either of those men, let alone both. They wanted to torment him with the possibility of it. But it was still too far. Way too far. And I didn’t trust these boys not to change their mind and see what would happen if they dipped a piece of him in, just to see.

They continue this dog and pony show for a few minutes, and every time Carlo gets his hand out of their grip they grab him more roughly. Keith comes into frame and they let him go, all innocent hand gestures and nonchalant laughter. Carlo backs up a few steps from the barrel and holds his wrist with his other hand in front of him. Keith points in a direction and Carlo walks in it until he is out of frame. 

That night I found him in the kitchen with a sparkling water, sitting at my bar top and playing listlessly with the aluminum tab.

“Pull up your sleeve,” I said. 

He looked at me blankly. 

“This arm.”

He knew I knew. He obeyed. Sure enough there were bruises up his forearm and down to his wrist from the man’s rough grip. He showed it to me freely, but made no comment, no expression on his face. 

“I fired both of them today,” I said, and gently tugged his sleeve back down. 

Still, he said nothing. 

“I don’t want you going back out there.”

He lifted his eyes. 

“It’s unnecessary, going forward.”

“Ever?”

“For now, yes. Too many variables. I’d like you to practice your piano more diligently with the time that frees up, please.” 

He ignored the request. “You run a shipping company. Why do you have barrels of acid?”

“Complete destruction of evidence.” I said simply. “No, not bodies. I see your wheels turning. Metals, mostly. Items too hot to move. I’d keep them for a while and see if it blows over, but there have been raids other places. It’s always better to be cautious and lose a profit than to be overconfident.”

“I didn’t think they’d actually do it,” he told me. “They just wanted to scare me. But then when they weren’t letting it go, I wasn’t so sure. They go too far, sometimes. They don’t know when to stop.”

“Notice it’s always in pairs or more? They work each other up, like dogs.”

“Lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas,” he recited flatly, without conviction.

I took a sip of his sparkling water and set it back in front of him. 

“You don’t have fleas,” I said, extending the metaphor. “And you don’t have to lie with my dogs anymore.”

I suspected he was too big at eighteen to go out there as a pet among roughneck civilians with just my word of warning for protection— too close to grown to warrant any of the caution or avoidance he got from them when he was younger.

“I hate them,” he said quietly. “Even the ones who aren’t that bad. They always leave eventually, anyway, and then it’s just…” he nodded down at his bruised arm. “Those ones.”

“No one could fault you for hating them,” I said, tilting up his chin to force him to look at me. “Do you hate me, for exposing you to it?”

He closed his eyes but did not remove his uptilted chin from my grip. “No, Sir. Of course not.”

Whether that was true or not didn’t matter, only that he had the grace to answer the way he had. 

“Thank you,” he said, opening his eyes again, eyelids low. “For this.”

“There was no other decision.”  I let him go. “If it was in my power I’d have them each dunked in a barrel of it themselves. Would you like that?”

He huffed, and then realized it was not a rhetorical question. He remembered the things he'd seen me do. “Is it not in your power?”

I leaned my elbows on the bar top, looked up at the ceiling to consider. “I could have it done. Whether or not it would draw any unwanted attention from law enforcement is hard to say. I could cover that up easily enough, though, I don’t doubt that. ”

“If it…wouldn’t cause any problems with the law… would you do it?”

“I did think of it earlier, when I watched the footage. I could have Keith and Todd and I tie them up at gunpoint. Then we could easily string them from the crate pulley and lower them into the open barrels feet first, like lobsters into a boiling pot.”

(This may not be strictly true. My maiming police informants was one thing, and very supported, but getting gratuitous revenge for the hurt feelings of my pet was another. I may not have unanimous support in that.) 

He searched my face. “But they didn’t actually hurt me.”

“I agree it’s a bit Draconian. Most revenge is.”

“I… I don’t think I could do it.”

“You wouldn’t have to. I would be doing it. I happen to take this very personally.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile and he looked down at his can of water, played with the tab again.  “Yea or nay?”

“Nay,” he answered. “Not worth it.”

I hummed in low amusement. “Alright then. Those two degenerates have your better nature to thank for their skin, and they will never even know it. Now, will you come up to my study with me and keep me company for an hour or two?”

He slid off the bar stool to follow me. I put my hand on the back of his neck as I often did. Then I thought of the footage, my man’s rough, dirty hand on him there, and slid it down between his shoulder blades instead.

11. James Canton

September 2018

While in London, we stopped at the home of an associate of mine. James Canton, a shareholder and cousin to my sister's long time paramour. I wanted to speak to him about a sensitive subject; the possibility of using his docks in Suffolk to move about two tons worth of shipping containers full of arms quietly into Europe.

Canton manor was set on six acres, outside of the crowded teeth of London proper. Its brick face was covered from the ground to the second floor windows in English Ivy. 

After being dropped off by our cab in the stone courtyard, Carlo and I were beckoned in out of the Friday evening drizzle by a doorman. 

Upon entry to the main floor, a slave in a muzzle stopped us, wide eyed and insistent, with another muzzle in her hands. I found something in her urgency offputting. It was the same guilty, hopeful reflex retail associates try to sell you a store credit card with in the mall. She held the muzzle aloft like a lantern with soft, chubby arms. He fed them, obviously, but made them wear these contraptions? 

I took the muzzle she offered, held it up to the light. It was heavy as a draft horse’s bridle, made of stiff leather and iron. 

“And what does your master expect me to do with this?” I asked, already having guessed. 

The pet gestured to Carlo and stepped back. 

“You want me to put it on him?”

Carlo gave me a look of abject dread. He hated being masked, let alone muzzled with a bit. I know it’s uncomfortable, but he finds it claustrophobic and humiliating, which I think is his true objection. 

“It is policy,” the doorman who’d let us in said, entering behind us from the foyer. “All pets wear them in the manor. If you don’t mind.”

“Policy,” I echoed, inspecting the absurd dimensions of the harness. The ventilation for the nose were but small pinpricks, and there were none for breathing through the mouth. The iron bit was sharp and would push to the back of his throat, making it nearly impossible to swallow. It looked like a torture device. Carlo would hate every second.

“And if this filthy metal bit cuts my pets mouth?”

The doorman’s eyes drifted behind me and he seemed relieved he would not have to answer me. Sybelle Canton greeted us, her dusty rose house robe somehow looking like a gown on her, her face bare and poreless as a teacup. James’s wife was young, not yet thirty I didn’t think. Her family had been well off but not aristocracy, she had met James when she was singing in a club, still a university student at the time. 

“Erik,” she smiled as I took her cool hand in both of mine, a warmer greeting than I’d give a stranger. I remembered her better than her husband. While James was flirting from group to group at every party like a networking speed date, Sybelle had lingered at my table and even after trailed with me across the room til I got the impression she was using me as an anchor, someone she decided she knew in a room full of stuffy, shifting strangers. I remembered how she nursed her champagne flute, her fingernails like moonstones and the cords in her neck pulling nervously whenever she moved like overtightened cello strings.  “Sybelle,” I said. “Lovely as the day is long. This is my pet, Carlo. Carlo, this is Mrs Sybelle Canton. She’s a friend of the family.” 

Sybelle took Carlo’s hand and appraised him quickly, taking stock without letting her eyes drift on him like livestock, an inanimate object at auction. “Of course you would have the most beautiful pet I’ve ever seen,” she laughed nervously on the last word. Her unsureness was charming on her, her English faintly accented with a posh London clip, like a trailing perfume.  Behind her, her chubby girl-pet lowered her eyes above her muzzle. 

“My only,” I said. “He is quite dear to me. You’ll forgive me if I decline the invitation for this.” I held the muzzle up an inch.

Her smooth teacup face grew evenly pink. “Of course! Of course. Oh. No, please don’t feel obligated. God. Tessa,” she motioned at her girl, who came forward like a startled robot to take the muzzle from my hands and backed away with a little dipping bow, stiff at the hips. 

The whole manor reminded me of a cruise ship in the nineties— too much maroon carpeting, dark gleaming wood, and crystal light fixtures. Carlo’s eyes were on me, dark as night and catching the fairy circle lights of the chandelier above us. I glanced at him, let the corner of my mouth twitch in a private smile of acknowledgment.

“Thank you, Mr Seymour. I’ll take our guests to James.”

“Ma’am,” bowed the doorman, that same stiff bend at the hips. 

I reached out a hand for Carlo. He eyed my palm and then reached out to take it. I realized by the way his fingers slotted with mine so snugly I had not intertwined my hand with his in years. I followed Sybelle’s trailing housecoat through the carpeted halls, past stained glass windows with images of roses and thorns, bears and maidens, ships and storms that tossed them. The weak, rainy afternoon gave them little chance to impress. Sybelle’s robe widened and lifted on her backside as she climbed a short set of stairs, her neat waist tapering out to pretty, girlish hips.  “James,” she called, tapping on the door with her knuckles.

She pressed her ear to the dark wood like Nancy Drew, smiled at us and pushed it open. I pulled Carlo forward by the hand, let him enter first with my guiding fingers on his shoulder. 

Canton eyed Carlo’s bare face when we first approached, but he never mentioned it. He’d rather swallow glass than come off as impolite to a guest. I figured as much. The sitting room was furnished with two maroon sofas, a desk that a James stood up from when we entered, several oval backed chairs, heavy curtains half drawn against the gloom, and a grand piano like a sleeping Cerberus in one corner. 

Sybelle stayed, sitting on the edge of a red sofa like a bored child, toying with a bracelet at her blue veined wrist. She watched Carlo from the corner of her eye. I thought maybe she wanted to reach out and touch him like a doll but was too well bred and sensible to do so. 

James Canton was a red-faced man in his late thirties, his teeth like a mosaic made from spare parts, none quite fitting with the next. He had more of a pot belly since I’d last seen him, his skin at once thin as crepe around his blue eyes and tough as dry leather on the backs of his hands.

Once I made it clear I was not asking him to look the other way as a favor but would pay, he warmed to the prospect of compromising his conveniently located docks.

“I’ve been telling Mathilde we need to use each other as resources for years,” he said, offering me a cigarette. I waved a hand politely. Now it would smell like a cruise ship in the nineties as well. 

He even began speaking of paying off the yard police in the past, how two of them were his nephews he’d gotten the job in the first place.   Carlo sat near me— statue-still, eyes down. He didn’t want to attract any attention at all. Yet I  saw him glance at Sybelle when she was looking at her husband. A different pet, another muzzled girl, brought a tray of tea and served us. Carlo lifted his eyes to watch her guiltily, her smooth practiced movements despite the heavy, oppressive thing on her face. 

“A beautiful instrument,” I said of the piano. “Do you play?”

“Bella does,” James said.

“So does my Carlo.”

He dragged his eyes off his lap to me.

“Oh!” Sybelle exclaimed. “Will you play something for us?”

“He’d love to,” I said, nodding meaningfully to him. As much as he hated the discomfort of direct attention, especially from any of my associates, he would not make a scene by refusing me on the spot. 

Once sufficient seconds had passed he knew he was securely on the hook— no one was going to dismiss the idea. He rose, went to the piano and lifted the keylid with two deft fingers. 

“Any requests?” he asked. I found his little pretend smile of amicability and docility a delight.

“Just play us your favorite, Carlo,” Sybelle smiled serenely, propping her chin on her hand. James’s marriage to Sybelle, a no-name nobody in their estimation, had caused a bit of drama with the Cantons in its time. But looking at her profile now, half in shadow, I quite understood why James had thought it worth the trouble. 

The haunted first notes of Gnossienne: no 1 filled the sitting room, seeping into its waking consciousness like the membranes that bind a sequence of dreams. 

Sybelle closed her eyes and I watched my pet play over the flat spine of the piano, mirrored and black as asphalt in rain. 

In our rooms, he thanked me dutifully for sparing him the mask. 

“You’d have looked beautiful in it,” I teased. “Those big eyes of yours looking out over the top of all that ugly metal. Playing that piano.”

He sat on the end of one of the beds and gave me a look of measured reproach. “Until I choked on my own spit and passed out from not being able to get enough air to cough.”

I laughed easily. “I can imagine. It must’ve weighed twelve pounds if it weighed two. There’s masks, and muzzles, and then there’s torture devices.”

“What was James talking about, before we left?” he asked. It was funny to hear him refer to our host as James to me, when I knew full well he would call him Sir to his face, possibly Mr Canton if he was feeling well received. I thought back to the end of our conversation, when Carlo was freed from the trap of playing piano for us. James had to call twice for some pet-servant to come to his side. He’d said something about being generous enough to leave this one’s ears intact and they still didn’t listen. 

“Oh. The ears comment?”

He wore a look of anticipatory horror that deepened when he realized I’d picked up on it, too.

“Well,” I said, feeling embarrassed for what I was about to tell him, though it had nothing to do with me. “The other pet, the girl that greeted us? She had her ears docked. Did you not notice?"

He lowered his chin and widened his eyes at me. “Docked? Like, cut? Like a dog?"

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh God. Why?”

“Aesthetics? Sadism?”

He touched the cartilage of his own ears and looked a bit sick. “Do they do it under anesthesia?”

“I think you could guess the answer to that. But maybe. An unfortunate cosmetic trend.”

“A mutilation, you mean.”

”That’s a better word. I'll give you that.”

“It’s so….”

“Inhumane?” I offered. 

"It’s sick. Just because it’s your property, technically, doesn’t give you the right to slice someone up.” He watched my face ardently for a reaction.

"Gratuitous,” I said. "But don't work yourself up, it'll never happen to you."

“They don’t think of us as people,” he added. “Or they do, but they want to remind us we’re powerless.” He was beginning to raise his voice. “As if we don’t already know?! It’s—”

“Don’t,” I said sternly. “Don’t get caught up on this. You know the world you live in. This may anger you, but I know it doesn’t surprise you. And there’s no need to lump yourself in with another man’s pets. You’re not in a union. There is no ‘us’. There’s you and there’s me, and that’s all that should concern you.” 

He dropped his eyes from me, chastised. If we’d been home he would've stormed off for a few hours or even days before knocking on my door some night, contrite.

“But they seem so normal,” he murmured. “Why the muzzles and the... mutilations?"

"Status and optics. Tradition. 'Look how they suffer in silence and still serve well'.” I felt the desire to test him. “If I asked, I know you’d have worn it.”

“Of course,” he said, frowning. The muzzle drama paled in comparison after this talk of deliberate mutilation. “I’d wear whatever you asked me to, Papa.”

I was sorry for teasing him once he employed the old familial nickname. When he was a child, calling me that had soothed the orphan in him. Now I think he uses it when he wants to remind me that I love him, and I should keep him safe. Poor thing. Everything about this house unsettled him.

“I know,” I said, gently pinching the cartilage of his ear as I passed. “That’s why I didn’t ask you to.” 

“Don’t leave me with them.”

I turned. “What?”

“You didn’t bring me here to leave me with them?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You were talking about doing business with James. Sybelle really likes you. You had me play the piano…Like an audition.”

“What, like collateral for a business agreement? A pet exchange?”

He shrugged, knowing it was absurd and still wanting my comfort. I tried to affect a very serious tone. 

”You’re not going anywhere except home with me, Carlo. Look at me. Thank you. Do you understand?”

He nodded. 

“Good.”

Next

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, blood mention, scar mention, non-sexual nudity

It felt wrong to touch the boy’s face. It felt wrong to touch a person who had been endlessly abused into mindless submission, someone who had been trained through pain and suffering that they had to exist at the will and command of another. It felt wrong that the boy was still sitting naked, all but skin and bones, entirely unmoving on Rowan’s floor. 

What other choice did Rowan have? Was there another way to communicate with this boy, one  that wasn’t as direct as physical contact? Necessity, Rowan reminded himself as the boy’s face turned upward in his palm. I’m doing this out of necessity.

Even as he gently guided the boy’s face to look upwards, he refused to meet Rowan’s eyes, his gaze directed towards the floor. That was alright. It was going to have to be alright for a while, Rowan suspected. 

After a moment he let his fingers fall away from the boy’s chin. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was relieved when his new houseguest held the position rather than dropping back to the ground. 

“Hey there,” Rowan greeted. He did his best to smile. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Rowan. I know this is new for you, but it’s new for me too. It’s new for both of us. I’m sure you’re probably scared, but we’re going to get through this. We’re going to have to learn together, alright?” 

The boy didn’t even blink. 

---

Master didn’t seem upset that Pet was holding still and looking up at him. By the hint of a smile on Master’s lips, it seemed that he was pleased by the unusual posture. 

It didn’t dare meet Master’s eyes, of course, but now it could try and read his lips. Even if it couldn’t decipher the words that Master was speaking, it had already come to enjoy the soft murmur of Master’s speech. The kindness and warmth was enough for it to relax. 

New… new… new for both of us… learn together…

Pet knew that it could do that. Pet was happy to learn new things for its Master, and it was going to try its very best to do them well. Failure meant punishment, but even worse, failure meant disappointing Master. Disappointing its old Master is what got Pet into this mess to begin with. It could handle any amount of pain, however Master chose to train it, but disappointment always burned the deepest. 

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master. 

---

It struck Rowan that now only was the boy still naked, but the stench of waste and sweat clung to his body. The putrid odor of the liquidation event had begun to seep into the room at no fault of the boy’s own. 

Of course - Rowan privately scolded himself for forgetting. The facility never gave its victims the luxury of proper hygiene, and this one had been stuck at the liquidation event for days, before eventually being stuffed in a box. There was no wonder that the boy’s curls were slicked down with grease and dirt. 

Rowan attempted a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, but how could it, when he knew how much pain this person had been through? 

“How does a bath sound, yeah? Can we do that?” Rowan offered this enthusiastically. Rowan also knew that his bathroom was a bit of a disaster, scattered with half-empty shampoo bottles and skin care products he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to soothe himself by rationalizing that the boy wouldn’t particularly care about the room’s cleanliness. 

There was no reaction to Rowan’s offer, not a nod, not so much as a twitch. It was all he could do not to sigh, worried that any sighs would be interpreted as misplaced frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was set the boy on edge. 

He remembered what worked earlier, the very gestures that had lured the boy to his bedroom in his first place. After giving himself a determined nod, Rowan took a few steps backwards, and gestured with a low hand to invite the victim to follow along. 

Much to Rowan’s relief, the boy understood. He scampered forward on his hands and knees, eyes glued back to the ground, every bone on his gaunt frame showing. As much as Rowan would have preferred him to walk on two feet, this was going to have to do for the moment. Just enough to get him cleaned and settled in, nothing more. Then they would begin work on rehabilitation. 

As soon as Rowan opened the door to the bathroom, the boy bolted forward and into the tub in a tangle of limbs and apparent enthusiasm. Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word or made a gesture. He smiled in spite of himself, and cocked his head to the side.  

“Alright, I guess baths are okay? That’ll make this easier.” Rowan thought about the many victims that had been tormented by water, scalded or frozen at inhumane temperatures, or held beneath the surface until they drew mouthfuls into their lungs. To have a victim who was at least amiable to the cleaning process would relieve the burden on them both. 

The boy had resumed the typical kneeling position in the tub, seemingly unbothered by the hard porcelain. Rowan figured it was best not to try and correct that for the time being. One step at a time. Be encouraging. 

Rowan leaned over to the spigot and slowly turned it on, carefully easing the handle towards “H,” and diligently checked the temperature as water began to flow. Once it was comfortably warm he plugged the drain and watched as the clear liquid began to pool around the boy’s legs. Rowan almost swore he heard a contented sigh as the boy’s eyes slipped closed. 

For the first time in more than a day, Rowan felt himself smile, a genuine smile. And for the first time, he felt that maybe he was cut out for this. 

---

Pet was grateful for the washing before it even began. Its old Master was so particular in keeping Pet clean, and would have his servants scrub Pet down every day beneath a stream of hot water. Sometimes the soap was floral, other times it was citrus, but it always left Pet smelling wonderful. Handler never gave it such luxuries when it was sent back to the training facilities. 

The water rose ever higher, first over its thighs, then over the pale skin of its stomach, until the water finally came to a stop right above its navel. It could have groaned with how pleasant the warm water felt on its aching legs and bruised knees. For a moment it nearly dared to speak, express its gratitude for the kindness, but knew better than to open its mouth without being told. 

Still, it was a treat to have Master wash it rather than a servant.

Master gently cupped warm water over its head, and Pet closed its eyes tight to keep the water out. With each new splash of water Master continued to talk away, his voice nearly as warm as the water, wrapping around Pet’s shoulders along with the suds. Of course, the words were still indistinct, and Pet listened in case there was a command it could discern, but it was already starting to think that maybe Master just liked to talk. Pet wouldn’t mind that at all. 

---

“I’ve never really had anything to name before,” Rowan mused aloud as he worked his fingers through the boy’s curls. The texture was so much deeper than his own, the ringlets rich with weight. He made a quick mental note that the dollar-store shampoo he used for his own pin-straight hair would most certainly not do in the future. 

“You see, I had to name a goldfish when I was a kid,” Rowan continued as he began to rinse the shampoo out. “I had to name it, and I stalled for weeks. My parents kept asking me, and my sister kept bugging me about it, but I just didn’t have anything. My mom eventually suggested ‘Goldy,’ and I just went with it. But if you can’t tell me what you want to be called, at least not yet, you deserve a name. A proper one, something with a bit of dignity.”

He wondered if there were websites to help with such a thing. namesforyourbrainwashedhumanslave.com? It wouldn’t surprise him. 

“You’re going to have to learn to wash yourself in the future.” Rowan gently wrung some of the water from the boy’s thick head of hair and hoped he wasn’t pulling on the roots. “It’s okay if that doesn’t happen right away. I’m more than happy to help, but I want you to feel comfortable doing things on your own, without having to ask me. You can come in here and have a bath whenever you want. The apartment incorporates the cost of utilities into the monthly rent already, which means we can use as much as we want at no extra cost. It’s nice to have almost unlimited heat in the winters, especially this far north.”

As he began to carefully wipe away the grime on the boy’s face with a warm cloth, Rowan nearly startled when the boy leaned into the touch. He hadn’t expected to feel pressure returned against his hand. After pausing long enough to pull himself out of the shock, Rowan pressed on and began to scrub at the dried blood on the side of the victim’s face. Flakes of muddy brown and deep crimson scabs covered the deep gouges that ran from his temples, down his ears and jawline, almost down to his neck. Given the extent of the damage, it was a wonder there was any skin left. 

“I hope one day you can tell me how these got here,” Rowan murmured as he got a good look at the wounds for the first time. Blood flaked away and fell in hues of brown into the water, mixed with fresh red from the most recent and still-weeping wounds. 

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered before he could stop himself, because he knew he had to be hurting the boy, no matter how gently he tried to proceed. The wounds were deep, and Rowan wondered if they needed stitches. How was he supposed to tell? Maybe they were too wide for stitches, maybe the scar tissue was already too well-formed. 

They were different than the scars that Rowan had seen on other victims before, and he had seen the aftermath of many instruments of torture in his time. These scars were jagged, and they were as wide as three fingers across, as though they had been continually torn open. It was the first time Rowan saw them this close up, and he noted that the cartilage of the ears was warped and knobbed. Again, something like he had never seen before. 

The water had turned a translucent copper color, and Rowan tried not to be sick as he reached in to drain the bathtub. A quick hand gesture and the boy got out of the tub and knelt back down on the bath mat. 

Right, towels. Dry him off. 

“Let’s get you dry, huh?” Rowan spoke. Maybe it would help ease whatever tensions were running through the boy’s mind if Rowan kept narrating what he was doing. He imagined it would be beneficial to take away some of the nerve-wracking suspense, and instead replace it with vocalized certainty. 

Forcing a smile on his lips, Rowan grabbed the freshly-laundered towel he had set aside, and held it out in the boy’s line of sight. 

“I’ve got a clean towel here. If you want to do it yourself, just grab the towel, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, here we go.” 

As soon as the terry cloth made contact with the boy’s shoulders, he leaned into the touch, his upper body shifting a few centimeters closer to Rowan’s own. Again. This time, Rowan didn’t startle quite so easily. In fact, he was surprised at himself, and the happiness that blossomed in his stomach. 

He knew he couldn’t take happiness in this forever. There was no joy to be taken in a human being that acted on inhumane training, a human who sought other human contact because they were told to, not because they wanted it. But if the boy wasn’t afraid of him and his touch, that was one small victory. Rowan had a feeling he was going to have to take the little victories for what they were. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, not for the first time that hour. But this time, Rowan knew he might have been talking to himself as well. 

---

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

[panstardalia]

After the Summer #1: Belongings

Masterlist: here!

Content: pet whumpee, multiple caretakers, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization (mentioned). Not much to tag, here, just a former pet being taken care of by their family.

“Hey, Noelle. May we come in?” Rat - Noelle. They found it rather difficult to remember their name was Noelle, not Rat like their old master stated - raised their head from their task to see Miss Lily by the doorstep. Behind her were the other four people who helped Miss Lily take care of them. Their friends. “Of course” said Noelle, not only because they were still getting used to being allowed to say no. 

The five got into the room and Noelle noticed that Allen - their favorite caretaker, but they would never say it out loud - had a box full of nick-nacks. Their first impulse was to fear its contents, but they soon remembered that those people were their friends, their family. So curiosity got the better of Noelle and they stretched their neck to try to see.

“It’s been a week since we rescued you, right?” Allen carefully sat beside Noelle. Every movement of his were like this, almost calculated, like he was afraid that Noelle would break if he did anything wrong. It made Noelle feel bad for him, as they already liked him a lot. Oliver said once that they used to be really close before the kidnapping. Noelle wished they could remember those times. “We figured it was the right time to return your belongings.” Allen put the box down and reached for a smaller box, handing it to Noelle. “But you’ll need this first.”

Noelle’s eyes went from the two boxes to Allen and the boxes again. Belongings? So they... owned something? A week ago, when Noelle was still Filthy Rat, they would never dare to imagine owning anything. Everything was Master’s, even themself. Now there was an entire box full of stuff that belonged to them. 

Noelle took the little box and opened it cautiously, revealing glasses. It took them a moment to realize it was theirs. Of course Noelle knew they could not see well, but they had no memories of wearing glasses, as Master never allowed them to. They hesitated, but put the glasses on and felt their eyes go wide. 

“Oh.” they said in a shocked whisper and looked at their friends. “I can see you.”

“We should have given it back to you sooner.” Des gave them an apologetic smile. “It suits you so well, Noelle. You look so good!”

Noelle took their time looking at their friends one by one, registering the features they had not noticed clearly before: Victor’s blue eyes, Oliver’s facetious smile, the few blond locks in Des’ pink hair, the softness of Miss Lily’s white skin and... how beautiful Allen’s eyes were. How those eyes sparkled at them like the stars. They decided they wanted to keep the glasses on their face forever.

“I’m glad you’re happy, but don’t forget to see the rest!” Oliver said with a wide smile. Miss Lily would normally scold him for being loud, but she was also lively waiting for Noelle to inspect the box, and Noelle really wanted to make them happy. And truth be told, Noelle also wanted to do so. Because now they owned stuff, and now they were allowed to want. So they took the first thing that got their attention: a big plushie frog, so soft that Noelle couldn’t help but hug it slowly.

They remembered that sensation, they must have hugged that plushie before. Noelle felt their chest warm and again took their time processing this feeling before reaching for the next thing in the box: a heavy book. Noelle noticed other three similar books in the box and raised their eyes to Allen. “Those were not in Master’s private library, but... I read them.”

“Multiple times.” Allen agreed, a little smile shining on his face. “You read them when you were maybe eleven... then again when you were fourteen, and then again when we met. I couldn’t read English well enough, so... you led me through all those pages.” He hesitaded, but then completed “I could return the favor, if you’d like. We could read it together again.

Noelle focused on the books a little while longer and then smiled at Allen. “I would like that very much.”

The next things also felt so familiar. A hoodie with a non-human character (Victor said it was from their favorite movie and promised to let Noelle watch it again), a very weird pocket watch that Oliver swore he made it himself as a gift for Noelle’s birthday, hair ornaments, japanese mangas, lots of colorful socks and a strange wooden object that made Noelle forget everything else for a moment as they carefully held it with both hands.

A musical instrument, they tought. It had to be. Noelle knew the others were watching expectantly as they slowly used their thumbs to touch the little metal parts. A sweet sound brought back a memory: Noelle saw themself sat on a branch of a tree, far from the ground. It was night time and a beautiful melody could be heard. Beside them, Allen had his eyes closed while listening to the song Noelle played. This moment was one among many similars, but Noelle remembered their heart beating fast and their cheeks burning the whole night after that.

“It’s a kalimba. I used to play this at night.” Noelle whispered. “I don’t... I don’t remember how... but I’m allowed to want things now, and I want to relearn.”

“That’s the spirit!!” Des smiled, happy for Noelle being able to remind themself about what they were allowed to do. But her smile dropped soon after that. “It’s just... none of us know how to play this thing, so... unless Allen learned.”

“I did.” He quickly stated. “A little. Noelle tried to teach me.” He then looked at Noelle and gave them a warm smile. “But you don’t have to worry... you learned how to play lots of instruments on your own. You can do this again even faster now with muscular memory, I suppose. I will help you.”

The only instrument Noelle remembered playing was the piano, as Master liked to hear they play. Only classics, though. Noelle could never play what they wanted to when they were Rat. Now they were Noelle and had their own kalimba. They didn’t feel like approaching a piano again so soon, but... they loved the kalimba.

So Noelle smiled. The others felt the world get a little more brighter as they saw Noelle’s eyes lightening. Noelle held the kalimba close to their chest and said “Thank you. Truly. If those are really mine and I can keep it...” “You do.” Oliver interupted, feeling the need to reassure Noelle, that continued. “So I will keep it with all my heart. I will take care of those things and make sure I remember all the memories attatched to them. I will make you all happy.”

“Don’t rush, dear.” Miss Lily’s sweet voice made Noelle feel safe, as always. “You don’t have to force yourself. Your memories will return slowly, but we can always create new ones. We are family, right? We’ll be together. And we will keep you safe to make sure you can recover the best way possible.”

Once again Noelle felt like home. Miss Lily’s house always felt like home, just like Oliver’s loud laughter, Victor’s silent presence or the feeling of Des brushing Noelle’s hair. Just like Allen’s arms felt like home. So they put everything except for the glasses back in the box and took a deep breath to take courage as they decided to make a request.

“Thank you. So... May I ask for one more thing?” They asked as the others readly said yes. “I want... a hug. From all of you. A group hug with me in the center. Would that... be possible?”

Noelle had little to no time to prepare as everyone gathered around them. They were careful about Noelle’s healing bruises, but eventually they found a comfortable position. Noelle closed their eyes, leaning against Allen’s chest, and allowed themself to relax. They had their own belongings now, and they were so greatful for it... but what they felt really greatful for was the feeling of belonging not to a master, but to a loving family.

[teanderthalrex]

Fewer Rules, Better People by Barry Lam

There are two important things about this review: I am not a philosopher, but I am an abolitionist.

Those two things informed a lot of my enjoyment, or lack thereof, of this short book on how legalism is bad for everyone and less rules will make for better people, if only we follow the guidelines set out at the end of the book.

I agree with a few points in this book: we shouldn't have rules that no one plans to enforce and that being answerable to laws and rules does not mean that a person has a good sense of morality and no bias.

However, I disagree that more discretion is the answer. Discretion often leads to more sentencing and over-policing in minority neighborhoods. A point that's brought up in regards to both police and judges in this book.

We need to be asking the question, "Why is our default to punish all lawbreaking and why is that default punishment increasingly longer and longer prison sentences?"

In order to create a world where discretion can exist without harm (if even possible), we first need to create a justice system where the end goal is not institutionalized privatized slavery.

Lam himself notes this issue in his book when he says that more and more public dollars are spend on prison and police budgets until, in some cases, over half of a cities budget is going to police and jails.

Lam also contradicts himself, talking about how with discretion police can charge you with every single crime imaginable. He uses the example immunity for drug-related crimes gifted to those who report an overdose, by acknowledging that the people who call in the overdose are often charged with other crimes in order to still punish them for the crime of being an addict.

Whenever possible, the consequence for a crime should not be prison.

We still need laws against theft, and against assault, and against murder, but when the consequences for all these crimes are to become slaves of the state, ruining the lives of the people convicted and often affecting the entire community, their families, and other aspects of public life, like taxes, we need to instead work on what the consequences for violating the law should be. Fines and long ass prison sentences clearly aren't working, so let's start there.

The reason I didn't really relate to this book is because as a philosophical approach, this new moral and ethical code Lam proposes will never reach or apply to every American, and therefore not to every police officer or judge or prosecutor, and because of that we cannot rely on it over the legalism approach (though the overwhelming inefficiency of layers and layers of bureaucracy was spot on).

Essentially, when every person has a different thought-process, epistemology, philosophy, ontology, and culture, we cannot better our laws by scanning for a specific morality.

I do agree with suggestions 6 and 7 at the end of the book. That in the same way that professors have a code of ethics and an ethics board, there should be a group, ideally community-focused that reviews discretionary decisions made by police and prosecutors and judges, and has the authority to remove those individuals for patterns of decision-making that are immoral or unethical or otherwise biased. As well, comprehensive training on good discretionary decision making is a must.

To be clear, this isn't a bad book. I liked the look into alternatives to legalism, but I found what was presented, at least from the perspective of an abolitionist, to be lacking in an actionable mode of implementation that would work for the current state of America.

I would love to work on the following actions at a community level based on Lam's book however:

A reduction in unnecessary bureaucracy.

A community-led initiative to have discretionary decisions, including use of firearms on unarmed or fleeing individuals, reviewed, with the authority to have those employees of the state removed, fired, or banned from future service for patterns of decision-making counter the safety of all citizens.

Community-led comprehensive empathetic discretionary training for all public employees.

2.5/5

[itsawhumpsideblog]

The Safehouse, pt. 13

Updated CW: for institutionalized slavery, mentions of abuse, mention of offscreen gun violence, treatment of people as things, description of injuries, descriptions of physical abuse and violence, mention of murder

Advice from the Box Boy Liberation Movement:

When all is said and done, there is not a single "right way" to help rescuees begin to heal; this need for a personalized recovery plan is why rescuees are placed in safehouses, rather than an institutional-type setting.

Tim could feel the anxiety in the atmosphere while Angie and Nathan were gone. It was hard, at least at first, to put his finger on why the house felt tense, because Francis remained on the couch and Mikey knelt on his cushion and they both stayed where they were, just like they usually did. It wasn't as if either of them was pacing around or even talking.

But as the hours wore on, he began to piece it together. It was the frequent glances they exchanged and then way they both kept looking out the back door. That one took Tim a while to figure out, until he realized that neither of them could read a clock and they were watching the shadows move to mark the passage of time. He would have to ask if they wanted to learn to tell time- or even read words.

When they heard a car pull up out front and stop, Mikey and Francis both froze and looked at each other in what Tim could tell was a whole conversation.

"Sounds like they're home," he said, trying to sound calm. "Mikey, do you want to come with me and meet Nathan at the door?" As he said it, he could see that this had been the wrong choice of words. Mikey would not allow himself to act on wants. Tim changed it to, "Why don't you come with me? Nathan will be happy to see you."

Nathan was. Tim opened the front door, Mikey shifting nervously from foot to foot in the entryway behind him, and there they were. Tim could almost feel Mikey physically relax to see Nathan home in one piece. He looked a little better for the painkillers and IV fluids he had been given, although the bruises were still severe. What was more, in his hoodie and basketball shorts, he looked like a normal person, who might have been injured playing sports. In another life, Tim supposed, that could have been exactly who he was.

"Careful getting up that step," Angie reminded him. Nathan nodded tersely and applied great concentration to the act of getting over the threshold. He was leaning on a pair of crutches, his right leg covered in soft padding and wrapped to the hip in an ace bandage. His knee was bent and his toe pointed and he moved in clumsy exhaustion until he saw Mikey.

"Hey, buddy," he said, a smile dawning on his drawn face. "Come to welcome me home, huh? I'm really glad to see you."

Mikey smiled at him, very gently, and stepped forward to offer his right arm for Nathan to lean on in case of need.

"Thanks, but I'm okay," Nathan assured him. "I can make it to the couch." Mikey nodded and hurried purposefully in that direction.

Nathan had sounded confident enough, but Tim had private doubts and he and Angie stuck close by as their newest rescuee limped very slowly across the entryway and into the family room, pausing every few steps to take deep breaths and steel himself for the next leg of the journey.

When he got to the family room, he couldn't help but smile. Mikey was there, carefully picking up pillows one at a time and placing them in a stack on the couch. Francis had reached over from where he was sitting to pull the lever that put up the leg rest, and Tim and Angie helped Nathan pivot to sit down and lift his leg high onto the cushions.

"How does that feel?" Angie asked. "Reasonably comfortable?"

"Yeah, it's okay. Thanks, everybody. Mikey, thanks for the pillows." Mikey nodded, still looking concerned.

Nathan stretched back in the recliner and sighed. "God, I could use a beer right now."

"I bet," Angie said sympathetically. She took a seat on the other side of the couch and Tim retrieved a chair from the kitchen and made himself comfortable. The TV was still playing quietly, although it was being ignored.

"So it went okay, then?" Tim asked.

"Yeah," Angie replied. "We didn't have to wait too long- the doctor was watching for us and he wanted us out of the waiting room to cut down on the chance we'd be recognized later. We'll have to go back in a couple days, though. The doctor said the swelling needs to go down a lot and then they'll put a cast on. That's by appointment, though, so the doctor is going to call the Network to set it up and they'll let us know. Then they figure it'll be at least 10 weeks before they can start talking about taking the cast off, but it might be more because he went without treatment for so long. "

"Sorry to hear that, Nathan," Tim said.

"It's okay. I'm just really glad they didn't want to do surgery." He added, almost as an afterthought, "It was kind of nice to be outside, though. I haven't been outside much in a... a while, I guess."

Angie and Tim waited. Nathan was looking off into the middle distance, pensive, and they wanted to be careful to give him space to think and, if he wanted, to speak.

After a few minutes, he began to talk. "I know I'm a weird Pet," he said. "I got picked up a couple years ago- I aged out of the foster system and didn't have anywhere else to go. I thought being a Pet was going to be like having a job. It's what they tell you in the brochures. So I went and volunteered, like a fucking idiot, and they stuck me in this hotel room and that was okay, but then they started the training."

"You know, they give you an injection to wipe your memory. That's why these guys are- no offense, I don't mean it badly, you know, but kind of..." Nathan searched for the right word, passing over messed up and broken to settle on, "...blank. Like, you don't have memories before a certain point, right?"

Mikey looked uncomfortable, but nodded. "That's right," Francis murmured.

"They don't do it right away. They make you think everything's going to be okay and they get you to sign all the paperwork and then they start the training, real slow at first so you're relaxed, and then one day they announce they're going to make sure you're healthy and vaccinated and while you're in there getting your checkup, they inject you with... I don't even know what, but it wipes your memory."

"You're not technically supposed to know it's coming, but you sort of do. You see guys who have been there longer than you and they all have these blank looks on their faces and they're really, like, beaten down. So you can guess, but actually the WRU doesn't care if you figure it out because once you get the shot, you forget, you know?"

"And they sent me in for it, but it turns out I'm allergic to one of the ingredients in the memory-wiping injection. So they gave me an experimental alternative, which is wild, right? They'll beat the shit out of you for trying to go piss without asking first, but they avoid your allergens. I figured out which shot it was, because the way they looked at each other when they said it was really weird, so I took the shot and waited for it to kick in, but it never did. I guess the experiment was a failure, but they never came after me so they must not know that. Or they're trying to cover it up."

"Anyway, I thought about it and I realized I'd signed all the papers, so they were never gonna let me go. And I didn't want to try again with the real shot, so I... pretended it had worked. I pretended not to know what day it was or how to read or, like, anything and they bought it."

"But I still had to be a pet, because that's what they were expecting and I was afraid of what they'd do to me if they figured me out. So I did all the training and I took all the beatings and everything and I remember all of it. Everyone around me was like a zombie- no offense- because they didn't have any memories at all anymore, but I could still remember when they were normal guys with, like, interests and names and opinions and stuff."

Nathan paused and looked at Mikey as if he didn't know he was staring. He was obviously thinking deeply and he bit his bottom lip. Tim thought he might be finished talking, but he continued.

"I got sold after the, like, graduation or end of training or whatever you want to call it. The guy who bought me was the same guy who bought Mikey, but I was there for a year or two before he got Mikey. It was... I mean, in some ways, it wasn't that bad. I was a Domestic and he basically didn't want to have to think about running the house, so he left me alone a lot. He'd tell me what to cook and I kept everything clean and he gave me a- well, a pet bed, but it was a Pet bed, you know? Human sized, in a little cupboard off the back of the kitchen."

"It could have been a lot worse. I was alone most of the time, which was okay, just lonely. I mostly saw our Master when I was getting punished." Nathan went very quiet again.

"Once, I burned a dinner he was planning to serve to some guests and there wasn't time to hide it and make another one, so he tied me over a chair, whipped me, and then left me there while his guests ate in the next room. He told me if I made any noise, he'd cut off a finger, then he made me clean up all the blood. Another time, I accidentally vacuumed up a sock and broke the vacuum and he stuffed the sock in my mouth and kicked the shit out of me. Another time I burned the cannoli and he put my arm on the stove. You know, normal stuff people do to Pets."

Tim and Angie tried not to look as horrified as they felt, which was difficult. They knew perfectly well that these things went on- that knowledge was why they had joined the Network- but it never seemed to get easier to hear.

"Anyway-" Nathan started only to stop again. "Hey, Mike, do you mind me talking about this? Is it okay if I tell them what I know about you, too?"

Mikey did two things Tim hadn't expected to see. He looked Nathan straight in the eye and then he nodded. Tim could have fallen off his chair in shock to see Mikey express an opinion. It made a kind of sense, though- he could be honest with a fellow Pet, in a way he could not be with Tim and Angie, who he clearly still thought of as though they owned him. That problem would not be easily solved.

"Okay, so then, he had me for about a year and then he got Mikey. The guy was somebody important in an organized crime family. When I first got there, he had his... I don't know what they're called, but lower level guys, doing security for him at night. They'd show up after dinner and he'd station one of them out front of the house and one of them in back. I could see them from the kitchen window and they always stood in the same place."

"I think they hated having to work overnight, though, because I would hear our Master arguing sometimes. Usually on the phone, but in person, too, if one of his guys was feeling really ballsy. So the Master was obviously some kind of big deal, because he just had money coming in all the time and more people reporting to him and he must have decided he was done dealing with all the complaints about working at night, because he bought Mikey. Mikey was- hey, you're sure this is okay?"

Mikey nodded, more positively this time.

"Okay. If you're sure. Anyway, I think- Mikey will have to confirm- he had another owner before this. That right?"

Mikey nodded and held up his hand, bending three of his fingers slightly downwards.

"Two of them?" Another nod. "Okay. But it must have been... I mean, you were in pretty good shape when you got there, except the scars. Were the first owners rough on you?"

Mikey shrugged and moved his right hand in the universal sign for "so-so".

"He didn't have any major injuries, anyway, just a bunch of scars. And he already couldn't talk by the time we met, so I guess something had happened." Nathan looked over at Mikey for confirmation. Mikey nodded and looked grim.

"So our Master put Mikey outside and had him work at night only, just doing laps of the house and watching for threats and dealing with them if they came along. He wasn't allowed in the house, just the garage sometimes if it was really cold. Mostly he slept in the garden, where the bushes were really thick and I guess they kind of kept the rain off. I wasn't allowed outside, so we weren't supposed to meet, but I could see him through the kitchen window and I felt bad."

Mikey gave Nathan a slanted grin and tapped his hand to his mouth. Nathan laughed a little sadly.

"Yeah, that's right. I used to sneak him food and stuff if it had been a bad night. Or bring him ice if he looked really beat up." Nathan's voice was sadder now. "The Master never took him to a vet or anything. I think-" his voice faltered "-he thought Mikey was disposable and if they killed him, Master would just get another Guard Dog."

"If who- what?" Angie asked. She looked furious at the mere idea and, perhaps unconsciously, scooted closer to Mikey.

"Sorry- the guys who were trying to kill the Master. It's an occupational hazard of being a big deal in organized crime. There's always somebody trying to bump you off. They'd show up, Mikey would fight them off, and Master wouldn't even go outside to see if Mikey was okay."

"But you did," Tim said.

"Yeah, I'm not a fucking monster, right buddy?" Mikey nodded and smiled at Nathan.

"So Mikey must have lasted longer than anyone expected and whoever these rivals were, they really wanted the Master out of the way. At first, it was only one or two of them coming at a time. Don't want to alert the neighbors, you know? In case someone calls the cops. But they got a whole bunch of them together one night and basically surrounded the house. I knew they had Mikey- actually, that was how I knew something was really wrong. I heard screaming and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. So I went into the kitchen and then out the window, I could see..." Nathan's voice shook and he stopped to press a hand over his eyes for a very long minute.

"I could see the- the shape of people, sort of piled on top of someone and hitting him with- I guess a pipe or something." Mikey's eyes had gone wide at the memory and he had started rocking again, but he nodded a little.

"And fuck, if I'd known, I maybe would have stayed in my closet because I don't think they knew about me until they saw me at the window. And then they broke down the back door and a couple of them grabbed me. They wanted to know where the Master was, but they didn't even give me time to answer. They just started, like, hitting me. One of them had something heavy and they were hitting me with it. That's what the bruises are, mostly, and they broke my leg while they were doing it. And then... then there was one gunshot from upstairs and they left. Like, instantly. I figure that once the Master was dead, they didn't need to stick around."

"The Master was important enough that his people found us that morning, when they came over. They didn't want us, especially that fucked up, so they called the WRU." Nathan looked over at Mikey again, catching his eye. "I wanted to get to Mikey, but I couldn't move hardly, because of my leg, you know? And he had stopped screaming, so I was afraid he was dead."

Nathan sniffled and wiped his arm across his face. "When the WRU van showed up for us, they took Mikey and me separately and I didn't see him again until just today."

Next time: Francis decides he wants to share his story.

Master List

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[hold-him-down]

Leo Tells a Story

TW: references to whipping, references to institutionalized slavery

Notes: somewhere around the 2 year mark

✥ ✥ ✥ 

“I don’t think I’m getting out of here before midnight,” Luke grumbles from the other end of the line. Rob Bennett can practically hear the frown lines deepening as he pictures his guilt-laden younger brother considering all the possible ways to excuse himself from the late session on the senate floor.

There’s unrest, though. Last week, a new bill had been introduced allowing for broader use of corporal punishment on the private level, and when the public got ahold of it, protests immediately began. Luke had been held in emergency sessions almost every day since, but seldom had they taken him past sunset. 

“Can you do me a favor?” Luke asks now. Rob nods, although Luke won’t see it.

“You want me to stop by your place?” he asks, pizza in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. He lobs it into Eliza’s bedroom, empty now for the next week. “You know he’s probably up to his ears in Moby Dick or something equally enthralling.” 

And he thinks it’s probably true, but still, lately his visits to Luke’s house have been a good opportunity to build something good in the shit storm that is brewing.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Rob’s first thought when he walks into his brother’s townhouse and finds Leo laying on the floor, an obscenely fat book resting open on his chest, his eyes closed but his fingers fisted: Leo is drunk?

Rob’s second thought, immediately after: That doesn’t sound like the Leo he has come to know and love.

“Hi,” Leo says (mumbles?) then, but he doesn’t move. And then, he adds, “I don’t feel good,” and a few pieces fall into place.

With a smile of equal parts fondness and sympathy, Rob drops to a kneel beside him, plucking the book off his chest and dog-earing the page before setting it to the side. Leo squints up at him, his eyes just slightly unfocused, and rolls over with a groan. He pushes himself up onto the sofa, Rob kind-of-sort-of shadowing the movements while trying not to be too obvious.

“Did you at least take the good drugs?” Rob says, hand hovering just over Leo’s shoulder blades. He can never quite pinpoint what the right move here is, but he’s pretty sure at this point that hovering is exactly what his brother would do, so he rolls with it.

Leo folds himself in half, his head between his knees, the curve of his spine visible through his shirt. Rob nudges him, offering a sympathetic smile as Leo’s eyes meet his. “Leo?”

“I don’t know,” Leo says. “Aspirin?” he continues. His arm curls under his knees and he draws his body in tighter. And then, as if on cue, he adds, “Luke said I could. I thought it would help.”

Rob picks the discarded bill bottle from the coffee table, rotating it in his hands. “Aspirin fucks with you?” 

Leo nods, a miserable sound coming from him, but he rights himself then, staring at the bottle in Rob’s hand. “Only when I chase it with tequila.”

For a moment, Rob freezes, gauging the likelihood that Leo is fucking with him. Uncertainty colors his generally pretty casual demeanor. Would he be shocked if Leo finally said fuck it and tapped into his probably-moronic twenty-five-year-old instincts to dull the ache of what he suspected was near constant discomfort? Yes, he decides. He would be. Still–

“Leo,” Rob says, uncapping Leo’s bottle of water and tilting it toward him. He pauses. “I don’t say this to freak you out, but are you fucking with me right now?”

Leo laughs out a breath but nods into his knees, then stretches his back and rights himself, planting his feet on the floor. He takes the water and clears his throat, wincing as he does. “Sorry,” Leo says. And then, he adds, “Yes. Most drugs mess with me.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of medical sense,” Rob says as he sits, setting the bottle back down. “Was it always that way?”

Leo shakes his head. “It got worse after the… – training– started. I don’t know, they made me take a lot. Sometimes I think they were trying to make me sick. Sometimes they would bet on how sick I would get.” He sucks in a deep breath and Rob nods, trying to keep the open fury from registering on his face. “I think it started then. Some Pavlovian thing.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” he replies distantly. They’re silent as the news begins a broadcast of the Senate meeting. There’s no sound, but Luke’s speaking… emphatically, with a banner of updates running beneath him.

“Luke said your back’s been giving you trouble?” Rob asks minutes later, eying the way Leo holds himself now.

“My neck,” Leo corrects. “Usually it’s okay, I don’t… I must have just slept wrong.”

“You’re too young to have neck pains from sleeping wrong. Luke making you sleep on the floor again?” he asks with a smile. Leo’s eyes are still on the TV, his expression devoid of any real emotion, but there’s something there. Rob gives him a moment before he says, gentler now, “Can I take a look?”

Leo, for his part, mostly looks tired. “It just hurts sometimes,” he says, bowing his head. He puts his hands over his ears, locking his fingers around his head, and Rob recognizes the gesture for what it is: bracing himself, holding himself still, doing what he needs to do.

Rob is light in his touch, asking Leo to move when he needs to, pinpointing the pressure points. Leo’s jumpy, because Leo’s always jumpy, but there’s also an alarming amount of tension along the muscles.

Maybe he did sleep wrong. Maybe he pulled something. Maybe he carries a lot of tension generally, and it wears him down.

But for Leo Evans to willfully open that pill bottle–

“How often does it hurt?” Rob asks, guiding Leo’s chin up and gently pressing along his spine.

Leo swallows. “Not often,” he replies. “Not usually.”

As Rob releases him, Leo adds, “It’s not a big deal,” and then, he amends: “I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Okay,” Rob says lightly. “It can be a small ticket item. But–” he takes a breath “–if I only have half the story, I will feel… very sad.”

Leo lifts his head, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll feel... sad?” Leo repeats, with just a hint of, maybe teasing, behind his tone? 

“Very,” Rob says, holding his eye contact for a second longer than he needed to. Sometimes, in these moments, Rob is reminded that Leo can hold his own. That he’s not this broken person everyone thinks he is. That he doesn’t need to be handled with kid gloves the way his parents handle him, that he doesn’t need the protection Luke constantly seeks to provide. 

And then his mouth works ahead of his brain and he says, “Will you tell me why your neck hurts, as seldom as it may?” And if he planned out his words, he might phrase it as less of a demand, but it’s there, and it lingers. “I promise it’ll stay between us, if that’s what you want.”

Leo whistles out a sharp breath, and his eyes meet Rob’s, and his expression shifts. He glances at the TV, where Luke continues to absolutely dominate the senate floor, and turns it off.

“I don’t think I’m really supposed to talk about it,” he says, after a prolonged pause. 

Rob goes to the bar and pours himself a glass of scotch, offering one to Leo. Unsurprisingly, he shakes his head.

When Rob returns, he takes a slow drink, then sets it to the side. 

Every muscle in Leo’s body is tense, his fight or flight response laid out in front of them, and just as Rob considers the exact words he needs to speak to let him off the hook, Leo’s hands ball into fists at his side and he takes a deep breath. 

Leo tells Rob the story then, unexpected in its own right, about the day– one of the days, maybe– that he was tortured just for the sake of being tortured. Complete with a fucking… presentation, and doctors, and video cameras. He recounts it with a detached precision that rattles Rob, the feeling of the whip slicing into his muscles, the feeling of fingers pressing into wounds, the sleepless nights that followed and the uncertainty of when it would happen again. 

When he finishes, Rob’s holding his cup so tightly his fingers are white. He takes a breath, forcibly loosening his muscles, and swallows. He waits until he’s sure he can speak calmly to speak at all, so keenly aware that Leo’s waiting, and that Leo doesn’t do well with Big Feelings, although nothing in his immediate expression or posture gives it away. 

Leo shrugs then, not for the first time that evening. 

“So that’s why it hurts sometimes,” he says softly, his eyes glued to Rob’s fingers, his grip on that glass a preview of what will one day be his grip on the neck of whoever was in charge of that fucking site. 

He takes a breath, the new knowledge settling into him, working its way through his nervous system and penetrating the core of who he is. He thinks of all the ways he’ll get the site shut down, of all the ways he’ll get the whole fucking system shut down; he thinks of what Luke will say when he tells him, and in almost the same instant that he remembers, Leo says-

“You can’t tell him.” 

And Rob swallows, setting his empty glass on a magazine on the table. Leo’s waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t know where to begin. The medical concerns with an experimental torture device slicing into Leo’s neck and causing what is probably irreparable damage. The mental scars that he’s always known run so deep in this boy, but maybe he still doesn’t fucking get how deep. The absolute blind rage that he can’t contain enough to even push out the simplest of words.

“It’s illegal,” is all Rob can come up with, what could be full minutes later. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Leo replies. “It doesn’t matter if it’s legal or not; I don’t think anyone cares about the legality of anything happening in those sites.” Leo’s expression is almost completely devoid of emotion, a perfect mask trained into him by some asshole in some white room somewhere, but Rob knows there’s turmoil behind them. 

“It matters, Leo. It all fucking matters. You matter. Your suffering matters. Your personhood fucking–” He doesn’t clock the aggression in his own tone, the volume of his voice, the fury behind his eyes, until he looks at Leo. He swallows back his anger. He’ll find the video. He’ll find the video, or Luke will, and things will change. They have to.

He can hear the key turning in the lock, he sees Leo’s eye land on the door behind him, and he swallows back whatever pieces of the rage that he can in time for his brother to step into the living room. 

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[rauthschild]

IBM put neural implants in U.S. prisoners without their knowledge.

This is because the U.S. Corp continues to act under the presumptions provided by their self-made and so-called "Fourteenth Amendment" which openly declares that all criminals are slaves.

By the measure they impose on others, they are measured.

There is no substantive authority in back of the Fourteenth Amendment to The Constitution of the United States of America, nor for any Amendment made to this contract since then.

None of these Amendments were agreed to by any entity having authority to act on behalf of the Employers of these Federal Subcontractors, and they stand merely as unauthorized and unilateral contract amendments that have been put in place via presumed acquiesence in the absence of our State Assemblies.

Our State Assemblies are now in Session and we object to the idea that criminals are subject to enslavement and deprivation of rights under color of law. We also object to the idea that any such "criminal" status can be arbitrarily conferred on anyone, including any "citizens of the United States".

This was a fraudulent practice and unauthorized claim against foreign commercial interests and individuals made in the wake of an illegal mercenary conflict misrepresented as "The American Civil War".

The U.S. Corp operating at that time spoke with forked tongue as usual, on one hand declaring the abolition of slavery, and on the other creating a new form of enslavement and institutionalizing slavery in the public domain via private corporate acts that are in fact repugnant to us.

The U.S. Corp that published the so-called Fourteenth (Unratified and Unauthorized) Amendment went bankrupt in 1907. It's carcass was seized upon by its Priority Creditor, the Federal Reserve, another foreign corporation, which demanded a monopoly interest in and control of British Territorial United States currency as part of the bankruptcy settlement. This agreement was memorialized as the Federal Reserve Act in 1913.

None of it has anything to do with our country or our population.

Now, ask yourselves, what possible legal or lawful authority could attach to an unauthorized, unratified and unilateral amendment to a service contract, made by the shareholders of a now long-defunct and bankrupted Scottish Commercial Corporation in the business of providing essential governmental services?

The correct answer is --- absolutely none. Not then, not now. It was all constructive and self-interested fraud carried out under color of law. These contract amendments were never ratified by the Employers and have no validity as Law or Treaty or Contract. They are merely archaic and repugnant Public Policies of a foreign commercial contractors acting under color of law.

By what right do our Subcontractors operating in the current day continue this spoof in the face of their Employers?

Show us --- and the rest of the world -- the ratification of your "Fourteenth Amendment" by our lawful States of the Union, or stand down and Cease and Desist all operations and actions predicated on this unlawful and illegal drivel.

These heinous and reprehensible acts as exemplified by the current example of IBM using prisoners as if they were animals, acts trespassing on the physical and psychological integrity of living men and women that have been routinely pursued by "government" franchises such as DARPA and IBM and MICROSOFT as actions empowered by the so-called Fourteenth Amendment, must come to an immediate and permanent end.

The Employers and Principals that created the Federal Constitutions did not and do not agree to the premises of the offending contract alterations, nor any offensive legislation offered in support of these policies promoted by our Subcontractors.

Similarly, we have not and do not agree to the misapplication of the Sheppard-Towner Act to American non-citizen nationals born in the States of the Union. As of October 1st 2020, all so-called Territorial States have been enrolled as full-fledged States of the Union, retroactive to the day they entered Territorial Statehood under the provisions of the Northwest Ordinance and the Equal Footing Doctrine.

All fifty (50) States of the Union are now fully enrolled and in Session and are owed the protection and good faith service of all Federal Subcontractors and their franchises without exception.

We have spoken about this necessary change in conduct and administration before. This is the Third Time and the Third Notice requiring our Federal Subcontractors to stand down, cease and desist, their misapplication of peonage and enslavement claims made against our free, sovereign, and independent people.

The business affairs, obligations, policies, and operations of our foreign "Federal" Subcontractors are their business only to the extent that they keep their fingers ---and their neural implants--- off our people, and their pollution out of our skies.

When these corporations trespass on us, and fail to provide the good faith service they are contractually obligated to provide, it's time for them to be defunded and liquidated.

All those born within the geographic borders of our States of the Union and all those Naturalized therein, are to be protected and held harmless and accorded all Constitutional Guarantees by our Federal Subcontractors--- without exception.

We recognize no special or different or slave status conferred upon anyone by any corporate artifice. Take this to heart. Our people are not citizens in service to any foreign government. We are Foreign Sovereigns with respect to our Federal Employees and they exist under contract to provide "essential government services" for us; they are required to operate in good faith and with due diligence.

Failure to do so voids their contract and our obligation to pay them and also voids any obligation to obey them and any permission granted them to exercise our delegated powers.

Our Autochthonous Black people are not to be rendered criminals under the force or definitions of any foreign law whatsoever, and are not subject to any presumptions of statelessness allowing any governmental services contractor to confer foreign citizenship obligations on them.

All of this malfeasance and legal chicanery must stop.

[thellawtoknow]

Civil Liberties: The Cornerstone of Democratic Society

Civil Liberties: The Cornerstone of Democratic Society Definition and Scope of Civil Liberties Core Components of Civil Liberties1. Freedom of Speech 2. Right to Privacy 3. Freedom of Assembly and Association 4. Freedom of Religion 5. Protection from Arbitrary Detention and Discrimination Distinction Between Civil Liberties and Civil Rights The Role of Legal Frameworks1. The Bill of Rights (United States) 2. The European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) 3. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) Interdependence of Liberties A Living Concept Historical Context and Development of Civil Liberties Ancient Foundations: Greece and Rome1. Ancient Greece 2. Ancient Rome Medieval Developments: The Magna Carta1. Significance of the Magna Carta The Renaissance and the Enlightenment: Liberty as a Universal Principle1. The Renaissance (14th–17th Century) 2. The Enlightenment (17th–18th Century) Revolutions and the Institutionalization of Liberties1. The Glorious Revolution (1688) 2. The American Revolution and Constitution (1776–1787) 3. The French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen (1789) Modern Expansion: The 19th and 20th Centuries1. Abolition of Slavery and Suffrage Movements 2. Post-War International Agreements 3. Civil Rights Movements Significance of Civil Liberties1. Preservation of Individual Autonomy 2. Foundation of Democracy 3. Social Stability and Progress 4. Global Peace and Cooperation Challenges to Civil Liberties1. Authoritarianism and Overreach 2. Technological Advancements 3. Societal Polarization 4. Economic Inequality Strategies for Safeguarding Civil Liberties1. Legal Safeguards 2. Civic Education 3. Technological Regulation 4. International Cooperation Conclusion Civil Liberties: The Cornerstone of Democratic Society Civil liberties represent the essential freedoms and rights granted to individuals in a society, ensuring their ability to live free from unwarranted government interference or societal oppression. Rooted in principles of dignity, autonomy, and equality, these liberties are foundational to democratic governance, safeguarding the individual's role as a free agent within the collective framework. This essay explores the concept, historical development, significance, and challenges of civil liberties in contemporary society.

Definition and Scope of Civil Liberties Civil liberties are the foundational guarantees that allow individuals to lead their lives with dignity and autonomy, free from undue interference. These liberties serve as a shield against overreach by both state authorities and non-state actors, ensuring that every individual enjoys a minimum standard of freedom irrespective of societal status, belief, or background. Broad in scope yet precise in application, civil liberties lie at the heart of the social contract between individuals and the state. Core Components of Civil Liberties 1. Freedom of Speech This liberty empowers individuals to express their opinions without fear of retaliation or censorship, whether through spoken, written, or symbolic acts. It is a cornerstone of democratic discourse, enabling public debate, dissent, and the pursuit of truth. 2. Right to Privacy Privacy ensures that individuals can maintain control over personal information and their private lives, free from intrusive surveillance or unwarranted scrutiny. This is particularly significant in the digital age, where personal data is frequently commodified and exposed. 3. Freedom of Assembly and Association These liberties guarantee the right to organize and participate in peaceful gatherings, protests, or collective activities, and to form associations such as unions, political parties, or clubs. These freedoms are vital for collective action and advocacy. 4. Freedom of Religion Religious liberty allows individuals to practice, change, or abstain from any religion without coercion or discrimination. It encompasses not only worship but also the right to express beliefs publicly. 5. Protection from Arbitrary Detention and Discrimination The right to due process safeguards individuals from being imprisoned or punished without lawful justification. Anti-discrimination protections ensure that no individual is treated unjustly based on race, gender, religion, or other inherent characteristics. Distinction Between Civil Liberties and Civil Rights Although often used interchangeably, civil liberties and civil rights address different dimensions of freedom. Civil liberties are concerned with the fundamental freedoms inherent to all individuals, ensuring protection from excessive governmental control. For example, the right to free speech is a civil liberty that protects individuals from censorship. Civil rights, in contrast, focus on the equitable application of these liberties and protections, aiming to prevent discrimination or exclusion based on certain characteristics. They address systemic inequalities, ensuring that civil liberties are accessible to all members of society. For instance, ensuring voting rights for all racial groups is a civil rights issue because it enforces equal participation in a civil liberty. The Role of Legal Frameworks 1. The Bill of Rights (United States) Adopted in 1791, the first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution define and protect civil liberties, such as freedom of speech, the right to bear arms, and protection against unreasonable searches and seizures. These provisions form the bedrock of American individual freedoms. 2. The European Convention on Human Rights (ECHR) Established in 1950, the ECHR was a landmark agreement to protect civil liberties in the aftermath of World War II. The convention includes rights such as freedom of thought, conscience, and religion, as well as the right to a fair trial. Member states of the Council of Europe are bound to adhere to its principles, and individuals can appeal to the European Court of Human Rights. 3. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) Adopted by the United Nations General Assembly in 1948, the UDHR is a global declaration of fundamental human rights, many of which align with civil liberties. It includes the right to life, liberty, and security, as well as freedoms of opinion, expression, and movement. Though non-binding, it has significantly influenced international law and national constitutions. These legal frameworks serve as a covenant, establishing the balance between the power of the state and the autonomy of the individual. By codifying civil liberties, societies create mechanisms for accountability and redress in cases of infringement. Interdependence of Liberties Civil liberties do not exist in isolation; they are deeply interconnected. For instance, the freedom of assembly depends on the right to free speech, as individuals gather to express collective ideas. Similarly, the right to privacy underpins freedoms such as speech and religion by allowing individuals to exercise these rights without fear of exposure or retaliation. This interdependence underscores the fragility of civil liberties. The erosion of one often signals a threat to others, requiring constant vigilance and advocacy to protect the framework as a whole. A Living Concept Civil liberties are dynamic, evolving alongside societal norms, technological advancements, and political contexts. As new challenges arise—such as the implications of artificial intelligence, mass surveillance, or climate crises—civil liberties must be reinterpreted and reaffirmed to remain effective. This flexibility is both a strength and a challenge, demanding thoughtful balance between adapting to new realities and preserving core principles. In sum, civil liberties are more than a legalistic construct; they are a moral and philosophical affirmation of human dignity. By defining the boundaries of state power and affirming the rights of individuals, they create the conditions for justice, equality, and the flourishing of democratic ideals. Historical Context and Development of Civil Liberties The concept of civil liberties has a rich and dynamic history, evolving through centuries of political, philosophical, and social struggles. While its foundations lie in ancient civilizations, its modern articulation emerged through a series of pivotal moments that transformed theoretical ideals into enforceable rights. Each era contributed to shaping the framework of liberties as we understand them today, responding to the power dynamics and societal needs of the time. Ancient Foundations: Greece and Rome Civil liberties trace their intellectual roots to ancient Greece and Rome, where the concepts of citizenship and law began to take shape: 1. Ancient Greece In Athens, the cradle of democracy, the idea of political participation was closely tied to citizenship. Free male citizens enjoyed certain liberties, including the right to vote, speak in assemblies, and participate in decision-making. Philosophers such as Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle explored notions of justice, virtue, and the role of the individual in society, laying the philosophical groundwork for future debates on liberty. 2. Ancient Rome Rome advanced these ideas by codifying them into law. The Twelve Tables (450 BCE) marked one of the earliest attempts to formalize legal rights and protections for citizens. Roman law introduced principles like habeas corpus (protection against unlawful detention) and the idea of equality before the law, which would later influence Western legal traditions. Despite these advances, the application of liberties in these ancient societies was limited, often excluding women, slaves, and non-citizens. Nonetheless, the emphasis on legal frameworks and the recognition of individual rights planted the seeds for modern civil liberties. Medieval Developments: The Magna Carta The medieval period saw significant challenges to unchecked authority, particularly in feudal Europe, where monarchs wielded immense power. One of the most important milestones during this era was the Magna Carta, signed in 1215 by King John of England under pressure from rebellious barons. 1. Significance of the Magna Carta The Magna Carta is often regarded as the first legal document to formally limit the power of the monarchy and recognize the rights of individuals. Key provisions included: - Protection from arbitrary imprisonment (habeas corpus). - The right to a fair trial. - Limitations on taxation without representation. Although initially a political compromise between the king and the nobility, the Magna Carta's principles resonated across centuries, influencing later constitutional developments, including the English Bill of Rights (1689) and the U.S. Constitution. The Renaissance and the Enlightenment: Liberty as a Universal Principle 1. The Renaissance (14th–17th Century) The Renaissance era revived classical ideas of individualism and rationality, questioning traditional hierarchies and the divine right of kings. Thinkers like Niccolò Machiavelli and Thomas More began examining the relationship between the state and the individual, setting the stage for later philosophical inquiries. 2. The Enlightenment (17th–18th Century) The Enlightenment was a transformative period in the history of civil liberties, marked by an intellectual revolution that championed reason, science, and human rights. Key figures during this era include: - John Locke, who argued for natural rights to life, liberty, and property, emphasizing the necessity of a social contract between the state and its citizens. - Montesquieu, who advocated for the separation of powers to prevent tyranny. - Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who explored the idea of collective sovereignty and the balance between individual freedoms and societal obligations. The Enlightenment's emphasis on limiting governmental authority and empowering individuals laid the philosophical groundwork for modern democratic institutions and civil liberties. Revolutions and the Institutionalization of Liberties 1. The Glorious Revolution (1688) In England, the Glorious Revolution established parliamentary supremacy over the monarchy, culminating in the English Bill of Rights (1689). This document guaranteed freedoms such as: - Freedom of speech in Parliament. - Protection against cruel and unusual punishment. - The right to bear arms for self-defense. 2. The American Revolution and Constitution (1776–1787) The American Revolution marked a radical break from monarchical rule, with the Declaration of Independence (1776) asserting the inherent rights of individuals. The U.S. Constitution (1787) and its first ten amendments, known as the Bill of Rights, codified civil liberties, including freedom of speech, religion, and due process. This framework became a model for democratic governance worldwide. 3. The French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen (1789) Inspired by Enlightenment ideals, the French Revolution sought to dismantle the feudal system and establish equality and liberty for all. The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen proclaimed: - Freedom of speech and religion. - Equality before the law. - Protection of property rights. These revolutionary movements not only institutionalized civil liberties but also emphasized their universality, asserting that such rights were inherent to all human beings. Modern Expansion: The 19th and 20th Centuries 1. Abolition of Slavery and Suffrage Movements The 19th century witnessed significant progress in extending civil liberties to marginalized groups. Abolitionist movements in the United States and Europe ended slavery, while suffrage movements secured voting rights for women and working-class individuals. 2. Post-War International Agreements The atrocities of World War II underscored the necessity of protecting civil liberties on a global scale. In response, the United Nations adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948), a landmark document that enshrined civil liberties as universal principles. 3. Civil Rights Movements The 20th century saw widespread efforts to bridge the gap between legal principles and practical realities. Movements for racial equality, gender rights, and LGBTQ+ rights emphasized the importance of ensuring civil liberties for all, irrespective of identity. The historical development of civil liberties reflects humanity's ongoing struggle to balance individual freedoms with the authority of the state. From the early notions of citizenship in ancient civilizations to the revolutionary ideals of the Enlightenment and beyond, each era has contributed to shaping a more inclusive and equitable understanding of liberty. The journey of civil liberties is far from complete, but its rich historical legacy continues to inspire efforts to safeguard these rights for future generations. Significance of Civil Liberties 1. Preservation of Individual Autonomy Civil liberties protect individuals from the tyranny of the majority and authoritarian governance. They affirm the right to self-determination and foster an environment where personal growth, expression, and decision-making are uninhibited by oppressive forces. 2. Foundation of Democracy A democracy cannot function without civil liberties. Freedom of speech, for example, allows for the free exchange of ideas, debate, and dissent, essential for a healthy democratic process. Similarly, the right to vote and assemble empowers individuals to influence governance and societal direction. 3. Social Stability and Progress Civil liberties act as a safeguard against unrest by ensuring justice and equality. When individuals feel their freedoms are respected, societal cohesion strengthens, and avenues for peaceful change remain open. 4. Global Peace and Cooperation Civil liberties are not just national concerns; they influence global relations. Societies that respect liberties often form stable governments, which in turn contribute to international peace and cooperation. Challenges to Civil Liberties 1. Authoritarianism and Overreach Even in democratic nations, civil liberties are not immune to threats. Governments may exploit crises, such as terrorism or pandemics, to justify surveillance, censorship, or prolonged emergency powers, encroaching upon personal freedoms. 2. Technological Advancements The digital age has posed unique challenges. Mass surveillance, data breaches, and the weaponization of online platforms have created new avenues for the erosion of privacy and freedom of expression. 3. Read the full article

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The Greatest Sins of Humanity Against Women: A History of Subjugation and Resistance

Throughout history, women have endured centuries of oppression, exploitation, and violence. From control over their bodies to silencing their voices, gender inequality has been deeply embedded in patriarchal systems that institutionalized these practices. This article traces a timeline of humanity's greatest sins against women, analyzing how these atrocities shaped society and women's roles within it.

1. Early Evidence of Control: The Agricultural Revolution (10,000 BCE)

Before the Agricultural Revolution, hunter-gatherer societies were relatively egalitarian. The shift to agriculture marked the beginning of control over women.

Private Property: With the emergence of land as an economic resource, women began to be seen as male "property," particularly in the contexts of marriage and reproduction.

Forced Marriages: Women were traded as commodities in political and familial alliances.

2. Antiquity: Violence and Legal Subjugation

In early empires such as Mesopotamia, Egypt, and Greece, women were already in subordinate positions, treated as tools for reproduction or as property.

Code of Hammurabi (c. 1754 BCE): Laws harshly punished women for infidelity while allowing men to take concubines or sexual slaves.

Ancient Greece: Aristotle described women as "incomplete men." They were excluded from politics and confined to domestic roles.

Rape as a Weapon of War: In many civilizations, women captured during battles were used as sexual slaves.

3. The Middle Ages: The Inquisition and Reproductive Control

During the Middle Ages, the Church's influence consolidated patriarchy in Europe, while similar systems were implemented in other parts of the world.

3.1. The Witch Hunts

Between the 15th and 17th centuries, thousands of women were tortured and executed under accusations of witchcraft.

Independent women, especially those with knowledge of medicine or herbs, were easy targets.

These accusations were often driven by personal disputes or fear of the unknown.

3.2. Control of Sexuality and Forced Marriages

The Church reinforced the idea that a woman's role was procreation, with marriage being her only "acceptable" existence.

Contraception was forbidden, and women were punished for infertility, often accused of witchcraft.

4. Modern Era: Slavery and Sexual Exploitation

The exploitation of women intensified with the rise of mass slavery and colonialism.

Transatlantic Slavery: Enslaved women were systematically raped by their masters. Many were forced to bear children who would also be enslaved, perpetuating the cycle of oppression.

Forced Prostitution: During the colonial and industrial periods, impoverished women were sexually exploited in brothels controlled by men.

5. The 20th Century: Wartime Violence and Eugenics

5.1. Rape as a Weapon of War

During World War II, the Japanese army abducted thousands of women, particularly from Asia, to serve as "comfort women" in sexual slavery.

In modern conflicts such as Bosnia and Rwanda, rape was used as a tool of terror and ethnic cleansing.

5.2. Reproductive Control and Forced Sterilization

Eugenics: In the 20th century, eugenics programs in countries like the United States and Nazi Germany sterilized "undesirable" women, including the poor, Black women, and those with disabilities.

Medical Experiments: Jewish and Roma women were subjected to brutal experiments in Nazi concentration camps.

6. The 21st Century: Persistence and Resistance

Despite advances in women's rights, oppression persists in modern forms.

Human Trafficking: Women make up the majority of human trafficking victims, often exploited sexually or forced into labor.

Restrictive Laws: In many countries, women face severe limitations on access to education, healthcare, and employment. For example, the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan has rolled back women's rights significantly.

Conclusion: The Fight Against Injustice

History is marked by a constant attempt to control, silence, and oppress women. However, it is also a history of resistance. From women accused of witchcraft to those fighting human trafficking today, there is a long tradition of resilience.

Understanding these atrocities is essential to preventing their recurrence and continuing the fight for a truly equal society. Recognition and historical reparations are fundamental steps on this journey.