#that’s the only way it’s going to get done folks

[keferon]

Alright, just hear me out real quick. MechaJazz AU + EmpurataProwl AU. Now, hold onto your socks cuz I'm not done.

What if, after Jazz returns to Earth, Prowl ends up getting captured. The folks in charge of the Mecha program realize that Prowl is something different, something insanely high tech and useful, so they start to tear him apart and modify him. Prowl never gets the chance to scan Jazz's mecha because the scientists and engineers have already made him into one! His helm is removed and replaced with one that has the video relays needed to send visual feeds to the pilot. The beautifully articulate face that Jazz so admired is gone. His servos are removed, turned into weapons to better fight the quintessons and their pet monsters. The engineers tear into Prowls chassis, rerouting cables and energon lines around Prowls spark so that a pilots seat could be installed. That's where the engineers run into a problem. Prowls spark emits radiation, it's not safe for a human to be in close proximity to this glowing ball of energy for long periods of time. So what do they do? They put it in a box. They wall off Prowls spark in thick metal lined with a material designed to prevent radiation from penetrating it. Prowls EM field goes silent. Finally, when the scientists go to integrate the neural connections between Mecha and pilot, it doesn't play nice with the tac net. Prowl crashes, and keeps crashing, until the scientists are able to create a work around. By the time they've completed the work around Prowl isn't Prowl anymore. Something inside of him is broken. He doesn't remember, doesn't understand why he's in pain. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't know what's happening around him, to him. He flickers in and out of consciousness. He can't move and he's in terrible endless pain.

Imagine Jazz's reaction to how brutally his own people mutilated Prowl. Jazz gathers up everyone he knows he can trust, and breaks into the lab Prowls being held in. Hot Rod and Blurr are causing a distraction, while Vortex and Aid kick down the door to the Lab to let Jazz in. Jazz is mortified at what he sees, staring at what's left of Prowl on the slab in front of him. Jazz bundles up his Prowler in his Mechas arms and bolts for it. The gang makes their way to Ratchets little hidey hole in hopes that he might be able to help Prowl, but there's only so much he can do. Imagine little human Jazz looking up at his Prowl and realizing that he doesn't recognize him. His Prowler doesn't recognize him! Jazz will never be able to forgive himself for bringing Prowl to Earth. He'll never get to sleep in the palm of Prowls servos ever again. He'll never be able to make Prowls stoic face break out in that cute little grin that he loves ever again.

The angst is REAL!!!

.............FUCKING HELL ANON.

.....may I suggest you also hear me out?

How about aaaall this, but with Jazz? How about after Jazz got himself transferred into Cybertronian body..he returns to Earth at some point....and gets captured? Because when he helped Prowl to eskape he basically became a traitor in the eyes of government?

Just. You kbow. Hypothetically. How about that

[sassenach77yle]

7x09 “Unfinished Business”

JENNY & YOUNG IAN

AS THE TIME GREW SHORTER, Ian found it impossible to sleep. The need to go, to find Rachel, burned in him so that he felt hot coals in the pit of his stomach all of the time. Auntie Claire called it heartburn, and it was. She said it was from bolting his food, though, and it wasn’t that—he could barely eat.He spent his days with his father, as much as he could. Sitting in the corner of the speak-a-word room, watching his father and his elder brother go about the business of Lallybroch, he couldn’t understand how it would be possible to stand up and walk away, to leave them behind. To leave his father forever behind.During the days, there were things to be done, folk to be visited, to talk to, and the land to be walked over, the stark beauty of it soothing when his feelings grew too heated to bear. At night, though, the house lay quiet, the creaking silence punctuated by his father’s distant cough and his two young nephews’ heavy breathing in the room beside him. He began to feel the house itself breathe around him, drawing one ragged, heavy-chested gasp after another, and to feel the weight of it on his own chest, so he sat up in bed, gulping air only to be sure he could. And finally he would slide out of bed, steal downstairs with his boots in his hands, and let himself out of the kitchen door to walk the night under clouds or stars, the clean wind fanning the coals of his heart to open flame, until he should find his tears and peace in which to shed them.One night he found the door unbolted already. He went out cautiously, looking round, but saw no one. Likely Young Jamie gone to the barn; one of the two cows was due to calf any day. He should go and help, maybe … but the burning under his ribs was painful, he needed to walk a bit first. Jamie would have fetched him in any case, had he thought he needed help.He turned away from the house and its outbuildings and headed up the hill, past the sheep pen, where the sheep lay in somnolent mounds, pale under the moon, now and then emitting a soft, sudden bah!, as though startled by some sheep dream.Such a dream took shape before him suddenly, a dark form moving against the fence, and he uttered a brief cry that made the nearer sheep start and rustle in a chorus of low-pitched bahs.“Hush, a bhailach,” his mother said softly. “Get this lot started, and ye’ll wake the dead.”He could make her out now, a small, slender form, with her unbound hair a soft mass against the paleness of her shift.

Speak o’ the dead,” he said rather crossly, forcing his heart down out of his throat. “I thought ye were a ghost. What are ye doing out here, Mam?”“Counting sheep,” she said, a thread of humor in her voice. “That’s what ye’re meant to do when ye canna sleep, aye?”“Aye.” He came and stood beside her, leaning on the fence. “Does it work?”“Sometimes.”They stood still for a bit, watching the sheep stir and settle. They smelled sweetly filthy, of chewed grass and sheep shit and greasy wool, and Ian found that it was oddly comforting just to be with them.“Does it work to count them, when ye ken already how many there are?” he asked, after a short silence. His mother shook her head.“No, I say their names over. It’s like saying the rosary, only ye dinna feel the need to be asking. It wears ye down, asking.”Especially when ye ken the answer’s going to be no, Ian thought, and moved by sudden impulse, put his arm around her shoulders. She made a small sound of amused surprise, but then relaxed, laying her head against him. He could feel the small bones of her, light as a bird’s, and thought his heart might break.They stood for a while that way, and then she freed herself, gently, moving away a little and turning to him.“Sleepy yet?”“No.”“Aye, well. Come on, then.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and made her way through the dark, away from the house.There was a moon, half full, and he’d been out more than long enough for his eyes to adjust; it was simple to follow, even through the jumbled grass and stones and heather that grew on the hill behind the house.Where was she taking him? Or rather, why? For they were heading uphill, toward the old broch—and the burying ground that lay nearby. He felt a chill round his heart—did she mean to show him the site of his father’s grave?But she stopped abruptly and stooped, so he nearly tripped over her. Straightening up, she turned and put a pebble into his hand.“Over here,” she said softly, and led him to a small square stone set in the earth. He thought it was Caitlin’s grave—the child who’d come before Young Jenny, the sister who’d lived but one day—but then saw that Caitlin’s stone lay a few feet away.

This one was the same size and shape, but—he squatted by it, and running his fingers over the shadows of its carving, made out the name.

Yeksa’a.

“Mam,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears.

.“Is that right, Ian?” she said, a little anxious. “Your da said he wasna quite certain of the spelling of the Indian name. I had the stone carver put both, though. I thought that was right.”

“Both?” But his hand had already moved down and found the other name.

Iseabaíl.

He swallowed hard.“That was right,” he said very softly. His hand rested flat on the stone, cool under his palm.She squatted down beside him, and reaching, put her own pebble on the stone. It was what you did, he thought, stunned, when you came to visit the dead. You left a pebble to say you’d been there; that you hadn’t forgotten.His own pebble was still in his other hand; he couldn’t quite bring himself to lay it down. Tears were running down his face, and his mother’s hand was on his arm.

“It’s all right, mo duine,” she said softly. “Go to your young woman. Ye’ll always be here wi’ us.”

The steam of his tears rose like the smoke of incense from his heart, and he laid the pebble gently on his daughter’s grave. Safe among his family.It wasn’t until many days later, in the middle of the ocean, that he realized his mother had called him a man.

83 COUNTING SHEEP ~ An Echo in the Bone

[oldrockformations]

Physically disabled fan here and I have so many thoughts about the ending and Viktor’s whole arc in general!!!

A large part of Viktor’s character is his own feelings of inadequacy. A good portion of those feelings stem from him being a Zaunite, but a ton of it also stems from his disability. We see it in his flashback, when he avoids other kids his age. We see it in the way he lets Jayce be the figurehead for Hextech, when he refuses to go on stage despite Jayce wanting him there. And he has a valid reason to feel this way—he is unwelcome in Piltover. Jayce and Heimerdinger seem to be the only people who don’t treat him like absolute shit, not to mention Piltover’s lack of accessibility (note the emphasis on Salo’s wheelchair going down stairs). So it’s no wonder Viktor harbors a lot of internalized ableism. It’s what the world has shown him he should feel.

And this internalized ableism, as well as the ableism he experiences externally, is what causes him to push himself so hard. He wants to help people, and he feels he hasn’t done enough. He needs to prove himself. So when he realizes he’s dying, he abandons his own morals in favor of extending his life (note his reaction to Rio as a kid, vs him saying he understands now as he is the one dying) and continuing his work. But when he uses the hexcore to try to cure his terminal illness, the first thing it changes is his leg. All of this shows early on that Viktor is willing to cross lines in order to fix what he considers “weakness.”

Now this whole time, Jayce has always viewed Viktor as his complete equal. The reason Jayce and Viktor work so well together is they provide new perspectives for each other. Jayce is a dreamer, and Viktor shows him reality. But when Jayce gets too caught up in politics and forgets his own privilege (the whole “I’m from the undercity” scene) Viktor feels betrayed. Jayce has abandoned him, and he throws himself into his work, becoming even more reckless and resulting in the death of Sky. And at this point, Viktor is overcome with guilt and believes he is unlovable, to the point that he is suicidal.

I’ve seen a lot of folks saying that Viktor’s arc in season 2 was wildly out of character, or that the writing was ableist, but I think they’re missing the point. At the start of season 2, Viktor is still mentally at rock bottom. I don’t think his change from “I am wracked with guilt because I acted recklessly during an emotional crisis and got someone killed” to “emotions are a flaw and I need to rid myself of them” is that far of a leap considering the circumstances. Especially once you factor in the hexcore messing with his head and using a manifestation of his guilt (Sky) to manipulate him. Viktor has always wanted to help people, and when you combine that with his internalized ableism, it makes sense that he would turn to “fixing” people’s disabilities if given the chance. He genuinely believes he is helping people like he always wanted, and he’s receiving the validation and respect he craves.

So when Jayce “kills” him, effectively killing everyone Viktor has “healed,” he is once again faced with overwhelming guilt and, not knowing how to handle that, he sinks further into the mindset of the Machine Herald. He avoids taking accountability by letting the arcane take control and he justifies his actions with this Glorious Evolution.

So when Jayce, a man Viktor still loves despite everything, looks him in the eye and tells him that he is beautiful, disabilities and all, Viktor doesn’t know how to rationalize that. It doesn’t fit into his current worldview. At this point, Viktor knows that Jayce has a bad leg, he’s fought him. And Jayce is still here saying that it does not make him weak. Ableism and self hatred are ingrained so deeply within Viktor that being told he is worthy of love shatters his mask, literally and figuratively. We see his face again, and he gives up his facade of being this emotionless herald.

Jayce’s message was cheesy as hell, but it was less so about actual disability, and more so about the mindset that is drilled into you when you are disabled. I think it’s impactful to me at least because Jayce chooses to say this instead of fighting. By all accounts he should be trying to kill Viktor, but he risks everything to tell Viktor how much he loves him. That he always has and that there is nothing that could change it. It didn’t come off like a motivational poster like that type of shit usually does, it sounded like an expression of devotion.

That’s my take anyway sorry for writing a whole ass essay lmao. I am very normal about Viktor arcane and I am tired of seeing his character arc being misinterpreted!! Big win for gay people and a massive L for ableism

i’d really like to hear some disabled fans’ takes on the ending of arcane season 2!

because however cute jayce’s sentiment is, when he said:

«but you were never broken, there is beauty in imperfections»

my first instinct was:

«yeah, easy to say when you haven’t experienced being sick and in pain literally your whole life your body failing you in countless ways…»

but that’s only from absorbing stuff my disabled friends have said (i’m able bodied), so if any disabled folks in the fandom wanna weigh in, i’d love to hear your thoughts and takes!

[aeonsaeons]

I have no idea why I’m not seeing anything about this anywhere, but I’m wanting this video to really blow up. At least show people there’s more than 2 options nobody really wants. The working class can work together and allow for a viable third option. I really think this is possible this election!! Everyone’s pissed!

[navree]

Incorrect, the fact that Biden has dropped out and a candidate with history of supporting medicare for all and being more receptive to a ceasefire in the I/P conflict has made me go from "I cannot morally support the Democratic nominee" to "I am voting for the Democratic nominee despite the fact she isn't perfect in every respect." I'm really happy this played out. The Dems for the most part abandoned the old Obama platform and it feels like its possible an actual progressive agenda could come to pass in my lifetime.

Kamala 2024!

If you weren't going to vote Democratic in this election before Biden dropped out you're a dorkass loser who does not care about any of the issues you're yammering about here and also a fundamentally bad person, and I hope you get run over by a bus.

But you got one thing right in all of this gibberish, Kamala 2024.

[harrowscore]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[crossbackpoke-check]

Looks like that video is about a month & a half after The Trade and trevors broken ankle 😣

re: this video… anon 😭 i had suspicions but it is so much worse to have them confirmed that really was like. trevor’s first Public Appearance without jamie AND post-broken ankle which is traumatic in and of itself no wonder every beat reporter was like ‘oh yeah trevor’s just devastated’

wouldn’t you be miserable too if your best friend just got traded and your body betrayed you and what if it was maybe all your fault!!!

[yuribalisms]

I hope rats chew away at the electrical wires in all the management’s houses and cause electrical fires and they all explode

[anarkhebringer]

I wanna draw this new OC now

[smile-files]

i think one of the most fun things about having goody gardens is that it lets me not worry about being fully cohesive... like if i want to wear more comfy, flannely, corduroy-y things? that's worrywart! if i want to wear brighter, happier, more childlike things? that's sunshine lollipop! etc. and also this way i have an excuse to have like... 7 fursonas at once. if i so desired. it's all about self-expression!! whee!!!

[lilgynt]

yes i understand i got groomed but also made plans to visit said groomer and made sure to dress hot to prove something?

[cyarsk52-20]

[acourtofquestions]

No. No, it couldn't have been a dream The escape, Rowan, the ship to Terrasen—

A dream. An illusion. Her escape from him, from Maeve, had been another illusion.

Had she said it? Had she said where the Keys were hidden?

Then a cool, cultured voice purred, "All that training, and this is what becomes of you?" Not real. Arobynn, standing on the other side of the altar, was not real.

"Even Sam held out better than this."

Fenrys snarled.

You could get out of these chains, if you really wanted," Arobynn said, frowning with distaste. "If you really tried."

No, she couldn't, and everything had been a dream, a lie.

"You let yourself remain captive. Because the moment you are free..." Arobynn chuckled. "Then you must offer yourself up, a lamb to slaughter."

Only hearing the King of the Assassins, unseen and unnoted beside her.

"Deep down, you're hoping you'll be here long enough that the young King of Adarlan will pay the price. Deep down, you know you're hiding here, waiting for him to clear the path." Arobynn leaned against the side of the altar, cleaning his nails with a dagger. "Deep down, you know it's not really fair, that those gods picked you. That Elena picked you instead of him. She bought you time to live, yes, but you were still chosen to pay the price. Her price And the gods'?"

Arobynn ran a long-fingered hand down the side of her face. "Do you see what I tried to spare you from all these years? What you might have avoided had you remained Celaena, remained with me?" He smiled. "Do you see, Aelin?"

She could not answer. Had no voice. Cairn hit bone, and—

Aelin lunged upward, hands grasping for her thigh. No chains weighed her. No mask smothered her. No dagger had been twisted into her body. Breathing hard, the scent of musty sheets clinging to her nose, the sounds of her screaming replaced by the drowsy chirping of birds, Aelin scrubbed at her face.

The prince who'd fallen asleep beside her was already running a hand down her back in silent, soothing strokes.

A dream. Just a dream.

She twisted, setting her feet to the threadbare carpet on the uneven wood floor.

"Dawn isn't for another hour," Rowan said.

Yet Aelin reached for her shirt. "I'll get warmed up, then." Maybe run, as she had not been able to do in weeks and weeks.

Rowan sat up, missing nothing. "Training can wait, Aelin." They'd been doing it for weeks now, as thorough and grueling as it had been at Mistward.

She shoved her legs into her pants, then buckled on her sword belt.

"No, it can't."

A gathering storm to the north had forced their ship to find harbor last night—and after weeks at sea, none of them had hesitated to spend a few hours on land. To learn what in hell had happened while they'd been gone.

The answer: war.

Everywhere, war raged. But where the fighting occurred, the aging innkeeper didn't know. Boats didn't stop at the port anymore— and the great warships just sailed past. Whether they were enemy or friendly, he also didn't know.

Aelin scowled. "What." It wasn't so much of a question as demand.

His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she'd returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. "That's enough for today."

"We've hardly started." She lifted her blade.

Rowan kept his own lowered. "You barely slept last night."

Aelin tensed. "Bad dreams." An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. "Perhaps I'm starting to wear you down a bit."

His canines gleamed. "You need to eat."

"I need to train."

She couldn't stop it-that need to do something. To be in motion.

No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.

Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.

She clenched her jaw, and attacked again Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness.

Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.

She couldn't stop. War raged around them People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything.

Rowan struck, so fast she couldn't track it. But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the dirt.

"I win," he panted. "Let's eat."

Aelin glared up at him. "Another round."

Rowan just sheathed his sword. "After breakfast."

She growled. He growled right back.

"Don't be stupid," he said. "You'll lose all that muscle if you don't feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I'll train with you." He offered her a tattooed hand.

But Aelin said, "People are dying. In Terrasen. In-everywhere. People are dying, Rowan."

"Your eating breakfast isn't going to change that." Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. "I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won't be able to."

Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she could see them, hear them. Those dying, frightened people. Whose screams so often sounded like her own.

Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?

Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting him haul her to her feet. So pushy.

Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders. That's the most polite thing you've ever said about me.

Elide's eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite. His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained. Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion's tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she'd entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.

Elide hadn't seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she'd instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.

It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical and magic.

Gavriel met her stare, and Elide again restrained her laugh.

She felt, rather than saw, Lorcan enter. The innkeeper instantly found somewhere else to be. The man hadn't been surprised to see five Fae enter his inn last night, so his vanishing whenever Lorcan appeared was certainly due to the glower the male had perfected.

Indeed, Lorcan took one look at Elide and Gavriel and left the dining room.

They'd barely spoken these weeks. Elide hadn't known what to even say. A member of this court. Her court. Forever.

He and Aelin certainly hadn't warmed toward each other. No, only Rowan and Gavriel really spoke to him. Fenrys, despite his promise to Aelin not to fight with Lorcan, ignored him most of the time. And Elide ... She'd made herself scarce often enough that Lorcan hadn't bothered to approach her.

Good. It was good. Even if she sometimes found herself opening her mouth to speak to him. Watching him as he listened to Aelin's lessons on the Wyrdmarks. Or while he trained with the queen, the rare moments when the two of them weren't at each other's throats.

Aelin had been returned to them. Was recovering as best she could.

Elide didn't taste her next bite of porridge. Gavriel, thankfully, said nothing. And Anneith didn't speak, either. Not a whisper of guidance. It was better that way. To listen to herself. Better that Lorcan kept his distance, too.

Whether the others knew what propelled her, they hadn't said a word. Aelin sheathed Goldryn and loosed a long breath. Deep down, her power grumbled. She flexed her fingers. Maeve's cold, pale face flashed before her eyes. Her magic went silent.

Fenrys sat in wolf form at the edge of the nearest field, staring out across the expanse.

Precisely where he'd been before dawn.

She let him hear her steps, his ears twitching. He shifted as she approached, and leaned against the half-rotted fence surrounding the field.

"Who'd you piss off to get the graveyard shift?" Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. "Would you believe I volunteered for it?" She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. "I don't sleep well these days." He cut her a sidelong glance. "I don't suppose I'm the only one."

She picked at the blister on her right hand, hissing. "We could start a secret society-for people who don't sleep well."

"As long as Lorcan isn't invited, I'm in."

Aelin huffed a laugh. "Let it go."

His face turned stony. "I said I would."

"You clearly haven't."

"I'll let it go when you stop running yourself ragged at dawn."

"I'm not running myself ragged. Rowan is overseeing it."

"Rowan is the only reason you're not limping everywhere."

Truth. Aelin curled her aching hands into fists and slid them into her pockets. Fenrys said nothing didn't ask why she didn't warm her fingers. Or the air around them. He just turned to her and blinked three times. Are you all right?

A gull's cry pierced the gray world, and Aelin blinked back twice. No. It was as much as she'd admit. She blinked again, thrice now. Are you all right?

Two blinks from him, too. No,

They were not alright.

They might never be. If the others knew, if they saw past the swagger and temper, they didn't let on.

None of them commented that Fenrys hadn't once used his magic to leap between places. Not that there was anywhere to go in the middle of the sea. But even when they sparred, he didn't wield it. Perhaps it had died with Connall. Perhaps it had been a gift they had both shared, and touching it was unbearable.

She didn't dare peer inward, to the churning sea inside her. Couldn't.

Aelin and Fenrys stood by the field as the sun arced higher, burning off the mists.

Aelin shook her head. Another dream, or hallucination. "If she's on our heels with this army, I'm just ... trying to understand it. Her, I mean."

"You plan to kill her." The gruel in her stomach turned over, but Aelin shrugged. Even as she tasted ash on her tongue.

"Would you prefer to do it?"

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," he said through his teeth. "And you have more of a reason to claim it than I do."

"I'd say we have an equal claim."

His dark eyes roved over her face. "Connall was a better male than—than how you saw him that time. Than what he was in the end."

She gripped his hand and squeezed. "I know."

The last of the mists vanished. Fenrys asked quietly, "Do you want me to tell you about it?" He didn't mean his brother.

She shook her head. "I know enough." She surveyed her cold, blistered hands. "I know enough," she repeated.

[mxactivist]

Support the BBC for having a trans character in recent episodes of 'Doctor Who'

Apparently the BBC (UK) has had 144 complaints about a recent episode of Doctor Who because it contained an openly trans character.

I've made a complaint to the BBC that there weren't enough transgender characters in Doctor Who. I would love if 144 other people did the same thing. Here's the link: https://www.bbc.co.uk/contact/complaints/make-a-complaint/#/Complaint

(For your easy reference: "The Star Beast" aired on 25/11/2023 on BBC One, and the trans character is called Rose.)

Please note that the complaint form asks for your UK postcode, so only UK folks can join in with this - but if you suspect you might have any UK-based followers, maybe give us a reblog to boost the signal?

Edit: I'm told that you can fill in the form even if you're outside of the UK, because the BBC provide service to many countries other than the UK, including the USA! Go for it. :D

Reply to confirm that you've done it, so I can keep a count!

Here's my complaint:

I recommend:

Avoid sarcasm or irony. Assume your post will be taken literally. If you are clearly joking or being mean you will be ignored or misunderstood.

Include some gratitude/appreciation. It's pretty great that they included a trans woman in a positive way, and they should know that they have explicit support for that.

~

Edit again: I'm seeing some concerns in the replies/reblogs that the BBC might not distinguish between "less trans people, please" complaints and "more trans people, please" complaints. Rest assured, this is nothing to worry about - the BBC publish fortnightly complaint reports, and they do pay enough attention to know when a complaint is in favour of or against trans inclusion. In fact, their 20 November – 3 December 2023 report is where the various news articles are getting the 144 complaints figure; that report says there were precisely 144 complaints that they have categorised as "Anti-male / inappropriate inclusion of transgender character".

That means the next complaints fortnight window is 4 December - 17 December. We have 8 more days to beat 144. By my count, over Tumblr, WhatsApp, the Fediverse and Telegram, we have 85 so far, which is well over halfway there.

Also, when you've done it, please reply to confirm you have done it, so that I can count us!

Thank you, everyone!

~

Edit, 2023-12-11, 1am UK time:

We did it! I've just been counting up responses, and it looks like sometime yesterday evening we hit 144 complaints/comments in favour of Rose Noble and more excellent trans characters in Doctor Who! (We're actually up to 157 now, fantastic.)

So, my next plan is to submit a Freedom of Information Act request to the BBC sometime in the next few days, asking for complaints and compliments figures. Then I'd ideally (energy and time permitting) like to put together a press release that I can send out to the publications that promoted the tiny "144 anti-trans complaints" figure, showing them that there has been far more feedback in favour of trans representation than against.

I'll keep you posted.

[mulattomochaccino]

I can NOT fucking believe i am watching this shit happen in real time.

Overnight I've watched the wiki page for 4B go from a single line of text describing it as a feminist movement and four more lines beneath it explaining the rules, to now it being a several paragraph screed about how it is a terf riddled, transphobic, transwomen hating movement made intentionally and with the sole purpose to stop women from having sex with transwomen.

The article editing history shows this all being done overnight. It also shows it mostly being done by a single user who INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH has been flagged multiple times for getting into editing wars on the CIRCUMCISION and FORESKIN wiki pages!!!! You cannot make this shit up!!

American women only briefly floated the idea that they shouldn't have sex with anyone that can get them pregnant in a time where pregnancy could be a death sentence and like fucking LIGHTNING these folks come out the gate to shut it down in every way possible.

[muffinlance]

The feral cat gator of a 13 year old freshly scarred Zuko being forcibly adopted by the foggy swamp tribe! Bonus points if they willfully ignore the fact he's a firebender and treat him as a very strange waterbender bending-wise

It was Earth Kingdom ships that drove the metal one onto the reefs, so when the little thing came crawling up through the marsh spitting and hissing and dressed in red, they knew it weren’t no earthbender. No matter how much mud it had tripped in, trying to find where the ground stopped sucking at its feet.

“Wow-ee,” said Old Earl, “that sure is one way of keepin’ off the ‘squito-chiggers.”

And they all watched from Big Earl’s porch, sitting or rocking, as them bugs came for the all-you-can-eat and ended up on the bar-b-que.

“Sure is some weird bending,” said Little Earl, who was taller than Big Earl, but when they'd been twelve and they’d wrestled for the title it hadn't been Little Earl who’d won.

The little thing looked maybe twelve, too. And he was little little. But he had that same look like he was going to shove someone’s face in the mud until they said otherwise, as he stood there all panting and dripping and just realizing they’d been watching him this whole time.

“It’s firebending,” the one-kid mud-wrestler said, as bugs kept pop-snapping into flames around him.

Old Earl cupped a hand over his ear, like he couldn’t hear. And he kept doing it, while the kid got louder and louder about that bending of his, but quieter and quieter about looking at them like they were his next bugs.

“Oh, firebending,” Old Earl said, nodding like he’d only just got it, when the kid had stomped straight up to his chair. “Right, right, Old Jane’s got fire-water-bending, too. Why don’t you take him to her, boys.”

“It’s not-- ugh,” shouted the kid, but maybe he only had the one volume. Certainly only had the one volume for stomping, even though stomping was what got a fellow’s shoes shoved down so deep in the mud they’d be seeing them again as mole-shrimp hats. Not that the kid had shoes. Neither did Earl, Earl, or Earl. ‘Cept for Fancy Earl, but he’d gone off to Ba-Singing-Se, to be fancy.

Anyway, Old Jane was the best at turning anything and everything into fire water, which was the kind of thing a fellow called his or her liquor when they wanted fancy folk to keep right on walking. Was really good for making shouty little firebrands take their naps, too, which let Old Jane get her glowing mitts all over that fresh burn of his. And the love-bites from the shark-wrasses that had probably been half the reason the kid had come a-shore all a-shouting in the first place.

“Nope,” diagnosed Old Jane, when the kid woke back up. “That’s just how he talks. Mother was a screamer-bird, I’d say.”

“You take that back about my mother,” screamed their screamer-bird, who had pretty good hearing for someone who’s ear had lost the same fight as his eye. Anyway, Old Jane had done the best she could about both, and nothing was on fire that shouldn’t be, and she had that extra quilt she’d been working on that needed a body under it

And the waves and the shark-wrasses had all the rest of the kid’s crew

So sure enough they set their little screamer-bird up with a nest and let him cry loud as he wanted.

Anyway, if there was one thing Earl Earl Earl and Jane knew, it was how to make a joke so good the other person didn’t even know it were a joke.

“Firebending,” their little fledgling shouted, and waved his arms around, like all that fire pointed at no one was going to get them startled off.

“A-yep,” nodded Old Earl. “That there is some fire-water-bending. Just like Old Jane.”

Old Jane wasn’t the kind of gal who showed off, but she wasn’t the kind who missed no cue, either. She swirled a lick o’ liquor out of her latest barrel and twirled it ‘round and straight into her mouth, and when she spit it out, it looked so much like the little bird’s breath-o’-fire that he didn’t even notice the spark rocks she kept on her fingers as jewelry. No one did, ‘til they’d seen the trick a few times.

The kid’s mouth hung open so low and so long, a moth-tick flew in. That was some kind of life lesson, that was. The swamp was good at sending those.

The Earth Kingdom sent troops a-stompin’ through, losing boots and scaring catigators out of their sunning spots left and right, askin’ all rumbly about those fires they’d spotted, and if anyone from that shipwreck had made it on shore, and talkin’ about how there’d be money in it for them if they made that last answer a “yes,” sounding like Fancy Earl and all his talk about commerce and living standards.

“Got a few parts of them ship people in the lagoon,” Big Earl said. “Probably still floatin’ if you want ‘em. But we better bring the shrimp-minnow nets, ‘cuase they’ll just slosh on through the turtle-sturgeon ones.”

“...No thank you,” the head stomper said, like sayin’ polite words made a fellow a polite man. He’d tracked those boots of his right up onto their porch without so much as a scuff on their mud rug. Even the kid had used the mud rug. “And the fire?”

“Oh,” said Little Earl, with a grin, “that was Old Jane.”

And she did her trick again, only less tricky, so they could see the spark rocks real good. “You boys want some fire water?” she offered. “It ain’t blinded no one who wasn’t already headed that way.”

They didn’t want any, which was grand, ‘cause she hadn’t really been offering.

When the last of them had gone stomping off back to the kind of land that let people stomp it, it took them two whole hours to lure out the catigators from under the porch. And their little screamer bird, too.

“...Why didn’t you turn me in?”

“What?” asked Old Earl, cupping his ear.

“Why—”

“What?”

“—didn’t—”

“WHAT?”

“—you—”

“Speak up, boy,” Old Earl said. “I never heard such a quiet child.”

And boy, did that set their bird back to singing.