#the four prisoners sentenced to death

[eurychphanpelcael]

人類は死をあまりにも遠ざけ過ぎた。 医療、衛生、栄養、人権が、四大天使の如く人命を守りすぎたのだ。 それはさながら楽園の風景に見えながら、実質肉体と人生の檻に魂を拘束されているに過ぎない。 この生の懲役刑から逃れたければ、遠ざけたはずの死にすがる他はない。 自殺はこの尊厳なき隷属的な生からの、力ずくの脱獄なのだ。

Mankind has taken death too far. Medicine, sanitation, nutrition and human rights have protected human life too much like the four archangels. It looks like a paradise landscape, but in reality, it is nothing more than which the soul is restraint to the cage of body and the life. If we want to escape from this prison sentence of life, we have no choice but to cling to death, which we have kept away. Suicide is jailbreak by force from this slavery life without dignity.

[dixons-sunshine]

A Risk | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: In an attempt to hide from a herd, Daryl sought cover in an abandoned cabin. However, he stumbled across a woman that threatened him, and he soon figured out that there was more to her than meets the eye.

Era: Prison, pre season four.

Warnings: Swearing, allusions to near death, walkers.

Word count: 1k.

A/N: Requested by @nikkicloudie. I hope you like this!

“I said: Lower. Your. Fucking. Weapon.”

Against his better judgement, Daryl slowly and hesitantly lowered his crossbow, allowing it to drop to the floor with a dull clink. Once his beloved crossbow was out of his grasp, he raised his hands above his head in surrender.

“I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, lady,” Daryl spoke up, his ocean-coloured eyes flickering between the gun in your grasp and your face. He was searching for any change in your demeanour, for any sign that you would attack. “Jus’ passin’ through. M’hidin’ from that herd that’s ‘bout two miles from here. M’waitin’ ‘em out.”

Daryl could see the contemplation on your face. With a mere glance at your face, and the way your grip slightly loosened around the gun, the archer knew he was not in any immediate danger. However, he still did not let his guard down. Perhaps you were a master of deception, and you were simply playing him. He did not want to risk it.

“Go.” you finally voiced after a good while of silence. “There’s another cabin about a mile up from here. If you leave now, you’ll make it before the herd gets here.”

Daryl scoffed and shook his head. “Nah. I ain’t riskin’ it. M’not leavin’.”

“Well that’s too damn bad, buckaroo,” you retorted, your gun being raised and aimed at him once more. “I’m not about to risk my s—my life for some stranger. Leave, or I’ll shoot you, I swear to god.”

“Listen, lady. I ain’t—”

Before Daryl could finish his sentence, a loud crash came from another room, followed by a cry. Was he going insane, or did that sound like a little kid? However, before Daryl could do anything, you turned around and bolted towards the source of the sound.

With a frown, Daryl picked up his crossbow and slowly walked towards the room you had disappeared into. He raised his weapon, fully prepared for an attack, but the sight that beheld him had him stopping in his tracks.

A walker laid dead by the window. You were down on your knees, your gun discarded a few feet away from you, and in your embrace was a little boy; the little boy looked no older than three years old. Suddenly, it all made sense to him. The new world gave everyone all the reasons to be extremely defensive, but you had another reason. You had someone you wanted, needed to keep safe.

Your eyes flickered up to meet Daryl’s, and the archer could clearly see how glassy they had become. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure out that the little boy had almost been that walker’s next meal. If you had not appeared when you had… Daryl did not even want to finish that thought.

“You’re okay, Chris. I got you, Baby. Mama’s got you,” you murmured to the little boy in your arms. You gently picked him up as you raised from the floor and allowed him to bury his face into your neck, his quiet whimpers and sniffles being muffled. You looked back at Daryl, your expression less guarded, but more broken.

At that moment, Daryl had already made up his mind. You were clearly just a mom trying to defend her son from the harsh reality that was the world outside, and you had viewed Daryl as a potential threat, and you had every right to be wary of him. He supposed he did not look like the most warm, inviting person ever, and he definitely did not blame you for wanting him as far away from your son as humanly possible.

“M’from a place not too far from here,” Daryl spoke up after a few moments of contemplating his options. He continued when he noticed he had your full attention. “S’a prison that we converted into a community. It’s safe and secure, with ‘bout fifty people walkin’ around and makin’ due.”

“Is that an offer?” you inquired, your hand rubbing soothing circles over your son’s back. “I mean, I just threatened to kill you.”

Daryl shrugged and slung his crossbow over his shoulder. “I would’ve been more terrified of ya if ya didn’t point yer gun at me, considerin’ the world we live in now.” Daryl’s lips involuntarily twitched into a small smile when he heard your light chuckle. “I only have three questions for ya, though.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Sure. Shoot.”

“How many walkers have ya killed?” he began, studying your expression closely.

It was your turn to shrug. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“How many people have ya killed?”

A small beat of silence passed. “One.”

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t about to allow him to kill my son.”

Your answers were more than sufficient, considering the questions you were being asked. He was about to say something, until he heard groaning coming from outside. He ushered you down, and quickly sprung into action. He closed the window and lowered himself down against the wall, right next to you. He turned his head to look at you, and saw how you quietly tried to shush your son, who had started fussing once he picked up on the shift in the mood.

“Mama,” he whimpered, instantly being shushed by you.

“It’s okay, Baby. Shh. It’ll be over soon, okay?” You turned your head and looked at Daryl, your expression desperate. “I don’t know if what you’re saying is true or not, but I can’t live like this anymore.” For added emphasis, you motioned towards the window, where dozens of walkers were walking past. “My son isn’t safe like this. Your offer is just a risk I have to take.”

Daryl nodded. “I know ya dun’ trust me, but I’d never endanger yer lil’ one like that. Ya have my word on that.”

A few beats of silence passed. “I’m Y/N, by the way. This is Chris.”

“Daryl,” Daryl told you. “M’Daryl. And I promise m’gon’ make sure ya get yer lil’ boy to safety. Ain’t gon’ let nothin’ happen to him.”

[spenceobsessed]

part 1

this is a part 2 to another fic i did, but can be read as a stand alone!

post!prison reid x fem!reader

genre: enemies to lovers, smut with a plot

summary: after being put on a case with you, spencer realizes he might not hate you as much as he thought.

MDNI 18+

unfortunately, when working for the bau, having time off is very rare. you and spencer were harshly reminded of this. right after your successful arrest of the unsub at the nightclub, you were immediately put on a plane, incredibly sexually frustrated, on your way to another case.

you and spencer had (luckily or unluckily) ended up next to each other on a plane ride to the middle of nowhere in wisconsin. there had been a string of murders in the small town of hayward. four were dead and the unsubs rate of death was accelerating.

the flight was a little under six hours. just sitting next to spencer was excruciating.

the rest of the team had fallen asleep and although you attempted to sleep, you were simply just too horny. not being able to finish earlier, mixed with sheer anticipation had taken over you. you tossed and turned in your seat, a blanket pulled up to your chest. you open your eyes to look at spencer who had a book in his hands, his eyes on you.

you smile softly, sitting upright to get a better look at the handsome man.

“are you okay?" he asks softly, his kind voice still new for you. you nod, watching as he sets his book down over his crotch. hes still hard.

"i'm okay." you respond with a smile. "just, y'know..." you trail off trying to put your thoughts into words.

he laughs softly, completely understanding what you mean. "earlier.” he finishes your sentence with a smirk on his face.

“well i would ask how you feel about ‘earlier’, dr. reid,” you begin, your had moving from the armrest to rub against his chest. “but i can already tell.” you move your had quickly down his chest and hover your hand over his obviously hard cock in his pants. he gasps softly as you use one finger to trace the shape of him.

“fuck.” he groans, the use of a curse word throwing you off (and turning you on). “please.” he begs as you push softly on his cock, feeling a wet spot from precum already forming.

“use your words.” you demand, kindly, your dominance going straight to his dick. spencer liked being dominant, which he most definitely was going to be when the plane fucking lands, but right now he wanted to be taken care of. he needed to be taken care of.

“touch me.” he says simply as you begin to undo his belt quietly.

“ok, pretty boy, but i’m going to need you to keep quiet, can you do that?” you reply, reaching your hand into his underwear, pulling his hard cock out. he was huge, bigger than you would’ve guessed, especially for a relatively skinny guy. his tip was red and angry, begging for your attention.

“yes.” he says breathlessly, watching you hold his cock. you smile, throwing your blanket over his lap and over your arm, deciding that sucking him off would make too much noise.

you use your pointer finger to spread his precum over the tip of his cock, eliciting a muffled groan from the man.

you begin to move your hand down his cock, causing spencer to cover his mouth with his hand. his pupils were blown and his chest rising and falling fast. it was an amazing sight.

you felt yourself getting wet as your hand began to move faster on his cock.

“this feels so good.” he says, his praise only fueling your desire. the man bites back a moan just watching you concentrate on letting him cum.

“fuck, y/n,” he gasps out his hips bucking into your hand. “i’m close.” you pick up your pace a bit, making the handsome man roll his eyes back in his head and cum all over your hand. you stand up and take a look around the jet to make sure everyone was still asleep. luckily, penelope garcia had given the whole team noise cancelling headphones for christmas, so no one heard a thing.

you smile leaning in to give him soft kiss on the lips before walking to the bathroom to wash off your hands. when you return, spencer's eyes are closed and you can't help but kiss his cheek. he opens his eyes slowly, reaching up to grab your waist and pull you onto him. he throws the blanket over your bodies and kisses your forehead softly.

you squirm slightly, still feeling horny. he looks up at you, eyes barely open. "your turn?" he asks, referring to your pleasure. you laugh softly shaking your head. he was half asleep and still offering to make you happy. "no, its okay pretty boy, we'll save that for later." he nods, a smile on his face.

"are you sure?" he asks, turning his head so he could look you in the eyes, perhaps to see if you were lying.

"yes, i promise." he kisses you on the forehead before falling asleep, his arms around you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

although you managed to get some sleep in spencer's arms, you knew that soon enough someone would wake up and you both would get caught. so, an hour after falling asleep on the handsome man, you painfully peeled yourself off of his lap and back into your own cold seat.

luckily, no one had (seemingly) seen anything, which was good.

as of now, you were leaving the plane to go to the hayward precinct.

"we'll check in with the chief of police, then dave and i will stay over night while you guys go to the inn and get some sleep." emily announced as they began piling into two large black suburbans.

they collectively thanked prentiss and rossi before heading to the inn.

"wait so when she says inn..." you ask, climbing the the back seat. jj nods.

"yeah, this is a small town so there isn't really any place for us to stay near by."

tara climbs in the passengers seat and luke slides in next to you.

the rest of the ride there was relatively normal, minus a few jokes about you & spencer's make out session at the night club, that you chose to ignore.

you arrived to the inn quickly, grabbing your designated room key and head to your room.

“fuck!” you yell, surprised to see someone already in your room.

“shhh.” spencer says, coming up to close the door behind you, taking your bags from your hands and setting them down by his feet.

“i missed you.” he says, causing you to roll your eyes.

“it’s been like thirty minutes, pretty boy.” he smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him. you laugh as he picks you up easily and carries you over to the queen sized bed.

“i’ve just been thinking about earlier.” he says, laying down next to you.

“oh yeah?” you say, turning you head to face him.

“uh huh,” he says, pulling your body closer to him allowing you to lay your head on his chest. “i want to make you cum now.” he says, his voice low. you look up at him allowing him to tip his head down to kiss your lips.

“jj.. is.. next.. door.” you huff out in between kisses. spencer shrugs, flipping your position so he’s on top of you. he begins kissing and biting down your jaw and neck, using his hands to expertly remove your shirt. he lets out a small groan when he rips the shirt off you, revealing your tiny, lacy bra.

“off please.” is all you manage to say, but somehow he understands. he unclasps your bra in a single motion, throwing it to the floor, exposing your hardened nipples.

“y/n..” he says lowly, his eyes filled with lust. “so pretty.” he continues to trail kisses down your neck and chest, until his mouth lands on your tit, sucking softly as his other hand teases your other nipple.

you groan softly, that familiar wet feeling returning in your underwear for the third time in 24 hours.

although you’ve just started, your groans and boobs had already gone straight to spencer’s cock and as he kissed your body you could already feel his hardness pressed on your leg.

you buck your hips up against spencer, begging for some friction.

“i need you inside of me, spencer.” the use of his name he was so unfamiliar with made his pants grow tighter.

“so needy.” he jokes with a smile, moving to remove your pants, his mouth watering at the sight of your covered pussy, a perfect wet spot in the center.

“so, so pretty.” he sighs, hooking his fingers in your underwear and pulling it off of your legs.

without warning he inserts two of his fingers in you, causing you to gasp and moan at the new sensation. you slowly attempt to remove his shirt as pleasure blinds your senses.

soon enough, spencer is moving down to attach his mouth on your cunt. “spence, please, im gonna cum. i need you inside me.” you moan, your back arching. this garners a moan from the handsome man, his noises echoing in your pussy.

you expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. you feel your walls begin to tighten as he returns his fingers into you, allowing you to finally cum.

you moan and groan, his name on your lips.

even though your only semi cognizantas you recover from your high, you can’t help but notice the way spencer has begun to crash his hips against the bed.

“inside me.” you demand, your breathing heavy. spencer smiles as he removes his pants, leaving just his boxers, and crawls over top of you. he captures your lips in a heated and sloppy kiss, the remnants of your orgasm on his lips.

you reach down, breaking the kiss to remove his underwear, his hard and leaking cock sticking straight up. you smile as he pecks your lips, moving himself so his cock is aligned with your entrance.

he glides his cock over your slit a few times, causing you to beg him to be inside you. you’ve never felt this desperate before. he slowly pushes his large dick into you, causing you to groan, slightly in pain due to his size.

“you okay, baby?” he whispers, noticing your discomfort. you nod as your walls adjust, his size now feeling incredible.

he begins to pump his cock in and out, immediately hitting you in your sweet spot.

“fuck.” you moan, throwing your head back. he uses his hand to move your face back, towards him.

“i want to see your pretty face when you cum, y/n.” he says, in almost a demanding manner, but still with kind undertones.

his words don’t fail to turn you on, somehow even more.

“oh, you like that?” he says through a moan, as his pace quickens, the leud sounds of his cock driving deep inside you, mixed with moans, fill the small room.

“i’m close,” spencer admits, through breathy moans. you open your mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a deep moan.

you feel his dick twitch inside you as rubs your clit with his fingers.

“cum inside me, please.” you beg, feeling your core tighten around him, your release nearing.

“are you sure?” he asks, his movements becoming more sloppy, his skin coated in a thin layer of sweat.

“yes!” you confirm as you reach your climax for the second time, spencer following quickly.

his hot cum fills you up as he continues his movements, riding you both through your highs.

when you’ve both had a second to catch your breaths, he pulls out of you, leaving you full of his cum, but missing his cock. you smile as he gives you a slow kiss, laying down next to you.

“you’re so perfect.” he whispers into your hair as you lay your head on his chest. you smile, happy, but a little confused how just over a day ago you couldn’t stand this beautiful man.

a/n: thank you all for 100 followers and so much love on my last post. as someone new to tumblr it seriously means a lot. just so you know, my requests are open!!!! thanks again🫶🫶🫶

[imagine-darksiders]

Absolute Anarchy

A Darksiders/SCP Foundation crossover nobody asked for but is here regardless.

Summary: SCP-8103. Object class; undetermined. There's a new entity at the Foundation. Four D-Class have already been supplied with weapons and pitted against it, only to be cut down before they could get more than a couple of shots in. Eager to determine which calibre of rifle can pierce its armour, they send you in next - D-1935 - to accomplish what your predecessors couldn't. It's too bad they never taught you how to actually use the rifle...

This has the vague semblance of a plot btw, but I'm trying not to be too finicky, and just to write as it comes to me, so hopefully it'll still be easy enough to follow and enjoyable at the same time.

Tw: Blood, guns, death, imprisonment, threat, violence, trapped, typical SCP violence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If there was ever a moment where you should have felt the stars aligning to determine the path your life might take, it would have to be the moment you decided to steal that godforsaken sports car.

It was an instance born of desperation – a tantalising lure cast by the owner of a chop-shop who made heartfelt promises to lift you out of poverty, only to throw you under the proverbial bus when the heat ventured too close to his illicit operation.

He only wanted the money from that Ferrari.

You reduced yourself to grand theft auto for a chance to escape the homeless shelter and land on your feet.

And where did you land instead?

Behind bars, that’s where. Tossed into some dingy prison that seemed only built for the sole purpose of hiding away society’s miserable, forgotten dregs.

You thought you knew what rock bottom looked like.

How were you to know the depths this pitiless world could drag you down to?

“D – One-nine-three-five!”

A strident voice bellows a set of all-too familiar numbers at what must be the top of his already bursting lungs. The door to your cell is wrenched violently open, spilling light into a room that’s a damn sight smaller and bleaker than the one they pulled you from in St Ives.

Bureaucracy had been your ultimate enemy, in the end. A signature in the wrong place, a ‘t’ dotted where it should have been crossed, and an ‘i’ absent from your paperwork had all lead you to a place you couldn’t have imagined in your most turbulent nightmares. A place that shouldn’t - and so far as the public is aware - doesn’t exist.

The SCP Foundation.

Specifically, site 12; a rancorous offshoot of what you’ve come to learn through eavesdropping and rumour, is a worldwide operation.

It turns out the people in charge here couldn’t less of give a hoot whether you’re a petty thief or a renowned and unrepentant serial killer. If your name is on their list, they won’t bother to see a difference. You’re all Disposables, in the end, and no amount of pleas for your innocence or requests for an evaluation will get you any closer to that glorious taste of freedom.

You’ll serve your time or die trying. And as of yet, you haven’t heard of anyone who’s reached the end of their ‘sentence.’

The bed springs underneath you shriek with relief as you scramble up onto your feet, nearly tripping over the long hems of your jumpsuit.

Heart thundering like a jackhammer, you cower before the imposing shape silhouetted in your doorway, warily eyeing the M9 Beretta that’s being aimed directly at your forehead.

You’d hoped that by now the guards here would have learned that you’re not a threat. Hell, it didn’t take you long to figure out that anybody even vaguely considered a troublemaker in this place will earn themselves a one-way ticket to a fate that would make you beg for a bullet between the eyes.

That first week, you ended up trying to plead your case to the wrong scientist and wound up on the bi-weekly rota to clean SCP-173’s cell. Twice.

How you got out of there with your neck facing the right way is one of life’s greatest mysteries. If it hadn’t gone for your poor cellmate first…

“You listening, Scuzz!?” The handgun jerks to the left of your doorway. “Get your ass outta that cell!”

Ah... Mullins. One of the guards assigned to your particular block.

A meaner son of a bitch, you’ve never known. Rumour has it that the towering brute used to be a D-Class, like you, but through shows of force, an unflinching disregard for his fellow man, and an uncanny ability to survive, the Lab Coats bumped him up to guard status, if for no other reason than to keep the inmates in line.

You’re loathe to admit it, but he is damn good at his job.

Ducking your head, you scurry from your bed through the open door, pressing yourself as close to the frame as possible to squeeze past the Beretta that he keeps trained on your head. You don’t even have to look at him anymore to know that there’s a wide smirk on his face when he jabs the barrel at the back of your skull, shoving you into an awkward stumble down the hallway.

“Move. Got a new assignment for you today,” he goads, falling into step behind you, his thick, rubber boots thudding purposefully on the linoleum.

In contrast, your plimsoles make rather pathetic ‘slaps’ with each, hurried step you take.

You know the drill by now. Head down. Eyes front. Mouth shut.

You’ve walked this path to the lifts a hundred times before.

It's been weeks since you stopped asking him when you can go home.

‘When you’ve served your sentence,’ became ‘When we damn well feel like it,’ became ‘You still think you’re getting out of here?’

“SCP-Eight-One-Oh-Three~,” Mullins sing-songs at your back, entirely too cheerful all of a sudden, “This one just came in. The Lab coats don’t know nothin’ about it. And guess who’s the lucky little D-Scuzz who gets to ‘further the advancement of science?”

Although your body trembles like a leaf in a hurricane, you don’t make a sound, not even when the moisture in your eyes wells up into a fat, salty teardrop and breaks over the dam of your lash line, carving a damp path down your grubby cheek.

An unknown SCP?

Your odds of making it to the end of the day in one piece have just plummeted into the single digits, and you once again find yourself asking, 'why me?'

‘We’re doing this for the good of humanity,’ one doctor with a particularly punchable face had once announced to a room full of orange-clad prisoners, and you can still remember wondering when you and your fellow inmates stopped being a part of that same Humanity this Foundation seems to keen to protect.

The cold steel of a gun jabs you again in the base of your neck, pushing a quiet sound of protest from your lips that you hurriedly clamp down on, fists balling up at your sides.

“That’s right!” Mullins continues, “Damn, you gotta be feelin’ proud as a peacock, kid. Not every day someone gets to be the first to make contact. Hell, maybe you’ll get lucky, and it’ll be a Euclid.”

The row of lifts appears as you turn the next corner and come to a stop obediently in front of the closest one, head still hanging nearly to your chest as you wait for Mullins to reach past you and jam his thumb on the ‘down’ button.

“Wouldn’t bet on it though… That thing has Keter written all over it.”

With the damning chime of a bell, the heavy, metal doors slide open, and Mullins shoves you roughly into the claustrophobic space with one fist to your spine. Jesus, trapped in this finite space with him, the smell of cheap brand cigarettes wafts from his jacket and drifts up into your nose, sitting stale and musty on the back of your tongue.

The walls are dull in here, unreflective, which you nearly count as a blessing.

It means you don’t have to see the mess you’ve become.

----

It’s only when you’re standing outside the containment cell that you realise Mullins was either lying, or just plain wrong.

You aren’t the first D-Class to make contact with this SCP.

In fact, if the stiff-faced scientist shoving a rifle into your hands is to be believed, you’re precisely the fifth.

“That,” he begins with an aloof air of bored professionalism, watching impassively while you fumble to find purchase on the heavy gun, “Is the CZ-Five-Fifty. And today, you will be testing its armour-piercing capabilities.”

‘Armour?’ you think, swallowing thickly, ‘What the Hell kind of monster have they brought into this place?’

The cold circle of steel still pressed to your shoulder blade reminds you of Mullins’s unpleasant presence.

“No funny business,” he growls, “You couldn’t get the safety off before I put you down like a lame bitch.”

Charming.

You don’t fancy telling him you couldn’t get the safety off anyway. And that it... hadn't occurred to you to even try and turn it on him and the scientist, though it probably should have been the first thing you thought of.

The weapon sits like a dead weight in your hands, heavy and fundamentally useless. You don’t know how to fire a gun, let alone one this powerful.

But the scientist doesn’t seem to know that, lazily racking off the terms of your contract and your ‘obligation’ to the Foundation.

Yes, you imagine it would get tiresome having to rehash the same speech five times in a row… Perhaps he just assumes you know how to use it?

Bastard.

Wetting your lips, you peel them apart and croak out a question, wincing at the pathetic crack in your voice, dry and reedy from disuse. “What happened to the others?”

At that, the scientist’s lips purse, and an eyelid twitches then settles.

They all hate being interrupted. Especially by a D-Class.

At least the guards acknowledge your autonomy through rage and demeaning names and acts of violence.

To the Lab Coats, you’re just cannon-fodder. Nothing. Empty vessels for them to use as they see fit.

Even so, the one in front of you straightens up and peers down the length of his nose at you, sighing as though he were trying to explain the concept of algebra to a dog. “The D-Class personnel-“ he begins, and you have to bite your tongue to hold in a scoff. ‘Personnel’ is a funny way of pronouncing ‘Prisoners.’

“-who came before, all failed their assignments.”

Behind you, Mullins pipes up with a distinguishable sneer. “Emptied their whole clips into the thing before they got turned into Swiss cheese.”

Oh… God.

“Didn’t even make a dent,” he concludes, sounding not in the least bit sad to have wasted four lives.

“Yes, well-“ the scientist clears his throat, “The first step to knowing your enemy is knowing how to kill it. And the supplied Rugers proved… ahem… inefficient. But at least we now know the three-five-seven calibre isn’t strong enough. We’re hoping the point six hundred will be.”

 “Six hundred Overkill…” Mullins whistles appreciatively. “Elephant killers.”

Your stomach twists into a tight, clenching ball. You think you might be sick if there was anything to bring up except bile.

So, this is the SCP that finally kills you.

Shit.

In a whirlwind of sudden, dizzying movements and barked orders, you’re unceremoniously surrounded by three more guards who bodily ‘escort’ you into the loading dock – an empty room set in the midway of two descending doors that are made from several feet of a solid titanium alloy. The primary door slides open with a mechanical hiss, and you’re shoved roughly into the space between it and the secondary door.

On trembling knees, you gape up at the grey metal, noting with no small degree of alarm that it’s tall and wide enough to admit the shipping container of something titanic.

Above your head on the wall, an orange light pulses as the primary door slams shut behind you, and the sound of enormous locks sliding into place fills the room. Your rifle almost slips from your grasp, leaving you to fumble for it with sweat-slicked palms.

The drawback of not being a hardened death-row inmate is that when it comes to moments of great danger, you’re inclined to neither fight nor flee.

Instead, worst of all, you’re the type to freeze solid.

Now is no exception.

As the light flashing above you turns green, signalling for the second door to ascend into its slot high in the ceiling, your spine promptly goes rigid, fingers locking up around the gun whilst your feet turn to two blocks of cement.

All of a sudden, you can’t help but let out a shriek when something flops down onto the ground on your side of the door once it’s been raised a couple of feet, and at first, you assume something is trying to crawl through the space to get at you.

Once you realise what the dark object actually is, you almost wish your initial assumption had been correct.

What lays on the ground, spread across the threshold between the dock and the cell, is a body. ‘A human body!’ your addled brain registers.

Or what’s left of a human…

Swiss cheese might not have been an exaggeration after all.

Entry and exit holes have torn the poor bastard apart from head to toe, shredding to ribbons what remains of a grubby, orange jumpsuit, much like the one you’re currently garbed in. Bones and muscle and sinew show through torn flaps of skin, and the stench of blood mingles with gun smoke, seeping into your nostrils before you can scrunch your nose up to block it out. You could have done without the acrid taste of iron resting on the back of your tongue.

‘That’s gonna happen to me,’ you gasp silently, choking on a sob, unable to tear your gaze from the body, ‘Oh god, that’ll be me in a minute!’

Jesus Christ, they hadn’t even waited for the blood to dry, the assholes!

With a ‘click’ and a ‘thud,’ the door slides gracefully to a halt, utterly and completely open, exposing you to whatever entity lays in wait beyond the threshold. The fear of what lies ahead outweighs your horror of seeing a fellow D-Class on the ground. In an instant, you wrench your eyes away from the body and gape out into the room in front of you.

Sturdy, grey walls lit by an overhead fluorescent light are a familiar view, as are the bloodstains spattered across the stone slabs.

The pockmarks littering the adjacent wall are new however, each about the size of your fist. There are hundreds of them, like someone took a gatling gun and sprayed it all over the cell. They look… far too large to have been made by any ordinary rifle…

A hard blink sends twin tracks of tears leaking down your face. The room beyond angles sharply to the left right outside the door, and it plucks at your frayed nerves to realise you can’t see what’s around the corner…

Nearby, facedown on the floor just several feet from the entrance, is the second body, a gun laying close to their side and an arm outstretched towards you, their final act in the throes of death. They must have skidded around the corner and were making for the door when they were cut down…

Despite the carnage, the cell is eerily silent, not a breath nor a shift to give away where the SCP might be.

Is it lurking just around the bend to ambush you?

Is it seconds away from tearing into the pocket of space and doing to you whatever it did to these sorry sods?

Aside from quivering fit to bust, you can’t move a muscle.

You won’t.

You won’t go in there, they can’t –!

“D-Class!”

A sharp staccato shout is thrown from a speaker in the corner of the dock, causing you to nearly leap out of your skin. But worse than your visceral flinch is the sound the voice elicits from something inside the cell.

It’s like a roll of thunder, soft then loud then soft again, a guttural growl, so rich and deep it shakes the walls and travels up through your plimsoles, undulating across each section of your spine until you can feel it hum behind your eyes.

The reverb hasn’t even faded before the same voice barks, “Proceed into the containment chamber at once.”

“To Hell with that!” you retort, feet still rooted firmly to the ground.

“You will proceed or you will be reassigned.”

It’s a threat that’s worked before.

And Hell… It works again now.

Reassignment is an absolute. A guaranteed death sentence. At least in here, even with an unknown entity, there’s a slim, albeit nearly imperceptible change of survival or at the very least, a quick death. Besides, the previous victims look well and truly dead, and that’s frankly a fate that’s a Hell of a lot better than becoming a living hive for a colony of insects or a tumour-riddled larder for giant, cave-dwelling rodents.

“D-Class. You have precisely three seconds to-“

The inescapable terror of a worse ending is your greatest motivator down here. You don’t even wait for the countdown to start.

Heaving in a wet breath, you squeeze your eyes halfway shut and yank one leg stiffly into the air, planting it forwards, once, twice, three times until you pass the body on the threshold and step out into the cell. Into the open. Like a doe entering a meadow when she damn well knows there are hunters lurking in the trees nearby.

Your eyes are still clenched almost shut when you turn yourself to the left and spot the remaining pair of bodies, one almost laying on top of the other, weapons still locked in their cold, dead hands,

Another, blood-curdling growl blasts through the air around you, sudden and violent enough to nearly send you toppling over onto your backside.

Flinging your eyes open with a gasp, you immediately wish you’d kept them closed instead. You wish the SCP had just killed you outright.

You wish you never stole that wretched car.

You were expecting big.

This SCP is bigger.

You can see why the scientists want to find a calibre that can pierce armour.

The creature that hunches before you, eating up ample space between the floor and the ceiling dozens of feet overhead, is almost solid metal from top to bottom. And armoured, you realise in horror, covering flashes of grey, scaly skin the colour of iron.

Bipedal, is the second thing you note, towering all the way to the roof on a pair of long, lithe legs, each ending in a three-toed foot with claws that remind you of some long extinct theropod.

A scrawny waist feeds into a contrarily powerful chest and monumental shoulders that are made even larger by the armoured struts encasing them.

Your eyes, wider than saucers, travel along the length of its arms – the first hanging down to its bent knee with a hand that looks large enough to wrap around your whole body and crush you between its fingers. The other arm, however, doesn’t end in a hand – clawed or otherwise.

It ends instead, from the elbow down, in a four barrelled gun the size of cannon.

And all four of those chambers are aimed directly and unwaveringly at you.

Behind the sights, several cylinders spin over one another like a minigun ramping up to fire, clanking angrily in an obvious threat.

You don’t dare pull in a breath, not when your gaze locks onto one of the chambers of the gun arm, and from somewhere deep in the pits of those long barrels, a dim, red glow sparks to life, the same light you imagine the fires of Hell would kick out if Satan ever eventually sets foot in this horrible place.

And that’s without even mentioning its other apparent weapon.

You think it must be some kind of tail, arched up and over the SCP’s head like the tail of a scorpion, swaying very gently from left to right and back again. Whip-like, it tapers to a point, and from what you can see from down here, the grey of its scales beneath the armour fades into an angry red right near the tip, glowing the same colour as the lights in the barrels of its gatling arm.

Vivid images of your body being impaled on the end of that wicked appendage flicker through your mind’s eye, and you have to drop your gaze to banish them, moving on to take in the rest of the monstrosity.

A pair of metal horns sweep forwards from the sides of an avian helm, long and sleek and ending in deadly points perfect for goring, like the tusks of an elephant. There’s a mane sprouting from its back too, a vibrant purple that stands out fiercely against the silver of its armour. Each strand of hair seems to wave and snake about through the air as if they’re alive.

And then you make the mistake of meeting its gaze.

You’ve seen SCP’s with no eyes, some with too many eyes, a few that are made up entirely of eyes and even those that have eyes in places where eyes have no business being.

These though… you don’t like these eyes at all, even despite the fact there are a regular number of them.

Gold as gleaming bullion, unnaturally bright and forward-facing, all nature’s warning signs that you’re staring up into the eyes of a predator.

Once they’ve locked you in their sights, it’s nigh on impossible to tear yourself free.

The snarling visage opens up like a steel trap, baring black fangs the size of axe heads, and a burning heat behind its jaws that rises like-

“D – One-nine-three-five!”

“Shit!” You don’t mean to yelp aloud, nor do you intend to nearly drop the gun, scrambling to secure your grip on it before it can fall from your hands. In the blink of an eye, the entity’s gigantic head swings around to hiss furiously at something you’d missed completely when you stumbled into its cell.

An observation window dominates the far wall, and behind it, several figures donned in white coats stand watching, their faces only slightly blurred behind the thick – presumably bullet-proof – glass.

Just above the window on this side of the cell, another speaker has been fitted into the wall, and from it, the same nasally voice as before barks a command.

“You are to proceed with testing the Overkill’s capabilities.”

… Are they serious?

The SCP’s tail has swung around to follow its head and aims warningly at the glass, though its weaponised arm stays fixed on you.

Your own weapon remains useless, hanging from your grasp, pointed at the ground. You can’t muster the courage to raise it.

What defence could it possibly provide? What could such a tiny rifle do, really, against a weapon that made holes that size in the concrete walls?

The scientists are insane. The lot of them...

Well, to Hell with them, and to Hell with this stupid experiment.

Still blurred over by salty tears, your eyes reluctantly trail back up to the entity’s head. If you’re to die, you want to look this thing in the eye when it kills you. You might have lived as a coward, but you’re not so eager to die as one.

You’ve been afraid to defy them for so long, terrified – paralysed by the possibility of what these people might do to you in retaliation of defiance. But somehow, being here surrounded by the bodies of your fellow prisoners, knowing you’re about to meet the same fate, you can’t think of anything more satisfying than not giving the Foundation what they want.

Oh certainly, you imagine they’ll soon get some other D-Class to do the job you failed to do, but if causing the Lab Coats a mild inconvenience before you die is how they remember you, you think you’ll be okay with that.

You have to be okay with it. There’s nothing else you can be now, seconds from having your body turned into, as Mullins so eloquently put it, Swiss cheese.

Stiffening your upper lip, you aim a shaky scowl at the window, eyes bloodshot with tears and fatigue. And in an act you hope looks as rebellious as it feels, you open your arms and let the gun fall to the ground with an almighty clatter, drawing the SCP’s attention back onto yourself.

A strangled noise escapes the speakers before you hear, “D – One-nine-three-five! Retrieve your weapon at once!”

Ignoring him, you roll your gaze over to the SCP and let your arms flop defeatedly to your sides, teeth clenched shut to try and hold onto your sobs.

That enormous, horned head cocks sideways at you, and through your tear-streaked vision, you almost believe you can see its gatling arm drop ever so slightly, and the glow in its barrels fade from red-hot to warm-orange.

“Please,” you find your voice, blindly toeing a plimsole forwards and giving the gun a weak kick, listening to it slide a few feet away from you. You’re unaware that the beast’s gaze tracks your discarded weapon across the room. “Just… make it quick?”

The body closest to you still has his eyes intact, and they stare up at you from the floor, glassy and unseeing. You wonder if his death was quick. You hope so. It looks like it should have been.

The entity regards you with its wide, fiery snarl, unblinking, calculating. As the seconds tick by, you find yourself fidgeting and sparing glances between its gun and its armoured face.

What the Hell is it waiting for?

All of a sudden, two slitted nostrils appear above the SCP’s mouth, glowing with the same liquid gold that shimmers in its eyes. They flare hotly for a moment, kicking out a noisy whumph of air, and then…

Against every odd…

The SCP snatches its head away from you and… and drops its gun arm with a gruff snort, glaring at the wall opposite the scientists.

You blink once.

Seconds later, you have to blink again, clearing your vision slightly.

Why… are you still alive?

“Um…” you utter, for lack of any better ideas.

The SCP doesn’t turn to acknowledge the sound of your voice. In fact, it seems entirely adamant in subjecting the concrete wall to a fearsome glower instead as it thumps the barrels of its gun to the ground and leans its weight on that arm, its mighty chest heaving in and out with a huff.

… Perhaps you’re going mad. That’s it. That must be part of its power. It makes people go mad. Why else would you be plagued by the feeling that you’re being deliberately ignored?

On the other side of the glass, a young scientist hovers over the microphone, trembling with unprofessional agitation and apprehension.

“D-Class!” he barks shrilly, pushing down on the button so hard his fingertip turns white, “If you don’t pick up your rifle at once, I will have no choice but to-!”

“- Quiet Spencer…” Another voice - older, authoritative – snaps, causing the shrieking man to immediately fall silent and cower away from the microphone as obediently as a beaten dog. It even hushes the mutters of every other scientist in the observation room. Narrow eyes stare unblinkingly through coke-bottle spectacles, observing the interaction beyond the observation window with cool interest. “This is the longest a D-Class has survived with this specimen…” she points out, listening to the intern beside her scribble down the minutes, “I’d like to find out why.”

She watches the Disposable’s face turn towards the glass, trying to meet any of the scientists’ gazes, apparently seeking some sort of explanation to the SCP's behaviour.

Join the club.

“… Ma’am?” someone asks after several seconds pass without an answer, turning to face her, their expression inquiring.

For a further minute, she elects to stand there in silence, thoughtfully tapping a manicured nail against the microphone button, contemplating the magnificent creature and the miniscule human currently sharing a space.

Then, with a deliberate slowness, she slides her finger from the button and folds her arms, lab coat wrinkling around her elbows.

“The D-Class gets five minutes inside before extraction,” she declares, shooting a nod at her intern who scrambles to fish a stopwatch from his pocket and stabs his thumb on the button. Once she hears the sharp ‘beep,’ she returns her attention to the staff around her and adds, “No external input.”

There are murmurs of varying approval rising and falling all throughout the room, but once again, she only has eyes for the SCP.

“Let’s see if this D-Class proves more useful than the predecessors…”

---

“Hello?” you whisper-shout at the scientists behind the window, keeping the entity in the corner of your eye, “Um...”

Christ, this is awkward... "Can I... Can I leave, or...?"

Silence.

Impassive, boring silence.

Aside from the occasional motion made to scribble something down on a clipboard, none of the scientists seem inclined to offer anything more through the microphone.

Gradually, the tired muscles in your shoulder tighten.

You’ve seen this before. D-Class call it the ‘silent treatment,’ where scientists are more interested in seeing what you can find out about SCPs of your own volition.

Are you supposed to have survived for this long? Your mind races with the thought that your predecessors might have been subjected to the same thing before they met their end. You may end up a smear on the wall yet. Half of you is weary enough to hope that’s the case. You’ve just defied a direct order from one of the Lab Coats. You shudder to imagine which SCP they’ll toss you to after this.

It’s that thought alone that spurs you to take a single step towards this entity, intending to get this over with, but no sooner have you moved closer than it whips its head towards you again, and that gun is back up, the cylinders clicking furiously in response to your proximity.

You realise at once that you’d become too bold without its weapon pointed at you because now, that same fear has returned tenfold, sending you staggering backwards again to put some more distance between you and that deadly arm.

Slamming your eyes shut, you raise your hands up in front of your face, breath hitching as you wait to feel the first of many bullets slamming into your flesh.

… You count no less than ten heartbeats without feeling a thing.

------------------------------------------------

“Two minutes to go, ma’am,” the intern quibbles at her side.

Eyes gleaming, she watches you stand shaking in front of the SCP, arms lifted in what she presumes must be surrender. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, “The entity still hasn’t fired a single round…”

“You think it’s run out of ammo?” one of the other scientists asks, bolder than his fellows in the face of their superior.

“Perhaps,” she muses, eyeing the SCP’s ‘tail’ that hangs slack behind it this time, not poised to strike over its head like a cobra, “But perhaps it’s just as likely that it won’t fire unless it’s fired upon first.”

The intern, apparently emboldened by another voice speaking up before him, says, “Um, would that class it as a Euclid then?”

Someone scoffs derisively.

“That cannot be determined at present,” she returns cooly, “We haven’t enough data… That being said...”

Stepping closer to the window, arms coming to clasp loosely behind her back, she tilts her head sideways and regards you with the mild interest of a spider watching a fly struggle in her web. “Thanks to this D-Class, we now know far more about the SCP than we did before… And all because an order was disregarded…”

“Impertinence,” someone spits.

“Initiative,” she returns sharply, the beginnings of a rare and pensive smile lifting her cheeks, “Mullins.”

The guard near the back of the room snaps to attention.

“Prepare for extraction in one minute’s time… And return our lucky D-Class to isolation. Forty-eight hours, I think. Regular meals. That should give us enough time to make arrangements for the next test.”

“Ma’am,” he grunts, moving up to the primary door.

“Er…” The intern beside her shifts on his feet, casting apprehensive glances between the SCP and the D-Class, “What is the next test…? Oh-! Um, Ma’am?”

What indeed? Her mind is already swirling with possibilities, the first of which sticks in place as she contemplates the logistics of it, turning it over and making mental arrangements that’ll need to be put in place.

“The next test?” she replies absently, gazing up at the entity’s fangs that are still being bared down at you, though it hasn’t made a move against you yet, “We’re going to see what, if anything, this SCP likes to eat.”

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned what was the strangest execution in history

Contrary to the popular belief, people don’t always die when they’re killed.

This is Tyburn Tree, London’s largest site for public hangings from at least 1177 until 1798, when Newgate Prison became the new home for this macabre form of entertainment.

Out of the thousands executed there, one famous case was that of a William Duell. Indicted on charges of rape, robbery and murder, the 17-year-old Duell was eventually convicted of rape and sentenced to death. On a bitter winter’s day in November 1740, the condemned youth faced the noose at Tyburn alongside four others.

After being hanged for twenty-two minutes, he was cut down and his body hauled into a hackney coach, to be taken to Barber-Surgeons’ Hall, where his body would be dissected for the purposes of medical research.

The surgeon and his assistants got a surprise when they placed the corpse on the slab though… it groaned. Further examination revealed some other signs of life, so they let several ounces of blood and after a while, he was able to sit up, though it was a while before he could do anything else.

He was then transported to Newgate Prison where he was held up in a cell and given broth and covers to keep him warm. In a matter of days he was reported to be back to full health, and had developed a strong appetite. During this time, the powers that were had to decide what to do with him.

After all, he was legally dead.

In the end, to avoid making a mockery of the law and to curb the spread of the knowledge that it was possible to survive hanging, they decided to sentence him to transportation. He was sent to North America and reportedly lived out the rest of his life in Boston, before dying at around the age of eighty-two.

[spacelazarwolf]

109 years ago today, leo frank, an innocent american jewish man, was lynched.

in 1913, leo frank was arrested for the murder of mary phagan. despite evidence that he was at home at the time of the murder, the jury decided in just four hours that he was guilty and the judge sentenced him to death. all of frank's appeals were rejected. protests erupted outside the governor's mansion when the governor decided to commute frank's sentence from death to life imprisonment, and on august 17th, 1915, a group of 25 men kidnapped frank from the prison hospital where he was recovering from an attempt on his life, drove him 100 miles to mary phagan's hometown, and lynched him. there are several photos of the lynching.

though frank is the only known jewish victim of lynching in america, antisemitism was baked into the nation's history in numerous other ways. during the trial, the prosecuting attorney framed him as a sexual pervert who was both a homosexual and preyed on young girls. this is not the first time a jewish man has been framed as a sexual predatory because of his jewishness. it was simply the culmination of centuries of antisemitism that still persists to this day. (content warning for antisemitic caricatures and one graphic photo of the lynching of leo frank)

leo frank was proven innocent after his death, though many people still insist he was guilty, particularly white supremacists.

a musical called parade about the trial and tragic death of leo frank was written by jewish composer jason robert brown and jewish playwright alfred uhry. it premiered in 1988 and was revived in 2023 on broadway, starring jewish actors ben platt and micaela diamond, where neo nazis protested outside the theatre, claiming the show was "glorifying a pedophile."

as of writing this, tomorrow is the first day of elul, the last month in the jewish calendar culminating in the high holy days, the holiest days of the jewish year. every year, synagogues see an increase in negative attention and antisemitism from their wider communities. we start to receive more hostile phone calls and emails, threats of violence, and this year there was a swatting campaign targeting at least 26 jewish institutions. we are supposed to be using this time to reflect and make amends with the people we've hurt, and instead so much of our time and energy had to go toward ensuring we can even safely walk into our communal spaces.

i don't have the answer for how to fix this or what you as a gentile should do. antisemitism is thousands of years old, and it's not going to stop because some well meaning people on tumblr read all the articles linked in this post. all i know is that jews all over the world are terrified and so, so tired.

[idontliekmondays]

the halifax mass shooting plot or der untergang

what was this? who planned it? where?

the halifax mass shooting plot was the idea that lindsay souvannarath, james gamble, and randall ’randy’ shepherd came up with to commit a mass shooting at a shopping centre in halifax, nova scotia, on valentine’s day.

more on who

lindsay souvannarath was 23 years old when she was arrested. she was born in chicago, illinois, on january 9, 1992, and lived there up until the time of the planned shooting. she pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit murder and was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole. she’s still serving her sentence, and her most recent request for appeal in 2019 was denied.

james gamble was 19 years old at the time of his death on february 12, 2015. he was born in halifax, nova scotia, on august 6, 1995. there doesn’t seem to be much information available about what was done with his remains after death.

randall ‘randy’ shepherd was 20 years old when he was arrested on february 13. he was born in victoria, british columbia, on july 4, 1994. shortly after his birth, he and his family moved to halifax, nova scotia. he pleaded guilty to conspiracy to commit murder and was sentenced to 10 years in jail. he was released due to statutory release in 2021 after serving seven years and four months; however, he was ordered to stay off the internet and was to live in a halfway house in nova scotia.

how did randy and james meet?

both randy and james attended a high school located a short distance outside of halifax, which is where “they met and bonded over metal music, horror movies, marijuana, and a shared fascination with death and morbidity, often focusing on school shootings and mass murders.”

both were described as having increasing mental struggles following up to the incident.

as time passed, james considered committing a mass killing in halifax. he asked randy to be his partner in crime, who refused but continued to be a willing audience to his ideas.

how did lindsay meet them? what was her relationship with james like?

on december of 2014, james began to follow lindsay because of a “justgirlythings” meme she had posted onto her tumblr. it was captioned “not being able to live without your best friend” and was edited to have the columbine library photo underneath. they started messaging on facebook after this and formed a friendship quickly.

court documents state lindsay and james would repeatedly claim that they were adopting the personas of eric harris and dylan klebold, respectively. lindsay even said she felt the spirit of eric harris was taking over her body at times. they would refer to each other as reb and vodka and often speak of going “nbk” and quote passages to each other from the journals of the columbine shooters.

they also had a similar taste in music and lindsay introduced him to national socialist black metal.

their friendship blossomed into something more sexual that included sending nudes and sexting as they began to plan the shooting and then into something romantic as james began to show a lot of affection and attachment.

they expressed that they believed they were fated to each other and that their destiny was to commit this massacre and to die together. they “just felt like their relationship was destiny.”

the preparation

one of the first things they did was start thinking of possible locations. lindsay left most of that up to james. he came up with various ideas, such as a hospital, a library, and an elementary school, all of which lindsay disagreed with because she thought they would send the wrong message.

one location she ended up agreeing to was a mall.

“it was kind of this symbolism of western decadence and the modern world in general. just the idea of this place where people go to consume. it seemed like it would be a protest against capitalism, against consumerism, against greed.”

“i believe it was the film dawn of the dead that had zombies attacking the shopping mall, and it was supposed to be like this metaphor for our modern society and how obsessed with consumption it is. so i thought that would be perfect.”

in february of 2015, james and randy went to the halifax shopping centre and filmed videos of where the shooting was planned to happen. these were referred to as their “basement tapes.”

in one of these videos, they discussed how the temporary walls in the food court might block some of the shots, and randy stated that if at least one person from his high school was killed, the attack would be worth it. in another one of these, james calmly stares into the camera and says, “you're lucky i couldn’t get any more bullets.”

the plan

the mass shooting was to take place on valentines day, february 14, at the halifax shopping centre food court. the shopping centre was chosen with the intention to cause “mass panic.” (the date of the shooting was switched due to price increases on tickets. the original date was february 1st. james had the idea to change the date to valentines day because there would be more people in the food court and the time and he believed it would be more shocking.)

lindsay would travel by air to halifax to meet james on february 13.

james was to shoot both of his parents before lindsay arrived.

they would both then spend the night together in the gamble residence.

randy hoped to be shot and killed by james the same evening as a form of assisted suicide. (lindsay was not involved with this part of the plan). james wanted randy to make a video recording of the shooting instead of committing suicide.

the next day they would begin the shooting in the food court, which was the area they believed would provide them the most cover.

they were going to go into the food court bathrooms, change outfits, get their weapons and come out and open fire.

they were going to start the shooting by throwing molotov cocktails into the food court. (randy was to provide six bottles for the molotov cocktails.)

james was to arm himself with his father’s lever-action hunting rifle along with a hunting knife.

lindsay would be armed with his father’s single-action 16-gauge shotgun.

each was to wear previously selected death outfits that, in many ways, were chosen to pay tribute to the columbine shooters.

they wanted to shoot as many people as their ammunition allowed.

they were going to save their last bullets for themselves and “just like columbine” they would kneel facing each other and shoot themselves on the count of three.

what actually happened

the morning of feburary 12, 2015, lindsay snuck out of her family home and began the trip to halifax. she described herself as “very eager, very excited, very very thrilled to be leaving home.”

james then faltered in his plans to murder his parents and sent lindsay a facebook message that read, “i’m going to have to wait until tomorrow to kill them” and “you’ll have to stay at randy’s for the night.”

the same day of february 12, crime stoppers received an anonymous tip. a summary of the tip is as follows:

two people are posting on social media sites that they plan to shoot up the mall in halifax, nova scotia.

the two people are obsessed with school shootings.

a female is to leave chicago on a delta airlines flight to meet up with a male who has weapons for them to use.

the female is asian, known as lindsay, last name unknown but begins with “s”, she is approximately twenty-three years old, born 01-16-92 and is 5’3’’ tall and weighs 90lbs. lindsay has black shoulder length hair, which is dyed red right now and she wears brown framed glasses;

lindsay is friends with the male, james gamble;

lindsay has multiple social media accounts such as a facebook under the name “lindsay shubniggurath”, a tumblr account under the name “cockswastika”, and skype account under the name “thenewheresy”.

the male is james gamble, white male, nineteen years old, born 08-06-95, and is described as very skinny with dark brown hair parted to one side;

james gamble lives in halifax, nova scotia;

the anonymous source has not met james gamble in person;

james gamble is lindsay’s friend from online;

james has several social media accounts such as a facebook account under the name “james gamble” and a tumblr account under the name “shallowexistences”.

the canadian border services agency was contacted and issued a lookout to their agents to identify anyone who might match the description of the female.

soon officers arrived at the gamble residence in timberlea, nova scotia. james was contacted by telephone and suggested to exit the residence, which he agreed to do. instead, he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head with a single bullet from his father’s hunting rifle.

as previously agreed on, shepherd arrived at the stanfield international airport by city bus to pick up lindsay. he messaged lindsay and reiterated that james was behind on schedule killing his parents and that she would have to stay with him for the night.

lindsay landed in halifax at midnight, february 13th. at 12:10am she presented herself to primary immigration and spoke to a CBSA agent. the national lookout did not raise a flag at the time.

the CBSA agent was concerned by lindsay regardless. she communicated to him that she flew to canada on a one way ticket, had only $33, and did not know where her boyfriend lived. the agent thought that she may have been attempting to bring drugs into canada and noted that “she had very bad teeth and her complexion was very bad with scars on her face. this made me think that she may be on drugs.”

the agent directed lindsay to a secondary immigration examination as well as a secondary customs inspection.

she was questioned at secondary immigration by an agent. the agent questioned lindsay and confirmed that she didn’t know where she was going, had a small amount of money, and did not have a return ticket. lindsay communicated that she was in halifax to have a “memorable” valentine’s day weekend with her boyfriend who she had previously met online. she further communicated that randy was at the airport to pick her up, which was confirmed by CBSA officials.

the contents of her luggage were searched. she had little with her, aside from some makeup, her death outfit, and two books on serial killers.

while she was being dealt with by agents, officials reviewed the national lookout and determined that lindsay may be the person of interest.

police soon arrived at the airport and quickly arrested both randy and lindsay.

their online trail

they left a steady trail of posts referencing the planned shooting. there was a playlist posted on lindsay's tumblr blog to “cement the aesthetic” along with countless other posts hinting towards their plan. lindsay also queued her manifesto to post on her blog after the shooting.

my main source

[morbidology]

Anneliese Michel was born on September 21, 1952, in Leiblfing, Bavaria, West Germany. Raised in a devoutly Catholic family, Anneliese was described as a kind and studious girl. Her life took a drastic turn when, at the age of 16, she experienced her first seizure. She was subsequently diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy and began treatment with anticonvulsant drugs. However, her condition did not improve, and she soon developed severe depression.

As her health continued to decline, Anneliese began to report seeing demonic faces and hearing voices telling her she was damned. She became increasingly convinced that she was possessed by demonic forces. Despite medical treatment, her condition worsened, and she exhibited disturbing behaviors, including self-harm, aggression, and the refusal to eat.

Frustrated with the lack of progress through conventional medical treatment, Anneliese's deeply religious family sought help from the Catholic Church. They eventually found two priests, Ernst Alt and Arnold Renz, who believed that Anneliese was indeed possessed. In September 1975, Bishop Josef Stangl granted permission for an exorcism to be performed under the Roman Ritual of 1614.

Over the next ten months, Anneliese underwent 67 exorcism sessions. During these sessions, she displayed extreme behaviors, including speaking in different voices, contorting her body, and exhibiting extraordinary strength. Despite these intense and grueling sessions, her condition continued to deteriorate.

On July 1, 1976, Anneliese Michel died in her home. An autopsy revealed that she had succumbed to severe dehydration and malnutrition, weighing just 68 pounds at the time of her death. Her knees were broken due to continuous genuflections, a common part of the exorcism ritual.

The death of Anneliese Michel led to criminal charges against her parents and the two priests who conducted the exorcisms. They were accused of negligent homicide for failing to call a doctor to address her deteriorating physical condition. The trial, which began in 1978, drew international attention and sparked widespread debate.

During the trial, recordings of the exorcism sessions were played, providing disturbing evidence of Anneliese's suffering. The defense argued that Anneliese had the right to refuse medical treatment and that she had chosen to undergo exorcism. However, the prosecution contended that the priests and her parents should have sought medical intervention.

In the end, all four defendants were found guilty of manslaughter resulting from negligence and were sentenced to six months in prison (later suspended) and three years of probation.

[unabombzz]

Mass Killers as kids vs. the time of the attacks

Kipland (Kip) Kinkel

Kip Kinkel was 15 years old when he was responsible for shooting his parents to death then going to Thurston High and killing two people. Kip is currently serving a life sentence in prison and has since gotten professional help for his paranoia and schizophrenia.

Dylann Roof

Dylann Roof was 21 years old when he shot and killed nine people inside a church. Dylann is now imprisoned and awaiting the death penalty. Dylann was diagnosed with an anti-social personality disorder, schizoid personality disorder, and possible autism.

Adam Lanza

Adam Lanza was 20 years old when he shot and killed his mother and 26 people at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Adam committed suicide at the end once he heard cops approaching. Adam was professionally diagnosed as autistic and had OCD as well as a hypersensitivity disorder. It is speculated he had schizophrenia as well as anorexia.

Salvador Ramos

Salvador Ramos was 18 years old when he shot his grandmother before traveling to Robb Elementary School and killing 21 people. Salvador was shot to death by police. Salvador had no determined mental illnesses, though it is speculated he was a psychopath.

Dylan Klebold

Dylan Klebold was 17 years old when he, along with his friend Eric Harris, killed 13 people at Columbine High School. Klebold, along with Harris, shot himself in the side of the head. He was never formally diagnosed with anything. An after-death diagnosis shows he was depressed and had schizotypal personality disorder. He also had a possible anti-social personality and an eating disorder.

Eric Harris

Eric Harris was 18 years old when he, along with Dylan Klebold, shot and killed 13 people at Columbine High School. Harris, along with Klebold, blew his head off with a shotgun blast. Before death, Eric was diagnosed as paranoid, OCD, had anxiety, and had anger issues. After death, he was diagnosed as depressed.

(The psychopath claim has been proved wrong many many times. Harris lacked majority of psychopathic traits.)

Nikolas Cruz

Nikolas Cruz was 19 years old when he shot and killed 17 people at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High. Cruz was arrested and is now serving a life sentence. He was diagnosed as having BPD and an anti-social personality disorder. As a child, Cruz was treated for ADHD and oppositional defiance disorder. Some professionals say Cruz also likely suffered from autism.

Ethan Crumbley

Ethan Crumbley was 15 years old when he shot and killed four people inside of Oxford High School. Ethan was arrested and received life imprisonment. Ethan was diagnosed with OCD, psychosis, and anxiety.

(Should I make a pt. 2???)

[jake-is-still-drunk]

A break from my regular scheduled programming because I have over sixteen thousand followers here and would be remiss not to use this platform to speak up.

In the United States, attacks on trans rights are escalating at a dizzying speed. Trans people make up around 1% of the population (even less depending on the source) and yet, with less than two weeks in office, the Trump administration has already issued four executive orders in regards to trans people as well as several other attacks.

I see very few people talking about it. You may be unaware, so here is some of what is going on:

- the state department’s website reduced all mentions of ”LGBT+” to “LGB”

- the CDC scrubbing its website of all information regarding trans people and gender identity, among other things

- social security administration no longer processing any changes to people’s sex markers on documents

- executive order barring trans people from military service, uses language that implies that being trans is inherent dishonest, selfish, and arrogant

- medical providers who receive federal funds no longer allowed to provide gender affirming care to trans “minors” including 18 and 19 year olds

- k-12 schools can be penalized for even allowing students to socially transition (which is to say, simply identify/present as a gender other than their assigned sex at birth)

- passports must reflect assigned sex at birth regardless of if your other documents have been updated to reflect your gender

- trump administration moving so that incarcerated trans people have to go to prisons according to their assigned sex at birth

I see very few media outlets talking about these attacks, and even when they do- they are failing to read between the lines. These measures outline an extremely obvious and clear intention- the government is trying to use policy to completely eradicate the existence of trans people in this country.

There are already reports of trans people trying to renew their passports and having their documents withheld. Rendering trans people without documentation increases the likelihood of detention/arrest. I’ve already shared that the administration has prioritized putting trans people in the prisons aligned with their assigned sex. This is effectively a death sentence for so many. They are setting up the perfect circumstances for sending trans people into environments where they will be raped, beaten, killed, and forcibly de-transitioned.

Because trans people make up such a small percentage of the population, it is up to us as allies to amplify their voices and advocate for them.

Be vocal in your support of trans people, do not comply with transphobic policies and legislation, show up and show out for our trans brothers and sisters.

Also, you may be wondering why the right has such a fixation on trans people when they make up such a small percentage of the population. Manufactured culture wars and division based on inconsequential identity politics are a tool the ruling class uses to prevent class solidarity- their biggest threat. By convincing working class people that their neighbors are their enemy, we can never unite and overthrow them. I promise you, the trans person checking you out at the grocery store is not a threat to your safety and comfort. The billionaire cozying up the president and spoon feeding you transphobic and racist rhetoric is the enemy. Wake up!

And if you don’t believe that trans people are valid in their identities, unfollow me right the fuck now.

[offender42085]

Post 1362

Gabriel Davies, Inmate number not yet published -- Juvenile Offender -- born 2006, sentenced to 12 years, scheduled release date not published

Murder, Burglary, Unlawful Use of Firearm

In November 2023, one of two Pierce County Washington teenagers was sentenced to spend 12 years in prison for the killing of an Orting Washington man in September 2022.

Gabriel Davies and another man, Justin Yoon, had both pleaded guilty in adult court to the murder of Daniel McCaw, 51.

Davies and Yoon agreed to a sentencing recommendation of 123 months. A judge then added 27 months to their sentences, for a total of 150 months behind bars.

According to court papers, it took four days before McCaw's body was discovered in his home. During that period, authorities said that Davies, then 16 years old, staged his disappearance to make it seem like he had been the victim of a crime. He was reported missing when he left his home in Olympia to attend football practice at Olympia High School and never showed up.His car was then found near Tenino.

Deputies said they found items thrown around inside the vehicle and even noticed blood. They also found his phone shattered outside the vehicle.

Two days later, Davies was found safe after an extensive search throughout Thurston County. During his disappearance, Detectives learned that McCaw had previously been in a relationship with Davies' mother. Within 24 hours, he was arrested for McCaw's murder, along with Yoon, who was also 16 years old at the time.

On Sept. 1, 2022, Pierce County deputies found McCaw's body following a welfare check at McCaw's home on 190th Street East in Orting. Co-workers reported that McCaw hadn't reported to work in four days and wasn't answering any of his calls or text messages. Upon entering the home, deputies said they smelled what seemed to be the odor of a decomposing body. They also said they saw a German shepherd around McCaw's property. They then found McCaw's body in the home's laundry room.

It was later determined that McCaw died after being shot and stabbed. Detectives then turned to footage from McCaw's home security system and identified Davies and Yoon entering the victim's home through a dog door on Aug. 28, 2022.

According to detectives, Davies and Yoon went camping at Panther Lake with friends and family between Aug. 27-28, 2022. Family said the two left a cabin on Aug. 28 shortly after midnight and returned around 6:30 a.m. They left again shortly before noon that day and did not return.

Davies was then reported missing on Aug. 31, according to charging documents.

According to court papers, Davies initially told detectives he couldn’t remember where he’d been during his disappearance and “admitted to damaging his cell phone because he was afraid that the police were going to find what was on it.”

On Sept. 2, 2022, Davies’ father called the lead detective with Thurston County, saying, “Gabe was involved in (the victim’s) death.” According to Davies’ father, Davies was approached by “biker buddies” of McCaw, threatening Davies to steal something from the victim’s home.

Davies and Yoon then developed a plan to steal the item from McCaw’s safe, according to Davies' father. The father then told authorities that the two snuck into the home through a dog door, as seen on surveillance footage.

Prosecutors said there was never any evidence to suggest Davies had ever had any interaction with biker gangs. They said Davies fabricated the story to absolve himself of pre-meditated murder charges.

4d

[justinspoliticalcorner]

David Smith at The Guardian:

Losing an election for the highest office is a crushing blow that no candidate forgets. But when the American electorate delivers its verdict next week, the personal stakes for Donald Trump will be uniquely high. His fate will hover between the presidency and the threat of prison.

If he claims victory, Trump will be the first convicted criminal to win the White House and gain access to the nuclear codes. If he falls short, the 78-year-old faces more humiliating courtroom trials and potentially even time behind bars. It would be the end of a charmed life in which he has somehow always managed to outrun the law and duck accountability. For Trump, Tuesday is judgment day. “He branded himself as the guy who gets away with it,” said Gwenda Blair, a Trump biographer, adding that, should he lose, “he is facing a lot of moments of reckoning. He could go to jail. He could end up considerably less wealthy than he is. No matter what happens, and no matter whether he wins or loses, there will be a reckoning over his health. Death, ill health, dementia – those are things even he can’t escape.” The property developer and reality TV star has spent his career pushing ethical and legal boundaries to the limit, facing countless investigations, court battles and hefty fines. Worthy of a novel, his has been a life of scandal on a gargantuan scale.

In the 1970s Trump and his father were sued by the justice department for racial discrimination after refusing to rent apartments to Black people in predominantly white buildings. His property and casino businesses, including the Taj Mahal and Trump Plaza, filed for bankruptcy several times in the 1990s and early 2000s. Trump University, a business offering property training courses, faced multiple lawsuits for fraud, misleading marketing and false claims about the quality of its programmes. In 2016 Trump settled for $25m without admitting wrongdoing.

The Donald J Trump Foundation, a charitable organisation, was investigated and sued for allegedly using charitable funds for personal and business expenses. Trump eventually agreed to dissolve the foundation with remaining funds going to charity. Trump and his company were ordered to pay more than $350m in a New York civil fraud trial for artificially inflating his net worth to secure favourable loan terms. He is also known to have paid little to no federal income taxes in specific years which, although technically legal, was seen by some as bordering on unethical.

[...] He became the first president to be impeached twice, first for withholding military aid to pressure Ukraine’s government to investigate his political opponents, then for instigating a coup on 6 January 2021 following his defeat. He also became the subject of not one but four criminal cases, any one of which would have been enough to scuttle the chances of any other White House hopeful. In May Trump was found guilty of 34 counts of falsifying business records relating to a hush-money payment to the adult film performer Stormy Daniels, making him the first former president to be convicted of felony crimes. Sentencing is scheduled for 26 November (the judge delayed it from 18 September after the Republican nominee asked that it wait until after the election). What was billed as the trial of the century has already begun to fade from public consciousness and played a relatively modest role in the election campaign. Jonathan Alter, a presidential biographer who was in court for every day of the trial, recalled: “I’ve covered some big stories over the years but there was nothing like the drama of watching the jury foreperson say, ‘Guilty, guilty, guilty’ 34 times and Donald Trump looking like he was punched in the gut.” Alter, who describes the experience in his new book, American Reckoning, reflects on how Trump has been able to act with impunity for so long. “It’s a combination of luck, galvanised defiance and the credulousness of a large chunk of the American people,” he said. “Demagoguery works. Playing on people’s fears works. It doesn’t work all the time but we can look throughout human history to political figures and how demagoguery and scapegoating ‘the other’ works.”

Alter, who covered the trial for Washington Monthly magazine, added: “We’ve had plenty of demagogues, scoundrels and conmen in politics below the level of president. Trump has been lucky to escape accountability but the United States has been lucky that we haven’t had something like this before. The founders were very worried about it. They felt we would face something like this for sure.” The US’s system of checks and balances has been racing to keep up. Trump was charged by the special counsel Jack Smith with conspiring to overturn the results of his election loss to Joe Biden in the run-up to the January 6 riot at the US Capitol. The former president and 18 others were also charged by the Fulton county district attorney, Fani Willis, with taking part in a scheme to overturn his narrow loss in Georgia. Trump was charged again by Smith with illegally retaining classified documents that included nuclear secrets, taken with him from the White House to his Mar-a-Lago estate in Florida after he left office in January 2021, and then obstructing government demands to give them back.

With a such a caseload, it was widely assumed that Trump would spend this election shuttling between rallies one day and trials the next. But the courtroom campaign never really happened since, true to past form, he found ways to throw sand in the gears of the legal system and put off his moment of reckoning.

Or he simply got lucky. In Georgia, it emerged that Willis had a romantic relationship with the special prosecutor Nathan Wade, prompting demands that she be removed. Smith’s federal election case was thrown off track for months by a supreme court ruling that presidents have immunity for official actions taken in office. The classified documents case was thrown out by Judge Aileen Cannon, a Trump appointee, although Smith is appealing and the charges could be reinstated. Such delays have made it easier to forget just how much of an outlier Trump is. Past presidential brushes with the law consisted of Ulysses S Grant being fined for speeding his horse-drawn carriage in Washington and Harry Truman receiving a ticket for driving his car too slowly on the Pennsylvania Turnpike in 1953. Richard Nixon resigned before he could be impeached over the Watergate scandal and was subsequently pardoned by his successor, Gerald Ford. Meanwhile the standard for presidential aspirants has been high. Joe Biden’s first run for the White House fell apart amid allegations that he had plagiarised a speech by Britain’s Labour leader Neil Kinnock. During the 2000 campaign, a last-minute revelation that Republican candidate George W Bush had a drunk driving conviction that he concealed for 24 years generated huge headlines and was seen as a possible gamechanger. Hillary Clinton still blames her 2016 defeat on an FBI investigation into her email server that produced no charges.

For Donald Trump, his run for the “Presidency” is all about avoiding any possible jail time for his indictments and felonies. If he loses, then Trump could be facing more trials and potentially jail time and/or massive fines.

Send Trump to prison, not the White House!

#TrumpForPrison #HarrisWalz2024

[koipudding]

jing yuan has just sentenced his friend to life in prison. life.

in the most torturous of places on the ship… and his other friend, wrinkles and silver hair… comes back wrong. comes back with dark hair like how he was fifty years ago, and a smile that doesn’t quite match the glare in his eyes.

jing yuan has killed and has been killed. he’s been brought back from wounds he should not have healed from, and dehydrated from his own tears.

he remembers the blood, the warm liquid when he killed mom—master— and tried to send her off alone, when Yingxing and Dan Feng were off, busy with work, and the trio had sent Baiheng off earlier during that decade.

he remembers the day he saw her again, a few hundred years later, still the same and still somewhat fond of him.

he tries to forget, he indulges in a few vices just to try and push it away, what harm can it do? his mind is already eroding and he has someone who will take his spot if he somehow perishes for good (he doesn’t know if he can even die at this point. dan heng stabbed him and yet he recovered like it was nothing. he doesn’t feel anymore.) so why bother? he asks.

why bother trying when all he does is suffer and feel a dull ache that never leaves?

the death of jingliu is in the back of his throat, burning whenever he feels the exhaustion of his position linger.

the death of her lover, her best friend, bai heng is in his knee. he feels it most when it rains.

the death—the sentencing—of Dan Feng, and the imprisonment of Dan Heng is in his left wrist. the pain of writing the decree, the pain of forcing himself to let Dan Heng go.

the pain of Yingxing’s death is in his right wrist, but Blade’s appearance stirs something in the left shoulder, right inside his shoulder blade, something rots. his glaive suddenly feels heavy, and he forgets what Jingliu taught him.

his parents’ disapproval weighs down his shoulders. it hurt carrying those books, lifting those weights to make it into the Cloud Knights.

He forgets what joy is like. he has his moments of laughter, but somehow it feels wrong.

dan feng is gone. yingxing is gone. laughter feels wrong without them, feels bad without them, like eating a fish. bones dig into his throat and pierce his tongue.

“…it’s raining.” he whispers.

“there is no rain on the Luofu.” Fu Xuan whispers silently.

“…It is raining.” he whispers with such… conviction Fu Xuan nods.

“…indeed it is.” she doesn’t know what to say, not even the omniscia can help here, not when the General is so picky about what mask he wears in front of her.

“…” she opens an umbrella over his head.

“…”

it goes still over the tombstones. just the four plaques and small flask of booze and the finest moon cakes he can offer. it’s that time of year, right before fall.

“General!” March runs over with Yanqing, the two have been training with Yunli…

he wipes away his tears… but caelus and stelle still see. Dan Heng sees.

“…jing yuan.” he whispers.

Dan Heng can feel it, the tombstones, the etchings in the plaques, he knows this place, having visited in his past as Dan Feng when Baiheng had died.

“…They wouldn’t have wanted you to linger here.” he whispers, dragging the General away.

“That’s right!” yanqing looks so.. earnest. “General i—i didn’t know them, not like you but… i think they would’ve wanted you to… forgive yourself.”

his throat burns, the knee spasms and his wrists ache.

“you’re right.” he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t try to pretend.

“…perhaps you can show me what you and Yunli have taught March.” he pats his student’s head as caelus and stelle dig through the trash cans nearby.

It’s so easy for him to be oh so passive. He’s lucky to still have people who guide him back.

i’m sorry if i got anything wrong. this isn’t necessarily complaint with canon as it’s emotionally, not factually fueled. i did this for a good time and i’ve been in the feels for a bit.

[whencyclopedia]

Nuremberg Trials

The Nuremberg trials (1945-6), held in Nürnberg (Nuremberg), Germany, were a series of trials involving the senior surviving Nazis to hold them accountable for waging war and committing war crimes and crimes against humanity during the Second World War (1939-45). 22 Nazis were tried, with 19 found guilty and sentenced to either death by hanging or lengthy prison terms.

The first Nuremberg trials were conducted from November 1945 to October 1946, and then, a second phase, which involved a much larger number of defendants, was conducted from November 1946 to April 1949. The Nuremberg trials were the first in history where the victors in a war sought to make senior figures from the losing side accountable for their actions. The trials were filmed and contributed greatly to our understanding of how WWII was conducted and revealed both the irrefutable evidence for and enormous scale of such atrocities as the Holocaust. The first month of the trials, the initial proceedings only, were hosted in the Supreme Court Building in Berlin, but they moved on 20 November to the Palace of Justice in Nuremberg. The Palace of Justice was selected because it had been the heart of Nazi show trials against enemies of the Third Reich, the city was the home of the Nuremberg Rally, the infamous annual Nazi Party congress, and the complex had the practical advantage of an adjoining prison where the defendants were detained.

The International Military Tribunal

At the close of WWII, the victorious Allies of France, Britain, the United States, and the USSR, as agreed by their respective leaders at a conference in Moscow back in October 1943, jointly formed an International Military Tribunal (IMT) to bring German Nazi war criminals to justice. There were some calls to have judges from neutral nations head the IMT, but the allied leaders were determined to be directly involved in getting their pound of flesh. The idea of the trials was supported by a number of other nations besides the four main powers.

The panel that would decide the fate of the defendants brought before the IMT consisted of one judge and one prosecutor from each of the four nations mentioned above. The judging panel was presided over by the British judge Lord Justice Geoffrey Lawrence, described by one American lawyer as "like God...Hollywood would have cast him" (MacDonald, 23). The chief Soviet judge was I. T. Nikitchenko, the French lead judge was Henri Donnedieu de Vabres, and the US judge was Francis B. Biddle. The legal proceedings followed the common law practice applied in the United States and Britain. Translators worked in the courtroom, and everyone present had access to a set of headphones. There was a large screen to show the court relevant film clips and statistical information. 250 journalists attended the court sessions, and the whole proceedings were filmed and sound recorded.

Nuremberg Trials Judges

U.S. Army (CC BY-NC-SA)

In the closing stages of the war, Adolf Hitler (1889-1945), Joseph Goebbels (1897-1945), and Heinrich Himmler (1900-1945) had all committed suicide, but there remained 24 senior Nazi figures whom the Allies were determined to bring to justice. The group was selected not only for their individual roles but also as representatives of particular Nazi institutions. Before the trials could begin, Robert Ley (1890-1945), head of the German Labour Front, committed suicide, and Gustav Krupp (1870-1950), an industrialist who had used forced labour, was considered too physically frail to stand trial. The 22 remaining defendants faced four charges, as expressed in the Oxford Companion to World War II, they were:

Count 1: Contributing to a common plan or conspiracy to wage war

Count 2: Crimes against peace

Count 3: War crimes (e.g. violations of the Geneva Convention such as the abuse and murder of prisoners of war, use of prisoners for labour, destruction of private property, and devastation of property and places with no military justification)

Count 4: Crimes against humanity (e.g. the murder of civilian populations, use of slave labour, the forced deportation of civilians, and the persecution of specific social, political, religious, and racial groups)

Counts 1 and 2 proved problematic to define, and therefore it was difficult to find the defendants either innocent or guilty of them. This is hardly surprising considering the debate amongst historians ever since as to why and how WWII started and how far one should go back exactly in order to discover the causes of WWII, causes which could be attributed in some cases to both the victors and losers. The court essentially considered counts 1 and 2 as involving actions such as breaking international treaties and invading and occupying free countries. Much easier to establish were cases of counts 3 and 4, although even here there was the added complication that the victors had themselves been guilty of what would today be called war crimes, for example, the Allied bombing of Germany, submarine attacks on unarmed vessels, and the Katyn Forest massacre of Polish prisoners of war by USSR forces. Certain facts were taken as given, such as that Hitler had fully intended to start a world war. In addition, such Nazi organisations as the Gestapo (secret police), the SS (Schutzstaffel), and SA (Sturmabteilung) were condemned as criminal organisations.

Palace of Justice, Nuremberg

US Army (Public Domain)

The judges not only benefitted from the cross-examination of the defendants but also the testimony of around 360 witnesses (including both victims of and members of the Nazi regime) and a huge quantity of incriminating documents, official and otherwise, including indisputable photographs, sound recordings, and films, such as those taken at concentration and death camps. As noted by Dr Robert Kempner, a lawyer who had fled the Nazi regime:

One of the biggest helps to us was the German bureaucratic sense – they kept everything and they even made publications and films and lot of material had been discovered by our Allied search teams. Some of the people like General Governor Frank of Poland was so anxious to show his friend Hitler after the war what he has done that he kept diaries, volumes and volumes and volumes. In fact he had written his own indictment.

(Holmes, 593)

It is important to note, however, that the documentation for Nuremberg was compiled in order to support the legal case that the defendants were guilty of one or more of the four counts (and not to create a comprehensive reconstruction of past events as, say, a historian would do). There was, too, a degree of negotiation between the various national judges regarding particular defendants – the USSR judge, for example, wanted Rudolf Hess hanged while his fellow judges preferred a prison sentence – but there was a conscious effort on all parties to deliberate with as much fairness as possible given the seriousness of the trials and the world's scrutiny of them. To this end, the defendants were collectively represented by a legal counsel, Otto Kranzenbühler, and permitted individual lawyers to present their defence.

Camp Guard Giving Evidence at Nuremberg

Imperial War Museums (CC BY-NC-SA)

Continue reading...

[mariacallous]

Driven by hardline prosecutors and tough-on-crime governors, the number of executions jumped 64 percent in 2022 and increased again in 2023 to a total of 24, the highest in five years.

Perhaps the most crucial player in the death penalty’s resurrection, though, is the U.S. Supreme Court, whose historic role of maintaining guardrails has given way to removing roadblocks. Under the conservative supermajority put in place by President Donald Trump, the justices are far more likely to propel an execution forward than intercede to stop it, including in cases where guilt is in doubt or where the means of carrying it out could result in a grotesque spectacle of pain and suffering.

...

In 1976, the Supreme Court famously declared that “death is different,” and demanded an extra level of scrutiny because a mistake is irreversible. Historically, in particularly troubling instances involving state misconduct or abysmal defense lawyering, the Court sometimes intervened at the eleventh hour — from 2013 to 2023, it stayed an execution just 11 times and vacated stays of execution 18 times, according to Bloomberg Law.

Since the death of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and her replacement with Amy Coney Barrett in 2020, the Court has stopped an execution only twice and reversed a lower court to permit an execution nine times. In 2023, 26 condemned prisoners asked the Court to hear their cases; 25 were rejected. The message is clear: Prosecutors eager to seek and swiftly impose death sentences can reliably do so without judicial interference.

...

In Bucklew v. Precythe, a majority of the court opined that the Eighth Amendment’s prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment “does not guarantee a prisoner a painless death — something that, of course, isn’t guaranteed to many people, including most victims of capital crimes.” In the court’s reasoning, the excruciating pain the defendant might suffer during execution paled in comparison with the terror and mayhem he inflicted during his crimes.

In that same opinion, the Court indicated an impatience with pausing executions while it considered whether to hear the underlying claims from appellate attorneys. Justice Neil Gorsuch warned his colleagues to be skeptical when reading eleventh hour death row appeals: “Last minute stays should be the extreme exception, not the norm.”

It has been. Consider the 13 federal prisoners who were sent to the death chamber in the final months of Trump’s presidency. In a series of terse orders, issued without briefing, argument or public airing of the legal issues, the court blessed the rushed, furious pace. Using this opaque process, which legal scholars call the “shadow docket,” the justices erased lower-court injunctions against executions in seven cases and turned away last-minute requests for stays in the other six. During the 16 years in which Barack Obama and George W. Bush occupied the White House, the Court had invoked the shadow docket to rule for the government a total of four times and “never in a death penalty case,” according to Stephen Vladeck, a professor at the University of Texas School of Law. In Trump’s single term in office, the number jumped to 28, including non-capital cases.

More recently, the Court has rejected cases that advocates say are riddled with error or rest on shaky evidence.

...

Death penalty cases are notoriously rife with racism, questions of innocence, mental health of the accused and whether they received competent legal counsel. Sometimes the facts are too dire for courts to ignore, and even some pro-death penalty politicians are unwilling to take actions in flagrant violation of established norms. The total number of executions over the past decade is still a fraction of its peak in the 1990s.

And yet, the death penalty machine continues to crank on. These days, the battles over who lives and who dies are increasingly local — waged courtroom by courtroom because the Supreme Court has largely abdicated its decades long role as the final arbiter.

“It is becoming more and more clear that the Court is reluctant to interfere in state court cases even to enforce its own precedent,” said Robin Maher, the executive director of the Death Penalty Information Center. “They are saying, ‘This is not our problem to deal with.’”

An ‘Execute-Them-At-Any-Cost Mentality’: The Supreme Court’s New, Bloodthirsty Era

[i-am-a-l0st-gh0st]

Please kindly consider this Wriothesley request: You are the newest prisoner in the Fortress of Meropide; framed by your ex-husband for a crime since he wants your money to marry his new lover.

Determined to clear your name upon you served your time, you strive to be a model prisoner throughout your sentence.

Wriothesley finds himself intrigued by you, a minor Fontaine noble sentenced to his domain. Through his information network, he not only uncovers numerous holes to your case, he also finds out that your former husband is part of a conspiracy to bring disgrace to your family. Two weeks later, he summons you to his office and sets out his plan to have your former husband and his co-conspirators brought to justice.

Please also kindly take as long as you need with this request; I have no qualms in waiting. Furthermore, by no means feel obligated to prioritize this request over your other requests.

We listen to a lotta true crime- Wrio x Gn!reader

But it's alright, she'll be fine t/w- prison, Wriothesley flirts(?) with you summary- as shown above A/n- I need feedback on some of my works or this one, just moment some things I do well or need to work on. I do want to write a book one day and hopefully getting this feedback will help! thanks in advance. Also taglist as been updated! Part 2, Part 3

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The fortress of Meropide was surprisingly warmer than above ground. You thought it might be a little chilly due to being underwater. It wasn’t hard to get used to and if it was you’d have to suck it up. This was your home for the next 8 years, or maybe longer.

Walking towards the registration desk felt like a walk to your death. You were a Fontaine noble and it was rare to see someone like you in a place like this. Once your papers were signed, a strongly built man came towards you. His black hair swayed even if there was no wind, the grey streak fitting in perfectly. Scars came just above his shirt, with a loosely tied tie. He was a rather stunning man, and most would fall for him instantly.

“Ah, you must y/n. The Fontaine noble, I've been waiting for your arrival.” He flashed a smile that made your cheeks turn slightly red.

“Yes, that is me. You are?”

“Wriothesley, the duke of Meroipide.”

You tensed up at his words, you didn’t know this was the duke. His gaze was warm and made you feel like you were safe, despite being in prison. The way his eyes were soft but also pierced yours, the way his scars stood out but also blended in. He just seemed perfect. The silence continued for a while until Wriothesley spoke up.

“Y/n, may I speak to you, privately.” His face showed little emotion.

“Sure.” You tried to sound calm but felt your voice breaking.

The pair of you walked towards the duke's office. The double opened which led to a dimly lit room with a small winding staircase. Wriothesley led you up the stairs where he did his work. Four bookshelves lined the back walls and a wolf crest right in the middle of the wall. Similar to the one on his vest.

“Your case confuses me Y/n.” He began to speak. “You were a Fontaine noble, you had everything you needed but why would you try and kill your husband?”

“Sir, you have to believe me, I didn’t do it.”

“I need more evidence before I pick a side. As of now, you’re still guilty, but maybe you can tell me everything about the day of the ‘murder’.”

You began to tell him about the day of the murder. You were out all day with some friends and had alibis to prove that, once you got home the police were talking to your husband. Then arrested you. You went to court a week later and the judge ruled you as guilty and now you were here.

Wriothesley nodded along taking in all the information and occasionally writing stuff down. He did have a report on you, but from what you gave it seemed inaccurate. There were a few holes in your case such as no murder weapon and no motive. Your husband was a lot richer than you and may have used that against you.

“Its starting to get late, we can continue this tomorrow.”

“Oh alright, thank you sir.”

He walked you too your dormitory, it wasn’t small but it was decently sized, cosy enough for you.

“Don’t think just because your a noble your getting special treatment. Your just like the rest of us.”

“I didn’t think i would sir.”

“Please don’t call me sir, it makes me feel old.”

“Oh sorry.”

“You know, I’ve taken quite a liking to you y/n.” He quickly turned the other way, probably walking back to his office. He left you too stunned to speak.

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