#the many benefits of living in the middle of nowhere

[secretmessages1983]

home appraisal this tuesday and then it looks like sometime next week i will officially own my first house

[altocat]

Swooning at image of Sane!Sephiroth on a long patrol out in the middle of nowhere with his men, constantly looking worriedly over his shoulder every time he sees them getting tired. They don't have even a fraction of his stamina. And he's witnessed so many of them succumb to the elements and exhaustion over the years. He refuses to lose any more. Not if he can help it. He was a leader once before...long, long ago. He will not allow things to go south again the way they did. He has learned. He will be BETTER.

He risks a firm scolding by Hojo by insisting on taking regular breaks in the middle of the mission, scouting ahead far into the night just so he can bring his men fresh food and water. For all his stoic gruffness, he refuses to abandon them, carrying them when they fall, fighting to the death to keep them alive.

Thus, Sephiroth earns the respect of his men not just because he's considered a hero, but because he quickly cements himself as a leader who cares about his team. He fights WITH them. He toils. He sacrifices. And he does five times the work for their benefit and comfort. They revere him as a great warrior, a caring and devoted soldier who will protect his team at all costs.

....Only for the precious few who survived to fall at his blade when he attacks Shinra headquarters. Ravaged. Torn to ruthless, ruined shreds at his feet. A man once bound in loyalty and compassion rendered so thoroughly ill. He doesn't care. Their destruction is his gift, his perverse, private joy. They are insects. Their lives are his to claim. And he does not regret.

Compassion is a human lie.

And he has had his fill.

[kenny-the-ken]

South Park Belfast AU

Meet the biggest scumbags in town

Belfast, Northern Ireland, a community divided by religious beliefs and paramilitary organisations that prey on the weak, vulnerable and the downright fucked up.

A group of five lads, from varying backgrounds have been best friends for a very long time. They met through mutual friends in secondary school, and remained close friends after, despite their differences. Some give Belfast a good name, others give it the reputation it's sadly known for.

SO!!! I'm starting this AU, because I cannot for the life of me shake it outta my mind. I'm gonna use some Belfast slang, and I'll put its meanings beside it. But here's the head canons for the boys, and honestly, yall don't gotta vibe with it, but this is my little shithole of the world that not many people know much about, so I'm excited for it.

Kenny McCormick

- 19

- The biggest hood in east Belfast

- North Face tracksuits

- Your neighbourhood drug dealer

- Could've gone to a grammar school, but followed his mates to a regular high school

- Has fucked half of Belfast

- Picks on emos, except for Stan, he is, in Kenny's words, 'Sound'.

- Stinks of cannabis

- Eats ecstasy tablets like they're tictacs

- Are what people describe as a 'hood'

- Has definitely had a punishment beating for selling drugs without paying dues to the paramilitaries.

- Is on the PSNI watchlist, can't go anywhere without getting stop and searched.

- "Stan, listen. I know you're an emo fruit, but you're my mate, and you're sound. Anyone gives you guff, send 'em my way."

Kyle Broflovski

- 20

- Smart arse

- Got into a high end grammar school, and is incredibly intelligent, but still hangs about with his going nowhere friends

- Has a thing for cocaine low key

- "I'm Irish and ginger, the whole package, lads."

- Well dressed, isn't a tracksuit kinda guy, more like jeans and a nice shirt.

- The only one unaffected by the catholic/protestant divide, he's Jewish.

- Drives a Vauxhall Corsa, promises he isn't a nonce.

- Middle class, lives in the BT9 area

- Is banned from having house parties for life after the incident where Kenny poured vodka into his fish tank stating, "The fish needed to be on the sesh too."

- The mother of the group

- Highly strung

- Never been in trouble with police.

Stan Marsh

- 20

- Emo

- City Hall dweller

- Smokes weed, he buys it off Kenny.

- Probably drunk

- Hates the PSNI, just as much as Kenny does

- Chronic whitey victim (He throws up all the time from drinking too much)

- Got arrested for being drunk and disorderly and drinking in a public place

- sobbed in his cell all night till he was released without charge the next morning

- Went to a standard high school, left after finishing his A-Levels

- Bullied for being an emo

- "'Ers wee Marsh, fuckin' emoooo!"

Eric Cartman

- 19

- Gigachad

- Kenny's right hand man and business partner, they're drug dealers.

- Also has a strong hatred for the PSNI

- On electric tag for throwing petrol bombs at the peelers during a riot.

- Religiously goes to the 12th of July, but wears a tricolour on St Paddy's

- Very bad influence

- Has never worked a day in his life, and claims top rate health care benefits.

- Barred from most bars in Belfast City Centre

- Rave whore, may as well live in the Telegraph building.

- Noncommittal, but is a chronic Tinder user

- Definitely a smick

- Calls people slurs online playing FIFA

- Ridiculously street smart

- High school educated but left at 16 after passing his GCSEs to start he and Kenny's 'business venture'

Butters Stoch

- 20

- A good lad

- Lightweight

- Also a chronic whitey victim

- Sent to boarding school for catholic boys

- Fluent in Irish

- professional Irish dancer, and proves it every time he's drunk.

- Politely spoken.

- Bit of a culchie (he's from the country)

- Has a thing for Irish folk music

- Never been in trouble with the PSNI

- Somehow has never been in a physical altercation in his life.

- Doesn't care about the religious politics of the country, and never will.

CHAPTER 1 LINKED HERE

[labelleizzy]

From Robin Alperstein on Facebook:

Listening to Senator Cory Booker, who has held the Senate floor for the last 16-plus hours to discuss in detail the manifold devastation and havoc to people's lives and the economy and the rule of law that TrumpMAGAMusk GOP is inflicting, I am struck by his exchanges with his fellow senators in which they ask questions and he responds with clarity and little evidence of the exhaustion he must feel.

Booker, together with Schumer, is pointing out that not one of the cuts to Medicaid or other programs that DOGE and Trump are making has done a thing or is intended to do do anything for efficiency; there is no studying, no expertise, no examination of whether there will actually be any "efficiencies" or on the effects of their cuts on people's lives or on what these agencies and programs and departments actually do. Booker and Schumer give examples of that devastation, quoting from actual constituents in REPUBLICAN districts. Not only will millions of people lose their health care, the Medicaid cuts will cause closures of hospitals in rural neighborhoods, in middle class neighborhoods, and even upper class neighborhoods. People in nursing homes will have nowhere to go.

Schumer points out the specific number of jobs that will be lost and people who will lose their health care in Staten Island (voted for Trump) and parts of Long Island (voted for Trump) and the Bronx, and how those cuts will end up hurting hospitals and people in neighboring areas, and then highlights that if the 3 Republican House members in each of those SI and LI districts would break with their party to protect their constituents instead of hurting them, we would not be here. And they both point out it is all about making sure Musk and others wealthy like him pay no or almost no taxes, adding TRILLIONS to the deficit: Americans are going to DIE so that people who don't need more money can have even more.

That's just one example. Elizabeth Warren is now speaking with Booker, explaining that Social Security isn't a "gift", it's OUR right for having paid into it our whole lives, and that all the closures of the offices and slashing of staff prevent people from accessing their benefits that are not even in question, and function as CUTS to benefits without formal cuts to benefits. This is 73 million people that Trump is attacking, again to fund their own tax cuts for themselves and other billionaires.

Booker has spent the last 15+ hours highlighting all of this. It's so needed!! And I hope it stands as a reminder and call to action to get out in the streets April 5th to say NO MORE.

It's critical that people understand that this isn't just Trump and Musk, and it NEVER HAS BEEN. This is the entire Republican Party. It is Mike Johnson, the speaker of the House, pushing through a grotesque bill that yields the power of appropriations and allows these assaults on our programs and rights, and then, when courts AROUND THE COUNTRY including many with Republican-appointed judges, enjoin their illegal actions, now talking about targeting judges or ignoring the law.

I learned from a friend this morning that her colleague's wife's entire branch at the CDC was just fired by Musk -- and the wife was in the National Center for Birth Defects and Developmental Disorders. DOGE thinks preventing birth defects and dealing with developmental disorders is "nonessential." These people are tanking research for illness, disease, the disabled. They are erasing and killing any ability to fight or deal with the climate change that is devastating the world and many species. The party of "life" is a murder-suicide cult of absolutely militant and toxic ignorance and cruelty and hatred.

Now Booker is reading aloud from letters of people who lost their jobs at USAid, who are detailing just how important the institution is/was, explaining its incredible impact across the world, and how dreadful the destruction of this agency is on both the lives of the American workers and the people across the world whom USAid's programs assisted. It's extraordinary to hear these letters and to listen to Booker, voice breaking, read them and respond. One of these letters detailed the propagandizing attacks on workers' lives and integrity Musk spewed, and what these lies mean for American workers, to create support for cuts that are devastating. These letters expose just how egregious the hate-filled lies that Trump and his jackboot treasonous henchmen are vomiting out to destroy lives in an endless firehose of calumny and mendacity, and the danger that Americans were put in from them, as well the increased instability that these cuts will directly contribute to.

I wish I'd stayed up all night listening to Booker -- he's an amazing communicator. I wish everyone had, especially the Trump voters whose livelihoods, medical care, Social Security, and other rights are being attacked by the MAGA Republican party they routinely elect, people who don't understand or care about the importance of the U.S.'s role abroad. They are finding out the hard way what they should have known already: the only representatives who will fight for them and true American ideals are the Democratic electeds they vilify and despise. The party that gave them Social Security and Medicare and Medicaid and the ACA and SNAP and every other benefit they rely on. These are primarily white voters who seem only to take issue with the pain and devastation and corruption and cruelty that are the lifeblood of this rotten-to-its core fascist Republican party when they become its victims.

P.S. If you haven't tuned in yet, please do turn on the You Tube livestream. It'll help him and the cause-- it will help you too to see the light sSon Munn what is going on. Link in comments. (h/t to Son Mun for suggesting everyone tune in even if just on background to boost and support this.)

P.P.S I can't stop listening. Booker's moral clarity is incredible, his capacity to articulate the issues and contrast what is with what ought to be, so critical. He discussed how Trump has sown so much fear and anxiety about the Social Security cuts, and then contrasted that with FDR comforting people and showing leadership (yes ignoring Japanese internment camps and racism...but in describing the Medicaid and Social Security cuts): “This is not a model of leadership, it's a model of cruelty, of mean-spiritedness ...You cannot say you love your country and call yourself a patriot, you cannot do that unless you love the men and women in it. This is not right or left, it's right or wrong."

[annwrites]

⸻ shady belle. ⸻

· pairing: charles smith x fem!reader · type: part of a miniseries · summary: you ask charles to come away with you from shady belle for awhile so that you can discuss concerns which have been weighing heavily upon your worried mind. · tags: angst · tw: internalized racism · word count: 2k

You do not like this new place you are meant to call ‘home’. Nowhere is home now. Rather, home is now solely, instead, a person. Him. Your husband. Your protector. Charles.

You miss the last two camps. At least Horseshoe Overlook did just as its very name implied: overlook the expansive land which lied all around you. The rivers which cut through it, and the canyons that distant eagle cries echoed off of, creating a symphony of music to be found only in nature’s embrace. And the weather was cool, with a town not far, should any of you require anything. And having a church so near to be prayed at the altar of was a welcome facet.

And while Clemens Point could be humid, sitting directly on the water came with great benefits. You never wanted for water to cook or clean with. Nor did any of you need to fear going hungry, what, with a pole always cast in the lake, waiting for a nibble to be had on a baited hook.

This place, however—Shady Belle—feels far too open. Too obvious to those who would wish to do you all great harm. You’ve enemies on all sides now.

Pinkerton agents are hot on your heels, desiring to see you all behind bars for the remainder of your days. O’Driscolls, who wish to decimate you, so as to reduce your leader. A leader you, yourself, admittedly, have lost much faith in, due to recent events. You do not voice such reservations aloud, however. Only to your beloved husband do you confide in now. And then there are the Lemoyne Raiders. The men here killed a number of them to take this place. You fear more will come seeking vengeance, before long, for such a trespass.

They believe such despicable things, these ‘Raiders’. Such as the sentiment of slaves—your fellow human beings, who just happened to be born upon the face of this Earth with different skin-tones than you, or they—deserving to still yet be in shackles. They would take your husband from you. They can die trying just like the rest who now rot six feet under, right where they belong.

You have begun to fear that Dutch is losing his grip on reality. He spouts inane nonsense of ‘making a lot of noise’, ‘gathering a lot of money’, and then finding your ways to a place called Tahiti.

You do not want to go there. Do not want to gather mangoes from treetops, while you live out of huts with straw roofs in the middle of a foreign land.

‘Making a lot of noise’ is what got you all in this position to begin with. You think he is beginning to lose control. Hosea does his best to be the voice of reason, but to be as much, would require he be listened to.

Dutch seems only to care for the advice of the devil on his shoulder now: Micah Bell. All other opinions expressed to him fall upon deaf ears.

He is leading all of you to ruin and worse.

Why, then, do you feel as if you are the only one who is capable of seeing it?

You find your husband seated behind the derelict mansion, which now serves as shelter for all of you. He is feathering arrows and sharpening broadheads. Perhaps he means to hunt later. There are alligators aplenty in nearby waters, but they frighten you, so you stay close to land instead.

“Charles?” you say quietly before seating yourself beside him on a stained marble bench.

He ceases his current task momentarily to look upon your lovely face. He’s glad that you have filled out properly, and that there is always color upon your cheeks. It soothes him to see it. He would never have you returned to your previous state. Never.

“Everything alright?”

No, you want to say. Nothing is alright. Not anymore.

You shake your head while worrying your lower lip between your teeth. “Could we venture into town later? I want to be alone with you. There are many things we need to speak about.”

He sets the arrows aside and turns fully toward you, his expression alone entirely portraying his now-troubled state. “Are you alright? Do you…” he trails off suddenly, and then his gaze drifts downward, to your belly, before his eyes flit back to your own. “Are you—”

You shake your head, then stand and settle yourself upon his ample lap. “No. I’m not with child. There’s just…concerns I would like for us to discuss. But in private. Not here.”

He nods—a small pit of disappointment settling deep in his gut. “We’ll go right now.”

You find yourselves in the solitude of a quiet riverbank as Taima waters herself.

“Talk to me,” your husband commands in a soothing tone, with gentle hands resting comfortingly upon your womanly curves.

He wishes to coax the concerns which have you so distressed from your pink lips.

You take his callused hand in your own while tracing the bends and indentations of his wedding ring with one of your fingertips. “I am afraid. I do not like this place we now find ourselves in. Dutch seems…so far gone. I fear it will only get worse the longer that serpent whispers in his ear, and clouds his mind with grandiose ideas that will never come to be.”

You raise your head while studying Charles from beneath your lashes. “I wish for us to leave. It is no longer safe for you or I. With the way things are heading…” you shake your head while gazing out across the wide river that burbles at your feet. “This all ends one way.”

You look at Charles once more. “I would have it otherwise. The two of us safe, and far from where we find ourselves now.” You tug his hand into your lap. “Let us go. Tonight, while they're all asleep. We will be long gone come the morn, and—”

He slips his hand from your grip to instead cup your cheek. “I understand you’re scared. And it’s not that I don’t see any of it. I do. Believe me, I’m well-aware of what’s happening. But…” he sighs. “Where would we go? What would we do?”

You scoot closer, and press yourself into the sturdiness of his side. “I do not care, so long as we are together. We will find work. I trust in God to provide—”

He curses, and you swallow nervously. “What work is there to be had for a man that looks like me? Who would take me on, even for mere menial labor, that could otherwise fund a white man’s pocket instead? That is what I meant when I told you that day near Valentine that you could’ve found yourself better than some half-breed—”

“No!” you shout, refusing to hear him insult himself further in such a wretched manner. You take his hand once more, refusing to let go this time, no matter how hard he may fight. “We are each two halves of a whole. I will hear no more talk like that. Do you understand me, Charles Smith?”

His eyes flit between your own, but he does not deign to reply.

“You are my life now. I vowed myself to you in every way before we ever did so literally before the Reverend and our peers. There is no taking it back. I would sooner die than even consider it. You may not believe it, but I do: that the Lord will provide. Each time I have doubted or cursed Him, thinking He has forsaken me, I am proven a fool for it. I lost my parents, and then I found you. We fled from each previous camp we tentatively called home, only to discover another to shelter us. I thought myself destitute after the debacle with that ring, and yet you single-handedly managed the return of my money. And so I trust in Him now as well. He will see us through, but we must ourselves act by going forward instead of standing still.”

He shakes his head while muttering unknown words in his mother tongue. You know he is cursing. You think to chastise him for it, but refrain.

And then he sighs. “These people took both of us in when no one else would have us. You would just abandon them? What of Mary-Beth, who considers you a sister, or Susan Grimshaw, who sees you as a surrogate daughter? Or Arthur, who treats me like a brother? And Hosea, who struggles to make ends meet each day? You would walk away from them so easily, without so much as a goodbye or farewell?”

You fill with guilt. To the very brim.

You have thought much on this. You intended to write a note, which would be found the next morning, should the two of you depart by train overnight in Rhodes. It is not how you wish for things to be, but you fail to see any other way out now.

You fear what Dutch may do if he suspects dissension in the ranks. He is paranoid enough, as things currently stand.

“How long do we stay before you finally see sense, in that we have to save ourselves, even if it may be to the detriment, or of great cost, to others? I would not relinquish our lives to follow that man down a path only he seems able to see.”

You take Charles’ plump face between your palms, and your eyes fill with tears. “He does not care for us, Charles. I don’t…know if he ever has. For any of them, either. Think about it: how he himself lives while the rest of us scrounge for scraps. His tent, which has always had wooden floorboards to walk upon, a queen-size bed to sleep in, a wood-stove to keep him warm, a Victrola to play music from in the evenings. Even now he takes the most spacious room in the house.

"And then there are his fine clothes—a patterned vest, a golden pocket-watch, polished black leather boots. And yet still he wishes for more. Asks how he might acquire a fur rug from one of your hunts, or a decorative skull to hang from the outer poles of his tent.

“He reads his books, and writes in his fanciful journals, and humors himself a philosopher. I think he is just a conman. Like that shopkeeper with the box of rings. I am only sorry that it took me so long to see it. He is clearly adept at blinding us, by convincing us all that the enemy isn’t he who currently stands before our very eyes, speaking with a silver tongue.”

Your heart shatters as a tear slips from your lover’s eye. You have hurt him.

You wish to drown yourself in the river at the very prospect.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper while deflating.

He takes you into his arms and cradles your head against his chest before bestowing a kiss upon the crown of it. “No. You’re right. I know you’re right. Maybe I just…for all my sensibilities didn’t want to see it myself, like you only just said. Or, rather, admit it. It’s not that it’s Dutch I stay for, but the rest of them. But I know there’s no way to convince them to come with us if we did as you are asking me to.”

You nuzzle closer, trying to absorb this moment. One which you may return to time and again, within your mind, when you feel too overwhelmed by happenstances which seek to tear you apart from the inside out.

“I just…need a little more time. I have to figure things out first before we just traipse off in the middle of the night. Alright?”

You nod in understanding. “I will follow you anywhere.”

To the grave, you think.

But you do not say it, for you refuse to speak such a terrible prospect into existence.

[mariacallous]

The far-right violence against foreigners in the United Kingdom these days strongly reminds me of a novel published in the 1980s: J.M. Coetzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians.

Coetzee, a South African novelist who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 2003, describes in this slim volume exactly why and how this kind of violence erupts: because communities have been drip-fed lies and racial prejudices for a long time, until they form an image of strangers—in this novel, the barbarian nomadic tribes—that has very little to do anymore with reality.

The central character in Waiting for the Barbarians, which Philip Glass turned into an opera in 2005, is a middle-aged magistrate who has been running a sleepy border settlement of an unnamed Empire for years. Nothing ever happens in the village or in neighboring towns and villages. Everyone knows everyone. The subjects of the Empire and the barbarians living on the other side of the border, which is totally porous, have bent the rules so that everyone can go about their business without bothering others. The barbarians come to the village for food and medicine and go home afterward.

The magistrate must implement the rules of the Empire but tries to do this in a human, benign-ish way. When there is an occasional cattle raid, for example, he has a serious talk with those who did it. He hardly ever takes prisoners, and when he does, they are fed, kept clean, and often released early: “All my life I have believed in civilized behaviour.” In his view, conflicts do not benefit anyone and should be avoided. All is certainly not perfect, but it keeps the peace. The communities live more or less quietly side by side.

Then, one day, a delegation from the Empire’s secret service (the “Third Bureau”), led by Colonel Joll, visits the village. Joll, an unbending bureaucrat, is convinced that the nomad tribes are secretly preparing an attack on the Empire. He leads an expedition in search of rebels and radicals and comes back to the settlement with many suspects in chains. They are terrified. Suddenly, the prison is full. The inmates are humiliated, starved, and tortured. The magistrate tries to stop this (“These are fishermen, not rebels!”), but Colonel Joll sidelines him and continues to torture the barbarians until all “confess.”

After the colonel’s departure, the magistrate feeds the prisoners and sends most of them home. One of them is a nomad girl. He tends to her wounds, washes her feet, and sleeps with her. Eventually, he brings her all the way back to her tribe. When he returns home after the long journey, Joll is back. He has the magistrate charged with treason—“consorting with the enemy”—and throws him in the same jail where the barbarians are kept.

No one comes to the magistrate’s rescue. Many villagers have become as hysterical as the colonel, and the rest are lying low. By now, every barbarian seems like a terrorist to them. Any behavior that was once normal has become suspect. Eventually, of course, the village just destroys itself—without a single barbarian going on the attack. The settlement is a ruin. Most people have left, including the colonel and his people. The magistrate stays: He has nowhere to go. As a bitter winter cold sets in, he feels stupid, “like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere.”

Although the novel was published in 1980, it has stark relevance for our times. Coetzee, whose Empire of course depicted South Africa under apartheid, shows how easy it is for a few zealots to turn communities that have long managed to live in peace against one another. All they need to do is to plant false, scary rumors about a particular group; embed them in a larger narrative about sovereignty, nationhood, and security; and then start pumping that narrative around. If citizens are scared enough, they are willing to believe it all. As Hermann Göring, the architect of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi police state, said when he was asked how he got the German people to accept Nazism: “The people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger.”

With this grim novel, Coetzee issued a strong, principled condemnation of South Africa’s apartheid regime, then still in full swing. (He immigrated to Australia later, in 2002.) Its relevance for today’s “far-right thuggery” in the U.K., as Prime Minister Keith Starmer put it last weekend, is no less clear. When far-right politicians fan the flames of racial and religious hatred for years, amplified by social media and newspapers calling migrants and asylum-seekers criminals, at some point Muslim communities and mosques will be targeted, asylum centers will be set ablaze, and Nazi salutes will be seen on the street.

In a democracy, words have consequences. A democracy is a political system that must ensure different communities in society do not get at one another’s throats. All communities have different interests. Therefore, there is always some friction between them. Because society is always changing, the balance between the communities is always changing, too. Democracy is meant to help them find a new balance, all the time. This applies to all levels of governance: local, provincial, national, European. Politics, journalism, and other institutions have a role to play in this system—a clear responsibility. Incitement, provocations, the spread of fake news, and the demonization of one community because of skin color or religion mean that they reject that responsibility. These are forms of democratic sabotage.

Coetzee’s message, voiced through the magistrate, is not a happy one. “To the last we will have learned nothing. In all of us, deep down, there seems to be something granite and unteachable.” Still, the magistrate plows on—what else can he do? He may be far from perfect, but he is a good man.

In the words of Coetzee, the real danger in society “always comes from within.” The U.K. is lucky to have a prime minister who seems to understand this.

[kabillieu]

My childhood friend and college roommate was in town yesterday, so she came over for dinner. I had not seen her or had much communication with her in about 8 years.

This friend is a wonderful person with a strong sense of justice within the boundaries of her worldview, which are shaped by nondenominational evangelical christianity. Unfortunately, the last 8 years have taught me caution about interacting with people who are deeply religious in this specific way, and I've felt cautious about interacting with her because of this, and it's something that's made me feel bad. My emotions are complicated.

Another reason I have been distant (besides the real culprit: literal physical distance until recently) is that I don't like or trust her husband. They have for many years lived out in the middle of nowhere on his family's land in a small camper, physically and--I suspect--emotionally isolated. My friend has an M.A. in forestry. She is a highly skilled scientist who now works for the Alabama Forestry Commission. Her husband doesn't have a college education and drives trucks. I sound so shittily elitist, but what I suspect--from knowing these kinds of men out here in Alabama--is that he probably expected to be the "leader" of their relationship, but he is almost certainly unequal to her in intellect and emotional intelligence. I also suspected addiction problems the few times I was around him. And they were involved in these christian couples conferences that I find deeply suspicious because imo framing heterosexual marriages through a Bible-based lens often means creating rigid constructs of stereotypes about how women and men are "supposed" to think and behave, which benefit men and are harmful to women. I also think these constructs can aggravate abusive situations. Anyway.

My spidey senses regarding her marriage have been going off a long time, but we're just not close enough anymore for me to know anything about my friend that's super, super personal. And she has the type of personality where she commits so deeply and wholly and will not stray from a path she believes in, even if it's hurtful to her.

So, it was with some relief that I learned that she and her husband have recently separated and are most likely getting divorced, which makes me very sad for her, of course. But also, I know something wasn't right there, and I'm very glad she extracted herself from it. She also moved physically away to another town, which is also relieving. And I hope to keep better in touch with her now that we live in the same state again. In fact she lives probably about an hour or less from our house in Pensacola, so I hope we'll be able to see each other at least once or twice a year now, maybe even more.

I don't have a lot of childhood friends. Really just two that I keep in touch with. I'm deeply glad she's back in my life. Plus, she is just such a badass. In addition to being a field scientist, she's a forest firefighter. Can you imagine? She has a license where she can just go out into the woods with a chainsaw and cut down a tree. My poetry-writing ass could never. Love her. Glad we're back in each other's lives.

[random-ln-stuff]

New New Theory:

The Little Nightmares Universe looks like this:

There’s our world on one side, The Eye’s Nightmare Domain on the other side, and the Nowhere is right there in the middle. “Two flows from one, and here (in Nowhere), is whole again”

The Nowhere is a place with many connected but individual places with unique functions. I imagine that as being a place where each individual location has its own unique THING that the people there are drawn to and a specific person who runs that place. The Maw has Gluttony as its vice and the Lady runs it, the Pale City is addicted to TV and Escapism and the Thin Man Runs it, ETC.

The Spiral though, is a specific part of Nowhere that’s slightly overlapping and closer to the Eye’s Domain, so things are different. More Non-Euclidian. It’s a “cluster of disturbing places” layered on top of each other, with travel between these areas being particularly difficult and travel outside of the Spiral as a whole being downright impossible (hence why Low and Alone are trapped there with them using Mirrors to travel throughout the Spiral).

Also found in the Spiral are many things that the regular Nowhere just doesn’t normally allow, like the Giant Baby that seems to be mechanical in nature. Sure the Nowhere can have things that are just off with reality, like the Nest having strange gravity and the Signal Tower’s warping of time, but in most places reality is somewhat similar in nature to our world. The Maw still follows Euclidean Geometry, The Pale City is perfectly stable reality-wise unless you enter the tower, which is alive and follows its own rules, etc.

Actually, I think each of Noone’s dreams have been placing her in various places in the Nowhere, both closer and farther from reality and the Eye. More specifically, just like this:

Ep 1:

The Stone Giant is the closest Noone has gotten so far to the Eye and the furthest she’s gone from reality. The things described by Noone in episode one simply don’t make sense compared to the other dreams and the games as a whole. A Stone Giant with a endless snowy field on top, with the inside being run by clockwork, and also there’s thousands of other people chained inside rooms, a workshop and a entire courtyard, just inside the Giant.

The Lady In Chains also makes it obvious that this entire dream is symbolism for the Lady and The Maw, which doesn’t make sense if this happening in the regular Nowhere because the Lady is already living here. So Episode 1 is located just outside the Nowhere, in that zone where the Nowhere begins to break down into raw nightmarish chaos.

Even the child Noone encounters here may not be an actual child. Their hair is described similarly to the Lady’s own Shadow Magic, a feature that no other child seen so far has, and it’s possible that this child may also just be a product of the Eye’s Nightmarish, Random Chaos.

Ep 2:

Episode 2 seems to take place in the actual Nowhere. It’s similar, VERY similar, to the Maw and how Guests are brought there, like suspiciously similar, but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt just this once.

Ep 3:

Episode 3’s Mall is literally just the Signal Tower pre-signal tower. A sentient mass of flesh desperately trying to keep Noone distracted from reality to prevent her from leaving. However, I’ll say that this dream seems to be closer to reality because not only does the Mall pull real things from reality to keep Noone happy, those things are objects that Noone personally knows about and likes. A doll that she’s always wanted, a movie she’s seen 100 times, clothes including the dress she first wore to the institution, etc.

The Mall Signal Tower Flesh Walls are also heavily implied to be near the Ferryman in terms of Power, being one of the only entities to react to his presence and possibly being the thing that pulled Noone into this specific dream just this one time. So the Flesh Walls can definitely come this close to reality, with the Ferryman and (unseen so far) North Wind probably being the only others that can.

Ep 4:

I’d we don’t see a circus in Little Nightmares 3, I’ll eat my own hat. A unique antagonist and location never seen before with no symbolism or any obvious connections to previous monsters. Even the Ferryman fails to appear in this dream. This is obviously a location in the Spiral.

[azimachra]

You know what’s annoying? The fact that people are right about exercise. For years and years I told myself that I wasn’t an athlete. I’d tried more sports than I could count on my fingers and I was bad or disliked all of them. I’m slow so track didn’t work. Ice skating was fun but everyone started so much younger than I did and I felt like I would never catch up. My hand eye coordination and reaction time are actually terrible so tennis was a disaster. The list goes on.

Eventually I convinced myself that sports just weren’t for me. Everyone told me that being active in some way or another would improve my mood and help me get better sleep. I knew from experience that sports and being active would do nothing but make me (more) miserable. I relegated myself to the position of the eternal nerd. I didn’t need *sports* to live a fulfilled life or to feel good in my body.

Cut to a year and a half ago. I had some childhood experience with martial arts (I stopped in middle school because it wasn’t feminine enough or something like that) and decided after some of the quarantine restrictions lifted that I wanted to try again. the place I trained when I was younger went under during the height of covid and that sport was pretty rare so there was nowhere else to train. I chose a martial art I’d heard about at random - Brazilian Jiu Jitsu - and tried it.

I’d like to say that I was a prodigy, that I understood the sport instinctually, that I was praised by my coaches for my natural talent. That, unfortunately, would be a lie. I was downright terrible when I started. Everything was so difficult. Other people understood the principles and applications in a way that I couldn’t. It seemed like everyone was either way more advanced than me or twice my size. The first few months, I was learning techniques and training but I still didn’t get it. My coach told me that the instinct would come with time. I was worried that this would just be another piece of proof that I’m not athletic, that I don’t have the body or mental fortitude. I was scared of failing, but I loved the sport. Since then, I’ve massively improved. Some things that I struggled with before have fallen into place and I’ve found new things to struggle with. I’m competent for my level and I even competed in a tournament. Has it been easy? No. Do I always feel confident in my ability? Absolutely not. But BJJ has undeniably changed my life for the better. I feel more comfortable in my body, I’ve gotten stronger and more resilient, found a new community, and yes it totally has helped with my sleep schedule and emotional wellbeing.

While I love BJJ I am not promising that you will too (although it is amazing for self defense, a skill everyone benefits from but is extra useful to women and femme presenting folks in our current society). What I’m trying to say is that despite my years of disbelief it turns out that everyone was in fact correct about physical activity/sports being good for you. It also turns out that I was wrong about my belief that I was inherently un-athletic. I also want to say that you can do this on your terms. There are so many more ways to move your body than just hitting a ball with a stick or running in circles. Don’t let yourself stay trapped in a cage with fictional bars; in an 80’s movie trope where you can only be a jock or a nerd; in a mindset that limits you from being happy and healthy. Find something that makes you excited to do because I promise, it is out there.

[angelofthemornings]

Man, I do not want to get into discourse about this and will be ignoring all attempts to do so, but it's interesting that I haven't seen almost anybody on here talk about what we want the endgame to be in Israel/Palestine.

I think we're looking at a two-state solution. (That's gonna be hard for a lot of reasons, such as the fact that Palestinian areas of Israel are kind of scattered all over the map and the country looks more like a puzzle than like, "Gaza" and "everywhere else." This is just one example.)

But the one post I've seen about what to do next was like, let's deport all the Israelis like they did in Algeria, which

a) The white people getting out of Algeria was a massive human rights issue. Aside from the fact that mass deportation is ugly and genocidal, Algeria had refugees just sleeping on the streets in like Paris. There was nowhere for them to go and everybody hated them. Depleting Israel would be an absolutely extraordinary human rights violation and aside from people losing their homes and livelihoods and friendships and anything else they built in Israel, frankly it would get people killed. (I'm a Tatar. We underwent mass deportation and recently at that. Don't argue with me that it can be done in a pleasant way.)

b) The Algerian situation is different because the white people in Algeria had social and linguistic ties to places like France. Meanwhile, I think few Israelis have these ties to where Grandma came from in Lithuania. Also, I think pieds-noirs and their descendants make up something like 13% of the Algerian population today, so it's not like they completely emptied the place.

c) You really think some nice countries are going to take in millions of disenfranchised Jews? Really? Jews? Half the reason why so many people died during the Holocaust is that Jewish refugees were actively being turned away when they tried to leave. This was the fucking 1940s. People are still alive from that time. And I don't think countries would even take in millions of a displaced ethnic group that was more popular like the Swiss or whoever. We're not in the potato famine era anymore when they just let anybody in, we're in an incredibly hostile global environment for immigrants and refugees. It would be nice if that changed, but it's not going to fast enough to help Palestine.

c1) This also ignores the purpose of Israel. Back in the day in Poland, many centuries ago, the Poles let in a lot of Jewish people. This isn't because they were enlightened or kind, it's because they wanted educated people who could collect taxes for the nobility, creating a buffer population who would get killed because if the peasants took issue with this they were gonna attack the evil Jew instead of the szlachta. Similarly, regardless of how one feels about Israel today, it wasn't created for Jewish self-determination or anything warm and fuzzy like that, it was founded by the imperial core in hopes that Middle Eastern bullets would hit Jewish bodies. There would be a massive fight to keep Israelis in Israel. (And this raises the question of what body has both the manpower and desire to mass deport Jews out of the territory to begin with.)

d) Open borders are nice. I don't think someone should be prevented from living somewhere because of their ethnoreligious group, that's evil. I feel this way especially because of how meaningful making aliyah is to many Jewish people and it is UNDENIABLE that they have SIGNIFICANT cultural and religious ties to this place. Don't argue with that, you'll lose.

e) I live on Paugusset land and I don't see anybody trying to kick me out of Connecticut. What's the difference? I am absolutely a member of an oppressor class benefiting from Indigenous subjugation and an ongoing genocide. (And where would I go? Fucking Ukraine where my latest ancestors came from? Ukraine is busy!)

Basically, for reasons of human rights and for reasons of geopolitics, there are GOING to be Jewish people in the territory, there are GOING to be a lot of them, and these facts do not care very much if you personally do not like it. And so we have to figure out a way to arrange the place so that they're not acting as an oppressor class but instead as equals to the Palestinians. This NEEDS to be possible. God knows I don't know how to do it, but I'm hoping someone smarter than me does.

[onestormeynight]

Penny Helps Out

It was Penny's day off and she was enjoying some old shows she hadn't seen since she was kid watching TV with her parents. She didn't have anything on the agenda; Billie had moved in with her fiance, Rosie was still on her honeymoon and B was away at another programing conference.

She spent some time outside painting and people watching. It was disorienting to her to see so many people walking around. Wasn't it just yesterday she was living in a one room shack with Rosalie, paying the bills with her flowers while trying to graduate high school? Who were all these people in the middle of nowhere?

A text on her phone pulled her from her thoughts.

<<Pen, I need help.>>

<<What's wrong?>>

<<I can't get Ellie to calm down, please help me.>>

<<OMW>>

Penny was able to make it to Oasis Springs in record time. Ricky basically forced his infant into her arms when she walked through the door. Ellie was screaming and fussing, showing no signs of slowing down.

"Woah, okay rockstar," Penny said, bouncing the fussy child. "You got some lungs on you, don't you? Alright, now it can't be all that bad, shush. Calm down."

It took several minutes, but eventually Ellie calmed herself enough to start nodding off on Penny's shoulder.

"How did you do that?" Ricky asked. "I've been trying to calm her for hours. Sam was never this fussy."

Penny shrugged. "She knows you're stressed. I'm not worn to my nerves like you. Here, I'll put her down and make dinner for you guys. Go take a shower, you're gross."

Penny started cooking them dinner with what she could find in his fridge, which was not much. She managed to pull something together, though, and hoped it would feed them all for a few days. Food had become her love language.

While dinner was in the oven, Penny caught up with Sam. He was doing well in school academically, but was chronically shy. Even talking to Penny made him nervous. Eventually Penny let him sit quietly and just watched TV with him.

"Listen," She said to Ricky when he came out of the shower. "Dinner will be done in half an hour and I have a long drive back home. Why don't I feed you an appetizer before your main course and then I'll be on my way."

"Appetizer?"

Penny gave him a knowing look that would have made anyone else blush. If she was going to have a friend with benefits, she was going to take advantage of those benefits.

((prev)) ((next))

[ldysmfrst]

Hello and welcome to Breaking and Entering Master List! The Taglist is currently open for this story.

This is an original story. I started writing it as my first attempt at story writing. When I wrote the first few chapters, I was also very sick with COVID-19.

This story is a Werewolf Pack AU and is currently rated as YA. There are no chapter titles, but each chapter will have a name listed that indicates which POV the chapter is from.

Y/n is a girl who lives her life bouncing between foster homes; at almost 18, you land in the town of Lunar Ridge, where you learn werewolves are real and the new Alpha won't let you go.

Chapter 1 - Lovren

Foster care isn't easy, and now they have stuck Lovren in the middle of nowhere. Just a little longer, then she will age out of the system, and she will be free, but will Lunar Ridge let her go?

Chapter 2 - Mikhail

Lunar Ridge Pack has changes coming soon, but this one comes as a surprise to Mikhail.

Chapter 3 - Lovren

The first day of senior year at a new school brings painful beginnings.

Chapter 4 - Mikhail

Training has become Mikhail's life, but as of today, that is all changing. Will this change in routine be the start of a much larger change in his life?

Chapter 5 - Lovren

Being an Invisible isn't always easy, and the day just keeps proving it.

Chapter 6 - Mikhail

It's the first day of High School for the young Alpha-to-be, and it starts off strangely.

Chapter 7 - Lovren

Lovren tries to hide in her safe place only to be called into a meeting with ... the Mayor ???

Chapter 8 - Stanislav

Being an Alpha has many responsibilities, but being part of the Alpha's counsel means the same. Will titles cause more harm than good to the up-and-comers?

Chapter 9 - Erik

Getting pulled into Alpha's office was one thing, but things went in a direction for the second time that wasn't expected—or maybe it was the third for that day.

Chapter 10 - Jonathan

Lovren's history is more complex than jumping Foster homes. It may be time to explain a few things.

As a paid member of my Patreon, you can read extra spicy smutty scenes or additional content for select stories and have early release benefits for each chapter!

TO BE CONTINUED...

[quazarshark]

Website Crosspost:

From the Infraflux Technology page, Big Stuff section (first draft):

Construction

When there are no pre-existing structures to inhabit (a very common practice, since buildings may spontaneously generate fully formed) new construction on March Earth is similar to what we would be familiar with today but generally a lot slower due to the difficulty of obtaining resources. Also as a result of this logistics problem, permanent structures are generally built with longevity in mind. Settlements grow slowly and reflect the available resources of their surroundings: Each town and fort displaying a characteristic colour of stone, brick, wood, or other nearby materials. The other side of this is the greater frequency of temporary structures: Loosely-built "shanty towns" surrounding a settlement's permanent structures are common in many places, as people who technically live in the Wilds benefit from huddling in the relatively safe shadow of the settlement's defenses and resources. Spontaneous generation of buildings can take any form, but for some reason March Earth strongly favours blocky concrete structures. Lone empty buildings made entirely of solid concrete and steel rebar, with no floors and no roof, are a common sight when traversing the Wilds.

-

I did a spot illustration for this one even though it's not all that interesting, because I feel like "concrete structure standing around in the middle of nowhere" has been one of the most iconic Infraflux visual elements in my mind since its inception

[just-sp-in-inginthevoid]

Sorry I'm a little dumb but what's a Schrödinger's cat? Really wanna know! :D

Schrödinger's cat is a cat trapped in an opaque box that we can't confirm if it is either dead or alive (until we open the box, that is); by such it is both alive and dead (until the box get opened and we can check).

It is an idea Schrödinger (that's a real man that existed) used to illustrate something (about quantum physics): a cat trapped in a box where a poison could kill it at any moment or possibly never (the condition for the poison to be released is totally unpredictable; it could happen or it could not) - no real cat were harmed.

When I talked about wanting NNA to feature an astro named 'Schrödinger cat' - it doesn't have much to do with what Schrödinger demonstrated with his theory: simply the example with the cat in itself. An astro in which it is impossible to affirm if its holder is dead or alive - because they are both while being neither while being only one of those options. An astro which makes the alive-or-dead status of its holder completely blurred, in which there is no clear-cut answer: and if the holder were to believe too much they are one or the other, it'd become true - believing constantly they're alive would allow them to avoid death but how far can you believe you aren't going to die? There must be a limit to the damage you can take before whole-heartily thinking it is your end, even if you are aware you have an astro that can save you from that - and thinking you're alive would make you vulnerable to death since to die one has to live, whereas when you're dead you can't exactly die a second time. So - if the holder isn't able to change the answer depending on what would benefit them the most (and choosing death isn't really beneficial, but choosing life wouldn't make you survive a bullet through the head - because living beings don't survive that) - the best solution is to refuse to give an answer, to refuse to think of one (a bullet through your head won't kill you since you're already dead but you won't 'act' dead, your body and consciousness won't die, because you're still alive. unsure as to how far this astro would work on self-regeneration), to solely focus on having a consciousness and free-will and that being enough - to make them trivial matters because if they're not then you're condemning yourself to the answer you choose. You can't die because you are already dead and you can't die because you are still alive. You're stuck in the middle and nowhere at all while being simultaneously on both sides. And being neither dead nor alive makes you pretty hard to get rid off (which is why I want Goshiki to have it (while not believing it's going to happen at all), it fits him).

It's not exactly an invincibility astro since the holder feels the pain and can't fix their wounds - they're simply stuck in status quo in which damages can't kill them but it still hurts like a b (depending on the severity of it ofc). It's not a regenerative one either, because while they're unable to (actually) die, getting better all depends on if the body is itself alive or dead, and that too can't be chosen because then it'd doom the holder - being dead means no regeneration is needed, being alive means regeneration happening (slowly, but happening still), stuck in status quo just means... that... I don't know. Perhaps the bleeding is put in hold? It doesn't get better but it doesn't get worse either. Such astro holder needs to find someone else with an astro able to heal other people. Imma stop thinking about how it could work. It's a zombie-but-you-still-feel-the-pain astro and it has many drawbacks(also, you don't eat brains and don't move slowly and you body can't rot), let's just sum it up like that.

Visually-speaking, I don't see it manifesting as cat ears and/or tail or other cat characteristics - Kuran is the only catboy we need - but I don't exactly see it manifesting as a box either. I could accept the box, I'm just not sold on what my mind is coming up with yknow? It not manifesting on the body but through the link could work as well, and then the link could be a closed box, i guess.

With the meteors strike, I'm sure a lot of people must have wished for something related to increasing their life expectancy; either because they had planned to wish for immortality or being cured by incurable disease before the meteors even fell, or because they got trapped under rumbles following the strike and were left to wish to survive whatever situation they were trapped in. That being said, healing astros aren't the only solution to these entrapped situations: thinking about the possibility that hat-girl from chapter 19 got trapped in an elevator because of the meteors strike and ended-up with her elevator astro because of it (wishing to 'get out of here/get to destination/smth else') - I am not saying it's the only possible explanation as to why it's her astro, there could be a lot of possibilities, knowing Wakui.

[strawberrycherriesncream]

Ringo character study, kinda sorta. The basics are about his illness and his strange relationship with over coming it. Also poly ship bby featuring Blackmore and Mountain Tim bc they deserve nice things

2,055 words; blood & illness & mentions of Ringo’s backstory (if you know you know)

Living out in the middle of nowhere came with its own special list of perks that made it more desirable than moving into town. The most notable was the quiet. He could sit out on the front porch steps without worry of polite conversation. It was truly peaceful without the hustle and bustle of city living Blackmore subjected himself to as Mr. Valentine’s personal hunting dog. There were no neighbors to cater to or bother whenever the echo of gunshots rang throughout the trees. Scattering the panicking birds and making his ears ring.

But the best was the fact he was able to enjoy his duels without meddling strangers dragging the sheriff’s and deputy’s into the middle of his business. No one but him and the body of the person that failed to kill him should intervene in a one on one duel.

Ringo grimaced, hidden behind his crop top’s raised collar as the deep scratch in his lungs itched like a wild animal flared up something fierce. The empty cylinder of his Colt sat in his palm, half disassembled to be cleaned. Bullets sat on the wooden porch between him and Tim, whom remained blissfully unaware of his silent struggle to smother the episode that’s been threatening him all day to make its grand appearance. Since the moment he woke up this morning, he’s been struggling not to cough or imply he’s feeling under the weather.

It’s been hell trying to keep it together for when they leave in the morning. Blackmore had been particularly antsy about going back to work, having expressed his worry for their employer in his absence despite Mr. Valentine having at least one of his personal bodyguards with him at all times.

The next exhale was wet and far too warm. It wasn’t often Ringo doubted anything, but he doubted he’d be able to hide his illness for much longer. Which would prompt Tim to stay with him until he felt better and Blackmore would throw a fuss and be upset the next time he saw him because he’d be unable to stay. And while he would appreciate the gesture, he didn’t want to worry either of them when he had a cure. He just had to wait for someone to come around. Travelers got lost all the time and wander towards the smoke of the fireplace to seek help. Which they would be then prompted into a death match.

The dirt around the house was filled with the bones and blood of people never able to kill him. People with murder that burned in their eyes but unable to shoot him dead. People that were likely reported missing and never able to be found by the families that missed them. But those that had that certain fire in their eyes marked a good day for many of the families he’d taken them away from.

Ringo doubted anyone would wander into the orchard in the coming days, knew that even if someone did happen to stumble upon him, that Tim would offer his assistance to guide them safely back out and give directions towards to wherever they were headed. That was just the kind of man Tim was. A kind one, always willing to help a stranger to the best of his ability. Something he deeply respected about the cowboy.

Tim was a different kind of man than him. Offering his time and help to the sheriffs to work as a bounty hunter and always returning with the bounty alive. Ringo wouldn’t have been nearly as kind. For him, if he chose to walk down that path, every instigation would become a duel for his life. Offering the chance to kill him in exchange for their freedom. It would greatly benefit both parties as the bounty would be a free man if they succeeded, and help guide him towards becoming a better man himself.

But he wasn’t going to seek someone out. That would defeat the purpose of bettering himself through duels meant to be nothing more than pure intended murder. Giving an option other than killing him would soil his betterment and make it obsolete. There would be no point in hunting anyone down. Trapping them and giving only one option, to kill him, was the only way.

Clearing his throat relieved some of that maddening itch but only made it worse as the desire to cough burned. The rocking chair Tim had dragged outside creaked from Blackmore idly pushing himself back and forth with his foot. A sack of pears sat between Tim’s feet, the same pears he was peeling with a knife and cutting into chunks to periodically hand back to Blackmore. Tim offered him some as well, but each time, Ringo would decline. The taste of blood on the back of his tongue had already ruined both breakfast and lunch.

It started off easy. A singular cough that started a chain reaction. Like dislodging a tiny pebble out of the wedge underneath a boulder that came tumbling down the hill.

Doubling over, he covered his mouth with his fist as hacking coughs raked his body. Violently sputtering up blood where it splattered against his fist, seeping into the wrinkles and pores of his skin and into the fabric of his gloves. Blood dribbled down the crease of his lips, uncomfortably warm drooling down his chin.

These flare ups always reminded him of being a child. He wondered if Tim felt the same way out on the range with the long hours of the sun beating down on him. If he thought back on his time as a soldier marching through the desert with his company slowly dying from dehydration. Ringo admired him for braving the sun’s rays after knocking on death’s door by its own hand. He knew a thing or two about that door. The familiar cracks and peeling paint, chipped along the frame where people have fought kicking, clawing and screaming to be spared.

There was no reason to be scared of death. It felt like how mom used to hold him when she would quietly sit by his side dabbing away the blood dribbling out his lips and down his neck. He always felt content when she did that. Loved. Death felt exactly like that.

Tim was at his side the second he noticed something was truly wrong. His hand felt heavy but warm and comforting on his shoulder. Reassurance he wasn’t alone.

Thankfully, the fit didn’t last long. His chest and lungs ached, feeling like someone lit his muscles on fire and stomped all over his chest like dirt. His face felt flushed and sweaty.

The sheer look of alarm on Tim’s face would forever be seared into his mind. Along with the fear hidden underneath a faux front of being brave. Tim wiped away the blood off his lips and chin the best he could. Smearing red into his skin.

Ringo’s eyes trailed after him cautiously. Uncertain. This was a part of himself he’s always seen as weak and vulnerable. A part of himself he’s never been able to accept and buried underneath a convincing lie of a suicidal ideation.

“Is it a Stand attack?” Blackmore asked, glancing around from underneath his umbrella. If it was, he’d be unable to defend himself utilizing his own Stand. He’s always said his ability was useless without the rain, and yet he still put his body in between them and the orchard.

Forever trained to give his life for what he believed was greater.

Ringo sighed. It came out wheezing and rough as speckles of blood came out his nose. “It’s no Stand attack. Just my body acting up again. Nothing more than that I’m sick.”

“How long has this been going on?” Tim demanded, getting up to his feet with a sense of urgency in it with his hand raised ready to call for his horse. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

Ringo snorted in dry amusement and went back to cleaning his gun. Tiny bits of blood were freckled all over the cold metal and wooden grip. “A doctor ain’t going to help me.”

The sentiment was touching, and made his chest all fuzzy. In a good way for once today.

“It’s their code of conduct,” Blackmore defended. That placidness no longer present in his voice. He strode forward and slipped to his side in an instant. Without Tim he wouldn’t be able to move him but Ringo had a feeling that wasn’t about to stop him. “They cannot refuse to treat someone.”

“I apologize, Blackmore. I didn’t mean it like that.” Ringo took a deep breath, that quickly proved to be a mistake as a coughing fit started up something fierce. Tim looked worried, scared almost, bless his heart, but couldn’t do much more besides rub his back soothingly until the fit stopped. It didn’t let up and blood pooled up his throat. Coating his tongue in a layer that felt disgustingly thick. Spitting it out in the dirt, he glared at it. Despising it for everything that it was. “Going to a doctor won’t change this. They hadn’t been able to help when I was a child and they won’t be able to figure it out now. Besides, I have a cure for it. Though it’s temporary.”

Tim groaned. “You think those death squabbles of yours does something to help that?”

He sounded angry. At what? Ringo pretended to be unsure.

“Yes, I’m positive they help. I have undeniable proof it helps.” The reassurance fell on deaf ears. All he could see on Tim’s face was panic, his hands were trembling like he was battling something difficult and not being able to do anything but watch. “There’s no reason to worry, Tim. This was inevitable and not something that can be fixed or changed with medicine.”

“Have you tried.” Tim gritted out.

Ringo shrugged, acting nonchalant and dropping the bullets back into their home within the cylinder. “My mother did, but me specifically? No. I found the cure without the need of a doctor.”

Found the cure at the cost of his sisters and mother being murdered.

Blackmore shifted anxiously on his feet. Like he wanted to say something but was too nervous to get it out. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. Tim didn’t look happy at all. Neither of them did.

“The only way to make it stop is by dueling someone with dark intentions,” Ringo told them. A part of him knew deep down he was bullshitting himself because of everything that happened that day. How he’s never been able to get over it. “I figured it out by killing the man that murdered my mother and sisters then tried raping me. This gun was his. I took it from him and shot him. He didn’t believe I’d actually do it.”

He’s told them before. Bits and pieces of his childhood. Never about being sick and frail. The shame ate him up inside. The regret and pain of losing his family after having been branded traitors and having to pick up and leave.

“He wore a military uniform.” Ringo pointed out towards the orchard, between the spread of trees. Blackmore turned to look but faced back around with a frown when he saw nothing remarkable. “He’s buried somewhere out there. I could probably find it if I needed to.”

Living out in the middle of nowhere meant not many people came around, making it difficult to read people whom didn’t wear their heart on their sleeve. But being so close, he saw how Tim’s shoulders tensed and in that moment, remembered he had been a soldier himself.

Quietly, Blackmore slipped into the house, only to come back shortly with a cup of piping hot coffee as he didn’t usually keep tea in the house. Softly saying it was for his throat in the hopes to ease the pain, Blackmore handed it to him and sat down beside him. Thighs touching as the assassin invaded his space to lay his head on his shoulder.

Pity was useless but he’d let his partners do whatever they wanted if it was to comfort themselves. The past is the past. What’s done is done. No one in the world can go back and change that.

[nevesmose]

When I was a kid, there was a hill overlooking our little town with a mysterious concrete structure at the top. To get there you had to go over the old canal, through the abandoned quarry filled with unidentifiable rusted-out equipment scattered around, and then past the creepy broken-down barn where some comedy genius had written "INSERT DICK HERE" next to a suspiciously-positioned hole in the wall.

The whole place was forested over thickly enough to muffle most sounds, and every so often you'd tread hollowly on discarded shotgun cartridges from farmers and/or farmers' mums sneaking out to shoot rabbits at night.

It was also haunted by the ghost of a drunk horseman, but being drunk we decided his actual ability to inflict harm on us would be fairly limited.

In any case, having avoided tetanus, gunshot wounds and catastrophic dick chafing, you'd reach a small sunlit clearing right at the top of the hill. The views were truly spectacular - to the north, fields. To the east, fields. To the south, fields. To the west, fields. The benefits of a rural childhood.

Right in the middle of the clearing was a kind of rectangular metal hatchway set low into the ground. Looking at it you could tell it had been opened up and filled in with concrete at some stage, and needless to say our little minds ran rampant trying to guess what was down there. For about fifteen minutes anyway, and then we'd wander off and smack the shit out of each other with tree branches - we were only kids after all.

The main theory, settled on with all the gravitas and judiciousness we could muster, was that it was some kind of Cold War era nuclear bunker. Not that we really knew much of what that meant, all being members of the first post-Soviet generation who didn't have to grow up with ideas like the four-minute warning or Protect & Survive knocking about inside our heads.

Somebody remembered seeing War Games on Channel 4 one weekend afternoon so we based our mental image on that and conjured up a miniature Scottish version of NORAD sitting empty under our feet, all big maps and flashing lights drowned forever in grey concrete.

And then we grew up a bit and thought, nahh, there's no way it was a bunker. It was a radio tower platform or a power substation or something, right?

But it was a bunker though. I looked it up years later and it was a two-person Royal Observer Corps fallout monitoring station to be used for keeping track of the devastation of our closest city, about 20 miles away. The entirety of the UK is hoaching with these things and I can guarantee you if you grew up anywhere in Britain you were much, much closer to them than you might expect.

Not just close to the bunkers but to the people who would have crewed them in the event of armageddon. That's the thing about the ROC, as I've found out since - it was a voluntary service operated by people living nearby.

So who, I wonder, were the unsung unknown uncalled-upon heroes who'd be there when the end came? Who in my sleepy little village with one school, one church and one main street would have had to leave their families to their fate and spend their next, and probably last, two weeks of life in that tiny concrete cell eating strictly rationed food, breathing strictly filtered air, and working out just how many kilotons had been expended on our little corner of the world?

I have my suspicions, but it's not the kind of thing you can just ask your old neighbour out of nowhere. Would they even have gone if they had to? I wouldn't blame them for a second if they chose to stay home instead. I imagine it was something they all had to decide for themselves and no one, least of all the happy beneficiaries of a better world than the one they lived in, has any right to judge.

I feel as though I'm dragging myself to a Meaningful Conclusion here. Oh boy. The past is always closer than you might think, I suppose. Just around the corner, just out of reach, but always there wherever we happen to be.

This post was mainly motivated by reading the excellent Attack Warning Red: How Britain Prepared for Nuclear War by Julie McDowall, who also does the Atomic Hobo podcast which is well worth a listen if you have any interest in this kind of thing. Don't have nightmares.