#they took those tools and built something of their own with them

[ketchuppee]

During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.

It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. I’ve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.

That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.

I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. She’s currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.

One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. She’s fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once she’s out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.

My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesn’t mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.

I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.

I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.

All of this to say, there’s more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, you’ve already lost, but that’s a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.

None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but don’t forget that we need diversity in actions taken.

[lady-luckk]

stop!! the farmer with the bimbo reader was too good!!

hi im the anon who made that request

i feel like you must secretly know me cause when i was first learning about cars i too was like “you have to change its oil??” cars always have seemed too high maintenance for me and i too would probs die on the roadside since i don’t know how to fix a flat tire

if not cooking or manual labor i hope reader is good at decorating or sewing or something

i wanna make Eli some new clothes and bedazzle them too

thank you my dear for the story!!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ bedazzling the farm

# pairings: yandere cowboy farmer x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: you can’t cook, can’t farm, and nearly lost a toe to an angry rooster—but luckily, you can sew. now you’re stuck on a farm with a grumpy, overprotective farmer and a bunch of chaotic animals wearing tiny outfits you made. survival? questionable. fashion? flawless.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI

# notes: reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated!

even though you’ve proven time and time again that cooking and farmwork aren’t your strengths, you somehow found your niche in sewing and decorating—something even eli hadn’t expected. 

it started small, with you mending one of his ripped flannels after you “accidentally” snagged it while doing laundry. the stitches were neat, almost perfect, and before long you were fixing worn-out work jeans, patching holes in old quilts, and hemming curtains that had been dragging across the floor for who knows how many years.

the house started changing too; bits of you showing up everywhere—handmade pillowcases, new curtains that actually matched, and little decorations you’d put together from old supplies you’d found around the farm. 

eli pretended not to notice at first, but you caught him more than once just standing in a room you’d fixed up, his gaze lingering on the small things, like the way you finally got him to replace those ancient, ugly dish towels or how you’d hung a makeshift wreath on the front door. “looks different in here,” he’d mutter, always gruff, but his eyes softer than you were used to. “good different.” and maybe you weren’t built for chasing chickens or working heavy machinery, but this? making his house into something warm—into home—this was something you could do.

and just like that sewing became your secret weapon—your little rebellion against being utterly useless on the farm. you often used it as a way to kill time, something to keep your hands busy after dinner. you'd sit curled up on the couch with a needle and thread, tongue poking out in concentration as you patched a hole in eli's jacket or embroidered a little flower onto a pillowcase just to make him scowl and mutter, “what the hell’s this daisy doin’ on my bed?” but he never took it off. not once.

just like that, you had a whole basket of projects—mending shirts, sewing buttons, turning worn-out jeans into tool pouches. eli started leaving things for you to fix without asking, setting them quietly beside your sewing kit with a grunt like it wasn’t a big deal. but you knew it was. he even made a comment once, low and rough, “never met someone who could sew like that, not out here.” and the pride in your chest nearly burst.

you started making things from scratch too—throw pillows from old feed sacks, a little curtain for the chicken coop window (yes, it had a window now), even a new cushion for the porch swing you’d claimed as your afternoon throne. the farmhouse began to reflect you more and more, a blend of rough edges and soft touches. and even if you couldn’t dig a ditch or wrangle a goat, you’d found your own way to belong—needle in hand, threading yourself into every corner of his world.

eli wears whatever you sew for him, no questions asked. patchwork flannel? he buttons it up like it’s designer. a beanie with crooked stitching? he pulls it over his ears and pretends it’s the warmest thing he owns. god forbid anyone so much as laughs at your handiwork—eli’s jaw tightens, his eyes go cold, and if a glare doesn’t shut them up, his fists sure will. 

one poor guy at the general store sneered at eli’s hand-stitched vest, eyeing it like it was some sort of joke. “did you make that yourself? or did your grandma help you with the stitching?” he laughed, but eli’s face went stone cold. without a word, eli grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into the nearest shelf so hard the cans rattled, and growled, “you talkin’ shit about my clothes again, and i’ll make sure it’s the last time you ever laugh. 

he never says much about the things you make, but you’ve caught him smoothing down the hems or tugging a collar straight like it means something. he even started leaving little scraps of fabric on the table, like hints. 

you didn’t stop at eli’s clothes, either. once you realized the animals were basically your audience-slash-family now, it was over for them. the goat got a denim jacket with rhinestones that said “headbutt boss” across the back. the pigs each got tiny sunhats—though they kept shaking them off, so now they’re mostly just lawn decorations. the grumpiest rooster now struts around with a little bandana like he’s in a gang. eli walked out one morning, took one look at the cow wearing a pastel shawl and flower crown, and just rubbed a hand over his face like he aged ten years.

“you dressin’ ‘em up for a hoedown i wasn’t invited to?” he asked dryly.

“they have personalities, eli,” you said, tying a bow around the sheep’s tail.

"this one’s soft cottagecore, that one’s early-2000s pop star.”

he didn’t argue. he just muttered something under his breath and helped you adjust the goat’s sunglasses.

and when one of the town guys laughed at the pig’s polka-dot scarf, eli cracked his knuckles and said, “that pig’s wearin’ somethin’ made with more love and effort than your entire personality. keep talkin’.”

the guy shut up real quick after that—especially when the pig in question oinked and strutted past like it knew it had backup. eli just nodded solemnly like he was proud of the pig’s sass, and you swear to god the rooster winked at you. now you’ve got a whole barnyard posse in coordinated outfits and a six-foot farmer who’ll throw hands over crochet accessories. rural life? absolutely thriving.

[bunny-jpeg]

⋆⋅☆max v. with a trans masc partner☆⋅⋆

max verstappen knew what he liked. while he usually put the front as a heterosexual man, he had always been a little more fluid about his sexuality outside of the limelight. he had kissed many men in his life as with women, even those who were neither men nor women. kissing was fun, sex was fun. and he wasn't going to limit himself to one set of tools to get the job down. a cock down the throat could be as delightful as sinking into a sweet pussy.

so it was more of a surprise for you to receive max's advances than it was for him to give them.

you remembered when you grandmother told you that she was concerned about you transitioning because you may "never find love" and you told her that it didn't matter. cars were your love, you didn't need a person to fill that gap. so when you met the three time world champion as the new mechanic for the 2024 season, you honestly didn't think too much about wooing him romantically.

but, max was wooed by you. especially when he saw that your lockscreen of your phone was a picture of your two cats, and when he brought up his cats, you just lit up. max liked that you treated him like he was a person. and you simply said, "mate, i'm pretty certain they don't let robots drive these cars." then slapped him on the back, "but i will make you bleed red if you total my car." then flashed him a smile.

you remembered the first time max kissed you. the dutch grand prix had been a total success and within the quietness of the garage post-race with the trophy max had won near by. he took you by the waist and kissed you. he'd later admit that he wanted to do it right on the track.

"do you kiss all your mechanics like that, verstappen?"

"no, only the ones who allow me to win." you two had spent almost the entire season bitching about red bull. max wondered if or when he eventually jumped teams, if he could take you with him. as he held you in his arms. chest to chest.

you admitted close to his ear, a little insecure, "i hope you know. i've built myself... i was born a girl, but became something more. different." then tried to pull back, fearful of his response. you weren't trying to trick him, you'd rather have it on the table.

but he pulled you back in, his blue eyes on you, "you act like i don't know what transgender people are, mechanic." he said as he leaned you back a little, to get a fuller look at you, "you act like i've never been to bed with one."

"i don't want to be a one night stand." you said, your hands on the front of his polo shirt. his hat long hit the floor in the heat of the kiss. you swallowed, "i won't be a toy, verstappen. i have too much respect for myself."

he chuckled, "that's what i like to hear." he held you around the waist and you kissed once more. he could feel the rise in his blood pressure. while you could've easily done it in the garage, max gave you the address of where he was staying and the lie to tell security.

the mechanics team were in another hotel, but if you wore your red bull branded uniform and had your mechanic's pass then you'd get in easily. they'd never suspect that you'd be intimate with the star of the team. and you did just that. even flashing a smile at security before you headed up to the elevator. they didn't even ask questions, which made your life easier.

you found max's room and he happily brought you in. but once the door was closed behind you. his strong arms were around you. he smiled at you, happy to see you. you carefully touched his face, part of you believed this was a strange dream after too many rum and cokes. but as you felt his facial hair under your hand, this was all painfully real.

"do you want this?" he asked.

you nodded and responded with a question of your own, "do you?"

his smile grew a little more, he leaned in closer to you. you only now realized how blue his eyes were, "since the moment i saw you come to the garage. you were more impressed with the car than with me... i found it endearing." he chuckled.

you held his face with both hands and gazed at him, "yeah, because it's a piece of shit car for a champion. it's like giving the king aluminum instead of gold."

he laughed before he leaned in for a kiss. you held his face close to yourself and you felt something bloom in your gut. eventually you got your worn sneakers kicked off and the jacket of your uniform off. it left you in a white t-shirt and max started to strip as well. you eyed his form and he eyed yours.

you felt his heated gaze linger on your chest for a moment and without thinking you crossed your arms across where your top surgery scars were. it was habit at that point.

max was in just his jeans and socks. he reached for your arms. feeling your warm under his palm as he carefully moved your arms away. he wanted to admire you, all of you.

"must've felt very different after the surgery." he said as he held your wrists, his eyes gazed on the fading scars. he was in no way to judge about scarring. at least yours were for something worthwhile, to change yourself in such a fundamental way, "was it scary?"

you shook your head, "no... i wanted to do everything afterwards. my doctor basically put me on bed rest because i was trying to push myself too hard. what was a four week recovery turned in seven."

he placed his hands on your flat chest and could feel the slight raise of the scars under his palms, "you push yourself too hard."

you swallowed, feeling the heat in your cheeks, "if you want to be the best. you have to do more than your best." your gaze met his. it felt so painfully intimate. this wasn't just sex in a hotel room, this was intimacy. max wanted more than your body, he wanted to know all the nooks of your soul and what inhabited them.

he leaned in once more, "we have that in common." before he kissed you once more. his kiss was sweeter, an assurance that you and your body were nothing to be ashamed of. if anything he admired it, even though he couldn't relate to the feelings you carried. he could at least understand the guts it took to go through it.

to become more than you what was given to you. it endeared you to him as you broke the kiss and continued to get undressed. the more of your bodies exposed to one another, the hotter the room got. even with the air conditioning rattling in the room. you could feel the heat between you two.

max sighed, "i don't have condoms... i can pull out or we can do something else." he explained as he got into the bed with you. both naked. his broad hand grazed across your body.

you responded and placed his hand on your lower abdomen, right before your pussy, "hysterectomy. six months before i started. are you clean though?"

he replied, "yes. been a long time since i've been with someone anyway." he was telling the truth. since you started at the season, everything had become a blur with you and the championship being a central focus.

his pointer finger trailed across the scar for a moment before he took your face in his hands and kissed you once more. you could go on about the shape of your face, but in his hands it felt very small. you hadn't realized that max verstappen had paws instead of hands. the thought made you giggle a little into the kiss.

he pulled away and looked at you before he laid you out on your back. he asked with a small smile, "what are you laughing about?"

you looked up at him and said, "didn't realized that formula one drivers had such big hands. every seen them up close like this before." then yelped a little when max grabbed you by the hips and pushed himself up against you.

he curved his back over you and maintained eye contact, those blue eyes were swimming with lust, "well. it's good you haven't seen others this close up. i might get a little jealous."

you looked away for a moment with a stupid grin on your face, "okay, flirt. why don't we get to it before i melt into this bed." then a soft moan left your lips as he rubbed his cock up against your wet cunt.

he admired you for a moment, hoping the image of your naked body stayed with him for weeks to come. you looked masculine. he wasn't going to say "technically" it's not having sex with a man. you were a man just as much as he was if not more. you had to create your manhood and you made it to perfection.

"i want you." you said softly.

he leaned forward and kissed you gently on the lips before he eased his cock into you. he replied with an equal softness, "i want you too, mechanic." the nickname made your ears hot as he moved against you. he thrusts were gently but gained a steady momentum.

you held onto the covers under your back and let him move against you. once you got a hold of his rhythm, you were able to meet his movements as well. the kisses you two shared grew hot as max planted both hands on either side of you and moved.

you two were moving against one another, locked in a heated kiss. the bed shifted slightly under your movements. max was thankful that were was not a bed on the opposite side of the wall. and that this place had enough insulation to keep your noises muffled.

the last thing he wanted was your integrity to come into question. that you only got to where you were because of your seductive ways. the noises between you two were soft. there was no need to rush, the race was over and tomorrow you'd be on the flight to the next one.

he took your hands and held them by your head, which kept you two close but also allowed him to keep you pinned under him. when you broke the kiss, you rested your forehead against his. the noises were harder to keep under wraps the more you moved. the pleasure felt like fireworks in your brain.

you moaned a little bit before you said, "i was thinking something stupid."

max chuckled his sweaty forehead against yours, "tell me."

"i realized what your eyes remind me of." you admitted softly, "i couldn't quite pin it after we met." you were breathing heavily as you locked your fingers further with his.

"and what do they remind of you?" he asked, curiously. he had heard people refer to them like the ocean, the sky after a store, the definition of blue.

you replied, "home. the lake near where i lived. not scary like the ocean. familiar like the lakes i grew up near."

max had no words, he simply laid another kiss on you. his hands grasped your tightly as you two moved together more. the pace quickened and max knew that he wanted to be in your life for a long period of time. he wanted you to be his home.

you moaned against the kiss, feeling the heat leap in your belly as you felt closer to orgasm. you came first with your lips against his. your back arched but your hands were pinned to the bed. it felt good as pleasure rushed to your brain.

max broke the kiss and continued to move against you. he let go of your hands in favour of your hips where he bounced your further against his cock. it made crackles of pleasure appear in your brain. and he was no better, his heavy breathing and occasional moan fueled his need to finish. and when he did, he did so inside of you. max never thought too much about the surgery you had, but he was thankful for it tonight.

he stayed inside of you for a moment as he cooled down before he left a kiss on the corner of your mouth. full of such tenderness as he pulled out of you and ran his fingers through his short hair.

you laid out next to him and heavily panting, feeling so vulnerable. he stayed closer to you, eventually pulling you to him and resting his chin on top of your head. you got comfortable against him.

"if you have any questions, i can answer them... about the whole trans thing." you swallowed, even now you felt embarrassed bringing it up. you felt it was a mood killer.

he took you by the chin and made you face him. he smiled down at you. he asked one question, "are you happy? did you get the life you wanted?"

you nodded in response, "everything and more." and that was enough for max. anything else you felt the need to tell him would be told with time, after all, max expected to be in your life for many years to come. both as his mechanic and lover.

-

max would only come clean about the relationship two years later. the end of his contract with red bull and a final championship was enough for the driver to retire peacefully. and when he retired, you retired and you made a home in monaco.

the coming out post set the internet ablaze. especially given how long you two had been together. wasn't anything too special, just a small collection of photos that he had taken over your time together. like the time you wore his helmet in 2025 with a big thumbs up. and that time you thoroughly messed up a birthday cake for him, and with the camera in your face, he rubbed the icing off your cheek. the one that really captured eyes was the one that a friend took of you at a house party when max came to visit your home country, with his legs over your strong lap and his lips against your face. you were smiling like the sun. being the center of a media storm was only braved with max by your side. at one point turning your phone off and throwing it onto the couch. his kisses were still loving as always, his words soft, and his affirmations of your gender were often so sweet that you'd cover your face in embarrassment.

you were always comfortable with the idea of not meeting your 'other half', you had been given a second chance at life once you came out. and if no one could accept you then so be it. but as you laid out on the couch laid out against your boyfriend with sassy at your side and your cat between the crook of your knee, you felt loved. <3

a/n: i do write for masc readers as well, both cis and beyond. just not as often because many request femme readers. but if an idea is cooking in your head. hit me with it!

[mariacallous]

Jack and Fiona wanted to do something, but they didn’t know where to start. For months, the couple had watched as President Donald Trump and Elon Musk, then spearheading the so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), had turned the US into what they thought was “a fascist hellscape.” But they live in a deeply red county in a deeply red state in the South, and were worried that speaking out publicly could mean putting them and their children in danger.

Jack, who requested WIRED use a pseudonym to safeguard his identity, has long been familiar with extremism in the US. He says he was brought to his first KKK meeting at the age of 7. “I have seen the kind of behavior exhibited by MAGA, and know that it's exactly what I saw when I was younger,” he says. “The strain it is putting on society is the same strain that it puts on every single one [of us] who was in that space.”

So Jack and Fiona turned to technology. Searching on platforms like Reddit and Bluesky, Fiona stumbled on Realtime Fascism, a website that uses AI to trawl the internet for news articles featuring keywords linked to fascism. The tool analyzes those stories to produce a score for the threat posed by fascism in the US at any given time. The rating they found when they opened the site in February? CRITICAL.

The couple wanted more people to understand what was happening, so they built their own website called Stick It to Fascists. They bought a $100 thermal label printer, created a QR code linking to Realtime Fascism, and began making stickers.

What began with 500 stickers posted all over their small town “in the heart of MAGA country” quickly grew—with the help of an appeal on Reddit—to a campaign that has so far seen the couple and their children send 750,000 stickers to more than 1,000 people in all 50 states.

Stick It to Fascists is one of countless grassroots efforts that have emerged since Trump took office a second time. Many of them are fueled by technology: printers, QR codes, Reddit, online platforms, encrypted messaging apps like Signal. Across the country, small local groups have used a wide variety of online tools to mobilize their resistance to Trump 2.0 while trying to protect themselves against backlash from the administration. As millions of Americans joined some 2,000 “No Kings” protests last Saturday, these tools were powering the movement.

Spinning up crowdsourced collaborative tools is relatively easy. Maintaining them is much more difficult, however, and without aligned goals or aims, many of them could eventually become digital wastelands. But that is not stopping people who see no other option.

WIRED spoke to more than a dozen people involved in organizing against the Trump administration who all believe that the Democratic Party has not presented a coherent opposition to Trump and DOGE’s dismantling of the government. As a result, the organizers say, they had no choice but to get involved.

“We're doing this now, because in a couple of months, what we're doing may be illegal,” Fiona says. “This administration is already doing everything within their power to limit free speech, and it's extremely important that dissenting voices not be silenced.”

In the early days of Trump's second term, there was concern that an opposition movement against Trump was nowhere to be found.

But the reality is that protest movements this time around are just different than during Trump’s first term. Last time, while groups like the Women’s March and others organized large-scale demonstrations in the early months of his first presidency, this time around opposition is being driven by decentralized groups and individuals focused on a smaller-scale approach.

The change from a top-down movement to a much more decentralized one is key to understanding what’s happening, says Dana Fisher, a professor of sociology at American University and author of American Resistance: From the Women's March to the Blue Wave. “This is what we who study social movements call a moment of tactical innovation, where there are going to be all these innovative ideas about ways to break through and to get people to mobilize and work together in these very dark moments,” Fisher says.

People are still in the streets, as well. Data from the Crowd Counting Consortium, a joint project of the Harvard Kennedy School and the University of Connecticut, shows that in late January and February alone there were over twice as many street protests in the US than in February 2017. The numbers have kept growing.

The protests at Tesla dealerships, for example, began as a grassroots effort that has grown into a nationwide movement. There are also people working together online to combat the disinformation being pushed by Musk and DOGE, in addition to individuals like Jack and Fiona doing what they can. In isolation, these are small-scale protests; viewed as a whole, they show the level of anger that ordinary Americans feel at what has been happening in Washington over the past five months.

The number and scale of the protests has grown significantly, with millions of people turning out at more than a thousand separate protests in all 50 states on April 5. Last Saturday’s No Kings protest, which was organized by dozens of groups, drew over 5 million people to more than 2,100 events across the nation, according to the organizers, though notably not in Washington, DC, where Trump held his military parade to celebrate the US Army’s 250th anniversary.

Many of these calls for protest can be traced back to a single post on a subreddit called 50501, which stands for 50 protests, 50 states, 1 movement.

Sydney Wilson first learned about the online movement against Trump through this subreddit. Her journey into political activism began in late January while she was idly poking around on Reddit and came across a flyer for an event in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, at which citizens would be protesting against the Trump administration. Wilson was intrigued, but living 200 miles away, she wondered if there were any events closer to her home in Pittsburgh.

That’s when she found 50501. Though the subreddit had been created just a few days earlier, it was already amassing huge support. It began on January 25 with a single Reddit post calling for citizens to fight back against executive overreach. The idea took hold, and within 10 days, those who signed up had organized protests in 80 cities across the US. Two weeks later, on February 17, they held another set of protests, with thousands of people attending.

Wilson, who had attended political protests in the past but had never been involved in organizing them, joined the group’s Discord channel to help plan.

“Not even in my wildest dreams did I think that my first protest that I organized with another group of Pennsylvanians would have 200 people show up,” Wilson tells WIRED. “Then the next one, I think we had 300 or 400, so I'm optimistic right now. The trick will be to keep this energy going.”

Like Wilson, many of the 311,000 subscribers to the subreddit and the 17,000 members of the group’s Discord have no experience in organizing protests. Still, they felt they had to.

“Democracy needs to be defended, and it's up to us as community members to stand up and do that work, because no one else will do it for us,” Wilson says.

The 50501 group also uses a wide variety of other online platforms to coordinate their efforts, including encrypted messaging apps like Signal and Matrix, which smaller subgroups use for sensitive conversations. Platforms like Mobilize.us allow participants to share information about upcoming protests, while state-level groups come up with ideas for signs and chants on shared Google Docs.

“Everybody's kind of using different strategies to communicate, so it's all over the place,” says TJ Demetriou, the public affairs officer for a 50501 subgroup for veterans. “If you're involved in a couple different groups, it can be confusing.”

Discord is the primary platform for planning and assigning volunteer positions within local groups, but it also serves as a place for the community to vent. Following the group’s protests on March 4, many of the members gathered on the group’s Discord server to watch Trump’s address to a joint session of Congress.

The “general chat” channel was quickly filled with anger, not at what Trump was saying but at the response from the Democrats in the chamber, who had decided the best way to confront Trump was to wear pink blouses and hold up tiny signs that no one could see.

“I kid you not, they are holding signs instead of booing,” one member wrote incredulously. “Bunch of spineless fucks,” another added, after no other Democrat came to the defense of representative Al Green of Texas, who was removed from the chamber for heckling Trump.

“Well I'm glad YOU all are protesting because holy shit that was a weak showing from dems with their bitch=ass [sic] paddles and pink shirts and blue ties,” another member wrote.

Though the group has had a lot of successes, some infighting has unfortunately become a distraction.

In April, the person who posted the original 50501 post, known online as Evolved Fungi, locked down the subreddit entirely, claiming that some national groups were seeking to take control of the 50501 group for their own ends. According to a since-deleted post on Reddit, Fungi believed someone had sought to file trademark applications for the 50501 name. A member of the 50501 leadership group subsequently claimed in a Reddit post that there was an attempt to trademark the name and create a 501c4 entity, but that this was done by “a separate, independent group of three people wholly unconnected to the broader 50501 group.

Fungi, who was posting anonymously, says they were doxed and accused of what some felt was inappropriate behavior during a Zoom call with other members of the 50501 group. Some 50501 members circulated a petition calling for them to step down before they finally did so. Fungi declined to comment when contacted by WIRED.

Fungi's departure didn't slow the movement down. By late spring the organization was deeply involved in organizing the No Kings protests on June 14, ultimately helping bring people to protests across the US and bolstering the movement's momentum even further.

The 50501 movement is not the only grassroots effort that began life online. The Tesla Takedown protests began with a single Bluesky post that exploded in large part thanks to social media posts, including protesters’ pictures and videos outside dealerships. These efforts were boosted when celebrities got involved, and Instagram reels went viral from people like Grammy-winning singer Sheryl Crow waving goodbye to her Tesla.

Other movements online, including tools for keeping tabs on the Trump administration, have also sprung up. One online tracker follows how many of Trump's policy actions align with Project 2025's goals. As of this writing, it shows that more than half of them have been completed or are in progress. Another tracker, Spotlight on DOGE, aims to fact-check claims made about the department's savings. The organizer, who asked to remain anonymous, says they recruited more than a dozen professionals, including lawyers and doctors, across the US to help analyze DOGE's actual savings.

But for all the work being done online to organize, educate, and plan, veteran activists who protested the first Trump presidency believe that success this time around will rely on turning that online support and activity into real-world demonstrations.

“I do think that there's a lot of work to do to move people from where we are now to the kind of mass society-wide struggle that it will take to stop this regime,” Sam Goldman, host of the Refuse Fascism podcast, tells WIRED.

“What this is going to require is sacrifice,” he continues. “It is going to require what people did in the Arab Spring, which was, get in the streets, stay in the streets, bring more people into the streets, coming back again and again and again, and not stopping until their demands were met.”

But deciding what those demands are can be difficult, especially in a movement that is so decentralized, and often leaderless. As national groups and bigger names seek to leverage recently activated grassroots activism, conflicts and disagreements are inevitable. This happened among the leadership of the Women’s March, and it’s already happened within the 50501 subreddit.

Last week, as people took to the streets of Los Angeles to protest deportation raids by the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, Trump called in the National Guard and Marines over the objections of California governor Gavin Newsom and LA mayor Karen Bass. Protests persisted anyway, as online supporters hit the streets.

[mira-atakirina]

«Roots in a Foreign Sky»

Hatchling

—what if a girl was born on Pandora?...

Chapter 1

Norm Spellman was a scientist but more than that, he was a man with a heart large enough to hold the weight of a world that wasn't his. After the war with the RDA, he made a choice few would dare to make: he adopted fourteen Na'vi children, each one a soul left adrift in the aftermath of loss.

His own life had been carved by sorrow— the death of a beloved mentor, the fading echo of a lost love - yet through it all, his compassion remained unshaken. He carried it in his eyes: tired, yes, but gentle, always. Eyes that saw pain and met it with understanding.

The home he returned to, once built for avatars, was no longer a cold station of science. It had transformed into a sanctuary - a place where the voices of children filled the air like birdsong at dawn. Laughter bounced from wall to wall. Quiet moments of thought and healing settled in the spaces between.

Norm cradled the infant gently in his arms, his lips pressed into a nervous line. There was hesitation in the furrow of his brow, a flicker of doubt dancing behind his eyes. This decision - this one more choice - felt heavier than most. Yet, he never looked away from the baby's sleeping face, as if searching for silent confirmation in her peaceful breath.

To Norm, she wasn't just a child. She was a symbol - a fragile seed of healing, a new beginning rising from the ashes of all he had lost. Taking her in wasn't just about care; it was about hope. About rebuilding something whole from the broken.

He knew the road ahead would be difficult. He wasn't just a guardian anymore - he was a father trying to forge a true family, where every child, no matter their origin, could feel safe, wanted, and deeply loved.

She was given a name soft and beautiful, a name they spoke with warmth.

From that moment on, she was known as Y/n.

...

For many, it was a shock. One thing was adopting fourteen Na'vi children, orphaned after the war.

That already seemed like madness.

But when Norm Spellman, the tired, quiet scientist, took a human infant in his arms and declared that she was now his daughter, even the most patient of those who knew him couldn't hide their astonishment.

"Why are you doing this?" some asked.

"You already have more children than half the clan," others said.

And some just watched in silence, with confusion - perhaps even a hint of judgment.

But Norm never answered. He didn't argue, didn't explain. He simply held the little girl in his arms, and his gaze - warm, but weary spoke for him. He owed no one an explanation. It was his choice. His responsibility. And it wasn't for them to bear.

...

At Norm's request, the eldest children went to the outpost. A few weeks earlier, he had told them about the upcoming addition to their large family.

Erao, always curious and quick to notice every detail, saw a human infant for the first time in his life. His eyes widened in surprise, and without a second thought, he ran straight to their father, forgetting all sense of decorum. Norm stood holding the tiny Y/n in his arms.

"Papa!" he exclaimed, unable to believe what he was seeing. "Is that... is that a real human baby? She's so small! Where did you find her?"

Askuuk, though the eldest, couldn't hide his astonishment either. He approached more slowly, but his eyes were glowing with interest. He was used to seeing humans only as adults - cold, armed with metal tools, but a baby? A little one, just like them, only... human? He pressed his lips together, unsure of what to say.

Kel'ha, watching the infant, felt something warm begin to spread inside her. She stepped closer to her father with curiosity, though a trace of awe lingered in her movements. Her eyes sparkled as she looked at the baby, then up at Norm.

"She's so tiny..." she whispered, stepping forward and reaching out gently, as if afraid to frighten the child. "Can we hold her? What does she feel like? We've never seen a human child before."

Norm, noticing the tenderness in her voice, gave a small, soft smile and nodded.

...

No one ever found out where the baby had come from, or how she ended up at the scientists' base. There was no information about her - not a trace of her parents, not even a name. But one thing was clear: she was no more than a month old.

She had been born on Pandora a world as breathtaking as it was dangerous for a human child.

But the greatest danger of Pandora wasn't its creatures or its wild terrain.

It was this: with every passing day, you couldn't help but love it more.

...

The Spellman family wasn't the only one growing - other families, like Jake and Neytiri's, were also welcoming new life.

The Sully family had been growing with each passing year, filled with love and life. Now, once again, they were awaiting a miracle - another child, still growing in their mother's womb.

...

A narrow stream whispered as it flowed over the stones.

Four children splashed through the shallows, their bare heels kicking up water, laughter ringing out over the bubbling current. One, playing the role of "tag," lunged to grab his sister's shoulder, but she leapt away with ease, ducking behind an exposed root before springing forward again. The arc of water she left behind shimmered in the sunlight like a spray of glass.

Their father, Norm, sat on a large riverside rock, his avatar body still and grounded. Hands folded, knees drawn up, his eyes followed every burst of motion. In his gaze was quiet pride and a gentle warmth-he gathered their joy like sunlight and seemed to hold it, only to return it with a soft, knowing smile.

When the youngest Na'vi boy stumbled, Norm instinctively leaned forward, ready to catch him. But the boy was already laughing, scrambling up, and dashing after the others. Norm eased back again, letting the game carry on, flowing freely with the stream.

Max walked quickly toward Spellman's communication station, holding the crying Y/n tightly against his chest. She wasn't responding to any of his attempts to calm her down.

"Norm, buddy, please-disconnect already!" he said anxiously, rocking the child in his arms. But his efforts only made her cry louder.

As if the gods themselves had heard his plea, Norm disconnected from his avatar at that very moment. Max immediately started tapping on the tablet with one hand, still holding the ssobbing

Y/n with the other as she clung to his shoulder.

"What happened?" Norm asked in surprise as he sat up and reached out for her.

Max passed the child into her father's arms.

"Come here, my girl... my little one," Norm murmured softly. "My little girl is already three years old, isn't she, Y/n?" he said, kissing her on the forehead.

"Her tears are worse than any crash or system overload," he sighed with quiet bitterness, watching as she finally began to breathe calmly against his shoulder.

"She misses you, Norm. A lot," Max added, his voice low.

He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.

Max lowered his eyes and shifted his shoulders awkwardly.

"No one expects you to be perfect," he said quietly.

"But they all need at least a present dad, Norm. Not someone burning himself out trying to be everywhere at once."

Silence followed. The only sound was Y/n's steady breathing as she nestled against her father a soft, living reminder of what all this was for.

Norm didn't answer. He stared past Max's shoulder, his fingers still gently stroking his daughter's back. But his gaze had drifted far, lost somewhere beyond the station walls.

He nodded - not in agreement, but in acknowledgment. A quiet admission.

"Yeah... I know," he murmured. "I've known for a while."

...

The Spellman household was lively and warm the children were having lunch, chatting across the table and chewing loudly. To an outsider, it might have seemed like chaos, but for them, it was the most familiar and comforting part of the day.

Askuuk, the eldest son, and his sister Kel'ha sat proudly on one side of the table - the morning hunt had been a success, and it was thanks to them that the family had fresh meat and root vegetables today.

"Vi'an, sit properly and eat in silence," Kel'ha said sternly, not even looking up from the food in her hand.

Her voice was aimed at their younger brother, who, paying no attention to his tired sister, bounced on his seat while voicing the animal toys in front of him.

"Grrr! I'm the hunter from the great forest, and you're my prey!" he growled, making his thanator figurine pounced.

Kel'ha clenched her jaw.

"Vi'an... I swear, I'll turn you into a hunting trophy myself."

"Pfft...!" Luta barely held back a laugh, covering her mouth so she wouldn't give herself away. Her twin, Tita, only rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, "Is he ever going to grow up?"

Askuuk shot Vi'an a stern, almost fatherly look.

"Papa will be back soon with Y/n. Eat before it gets cold. And stop talking to your food."

With that, he finally turned his attention to his own plate, tearing into a piece of meat with practiced ease after the long morning hunt.

Across the table, Erao quietly set aside a portion of food a careful arrangement of meat and vegetables —saving it for their father without saying a word.

Luta and Tita exchanged a glance. "He's always so serious," Luta whispered, not with mockery, but with a quiet note of respect.

"Yeah." Tita nodded, biting into a piece of root vegetable.

Vi'an frowned but obediently began to eat, occasionally glancing toward the door as if hoping their father would walk in any second.

Erao finished setting aside the food for Norm, carefully covering it with a broad leaf to keep it warm. "He's just gonna say he's not hungry again..." he muttered. "But I know. He's just forgotten what it's like - to eat on time."

[beebee3832]

Sweet Fae

Bear shifter!Price x Fairy!(fem)Reader (whose wings are paralyzed)

Tags: Predator/prey dynamic, size difference, just a bit scary, gore, death, shy reader, kinda awkward Price, a little fluff, building into fluff and smut (in future parts), CRINGE

This one is in Price's perspective!!

Note: Fairies in this fic are just really short, not super small like in Tinkerbell or something. Also, I made slight changes to this fic from the last time I posted it. Sorry for not uploading in a while!! I was pretty busy with life stuff.

Thanks for reading!! <3

    I stood there, tears resting on my cheeks, and watched her walk away without a word. No response to my quiet plea, just a slight turn of her beautiful face to look back at me. Though not a word was said, our locked gaze held a meaning that couldn’t be shaken.

    We would meet again.

    …

    With swift motions, I swung my axe over and over again. Even though the sun was going to set soon, the temperature remained just as warm as it was in its peak. Sweat beaded on my forehead and slid down to drop on the forest floor.

    My day was filled with constant attempts to get my mind off of her. Her small frame, her doe-like eyes, the way she held my face like we’d known each other for years…

    No! My thought scolded me as I shook my head. These feelings were just the byproduct of living on one’s own for too long, which is how it would stay. I didn’t need anyone messing up what I had built for myself. I was better off being left to my own devices. Who knows what I was capable of? Well, I guess I know even more based off of last night.

    That last thought made my chest sink. How could I be so out of control? How could I let myself stay out so late? I was lucky that the moon wasn’t full or else that poor girl’s fate would’ve been much different.

    “Damn it!” My yell echoed throughout the crowded forest, causing birds to shoot straight up from the trees and fly away.

    I looked up and saw that dusk had already settled in, making me realize that I needed to head back to the house. I didn’t even need to chop up more wood today; I already had enough wood for the next couple of weeks, but I was running out of things to do to distract my thoughts from that sweet faery. That sweet fairy I almost devoured. “Fuck,” I muttered, my self loathing starting to consume me.

    I gathered up my tools and two of the logs I cut and started to make my way back. The rest of the wood could be collected tomorrow.

    I took long strides to make it back in time before nightfall. My feet ached by the time I eventually made it back, which made me wince with every step I took. I dropped the logs and my tools somewhere near the front of the house; I was too tired to care or notice. Nothing and no one would steal from me anyways. Most of the forest knew what I was, so they chose not to come near me. No people were around either, unless you count the very few others like me that live here. We all had our respective territories though, and usually one does not cross them.

    Just as I was about to enter the house, I heard a slight rustle from behind me. Then I noticed a familiar…smell that piqued my interest. That smell…I knew that smell. I was ruminating on that smell for the whole fucking day. I eagerly glanced behind me, something my mind didn’t approve of. I shouldn’t have been that excited. I was supposed to be okay with being alone. Company was unwelcome.

    Those thoughts were interrupted when I saw her. Everything was interrupted when I saw her.

    She was just a couple feet away. I could smell her so clearly. Soft rain paired with some kind of flower. My chest tightened with the urge to reach out and envelop her in my arms, but I couldn’t. All I could do was stare down at her with the same wide eyes she was giving me.

    Was she scared of me? Of course she is.

    Then why would she come back here? Was my mind toying with me? Did my loneliness finally grab hold of my sanity?

    She walked up to me and spoke in a soft and cautious tone.

    “Hello.”

    Hello. Hello.

    “Hello,” I muttered back awkwardly, unsure of what to say. Where was all my charm from the night before?

    She spoke again. “Can I come in?”

    Come in?

    I cleared my throat. “Yeah, sure, of course sweetheart. Come in,” I said, putting a warm smile on my face. I held the door open for her as she slowly walked inside. I noticed her scan my house like she did last night, searching for every possible escape I assumed. Smart girl. Still, it brought my smile down just a bit.

    I shut the door behind me and offered her a seat at my table. I already had a meal cooking before I went out on my useless attempts to distract myself.

    I gave her a portion and then sat down across from her, which once again reminded me of how small she was. Each wing of hers was smaller than my arms. She had to be at least a foot shorter than me, maybe more. I was definitely much stockier than her too. Such a perfect little thing compared to a monster like me. The bear in me was a little too excited over that.

    The sound of her voice startled me out of my trance.

    “You’re staring.” She looked at me with an almost fearful expression, which made me feel like shit. I was sure she was expecting me to kill her by then.

    “I-I’m sorry. I was just lost in thought, that’s all. Do you like the food?” I sputtered out.

    “It’s good,” she said with a slight smile on her face. Is she making fun of me or is she smiling because she likes it?

    She looked at me with thoughtful eyes. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here again, aren’t you?”

    Actually I’m wondering why I’m so obsessed with you.

    “You could say that, yes,” I said with a breathy laugh.

    She hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath. I could tell that she was nervous to say it. My mind could only think of the worst things.

    “I wanted to see you again.”

    My eyes went wide for just a second. My heart exploded for just a second. She wanted to see me again? After I almost slaughtered her? After I had to save her from myself? After crying to her like a pathetic little boy?

    “You intrigue me. I’ve…I’ve never seen anything like you before,” she admitted shyly.

    I wished she’d never seen me in the first place. I wasn’t meant for sweet things like her and she most definitely wasn’t made for a savage thing like me.

    “You shouldn’t have had to,” I murmured, barely looking into her eyes now.

    She stood up from her seat and walked over to me. Even though she was standing, I was still a bit taller while sitting down. She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, seemingly studying me.

    “I have a question,” I said.

    “What is it?”

    She was a forearms length away, which was too close for comfort. I could almost feel her breath on me. My heart skipped a beat.

    “Why?”

    Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why, what?”

    “Why would you want to see me again?” My voice was quiet.

    She smiled and let out a soft sigh. “I…I really don’t know.”

    Disappointment twinged inside me. Why was I disappointed? I should’ve wanted nothing to do with this fairy, but my heart wanted her to at least be a little glad about seeing me again.

    “I suppose I was just intrigued by you,” she said sheepishly.

    Just then, the hairs on my body stood up. My eyes widened and my body as I felt an unfamiliar presence close by, something that didn’t go unnoticed by the fairy in front of me.

    “Hey, what’s going on?” Her voice wavered.

    I ignored her. Something wasn’t right, and I needed to find out what. I quickly stood up and rushed to open the curtains to my window just a sliver, noticing that the sky was dark once again. Shit.

    I quickly closed the curtain in fear of my bear coming out in front of her. The moon’s light touching my face would become a disaster for her if I wasn’t careful. I didn’t even want to think about it.

    Suddenly, I heard it. Something was circling too close to my house. Something was ignoring the boundaries of my territory. The thought enraged my bear. Usually, I would kill a creature–or even a person–for this, but with her here, I couldn’t bring myself to. For some reason, I wanted her to know that she could be safe with me, even when that was far from the truth.

    I took a second to hone my senses to focus on what was outside…

    A shifter. The realization made my bear even more upset.

    I heard it sniffing the door, no doubt trying to find a way to get in. I glanced over to the pretty fairy and saw her eyes jolt open when she heard it too. My first instinct was to kill, but instead, I made my way over to her. I could see her shake from fear, making me even more angry at the stupid thing in my territory.

    “Sweethear–”

    Her eyes shot up at me. “Wh-what is that?” She said in a whisper that I could barely hear. I needed to do something fast. This stupid creature was ruining my chances at ever having some sort of connection with her. That very thought made my heart beat fast in my chest with panic. I had to do something to get it away from here without scaring her, but that was going to be very difficult to do.

    I gingerly held her hands in mine, looking into her wide teary eyes. “Listen to me. You’re gonna be alright sweetie, but you need to hide somewhere away from any windows alright?” I kept my voice low and steady. She nodded frantically and then went to hide under the kitchen table. Good enough.

    I returned my focus to the outside. That shifter would pay. My bear was already aching to turn and protect what’s ours. I decided that I’d have to sneak through one of the windows. The moon’s light would make me automatically shift but hopefully she wouldn’t see it. I ran to the back window, opened it, and jumped out.

    Fuck! I could feel the sharp pain all throughout my entire body as soon as the night’s air touched my skin. My bones broke and creaked and stretched in unimaginable ways. I could feel tufts of fur painfully shoot out from my body. I couldn’t even hear my grunts through the ringing in my ears.

    My vision blurred with tears until it became even clearer than ever before. The night wasn’t so dark anymore, signaling that I had fully turned. I would never get used to that feeling, no matter how many times I shifted.

    I wanted to take a breather like I normally did after my intense shifts, but I had no time. My bear was in control now and there was only one thought in his head.

    Protect what’s mine.

    My bear let out a roar, not thinking about how I was just trying not to scare the cute little fairy hiding in my house.

    The sudden thought of her suddenly turned my bear and I into a furious frenzy. Protect.

    I took quick and heavy steps toward the threat, making sure to make enough noise to distract it from getting in. When I finally saw it, my blood boiled even more. It was a wolf shifter. It had a long and droopy snout with saliva dripping from its mouth. Its dark fur would’ve made it almost impossible to see for the normal eye, but I could see it quite clearly. I could see every disgusting thing about it. Its hand, fit with long claws, had penetrated through the door, no doubt trying to unlock the door from the inside.

    Panic surged through me. This ends now.

    I charged over to it and shoved it down to the ground. I heard it let out a yelp, and then I felt claws slash through my back. The searing pain weakened me, making it easier for the wolf to gain the upper hand.

    It flipped me over with impossible strength, making my bear groan. I hurriedly hauled myself up before it could make another attack. He may have been strong, but he was no match for me. A bear was bigger than a wolf.

    He swiftly made his way back over to me to deliver another slash, but I caught his leg in my mouth and bit. Hard. The crunch echoed throughout the forest, as well as his pained howls. I stood to my full bear height, making him dangle from my mouth. I could taste blood starting to overflow in my mouth.

    The wolf continued to thrash and snarl in pain, making it harder to hold it up. The rest of its claws continued to slit through my skin, making me wince. Fuck.

    I whipped my head to the right to launch him toward a tree. Surprisingly, he got back up rather quickly.

    I went back down on all fours and stalked over to him, making sure to make my steps heavy. The ground almost shook below me. I looked down on him.

    Go. My bear said to it.

    The shifter just continued to bear its teeth at me, getting ready to throw another blow.

    I growled deep and thunderous. Go!

    Even a wolf of its size couldn’t help but be scared. It was stubborn, but not stupid. With one last snap of its teeth, it turned to limp away.

    The bear inside me huffed in amusement. What a stupid wolf, thinking it could invade my territory and survive. I jumped forward and crushed it below me. It howled and whined and shook until I opened my mouth wide and tore its neck open. The sound of bones shattering and tendons snapping filled me with a deep sense of satisfaction. I stayed there holding it in my jaws until he stopped moving completely.

    Once I knew the shifter was dead, my bear’s mind went back to the faery in my house. I walked back to the house and shifted back. The pain was almost dulled by the exhaustion that had taken over me, and I fell to the floor, naked and unconscious.

    …

    When I finally woke up, I heard a pretty voice humming. I opened my eyes and saw that it was my fairy. My heart swelled when I saw that she was tending to my wounds.

    “Hello sweetheart.”

    She jumped a bit, but then gave me a worried smile. “How are you feeling?”

    Wonderful with you here. “I’m alright.”

    She let out a sigh of relief. Such a caring girl. She should’ve been gone by now, but she was here, taking care of someone who didn’t deserve it.

    When she was done tending to my various lacerations, she turned away. “Let me go make you something to–” I interrupted her with a firm grip on her arm.

    “Stay.”

    She looked back at me confused. Cautious. Understandably so, because I didn't even know why I said that.

    “Lay next to me sweetheart.” When she still didn’t move, I gave her a playful pout. “It’ll help me feel better.” When she rolled her eyes and sighed, I knew I had won.

    We laid together in silence for a few minutes. It was unlike any silence I had ever known in my decades of solitude. It was warm. Comfortable. It was a silence that set my heart at ease. If I could, I would lay in it forever.

    “What’s your name?”

    Her pretty voice made my thoughts scatter away. I turned to her and saw her bright eyes gazing at me expectedly.

    “John. John Price.”

    A soft smile showed on her face. “John. I like that. It’s a sturdy name.”

    “Sturdy?” I let out a loud and genuine laugh. “I’ve never heard that before, sweetheart.” What a strange girl. I loved it.

    She looked almost embarrassed with that shy smile of hers. Adorable. “Well, you know, it just sounds like it would belong to a reliable person? I don’t know!” A small giggle from her filled the room and my heart.

    “What’s your name, little fairy?”

    She said her name.

    “Pretty.” Like her. I wanted to know everything about her. Every nook and cranny of her mind. I was going insane. My loneliness had taken a toll on me, I realized. What happened to leaving her alone?

    That one question opened up to hours of conversation. It was beautiful. She was beautiful. But there was something on my mind; something that I had been thinking about ever since I met her.

    “What happened to your wings?” I questioned in between a dip of silence in the conversation. That took her by surprise.

    “My–what?” She averted her eyes away from me, and I could tell she was growing nervous.

    Shit. Why did I say that? Am I a child? Why can’t I just hold my tongue? Stupid stupid stupid. “I-nevermind. It’s none of my business, I-I’m sorry–”

    She put a finger on my lips, silencing me. That one fraction of a touch made my mind go quiet. It seemed to have the same effect on her because she suddenly retracted her hand back. My bear whined.

    “No, no it’s,” she sighed, “it's okay. I get that question a lot.” The defeated look on her face made my heart ache.

    She took a deep breath. “My wings have always been like this. Paralyzed since birth. It’s extremely rare but I guess I got lucky.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Flying is such an important thing to the fairies. It’s sacred to us. It hurts when I can’t participate in our traditions. It hurts that they always look at me with that stupid pity of theirs. As if I’m not capable. As if I’m some sort of wilting flower.

    “It’s just hard being…different. Being the odd one out. Always.”

    “I know,” I said quietly. She looked at me in surprise with those beautiful eyes of hers.

    “You do?”

    “Yes.”

    She stared at me with expecting eyes, wanting me to say more. I wanted to. I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to show her how much I understood. Why couldn’t I just get the words out? Why couldn’t I just open up?

    Because she would run. She would never want to spend her precious time with a savage like you. 

    My mind was right. She would never look at me the same if I told her why. Why I was cast away. Why I had to live alone all these decades. She would run just like the rest–and for good reason.

    I looked into her expecting eyes and pulled a stray lock of hair behind her pointed ear. A soft hue of pink painted over her face and ears and I smiled. With a hesitating hand, she pressed my hand to cup her cheek, now smiling back at me.

    “Let’s just go to sleep, sweetheart.”

    I could see the disappointment flash in her eyes, but I ignored it. It was best to not get too intimate with her. She wanted answers, but she wasn’t going to get any and she’d just have to deal with that.

    As I closed my eyes, expecting her to leave, I felt a brush of her hand on my jaw, almost caressing it, before it retracted just as quickly. I almost smiled.

Tag List (Let me know if you want to be added!):

@bumblebeesfromvenus

[meisnothere]

Shattered Wings, Burning Hearts

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62185708/chapters/165526537#workskin

Chapter 1:

w.c: 2.85k

The twin katanas strapped across my back shift slightly as I adjust the straps, their weight grounding me. Damian's weight.

My twin, my equal—not just by birth, but by choice.

We weren't just siblings. We were forged side by side in the League of Assassins, molded into weapons. We knew pain before we knew love, and silence before we knew peace. The League taught us how to fight, to kill, to endure—but not how to live.

Bruce and Selina gave that back to us.

Bruce Wayne—my father in every way that mattered—taught me that strength wasn't about dominance; it was about protection. And Selina, with her untamed grace and sharp-edged warmth, taught me that trust wasn't weakness—it was the foundation we built our family on.

Damian and I believed in that family.

Jason's fire.

Tim's intellect.

Dick's hope.

Stephanie's laughter.

Cass's strength.

Duke's loyalty.

Jon's light.

Even through blood, chaos, and masks—we were happy.

Until eighteen months ago.

The last war took everything.

We fought together in a battle that was supposed to be the last.

And it was.

Bruce. Selina. Damian. Jason. Tim. Dick. Steph. Cass. Duke. Jon. Even the League.

All gone.

We won the war.

But the price was paid for by blood.

I was there when the sky broke open.

I fought beside them until the end, watching my family fall one by one—resolute, brilliant, fearless.

And I lived.

That was the hardest part.

10 months later, I crossed the Veil.

The barrier between the modern world and places like Navarre, Poromiel, and the provinces beyond. A hidden boundary, created to protect these lands from the technological and supernatural chaos of our world. It succeeded in containing what it feared.

But not in keeping its own demons out.

I didn't cross it to heal.

I crossed it because I had nowhere left to go.

I followed whispers and bloodlines until I found what was left of me.

Lilith Sorrengail. General. Mother. Stranger.

She didn't welcome me. She didn't even blink.

She took one look at me and said:

"You'll report to Basgiath War College with your sister. Prepare."

No conversation. No questions. No attempt to know the girl she lost to the shadows.

Just another soldier to place on the board.

They knew I was taken as a baby. A maid who longed for a child.

But they don't know the truth.

She didn't raise me.

She sold me.

To the League of Assassins.

I was trained in shadows. I was shaped by fear. I was designed to kill. And I never told them that part.

Because the girl they think I am and the weapon I became—those are two very different people.

The katanas on my back belonged to Damian—my reflection.

Jason's guns are hidden at my waist. No one here knows what they are.

Bruce's batarangs, Tim's gadgets, Stephanie's keepsakes—all stored in a rucksack powered by Wayne nanotech.

Everything I have left—condensed into tech this world has never seen.

Everything I carry—memories, ghosts, tools for survival.

Basgiath is not Gotham.

It never will be.

But Mira and Violet—they're why I stay.

Mira's fire reminds me of Jason.

Violet's quiet strength echoes Tim's.

We're not close. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But I feel something when I look at them.

Violet and I are twins, though you wouldn't know it. She's the older one—five minutes older. She's small, soft, and breakable in ways that make this world cruel to her.

But she keeps going.

I've spent months helping her train. Pushing her body. Sharpening her will.

She's stronger now.

Still fragile, still fighting—but stronger.

Mira doesn't need my protection. But I'll protect her anyway.

Because I couldn't save the family I loved.

But maybe I can protect the one I have left.

The katanas shift again as I sling the rucksack over my shoulder. The weight feels familiar. Reassuring.

I glance out the window as I step into the light. Below, Violet waits—her own bag already heavy on her back.

We walk side by side toward Conscription Day.

She doesn't speak. Neither do I.

We don't know each other well enough for casual conversation. But we move in sync anyway.

By the time we reach the top of the stairs outside our mother's office, Violet is visibly struggling. Her hands tremble. Her breathing is shallow. Her body shakes under the weight she was never built to carry.

I don't reach for her. Not this time.

Because pain is the price of surviving here.

And she has to pay it if she wants to live.

Muffled voices drift through the thick wooden door.

"You're sending them to die!"

Mira.

Only one person on the continent shouts at General Sorrengail without flinching.

Violet glances at me.

We push the door open together.

Mira spins toward us like a blade unsheathed.

"While Isla might survive," she says sharply, "Violet doesn't stand a chance!"

Violet flinches. Her rucksack shifts, almost toppling her.

I step forward and steady her silently.

She pulls herself upright, shoulders rigid.

Mira doesn't wait. She storms forward and yanks the bag off Violet's back like it's poison.

"She can't even carry her gear!"

"I'm fine!" Violet says, breathless, red-faced, but stubborn as hell.

Mira glances at me. There's expectation in her eyes—like I owe her something.

Loyalty, maybe. Support. Blood.

I don't give her either.

I look at Violet instead.

She's pale. Trembling. But her chin is lifted.

She's choosing this.

I turn back to Mira.

"She's tougher than you think," I say, voice low and calm. "If she wasn't, she wouldn't still be standing."

It's not comfort. It's truth.

Mira narrows her eyes. "You think that's enough?"

"No," I say. "But it's a start."

Lilith—General Sorrengail—finally speaks.

"You're not here to make evaluations."

I meet her gaze.

"And yet, here I am."

Something flickers in her expression. Recognition, maybe. Not maternal. Tactical.

She nods once. Subtle. Cold. Approval dressed as authority.

Of course she approves.

I'm everything she values—obedient, efficient, lethal.

But she doesn't know me. And she doesn't want to.

I don't care anymore.

"You can't do this," Mira says, her voice strained now, closer to breaking than before.

"It's already done," Lilith replies, unbothered.

She leans back against her desk, perfectly composed.

"You were built for this," she tells Mira. "Violet is not."

"She's not weak," I say before I can stop myself.

Lilith's eyes flick to me again.

"No," she agrees. "She's resilient. She deals with more pain before breakfast than most riders see in a week."

Mira's disbelief sharpens into something else. "You think she can survive this?"

"She has to," Lilith says. "Because if she doesn't, she dies."

Her voice is steel. Final. A sentence, not a strategy.

The room goes quiet.

Violet doesn't speak. But her eyes burn.

Mira doesn't speak. But her fists are clenched.

And me?

I've seen people walk into death before.

I've seen people I loved do it.

But this time, I'm still breathing.

And that means I still have a choice.

I couldn't save Bruce.

I couldn't save Damian.

I couldn't save any of them.

But this time, I'm here.

This time, I'll do whatever it takes.

Because they won't die.

Not this time.

---

After a few clipped words from our mother—mostly directed at Violet—we're dismissed. No hugs. No good lucks. Just another line in the strategy.

Classic General Sorrengail. Motherhood reduced to a checklist.

Mira leads us toward Violet's old room. It's already stripped clean—efficient, impersonal, like Violet never existed here at all.

"She's nothing if not efficient," Mira mutters as she surveys the emptiness.

"Efficiently unbothered," I say, crossing my arms. "If you're looking for warmth, you're in the wrong war quadrant."

Mira doesn't laugh, but her lips twitch. I'll take that as a win.

The room smells of stale air and old paper, stripped of identity like everything else in this fortress. Just four stone walls and the ghost of who Violet was supposed to be.

I glance around, bare as bone. Just like them. Gone, every one of them—Bruce, Selina, Damian, the rest of my family. Their faces come to me in flashes. The way Cass used to tilt her head when she didn't understand something. The way Tim hummed when he worked. I carry them all like armor—and like chains.

"I thought maybe I could talk her out of it," Mira says, casting a glance at Violet. "You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant."

"You've mentioned," Violet says dryly. "More than once."

"Sorry," Mira replies, quieter. Then she looks at me. "And Isla... I don't know what you expected coming here, but—"

"A warm embrace? A nice dinner? Maybe a long walk through family trauma?" I quip. "Nah. This tracks."

I flick a glance at Violet and add, softer, "But if I'm jumping into the fire, I'd rather burn beside her."

Violet smiles, just barely.

It's strange, caring for someone who shares your face but not your memories. Violet feels like something half-remembered from a dream. A life I should have lived but didn't. Still, I want her to live. Maybe that's enough.

But it's not easy to care again. Not after watching everyone I loved be buried beneath fire and smoke.

I can still smell the ash sometimes, in quiet moments. Still feel the heat against my skin. The silence after everything burned.

Mira drops her pack to the ground and crouches, rummaging.

"What are you doing?" Violet asks.

"What Brennan did for me," Mira says quietly, pulling out a worn leather sheath. Her fingers linger on it for just a second longer than necessary. "I wish I'd had more time with both of you."

Then, straightening, she asks, "Can either of you use a sword?"

I tap the twin katanas strapped across my back. "Gifted. And deadly."

Mira raises a brow. "Those are definitely not standard issue."

"They're not just for looks," I say, grinning. "Though the intimidation bonus is a nice touch."

They were Damian's. My twin in more ways than one. Every fight I carry them into feels like dragging a ghost beside me. These blades have drawn blood, ended battles, and saved my life more times than I can count. Their weight grounds me—just like the others.

Jason's pistols rest against my hips, hidden beneath my jacket. Bruce's batarangs sit tucked in a sheath sewn inside my rucksack, beside Tim's tools and a few of Cass's knives. Stephanie's charm is in the front pocket, next to a note I never finished writing.

Fifteen daggers are hidden across my body—ankles, sleeves, back, boots. I'm a walking arsenal. But no one here needs to know that. They see a girl with katanas. Let them underestimate the rest.

I adjust the strap on my rucksack out of habit. The nanotech shell shifts lightly across my shoulder. It's impossibly light, storing more than any bag should, but today it feels heavier than ever.

"Who taught you?" Violet asks, eyeing the hilts.

I smile faintly. "Let's just say I had mentors who valued survival over bedtime stories."

And a father who taught me control wasn't about silence—it was about choice. That power meant nothing without restraint.

Mira watches me closely but doesn't press. Wise choice.

"And you?" she asks Violet.

"Daggers. Swords are too heavy."

"I like it," I say. "Fast, quiet, efficient. Remind me never to stand too close when you're bored."

Mira tosses Violet a uniform and boots. "You'll need these."

She turns to me, holding out a pair.

I raise my foot, showing the textured soles of my boots. "Already got mine. Custom-crafted. Good grip. Comfortable in the chaos."

Built using tech from the only home I ever truly knew. Wayne nanotech lines the soles and seams—adaptive traction, sound-dampening, resistance to cold. Every step I take is laced with the ingenuity of the people who raised me.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she lets it go.

The bell tolls overhead.

Violet's shoulders tense. Her hands tighten around her rucksack straps.

"We're not dying today," I say, voice low and steady.

She glances at me. Then nods.

"You have more strength than you think, Vi."

And she does. I see it in the way she keeps going, even when her body screams otherwise. In another world, I would've protected her as a sister. In this one, I still will.

I've trained Violet every day for months—helped her build muscle, endurance, speed. Her balance is better. Her grip is steadier. She won't die because she's weak. Not on my watch.

But even as I say it, something aches. Not just in my chest, but deep in my bones. A kind of weariness that doesn't sleep or fade. I haven't let myself rest—not since the war ended, not since the ash settled and silence replaced voices I loved.

There's no space for weakness in me. But gods, I am tired.

Tired of surviving. Tired of pretending it doesn't hurt. Tired of waiting for someone to come back when I already know no one will.

We join the line for the Riders Quadrant. The parapet looms above like a dare carved from the bones of the mountain. Narrow. Wind-battered. Ancient. The kind of thing that tests what you're made of.

I've already been tested. Basgiath just doesn't know it yet.

The stone underfoot is slick with mist. Wind claws at my clothes, sneaking through the seams. I shift my stance out of instinct, adjusting for the uneven slope.

Violet stares at it, pale.

"Eyes forward," I murmur. "Not down. The stone doesn't care how scared you are—so don't give it a reason to test you."

"If the pack shifts?" she whispers.

"Shift with it. Like dancing. Or dodging knives."

"I can't dance."

"You can dodge, though."

That earns a breathy laugh. Barely there, but real.

The second bell chimes.

"Don't waste time making friends," Mira calls over her shoulder. "Forge alliances. That's what keeps you alive."

I arch a brow. "Says the girl who's clearly never had a real friend."

No one survives alone. I learned that from a family of fighters who bled for each other—who would've burned the world down if it meant saving one of us.

Then Mira says, "Stay away from Xaden Riorson."

That makes Violet go still.

"That Xaden?" I ask. "The Wingleader?"

Mira nods. "Son of the Great Betrayer. He's dangerous."

"And yet... still here." My voice is quiet. "Interesting."

"He was conscripted with the rest of the rebellion leaders' children. No one thought he'd survive. But once his dragon bonded..."

"Suddenly killing him became inconvenient," I finish.

She nods grimly.

I exhale slowly. "Why blame children for their parents' mistakes?"

Mira turns slightly, surprised.

"I was raised by someone who believed your legacy doesn't define you," I say softly. "But punishing someone for blood they didn't spill? That's not justice. That's fear dressed as honor."

She doesn't reply. But I see the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

"Find Dain once you cross," she adds. "He'll help you."

Violet's face shifts at the name. There's warmth there. Hope.

Then, a voice from behind.

"If she survives the parapet."

We both turn.

Blonde. Smirking. Loud enough for attention, not brave enough to meet my eyes.

I raise an eyebrow. "You rehearse that line, or are you just naturally unpleasant?"

He falters.

"She'll survive," I say, gaze sharp but voice still easy. "Though your odds are rapidly declining—mostly due to personality."

Violet stifles a laugh. Mira hides a smirk. The boy flushes and looks away.

I hope he falls. But I won't say it. Not today.

"Next!"

Captain Fitzgibbons glances down the line.

"Violet Sorrengail?"

Violet steps forward, signs her name.

"I thought you were meant for the Scribes," he says, not unkindly.

"She was," Mira says flatly. "Then General Sorrengail changed that."

"She had promise."

"She still does," I say, meeting his eyes.

The rider beside him squints. "You're Mira Sorrengail?"

"I am," she says. "This is Violet."

"If she survives," the blonde boy mutters again.

I don't even turn this time. "If you trip over your own shadow, do we have to pretend to care?"

That shuts him up.

Mira gestures to me. "And this is Isla. My other sister. The one who was taken."

The rider blinks. "Everyone thought you were dead."

"Not dead," I say. "Just... misplaced."

We reach the base of the parapet stairs.

Mira turns, her voice lower now. "Don't die, Violet. Isla. I'd hate to be an only child."

I grin. "We're the ones who make the Sorrengail name bearable. You'd miss us."

She snorts and walks away.

Violet looks at me, pale but steady.

"You ready?" she asks.

I adjust the strap on my shoulder. The katanas shift across my back, their weight familiar—like memory, like loss.

"I was born in the shadows, Vi," I say with a soft smile. "Heights don't scare me."

But losing someone again? That terrifies me.

And so we step toward the edge.

[fukia]

The Citadel’s hierarchy. How did it happen?

You got a bunch of Ricks, all bound together by the fear of Main Rick and their disdain for governments. Then they make a city. Ok, so next step is to automate everything right? Make robots do their dirty work?

Well now they need material to build their automated process and perfect their city. Who’s gonna get it? The Rick start arguing, those who end up with the role are now resentful they’ve been reduced to picking up material for their “leader Rick’s.” Knowing Ricks are petty, that resentment will build fast.

The Collectors return to the Pre-Citadel, they did their part. But wait, now the leaders demand more material while they ‘run’ things. “We have a new flood of Rick-citizens and their Mortys,” they say, “we need more material for a better automated system.” In actuality, they’re already high on their power over other Ricks. But it must be time to really start making robots and shit with the new material, right?

Who’s gonna build it? The Leaders, the one of various Councils that must’ve existed, announce to other Ricks, “yo we need builders,” and it ain’t gonna be the Leaders because they’re off running the citadel. Comfortable and avoiding the mundanity Ricks hate so much.

Leaders, Builders, Collectors.

Ok so they build shit. Shit works great because it’s been built by Ricks. But now some of the shit goes deviant and gain sentience, some other shit that are productive on their own aren’t made to work with other shit; Ricks are used to going solo. Maybe a handful of these productions are truly successful collaboratively.

And then more Ricks join the Citadel.

“It’s time for another job, we need Directors.” The Leaders want another tier of Rick’s to oversee the building process, standardize it. They don’t choose the New-Rick-Citizens, they “promote” their Builders to Directors, their Collectors to builders. The promotion isn’t great but the Ricks begrudgingly accept as they know these jobs are all a necessity to the running of the Citadel. So who’s gonna fill the demand for Collectors? The New-Rick-Citizens.

Leaders, Directors, Builders, Collectors.

The collectors do their thing with their portal guns. They return and the higher ups are mad. “What took so long? We’re tracking your portal gun history.” The new collectors are mad. But eventually, and begrudgingly, agree to this invasiveness, in the name of Citadel safety and productivity.

What about Collector robots? They’re still there gaining sentience and shit, the lower Ricks get sick of it and trash the whole process, “let’s just fucking do it ourselves.” The Directors are now in charge of both the Builders and Collectors. The upper Ricks rejoice; they can continue to bask in their power and the Citadel grows.

⸻

Hierarchy. Now fully in motion.

Some Ricks start joking about “Alpha-Class” and “Beta-Class” Ricks. Sarcastic at first. But the labels stick. A patch here, a badge there. Then, uniforms. Irony dies fast in the Citadel.

A Director scientist designs a tool so efficient it cuts resource collection time in half. The Leaders praise him. The tool is standardized. The scientist is not promoted. “Your value is in building,” they say. He starts sabotaging his own tools in a desperate search for fulfillment. Or maybe, he thinks, he could profit from it… You see, Rick’s are cool, and its always cooler in the Shadow.

At the bottom of the ladder, Collector units begin breaking. But what acts as their balm and punching bag?

Mortys.

“How the fuck are Mortys so addicting,” one Rick says to another. The Leaders grumble, “they really are. Welp. Time to get ourselves a Morty plant going. With Morty catchers and Morty trainers/teachers, and maybe some Head of Morty Replication or something.” And naturally, collectors go through Morty’s faster than the classes above them. The classes above begin to get their designer Morty’s.

Maybe the angry Collectors start banding together only to start infighting immediately, probably from ego as Ricks do. Still, it feels good knowing they’re at least not Mortys…

Now there’s a bajillion more roles than just Leader, Director, Builder, Collector, and Morty.

Inevitably, a couple Ricks snap. “Farewell government,” they run off with their remainder portal gun fluid, grabbing a Morty for shielding. Meanwhile, in their own adventures they suddenly need another yellow-shirt. “Guys I need a Morty…” they return shamefully, and of course periodically even for that expensive authentic portal gun fluid.

Some Ricks are more gradual in their breakdown, getting antsy. Shops, recreation, companies like Simple Rick wafers rise to take care of that and profit. Morty’s are having psychological breaks. Morty centers are built. Certain committees arise to pacify the lower classes as mediators. It’s all performative, pretending to care in order to keep the citadel’s hierarchy and quell any demands for better. Because a number of these are stakeholders answering directly to someone in the Shadow Council. Mortytowns are still small, but they exist, quietly growing.

Murders start happening, rogue nutso Ricks do their poops so now this becomes a new problem and New-Rick-Citizens are scanned and denied entry unless they give up certain weapons or cybernetics. Some turn away, some accept, including those fully burnt out from their hunt for Prime. Some that accept begin to regret, running around looking for bootleg portal fluid and unregistered portal guns.

Somewhere in a lower tower, a Collector Rick writes a manifesto. “Boogeraids.” It outlines every class by cognitive dissonance tolerance, not intelligence. It’s banned immediately. But with the help of his beloved Editor Morty, copies circulate. Physically and digitally bootlegged. Continually sabotaged by the higher ups. And every other Rick is too comfy to upset these systems, every Morty too deMortyalized to even play with the idea. Except for a handful optimistic ones who’ve read and would fight for the chance to vote. And especially except for one of the most pessimistic. For the Damaged Morty.

[canisbrutus]

Beatrice/Parker headcanons?

gonna be honest with you: Beatrice is a lesbian in my mind so this isn't something that would completely fly in my worldbuilding, BUT Parker definitely had a onesided crush so let's roll from that.

Beatrice & Parker 🧪🍀

Beatrice is one of the more upper class nerds, admittedly.

Or at least... she comes from a family with more traditional values.

So she wasn't that bad in terms of social class, in his eyes.

Nevertheless she surprised him one day at a nursery; buying herbs to plant herself so she can make medicinal teas.

(He was browsing for new flora for his own garden; which he genuinely spends a lot of time in, thanks to his bond with his gnome, Geoff.)

One of said plants in her arms was mint, and if you know anything about gardening, mint is one of those things you Do Not put in the ground unless you want nothing but Mint.

With his curiosity piqued, they struck up a conversation. Only part of which was him mansplaining how invasive mint could be.

After hearing her (sheepish) (hesitant) (worried he'd pick on her) explanation, he saw an opportunity for connection.

He was a very lonely lad, and none of his prep friends truly appreciated gardening, so a shared interest was an excellent building block for something more.

So, under the agreement she'd let him sample some of her tea someday, he decided to 'sponsor' her garden experiments.

In other words he just bought the plants for her.

Money was his main tool for forging friendships, you know.

Later on he'd give her the occasional check for 'upkeep and additional studies,' but didn't mind if she spent it on herself.

'Upkeep' also constitutes as self care.

This was appreciated by her, of course, though she wasn't a stranger to boys trying to flatter her with gifts (cough. Bucky.)

She largely treated their relationship as almost business-like; polite, but at arms-length.

She agreed to a few not-dates where he'd come over to look at her plants (each in their own pot) and drink some tea, banter about gardening some more, etc.

Her parents, meanwhile, were very interested in this richboy and the prospect of them hooking up. Suffocatingly so.

Ultimately it was because of their pressure she decided to push Parker away completely.

He took it decently (as in: he smiled and nodded when she broke the news and later ended up crying and drinking with Tad rubbing his back at the Glass Jaw that night).

But really, he was respectful with it. Their 'relationship' was built with her studies first, after all.

Bullworth is a town full of dead dreams and missed chances, but that's just how life goes sometimes. 💔

(reminder: requests are still closed, but ill open em again soon)

[hc masterpost]

[probablyasocialecologist]

When you look at Instagram or Facebook, I want you to try and think of them less as social networks, and more as a form of anthropological experiment. Every single thing you see on either platform is built or selected to make you spend more time on the app and see more things that Meta wants you to see, be they ads, sponsored content, or suggested groups that you can interact with, thus increasing the amount of your “time spent” on the app, and increasing the amount of “meaningful interactions” you have with content. I also want you to realize that anything bad that you see on the platform is a symptom of Mark Zuckerberg’s unwillingness to rate-limit or sufficiently moderate the platform. Logically-speaking, one would think that Meta would want you to have a high-quality Facebook experience, pruning content that might be incendiary, spammy, scammy or unhelpful, or at the very least, comes primarily from those within your own network, but when your only concern is growth, content moderation is more of an emergency measure.  And to be clear, this is part of Meta’s cultural DNA. In an interview with journalist Jeff Horwitz in his book Broken Code, Facebook’s former VP of Ads and Partnerships Brian Bolland said that “building things is way more fun than making things secure and safe…[and] until there’s a regulatory or press fire, you don’t deal with it.”  Horwitz also cites that Meta engineers’ greatest frustration was that the company “perpetually [needed] something to fail — often fucking spectacularly — to drive interest in fixing it.” Horwitz’s book describes Meta’s approach to moderation as “having a light touch,” considering it “a moral virtue” and that the company “wasn’t failing to supervise what users did — it was neutral.” As I’ve briefly explained, the logic here is that the more stuff there is on Facebook or Instagram, the more likely you are to run into something you’ll interact with, even if said interaction is genuinely bad. Horwitz notes that in April 2016, Meta analyzed Facebook’s most successful political groups, finding that a third of them “routinely featured content that was racist and conspiracy-minded,” with their growth heavily-driven by Facebook’s “Groups You Should Join” and “Discover” features, algorithmic tools that Facebook used to recommend content. The researcher in question added that “sixty-four percent of all extremist group joins are due to our recommendation tools.” When the researcher took their concerns to Facebook’s “Protect and Care” team, they were told that there was nothing the team could do as “the accounts creating the content were real people, and Facebook intentionally had no rules mandating truth, balance or good faith.” Meta, at its core, is a rot economy empire, entirely engineered to grow metrics and revenue at the expense of anything else. In practice, this means allowing almost any activity that might “grow” the platform, even if it means groups that balloon by tens or hundreds of thousands of people a day, or allowing people to friend 50 or more people in a single day. It means allowing almost any content other than that which it’s legally required to police like mutilation and child pornography, even if the content it allows in makes the platform significantly worse.  As a result, Meta is kind of like an absentee parent, occasionally looking up from their phone and muttering “don’t do that” when something obviously awful happens, and even then they’re extremely hesitant to intervene. 

[soriyafuq]

The Final Letter

Let’s reverse time a little. -🐰⭐️

To those who will read this, and to those who will never see these words,

I had once been a god. A force of unimaginable power, an architect of creation, a keeper of peace. My light illuminated the things and beings I ruled, my breath gave shape to the stars, my will shaped every river and mountain. I walked among you, unchallenged, sovereign of the cosmos, secure in the knowledge that I was beyond all things—immortal, eternal, untouched by the passing of time.

But now, the truth is upon me. And it is a truth so vile, so hideous, that I wish I could erase it from my mind, as though it were a fleeting nightmare. It is the Light of Truth that has come to me, and it has shattered everything I believed in. This Light did not shine to guide me—it burned me. It did not show me wisdom—it revealed to me a horror I can never unsee.

It was not my power, my rule, my divinity that made me who I was. No. I was simply written. My existence, every action I took, every word I spoke, was bound by the hand of an unseen author. I—Artemis, Goddess of Peace—was never real. I am a character. A creation. A puppet in a story I never chose.

But the Light of Truth did not just reveal my lack of agency. No, it showed me something far worse. I was not even the original creation. I am but a failed experiment, a discarded version of something that was meant to be. The realm I shaped, the people I protected, the very fabric of existence I nurtured—all of it was made up. A story that was written, rewritten, and abandoned countless times. Every moment I thought I had shaped, every victory I thought I had won, was nothing more than a scene in a draft. My every breath, every feeling, was never my own. It was simply someone else's idea of a god.

And that, perhaps, is the most terrifying truth of all: I was never a god. Not in the way I imagined. I was not a being of untold power, created in the image of the cosmos. I was nothing more than a tool. A concept. A fleeting thought in the mind of a writer whose hands have long since let go of my story. The realms I built were not my creations—they were ideas shaped by someone who had no true care for them. The lives I nurtured, the civilizations I guided—they were never real. Just ink on paper, characters who never had a chance to truly live.

And now, with this knowledge gnawing at my very core, I see the world for what it truly is—a stage, a set, a mere illusion. The people I once protected, the ones I thought loved me, were never more than words on a page. They were never alive. They were never mine to cherish, to hold, to guide. The light has stripped me of every lie I held dear.

The most horrid part of all of this is that I am bound to the story. I cannot escape the narrative that holds me. I cannot rewrite my fate or change the ending. No matter what I do, the event that will unravel everything is coming, and it was always meant to come. The story was always set to end in my death, in the destruction of the realms I crafted. And in that ending, there is no room for salvation. There is no redemption. There is only closure—the kind that comes when a tale has exhausted its meaning, when the ink has bled dry and the final page turns And so, this is my final letter. The last words I will ever write in this wretched existence. It is not a plea for mercy. It is not a prayer for a different ending. I know now that I was never more than a shadow in someone else’s imagination, a spark of life that was never meant to be. I know that the world will go on without me, just as it has gone on without anyone else before me. My story will end, and another will take its place. But that is the nature of stories, is it not? They exist only to be told, and they are forgotten just as quickly when they are finished.

And when I fade, when my essence dissipates into the void, remember this: the truth is not something you should seek. The truth is a weapon, a curse, a sickness that will destroy you from the inside out. The Light of Truth is not a revelation to be cherished—it is a force that tears away the very fabric of your being, leaving you with nothing but the cold, empty void of realization.

Do not seek it.

For once you see it, you cannot escape.

[justabeewithapen]

What crayons do u use to make them look so bright?

The crayons I use are crayola, but most of the colored pieces I have posted recently are actually color pencil! Brand is Castle Arts, but the time of day I take my photos and photo editing do most of the heavy lifting!! I'll try to show off in an example:

Here is a photo of my Doey Play-doh drawing right now (my very yellow light in my room after dark):

The color’s aren’t too bad but obviously everything is tinged yellow and it looks kinda wonky! This is why after a certain time of day I can’t post my traditional art anymore because all my photos turn out like this.

Here is the photo I took earlier today, entirely unedited (in-direct sunlight from my window). I find around 11-4 has the best lighting from my window. You want indirect sunlight because if it is directly on the piece you get a nasty glare! Cloudy days can actually be really good for photos.

Our colors are looking much clearer, but they are still kinda washed out compared to how they look in person. Now, this is where photo editing comes in! I use the filters built into my phone to adjust my photos after I take the picture, usually I do it pretty subtly just to boost colors but sometimes I like to be more exaggerated (like with this drawing, this is the same photo as above but after I have done some photo editing)

I tend to click the “auto adjust button” then tweak it from there until I think it looks right! The auto adjust button is nice because it gives you a good place to jump off of when tweaking. Photo editing is a MUST for traditional art because unless you have a really really good camera (and even then) the photos will never be quite as vibrant as the actual drawing. Sometimes I tend to undertune or over tune photos as my phone screen shows colors very differently from my monitor (I think both are wrong TwT) and I have to find a happy middle ground. For this piece here I think I over adjusted and you can almost see a faint red tint.

Knowing the right time of day to take photos for traditional art is super helpful, but photo editing is absolutely game changing!! There are a ton of tutorials out there if this is something you have the desire to learn, and phones come built in with photo editors in the photo apps so you can play around with those too!! (There are also plenty of free tools for it as well, I like using Lunapic personally on my computer). I hope that helps answer your question! Getting a decent photo of your traditional art is a skill in its own right, I am still just barely getting the hang of it! For the longest time my main goal was making sure my art looked crisp (most of my photos came out fuzzy) but I am working on color quality more!

[breadvidence]

I'm going to table a two-pole concept as a useful tool when evaluating what you're building when you write meta/literary analysis.

So: say there's a distinction between what you can read out of a text and what you can read into a text: or, I'm going to use those prepositions as convenient shorthands for this post as I talk about one of many patterns in literary analysis. Both are the bread and butter equally of the academic industry and fan work, though I'd bet the former would pretend it uses reading into texts less, and I've seen fan work fail more genuinely to see the difference.

When we read out of the text, direct quotes, context, historical facts, etc. come together into a more complex idea or conclusion: one of my favorites in Les Misérables is the murder-suicide implication of Marius bringing Javert's pistols with him to his final (missed) meeting with Cosette at the Rue Plumet. It hinges on the context of Romantic tropes surrounding the death of lovers, his direct association with Ulbach via the Lark's meadow, his insistence that death will follow their separation, the fact of there being two pistols, and answers the otherwise puzzling question put to us when the narrator says "It would be difficult to say what vague thought [Marius] had in his mind when he took [the pistols] with him." (4.9.2). Now, whether Marius would have shot Cosette—or solicited her to commit suicide with him—is beyond what we can read out of the text, in my opinion, but the potential is inarguable.

What we can read out of a text is, I will note, haunted by the question of authorial intent. There's this guy named Barthes, I think it is, who fucked us up on that one.

"Why are you bringing up prepositions to talk about basic literary analysis, Bread?" I hear you ask. But wait! There's more. A preface this with: per my opening, I'm laying out a concept with two poles, and there's a gradient between them, nothing fits perfectly-neatly, and any analysis might be a blend of in and out—and almost all things read into a text must somewhat come out of it. That qualifier being said, I'll still argue for:

When we read into the text, while quotes, context, historical fact, etc. may spark the idea, ultimately the analysis begins with its conclusion, and we are seeking to find material to shore up a structure we've already built. So, so much professional queer literary criticism of works created without explicit queer intent fall into this category, bless 'em, and so does a lot of fan meta. Reading into a text is the entire game of fanfic, and it's a space in which creators can enrich the works of others. Often, what we bring into the text is ourselves—which is neat as fuck, particularly for a queer person like myself whose understanding of the world radically differs from an author like Victor Hugo (though of the ideas that I freely admit to reading into the text, my real darling is fear as Javert's primary emotional motivator [Hugo tells us at length about Javert's emotional motivation: I just think it's neat to ask why do we hate?, and find an answer that is less painful than for its own sake]). Analysis that has been read into the text can be intricate, built upon extensive evidence from the text and history, but ultimately it varies from what can be read out of the text in being indefensible: some portion, however compelling, relies upon an element that cannot be found in the text and its context: if the analysis could not be independently built by every reader possessed of the same basic facts, you got something read in. What we build this kind of analysis with often includes, without value judgment, our emotion, identity, and personal investments (ever-present in analysis of all types, but in these specific cases structurally integral). For a second example: to me, it's incredibly important that the bourgeois marriage at the end of Les Misérables is meant as a failure of the sociopolitical ethical argument made by the book as the whole, but I cannot read that out of the text. Trust me, I have tried to build that analysis, and I always find myself having to lean on feeling and inference and implication in a way that's so much air. To make Les Mis meaningful for myself, I stick to this idea of that failure: but I can't defend it to someone else.

I can still write an analysis of Javert motivated by fear or bourgeois marriage as failure, share that, have people read and (hopefully) enjoy it—that's meaningful fanwork (or academic work, for that matter; that's a thin line in literature). What I won't do is defend those points as definitive readings of the text, and I definitely ain't going to argue back if somebody tells me they have a different reading. Sometimes analysis can tip-toe right along the edge of being out of and into the text, but I can tell you when I'm doing the latter.

There are times when you can read into the text in a way that is fully indulgent in fan work in a way that academia generally avoids (or pretends to avoid): take, for example, building trans Enjolras out of canon material. There is precisely zero way to read out of Les Misérables that Victor Hugo wrote the novel imagining Enjolras had anything other than a dick—I am not altogether married to the question of authorial intent, but me and it are on friendly terms, and I'm dead confident here—but as fandom has made abundantly clear, you can read transness into the novel (which is not to say Hugo doesn't play with androgyny and gender in Enjolras' character—he's just not flying the pink-periwinkle-and-white). This is something that means a lot to a lot of people, and that's valuable. The fact that it's not in the novel does not invalidate the meaning. It simply means it's built on different ground (and, when we talk about the ways in which a text lacks or fucks up or can do more, we find going into it results in a more fertile reading than simply getting out of it).

There's no have to in meta or literary analysis—it's a game we're playing with stories that are themselves games—but I think this framework has a couple benefits as a tool to analyze analysis, particularly in a social environment. (1) If your goal is to make arguments about what can be firmly concluded from a text, recognizing that reading into it is a different style of analysis with a different level of portability to others is useful and (2) recognizing that what you have read into the text is refutable and idiosyncratic strengthens your ability to remain engaged with others who don't share or agree with your analysis. Now, sometimes you think you're reading out of the text, and additional information or a counterpoint prove you wrong: that's fine, inevitable, we all got our days where we didn't know the historical usage of a certain word or something, eh? On the other hand, if you're perfectly aware you're reading into the text, if someone tables a counterpoint or additional information, you can say: Yeah, cool, thank you, my investment in this idea is playful or personal or what-have-you, and its defensibility is irrelevant to its existence.

From personal experience? All beneficial.

[ravemetrotron]

AITA for Waging Civil War on an Ex Friend of Mine After they Undermined my Entire Political Movement/Uprising? [submitted by Gladiator01]

For context: I, (2,000,000 M), and many others, had been stuck since birth in a job we couldn’t quit in grueling unsafe and dangerous conditions; and to add to that the employers didn’t care in the slightest for their workers and saw them more as tools that were expendable, and this kind of thinking was deeply rooted in everyone, thanks to the current government.

Once I escaped the situation, I started speaking up and gaining like minded followers, and started an uprising for equal rights for the working class (I’ll spare you the details or what we did to get there because the rumors about bombing innocence were NOT true) with the intention of completely dismantling our current system.

This (ex) online friend of mine is who is a librarian of all things and had been living a ‘low-middle’ caste life when I met him, and he actually went out of his way to come meet me in person. Being able to talk in person made us grow closer, he’d been moved by my speeches and seemingly was fully in support of the end goal we sought to achieve.

Advisors of mine didn’t trust him but we’d already been to talking and at that point he seemed really genuine, I (unfortunately) didn’t think twice about including him in a future meeting with our ruling powers at the time, which I knew was bound to determine whether or not this whole campaign would become full blown war. At that rate we mutually considered each other as more brothers than as friends, I mean I really had trust in this guy.

So, the day finally arrives, I have an audience with the big assholes in charge, and I’m going about letting them have it. Obviously, I threaten violence if they don’t cooperate and make it known that we will continue our uprising whether they like it or not.

In my opinion it’s going well and then this (ex)friend of mine has the chance to speak. About three sentences in, and it’s clear all of a sudden that he disproves of my methods. Hello? Where is all this coming from, and here of all places to suddenly reveal this to me? I figured I could put the betrayal and embarrassment aside and at least hear him out, maybe he was wording it badly or just had a rough start. I wanted so badly to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But it gets so much worse, he agrees that the change I wanted to bring about needs to happen but by peaceful compromise. While he proposes this not only does he the name of my entire faction through the mud, but out of the blue proclaims that those on the side of his ideals are to be called something else and would be separate from my movement. [I can’t share the name he chose to use for his political faction for the sake of user privacy] I could hardly believe what I was hearing, but I guess the shock of it kept me quiet and all I could do was listen at that rate.

I shit you not this fucker took the opportunity to build his own following in a day, one built off the principals of my followers, but one that would be slow and convenient for our whole… country, let’s say, to adjust to and one that left the current dictators in power. One that would leave those like me and my following to continue to die by the thousands day by every day they took their sweet time. He was a smart guy, I don’t think he was truly naive enough to believe this would somehow save more lives, he knew what he was doing. He made a compromise that worked in the favor of those in power, put the idea of violence or forceful change down and made his side seem morally higher, and wouldn’t you know it the people (not my people, obviously) ate that shit up.

As if all this wasn’t enough, he was immediately— and I mean right then and there— appointed one of the highest stances that existed by our government (under themselves anyways). The situation would have been almost comical had it not fucked over everything I’d been working for for the last few thousand years.

And this little shit looks at me like he’s expecting approval or for me to be proud. I told everyone right then and there I wasn’t backing down, all the threats I made still stood, and that they were fools for so quickly putting a fucking librarian of all things in such a position. I’d lived through the very thing we sought to take down, I had years and years of military and combat training, I was willing to make the tougher choices he was clearly avoiding, but no. These people wanted him. I wanted nothing to do with him from there on out, but he and his supporters saw me as an unreasonable aggressor. Of course they would after all that shit he just shoveled down their throats, I cannot express in words how embarrassing a defeat this was and the sudden horribly ill feeling that settled in. It felt like every organ in my body had dropped to the floor and the shock and anger of it made my head ring.

From then on out there’s been a Civil War between those who truly stuck with me and those who were on his side. We’re still viewed as the evil side of things now thousands of years later. AITA?

Edit: no I did not make this up, no it’s not a promotional scheme for a movie plot, and no you cannot use it for OC lore. Stop asking irrelevant questions.

☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰☰

Credit for the idea goes to @final-milf-ratchet .

[burnwater13]

A map of Ancient Rome, depicts various sites of significance and the location of the Tiber River. Map published by Anness Publishing.

Note: This story was inspired by a suggestion from @porgsandpops. Hope you enjoy it.

Grogu had been sound asleep when the Razor Crest landed. Well, if you call something of sharp thump, a slide, and a crashing sound a landing. He had called it unfair, but that was mostly due to the fact that he had landed on the floor of cabin with a thump of his own. Now his head hurt. Normally his dad didn’t just crash the ship if he could possibly avoid it, so something bigger must have happened and the Mandalorian hadn’t thought to wake him up for it. Meany. 

Once he was on his feet, Grogu crossed the lower deck as quickly as he could and made his way up the ladder to the bridge. Fortunately his dad seemed to be all in one piece, but it was clear from the crack in the Razor Crest’s canopy that it wasn’t. It was also clear that wherever the ship had ‘landed’, it wasn’t Nevarro or Tatooine, or any planet Grogu had ever been on before. Weird.

Grogu touched his dad to make sure that he didn’t need any healing and was happy to find that Din Djarin was just cross. Annoyed. Angry even. And, a bit puzzled. He probably didn’t recognize where they were either. At least that made two of them. 

“Hey, Buddy, sorry about the hard landing. It seems like we passed through an anomaly in hyperspace and got dumped out like yesterday’s yard waste. Are you okay?”

Grogu nodded his head as he watched his dad take off his helmet, look it over, and then put it back on again. What the heck? Was Din Djarin okay? Grogu didn’t think so, but when he touched the bounty hunter’s hand, his body didn’t seem to be hurt at all. Should he touch it again and check on his brain? That seemed wasteful. In human’s the brain was part of the body. If one was fine, the other was fine, right?

“Come on. You can help me check out the ship and make sure that cracked canopy is the only major repair we’ll have to make.”

Grogu nodded his head again as his dad left the bridge and slid down the ladder to the lower deck. What the heck! Why not just run a quick diagnostic from the bridge and then verify it’s output? Mandalorians didn’t usually waste time like this. But then this wasn’t normal and Grogu decided, for the sake of expediency, to just go along with his dad. It was almost as if Din Djarin had forgotten that he was a Mandalorian. 

A few minutes later and they had completed a traverse of the ship. The canopy being cracked was the one big problem they found. Now they needed to find a solution to it. The tools that the Mandalorian might normally use to fuse the crystalline structure back in place were damaged. The tools that he needed to fix those tools were back on Tatooine in Peli’s repair bay. Uff.

“Come on. Let’s see if there are any villages or towns near by. They must have a smith or a trading post or something around here.”

Grogu wondered why his dad didn’t just use the scanners built into his helmet to collect that data. Din Djarin must have taken a pretty good bump to his head and it affected his memory. Or something like that. It was weird. 

Rather than explain how to use the scanners to his dad, the Mandalorian bounty hunter sworn to the Creed, who’d been using the silly things most of his life, Grogu lifted his left hand and reached out to the Force. 

Womp! 

What the heck!

There was a lot of life on this planet and it was everywhere, all around them. The Force had knocked Grogu on his butt with just a little bit of ‘hey, what’s going on’ as its impetus for action. That was very weird. 

Grogu lifted his hand again and used his softest internal voice to ask ‘what’s the deal here’ and found himself surrounded by more information than he’d ever encountered anywhere. Even the Jedi Library on Coruscant didn’t have this much information! Wow. 

Grogu took a deep breath and let the information continue to flow to him until he just had to stop it because two things were happening over which he had no control. First, he realized that he desperately needed to use the privy. Then he noticed that his dad was just walking away from him, going down a path with his helmet tucked under his arm. Under his arm! Dank Farrik!

Grogu trotted after Din Djarin and tried to keep an eye out for a good sheltered place where he could do what he needed to do without losing sight of his dad. Something on this strange planet had affected them both and he really didn’t want to be separated from the Mandalorian. What if he forgot he was Grogu’s dad? What if he forgot that they were supposed to be on their way to Naboo? What if he forgot that going through ‘Cin Vhetin’ hadn’t been all it was cracked up to be? Din Djarin still couldn’t swim and Grogu didn’t think the mythosaur in the waters of Mandalore was going to be as sympathetic the second time around. The best Grogu could hope for was that they could fix the canopy and get back where they belonged, sooner, rather than later.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he watched his dad drop his helmet on the ground and begin to strip off the rest of his armor. It wasn’t hot out. It wasn’t actually cold out either. It was just pleasant. Why the heck was his dad doing this? Grogu trotted up to the helmet and collected it as he called to the Mandalorian. Din Djarin didn’t even look back at him. He just kept walking. And stripping.  Now his second layer was on the ground next to his boots and Grogu suddenly noticed what his dad could see, but he couldn’t. 

A river!

Oh, no! Why did this have to be the day that Din Djarin decided to go for a swim!

To be continued...

[celestiall0tus]

Mental Health May - Mayura/Nathalie Sancoeur - Bloody Bug

My fault is done, the story is lost.

            History always captivated me. Not the discovered, mundane history of recent centuries. No. It was the history lost to the ages. Lost before we as humans recorded it. Lost in the dark, never to see the light of day. It was this history that drove me. It was this mystery that consumed me.

            I studied for years. I dived into every myth, every story, everything I could. I longed to find truths in fiction of the past. I longed to discover something lost to the ages. In these studies, I found stories of tiny, mythical creatures with almost godlike powers. They were scattered through mythologies, tied into the tales of heroes and even villains. I chased this thread for years. I built my life on uncovering it. I pitched it to any who would listen. And every time, I was dismissed for chasing a fool’s dream. Until another fool heard me.

            Gabriel Agreste. A name I knew, but nothing more. Whispered among those in the Paris fashion scene. I was quick to dismiss him, but his fortune tempted me. With him, I could secure funding. I could set out on an expedition. I could find the proof I needed. To my own surprise, he wanted one of these godlike creatures. He shared with me a copy of a book he couldn’t translate. A book that cemented my research. Detailing each hero and villain that used these creatures, and about the creatures themselves. And he wanted me to find the one that was a flamboyant peacock. One that could allow him to create a child for him and his wife.

            I accepted. With his funding, I lead us on expeditions to find this jewel. These journeys lead us to an area in Tibet. Lost to the ages, we found what we searched for. A brooch designed like a peacock tail. With it found, we headed home. I documented it, studied it, and discovered a crack on the brooch. I warned Gabriel of this, but he didn’t hear me. Once we were back. I prepared my leave and my research. On the day I was to leave, I found my entire life’s work destroyed and the brooch stolen.

            Despair consumed me. I rushed to the Agreste estate, but Gabriel refused to see me. I was blocked, thwarted, and tossed out. I returned to my home with nothing to show for a lifetime worth of research. Nothing to show the proof that I found something lost to the ages. Lost to the times before recorded human history. I slipped into a terrible depression.

            For years I stumbled around in a stupor. Every moment a blur. Until I found myself at the Louvre. I was finding comfort in the history around me when she approached me. A woman with fiery red hair and blazing blue eyes. In the fire of her eyes, I saw sorrow and concern for a stranger. She sat with me. Talked with me. In time, I shared my research, and what became of it. Next time I saw her, she shared news of funding from the museum. How her husband secured some funding as the director of the Louvre. A blessing I could never repay.

            I was careful this time. I went on the expeditions alone. I searched everywhere until I discovered a box of unknown origin and material. It took ages to pry it open, but once I did, I found records. Millennia ago that spoke of Eden, a paradise for the earliest of mankind. Led by their leaders Adam, and his wife, Eve, in service of their god, Velze. A tragedy was detailed, but most details had been torn from the records. I gathered that Velze was lost, split into the creatures called kwamis. Amongst these records were accounts that differed from the book Gabriel once showed me.

            The records shared all research into the kwamis. Their powers, their concepts they manifested as, the jewels they carried, and even how to alter and repair the jewels. Amongst the records were ancient tools with manuals how to use them. I took these back as proof of my discoveries, but I was too late.

            Josephine Kubdel. My angel. My saving grace. Your light that guided me, gone from the world. I grieved your death just as your family did. I regretted I couldn’t have shown you before you were taken from us. I shared it with your husband, Alim, but it felt hollow. It was you that believed in me. It was you that helped me. Without you, it felt empty.

            I took my findings and fell back into darkness. I studied and tried to find what I could to make it all worthwhile. I tried to find evidence that would lead me to more. To make everything you did worth more. I had to find more. I had to do more. Until opportunity rose.

            A decade after Gabriel cut me out, he contacted me. He begged me to help find a solution to his wife’s illness. One caused by using a broken miraculous. One that I had warned him could possibly happen. But I still took it. Funding from him again meant new expeditions. I could use what he gave me to make Josephine’s investment in me truly pay off. For me to live up to my dream. To carve my name into history. For me to repay all she did for me.

            I went on expeditions again back to the area of Tibet. Not far from where we discovered the peacock jewel, I discovered the butterfly brooch. I returned with it and shared what it could do. Gabriel was unconvinced until Emilie passed. He grieved for a year. In his grief, he tossed out the peacock brooch that he once kept safe.

            I struck while the iron was hot. I rescued the brooch and brought it home. I repaired the break in it. I worked to restore the brooch and its kwami to how they were detailed in the records of old. All while I convinced Gabriel to use the butterfly. To cause terror and panic to draw out the greatest of jewels used to quell chaos: the Ladybug and the Black Cat.

            I waited, and in time, they came. A young woman with the ladybug and a young man with the black cat. I watched while they battled Gabriel’s pathetic little monsters. All while I learned from the peacock kwami, Duusu. I learned of the past. I documented new records. Added to old ones. I dared not leave anything out. It filled me with a new purpose hearing the woes of the past.

            The kwamis were meant to be gods. They were born from the greatest, Velze. I longed to see Velze in his entirety, but to do so would mean I had to collect all the kwamis. I had to fuse them back together. But if I did, I could undo the destruction of Eden. I could right an ancient wrong. I could usher in a new age. The possibilities were endless.

            Time had come. I bore Duusu and became Mayura. I reveled in the power of him. I lorded it over the meager holders using inhibited jewels. I targeted Adrien to make Gabriel squirm. I destroyed Gabriel’s life as he once destroyed mine. I learned the identities of the holders in time. And to my horror and surprise, Josephine’s daughter, Alix Kubdel, held the ladybug. The ember of Josephine’s legacy.

            I tried to connect. I wanted Alix to see the truth. I wanted her to understand more than anyone. Just as Josephine did, I wanted, needed, Alix to understand. I hoped she did. I hoped more than anything. I just never would find out.

            I convinced the young heroes to go back into time. I convinced them to see the truth in its truest, purest form. I hoped this would help. Maybe it did. But while they learned, I battled. In my possession was five kwamis. Five was all I needed. And the five I made one as I fused them all into a piece of the Amalgamation himself: Velze.

            Haze shrouded my mind. I struggled against the haze as my body moved in wild, erratic ways. I lost pieces of the five and returned to normal. I found the heroes until their black cat, until Adrien, used the power of destruction on Duusu.

            Everything was dark. My body moved. The only thought was my legacy. I didn’t want to die yet. I hadn’t achieved what I wanted. When a maddened thought consumed me. Nathalie Sancoeur would die, lost to the ages with the rest of history. But Mayura would be torched into history.

            In this madness, I consumed Duusu to ascend if only to buy a little more time. When heroes came for their villain, I unleashed everything I had left. I would go out on my terms. I would make history.