#to having an unpredictable aggressive cornered animal living in her house

[lettersiarrange]

7) There may be other dogs around who are dog reactive. Dogs who are afraid of other dogs and see them as potential threats still need to go on walks and aren't necessarily dangerous to humans. A dog owner might be working very hard to get their anti-social dog used to being around other dogs, and all of that progress could be ruined by a "friendly" dog bounding up to another dog who does not see them as a friend.

Everyone else talked about outdoor cats, it's time for me to talk about offleash dogs

[noszkass]

ashley tempest winthrope.

thirty six. defense attorney. jai courtney.

“You’re supposed to grow out of your horridness, aren’t you? I don’t think I ever grew out of mine. Sometimes I think it’s still inside me, like something nasty I swallowed, that got stuck…”

character/content warning: this character will be involved in toxic, co-dependent relationships that deal with abuse and death of a peer/family member (via murder). interact with him at your own risk!

dominant traits. logical, charismatic, gentleman, stoic, focused, patient, selectively affectionate, charming, observant, cautious, possessive, unpredictable, self-preserving, forceful, obsessive, demanding, melancholic, aggressive, irritable, distrusting, unrelenting, loyal, easily jealous, less hair-trigger more berserk button, no-nonsense, quick thinking, dishonest.

fictional parallels. elijah mikaelson (the originals); geralt of rivia (the witcher); henry winter (the secret history); pope cody (animal kingdom); richie gecko (fdtd the series).

○ born into the winthorpe family; known for their successful generational family law practice, as councilmen from neighboring townships, and good for nothin’ criminals who latched onto the teat of a community that’s long-since given up on them like leaches─depending on what side of magnolia it is you live in. ashley’s particular branch is the former. estate house in bellflower boulevard, debutant turned matron belle mother who just can’t seem to find her way around or out of other people’s business (including, if not almost invariably, that of all three of her children), and a certain amount of respectability he was brought up to live by.

○ on the surface ashley winthorpe is a deliciously handsome man. wealthy and put together. takes pride in his appearance and family name. he’s also well-mannered and polite, and thoughtful in such infinitesimal ways that you never really think much of until after the fact. but among the sticky sweet molasses, there is something so very not right about him. he has a kind smile that never quite reaches the edges of his eyes and though it doesn’t necessarily look disingenuous, there’s something about it that doesn’t exactly leave you with a sense of ease. like an unfamiliar gesture that’s been practiced over and over, so many times that it’s lost meaning. like it takes the muscles in his face a moment to pull before they settle in the correct spots. he’ll have a conversation with you and while at times it seems he’s looking right through you, others will have his attention so intensely undivided it feels as if you’ve been bared naked and left in a cold room. like you’ve just been caught lying about something and he knows. like, somehow, he’s known all along. because he listens intently when you speak to him and you suspect somehow he never forgets a single thing he’s heard.

○ there’s no mistaking his booming voice, jarring, even at a whisper sending shockwaves through your core that has you on high alert. even when it’s soft and lulling (in an attempt to offer comfort or catching him melt into the woman he’s declared the love of his goddamn life from the corner of your eye through the crack in his office door), there’s something threatening that looms. less like hard blunt force and more like a living, breathing fog that blankets you with strong arms, settles deep into your gut, coils itself around your innards, and wrings you dry. the confusing part? you know, without a doubt, he would protect you with no hesitation and ask for nothing in return. and, most of the time, you’d be right. because ashley winthorpe is a good man. no matter how your instincts thrash, screaming at you otherwise.

i want to do a very specific group plot with him. probably mostly humans, definitely not for the faint of heart. i'll post it up later!

[luninosity]

Time for the second-to-last @whumptober2020 fic!

This one’s for theme 27 - OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD? for the prompt Power Outage. It’s also a present for a friend, who asked if I could write Leverage OT3 fic for her birthday-present - I’ve never written Leverage fic before, but I do love some good Eliot/Parker/Hardison, so I’ve tried!

#

They’re in the middle of watching Ratatouille, because Parker’s never seen it and Hardison likes Pixar and Eliot can quietly critique animated knife skills in his head but say nothing, when the power goes out. There’s a crash and a boom of thunder and a whip of wind, rain hammering down, and just like that, snap, it’s all dark.

 “Oh man,” Hardison says, “oh, come on, no,” and he’s sitting up and reading for a laptop or two as if that’ll do anything, dislodging their comfortable pile of lounging bodies and blankets and a popcorn bowl flawlessly balanced on Parker’s knee.

 Or he would be disrupting it all, if Eliot hadn’t expected the motion, hadn’t moved in turn, catching the bowl, shifting to redistribute weight and free a blanket. He sets the bowl down as his eyes adjust to the dark; he’s always been good at seeing in it, though of course they’re all three not bad at that. Good at improvising, adapting, new environments.

 Parker, distressed, is on her feet. Even in the dark she’s quick and feline, poised to move. “Who could—”

 “—find us here?” Hardison checks the battery on a phone, sets it down, gets up as well: catching her hands as they move, offering reassurance and being reassured in turn. “Nobody. I swear. This’s our place. I’ve got that taken care of.”

 Their place. Their home: the three of them, when they’d become a them at last. Eliot can shut his eyes and recall with perfect clarity the way Parker and Hardison had shown him around, so excited; the way he’d smiled and tried so hard to be excited for them, for their life together, the happiness they deserved, while he’d known he’d be the one leaving and walking away into the cold, leaving his heart with both of them, knowing they’d never know, and that’d be fine, he could live with that as long as they were happy, he could take anything if—

 He can recall the way they’d each taken one of his hands, and the way they’d leaned in to kiss him, easy as breathing, easy as if it could all be simple, easy if he could believe they had room to spare for him.

 This is your home too, Parker had said, eyes wide, surprised that Eliot hadn’t understood this: we found it for us. And Hardison had reached out and drawn him close, and Eliot had gone willingly, because they wanted him, because he didn’t believe it, because they wanted this here and now and he’ll always say yes even if they’ll look at him in the morning and say that was enough, curiosity satisfied, time to go. He’ll say yes to them even if it kills him.

 He’s somehow still here, three months after that.

 He gets up as well, now, in the dark. Parker’s pacing and irritated; none of her best acrobatic skills are of use here, nothing to steal or dare or leap from. Hardison’s annoyed at the power outage but coping by talking to her and checking all his backups and complaining about the timing and the lack of ability to see.

 That, at least, Eliot can do something about.

 He leaves them to find balance in each other; he has a number of various types of emergency stashes hidden in multiple places around the house, most of which Parker and Hardison know about, some they don’t. He never wants to be unprepared; he never wants to be unable to defend them. He finds candles, real and LED; he finds flashlights, and battery packs, and, after a moment’s thought, some chocolate.

 He catches them both looking at him, and then at each other, when he comes back into the living room; he says nothing—no need; he doesn’t need comfort, he’s just fine if they’re also fine—and only starts setting out candles, lighting them, turning them on if they’re artificial.

 Light blooms through the darkness. From tabletops, shelves, the fireplace, kitchen counters. In white and gold, honey and amber, warm and soft and clear and bright: shades of illumination sweep out and curve into quiet safe globes and spheres. They push back the dark, befriend it, share the night: layers of luminosity, brighter and dimmer, overlapping.

 He sets out a few battery packs in case Hardison needs them. He crosses over to them, or a few steps away, and offers the box. “Here.”

 Parker takes it. Opens it. “Magic chocolate! You found it in the dark!” The small shiny truffles beam up, bathed in candlelight.

 “When’d you buy chocolate?” Hardison takes one. His eyebrows go up. “You got the good kind, too.”

 “Made,” Eliot says, not offended but with an odd little feeling in his chest, a pang that’s not really hurt. “A while ago. Just practicing. There’s some with orange zest, some with pink pepper, some with walnut cream.”

 Hardison looks at him for a minute. Light caresses his cheekbone, the side of his face, the tilt of his head; Eliot wants to touch him. That’s just a want, though, no practical reason; no invitation, anyway.

 In defiance of the want, he says, “I can make a fire, too. If it’s gonna get cold. No telling how long it’ll be out.”

 Parker licks chocolate from a fingertip and looks up. “He didn’t mean he thought you didn’t know how to make chocolate. He meant these are really good.”

 “I know,” Eliot says.

 “Eliot,” Hardison says.

 “I can get more blankets,” Eliot says, “too.”

 “Come here,” Hardison says, and that’s somewhere between an order and a joke, the kind of flippant banter they toss back and forth without thinking; but it’s also the tone that means this is important, you need to listen, something might blow up if you don’t, so Eliot finds himself taking a step that way without thinking, because he trusts Hardison and Parker without hesitation, no matter what might explode.

 Rain drums across the world, over rooftops and streets and balconies. Eliot’s never liked fighting in rain. Too slippery. Unpredictable.

 It’s not bad, sometimes, for concealment. The noisy sheets of water can hide sound and motion, and that can be an advantage. Of course, it’s an advantage for the other side, too.

 Hardison puts an arm around him, folds him in close. The gesture’s fluid, natural, no hesitation about affection. Eliot leans into it because he can’t not, just for a second.

 He’s allowed that much. They’re all comfortable with each other; they have to be, in the field, and they relax that way as well.

 On the couch. In the bed. Because he’s somehow been invited in, touched and kissed and made to feel pleasure, because they asked.

 Someday they’ll stop asking, stop wanting. He gets that. He understands. He won’t ask for anything more than they give.

 But here and now the world’s full of mingled light and dark, and Hardison’s body’s solid and strong and firm, and so Eliot does let himself lean in, a moment like the balance of candlegleam and shadow, suspended between realities. He’s cared for them, the people he loves. He’s found them light and warmth and sugar. That’s all he needs, really. He’s good, knowing that.

 “Eliot,” Hardison says again, and sighs. He’s tipped his head to rest against Eliot’s; his breath brushes Eliot’s hair. “I can hear you thinking about what else you can do.”

 “Someone’s gotta be the competent one,” Eliot mutters. The joke’s half-hearted, and they all let it go.

 Parker slips up on his other side and puts an arm around his waist and one around Hardison’s, which means they’re all now randomly standing in the living room holding each other. Eliot should move, should go check a circuit breaker or make that fire or keep a guard on a window in case this wasn’t a random outage. He doesn’t need comforting.

 He doesn’t move.

 The rain pounds harder over glass windowpanes and roof-tiles and the wood of the balcony railing.

 “We know you love us,” Parker says, eyes all earnest, face all honest. She doesn’t hide from saying it, blunt as ever. “Why don’t you know it? About us?”

 “Because it’s tough.” It’s Hardison who answers, hand touching Eliot’s face, cupping Eliot’s cheek; and Eliot should run, should back away, should take himself out of this circle of affection before he breaks it with clumsy strength and fists and brute force…

 He still doesn’t move.

 “We love you.” Hardison uses the hand to tip Eliot’s face up, and kisses him: a kiss like security, like certainty, like commitment to a plan. The kiss tastes like chocolate and oranges, and Hardison’s mouth’s warm and commanding, not aggressive but confident in the claiming. Eliot does not tremble, because he doesn’t, but it’s so close to everything he wants, too close to fracture-points and breaking joints—

 Hardison draws back. Searches his face. “Eliot, we love you because you’re you. Because you’re the one who always has our backs—”

 “Or our fronts!” Parker adds brightly. “Or our sides, or—”

 “—and you jump in and fight for us, you take hits for us, over and over. And then you come home when we ask, and you find candles when we’re both busy complaining.” Hardison touches Eliot’s mouth, this time. “You know you don’t have to earn it, right?”

 “I’m just here,” Eliot says. “I’m just trying to make everything, y’know, good. What I do. Hit things, fix things, cook things.” Hardison’s fingertip’s distracting. It taps him on the nose, almost a scolding, then brushes his cheekbone, the spot where his eyelashes land when he blinks, the corner of his eye. He absolutely does not want to cry, to beg for more touches, to ask for more words that hold promises.

 “Sometimes, yeah. You do all those things. You do them all for us.” Hardison glances over. “Parker, help me out here.”

 She bounces up to kiss him, swift as a sparrow. Then says, “Tripods are more stable.”

 Eliot blinks. Considers this.

 “Wouldn’t work as well without you,” Hardison contributes. “All three legs. Holding us up. It’s not the two of us plus you, it’s all three of us. Otherwise we’d tip over.”

 Parker makes a gesture that Eliot guesses is meant to illustrate a loss of balance, and agrees, “Boom.”

 “So you get it,” Hardison finishes. “We love you. And you love us. Here, have one of your awesome chocolate things.”

 Eliot starts to protest. Finds himself being hand-fed a truffle, because Hardison’s still holding the box.

 It’s pretty good, he has to admit.

 “Okay,” Hardison says, “come on,” and walks them all back to the couch, and gets them arranged: Eliot squarely in the middle, lying down, being cuddled by them both. He could fight, could resist, could use physical hard-won training to remove himself from the spot.

 They drape arms and legs and body weight over and around him. It’s nice. Grounding. Tangible. His heartbeat steadies. His toes feel warm.

 He dares to wrap an arm around Parker, to hold Hardison a little closer, in turn.

 “Yeah.” Hardison sounds pleased. “Like that. We got you, okay? You don’t have to do anything. You let us do this, right now.”

 “You’re our Eliot,” Parker says, and feeds him another chocolate. This one’s got a hint of pepper, smoky and sweet, and it leaves heat and sugar in his mouth. In his gut. In his chest. A pooling glow.

 The couch is large and sturdy and doesn’t mind holding all three of them as they tangle themselves together. The rain purrs and leaps, cleansing the night. The power might be out for a while, but they’ve got candles, and back-up generators, and batteries, and blankets, and each other.

 They do have each other. Eliot has them, and Parker and Hardison have him too, and so maybe, maybe—

 This can work.

 Tripods are stable, after all.

 He has to clear his throat. “Wouldn’t, um. Wouldn’t want you to tip over. Without me.”

 Parker’s hand strokes his hair. “You won’t let us.”

 “I won’t,” Eliot tells her, tells them. “Never. I’d catch you.”

 “Yep.” Hardison slides a hand under Eliot’s shirt, resting over his stomach, skin to skin. It’s not sexual, not now, at least. Only intimate. Purely present. Feels good there. “We know you would. So let us catch you, too, all right?”

 It’s hard but it’s also simple, effortless, a choice that’s not one. This is right; this feels right. Eliot knows about instincts. And he believes—beyond any doubt—that these two, his partners, will catch him.

 So that’s the answer. It’s the only possible answer. It’s a loosening, an acceptance, sweet as adrenaline and relief. He starts to say, “Yeah,” and barely gets the first sound out before Parker kisses him, and then Hardison kisses him, and together they taste like chocolate and warmth and balance, held secure between the couch and their bodies and golden light and falling rain.

[mwolf0epsilon]

A story of Sammy stumbling upon siren head?

Summary: The studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world.

---

[[MORE]]

Freedom had come with a lot of existential dread and lingering doubts. It hadn't been the oh so sweet respite that everyone had coveted so much, not when they were still abominable creatures made of cursed ink (and in some cases machinery). Still, for all that they'd worried, Henry had pulled through and prevailed.

He'd not only gifted them their salvation from Joey's nightmarish dream, but also offered them a way to live unafraid in a world they no longer belonged in. He gave them a house, food, clothes, a life worth living.

Never once did he ask for anything in return. A true loyal and kind friend to those who desperately needed such a charitable heart.

"You don't need to repay me. I'm only doing what's right, and besides I got that house after my uncle died... It never really felt right to move out of town with Linda and the girls, and I never knew what I was going to do with it." He'd humbly dismissed any offers to repay his kindness. "You all need a safe place where you can recover and slowly reacquaint with normalcy without anyone judging or fearing you. The location is perfect."

And it was. An isolated corner of a vast forest, with nearly no signs of civilization. Easy for Henry to check up on them since he knew where to go to reach it, but out of the way enough that not even hikers came by often.

It helped that it had a bit of a... Dark reputation. Missing cases, strange sightings, and creepy sounds in the night. A deterrent for sane people with a yellow streak.

For someone like Susie and Allison who looked human enough to pass off as such if provided with an appropriate disguise, it was a bit of a hassle. Grocery shopping (when they were in the mood to be seen by the oblivious folk in the nearest town) took longer due to such a long trek.

For others like Tom and Buddy who were living cartoon characters it was a more comfortable experience. They could go out and feel the sun upon their skin without fear of what may happen if they were spotted.

And then lastly, for beings like Sammy, the Searchers, Butcher Gang, and for Norman, it was both a stark reminder of their inhumanity, and a blissful respite from the crippling dissonant thoughts that made them oh so prone to violent outbursts.

In the woods there was no one they could hurt if they lost their senses (which was not as common a thing as it once was, but still something the Projectionist suffered with on the regular). In the woods there was peaceful silence where they could wade through the madness and regain their footing. In the woods they could almost be their former selves.

Granted this was a double-edged sword on one regard: The Projectionist tended to wander far and not recall how to come back.

If Norman ended up somehow stumbling back into society, there would be trouble. Which is why Sammy was assigned to follow him every time he felt like going for one of his "little walks".

At first the once-music director had scoffed and been incredibly annoyed at being saddled with such a responsibility. He was not in a capacity to look after himself, much less a 7, nearly 8, foot tall half-ink half-machine man that could easily render him into ribbons if he set him off. Norman's transition from coherent sentient thoughts to downright feral and highly aggressive behaviour was too unpredictable for someone who's memories tended to evade him easily.

But then, as pointed out by Allison, Susie wouldn't be able to calm him because she knew neither sign language nor Morse code (which he'd learned specifically from Norman when he was still human just for fun), and Allison herself was not overly close to him so her presence would only distress him further.

When he'd still tried to refuse, Tom had resorted to threats which he'd returned in kind. In the end it was the pleading looks of both Jack and the rest of the band that got him to relent. But not before barking at them to never say he wasn't a charitable and patient man (things he really wasn't, considering his short fuse and unwillingness to socialize when he was in a particularly sour mood).

Once he'd committed to the task, Sammy found that the sounds of nature soothed him. Watching after the Projectionist wasn't too bad either, as he thought the large monstrosity looked quite happy as it wandered aimlessly, occasionally looking up at the expanse of darkening skies. Sunsets seemed to spark something more human in Norman. Got him to sign more and sometimes vocalize his words (as painfully gritting to the ear as that may be). It reminded Sammy of... Of times long past. Ones where he'd consider this brute as a bright and very accommodating (if not a little annoying at times) friend.

A friend he dearly missed even, for no matter how much they tried, Norman would never go back to being who he was before the studio chewed him up and spat him back out as something some would consider a dubiously smart animal.

The peace also sparked something in Sammy himself. It made him feel more grounded, more like himself, to the point where his form would shift accordingly. Because their bodies were reacting to their slow recoveries.

Over time a few Searchers had slowly become Lost Ones, and a few Lost Ones had begun transitioning into human forms. There was always something a little off and cartoonish about them, but it was progress nontheless. People were remembering who they once we're, and that was more than they'd ever accomplished in that hellhole.

Sammy sometimes could see his true face reflected back by a puddle or larger body of water, but it was a fleeting thing.

At times he could even feel his unruly curls brushing against his neck and shoulders, but they weren't the dirty blond he'd remembered. They were an inky black that upset him slightly, but better than the shiny bald head he'd had for so many years. Less saddening than the yellow glow of eyes that should have been a soft hazel, and much less startling than the sharpness of his teeth. Somehow he always got the nose right, which was adding salt to injury considering he couldn't regenerate his pinkies.

The Projectionist's walks were moments of introspection. Ones where he was sure he'd be able to get his true form back, even if slightly altered.

So imagine his annoyance when one such moment was marred by his selfish distraction...

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd lost sight of Norman, or for how long he'd spaced out just staring at his reconstituted face on the nearest reflective surface, but the moment he noted just how dark it was Sammy knew he'd fucked up.

They'd been wandering for hours and he'd been so absentmindedly worrying over faded memories that he'd just let the Projectionist wander off to the nearest flower patch to marvel at all the pretty colors (prettier than old sepia and inky tones that had made their horrid existence oh so much duller). He'd gotten so stuck in his own head that he'd never noticed his charge moving off to explore further and further into uncharted territory.

They'd never gotten so close to the mountains, and now? Now Sammy was sure he'd never be able to find the Projectionist again. He'd failed Norman.

Something which he absolutely refused to let happen. If not out of pride, then out of shame. He'd rather die than return to the others without Polk in tow, knowing they'd add it to the list of things that made him a genuinely horrid person (aside from ritualistic murder and allowing Joey to manipulate him to the point of idolizing a false god). That wouldn't do.

Sammy wouldn't be able to live with the scorn. So he trekked further to where he assumed the hulking ink creature had gone.

Henry had told them stories. The ones about the people going missing. Freaky tales that had unseen horrors lurking amidst the trees and skulking in shadows. One such creature he seeked (for the Projectionist had become one of these fabled cryptids just by being an out of place being in the woods), but the others he'd heard of, although fabricated, were mysterious and spooky to him.

Having such shluck looping in the forefront of his mind like a bad film reel was troublesome. It made him hesitant the moment he heard anything that sounded out of place.

Steeling his nerves was hard. Despite being made of ink, his heart was very much still human, so he felt instinctively fearful of the unknown. Those silly stories were genuinely scaring him and he resented Henry for being such a good narrator.

With every step further into the mountainside he hoped to see the light of Norman's lens, and hear the clicking of the projector he had for a head.

He was not expecting to hear... What sounded like an emergency broadcast.

It was so sudden and confusing that it made the ex-music director pause in his tracks. An echoing call that spanned miles, like it was being projected from up high.

Looking around his surroundings he saw nothing out of place. Just rows upon rows of trees and a watch tower in the distance further up north.

Turning his head more slowly yielded the same results. Nothing that could broadcast that loudly in sight... Until he saw it...

At first glance it looked like an old siren. Rough and weathered, rusty looking from a distance. Very strange to be found this far away from civilization. But then he really took the time to stare at it. Noted just how off the towering thing was, and then realized... Those sirens hadn't any speakers. They had teeth.

As soon as his mind picked up on this very fact, he saw everything else. And then, before he could exclaim in terror, he was up in the air held in a massive far-too-human-looking hand, and being pulled closer to said teeth.

Sammy screamed as he felt the pain of being bitten into, upper torso pulled into this nightmarish thing's eager maw, only to then be unceremoniously spat out and tossed on the ground. The shock and pain made him deconstruct into a puddle and, to then aggravate the issue further, the beast stepped down on him as if insulted by the vile taste of ink.

Sammy didn't much care. He lost consciousness soon after.

When Sammy came to, the sun was rising. He was groggy from the pain and confusion of being violently assaulted by something straight out of a Lovecraftian novel, and the intense light washing over his eyes didn't help.

Wait... Light?

Blinking away inky tears, Sammy found Norman staring down at him with a posture that read clearly of concern. The poor thing had likely found Sammy's puddle form and been fretting ever since.

The composer thanked whatever god was out there that the monster that attacked him hadn't found the Projectionist. He wouldn't have had the sense to run.

"H-home. Let's go home..." He whimpered weakly, despite the creature before him being deaf and unable to read his lips properly considering he currently had none. The pitiful look of him must have clued the bigger ink being, however, as Norman scooped him up with ease and began the trek back. Sammy directed him, mostly through pointing when he seemed unsure, all the while keeping an eye for that... Siren-Head thing that thankfully found him too disgusting to consume.

The one perk of his abominable state...

Needless to say, they were never coming back to these parts. Not as long as he allowed it. Some things were better off left undisturbed.

Because, as it turned out, the studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world...

[slayxwolf]

Draco Malfoy Series- Young Gods

Masterlist

Author’s Note: This Draco Malfoy series will be set from the third book onwards because I don't want to write about actual 11 year old children. This series is based around a quotev story I wrote when I was like 13 and it was fucking cringey, but the concept was good. Let me know if I should continue it.

Word Count: 2,128

‘Necromancy, a branch of dark magic that has never truly worked. It is the art of bringing back the dead, through connecting ones spirit to the body of the deceased. No known individual is thought to have successfully-’. Before you could finish that sentence, the Neanderthal you knew as Goyle grabbed the book out of your hand and sat opposite you. “Can you actually read that, or do the word just look pretty?” you flashed a fake smile. He grunted and threw the book back over to you.

You possessed many Slytherin traits to say the least, you were cunning, ambitious, resourceful and a natural born leader. You just didn't share their temperament. You were popular amongst all the houses, who's prejudice towards Slytherin did not extend to you. However, they would be naïve to underestimate you. Y/n was always known to be respected but feared.

“Does Dumbledore know you’ve been stealing books from the restricted section?” Pansy spoke, sitting down beside Goyle. “Do you ever have a day off? Or is your nose just permanently up my ass?” you questioned. “Why do you want to read about that shit anyway, it’s a made up branch of magic” she brushed off. Before you could provide another sarcastic comment, Draco Malfoy strolled into the common room. 

Since your first day at Hogwarts, Pansy voluntarily took the role as your ‘frenemy’. Although she spent most of her time trying to ruin your life, it would be unfair to say she wasn't sometimes there for you. Maybe once a year. And she wasn't always an incorrect airhead, but on this occasion she was. You knew necromancy wasn't fake or unsuccessful. You were nine the first time it happened, when the pet cat you buried walked into your room hours later. You couldn't always control it, and you certainly weren't powerful enough to raise anything other than an animal. You also knew you couldn't tell anyone, you’d be used as a tool by the ministry, or scouted by Voldemort’s followers. So yeah, a complicated life.

“Why are you smirking?” you breathed. God he got under your skin. “Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban, my guess is he’s coming here to finally get rid of Potter” he beamed. They all laughed but you knew Draco didn't mean half the things he said, his smiles would never reach his eyes. “Anyway, I came here to talk to Y/n” he told. “Well no one’s stopping you” Pansy retort. You laughed and rolled your eyes at her obvious jealousy. They eventually got the message and walked off, probably to meet Crabbe, who rarely left the great hall. “What do you want now?” you smiled half falsely, half not. “So I checked and the book you want is in the library at the manor” he began. “But-” you knew they’d be a catch to his generosity. “But I need you to help me make someone jealous, and once she admits she’s into me, I’ll give you the stupid book” your heart sank just a little when you heard that one. You weren't in love with him or anything and in no way did you want to be with him, you just also didn't want him to be with anyone else. “Who?” you looked at your nails like you weren't interested. “Daphne Greengrass”. Oh great, now you’ll have to put up with two Pansys. “How exactly are we going to make her jealous?”.

-

“So is it true?” you heard someone ask as they sat next to you. “Ron let the girl finish her breakfast at least!” Hermione hit him with her rolled up newspaper. “Is what true?” Neville asked for you, also joining the table. “That Y/n is dating Malfoy” Seamus answered. You chocked slightly on your drink, it had been all of a day since Draco even asked you to be his fake girlfriend. “No I’m really not” is what you wanted to say. “Yeah I guess” is what you actually said. “He’s a complete tool”, “You’re too good for him”, “Pure-blood racist”, “He’s just using you”, are some of the things they began saying to you all at once. Which had quite the opposite to their desired effect. “I think you forget that I’m a Slytherin too and until you, and all of the other Gryffindors get off your moral high ground, you can shove your prejudice up-”  you began, while standing up. “Y/n we didn't mean-” Hermione interrupted, but you were already walking off. “Just give her some time” Ron spoke, as he started eating your unfinished breakfast. Why the fuck were you so defensive, yes it was your reputation on the line considering how unpredictable Draco was, but he did make you friend’s lives a living hell.

-

“I’m sorry” you said in unison, sitting next to Hermione in your Defence Against the Dark Arts class. “I over-reacted”, “I shouldn't have said what I did” you spoke at the same time again. You both gave a small laugh, before Snape burst in to teach the lesson. He spent most of it rambling about werewolves and having arguments with Hermione. Draco spent most of it trying to annoy Harry. You spent most of it trying not to fall asleep. You turned to see Draco smiling at you, well it was more of a smirk. You mouthed a semi-aggressive ‘what’ over to him. That's when he blew a paper bird over to you. You raised your eyebrows at him, before opening it. ‘You look cute when you're pretending to give a shit’. You shook your head and smiled. Such an idiot. From the corner of your eye you saw Daphne leaning over to read what it said. You turned around to the desk behind and showed her the note, “How sweet” you cooed falsely. You then turned back around smiling after seeing her flustered face, you noticed Draco was doing the same.

-

“We took her shoes again and she’s walking around barefoot, looking for Nargles” Millicent Bulstrode laughed, with some of the other girls in your dorm. “Loony Lovegood, that's for sure” Daphne joined in. “Give the girl a fucking break” you sat up on your bed. “Here she goes” Pansy mumbled. If anything you felt sorry for Pansy, it must be hard being that weak minded. “Why do you care” Daphne remarked, rather than asked. “Her mom died and she has no friends, give it a rest” you spoke. “I have no idea why you were placed in Slytherin. You can be a bitch, I’ll give you that. But I recon you asked, you already disgrace your parents by being a blood-traitor, but they would kick you out if you weren't a Slytherin, wouldn't they” Daphne smirked. Did she really think that was a good idea. “You seem to know a lot about my family, but I guess I know a lot about yours too. Like the blood curse that shortens the life of anyone in your family that inherits it. I bet your scared in case it’s you, or maybe your little sister-” you walked over to face her. She looked around the room, noticing the shocked faces of her ‘friends’, who were concealing their smirks. “You’re going to regret that” she claimed, trying so hard to keep her composure. You smiled and turned around, before going to leave your dorm room. “Everyone’s talking about you. Everyone knows you gave it up to Draco. Everyone knows he’s just using you because you’re easy!” she shouted. Fuck magic. You turned around and punched her in the face, causing the Slytherin girls to cheer, before storming out. “There’s the real Y/n, you’re just as fucked as the rest of us” Daphne called out, while holding her bleeding nose.

You stormed through the common room. It would be normal for anyone to feel, what you were feeling in that moment. But the tie you had to necromancy turned you cold when you felt too much. “Y/n has gone off” Blaise smirked, nudging Goyle’s arm. Pretty much the whole of your house heard what happened. You slammed the door open and began walking through the castle corridor. “Woah, Y/n” Draco grabbed your arm, he actually looked concerned for once. He was on his way back from seeing Snape, he missed everything that had just happened. “Fuck you” you pointed at him, there was emotion in your voice but not on your face. You brushed him off and carried on walking. That’s what you get for doing him a favour. Who were you kidding? He was no different to the rest of them.

The black lake was always your favourite place to be at Hogwarts. The water gave you clarity. You could also raise the spirits of animas, that had died within it, they appeared in illuminated forms, floating and bouncing around the surface. For anyone unfamiliar, they could be mistaken for patronuses. You were there for a while, letting yourself calm down. That was until you heard someone clear their throat behind you. The spirts you raised dropped and vanished within the water. “Miss Y/l/n” it was Dumbledore. “That wasn't-” you began to excuse, not knowing exactly how you were going to explain. “I am quite aware of your ability, which is a discussion we will need to have at a later date” he claimed. You bit your lip and nod gently. “I came here because a Slytherin student has been taken to the infirmary with a broken nose” he continued. Shit. “So when should I pack my bags?” you asked, looking up at him. “There will be no need. I came to give you advice. You will make friends for life during your time at Hogwarts, but there will come a point when you will have to choose a side. Pick wisely Y/n” he simply spoke, before walking away. “Choose a side for what?” you called, receiving nothing but a “Goodnight”. 

-

“I’ll have Harry- I’ll be okay” you hugged Hermione at the castle gate. “Don't get into trouble without us” Ron smiled, also giving you a hug. You waved them goodbye, as they joined the majority of other students leaving for Christmas break. “Why aren't you going home?” Harry asked, placing his arm around you. You watched with a smile as Hermione and Ron argued the whole way, until they were no longer in sight. “My parents need to make amends with the Greengrass family and don't want me in the way, you know because of the whole incident” you shrugged. Harry had always sympathised with you, although he didn't have any parents he knew they loved him, it was evident you couldn't say the same. “On the bright side, Ron wont be around to eat everyone’s chicken legs” you both laughed, before walking back into the castle.

It was just you, and one other person in the Slytherin common room that night. It was a 6th year, apparently he hadn't seen his family since he was sorted, something to do with everyone being Ravenclaws. But then again Millicent told you that, and she was an idiot. At least it was quiet. You sat by the fire for most of the night and finished reading the book you stole. It was useless. You slammed it down and breathed, maybe you’d never be able to understand your ‘ability’. You felt someone sit beside you. “You do know Daphne goes home every break” you remarked, not even looking at him. “Well I didn't stay for her” he replied. “I didn't know you were capable of feeling guilt” you went to get up but he grabbed your arm. “I know what she told you and I never said that” you knew when he was lying, and he wasn't. He loosened his grip and you relaxed. “I’d never spread rumours about you Y/n, especially ones that aren't true. I guess she got jealous and wanted to hurt you” he explained. “You got your wish then, congratulations” you looked at him and smiled, but it wasn't genuine. “She’s not the person I was trying to- Anyway, I got the book you wanted mailed to me” he handed it to you. “It was written by a wizard that lost his mind, thinking he could see his dead wife” he told. He must have done his research. “I know exactly what it is, thankyou” you sighed in relief, maybe this one would help. Draco was born into a legacy, and destined to inherit the grief his father had created. But you knew he deserved better, he wasn't like the others. “So who was you trying to make jealous?” you questioned, knowing he didn't want to tell you. He smiled and pat you on the shoulder, before getting up and walking away. Deep down you knew the answer.

If I should continue this, comment or tell me in my inbox. Hope you enjoyed x

[maggotmouth]

      yo, it’s nora ( gmt, she/her) i’m back on my bullshit. sorry for dropping finn and cecily i jst.... wasn’t feelin very in their headspace. 

anyway bridget matusiak is a certified mess™ so have fun with that, she is an angry queer punk(?) maybe altho her identity …. i guess like everyone’s …. is very fluid…. she is very fickle and prone to change….. very impulsive and acts how she feels in the moment a lot i guess….. but also very grounded in her morals and ethics. film nerd. works at bowling alley. shakes hands. says “roger that”. yet somehow very cool™ and hip™. anyway like this or message me for plots. here’s a pinboard if u think those are groovy.

( nora. 23. gmt. she/her. ) it might be HER SOPHOMORE year but I still think BRIDGET MATUSIAK looks exactly like MARGARET QUALLEY and sometimes I think the FEMALE is actually them. Of course I’m wrong, as they're TWENTY and studying FILM while living in AUDAX here at Lockwood. The ARIES can be rather CANDID and GARRULOUS, but also kind of FICKLE and ERRATIC. Their most played song on Spotify was NOBODY REALLY CARES IF YOU DON’T GO TO THE PARTY by COURTNEY BARNETT, so I think that says a lot. 

bridget n her mum alice were more like sisters growing up, probably because of the closeness in age. alice should’ve known that you couldn’t have a thirteen-year-old-daughter at 27 without everyone knowing you’d been one of those girls who gave it away fast as a hot potato, and maybe bridget should have known that she’d inherit more than her mother’s wide eyes, that things had a way of circling back, that at fourteen she too would lose it on the floor of a swimming pool changing room, soggy back, poka-dot nylon pulled down to her ankles. 

her parents met in high school. her mother alice was a roman catholic -- uneducated in matters of safe sex, mother mary around her neck, bras hanging over wooden crucifixes -- and willing to give it to the first boy who seemed interested enough, gift-wrapped or not. 

i say they met in high school, bridget’s dad wasn’t actually in school, they met at the high school. he was the father to a girl down the road. alice knew nothing of the girl besides her name and the few encounters in the corridors facing a stoney stare that screamed homewrecker. it only happened once, but once was enough. soon the pitter patter of tiny feet sounded along the hall of the home for wayward women, alice’s parents having thrown her out as soon as they knew a child was growing in her womb.

gilly (referred to as junior) was born two years later, the son of a mechanic and handyman named gilbert “gilly” senior, who - while a slow-witted man -- was likable enough. alice, gilly bridget & junior lived in a colorado trailer park and whenever she wasn’t at school bridget would be in gilly’s workshop doin her homework surrounded by parts of exhausts.  was raised in a workshop basically.

like her mother, bridget fell pregnant barely out of her gingham print dresses, hair in two plaits down her back, teddies still lining her bed. unlike her mum, she was not box-shipped out to a home for fallen women but rather booked into a clinic, given a pill, just like taking your vitamins.

her mother flaked out when bridget was around fifteen and junior was twelve, leaving gil to adopt the two as legal guardian and raise them in the forge. she’s lived with gilly ever since. they’re not sure where their mother went. some say she rededicaed herself as a virgin and joined the convent in penance for her sins. some say she works in a las vegas strip club and sells pills to minors. 

a withdrawn child, bridget was selectively mute for 2 years (so girl has perseverance) n during that time her diary became her best friend. when she went mute she communicated exclusively through passive aggressive post it notes.

she’s a strident feminist, an activist for human rights and animal rights, a vocal vegetarian and an all-round soapbox sadie. catch her in the quad shouting about human rights through a megaphone.

aesthetic: cuffed jeans, thrifted or stolen. white converse, more grey tbh through years of wear. crop tops and plaid shirts tied round her waist. a long green trench coat with loads of badge pins for alt-rock bands and independent films. red denim jacket, also covered in badges n pins. smudged mascara. glitter smeared over cheekbones from the previous night. cigarette smoke shrouding you like a veil, the red string of a thong peaking out purposely from jeans, roller blades, cut knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your dad wouldn’t take you, kate moss posters lining the walls of a teenage bedroom, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

an aspiring screenwriter. she has a very image-based view of memory and experience. always doing a screenplay or shooting film. her style has a lot of catholic iconography (think virgin suicides styler or baz luhrmann’s romeo + juliet if it was done on a super 8 camera) bcos catholicism is one of the few things she remembers about her mother. she’s never actually tried to find her mum / find out about her, jst…. occasionlly channels that energy into her work.

hypersexual and kinda manic-deppressive (though not diagnosed) probs bcos her upbringing was a bit unstable, she started life in a house that was literally designed to rehabilitate “fallen women” and she was a looked after child for a while when the adoption papers were still going through... struggles a lot with feeling unwanted, especially since her grandparesnts refuse to acknowledge her existence cos she was born outside of marriage..... so she craves feeling wanted,, like despite being a real women’s rights activist ad hating objectification, at the same time to bridge there’s nothing better than someone sizing you up with hunger in their eyes

she’s queer, but i guess she favours women, and is incredibly vocal in her support of the lgbt+ movement. often at ralleys. has done a face-sitting protest. really is that bitch

there’s a degree of anger for anger’s sake in bridget. she likes passionate, angry music – particularly garage rock, punk and riot grrrl. she loves the slits and skinny girl diet. viv albertine inspired her to take up bass guitar.

working two jobs to pay for uni currently !! works at the bowling alley polishing the shpes and fixing the bowling lanes, and also is a burger flipper at mcdonalds. a lot of her time is spent in the record store, plugged into a set of headphones, head-banging in the corner to a scratched record. music, for birdie, is a form of escapism. that and dropping acid in parking lots lmao.

massive film buff. is majoring in film at uni also spends a lot of time at the movie theatre n probably has like a season ticket. is one of those pretentious film nerds who’s like “what do u think of goddard’s work?” but also just really into shitty horror movies

she spends her evenings in downtown bars willing away her boredom, trying to find something that’ll jerk her out of apathetic lethargy. she toys with the idea of becoming a stripper — it certainly pays better than fixing bowling lanes — but she lacks the energy to dance for several hours a night. 

she loves b movies and slasher flicks. at parties, she’ll occasionally try to make a horror of her own, on a super 8 camera in someone’s basement, very paranormal activity, but she’ll inevitably get bored, or too drunk and give up, like she does with most things in her life. she lacks drive and motivation. she’s bright but there’s no hunger in her.

writes shitty poems on the back of napkins and quotes dead philosophers she’s never read. romanticises herself a lot. like will be standing there in a ripped t-shirt and her undies smoking a cig like “hmmm… i bet someone is falling in love with me right now”

is vegetarian for environmental reasons but snorts coke at parties ?? sis, it don’t add up

loves dirt. ate a worm once because someone dared her too. shamelessly disgusting.

she’s slightly obsessed with true crime, up late watching documentaries on the manson family murders.

she’s fickle and enigmatic. one moment she could be your best friend, the next, she’ll behave like a total stranger. bridget’s unpredictable because she’s still unsure of her own identity, frequently flitting between different characters, like snake skins, before she grows bored of being bubbly and eager and becomes spiteful again. her core personality traits are probably forthright, impulsive, restless, thrill-seeking, selfish, melancholic.

an awful person, really

feel free to im me if u wanna plot, here are some plot ideas i stole, or, like this post and i’ll hit u with a message!

[southboundhqarchive]

MEET DORIAN,

FULL NAME › Dorian Jace Young AGE › twenty eight GENDER › Cis female (She/Her/Hers) FROM › Cape Town, South Africa RESIDENCE › Silver Spurs Tenement (Midtown) OCCUPATION › mechanic at Chuy’s Auto Service, car thief, joy rider, con woman NOW PLAYING › You Should See Me In A Crown by Billie Eilish

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: rape reference, murder, substance abuse

Dorian was born to have a gun in her hand, and she gets that from her daddy. She looks just as at home with a knife at her thigh, sharp as the words from her tongue and she got that from her mama.  A short fuse temper and an aggression issue a mile wide; a wild animal forged on the streets of Cape Town and a casual cruelty learnt from the crooked lap of her deadbeat dad. Lars was a man yet to find a law he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, break - a novel of scars across his body for every single one. Not to say that he was an ugly, unlovable criminal, but there was nothing about his hard edges that screamed caring. It didn’t stop Eliza Young from falling in love one hot summer night, so enamored with his sweet words and charming smile - because oh, this young man from the streets was ever so handsome, ever so kind to dear Eliza. He promised a life away from the overbearing family of her hometown, he just didn’t say they’d be breaking the law to do it ( not once did her mother complain, in all those honeymoon years ).

They weren’t poor, actually lead quite comfortable lives at first siphoning off the money from the Youngs with forged cheques and transfer of money to secret bank accounts, until they were caught and Eliza disinherited. If there was one thing they ever did for their daughter, it was that act of mercy. They didn’t press charges, didn’t ask for the money back, simply told her never to darken their doorstep again ( whispers between themselves that even if she came running back crying over the no-good man who’d stolen her heart, the doors would be forever closed ). So they weren’t poor, for a while, but Lars was a drinking man, a gambling man both in sketchy casinos and in illicit business deals, neither of which ever fell in his favor. They weren’t destitute, but it was close, by the time Eliza admitted to her dark horse of a boyfriend that she was pregnant. Barely nineteen, close to living on the streets or in some back alley dump, and a baby on the way.

Lars’ behavior didn’t change, and that was a blessing and a curse. He showed no extra interest in the child now growing, nor did he suddenly abandon them to their fate. In fact, it was almost the kick he needed. He was a crook by trade and now the pressure of making money for a family they were both ill-prepared to handle made him seek out his old contacts. Nary a house went untouched on the rich strip of mansions littering the country. They stole and they destroyed priceless pieces of art for the sake of it, jacked cars and sold them on the black market for thousands. Schemes and get rich quick cons up his sleeve, there wasn’t a single criminal stone unturned in his attempts to raise a nest egg. Some he blew on drink, like he had all those months before, the rest snuck into those illicit accounts. ( they’re in Eliza’s name; a gift from her charming beau, and one that saves their lives in the end ).

Eliza gives birth with little fanfare, nothing remarkable about the small town community hospital that delivers Dorian Jace Young, except the offhand comment from a medicine woman in the adjoining room. ( a devil has been born; a child with nothing but fire in her heart ). Lars is not there, he isn’t for a long time, but the money still flows toward his girls back home. Dorian grows, she is quiet and well-mannered for her sweet mother, never makes a fuss even when they must move house again and again to avoid suspicion. Her daddy is a wanted man, Eliza tells her, but he loves us. He loves us. Dorian is a hellion when left unsupervised. The other kids she is exposed to are rarely seen again, parents concerned by the cries of their babes and all the while she smiles like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. An angel faced babe, they’d say, but avoid her all the same - though she never grew lonely.

Lars returns one winter, several years later, and is surprised by how big his girl has grown. He loves her, instantly, and always has, something in her calls to him. Paternal instincts, he says to his friends at the bar that night ( a demon call, they say back and jeer over spilt spirits ). In Dorian’s tiny hands and tiny frame and delicate features, her father saw an opportunity. An adorable distraction for his marks - his daughter would cry crocodile tears, beg the kind, rich lady and her husband to help her find her mama. She’s lost, she’s scared, and she’s a perfect cover as her father slips into their pockets and takes their money, steals their keys and robs them blind. Slowly, he teaches her too. Dorian learns that when she is comforted by the kind strangers, they are too caught up to notice her tiny fingers work off their fancy jewelry and watches. It becomes a fun game between father and daughter, how much can you make in one afternoon of casual thieving. They return home at night with full hearts and fuller pockets, Dorian giggling and giddy to be noticed and loved ever so much by her daddy. Eliza says nothing, but she notes the way Lars’ once roguish, attractive poison slowly seeps into the skin of her child.

The dream is shattered for the first time the night the police come, break down the door and hunt their home for her father with violent demands - her mother is knocked to the ground, bruises blossoming on her skin and her cries are swallowed by her pain. Dorian watches from the corner, cowering and afraid like never before as the men destroy furniture and rip clothes out of spite. Lars is not there, away on a job, and she is grateful. ( they leave, but not without touching her mother ; muffled cries and blood streaking on linen and she is too young to understand but old enough to learn hatred ). Something dark is born in her heart that night, and it festers and rots with every year she grows. Her mother moves them, further ever further from their original homes, until they are in another country altogether. Things are not okay, but they manage, and the whole time Dorian and Eliza Young are comforted in the thought that Lars loves them.

Her father is enraged when he finds out, what the police did to their home, to her, to his sweet Eliza. It sparks a new carelessness and cruelty to his work, and now that Dorian is grown into a young woman of her own right her is ever more ready to involve her. Pre-teens are spent coaxing men to her father’s workshops, promises of black market treasures stolen from the riches of their dictators and spoiled countrymen, learning how to hot-wire her first car, how to break locks and what is and what is not worth the effort to take. Who to target, the prices to charge, the risks to take. Dorian learns it all and hungers ever more for the lessons from her father’s mouth, desperate for the thrill it gives her as she finishes a job, successful and ever richer. She spills like oil across the underground circuit, and burns hotter than any before her.

All the while, Eliza has been watching - as her angelic child is taken and twisted and molded to be just like her father, and where she used to find it thrilling now she worries. Lars has become more violent. His jobs end in injury for his victims more often than not, and Dorian has taken to carrying knives with her everywhere she goes. ( for protection she says ; for fun she means ).Eliza won’t stand for it any longer, and whilst her law-breaking family plot and scheme and steal, she siphons money away into a new account bit by bit. Little over a year later, she has enough to move them - her, and Dorian. Lars is out of control, unpredictable and nothing like the man she once loved, no matter how much he still loves her.

Then there’s a mess too great for even Lars to escape. Blood on his hands and an innocent life snuffed out without ceremony, a young girl on her way in to collect papers for her employer. The wrong place at the wrong time, and his itchy trigger finger blossomed her chest in brilliant red. Lars runs. He runs and he doesn’t look back, abandons her at the crime scene as sirens blare without second thought. He can’t love her. He can’t love her and do that. There is panic and red on Dorian’s shoes that won’t wash off no matter how hard she tries, shaken and unsure for the first time in her life of crime. Her belief in her father is gone, because while she is many horrible things, a killer is not one of them. Hot tears on her face, looking all the young girl she really is as she seeks comfort from her mother in the dead of night, rocking like a babe in her arms, Dorian realizes her daddy has never been a good man.

They leave before the police arrive, neither willing to risk a repeat of last time - there are still scars that have not yet healed - they take what they can, and Eliza uses all her hard saved money to book them flights away from their wretched country. Dorian has never been on a plane before and the commodity wears off quick when there is nothing but five basic movie channels to entertain during such a long flight. None of her father’s ill-gotten gains are cashed in beyond what they already had liquidated. They are not poor, not quite, there is enough for their new start in Nevada. Dorian wonders, many years later, if her mother had known what a hotbed for crime and gambling that particular state was. ( motels become home; dirty and run down and cheaper than cheap, moving from place to place once more ). A clean slate. A fresh start. Things are peaceful and for once there is no whisper, no temptation at the back of Dorian’s mind urging her to act out, to seek danger. Eliza loves her, and all is right again.

The Young girls settle into a small condo eventually, the last of the funds spilling into rent and food until things are once again desperate. Now nineteen, and full of skills from her daddy, Dorian finds work easy with both that and her inert sexuality. Men bend over backwards for her in the workplace, women torn between attraction and jealousy and she milks it for all it’s worth. She flits from job to job, waitressing ( fired for throwing food in a customer’s lap; after he’d touched her without permission, called her whore ), bartending ( she loves it and her tips are incredible, but a jealous owner’s wife kicks her to the curb ), lasts barely a week as a secretary until finally she finds herself helping a kind old man at the side of the road. She’s good with engines, with mechanical workings, her daddy taught her all about the cars they stole of course. Her work is fast and efficient, attracts his attention and she walks away with his number burning in her pocket.

Casey promises her work, says he has contacts in local chop shops and mechanics that could use a pair of hands like hers ( a pair of legs too he admits ; daisy dukes and low cut tops become her uniform ), and the work is good. Legit. Eliza is proud of her daughter, finally out of the darkness she’d seen seep into Dorian as a child. She spends her mornings taking care of the complex’s kids, becomes something of a babysitter extraordinaire. They are happy and life is nice in America. The horrors of their past become simply memories over the years and age twenty four, Dorian has held a steady job for five years without slip. Of course, if the occasional watch or glove compartment cash had gone missing well, who could say. Nothing lasts forever, though.

Letter arrives a late September afternoon, stamped and addressed from a Cape Town jail and something akin to dread sinks into Eliza’s bones. Lars has found them, just like the law found him. He wishes them well, when Dorian finally rips the unopened letter from her mother’s shaking hands, hopes that his darling Eliza is well and happy, that sweet little Dorian is still making her daddy proud. He waxes poetic about the life they’d led, how he loves them deeply, madly, still. And even after the words have been incinerated, she sees them behind closed eyelids. That calling burns hot through her veins once more, that insatiable itch to do something awful, to rob those she knew, those she’d come to love even. Casey has never looked at her wrong, never spoken with vile words on his tongue like some of the younger workers at the shops. ( they walk to work funny the next day; say nothing when asked what’s wrong and cast nervous glances at Dorian where she bends over an open engine ).

Eliza knows her daughter all too well. She loves her truly, but there are things even a mother cannot stop from happening, cannot protect their children from. Themselves. She is there when Dorian attempts to leave several mornings later, suitcase full of clothes and her worldly possessions, backpack clinking with money and trinkets taken from her work. They’ll know it was her, and if she’s caught, well - the system will flag her back home, and things will get ugly. Eliza loves her daughter, but she cannot let this go unquestioned. A choice is raised; to stay, to give back that she has taken and apologize to those she has wronged. Or, leave and rekindle her passion for thievery, for inciting chaos and chasing the thrill of it, but never come looking for help. Dorian loves her mother with all of her heart ( can thank her for her backbone of steel, the hidden strength to her mind, the wickedness of her smile and the sharpness of her tongue ). She kisses her mama’s forehead one last time, and never looks back.

The cash and pawned items last her a good long while, living on the road with a car she’d jacked just outside of Reno. The first stop is obvious, and the miles fade away under tire and tarmac as Dorian pulls into Vegas ready to con the shirts off people’s backs, the home of gambling, the city of fake dreams, oh it was a criminals heaven. She works the streets, tricks tourists into simple card games and takes their money with a sugar sweet smile on her face. Her body is out of practice from years of a less violent life, but Dorian can still take care of herself when they catch on, when men follow her at night intent on taking and taking from her purse and her body. No one touches her like they touched her mother. She makes sure of it, with their screams. But she never kills. Her line in the sand. ( but there is no such self-imposed rule against crippling, against scarring ). The cops are aware of her, occasionally bring her in but manage to land nothing. Dorian is skilled, has her daddy to thank for all the get out of jail free cards in her bank.

She takes jobs eventually, when conning the suckers on the streets proves boring, working her way up in position at the biggest hotel casinos in the state. Earns trust, smiles at all the right people, accepts their tips and help, all the while her mind turns over and over. She pulls off every big theft, every big con, almost without hitch, and always with a fall guy, or girl, she’s not picky, ready. Some poor sap tricked into her bed and tricked into her scheme without protest. Half the time they fully believe it was their idea, that Dorian is but a poor girl caught up with the wrong sort of guy, fell into a friendship with charming women. Her laughter rings in the night every time. But as always, her cockiness, her reckless attitude and desire to poke the bear blow up in her face one day. The cops know, they have evidence to convict her of a paltry part of one of the larger schemes, but it’s enough to do time and that is something that can never happen.

So Dorian steals cars and drives them like the devil is chasing her, screams and laughs to the sky with wild abandon, like the animal she really is. Every inconvenience is a chance to break the rules, throw caution to the wind and see what new chaos she can wrought. Her nights are spent joy-riding through every city and state she passes, conning gullible, cocky young men out of their money in illegal races. The cops are onto her by now, and they don’t even know half of the offences she’s racked up over her years since her mother’s ultimatum. Towns are hit by the hurricane of her, caught in the eye of the storm when her funds run just that little bit too low and she is on the run all over again. It’s fun. ( she loves every part of it; but all good things must end ).

It’s only pure chance that her route makes its way into Boot Hill. Caught out by a cop that recognized her face in a local diner just outside of Phoenix, Dorian downs her drink and runs. The chase is intense, blistering hot tarmac hazing under tire as they chase her down highway after highway. She’s had years of racing, of learning absolutely everything she can about cars, that it’s no hassle to outrun the red and blue sirens behind. A crash on the road, and she is forced to take the next exit, down onto back road and empty desert cement. The car goes for miles upon miles, gas near empty and Dorian close to breaking down in the middle of nowhere. The sirens are long gone, and relief sets in but desperation dogs her mind. Keeps her awake even as night falls and still no sign of civilization appears. ( hope nearly abandons her then ; but for the sudden light in the distance ).

A gas station, heaven sent she thinks, and her car crawls up to a pump on it’s last little fumes. The man at the counter points her further down the road when fuel is paid for, and Dorian is curious about this little town in the middle of the desert. It’s quaint in a rundown, twilight zone sort of way, as if timeless. Something niggles at that thought ( a man walking almost too slowly down the sidewalk ; a cat hissing repeatedly down a side alley ), but it’s easily written off. Excitement thrums in her every heartbeat. This place is perfect to hide from the law, notes the small, single station on her drive through and it’s easy enough to lay low for a few days here.

The Copper Cactus motel becomes her home, and oh Dorian fondly remembers her childhood and teen years skipping from place to place with her mother’s smiles and daddy’s stories. Thoughts turn to her mother, the four years it has been since she’d last spoken to her. The number is dialed and the tone playing in her ear and she loves her mother so much it hurts, sobs for the loss of family as she hears the familiar voice down the phone. ( Eliza know deep in her bones it is her little girl who calls her that night ; and she loves her even if she cannot help her ). It does not take long for the fire in her heart to die down once more. Crime will always be her siren call, but she is tired of running so very tired. Liquor replaces the dying heat in her, and Dorian spends her evenings at the Bucking Horse spending her dwindling amount of cash until her tab becomes almost unbearable and her money is gone.

Questions posed to locals, and boot clad feet take her to Chuy’s doorstep with a predatory smile and bared teeth, long legs and charming facade handing a job to her on a silver platter. The pay isn’t great, but it is enough for the time being, and her motel abode turns to one of the cheaper apartments at Silver Spurs. Money still finds itself in her pockets, car parts are scrapped and sold on the down low to passing crooks, and her quality service earn her extra hours and responsibility from Chuy himself. Dorian is five months in, when the thought strikes her. ( she wakes in sweat in the dead of night ; why has she not left ). She takes her car for a drive, races down the tarmac as fast as she can in any and every direction in and out of Boot Hill and yet somehow she always ends up on Main Street. She cannot leave. She loves her mother. ( but Boot Hill  loves her more ).

❝ she was a free bird - queen of the world and laughing. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Lesley-Ann Brandt AUTHOR › Fen

[cuckariki]

this is a rant. not bird related. still about animals and animal training. if you guys have experience with guard dogs and dog training in general, give this a read and give me some advice if you want.

so back in may, i got an akita. technically a rescue, but still a purebred american akita nonetheless. the small time i’ve had with her has been fantastic: i’m not a dog guy, and the only other experience i’ve had was violent and terrible and actually convinced me that i was never going to have a dog again... look how that turned out.

however, she’s far from perfect. 

unfortunately my family situation isn’t fantastic and my family seems to misunderstand a lot about dogs, and specifically this breed. i was looking for an akita because i wanted a few things in a dog: independance, quietness and relatively low activity relative to body size. this is exactly what i got. 

however, i can’t even really compare akitas to any other dog i’ve ever had. it’s more like having a tiger in your house. this is a large, unpredictable animal that can and will walk all over you, and she knows she absolutely can, and unless you and everyone around you firmly puts her in her place, she can be dangerous and unruly. my family giving her handouts, letting her on the couch and letting her grab and chew things without forcing her to give them up means she doesn’t feel dominated, and has attacked them quite a few times.

 akitas, for the most part, don’t bark or growl as a warning, and when they feel cornered or confronted will just cut straight to the chase and bite. she has. several times. she’s bitten and growled at my sister and father several times, though i know for a fact my sister hits her and encourages her food aggression and i... don’t want to say she deserves it, but she’s definitely being provoked.

i’m definitely concerned about this. she’s large, over a hundred pounds now, and if her pedigree is right she should gain about twenty more. i’m only over 5′ and under a hundred myself, and i have no doubt that, if she wanted to, she could kill me. she was trained to be a docile family dog but to respond properly to suspicious people by doing a prey alert (pointing), and stop and stare when she sees something she doesn’t like. what’s prompting me to write this tonight is that, about an hour ago, she had her first attack on a stranger.

we went out for a long night time walk, and at the end of our trip walked to the gas station. neeks was alerting in the lot and when i tied her, and i realized shortly after entering the store that i was being followed. i got a few drinks, a few cartridges and some other stuff, and as i untied the dog the guy following me grabbed my shirt. the dog took no time at all to grab onto his arm, and long story short i’m alive and the police are now involved and a report was filed. 

because i live in a meth town, and stuff like this just sort of happens, i’m almost entirely sure nothing will happen, and if it does, it’ll be a town court order and a slap on the wrist. the dog will most likely be fine and according to my neighbor, whose chow attacked a carjacker, at worst the vet will be called in for a behavioral testimony. in theory, i shouldn’t be worried.

but i am.

i’m very proud of how she responded. she was alerting far before the attack to the attacker across the lot, and immediately went after him as soon as she saw him grab me. she backed off as soon as the attacker did, and only took a few seconds to calm down completely and stay at my side until the police arrived and the man was dragged out of his car -- she didn’t even go back for seconds. 

she did exactly what she was supposed to, and trained to do, but i don’t know. just seeing her do that kind of scared me, i guess. that combined with her behavior towards my family. 

she’s great with strangers. especially kids. she was raised with a young child and her old owners had another baby when she was in their care, and even though i obviously would never let her around kids unsupervised, she’s gentle and tolerant and will sit down and let kids hug her. she’s wary around some adults, but generally calms down and gives them the same treatment. but i’m terrified now that she’ll attack someone who isn’t a threat.

the only other incident with her didn’t involve an attack, but did involve a person. she alerted towards, and began trying to drag me away from an abandoned spot i smoke at. we made a police report to a nearby stationary cruiser (just to be safe -- it’s at a park frequented by families and stuff and this was during the busiest time), and the dog was nervous the whole time, staring back and cowering away from the officer. this just worries me because it’s far from her usual behavior -- she’s timid near strangers, but rarely if ever completely shys away.

what should i do from here, if anything? i just want my dog, and people around me, to be safe. she’s a really good dog and i’d die for her, but i’m not sure if that’s just me being biased. as much as i love her, i’m fully aware of how dangerous she is and i don’t want her to hurt anyone.

[portlandmainehomes]

21 Most Unusual Pet Encounters Realtors Are Still Reliving

If you thought cranky and quirky buyers and sellers presented one of the biggest challenges Realtors face, you may have forgotten about something even more unpredictable: their pets. Real estate industry experts shared the strangest encounters they've had with animals. Some are hilarious, while others are downright scary. All will make you think twice the next time you enter an open house. 1. Get off me, goat! via GIPHY "Was showing an acre of property to buyers. The sellers had some farm animals — chickens, goats, etc. One of the goats started following me around. Almost aggressively, harassment style, and this was not a small goat. Eventually, well, it tried to mount me. Horribly embarrassing, I ended up running inside while my buyers toured the rest of the backyard. For some reason, it was fixated on me. My clients could not stop laughing." -- Leah Bubb, Realtor® with HomeSmart 2. Dead or alive? "Came upon a mini schnauzer peacefully sleeping on a bedroom bed. As I got closer, I realized it was not only dead and stuffed but that it had a breathing apparatus in it to make it seem alive!" -- Amy Williamson, Realtor® with RE/MAX Integrity Actual footage above, no lie! 3. Realtor or dog sitter? "During an open house I was asked to hold a dog outside, but I needed to sing to the dog and rock it like a baby. I was like ‘…What?' But I did it." -- Pate Stevens, an agent with luxury real estate firm Nourmand & Associates. 4. A wee accident "I was getting ready to start the open house and the client was cleaning her things so I took the dog in my lap, and when he got back down I noticed it (he was tiny so it wasn't a lot, but still! Pee!)! Not a great way to start off! It showed visibly on my outfit and the tenant freaked out, she was so embarrassed. Luckily I have a pup at home so I knew that with a tide pen and a hair dryer I could get it out. The tenant was mortified but had both of those things so I got it out and moved on." -- Sam Lazar, an agent with Triplemint. 5. Oh, rats! via GIPHY "There was a time recently, where my buyer and I were traveling through the home. I am not a fan of unfinished basements. With flashlight in hand, (because in the unfinished ones, the lighting is always horrible) we walked down the long hallway. And we heard the oddest sound. A mixture of a squeak and scratching. At first I was really nervous because I thought there were mice. Then there it was! A big fat rat in a cage. We both let out a screech and got out of the basement real quick." -- Denise Supplee, Realtor®/Investor/Landlord Expert/co-founder and operations director of SparkRental.com / Educator at Snaplandlord.com. 6. These guys weren't so lucky...

"I had a listing appt and the main showcase of this hoarders home was in the basement. I'm glad I brought an "assistant" as I just knew he might be an odd duck when I got the call. He looked at us with a weird excitement and asked us to come see his most prized possession. (Yes we had a mag flashlight and pepper spray) Turns out it was a mouse museum. Dead mice in jars. He promised to name the next one after me!!!! 😳 I passed on the listing." -- Danielle Mahnken, Agent with Gloria Nilson & Co Real Estate 7. Dog day afternoon via GIPHY "My clients and I got locked inside an apartment because the door knob wasn't secure. After not being able to get out for awhile one of my clients climbed out the fire escape and starting banging on windows. He unknowingly knocked on a doggy daycare directly under the apartment and when the employee opened the door, at least 15 dogs ran out and started running around. Once the employee corralled all the dogs back inside, we were able to walk through their store to escape." -- Maggie Fanney, an agent with Triplemint. 8. Reptile Room "Showing Instructions: Locked door in basement is reptile room. Do not attempt to open, as they are uncaged. If buyer is interested, seller will open room for 2nd showing. Needless to say I didn't show the house." -- Jessica Thomas, Former Professional Development Chair at Kansas City Regional Association of REALTORS® and Realtor® at Better Homes and Gardens Real Estate- Kansas City Homes 9. Horsing Around "Here I am, fresh off the licensing train at the ripe age of 18. Meeting a new potential client, I show up early open up the house. It's a cute little bungalow in a small 'historic' town. I walk around the corner and there is a horse in the living room! (vacant home) It's just chilling there! To be honest, I'm not sure how it even got in there. But you could tell it had been in there a while. I called the listing agent and he had no idea how it happened or who the horse belonged to. So, I called up a family member who runs a rescue and after doing some footwork, we got it home. Almost a decade later and it's still one of my favorite stories." -- Danyl Winderlin, Realtor® with Realtypath 10. Hogging all the attention via GIPHY "While I was showing a vacant home, a massive hog wandered up to the property and started eating grass. He stayed the whole time we were showing. When I told the listing agent about the hog, she stated that it was negotiable." -- Emily Isbell, Realtor® at The RealTeam Homes & Land 11.Table-sized turtle via GIPHY "I was photographing a home and the homeowners had left. I was on the third floor and heard a bunch of noise on the main level like furniture was being moved around. I thought they were back home, but when I came in the living room there was a GIANT turtle in the center of the room. I mean like the size of a big round coffee table. He was banging into the furniture and causing quite a ruckus! -- Angela Romano, Realtor®; at Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices Fox & Roach 12. Hamster mishap "During a showing, I was in the hallway turning on lights while my clients were checking out the hall bath. I stepped into a child's room to flip on the light at about the same time the pet hamster escaped from his plastic exercise ball,apparently the child had forgotten to take the hamster out of the ball and put the little guy back into his cage. Before I knew it, the hamster had rushed passed me, down the hall and into the hall bath, where my client proceeded to stomp on him! He did not die right away, so we gently placed him back into his cage but I cannot imagine that he lived much longer... That was an awkward phone call to the listing agent but I was sure glad that I wasn't in the listing agents shoes, having to tell the family before they came back home. My clients did not buy that home." -- Brenda Miller, REALTOR® at eXp Realty 13. Monkey business "We have a local lender in this area that has a pet Capuchin Monkey. He brings it to closings sometimes, always a hit!" -- Ed Cordle, Realtor® at Genesis Real Estate 14. Creepy Kitty via GIPHY "My partner and I were showing a precious little townhouse to a client. A beautiful solid white fluffy cat lived there. The cat had a pure evil expression the entire time and followed us around the house. When we got to the master bedroom, the cat jumped up onto the bed, looked us dead in the eyes and peed on the bed never breaking its glare at us. Pure evil!" -- Danyalle Friday, Realtor® at Montgomery Metro Realty 15. Just ducky via GIPHY "A garage full of ducks at the home inspection. Keep in mind, they weren't there before. And boy did it smell horrible!" -- Roberta Tynik Lejeune, Realtor® at Better Home and Gardens Real Estate 16. Just Batty via GIPHY "Walked down into the unfinished basement of an older home a few weeks ago... was only down there for about 10 seconds until a bat flew by my head. Bye Felicia." -- Ryan Ballard, REALTOR® at Key Realty 17. Butting heads via GIPHY "Chased by neighbor's goats all the way into the house, where they then began butting the door. A horse in the garage was a big surprise too." -- Jackie Merritt Realtor® The Danberry Co., Realtors 18. Polite Parrot via GIPHY "I was showing a house once, and I arrived before my buyers. I rang the doorbell just to be sure no one was home. When no one answered, I opened the door and heard, 'Hello?! Who's there?' Startled, I started to apologize and explain that I was a Realtor® who was there for a showing. I got cut off again with another, 'Hello?! Who's there?' About 30 seconds later, I finally realized it was a parrot and not a person." -- Kara Pagliarulo, Attorney at Law at Attorney Support Solutions, Kara Pagliarulo, Esq. 19. Squirrely showing "I came across a caged pet squirrel once. He didn't seem happy. -- Jamie Hering, Realtor® at Better Homes & Gardens Real Estate 20. Magic carpet via GIPHY "I was showing a home and the owner was there. There was an empty glass tank. I asked what used to be in the tank and he said it was a snake. When I asked where the snake was he said he wasn't sure but he knew it was around somewhere. When I looked in the corner there was a lump moving under the carpet." -- Heather Bennett, REALTOR® at Hunt Real Estate ERA 21. Pig contingency via GIPHY "The sellers had a pet pig, and for unknown reasons, they had decided to leave the pig roaming around inside the home when they left. Just as the buyers arrived, 'Stella' came swaggering out of a bedroom to greet everyone. She was a medium-sized pig, quite charismatic, and friendly, although noticeably aromatic if you catch my drift. That pig stayed right by my buyers' sides during the entire showing, walking from room to room, occasionally squeaking it's approval while looking up at the young couple. I could tell that these folks were becoming more attached to the pig than to the house itself. They had fallen in love! As we were departing the home, the buyers were non-committal. I thought to myself, 'They really love this pig, and I also knew that the sellers had a dilemma to solve that the buyers didn't know about. They couldn't bring their pig with them to the new apartment they were moving to. So just before entering our vehicles to leave, I said, 'You seem to have taken a real liking to 'Stella.' They nodded in agreement. 'If you decide to place an offer on this home I could write a contingency into the contract that the pig would go with the house. I think the sellers might just go along with that!' They smiled and said, 'You're kidding with us, right?' I said, 'No, I'm serious! I'll write it right into the deal if you want!' The young bride looked squarely at her husband and said, 'Hon, Let's do that!' Back at my office, I placed the contract/offer in front of Gene, my then manager, for him to peruse and approve. He smiled while staring down at the clause, 'The pig (Stella) conveys with the property.' The deal was made, and everyone was happy. Everyone at my office got a big kick out of this unique contingency which I included in the offer. We had lots of fun in those days at the office. All the agents were like family and friends. After the closing, one of my colleagues, Raylene, presented me with a little statue of a pig that really resembled Stella. I still cherish that statue to this day, and look at it when I need a smile." -- Tom Cirignano, author of The Constant Outsider I'll leave you with a viral video that's making its rounds on the internet (trust me, it's pet related — just wait for it). No word on whether the woman is a door-knocking agent or not. Let's just pretend she is. Read the full article

[meowarchived]

Quartz’s Bio (Mobile ver.)

Species: Icejin/Arcosian

Age: 22

Birthday: September 24th

Gender: Female, she/her

Sexual orientation: Panromantic/demisexual

Appearance: Just shy of 4’ tall, lavender skin, aqua-blue bio armor with indigo-colored jewel platings, magenta sleeves & leggings, short, pointy black horns, big blue eyes, light ultramarine facial details

Personality: Shy, anxious, eager to learn, overly cautious, sometimes a bit paranoid, very sweet and affectionate once she trusts someone, always willing to try new things, surprisingly becomes numb and almost indifferent if put in immediate danger, can be a sassy little shit when she’s in a bad enough mood

Favorite food: Strawberry ice cream

Favorite color: Pastel pink

Likes: Exploring, making friends, arts and crafts, desserts, stuffed animals, soft things, cartoons, pythons, pretty dresses

Dislikes: Fighting, being called a boy, sour food, being made fun of, seeing others get picked on, scratchy clothing, senseless violence, aggressive behavior, cold weather

Career: Healer/Artist

Aesthetics: Space/galaxy, crystals, pastel pink

Story:  Quartz was a medic in Frieza’s army who called it quits and escaped after years of abuse and poor treatment finally got to her. The soldiers picked on her for being so weak, often beating her up because she couldn’t defend herself. Because of this, she planned an escape and slipped away during an intense battle so they wouldn’t notice her energy’s absence, and she used her species’ ability to survive in space to stealthily make her way from planet to planet without a ship. Eventually, after years of slow, gradual travel and grueling tests of her survival ability, she made it to Earth, which was far enough outside of the PTO’s radius that she felt safe staying. She now lives peacefully among the humans, donning Earth clothing to disguise herself in case Frieza’s soldiers show up looking for her. In the meantime, she’s quite anxious about being found, and will often panic if someone strong approaches her since she doesn’t know for sure if they’re looking for her or not.

Trivia:

Because her race is so predominantly male, Quartz frequently finds herself being mistaken for a boy, which greatly irritates her. She dresses in frilly, girly clothing not just because she likes how it looks, but also because she hopes it’ll help people recognize her as a girl.

Quartz has healing abilities. Despite her being too weak to serve as a soldier, she made an excellent medic. A gentle touch from her restores energy- the longer the duration, the more it restores.

Due to how frequently she was beaten up and picked on back in Frieza’s army, Quartz has essentially been conditioned to believe that she’s completely incapable of defending herself in a fight. She finds it difficult to overcome this lack of confidence, but if she puts her mind to it, she can actually be a rather tricky opponent despite her weakness.

She enjoys collecting crystals. Some of her favorites are bismuth, rainbow quartz, and malachite. She carries a small pouch of her favorites with her for good luck.

She’s actually a very affectionate person once she opens up to someone, often showering them with attention- hugs, hand-holding, and all sorts of friendly contact. She’s especially fond of piggyback rides and will often fall asleep on people’s shoulders.

Although she’d prefer to become a doctor or surgeon due to her healing prowess, she’d need certification and medical school is too expensive, and in the meantime she’s taken up many different forms of crafting in order to make money and eventually get herself a medical degree.

She doesn’t own a house at the moment, instead choosing to camp out in caves until she can get the money for one.

She panics easily, especially around strong fighters, and often feels the urge to run away whenever she sees one. If she feels cornered, this may cause her to react quite badly, either collapsing into a sobbing mess or screaming and ranting furiously at them until her throat’s too raw to continue.

When faced with an adversary who she has a particularly strong dislike for, she’ll often end up becoming enraged to the point of numbness, taking on a passive-aggressive, petty attitude and coldly bombarding them with insults rather than screaming and shouting like normal. She can be quite merciless in this department, often leaving behind quite a sting without the need for physical harm. However, doing so also puts her in harm’s way, and while she realizes this, she can’t help but press forward. The way she sees it, if she’s going to die, she’s going to leave her killer feeling a lot worse about themselves.

She has a tendency to block hits with her head, since her head’s biogem is sturdy enough to withstand a ridiculous amount of impact. It makes her headbutts some of her most powerful attacks, and her head her most powerful shield.

Her horns are actually supposed to be longer and curled like a ram’s, but she docks them short to avoid cutting or poking people. It also makes them nearly impossible to grab onto if anyone tries that. In her later transformations, they grow out into their usual spirals again, and they’ll stay like that if she reverts to her original form, making her have to cut them back again. It’s one of the reasons she doesn’t use her more powerful transformations very often- her horns take forever to file short again.

In her second form, Quartz becomes much taller, and her horns grow back out to their usual length. Her bio-armor also takes on an almost fluffy, plumage-like appearance. Her demeanor in this form is more confident and elegant, and almost showmanlike at times. She is a bit stronger in this form than her base form, but not quite as fast.

Her third form has bio-armor similar to her second form’s, although her appearance changes drastically. Her posture becomes more hunched over, and her facial and body structure become almost raptor-like. Her torso and legs become much more powerful, and while she isn’t quite as fast, she is a lot stronger physically in this form than all her other ones. As a trade-off, though, her behavior becomes more wild and beastlike, and she also loses the ability to speak properly due to the change in her mouth structure. While she is much more dangerous in this form due to her heightened strength and unpredictable behavior, she is still relatively docile as long as you approach with caution and don’t show any signs of hostility.

Her final form retains her default size and personality, although she loses both her bio-armor and her colors, changing to a slightly iridescent white color. In this form, her healing energy begins to radiate out of her body at a much higher frequency, causing patches of her skin to glow in various patterns of pink and blue. This glow follows her in comet-like trails when she flies, making her actual position more difficult to pick out, especially at night. In this form, she only grows slightly more powerful than her base form, and she rarely sees it as enough of an advantage to bother transforming for a fight.

[wireslide]

Travel on an Interdimensional Ship

In which Kivair learns some lessons and almost accidentally kills Eli.

The bustle of the common area died down as the doors slid closed, and the ebon-skinned draenei sank carefully into a chair, rubbing at her forehead. A dark blue hand settled on her shoulder, and she lifted her head only slightly to accept the cup of tea from her aunt. "I do wish you'd see a medic, Kiva," the older woman sighed, settling herself on the low stool beside her niece's hooves, "they're becoming more frequent, and...well. Your eyes are starting to bulge a bit. I'm concerned at what that could mean." She reached out, tenderly brushing hair that glimmered like spun moonlight away from the heavy veil covering most of the darker exile's face.

Letting the steam from the tea wash over her closed eyelids, Kivair took a long moment before answering. It was also possible, given the clear amount of pain she suffered, that she was savoring the silence. When she opened her eyes, it was as though she'd uncovered two lamplights, bright enough to increase the light in the small family suite tenfold. She noted with a kind of wry amusement that her aunt looked away with a faint squint. "I'm fine, Iopa. I mean...I'm not, but the medics can't help me. This is the grace the Light gave me, powerful enough to drive me from Argus after my cousin and not put her in additional danger. There were always bound to be side effects to such a deal." She took a sip of the tea, then hefted it slightly in her aunt's direction. "Thank you, for this. How is Eli? She doesn't usually nap this late." Overbright eyes turned to one of the small doors off the suite.

Iopaani smiled, patting Kivair' s leg gently. "She woke from her nap early, and decided to 'help the talbuk remember what they are,' under her father's supervision. Konei promised he wouldn't let her try to mount any. How was training?"

The younger woman waved a hand. "Training is slow and boring and they've partnered me with the most ridiculous soft usuul of a priest. Scared of his own shadow, that one, much less the thought of actual Shadow. His healing prayers are powerful enough for an acolyte, I guess, but if he doesn't grow a spine sometime soon I may mistake him for a sea jelly and eat him." She took a gulp from her tea, frowning at it faintly.

"Most of us aren't as ready to raise arms as you are, Kivair," her aunt reminded her gently, "remember that you are late come to the ship, and the rest of us have already survived being driven off four worlds, not counting Argus." She brushed back her niece's hair again. "We cannot all be Vindicators."

The darker woman scowled and tossed back the rest of her tea, handing the mug back to Iopa. "He's a priest. A servant of the Light. He should be ready to raise a hand and decimate armies with holy fire. I don't expect you to understand, Aunt--you're just a livestock breeder's wife. You aren't Called by the Light like we are." By the small sound she made and the sudden flash of light in her palm, she wasn't expecting the slap her aunt laid across her cheek.

"Arrogant little girl, listen carefully." Iopa's full lips were pulled into a hard line. "We are all Called, and we all obey. An army marches poorly on its own hooves alone. No priest, not even Lord Velen himself, can call that much holy fire, or wants to." She grabbed one of Kivair's sweeping obsidian horns when the young woman started to look away. "The Light is gentle and compassionate more than it is blindly violent, and that is why we left. That is why your order makes up less than a tenth of our number, why there are three priests for every Vindicator, and why everyone else considers the lot of you a distasteful necessity. For the most part, daughter of my sister, we Exiled tend to believe that if you cannot let go of the violence within you, you should go back to Argus. We do not burn armies, Kivair. The Light humbled us, and every day you are told to abide by the same lesson." She released the horn with a flick of her wrist, wiping out the tea cup briskly as she walked away to put it in the cupboard.

Breath hissing between clenched teeth, Kivair forced the light around her fist to fade. "You sound like my mother," she managed huskily, flexing her fingers.

"One of us does," Iopa agreed mildly. "Go see to Eli, dear. She always makes you feel better." She busied herself tidying up the eating area as the Vindicator-in-training stomped out into the busy bustle of the Genedar's halls once more.

Kivair hardly noticed that most of the ship's inhabitants eased out of her way as she stormed through. Her cheek barely stung--Iopa hadn't struck her hard at all, only loudly--but her pride burned indignantly. She had given up everything to catch up to the Genedar, to be in her cousin's life. How dare her mother's twin treat her as though she had left nothing behind! A day didn't go by that she didn't miss her proper arms trainer, or her father's laboratory, or her grand set of rooms five times bigger than the family suite she shared with her cousin and her parents. She even missed the intricate patterns of her mother's court. What did Iopaani know? She was the twin of a Man'ari general, the former right hand of the Victor of Aldrachi, and she had given that up to marry a livestock breeder--not even a highly regarded one! Koneiithon had only had the remnants of his father's small stock and a bare twelve acres of land when Iopaani married him.

Kivair rounded a corner, almost running into someone in a priest's robes. She paid them no mind as they called after her, mind focused on fuming. At least when she had given up her life, it hadn't been for something as stupid as a man. It had been for family, for blood. And she remained willing to fight for her new life instead of constantly fleeing and later mourning those left behind. 'Better them than me,' felt like the attitude most Exiled held about those they left behind to be swallowed up by their pursuers.

She came to a stop at the fenced in area holding the livestock, then began slowly edging her way around towards the talbuk pen. There was enough of a crowd gathered that she had to push her way though, and once she saw her cousin, her heart stopped and the drums in her head got louder.

Elianaura, only living child of Koneiithon and Iopaani of the House Sabir, held one tiny, bright white hand under the jaw of the herd's Premiere, the most aggressive stallion on the ship, and spoke to him quietly as her father tied a blindfold around the talbuk's head. Once the cloth was in place, the Premiere snorted and pawed at the deck, throwing sparks, but little Eli only gently scolded him, and he stood stock still, trembling. Shooting her father a questioning look--Konei nodded--she began to slowly walk backwards, leading the blindfolded stallion forward in tiny steps.

Kivair clenched her fists again and suppressed the urge to scream. Her cousin's bones weren't done growing yet, and here her idiot father was putting her in danger, practicing Gunjika on an enclosed ship where a single miscommunication with the animal could cause a stampede! In a spaceship, a stampede would quickly turn into a meat grinder. She had to put a stop to this. She pushed her way further forward.

She saw the lead rope in her uncle's hand, saw the two ropers ready to offer extra restraint, but all her brain registered was her baby cousin inches away from several hundred pounds of unpredictable sharp hoof. She didn't notice the muted lash of light that cut into the blindfold, and perhaps just a little too far, slicing into the back of the talbuk's neck. She hadn't even felt her fingers move to cast the spell.

Time slowed to the spaces between terrified heartbeats. The talbuk screamed, reared, lashed out with his hooves as he lifted himself up above the tiny child, who fell backwards in surprise and desperately tried to scramble away. The hooves came down.

The bell-like sound they made when they hit the priest's shield was deafening, even from the edge of the corral. Kivair vaulted the fence and swept her cousin up in one arm, skidding away from the temporarily stunned animal all in one motion, as though she practiced rescuing children from irate livestock every ship cycle. She checked Eli frantically for injury as the ropers restrained the talbuk before he could start screaming again.

The child had the temerity to giggle as though she were being tickled. "Kiva! Oh, Kiva, did you see? I led him blindfolded and he followed! I'm going to be a Gunjika champion someday and win us all the best talbuk, just like Grandfather! Papa says the old tassle-tack is in the long term storage and when we find a new home he'll teach me how to use it!" She clapped her hands in delight and giggled again when Kivair hugged her tightly. "Did you see?"

Forcing most of the tremble out of her voice, the dark-skinned woman pressed a kiss into her cousin's jet black hair. "I saw, Eliana, that was very impressive. Maybe next time can wait until the talbuk has room to run away from you if it wants to?" She shot her uncle a look that could easily have killed him where he stood. Konei didn't even have the grace to look ashamed.

The tiny girl gave her cousin's suggestion a long moment of serious thought, then nodded. "I guess he can't have been comfortable at all, being all trapped and then blind. I didn't mean to upset him. I thought if we blindfolded him he might remember grass and sky and feel better."

"That's very thoughtful, little light, but he was born on the ship and talbuk don't have racial memories." Kivair stood, cradling her cousin in her arms.

Eli shrugged. "That we know of. But we don't know everything. Right, Kiva?"

Walking back through the crowd to settle her cousin on a window seat, the Vindicator-in-training sighed. "No, little light." She stared at the reflection of the priest behind them, barely noticing the stars streaking by. "I suppose we don't."

[cramlingtono0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0-blog]

V__--__--___---

This is not a Sci-fi novel, this is an experimental short story.

  Take all notion of time or possible dating out of it!! IT should just be, time has become timeless, no more history. Fukyama.

 This story is about 9/11, this story is about conspiracy, collective unconscious, genetics, memetics, humanism, nihilism, the universal, neo liberalism, primeval regression, death drive.

 Add segment about the solar economy ( bataille), this is absolutely necessary, linked to the two collective unconscious segments, one relatively recent, 9/11, and one thee deepest of primeval, the sun, the universe etc.

 9/11 is the main point of this story. The deep trauma, the sleep walkers, turning up outside peoples houses, realatives of those involved, relatives of victims and perpetrators. Their young menstruating daughters then taken under hypnosis, their psyches filtered and deciphered, fragments of 9/11 found in them. All of them menstruate at the same time, all try and walk to 9/11, all walk to different clues in the lie. WRT 9/11 the subconscious just knows something’s not right, because the people that perpetrated the killings are still alive and thus are still effecting the group collective consciousness. Without being able to control it a guilty partys unconscious will project it to those around him, and they in turn will know that something is not right, they will then pass this message on, until it eventually travels from human to human. The lie is known, we unconsciously know the truth. That is why we cant stop making the 9/11 memes, cant stop revisiting the trauma , the scene of the crime. The perpetrators start to try and avoid society, kill off any unnecessary members of the group, lead line their clothing, lead line their house, use special creams to interfere with the collective unconscious transferring from person to person.

           This could also be linked to the collective unconscious of all people in all time and more specifically ancestors in your own lineage. My grt grt grt grt grt grt grt….. caveman grandfather was a passionate killer and his conscious will cannot stand the idea of such a bastard thing happening, so much so he causes these unconscious take overs of the self .

           Perhaps people who want to uncover the truth, drug themselves, hypnotise themselves to find out what the collective is trying to tell them.

 Perhaps these sleep walkers become more and more aggressive, start to have the characteristics of zombies.

 Free will needs to be fully explained as in where it stands right now, peter watts. should be pushed more, Varley should be more representative of the madness of humanity, its obsession with dominance over collective unconscious, genetics, memetics and eventually even consciousness itself.

 Varleys character should be unrecognisable perhaps? Unhuman, everything that we think of as human is gone, cut up, sectioned off. All that’s left is a slither of conscious thought, which is then useless on its own, what could be the purpose of life after that?

     The guttering woke Varley, water spilling over the edge, louder and louder. It had been coming away from the brickwork, it spilled out onto the dustbin 2 floors below.

 All the fastenings coming loose form the house, mortar now rotten, just sand, washed away by the heavy showers. 400 year old house, polymer upgrades would be expensive, and none of the tradesmen would want to touch it. The display systems flickered, audio splitting with cracks and stutters. The bricks glowed slightly, something about the clay, about the nature in them. It seemed to effect the wattage to pieces of hardware, increasing in areas, only a fraction, seemed to change the way things were processed, things take the long way round, a certain unpredictability within the cores.

 Not a bad time to wake, Varley prayed, forearm fizzed, leaped out of bed, the bedding, completely shocked, flung itself across the room. Its materiality, suddenly becoming strange as it crumpled against the wall, falling to the floor it resumed its regular physical properties. Stopping in the landing, placed their hand on the wooden balustrade and felt its vibrations. There was noise, the bin room, back of the building, the sound drifted up, stillness now, right hand against the plaster board wall, resident moisture met the specks from the skin.

 Varley switched on the Articles, started where they’d left off, volume 569, 4.5 billion years of natural, cosmological, cultural history shuffled and on loop.

 Article 8437:3894.1 Birdsong deciphered, 17 year research programme at the U.C.L.A COMA Institute of Animal Welfare. 97% of their language is directly translated as verbal abuse (bigoted, racist, death and rape threats), 3% is used to talk about shitting and the colour of shit. Their social structures seem to be some of the most bigoted and brutal to have been discovered. The Common Sparrow inspects its young within 3 minutes of birth, checking for ‘weak’ or ‘disloyal’ features. A male with the wrong shade of brown, the father will scream ‘Faggot’, the mother will push her beak into its soft chest to crush its heart. The father will scream ‘Faggot’ again before tossing it out the nest. Females deemed ‘un-sexy’, the mother will scream ‘Cunt Faggot’, the chick’s eyes gouged, raped by father, womb ripped out by mother before being thrown out the nest. The sparrow community is enraptured by these birthing rituals, adult females are raped repeatedly, and many males are killed in a frenzy of fights.

 Varley pushed off wall and banister, padded down the stairs, information was arriving, the monitor clicked on, messages piling up. Varley sat, chair towards the glass, a plane passing, 8 miles out. Its image starting and stopping.

 Second monitor clicked, dimmed as they focused. 1 pending job, Governmental, Financial, Swansea Council, Welfare and Pensions, 60mb/s, a Latency of 478, CPU share of 17%, a minimum 25% partition and an hourly of £73. Accepted, share was high but money was good, sat back to adjust to the new measures, prayed to account for increased latency, skin in between fingers itched. Via Sydney took a look at the work, data transfer, 7,643 seeds, so boring it had to be legitimate, disconnected and burnt the trail through the proxy. Head lolled from side to side. Four hours was worth it, you don’t even notice.

 Tingling in the groin and gut, designated a subconscious porn loop to restrain, tingling stopped, looked for nutrient levels, all fine, a spluttering hiss as the plankton paste regulated itself.

 Closed eyes, shallow in the animal brain, echo of an orgasm and breakfast, barely started. Gone now, pray, face washed in basin. Ever soft features. Neat teeth, tongue soft purple, gums grey. Micro genitalia, a clitoral penis, vaginal opening, universal anus. A prayer, tingling in the belly, soft colours around the tips of the ears, left eye shaking.

 The universal arsehole, the cosmic leveller, the purity of the squirting little squid in your pants, make me some putty now. Come brother come sister, stare at the sun, clean your retinas. Crouch, bend forward and shit, heels lifting out of our shoes, hands clasped to one another. The democracy of the arse hole, the point at which we can all meet, I know you a bit better because I know my own arse hole. Our best kept secret, we’re all the same, we all have a horrid little squirmer in our pants, let’s hold hands now.

 Noise from the bins, swivelled towards the doorway, palm up, sends a push down the hallway. Push loped round the corner, down the passage, through the larder and hitting the back door, dissipating in ripples through it. A cat, the cat pushes back, Varley prays, the cat pushes again, this time softer, watching as its colours tumbled and died away in the hall.

 Varley closed both eyes as the sun broke through the clouds, irritated at first, then thankful for the warmth and the delicate pink light making its way through the lids. Each nano second an eternity, you are here forever. An ever-dying eternity of the sun. Eternal entropic existence, warm and fuzzy. The solar economy, one way in, one way out. In between things, between states of entropic dissolvent, no fighting.

 Self cauterising laser surgery. Swivelled, legs outstretched, Stood, pulled a length of tissue from the roller. Covering the mattress with it, pulled the wheely from the corner. Laying down, starting scan, 0.25% growth, minor subcutaneous tissue near hip. Awkward ruptures between Tibia and Fibula on right leg. Display stutters, showing a helix of calcium spiralling up out of the bone, Varley could suddenly feel it. Fatty growth around the liver as usual.

 8.40am, a third of the way though the Swansea seeding, Varley paused the Governmental partition, always recommended full CPU when self cleansing.

 Room temperature boosted 5 degrees, undressed, reached for wipes and prepped the work areas. The wipe dissolving the hair and colouring the skin bright white, white for clean and white for display pickups. Liquid gathered between the fingers, painted their calf, around the liver entry, checking the display, painted left hip also. Droplets gathered and dripped, tracing down the leg, a glowing trail, speeding down the side of the foot and staining the floor. Liver area a patchwork of bleach, the skin especially soft from all the attention would split in funny ways, elastic mesh to keep the skin together. Petroleum lubed skin, hooked up pressure pads on calf, liver and hip, hissing blood pushed out of tissue.

 Article 4588:9379.6. Proven links in underground gene/meme warfare that leave the human suffering in the middle, hurt by both parties. The gene, the original replicator, the maker of the survival machine that is human, the maker of the brain. The brain, the birth place of a new, more efficient evolutionary force, the meme, each with it’s own blind agenda, each their own stubborn will to live. The human left confused between their blind squabbles, each pulling in a different direction, always towards suffering.

           The genes role was to best adapt to it’s physical surroundings, this in no longer necessary. The meme has created culture and society, a new environment for evolutionary survival. The pace of adaptation and change reached dizzying speeds. The parasites that are meme and gene fighting over the body and damaging it in the meantime. The body is just the vessel, the vessels only purpose is to carry the genes , it’s purpose now is to propagate memes as well as partially genes. Consciousness and the ffeling of self, agency, is just a mistaken by product created in the conquests of meme and gene. It has been allowed to stay as long as it is behaved. Consciousness, a transitional product between gene survival and the birth of memes stuck in the middle.

           Consciousness became involved in the mess, the growth of memes invading consciousness, the rejection of religion, the  fear of death, the adoption of memes that tried to comfort one of that reality.

           Part of the weaponry created by this mix up was cancer, a fumbled offspring of two blind, deaf and dumb mad scientists, part gene, part meme and part consciously willed. The gene losing the fight, the  meme wanting immortality, the gene responding, adapting as fast at it could, started to propagate cancerous cells, cells that were in blind short term understanding immortal. Constant reproduction, constant growth, but with the unforeseen consequence of killing the host.

 It began by redoubling it’s efforts to squash both, increasing violence, sex drive, selfishness in a bid to destroy culture and society. Trying to push humans back into small tribal pockets, back into the dark ages where they can forget their memetic pararsites and the plague of consciousness that had infected the brain. But memes and consciousness fought back, vying to stay alive and the cancer war began. It lead to millennia of backward stagnation, the strange hypocritical, contradictory projects, capitalism, communism etc etc. Strange societies, run on contradiction and obfuscation, fuled by memes counsness and a voracious genetic code. The war had begun and it was a foul state to witness. Memetics and genetics only know the primeval, they only know the brutality of the universe, the systems they make are ones of blunt trauma and self serving vice, this is what human society had followed for thousands of years. Society became a ritualistic place of genetic and memetic role-play, a strange stage for us to express our memetic and genetic desires, to enact our unconscious drives.

This war created conditions experienced in the 21st century, this bizarre unstable situation, 2 blind megalomaniacs and a scared confused consciousness. The ‘self’, believing it was in control of its actions, believing that free will existed, when really it had nothing, no say in anything, pulled this way and that by it’s unconscious masters. Until it was all revealed, genetic behavioural code revealed, consciousness becoming aware of what its master were. Fooling us all along, unconscious areas of the brain making decisions well in advance of any conscious process, the feeling of free will and ‘agency’ produced is a retroactive construction, protecting the mind from the feeling of helplessness. A key feature in genetic and memetic survival, the vessel must understand little to nothing of it’s actions while believing they are in full control.

 Cancer was a desperate attempt for the gene to take back control of the situation. It had started to feel the presence of the invaders, consciousness and the memes. Now the genes were turning on their own creation, desperately trying to pare it back. Cancer was it’s weapon, the body need not live that long anyway, only for enough time to reproduce and protect the family. The life cycle needed to be addressed, too much time for consciousness and memetics to start interfering in matters.  

 Memes and genes however lacked one thing, that was foresight, the ability to imagine. This allowed humans to retake control of the body, the brain. To regulate both gene and meme and allow consciousness to take back territory. Humanity unified by consciousness, the one true leveller that is shared by all, everything else is just memetic or genetic behavioural systems, race, gender, class, sexuality.

 Laying down on the bed, face to the paper towel. Turning over, best to do the calf muscle last. Scanned again, local anaesthetic injected around entry point, Varley began the clean at the liver, using hands, head to the side at wheely’s monitor, small claws pinching the skin, tension, pressure pad off, skin quickly parted, no blood. Pushing stomach out the way, fascia snipped, parted just enough to allow access to bottom of liver, 0.18mm shave, fat sucked and vaporised, liver shines, light colour of new cells, quickly pared back to the darker red. Exits, sealing partitions and skin, rearranging stomach, skin pulled together sealed, 1 inch opening when the clamps let go, final seal. Second cut at hip, cells on inside of subcutaneous tissue, more anaesthetic, pressure pad removed, small skin door opened, shaved and sealed, no longer than a minute. Unclips screen, flips over, drops pressure pad into sterilising bucket, suction skin, the layers peeling back, new pads sucking and holding. Small robotic arms from the wheely work calmly, anaesthetic, muscle split, calcium spiral bored out, bone saturated with inert solution, sealed, exits, layers back in place, sealed and finished. Varley flips over, reattaches screen, a pink droplet runs from the liver stitch, wraps midriff with surgical compress. Sits on edge of bed, flushes guts into bucket and wipes down body. Skin tingles, some potential energy. Varley prays and fingers itch.

 Washes face, features so soft, nose barely rising out of skull, soft dome eyes, wide slits, tiny lashes, hairless body, micro genitalia

  Article 4588:9379.6 Genetic code regulation, neurochemical inhibitors and digital brain stem attachments were now the standard. Consciousness was now the unifying factor for humanity, consciousness was the only way out of this ruinous situation that genes and memes and lead us. It was discovered that consciousness comes in and out of human society, sometimes it is necessary for both evolutionary parties, other times it is a hindrance and must be stamped out. The process of genes removing consciousness could be done in as little as 5 generations. This didn’t leave the world governments much time to act to try and save consciousness.

 The understanding of our genetic sequencing enabled society to quickly back some control of the genes. Reproduction for a time became a state controlled procedure, given the circumstance people were relieved, the current position being that 38% of the population was dying before the age of 45, with the age decreasing year on year. No one wanted the genes to be in control anymore.

 The memes were dealt with brain stem attachments, the aim being to overload the brain with information and then while it is distracted to try and let consciousness make unencumbered decisions. Artifical free will. Brain stem attachments developed, to confuse and hinder the animal brain, to lead it into a complete state of confusion. Just background noise. The Brain stem attachments, digital hyper loops for media projection techniques. The unit running constantly, updated remotely if more effective loops found. The loops floods the memetic holding areas of the brain, leading to saturation, this saturation temporarily dissipates the ability for memes to hijack consciousness and propagate themselves. The synthesised loop using imagery, sound, music, many different sensory devices. This part of the brain has been partitioned so they are not noticed by the user. It did cause headaches on some of the earlier models. The loops are updated and refreshed daily, the memetic receptors quickly learn the loops and began to operate outside them, refreshing them never gives them this option. The saturation of this part of the brain gives consciousness a chance to respond to reality without the constant pull of the memetic agenda.

 When first experienced, users felt rather empty, especially after v.2293747 of the genetic code, with many genetic behaviours removed. People’s heads all of a sudden felt empty, this feeling was worrying for many. Used to the comforting totalitarian drives of the gene and meme, now suddenly alone, left with no one to guide. People felt empty and life became very abstract, many suicides, it took a long time to get used to. Life suddenly, became a quite bizzare experience, where as before ‘things made sense’ but for no reason apart from delusion of agency and delusion of purpose.

 Artifical Free will, free will is never possible because synapses can never fire on their own. Need to stress this! One media loopto saturate the memetic ares of the brains. One part of the brain stem attachment fire synapse’ in the brain. When firing, the brain would be active and then thoughts upon this platform are slightly freeer than previously. We are reactive beings, we take information from the outside world and then respond to it, we are not proactive, we cannot create thoughts out of nothing. Our brains can only react to what we feed it, it cannot create anything of its own.

 Neurochemical brain levellers, brain chemicals regulated, remove all fluctuations, to reduce the chances of acting based on genetic hormone releases. Everything was flattened out to give consciousness the best chance.

 The cancer though was a continued problem, genes had seemingly become more sophisticated, something hidden to us was going on and the labs were in a constant battle to irradicate its cancer spreading, age of death had bee rescued and now stood at 85, still 45 years off what was once the average age of death, 135.

 Then go into brain rape, brain stem attachments, articial free will and the conscious trying to outplay genetics and memetics to gain some sort of control over their reality, this is the purpose of genetic control and brain stem attachments, to forcibly take control. How to supress memes? Overloading the brain with ideas and then from that point of total knowing make a ‘free’ choice, not allowing any one meme to take control, not enough space for all memes, just a little taster of each to create artificial free will.

 A reminder pops up as Varley is towelling the last of the pink saline droplets leaking from the incisions. All surgical rinsed at the wheely, then placed in it’s central autoclave for sterilisation. Wheely pushed under the mantle piece where a fire place would have been.

           The reminder was a Rotation notification, Varley stepped into stores and found the freeze dried samples. Once every 3 months sperm and eggs samples were given, for research and also reproduction.

           The door buzzed as Varley padded back down the stairs towards the front door. Opening as they neared it, the bright light pouring in, Varley moving feet to avoid it’s heat. There was an awkward whirring outside, the wheeled drone, stuck on the upturned bin lid. Taking a black umbrella from the hall, Varley slipped on some flip flops, opening the umbrella as they stepped out, the heat of the sun still making it through the shield. Being out in the sun all morning the bin lid was hot, it’s shiny surface reflecting the light back onto the pale legs, skin itching from the irritation.

Varley soon freed the wheel, unable to pick the lid up, kicked it to one side of the path. Indifferent to Varley’s presence, the buggy carried on it’s journey to the front door where it tooted it’s chirping electronic horn. The mother drone waiting in the middle of the street, the little bays opening up for its returning kids. Varley made their way back inside, scanning the packages on the front sensor then placing them into the open hatch, its cooled interior air a huge contrast to outside atmosphere. The lid closed and the buggy whirred back through the front gate, down the curb and back into its designated bay in the mother drone. Last back the mother drone now sped off, back to the regional facility. The facility will process the specimens, apply any new updates to the genetic code (normally 10-20 alterations found made a month), some samples kept for research, viable stabilised code sent on to a randomised facility, where all the worlds modified genes were kept. There the lottery would begin, the whole worlds sperm and eggs, randomly chosen to create the next generations. V.8402893 was the current genetic base, our own gene pool, now consciously controlled. No parents, no tribes apart from humanity at large. (platos republic idea?, Sparta’s societal structure). Becoming a sole agent within society.

             Varley was back upstairs, already had a universal credit payment from the Reproduction centre. Sat down at the screens,

   Perhaps adding something to say that games were the future of all social interaction and experience.

      Sleep walker 9/11 article. The weaving of the collective conscious and unconscious into video form, film editors, the new order of priest soothsayers. Reconstructed from hive mind footage, which is exctracted from collective consciousness, sleep, hypnosis, young girls on mentrals cycles. A girls first period (girls monitored for this, as first period arrives they are examined for fresh collective memoris, passed down from generations, secrets, loves, stories, horrors.

 Collective conscious starts to get heavy, get saturated, starts to obsess over traumas, over guilt. The consciousness becoming more sensitive and more powerful. Sleepwalking was the first instant, people would begin walking, end up at ground zero, massed outside people houses (guilty people).

  Article 4588:9379.6. Senen Cove, 14th March 2014

 Without disturbing the covers, her bare legs slipped out of the bed, her feet instinctively finding the slippers. Her husband snorted at the slight disturbance, turning over awkwardly, his t-shirt catching in such a way that would eventually lead to his arm going numb, upon waking he would realise his wife had gone.

           Her feet had pushed all the way into the faux fur slippers, her night gown falling to just below the knee. She was now seated on the side of the bed, hands massaging the mattress, all the muscles in the face relaxed, eyes shut, still sleeping. She stood and made her way across the room, she crossed the landing, walked slowly down the stairs, hand on the bannister, at the bottom she slowly unlocked the door.

           Senen Cove was a small village, deep south west, Lands End, England, it was 4.12am and dark. The wind was blowing bitterly as Claire walked down the central road through the village. She turned sharply, through the pub car park, over the knee high timber bar and down the shingle embankment.

           Halfway down the slope she twisted her ankle, falling head first into the loose rocks. An automatic groan as the wind was knocked out of her, rolled onto her back and stood, carrying on her journey towards the sea. She hobbled down the rest of the embankment, clearing the shingle and out onto the sandy beach.

The sun was just pushing up over the land behind her as her slippers touched the cold water. Her pace unchanged as she proceeded into the sea. The blue black darkness calling her forward, her head held transfixed on the horizon, her eyes shut, still sleeping.

The dark water was now chest height, breathing now short, her footing lost where the sea bed fell abruptly away. Her head underwater, she breathed in, filling her lungs, the cold salty sea funnelled into her lungs. Chest convulsed, partly retching the water back up, with her head still under the next breath drew in more water, this continued until she was unconscious, each convulsion gentler than the last.

   Were part of the unearthing of the 9/11 myth, through a hive mind, collective conscious investigation. Groups have started to investigate the past, freedom of information of the past, the agencies tried to disrupt this but the hive minds managed to stop this. (think of Peter Watts at the beginning of that book, the government systematically killing the hive minds, against anything that goes up against them). They were able to contact spirits within the atmosphere, or troubled spirits from the actual locations of these traumatic events, these investigations are recorded, fragments of memories stored. Different spirit perspectives brought together, edited to work out what happened, moment by moment. Video editors, are now almost soothsayers, spiritual, their practice is magical as well as technical.

 The spirits are haunting the world, not being released into the cosmos where they are meant to join the flux/wind of the universal, the universal. The guilt plagues the spirit, and is spat out upon death only to travel within 8 km of where the death took place, given the size of the universe, 8km is like being stuck in a shoe. As you can imagine, in New york this was difficult, given it’s size and a human propensity to trauma and guilt.

 They unearthed the memories from the people, not only could they interact with the spiritual they could also tap into relatives of the people, particularly the daughters, particularly while menstruating. They did this with the help of drug inducement and hypnotherapy, stored memories deep in their unconscious.

 They also find fidden footage of the actual event, the inside of these rooms and the stair wells as they were being boarded up. Gassed, sleeping gas. They find this buried in the back garden of someone home, he never knew what his father had done in his life. He had himself always had an inexplicable fear of the garden. The package was sealed, and secured in special containers. It seems we never want to die with these things, we always want to leave some sort of trace, some way that the truth can still be got at somehow.

 The hive minds and Editor Shaman have got together with surveillance to set up detection posts across the lands. To detect these restless, ‘Grounded’ spirits.

 They depend on these conspiracy theories, they depend on terrorism, they depend on prejudice, cold war, racism, sexism. They depend on all forms of bigotry and self interest. All of these Narratives have helped the retainment of the status quo and the oppression of the masses for the world over, everyone has been fucked by this, everyone. Everything is a smokescreen for economic oppression, there’s no way that without these things people would put up with the lack of social mobility etc etc etc etc. The more the consciousness of the people grow, the more desperate the agencies get. Greater amounts of force is necessary, greater spectacles, the more outrageous, the more unthinkable the more believable and also the more open to conspiracy theories. They actually aim to make the false flag scenarios as complicated and outlandish as possible, of course they could have just blown up the twin towers on that day, but that would have been to easy, not enough of a spectacle, they needed the whole world to tune it, the whole world to see the fantastic display of badly masked planes supposedly hitting the towers. If it wasn’t so unbelievable no one would have believed it.

           They left too many clues though, the money, the bonds, the hijackers, the drills, that amateur masking.

 This was all revealed by a secret silicone valley group The Hive minds ended up unearthing all of this. Elon Musk  managed to get one up on the world agencies and set up an independent bureau of investigation.

Elon Musk is himself the centre of a conspiracy theory, he tactically nuked himself apparently after writing a digital suicide note. The tactical nuke became a favourite of the authorities as it handily enough vaporised all evidence and made the crime scene un-investigable for many months. I wonder what lengths someone such as Musk must go through not to be assassinated by the authorities, how careful does he have to be not to be framed, self suicide etc. What securities does he have to build up, personal, physical, technical, governmental, international. etc etc.

 There are some who say this has been planned for a long time, and that for years it has been forced into our collective conscience. Through imagery, 911 emergency, all these things, so when it does happen we’re already comfortable with the idea, we’re already halfway to believing it. ( talk about precognitional memory, the shadow government already have a deep understanding of this, they know that propaganda just needs to be maintained through ought the present and into the future to make us believe it right now, they know it’s a 300 year old plan that started yesterday.

 There are now inbuilt programs that can detect possible precognition patterns, like an antivirus. Every person now has their own defences, their only checks on everything, food, water, information, everything is checked, double checked.

   Need More Varley -Varley Gaming here, alternative economy, brain power used to organise economy (like bit coin harvesting). Neo liberal capitalism modelled on 3.5 billion year old genetic survival, need an economy for the future.

  Conscious Rape , started with the hyperfrontality epidemic, all forms of stimulation. This brought about the unification of the sexes, the unification of gender, sexuality, classes, nations. We were all suddenly seen as one thing, one being, slight human consciousness. The forever misguided human consciousness, forced, coerced into nearly all actions. Consciousness became the unifying force in all of this, all of us,

This first led to big crack downs on all visual, audio, media stimulation that could be seen as collaborating with either genetic or memetic survival at the detriment to the human subject. For billions of years the human consciousnessn the human being had always come second, now with memes on the scene, it was trailing in third place. There needed to be a rebalancing.

The brain was deemed woefully out of date, out of touch with the new world. The Brain is a 3.5 billion year old piece of hardware, only getting a firmware update every million or so years, it could not keep up with the alter, alien devices that proliferated around the world. Consciousness Rape clauses aimed to stop companies and media preying on us. Sex, Fear, Violence, Death, all these things were part of the problem. The populations of the Centro Western States came together and agreed to try and limit the constant inseccessant attacks on the struggling consciousness. All sexualities, all genders, all classes came together for this.

           Devices were developed to single out animal, or knee jerk brain responses. People were notified in real time when they were making decisions based on a limited free will or their animal instincts. There can never be free will, but the closest thing to it. Discuss free will, Peter Watts, how can there be free will when everything is a reaction, you can only ever react you can never assert yourself, you can’t make yourself think, full stop.

   Genetic Code roleplaying as humans, memes also roleyplaying as humans, consciousness stuck in the middle of these blind , waring factions. Memes and Genes also trying to get rid of consciousness, it wan’t good for either of them.

 Culture is a tool for genes and memes inject the illusion of agency upon a being. Culture/society as stage for us to role play within. Memes and genes needs consciousness in order to survive, it holds this consciousness, maintains it through culture. Society/ Culture is all an unconscious creation of these survival systems.

           All areas of human life just a performance to enhance reproduction of these entities. Different genes and meme sets , with different skills put together different showcase areas to highlight their skills in order to impress mates and engender themselves within the social structure. Sciences, arts, government, money, banking, finances, nature, these are all tribes that are vying with each other in order to promote their gene/meme sets.

  Reciepts (gang of murderers)

Gang of people murdering high ranking officials on their death bed, 40 years after their offence. The list of damned people is public, so they know it’s coming. Will kill you 5 years before your estimated death.

       End on the sun, the solar exchange, varley looking again at the outside world, the hot rays, perhaps he decides to spend the rest of the day on the roof sunbathing, building up his relationship with the mother of existence, his true parent. The Sun is our immediate provider, our immediate creator, we are her offspring, she is our mum. We can only learn from her example, for ever giving like the sun, even unto our own destruction.

 Perhaps elaborate on the idea that once we leave this we become part of the universal, then the universe dies and becomes a part of something else, then that dies and becomes part of something else. Where is the end point of this? Ballard, voices of time!!

  Fish all fucking the wrong types of fish. Both chemical and sound pollution began interfering with fish migration and breeding patterns. The high levels of mercury inducing bouts of clinical schizophrenia and mass hysteria amongst many species of fish. Oceanic disturbances first reported off the Costa Rican coast, the Gulf of Nicoya’s beaches and inlets clogged with rotting fish carcasses. A group of marine biologists with the help of local fisherman soon found the source. A shoal of cod, 850,000 in number, a gluttonous whirlpool, its exterior surrounded by adult males, the interior a prison to females and the young. At night the shoal would surface, their furious circular swimming creating a whirlpool capable of dragging under smaller vessels.

            The Cod seemed to be systematically dismantling the oceanic ecosystems. When their prey was bigger than them they’d devour it, when it was smaller than them they’d rape it. The death of 37 researchers over 4 years led to many countries not allowing scientists in the water. The swarm had developed a society of constant hysteria and manic bloodlust.

They came to have a semi religious cult following by some fringes of society. People thought it was the end of the world, hundreds sacrificed themselves to the shoal, large boats, full of sacrificials would head out after nightfall. Cutting off the engines upon approaching the shoal, the sacrificals would then enter the water, the current from the whirlpool drawing them slowly in. Satilite images of whole families sucked into the swarm of fish, the blood swirling round, in the anti-clockwise motion of the swarming fish. Simultaneously drowned and eaten alive. Underwater footage of these mass suicides were often leaked from military vessels monitoring the swarm. The fish passing the sacrifices down the walls of the shoal to the bottom of the tornado of fish, the limp bodies, clothes delicately stripped off, cartwheeling down the outside of the throbbing structure, pushed and pulled downwards. The bodies were almost completely  stripped by the time they reach the bottom the structure. The flesh prepared perfectly for the young of the shoal at the bottom, meant tender, ripped into manageable strips. The fish were seen as Satanic, the coming of the apocalypse, their steely dead eyes, looking into the camera, indifferent to existence.

[noszkass]

ashley tempest winthrope.

thirty six. defense attorney. jai courtney.

“You're supposed to grow out of your horridness, aren't you? I don't think I ever grew out of mine. Sometimes I think it's still inside me, like something nasty I swallowed, that got stuck...”

content warning: mentions toxic, co-dependent relationships; abuse; death of a peer/family member (via murder).

dominant traits. logical, charismatic, gentleman, stoic, focused, patient, selectively affectionate, charming, observant, cautious, possessive, unpredictable, self-preserving, forceful, obsessive, demanding, melancholic, aggressive, irritable, distrusting, unrelenting, loyal, easily jealous, less hair-trigger more berserk button, no-nonsense, quick thinking, dishonest.

fictional parallels. elijah mikaelson (the originals); geralt of rivia (the witcher); henry winter (the secret history); pope cody (animal kingdom); richie gecko (fdtd the series).

○ born into the winthorpe family; known for their successful generational family law practice, as councilmen from neighboring townships, and good for nothin' criminals who latched onto the teat of a community that's long-since given up on them like leaches─depending on what side of miriam's well it is you live in. ashley's particular branch is the former. estate house in rosebush hill drive, debutant turned matron belle mother who just can't seem to find her way around or out of other people's business (including, if not almost invariably, that of all three of her children), and a certain amount of respectability he was brought up to live by.

○ on the surface ashley winthorpe is a deliciously handsome man. wealthy and put together. takes pride in his appearance and family name. he's also well-mannered and polite, and thoughtful in such infinitesimal ways that you never really think much of until after the fact. and there is something so very not right about him. he has a kind smile that never quite reaches the edges of his eyes and though it doesn't necessarily look disingenuous, there's something about it that doesn't exactly leave you with a sense of ease. like an unfamiliar gesture that's been practiced over and over, so many times that it's lost meaning. like it takes the muscles in his face a moment to pull before they settle in the correct spots. he'll have a conversation with you and while at times it seems he's looking right through you, others will have his attention so intensely undivided it feels as if you've been bared naked and left in a cold room. like you've just been caught lying about something and he knows. somehow, he's known all along. because he listens intently when you speak to him and you suspect somehow he never forgets a single thing he's heard.

○ there's no mistaking his booming voice, jarring, even at a whisper sending shockwaves through your core that has you on high alert. even when it's soft and lulling (in an attempt to offer comfort or catching him melt into the woman he's declared the love of his goddamn life from the corner of your eye through the crack in his office door), there's something threatening that looms. less like hard blunt force and more like a living, breathing fog that blankets you with strong arms, settles deep into your gut, coils itself around your innards, and wrings you dry. the confusing part? you know, without a doubt, he would protect you with no hesitation and ask for nothing in return. and, most of the time, you'd be right. because ashley winthorpe is a good man. no matter how your instincts thrash, screaming at you otherwise.

plot hooks.

i apologize, some of these are all very specific to a singular plot and i could've just included them in a legit request 😬🙃

○ sandbox love never dies. a very specific and imperfect friend group cast in the roles of bastard, bleeding heart, damaged, golden, grim, ingénue, temptress, and wild card. they've been together since any of them can remember. spent their whole lives dreaming about trying to get out of miriam's well, but instead only found tragedies that bind them to each other. tragedies, usually, of their own making. you'll be able to read a little more about these characters in the sandbox love request, which i promise is coming!! there is a doc in the works with more information + a plot server, so expect to be part of those things if you take one of these babes!

○ his secretary. in the past he's helped her out with something legally and she's kind of in his debt, though he insists time and time again she owes him nothing of the sort. i figured it'd be something along the lines of strong holding an ex-boyfriend or husband who wouldn't leave her alone (making her miserable, or something like refusing to pay child support he'd been ordered to pay, dragging her name through the mud, etc. general nuisances to nip in the bud/bad behavior in need of correcting before they became worse as they usually do. you get the idea), because that's notoriously right up his alley. likely using non-legal means to get there; intimidation is sort of his thing. and while he may not be the type of boss or co-worker who meets you for drinks after you clock out, he does have an affection for every single one of his employees and seeing as how she works with him the most, she'd be near the top of that list. maybe she was intimidated by him in the beginning and now she knows he's not everything he appears to be. and they have an understanding.

○ the weight of his guilt. [cw: murder. this will come much later in the plot!] the winthorpes are a family on two very extremes of a type of people. [the bastard] is his cousin on his father's side, a wayward little sister who got knocked up by someone unbefitting of the family and then marrying someone worse by their standards when the father got himself put away over an affair or something just as unbecoming. ashley was always raised closely with [the bastard], his father's hope to sway the boy of many wasted talents to the right side of the family, to make something of himself. but he's a product of his lineage. and only ever finds situations for ash to get him out of. eventually, [the bastard] who he will murder, cold and bloody and bury at the base of an old oak tree will disappear. and ashley's guilt will cause him to reach out. as far as anyone knew, they were the best of friends. always together (even if that relationship was practically handwrought by his father, and he had little-to-no patience for his cousin's antics). it'll be only natural that he come by every now and again to check on them, show care, help fix up things around the house that [the bastard] would have if he were still around. because it'll ultimately be ash's fault he's gone. partially. [the bastard] will deserve what he gets and no one who'll know will be able to convince him anything otherwise, but his family didn't deserve the fallout that came after. maybe a parent or sibling or someone [the bastard] claimed to love while making his way through the female population of miriam's well.

○ the other two winthrope children. they're expected to be upstanding citizens to combat the trash reputation the other winthrope side creates. father is one of a long line of lawyers (with a main practice just outside of town, ashley's secondary office in mw because he prefers it here) and mother is a homemaker whose extracurriculars might as well be solid, paying jobs. they have three children together; ashley (being the oldest son), a daughter magnolia (and the only girl -- taken by sage), and the youngest son, credence (who is very likely expected to join the family business, like ashley). i don't expect anyone to make the parents even though that would be incredible? but they all still have rooms at their home in rosebush hill drive to use at their leisure. it wouldn't at all be out of the question that some of the children still live there -- especially the daughter if she's unwed. they're very old fashioned southern that way. they do these big family events where everyone is expected to participate, go on vacations and holidays together, and church on sundays regardless of your personal beliefs on the matter (that you had very well better keep to yourself if they don't align, ashley has learned). their grandfather also lives in the family house after losing grandma a few years back.

[mileynewsau]

Miley Cyrus Breaks Silence on Rootsy New Music, Fiance Liam Hemsworth & America: 'Unity Is What We Need'

Well above California’s Pacific Coast Highway, just off a canyon road, sits a small house with a wooden porch painted in the colors of the Pride flag. The outside is decorated with frog planters, ­butterfly chairs, a hot-pink pig-shaped grill, ­sunflowers and daisies. This is Rainbow Land, the boho recording studio whose owner, Miley Cyrus, is on this sunny April afternoon sitting cross-legged in a swivel chair before a sound board, dressed way down with unruly long hair, cutoffs and a vintage tee that reads “Malibu” on the front.

Cyrus -- who’s about to play me 10 songs off a new album that promises to (yet again) transform one of the most inimitable, unpredictable careers in recent pop ­history -- is somehow animated and serene at the same time. It’s clear from the way her words tumble forth that she’s ­breaking a months long self-imposed “media blackout” and eager to unpack her latest thinking on everything from her alienation from hip-hop to engaging with Donald Trump’s supporters.

“This is crazy,” she says with her ­signature raspy-voiced charm, “but I haven’t smoked weed in three weeks!” Cyrus -- who’s sitting across from a lighted wall plaque that reads “It’s 4:20 Somewhere” -- elaborates on why she decided to quit “for a second”: “I like to surround myself with people that make me want to get better, more evolved, open. And I was noticing, it’s not the people that are stoned. I want to be super clear and sharp, because I know exactly where I want to be.”

Where is that, exactly? It is, among other things, on her leafy Malibu compound that includes Rainbow Land. Cyrus, 24, shares the property with seven dogs, two pigs, two miniature horses and one Australian: fiance Liam Hemsworth, the actor with whom Cyrus reunited last year after a 2013 breakup. Hemsworth bought the property in 2014, but Cyrus moved in and has left her mark on it. (She also keeps a home with her mom, Tish, in Studio City.) In Malibu, when she’s not making music or doing two hours of Ashtanga yoga daily, Cyrus says she likes nothing better than walking her dogs or grocery shopping, where she’s generally unbothered. “I love talking to people, and I approach them in a normal, ‘Don’t treat me different, ’cause I’m not’ way. That’s what started this evolution for me, getting out of my Dead Petz phase,” she says, referring to her 2015 album, the tour for which featured her in a unicorn outfit with a strap-on phallus. “People stare at me anyway, but people stare at me a lot when I’m dressed as a ­fucking cat.”

On May 11, fans and haters alike will get a dose of New Miley with “Malibu,” the first single off an as-yet-untitled album coming later this year. It’s a breezy love song about Hemsworth -- gimmick-free pop-rock unlike anything she has recorded before, whether as Hannah Montana, the punky Disney princess who scored three Billboard 200 No. 1s in the ’00s; or as herself, on 2013’s daring Bangerz (another No. 1); or the straight-to-SoundCloud experiment Miley Cyrus & Her Dead Petz. When Cyrus sings, “I never would’ve believed you if three years ago you told me I’d be here writing this song,” she could as easily be referring to her music as to her relationship.

While Bangerz and Petz bore the unmistakable stamps of their respective collaborators, Mike Will Made-It and Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips, the new album will be Cyrus’ most DIY to date. She wrote the lyrics and melodies ­herself, and producer-writer Oren Yoel (who co-wrote the Bangerz track “Adore You,” which hit No. 21 on the Billboard Hot 100) plays all the ­instruments. Cyrus wrote one song for Hillary Clinton and another for women in the workplace, but overall, the album’s less explicitly political than it is personal. That extends to the music, which adds an unprecedented dose of twang to a mix that includes quiet acoustic turns and epic pop. “This is Miley leaning into her roots more than I’ve ever heard,” says her father, country singer and actor Billy Ray Cyrus, who tells a story of Waylon Jennings teaching a young Miley guitar chords at the kitchen table. “For her, this is honest.” It’s also a showcase for her voice, one of the most expressive in music. “My main concern isn’t radio,” says Cyrus, whose “Wrecking Ball” spent three weeks at No. 1 in 2013. “I truly don’t even listen to it.”

Cyrus was first inspired to reach beyond her circle of “outspoken liberals” and ­cultivate ­country fans and red staters in 2016, when she began as a coach on NBC’s stalwart talent competition The Voice. (She will rejoin for season 13 this fall.) “I like talking to people that don’t agree with me, but I don’t think I can do that in an aggressive way,” says Cyrus. “I don’t think those people are going to listen to me when I’m sitting there in nipple pasties, you know?”

After Trump was elected ­president, Cyrus -- who first ­supported Bernie Sanders and, when she won the Democratic ­nomination, Clinton -- launched #HopefulHippies, an initiative of her Happy Hippie youth-activism nonprofit that encourages people to “turn emotion into action.” “I have to ask myself, ‘How am I going to create real change?’” she says, “and not just ­fucking preach to the choir anymore.” With the new album, Cyrus hopes to reach the other side of the aisle. “This record is a reflection of the fact that yes, I don’t give a fuck, but right now is not a time to not give a fuck about people,” she says. “I’m ­giving the world a hug and saying, ‘Hey, look. We’re good -- I love you.’ And I hope you can say you love me back.”

Where exactly did you write ­“Malibu”?

On the way to The Voice. I drive myself everywhere, but that day I decided to Uber, and I was trying not to sing out loud because someone else was in the car.

People might call it sentimental.

They’re going to talk about me if I come out of a restaurant with Liam. So why not put the power back in my relationship and say, “This is how I feel”?

After you guys broke up, you said something like, “I’m so immersed in work, I can’t even think about it.”

Yeah, but also ’cause I needed to change so much. And changing with someone else not changing like that is too hard. Suddenly you’re like, “I don’t recognize you anymore.” We had to refall for each other.

The new album is pretty singer-­songwriter-y, no?

Yeah. But not granola. I don’t listen to Ed Sheeran and John Mayer and stuff.

Did folk singer Melanie Safka [with whom Cyrus performed in 2015] ­influence you?

She did, and I grew up with her. But I also love that new Kendrick [Lamar] song [“Humble”]: “Show me somethin’ natural like ass with some stretch marks.” I love that because it’s not “Come sit on my dick, suck on my cock.” I can’t listen to that anymore. That’s what pushed me out of the hip-hop scene a little. It was too much “Lamborghini, got my Rolex, got a girl on my cock” -- I am so not that.

I was torn on whether I was going to work with certain producers that I really like. But I feel if we’re not on the same page ­politically ... My record is political, but the sound bite doesn’t stop there. Because you can write something beautiful and you know E! News will ruin our lives and say, “This is a political record.” Because then I’m the Dixie Chicks and I’m getting my album smashed in the streets, and that’s not what I want. I want to talk to people in a compassionate, understanding way -- which people aren’t doing.

What appealed to you about The Voice?

I’m down for hanging with Blake [Shelton]. I actually want to take ­advantage of the fact that he’s there, [because] his fans don’t really take me seriously as a ­country artist. One, I haven’t given them that music. But I’ve got a tattoo of Johnny Cash’s autograph that he gave me when I was a ­little girl that says, “I’m in your corner.” Dolly Parton is my ­fucking ­godmother. The fact that ­country music fans are scared of me, that hurts me. All the ­nipple pastie shit, that’s what I did because I felt it was part of my political movement, and that got me to where I am now. I’m evolving, and I surround myself with smart people that are evolved.

But we’ve seen the way that Madonna and Lady Gaga get asked, “Is this just another costume? Another phase?”

I think [Madonna and Gaga] are ­enlightened. I ­fucking hate it when people can’t adjust. I used to [resist changing]. But I haven’t smoked weed in three weeks, which is the longest I’ve ever [gone without it]. I’m not doing drugs, I’m not drinking, I’m completely clean right now! That was just something that I wanted to do.

Is it hard to not smoke?

It’s easy, dude. When I want something, it’s fucking easy for me. But if anyone told me not to smoke, I would have not done it. It’s because it was on my time. I know exactly where I am right now. I know what I want this record to be. And not in the sense of manipulation -- wanting something from my fans or the audience, like some slimy thing -- “How do I get attention?” I never thought about that. Dude, I was shocked that people gave a fuck about the [MTV Video Music Awards in 2013, when she ­performed with Robin Thicke] -- the ­twerking, the teddy bear. It’s a totally ­different time, and I don’t think that would freak people out anymore.

Our perceptions of a lot of things are changing at lightning speed. Still, there’s an audience that’s maybe a little scared of you, those who might have a tendency to vilify the “other.”

I was talking about this with my sister [Noah], who’s 17, and she’s doing music right now. She basically grew up in L.A. She’s never known anything different. She doesn’t even know she’s open-minded, it’s the only kind of mind she has ever known. It’s mind-boggling to me that there was even a controversy around me having black dancers. That became a thing, where people said I was taking advantage of black culture, and with Mike [WiLL Made-It] -- what the fuck? That wasn’t true. Those were the dancers I liked!

When I met Pharrell [Williams], before “Blurred Lines,” before “Happy,” people wouldn’t take meetings with me because they said, “He hasn’t had a hit in 10 years.” They wanted to put me with the Dr. Lukes of the world, the Max Martins, and put me through the fucking assembly line, and I said, “No. This is someone who actually cares about me. This is someone I feel safe with.” I got completely shut out, and I had to just trust myself. What feels right to me feels right to my fans, because they know some dude in a suit didn’t tell me to do it. And by the way, I brought “Wrecking Ball” to Luke. No one put me in the room with Luke. I had done “Party in the U.S.A.” with him, and that’s just someone I thought could handle that sound. Did you ever get to come to a Bangerz show?

Yeah, I did.

I was crazy about making the tongue slide work. I was so ­embarrassed to be on the red carpet and so many of those fucking disgusting ­photographers would tell me to blow a kiss, and that’s not me! I don’t want to blow you a kiss. I didn’t know what to do with my face, so I stuck my tongue out, and it became a rebellious, punk-rock thing.

The Dead Petz track “BB Talk,” which calls out a man for his “baby ­talking,” seems to reject a similar kind of ­gender standard.

I wish it would’ve gotten some ­attention. No one saw the video! It was a real rant. Dating a musician [like me] is probably the worst thing ever, because you always end up ­having your shit in songs. It’s just ­inevitable. But I’m just that way. I’m a little bit boyish. But I can also be super femme and dress as a bunny rabbit. Who I’m with has nothing to do with sex -- I’m super open, pansexual, that’s just me.

Do you want your dudes to be dudes?

Not even. That really grosses me out. I always get in trouble for ­generalizing straight men, ’cause straight men can be my worst nightmare ­sometimes. And I’m with a straight dude. But he’s always like, “Well, don’t call me that!” I ask him sometimes, “Do you like being a boy?” And he’s like, “I don’t really think about it.” And that’s crazy to me, because I think about being a girl all the time. I’m always like, “It’s weird that I’m a girl, because I just don’t feel like a girl, and I don’t feel like a boy. I just feel like nothing.” So when someone’s too ­masculine, that really grosses me out.

But then, girls really make me sad a lot of the time too, especially right now. I think fashion has taken us a little bit downhill. I can only speak for the years that I’ve been alive, but I don’t know if it has ever been so important to “fit in.” It’s not about standing out right now. Which is so weird, because it seems like for the really unique, smart kids in this generation, it’s all about standing out. I love seeing these kids on Instagram that dress fucking dope. This whole world right now is so divided, in the arts, fashion -- everything.

The country is certainly very divided.

I like the way I think right now. But don’t Trump supporters like the way they think? So I’ve also got to be open with the way I approach people with my opinions. That’s the only way to make real change. And it’s not because I want to sell records! I know now the ways that don’t work. Because I went really hard during the ­election. But at the end of the day, we lost. We won, but because the system is fucked up, we lost. I thought, “OK. I learned my lesson on this one.”

Did you have to go into The Voice right after Election Day?

That next day, dude. I wanted to go to rehearsals. Liam was like, “Just don’t go. You’re not there. And you don’t know how everyone feels on that set.” Everyone’s from all different parts of the country, so he was like, “Don’t go and get into it with ­people right now.” Because clearly ­unity is what we need.

You posted a tearful Instagram video the day after the election, and I tweeted, “Love you, Miley.” And so many alt-right dudes responded, “Are you just trying to fuck her?”

That’s them sexualizing me, because they think that you couldn’t take me seriously. The first thing I got on my Instagram when I posted that was people saying, “You said you were going to move. When are you going to move?” It’s not time for me to leave now, dude. I’ve got to be here. I’ve got to glue this place back together, because I’m from Tennessee -- that state [went to] Donald Trump. I’m such a dreamer, and I know a lot of things that I’ve wanted to do people said weren’t possible. When I started Happy Hippie -- this is before Caitlyn Jenner transitioned, before this became something that is a part of the culture...

Leelah Alcorn -- a 17-year-old ­transgender girl who committed ­suicide in December 2014 -- brought a new awareness to transgender issues.

Yes. I was on a Christmas trip, and I was like, “How am I sitting here about to open presents and someone has taken their own life?” I started Happy Hippie because I never thought we would see this day where you have the Laverne Coxes of the world get not only trans roles, but female roles. And I realized the voice I had. That’s why I brought Jesse [Helt, a homeless man, to the 2014 VMAs], because it felt wrong for me to go and get an award, celebrating me getting naked and riding a fucking wrecking ball around for a day. I mean, what would I have said? “Thanks, uh... thanks to [“Wrecking Ball” video ­director] Terry Richardson”? That would have been so weird.

Do you think you’ve managed to bring your politics into The Voice?

By sitting there after the election in head-to-toe pink, while on the inside being a gender-neutral, ­sexually fluid person, hopefully that was saying ­something. I needed some sparkle in my life, to make me able to deal. Radiating love is ­something that is important to me -- ­hopefully, that is being political.

This article originally appeared in the May 13 issue of Billboard.