#voting for this senator seat is wild

[sevendeadlysams]

-

[cryptic-bullshit]

Hey y'all

Fucking TALK to your coworkers and friends and family about Project 2025. I know it feels like everyone knows about it when you're in your own little bubble here/on social media, but I promise you they very likely DO NOT.

I mentioned it to a coworker yesterday and then she asked more about it and I explained, and now she keeps coming to me as she's reading over it to tell me how bad and wild she thinks it is

This girl does not vote, she self-admittedly does not care about politics and has too much going on in her life and with her kids and doesn't want to take the extra time to go to the polls, but because I explained Project 2025 to her and explained that this election isn't JUST for the President, but also Senate and House seats and how those matter just as much, if not more, SHE IS VOTING IN NOVEMBER

It took 20 minutes of my time, and now at least one more person is showing up (in Texas where we NEED blue voter turn out), and probably more because she's horrified by it and it probably gonna tell her friends and family because she's especially worried about the things they want to do you public schools and has a bunch of other friends with kids

Talk to people about this in person, off the internet, and make a fucking difference, PLEASE

[odinsblog]

So Henry Cuellar has been indicted for bribery, foreign influence and corruption. Henry Cuellar, the Islamophobic, homophobic, anti-abortion, anti-immigrant, anti-gun control “Democrat” who often voted with Trump.

Hm.

That’s wild af.

Too bad there’s not someone who was more honest and trustworthy who the DNC and the DCCC could have backed and promoted back when Cuellar was running for office.

That’s really too bad, especially since the margin for the Senate and the House will probably be sO damn close in 2024. Too bad there wasn’t a pro-gun control, pro-immigration, pro-LGBTQ candidate that Democrats could have rallied behind. Instead of funding a conservative, anti-abortion Republican who just called himself a Democrat.

Because if there really was a pro-choice, pro-immigration, pro-gun control candidate who Democrats could have backed, then a lot of people would probably be saying “I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO” right about now. Yeah, I would probably be a little bit pressed. Angry even.

But what do I know, right? I mean, it probably doesn’t matter that AIPAC poured millions and millions against…

Know what, never mind. I guess we’re all good doe, because there wasn’t anyone else who could have taken that seat, the seat that was in a safe Democratic district.

Maybe Democrats will learn and support an actual progressive next time?

It’s all too bad.

[velidewrites]

When the senator of Chandrila’s debts catch up with him at last, the Galactic Empire places a bounty on his daughter’s head. But Elain Archeron is cunning, and she will not go down without a fight—certainly not to the handsome Mandalorian hunter, intent on claiming his prize.

Notes: Part 1/2 of my contribution to Day 7: AU of @elucienweekofficial! Dedicated to @melting-houses-of-gold who patiently listened to my ramblings about this fic <3

Tags: Alternate Universe - Star Wars, Mandalorian Bounty Hunter!Lucien x Bounty!Elain

Warnings: None (filthy smut in part 2 as I am once again unable to write porn without feelings)

Read on AO3

Part 1

The ship is disturbingly loud.

Elain doesn’t know much about spacecraft, but the sputtering hum of her H-Type Nubian’s engines is concerning enough that she imagines anyone else in her position would feel unsettled. She should have expected the complications—she’d been warned about them, in fact—but she still shifts in her seat uncomfortably.

The yacht has been borrowed to her by Vassa, the former queen of Naboo and a longtime friend—and, for the past four years, a senator within the ranks of the Galactic Empire. Vassa herself had not been present on Naboo during Elain’s stay, called away by what she called a sham of a voting in the Senate, but her people had been informed in advance well enough to take care of the entire process.

Elain Archeron is being smuggled.

It is precisely why she’s been lent the H-Type. The ship is pre-Empire, which means it will—it should—fly under the radar, staying off the Empire’s scopes. It’s not that Elain is a fugitive—not yet, at least—but she has no doubt the Chandrilan government will alert the Senate of her disappearance once they realise Lord Archeron’s daughter has escaped. She isn’t important enough to have Destroyers sent after her, but Elain has never been one to take her chances. Especially not on a day like this.

Especially not on her wedding day.

She has been putting it off since the day she turned fifteen, and it was only the love Lord Archeron supposedly bore for his daughter that kept Elain from an arrangement to be put in place immediately afterwards, as per the Chandrilan custom. Now, though, at twenty-three…Elain had run out of excuses.

The message arrived while she was on Naboo, spending the summer with Vassa as she did nearly every year. A holo-recording of Senator Archeron happily announced her engagement to Graysen Nolan, the only son of Governor Nolan—perhaps the single richest man on Chandrila, Elain’s own family not even coming close in wealth. This will be good for us, Elain, her father said. Finally, the tide turns favourably in our direction.

Elain was not inclined to agree.

Vassa, thank the Maker, had helped her put the plan in motion almost immediately, arranging for safe, undercover passage to the Outer Rim through one of the old hyperspace lanes, abandoned by the Republic during the Clone War. Her intel claimed the route to be safe enough to pass through undetected, which, for Elain, was more than enough.

Graysen Nolan is not old or, superficial as it may be, unattractive by any means. He is quite handsome actually and, as her father so vehemently assured her, quite ridiculously wealthy—but the twenty-eight year old man has a flaw.

He’s an Imperial.

Elain would never dare voice it out loud—in the eyes of the Empire, she is all but a loyal subject, a pretty face to put on Chandrila’s posters and nothing more. But deep down, in a place deep and uncharted like the Wild Space itself, Elain despises them with her whole, insignificant being.

The Senator does not share his daughter’s sentiment, of course—he is a loyalist through and through. It’s what made Elain despise him, too—despise the coward hiding behind expensive gestures and grand speeches. The coward who’d chosen the Empire over his family.

Over the two daughters it had taken from him.

Elain closes her eyes and rests the back of her head against the yacht’s sleek wall, the cool metal doing nothing to ease the pain of the memory. The ship shakes slightly as it charts the course into hyperspace, sending tremors into her bones where it comes into contact with her body. This is one of the crafts with strong deflector shields, Elain reminds herself. As long as they manage to avoid the asteroid field, they will be fine. Probably.

The ship sputters again, and, once again, doubt washes over her in a surging wave. This is probably the fourth or fifth time in the past hour that she’s reconsidered this whole ordeal, the very first one nearly sending her into cardiac arrest as she first saw the ship, the once glistening silver now rusted and peeling off in certain places, as though damaged by battle. It probably was. Elain can’t even begin to count how many attacks on her life Vassa had endured during the Clone War, the controversial Senator constantly the subject of immense interest to the now-extinct Separatist leaders.

She looks around the space, the air suddenly tight. She knows this is going to work—has been assured of it a hundred times—and yet, for some reason, dread continues to build in her chest all the same. Through the wide viewport of the cockpit, even the stars seem to flicker in warning.

“Are we clear?” she asks the pilot nervously.

The pilot, a man Vassa has personally vouched for, half-turns to her from his chair. “We’re calculating the jump, my Lady.”

Elain shifts in her own seat. “How much longer?”

The ground shakes violently before he manages to open his mouth.

Her four guards—or Vassa’s guards, since Elain abandoned her own when she’d sneaked out from her bedchamber’s terrace—jolt upright, white-gloved hands wrapped tightly around their blasters.

“What is happening?!” Elain yells when the floor trembles again, the ship groaning loudly.

All the blood drains from the pilot’s face. “Someone docked in from below.”

Elain’s blood chills. “Impossible.” They couldn’t have realised it yet—she’d purposefully opted to run in the middle of the night, way after the Chandrilan guard conducted their security check. She expected them to find her bed empty in the morning—but not now, merely an hour after her escape.

The commander of her escort looks at his subordinate, his face tight and deep with what seems like thousands of creases. “Check out the disturbance,” he barks, the guard only nodding before he disappears from the cockpit.

“Empire?” Elain asks, the question no more than a whisper. The pilot shakes his head, looking at the beeping controls in disbelief.

“It can’t be—this ship is supposed to be invisible.”

Elain chokes on a breath. “Supposed to?”

The pilot seems breathless, too. “My Lady—” 

His words are interrupted by a singular shot of blaster fire as it cuts through the air. Then, a loud thud as a body falls to the metal floor.

Elain yelps.

One of her guards grabs her by the arm, his grip tight enough to crush the veins beneath her skin. “My Lady, we must hide.”

“Escape pods?” Elain pants.

The commander’s expression looks grave. “There are none on this ship.” He looks at the entrance to the cockpit, and a ringing silence ripples through the air as they all realise the guard has not yet returned—which means the body they’d heard was likely not the intruder’s.

“Hide her,” the commander barks to his remaining two men. “Seal the entrance.” And with that, he, too, disappears between the automatic door, the sharp whoosh of it closing foreboding in a way Elain can’t quite describe.

Not a single person in the cockpit dares to utter so much as a breath as they listen in to the commander’s steps, echoing through the passageway. One second passes, then two—then three.

There is a muffled sound of struggle before the blaster is fired again, yet another thud as what is undoubtedly the commander’s body falls to the floor.

What happens next is a blur to Elain.

The pilot sucks in a breath, and the two guards begin shouting at each other, one order after another as Elain is pulled back toward the small storage space hidden under the pilot’s seat. One of the men lunges for the door, his own weapon at the ready as he aims for the control panel. Elain squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the shot.

Except that when the shot finally comes, it does not sound from her guard’s sleek, elegant S-5—the man hadn’t even managed to raise it toward the source.

No, it comes from a different pistol, rough and heavy, a trail of smoke hissing upward as the man’s body, too, slumps onto the metal.

Elain tears her gaze off her lifeless guard to look into the eyes of his murderer.

What she finds is a face covered entirely by beskar, the silvery helmet glinting even under the dying starlight.

The Mandalorian comes into view, his powerful frame scraping against the blast door as he takes a step forward, the sound as loud as the bodies of the three men he’d killed. Elain’s breath hitches in her chest, as though afraid to so much as graze the faded green of his chest plate, the metal she recognises as durasteel—hardly comparable to the sheer strength of beskar, but enough to keep the laser-like beams from piercing his heart—something many people have tried to do, if  the ashen marks staining the armour are any indication.

Elain’s own heart—one she suspects will not keep beating for long—thumps loudly in her chest as the Mandalorian man sheathes the blaster back into his belt, so many weapons strapped to its side Elain struggles to understand how he manages to walk with all that weight. He looks calm as he looks over the cockpit—over the three people still alive and waiting for his next move. Elain cannot explain how she knows this—but she swears she can feel his gaze pinned on her, even with his face hidden behind a black, T-shaped visor.

“Stand down, Mandalorian,” the last of her Nubian guards orders loudly, his blaster pointed straight at the masked warrior.

Elain feels his eyes drift away from her face, like a magnet releasing its hold as he looks over the guard with nothing more than an angle of his head. The man actually squirms under his scrutiny.

“I said,” he repeated, no longer able to hide the slight tremor in his throat, “stand down.”

To Elain’s complete shock, the leather-clad hand hovering above his belt falls loosely down his side. The guard, too, seems to release a breath. “This is a diplomatic mission you have disrupted,” he says. “You will be reported to the Guild—”

“I’m not with the Guild,” the response cuts in. It makes Elain shiver—his voice is low and deep, the helmet’s vocoder modulating it slightly, making it seem like a gravelly rumble from his throat.

Once the shiver passes through her spine, the Mandalorian’s words register. If he isn’t with the Guild…

“Hand her over,” he orders. “Now.” One word—deadly. He does not seem like the man to revel in hiding his threats.

The guard gulps, sensing it, too. To his credit, he still manages to tell him, “We will not.”

The Mandalorian’s vocoder sounds with a low hum, the sound seeping a scorching fire into her bones. “My orders are to leave witnesses,” he finally says, his metal-clad body entirely still like a predator fixed on his prey. “It’s a shame I happen to be forgetful sometimes.”

Elain’s heart threatens to stumble out of her chest. He came here for her, and the men sent to protect her—Vassa’s men—do not need to die trying to protect her from the inevitable.

It’s just her luck, Elain thinks bitterly, that the one and only time she’s ever tried to rebel, she has to be hunted by one of the most ruthless warriors in the galaxy. The Mandalorians are known for their violent ways and brutal efficiency—they are, after all, one of the Empire’s most loyal subjects, having allied themselves with Emperor Koschei the moment he came into power.

Since it isn’t the Guild, then, it must be the Empire who have sent this bounty hunter after her, which could only mean two things: her plot to escape her impending marriage had been discovered by Governor Nolan much earlier than she’d expected, or…

Or Father was in a lot more trouble than he'd originally made it out to be.

“It’s okay,” Elain breathes, placing a palm on the guard’s arm. “It’s okay—I’ll go with him.”

The guard shakes his head vehemently. “No—you can’t my Lady, we have been ordered—”

“It’s okay,” she repeats, then squeezes his shoulder. “Lower your weapon.” She turns to the Mandalorian. “I’m going to walk towards you now. Do not hurt those men.”

The bounty hunter does not move, and so Elain takes this as his agreement.

She takes a half-step—then another, crossing the space on shaky legs. She’s almost there—has almost reached that magnetic presence of his when she hears a light swoosh, and a click of metal.

“Lady Elain, duck!” the guard shouts, and fires his blaster.

Elain whirls back just in time to see him sink to his knees, his mouth agape, the hole in his chest sizzling with that same, smoky trail. She shrieks, running back toward yet another man who’d given his life to keep her safe—when a tight, steady grip on her wrists holds her back. “No more tricks, sweetheart,” his warning comes purring as her back hits the hard steel at his chest. Elain whips to face him again, anger stinging hotly at her eyes. “You said you needed witnesses!”

His helmet moves an inch as he seemingly glances at the pilot cowering in his seat behind her. “One is more than enough.” He jerks his chin at the trembling man. “Deliver the message to the Senator. He has seven rotations.”

Elain starts, “Do not—” but her words are cut short as the Mandalorian yanks her back. “Where are you taking me?” she breathes, her attention transfixed on the rough feel of his leather gloves against her bare skin. “Answer me right now, or I will not follow you anywhere—”

His steps come to a stop so abruptly she nearly slams face-first into his back. Slowly, he turns to look at her, silence passing through them in a tremor before he asks lowly, “No?”

Elain swallows. Hard. “No,” she says, accepting that the word might mean her death.

To her surprise, the Mandalorian lets go, crossing his arms over his chest instead, the silver vambraces clanking against each other with the movement. “Look, sweetheart,” he says, the nickname already making a flaming anger stir in the pit of her stomach, “the way I see it, you’ve got two choices: you either come willingly, or I make you.”

Elain grits her teeth stubbornly. “If you want to collect on your bounty, you’ll have to bring me in alive.”

His hands brace at his hips as he cocks his head to the side, and though the black of his visor is nearly impenetrable, Elain swears she saw a flicker of a smirk. “Lucky for me, my orders weren’t that specific.”

Elain’s blood chills.

“So what’s it gonna be,” he pauses, a hint of mockery in his modulated tone as he adds, “my Lady?”

Elain considers.

If Nesta were here, she would have opposed the Mandalorian without a shadow of a doubt, the cold venom in her words perhaps enough to melt through the beskar itself. But Elain had never been much like her elder sister—and so she thinks of Feyre.

Her heart clenches at the memory of her name, but Elain does not linger—instead, she listens to her sister’s voice the way she remembers it—calm and wise, far too knowing for a seventeen year old Padawan—and yet still unmistakably Feyre’s, blue-grey eyes twinkling with mischief as she spoke. Don’t worry, Elain, she had told her four years ago, they won’t see us coming.

No, Feyre, Elain silently agrees now, a plan already forming in her head. He won’t.

She points at the circular opening in the floor—at the ladder to the ship docked directly beneath. “Lead the way.”

—

Elain finds herself in the cockpit of yet another crumbling ship.

The Razor Crest is even older than the H-Type, the model predating the Clone War by at least four years. She supposes the advantage of staying off the scopes is worth it, though right now, she can’t possibly imagine why the Mandalorian working clearly on the Empire’s paycheck would ever need to avoid it.

She sits a breath’s distance behind him, watching as those leather-clad fingers press so many controls her mind begins to spin as they shoot into hyperspace, the blue-white blur of stars blending together a sight beautiful enough to appreciate even in Elain’s current predicament. The ship is fast, too, no doubt tweaked with improvements over the years. She wonders how long the Mandalorian has owned it, frowning as she realises she doesn’t even know how old the bounty hunter is.

She doesn’t even know his face, let alone his name. She would’ve guessed a bounty hunter of his skill would be renowned all the way to the Outer Rim. “What’s your name?” she asks him, curiosity getting the better of her.

He ignores her question entirely.

Elain huffs. “It is rude to ignore a lady, you know.”

No response.

That familiar frustration stirs inside her again. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to simply call you Mandalorian.” Her lip curls. “Or just Mando, perhaps—”

He turns back to her at that, and Elain realises triumphantly that she’d struck a nerve. “You are not to call me anything,” he tells her gruffly. “And besides,” his seat squeaks slightly and he turns to face the viewport again, “Something tells me that you are no lady.”

Her eyes dig into his back, and Elain sure wishes she could will a burning fire into them right now. When she realises it’s a futile effort, she asks, “Where am I to sleep?”.

“Here.”

“Here?” she frowns, looking at the chair, already groaning under her weight. “Where are you taking me?”

There is a brief pause—as if he’s considering how much he can really tell her. Then, “Chandrila.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “Chandrila?”

There is a raspy sound coming from beneath his helmet that Elain can only take for a chuckle. “I’m not taking you home, sweetheart. Sorry to disappoint.”

Elain squints. “So he does have manners after all.” When her hope of hearing a retort fades away, she asks again, “How long before we get there?”

“Too long.”

“Are you always this infuriating?”

He simply chuckles again.

Elain leans back into her seat. “I’m going to need a change of clothes,” she announces.

A glimmer of surprise passes through the space between them—as if whatever the Mandalorian was expecting, it was decidedly not this. “What?”

“I have to change,” Elain repeats, making a point of gesturing to her Naboo-fashioned gown as he turns to face her again. Then, doing her best to sound as bratty as he surely expects her to be—as everyone expects her to be—she says, “Travelling in these is uncomfortable.”

She looks into his visor, which seems to stare at her blankly. “You can’t be serious,” he then says.

Elain tilts her chin up in challenge. “Have you ever worn a gown, Mandalorian?”

“You know I haven’t,” he grumbles darkly.

“Then you have no right to tell me what’s comfortable and what isn’t. These fabrics are heavy—”

“Beskar is heavy,” he cuts in.

Elain stumbles over a breath, irritated less that he’s thrown her off her track, but more that the bastard Mandalorian is right.

Still, she presses, “You’re a Mandalorian, and I’m not. I demand we stop on the nearest planet so that I may—” she hovers a hand over her form, “adapt to the situation at hand.” She angles her head. “Besides, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to attract any attention now, would you? I am a Senator’s daughter, after all.”

For a moment, the bounty hunter says nothing, simply leaning back in his seat as he assesses her. She tries not to shift under the stare she knows lurks beneath the helmet, her mind for some reason wondering if his eyes are the same green—or silver, perhaps—as his armour. She immediately dismisses the idea, though—he burns far too hot for his gaze not to blaze with that heat in some capacity. Not that she particularly cares—Elain has simply never had the chance to speak to a Mandalorian before, and those that she had seen had not seemed to share this one’s sentiment to stay perpetually hidden beneath the beskar.

She decides to flat out ask him, then—if only to satisfy that strange curiosity in her chest—when he surprises her again. “Alright,” he says, his visor seemingly focused on the thick folds of her gown. “We’ll make a stop.” Then, he adds, his voice rumbling with warning, “But no tricks, sweetheart. You won’t be able to escape me that easily.”

Elain has to bite back a smile. We’ll see.

—

A mechanically distorted cough stirs her from sleep.

“We’re landing up on Llanic,” he announces, and walks away.

Elain sits up, her back straining from the worn-out leather of her chair, the heavy dress not helping it at all. She curses herself—and not for the first time—for not thinking to wear something allowing more flexibility as she’d dressed in Vassa’s estate. Though, Elain now supposes, that same gown is the only reason she now has the opportunity to escape.

Soon enough, the Mandalorian lowers the Razor Crest onto a landing platform. Despite its proximity to Naboo, Llanic looks nothing like the planet’s vibrant, ethereal ecosystem. Everything here seems dull and grey—even the people opting for garments of pale blues and sulking whites as they move around the settlement.

“Llanic is the smugglers’ den,” the Mandalorian explains, as though reading the thoughts from Elain’s face. “All of this,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the view ahead as they step out of the ship, “is to help them stay out of sight.”

Elain looks to her own dress, the deep amethyst standing out almost ridiculously, already drawing more than a few pairs of eyes. The shiny Mandalorian at her side, Elain thinks with a sigh, certainly does not help.

The last thing she wants is the attention of more criminals.

“We need to get you a change of clothes quickly,” he mutters, making Elain look up at him with a smirk. “I told you—” she starts, but he’s already begun to walk off the platform, his gruff, “No time” her only invitation to follow along.

Her eyes scan her surroundings quickly, noting a cantina farther out back, already humming with a strange music she doesn’t recognise. He leads them left, though, toward what seems to be the market—one crowded enough that Elain can’t help but loose a breath of relief.

It should be easy to get rid of him here, Elain thinks. If, of course, she is quick enough.

Feyre would have thought this to be no more than an adventure. Elain smiles, the thought pouring a surge of courage into her chest.

They stop at an Ithorian merchant’s stand, one of the largest ones on the stony street, as he grumbles something to a bartering customer. Elain begins to fumble through his selection, her mind already tracking her route of escape. She’ll find some other, proper clothes later—the only purpose of these is to serve as her distraction.

She picks up a matching set of a top and trousers of dusted ivory, and a beige poncho to supposedly help her blend in. She’ll have to pick out something similar later if she truly is to disappear.

Elain is already side-eyeing the cantina, the copular structure practically calling out her name far at the street’s end. Perhaps she’ll be able to find a transfer there—someone to get her off-world and, hopefully, as far away from the infuriating Mandalorian and the Empire as possible

A warm, heavy presence appears beside her, and she chucks the clothes into the bounty hunter’s hands. He only stares back, confusion rolling off of him in waves.

She can’t help but snicker. “You’re impossible.”

“I…don’t understand.”

Elain huffs. “Well, my apologies if I forgot to remember to bring my credits as I was being kidnapped,” she sputters, the word making the elderly couple behind the Mandalorian turn to face her with a frown.

“Be more quiet now, would you,” the Mandalorian growls, the sound a deep rumble from his chest.

Elain narrows her gaze. “Just go buy these, yeah?”

He chuckles at the apparent drop in formalities, though his voice remains firm as he reminds her, “Don’t move until I’m back.”

She smiles sweetly, motioning to the streets around her. “Where else would I go?”

He seems to agree well enough, because the Mandalorian soon disappears between the hanging layers of cloth as he moves towards the Ithorian seller. When the familiar glint of beskar vanishes out of her sight, Elain turns and begins to run.

The amethyst dress and the tightness in her back is a strain on her speed, but the adrenaline surging through her is enough to keep her legs moving swiftly. Not for the very first time, Elain wishes she had the lithe speed and remarkable strength both of her sisters have always displayed, their movements carefully supported by the Force.

The thought leaves her as quickly as it arrived as Elain makes a sharp turn, pivoting into a darkened alleyway that she hopes will discreetly lead her to the back wall of the cantina. Her steps slow, as though the silent darkness compelled them to do so—and Elain quickly looks around, letting herself take a breath before she continues on again.

“Not so fast, princess,” a low, hissing voice sounds behind her.

Elain’s feet freeze into the ground.

“Don’t be afraid,” it croons, stepping in closer. “It will all be over soon.”

Elain’s breath quickens.

The man, unmistakably a Trandoshan, slithers beside her, his scaled, greenish skin finally coming into view—but it’s not his appearance Elain finds her gaze glued to, but the long, heavy Mortar Gun resting in his large hands as he points it directly at her face.

“Sssuch a shame,” he muses. “To ruin such a pretty face. But I find myself in a desssperate need of credits, you sssee.” He angles his scaly head, yellow eyes narrowing on her. “The Empire is paying quite the sum for you, little princess. If it was any lower…I might have taken some time to play with you firssst.”

“A shame indeed,” a voice agrees somewhere behind him. “Unfortunately, your time seems to have run out.”

A single shot booms through the air before the Trandoshan evaporates into dust.

A Mandalorian—her Mandalorian, Elain realises—stands a few metres behind where the reptilian bounty hunter stood a moment ago, a forked sniper rifle Elain had never seen before still pointed at the dissipating dust.

“Where did you get that?” Elain breathed. Has he been carrying that weapon this whole time? Could he have turned her into…into this?

He shrugs. “Had it lying around.”

He reaches her in a few quick strides, his head dipping as he appears to be sweeping his gaze over her, assessing. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

Elain shakes her head, her body slowly moving out of stillness. “No.” She clears her throat, begging the Force to bring clarity into her voice. “Thank you,” she rasps, then sighs, exasperated. The Force had never seemed to be her ally, anyways. “I’m…sorry for running.”

He hums. “I knew you would try something eventually. You got lucky.”

Elain blinks. “You would call this—” she gestures to the Trandoshan bounty hunter’s remains spread out over the stone ground, “—lucky?”

He nods, strapping the rifle to his back in one, swift movement. “There are others out there who would not hesitate to kill you on sight. I’d say,” he adds, “you got more than lucky to end up with me.”

“How very fortunate,” she mutters. He only chuckles, though she feels as his gaze lands on her again. There is a pause of quiet between them before he finally asks, the voice behind the helmet softer, somehow, “Are you, though? Alright?”

Elain sighs. “Yes. I’m…” she searches for the word. Tired. Confused. Lost. “Hungry,” she decides.

Another chuckle. “Follow me.”

The cantina beams a more lively song as they enter, though Elain, despite all that thorough education she’d received, can’t seem to recognise the language. They take their seats at a booth stuck into a dim nook before a waiter approaches, his gaze shining with curiosity at the unlikely pair. “What can I get you?”

“Spotchka,” Elain sighs, earning yet another amused huff from her companion. “And—whatever your special is today.”

The man nods. “That would be the stew.”

“Perfect,” Elain says, then turns to the Mandalorian, the waiter, too, looking at him expectantly.

“That will be all,” he says tightly, his tone enough to make the waiter scatter immediately out back. Elain frowns. “Are you not going to eat?”

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m not hungry.”

Elain counters, “I have not seen you eat since you put me on that rusted old ship.”

The visor seems to glower at her. “The Crest is fine.”

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I’m not willing to discuss this, Elain.” She doesn’t think she’d ever heard his name fall from his lips.

Does he even have lips? Elain can’t help but wonder. He appears human, but beneath that armour, he really could be anyone. It’s not that she truly cares about his face—the curve of his nose or the angle of his jaw. But she wants to be able to see if his gaze burns as brightly as she’s been imagining it, like a hot, midday sun.

His tone does not invite such questions, though, so Elain gives up with a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Tell me your name, at least.”

“No.”

“I’m sick of calling you the Mandalorian in my head.”

“Then stop thinking about me, Elain.”

She throws her arms up in exasperation. “You are impossible!”

He seems to snicker at that. “So I’ve heard.”

Elain sinks further into her seat. “Are you able to answer any of my questions, at least?”

He hums, making a show of considering. “Probably not,” he finally said, earning yet another huff from Elain. “But perhaps you can answer some of mine.”

Elain feels her brows rise. “Oh?”

He laces his fingers atop the table. “What has your father done to get the Empire to put a bounty on your head?”

That, Elain did not expect. “I thought bounty hunters were taught not to ask any questions.”

“To their clients. The bounty is a whole another story.”

“How convenient,” Elain murmurs, and, once again, she swears she can feel his smile in her chest. “Very well. If you must know, he borrowed some money—too much of it for me to even begin to describe, and all of it from the wrong people.” She chews on her bottom lip before quickly releasing it from her teeth, a sharp exhale pushing past her mouth. “It’s why my…engagement was arranged in the first place.”

“To the Governor’s son. So I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, they had money. But look how that turned out.”

“Do you…” his helmet cocks to the side, as though from this new angle, he can read the answer simply by looking at her face. “Do you regret it?”

“No!” Elain quickly says. “Kriff, no—it’s why you found me on the Nubian instead of the planet itself. I was…” she clears her throat. “I was escaping.”

Silence falls, broken only for a moment as the waiter arrives with Elain’s food. She begins digging into the warm stew, realising the conversation has most likely come to an end, the Mandalorian seemingly gazing off into the distance.

But then, a quiet sound reaches her, so indiscernible she initially thinks she must’ve imagined it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For disrupting your plans.”

Elain flashes him a cryptic smile. “My plans aren’t disrupted just yet.”

—

When Elain emerges from the Crest’s refresher, she finds the clothes she’d picked out at the market laid out on a new cot.

“We’re almost done refuelling,” the Mandalorian’s voice reaches her from where he leans against the ladder leading up to the cockpit.

Elain arches a brow. “What happened to not leaving your side for a moment?”

“Well, I trust you’re not reckless enough to jump out of our ship once we’re in hyperspace.”

Our ship?

Elain dismisses it as her mind playing tricks on her. “Thank you for getting these for me. Believe it or not, but that gown was uncomfortable.”

A grunt of agreement. “It sure looked like it.”

Elain takes the poncho into her hands, her palm smoothing out the fabric. “I’m sorry about nagging you earlier. I—I don’t know much about Mandalorians, I just assumed—”

“You assumed fine.” A deep sigh rattles through him as he bounces off the ladder, stepping closer toward her. “Not removing this,” he points to the shining beskar atop his head, “is my choice.”

Elain dares to ask, “Why, though?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes. No. Maybe.

No, Elain finally decides. Soon—within the next rotation or two, perhaps—the Mandalorian will hand her over to the Empire, a toy to toss over her father’s head. She’ll never have the chance to think about his face again.

Her expression must have told her enough, because his body seems to stiffen as he halts less than five feet away from her.

“Are they going to kill me?” Elain asks him openly.

Silence ripples through the air.

“The Empire doesn’t kill innocent civilians,” he says carefully. Elain can’t help but laugh. “Even if that were true, I am hardly innocent.”

He seems inclined to disagree. “Your father’s mistakes are not your own, Elain.” His words sound deeper than usual as he says them.

She shifts on her feet. “Still, I’m afraid my family’s sins are already beyond repair.” She sighs, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her, as though the words alone were enough to make her body feel limp. “My…” she can’t say it, her throat tightening on its own as she tries. Elain simply looks away.

But then, a few shallow breaths later, a heavy weight rests on the cot beside her. “My father is the head of an…important clan back on Mandalore,” he begins to tell her quietly. “He’s not a good man—to say the least.” He clears his throat. “I have six brothers, each of them worse than the last, as if they’re all competing to see which one of them can become cruel enough to finally catch Father’s attention.”

Elain turns to look at him at that.

He continues, “I never wanted to be like them—any of them. My mother is the only good thing about my family, and she was the only one not to send bounty hunters after me when I finally left.”

Elain’s eyes widen. “You—you escaped from Mandalore?”

His laugh feels bitter. “There is no escaping from my family. I’m the youngest—not important enough for them to keep on wasting credits to drag me back, but, I suppose, a reminder annoying enough to make my life miserable for as long as they wished.” His hand flickers up for a moment, then falls back onto the cot—as if he was going to run his fingers through his hair before remembering the helmet shielding them from view. “So I cut the best deal for myself as I could—and I’ve been picking up the Empire’s dirty jobs ever since. I don’t like most of them,” he admits, “but…” the words trail off. He does not need to finish them for Elain to understand.

But I’m glad I met you.

It is why Elain tells him plainly, “My sisters were Jedi.”

The Mandalorian goes completely, breathlessly still.

Elain nods. “Traitors to the Republic,” she adds bitterly. “To the Empire. My older sister—Nesta…” she fights back tears at the memory of her icy eyes, softening whenever the two of them got to see each other. “She was—she was on Corellia when…when the Order was given. And Feyre…Feyre was at the Temple on Coruscant.” She swallows the thick words in her throat. “She was—she’s gone,” Elain finishes, unable to speak the full truth. It’s too soon—it will never not be.

Her sisters were discovered late—Feyre at six, and Nesta at ten years old, when all the other foundlings had usually come to the Temple at no older than three. But the great masters had foreseen something in the two of them—something Elain had never quite been able to understand without the Force whispering to her the way it did to her sisters. Something with the potential to change the Galaxy as they all knew it.

Whatever her sisters’ purpose was, it would never be fulfilled. It had never even been given the chance to.

“It’s how I know my father will not come for me,” Elain adds quietly. “When you hand me over to the Empire. He’d aligned himself with them when it took not one, but two of his daughters away. Now, it will take away the third.”

Once again, the ship is enveloped in silence.

It had been so long since Elain had last spoken her sisters’ names that she isn’t sure she’d even talked about them to anyone since their death. The Mandalorian is a quiet presence beside her, strong and warm even through the hardened metal encasing his body. It feels relieving to her to know that he, too, lives in accordance with the Empire’s cruelty not by choice, but by the lack of it, hoping that one day, he will be free enough to leave and never look back.

But then Elain is reminded that neither of them are free just yet—and that, while he might still be able to harbour that dream, it is already too late for Elain. That the only way for him to get a step closer toward it, he has to make sure Elain never gets to reach it herself. There is something about the irony of it all that makes her want to weep—and yet, Elain can’t bring herself to feel angry.

“I hope the Empire pays you well for all of this,” she tells him earnestly.

He turns to face her then—as much as he can with the self-imposed containment of his beskar—and perhaps it is merely wishful thinking, but, for a whisper of a moment, Elain knows with the utmost certainty that she saw a flicker of gold beneath the darkness.

His voice is quiet as he responds.

“Not nearly enough.”

—

Once again, Elain is violently ripped from sleep.

They cannot be landing already—Elain can swear they’ve only just left Llanic’s atmosphere, her face hitting the cot the moment the Crest’s navicomputer was programmed and the stars blurred into a singular light again. Chandrila is still a long journey ahead, at least two, if not three more refuelling stops since the Crest is unable to withstand such a distance on a single tank.

They aren’t landing, Elain understands as the last remnants of her sleep sharpen into reality—into the loud, flaring sound echoing off the ship’s tight space. Into the red light blazing on and off, illuminating her shaky hands as the realisation finally sinks.

The Crest is under attack.

Elucien Week Taglist: @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[darkmaga-retard]

Missouri’s Tuesday primaries revealed deep divisions between both parties within the state, with Republicans seeing a hotly contested, ideologically charged primary for the governorship while Democrats saw a Squad member defeated by a moderate in one of the safest Democratic congressional seats in the country.

In the Republican gubernatorial primary, Lieutenant Governor Mike Kehoe, widely considered a moderate, defeated two opponents running to his right in a three-way race, the populist State Senator Bill Eigel and Missouri’s Secretary of State John “Jay” Ashcroft (the son of a former U.S. Attorney General). Kehoe won with 39.4 percent of the vote to Eigel’s 32.6 and Ashcroft’s 23.2 percent of the vote. Notably, Kehoe ran to the left of the other candidates on abortion, supporting a liberalization of Missouri’s current complete ban to allow exceptions for rape and incest. On the Democratic side, state legislator Crystal Quade won the gubernatorial nomination by a large margin.

[mariacallous]

The man who became a figurehead of the January 6 Capitol riot is planning to run for Congress in Arizona, and he may not even be the most extreme candidate on the ballot.

Jacob Chansley, a January 6 rioter known as the QAnon Shaman who wore face paint and horns to breach the Capitol, pleaded guilty to taking part in the riot. Last week, Chansley filed a statement of interest to run for a seat in Arizona’s 8th congressional district. Chansley, who has lived in the district for 30 years, tells WIRED that he is running his campaign single-handedly and does not plan to accept PAC money. Though he’s not eligible to vote under Arizona law because he is still serving part of his sentence, Chansley is able to run for Congress.

“When I heard that the seat was available, I prayed on it for a while, and the message I got from God was, ‘Do it,’” says Chansley.

In Arizona, Chansley’s decision to run for office is almost standard. Though Chansley may be viewed as a fringe candidate by many, he is not an outlier in a district and state where election deniers and conspiracists are already front and center in the 2024 election races.

Ever since former US president Donald Trump lost Arizona in 2020, the state has become the epicenter of election denial conspiracies and efforts to undermine democracy. The state was home to the Cyber Ninjas–run GOP recount that cost taxpayers millions, and its voters are represented by multiple far-right extremist GOP lawmakers, including state senator Wendy Rogers and US representative Paul Gosar, who have boosted wild conspiracy theories related to vote rigging. Former TV presenter Kari Lake, who has been touted as a possible vice presidential pick by Trump in 2024, continues to claim that the Arizona secretary of state race she lost by 17,000 votes in 2022 was stolen. Lake has also boosted racist “birther” conspiracies about former president Barack Obama and has pushed for journalists and political rivals to be jailed for unspecified crimes.

In Chansley’s home district, a slate of candidates reflecting Arizona’s embrace of extremist ideologies have already declared interest in running for the seat left open by the retirement of US representative Debbie Lesko, a member of the far-right Republican Freedom Caucus in Congress who voted against certifying the 2020 election results.

Blake Masters, who ran for a US Senate seat in 2022 and lost, announced he would run for a seat in Arizona’s 8th district last month. During his Senate race, Masters was backed by money from techno-libertarian Peter Thiel, his former boss, as well as an endorsement from Trump, who told him to lean into claims of election fraud if he wanted to win the election. (Masters very much touted 2020 election denial conspiracies, but they apparently didn’t help him win.)

Masters, who published videos of him shooting guns as part of his 2022 campaign, will face a challenge for the GOP nomination from Abe Hamadeh. Hamadeh, a 2022 Republican candidate for Arizona attorney general, also lost his race in 2022 despite having Trump’s endorsement. Hamadeh was one of the loudest voices in Arizona falsely claiming that Trump had won the 2020 election, and he is still trying to have his own loss to attorney general Kris Mayes overturned.

Former US representative Trent Franks, Lesko’s predecessor, is also running again. Franks was forced to resign in 2017 after he offered female staffers millions of dollars to serve as surrogate mothers for him and his wife—and at least one aide was unsure whether Franks was requesting to impregnate her through sexual intercourse or in vitro fertilization.

Anthony Kern, an Arizona state senator who was also in Washington, DC, on January 6, and who has been accused of using campaign finances to fund his trip to the capital, has announced his candidacy for the congressional seat as well. Kern was captured on video entering a restricted area outside the Capitol, though there is no evidence he was violent or entered the Capitol itself, and he has not been charged for any crimes related to the riot.

Kern is, however, currently under investigation by the Arizona attorney general as one of 11 fake electors who signed documents in 2020 to claim that Trump had beaten President Joe Biden in Arizona, even though Biden actually won the state. Kern also took part in the sham hand-recount of ballots in Maricopa County in 2021.

Before becoming a lawmaker, Kern was fired from his position with the El Mirage Police Department for lying to his supervisor about repaying the cost of a tablet computer he had lost. He was placed on a list of Maricopa County law enforcement officials with a history of dishonesty or misconduct.

“The race in general is gonna be wild,” one independent researcher who tracks the far-right in Arizona under the moniker Arizona Right Watch tells WIRED. But, they add, they would still “take Chansley over Kern, who is totally corrupt and batshit.”

And even though the other candidates are possibly more connected politically, Chansley still thinks he has closer ties to voters in his home district.

“Several of the candidates running here in District 8 don’t even live in District 8. I’ve lived in District 8 for over 30 years,” he tells WIRED. “I’m largely doing it on my own. It’s just me and God, man.”

He’s currently working on a campaign website, and plans to begin knocking on doors to meet voters in the next couple of weeks. Chansley is also eager to take part in debates with other candidates. “That's where I think I'll shine,” Chansley says. “I'm ready to debate anyone and everyone that wants to try.”

When asked whether he would be attending a candidate forum being organized by a local community organization on Wednesday night, Chalsey says, “quite possibly.”

Chansley added that he doesn’t want any campaign donations, but says that if people want to support him, they can do so by buying merchandise on his website which includes T-shirts, mugs, and yoga leggings that feature him dressed in the notorious QAnon Shaman garb.

Despite having no experience, no money, no support, and no endorsements, Chansley is still optimistic about winning in 2024.

“I think my chances of winning are good, otherwise God wouldn't have asked me to run,” Chansley says.

[warwickroyals]

you've mentioned places like great lakes and new westminster. are these states or provinces, or just general regions? how is sunderland divided administratively?

Yes, hello, these are provinces and Sunderland has ten of them! They look like this (roughly, it's a work in progress)

The ten provinces are:

Alexandria, Algonquin, Cheyenne, Danforth, Great Lakes, Iroquois, Lakota, Missoria, and New Westminster

Each province is represented by a provincial government and they are considered to have shared sovereignty with the federal government. Each province has a Governor-General, who represents the Crown aka Louis V. Each province has a certain amount of MPs (Members of Parliament) who sit in either the House of Commons (lower chamber) or the Senate (upper chamber). MPs represent the legislative interests of their provinces and municipalities at the federal level. There is a fixed number of twenty senators (two from each province), who are appointed by the King on the advice of his prime minister, while members of the House of Commons are elected directly in federal elections, with the number of MPs depending on the population of their province, the larger the province the more seats they have in the House of Commons.

In Sunderland, you don't vote for the prime minister directly, you vote for them through your MPs. So, if the potential prime minister (the party leader) belongs to the Liberal party, you vote for the Liberal MP representing your area, if that Liberal MP wins they have a seat in the House of Commons. If a majority of the MPs in the House are of a certain party (the main two being Liberals and Tory Conservatives), their party leader becomes Prime Minister with a majority government. If a party wins the most seats but fails to hold a majority, this is called a minority government and the ruling party has less absolute authority and will have to coalition-build with other parties in order to get things done. So, it's extremely important that the Prime Minister and his Ministers are supported by their MPs in the House of Commons, this is something Sunderland's current prime minister is struggling with. MPs can resign, retire, switch parties, or die on a whim, so the amount of power a government has can fluctuate.

The Senate is more of the wild-west as Louis is free to appoint to whoever he wishes for whatever reason he wants (on the advice of the prime minister, but he can ignore the advice). The general rule is that these people have to be of noteworthy public standing, but they don't have to be politicians. They can be activists, lawyers, civil servants, etc. If the King tries to appoint a friend or a family member, nothing but public outrage can stop him. So, naturally, Louis doesn't appoint friends or family and has grilled James and later Nicholas on this being something you should never do as King. Louis's Daddy James II didn't have the same restraint. . . Nor did King Nicholas (removing the leftists meant sacking the senate against them) . . . Or King George who fought tooth and nail to have his moronic son-in-law appointed to the Senate in 1898 . . . but it's not a corrupt system at all, I swear . . .

The Senate has the job of approving the potential laws (bills) passed to them by the House of Commons, in short: if they dislike it, they send it back or veto it, if they like it, they'll hand it over the Louis for royal assent. Believe it or not, the fact that there is an unelected body, that serves until the age of SIXTY-FIVE, picking and choosing what laws get greenlit has caused SCANDALS, with the protests happening in this post being triggered by the Senate rejecting an affordable housing bill forwarded by the Liberals in the House.

Until 1999, those appointed to the Senate were given a title of nobility, typically an Earldom or a Dukedom if The King thinks you're a really good boy. The families of Irene and Tatiana are descended from prominent Senators, this is where their family titles originated from. This tradition ended when the first woman was appointed to the Senate in 1999, since women can't inherit noble titles, Louis stopped the practice altogether, instead of . . .y'know, just getting Parliament to allow women the ability to hold noble titles suo jure. Louis can technically still hand out noble titles, but he informally agreed to stop granting titles to non-family members. People at the time viewed this as him becoming more egalitarian and progressive for the new millennia, but in reality, he was just keeping his crop of aristocrat ass-likers more exclusive. So, now your senators aren't literal dukes and earls . . . yay, progress?

Finally: The "commander-in-chief" of a province is called the premier. Think of him like a governor in the United States. These guys are elected through provincial elections and they form their own legislative bodies to handle provincial legislation (healthcare, education, etc.). They operate largely independently from the federal government and have historically resisted federal micro-management.

If you're familiar with American geography or history, you'll know that the provinces have Indigenous names (Cheyenne, Lakota, Missouria, Iroquois, Algonquin) and others are named after royalty (Alexandria and Louisia) and prominent figures/locations (New Westminster, Danforth) . . . the implications of these names say a lot about Sunderland's history.

Hopefully, I'll be able to update my map soon, hope you enjoyed the political lesson.

[jaspersboy]

It was the early hours of November 5, 1998, well past my bedtime on a school night. Sister Sledge blared over the house speakers in a nondescript ballroom in a south Denver suburb. I was dancing giddily on stage looking out at a pack of my fellow awkward whites: donor types in their formal wear for the occasion, campaign hacks in our garish purple tees, inspired by our candidate’s love for the town’s new baseball team.

All of us were anxiously awaiting the arrival of Bill Owens, the man who had just been declared the winner in the gubernatorial election reversing a nearly three-decade streak of Democratic victories in Colorado.

From that stage, my barely postpubescent expectation was that there were only greens ahead for the Grand Ole Party in my home state. Republicans won up and down the ballot that night. When the counting was through, the state’s senior senator, Ben Nighthorse Campbell, would celebrate his first victory as a member of the GOP, his party switch in 1995 having presaged the state’s political shift. Republicans would control all the statewide constitutional offices except attorney general and four of the six congressional seats, most notably first term Representative Tom Tancredo, a racist gadfly who won easily in the suburban 6th Congressional District where I grew up. Two years later, the state, which Clinton had won in 1992 by a comfortable margin, went to George W. Bush by 8 points. Two years after that, Owens would go on to a landslide re-elect, be named the “Best Governor in America” by National Review, and be whispered about as a possible presidential hopeful. His top strategist, Dick Wadhams, was seen as a potential national star, set to run a top-tier 2008 presidential campaign before it got all macacaed up.

The political world was at our fingertips; the growing, dynamic Mountain West was primed to be the engine for a free-market, libertarian-streaked party that was perfectly suited to lead in the twenty-first century. Colorado could be the center of it all. It seemed as if I was timing my entrance into Republican political life perfectly to be along for the ride.

That was then.

Not even a quarter century on, Colorado can’t even be described as a swing state anymore. The last gasp of that status came in last year’s midterm, when the GOP nominees for governor and the Senate got crushed by umpteen points in what should have been a good year for the party. In that midterm, Democrats did better in Colorado than even in such liberal strongholds as New York and Illinois, according to analysis of the statewide popular vote by Split Ticket. Today, Dems control every major statewide office and five of the eight congressional seats—and they came just 500 votes short of taking out Lauren Boebert on the Western Slope and making it six. 2023 marks the party’s highest level of dominance in state politics since 1936.

You would think that such a dramatic fall might lead the Republican party poobahs to do some self-reflection on how it all went wrong. Maybe brainstorm on what they can do to reinvigorate the GOP’s heyday or come up with new strategies to bring back the voters who have swung so hard against them.

Nah. Instead, the GOP’s most wild-eyed members are determined to run things even further into the ground. This weekend they handed the keys to the party to a tiny cloister of extremists more interested in owning the libs than fixing their losing brand.

[catgirlcommie]

it's so wild people will be like oh biden can't control the scotus because the president has very limited powers (as if it just hasn't been the case for the past like twelve years that the president of the us keeps on expanding his own power or you know in trump's case just tell his base to go and do something other than vote) and it's like the dems won, they have both house and senate, because americans voted them in. but it still doesn't matter because apparently biden doesn't have the power to do anything about this. so like. voting affected nothing. at all. libs are literally qanon but for losers at this point, their president, no matter how many seats or how much political power he has is the weakest person in thw world and can affect no change unless everyone votes him in again, and we all know that when he's voted in again the same thing will happen and nothing will change besides the fact that the overton window has shifted even further righr

[dhaaruni]

So... what if McConnell hates Trump? At the end of the day they're empowered by the same voting blocs and pursue the same policies. What, will being nice to the former stop the latter?

You're right, Trump's policies were the same policies as McConnell but they didn't come from Trump, they came from McConnell. The difference is, McConnell isn't going to overturn a free and fair election and he's not going to incite an insurrection. He likes order, and is deeply rational, while Trump is a wild cannon. When Joe Biden won, McConnell may not have personally acknowledged that Biden won until like December 15, but he also didn't stop Mittens/Collins/Murkowski from congratulating Biden the day the election was called.

Trump doesn't really have policies of his own, like he was pro-choice as recently as 2012, and he was perceived as more moderate than Hillary in 2016 because he vowed to protect social security and Medicare while also being virulently racist and misogynistic aka the perfect combination for passively racist and sexist midwesterners. Of course, Trump governed like a normal Republican, getting one vote from repealing the ACA (without replacing it), and appointing his right-wing judges since the Kavanaugh was on Jeb Bush's list of Supreme Court judges too, and Amy Coney Barrett was seen as the pinnacle of conservative judges for years before Trump nominated her.

If you remember, some of Trump's craziest executive orders were blocked by conservative judges, not just liberal ones, and his wild card moments were often foreign policy stuff like nuking Solemani and proposing insane shit like suggesting annexing Greenland, which Congress and the courts didn't have control over. Because of the filibuster, Senate Democrats could mitigate the worst of Republican overreach but if the filibuster is gone and Republicans win the presidency and 55 Senate seats (not unlikely in 2024), we're fucked.

Relatedly to all this, did you see Lindsey Graham at the "Faith and Freedom Coalition?" Just a pathetic coward. But he's not entirely off-base like Trump's coalition makes it MUCH easier for Republicans to win the presidency and Senate than whatever Romney/Ryan's was, so it suits Senate Republicans to simp for Trump. That's why Trump botched COVID-19 so badly and was still less than 43,000 votes across WI/AZ/GA from a second term, you know?

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

If the Democrats had one spine between them, this is what they should do

Nuke the filibuster, then immediately propose an amendment to bring it back for legislation and judicial appointments

For executive appointments, I don’t really care; the president can fire a secretary at any time for any reason, so it doesn’t matter how many senators voted to confirm them. We need a government, so it doesn’t make sense for congress to be able to block department heads when the president can just name acting secretaries until the actual secretaries get confirmed.

Next, push through legislation to expand the Supreme Court, but do not immediately fill the seats; let the Republicans know that if they don’t agree to play fair, then all bets are off. They want to keep the filibuster just as much as we do because everybody likes to threaten to get rid of it; if we actually get rid of it, then nobody gets to use the threat anymore, and we have carte blanche until it is restored through bipartisan amendment.

The SCOTUS seats become the next threat; either pass the amendment and send it to the states, or we start packing the court with all these wonderfully qualified, young, liberal PEOPLE OF COLOR. Republicans would never negotiate like this, they would just do it, just pull the trigger and get what they want. They’d get shit for it from the other side, but their constituents would love it and their approval ratings would skyrocket. Democrats need to be more diplomatic, and by showing restraint they can have plausible deniability (though the media would tear them a new asshole either way, so damned if you do, damned if you don’t). They’re not cheating, they actively want to limit their own power and restore bipartisan cooperation; that’s the biggest olive branch we could offer the Republicans, and if they don’t like it then they can go fuck themselves.

If Democrats got rid of the filibuster, there’s nothing the Republicans could legally do to stop them. Their best bet would be litigation with the 6-3 conservative SCOTUS, but then the Dems could just pack the court to get favorable rulings; does this sound familiar?

“I LEARNED IT BY WATCHING YOU!”

So, the Republicans can either pass the amendment and enshrine the filibuster into the constitution, OR they can let the Democrats run wild and hope for civil unrest and eventual war, because that’s the only thing that could conceivably stop a party with unlimited power.

Now, of course, this could immediately backfire on the Democrats. They could do it, and the Republicans could just pretend they don’t care and bide their time until the next election. They take back power and they’ll have the Democrats to thank for handing them a post-filibuster senate; the point of changing the rules is to stop the other side from gaining power ever again (2020 - 2022, Republicans are passing anti-voting laws because they hope that will make them win in 2024; Democrats need to balance this by doing the same thing in their own favor). But this back-and-forth is why the Supreme Court is so important. Liberal justices could regulate conservative laws, but once the Democrats show their hand and signal that they’re willing to change the rules, Republicans will use that to their advantage; we expand the Supreme Court now, they’ll expand the Supreme Court twofold (or perhaps something worse) the next chance they get. The idea is not to give them that next chance. It’s what they do to us, but our party is just too stupid or too unwilling to do it back to them.

Republicans change the rules to win, while Democrats never change the rules because they see the rules as sacred. Politics is a game; most people think it’s something intelligent like chess, when really it’s mindless like Mouse Trap. Sure, Mouse Trap has rules, you can sit down and play it as it was intended, but if the object of the game is to Trap a Mouse, then you’re more likely to do it by setting up the trap and playing with it by itself like a toy. Democrats play by the rules, rolling their dice and moving their mice, collecting cheese wedges, setting up the trap one piece at a time, whereas Republicans immediately set it up and let it go, winning on turn one. That’s against the rules, but there’s no higher authority holding them to the rules anyway! The Supreme Court used to be like parents, enforcing the rules and telling the siblings to play nice together, but now the parents have been replaced by the cheater’s best friends who let them get away with anything they want. It’s a total conflict of interest, but they don’t care because they get to win!

Nuke the filibuster, amend the constitution to bring it back, threaten to go full liberal if they don’t, then actually follow through on their threats when they don’t. That’s the only language they know, these are the only compromises they’ll listen to; force their hand, or they’ll shit all over you. They’re willing to change laws and steal elections to stay in power, then turn around and project their own crimes onto the other side, “we’re not cheating, YOU’RE cheating!” And this is all done while the filibuster is still in place; Democrats need to acknowledge that they can’t win by following the rules if the other party is cheating. The other party has said the rules don’t matter anymore, so it’s not cheating for the Democrats to stoop to their level, fair’s fair, it’s just business.

[eregyrn-falls]

Good morning. It’s Election Day, and we have advice about how to watch the results come in. (NYT)

How to watch tonight

After a presidential campaign like no other, Election Day is finally here.

If you’re not among the roughly 100 million Americans who have already voted, the good news is that lines this year may be shorter than usual because of all of the early voting. Here’s advice, from Vote.org, on the logistics of voting today.

The first part of today’s newsletter consists of a viewer’s guide to watching the returns tonight. Above all, I recommend that you be skeptical about any sweeping claims that you hear early tonight — from President Trump or on television and social media. The surge of early voting and mail-in ballots this year means that no candidates, political strategists or journalists have ever experienced an election like today’s. Figuring out the meaning of the early vote totals will be difficult, and I expect some commentators will make mistakes.

The Times will err on the side of being careful. As Dean Baquet, our executive editor, told me yesterday: “We will be cautious. There is no value in getting out front in calling any election, particularly one conducted during a pandemic. And we certainly won’t be guided by declarations from any of the candidates. We will be guided by returns.”

Of course, we recognize that many Americans won’t be satisfied waiting until tomorrow morning to hear the results. People are too invested in the outcome. So here are some key indicators to watch for tonight. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking any one of them holds a definitive answer.

Late afternoon and early evening. (All times Eastern.) Expect some people on social media to claim that they have insight into the results by late afternoon — perhaps because they have seen exit polls, perhaps because of lines at polling places. You should ignore this commentary.

Voter lines have little use as a predictive tool, especially this year. Exit polls are also problematic. Even in normal years, exit polls don’t have a clearly better track record than the final pre-election polls.

If you need an early political fix this evening, we recommend the first ever live broadcast of “The Daily,” from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. It will include interviews with voters and Times correspondents across the country.

The earliest meaningful results. They will arrive shortly after 7 p.m., after polls close in much of Florida and Georgia. Thirty minutes later, North Carolina’s polls also close.

Those three states are worth watching for two reasons: First, if Joe Biden wins any of the three, he becomes an overwhelming favorite to win the presidency. Second, the three seem likely to count votes in a more easily decipherable way than almost any other state.

They will announce not only where ballots were coming from but also how those ballots were cast. That distinction is crucial, because the mail-in vote will lean Democratic in most states while the in-person vote will lean Republican. But nobody knows exactly how big the skew will be — so reported vote counts that don’t distinguish between in-person and mail-in ballots will be extremely difficult to analyze.

Because Florida, Georgia and North Carolina will all make the distinction, they are the only three states for which The Times is creating versions of its election-night needle this year. The needles will show the percentage chance of a Trump or Biden victory in each state, as it changes tonight, based on counted ballots.

There will be no national needle this year. “The limits of available data just make too risky to do responsibly,” The Times’s Nate Cohn tweeted.

The bottom line: If Biden seems on track to lose Florida, Georgia and North Carolina, he is no longer a big favorite to win. That would suggest the polls had underestimated Trump’s support. In FiveThirtyEight’s simulations, Biden has about a 50 percent chance of victory if he loses all three Southeastern swing states. He would then probably need to win at least Pennsylvania or Arizona.

The Senate. North Carolina will be important for a second reason: It is home to one of the Senate races most likely to determine Senate control. If the Democrat, Cal Cunningham, defeats the Republican incumbent, Thom Tillis, it will mean Democrats are on track to hold at least 50 Senate seats in January.

A second big Senate race is in Maine, where polls close at 8 p.m. Maine’s ranked-choice voting system means that official results may not be tallied for several days. But if the Democratic challenger, Sara Gideon, is winning more than 47 percent of the first-round vote, she will be in good shape to beat Susan Collins, the Republican incumbent, Dan Shea of Colby College told us.

In Arizona and Colorado, where polls close at 9 p.m., the Democratic challengers are favored. Winning these four seats — and the vice presidency, which breaks Senate ties — will probably be enough to give Democrats control of the Senate. They also have a decent shot to win in South Carolina (where polls close at 7 p.m.), Iowa (10 p.m.), Montana (10 p.m.) and Georgia, where one or both races may go to January runoffs.

If the early stage doesn’t go well for Biden, the country’s attention will then turn to two states above all: Pennsylvania (where polls close at 8 p.m.) and Arizona. Pennsylvania will likely take days to count mail ballots, meaning there might not be a result until later this week.

But Biden has a narrow path without Pennsylvania. He would need to win Michigan and Wisconsin (where he is favored), Arizona (where he holds a narrow lead in polls) and one of the two congressional districts that award electoral votes separately (in Maine and Nebraska, and Biden leads in both).

One wild card: Texas. With Texas, Biden wouldn’t need to win anything other than the states Hillary Clinton won in 2016 — not Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin or Arizona.

Most analysts believe Biden won’t win Texas if he isn’t also winning at least one state in the Southeast. But early turnout has been enormous in Texas this year — and elections are inherently uncertain. That’s why so many Americans are feeling anxious this morning.

For a more detailed guide to tonight, see Nate Cohn’s hour-by-hour preview.

***

This was part of an email newsletter from the NYT I received this morning.  I don’t know if all of these links will work, or if some are behind a paywall.  But I thought this round-up of info would be useful to some folks here, who may not get some of this easily collected elsewhere.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Jayna Dar Senator AU Rambles

(The best I can do because of my lack of artistic skills.  I want to give her something with a bit more slink.)

Inspired by this post about Senator Cad Bane.

Elected Senator of Chalacta, she came from humble origins having never known her parents

She was adopted by one of the rising local leaders in her district, but quickly discovered she was being used as a political ploy to win sympathy

Any idealism was all but beaten out of her by the time she was fourteen and properly entered the political scene in her own right

Slowly, she rose through the ranks of politics by playing which ever side suited her needs best

She became unscrupulous in her methods, using whatever means at her disposal; her looks, her position, blackmail, or even just bluffing

She cultivated the persona of a wild woman with a devil may care attitude lulled many into underestimating her, including her adopted parents

They were eventually arrested for corruption thanks to a careful trap laid by Jayna herself

This show of strength got her a seat in the Senate giving her the freedom to do as she wished

Even still, she never made it obvious what she wished to do

She was a series of contradictions; taking a strong stance against the still lucrative slave trade within the galaxy, while seemingly having no opinion on Clone Rights, highly critical of the Republic and its members while never fully declaring herself a Separatist sympathizer, it was never quite known what she would vote for or why

More than once when asked when why she abstained from a vote she responsed by saying something to the effect of, “my planet is very divided on this issue, the people are against it and I’m for it”

She also made a point to keep her wild persona while on Coruscant

She knows how to hold a person’s interest and is often invited to many social events even by people who despise her, because nobody knows exactly what she’ll do when she gets there

This makes it easy for her to know what is happening at all times on both sides, and which side is better to follow

She’s a survivor at heart, knowing to bend with the wind and guiding her planet to bend with her by whatever means necessary.

[alarawriting]

52 Project #6: Birds

(I am not 100% positive that this is a story per se, but it’s as much of a story as China Mieville’s “The New Death” and other such “new weird” stories, so... here you go.)

***

One day all the men in the world woke up to find that they had been turned into birds.

It began in New Zealand, where a day is first born on the planet Earth. By the time that women were waking and going into hysterics because the men and older boys in their lives had all turned into birds, the men of Central Asia, India, and the middle of Russia had already gone to bed. It was late enough in Europe that many men were getting ready for bed; a large number of them missed the warnings. Not that the warnings helped; men who tried to stay awake all night stayed human, but sooner or later, they all had to sleep.

In Western Europe and the Americas, there was an idea that maybe if someone would keep waking a man up, he wouldn’t turn into a bird, so many women kept watch by their husbands’ bedsides. It didn’t help. No one was able to see the transformation; they’d blink and a human lying in bed would suddenly be a bird. Even with high speed cameras, it proved impossible to catch the transformation. One frame, human man; next frame, bird. And they were many different kinds of birds – pigeons and roosters and peacocks, ostriches and starlings and falcons, flamingos and penguins and seagulls. Practically every kind of bird you can imagine, including some extinct birds – at least two men became dodos and one became a passenger pigeon.

Fortunately, it turned out that the birds could still talk, and sounded exactly like the men they used to be. This was helpful when linking birds to their former identities, because of course, none of them matched the pictures on their ID cards. It took a little bit longer to convince everyone, closer to a week, but eventually it was proven that the birds all retained every aspect of their former intelligence and personality.

Birds argued that this meant nothing should change significantly; birds could still go to work at their old jobs. This was true of birds who worked in banks and in IT and in management, for the most part, but any jobs that required physical strength, dexterity, or simply having a human-sized body? Birds couldn’t do those jobs. So for a while there was a severe shortage of plumbers, electricians, construction workers, garbage collectors, and bus drivers. Some New York city pigeons argued that if people with no legs could drive cars, surely adaptive equipment could be built to let pigeons drive the buses, but it was easier to get women to do the job than to build such equipment. Birds either lost their jobs entirely in those kinds of industries, or were kept on the payroll to teach women how to do what they had been doing when they were men.

For a while it was thought that there were occasional anomalies – men who didn’t turn into birds, women who did – and this gave people some idea that the situation could be reversed, but this proved to be a false hope. To a man, everyone who didn’t turn into a bird was not in fact a man; anyone with a penis who didn’t turn into a bird was either a trans woman or a nonbinary person. Likewise, trans men did turn into birds – male ones. All the birds were physiologically male even if they had seemed to be women when they were human. This was a stressful situation to be sure, since all the trans women had just been forcibly outed, but on the other hand, it was fairly good evidence for their contention that yes, they really were women, that whatever force had transformed the men hadn’t touched them.

After an initial difficult adjustment period, birds who’d been men were soon flying, or in the case of penguins, swimming. Some domestic geese and roosters, too heavy to fly, hit the gym to train their wings and lose weight. Personal trainers who were now birds devised regimens that other birds could follow, to strengthen their wings, and personal trainers who were still women helped birds to do the regimens, since there weren’t yet gym machines designed for birds. Birds discovered, to general happiness on their part, that whatever special ability the bird they had transformed into had, they now had it. So pigeons could always find their way home, and roosters could crow. Roosters in fact were very, very fond of crowing. Owls could see very well in the dark and eagles could see tremendous distances and parrots could imitate any sound they heard and pelicans could stuff their beak full of whatever they wanted to carry.

In addition, the birds they’d become seemed to have some connection to the personality they’d had as men. Men who’d thought there was no place like home became pigeons. Men who’d been models or actors who’d loved to show off their handsome bodies became peacocks. Men who were short and aggressive and always on the go became hummingbirds. The species was usually appropriate to the location as well; birds of wild, native species always turned out to be living in the area that species was native to. Temperature and environment seemed to also be a factor; the only men who turned into penguins had been living in cold places, near water. Since the entire Southern Hemisphere was having winter at the time, this might have resulted in a disproportionate number of penguins in Africa and South America, but it was more common for birds who weren’t penguins, who’d loved Polar Bear Challenges and skiing and cold weather sports, to regret the fact that they weren’t penguins because it was too hot for penguins where they lived when the change came, than for penguins to regret their penguin identity.

This was all quite nice and a boon for the birds, whose lives had been so very disrupted by their transformation, and many argued that in fact they had the far better deal than the women who’d gotten to keep their humanity; they had their intelligence and their speech but they could also fly. How awesome was that? Women generally responded to such comments either with amused tolerance, or with an obscene gesture that involved the use of an opposable thumb, because of course that was the main thing the birds had lost. Many bird talons were very dexterous and had opposable thumbs, but they were feet, and the birds couldn’t use them for the same tasks that had been easy for hands. Deaf birds were devastated; by losing their hands, they’d lost speech. They could type notes to their wives or mothers or other birds in their life, but it wasn’t the same. Groups of deaf people, both birds and women, gathered to discuss and work out signs that birds could make, but this was essentially telling birds that they needed to learn an entirely new language to translate their own into.

Plus, there were certain biological realities that had upended the order of things that humans had grown to expect. Now, aside from a few ostriches, cassowaries, emus and other very large birds, every human woman was bigger than most of the birds. Birds who’d been abusive men found themselves in cages, and when policewomen and policebirds came to do wellness checks and investigate why a certain bird hadn’t been seen in a long time, those cages often ended up in closets or the basement or the attic, and were never found by the police.

It wasn’t all that suspicious. Many birds, especially ones who’d lost their jobs, had decided to give up on running the human rat race, and had abandoned their human families and flown off with a flock of like-minded birds, usually of similar species. Why not? Birds could forage for food on their own – they didn’t need to go grocery shopping. Why did they need money, or jobs? They could live like the wild birds did!

A lot of these came back, injured by predators or far too thin, because they didn’t know nearly as much about getting the available food as the never-human birds did.

Many birds died in the early days – cancer patients couldn’t get chemo that would work on birds, but they still had cancer. Men who’d needed open heart surgery became birds too small for anyone to safely operate on. Also, there weren’t nearly enough trained bird doctors. Most veterinarians knew dogs and cats; bird specialties were rare. And obviously, human doctors knew nothing about birds. So there was a massive shortage of doctors who could do anything about the problems birds suffered, and half of the few doctors there were, were birds themselves.

Birds who were vets with a specialty in birds were shadowed by women who were vets, and sometimes women who were human doctors, trying to learn all they could about care for birds. Women and birds in veterinary colleges elected to learn about birds, and the same professors who taught bird specialties to veterinarians were called in to teach med students. Most countries allocated huge amounts of money to getting bird doctors trained up and ready as soon as possible.

The balance of power shifted. In the United States, several female senators argued that birds had no business being allowed to make laws for humans. What if all they did was vote for free birdseed and the extermination of cats? The bird senators argued that the United States was now a country for both humans and birds, and needed to be represented by both. The women pointed out that there were far, far too few women for that to make sense; birds should represent birds and women should represent women, and since every senator here had been voted for by humans, and now only women were humans, all the existing seats in the Senate should be taken by women, and birds could go have their own Senate. Some human senators from states where gun rights were important showed up to the senate exercising their Second Amendment rights to carry weapons… which, of course, birds could not do. In response, a falcon insisted on reading the entire script of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds into the senatorial record. In the end it was decided that the states would vote on a constitutional amendment to set aside one seat per state for a bird and one for a woman, and in the meantime, a lot of senatorial birds got female aides or proteges to speak for them in the Senate, so anything the bird wanted to say went through the human first.

Many other countries went through similar experiences. In countries where women had been virtually or entirely shut out of power completely, birds found that their expertise in rule was not desired, thank you, and many, many birds found themselves in birdcages. Large numbers of women objected to this, arguing that if it was the will of God for women to rule, God would have already allowed this. Other women retorted that what better evidence did you need that God wanted women to run things than that God had turned all the men into birds? More egalitarian countries generally had more peaceful agreements between women and birds as to how to split up leadership roles.

The President of the United States – the new one; the old one had been tragically killed when he’d transformed into a house wren, a very small bird with a very loud mouth, and the First Lady had accidentally rolled over on him in the middle of the night – agreed to abdicate in favor of the Speaker of the House, who was a woman, if the House would pass an emergency resolution that there would be a new election as soon as possible and that birds and women should both be explicitly authorized to vote for any candidate of either type, bird or woman. Birds were suddenly very much in favor of gun control, and while many women had been in favor of total freedom to use guns, more women in general favored gun control as well, so the United States finally got sensible gun laws.

In Great Britain there was a kerfluffle – Queen Elizabeth was ancient and her heir was a bird. It was argued that birds, no longer being human, could not possibly still be part of the royal bloodline. Birds, of course, argued against this proposition, and women in Great Britain didn’t generally have guns. They did, however, have rocks. It turned out that the remarkable human ability to throw rocks was now a problem for birds. Her Majesty ended the conflict by demanding that Parliament pass an emergency amendment allowing birds to serve as King so long as there was a woman of sufficient rank and bloodline standing as his Queen.

Of course, all of this was going to be moot very soon if humanity didn’t confront the elephant in the room – sex and reproduction.

The sperm banks were going to deplete within a generation. Trans women and nonbinary people born with penises could make a great deal of money selling sperm, if they still had the equipment to make it with, because women still wanted children. Immediately after the change it had seemed that perhaps the human race would be spared after this generation, because baby boys hadn’t transformed – boys as old as 4 had remained human. However, within two weeks, the news went around the globe that a little boy had just turned into a bird, and it continued to be the case that as boys aged, they would transform into birds too. The population of humans who still had testicles that worked was very, very small, and scientists warned that there would be unacceptably high risks of massive interbreeding if every cis woman who wanted a baby was buying sperm from a trans woman. Fertility experts worked day and night on finding a way to either cause a somatic cell in vitro to undergo meiosis, or to permit two eggs to be merged into a viable zygote.

Birds had lost all sexual interest in human woman. Many birds still had lingering romantic feelings for the women they had loved, but it wasn’t sexual. Instead, they were sexually attracted to other birds of their species. The gay and bi birds were widely considered to have gotten the best of it, since while many male-male couples were broken up by the two birds being of different species, at least some got to be two birds of the same kind, and they could continue to be lovers. And some couples made it work even when they were different species of bird. Obviously, nearly every single heterosexual couple – with a few kinky exceptions – lost their sex lives completely. Birds who’d been straight men would mate with never-human birds, and while many women, and some birds, argued that this was bestiality and it was repulsive and should be against the law, most birds felt that it was necessary. What other options did they have?

Meanwhile the sex industry was turned upside down. Prostitutes and porn stars and other sex workers suddenly had no clients interested in what they had to sell. But they knew the truth – human women were horny, and desperate for sexual contact with human men, which could no longer happen. Straight-up porn of the wham bam thank you ma’am type was not appealing to most women; whether having been raised to think Good Girls Don’t, or having some biological predilection, none could say, but the truth remained that women wanted their porn in context, with men who had strong emotional bonds with the people they were ostensibly fucking. Lesbians had no trouble finding porn in the new world, but it was heterosexual women who were starved for sexual attention, and they were the new big market.

Different strategies for creating porn with men in it were used. Some dead men or former men were resurrected on film by the miracles of CGI. Women with strap-ons could be rotoscoped into handsome men. The biggest new market, however, was animation. Birds still sounded like men – their voices tended to be tinny, lacking the full timbre of a human voice, but this could be fixed by a good sound mixer – so voice acting became a very popular profession for birds. Some birds went into doing phone sex; they weren’t interested in human women anymore but they were interested in fat paychecks, and they remembered what it had been like well enough to act.

Similar transformations encompassed Hollywood and in fact the entire entertainment industry. Rock stars who’d been famed for their voices could still sing, but they couldn’t play guitar, or keyboards – some birds managed to keep up with drums – so birds who could sing ended up making albums with women who could play instruments, and the stars who’d been famous for their virtuoso skills with their instruments… either went into singing also, learned how to program synthesizers to sound like the instruments they’d once played, or took advantage of their ability to mimic noises to be their own instrument, singing like a bird instead of like a human. Or left music entirely. Theatre, for the most part, dressed up women to play the parts of men, although some more avant-garde productions kept birds in some important roles. Movies and TV became dominated by CGI and traditional or computer-assisted animation, although some television shows set in supposedly modern times just rolled with it and incorporated the bird transformation into their storylines, so they could keep their bird actors.

Things settled down after it had been a year or so since the transformation. Birds still worked in entertainment and in professions where their minds were their greatest assets – writers, professors, researchers, programmers – and in most countries, were guaranteed all the legal rights they’d had as humans, though some countries had adopted new rules regarding bird representation in their government. Women did everything else. This left a lot of unemployed birds – they couldn’t all do phone sex – and many of these either opted out of the human race, joining in flocks of like-minded birds, or they stayed in their homes all day, surfed YouTube, and played video games with controllers that had been designed for birds.

It was around that time when scientists made a tremendous breakthrough. Sperm from birds, if collected rather than deposited into another bird’s cloaca, would, after two or three days in a refrigerator, spontaneously transform into human sperm. The human race was saved. Birds still didn’t have any sexual interest in human women, but many birds were definitely interested in the ability to father human children; their bird children were ordinary never-human birds, unable to speak. Fortunately, birds who’d been romantically interested in women back when they were men were often still romantically interested in women, and women found that they were entirely capable of falling in love with birds. For sexual release, birds needed to be with birds and women usually turned either to vibrators or to women (or sometimes nonbinary people with penises, but many of those felt uncomfortable in relationships with average women, feeling that most women saw them as men even though they weren’t), but women could pet birds, and birds could preen women’s hair, and birds and women could still join finances and households and raise children together.

The killing of birds was outlawed almost everywhere, since how could you tell the difference between a never-human bird and a bird who was just tongue-tied? Some argued that the killing of female birds should still be okay, but others pointed out that birds could father never-human female birds, and that even though their children couldn’t talk and had animal intelligence, they still loved them. The poultry industry was devastated. People discovered that lizards tasted just like chicken, and soon breeding lizards for food was a new norm. Unfertilized eggs were still considered edible, so hens were still raised for eggs, but never-human roosters were often dumped in the woods because they couldn’t be killed and they weren’t useful to egg producing farms. They usually ended up feeding some creature who wasn’t a human. Sometimes those creatures were formerly human birds of prey like falcons or eagles, who knew it was illegal to feed on other birds, but knew they’d probably get away with it because no one cared about the never-human roosters except some animal rights activists. Roosters who had been human were not legally allowed near the egg farms; no one wanted them to mate with hens and perhaps produce rooster chicks who’d eventually be abandoned in the woods. It was, however, perfectly legal for a rooster to buy hens and keep them in a coop at his home, as long as he understood that he had the obligation to protect and provide for any offspring from such a union.

Eggs being breakable by rooster beaks, very few roosters actually ended up having to support chicks of their own.

Before long, things had settled down into a new normal. “People” now consisted of human women (and non-binary people, but they were a small enough part of the whole that sadly, people kept forgetting they existed) and talking birds. In addition to having a birthday, boys got to celebrate their bird-day, the anniversary of their bird transformation, and All Birds’ Day – the anniversary of the day the world changed -- was an international holiday. Girls and non-binary children – basically, all the kids who remained human – would study “humanity” between the ages of five and seven in preparation for their “confirmation”, an official recognition of their human status. While humanities, plural, had once meant the study of art, literature, history and languages, “humanity” was a class aimed at children that focused on human history (with rather more emphasis on the contributions of women than their parents remembered from their schooldays), and at teaching skills that were specific to being human, or at least, to not being birds. Throwing balls. Playing musical instruments. Endurance running. In rural areas, shooting a gun. In coastal areas, swimming. This wasn’t technically unique to humans – penguins could swim underwater, and many birds could swim on the surface – but it was true that most birds couldn’t do it. Sometime between a human child’s seventh and eighth birthdays, they would usually have their confirmation ceremony, affirmatively declaring their humanity, and then they’d get to celebrate their “human-day” like the boys got bird-days.

This was done as late as it was because of the trans boys. Most trans boys didn’t change as young as the cis boys, but almost all of them had changed by the age of seven. A rare few wouldn’t change until they were teenagers; this was thought to be the result of the hormones of puberty hitting the brain and finalizing the child’s gender. This didn’t happen the other way around; birds had much shorter childhoods than humans, so little boys would always change into adolescent birds. The lifespan of formerly-human birds seemed to equal to the lifespan of humans, not the species they’d turned into – at least, so far, although at this point no one could yet tell if maybe the parrots might have been shortchanged a bit -- but the boys got through adolescence and into physical adulthood long before their skills at navigating civilization were solid. High speed cameras left focused on apparent boys successfully, once or twice, caught a moment where a child became a bird and then immediately turned back into a human, and after this they were always certain that whatever they were, they weren’t boys, even if they’d seemed to identify as boys previously. So trans girls and nonbinary children with penises were never birds for longer than half a second, because when they changed into birds, the hormones that finalized their gender were already present and said that they weren’t male. However, these cases were very, very rare – in general, a child of seven was either a bird or a human and would remain so for the rest of their lives.

It was somewhat more than two years after the transformation when a new phenomenon was discovered. Fledgling birds would wander into cities or other human settlements, go to sleep on the ground even if they were a bird species that normally roosted up high, and then they’d turn into toddler girls. Invariably, when it was possible to figure out where they’d come from, it turned out they were the result of formerly-human birds mating with the female offspring of other formerly-human birds, so in a sense, these birds were three-quarters human to start with. It didn’t seem to happen to all of them – in a clutch of four eggs, all of which hatched female, maybe one would be strongly attracted to humans, and the ground, and would then turn into a human child. Generally, when birds saw female fledglings on the ground near human habitation, they would bring it to the attention of women, who would often scoop up the bird and keep her in a human crib for a while. If she didn’t change, she’d eventually fly off. These bird-girls didn’t know human speech, obviously, when they first transformed, but they caught up and were usually fully verbal to the expected level for their development after a year or so. They tended to be more independent than human children of the same apparent age, but also very sociable, craving the presence of humans. Some longed to fly and begged their adopted mothers for hang gliders and zip lines; some were very happy with being grounded. Egg-clutch-sisters of the human bird-girls remained non-human birds, unable to talk, but were often far more intelligent than their species would normally suggest, as were their brothers.

Humans worried about what might be happening out in wilderness where humans rarely went, and where a fledgling bird would have a hard time finding a human habitation, but no one ever found a child, alive or dead, in those circumstances. Perhaps whatever compelled the bird-girls to seek the ground and the presence of humans wouldn’t allow them to transform if they couldn’t find those things.

Life returned to normal. Bird boys went to school beside human girls. (And nonbinary children. They weren’t common, but they existed in large enough numbers that there was usually at least one in a normal-sized school at any given time.) Boys who couldn’t find a profession that was open to birds that they would enjoy would graduate and then, often, fly off to spend a few years in semi-wild flocks of formerly human birds. Very few girls ever had trouble finding a job, given that all the jobs that birds could no longer do fell on them. Both were encouraged to get a good education to ensure they could get a job they actually wanted.

It was very useful for humans and birds to live together, if the bird wanted to live as part of civilization and have access to internet, television and refrigerators for their bird food. Birds and humans could pool their income, raise children together, and compensate for each other’s species-based inabilities; among the things birds could do that humans could not were environmentally friendly bug extermination (many birds loved to eat bugs, and with human intelligence, it wasn’t hard for them to seek out and destroy anthills and wasp nests), alerts for potential dangers (bird hearing and eyesight were often better than human, and prey birds, with eyes on either side of their heads, could see a wider range than humans with their stereoscopic vision), and early detection of noxious gas (when a bird in your house complains that he’s dizzy, you grab him and run.) And of course there were many, many things that the women could do with their height, strength and opposable thumbs, that the birds could not. Because of these advantages, and because birds and humans could be romantically attracted to each other, birds and humans began to date, just as they had when the birds were men, but without any expectation that they would have sex (aside from formerly mentioned extremely kinky couples.)

Birds who resented the lack of opposable thumbs or human size learned to pilot robot drones that had such things; humans who resented the lack of flight took up ballooning, small aircraft piloting, hang gliding, bungee jumping, and every other thing that humans had always done to get as close to flight as they could. Oddly enough, almost everyone was happy with what they were. Little boys would eagerly share with their preschool playmates what sort of bird they hoped to be, but whatever they got, they usually found they were satisfied; little girls might initially be upset that their playmates got to be birds and they didn’t, but by a girl’s confirmation she’d been taught all the advantages of being human and usually thought it best that that was what she was. Birds and humans might be somewhat resentful of the other’s abilities, but in the end most of them agreed they wouldn’t really want it any other way.

Aside from the deaf birds, who had to completely reinvent sign language for talons and wings, accommodating disabled humans’ needs became much, much easier in a world where companies and governments had to accommodate birds of various sizes, abilities and needs; at least usually the disabled humans were roughly within the same size and shape range, in comparison to the diversity of birds. Racism remained, but was much harder to act on; while white women often continued to be racist to black women, they couldn’t tell what race a given bird had been unless his accent or his speech patterns gave it away, and birds mostly got over racism because they were too busy being prejudiced against other bird species. The idea of discriminating between humans on grounds so tiny as skin tone and hair consistency became ridiculous when you could be a chicken and have to deal with other roosters ranging from tiny gamecocks to giant Oshamu roosters, not to mention, every other bird in the world that humans had turned into. Religions had turned weird because they all had to take into account the concept of a God who’d turned all the men into birds; birds tended to think that God was probably a bird, and women tended to think that God was probably a human and either female or genderless, so most religions split in at least two, notwithstanding the ones that had multiple schisms because birds of different species all wanted to imagine a God that favored their species. Polytheism came back.

Sometimes there were still wars, flocks of birds viciously pecking and slashing at each other in the air while women on the ground shot at each other, and at birds wearing the enemy colors. It didn’t happen as often as it used to, though. Terrorism continued, and even got worse at times, because security measures designed for humans couldn’t keep birds out, but the disaffected young men who had no jobs and no futures, that had usually supplied the backbone of any terrorist movement, just weren’t there anymore. They were out flying in flocks with their friends, enjoying the freedom of the air and hunting for food. And environmentalism became a deadly serious issue; birds were more likely to be negatively impacted by any drastic change to the environment, so most of them were strongly in favor of reigning in the excesses of capitalism and cleaning up the planet. Who wanted to fly in a cloud of smog?

All in all, it was surprising how much better the world built by birds and humans, working together, was than the world that had been before. It was far from perfect, and there were many new problems that hadn’t previously existed – women’s near-universal sexual frustration, birds being unable to get jobs, the high cost of having children in a world where artificial insemination was the only means by which all but a tiny number of the women could get pregnant, plus the phenomenon of birds having ridiculous prejudices against other birds, as well as many others. But other problems that had plagued humanity for centuries turned out to be very easy to solve once all the men were birds. And so the people of Earth stopped looking for a cure; they were happier in the world where half of them were birds than they had been before, overall.

[mariacallous]

Brandon Gill, the son-in-law of right-wing pundit Dinesh D’Souza, has won the GOP nomination for a US House seat in Texas’ 26th District. A former investment banker, Gill set up a right-wing website called the DC Enquirer in 2022 to promote 2000 Mules, his father-in-law’s disproven conspiracy film about the 2020 election.

Gill easily claimed victory over 10 other candidates in the race to replace Representative Michael Burgess, who is retiring after 21 years in Congress. Gill won almost 60 percent of the vote in the comfortably red district, according to AP, and he’s the overwhelming favorite to win when he faces Democrat Ernest Lineberger III in November.

Gill was unknown in the political world until 2022, when he set up the DC Enquirer and immediately fashioned it into a staunchly pro former president Donald Trump outlet that boosted a myriad of election conspiracies.

“2000 Mules is changing minds, people are waking up and realizing that the 2020 election was neither free nor fair,” Gill wrote on Twitter in May 2022, a month after he attended the premiere of the film at Trump’s Mar-a-Lago resort. Gill’s website was one of the main promoters of 2000 Mules, a so-called documentary created by D’Souza that made wild allegations about widespread voter fraud in the 2020 election. The film was quickly debunked by multiple fact-checking organizations. In a court hearing last month, the group whose claims the film was based on told a judge they had no evidence to back up their claims.

In recent weeks, millions of dollars were spent on attack ads by two GOP super PACs to oppose far-right Republican House candidates, including Gill. But that was no match for the endorsements from a who’s who of the Republican Party’s MAGA faction, including Trump, his son Donald Trump Jr., Senator Ted Cruz, Representative Matt Gaetz, Senator Mike Lee, and even the McCloskeys—the far-right couple who became instant Republican celebrities in 2020 when they pointed guns at Black Lives Matter protesters walking past their St. Louis home.

And Gill still appears to be focused on boosting false claims of election fraud in 2020, posting on X in November: “No we are not going to ‘move on’ from a stolen election. Secure our elections!”

[tomfooleryprime]

There's been a lot of discussion about what would happen if Biden wins and Trump refuses to concede, or if Trump wins and how the left will react, but has anyone paused to consider this nightmare scenario?

Despite being annoyingly vague on so many things, the Constitution is actually pretty clear on what happens in the event of an electoral college tie. The contingent election procedure was established in Article II, Section 1 of the Constitution, and then modified by the 12th Amendment.

The House chooses the President and the Senate chooses the Vice President. Except...each House state delegation would cast a single en bloc vote to determine the president, rather than each representative casting a vote. 435 representatives from 50 states equals 50 votes. Senators would cast votes individually for vice president, which means 100 Senators, 100 votes.

Yes, the Democrats have the House and are predicted to keep it in 2020, but if you spread the representatives out over their respective states, their power is massively diluted and there's every reason to believe 50 votes from a House bloc would still vote for Donald Trump. Just look at the color distribution of the map. 

If you think the Senate and electoral college are unfair, stop to consider that there are currently 7 states that only have one representative, five of them red, two of them blue. So picture a scenario where Alaska, Wyoming, Montana, North Dakota, and South Dakota get five votes. There are about 4 million people living in those 5 red states combined. Meanwhile, there are almost 10 times that many people living in California, and those 39 million Californians would see their representatives get one vote.

Of course, there’s no guarantee that Republicans would vote for Donald Trump. There's so much talk about how most Republicans are privately horrified by Donald Trump and think he's tearing the party apart, but feel obliged to support him for fear of retribution by Trump’s base. This scenario would really be the last flight out of Saigon for the GOP, an opportunity to make a last stand for the Old Guard Republican Party with the knowledge that in the wake of the 2020 election, their seats would be secure for at least the next two years.

Or they could choose to forever tie themselves to Trumpism. I would hope for the former, but suspect the latter.

But wait, there's more! It could get much stranger still. There's a real chance Democrats could retake the Senate and if they do, that would mean they would elect the Vice President. Imagine a scenario in which we have President Donald Trump and Vice President Kamala Harris.

2020 has been so fucking wild...why not?