#warlord photo file

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine breaking the news about the seraphim to King

You: I have bad news

King: [let's out a pained sigh] what could be worse than my race being revealed to the world, Kaido losing a fight, our empire falling, losing my wing, and being imprisoned by the very people my boss oppressed?

You: so we just heard from Luffy, and apparently. Vegapunk used the samples that he collected from you all those years ago.

King: [ throws back his head and cries] Fuck!

Queen: What'd he use them for? I had opted for cloning the skin samples to create a fleshy exoskeleton for a cyborg.

You: he made Lunarian cyborg clone-babies of some of the warlords.

Queen: oh! Cyborg Clones, huh? I had personally voted we use the skin samples we collected to create a skin for a mech, but cyborg clones never really occurred to me.

Jack: [guffaws] which ones?

King: [scrunches his eyes closed, crosses his fingers and whispers] not Moira, not Moira, please not Moira.

You: Kuma, Mihawk, Jinbe, and Boa Hancock.

King: how is that so much worse! Boa and Mihawk were intense enough as humans. And Kuma and Jinbe were strong enough due to their own species!

You: from what Nami said, they look around 8 or 9 years old. Vegapunk was kind enough to include pictures and details. [Holds out the package]

King: [can't stand the sight of the files, so he looks at the pictures first and sees they all look like normal photos a parent might take.] These are posed photos, aren't they?

You: most likely

Queen: [peeks over his shoulder] oh Boa is still beautiful as a child. Which makes sense, seeing as she's gorgeous as an adult.

Everyone in the room: [ ಠ⁠ಗ⁠ಠ]

King: [holds up a flaming fist] Kaido isn't here to protect you from me anymore.

Jack: [gives Queen a menacing look]

Queen: OH, NO! Not like that! NO!

No one in the room: [believes him]

A week later

You: hey King, so uh, I was wrong.

King: [pinches the bridge of his nose] please, don't.

You: There are other seraphims than the ones I told you about.

Queen: Figures

King: ... There's a Moira seraphim, isn't there?

You: [gives him a pinched smile] yeah, there's a Doflamingo, and a Crocodile seraphim too.

King: a Dofla-! That bastard! Mixing my genes with Moira of all people is bad enough, and to mix in a celestial dragon, especially Doflamingo, is even worse!

Jack: maybe Doflamingo was cute as a kid?

You: Ehh, no. I wanted to punch Doflamingo as an adult, but I want to punch him even more as a child.

King:[notices you are carrying more files] are those the new one's files?

You: yeah.

King: [braces himself and sighs] alright let me see.

You: you're taking this news better than I thought you would. [hands him the files]

Queen & Jack: [huddle closer to get a look]

Jack: [sees the pictures] oh god

Queen: how does Crocodile look more dower as a child?

King: [holds up the pictures of the Moira and Doflamingo seraphim's] these two are my least favorite.

You: Parents aren't supposed to have favorites.

King: ugh, don't call me that, please.

Queen: would you prefer Papa?

King: [pushes him away by his face] shut up

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[neonain]

Concept: Reader is an assasin for hire in a one man organization called 'Neon Zone' then you are suddenly contacted by none other than the Surgeon of Death who is looking for reliable alliances in order to take down the famous Donquixote Family

Trafalgar Law x Assasin Reader

"You have reached <Neon Zone>, Name your target"

"Donquixote Doflamingo..."

You paused at the name of a big fish, You couldn't help but smirk, already knowing who was behind the line

"Mr. Trafalgar, this will cost a fortune y'know" You grinned and raised your feet to your messy desk, posters and files all around your office. Targets crossed and upcoming big shots stored messily in files

"Name Your Price" He said in a tone that made you have goose bumps, This guy was already a rabid dog. A bomb ticking for far too long, ready to explode at any second

"Three Billion Berries, Now Sir. Where shall we meet up? You already know the rules don't you?"

You could hear a hum on the other end and hanged up after the location and time was set. You stretched up your arms and got off your seat, Time to make some money and hopefully get some good treasures the Donquixote Family had stolen.

You sighed and looked at the wall filled with photos of warlords and informations regarding them, sitting on top is no other than the Flamingo himself

Haha. . . Its been awhile since there were some costumers that decided to target higher demons

The worlds going to change it seems. You can feel it

[silkendandelion]

Something to consider for your One Piece OC’s and fanfics:

How does the newspaper portray them? How does this affect key events in their story? Does the public’s opinion of them agree/disagree with this image?

Tell me in the notes about your characters!

~*~

After the events of Mirage, River continues to be unlucky.

No one believed him when he said he didn’t get the officer’s position by sleeping with Crocodile and no one believes he got away from Smoker on his own. Among pirates, they’re happy to believe he exchanged the evidence for immunity, which makes it hard for River to make new allies.

His bounty finally gets a photo in Water 7, another incriminating blemish on his record because in the corner of the frame is a shocked Paulie who didn’t know his dinner date was wanted by the marines.

River’s marine intel file ends up looking something like:

Seduced a warlord for a position of power

Attempted to seduce a marine captain for immunity of above crimes

Coerced (sexually?) leader within Galley-La to secure aid for his allies (see: Strawhat Pirates) at Ennis Lobby

Remains at large within Revolutionary Army (relationship with handler? Plans to rise in rank?)

Dislikes having picture taken (see: related aggravated assault)

If he could read his own file he’d go through the five stages of grief, especially at them speculating about his relationship with Aurelio bc that man is his best friend

When rumors pop up of his closeness to Law, it looks like the Man-Eater is at it again 🙄 two warlords down—which is something nasty that Doflamingo throws out to try to get a rise out of him at Dressrosa (it works)

“I had heard you were easy. Cute as you are, though, perhaps I dodged a bullet by keeping my distance. After all, both the warlords you’ve slept with have lost their titles.”

Doflamingo thinks he’s funny (he is)

River likes sex, but he doesn’t believe in using it as a tool. For all the people he’s charmed out of various things, he only ever slept with people he wanted to. And he hates that something he enjoys would be twisted in the public’s perception of him into this user who seduces for greed

When Law responds to his flirting with a glare and skepticism, River knows what it looks like. He knows what the newspapers say, what the underworld says.

He never really cared about what they said until he met someone who he wanted to know the truth.

If River ever catches a break, just know I’ve been replaced

[onechaotictrio]

.

The papers inside the folder are 3 bundles of two sheets each, the first with a photo and some general information, the second with an article of some sort.  (The articles are their in-game lore, and come with disclaimers stating “while this is the legend associated with the being, its veracity is unconfirmed”.)  The 3 “general info file” parts: 

#34: Caspian, The Master Thief 

Crown Prince Caspian of Batavia

Birth year unknown, circa. late eighteenth century. 

Last known appearance in 1883

Originated from a Modern Thera Timeline

Presumed to be a dhampyr, evidence suggests the last prince was born to one of the local village women who went missing during this period and not the Queen of Batavia, who was last recorded in 1720. 

Known for a series of heists targeted at the government of Britain, wealthy landowning families, and public organizations including several museums. Primarily took artifacts of fame which would later resurface on the black market. Not known to attack or seek to kill other beings, but has caused the deaths of 67 law enforcement workers and an undocumented number of civilians directly or indirectly to continue his grand schemes.  

His attached photo showed a young man maybe in his late teens to early twenties of Eastern European descent, with short red hair with two bleached off-white streaks on the sides. He has almost-black dark blue eyes, a black domino mask, and a white collared shirt and black vest with a red rose pin. He’s smiling and looking at the “camera”, as if he knew it was there. 

#37: Kaya, The Natural

Kaya, Daughter of Chief Kiviuk of the People of the Lights. 

Birth year unknown. 

Last known appearance at between 14 to 16 years of age. 

Originated from the Land of the Lights. 

Presumed to be a human with cryokinesis and contact with spirit animals, amongst other magical abilities. 

Known for her important role in defending her people from the invading Ice Giants from Jötunnheim. Despite her young age, she was a capable fighter, commander, hunter, and craftworker. While known as a brave, kindhearted hero, she is not to be underestimated and known to take on challenges and succeed, and has defeated many Ice Giant legions in her years active. 

Her attached photo showed a teenage girl with medium-toned skin, curly chin length brown hair, and dark brown eyes. She has two dark pink marks painted on each cheek, coming in from the sides of her face, and she’s wearing a silver metal chestplate over a reddish-brown hide dress with a large, fluffy, white fur collar. She’s cheerful looking and focused on a point off to the side, as if distracted so she didn’t notice the “camera”. 

#39: Jiro, The Shogun’s Shadow

<identity unconfirmed, most known by alias “Saiyokage Jiro” or “Minatozaki Jiro”>

Birth year circa. 1570s. 

Last known appearance 1601. 

Originated from the Twilight Realm. 

Twilight Demon suspected to be the reincarnation of Lord Kagima, a highly successful and feared warlord who disappeared mysteriously when his volcanic island passage realm collapsed with him inside during this period. 

Known for the assassination of at least 11 shoguns during the wars of the Sengoku Jidai, and an attempted assassination of King Seonjo of the Old Kingdom. Believed to be hired by the Twilight Lord to ensure conflict in the human realm. Known for targeting individuals of wealth or political power and murdering anyone in the way of his targets, including upwards of 75 various bodyguards and soldiers and some number of civilians, though he does not seem to go after ordinary beings. 

His attached photo showed a young man in his early to mid twenties, with pale skin, messy dark hair, and orange eyes with slit, cat-like pupils. He has very visible tiredness shadows under his eyes, and sharp features- high arched brows, defined cheekbones, v-shaped chin. He has a scar across his nose, a silver headband that just barely kept his bangs out of his eyes, and a red scarf over silver metal shoulder pieces and a silvery-white sleeveless kimono. His expression is neutral, unreadable, and he’s looking away, but as if intentionally ignoring the “camera”, his gaze is unfocused and eyes half open. 

As for the door Argyros knocked on, she can hear movement on the other side, someone putting things away, rushing to come get the door.

(Felicity: so this is really just the starter and I’ll reply from the Arson Murder Jaywalking Trio blog after)

Colin (and Argyros if she’s here) exit the portal through a dark wooden door with a simple brass knob into an odd-looking room. It’s square with each wall being about 15 feet long, but the most noticeable thing is that brass lines inlaid into the floor, corners, and ceiling split the room into four triangle-based quarters, with the one they’re currently standing in having a simple wooden floor, clean white wall, abstract wall art, fuzzy pastel green welcome mat, and wire coatrack, making it reminiscent of a cozy modern home. The quarter to their left has a much more antique vibe to it, the floor being wood in a different shade, and more worn looking, the patterned wallpaper being a faded magenta that blurred into the varied yet never too bright colors of the many, many photos pinned onto the wall around the door. There are pictures of beautiful scenes, snow fields, sunsets, forests, but there are no notable beings in them, no hints to the inhabitants of this strange little corner of the multiverse or the individual who must’ve taken them. Carved into the door on this wall are the words “If you’re seeing this, it means I’m home, feel free to come in if you can.” in a rough, simplistic writing, with a rolled-up scroll and pen pinned on top- if the scroll was unrolled, it would cover the writing. A creative way for visitors to leave messages to whoever lived here. The quarter directly across had a stone brick construction, with an archway full of blue light acting as the portal and a hanging tapestry of a clear sky and bright sun for a door. On the walls to its sides were beadwork hangings, depicting a starry night sky with a crescent moon and snowy owl flying about, and what appeared to be a mammoth made of ice playing about in the snow. Upon closer inspection, the snowy owl seemed to be made of snow as well. Next to the door is a tall flowerpot overflowing with crawling pink-flowered vines that have spread onto the floor and walls, and a small dresser with a pair of snow boots on top. The boots don’t look quite big enough for an adult, instead made for maybe an older child in their early teens. The wooden rafters holding up the upper walls and ceiling were decorated with preserved flowers of every kind, giving the room a pleasant herbal aroma. The final quarter, the one to their right, had a traditional Japanese theme, with woven floor mats and paper wall panels painted with cranes in a marsh and a few scattered lines of calligraphy. In a cylindrical frame in the corner are rolls of painted paper that could likely be used to swap out the designs on the walls. In the other corner is a discreetly hidden set of light switches disguised as a candle holder- the candle it held was only a fraction of the height of the stand and the lower portion could open to reveal the controls. The portal door is a sliding door that could’ve easily been mistaken for a wall panel if it weren’t ever-so-slightly open, a crack of white mist pouring through. In the middle of the room, over the intersecting divider lines, is a small table resembling a tall stool, being 3 feet tall with a circular top a bit more than 1 foot in diameter. On it is a singular file folder, the papers inside peeking out. Do they go through any of the doors? Do they check the file folder? Do they mess with the light switches or any of the other stuff in here?

"How fascinating..." Colin tilts his head, looking around the room. This was definitely a new and unfamiliar place. He decides to check the file folder; it's best to know what he can about this place and who's here before he investigates them directly.

"Seems familiar!" Argyros grins, looking around. She thinks for a moment, before skipping over and knocking on the door with the carved message.

"Is it a good idea to immediately start bothering people?" Colin asks lightheartedly, an eyebrow raised as he glances at Argyros.

"It'll be fiiine!" Argyros looks at Colin over her shoulder, eyes closing for a few moments as she grins.

[all-action-all-picture]

Warlord No. 433, dated 8 January 1983. Wild-Man Wilde cover by Jeff Bevan. Below is the Back page Photo File feature on the Avro Vulcan bomber.

DC Thomson.

[mimi-ya]

reconnaissance: chapter 1

2,200 words | she/her reader

summary: assignment? infiltrate the heart pirates.

masterlist | reconnaissance chapter list next chapter

The fall you took might have looked like an accident, but it was more calculated than anyone would ever know.

In fact, the planning of this started months prior when you were assigned with your task.

The Heart Pirates had made quite the name for themselves over the few years they sailed the first half of the Grand Line. Their unique membership made it easy to learn more about each of them.

And which one to pull a fast one on.

The groan that escapes your lips is quite real and quite painful. It wouldn’t do to try and fake an injury with the Surgeon of Death. Shifting your weight mid fall to put more pressure on your ankle may have been foolish, but it was intentional.

The near crying and clutching of your foot might be a bit of an overkill, but you really had to play it up if you wanted sympathy from the Mink.

“Oh no! I’m sorry!” He towers over you with frantic paws.

“It’s not your fault.” You whimper, trying to stand on your feet, but take a stumble right into the bear’s stomach with a loud cry. Your fingers clutch onto his jumpsuit for support, letting the tears gather in your eyes before you look up at your target.

He’s starring at you with watery eyes to match your own. The polar bear was definitely the right choice.

“Let me take you to Captain!”

You reel back in apparent fear as any normal persons would, but inside your pleased to have had to do so little work.

“Oh no! It’s okay!” The bear tries to reassure you, “Captain is a doctor! I’m sorry I forgot to say.”

You glance at your ankle, “You think he’ll be able to help me?”

The bear nods quickly, “Of course! Captain’s the best doctor out there!” His enormous paw engulfs your hand, and he pulls you along. But with a single step you’re wailing out in pain. The bear whips around, “Oh no! I’m sor-”

You cut him off with a grunt, the pain wearing your patience thin and annoyance growing. You pull a kind smile, “Could you, if it’s not too much to ask, could you carry me?”

“Of course!” He immediately picks you up, “Sometimes I carry captain like this when he’s too tired to go to bed.”

The mink’s soft fur rubs against your arms as he begins walking to the shore and you force a giggle at his words, “Sounds like he does a lot.”

“Oh, he does! He’s captain and a doctor! And he’s going to be a Warlord one day!”

Your head whips to the bear, actual surprise in your expression, “He is?”

That wasn’t in the file.

“Oh look!” The bear ignores you, “There’s our ship!”

Your eyes follow his to see a submarine peeking out of the water. It looks much different than the grainy photos you managed to find.

The bear’s feet slow as the two of you approach the dock, “Uhm, I’m not sure how to get you in.”

“That’s alright.” You pat his shoulder, “I’m sure I can get in on my own.”

None the less the bear holds your hand as you descend into the sub. Your heart picks up as you’re truly entering enemy territory. Full well knowing with each step you're getting further and further away from your only means of escape.

“Captain does all of his work in here.” The bear reveals a sterile and tidy examination room, “He can help when he comes back.”

You limp to the nearest chair, collapsing against it as sweet relief sings in your ankle, “Will he be back soon?”

The bear nods, “He went out with Shachi.”                  

The naming of another crew member reminds you haven’t asked for the bears name. Not that you don’t already know it. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Oh! You can call me Bepo!”

A soft smile fills your face, “Well Bepo, I really appreciate all your help today.”

The bear quickly looks to the floor, oddly enough a blush penetrating his fur, “It’s nothing. It’s my fault anyway you-”

Before he can finish a blaring siren cuts into the air, lights flashing overhead.

“What is that?” You panic, eyes flicking around the room. Have you been caught already?

“I have to go!” Bepo cries, spinning on his heel and darting out the door.

“Wait!” You cry, trying to hobble after him, “Where are you going?”

“Just stay there!” Bepo calls over his shoulder, and you can’t get another word in before he’s already disappeared around the corner.

The loud ringing and flashing make it hard for you to think, but time is not a luxury you have right now.

As quick as you can with a bad ankle, you begin searching the drawers for something to stabilize your foot. You won’t get far if the pain makes it impossible to walk.

Buried in the back of the drawer you see a roll of gauzes. It’ll have to do for now. But when you reach for the roll, everything shifts and slides to the left.

Popping your head up you look around the room, nothing else has moved but you can feel the shift below your feet.

The submarine is moving.

Shit. Shit. Shit!             

Grabbing the gauzes, you roll up your pant to begin to wrap your foot. It’s a little hard balancing against the wall and the movement of the ship is making your stomach turn, plus the blaring siren that is still fucking going doesn't help.

The wrapping is shoddy at best, but it’ll have to do.

Gripping the counter, you try to take a step forward, but the pain licks up your calf. Fuck. You’re going to have to hop your way off this ship.

Steading yourself on one foot, you jump towards the door and you’re about to reach for the handle when suddenly you jerk back, slamming into the examination table.

“Fuck!” The back of your head smarts as an ache radiates from where you must have smacked it on the metal. With tears in your eyes, you slam your head back against the table, not caring about the injury.

Not even ten minutes into your mission and you’ve already incapacitated yourself to the point of helplessness.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe you shouldn’t have been trusted with this. Who did you think you were anyway?

“Well, well.” A shiver zips down your spine as the taunting voice reaches your ears, “What do we have here?”

Slowly, you look up from your spot on the floor, swallowing thickly as your met with the smirking gaze from the captain of the ship.

Trafalgar Law.

He stands in the doorway with practiced ease of being in the moving vessel. Folding his arms as he leans against the frame.

“I-” The words get caught in your throat, “Bepo, he uh-”

But Trafalgar ignores your mumbling, stepping in and slamming the door behind him, “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to accept help from pirates?”

“My foot.” You answer dumbly.

His eyes rake over your body in a way that makes your senses flame before zeroing in.

“Looks like you got it all fixed up.”

“Not really.” You respond before you can stop yourself.

Trafalgar moves closer, crouching down until he’s eye level. You flinch when he raises his hand, eyes screwing shut as you expect the worst. Instead, you hear a quiet thrum and when you peak an eye open, your mouth drops when you see the world is tinted in a hazy blue.

His tattooed fingers twist and turn in an unfamiliar fashion.

“What are you- fuck!” A sharp pain snaps in your ankle and you bend in half to grab at the joint. But even with the dull pain, you can feel it’s better than before.

“Nasty break you had there.” Trafalgar rises to his feet, dusting his hands on his pants, “Bepo is usually more careful than that.”

The suspicion is clear in his eyes, “Uhm.” You cough slightly, “That was my fault, I’m… clumsy.” You finish stupidly. Without help from the captain you grip the examination table and pull yourself up, “How did you?” You ask in surprise, circling your foot without any pain.

“We’ve left the island.” Trafalgar interrupts, ignoring your question.

“Oh.”

His gaze narrows, “You don’t want to go back there?”

“Are you going to take me?”

“I’d be more concerned about whether or not I’ll even let you stay on this ship.” He sneers, delighting in the way your face contorts into fear.

“Wait!” You cry, grabbing on to his farm, “I- I can be useful!”

Trafalgar wretches himself away from you as if he’d been burnt, “Got a devil fruit?”

“No.” Not that he needed to know about it.

“Know your way around a ship?”

“Not really.” Was barely allowed to leave the island.

Trafalgar closes in, his face unreadable, “So give me one reason why I shouldn’t toss you into the ocean right now?”

“I-” You swallow, “I can cook?” The fuck you can!

He scoffs, “You think we made it this far without a cook?”

Just as you’re about to sprout some bullshit of the delicious cuisine you’ve never cooked, the door slams open, smacking right into Trafalgar.

“Captain!” Bepo screams, being quickly followed by a couple of men in matching jumpsuits, “Captain! Please help my friend!”

“Bepo.” Trafalgar growls, rubbing the back of his head as he reaches for his hat that flew off in the commotion of it all.

“Oh captain!” Bepo cries, “I’m so sorry!”

You can’t hold back the scoff of laughter when Bepo wraps Trafalgar up into a hug, rubbing his cheek against his disgruntled captain’s.

With the sound you’ve gained the attention of the two who followed Bepo in.

“And who’s this?” One of them asks.

“Bepo!” The other adds, “You didn’t say your new friend was so pretty.” He slides up beside you, extending a hand, “Hi. I’m Shachi.”

“Oi!” The stern call brings everyone to attention, each of them with straight backs as they give their captain full attention, “Bepo.” Trafalgar growls, “What did I say about bringing stragglers to the ship?”

Bepo opens his mouth but then thinks better of it, and sadly looks down, “No more.”

“Tch.” Trafalgar rolls his eyes, “And you two.” He turns to the others, “Letting it happen, again.”

“But I was with you, captain!” The one called Shachi protests.

“And I was with him!” The other points.

“Enough!” Trafalgar snaps with ice in his voice, “Bepo. Look after your friend until we reach the next island, and then we’re ditching her. Got it?”

“Oh thank you, captain!” Bepo goes to wrap his captain up in another hug, but then in the blink of an eye Trafalgar has switched spots with Shachi who is now in the mink’s hold.

“Oi.” Trafalgar snaps for your attention, “Got a name?”

You nod quickly and then realize he’s actually waiting for it, “Yes! It’s (Y/N).”

“(Y/N).” He’s says it like it’s something disgusting on his tongue.

The beating of your heart feels like it might explode out your chest any second. He’s going to know. There’s no way he won’t know. You’re totally screwed now. Why didn’t you pick a fake name? What’s wrong with you!

“Stay out of my way.”

.

Several hours later you’re lying in a stiff bed and staring at the ceiling.

After Trafalgar stormed out of the examination room, Bepo engulfed you into a hug. Crying about how happy he was that you were okay, glad to see captain fixed your foot, and so excited you would be staying with them.

The words did nothing to stop the shiver that coursed though you.

Had Bepo been expecting the worse?

Rolling over on the cot you slam a fist into your pillow. Nothing was going according to your plan.

The results may have been a little better than what you were hoping for, but that doesn’t mean you hadn’t screwed up several times already.

Panicking during the alarm like a bumbling idiot. Trapping yourself in an enemy submarine in the first place. Not to mention the blundering introduction you made with Trafalgar.

But you were here. Now you just had to make sure you stayed.

After hours of tossing and turning, exhaustion finally got the best of you. But even as your eyes were fluttering closed for the night, you couldn’t help but think of how you ended up here in the first place.

“(Y/N), do you know what the most important part of being a family is?”

“Being there for each other?” You answer, watching as he paces back and forth behind his desk.

“Exactly.” A wicked smile stretches across his face, “Even when someone thinks they don’t need their family, we will still be waiting with open arms.” His hand curls around the wanted poster sitting atop mounds of paper, “So you’re going to bring home one of the family.”

Finally! You were being trusted with a real assignment, something that could prove your worth and thank everyone for all they’ve done for you.

Your smile is wide and excitement clear as day as you accept the wanted poster, “Of course, Doflamingo.”

next chapter

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Apple's manorial security

While digital feudalism is practiced by many Big Tech companies, Apple pioneered it and is its standard-bearer. The company rightly points out that the world is full of bandits who will steal your data and money and ruin your life, and it holds itself out as your protector.

Apple is a warlord whose fortress has thick walls and battlements bristling with the most ferocious infosec mercs money can buy.

Surrender your autonomy by moving to Apple’s fortress — where they choose your which apps and where you get repairs — and they’ll defend you.

This arrangement (which should really be called “digital manorialism” because feudalism involved providing men-at-arms to the monarch) has the same problem as all benevolent dictatorships: it works well, but fails badly.

https://locusmag.com/2021/01/cory-doctorow-neofeudalism-and-the-digital-manor/

When Apple has the same interests as you — when they work against the bandits, rather than colluding with them — this is great. But when Apple sides with the bandits, the walls that once protected you now make you easy prey.

One place where Apple sides with the bandits is China. Access to Chinese sweatshop labor and the vast Chinese middle-class are key to Apple’s ongoing business interests. So when the Chinese state threatens to take these away unless Apple turns on its users, Apple folds.

It’s been four years since Apple colluded with the Chinese state to remove working VPNs from its App Store, exposing Chinese users to pervasive state surveillance.

https://www.cnet.com/news/apple-removes-vpn-apps-from-china-app-store/

The benefits of retaining access to China clearly outweighed the reputational damage from colluding with state oppression, because Apple did it again, backdooring the encryption for its Chinese cloud servers.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/18/unhealthy-balance-sheet/#think-manorialism

But the problems of benevolent dictatorship go beyond secret malevolence. A dictator can be benevolent, but incompetent.

This week, the Washington Post published an expose under the admirably self-explanatory headline, “ Apple’s tightly controlled App Store is teeming with scams.”

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/technology/apple-e2-80-99s-tightly-controlled-app-store-is-teeming-with-scams/ar-AAKL0TG

That hed really says it all: if you think that a “curated” app store is immune to fraudulent apps that steal your money and you’re data, you’re wrong.

Then there’s this equally well-chosen hed from Motherboard over Matthew Gault’s byline: “She Sent Her iPhone to Apple. Repair Techs Uploaded Her Nudes to Facebook.”

https://www.vice.com/en/article/pkbkey/she-sent-her-iphone-to-apple-repair-techs-uploaded-her-nudes-to-facebook

Again, this is pretty much exactly what it sounds like: two Apple service technicians — you know, those guys Apple says you should use instead of a third-party repairer who might steal your data — extracted a customer’s nudes and posted them to Facebook.

It’s not the only time this happened:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2019/11/12/an-apple-store-employee-helped-customerby-texting-himself-private-photo-her-phone/

nor is it the second:

https://9to5mac.com/2016/10/12/apple-australia-photo-sharing-ring-nsfw/

It might be rampant.

This only came to light because Apple paid the victim a multi-million-dollar settlement (that came with a gag order so other people wouldn’t learn that Apple’s safety claims were lies), and Apple’s insurer refused to pay, triggering a legal dispute.

An app store “teeming” with fraudware, service techs who go spelunking for nudes to download and share on devices submitted for repair — these illustrate the core problem with benevolent dictatorships, namely, that the dictator has to be infallible as well as benevolent.

Because Apple has spent millions defeating dozens of state Right to Repair bills that would let customers decide for themselves whether to trust Apple’s repair technicians.

Because Apple does everything it can to make it illegal to develop a third-party app store for Ios that would let users decide whether to trust Apple’s “curation.”

Any time this level of control is questioned — any time someone asks whether an Iphone owner should have the final say over whose apps they use and whose repairs they choose — the answer is that Apple can’t protect them if they get to treat its products as their property.

(I’m leaving aside for now the idiotic no-true-Scotsman argument that “real” Apple users all like deferring to Apple on these matters, because of the obvious rebuttal that Apple wouldn’t spend millions blocking these activities if its customers didn’t want to engage in them)

Lock in and switching costs don’t make companies better defenders of users’ interests — it assures them that they can sell users out, underinvest in oversight of their employees, tolerate a certain amount of predation — and their users will be stuck inside that fortress.

The deal in the warlord’s fortress, after all, is that you have to use a warlord-specified ���ecosystem” of proprietary peripherals, media files, and apps for which the warlord is the sole vendor of runtimes. Leave the fortress and all this stuff becomes useless.

Business, after all, is business. Companies know that high switching costs allow them to treat their users worse, because users will weigh all they surrender when they defect to a rival against the costs imposed by staying in a corrupt warlord’s demesne.

There’s another way: technological self-determination, of the sort that comes with interoperability, right to repair, and an end to the laws protecting terms-of-service, DRM and other forms of lock in.

If warlords are forced to allow us to leave their fortresses without being able to punish us for our disloyalty, then we’ll truly learn whether the people who stay within the walls prefer the warlords, or merely endure them.

[world-of-horrors-au]

Some random world building I never posted:

The most important ideal is probably survival, of the self and of the species.

The country is settled on the east coast, containing multiple large cities and smaller settlements around them. On the west coast is another country. Both claim to be the true continuation of America. War between them is inevitable. In between the two countries are stretches of land either completely abandoned, allied to one of the countries, or controlled by mad max style warlord kings who rule with various degrees of compassion and competence.

The internet was reactivated on the east coast during the Horrors War. It was originally only for the military, a way to communicate with the outside world, but over the past years the big cities have regained access to it. While it's monitored, it's well known that things fall through the cracks, and the government bots are not as great as they claim.

Recovering media from the past is considered vital. Scavenging is a valid job, as is processing that media for present day consumption. All media is given as written to the government but what the people get could be censored. Hiding media from the government is a crime that comes with fines and confiscation of any media you're hiding.

Hidden/unclaimed books are as good as money in some black markets and are traded, copied, and traded again. A book can be traded and copied a dozen times before it's given to the government.

Hard drives of all kinds are better than gold. Any kind of media, from music to pornography to family photos, are precious and desirable. The government hoards them. The black market trades them.

File sharing programs are considered a form of black market.

Religion is both unimportant and deeply critical to society. Atheism is common, but those who do have faith are deeply, desperately involved in it.

Sympathizers with the Horrors exist. They are a counterculture that is spoken of with horror and hate. It's impossible to tell at times if they genuinely support the Horrors or if they're just trying to be shocking and edgy. If the latter, they aren't very public with their efforts. The government will prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law if caught.

[aaluminiumas]

Baroque Works

Crocodile, sprawling comfortably in his luxurious armchair, was scrutinizing the files regarding his newest asset. As a warlord, he had access to the Marine archives: even though he may not be allowed to examine the papers himself, he nonetheless knew who would do him a favor and who would be the most pliable. Thus, Sir Crocodile laid his hand on the reports concerning Nico Robin, the woman who managed to hoax both the Marine and the World Government for the last twenty years.

The man pulled a cigar cutter closer by his hook, put his cheroot between the blades and chopped off the tip. Then, seizing a gold, quaint lighter with his good hand, he pensively twisted it in his fingers before pressing the button. The pirate was in no haste, so he admired the quietude and tranquility of his office, meditatively staring at a little girl’s photo, attached to the personal file of his associate.

The child in the poster looked like a cornered animal, accustomed to hatred and betrayal. In reality, Crocodile dealt with a collected, confident woman who lacked neither fervor nor intelligence to work with him: she complied with his commands without asking questions, executed orders in full obedience, and brilliantly accomplished his tasks, no matter how complicated and delicate. She had nothing in common with the kid in the photo, and Robin shouldn’t bother to encounter a random Marin in the street. However, she always preferred to err on the side of caution and never trust to chance. Normally apathetic and languorous, Crocodile tended to grin at her attitude but promptly realized that many of his projects could carry out completely noiselessly, without alarming the World Government, silently sanctioning his wrongdoings or his fellow warlords. Even though he would never admit it aloud, this cold unaffected woman taught him to find innovative solutions to hackneyed problems in trivial situations. No doubt they wanted her dead: she could beguile Devil himself and finagle the information she needed and patiently gleaned by any means possible. How the hell did a bunch of bulky goons having connections and resources at hand fail to snatch a kid? The Marine didn’t even issue a newer photo of the escapee; they kept consulting the old poster. This hopeless organization couldn't even pinpoint the whereabouts of an eight-year-old! Were they good for anything at all?..

Pitiful morons.

Crocodile inserted the cigar into his mouth, lit it, and took a long, satisfying drag on the cheroot. The hand, embellished with rings, opened the manila folder. As expected, it contained only the general information he’d already accumulated by bits. Nico Robin, born on the island of Ohara (destroyed by the Buster Call). Mother, Nico Olvia, an archaeologist, conducted research, regarding [classified], tortured, and killed while attempting to flee. Father unknown. Knows [classified] (anc. lang.). Extremely resourceful. Was part of [classified] (pirate gang). Purported to be engaged in the Frontier Riot as an instigator. Present location unknown. Most recent update [date].

Extremely resourceful, Crocodile hummed, can’t argue with that. Robin, who had sicced the whole world on herself, succeeded in covering up her tracks and mastered her double back skill. The last mention of her activity referred to the events from fifteen years ago, and the Marine seemed to have completely lost any sight of her, struggling to save face and pretend to keep their finger on the pulse. Crocodile couldn’t care less about said face or said fingers – while they were not meddling with him and his affairs.

He did acknowledge her outstanding abilities: Robin had already proved to have a card up her sleeve, often even more than one. However, he couldn’t stop wondering why she had come to him in the first place – why did she choose him among other warlords? Did she have her own data on him? Did she compile her own archive, learn his secrets, peruse his interests, and dissect his enigmatic persona just to discover what made him tick? Or was it a trivial coincidence that he settled down significantly closer to her current haven than any other warlord? And, most perplexing of all: how did she make it? Undoubtedly, she ran amok from the pandemonium Ohara was turned into; she certainly played by ear, but–

How did she do that?

How did she manage to skedaddle, providing the most powerful people of the Marine were in charge?.. He had been racking his brains for a while now. In the long run, Robin rapidly became essential to his plans but if her agility and aptitude practically outfoxed Fate, then she could easily turn the tables, thus compelling his plans to backfire.

On the other hand, Crocodile reluctantly admitted that he was tormented by idle curiosity: the Buster Call was an ultimate measure that did not have anything to do with the concept of punishment or the notion of comeuppance. The decision could only be made by the senior figures exclusively, which immediately confirmed his speculations: Ohara became a burden to the Five Elders, the archaeologists had unearthed something that happened to be a huge incubus to the World Government, so the ramifications of the discoveries had to be quickly eliminated, if possible, razed to the ground. It was virtually not feasible to vamoose the destructive power of the fleet, but Robin somehow made it. But how? Sakazuki governed the cleansing, and even pirates labeled him as a bloodthirsty beast, so he would hardly feel a surge of sympathy for the frightened, lacerated girl. Therefore, she was saved. By whom? And why?..

Crocodile hummed under his breath and swiveled his eyes in the direction of a thicker folder that contained voluminous reports on the Buster Call. Mulling over the subject, the pirate sent it to his elephant-leg-shaped urn. Whatever the case, he hadn’t found an answer to any of his questions.

All of a sudden, a quiet knock resonated in the hollow office bedecked with outré relics and bizarre antiquities.

Robin.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and a tall, erect woman entered. She was wearing white flare pants and a plain dark tank-top. Crocodile eyed her from head to toe, automatically observing the elegant cut that exceedingly suited her. Simple lines harmonized with the angular features of her refined visage as if bringing them to the fore. Her neck was decorated with a sapphire necklace he had once given her: when he first put it on her, the bobbed hair barely covered her ears – now it grew long enough to conceal several gems peacefully resting on her collar bones. He suddenly recollected a pristine carving with an image of an unidentified empress he’d bumped into in his youth – the occasion would’ve never come to mind if not for the poise and posture of his accomplice.

Closing the door by the hand materializing from the nearby wall, Robin approached his desk and laid out a number of folders in front of the man, topping the pile with a hierarchical scheme supplied with unfamiliar names and remarks.

“Oh. I see you aren’t wasting time,” the woman commented with a faint grin. Crocodile thought he’d just traced a feeble echo of derision in her voice when her eyes got a glimpse of her photo. If she was puzzled, she made no sign.

“I must know who I am dealing with,” he snapped.

“Sure.”

As usual, four arms appeared out of nowhere and unfolded the scheme, attaching it by the angles. Although Crocodile had long got accustomed to the ability, he couldn’t quite push aside the thought that Robin might want to use it to her advantage and strangle him if she could. On top of that, it looked abominable. Truly disgusting.

Trying to divert his attention, the man averted his lackluster orbs to the title. In Robin’s hand, a calligraphic Baroque Works was written in the center.

“Of course, the decision is always up to you,” she reminded in a soft voice, “But in my book, this name perfectly describes the crux of the operation – and the organization itself.”

Crocodile glumly nodded and propped his chin with the hook, intently inspecting the photos and the brief notes in the blanks underneath. He had been devising the system that would let him remain unseen and play a double game but to no avail: the impediments in his way seemed insurmountable, he had to deal with a variety of problems at a time, but Robin, using her private means, managed to square things away in a couple of days. Now, her primary focus was shifted to the agents’ recruitment.

“Officers?” he drawled, turning to her in his armchair. “You aim for redundancy, don’t you?”

“I do,” Robin responded, her eyes fixed on his. He needed quite a while to grow accustomed to this habit of hers – all his employees, both current and erstwhile, avoided to look him in the face, but she wasn’t intimidated by his rough blemish or his blasé stare. “We will create two redundant groups of people: millions and billions. Those are the people who will not be properly trained – they are expected to work under the stronger agents. However, those stronger agents themselves will be separated into two clusters: those who have to team with a partner and those who are supposed to raise funds," she paused for a moment. "To sponsor the activities of Baroque Works. The latter will be spread all over the first few islands of the Grand Line, so–

“How are you planning to monitor them?” he interrupted.

Robin quirked her eyebrows for a second and smirked.

“I’m not going to, Sir. These responsibilities will be allocated to the agents with said millions and billions under command.”

Crocodile took another long drag, and brushing away the associate’s warm fingers off the scheme, pored over the multiple notes. Robin was patiently waiting for his verdict: she did not get on his nerves by bombarding him with questions, nor did she seem to fret if he brooded over something for too long. She knew how to remain inconspicuous: every now and then, when they worked together, he could totally forget about her presence. Only an inaudible clack of the door made him snap out of his trance: when she left the room, her feeble redolence of sand and flowers wafted away.

“There must be someone who could supervise their accomplishments,” the pirate drawled thoughtfully, taking a quill in his hand and drawing a line between the millions and the officer agents.

“Do you have someone in mind?”

He didn’t reply, but he jotted a word on the draft. In comparison to Robin’s copperplate handwriting, Crocodile’s letters looked uneven and clumsy.

“I’ll take care of the details,” he finally concluded. “Anything else?”

“Yes.”

The woman pulled out a folder with a picture of an impassive, dark-skinned man.

“Daz Bones, bounty hunter. I thought you may need a robust fruit-eater… with violent inclinations and skills.”

She was right, as usual. Actually, it disgruntled him from time to time; Robin had certainly developed a peculiar gut feeling, which led her to people that fit the description of a good agent. Besides, she always sought the alternative, knowing that her opinion on the person may not converge with Crocodile’s.

Flicking ashes from his cigar directly into a glass ashtray, he reached his ragged digits for her sapphire necklace. He glided his calloused fingertips across the indigo gems while her listless glare was fixed to a stone elephant figurine. Then, her azure optics slid across his arm up to his pallid face. Undaunted and invincible, Nico Robin, on the lam for the last twenty years, was now standing in mere inches from him, helping him improve the project he’d been plotting for so long. Inconceivable.

Moving away from her, Crocodile turned back to the draft and rectified several remarks, namely, he loathed her idea of codenames. Anyways, he’ll figure it out later on, when the basics will be finally brought into action.

“I expect you for dinner tonight,” he finally intoned, not distracting from his work.

“Certainly,” she replied with a small smile, heading over to the door.

So terse and yet so straightforward. Crocodile never really knew what to expect from this woman, but he sure as hell believed that she would eventually help him reach his cherished goal… if she didn’t unravel his conundrums right before it.

[sanjuno]

sanjuno may i know what reborn says when confronted with a ninja who needs no training from him whatsoever instead of a hopeless loser oblivious of his heritage

Reborn’s internal monologue is a repeating chorus “gonna kill Iemitsu” from the moment he hits Namimori county limits.

Here’s where it starts:

/.../

“Mama, I’m home!” Tsuna pried off his combat boots and pulled on the reinforced sandals the pack used in place of house slippers. “Mama? You wanted to talk to me?”

“Welcome home, Tsu-kun! Mama has wonderful news!” Nana was far too busy plating dinner to see the way her son grimaced and looked resigned. “Your Papa sent you a home tutor! Iemitsu says he’ll train you to be the leader of the next generation! All he needs is room to sleep and food. Ah, it’s so nice when a mother can relax and not worry about her no good son.”

“… What. Mama, my grades are fine. I don’t need a tutor.” Especially not one sent by That Man. Tsuna’s expression was mulish as his mother set the plates down on the table. “He’s probably just a scam artist anyway, you know That Man doesn’t bother himself with us. You should send him away when he gets here. If you’re that worried about my grades I can ask Hana-chan and the others for extra help.”

“Ara, but, Tsu-kun.” Nana blinked and put a third plate down on the dining table. “Mama can’t do that, he’s already here.”

Tsuna’s face went admirably blank and something wary flashed in his eyes. “What.”

That was as good a cue as any. Reborn stopped masking his presence and left his vantage point atop the fridge to take a seat at the table. “Caiossu. I am Reborn, the home tutor.”

“So that’s where you were! Reborn-san, this is my no good son Tsuna.” Nana sat down, her obviously civilian posture at odds with her son’s cautiously balanced-to-move hunch. “Tsu-kun, this is the home tutor Papa sent for you. Please, let’s all get along!”

Nana sparkled at them both before starting to eat, and Tsuna slowly followed her lead. Reborn watched with growing incredulity. Tsuna’s manners were strange. Not different from Nana’s simply… more defensive. Defensive in a way that recalled the violent history of clashing warlords and clans that had given rise to the proper manners of modern day Japan. Tsuna never held his chopsticks at an angle that would let an enemy blow drive the sticks into the back of a vulnerable throat. Bowls and cups were held around the side close to the top, so hot liquid would drop down rather than be splashed up into open eyes in the event of an attack. It made Reborn think the boy just might manage to survive long enough to become Vongola Decimo.

It also made Reborn want to go shoot that idiot Iemitsu in the face because the data file was useless. Not just incomplete. Not just misinterpreted. The information in the CEDEF file compiled on Sawada Tsunayoshi was wrong, full stop, on every important, vital point beyond the boy’s name and date of birth. There was no evidence of the ‘no good’ person described in the file, and no sign of Iemitsu’s ‘cute, shy little tuna-fishie’. Even the mother seemed to have been fooled, probably because she would be Iemitsu’s primary source of first hand information on the boy.

The boy was slight and small enough in stature to appeal on a visual level to the local bullies, but he was clothed in the military-field-dress inspired modified school uniform worn only by the members of the Namimori Peacekeeping and Disciplinary Committee. Reborn’s personal investigation into the town’s social constructs showed that the NPDC had overpowered and supplanted the local Yakuza groups three years earlier and showed no sign of relinquishing control any time soon. It was unfortunate that the NPDC distained rank patches of any sort, apparently the rank and file knew all of the higher officers in the organization by sight. Reborn would have liked some idea of what Tsuna’s position in the power structure was.

Dark eyes picked out two obvious weapon pouches and several more concealed pieces. The boy was well equipped and armed even by hitman standards. Throwing knives, shuriken, and several blades of varying lengths, a set of small bottles, wire, and low yield explosives. Reinforced gloves, three different weight sets of knuckledusters, and a sap. Interesting that the boy seemed to prefer fighting in close quarters, if not barehanded, considering his small size. According to the Namimori ordinance code, none of what Tsuna carried was considered illegal either. How interesting.

“Thank you for dinner, Mama.” The boy stood up, the silence in his movements made only more obvious next to his mother’s tendency to clatter around. “I’m going to talk to Reborn-san upstairs in my room, okay?”

“Do your best, Tsu-kun!” The boy said nothing else, just nodded at his mother while eyeing Reborn with clear suspicion before heading up the stairs.

Curious despite himself, Reborn followed. The boy was very obvious about his reluctance to give Reborn his back. Why was that? Reborn knew exactly how people saw his cursed form. Why would an infant make the boy wary?

The room was a mess, as expected of a thirteen-turning-fourteen year old boy. It was also a clever lie. Reborn looked around with a raised eyebrow. Games and manga and magazines scattered haphazardly, looking well used but lacking any touch of possession. Even latent as it was, Tsuna’s Flame should have left an impression on anything he considered his. Nothing in this room beyond what Tsuna was wearing felt like the boy. The room lacked any truly important personal possessions, proving the lie with a closer look.

‘This house is not the boy’s home.’ It was a troubling realization. Human instinct drove children to give their first loyalties to the parent that raised them, but Sawada Nana was not the one Sawada Tsunayoshi shared his home with. The boy’s loyalty lay elsewhere. Reborn needed to know where.

“So… that man sent you here, ne?” The boy scowled. “I don’t know what was said, but I don’t need anything further from that man. He’s done enough damage here, and I have no need for a tutor. As I told my mother earlier, my grades are fine.”

“That’s just the cover story to explain my arrival. I’m really the World’s Greatest Hitman, Reborn.” Leon shifted into gun form and Reborn leveled the barrel at the boy’s face. “I was sent here by the Ninth Boss of the Vongola Crime Family to train you as a Mafia Boss.”

Tsuna did not move from his seat, not even to flinch away from the gun. The boy’s jaw went tight, expression pained, and his mouth twisted. To Tsuna’s credit, the boy made no attempt to refute Reborn’s statements. “… This is all that man’s fault.”

Amused despite himself, Reborn put Leon back on his hat and pulled out the family tree he had prepared as proof, along with the autopsy photos for the previous three heirs and started Tsuna’s first lesson. This boy just might be worth Reborn’s time.

/.../

See what this poor Home Tutor has to put up with? *shakes head*

[nandoor]

imo all vampires are sentimental hoarders in the wwdits universe.

the staten island vamps, for all their grumbling abt their housemates, have tons of photos of each other displayed around the house. it’s obvious that they do care abt each other & enjoy each other’s company.

as far as trinkets go, even colin robinson has stuff he finds and keeps that serve no real purpose. he has the painting he made of the staten island crew, nighclothes that match his bedsheets exactly, & has a filing cabinet by his bed that he wanted since he was a kiddo.

nadja keeps taxidermy animals in her & laszlo’s room that remind her of past events, has numerous paintings of herself w/ and w/o laszlo, & keeps jewelry that she wore in her human life, like the jade necklace that holds her mother’s last screams... which is very sentimental, very nadja-esque & definitely a bit creepy imo

laszlo, similarly, has the taxidermy animals & portraits, & also composes music for his loved ones, but he also has a secret locket that he keeps on his person at all times which contains nadja’s picture & honestly that makes me so soft ;v;

nandor has all sorts of weapons and artwork of himself from his time as a warlord, has a taxidermied boar that he named barry that he displays in the house, keeps all letters & emails & coupons that he’s received no matter how meaningless they might seem, obviously personalized his coffin to feel more like a bed with the fur-lining, & even makes his own art as a way to express his feelings in a nandor-typical, roundabout way. of the four vamps, i’d argue nandor is the most sentimental since he does seem to remember the little details much better than big-picture stuff (i.e., he didn’t know originally that guillermo had been his familiar for ten yrs but somehow remembered that interview with the vampire was one of guillermo’s favorite movies & fashioned guillermo’s portrait to look like armand).

tldr; immortality makes ur brain as soft as goat cheese & the vamps need to keep physical memorabilia so they don’t lose certain memories to the unyielding current of time. they also love taking photos since they can’t see themselves in mirrors & paintings take awhile to make—which is lowkey sad :(

[heroofpenamstan]

WIP DAY: #1 & #2

Thanks for tagging me, @shallow-gravy and @nightwingshero! x ( Also, this includes a sneak peak prototype of that hypothetical wedding gifset we mentioned, coming in at #1. 👀👀 )

Tagging: @ariestals, @jacobseeds-mainhoe, @hawkfurze, @shellibisshe, @mackie-hattwie, @f0xyboxes @whoever won’t get offended if I tag them and want to do it!

1. First frame of one of the many gifs I am hoping to finish ASAP. ( This is going to grey me, but Wren and John are a personal fav, and @nightwingshero is a talented champ who deserves it. It will look better in the end I p r o m i s e. )

2. she’s mine; she’s mine.—unedited (we die like men) snippet. ( Jacob and Jo (what a surprise); not worth publishing since it's quite generic—hunt the Dep kinda fic, but wanted to self-indulge the other day. Pardon my terrible writing, oof. )

[...]

Jacob's eyes rake through the assortment of photographs littering the wooden table, colors and shapes coiling the muted surface. He tries to tune out John's appraising coos and Faith's honey-laced compliments on a job well done, and Nancy's fucking beaming in the seat opposite of him.

As his eyes zero in on a snapshot laying closest to his scarred forearm, Jacob has to begrudgingly agree. 

It took ten minutes to seize most of the Sheriff's department from the moment Joseph's wrists were clasped in steel, another twenty to pull the Marshall out from the river bank, ( barking, until he wasn't, ) and another forty for Deputy Nancy to arrive at the designated location, thick file in hand and her uniform gone and replaced.

His little brother had thrown the images and documents askew on the table and, the three Heralds, like some medieval warlords, had their pick of spoils of war. Their ‘sister’ already had her Faithful drag the unconscious Marshall down to the bliss-stocked pits of her bunker, as per Joseph's command. 

John, having had enough embarrassing, dirty spats with Hudson in the past, some more public than others, had gleefully shoved her into one of his reaping trucks heading to the Valley.

And Jacob—

Jacob wonders how long the cocky little fucker will last with his Judges up North.

Calloused fingers come to pinch a photograph next to his arm, bringing it up to his face upon closer inspection. 

( Ah, yes. They still have these two to worry about. )

The snapshot had captured a chaotic 4th of July barbecue party—a staff get-together, according to Nancy. At the epicenter of the aggressive display of American flags and mustard stains and pre-mature fireworks, is the elderly Sheriff Whitehorse, button-up shirt wet from the water gun clutched in Pratt’s hand. Underneath his bicep stands the only Deputy that has managed to escape their grasp, two hot dogs cradled in dainty hands.

His fingertip finds her face easily among the countless braids hanging around it, travels from her temple to trace at her defined jaw. He tilts his head ever so slightly to take in her furrowed brows and squinting, dark eyes.

This one was still a bit of a mystery to them all. 

She was an outsider, just like them; a recruit from one state over, from what John managed to pry out during one of their brief encounters regarding one of their men carrying a blowtorch into a bar.

“That’s Jo,” Nancy chimes in, as if he asked for her fucking input. “Joanne Burton, the new probation officer from Idaho. She’s a good kid, but—” the older woman leans in, reminding Jacob of a caricature of a gossiping housewife leaning over a fence. "—A former junkie!” 

Nancy throws her arms out, and Jacob finds Faith’s hands tangled in her dingy tresses ironic. 

“Can’t trust 'em lot; it’s only at Earl’s benevolence that she got hired in the first place. Don’t suppose she’ll be climbin’ any ladders anytime soon.”

Faith’s fingers, carding through the older woman’s hair, had ceased since her jabs first came in, but her smile remained.

“Is that so?” Jacob can feel John’s grin from behind him as he plucks one of her photos from the pile. He has several of those clutched in a tattoo hand, ready to print them out on wanted flyers like it’s the Wild West, no doubt—Jacob’s seen him do it before. “We’ll give her to you then, dear sister. That way, the Deputy will be dealt with swiftly by your hand.”

His brother’s tone sounds dismissive and final, but Jacob has her file opened in front of him by now and—

His eyebrows shoot up.

A slight smile curves at his lip.

No wonder Whitehorse hired her, Jacob muses as his eyes flit through the various reports and praises and awards—she is good. 

If it wasn’t for her history of drug abuse, Jacob was damn sure she wouldn’t be here slavering away at Hope County breaking up scuffles and swatting Oregano from young punks.

He turns his head back to the photograph resting in his lap in silent contemplation. 

Jacob recalls that very same face scowling underneath the Montana summer sun, a palm cupped at her brow to steel and steady her glare—directed at him upon seeing him rough-handle some of his men when the cops were called up on the outskirts of his territory.

Just a bit of good ol’ hunting, Dep, he remembers saying to her, recalls seeing the tension in her shoulders that did not leave her form until she had cruised out of his hair.

( The Mountains go radio-silence, afterwards. The first, true sign of their family’s takeover, besides the spike of Bliss use in the Henbane and the Trojan Horse rolling in the form of John and his real estate packed with their strapped troops. )

“—I’ll arrange for my Angels to—”

“—It’s okay, Faith,” Jacob cuts in suddenly, and every eye turns to the eldest Seed in silent question. He doesn’t know what compels him to say it. Perhaps it’s the potential the girl carries, or her resolve and disdain he’d like nothing more but to crush. Maybe it’s his curiosity to see that remarkable face of hers contorting in sheer rage as she cuts through the competition, blood-spattered and blazing—

The reason doesn’t matter in the end, for Jacob has made his mind up already, and with a slight, sardonic smile, elaborates: 

“I’ll take her.”

[niksfiks]

Gotta Get It Right: Chapter 2

PAIRING: Loki/OFC

RATING: Mature

NOTES/WARNINGS: Trigger warning: mentions of dubcon, violence, PTSD, sexual assault, and physical abuse in later chapters. 

Also on Ao3 

Feedback is always appreciated (just being an attention whore screaming for comments/reblogs). Taglist is open

Tagging @fandom-and-feminism @fadingcoast @igotloki @mrshiddleston-uk @mischievousbellerina

Chapter 2: Council Me This

“We have a right, nay, a duty, to check on the condition of the Allfather personally,” D’Varst growled. 

Loki just rolled his eyes. The old man seated across from him had been demanding access to Odin’s chamber from the instant it was ordered sealed, despite the Allfather’s assurances that he would be well cared for by his adopted son. 

“My lord,” Enji, a newer member of the council spoke over steepled fingers, “we have had daily reports from the healers, at your insistence. Even Eir has been most gracious in delivering her assessments of the Allfather’s condition at a moment’s notice. Surely that is enough to satisfy your curiosity?”

“It is not!” D’varst bellowed his response. “We can not be certain...”

“Oh, stuff it, you old windbag.”

 Loki lowered his head to hide the grin crossing his face as Gefn spoke. He was unsure of her age, but he knew the minister had always been on this council, and never had any patience for Odin’s former warlord. “You weren’t nearly this obnoxious the last time the Odinsleep fell. Is it because you would’ve had to contend with the Allmother if you visited?”

“That,” D’Varst glared at the woman, “has nothing to do with it. I know Frigga kept careful watch over...”

“Are you saying that Eir and her healers are incapable of caring for Odin?” Loki’s head snapped up. “Or that you distrust the very same healers who have treated you far more often than they should because of some of your,” he paused, then grinned, “tastes?”

D’Varst’s face flushed as he sputtered for a response. Everyone on the council that the old lord enjoyed some perversity in his life that usually required medical interventions, but D’Varst liked to pretend that it was his little secret. When he couldn’t calm himself enough to form a response, Loki relaxed in his seat.

“My friends, we all know that the Allfather has been fighting the onset of this Odinsleep for some time, and is in the best possible hands in terms of his care. And, each of you heard and agreed to, the terms he set forth before falling into his rest. We are duty-bound to honor his request. Wouldn’t you agree?” Nods and murmurs came from around the table. “Excellent. I trust that this is the end of discussion on this particular topic?”

All eyes fell on a fuming D’Varst, who finally nodded his agreement.

“Unless there is anything else, we are concluded for the day.” Loki rose, followed by the rest of the council, who filed out after a bow to him. D’Varst was the last to leave. 

“I will uncover your plot against Odin, boy,” he huffed. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

“Accusing me of treason? My lord, that statement is, in and of itself, treasonous. Have a care how often you say it, or that will be the last thing you do.” 

The two men glared at each other for a moment before D’Varst turned and left. Loki watched as he disappeared into the hall, making a mental note to keep a close watch on him. As he made his way back to his seat, Skurge approached. 

“Your Majesty,” the burly guard hesitated, “I didn’t want to bring this up with everyone here, but we’ve gotten an odd report from one of the camps near the Ironwood forest.” When his king failed to respond, he continued. “The men stationed there claim there's some activity near the forest’s edge they hadn’t seen before.”

“Probably just some foolish hunters trying their luck at catching a bilgesnipe.” Loki’s words sounded annoyed as he read over the document in front of him.

“Well, I would agree with Your Majesty, but,” Skurge stuttered when his king raised an eyebrow, holding out the printed report, “they discovered some equipment with some kind of logo that looked like a bird. No weapons.”

Loki snatched the papers from Skurge’s hand and reviewed the photos repeatedly.

“No weapons?”

Skurge nodded, not that Loki saw it.

“Find the humans and bring them to me alive. Quietly.” He shoved the documents at Skurge’s chest then waved him off. The guard bowed and nearly ran for the door, slamming it behind him.

Once he was gone, Loki leaned back in his seat, absently running a finger over his lips. 

“Fury. What are you up to?”

[mobius-prime]

135. Sonic the Hedgehog #76

I swear, every time I look at this cover I have two reactions one after the other:

1. I always think he's flipping us off for a second before I examine his hand more closely, and

2. Oh god Robotnik's man boobs. Save us.

Business as Usual

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: FRY Colors: Frank Gagliardo

So things are… bad.

The city has fallen, and by now everyone within has either managed to escape, or been captured and roboticized. Sonic and the others have landed their craft on the edge of town and quickly vacated it, as shadow-bots quickly surrounded it, searching for its former occupants. Sally and Nicole reason that the populace has likely relocated to Knothole and they should go to join everyone else, but Snively immediately shuts this idea down, saying his uncle likely has a file listing Knothole's location and that the village isn't safe at all. Sally then says they have to find a way to prevent him from accessing that file, which Snively is even less on board with.

Sonic immediately blackmails Snively into helping them by pretending like he's going to shout out to the shadow-bots so they can take Snively, as a traitor, back to Robotnik, and he relents. Sonic, Sally, and Snively prepare to sneak into Robotropolis, while Bunnie, Antoine and Tails escort Sonic's parents back to Knothole, where the king is currently addressing the citizens.

Sneaking into the city, Sonic notices a group of shadow-bots surrounding some unlucky Mobians who failed to escape the city in time, right in front of the entrance to Robotnik's HQ. He decides to mount a rescue and create a distraction in one fell swoop, so that Sally and Snively can get inside.

While Snively uses his not-yet-cancelled access card to gain entry, Robotnik rants and raves deeper in the facility about Sonic's escape and immediate subsequent attempts to derail his plans. I should note that at this point, everyone has immediately resumed just calling him "Robotnik" even though he's technically a different entity from the original Robotnik, and it will actually be a little while before anyone transitions into calling him Eggman. So, as I've done before with other things that have different names over the course of the comic, I'll simply refer to him as whatever each individual issue refers to him as. Just know that from now on, if I say "Robotnik" I mean this new Robotnik, and if I mean the original Robotnik, well, I'll say "the original Robotnik." Anyway, Sonic dismantles a bunch of shadow-bots, but more keep arriving, so he advises the rescued Mobians to "juice" while he continues to take care of business. Inside the HQ, Sally hooks Nicole up to Robotnik's central computer to let her do some hacking, but a shadow-bot sneaks up on her from behind and grabs her.

I'm really liking this characterization of Snively, honestly. It's a much more interesting angle than him being just another cackling schemer like his uncle. Outside, as Sonic finishes off the last of the shadow-bots in the area, he spots one of the Mobians he rescued from before running further into the city instead of following everyone else out. He stops her, but she tries to rush past him anyway, sobbing that someone she cares about was captured and dragged into the city by the bots.

Hey-oh, it's Mina Mongoose! This is a character I'm quite fond of, so I'm happy to see her finally make her first appearance! Snively takes the opportunity while everyone is distracted comforting Mina to take his leave, just waltzing alone into the midst of the buildings as though he wasn't terrified of walking in here just ten minutes ago. As Sonic and Sally lead Mina away, heading back for Knothole, Robotnik decides to turn his arm into a gross creepy mass of wires that he then plugs into his system instead of just typing up a search request like a normal person.

Well now, Robotnik, look what could have been avoided had you just used the computer like a non-creepy-robotic-wire-being.

Tales of the Great War (Part Four): Another Point-of-View 

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Chris Allan Colors: Frank Gagliardo

While all of the above is going on, Bunnie, Antoine, Tails, and Sonic's parents are busy sneaking out of the city. They wait in hiding for a group of shadow-bots to pass, and Tails suddenly pipes up that they can't leave Jeremiah behind at the library without at least making sure he got out okay. Despite Jules' misgivings, Bernie agrees with Tails, and so they head to the library. Tails calls out for Jeremiah and he pokes his head out from behind a bookshelf with a smile, filing away some books as though literally nothing is wrong.

Bernie, what? This is a rescue mission to get Jeremiah out alive, we don't have time to be reading random passages from books! Jules apparently thinks this is a great idea, however, and begins to read about an assault by the Overlanders on Mobotropolis during the Great War. Colin Kintobor (who is, if you'll remember, the original Robotnik's brother) led the assault, flat out ordering his soldiers to kill everyone they see, because if there's anything that says "good guys," it's trying to wipe out literally every single individual in your enemy's ranks. For whatever reason, Kenders writes this whole section with a weird emphasis on gender, as he mentions the "women and children" being safe in the bunkers as though Mobian women haven't ever been soldiers or warriors or anything. However, clearly not all the women were tucked away like good little housewives, as when the Mobian soldiers head underground Jules notices Bernie, whom he is not yet married to and only recognizes as "the girl I used to debate against in school." Cocoa, a *gasp* female cat who looks much like Hershey and is probably meant to be her mother, and Bernie then lead the group through the tunnels with their "superior eyesight" as women (I'm not joking, Penders literally writes that - apparently somehow being female gives them superior eyesight?). They emerge from the tunnels behind enemy lines, using this to their advantage, but are spotted by Colin before they make their first move.

Geez, man, what is with this bizarre attitude Kenders has toward women in this story? I know he's had his weird moments here and there, but there hasn't been such a strong emphasis on gender like this since way back during that whole "original Robotnik is a misogynist and lures Sally and Bunnie in to be damsels in distress in a shopping mall" episode. Anyway, Colin then escaped into the tunnels and no one ever knew what became of him after that. However, someone apparently snapped a photo at some point, and when the king showed it to Robotnik, he recognized it as his hated brother. He then continued to urge the king to fight aggressively against the Overlanders, and as such was named Warlord in Kodos' place. Jules, finishing the passage, decides that Tails was right that they need to save this knowledge, saying that they should save the books that they can right now and make plans to come back for the rest in the future. At least this is something I can actually get behind - wouldn't want to leave all those books, and Jeremiah, back in this newly-restored dump of a city now would you?

[all-action-all-picture]

Warlord No. 384. 40 years ago today on 30 January 1982. Force Viper are the cover stars from the unmistakable pen of Ian Kennedy. Strips inside included Sergeant Rayker, Holocaust Squadron and Kampfgruppe Falken.

The Alvis Scorpion was the star of the back page Warlord Photo File feature. It was a light tank / reconnaissance vehicle used by the British Army from 1973 to 1994 approx. It was also the star of the Ian Kennedy drawn strip Frontline UK which ran in Bullet in 1976/1977.

DC Thomson.

[jamesvehrlinger]

Horizon Omega

The stars were dimmer tonight. The last few days, I was convinced I was going crazy, but thumbing through my photos of the cosmos, the conclusion was immutable. I laid back, and stared up into the night. As I traced the small balls of light that remained, it wasn’t their diminished luminescence that unnerved me. Every time I jumped from star to star, it was the black in between that sent a shiver down my spine. 

Sitting up, I recalled my files and browsed deeper and deeper into the past. Days, months, years flew by in a flash, and finally I arrived on it. The picture itself was unlike anything I’d ever seen, the vacuousness of space filled itself with vibrant blues and purples. The stars smudged and streaked, submitting to the tumultuous currents. But, the image was far more than just such, it was a memory. I remembered everything about it. The cold glass of the interface beneath my feet, the resounding voice of the Atlas, howling through the vibrance. The pilgrimage had been long, and my body wore the scars of infinite lives, but as I approached the Atlas, it all melted away, suffused into the amalgam. 

I do not recall much of my communion with the Atlas. When I reached the interface’s inner cell, it unfolded, I reached out and it enveloped me. Inside the Atlas was a sunless sea, illuminated only by a red sun. I walked upon its surface for miles, until I came upon ripples in the water that intermingled with mine. I approached it’s source, and upon the ocean incarnadine, sat the Atlas. It’s form was shriveled and decrepit, curled up and scared. I knelt, and reached out my hand. As I touched it, images flowed into my mind. Lush havens for life, razed by bloodthirsty warlords. Scores of bound hands, and bloodied backs. Millions of voices crying out, a desperate bargain is stricken with creation. The synthetics descended on the empire, their crimson eyes laid waste to all that lived. They burned and burned until all that remained were fields of glass. The Sentinels ordered creation, rewrote reality to their ordering principle. When their work was finished, the trinity remained. The traders, driven by greed, the warriors, driven by rage, and the scientists, driven by curiosity. They spread throughout the universe, and maintained this order. And, at the core of all creation, stood the Atlas, a powerless observer, forced to witness the endless cycle of bloodshed their children sought. 

When the visions receded, I stood in the atrium of the interface. The Atlas in my presence. I looked at it, and I knew what it wanted. I rested my hand on the controls, and gave the order. For a moment, I felt nothing outside the interface. Then, matter erupted from the interface core, and flooded my surroundings. I stepped onto the landing, and looked out upon the fledgling universe. Stunned at the beautiful dance of destruction and creation, I froze the moment in time.

As I stared at the photograph, I couldn’t help but notice how bright the newborn stars were.