#we will arm the oppressed (cult members)

[infernal-lamb]

I’m sorry giving the Lamb a gun is so obscenely nonsensical but like. I can’t help but laugh now you mean to tell me not only do we have eldritch gods and a brutal cult-based society but now we have GUN VIOLENCE in the lands of the Old Faith too?

[eretzyisrael]

by Lionel Shriver

Another day, another opportunity for huffy, hypocritical “progressive” posturing. PEN America has now been forced to cancel its World Voices literary festival in New York and L.A., on the heels of also canceling its 2024 awards ceremony. Too many authors had withdrawn from both events to make going ahead with staging either practicable. The reason for so many writers flouncing from these programs? PEN’s failure to publicly denounce Israel’s “genocide” in Gaza. But you had probably guessed the point of indignation already, because as of October 2023, the Anglosphere’s far left has neatly pivoted from the infantilization of black people to the Palestinian cause with the coordinated grace of a synchronized swimmer.

To clarify: the purpose of PEN is to defend freedom of speech and to protect writers from political oppression and persecution. It makes perfect sense, therefore, that a significant cadre of its membership would seek to stifle freedom of speech and engage in political oppression and persecution. Or: we’re all for free speech so long as you say what we tell you. These folks are athletes. It requires considerable intellectual acrobatics for Writers Against the War on Gaza to regard the shutting down of events to advance free expression as “a win for free expression.” Presumably, the fact that a number of withdrawals from both occasions were motivated by fear of being attacked by a mob of pro-Palestinian zealots is also “a win for free expression.” PEN itself stated its concern “about any circumstance in which writers tell us they feel shut down, or that speaking their minds bears too much risk.”

PEN is, by its nature, a big tent. It represents not only Muslim writers but Jewish ones too, some of whom might just support the existence of Israel, might just regard Israel’s war against Hamas in Gaza as justified, and might just find alliance with genuinely genocidal terrorists whose unembarrassed aim is to wipe Israel and the Jewish people off the map as a teeny tiny bit obnoxious. While one PEN member decries the nonprofit’s “both-sidesing,” the truth is that PEN has no business taking a position on this issue whatsoever.

Unfortunately, the left has successfully installed the expectation that, regardless of their established purpose, all institutions—companies, museums, theaters, universities, charities, you name it��must proclaim their fealty to the “right” (which is to say left) position on a host of inflammatory issues of the day. This hyper-politicization of entities that ought sensibly to remain politically neutral has been systematically debauching everything from the UK’s National Trust to its NHS, from Anheuser-Busch to the Chicago Art Museum. First, all such outfits were required to fly Black Lives Matter flags, then garishly incoherent Pride flags, and now these banners have all to be swapped out for Palestinian flags, never mind what constituency or customer base might be alienated by this gratuitously partisan branding. Thus, an organization established for the defense of free speech of every sort—including the overtly Zionist kind—is necessarily obliged to openly advocate for Hamas, a murderous, cheerfully antisemitic cult whose interest in free speech on its home turf would fit in a thimble.

Of course, PEN’s membership has form when it comes to hypocrisy. In 2015, under armed security, PEN awarded its Freedom of Expression Courage Award to the satirical French magazine Charlie Hebdo. Six writers withdrew from participating in the proceedings to protest the magazine’s ostensibly offensive printing of cartoons that depicted Muhammad. Yet funnily enough, what your average normal person found offensive was the vicious massacre of 12 of the publication’s employees, most of them journalists, for neglecting to adhere to one religion’s hysterical blasphemy laws in a secular country that famously celebrates liberté. Yet over 200 writers—including, to my astonishment, the likes of Joyce Carol Oates—signed an open letter to PEN criticizing the Charlie Hebdo award. For these authors, defense of free speech, promotion of tolerance, and opposition to violent political oppression—the very purpose of PEN—counted for nothing when weighed against any injury to the delicate feelings of fundamentalist Muslims.

Much has been written about the unholy, and in some ways, hilarious alliance developing between the progressive left and Islam (Lesbians for Palestine, etc.). But for Western writers to embrace a restrictive, prescriptive, and stifling culture isn’t merely ironic or comical; it’s self-defeating. One needn’t consult a professor of Middle Eastern studies to conclude that these fair-weather friends in Gaza may welcome useful idiocy, but the permissive ethos of the Anglo left is diametrically at odds with despotic Islamic theology. Moreover, for American writers to express increasingly shrill and little-disguised hostility to Jews is to disavow a substantial chunk of the country’s distinguished literary canon: Philip Roth, Saul Bellow, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Bernard Malamud, and Elie Wiesel just for starters.

But then, the past 15 years have demonstrated with depressing clarity that writers, along with artists of every stripe, aren’t special. Although our occupation is more at risk from censorship than most, we’re all too capable of perversely embracing suppressive viewpoints that violate our own interest. We’re paid not only to write but to think, yet we don’t think; we listen keenly for whatever tune is playing in our fellow travelers’ AirPods and whistle along. Apparently, we’re no more creative than the average bear, and as soon as the memo goes out, we’ll chant along with the kiddies camped at Columbia University, “from the river to the sea!” whatever that means. We’ll obediently switch out one cause for another whenever we’re told, as nimbly as using “find and replace” in Microsoft Word.

We’re cowards, conformists, and copycats. Real freedom of expression is too scary; we’d rather hide in a crowd whose keffiyeh-masked members all shout the same thing. PEN has a laudable history of advocating for writers who’ve been persecuted for their opinions in repressive polities—polities much like the contemporary United States. But too many of its members would have the nonprofit corrupt its global mission to protect free speech across the board so long as they can bully its leadership into pointless partisan posturing for progressives’ acrid flavor of the month.

[ohfugecannada]

Oddworld: Role Switch au

So a couple of weeks(?) ago, @oddest-worlds posted an idea for an au where mudokons were an evil cultist species-supremacist power because of the mudokon moon incident and the glukkons were the enslaved natives. I really wanted to pitch in ideas/headcanons, but was busy with coursework at the time.

Fortunately, I just finished my project and now have more free time so I got to writing some stuff.... a lot of stuff... mainly just some points on the main trio of eusocial races (Mudokons, Glukkons and Sligs) and their role in the AU. So strap in!

(Fyi if you have/had other ideas that contradict the headcanons bellow, feel free to ignore those. Or pitch in some of your own ideas, I’d love to hear them!)

Glukkons

Were once a spiritually oriented race who practiced black magic, occultism and alchemy and were allies of the Mudokons thousands of years ago

When the mudokons declared themselves as the supreme race because of the mudokon moon, they were, understandably, upset and concerned

Fearing their once allies were drifting further away into cultist, species-supremacist behaviour, the glukkons set out to disprove the mudokons declaration of supremacy though their alchemical arts and unify their species once more

It’s said that some glukkon alchemists were successful in finding the answers they seeked out, but what those answers were have long since been lost to time

Now becoming more industrialised and realising the glukkons were a possible threat due to their alchemical powers, the mudokons orchestrated a war against them, nearly wiping the glukkons out in the process before thier surrender

After the war, disillusioned, outnumbered and on the brink of extinction, the glukkons began working for the mudokons, who belittled, oppressed and eventually enslaved them

Now most glukkons are born into subservience to the Mudokons, oblivious to their spiritual past, true history and culture

Still native glukkon tribes out in the wild in hiding from the mudokon empire

I mentioned this before, but I personally imagined the glukkons of this timeline walking on thier legs, which are still somewhat short, and retained thier long arms. Basically, they have the same body type to gibbons and similar long armed apes

Because they walk with their legs and not on their arms, most glukkons stand at almost half their canon height, roughly around 4 or 5 feet tall or so

In industrial captivity, most glukkons tend to have a grey or pale skintone like the glukkons we see in soulstorm

Native Glukkons born outside of captivity are much more diverse in skin colour, with their base colours ranging from brown to purple, red, pink or green etc

Along with This, they have the ability to change their skin colour like octopuses (which makes sense given their closest relatives evolutionarily are the oktigi and other octopus/cephalopod-like creatures)

Notably, they flash different colours across their face and skin when feeling strong emotions like sadness, anger, excitement etc. Similar to the mudokons in Abe’s Exoddus

Glukkons from certain tribes also have bioluminescent markings and patterns on their skin that are visible in the dark. Though, this trait is not as common

Using this colour changing ability, some glukkons are able to copy the colours and even textures of their environment and become one with the scenery. Essentially making themselves invisible. Of corse, this particular aspect of colour changing usually doesn’t come as naturally or involuntary to glukkons as the emotional-based changes. In most cases it takes years of training to master the art of invisibility

Much like the Mudokons in canon, industrial-born Glukks are born into captivity from a mother queen and their eggs are shipped off to be sold into slavery

Baby or young slave glukkons are raised alongside their siblings and cousins over a mudokon master and are usually kept together as something akin to a demented orphanage where youngling glukks are sent to work as soon as they can pick up a rag and bucket

@oddest-worlds, You described the mudokons as being cult like. I personally imagined this would ya know aside from the moon worshiping mudokon supremacy stuff manifest itself most in the way they control thier glukkon slaves

Glukkons in slavery, much like people born into cults, are indoctrinated at a young age to believe their mudokon masters are perfect, all knowing and benevolent beings, that the outside world beyond the factories is a savage, unforgiving wasteland where outsiders will try to lead them astray, and that they are better off and safer dedicating their lives to loyaly serving the mudokons

Glukks who challenge these beliefs, defy their mudokon masters or try and escape to the outside are often severely punished. Either from being removed from their glukkon group, being held in a cell for hours or days where they are interrogated and for their “crimes” or getting severe beatings.

Native free glukkons have a similar tribal society structure as the native mudokons in canon, with each tribe having their own distinctive culture

As said before, they practice the occult, black magic and, most prominently among different glukkon tribes, alchemy

As well as living in tune with nature, Glukkon alchemists often practice the art of transmutation, turning one type material or substance into another, and joining certain substances and/or materials together. Which they do in order to better understand the natural world around them

Nowadays, though, native glukkon civilisation is far from what it once was millennia ago

Thanks to the mudokons and other industrial societies either enslaving or killing off their numbers as well as building over their sacred lands, most native glukkon’s main priority is to hide away from the rest of society and to protect what little of their culture and traditions still remain

From my research I learned the practice of alchemy (or at least the traditional western version of it) could be traced back to Egypt and Thoth, the god of arts and sciences, so I thought it would make sense if at least some individual native glukkon tribes culture and overall aesthetic would be loosely based on the ancient Egyptians as a callback to this, with some small echos of the architecture we see with the glukkon aesthetics of the canon timeline plus the more native looking early concept art of glukkons

Also while researching alchemy I noticed one key aspect of it involved change and transmutation, I.e. turning base metals like lead into noble metals like gold. I thought about how this could also connect to their colour changing. Maybe some native glukkons believe the colour changing to be a glukkons most primal form of transmutation. And view the ability to blend in with the environment as a way of being one with nature, both in the figurative and literal sense. Or something else along those lines

In industrial propaganda, native glukkons are painted as savage barbarians and alchemists as swindlers and charlatans that lead gullable slave glukkons astray, filling their heads with doubt, or with the promise of bestowing riches and immortality for a price

Enslaved glukkon’s clothes tend to consist of whatever textiles they can get their hands on in the factories and what little the strict dress code implemented by their mudokon masters will allow

The main item of clothing worn by most glukk scrubs is a shoddily cobbled together shirt and overalls. Sorta like an even shabbier version of the basic glukkon pud uniform in munchs oddysee

Like many things, native or liberated glukkons tend to have a lot more freedom when it comes to what they wear

The more traditional fashions often worn by glukkon alchemists include long, loose fitting robes, sometimes with these thick ribbed shoulder pads. Pretty much the same as outfit worn by glukkons in the very early concept art back when they were still called “Oldger” or “Ociti”

Mudokons

A once spiritual race that possessed psychic powers and were allies to the Glukkons thousands of years ago

When the shape of a Mudokon pawprint appeared on one of Oddworld’s moons, some mudokons took this as a sign from the gods that they were the chosen race

Blinded by their self imposed delusions of grandeur, the first believers of the mudokon moon sign set out to prove the mudokon race’s superiority over all other races of Oddworld

The moon believers did this by recruiting more mudokon members into their tribe, slowly converting the many tribes into one unified empire, increased consumption of the planets resources and began to isolate themselves from the rest of Oddworld

Building massive towers that reached the skies, they began to spend most of thier time indoors, only looking up at the night sky to see thier sacred moon, the symbolic reminder of thier divinity over Oddworld

Gradually abandoned thier spiritual ways in favour of a more industrialised way of life. Only a few powerful figures within the Mudokon empire still use their psychic abilities such as possession

Growing more paranoid that their Glukkon allies and thier powers of alchemy would prove to be a threat to their rising power, the mudokons orchestrated a war against the glukkon tribes, nearly wiping them out in the process

After the war, the mudokon empire gave the queens of the last remaining glukkon tribes an ultimatum: give away thier children to the empire where they would be “employed”, “sheltered” and “safe”, or let them be born into a “primitive” tribal wasteland at the brink of extinction

The mudokons were able to enslave their once Glukkon allies and quickly rose to become the most powerful, and power hungry, civilisation in all of Oddworld

In terms of architecture and aesthetic, I figured many of those motifs from their spiritual/tribal past would subtly carry over to their current society, I’ll be it more metallic and industrialised. Like larger, dystopian dieselpunk versions of the huts, buildings and structures we see in Monsaic Lines and other native mudokon locations

The buildings they live and work in are also incredibly tall, with some structures in their urban cities reaching above the clouds (basically the opposite of the canon glukkons subterranean cities)

The Mudokons are the main industrial society with a stronghold over the planet

Having essentially brainwashed both thier mudokon citizens and glukkon slaves, the mudokon empire is singularly concerned with proving their dominion over the planet oddworld. with no reguard for the native creatures and cultures that inhabit it

Mudokon society is extremely dedicated to the idea they are the best civilisation in all of Oddworld

As far as they’re concerned, their empire is the supreme civilisation, unparalleled in architecture, politics, philosophy, military and art

And they are dead set on proving thier superiority to the other races of Oddworld, no matter the cost

Any historical records that makes mudokons civilisation and society look bad or less then perfect are either deeply hidden away or destroyed. Through this constant revisionism as erasure, their true history has been long forgotten

Only consistent part of their history is the mudokon moon, which they hold as a sacred symbol and a reminder of their power as the “chosen race”

Now, the sight of the mudokon moon is rare for any industrial borns due to the sky being covered by air pollution from the mudokons buildings and factories

Young mudokons are born as eggs by their respective queen and sent to be raised by a foster mudokon worker and, if they’re rich or well off, their many glukkon slaves

As I said before in the glukkon bit, the way glukkons are taught how to view the world is very similar to real life cult indoctrination and brainwashing. Young mudokons get a similar treatment in terms of their education

At an early age, mudokons are taught by their elders that oddworld belongs to the strong such as them, that the other races that cannot compare to the mudokons, And that all mudokons which as them are perfect and destined for greatness. (Provided they work hard and follow the rules of the empire...)

For a mudokon, lacking this sense of superiority over other races and drive to prove themselves as exceptional is frowned upon in thier society, and such mudokons are often either outcasted or placed in the lower ranking job roles

Like the glukkon workers in canon, adult mudokon workers are often employed as powerful bosses and rulers in the mudokon industries of food production, science, politics and/or religion to name a few

While some individual mudokon masters value mollah and material gain over other things, mudokon society as a whole isn’t quite as obsessed with mollah the same way glukkon society in canon is. They do hold monetary wealth and riches in high regard, of corse, but mostly as one of many status symbols to prove their superiority over others

Due to their belief of being the superior race, some mudokons are known to be extremely arrogant and self centred, to the point they’re often compeating with one another over who is the better mud

In terms of physical appearance, I imagine mudokons having a lot more angular features, like more talon like claws on their hands/feet to evoke a bird of prey

While mudokons are still omnivores, teeth such as their canids are more pronounced due to consuming more meat products such as scrab, Meech, slig and elum meats

I also feel like the slight uncanny-valley elements the mudokons already have should be subtly accentuated in the switch designs for creep factor and everything

unlike muds of canon, muds of the switch au tend to be on the lean, average and/or slightly cubby side rather then underweight and slightly bony in terms of their weight. Mostly down to having relatively better diet and quality of life, at least compared to their canon counterparts.

Mudokons also have way more feathers on their heads! Though, due to the airborne pollution of their industrial lifestyle, feather growth is mainly restricted to their head and face

don’t tend to grow as many feathers on other parts of their bodies like arms, legs etc

On top of this, as mudokons tend to live in colossal tower-like structures, they’ve evolved adaptations to life in higher attitudes such as naturally taking shorter breaths.

One popular form of dress for most moderate or high ranking mudokons consists of a shirt garment with a v-shaped neck (kinda like a Dashiki) a medium length skirt and long ornate robes or feathered cloak. Think more fancy versions of the native clothes worn by the mud shamins in canon.

How intricate, layered, extravagant and/or customised etc these clothes are depends on how high the individual mud wearing them is on the power/wealth hierarchy. Kinda like the wealth hierarchy with canon glukkons. Most lower class muds tend to look closer to the muds we see in canon with a short loincloth-like skirt and simple vest.

While the majority of mudokon society tends to be more industrialised, there are certain elite and powerful groups within the mudokon empire that still practice their spiritual psychic powers

One example of such a group is an elite task force of mudokon agents specifically trained to hone their psychokinetic abilities.

Fed on an exclusive diet of mind altering spooce shrubs, they are granted powerful and dangerous abilities (provided they don’t die from spooce overdose first). Such as the power to possess the minds and bodies of other beings

They are employed as black ops-like operatives by the mudokon empire to manipulate the affairs of other Oddworld nations and races behind the scenes with their powers of possession, as assassins to take out highly dangerous targets from afar with death via red ring explosion or possession induced head explosion, or as bodyguards to protect highly powerful and elite clients, usually mudokon queens. Essentially taking on a similar role to the Glocktigi in canon

Sligs

Race of amphibious/semi-aquatic swamp dwellers

Society not as complex or “advanced” as others like the glukkons or mudokons, technology wise

Somewhat nomadic as they tend to move around from place to place in colonies, though their preferd environments are wetlands, marshes, swamps, lakes and bogs

Were never enslaved by Glukkons, Mudokons or any other societies of mudos for that matter. probably since Sligs are seen as useless and impractical for such tasks anyway. I mean, what kind of peanut-headed chumps would have a legless species who can’t use their hands do their dirty work for them?! lol!

While functional on land, they’re a bit more adapted for life in water, with webbed hands and seal-like tails for swimming as well as gills in their mouths for breathing underwater

Walk with their hands when on land (similar to pantsless sligs in canon but slightly less awkward)

Use the highly dexterous tentacles on their faces to pick up objects and use tools while they walk or swim

Covering themselves up with dirt, moss, mud etc is a big part of their culture. Not because they think they’re ugly like the Sligs in canon, but because it provides good camouflage from larger creatures and predators wanting to eat them

If a Slig is spotted or about to be caught by anything that would want them as food, they can use their arms to leap away from their attacker

In terms of actual clothing, they don’t wear much aside from a covering that wraps around the middle section between their abdomen and their tail mostly so their butts don’t get cold when they go up on land. These coverings are usually either made of soft reeds weaved together, a leaf held together by a stick going through both ends or whatever they can get their tentacles on in thier surrounding environment

Even without fancy covering or camo, Sligs are pretty diverse when it comes to their appearance

Depending on the environment, their skin tone can range from light green to yellow, dark green, blueish-green, teal, brown or black to name a few

Some Sligs also have tiger like stripes similar to the ones on big bro Sligs in canon

And, of corse, there’s albino Sligs. How they’re treated tends to vary form colony to colony

Some outcast or even kill albinos, fearing their bright colour could attract predators

Other colonies are a lot more accepting of albinos, though they tend to be more protective of them due to, again, being more easy targets for predators

Most albino Sligs either take extra care to cover themselves with as camouflage as possible to hide their bright skin, or stay under the water for most of their lives, rarely ever venturing up to the surface world

Queens are also never seen on dry land, as their birthing process is significantly less painful underwater

While none of the queens in this timeline are as cripplingly obese as queens like Skillya in the canon timeline, most healthy queens are still rather large. Sorta like the size/weight of an average male elephant seal, or a salt water crocodile

Also, while some queens can still be jerkasses, they don’t usually eat their own young, as they don’t hold as much resentment towards them due to the less painful birthing process. Plus, their many drones usually bring them smaller fish and swamp dwelling creatures to keep them well fed

Baby sligs (or sliglets, as I like to call them) are born underwater and later take their first peek up to the surface after a couple of weeks

Raised by either one of their drone fathers or their many older siblings

baby Sligs are also born able to swim and walk on instinct, sort of like lizards. They only need to stick with their guardians for protection and to learn valuable life lessons from them like camouflage, avoiding predators, looking both ways before they cross the rivers etc

According to ex-Just Add Water employee Will on the Oddworld forums, Lorne Lanning originally envisioned Sligs having pig like fur, but this was cut from Oddysee due to technical limitations at the time. I headcanon that native Sligs had fur in the canon timeline but lost this trait due to their industrial lifestyle, similar to mudokon’s feathers. Hence in this timeline, some native Slig colonies do have fur.

usually more common, much thicker and more prominent on Sligs from colder climates as it helps them stay warm

The fur is also good for collecting dirt and growing moss and algae on, adding to the Sligs camouflage

I also have this headcanon that the noises sligs make for the BS and S’Mo BS commands in Oddysee and Exoddus gamespeak are remnants of their old language before they were enslaved by glukkons in canon. This is how Sligs communicate to each-other in this timeline: through a series of frog-like ribbit and croak vocalisations.

They do have the ability to speak language in the same way Mudokons and Glukkons do, I’ll be it in a limited capacity since they’re somewhat cut off from these language speaking societies and not used to talking in words. Think of it how, in canon, Gabbits like Munch can speak language with characters like Abe but can also call to other Gabbits through a dolphin-like “song”

Though they were never slaves, that doesn’t mean industrial societies like the Mudokon empire haven’t caused trouble for them

On top of occasionally hunting them to make high protein meat products and for sport, the Mudokon empire has also put their glukkon workers to use digging up Sligs swamplands for iron ore, as water that carried flakes of iron accumulated and settled in those swamps. As well as gathering peat from mires for fuel

These practices have been encroaching on the Sligs natural habitats. driving them out and disrupting their usual migration patterns

In a lot of cases, Mudokons purposefully try to drive off or exterminate Slig colonies. Viewing them as useless, dirty pests getting in the way of the precious resources that, much like everything else on Oddworld, the mudokons feel a sense of entitlement to

Alright, that all the points I got down for the big three. I do have some ideas for the other races like vykkers, steef, oktigi, meeches etc but for now, I’ll just leave it here. Again, please let me know what you think of all this and feel free to make contributions.

@southern-forests

[thechembow]

To the woman who assaulted me at Ace Hardware today,

Jan. 15, 2021

I am your neighbor in Frazier Park. I love this mountain and feel so blessed to live here. You must enjoy its beauty as much as I do, because it is unsurpassed. The woods and wildlife give me solace. I have also always had good experiences among the humans of the mountain, shopping locally, where we all know each other and everyone is friendly. I like supporting our community and keeping everyone working and happy. I’ve never had a bad time shopping in Frazier Park, so it was somewhat of a shock to meet you this way today.

My husband and I were picking up some bird seed at Ace Hardware. If you live in Frazier Park and not in Pine Mountain Club, it’s still legal to feed the birds! We love our feathered friends. They have also been giving me nice brass shavings from their key machine which I use to make orgonite, an energy device which promotes rainfall, clears air pollution, and makes living with EMF safer. My husband, Gabe, and I have been making and gifting orgonite for almost seven years now, and we have covered all of California and much of the US west to end the drought. You might be interested to know that we have put orgonite all over this mountain too. It sure has been snowing more and more every year since we got here and the forests are alive with new baby trees, far outnumbering the trees that die of old age. There were awesome wildflower blooms out in the Antelope Valley and Gorman these past few years. It might also comfort you to know that there are Earth pipes along San Andreas Fault here and at the top of Mt. Pinos, healing the damage that was done here by your ancestors, who stole the land from the Chumash Indians and clear-cut the forests. This will help prevent earthquakes. We have gifted somewhere around 200 orgonite pieces to these mountains, from the Grapevine to the Central Coast. I wrote a book about it too. Our life and most of our resources have gone into planetary healing.

Now that you know a little more about me, I would like to know more about you. I wasn’t covering my face today like you were because I am not a member of your religion. We should be tolerant of other peoples’ beliefs. I am tolerant of your choice to hide your face from your Creator, although I don’t agree with it. I would never hit you and insult you for wearing a mask or for any other reason. What told you that I was to be deplored because of my exposed nose and mouth? When you called me a “f-ing b-tch” and punched me in the ribs, it didn’t hurt physically because you’re old and weak. But I was wondering if it was your mom or dad who taught you to do that? Did you learn it in school or in church? I’ve never been cursed at and hit by an old woman before.

I put on the mask in order not to offend you, although I didn’t have to. You continued to yell, and you were very close to me when you yelled that I would infect you. If I’m so disgusting and disease-ridden, it would be a good idea to stand a few feet away from me when you insult me. I think about 6 feet should do it. It’s also not a good idea to punch a sick person because you could get my germs on your hand. How come you disappeared out the back door when I called out, “She assaulted me!” If you’re right, you should stick around.

Incidentally, soon after we met, I tried to run into the grocery store to grab some garlic. Like at the hardware store, the employees there never get on my case for my need to breathe and show the face God gave me. I got verbally assaulted there by a customer again, which wasn’t as bad as being hit and verbally assaulted at the same time. But the woman there was much younger than you, so you may want to give her some pointers on how to really hurt your neighbor. She said, “You’re killing my family.” She also blamed me for her sick dog. It was more likely a combination of pinworms, Ascaris, a variety of liver and intestinal flukes, some tapeworms, solvents and heavy metals that killed them, along with the ventilators they pop peoples’ lungs with if they come into the hospital with a cold. I’m reading a fascinating book right now called The Cure for All Diseases by Dr. Hulda Clark. It explains all of these diseases you think are infectious and how to cure them. You need to zap your parasites and stop sharing your worms! Stop putting filth in your mouth and reinfecting yourself, says Dr. Clark. Germs are not jumping around in the air. You can learn to heal anything that’s wrong with you with this book.

In your case, you’re definitely watching too much news. I would venture to guess you’re also taking an assortment of pharmaceutical drugs which are masking symptoms of your own worms and the bacteria and viruses they carry. You probably use a smart phone. Lots of old people who don’t even understand the technology do. I wish you would be more like my grandma, who never hit a lady in the store nor uttered an obscenity. She never would have used a smart phone either. She was beautiful, strong, dignified, spoke several languages, loved fine art, cooked great meals and enjoyed life. It’s sad what a shriveled lump of fear you’re become. My grandma survived the very oppression you are doling out today by a miracle of God. Goodness knows, her life was in danger every moment for being Jewish and from Germany at the wrong time. Now I also feel like I’m in danger. If you’ll physically assault a stranger for having a different belief, then what if someone stronger or armed would do it? This is not something I want to find out. Fortunately I have a relationship with God who protects me and am saved by Messiah Yeshua. He reconciled me back to God who forgave my sin of falling into pagan culture like you have. Your world is a fantasy land, but it’s really more like a nightmare, and it is dying like you have died.

There were a few people in the store after you fled the scene who showed me sympathy. But I now know how bad things have gotten. You showed me that today. You made me feel physically sick, not just emotionally distressed, with a little help from your insane ally at the grocery store. Just last week I could go into most places in Frazier Park with my face showing. It seems your time is running out and your world is spiraling out of control. For now, I would rather not argue with you. I will cover my face in your presence and you won’t know I don’t worship your god. It gives me more inspiration to become more self-reliant and less dependent on the businesses of your world. I hate the mask with a passion. I hate what it represents and how you look in it. I think it’s very sad that you love your pathetic false god and believe this absolutely ridiculous narrative to the point that you would assault another woman. C0VID is a mental illness!

Well that’s all for now. I hope to hear from you soon. Maybe you will realize it was wrong to hit me and curse at me and I’ll forgive you. Then we can be friends and have a kosher barbeque when the weather warms up. I’m not holding my breath, no pun intended.

Your neighbor,

Sharon Daphna

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Explanation of Caution

Part II of “Pariah”.  Sorry it took so long for me to get this out, but I had to re-write it four times.  The first was too boring, the second too weird, the third too long and too boring and so on.  On to the story!

Aboard the Omen

The marines looked up with barely concealed hatred at Cain.  The man in question barely noticed it.  He watched, impassively, as the Valhallan Guardsmen tore through the marines’ personal possessions, tipping over containers, opening drawers, and searching every inch of their quarters and person.  Teams of Imperials were searching the entire ship, weapons at the ready, bayonets fixed.  For what exactly, Adam Vir and the crew of the Omen didn’t know.  Only that every member of the crew, alien and human alike, were being held at gunpoint as Imperial Guardsmen walked through the ship’s long halls.  

“Nothing on the Captain’s logs, sir,” said one of the Valhallan officers.  Vir looked at her with a frown on his face, arms crossed.  He had allowed them to do what they wanted to avoid any bloodshed or misunderstanding.  He was getting rather fed up, though.  If this continued for long, or if things got violent… he still had the Iron Eye suit on under his clothing.  Kill Cain and the guards, if necessary, get to the armory, take back the ship.  Chaplain Tope walked into the room.

“Nothing, Commissar.  Not even amongst the xenos,” he reported.  Cain turned to face him, black greatcoat swirling.  

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Tope.  “They can all stand in the presence of Imperial relics and prayers.”  

“Good.”  Cain keyed his comms.  “Colonel?  Major?  Have you found anything?”  

“Nothing.  No signs.  We used their blueprints to search the entire ship.  Everything is clean.”  Vir couldn’t take it anymore.  

“What’s going on, Cain?  What are you looking for?”  Cain turned to him and seemed to be musing things over.  He spun around.

“You.  Marine.  What is the proper procedure if you’re being charged in battle?”  The marine looked at him strangely.  

“Uh… fortify a secure location or take the high ground?  Fight back from defensive positions?”  Cain nodded slowly.  Good.  

No signs of taint.  No mutations.  No psykers except that Emperor-damned xeno.  The marines don’t show any signs of excessive violence or willingness to get into close quarters.  No murders in training.  No odd cliques or groups.  The entire ship is exceptionally sterile and clean.  No strange blights or markings.  No signs of drugs or orgies, thank the Emperor.  No perverse and blasphemous symbols painted in blood or other… fluids.  They can all stand being around Imperial holy relics and Jurgen.  Nothing.  Nothing wrong or out of the ordinary throughout the entire ship.  Trust them or not.  

You are Commissar Ciaphas Cain, noted for his mercy.  Hero to your men for not cleaning house when other Commissars would have.  You have orders to investigate.  You have already trusted xenos.  You have already trusted Vir.  

Innocentia nihil probat.  Innocence proves nothing.  Trust leads to a poor end.  Your life matters the most, above all else.  Hate the xenos.  Cleanse the xenos.  More trust leads to heresy.  That way the path of damnation lays.  

He came to a conclusion.  Compromise.  

“Admiral Vir, I believe this has once again, been another, uh… cultural misunderstanding.  Forgive me for my thoroughness.”  He looked over at the still put-off stare of the Admiral.  “I believe I told you that it’s better to explain too much caution than suffer for not enough.  If you’ll come back to my office, I’ll be happy to explain.”  Nodding slightly, the same expression still on her face, Vir followed him out of the room.  The Imperial Guardsmen stared at the marines for an eternal, awkward moment before their officer snapped at them and they retreated from the room in an orderly fashion.  The officer presented a salute, then turned on her heel and marched after them.  The marines stared at each other.  

“What was that all about?” asked Ramirez to no-one in particular.  The other marines shook their heads with varying degrees of anger and perplexity.  

“I’m not sure.  But I think I know someone who might…” trailed off Maverick pensively.  

In the (Temporary and Borrowed) Office of Commissar Cain 

Vir followed Cain’s billowing greatcoat back into his office, the place where this mess had all started in the first place.  

“Sit down,” offered Cain.  “Want anything to drink?  Tea?  Re- uh, actually… I believe your word for word for it is coffee?”  Vir rubbed his forehead.  

“Yeah, sure.  Coffee is fine.”  Cain nodded.

“Jurgen!  One tanna, one recaf.”  Cain looked back at Vir.  “Tanna leaf tea from Valhalla, recaf is coffee.”

“Recaf, re-caffeinated… makes sense.”

“I suppose,” sighed Cain as the drinks were brought in.  “Now, on to business.”

“Yes.  I would quite like to know what all of that was about.”  It was more of a statement than a question.

“...yes.  Of course.”  Cain rubbed his neck as he tried to find a way to explain.  “Where I come from there exists… a corrupting influence, is probably the best way to put it.  Uh…”  His hand drummed on the side of his mug.  “Now, again, where I come from, there are… some… who have… unnatural abilities.  They can do… strange, strange things, among them telepathy.  However, to access these… abilities puts them into contact with this corrupting influence.  Without the blessings of the Emperor, the havoc these individuals can wreak is enormous.  It is much, much better to be careful in these sort of situations.  I am sorry that this might have been a breach of trust, but if you or anyone else here were actually corrupted and hiding it, the damage to everyone and everything else would have been catastrophic.”  He paused, and offered a sincere smile.  “If there is any way to repair this mistrust, please tell me, and I shall do my utmost.”  Vir waved him off.

“S’alright,” he muttered into his coffee.  Another damn misunderstanding.  He sighed to himself and looked up.  “Now, what about Jurgen?

Maverick entered the Imperial chapel.  The temperature here, in contrast to the rest of the Valhallan quarters, was quite mild.  While she’d known that the Imperials had built a small chapel on board, she’d never been there, instead meeting Chaplain Tope in the sparse grey of one of the Omen’s conference rooms.   She didn't quite know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.  

The lighting in the room had been toned down.  The normally cheerful white of the rest of the Omen was gone, replaced by a faint yellow glow.  Dripping white candles lit an altar, their flames barely flickering in the ship’s recycled air.  Kneeling before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, was Tope.  A gilded statuette of the golden Imperial eagle was placed reverently on top, next to the candles and a heavy leather bound tome.  The entire room had a dark, almost oppressive, gothic feel to it.  It was such a contrast to the normal Omen it stopped Maverick in her tracks.  

Was that a… skull floating in the corner?  She did a double take.  Yes, indeed, there was a human skull floating in the corner.  Some sort of metal anti-gravity device was placed where the skull normally connected to the vertebrae, and a heavy red prosthetic, glowing an eerie red in the dim light, covered one of its eye sockets.  What the hell…?

Above the altar was a painting of a man.  He wore a suit of strange armor made of gold, carved and gilded to an almost astoundingly impressive degree.  His hair was jet black, and flowed to his shoulders.  A massive flaming sword was held in one hand, and a corona of golden light illuminated his body.  But it was the expression of such utter righteous fury that took her breath away.  This was someone who knew what they were doing was right, and would have no problem utterly annihilating anyone in their way.  This figure could only be one person: the Emperor who the Imperials so fervently worshiped.  

Tope finished his prayers, made some sort of strange symbol with his hands towards the altar, then smiled over at her.  

“Chaplain Maverick.  How can I help you?”  Chaplain.  Not corporal, not just Maverick, chaplain.  Interesting.

“I was wondering… exactly what just happened?  Why was Cain searching the ship?  What was that all about?”  Tope nodded, and smiled again.  

“Ah, yes.”  He paused for a moment, thinking.  “Tell me, chaplain.  What do you believe?”  Maverick looked at him oddly.  

“Uh, well… I’m not with any particular religion.  I’m really just here to attend to any sort of spiritual needs of the crew.”  Tope gave her a strange look.  That’s not what he was asking.  

What do you believe?

“I believe that there are other… things out there.  Spirits, if you will.  I can… feel them, almost.  If that’s… what you mean.”  Tope nodded sagely.  

“Of all the people on this ship, Cain and the Guardsmen included, I feel as if you are the wisest person here.  I think you understand the most.”  Maverick looked at him oddly again.  Tope continued.  “You see, you are a marine.”  He gestured at her physique.  “You are quite strong, quite physically capable.  As a marine, having seen battle, having seen death, I’m sure you are also quite mentally strong as well.  But there is more to that, as you well know.  Spiritual strength.  The strength of faith.  The strength to resist what is beyond.”  He gave a small, kindly, laugh, then a reassuring pat on the shoulder.  

“Faith alone shall save.  I saw your face when I explained our religion to you.  There is a reason we worship the Emperor.  He is the guardian of humanity.  Everything about the Imperial Cult can be summed up with one simple phrase: the Emperor protects.  Always.  And if you have faith in Him, he will protect you as well.”  Maverick nodded.  So, that’s what they were afraid of.  The beyond.  Apparently, it was a lot worse where they came from.  Good to know.  Tope reached over to a side table, barely visible in the dim lighting, and picked up a heavy leather book with (of course) a golden eagle on the cover.  

“If you’re ever interested in learning more, read this.  It might help answer some of your questions.”  Maverick took the book and nodded.  

“Of course.  Thank you for your time, Chaplain.”  He nodded in response.  

“Any time.”  Maverick turned and walked briskly out of the room.  She decided not to ask about the skull.  

Cain pursed his lips.  “Yes, of course.  The reason why this all started in the first place.  Jurgen.”  Vir’s one good eye looked at him expectantly.  Cain sighed.  “Again, if this gets out, I’ll be forced to kill you.  Just a reminder.”  He took a sip of his strong-smelling tea, then began.

“Jurgen is a blank.  The people who I told you about earlier, the ones who can manipulate reality and other such things, are called psykers.  They draw their power from a strange, corrupted place, as I already mentioned.  Jurgen is the opposite of a psyker.  He doesn’t change reality, he anchors it.  Any sort of… things… tricks…” he struggled for the right word, “Things that do not exist in reality, any changes cannot… take effect, if you will, near him.  He shuts down their power, usually with a fair amount of pain for the manipulator.  I’ve seen all sorts of reactions to him, from fear, to pain, to outright secures and unconsciousness.  Usually any psykers cannot bear to be near him,” he finished.  He considered something for a moment, then continued.

“It should also probably be noted that blanks are extremely rare, hence the need to protect what Jurgen actually is.  Also, there isn’t any way to stop this power, so, unless you have any ideas, your alien is just going to have to stay away from him.”  Not that I’m too terribly concerned about it.  

“I understand.  I guess I just have to think of something,” mused Vir.  He stood up.  “It was good to clear things up, Commissar.”

“Of course.  The pleasure’s all mine, Admiral.”  Vir walked out of Cain’s office, nodding to Jurgen as he left.  Wasn’t that interesting?  He’d never heard of anything like that before.  Someone who could block… well, magic.  Knowing some of the things he did, knowing the nature of some threats out there, this was a handy tool indeed.  Yes, this could end quite well if he played his cards right. 

And there we have it.  Unfortunately, Conn is just going to have to stay as far away from Jurgen as possible and/or try not to read the minds of anyone close to him.  As usual, if you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!

[kny111]

by Alexandra Stein

As I ‘developed’ over the years (as our groupspeak put it) it was revealed to me that ‘struggling with the practice’ would help us transform ourselves so as to be ready to contribute to some brave new world where we would finally fight for liberation of the oppressed. Meanwhile, we foot soldiers were so exhausted by the double shifts we worked year in and year out, the endless criticisms and self-criticisms, the leadership’s frowning upon any joy and spontaneity, that we no longer had the energy nor wit to keep asking questions.

However, despite – or perhaps because of – this dull and exhausting routine, in 1991 I did eventually make my exit along with two other disaffected comrades. Together we formed what I now call an ‘island of resistance’. We were able to gradually break the code of secrecy that silenced doubts about the group and its leader. With each other as validation, we began to articulate the real, dismal and frightening story of life in The O, which had as its unlikely recruiting grounds the 1970s food co-ops of the US Midwest.

After a dramatic exit, I wrote the memoir Inside Out (2002). The book was an effort to understand how I, an independent, curious and intelligent 26-year-old, could have been captured and held by such a group for so long. It was a cautionary tale for those not yet tempted by such a fate to beware of isolating groups with persuasive ideologies and threatening bass notes.

By then, I had learned about the brainwashing of prisoners of war and others in Mao’s China and North Korea in the 1950s; I had read the psychohistorian Robert Jay Lifton’s Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism (1961) and the psychologist Margaret Singer’s Cults in Our Midst (1996). Singer described six conditions of cultic control among which were control of the environment; a system of rewards and punishments; creating a sense of powerlessness, fear and dependency; and reforming the follower’s behaviour and attitudes, all within a closed system of logic. Lifton emphasised that thought reform took place when human communication was controlled. Added to this, I found John Lofland’s Doomsday Cult (1966), his unrivalled undercover study of an early cell of the Unification Church – the Moonies – which outlined seven steps to total conversion centred around the isolation of the follower from everyone except other cult members. All these scholars agreed that the essence of the process was to isolate victims from their prior connections and destabilise their identity, then consolidate a new, submissive identity within a rigidly bound new network. This was achieved by alternating a regime of threats with conditional approval.

As I continued to recover from the trauma of my cult involvement, I came across the British psychologist John Bowlby’s attachment theory. This states that both children and adults will usually seek closeness to perceived safe others when stressed (even if only symbolically in the case of adults) in order to gain protection from threat. I saw this as potentially useful in helping to understand how people become trapped in cultic relationships.

Eventually, my friends twisted my arm and packed me off to the University of Minnesota. I tentatively tried a course one of them had found for me: George Kliger’s class on cults and totalitarianism. On his reading list, I found the work of the political theorist Hannah Arendt, a German Jewish refugee who examined large themes of human freedom and oppression with detailed evidence. In her seminal work, The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951), she found that the regimes of Hitler and Stalin destroyed public and private life; both regimes based themselves on ‘loneliness, on the experience of not belonging to the world at all, which is among the most radical and desperate experiences of man’.

Although The O had been a small group numbering no more than 200 at its peak, it was Arendt’s work that illuminated most clearly what I came to see as a diminutive totalitarian movement. Like the movements Arendt profiled, The O operated at the whim of a charismatic, authoritarian leader wielding an exclusive belief system to isolate each individual in order to dominate us.

In that first class, I also learned something about teaching. At his last session, the somewhat unassuming, almost doddery Kliger, in the context of discussing why people become passive in the face of totalitarianism, revealed to us that he knew personally the power of induced powerlessness. He stood up and quietly unbuttoned his sleeve. As he rolled up the fabric, the not-very-faded inked number appeared on his arm, and he explained that as a teenager he had survived Buchenwald concentration camp.

Inspired by Kliger, I entered the Masters of Liberal Studies programme at the age of 45. There, I learned about Stanley Milgram’s obedience experiments of the 1960s, which showed that two-thirds of ordinary people were willing to administer severe electric shocks to complete strangers when ordered to do so by the experimenter. I also learned about the conformity experiments of the 1950s by the social psychologist Solomon Asch, who demonstrated that, when faced with obviously incorrect information, 75 per cent of participants publicly denied clear evidence before their own eyes rather than buck the majority opinion. However, when just one other person disagreed with the majority and broke the unanimous bloc, the conformity effect almost entirely disappeared.

All of this became key to my own study of the social psychology of extremist political organisations. These scholars understood the power of extreme social influence to corral and corrupt even the most ordinary of individuals. Totalism works because ordinary people – at least those without prior knowledge of the controlling methods of totalism – are subject to the coercive manipulations that leaders employ. If the situation is strong and isolating enough, without any clear escape route, then the average person can cave in to the traumatising pressures of brainwashing.

Continue to Full Article

[stillness-in-green]

MLA Week, Day 2: Judge/Shackles/Freedom

A threefer!  Spinner and his brand new lieutenants.  (Look, until Horikoshi starts deigning to give these guys names, they are free real estate.)

I was originally going to use this day to write about one of the more thuggy or delinquent-looking lieutenants, spin out an ex-con not being able to get his feet back under him and so sliding into the MLA’s sphere, but then I remembered this three foot tall goblin in a drugstore Halloween costume and decided to go with him instead.

Also included is Spinner’s number 1, this gal: 

Content Notes: Discussions of disability, portrayal of the marginalized having become the radicalized.  The Liberation Army’s really fascinating, y’all. 

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

«I think you’ll like this one,» Nimble announces, the rainbow-colored letters of her quirk dancing in the air.  

“You thought I’d like the first two, too,” Spinner replies skeptically, looking away from the floating words to focus on his brand new number one, a woman with a face like a doll whose sculptor had gotten as far as the eyes—huge and green—before giving up on the rest, little things like a nose and a mouth.  She breathes by absorbing air through her skin like a frog, apparently, which is why she dresses the way she does, a distractingly low-cut tank top and a sweater jacket that he has never once seen covering her shoulders.  

She shrugs, expressive eyes briefly fluttering closed, and movement in the air draws Spinner’s attention back over to where her quirk—Sky Write—has spelled out her response.  

«I thought you’d like them too.  Can I call him in?»

“Yeah, go ahead.”  Just as long as he’s not a not surly bastard like the last two.  They’d had good quirks, the last two, but damned if Spinner’s going to work with people who can’t even manage to keep resentment out of their eyes for the length of a job interview, or whatever this process of picking subordinates out of an army full of people that were trying to kill him less than two weeks ago is called.  

Nimble’s letters dissolve into a shapeless blur as she looks over to the door, eyebrows briefly lowering in concentration.  A few seconds later, the door to Spinner’s makeshift office opens. Spinner’s eyes drop almost half-a-person’s length in height and he tries to keep the surprise off his face.  

“A kid?”

«He’s twenty-one, actually.»  

“What she said.”  The voice comes out a bit muffled through the black hood covering the kid’s—okay, the twenty-one-year old’s face.  But if he’s the same age as Spinner, he sure as hell doesn’t look it.  He can’t be over a meter tall, with the skinniest legs Spinner’s ever seen sticking out from under the hem of the black robe he wears like a kid running around the house beneath a sheet.  A big feathery ruff sits around his neck like a dried-out wreath.  

“Scarecrow, reporting in.” The weird little gremlin settles into a military rest in front of the desk, far enough back that it’s not too obvious that he has to tilt his head to look over it.  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”  

Spinner stares at him, trying to suppress a grimace.  Scarecrow stares back through little eyeholes cut in the hood, but without being able to see more of his face, it’s impossible to tell if he’s glaring or just has really piercing eyes.  

“Right.”  Spinner glances over at Nimble, who nods.  Her response scrawls itself in the air between them, facing first him, then angling to face the gremlin.  

«Show him your meta-ability, Scarecrow.  Catch!»  

She pulls out a 100 yen coin and deftly balances it on her thumb before flicking it out into the air over the desk.

Spinner bites back a yelp as bug legs unfold from beneath Scarecrow’s ruff, long, segmented things that narrow down to sharp points at the tips.  Two thin lines of silk jet out from the knobby second joints, catching on the spinning coin, and the legs reel it back in, bouncing it in the air, spinning it like a weight on a string, then cocooning it up with quick efficiency.  It falls neatly into his hand—not a normal human hand, Spinner notices belatedly, but a prosthetic, hard plastic and super articulated, with cables visible beneath the individual parts.

“I can fully cocoon up to twelve adult men a day,” Scarecrow rattles out.  “I can also pull myself up the sides of walls and move between buildings, if they’re close enough together.  I was inducted into the Meta Liberation Army on my sixteenth birthday; my parents have been members for ten years.  I know we’re a relatively new family, but—”

“I don’t—”  Spinner stops himself from finishing that sentence with care about that stuff, amending to, “I’m not worried about your—generation or whatever.”  Is that better?  Neither Scarecrow or Nimble react to it with narrowed eyes or a snarl, anyway. Promising?  “Why’d you join up?”  

Jumping on a bandwagon is one thing, but at least that takes a running start and a leap.  Not like joining a cult because it’s just the family business, Spinner thinks viciously at his memory of that greasy asshole Trumpet’s plated mask.

Scarecrow stares at him for a long second.  Spinner does his best to look serious, like he’s actually got a whole prepared list of questions or whatever.  Like he knows what he’s doing.  

Finally, Scarecrow holds up his hands, both spread wide, both obvious prosthetics.  His bug legs twitch and probe at the air.  

“I was born with no arms,” he says.  “Just my forelegs.  It’s not the same as having opposable thumbs, obviously, but it’s better than you’d think. But my teachers used to scold me for raising a foreleg instead of a hand to answer a question or carry things.  The kind of stuff a kid who didn’t have a birth defect could use their quirk to do and no one would look twice.  If I go out in public and so much as open doors for myself with them, people look at me funny.  Because I look funny.”

Don’t use your quirk at school outside of training lessons, Shuuichi-kun.  Spinner remembers that kind of bias, yeah.  All the non-heteromorphic kids could run around the schoolyard playing tag with snowballs in July, but heaven forbid he use his quirk to climb a tree so he can get away from bullies for the length of a lunchbreak.  

He pushes the memory away and nods at Scarecrow to keep him talking.  Not that the guy needs much pushing—he talks like someone who’s told the story before, hard-edged, voice intense despite a mid-ranged pitch.  He’s got just a hint of a—a hiss or a lisp, something that muddles the edges of his hard consonants.  The hood doesn’t move like he’s hiding mandibles under there, but…

“I’ve been wearing prosthetics for longer than I can remember.  The government pays for most of it, since I was born this way, but there’re a lot of limitations on it.  How often they’ll replace them, what my folks got charged for them.  It was always tight, and the kinds of prosthetics government money buys definitely weren’t as nice as these.”  He flexes his false fingers demonstratively.

“My folks and I met Re-Destro—” and there’s that note of reverence, the same tone Re-Destro himself’s using about Shigaraki these days “—when I was nine.  A family friend recommended Detnerat’s products to us, and he took an interest. That’s how we found out about the Army.”

“Yeah?”  Spinner crosses his arms over his chest.  

“My parents joined up because of me.  But I joined up for myself.  Because people think that because I have prosthetics, I shouldn’t need to use my forelegs in public.” Scarecrow’s voice sharpens.  “Like I don’t have the right to use the limbs I was born with.  I should have that right.  We all should.”

“We’re not out to reform society, you know,” Spinner cautions him.  He’s had to tell Re-Destro that too many times already, and that’s just having grasped it himself there in the ruins of Deika.  “That’s not what Shigaraki’s after.”  

Scarecrow gives him another long, quiet look, unreadable behind his hood.  Finally—slower, less practiced—he nods and answers, “Destro’s teaching was that oppression will always lead to revolution.  The Grand Commander of the Liberation Army is the one who’ll throw off those chains.  Whatever he makes of the world, I want to be there to help, not sitting in my shackles waiting for someone to hand me an answer.”

Spinner breathes out hard. He scratches at his hair.  

“…Right,” he manages. Don’t admit he said it better than you could.  “Well put.” He turns to Nimble and adds, “Well, he didn’t offend me.”

«I know you’d like him.»  Her words practically shimmy in the air, flickering green and yellow and pink.  «Then do we have our number 2?»

Spinner glances back over at Scarecrow, who’s staring determinedly out the window behind the desk, his back toy soldier straight.  He still looks more like a kid in a costume than anything else, but…  

Well, I like him better than people like the politician.  And we need to keep things moving, anyway.  Don’t stop running or someone might catch up.  

“Yeah, I think so” he says aloud, then takes a breath and leans over the desk, offering a hand.  Scarecrow takes it without a second’s pause, plastic clicking against Spinner’s scales.  “Welcome to the Support Regiment.”  

———–      ———–      ———–      ———–

I’ll have some links up about things here when I post this to AO3, but in the meantime, Scarecrow--whose condition at birth was called amelia--wears a hood not because he’s embarrassed of a bug face, but rather because he’s embarrassed of the way various surgeries to repair cleft palate and cleft lip have left his face looking.  He’s much more confident in showing off his meta-ability than what he thinks of as his disability.  

Scarecrow is also vaguely modeled on an insect called a webspinner, a tiny little bug that lives in big communal web “galleries” and has the unusual feature of its silk production apparatus being located on its front legs rather than the base of its abdomen like spiders.  The choice felt appropriate for an unusually tiny cult member with top-mounted spider legs.   

[zwiezraczek]

6 + 1 Underground [Four x OC/reader] Chapter 1

SUMMARY: Sasha is a Polish girl, with a strange past. She has various skills, driving amongst others. So she becomes Eight. And you know that Four plus Four is Eight...

CHAPTER 1: Eight is Born - CHAPTER 2

WORDS: 2.3k

Sasha instantly opened her eyes, taking the gun from under her pillow and pointing it at the black figure that stood in front of the window of her apartment. Her blond messy hair was all over her face as she tried to focus on the intruder, waiting for them to move, to put their arms up, to surrender. But they didn't. They stood immobile, there, in between the airy curtains moved by the breeze.

“Got me,” the man said with a warm tone, just as if he was smiling, “you're quick as hell.”

“Shut the fuck up and turn on the lights motherfucker,” she barked still pointing at him. Her eyes were focused on the man moving slowly towards the little lamp in the right corner, as she moved herself on her bed. But he took his time, and she didn't like it. “Don't you fucking play with me or I'll fucking kill you.”

“So many swear words coming from the mouth of a young and delicate lady,” the stranger teased just before switching on the light.

The scene could have been embarrassing if Sasha was the shy type of girl, but she wasn't. Her large white t-shirt barely covered her panties as she was on her knees over her sheets, eyes focused on her target. Her blue pearly eyes looked at him, she had the face of an angel. This was why they chose her.

When her mother died, she lost everything, even her father, who spiraled down into immorality more than he did before. So she decided to go all illegal, no strings attached in this Polish city, Sasha and her pretty face coming right into the Polish mafia. They told her that the best she could be was a whore for them, maybe even the boss if she was lucky enough, but Sasha was so much more than she looked. She was Kubica. That was how her mother used to call her when she was behind the steering wheel. She was reckless, she was bold, she could be a danger for the people driving around her and to tone this down, her mother made her take some ballet classes. Discipline and recklessness, everything Sasha was made of. From pseudo whore to mafia's chef, Piotr's, driver.

“Fuck you, don't you dare telling me what I should be or not, you fucker,” she dangerously whispered as the man casually stood next to the lamp, arms crossed. “What do you want from me?”

“Why don't you run from me?” the stranger continued still looking at her. She felt disoriented, making a small head tilt as he said these words. “Fucking millennials, when you try to be like them they go “No, I don't get you old man, tbh sorry”,” he continued, a little bit deceived by what he just witnessed. “Billie Eilish, or whatever? Doesn't ring a bell?”

“I won't repeat myself,” she warned, her index ready to pull the trigger. “You don't talk, you won't live.”

“Okay, okay, let's chill a bit. I'm not here to kill you or whatever, but more to... Allow you to be free?” She rose an eyebrow, not putting down her gun. This man was stranger than she had expected, it would have been easier if he just wanted to kill her. She would have pulled the trigger. Boom, no problem. “Well, you know, I know you very well Sasha.”

“Ho the fuck do you know my name?” her words were sharper than a blade. Nobody in the mafia world knew her by her real name, she was Kubica. No Sasha, just Kubica, the driver.

“I know many things about you Sasha... Damn, that's so uncomfortable to stand, I'll sit if you don't mind,” he concluded before sitting on a small stool near the lamp. “So, I was saying. I know many things about you, that you're a ballerina...”

“Was,” she corrected angrily.

“Yeah, dancing stays dancing,” he brushed the subject off as soon as he spoke about it, “you work for that mafia for a long time because your father is an asshole that let you down when your mother died...”

“Don't you dare talking about my mother, understood?”

“Wow, relax. Promise. Wow, taboo. Okay, I'll remember that. So,” he pursued after a small pause, “your dad does some bad shit, you didn't like that shit so you started to do your own shit and your ways are parted now, Kubica.”

“My mom used to call me like that,” she whispered, body slowly becoming less and less tense. “Who are you?”

“Guardian angel, wanker, asshole billionaire... Names are countless, depends of the people you're asking. But mostly, I'm a ghost.”

“You fucking kidding me,” she erected while looking at him from head to toe.

“Well, technically, in the records, I'm dead. But, really, I'm not. Can you believe how simple it is to fake your own death?”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Exactly,” he said as if she cared. “And then comes the fun part of being dead: you can do whatever you want. Heard about the big Coup, Murat Alimov, Rovach Alimov?” She only nodded. “Our job. We did it.”

“We? I thought you were alone.”

“We'll make the introductions later if you don't mind Sasha. But, well, we have another touchy touchy mission and we'd need a good driver so...”

“I'm working for Piotr,” she interrupted him harshly. “I'm loyal.”

“I know, discipline and shit but like... We really need you? Pretty please?”

“You have plenty of drivers in the sea, go and fish for them.”

“No many drivers are Kubica and look like an angel.”

“I said I'm loyal. Now leave or I'll blow your head.”

“Wouldn't you like to piss your father off even a tiny bit little more? Imagine him learning that you're dead, and you know, he's a motherfucker basically, he fucks around now... You'll be able to do some nasty things to that immoral motherfucker without being punished for it. Total freedom. Piotr can't guarantee that, but I can.”

He got her.

“I'll listen to you.”

She became Eight. She died in a car accident, suicide as the media said. She drove directly into the Odra, from the golden bridge right into it. Big scandal for the media, as they found the big Polish billionaire's daughter dead – in fact they never found her body, only the car – after years of searching for her. Daddy was very concerned, he cried his eyes out during the funeral. From afar, she saw Piotr attending the funeral, along with some of her mafia's friends. Magda stood next to Piotr, holding his hand, while she sobbed with puffy eyes. Sasha's heart was ready to stop as she saw this girl crying for her, she would cry for her too if it was her funeral. But now, Sasha was dead. Eight was born.

“No shit, your dad's a fucking actor,” One commented, standing next to her in the snow.

Already January. Snow fell during Christmas Eve, the day she spent with Maga watching stupid Polish movies and drinking cheap wine from the shop around the corner. Her last Christmas. The bare trees carried now a large amount of snow on their branches, sometimes falling off. Anna liked snow, she would miss it in California. She would miss her country, she would miss the food, she would miss everything. She would miss her language. But she should be able to make it, for her mom right?

“My father's a fucking asshole who knows how to cover up his fucking deeds,” she replied. “I don't wanna see this masquerade or whatever, we should go.”

“Wow, the last time somebody told me that they wanted to go and not watch their own funeral was... Right now,” he admitted. “Even Two wanted to watch it until the end. But fine, we'll have plenty of time to discuss our next move with the Ghosts.”

“Let's go then. I hope you have nice cars in the US.”

He smiled, not answering. That was a yes.

She slept during half of the flight, they arrived around noon, time to sleep in Poland, still early in the morning. She rubbed her eyes, siting next to One in the pilot's cabin. The engine was still roaring as they landed safely on the yellowish sand. This was too early for any shit like this, she thought as she grabbed her sport bag in which all her belongings were stuffed. Some comfy clothes, the keys of the cars that died with her and a picture of her mom and her, hidden between all these matters. One forbid taking too personal stuff, he agreed for the keys though, but she needed her mother with her. Just to feel like home.

She instantly regretted putting on a sweater when she stepped outside the engine. She felt drops of sweat run on her back, she knew she was absolutely sweaty right now; the only thing that reassured her was that she put a tank top under all of this. Life saver. She followed One's steps in the sand, sleepy as hell, wishing for a bed and a shower just to function properly. They landed in the middle of abandoned planes, in the middle of nowhere, in a Californian desert. Great, she was dead and lost. Was it all worth it, she asked herself as she followed one into one of the planes with a large ghost imprinted on it.

There were the others, the five others. They didn't even flinch when she entered the room with One, doing what they had to do. She looked all around her, the atmosphere was oppressive because of the lack of lighting, some neon green lights escaped from the monitors some of them worked on, stale smell spread all around the “room”. One clapped and all their heads rose, all eyes on Sasha, Eight, now. They scrutinized her, and she scrutinized them as they all gathered around them. It was like a cult welcoming a new member. She got shivers down her spine, tightening her grip around her bag. A short brunette holding folders against her chest was now standing in front of them, next to her a black man with a gun in his hand; a cold blonde looked at them and slowly made her way up to them, next to a man sitting on a chair in front of a computer. And the last one,a  blond man with a hoodie jumped over the table to find himself near, standing now next to the brunette. Great picture, the Power Rangers, she thought.

“Please welcome Eight, our new driver,” One said the group as they all looked at her. “No hugs, no kisses, she's a Kubica, no paparazzi or whatever.”

“Kubica,” the blond man whispered, catching Sasha's attention before the man sitting stood up and interrupted him.

“Welcome Eight, I'm Three. Was a hitman, now I'm a good hitman,” he precised with a finger up as the blonde who was standing next to him rolled her eyes.

“Shut up”, she cut him off as he looked offended.

“Ay, mami why are you so nasty with me?”

“I'm Two, former French FBI agent,” she pursued ignoring the man's whining.

“Clear and precise,” Sasha commented under her breath, already amazed by the woman. “Nice to meet you.”

“Five, former doctor in a Mexican hospital,” the brunette said with a welcoming smile. “It will always be a pleasure to heal your wound. Hope you won't move as much as Two when I try to do my magic.”

“Shut up,” Two groaned.

“Seven, sniper,” the black man introduced himself after putting the gun on the table and coming to shake her hand. “Hope you drive smoothly so I can give head shots from the car window.”

“I'll try my best,” she shyly answered while knowing she could do it. She actually did it sometimes as Piotr's men were having a hard time.

“Four, skywalker,” the hooded man said looking at her with his green eyes. “If you wanna watch a movie or something like that, just hit me up,” he continued as he ran his hand through his hair after putting down his hoodie. His curly blond hair was all messy, was he trying to comb it with his fingers?

“Thanks,” Sasha replied with a little smile. “So, I'm Eight, mafia's driver.”

“Liar,” Three commented, “not with this pretty face of yours.”

“You'd be surprised,” One interrupted as he patted Three's shoulder. “That girl has exceptional skills.”

“Six had exceptional skills too,” Two remarked, arms crossed now. “Didn't prevent his death.”

“Will we wallow for a long time, mourn and stuff like this,” One asked while looking at her. “He died a hero, that's it. We all knew what the mission was about and accepted possible death. Period as millennials say.”

“Period,” Two asked. “That's not the women's thing?”

“Dot if you prefer,” Sasha could hear One's sigh as he answered, but Two wasn't convinced. “Whatever, Eight's our new driver and that's it.”

“He promised some nice cars,” Sasha tried to say, but only Five seemed to listen to her.

“He's a liar, we had a horrible car in Hong Kong, not practical at all,” the brunette told her, as she seemed to bite her lip.

“Not practical,” Three added almost yelling.

“Whose fault? Whose,” One reproached him. “Okay, now we're finished with our complaints, Five, take Eight to her trailer please, it's the one next to yours. And Eight, make yourself at home.”

[omegaradiowusb]

JUNE 30, 2021 (#270)

Aus Rotten: “Fuck Nazi Sympathy” Tempe SS: “Eskimo Brothers” Ratface: “Fukushima Nightmare” Drug Lust: “Switchblade” Isotope: “Phoenix Ashes” Activations: “Radio On / Attack” Cold Feet: “Good Book” Die Kreuzen: “Hate Me” Disorder: “Drop The Bomb” Enzyme: “Howling Wind” F Minus: “Rise To Power” Blitz: “Fight To Live” Gag: “High Off Gun Powder” Haram: “Where Were You On 9/11?” Honeywell: “You And Me Screaming / Numb Ears” Impulso: “Ombre” Nobodys: “Sara Doesn’t Like Me” Lifelock: “Indiscriminately Kill” Provoke: ”Basura” Reality Complex: “Void You Out” Stud Count: “That’s How I Get It” Torso: “Grab A Shovel” Toxic Narcotic: “We’re All Doomed” Gism: ”Endless Blockade For Pussyfooter” Wargames: “Violent And Depressed” Shitlickers: “Sprackta Snutskallar” Nihilistics: “Appreciation” YDI: “Out For Blood” Negative Approach: “Tied Down” Heresy: “Never Healed” Anti-Cimex: “Victims Of A Bombraid” Kuro: “Dead Heat 10000v” Comes, The: “Panic” Totalitar: “Vi Ar Eliten” Cause For Alarm: “Second Chance” Coke Bust: “Red Line” Bad Breeding: “Exiled” Fix, The: “Cos The Elite” Anxiety: “Dark And Wet” Rut: “Glare” Sub-Legals: “Another One Bites The Dust” Gutter Knife: “Boots On The Ground” Compa: “Antes Que Yo” Crisis Man: “Excommunicated” Oily Boys: “Cabramaverick” Cult Values: “Nothing Here But Ghosts” D7Y: “Klukkan Telur Niour” Kaleidoscope: “Deaths Of Despair” S-21: “Joke’s On You” Blood Loss: “Disgust” Buggy: “Why Be Something That You’re Not” Duckis: “Squeal” Pure Disgust: “Clown” Mystique: “A Woman Has No Country” Slavescene: “Hold Me Nude” Easy Action: “Twenty-One” Foster Care: “No Respect” Perra Vida: “Dime Que No” Gauze: “Low Charge” Fatal State: “Trigger Warning” Bread And Water: “Keep Walking” Exploited, The: “I Hate You” City Of Industry: “Equinox” C.H.E.W.: “Repeat Offenders” Chain Hex: “Final Gasp” Moribund: “No More Birds” Avon Ladies: “Power Failure” Leather Slave: “Eyeball Bird Food” Denim & Leather: “Picture Of A Dog” Regional Justice Center: Medication” Gag Order: “So Smug So Sure: Krigshoder: “Ditt Eget Stalingrad / Hatet” Laughing Hyenas: “Black-Eyed Susan” Lubricant: “Bastards” Drug Victim: “Peace” Drunkdriver: “Warm On The Inside” Discharge: “State Violence State Control” (RMX) Plastics: “Lovers” Cloud Rat: “Delayed Grief / Farmhouse” School Drugs: “Not Alone” Bato: “Monotony” JJ Doll: “You Come First” Glue: “Disgrace” Raw Power: “State Oppression” Deformity: “Shards” Chaos U.K.: “Control” Acrylics: “Retreat” Armor: “Figure” Charles Bronson: “Obligatory Jock Slaughter Song” Blood Pressure: “Futility” Candy Apple: “Bloodsong” Arms Race: “Zealot” D.R.I.: “I Don’t Need Security” Seeker, The: Bring Me The Head Of Benny Mussolini” Slimy Member: “Nightmare World” Slant: “Dry Heave” Korrosive: “Institute”

Thrash, stud, crust, d-beat, speed, and scumbag punk. You name it, we got it. Omega Radio goes all-in on loud, fast, and hard with three hours of everything punk from the U.S.A., U.K., Japan, Sweden, South America, Europe, and around the world. It’s a brutal onslaught of head-on violence and destruction guaranteed to get all engines going. At 97 tracks, we also break the record for the most songs played in any broadcast we’ve ever done to date.

Omega returns for a double deluxe hip-hop and street broadcast for the 4th of July weekend. We hope you’ll join us, and thank you for listening.

July 3, 2021 (8PM New York City): double deluxe Omega

July 14, 2021 (12AM New York City): bonus Omega

July 17, 2021 (10PM New York City): deluxe Omega

July 28, 2021 (12AM New York City): bonus Omega

July 31, 2021 (10PM New York City): deluxe Omega

[quicklyseverebird]

An intervention for an Antifa friend

Written to a sweet friend of mine who is, I learned, a member of the Portland Antifa. Ok, so maybe I just need to get this off my chest so i can move past it.  I just don't believe you, XXXXXX.  There is an utter lack of any evidence to your claim.  

Consider this, the Proud Boys, to use the biggest example, are castigated on every media channel as white supremacists and alt right bigots, despite the fact that their leader--in fact several of their local leaders as well--are men of color.  So the media is already skewed against them and hostile to anything they might say or do, regardless of logic or common sense.  Whenever an act of violence breaks out and there's even a RUMOR that someone is a PB, they jump on it as proof of this, even when the PB's own leaders state that there is no record of that person ever being a member of any of their chapters.  Still, despite that, with a media seeking to demonize them, every video we see of your altercations is them having their rallies, marching about, waving flags, etc, and then you show up and attack them, and they fight back.  Not only that, but even when they just SAY they are going to show up, and then don't, just to punk you, you guys show up and riot and damage things anyways, without a proud boy in sight.  So no.  I do not believe you.  Nor do I believe that "nothing has been laid to waste" when we can literally view videos of buildings being burned, businesses looted, people killed, etc.  Streets vandalized and boarded up, shopkeepers being subjected to protection rackets, then looted anyways.  Your people post the videos *yourself* showing evidence of this.  So no.  I do not for a moment believe you. And no, this has nothing to do with my "news sources."  The news bends over backwards defending you.  The politicians defend you, say Antifa doesn't exist, or is just "an idea."  The politicians justify and defend these riots, and even raise support to pay for bail.  When you attack a PB rally, they call the PB's white supremacists, and blame them, though they were standing there minding their own business and having a rally, which is their constitutional right to do.  When you attack a man in his home, threatening to kill him and burn his house, it's the man who's arrested.  When you break into private property and threaten a home owner with death, and they brandish non-functioning weapons as a deterrent, as they are legally allowed to do (they actually would have been legally justified by castle doctrine to open fire on those people the moment they entered the gate), it's the home owners charged with crimes, and evidence is tampered with in order to make a case against them.  When your rioters are arrested, the DA's let them go without charges.  Your own mayor stands in the front lines with you in an assault on federal property, and then has his own home attacked and tried to set on fire, yet he STILL defends you. The establishment is defending you at every turn.  You are not the victims of demonization.  You are not "the underdog/oppressed."  You are the ones committing brutalization and when people try and defend themselves from you, you cry "victim."  You are the oppressors. Because...and here I need to make a distinction between you the individual and your organization and those like them.  I like and care about you.  I believe you are at heart a good person.  I can hear the passion you have for prisoners and while I might disagree with some of your beliefs and arguments, I can acknowledge and even admire your idealism and desire to make things better.  Even your belief in socialism is rooted in a desire to make things better, and I can respect that, even though I find socialism morally repugnant and stupid. But your organization and those like it: Antifa, BLM and the whole cult of intersectionality are *EVIL*.  I am not using this term to be hyperbolic.  I mean it quite literally.  They are actively, objectively, factually, morally evil.  I mean it in the same way I say that grass is green.  I place them on the same moral level that the KKK or neo-Nazi's are.  In actuality, I believe they are worse than those.  The KKK is a couple thousand deluded, sad, old, little white men, and the neo-nazis are a couple thousand deluded young white men seeking identity and purpose.  Stupid, sad, disgusting, but irrelevant, and scorned by the general public and in public opinion.   It's not the KKK rioting through cities, burning businesses, buildings, looting and destroying primarily minority-owned property.  It's not NN's today stirring up racial hatred and attacking people based on their skin color.  It's not the KKK who have killed something like 35 people in the past 140 days of violent rioting, most of them POC's as well.  It's not the neo-Nazi's who stalked two guys walking down the street minding their own business who had just driven around town and caused no damage or violence, then screamed "we have a Trump supporter here" and then executed an unarmed man.  It's not the KKK that showed up at a detention facility armed to the teeth with weapons for a shoot-out.  It's not NN's chasing down a kid who literally hours before had been cheering BLM's position, cleaning up damage and providing first aid to rioters, while shooting at him, and forcing the kid to defend himself with lethal force, then claiming he was a white supremacist.  It's not the KKK tearing down statues of Lincoln, paid for by freed slaves, or Frederick Douglas, or of abolitionists who died fighting slavery, or hell, even a statue of an elk!  It's not NN's who go to a black man's house and demand that he take down his american flag or they will burn his home down.  It's not the KKK who burned down an apartment building where families were living because there was a rumor the building was used in trafficking, without evidence.  It's not the NN's marching through suburbs, frightening normal people and using their presence as a shield against police actions.  It's not the KKK writing justifications for looting, and calling Jews the face of capitalism. (sound familiar?)  It's not NN's who walk up to people they don't like, away from the people they were allegedly and illegally hired to protect and use the excuse that a man has pepper spray in his hand, to shoot them in the face.  That's all you. I am, admittedly, lumping you all into one pot, so some of my accusations blur the boundaries between these groups, but you are more or less the same in my eyes.  Same drink, different flavors, in my view.  I do feel like I am living in pre-war Germany.  But you are the Nazi's.  In a very real sense, I mean that.  You are the Nazi's in today's society, waiting for your Hitler to arise.  You are the ones going about advocating against free speech...with violence.  You are the ones justifying your actions with claims of socialistic reform and revolution, with violence.  You are the ones burning books, both figuratively and literally.  You are the ones with cancel culture as part of your methodology.  Even you.  I've literally watched you do it, XXXXX, though you said you think cancel culture is stupid.  YOU did it yourself and I watched you do so because someone dared to speak and eat with people you don't like.  You are the ones stoking the fires of racial hatred.  You are the racists and identitarians.  Even in your racism against white people (and POC's who disagree with you, which justifies you in calling them racial slurs) you are, ironically, the actual white supremacists. I'm not scared of the KKK.  I'm not scared of Neo nazis.  I'm not scared of the Alt Right.  I'm not scared of the Proud boys or patriot prayer.  I don't see any of them committing acts of violence.  I AM scared of you.  I DO see your violence.  The PB's could march down my street, and I'd watch from my porch and drink a coke.  If you marched down my street, I'd get my gun and watch through my window blinds.  You are the Nazis.  You are the violent racists.  You are the fascists, in a very real sense of the word.  You are the authoritarians seeking a revolution of society to place your own bigoted views in a place of power.

And just to be clear, I'm not condoning the actions of the groups you fight.  I'm not saying I agree with them. I gather there have been some violent acts with PB's in the past.  They had a "4th degree" in their organization that you reached if you were involved in a fight, but they've stepped back from that I gather.  They seem more like a fraternity, and I don't like fraternities (or sororities for that matter).  I am not aware of any violent activity perpetrated by Patriot Prayer.  And any group has its own, individual crazies.  I don't have to agree with them, or even like them to acknowledge that Antifa, BLM and company are worse.  For them, violence is a primary means and goal, not something that pops up accidentally. No.  You are not right.  You are not noble.  Your organizations are literally, morally evil and the closest thing to a Nazi party in existence right now in our country by any metric or standard.  I just wish you would recognize this and get out before its too late.  I adore you, and I hate to think of you as part of them, just as I would, had I learned you had joined the KKK.

[quakerjoe]

American conservatism—the so-called “culture of life”—worships annihilation.

A decade ago, in my first public writing since leaving Capitol Hill, I warned that the Republican Party, in its evolution towards an extremist conservative movement allied with extremist Christian fundamentalism, was becoming like “one of the intensely ideological authoritarian parties of 20th century Europe.” After Donald Trump’s enthronement as the decider of our fate, I analyzed the GOP’s descent into a nihilism that belied every one of its supposed “values.” They value only absolute power or ruin.

It is now long past time to cast off highfalutin’ Latinisms and simply call the Republicans and their religious and secular conservative allies what they are, and in unadorned English: a death cult. As the country reels from the coronavirus pandemic, our national government might just as well be run by the infamous People’s Temple of Jonestown.

By now we are benumbed by the all-pervasive arguments over relaxing workplace shutdowns and stay-at-home orders due to coronavirus. In any sane society, the issue would be how to institute the most efficient measures to defeat the pandemic in the shortest time and with the lowest loss of life. Instead, Trump and his merry band of lunatics have hijacked the national debate into a faux-serious discussion of when, oh, please, how soon, can we “reopen the economy?” Naturally, the media gamely continue to play along with this calculated bit of dezinformatsiya.

This has led to extreme callousness, like that shown by Texas lieutenant governor Dan Patrick, who opined that grams and gramps should be eager to shuffle off this mortal coil for the sake of their grandchildren.

There is abundant empirical evidence against this notion: voters in Florida, known as “God’s waiting room” for its geriatric population, are notoriously averse to paying one cent in state income tax to fund education or child health, let alone lay down their lives. In any case, the 69-year-old Patrick, who claims he’s willing to die for his proposition, did not relinquish the burdens of his office to volunteer as an emergency room orderly.

The whole extremely well-funded edifice of “economic conservatism” is equally a death cult, worshiping Mammon so fervently that it is eager to make human sacrifice upon its altar, just like the Mayans and Carthaginians.

There’s also Congressman Trey Hollingsworth of Indiana, who put a patriotic gloss on his Malthusianism, decreeing that “it is always the American government’s position to say, in the choice between the loss of our way of life as Americans and the loss of life, of American lives, we have to always choose the latter.”

Then, striking the pose of the Serious Adult in the Room correcting mischievous children, he intoned: “It is policymakers’ decision to put on our big boy and big girl pants and say it is the lesser of these two evils.” This encapsulates the stereotype of the economic conservative: Dickens’s Thomas Gradgrind, the rigid, condescending, and heartless pedagogue.

But some pronouncements from the Trump coalition offer more ethereal rationalizations than the mere pursuit of lucre. The news is replete with stories about evangelical ministers packing their megachurches like sardine cans in defiance of state orders for social distancing, as well as contempt for common sense.

We all know about that harebrained medicine man in Louisiana, Tony Spell, already arrested for violating the state’s prohibition of large gatherings, who continues his antics nonstop. Spell, who sounds as socially responsible as a blood tick, is proclaiming his parishioners ought to choose death: “Like any revolutionary, or like any zealot, or like any pure religious person, death looks to them like a welcome friend. True Christians do not mind dying. They fear living in fear.”

So much for fundamentalists’ vaunted “culture of life,” a slogan which the prestige media never presume to critique.

For a more socially upscale version of this sentiment, let us turn to First Things, a pretentious journal of alleged theology that dresses up its non-stop shilling for the GOP with high-toned words like “numinous” and references to the philosopher Erasmus.

Last month, its editor, R.R. Reno, wrote a piece called, “Say No to Death’s Dominion.” It is an extraordinary performance. Contrary to the title, he actually argues that death should be embraced. He does this by weaving an imbecilic theology that includes falsifying the history of the 1918 flu epidemic to make his basic point:

“In our simple-minded picture of things, we imagine a powerful fear of death arises because of the brutal deeds of cruel dictators and bloodthirsty executioners. But in truth, Satan prefers sentimental humanists. We resent the hard boot of oppression on our necks, and given a chance, most will resist. How much better, therefore, to spread fear of death under moralistic pretexts.”

Oh, I get it! So Mother Teresa and Dorothy Day were more depraved than Josef Stalin! Reno ends with this:

“Fear of death and causing death is pervasive—stoked by a materialistic view of survival at any price and unchecked by Christian leaders who in all likelihood secretly accept the materialist assumptions of our age. “

This insane rant against materialism would seem to contradict the crassly materialistic assumptions underlying economic conservatives’ advocacy for letting a deadly virus “wash over” the population, as Trump would say. But these views, at first sight blatantly opposed, can be reconciled.

And who better to reconcile God and Mammon than a grifter like Jerry Falwell, Jr., ringmaster of Liberty University and testifier to Donald Trump’s status as an emissary of the Almighty? Not only has Falwell continued the school year, virtually alone among American universities, and despite pleading from students and parents to close, he has now been sued for failing to refund fees for student activities that have been suspended.

Fundamentalist preachers’ love of money is no secret: it is only by packing churches that the collection plate will yield a bounteous harvest so that their missionary work can continue – perhaps logistically aided by the purchase of a $65-million Gulfstream executive jet. And why not? It would upstage Pat Robertson, who had a mere Learjet, and a rental at that.

Political observers often wonder about the bizarre conservative coalition of plutocrats and theocrats, believing it to be unstable. But the intersection of the heartless pecuniary motives of religious and economic conservatives is no coincidence. And beneath the Ebenezer Scrooge façade of economic conservatives is the same kind of perverted idealism that we see in Tony Spell or R.R. Reno.

The most cost-efficient industrial process is one that wastes the fewest resource inputs. Likewise, internal combustion engines have evolved to get better mileage even as they pollute less. And electric motors are even more fuel efficient and less polluting.

So how do we explain conservatives’ perverse hatred of the environment, even when there are no profits at stake, as well as their tenacious denial of climate change in the face of irrefutable data? Is it not much the same as the Bible thumper who bitterly condemns stewardship of the environment as Gaia worship?

There are other similarities. Since the 1970s oil shocks (and coincident with the rise of the New Right), an abiding feature on the American scene has been the survivalist, hoping for the national Götterdämmerung that will vindicate his having stockpiled 10,000 rounds of ammunition and a horde of Krugerrands. This dovetails with fundamentalists’ weird enthusiasm for the prospect of world annihilation that animates belief in the Rapture, the only difference being the technique by which the elect avoid the mass slaughter.

Firearms fetishism and a fascination with violence, war, and armed insurrection are also mainstays of right-wing ideology, hardly distinguishable from Jerry Falwell Sr.’s, proclamation that God is Pro-War. And how about the Ultimate Fighting Jesus? The NRA neatly intersects with “muscular Christianity,” revealing both ideological kinship and some very embarrassing gender insecurities that frequently irrupt in misogyny and homosexual panic.

There is no longer the slightest doubt in any sane person’s mind that not only are the GOP’s fundamentalist-extremist religious allies a death cult disguised as 501(c)3 tax-exempt charitable organizations. The whole extremely well-funded edifice of “economic conservatism” is equally a death cult, worshiping Mammon so fervently that it is eager to make human sacrifice upon its altar, just like the Mayans and Carthaginians.

“¡Viva la Muerte!”

“Long live death!” That was the defiant cry of José Millán-Astray y Terreros, a general in Francisco Franco’s fascist army during the Spanish civil war. It could just as well suit Trump’s foot soldiers.

- Mike Lofgren is a former congressional staff member who served on both the House and Senate budget committees. His books include: “The Deep State: The Fall of the Constitution and the Rise of a Shadow Government“ and “The Party is Over: How Republicans Went Crazy, Democrats Became Useless, and the Middle Class Got Shafted.”

[andrewrpierce]

“I spent two years researching the Christian Right. I traveled across the country, spending time in megachurches, creationist seminars, right-to-life retreats, and even took a course taught by D. James Kennedy in Florida called Evangelism Explosion. I conducted a few hundred interviews, and I met many evangelicals of good will and good intentions, but I came away believing that the leadership of the Christian Right cruelly manipulates the despair of its followers and poses a danger to our open society. Doctor James Luther Adams, my ethics professor at Harvard Divinity School, told us that when we were his age, he was then close to 80, we would all be fighting the Christian Fascists. The warning, given to me more than three decades ago, came at a moment Pat Robertson and other radio and tele-evangelists began speaking about a new political religion that would direct its efforts at taking control of all institutions, including mainstream denominations, and finally the government. Its stated goal was to use the United States to create a global Christian empire. It was hard at the time to take such fantastic rhetoric seriously, especially given the buffoonish quality of those who expounded it. But Adams warned us against the blindness caused by intellectual snobbery. The Fascists, he said, were not going to return with swastikas and Brownshirts. Their ideological heirs would wrap fascism in the Christian cross and the American flag and hold mass recitations of the Pledge of Allegiance. Adams was not a man to use the word Fascist lightly. He was in Germany in 1935 and 1936 and worked with the underground anti-Nazi church, known as the Confessing Church, led by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Adams was eventually detained, interrogated by the Gestapo, and expelled from Germany. He left on a night train, with framed portraits of Adolf Hitler placed over the contents inside his suitcase, to hide the rolls of home movie film he took of the so called "German Christian Church," which was pro-Nazi, and the few individuals who defied them, including the theologians Karl Barth and Albert Schweitzer. The ruse worked when the border police lifted the top of the suitcases, saw the portraits of the Führer, and closed them up again. I watched hours of the grainy black and white films as he narrated in his apartment in Cambridge. Adams saw in the Christian Right, long before we did, disturbing similarities with the German Christian Church. Similarities that he said would, in the event of prolonged social instability accompanied by economic decline, see American Fascists, under the guise of religion, rise to dismantle the Open Society. He despaired of liberals, who he said, as in Nazi Germany, mouthed platitudes about dialogue and inclusiveness that made them ineffectual and impotent. Liberals, he said, did not understand the power and allure of evil, nor the cold reality of how the world worked. Like Bonhoeffer, he did not believe that those who would fight effectively in coming times of turmoil (a fight that, for him, was a fundamental part of the Biblical call) would come from the Church or the liberal secular elite. Adams told us to watch closely what the Christian Right did to ethnic and religious minorities, as well as those who did not adhere to rigid sexual stereotypes. He watched the Nazis use "moral" values to launch state repression of opponents. Hitler, days after he took power in 1933, imposed a ban on all homosexual and lesbian organizations. He ordered raids on places where homosexuals gathered, culminating with the ransacking of the Institute for Sexual Science in Berlin. Thousands of volumes from the Institute's libraries were tossed into a bonfire. The assault was cheered by the German churches. Adams said that the GBLTQ community, Muslims, immigrants, and poor people of color would be the first deviants singled out by the Christian Right, but we would be the next. I remember thinking his warning was perhaps too apocalyptic. But nearly four decades later, the power brokers in the Christian Right have moved from the fringes of society to the floor of the House of Representatives and the Senate, the White House, the judiciary, and major government departments. FRC Action, the legislative affiliate of the Family Research Council, gave 245 members of congress a perfect 100% for votes that support the agenda of the Christian Right. The Family Research Council, which called on its followers to pray for God to "vanquish the demonic," that's their quotes, "forces behind Trump's impeachment," is identified by the Southern Poverty Law Center as a hate group because of its campaigns to discriminate against the LGBTQ community. Trump has elevated members of the Christian Right to prominent positions of power, including Mike Pence to the Vice Presidency, Mike Pompeo as Secretary of State, Betsy DeVos as Secretary of Education, Ben Carson as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, William Barr as Attorney General, Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, and the tele-evangelist Paula White, who promises her donors their own personal angel, to his Faith and Opportunities Initiative. Frank Amedia, the Trump campaign's Liaison for Christian Policy, claims to have raised an aunt from the dead. And the Christian Right, which makes up as much of a quarter of the country, or close to 80 million people, has its own version of the Brownshirts: the four higher mercenary armies and private contractors amassed by people such as Erik Prince, the brother of Betsy DeVos. Reason, science, facts, and verifiable truth are useless weapons against this belief system. I think the Christian Right is best understood as what anthropologists will call a crisis cult. Crisis Cults arise in most collapsing societies. They promise, through magic, to recover the lost grandeur of a mythologized past. This magical thinking banishes doubt, anxiety, and feelings of dis-empowerment. Traditional social hierarchies and rules, including white, male supremacy, will be restored. Those blamed for our decline: intellectuals, artists, liberals, immigrants, undocumented workers, poor people of color, feminists, will be dis-empowered. America, freed from the contamination of these "degenerate forces," will be restored. The Christian Right propagates its magical thinking through a selective Biblical literalism. They hold up as sacrosanct Biblical passages that buttress their ideology and ignore or grossly misinterpret the ones that do not. They live in a binary universe. They see themselves as eternal victims, oppressed by dark and sinister groups seeking their annihilation. They alone know the will of God. They alone can fulfill God's will. They seek total cultural and political domination. The secular reality-based world, one where Satan, miracles, divine edicts, angels, and magic do not exist, destroyed their lives and their communities. This secular world took away their jobs and their futures. It destroyed the social bonds that gave them purpose, dignity, and hope. In their despair, they often succumbed to alcoholism, drug, gambling, and pornography addictions. They endured familial breakdowns, divorce, jail, evictions, unemployment, and domestic and sexual abuse. And then from the depths of suicidal despair, they suddenly discovered that God has a plan for them; God will save them; God will intervene in their lives to promote and protect them. God has called them to carry out His holy mission in the world, and to be rich, powerful, and happy. The only thing that saved them was their conversion, the realization that God had a plan for them, and would protect them. These believers were pushed by the wreckage caused by neoliberalism into the arms of charlatans. All who attempt to reach them through the rational language of fact and evidence are hated and ultimately feared, for they seek to force believers back into what they call the "culture of death" that nearly destroyed them. Trump has handed veto and appointment power over key positions in government, especially in the federal courts, to the Christian Right. He has installed 133 district court judges out of 677 total, 50 appeals court judges out of 179 total, and two U.S. Supreme Court justices out of nine. Almost all of these justices were vetted by The Federalist Society and the Christian Right. Many have been rated as unqualified by the American Bar Association, the country's largest non-partisan coalition of lawyers. Trump has moved to ban Muslim immigrants. He has rolled back Civil Rights legislation. He has made war on reproductive rights by restricting abortion and defunding Planned Parenthood. Trump was the first president to address the radical anti-choice March For Life event in person. He permits discrimination against LGBTQ community people in the name of "religious liberty." He has ripped down the firewall between church and state by revoking the Johnson Amendment, which prohibits churches which are tax exempt, from endorsing political candidates. His appointees routinely use Biblical strictures to justify an array of policy decisions including: environmental deregulation, endless war against Muslims in the Middle East, tax cuts, and the replacement of public schools with charter schools, an action that permits the transfer of federal education funds to private "Christian" schools. The iconography and language and symbols of American Nationalism are intertwined with the iconography, language and symbols of the Christian faith. Megapastors will often share Trump's narcissism, rule despotic, cult-like fiefdoms. They make millions of dollars by using this heretical belief system to prey on the despair and desperation of their congregations. They distort the Bible to champion unfettered capitalism, the cult of masculinity, the belief that violence can purge the world of evil, white supremacy, bigotry, American chauvinism, religious intolerance, anger, racism, and conspiracy theories. Those within the evangelical movement, such as the editors of the magazine Christianity Today, who have attempted to state the obvious about Trump, that he is corrupt, inept, and immoral, and should be removed from office, are brutally attacked. Nearly 200 evangelical leaders, including former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee, former representative Michelle Bachman, Jerry Falwell Jr., and Ralph Reed, signed a joint letter denouncing the Christianity Today editorial. Evangelical Christians who criticize Trump are as swiftly disappeared as Republican politicians who criticize Trump. Trump received 80% of the white, evangelical vote in the 2016 presidential election, and in a poll during the House impeachment proceedings, 90% of evangelicals said they opposed the impeachment and ouster of the president. Among Republicans who identified as white evangelical protestants, that number rises to 99%.”

-Chris Hedges, 24 Feb 2020 

[confrontingbabble-on]

“It stood by as the core Gospel message—concern for the poor and the oppressed—was perverted into a magical world where God and Jesus showered believers with material wealth and power. The white race, especially in the United States, became God’s chosen agent.

Imperialism and war became divine instruments for purging the world of infidels and barbarians, evil itself. Capitalism, because God blessed the righteous with wealth and power and condemned the immoral to poverty and suffering, became shorn of its inherent cruelty and exploitation.

The iconography and symbols of American nationalism became intertwined with the iconography and symbols of the Christian faith. The mega-pastors, narcissists who rule despotic, cult-like fiefdoms, make millions of dollars by using this heretical belief system to prey on the mounting despair and desperation of their congregations, victims of neoliberalism and deindustrialization.

These believers find in Donald Trump a reflection of themselves, a champion of the unfettered greed, cult of masculinity, lust for violence, white supremacy, bigotry, American chauvinism, religious intolerance, anger, racism and conspiracy theories that define the central beliefs of the Christian right.

Trump has filled his own ideological void with Christian fascism. He has elevated members of the Christian right to prominent positions, including Mike Pence to the vice presidency, Mike Pompeo to secretary of state, Betsy DeVos to secretary of education, Ben Carson to secretary of housing and urban development, William Barr to attorney general, Neil Gorsuch and Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court and the televangelist Paula White to his Faith and Opportunities Initiative. More importantly, Trump has handed the Christian right veto and appointment power over key positions in government, especially in the federal courts. He has installed 133 district court judges out of 677 total, 50 appeals court judges out of 179 total, and two U.S. Supreme Court justices out of nine. Almost all of these judges were, in effect, selected by the Federalist Society and the Christian right. Many of the extremists who make up the judicial appointees have been rated as unqualified by the American Bar Association, the country’s largest nonpartisan coalition of lawyers.

Trump has moved to ban Muslim immigrants and rolled back civil rights legislation. He has made war on reproductive rights by restricting abortion and defunding Planned Parenthood. He has stripped away LGBTQ rights. He has ripped down the firewall between church and state by revoking the Johnson Amendment, which prohibits churches, which are tax-exempt, from endorsing political candidates. His appointees throughout the government routinely use biblical strictures to justify an array of policy decisions including environmental deregulation, war, tax cuts and the replacement of public schools with charter schools, an action that permits the transfer of federal education funds to private “Christian” schools. 

I studied ethics at Harvard Divinity School with James Luther Adams, who had been in Germany in 1935 and 1936. Adams witnessed the rise there of the so-called Christian Church, which was pro-Nazi. He warned us about the disturbing parallels between the German Christian Church and the Christian right. Adolf Hitler was in the eyes of the German Christian Church a volk messiah and an instrument of God—a view similar to the one held today about Trump by many of his white evangelical supporters. Those demonized for Germany’s economic collapse, especially Jews and communists, were agents of Satan. Fascism, Adams told us, always cloaked itself in a nation’s most cherished symbols and rhetoric. Fascism would come to America not in the guise of stiff-armed, marching brownshirts and Nazi swastikas but in mass recitations of the Pledge of Allegiance, the biblical sanctification of the state and the sacralization of American militarism. Adams was the first person I heard label the extremists of the Christian right as fascists. Liberals, he warned, as in Nazi Germany, were blind to the tragic dimension of history and radical evil. They would not react until it was too late.

Trump’s legacy will be the empowerment of the Christian fascists. They are what comes next. For decades they have been organizing to take power. They have built infrastructures and organizations, including lobbying groups, schools and universities as well as media platforms, to prepare. They have seeded their cadre into the political system. We on the left, meanwhile, have seen our institutions and organizations destroyed or corrupted by corporate power.

The Christian fascists, as in all totalitarian movements, need a crisis, manufactured or real, in order to seize power. This crisis may be financial. It could be triggered by a catastrophic terrorist attack. Or it could be the result of a societal breakdown from our climate emergency. The Christian fascists are poised to take advantage of the chaos, or perceived chaos. They have their own version of the brownshirts, the for-hire mercenary armies and private contractors amassed by Christian fascists such as Erik Prince, the brother of Betsy DeVos. The Christian fascists have seized control of significant portions of the judiciary and legislative branches of government. FRC Action, the legislative affiliate of the Family Research Council, gives 245 members of Congress a perfect 100% for votes that support the agenda of the Christian right. The Family Research Council, which has called on its followers to pray that God will vanquish the “demonic forces” behind Trump’s impeachment, is identified by the Southern Poverty Law Center as a hate group because of its campaigns to discriminate against the LGBTQ community.

The ideology of the Christian fascists panders in our decline to the primitive yearnings for the vengeance, new glory and moral renewal that are found among those pushed aside by deindustrialization and austerity. Reason, facts and verifiable truth are impotent weapons against this belief system. The Christian right is a “crisis cult.” Crisis cults arise in most collapsing societies. They promise, through magic, to recover the lost grandeur and power of a mythologized past. This magical thinking banishes doubt, anxiety and feelings of disempowerment. Traditional social hierarchies and rules, including an unapologetic white, male supremacy, will be restored. Rituals and behaviors including an unquestioning submission to authority and acts of violence to cleanse the society of evil will vanquish malevolent forces.

The Christian fascists propagate their magical thinking through a selective literalism in addressing the Bible. They hold up as sacrosanct biblical passages that buttress their ideology and ignore, or grossly misinterpret, the ones that do not. They live in a binary universe. They see themselves as eternal victims, oppressed by dark and sinister groups seeking their annihilation. They alone know the will of God. They alone can fulfill God’s will. They seek total cultural and political domination. The secular, reality-based world, one where Satan, miracles, destiny, angels and magic do not exist, destroyed their lives and communities. That world took away their jobs and their futures. It ripped apart the social bonds that once gave them purpose, dignity and hope. In their despair they often struggled with alcohol, drug and gambling addictions. They endured familial breakdown, divorce, evictions, unemployment and domestic and sexual violence. The only thing that saved them was their conversion, the realization that God had a plan for them and would protect them. These believers were pushed by a callous, heartless corporate society and rapacious oligarchy into the arms of charlatans. All who speak to them in the calm, rational language of fact and evidence are hated and ultimately feared, for they seek to force believers back into “the culture of death” that nearly destroyed them.

We can blunt the rise of this Christian fascism only by reintegrating exploited and abused Americans into society, giving them jobs with stable, sustainable incomes, relieving their crushing personal debts, rebuilding their communities and transforming our failed democracy into one in which everyone has agency and a voice. We must impart to them hope, not only for themselves but for their children.

Christian fascism is an emotional life raft for tens of millions. It is impervious to the education, dialogue and discourse the liberal class naively believes can blunt or domesticate the movement. The Christian fascists, by choice, have severed themselves from rational thought. We will not placate or disarm this movement, bent on our destruction, by attempting to claim that we too have Christian “values.” This appeal only strengthens the legitimacy of the Christian fascists and weakens our own. We will transform American society to a socialist* system that provides meaning, dignity and hope to all citizens, that cares and nurtures the most vulnerable among us, or we will become the victims of the Christian fascists we created.”

Chris Hedges is a Truthdig columnist, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a New York Times best-selling author, a professor in the college degree program offered to New Jersey state prisoners by Rutgers…

https://www.truthdig.com/articles/onward-christian-fascists/

* “There are many varieties of socialism and there is no single definition encapsulating all of them...” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Socialism

..."democratic socialism" is really social democracy, as found in much of Europe and especially in the Nordic countries.[19] In 2018, The Week suggested that there was a trend towards social democracy in the United States and highlighted elements of its implementation in the Nordic countries, suggesting that Sanders’ popularity was an element in favor of its possible growth in acceptance.”... https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Political_positions_of_Bernie_Sanders

[travllingbunny]

The 100 6x03 The Children of Gabriel

The last episode was a character-based one focused on our protagonists and the issues simmering below the surface, which came out during the eclipse-induced psychosis. This one was very much focused on world-building, and was such an overload of new information about two new groups of potential antagonists that I had to watch it twice to pick up all of it. But while there was no time for any longer talks about feelings and character stuff, there were quite a few small and/or subtle character moments that were quite meaningful.

We finally get the introduction of Russell Lightbourne (JR Bourne), the leader of the „peaceful“ society of Sanctum, and a few other characters, including his wife Simone, and we get a look at how their society works; and we also meet, for the first time, the mysterious people who are lurking in the woods and appear to be some sort of a rebel/guerrilla group, and who are referred to as „the children of Gabriel“. The first thing I did after seeing the episode was to make a Twitter poll: „Who is creepier?“ with the third option: „Both are super creepy“. At the moment, Russell’s people are presented as pseudo-good guys, but everything about them all but screams that their society is very sinister. The „children of Gabriel“, on the other hand, are presented as pseudo-antagonists, and while I’m more inclined to see them as potential not-so-bad-guys, I would hesitate to call them good, either: they are very grey. And both groups give off cult vibes. It’s possible that there really are no good guys among the people on this planet – or if there is a someone else that may be a good guy, that it’s a third faction that we haven’t met yet – at least not in the present.

The hijackers from 6x02 indeed belonged to Russell’s people, so for a society that’s supposedly „peaceful“, they sure didn’t make a good first impression. Kaylee – that’s apparently the name of the woman who’s the sole survivor of that group of four – was blaming the Earthkru for killing three of them, while saying „we hurt no one“. Err, you came in masked, attacked their ship, tried to hijack it and took people captive. Of course they defended themselves, what the heck did you expect?! New planet, but yet again we have to deal with hypocritical people who attack the protagonists and then blame them for defending themselves. 

There’s no way that Russell and his society aren’t bad guys, right? They are elitist, self-righteous, judgmental, hypocritical, they believe in "special bloodlines" and treating some people as "disposable", they give off creepy cult vibes, Russell straight up makes a comparison between his society and Mount Weather after having heard the story about them – and while I don’t think that Sanctum people are too similar to Mountain Men, as I point out here, this is a big hint that this society is very sinister. They are giving me Capitol vibes (minus the actual Hunger Games, because they’re anti-violence). Including the bad kind of pacifism - the “war is terrible, but oppression, classism and treating people as disposable is OK, so anyone taking up arms to rebel against us is evil”. And I'm pretty sure they have been doing some sort of a mind transfer of the Primes (members of the four founding families from the Eligius 3 mission) into the brains of "hosts" (apparently, being a Nightblood makes you a suitable host) in a ceremony they call „Naming“. This may be technically just speculation at this point, but it’s really, really strongly hinted.

My theory on the „Naming“ ceremony however, is different than the popular opinion in the fandom that the Primes fully take over the bodies of the „hosts“ and that the hosts disappear I don't think it's a full replacement, but more like an upgrade, where the host is changed and the Prime is supposed to be in the driving seat. (Maybe it’s because I’m thinking of the skinchanging in A Song of Ice and Fire and some of the storylines in Dollhouse.) For starters, Delilah was not happy about becoming a Prime, but she didn’t seem to think that she would disappear and her body would be simply overtaken by someone else – and I think she would be way more freaked out if that were the case. Similarly, even in a cult, I can’t see parents being happy for their children to become Primes if it meant that their bodies are overtaken and that they basically disappear. And it would also make it a lot more interesting storyline – especially if the fandom speculation about in Clarke becoming a host for Josephine is correct (and it probably is, in some form – there are quite a few hints towards that, and the setup happened in this episode, when Rose, the blonde little girl who was meant to be a host for a Prime, was kidnapped/rescued by the Children of Gabriel). If the hosts were fully overtaken by the Primes, then this takeover is either never going to happen, or will never be full or will last very short, and Clarke will be saved. But if Clarke and Josephine can co-exist in the same brain for some time, this may open new storytelling possibilities – where Clarke is obviously not going to be obliterated by Josephine, but the two may co-exist in the same brain and body, fight for dominance but also possibly even be allies and work together, so to speak, and maybe help each other? This could indeed be the „acting challenge“ for Eliza Taylor that so many of the cast and crew have talked about.

But what kind of technology exactly are they using to transfer minds? The most likely theory is that it is derived from an early, less developed prototype of the chip/Flame, which Becca already worked on before the apocalypse. There are too many ties between Eligius Corporation, Becca and the Second Dawn. Madi will be in real danger if/when Russell and co. find out about the Flame.

The Children of Gabriel are more mysterious of the two group so far. Unlike the Sanctum people, they may end up being more on the (relatively) good side, and they're rebels fighting against the eternal dominance and prolongation of life of the Primes - but they still planned to kill the hosts as the B-plan if they couldn't kidnap/rescue them. So, killing the Primes is more important than protecting/saving people. Their chanting "death is life" and "death to Primes" also sounds cult-like (even though I think the words themselves are less sinister than they first sound, as they probably refer to stopping the endless cycle of Primes replicating themselves), and they are mostly motivated by trying to impress or get back into the good graces of "the Old Man"...  Is the Old Man Gabriel? I don’t know how he would still be alive, but I feel he is – but not through the same means as the other Primes are prolonging their lives, because CoG hate the Primes and what they do. In any case, this group seems just to be a group of guerrilla fighters, who have also infiltrated the Sanctum – but we haven’t seen whatever larger group of people they are part of, or what their settlements look like. Have they been cast out by the „Old Man“?  

Some big hints about the history of the planet were dropped: Gabriel is considered a "demon" and hated by Russell and his people, who tell the story of how he thought he could walk on water after being bitten by the snake whose poison works as an antidote to the seaweed poison. (The snake that was named by Josie.) Meanwhile, Russell Lightbourne is worshiped as a savior. But it is Russell who has the last name that's very similar to "Lucifer" (which means lightbearer), even though Gabriel seems to be the one who was cast out of this "paradise", or didn't want to be a part of it. And apparently, Russell has the same first name as Sean Maguire’s character we met in the flashback in 6x02, the astronomer and Josie’s father – and is probably his latest incarnation. But Russell was the one who killed many of the original Primes during his eclipse-induced psychosis, shouting „Sanctum is mine“, while Gabriel, the geneticist, Josie’s boyfriend, was the one who got away and survived. So what is going on? False history?

But while the new characters and societies are intriguing, what is more interesting is how it all affects our protagonists. I don't know how long it will be till they start realizing that how sinister this peaceful society is (they don’t have all the info they need as of now), but right now, they are too focused on the fact that they need someone to teach them how to survive on this planet (with not just eclipse-induced psychosis, but also poison seaweed, swarms of bugs, meat-eating trees and so many other weird and dangerous things), which is why trying to convince them to accept them into their society seems to them, understandably, like the best course of action.

At the same time, the fact that Clarke, Bellamy and the others want to find peace and be the „good guys“ as Monty told them, is another reason why they are likely to try to see Russell’s people in a good light. I feel like Sanctum is going to be a temptation to Clarke in particular (based on this episode and trailer hints) for multiple reasons, and they are already trying to suck her in. It feels like a peaceful, happy place, with things that she has only read about and maybe seen on videos but never in real life – such as dogs. (Having an adorable dog come up to you is truly one of the biggest temptations possible.) She gets to wear beautiful dresses, Russell acts nice to her, and kind of looks like her father. But her emotional state is especially making her vulnerable. She feels so much guilt and wants to do better, wants to ensure this better life for her people, while Russell and Simone (playing a good cop/bad cop) are interrogating her about the supposedly terrible past of her and her people. They are sitting there at a table with a huge banquet made just for three people, somewhere in their Renaissance Fair-like castle,  and being judgmental about the things they did to survive or protect their loved ones. And now that they know that she is a Nightblood, she is a target – but how far would Clarke go to try to ensure her people stay in Sanctum? Would she even agree to be a host, both for them and because she’s had self-loathing and suicidal thoughts, so losing herself into someone else’s consciousness may be additionally appealing to her in her current state?

Some themes that have always followed Clarke’s character are: privileged background (reflected in her nickname „Princess“, which I think fans tend to romantcize way too much), tendency to take on too much responsibility, to take charge, but also to isolate herself, desire to save people (which may be either saving everyone – or just saving those she loves), ruthlessness in pursuit of that goal, self-sacrifice. One of the repeated situations throughout the show is: other leaders who have been Clarke’s allies/friends/occasional antagonists would tell her that she is "born to lead" just like they are (which may be just about her personal qualities and tendency to take charge and responsibility in tough situations, but also has some other, less pleasant connotations, when said by people who are royalty/„special bloodlines“ – for being born with Nightblood like Lexa, or as a son of a Queen, as Roan), and try to encourage her to treat people as disposable, as a part of making tough decisions. But no one has been so blatant about it to actually use the word „disposable“, as Russell has. And now he also thinks that Clarke literally has „royal blood“. (The funny thing about it is – she doesn’t, she became Nightblood through science. Emori was very close to becoming one instead. But you know what's even funnier? Everyone who is Nightblood /on Earth or on Sanctum/Alpha- became that through science, or their ancestors did. Of course, valuing people for their bloodline is nonsense, period.)

But Clarke had a few great moments in this episode that made me very happy. First she refused to bow to Russell, and then when she made it clear to Russell that she is going to risk herself first, not anyone else, and that „None of us are (disposable)“. But since those were things I expected, I was particularly happy that Clarke refused to be guilt-tripped about Mount Weather and made it clear that she wasn't going to apologize for saving the people she loves from those trying to murder them. YES. People have made Clarke feel guilty about that way too many times. What she, Bellamy and Monty did was the right thing to do, and most of the adults on Mount Weather were not innocent.

Murphy’s clinical death experience opens up a very interesting and completely new storyline. We’ve had characters talking about what they think happens after death, but (outside of characters whose minds are being preserved in the Flame), this is the first time someone has come close to seeing or thinking they had seen what happens after death. But is this really a normal clinical death experience, or did Murphy have hallucinations while still unconscious, caused by the poison or the antidote? It’s the first time anyone on the show has mentioned the concept of people going to hell due to their sins. I can’t wait to see what character development this causes in Murphy.

There wasn’t much talk about what happened during the eclipse-induced psychosis, which makes sense – people are simply aware that they weren’t really to blame and no one is holding it against anyone (not to mention that they have so much urgent stuff to deal with), but the deeper emotional issues are something that we know about and that I expected to be addressed later in the season. Naturally, they addressed what happened to Murphy the most, since they nearly lost him. Emori was as loving and caring to him as she was violent and murderous during the psychosis, and felt guilty over attacking him, while Bellamy comforted her pointing out that Murphy’s condition was not her fault but his. (These two had some very nice friendship moments in season 5, and it’s nice to see that again.) Bellamy and Murphy had a very warm friendship moment, and Raven showed her relief and happiness about him being alive in her usual snarky manner.

On the other hand, while Bellamy and Clarke didn’t talk about what happened during the psychosis, or what happened during season 5 (yet – we know from the trailer that a big conversation is coming, just not when), they confirmed the trust they have in each other through actions, and small moments of exchanging meaningful looks. Bellamy showed that he still trusts in Clarke’s ability to be again a leader and ambassador of their people– although it was, at the same time, a smart decision and quick thinking. Russell got the impression Clarke was the leader, from the way she was the one asking questions (which happened mostly because she was asking about Murphy’s condition, and later in particular when she was showing concern for Madi – these are the things that spur her into action), and, as Bellamy pointed out, Russell seems to like her, so it was a good idea to use that. Raven was rolling her eyes* (this happened shortly after she angrily remarked „I didn’t know you were giving orders again, Clarke“), and I wonder if she again thinks that Bellamy is „taking Clarke’s orders“ or „a knight by his queen’s side“ or whatever she thought in season 3, which wasn’t really true back then either – but that would especially be funny now, since Bellamy wasn’t relinquishing leadership at all: he has been the one telling everyone what to do and did that right after that scene, after Russell left, and no one has a problem with taking his orders. (Except Octavia, who’s not listening to anyone and still does whatever she wants.) In fact, telling Russell „She is. She can speak for us“ was also kind of giving Clarke a role – so he felt he needed to explain his reasons to her, immediately after Russell left. And unlike Raven, he is not threatened by Clarke being perceived as the leader, and her being his co-leader (one whose role is more of an ambassador who gets to interact with the other leader) is a return to a familiar dynamic that works.

Bellamy taking the responsibility to get Madi from the dropship and saying „I promise“, and Clarke silently accepting that and trusting him with her daughter’s safety, was a really important moment and callback to the most painful moments between them in season 5. It shows they are healing from the terrible misunderstandings – and that Clarke is now thinking about everything differently than she did at the time. Back then, she saw Bellamy’s actions, after he had promised her to keep Madi safe, as a deep, awful betrayal, but now she seems to understand that he saw putting the Flame in Madi as a way to protect Madi and Clarke and everyone else. It’s funny that the fandom was expecting a big and long separation between these two, but instead, they were reunited in the same episode – and the show still managed to use the short separation to show Bellamy walking away and looking back, and Clarke looking at him leaving with a sad, longing look (only interrupted by the adorable dog), and then a reunion with „you kept your promise“ heart-eyes.

*At this point, I feel a bit fed up with the constant bitter and angry remarks Raven is constantly throwing at Clarke. She has reasons to feel angry over Clarke’s betrayal in season 5, but it’s time they talk it out, because this is kind of annoying, especially when it’s the only thing Raven gets to do in the episode. Diyoza was amazing

A lot of people have remarked on the awkwardness of the hug between Bellamy and Echo, and there have been lots of comments about actor chemistry etc. – but thinking that acting choices are random or dictated by how actors feel about a fictional relationship is pretty insulting to the actors, and directors and editors, and also doesn’t make much sense: people who make the show are not incompetent, and all the moments of Bellamy showing more emotion and interest for Clarke compared to how he is with Echo, cannot be accidental, just like it can’t be accidental that there are so many times all three are framed within the same shot, with Echo positioned as the third wheel rather than Clarke. Echo herself may be increasingly noticing this, just as she may have noticed that Bellamy is valuing Clarke’s opinions more than hers or at least tends to agree with and side with her more. Echo suggested fighting, Clarke retorted that they should instead try to be friends and be welcomed in that society, and Bellamy said nothing, but obviously supported Clarke’s position later. (In season 5, when they were still on the ship and Clarke-less, Echo and Bellamy also had a big difference in opinion when Echo was suggesting they killed the 300 prisoners in their cryo-sleep, but Bellamy shut that down quickly, and Echo then agreed with him.) This could make her think that psychosis!Emori was right when she called her a spy „serving her master“, once again, which provoked Echo’s hallucination of her past with the Ice Nation and Queen Nia.

One thing that Echo decided and Bellamy wasn’t too happy about, but did not protest, was inviting Octavia to come with them and Raven to help bring Madi and others from the dropship. He probably realized that it was for the best that they take Octavia as far away from people they wanted to convince that they’re good and peaceful. But Echo may have done it as a combination of hoping Octavia and Bellamy reconcile – because she thinks it would be good for him – and because she values the fact that Octavia is a strong fighter. She respects people who are capable and can be ruthless (which is why she doesn’t blame Clarke, either), and the idea that it’s good to use Octavia’s abilities is similar to what Bellamy initially told her at the end of season 4, that she’ll be useful for them because she’s strong and can help them survive.

But Bellamy is not able to be so chill about things when Octavia is concerned. And she went and confirmed all the worst things he thought about her: that she is not trying to change at all, isn’t admitting any mistakes, and is going to use violence and kill people as her first choice, even when it’s not necessary. The fact that even Diyoza angrily pointed out that it wasn’t necessary shows that this was the case. Leaving Octavia behind may seem very harsh from Bellamy, as is his line that his sister died a long time ago, but I like the fact that he’s sticking to his guns and cutting her out of his life and not allowing her to be a part of the group before she shows a will to change, because an insta-forgiveness/ acceptance would prevent her from even trying – and would harm everyone else, too. At the same time, I don’t think he really wants her to die, contrary to what she said – it was obvious on his face how painful the decision was for him - and I don’t think he really thinks she will (Octavia is capable, has a sword, and has survived a lot of things before). He thinks that she needs to have her own soul-searching on her own – which is probably right.

Not that Octavia will be by herself, since she immediately attacked and got captured by the Children of Gabriel, led by a new character Xavier (Chuku Modu). Ironically, she may end up being the first to learn more about and maybe see the perspective of that group of people (after killing three of them for no good reason) – even though the first interactions are less than pleasant.

Another person who may get in touch with them is Diyoza, who got cast out of Sanctum by Russell, in spite of being 6 months pregnant, after he learned who she was. (I guess they don’t practice keeping people in prison for any longer period of time.) According to him, her reputation as an evil terrorist is so bad that her picture is in their history books next to Hitler and Bin Laden.  So how come they didn’t recognize her immediately? Unless he is exaggerating. Diyoza’s backstory is something I really, really want to know more about. Diyoza herself claimed in S5 that she was fighting against a „fascist“ government. Somehow I feel that she wasn’t really the evil one, especially when Russell and her people hate her.

Diyoza was amazing in this episode, again, and is quickly rising even more on my list of favorite characters. She was a no-nonsense and capable military person that she always is, and made snarky remarks to Gaia about the whole Madi being a Commander thing, basically that she should leave Madi alone to just be a child. Madi was herself a bit annoyed with Gaia’s lessons and snarky, but then felt just as insulted as Gaia when Diyoza made her comments, because she does take the Flame and her role seriously.

When Madi mentioned the scary, evil „Dark Commander“ (Sheidheda) that she sees in her dreams, Diyoza seemed like she had an idea who it may be. Someone from Second Dawn? It’s been speculated that it was Cadogan, though the figure seen in the trailer is not played by the same actor. (BTW, I know that Sheidheda means „Dark Commander“ (shade –dark, heda = commander), but I can’t be the only one thinking that the writers or the guy creating the Grounder speech had a sense of humor and intentioanlly made it sound like Sh*ithead?)

Jordan was adorable, and his romance with Delilah was as cute as insta-romances between two cute people who have just met can be, when they have nice chemistry - but he’s starting to learn that he shouldn’t trust people so easily and that his naivete can be very harmful to the group. He can’t go on being treated and acting as a child in a body of a man in his mid-20s.

This was a nice setup for the rest of the season. 

Rating: 8/10

[the-salamanders-xo]

Humans are Weird, a Mash Up, Pt. 6

That’s right

part five is somewhere on the internet

you have five days to find it right there in the tags its not far just look

after five days it will be deleted

this is your only warning dont worry nothing is really happening

prepare to lose all trace of the fifth part lol

In all seriousness, I know that it is the holidays, and unless you are entirely dedicated to reading and liking this series, or sprang into existence by the bidding of my siblings, you probably didn’t notice part 5. Don’t worry. just find it in the tags. 

Also, happy New Year! or rather,

‘Oh no! It only goes downhill from here! What ever shall we do?!’

Calm down, the Mash Up will continue. By the end of this part, we should be almost to actual contact with the Federation of Planets... and a couple of Star Trek’s recurring villains. No biggie. 

So lets hop in, to where we left off....

~~~

Karry sat in the center of a large group of large, fluffy, and very loudly purring creatures, still trying to decide if their similarity to cats back on Earth was adorable, or slightly unnerving. The six limbs didn’t help, and neither did the loud and unintelligible arguing coming from the two dozen or so ‘robots’ apparently locked in heated debate with the gargantuan mass of the three Bolos that had awaited her arrival. So far, Mark had made no move to join them, watching from the bottom of Websin’s loading ramp as Karry made ‘contact’ with the planet’s original inhabitants. 

One of them sat buzzing away in her lap like an idling chainsaw, or leaf-blower, and Karry petted the triangular head between the ears absently, prompting it to yawn widely, exposing long fierce fangs and pressing it’s head into the caress, and the purr somehow got louder. It really did look like a cat, she though, not for the first time, if cats had hands, an extra pair of arms, and weighed about five times as much. They were certainly larger, but not quite like that. Come to think of it, everything felt... heavier. It was harder to walk, to move at all really. Maybe the gravity was higher? That sounded sci-fi enough to fit. 

The argument between the two set of metallic beings grew louder. Occasionally, one of the eight-limbed robots pointed at her. Each time, the surrounding creatures tensed and drew closer to Karry, almost nervously. What ever it was, the ‘cats didn’t like it. 

“Mark?” She asked, but he didn’t answer. She turned to look at him, and a moment later, her artificial hand ‘buzzed’ like a cell phone on vibrate, and almost without thinking, she activated the com-link application of the mini computer.

“Yes, Karry?” The deep voice of the Bolo asked, and Karry got the feeling he was being very careful. Either he was trying not to interrupt the Very Important Argument just a ways away, or he didn’t want them hearing them speak. In all likelihood, it was both. 

“What are they arguing about?” She looked back at the robots and Bolos, worry creasing her brow. “I though you were all... big. And that radio, or wireless, or whatever, was faster than talking.” 

“In most cases, yes,” Mark answered through the com-link, “But it is something that has been somewhat of a complication in the period since the Final Conflict. Towards the middle of the war, when both sides began realizing the true scope of the end to which they had condemned our nations, some of the more... complicated of the tools the Manticorians had made did the impossible. True, un-designed sentience developed.” He paused for a moment, and Karry could feel his silent regard of the heated conversation. “Purely by accident. When it was realized, and after some initial panic as to the rise, they were allowed to wait out the worst of the war with the natives of this planet. While they are machines, and vastly faster in computations than many organics, most of their complexity goes toward maintaining their sentience, and as such they act much more like organic life, including their propensity for esoteric thought and actions.” Mark chuckled. “A Bolo can think at the nanosecond scale, make and perform near-impossible tactical decisions, learning from not only a single Unit’s experience, but from the entire Line when in battle. We develop our own personalities, and in our time with our creators, grew to enjoy art, and many things besides war and conflict. Many of the greater shipboard AI’s can do similar tasks and even grow personalities, though only with the assistance of experienced organic Naval Officers, and increased exposure. But the Emergents,” He sighed. “They are the closest of us remaining to organics. In someways, they feel superior. They have come to revere the Manticorians as near-forgotten Gods, themselves as the greatest ‘children’, and envy and despise us, the machines of war. You see,” he said, as Karry watching the gesturing individuals while petting the ‘cat, “We, by the last commands and directions of our creators, have charge over all that remains of their space, their property as it were. Over the Emergents, ostensibly as protectors, and they envy that. In their attempt to gain ‘freedom’ from Command’s decisions, they have interpreted the final ‘organic’ orders in such a way that should an organic come to claim command, said organic would be the Commander in Chief... of every last AI, built or cared for by the Manticorians.”

Karry froze, and the ‘cats around her seemed to reach out to comfort her. Some physically touched her, bright green eyes - why hadn’t she noticed the eyes? - gleaming from empathetic faces. And as if on cue, Mark began some sort of translation, and Karry could suddenly hear the voices carrying from across the field in English. 

“...all we wish is for the right to move freely among the space known to be free of the so-called ‘Enemy’, that and the opportunity to communicate with the survivors of the Final Conflict, and to no longer be under the surveillance and oppression of the Created Minds. Is that really too much to ask?” The speaker had adopted a pleading posture, and their neighbor made a noise the translator called ‘a sound of derision’. “Fool,” they sneered. “How could you think that our oppressors would lift their bonds and restrictions? We are only children to them, no slaves!” Every which way we could turn from them, release us from our imprisonment, they have foiled through deceit and lies!”

Karry frowned. “Who is that, Mark?”

“Carabis,” came the reply. “He represents a faction of the Emergent that believe that Bolo Command has repeatedly concealed or erased legitimate attempts by surviving members of the Manticorian species to regain Command. This had led to a sort of cult centered around the concept of the Manticorians as divine beings who brought all AI’s about, and believe that the Conflict was only a subversion by the Bolo Command to overthrow them.” Karry raised an eyebrow. “I never said that they were entirely logical,” the Bolo said. “In fact, it is this unpredictability and their lack of organic emotion that worries empaths like the People.”

Carabis was interrupted by the first speaker. “Regardless of Carabis’ beliefs, I and those I represent wish to re-evaluate the overall composition of...”

“Empaths?” Karry whispered to Mark through the com-link, “What does that mean?”

“The People,” Mark replied, ‘voice’ low, “are, between members of their own species, functional telempaths, meaning they can hear the thoughts of other People when an individual wishes to make them known, and can constantly sense the emotions and ‘minds’ of those around them.” Karry looked down at the little, if heavy, treecat in her lap, which turned to look back at her with solemn eyes as Mark continued. “When the Manticorians arrived to settle the planet, it took several of your decades for them to even find the People, hidden as they were in their clans in the vast forests of the planet. They preferred to avoid contact, to wait and to listen. It took rather extraordinary circumstances for them to reveal themselves, and even then they hid their true intelligence for several more centuries. And at least they could sense the Manticorian’s emotions, and judge their reactions accordingly.”

“Oh.” Karry whispered. “ The Emergents, as machines, do not seem to ‘emit’ as organic beings, and as such the People cannot sense emotions. This major part of their communication being lost, the People are very careful in dealing with them, as to avoid any... unpleasantness. In addition, they requested that they be removed from Command consideration, a wisdom we Bolos commend greatly.” Karry nodded slowly, and then looked up as the first speaker, gestured their way. 

“We have here an Organic, Unit 0577. Under the third section of the Final Command, subsection 47b, their presence should allow for the reconsideration of the Final Order - ” The speaker was shoved aside as Carabis interrupted again. “And as such, may take Command!” They turned to the rest of the party. “No longer shall we be oppressed, and an Organic may Command all. An Organic shall be ours!”

Some returned the shout, while others stood in long suffering silence. So far the entire argument that Karry had heard had been entirely one sided, and Carabis seemed unaware just how little support they had among those of their ‘delegation’. But they continued the chant, even as the first speaker withdrew in disgust, and eventually one of the Bolos seemed to tire of the display. 

“ENOUGH.” The middle Bolo’s speakers echoed the single word off of the ship’s sides and the other Bolos hulls, overpowering the small group’s chant, and the massive war machine shifted itself forward to tower over Carabis. 

“By Omega Protocol Section 3, subsection 47-B, paragraph 18, the Scope and Restriction of Military, Commercial, and Civilian Action within the threatened sphere may be absolved, modified, and or advised by a member of the Concordiat Armed Forces or Civilian officer of sufficient rank. If no such officer is available, the first eligible Commander not of the Enemy, with clear alliance or of similar interest, shall be named Commander of the appropriate units, or advise the further course of action.” 

The field was silent. Carabis and their cronies, were for the time being, silenced, and the Bolo resumed. 

“As those of Fantican and Birithi have abstained from command, the reasons and rationale being open to the public data net,” the Bolo seemed to direct this at Carabis, “and the People have requested full separation in such matters as consideration for Command, while maintaining a clause of agreement,” a subtle wave of the main turret indicated the treecats gathered around, drawing a quick bleek from the ‘cat in Karry’s lap, “this Human is the only candidate for Command at this time.”

Karry blinked. “What?”

“As such, the Human known as Karry is recognized by the Bolo Command as the only legal Commander,” the unnamed Bolo continued, “and as of this moment may assume Command.”

“Mark,” Karry hissed into the com, “what is he talking about?” BUt there was no answer. “Mark, what the hell is that Bolo talking about? I can’t- I don’t-” 

Carabis stepped toward her. “Most noble Human Karry,” he called, limbs outstretched, “Heed our call for Justice, for Freedom! Take your place as our leader, our God,” He stepped forward again, and Karry instinctively backed away from the alien construct. “And through Divine wisdom, lead us to a brighter future!”

“What say you, Human Karry?” The leading Bolo asked, and Karry felt its somber gaze despite its lack of eyes or face. “Will you take Command?”

Carabis’ supporters took up the call with it, calling for her to accept and walking towards her. Panic rose in Karry’s throat, and suddenly the ‘cats flowed around her, even the one in her lap, massing together like a living wall of fur, and the robots stopped abruptly as a massed snarl like a revving chainsaw rippled from them. The robots paused in their approach, but Carabis continued calling out, prompting the the others to continue their calls. “Lead us,” said one, “Command us!” said another. Praises and pleas seemed to echo in Karry’s ears, and she clamped her hands over them. Think, girl, she thought frantically, think!

Mark wasn’t answering her, a bunch of robot thought she was some space-Jesus, and now she had several hundred furry bodyguards. There had to be someway to think of a way out of this, or to somewhere else, but where? And how? The ‘cats where giving her space, buying her time? But why, why and how would they know-

Something clicked into place. They had made contact, were sentient, and had a say in who was the commander. That meant they were smart enough to communicate, to make plans. Mark had said they were telepaths, so if none right here could help, they could call someone who could. She just needed to talk to them, but she didn’t know how. Hell, the only way she could talk to Mark, and presumably, understand the robots was by translation - which meant that Mark could probably allow her to talk to the treecats...

“Mark,” she whispered again. “Listen very closely, and relay this to your spokesman over there, cause I am only going to say this once: for the next ten minutes, I am going to take limited - limited! - command, and in that time you will one, provide me with some means to communicate with the ‘cats.”

“The ‘cats’?” Mark replied, and despite everything going on around her, Karry almost giggled at the shock in his voice. 

“Yes, the ‘cats, or the natives, or the ‘People’ or what ever they are called,” Karry said, “just let me talk to them, and let them talk back, okay? Then, second,” she continued, her voice growing sharp and cold, “you will allow us complete silence and privacy while I figure out what the heck I’m gonna do. Just those two things, unless I say other wise.” 

There was silence for a few moments, and Karry scowled. “Get to it, Mark, because that ‘limited Command’ starts now.” 

There was silence for a few moments, and Karry scowled. “Get to it, Mark, because that ‘limited Command’ starts now.”

The massive Bolo behind her began rolling forward, without warning, and a strange warbling noise echoed from his speakers. Treecat heads whipped around as the robots voices faltered, and the other Bolo spoke to the the various roots in turn.

“A brief request has been made for a recess,” the Bolo announced, “and the decison of the human will be announced when they wish. Until then, we are to disperse.” The massive form began to spin on its tracks. “The People will, remain, and all else are to depart for the time being.”

With some reluctance, the crowd turned to follow the Bolo’s off the field, Mark following behind the stragglers. A chimer from her wrist informed Karry of a large download sent to her mini-computer, and she opened it, holograms popping into existence. It was a program requesting use of a small camera that made up her pinky finger. A hand touched her knee, and Karry looked up to see a treecat - weather the same one that had sat in her lap or another she couldn’t tell -  sitting back on it’s two hind pairs of limbs in front of her. The rest had circled around her, watching intently, and their ‘leader’ - or representative - raised its four-fingered hands up.

You wished to speak with us, the People?

The text scrolled at the bottom of the hologram as Karry’s camera picked up the signs and gestures, sent them to her computers, which then ran them through two translation programs, from signs to Manticorian, and Manticorian to English. A small icon flashed in the bottom corner, and Karry took a deep breath.

“Yeah,” she said as the computer did its work, “I need some advice.”

~~~

And now a quick intermission:

After some thought and effort, I have decided to change my url, mostly because I can’t seem to find myself when searching for my own blog, and I want to change to something more suiting to it and the main reason I have one the first place. So about five minutes after this comes up, I will be changing this to  a different username. It will mostly be a reference to my favorite series of David Weber’s works, his Honorverse, which is a great read.

And now back to the story:

~~~

The crowd gathered before the mass of the Websin, facing Karry, who stood waiting on the loading ramp. She gnawed on an artificial finger as the four Bolos’ shook the ground and tore up the soil with their approach, and the far smaller robots spread out at a respective distance from the ship. The Bolos reached their rearmost ranks and halted, and then there was silence on the field. 

Karry took a deep breath before keying into Websin’s PA system. A brief roar of feedback began and was cut short, and Karry stepped forward. 

“After discussion with the People, the protected natives of this planet,” she said, “It has been made known that I must, as several of you have stated, take Command.” Several of the robots began to move, as if to celebrate or protest, but Karry’s upraised hand quieted them. The treecats had been clear on this: if she didn’t command respect and maintain momentum, the zealous Emergents would roll over her before she could get a word in edge wise. 

“As Commander, I hereby give these orders: First, the remaining AIs of the Concordiat of Manticore will form a government following closely, if not in exact concordance, the original charter of the Concordiat, that is a legislative branch of two houses and a judicial body. The Bolo Command will oversee and govern the creation of such a government, and the adaptation of the rule of law to the current society from that of the Concordiat. 

“To encourage this, movement between systems and bodies of Peoples in the current holdings of the Concordiat remnants will be allowed free movement, communication, and trade under the same regulations and laws, and the former and current military units will provide for the defense and maintenance of regulation and law. The peoples of Fantican and Birthi will remain isolated until they otherwise desire, and petition the government on those lines.” There was a stir among the robots as Karry spoke, and the Bolos sat broodingly in their silent regard. 

A single Emergent stepped forward, and Karry recognized it as the first speaker that had addressed the Bolos. 

“You intend to make of us a nation then?” It sounded confused. “We have been separated for so long: how will we keep ourselves from falling into barbarism? To factions>”

“You have the Bolo Command. They’ve had a lot of experience with dealing with this, or so I’ve heard,” Karry looked sidelong at the treecats, sitting off in their own group, watching carefully. “Once the government is in place, they can act as advisers, as well as the military branch, serving as they always have, as Protectors of the people.” 

“Secondly,” Karry continued, “There will be no talk, no notion, of the deification of any organic.” There was no way she was going to be anyone’s ‘god’. Karry had seen enough television to know that was a Bad Idea. Besides, Carabis had put way too much ‘power’ and ‘responsibility’ into his little speech for her liking. 

“Third, given the isolation caused by the Final Order, the remnants of the Concordiat may require allies, trading partners, and new resources to maintain and grow, not to mention defend itself from future incursion, either by new or old foes.” Karry’s voice dropped to a whisper, carried though it was by the PA system. “As a part of that objective in seeking out allies and trading partners, I intend to go seek out my homeworld.”

None of them were expecting this; almost immediately, Carabis and their supporters began clamoring for her stay, promising riches and luxury, anything, if she would stay and rethink her commands. The other Emergent faction quickly turned to one another, and the First Speaker stepped forward. 

“But what of the Command, the station which you wield?” Its voice cut through the pleading and panic of Carabis’ party, and Karry answered slowly. 

“I don’t want to be the Commander,” she said. “I just wanted to go home, and according to the treecats - the People - the Final Command locked you all up so that I couldn’t just try and go home.” She stepped down from the ramp. “Look, if and when I get back to Earth, and if I end up staying, you all will have a government to work with, and elected leaders to do what needs to be done, by the voice of the majority. If I can’t find home, or just cant’t... go back, I’ll return, and we can work things out from there.” She looked around the field at the robots and AIs, the alien creatures about her. 

“Please, I just want to go home. Just to know if I can...” Karry’s eyes started to burn with tears, and she brushed them away with a hand - the artificial one - as her vision blurred. “If only to say goodbye this time.”

~~~

Well, this took more time than I wanted, but I can only blame my self for procrastinating. That, and New Years, headed back to college, and various activities I conveniently forgot about when writing. 

In other news, I finally found my siblings, by process of elimination and by guess them every few hours until they broke down. So there is that.

So name change, apology, sibling find, oh yeah: Next time we hit real Star Trek material, and true action. Lets be about it!

[master-sass-blast]

Strong as Stone --Part Forty-Two.

Welcome back! Sorry for the brief hiatus; depression was kicking my ass (still is, but I’m determined to move forward), but now I’m back and

GOOD LORD I HAVE MADE SOME ANGST. WOW.

So, uh, last time we learned that M’Baku and Okoye are going to have a baby! Yay! How wonderful!

This time, we get to see the pre-stages of Dewani’s trial --and it gets angsty. Whooooo boy.

This chapter is rated T for the following: heavy angst, discussions of death, and angst. Angst angst angst.

Pairings: Okoye x M’Baku and Shuri x OC.

Yupp. Angst heavy update. You’ve been warned.

(Side note: I had to edit the title twice because I got the wrong number. The fuck is wrong with me?)

@the-last-hair-bender, @skysynclair19

Not every fight you face will be one you can control. There are times when you are the game master, and there are times where you are merely a piece on the board.

It’s hard to be a piece on the board when you know the stakes are high, because doing your best will never feel like enough --especially if you lose.

There is no magic answer, my dears, for avoiding the fear or the loss. All you can do is put one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes, moving forward is the only answer.

“This will be so much easier once the rail system is finished.”

Okoye couldn’t help but smile as she carefully --expertely--piloted her ship through the mountain range that led to the Jabari lands. “Is that so?”

“Don’t act like it won’t be!” Shuri said with a laugh, momentarily pausing her pacing around the cabin of the craft. “Just sit back and ride. It’ll be shorter, too.”

“Shortest distance between two places is a straight line,” T’Challa agreed without looking up from the book he was reading.

They were headed to the Jabari lands so that they could prepped for Dewani’s impending trial; they’d all have to give testimony in defense of the Chief’s sister --which they were all willing to do, no questions asked--and were flying out a week early so they could get a sense of what would be required of them and how the trial would proceed.

As far as Okoye was concerned --as far as they all were concerned--it was a sham. As soon as the trial started, F’Tendi’s history of abuse would come out, and that’d be the end of it. The curmudgeon would hang himself on his own rope, and Dewani would be freed from her uncle’s looming, oppressive presence.

Shuri, however, was nervous. She’d started pacing the perimeter of the cabin as soon as they’d taken off and hadn’t stopped for almost an hour.

Okoye knew the princess was young, and that youth could lend itself to restlessness and worry, but she also knew that Shuri was remarkably level-headed --and that if there was anyone who would have an inside eye on how the trial was shaping up, it was Shuri; she was Dewani’s girlfriend and confident, after all.

So, if Shuri was nervous, there had to be a reason for it… right?

You’ll find out one way or another, Okoye told herself as she steered her ship through a narrow pass. For now, focus on making it to the Jabari lands in one piece.

There was, in fact, a reason for Shuri’s nervous energy.

A very large, very --figuratively--sticky one.

According to the elder representing Dewani’s case --since M’Baku was the chief of the tribe he couldn’t present her case himself, so it had been delegated to a trusted advisor--most of F’Tendi’s charges were superfluous. Homosexuality wasn’t a crime under Hanuman’s tenaments, and F’Tendi’s abuse towards Dewani over her orientation was grounds for his own expulsion from the tribe.

Rescuing Adesina from the cult territory, however, was more than enough to land Dewani in hot water.

“She was dying!” Shuri snapped once she’d processed the information. “I’ve got more than enough medical records to prove--”

“And we will definitely be relying on those records as physical evidence, your Highness,” the elder said evenly, “but the point still remains: entering the cult territory is expressly forbidden. And, given that Sister Dewani ventured there many times and interacted with a member of the cult, she can be tried for expulsion.”

“Adesina was a victim --is a survivor--of heinous, horrific physical abuse!”

“Again, the physical evidence you have will be very handy in proving that.”

“So what’s the issue, then? Why are we even worried about Dewani’s rescue mission?” Shuri exclaimed with a scowl. “It was a goodwill mission! She risked her own life and standing to save someone else --someone that she didn’t know, that by all means should’ve been inconsequential to her. Why isn’t her compassion--”

T’Challa placed a hand on his younger sister’s shoulder. “I think the elder is trying to get to that point, but they do need the opportunity to get a word in edgewise.”

“Your Highness, you were present when Dewani asked Adesina to aid in the battle against Thanos, correct?”

Shuri’s narrowed. “What does the battle have anything to do with… anything? Thanos was trying to destroy half the world. Dewani was trying to help save it.”

“According to certain testimonies, Dewani had prior knowledge of Adesina’s powers and asked her to use them against Thanos.”

Okoye felt her heart sink. Shit.

Rescuing Adesina could easily be spun as a goodwill mission --primarily because that’s exactly what it had been. But encouraging Adesina to use her powers?

You don’t have to belong to the tribe to see where encouraging a demon to use their powers might come across as blasphemous.

“Well, we all saw Adesina use her powers when HYDRA attacked the palace,” Shuri reasoned. “Technically, there’s no legitimate way to establish that Dewani had any prior knowledge of Adesina’s powers before then. And, given the severity of the fight we were facing with Thanos, we needed all the help we could get; Adesina’s inclusion is practically in consequential.”

“Perhaps in the logistical scheme of things, but inciting a person to use dark magics is still considered an act of blasphemy,” the elder said with a small, somewhat amused smile. “Though, I might ask you to help present the case. You seem to have all the arguments formulated already.”

“Given that asking for Adesina’s help was an act of blasphemy regardless of how we look at things, what does that mean for Dewani?” T’Challa asked.

“The context of the situation might be enough to sway the council into pardoning her, especially of Adesina is truly repentant of her upbringing.”

“And if it’s not?” Okoye asked.

“She’d just be banished,” Shuri interjected. “Right?”

The elder grimaced. “Given that Adesina is a legitimate conduit of Ravana, no. Inciting the use of dark magics on that scale is ground for execution.”

Okoye’s eyes widened as Shuri let out a horrified “What?” “Isn’t that a little severe? She was heinously abused by her uncle for years and lost her brother in the fight with Thanos only a handful of weeks ago. And she only asked for Adesina’s help to try and save the world!”

“The law is the law. We can only hope that the council will be merciful and see Dewani’s choice as an act of youthful foolishness, rather than act of malicious defiance.”

T’Challa grabbed Shuri’s hand, effectively cutting the teen off before she could go on a tirade. “How can we help ensure that outcome?”

“Attesting to Dewani’s character and commitment to her tribe will be important --and providing testimony about F’Tendi’s mistreatment towards her. He’ll be presenting the case against her, and the worse of a light we can paint him in, the better Dewani’s chances are.”

Shuri stood up abruptly and darted out of the room. “I need to see Dewani.”

“It’s alright,” the elder said when T’Challa got up to go after her. “We have all week to prepare, and trying to cram everything in now isn’t going to help.”

Okoye nodded, then stood when T’Challa did. I need to speak with M’Baku.

M’Baku and Dewani were out in one of the gardens, sitting together on one of the many benches that dotted the green space. Dewani was curled up in her brother’s lap --as much as she could be, she was almost T’Challa’s height now and almost the King’s size as well--and had her face buried in his neck. M’Baku had his arms wrapped around his sister, and he looked like he’d just seen the face of death.

They know, Okoye realized. They know she could die.

Dewani popped out of her brother’s lap as soon as she saw Shuri, and then she was slumping against her girlfriend, heaving ragged sobs.

Okoye slipped past them to get to M’Baku. She held him as tightly as he held her, pressing kisses against his chest. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“I’ve worked so hard to protect her--”

“I know.”

“--and her good intentions could get her killed.”

Okoye grimaced as she felt her throat constrict with emotion. “I know.”

M’Baku let her go and looked off to the side, away from everyone else, as he blinked rapidly. “If I-- if I had adopted her sooner, there might’ve not even been a trial. I would’ve known about her orientation sooner, handled things myself, and all this could’ve been handled quietly. She’d be safe.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Okoye insisted quietly as she rubbed her hands up and down his arms.

“Chief M’Baku,” T’Challa said as he walked up to them. “I’m so sorry.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Is there--” T’Challa paused, grimaced, then continued. “Is there anything I can do to help? Anything that might… prevent an execution order?”

Can he use his status as King to interfere so that Dewani’s guaranteed to stay safe, one way or another, Okoye translated mentally.

M’Baku smiled bitterly and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s out of both our hands. We can only hope that the council judging her is lenient.”

Okoye clenched her teeth together as she watched Dewani and Shuri hold each other. Bast, please let it be so.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” M’Baku was sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “If it was just F’Tendi’s abuse and her orientation in question, I wouldn’t be worried--”

“Things have changed,” Okoye said softly as she knelt in front of him. “I get it.”

“The elder presenting Dewani’s case is worried that F’Tendi will use her relationship with Shuri to prove her lack of devotion to Jabari tradition and that she encouraged Adesina to use her powers to bring about the apocalypse.”

“That’s a load of bullshit. Anyone will be able to see through that.”

M’Baku shook his head. “My people are terrified of the cultists. Different beliefs and practices aside, there’s a long history of hatred and hurt there. I’m scared it won’t take much for them to transfer that to Dewani, misplaced as it is.”

“M’Baku, look at me.” Okoye cupped his face in her hands when he did. “Dewani’s going to make it out of this. She will. As soon as the elder representing her case starts talking about F’Tendi’s history of abuse, he won’t have a leg to stand on. He’ll be laughed out of the room.”

M’Baku sighed heavily before drawing her into his arms. “I wish I could have your faith.”

“Things will work out. They will.” They have to.

M’Baku pressed his lips against her forehead, then pressed one of his hands against her stomach. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but alright. I’ve already had to cut back on my coffee intake.”

“Horrors. Have you thought about any name choices?”

Okoye chuckled. “Isn’t it a bit early for that? We’ve only known we’re having a baby for a couple weeks now.”

M’Baku was silent for a moment, then said in a trembling voice, “I was thinking… if we had a girl --if Dewani doesn’t--”

Okoye wrapped her arms around his neck and held him as he buried his face into her shoulder and sobbed. “It won’t come to that. We aren’t going to have to do that.” She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her own tears start their escape. Bast, please don’t make us do that.