#work from home medical transcription

[withbriefthanksgiving]

The director of the New York Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights of the UN (UN OHCHR), Craig Mokhiber, has resigned in a letter dated 28 October 2023

the resignation letter can be found embedded in this tweet by Rami Atari (@.Raminho) dated 31 October 2023.

The letters are here:

Transcription:

United Nations | Nations Unies

HEADQUARTERS I SIEGE I NEW YORK, NY 10017

28 October 2023

Dear High Commissioner,

This will be my last official communication to you as Director of the New York Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights.

I write at a moment of great anguish for the world, including for many of our colleagues. Once again, we are seeing a genocide unfolding before our eyes, and the Organization that we serve appears powerless to stop it. As someone who has investigated human rights in Palestine since the 1980s, lived in Gaza as a UN human rights advisor in the 1990s, and carried out several human rights missions to the country before and since, this is deeply personal to me.

I also worked in these halls through the genocides against the Tutsis, Bosnian Muslims, the Yazidi, and the Rohingya. In each case, when the dust settled on the horrors that had been perpetrated against defenseless civilian populations, it became painfully clear that we had failed in our duty to meet the imperatives of prevention of mass atrocites, of protection of the vulnerable, and of accountability for perpetrators. And so it has been with successive waves of murder and persecution against the Palestinians throughout the entire life of the UN.

High Commissioner, we are failing again.

As a human rights lawyer with more than three decades of experience in the field, I know well that the concept of genocide has often been subject to political abuse. But the current wholesale slaughter of the Palestinian people, rooted in an ethno-nationalist settler colonial ideology, in continuation of decades of their systematic persecution and purging, based entirely upon their status as Arabs, and coupled with explicit statements of intent by leaders in the Israeli government and military, leaves no room for doubt or debate. In Gaza, civilian homes, schools, churches, mosques, and medical institutions are wantonly attacked as thousands of civilians are massacred. In the West Bank, including occupied Jerusalem, homes are seized and reassigned based entirely on race, and violent settler pogroms are accompanied by Israeli military units. Across the land, Apartheid rules.

This is a text-book case of genocide. The European, ethno-nationalist, settler colonial project in Palestine has entered its final phase, toward the expedited destruction of the last remnants of indigenous Palestinian life in Palestine. What's more, the governments of the United States, the United Kingdom, and much of Europe, are wholly complicit in the horrific assault. Not only are these governments refusing to meet their treaty obligations "to ensure respect" for the Geneva Conventions, but they are in fact actively arming the assault, providing economic and intelligence support, and giving political and diplomatic cover for Israel's atrocities.

Volker Turk, High Commissioner for Human Rights Palais Wilson, Geneva

In concert with this, western corporate media, increasingly captured and state-adjacent, are in open breach of Article 20 of the ICCPR, continuously dehumanizing Palestinians to facilitate the genocide, and broadcasting propaganda for war and advocacy of national, racial, or religious hatred that constitutes incitement to discrimination, hostility, and violence. US-based social media companies are suppressing the voices of human rights defenders while amplifying pro-Israel propaganda. Israel lobby online-trolls and GONGOS are harassing and smearing human rights defenders, and western universities and employers are collaborating with them to punish those who dare to speak out against the atrocities. In the wake of this genocide, there must be an accounting for these actors as well, just as there was for radio Mules Collins in Rwanda.

In such circumstances, the demands on our organization for principled and effective action are greater than ever. But we phave not met the challenge. The protective enforcement power Security Council has again been blocked by US intransigence, the SG [UN Secretary General] is under assault for the mildest of protestations, and our human rights mechanisms are under sustained slanderous attack by an organized, online impunity network.

Decades of distraction by the illusory and largely disingenuous promises of Oslo have diverted the Organization from its core duty to defend international law, international human rights, and the Charter itself. The mantra of the "two-state solution" has become an open joke in the corridors of the UN, both for its utter impossibility in fact, and for its total failure to account for the inalienable human rights of the Palestinian people. The so-called "Quartet" has become nothing more than a fig leaf for inaction and for subservience to a brutal status quo. The (US-scripted) deference to "agreements between the parties themselves" (in place of international law) was always a transparent slight-of-hand, designed to reinforce the power of Israel over the rights of the occupied and dispossessed Palestinians.

High Commissioner, I came to this Organization first in the 1980s, because I found in it a principled, norm-based institution that was squarely on the side of human rights, including in cases where the powerful US, UK, and Europe were not on our side. While my own government, its subsidiarity institutions, and much of the US media were still supporting or justifying South African apartheid, Israeli oppression, and Central American death squads, the UN was standing up for the oppressed peoples of those lands. We had international law on our side. We had human rights on our side. We had principle on our side. Our authority was rooted in our integrity. But no more.

In recent decades, key parts of the UN have surrendered to the power of the US, and to fear of the Israel Lobby, to abandon these principles, and to retreat from international law itself. We have lost a lot in this abandonment, not least our own global credibility. But the Palestinian people have sustained the biggest losses as a result of our failures. It is a stunning historic irony that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was adopted in the same year that the Nakba was perpetrated against the Palestinian people. As we commemorate the 75th Anniversary of the UDHR, we would do well to abandon the old cliché that the UDHR was born out of the atrocities that proceeded it, and to admit that it was born alongside one of the most atrocious genocides of the 20th Century, that of the destruction of Palestine. In some sense, the framers were promising human rights to everyone, except the Palestinian people. And let us remember as well, that the UN itself carries the original sin of helping to facilitate the dispossession of the Palestinian people by ratifying the European settler colonial project that seized Palestinian land and turned it over to the colonists. We have much for which to atone.

But the path to atonement is clear. We have much to learn from the principled stance taken in cities around the world in recent days, as masses of people stand up against the genocide, even at risk of beatings and arrest. Palestinians and their allies, human rights defenders of every stripe, Christian and Muslim organizations, and progressive Jewish voices saying "not in our name", are all leading the way. All we have to do is to follow them.

Yesterday, just a few blocks from here, New York's Grand Central Station was completely taken over by thousands of Jewish human rights defenders standing in solidarity with the Palestinian people and demanding an end to Israeli tyranny (many risking arrest, in the process). In doing so, they stripped away in an instant the Israeli hasbara propaganda point (and old antisemitic trope) that Israel somehow represents the Jewish people. It does not. And, as such, Israel is solely responsible for its crimes. On this point, it bears repeating, in spite of Israel lobby smears to the contrary, that criticism of Israel's human rights violations is not antisemitic, any more than criticism of Saudi violations is Islamophobic, criticism of Myanmar violations is anti-Buddhist, or criticism of Indian violations is anti-Hindu. When they seek to silence us with smears, we must raise our voice, not lower it. I trust you will agree, High Commissioner, that this is what speaking truth to power is all about.

But I also find hope in those parts of the UN that have refused to compromise the Organization's human rights principles in spite of enormous pressures to do so. Our independent special rapporteurs, commissions of enquiry, and treaty body experts, alongside most of our staff, have continued to stand up for the human rights of the Palestinian people, even as other parts of the UN (even at the highest levels) have shamefully bowed their heads to power. As the custodians of the human rights norms and standards, OHCHR. has a particular duty to defend those standards. Our job, I believe, is to make our voice heard, from the Secretary-General to the newest UN recruit, and horizontally across the wider UN system, incisting that the human rights of the Palestinian people are not up for debate, negotiation, or compromise anywhere under the blue flag.

What, then, would a UN-norm-based position look like? For what would we work if we were true to our rhetorical admonitions about human rights and equality for all, accountability for perpetrators, redress for victims, protection of the vulnerable, and empowerment for rights-holders, all under the rule of law? The answer, I believe, is simple—if we have the clarity to see beyond the propagandistic smokescreens that distort the vision of justice to which we are sworn, the courage to abandon fear and deference to powerful states, and the will to truly take up the banner of human rights and peace. To be sure, this is a long-term project and a steep climb. But we must begin now or surrender to unspeakable horror. I see ten essential points:

Legitimate action: First, we in the UN must abandon the failed (and largely disingenuous) Oslo paradigm, its illusory two-state solution, its impotent and complicit Quartet, and its subjugation of international law to the dictates of presumed political expediency. Our positions must be unapologetically based on international human rights and international law.

Clarity of Vision: We must stop the pretense that this is simply a conflict over land or religion between two warring parties and admit the reality of the situation in which a disproportionately powerful state is colonizing, persecuting, and dispossessing an indigenous population on the basis of their ethnicity.

One State based on human rights: We must support the establishment of a single, democratic, secular state in all of historic Palestine, with equal rights for Christians, Muslims, and Jews, and, therefore, the dicmantling of the deeply racist, settler-colonial project and an end to apartheid across the land.

Fighting Apartheid: We must redirect all UN efforts and resources to the struggle against apartheid, just as we did for South Africa in the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s.

Return and Compensation: We must reaffirm and insist on the right to return and full compensation for all Palestinians and their families currently living in the occupied territories, in Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, and in the diaspora across the globe.

Truth and Justice: We must call for a transitional justice process, making full use of decades of accumulated UN investigations, enquiries, and reports, to document the truth, and to ensure accountability for all perpetrators, redress for all victims, and remedies for documented injustices.

Protection: We must press for the deployment of a well-resourced and strongly mandated UN protection force with a sustained mandate to protect civilians from the river to the sea.

Disarmament: We must advocate for the removal and destruction of Israel's massive stockpiles of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, lest the conflict lead to the total destruction of the region and, possibly, beyond.

Mediation: We must recognize that the US and other western powers are in fact not credible mediators, but rather actual parties to the conflict who are complicit with Israel in the violation of Palestinian rights, and we must engage them as such.

Solidarity: We must open our doors (and the doors of the SG) wide to the legions of Palestinian, Israeli, Jewish, Muslim, and Christian human rights defenders who are standing in solidarity with the people of Palestine and their human rights and stop the unconstrained flow of Israel lobbyists to the offices of UN leaders, where they advocate for continued war, persecution, apartheid, and impunity, and smear our human rights defenders for their principled defense of Palestinian rights.

This will take years to achieve, and western powers will fight us every step of the way, so we must be steadfast. In the immediate term, we must work for an immediate ceasefire and an end to the longstanding siege on Gaza, stand up against the ethnic cleansing of Gaza, Jerusalem, and the West Bank (and elsewhere), document the genocidal assault in Gaza, help to bring massive humanitarian aid and reconstruction to the Palestinians, take care of our traumatized colleagues and their families, and fight like hell for a principled approach in the UN's political offices.

The UN's failure in Palestine thus far is not a reason for us to withdraw. Rather it should give us the courage to abandon the failed paradigm of the past, and fully embrace a more principled course. Let us, as OHCHR, boldly and proudly join the anti-apartheid movement that is growing all around the world, adding our logo to the banner of equality and human rights for the Palestinian people. The world is watching. We will all be accountable for where we stood at this crucial moment in history. Let us stand on the side of justice.

I thank you, High Commissioner, Volker, for hearing this final appeal from my desk. I will leave the Office in a few days for the last time, after more than three decades of service. But please do not hesitate to reach out if I can be of assistance in the future.

Sincerely,

Craig Mokhiber

End of transcription.

Emphasis (bolding) is my own. I have added links, where relevant, to explanations of concepts the former Director refers to.

[a-whispering-echo]

below is a transcript of the rambles in my notes on my Pirate Au.

the concept is THERE okay? just not that thought out. Dream was originally in this au too, he has since been nerfed cus i just dont really like Dream, oops.

They're all from different ships and we're stranded on the same island - They have to work together to make a new ship and get off thhe Island

Dusts ship was infected with illness, he killed them all to stop them dying painfully from it, he planned to drown himself after killing them all, this didn't work, and he ended up washed up on the island - The grey Spirit

Most of Horrors ship died of starvation after they were low on supplies and the captain hoarded all the food for herself. when they were hit by the storm, Horror get his head wound from that and doesn't remember much of his life from before the crash, just knowing that he had a brother and that he has to make sure he's safe, he doesn't know he's already dead. - the Qualm's Tail

Killers ship had broken out into civil war, and almost everyone was killed in this war, most of them to his own hand, he was in the side of rebellion against their captain who was killing off their own crew for more shares of treasure, when they were hit by the storm, they're were only around ten men altogether, Killer doesn't much care what happened to his crew mates, he saw a lot of them as traitors and those he didn't he wasn't very close to anyway. - the Something New

Cross was sailing on his own, he was sent out by his town for supplies by his father, one of the leaders. Gaster hoped his son would die at sea, or at the very least, not come back. He got his wish when Cross' small boat couldn't handle the fierce tides of the ocean. Cross was mostly honoured to be chosen to go out, thinking it a time to prove himself, never realising that the people hated him until he spoke about his home life with the others, and they picked up on things he didn't. - the X

Nightmare was a prince who ran away when he was young due to the villagefolk believing him to be cursed by the devil due to his magic being dark in nature. he ran away and became one of the most feared pirates on the seas, stating that if everyone was going to treat him as if he was evil anyway, he might as well actually commit the crimes he was accused of. Nightmare exclusively worked alone, using illusion magic to make it seem like he had a huge crew to scare people off, but on his own he couldn't fight the tide and his ship hit a rock while he was asleep. - The Nightfall Mare

They arrive on the island withing a few hours of each other, nm lands first, relitivly unharmed, just a few nicks and scratches, but he has some food with him, just some bread and berries, and fresh water to last a good while. The mtt then wash up on quick succession, Horror first, unconscious and extremely wounded ,Nightmare doesnt know what to do, and mostly just tries to stop the bleedlng as best as he can with his clothing, until Dust washed up. He's also unconscious, and almost drowned, but when he's resuscitated by nm, he immediately helps horror, as dust was a medic in training, horror stays unconscious for a few days, but is mostly okay in the end, minus some memory problems, due to dusts help. Killer shows up about 20 minutes after dust wakes up, he's awake, but cut up pretty badly, but not in fear of death, but he has weapons, several knives, and axes on his shipwreck, dusst helps patch him up too, and then a few hours later, cross shows up. He has a bag of supplies, of water and rope, but most importantly, he knew fire magic. Together, they had enough supplies to survive, and become very close along the

[professionalranter31]

I cannot explain the visceral joy I would feel if we actually got to hear, read, or watch the transcripts that resulted in Overwatch being shut down

Because that moment, that moment is defining for nearly all of the characters on the roster in some way.

Sigma might’ve been found by Overwatch instead of Talon if they were still active at the time

So many of Doomfist’s potential plans relied on Overwatch either being crippled or dissolved.

Many if the agents like Tracer were completely barred from continuing their work in the same field just for a different organization. Lena lost the right to fly because of Overwatch being shut down

Winston I’m highly certain didn’t have a home and has been illegally living at Watchpoint Gibraltar for a long time with an illegally reactivated Athena

So many scientists and engineers couldn’t continue their work because they had worked for Overwatch, even if they were the top of their field. How many of them ended up working at the Arcology or Oasis?

The Ecopoint program being shut down must have hurt Mei so much. Because the data she got could be considered illegally gained because it used an Ecopoint base. And how many of those environmental researchers who were trying to save the world from Global Warming and Climate Change were barred from continuing that work? How many of them became ecoterrorists?

From what I can tell only two people didn’t suffer any consequences for working for Overwatch

Sojourn, who unlike the others wasn’t forced into retirement but got to choose to enter it, unlike Reinhardt, and then started doing vigilante work just like Blackwatch whose practices she had spoken out against. How many of former colleagues envy her that she was actually given the choice to retire?

And Mercy who is still allowed to work as a medic in places of crisis and do research. How many of her former colleagues hate she’s allowed to continue her work despite also doing work for Blackwatch?

And I’m willing to bet the reason it’s like that is because while the others who were called to testify did have some negative things to say about Overwatch they did also have a lot of positive things as well. But Sojourn and Mercy only had bad things. They both were known to have several complaints about Overwatch and Blackwatch, and that most likely bled into their testimonies. And the people of the UN clung to their testimonies and the fame that both of them had to use what they said to get Overwatch shut down. Perhaps if they had said things differently or something else Overwatch might’ve been allowed to continue to help people, to keep some of their programs active like the Ecopoints. Maybe the people who worked within would’ve been able to leave and still find work outside of Overwatch.

That last part is hypothetical, but dear god if they did something like that mini series that introduced Aurora to us but with the UN trial I would love it. That trial changed so much about many of the heroes within the roster and the world of Overwatch at large and I want to know everything that happened in it. Who testified, what evidence was brought forward, what secrets were revealed, everything.

[theboywithburninghands]

The End. I’ll post a big mushy thank you post later since I’m posting this at work, but this is the end of the story. Hope it’s good! @fernstarsblog @noble-crimson

TW: Vomit, drugs, childbirth

Epilogue: Sweet Child O’ Mine

Upon first moving to Ediacara after collecting their dowry, Pomni and Jax moved into a small house near the town of Jezioro Niedźwiedź, or the much simpler to pronounce Bear Lake. As soon as the couple had unpacked completely, Pomni set to work learning Ediacaran. Jax was admittedly skeptical about her ability to learn such a complex language so quickly, and had in fact been a bit wary of moving to Ediacara at all due to the language barrier. Pomni studied the language for eight hours every day, and could speak and write it at a conversational level in about three weeks. By their fourth month, she was completely literate, shocking just about every prospective employer she met with her heavily accented yet completely accurate Ediacaran.

Pomni began her search for an occupation as soon as she spoke enough Ediacaran. It was rough going at first. Pomni may have been quite knowledgeable about law and been articulate, but she had little experience to actually put on paper. No diplomas or references, only cases she had helped her father with. She was offered at least four jobs as a secretary, but turned them down. Such a position would only make her depressed, being at the beck and call of a man…

But she hunted tirelessly, and eventually caught her first break as a stenographer for Bear Lake’s courthouse, specifically the misdemeanor accountability court. This was where soaks who had made a nuisance in public after a fifth too many of Ediacaran red wine ended up, or children who had pilfered sweets from a chemist’s shop, or frustrated citizens who wished to dispute moving violations and truancy notices.

Pomni remained quiet and kept a stern countenance, and, despite being fairly new to Ediacaran, made precious few mistakes. Magistrates and even the judges complimented her impeccable memory, being able to repeat back transcripts that she hadn’t gotten the chance to write down yet. Her penmanship was clean and she was unfailingly polite, even to the rare belligerent defendant.

Then came the day of a high profile felony case. A Dr. Kaczmarek had been arrested on charges of selling cadavers from the local hospital to a shady medical supply company. The usual stenographer for the felony court was abruptly hospitalized after an errant kick from a horse, developing a tremor in his hand that prevented him from writing as quickly. Pomni was asked to transcribe in his place. Although the judge was skeptical of her abilities, Pomni performed remarkably well, her affect cool despite the rapid-fire speech of the magistrates or mumbled testimonies of the witnesses. The court staff, impressed by her performance, brought Mrs. Krolik on for more high profile cases, and she soon became the court’s mainstay stenographer.

In her free time, Pomni had begun work on a novel. She initially thought of penning an autobiography, but she needed to be an established author first. No one would have any interest in the life story of a stenographer, even if her life was rather interesting. So, she began a novel. It was a character study of five children of a single mother and their lives from childhood to adulthood. She was still drafting the story, having to omit a good amount of unnecessary detail from just the first chapter alone. Luckily Jax was there to read through her drafts and offer constructive criticism while on the road to recovery.

As soon as they settled into their new home, Pomni put her husband back on the process of tapering him off of opium. They only had a single bottle of laudanum left and no easy way to get ahold of it anymore, so it would be the final dosage before completely excising the drug from his life.

His symptoms resumed after reducing his dosage from a single drop of opium to a half a drop. However, they were significantly less severe. He was weak and bedridden and struggled with body aches and cold sweats, but he had thankfully ceased vomiting and was at last able to get some sleep, although he woke frequently. Pomni cared for him, bringing him vegetables from the local market, not even attempting to cook them. It would have been dreadfully inconvenient to burn their new home down after just purchasing it.

Soon, he wasn’t on laudanum at all. After two weeks without poppy, he was up and walking about. His regular countenance returned come the third week. On that Friday, Pomni went to the edge of a bridge.

“Are you ready?” Pomni asked, holding his hand.

“I am,” Jax replied. He took the half full tincture bottle out of his jacket pocket. Jax looked for a long while at the small bottle that had ruled his life for the past five years. He lobbed the bottle over the railing. It plummeted thirty feet into the rocky gulch below, bursting with a splash on a boulder.

“Goodbye, cruel mistress. You’ll bewitch this soul no longer.” Jax said, giving a short wave to the gulch.

“Did you plan that little farewell or did it come to you just now?” Pomni asked with a smirk.

“Which would be more impressive to you?” Jax replied with a smirk of his own.

Jax took on a job as well to keep the pair from exhausting their savings. He quickly found one as an accountant for a trading company that had previously worked with Krolik International. Being the son of the founder, it looked quite good on a resumé, although he was careful to omit anything about recent goings on with the company.

Jax and Pomni saw Drexl Krolik for the final time a few days before their departure to Ediacara. They returned to the Krolik Estate to collect some of Jax’s belongings, and encountered two constables from Blackshell Bay speaking with Drexl in his foyer. Jax said nothing to his father, who said nothing in return. Pomni met her father-in-law’s eyes only once. Though his gaze was incensed, his eyes were drained of the fierceness they once held. Pomni and Jax had his belongings on the carriage within an hour, thanks to assistance from Zuzanna, who had put in her two weeks' notice and was planning to start a job at The Rooker Estate.

As for Jax’s brothers, he wrote to all three regularly. Altonicus and Kali, although they did not receive the funds necessary to open their pharmacy due to Drexl’s behavior, remained as stable as ever. Alton continued his work at the hospital, and Kali started a book club, which had around a half dozen regulars, including Mirella Shutnyk.

Osvaldo was elated to be living on Primum Peccatum, free to pursue his music career. His performance at the wedding put him on the map, and he began performing original compositions at other weddings, and he had been accepted into the prestigious New Hirnantian Choral Ensemble. He flubbed his first audition due to stage fright, but conquered his anxieties for his second audition. To help with the mortgage payments, he had accepted two tenants. Dawson, the son of Lawrence, Drexl’s former business partner, happily moved in with Osvaldo. The two of them became inseparable partners, often seen around town together, and the keen-eyed had spotted Osvaldo occasionally stealing a quick kiss from his larger companion. Assuredly in a platonic way.

The other tenant was Boone, who was allowed to stay with them on the conditions that he refrain from any churlish behavior and get an occupation that would help him pay for the house. It was slow going at first, Boone applying to many jobs in several different trades. Although he was politely declined positions at the fire brigade and The Gray Church, he found that he was a rather gifted editor. He got a job at a small ad agency, finding minuscule details to fix in ad copy or business documents. His ever-drifting focus was curbed somewhat by caffeine tablets prescribed to him by his eldest brother. He struggled, of course, and often found himself reprimanded at work, but remained steadily employed and was thus allowed to stay with his brother.

Pomni wrote to Mr. Kinger, Sister Ragatha, and Zooble regularly. When he remembered to respond, Mr. Kinger was thrilled to hear from his surrogate daughter, and Pomni gifted him several books on Ediacaran insects to add to his collection. Kinger said that Zuzanna was an excellent housekeeper, tidying up the dust and cobwebs while keeping his reams upon reams of notes and sketches untouched and in their place. Sister Ragatha was pleased to learn that Pomni had secured a job, chasing her dream to be a working lady just as the Gray Sister knew she could. She sent Pomni a string of beads to pray The 13 Steps should she ever feel the need to. Although Pomni remained agnostic, she kept the string in her handbag at all times. Zooble kept Pomni up to date with the goings-on at the Shutnyk Estate, and was always free to offer their candid yet insightful advice.

Although it took some time, two years to be exact, Pomni eventually decided to write to her parents. They offered their congratulations on her job acquisition, Vladimir remarking that he could have used her sharp eyes while working on some new cases, and, inevitably, told their daughter that they missed her terribly. Pomni missed them a bit as well, but was so busy with her career that she had precious little time off to come visit them. She assured them she would one of these days, but a major event occurred four years on that stopped her tireless work in its tracks.

Pomni awoke early one morning and was sick into the toilet, and remained at home to hopefully recover from her sudden stomach illness. When her symptoms returned the following morning, she sent a telegram to Altonicus inquiring what course of action to follow. Altonicus replied, politely as ever, if she and Jax had consummated their union recently.

Pomni was midway into asking what that information had to do with anything before she stood up straighter.

“Ohhhhhh blazes…” she whispered.

Four months on and Pomni’s belly had grown significantly. Jax was over the moon with excitement, and Pomni, while initially very hesitant, relaxed when she learned that she would be granted paid maternity leave in the third trimester. Her anxieties continued to smolder, however, when she remembered how many times her mother miscarried. She took the utmost precautions, moving as little as possible, eating very bland food and taking no medication apart from the prenatal vitamins the town’s doctor prescribed. By the seventh month, she was at home on leave, her belly firm and round and the tiny life inside it doing just fine, according to the hospital.

Leave was quite simple, as Pomni had a number of books to catch up on that she previously could not read due to not speaking Ediacaran, as well as her novel to chip away at. Jax had busied himself making preparations for the infant, clearing part of the house to serve as a nursery and reading countless childcare books. Pomni, as usual, did not require much attention, but did occasionally burst into tears or snap uncharacteristically at her husband, and she would sometimes burn with a physical desire she had never known before. It mortified her how unstable the developing life inside her made her act, and she would have been ashamed at acting so erratically had Jax not been his pleasant yet dry self.

Pomni told him one winter evening to please remove a pair of black leather gloves, as the scent was bothering her. Jax smiled.

“Why of course, my dear. In fact, I’ll see to it that I personally scour each and every surface these malodorous gloves have touched!”

Pomni silenced him by playfully lobbing a book in his direction.

Nine months in, Pomni’s water broke on the way to the restroom one morning, and she was rushed to the hospital. Labor proved to be an ordeal, as Pomni’s slight stature made the delivery process especially excruciating. Pomni said things to the doctors and nurses she hoped to never repeat to a single living soul, and it was the first and only time she repeated The 13 Steps, mostly because she wanted something else to focus on other than her entire lower body being torn asunder.

What felt like an eternity of suffering later, and there was at last a tiny voice crying out into the world. Pomni saw her child and the pain was instantly forgotten. Her child. Her baby. She was here.

Jax was the first to hold her after the doctor snipped off her umbilical cord. She was perfectly tiny, little more than a bundle of blankets and damp, blue-violet fur. Jax looked at her with a fondness Pomni had only seen on her wedding day. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked from his minutes-old daughter to Pomni, damp with sweat and rested atop five pillows.

“She’s beautiful, darling…” he said, gently handing her over to Pomni. Pomni feebly took her daughter into her arms, motherly instinct taking over as she rocked the infant to soothe her cries.

“Hello, Esther…” Pomni managed to say before drifting into slumber, equal parts relieved and exhausted.

—

“That’s it Esther, come to daddy!”

In the foothills of the Waga Mountains in Ediacara, on a grassy knoll, a red and white checkered blanket was spread out for a family of three. The father, a periwinkle-furred rabbit beastman, the mother, a petite human woman with shoulder length raven black hair, and their one-year-old daughter. The child’s fur was a deep, umbral blue, with twinkling green eyes like peridots. She had a small tuft of violet-black hair between her long ears, her cheeks, arms and legs still cushioned by baby fat. She wriggled about on the blanket until she was sitting up, clad in a small gray dress and puffy white bloomers.

“You can do it, dear! Up-up!” Jax said, patting his knees.

Esther rocked forward onto her hands and knees. She shakily rose onto her feet, pinwheeling her arms with a squeal and dropping into a crawling position again.

“There’s no need to rush her, darling. We should be cheering that she can stand for a little while.” Pomni said, smiling.

“Oh, I know.” Jax replied. “I was just so thrilled to see her come waddling towards me this morning. It was like she had forgotten that she was supposed to crawl. She dropped right to her hands and knees when I gasped.”

Esther babbled.

“Oh, I’m sorry Esther, I know you were just as shocked as I was.” Jax said to his daughter.

Pomni smiled, holding her squirming daughter in her lap as Jax reached into the basket. He took out a few tins of vegetables, a jar of puréed ham and potatoes, and a salmon filet.

Esther fussed, continuing to try and wriggle free from her mother’s arms.

“Now you be patient, young lady. Your papa went to a lot of trouble to make all this.” Pomni chided.

“Baba,” Esther said. That was her way of saying “papa,” as P’s were a bit difficult for her. It was also her first word, her second being “night night” and her third being “mama.” It came as no surprise to either parent, since Jax was by far the one who spent the most time with Esther. He quit his job to raise her at home full time, allowing Pomni to focus on her career while also saving them the trouble of paying for a nanny.

“So, just about everyone is on the way, eh?” Jax said. “I’m amazed they could even afford roundabout passes to Ediacara…”

“Kinger paid for them. I insisted he not, but he had already sent off the crowns by the time the letter got to him. I know Kinger has a considerable fortune, but he will run out of money eventually should he spend so frivolously…”

“Babaaa!” Esther cried.

“Yes, dear, on the way…” Jax stirred a teaspoon in the jar of puréed food and withdrew it, placing it into Esther’s mouth. “You’re fretting too much again, darling. Your family will get to see your daughter! And just how much she’s grown.”

“Baba,” Esther said. Jax gave her another spoonful of food.

“I do love it here, certainly… But if someone wishes to come visit us, it shouldn’t cost them an arm and a leg. Although, that’s true of most things…”

There was a flash of color on the endless, verdant expanse the family sat on. A mote of red on a quilt of green.

“I suppose that’s true, but he should really visit while he has- Pomni?”

Pomni looked at the blot of color. There was a glint, and she gasped.

“Pomni, dear, what is it?” Jax asked.

“Hold Esther a moment,” she said, standing up and running towards the red figure in the distance.

“Mamaaaa!” Esther cried sternly.

Pomni hurried down the knoll, just about running out of her shoes. Sure enough, coming into focus was a shapeman in a red tailcoat, clutching a black walking stick with a golf leaf tip. He had an enlarged pair of dentures where his face should be.

“You-” Pomni gasped. “You, how did you get here?”

The Gentleman in Red tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I… I asked you, sir. How did you get here? What are you doing here?”

“Why I’m here to see you, Mrs. Shutnyk. I believe your friend Kinger Rooker issued everyone an invitation.” He held up a boat ticket.

“You… you came with them..? No, they’re not supposed to be here for a week! Sir, please…”

Pomni swallowed.

“I’ve been left pondering for years. The night at the church, when you defended me against Boone and Mr. Krolik… Why did you do it? Why?Could you… could you at least tell me your name?”

The Gentleman in Red put both hands on his cane and tilted his head to the other side.

“You look happy, Pomni.”

Pomni blinked. “I… I am happy? I’m-”

He nodded. “Then I shall move on. Enjoy the rest of your life, Mrs. Krolik.”

He kicked his cane, twirling it in his hand and walking away.

Pomni watched him leave. She wanted to run after him. But she understood. She laughed incredulously.

“Pomni, is everything alright?” Jax said, having had to walk to avoid not jostling Esther.

“Mama,” Esther scolded.

Pomni turned and looked her husband in the eye. She smiled.

“…Why, yes. Yes it is. Shall we eat?”

Fin

[16-04-16-daily]

Statement 0240728-B of the Assistant

The following is the written transcript of the recorded Statement 0240728-B of Dr Arian Baumfield, the assistant to the late Dr Apollo Cadence of Mary Bell Medical Facilities. This statement is regarding the domicile of one Dr Andrew Sandgrass, better known as "Unpaid MBRA Intern 2012". I begin.

With no major incident, I have arrived promptly at the house of Dr Andrew Sandgrass. I stand now, in front of his humble home. His house lies at the corner of Tomcat and Willard Street. At first glance, I find the house to be perfectly ordinary, one house surrounded by many like it. There was nothing that set it apart from the others, except there was an atmosphere of loneliness to it. The lights are still on, I can see them glow through the dark curtains. It had been a couple of weeks since Dr Sandgrass had died, I wonder if anyone in this street had noticed.

Well, I suppose I must get inside.

[Sounds of low footsteps are heard. Then, it stops. There is a deafening silence until finally, there are sounds of quiet knocks against the front door.]

Hello?

Imaginably, there is no one there. I cannot even say what compelled me to knock at all. I suppose we must improvise. I am looking here and there, there are no open windows in the house and the front porch is completely empty except for a "Welcome" doormat. [Pause as something that appears to be a doormat is lifted up.] No key here, and there is no other place where a key could possibly be hidden.

Now, I have not come to this place empty-handed. Tragically, I could not bring my satchel bag to this occasion and a huge number of tools and articles were necessary, a few of them were very large. A few mentionable articles that I have brought are the tape recorder, of course, and a lockpick set. Now, I am not sure how apt I will be at picking locks as I have only watched one YouTube video before coming here. So I am hardly prepared but I must still try.

[A zipper is pulled and after a few seconds of rummaging, the sound stops as something is pulled out of the bag. Sounds of clicks followed as the assistant let out several sighs. Evidently, he does not know what he is doing.]

Well. I don't think that worked. A second solution is needed. [He lets out a sigh.] Another thing I have brought is an axe I had acquired from the Home Depot. Now, I know it is highly intemperate but for situations like this and for self-defense, it can be necessary. The axe was entirely my last resort, something I can only use when all else fails but — it will certainly make things easier. I don't think it matters if anyone sees or hears, far stranger things go on in this town. I doubt I will face major repercussions.

Here goes nothing. [Something that sounds like a bag is dropped on the ground and a large object is pulled out carefully. The tape recorder is placed on the ground also. The assistant takes a few steps back and takes a deep breath. Fast running, he charges against the door and there is that loud and piercing sound of wood being torn down. Two or three strikes are placed on the door until the assistant sighs again. The axe is placed inside the bag and it is zipped shut. The assistant picks up the tape recorder and he approaches the door.]

Well, that's done. I had made quite the hole on the door, large enough to poke my arm into and unlock the door from the inside. [Sounds of movement and finally, the door opens immediately with an easy click.] Oh. The door, it was unlocked previously. I didn't need to use the axe. Well. Moving on.

[play-now-my-lord]

i used to be a transcriptionist. i made decent money doing it - $1 per audio minute, which at an industry-average WPM works out to about $15 per hour, this in 2000s dollars. (mind you, my wpm is crazy, so i made more for my time.) i had ADHD that wasn't medicated at the time and would get ready for work by brewing up a huge pot of coffee, letting it go lukewarm, and chugging it in one go. i don't recommend this approach but it worked. it was also hellish on my wrists, my audio processing disorder, etc. after a working day i'd have a hell of a time understanding anything anyone said to me on the phone. i could pay rent with transcription in the 2000s, but rent was cheaper back then and transcription paid better. nowadays you're very lucky to see $.60 per audio minute without any formal qualifications (which are getting harder and harder to get), and the workflow has changed; everyone wants you to "edit" garbage machine translations and pay you with the fiction that you are "editing" them, where the reality is you have to do the exact same work but with an added layer of software wrangling for corporate compliance.

my great-aunt was a transcriptionist in the old days, when instead of VLC having a dial on it to adjust file speed she had to pay for a pedal that slowed down physical tapes. she paid for a mortgage with it, but that was in the 70s and 80s, when mortgages were cheaper (and rates were still at or near a dollar per audio minute, in less inflated dollars).

the existential threat everyone acknowledges to transcription is software, because everyone thinks software transcription is good. (it's not markedly more accurate than a well-trained 90s speech-to-text program, to be completely honest, and if you need a non-verbatim transcription - i.e. all the ums and ahs and doubling-back parts aren't left in - you're completely up shit creek.) the actual existential threat is outsourcing; the cost of living is simply lower in many areas of the anglophone world, people have less ability to take their ball and go home if offered insultingly low rates there. (this is not likely to remain the case forever, as average floor wages have increased by a factor of anywhere from 10 to 20 in anglophone south and southeast asia since 2000, and while they're very low by the standards of the global north, they're also on the order of a factor of 8 or so lower rather than a factor of 20 or 50.)

apparently the opportunities available to mostly housebound people with keyboard skills in america have declined such that the average such person, offered 60 cents a word to hammer out words for hours a day, can't reasonably take their ball and go home either. the competition used to be flipping burgers; now it's uber and grubhub, other gig work bullshit.

this is a long rambling story without much of a point. i miss having that job. i liked it, as shitty as it was. but i can't pay rent with it anymore, and it took too much out of me to be worth what it still pays

[ober-affen-geil]

@januarydivide this one is for you!

In this post that I added to yesterday I talked about some of what a library degree encompasses, and other people have added in the notes about even more. Also in that post, I said that when I was in college I chose to pursue an archive specialty under the Information Science umbrella, so I'm going to talk about what being an archivist actually is!

First, like STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math), there is actually an acronym that covers the Information Science professions: GLAM or GLAMR, Galleries, Libraries, Archives, Museums and sometimes Records depending on who is using the acronym. I bring this up because explaining what an archive is, and what an archivist does, I've found works best if I compare it to things people already are familiar with.

If anyone has any questions, either about something I didn't answer or something I didn't clarify, please ask! Also, if there are any archivists out there who see this and want to add commentary please do so!

Anyhow. Museums, Libraries, and Archives.

Museums are (mostly) public places you can visit that hold collections made up of objects that visitors can look at but not touch (usually), nor can they be taken home.

Libraries are (mostly) public places you can visit that keep collections of published media that visitors can look at, touch, and take home.

Archives are (mostly) public places you can visit that store collections of unpublished, unique primary source material that visitors can look at, usually touch, but can't take home. Things you will typically find in an archive include letters, diaries, scrapbooks, photos, memos, unpublished drafts, and more. Often "special collections" areas include newspaper archives (sometimes on microfilm) and rare books that are old enough or unique enough that they need specialized care or restricted handling. Just like specialized subject libraries like law libraries or medical libraries, there are archives that are specific to mediums like audio/visual (A/V) archives and digital archives.

The most important thing to keep in mind is, because archive collection materials are by nature completely unique, no archive is the same.

So. What does an archivist do? For perspective, my background is primarily in university collections that are mostly paper based but have a smattering of other materials. Currently I work in a historic home that has a significant paper collection as well as an object collection.

Ultimately, it is the archivist's job to a) make sure the collection materials are actually useable by patrons, b) help people trying to use the collection access it, and c) ensure the long term safety/security of the collection by caring for the materials. (All while remembering that the collection creators were people and their agency needs to be part of the ethical balance.)

Let's break that down.

Making the collection useable. With paper collections, the big step here is what's called "processing"; trying to determine if there is an "original order" that the creator of the collection kept and creating one if there isn't. This also includes shifting the materials into acid free folders and boxes, assigning them internal unique identifiers/shelf locations, and creating a "finding aid" that is similar to the index of a book that has a top-level summary of what's in the boxes/folders. Most times (but not always), this includes creating what's called "metadata" that covers descriptors that helps to catalog the material internally and makes the collection material searchable externally. For A/V material this can also include creating subtitles/transcripts.

Help people access the collection. This is mostly down to being as knowledgeable as possible about the collection(s) that are in the archive, and also a little bit of other collections that have related material. Sometimes people come to the archive knowing exactly what they want, usually tracking a reference from a published source. This is incredibly rare. Usually what happens is people are working on a project and they have a subject area they know they need to research. The archivist's job at that point is to recommend which materials, if any in the collection, would be most helpful for them to look at. Archives are typically also what's called "closed stacks", meaning that the physical materials in the collection are not accessible by anyone but the staff. Requested material is brought out individually to the visitor, and it's the archivist that does this. If the person needs to use special equipment to access the material (a microfilm machine, a reel to reel player, etc) or if the material has special needs associated with it (a book cradle, photographs out of sleeves, textiles or objects, etc) it's the archivist's job to facilitate that.

Caring for the collection. I've put this last, but it is without at doubt the most important part of an archivist's job. This encompasses everything from monitoring for pest activity, ensuring the temperature and humidity of the collection storage area is constant and safe for the materials, cleaning/maintaining materials, and sometimes advocating for funding from within or without the organization that the archive is part of. This can also include raising public awareness of the collection materials by creating exhibits and/or creating handout materials, leading educational sessions/workshops, and maintaining a social media presence.

This is by no means a comprehensive overview of everything that being an archivist is, but it's a taste of some of the things I've been responsible for while I've been one.

[mads-is-tired]

something felt familiar

i was rewatching todays sorry video and i remembered this tiktok existed lmao

video description and written transcript under the cut:

[VIDEO ID AND TRANSCRIPT: Ranboo is sitting at a table, looking through a microscope. They are dressed in medical scrubs with gloves and a surgical mask. As the voiceover begins he stands up and looks at some brain scans. Ranboo, voiceover: "I'd always wanted to be a doctor, that was the goal. But I was still looking for my next case, the case that would truly set me apart from the others. That was, until one fateful day..."

The camera pans to the door, where Charlie Slimecicle enters in a patient's gown. He is holding a fake model heart. Charlie: "My heart fell out."

Charlie then lifts up his leg and throws the heart under it like a ball. Ranboo catches it. They then proceed to slam dunk Charlie with the heart. Ranboo: "Ha, slam dunk!"

Charlie grunts in response. He then addresses the camera. Charlie: "Feeling better! Give us- rate us five stars. And this is what you'll get with a bronze plan"

Ranboo has his arm around Charlie. They are both posing for the camera. Ranboo: "Exactly"

The camera pans down to show the fake heart on the ground before panning back up to Charlie and Ranboo. Ranboo: "Here at Ran-Ranboo- Ranboo. Heal."

The person filming holds up a thumbs up in front of the camera along with Ranboo. Charlie's eyes close and he falls back, passing out due to the supposed lack of heart. The frame cuts before he reaches the ground, and we assume Ranboo catches him.

We cut to a black with flickering embers on the screen. White text says: Ranboo MD Enlist todayRanboo comes back with a voiceover: "Ranboo MD. A place you can call home. A place- I don't- I don't know how doctors work." The video ends

END ID]

full disclosure i've never done an video ID and transcript before, I hope this was okay. also i wasn't sure if its supposed to be under the cut or not. please let me know if there's any changes i should make.

[metarexslayer2025]

[Deep sigh]

You're joking, right? This has to be a joke.

PartyHog64, I don't know if you use Tumblr or not, but you cannot tell me with a straight face that Ian Flynn has a bigger influence on the Sonic franchise than Takashi Iizuka.

Let's compare the two, shall we?

Iizuka is the head of Sonic Team and has been since 2008. Before that, he worked as the game designer for multiple Sonic games since 1994, starting with Sonic 3 & Knuckles. When Sonic Adventure was in the works, he was the game designer, level designer, AND director. This was also the case with several other Sonic games, one of them being Sonic Heroes.

According to Iizuka, the development period of that game was the most stressful of his career because of the deadlines and SEGA management. A fellower designer had fallen ill during this time, so Iizuka worked overtime to help finish the game, losing 22 pounds in the process and suffering from insomnia.

Ian Flynn, on the other hand, started out as a fanfiction writer and wanted to work for Archie Sonic in an official capacity, so he sent them unsolicited scripts in an effort to get noticed by editorial. He only got in due to a change in editors. It was a combination of being in the right place at the right time and being super-lucky. He's written for Archie's Sonic the Hedgehog comics since 2006, starting with #160, and being the lead writer for most of the book, even with the reboot in 2014, all the way until its cancellation in late 2016.

And when it comes to IDW, he practically works from home! Which isn't a problem in and of itself; My mom works from home, as do I. But I type medical transcriptions, not comic stories.

Ian has enough time to make Q&A videos on YouTube from the comfort of his own home with his buddy in a private Discord server. Said videos are mainly just static screens that feature caricatures of Ian Flynn and Kyle Crouse's faces. And the main purpose of the Bumblekast? To F around... and line Ian's pockets. And yet some fans treat it as a valid source of information. How? SEGA doesn't sponsor it, or even watch it.

But the worst part of your statement, PartyHog64? It's you calling Ian the owner and loremaster of Sonic. That couldn't be farther from the truth. He is neither of those things. He's not even a SEGA employee! He's still a freelance writer.

[igotsnothing]

Beginning/Previous/Next 🐯🥭🐠🌅🪷

Beautiful lot build by @pandorasims4

Musical reference: 🎧

Happy New Year, friends! A new year, a new obsession story! I keep finding myself playing in Tomarang all the time: it's beautiful and I love it, and this story has been in the works (writing, setting up) pretty much since the day after the expansion dropped. It owes its existence to not just my enjoyment of Tomarang, but because a conversation with a friend got me thinking: my friend claimed that writing stories about how a couple meets and gets together is far more entertaining than writing stories about that same couple once they are together. I disagree! This is my formal protest! 😊

Transcript:

Lee: So…Thoughts? Henry: Can we even afford this place? It’s huge! Lee: Believe it or not, it’s half the price of our one-bedroom in San Sequoia. Henry: Are you sure? I won’t have to sell my body to the night to support my cute husband through medical school?

Lee: No, because your cute husband is also your smart husband and got a full scholarship. Henry: Then, can you hire me for my salacious services anyway?… Lee: Henry. Focus. Auntie Mei will be here with the keys any minute. If you don’t like it, I’ll tell her we’re ready to see the next place. Henry: What do you think? Do you like it?

Lee: I do. I like it a lot. It reminds me of my grandparents’ house. Lots of happy memories. Henry: Was that in the countryside? Lee: Yeah. The house is no longer there, but I’d love to take you to visit the village sometime.

Mei: Hi, boys! Lee: Hi, Auntie! Mei: I’m sorry I’m a bit late! I was with a client over in Koh Sahpa and traffic on the bridge was so slow!

Henry: Hi Mei! I haven’t seen you since the wedding! Mei: So nice to see you too! You had an easy trip? Henry: Not too bad! Mei: And is Lee taking good care of you? You eating enough? Lee: Oh my god, Auntie. It hasn’t even been five minutes…

Mei: This place is perfect. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to uni for you. And Henry, you can take the 71 bus to work; only two or three stops! Lee: This place…the tiles on the floor. High ceilings. Big windows… Flowers everywhere…It all reminds me so much of Grandma’s house.

Mei: I thought so too, sweetie. Your uncle suggested I show you an apartment on Segara Drive, but I knew you’d like this much more. It’s old-fashioned: no fancy gym, pool, or central air. It’s not in a flashy spot…But it’s real Tomarani living, in an authentic neighborhood, near our family. Besides, the owner is VERY motivated to sell !

Lee: Uh-oh…What’s the story behind that? Mei: Nothing bad! This is where Gugi Nguyen would secretly rendezvous with Anita Tran, away from the paparazzi. Lee: Who are they? Mei: Famous soap opera actors! They got married and don’t need this house anymore. Henry: Babe! That’s just like our story, minus the celebrity stuff! Lee: Pfff!

[Voices coming from downstairs, speaking excitedly in Tomarani.]

Henry: This is really happening. We’re here! Just a few days ago we were in San Sequoia… Now? This is going to be home. And this view? This could be our view. Every day. Wow!

[various-things]

rambling about my feelings and Past Tense and Julian and covid and other 2024 problems

Adding a cut since this is a long post.

I have a lot of grief and disappointment about covid stuff I haven't fully found my way out of. Maybe I never will, and that is what it is. You love the world and the world breaks your heart and you love the world. There's probably some wonderful quote about that I can't remember right now. But, this moment from Julian in the first part of Past Tense was something that resonated really strongly for me for a while when it came to my struggles (that haven't ceased to exist, but the pain is a lot quieter these days) with people (especially friends and those I knew directly) not masking in shared public indoor spaces:

SISKO: It's not that they don't give a damn, Doctor. It's that they've given up. The social problems they face seem too enormous to deal with. BASHIR: That only makes things worse. Causing people to suffer because you hate them is terrible, but causing people to suffer because you have forgotten how to care? That's really hard to understand. I have my own little desperately-clung-to headcanon that Julian, who I relate to and admire so much, would share these feelings. That he'd still put on a mask in our 2024 when running an errand and definitely in a medical facility. That he wouldn't accept the vulnerable falling "by the wayside" as an acceptable cost of forgoing that practice.

Masks work. Cleaning the air works (it's why risk is so much lower outdoors if not in a crowd). We could have had something so different than our current circumstances in the US where we insufficiently track infections, where vaccines (which do not stop covid transmission but remain incredibly important) are becoming inaccessible to so many. 1 in 10 infections (a fairly conservative commonly used stat) results in long covid and access to effective treatment is a huge issue. We don't have access to up-to-date at home tests and our current generation of RATS suck at giving us accurate negative results. Even as so many of covid's dangers sicken and disable, it remains a leading cause of death. And I know that so many people do not know these things. That they have been under-served and lied to by the institutions that should (sigh, "should") offer accurate science, and affordable (or free) resources to stay safe with—but don't. Even people who do know these things often have to face isolation, or ostracism, or worse if they try to hold out on some of their precautions.

It could all be better. The exchange between Sisko and Julian at the end of Past Tense's second part made me reflect the other day—maybe I saw it in a gifset? Julian says:

BASHIR: You know, Commander, having seen a little of the twenty first century there is one thing I don't understand. How could they have let things get so bad? The Past Tense two-parter focuses on issues of (I don't think I can do a good job of summarizing this but) failed and oppressive systems, houselessness, classism, societal collapse. It reflects so many of our current problems. "How could they have let things get so bad?"—"they" meant generally, I think. But they didn't. We didn't. This fucked up situation we're in is a product of choices from very rich and very powerful people. I know that's an obvious statement. I know! But it's a true one. I don't have any polished conclusion to this. We can do what we can. We can try to build community. We can use every tool we have available to us and that also involves contacting our representatives and shit even when they ignore us. It's very, very, important that we look to our local communities and see where we can help. If we all put some time, which will look different for everyone, into helping each other locally that would, has, will change so much. We don't have to do that alone. Help can look like so many things, our needs and skills have so much important variety. This isn't a conclusion but it's the end of the post. Transcripts taken (and cut down in places) from http://www.chakoteya.net

[saturatedsinset]

index card exercises!

here's all 20 of the indexercises i did yesterday :) i'm putting only the transcriptions here, because the pictures all look the same, and i'll include everything i did, including ones i already posted in answers to asks just so i have em all in one place.

stroke

‘stroke’ as in cat, stroke as in pet, stroke as in innuendo, stroke as in medical event, and it could be any or all or none, jack’s knees sore from carpet and stress and work, the gentle pressure of a hand petting, slooowly, stroking - there it is again - his heart aflutter and sometimes he can’t tell whether his stomach churns with butterflies or foreboding or nausea, the room quiet for hours at a time, and they’ve never told him not to speak unless spoken to but there’s a weight in the air that makes him keep his mouth

hypothesis

the scientific method. Laughable. Hypothesis, test, reflect, report. Hubristic to think we must be slaves to empiricism. the world is so much more than the sum of its parts, its processes, the dissection of the worm that keeps moving. my professor once told me: excavation is an act of destruction. to learn about the past we must destroy it. i once told my professor: excavation is an act of destruction. a scientist to a theatre major, all my anger spilling out over this - HOW DARE YOU THINK THIS IS METAPHORICAL? but we are all made of

sorry

it isn’t enough, and it never will be. the chair shot heard round the world, whatever they’re calling it now. the inescapable knowledge that even if he could go back he wouldn’t. seth’s sorry. seth wishes he was sorry. seth wakes up rotten and he still wouldn’t change it. what was it Cena says, sometime in the future? you almost ruined seth rollins, you drove dean ambrose out of the company… but it wasn’t about Roman, except for all the ways that it was. I’m sorry, he says. it’s true and it isn’t. hit me back, he says. he means it

follow

wherever you go, i will follow - he says - quietly - maybe you both know it’s a lie already - maybe he doesn’t want to dishonor truth - so brazenly - i wouldn’t ask that of you - you say - you have more to do - here - so much more - and he smiles - his eyes glitter - maybe tears - maybe laughter - he’s begging you to ask - and you can’t - and you won’t - and you both know it - wherever you go, i will follow - he says - a plea - a lie - a prayer - this is your home - you say - but he - doesn’t agree - he wilts - as he says - you are my home

step

into this, into me, toward life, toward the next step - Emilie Autumn says, one foot in front of the other foot. a step turns into a yard, a yard turns into a mile, and eventually you don’t know whether you’re running toward something or away from it. Full circle, flat circle. it ends up the same. the house is too big, and it swallows you, feet-first. the house knows you want to run away. the house is too small, and it shrinks in on you, suffocates you, inch by agonizing inch. where are you going? the house asks. you’d understand if you could

nostalgia

the moments you miss aren’t the ones you want to go back to. there’s all of the clichés, a cruel mistress, a lie, the feeling of missing home, and they capture something, but not enough. Nostalgia is a ghost. Nostalgia is a haunting. There are the ghosts of the past, our memories; there are the ghosts of the future, of dead futures, of things we’ve given up on or can no longer dream of - nostalgia is somewhere in between. a dead present. nostalgia is a personal kind of prelapsarianism. there is no call to action, just

discuss

“We need to talk,” Dean says, except he doesn’t need to, because they already know. seth already knows. he always thinks he’s being subtle, Dean, and sometimes he is, but mostly he’s the most straightforward guy Seth's ever met. he’s leaving. they know it. why insist on dealing the final blow himself? it’s what Seth would do, of course, but Seth’s always thought Dean’s better than him. known it. (except.) “I’m out,” Dean says, and what can Seth say to that? Dean knows all the reasons he should stay. but he knows all the reasons he

bittersweet

the first thought: Blood. the first sin: blood. there’s chocolate, of course, coffee, there’s the wrench in Adam’s heart whenever she touches the wall of a sleeping stadium. But blood brings power, something tangible, the stickiness of it drying on her face as she tastes it between her teeth. She misses too many people to count. that’s bittersweet too, thorns in the meadows by the creek ready to gouge whoever she brings down next. swerve is down there with her, maybe buried, maybe snoring. she hasn’t been exploring her own head as much lately.

midnight

I shall wear midnight, she says. Tiffany Aching. I never liked her books much, or at least I liked the other Discworld books more. But now the story changes: the shepherd’s crown. the last book he published before he died, more than a decade ago. I’ve still never read it. I can’t bring myself to. the back cover closes a part of my life that I’m not ready to leave yet. I shall wear midnight. It’s partially about death, did you know? there’s a door. if you walk through it, it disappears. But there is a ways back. But there is a way back. But

cylinder

A graduated cylinder is a magic wand, and other such nonsense. science is basically magic. magic is science advanced beyond our understanding. it’s an appealing thought, something beautiful about it, poetic - we are all connected; that which you think is incomprehensible is able to be learned, and that which you think is impossible may one day become possible. maybe it will. irritating little aphorism it is for now, though: you will not cast a spell. you will pu mentos in diet coke, and it will make an explosion, and a poet will call it magic. maybe i’m just a

sunshower

there are shadows. texas death. gritted teeth. the satisfaction that comes with tapping out the untouchable moxley. he doesn’t hate her, she can see that much; there’s a distance, a kind of mourning, in his eyes when he looks at her now. hypocrite, she thinks; he was always telling her she needed to get sharper. now he’s cut himself on her. maybe he should be used to that by now. it’s almost cute, how they all got scared of her once she paid off all her debts. now, adam knows exactly what she’s owed. maybe a decade around the bucks does have its

wait

stories are easy: the wanting, the waiting, and the catharsis. does he get what he wants? maybe. maybe not. but he never stops wanting. does orpheus want eurydice? does he want to sing? is he caught, paralyzed, in a single moment of eternal wait? the chair swings. orpheus turns. and in the split second before impact, a whole universe. the pendulum will always swing. orpheus will always look back. the chair will always bend around a brother’s back. the tragedy is this: we are all waiting, hungry, certain. we all want to hear the chair hit the spine. there is no

city

the city breathes. not in the way you think, millions of bodies inhaling as one - no, the city itself, its towers and chimneys, its thousand windows - the city breathes. the city hungers. the city coughs, and becomes angry. what feeds a city? the city feeds itself, its own kind of vicious cycle, blood spilled on streets, blood hosed down into drains, smoke rising as the city spreads. the city poisons. the city heals. a corner store on every block, a dozen tiny interactions a day, a cat mewing at a street corner. the city does not protect its

fish

“Why’s fish different?” Dean asks, muffled by the crunch of the pretzel stick as he scoops more mashed potatoes onto the bitten end. Roman looks kind of pale, barely poking at his own salmon. (plain salmon, boiled in the bag. Heresy, in Dean’s opinion.) Seth huffs, like this a conversation he’s even fuckin’ involved with. “He’s not even vegetarian, Dean,” Seth whines, annoyingly, like Dean ain’t just exercising his natural curiosity. “Why don’t you ask, like, Bryan?” Dean rolls his eyes, finishing his pretzel stick. Delicious. Creamy and crunchy. “Bryan don’t eat fuckin’ fish 

penitentiary

penitentiary. penitent - there’s something implied in the word, a remorse, a repentance - a prison, in a word, conceived as a place to feel guilt. the prison as an industrial-scale confession booth. protestantism engraved into the fabric of society. is this productive? does it matter? what results is the penitentiary designed to produce? Guilt, fear, ostracism - the prison is a receptacle. the prison is a depository. there is no citation. I see the word itself. penitent. thoughtful. are we to take Declan’s Corrective as instructive? the truth does not reside

diagonal

across the ring, pillar to post, buckle to buckle, you always take the hypotenuse. it feels strange to even think it now, ingrained as it is in matt’s body. there are parts of wrestling he still thinks about, but it’s not often this one. maybe he’s still avoiding thinking about who’s in the other corner, betrayal staining even the one thing he always knows. ibushi, standing where matt should be, where They should be - they’d touched again and suddenly matt was invisible. and here kenny is, pretending to play peacemaker even now. if you really didn’t want to

mustard

“c’mon,” mox jeers, throwing an elbow at the air as a demonstration. “put a little mustard on it, get real nasty.” he punctuates it with a grin - sometimes the kid still looks a little terrified that mox is gonna take a bite outta him for real. nervous like you get around a mean dog. mox guesses he can’t really blame him, on account of the biting he gave him to get here. still, nothin’ wrong with a little reassurance. Bryan’s grinning, ‘cause he’s a pervert and annoying to boot, but his lordship is nodding

elaborate

it all seems a bit elaborate, pages and pages of maps, plans, agreements. all they really need is a wedding, but adam does so love to feel cunning, christian thinks with a fond roll of his eyes. names of guards they can trust. maps of the castle they’ve been visiting every year since the girls were barely eight - a decade, now. “very good,” christian says aloud, indulgent, a little pat to adam’s shoulder so he knows it’s sarcastic. “and the rest of them? the king? i’m sure you’ve hidden a dossier around here somewhere…” adam huffs, only just, christian knows,

nightmare + cody

what nick says is: it’s not good for kenny. cody learned the hard way, not too long ago - he touches his cheek absently - there are things about the bucks he doesn’t know. secret weapons. cody flinches when he thinks about trying to find them. (again.) silence as nick looks at him evenly the ghost of a smile on matt’s lips. cody doesn’t know what they’re not saying. the table between them feels like a chasm. it feels like that locker room. cold. nick’s eyes are cold, too. it’s not good for kenny. why hitch your wagon to kenny? cody thinks

devour

the desert will devour you, if you aren’t careful. Dean knows it by now, and Rome’s known it his whole damn life, but prettyboy still has those big wide eyes that he don’t know how to shade from the sun right. have to find him some shades soon. prettyboy - seth - had been upfront enough about not havin’ a real plan when he’d snuck out. dean isn’t sure why they took him in, sometimes, what they saw in him that let them know he’d make it. But he’d brought the city-desert out here. the underground, those little jump drives of music they can barely manage to get through the speakers

[fatehbaz]

The War of the Pacific (1879–1883) looms large in the history of Peru and Chile. Upending the prevailing historiographical focus on the history of conflict, Beyond Patriotic Phobias explores points of connection shared between Peruvians and Chileans despite war. Through careful archival work, historian Joshua Savala highlights the overlooked cooperative relationships of workers across borders, including maritime port workers, doctors, and the police. These groups, in both countries, were intimately tied together through different forms of labor: they worked the ships and ports, studied and treated disease transmission in the face of a cholera outbreak, and conducted surveillance over port and maritime activities because of perceived threats like transnational crime and labor organizing. [...] Savala reconstructs the circulation that created a South American Pacific world. The resulting story is one in which communities, classes, and states formed transnationally through varied, if uneven, forms of cooperation. 

Text above from “About the Book” section provided by the publisher (University of California Press, 2022) describing Beyond Patriotic Phobias: Connections, Cooperation, and Solidarity in the Peruvian-Chilean World. Book authored by Joshua Savala.

---

What was much more interesting to me than the well-documented and discussed nationalism that developed (in part) out of the war was the possibility of people who either did not care about such things or who actively organized against the nationalism of the era. [...] And [...] [revolutions] remained real options for many port and maritime workers across the first decades of the twentieth century. [...] In the larger manuscript, I expand on the place of maritime and port workers, looking more closely at their laboring conditions, their lives, and the politics of masculinity and sexuality at sea and at port. Another chapter examines medical cooperation during the cholera outbreak of 1886-88 in Chile. And the last chapter centers the police and their efforts to put new criminological methods into practice at home and transnationally. The broader project, then, sticks to this idea of transnational solidarity, mutual aid, and cooperation [...]. I wanted to avoid the diffusionist narrative, whether that be from a European center or from central Chile. [...]  When we are researching and writing about [labor] [...], clearly many [...] sought to organize transnationally, to reach past state borders and [...] do away with borders. [...] But they were also intensely concerned with national politics and labor laws. [...] This is why [...] I try to push a dual transnational and comparative approach, to combine scales of analysis. [...] One of the other challenges to transnational history is simply the vast literatures one must read. Studying one place is hard enough [...]. The reward of such a venture, though, is pulling together debates and strands of the literature [...]. The Latin American Pacific has been largely overlooked. But thankfully in the past decade or so, we are beginning to see a number of new works that speak to the role of the Pacific. This shift in geography and analytical perspective, I would say, comes in large part from the transnational perspective -- a perspective that influenced the building of the Atlantic world paradigm as well.

Words of Joshua Savala. As quoted in the transcript of an interview conducted/posted by Sean Mannion. ‘Interview with Joshua Savala, author of “Ports of Transnational Labor Organizing: Anarchism along the Peruvian-Chilean Littoral, 1916-1928.”‘ HAHR Online (by Hispanic American Historical Review). 13 November 2019.

---

People in both countries occasionally made jokes about the other [...]. But [...] there was something beyond the one liners. [...] [T]he War of the Pacific (1879-1883) acted as the structuring event in the modern history of both countries, with conflict at the center. While certainly a reality, conflict [...] could not be the only way of telling this history, could it? [...] Labor and working-class history is at the core [...]. Maritime and port workers [...] lived and labored in a cosmopolitan Pacific world. Some did see and even engage in nationalist discourses. But many also had no interest in the nationalism of the day, and some analyzed it as just one more strategy by the state to divide the working class [...]. Addressing fellow Chilean workers in November 1924, one [...] wrote that it was time to show their Peruvian comrades that “patriotic phobias have not contaminated us.” This was the politics that animated radical workers along the coasts of Peru and Chile to organize around both local and transnational issues. Of course, maritime and port workers were not the only ones engaged in this type of thinking and acting. As I read reports from port cities, I started to read more and more about cholera in the 1880s. I followed letters from different institutions within Chile and Peru and medical journals and finally came across the case of Dr. David Matto. Born in Cusco, Matto would be sent to Chile to investigate the spread of cholera. His published letters back to Peru revealed some of the intricacies of the Chilean state’s response to the epidemic, useful information for thinking about the history of medicine [...]. The letters also showed that he worked closely with Chilean doctors, [...] and in the process built [...] a science without a nation. Beyond Patriotic Phobias builds parts of the South American Pacific to argue in favor of a more collaborative history. In addition, I also take time to think through laboring in the Pacific, constructions of masculinity and sexuality, and the history of policing. These are all parts of the equation required for understanding the transnational and oceanic history of Peru and Chile.

Text above by Joshua Savala. “A look inside Beyond Patriotic Phobias.” UC Press Blog. 23 May 2023.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Reflections

Chapter One

Master List / Real People Master List / Reflections Master List

Pairing: Mia MacAlsdair x Au Tom Hiddleston

Warnings: partner abuse, language, 18+ Minors do not interact

A/N: I apologize in advance should my Scottish/English interpretations be incorrect. I am Canadian playing in a world of my own making. Do not @ me.

**I do not tag. **To be notified of updates and new works, subscribe to me or the story on AO3 for email notification, or follow the library blog @tilltheendwilliwrite-library  with notifications turned on so you’re not missing out. An account is required to access my work on AO3. For more information on how to get your FREE AO3 account, see this post.

~

Leonardo da Vinci once wrote, "I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection." 

Mia took those words to heart when life crashed and burned around her. At thirty-one, she found herself dumped by her fiancé of five years, homeless, and out of work, recovering from the pandemic and all that went along with that bullshit. 

Canada wasn't hit as hard as other places worldwide, but it was hard enough that the economy struggled to recover even a few years later.

As an artist with a unique style, Mia also struggled. She had a decent following, and people liked her creations, but when the pandemic hit, she stagnated in a market that no longer had disposable income to spend. She put her hastily acquired medical transcription certificate to use to make ends meet and began working from home in her shared apartment. The work-from-home opportunity allowed her to continue to create art while bringing in a steady paycheck. 

But Colt didn't like it. His law firm also turned to the work-from-home model, sticking them together in the same space without any breathing room for days on end. 

Mia hadn't thought much of it at first. They loved each other, had lived together for two years at that point, and were blissfully happy as far as she knew. Time together was precious when Colt could spend upward of seventy-plus hours a week at the office. Having him home every night, having dinners together, and time to binge a little television sounded like heaven.

Until it wasn't.

Within months, he grew waspish, snapping at her for working on the kitchen table, taking up too much space, and playing her music too loud. When he began to berate her for her art supplies and how she couldn't just hog an entire room with them, Mia thought the stress of the pandemic had gotten to him. 

Six months in, and she couldn't do anything right. 

He'd always been a little critical, commenting on her clothes, hair, or makeup, but whenever she called him on it, he would say he was trying to help her better herself. She needed to act a certain way and dress a certain way. She needed to look like she belonged if she wanted to accompany him to company outings or galas. 

A backward view granted her twenty-twenty vision at the giant walking red flag that was Colt, but Mia was too blind to see it at the time. And with Covid riding the world like a jockey whipping the last-place finisher on race day, Mia was stuck. 

Plus, it was only stress. Or so she convinced herself. 

When Colt's return to work order came, she was relieved. Maybe now she would get her Colt back, the sweet guy who brought her flowers and called her at lunch every day to hear her voice. 

She didn't. 

Colt only grew worse. Instead of just criticizing her, he yelled, screamed, and punched walls. 

In hindsight, she should have left right then, but Mia kept chalking his actions up to stress. People changed with the pandemic. Life got harder. Money got tighter. Maybe she could do more, be better, try harder. 

It wasn't until he grew indifferent that she realized she'd lost him. Finding the messages on his iPad that proved his cheating only confirmed what she already knew. 

But Mia had nowhere to go. She didn't make enough money to get a place by herself when rent in her area was at an all-time high. She tried to take on more work, but so many people had the same idea as her when the pandemic struck that the transcription industry was flooded with workers. She even applied for jobs around town, but none paid enough. They wanted her to work for pennies for less than full-time hours, so they didn't have to pay benefits. 

She was barely scraping by on helping with the rent. It was a crapshoot, and she knew it. So she bit her tongue; she stayed in her loveless relationship even as Colt's indifference grew into resentment, anger, and, finally, violence. 

The first and only time he hit her, they were in the middle of an argument where she finally told him she knew about his cheating. He went quiet, scarily so. His face drained of colour before it rushed back in, painting his skin crimson as he lunged and slammed her into the wall, screaming at her for dragging out their relationship when he could have been with his new flame all this time. 

The fist to the temple put her on the ground, knocked her teeth together, and set her ears ringing. But Mia was tougher than she looked and Colt was too stunned by what he'd done to stop her when she staggered to her feet, grabbed a side table lamp, and threatened to use it on him if he didn't leave. She screamed at him to get out and not come back, to go be with his new girlfriend if he wanted her so badly. 

There was some minor back and forth, but every time his eyes darted to the blood and darkening bruise on her face, guilt flashed over his. Eventually, he left, but not before telling her she had forty-eight hours to get her shit out of his house.

Yeah, his, because he asked her to give up her lease and move into his place years earlier. 

She slammed the door in his face, threw the lock and added the security chain for good measure. Then, on a wave of regret, grief and humiliation, and feeling stupid and utterly hopeless, Mia sat on the floor and cried until she sobbed, heaved, and almost threw up. 

At that point, she wondered if she had a concussion, but there was no way she was leaving the apartment to find out, unsure if he would come back and toss all her stuff over their balcony in a fit of supreme assholery. 

Colt could no longer be trusted. 

Instead, she cleaned herself up, got an ice pack, and sat down to figure out what she would do in the next two days with what amounted to no job, no friends, and no family to help her. 

Colt was once her best friend and family, the only one she really needed, and Mia found making friends difficult. She was neurodivergent, which was great for creating art but made maintaining lasting friendships difficult when it was easy to forget they existed for two or three weeks. People eventually got tired of reaching out when she never reached back. It wasn't that she didn't want friendships, but sometimes the worlds in her mind demanded all her time, energy, and focus to the extent that nothing else existed. Everything else could fade away, even Colt. 

The only thing that remained was Him.

Mia glanced at the altar near the window. It wasn't much and Colt always teased her about her weird religious practices, but Mia ignored him. She was a Norse Pagan with strong leanings toward Lokean practice. Yeah, she worshiped the God of Mischief, but not the one in some comic book or movie. Her God was real. She knew it, felt it, and relished his attention when it came. The how and the why of it all were a long story, but she'd followed the path most of her life. 

Even now, his voice whispered Colt wouldn't go unpunished, but Mia only sighed. "I think we've punished each other long enough." 

She'd used him for a place to live, trapping them in a loveless relationship. Did that excuse him for hitting her? Fuck no! And if Loki wanted to exact retribution for that, she wouldn't stop him. But she needed to figure out what to do about right now.

The pile of discarded mail tumbled off the kitchen island, and a brown legal envelope skittered across the floor to run point first into her bare toe. The sharp little jab made her grunt.

"That's uncalled for, you know," she muttered, even as she picked up the envelope.

Mia hadn't bothered to look at it when she got it from the mailbox, assuming it was something for Colt, but finding her name and that of a law firm she'd never heard of on the return address label caused her to frown as she tore it open. 

The first thing to fall out was a set of keys that looked like they were from a Jane Austin novel. Second was an old black and white photo, gone sepia with age. Third was a package of papers with a crisp white envelope paperclipped to the front.

The photo was of an old house, not quite a manor but bigger than a cottage, with a man and woman and three small boys standing out front. 

She set the photo and the keys aside, glanced at what looked like a lot of legal jargon, and plucked the letter from inside the envelope. The words swam together a little, causing concern about concussion again, but the more she read, the farther her jaw dropped.

"How the hell do I own an estate in Scotland!?" And not just a house, but land, properties, and money—an obscene amount of it.

Loki's wicked laughter echoed in her head like an eerie breath of wind. 

Telling the Mischief God to piss off, Mia made a phone call. 

In a whirlwind of information, delivered by what turned out to be a very nice - though thickly accented - older man who she had clearly woken up, Mia discovered a heritage lost to her when her parents died in a fire when she was eleven. 

She would never know whether it was the headache throbbing behind her eyes, the pulse of blood in her bruised temple, or just the shitty day piling up. Still, she sat on the floor and cried for the second time, causing the poor man to exclaim in alarm, demand to know if she was alright, and absolutely lose it when Mia lost her mind and told him everything. 

Fergus MacDougal - because, of course, that was his name - informed her that he would take care of everything. He asked if she were safe to remain in the apartment overnight, to which she nodded before realizing he couldn't see her and replied yes. Colt was unlikely to be back before she was due to be out. Neither wanted to see each other again. They'd already said things they couldn't take back.

Fergus appeared to breathe a sigh of relief before telling her she was to pack her belongings, anything she wanted to bring with her immediately in one pile and everything she wanted to be shipped later in another, and be ready when the car called in the morning.

Stupidly, Mia asked, "What car?"

"The one to take you to the airport, lass. We'll have you across to us in a blink. You do have a passport, yes?"

Stunned, Mia again nodded before giving an affirmative grunt. 

His laughter was like warm honey, thick and rich, rumbling in her ear before telling her to text him if she needed anything and hung up.

She sat staring at the phone for long moments before a gentle push from a kind hand knocked her from her stupor as Loki whispered, Pack your things, girl.

Mia looked up, almost expecting to see him crouched on the sofa like a raven, beaming at her, his red hair braided back from his face and threaded with feathers, but there was nothing. 

She rose on shaky legs, dumped the thawed ice pack back in the fridge, dug three Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet and brewed a pot of coffee. She had work to do. 

When the car called in the morning, all her art supplies, paintings, and works in progress were packed and waiting. She found all the boxes she needed in the building's recycling, ran out of the apartment long enough to buy tape and grab something to eat, and spent the rest of the night packing up her life. 

When morning dawned, she looked at her small piles of boxes and fought the burn of tears for what felt like the hundredth time in only hours. 

Going through her things, clothes, jewelry, even the DVDs, she realized how little of it she wanted to keep. She had no mementos, nothing from her past, and hardly any photos. Everything in the apartment was Colt's or something he bought her. They were all things Colt wanted her to wear, how he wanted her to look, how he wanted her to act. 

Mia left it all behind. She took what little she'd brought with her five years ago and left the rest in garbage bags to donate. 

Lastly, she wrapped and packed Loki's altar. The crystals, feathers, bowls, toys, statues, and altar cloth went in a small wooden box she carefully covered in bubble wrap, placed in the box with her meagre collection of books, and taped shut. 

In her backpack, her laptop, chargers, the envelope from the lawyer, wallet and passport were ready to go. 

She spent the last two hours cancelling everything she could think of and informed the landlord she was leaving. She wasn't on any of the utility bills or the lease, but she did change all her passwords before submitting a request to remove her name from their joint bank account, though she didn't touch the money. 

It was exhausting, and by the time the movers knocked, Mia was ready to drop. 

She opened the door to find a man in his later years, sixty to sixty-five, with white hair and crinkles around his eyes. His smile fell from his lips as his gaze zeroed in on her temple, and Mia's hand flew to her face. 

He stepped toward her and slowly grasped her wrist, drawing her hand from the black bruise and mildly swollen eye. 

"Is this the first time?" he demanded gently.

Mia lifted her chin and stared him in the eyes. "And the last."

"Do you want to press charges?"

Air tickled her ear, and a growl that could be mistaken for thunder rattled the windows. 

"It's being taken care of."

She didn't know what he saw in her face, but the arch of his brow and slight quirk of lips said he believed her. 

Afterward, it was a whirlwind. She wasn't sure how many men there were, but they had everything - which wasn't much - carted up and off, though she insisted on taking the last box she packed and her backpack herself. 

Sebastian, the white-haired man in the cashmere coat, Armani suit, and red-soled shoes she didn't even want to guess the price of, insisted on carrying the box for her. As it wasn't heavy, Mia relented. He was a spry, fit man who filled out his coat with broad shoulders but had a grandfatherly quality that set her at ease. 

While the movers took her things, he explained Fergus called him, asking him to see Mia safely onto the plane. As they were partners in a global firm of lawyers, he was happy to help, but when he saw how little she had, he instructed the movers to put everything onto the truck for the plane. They may as well send it all with her now. 

Mia listened, but everything was a wall of sound and movement; nothing made sense, and if she didn't get horizontal soon, she would pass out and fall down. 

Sebastian, seemingly aware of that fact, ushered her into the elevator, out the front, and into a limo, shocking her again when she was met with a wall of heavenly scent. Fresh coffee and sweet baking. He placed one of each in her hands, and she ate by remote as the car pulled from the curb. 

Sebastian continued to talk, asking her questions about her art, having clocked the easel - likely to keep her awake - as they headed for the airport. When they arrived, Mia frowned because they didn't stop at International Departures but passed it to the private terminals. 

"I don't understand," she murmured, too tired to hide her confusion. 

"You didn't think Fergus would put you on a commercial flight, did you?" Sebastian chuckled, helping her out of the car when it stopped beside a private jet. 

Mia stared at it, then looked at him in exasperation. "Who the hell are you people?"

Sebastian laughed. "The question, my girl, is who are you for Fergus MacDougal to call in numerous favours to get you out of that apartment and across the world in less than twenty-four hours'."

"I… I don't know," Mia whispered. The weight of what she was doing on an impulse suddenly hit her and caused her knees to shake. 

Reflect, Loki whispered in her ear. 

Her knees firmed, and she lifted her chin. "But Leonard da Vinci once wrote, 'I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection.'" She turned to Sebastian and held out her hand. "It's time for me to grow brave. I appreciate your help."

He grinned and shook his head. "You're an interesting woman, Miss MacAlasdair. I wish you good luck in your future endeavours."

She smiled and squeezed his hand. "I don't need luck. I have something better."

"Oh? What's that?"

Mia glanced at the plane when a flash of red caught her eye, only to find a black raven on the open door. "Mischief. And someone who can use it looking out for me."

Sebastian's smile quirked a little like she'd confused him, but he didn't ask, just ushered her to the foot of the stairs where the wide eyes of the flight attendant said Mia looked as bad as she felt. 

But she would smile through her trouble, gather strength from her distress, face her reflection and grow brave. She wasn't sure about this, but no one said she had to go to Scotland forever. 

She climbed up the stairs to stand in the open doorway where the raven remained and turned to take in the city skyline with the sun rising to cast an orange glow over the buildings. Mia had the sinking feeling it would be a long, long time before she returned to Canada. 

The bird was gone when she looked up at the raven again, but that didn't surprise her. Loki came and went as they pleased. It was a long flight to Scotland, and the deity she worshipped wasn't happy with Colt. And if that growl at her former apartment was anything to go by, neither was Fenrir.

Retribution would be swift and cutting. 

A pang of pity tried to swell in her gut, but Mia stomped it out. Colt made his bed when he hit her. Loki was going to make him lie in it.

She nodded a final time to Sebastian, walked onto the jet, and set her backpack and box on the couch before falling into a chair. When she fumbled to do up the seat belt, the flight attendant hurried to help her. 

"We'll be taking off as soon as they load your things," she murmured. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, juice? Some ice?"

Mia sighed. "Does it look that bad?"

The woman winced. "Sorry. I wasn't trying to imply-"

"No, I'm sorry," Mia interrupted. "It's been a really long sixteen hours. If you have any, ice would be great, along with some Tylenol or Aspirin."

"Sure thing," she smiled. "I'll get that right away. Once we're at altitude, if you would like, you can move to the bedroom and sleep."

Mia's jaw dropped. "There's a bedroom!?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, honey. You haven't seen anything yet. I'm Ginny. Your pilots are John and Rhys, and we'll see you safely across the Atlantic. Once you're rested, I'll put together something more substantial than pastries and coffee for you, but let me get you some juice, painkillers, and ice. I'll be right back."

"Wait! How did you know what was in the limo?" Mia asked.

Ginny grinned. "Mister Vass always has coffee and pastries in the car for his morning drop-offs."

"So they do this a lot?"

"Rescue women and spirit them away to Scotland? No, I'm pretty sure this is a first," she chuckled and hurried off.

Mia frowned a little but couldn't dispute it. They did rescue her, though she hated being the damsel in distress, and vowed right then to find a way to repay Sebastian and Fergus for their kindness. 

She glanced at the window and caught a glimpse of her reflection. Even in the glass, she could see the heavy bruising and sighed. 

She reflected on her relationship. It had grown so toxic, so heartless. They'd been hurting each other emotionally for a long time. Neither was without blame, though she didn't excuse him hitting her. But she needed to close things on her terms. She didn't want to leave anything unsaid and wanted a clean break without contact.

The pain of the breakup had yet to come, but she knew it was simply a matter of time and distance. 

Instead of thinking about it any longer, she dug her phone out of her backpack, noted it only had ten percent juice and sighed. She'd forgotten to charge it overnight. Still, it was enough battery to do what she needed and opened her text messages. 

Colt, 

I'm out. You can go home whenever you want. I've taken only my things - what I brought with me when I moved in, and my art supplies - all of the clothes, shoes, and accessories are in garbage bags for you to do with whatever you want. If you're going to get rid of them, at least donate them to Goodwill and don't throw them away. The landfills don't need that kind of burden. 

I can't forgive how things ended. I could have lived with the screaming, cursing, and even berating because I did know you were seeing Mindy for almost a year, and I stayed because I had nowhere else to go. I used you for a roof over my head, which was selfish of me, but you hit me, which is unforgivable. 

I don't want to hear from you after this. You were my best friend, my family, the only person I had left to turn to. The pandemic and subsequent fallout were brutal on everyone, but you changed. You turned into someone I don't recognize anymore. I hate who you've become. 

I hate that we stopped talking about us, the wedding, our hopes and dreams. I don't know when you stopped loving me, I don't know when I stopped loving you, but somewhere along the line, we did stop. Maybe if Covid hadn't happened, we would be blissfully happy and settled down. Or maybe Mindy would still be in the picture, I can't say, but it doesn't matter now. 

I'm done, Colt. You broke the last bits of my faith in you when you punched me in the face. Nothing you can say will make up for that. Nothing you can say will ever make me walk back into your life. 

We were toxic to each other. Maybe apart, we can figure out how to be happy again. 

Even now, I hope you find your happiness someday, but get help with your temper. You were never like that before. 

For now, don't contact me. I don't want to hear from you, see you, or speak to you for a while. My world crashed and burned last night. 

I need to start over. 

I need to figure out how to do that. 

I need to figure out a future without you in it.

Mia.

She hit send, saw it was delivered and received only seconds before her phone died. Mia sighed and shoved it back into her backpack. 

She'd look into charging it later.

Next Chapter

[corsicanchevalier]

Japanese to English Translation Commissions Open!

I'm a stay-at-home parent and my family is in need of extra income to stay on top of bills. Please see below the cut for my info:

What you can commission:

I’m open for translating manga, doujinshi, fanfiction, magazine articles, etc as long as you have a private, personal copy for me to translate. Translation will be in script format, so no typesetting or manga cleaning. (If the material was originally available via purchase, please don’t make the translation publicly available on pirating sites as that enables people to steal from the mangaka. If the media was free (like on Pixiv) or is an extra material like a magazine article or mook drama script however, you're free to share that with your fandom.)

Content I won't do: guro, extreme gore, shota/loli characters in sexual situations.

Why you can trust me:

My 10 years of freelance translation experience includes doujinshi, manga, essays, audio drama cds (including transcription), advertising, medical records, banking statements, rental contracts, and medical and metallurgy scholarship for private clients and a translation agency. 

Style-wise, I like to stay faithful to Japanese nuances and tone but pride myself on localization (making for a more natural flow of dialogue or text) and my writing skills, both creative and communicative.

Talking shop:

I charge $10.00 USD per hour and will always first send you an estimate of the amount of time a project should take for me to finish. With less wordy manga I can usually complete 3-4 pages in around 1 hour. 

Budgets can be negotiated. I prefer payment half upfront and half upon completion/your receiving the translation.

Please understand that due to the due to the nature of estimates, there's a chance I finish a project faster or slower than I initially thought. I will let you know of any changes not in your favor before proceeding with the work and sending a final invoice.

I accept Paypal and Venmo. Service fees will be accounted for in my invoice to you. 

Please take into consideration as a stay-at-home parent, my working hours are only in the evenings.

No refunds. 

If you want a summary of what your material says rather than a complete translation, it will cost $5.00 USD per page of source material. (Perhaps useful for longer works like books or articles, etc.) 

Please provide me with links or files to your scanned material for what you would like me to translate. If I cannot read the text easily, I will ask you to re-scan or provide better quality images. For media that are only available via purchase, I request that you include a picture of your copy with a written message to me so I can confirm that you actually own the material. A copy jointly owned by you and your friends so you can split costs between you all is just as eligible as a privately owned copy. A picture is still requested however.

Scripts will be emailed to you upon completion of the half-way mark and then ending. You are welcome to check up on the progress of your commission, but please allow me time to work on it. 

I reserve the right to refuse a commission. 

How to commission me:

Email me at mkdraws4you(@)gmail(.)com with the title of "Translation Commission" and the following details:

Source Material: (Doujinshi, Fanfiction, Manga, Official material, etc.)

Attached photo of your copy and scanned pages or links to scans (if applicable): 

Sound Effects Translation: (Yes, No, Not applicable) 

Preferred Translation Style: (Complete or Summary) 

Preferred file type: (.doc or .pdf)

I will reply with an estimate of how much your commission would cost afterwards, and then we can work things like completion dates or budgets, etc., out. Please feel free to contact me at my Gmail for price estimates and other questions that you have. Thank you so much for your interest!

[aqueousablution]

(May 2023) Finally getting around to introducing sorXa's SO (+bonus Alex)

Original post body under the cut:

I'm not sure this will be their final color scheme, and I need to work on their mech, but here's Jos (pronounced /ˈd͡ʒoʊs/, like "Joseph" minus the "eph")! I'll put a transcript of the notes in the first image at the end, but first, some other notes about them:

I'm thinking they were one of the ones meant to interrogate sorXa (who at that point was probably thinking of herself as "Sorcha", since the "sorXa" spelling only came about once she decided to become a gynoid), and the one who made the decision to agree to sorXa's terms and let her join the resistance with a new gynoid body even though the others involved didn't trust her. Y'know, transfem solidarity and all that~

The "their brother" referenced in the antenna design is Thomas Alexander "Alex" [Surname I haven't decided on yet], a former comrade of sorXa's and another supersoldier willing to defect.

He's actually a few years younger than Jos, but they started transitioning young enough that it limited the extent of their growth, and he was subjected to the same hormonal treatments that made sorXa so dysphoric that she decided it was better to abandon her human body altogether, so he wound up a fair bit taller.

Jos was actually the one meant to be sent away to the military, as the oldest """son""", but they ran away from home and joined the rebels, where they were able to transition like they wanted to. Alex never held it against them, though, especially once he reunited with them and found out Jos had transitioned in the opposite direction of what the procedures would have done to them.

Alex is fairly transparently named for General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, who he also looks up to quite a bit and likes to style himself after, but Jos themself is also named for a French revolutionary: Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges. I figured it would be fitting given the setting, and also the fact that I'm quite fond of General Alex Dumas anyway (I read The Count of Monte Cristo going into my freshman year of high school, which is in homage to him, and The Black Count in AP European History, which is a biography of him; on a related note, may Napoleon rot in Hell) and I figured it'd make sense to give the siblings a consistent naming scheme.

Jos acts as something of a medical officer for the anthropoids of their resistance cell, as well as a general mechanical engineer, building and repairing weapons and vehicles. sorXa's armor and weapons were designed and built by them, for example (with input from sorXa, of course, since she's particular about those sorts of things).

Their pronouns and overall gender are kind of an inversion of my own, actually - They prefer for people to use they/them for the most part, but only because they don't trust most people to be able to tell when they're feeling feminine enough to use she/her and feminine terms like "girlfriend" or "sister", but for people they're very close with (such as sorXa and Alex), they're fine with being addressed in a feminine manner (though it takes time for that closeness to develop of course - they've only just met sorXa, and they haven't seen Alex since they were kids).

Aesthetically, I took some inspiration from Professor Bahari from MonHun, Marina from Splatoon (who also serves as a bit of a navigator during the Octo Expansion), and Aki Natsuko as she appears in Re: Cutie Honey (specifically in the finale, where she resigns from the police force and goes solo to help Honey; this was largely inspired by a line that kinda implies that Natsuko is maybe NB, but also the fact that sorXa herself takes some inspiration from Cutie Honey, and Natusko and Honey are definitely sapphic as hell)

Transcript:

Dr. Jos (pronounced like "Joseph" minus the "eph")

they/she

NB human

(usually uses "they/them" but still likes feminine terms like "sister", "girlfriend", etc., but only from loved ones)

"feather" antenna? (pointing at antenna on headset)

ZX-inspired

same shape as their brother's (Note: I've mostly finished designing their brother, seen above, but I need to finish his armor, which has an antenna like this styled as a feather in a cap)

2 "wheels" on R? (showing hinges on the headset for the goggles and mic)

1 "wheel" on L? (showing hinge on the headset for the goggles)

telescope antenna instead? (showing an alternate design for the antenna where it telescopes like a portable radio's antenna)

awake for 26 hours (pointing to a very sleepy chibi Jos)

implant for estradiol (also has one on abdomen) (pointing to barely visible implant under skin on upper arm; could ostensibly be used for other medications if needed, but Jos uses it for estrogen)

E (pointing to outline of implant under tank top on abdomen)

very ratty hoodie (pointing to hoodie around waist, which is greasy and torn from being worn while working on machinery; note that they do actually own some nicer, cleaner clothes, but they're usually too busy to justify wearing them)

perpetually tired from working themself to the bone

"cargo jorts are comfy & easy to wear!!! >:/" (Note: I forgot it was specifically supposed to be demin shorts when coloring since I started this a while ago, hence them being grey here. Whoosp)

likes tech a Normal Amount™

acts a bit like an MM navigator for sorXa, or Otacon (Might also fill the same role for Alex? If not, then that would be a different character; ostensibly the two of them might be on different missions at the same time, necessitating two navigators)

certified mech pilot (might not actually be "certified" per se since they've been living off the radar their whole adult life, but definitely still qualified at least; same goes for their doctorate, hard to go university properly as a rebel)

helped design sorXa's new body (totally had NO gay thoughts while doing so, nope, none at all)

(this is a lie) (pointing to previous statement)