#yea yea throwing stones from glass house because im a man too. but come on

[selamat-linting]

this is complaining about online stuff again but seriously, i just saw this guy on insta complaining over a girl making a joke post about how since she spent so much money looking pretty she cant be dating poor men. this guy said "what about the reverse? what if i say since im a good educated man who spent money building a career and going to therapy then i shouldnt be dating a girl who only knows how to be pretty?"

thats not the pointtt, every single argument from men like him forgets gender roles and workplace misogyny and discrimination is alive in 2024 and it might influence how some women cast their lot in life. and then his next insta story was about toxic masculinity and male depression rates. and then i remember... this is the guy i followed because the liberal feminist collective i used to follow on ig recommended him as The Guy on how men could be an ally to women and how they can benefit from feminism.

el oh el. i guess its true that a man's allyship to women extends only until the women is mean to him.

[jocelyn-wellson]

10 YEARS AGO, JANUARY

“Dmitri does not want Proudmoore Guard in house,” said Boris, a tall and beefy man with whom she’d dealt prior. 

“Boris,” she said. “Et’s me — Jo Knuckles,” she said. 

“Is that official name now?” he scoffed, crossing his arms. “No Guard in house.”

Jocelyn sized the man up. He had at least 1 foot and 150 pounds on her, but he wasn’t nearly as quick. “Ya ‘member th’ time I was in th’ ring wit’ Th’ Bear,” she said. 

“Long time, five years now. Why you ask me this?” he asked, at least seemingly interested.

“‘Member ‘ow I beat ‘im?”

The body guard shifted weight. “Yes, I remember. Never forget,” he said, unconsciously covering his crotch. “Bear can make no children now,” he said. 

“Take me ta see Dmitri,” she said, picking her well-used duffle off the ground. “Please.”

Boris weighed the future of possibly having not children vs. a somewhat cranky, yet amenable, boss. He looked her up and down. “Weapons,” he said, extending his hand; Jocelyn dropped her brass knuckles into his palm.

“Tha’s et,” she said. 

“Come in from rain,” he said. “Leave coat and bag here and follow me to library.”

Jocelyn did as she was told. She glanced around at the varnished wood and antiques from a place about which she’d only heard stories. She could hear him listening to music, pure strings and clear voice. She felt not quite as dreadful as she had as of late. She appreciated that almost as much as the music itself. Boris opened the double doors; Dmitri was in a chair, his back to them. “Jo Knuckles to see you.” 

Dmitri froze at the name for a moment. He moved his arm, and what sounded like a heavy safe door closed shut, followed by the spin of a dial. He sat up. “Leave us, Boris.”

The bodyguard shook his head. “I will stand in hallway,” he said, closing the door behind him. 

The crimelord turned his chair to face her slowly. In his hand, he held a pearl-handled pistol. “So,” he said, setting the gun on his hefty wooden desk. “What does Joey Knuckles want with Dmitri? Make arrest?”

Now it was Jocelyn’s turn to shift uncomfortably. “Somethin’ bad ‘appened.”

“Dmitri needs more.”

“Ain’ in the Guard no more,” she said. “Dishonourable. Kilt a man ‘ho pissed me off, an ol’ john ‘ho wan’ed ta tell ... wha’ we di’.” She shook her head. “Wha’ he did ta me.”

“And now Joey Knuckles has no place to go.”

“Yea,” she said. Her lip twitched. “Ain’ go’ no fam’ly, all me ol’ frien’s are in th’ Guard. I cannae even talk ta them now.”

“So. You come to only friend, Dmitri.” He stood and crossed the room. At a long cherry-wood bar, he prepared two double vodkas, neat. He rubbed a lemon rind about the rim of his glass and a lime about hers. He returned to the desk, handing her the vodka. “You work on your back again?”

She shook her head. “Nay, I’m bettah than tha’.”

Dmitri cracked a sliver of a smile. “Just like Dmitri always tell Joey,” he said, punctuating his point with a finger wag. He clinked his glass to hers. “Kúšajte, péjte na zdoróv’je.”

“Spasíbo,” she replied. They drained their glasses. She set hers on his desk.

“Le’ me work fir you, wit’ Boris. Ya ‘elped me once; le’ me ‘elp  ya now.”

He chuckled. “Dmitri knows you want to help both him and you; always liked that about you, Jo.” He sighed. “Dmitri will help. Two conditions.”

She nodded. 

“Joey will not work on her back. You need to get in ring again, one time a month.”

She flinched. She had no desire to brawl, but knew her situation. “I live ‘ere?”

“Sleep in attic. Will make room for you.”

There was no alternative in the short term. “Deal,” she said.

11 YEARS AGO, LATE DECEMBER (TWO WEEKS PRIOR TO LAST EVENT)

“Oi, hey hey!” shouted the drunk from across the cobblestone path. He was sporting myriad tattoos, including some boasting of his time in Tol Dagor. “Hey! Lady!”

Jocelyn, in her full Proudmoore Guard kit, ignored him. 

“Joss, we should help that man,” whispered her partner. He was fresh out of the Academy. He meant well. 

She shook her head and kept walking. 

The drunk picked up a small pebble and tossed it. He hit Jocelyn on the back of the head: not enough to hurt, but enough to annoy. She was turning just as he hurled a cobblestone; it hit her cheek, drawing blood. That one hurt and left a mark.

“Sir,” said her partner in his deep baritone voice, “You have assaulted a member — ”

“Whore!” yelled the drunk. 

“Le’s go, yea?” she said to her partner. 

“Joss, he hit you in the face.”

The drunk undid his belt, folding it in half. “I ain’t forgot how much she likes that,” he said, approaching them slowly. 

“Sir,” said Jocelyn. “If’fn ya donnae back off, we’re gonna ‘ave ya charge ya wit’ menacin’.”

Her partner touched his ear. A voice on the other end told him backup would be there within a minute. 

“We have more coming,” said Jocelyn’s partner. 

The drunk sneered. “Again, just how — ”

“Sir, back away wit’ th’ belt,” shouted Jocelyn. “Se’ et doon. Now.” She grabbed her truncheon. She placed her body at an angle, feet shoulder width apart. Her partner did the same. 

“I always wanted a repeat of our party,” he said, snapping his belt. He kept walking toward them, staring at Jocelyn the entire time.

“Shut yer mouth!” 

“Joss, what’s he talking about?” asked her partner, rattled.

“Look at this boy... probably ain’t even had sex yet, and he gets you as his partner?” The drunk laughed. He swung the buckle-end of the belt at them. “That’s fucking rich.”

“Jo—”

“Sir, I sai’ shut et.” She took an aggressive stance, dropping her center of gravity. She raised her truncheon. “Las’ warnin’.”

“Joss,” whispered her partner. “We’re here to detain, not to injure.”

“She’s just pissed because we tore her up pretty good that night.”

“Enuf!” she shouted even as the echo of their backups’ feet approached. They were running. “On th’ ground!”

She moved quickly toward the gloating thug. She smashed into the side of his face with the truncheon. His belt dropped to the ground. “I said on th’ ground.”

The drunk spat. Blood and teeth fell to the stone. He bellowed as he pushed her against a brick wall. “I can’t wait for Island with you, me, and all th’ boys, you bitch,” he screamed in her face; blood spattered across her cheeks. “And then you’ll be fucking—”

She slammed the truncheon upward against the man’s chin. He howled in pain and fell to the ground. She moved to cuff him. He taunted her again, thrashing about like a small child throwing a tantrum, kicking her in the back. She brought the truncheon down hard on the back of his head. He stopped moving. She dropped it. Her partner restrained her. She was put in cuffs without opposition. The other officers arrived; they’d seen the majority of it.

At her court martial, Jocelyn’s partner did what he could. He told the presiding officers about the incitement, her attempt at deëscalation, the victim’s unwillingness to comply. The circumstances from earlier that month were taken into consideration, too. It was enough to keep her from the gallows. Yet, despite everything, it was the final blow to the back of his head, deemed malicious by the panel, that forced her removal from service. No benefits. No severance. No transitional aid. Just her last two paycheques and a persona non grata edict by the Academy.

11 YEARS AGO, EARLY DECEMBER (THREE WEEKS PRIOR TO LAST EVENT)

Jocelyn fell into her lover’s arms. She was shaking. She’d just had her baby cut from her belly. “Jus’ ... jus’ tell me ya still ... care,” she implored. Her life had seemed like it was coming together, like a new self was about to blossom. Six months prior, she’d finished her compulsory military service sentence and been admitted into the Proudmoore Guard. Yet, despite the professional and personal success, the pregnancy had been tough from the start. The healers had told her that because of past trauma, she would be unlikely to carry to term. Even still, she believed. When the fifth month came and she no longer felt movement, she knew she was in trouble. In the sixth month, the surgical extraction only confirmed their fears. The fetus had been dead for weeks. She had never felt so cold, so empty.

He was in as much shock as she. “I... I do,” he said shakily. He looked down at the baby, completely wrapped in a thick blanket. “Of course... I do.” He couldn’t even see its face. To him, it appeared to be nothing more than a crumpled blanket. 

“I care, too,” she said, still weak from the surgery and anesthesia. “Only for you.” She squeezed her lover’s hand and closed her eyes, confident he would be there when she awoke.

That was the last time she saw him.

( special thanks to @kat-hawke for the loose character outline )