I'm so fucking tired of those posts that say "quit calling for strikes! Strikes require organizanization and-"

Why did union memberships fall in 2023? Did you know only 11% of the workforce is unionized to begin with for example?

Did you know, workers ages 45 to 54 had the highest union membership rate in 2023, at 12.6 percent while those ages 16 to 24—had the lowest union membership rate, at 4.4 percent?

Did you know in 2023, that the union membership rate for full-time workers (10.9 percent) was more than double that for part-time workers?

All this to say that if you really want me to wait for the workforce to organize then we'll be here til we're all dead because nobody is doing the outreach necessary.

Show me the org that specializes in outreach and getting work places unionized. Is there anywhere that even helps people choose a union? Where are the tutorial posts about forming a union then? Well then show me the posts people make about being in unions and how they did it.

Oh don't have those either? Interesting.

So then quit asking me to wait for you to organize the workforce when that's not what you're doing anyway, psyop.

I'm so tired of "read a book" leftists. For real. Shut up. Telling people to read or "look it up" or assuming the other person has the time and resources to do All The Legwork to get unionized is fucking wild. "We have to organize" and how exactly are you doing that by telling people online they have to organize? Who is that helping???

If Bisan calls for a strike last second cuz she thinks she's going to die in the next few hours and it's not possible, it isnt her who failed to organize, it's not her who had unrealistic expectations, it's not her who failed to think ahead, it's not her expectations of leftists that was wrong.

And I HATE that leftists of all fucking people have managed to dupe themselves into thinking that it's everyone else who is just too dumb to know how to strike and thats why everyone keeps calling for them when the infrastructure isn't there.

Because that's not it at all. People aren't dumb

The issue is that people think the left has been taking action on the things they're always bitching about (like unionizing and going on strikes) but they haven't and now that push has come to shove and we Need that infrastructure those leftists are making up excuses left and right about the infrastructure not being there. Like for real? You're gonna act like people are dumb and unrealistic and it's their fault for expecting it to be there after y'all have been "organizing" for how long?

I could not fathom how much of an emotional journey Prison of Plastic would be. So much of it shows the endless loop that Molly’s in, but I seriously expected it to just continue. Because that’s how Molly’s life is, just the same thing, imagining her out of it seems impossible. The best excerpt of the book tells you as much;

“But even her friends, with their infinite money and kindness, told her that they could not. It was against the law to separate her from her father without his consent or due cause. The man from the child protection agency refused to save her. Her father refused to raise her. Her sister refused to help. They were useless. All of them frozen with incompetence or stuck behind walls of tinker-toy bureaucracy.”

It later mentions the wrecking ball, which one can attribute to Giovanni, but even he can’t do that, you think. The book gets Giovanni out of the action for most of it. He’s busy judging cookie baking, so while yes, he loves and wants to save Bear Trap, but can’t. Naven and Phoenica couldn’t, how would he?

Until he just. Does.

It’s so sudden because that’s the most Giovanni Potage thing to do. He doesn’t care about anything else in that moment, he just takes Molly and runs. To be frank, it was probably Giovanni’s plan the whole time, since he knew she wasn’t in a good situation, but that conversation with Martin (curse his heart) was enough to leave him infuriated. And when he finally heard that she hadn’t gotten proper sleep and hadn’t eaten anything, he decided to push his plan forward. That’s what he does. His minions mean everything to him. Giovanni isn’t the most capable, he’s just a weird guy with soup powers. He’s at first seemingly reckless and stupid, but his emotional intelligence and dedication to help everyone around him who he doesn’t have a reason to be against is so amazing. He is the one thing that can prove Molly’s view of the world wrong. He cares enough to say “fuck that” to every stupid structure that everyone else is stuck in.

And when, in the end, Molly got to just be a kid, it warmed my heart. Halfway through that scene I was whisper-shouting “WE WIN THESE” like I’d just watched my favourite sportsball team make the greatest win of the century. Because it was.

Molly being happy, able to get away from work, to be the 12 year old that she is, is so amazing. I expected she would just have some quick easy-bake solution to fix her relationship with Lorelai. She didn’t have to forgive her sister. Naven and Giovanni stepped up and, while being honest that she isn’t good to Molly, gave her a chance to fix her ways. Slowly. Because it wouldn’t fix itself fast. It had to wait, because it would take time.

Molly got to rest. Her friends got a chance to take the opportunity to do something for her.

This story, this resolution, means so much to me.

@jelloapocalypse, Thank you for writing this story. Molly Blyndeff is an amazing character, thank you so much for making a story as beautiful, sorrowful and realized as hers.

The beauty of nuance, and long form responses.

This is a post where I reaffirm how much I love the freedom afforded to write out all of my thoughts.

Verbal discussion is more difficult, especially when one considers the emotional state of the person on the receiving end that has to listen. Sometimes, when one thinks they have a good handle on the subject and does not want to hear something that challenges it, they'll consider oppositional points to be heresy or apologia for wrongness.

For example, if someone went went, "The Nazis were 100% irredeemably bad in everything they did, because Nazism is 100% bad!" That would be an understandable position to take, off the cuff, but not absolutely accurate. However, if you went, "Well, ackshully..." responding to that, and pointed out some of the things that they objectively did reasonably well, that might sound like you were defending Nazism, rather than just technically acknowledging they technically succeeded in accomplishing something. Yes, Nazis bad, Socialism sucks, ethno-nationalism (ANY national ethnicity) is no way to run a country or manage a society, and everything they did that actually was objectively okay in the name of that was morally wrong or worked DESPITE their hare-brained bullshit. But, that doesn't mean they failed to do everything just because they were Nazis. It means even the acceptable things they did (successfully print paper, not shit on themselves in attempting bureaucracy) were morally wrong, but not that they were utter failures in everything they did.

However, if you tried to explain this, you might get someone rolling their eyes at you trying to sandbag them or "out smart" them by being pedantic, or eyeball you and wonder if maybe you have too much sympathy for the disgusting fucking Nazis, and take up too many hard points of the day with this useless distinction. Now you're interrupting whatever point they were making by interrupting.

So rather than say anything, rather than clarify this distinction about how Nazis are awful so that must have meant every little thing they did was incompetent and stupid and smelly and evil, you smile and nod and agree, because it's really not that big a deal, and the other person is really just being hyperbolic anyway, and it's not super important. The risk of being seen as someone that has even a hair of Nazi sympathism, or holds bad ideas about them, "making the trains run on time," or buys into the myths of Nazi German (or even pre-Nazi German cultural supremacy) efficiency, is just too great. So, you hold your tongue, you let them continue on their discussion using that set piece as true to support whatever else they're saying, because it's not worth disputing or adding to and would just interrupt them and risk how they see you.

Before the internet, people would sometimes invoke other things that people take for granted as true as the basis for other things being true. And even if you thought that was not entirely accurate, you didn't interrupt or try to get them to rethink it because, is the risk really worth the effort? Is the juice worth the squeeze?

Before the keyboard, writing this all out took time and paper and many drafts and erasers. And then you had to have someone willing to READ it.

But if you tried to convey your thoughts verbally, if they were nuanced enough and required long form just to differentiate yourself from actual shitheads with shitty views, there was always the risk of boring the other person to death so they TL;DR and just respond as if you are that apologist guy they suspect they're dealing with. If they started thinking by your dissent alone that you must be one of those Bad People, they ran the risk of going off the cuff and just relating to you antagonistically. And there's few things more irritating than trying to rationally support your argument while someone else conveys not only are they not listening, but they'll just make petty shots, insults, and shows of disrespect to provoke you to doing something or wasting your time.

This was especially irritating to deal with people like that when the discussion was somewhere during a social gathering, and they were trying to make a spectacle about "putting a bad-person in their place." So just loudly speaking to you as if you had indefensible positions and imply by these imaginary reactions to things you never said, in a way that makes people think you said or support those beliefs. I guess a modern day version would be someone patronizing you and mocking you by quoting Andrew Tate, as if you'd ever said anything like that. Which makes viewers and the audience assume "oh, he must've said something cliche like Tate says. Ah. Yeah, hah! Get'im!"

Here, making long form posts, I don't have to worry about people speaking over me when I type, or pulling social-emotional strings to make weaker, vulnerable people jump on that bandwagon and pretend we live in a universe where I support Bad People by disagreeing with a thing here and there. They can't obfuscate what I'm saying by just responding to the sort of bad person they want to tell off, and they can't retroactively erase what I've said using peoples distaste for Bad People and making a values decision on whether to trust me, or the loud mouth asshole polluting my reputation. I can make complete thoughts, and they can be read and contemplated and consumed in their totality, without the dogmas or cliches of some other pop political figure.

Just reblogging my post means they have to reblog what I've written. They can't erase my words, and only let newcomers to the conversation see their response to my words to taint and paint the situation incorrectly. It can be read and understood at the bystander's satisfaction. Sure, there's always the risk they may not read it, or may read it and still come away (good faith or bad) with the reading of the other person. But the fact is, I can complete my thoughts rather than be interrrupted and filibustered, and they're there.

I adore this form of communication.

A Met spokesperson told the BBC that officers spent an average of 10 hours with a patient when they are sanctioned under the Mental Health Act. "In London alone, between 500-600 times a month officers are waiting for this length of time to hand over to patients, and it cannot continue," said a statement. "Police... are not trained to deliver mental health care." https://news.sky.com/story/metropolitan-police-to-stop-attending-999-calls-linked-to-mental-health-incidents-12892351

ACAB

^^ Quotes in red are worth comparing to the first headline and quotes in orange are words that are doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Rant incoming about why we hate cops.

Essentially it's the same rhetoric as ever: cops are unqualified but also blameless for anything bad they do (because obviously the lack of qualification and badness emerge from some sort of corrupt or incompetent bureaucracy governing their actions, for which they are ultimately not responsible and which are adjectives that definitely don't also apply exactly to cops like they're projecting or something no way they would nevvvverrrrrrr) so they need less red tape and less time "waiting" to "hand over" "patients" because they need to do less "MENTAL HEALTH CARE" and more unidentified but very important Cop Stuff.

You know, Cop Stuff, the stuff that they are actually qualified to do. Cop Stuff.

Like what they did in the info released the next day about a 91 year old woman with dementia in need of mental health support who - due to the red tape that holds them accountable to "wait" "with a patient" for some time (that could vary to an unknown degree but which we are encouraged to assume is normally 10 dont worry about it they would never fudge the numbers why would you say that) - ended up being assaulted by the police, who put a bag over her head, aimed a taser at her and nearly killed her like their comrades in Australia did when they tasered a 94 year old woman, which I found out about with the same "91 year old tasered" search from an article that was published just 1 week ago!

Never ever ever ever ever call the police on anyone having what appears to be a mental health crisis. Hell, if you call an ambulance in the UK you still risk the possibility of being traumatised in a mental health ward but if you must call for help then do so – but for fucks sake don't ever call the police.

They are trained to escalate in order to do violence on behalf of the state and in the interests of private property and they do so every time they have an opportunity. It doesn't matter what good any police officer ever did or if they were ever nice to you, there is a hell of a lot of evil that you have to constantly dismiss to cling on to the copaganda you get taught ever since you're a child that there are "good cops" which are basically the good guys and there are "dirty cops" (who do all the bad stuff, a few bad apples if you will, but we'll conveniently ignore the part about how they spoil the whole fucking bunch), which is why we need a maverick "good cop" to deliver "justice" by breaking the rules and cutting through the "red tape" to save the day.

Thats literally the fucking lie they ran in this statement and which they run all the time to shift accountability onto their victims & their few measly restrictions in order to demand more power and more access to violence. If a cop does something good or kind they are doing it in spite of the fact they're a cop, not because of it.

My letting agent literally wants me to call the cops atm on a homeless guy that keeps coming through my garden, digging through bins & making a mess because the landlord cant be bothered to put a lock on the gate and end the problem. Cops are fucking useless unless you want to hurt people with less power than you because by their own admission they are literally not trained to help people & they would be better off spending their time hurting people instead because doing violence is the only reason cops exist, it's what a cop fucking IS.

Rant over, fuck the police. Fuck police unions. All cops are bastards. No cops at pride.

Whumptober No.4 - Taken Hostage

TW: Guns, off-screen assumed character death, sexist character, smoking

Taglist: @whumpers-inc

There is a surprising (and hand-cramping) amount of paperwork that goes into working at a call center, even one as unconventional as 1-877-WHMP-NOW. An annoying, several hour, several stack amount. Bianca will never forgive whoever it was in HR or accounting (the only two departments who actually seem masochistic enough to enjoy bureaucracy) that suggested all these extra reports and encounter summaries and redundancy measures.

In the same way you tune out the world while enjoying a nature walk and only begin paying attention again when your unconscious mind notices something dangerously wrong, Bianca pauses in her muttered curses to the paperwork gods and listens.

“Why of course she’s in today,” Fran says in a tight tone. “I’ll just transfer you right to your personal whump-passionate care coordinator, Dom.”

Not Dom. Not that irritating, overly stuffed up crock of shit again. Dom had run through almost the entire call center, leaving Bianca the only person who had yet to swear to walk if they were forced to deal with the self-impressed asshole. Jerking her head up, Bianca stares Fran down, like a deer willing a semi-truck to change paths. She shakes her head, desperately miming cutting across her throat with a rushed flail.

Their gazes lock. Fran continues to dial, even as they watch Bianca’s distressed pantomime with all the impassive finality of a monarch’s sentence.

“Don’t you dare, Fran,” Bianca hisses. “I swear by all that is good and holy if you transfer him--”

Her line rings, and she answers it with a chipper grin that doesn’t touch her glare one bit. “Well hey, sugar!” If looks could kill, Bianca would be in a whole other line of work right now as she tosses an eraser at Fran’s head. “What can I do for you today, hun?”

Well, she can already tell this isn’t going to be a pleasant call, not if the sirens are any indication.

“Brianna,” Dom cries, “I’m too handsome for jail!”

Bianca mouths to Fran, “I’ll kill you,” even as they duck their head and pretend to be oh-so invested in their latest call report. She tosses another eraser and this one hits the mark, bouncing off the back of their skull.

“Hello! Brianna! I need you to put down the Covergirl or your nail file and do your job, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, she returns her attention to Dom. “I’m awful sorry. What did you say your emergency was?”

“Thank you for the urgency,” he spits.

Bianca waits for him to elaborate. The sirens on his end of the line continue blaring, the voluming growing as they grow closer.

“Did the line cut out, sugar?” she prompts, carefully sterilizing her tone with a thick layer of honey.

“I tried to rob this small town little podunk town store and took this girl--” Dom lets out a short cry of pain and kicks at something. He corrects himself, ”This bitch. And someone had the nerve to call the cops on me!”

At the sound of gunfire- too close to the gun to be from any policeman, Bianca raises a single brow in silent question of his intelligence. In her humble, professional opinion wasting ammo on puerile displays and a lead tantrum is useless, but again, she’s just a professional. She only graduated at the top of her class and has years, if not decades, on Dom in terms of experience.

Of course, Bianca says none of that.

“Have you taken the girl hostage, Dom?”

“Yes! Jeez, do I have to spell everything out for you people?”

“It’s very helpful when our clients are clear and precise, Dom,” Bianca returns, an almost feral edge to the too wide portions of her smile. “Have you read our informational brochure, ‘So You Want to Take a Hostage’? Or perused our FAQs for whumpers?”

“Why should I?”

A year ago maybe Bianca might have been surprised. Now she’s just glad Dom can’t see the various mocking faces and mouthed insults she indulges in due to such a response. That doesn’t mitigate the desire she feels to bash her head against her desk until her mental faculties match Dom’s. Instead, she parrots, “No. Why should you.”

“So, what do I do?” Dom asks, impatience clear in his tone. “How do I get out of this?”

“Well, Dom, could I speak with your hostage for a hot sec?”

Completely ignoring her question, Dom muses aloud, “What if I just went out there with my guns and just started shooting. There’s only one car out there. I can take out some backwater donut cop.”

She loves her job. She loves her job. She. Loves. Her. Job. She may be a masochist.

“That course of action might not work well, sugar,” Bianca says carefully.

“Why not?”

Just as she’s about to answer, said aforementioned cop starts in with the megaphones and the offers for surrender. Quickly, she traces the call while Dom yells back about assholes and what he deserves and specifically what the cop deserves, involving his megaphone and uncomfortable places.

That ‘podunk’ little town is more of a small city, and even if there is only one cop currently there, there are bound to be more en route, and rapidly at that.

“Are you listening to me, sweetheart?” Dom demands. “There’s only one of him and I’ve got two guns. It’s fool proof.”

Oh, it’s something to do with fools alright. “So, to clarify, you’ve got a gun in each hand?”

“I just said that, honey, put your listening ears on and try to keep up.”

Over her ten plus years working with the call center, Bianca has heard plenty of stupid shit in her time but trying to go out dual wielding guns is… a new one. She quickly shoots Fran a short text reading, You SO owe me, Franny.

“What about your hostage? How are you going to keep control over her? Is she bound?” Bianca tries to reason with Dom, the apparent Blade wannabe, even if it’s futile.

“I’ll bring her with and put the gun to her head. Easy.”

Easy. Yes, so easy. Fran returns her text. ‘You’re the absolute goddess of dealing with BS I am not worthy.’

“Dom, could you be a dear and let me speak with her, please? Thank you sugar.”

“God what is it with women always needing to yap yap yap?” Dom complains as he rips the gag out of the hostage’s mouth.

“FUCK YOU!” She howls immediately. “I’ll bite your fingers off, you small dicked piece of shit!”

So, Bianca had admittedly harbored suspicions that the ‘girl’ was actually a grown woman, considering Dom’s typical behavior, but this certainly confirms that. A wistful sigh builds as Bianca listens to the hostage chew Dom out and insult his manhood and intelligence.

‘Damn straight. I expect pumpkin spice brownies and a latte on my desk tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s June.’

“It’s DOM.’

‘Pumpkin spice brownies gotcha.’

A solid, but wet crack jerks Bianca’s attention back to the matter at hand. The hostage is eerily quiet. Waiting for a response from either Dom or the hostage, she picks at the dry skin on her lips and taps her foot.

“Oh shit,” Dom whispers.

Screwing her eyes shut as if that will change what his answer is, Bianca asks, “Dom?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just pistol whip your hostage?”

“Yeah.”

Nope, this is officially the stupidest, most asinine, bass-ackwards call from a client she’s ever had to suffer through. Clearly having overheard, Fran twists around to get a better vantage point to watch as Bianca places her head in her hands and fights back a scream of frustration.

Collecting herself, Bianca chirps, “I’m sorry, sugar, but you really ought to have read our guide. The first rule of a hostage situation is to keep your hostage alive as leverage. Now, as it stands, you’re a murderer surrounded by... “ She counts up each little blip. “Four cop cars and another two on the way. You have to understand, honey, that it goes against policy to stay involved.”

“What? No! You can’t do this you bitch!”

Bianca grins, sharp and vicious. “Oh, Dom, I can, and I will.” With that, and Dom still shouting injustice, she hangs up.

“I’ve wanted to do that for forever,” she breezily admits to Fran.

They match her smile inch for inch, and then some. “Bee, you’re my hero. I’m throwing in maple walnut fudge pancakes just for that.”

“Of course we’ll have IT burn the connection and remote into Dom’s phone before the incident gets too close to home, blah blah blah, and we’ll look into whether that lady remembers anything after the whole gun to the head thing,” she dismisses, “but for now, I need a smoke break or twenty. Toodles!”

MAG 178

Ooh back in Meatville™️

I am once again asking Basira to be nice to Jon

Martin reminding them to treat all the victims as people!!! Good for u bb I love u

“Why are they queuing?” “It’s a factory of the flesh. Use your imagination.” “...no. No, I don’t think I will” yeah good call babe

“I hate all of these loose ends... we’ll just have to tie them all up in one go, hmm? Around Elias’s neck.” MARTIN KARTIN BLACKWOOD TGE FLIP FROM ABSOLUTE COMPASSION TO MURDEROUS ANTI ELIAS THOUGHTS FUCKING STELLAR ILY BABY

“Tool cupboard. Safe enough place to wait.” “Fine.” *door opens* “Nope.” Martin you’re a fucking gem

“Could be worse, at least they’re clean” Jon you’re my favorite person in the whole wide world you fucking dork

Snarky Jon is my favorite Jon

Oh the concept of your “processing” being inevitable but the fear of it being pointless, of not being useful is rly interesting

The contract thing is very sign your life away I love it when Jonny says “fuck capitalism”

Yknow I wasn’t sure why bureaucracy was part of the flesh but it actually makes a lot of sense- the flesh is all about the fear that you’re just meat, and the uncaring bureaucracy goes a long way towards that depersonalization

Ohhh and that gives the whole “your pain is inevitable but it could be worse- it could be useless, pointless” thing a new level bc that’s what capitalism’s all about- accept your suffering, even be proud of it, bc you’re useful like this

God fuck capitalism man

Oof and the branding Jonny’s rly coming for capitalism’s dehumanizing “eat you up and spit you out” process w no qualifications or anything huh

“At last, the prospect of seeing what might happen if he runs from the line seems worth it to Tyler, but the realization sets in that it is far, far too late for that” god the whole idea of people’s fear of stepping out of line bc what if that’s even worse finally being overcome by the understanding that it couldn’t be worse than this but it’s too late to leave and you’ve missed your chance... shit man

“He could refuse. A final, petty act of rebellion against a system it feels like he has run through a hundred times. But what would be the point of that? It won’t save him. A wasted pile of discarded tissue is all that would be left. Is it not better, at least, to be useful?” God the absolute raw lines in this one fuck man I really get how you can expand very real societal systems into overwhelming cosmic horror through this it’s amazing and also oh my god

Amazing job Jonny

Also alex on the soundscaping! I’m having a Bad Time

Martin defending Jon to Basira!!! I’m soft

Martin continuing to treat the victims as people I love my boy

“Recognize her.” “...no. I don’t think I do” “that wasn’t a question” Jon forcing Basira to confront daisy’s police brutality!! Good job hun!! Acab!!!

“Someone has died! Show some respect! Or don’t you care?” get her Martin

“Daisy’s the only person I could ever rely on, and she... she did things, terrible things, and I... I refused to see it, or, said it was my duty, or whatever. I don’t know.”

THE BREAKDOWN OF THE SEIGE MENTALITY FUCK YEAH DUDE

“I wanted to help people, you know? When I first joined. Protect people. But then I saw what some of those same people were capable of, and... something changed. I wanted to hurt them, the ones that deserved it, and it... it felt good. It felt righteous. I thought I could feel the line though. I really did. Eventually, though, it was too much... I was going to quit. I couldn't take what I saw myself becoming. But... then I got sectioned, and suddenly... suddenly it turned out there were real monsters out there, and, well, that just made the power feel better. So things kept slipping. But Daisy was always there for me.” “All those innocent people...” “Were they? Innocent?” “Some. And if not? What crime warrants what was done to them?” 👏👏👏👏

“She was trying to be better” “she was. But she never asked me to forgive her.” “Forgive her?” “I’ve been scared, terrified for my life so many times these last few years. But I’ve never, not once, felt so horribly, abjectly, powerless as when she took me into that forest to kill me. I’ll never forget it.” Jon having the police brutality he faced as the most traumatic event of his life when he’s been so thoroughly traumatized in so many ways really drives that point home god

“Would you have forgiven her?” “No. But she never asked me. She knew she had no right.”

I’m very torn bc while I do totally get why a lot of people hate daisy and it’s absolutely fair I’m still sad that practically the only person who was really there for Jon in season four isn’t gonna be able to come back. I just want my boy to have a support network man

“No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most. Even me.” I AM CONCERNED

i was reading ur alt s6 stuff and i think they fumbled the heaven and angels plots so badly in s6 and the following seasons so much because they simply didn't care about heaven at all. they wrote it because they needed cas to be Away and Busy. partly because of the superpowered character thing and partly bc of the dean thing. so instead of actually thinking anything through they would set up and knock down angels plots so cas would always be off chasing something 1/3

pi KNOW they were worried about having such an overpowered character with suddenly no qualms about being loyal entirely to them, but the solution to that is to simply make him human. there is so much to explore there and he wouldn't be useless - his knowledge alone would be incredibly useful, not to mention his connections. he would be the anya (from buffy) of spn - has a bunch of comic relief moments but also bc he's new at humanity & played as autistic he can cut through the bullshit by 2/3

simply questioning things that are taken for granted. which would help both boys question their status quo's and continue to grow instead of falling back into the same brother drama over and over and over again. anyway this all started because i was commenting on how the spn writers had zero interest in heaven but i guess i ended up opposite of where u are and i propose getting rid of heaven politics altogether and bring cas down to earth lmao. but anyway i love reading ur alt s6 stuff! 3/3

okay so, i have my own theories on the specifics of why the angel shit happened the way it did, but yeah you’re mostly right. basically: i think s6, specifically, suffered more from “sera gamble is a bronly” disease than “we need to get rid of cas for uhhhhhhhhhh reasons” disease. 

i actually wouldn’t mind if s6 was a jeremy carver style “we need to get rid of cas for uhhhhhhhhh reasons” plot, that’s actually basically what my season six au is! like my au is in many ways “what if season six, but carver style (but good because carver is incompetent as a writer and showrunner)?” like, i think fundamentally the problem with the angel bullshit in carvernatural is threefold. first, carver’s seasons were just, like, bad, because carver was a bad showrunner. like, he was a heller, he loved cas, he intentionally queercoded dean so hard that i’m shocked he didn’t get shut down by the network, but he was a bad writer and showrunner. reason number two is that he was always trying to separate cas from the bros but never for like..... reasons that made sense. it was all kind of manufactured conflict, or a lot of it was. plus i feel like once cas has lost his wings it makes more sense for him to actively try and stick w the bros, vs before that it does make sense that he’d be off doing his own shit. and then the third, biggest reason why the carver seasons angel bullshit didn’t work was fucking! because godstiel was SO critical to all the angel bullshit but sera gamble didn’t give a shit and made a hash of the worldbuilding!

like, i actually really like angel stuff because i am, in my heart, a star trek fan, i love stories about governments and bureaucracies and diplomacy and politics and espionage and institutions. and the only real place for that on spn is heaven. hell, that’s actually why a lot of the heaven stuff feels out of place: the basic vibe of spn requires that governments not exist. this is something i’ve always found kind of galling about spn, actually, BECAUSE i love stories about governments. but heaven politics can be that, so in my spn it will be because i think it’s sexy.

but like, no, the problem with season six specifically is first and foremost that sera gamble is a bronly, and only cares about cas insofar as he affects or illuminates the brothers, which is CRAZY given that he was the one having the character arc in season six.

but also i do agree with you. if i was allowed to cause the show to go totally au after or mid s4? i would completely be like..... keep angels as fucked up and mysterious and inhuman as possible and just nerf cas and then keep him fucking nerfed. i actually made a post about this a million years ago where i said if i could make like, a couple things about spn good good instead of like, spn good, then one of those things would be angels and keeping them big and scary and other. and the best way to do this is never have them play too big a role and to keep cas fucking nerfed.

also, i LOVE the concept of cas as the anya of spn fkjgneirjgneign

To listen

Title: To Listen Prompt/Day: Day 1: Hermione admits she is wrong Name: Rating: T Brief summary: Rose is home on a short Holiday for her 17th birthday and once again, she’s at odds with her very-strong willed mother who can’t quite grasp that Rose is almost nothing like her Mum. Warnings/trigger warnings: Domestic quarrels with Mum; occasional harsh language

“Bugger off, Dad!” Rose yelled over her shoulder. She knew better than to yell at this time of the morning but she couldn’t care any less right now. Everything in her life had gone right into the rubbish bin when she’d come home on holiday from Hogwarts. Not an hour after returning did her Mum tear into her over her marks and the continued reports from school about her less than stellar revisions, but the one that bothered her worst was from Professor Sinestra. She took Astronomy to please her Mum and to try and understand the science behind the magic. It was like Grampa learning how aeroplanes stay up in the sky without magic – just like she wanted to learn how brooms could accelerate at the rates they did.

And maybe she could catch a break academically since Professor Sinestra’s wife was one of Dad’s close friends and mentors at work.

How wrong she was. She was barely scraping Acceptable on her all of her NEWTs coursework. While it wouldn’t open too many doors at the Ministry, that was never her preferred course of study. That wasn’t her.

All she cared about was Playing Quidditch or anything potentially related to it.

Dad told her she was smart, if not smart in the ways her mum was smart. Aunt Ginny and Uncle Harry both told her she was brilliant on a broom, like a maestro directing a symphony. She didn’t fathom that metaphor since she was a Seeker, just like her uncle Harry had been. She could have been a keeper like Dad but staying in one place protecting just wasn’t her thing. She didn’t want to be like Uncle George or Cousin James, swinging a beater’s bat and knocking bludgers at people. She also didn’t want to be like Aunt Ginny, constantly racing up and down the pitch either trying to score or steal the Quaffle from someone.

No, all she wanted to do was catch that snitch. She lived for the thrill of trying to solve where it might be hiding, not when it was the size of a walnut shell and wicked fast. She loved the absolute rush of racing on her broom, flying by the heels of her boots, her hand outstretched by inches over anyone else since she was lean and lanky like her Dad. Seekers were usually small and lithe – even family friend Viktor Krum wasn’t that big and kind of awkward but on a broom, he was a master. She towered over Viktor by inches, at 14. She could almost look Uncle Harry in the eyes.

Her height coupled with her propensity to stay aerodynamic, her hair braided and charmed to lie flat on her neck where it wouldn’t get in the way made her the one that professional teams were recruiting – after her fifth year when she’d caught the snitch in every single match.

Uncle Harry didn’t accomplish that – or Uncle Charlie, for that matter.

But there was the small problem of dealing with her Mum, the one she left in a strop earlier in the evening when she finally exploded at her, yelling terrible things that surely never hurt Mum.

Mum was a fierce one, completely relentless in her desire to see her daughter be just like her, with brilliant grades and every possible job opportunity available once she finished Hogwarts. Thing was, though, that she didn’t want to do those things. The mundane monotony and grinding minutiae of bureaucracy would drive her to drink. The thought of being chained to a desk for so many hours a week pushing papers, filing useless reports, fighting selfish sods who wanted Purebloods to be a priority again, where Muggleborns weren’t worth dragon dung broke her will to live.

Fortunately, those who hadn’t died in 98 were dead now or permanently in Azkaban for their crimes, with many thanks to Dad and Uncle Harry.

Why did Mum get so bloody barmy over her marks? It wasn’t like she didn’t put in the work. She never had less than an A in anything, with some E’s tossed in and the rare occasional O. But Mum’s insistence that she make O’s in everything and only study made her cry often – or lose sleep for weeks on end with terrible insomnia while trying to keep her Mum happy. Why couldn’t her Mum be like Dad, accepting her just the way she was, with her interests, her own goals, her own life?

She didn’t want to be like her Mum, arguing daily with people who thought themselves better than Mum. No, she wanted to be on the pitch, where talent and skill were foremost, where her dogged work ethic – the only thing she shared with Mum, for the most part – would benefit her tremendously.

It wasn’t like she had wanted for anything, material-wise. While they didn’t grow up posh like Scorpius, or even Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny, with her galleons made for the Harpies and the English National Team, they were quite comfortable and didn’t do without anything. She never missed a meal except for practice or a match and didn’t have to eat grotty tinned corned beef sandwiches for any reason.

Why couldn’t Mum understand that she wasn’t fighting for their world but to entertain it?

Instead, it was the constant drumbeat of You have to earn better marks and You won’t succeed at anything with only acceptable marks for NEWTS and the worst being, ‘Sigh, I guess you’ll just have to buckle down and work harder.’

Why couldn’t Mum see that those things didn’t interest her?

She didn’t care that she couldn’t perfectly brew a Draught of living death. She couldn’t be arsed that she didn’t remember the Goblin rebellion of 1787 nor had trouble transfiguring hedgehogs into pencil cases. Why couldn’t there be a class on the History of Quidditch? Or Brooms and how they fly practical magic class? Those things interested her. The mundane things didn’t.

Rose?

Shite. This was the absolute last person she wanted to speak with, much less at 3 am. The look of utter betrayal and disappointment wrenched her heart when she exploded, yelling at her Mum that she was so sorry she wasn’t as perfect as her Mum or a bloody genius like her little brother. Her rage erupted, yelling that she was sorry that her Mum had a bloody dumb disgrace for a daughter and that she was an embarrassment to her friends at the ministry and that she didn’t give a fuck about that or any job there, only wanting to live her life, play Quidditch professionally and get to it.

Rose?

What a brilliant start to adulthood: getting into a blistering row with Mum, hours before her birthday when she would be an adult.

How fucking hard was it that her Mum couldn’t accept that she was nothing like her? Obviously, it was a broom ride entirely too far for her. Thank Merlin Dad understood, even if he didn’t intervene.

Small yet strong hands squeezed her shoulders. 'I was wrong.'

The fire coursing through her veins tamped down, like using a lid to cover a fire riddled skillet on the stovetop. Mum sounded like had gotten into Dad’s Firewhiskey. She heard a couple of sniffs. Mum was crying? Mum never cries. She’s passionate in the Wizengamot and brutal in taking down criminals she was prosecuting for Azkaban? Voice almost gone from crying? Not Mum, never in her life that she could remember. Dad said the last time she cried was in the hospital after giving birth to Hugo. But one moment, one act of contrition didn’t absolve Mum of the painful things she’d said over the years.

'I’m sorry.'

Rose turned and saw her Mum standing there in her garish orange housecoat, her hair a wreck and her face haggard. Her voice was no better than the frogs in the Burrow pond to this day.

'Please Rose, please don’t ever doubt for one second that I’m proud of you every day of your life,' The words poured out like water from a fountain, all in a rush and so cold on the fire in her veins.

'I want you to be yourself,' Hermione’s voice rumbled. Rose stood, towering over her Mum by many inches, but fell to her knees when her Mum opened her arms for her.

Bitter yet healing tears fell.

'I’m sorry it took me so long to see that clearly. Please forgive me.'

Rose pulled her Mum to her and cried, crying like she hadn’t since she was three and fell off her broom and broke her arm and couldn’t fly for months.

Minutes passed and she eventually let go, catching a whiff of tea and freshly cooked biscuits. Her stomach grumbled, having walked out of dinner during their row.

“I’m ready to listen,” Hermione said as she unrolled the blanket in their yard and sat down. “Tell me what you want to do for your future.”

Katsuki’s backlog of military pension from the Imperial Homeworld arrives thirteen cycles after he’d finally settled on a newly minted colony outpost in Wild Space. He’d given more than twenty years of his life to the Empire and its glory and they still half-ass his retirement.

Fucking figures. Useless bureaucracy as always.

His pension landed with a dropship of shipments from a nearby space station. Katsuki half expected some kind of parade of medals and acclaims, and enough credits lining his bank account to tide him over for several generations, because Bakugou Katsuki is a goddamn war hero. He’d carried more than his weight in battle and had fought on the frontline of the Empire’s wars since he learned how to carry a gun and shoot a man at eleven on one of the Empire’s offshoot colonies.

He’s a soldier through and through, and he’d paid his dues. It’s now their turn.

What actually steps out of ship is neither some fanciful rewards or some official congratulating on his overdue retirement, but a young man with curls of green hair that reminds him of an overgrown bush and the greenest pair of eyes to match. He even got freckles dusting his face and decked out in gleaming gemstones that covered his ears, hands, neck, and wrists. He is a walking treasury of the Empire, wearing a thin long flowy dressrobe too flimsy and delicate for the kind of harsh climate in CAPU VI, and his long hair is pinned up with a flower ornamental headpiece dyed in crimson colors.

Their eyes meet and Katsuki’s pension dip his eyes as his cheeks stained a soft hue of pink. “Colonel Bakugou,” he says, lowering his head and his long lashes dipping with deference. “I’ve come on the behest of the Empire as a reward for your honorable service and duty to the Imperial Homeworld.”

Katsuki drags his hand down his face and groans as Kaminari whistles appreciatively next to him. “Oh Merciful Thane, they got you a courtesan as your pension,” he says, barely containing his amusement. “What were they even thinking?!”

“Those fucking nutjobs,” Katsuki grumbles.

Courtesan. A fancy nomer for the flowers of the Core Worlds. Genetically engineered humans with spliced genes from various plants, they're bred and raised to be the companion of the elites. Docile, submissive, and blindingly loyal to their master; they're worse than actual pets.

Katsuki crossed path with a few of them in the past through public functions pushed by the Imperial's propaganda machine, because someone got to nicely package war to the ignorance mass. All the courtesans he'd previously encountered were all pretty smiles, well mannered, and soft spoken. They were so goddamn perfect in presentation that it was like talking to an empty headed doll. It had grinded his gears then and it still grinds his gears now. What the fuck is Katsuki even supposed to do with some artificial created flower doll?

Sheltered in the cradle of the Core Worlds, these courtesan certainly never know the meaning of starvation, never dirty their hands in a hard day of work, and certainly had never step foot on some far flung planet and told to survive they must fight and kill the enemies in front of them.

Katsuki had worked his ass off to be able to finally retired deep in Wild Space, far from the Empire's reach, so he can live a life away from the bloodshed and deaths of war after having endured it enough to last several lifetimes.

But, of course the Empire continues to fuck him over even now.

He gazes at the Empire's last fuck you to him, brows pinching in thought. Shipping him back would be an annoyance, too many toes he would have stepped on, but worth it.

The courtesan gives him a tentative smile under the intense scrutiny. Cool. Professional. And just downright perfect. "I'm Izuku from the Misty Rain Teahouse," he introduces himself.

Misty Rain, a famous teahouse that had train some of the best courtesans in the galaxy and Izuku is one of theirs. At least the Empire is not that much of a stingy ass autocracy to skimp out on his pension even if their gift is completely useless and inconvenience to him in this part of space.

"I don't care what the fuck your name is or where you came from," Katsuki says with narrowed eyes, "because you're going hop right back on that damn ship. I don't have time to take care of some pamper pet trying to warm my bed when this hellhole of planet is going to fuck me sideways if I'm not careful."

Izuku flinches, but holds his head high and shoulders firm. "I--," his cheeks redden as he clear his throat, "I'm not here to be just your b-bed partner, Colonel Bakugou. I'm to be your husband. You made an acquisition for a spouse with the VA and I'm here to fulfill it."

A beat of deathly silence, then, "what?" Katsuki demands with an outraged hiss.

Kaminari's brows shoot up to hairline at that revelation. "Sol's galactic balls, they sent you an equivalent of a mail order bride!" He clutches his stomach, and laughs and laughs like the idea is so absurd it got to be some sort of a joke. "I didn't think you were that lonely to be in a need of a spouse, Bakugou."

Katsuki's eyes flashes toward Kaminari and he smacks him at the back of his head for the trouble. "Shut your fucking mouth before I stapled it shut," he threatens.

Kaminari just grins and mines zipping his mouth in the face of Katsuki's glare and fury. "Aye, aye, sir," he says with a lazy salute that makes Katsuki bristle. They’re out of uniform, but doesn’t mean Kaminari can be indolent with his manners.

Katsuki consider throwing him in the compactor for his casual insubordination, but he's shorts on extra hands at his ranch and Kaminari when he's not speaking is actually a good engineer. He sighs, and turns back to the other problem at hand, who is sparing him a hopeful smile.

Katsuki rakes a hand through his hair furiously, before biting the bullet. "Look, I didn't make any formal request for a spouse," he tells Izuku. "So you can go back and tell those fuckers that they had made a mistake. I wanted my pension in credits at least and not a damn bedwarmer."

"B-but," Izuku's green go wide with hurt, "I got your signature here right here, sir." He pulls up a holocron page on his wrist and there's a digital footprint of Katsuki's signature on it. "You signed the paperwork so we're officially married under the Empire's purview."

Katsuki’s jaw locks, hands curling at his side as a windswept murderous rage set in. He thinks of that boy orphaned by war, who had learned how to wield a gun and shoot a man down long before he even knew the warmth of another home; his hands are uncleaned.

Twenty years. Twenty fucking years that he had let them strung him up like a toy soldier so he can bleed on foreign soil countless time, spearheaded invasions, and waged wars for the Empire's ambition that had left him half mad and lost in a sea of the ghost of his compatriots.

He was done. Done with their damning blood wars. Never again will he played into their hands. The day after they had pinned another the medal of honor on his chest, he'd sent in his retirement papers and that was that. Only thirty years old, but he was already a veteran of hundreds of wars.

It only took watching a friend get shot way too many times, that there's no honor or glory in burying the dead and having to grip the hand of someone you had slept and fought side by side with as they breathed their last breath. Katsuki was tired of it all. Losing and losing and losing, even when he had come out of each battle unscathed. Using the blood money they had given him and had accumulated over the years, he bought several acres of land and within a year he managed to carve a life for himself here in the Wild Space.

He'd never consider that escaping from the Empire's machination would even remotely entrap him with a damn husband for a spy later.

"I don't need or want you, so fuck off!" Katsuki spits out. This man before him reeks of the Empire's ploy to have him fall back into their grip. He would foolish to assume that once he hung up his guns and assumed a civilian identity that they would just leave him the fuck alone. He’s too good of a soldier to be ever truly let loose in society.  

Once a dog of war, always a dog of war.

 "I'll double whatever they'd paid you to be here,” Katsuki continues to offer with a glower.

Izuku blinks, taken back his sharp words as hurt flashes across his face, but he swiftly recovers with a steady voice that had been practice a million times before. "Colonel Bakugou, it is of great privilege to be able to serve you,” he says, the words flowing out of him easy and true. “You are not only a hero of the Empire, but the hero, the White Wolf, who had ravaged Epsilon VX and saved the Citadel from the Anrhon." He drops his gaze to the ground. "I was chosen specifically as reward for all your accolades. I deeply apologize that you do not find me to your taste or use."

Kaminari jabs him in the side with his sharp elbow. "Couldn't you be more considerate?" he hisses. "You're going to make him cry!"

Katsuki turns to him and glares. "I fucking didn't ask for him or any of this! I just want those fuckers at HQ to leave me the fuck alone." He switches his attention back to the new baggage that was dropped in his lap unceremonly and finds him hunch over, eyes still downcast, and so out of place at this shitty spaceport with all expensive jewelries and clothes. And fuck.

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face at this entire fucked up fiasco.

Izuku jerks his head up suddenly. "If General Bakugou wish for me to leave, I would," he starts, voice hesitant and wary, "but as the next transport shuttle won't depart to the core worlds till next quarter, I cannot leave yet."

Katsuki groans in defeat, because what the fuck.

When he'd chosen this quadrant of the in the outer rims, Wild Space, because he had wanted to put as much distance from the reaches of the Empire as possible and this part of space is harsh and still mostly untamed. It takes the Empire too much manpower to maintain control of the independent colonies this far off the rim. And very few seek to settle on this last frontier of the galaxy where raiders, slavers, and the worst kind of people make their home here. The colonists that landed here either has no other choice left or they're just plain mad. Katsuki is neither, because he's very good with a gun and he always like a challenge.

It's much easier to find shuttles that take the passengers here then is it to find one that is willing to take them back, because very few does. The outer rims will chew you up and spit you out all wrong and fucked up that you become unrecognizable. This place is not made for pretty, delicate flowers like Izuku. "Fine, fucking fine," he growls out, frustration thickening his voice. He's not that much of an asshole to leave his not-spouse stranded and alone in this hellhole. "You can stay with me for now. Temporary until I figure what to do with you." He scowls. "But as soon as the next shuttle arrived, you're going to drag your ass on that ship and never come back here, do you hear me?"

Izuku lights up, eyes bright as his hands clasped together. "Thank you, thank you so much, sir. I will not drag you down and will work hard to earn my bedding and food."

"So," Kaminari muses, "you got a free labor and companionship for an entire three months. Fun times ahead."

Katsuki’s scowl deepens. "Fun my ass." He rolls his eyes. "Come on, get your luggage and throw it in Kaminari's hovercar. We're heading back to my ranch and it's a long and bumpy ride hed."

Izuku shuffles forward hopefully. "Yes, sir." Then, he stops and winces. "My luggages are quite a lot. I'm sorry that it might be a tight squeeze in the hovercar for all three of us."

Katsuki snorts. "It’s fine. I didn't come here with him on the hovercar anyway. I have my own ride."

He prefers to travel around on his cy-bike anyway. It's faster, smaller, and his. Less chance of other people riding along, because he hates having passengers on his bike anyway.

"Oh," Izuku breathes, his eyes widening with delight and curiosity, "I've never been on a cy-bike before." He looks hopefully at Katsuki. "May I ride with you, general?"

Katsuki's brow twitches as Kaminari snickers beside him at the audacity of this sheltered flower from the core worlds. Suicidal or mad, he thinks in annoyance, these are the people that chose to come here. Izuku might be both. Sol, the boy is both. "You," he points at Izuku, then to himself with narrowed and skeptical eyes, "want to ride with me."

"Yes." Izuku nods eagerly. "May I? I promise to behave!"

Katsuki rubs his throbbing forehead and sighs. "I don't take passenger," he says, "and especially when you're wearing that." He gestures to Izuku – to the delicate, fine silk skirt of his long dressrobe that swamped his person. "It's going to tear into the fabric and you're going to be upset about your ruined clothes."

Izuku looks down at his chosen attire, frowns, and then with no hesitation he bends down, reaches for his skirt and tears right into it. His hands pull taught at the material like a fine knife cutting through water. Seamless, clean, it goes all the way around him till whatever remains is a very, very short skirt that hang loose mid-thigh,  making him look like one of those port hookers ready to drop their clothes for ten credits.

A treasured courtesan, raised in the core worlds with all its luxury and wealth, had ripped his overprice damn robe in front of them with no shame. "Will that do?" Izuku asks earnestly, holding the piece of fabric he had torn in his grip. "Or should I make it even shorter?"

Kaminari makes a scandalized sound next to him that sound like dying horine. "Fine, you win," Katsuki drawls out, mostly exasperated but also slightly impressed. This shittyass galaxy that had made children into soldiers and soldiers into monsters, he wouldn’t surprise if the flower before him will also grow some teeth one day.

Honestly, fuck them all. Clearly, Izuku has no intention to give him any peace or quiet in the next several months that he’s stuck here with Katsuki.

DC Characters Ask Reddit: I'm worried about my Bisexual Friend's Abusive Dad (Chas Chandler-Constantine)

Notes:  Continuity here is a little skewed but in terms of the relationship I am going to say it's mostly based on the Constantine City of Demons movie and I little bit of the TV show in regards to Anne-Marie.

I'll try to keep this short but this is a complicated situation. Me (16M) and my friend J (15M) have known each other for a long time. We didn't have great childhoods but J's was significantly worse. My parents were useless but at least they were around and loved me in their own way. J's mum died giving birth to him and his father has always blamed him for it. J hides the extent of the abuse but I know it goes on and I'm pretty sure it's a daily thing.

The verbal and emotional abuse would be bad enough but I know he hits J too. One time I even spotted cigarette burn scars on his arms. J knew I saw them but we didn't talk about it because I know J as well as I know myself. If I brought it up he would shut down. The best I could do was try to stay with him and keep him away from that house as much as possible. It got worse when J's older sister ran away. The dad's abuse towards her was mostly neglect but I know she had a hard time trying to look after J and be a buffer between them. J was heart broken but didn't blame her for leaving.

I know a lot of you out there with safe homes and loving families are going to suggest getting child services involved but that is out of the question. J would rather tip-toe around his dad and live his own life than be subjected to the underfunded, bloated, bureaucracy.

Now, J is no shrinking violet. He'll give as good as he gets and since he has become an adolescent his dad has backed off a bit and only blow up at J when he's really pissed. J is capable of taking care of himself physically. He's also very charming and manipulative and has no trouble convincing others to help him out or do things for him. Even our friend group who know he's full of shit can't say no to him. I think in most situations he can handle himself. Don't mistake me here. I think J needs adult support but I also know if I reported him he would never forgive me and wouldn't accept my emotional support anymore. I also think that a small part of him is hoping his sister will come back and wants to be where she can find him.

I've dealt with anxiety surrounding J since I met him so if it were just the usual story I would just let things be. But recent events have me worried.

I've known J was Bi since we were 13. It wasn't something he announced or confessed. He just checked out guys in addition to girls. He never tried to hide it, just went about his business like there was nothing to see. And that's one of the things I admire about him. The fact that he was Bi never really crossed my mind until recently. J has always had a heavy preference for women and doesn't usually go with either 'boyfriends' or 'girlfriends' for more than a week. The only person I've ever seen him really get invested in was one of our friends AM (16F) but he never asked her out because I'm pretty sure he thinks she's too good for him.

Recently J has started experimenting with guys more than usual. Again, his don't-give-a-fuck-attitude means that he has never hidden it but he has started to get more and more brazen, even flirting with guys he knows won't take kindly to it because he just likes winding them up (and it gives him a good chance to nick their wallets). That would be bad enough but what I am really worried about is this getting back to his dad.

Like I said, J gives as good as he gets but I'm afraid that if that man gets mad enough he might just kill J in a fit of rage. Not to mention J's escalating behaviour is concerning in and of itself. My girlfriend says it's J's problem but he's been like a brother to me our whole lives and as exhausting as he can be sometimes I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to him.

Reddit, what can I do?

After the storm - chapter 2

The days that went by after the whole Ava incident felt slow paced and bland. For the whole week they had to go through the bureaucracy of finding the culprit and not catching it, since Fowler quickly saw through their lie and ended up giving Gavin another warning (although nothing would come out of it, as usual), and even more cases to 'compensate' their failure. That meant nonstop work for at least a week, and after that week went by, Fowler told them never to let a culprit go again and set them off to their usual schedule. Neither Gavin nor Nines put Tina or Chris into the mess, so they wouldn't suffer with the whole scheme, and while the two were thankful they also felt a bit bad. So when their overwork week ended, they called the two of them for a night out for drinks.

"Guys really I can't thank you enough" Chris said, for the tenth time in a roll, and Gavin rolled his eyes, staring at him with daggers.

"Chris I swear to god if you thank me one more fucking time I will tell Fowler you were in it" he said, and Chris shook his head quickly while Tina chuckled. Nines held back his chuckle, simply smiling and following the three humans towards the bar. It still felt slightly weird, to walk in a human bar without hesitance, because even if some people still didn't like androids, most of them seemed to be fine with their presence. And being together with three humans, Nines blended in very well. Still, he wasn't one hundred percent comfortable yet.

"So have you two decided what the hell you're gonna label yourselves?" Tina asked as they sat down, and Nines pulled his attention back to the conversation while Gavin shrugged lightly.

"I don't wanna give names. You know what they say: if you name it, you get attached to it" he said, winking at her, but Nines frowned at that. When Gavin turned to look at him, he saw his confusion and sighed. "It's a joke Nines..."

"I... know. However Gavin is right, we haven't labelled our relationship just yet. For now we continue to be partners, just in and out of the office" he said, and Chris hummed as Gavin rose his glass.

"Couldn't have put it in any better way" he said, and Tina smirked at them, tilting her head.

"Fine fine. But you know what is unfair? Chris' curious nature allowed him to see you two smooch, however I, the best friend of one of the parts, have not seen the happening yet" she wiggled her eyebrows, and Gavin rolled his eyes. Chris frowned confused and then gasped.

"Yes kiss!"

"No way" Gavin said, drinking some more of his beer, while Nines looked between their friends and Gavin.

"Why not?" Nines asked, and he groaned, looking over at him.

"Because I don't want to Nines" he answered, grumpy as always, and Nines frowned lightly before looking back at Tina, confused and honestly a bit frustrated. Tina pouted at Gavin, who showed her the finger, and soon their little snacks arrived, together with Nines' blue water. No matter how much the bar said it was thirium, he knew it wasn't. However, drinking water didn't affect anything so he drank it.

"Anyway, how were your cases this week? I saw Fowler dumped a bunch of stuff on you guys' back" Chris said, drinking down on his soda with rum, and Gavin sighed loud and clear.

"He did. He's such an ass" he mumbled, drinking his beer and looking around. "He wanted to make us pay for letting Ava escape. He knows we did it on propose. I can't lie to that guy."

"He knows you too well" Tina agreed, grabbing some potatoes and stuffing them in her mouth with a happy sigh. "God I love trashy bar food."

"Hey Nines, wanna try it?" Chris asked, always polite, and Nines smiled lightly while shaking his head.

"No thank you" he said politely, and Chris whined softly but began eating anyway. The talk was light and filled with useless topics, but it felt nice to have friends apart from the mandatory ones, like Hank and Conner, or Markus. Honestly, Nines didn't fit too well with his android companions, so he much rather befriend Gavin's friends. And seeing his partner relaxed, enjoying some drinks and snacks, without the constant frown on his face, was way more pleasurable than any android conversation or activity.

"And what now? What's our next big case?" Tina asked, and Chris chuckled.

"Man I can't wait until you turn detective and we all get a case together" he said, excited, and she nodded.

"Tell me about it. I've been dreaming about cases for the whole week we have been working normally again."

"You can always assist us if you'd like. New ideas are always welcomed and besides, you have a good way of detecting things" Nines said, always politely, and Tina gave him a smile that was a bit unlike her, but nice nevertheless.

"Thanks. I sure will."

While the conversation continued, Nines noticed that Gavin was awfully quiet. Not that he wasn't always quiet when bars were involved, he wasn't a big fan of crowds or loud spaces, but he sure felt a bit off that night. Nines hoped he was just tired after that whole week of work and no fun, but something else seemed to be bothering the detective, and Nines wanted to find out what.

He partook in Tina and Chris' conversations, adding points and answering questions, like friends would do. He felt like a real human sometimes, when he was around the people he liked. And every now and then, when the talk would die and they would just drink and eat for a while, Nines slid his hand over Gavin's thigh looking for his hand, and received a squeeze in return that always calmed him down.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Gavin was just in the mood to be quiet. It was hard to know, as much as Gavin was great at showing when he was mad or frustrated or upset, he also knew very well when to hide something. And Nines didn't want to scan him anymore, he wanted them to talk.

The evening eventually ended and after many glasses of alcoholic drinks, Gavin was a little bit looser. Nines insisted that they all got a cab, and called three, one for each, and made sure Chris and Tina were safe inside their own cabs before he helped Gavin inside theirs and told the car their address.

His LED turned yellow at that. Their address? It wasn't theirs... it was Gavin's. Sure, he had been sleeping over for a week, and there was a silent agreement that if he wanted, he could stay, but none of that meant it was his apartment too. And that thought made him self-conscious and even worst, insecure.

"Nines, why is your little lighty-light yellow?" Gavin asked suddenly, his voice slightly slurred from the drinks, and Nines moved his head fast to his direction, in a movement that would leave any human dizzy. But he wasn't human.

"No reason. I am only processing some data. We will be in your apartment shortly, will you need any help?" he asked, softly, because he liked being polite and asking if he could stay over. That was how he asked. Gavin rolled his eyes and moved closer to him, climbing on Nines' lap and making his pump go faster and his LED turn red. "Gavin... what are you doing?"

"Shutting you up" he answered, slurred, dragged out, and wrapped his arms around Nines' neck, leaning in and kissing him. A kiss that didn't quite feel like their last kisses. No, it was quite faster, and wetter, and Nines answered because any kiss from Gavin was what he thought human heaven felt like, his hands drifting to Gavin's waist, pulling him closer, moving his lips and opening his mouth to allow the human to slide his tongue inside, warm and wet, strange and so alluring, a new feeling like many others Gavin made him feel.

His LED turned from red to yellow, and remained that way, because the kiss was different and new and he needed to process the feeling as he responded, imitating Gavin's movements, feeling his hands playing with the hair on his nape, Gavin's nose bumping and rubbing against his own, their chests pressed together. It was a kiss they hadn't shared yet, and Nines felt both impressed and taken back by it. He was hesitant, because he wasn't stupid. He was everything but stupid. He knew what most kisses like those lead to.

But this one would lead to disappointment.

They broke off because Gavin, as every human, needed to breathe. He sighed and pressed their foreheads together, rubbing their noses against each other, and Nines just watched him with soft eyes, LED on yellow, hands secure on Gavin's waist. Sometimes he did act too much like a cat, and it was adorable, Nines concluded. And when Gavin's eyes opened, he was calm and relaxed.

"Gavin?" Nines whispered, softly, and leaned into Gavin's hand as he lifted it up and brushed some hair off Nines' face. His hand slid down to the android's cheek and stopped, thumb making slow, circular motions on his skin, before he lowered it down to his shoulder and closed his eyes again.

"I'm tired" he whispered, letting his head fall and rest on Nines' shoulder. He held Gavin close and let his body relax, and it did, curling up against the android as he rested. Nines felt better, calmer with Gavin like that, and held him close the whole trip back to the apartment. When they arrived, Gavin insisted in walking, so they made their way up and immediately Gavin walked to the couch and laid down. Maybe Fowler had overworked him. Maybe he was just tired.

Nines watched him for a moment, before very slowly making his way to the couch and gently picking Gavin up. He complained for a second, very quietly, and then fell asleep on Nines' arms, way before he had time to place Gavin on his bed. Then, Nines climbed on the bed next to him, and gently pulled him closer, kissing his forehead and letting him fall asleep.

He even closed his eyes, to pretend that he could sleep too.

Tell me more about this conspiracy theory about dragonball as a retelling of journey to the west please

okay, some of this is pretty surface level to the point its just face value but also just more ignored then denied firstly, i must establish ‘journey to the west’ to those not familliar with it- its a 2000+ page long chinese novel from the ming dynasty, like 1600 if i recall, but odd because it focuses on a buddist mindset in a time when china still considered buddism to be a foreign influence. the author uses fairly large sections to critisize the other contemporary options to buddism such as daoism (for being largely unconcerned with helping people or betterment) and confucianism (for being rigid to the point it cant adapt and promote extremely bloated beaurocracies incapable of doing much) as well as to extoll the upsides of budism (namely magic powers) and how badass demons are journey to the west is notable for being the origin of about 80% of all anime tropes and over a dozen anime and videogames are directly based on it son goku, unsurprisingly, is pretty much a dirrect anlouge for son wukong, the magical stone monkey king that was born with laser eyes spends the first 7 chapters becoming about (i lost count) 8+ kinds of immortal, learning how to shapeshift and fly from an old hermit monk, and pissing off most gods of any note and the entire bureaucracies of both heaven AND hell. as i said, this is face value to the point its pretty open

son wukong’s identifying features including a size-changing 8 ton iron staff, being pretty much indestructible even to major gods, being extremely impulsive and moderately arrogant, flight, and pretty much openly admits he has probably eaten some people. this should sound familiar however he is not the main character, Buddha himself buries him under a mountain (which has a magic seal on top because a regular mountain wouldnt be heavy enough to hold him) to try and teach him some humility (which fails) saying he needs to wait untill someone frees him in which case he will be endebted to and be the servant of said free-er. while we progress to the ACTUAL protagonist of the story a bald monk named Tang Sanzang is in fact the central charachter, although his name has been interpereted several ways including Tripiṭaka (also the name of the baskets of scrolls hes supposed to carry). the big B entasks he of the shiny head with the task of journeying from china to india to pick up said sacred scriptures so holy they can redeem anyone and then bring them back to filthy filthy china thats badly in need of these ‘morals’ things people keep talking about. but this is where you start to get a lot of ‘wait, that sounds familiar’ when i describe things like ‘bald monk’ and the adventures cueball the magical is going to go on with his companions of anime

because almost immediately after freeing son wukong from the magic mountain of sityerassdown and putting a magic circlet on his head that causes him great pain when baldy says a prayer to keep him in line (yes this is where inuyasha gets the ‘sit’ necklace) they come across a SHAPESHIFTING PIG DEMON who turns out inst all that bad a guy its just that his new wife is very upset because she thought she was marrying a handsome bishounen despite admitting hes a dilligent worker and treats her well because hes seeking attonement for having eaten people after being kicked out of heaven (where he used to actually be a bishounen in the celestial army) for hitting on women. yet another case of DOES THIS SOUND FAMILIAR

and i just now realize why he was wearing the chinese military officers uniform or at least would sound familiar to people who watched the original ‘dragonball’ and not just DBZ where oolong and the 50 other characters who were all established to be quite powerful when used cleverly were all relegated soely to be sideline cheer squad and ‘hey, remember these guys, from back when this wasnt the kiss goku’s butt show’- which is the point here following the original journey to the west story you started with the magical monkey shenanigans (check) then he learns from hermit (check) how to fly (check) and shapeshift (i guess they thought he was powerful enough without it despite it being one of his major go-to solutions in the story but i get that they already established thats a power someone else had so i understand leaving it out narratively) battling demons, gods, and pissing off the kings of hell and the emperor of heaven (check) and then gets humiliated by Buddha (absent, again i understand leaving this out for narrative tone and to avoid being overly religious in a kids cartoon despite actively leaving king Yema in the story) teams up with the bald monk who they initially clash but becomes his friend over time (check) who then becomes the main protagonist (major not-check) magical monkey jerk is repeatedly scolded for wantonly killing people and given a magical crown of headaches ( fail) teams up with shapeshifting pig who also becomes close ally with useful powers but has deep character flaws (check) and then team up with a dragon who ate their horse who then apologizes by transforming into a horse and then everyone forgets its a dragon (wait, what) and then team up with a river god named sandy (by this time the dragonball plot has already passed mars and is orbiting Jupiter because i think this is when frankenstein appeared and then king piccolo with his sons drum, tamborine, piano, and cymbal, i think goku kills one eats another and asked a samurai if he could eat the third but this is before they retcon piccolo to be a namek {eg- from the planet ‘slug’} instead of a demon because they keep waffling if demons are real) and is then followed by a long list of falling into traps laid by demons because the monk is naive, the pig is cowardly, the monkey is foolhardy, the dragon is too busy staying in his ponysona, and the river deity is carrying the bags narratively this is confusing for several reasons but i could literally teach a college level class on what DBZ does that no writer should ever, EVER, do and every friday to prevent unkind amounts of homework point at how original dragonball at least had narrative cohesion of purpose when it went off in left field but that's part of the journey- in original dragonball everything is a journey of the human spirit for self improvement, in original journey to the west everything is a journey of the human spirit for a shot at redemption, but in DBZ everything is goku is awesome and nobody else is worth his time unless they go ‘ha-ha, i am the most powerful fight punch guy in universe, we must fight’ because fuck anyone who isnt the most powerful being in the universe and even fuck them because they almost never have a reason for being the most powerful and its irritating how shit they are like some of them are mentally five years old who gave you the power to be this dangerous. whats odd is they specifically set it up several times that goku is supposed to narratively step aside and his son(s) step up to carry on the legacy in a return to the earlier more sensable formula, even presenting them as being less powerful as him as an attempt to move away form the absurd escalation issues the series had where goku can destroy a planet by farting yet every thursday they mysteriously find someone five times stronger then the last strongest person in the universe as that wasnt the point in either original dragonball or journey to the west where being clever was always far more important then being powerful, especially as son wukong was mostly more powerful then goku anyways but still got in monster of the week shenannegans not solvable by impulsive brutality. they knew this was a problem, they understood that the endless escalation had gone to the realm where the audience had lost any investment and nobody other then goku could be useful to the story to the point that they even had a WHOLE SERIES where to try and counteract the power creep they had some weird explanation goku is actually time traveled or cursed or some shit so hes only a kid and roughly as strong as he was in later episodes of the original dragonball..... close, so close to actually addressing the problem but also keeping so many other problems krillin moving into being the protagonist would have alleviated the majority of the problems DBZ had- the power escalation bullshittery and the complete lack of stakes as you know goku is going to punch the thing untill it explodes after six episodes of yelling and anything without ‘planet gonna go boom’ no longer seems like a problem worth caring about. goku being downgraded to being the impulsive muscle on a team that included others that were less overtly powerful but still narratively useful to the adventure would have also alleviated almost all the ‘everybody who isnt goku is a fragile useless  porcelain figurine of a child’ problems that are very counter-intuitive and kind of insulting: in original dragonball, for example, master roshi was the only known human capable of doing the kamehameha which took 50 years to learn (goku learns it by watching it once and that should have been the cap for him being overpowered{a rival teacher had a more powerful version that nobody else learns}), climbed the sacred tower which took 7 years (it took goku about a week, which is well within the realm of where escalation should be), and blew up the fucking moon but in dbz his ‘power level’ is lower then his pet turtle..... despite all of that and being the one who trained goku and krillin allowing them to be absurdly strong in the first place so they apparently forgot their own history.  so taking the actual good story points they aready had and throwing them in the trash is a running problem

they even had the setup for krillin being in peril continually, all the ‘krillin dies’ memes are about on par with how often every demon on the road (which they pass like gas stations) are kidnapping and trying to eat Tripitaka, whcih is framed as despite Tripitaka being powerful he isnt as powerful as his allies but never framed as useless, especially as even goku has to seek help frequently, often from non-martial sources instead of the ‘kung fu solves everything’ mindset im unsure if anyone will want to start a fight about my statements regarding daballz but im okay with an intelectual argument about its writing .... how do i tag this? i forgot replies dont let me do that but i need to learn how to tag my rants one of theese days in hopes they actually get feedback

A victory that feels like defeat

You know, the mech in my username is not actually because I love airplanes, cars, motorcycles, or even mechas (which you can obviously tell that I do), but because for twelve and a half of the past fourteen year, I have been a mechanical engineering student. Today, that is no longer the case.

From today, and until I breath my last breath, I am mechanical engineer.

Damn long time, I know. 47% of my entire life dedicated to get here. After failing miserably and being kicked out in my first try, pulling my self back together and try on another school, dealing my current school's clunky system, where I had to get first an Associates Degree and the reapply to finish the bachelors, waddling through a hell of bureaucracy to study one of those semesters in Spain, doing two graduation projects while working at least 55 hours a week, while my brain is literally shutting down from a nearly non existent social life, I succeeded. Apparently.

Few times in my life I've felt more defeated than today. Why is that? Because in my current situation, the piece of fancy cardboard that legally calls me an engineer is next to useless. The local job market is mind boggingly idiotic. Right now I have three years of experience as a machinist, and one year of experience supervising machinists. Try to find in any other country an engineer who just graduated and has that much experience unless they had industrial career first and decided to get the degree later to officialize their knowledge. But here in Colombia, I'm regarded as if I had not even finished elementary school. Since my "actual engineering" experience, the supervisor of machinist part, is only a year long, it's worth shit to any potential employer. If you don't have the at least two years of experience they demand in the super specific task they're hiring for, you're invisible. Let's say you have ten years of experience selling pumping equipment. Ah, but you don't have two years of experience selling cranes? get the fuck out of here, why are you even applying for this job?

There's only two ways into a company if you don't have said experience. 1) You know someone there with decision making power about who gets hired or 2)You go to this technical school, do an internship somewhere as a technician; after you graduate, they keep you there and once they kick out someone directly above you for whatever reason, they decide to help you continue your studies so you grow professionally within the company, but always keeping you employed above your current degree so they pay you less than they should for you work.

I think I should've study biology or archaeology, which I would've enjoyed even more than engineering (which I didn't hate) and have more chances of having a fulfilling job as a researcher, because there's actual research in those fields in Colombia, unlike with the underdeveloped industry we have. Who the fuck would've thought that a goddamn engineering was a poor career choice?

Then people from the first world tell me to look for a job abroad. Well that's just another catch 22. Nobody will hire me without a work visa, and I won't be given a work visa without a concrete job offer. I'm stuck in this shithole with its job market ruled by spoiled dumbasses who demand the most absurd requirements from applicants, because they know they can get away with never ever hiring someone who'd they have to give any real training to do the job, God forbid.

Look, I'm not standing still, just bitching, whining, and wallowing in self pity (I mean, I am doing that, but I'm doing more that that). I've already bought supplies, tools and spares to start a small/street based bicycle shop next to my university, since there's none remotely close to the place, and there are literally hundreds of students who commute in their bicycles, plus all the people in the neighbours around the school. A big unattended market and zero competence. But even if this venture is profitable, even so it feels like a defeat. I learned to repair bicycles on my own, after years of commuting on poorly paved roads. My estimations tell me to not expect to earn much beyond minimum wage, which would barely allow me to pay debts while not being a financial burden to my mother and my brother. But even if this is more profitable than expected (which I doubt), it still would feel like a defeat.

It makes me wonder why did I waste half of my life preparing for a profession I will never practice...

Changes

Prologue

Lily; 2001

    It was night in Godric's Hollow when Lily and James Potter received the visit of their friends, the Delacours. The french couple had their daughters with them. The young one was hanging over baby Harry's crib.     _ Mama, we can take him home? - the little girl asked in a fast and garbled French, as children at this age do when they are excited.

    Lily was impressed, and also felt a twinge of jealousy. She laughed internally, how could she be jealous of beautiful little girl in front of her, she was 3 years old? Maybe it was admiration. The truth was that  she felt a warm on her heart and was happy.

    The baby laughed, a laugh that filled the two women with the joy of living.

    _ If I do not know better - said Lily also in French- I would say she is using her "special charm" on Harry. The baby had not cried or even unclaimed once after the girl arrived.

    _ Mon dieu !! - Apolline Delacour replied laughing - it will not happen  at least for the next 11 or 12 years. - the two women looked at the children lost in the eyes of each other - that's another thing, it's something a lot more special. something that gives us hope in these dark times.

    _ Do not worry my friend - Jacques Delacour said as he entered the room with James - we can not let the actions of this terrorist spread to the rest of Europe, we already have enough problems with our own extremists. We are not going to be intimidate!

    _ Let us talk of dark times later - Apolline said pointing at the two children playing - let us talk about hope for the future, now we need to talk about love. And the changes that will come from it.

Jacques; 2002

    Jacques was looking at the parchment in front of him, trying unsuccessfully to hold back his tears. British be cursed, why does everything has to be so hard with them?

    Apolline entered the studio with a sigh and sat in the chair in front of him.

    _ How is she? - Jacques asked.

    _ She cried herself to sleep again -she said, with heavy eyes - Oh Jacques, I don't know what to do. It is as if they had plucked something from her…the light has gone from her eyes…  And you, any luck with the British ministry?

   _ No, only what we already knew, that Dumbledore not only failed to the delivering the will, and he got  to keep custody of Harry. The child just have slithered  through the bureaucracy cracks and loops !! That old man ... and what they did to Sirius is unacceptable, not even a trial !!!

   _ Mon Dieu !! Do you think Dumbledore got rid of Harry? - Apolline said in a frightened voice, eyes wide.

    _ No, it would be a stupid move to get rid  of the boy who lived. And more ... - he said  pointing to the parchment in front of him.

    Apolline looked, and could see the word 'active' glowing with a golden light. Yes, that proved that Harry was alive, but where? How can the ministry of magic lose track of the most important child of the magical world? All while making a show of the death of some of their best friends.

   A tear run down on her face.

    _ Don't worry - Jacques said, hugging his wife - I will not rest until I find him and bring him home, keep him protected, even if for that, I have to turn myself into  the godam  minister of magic!

Albus; 2002

    Albus sat at the big table in his office at Hogwarts, surrounded by legal parchments, the results of some well spent gold and some small mind controlling tricks, he removed his glasses and took a lemon drop from the bowl on the table. A smile crossed his lips as he felt the sour taste. a smile of satisfaction, everything was going according to plan, actually better than planned.

    Tom Riddle nearly destroyed his plans to achieve the "greater good", with its simplistic logic and his unreasonable actions. Worse, he had managed to enlist members of various decadent pureblood houses in their ranks, seeking to regain control over the wizard world. Albus feared he would have to deal with the insolent, so called Dark Lord himself. And he did looked forward to it.

    Say what you want, but the boy had power (yes, to the headmaster of the most important magic school on England and war hero, they were all boys, boys needing lessons he was much eager to give). Too much power to be controlled. His mind was too far gone when Dumbledore notice. That was a serious miscalculation on his part, one he would not make again.

    Then the unbelievable happened. In one single play Tom Riddle was eliminated, along with two of his biggest opponents. The magic should be right on his side, of course, after all, he was the one doing the right thing for the future of his people.

    But Albus was no fool. He knew it was temporary. He knew very well what was the scar on the child's head. He knew very well what this child meant . But he was not going to make the same mistakes again, as hi did with Tom. No, this time the child and his power would be folded and bended  from the beginning. The plan was perfect, not even his useless of a godfather could intervene now. The boy would be his, and his power too.

    All in name of the greater good.

Sirius; 2002

    On the back of his cell Sirius wiped his face with dirty hands. "No" ,he thought angrily, not that damned old man, nor that fucking rat , let alone this infernal prison would break him. He was going to live and keep his sanity, for them, and especially for his godson. He was going to get out, he promised himself. And would help Harry bring the changes the magical word needed, to continue the work of his parents.

'Gil Scott-Heron saved my life': After a traumatic childhood Abdul Malik Al Nasir seemed to be heading for jail or an early death. Then, at the age of 18, he met the famous poet and musician – with remarkable consequences

My brother Reynold introduced me to the music of Gil Scott-Heron. Little did I realise how it, and more importantly Gil, would go on to shape my life.

I was 18, had just come out of a childhood in care, was traumatised, illiterate and had no prospects. Reynold, who was older, showed me an album called Moving Target, which had a picture of Gil running through the streets of Washington seen through the telescopic lens of a gun. Reynold was politicised and well-read – unlike me. I didn't take life too seriously, partly because I couldn't face up to what had happened to me. He made me sit down and listen to the song Washington DC and the lyrics summed up so much of my life: "The symbols of democracy pinned up against the coast, the outhouse of bureaucracy surrounded by a moat./ Citizens of poverty are barely out of sight/ The overlords escape in the evenings, brothers on the night."

Gil was talking about the White House surrounded by the urban ghettos, the bits the tourists don't see – the reality of the city's ghetto life. My brother explained what the song meant. He drew a parallel between what Gil was talking about in Washington DC and what we, as black people, were facing in Toxteth, Liverpool, in the run up to the riots of 1981.

Reynold was trying to wake me up to consciousness. I had already got in with the wrong crowd, and he was concerned that if I didn't dissociate myself from them it would only be a matter of time before I was incarcerated again – and this time not in a care home.

Why had I been put in care in the first place? My name back then was Mark Trevor Watson, and when I was eight years old my father had a stroke. Dad was black from Guyana, my mum white Welsh. All the family (there were four kids, and mum and dad) were the butt of racist abuse. Dad, a former merchant seaman, was a real worker. Nothing could stop him. He even volunteered to work on Christmas Day 1974 for the Netherley Property Guards, who patrolled the warehouses on the Liverpool docks. It was a horribly cold winter. He left the house at 5am to wait for the bus to take him to work. It never came. Dad waited till 10am and eventually trudged home defeated. That was the only time I saw this big strong seaman cry. He didn't open his Christmas presents, he just went straight to bed. He had a stroke in his sleep and when he woke up he was a quadriplegic, paralysed from the neck down. He stayed like that for the rest of his life, in and out of the geriatric ward until he died four years later.

Mum, who worked in the Meccano factory, continued to struggle with the four of us. But she couldn't really cope. I was a handful – dyslexic and dyspraxic, but undiagnosed. I hated school. We were virtually the only black kids there, and the pupils used to be brought into school assembly to the sound of the headmaster's favourite recording – Black Sambo: "Black Sambo, black Sambo, living in the jungle alone, except for Big black Mumbo and Big black Jumbo." No one considered it a problem. After that everyone would turn to me and my sisters and call us black sambo. There were fights, and everyone called us troublemakers. At nine I was expelled from that school, which resulted in me being taken into local authority care in 1975.

I was "sentenced" to nine years under a care order having committed no crime. They didn't see it like that, of course. They labelled me maladjusted and told all of us that we were menaces to society; that society needed protecting from us. On the night they took me into care, they put me in an admission unit where they locked me in a room with bars on the window for 14 days and 14 nights. This practice later came to be outlawed following the infamous pin-down scandal in Staffordshire, but in the 70s it was common. It was the most traumatic experience of my life, for which I would later seek justice in the courts.

Just before Christmas 1975 I was taken to a place called Woolton Vale assessment centre, otherwise known as Menlove. It was a large, Victorian prison with bars on every window, locks on every door and an isolation cell inside. It had previously operated as a remand home for prisoners. In 1974 it had been converted to an assessment centre for kids, but still operated illegally under the old rules. Confinement might not have been permitted, but it didn't stop them. Meanwhile, the local remand centre, Risley, was full, so Menlove became an overspill for prisoners. This meant they were mixing children from broken homes with hardened criminals – and locking them up. Another matter over which I would later sue.

From there I was moved to several different community homes where I suffered varying degrees of physical and racial abuse over the years until I was 18 and my care order ceased. I was visited by my social worker who gave me £100, made me sign a form to say I would never come back for more money, and within a few months I was living in a hostel for homeless black youths.

That was when Gil changed my life. He was playing at Liverpool's Royal Court Theatre, and the gig was sold out. It was 1985, Gil had a record in the charts, and was at the peak of his fame. A friend of mine, the late photographer Penny Potter, got me in – she had a backstage pass and told his team that I was her assistant. I watched the show and was mesmerised. It was hard to describe what he did exactly – he rapped, he played jazz, he was a poet, he educated – he was just singing a song, but it was as if he was part of a collective soul that existed in the room.

After the show I went backstage with Penny. Gil was standing there with a bunch of people around him – photographers snapping away, reporters stuffing mics under his nose, promoters with bags of money, and the band members trying to get paid. Everybody seemed to want something from him. I shook his hand, thanked him for the performance and turned round to leave. He said: "Hold on a minute brother, what's going on round here? I heard you had some riots". I told him about Toxteth and how the black communities had rioted across the country in the long hot summer of 1981. He said: "Yeah we had some of them back in DC". He wanted to know about the people of Toxteth so I offered to take him to the scenes of the riots. The next day we toured the area and I gave him a running commentary of what had happened in each place, all the places that had been burned down and what had happened as a result.

Now if there's one thing they taught us in care it was how to cook, and I offered to feed Gil and the band. The trouble was I didn't have a place to live. So I asked my friend Dobbo if I could borrow his flat, cashed my giro cheque, and spent my two weeks' money on food. Gil bought his whole 17-strong entourage back to the flat and I fed them all. Entrees, starters, mango juice, the works. He tried to pay me £100, which was a lot of money then. I wouldn't accept it; he tried again and I refused again. When he realised there was no point in trying to pay me, he said to his promoter: "We'll be back in England in a few weeks. Give the brother the details of the hotel where we'll be." Then he said: "I'd like for you to join us on the tour." To do what, I asked? "Whatever the fuck you wanna do, carry some drums, whatever you want," was his response. And that's what I did.

Gil took it on himself to spend whatever time he could in the evening mentoring me, giving me encouragement and trying to foster in me a sense of self-worth. I had been indoctrinated by the care system to believe that I was maladjusted and useless from the age of nine, but Gil refused to accept it. He saw something in me that I did not see in myself – my potential.

I had told Gil everything about my life. Except for one thing – I could hardly read. I was just so ashamed. It was 1988 and I'd been on the road with him for four years. This time we were touring America with Richie Havens and Gil passed me a book and asked me to read a page back to him. I felt like my heart was going to stop. I'd always had the attitude that if Gil asked me to do anything I'd do it, and for the first time he'd asked me to do something I couldn't do. I'd always made myself useful by doing anything, from the band's laundry to flogging Gil's books at gigs, to helping the roadies, to navigating for the driver. I was always conscious of not trying to be a burden because I was aware he was paying for my flights and hotel rooms, and when he asked me to read and I couldn't I felt cold, and fumbled and fumbled, to the point when he said "What's the problem? Are you not fluent in reading?" That was the first time I ever knew a person could be fluent at reading. Being a child of the streets, fluency was something I'd always associated with talking; talking was my survival mechanism. Gil made me take stock of the fact that illiteracy was something not to be ashamed of, but something to address. I told him I'd never been taught – that was the first time I'd admitted it even to myself. In the care system education or literacy weren't encouraged, and most people came out of it like me.

Not many people know that Gil was a teacher – he had a Masters degree in English from Lincoln university. Despite not having a first degree he was accepted on to the Masters programme on the strength of two books he had written as a teen; The Vulture, a murder mystery, and The Nigger Factory, which was about life on black college campuses. I'd been running with the wrong crowd and he took it as a personal challenge to turn me around; to take me away from a life of hustling and make me productive. If I'd ended up like most of my peers in care I'd be dead or in jail by now. Gil's intervention saved my life.

He used to introduce me to people as his son, despite the fact that he has his own children. It was so touching. At the age of 12 I lost my father, and when I met Gil at 18 he took on that role and took it on seriously.

Back then, I had so many problems; my mind was like a spaghetti junction. There were so many narratives going on in my head that I couldn't unravel them, and Gil would listen to them all. At the end he'd invariably say one or two sentences that would sum up what it had taken me so long to say, and also direct me to what I should do about it.

In 1987 we were on tour and Gil suggested it was time for me to get a job. For two years I went to sea, working as a steward on a ferry, then on oil tankers, scrubbing decks, cleaning toilets, serving food. Every night from 6pm to midnight I taught myself to read and write. I started experimenting with language by writing poetry and songs. When I got to port I'd write to Gil, and enclose poems or songs for his appraisal. In between stints at sea, I would go on tour with Gil and he would appraise my work. By 1990, at the end of a period at sea, I had a considerable body of work; poetry, prose and songs. But I just put them in a box in a cupboard in my mum's house and left them for years

Gil then encouraged me to go to college and university and educate myself. The problem was, I didn't have any qualifications. So in 1990 I took a job with Littlewoods on a positive-action training scheme where they took on four black kids a year and trained them in management, and through that they sponsored me to go to college to study business and finance. I got a degree in sociology and geography, which seemed appropriate for a seaman with my background, followed by a postgraduate diploma in social research and a Masters degree in media production.

I continued to tour with Gil when I could. He was so proud of me. My degree was the culmination of everything he had invested in me and I'd invested in myself. What Gil gave me was a reason to live. At the age of 18 I couldn't see anything to live for.

In 1992 I met the Last Poets, a band that had been Gil's mentors and who are often credited as being the first rappers. Gil's famous song The Revolution Will Not Be Televised was inspired by the Last Poets' Niggers Are Scared of Revolution. There was a yearning in my soul for spirituality. I had lots of questions about religion, but Gil was more spiritual than religious. Jalal and Suliman from the Last Poets spoke to me about Islam, it struck a cord and in 1992 I became a Muslim and changed my name from Mark Trevor Watson to  Abdul Malik Al Nasir and started managing The Last Poets' leader Jalal. I later started my own record company and worked with the likes of Public Enemy, Run DMC, Wyclef Jean, Sly Dunbar, the Wailers and Steel Pulse.

Over the years things took a toll on Gil. For many years he had preached against the evil of drugs, but he became an abuser himself, and in 2001 he was sent to jail in New York State for possession of cocaine. When he got into trouble, it reminded me how much he'd helped me. So I flew to New York and visited him in jail – he'd been pumping iron, eating three square meals a day, which he rarely got when we were on the road, and looked more relaxed and fit than I'd seen him in years. I went through all the security checks, and they told me to take a seat in the visiting room while they got the prisoner. He didn't know who was coming, and when he saw me he had a huge smile on his face. The guard called him over and said: "Ah, the famous Gil Scot Heron . . . tuck your shirt in." It was just an attempt to humiliate him. I bit my tongue.

By 2004, I had received substantial compensation for what I suffered in care. I dug out my old poems from that box in my mother's house, and showed them to my wife Sarah. She said I should do something with them, so I set up my own publishing company, Fore-Word Press, and published my first book, Ordinary Guy, in my original name Mark T Watson. Gil was elated when I sent him a copy. Not simply because it was dedicated to him but also because he knew without his mentoring, I wouldn't have been able to read or write.

In 2008, I was producing an album at Wyclef Jean's studio in New York and there was a huge commemoration concert at Radio City Music Hall for Martin Luther King Day. Wyclef was performing, and he introduced me to Stevie Wonder. Now Stevie and Gil had been integral in fighting for a national holiday to celebrate Martin Luther King, and I told him about my relationship with Gil. "Is Gil out of prison?" he asked. Yes, I said. "Well, bring him here now." So I phoned Gil, and brought him to the show. When we arrived at Stevie's dressing room and I announced Gil to Stevie, Stevie Wonder stood up, and said: 'Gil Scott Heron y'all', and the whole dressing room burst into rapturous applause.

Last year Gil made a comeback album, I'm New Here, which got great reviews. I joined him on what would be his final tour of Europe.

It's three weeks since Gil died, and I'm still in shock. I'm 45, married with five children, and Gil has been the most important person to me throughout my adult life. His funeral in Harlem was a sombre affair. What touched me most was all the love in the room. After the band played a beautiful tribute and Gil's ex-wife Brenda delivered a eulogy, the rapper Kanye West took to the pulpit and sang Lost in the World, a song that contains a sample from Gil's poem Comment #1. It was a beautiful tribute.

After the service, I told Kanye my story and asked if he would take part in a tribute concert for Gil in Liverpool, the place where we met all those years ago and he took me under his wing. This is my way of saying: "Thank you Gil. You saved my life."

2020 Vision

It’s April and the 2020’s are already proving to be a fucking chore. I feel like I’ve aged 10 years in the space of 3 months. Stuck in lockdown, with our state mandated “one exercise outing a day”, bouncing off the walls consuming all of the Netflix Shows and Youtube Skate Videos we can. Sometimes it's hard to remember that before this we maybe took skating together in public places for granted. The 2020 that could have been, and the 2020 we have ended up with, are worth comparing to remind ourselves what we might do once this passes. 

The horror of everything happening outside of skateboarding has probably blinded us from looking at where skateboarding could go this decade, but given the path the 2010’s took, I think the 2020’s (post COVID-19 roadblock) will just be a continuation of the curve.

The stark contrast between the 80’s, 90’s and 2000’s skateboarding scenes is not really reflected in the 2010’s - which saw a mishmash of literally everything that came before, as people skated both wide boards and popsicle sticks, rode massive wheels and tiny 90’s wheels, skated in Vans old skools and chunky DC’s, and everyone skated pretty much anything that was out there to shred. 2010’s skateboarding was not defined by a single trait and was an example of the wide reach and growing diversity of skateboarding. 

The long overdue growth in women’s skateboarding, the embrace of skateboarding’s variety, and the feeling that finally, skateboarding was here to stay, and wouldn’t disappear and be considered a “fad”, is the legacy of the 2010’s. If this was the direction things were heading in, 2020 had promise, but then Jeff Grosso died and suddenly "skateboarding in 2020" went dark. 

Like Jake Phelps, who passed away last year, Jeff Grosso was one of the people who truly embodied the rebellious, aggressive, counter-cultural nature of skateboarding, and was taken from us far too soon. Survived by his son, Oliver, the skateboarding world mourned for one of transition skating greatest shredders. Grosso was the tip of the iceberg, and whether coronavirus related or not, we'll likely see other beloved skateboarders taken from us before this is over. 

In 2020, Skateboarding was supposed to be legitimised by its entry into the Olympics. Legitimacy is something that probably doesn’t mean a lot to many skateboarders, but the statement of “Skateboarding is an Olympic Sport” is powerful. It is an instant argument winner against relatives who look down on you for playing with a useless wooden toy. It can shut up any security guard who thinks he’s got one up on you because he’s in a uniform, and you’re an adult riding a skateboard. It contributes to the growing belief that skateboarding isn’t a “fad”, it’s a way of life, and the more people understand that, the better. With the Olympics postponed, who knows what this means for skateboarding, or sports in general.

The Coronavirus outbreak is obviously a huge, looming, all encompassing threat, and the longer we don’t take it seriously, the longer we will be in lockdown. With that said, it’s really weird that in 2020, skateboarders are being kicked off of skateparks. Black is white, up is down, skateboarders are being told to get off skateparks. You’ll have a better chance of skating at a street spot for an hour than skating at a skatepark. Stan Byrne was kicked off Dean Lane. Pip had someone call the rozzers on him for skating a mini ramp. 

I talked about stark contrasts of previous decades, but nothing is in starker contrast than the 2010’s being a decade where hundreds of brand new, shiny, concrete parks popped up, and 2020 being a year where skateboarders are told they cannot use them. I talked about legitimacy, but it seems like government bureaucracy still doesn’t know what to do with skateboarding in times like this - it isn’t play, it isn’t sport, but it definitely is exercise, and clearly no one knows what to do when they encounter skateboarders trying to get their daily skate in. 

They are so determined to stop young people congregating, they are dumping sand on skateparks to stop sessions. Now, I agree people should be staying home or changing up their sessions to isolate themselves, but sand dumped on skateparks is going to ruin parks, making them slippy for the first couple of months once parks are open again. I also honestly doubt councils will be quick about cleaning it up once this is all over. 

It is a ridiculous, knee-jerk reaction to what we do as skateboarders, whereas mass gatherings to clap for the criminally underfunded NHS, where ferry drivers are allowed to do fucking donuts in the river thames, get nothing but a nod of approval from authorities. As is often the case, bureaucracy take a heavy handed, nuclear approach to skateboarders breaking the rules, and this is no different.

Humans who skateboard dared to hope as 2020 started; skatepark campaigns went up a gear, people looked to the influx of new skaters as positive signs that skateboarding would get bigger and better, and attitudes began to turn. But as people pushed forward, something was resisting and slowing progress down. 

The War Memorial Ramp Renovation campaign was gearing up for some big moves this year, roping me in to help them bring back Covpark Combat, and then using momentum from this to show demand for an improved park. The campaign has been seriously impressive, making much progress in a very short amount of time, and I was super excited to be working with them on Covpark Combat. With lockdown in place, and mass gatherings banned for the time being, who knows when we’ll see it happen.

And I guess here we are in limbo, then. Everyone is ready and waiting to see where skateboarding takes us. Locked down, surviving on solo sessions, building makeshift ramps to occupy our time, bombing the odd hill on our “one unit of exercise” per day. I know the world has bigger problems than “when can we skateboard again?”, but when skating is such a huge part of our lives, nobody can blame us when we feel withdrawal from it. 

2020 will probably go down as a year of things which could’ve been. The world as we know it from the 2010’s will almost certainly disappear for good. Working from home will become more normal, scrutiny on hygiene to stop the spread of disease will increase, and travel will seem that little bit more scary. With a rapidly changing world, I just hope there is still room for skateboarding. What's certain, is this time will pass, and once it does, I can't wait to skate with you all again.