it literally gets me so angry when people just say “i hope all the victims recieve peace” SAY THEIR NAMES.

-janel grant

-taralyn cappellano

-heidi doyle

-ashley massaro

-briana sparrey (kylie rae)

-mercedes varnado(mercedes monè/ sasha banks)

take one moment out of your miserable life to aknowledge them, and if you’re religious, pray for them and pray that the abusers receive exactly what they deserve.

these brave and incredibly strong women didn’t come foward and risk EVERYTHING calling out wealthy creeps for you to not even have the balls to look up their names.

so screw brock lesnar,

screw vince mcmahon,

screw ric flair,

screw john laurinaitis,

screw sammy guevara,

screw chris jericho,

screw tony kahn for letting these abusers still work in his company,

and screw you if you’re too lazy to be a respectable human being.

do better.

(please let me know if i have forgotten anyone else)

I truly hate WWE with a passion. I thought it would change after Vince left. I liked the Triple H's first few months as booker but when Vince returned and Sami's angle was sacrificed for Cody Rhodes of all people, I lost interest for what I thought would be forever.

I watch the clips because I can't escape the youtube and twitter clickbait forcing WWE news on me (none on AEW tho). So you can say I'm been worked and buying into the angle. It won't translate into me watching WM at all or WWE TV. Years ago, I swore I would never give one cent to that racist company that still profits a sick evil founder. But I do love wrestling and root for other companies to feed off the unfortunate dominance of WWE.

But I have to rant. I hate WWE's core super fans. The WWE marks. The ones who don't love wrestling - only WWE. For them, its not genre or company of wrestling. Its the only company and that means its always good and anything non-WWE is always bad. Notice these are the absolute worst common denominator people.

On Twitter, its always faceless nerds using dated Ebonics to seem trendy and cool and play off the fact that 99.9999% of the WWE crowd are sickly, very MAGA looking white trash. I miss when wrestling heels like Scott Steiner and The Rock would point that out.

AEW? I guess I root for them, but I've really never been a fan of their "product" besides one match people wouldn't expect. It was Swerve Strickland and Keith Lee winning the belts from the Young Bucks in a 3 way tag with someone else. That match was the only 5 star classic I've seen from AEW and I've watched Danielson/Omega and Moxley/Omega, Punk's stuff, etc.

It was the only thing that felt unique to AEW. Almost everything they do is a poor imitation of 200s and 2010s indie wrestling which I actually saw unlike most AEW fans. AEW need to be progressive and innovative instead of just mashing all these older, obscure forms of wrestling that the WWE/TV wrestling fan has never seen.

Sasha Banks, Will Ospreay and Okada coming to AEW is a great sign, even if they are definitely past their primes. Those 3 are still better than the people currently pushed in WWE. What AEW lacks and I doubt will change is good dramatic and episodic storytelling. Tony Khan is a indie snob who sees angles as background filler to set up matches. But angles are EQUAL to matches. Until he understands that, AEW will never be a rival to WWE. WWE sucks but they know the build up is just as important to the match.

Aliit Ori’shya Tal’din

This is partly a smallish follow-up to my fic mini-series Rescue Mission, Old Friends, New Foes and Best Laid Plans, and partly a controlled rant about some clone-related topics. I hope it makes a modicum of sense even on its own.

---

Wolffe just happens to be in the hangar when the shuttle comes in to land. Everyone in the Rebellion knows Phantom II, companion shuttle to the Ghost, although she looks a bit odd with her artwork covered. Not as odd at first sight, perhaps, as the four people who stroll down the landing ramp, arm in arm, chatting and laughing. Three men in Imperial armour and a woman in a matching lieutenant’s uniform – just a good copy, Wolffe knows. A newcomer to the Alliance might have raised the alarm, but nobody does. Because everyone knows, or knows of, at least three of the little group, and can guess at the identity of the fourth. Their faces are the main giveaway. The men all share one face, not just with one another but with Wolffe himself. And while the woman’s face is carefully made up, her hair dyed brilliant white (and now cascading down her back and trying its best to tie her arms directly to her head), she’s removed the coloured lenses that previously hid her distinctive golden-brown eyes, and the cap that concealed her more distinctive ears. Most tellingly of all, a lightsabre hangs from her belt, a long cylinder of durasteel and copper, its carbon fibre and silicone grip worn down by decades of use. Three clones and a Jedi. Four-fifths of Lightning Squadron, to be exact.

Even without the visual cues, Wolffe would have known that these four aren’t Imps. No officer of the Empire laughs so readily and with such pure joy in her heart. No buckethead speaks with the accent of Tipoca City’s human children, not any longer. If he half-closed his eyes, Wolffe could imagine that the last twenty years haven’t happened. Without the helmets, the stormtrooper gear his brothers still wear bears a striking resemblance to unpainted clone armour – though that was pretty rare by the end of the war, except among the shiniest of shinies. Painting your armour, or finding someone to help you with it if that wasn’t where your gifts lay, was one of the first things you did when you were assigned to a unit, along with picking a name if you hadn’t done so already. And the woman still moves with the mixture of grace and controlled strength characteristic of her Order, when she can get away with it. The glide and snap of Mando’a, the post-victory exhilaration practically radiating off the returning soldiers – Wolffe might as well be watching a strike team coming back from a mission in the Clone Wars, Seppies beaten, clankers no longer clanking, lives, most importantly, saved.

That last part, at least, is almost certainly true. One life, in any case. One of the three brothers now heading for the hangar exit is Sergeant Torrent, Generation One clone, veteran of Geonosis (both battles), ex-212th Attack Battalion – and double agent within the Imperial army ever since Order 66. Twenty years, Wolffe marvels. Twenty years with no-one realising where his true allegiances lay, or catching him stealing and sending intel, or noticing that he wasn’t ageing as fast as other clones (the reason for that, medical droid AZI-345211896246498721347 or AZI-3 for short, is now bobbing behind his organic friends). Twenty years separated from his closest brothers and the woman he loves (or so Wolffe guesses, based on their body language and hints dropped by Rex and Cody). Twenty years living with the knowledge that he had hurt that same woman, and would have killed her had his inhibitor chip still been intact.

Wolffe knows, intellectually, that the chips are the reason he initially believed that the Jedi were traitors. It makes sense. Why else would he have thought such a thing of even his buir? But without Rex’s visceral, bone-deep knowledge that those so-called safeguards were anything but (one of his best friends died in his arms trying to warn him), or the Bad Batch’s alleged defects, or even the strangely positive side-effects of Gregor’s multiple knocks to the head, it’s still hard for him to accept that he was, at any point, not in full control of himself. At one level, he still thinks he’s always been in control. When you’re legally property, even the illusion of being your own master is valuable. The General would have understood.

So does this general. As Helli Abbasa, Jedi Knight and head of Lightning Squadron, nears his position, he throws her a textbook salute, which she returns with careless flamboyance. The exchange is a ritual between them now, part genuine mark of mutual respect, part running joke. When he first arrived at the old Rebellion base after Lothal (well, where else was he going to go? Gregor had marched far away, Rex would never abandon the fight again and he didn’t want to return to Seelos alone), he’d greeted her with her old rank, and she’d made it clear that that was no longer appropriate – or welcome. She tolerates it from him, Rex and her teammates Fives and Spark (though they usually use her old squad nickname, Hel), but anyone else trying to treat her like a soldier usually ends up skewered by the Abbasa Glare, which most definitely deserves the capital letter. They don’t repeat the offence. Wolffe, though, still uses the title by which he first knew her, or more accurately knew of her, a vague feminine shape in blue, white and red-brown darting about the place, always on some errand or other, the subject of plenty of stories almost too wild to be true. Lightning Squadron never ran with the Wolfpack. But she knew of him as well, enough to greet him warmly and with sympathy over his brother’s death when they first met properly. They play dejarik together (he always wins; she can’t plan more than two moves ahead for the life of her), and chat about times past and times yet to come, when they’re both on base long enough. She was the one to introduce him to his dalyc vod Omega, a second, secret (allegedly) unaltered Fett clone now with the Rebellion, who really can give her ori’vod a run for his credits at the holochess table. Not that he minds a bit.

“Su cuy’gar, General Abbasa,” he says to the jetii commander now. The Mando’a greeting – literally, “you’re still alive” – is curiously appropriate when given to a returning warrior. Or perhaps not, considering Mandalore’s history.

“Greetings, Commander Wolffe.” Abbasa’s always blended formal words with rather less formal expressions and tones of voice. She’s happy to be back and to see her friends again, and still buzzing from a clearly successful rescue operation. Torrent’s luck finally ran out a short while ago, and his unofficial unit provided a much-needed extraction. Apparently the confrontation between Abbasa and Senator Mothma over the mission itself and her participation in it was quite something. But she won, and has obviously pulled it off. “Captain Rex.” She bows to both officers; Wolffe hadn’t even realised his brother had arrived, but the hangar is pretty noisy.

“Any trouble?”, Rex asks offhandedly.

“Just a little. Vader happened to be there.” Abbasa hesitates before naming the Sith. There’s something she wants to say, a secret she wants to tell, but she decides against doing so. Wolffe doesn’t press her. It’s not fair on her and won’t end well for him. “I held him back long enough for the others to get clear and come back for me. He recognised me, but,” she smiles up at Torrent, “that’s less of a problem now.” Torrent reported her execution at his hands the day Order 66 was declared. Proof of her survival would have been a death sentence for him while he was in the army, but not any more.

“Good to have you back, Torrent.” Rex switches his attention to his brother, a protégé of his best friend Cody and a former member of his legion. Wolffe doesn’t know Torrent, doesn’t know his set of the little tells that clones use to distinguish one another; had he not known the details of Lightning Squadron’s mission, he’d have thought he was looking at one of the last generation of clones commissioned before the Empire broke ties with Kamino. Torrent only seems about forty, and Rex and Wolffe sixty-odd, even though they’re all Generation Ones. Whatever AZI-3 came up with to help him stay in the army seems to have worked a treat.

“Good to be back, sir,” the brother in question responds. He doesn’t have time to say more before someone calls his squad over for debriefing. Wolffe watches them go, AZI-3 and a Rodian woman – Ganodi, one of Abbasa’s cadets (sorry, padawans) and the mission pilot – trailing behind, unable to shake the feeling of being displaced in time.

“Nice to see the family back together,” Rex comments. He’s always been a bit more grounded, even when his plans have seemed pretty wild, but Wolffe thinks he might be struggling with the same feelings.

“Yes, it is,” Wolffe replies. Because that’s what that team is, despite all differences of rank, calling, even species. A family. Aliit ori’shya tal’din indeed.

---

Mando’a glossary:

Aliit ori’shya tal’din: family is more than blood.

Buir: father (or mother, as appropriate).

Dalyc vod: hopefully an acceptable way of translating “sister” without relying on context. Vod can refer to a sibling of either gender; dalyc is “female”.

Ori’vod: big brother (although Omega may technically be older than Wolffe; I try not to think about it too much).

Jetii: Jedi (singular).

Canon may eventually declare whether or not Omega does join the Rebellion, but I think it’s a fairly safe bet that she would, or at least be associated with it.

Real Funny - part 2

Something I’ve been slow cooking for a few years, a little all over the place. Some plot pieces aren’t mine, just something I played with.

Trigger Warning; Contains swearing, violence, mentions of nudity

I grinned cheekily before we all left. When we got back, the war was minutes from starting up again. When we finally got the Separatists off of the planet, we were allowed to rejoin the rest of the fleet and I was allowed to walk around in something other than armor. "Isn't that against regs?" That all too welcomed voice practically purred as they finally made their presence known. 

I sat up from the crate I was laying on, smiling broadly "General Kenobi allows me a few freedoms." I retorted, looking up at Wolffe. His expression was particularly warm that evening. 

Without any warning, the particularly sarcastic clone pounced, collecting me into his arms and capturing my lips with his as though they were prisoners of war "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be so close to you and act like you're just another soldier?" He growled against my lips in our secluded little spot.

"I have an idea." I purred in response, smiling coyly "So, your place or mine, Commander?" I asked with a low, seductive tone as I looked up at him through my lashes. We both already knew the answer; as a Commander, he had his own quarters. I still shared a bunk bed with Waxer in the main sleeping area for visiting legions. He left our little spot first, and I followed a few minutes after, taking a longer way around to get to his quarters. As soon as the door closed behind me, he lips were on mine again, his hands holding me against his body tightly. We helped each other out of our clothes and laid in his bed, more interested in each other's company, than sex.

As usual, I woke up before everyone else and was out of the room and hid in the mess, sipping caf until everyone else was moderately awake "Missed ya last night." Hardcase yawned, plonking his tray down before joining it.

"Couldn't sleep." I gave him a tight lipped smile before turning back to my caf. I hated lying to my friends and brothers. But if it leaked that Wolffe and I were... it would end very badly for everyone. He gave me an understanding pat on the shoulder, thinking that my nightmares were acting up again. I mentally beat the crap out of myself for keeping a most trusted vod in the dark.

"Anyone up for Nega-ball?" Cody asked, Wolffe and Rex on either side of him. Three quarters of those in the mess stood up and made to follow the three commanding officers, Hardcase included as he tried to pull me up. When that didn't work, he threw me over his shoulder and made his way after the group.

"Caught a live one, didn't ya?" Fives laughed, slapping my thigh as Hardcase fell into step beside him.

My squeak caught the attention of a certain, maybe slightly overprotective, Commander "What are you doing to Sergeant Val?" Wolffe scowled, coming up from behind the two. He was very much not pleased with how the two were conducting themselves with me.

Hardcase couldn't put me down fast enough as he whirled around, blushing and saluting hurriedly "S-sorry sir, we were only fooling around." His scowl deepened into a glare and he had to put his hands behind his back because, bet you ten credits, he was clenching them into fists.

"It's alright Commander, they're on my 'top three most trusted' list. They didn't mean anything besides camaraderie." I stepped up, approaching him to show that I really was alright while essentially telling him that they were my best friends, topped only by him. I felt the two staring at me, wide eyed, as the Commander deflated a fraction and his expression softened. 

"Get to the gym." Was his parting order before he moved around us and down the abandoned hallway. 

"Dude!" Hardcase exclaimed when the commander had turned the corner, the three of us following at a slower pace.

"How did you talk him out of handing us our asses?" Fives finished, staring at me as though I had grown a third head.

"The Commander and I are friends. He and Master Plo were the first ones to find me and bring me to the Temple. Why do you think I have a grey Loth-wolf on my shoulder?" I tapped my shoulder piece to reinforce my point as they started freaking out, having never made the connection.

"So you're an honorary Wolfpack member?" Fives gushed as Hardcase practically jumped on my back and made me give him a piggyback ride. Bastard. 

"I think the more appropriate answer is that I was adopted by Master Plo as one of his many children." I groaned, my knees shaking with every step. I dropped him unceremoniously with the other troopers as Cody and Wolffe were picking teams. 

"Val, get over here!" Cody called, waving me over as I tried to retreat to a safe spot to sit.

"Nah, I think I'll sit out. Both Kix and Wark look like they'll fill me full of needles if I joined in." I laughed, warily watching the two glaring medics who had had to patch me up last time we had all played Nega-ball. 

He glanced at them, equally as wary "Sounds like a good plan." He nodded, clearing his throat as they resumed picking. "So what's the wager?" Cody asked, hands on his hips as he faced Wolffe and his team.

"Winning Commander gets Val to tag along next mission." Alright, so I was a bit of a floater. Sue me.

"No can do sadly, Skywalker already reserved her for the 501st's next mission." Cody frowned. Wolffe scowled and couldn't resist looking at me from the corner of his eye. "How about this, next time we get leave, winning team gets a day with her." Oh if Cody only knew. They shook on it as all of them stripped off their torso armor and Wolffe's team took off their blacks shirts. I blushed at the sight of Wolffe's barrel chested glory, several small white scars dotting his waist and arms. He knew I blushed at the sight of him, he puffed up almost as soon as I did. The game was certainly as hairy and brutal as usual. Sometimes it was like the clones just kind of disregarded sport safety rules.

Of course, we never went back to Coruscant, instead, moving cruisers so that we could have a better spread in our attack of Umbara. Of course, the Umbarans changed over to the Seppies after their Senator had mysteriously been assassinated.... most likely by the Separatists... but that's just my opinion. The Republic was outmatched, out classed, and out teched, but by Odin, we were going to fight the good fight. It wasn't until the surface of the dark planet that I realized just how much my warnings had gone over the heads of the Council. Krell swooped in and took over command of the 501st, saying that the Chancellor needed Skywalker for some benign reason. 

First thing I did as soon as I saw Krell exit his gunship was hide behind Fives and have a panic attack, bucket removed as I pressed my forehead against his back, mumbling numbers in as many languages I knew, as high as I could go and back. He just stood there, one hand squeezing the one that he had pried from trying to scratch at the chinks in my armor. "Stand in attention, in my presence trooper!" Krell barked in my general direction. Fives stiffened as I quickly put my bucket back on and stepped out from behind him.

"S-sorry sir." I stuttered, still trying to regain total control over myself. I knew exactly what that motherfucker was going to do, and my attempt to stop it, had been brushed aside. 

"What's your number, Trooper." His eyes narrowed as his lower set of arms folded behind his back and his upper set crossed over his chest. He moved so that he was behind me, ignoring the others as they tried to close ranks around me as subtly as possible. 

"Sergeant Val, sir." I couldn't let him know that he bothered me, that he was getting so far under my skin that I was shaking. My head was full of nothing but white noise.

"Are you such a deformed clone, that not only your height and voice are wrong? I asked for your number, Clone." He snarled, stepping closer. I was filled with sudden, blinding rage as he went on a racist rant "You can't even put your armor on correctly!" He spat. 

My resolve rocketed out the window at that last comment as I whirled around, taking off my helmet and getting closer to the vulgar behemoth "I am a woman, General! Are you satisfied?" I snapped, feeling Fives frantically hook onto my belt and attempt to pull me back closer to himself and Rex. But I was planted, I would not back down, willingly or not. "My name is Sergeant Valeri MacCloud, I am from a planet called Earth and I am twenty six years old. I asked, are you satisfied, sir?" I barked, using my best drill sergeant voice as I glared up at the rogue Jedi, daring him to court marshal me, or worse, kill me. 

people who are making jokes abt how shocked they are that vince was accused of sexual trafficking/assault need to shut up. you think its cute posting for all your followers that you’re soooo shocked?🥺🥺 you’re so quirky omg i’m laughing sooo much. but seriously get a grip on life and stop making jokes when a woman was assaulted. y’all piss me off