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coochiequeens · 1 year

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Doesn’t the ACLU have better cases to pursue?

In 2019, an ACLU lawsuit against the New Jersey Department of Corrections resulted in a settlement which required the state to allow violent male inmates to self-identify into the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women. The lawsuit was launched on behalf of a transgender male inmate who sought transfer but had been denied. That inmate was anonymized in court records, referred to only as “Sonia Doe.”

Reduxx has learned the identity of the anonymous inmate the ACLU represented in their fight for prison gender self-identification, and can name him as unhinged convicted terrorist Danielle Demers.

Demers, born Daniel Smith, was investigated by the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force and the Atlantic County Prosecutor’s Office for attempting to sell ammunition and pipe bombs.

In October of 2017, Demers, a veteran of the Marine Corps, was charged with attempting to sell a high-powered rifle, 300 rounds of ammunition, and material capable of making five pipe bombs. During the course of the investigation, it was learned that Demers provided instructions on how to assemble the pipe bomb and noted that they should be filled with nails to act as shrapnel.

He was arrested by members of the Atlantic City Police Department SWAT Team, and the Atlantic City Police Department Bomb Squad recovered the pipe bomb materials. Authorities did not specify the intended customers for the weapons, and local media reportsreferred to Demers simply as a “woman.”

As reported by AC Prime Time, Demers had been known locally for charity work prior to his arrest. The exact nature of his activism remains unclear.

Demers was charged with unlawful possession of a destructive device, possession of an explosive substance for an unlawful purpose, unlawful sale of a firearm, unlawfully teaching another to use an explosive, and conspiracy. In April of 2018, Demers and his female accomplice Nina House were each sentenced to five yearsin prison for their crimes.

Demers’ sex was recorded as female by the Atlantic County Justice Facility, though he was initially housed with men at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. In August of 2019, the American Civil Liberties Union of New Jersey (ACLU-NJ) filed a lawsuit against the state Department of Corrections on behalf of Demers, arguing that a “woman” named only as “Sonia Doe” had been “imprisoned for the past seventeen months in men’s prisons,” a situation that was said to constitute “cruel and unusual punishment.”

The legal action, which used “she/her” pronouns to refer to Demers, claimed that he was discriminated against “on the basis of her gender identity or expression and on the basis of her sex,” and that he had been “treat[ed] differently than other women solely because she is transgender.”

It was further stated that Demers suffered from an “exceptional vulnerability as a woman,” which included prison staff “referring to her as male, using male pronouns to address her, and sometimes even explicitly telling her she is a man.” The lawsuit sought financial compensation for “the more than seventeen months” that the DOC “caused [him] to suffer in men’s prisons.”

Also mentioned in the complaint was Demers’ lack of access to “gender-affirming undergarments”. In one specific example, a bra owned by Demers was confiscated, and he had filed 13 grievances to the NJDOC related to his desire for women’s underwear.

Within the same month that the lawsuit was filed, the New Jersey Department of Corrections transferred Demers to Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women (EMCF), the state’s only female prison.

“Sonia Doe has spent more than 500 days in men’s prisons, facing extreme harassment, discrimination and outright violence on a day-to-day basis,” said ACLU-NJ Staff Attorney Tess Borden said in response to the decision. “Her bravery in asserting her rights, and the DOC’s quick decision to transfer her to the women’s prison, creates momentum for broad-based reforms.”

In June of 2021, the state of New Jersey reached a settlement with the ACLU-NJ and agreed to adopt major reforms to prison policies which would allow housing according to a self-declared and subjective ‘gender identity’ rather than on biological sex.

As part of the settlement, the New Jersey Department of Corrections agreed to pay Demers $125,000 in damages and $45,000 in separate attorney’s fees.

In a press release issued by the ACLU-NJ, Borden remarked: “The settlement of this lawsuit puts in place systemic, far-reaching policy changes to recognize and respect the gender identity of people in prison – with housing based on gender identity, use of appropriate pronouns, access to gender-affirming property, and much more.”

She continued: “This policy places New Jersey in the vanguard of states committed to protecting transgender, intersex, and non-binary people in prison housing determinations and continues its path toward eliminating discrimination based on gender identity.”

According to testimonies provided to Reduxx from women incarcerated at Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women (EMCF), among the first men to be transferred to the prison after Demers and the ACLU-NJ were victorious in their lawsuit was a convicted woman-killer who had referred to himself as “Lucifer’s maiden servant.”

Perry Cerf was handed a 50-year sentence in 2003 for the brutal rape and murder of a sex-trafficked woman from Ecuador. Cerf, who now goes by “Michelle Hel-loki Angelina” and is recorded as female by the DOC, had been found wearing his victim’s clothes and utilizing her identification with his photo superimposed over hers.

At the time of his crime, he sent a letter to the press confessing to and boasting about the horrific slaying, stating: “Since I have a most unusual taste for blood, I drank and licked and lapped up my fill … Let it be known: I am Lucifer’s Maiden servant, sent to earth born of sin, to bring suffering and pain, darkness and evil.”

Cerf accepted a longer sentence to avoid a rape charge, and during his trial said, “Going to prison on a sex charge would be a safety concern for me.” He has since married a female inmate at EMCF, and has been reportedly terrorizing women in the facility.

Since his release, Demers has been active on the online forum Quora, a community that operates on a question and answer format.

Demers is behind at least two profiles on the site. In one Quora profile, Demers describes himself as a “Former Tactical Analyst & Warfare Development Specialist.” He also purports to be a “rape counselor” who “sits on the board of directors for several non-profits.” The 2019 legal complaint launched on his behalf similarly describes Demers as a “grief and suicide counselor” and “board member of several non-profit organizations.”

All together, Demers has replied to thousands of questions on the platform, many of which relate to the topic of transgenderism and prison policies.

To a question posted last year on whether there should be separate prison accommodations for transgender people, Demers responded: “In NJ [sic] transgender females (still having a penis) are housed with cis females, they are housed together, roam freely together, eat together, and shower together… This has been policy for over two years with dozens of trans female inmates living and co-mingling at the only female prison, Edna Mahan.”

To another Quora user who asked “What would happen if an inmate in prison got caught staring at another inmate in the showers,” Demers commented: “The females all have girlfriends and open relationships, no shame in it.”

In a recent post from April 23, Demers instructs readers to “Google Sonia Doe” in order to learn how the state of New Jersey places trans-identified prisoners.

While Demers speaks about “Sonia Doe” as though a separate entity, in a post from last year he explicitly outed himself as “Sonia Doe” and stated that he was “brought to the female prison with the help of the ACLU.”

Demers writes: “I am transgender. I was declared male at birth. I have always been a girl… It’s not a fetish or a phase. I am very feminine, and guys hit on me everywhere I go. My heart, soul, metaphysical mind and now my body are female. I love being a girl! Before I was miserable every second of every day. Trying to be something I wasn’t. It was torture.”

One Quora user asked about the issue of female inmates being impregnated by trans-identifying males. “Are transgender activists bothered by women getting pregnant by male inmates in women’s prisons?” Demers answers: “If a transgender person is on the right combination of hormones and testosterone blocking meds they can not impregnate a female. In fact, they will not ejaculate a single drop of semen.”

In addition to offering his expertise on topics related to transgenderism, Demers has also been responding to Quora inquiries of a sexual nature, including on topics such as furries, diapers, menstruation, and lesbianism.

“I’m ADBL and have no real ADBL friends. Just a few people I speak to online,” Demers writes. In his profile, he lists “Adult Babies / Diaper Lovers (fetish)” as an area of personal expertise. ADBL refers to a sexual subculture in which adults, primarily men, achieve arousal by behaving and dressing like babies.

On his older Quora profile, only three accounts followed by Demers are visible. All of them are related to the sexual fetish of adults pretending to be children or infants. One is specifically titled “Diapered Females.” Among his followers is what appears to be an adult man who calls himself “Newborn Baby Rebecca” and posts photos of himself wearing diapers.

“I love kissing girls (I’m a girl, and not a lesbian). Girls are amazing kissers, soft and gentle,” reads one comment by Demers. To the question, “If female best friends finger each other, does that make them lesbians?” he responds: “No, it does not. It makes them friends with benefits.”

Using his more recently active profile, Demers described a scenario wherein he had engaged in sexual activities with a minor. He described the situation, which involved a 17 year-old girl, as a misunderstanding that occurred after drinking at a bar.

Responding to a user who posed the question of how to prevent “male perverts who try to go into women’s washrooms and showers,” Demers replied: “There is a huge difference between the male perverts who enjoy going into and somehow get off going into female bathrooms/locker rooms, and trans women who go there just like any other female. I’m a trans female and I go into female bathrooms, do you know why, it’s because I’m a female! Even in states where it’s illegal for me to use female restrooms, I’m still going to utilize the female restroom, do you know why? Because I’m a female.”

Disturbingly, Demers also claims to have a period and use period products.

“There is nothing shameful about menstruation. I prefer pads, and when I’m on my period, I keep one in my back pocket. I’ve always got a pad or two in my purse,” he wrote on Quora.

But perhaps most frighteningly, Demers claims to have adopted a homeless teenage girl from an abusive background, and has responded to posts on the topic of kidnapping while himself warning others to understand laws related to the offense.

“I took in and raised a teenage girl, she was drug addicted, being abused by men and at home spent most of her time on the streets. She is now 22, sober, and in college. We are very close. Something deep inside just told me to help her and show her the way. If you have the same urge to intervene I would seriously consider doing so. Bear in mind the law, going against either parent is a losing battle and quick way to possible kidnapping charges. In my particular situation her mother couldn’t have been happier to be rid of her,” he states.

Demers has also claimed to be “best friends with a high ranking police administrator,” while describing an unsettling story involving kidnapping and a “closet painted black with chains hanging everywhere.”

In the story, Demers prevents an officer from conducting a welfare check on an “adult child” on the basis that the sexual bondage scenario was a form of roleplay, and therefore, consensual.

On March 14, 2022, he answered the question: “What crime did you not get caught for yet and owe prison time to the police for?” Demers replied, “If I didn’t get caught, then why would I owe time to the police?”

Thanks to the efforts of Demers and the ACLU, at least 27 men are now housed at EMCF, many of which have been convicted of violent crimes involving women and children.

Amongst them are Matthew “Marina” Volz and Adam “Ashley” Romero, two sadistic men who sexually abused Volz’ 7 year-old daughter to produce “transgender porn” involving the child.

Another male transfer, Raequan “Rae” Rollins, is said to have incited the worst instance of prison guard brutalityagainst female inmates in recent years – following which, he was transferred out of EMCF for his safety to the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton while the women who were beaten remained.

Despite having repeatedly assaulted officers, threatening to sexually assault a female staff member, and allegedly hurling his bodily excretions at guards, Rollins filed a lawsuit following a violent show of force from prison officers which resulted in six women being extremely battered. Major media outlets reported sympathetically that he had been a victim of “transphobia”, and he was ultimately moved to Pennsylvania’s State Correctional Institution at Muncy, a facility for adult female offenders.

Still another male transfer was discovered to have impregnated two women housed at EMCF after being transferred in while serving a 30-year sentence for the murder of his foster father. Demetrius ‘Demi’ Minor had been trying to have sex with the female inmates from the moment he was transferred in, according to sources at the prison.

Additionally, multiple women have told Reduxx of the sexual harassment and abuse they have endured from the male transfers.

Kokila Hiatt, who has spoken to Reduxx on several occasions over the past year, reports becoming the target of harassment by Perry Cerf after speaking out. Cerf made false allegations against Hiatt which resulted in her being punished and placed in a lockdown unit for three days.

Last year, Amy Locane, an actress known for her role in Melrose Place, described how a 6’7″ convicted murderernamed Neil LaBranche ⁠— who now goes by the name Nikita Selket ⁠— had been showering with women at the facility, causing them to feel uncomfortable and “violated.”

By Genevieve Gluck

Genevieve is the Co-Founder of Reduxx, and the outlet's Chief Investigative Journalist with a focused interest in pornography, sexual predators, and fetish subcultures. She is the creator of the podcast Women's Voices, which features news commentary and interviews regarding women's rights.

#USA #New Jersey #New Jersey Department of Corrections #ACLU #Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women #Sonia Doe is a man #Danielle Demers Is Daniel Smith #FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force #TIM investigated for domestic terrorism #Not a Woman #NotOurCrimes #KeepPrisonsSingleSex #The ACLU is suing on behalf of a man who wants to wear women’s underwear #Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women (EMCF)#TIM calling himself a rape counselor #TIM and fetishes #TIM discussing periods

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thejewishlink · 1 year

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Cops Who Arrested Pair Allegedly Plotting Shul Attack Hailed at City Hall

NEW YORK — Two MTA police officers who arrested two men suspected of planning an attack on a shul were hailed Monday, at a press conference at City Hall where government officials and Jewish leaders celebrated a law-enforcement operation that may have prevented a massacre. “Two dangerous hateful individuals are now in custody because of you and your quick action on the intel by the JTTF (Joint…

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#JTTF (Joint Terrorism Task Force) and the NYPD #MTA police officers #Suspects Arrested Planned Synagogue Attack

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yawnderu · 7 months

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Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022) Starter Pack

New to the fandom and don't know where to start? ✨

What is Modern Warfare II?

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II is a 2022 first-person shooter video game developed by Infinity Ward and published by Activision. It is a sequel to the 2019 reboot and serves as the nineteenth installment in the overall Call of Duty series.

Like its predecessor, the game takes place in a realistic and modern setting. The campaign follows multi-national special operations unit Task Force 141 and Mexican Special Forces unit Los Vaqueros as they attempt to track down terrorist Hassan Zyani, who is in possession of American-made ballistic missiles.

A sequel, titled Modern Warfare III, is scheduled to be released into Call of Duty HQ, on November 10, 2023.

What is Task Force 141?

Task Force 141 is a joint multi-national special operations task force and counter-terrorism military unit formed by Captain John Price, consisting of the best hand-picked operators special forces units can offer.

Despite having an unknown number of members, the most well-known and the ones we follow during the campaign are Captain John Price, Lieutenant Simon ''Ghost'' Riley, Sergeant Kyle ''Gaz'' Garrick, Sergeant John ''Soap'' MacTavish, and Colonel Alejandro Vargas (allied member).

What if I can't play the game?

If you'd like to see the campaign to understand and get to know the characters better, I will attach a gameplay video with no commentary! It's 5 hours, but the campaign is so good you can basically watch it like a movie.

I will also attach a compilation of voice lines from the main characters from multi-player, which give us some extra peeks at the personality of the characters and how they act in stressful situations.

Simon ''Ghost'' Riley - Voice Lines

Johnny ''Soap'' MacTavish - Voice Lines

Kyle ''Gaz'' Garrick - Voice Lines

Captain John Price - Voice Lines

Colonel Alejandro Vargas - Voice Lines

And despite König not being part of the campaign, I will also attach his voice lines as he's a character I write about often.

König - Voice Lines

Where can I find the Ghost comic?

You can read the original comic that goes into detail about Simon Riley and the creation of Ghost right here!

If you'd like to read some character studies, I will also be attaching some character studies I've made based on research about comics, voice lines, and the campaigns. I will be creating more in the future with TF141 Characters!

Simon ''Ghost'' Riley - Character Study

König - Character Study

If you're new to my page, besides the character studies for Ghost, I have other posts talking more about his character and the way I write him!

Here and here.

If you'd like to read some of my fanfics, feel free to check out my Masterlist!

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diejager · 6 months

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How would each of the monster 141 react if hunter were like- straight up killed in front of them. Like no wiggle room “oh they might be alive and just unconscious” but just straight up dead. Sorry I am a sucker for angst and I feel like this would be a fantastic read considering how bonded and feral they all are to protect hunter. Thanks in advance! Love the blog! Keep it up 👍

Are you trying to get me killed? Do you want me to have a heartattack?

End of the line Cw: death, suicidal thoughts, angst, mention of suicide, blood, injury, tell me if I missed any.

It had been a mistake, a costly one, but still a mistake. In that moment, everything had lost its point, the mission, the goal, the enemy and the celebration were pointless, forgettable. Time slowed, lagging behind in minutes when the shot rang out, booming in your restless minds until all they could hear was a loud thump, a body slumping down.

It was a rookie mistake made by their eagerness to return home, bodies bruised from the last deployment and still sore, skin painted in black and purple, but you pushed on, being sent from one end of the planet to the other. They were hanging on a thin thread of perseverance and training, practiced to live on perpetual soreness and exhaustion.

But that didn’t ease the pain, the open wound in their hearts. They watched you slump over, blood pooling from the wound in your chest —shot center mass. They dropped everything, Rudy rushing to turn you over, hands shaky and eyes blurry, he choked down a sob and a tear slid down his cheek. You were unresponsive, eyes glazed and dull, the light that they all loved gone in a breath. You upper torso bled, a bullet pierced through your kevlar vest, the bullet’s calibre higher than anything they expected.

Ghost joined Rudy, desperate to see if there were a chance to resuscitate you, to bring you back to them. His hands were frantic, tremors wracking his whole body as he loomed forward, trying to find a pulse, hand pressing against your still warm throat. He felt his fears surging forward, the dark voice at the back of his mind grinding out words, terrors that followed him at every step. It was like the last Christmas, when Tommy and Beth died, when Joseph and his mom were shot, when the people he cared for were killed.

Ghost felt his voice leave him, croaky and dying, it made him unable to utter a single word, and so was Rudy, mind blank. So Alejandro was the one to tell the verdict, but they hadn’t needed him to tell them to know. Soap, König and Horangi heard your heart stop, the powerful muscle in your chest explode from the bullet and grow silent. The pain clawed at their hearts, the overbearing weight on their chest made their retreat harder.

However much Price wanted to cry, to fall to his knees as cradle your body against his chest, he was the TF’s leader, he had to bring the rest of them back home. He ordered Gaz back from his perch for the sniper after he dealt with it, Gaz’s advanced sight catching the glint of the scope. Holding the title of a Task Force’s captain meant a lot, it placed a certain amount of responsibility on his shoulder and he couldn’t let his men down. Price could let a few tears slip, but he had to hold it in until he had a moment to himself in the silence of his office.

Gaz was silent during and afterwards, watching your limp body being carried in König’s arms until you reached the aircraft piloted by Nikolai who shared an equally heartbroken and saddened expression as them. His voice died with you, unable to voice his mind or his sorrows, confining himself to his room in silence. Although he lost himself, he had the others to bring him back like you did when Ghost wandered too deeply into his mind, bringing back up memories.

Soap did what he knew best, throwing himself into the fray, overworking himself with solo mission and spearheading other joint work. He almost worked himself to the bone until Horangi pulled him back, scuffing him and beating your wishes into his mind, telling him that you wouldn’t want them to break away like this, to wither away as if they were never here.

Despite helping Soap, Horangi suffered the same as the werewolf did, silently crying himself to sleep, fingers clawing at his head in desperation to quiet down the loud screeches in his mind, degrading words thrown at himself for failing you. He knew you didn’t want him to hate himself, but how could he quell the bleeding wound in his heart when you weren’t here to ease the pain away? The memory of you did.

Alejandro tried his best, acting and trying to feel better until it ultimately failed, he wasn’t in the right place to see you nor talk about you to others, murmuring your name when he slept and woke up with a start. He wasn’t as lost as Ghost was, didn’t shut the world around him down and closed in on himself, but he was following closely behind if he didn’t have the Task Force.

Rudy was the most human out of them, he felt more strongly but couldn’t cry. His mind was blank, the beat in his chest loud and erratic, yet his mind was silent, a ground of deathly quiet. He couldn’t do anything, work became hard, waking up exhausting, and taking care of himself harrowingly difficult. You’d scold him if you saw how he was behaving, how little care he had for himself —to near hunger and insanity. He hung onto your words, your confession, the three words you gave them as a parting gift, that’s what forced him out of his shell.

While the rest worked through their pain, to reach a stalemate together, none fell as hard as Ghost and König, both having a difficult childhood and a harder time following their enlistment. The lost themselves easily, becoming much more violent and deranged in their kills, ripping men in half and swallowing them whole, leaving all but a puddle of blood behind. The only thing that stopped them from ending their pain, to reaching out towards the knife that hung on the side of their thighs were your words, the handwritten words on your will and a message for everyone.

You wanted them to live, to be happy without you being there and that you’d be waiting for them on the other side until eternity. You were patient after all. At least a part of you hung from their necks, your ashes shared between the eight men and your items spread equally.

“I love you.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

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cowyolks · 6 months

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BLUNT SALVATION

PROLOGUE. A BITE OF OPPORTUNITY

Pairing: Monster!König x Female!Reader

Warnings: Blood and Gore, PTSD, unhealthy mental habits.

Words: 769 (a quick little prologue before the action starts)

Blunt Salvation Masterlist

Every light was on. It wasn’t a motive of fear anymore, but more as a desire to stay in control. The bulbs were an irritating fluorescent, not the pathetic yellow tint that casts eerie shadows across scattered objects.

It was enough to stop the shaking across your joints.

The television was always on a dull volume, enough to hear the constant debate of the local news, but quiet enough to hear the rumbling engines outdoors. You couldn’t stand the silence.

As a psychologist, it was easy to pinpoint your own thoughts and why you had them. It was harder to make yourself quit the agonizing patterns and trauma that forced your hand.

Bitten fingers tapped upon the glass coffee-table, omitting a clicking noise against the small corners of the apartment. You’d already lined the door frames with silver and iron, the window panes crystallized in salt. It had become second nature to do so, an obsessive behavior that couldn’t be quit.

You never knew where the monster went to. Who he told, how he planned to hunt down each and every employee of your company.

Vladimir Makarov had been your patient. Your first big break, your prized monster whose brain you could pick and prod. You remembered being so excited when your lead psychologist gave you your first solo assignment of a first-class monster— The nastiest of the genetic pool.

You had been excited, until he escaped.

It’d had been your fault. You were told of Makarov’s manipulative tendencies, how he played to fear and terror. It didn’t stop you from trying to save your boss, despite the pool of blood already on the floor.

You realized you were too close, too late.

You could still feel the sting of the bite even now, in your dingy apartment. A hand reaching up to the fleshy dent of teeth marks embedded into your fragile neck. The skin was pulled taut, recently scarred over, but a constant burn flamed through your arteries at the reminder.

It was a miracle they made it to you in time.

You vaguely remember crystalline eyes blinking worriedly down at you, a growling Scottish accent telling you to keep your eyes open as he waited for his captain. A skeletal gloved palm, held your warm blood in place.

You remember it to be agonizing. Textbooks didn’t justify just how badly wolfbites hurt, especially in such a vulnerable place such as your neck. You hardly felt the pinch of a needle as Captain John Price injected you with the antidote.

Recovery was rough, brace placed upon the hollow of your throat for weeks. The stench of your own blood kept you awake and the heavy antibiotics they fed through you to keep your body human instead of beast burned and ached.

It was excruciating.

But this— this paranoia was almost worse. It was hard being alone, to feel the chill in the air and jump at every creak of old drywall. Your hands itched to stay busy, to keep that horrid night out of your mind. Perhaps you could etch on another boring crossword, or practice your Morse code on the table.

Eyes bobbled over to the sandwich you had hastily made, more so for the task and less for the urge to eat.

Another creak against the window pane.

A storm was coming, violent thunderstorms due to the approaching spring weather. You jumped upwards, wanting to check the salt and iron again before you settled against the cushions and attempted to sleep for the night.

A loud buzz startled you before you could stand. Instantly your eyes blurred, fingers curling into your palms and leaving dents enough to draw blood.

It wasn’t healthy, but you didn’t have any reassurance or backbone to begin said healing. You were everything you tried to treat.

The loud buzzing didn’t stop, even after your heart rate returned to normal, and you could see clearly again. Deep inhales grounded you as you stared at the vibrating phone on the table.

A familiar face glowed upon the screen, an accept or decline just under the name.

Your heart screamed not to answer it, knowing it had something to do with work. It would put you back in the crosshairs, back to the constant battle of human vs. monster. Your mind argued the opposite. Knowing you needed to face your fears, to realize that you were still alive and for good reason.

You reached for the phone, pushing the green button and holding it up shakily to your ear.

“Laswell.” You greeted, teeth clenched tightly.

“Doctor…”

A long pause.

“We need your help.”

Not sure how many I can tag, some didn’t give me the option to. So first come first serve! What did you guys think??? König will be introduced in the first chapter!

@cordeliawhohung @nanamis-bunny @tiredmetalenthusiast @teehee-47 @elijahssuit @profoundlynerdywolf @iytatsworld @roastyyytoastyyy @liyanahelena @blight-anon @callophantical @mykneeshurt @promiseofeywa @awhorefordilfs @f3nnick @dude-ew-gross @beepboop-2222 @org12 @obi-wansorrow @lycheedr3ams @frogs11 @aghast-victorian-noble @mintatski-blog @illsksm @lazyalocasia @midnightsan101 @apollodeath @volpesas @juliannatryon @bugsarts @elichisstuff @aurochka @zombeeghost @grizzersmamma @fandom-blackhole @nerd-jay @tea-leaving @oxkikixo @memer0om @0-ramen-0 @junkratssheila-09 @juvenillia @cutegor3 @jaredhopworthsknickers @bunnybabe03 @saphiresai @shimas-things12 @runemdollas @ajadell @kiwibao

#cod #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare #könig #call of duty #konig #konig x reader #könig x reader #könig cod

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celaenaeiln · 5 months

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do you ever think about how canonically in the batman v superman movie/universe, dick grayson is the dead robin and bruce never picked up another kid which eventually led to him killing superman?

YES?! YES! YESS!!!!

If Dick were to die, Bruce would completely break. He wouldn't just stop at killing villains - hell no - he would start killing heroes too.

All that's going through his head is that no one deserves to exist if Dick is gone.

And knowing me, I will always gladly provide the evidence.

In the comics when Dick got shot, Bruce's world imploded.

He felt such a strong rage, he kinda lost it. He flew to another country, defeated assassins, and trucked through the freezing blizzard in Russia to get to KG Beast.

Batman (2016) Issue #56

The utter, undiluted rage on his face.

Batman (2016) Issue #56

He lost communication with Alfred. He's completely on his own but nothing will stop him in his crusade to avenge Dick.

He finds the assassin and they have a massive fight. KG Beast is actually one of the highest paid killers in the world. Him, Lady Shiva, Deathstroke, Deadshot, and someone else are the top 5 of the villain world and Batman almost loses until-

Batman (2016) Issue #57

He shoots a grapple gun into KG Beast's face! He breaks him. He leaves him paralyzed.

His horror at what the Joker has done to Barbara is gone in the face of his hatred for what happened to Dick.

Batman (2016) Issue #57

Batman willingly and knowingly paralyzed someone despite knowing the cost. That's how much he hated him. But you think it stops here? This is just the tip of the iceberg.

Batman (2016) Issue #57

And this is where it all goes to hell.

Batman, the vigilante who beat his own son for killing criminals, leaves this criminal for the dead.

The Gotham commissioners talk about it

Batman (2016) Issue #60

Forget Batman. JTTF stands for Joint Terrorism Task Force. They actually considered a hit on Nightwing an act of terrorism.

That's how much the world loves Nightwing.

The moment KG Beast shot Nightwing, he became the Nation's Public Enemy Number One.

Commissioner Grogan hates KG Beast so much for what he did, he can't even bring himself to say the man's name, too revolted by his existence. Gotham hates the guy more than they hate the Joker.

Batman (2016) Issue #60

Commissioner Gordon offers some hope that maybe Batman knew but Commissioner Grogan - he just says maybe. I don't know, it's possible but - to which Gordon just stays silent. They both know what happened and what Batman did but confirming it out loud? Batman's not supposed to kill.

So Batman left KG Beast to die but Bane? The one who ordered the hit? He-

Batman (2016) Issue #59

And when Gordon tries to stop him-

Batman (2016) Issue #59

He. Punches. Gordon.

He hurts his friend and ally. The man who helped him the night his parents were murdered. He punched for his pain over Dick.

This is where it all connects to the Superman vs Batman movie. If Dick were to die, Bruce would kill his own allies in the end. He would raze the world to the ground.

In the comics, Dick's death is the turning point for Batman (2016). After this he enters a series of nightmares where his brain turns a nightmare of Selina dying to be exactly reminiscent of what happened to Dick, and even though Dick lived, Bruce can't let that go. Then the fight with Bane who targeted Dick solely because of his importance to Dick, and then the Joker War where the Joker tried to use Dick because of his importance to Bruce, and the Gotham War where Dick thrashing him was Bruce's breaking point from his toxic self and finally self-realization.

Damian once said Dick leaving to become Nightwing caused Bruce to lose his moral compass, and that's even more true now. He's breaking enemies and allies left and right just because Dick almost died.

Imagine what would happen if Dick really did.

#dick grayson #nightwing #bruce wayne #batman #commissioner gordon #Commissioner grogan?#i forget his name #robin #superman vs batman movie #cl anon asks #thanks for the ask!

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probablyasocialecologist · 11 months

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The struggle to Stop Cop City is not just a battle over the creation of a $90 million police urban warfare center. It's not just a fight to protect the 381 acres of forest land, known as one of the "four lungs" of Atlanta, currently under threat of destruction. It's not just a conflict over how the city invests the over $30 million it has pledged to the project, to be supplemented by at least $60 million in private funding.

The movement is all of those things. But even more fundamentally, the struggle to Stop Cop City is a battle for the future of Atlanta.

It's a struggle over who the city is for: the city's corporate and state ruling class actors who have demanded that Cop City be built, or the people of Atlanta who have consistently voiced their opposition and demanded a different vision for the city. It is a fight over who the city belongs to; over who Atlanta is run for and who it is run against; over who is welcome to live and enjoy life here, and who is expected to simply labor here for low wages and under constant surveillance.

In January 2023, Cop City claimed its first life when a joint task force of local and state police officers marched into the Weelaunee Forest and assassinated Tortuguita Terán, a 26-year-old queer, Indigenous-Venezuelan forest defender. The project has already claimed the lives of trees in the forest, as clear-cutting began in March 2023. Cop City has already stolen the freedom of 42 people who have been charged with domestic terrorism and dozens more who were violently arrested while protesting the project.

As the struggle to stop Cop City has gone national and international, it has also left many wondering: Given so much widespread opposition, why is the city of Atlanta so intent on building Cop City? And if they insist on building Cop City, why build it atop such precious forest land? And why now, when the plans were first proposed as early as 2017 and the city had previously committed to protecting and preserving the land in question?

Contribute to the Atlanta Solidarity Fund to support the legal defense of Forest Defenders facing domestic terrorism charges.

Learn more about the ongoing fight to #StopCopCity and Defend the Atlanta Forest.

#cop city #Weelaunee Forest #tortuguita #police #atlanta

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lets-try-some-writing · 2 years

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Aching Scars

I came across this headcannon that all the TFP bots have some sort of disability or injury that bothers them. As you might expect I felt the need to expand on the thought a little bit. And don't worry, it ain't all doom and gloom, after all I am a sucker for fluff.

Arcee

Arcee, despite her aggressiveness, has managed to avoid serious injury for most of the war, as such her problems lay not in body, but in mind.

She suffers from extreme PTSD from the loss of so many of her partners, it has led her to pull away from others and keep to herself.

Thankfully upon coming to earth and being assigned as Jack's guardian she lightens up again, content in knowing that she has a chance to try again as a protector once more.

She still has bad night terrors and occasionally has mental breakdowns thought, even if she is generally good at hiding it.

When the team do manage to see through her attempts at hiding her condition they do their best to comfort her in little ways.

Bad days usually end with the team watching a movie together, keeping Arcee from focusing too much on her own dark thoughts.

Arcee is particularly fond of romance films, not that she will ever admit it aloud.

Bulkhead

While no bot comes out of a war unscathed mentally, Bulkhead is by far the most mentally stable of the Cybertronian half of the team.

However that does not mean he is in pristine condition. His joints in his knees and knuckles are unfortunately rather stiff and painful from his many long years enduring hostile environments.

He does his work regardless of the pain, he has long since learned to tune it out for the most part.

But on days where the weather is off, his joints end up becoming near unbearable.

He usually plays it off with a joke or two but the team notices and does not hesitate to do something about it.

Optimus puts Bulkhead on groundbridge duty during those days, and the rest of the team ask him to handle minor tasks on the computer in order to keep him off his pedes while not damaging his pride.

Miko almost always ropes Bulkhead into having a spa day with her on such days. He tries to object but succumbs to her pleading in the end.

When the team return from their various missions they don't mention the almost comical sight of Bulkhead resting with pillows over his optics as the bright pink paint on his servo tips dries.

Wheeljack

He isn't one to hang around the team much, but when he does drop by, occasionally his ADHD rears its helm.

On such days he is fidgety, ready for a fight and eager to get into trouble.

In order to keep him from driving Ratchet to commit a murder, the team enact game nights whenever he comes round, even if he isn't having an off day.

Twister, UNO, Video games are the primary activities of the team game nights.

Wheeljack is incredibly competitive and always does a little dance when he wins.

His scrap eating grin when he absolutely demolishes Bulkhead and Bumblebee in racing games oozes with smugness.

His competitiveness has caused more than a few half hearted fights to break out over the true victor in a game, but no one really minds as it allows everyone to blow off steam.

In the end, even if he is a bit much at times, the team wouldn't have it any other way.

After all it wouldn't be the same if there wasn't a fight to break up, or cry of victory to be heard as Wheeljack gets far too into the game for his own good.

Smokescreen

Smokescreen hasn't seen much action due to the relative security of his previous station at Iacon, as such he only has one, thankfully temporary problem.

A few too many hits to the helm and then his stasis locked journey to earth have thrown his recharge cycles out of whack.

While his body readjusts and repairs the damage to his processors he is stuck dealing with the ever present threat of passing out at any moment.

He can usually sense the forced recharge a few minutes before it knocks him out cold and can groundbridge out of a fight before it happens, but around base he tends to not notice the signs before it is too late.

He often passes out while in the middle of an activity, thankfully there is nearly always someone there to catch him and lay him down on the floor somewhere until he comes back online.

The children have capitalized on his random naps and have gone out of their way to 'beautify' poor Smokescreen's armor while he is recharging.

More than once he has woken up with a Sharpe mustache on his face and silly little doodles on his armor.

If Optimus comes by while he is recharging, the Prime always moves him somewhere more comfortable and covers him with a sheet of some sort to tuck him in. (Optimus can't help his fatherly instincts)

Smokescreen loves it.

It still scares the scrap out of Ratchet though when Smokescreen just suddenly collapses on the floor in forced recharge.

Bumblebee

Bumblebee's most obvious injury is his torn out voice box.

Over the years since its loss the pain from the injury has lessened significantly.

It causes him discomfort on occasion but only when he attempts to speak beyond the capacity of his prosthetic voice box.

However after the loss and subsequent restoration of his T-cog, he has new pains to deal with.

Some days the organ will cramp up or freeze, the damage inflicted when it was removed causing transformation to be agonizing or outright fail altogether (thought the latter option has only occurred a handful of times)

On those days Bumblebee struggles a lot with his self esteem. He hates being useless and babied more than anything else. (except perhaps Megatron)

The children will often rope him into playing video games with them to cheer him up.

The rest of the team will play lob ball with him, or if the weather doesn't permit it, they will wrestle or attempt to play human games.

Ratchet may make energon goodies if rations permit it (not that he will ever admit to it) and Optimus will snuggle with Bumblebee later to ensure he feels loved.

Ultra Magnus

Besides his prosthetic servo cramping up and being rather unreliable, Ultra Magnus only has one other noticeable problem (not counting his stiffness)

He suffers from nearly every Anxiety disorder in the book, the horrors of his time on the front lines doing less than stellar things for his mental health

Neither Autobot or Deception were particularly virtuous during the height of the great war.

There were times when Ultra Magnus was forced to commit acts that went directly against his moral code, times when civilians and noncombatants were cut down in order to complete a mission.

It haunts him, it is why he sticks to the rules so closely. He never again wants to be in a situation where he is forced to choose between innocents and the mission.

He has episodes sometimes, generally when he hears about human conflicts and the acts of the Decepticons.

He gets extra clingy with Optimus during those episodes and is far more erratic, getting angry and upset far more easily when missions require conflict.

He stays by Optimus's side throughout his episodes, comforting himself in the presence of the closest bot he has to a brother.

Optimus kindly doesn't comment on it and often sits with Ultra Magnus to discuss trivial things, giving him a sense of normalcy.

Ultra Magnus appreciates it more than he will ever be able to admit to Optimus.

Ratchet

Ratchet is a melting pot of body pains, unmaintained plating, and an unholy mix of Paranoia and OCD.

The mech can't get a good night's recharge if all his tools aren't up to snuff. (You never know when a Decepticon might blow someone's arm off)

And even when he does lay down on his berth with the intent to recharge his protoform starts itching furiously and he remembers everything that could and has gone wrong and...he just... can't sit still.

So he gets up, checks his tools again, wanders around giving every bot in base a once over just to be sure they are still alive, then he goes back to his berth and gets like an hour of recharge time in before he is up doing the whole thing again.

Usually Optimus (an insomniac of the highest order) will help him settle down after around the third time he gets up again.

Some nights though Ratchet can't recharge at all, despite Optimus's best efforts, and he is the worst person to be around the next day.

On those days everyone gives him space, with Wheeljack and Bulkhead taking extra care not to irritate him lest they get a wrench thrown at them.

His aching everything also tends to act up when he doesn't rest, and so some bot will usually bring Ratchet a cube of painkiller laced energon as a peace offering.

It is accepted with slight appreciation.

Optimus Prime

Oh boy. Optimus is likely the worst off out of everyone.

He has injuries from centuries earlier that he still hasn't fully seen to, and he has all sorts of unresolved trauma that he swears he will get around to dealing with eventually when Ratchet prods.

He has all sorts of issues but the most notorious is the depression that loves to make an appearance whenever things get a bit rough.

And let it be known that when Optimus is depressed he gets extra self sacrificial.

Due to his sheer size and how active he is in battles and patrols, Optimus requires far more energon than the other bots in his team.

When rations are tight he tends to skip as many meals as he can get away with without affecting his performance too much. He can't bare to watch him team, no, family suffer from hunger.

Over the years the team, mostly Ratchet and Bumblebee, have learned to notice when Optimus begins skipping out on refueling and have developed methods to get him back into the correct mindset.

Generally if they catch him attempting to avoid meals they will drag him into the main part of the base where everyone hangs out and hand him a cube of energon and tell him to eat it, right there, right at that moment.

No slight of hand is possible for Optimus when the whole base have eyes and optics on him.

He always relents and consumes the given energon with no small amount of guilt.

The team know he feels bad consuming so much energon and so on those days they make sure to give him a few extra compliments (something Smokescreen is more than eager to participate in)

At the end of those bad days Bumblebee will recharge with Optimus in his berth, just to remind him that everything will be alright.

Optimus struggles to hold back a sob whenever Bumblebee utters 'I love you Sire' on those days.

#transformers #transformers prime #optimus prime #bumblebee #tfp #fluff #ratchet #tfp arcee #bulkhead #wheeljack #ultra magnus #smokescreen #headcanon

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dontmeantobepoliticalbut · 1 year

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Local, state and federal law enforcement and security agencies are preparing for the possibility that former President Donald Trump is indicted as early as next week, according to five senior officials familiar with the preparations.

Law enforcement agencies are conducting preliminary security assessments, the officials said, and are discussing potential security plans in and around the Manhattan Criminal Court, at 100 Centre Street, in case Trump is charged in connection with an alleged hush money payment to Stormy Daniels and travels to New York to face any charges.

The officials stress that the interagency conversations and planning are precautionary in nature because no charges have been filed.

The agencies involved include the NYPD, New York State Court Officers, the U.S. Secret Service, the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force, and the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, the officials said.

NBC News has reached out to all of those agencies for comment, and all have declined to comment.

Michael Cohen, Trump’s former lawyer, pleaded guilty in 2018 to a federal charge relating to a $130,000 payment to Daniels, an adult film star, in the closing days of the 2016 campaign. Daniels has said the money was to keep her quiet about her claim that she’d slept with the married Trump in 2006, an allegation Trump denies.

Cohen has said that Trump ordered him to pay the hush money and that it was for the “principal purpose of influencing” the 2016 presidential election.

Cohen was later repaid the money he’d shelled out to Daniels through payments that were listed by Trump’s company as “legal fees.”

Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg is investigating Trump for felony falsification of business records. Cohen testified before the grand jury hearing evidence in the case for a second time Wednesday.

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cannibalguy · 2 years

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Cannibalism news May 2022, New York: The CHINESE ZODIAC KILLER

A man calling himself The Chinese Zodiac Killer has been arrested by the FBI in Jefferson County, New York for sending letters to media outlets, government offices including the White House, and other organisations, claiming he killed people, ate their flesh and that he plans to kill more, including an unidentified bus driver. Jesse Bartlett, 46, of LaFargeville in Jefferson County was arrested…

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#Aleister Crowley #cannibalism #Carla Freedman #Chinese Zodiac Killer #Clayton #copycat #FBI #Jesse Bartlett #Joint Terrorism Task Force #LaFargeville #New York #New York State Police #The Case Breakers #The Day #Times Union #U.S. Postal Service #Watertown #Zodiac Killer

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allay-j11no · 16 days

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𝚄𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚖 𝙽𝚎 𝙸𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖 𝙽𝚞𝚖𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚖

𝓘𝓯 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓘 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓷 𝓱𝓲𝓶. . .

this is a lil drabble about my OC's backstory, hope you enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ summer in Manchester was always beautiful. warm. calm. You always had your friends to share it with, no matter how stupid they may be, you always had your older brother to look after you is mum, dad, and your eldest brother said they were busy, that you were being a baby. . . "Rory...you got into a scrap with the neighbor boys again?" "Si n'done nothin' to em' yet they always pick on em'..." "Simon's a big boy, he can handle himself...bet Adam and Ezra were surprised to be beat by a wee lil lass like you huh?" Timothy never got mad. he saw your worth. he saw what you could do. he encouraged this, encouraged you to stand up for yourself. It was no surprise to him when Simon suddenly jumped at the chance to join the military, and you joined in after. Simon and you served together for a bit before he was accepted to the special air service. You joined the marines. "You joined the Military?" Maxim stated, the elder brother who despised your existence. "Marines dipshit." "Jarheads, dumbasses!" he snapped at you. "at least I don't get a full ride from our uncle!" 3 summers ago, you figured out your uncle was playing your father, and that your father has an identical twin. Michael. You met your father the day you graduated basic, one summer after the big reveal, Samuel. Maxim was your asshole uncles golden boy, you and Tim were frowned upon for even being related to him. Both results of drunken hook ups with the same woman. Samuel loved you and Tim dearly, During one of your returns to home, he took you to his club in America. "How's...everything been Rory?" "I got promoted to 2nd Lieutenant last week" You shared everything with him, glad to have your father back three years after this, you were called in by someone Laswell mentioned you to. John Price, you weren't surprised, Laswell looked out for you like you were her own spawn, she was aware of your lack of a mother figure, she filled that role in. "Rory Elizabeth Wright, More known as Wraith, your skillset is for stealth missions, master of infiltration missions, biological mother was Russian, Mila Wright, formally Mila Zhdan. From her you learned to speak Russian, her mother-tong. Biological father was a wealthy Brit, something he and his sibling inherited from their father." you were being asked to join 141. A joint multi-national special operations task force and counter-terrorism military unit, you do the dirty work others don't, your aren't complaining, over the years of being in it, 141 became a dysfunctional family, what made it better to you is, you found Simon. He was better known as Ghost now, but he never complained when you called him Simon, but that was when it was just the two of you.

2216 words, this is a small drabble, if any of you wants me to go into detail about each of the events, I gladly will! what I was doing with the bold Italics was something similar to how Jake Sully narrated Avatar, but made it seem like it was YOU who was telling the story, with any other drabble/story it'll be in Rory's POV

#cod mw2 #cod original character #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #john soap mactavish #john price #price #kate laswell #laswell mw2 #laswell cod #call of duty laswell #Callsign: Wraith #Father price #ghost x oc #drabble #oc backstory #oc brainrot

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miks-fantrolls · 2 months

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The Terror of the Twenty-Seven Seas

Part 2: Sentire

(Content warning: drowning, gore)

Part 1 // Google Docs

When you open your eyes, the harsh glare of the morning sun assaults your vision, forcing you to shield your eyes with a groan. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, you slowly acclimate to the blinding brightness, each blink accompanied by a fleeting sensation of disorientation, the world around you coming into focus like a hazy dream.

Gradually, the gritty texture of stone pressing against your skin

registers, and you realize you’re sprawled out on a weathered stone bench. The coolness of the stone provides a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the sun beating down on your exposed skin. With aching muscles, you muster the strength to sit up, the stiffness of your joints a testament to the deep slumber that must have enveloped you.

Despite the sun's warmth, an inexplicable chill lingers at the back of your throat. The scent of salt and sea spray fills your nostrils, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the nearby palm trees. You inhale the strangely dry air, savoring the briny aroma.

Around you, the seaport bustles with the frenetic energy of a

typical summer morning. The air is alive with the raucous calls of seabirds, their cries mingling with the distant clang of shipyard bells. The rhythmic lapping of waves against the jetty provides a backdrop of white noise. Trolls bustle to and fro, their voices rising and falling in animated dialogue as they go about their daily tasks.

Amid the lively crowd, a familiar voice pierces through the clamor, drawing your attention like a beacon on the chaos.

“Yo, Appy!”

The call is unmistakable, and you turn to see the source—a young, scrappy-looking troll dressed in what may as well be rags waving at you with one arm, the other clutching a large rucksack slung over his shoulder. His clothes, a patchwork of fabrics stitched together with care, tell a story of resourcefulness and resilience. Worn-out and oversized boots against the cobblestone path as he moves with a confident swagger, every step a testament to his familiarity with the active port.

You catch glimpses of the countless adventures etched into his weather-beaten face with each movement. As he approaches, you can’t help but notice how his tousled hair frames his cheeks, a wild mane of unruly strands that adds to his rugged charm. His skin, freckled by the sun, bears the marks of a life lived on the world's edge, where every day brings new challenges and untold dangers. But it’s his eyes that draw you in—bright, lively blue orbs that seem to sparkle with a mischievous glint.

Your name is Aipalo Lovikk, and you are one of the many ship’s boys for the Tempest’s Fall. The realization floods back with startling clarity. How could you have forgotten?

The other troll draws nearer with an air of excitement, his grin widening as he revels in your momentary disorientation.

“Did ya sleep good?” he teases, his tone playful and infectious. Despite the haziness of your thoughts, a smile grows on your face, mirroring his own.

“Shut up. Did you get—” You hesitate, the memory of your task momentarily escaping you.

“Yep,” he answers without missing a beat, his confidence unwavering. “Got it all myself while you were lazin’ about on the bench.”

Before you can compose an answer, the other troll speaks again: "Race you to the ship!"

With a playful glance in your direction, he turns and bolts back towards the ship, his movements fluid and purposeful. Panic surges within you as you realize you’re in danger of losing sight of him amidst the sea of bodies. With a determined grit, you stumble off the bench and race after him, the coarse surface scraping against your skin as you push forward.

The maze of trolls grows denser as you navigate the chaotic port, their figures towering over you as you struggle to keep pace with your fleet-footed shipmate. You bump and weave through the crowd, each collision threatening to knock you off course. But you refuse to let yourself falter, driven by a fierce fortitude to keep your shipmate in sight.

He had always been a faster runner than you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of frantic pursuit, you manage to catch up, your chest heaving as you double over to catch your breath. Your companion smirks at your panting form, seemingly unfazed by the exertion of the chase. Inhaling deeply, you straighten up and puff out your chest, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. But your efforts are in vain as the other notices the tremor in your breath and the exhaustion etched on your face. With a hearty laugh, he slaps you on the back, his infectious energy pulsing through the air.

“Come on,” he urges, his voice filled with an undeniable sense of camaraderie. And with his reassuring presence by your side, you gather your strength and follow him.

As you follow your companion towards the Tempest’s Fall, the enormity of the vessel looms before you like a behemoth of the sea, its sturdy frame a testament to its seafaring prowess. Crew members scurry like ants, their movements purposeful and efficient as they load and unload cargo with practiced precision. Despite the chaos of activity, there is an unmistakable sense of solidarity among the sailors, a bond forged through shared experiences on the open sea.

With your companion leading the way, you climb the gangplank. His steps are sure and steady as he guides you, the wooden planks creaking beneath your feet as you ascend. The other sailors pay you no mind, their attention focused solely on their tasks, leaving you to navigate through the tangle of bodies. At times, you find yourself having to dodge and weave between the larger sailors, their imposing figures threatening to edge you off the side.

Once aboard the ship, the chaos of the port seems to melt away, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of life at sea. The air is alive with the sound of chatter and hollers, the clatter of bootsteps echoing across the wooden deck. You find yourself grabbing the back of your companion’s shirt, the throng of seamen swirling around you like a maelstrom and threatening to pull you under with each passing movement.

As the two of you make your way towards the heart of the ship, the harried atmosphere only intensifies. Eventually, you find yourselves within the ship’s interior, where the salty tang of sea air mingles with the tantalizing aroma of cooking meat. The ship’s cook bustles about the galley, orchestrating a symphony of culinary delights in preparation for the upcoming meal. The promise of a special feast, courtesy of the port’s bountiful offerings, hangs in the air, infusing the atmosphere with anticipation.

Your companion engages in a brief exchange with the cook. Then, with one swift movement, he transfers the rucksack into your arms, the weight catching you off guard. You stagger under the burden, struggling to maintain your balance as you adjust to the added load.

“It’s your turn to carry this stuff,” the other troll declares, his tone firm and authoritative. He flexes his overworked shoulder with a practiced motion, a playful glint in his eye. “Chef says to take it to the storerooms.”

You hesitate momentarily, a pang of uncertainty creeping into your mind. “Aren’t you coming with me?” you ask, a hint of insecurity coloring your tone.

The other troll chuckles, his grin widening mischievously. “You really need a second person to help you with that?” Despite his teasing words, a warmth in his gaze reassures you.

As you stand there, feeling the weight of the supplies in your arms, you can’t help but feel strangely comforted by the presence of your shipmate. There’s something about him that makes you feel at ease, as though you’ve known him for far longer than you actually have. It’s a curious sensation, one that you can’t quite explain, but you find yourself drawn to him and his twinkling blue eyes all the same.

With a sense of determination, you fall into step beside him as he leads the way down towards the store rooms. The darkness of the lower deck seems to close in around you, the dim light casting eerie shadows that dance across the wooden walls as the vessel sways back and forth. The creaking of the ship’s timbers echo through the narrow passageways, a reminder of the ship’s age. The fins on either side of your head press down against your cheeks, and you walk closer to your companion.

You try to shake off the unease that creeps over you by focusing on the task at hand. No matter how hard you try to distract yourself, though, the sense of foreboding still lingers, a nagging presence at the back of your mind. It’s as if the ship itself is trying to warn you of some impending danger, but the message remains elusive, just out of reach.

The two of you enter the appropriate storeroom for the supplies you carry. It’s a cramped space, filled to the brim with crates and barrels, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp wood. Were the two of you fully grown, you would have never fit inside. As you work together to unpack the supplies and stow them in their proper places, you distract yourself from your nerves by stealing glances at your shipmate, studying his features in the dim light. His face is illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns, casting flickering shadows across his face.

You realize suddenly that you don’t even know his name, a fact that strikes you odd, considering how comfortable you feel in his presence. The realization weighs heavily on your mind, gnawing at your thoughts like a persistent itch you can’t scratch. Finally, unable to ignore it any longer, you gather the courage to speak up.

“Hey,” you begin tentatively, breaking the silence that hangs between you. “I just realized, I don’t think I caught your name earlier.”

He pauses in his work, turning to look at you with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Forgot already, huh?”

His response catches you off guard, and your face flushes with embarrassment. You try to recall if you indeed had forgotten his name, but your memory feels like a jumbled mess, the details slipping through your grasp like grains of sand. A surge of panic threatens to overwhelm you as you struggle to piece together the fragments of your memory.

An alarming sense of disorientation washes over you like the ground shifting beneath your feet. For a moment, it feels as though you’re teetering over the edge of a precipice, on the brink of being consumed by the void. A presence at the back of your mind pulses darkly, its ominous whispers echoing through the recesses of your consciousness, and, just for a moment, you’re terrified that you’ll be swept from this reality.

All at once, the feeling passes, perplexed and shaken. You blink rapidly, trying to dispel the lingering sense of unease that clings to you like a shadow. Pushing aside your fear, you force yourself to focus on the task, immersing yourself in the mundane routine of shelving supplies. The rhythmic clatter of items being placed on shelves, punctuated by the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft shuffle of footsteps, eases your nerves.

Finally, you pause, unable to shake the nagging feeling of uncertainty that tugs at the edges of your consciousness. “Have I already asked for your name?” you venture, avoiding his gaze.

A laugh suddenly erupts from the other troll, surprising you into meeting his gaze. His eyes twinkle with amusement, and you find yourself drawn to the warmth of his expression. Despite your earlier apprehension, a reassuring sincerity in his laughter puts you at ease.

“Yeah, but I guess you napped so hard earlier you musta forgot.” He extends his calloused hand for a handshake. You match the gesture, noting how much warmer his rough palm is than yours. “The name’s ░░░░░░, nice to meet’cha.”

As he introduces himself, a wave of dizziness washes over you, causing the world to tilt and spin. You struggle to maintain your composure, your senses reeling from the sudden onslaught of disorientation. The edges of your vision blur and that striking terror is back all at once, and tendrils of darkness swim in the corners of your vision.

“Are you alright, Aipalo?” His voice cuts through the haze, concern evident in his tone. He reaches out a hand to steady you, his touch grounding you in reality.

You nod weakly, trying to push aside the unsettling sensation that grips your mind. “Say your name again?”

His lips move again, forming words that you struggle to comprehend. Your ears buzz with static, the sound drowning out his voice as if muffled by a thick fog. You strain to make sense of his words, but they slip away like elusive whispers in the wind.

“░░░░░░,” he repeats, his smile faltering slightly as he notices your confusion. He reaches up to touch his mouth, and you catch a glimpse of his missing canine, a gap in his smile that seems oddly out of place.

Was he missing that tooth before? You can’t quite remember. Your mind feels foggy, as if shrouded in a dense mist that obscures your thoughts. You blink, trying to clear away the haze, but it only seems to deepen, enveloping you in a suffocating embrace.

As his lips move, attempting to convey his name, the world around you warps. The once-familiar storeroom dissolves into a rotted nightmare. Shadows along the walls contort into grotesque shapes that seem to leer at you, almost becoming gargoyle-like in appearance.

The timber of the ship that surrounds you rots before your eyes, its once-sturdy frame now a decaying husk that threatens to collapse at any moment—the wood eaten away by unseen forces and the surface overtaken by a slimy film of algae. Fungi and mold grow unchecked, spreading like a disease throughout the room and emitting a foul odor that assaults your senses.

As you struggle to breathe in the stifling air, the stench of old, rotted food permeates the room, clawing its way down your throat and into your lungs like a suffocating fog. Each breath is a strain, the putrid air burning your lungs and making you gag as you fight to keep from retching.

Desperately, you focus on the other troll’s face, his features becoming your lifeline amidst the chaos. But even he is not immune to the unsettling transformation taking place before your eyes. His once-smiling visage twists and distorts, morphing into a grotesque caricature of itself. His eyes, once twinkling with warmth, now sink into his skull, becoming dark, unseeing pits that seem to bore into your soul. His smile grows decrepit, lips wrinkling like a grape in the sun, revealing rows of decayed teeth that crumble and fall apart with each passing moment, holes worming through the enamel until nothing is left but the drippings of loosened gum tissue.

The flesh of his cheeks sag and droop, exposing patches of rotting muscle and sinew beneath. Skin begins to peel away in ragged strips, revealing raw, oozing wounds that fester underneath. It’s as if the very fabric of his being unravels, the decay eating away at him from the inside out. Flesh melts away like wax in a scorching flame, leaving behind a trail of bubbling, fetid meat that sloughs off in chunks, revealing the stark whiteness of his skeletal frame beneath.

Rot fills the thick and cloying air as he’s consumed from within. Each exposed muscle twitches and writhes as if alive, pulsating with a sickening rhythm. With each passing moment, his form becomes more skeletal, the bones protruding from his decaying flesh like twisted branches of a dead tree.

A rush of seawater surges in through the rotted wood, carrying with it a sickly, briny odor that stings your nostrils with its foulness. The acrid scent clings to your skin alongside the freezing rapids like a foul miasma. You half-wonder if death would be easier than this sickening cocktail of odors—a nauseating blend of noxious fumes that threaten to overwhelm you.

The water itself is no better, a sickly shade of green that seems to throb with a malevolent energy. It’s thick and viscous, like oil mixed with sewage, and clings to you like a second skin, leaving a greasy residue in its wake. As it fills the room, the water becomes a swirling vortex of filth and decay, rising steadily as if eager to claim its victims. You feel it seeping into your clothes, numbing your skin with its icy touch.

Panic grips you as you realize the gravity of the situation, but as you try to move, you realize the skeletal hand of the other troll is closed around yours with an iron grasp. Bits and pieces of raisined skin and gristle cling to the bone, brushing against the flesh of your hand. You struggle against its grip, but it's like trying to break free from the grip of death itself.

With each futile attempt to pull away, you feel the skeleton’s fingers dig deeper into your flesh, the bony digits tightening like a vice around your wrist. You can almost feel the decay radiating from its bones, a rancid odor that fills your nostrils and makes bile rise in the back of your throat. The skeleton seems to grin at you, its empty eye sockets boring into you as if relishing your terror, feeding off your fear like a ravenous beast. You can’t help but feel a sense of revulsion, the visage of death staring back at you with mocking amusement.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the sound reverberating in your ears like a drumbeat of impending doom. You lose control of your breath, becoming light-headed as you push and pull air quickly. You try to keep your mouth above the flood as it rises, but every gasp you make earns you mouthfuls of the pungent brine. The taste of decay coats your tongue, a foul saltiness that makes you retch.

Desperation claws at your mind as you struggle to break free, your movements becoming frantic and erratic as you fight for survival. But with each passing moment, the water rises, its icy tendrils pulling you into the depths with a relentless force. You jerk your wrist, the rough bone of the skeleton’s hand rubbing your skin raw in the process, but it’s no use. The skeleton’s grip only tightens, its fingers digging into your flesh with an iron determination, and a white-hot agony shoots up through your arm.

As the last vestiges of air escape your lungs, you feel a primal instinct take hold, driving you to fight against the inevitable. You try to scream, but the watery sludge fills your mouth, muffling your cries and drowning out your voice. You thrash and struggle, clawing desperately at the water with your one free hand in a futile attempt to reach the surface.

Your vision blurs and the world around you begins to fade. Your eyes flutter shut.

#hi im tired of looking at this #mikart #mikwrites #aipalo lovikk #the necrosed #[blue eyes]

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gatheringbones · 11 months

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[“Chris began working as an imagery analyst at the NGA in 2005, studying satellite pictures of countries that had no link to the “war on terror.” Not long after he arrived, an email circulated about a Department of Defense task force that was being created to determine how drones could help defeat al-Qaeda. Chris answered the call for volunteers and was soon working at the Counterterrorism Airborne Analysis Center. He found it exhilarating to participate directly in a war he saw as his generation’s defining challenge. His pride deepened as it became clear that the task force was having a significant impact and that the use of drones was increasing.

Chris spent a little over a year at the task force, including several months in Afghanistan, where he served as the point of contact between the drone center in Langley and Special Forces on the ground. After this, he worked for a private military contractor for a while. In 2010, an offer came from another contractor involved in the drone program to serve as an imagery-and-intelligence analyst. But as Chris mulled the terms, something strange happened: he began to fall apart physically. The distress began with headaches, night chills, joint pain, a litany of flu-like symptoms that, every few weeks, would recur. Soon, more debilitating symptoms emerged: waves of nausea, eruptions of skin welts, chronic digestive problems.

Chris had always prided himself on his physical fitness. Now, suddenly, he felt frail and weak, to the point that working for the contractor was out of the question. “I could not sign the paperwork,” he said. Every time he sat down to try, “my hands stopped working—I was feverish, sick, nauseous.” Chris went back to Lexington to live with his parents and try to recuperate. He was twenty-nine years old and in the throes of a breakdown. “I was very, very unwell,” he said. He consulted several doctors, none of whom could specify a diagnosis. In desperation, he experimented with fasting, yoga, Chinese herbal medicine. Eventually, his health improved, but his mood continued to spiral. Chris couldn’t muster any motivation. He spent his days enveloped in a fog of gloom. At night, he dreamed that he could see—up close, in real time—innocent people being maimed and killed, their bodies dismembered, their faces contorted in agony. In one recurring dream, he was forced to sit in a chair and watch the violence unfurl. If he tried to avert his gaze, his head would be jerked back in place so that he had to continue looking. “It was as though my brain was telling me: Here are the details that you missed out on,” he said. “Now watch them when you’re dreaming.”]

eyal press, from dirty work: essential labor and the hidden toll of inequality in america, 2021

#eyal press #currently reading #cw genocide

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randomwriteronline · 1 year

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The moment a tree is cut in half before his very own eyes, Emmet’s hands grasp little shoulders tighter as if that alone could keep them still forever.

“Absolutely not,” he sentences.

“It’s the only way,” Irida argues.

“That is a safety hazard!” he replies instantly, eyes snapping suddenly to face her own. “Verrry dangerous even for an adult. They will not enter the arena.”

But the Commander has ordered otherwise: this is the child’s duty and nobody else’s, and neither Pearl nor Diamond Clan must attempt to take upon the grievous task in their stead lest they want him to get quite crossed at them - and considering what is known of him, nobody wants him to get crossed at them.

However! Emmet will sooner die than let a passenger (let alone a minor) on a train destined for derailment.

The little kid pulls at his fingers to pry them off of their shoulders; he doesn’t fight them.

He turns around, goes back to the river, refuses to look at the child while they stuff as many satchels of balm as they can in their little bag, and starts making small spheres of mud.

He keeps making them when they make their way into the arena, heart in their throat beating wildly and scared beyond belief.

Once he decides he has made enough, Emmet bolts - runs up the hill hissing through clenched teeth as his bad leg aches and sizzles in pain just in time to see the gargantuan beast descend into the small enclosed space, shining bright and golden yellow with a kind of insatiable blind wrath radiating from every joint of its exoskeleton as the axes of its arms glint like broken glass.

The cry that bellows out of Kleavor shakes the secular tree to its core.

Then something vaguely wet slaps the back of its head before it can charge against the kid.

“I am Emmet!” Emmet announces, and throws another ball against the side of the Noble's jaw. “I will be rude now!”

Mud splatters against Kleavor’s face when it turns to roar at the man.

“Your mandibles are laughable!”

“The Lord doesn’t have mandibles!” argues enraged the young Warden.

“That’s why they’re laughable!”

Miss Zisu be blessed for her insistence of keeping one’s sorroundings as heightened in the mind as possible; by the time the stone-cutting blow soars through the air with a hiss as Kleavor swings one of its blades with a horrid cry in his direction, Emmet has already rolled away to safety.

He hears something crack and fall where he previously stood.

A shrill laugh, all adrenaline and terror, leaves his bewildered mouth; then, once he has the Noble’s attention steady on himself (and not on the child pelting the back of the beast with soothing balms) he throws another mudball, and moves.

The beast follows him in raging hot pursuit as he forces it to crawl in circles around its tree, heavy axes hindering its speed as the wet earth cracks and falls to dust as it hits its carapace - he doubles down whenever it seems to realize there is another presence right behind it, whenever it appears to turn around and the kid begins scrambling for cover.

His bad leg strains. He powers through it.

Well, he doesn’t really.

His foot slips and he thumbles down into the arena gracelessly.

Ouch.

He groans as the pain blooms and spreads further all around his knee.

And now he cannot stand.

Verrry inconvenient.

Emmet looks up to meet the furious eyes clouded by golden light that are Kleavor’s, and feels horrendously cold all of a sudden.

The axes are planted firmly into the ground as the Bug pulls its body back, clearly giving itself the momentum necessary to hurl itself forward like a Feather Ball - no, on second thought its idea has it mirroring the parable of the throw of a regular Pokéball to catch a beast just out of reach, making a long arch in the air before landing heavily onto the target.

The kid yells his name and throws another satchel of balm.

Kleavor jumps.

There’s a loud BONK that makes Emmet wheeze uncontrollably for a moment together with the absolute agony of his injured limb after that very last minute roll to hide behind the secular tree, and all he can think as the adrenaline makes his hands shake and his stomach feel like he’s going to puke is something like oh my god oh my god oh my fucking god oh fucking sweet god oh my sweet fucking god holy mother of fuck that worked oh my sweet fucking mother of god.

A blinding light covers the tree: when he crawls on his good leg and two hands around the trunk he is positively ecstatic to see the child stand, unharmed if not for a couple bruises the few times they fell, before a much calmer Kleavor.

“Bravo!” he shouts (though the word feels weird in his mouth, like he should hear it but not say it) as he approaches the two of them.

The little kid beams at him, immediately trying to help him up.

“Don’t worry! I am fine,” he assures them, “Wyrdeer will carry me. You did verrry well! Are you hurt?”

The little one shakes their head; Kleavor instead nods.

Emmet turns towards it: “Ah! I would like to apologize,” he explains quickly, before the Pokémon gets mad again and tear him into many bloody ribbons, “I did not want to be rude. I had to distract you to ensure this passenger’s safety. Your warden is right to say you’re incredible. You are verrry strong! Verrry charismatic. Yup yup! I would like to battle you one day. If you’d like that too.”

When it’s not full of wrath, twice its size and shining with golden blinding light, Lord Kleavor seems a little bashful when it comes to praise. It chitters something with its deep croaky voice and scurries up the tree in a hurry.

After a moment it’s back down, holding in its mouth a sort of rock slab: it presents it to the little hero.

“A gift?” the man asks, and it nods. “How nice! Thank you.”

“Thank you,” AkaRei echoes him. After a second they add: “Very much.”

And off runs Lord Kleavor again.

Well, Emmet thinks as Lian yells at him for insulting poor Kleavor. Thank goodness the commander never said anything about anyone from Jubilife not taking care of it in the child’s stead.

The moment Elesa sees that the nice little Jubilife child at the Diamond settlement and hears that they’re going to stop Lady Lilligant all on their own, she insists on following them all the way to the Arena.

“It’s the only way,” Adaman explains.

To hell with that!, Elesa’s face says.

“You don’t want to get on the commander’s bad side,” the leader warns her, dead serious and concerned like she’s rarely seen him. “It would take him no time or hesitation to declare a state of alert and run our settlement over like a herd of Rapidash. With no help against him... It’s just not worth it, even if you think it’s unfair. Do you understand?”

Of course she does, and she would agree that he’s right. But that kid is what, eight? Why shouldn’t they be sitting on the sidelines and letting the adults handle something so dangerous?

The child pulls at her sleeve: “It’s fine,” they reassure her.

She doesn’t look at them as they stuff the balms for Lilligant in their little satchel, turning around and stomping back down the slope. Her leader watches her quizzically as she then stops, waits, and turns to the side of the cliff.

After a moment or two, right when the kid is almost done, she is running along the elevated land and edges the arena, scraping the soles of her boots against the rocks until she disappears in the mireland’s ashy fogs, unseen as she finally arrives on the small hill right behind the tableau that makes up the arena.

The wind picks up: in the middle of the small cyclone dissipating the low clouds, Lilligant shines brilliantly with her battle cry.

Well. Let’s cross fingers and pray it works.

Elesa takes as long a running start as she can on this strip of land, leaps, and near slams her chin on the cold hard stone as the sudden ground under her feet makes her stumble forward.

No time for that! The child hasn’t noticed her arrival, nervously scrambling around like a headless Starly as they are, throwing satchels aimlessly while Lilligant avoids them with a couple stretches and prepares her attack. She needs to act quick.

One of the soothing projectile landing near her gives her an idea.

Lady Lilligant’s performance comes to a complete halt before it can even start as she hears a wolfish whistle.

Who dares? Who dares?

The Lady turns.

The balm launched directly into her face (the motion of the arm and leg accompanying it to lend more strength to the throw is extraordinarily professional, clearly rehearsed many times) carries so much momentum that it sends her straight to the ground like in a cartoon - whatever a cartoon is.

The kid shouts Elesa’s name with such relief as she hoists them on her own shoulders to limit the harm coming to them that she almost manages out a croak to reassure them.

Adaman, Arezu and Calaba shout her name for completely different reasons, divided rather evenly between ‘what in the name of Sinnoh do you think you’re doing get back here this instant this isn’t a Stunky you can kick across the swamps’ and ‘did you just knock over a Noble with your bare fucking hands, you absolute madness in the shape of a woman’.

She waves in their direction as if to assure them she’s got this (not really but they don’t need to know) and nothing bad will happen (so she hopes).

Luckily her strategy is simple enough for the child to grasp even without her using words or signs - heavy feeling in the legs permitting, she’s going to run circles around this feisty overgrown weed and they just have to throw everything at it until the Lady calms down.

Easy peasy.

Lilligant, shining as golden as the midday sun, raises herself to her feet with some difficulty and turns, gleaming eyes full of fury.

She jumps something like four feet straight in the air.

Fuck.

Elesa is lucky she has such long limbs and a good enough awareness and coordination of every single part of her body that allows her to speed away as soon as the parable is two quarters of the way done, or she would have had her head split in half by, well. That apocalyptic split she just witnessed. And here comes another, and another, and another, each at the very least telegraphed by these immense jumps she does, and Elesa keeps running across the other side of the arena until the Lady loses her patience and jumps faster, landing so close this time that she damn near chops her foot off.

The kid beans the pale golden face with a balm that makes it stumble back. Elesa blesses them a million times over as she regains a good enough safety distance between the two of them and the Noble.

Lilligant composes herself with a spin and leaaps again, graceful and wrathful, and lands... In the middle of the clearing.

Huh?

Oh, no, wait.

There come the shockwaves.

Running was already putting a horrible strain on the entire lower half of her body, which is now ablaze with pangs of pain, and Elesa dreads the thought of having to jump. She tries to time herself and sort of step across the first wave, but it makes her legs howl and nearly knocks her down.

Fine.

She’ll just... Have to tank through this.

Hands grasping the kid’s legs like her life depends on it while they keep throwing balms, Elesa sucks in a breath through her teeth.

Second wave comes.

Hits her right in the ankles.

Third wave comes.

She almost buckles.

Fourth wave comes.

She bites her lip nearly hard enough to bleed.

Fifth wave comes.

The light explodes in a burst of glimmering gold and distracts her from the scream of anguish seeping into her nerves from her bones, and she barely notices she’s trembling.

The kid hugs her head tight, which doesn’t help the way it throbs. She lays them back down, taking the chance to kneel and rest a moment.

Are you alright?, she signs, too tired to wonder if they can understand them.

The kid just nods enthusiastically, searching in their bag until their arms are so full of Oran berries and medicinal leeks and some potions too that they begin falling from them, handing them over to her.

She smiles and drinks a bottle of medicine slowly: what a sweet child.

Lilligant also approaches, a little mortified and worried. Her long leaf arms hold a small slab which she offers to the child, and a petal plucked from her head for the woman, to soothe her aches.

Elesa touches her own chin and pulls then the hand forward.

“She says thank you,” AkaRei translates. “And thank you. From me too.”

Lilligant curtsies very gracefully.

Well, Elesa thinks as Arezu reconciles with her noble and Adaman and Calaba fuss over her. Thank goodness the commander never said anything about anyone from the Clans or Jubilife just helping the child.

The moment the kid is spotted speeding around on a large fish towards the other side of the coastlands, Briosa grabs Volo and drags him along while she climbs all the way up to the very end of the cliff.

Her eyes squint: there the little thing is, she can see the trail of tgeur aquatic steed.

“Hey,” she says snapping her fingers so Volo is paying attention before pointing at the speck dashing on the waves, “They’re going directly for the active volcano island, right?”

The apparently younger man squints too.

He nods.

“Not under my fucking watch,” she sentences.

Thank Arceus the madman decides against diving straight into the sea from the top of the cliff; she does however slide down from it back to the beach exceedingly fast, making Volo scramble to keep up with her, then seizes the first row boat she finds, hurls the other on it with little fanfare, and starts rowing away at a frankly breakneck velocity for a guy with such apparently spindly arms dragging along with herself a body roughly twice her weight.

About halfway through her arms start cramping, and a Tentacool has the genius idea of throwing a poison dart at her nose (which is indeed not small and, if it did extend a little further out instead of straight down, would definitely be a good target), missing her entirely.

The Scary Face she glares at it with is enough to make it lose all animosity.

A Pokéball to the face later, the small beast is latched onto the backside of the boat and propelling it with Hydropulsars, and Firespit Island is reached much quicker this way - though the Tentacool does halt and stutter in fear as a horrendous thunder is heard mere hundreds of meters away from it.

With the jellyfish freed (she already has a Water type, and a Poison type too), after knocking out a Venomoth that tries to pick a fight, Briosa drags her associate and ward into the isle’s boiling heart of rock and molten lava.

They hurry between the pits of lava heaving burning heat, dashing past the Magmars and the Gravelers eyeing them quizzically - thank goodness none are quick enough to keep up and simply remain where they stand instead of chasing them, since those pests are rather feisty.

A small group appears as they round the corners: Volo recognizes the young Pearl leader, the dead Lord's warden and that poor Iscan fellow who can't catch a break from neither ghosts nor exceptionally short men.

Beyond them, he also recognizes the enormous shape of an Arcanine.

Which is. A surprise.

Considering the Lord should be dead.

Briosa does not see the three more or less adult bodies before the arena.

She sees an enormous dog on fire, and a very small child in the middle of a sea of lava, on a thin grey pavement.

“SHIT!” she eloquently shouts.

Shedding her backpack and howling at whoever is not currently in the middle of a pool of molten rocks to remain behind the yellow line she bolts off with a Pokéball in hand to get that tiny, very clearly endangered passenger off of the tracks this damned instant.

Thank goodness Walrein is half Water type or she’d be melting in the heat. Thank goodness she’s half Ice type too, or that Hydropulsar would have been vaporized in a second instead of creating a path across the magma.

“Return to the platform!” she shouts as loud as she can.

The kid turns to her, smiles gladly, waves a little; just as the enormous Lord charges towards them, they roll across the temporary flooring in a pinch to evade the monster - and get on the other section of the arena.

“I SAID RETURN TO THE PLATFORM!”

Arcanine roars with a might that shakes the Earth to its very core.

Briosa, who is completely deaf, points her finger at him and barks right back: “DON’T TRY ME YOU SON OF A BITCH, I’LL RIP YOUR TEETH OUT!”

(Behind her, both wardens and young leader stand bewildered, stunned out of their wits in vaguely horrified silence; Volo’s hands run to hide his face within them, torn between screaming, praying this doesn’t completely destroy relations between the guild and the Pearl clan, and desperately holding back an explosion of nervous laughter as a Hydropump slams into the Lord’s side and makes him stumble back into the lava.)

The kid launches something against the very angry beast’s snout and hits it.

“STOP ANTAGONIZING THE MURDER DOG!” Briosa shrieks with such exhasperation that she can almost feel in slow motion which one of the blood vessels in her brain is about to explode with enough strength to leave a fuming crater in place of her frontal lobe.

Another roar, a charge.

Ice Beam hits the Lord right in the chest and has him stumble back.

Other projectiles are thrown, other fragile paths to shore are built on the magma; the kid uses it to move to a different section of the arena, still launching satchels as Walrein struggles to keep the massive beast occupied.

She extinguishes the flaming circle in the middle of the arena, she stops his charges midway, she tries to drown the big bastard on land at every opportunity.

The kid still never returns to more solid ground.

A badly timed roll, and one of their sleeves is nearly incinerated by fire.

For the love of all that is good, if they don’t die nor do her in with a heart attack by the end of this, Briosa is going to kill them.

What takes several minutes seems to pass in just a handful of seconds.

A flash of blinding light dissipates to show a much calmer but still enormous Arcanine, and the child cheers with too much adrenaline in their system to realize their arm has a burn that nearly covers half of it.

They barely have the time to turn around and thank Briosa that a bullet roughly as big as Terusho (the very nice older sibling they got when they joined the Survey Corps, Laventon’s assistant) shoots right towards them and they are uncerimoniously grabbed from under the armpit with a Rillaboom grip, raised in the air, very quickly transported away from any semblance of magma, and settled back down on the ground.

Briosa stares into their eyes with her own that look like rotten olives, and she is absolutely livid.

“PLEASE comply with station staff when asked to return to the platform!” she snarls, but the pitch of her voice makes her a little amusing even with the worry in her tone. She points at the arena, dead serious: “That is LAVA! If you fell there would not be BONES left! You would have been SOUP!”

They laugh nervously. The high is slowly going away and the terror is settling.

Briosa turns them around like a sack of potatoes, inspecting their wounds, muttering of Cheri berries. Something strikes her.

“Why the hell where you there anyway?” she asks, and gestures at the three waiting by at the edge of the arena (a little scared of her honestly): “They’re older. They should be handling a dangerous Pokémon.”

No help, they reply. Rule says only me. Clan no help.

“Who made the rule?” she demands.

In her mind she is replacing the bastard’s teeth with her fists.

They furrow their brow and put their hands under their nose, clearly imitating someone. Good choice, since they clearly have trouble spelling and she’s good with charades for reasons she can’t remember.

A moment and she clicks her tongue loudly - the Jubilife galaxy chief...

She gives them another look to assess the damage.

“First we cure those burns,” she decides, “Second I teach you how to throw someone thrice your size and weight, third...”

She waits a moment.

“You did hear me swear, right.”

They nod.

“Third don’t repeat anything I say ever. Fourth, we get that mustached motherfucker and hurl him into the ocean.”

The kid laughs.

Lord Arcanine approaches sheepishly and very, understandably afraid - he retreats for a moment when Briosa notices his arrival and hides the child behind herself, with a look like death in her pupils and Walrein readying a Hydropump that without the power lent by the frenzy is sure to destroy him.

His little savior stops both threats by pulling at the Ginko sleeve and talking with their hands, and he is free (though under a glare that could freeze his blood) to gently lay a plate from his mouth into their little palms.

“Att’a boy,” the small man comments.

“Thank you,” AkaRei says and signs before gently patting his snout.

Arcanine’s tail wags a little bit.

Well, Briosa thinks as people she doesn’t know finally come over and start talking while Volo eyes the plate hungrily as he hands her berries for the kid. Thank goodness the fucker never said anything about the Ginko guild helping.

The moment he actually realizes how the noble is to be quelled, Ingo’s hands grasp little shoulders tighter as if that alone could keep them still forever.

“Absolutely not,” he sentences.

“Now you come to your senses?!” Melli shrieks.

“I had not understood they would have to physically fight Electrode!” the other replies horrified. “This is no task for a child to take on! It’s inadmissible!”

But the Commander has ordered otherwise: this is the child’s duty and nobody else’s, and neither Pearl nor Diamond nor Ginko nor Jubilife must attempt to help them in any way lest they want him to get quite crossed at them - and considering what is known of him, nobody wants him to get crossed at them.

However! Ingo will sooner die than let a passenger (let alone a minor) on a train destined for derailment.

The little kid pulls at his fingers to pry them off of their shoulders; he struggles against them just for a moment.

He watches, uneasy, as they expertly stuff their bag with satchels with Melli’s begrudging help while the gears of his mind churn and turn to find some way to stop this trainwreck of a situation before the kid is grievously injured so much that they overtheat and his temples start hurting.

Considering they’re still alive however, either they have miraculously fought alone and survived each frenzied Noble (something hardly likely, because despite how skilled their battling abilities might be they are still a small and frail and slow 8-year-old), or someone has managed to help them. There has to be some kind of loophole to the commander’s orders, he is certain of that, but where? Effectively, anybody in Hisui has been ruled out.

The child fixes their bag and walks quickly into the arena.

The solution explodes in his brain.

He hurriedly shoves off hat and coat, grabs at the hem of his tunic - Adaman and Melli turn away from him in tandem, suddenly embarassed as they realize he’s undressing, but they’re late anyways: haggard uniform back over his undershirt, Ingo entrusts his fellow warden with both ornate bracelet and Pearl insignia.

His eyes pierce the opposing leader’s: “Please don’t tell Miss Irida of this.”

And then he’s on the rock wall sorrounding Moonview Arena, climbing upward like his life depends on it.

Lord Electrode is akin to a Sun fallen on the ground - enormous, glowing brilliantly, and in an incredibly worse mood than usual. In front of it, the kid looks even smaller than they already are.

It shakes fiercely, beady eyes overrun with wrath, earth quaking with it.

A fulmineous Poison Jab has it rolling on its side with a growling groan.

There is a relief in the terrified child’s face as they recognize the Gliscor soaring just above them that makes his heart hurt.

“I APOLOGIZE FOR THE TREATMENT I WILL BE RESERVING YOU, LORD ELECTRODE!” perched upon the rocky ring Ingo shouts as loud as he can, hoping the volume will break through the anger of the beast turning to face him at least a little: “I CANNOT ALLOW HARM TO COME TO PASSENGERS!”

“Don’t hurt him!” Melli’s voice comes from beneath.

“I WILL TRY TO MINIMIZE THE DAMAGE!”

Electrode shrieks at him and hurls a ball of pure electricity towards him. Gliscor tanks it without a scratch thanks to his Ground typing and replies with another Poison Jab.

A pinkish satchel hits the back of the round body, and a bit of that rage chips off.

The Lord turns around with horrifying speed, fuming. The spook is such that a second balm hits him straight in the face, but the problem is now clear: if Ingo wants to keep the kid alive and in one piece, the distractions need to come in a constant stream.

Gliscor will have to work overtime.

Luckily, he already loves playing with his food.

Even more luckily, it takes very little to get on the Lord’s nerves.

The only thing that can deal at least some noteworthy damage is Poison, so he has to make the most of the one move he managed to re-teach him right before the start of this rodeo.

It’s a game of Glameow-and-Rattata, hit-and-run after hit-and-run, and the only ones having fun seem to be Electrode’s offsprings as they gleefully try to self-destruct in the hovering Pokémon’s face and at the child’s feet. A rogue spark traveling too far from its detonation makes the kid yelp and Ingo want to jump in himself, but that would then leave his partner directionless and thus the passenger vulnerable and--

And the Lord is readying an explosion of his own, its range wide enough to cover almost the whole arena and there’s no way those little legs can evade that.

The child half scream in terror for a moment when a poisoned tail wraps around their middle and they find themselves high in the air; Gliscor, unable to apologize for the suddenness of the situation, does his best to keep a strong but not bruising grip on their little body just like his trainer has instructed.

The detonation blinds and deafens Ingo for a moment.

His ears ring and dark splotches still blot out his vision when a shower of satchels pelts the equally confused Electrode - it seems gravity, though forgotten in the middle of the chaos, came to their aid nonetheless.

A smaller bang of light: Lord Electrode shakes the last bit of frenzy off of himself as the child is lowered back to the ground.

The warden climbs into the arena like he’s just been possessed by a famished Dusknoir, power-walking his way to the very much not completely alright kid, case in point the piece of leg he can see through the ripped side of their pants with is very much getting purplish in color and a little bloody (though thank Sinnoh it’s more akin to a scratch instead of a gaping wound).

“Are you in pain?” he asks immediately, completely skiping pleasantries, one hand recalling his partner to get him some rest and the other rummaging in his pocket for a sort of ‘health kit’ he keeps on himself at all times.

When the kid shakes their head - bravely, but they seem to limp a little - he kneels before them to better inspect their leg and ignores their response, soaking a piece of bandage in medicinal leek juice and wrapping it carefully around their bleeding bruise.

“I apologize - I’ve committed a horrible mistake and made you pay the consequences,” he tells them sheepishly as they shake a little and hiss for the burn and Almighty Sinnoh they are just so small in his hands: “If I had been attentive this morning I might have been able to devise a better plan as we ascended to the arena, keeping you away from the battlefield entirely-”

He would go on if the little arms didn’t hug him tight.

He hugs back. Right. They are shaken. Comfort should come first; there is more than enough time for an apology later.

“You were incredibly brave,” he murmurs.

(Kamado is still going to get his ass handed to him verbally, physically or even both and no force in Hisui is going to spare him from his fate.)

There’s a sharp ‘spock’ sound, like empty wood against wood. When Ingo turns his head slightly to inspect where it came from, he sees the much calmer Lord near the tree that is his home, trying to roll in a few different directions before settling on his side and carefully approaching them, some kind of slab held tight between his teeth.

“Lord Electrode,” he greets him, to give the kid time to retract into his coat if they feel unsafe or wipe their tears away if they don’t want the Pokémon to see them: “I’m sorry for the treatment I’ve reserved you. I had no ill intentions...”

Electrode grumbles amiably through the thing in his mouth - it seems he recalls the apology yelled beforehand and is willing to let bygones be bygones seeing what the situation was. He can be surprisingly level-headed despite... You know. The exploding thing.

He offers the slab of rock very gently to the half hidden child.

“A gift?” the man asks, and he nods. “How kind! Thank you.”

“Thank you,” AkaRei echoes him. After a second they add: “Very much.”

Electrode accepts the Oran berries the warden sheepishly hands over to him rather gratefully.

Well, Ingo thinks as Melli rushes in to assess the damage and pretends he doesn’t sigh in relief at the kid being in one piece. Thank goodness the commander never said anything about foreigners being forbidden from helping.

The moment Avalugg emerges from the ice, shining brilliantly in a mound of light, as big as a mountain, roaring hard enough to make the Earth tremble, the child before him seizes with a shiver that even in this weather is more from terror than chill.

Adaman pales into snow.

Irida bites her lip.

“Almighty Sinnoh,” she hears him whisper, “He is a colossus.”

She knew already. She all but grew up on his back, after all.

Gaeric remains immoble next to her, unable to disobey her orders, with a face she isn’t sure she can interpret. She knows he cannot stop the kid after giving them his permission; she also knows, from the tension in his arms, that he does not want that child to be out there in the arena now more than ever.

Nobody can help.

Kamado has finally figured out a way to word his decision that doesn’t leave any breath, any opening, any slightest attempt at circumnavigating it: he’s left the kid alone to fend off a giant with only their Pokémon and nothing else.

But Avalugg is relentless, she knows, and slow and steady: it might take a while before the child has a moment to battle him, and nothing assures their little legs will manage to move quickly enough to evade any of the frozen boulders he hurls at them.

Her nails sink into her palm so she can't bite at them.

Next to her, her fellow clan leader thumbs at his bandages.

Avalugg roars.

Irida turns sharply to Adaman, entire body facing his, a determined look in her awfully nervous eyes; her fist intercepts his a moment too late, and their stiff arm stumble against one another for a moment before the tension in their bodies blocks them.

“I ask for your alliance,” she says with a throat that shakes with the knowledge that she is too young to be ready for war, “In the case Jubilife turns against the Pearl Clan for what I wish to do.”

“I ask for your alliance in the case Jubilife turns against the Diamond Clan for what I wish to do,” he says with a voice that shakes from the cold and the fear, “And your permission to do it.”

It’s her people’s Noble, after all.

Their wrists link for a second, as the enormous beast begins his attack: the contract is sealed.

Adaman darts into the arena without a word more, because he is impatient and an older brother, and he grabs the kid in a roll that gets them out of the way of a ball of ice hurtling their way before tucking them under his arm like a basket of softfoot roots, and Irida briefly forgets their just stipulated accord to clench her fists tight enough to break rock within them and think as strongly as she can that he’s an idiot and she will kill him because who in the name of Almighty Sinnoh would run directly into Lord Avalugg as if it were a sound decision under any circumstance, let alone this one in particular.

The Diamond leader could not hear her if she were shouting at him, busy as he is shielding the child in his haori as he tries balancing them on his hip, evading rows of frozen boulders, and thinks to himself that this was not, in fact, his greatest plan - to run in, Leaf Blades blazing, and set himself up against an enormous creature he cannot dream of attacking; firstly, because Gaeric would kill him on the spot, and he would be in the right; secondly, because the Lord is so much bigger and so, so much angrier than him.

The kid grabs him tight, arms around his waist, yells that he’s not supposed to be there, that Kamado will get angry, and they’re crying a little

Adaman hoists them up in his arms as the beast makes him dance about to not get skewered by the icy shards jutting out from across the length of the arena and gives them what he hopes is a genial, comforting smile.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures them: “I’m not alone.”

Avalugg roars.

The first icicle misses narrowly, the kid holding tighter onto his neck; the second one has him stumbling on his heels and falling backwards.

The third one disappears into the sky.

From where he lays a moment more Adaman recognizes stripes of red on white tails shaking in the wind, and wheezes a blessing at Irida.

The Pearl leader, iron grip on the paraglider carried by Lord Braviary, spares him a glance just to ascertain that he and the child have gotten back on their feet as she flies in circles over the enormous Noble to redirect his attacks somewhere she know he will struggle to aim at. She can tell the wings keeping her in the air strain as the frenzied Avalugg targets them with increasing fury.

A ray of freezing energy grazes Braviary while they fly a little too close, making his mighty wings flap in fright for a moment - the piercing chill escaping her Lord’s maw so violently nearly snakes its way under her skin, but she grits her teeth and sucks cold air through them.

She did not mean to hurl the Eternal Ice at the docile giant so harshly, but from such a height and in such a situation, she supposes it can’t exactly be helped.

Avalugg takes it all, all the balms thrown at him from smaller hands as well as more well-known ones, stunned in place by the dizziness his fully unleashed fury envelops him in. By the time his massive head shakes to regain composure and his eyes are again alight with wrath, the golden glow has drastically reduced its splendor; he still can’t hear his warden trying to plead with him, nor can he recognize the shape insistently circling his head as the little human girl he’s seen grow up under his careful gaze.

Between the small projectiles dirtying his maw and the avian annoyance, he decides the latter is more worthy of his rage.

Braviary shrieks, doing his best to evade the boulders of ice hurled blindly in his general direction, some coming far, far too close to him and his passenger for comfort (on land Gaeric yells something and Sabi, despite her reassurances that all will go well, clings harder to his leg). Irida grip slips just for a moment, half of her Eternal Ice falling to the ground uselessly, wasted, but she steels herself enough to fly to safety.

The good part of her strife is that, down below her, the danger level has been drastically reduced and the kid is getting their arms sore with throwing balms without rest.

That is, until Adaman decides he has a better, quicker idea.

It’s a very good thing that the child has no complaints about getting swung around in his arms like a moderately sized sack of flour, and also that they trust him completely as he jumps off the platform into the arena, a few meters away from the gargantuan rock pillars that are Avalugg’s legs, shaking the ground with every lumbering step as he turns and turns increasingly furious. There’s no doubt he’s too clouded by rage to even realize what he’s stepping on - even if it was a trail or bunch of his favorite treat.

Dozens of satchels of ice crack beneath the enormous weight of the Noble.

A golden burst blinds Lord Braviary for a moment: Irida’s hands slip to cover her face, but the ground meets her halfway.

It rumbles beneath her with an apologetic growl.

Despite his normally still impressive size, the Lord of the Tundra looks so much more docile, much more gentle without the frenzy coursing through him. He turns bashfully to the small humans at his side, shaking his head as if to apologize; his fellow Lord carefully perches hiself on one of its great tusks and rubs the soft feathers of his head against his large maw, crooning softly.

“Irida?” Adaman calls for her out of breath while the enormous beast lays slowly, trying to see past the block of ice and rock: “Are you alright?”

From the flat back of the Pokémon his fellow Leader’s voice comes weakly: “Yes,” she replies; her head peeks from above. “I’m fine.”

He helps her down from the Lord, and the kid rushes to hug her tight.

All three got out of this in one piece.

Thank Sinnoh.

Avalugg digs something up from the dirt: he pushes the plate a little closer to the smaller humans.

AkaRei picks it up, and smiles weakly: “Thank you.”

Well, Adaman and Irida think grimly as Gaeric, Sabi and Terusho (who hurried over worried by the quakes caused by the Lord’s attacks) slide down into the arena to ascertain that they’re alright. Now, to face the consequences.

#pokémon #pokemon legends arceus #pokemon irida #submas emmet #kleavor #pokemon adaman #pokemon elesa #hisuian lilligant #pokemon volo #hisuian arcanine #submas ingo #hisuian electrode #hisuian avalugg #hisuian braviary #briosa pokemon #random writing #not tagging the wardens bc they have minor roles and these are already. too many #THIS IS DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! everybody gets eebie deebied au strikes again #not satisfied with that last segment but i dont care! its done! at last! woo!

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