#D.C. Circuit

[empiricalscotus]

The Final Five? Trump’s Next Potential Nominees to the Supreme Court

Former President and current President Elect Donald Trump appointed 234 judges during his first term. Three of these were to the United States Supreme Court.  This is quite unique on several levels. Only two presidents, Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon, had three or more confirmed nominees since 1950 (Reagan had four in two terms, Nixon had four in one). Trump has the ability to reach and surpass…

[nationallawreview]

Dependent Work Permits – Is the U.S. Catching Up with Other Immigration Destinations?

There are many ways in which the U.S. immigration system is lagging behind those of other countries. We still put physical visas in passports – something Australia stopped doing nearly 10 years ago when they converted to a purely electronic visa system. Our immigration system is predominantly paper-based, with limited options for electronic filings, an area where other countries have fully…

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Mike Luckovich

* * * *

Jack Smith calls the question.

December 12, 2023

ROBERT B. HUBBELL

          Monday brought multiple positive developments for those who yearn for the courts to serve as a bulwark against Trump's effort to assume dictatorial powers. Let’s review the threads of hope that run through the judicial developments on Monday relating to Trump.

Jack Smith goes directly to the Supreme Court on the question of Trump's presidential immunity defense in the D.C. election interference case.

          Trump's primary defense against the 91 federal indictments secured by Jack Smith is delay. His claim of presidential immunity for all acts undertaken as president is not a serious defense but is structured to create delay. It is one of the few defenses that can lead to a pre-trial appeal—and lengthy delay of trial.

          Judge Chutkan denied Trump's motion to dismiss the D.C. election interference case, and Trump appealed to the D.C. Circuit. After the D.C. Circuit rules, the matter can go to the Supreme Court. Even with expedited briefing in both the D.C. Court of Appeals and the Supreme Court, that process might delay Trump's criminal trial until after the 2024 election.

          Everyone knows that Trump's claim of presidential immunity will eventually end up in the US Supreme Court, so Jack Smith called the question on Monday by asking the Supreme Court to take the case without an intervening stop in the D.C. Circuit. The procedure invoked by Smith has been used in extraordinary cases—including US v. Nixon.

          The historical background is discussed by Lucian K. Truscott IV in his excellent Substack newsletter. See Lucian K. Truscott IV, It's called the Nixon rule, and the Supreme Court should uphold it without delay (substack.com). I highly recommend Truscott’s analysis—so much so that I will assume you have (or will) read it so that I can skip some of the details he ably covers.

          Jack Smith’s petition is here: U.S. v. Donald J. Trump | Petition for Writ of Certiorari Before Judgment.

          Before addressing Smith’s petition, let’s skip to the end: Smith has undertaken a bold, brilliant, gutsy move that prioritizes the interest of the American people in knowing whether the leading GOP presidential candidate is a criminal before they are asked to vote for (or against) him in November 2024.

          Smith is, of course, taking a gamble by front-loading the ‘overwhelming question’ that will determine whether Trump is above the law. Framed as a two-part question by Jack Smith in his petition, he asks the Supreme Court to decide the following:

Whether a former president is absolutely immune from federal prosecution for crimes committed while in office, or

Is constitutionally protected from federal prosecution when he has been impeached but not convicted [in the Senate] before the criminal proceeding begins.

          The answer to those questions is plainly “No.” The questions posed by Smith can be reframed as, “In America, is any person above the law?” Again, the answer is plainly “No.”

          Given that Trump's defense is meritless and should be summarily rejected, Jack Smith’s petition poses the following question to the Supreme Court:

          Will the US Supreme Court aid and abet Trump's effort to overturn the 2020 election by delaying his trial until after the 2024 election—preserving the possibility that Trump will dismiss the prosecutions against himself if he is elected?

          Stripped to its essence, Jack Smith is challenging the Supreme Court to put its legitimacy and legacy on the line. Indeed, he is offering the Court the opportunity for partial rehabilitation. If they decline that opportunity, the justices will deserve the judgment of history that would follow a refusal to consider the matter on an expedited basis and rule that “No person is above the law.”

          Let’s now look at the procedural posture of the petition. Jack Smith is asking for two forms of relief: (a) to skip over the D.C. Court of Appeals by granting a “writ of certiorari” (a fancy word for appellate review), and (b) that the Supreme Court grant review on an expedited basis.

          In a positive sign, the Supreme Court ordered Trump to respond to Smith’s request for expedited review on Wednesday, December 20, 2023. As explained by Professor Tribe on Lawrence O’Donnell’s “The Last Word,” the fact that the Supreme Court ordered Trump to file on an opposition on an expedited basis suggests that there are five votes on the Supreme Court to grant Jack Smith’s request for expedited review.

          If the Supreme Court is inclined to grant expedited review, that is a very good sign. It suggests that Trump will be tried for election interference before the November 2024 election. Although a conviction is not guaranteed, Jack Smith will present evidence of Trump's guilt on the eve of the 2024 election. That is all we can ask for.

          But there is more good news. As Jack Smith was filing his petition with the Supreme Court, the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals also indicated that it would move expeditiously by granting Smith’s separate motion for an expedited hearing before the D.C. Circuit. On Monday, the D.C. Circuit ordered Trump to file a response by Wednesday, December 13, in opposition to Smith’s request for an expedited hearing in the D.C. Circuit.  

          Here is the way to think about the dual proceedings in the D.C. Circuit and the Supreme Court. Unless and until the Supreme Court grants Jack Smith’s petition for a writ of certiorari, the D.C. Circuit retains jurisdiction over the case. If the Supreme Court grants Smith’s petition, the D.C. Circuit loses jurisdiction; if it denies Smith’s petition, the D.C. Circuit retains jurisdiction.

          In effect, Smith is on “two fast tracks” to review Trump's defense of presidential immunity. He has hedged his bets and called the question. Good!

[wilwheaton]

The Supreme Court has never definitively ruled on whether a president or former president can be criminally prosecuted for acts undertaken while president. That is because we have never had a president engage in the type of behavior Trump engaged in when he fruitlessly attempted to hang on to the presidency after he lost the election.

Trump's presidential immunity claim tests the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals

Every single time we hear “this is unprecedented!” as if Shitler is some kind of victim who had nothing to do with any of this, I want to scream.

This is all unprecedented because we have never had a criminal like Trump attempt a coup to hold on to power, enjoy almost unwavering support and protection from his party, and then run again while he is facing NINETY-ONE different felony charges.

This is all unprecedented because there has never been an aspiring dictator like Trump in American political history, not even Nixon.

[womenhoops]

Sweet sixteen

word count: 7.1k

paige bueckers x azzi fudd (pazzi)

Paige wasn’t just stressed—no, she was freaking out. Her mind was spinning, racing a mile a minute.

She’d known Azzi’s Sweet Sixteen invite was coming, but that didn’t stop her brain from short-circuiting. A whole week together? After months of only FaceTime and texts? Sure, they’d spent last summer glued at the hip—Azzi crashing Paige’s family cruise, helping at her basketball clinic, stealing her hoodies like they were hers—but what if things were different now? What if Azzi had new friends, new interests, and Paige just… didn’t fit anymore?

“Paige? Are you even listening to me right now?” Azzi’s voice was soft, tinged with disappointment.

But Paige was too busy buzzing with the mix of anxiety and excitement, already imagining the trip. A whole week at Azzi’s house? Her early winter break meant she could stay even longer—maybe surprise her. But what if Azzi hated the surprise? What if—

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.” Azzi’s words snapped her back to reality. “I get it. You’re busy. I’m sure you’ve got other plans, even though I’m asking, like, two months early. It’s fine. Just�� forget it.”

Paige finally processed the hurt in her friend’s voice. “Azzi, what? Of course I’m coming! Why wouldn’t I?”

Azzi huffed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you literally did not reply when I ask?”

“I would not miss it for the world. I mean it, Az” Paige said looking straight at the camera, her lips curling into her soft smile, the one Azzi had called her goofy smile when in reality, Paige had save it for her. Her azzi. 

Azzi exhaled, tension melting. “Okay. Good. Because… it’s gonna be a thing. Like, my parents are planning something big—all my HS friends, some USA teammates… Sam’s coming.”

“Wait, wait.” Paige’s eyes widened. “Your parents are throwing an actual party? Your dad? Mr. ‘No-Phone-After-9’ is cool with a house full of teenagers?”

Azzi laughed. “Sweet sixteen, baby. But no drinking, and all the bedroom doors stay locked—my dad literally said he didn’t want ‘any babies popping out nine months later. Last night he made me swear—on Stewie’s life—that no one would ‘get handsy’ near the chocolate fountain.”

“Ew.” Paige grimaced. “Just… ew.”

Her mind kicked into overdrive. So there’d be boys, too. Fine. Whatever. Paige had no issue with boys—she found them mostly mid—but she had to ask.

“Az…” She locked onto Azzi’s eyes through the screen, voice dropping. “Is he gonna be there?”

A beat. Azzi’s breath hitched, even through the distance.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “My parents invited the whole grade, I had not have the courage to tell them about u know the situation.”

“Oh. Cool.” Paige’s voice cracked.

And that was the problem—because she hated him.

Hated him so much she could barely say his name, and for a yapper like Paige, that said everything. She hated how he’d had the nerve to ask Azzi out in the first place. Hated how he’d tried to kiss her after she’d said no. Hated how, weeks later, he’d somehow gotten his stupid lips on her Azzi—only to drop her for some cheerleader.

Her Azzi. A five-star recruit. Steph curry protégée. The best damn high school player in the country. And he’d tossed her aside like she was nothing.

So yeah. Paige didn’t just hate him—she wanted to punt him into the sun.

“Earth to P?” Azzi’s voice cut through the storm in her head. “You’re acting so weird today. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Paige blinked, the mental tirade screeching to a halt.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” She forced a shrug. “Just… thinking.”

Azzi tilted her head, unconvinced. “Wanna tell me what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours?”

Paige chewed her lip raw. Tell her? Admit that the thought of him at the party made her want to hijack Azzi’s dad’s pickup and drive straight to D.C. to commit a felony? Or that she saw red when she imagined Azzi kissing him—his stupid hands on her waist, his mouth on hers after she’d said no the first time— Obviously, it was just because he was a jackass, right? Azzi was too bright, too everything, to be reduced to some mediocre football player’s ego boost.

“Just… nervous about the trip,” she lied, picking at a loose thread on her hoodie. “You know how I get with airports. Legit no one to yap with. It’s so boring.”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed—though Paige’s pouting was objectively cute, all scrunched nose and exaggerated frown. “Uh-huh.” A beat. “This isn’t about Jace, is it?”

Jace. The name hit like a sucker punch. Paige’s fingers twitched. She should’ve known Azzi would see right through her.

“No,” she said, too fast. “Why would it be?”

Azzi sighed, twisting the friendship bracelet Paige had made her last summer around her wrist. “P. You literally growl when someone mentions him. It’s kinda iconic, honestly.”

Paige’s face burned. Iconic? More like pathetic. She couldn’t even fake indifference.

“I just don’t get why he’s invited,” she muttered. “After what he did—”

“It’s one night.” Azzi’s voice softened, but her knuckles whitened around her phone. “And it’s not like I’m into him anymore. He’s just… there. Like bad Wi-Fi.”

Paige snorted, but her chest stayed tight. Because she remembered—the way Azzi had sobbed into their daily phone call last semester, hiccuping “I thought he liked me” between gasps on the phone. How she’d taken a week to confess they’d kissed, how she’d whispered “It wasn’t even good, he bit my bottom lip” like it was a shameful secret. Azzi does not know that Paige could not sleep that night, hunted by the unsettling feeling that burned in her chest. 

“Fine,” Paige forced a grin. “But if he ‘accidentally’ falls into the pool, that’s not my fault.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her smile was fond. “P, I don’t even have a pool. Just promise you won’t start a fight. My dad’ll actually murder you.”

Too late. Paige had already started a fight—in her head, at least. A whole UFC highlight reel where Jace got drop-kicked into oblivion.

“No promises,” she winked.

Azzi groaned. “God, you’re impossible.” But the way she said it—low, almost fond—sent Paige’s pulse skittering.

Then Azzi’s mom shouted something about “napkin origami”, and the moment shattered. “Gotta go,” Azzi said, pulling a face. “Dad’s making me ‘practice table settings’ like some psychotic rich-people ritual. Text me when you buy your flight, okay?. I am so excited to see you, P”

“Bye, Az’’. The screen went black.

Paige flopped onto her bed, arms splayed. The party would be fine. She’d be cool. She’d not stab Jace with a fondue fork.

…Probably.

—————————//

NEXT DAY 

Paige dragged through her morning, exhaustion clinging to her like static. She’d spent the night tangled in thoughts—Azzi’s laugh, Azzi’s dress, the stupidly perfect gift she still hadn’t found. And she needed the perfect gift. Because this was Azzi.

So, like any rational person facing a crisis, she decided to borrow a move from her best friend’s playbook: make a list. And what better time to brainstorm than during Lit class? Mr. Dunne’s droning lecture on The Great Gatsby was basically white noise anyway.

She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and scribbled:

AZZI’S FAVORITE THINGS (aka How To Not Screw This Up)

Unicorns (the sparklier, the better—"They’re majestic, P, stop laughing!")

Frozen (specifically Olaf, specifically his "Some people are worth melting for" line, which Azzi quoted with alarming sincerity)

Ice cream (quantities that violated the laws of physics)

Terrible puns ("What do you call a fake noodle? An impasta!"—Azzi’s told her barelly cointanning her own laughter)

That nose scrunch (the one that made Paige’s stomach do backflips)

Her dimples (which should’ve been illegal, honestly)

Basketball (duh)

Paige tapped her pen hard enough to dent the paper. None of this screamed Sweet Sixteen material. Maybe if she Frankensteined them together? …Yeah, no. That was a one-way ticket to "I’m Revoking Your Best Friend Card" Land.

Across the room, someone coughed. Paige glanced up just in time to catch:

Mr. Dunne’s "I will murder you with iambic pentameter" glare.

Amaya, her basketball teammate, mouthing "Paige, WHAT are you doing right now?!" from two rows over, eyes darting between Paige’s notebook and the teacher.

Paige mimed zipping her lips. Amaya responded with a hand signal that definitely meant "You’re doomed." And for now, she was. 

—— /// ———— 

That evening, Paige stabbed at her mashed potatoes like they’d personally offended her. Her brain was still a chaotic Pinterest board of half-baked gift ideas—Could she freeze-dry Olaf and call it art?—when her dad cleared his throat.

"P, Azzi’s parents texted me today about her birthday," he said, scrolling through his phone with the intensity of a man decoding nuclear launch codes. "We need to book your flight before prices skyrocket."

"Sure, Dad." She twirled her fork, conjuring the mental image of Azzi’s party: twinkle lights, a chocolate fountain (dangerous) "Azzi said her parents are going all out. There’s even gonna be, like, a professional chocolate fountain. The kind that requires liability waivers."

Her dad didn’t look up. "That’s… concerning."

"It’s Azzi, she deserves it ,” Paige said, as if that explained everything. (It did)

"So what’s your gift plan?"

Paige’s eye twitched. "Working on it."

"Translation: She’s panicking," her younger brother, Drew, called from the living room.

"I’m strategizing," she lied, flicking a pea at him. It missed spectacularly, bouncing off to the sofa instead. 

“How lost we talking, P?” Drew pressed, finally pausing his game. “Like, ‘forgot to buy wrapping paper’ lost, or ‘bought her a cactus because it looked lonely’ lost?”

“Not lost at all,” she snapped. “Me and Amaya are going shopping tomorrow, actually.”

Her dad glanced up from his phone. “We still have more than a month ‘til the party, Paige. No need to actually worry.”

“I just want to be prepared, Dad.”

But the truth squirmed in her chest like an over-caffeinated worm. She needed this gift to be perfect. This was Azzi. Her best friend since USA Basketball. To be fair, they had met not that long ago, but there is no one single part of paige's life that is not consumed by Azzi. The human who’d once stayed up until 2 a.m. on the phone with her helping her memorize the entire Hamilton soundtrack before a history test. Azzi deserved more than some last-minute junk from the mall.

And then it hit her—the unsettling memory of Jace’s cat plushy disaster. Azzi, a devout dog person, had stared at that sad, bewhiskered lump like it had personally betrayed her. (“It’s the principle, P,” she’d hissed later. “He’s known me since kindergarten. How do you mix up cats and dogs? He knows Stewie”)

Paige grabbed her notebook and scrawled:

Stewie (DOG PERSON. NOT CATS. EVER.)

Drew craned his neck. “Wow. You made a list? This is worse than I thought, P.”

“Shut up.” She slammed the notebook shut. “It’s called being thoughtful.”

“It’s called panic-spiraling.” Paige turned around and locked her bedroom door behind her. Collapsing onto her bed, she grabbed her phone and tapped Azzi’s contact before she could second-guess herself.

The FaceTime call connected after two rings, Azzi’s face filling the screen—cheeks flushed, hair piled in a messy bun, the unmistakable sound of her parents arguing in the background.

“Ugh, save me,” Azzi muttered, rolling her eyes toward the chaos off-camera. “My dad’s micromanaging the napkin colors for the party, and my mom just threatened to uninvite, like, half the family.”

Paige snorted. “So, same as always?”

“Worse.” Azzi leaned in, lowering her voice. “They’re fully driving me crazy. If I hear ‘But what will people think?’ one more time…” She mimed strangling herself, then abruptly turned the camera downward, showing off a sliver of bare skin between her cropped tank top and high-waisted jeans. “Oh, and this? My dad lost it when he saw my outfit. Said I ‘look like I’m going to a club.’”

Paige’s throat went dry. And to be fair, her mind was racing with so many thoughts, she could not think and just blurted “I mean… you do.”

Azzi’s grin was all mischief. “Good.” She adjusted the camera, tilting her head. “You like it?”

“I—uh.” Paige’s fingers fumbled with her phone. “It’s just… a lot of midriff.” Paige sad fiddling with her hoodie strings…

“You’re staring.”

“Am not!” Paige dragged her gaze back up—mistake. Azzi’s knowing smirk was worse.

A muffled shout came through Azzi’s phone. “AZZI FUDD! Change that top right now!”

Azzi groaned dramatically, flopping back onto her bed with enough force to make the camera shake. "See what I deal with?" When she righted herself, she bit her lip in that way that always made Paige's stomach flip. "Wish you were here," she added softly, so quiet Paige almost missed it.

Paige's pulse spiked, her fingers tightening around her phone. "It's, um. It's cute. The outfit, I mean." She swallowed hard, pushing through the sudden thickness in her throat. "And the fact that you miss me too." Smooth. Real smooth.

A beat of silence. Then Azzi's lips quirked up at one corner, but she was the first to look away, clearing her throat as she played with the hem of her top. "Anyway. My dad's being insane. He also vetoed the ripped jeans."

Paige latched onto the distraction like a lifeline. "What's left? A turtleneck and a floor-length skirt?"

"Don't give him ideas," Azzi groaned, but her smile was back—easier now, more comfortable. Then, quieter, her eyes flicking up to meet Paige's through the screen: "Hey. You'd tell me if I looked stupid, right?"

The question hung between them, suddenly more serious than it should have been. Paige's chest did that weird squeezing thing again, the one that had become frustratingly familiar lately. "You never look stupid," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, too raw and too honest.

Azzi's breath caught—just slightly, just enough for Paige to notice—and for a suspended moment, neither of them moved. Then Azzi's bedroom door banged open off-camera, and the spell shattered.

"AZZI! We're leaving in twenty—oh." Azzi's mom appeared in frame, her expression shifting from exasperation to something more calculating as she took in the FaceTime call. "Hey, Paige. How you doing, sweetie?”

"Hi, Katie,” Paige squeaked, suddenly hyper-aware of how flushed her face must look. 

Azzi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Mom, privacy?"

“5 minutes, we got to get Jose from his friends house so it does not get to late,” her mom repeated, but not before shooting Paige a look that said they'd be talking about this later. The door clicked shut behind her.

Azzi exhaled, shoulders slumping as she turned back to the screen. "Sorry about that," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck.

Paige swallowed, her heart still doing somersaults. "It's okay," she said, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Azzi hesitated, then leaned closer, and sighed. "Ugh, I gotta change."

Paige nodded, even though her stomach dropped a little. "Yeah, of course. Text me before you go to bed”

Azzi’s smile was small but warm. "Obviously." She paused, then added, quieter, "And Paige? Thanks. For… you know."

Paige didn’t know, not really—but the way Azzi was looking at her made her feel like she wanted to know, like the answer was something just out of reach. "Anytime," she whispered.

The call ended, leaving Paige staring at her darkened screen, her chest tight and her thoughts spinning. She flopped back onto her pillows, pressing her hands to her face. What is wrong with me? But as she closed her eyes, all she could see was Azzi—her laugh, her stupidly perfect smile, the way her voice softened when she said Paige’s name.

And with that, Paige finally drifted off to sleep, the weird feeling in her chest lingering like a promise.

—————— // 

The weeks before her trip to visit Azzi, Paige had scoured every store in Hopkins, Minnesota, searching for the perfect gift. She’d found an adorable Olaf plushie—but that was more of a silly little just-because thing, not the real present she wanted to give. By Thursday, exactly three days before her flight, she was ready to give up.

Then, after practice, Drew cornered her in the parking lot with his young rizz, as he liked to call it. 

"Drive me to that new ice cream place across town? Please, Paigey ” he asked, already aiming for her car keys.

Paige groaned, tossing her gym bag into the backseat. "Drew, I have so much to do. Laundry, packing—"

"And yet," he said, sliding into the passenger seat with a grin, "here you are. Because you secretly love me."

"Debatable," she muttered, but she started the car anyway.

The drive was short, filled with Drew’s usual rambling—practice drama, his latest kitchen disaster, some ridiculous bet he’d made with a teammate. Paige only half-listened, her mind stuck on Azzi. On finally seeing her in person after months of late-night FaceTime calls and texts that left her chest weirdly tight. The ice cream shop was cozy, all vintage decor and handwritten chalkboard flavors. Drew beelined for the counter, but Paige lingered near the back, where a small shelf of antiques sat tucked between the freezers.

And then she saw it.

A vintage Polaroid camera, its white frame slightly yellowed with age, and beside it—a small, leather-bound photo album, its pages empty, waiting to be filled.

Her breath hitched. Azzi loved photos. She was always the one stopping mid-conversation to snap a picture, always the one insisting on group selfies, her phone full of half-blurry, laughing candids. And this—this was perfect.

"Paigey? U getting anything or just staring at the wall?" Drew called, already holding two cones.

She didn’t answer, already reaching for the camera, heart pounding. This was it.

Drew raised an eyebrow, already reaching for the vintage camera and the leather-bound photo album she’d been eyeing. "For Azzi?"

Paige’s cheeks flushed with warmth. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

Drew nodded eagerly, handing her an ice cream cone—mint chocolate chip, her favorite. “I think she’ll love it, Paigey. I just wish I could go to her party too. I miss her.”

“I know you do, Drewski... But this time, it’s just for teenagers.” She gave him a gentle smile. “I can ask when she’s planning to visit us next. How does that sound?”

His face lit up. “That sounds perfect, Paigey! And can you also tell her I miss her this much?” He stretched his arms as wide as they could go.

Paige laughed softly. “Of course I will.”

As she paid for the camera and the album, carefully tucking them into her bag, Paige couldn’t stop smiling. Three more days. And then she’d see Azzi—really see her, after months of blurry FaceTime calls and texts that never quite captured the way her laugh sounded in person. The thought sent a familiar flutter through her chest, warm and dizzying.

But first, she had to make this gift perfect. She carefully selected all her favorite picture moments with Azzi (PB & Jelly), and some of her favorite Azzi photos with drew, then some of her with Stewie (and some solo stewie pics as well), then some of her magic shooting form, because why not? She then, drove as fast as humanly possible to a CVS and printed over 100 phots. I mean, could you even blame her? She got some cute frozen stickers, some cute dogs stickers, some nice pink ribbons, some glue and some pink glitter and some colorful markers because Paige had legit just two pencil and a blue pen in her pencil case. 

She had this night to make this the perfect gift. 

Paige spread the photos across her bedroom floor like a detective piecing together a case. Every snapshot was a clue to something she already knew— Azzi was her person. There were the silly ones: Azzi mid-laugh, ice cream smeared on her nose. The soft ones: Azzi asleep with Drew on the couch, sunlight catching the gold in her curls. The stolen moments: Azzi biting her lip while studying, Azzi flipping off Paige after a dumb joke, Azzi dressing up Stewie in a unicorn suit while on FaceTime, Azzi looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

"Okay. No pressure," she muttered, grabbing a glue stick. "Just the most important gift of your life." In the back of her mind, she wondered if that would be considered  “normal best friend behavior."

She worked through the night, fingers sticky with glue, glitter clinging to her sleeves. A disaster zone of glitter, markers, and half-peeled stickers. Every time she glued down a photo, she second-guessed it. Would Azzi think this was too much? Was it weird that she had this many pictures of her? Should she have just gotten her a hoodie like a normal person? Or a pair of cool sneakers? 

Her handwriting wavered between neatly sentimental and frantic chicken scratch, but she didn’t stop. She labeled each photo, tucked in concert tickets, doodled stars in the margins. By 3 AM, her back ached, her eyes burned, and the scrapbook was—

"A mess," she groaned, flopping onto her bed. The pages were lumpy from too much glue, a few stickers were crooked, and she’d accidentally smeared pink glitter over Azzi’s face in one picture.

But it was them. Messy, over-the-top, full. Just like how Azzi made her feel. Paige hugged the album to her chest, grinning.

————// 

12 hours.

Twelve hours until she’d finally see Azzi again, and Paige was freaking out. Sure, the past few days had been spent:

Reorganizing the entire scrapbook twice (was the "Remember This?" caption too cheesy? Should she have written more?).

Practicing her casual gift-handing-over voice ("Oh, this? Just a dumb thing I threw together—" No. "So I made you something—" Too intense. "Here." Perfect. Short. Chill.).

Waking up at 5 AM in a cold sweat, convinced the scrapbook needed more dog stickers (news flash: it didn’t).

But now? Now she had to pack. And not just throw things in a bag pack—strategic pack. Because this wasn’t just any trip. This was Azzi.

She stared at her open suitcase like it had personally betrayed her. Basketball gear? Check. (Obviously. They always played one-on-one, and Paige may have bought new shorts just for this.) Bathing suit? Check. (And no, she wasn’t overthinking the fact that Azzi had mentioned the lake. She wasn’t thinking about Azzi in her bikini, or how the sun would catch the water droplets on her shoulders, or—NOPE. Not thinking about it.) 

But party clothes?

Disaster.

She held up the only option she could think of - the "Cool Casual" Look – Ripped jeans, fitted tee, leather jacket. ("I definitely don’t care what you think of me.")

"Why is this so hard?" she groaned, flopping onto her bed. Her phone buzzed.

Mom: You alive? Or did you forget you’re leaving tomorrow?

Paige exhaled in relief. Saved.

She hit call.

"Okay, so," Paige said, pacing, “how do I go for the ‘effortlessly cool’ thing? or  should I try the ‘I put in actual effort but don’t want you to notice’ thing?"

Her mom laughed. "Honey, just wear what makes you feel good."

"But what if she doesn’t like it?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

A pause. Then, knowingly: "Ah. Azzi.”

Paige froze. "I—what? No. I mean them. The group. The vibes."

"Mhm." "So, who’s going to be at this party again? Any boys I should know about?"

Paige nearly choked on her own spit. "What? No. I mean—I don’t know. Maybe? But I don’t care."  

"Paige," her mom said, voice dripping with I’m a Cool Mom energy, "I know you’re at that age where you’re starting to, you know… explore things with boys. And that’s fine! Just remember—"

"Mom. Oh my God." Paige’s face burned. 

"—you’re staying at the Fudds’ house, and you’re still seventeen, so—"

"I’m not ‘exploring things’ with anyone!" Paige groaned, flopping onto her bed. "Especially not boys."

A pause. "Well, just be safe. Remember it is perfectly okay to say no and also, if u do something, wear a condom.”

Paige made a noise somewhere between a dying whale and a deflating whoopee cushion. "MOM. I SWEAR TO GOD—"

"Paige Maddison, I'm just saying—"

"That you're giving me the straight sex talk when I—" Paige's mouth snapped shut so fast her teeth clicked. The unspoken words hung in the air like a glitter bomb waiting to explode: when I might like girls.

Her mom, completely missing the nuclear subtext, plowed ahead: "When you what? Honey, I was your age once too. Those summer parties get wild, and—"

"NOBODY IS HAVING SEX, LEAST OF ALL ME!" Paige shrieked, launching a pillow at her bedroom door. "Can we please talk about literally anything else? The weather? Your weird toenail fungus? The inevitable heat death of the universe?"

Another pause. Then, with devastating mom intuition: "Paige... is there someone special you're not telling me about?"

The question hit like a bucket of ice water. Paige's throat closed up. Images flashed through her mind—Azzi's laugh lines, the way she tucked her hair behind her ears, that time she'd fallen asleep on Paige's shoulder during movie night—

"No," she squeaked. Then, too loud: "NO. Just. Party. Friends. Normal friend things."

"Mhmm." The skepticism could power a small city. "Well, your father was definitely NOT my first so—"

"OKAY BYE LOVE YOU!" Paige stabbed the end call button so hard her phone case cracked. She chucked it across the room where it landed safely in her laundry hamper (because of course even in her panic, her basketball reflexes saved her from an expensive mistake).

Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence.

Paige collapsed face-first into her mattress, screaming into her comforter until her lungs burned. This was worse than that time she'd accidentally texted Azzi "you're my favorite person" instead of "you're my favorite pain in the ass”. Or even that time her mom found her Pinterest board full of... aesthetic female couple photos (still claimed it was "for art reference")

She rolled over, staring blankly at the half-packed suitcase.  I guess the ripped jeans, fitted tee, leather jacket would have to do it. 

Her phone buzzed from the hamper. Against her better judgment, Paige crawled across the floor to retrieve it.

Azzi: [photo of her holding up two nearly identical shades of nail polish] which one says "I survived summer program hell" better???

Paige's traitorous heart skipped. The left one. Definitely the left one. She'd seen that shade on Azzi before—it brought out the gold flecks in her eyes when she—

"FUCK," she said louder, thunking her forehead against the hardwood floor.

She was so monumentally screwed.

———————— //

The plane ride passed in a blink—mostly because Paige had spent the entire night freaking out and consequently slept through it like a dead person. She woke with a start as the wheels touched down, her neck stiff from where she'd been slumped against the window, a thin line of drool on her cheek that she frantically wiped away. Airport lights blurred past as the plane taxied. Paige's fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against her carry-on where the scrapbook was safely tucked away. Three months. Three weeks. Three days. Not that she was counting. (She'd marked it on her calendar in increasingly elaborate doodles.)

Then—there she was.

Azzi stood near baggage claim, bouncing on her toes with Stewie squirming in her arms. Her hair was longer, swept over one shoulder in loose waves that caught the fluorescent lights just right. She wore that stupid cropped hoodie Paige had stolen approximately fourteen times last year.

Paige's feet moved before her brain caught up.

She barely registered dropping her bags before she was crashing into Azzi, arms wrapping around both her and an indignant Stewie with enough force to knock them back a step. The dog yipped, but Paige didn't care—couldn't care—because Azzi smelled like her vanilla shampoo and the airport's stale air and home, and—

"Ow, P, you're crushing my ribs," Azzi laughed, but her arms tightened around Paige's shoulders anyway.

Paige buried her face in Azzi's hoodie to hide the way her eyes burned. "Shut up. You're crushing the dog."

Stewie licked her ear in revenge.

“P, she is MY Dog" the younger girl replied. 

Behind them, Azzi's dad cleared his throat. "Should we leave you two alone, or...?"

Paige jerked back like she'd been shocked, suddenly hyper-aware of how long they'd been clinging to each other in the middle of the airport. Her hands fluttered uselessly before shoving into her pockets. She gave them both a quick hug. 

Azzi just rolled her eyes, shifting Stewie to one arm so she could punch Paige's shoulder. "Took you long enough to get here."

"Blame the airline," Paige muttered, but her traitorous voice came out weirdly thick. (Three months. Three weeks. Three days. And now Azzi was right there, real and solid and grinning at her like—)

"Come on," Azzi said, grabbing Paige's wrist and tugging her toward the exit. "Mom made your favorite Mac and cheese and Jose and Jon are already saying your the favorite"

Paige let herself be pulled along, the warmth of Azzi's fingers against her pulse point threatening to short-circuit her brain entirely. The scrapbook in her bag suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

—— // 

The car ride should have been easy.

It was easy—right up until it wasn’t.

Paige had spent the first ten minutes crammed in the backseat with Azzi, their knees knocking together every time Mr. Fudd took a turn too fast. Stewie had claimed Paige’s lap as her throne, which was fine, because it gave her an excuse to focus on something other than the way Azzi’s shoulder kept brushing hers.

Katie Fudd twisted around from the passenger seat, grinning. "Paige, honey, I made those oatmeal cookies you love. There’s a whole plate waiting at home."

Paige’s stomach growled on cue. "You’re my favorite, Mrs. F."

"I better be," Katie laughed, before launching into a story about how Azzi had nearly burned the kitchen down trying to make pancakes last week. Azzi squawked in protest, shoving at Paige’s arm like can you believe this betrayal?

And it was fine. It was normal.

Until Mr. Fudd—bless his chaotic soul—decided to drop the bomb.

"So, Paige," he said, eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror. "Heard there’s gonna be a decent crowd at this thing tomorrow. Anyone you’re especially excited to see?"

A beat of silence.

Then, with a smirk: "Any boys specifically?"

The moment he mentioned boys, the atmosphere in the car shifted from comfortable to absolutely lethal.

Paige’s fingers dug into Stewie’s fur as she stared straight ahead, willing herself to dissolve into the upholstery.

"Actually," Mr. Fudd continued, clearly enjoying himself, "speaking of the party—ground rules."

Azzi groaned, slumping down in her seat. "Oh my God, here we go."

"First of all," he said, holding up a finger like he was delivering a presidential address, "no funny business. None. Zero."

Katie rolled her eyes. "Honey, it’s just a bunch of kids hanging out—"

"Second," he barreled on, "if I see Jace Henderson trying to slow dance with my daughter, I’m throwing him in the chocolate fountain. Clothes on."

Paige’s head whipped toward Azzi before she could stop herself.

Azzi’s cheeks were pink. "Dad. Jace is not going to—"

"Oh, he’s gonna try," Mr. Fudd said darkly. "I’ve seen the way that kid looks at you. Like a puppy who’s been kicked too many times to quit."

Paige’s stomach twisted. Jace Henderson? She hated that guy so much.  And now Mr. Fudd was talking about him slow dancing with Azzi like it was some cute, inevitable thing? Paige’s vision went red at the edges.

Azzi stiffened beside her. "Dad. We’ve talked about this. Jace is literally the last person I’d—"

"I know, I know," Mr. Fudd said, waving a hand. "But that kid’s been sniffing around again, and I swear to God—"

"He what?" The words tore out of Paige’s throat before she could stop them.

Silence.

Three pairs of Fudd eyes locked onto her.

Paige realized, belatedly, that she’d just growled.

Azzi blinked at her. "...You good, P?"

No. Absolutely not.

Paige forced her jaw to unclench. "Just. Y’know. Remembering how he vomited at your own shoes at homecoming. After you know…” She said it like an unspoken thing only her and azzi knew entirely.

Mr. Fudd snorted. "Oh, I remember. I also remember someone"—he shot Azzi a look—"telling me not to ‘commit felonies’ over it."

Katie sighed. "We do have a pool now, honey. Just saying."

Azzi groaned, but Paige caught the way her lips twitched. "Can we please stop plotting murders in front of Paige? She’s visibly vibrating."

Because Paige was. Jace had dared to come crawling back? After what he’d done? 

Azzi huffed, crossing her arms. "Well, it doesn’t matter because I’m not dancing with him—"

"Good," Mr. Fudd said, satisfied. Then, with a glance at Paige: "And I know you two are gonna be sneaking off somewhere at some point, so just—"

"SNEAKING OFF?!" Paige squeaked, voice cracking like she was going through puberty all over again.

Azzi choked on air.

"—so just remember," Mr. Fudd continued, unfazed, "that the backyard has motion-sensor lights. And I will check them."

Paige was going to die. Right here. In this car.

Katie sighed, rubbing her temples. "Sweetheart, you’re traumatizing them."

"I’m preparing them," Mr. Fudd corrected.

Azzi had her face buried in her hands. "I hate this. I hate everything."

And Paige was thinking if she should add a last-minute section called "Dudes Who Suck"  in her gift. 

—— //

The party was scheduled for the day after Azzi’s actual birthday—which meant that when Paige woke up that morning, she found herself tangled in Azzi’s limbs in a completely platonic, best-friend way, of course.

Azzi’s face was smushed into the pillow, her curls wild from sleep, one arm thrown possessively over Paige’s waist like she was a human teddy bear. Paige’s brain short-circuited for a solid ten seconds before she carefully—so carefully—extricated herself, trying not to wake her. (She failed.)

Azzi blinked up at her, groggy and unfairly adorable. "Mmm. S’my birthday?"

Paige’s chest did something complicated. "Yeah, loser. Happy birthday." She reached out, tucking a stray curl behind Azzi’s ear—totally normal best friend behavior—before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

Azzi’s sleepy smile hit her like a freight train. Soft, private, the kind that made Paige’s stomach flip. Internal freak-out: activated.

And now, here they were at the lake. She had planned to give Azzi the scrapbook later, in private, when she could maybe handle the emotional fallout. But now, standing on the dock with the sun beating down, she was too busy trying not to combust as Azzi peeled off her t-shirt.

Because holy shit.

Azzi in a bright pink bikini should have come with a warning label.

Paige busied herself with aggressively adjusting her own swimsuit straps, staring at the water like it held the secrets of the universe. Do not look. Do NOT—

"You good?" Azzi grinned, already stepping toward the edge of the dock.

No. Absolutely not.

"Yeah," Paige lied, voice suspiciously high. "Just. Uh. Thinking about lake bacteria."

Azzi laughed, bright and loud, and then—

She jumped.

Water splashed up, droplets catching the sunlight, and Paige had approximately half a second to appreciate the way Azzi surfaced, hair slicked back, before—

"PAIGE. GET IN HERE."

Paige swallowed hard. This was fine. Totally fine.

The lake water was cool against Azzi’s skin as she surfaced, shaking the droplets from her hair. She blinked up at the dock where Paige stood, frozen like a deer in headlights, her cheeks suspiciously pink even in the summer heat.

And then it hit her—Paige was staring. Not just a glance. Not just an accidental look. Staring. A slow, wicked grin spread across Azzi’s face.

Oh, this was fun.

Azzi treaded water lazily, tilting her head. "You gonna stand there all day, or are you coming in?"

Paige jerked like she’d been electrocuted. "I—yeah. Obviously." She cleared her throat, arms crossing tightly over her stomach. "Just. Taking in the view."

"Uh-huh." Azzi smirked. "Great view, right?"

Paige’s eyes flicked down—just for a second—before snapping back up to Azzi’s face. "Yep. Trees. Water. Real... scenic." Azzi bit her lip to keep from laughing.

Then, because she was feeling dangerous, she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back just enough to see if—

Yep. Paige’s breath hitched. Interesting.

Later, sprawled on their towels, Azzi rolled onto her stomach and hooked a finger in the back strap of her bikini top. "Hey, P? Can you get my back? I don’t wanna burn."

Paige choked on nothing. "I—what?"

"Sunscreen," Azzi said innocently, tossing her the bottle. "Unless you want me to peel like a lobster."

"No! I mean—yeah. Sure." Paige’s voice cracked. She took the bottle like it was a live grenade.

Azzi hid her face in her arms, grinning.

The second Paige’s fingers touched her skin, they were trembling.

Azzi closed her eyes. Oh. This was definitely fun. And dangerous, and why did Azzi liked it so much? 

By the time they packed up to leave, Azzi had catalogued three things:

Paige got flustered when Azzi stretched.

She turned bright red when Azzi adjusted her bikini.

And now, as they walked back to the car, Paige was very carefully not looking at her while Azzi let her sundress slip off one shoulder just to see—

"You’re doing this on purpose," Paige hissed under her breath.

Azzi blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. "Doing what?"

Paige groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

And that’s when Azzi realized—she liked this. Not just the teasing. Not just the way Paige’s gaze kept flicking to her like she couldn’t help it. But the wanting. The way Paige looked at her like she was something precious. And maybe… maybe she wanted to see how far she could push it.

———— // 

Now, with the house asleep and the night stretching soft and endless around them, there were no more excuses. Azzi pushed open the screen door, barefoot and rumpled from the day’s chaos. She held two stolen slices of cake in her hands, balancing them precariously as she dropped onto the swing beside Paige.

"You’ve been weird all night," she said, nudging Paige’s knee with hers. "And not your usual brand of weird. Your I’m-hiding-something weird."

Paige swallowed hard. "I—"

Azzi licked frosting off her thumb, waiting.

"I made you something," Paige blurted.

Azzi’s eyebrows shot up. "Is it illegal?"

"What? No!"

"Then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?"

Paige groaned, shoving the scrapbook into Azzi’s lap before she could overthink it again. "Just. Open it."

Azzi’s fingers traced the cover—glitter-strewn and slightly lumpy from Paige’s overzealous glue usage. She flipped it open to the first page, and her breath caught. There they were. Dozens of moments, painstakingly preserved: Azzi mid-laugh, ice cream smeared on her nose. The two of them crammed into a photo booth, making ridiculous faces. Azzi asleep on Paige’s shoulder during a movie night, bathed in blue TV light.

But it wasn’t just the photos. It was the notes scribbled in Paige’s messy handwriting:

"Remember this? You swore you could eat that entire pizza. (You couldn’t.)"

"Best day ever. Even though you insisted on singing the same song for three hours straight."

"I think this is when I realized you’re my favorite person."

Azzi’s fingers trembled.

Paige stared resolutely at her shoes. "It’s dumb, I know. I just—I wanted you to have something to take back with you. So you wouldn’t forget…"

"Forget what?" Azzi’s voice was barely a whisper.

Paige finally looked up—and froze.

Azzi was crying.

Not the pretty, single-tear kind. The messy, whole-face-involved kind, lips pressed together like she was trying to hold back a sob.

"Shit," Paige panicked. "Was it the glitter? I knew I overdid the glitter—"

Azzi launched herself forward, wrapping Paige in a hug so tight it knocked the air from her lungs.

"I love it," she mumbled into Paige’s shoulder. "I love it so much. Thank you Paige.”

Paige’s arms came up instinctively, holding her close. Azzi’s curls smelled like vanilla and summer, and her heartbeat was wild against Paige’s chest.

Then—

Azzi pulled back just enough to meet Paige’s eyes. Her cheeks were wet, her lips parted like she was about to say something—

And Paige knew. This was the moment she fell in love with her best friend. The one where she either leaned in or ran for the hills.

The one where she either leaned in—

Knock knock knock.

The bedroom door swung open before either of them could react.

"Girls!" Mrs. Fudd’s voice cut through the charged silence like a foghorn. "I need help with the—" She stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene: Azzi still clutching the scrapbook to her chest, Paige frozen, both of them flushed and wide-eyed.

“AZZI, are you crying?" Her mom stepped forward, brow furrowed. "What’s going on?"

Azzi swiped at her cheeks quickly, shaking her head. "No, I’m—it’s nothing. Just allergies."

"In July?" Mrs. Fudd raised an eyebrow, then zeroed in on the book in Azzi’s hands. "What’s that?"

Paige’s breath hitched.

Azzi hesitated, then turned the scrapbook toward her mom. "Paige made it for me. For my birthday."

Mrs. Fudd’s expression softened as she flipped through a few pages—lingering on a photo of Azzi and Paige mid-laugh, their faces smushed together in a selfie. "Oh, honey, this is sweet." She glanced at Paige, who was now studying the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe. "You put a lot of work into this."

Paige nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Just, uh. A little project." A beat of silence.

Then Mrs. Fudd clapped her hands together, oblivious to the charged air between them. "Well! I do need help with the party setup, but..." She glanced at Azzi’s still-damp lashes, then at Paige’s rigid posture. "...Maybe give it ten minutes?" 

Azzi exhaled sharply. "Thanks, Mom."

Mrs. Fudd smiled, patting Paige’s shoulder as she passed—making the poor girl jump like she’d been zapped. "And Paige? Breathe, honey. You’re turning purple."

The door clicked shut. Another silence. Thicker this time.

Azzi turned slowly toward Paige, who was still staring at the ceiling like it might save her. "So."

Paige swallowed audibly. "So."

Azzi held up the scrapbook, lips quirking. "Just a little project, huh?"

Paige groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "I hate this."

Azzi grinned, stepping closer. "Liar."

[saywhat-politics]

Milwaukee County Circuit Judge Hannah C. Dugan was arrested by federal authorities April 25 and charged with two felonies amid an investigation into whether she tried to help an undocumented immigrant avoid arrest after he appeared in her courtroom April 18.

The Milwaukee native has been a part of Wisconsin's legal landscape for nearly three decades, and molded a career that has focused mainly in civil law and civic leadership. Dugan is now in her ninth year as a Milwaukee County Circuit Court judge.

Here's what to know about Dugan and her arrest:

Where was Dugan arrested?

Brady McCarron, U.S. Marshals Service spokesman in Washington, D.C., confirmed Dugan was arrested at about 8 a.m. April 24 at the Milwaukee County Courthouse and is in federal custody. 

What was Dugan charged with?

Dugan was charged with two felony counts: obstruction and concealing an individual, McCarron confirmed to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

She appeared before U.S. Magistrate Judge Stephen Dries at 10:30 a.m. on April 25 at the Federal Courthouse in downtown Milwaukee.

Dugan made no public comments during the brief hearing. As it ended, her attorney told the court she “wholeheartedly regrets and protests” her arrest, adding it was “not in the interest of public safety.”

What is Dugan's legal experience?

Dugan has spent a large swath of her career working for the poor and vulnerable, first with legal aid organizations and then as executive director of Catholic Charities.

Dugan also has been active in various professional organizations, and referees attorney discipline cases brought by the Office of Lawyer Regulation.

[gardens-light]

Hi! I would like to ask for a Ironhide BAYVERSE x Pigtailed! human with a cybertronian Heart! And if u think you want A ratchet one to you can do a Ratchet BAYVERSE X Human with a spark <3 (this is just for one of my AU’s and u Writing it would make my day)

Although Ratchet (mainly TFP) is my fave bot, I couldn't pass up our weapons boy. Bayverse Ironhide is such an underrated character, there seriously needs to be more fanfics of him!

I've never been good at AU's, but really love your idea and I hope I did it justice. Apologies for keeping you waiting :)

A Spark in Disguise

Content: Bayverse Ironhide x F/Human reader. Comfort Fluff.

Word Count: 2K

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the N.E.S.T base, sunrays glinting off Ironhide's gun-metal coloured plating as he watched his allies scurry around him. Performing drills, maintaining their equipment, discussing newly found Cybertronian tech with Optimus and Ratchet- the usual daily grind.

Despite working with his new found allies for over two years, and respected their determination, the weapons specialist tend to not allow himself to get too attached to the humans. For seeing the yearning of Bumblebee's spark felt, when it was time to say 'goodbye' to his human friends, let alone the pain that would dull the yellow scout's circuits whenever they got hurt.

Yet no matter how hard he tried to maintain that distance, there was always one human in particular that never failed to catch his attention.

You. Lieutenant Y/N. AKA: Rogue.

With sharpshooting skills that no other could match, fearless instincts that saved more lives than he could count, along with a knack for understanding Cybertronian tech that most of your comrades struggled with. With your steady resolve, stunning braided pigtails, and biting wit that even he found amusing sometimes, it's no wonder that you somehow wiggled your way into the soft spot of his spark. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, for... you were just another human, after all- or... so he thought.

Till one fateful mission changed everything.

Washington D.C- 10:30pm

"All right, listen up. The cover story on this one is a 'toxic spill.'" Your commanding officer's voice crackled over your radio. "They had to EVAC the area for search and rescue. This makes six enemy contacts in eight months, we gotta make sure this one doesn't get out into the public eye, so keep it tight."

Military Hummers and helicopters surrounded the power plant, as your N.E.S.T comrades got into position. Your commander and his team already scouting the area, their radidar sending off strong signals nearby.

"All right, Ironhide." You lightly tapped the Autobot's hood, "we got echoes. They're close. Steel stacks at 2 o'clock."

Metallic grinding and the sound of churning gears filled the air, his pistons whirled and locked into position, as Ironhide rolled out of his altmode.

"He's here. I smell him." Ironhide's optics scanned the empty buildings, giving each piece of machinery a suspicious stare. "Tread carefully, Rouge-"

"You too, Big Boy." Your small fist lightly bumped his enclosed servo, "I'll watch you from above."

A low purr rumbled deep within his chest, the corner of his mouth twitching into a subtle smile. That's my girl...

While taking your position above, Ironhide and N.E.S.T slowly closed in upon their target. The Autobot's radar picking up more of a Cybertronian energy signature with each careful step, itching closer towards the circular steel stacks.

"Thermal ripple, sir." The commander peered over his comrades shoulder, as they showed him the screen of their scanner. "A big one..."

A strong electronic pulse flowed through your veins, causing a shaky breath to escape your slightly parted lips. Eyes narrowing through your sniper scope, "Commander, wait. Be steady. You're... right on top of it-"

But the sound of shifting gears and whirling pistons suddenly filled the air, revealing a large Decepticon destroyer. A low, animalistic growl with an metallic edge rumbled deep from within it's engine, slamming down it's large servos onto the ground. Kicking up the industrial equipment, and sending the circular steel stacks flying towards the human soldiers.

"Hold your positions!" your commanding officer barked, raising his rifle. "Target its joints! We need to slow it down!"

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning fuel and scorched earth. The ground trembled beneath your comrades as they scrambled for cover, their shouts barely audible over the deafening roar of gunfire and the shrieking hum of Ironhide's energon-powered cannon.

Reloading your weapon with swift movement, after each round of cover fire. The electric pulse within your veins quickened, sending small volts of dispersing sparks crackling throughout your body. Your comrades fired bursts of armor-piercing rounds, and grenades that barely left a dent in the Decepticon's armour.

With a swing of its massive arm, Ironhide's optics widened as he witnessed the building crumble beneath you. His spark twisting painfully within its chamber, as your screams bellowed through the chaos, as you and the building came crashing down.

"Rogue!-"

"Ironhide! Wait!" one of soldiers jumped out of the Autobot's way, avoiding to be trapped under his peds. "Even if she did survive that. It be impossible to find her beneath all the rubble!-"

"I need units to track down and pursue that Decepticon!" your commander barked into his radio, witnessing his mechanical foe go into retreat. "And I need EVAC, ASAP! Multiple casualties and... one soldier... possibly down."

No! No! No! Ironhide charged into the debris, kneeling against the crumbled mess, his cannons retracting back into his forearms. As his massive servos tore through the rubble. Not her! Anyone but her! Primus... Please-

The desperate pulse of his spark slowed to a more calming rhythm. Confusion flickering within his optics, as a faint blue glow peered through the cracks of shattered concrete and twisted metal. Moving the slab of concrete aside, shock and surprise shot throughout Ironhide's inner circuits.

Buried beneath the rubble there you laid- unconscious but... miraculously alive, the air around you was filled with electric and static hum. The blue glow which surrounded you like a shield, confused Ironhide's scanners as he assessed your injuries.

H-Her vitals. They... don't match any human standards. His optics widened, realization making his spark sputter as his gaze trailed to the centre of your chest. Blue veins marked your skin, raiding a faint but unmistakable signature. A... Cybertronian spark?! Th-That's... not possible...

Almost as if the force field surrounding you recognized Ironhide's Cybertronian signature. The blue glow dulled into nothingness, allowing his servo to effortlessly phase through, carefully scooping you into his palm, allowing your braided pigtails to fall away from your face. Relief zapped throughout his wires like small volts of electricity, as you slightly stirred.

"Ironhide-"

"Fine." The Autobot curtly replied to your commander. A mixture of confusion and concern hiding within this words, "Rogue's fine... I'll... take her back to base myself..."

---

A soft groan escaped your slightly parted lips, as you regained consciousness. Instinctively placing a hand over your chest, as if to protect something. Eyes fluttering open, gazing around your surroundings, feeling the soft grass beneath you. The cool night air filling your lungs with the familiar scent of L.A in the distance.

"Rogue...?"

Looking up, your eyes met Ironhide's optics. Concern and confusion still flickering within his gaze, your features softening slightly as a small frown came to your lips. Sensing a silent question that was written all over his faceplate.

"What?" Your words held a tinge of weariness. Your heart picked up the slow pulse of his spark, which sent out occasional bursts of volts as you sat up. "Something wrong, 'Hide?"

A heavy breath left him, hesitation momentarily stealing his words as Ironhide crouched down, his massive frame lowering to your level. "Y-You're... not entirely human... are you?"

You blinked multiple times in confusion, eyes widening slightly. Attempting to pull a coy smile, "w-what are you-"

"I sensed it, Rogue." His tone was a mixture of suspicion and concern, "When the building collapsed... I sensed and saw... the fragments of a Cybertronian spark radiating from you. So please... don't try and be coy with me."

Your features slowly went pale, as you avoided his gaze. Jaw tightening, "I-It's... complicated-"

"Complicated?" the Autobot scoffed, his tone filled with disbelief and frustration. "That's an understatement, Rogue. You're walking around with a piece of Cybertronian tech shoved inside your fleshy body. That's not something you just gloss over!-"

"I didn't exactly sign up for this, 'Hide!" You snapped, gesturing towards your chest. "It wasn't my choice!"

Ironhide's expression softened, his spark aching slightly as a hint of resentment etched into your features. Y-You... had no choice...?

A heavy sigh escaped you, running a hand through your disheveled hair. Your pained gaze meeting his concerned optics. "A while back, a Decepticon... attacked my hometown. But during the evacuation, I was caught in the crossfire... my body was thrown over five meters up the road. Breaking my bones, bruising my organs but... my chest took most of the hit, causing my heart to take most of the damage."

Hands fiddling with the fabric of your cargo trousers, as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. "I... needed a life saving operation, but... doctors said I didn't time to wait for a heart transplant. So... in desperation, my father practically begged his comrades at N.E.S.T to help and they did. Using a fragment of a Cybertronian spark they had on hand to save me."

Ironhide couldn't help but simply stare at you with a wide eyed gaze. The weight of your words settling over him like a crushing wave, as his processor attempted to understand the idea.

"Nobody really... explained to me, how it works- I was just a child at the time. All I was told was that it would keep me alive. And it did. But... it also changed me."

"Changed you how?"

You hesitated, dropping your voice to a near whisper. "I... can feel things- machines, electric like pulses or... energy, Cybertronian teach. Sometimes I hear things, like whispers, when I'm near Cybertronians- regardless if they're Autobot or Decepticon. It's like... a part of me is connected to Cybertron itself."

Th-That... explains so much. Ironhide couldn't help with the dumbfounded expression upon his faceplate, a mixture of realization and shock hitting his inner circuits hard. Causing him to fully kneel against the ground, the way she has this... uncanny ability to handle- yet understand Cybertronian equipment. Her knack for battle strategies- even the way she seems to understand me and the others on a level that goes beyond words.

"You're part Cybertronian." He muttered under his breath.

"I'm still me, 'Hide." Your voice returned to it's soft, usual tone. Placing a hand over his digits, "I'm still human. This doesn't change that."

After a long moment of pause, his processor finally comprehending everything you've said. A sigh, finally left Ironhide, "why... didn't you tell me? I-I..." Ironhide leaned closer towards you, lowering his helm a little more and bringing your hand closer to his cheek. "I... thought I lost you."

A small smirk faintly, tugged your lips. "Yeah, because Optimus and Ratchet would have been just as understanding as you. As it is, almost none of my human comrades knows about my... 'condiction.'"

"Fair point."

Your thumb gently brushed against his cheek, "so... what now? Am I... some kind of security risk to you and the Autobot's now?"

"Of course not, Rogue." Ironhide brushed a knuckle of his digit softly across your cheek. Tucking one of your twin braids behind your shoulder, "how could you ever assume that? You've been fighting beside me for years, risking your life like the rest of us. That... spark within your chest doesn't- and will never change that. If anything... it makes you tougher than most humans I've met."

Your smirk widened into a genuine smile. "Thanks, 'Hide."

A small grunt escaped the Autobot, feeling the subtle heat raise beneath his faceplates. Your smile causing his spark to skip a beat, as he turned away, "d-don't get all sentimental on me, Rogue. I gotta get you back to base, before people start asking questions."

Crouching down and shifting into his altmode, Ironhide couldn't shake the feeling of awe- and a strange sense of pride pulse through his inner circuits, as you climbed into the front passenger seat.

In a way, she's... a living testament to the strength us, Autobot's share with these humans. A low purr rumbled from within his engine, as you gave his dashboard a comforting touch. And as long as she's beside me, I'll do everything within my power to protect her.

[the-slow]

WOE, TERROR PLAYLISTS BE UPON YE

9 playlists, (Tozer, Hickey, Little, Jopson, Irving, Hartnell, Blanky, Bridgens/Peglar, Crozier) 8 songs each. Made in both a davechella "this is what I think they would listen to in the modern day" sort of way, as well as a "the songs are about the character" way. Playlists under the cut. Enjoy!

🦞 Best Shot Here | Tozer* Something To That Tune, Queer Melody For A Marine, etc

Built By Nations - Greta Van Fleet

Houses Of The Holy - Led Zeppelin

From The Ritz To The Rubble - Arctic Monkeys

Iron - Woodkid

Heartbroken, in Disrepair - Dan Auerbach

I Promise - Radiohead

The Curse of the Blackened Eye - Orville Peck

Rounder - Watchhouse

Removed: The Switch and the Spur - The Raconteurs

🔪 Morals/Practicals | Hickey Everyone get unemployed. I will provide for us.

Shove It (feat. Spank Rock) - Santigold

Sinister Kid - The Black Keys

Easy Way Out - Gotye

Judas - Cage The Elephant

Circuit Breaker - Röyksopp

The Future - Mystery Skulls

Big City Life - Kidkanevil

Krazy World - King Geedorah

🥇 Every Gold Thing | Little What if your unread emails turned into a spirit bear and the bear gave you blue balls

Human Sadness - The Voidz

At The Door - The Strokes

You Can Let Go - Half Moon Run

There, There - Radiohead

Cowgirl - Ora Cogan

I Am The Dog - Sir Chloe

Don't Run Into The Dark So Quick - Jon Bap

The Place Where He Inserted The Blade - Black Country

Removed: Romance - Fontaines D.C.

🦅 Smaller Hawks | Jopson Miss Battle Butler Takes Care of Business!!!!!!

Don't Call It Love - Zero 7

Tiny Garden - Jamila woods

Private Road - Bent

You Have My Heart - Ursina

If You Let Me - Alina Baraz

Compromised - Tim Atlas

The King - Sarah Kinsley

Leash - Sir Chloe

✝️ Reborn Clean | Irving John Irving's giant shame playlist

Punish - Ethel Cain

De Selby (Part 1) - Hozier

The Lament of Eustace Scrubb - The Oh Hellos

All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands - Sufjan Stevens

St Jude - Florence + The Machine

Picture You - Chappell Roan

Roses Are Falling - Orville Peck

Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright

🧊 Spared To Meet | Hartnell The Cunty Stander Strikes Again

When You Were Young - The Killers

Yellow - Coldplay

Float On - Modest Mouse

Island In The Sun - Weezer

Lavender - Ray LaMontagne

Plum - Widowspeak

Satellite - Guster

Ends of the Earth - Lord Huron

🐻‍❄️ Unnatural With Thoughts | Blanky The undisputed champion of Rock In Bucket ten years running

Sacred Love - Sting

Life In The Fast Lane - Eagles

Love Me Two Times - The Doors

Theresa Maria - Fine Crowd

Moondance - Van Morrison

Deacon Blues - Steely Dan

Free - Seal

Strangers In The Night - Frank Sinatra

Removed: Reelin' In The Years - Steely Dan

📚 No More Herodotus | Bridgens/Peglar Relapsed. Relapsed. Relapsed. Relapsed.

I Melt with You - Modern English

Holland, 1945 - Neutral Milk Hotel

Love My Way - The Psychedelic Furs

I Will Follow You into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Dreams - The Cranberries

My Love Mine all Mine - Mitski

Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) - Kate Bush

The Book of Love - The Magnetic Fields

⚓Travel Well | Crozier

Untitled 2 - The Green Kingdom ⚓

Fortress Around Your Heart - Sting 🐻‍❄️

You Can Bring Me Flowers - Ray LaMontagne 🧊

Would That I - Hozier ✝️

Sunday - The Cranberries 📚

Spinning - Zero 7 🦅

End of Nowhere - Ora Cogan 🥇

Goin' Home - Dan Auerbach 🦞

Removed: There, There - Radiohead

*PLUS - 8 songs was simply not enough for Solomon "my beautiful husband" Tozer, so here's an extended playlist:

[kermitted-cause]

WoD Meetcute Event!!!

Hi everyone, this is my writing to mirror @naughty-elf-fun's wonderful artwork of Red and Adrian!

The banner is by the brilliant @diableriedoll!

Adrian’s blinker clicked sharply and in regular intervals. He kept his hands level on the steering wheel, and gently rolled his tongue along the butt of his cigarette. It shifted slightly to a more comfortable position. The gas was eased off, and the car came to a rolling stop. Tried as he might, the blinker continued to fitfully assert its presence. With much effort, Adrian cranked the window down, and lowered his sunglasses down to the bridge of his nose.

Virginia was a state he did not mean to visit, nor did he even want to be in. The East Coast was met with long stretches between urban life, vast expanses of flat roads, and the deep belated sigh of nature. Richmond had been a lovely little detour for all three, but Adrian’s grand tour had set its sights for Europe. Sure, the rules were different there, and the roads were less amenable to long contemplations of thought and enjoying the night sky. But, and this was a big but, Europe had odder jobs and nicer booze. Adrian was tired of the same circuits between Princes, Bishops, and the occasional dust up with some upstart prick who had decided to create yet another schism within the sects that existed.

How many ways could you cut an already thin slice of pie?

Finally, after hours directionless and refusing to rely on maps or intuition of any kind, Adrian was clear of Richmond. The I-95, a beautiful feat of engineering and a wonderful reflection of the unending feat of engineering, had promised a return to schedule. Traffic was luckily sparse, a rare miracle, and before dawn, Adrian would be holed up in D.C. in some shit motel, either alone or with some poor fucker with a sob story. And a shower. The place needed a shower. 

As such luxuries of hot water streamed through his mind, Adrian found himself in the odd position of staring at a vague figure in the distance. Their thumb jutted out awkwardly in the familiar ‘going my way’ angle. He checked the time. A few hours before dawn. Fuck it. He could sneak in a quick bite. 

This line of thinking soon faded, as the figure became more distinct the closer the car rolled towards her. She seemed put together but faded, worn out and held together by something Adrian couldn’t quite label. Her hoodie was dusty, the drawstrings pulled taut, and the fabric blotched with a dark, faded mark. In some places, it was stained with a fresher liquid. Even though he could not see any colour, nor had he been able to since his embrace, Adrian knew what he was looking at. The leather jacket atop it did its best to hide the blood, but even then, Adrian could see danger even if it announced itself whilst hitchhiking. 

Honestly, Adrian was not one to judge. His eternal bruises lingered and only faded with what gentle violence he could indulge in. His eye remained swollen and brutal, and his broken nose had decided to spring a fresh leak that required bandaging. At least his split lip was cooperating, with less angry tears across his sardonic smile. 

Two blood covered individuals gazed at one another. Both were separated by the bent metal of a car window; one sat in the busted Cadillac, wearing inappropriately-timed aviators to hide his injuries; the other stood against a metal post, shouldering a bag and concealing herself through her jacket to hide the blood that was most definitely not hers. 

‘Looking for a lift?’ was an obvious statement, but a ‘howdy’ or a ‘hello’ would have slowed things down. The young woman regarded Adrian coolly, and nodded. Her jaw tightened, set into a grim scowl. 

‘You headed towards D.C.?’ she asked, and Adrian nodded. The aviators fell onto the dusty road, and neither one acknowledged it. The woman looked at Adrian fully now, observing his bruises. The backpack was adjusted out of habit, and she pointed a sharp finger at his face.

‘You in trouble?’ She was clearly trying to gauge if Adrian was a serial killer, or a creep of some description. He turned it back onto her, the random woman hitchhiking in the late night. Adrian returned the gesture, motioning towards the dried blood on her torso.

‘Only as much as you.’ 

Silence fell between them, both rigidly glaring and working out the calculations in their mind. It was a risky coin flip, that chance before a tussle, before someone had to lunge first and fuck up a potentially pleasant altercation. Adrian went first.

‘Garou?’

‘Nope. Camarilla?’

‘Nope. You going to kill me?’

‘Not unless you give me a reason.’

‘Fair enough.’ Adrian unlocked passenger door and opened it up for her. It was entirely possible he was going to be brutally slaughtered in his own car, but fuck, did Adrian need directions once he got off the interstate. The stranger rounded the car, and entered. Immediately, Adrian noticed the smell of metal and dust. 

The Fleetwood Cadillac shifted into gear, and rejoined the road. 

About ten minutes of the stilted silence went by, and the blinker remained helpfully stuck. Briefly, Adrian tossed the finished cigarette butt into the backseat, and let go of the wheel to light another. He didn’t think much of it, but the raised eyebrow and the brushing of bright, fair hair seemed to have an opinion.

‘If a car crash was going to kill us, then frankly, how the fuck did we make it so far?’ Adrian laughed bitterly, and returned his hands to the safety of the wheel. 

‘You got a name?’ She ignored his statement in favour for something useful.

‘Depends on the day. Tonight you can call me Adrian.’ he flashed a grin that was blocked. ‘What can I call you?’

‘Red.’ she grunted, clearly, and quite fairly, unimpressed with the man driving. 

‘You sure have a lot of that on you.’

‘It’s not mine if you’re worried.’

‘I can’t tell if I’m more or less worried.’ Adrian mused. ‘You need a change of clothes? I’ve got some spare in the trunk.’

Red shook her head, the cloud of her only visible eye travelling to some past nostalgia.

‘No, but thanks. I just need the ride.’

‘Not even some blood?’

‘I’m full.’ 

‘Thought so.’

Adrian clicked his tongue alongside the blinker, and then stopped once it got boring. 

‘I’m not much of a social butterfly.’ Red remarked.

‘I am a jackass, so polite conversation is not my specialty.’

‘How about we don’t ask any questions, and agree to just sit in silence until we get to D.C.?’

‘Agreed.’ The smoke of cigarettes sank heavy in the car, between the tension and the absurdity of the situation.

Once upon a time, there was a truck driver in Arizona, travelling to Nevada to unload pallets of something important. He picked up a passing hitchhiker, who was quite jovial and obnoxiously chirpy. 

The hitchhiker was quite surprised that the trucker picked up a total stranger, and commented upon this.

How do you know I’m not a serial killer? he had asked.

Because, came the reply, what are the odds there are two serial killers in this truck?

This story came to the forefront of Adrian’s mind as they travelled in the night. There was something deeply incorrect about each of them. Neither Red nor Adrian appeared upstanding, or like members of society that would be so readily accepted by the rest. Perhaps that was the issue: there was no facade or pretense of normality.

‘I know we said no questions-’ Adrian held up his hands as Red shot him a look ‘- but I am curious why some vamp covered in blood decides to walk to D.C.’

Red shrugged non committedly. 

‘Same reason a vamp covered in blood decides to drive there.’

‘Touché.’ 

By now, Adrian was focused more on Red than the road.

‘I am going there for a job.’ he admitted. ‘Some tiff between some Sabbat and Anarchs, something about a blood feud. I’m like a private contractor for shitty jobs like that.’ The mention of the Sabbat caused Red’s hoodie to jolt slightly, as if it were some unconscious buzzword.

‘You got problems with the Sabbat?’ it was a question that had intended to be casual, but Red’s fire still bled through a tiny part.

‘Christ no. I used to be Sabbat. Technically. Anyway, I had an ex-wife who was Sabbat. She wasn’t high up, but she wasn’t a shovelhead. She just was, y’know? I quite like their carefree attitude and their general oomph.’

‘Oomph?’ 

‘Yeah, like spirit, vibe, whatever you want to call it. That whole connection between packs. Beats being by yourself, driving in a car to get paid for peanuts for beating the crap out of Anarch bikers.’ Adrian nearly missed Red wincing, and her eyes snapped sharply to the road. Even though she was in the car, Red must have been somewhere else. The mentioning of packs and being alone was clearly the wrong move. Adrian sighed, and restarted the smoke cycle with his cigarettes.

‘Why did you leave the Sabbat?’ Red asked, the edge in her voice audible. 

‘You want the actual answer or some made up bullshit? I’ll be in D.C. for two nights tops, so I doubt I’ll ever see you when you leave the car.’

‘Humour me. So long as you aren’t with those Camarilla fucks, I don’t care what you are. I just want to know how you enjoy being lonely.’

‘I don’t enjoy being lonely.’ Adrian retorted slowly.

‘So why do all this then?’ This. Whatever the fuck was ‘this’? Existing, being, doing jobs, cracking jokes? Being a smarmy asshole?

‘Sharks need to swim all the time, right? It is how they breathe. They move in their sleep. If they don’t, they suffocate. I don’t know the science of it, but. I’m the same.’

Red’s hardset shoulders did not relax, nor had it from the outset of the car journey. She knew something of loneliness. Perhaps enough to write a book on it, or yell til the stars burnt out. 

‘Why do you do all this?’ Adrian asked Red’s question, though he could hazard a guess.

Despite the heat of the car, the temperature dropped and Red’s posture grew rigid and her being froze in her seat. 

‘I had something taken from me. I want the Camarilla to feel that same loss.’ 

‘Fair enough.’ It was a common enough answer. Nobody did grudges like the undead. They stewed, and had enough time to linger on it. A lonely Sabbat lick, though? Adrian had stumbled into an Odyssey, for sure. He was simply the next step in her quest, barely a fucking footnote in her story. Even if Red ended with a tragic fate, she would achieve something glorious, whether she wanted it or not. Whomever she was after was contending with a vendetta, a streak of red painted across an epitaph. Fucking righteous, and noble. More than Adrian was capable of.

‘You avoided my question earlier.’ Red asserted. ‘Why did you leave the Sabbat?’

‘I have commitment issues.’ Adrian smiled wryly and wiggled his eyebrows, undercutting the almost moment that was growing. Red scoffed in disgust, and half lifted her arms up to move the agitation from her soul to the motion of her body. 

‘Just drive.’ she demanded, and turned over so she could no longer see Adrian. 

Smooth moves, beheading the emotions that nearly spilled over. The rest of the car ride was bathed in palpable bone sickness, smothered in an aggressive anxiety. Even if the Fleetwood Cadillac was halfway through the journey, Adrian and Red were halfway through different stages of grief, of anger, and of the bitter condition that death had denied them.

Adrian couldn’t wait to get out of the States, and start all of it over. He could only hope that Red would manage closure for herself that he could never afford for himself.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

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Friday, May 16

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SCOTUS: Trump violated Venezuelan migrants’ rights with attempted removals

The Supreme Court in a 7-2 ruling Friday said the Trump administration violated the due process rights of Venezuelan migrants in its rushed effort to remove them from the U.S. last month using the Alien Enemies Act (AEA), a 1798 wartime law.

Through its order, the Supreme Court extended its pause on AEA removals from the Northern District of Texas. However, the court did not determine whether the Trump administration can ultimately carry out removals using the AEA. It asked the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit to determine whether President Donald Trump’s use of the AEA was legal and how much notice is due to those targeted by the act.

In other SCOTUS news

Trump is asking SCOTUS to lift a block on mass layoffs in the government. Last week, a federal court ordered the administration to cease workforce cuts. 

Congressional agency rebuffs Trump bid to expand power grab

Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) unsuccessfully attempted to install its own officials at the Government Accountability Office (GAO), a key legislative watchdog. A GAO spokesperson told Democracy Docket that the office is part of the legislative branch, and that as a result, it rebuffed DOGE’s advance.

How to find out what DOGE knows about you

DOGE is going from one federal agency to another attempting to collect and centralize vast amounts of personal information on millions of people in the U.S., including social security numbers, medical and banking records and more.

Under the Privacy Act, citizens have the right to request to know what personal information may be held by federal agencies. And since the Trump administration is funding DOGE as if it were a federal agency, people should be able to make Privacy Act requests to it, too. Here's how.

Louisiana sued over vague proof-of-citizenship voting law 

Voting rights groups sued Louisiana over a new law that forces voters to show proof of citizenship without saying what counts as proof. The plaintiffs call the law a “solution in search of a phantom threat.”

Sen. Chris Van Hollen: This is a “dangerous moment” for all of our civil rights

Sen. Chris Van Hollen (D-Md.) joined Marc to discuss his trip to El Salvador to see Kilmar Abrego Garcia, the Trump administration's attacks on the rule of law and why all of our civil rights are at risk.

"They want to set the stage for depriving people of their constitutional rights,” Van Hollen said. “And that is why this is such a dangerous moment...because if we strip [Abrego Garcia] of his right to due process, it opens everybody up to the same vulnerability." 

This is a daily newsletter that provides a quick and easy rundown of the voting and democracy news of the day. If you were forwarded this email, you can subscribe to our newsletters here. 

Democracy Docket, LLC 

250 Massachusetts Avenue, Suite 400

Washington, D.C., 20009

[goblinparty]

here's a good thread on bsky about what's happening with the judge that was arrested.

the tl:dr of it all was ice decided to come arrest a man who was in court on unrelated charges with only an administrative warrant (aka not a legal warrant), and the judge told them to beat feet, referring them to the chief judge. she also had the man in question leave the courtroom out of a doorway that was different from the one ice agents left through, but still led to the same public hallway.

the judge, hannah dugan, has now been arrested and charged with two felonies.

[collapsedsquid]

The Trump administration said in a court filing Wednesday it cannot comply with a federal judge's order to release foreign aid funding by midnight, despite being directed to do so almost two weeks ago. Lawyers for the Justice Department made the claim in papers filed to a federal appeals court seeking a stay of the lower court's ruling. The filing said that if the D.C. U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals doesn't pause the order, the government won't be able to make the deadline because it will take "weeks" to free up the money it owes. [...]

The groups also said the government's assertion that it would take so long to release the cash "beggars belief." "For twelve days, Defendants have stonewalled and abjectly defied the district court’s unambiguous temporary restraining order," they contended, adding "it makes no sense that the State Department and USAID — which have had no trouble timely disbursing payments for decades before the unlawful funding freeze — would now be unable to do so, but for Defendants’ deliberate efforts to halt payments." "Defendants have erected numerous new barriers to compliance at every turn. This conduct cannot be explained as anything other than willful defiance of the Court’s orders," the plaintiffs said in another filing.

Declaring that the government itself is in contempt of court and must pay a fine of $1 million a day until it is resolved.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Joyce Vance at Civil Discourse:

When I was going through the selection process for a U.S. Attorney, I was worried about my qualifications. I had been with the Justice Department for over 15 years. I’d spent a decade as a criminal prosecutor before moving to the office’s appellate division. There, I had become the office’s senior litigation counsel, and then the chief of the appellate division. I had tried a lot of cases and argued a number of cases in front of the Eleventh Circuit Court of Appeals. But I was still worried that I didn’t have enough experience for such an important job. A U.S. Attorney’s duties are outlined in a law passed by Congress. The statute charges each of the 93 U.S. Attorneys nationwide with prosecuting criminal cases, defending the government (or sometimes prosecuting) in civil actions, and collecting moneys owed to the government. They are also charged with making “such reports as the Attorney General may direct.” U.S. Attorneys take on responsibility for a wide array of issues that impact the Justice Department nationwide, as well as our work with other agencies and with our communities. Most U.S. Attorneys come to the job with a lot of legal experience and some exposure to management—running the office is part of the job. But none of that matters if you are Ed Martin, Trump’s nominee to be U.S. Attorney in the District of Columbia, one of the largest and most important offices. Every nominee to be a U.S. Attorney has to submit answers to a document called the Senate Judiciary Questionnaire, which is used by senators during the advice and consent process. Martin’s can be found here, so you can take a look at how he presents himself.

Among his issues:

Martin supported the “Stop the Steal” movement after the 2020 election. He moved to dismiss pending January 6-related cases as soon as he became the interim U.S. Attorney. He fired prosecutors who worked on the cases and launched an internal review to try to find misconduct, not that any had been alleged. He is investigating Justice Department prosecutors who brought charges against rioters, never mind that some of those charges included seditious conspiracy, defendants were convicted by juries, and convictions were confirmed on appeal.

Martin has never been a prosecutor. Total lack of experience in that regard. Martin worked for a well-known firm, Bryan, Cave, in its Washington, D.C., office for just over two years before leaving to open his own firm. He provided senators with a description of his work that claims 40% of his practice was in litigation before being forced to concede that he has never tried a case. He claims some criminal defense experience, involving January 6 defendants, and he does something I’ve never seen before—when asked for his top 10 cases as experience for the job, he claims a case that is in the office he is currently leading on an interim basis. That suggests his level of experience is pretty slim.

In his interim position, Martin has been making public comments that will impact cases, as in leading district judges to dismiss them. DOJ policy expressly prohibits prosecutors from suggesting a defendant is guilty before they are convicted. Defendants are presumed innocent until proven guilty. Statements like this one, that Martin made on Twitter, are highly prejudicial and can prevent the Department from obtaining convictions in cases where the evidence would otherwise support them.

Then there is also the defense of vindictive/selective prosecution, which can get a conviction reversed. That’s usually a tough hill to climb, as we saw in the Hunter Biden prosecution, but Martin is a defense lawyer’s best friend in this regard. For instance, after reaching out—on Twitter—to express his support for Elon Musk and DOGE, he then suggested he’d prosecute anyone who got in their way. His negative comments about Democrats would taint any prosecution. Courts look harshly on prosecutors who engage in this kind of behavior. As Justice Sutherland wrote in a 1935 opinion, while a prosecutor “may strike hard blows, he is not at liberty to strike foul ones.”

Martin has used his office to threaten views that are different than those of this administration. For instance, Martin wrote to medical journals across the country, stating in one letter that “It has been brought to my attention that more and more journals and publications … are conceding that they are partisans in various scientific debates.” He demanded a response to a series of questions “about misinformation, competing viewpoints and the influence of funders such as advertisers and the National Institutes of Health,” before advising the journal that “The public has certain expectations and you have certain responsibilities.” Martin is an interim U.S. Attorney, and if he had a legitimate criminal investigation, he could issue subpoenas for grand jury testimony. If he had a civil case, there are other investigative techniques. This letter is the work of a dangerous bully. Federal prosecutors don’t tell scientists what to believe and publish.

[...]

Some reporters have recently suggested that Martin doesn’t have the votes for confirmation, which would be great. But Republicans have a way of doing Trump’s bidding. There is no need to look further than Kash Patel and Pete Hegseth.

Confirming right-wing extremist Phyllis Schlafly disciple Ed Martin to a permanent gig as DC Attorney is an insult to law and order.

[saywhat-politics]

Washington — A federal appeals court in Washington, D.C., on Thursday temporarily halted a federal trade court's decision blocking most of President Trump's sweeping tariffs, reinstating the levies for now.

The U.S. Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit said in a brief order that it would grant the Trump administration's request for an immediate administrative stay "to the extent that the judgments and the permanent injunctions entered by the Court of International Trade in these cases are temporarily stayed" for now.

A three-judge panel on the trade court unanimously ruled Wednesday that the International Emergency Economic Powers Act of 1977, which Mr. Trump invoked to impose the levies, did not give the president the authority to set unlimited tariffs on imports from nearly every foreign nation. 

The U.S. Court of International Trade permanently blocked Mr. Trump's 10% tariff assessed on virtually every U.S. trading partner, as well as the president's duties on imports from Mexico, Canada and China.

[sunny-mercya]

Expresso Shots

Tony DiNozzo x Male Reader

Fandom -> NCIS

Requested by -> @sukuna-wafiu

Masterlist

A faint smell of medium dark roasted coffee—long forgotten and cold by now, from its loneliness of ignored attention—brewed with the distinctive flavour of caramel and ginger spice in it, lingered through the room like a warm breeze of early autumn afternoons—when the sun slowly slipped away, with its last few warm breath of light, into the darkness.

There's a particular spot, kinda like a mark or close to resembling a scar, on the orange coloured wall—in between the hung up frames of different scenery from Washington D.C, Maryland and Virgina—and Tony never took notice of that spot till now and he have to say, it looks absolutely ugly to look at it.

Tony didn't even know why he keeps staring at it, because when he gotten back to your office section—minimal surprised to see it empty as, by the time now, you and others of your colleagues should be back from the investigations—after having brought the cups of Coffee for the daily shared break, waiting for you, Tony's attention had been unintentional drawn to the ugly mark on the wall.

You're awfully late, Tony noted—glancing down onto his watch—10pm already and you told him you would be back from the investigations by 4, yet your desk still empty and void of your presence.

»DiNozzo? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the Hospital?« it's Lacy's voice, which pulled Tony out of his stupor staring.

Lacy Lacrosse—or Lala as you would nickname her from time to time, is one of your teammates and close to being a good friend—had been surprised to find Tony still in the office, questioning why no one seemed to have informed Tony—despite him being your emergency contact number one—about your situation conditions and your stay in the hospital.

»What you mean hospital? I'm waiting for [Name]. You guys are awfully late, by the way.«

»Tony....« Lacy sighed out, feeling now even more worn out than before, because Tony genuinely didn't seem to know and now she had to tell him and that's lowkey a point of exhaustion—simply in the sense of having to retell the whole story of what happened again and also making it clear, that you're doing—more or less—okay.

»Tony......[Name] is.....he's in the hospital.« Lacy decided to just rip off the bandaid of bad news in one go, it's easier that way.

There a thousand thoughts running through Tony's mind, when Lacy told him these news, but none of these had stuck—expect for one, getting to you as fast as possible and making sure, desperately hoping, you're alright.

~~~•~~~

Groaning in discomfort, you moved a bit—although this tiny movement caused already a slight wave of pain coursing through your nerve system—around on your hospital bed, hoping to find a bit of relief—because constantly laying on your left side, while the right throbbed painfully, wasn't so comfortable as it seemed to be and especially not with the amount of pillows—to keep you from moving around in your sleep and cracking up your hip even more—being propped up against your back.

Huffing out a breath, after having accomplishing the small task of—although still laying on your left, but slightly leaning back—moving into a comfortable position of posture, you looked at Tony—whose had been sitting on the plain white chair, hunched over and hands folded into a prayer, even though Tony wasn't a person for god or any religious beliefs—a few hours now, barely moving as if he's frozen or didn't want to spook you with his movements.

There was also this blank, almost vacant—as if he wasn't in the current time flow of the here and now—and unblinking stare in Tony's eyes, which brought a ounce of concern to you, because you never had seen your boyfriend like this before—it's just something new, despite being in a four years into a relationship, to discover and given your current injury state it might have short circuit Tony.

»Tony? Tony, love, could you get me a new hot water bottle please?« you asked, voice a bit hoarse and rough, but Tony remains unresponsive, keep staring at whatever there's to stare at.

It's like a repeat—Tony's mind wandering back to these unpleasant memories, rewinding them like a strong gush of upcoming wind after a calm—of the accident in the depths of Virgina's snowy mountains and forest, two years ago.

First it was being stuck in the car—a Queen Cassette on repeat, especially the song Somebody to love, to listen to—which had been sabotaged to break down in the middle of nowhere street, during their drive back to the base—after finishing up a second investigation in the lonesome, ghost walking empty, mountain town—and getting hit by a snowstorm.

And being stuck in the car with you during a snowstorm—which Tony would have find romantic, if it weren't for a case—wasn't the bad thing to happened, it was what had happened next.

After a few hours of rough sleeping on the backseats and when the snowstorm had passed, there had been a fresh bloody trail on the thick snowed up ground and Tony—after having mobile signal again, sending a quick sms to Gibbs and the others—persuaded you to follow these trails with him.

And you even told Tony, it wouldn't be such a wise idea to do so, but he didn't listen—insisting more and more to follow the trail and getting to a possible suspect—and so, one accident lead to another.

What also wasn't so wisely decided from Tony, was to split up and search through the area alone—with nothing but a gun, one extra ammunition and a knife for potential protection—which had lead you into the misery of being getting stuck in a small bear trap (which only had left a good bleeding, swollen ankle and a sore scarring afterwards) and then crashing into a frozen lake and almost drowning if, thanks to god and the fates, Tony hadn't been near enough to hear your scream and barely getting you out of the lake.

Tony had carried you all the way back to an, kinda as it looked maintained enough to be still in use, abandoned hut—which he had discovered—jogging back and forth from hut to car to get some needed stuff.

Once he had started a chimney fire, Tony undresses you completely naked, tending with the first-aid kit to your wounded swollen ankle, before huddling you up into blankets—to keep you from getting hypothermia and a possible high fever—and holding you close in his arms, hoping you would wake up soon from your unconsciousness and being okay.

~~~•~~~

Tony flinched, being roughly pulled out of his thoughts—which resembles fleeting leaves being swept away by the wind—when something hit him one the head

»Yeah?« Tony asks, looking at you with a raised eyebrow of questioning—finding no amusement of getting hit by a paper ball.

You frowned at Tony for a second, before you raised an eyebrow of your own—reaching your hand out for his and it does takes Tony a moment to grab your hand and giving a long good squeeze.

»Tony, you're okay? I've never seeing you spaced out like this.«

»It's all good, just in thought.«

Tony remembers clearly your blue quivering lips and the ashen, frozen cold, complexion of your face—so ghostly, that Tony had to feel for your pulse more than just once, just to make sure you're still alive.

And somehow, while seeing you on the hospital bed once more, your lips looking blue once again—as if you didn't get enough oxygen or being on the brink of hypothermia.

»Care to share your thoughts?«

»It's just.....just.....you know, seeing you like this, injured and in pain, makes me so.....urgh, I don't know.«

Aah. You knew exactly, as it wasn't the first time, what your boyfriend's problem was—while your dad, as a single parent of six (with you being the youngest) children, was hellbent keen on teaching you and your siblings how to express feelings, Tony himself wasn't so lucky and had to suffer through a distance and detached father figure in his life.

Tony had decided not to tell you about his memory diving to your accident—which also caused you a fear of being surrounded by water too long—back then, because if he does, you would ask him what he's talking about as you don't remember any of it anymore.

»Hey, it's fine. I'm not really hurt at all. It's just a shattered hip, nothing life threatening, love. Really, I will be forever bound to desk work and suffer through paper chaos.« you laughed a bit, grunting in pain afterwards from moving too much.

»Yeah, it's just, you did gave me quite the scare, when Lacy told me you're in the hospital.« admits Tony truthfully, sighing out and giving you another squeeze.

It really was a scare for Tony to get told by Lacy—who only came back to the office to get some of your stuff and it was mere coincidence for her to find Tony there in the first place—and not by the hospital or Helms or Gibbs themselves of what had happened to you—although in later realisation they did tried to call, but Tony hadn't his phone with him.

Tony couldn't even imagine the pain you must have been in, after being shot—during the suspect chase—two time in a row into the right hip and crash landing into a window.

»I could tell, with how you rushed inside here, all panicked and both McGee and Jenner apologising on your behalf of behaviour.«

»Well, Jenner wouldn't let me thru to you, had to wrestling him away and McGee was babbling something while waiting for Lacy. Ten bucks, McGee's crushing on her.«

»Twenty bucks. You know how Jenner can be. Be glad neither Helms nor Gibbs are here, otherwise you would have been booted out of the hospital completely.« another laugh escaped your lips.

Tony smiled, hearing you laughter—despite the pain filled grunts whenever you moved your bandaged up hips too much or even slightly—was such a pleasant sound to his ears, that Tony sighed softly in relief and it felt as a weight of tension was being lifted of him.

Getting up from the chair, still holding your hand, Tony leans and down and pressing a soft kiss onto your forehead—giving you one of his charming gentle smiles, which could make your knees buckling weak, before locking his lips with yours for a sweet short kiss.

»Anything else besides the hot water bottle?«

»A cup of (f.drink), please.«

»Anything for you, mio caro.«

[darkmaga-returns]

On March 18, another D.C. Circuit judge seized executive branch powers, enjoining the commander-in-chief from disqualifying military recruits with gender dysphoria. District Court Judge Ana Reyes, who identifies as some variety of LGBT, is a longtime Democrat Party donor and, as a lawyer, litigated against the first Trump administration. We knew she’d rule this way, not only because of her bio, but also because in oral arguments she insisted forcing soldiers to lie about reality couldn’t possibly affect military readiness.

In a memorandum accompanying her injunction, the so-called judge writes an opinion screed citing recent court opinions, the Broadway hip-hop play Hamilton, the Supreme Court legislation Bostock v. Clayton County, and corporate news articles. It would be impossible for this theater kid in robes to write a constitutional legal analysis instead, for the Constitution expressly provides in Article II, Section 2, that “The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States.”

Commanders in chief get to set the criteria, expectations, goals, and just about everything else for soldiers. Accordingly, Trump implemented this same policy in his first term. It was 100 percent constitutional then, and it’s 100 percent constitutional now. If Presidents Clinton, Obama, and Biden get to allow queer soldiers, and all the presidents before to discharge them, clearly it is fully within the president’s power to make this decision.

Ignoring this basic aspect of U.S. law and jurisprudence takes Reyes 79 pages, in Cluster B, valley-girl prose. That’s because Reyes is not a judge, she’s an activist who doesn’t deserve a place on any judicial bench — or in any courtroom at all (except as a defendant). That much is obvious from her opinion, as well as from her background.