#The Political Coup in Process

[accurate-alignment]

Supreme Court justices appear divided in birthright citizenship arguments : NPR full story

This is going to be one of the most consequential things SCOTUS has ever done: uphold the US Constitution, the 14th Amendment, and the rule of law — or... unilaterally capitulate to Trumpism.

Trump-adjacent people have laid out how, in addition to consolidating power, their attack on the 14th Amendment and specifically our Birthright, the Birthright Citizenship we have and hold, how removing that is the pathway to restoring slavery and slave ownership in America à la the structure of the Roman Empire — really! Same people who fomented the "Green Bay Sweep" coup-attempt and violent storming of the Capitol. They're making sure there's a lot at stake here; they'll try to seize all the power and use what power they seize to seize the power they weren't able to seize at first — fascism generally and Trumpism in particular.

[alwaysbewoke]

[contemplatingoutlander]

All the Americans who died in WWII fighting fascism would be appalled by JD Vance's speech in Munich and his later meeting with the a neofascist AfD leader.

Vice President JD Vance urged European leaders on Friday to end the isolation of far-right parties across the continent, an extraordinary embrace of a once-fringe political movement with which the Trump administration shares a common approach on migration, identity and internet speech. [...] The vice president singled out his German hosts, telling them to drop their objections to working with a party that has often reveled in banned Nazi slogans and has been shunned from government as a result. He did not mention the party, the Alternative for Germany, or AfD, by name, but directly referred to the longstanding agreement by mainstream German politicians to freeze out the group, parts of which have been formally classified as extremist by German intelligence. “There is no room for firewalls,” Mr. Vance said, bringing some gasps in the hall. He punctuated the message by meeting on Friday with Alice Weidel, the AfD’s candidate for chancellor in this month’s election, as well as other German leaders. [...] Mr. Vance aggressively challenged the diplomats in the hall in Munich, telling them that their biggest security threat was not from China or Russia, but “the enemy within” — what he called their suppression of abortion protests and other forms of free speech.

It was breathtakingly hypocritical for Vance to scold Europe for not being true to its democratic ideals--much less to do so in a speech delivered in Germany, which in the mid-20th century had lost its democratic institutions because some Germans allowed Nazis to get a foothold in their government.

If you give fascists an inch, they will take a mile.

In his speech, Vance was indignant that Europe has erected "firewalls" against far-right political parties. Ignoring the fact that fascism took over Germany through a democratic, legal process. Specifically, once he became prime minister, it only took Hitler and his Nazi cronies 53 days to destroy the Weimar Republic through legal, constitutional means.

Germany in particular KNOWS if they give fascists an inch, they will take a mile.

It doesn't help Vance's case that in less than a month's time, Trump, Musk, and MAGA Republicans have taken a sledgehammer in the U.S. to the law and the Constitution, and appear to be trying to establish an autocratic if not downright neofascist state.

No politician has a "mandate" if they were elected because of disinformation and lies.

Vance clutched his pearls that the Romanian government just nullified an election because it was proven that there was a deep Russian disinformation campaign to propel a far-right party into power.

Besides the fact that Vance hypocritically works for Trump who attempted "coup" to overturn a fair election, Vance wants the world to ignore the fact that any political candidate who is elected into power based on lies and disinformation is in fact NOT a representative of the will of the people because they were elected fraudulently (i.e., if they had told the truth, they might not have been elected).

Consider Trump. If he had not lied and distanced himself from the deeply unpopular Project 2025, but had instead said he planned on using it as a blueprint for his second term, how many of those swing state voters would have actually voted for him?

Therefore, Trump has NO mandate that reflects the "will of the people" not only because he was NOT elected by a majority of the voters (just a plurality) but because he lied about his true intentions for a second administration during his campaign.

[See more about how Vance hypocritically turns "free speech" on its head below the cut.]

Vance turns "free speech" on its head.

Vance took hypocrisy to a new level in his Munich remarks, when he talked about "free speech":

Just as the Biden administration seemed desperate to silence people for speaking their minds, so the Trump administration will do precisely the opposite, and I hope that we can work together on that. [...] You cannot win a democratic mandate by censoring your opponents or putting them in jail, whether that’s the leader of the opposition, a humble Christian praying in her own home, or a journalist trying to report the news. [emphasis added]

Well, what Vance said is laughable given that Trump, Musk & their cronies have been fully behind censorship of not only speech, but of ideas, which they have demonstrated by:

Purging federal departments of anything related to DEI, including any "words" such as "gender" or "diversity," and any personnel who have promoted those ideas, or who have even attended one diversity training years ago.

Threatening to prosecute private businesses that promote DEI or provide diversity training to their employees.

Purging the study of or mention of "climate change" from government websites.

Withholding government funds for public schools and even universities that teach subjects related to racism, sexism, and gender studies and (in the case of K-12 schools) who choose NOT to teach a whitewashed "patriotic history."

Threatening to go after the mainstream press if they criticize Trump or his policies too much. (Already he has cut access to the White House for the AP's refusal to call the Gulf of Mexico, the Gulf of America, and has kicked important news media like The New York Times from their offices in the Pentagon, replacing them instead with right-wing media outlets.

Threatening to use the DOJ to go after the "enemy within" (i.e., politicians who do not support what Trump is doing, regardless of political party).

And lets not forget Trump's purge of civil servants who have different political views, and who will not pledge loyalty to Trump over the Constitution.

Through all of the above, Trump, Vance, and other MAGA GOP have shown us that they have no problems stepping all over the freedom of speech/of the press protections of the First Amendment over and over again.

I could go on and on about the hypocrisy of that speech, but the bottom line is that JD Vance embarrassed our nation by what he said in Munich. He also presented the Trump administration as being firmly on the side of the far-right/neofascist political parties in Europe.

At this point, many europeans must see very little difference between the US under Trump and Russia under Putin.

How far we have fallen as a nation in less than one month.

_______________ Image sources (before edits/captions): WWII meme photo source; "Inch" gif video source; "No mandate" photo source; "Freedom of speech" image source.

[prythiansprincess]

le coup de foudre.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: my love mine all mine by mitski.

author's note: this was a result of me binging dune and call me by your name. whoever fancasted timothee chalamet as regulus deserves a forehead kith cause look at him. he's so boyfriend coded it makes me sick.

Regulus Black did not believe in love at first sight. 

It was a foolish notion. One that contradicted his pragmatic beliefs. At his core, Regulus was a realist. In his world, love was not a luxury one could afford. Regulus was raised with the expectation to marry according to class, wealth, and most importantly, blood status. The noble and most ancient house of Black only took the purest of the pure. 

After all, Toujours Pur, always pure, had been the Black family motto for centuries. There has never been any doubt in his mind that he would marry another member of the sacred twenty eight. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a question of when. 

During his sixth year, his mother made her intentions very clear. Walburga Black was adamant that he begin his search for a suitable bride. Leave it to his mother to compose a list of ladies she deemed suitable to become the future Mrs. Black. Regulus was to adhere to the carefully curated roster. They were names that he’d seen a million times before. Greengrass, Prewett, Rosier. Girls he’d grown up with and inadvertently had absolutely no interest in. 

Still, his mother was insistent so Regulus complied. He took the girls out on dates. The formula was rather simple: dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town followed by a walk around the city square in which he offered to buy his date a dessert like the proper gentleman his mother raised him to be. Despite the fact that Regulus had the entire process down to a science, the dates were always unsatisfactory. 

He was polite, of course. Opened the door, pulled out their chair, asked the appropriate level of questions to get to know his counterpart, but by the time the appetizers arrived, Regulus was on the verge of stabbing himself with the butter knife just to rouse himself from boredom. 

Regulus placed no blame on the girls. They were only doing what their families had raised them to do. Sit pretty, chew gracefully, agree with his opinions. All while wearing breakneck heels and a smile to boot. It was all terribly fucked up, but this was the world they lived in. 

The more he went on these dates, the more he realized that he didn’t want some pretty, docile wife. What he truly needed was someone who was willing to challenge him, to call him out on his bullshit, to argue with him when his own stubbornness prevented him from seeing reason. Regulus came to the horrible, earth-shattering realization that he probably wouldn’t find a woman like that on his mother’s list. 

As he walked back from another mind numbing date, Regulus grappled with this newfound dilemma. He didn’t want to endure another one of these disastrous dates. He didn’t want to sit through an entire meal making small talk. He definitely didn’t want to disappoint another girl by not kissing them at the end of the night. 

It wasn’t like any of them liked him anyways. Though they loved the idea of Regulus Black, he was quite certain that they wouldn’t afford the same affections to Reggie—the real and true version of himself. The one that Sirius often said Regulus kept in a neatly locked cage.

He wished he could be more like his brother. Sirius had always been the brave one. It was that infamous Gryffindor boldness that prompted his older brother to rebel against his family’s expectations. Instead of heeding to their mother’s ridiculous list, Sirius chose to date Remus in open defiance to Walburga’s orders. It resulted in him getting kicked out of 12 Grimmauld Place and burned off the family portrait, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind one bit.  

In a lot of ways, Regulus envied his brother. Sirius had the guts to stand up for himself. He wasn’t burdened by the crippling pressure of pleasing their mother. In all honesty, Reggie wondered if such a thing was even achievable. As he brooded, Regulus found himself on the shores of the Black Lake. His body had taken him here on autopilot. It was his only place of refuge in the castle. 

Regulus paced the rickety wooden dock. His mind was working so fast, so many thoughts spinning in his head, that it felt like he might work himself up to a fit. This has always been his problem. Sirius often said that he lived in his head too much. He frowned, trying and failing to get ahold of himself. For once, he wished he could just shut his brain off entirely.

Just then, Regulus felt a drop of water hit his head. He looked up and found dark, gray clouds hovering over the horizon. The stormcloud broke open and unleashed torrential rain all around him. Fucking fantastic. The world truly couldn’t give him a bloody break, could it? 

With a sigh, Regulus began making his way back. The ground was sodden underneath his feet, his boots sinking into the sand and dragging behind his black coat. The waves lapped violently across the shore as the wind lashed against the murky waters. Regulus was almost at the edge of the beach when he spotted you. 

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Regulus stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the mouth of the Black Lake, in the middle of the pouring rain, stood a girl with the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen. 

Regulus was fairly certain that you had History of Magic together. He sat behind you in class, passed by you in the halls, even reached for the same book in the forbidden section of the library once, but Reggie had never once seen that smile. The gravity of it threatened to knock the very breath from his lungs. 

There was something carefree about you. The way you spread your arms, tilted your head back, and laughed in the midst of the rain and thunder. Almost like you were welcoming the storm. 

It was only when your eyes locked that Regulus realized he was staring. You cocked your head at him, trailing your gaze from the curls plastered against his cheek to the nice button down and freshly pressed trousers that were now soaked from the rain, down to the shiny leather boots that were now digging into the sand. You seemed amused at the sight of him.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Regulus snapped out of his daze and jogged over to you. Without hesitation, he raised his coat over your head to shield you from the rain even though you were already both drenched. 

“What are you doing out in the rain?” Regulus asked, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’ll catch a cold.” 

You stepped out of the refuge of his expensive looking coat and held your hand out, catching droplets in your palm. “I don’t mind. I just…I just needed to feel the rain on my skin, that’s all.”

You supposed it must’ve seemed strange to him, but the rain always made you feel better. Lately, life had been just a little too overwhelming. There was so much pressure to do well in classes, to hang out with friends while balancing your clubs and sports, as well as making time to write back to your parents. When it all became a bit too much, you tended to come to the Black Lake for some sort of refuge. The rain was just an added bonus. 

If Regulus found your behavior bizarre, he didn’t say. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Well, you got your wish. It’s soaked out here.” 

“I know,” you responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“Standing out in the pouring rain? On a beach where lightning can strike me down at any second? Yes, it’s absolutely splendid.”

Your mouth quirked in amusement. “No one’s telling you to stay out here.” You nodded towards the castle. “You’re more than welcome to take your brooding inside where it’s warm and dry. Not to mention, free of the dangers of lightning strikes, which are extremely rare by the way.” 

“With my luck, I might be the poor one in a million git who gets torched while getting insulted by a pretty girl.” 

“Did I insult you?’ you quipped back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You accused me of brooding.” 

“I didn’t accuse, I stated. Even the Wizengamot would have to rule that you were, in fact, brooding.” 

Regulus raised a brow. “What happened to innocent before proven guilty?” 

“Unfortunately, the evidence is overwhelming and the verdict is set. You, Regulus Black, have been sentenced for glaring at the Black Lake so menacingly that even the giant squid refuses to come to shore. Off to Azkaban you go.” 

“Do you promise to write me letters? Update me of how the world’s progressed without my dazzling presence?” 

“It would be my genuine pleasure.” 

Regulus chuckled at your dry humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bantered like this with anyone, much less with a strange not-so-stranger. You sat down on the wet sand and patted the spot beside you with a grin.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me all about your troubles.” 

Beyond the bleak horizon, the spires of the castle peeked through the gray clouds. Regulus thought of the common room where his housemates would no doubt be gathered around the ornate fireplace for warmth. Knowing his friends, they’d probably be indulging in spiked hot chocolate and playing some childish drinking game. A few minutes ago, nothing appealed to him more, but now Regulus found himself choosing the violent rain and soggy sand. All because of you, his mystery girl.

You leaned back on your elbows and cocked your head at him. “What ails you, Mr. Black?” 

“That depends. How much do you bill per hour?” 

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood so I’ll throw in a free session. Consider it my pro-bono work.” 

“How kind of you,” Regulus said with a serious expression. “My brother’s been nagging me to see a mind healer for years. All that childhood trauma, you know.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips, revealing a set of dimples that he found rather charming. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

“My brother is Sirius. I’m Regulus, remember?” 

You snorted in a very unladylike manner, which only made Regulus grin. There was something so unapologetically you in your laugh that was absolutely endearing to him. Regulus smiled and knocked his shoulder against yours. 

You mimicked the action and smiled back at him. “All sarcasm aside, I was being genuine. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.” 

"Do you often offer therapy sessions to complete strangers?"

"Only to surly Slytherins with sad eyes and pretty curls," you quipped back. "And we're not strangers. I sit behind you in potions. We're practically best mates."

"You think my curls are pretty?"

"Like a little cherub's. Are you quite sure you haven't escaped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? You look like one of Michelangelo's angels. Except with way more scowling." Regulus grinned. He got the feeling that you always said whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. It was refreshing. "There's a smile. See? Our session is already progressing."

"I think you might get more than you bargained for with me, I'm afraid."

You met the challenge in his words head on. "Try me."

“You were right. I’m definitely guilty of brooding.” 

“What happened?” 

Regulus hesitated for a moment. He had never been the type of person to be candid with his feelings, especially not with someone he barely knew. Usually, he just kept his thoughts to himself and ruminated on them in the privacy of his dorm until he drove himself mad by overthinking, but your presence brought him an unexplainable ease. For once in his life, Regulus chose not to question it. 

“I’ve had a long night,” he said, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I just got back from a date.” 

“It didn’t go well?” 

“It was…fine. It’s always fine. But it’s the same thing over and over again, just with a different girl.” 

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a playboy, Regulus Black.”

Regulus chuckled. “I’m not some unscrupulous rake, I assure you.” 

“Yes, that much is obvious from your use of the word unscrupulous.” You tucked your legs underneath you. “So why go on all of these dates if you find them so tedious?” 

“It’s my mother,” Regulus explained. “She has this list.” 

“A list?” 

“Yes, a list of girls that I’m to court. Noble, pureblooded, proper ladies of society that my mother has deemed worthy of marriage.” 

“You’re seventeen years old. Shouldn’t you be worrying about quidditch games and potions exams?” 

Regulus nodded. “Yes, one would think. But my family has always been different. Since my brother left, my parents have been obsessed with grooming me into becoming the perfect heir.” 

“How do you feel about that?” 

He sighed. “Stifled. Exhausted. Smothered. I can feel the weight of their expectations weighing me down every second of every day.” 

“I’m sorry, Regulus. That’s a terrible burden to carry.” 

Regulus shrugged. “Others have it worse.” 

“It doesn’t mean that your problem is any less heavy.” 

To Regulus, the acknowledgement felt oddly validating. Even though you knew nothing of his circumstance, there was wisdom in your words and you delivered it delicately, like you actually cared to hear his troubles. You were devoid of the judgment he'd grown accustomed to and he found that rather freeing.

“It’s just…sometimes I think that I’ll never be the perfect son. My brother, he’s always been the brave one. Classic Gryffindor,” he said with an eye roll. You chuckled, but stayed silent. It was obvious that Regulus had a myriad of thoughts to unpack tonight and you were more than happy to just listen. “Sirius has never cared what anyone thought about him, least of all our parents. I admire that about him, but I just don’t think I’m wired that way. I care too much.” 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you said softly. “Apathy is so common nowadays, finding someone who can admit that they care is refreshing. Though, I think it’s not without limits. You can’t please everyone. No matter what you do, someone is going to have something to complain about. You might as well be yourself.” 

“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus pondered. “All of these girls on my mother's list, I think they like the idea of Regulus Black, but he’s an illusion. It isn’t the real me.” 

“Then who is the real you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m just Reggie. I like playing quidditch and reading depressing literature and memorizing obscure history facts. I hate messy rooms and orange juice and anything that crawls.”  

You smiled. “And what kind of girl does Reggie like?” 

“Someone witty. Someone funny. Someone who’ll argue with me. Someone who doesn’t just nod and agree with everything I say."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want a nice girl?"

Regulus shook his head. "No, I think I need someone who challenges me. Who sees me for who I am rather than what I represent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the girls on my mother’s list are lovely, but I don’t think they’d actually like me if they knew who I really am.” 

“I don’t know, Reggie seems like a great guy. That Regulus bloke, on the other hand…” you scrunched your nose in disapproval. 

“Hey!” Regulus chided, “I’m pouring my heart out to you. That took a lot of courage, you know.” 

“You’re very brave, Reggie,” you said with a grin. “But you know what would be even braver?” 

Regulus squinted in the rain as you stood to your feet. Lightning crackled over the horizon, illuminating you with an ethereal silver glow. You held out your hand to him. “Come dance with me.” 

“Deathly afraid of being struck by lightning, remember?” 

“Sorry, what?” You asked as you shimmied around him. It wasn’t graceful by any means. It was the goofiest thing he’d ever seen and yet he’d never been so enthralled. You danced without a care in the world and it made him genuinely laugh. “I can’t hear you over all the fun I’m having.” 

"This is ridiculous," he said over the roaring thunder.

You shrugged. "Perhaps. But everyone's allowed to be a little ridiculous sometimes. Besides, I was asking Reggie not Regulus."

“Are you really trying to peer pressure me into dancing with you?” 

“That depends,” you replied with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?” 

Regulus conceded with a sigh and leapt to his feet. The youngest Black brother bowed like a proper gentleman. “May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may, good sir.” 

You grinned up at him as he took you by the waist and waltzed with you across the sand. Surprisingly, Regulus let you take the lead. He chuckled when you stepped on his toes and laughed even harder when you tried to twirl him. Towering a good foot over you, Regulus had to fully crouch for the maneuver to work. 

Finally, you gave up the formality and just spun around in dizzying circles. There was absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Just two idiots dancing in the rain with the biggest smiles on their faces. 

Your coordination, or lack thereof, caused you to almost faceplant into the sand. Regulus yelped as you took him down with you. By the time you recovered from the laughing fit, the two of you were red-faced, out of breath, and laying side by side along the shore. He turned over to you and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.” 

“See? There’s more to life than just being moody and melancholic.” 

“So this mystery girl of mine keeps reminding me,” Regulus said with a smile. “You never told me your name, by the way.” 

“Wow, you don’t even know my name? I’m offended, Reggie. We’ve only been in classes together since fifth year.” 

“I—we’ve never been introduced—” 

You broke out into a smile and giggled. You thought it was cute that Reggie was so easily flustered. “I’m just kidding, Reggie.” 

He sighed in relief as you stuck out your hand. “Y/N. My name is Y/N.” 

Regulus slipped his hand into yours. He cocked his head, studying your eyes and your smile and those cute little dimples. 

Y/N. The last name on his mother’s list. The one he saved for last because he didn’t know who she was. 

The French had a saying—le coup de foudre. The infamous phrase translated to a bolt of lightning or love at first sight. Regulus had long dismissed it as flowery prose, but thanks to his mystery girl, he started to think that maybe the Parisians were onto something because meeting you tonight felt preordained. A date with fate. Like a bolt of lightning streaking through his dark, endless skies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” 

You grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Reggie.” 

Regulus smiled and laced your fingers together. He was frozen, it was raining, and he was fairly certain that you were both probably going to catch a cold, but he didn’t care. In that moment, as he stared up at the sky, blinking back the rain, and intertwining his fingers with yours, Regulus had never felt more content. 

So no, Regulus did not believe in love at first sight, but love at second, third, and even fourth glance? He smiled a little as he gazed back at you, letting his gaze linger as he drank in that infectious laugh and sunny grin. 

You made him think that maybe, just maybe, a girl like you could convert a skeptic like him into a devout believer.

[mariacallous]

In 2019, I gave a talk at TED that created waves: first at the conference, then on the internet and then, convulsively, in my own life. TED is Silicon Valley’s sacred ground. It’s the most consequential tech conference in the world and, in 2019, my talk entitled “Facebook’s role in Brexit - and the threat to democracy” was a break with normal service. It was the first time, a speaker had implicated Silicon Valley directly in the political tumult of 2016. It ricocheted out of the conference and across the internet where it’s now been seen five million times. And, most cataclysmically of all, it precipitated a lawsuit that devoured my time, energy and health.

This week I returned.

It was a big deal on any number of levels. For me, personally, for TED, and, I believe, or at least, hope, for Silicon Valley. I got to send a message to the leaders of these companies from a platform that is inside the temple. I’ve lost my voice and I feel like I’ve lived through a tornado….but with the knowledge that it’s one I’ve chosen to unleash.

TED has just released it as the first talk from the conference. I got to name what is happening for what it is: a coup. I call the Silicon Valley companies who attend this conference and even sponsor it, collaborators who are complicit in a regime of fear and cruelty. And I accuse Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, who is talking here on Friday not just of data theft but data rape.

There’s so much to say and I will write more soon but for now I’d be so grateful if you watch it and share it with your families and friends. In spite of everything, I’m grateful to have been given this platform and to be able to communicate what I believe are vital truths but I have paid a price for doing this work and the last week has been a rollercoaster of emotions: doubt, self-questioning, denial, overwhelm, fear.

And in the middle of it, the night before I flew to TED, I went to the Observer’s farewell party. This Sunday marks the end of the newspaper as we know it. Six years ago, I got to write about the experience of giving my TED talk in the Guardian/Observer. Paul Webster, the editor, put it on the front page.

This time around, that’s not possible. TED gave me editorial freedom to say what I wanted. The Guardian/Observer won’t even allow me to write about it, in any form.I pitched a piece for this Sunday about the experience. It would be my last article for the paper, it transfers to Tortoise next week who have declined to renew my contract; an epitaph to my 20-year career there and an an end point to an investigation that brought the Guardian and Observer extraordinary kudos and the most money it has ever raised from any story. It was turned down. That is an extraordinary indictment.

Here, instead, is a still from the talk. I believe that existing movements - the labour movement, the civil rights movement - are fundamental to asserting our rights against Silicon Valley, to rebuilding the internet from the ground up to rejecting the autocratic takeover not just the US but our reality: we all live on these platforms.

I’m six years older than when I gave that first talk though I feel 106 years older. Part of my reason for going through with it - and it was touch and go whether I would - was because, as I say at the end, I’m reclaiming my story. I’ve been trapped in someone else’s narrative. And I also really want to use it as a personal moment of change. In 2016, I threw myself over what felt like an about-to-explode bomb. I ended up absorbing the shock blast from something that was much bigger than me: the waves of destruction that the technological and political changes of 2016 sent through the system. I need to mark this chapter as now over and put back together some of the bits that shattered through this process.

But mostly, the talk is a huge thank you to the people who supported me through my legal trials. The 30,000+ people who contributed to my crowdfunder and held me up. You are the model for what is needed in the next days and years.

This is what we’re up against. This was Palmer Luckey, on stage the day after me. That’s an autonomous missile next to him. He’s a US defence contractor, Trump cheerleader.He got a standing ovation.

In my talk, I could feel waves of hostility coming from some people in the room. TED is ground zero of the AI gold rush. But there was also cheerleading and l’ve been overwhelmed by huge love and support from others who see exactly what is happening. It’s the weirdest time to be here. And it was the weirdest energy from an audience of any talk I’ve ever given. But then, it was intended to make them uncomfortable. Politics is technology now. Silicon Valley is desperate to deny that, but it can’t and no can we.

[catzncoffee]

A little FiddleStan AU I cooked up, more information about the AU below the cut!

I'll probably post a few more characters from this AU later!

Aren't they just the cutest couple? (* ´ ▽ ` *)

BADEND FiddleStan Au

> Welcome to BLIND EYE CO. : Unsee It All!

-To Start us off, Ford sends his postcard over to Stanley a lá Canon, and Stanley immediately drops everything to rush up to Gravity Falls all the way from New Mexico, spending his last dime on gas and driving with as little breaks as possible. At this point in time, Fiddleford has left Stanford and is actively going through a divorce and the process of loosing his mind via mind gun overexposure. Stanford is not doing well, paranoid and extremely sleep deprived, watching for Bill in any eye sockets or triangles that flash in the corner of his eyes. None of them are doing well to sum it up.

- Stanley arrives fresh off a no breaks drive to meet with his estranged brother of 10 years, and while not exactly expecting a warm welcome, a crossbow pointed at his head and a flashlight shone in his eyes certainly didn't help set the tone of the meeting. Or help the spinning in his head. Or the Nausea. Frankly he only caught the tail end of Fords very concerning speech, but at least he knew to follow him down the stairs.

-naturally things devolve from there, Ford demanding Stanley take his research and flee while Stanley grapples with the fact that it's all Ford wanted of him. Spiraling into a physical fight once old grudges are dug up from their graves. A Fight that brands Stanley with a symbol he can't even understand, turning something on he didn't even know the danger of. A singular shove that absolutely wrecked Stanley's world, and the last words "Do Something Stanley!" Haunting the room as the portal that his brother built ate him and imploded.

- Fiddleford notices the gravitational anomalies and panics, going into hiding but terrified for Fords safety against his better judgment.

- Stanley spends the next week desperately trying to peice together both the portal and the journals contents, and his mental health takes an even steeper decline. He sits in the same lab going over whatever books he can find and that stupid journal over and over and over until he works on the portal till the next injury or road block, surviving off of whatever canned food both he and Ford combined had left

- Enter Fiddleford, who couldn't bear not to check on Ford after the gravitational anomalies and continued radio silence. Just a confirmation that he wasn't dead, Fiddleford told himself. Nothing more. Stanford deserved no more from him, after all Fiddleford had given. Just a quick safety check in for the sake of an old friend. A knock on the door, however, brought a slow shuffle towards it and opened to reveal a very tired, very devastated..... not Ford? But also Ford? At least he certainly looked like Ford. But Ford had less muscle mass last time Fiddleford saw him. Less hair too, because Stanford? Have a mullet? What sealed it was the normal, five fingered hands that the Not-Ford rubbed his eyes with when Fiddleford demanded, as politely as possible, to know who he was and where Stanford went.

- Fiddleford is invited in and the two sit on a couch Not-Ford cleared off in this waste zone of a house and explains that his name is Stanley, and he's the estranged brother of Ford. Who also happens to be his identical twin. Ford had called him up to help him by taking his stupid journal and running, the two got in a fight, and Ford got sucked in. Fiddleford felt cold panic settle in his gut, thoughts scattered and memories of what was on the other side coming back in nauseating waves, lapping at his consciousness.

- At first Stanely succeeds in getting Fiddleford to help him with the portal, and he's extatic while Fiddleford is decidedly not. However much to Fiddlefords surprise, he isn't forced into the basement, or working on that devil machine, or even couped up in the study to work nonstop. Instead, Stanley gives him a notebook and pen, and gives a description or photo of the exact thing he needs help with, explains to the best of his, admittedly limited, knowledge what the problem is, and has Fiddleford help. Then, Stanley thanks him profusely and dissapears by himself down to the depths of the lab, laving Fiddleford with the glow of the TV and a warm drink.

And it confuses him.

Greatly.

Because there were very few times Ford mention having a twin; Fiddleford could count them on one hand. But Ford had been angry most of those times, other than the one or two when crying and drunk, saying that Stanley had been 'ruled by emotion' and was 'brash with no tact'. But where Ford had been accusatory and sharp, Stanley had been understanding and toned down. There had been very few times over the last few days Stanley had raised his voice, and it was more out of frustration or picking at a touchy subject than anything. And more than that was the way he would shrink just a bit and apologize with enough self loathing that Fiddleford could taste it, sticky and bitter in the back of his throat. Stanford ignored everything when in a project. Stanley only seemed to ignore himself. Stanley was nothing like Stanford had been, and Fiddleford found himself craving those differences more and more, craving more time spent with Stanley, more conversation, more memories, just more Stanley. A pleasant but confusing change, especially when Stanley's features where so similar to Fords.

- Fiddleford would blame the fact that he didn't notice Stanley's condition until much later into staying back at Fords place on the way his mind was still shifting itself into something usable again, however once he noticed he would never stop cursing himself for how he didn't before. Stanley had collapsed in the kitchen, and it had taken nearly all of Fiddlefords mental power to drag the information on his injuries out of Stanley so he could treat them. The poor man had been walking around with that nasty burn treated the best Stanley could, but improperly the whole time, and infection had begun to set in like a bastard. That wasn't even beginning to speak of the malnutrition, dehydration and multiple other bruises and cuts, some yellowed, faded, crusted over, some fresh, purpled and bloodied all on too pale skin. Scars told of a life that was harder than Fiddleford had ever originally thought to think of, questions popping in his mind as he treated the increasingly more worrying Stanley.

And in this Time, Fiddleford was alone with his thoughts.

Fiddleford was here. Again. In Fords house, trying to save him from himself. Again. And frankly he was tired. He'd pushed past his family in favor of Fords shiny promises and stayed far past when he should have, gave more of his knowledge, more of his friendship, hell, more of his heart than he'd ever thought possible. And Ford still always wanted, Needed, more. Fiddleford had felt all that rage for himself and his life over and over, but feeling it for someone else was new. Yet here he was.

Here Stanley was.

Because really, what kind of man gets a call from a man he hasn't seen in 10 years, basically a stranger, one who never talks about him, and drops absolutely everything to help them? New Mexico was a 20 hour drive from Gravity Falls, and Stanley had driven that with the absolute last of his money, no sleep, just driving. Only for Ford to completely dismiss him for the survival of his research over the world. Fiddleford had no idea what Stanley supposedly 'did' when they were younger, like Stanford had vaguely mentioned and Stanely kept saying in a heartbreakingly familiar tone dripping with guilt and self hatred, but Fiddleford could tell from a mile away it was bullshit. Stanford had no reason to hate Stanley so badly. Stanley had no reason he should have helped Ford after God knows what he went through, but he did anyways. Ford? Fiddleford would bet the last of his sanity just to say that Ford wouldn't return the favour. He never had before.

- Fiddleford spirals deeper and deeper as he treats a heavily feverish Stanley, his hatred for Ford growing into a tangible thing the more he thought. And oh, how much simpler this would have all been if he'd simply met Stanley first. Rougher around the edges but kinder. Sweeter. God the way he was so gentle with Fiddleford even though he had no reason to be. The way he'd taken the existence of the memory gun in stride and stated he'd be here if Fiddleford needed support with it. It would be so much easier if Stanley just agreed to shut the portal down forever. Then they could just live. Together, of course, Fiddleford didn't think he could live without Stanley's gruff support now that he'd had it, but just. Simply live. Without the threat of the world, or demons, or weirdness over top of them.

Without the threat of Ford.

Oh how tempting it was, Fiddleford thought, in the days were Stanley was becoming more lucid while still soft and warm due to his sickness, to just simply erase Ford from Stanley's mind. But that would leave too much of a gap, and as he regains his mind bit by bit, Fiddleford begins to come to the conclusion that the memory gun needed a bit of work, yes, but as long as it wasn't over used then it's intended purpose would be served. Over using included, however, memories that were too big to simply pluck out completely. Its where he'd went wrong with his own treatment, and like hell he would leave Stanley to deal with the consequences of that.

Then, in the last few days where Stanley was beginning to move about in small increments as he shook away the last clawing hands of illness away, Fiddleford realized it. He didn't need to erase Ford completely from Stanley's mind.

Fiddleford just had to erase Stanley's love for Ford.

- So, he was patient. Fiddleford waited until Stanley was well, until he walked with full strength and his laugh was full again, until he was sure that the grown affection Stanley had for him after his illness allowed him close enough.

Fiddleford even made sure his memory gun was freshly updated and tuned to the most perfect he'd ever gotten it, making sure the shot would be clean and accurate for his Stanley's sake. Only the best for that man from now on, Fiddleford swore it.

Then he waited until he'd made sure Stanley was relaxed. Had gone out for the day and convinced him to go out to Greasys with Fiddleford. Had taken Stanley for a walk through the woods and laughed as his eyes sparked in excitement even as he cussed out a gnome. Had curled up together, warm and safe on the couch, watching movies and drinking a couple beers. Fiddleford even managed to persuade Stanley away from another long night in the portal room, asking him to stay to sleep for Fiddlefords sake, which Stanley relented to nearly immediately. It was all just such a perfect day. It all just confirmed to Fiddleford that he was absolutely doing the right thing. He'd be happier. Stanley would be happier. And Ford could stay having his horrific adventures on the other side, just like he had seemed to want so badly.

In the dead quiet of that night, Fiddleford pulled the memory gun silently from underneath his pillow, and smiled at Stanley, sleeping soundly on his chest, and fired it directly at Stanley's temple. The only sound Stanley made was a soft exhale, one that Fiddleford chose to believe was relief.

- In the following years, Fiddleford never regretted that choice. Stanley woke up and immediately broke down to Fiddleford, initially panicking him at first thinking he'd broken Stanley, them realized the man was talking about desperately not wanting to bring Ford back, asking Fiddleford if he thought he was horrible for saying so. After that it had been Fiddlefords pleasure to inform his sweet Stanley that not only did he not hate him, but shared his thoughts and truthfully didn't want to open that portal ever again. Things had moved quicker with Stanley dismantling the cursed thing than building it, and Fiddleford hadn't ever been happier. Clearing out Fords house of anything not safe to research or just plain garbage had been so satisfying too, convincing Stanley with little effort to replace any symbol of Bill with quite literally anything else. The Society of the Blind Eye had been a surprise, after all Fiddleford had never expected a group of people to find his scrapped plans or suggest he ever start them, but it was sweet, professional conman Stanley who had suggested making something more out of it. Afterall, Fidds had wanted his own company once, why not start with this?

- With that, BLIND EYE CO. was born, originally starting as a cover for the Society to do their work, growing into a more legitimate business with Fiddlefords inventions and Stanley's charisma faster than they'd thought possible. Fiddleford even continued the Gravity Falls anomaly research to better understand what could cause what, and which things were better of forgotten. Stanley, however, wanted nothing to do with the research of the journal to help with these findings, stating that nothing Ford had made he would ever want to touch, which suited Fiddleford just fine, in fact it delighted him. With Fiddleford and Stanley as both the owners and CEOs of the company( and the Society not that the town knew) it was no wonder the town quickly came to love them and know them, this large company that gave back to the community and was started right here in sleepy little Gravity Falls! How novel.

- Fiddlefords son, Tate, (now allowed to visit since Fiddleford was 'mentally stable') had taken the change badly at first, seeing his father turn from fine to broken to better than ever before, but warmed up once Stanley showed his soft side to him. Tate seemed to like Stanley better than he ever had Ford, which made Fiddlefords heart absolutely soar with happiness. Stanley and Fiddleford, while it wasn't legal to be married just yet, didn't have a solid relationship with the law anyhow and happily wore matching rings with pride. The memory gun is still in use and is consistently upgraded, with Fiddleford being the main figurehead to use it while Stanley happily sat next to him and did whatever he needed.

- Meanwhile in the nightmare realm, things are absolutely not going how Bill Cipher thought. Seriously how the hell was he to know the hillbilly would come back and steal Mackerel away from fixing the portal?! Stanley should have been getting that portal open to get Fordsy not forgetting he ever even liked sixer! Once again that stupid Specs, always messing up Bills progress. He does, however, get a new idea on how to screw with Ford while he's trapped here.

- Ford is greeted randomly, via Bill, with mirrors into his home dimension, taunting him with what's happening just to screw with him as he survives.

And screw with him it does.

Ford watches helplessly as his closest friend and former partner cuddles up to his frantically overworked brother finally at rest, and puts the memory gun to his head, and sees pure Red.

Ford is now hopping though dimensions with a purpose; subdue Bill, get home, cure Stanley, and Kill Fiddleford. And he won't stop until he does.

- Enter Mabel and Mason(Dipper) Pines, sent to their Grunkle 'Stanford' and his husband for the summer, when Dipper finds a journal that seems to have a page of a diffrent kind of paper hes never seen sticking out. The note holds an incantation written in the same cursive as the journal, and details preforming a spell on a mirror, labelled simply as EMERGENCY CONTACT NEEDED. Upon doing the incantation, the children are met with a shadow in the mirror telling them he's their trapped uncle, he's trying to get back to someone named 'Stanley' Pines, dont make deals with yellow triangles and above all else:

Do NOT Trust FIDDLEFORD

Do NOT Trust 'STANFORD'

TRUST NO ONE

Welcome to Gravity Falls!~☆

[written-in-flowers]

Be the Light: Pt. 7 (SeongjoongxFem!reader)

Pairing: Hongjoong x Seonghwa x Fem!reader | Side pairing(s): Ateez x Fem!reader.

Word count: 6k

Genre: fluff, smut/ AU: historical au, arranged marriage au, polyamorous, royalty au

Summary: YN has spent her entire life in service of Han Sookmyung, Queen of Hanseong. She never dreamed above her station, or that she'd ever be in reach of Sookmyung's concubines, 'The Golden Ones'. But, when secrets are brought to life, her world is turned upside-down.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, heavily referenced torture (briefly), heavily referenced abuse (briefly), heavily referenced sexual abuse (briefly), enslavement, slight gaslighting, lost sibling, political drama, historical drama, joseon!au, concubine!ateez, nsfw content, virgin!reader, polyamory, polygamous, throuple, threesome m/m/f, oral sex (m. and f. receiving/giving), group sex, multiple positions, multiple partners, cunnlingus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, virgin sex, virginity discussed.

Taglist: @huachengsbestie01 @mortalasystem (there were other people before but idk if ya'll still want to be tagged, so just let me know)

Part 6 < | > Part 8

*****

The procession line was longer than you realized. Wagons of the deceased decorated with white flowers started at the very first palace gate and weaved around to the throne room far off. The sheer number of them shocked all those who saw it. Sitting in your open-aired litter, you thought about how long it’d taken the physicians and priests to dress and prepare the bodies for burial. You’d written the declaration yourself, making sure to mention where and when the precession would be held so people may attend. After a few days, you’d learned dozens of people flooded in from all over the kingdom to see it. 

“Do you think relatives will be here, Your Majesty?” Saehee asked from behind you. 

Ever since becoming your handmaidens, she and the others no longer wore Sookmyung’s pure white hanbok. Today, they each wore pale green jackets with plain dark green skirts, the borders and ties white. The four of them spent hours getting you into the red, gold and black layers of your coronation dress. While you had the royal dragon seals on your sleeves and chest, they had the lovely floral patterns Sookmyung hated. Saehee stood beside the litter, the other handmaidens sitting in their own litter behind yours. 

 "I hope so," you replied a bit worriedly. 

 "I still highly recommend you stay inside, Your Majesty." 

 Saehee bowed right when Hongjoong appeared at your side. He climbed into the litter, and you couldn't help taking a moment to admire him. He wore a red hanbok like yours with his dragon seals on his shoulders and chest, a coronet of black on his head with nine beaded ridges held with a solid gold pin. Hongjoong looked like the king he was born to be, regal and sophisticated. How could one man be so beautiful? This was the man they wanted you to marry in a few days. 

"It leaves you out in the open," he continued. Saehee slipped away from your side when he arrived. "It would be a good chance for Sookmyung to strike."

You shifted uncomfortably. "I know," you replied, looking around at the crowds ahead of you, "But I wanted to be here. Wonshik believes it would be good for the people to see me before the coronation." 

"Wonshik has a lot of beliefs," he said bitterly, fixing his hanbok sleeves. 

 "You don't trust him?"

"I think he puts his trust in the wrong people. He had told me we could trust lords who were part of the coupe, but then they turned on us. If he had been more careful-"

"-He could not have known. Sookmyung likely threatened them into helping her if she couldn't bargain with them," you said. "That is how betrayal works."

"This is putting your life at risk-"

“-This is my choice," you defended. "This is something I have to do. I could not go on ruling without it."

"Which I understand, but YN…"

You reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I appreciate your concern for my safety, " you told him, "But I have my guard. They were men you chose specifically. They won't let anything happen to me."

You remembered two days ago when Hongjoong gathered all the palace guards. He told them to swear their loyalty to you, before hand-picking your personal guard. San and Mingi stood amongst some of the guards you knew well, wearing the long red and white layers of the naegeumwi, your royal guard. 

“Hongjoong,” you said, “You know these men just as well as I do. Do you think that their loyalty is for sale?” He didn't answer, sitting stiffly. You could only smile at his reaction. “I also have you,” you nudged him, “From what I know, you aren't exactly a helpless kitten. I remember when Sookmyung wanted you all to demonstrate your martial skills to prove your strength and ability to defend her. You knocked Byungho off his feet, and he is one of our strongest.”

Cheeks tinged pink, he admitted, “I only did my best because I wanted to impress you.”

“Did you?”

“I had no intention of showing that monster what I could actually do, but then I saw she'd brought you with her,” he began. “I didn't want you to think I was weak or unskilled. I wanted you to see that if you needed me, I could protect you. That's all I've tried to do since we met.”

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach at his words. You recalled each time he intervened between you and Sookmyung, wanting to spare you abuse or embarrassment at her hands. He was not always successful, but you appreciated the times he had been. 

“I wish we had met a different way,” you confessed as the horns started sounding. 

“So do I,” he grinned softly. “I thought about it whenever I was alone. I would have come here as a diplomatic envoy for my father. I'd see you standing behind Sookmyung or maybe you'd be a princess now that…” he hid his blushing cheeks by turning his head. “It was something I pictured often.”

You turned your own head to hide your face. To know Hongjoong thought of you in ways outside of friendliness or concern made your butterflies flap harder. 

“I tried hard not to think of you,” you said quietly, playing with the gold ring on your finger. “It was silly but I worried if I thought of you too much, she'd somehow know and punish me for it.”

“Speaking as your betrothed,” he said, “You're free to think of me however you like now.”

The words gave you chills.

The litter passing through the palace gates, the world beyond remained silent. Solemn faces watched the bodies ride by them, more white flowers being tossed as they went past. The sadness filling the air penetrated your lungs, and your smile died. Once again, the number of dead shocked you. You saw the same shock come over people in the crowd, and your heart sank. The people of your city wore ragged clothing, their faces sunken and eyes devoid of joy. You had seen them beg Sookymung for help, for her wisdom and guidance and each time she ignored them. She passed them off to others to handle rather than do it herself. You imagined their suffering: toiling in their fields or shops, trying to keep themselves from the eyes of the corrupted city guards, being harrassed by criminals and being forced to pay high taxes. Parents watch their children suffer or die from starvation. You saw their faces poking out from between the adults, sullen and watching the procession. 

Your eyes stung. 

“YN?” 

“They're suffering…They're suffering and it's all her fault.”

She financed her lifestyle at the expense of her people. She reaped the benefits of their labor and gave them nothing in return. They struggled to get bread on the table while she greedily feasted in her room. 

“But that will change with you in charge,” he assured you. “You will be the queen she wished she could be.”

“Why did they wait until now?” you asked, locking eyes with an elderly man using a walking stick. He was skin and bones with very little hair left. “Why wait until our kingdom is completely shattered?”

“The same question I had.”

“She wasn't going to change. She has been that way her entire life. They watched her go off to war, conquer other lands, kill people by the dozens, and tear her kingdom apart. They knew she was arresting people on false or petty charges just to torture them. They…” your nose stung with the tears, and you sniffed it away.  "I can't fix this. This is too much, too expansive, and too deep. The problems Sookmyung created can't be undone so easily. A few law changes and reforms won't absolve the horrors that will stick with these people forever. "

"Healing takes time," he said, "Wounds don't heal overnight. Sookmyung kept these people living in fear for their lives. That is a trauma that will not disappear quickly, but when they see your kindness, it will start to heal those wounds."

"I'm only one woman."

"Which is why I'm here. That must be some comfort, no?" 

Your lips moved to speak, but a shrill cry broke the silence. Both of you gazed up ahead to see a woman come out from the crowd. Her hair tied back in a handkerchief, tears streamed down her pale cheeks and lips parted in trembling sobs. She held up a shaky hand to one of the wagons, and you saw the pain and sorrow on her face. 

 "Daesung!" she sobbed, "Daesung!" 

"Stop them," you said quietly, as if your words may disturb her. 

"San," Hongjoong called to him, "Stop the wagons."

San called out for the precession to pause, and everything stopped at once. You stepped down from the litter, ignoring the protests of the people around you and walked over to the crying woman. 

 "Daesung , Daesung…" 

"Was he your husband?" You asked her timidly. 

 "Yes," she wept, nodding and wiping her cheeks. "Queen Sookmyung had him arrested when he was poaching in her forest. He was only trying to feed his family!" She snapped angrily, "We were starving! My son was close to death! He only killed a rabbit! Just one, and she threw him into her dungeons!"

Yes, you remembered Daesung. A young man with hollow cheeks who'd hunted in Sookmyung's forest. The guards dragged him in after catching him with a rabbit hanging from his belt. When she saw him, Sookymung flew into one of her rages. She called him a thief and a traitor to The Crown and his country. As expected, his punishment was cruel, unusual and slow. You remembered doing the only thing you could for some: making their death as quick as possible. 

“He died alone,” she cried, “In those dark, damp cells.”

“He wasn't alone.”

“Hm?”

“I was there,” you admitted, taking a step forward. “Sookmyung made me watch her torture prisoners. She sometimes forced me to participate,” a ball formed in the base of your throat, tightening there and creating more tears. “I saw what she had done to your husband, and it was worse than what anyone might imagine. But, I stayed with him in his cell.” You vividly recalled the man’s final breaths, shallow and haggard from broken ribs. “I held his hand as he passed into the afterlife. I told him he wasn't alone. I told him,” you gulped, “That I wish there was more I could have done.” You looked at the people nearby, “A week ago, I was just as powerless as any of you. I believed I could not stand up to the injustices she forced on our people. I lived under her tyranny, letting her abuse my voice, my mind and…and my body…” this made some people gasp in surprise. “But I promise you, as your new queen, I will protect and defend each and every one of you, regardless of age or rank. I will make sure your bellies are full, your livestock are well and your crops prosper. I promise to give back that which has been denied you for so long. I…” you felt tears spill to your jaw, and you held your head up high, “I could not protect the people you see here, but I will make sure they are avenged. Sookmyung will pay for her crimes, every single one.”

You held back a sob. The guilt swirled in your chest, filling your insides and spilling out of you. You stared back at the people, making eye contact with every person you saw. Their suffering radiated off them. If you had only spoken up, their loved ones might still be alive. If you had not let fear overcome you, these people would not be in mourning. You let Sookmyung abuse whoever she liked out of your own self preservation, and the safety of your loved ones. The guilt screamed at the selfishness in your heart. Tears fell freely now, and it took someone holding you by your biceps to keep you still. 

“My boy!” 

“Oh, Soomi, my sweet girl!”

“There is Beomgyu, Mother! I see him there!”

It only took one person to bring them out of the woodwork. You stood by as floods of people broke through the barricade to reach their loved ones. Relatives climbed onto the different wagons, sobbing during their search. You wept, watching parents cry up to the heavens and children cling to the dead. This was Sookmyung’s doing, but you hadn't stopped it. 

“Your Majesty,” Mingi spoke again, his touch gentle but firm, “We must go to the temple.”

You didn’t want to go to the temple anymore. Why go to the temple when you can hunt down Sookmyung and make her pay for every wrongdoing? She could not be allowed to get away with this. Damn a trial. Damn proper protocols. She was too dangerous to be left alive. 

“Your Majesty-”

“-Your Majesty,” Seonghwa said softly in your ear, “YN…”

He turned you away from the mourners, and wiped your tears with a handkerchief. You didn't stop sobbing. Your mouth dried up and your throat ached but you could not stop. 

“This was my fault,” you said through your tears, “I let this happen.”

“There was nothing you could have done for them,” he replied gently. “Sookmyung is to blame for their suffering, not you.”

“I never stopped her. I didn't try hard enough.”

“Trying to stop Sookmyung from doing anything would be like trying to stop a storm.” He wiped more of your tears. “You did what you could for these people, and returning them to their families is the best you could.” He pushed a stray hair from your face, “Come to the temple. There is someone else we must pay respect to.”

King Siwon. Finally turning from the crowd, you returned to the litter where Hongjoong waited. The moment you sat down, you fell into his embrace. His head rested on yours, with his arms around your waist. You let your senses drown in him. Every face haunted you once again. Their screams drowned out Hongjoong’s soft-spoken words. The blood that splattered on your face felt hot, the stench of death came back to you and you nearly vomited again. Sookmyung had not lied to you that night. 

‘It’s a scent that never truly leaves you.’ 

Eyes landed on you as the march continued onwards. Hongjoong cleaned your cheeks again, whispering to you, but you couldn’t hear him. The cries of the mourners kept drawing your attention. You could not imagine the burrowing pain that created voids in their hearts. You watched a pair of twins sitting on either side of a pale, cold man on a bed of flowers. The girls cried almost in sync. One kept herself across his chest, foolishly praying  to hear his heartbeat while the other only held onto his hand with her smaller ones. A woman forced herself to walk beside the wagon, her sobs shattering hearts around her. His face was more than familiar. The baker couldn't afford to pay his taxes. 

Most of the wagons had reached the temple by the time you arrived. Dozens of people sat kneeling before the wood and stone temple atop a flight of white stone steps. A tall Buddha statue stood in the very middle of the large front area, water spewing from the spouts around the platform. People bowed with clasped hands, muttering prayers to themselves before standing upright. You stared at the temple with watery eyes. Deep within was King Siwon’s remains. He’d asked for the Royal Temple to be constructed nearby, so he may be close to his people even in death. Another sob broke your already aching throat. You won’t be half the ruler he was. If there was ever a person fit to lead others, it was King Siwon. 

Your father. 

Mingi and San helped you down from the litter, and you nearly lost your balance. You forced yourself to stand upright, hands clasped together under your sleeves, and walk with your guards. Not making a single sound, you walked past the grieving crowds to the temple steps. You knelt on the cushion Mingi placed down for you, and Hongjoong took his right next to yours. He might as well have not been there. Bowing your head, you clung to the folds of your skirt as you pictured him. A tall, broad man who always walked with his head up high came from the back of your mind. His crinkled smile used to bring warmth to your chest; recalling his deep voice and his hearty laugh that was once contagious. Now, only a cold sweat broke out over you. 

‘Why did you not tell me? Did you fear war so much that you’d separate a mother from her child? Sister from sister? Why did you not act when Sookmyung’s true nature showed itself? Was your pride that important? I’d never known you to be a prideful man before, Your Majesty. Your decision did not prevent a crisis, only delayed it. Your daughter destroyed the kingdom you worked so hard to uplift and improve. The people you cherished so dearly now live in poverty, struggling day to day to provide for their families. Your daughter promised to protect them, and she only beat them into submission with fear and pain. I’m not going to make your mistakes. I will stop her before she harms our people again.’ 

The sounding of a gong from inside rang four separate times. Every time Siwon showed you any favor came back to you. 

The time he let you sit on his lap as he showed you a map of Korea, explaining each territory to you. 

The time he sat you on his horse during a hunting trip when your feet started aching, right after telling Sookmyung that nobody sits atop a king’s horse. 

The gifts. The treats. All the shared smiles and laughter broke through your thoughts. Did he feel love when he saw you or regret? Guilt? Was it his way of apologizing for what he’d done? In his last moments, did he whisper for forgiveness? You didn’t know. He had already passed on when you were allowed to see him. You learned later that not many people saw him on his deathbed. These were questions nobody but Siwon could answer. 

It was his shaking that caught your attention. You looked over to see Hongjoong’s fists curled tightly into his coat. Your pain must be nothing compared to his. He’d watched his entire family die, brutally slaughtered before Sookmyung captured him. 

“...I couldn’t save you…” you heard him say to himself. 

You put your hand over one of his fists, not squeezing but gently resting. Fast, thick tears fell to his jaw, the droplets falling to his chest. You wondered then if he’d ever truly mourned his family. You had only seen their bloody, lifeless corpses: a woman with Hongjoong’s eyes and nose, a man with his skin tone and ears, a younger boy no older than sixteen, another only twelve and a little girl of ten. He must think of them each day. 

Soon, someone bid you to stand, but neither of you stood right away. It took Hongjoong several thick gulps, deep breaths and quickly wiped cheeks before he moved with you. He held his head up high, doing his best not to let the people around see his puffy eyes and trembling lips. You wished right then that the both of you went to Wonju, where his family was buried. Perhaps once this was over and Sookmyung was defeated, he could go. The other concubines could go to theirs as well. They can go wherever they wish. You looked ahead to see they’d followed behind in their own litter. Each of them knelt towards the back, tears and sobs shaking their shoulders. You did not interrupt them; you only walked ahead. 

It was Queen Jisoo who freely wept. Sitting with your mother, who also knelt, she held a hand to her mouth as she cried. Her husband. The love of her life. Other than your own parents, you’d never seen two people more in love than Jisoo and Siwon. They’d been betrothed: Jisoo was a noblewoman from Daegu, and Siwon was Crown Prince. She’d told you and Sookmyung that even though they were strangers at first, love blossomed between them over time. Siwon worshiped his wife, and she deeply cherished him. Sookmyung used to gag whenever her parents were together, but you’d always found it sweet. You remembered Jisoo’s catatonic state when he died. A piece of her had gone with him, and now is when she mourns it once again. 

“She would have loved you,” his cracked voice broke into your thoughts when you sat in the litter. 

“Hm?”

“My mother,” Hongjoong sniffled. “You two are very much alike. I think she would’ve approved our match. Ha, she might have even suggested it herself.” He smiled fondly, “Hyunmi would have loved you too. She was so sweet and friendly towards everyone. She kept telling our mother she wanted a sister. My mother used to say when one of her brothers married, she’d have a sister-in-law, which is just as good. It was her way of telling us she didn’t want any more children. I didn’t blame her. My youngest brother, Hojun, was a rascal. He loved to play pranks and liked telling jokes to the servants. He would’ve been an actor if he hadn’t been a prince,” he chuckled. The chuckle slowly then turned into another sob. Several minutes passed before he spoke again, “They had tried getting away. My father ordered them to go through the secret passages in the palace, which would’ve gotten them to safety, but we were betrayed. Someone told her about the passages. They were waiting for us by the exit. My brother, Beomjoong, and I killed a few of them but we were overpowered. We were young boys who’d never seen real combat. They were seasoned soldiers. They…” he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. 

“You don’t need to tell me the rest,” you told him, sliding closer and grabbing a handkerchief. “I know.” 

“I’m not letting that happen again,” he told you, his resolve turning firm. “I couldn’t protect them, but I will protect you, YN,” he cupped your cheek, not bothered by those noticing the affectionate touch. “Nobody will harm you as long as my heart still beats.” 

Then he kissed you. Not the chaste, light kind Sookmyung sometimes gave when she wanted to shock you. His lips sealed gently over your own, warm and salty from tears, and gave soft pecks at first. Then, cupping your chin, he deepened it little by little until your mouth opened for him. The foreign feeling of his tongue gently brushing yours warmed your insides. Never had anyone kissed you this way. His hand slid from your chin to your jaw, where he held you as it continued. Several days might have passed by the little world of Hongjoong’s lips. Your hand touched his wrist, not to pull away but simply hold a piece of him. 

“Um,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, “I’m-I’m…Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean to do it here.” He said this, yet did not move away from you. “I’d planned on this being somewhere a bit more private.” 

You both giggled, “The Queen and Advisor Wonshik will likely be thrilled by this open display of affection,” you noted, already hearing it from them later. “They’ll probably say it’s a showing of our union and that I am a person capable of love.”

“You don’t need me to prove that,” he said, pecking your lips. “But please, continue to drive the idea into people.”

Kissing Hongjoong pushed out every face from your mind. Their painful screams could not reach you through his soft sighs, or through the faint peach blossom coming from his skin. You let him overcome your senses as he kissed you once more. The two of you only pulled away when the litter stopped and someone coughed. You looked to see San standing at your side, waiting for you to step out. Cheeks burning, you let him help you out and tried not meeting his eyes. 

You suddenly became aware of the people watching you. The nobility of Hanseong bowed as you passed them on your way to the throne hall. The haze Hongjoong’s kisses left behind slowly faded while you walked. The litter had stopped right at the steps, where someone rolled out a long carpet for you to walk on. Your eyes looked up to the decorative ceiling above, and saw the mural the old kings of Hanseong painted. Your ancestors, who’d shaped Korea into the kingdom it is now, likely never imagined a problem like this. 

Siwon told you of King Han Seojun, the First King. He came to Korea from the south, looking for a settlement for his displaced people. He led them to new lands, building a home and writing their names on the earth. He helped build the very palace you stood in now. 

King Han Sindae, the Reconciler. He’d brought the kingdom of Korea from separate factions into one united nation. He’d used his diplomatic skills to settle disputes between the families through marriage pacts, alliance agreements, and even sometimes force. 

King Bongsang, the Warrior King. Siwon told you he’d been the first king to go into battles himself, leading his men to victory or death. Not for glory, he’d explained, but because he believed a ruler should do what was necessary for their subjects. When invaders from the north threatened his kingdom, he didn’t hesitate to strike. He showed bravery in the face of his enemies, and became the shield his people needed. 

You’d never be a ruler like them. You might have learned at Sookmyung’s side, but you aren’t fit for the title of ‘Queen’. For a brief moment, you considered running away from this. You did not have to accept it. Yet, you knew that doing that would make Sookmyung’s return easier. If she returned, her revenge would be slow and painful for everyone. You couldn’t let that happen again. 

“The Queen is entering!” A man called as a group played horns, drums and cymbals behind him. 

You did not lower your head this time. The music continued as you walked down the aisle passed lords and ladies, all of them bowing to you. Sookmyung always soaked in the pride this gave her. You could only feel the nerves bubbling in your stomach. You’d give anything to be back in the litter with Hongjoong. 

You walked to the throne, and finally saw the largest change in the room. The ostentatious, disrespectful work Sookmyung did to her father’s throne had disappeared. The Phoenix Throne, as it was called for centuries, had been restored to its former appearance: a red wooden chair with its gold cushions, the dragons of royalty carved into the sides of it, and the tall sun and moon screen behind the back. You remembered the time you scraped your knee running across the throne room, and he’d sat you in his throne to tend to your injury. Had he done that to see what you looked like on the throne instead of Sookmyung? 

On both sides of the throne sat the Royal Advisors and Queen Jisoo. They all stood up from their seats as you reached the steps. It was Jisoo who held a golden crown on a velvet cushion on her lap. Made of pure gold, the small jade stones stuck out against the branch-like stalks, with two antlers dripping with more gems at the very front. Sookmyung hated the official queen’s crown. She said it hurt her neck, and it was too tall. You’d always thought it was beautiful, even now when it seemed so intimidating. You reached her seat, and knelt on the cushion in front of her. 

Jisoo said nothing as she placed the crown on your head. It did weigh, but you remembered what Siwon once said when you asked if his crown was heavy. 

‘Yes, with responsibility.’ 

Sookmyung shirked from her responsibilities. You would not. Even if you didn’t feel up to the task, you would try. 

Then, you felt something shift in front of you. Jisoo, despite her aching joints and sickness, shakily stood from her wheelchair. Your mother rushed to aid her, but Jisoo subtly waved her away. Jaws dropped and you heard a soft murmur waved through the crowd as she stood to her full height. You worried she may fall over, but she remained strong. She stood upright, head raised, as she spoke. 

“All hail, Han YN, Queen of Korea and Lady of Hanseong!” she called to the room, her voice bouncing off the walls. “May her reign be long and prosperous! All hail The Queen!”

“All hail The Queen! All hail The Queen!”

The words struck you straight in the chest. Jisoo carefully sat back down while you rose from your cushion. On your own, you walked up the steps to the throne and stood before it. In your robes of red, black and gold, the crown glittering in the morning light, you tentatively sat on the wooden throne. The world looked different from the actual seat. Right when you sat down, the crowd fell silent. You saw Hongjoong standing nearby, eyes glittering with tears. To think only moments ago, you’d been kissing him. Now, in a few days, you’ll be sitting here again with him at your side. 

The crowd continued their cheering a bit longer before falling silent. Then, one by one, Wonshik called the lords and ladies of the land up by name. Each one got to one knee, swore their allegiance and fealty to you, which you granted and thanked them for as Jisoo instructed beforehand. When they finished with nobility, military officials and guards did the same. Everyone seemed eager to show their allegiance to the new queen. A voice spoke to you in the back of your mind. 

‘Words mean nothing. A bit of gold with the promise of land and power can sway anyone.’ 

The ceremony was over before anything truly sunk in for you. As you stepped down from the throne, the gravity of the moment sunk down to your feet. Neither handmaiden nor princess, you held the title of ‘Queen’, and you knew that would anger Sookmyung. 

You feared what might come from that. 

****

‘Beomjoong, run!’

‘I won't leave you!’

‘I said ‘go'!’

He recalled his brother's determined face in the half light of the hidden passage. Hongjoong still felt the humidity on his skin, the only rush of air coming from the small cove beneath the palace. He saw the little row boat that would carry him and his brother to safety. It had been too late to save his youngest brother and sister, but Beomjoong was alive. The guards who'd been with them fell at the enemy's swiftness. It was only the two princes. He'd told Beomjoong to run when the men closed in on them. He'd hold them off while his brother escaped. That didn't happen. 

Beomjoong's bloody face and clothes remained a permanent image in his mind. Little Hojun and Hyunmi went first, being slaughtered right beside their parents. Hongjoong tried. He'd struggled against the men holding him, begging Sookmyung to spare them with tearful eyes. She only returned them with harsh coldness. 

“She's going to be a wonderful queen,” he overheard Wonshik tell Seonghwa as they left the throne room. “The people will see she is the ruler we need soon enough.”

Yes, you would be. Even if you didn't fully believe in yourself, Hongjoong knew your reign would be historical. Your declaration of justice surprised many people, their eyebrows raised as they exchanged glances. He'd never known the true extent of Sookmyung’s crimes until today when he saw the bodies. Those who managed to leave with their lives would never be whole either. They deserved justice for what she'd done to them. It wouldn't erase the horror, but it'd begin to heal the soul. The people must see that if you are going to do what you can to help them. He'd be right beside you. 

“Didn't she do well today, Your Grace?” 

Queen Jisoo came up beside him in her wheelchair. He'll admit seeing her rise from her chair shocked him. Sookmyung always made it seem as if she'd never stand again. He saw the toll those few minutes took by the tiredness in her eyes. He knew why she'd done it, but he couldn’t help pitying her. 

“Yes, she did,” he nodded in agreement. Hongjoong knew what she came to discuss with him. 

“I saw you both in the litter on the way back. You two seem to be warming up to one another. Though, I wish you had been more discreet.”

Hongjoong hid his blushing ears again. He hadn't meant to kiss you so brazenly. He originally planned on doing it much later in the garden or a quiet room away from others. Not to take advantage of you, but to express his feelings for you in a private place. Yet, seeing you there next to him, puffy eyed and sniveling, he wanted to comfort you. He wanted to kiss away every tear and chase away the dark clouds filling your head. Hongjoong hoped he and Seonghwa would be the candles lighting your way in darkness; the comfort you seek after a tiresome day. He needed you to know he would be at your side no matter what happened next. 

“The people should see their future monarchs in a warm light,” he excused. “It will show them that this is a love match and not a cold political one.”

His parents had been a love match. His father told him how they met. She had been a seamstress's apprentice, and often visited the palace with her mentor. She had fallen for him first, but he'd fallen harder. They had told Hongjoong he could marry whoever he wished, regardless of birth. He wanted to marry you, and he sensed you wanted it too. 

“Is it a love match?” she asked, smiling knowingly at him. “Will Seonghwa also be involved in this match?”

He whipped his head over to her as they reached the palanquin to the garden. 

“I know about you two,” she said before he could speak. "Sookmyung told me about how she'd make you 'perform' in front of her."

 Hongjoong hated how she made it sound. The words sounded wrong and perverse coming from her. He wasn't entirely innocent when he arrived at the palace. He knew men could be with men and women could be with women. Hongjoong kissed a stableboy or two back home. Yet, those times had been consenting. He'd known and liked the person he kissed. When Sookmyung pushed him to have sex with Seonghwa, finding amusement in making them uncomfortable, it had been awkward and stiff. It felt that way each time. It had been after a harvest festival celebration where they kissed on their own. Hongjoong thought of Seonghwa's plush lips sealing over his, tasting of mint and wine. The kiss blossomed something deep inside him; it placed a seed in the dead soil of his heart. A silver lining in the black cloak hanging over his life.

 "She can't be seen having two lovers," Jisoo continued after his silence. "People may start making comparisons between her and Sookmyung, and we can't have that. They need to see she is the exact opposite. I implore you to-"

 "-I think you underestimate how discrete we can be," he cut her off. "Nobody knows the things that went on in the garden. It will stay that way. Besides, she might not want that. She isn't Sookmyung."

 The group reached the entry gate of the queen's residences. Hongjoong's brow furrowed, and he left his palanquin to speak with San. 

 "San, why are we here? She was going back to the garden."

 "Advisor Wonshik told her returning to the harem might give off the wrong impression."

 "Sookmyung knows this place inside and out," he retorted. "She can easily slip in here and slit YN's throat."

 "She will have us with her," San said, nodding to Mingi who was helping you climb out of your own palanquin. "She'll be safe. People will talk if they see her going in there. "

 He watched you walk into the residence on shaky legs. Hongjoong moved to follow before someone grabbed his arm. 

 "Don't," Seonghwa's deep voice said in his ear. "Her image matters more than ever right now, and her being with any of us might give people the wrong impression."

Deep down, Hongjoong knew they were all right. Once you're both married, things will be different but not now. Betrothed couples aren't allowed to be alone, so that alone might raise eyebrows. If there was one thing Hongjoong hated about court was the hypocrisy. The same people who stare down their noses at the behavior are the ones who indulge in it the most. Sookmyung did it because she didn't care, but he knew you would. 

"Keep an eye out," he told San, who nodded. "Put a guard near the bedroom, and another outside the sitting room. There are secret passages there. She could use one of them if she somehow gets into the palace."

Hongjoong spent a good amount of time with Junhwan, captain of the guard, about strengthening the palace security until Sookmyung is caught. He waited for you to disappear past the door before getting back into his palanquin. You have Mingi and San watching over you. You will be fine. You will be safe.

****

A/N: I'm so sorry these updates are so slow :( I really do want to finish this fic since I know so many of you guys are waiting on it. I know this was pretty angst heavy but I hope you still liked it <3

[azspot]

We are in the midst of a political coup that, if successful, would forever change the nature of American government. It is not taking place in the streets. There is no martial law. It is taking place cubicle by cubicle in federal agencies and in the mundane automation of bureaucracy. The rationale is based on a productivity myth that the goal of bureaucracy is merely what it produces (services, information, governance) and can be isolated from the process through which democracy achieves those ends: debate, deliberation, and consensus.

Anatomy of an AI Coup

[ms-demeanor]

Knowledge Fight anon again - thank you for the list and recs! I look forwatd to checking them out. I was excited to see there's a West Wing podcast because I enjoyed that show, but yourself and the hosts hate it so maybe not for me lmao. Though I will still give the first episode a listen - very curious to understand why our feeligns about the show differ so vastly. And if you -want- to rant about why you hate TWW - feel free! I'm genuinely curious - I'm European, have never lived in the US, so for me it was one of the biggest tools of learning how US politics work, which made it absolutely fascinating to watch.

Anyways! I'll be looking at the other podcasts as well, they all seem very interesting, and the common-denominator format you describe them having does jive with me. Thanks again!

My very republican father and sister very much wish that all democrats would act like the democrats in the west wing. It's touted as a point of honor and a great example of compromise when Democrat Jed Bartlett appoints a republican justice to the Supreme court, any time there's an environmentalist or a union supporter on the show they're painted as extreme and uncompromising, in the later seasons the Jimmy Smitts character is running as a democrat on a pro-school-vouchers, anti-tenure/union (so anti-public school, basically) platform, the show as a whole is against entitlements (free college especially is something the ostensible dems in the show aren't even interested in enough to lament).

Idk at a certain point it gets frustrating to see anti-abortion, anti-gay marriage, anti-healthcare republicans being praised as the mature compromisers in the room with complicated motivations and good points when every time a leftist protest shows up it's a warehouse full of people without enough message discipline to talk to to cameras without erupting into a shouting match and getting brushed off as whiny babies by toby zigler.

"Oh, we need CJ to look a little loopy, let's have her agree with these cartographers who are pointing out that the mercator projection privileges the global north." "Oh we need to present something that's a ridiculous waste of money, how about a wildlife crossing that would prevent keystone species injuries in an area of urban incursion, that's bullshit that we shouldn't spend money on." "Oh, we want to explain why big pharma can't provide free HIV meds to african nations in 2003, let's suggest that it wouldn't matter even if they did because *Africans don't have clocks and can't take meds 12 hours apart.*" "this hollywood producer is pushing too hard for gay marriage in 2007, let's lecture him about how you need to slow down and respect the process instead of being an activist about it"

There's this interview with Aaron Sorkin where he's saying "America used to be the world's heroes, when my dad was a soldier people would say 'thank god, the Americans are here' and they don't say that anymore and it's because of Donald Trump" - Sorkin totally ignores US imperialism and the way that people in Vietnam and Iraq and Afghanistan wouldn't say 'thank god, the americans are here' to an extent that is genuinely startling, and that shows up in the show. At one point in the show president bartlett okays the assassination of a foreign leader and says 'today we enter the league of ordinary nations' as though the US hasn't backed coups or assassination around the world, as though the CIA isn't a thing, as though Henry Kissinger isn't a thing, and it's *bizarre* from a show that is supposed to be politically aware.

I'm actually super hesitant to recommend the west wing thing to general audiences because i don't always agree with the hosts or their guests but as an analysis of the surprisingly right-leaning politics of the show it's a worthwhile listen.

It's honestly something i could rant about for way too long because I had early warning signs about it. My sister *loves* this show and its politics. She's got a "my president is Jed Bartlett" sticker that she keeps next to her signed copy of one of Ann Coulter's books. If my sister thinks your liberal character is reasonable and level headed and has good policy positions, your liberal character isn't all that liberal.

The show is steeped in American exceptionalism and imperialist apologia but it's got a tearjerker soundtrack and maybe the best and most charming cast ever assembled so you ignore it when CJ wants to brush off constitutional protections against illegal search and seizure or cruel and unusual punishment (she's a huge fan of cops and intelligence agencies and not a fan of oversight) or when she shits on affirmative action (she believes her father lost his dream job to a less qualified candidate who was selected due to minority status, and that that job loss led to his mental decline - CJ Craig thinks that DEI hiring practices killed her father) because Allison Janney is an incredibly talented and charismatic actress who is elevating the hell out of her character.

But, you know, it would be kind of fucked up if a Democrat president's chief of staff was cheerfully on-record about the fact that she thinks intelligence agencies are more effective when nobody knows what they're doing so we should leave them to their own devices.

Thank you for the opportunity to rant i cannot fucking stand this show and i kind of want to do an episode-by-episode breakdown of various flavors of bullshit but there are much better things to do with my time so i don't but it's nice to have a chance to yell about the stuff that makes me crazy off the top of my head.

That said: if you want a podcast that is less vitriolic but does actually get into how parts of the US political system work, check out 5 to 4, which is a podcast by 3 lefty lawyers talking about Supreme Court decisions. It's great!

[unsolicited-opinions]

It's always hilarious when I see the dates on your posts because in NZ we go day/month/year.

So when I see your posts, for example one I saw just now dated 5/9/25, I'm like "oh cool post from the future". Then my brain catches up and goes "oh wait no that's not right, time travel doesn't exist. Amercian date duh"

(Please never change your date system, I enjoy the moment of confusion)

Can we talk about how weird the US is?

Most of the world uses DD/MM/YYYY, but the US uses MM/DD/YYYY

Most of the world uses Celsius, the US uses Fahrenheit.

Most of the world is metric, but the US won't let go of Imperial units.

The US is the only wealthy nation without universal healthcare.

Most of the world uses 220–240V electricity, the US uses 120-Volt

I read that only the US and New Zealand allow direct-to-consumer pharmaceutical ads.

The US is the only nation that ties many aspects of adult life (housing, employment, loans, insurance rates) to a secretive algorithm-driven credit score system.

Many countries vote on weekends or have national holidays for elections. The US votes on a Tuesday - and it's not even a federal holiday.

College sports are not an industry ($18-$20 billion per year!) anywhere but in the US.

The weirdest difference about Americans...is that they're largely unaware of how weird the US is among other nations.

It's funny. I was looking at the above and thought, I should make a list of things about the US I'm proud of! Some of the ways it is positively exceptional!

So I started making a list...and had to face the reality that Trump is attacking all of them.

1. Constitutionally Protected Free Speech

The US has some of the strongest legal protections for freedom of expression in the world - including unpopular, offensive, or political speech.

Unlike many democracies, "hate speech" laws don’t exist in the same form, and government censorship is much more restricted.

Trump hasn't dismantled free speech (yet), but he attacked the free press as "the enemy of the people," encouraged and filed lawsuits against journalists, and floated ideas like expanding libel laws to target critics. While not policy, this rhetoric chills speech and emboldens authoritarianism. His attempts to illegally de-fund public broadcasting are nakedly political, motivated by his distaste for the content of NPR and PBS, and in violation of the First Amendment.

2. Invention Culture

The U.S. is uniquely good at turning wild ideas into world-changing innovations: the airplane, the internet, the smartphone, GPS, social media, electric cars, AI, and yes, even the moon landing.

American culture prizes risk-taking and rewards failure as a learning process - rare in most countries.

Trump's immigration limits (like the H-1B visa crackdown) restricted access to top global talent, which could weaken innovation long-term. His attacks on institutions of higher education will dramatically slow technological innovation and destroy research programs. The brain drain to other nations of technical, scientific expertise has already started.

3. Higher Ed Research Powerhouse

The U.S. is home to nearly all of the top global research universities and attracts more international students than any other country.

American universities lead in medical, technological, and scientific breakthroughs.

Trump slashed funding for scientific research and gutted federal advisory panels.

Anti-intellectualism and attacks on elite universities (especially during COVID and around DEI issues) undermined trust in American academia and discouraged international students.

He also restricted foreign researchers, especially from China.

4. Peaceful Transfers of Power (Mostly)

The US had a long history of peaceful democratic transitions, without coups, assassinations, or military takeovers - uncommon for such a large and diverse nation...and then came Trump.

Trump's refusal to accept the 2020 election results, pressuring officials to overturn it, and inciting the January 6th insurrection are considered by legal scholars and bipartisan commissions as an unprecedented attack on American democracy.

5. National Parks System

The US pioneered the idea of preserving vast, stunning natural landscapes for public enjoyment - Yellowstone was the world's first national park.

The National Parks system is the gold standard for conservation tourism.

Trump opened millions of acres of protected lands to drilling, mining, and commercial use, including rolling back protections at Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante.

His administration also weakened the Endangered Species Act and gutted environmental regulations.

6. Civil Society Strength

The US has a thriving network of grassroots organizations, non-profits, advocacy groups, and independent media that hold institutions accountable and mobilize citizens.

Trump has attacked watchdog groups and frequently tried to delegitimize civil society institutions, especially those related to voting rights, environment, and racial justice.

His administration also attempted to weaponize the IRS and DOJ against political opponents.

7. Free & Open Internet

Despite pressures, the US has generally protected a free and open internet, with few restrictions on access or content compared to most other nations.

...until Trump’s FCC, under Ajit Pai, repealed net neutrality protections in 2017. Though the internet remained accessible, open access and fair competition were weakened.

9. Entrepreneurial Ecosystem

The US leads in startup creation, venture capital funding, and unicorn companies (startups worth $1B+).

It’s one of the few places where a person can come from nothing and build a global empire in their garage (literally - see Apple, Amazon, HP).

Trump's immigration restrictions hurt startups' access to talent and investment (e.g. STEM immigrants, startup visas).

Trade wars with China and uncertainty in international markets also created instability for small and medium-sized innovators.

10. Strong Judicial Review

The US Supreme Court and lower courts have real power to strike down laws and check the other branches - rare in many democracies.

Trump respected judicial review when it served him, but attacked judges who ruled against him, calling them "Obama judges" or "so-called judges."

He also appointed record numbers of federal judges, many of whom were rated "not qualified," and explicitly chosen for ideological loyalty, raising long-term concerns about judicial independence.

11. Religious Pluralism

While religion is prominent in public life, the U.S. also guarantees freedom of religion and supports a wildly diverse religious landscape - everything from Orthodox Jews to Buddhists to Wiccans to atheists.

Trump has embraced Christian nationalism and banned entry from multiple Muslim-majority countries (the "Muslim Ban"), which was later struck down and modified...until he revived it in 2025.

Rhetoric and policies have consistently signaled preference for one religious identity, undermining pluralism.

12. Robust Refugee and Immigrant Absorption (Historically)

Though flawed, the US has welcomed more immigrants than any other country in history and granted millions paths to citizenship, jobs, and education.

Trump cut legal immigration by nearly 50%, reduced refugee admissions to historic lows, ended DACA protections, and dismantled the asylum process.

His administration separated families, created a climate of fear, and made it harder for immigrants to naturalize.

Don't get me started on his ICE raids.

13. Civil Rights Legacy

The US gave birth to one of the most influential civil rights movements of the 20th century — and inspired others around the world.

Figures like Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, and John Lewis are global symbols of peaceful resistance and justice.

Trump dismantled Obama-era civil rights protections, including for transgender individuals, voting rights enforcement, and police reform oversight.

He attacked movements like Black Lives Matter and used federal forces against peaceful protesters (Lafayette Square, 2020).

14. Strong Local Government

States and localities in the US have real, constitutionally protected autonomy, enabling political diversity and experimentation (think: marijuana legalization, universal basic income pilots, or charter school models).

Trump has repeatedly threatened "blue states" and tried to withhold federal funding from states or cities that disagreed with him politically (e.g., sanctuary cities, COVID policies).

Undermining federalism in this way weakened the traditional balance of state and federal power.

15. Disaster Response Innovation

FEMA and the U.S. military lead some of the fastest and best-coordinated global disaster responses - often being first on the ground for earthquakes, hurricanes, and humanitarian crises abroad.

Trump’s handling of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico was widely condemned as negligent and racially biased.

His COVID-19 response lacked national coordination and downplayed science, weakening U.S. disaster response credibility.

His FEMA director was unaware there is a hurricane season.

So...most of the things about my country of which I was still proud...are being erased.

(But I'm glad our date formatting is entertaining.)

[papoochu]

Next up on the council, is Gabriel's replacement: Keza Kaberuka! I love drawing her!

Background:

Keza = Rwandan name meaning “beautiful one”

Kaberuka = Common Tutsi surname; evokes heritage, resilience, and ambition

Born 1988 in Kigali, Rwanda to an educated Tutsi family with deep cultural roots and political aspirations

Father was a professor of history; mother was a nurse

1994 – Rwandan Genocide (Age 6):

Family targeted during the genocide

Father is abducted and executed by local militia. Keza and her mother seek sanctuary in a church

Militia overruns it. Her mother is killed defending her. Keza survives by hiding beneath corpses.

Rescued by a Belgian photojournalist and smuggled out under UN protection, Taken to a Johannesburg refugee center

The council is here ready to intervene and start grooming her into their weapon

In the refugee camps, she learns something vital: Beauty can open doors. Vulnerability can be a weapon.

Trauma fuses with clarity: The world respects nothing but power and presentation.

Johannesburg Upbringing:

Raised in the household of a South African diplomat’s widow, who uses Keza as a status symbol while grooming her for high society

Attends elite private schools on sponsorship - an outsider among the privileged Learns to mimic affluence, control perception, and move unnoticed through influence circles

Fluent in French, English, Swahili, Afrikaans

Begins studying conflict minerals and post-colonial economies as a quiet obsession; Understands diamonds are not just ornaments - they are geopolitical weapons

2006 – First Industry Contact (Age 18):

Attends a diamond investment gala as an escort to a wealthy patron

Meets a Belgian mining tycoon - seduces him subtly, plays on his guilt, fascination, and ego

Becomes his protégé - travels to Geneva, Luanda, Dubai etc.

Learns how diamonds move across war zones and into luxury boutiques

Understands the power of intimate diplomacy: charm disarms faster than threats

Blood Diamond Trade Expansion:

Establishes a shell company in Mauritius and begins dealing directly with rebel commanders in the Democratic Republic of Congo and Angola

Context: Rwanda was helping rebel groups at the time for political reasons; Angola was facing post-civil-war instability and is one of the world's largest diamond producers

Offers them access to satellite data, encrypted communications, and luxury goods in exchange for exclusive rights to diamond-rich zones

Smuggles stones through private jets, diplomatic pouches, and via fake humanitarian convoys

Creates a mythos: a woman who never carries a weapon, but always exits with everything she came for

Uses her connections to get stones past the Kimberley Process via falsified documentation and complicit middlemen

Kimberley Process: an international initiative aimed at preventing the trade of conflict diamonds, ensuring that diamond purchases do not finance violence or human rights abuses

2012 - “Court Kaberuka” Era:

Launches Court Kaberuka, a luxury consultancy for “heritage stone placement” - a front for laundering blood diamonds

Double entendre - "court" for royalty and "court" for seducing

Advises politicians, oligarchs, and royalty on how to convert illicit stones into family jewels, auction pieces, and “clean” assets

Begins maintaining a private vault; The Silent Portfolio: a collection of the most politically damning diamonds in circulation

Each gem in the vault is tied to a secret: assassinations, coup funding, war crimes etc.

Uses the collection as leverage, not profit

Infiltration of Global Diplomacy:

Cultivates discreet romantic and political ties with various politicians and people of importance:

A foreign trade minister

A UN sanctions coordinator

An Emirati royal involved in arms logistics

etc.

Offers influence, protection, and secrets - all cloaked in charm and intimacy

Establishes a diplomatic status under a Central African nation’s special envoy credentials

Moves across borders without scrutiny

2016 – Recruited by the Council (Present-Day):

Former council operative "Diamond" is eliminated

Keza, already known to council members as a power broker too effective to ignore, is approached,

Terms are simple: absolute discretion, full operational autonomy, and the codename Diamond

She accepts with a single condition - she chooses which wars not to stop

Seductive but never promiscuous - her intimacy is transactional, weaponized, and unforgettable

Uses her power not for chaos, but for leverage - every gem a favor owed, every buyer a pawn

In the diamond world, beauty is value - and Keza Kaberuka is priceless

Design Notes/Character Study

Tutsi culture

Long-horned Inyambo - hairpin; can be used as a weapon too

Choker:

Based on pics of Intore dancers and Tutsi warriors

Outfit inspirations

Anok Yai

Elsa

Mel Medarda

Scar on thigh

Shows to seduce officials

If she shows you, that's not an invite - that's a threat

Friendly with children

Picture of child - show hand reaching for diamonds but watching apple

Apple - reference to Adam and Eve

Wants to make a new world through the new generation

Queen of Hearts reference

Diamonds woven into her hair

Remember: seductive but never promiscuous

Make her the center of attention

Glides with grace - like a dancer

Silver jewelry matches her cool-toned skin

Dimples - must be charming, friendly, and welcoming

[avelera]

Meta: Balancing the Ledger in Arcane S2

Whatever people might have thought of Vi and Jayce's actions in S1, Arcane Season 2 was definitely listening. The whole point of their arcs in 2.1-2.3 seems specifically aimed at them getting point by point retribution for everything they did wrong, intentionally or unintentionally, sympathetically or unsympathetically, in S1.

Vi:

Is hurt and abandoned by Cait in almost exactly the same manner that she hurt and abandoned Powder in S1. If you thought Vi got off too lightly for her treatment of Powder in S1, she has now experienced the full brunt of what it would be like to be on the other side of that fight.

Is attacked, terrorized, and made to feel helpless by the very undercity people who she led an attack against in S1 in which she overpowered, terrorized, and ultimately led to the death of a child as collateral damage. The escalating cycle of violence that she took part in came back to bite her, hard.

As for Jayce:

He was warned repeatedly that Hextech was dangerous. He is now seeing and experiencing first hand the risks of unchecked magical/technological progress, not only seeing how it damages the world he was trying to save, but personally experiencing the horrifying, reality distorting effects of the wild runes as of 2.3.

He left Viktor in order to pursue the higher calling of politics, ostensibly to support their research too, but it took him from his partner's side. He was also motivated by a woman, Mel, and his care for her in doing so. Regardless of intention, politics and Mel took him from Viktor's side at a critical moment when Viktor's life hung in the balance.

Now, Viktor has left Jayce, pursuing the shadow of a dead woman who inspires him now, pursuing a higher calling of bettering the lives of others in the Undercity, and while he doesn't have the same real world powers manipulating him as Jayce did, there are parallels between the Hexcore and the Council's ability to drag Viktor and Jayce respectively forward into dangerous territory, following the siren song of their ambitions to change the world for the better, away from the partnership that launched their innovations in the first place.

Jayce also took part in the rogue mission against the Undercity factory, and in the process, killed a child thus escalating the cycle of violence between Piltover and Zaun.

If you blamed Jayce for becoming a councilor, getting into a relationship with Mel while Viktor was dying, for abandoning Viktor and the lab for other pursuits, for killing that child in Zaun, or in general for escalating the cycle of violence between Zaun and Piltover, then S2 seems to have set out very deliberately to address each one of these.

Jayce is abandoned by Viktor in a similar way and for similar (if not the same) causes as Viktor now abandoned Jayce. Meanwhile, the mother of the child he specifically killed shows up to take her pound of flesh, escalating cycle of violence that has him and his loved ones caught up in it, having now arrived at his doorstep when once it was far away in Zaun, and Hextech has become everything that Heimerdinger (who he deposed in a coup d'etat in order to override his warnings and his power to stop Jayce) warned that it could be.

I stand in awe of how deliberately set up it all is, and offer this analysis of why the narrative took the time to so specifically address and bring retribution for Vi and Jayce for these specific sins, in an almost exactly eye for an eye manner.

Before Jayce and Vi can continue forward as our protagonists, we needed to wipe the slate clean.

These beats are so specifically addressed at their sins (real, imagined, or overblown) in S1 that it's impossible to say going forward that they haven't suffered the consequences of their actions. They have now both been intimately on the receiving end of the consequences of what they did to others.

Furthermore, in S2 we are seeing that Vi and Jayce were less outliers as far as people making mistakes but rather were simply ahead of the curve. Now they have seen both sides of the cycle of violence and deeply suffered the consequences of their actions, many of which were impulsive. Going forward, I think it's safe to say we're going to see Jayce and Vi become voices of reason as they continue to learn, grow and experience the consequences of the events that their S1 actions had a big hand in causing in the first place.

I think this is also why Jayce, humbled and wiser, is becoming a much more popular character in S2 while Vi is becoming a much more universally sympathetic one, though I loved them both in the first season as did many other people. But their actions were controversial in some cases and it's been fascinating to see how systematically S2 has addressed each one of their controversial actions from S1 before moving them forward as heroes and protagonists.

[numapompilioi]

Carta Abierta a la Junta Militar / Open Letter to the Military Junta

1. The censorship of the press, the persecution of intellectuals, the raid on my house in El Tigre, the dear friends murdered by you, and the loss of my daughter, who died fighting you: these are among the circumstances that have made me resort to this clandestine form of expression, after nearly thirty years of having freely given my opinion as a journalist and writer.

The first anniversary of this Military Junta compels a measuring-up of the actions of this government, against its officially released documents and discourses, in order to fairly balance the scales between the official version and fact. For what you have named as certified facts are errors, and what you are willing to admit as your mistakes are in fact crimes, and events that you have entirely omitted happen to be calamities.

On the 24th of March of 1976, you overthrew a government that you had formed part of, just as you contributed to its dishonor by enforcing its repressive policies. The end of term of that government was to be determined by elections, slated for 9 months from then. What you annihilated, however, was not merely the transitional mandate of Isabela Martínez: you blocked the very possibility of a democratic process that would allow the people to remedy the very ills that you, ever since the coup, have proliferated and intensified.

Illegitimate in its origins, this government you enforce could have defended its thin claim to legitimacy by reinstating the same program already chosen by eighty percent of the Argentinian population in the 1973 elections, a program which still stands as the sole objective expression of the thwarted general will of the people, the sole possible meaning of this so-called ”national Being” so often invoked by you.

Your inversion of that path has shifted the tide according to the interests and ideas of defeated minorities, groups who stall the development of our nation’s productive forces, who exploit the people and who segregate the Nation. A political rule such as this one, can only reinforce itself as a transitional regime: as it currently prohibits all political parties, busts unions, and cripples free press while sowing the most profound terror the Argentine society has ever known.

2. Fifteen thousand disappeared persons, ten thousand prisoners taken, four thousand dead, tens of thousands landless peasants— together, these comprise the naked cipher of the terror I speak of.

As the common prisons were already full, you used barracks and military complexes for what are virtually the first concentration camps this country has ever known. These are camps–where no judge, lawyer, journalist or international monitor may enter. The martial secrecy of the trials, a secrecy invoked as necessary for the purpose of investigations, has made the majority of detentions into abductions, ensuring for torture without limits, and for executions without trials.[1]

More than seven thousand pleas issued for Habeas Corpus rights met refusal in the past year. In other thousands of cases of disappearances, the recourse of Habeas Corpus has not even been presented in court, either because the effort appears useless, or because of the near-impossibility of finding a lawyer willing to present the claim after fifty or seventy lawyers were, in turn, abducted as hostages by you after they took on these cases.

In this way, you have extricated torture from its confinement in time. As the detainee does not exist, there is no possibility of presenting him before a judge within ten days, as mandated by a law that was respected even by the repressive regimes of previous dictatorships in Argentina.

The absence of a limit in time is complemented by the absence of limitations in the methods of torture, thereby regressing back to ages when torturers operated directly upon the joints and the intestines of the victims—only now they make use of surgical and pharmacological tools, unavailable to the executioners of old. The rack, the screw, the skinning-alive, the hacksaw of medieval inquisitors all reappear in the testimonies alongside the electrodes, the ”submarine”, the blowtorch, among other modern accessories.

In the midst of your rationalizations, as you claim the objective of exterminating the guerrilla justifies the means you use, you have arrived at an absolute torture: it is timeless, metaphysical torture. The barest original intention behind these methods—that of extracting intelligence information from the captives—has by now given way in the perturbed minds of those who mete it out. Those who enforce it, instead succumb to the impulse of mashing up the human substance until it breaks, as it loses the dignity already lost by the executioner, the executioner’s dignity, which you yourselves already lost.

3. The negative order given by this Junta against publishing the names of prisoners, in itself belies a cover-up of your systematic executions of hostages, carried out in deserted areas during the dawn hours. In those locales you harvest your pretexts for murder with the forged battle-scenes, the planted evidence, the fantasized chase-scenes and escape attempts.

You have disseminated stories about bungling extremists, who you allege spread pamphlets in the countryside, who paint over the irrigation channels or who amass comically into exploding cars. Such stereotypes about the resistance are straight out of a propaganda leaflet—but the function of that propaganda is not to be believable: it intends only to mock the international outcry responding to mass executions. Such official accounts are designed to downplay the brutal, disproportionate nature of your retaliations conducted in the same places and dates of the guerrilla activities of the resistance.

Seventy dead in the executions you held in a response to the bombing of the Federal Security building, 55 extra-judicially executed in retaliation for the explosions in the Police Department in La Plata, 30 in your response to the attack on the Ministry of Defense, 40 executions in the Massacre of the New Year following suit after they were blamed for the death of colonel Castellanos, 19 extrajudicial killings of those who were held responsible for the explosion that destroyed the police-station of Ciudadela: these amount to the 1200 executions in 300 purported battles in which the opponent suffered no war-wounded, and the forces you commanded had no war-dead.

Condemned to being the human personification of a collective guilt that is alien to civilized norms of justice, the demonized captives are powerless to carry any influence in those same political trials that produce the planted evidence of the crimes for which they are being penalized. Many of the hostages are syndicate-delegates, intellectuals, family of the guerrilla fighters, unarmed opposition members, or ordinary suspects. When they are killed, it is merely part of your accounting act of “balancing the scales” according to the foreign doctrine of ‘the ‘body-count”, used by the SS in the occupied countries and by the invaders of Vietnam.

The practice of rounding-up, then immediately liquidating wounded or captured guerrillas in actual battles, is evidenced by the military’s own bulletin-updates and press conferences: these report how, within a year, they attributed 600 dead, but only 10 or 15 injured, among the guerrilla enemy. Such a ratio is unheard of in the most berserk conflicts of recent memory.

This impression is confirmed by a journalistic study that circulated in the clandestine underground. The report reveals how, between the 18th of December of 1976 and February 3rd of 1977, in 40 real actions, the legal forces had 23 dead and 40 wounded, while the guerrilla had 63 dead.

More than a hundred of those put on trial were similarly overpowered, as the military provided official narratives of sensational chase-stories—none of them intended to be believed, so much as to sabotage negotiations and proceedings. These performances are intended to prevent the guerrilla brigade and the political parties from enacting any legal process for the release of recognized political prisoners. Such negotiation is prevented from interfering and encumbering the strategy of retaliation used by the Core of Commanders. The military junta’s Core of Commanders want to employ these tactics (of disproportionate retaliation) in the shifting battle-scenery, maintaining the convenience of being able to dictate attacks, while unfettered by laws and in obedience only to the impulses and momentary whims.

That is how the general Benjamin Menéndez, chief of the Third Body of the Army, earned his laurels before the 24th of March with the assassination of Marcos Osatinsky, detained in Córdoba, following the killing of Hugo Vaca Narvaja and fifty other prisoners. All were executed without pity, in varied acts of martial law that officers later attested to without shame.[2]

4. The assassination of Dardo Cabo, detained in april of 1975, liquidated on the 6th of January in 1977 with seven other prisoners in the jurisdiction of the First Body of the Army led by general Suarez Mason, serves as further evidence revealing that these episodes were not occasional excesses carried out by a deluded few, or by the bad centurions who strayed. Rather, these appear to be executions of the same policy planned in your grand assemblies, the policy that you discuss in your cabinet meetings, imposed by you as commanders-in-chief of the 3 Arms and approved by you members of the Junta government.

Between one thousand five hundred and three thousand persons or more have so far been massacred in secret detention, after you prohibited the surfacing of information on found corpses. The news seeped through despite your very best efforts. Word spread to other countries, as international media and communities were shaken by the genocidal magnitude, by the sheer horror these facts have evoked among their leaders.[3]

Twenty-five mutilated bodies flowered forth just this March and October of 1976 upon Uruguayan beaches. Perhaps these were but a fraction of the cargo, of those tortured to death inside the Technical School of the Armada, then discarded as flotsam in the river La Plata by boats of the Armada. Among them was a boy, 15 year old Floreal Avellaneda, his feet and hands tied ”with breakages in his anal region and visible fractures” according to the autopsy.

A veritable underwater cemetery was discovered in August 1976, by a local who was scuba-diving in the Son Roque lagoon of Cordoba. He sought to report his finding to the attention of the police. At the station the police refused to register the diver’s report, until he took it to the newspapers, where the editors refused to publish it.

Thirty and four corpses turned up in Buenos Aires between the 3rd and 9th of April of 1976, eight in San Telmo on the 4th of July, ten in the river Lujan on the 9th of October. These serve as a measure of the massacres of the 20th of August that piled up 30 of the corpses, only 15 kilometers from the May Field and 17 kilometers from Lomas de Zamora.

These revelations put an end to the used-up fiction of the right-wing gangs who we presumed to be none other than the heirs of the Triple A squadron of López Rega. These were able to operate in the major garrisons of the country using military trucks, capable of forming blanketing the entire river La Plata with corpses of their victims, able to throw prisoners hurtling down to the sea from the doors of the First Air Brigade [4].

All this, you allege, could have happened without the general Videla, the admiral Massera and the brigadier-gendarme Agosti ever having known—so we are told. Today, the Triple A organization are none other than the Three Branches of the Junta which you preside over, and not the phantom in your nebulous reports regarding “violent outbreaks, seemingly of different sources”. No longer can you pretend to be the just arbiter between ”two terrorisms” one of the right and the other of the left. Rather, you have become the very same fountainhead of the terror that completely lost is course, while you babble in the turbid speech, in  the very discourse of death.[5]

The same historical continuity links the assassination of the dissenting general Carlos Prats under the previous government, with the kidnappings and murders of generals Juan José Torres, Zelmar Michelini, Hector Gutiérrez Ruíz. Dozens more were made into refugees, as their persecutors sought to assassinate the future of democratic processes in Chile, Bolivia and Uruguay by murdering it inside of those who carried and represented that unborn potential for a democratic future.[6]

The proven participation of the Department of Foreign Affairs, and of the Federal Police, in these crimes conducted by officers who received scholarships from the C.I.A. (through the A.I.D.) such as the commissioners Juan Gattei and Antonio Gettor, themselves subjected to the authority of Mr Gardener Hathaway, Station Chief of the CIA in Argentina. Such involvements will provide the seedbed for future revelations of the sordid kind that today already shake the international community. These revelations will not merely stop the moment the facts are laid bare about the role played by that agency (the CIA) and Army chiefs headed by general Menéndez in creating the Lodge of Liberators of Latin America. The Lodge has replaced and fulfilled the function of the Triple A death-squadron, until its role in the international stage was taken up by the Junta and its Three Arms.

This portrait of extermination by no means excludes the personal settling of scores, such as the assassination of captain Horacio Gandara, who for a decade went about investigating the businesses of high chiefs of the Navy. This does not exclude the reporter of “Prensa Libre” (Free Press)

Horacio Novillo, stabbed to death and cremated after the newspaper denounced sundry connections between the minister Martínez de Hoz and corporate monopolies.

As these episodes come to light, so does the true and final significance of your definition of the war at hand, as uttered by one of your chiefs: “The struggle that we have unleashed knows neither moral nor natural limits; it unfolds in a realm beyond good and evil”[7]

5. These facts that shake the conscience of the civilized world, however, are not the greatest of all torments brought upon the Argentine people to date. These facts are not the worst human rights violations so far incurred by you. It is in your economic policy, where we find not only the explanation of this government’s crimes, but also a larger atrocity punishing millions of human beings with planned misery.

Within a year, you reduced the common wage of the laborers by 40%, diminishing their participation in GDP by 30%, raising work-day from 6 to 18 hours of drudgery required for the income to support a family[8], This is how your program has resuscitated forms of slave-labor that had long gone extinct, even in the world’s last few remaining colonial outposts.

Wages are frozen and knocked down, while prices soar, past the sky-ward pointing bayonets of your rifles. Coercion abolishes all forms of collective opposition, assemblies and internal committees strictly forbidden, raising the unemployment rate to a record 9% [9]. This you have promised to worsen in official forecasts with 300.000 planned layoffs, as you go about reversing the relations of production back to the beginnings of the machine age. Whenever laborers had attempted protest, you have labeled them as subversives, abducting entire delegations, which in some instances turned up murdered, or otherwise simply never turned up. [10]

The results of these policies are smoldering devastation. Within the first year of military government, consumption of foods diminished by 40%, that of clothes by 50%, supply of medicines has virtually disappeared from the social layers of the majority. Already we see regions of Greater Buenos Aires where infant mortality surpasses 30%, putting us in the company of Rhodesia, Dahomey or the Guyanas. Diseases such as chronic diarrhea, various parasites and even rabies are reported in peak numbers approximating the worst global rates according to today’s health monitors, in some cases even surpassing known records. These results must appear satisfactory to you, for you have reduced the budget for public health to less than a third of military expenditures, suppressing the free hospitals while thousands of doctors, professionals and technicians join the exodus of jobless created by the terror, by the plummeted salaries or by the policies of ”rationalizing the economy.”

It should suffice to spend a few hours roaming through Greater Buenos Aires to confirm the speed at which these policies have decayed the city outskirts into a shantytown of ten million dwellers.

Suburban cities are half of the time deprived of electricity, entire districts lack running water. Industrial monopolies plunder the subterranean earth-layers for minerals and cement, leaving thousands of housing-blocks collapsed into wasteland, as you care only to pave the streets outside of the military families’ residences, or to decorate and prettify the May Plaza. The world’s largest river is poisoning all its beaches, only because business-partners of the ministry of Martínez de Hoz pour the residual waste of industry into that river. And in the wake of the poison-pouring, the only response your government has taken is to prohibit bathers from swimming.

When it comes to the mishmash of economic abstractions and objectives that you tend to refer to as ”the country”, it seems you have been equally successful. A decline in the GDP sunk until 3%, while an external debt reaches about 600 dollars per inhabitant, at an annual inflation rate of 400%. Production of printed money within one week in December increased by 9%, with a 13% lowering of external investment which also reaches global lows. Strange fruit indeed, that has come of all your cold deliberations, your crude ineptitude.

Nearly all creative and protectionist functions of the State atrophy, unraveling into the utmost decrepitude. Only one arm of the State expands, attaining an autonomous life.

One thousand eight hundred million dollars, the equivalent of nearly half of all Argentinean exports, were assigned to Security and Defense in 1977, four thousand new placements of agents in the Federal Police, twelve thousand in the province of Buenos Aires with salaries that double that of an industrial worker and will triple come February. These numbers forecast there will be no amount of freezes of stagnation or unemployment in the realm of torture and of death, the only camp of Argentinian activity in which the very gross product grows. In the concentration camps, the fixing of rates per head of smashed guerrilla grows quicker than the dollar.

6. In its fulfillment of the diktat of the International Monetary Fund, according to the prescription to be applied indiscriminately to either Zaire or Chile, to Uruguay or to Indonesia, the economic policy of this Junta serves only to acknowledge the needs of its chosen beneficiaries. Among these are the old cattle-raising oligarchies, the new speculations-oligarchs and a select group of international monopolies headed by Esso, ITT, the automotive groups, U.S. Steel, Siemens, all of whom have personal ties to Martínez de Hoz and all his members of cabinet.

An increase of 772% in the prices of animal produce (meat and leather) in 1976 encapsulates the very magnitude of the restoration of the oligarchical minorities’ power. This follows from the initiatives of Martínez de Hoz in collusion with the creed of land-owning Rural Society organization, as exposed by the organization’s president Celedonio Pereda: “It astonishes, how a handful of tiny yet very active groups continue insisting that food-prices need to be affordable.”[11]

In the spectacle of the Stock Exchange, it is possible within one week for some to profit by a hundred or two hundred per cent without working; where corporations were able to double their capital overnight without producing more output than before, as the mad fortune wheel rolls in speculations in dollars, in signs, in adjustable values, in plain usury that has already pre-calculated its interest rates on loans by the hour. How curious are these results of the self-described anti-corruption government that came along promising to put an end to ”the banquet-party of the corrupt.”

Denationalization of the banks has placed savings and national credit in the hands of foreign bankers. With the indemnification of the ITT and the Siemens corporations, rewards go to the same companies that scammed the State. Even while closing down their plants, the profits of Shell and Esso increase. By giving rebates and free passes from the customs tariffs, they create jobs in Hong Kong and in Singapore and massive unemployment in Argentina. Before the mass of these facts, you, the self-proclaimed nationalists, may ask yourselves who are these “anti-patriots”, those ‘’without fatherland’’ condemned in the blaring official propaganda.

In the light of these facts, ask yourselves: who are the real mercenaries at the behest of foreign interests adverse to those of the country? Whose is the ideology that truly threatens the national being you swore to defend in your solemn cries?

A barrage of propaganda (that deforming mirror of wicked facts) claims this Junta to be a securer of peace, and appoints Videla as a defender of human rights, while praising admiral Massera for his sheer love of life. If that propaganda machine were not in place to pour its noise, silencing all reason and access to the truth, then it might have been possible to ask the Commanders in Chief of the Three Arms that they may meditate upon the abyss they have dug. It is the chasm towards which they are driving this country. They claim to be steering the country towards victory in a war they are winning. That war and its imminent victory are illusions. For after even having killed the last guerrilla fighter, resistance would only be fermented anew in other forms.

The source of what has motivated resistance from the Argentine people, for more than the past twenty years, will not have disappeared after the last guerrilla fighter is executed: their urgency will only be intensified, by the memory of the strife and devastation, and by the revelation of atrocities that you have committed.

The above are my thoughts on the first anniversary of your infamous government, and I seek to ensure the transmission of my thoughts to the members of this Junta, without any hope of being heard. Although I am certain that I will be persecuted, I am also faithful to the commitment I made a long time ago, the commitment to bear witness in the difficult hours.

Rodolfo Walsh. – Citizen Identity number: 2845022

Buenos Aires, March 24 1977

Traducción: Arturo Desimone

[accountability-movement]

You Are Not a Person to Them. You Are Cattle.

The coup is not coming. It is happening now. We are living through it. But to the people with the power—JD Vance, Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, and the rest of their billionaire handlers—you are not a citizen. You are livestock.

Your purpose in their system is simple: to serve, to work, to obey, and to die when you are no longer useful.

This is not democracy. It is not “reform.” It is not a debate. It is a system for control, and it is already being implemented.

The Slaughter Process

Remove Your Ability to Resist.

Stack the courts. Gut elections. Rewrite laws. Fire political opponents. You cannot fight back through the system, because the system no longer belongs to you.

Sort the Population.

Are you profitable? You will be allowed to work, but under increasing restrictions.

Are you a liability? You will be pushed out, made unemployable, or imprisoned.

Are you a threat? You will be eliminated.

Redefine Humanity.

People like JD Vance and Donald Trump Jr have already shown support for a book titled "Unhumans", which categorizes people on the right as “Humans” and those on the left as “Unhumans.”

If you are trans, disabled, queer, an immigrant, the wrong race, or politically noncompliant—you are Unhuman. And Unhumans do not have rights.

The Cleanup Begins.

Internment camps are being expanded. Facilities in Guantánamo Bay are already under construction. The next phase includes “wellness camps” for anyone who does not align with the new system.

Policies and erasures of trans and intersex people are on the table, and align with Nazi Eugenics. Project 2025 explicitly outlines the state’s power to control who lives and who dies.

Discussions about “ethnic cleansing” in Gaza are happening. Officials in the administration are openly considering policies that would have been unthinkable a few years ago.

This is fascism with better branding. Yarvin calls it the Dark Enlightenment. Vance calls it necessary reform. But history recognizes this for what it is. The Nazis did not start with gas chambers. They started by convincing the public that some people weren’t people at all.

You are not meant to see this happening. You are meant to stay comfortable and pacified while the gates close around you. But if you are reading this, then you still have time to wake up.

This is not a drill. This is not a warning. This is the process. You are inside it. And you need to decide right now whether you are going to let it happen.

[mesetacadre]

In April 15th, 1920, the National Committee of the Federation of Socialist Youths met in Madrid to, taking the initiative over the PSOE, take the decision of joining the Third International, founded by the Bolshevik party. After a convoluted process that lasted until the 14th of November of 1921, the Communist Party of Spain (Spanish Section of the Communist International) was born, pejoratively called "The party of the 100 children" by its opponents.

The Komintern's policy in its early days was one of the "only front", stating that capital could only be beat via the united effort of all communists in all spheres of life. Its motto became "Towards the Masses!". In Spain, this period was marked by Primo de Rivera's dictatorship between 1923 and 1930, during which almost every political group was banned. The social-democratic PSOE and UGT avoided this by remaining "neutral" towards the dictatorship. Some members of the PSOE even collaborated, like Largo Caballero, who became Rivera's Minister of State. The Communist Party maintained its sole struggle during this time, gaining popularity among the Spanish proletariat.

When the dictatorship ended and the Second Republic was proclaimed in April of 1932, in the midst of the effects of the 1929 capitalist crisis, the 1931 strike in Sevilla and 1932 general strike, the PCE had found itself unable to work outside the dynamics imposed by the dictatorship's repression, and only began to regain its force after the selection of José Diaz as general secretary in September of 1932. The party corrected some of the left-communist and sectarian mistakes that characterized the period of the dictatorship.

The PCE took on an even bigger role in the organization of our class after its crucial role in the October insurrection of 1934 in Asturias, during which the proletariat took power in the mining basin and most of Oviedo, via the Peasant and Worker Alliances, expressions of the aforementioned only front strategy decided by the Third International. The government of the Second Republic, carrying out the needs of a section of the Spanish bourgeoisie, brutally repressed the Asturian revolutionaries, with general Francisco Franco at the helm of the military's intervention. Among the victims was Aida Lafuente, a militant of the Communist Youth and an example of bravery.

This glimmer of worker power was contextualized in the Black Biennium (1933-1935), a period of the Republic when reactionaries accessed the government and expressed the most violent tendencies of the Spanish bourgeoisie against the more than 30,000 political prisoners they took, and against the rapidly developing workers' movement.

It was during this time in Spain and the whole world, when the Third International identified the generalized rise of fascism and reactionarism, and adopted in its 7th Congress, during the summer of 1935, the policy of the Popular Front, failing to link the anti-fascist struggle with the struggle for workers' power, instead advocating for alliances with "socialist" parties and other bourgeois-democratic parties, placing the fight for socialism-communism in the background.

Half a year after this decision, the Popular Front alliance won the elections in the 16th of February, 1936. Shortly after, and only a year after the 7th Congress, sections of the Spanish and international bourgeoisie countered this victory with a failed coup d'etat by fascist generals in the 18th of July, 1936. They had the backing of the nazi-fascist powers in Europe and the complicity of the "democratic" capitalist powers, who were anxious about the strengthening proletariat in Spain. Curiously, the plane that carried Franco from his exile in the African colonies to Tetuán in north Africa, the Dragon Rapide, originally took off from London.

The biggest supporter of the Spanish Republic was the USSR, that, through the enormous effort of the Third International and the Communist Parties in 52 countries, against the banning of volunteering by many of those 52 countries, organized the enlistment, falsification of documents, logistics, arrival and other matters for the arrival of around 35,000 workers, peasants and intellectuals from all over the world. Under the single banner of the International Brigades, and for the first time materializing the historic slogan Workers of the World, Unite!, the Volunteers of Liberty, as they also came to be known, gave their mind and their body to the cause of the Spanish people, armed with the teachings of marxism-leninism. They knew that it was no longer a fight for only the Spanish. As J. V. Stalin put it in October of 1936:

The workers of the Soviet Union are merely carrying out their duty in giving help within their power to the revolutionary masses of Spain. They are aware that the liberation of Spain from the yoke of fascist reactionaries is not a private affair of the Spanish people but the common cause of the whole of advanced and progressive mankind.

In July of 1936 there already were Brigadiers present in Spain, for the occasion of the Popular Olympics (in boycott of the Berlin Olympics) organized by the Red Sport International and the Socialist Worker Sport International in Barcelona, they were among the first to take up arms against the coup d'etat. The Executive Committee's Secretariat of the Third International formalized in the 18th and 19th of September the creation of the International Brigades, which began to arrive in Spain the 14th of October of 1936. Despite the propaganda levied by fascists and bourgeois historiography, the importance of the International Brigades is undeniable today.

After the integration of the Brigades into the Popular Militias in the 22nd of October, the Brigadiers began their training in Albacete and saw action for the first time the 8th of November in Madrid, with the 11th and 12th Brigade. Militarily, the Brigades were present and indispensable in every major battle of the war, but they also played a moral role. After every capitalist power had abandoned the Spanish people to their fate with the policy of non-intervention, the compact and disciplined columns that marched through the streets of Madrid singing songs like The Internationale, Young Guard, or The Marseillaise, made up of workers who barely knew the language but were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, decidedly improved the morale of every militia and civilian in Madrid and in Spain.

But even greater than the support of the Brigades were the more than 300,000 strong military detachments sent by Germany and Italy, with the implicit approval of capitalist democracies, including the Popular Front in France, whose efforts of non-intervention focused exclusively on the republic. And it was the strategy of the popular front that forced the PCE to sideline the revolutionary potential of the hundreds of thousands of militants, instead preserving the legitimacy of the bourgeois republic.

By 1938, the republic was on its last legs and, wishing to evidence the foreign involvement on the fascist side, declared to the League of Nations in the 21st of September that they would disband all volunteers enlisted after the 18th of July, 1936. The 16th of October, 2 years and 2 days after the arrival of the Brigades, the League of Nations' International Committee arrived in Spain to verify the disbandment and departure of the Brigadiers. No such inspection was ever made on the fascist side.

According to the International Committee's report published on the 18th of January, 1939, there were a total of 12,673 Brigadiers in Spain, less than half of the total number of volunteers at around 35,000. They began to depart Spain on the 2nd of November, 1938, through the French border. During the process of departures, some Brigadiers were murdered in Spain, others died protecting the fleeing republicans and hundreds of thousands of refugees at the crossing in France. This was when Mexico, and especially the Communist Party of Mexico which pressured the government, took on around 1,600 brigadiers, mainly Germans, Poles, Italians, Austrians, Czechoslovaks and Yugoslavians, who could not safely return to their homes due to the advance of fascism within their countries. The debt owed by the workers of the world, especially the Spanish, to the Communist Party of Mexico is immeasurable, along with every other Communist Party that helped and the Third International.

The dissolution of the International Brigades did not achieve the result desired by the Republic. Instead, their retreat towards the end of the Battle of the Ebro only accelerated the morale defeat of the republican militias. Most of the brigadiers who survived the war but could not be repatriated in time did not have a pleasant fate. Most of those ended up in the French concentration camps of Gurs, Argèles-sur-Mer, Saint-Cyprien and Barcarès, Septfonds, Riversaltes, or Vernet d'Ariège.

Their fight was not in vein. The experience gained by the few who survived at a high cost proved essential in the development of their own parties, and soon enough, anti-fascist resistance. Everywhere that people took up arms against the fascist occupation, whether inside or outside the concentration camps, ex-Brigadiers were present, continuing the fight they started in the 18th of July, 1936, well after the war that had began that day was history.

Back in Spain, while the moribund republic thrashed for the last few times, the bourgeois republican government, headed by the social-democrat Juan Negrín, began to isolate the PCE with the support of the trotskyists and anarchists. It came to a close after the coup d'etat by the republican general Casado, during and after which the communist militancy was oppressed, and the fascist fifth column that had remained in Madrid opened its gates to the fascist military. This is how the fascist dictatorship began in Spain, with a betrayal by the Popular Front's social-democrats and by the democratic-bourgeois powers of the world. They couldn't help but mirror the collaborationism happening on the world stage; the UK was actively looking for an alliance with Germany, and every other capitalist country was making business with the looted property. All for one purpose that united them; the destruction of workers' power in the form of the marxist-leninist parties that around the world were beginning to challenge the capitalists, with the Third International at the helm.

These are the lessons that Spain and the world learnt during and after its fierce resistance against fascism. No popular front with bourgeois-democrats is sustainable, and their class character will always prevail above the superficial differences with fascism. The only viable tool is the organization of the social majority within the Communist Party, with proletarian internationalism and an altruist disposition as principles. No matter how much social-democracy may fear fascist privatization, and no matter how much they disrespect bourgeois democracy, the class interests that guide them will always prevail when faced with a capable mass of organized workers.

The progressive Popular Front in France, the "appeasing" government in the UK, and the nominally anti-violence liberal democracies, did not ever attempt to do anything else than giving carte blanche to the fascists and hindering their rivals. The betrayal of Spain, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland were all made with the same reasoning: the alliance with fascism to destroy communism. There are no reasons that make the opposite possible today. When reactionarism picks up traction in lockstep with the deepening capitalist crises, all of these bourgeois-democrats some "leftists" like to place their hope in will not vary substantially from the script they followed 85 years ago.

Quedad, que así lo quieren los árboles, los llanos, las mínimas partículas de la luz que reanima un solo sentimiento que el mar sacude. ¡Hermanos! Madrid con vuestro nombre se agranda e ilumina

Rafael Alberti, A las Brigadas Internacionales

[aworldofpattern]

Team Haiti's opening ceremony uniforms for the 2024 Olympics, designed by Haitian-Italian designer Stella Jean.

The trousers and skirts are printed with 'Passage', an artwork by Haitian artist Philipe Dodard.

'...Stella Jean says she created uniforms on a humble budget for Team Haiti, one of the smallest delegations in the Olympics with just seven athletes...

...The look takes its white, red, and blue hues from the Haitian flag, with the men’s uniform consisting of a light blue jacket, an adaptation of the guayabera shirt worn by men in the Caribbean, vibrant trousers channeling Naïve folk art, and a Fular scarf. The women’s look features a skirt in the same material, paired with a light blue shirt and structured jacket with a cinched waist. Philippe Dodard, an acclaimed Haitian painter, designed the fabric for the trousers and skirt. 

Wearing these uniforms at the Paris Olympics takes on an even deeper meaning for Haiti, once known as Saint-Domingue, a French colony that fought for its independence during the Haitian Revolution, the first successful resistance movement led by enslaved people against the French colonial regime from 1971 to 1804. “It’s hugely symbolic,” says Jean, who is Haitian-Italian, adding that she merged Haitian fabrics and motifs with Western silhouettes as “a tool of counter colonization.”

Jean ran into some issues as she worked to create her designs. Export embargoes in Haiti made sourcing chambray, a cotton-like material, for the women’s shirt difficult. “I used one of my dresses that my grandmother gave to me, because we were not able to source it otherwise. I hope she will forgive me because she's not here anymore,” Jean says, joking that her design unintentionally became more sustainable.

Throughout the process, she recognized the rare opportunity to present the world with a positive news story about Haiti, as the country struggles with a recent history of political violence, coups, and the deadly 2020 earthquake. Ongoing violence at the hands of armed gangs has displaced approximately 580,000 people, per U.N. figures.  

“Haiti has no materials now. We have nothing to sell to the world. Our strength right now is this intangible richness [from] our deep culture,” Jean says. “We are here, we are joyful, and we will be back on our own two feet again.”...' Time Magazine