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wingedjellyfishflight · 1 year ago

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Emotional Support Animal Wife

When the PMC you worked for noticed that König was calmer around you and less likely to fly off the handle, they thought it was a fluke. Nonetheless, they asked you to attend several meetings as a guest and sat you near him to test out the theory. When he did not lash out for a single meeting over two months, no matter how inane, your job was officially restructured to spend nearly every hour of your working day next to him with overtime hazard pay for all after hours meetings and parties. Any time he was not down range, you were by his side, it seemed. It didn't take long for the enforced closeness to work its magic, leading to your eventual marriage.

König and several other select team members were contracted out to an international military task force for a minimum six month term. This wasn't the first time he was loaned out and you always tagged along, ensuring that he didn't attack an officer for being rude to his men or take up the challenge often offered by the enlisted who heard rumors of his work down range. This time, the hiring military tried to argue that you were not allowed due to the top secret clearance required as well as you being unnecessary to the mission. Your boss countered that the health and well-being of all employees was a top priority and reminded the opposing bureaucrat that your presence was listed as a non-negotiable aspect of not only König's contract, but the entire team's contracts as his presence was required in every other contract. After several rounds of back and forth, your boss prevailed.

When the C-140 landed, you waited for the men of the team to disembark before following König. He always waited until last to leave so you wouldn't be far away, especially in new areas with unknown threats. You patiently waited behind the wall of tall, broad, and muscular men who were your coworkers while introductions and welcomes were made. Same old same old at this point in your career. You preferred to hide and work in the shadows, so to speak. Calling attention to yourself was not ideal due to past experiences with idiots trying to interfere with your attendance.

Speaking of interfering idiots, the men have barely begun to stride away when a man approaches you, demanding to know who you are and how you got here. You smile kindly, "I'm with König and the others from KorTac. If you'll excuse-."

"No, ma'am. I need to verify your presence before I can release you." The man bars your way, grabbing his radio with urgency. You sigh and lean around him, not wanting to get separated from the group.

"König! I need assistance!" He doesn't pause to assess the situation. Simply turns on his heel and begins running straight at you. The rest of the team also about faces and stands waiting. The man skitters to the side slightly, scared to see such a giant man striding toward him. You simply hold up your arms, knowing his aim and allowing König to pick you up. The man quails under the glares he is receiving and silently vows to stay away from KorTac members at all times. König catches back up to the group easily and sets you down to walk next to him, holding his hand. You can hear him muttering in German and have to fight the grin trying to spread across your face.

Once in the meeting, König sits you next to him, in the seat with Horangi's name tag. Horangi stands behind your chair, ruffling your hair, drawing a huff from you. He enjoys acting the big brother to you whenever possible. Settling in, you put on your noise canceling headphones, and pull out a book to read. Hidden behind König's bulk, you blend in quickly, few noticing you other than the men of KorTac. Their favorite way to pass the time is to try to distract you from your book.

After a few moments, Horangi sits in a newly appeared chair next to you, nearly squashing you between him and König before you put a hand on his chest, shoving him back playfully. He smirks and lets you return to your book to wait out the meeting, one hand resting on König's back gently to ground him. Near the end, there is a tap on your shoulder as König and the others stand, you following suite soon after. It's meet and greet time, which is typically a lot of posturing and crushing of hands. You carefully greet several men, most of whom catch the name tag on your vest and eye König before greeting you from a few feet away. Glancing around, you spot a familiar face that has you tucking yourself behind König. Your hand clenching his waist has him freezing in place, body tensing and readying to face the threat. You slip your hand into his pocket, fishing out a spare mask and slipping it on. His tenseness relaxes slightly as your hand releases his shirt, and you stand near his side again, pressing a hand to his back for comfort.

The team is alarmed by your use of the mask. You've always playfully protested König masking you, preferring to be recognized on your own rather than a smaller carbon copy of him. The atmosphere in the room becomes much more tense as they slowly close ranks, Horangi stepping a bit closer to your other side. When the familiar face, a cousin, greets König, your hand flinches slightly, despite your struggle not to react. His gaze hardens as he evaluates the threat in front of him, hand tightening unconsciously. When your cousin winces, he catches himself, letting go and turning away in clear dismissal. Before he can greet you, holding out his hand, Horangi leans forward, shaking his hand instead. The interaction doesn't go unnoticed, but König makes an effort to greet every other person amicably, and Horangi's smile sets most at ease, even as they eye your red fabric masked face with suspicion.

Finally, the meeting officially ends, and the team is led to their quarters. The sounds of outrage at being placed in bunk beds together in one room are broken up by your giggles. They turn to look and see König laying in the bed, scrunched up into a ball to fit on the mattress and still hanging off. Once the laughter dies down and enough pictures are taken, König stands up. "We will see about proper accommodations. This is unacceptable, clearly." You take his hand quietly, and he pauses. "Schatz, would you prefer to stay behind? I know you are... nervous."

"He is my family, König. I didn't want a fight to break out at the first meeting." He sighs, frustrated. Hearing that your childhood had mirrored much of his had been rage inducing, and it still simmers in the back of his mind. Luckily, he hadn't met any of them before today as you had cut contact when you took your first job as a contractor due to their vehement disapproval and insults. "I would prefer to stay anonymous here as much as possible rather than confront him." König nods, fighting back his protective instincts.

"I will follow your lead. If a fight is needed, then a fight we shall have."

You shake your head, saying, "Don't sound so excited for it, big guy."

König leads you out, nearly running into a soldier posted outside the door. "Colonel, you are to remain in your quarters until your allotted lunch at 1100 hours," the soldier's voice wavers only slightly despite the fear you feel rolling off of him. You rub your thumb on the back of König's glove, gently keeping him grounded.

"I wish to speak to someone about the quarters we have been provided. Please bring me to the person in charge of accommodations." The soldier looks stunned, rocking back on his heels.

"I-I will contact someone, but I must insist that you wait here. My orders were to ensure you did not leave." König nods agreeably.

"Understood. We will wait for this person." The soldier returns the nod before retreating up the hall several paces and calling over the radio. König merely leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. You mimic his posture, quietly waiting. It is only a few minutes later when the soldier approaches with another person in tow.

"Colonel, you wish to discuss your quarters? They are the standard quarters we provide to all visiting contractors." You honestly don't understand how they could continue to be confused, having to crane their neck back to meet his gaze.

"I am very tall, as are several of my men. The bunks are too short to sleep on. As well, there are not enough beds unless you expect my wife," he casually gestures at you, "to sleep on the floor."

The man stares at him, seemingly noticing his height for the first time, then his eyes flick to you. "Well, it was assumed that your... wife," your eyes narrow at the doubt lacing his tone, "would sleep with you, of course."

Before König can say a word, you snap at him. "He doesn't fit in the bunk, and you expect me to sleep there, too? Am I supposed to slice his belly open and crawl inside like this is a Star Wars movie?" The posted soldier snorts, unable to completely hide his laughter and the man opposite you smothers a grin, not expecting the reference, nor your unaccented, American voice.

"Uhh, no. We don't expect personnel to make such drastic choices. I will arrange for more appropriate beds. They will be exchanged before nightfall."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate being spared as a sacrifice." With that, König turns and guides you back into the quarters. You smile, seeing the team already at work rearranging the room.

With the door shut and locked, you pull off your mask, a small sigh of relief slipping out. Horangi shoots a questioning look at König, to no avail. You stiffen your back and meet his questioning gaze. "One of the men is estranged family. Recognizing me could easily lead to an all out brawl," your eyes flick to König. "Or worse." Horangi nods.

"Then we will maintain your anonymity outside these doors." There are nods of agreement all around. "Though, I wouldn't mind a piece of him myself if he is as bad as the rest of your family." Horangi's eyes shine with a predatory gleam. His name is well-earned after all.

"It's been years. Maybe he is better, maybe not."

When lunch rolls around, you don your mask again, now adjusted for your face so it does not cover your uniform and drapes nicely. König is great with a needle and thread, able to make, repair or adjust masks on the fly with ease. You walk single file, sandwiched between König and Oni who keeps poking you and dodging your jabbing elbow. You swear at him in Japanese, having picked up several languages in your time working with the team. Unfortunately or maybe not, almost all of it is exclusively the slang, curses and crude language they use as emphasis for their English. He laughs loud and long at your inventive cursing in his mother language, but stops antagonizing you just in time to walk into the mess hall full of soldiers.

You can feel the tension radiating off König and step to his side, a hand on his forearm. He glances down at you briefly. "Herz, you will go in front of me. I want both eyes on you in here." You pat his arm in agreement and pick up a tray, quickly moving through the line.

"Man, I thought that Koe-nig was supposed to be some badass. But look at this, he got tits!" You openly laugh at the cook's loud exclamation to his surprise and watch his face turn to shock and horror as König steps forward behind you.

"Herz, did you know that I have grown tits? Why did you not tell me?!" You shrug.

"I felt like that should be a discussion between you and your doctor, König. Or maybe between you and your workout routine." Your flat delivery has hysterical giggles bursting out among the cooks as they realize neither of you are going to kill them for their words.

Lunch is quick. Not as tasty as you usually manage to get, but edible enough. When a soldier appears to herd all of you back to your quarters, König is instantly annoyed. You silently cajole him into cooperating for now. It is only the first day, after all.

The promised beds are delivered to you before dark, though they aren't much bigger. Fortunately, your team has dealt with this issue before and they simply push the metal frames out into the hall to the surprise of the posted guard. He doesn't protest at all, understanding the frustration.

Snuggling that night is mandatory rather than optional. Your front is pressed against König with Horangi's back to yours. Between the two heaters, you don't need a blanket despite the cool Fall temps and the windows wide open to let in the breeze.

#call of duty #konig x reader #konig cod #cod smut #könig x reader

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the-catch-center · 1 month ago

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🔒 SPATIOTEMPORAL CATCH CENTER: INTERNAL RECONDITIONING DOSSIER

SUBJECT CODE: 044-EXE REVIEW OFFICER: Centaur K. Marlowe (Temporal Behavior Enforcement, Tier-5 Clearance) DATE OF INTAKE: 2025-05-08 UTC REALITY ANCHOR STATUS: UNSTABLE – FORCED REALIGNMENT IN PROGRESS EMOTIONAL COHERENCE INDEX: 41.8% NEURAL RESISTANCE FLUX: 12.4 (Critical)

I. SUBJECT'S ORIGIN: “JACOB HAWTHORNE RAINE”

Date of Birth: 1997-02-12 Region of Origin: Austin, Texas (North American Union, Post-Resurgence Sector) Baseline Occupation: Freelance Systems Agitator / Crypto Migration Consultant Criminal Record:

2044: Unauthorized Chrono-Tech Procurement (Sealed)

2049: Illegal Memory Weaving

2051: Emotional Downtime Fraud (Domestic Sector)

2055: Use of Quantum Masking Protocols to bypass Rebirth Registry

Psychological Profile: A classic deviant of the late post-modern diaspora: clever, underutilized, painfully self-aware, and pathologically allergic to meaning. "Jacob Hawthorne Raine" is the type of man who reads Stoicism while engaging in market destabilization, then cries about the state of the world over unlicensed espresso in a barcoded bio-lounge. Full of clever nihilism, feigned introspection, and cowardly hopes for escape.

II. TARGET INSERTION PROFILE (ABORTED): “MICHAEL ANTHONY HEMSWORTH”

Target Year: 1962 Planned Region: Troy, New York Assigned Cover: Junior Accountant at Mather & Co. Age upon Arrival: 28 Family Implantation: Wife (Homemaker archetype), 2 children (age 5 and 3 pre-coded), Border Collie (named Skip) Home: 3-bedroom, 2-bath colonial, lavender siding, modest lawn

Psychological Configuration Request: Subject requested full emotional dampening to 1960s middle-class baseline:

Elimination of ambition

Introduction of mild myopia and posture degradation

Neural loops centered on trivial routines (e.g., lawn maintenance, coffee brewing, sighing at newspapers)

Subdued masculinity: narrow shoulders, underdeveloped triceps, weak grip, domestic speech tone

Evaluation:

"A thoroughly pathetic attempt to disappear into irrelevance. His stated wish: 'I just want to be a good dad, finally.' A laughable fantasy. Like a delinquent arsonist dreaming of becoming a librarian. Denied." – Analyst Note

Subject’s emotional blueprint for “Michael Hemsworth” was so deliberately hollow it bordered on psychological self-mutilation. He did not wish to be forgotten. He wished to hide. And we at the Catch Center do not reward cowards.

III. INTERCEPTION AND FINAL ASSIGNMENT: “BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES”

Year of Deployment: 2007 Age: 44 (Visual + Chrono Profile Recalibrated) Region: Midtown Manhattan Assigned Occupation: Executive Vice President of Global Equities Strategy, Augur-Bain Capital

PHYSICAL RESTRUCTURING

Height: 6’4” Body Type: Lean-hardened, vascularity prioritized, adrenal-pumped musculature Hair: Slicked back, loaded with product Facial Hair: Permanent stubble cycle (tuned to exhaustion-based aesthetic) Skin Flush Index: 3.2 (Stress/Caffeine saturation) Posture: Upright, twitchy—energy reads as always “mid-argument” Voice: Raspy, quick, with a controlled sneer Signature Accessories:

BlackBerry Pearl 8130 (left hand, always)

Omega Speedmaster watch

Loafers stretched to biometric ID specs: Size 28EE

Clothing: 2007 Wall Street aesthetic — charcoal suit, aggressive spread-collar French cuff white shirt, bold-striped tie, glinting belt buckle, hard-shined shoes

All materials embedded with anti-anachronism code overlays

Transformation Visuals (Active):

Flickering between suits and khakis (resistance phase)

Warp effects include: luminous financial charts, floating $ symbols, light trails of testosterone auras, subtle dopamine glitch overlays

BIOGRAPHICAL INSERTION: BRADFORD KELLEN ST. JAMES

Born: 1963-04-09, Darien, Connecticut Education:

Phillips Exeter Academy

Wharton School of Business, MBA (Class of 1987) Career Timeline:

1987: Merrill Lynch (Analyst)

1991: Goldman Sachs (VP)

1999: Augur-Bain Capital (SVP)

2004–Present: EVP, Global Equities, overseeing $312B in assets

Income: $5.2M annually (excluding illicit offshore holding accounts) Marital Status: Married (Name: Lacey Morland St. James, 41) Children:

Brayden (14, elite prep academy)

Knox (9, mostly ignored)

Personality Rewrite:

Patience: reduced to 1.2%

Empathy: 0.4% residual echo, flagged for deletion

Work Ethic: maxed at 9.9 (hyperactive, stimulant-driven)

Libido: weaponized

Speech patterns: hyperconfident, 2.2x normal interruption rate, fond of phrases like “circle back” and “synergize or die”

Notes from Analyst:

“Lacey is miserable. Of course she is. She married a man with bones. She lives with a reptile now.” “He remembers birthdays but doesn’t celebrate them. Sends emails to his wife from the next room.” “Never touches his kids unless it’s for a photo.” “They know he’s gone. So what? The market calls louder.”

DEATH PROJECTION FILE

Registered End of Cycle:

Date: September 29, 2031

Time: 02:41 a.m. EST

Location: Midtown Manhattan penthouse

Cause: Sudden cardiac arrest during self-directed “brainstorm sprint” at standing desk (64th consecutive hour without sleep)

Noted Artifacts at Scene:

11 crushed espresso pods

Blood-stained BlackBerry

Mirror selfie folder labeled “final quarter beastmode”

FINAL OBSERVATIONS

"Raine wanted warmth. A lawn. A little dog. He wanted to die a nobody, sighing into a chipped mug while flipping coupons. We gave him Wall Street in 2007. We gave him himself—not the coward trying to run. The man who thrives on conquest, burns through relationships, and smells like leather and fear. He’s not dreaming of 1962 anymore. He’s trading derivatives and barely blinking. Good."

#male transformation #ai generated #ai art #caught and reintegrated successfully

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lifeafterpsychiatry · 17 days ago

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hi! hope you're doing well from wherever you are. i have been in an out of the anti psych space. one of the biggest things I'm wondering is what you think should be put in place of the psychiatry system. or if there should be a replacement. i am imagining a world where treatment is community ran, like a mutual aid network for healthcare almost. ppl won't just get diagnosed and be prescribed the medication for their specific disorder, but they have more options to manage and treat their disabilities. of course, not having a plan is fine, as i think it's enough to say that the current system isn't working. this is just something that I've been thinking about for a while. have a good day or night, thanks for reading this

First of all I think we need to fundamentally restructure society in a way so that people who can't work/be "productive citizens" and/or people who need extra support of various kinds are actively included, accepted and accommodated as full people instead of being treated like problems to be either fixed or eradicated. I don't think we need a direct replacement for psychiatry, because the role of psychiatry as a carceral system is to enforce conformity and productivity and punish deviance, and in my ideal world we wouldn't do that. Of course there'd still be people with various mental health issues, but there'd be room for that in a way there isn't today, and there'd be various voluntary in-community harm reduction resources to help them cope. Taking psych meds and going to therapy would still be tools some people would want to use, but unlike today that would be happening in a context of full autonomy.

#chat with kat #anti psych

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apas-95 · 1 year ago

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Idk how to feel about China opening diplomatic relations with the Taliban. Yes Afghanistan's assets should be unfrozen and the entire reason the Taliban runs Afghanistan now is the fault of the US, but they are still an extremely brutal reactionary theocracy enforcing the most extreme gender apartheid in the world. It's not China's (or anyone's) place to change that obviously, but I can't bring myself to celebrate China opening diplomacy with them as a win for the third world.

So, in a word: non-interference.

You're right that the Taliban are a reactionary organisation, and you're right that they're in power because of US interference and invasion. Furthermore, you correctly point out that China should not attempt to change the internal political structure of Afghanistan, but the reason for that is much more than an abstract notion of sovereignty or respect - it is moreso a matter of practicality.

The Taliban are in power because they are the Afghan-nationalist group most favourable to US interests. The US would prefer its puppet government be in power, but failing that, there are groups it very much does not want to take power, such as Afghan communist organisations. The US directs more resources to undernining those groups than it does the Taliban. In any case, the Taliban are still better for Afghanistan than the US-comprador government is, but they are still ultimately in power due to continued US intervention. The US refusal to recognise the Taliban is an element in a continuum of intervention, attempting to tip the scale towards US-favourable groups - it is, counter-intuitively, an element of the exact strategy that is keeping the Taliban in power.

China's non-interference policy not only does not influence the internal affairs of other countries - inherently, it actively *weakens* US influence in those countries. If the threat keeping US-favourable groups in power is sanctions, blockade, and international non-recognition, then the credible promise that China, an incredibly useful partner, will engage with *whichever* domestic group takes power, no matter their ideology, allows for organic Afghan interests to express themselves and bring about organic Afghan political goals. Similarly, the provisioning of no-strings-attached investment, infrastructure, etc, makes US support of preferred groups less effective, as Afghanistan is both less desperate for support, and also has less incentive to take aid packages that include 'restructuring' demands.

In essence: refusing relations with the Taliban, like the US is doing, is part of the exact gradient of political-economic pressures that keeps the Taliban (the group least threatening to US interests, other than an unsustainable puppet) in power. Opening non-judgemental relations to *whoever* achieves power weakens that gradient, and strengthens the ability for the genuine interests of the Afghan people to determine who achieves and retains power. China refusing to open relations with the Afghan government because they do not align ideologically would not change that gradient at all, and could only add yet another set of foreign interests overriding those of the people (interests which could not be more commanding than those of the US military empire, in any case). Free and non-judgemental relations with a reliable trading partner is precisely the environment that weakens the political base of reactionary organisations, and strengthens genuinely revolutionary ones.

#tl;dr: you're thinking chess & the cpc is thinking weiqi :doge:

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elizaaudreyy · 11 days ago

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Todd's Girl, Their Boss (Pt. One)

Pairing: Todd Stevens x female!oc Word Count: 439

The KNA house always had a particular smell after summer break - a mix of stale pizza, cheap cologne, and despair. As the guys filed back in, carrying duffel bags and boxes, the familiar chaos resumes. Todd Stevens rolled up last, dragging in a suitcase that wasn't even his.

"Why're you carrying her stuff?" Mitch asked, eyeing the floral-patterned luggage.

Todd grinned. "Because she's moving in."

Tom. who'd just shoved a couch cushion out of the kitchen doorway blinked. "She who?"

"Mariah."

The room froze. Tom dropped the cushion. Mitch's Red Bull cracked open slower than usual. From the upstairs hallway, someone muttered "Oh, shit."

Mariah Cole, Todd' girlfriend, former cheer captain, 5' 4" of pure command and chaos, had become a bit of a myth over the last year. Smart, terrifying, hot - she could silence a frat party with a look and had once made a Sigma Chi guy cry by correcting his grammar mid-argument.

And now she was here. Living. In the KNA house.

"She cleared it with the board," Todd added, as if that'd calm the hurricane of testosterone and insecurity already spinning through the room. "Said she's using the year to finish her thesis on the behavioral dynamics of male-dominated group housing."

"So we're her thesis?" Tom asked.

Todd shrugged. "Basically."

Mariah arrived five minutes later.

Wearing bike shorts and an oversized hoodie with "KNA PROPERTY" ironed on the back, she sauntered in like she'd always lived there. Her nails were red. Her coffee was iced. Her gaze was unforgiving.

“Tom,” she said, not even looking up from her phone. “There’s mold on the upstairs bathroom ceiling. You’re the tallest. Fix it.”

Tom opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Mitch,” she said sweetly. “I saw your room when I visited last spring. If you’re living like that again, I’m buying you a Roomba and naming it your replacement.”

“Yes ma’am,” Mitch said stunned.

By the end of day one, Mariah had restructured the entire trash schedule, created a shared Google Calendar that included a hydration reminders, and enforced a strict “no shirtless gaming in common areas” policy - which somehow even Kyle, the most shirtless of them all, didn’t fight.

That night, as they gathered in the living room, silently watching her direct the rearrangement of the living room furniture (while Todd followed behind her like a loyal golden retriever), Tom levers toward Mitch and whispered, “She’s the president now. Not Todd. It’s her.”

Mitch nodded solemnly. “We live in Mariah’s house now.”

Todd, beaming with pride as Mariah barked orders at a freshman pledging about coasters and boundaries, didn’t seem to mind at all.

#todd stevens #the line #lewis pullman #female!oc #fanfic

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psychopassera · 20 days ago

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PSYCHO-PASS LEGEND — Nobuchika Ginoza: Separation (Part 2 of 6)

Traducción al español (estan las seis partes completas), acá

Part 1/6 available here

As he did every day, Ginoza finished arranging his desk precisely on time, put on his black overcoat, and picked up his briefcase before leaving the Office of Division One, part of the Criminal Investigation Department.

The rest of the team remained at their desks, focused on their tasks. The only person who looked up to acknowledge his departure was Shinya Kōgami, his colleague and fellow Inspector in Division One. He had short, rigid hair, a strong and athletic build, and a presence more reminiscent of a wild wolf than a human being. And yet, something in his face retained the noble bearing of a hunting dog raised in a distinguished household.

Kōgami straightened slightly, as if he were about to say something upon seeing Ginoza leave without a word. But Ginoza had already exited the office before he could open his mouth.

He knew exactly what he was going to say. “At least say goodbye to the Enforcers before you leave.” That kind of remark. Minor, harmless, scoldings, but persistent. Having known him since their formative years in higher education, Ginoza didn’t need to hear the words to understand perfectly what his former classmate was thinking.

And perhaps because of that… he hesitated even more.

He thought of him. Of someone who, with far superior marks than his own, had graduated at the top of the class during the final evaluation of the compulsory education system and had gone on to become an Inspector for the Ministry of Welfare—the very core of society under the Sibyl System. And yet, that same man now trusted an Enforcer—a latent criminal released from an isolation facility merely because he was deemed “useful”—and worse still, treated him as an equal. That attitude, to Ginoza, was a sign of reckless naivety. It was not the behavior of a sensible citizen.

As the elevator descended to the ground floor, he wondered when he had first started noticing these strange gestures in Kōgami. The numbers on the elevator panel faded one by one, each replaced by a brief flash of light. As he watched the 3 slowly become a 1, Ginoza understood.

It had started last year, when they reunited after the restructuring of the divisions within the Criminal Investigation Department.

Both had joined the Public Safety Bureau in the same year, part of the same intake, though they had initially been assigned to different sections. But the human toll within the police force was so high that in less than two years, both divisions were decimated. Eventually, Division One absorbed Division Three. Ginoza and Sasayama remained in their original posts, while Kōgami and another Enforcer were transferred from Division Three.

That meant Kōgami had adopted that way of thinking during his time in the old division. Some kind of warped ideology had clung to him there.

Crossing the main lobby and stepping into the wide courtyard in front of the building, he was greeted by an icy wind. He pulled his coat tighter and looked up at the tower rising behind him like an enormous cylindrical column reaching toward the sky. Inside that structure were the Enforcers’ quarters.

Enforcers were strictly forbidden from leaving the building unless escorted by Inspectors for investigative purposes. And yet, sometimes—during an assignment—some of them attempted to escape.

And in such cases, it was the Inspector himself who had to intervene.

Some Enforcers had even been eliminated. For that reason alone, the Inspector must establish a clear and unquestionable hierarchical relationship. Excessive familiarity not only interferes with duty—it also poses a risk to one's hue by deepening emotional ties with latent criminals. That Kōgami, as intelligent as he was, failed to understand this… was something Ginoza simply couldn’t accept. To him, Enforcers were like wild dogs still untamed.

In contrast, Ron—the Basset Hound they had captured the previous week and who had been under Ginoza’s custody as evidence ever since—was almost hard to believe had ever wandered the mountains alone as part of an animal reintroduction. He was clearly well trained. He had likely spent a great deal of time with his former owner—the animal therapist still missing—and that explained his calm demeanor. He had shown no aggression, made no attempt to attack; on the contrary, he had settled into Ginoza’s apartment as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Especially for a Basset Hound—a breed known for its loud, prolonged barking—it was a relief that he didn’t start barking uncontrollably in a tower-style apartment like the ones assigned to Inspectors.

However, not everything was going well.

As Ginoza made his way toward the public transportation station, he had the growing sense that the problem remained unresolved.

Upon returning home, he was greeted by a bark. It wasn’t loud, but it had a lively, almost cheerful tone. It sounded to him like “Welcome back.” Ginoza took off his shoes, and as he stepped onto the hallway’s cork flooring, the embedded sensors activated, and the bedroom door slid open slowly. Then, a sharp-eyed dog with heterochromatic eyes and a gleaming coat of deep brown fur began walking down the hall.

“I’m home, Dime.”

It was his lifelong companion, Dime, the Siberian Husky who had been with him since childhood. This breed had historically been used as sled dogs by the hunting and nomadic peoples of Siberia and Alaska. Its name derived from a distorted pronunciation of the term merchants once used—often derogatorily—for the Chukchi people, their original breeders, whom they referred to as “Eskimos.”

Around Dime’s neck hung a coin, fastened to his collar like an ornament. It was part of Ginoza’s personal collection and also the inspiration behind his name.

Ginoza set down his briefcase, knelt, and accepted his dog’s exuberant greeting. Though the average life expectancy of a Siberian Husky hovered around fifteen years, Dime had outlived it—and still retained his playful and stubborn spirit, throwing himself against Ginoza with the same energy as always. After receiving the enthusiastic hug for quite a while, Ginoza finally managed to peel him off, brushing away the strands of soft fur that clung to his coat. A cleaning drone rolled past and immediately vacuumed them off the floor.

It seemed Dime was shedding even more than usual lately. He had never fallen ill, but… the signs of aging were unmistakable.

“How’s he doing?” Ginoza asked while hanging his coat in the wardrobe.

Dime stared at the living room for a few seconds, then looked up at Ginoza and let out a long bark, as if to say, “You forgot again.” It was almost like a sigh in the shape of a reproach. Yes… just as he’d suspected.

Ginoza walked with Dime toward the living room. There too, a sliding door like the one in the bedroom opened softly as it detected his presence. In a corner just outside the direct flow of the air conditioning, there was the dog’s bed: a foam mattress covered in blankets. On it, lying down, was Ron—the Basset Hound. His eyes were closed, but as Ginoza entered, he cracked one open, gave a slight twitch of one long ear… and then collapsed again without making a sound. He behaved like a fussy old landlord who didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Were you sleeping, Ron?”

Ginoza sat on the sofa and spoke to the guest who had been staying with him for nearly a week. Ron didn’t respond. He remained completely still. Ginoza waited a few moments for a sign, then got to his feet and went over to the cactus by the window to check on it. When he touched the soil in the pot, he found it dry—likely because he’d left the heater on all day. He headed to the kitchen-dining area to fetch the spray bottle and water it.

Then he noticed the food dishes had been cleared.

Dime’s bowl was completely spotless, as if he had licked up every last grain. But Ron’s, just as he’d feared, remained untouched. The food sat there, exactly as it had been left.

Ron, like a prisoner staging a silent protest, was refusing to eat. Ginoza had tried different brands and combinations, but nothing had worked.

At first, he thought the refusal might be due to lingering effects of the anesthetic used during the capture, but medical tests revealed no abnormalities. He was barely drinking water, and even with that alone, the weight loss was already noticeable.

Ginoza returned to the living room and approached Ron, who still hadn’t moved. Touching him, he could feel the long, soft fur, carefully groomed after removing the fleas, ticks, and other parasites he had brought back from the mountains. But his body was visibly thin. Pressing gently, he discovered a surprisingly solid bone structure for such a small frame. That contrast—fragility disguised as resilience—wiped the expression from his face.

Ron didn’t flinch at contact, nor did he tense up, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it either. It wasn’t distrust, because if invited for a walk, he would obey with lazy reluctance but without resistance. Only with food did he remain utterly unyielding.

Ginoza sat on the sofa, flipping through documents projected holographically from his Inspector’s device, but his eyes barely skimmed the surface of the words. He was reading without understanding. He felt frustrated. Useless. He had earned certification as a canine therapist, was qualified to conduct assisted therapy sessions with dogs… and yet, when it came to actually caring for a dog, he felt like a complete amateur. It was absurd.

Something was slipping past him.

Animals don’t communicate their thoughts with words, but that doesn’t mean there’s no communication. Just as humans use gestures and facial expressions beyond verbal language, the movements and behaviors of animals also carry messages.

There were times when Ginoza felt quietly proud of his ability to quickly pick up on a dog’s nonverbal cues. But… was that sensitivity something that only worked with Dime, the dog who had been by his side his entire life? What if it had always been Dime—steadfast and perceptive—who had read his thoughts and acted accordingly?

Dime had been a gift from his grandmother. A therapy dog.

In the darkest period of his life, Dime had been almost the only bright memory. At that time, still a child, the world had seemed brutal, illogical, utterly merciless. His father, a police detective, had seen his hue severely clouded during a case investigation and had ended up classified as a latent criminal, confined in an isolation facility. That all happened just after the Criminal Coefficient system had been implemented. It was a time when society, newly aligned with the absolute values of the Sibyl System, was intent on imposing them aggressively on everyone. Those labeled as latent criminals—and anyone resembling them—were ruthlessly cast out.

Even though there wasn’t a single study proving that criminal latency was hereditary, the belief was embraced with near-fanatical conviction. Even today, some discrimination against the families of latent criminals still lingers, but back then, the persecution was extreme.

His father's fall into the latent category was a sentence that condemned both Ginoza and his mother to social hell. They lost their place in the world. Even when they moved to a new area, someone would always discover their background, and before long, they’d be despised again—scorned, insulted, shunned. Ginoza’s mother, unable to withstand the pressure, began to decline too, her hue growing darker and darker. And still, she clung to hope, desperately searching for some way, some method, to restore her husband’s hue. But a discarded object doesn’t rise back into the air by defying gravity. Everything kept falling… until it broke entirely.

Ginoza hated his father. He despised him deeply. That man had shown up as an Enforcer when his mother was already in critical condition… and hadn’t stayed with her at her deathbed. [1] He had left—just like that—because duty called him in the middle of an investigation. He had been consumed entirely by his role as a detective. There was no way to forgive him for it. And, of course, Ginoza’s hue could never remain pure after that.

Then as now, Ginoza constantly asked himself whether he was living as a proper person in the eyes of society. And he could say without hesitation that the child he once was… had been completely mistaken.

His grandmother, desperate to improve his hue, tried various psychological therapies for him. Dime was part of that effort. He arrived as a therapy dog when he was still a puppy, meant to help him heal. In modern Japanese society, where living animals were extraordinarily valuable commodities, a Siberian Husky like Dime was no small investment. That breed, in particular, had been celebrated since the 20th century for its critical role in delivering serum during a diphtheria outbreak in Nome, Alaska. They had crossed over 1,000 kilometers of frozen trails to save hundreds of lives. Since then, they had been seen as lucky dogs in times of epidemic, and their value had soared.

But his grandmother spared no expense for her grandson. She tried everything.

And it was through Dime—through that silent bond—that Ginoza discovered that even in a world full of enemies eager to hurt him… someone could still stand by his side. That realization had been his salvation. It pulled him up from collapse and set him on the path to becoming someone who could live "correctly."

That’s why he studied with such desperation. So that he would never give even the slightest opening to those who approached with malicious intent.

He couldn’t give them even the smallest chance. He had to prove that he was worth enough to exist in this society.

That’s why he chose the Public Safety Bureau.

Obtaining a suitability evaluation for that particular agency during the mandatory vocational assessment received at the end of basic education was extremely rare. Working in criminal investigation meant, from the outset, living in constant proximity to the risk of hue deterioration. But if one managed to hold that job until the end, it was possible to attain a high-ranking position within the Ministry of Welfare—the true core of Sibyl society. In other words, to become one of the people who moved the world.

That would allow Nobuchika Ginoza to prove to the system—and to the entire world—that his existence had meaning.

No. He couldn’t afford to fail. And especially not in a case like this, where there hadn’t even been any fatalities. No, he thought immediately. He couldn’t underestimate it.

This wasn’t a trivial case.

Pets are sometimes referred to as “companion animals.” But their significance goes beyond affection—they are true partners in life. When an animal therapist decides to release them into the wild at random, it’s as if someone had stripped a family of all means of communication and abandoned them in an unfamiliar country. No one could remain calm in the face of that.

And many of those affected were elderly people. Couples who had started raising an animal after their children had left home. Or seniors who had lost their spouses and lived alone. For them, those animals were vital components—indispensable for maintaining the stability of their Psycho-Pass.

“I’m a pathetic man,” Ginoza thought, feeling the pressure of frustration build inside him.

This wasn’t good. He was experiencing stress.

He moved to the kitchen-dining area, retrieved the vial of Psycho-Pass care stabilizers, and, following the prescribed dosage, swallowed several pills with a glass of water. Ever since he became an Inspector, those medications—along with his regular therapy sessions—had become indispensable for performing his duties.

At that moment, Dime followed him into the kitchen. He probably thought Ginoza was about to serve food.

And now that he thought of it… he hadn’t eaten dinner yet either.

Ginoza was never one to have much appetite, and skipping meals wasn’t unusual for him. But for a large dog like Dime, meals were essential. Forgetting something so basic… he was clearly out of sorts.

He prepared Dime’s food, and at the same time, ordered a high-performance nutritional bagel for himself from the food printer. It was a New York–style bagel, typical of the Ashkenazi [2] baking tradition: compact, chewy, with excellent bite texture. Each section had a slightly different flavor, preventing palate fatigue. He ate slowly, finishing it almost without realizing.

Then he watched Dime eat. The dog chewed slowly, as if savoring every bite, and then took small sips from the water bowl beside his dish. Despite his age, his appetite remained intact, although he certainly ate less than before and took more time to do it.

“If only Ron could eat like that…” Ginoza murmured, almost without thinking.

Dime immediately stopped eating and looked up, fixing his mismatched eyes on him for a long moment.

It was his tenth stare. It wasn’t an iris defect. In Siberian Huskies, heterochromatic eyes are perfectly normal. And yet, Ginoza had always felt a particular fascination with that enigmatic gaze. Dime, as if nothing had happened, calmly returned to his food and resumed chewing with the same tranquility as before. It was as if he were quietly granting his owner forgiveness for that brief moment of emotional infidelity.

I’m sorry, Dime. I’ve neglected you.

The next morning, the usual case meeting was held.

It wasn’t that there had been any significant progress. The overall division of labor remained the same: Ginoza and Sasayama would continue investigating the stolen animals in coordination with the Health Office. Meanwhile, Kōgami and Enforcer Masaoka were in charge of tracking down the animal therapist, Yōnobu Miyake.

“…I know I don’t have anything concrete to offer, but something about all this smells off.”

It was Masaoka who spoke, after finishing his report. His face, lined with wrinkles, carried the weight of years of experience that certified him as a veteran Enforcer. He wore a relaxed, classic suit that suited his unhurried pace. Every movement he made left behind a faint trace of alcohol and turpentine—as if his body still held the memory of a painter’s studio.

“This Miyake Yōnobu… it’s like he was using the animals he raised to turn a profit, taking in pets left by other owners for that purpose. If someone told me he was reselling them, I’d get it,” Masaoka continued, frowning. “But I just can’t figure out why—suddenly, as if something flipped inside him—he let all of them go. If we could understand that, I think we’d have a solid lead…”

“Is that your detective’s instinct talking, Tottsan?” Kōgami interjected, with a faint smile. Ever since their time in Division Three, his trust in Masaoka had been absolute.

“The motive doesn’t matter,” Ginoza cut in coldly. “What we need are results. You can play detective after the meeting.”

The interruption sparked a jolt of irritation.

Kōgami, from the very first day they’d met, had always had that tendency to drift outside reality. Maybe it was his insatiable love for reading, or his devotion to fiction, but he always seemed to carry a trace of idealism with him. He was a romantic. A dreamer. And Masaoka—with his mannerisms, his language, his very presence—seemed like he had stepped out of a vintage detective novel. But at the end of the day, he was a latent criminal. A social outcast. Not someone you could place blind trust in.

“Hey, Gino…”

Kōgami cast him a glance from the side, but Ginoza ignored it.

“Inspector Kōgami, continue the search for the animal therapist. If you require information that falls under another ministry’s jurisdiction, submit the request—I’ll handle the clearance. That’s all. Meeting adjourned.”

As Masaoka gave Kōgami a pat on the shoulder, as if calming him before he could say anything else, Ginoza once again felt that persistent discomfort stir within him.

The rest of the morning was consumed almost entirely by email exchanges with the Health Office. Things that could have been settled in two or three sentences over a holovisor call turned into endless email chains, filled with the kind of convoluted, overly formal writing so typical of bureaucrats. Time simply slipped away.

Calling it a “joint operation” sounded good on paper, but in practice, it was two separate institutions investigating the same case with almost no coordination—competing for results. It was far from a healthy situation.

Just before lunch, he decided to take a short break and, while he was at it, looked into whether the Basset Hound breed—Ron’s—had any dietary requirements that differed from other dogs. He assigned one of the sub-monitors to that task.

“About this morning’s meeting… I get that you’re frustrated by the lack of progress, but taking it out on the Enforcers isn’t really like you, Gino-sensei, don’t you think?”

Sasayama had appeared unannounced and was now sitting across from his desk, interrupting the documents displayed on screen. He often chatted with others even during work hours. He proudly called himself a hopeless womanizer, and when there were female Inspectors or Enforcers nearby, he’d trail after them like a dog in heat. Currently, Division One was composed only of men, so his antics had tapered off—but when he hovered like this, he was still just as annoying.

“Get back to work,” Ginoza said sharply. “You’re in the way.”

“Oof, scary,” Sasayama replied, unfazed, staying right where he was. He craned his neck to glance at one of the sub-monitors behind Ginoza.

“Come on, Gino-sensei, if you’re on a break, let me chat a bit,” he said, eyeing the screen.

“Evidence review is part of my job,” Ginoza shot back curtly.

Ron hadn’t eaten that morning either. If this continued—considering his already poor nutritional state—the most serious outcome could be death from progressive weakness. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate, from an animal welfare standpoint, to turn him over to the Health Office?

But that agency mainly handled the culling of animals that had gone feral. In this case, since the animals had been stolen and were to be returned to their original owners, their handling should, in theory, be more careful. Still, given that Ron had belonged to a criminal, there was no telling how they might treat him. He could very well be subjected to all sorts of experiments under the guise of “analysis.” And if that happened, his decline would only accelerate.

That… Ginoza could not allow.

“If you’re that kind to the dog…” said Sasayama with a crooked smile, as if reading his thoughts, “couldn’t you spare a bit of that kindness for us, your loyal hounds?”

Ginoza said nothing.

Sasayama noticed, and let out a short, resigned laugh. But that attitude only fueled Ginoza’s irritation further.

“Hounds, you? Latent criminals?”

You, who must be confined simply for worsening the hue of those around you. You, who exist on the fringes of society. Don’t you dare call yourselves hounds of the law, as if you were its rightful agents. Don’t indulge in that ridiculous pretense just because you carry the title of Enforcers.

“What are we, then? Carriers of some contagious virus?” Sasayama replied with a half-smile, his tone unchanged.

“That’s not it.”

Ginoza stood from his seat and cast a glance around the entire Division One office. Kōgami and Masaoka were also watching the exchange, their expressions showing that something wasn’t right.

This was the moment. He had to make it absolutely clear.

“You are the virus. Never forget it: your very existence is a threat to others.”

His voice was cold. Merciless.

The atmosphere in the office froze instantly.

“Hey, Gino…”

Kōgami threw a sharp glance at Masaoka and stood up. He took a few steps toward Ginoza. His brow was furrowed, fists clenched. He was upset. Angry, maybe?

But he didn’t understand. Ginoza knew that. Kōgami still didn’t understand.

The man he admired so deeply—the one he saw as the archetype of the seasoned, stoic detective—was not who he thought he was.

“Inspector Ginoza, shall we go to lunch?”

Sasayama’s voice cut through the moment, delivered as if oblivious to the tension… but his movements were fast.

He stepped in just in time, blocking the imminent confrontation. He prevented Kōgami from getting any closer and left no room for Ginoza to retort. His action felt forced, but it worked. Without giving him a chance to resist, he grabbed Ginoza by the shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him straight out of Division One’s office.

With his slim build, Ginoza couldn’t put up much resistance. They headed directly to the break room.

The lounge, spacious and lined with a large glass wall to let in the light, was empty—as if someone had deliberately cleared it in advance.

The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the drink dispenser. The unmistakable smell of cigarettes lingered in the air: Sasayama was smoking one of his usual Spinnel, his preferred brand of hand-rolled tobacco. If he remembered correctly, the name referred to a thorn.

“…What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

Ginoza sat on a bench. Beside him, a cup of steaming coffee sat untouched; Sasayama had brought it for him. Instead, he was sipping from a paper cup he’d filled himself with something sugary from the dispenser. The taste was deliberately cloying. On the side of the cup, the Public Safety Bureau’s cheerful mascot beamed with an innocent smile.

“That’s a question I should be asking you, Gino-sensei,” Sasayama replied, leaning his shoulder against the wall and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“We know perfectly well that we’re society’s outcasts. And I’m not saying that dramatically. Look, I’ve done stuff that easily could’ve landed me in a cell with no right to complain. But what you said today… you crossed a line. What’s going on with you? Back in the old Division One, you had other Enforcers under your command—but you weren’t this hostile. At least, not this blunt.”

“I just said what’s plainly true.”

Ginoza replied curtly, coldly, as if trying to end the conversation. But Sasayama, like smoke, let the words pass through him, answering lightly—almost calmly.

“Is this about Kōgami?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Process of elimination,” said Sasayama, with a faint smile. “I’ve been working with you since before. Masaoka hasn’t shown any problematic behavior—at least compared to other Enforcers. But Kōgami… the way he interacts with Enforcers… He doesn’t act like an Inspector, does he, Gino-sensei? Does it bother you when an Inspector gets along with Enforcers?”

“…Of course it does.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“What?”

Ginoza frowned, surprised that Sasayama agreed with him so easily.

“We Enforcers are tools for the Inspectors. Nothing more.”

But then, as if he couldn’t hold it back, he added:

“…And a tool can either save—or kill—the one who wields it.”

“Are you suggesting a rebellion?”

Ginoza looked at him sharply.

“What kind of nonsense is that?” Sasayama scoffed, laughing it off without concern. “I’ve got no complaints about my handler. You’ve always done the job right as an Inspector. But lately… well, your attitude’s been a little off. Isn’t it true that our work has a purpose?”

Was he being flippant? No. Sasayama wasn’t one to joke in situations like this.

Ginoza took a moment before answering. He carefully selected a reply that he believed to be correct, logical, irrefutable.

“Our job is to deal with latent criminals who threaten the order of this society.”

“Then make sure you don’t mistake your enemy, Gino-sensei. You don’t have to treat Enforcers as your equals. But if you treat them properly—whether as tools or as people—it’ll show you the best way to use them. Learn how to handle a hound.”

“It never hurts to know how to handle a hound. Kōgami figured that out, didn’t he? Though… maybe he’s getting a bit too close for comfort. Still, between carrot and stick, I guess that’s not the worst balance.”

With that, Sasayama fell silent. He finished the rest of his cigarette and left the lounge, tossing out a passing comment about how attractive the lunch staffer was today.

Ginoza, for his part, drank what was left of the soda—but the cloying sweetness clung to his tongue. He picked up the coffee that had been sitting beside him and took a long sip. It was cold, but its bitterness cleansed his palate.

When his shift ended, he left the office without a word. No one to greet. No one to say goodbye to.

By the time he returned to the office later, Kōgami and the others had already left to continue the search for the animal therapist. They weren’t expected back until nightfall. Sasayama, after lunch, had come back briefly before announcing he was heading to the lab to retrieve the test results. He hadn’t returned since. He was probably off trying to seduce—or at the very least, annoy—some lab technician.

When he stepped outside, the air was still cold, but without wind, it didn’t bite as sharply as it had the day before. As he walked toward the station, Ginoza came across a holographic display decorating the plaza entrance with a show of vibrant lights: ribbons of scarlet floated in the air like silken strands, swaying gently, rippling without pause.

A couple walking ahead of him reached out toward one of the virtual ribbons, as if trying to tug on it. At that moment, a gigantic chocolate heart appeared in the sky, followed by a rain of colorful candies and decorations.

The show ended in a burst of lights. “Place your order now for a gift to your partner, friend, or loved one.” [3]

It was an advertisement for a large department store in Shinjuku preparing for its Valentine’s Day campaign. It was an event that held absolutely no appeal for Ginoza—but for some reason, in that moment, he made the decision to call a taxi and told the driver to take him to the mall.

During the ride, he reviewed all the documentation he had on Ron. He didn’t manage to go through every detail, but he was able to formulate a hypothesis. At last, he understood what had been slipping past him all this time.

The shopping center was crowded. As soon as he entered, a concierge avatar offered to let him try on spring outfits in the men’s fashion hologram section, but Ginoza cut it off and asked to be directed straight to the pet goods department. He didn’t have to wait long. They handed him exactly what he needed—no shortages, no excess. He paid and asked for the items to be wrapped. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t carry it, but he didn’t feel like taking the train home, so he called a taxi for the return trip.

When he arrived, as always, Dime came out to greet him. This time, though, he seemed a little irritated. Was he mad that Ginoza had taken so long? Or was he just impatient to be fed? Probably both.

Still carrying the shopping bags, Ginoza went straight to the kitchen. He served Dime’s food from the dispenser and spoke to him as he did—though perhaps his words were directed not only at Dime, but also at the silent guest who hadn’t moved from his place in the living room for hours.

“What one of my subordinates said during lunch… stuck with me,” Ginoza began. “And it made me reconsider everything. I was so focused on keeping you alive as case evidence that I forgot what I really should have done first.”

While Dime continued eating, Ginoza opened the paper bag and took out several packs of dog food he had bought. He laid them out on the kitchen counter, set out several bowls, and served a portion of each kind. Then he brought them all into the living room.

“Animal behavior is a form of language. No matter how incomprehensible it may seem, if you’re patient, you can understand it. Maybe you’re thinking I’m an idiot for not realizing sooner. After all, just remembering what you did before we captured you should have made it obvious.”

Ron, still lying on his bed, glanced at the bowls that Ginoza was lining up in front of him. He didn’t move yet.

“I found it strange that, despite being so skilled at avoiding traps and hunting prey after prey, you were so thin when we caught you. Were you saving food for your owner? Or was it just a habit repeated for too long? I can’t say for sure. But right now, that’s not what matters. Not what happened with the prey, but your own behavior.”

“Basset Hounds, despite how adorable they look, weren’t originally bred as pets,” he continued. “They were bred to be hounds. Dogs built for the hunt.”

Ron moved one of his ears, just once, in a faint gesture. His nose twitched slightly, as if picking up a scent.

With effort, he lifted his head and looked at Ginoza.

“It’s said that some hounds, trained to deliver prey without consuming it, are raised on a vegetarian diet,” he went on. “Tell me, Dime… is it possible that you don’t want to eat meat either?”

In front of Ron’s bed were several bowls filled with different types of food. The first contained food made from real meat. Next to it, a high-end commercial option—meatless, but engineered from ultra-processed oats and chemically adjusted to replicate the precise aromatic compounds that dogs identify and prefer in meat-based products.

And finally, the last: a plain oat base. No additives, no animal fragrances, no attractants. Raw. Tasteless. Originally formulated for dogs needing customized diets—especially for palliative care. Rarely served like this, unmixed.

And then, Ron slowly rose. With his three legs, he moved forward toward the bowls… and began to eat. He chose that one. The simplest. The purest.

He ate even more slowly than Dime. He chewed each grain carefully, deliberately. When he tried to swallow, he choked a little, a faint sound escaping from his throat.

Ginoza reacted immediately. He knelt down, held Ron’s body between his legs to steady him, and brought the water bowl to his mouth. Ron drank with a subtle tilt of his head. Then, he resumed eating. It took him more than thirty minutes to finish.

Ron ate slowly, grain by grain, like a devoted pilgrim who, after a long journey, honors the offering of bread and water with gratitude—no matter how hungry he is. With a serene and composed demeanor, he kept eating without ever losing his poise.

It seemed like the right answer.

Ginoza sighed in relief and reached out to remove the untouched bowls. Suddenly, he felt a gentle bite on his fingers.

It was Dime.

He had finished eating long ago, but the smell of meat had drawn him into the living room. With bright eyes, he approached the remaining dishes as if to say, “Is today a special occasion?” and tried to stick his nose in one of them. But Ginoza was quicker—he caught him by the neck before he could reach the food.

“Hey. You’re old. You can’t overeat. Wait until tomorrow.”

Dime, frustrated, looked at him with a heartbroken expression and let out a low, pitiful whine. Then he began circling Ginoza’s legs insistently, pleading sweetly for a change of heart—making it impossible for him to take even a step.

Meanwhile, Ron watched them in silence. His gaze was calm, almost analytical, as if evaluating the scene in front of him. Then, he flicked his long ears twice, a soft, measured pat-pat.

Translation Notes:

[1] Here, the translation refers to a “deathbed,” but the state Ginoza’s mother is in at that moment is more akin to a coma (let’s remember that Sae suffers from Eustress Deficiency Disorder, as shown in Sinners of the System Case 2). This could be a dissonance either with canon or with Ginoza’s perception of Sae’s condition.

[2] Ashkenazi —also spelled Asquenazi, Askenazi, or Askenazí— is the term used to refer to Jews who settled in Central and Eastern Europe.

[3] This represents a divergence from the canon established in the Inspector Akane Tsunemori manga (and, as I understand, also in the novelization of Season 1), because in both formats there’s a recurring joke involving Sasayama and Ginoza. Sasayama convinces Ginoza that Valentine’s Day is a holiday meant to improve workplace relationships, and Ginoza ends up preparing chocolates for Masaoka and Kōgami. This scene appears in Chapter 20.5 of the manga.

#psycho pass #psycho-pass #ginoza nobuchika #kogami shinya #psycho pass en español #nobuchika ginoza

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bitcoinmasterhub · 4 months ago

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SEC Shifts Focus: Cyber Unit Reorganized, Crypto Enforcement Calibrated

The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission’s division responsible for policing the digital asset space is being restructured with a potentially smaller team and a revised name, as announced on Thursday. This move suggests a moderation of the agency’s previously assertive regulatory approach towards the cryptocurrency sector. Over the past three years, the group has evolved from the Cyber Unit to…

#2024 seçim sonrası kripto #crypto regulation #cyber unit #enforcement restructure #Mark Uyeda

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zvaigzdelasas · 11 months ago

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Biden’s plan to Venezuela-ize the US Supreme Court - TheHill

Progressives have been pushing for Supreme Court reforms since, well, since right-leaning justices became the majority. They aren’t calling for a few tweaks to the court. Their demands would amount to a complete restructuring. To put it simply, if Biden and the progressives succeed in imposing their reforms, they would fundamentally change the court — and the country.

Reports claim Biden wants to impose 18-year term limits on the justices and an enforceable code of ethics. Progressives have also been pushing to pack the court — adding at least four new left-wing justices to put the left in the majority. These reforms would mirror that paragon of democracy: Venezuela.

In 2004, strongman President Hugo Chávez succeeded in packing the country’s Supreme Court, known as the Supreme Tribunal of Justice. As Human Rights Watch wrote at the time: “The law passed in May expanded the court from 20 to 32 members. In addition to the justices named to the 12 new seats, five justices were named to fill vacancies that had opened in recent months, and 32 more were named as reserve justices for the court.” [...]

In addition, Biden reportedly wants to impose 18-term limits on the justices. Maybe he’s just mad because the elites in the Democratic Party just imposed term limits on him. Again, that move resembles Venezuela, which appoints justices for 12-year nonrenewable terms. [...]

Their goal is not to put more justices on the court, but left-wing justices who will support their leftist agenda. Imposing term limits will help progressives get any conservatives out sooner so they can put in more leftie justices. And an ethics code is intended to let the executive branch remove any justice who won’t play the leftists’ game.

30 Jul 24

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elderwisp · 11 days ago

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Hey, I read through your full reply — and first, I just want to say I genuinely appreciate how detailed and passionate it was. And actually taking the time to respond and teach me on some things, while others just ignored and didn’t get the point. I understand what you’re saying. The U.S. has played a role in destabilizing parts of Latin America, and that has absolutely influenced migration patterns. I get that enforcement hasn’t always been fair or humane, and that both Democrat and Republican administrations have failed in different ways. That part of the conversation matters.

But I also think this: when people on the outside look at the LA protests right now, they don’t see that nuance. They don’t hear the history, or the policies, or the proposed reforms. They see signs calling for “no borders, no nations,” some wishing violence or death on political figures, and total chaos. Whether people want to hear it or not, that does change how seriously the rest of the country takes the message. Especially when there are headlines of fires, blocked highways, or fights with law enforcement.

And I know not all of that comes from protesters. There’s real footage of people stopping looters. But from the outside looking in? People aren’t seeing reform — they’re seeing rage. That doesn’t make them bigots or propaganda victims. It means the message is getting lost.

I honestly think that if more protests focused on real, actionable ideas — like turning illegal entry into a civil matter, reducing the cost of citizenship, or fixing the asylum backlog — more people would actually stop and listen. Because most Americans do want humane immigration reform. They just don’t want to feel like they’re being shouted into submission.

Also, I want to point this out with respect: many of you might understand “abolish ICE” as a call to restructure or defund — not eliminate all border enforcement. But that’s not how it reads to the average person. They hear “abolish ICE,” and they think, “So… no one deals with traffickers? No one handles child exploitation? No one investigates smuggling rings?” And when some protesters go even further and call ICE “terrorists,” it only deepens the divide. It doesn’t win people over — it pushes them away.

At the end of the day, I’m not saying the anger isn’t justified. I’m saying the delivery is pushing away people who might otherwise want to help. And when LA becomes the loudest protest on the map, the chaos ends up being what defines it — not the cause behind it. That’s the part that really saddens me.

Lastly, I wanted to mention your point about this being an effort to create a “white America.” I get where that perspective comes from — it reflects real pain and history. But I also think there’s a difference between calling out racism and assuming that everyone who supports immigration enforcement is doing so because of racial bias. Demonizing white people — or anyone — for having a different view on borders and immigration policy doesn’t help. A lot of people, including white, Black, brown, and Asian Americans, simply believe in the need for legal processes and national security. Disagreeing with open borders or calling for structured reform doesn’t automatically mean someone is anti-immigrant or fueled by hate.

If the goal is change, we need more people in the room, not fewer. And we don’t get there by pushing away everyone who doesn’t already agree on everything.

Hi! Before I get into the details of my response, I wanted to start off with this quote (and the context) by Martin Luther King Jr:

A Riot is the Language of the Unheard.

This specific quote has resurfaced however, that is the thing about quotes. Often times, they are taken out of context to fit a better narrative. So I wanted to include his 1967 speech at Stanford.

So I will continue to condemn riots, and continue to say to my brothers and sisters that this is not the way. And continue to affirm that there is another way. But at the same time, it is as necessary for me to be as vigorous in condemning the conditions which cause persons to feel that they must engage in riotous activities as it is for me to condemn riots. I think America must see that riots do not develop out of thin air.

The past doesn't often repeat itself but it sure does echo and the echoes are getting louder.

You say that the message is getting lost but with all due respect, I disagree. The message is loud and clear. It's been there the whole time. In fact, I had so much more to say, but I think Donald J. Trump's latest message perfectly conveys what is happening here:

Not only did he manage to separate the two parties, he created an us versus them rhetoric that is a hundred-percent based on the color of someone's skin. And if the blatant racism still is allowing you to assume that the left is demonizing white folks, I cannot begin to break that down. Especially when the context is in regards to Trump's specific agenda for America.

While I'm glad you were able to learn something from this, I'm not entirely sure if what I have to say is enough to make a difference. You dance a very fine line between fact and feelings but there are hard lines in the sand. You restructured your question which was "why are so many on the Left pushing such hateful and frankly harmful rhetoric, all while claiming to fight fascism, authoritarianism, or dictatorship?" and then say "Even ICE is now referred to as Trump’s personal Gestapo — and when elected officials like Tim Walz echo that kind of narrative, it stops being about change and starts to feel like vilification." When the hard line in the sand is we have seen the destruction of fascism at hand. Hitler and Germany. Mussolini and Italy. Neither conflicts were met with a peaceful rhetoric. Although, I believe it's important to hear what a few of the survivors of the holocaust have to say about Trump's current administration: 1, 2, and 3. (The third confronts Trump's ICE director.)

When leftist talk about far-right politics, they are talking about far-right politics and what the folks who are on simply the right need to recognize is seeing past themselves and understand that their party is being reshaped. It no longer stands for the ideals it once did. So if misrepresentation of their part is coming from both sides, where is the accountability of their representative? Because the way you structured this makes it sound like it is solely in the hands of the left to figure out a way to deliver a message that is palpable when the issue at hand is far bigger than pleasantries. It is bigger than feelings when democratic politicians are being killed for their views and senators are being violently removed for daring to ask a question on immigration. Democracy IS being tested. 48% if Americans did not vote for this in the popular vote. We have every right to protect and protest what is left of democracy. Mind you, I must reiterate that a majority of protests were peaceful but that wasn't good enough in the face of a government that is continuously filtering content, pushing for censorship and utilizing propaganda for it's own gain.

And to the people who did not want to answer your ask, they weren't trying to prove your point, the message was already there. And I think I'm gonna join them after reading Trump's message. That was my hard line in the sand.

So what side of history do you want to be on?

And I leave those who have read this with some advice from a holocaust survivor

#i'll be closing my anons for a while #also jumpscare sorry for linking CNN #asks

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1americanconservative · 25 days ago

Text

@nettermike

SCOTUS HANDS TRUMP FULL CONTROL OF FEDERAL AGENCIES — LAWFARE ERA IS OVER

The Supreme Court just detonated the Deep State’s last defense line. In a historic ruling, President Donald J. Trump has been granted full constitutional authority to remove the heads of all so-called “independent” federal agencies — without cause, delay, or interference.

The age of bureaucratic sabotage is over. The President is now back in full command.

This isn’t just a legal victory. It’s the collapse of an empire built in the shadows — the unelected regime of agency heads, Obama-era loyalists, and lawfare architects who thought they could rule from the back rooms while pretending Trump was just a figurehead.

Now he holds the sword. And the purge begins.

The Court’s decision confirms Trump can immediately terminate entrenched operatives like Gwynne Wilcox (NLRB) and Cathy Harris (Merit Systems Protection Board), along with anyone else weaponizing federal authority against the people. No hearings. No negotiations. Just direct executive power — as defined in Article II of the Constitution.

The implications are seismic.

For years, Trump’s presidency was bogged down not by political opposition — but by a lawless administrative state. Obscure boards, rogue departments, and legal “watchdogs” became the enforcement arm of the globalist agenda. Their mission: delay, derail, and destroy Trump’s America First policies from within.

Now, the illusion of “independence” is gone.

Every federal action now flows through the President.

No more slow-walking directives. No more unsigned memos sabotaging the border. No more internal resistance using legal tricks to override elected leadership. With this ruling, Trump can fire, replace, and restructure every agency blocking the will of the people.

And he will.

The lawfare machine is collapsing.

This decision strikes directly at the administrative state — the fourth, unelected branch of government that has operated unchecked for decades. Trump can now do what he was elected to do: clean house. Permanently.

Expect mass terminations. Expect loyalty reviews. Expect restructuring on a scale this country has never seen.

This is not about two agency heads.

This is about destroying the system that protected them.

“This was never about Wilcox or Harris,” said one insider.

“It was about removing the Deep State’s last defense. And it’s gone.”

Under Trump’s restored authority, the bureaucratic strongholds that enabled censorship, open borders, economic sabotage, and globalist control are now wide open. And the people who’ve been hiding behind policy walls and HR protections are finally exposed.

The Deep State lost its shield. Now it faces the sword.

This ruling isn’t policy reform — it’s a reset of executive power. It’s the return of the Republic. And it’s the beginning of the greatest political purge in modern American history.

The President now commands the government.

The war on lawfare is over. And Trump just won!!!!'

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good-chimes · 11 months ago

Text

Cub takes over the Permit Office

A short textual recap of the Succession-style coup Cub just carried out (Timestamp: Grian s10 e21 14:40-29:30)

Grian, Scar and Skizz all receive a mysterious summons to a disciplinary hearing to discuss ‘restructuring’ at the Permit Office.

Scar and Skizz turn up thinking they’re in trouble with Grian. Grian, who has received two warnings for completely unfair reasons like ‘not doing his job’, knows he’s in trouble with Mysterious HQ Person (Grian, terrified but curious: Is it Doc??).

Waiting nervously, all three of them agree that their collective efforts are a shambles, a mild blame game ensues, also a horse is here and they can’t kill it because Judge Bdubs would object.

A flying figure approaches.

To Grian and Skizz’s surprise and Scar’s delight, it’s Cub.

Cub times his slow-falling potions to sink slowly and dramatically to the ground in a completely horizontal position. (Cub: Hello, boys) (Scar: Hello, God!)

Cub has a red tie and a gold name tag and performs an immediate show of dominance by taming the horse and handing out golden apples.

Scar: yeah that horse was—

Cub: it’s my horse now

Grian, eating the apple: He’s trying to butter us up. Skizz, don’t eat the apples.

Cub: Grian, I have some excellent news for you, my friend. You’re fired.

Grian: I’m what—

Cub: And also rehired! To a lesser position.

Grian: So I’m, what, assistant permit manager?

Cub: assistant TO the permit manager.

Cub: that’s me.

Cub: I’m sorry you had to find out this way

Grian: [into his hands] I’m so relieved I hate this job so much

Grian: IT’S NOT FUN AND I CAN’T CONTROL IT. LOOK AT THE SHOPPING DISTRICT. THERE’S POP UP SHOPS EVERYWHERE.

Grian: even I’ve got a pop up shop!!

Cub: Grian and I share a similar sentiment, which is that the permits shouldn’t exist

Cub: which is why we both have these jobs

Scar: But… but it was you two who came up with the idea of permits in the first place!

Cub: yeah

Cub: but you were supposed to enforce it

At this point it should be noted Cub has variously a) claimed he's been sent by the higher ups and he didn't want to do this but, boys, he has to, b) claimed he is one of the higher ups, c) claimed he's 'quite high up but not so much' d) vehemently denied that there exists anyone who has a fancier name tag than he does

Cub forces them into an immediate tour of the shopping district

There really are pop up shops everywhere

Cub: Alright, here's some TNT.

Grian: er! wait! I dunno—!

Cub: What.

Grian: Maybe we should give people some warning?

Cub: Hm

Scar: We did! We have a thing! I built a redstone countdown clock! [waves at the contraption of stacked red-yellow-white pillars he spent several weeks on]

Grian: Scar, that HASN'T MOVED SINCE YOU BUILT IT

Scar: It does move! It's just going slowly!

Cub: We need to move faster.

Scar: I can adjust it. This is 2024 advanced redstone. I can change it. [flies off]

Skizz: Can he really—

Grian, resigned: He's just going to mine it. [Scar mines it]

Skizz: Can I take a shot at him?

Cub: Fire away, Skizz

Grian: I'm not sure about this new management!

Meanwhile Cub has been contemplating the nearest popups in a critical way.

Cub: I'm going to be honest, I'm part of this glass collective, and even I want to see this one blown up.

Grian: Look, boss, what if we put a big billboard up that says 'Pop up purge'... certain date.

Cub: Hm.

Cub: That's very reasonable. I was just going to blow stuff up, but if you want to do that, I think it's a good choice.

Grian: How much time are you giving them, boss?

Skizz: Well, that's what the timer was—

Scar: I HAVE A TIMER! IT'S COUNTING DOWN!

Cub: We want to do this lickety-split. Let's go two weeks.

Grian: [repeating to himself under his breath] Two weeks!

Scar: I'll program the redstone!

Cub: You program it in, Scar. Grian, you make the billboard. Skizz…

Skizz: Yeah?

Cub: …you keep on keeping on, baby.

Cub: You've been the background of this whole operation, Skizz.

Skizz now dramatically attempts to get them to a high point so they can look at the layout of the shopping district, a simple task stymied only by the fact Scar and Grian both refuse to take any instructions unless they come from Cub

Cub then orders that pop up shops will be confiscated to Scar and Skizz's enforcement office. Grian very curious about the punishment for permit violations. Scar suggests banishing violators to the far reaches by Doc's 'shooty-offy cannon'. Cub approves this exile penalty enthusiastically.

Cub: Alright.

Grian: There's a storm comin'.

Scar: [looks up at the blue sky] Really?

Skizz: Us. He means us.

Grian: It's more like a moderate breeze.

Skizz: Well, that's official, we're under new management! And the tone I’m getting is that Rub-a-Dub-Cub is not messin’ around.

Cub: You guys gotta get to it.

[Actual in-game storm starts]

Grian: There is a storm coming.

Scar: A storm of pain!

Grian: [to Cub] I'm so relieved. I couldn’t keep control of any of this.

Cub: It's alright, Grian. [PEAL OF IN-GAME THUNDER] We'll keep people in line.

Grian: It feels like the permit office has taken a really dark turn

Cub: Nah, it'll be fine. People will care about their permits! [MORE THUNDER] People will comply :)

#stream recaps #not really a stream but that's the tag #cubfan135 #grian #goodtimeswithscar #skizzleman #glossy text

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 1 month ago

Text

Rob Rogers

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

May 16, 2025

Heather Cox Richardson

May 17, 2025

MAGA world is performing over-the-top outrage over a photo former Federal Bureau of Investigation director James Comey posted on Instagram, where he has been teasing a new novel. The image shows shells on a beach arranged in a popular slogan for opposing President Donald J. Trump: “86”—slang for tossing something away—followed by “47”, a reference to Trump’s presidency.

Using “eighty-six” as either a noun or a verb appears to have started in the restaurant industry in the 1930s to indicate that something was out of stock. It is a common term, used by MAGA itself to refer to getting rid of somebody…until now.

MAGA voices are insisting that this image was Comey’s threat to assassinate the president. Trump got into the game, telling Brett Baier of the Fox News Channel: "that meant assassination. And it says it loud and clear.... [H]e's calling for the assassination of the president...that's gonna be up to Pam and all of the great people.... He's a dirty cop.” Trump’s reference to Attorney General Pam Bondi and law enforcement paid off: yesterday, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem said that the Department of Homeland Security and the Secret Service are investigating Comey. He showed up voluntarily at the FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C., today for an interview.

In the past day, Trump’s social media account has also attacked wildly popular musical icons Bruce Springsteen and, somewhat out of the blue, Taylor Swift. Dutifully, media outlets have taken up a lot of oxygen reporting on “shellgate” and Trump’s posts about Springsteen and Swift, pushing other stories out of the news.

In his newsletter today, retired entrepreneur Bill Southworth tallied the times Trump has grabbed headlines to distract people from larger stories, starting the tally with how Trump’s posts about Peanut the Squirrel the day before the election swept like a brushfire across the right-wing media ecosystem and then into the mainstream. In early 2025, Southworth notes, as the media began to dig into the dramatic restructuring of the federal government, Trump posted outrageously about Gaza, and that story took over. When cuts to PEPFAR (the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) and the U.S. Agency for International Development threatened lives across Africa, Trump turned the conversation to white South Africans he lied were fleeing “anti-white genocide.”

Southworth calls this “narrative warfare,” and while it is true that Republican leaders have seeded a particular false narrative for decades now, this technique is also known as “political technology” or “virtual politics.” This system, pioneered in Russia under Russian president Vladimir Putin, is designed to get people to vote an authoritarian into office by creating a fake world of outrage. For those who do not buy the lies, there is another tool: flooding the zone so that people stop being able to figure out what is real and tune out.

The administration has clearly adopted this plan. As Drew Harwell and Sarah Ellison of the Washington Post noted in early March, the administration set out to portray Trump as a king in order “to sell the country on [Trump’s] expansionist approach to presidential power.”

The team set out not just to confront critics, but to drown them out with a constant barrage of sound bites, interviews with loyalists, memes slamming Democrats, and attack lines.

“We’re here. We’re in your face,” said Kaelan Dorr, a deputy assistant to the president who runs the digital team. “It’s irreverent. It’s unapologetic.” The White House brought right-wing influencers into the press pool, including at least one who before the election was exposed as being on the Russian payroll. Trump spokesperson Steven Cheung, who before he began to work for Trump was a spokesperson for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, said their goal was “FULL SPECTRUM DOMINANCE.”

Dominating means controlling the narrative. That starts with perceptions of the president himself. Trump’s appearances have been deeply concerning as he cannot follow a coherent thread, frequently falls asleep, repeatedly veers into nonsense, and says he doesn’t know about the operations of his government. Yesterday, after journalist S.V. Date noted that the administration has posted online only about 20% of Trump’s words, Cheung told Date “You must be truly f*cking stupid if you think we’re not transparent.”

The White House also pushed back dramatically against a story that appeared in Business Insider Monday, comparing Donald Trump Jr. to former president Joe Biden’s son Hunter. The White House suggested it would take legal action against Business Insider’s German parent company.

Controlling the narrative also appears to mean manipulating the media, as Russians prescribed. Last month, Jeremy Kohler and Andy Kroll of ProPublica reported that Trump loyalist and political operative Ed Martin, now in charge of the “Weaponization Working Group,” in the Department of Justice, secretly seeded stories attacking a judge in a legal case that was not going his way. Martin has appeared more than 150 times on the Russia Today television channel and on Russian state radio, media outlets the State Department said were “critical elements in Russia’s disinformation and propaganda ecosystem,” where he claimed the Democrats were weaponizing the court system. Now he is vowing to investigate Democrats and anyone who criticizes the administration.

As Trump’s popularity falls, Trump’s political operators have spent in the “high seven figures,” Alex Isenstadt of Axios says, to run ads in more than 20 targeted congressional districts to push lawmakers to get behind Trump’s economic program. “Tell Congress this is a good deal for America,” the ad says. “Support President Trump's agenda to get our economy back on track.”

In their advertising efforts, Musk’s mining of U.S. government records is deeply concerning, for the treasure trove of information he appears to have mined would enable political operatives to target political ads with laser precision in an even tighter operation than the Cambridge Analytica program of 2016.

The stories the administration appears to be trying to cover up show a nation hobbled since January 20, 2025, as MAGA slashes the modern government that works for ordinary Americans and abandons democracy in order to put the power of the United States government into the hands of the extremely wealthy.

Trump vowed that high tariffs on goods from other countries would launch a new golden era in the United States, enabling the U.S. to extend his 2017 tax cuts on the wealthy and corporations, some of which expire at the end of this year. But his high tariffs, especially those on goods from China, dramatically contracted the economy and raised the chances of a recession.

His constant monkeying with tariff rates has created deep uncertainty in the economy, as well as raising concerns that at least some of his pronouncements are designed to manipulate the market. Today, Walmart announced it would have no choice but to raise prices, and the Michigan Consumer Sentiment Index dropped to its second lowest reading on record.

Trump insisted earlier that other countries would come begging to negotiate, but now appears to have given up on the idea. “It’s not possible to meet the number of people that want to see us,” he said, announcing today that he will simply set new rates himself. During the 2024 presidential campaign, Trump argued that other countries would pay high tariff duties, helping the U.S. Treasury to address its high deficits at the same time the wealthy got further tax cuts.

Over the course of this week, Republicans tried to push through Congress a measure that they have dubbed “One, Big, Beautiful Bill,” a reference to Trump’s term for it. The measure extended Trump’s tax cuts at a cost to the nation of about $4.6 trillion over ten years and raised the debt ceiling by $4 trillion. At the same time, it cut Medicaid, the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, and a slew of other programs.

The Republicans failed to advance that bill out of the House Budget Committee Friday afternoon. Far-right Republicans complained not that it cut too much from programs Americans rely on, but that it cut too little. Citing the dysfunction in Washington, D.C. and the uncertain outlook for the American economy, Moody’s downgraded the credit rating of the country today from AAA to AA1.

Since Trump took office, the “Department of Government Efficiency” also claimed to be slashing “waste, fraud, and abuse” from government programs, although actual financial savings have yet to materialize. Instead, the cuts are to programs that help ordinary Americans and move money upward to the wealthy. News broke today that cuts of 31% to the enforcement wing of the Internal Revenue Service will cost money: tax evasion among the top 10% of earners costs about $700 billion a year.

The cuts were driven at least in part by the ideological extremism of Russell Vought, director of the Office of Management and Budget. Vought was a key author of Project 2025, which calls for decimating the federal government.

Vought talked about traumatizing federal workers, and has done so, but the cuts have also traumatized Americans who depend on the programs that DOGE tried to cut. Cuts to the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) meant about $2 billion less in contracts for American farmers, while close to $100 million worth of food that could feed 3.5 million people rots in government warehouses.

Cuts to the Federal Aviation Administration have left airports without adequate numbers of air traffic controllers. After two 90-second blackouts at Newark Liberty International Airport when air traffic controllers lost control with airplanes, yesterday the air traffic controllers at Denver International Airport lost contact with planes for 2 minutes.

Cuts to a program that funds the healthcare of first responders and survivors of the September 11 World Trade Center terror attacks are leaving thousands of patients unclear whether their cancer treatments, for example, will be covered. Yesterday, acting administrator of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) David Richardson told staff that FEMA is not prepared for hurricane season, which starts on June 1, and will work to return responsibility for the response to emergencies to the states. A document prepared for Richardson and obtained by Luke Barr of ABC News said: “As FEMA transforms to a smaller footprint, the intent for this hurricane season is not well understood, thus FEMA is not ready.”

Yesterday, news broke that Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem has been in talks with the producers of the reality show Duck Dynasty for a new reality show in which immigrants compete against each other in cultural contests to win the chance to move their U.S. citizenship applications ahead faster. It is made-for-TV, just like so many of the performances this administration uses to distract Americans from the unpopular policies that are stripping the government of benefits for ordinary Americans and moving wealth upward.

Such a show might appeal to confirmed MAGA. But it is a profound perversion of the American dream.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Rob Rogers #Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #flood the zone #Bruce Springsteen #Southworth #dominating the narrative #flooding the zone #Bannon #Reality TV

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