#Burning Rubber and Shooting Bullets

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

The “Great March of Return” in 2018.

Palestinians peacefully protested every single Friday, for over a year. They performed the Dabke as an act of resistance.

Israeli forces responded by shooting tear gas canisters, some of them dropped from drones, rubber bullets and live ammunition, mostly by snipers.

While some protesters have engaged in some forms of violence including by burning tyres, flying incendiary kites or throwing stones and Molotov cocktails in the direction of Israeli soldiers, social media videos, as well as eyewitness testimonies gathered by Amnesty International, Palestinian and Israeli human rights groups show that Israeli soldiers shot unarmed protesters, bystanders, journalists and medical staff approximately 150-400m from the fence, where they did not pose any threat.

214 Palestinians, including 46 children, were killed, and over 36,100, including nearly 8,800 children have been injured.

“In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.” — Stokely Carmichael.

(sources: x,x)

[missbellie]

Redline, and...GO!- B.E

Synopsis: You and your ex-girlfriend are illegal car racers. Your breakup wasn't very amicable due to both of your toxicity, so you've avoided competing with each other. But apparently fate has other plans for tonight.

Pair: B.e-F!×Reader

Words: 5k

Warnings: none (?)

Style: Fanfic | Imagine | Headcanons

Engines roar like beasts in heat, headlights slicing through the smoky darkness of the abandoned industrial lot. The crowd’s a blur—leather jackets, vape clouds, neon nails tapping against metal hoods—but your eyes are locked on one thing only.

Her.

Billie steps out of her matte black Challenger like she owns the night. Same cold eyes, same cocky smirk. Her hair’s tied back, her boots thud against the pavement like war drums, and fuck her—she looks good. You’d never admit it, but she knows. Of course she knows.

She stops just close enough for you to smell her perfume—something sharp and sweet, like gasoline and sin.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” she says, voice low and lazy. “Still driving that piece of shit you call a car?”

You smile without warmth, leaning against your hood. “Still talking like you’re not about to eat my dust.”

Billie’s gaze drops, slow and deliberate, to your hips. Her tongue presses against the inside of her cheek. “We’ll see about that.”

You hate her. Hate the way she looks at you like she owns you. Hate the way your heart beats faster every time she steps into your orbit. Hate that even now, with all the bad blood and broken glass between you, part of you still wants her to lose control.

The starter raises their hand. Billie steps closer, almost brushing against you as she passes.

“Try not to crash, babe,” she whispers. “You were always shit under pressure.”

You don’t flinch. You slide into your seat, fingers gripping the wheel. Tonight isn’t about the past. It’s about winning.

But as the signal drops and the engines scream to life, your eyes meet hers for a split second. And in that brief, burning look, you both know:

This war is far from over.

You slam your foot on the gas, tires screeching as your car launches forward like a bullet. The smell of burnt rubber fills the air, and the deafening roar of engines echoes down the dark stretch of road. Billie’s car pulls up beside yours in seconds—her Challenger is faster than ever. You glance to the left.

She’s smirking.

Of course she is.

You grip the wheel tighter. You remember that smirk in the passenger seat of your own car, the same one she used to give right before kissing you like it was war. Now it’s a different battlefield.

The road ahead curves hard to the right. You shift gears, hugging the turn, but Billie’s not playing fair. She cuts close—too close—and her front bumper clips your side. Your tires screech, your body jolts, metal scrapes metal.

You laugh.

“Still driving like a fucking coward,” you yell, knowing damn well she can’t hear you—but maybe she feels it.

She pulls ahead, just enough to taunt you. Her taillights blink red like a dare, like she wants you chasing her.

Fine.

You chase.

The next straightaway is where you thrive. You floor it, your car vibrating under the pressure, engine howling with you. You swerve back beside her, your windows down. Billie glances at you again, tongue between her teeth.

Then she flips you off.

You almost grin.

Almost.

You take the lead for a split second—until she cheats again. A quick swerve, intentional, and her mirror catches yours, cracking the glass. You grit your teeth and retaliate, slamming your side into hers just enough to rock her frame.

The next turn is tight. You both go in too fast.

Billie’s back wheels spin out, just barely regaining control. You watch her mouth form the beginning of a curse, but she recovers—of course she does.

"You call that driving?" she shouts over the wind, her voice cutting through the chaos.

"You call that a car?" you shoot back.

She pulls closer again, and for a second your arms are almost level. She reaches one hand out of her window like she might touch your side mirror—and then pulls back last minute just to mess with you.

Bitch.

Your focus sharpens. You know this route like the veins in your hands. You saved your NOS for this final stretch. She thinks she’s already got it. Her overconfidence always was her weakness.

Three seconds. Two. You punch it.

Your car shoots forward with a scream of acceleration, passing her in a blink, your back tires spitting gravel. You hear her frustration behind you—she revs louder, tries to catch up. But you’re already past the line.

You win.

Skidding to a stop, your heart hammers against your chest. The silence after the engine dies is deafening.

Then her Challenger slides to a halt beside you, too close as always.

She gets out first.

You follow, chest rising and falling with adrenaline.

Billie stalks toward you, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. There’s dirt on her cheek, wind in her hair. She looks like revenge.

“I should’ve sideswiped you when I had the chance,” she hisses, stopping right in front of you.

“Should’ve,” you say, not backing up. “But you didn’t. And I won.”

Her eyes flick down your body again—again, that same fucking look.

You step forward, invading her space. “Still like the view?” you murmur, just to piss her off.

She lets out a bitter laugh, almost too bitter. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You lean in, close enough that your lips brush her ear. “You’re still mad I left you.”

Her hand twitches at her side. “You didn’t leave. You ran.”

You pull back, eyes locked on hers. “And yet, I’m the one in front now.”

The fire between you crackles. One spark away from something explosive.Before she can spit anything else out, someone grabs your arm, dragging you toward the center of the pit where the winners line up. You don’t resist.

You raise your arms as the crowd erupts again.

In the corner of your eye, you see Billie watching. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes like gunmetal. The girl looks away when she realizes you've noticed her, and you swear you hear a "bitch" slip from her mouth with your breath.

xoxoo, hope you liked it babies

[madebycloud]

Streets

street racer!jenna ortega x reader — 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

summary: you had no idea your girlfriend was a daredevil on the streets. warnings/themes: street racing (motorcycle), kissing, smoking, and some talkie-talkie at the end cause idk what's the term??? words: 0.8k

The wind howls around you, carrying the scent of burning rubber and the screams of revving engines. You glance down at your phone for what feels like the hundredth time, searching for some explanation as to why your girlfriend wanted to meet here.

Dozens of people stood shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, their gaze locked on the road ahead. You wonder what could possibly captivate so many strangers. 

You spot a row of motorcycles, ready to rumble for pride, for money, or for the sheer thrill of it all. 

A street race.

“Hey baby.”

You turn to face her. Her black leather jacket matches her stylishly messy hair. You blink a few times, trying to gather your thoughts.

Before you can say anything, she starts walking towards you, her eyes locked on yours. “You okay?”

You clear your throat and stammer out an attempt at a response. “Uh, yeah, I'm fine. And you?”

Jenna's smirk grows wider as she takes in your awkward reaction, her finger tracing along the lip you're biting. “What?”

You shake your head, trying to focus on something—anything—other than her. “Nothing. You just look...”

Jenna's smirk turns into a full-on grin, and she shrugs lightly before leaning in to kiss you. Your knees go weak as she leans into you. You lose yourself in the moment, pulling her close as you kiss her back, your hands running through her hair.

When you finally break apart, you ask, “What are we doing here again? Watching the street racers?” You point at the line of bikes waiting to take off.

“You watch me.”

“Wait what? Are you seriously going to-”

“You're going to watch me beat those losers,” Jenna says as she saunters away from you and towards the street racers. You follow her closely, watching her hips sway with each step.

When you catch up, she's already putting on her helmet and gloves.

“Who's that?” you hear a man shout, pointing at Jenna as she stands next to her motorcycle. He raises an eyebrow, curious about the beautiful woman who's about to blow them all away. The light reflecting off his bald head.

You turn to them with a cocky grin on your face. “That's my girl,” you say, pointing to Jenna.

Jenna looks over at you, her eyes smoldering as she gives you one last wink before straddling her bike and revving the engine, which roars to life

The man raises his eyebrows, “You're dating her? Nice.” With that, he takes a sip from his drink and turns his attention towards the racing.

She takes off with a burst of speed, shooting forward into the distance like a bullet. The man looks stunned for a moment, and then he lets out a loud cheer, holding his beer bottle in the air.

You hold your breath as she passes each obstacle, each turn, each straightaway, until she reaches the finish line and comes to a slow stop.

“My girl!” you shout, raising your fist in the air.

Meanwhile, the announcer on the mic is listing down the results of the race, with Jenna's name taking the top spot. “And here we have the winner, Jenna Ortega, with a time of 45 seconds in this street race!” The crowd goes wild, cheering for her.

The man beside you looks impressed too. “Looks like you got yourself a real racer there, buddy.”

“Yeah,” you reply, “She's the best.” Jenna is the best of the best, and she's shown it over and over again. 

You walk over to Jenna. “That was amazing!" you exclaim. “Are you okay? You were really flying out there!”

Jenna just chuckles. “Of course, I'm fine. I've done this a million times.” She brushes off a few pieces of dirt from her leather jacket and holds out her hand, inviting you to help her off her motorcycle.

You grab her hand and swing her off the motorcycle. “I had no idea you were such an amazing racer.”

“I've been racing since I was a kid. It's no big deal.”

You shake your head.“It is a big deal. You're the best racer I've ever seen.”

Jenna chuckles again and shrugs, but you can tell she's pleased with your compliment. She grabs her helmet and gloves and sets them on the hood of the motorcycle.

She takes a step closer to you, locking her eyes on yours. She leans in closer, her breath soft on your lips. “Let's celebrate.”

“Obviously,” you answer. “What do you want?”

She bites her lip, her eyes locked with yours, and then, she just smiles. Oh, you know that look all too well. She's not just planning something, she's planning everything.

“You choose,” she whispers, running a finger along your chest.

You look over to the motorcycle and then back to her, your eyes locked with hers. “I don't mind riding both.”

Notes: now i wanna write street racing au 

[naxalbari1967]

If This Is What They Do on Camera, Imagine What Happens in the Dark

The police in the United States routinely murder, brutalize, and humiliate civilians in broad daylight while being recorded. These acts are not isolated. They are frequent. They are systemic. They are the visible portion of a much larger structure. They are committed with the full knowledge that there may be phones watching. Officers slam unarmed teenagers to the pavement and strangle men who beg for their lives. They pepper spray children and elderly people. They kneel on necks until bodies go limp. They fire rubber bullets at people’s eyes and shoot tear gas canisters directly at heads. And they do all of it while wearing body cameras that they often mute or cover without consequence. If this is what they do when watched, what happens in places without cameras? If this is how police behave on American streets, in front of hundreds of people, how does the United States military behave in countries where it controls the electricity, the media, and the lives of millions?

In Vietnam, the United States military did not simply fight soldiers. It raped civilians, burned villages, and dropped chemical weapons on farmland. The most well-known example is the My Lai massacre. On March 16, 1968, a group of American soldiers from Charlie Company entered the Vietnamese hamlet of My Lai and murdered between 347 and 504 unarmed civilians. Women were gang raped. Children were mutilated. Elders were executed. Babies were shot in the head. Pregnant women were stabbed with bayonets. Soldiers threw bodies into ditches. The massacre lasted for four hours. It only ended because one American helicopter pilot, Hugh Thompson Jr, landed his chopper between the soldiers and the remaining civilians, ordering his door gunners to shoot any American soldier who continued the slaughter. The military tried to cover up the incident. Only one officer, Lieutenant William Calley, was convicted. He served three and a half years under house arrest. That is how the system works. It absorbs atrocity and punishes only the leakiest perpetrators.

In Iraq, torture was not the exception. It was policy. At Abu Ghraib prison, detainees were stripped naked, beaten, stacked on top of one another, and forced to masturbate in front of cameras. Guards placed hoods on their heads, attached wires to their genitals, and threatened to electrocute them. Men were raped with chemical lights. Women were forced to parade naked while being videotaped. Prisoners were sodomized with broomsticks and guns. Dogs were unleashed to maul shackled men. The soldiers took photos. They posed smiling. They made thumbs-up gestures beside piles of human bodies. When the story broke, the military claimed these were bad apples. They were not. These methods were authorized by military intelligence. They were designed at Guantanamo. They were taught at the School of the Americas. They were approved in legal memos from the White House and the Justice Department. This was not a breakdown of discipline. This was doctrine.

In Afghanistan, entire villages were destroyed without warning. Airstrikes wiped out wedding parties. Drones fired missiles at children carrying water buckets. Night raids involved American soldiers breaking into homes, zip-tying men and boys, shooting anyone who resisted, and sometimes disappearing suspects into black sites where they were never heard from again. The most infamous example was the 2010 video released by WikiLeaks, titled Collateral Murder. It showed a US Apache helicopter gunning down civilians in Baghdad, including two Reuters journalists. When a van arrived to rescue the wounded, the helicopter opened fire again. Children inside the van were injured. The pilots laughed. They said “Nice” and “Look at those dead bastards.” The video was classified until Chelsea Manning leaked it. She was imprisoned for revealing war crimes. The killers were never punished.

In Latin America, the United States trained and funded death squads. In El Salvador, the Atlacatl Battalion, trained at Fort Bragg, massacred 800 civilians in the village of El Mozote in 1981. They raped girls, burned people alive, and decapitated infants. In Guatemala, the United States supported the regime of Efraín Ríos Montt, who launched a scorched-earth campaign against indigenous Mayans. Villages were burned, women were raped, children were thrown into wells, entire communities were erased. In Nicaragua, the US-backed Contras murdered peasants, bombed schools, and executed nurses. The CIA taught them how to use terror as a tactic. They gave them manuals on psychological warfare. In Chile, the United States helped orchestrate a coup that replaced a democratically elected government with the dictatorship of Augusto Pinochet. Thousands were tortured in stadiums. Women had rats placed inside their vaginas. Men had their testicles electrocuted. Bodies were dumped in the sea. Washington knew and approved.

In Africa, the United States propped up Mobutu Sese Seko in Congo, a man who looted his country and tortured dissidents. In Somalia, American helicopters fired on fleeing crowds during the Battle of Mogadishu. In Libya, the United States bombed the country into chaos, assassinated Muammar Gaddafi by proxy, and left behind a failed state where open-air slave markets returned. In the Sahel, drone bases operate in secret. Villages are bombed and classified as “terrorist hideouts” after the fact. In the Horn of Africa, secret CIA black sites exist inside Djibouti. Torture is carried out with the cooperation of local governments.

The pattern is simple. When the US military intervenes, atrocities follow. The public is told the military is protecting freedom. In reality, it protects empire. It trains torturers. It funds paramilitaries. It bombs hospitals and wedding tents. It kidnaps and rapes. It disappears people into basements where they are beaten, waterboarded, and left to rot. It arms regimes that use child soldiers. It sells weapons to dictators who behead dissidents. It kills journalists and labels them terrorists. And when its soldiers get caught, the punishment is mild or nonexistent. The person who leaks the crimes is treated more harshly than the person who commits them.

At home, the police kill people in traffic stops and lie on their reports. They murder people who reach for their wallets. They break into the wrong homes and shoot sleeping women. They shoot people in the back and plant tasers on their bodies. They kick handcuffed men in the face. They torture suspects in interrogation rooms. In Chicago, the police ran a black site at Homan Square where suspects were held without charge and beaten. In New York, the NYPD carried out stop-and-frisk on hundreds of thousands of Black and Latino men, many of them teens. In Los Angeles, police gangs operate out of precincts, trading tattoos for kills. These cops are trained in militarized tactics. They receive surplus equipment from the Pentagon. They call neighborhoods “war zones.” They treat the people they patrol as insurgents.

If this is what American state violence looks like in front of cameras, on bodycams, on Facebook Live, in front of courts, in cities with news coverage and legal teams, imagine what it looks like in places without lawyers. Without phones. Without electricity. In deserts. In jungles. In prisons. In interrogation rooms. In the backs of helicopters. In the cells of cargo ships. In secret bunkers. In remote provinces where foreign troops speak no local language and answer to no one. The full scale of what the American military has done will never be known because many of its victims have no names in any official database. Their bones lie in mass graves. Their faces exist only in the memories of grieving families. And their killers wear medals. They are celebrated. They are called heroes. The empire survives on this mythology.

There is no good soldier in a criminal war. There is no clean cop in a dirty system. These institutions are not broken. They are functioning exactly as intended. To protect capital. To suppress the poor. To discipline the world. And to do it all while telling everyone they are free.

[femsolid]

So the french police killed a teenage boy during a traffic stop. They asked for his identification papers and he refused to give it to them. They shot him in the head and he died on the spot. They later claimed that he was charging at them when they shot him, but someone recorded the scene on their phone and it showed no such thing.

This caused a lot of upset, especially in all the "sensitive" neighbourhoods where they pile the poorest people, typically people of colour, and where the police is known to be harassing and assaulting people a lot. Men and boys manifested their anger by rioting, burning cars and garbage bins or destroying and looting shops all around France. It isn't very smart as they are typically destroying their own neighbourhoods or their neighbours' property, who are just as poor as them. And who comes when that happens? The police.

The french police has built quite the reputation during the yellow vest protests, it's notorious for being the most violent, racist and sexist police in Europe. They typically use rubber bullets against protestors which are still dangerous weapons: they aren't supposed to be used at close range nor to be aimed at the head and obviously shouldn't be used on people who pose no threat. That's not what the police does with it of course, during the yellow vest protests we used to count how many people were loosing their eyes, some had their hands ripped off, and there were countless videos of policemen aiming at random protestors who weren't doing anything, and aiming at close range too. So what happened next should come as no surprise.

During the night of the riots a young man was shot in the thorax and died. Another lost an eye. More than 30 people have registered a complaint to the police of the police (not very efficient, as we've come to understand) for assault and injuries caused by the police during that night. But one specific case shocked the nation, that of a young man who was just passing by and was assaulted by the police, who didn't ask for any sort of identification and left him for dead. They took him to a back alley and beat him senseless, broke his jaw and shot him in the head. He lost a part of his head, literally, it had to be removed. He's now blind from one eye. They did this to a young woman during the yellow vest protests as well. She also was not a protester and was just passing by. In both cases the police is not looking to make an arrest, they are lashing out, like a rogue militia, and leaving the person for dead. It's up to us, the civilians, to help the dying person and call for an ambulance. The person is left with permanent disabilities and trauma. In fact, in recent years a lot of people have developped trauma reactions towards the police, some were first time protesters, peacefully marching on a sunday afternoon and did not expect to be charged by a mob of policemen, to be insulted, gased and shot at. The population's trust in the police has plumeted.

But in this case, one of the policemen involved in the assault was identified and is currently in jail pending investigation. As a result, the police, nationwide, is going on a strike. Yes, apparently when one of them is temporarily jailed for an obvious and extremely violent crime, they get outraged. Their unions called for a strike to show their support to their incarcerated colleague. Policemen support each others as they commit crimes, publicly, with the director of the police saying that a policeman's place is not in jail if he hasn't be trialed yet. Since policemen are not allowed to go on strikes, not legally, they went to the doctor and asked to be put on sick leave. It's not really a strike if you're still getting paid but they aren't used to protesting so we'll excuse them, maybe shoot them in the face to show them how it works? The police unions are asking the government to create a special status for police officers preventing them from being jailed while they are investigated for crimes committed while on duty. I guess they really think the law shouldn't apply to them. They also ask that policemen become anonymous, impossible to identify. Make it more obvious why don't you?

All the french racists are in full support of the police right now, saying that, yes, shooting "thugs" is totally acceptable (thug = arab = french guy with north african parents or grandparents). Someone on twitter counted how many men with arab names had been participating in the riots and thought he was making a point against immigration. But the fact that it's mostly black and brown people who are poor and live in ghettos says more about France than about "arabs".

Anyway that's the state of things in my country.

[anim-ttrpgs]

What makes this game unique from other mystery games?

Eureka has plenty that makes it stand out, from its tactical approach to combat, to its approach to the supernatural and non-restrictive character creation, but the thing that makes its investigation stand out from that of other investigation games is probably the Eureka! mechanic and its overall approach to failed investigation rolls*.

*An “investigation roll” in Eureka is any skill roll used to investigate, there is no “Investigate” skill, every investigation roll will use the skill on the character sheet that is most relevant to whatever evidence the investigator is investigating. So, in a way, every skill is the "investigation skill". For instance, you would use the Firearms skill to try and guess what calibre of bullet left these bullet holes, even though that is also the skill that is used for your accuracy when shooting guns, and how quickly you can reload.

Now, we don’t want to make a blanket statement because our dev team has not played every investigative TTRPG, but in the ones we have played, there have been a couple of consistent hang-ups. In Call of Cthulhu for example, when you miss a clue due to a bad roll, you’re just shit outta luck. This isn’t to say that Call of Cthulhu is a bad game, Eureka actually takes a lot of influence from certain parts of it, but sometimes a single bad roll at a crucial time can grind the adventure to a halt.

The Eureka! mechanic is (one of) our answers to this problem.

As the investigators fail investigation rolls*, they accumulate Investigation Points. (They actually accumulate Investigation Points even if they succeed, but you get way more of them for Failures). When a standard investigator accumulates 15 Investigation Points, they gain 1 Eureka! and their Investigation Points reset to 0. More powerful supernatural characters must accumulate more than 15 points before they get a Eureka!, but that’s a different post.

A Eureka! is a valuable resource that can be spent on a couple of different benefits, and one of those is to retroactively turn a single previous Failed investigation roll* into a Full Success, giving that investigator all the information they would have figured out if they had succeeded in the first place. This can be a significant mystery un-stumper when the party is stuck at a dead end, without the GM needed to artificially give them a hint—it’s not a free pity clue, they earned it by being thorough investigators up to this point even if they got some bad rolls.

This can act as a sort of “rubber band” mechanic, only springing the investigators forwards if they fall far enough behind to need it, so to speak, and only on their own terms, so they don’t feel like the GM just gave them the answer because they suck too much.

This doesn’t mean that Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy is an easy game for babies where the players never have to worry about failure, however. You only get 1 Eureka! for about every 5 Failures, and its combat can be pretty hardcore. Like Call of Cthulhu, the investigators are mostly just normal people with no special resistances to knives or bullets. If you shoot them once or twice, they die, and there’s no coming back. Not only does this fragility encourage a generally more investigative approach to dealing with threats, it can also be used to reward good mystery solving up to the point of the final confrontation. The Eureka! mechanic rewards investigators who have not needed to spend their Eureka!s on gaining epiphanies from previously failed rolls by the fact that they can also be spent to throw an extra die into a combat roll—or any other life-or-death roll, such as leaping to safety from a burning building or a Stealth roll when hiding from dozens of armed goons. 3D6 (dropping the lowest) can give a crucial boost to that one 2D6 roll that your character has to stake his life on.

Now, you don’t have to play a fragile normal human investigator, you have the option to play as a more robust investigator, like a vampire for instance, who can easily shrug off most forms of physical damage so long as they don’t overdo it all in one place and take some time to regenerate in between bouts of getting shot, but what those kinds of investigators gain in toughness and supernatural powers, they pay for with supernatural weaknesses. The vampire in the party may laugh in the face of small arms fire, but get knocked down a few pegs when faced with her greatest challenge yet: Figuring out how to get a direct and in-no-uncertain-terms invitation into the house without saying “I am a vampire, the owner has to invite me in.”

And no, she can’t just ask the rest of the party for help, if they find out she’s a real vampire, that’s nine-times-out-of-ten going to be much more shocking than whatever evidence they were going to find out inside, and possibly even implicate her in several other, much more gruesome murders that nobody ever managed to solve..

The Eureka! mechanic is also used in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy’s équivalent to ‘leveling up’. At the end of an adventure, investigators can spend 2 Eureka!s to add 1 skill point to a skill. Eureka!s disappear after the mystery is solved, so you might as well use them if you have any left over, but if you’re saving them up by choosing not to spend them in a moment of real danger, that’s a bit of a risk, and could cost the investigator their life.

This also works as a bit of a “rubber band”, as investigators who increase their skills will fail less rolls, and thus gain fewer Eureka!s, slowing down their level-ups each time so they don’t shoot ahead of everybody else in the party without having to have a scaling system for experience points.

(Leveling up is an optional rule, however, and it is one that we in our group actually much prefer to play without, because we prefer more episodic or one-shot adventures where we frequently swap characters each time. Because skills have limits to how high they can go, a ‘level 0’ investigator can actually be just as capable as a ‘level 10’ investigator at any given thing, the ‘level 10’ investigator will just be good at more things.)

[doctorjuvenile]

Things from WtA: The Book of Hungry Names you should know

There is an actual forest being clearcut to construct a police training facility in the U.S.

Protests against the clearcutting of Weelaunee Forest in Atlanta, Georgia have been ongoing since April 2021. Just like STATZ, a massive 'Cop City' is being built, replete with an entire mock city with empty apartments. The construction project has been widely criticized and authorities have killed one forest defender and made 61 arrests against protestors. 28 more arrests were made against students of Emory University in 2024 who peacefully protested for total divestment and were additionally shot at with tear gas, rubber bullets, and tasers. (Wikipedia)

This is not just a storyline in a well-written game. This is a real fight happening.

From Wikipedia:

Planned facilities include classrooms, a burn building, a mock city (including apartments, a bar/nightclub, and a school), and a shooting range.

Sound familiar?

2. Nin's appearance was inspired by Patty Smyth in the music video for "I Am the Warrior"

Confirmed to me by Kyle Marquis himself, Nin also sings a bit of this song in-game:

Nin sings, "Shooting at the walls of headache pang pang, I am the worrier," drumming on the desk. Elton flinches at each "pang."

3. The Dunwich Horror is a novella written by H.P. Lovecraft set in Massachusetts.

Although folklore in the region predates Lovecraft, whippoorwills carrying away the souls of the dead feature heavily in this story too.

4. Update coming on Monday.

Not sure what exactly it will entail but the code for the bugged Cheetah's Claw achievement will definitely be fixed. Oh, and the Red Talons are coming in a future DLC.

[deaths-presence]

Two of a Kind || Dazai x Reader Part 4: Woven Threads

Story Summary: The search for your brother has led you into conflict between the Armed Detective Agency of Yokohama and the Guild. Fitzgerald keeps you involuntarily, that is until you finally find your chance of escape. Will you find strength within the ADA, or will you only become more astray? Word Count: 2.2k Characters Featured: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Atsushi Nakajima, Lucy Montgomery Warnings: afab!reader, slowburn, plot heavy to build up romance, very tiny small mention of Atsushi's abuse, lmk if I happened to miss anything please! Tag List: @decaf-nosebleed @isa-ghost @xakumi @bunchofdoodlesinspace A/N: If you want to be added to the tag list, feel free to let me know! Psssst, guess who's finally showing up next chapter now that we're done building the beginning plot? :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Time was a blur as you ran. Your lungs were on fire and your feet slapped against the hard pavement in a steady rhythm. You ignored the curious stares that followed you, and you attempted to stay close to the docks. You didn’t know where to go. You were in an unfamiliar city in a foreign country. You had nobody to rely on, and every thought swarming through your head about the Guild and the Port Mafia was only creating more anxiety. You had to leave, and you didn’t know how. You wish you had just found Roberte already. There was no calling for help unless you went through the Guild, and you did not want to resort to crawling back into Fitzgerald’s clutches. Your freedom was right in front of you, and you were going to steal it back.

You were forced to catch your breath, the air in your chest circulating in and out in desperate wheezes as you leaned against the nearest wall. You doubled over and closed your eyes as you focused on taking a slow, deep inhale and letting it out slowly. You repeated this several times, and not only did it help with feeling like you were no longer suffocating, but also helped in regaining awareness of your situation.

The relaxing silence was interrupted with a small commotion that sounded close. You instinctively made yourself small and proceeded with silent footsteps to investigate. The voice inside your head screamed at you to keep running and find a ship that was heading back to America, but your curiosity was winning.

As you turned one of the corners, you gasped before slapping a hand over your mouth to keep quiet. You silently prayed while you hid yourself behind the corner of the building again, hoping that Fitzgerald did not spot you. With no footsteps hurrying toward you, you gave a sigh of relief and cautiously allowed yourself to evaluate the scene.

Your eyes were stuck on one individual, and it wasn’t Fitzgerald. Despite your captor and Melville being present, the boy with white choppy hair that you thought dead was standing right before your eyes. He was accompanied by a small girl in a red kimono, her black hair pulled into two twin-tails. You remember seeing a glimpse of her when you had landed with Hawthorne and the others, but she had seemingly run off while no one noticed.

The growing burning sensation in your chest was not from lack of oxygen this time, and it was with surprise that you recognized it as anger. You noticed that the boy was already disheveled and bleeding, whether it was by Fitzgerald’s hands or not, it didn’t matter. You decided not to make the same mistake again.

A brave step out was met with the sight of the boy’s hand turning into the claws of a tiger, but before he could attack the two Guild members, a bullet shot across and met with his head to render him unconscious. The girl had started to reveal her short sword before a bullet contacted her hand, leaving it instantaneously bleeding and bruised red. You realized with horror just who was shooting these bullets. Though they were made of rubber, only one person could be so skilled.

The knowing laugh made you nauseated, your eyes finally looking at Fitzgerald as he smiled at you. Your freedom was a sick joke. You were never unshackled, and what Fitzgerald said next only confirmed it.

“Miss Louisa’s strategies are always so perfect.”

Your dreadful world turned black after you heard the next and final shot.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Waking up was a chore for once. The adrenaline in your body had finally worn off, and the soreness in your muscles made you want to cry out pathetically. You nearly sobbed for another reason. Your surroundings were all too familiar. You were back on the Moby Dick; in the very same room you were previously using. The frustrated scream that was torn from your chest shocked you, but you couldn’t stop it. It felt like minutes before it finally cut off with choppy breath, slamming your fist against one of the walls. You would never escape.

You stood up carefully and shuffled over to the nearest corner, hugging your knees to your chest and hiding your face. Later, the door opened and the voice of a boy yelling to be let go entered your ears. You were startled enough to finally look up when he attempted to hit the walls and look out the compact window. At the same time, he noticed you. It was the tiger boy.

“I have to get out of here. Yokohama is in danger,” he said weakly, realizing his defeat being encased in the room; just as you already had for months. You shook your head quietly at him, and it pained you to see him look forlorn and broken.

“I’m afraid that this aircraft is meant to keep us inside,” you murmured in a horrible attempt at comfort. “It is good to at least see you alive, minus the circumstances.”

It was quiet for a long moment, and you nearly assumed he wouldn’t remember you before you felt a presence beside you. Your eyes flickered to the left of where you were sitting to see him joined with you on the floor. This close, you saw more details of him. Whoever had cut his bangs must have been scared by something while they had the scissors in their hands. Out of all the hair that was white, there was one strip of it that was black. His eyes still reminded you of the late summer sunsets, warm and innocent as they watched you.

“I’m Atsushi,” he introduced himself with a gentle smile. Such a warm welcome nearly brought tears to your eyes, and you looked away before he could see. You saw the way his smile began to fade at your reaction, but you offered your own name quietly and the smile returned.

“I’ve never wanted to hurt people,” you began to explain. “I simply ended up in the wrong hands, and now I am paying the price for my own trusting nature. I haven’t had free will for months. I’ve been forced to follow and stay silent unless spoken to. It’s safer that way. I came here to reunite with my brother, but instead I am finding myself a bird in a luxurious cage and my ability to be used until I am disposed of.”

Atsushi’s sympathetic expression lifted a weight off your shoulders. For the first time in a long while, you felt heard and seen by someone who felt more like a friend than a superior. The words you had spoken were probably the most you had heard from yourself in several weeks, and it certainly made you emotional. You felt on the verge of finally breaking, but you wouldn’t leave Atsushi to deal with that uncomfortable situation. You pushed back the threat of tears pricking at your eyes and focused on him.

“I didn’t even know you were the weretiger Lord Francis was looking for,” you mentioned with a clear grimace. “That’s how uninvolved I am. I have only heard mentions of you in passing between other Guild members, and I always wondered what was so special that he placed a bounty on your head. I was the one that hesitated to hurt you in that fight by the fountain; the one with the water ability. I can take on other appearances, and with them their abilities if the person harbors one.”

Something in your words made Atsushi frown, and for a moment you were terrified that you had offended him, or worse scared him with the mention of what you could do. The one person who you were managing to befriend, and you could easily tarnish it and have it pulled out of your grasp. Thankfully, he reassured you with his reply. “I would like to thank you for sparing me that day. Many say that hesitation is weak, but you have a sense of mercy. I could see in your eyes,” he stated with a little smile “As for Fitzgerald, he said something about me being a key of some sort. A ‘tiger beetle.’ I have no idea what he’s talking about,” he recalled. You nodded, not out of understanding, but to let Atsushi know that he had your attention.

“You said that Yokohama was in danger?” you timidly questioned. You felt the urge to hug the poor boy as he was pulled back into the current dilemma, his expression changing from confusion to the dawning apprehension that his city was being threatened.

“Fitzgerald plans to burn it all to the ground, the Agency and the Port Mafia along with it. He said it was some sort of incineration operation. I have to warn everyone. I have to get the doll to Dazai.”

You were about to interject his panicked rambling when you both were interrupted by another outside source.

“You two sure do look cozy in there. I just came to check on you when I was taking out the garbage,” Lucy said, her tone dripping with smugness. Her voice prompted Atsushi to leave your side and attempt to convince her to let him out. Normally you would be comforted by Lucy’s presence, but your thoughts went elsewhere while they conversed. You were able to pick up on their conversation when they both showed their burn scars from a hot iron poker. Your heart ached with sympathy for each of them, and you saw the gears of similarity clicking together and turning.

One moment you were in the locked room, but in the blink of an eye you found yourself with Atsushi in Lucy’s room. Her ability allowed her to create a personal space for her and the giant ragdoll called Anne, time and space warping to create such an idea. It had been the first time she had allowed you in, and you could see why she would want to use it as her own escape where no one could reach her. It was then you noticed that in one of her hands was the doll that Atsushi must have referenced earlier.

“Dazai only needs to be able to touch the doll in order to stop the curse,” he guaranteed Lucy when she said it would be too late.

“We are high in the air and unlikely to come down any time soon. What are you planning—?" you began to question, but the look on Atsushi’s face told you and Lucy that he would risk his own life to get the doll to whoever Dazai was.

“Atsushi, you can’t—” you started while shaking your head. “You’ll die.”

There was a moment of silence before Lucy spoke. “So, if you’re serious, then you’ll probably get shot and killed in the air or get cut up by the mad men down there. You know that already, and you’re still going to do it.”

“There was an old book I read back at the orphanage,” Atsushi replied. “One of the passages stood out to me. It read, ‘I’ve never regretted any of the things I’ve done. I’ve only regretted the things that I didn’t do.’”

Atsushi was pulled out of his thoughts when Anne loomed over him to offer a parachute bag. The boy’s sunset eyes observed it in confusion before Lucy explained that she had kept it in case she needed to escape.

“I only have one, so if you would like to stay with me in Anne’s room,” she offered to you, but you watched the surprise take over her expression further when you shook your head.

“I can’t stay here any longer, Lucy. I have to find Roberte even if he isn’t here, and I realize how much of my life I’m beginning to miss being trapped in this aircraft forever in Fitzgerald’s hands. I’ll come back for you.” You offered her a smile which she returned.

“We both will,” Atsushi added with determination.

“How will you get down? I only have one parachute and it’s Atsushi’s,” Lucy inquired with a frown. “You’ll die instead of him.”

“Don’t forget why I was captured to begin with. I have several cards up my sleeve,” you answered.

The door in Anne’s Room opened to show the exterior of the Moby Dick, the wind coursing through your hair. Your body tensed at the idea of how high up in the atmosphere you were, the clouds just below you and the city of Yokohama so small beyond them. You could see pillars of smoke from several directions, a heavy feeling in your stomach as you realized Fitzgerald already put his plan in motion.

You took a deep breath and focused on using your ability. You took on the Change that you used to escape the Zelda when it was set aflame with explosions, the wings protruding from your back and your blonde hair glowing orange in the setting sun. Your eyes didn’t have to adjust as harshly as before once the Change was completed.

You barely registered having time to brace yourself for the big drop down as Atsushi gave you a determined nod, then bravely jumped without hesitation. You glanced back at Lucy one last time, nodding your thanks before leaping after Atsushi. You were airborne.

[nap13ppy13]

Actor French Stewart of 3rd Rock fame says it quite succinctly. And this is how the majority of Californians feel…

“It’s odd to watch the citizens of red states vilify California when it’s California tax money that pays for your tornadoes, your hurricanes and your poverty ridden ineptitude.

Or what California refers to as “your entitlements.”

It’s hard to take advice from people who embrace such lurid policy as book burning, kidnapping,a clear disrespect for women and people of color, Nazi flirting, the inability to grasp that you can make profit from clean energy, the lack of respect for your children’s air and water, the pandering to billionaires, the degradation of bible verse-and the inability to hold a horrid person accountable for darkness.

I mean - if 34 felony convictions (by a jury of his fellow New Yorkers) doesnt send up a warning flare…If January 6th didn’t wake you up…well… you’ll clearly swallow anything.

I mean, the assault on the Capital was mostly a happy parade, right? Tucker Carlson said so. Just an uneventful tour that ended with dead police and a dead girl. Fun.

Shame on you.

California made your phone. Your computer. It created all the apps you use to complain about it.

California makes your entertainment, hosts your vacation, navigates outer space, guards your western flank and grows your vegetables.

And future Americans pick those vegetables.

Why? Because THAT’S how you earn your way in. And also because your lazy ass nephew Chad wont do it.

Why would he? You got him a job at Top Golf where all he has to do is look busy, flirt with dummies and finish off abandoned drinks.

The fast track to Vanderbilt, baby!

If left alone- California would be the 4th largest economy in the world.

So maybe instead of addling your brain on a steady hate diet of a billionaire driven “news” show….

You should just say “Thank you, California!”

And, along the way, maybe stop drawing attention to your perpetual incompetence, racism, white supremacy, fake Christianity, unconstitutional activities, war on healthcare, money laundering, insider trading, straight up lying, etc…….by pulling your nose out of California’s business.

After all -you need California far more than she needs you.

Maybe instead of trying to replicate your local failure on a national level -you should say “Thank you,” accept the entitlements California bestows upon you, and get back to what you’re good at: Trying to confuse poor people out of their money, their healthcare and their social security.

But enjoy your 45 million dollar parade tomorrow. A lot of our veterans will be watching from the squalor that is a VA hospital.

Shame. Shame. Shame.

PS - And maybe stop throwing brown children into unmarked vans and shooting old people with rubber bullets.”

[manic-pixie-mayhem444]

Fanfic for beginning of episode 9 Born again spoilers!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Last chance to turn back

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That’s a warning

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He could open his eyes but what difference does it make? He’s…what was he thinking? Something burns against his skin and when he reaches up to scratch pain flings its self through his entire body. He’s met with a nauseating rush of light headedness at the simplest moment. He wants to wretch at the chemical smells, petroleum and rubber and the horrible sound of mechanical breathing.

“Is he awake?” Someone asks.

He doesn’t know if he’s dead or alive, much less awake or asleep.

“F-foggy?” He croaks. His throat is rough.

“Not exactly red.” A husky voice says from beside him.

He recognizes the heavy breathing but the perfume is throwing him off. He opens his eyes and is met with white fire and ethereal shadows.

“Hey Matt.” Karen whispers “Frank told me what happened.”

Matt wants to blurt out. I missed you! You have no idea how much I missed you! I’m the man I used to be…Karen I don’t…want to lose you.

But he blinks and the woman beside Frank becomes someone more recent.

“It was you.” Her voice cracks “wasn’t it?”

Matt swallows hard and nods but he can’t speak.

“Why?” There is hurt in Heather’s voice. Matt isn’t sure what she asking. Why be a vigilante? Why hurt some people and protect others, Why was one of those people Wilson Fisk? His head is still too foggy to have answers to any of this.

He thinks for a moment he sees foggy.

He sees

He can see. And a tear dribbles down his cheek

“I know you can hear me.” Says the only person who has been in the room.

“I know you.. did what you think was right.” “But the reality is men like you bring more danger more fear to this city.”

It’s the last man on earth Matt wants to speak to right now. If it was bullseye he might ask him to finish the job, place the barrel right at his frontal lobe and put him out of his misery, take him out of limbo.

He should be so lucky

“What you did for me. I well I can’t say the act goes unappreciated but it doesn’t mean… I’ll have you know-your self righteous act did not serve to protect this city. There is still a man on the lose. And I need you.. I need someone fearless to find him and bring him to justice. The kind of man who would take a bullet for his greatest enemy. A man…who fears nothing.”

Nothing huh…

Fisk’s barking up the wrong tree if he thinks Matt thinks Matt isn’t scared. He’s terrified but he can’t find the muscles to convey it… so he just listens.

***

Frank pears over his sunglasses at the tv above the Bar. “Attorney Matt Murdock is in stable condition after last nights inaugural ball shooting. Police are still searching for the suspect an escaped inmate by the name of Benjamin Pointdexter.”

“Fucking idiot.” He whispers.

But then his heart sinks slightly as he realizes there might be a call he should make.

“Karen Karen Karen”

“It’s for you. “ fisk says picking up the phone awkwardly

“It’s Karen.”

He’s mostly saying it to see if he can get a reaction out of Matt but the most Matt gives is a flutter of his eyelash.

“You were very lucky that I was also type o.” Fisk says nudging the blood transfusion bag.

Idk. Matt will probably want to rip himself apart when he finds out he has Fisk’s blood inside of him. I mostly just want him back with Karen…I can’t stand him with Heather their values don’t complement each other at all.

Also sorry this is such an incoherent mess.

[razorblade180]

Omen

It was dark, pitch black in fact. Well… not really. Orange light randomly tickled my eyes while fibers harassed my tongue every time I took a breath. Man was it stuffy in this. If only my hands weren’t tied behind my back.

“Hello? Can you please remove the sack? I’m already in the car.”

I waited for an answer but of course nobody wanted to speak! It’s not like I don’t feel their body heat or how the seat sinks in on both sides of me. I move my right leg forward and immediately tap something that moves away. Really? Another one.

“I know there’s at least three people who hear me. Speak now or endure beatboxing!”

……

Well, they asked for it.

“Pa pa tsss! Pa pa pa tss! Pa ta pa ta tss! Pa ta pa tss! Yo it’s-”

Before I knew it, my performance was cut short as someone yanked the bag off of my head. Honestly, they lasted longer than I thought. My eyes stung for a second thanks to the setting sun, but it wasn’t long before I saw a gruffy brute of a man in a black suit with a pretty nice brown beard. I don’t think he liked my performance.

I looked to my left and right to see more suits! Both pretty redheads in shades. The one on my left had short hair while the right had short hair and a softer jawline.

“Am I in the middle of a twin thing? That’s interesting.”

I stare back at the man who I just know has to be smiling somewhere on the inside. “Thank you for taking the bag off.”

“It goes back on if you keep yapping.”

“If you didn’t want a conversation then why didn’t you gag me? Who the ladies look down on you? What are you an uncle?”

He squinted at me in silence. Hell yeah; I definitely got it on the first try. Now that I look at him closely he does look older than them. Also…this car is nice. Not to mention long. This is the fanciest abduction ever.

“Is this a limo?”

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re an actress.”

“It’s called small talk.”

The man sat up straight and opened his suit jacket slightly so I noticed the gun. Clearly someone didn’t like small talk.

“Guns aren’t scary when they’re holstered. Most of the time anyway.” I look at the short haired woman. “You're very pretty by the way. How are you a thug instead of an actress?”

She didn’t even bother to look my way. Tragic. I turn the possible twin then hear a familiar click. The uncle decided to make the gun scarier.

“No more talking.”

It’s amazing how good suits don't equal experience. Frankly, it was concerning.

“Sir, if that’s actually loaded I recommend you remove the magazine. Second, you won’t shoot me because clearly someone paid you to steal me instead of murder.”

It got silent again. Both the ladies looked at their uncle and that seemed to smooth out his edges. He was nice enough to holster that bad boy of his.

“That definitely has rubber bullets, right?”

“Why would it?” Said the long-haired woman. “Do you really think nobody will notice you're gone or something?”

“Oh you can talk! Eh, they might notice eventually but I run off sometimes. It’s the afternoon, not the dead of night.”

The man grumbled, “Don’t entertain the target.”

Such a rude thing to say. “You know my name. It’s Serendipity Karuma. I know I’m an actress but this is overkill. Who hired you?”

“Why the hell would I tell you that?”

“Because I’m already caught? Speaking of which, the rope around my wrist burns. Would you humor me enough to untie them? I’m dainty.”

I bat my eyes for dramatic effect. Nobody resists floral pink eyes.

I’ve been keeping my cool so far but it’s become impossible to ignore the intoxicating smell coming from the brown bag near the man.

“You stole me before I got my late lunch. Is that a double in the bag?”

“Y-Yes…”

“Knew it! Look, if you give me a single bite I promise it won’t be huge and it will prove I’m trustworthy enough to untie me.”

“Those two things don’t add up.”

“They do when you suck at math.” I giggled at my own ridiculous joke, but I wasn’t alone. Pretty lady on my right snickered.

“Uh-Sorry.” She cleared her throat.

Fortune favored me for once and the uncle actually took out a fresh burger that rumbled my stomach like a dryer on max settings. He put it right in front of my face and I oh so gracious took a moderate bite.

“Mmmmm.”

Car food and kidnapping is such a good combo. Especially when the food is greasy the drive has the hymn of the tires on the road.

“Thank you kind sir. You all actually seem like decent people.”

“We are not untying you.”

Why are people so stubborn? It’s not like I’m tangibly a threat. Well…not physically. I could hear it again, the whispers that never truly leave me. The way my body tingles from head to toe while I felt a knot in my shoulder made me sigh as I put the pieces together. This part was never fun.

“May I ask one earnest and important question to you all? You don’t actually know who hired you to take me, do you? Was it a direct contact or through a third party?”

Maybe it was the sincerity of my voice but it got the girl to my left to speak.

“Third party.”

Good old uncle was about to yell at the girl but I nudged his foot.

“Hey, I don’t know why you three or thugs but I will match the price if you let me go right now.”

“Do you think we’re that dumb!?”

Okay, now I am getting annoyed. “No! I think your client doesn’t give a shit about you, or they would’ve told you not to have live ammo.”

“What?”

His eyes widened and I truly tell how little they mattered in this scheme. That’s when it hit me, maybe this was the scheme itself? The whispering grew dead silent to me while the sudden sound of horn blaring was heard by all. I didn’t bother to look for the source, nor could I afford to care. I’m not a nice enough person to let things simply happen as they’re supposed to. The moment the man turned his head to look out the window, I gritted my teeth and forced my right hand out of the rope; I didn’t waste a second stealing his gun before-

BOOM

The limo was struck from the left. The entire world began spinning as the car filled with screams. Not mind though. All I could do was clench my jaw, shut my eyes and hold the gun firmly. My finger never grazed the trigger and yet all the violent movements eventually led to a BANG!

Was it all instant? Did I black out? All I knew was when I opened my eyes I saw a man writhing pain as he clenched his shoulder. The weight of one of the twins felt crushing while the other became the platform I laid on. If only I was a tad faster. The man could only watch helplessly as I unloaded the gun and put on the busted glass window.

My head was still ringing. That was a far fall. “Did we fall off a bridge?”

Truthfully I had no idea why I was still trying to talk to the man. He currently had more important problems than my questions. I rolled my body forward, hitting the new floor of this sideway limousine. Hadn’t noticed this before but it has a sunroof. Had a sunroof that is. My arms reached up and pulled me towards it while my legs got their act together. It pays to do your own stunts.

“Wa-Wait…” the man groaned.

“No time for that. If you’re worried about the girls, I could feel them flinching. Just…”

Man, my head hurts. I touch the top gently and don’t feel anything warm or wet. That’s good at least. Can’t say the same about whoever is the driver. Bullets rarely have one target in my experience.

“Find the strength to get them through the roof. Whatever happens next will probably be better than now.”

I let my body fall through the opening and land in crisp, cool water. Too bad it wasn’t deep enough to cushion anything. Actually…that would be awful. I prefer this creek. Definitely this creek. My body finally allows me to stand and before long, I’m walking. Sure it hurts and I have a slight limp in my step but I’ve been through worse. Won’t be long before an ambulance arrives. It is afternoon after all. Those amateurs were lucky. Late night crimes don’t go too well.

“Time to go. This isn’t my kind of limelight anyway.”

I got far enough away for it to matter. Siren’s played behind me sooner rather than later. Hopefully those three find a different career path. At the very least, let them never bump into me again.

“I should really invest in a bodyguard somehow. Heh, as if that’ll work. Oh well… back to my trailer I guess.”

Life will forever have its ups and downs and all things considered, this was a humbling middle ground. That was until I felt my leg vibrate. Scroll isn’t broken. Today is a good day. I take it out and answer the obvious questions from my Director.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?”

“On a walk.”

“I hear sirens!”

“They aren’t for me.”

“Are they because of you?”

Gotta admit, he was very good at asking questions.

“In my defense, I was kidnapped.”

“YOU WERE WHAT!? I THOUGHT THAT WAS DONE WITH!?”

“It could be a random coincidence? Nobody knew anything, which is concerning for other reasons. It’s pretty gross when I consider the worst scenario.”

“Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”

“No offense but I’m tired of cars. I need the exercise anyway. See you at my trailer?”

“…Fine.”

“Oh! Can there be burgers waiting for me? I can even go for a kids meal.”

“Fine! But your toy is a med kit!”

He hung up abruptly. Jokes on him. That’s the toy I wanted. Hopefully it doesn’t ruin our film schedule. After all, I’ve never been to Menagerie. Something fun is bound to happen there.

[a-vacuole]

I know this probably won't get much attention, but I still feel the need to talk about the situation in my country, Panama

there has been discussions regarding a mining contract for a Canadian (and I think also Korean?) mining company, to mine for copper

do be aware, they have been mining for about a year even though there was no signed contract

while I have not being able to read the contract out of sheer anxiety, several lawyers have said it was made favoring the mining company. by a lot, resembling the Hay-Bunau-Varilla contract, which was signed before we had a proper republic, allowed the construction of the canal and a zone exclusive for it

a zone panamanians had VERY LIMITED ACCESS TO until after the Marthyrs of January 9, 1964. twenty two persons died during the event, including A BABY.

there's the fear of the new mining zone become a second Zona del Canal, as well as the worry for the environmental impact (which is greater than most minesas this is an open-air mine) and health of the surrounding population

so far..

1 journalist lost an eye

1 person died today (24.10.23) after being wounded on the liver area by lead bullets

the antimotines are shooting lead bullets, rubber bullets and expired tear gas at random. they even threw tear gas bombs at a HOSPITAL. people are defending themselves with rocks or just anything in hand

the bus system is basically paused, getting anywhere has become so difficult people have had to walk on the bridge across the canal to get to their homes

the metro was closed today, station by station at the end of the work day. people struggled to get home. a big portion of the population relies on public transport to move around, and it was taken away from us

protestors have been burning old car tires too. unsure of why but it blocks the streets for HOURS. it's chaos, it's anxiety inducing. I know there's worse happening in the world but I'm SO TIRED ALREADY. there are no medications in public institutions, no reactives to run life-determining blood tests, work?? there's barely any people have resorted to theif and robbery to survive, crime rates are HIGH, infrastructure is falling apart and yet the goverment has the DESCARO to say that they have done a lot, that after 3 fucking years they are fixing the streets, 4 years for finishing the (currently) last line 1-metro station, they want to expand the genetics program yet reduce the budget for it. they have reduced the budget of almost every single institution minus the politician's ones.

they dare to say they have been listening to the population's worries even though we have MONTHS saying NO to the mining company. MONTH. THIS SHOULD HAVE GONE TO A REFERENDUM AND IT HAS NOT. THE CONTRACT WAS SIGNED BY THE PRESIDENT WITHING HOURS OF IT'S LAST REVISION.

there are memes of the situation, this is just one of them regarding the last speech of the president

people are TIRED

this isn't only about the mining, it's about the shit hole this goverment is making. about the state of the country and how those in power are concentrating on making more money

I am AFRAID of another dictatorship, because guess what? this is the EXACT SAME political party that was in power during the Dictatorship of Noriega.

I can't go to work in-person for who knows how long, because the country has become utterly innacessible. the price of food has risen in just days

I'm scared

we shouldn't have to resort to protests to be listened to. the public healthcare system shouldn't be falling apart. people should have access to transport. we shouldn't need to fear for our lives.

[c0mmitt4xfr0g]

Ripe - Chapter One

uhm... so basically I wrote these hoffstrahm fanfics and I wanted to post them here................ nsfw so...

fanfic tags: hoffstrahm, gay sex, anal sex, angst (but it's all better don't worry), semi public sex.

I can't think of anything else but if there's a tag I'm missing you want me to add lemme know!!

Chapter One

It was spitting rain and windy, but that wasn't why Peter felt cold. He barely felt the gusts on his skin anymore, all he could feel was the tingling sensation of goosebumps. His eyes kept going in and out of focus as he looked from the rubber mask to Mark Hoffman's face, and the surprise paced both of them.

Neither one of them recalled what street this was, but Peter was pretty sure there hadn't been a building in the middle of it, closing the alleyway. Mark hadn't known that either, and he suddenly found himself trapped, nothing but himself, Peter Strahm, and the rain in that alleyway.

The situation was ripe for the picking.

Peter was out of breath and it didn't help that he couldn't breathe for a second, air caught in his throat like he was scared to choke on it. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a narcotic and he felt drunk as he stumbled over to Mark.

"I got you," Peter said, more to himself than to Mark, and though his voice sounded relieved, he was not.

Mark hung his head and a sigh of exhaustion left his chest as Peter grabbed his arms, turning him around. He only struggled for a moment to protect his pride, knowing that somewhere, deep inside his brain, he still had a little bit left. He wouldn't go without a fight – but that didn't mean he would fight hard.

"Aren't you gonna take me in, officer?" Hoffman snarled, and Strahm shoved him against the wall with a groan.

He had done it. He'd captured the man he'd been obsessing over for months. He had the handcuffs around his wrists, too, and the car was just around the corner.

He had his perp – now what?

Mark couldn't help the slight gasp that escaped his lips as the cold metal handcuffs were replaced with boney, calloused hands. The handcuffs clanged loudly to the pavement and Mark flinched, but then there was nothing around his wrists at all. Peter flung his hands out of his own and took a hesitant step back.

"Get the fuck outta my sight," Peter said in a low tone, but the venom in his voice was diluted with how much it shook.

Mark whipped around. "Excuse me?"

Peter was looking at him with cold, calculated wrath that was ready to burst in him, and for the first time in a long time, Mark felt fear. His lip curled like he was about to smile and his eyes were so piercing they felt like cutting ice.

"I said, get the fuck out of my sight." The silence was deafening, and even though Peter spoke so quietly Mark questioned if he heard him right, it sounded like he barked this.

Mark's eyes darted to the mask in his fist, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he knew that even if he ran, he had been caught. The empty threats Peter had mailed him had meant nothing but flirtation until that very moment, because now, he had proof. And there was no amount of running in the world that would reverse it.

"Is this some sort of joke? I'll turn around and you'll shoot me in the back?" Mark snapped, throwing the mask on the pavement in a moment of rage. "Are you too pussy to be in the car alone with me?"

"God dammit, Mark," he quipped, but his voice sounded so tender at his first name. "There's no point. If I throw you in jail, you'll just escape. We'll never lose a court case against you anyway."

Peter didn't leave him with a lot of options, and Mark couldn't decide if getting shot in the back or getting thrown in prison for the rest of his life was worse. He didn't look armed, and for a second, even though he felt frozen in place, he started walking.

He waited one second, two seconds, three seconds for the burning pain of a bullet entering him but there was nothing, and he looked over his shoulder, doing a double take.

He watched Peter collapse to his knees against the alley wall, sitting down. He was standing in shock. Mark couldn't believe his eyes, but he watched him pull out a cigarette, reach for the pig mask, and hold it while he smoked, not even caring if the ash got on it or not. He was looking at it almost fondly, and Mark just couldn't believe it.

"Get up, your ass is gonna get soaked," Mark said sternly, and Peter dumbly did what he said as if he hadn't noticed he was still there, or worse, watching him.

He threw his coat on the ground where he was sitting, and Peter took up all the room that he wanted, Mark sat down next to him in silence.

Peter flung the cigarette he was smoking in a puddle, and Mark watched it fizzle out, the puff of smoke disappearing into the fog.

"Why are you still here?" Peter asked, his voice rough.

He coughed, grimacing and gripping his throat, and Mark peered at the little jagged, white scar on his Adam's apple. His voice never went back to being as smooth as it had been, but if Mark had said it wasn't attractive, he would have been lying. He didn't understand why he still smoked, but part of him liked watching him do it, and Mark felt himself craving smoke more than ever before in his life.

"Because," Hoffman said childishly. "Why are you still here?"

"None of your business," Peter said.

"Actually, it is my business, since you're supposed to be chasing me," he said, hoping that maybe Peter had forgotten the memo, that he had forgotten that they completed each other like that.

It hit Mark like a tonne of bricks that this was it – their little game was over. He had come to enjoy it, come to enjoy egging him on, sending him notes like they were love letters

Strahm didn't say anything but the rain picked up, wetting his hair until it fell in front of his eyes, not bothering to fix it.

"Why don't you just take me back to the department, throw me in jail for a few days, I'll escape and then we can go right back to how things were, huh?" Mark said, nudging him with his elbow.

"I can't," he murmured, looking up at the clouds and letting raindrops pool on his eyelids. "I can't, I'm done. It'll never be the same."

"I don't understand this," Mark started. "You're a fucking FBI agent, you're supposed to be happy that you caught me. Instead you're sitting on the ground in the rain while I give you a pep talk."

"Because you took everything from me!" Peter suddenly roared, grabbing Mark's collar with a steel fist. "And now you're all I have left."

The words escaped Peter's snarling lips and he wished that he could go back just a few seconds to stop it. When had things turned that way? When did his obsession to catch Mark become his Mark obsession? Weeks, at least, probably months, and he couldn't think of anything else that would fill that void other than him.

Peter knew it was fucked up, but the only way he could cope with everything he had lost was looking to the man who had taken it from him. And now he had him right in his hands – it should've been a sweet victory, but putting him in jail was cutting out a whole chunk of his life.

Mark gave him nightmares, but he also gave him meaning, and he gave him long nights with hard-ons that he didn't know how to fix, pictures of him that he kept separated from his files, just for him, because sometimes thinking about Mark numbed the pain and gave him something else to want.

And right now all he wanted was to kiss him, watching Mark's wide eyes trace his face, probably his nose that he could never stop staring at, while Peter gazed slowly at him licking those rounded lips.

He pulled him in closer but slowly, so slow, like he was scared Mark would bite him. Mark could see what was happening but his brain couldn't make sense of it, he could only taste the cigarettes on Peter's breath and wanted to taste more.

But Mark's eyes fluttered shut as their lips met, and he couldn't help but tug on Peter's jacket, needing something to hang onto.

In a second, a chaste kiss became angry, Peter digging his fingertips into Mark's scalp hard enough to sting a little, but the only thing Mark would've done differently is tell him to pull his hair, because it hurt in the best way. Peter wasn't breathing so much as groaning into the other man's mouth.

"I need you," Peter gasped again, and Mark felt a rush of blood to his dick, the humiliation didn't help.

"Shit, that's." Hoffman couldn't finish his sentence because his words caught in his throat when Peter squeezed at his chest with his long fingers, and he gritted his teeth.

Peter moaned against Mark's lips as he groped himself through his pants, arching his legs. He knew his cock was a sharp bulge in his pants but he didn't care, didn't care how obvious it was.

In an instant, Hoffman was on his knees straddling Peter's thigh while he pressed his knee into his cock. Strahm ground into his knee, and when he returned his focus to Mark's chest, Mark moved his hand down to his cock.

"I need you too," Mark finally said, muffled against his lips.

It was the first time Mark had seen Peter so scared and excited all at once, his steel blue eyes glittering into his.

"Fucking, thank you," Peter groaned, unzipping Mark's pants before his own. "I don't have lube."

Mark leaned down, and spat on Peter's cock, wiping his mouth with something like a glare. "There. No more excuses."

Peter slowly looked up at him in disbelief. "Fucking disgusting," Peter said. "I'm obsessed with you."

"I know you are," Mark said, but when he saw Peter suck two of his fingers into his mouth, he stopped him. "Don't bother."

Peter hesitated. "But-"

"I don't care if it hurts," Mark wheezed, but then, "just, distract me."

Peter didn't understand why he didn't let him just split him open, but he didn't mind so much, because he really did feel like he was going to burst any second.

He guided his cock into Mark's ass with one hand and gripped Mark's with his other, thumbing at his slit. It made Mark wince, but if it wasn't a good distraction from the pain of stretching around him with nothing other than a little spit to help, he wasn't sure what was.

Peter let his head roll back, squeezing his eyes shut and then blinking rapidly, a trembling gasp escaping him.

"Fucking- Mark, you're so tight," he grunted, stroking him the best he could with a shaking hand. "You're sure?"

"Shut up, just shut up for a sec," Mark snapped, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

His teeth were gritted in pain and Peter gave him a dubious look, not sure if he should keep touching his cock or not. When he started fucking his cock with his fist, Mark let out a gasp that he'd been holding, and it seemed to ease his tension. Mark let his head sink forward and his hair fell messily over his eyes, but Peter fixed it, pushing it back, slick with the rain.

After a moment, Mark sank fully onto Peter's cock, his ass on his thighs. Mark was heavy, but Peter was strong. Strahm couldn't help but grunt as Mark sank onto him, because he was so, so tight, and warm, and he was pretty sure he was going to break his dick off but he didn't ever want to stop.

"Christ," Mark said through gritted teeth, eyes still closed and his hands still on Peter's shoulders for stability. "Gonna break me in half."

"I told you we should-"

"Shut up," Mark said, quieter this time. "I didn't say it was a bad thing."

Mark pulled off of him for a second to get situated, and when he slowly slipped onto Peter again, he started bouncing. His legs were trembling but it wasn't from a lack of strength, because the adrenaline rush made him stronger than he ever had been before.

Strahm moaned raggedly, his hand on Mark's round hip. "Beautiful," he murmured, and he could see the redness creep over Mark's calm complexion.

"Jesus, you really are obsessed with me," Mark teased, but bit his lip hard when Strahm thumbed at his head again.

He forgot that just a few moments ago, he had been burning, because the only thing he could think about now was how to stop himself from blowing his load embarrassingly fast.

"I didn't have a choice," Peter said, running his hand over his shoulder blades. "Mm, feels so good, baby."

Mark felt his eyes burn and gloss over when Peter started thrusting into him to meet his pace, feeling his voice start to tremble.

"I'm gonna come fast if you keep doing that," Mark admitted, his hand resting on Peter's chest.

"Good," he said. "I want you to."

"You just want to embarrass me," Mark said, but he could barely get it out in more than a whine, and he hiccupped.

Peter put his knees up and it forced him deeper into Mark, making him swear, his grip on Peter's shoulders tightening with every animal thrust.

"You… took everything from me," Peter grunted in his ear, sinking all the force he had into fucking him.

"I know," Mark stammered, his voice wet because he was almost crying. "You're my everything."

"You too," Peter gasped. "I need you, a-ah, think about it everyday, I think I fucking love you-"

Mark suddenly cried out, gripping Peter's cheeks and resting his forehead on his as he bounced, feeling his cock twitching in his hand as Peter pressed into a sweet spot. He was close, and Peter could tell, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand so that at the very least, he came on his stomach and not his clothes.

"You can come- hah, o-on me," Peter assured him, and gripped his ass which rested on his thigh.

"Fucking creep," Mark groaned, but he buried his face in the crook of Peter's neck, breathing in his cologne like he needed it to live. "I do love you, I know it."

Mark was glad now for his coat being under them, because his knees stung from the gravel as it was. Even still, he felt nothing but bliss as he let out a wracked sob, shaking and shuddering in Peter's strong arms as he came. Peter had stopped thrusting for a moment to stroke him hard but slow, his fingers around his balls as he squeezed the orgasm out of him. Come trickled down his cock as he twitched, gripping Peter around the waist like he was a pillow that he needed for support.

Peter didn't feel like a prison – Mark wasn't trapped in his arms, he was home.

"I'm okay," he promised, even though his voice didn't sell it, shaking as it was. "Keep going."

Peter slowly started thrusting into him again, and for a moment, it felt like too much to handle. Mark pressed a sloppy kiss to his lips to ground himself again, but he flinched when Peter's crown caught at his rim, because even if the pain had long since faded, it felt like sparks going off in his stomach.

"You can come inside," Mark gasped, rocking his hips into Peter's.

Mark thought it was only fair since he did come on his stomach – and partially just wanted to feel him deep inside of him, wanted to watch him drip out of him.

Peter stilled for a moment, but when he looked at Mark's serious eyes and his blushing face, he slammed into him again and again.

"You're so good," Peter groaned. "So good for me, gonna make me come."

Peter had never been one to talk dirty during sex, but Mark was bringing out something desperate that he had suppressed for a long time.

He could feel stars in his stomach and the sight of Mark's soft cock drippling come onto Peter's stomach was enough to send him, but what really got him was Mark repeating so good, like an echo. He shot his load into Mark, and clung to him, hugging him tight.

"Fucking- Mark!" he growled, tugging his shirt so hard that it exposed one of his shoulders.

"God," Mark groaned, rolling his eyes back.

Hoffman could already feel his come dripping out of him but Peter had the common sense to pull his coat away before his head lolled back, and he pulled out of him. He watched in fascination as his seed ran down from Mark's ass, Mark pulling his shirt up around his soft belly to keep it clean.

Mark had barely wiped the come off of Strahm's stomach with a spare napkin out of his coat before he slumped into his arms, hugging him tight around the waist. Peter was slightly taken aback by this, but softened, wrapping his arms protectively around him. He kissed his forehead and Strahm nestled against his chest.

For a moment, neither of them said anything, Mark melted into Peter's arms for support. All they did was breathe.

After a moment, Peter untangled his fingers from Mark's hair.

"Look, I can't take you home. But," Peter swallowed thickly, his throat dry. "Let me take you somewhere, like a hotel. We can stay the night."

"That sounds like a great idea," Mark said sarcastically.

"What do you have to lose?" Peter asked. "Just leave the mask here. It wouldn't be the first time people have seen us together."

Mark glanced at the mask in the corner of the alley, sitting in a puddle. Peter was right – he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

"Just this once," Mark said uneasily, and Peter gave him a slight grin.

His promise meant nothing, because they both knew that it wouldn't be this once. This was just the beginning. And if Mark needed to lie to himself for a while to be okay with that, Peter was more than willing to go along with it. Mark already felt empty of him and knew his appetite would need to be sated sometime. But for the time being, he would take it one moment at a time, with Peter's strong arms and steady gaze to ground him.

The ao3 link btw......

[mankillercalledbunny]

Apologise

E. Abel, 2014

The year is 1955.

A fourteen-year-old boy

Named Emmett Till

Winks at a white woman in Missouri.

Days later

His body washes up

Soaked

Barely recognizable.

When it's finally identified

With its beaten black face

Smashed to the point

Where it's hard to think this kid

Ever had a name

It's sent to his mother

Who chooses

Not to cover his face at the funeral

To leave the coffin open

So all can see

The bruised and rotted flesh

Swollen discolored and bloody

With one eye dangling from its socket.

Thousands of people cry.

The pictures hit the news.

Emmett Till and his mother Mamie

Are names known across the country

And the men who killed him

Are found not guilty.

-

The year is 1964.

A young man

Named James Earl Chaney

Is working with the Congress of Racial Equality

As a civil rights worker in Mississippi.

He advocates voter registration

Trying to get black people

The representation they deserve.

The KKK has burned a church for blacks.

Chaney is investigating.

His bus is stopped

By a group of men

In pointed white hats and masks.

For weeks people search

Until his body is found,

But only because he went missing

With two white men.

The dozens of other blacks who have gone missing

In the same way

In the same town

Are never searched for

And the Klan members don't go to prison.

It takes 40 years

Before the man who organized his killing

Is sentenced

For manslaughter.

Four years later

A great leader is shot.

-

The year is 2012.

A boy of seventeen

Named Trayvon Martin

Is walking around Sanford Florida

Wearing a hoodie

Getting candy and juice

At a convenience store.

A neighborhood watch volunteer

Sees him slouching

His hood up over his head.

A gun is drawn and fired.

Trayvon keels over.

His pictures are released to the press

Who debate the issue more heatedly

Than the presidential race.

Rallies and protests ensue,

Millions sign a petition for the volunteer's imprisonment

But Florida says "Stand Your Ground"

And Zimmerman walks free.

-

The day is August 9th, 2014.

In Ferguson, Missouri

An eighteen-year-old

Named Michael Brown

Is walking down the street with his friend.

A police officer pulls up and yells for them to get on the sidewalk;

The two keep walking.

The officer pulls up next to them

Yelling again.

Suddenly a shot is fired from inside the car.

It grazes the teen's side

He and his friend take off running

The cop chases.

The friend hides behind a car

Fearing for his life.

A second shot hits the already wounded boy

The teen turns to his attacker instead.

Michael gets down on his knees

An innocent

Surrendering without a fight

In the hope that his enemy will have mercy

"Hands up

Don't shoot"

He cries.

BANG

To the head

BANG BANG BANG

Bullets hit the insides of his arms

His chest

The body lays in the street for hours

Police pick it up later in a van

The witnesses all say the same thing.

-

That night the protests start

Saying the same thing Michael said

"Hands up

Don't shoot"

"No justice

No peace"

Not a gun is drawn by the protestors

No threats are made.

The next night

Tear gas is thrown

As a crowd control tactic

By police.

Within a week

Armored vehicles and assault rifles

Have been dealt to the suburban unit

The people still protest in peace

Suffering burning eyes

And rubber bullet wounds

For justice

And Darren Wilson gets away with murder.

-

It has been sixty years

Since the death of Emmett Till

Fifty years since the deaths of J. E. Chaney and Martin Luther King. Jr

Two years since Trayvon Martin

And still one must wonder

What America truly thinks

When it says

All its people are born equal

If the life of a black teenager

Is worth less than the box of cigars he supposedly stole,

When those who are supposed to protect us

Can murder innocents

And walk away unscathed.

We may be the home of the brave

But the United States

Is still not

The land of the free

For anyone whose skin

Is darker than the sand on the beach,

We cannot say we stand for justice

Until all murderers sit behind bars

Instead of in front of their televisions

In the guise of a police officer.

America is crippled

Until it can stand united and say,

To the dark children

Whose parents have been fighting the same fight

For the last four hundred years

And have yet to gain their equality,

Until it can say to them

"I'm sorry."

‘Race and racism is a reality that so many of us grow up learning to just deal with. But if we ever hope to move past it, it can’t just be on people of color to deal with it. It’s up to all of us – Black, white, everyone – no matter how well-meaning we think we might be, to do the honest, uncomfortable work of rooting it out. It starts with self-examination and listening to those whose lives are different from our own. It ends with justice, compassion, and empathy that manifests in our lives and on our streets.’ — Michelle Obama

[dizzyluc]

When my dad trying to tell me and my mom “They are just sending people that don’t belong in the country back”

Me: … and yet I’ve heard people that are literal Americans being sent away? What about that one guy that was American that got sent out of the country to jail?

Dad: Well, he was probably not even American, was he born here? I’d want to get arrested to sue the country if they came up to me and tried deporting me.

Me: I don’t know, however isn’t it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty? You realize the guy is in jail right now and could be in jail for YEARS while they figure this out? In a prison that HE MAY NOT SURVIVE IN? They could be DEAD before a trial rectifies this.

… he shut up after that with nothing to say.

I’m totally against how this shit is going down, and acting like someone deserves to be deported without any type of check going on? And also ID’ing people just because of how they LOOK? Maybe even sending them to jail for that reason?

No.

Edit: Also talked about the reporter that got shot with a rubber bullet, and literally next thing on TV showed the actual thing.

Mom: “Why would they do that?”

Dad a bit after: They shouldn’t be burning places down

Me: The coast guard shouldn’t be shooting rubber bullets at reporters either, but I’m sure they won’t get in trouble.

Dad: Yeah, well… *gets silent again*

Again, the line has been crossed WAY over now.

[hocimunc2024]

BREAKING NEWS: Attack at the House of Commons Leaves 7 dead, Palace of Westminster Faces Damage 

18 March 2024

Following the update yesterday, latest developments this morning has shown a group of rioters charging at the Palace of Westminster. Rioters, donning body armour like vests and protective helmets, were seen using pepper spray and shooting rubber bullets at any police officials who attempted to bar them from entering the building. 

The Palace of Westminster is estimated to be suffering from 1.5 million GBP worth of damage. Rioters have successfully burned down parts of the Palace, causing 2 of the country’s most prized paintings to be lost. 

The attack occured during a parliamentary session in the House of Commons. No MPs were hurt in the process. However, 7 policemen are reported to be dead after being fatally abused by rioters. 

MPs of the House of Commons, your lives are at stake. It is your job to seek immediate solutions and appease the rioters, while guarding your own safety.