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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 9: Some Days He Feels Like Dying]

A/N: Below are your guesses...let's see how you did!!! 🥰😘

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Let’s go back to the beginning of the end of the world.

On the big-screen tv in the Liberty Center at Saratoga Springs, Wolf Blitzer is saying: “We are receiving confirmation of additional outbreaks of the so-called Florida Fever, the first cases of which here in the U.S. were reported in Miami a little over one week ago. Concern is now growing nationally, especially as the modes of transmission, symptoms, and treatment options remain unclear. Let’s go across the country to Natasha Chen for the latest information. Natasha?”

“Hi, Wolf. I’m here outside the UC San Diego Medical Center where early this morning, two individuals suspected to be suffering from the illness were admitted. I’ve been informed by hospital staff that both patients are currently in stable condition, but there is still so much confusion and conflicting information regarding this ‘Florida Fever,’ and of course that uncertainty is leading to fear, rumors, and honestly a bit of hysteria. Even how to refer to the sickness is controversial, with no official name having been decided upon by scientists. Cases in Australia are known as Ragepox, the U.K. has dubbed it the 21st Century Sweat after a mysterious disease from the 1500s, and Russia is calling it the Ukrainian Flu while Ukraine has opted for the Russian Red Rot, inspired by the skin lesions that some patients experience.”

“Can you tell us what we do know, Natasha? Are doctors classifying this illness as a virus, or as a bacterial infection more akin to tuberculosis or meningitis?”

“At this time, what I’m hearing is that doctors are fairly certain it’s a virus, as patients do not seem to respond to antibiotics when they’ve been explored as a potential treatment. But there’s truly very little information at this early stage, and I think we’re all being reminded of those first days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when no one really knew how to best to avoid contracting the virus or what the long-term effects would be both nationally and globally.”

“There are absolutely some similarities, Natasha, which I’m sure is contributing to the unease surrounding the situation. What precautions are doctors currently recommending?”

“Wolf, doctors are urging the public not to panic, and to exercise common sense measures like avoiding crowded spaces, sanitizing surfaces, and staying home if they’re feeling unwell. Suspected cases of the illness should be reported to primary physicians or local hospitals. Typical symptoms appear to include headaches, fever, gastrointestinal upset, skin discoloration and blistering, and unusual bleeding, as well as behavioral changes, particularly disorientation, aggression, and even violence in some patients…”

“That ain’t what it is,” Rio says. He jabs his index finger at the tv from where he sits on the couch beside you. “Snowflake wasn’t sick, he was dead. He was motherfucking dead, flatline, code blue, crossed the rainbow bridge, he was gone. He was dead and then he woke back up, and he wasn’t a person anymore. He was…something else.”

“Dumbass, people don’t come back from the dead,” Mike says from the ping pong table. People are milling around pretending to play pool, darts, chess, poker, Monopoly, Uno, Parcheesi, but really you’re all here for the same reason. You want to know what’s happening.

Rio turns to you. “Wasn’t Snowflake dead?”

“He definitely seemed dead,” you reply, knees tucked to your chest and still watching the tv. Wolf Blitzer’s voice is calm, but his pale blue eyes have a manic sort of light to them, too large and too rattled.

“Man, fuck Florida,” says Desmond, a utilitiesman born and raised Trenton, New Jersey. “Nothing but psychos and alligators. Saw them off of Georgia and just let them float away.”

“What was that?” Tyler replies combatively. He’s from a trailer park in Tallahassee.

“Ty, why do you care? You’d be fine. You’re already up here. You can stay.”

“They’re lying,” Rio mutters, meaning Wolf and Natasha on CNN. “When the corpsmen called the hospital, they said to be prepared to restrain Snowflake and that he might try to bite us. Why aren’t they warning people about that?!”

Kayleigh, a steelworker from Oklahoma City, looses a frenetic sort of laugh. “Because there’s no non-panic-inducing way to say: Hey, go buy some duct tape and bungee cords to tie up your loved ones, because they might try to fucking eat you.”

Rio doesn’t frown often, but he is now; he slips his phone out of the pocket of his camo pants and types out a WhatsApp message to Sophie. You only know her from photos and quick hellos via video chat, a sweet diminutive woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to fill up half her face, as fragile as Rio is overwhelming. She likes baking and romance novels and elephants; whenever Rio finds elephant-themed souveners, he ships them home to Oregon for her, refrigerator magnets and wallets and scarves and snow globes. Sophie wears a lot of long flowing skirts and hand-knit sweaters, and offers strange suggestions when she and Rio discuss baby names: Sage, Fox, Laurel, Coral, Juniper, Karma, Rune, Otter. Otter?! Rio had exclaimed. Babe, if you name our kid Otter, even I’M gonna have to bully them.

“I’m telling Sophie to stay with my parents,” Rio says to you. “They’ve gotten super weird with all the off-the-grid stuff, but they have years’ worth of supplies and grow most of their own food now, and they’re thirty miles from the nearest town. And no one knows how to defend themselves like doomsday preppers.”

“Good idea,” you reply, watching the tv. Now Wolf Blitzer is talking about tornadoes in the Midwest, and you could almost believe the world is normal again.

A few days later all major social media platforms begin censoring content related to the so-called Florida Fever, and then the internet goes down completely, and then the power turns off and on and off again, and finally quits like a car driven to its last mile. The combat units are moved out of Saratoga Springs—never to be heard from again—and the construction projects paused indefinitely, and one of the master-at-arms that Rio is friends with (Rio has a lot of friends, surely you aren’t so remarkable) relays information that he shouldn’t: tales of planned missions, impossible plagues, overrun cities, innumerable deserters in every branch of the U.S. military.

“Hey,” Rio whispers, shaking you awake one night, moonlight streaming through the windows and the pops of distant gunfire you aren’t supposed to ask about. “If I leave, will you come with me?”

It’s a big commitment; it could be a lifetime. You fear he might just be trying not to hurt your feelings. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Rio says. “I’m not leaving without you. Are you going to Oregon by choice, or should I tie you up and throw you in the back of the Humvee?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a young one, maybe a teenager, little buds for horns and only weighing a few hundred pounds. This is good; if it was any heavier, Cregan and Rio wouldn’t be able to drag it back to the ranch. You’re still in Red Desert, Wyoming, and the bison are grazing just off I-80, an asphalt artery that cuts through an endless steppe of sand-colored rocks and tall grass. They gaze lazily in your direction with bulbous dark eyes, perpetually chewing, not terribly intelligent. The Colt pistols of the men who found you at the RV had been loaded with 9mm bullets, the same caliber your Berettas take; there weren’t many, but enough to fill both of your clips, something that feels like winning the lottery. You are lying on the rocky, dusty soil and lining up the shot. If you miss, the herd will scatter, and you’ll watch dinner vanish beneath a blue sky—pale like Aemond’s eye, a weak shallow blue—and rough white scars of cirrostratus clouds.

“Feels kind of wrong to kill a baby,” you murmur. Daeron, Luke, Baela, Helaena, and Ice are back at the house. Aemond, Rio, Cregan, Rhaena, and Aegon are here on the ground with you; Aegon insisted upon being brought along, and Rio agreed to carry him. Aegon had never seen American bison outside of the Oregon Trail computer game, those pixelated brown blobs migrating across the screen no more material than unicorns or faeries or basilisks.

“If the baby didn’t want to get killed, it shouldn’t be made of steak,” Aegon points out. He’s on a lot of Vicodin, the only narcotic Aemond could find back in Ogallala, Nebraska.

“No pressure, Chips,” Rio says, chewing on a long blade of little bluestem grass. “If you miss we’re just going to have to eat each other like the Donner Party.”

Aegon wrinkles his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“She won’t miss,” Aemond says, and Rio snickers to himself and gives you a quick wink that no one else notices.

“I don’t think one 9mm bullet will do it,” Cregan mutters. “Cows got thick skulls, I figure bison are the same way. You’ll have to hit it a few times, and before it can take off and disappear on us.”

Aemond casts him a patronizing glance. “And you’ve killed a lot of cows?”

“Oh yeah. Worked in a slaughterhouse for a while before I got hired by the power company. Hated it, went home and could still smell the blood and brains on myself no matter how many times I showered. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Aemond looks like he regrets asking. Rhaena frowns worriedly at the bison. “Will they charge if someone shoots at them?”

Cregan shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Probably?!”

You squeeze the trigger five times in quick succession, hit the calf thrice, tiny puffs of scarlet mist that spring from its woolly head. It flops over as the rest of the herd jolts into a gallop, kicking up dust and fleeing across the steppe.

“Yes!” Rio booms as everyone applauds. “We’re in business! We’re having ribeyes tonight! Cregan, my good sir, I take mine medium rare.”

“You’re getting well done,” Aemond tells him. “Everyone is. Just in case the bison has parasites.”

Rio groans. “You’re ruining my life, man.” Then he and Cregan trot over to grab the baby bison, each of them taking one of its back hooves.

“So,” Aegon says dreamily. “Now that Rio is preoccupied, who would like to assist me in returning my disgusting, debilitated body to the ranch? Anyone? Anyone?”

Rhaena turns to you. “When we have more bullets, could you give me shooting lessons?”

“Sure,” you reply, a bit startled. “Really? You’re interested?”

“Well…” Rhaena hesitates. “Baela’s always been the brave one. At home, at school, when we were shopping, even when restaurants would mess up my order, Baela would do the talking and make sure I was alright…and I would literally hide behind her waiting for her to solve all my problems. And now…with the baby, with Jace…it’s been really different being the one to help her for a change, and I don’t think I’m very good at it yet. But Baela deserves to have people to lean on, just like I’ve always had her. And…when I stabbed that guy in the RV…I kind of liked it.” She titters nervously when she sees the shock on your face. “No, not like that! Not the killing part, or the gushing blood, that was all super gross. But the fact that I helped protect Baela and Luke? The fact that I wasn’t useless in that situation? That was a good feeling. Baela is clever, and she’s courageous and caring and funny, and she’s always been better than me at everything, and I never minded because she…she was like my own personal superhero, you know? But now I feel like I need to start learning how to do things myself so I can help her. Even if Baela is still better at everything, and probably always will be.”

Aegon grins toothily and pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel. It’s pretty impossible to look heroic next to Aemond.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, but he’s smiling, and a bloom of bashful pink blood appears in his cheeks.

“You already took over the driving,” you tell Rhaena encouragingly. “That was a big help.”

“Yeah,” Rhaena replies, a bit pensive. “Let’s hope I can keep that going.” Between the gas Aemond found in Ogallala and what was siphoned from the would-be attackers’ GMC Yukon, you got enough fuel in the Tahoe to take it halfway across Wyoming; but now the gauge is not just at but venturing below the E, and it can’t have more than five or ten miles left. That might not even get you to the next ranch, let alone a proper town. You need a working vehicle. There are nearly a thousand miles between here and Odessa, Oregon.

Aegon is pawing at Aemond like a cat. “Come on, hero. Help me up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is why we’re friends,” Rio tells you as he shovels forkfuls of bison steak into his mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. Cregan gutted the bison and butchered it, then you helped him cook the steaks—not very uniform in size and shape, yet no one is complaining���on a pan heated in the woodstove. You fed the fire with books you found in the house, mostly religious in nature. “You convince me not to commit suicide when we’re stranded on a transmission tower, you share your Cheddar Whales, you’re good at shooting things…”

“How did you two become friends?” Baela asks. You are all arranged around the dining room table; there are just enough chairs for everyone. Ice lies beneath it mauling on bison bones that Cregan set aside for her. The room is illuminated by flashlights. Baela looks great: in good spirits, glowing, alert, wearing a loose cotton dress that Helaena found in an upstairs closet for her. Baela napped most of the day, something she rarely allows herself to indulge in, and the benefits are evident.

Rio says nonchalantly: “I talked to everybody and she barely talked at all. So of course I had to investigate and figure out what that was about. Turns out she’s kind of cool. You know the Wheel of Fortune game at arcades where there’s like a hundred little lights in a circle you have to press the button when the one that says Spin Zone lights up? She’s a freak, she can hit it almost every time. Can’t sink a basketball or sing karaoke to save her life, but you know, we all have flaws.”

Aegon looks up from his map, which he is scrutinizing as he eats his bison steak. “Do you realize that if we could just stop at gas stations like back when everything was normal, we’d be in Odessa or the Bay Area in fifteen hours? Literally less than one day. Fucking unreal. And yet here we are trapped in yee-haw country, freaky giant animals, no civilization but Jesus billboards everywhere, hell on earth.” He holds up a palm. “No offense, Cregan. You’re okay.”

Cregan smiles mildly. “None taken, Fried Foot. You know you’re a little well done yourself these days.”

“That’s ableist,” Aegon replies.

“We’ll find gas tomorrow,” Aemond says. He sounds confident because he has to; he’s not allowed to panic, to give up. He’s seated at the head of the table like a patriarch. His steak is the smallest and the most ragged. He wouldn’t accept any of the others.

You ask Baela: “Have you decided what to name the baby?”

“Kind of.” She rests both hands on her belly, a globe like a full moon. Helaena glances over at Baela, frowning and preoccupied. “If it’s a boy, I’m going to name it after Jace. We had already picked out Theodore…and Teddy for short, isn’t that cute? But now…I’d want him to have that connection to his father. The baby won’t have any pictures of him, or videos, or memories, or papers he wrote in school, or ties or rings or cufflinks, or…anything. But he could have Jace’s name.”

The rest of you nod, eyes downcast and feeling terribly sorry for her. “I really like that idea,” Luke says quietly.

Now Baela is thinking, her gaze traveling around the room as she chews on a cube of streak. “I’m not sure what I’d call a girl. Maybe something naturey like Violet, Rosemary, Ivy, Indigo, Fern…”

“You should name it Otter,” you say, and you and Rio erupt into raucous laughter. Aemond smiles as he watches you.

Baela is grinning uncertainly, trying not to be insensitive. Perhaps people named their kids stuff like Otter where you came from. “Um, sorry, what?!”

“That was one of the baby names on Sophie’s list,” Rio clarifies. “I vetoed it. Or at least…I think she agreed to cross it off…? Oh my God, imagine I finally get to Odessa only to find out my firstborn child has been named Otter.”

“You’d have to turn right back around,” you say. “Total abandonment would be the only honorable choice. We’d have to start over someplace else. I’ve heard Texas is nice.”

Aegon snorts. “You can’t live in Texas. They don’t even have legal weed there.”

Rhaena squints at him. “I don’t really think that’s a concern anymore, Aegon.”

Aegon smacks his forehead theatrically. “Oh no, I forgot about the apocalypse again!”

“So Cregan,” Baela says. “You were planning to vote for Trump.”

Everyone at the table groans. “No politics,” Aemond says.

“They’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter,” Rhaena adds. “Biden, Kamala, that insane Kennedy brain worm dude, Trump…”

Aegon says: “If I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat Trump.”

“I just found that interesting,” Baela continues, looking at Cregan like she’s expecting him to explain himself. Rhaena and Luke exchange a nervous glance. Daeron reaches under the table to pet Ice; you can hear her tail thumping cheerfully against the hardwood floor.

“I was a Trump voter, yeah,” Cregan replies between bites of steak. Aemond is studying him uneasily, but Cregan’s baritone voice is calm. “That doesn’t mean I approved of a lot of the things he did and said. I’m not a monster, I don’t believe in mocking people or all that January 6th stuff. But he was good for the economy. Back when Trump was president, groceries were more affordable, and houses were cheaper, and more companies were hiring. If I had tried to move out of my parents’ place in 2023 instead of 2019, there’s no way I could have done it. And I really needed to get out of there. A lot of people feel that they don’t have the luxury of voting for the nicest candidate, or the candidate they agree with on social issues. Something abstract like climate change isn’t even on the radar. They have to vote for their basic necessities.”

You and Rio understand what he means, you’ve both met plenty of people with the same perspective; everybody else seems shellshocked.

“But I don’t want y’all to think that I’m…” Cregan looks around the table, his eyes catching—interestingly—on Helaena, who observes him with a fully present attentiveness that you’ve learned is rare for her. “You know, like a sexist or a racist or that I hate foreigners or anything. Because I’ve never felt that way, and now I’m very happy to have found you guys, and I respect the hell out of you. And I want to be allowed to stay.”

“You can stay, Cregan,” Helaena reassures him.

“Yeah,” Rio says. “Especially since we’d probably starve without you.”

Cregan beams, clearly grateful, and there are chuckles and the tension breaks; and Baela is placidly skating her palm over the arc of her belly, and now that you’ve eaten all you can, Rio is spearing the remaining chunks of your steak with his fork and gobbling them down. He doesn’t ask before he does this; he knows you don’t mind. You’ve never understood why he’s given you so much over the past nearly five years. You are eternally offering him atonement.

Suddenly, Baela asks you: “What would you name a baby girl?”

You have to think about this before you answer. “Well, if you’re looking for something related to plants…I had a friend when I was growing up named Briar, and I always thought that was pretty.”

“Briar,” Baela echoes, intrigued.

“It means bramble, like a thorny shrub where blackberries grow. I remember her telling me that her mama wanted it to be a reminder that people go through rough patches and that life gets hard sometimes, but you have to keep going, and eventually you’ll find your way out.”

“Briar,” Baela repeats. “Yeah, that’s kind of neat. I’ll add it to the list!”

“And you’d have the same first initial,” Rhaena says. “Baela and Briar. Isn’t that adorable?”

Baela smiles. “And a few Rs thrown in there too. For Rhaena.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Hey Honey Bun, if you had to name your kid after a plant, what would you name it?”

Aegon says without hesitation: “Marijuana.”

Now it’s an hour later, and Aemond is examining Aegon’s burned leg on the living room floor, Helaena holding a flashlight and you and Rio standing by for moral support. Underneath the bandages is a wasteland of red, weeping flesh…and yet there are spots where the skin seems to be hardening into white islands of scar tissue. Rhaena and Luke are keeping watch by the windows, Baela is passed out in one of the bedrooms, Cregan is showing Daeron how to put his wavy blonde hair up in a man bun.

Aemond points to a blackish patch on the top of Aegon’s foot, only a few inches from his ankle. “I have to debride this part here,” he says like an apology.

Aegon is afraid to ask. “What does debride mean?”

“It means I have to cut it out.”

“Cut it?!”

“It’s getting infected. I have to remove it or it will spread to the rest of the foot and you could get sepsis. I might even have to amputate the whole leg.”

“Okay, cut the dead stuff off,” Aegon swiftly agrees.

Aemond doesn’t have any more injectable morphine. He gives Aegon as much Vicodin as he dares and then begins working, carving away layers of dark disease with his scalpel and scrubbing the area with disinfectant. Aegon clutches your hand, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones might crunch, shrapnel-like splinters of marrow-stained organic glass beneath your skin. Rio has Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman—once owned by Ava—and takes one earbud while giving Aegon the other. They sing along to Sean Paul songs together, laughing as tears stream down Aegon’s sunburned cheeks:

“Well, woman, the way the time cold, I wanna be keepin’ you warm

I got the right temperature fi shelter you from the storm

Oh Lord, gal, I got the right tactics to turn you on

And girl, I wanna be the papa, you can be the mom…”

Now you’re curled up in bed, your arms crossed over your belly as you struggle to fall asleep. Aemond comes to bed late now; each night he waits until Baela is sleeping and then teaches Rhaena about childbirth and recovery: what to expect, what could go wrong. She is a good student, borrowing Helaena’s spider notebook to take notes and asking detailed questions. She wants to know everything she can so she can help when Baela goes into labor.

At last, the bedroom door opens. Out in the living room you can hear Rio asking: “Do you have Wagon Wheel? I love that song.”

Aegon scoffs. “No, of course I don’t have Wagon Wheel. Shut up and listen to your Enrique Iglesias.”

“You are so racist, man…”

Aemond sees that you’re in agony, rummages around in his medical kit, and gives you an oval-shaped white pill to wash down with the can of orange Sunkist on the nightstand; Helaena found a case of it in the pantry. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I didn’t want to take any Vicodin from Aegon or Baela. They’ll need it more than me.”

“Your pain is as real as anyone else’s.” Aemond’s weight shifts the mattress as he crawls into bed beside you, his arm settling protectively around your waist, his hand covering yours where it rests on your lower belly. “If the Tahoe runs out of gas, will you be okay to walk tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I had three periods during basic training, I honestly thought I might die. After that I can power through just about anything.”

“I’ve noticed.” You feel the soft smile on Aemond’s lips as he kisses your temple. “Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?”

“Talking would be a nice distraction.”

Aemond wastes no time. “Do you like kids?”

“Well, since birth control doesn’t exist anymore, I’d hope everybody does.”

Again, he is smiling; you can hear it in his voice. “Okay, but do you intend to have your own?”

“Yeah, I always envisioned myself having kids. I wanted a normal family and figured I’d have to make one myself, DIY it, you know? I don’t think the plan has changed. Gotta repopulate the earth somehow.”

“I wouldn’t try to sway your decision one way or the other. It’s a burden you should only have to endure if you actively choose it. But if you want to have children one day, I’d help you.”

You giggle in the dim orange glow of a single flashlight. “How self-sacrificial.”

“No,” Aemond says, laughing. “Not like, the making them. I mean, I’d help with that too, that aspect would be fun. But I was talking about the delivery, and recovery, and taking care of a newborn. I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. I could help you get through it. So that’s an option I want you to be aware of, if…you know.” Now he pauses. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you should,” Aemond murmurs; or at least that’s what you think he says as you lose consciousness, plummeting into sleep as if falling from a great height.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe runs out of gas just east of Tipton—not a city, not a town, just a collection of service roads linking sprawling ranches to I-80, the only continuous route across southern Wyoming—and Rhaena guides the SUV as it coasts to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. You hike about a mile to the nearest ranch house: Luke carrying the siphoning hose and empty gas can in case you can find fuel, Rio carrying Aegon on his back, Baela walking slowly and with great effort, Ice panting as she lopes across the dusty earth. You can’t spot any cattle or horses behind the endless strings of barbed wire fencing. Perhaps they are in a different pasture, or escaped or were stolen, or died of thirst without being tended to, or were consumed by a wandering hoard of zombies, never sleeping and always hungry. The house at the end of the dirt driveway is modest, old, and painted white. The front door is open; the screen door bangs in the wind.

“Rock Springs is the next real town,” Aegon says when Rio drops him to the ground, reading his map.

“And how far is that?” Rio asks.

Aegon deflates. “About fifty miles.”

“Great,” Rhaena says. “What’s the plan, to fly there?”

“Yeah, start flapping your wings, little bird. You’re light enough, you can make it.”

“No car in the driveway,” you tell Aemond. “Nobody home, maybe?”

He’s scrutinizing the house, his blue eye narrow. “Maybe.”

A thought occurs to Aegon. “Do you think ranchers have golf clubs?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Aemond snaps. Rio is now on the front porch and pounding the butt of his unloaded Remington shotgun against the doorframe to see if anyone appears. Daeron is nocking one of his makeshift arrows as he trots around the perimeter with his compound bow.

Luke, peering through his binoculars, points to a large cylindrical aluminum structure about a hundred yards from the house, by a small red barn. “What’s that thing?”

“It’s a grain bin,” Cregan says. “Full of feed for cattle.” Ice whimpers at his feet, and he twirls his axe in his large, calloused hands. “Are we clearing the house or not? Something’s in there.”

“We are,” Aemond answers tonelessly. “Luke, Rhaena, stay out here with Aegon and watch for trouble. Daeron, you too.”

“Got it.”

“Baela—”

“Can I go inside?” she asks. “Please, Aemond. I’m so sick of sitting around feeling useless and exhausted. I want to help. I want to do something, I’m going insane.”

“Fine,” Aemond agrees. “It should be an easy one.”

It is easy, but it’s not pleasant. The house smells like dark, sickening decay. In the living room are the skeletal remains of two bodies, both children judging by the size; the maroon-stained bones are notched with indents from gnashing teeth. Cregan shadows Helaena as she searches through closets and drawers. She takes no clothing—it would have absorbed the stench of death—but fills her burlap messenger bag with matches, lighters, batteries, pills. She gives you a bottle of Advil before you can ask her for it.

“Thanks,” you say, a bit startled, as you tuck it away in your backpack.

It is not until Ice leads you to the final room, the bedroom at the rear of the house, that you hear the familiar, blood-chilling hissing and moaning of a zombie. It is in the closet, and emerges one limb at a time: one arm and then another, one leg long like a spider’s, streaked with a thick soup of rotting organs that spills from a gaping hole in her belly like the mouth of a mineshaft. Something has happened to its other leg; it is missing, and the corpse that was once a thirties-something woman—a soccer mom, perhaps, with a minivan and propensity to make meatloaf and fish sticks—drags itself across the fawn-colored carpet towards you, slow and pathetic. Ice growls and barks. Rio raises his Remington.

“Wait,” Baela says. Her hammer is in her right hand. “Can I do it?”

“Of course, be my guest,” Rio says; though you can tell he’s slightly disappointed. He loves clubbing things.

Baela approaches the yowling zombie—jaws snapping, claws swiping—and grimaces down at it, this one of millions of monsters that ended the world, that killed Jace and stole all the rest of her life from her too, all those normal things she was supposed to have, all those strings of fate that the plague cut through like a razor and sent floating aimlessly out into the void of the universe. Then with a scream, Baela swings her hammer and a catastrophic impact crater appears in the side of the zombie’s skull, and it crumples to the floor, its mindless brains spilling out onto the carpet.

“Nothing good?” Aegon asks when you reappear in the driveway, popping a Vicodin into his mouth.

“No,” Aemond replies grimly. “No gas, no bullets, no food, nothing to drink.”

“I knew it would be lean pickings once we got out here,” Cregan says, and Aemond looks like he could kill him.

“Well, fortunately, Luke might have some good news for us,” Aegon says with a grin.

Aemond perks up. “Really? What?”

“I saw a truck out there,” Luke says, using his binoculars to gesture to the grain bin. “It’s parked between the barn and the grain thing, I can just see the very front of it sticking out. And if there’s a truck, there might be gas.”

Aemond ruffles Luke’s fluffy dark hair. “Good job, kid.” And Luke lights up like how cities used to look at night, back when the power was on: Washington D.C., Key West, Corpus Christi, Chinhae. Rio stoops down so Aegon can hop on his back, and all of you trek together across the field.

“Nothing,” Cregan announces as he squeezes the little pump on the siphoning hose after opening the gas cap of the ancient Chevy Silverado and threading the hose inside. “Not a drop.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Aegon sighs from where he’s slumped on the ground. His eyes are glazed; he’s pretty stoned. He gazes pitifully up at you; you pat his shoulder sympathetically. You and Rio have already checked the barn, dilapidated but perfectly devoid of zombies. The roof has caved in; one of the two front doors are missing. “What now?!”

“We can go back to the interstate and walk until we find the next ranch,” you say, looking absentmindedly at the grain bin. It’s much larger up close, and rusty in spots. A ladder runs up one side to allow access to the roof. Ice isn’t whining or nudging anyone’s hands, but she’s sniffing the air as if she’s detected something interesting, unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” Luke replies miserably. “We can walk another five or ten miles and then maybe find a safe place to spend the night.”

Rhaena shades her eyes as she peers up at the sky. “It’s past noon already. Maybe we should just stay here.”

Rio barks out a sardonic laugh. “In a house with no supplies and that reeks of dead people?”

“Cregan, go kill us something to eat,” Aegon commands.

He chuckles in his deep, gruff voice. “It’s Miss Chips who is good at the killing, I’m just the authority on butchering at the moment.”

Aemond is watching Ice, his forehead furrowed. “What’s she doing?”

Cregan whistles. “Hey, princess, you okay?” Ice ignores him, still sniffing, her grey ears straight up in the air. Then it appears from behind the barn: a tiny brown creature, a baby bear.

“Aww, it’s so fuzzy!” Aegon squeals, stretching his arm out to pet it. Rio yanks him away; everyone else is backing up towards the grain bin. A second bear cub has now arrived, padding clumsily along, large cartoonish eyes and a little pink tongue poking out from its muzzle.

“Don’t touch them!” Aemond shouts to everyone. “Get away from them! If there are cubs, there’s probably—”

And around the barn comes the mother, a grizzly bear of 400 pounds. She bares her teeth and snarls, saliva dripping in long gluey strings. Ice is barking viciously; Aegon is shrieking and scrambling onto Rio’s back.

“Baela!” Aemond says because she’s closest to him, urging her towards the ladder of the grain bin. She gets the idea and begins climbing. Then Aemond reaches for you. “Come on, you next!”

“Rhaena, go,” you say instead, and she clambers up the ladder after Baela. Cregan is brandishing his axe; Rio has his Remington in his hands, Aegon still clinging to his back like a baby opossum to its mother. Now Helaena is climbing up the ladder, and Daeron nocks an arrow. You whip one of your M9s out of its holster, aim for the bear’s head, and pull the trigger.

Your bullet hits its skull, Daeron’s arrow pierces its chest; and the mother bear does not die but roars and rises up onto her back feet—taller than Rio, taller than Cregan—and then drops back down and charges towards you and the grain bin. Cregan blocks the way, swinging his axe. The bear reluctantly pauses, testing him with swipes of her claws that he evades. Rio is just a few steps behind Cregan, waving his Remington around hostilely. Aegon is screaming and holding on for dear life.

“Don’t shoot!” Cregan yells. “9mm isn’t big enough, you’ll just make her more angry!”

Aemond finally gets a grip on your wrist and drags you to the ladder. You obey and climb until your feet are several rungs off the ground, then you turn to see what’s going on below. Aemond, Luke, and Daeron are at the bottom of the ladder, their backs to you. Cregan is still wielding his axe.

“Fuck off, Mama Bear!” he bellows, standing as tall as possible and swinging his axe above his head. Rio follows Cregan’s lead and holds his Remington aloft. Ice is barking; the baby bears are fleeing in terror. Aegon is sobbing hysterically and saying he’s going to die. “You don’t want us and we don’t want you! Go on! Go get your babies! I’ll put this blade right between your eyes if you don’t change your stupid mind right quick!”

The bear pounds the earth with her front feet and growls, a beastly subterranean rumble, but she seems to be losing her nerve. The rungs of the ladder creak and groan; you see rust like blood-hued moss around the bolts.

“Get out of here!” Cregan shouts. “Go, you hairy old bitch! Go back to your babies!”

The bear glances back to see her cubs vanish behind the barn. Her mouth is open and panting, spittle gleaming on her pointed teeth; her black eyes are uncertain. As you hold onto the ladder with one hand, you have your M9 aimed at the bear’s left eye, just in case. Aemond is watching Cregan; on his scarred face a sharp severity, fascination and resentment and fear.

“Go on,” Cregan says firmly. “Leave us alone. You belong in the mountains, not down here. Go eat something that’s already dead, a nice easy dinner. You don’t want us. We’ll fight you.”

The grizzly bear shakes her head—flopping ears, shaggy fur filthy with dust and pieces of grass—and whirls, lumbering off to find her cubs. When she rounds the barn, Cregan waits a few long, tense, silent minutes and then turns to the grain bin.

“Alright y’all, we oughta hurry up and leave. I don’t think she’ll come back, but she might.”

From the top of the ladder, approximately forty feet off the ground, Baela begins to laugh. “Did that really just happen?! That was insane! Cregan, buddy, you can vote for whoever you want to. You and I are cool forever.”

He smiles up at her, wincing in the bright afternoon light. “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Rio sets Aegon down on the ground and stretches his back; it must be hurting him. Aemond is taking your hand and helping you off the ladder, and you are reminded of the transmission tower where he found you in Catawissa, Pennsylvania, one of those middle-of-nowhere places like Tipton, Wyoming. As Helaena climbs down, you go to Rio and—with as much force as you can manage—knead the small of his back with the heel of your hand like you know helps him.

“You okay?”

He sighs loudly, relieved. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh, wow, that’s good. Harder…oh yeah…”

There is a snapping sound, metal squealing as it breaks, and by the time you turn to look she’s already falling: her cotton dress billowing around her, her arms wheeling helplessly. It happens too quickly for her to scream—for her to understand what is going on and what it means—but there is a stunned gasp and then she hits the ground, and you hear a muffled crunch of bone—skull?? spine??—and she is completely, unnaturally still as she lies on her back, no pain, no words, nothing.

“Baela!” Rhaena shrieks, and she rushes down the ladder and runs to her sister. You are all gathering around Baela, petrified to move her—to make it worse—but pleading for her to wake up, examining her with terrified eyes. Baela’s own eyes, dark and glassy and serene, are open only a sliver like obsidian crescent moons. Aemond is asking Helaena for a flashlight and then prying them wide, checking Baela’s pupils.

“There’s no reflex,” he says numbly.

“What does that mean?!” Rhaena cries. “Aemond? Aemond?!”

“She’s…she’s…” He’s in denial; he’s in shock. He’s feeling for a pulse on her carotid, he’s digging his fingernails into her forearm to try to get her to respond to pain.

“Aemond?” you say softly.

“She’s gone,” he tells you, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s waiting to wake up.

“The baby,” Rhaena says. “Try to save the baby.” And then, when Aemond doesn’t immediately understand, she grabs his backpack and begins ripping it off so he can get the medical kit inside. “The baby, Aemond!”

Now he knows what he has to do. He pulls the scalpel out of his kit as Rhaena moves Baela’s sundress to expose her belly. She was wearing biker shorts beneath, lavender, cute, something you might have picked out in a store. In less than a minute they will be soaked with blood. Cregan leads Daeron away, and he’s telling him that they need to keep watch in case the grizzly bear returns, but you think it is an act of mercy more than anything else. Ice goes with them. Helaena, her face pale and grave, is shining the flashlight on Baela’s belly, just beneath her navel.

“Aegon?” Aemond says.

“What? What do you need?”

“I need people to help hold open the incision once I make it. I have to be able to see the amniotic sac so I can cut the membrane without harming the baby.”

“I get it, I’m here, I’ll help.”

Aemond presses the blade of the scalpel to Baela’s skin and draws a semicircle from the top of one hip to the other. There is blood, but it is slow-moving and thick and dark; it is the blood of a dead woman, not a living one. Immediately, Aegon hooks his fingers under layers of fat, skin, and muscle, and opens the wound as much as he can. You and Rio reach in too, and you do this without thinking, without allowing yourself to feel the horror of it until the work is done.

“I can’t see,” Aemond is murmuring. Rhaena gets another flashlight and helps Helaena illuminate the area. Luke is on his knees with both hands clamped over his mouth, his eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. Aemond is slicing, pausing to probe around with his fingers, cutting again. Then his arm plunges into Baela’s abdomen up to his elbow and, with some difficulty, pulls out the gore-covered baby by its feet, a girl, large and limp and silent.

Rhaena sobs, equal parts grief and joy, a smile appearing on her face. “Is she okay? Aemond? Is she…why isn’t she crying? Aemond?!”

Rio yanks off his shirt and uses it to wipe blood and gelatinous clumps away from the baby’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils. Then Aemond takes the shirt and wraps the baby in it, warming her, rubbing her lifeless little limbs. When she does not stir, Aemond lays her on the earth and begins CPR: compressions with two fingers on her tiny heart, two breaths down the airway she’s never used. There are no sounds except his efforts. There is no crying when the baby wakes, because she never does.

Enough, you are thinking, as if from very far away: an island in the Indian Ocean, the Appalachian mountains in eastern Kentucky. Enough, enough, enough.

Aemond stops trying to revive the baby. He picks her up and holds her against him, and no one says anything. There is only the barrenness of the Wyoming steppe, an anemic blue sky, tall dry grass that bows in the breeze, black vultures that are landing atop the barn and the grain bin.

Aegon jolts out of his paralysis and reaches for his brother with bloodied hands. “Aemond, hey, Aemond, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? Are you listening? Aemond, man, you did everything you could. You gave them a chance. You didn’t give up.”

But Aemond doesn’t respond; he only kneels there beside Baela’s butchered body, her dead baby girl in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alys?” he calls, seeing that she never came back to bed. He is lying on his stomach, tangled in red sheets damp with sweat. It’s hot, too hot, and there is no humming of the air conditioning. When Aemond picks up his iPhone from the nightstand, it’s still plugged in but only at 87% battery. The power must have gone out.

He gets up, rubs the damp skin by his temple—headache, dehydration—and lifts open the nearest window. It’s odd: there is shouting, distant and indistinct, like the sound of a carnival or a concert. There are car alarms too, and sirens, and horns blaring, all too far away for him to see. It must be because of the power outage, traffic signals thrown into chaos, neighbors relaying the latest information back and forth. That’s the only logical explanation.

“Alys?” Aemond says again, groggy but with increasing curiosity, concern, guilt.

She started to feel sick last night, a pulsing in her skull and chills and powerful nausea. The possibility of it being the so-called Florida Fever barely registered in his mind. Alys gets migraines, and tofu is a migraine trigger, and he took her to a Thai restaurant (maybe he should have known better) and the curry Alys ordered ended up having tofu in it, and by the time she paid the check (as Alys always did) she was swallowing an Imitrex from the box in her snakeskin purse. She said she was going to lie down in the guest bedroom for a while so she wouldn’t wake him if she spent the next few hours dashing to and from the bathroom, a likely outcome, and if he was honest with himself about it, Aemond would admit he was relieved.

He shuffles to the bedroom door—black boxers, bare feet, century-old hardwood floors—and opens it. Now he can hear thudding, like someone tenderizing meat with a mallet. “Alys? Baby, you feeling okay?” There is no answer, only that rhythmic hammering. He realizes that it is coming from the guest bedroom, a door at the end of a long hallway still fuzzy through his half-awake eyes.

It had never felt right, but it had felt good: good in the body when she touched him, good in the soul when she told him he did something right. But lately—especially here, in the vast creaking historic house she shares with her husband and her children, who are presently sailing in Cape Cod—Aemond cannot shake the feeling that this entanglement is a surrender rather than an aspiration, something he fell into and now rests at the bottom of like a swimming pool or the sea, the cold weight of it threatening to pour into his lungs and drown him.

“Alys?” Aemond says, now with profound and inexplicable dread. Outside an ambulance or police car zooms by, sirens blaring. The pounding on the door of the guest bedroom grows faster.

I want to go home, Aemond thinks suddenly. At home, in the Federal-style townhouse his parents rented for him (Criston picked it out, a safe and quiet neighborhood in Beacon Hill, and Viserys paid), Daeron is visiting from California and watching golf tournaments with Aegon on the living room couch, pretending to be interested when Aegon describes the different types of clubs. Helaena, pursuing an Entomology PhD, is researching the Mediterranean mantis, clicking around on her MacBook Pro from the garden in the backyard. Jace and Luke live there too, and so Baela and Rhaena have all but officially moved in, keeping their apartment in Seaport only to have somewhere to retreat to when the Targaryen chaos becomes too much…and so the baby can have its own room. Baela bought a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a dresser, and about a million unisex onesies, mostly space-themed. Baela is studying Aeronautics and Astronautics, after all. Maybe one day she’ll work for NASA and fly rockets to the moon.

The door is rattling on its hinges. Aemond’s hand closes around the knob. On the other side is something terrible, and he knows this. But he cannot just leave her. Aemond is not someone who abandons people; he is not someone who turns away from responsibilities.

He opens the door of the guest bedroom, and immediately she is staggering towards him, limp dripping hair and naked like she was interrupted mid-shower: blood bubbling from her gaping mouth and the whites of teeth peeking through the crimson, necrotic skin hanging in strips from her fingers, eyes misty like steam on a mirror.

“Alys, stop! Alys! What’s wrong with you?!”

She’s alive but she’s dead. She’s yowling and clawing at him, but her flesh is the rotting swampland of a corpse. He’s pushing her away; his palms sink into her, places he once noticed and then fantasized about and then at last—euphorically, ashamedly—touched, held, borrowed but never kept. She’s trying to bite him. She’s trying to kill him. None of this is possible, and yet it’s true.

Aemond flings her away, and the woman who was once Alys stumbles backwards and down the staircase, sick wet thumps all the way to the ground floor, bones splitting through dissolving grey skin, organs sloshing around until they spill out. He can hear her still hissing, flailing, trying to get up again.

Without thinking—slipping seamlessly into what he learned during his psych rotation is called automatic action—Aemond races down the steps and grabs her by the skull, cracks it against the antique hardwood floor she once extoled the value of as he fucked her on it: shipped east from Oregon and laid in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. When she lurches up to try to bite him, he slams her head against the floor again and again until she is still.

Then Aemond kneels there alone for a long time, sirens shrieking outside, far-off strangers screaming for help, putrid black blood clotting on his hands.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hiii!! Love your work sooo muchh!!! (I keep rereading your marvel x reader fics cause you write the characters SO WELLL) picture this, Smart!F!reader who one ups Tony Stark publicly after getting tired of being labeled as a dumb good for nothing gold digger wife by the public. She reveals that she's the owner of a tech companty that makes even more than Stark Industries and most the money she gets she uses to donate to good causes and doesn't spend too much on things she wants ('Cause she's financially responsible unlike her husband.) AND GIRL HID THAT SECRET SO WELL EVEN TONY DIDNT KNOW ABOUT IT AND JUST STARES AT HER LIKE SHE SAID SOMETHING OFFENSIVE AF cause she reveals it while giving a speech at a Stark Industries events and then fast forward months later these 2 keep hacking into their systems and messing up their own shit but reader keeps winning the prank wars, the other avengers are fed up afff then at the end those mfs propose at the same time through hacking their A.I. assistants or firewall or literally everything. (you decide)

Oh and if possible make them into a 2 part so I can have a very beautiful chaotic ass prank war fanfic. (It's okay if you just stuff it into one part or if you can't do this☺☺)

"CODE OF FIRE, CODE OF LOVE" — A Tony Stark (MCU) One Shot

SHIP: Tony Stark (MCU) x Fem!OC

WORDS: 2.280 words

There are whispers in the room, louder than the music. Soft champagne flutes clinking, camera flashes chasing diamonds, laughter strained through painted lips—all of it sounds like static to you now. You stand at the edge of the Stark Industries gala, poised in a dress that fits like it was sewn onto your very soul. Beautiful. Effortlessly so. But beauty, as you’ve learned, is a mask people love to talk to, and even more love to talk about.

Tonight, they’ve talked plenty. And not about the advancements Stark Industries made in clean energy. Not about the AI breakthroughs or the global humanitarian branches Tony fought tooth and nail to build.

No.

Tonight, the whispers are about you.

“She must be really good in bed.”

“A gold digger. You can see it in the way she moves—like she knows she’s lucky.”

“She hasn’t earned any of this. Look at her, just a trophy.”

You’ve heard these words since the moment you said “I do” to Tony Stark. The man you love. The man who sees stars in your eyes and not dollar signs. The man who never once questioned your worth. But that doesn’t mean the world hasn’t.

It’s funny. You built empires in silence. With elegance. With restraint. You could have bought this tower ten times over. But you didn’t. Because it was never about the spotlight. Never about ego.

You just wanted peace.

But peace has a price.

And tonight, the bill has come due.

You glance at Tony across the room. He’s radiant in his usual way—hands stuffed in his pockets, that crooked smirk playing on his lips as he listens to a board member, probably pretending to care. His suit is razor-sharp, just like his mind. You love the way his eyes search for you every few minutes like a compass needle always twitching toward North. You love him more than you’ve ever loved anything. He is chaos wrapped in genius, a hurricane who learned to anchor himself to your quiet gravity.

And he doesn’t know.

Not yet.

He doesn’t know that every night he thought you were working on charity audits or reading economic forecasts… you were engineering satellites, designing next-gen medical nanotech, running covert cybersecurity networks that governments begged for. He doesn’t know that while he bled in the spotlight, you bled in the dark—never for praise. Only for purpose.

You’d never planned to tell him. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because you wanted something that was yours. Untouched by legacy or expectation. Untouched by Stark.

But the whispers tonight? They’ve lit something inside you.

And fire does not go quietly.

Pepper’s on stage now, offering polite smiles and practiced words. You tune out most of it until she turns her head toward you and says brightly, “And now, we’d love to invite someone very special up here to say a few words—Y/N Stark.”

There it is.

You step forward as the spotlight finds you. The murmurs double. The cameras rise. You move like a ghost in heels—elegant, silent, unstoppable.

Tony’s watching you now, arms crossed, brow quirked. He’s curious. Maybe a little amused. He loves when you speak publicly—it surprises him every time. He still doesn’t know why you keep such a low profile. That’s just how you are, he tells himself. Shy genius. Private soul.

You reach the podium. The mic crackles.

You look out over the crowd. Old money. New vultures. Entitled smiles. Sneers disguised as curiosity. Your gaze slides past them all and lands on Tony. He raises his glass to you, winks. You don’t smile back.

You inhale.

Then you speak.

“I’ve been asked a lot of questions since marrying Tony Stark. Some polite. Most… not.” A ripple of laughter, awkward and thin.

You continue. “People want to know what I bring to the table. If I’m smart enough, good enough, worthy enough. They ask how a ‘nobody’ like me caught the eye of a genius like him.”

You pause.

“Let me answer.”

The silence now is full and deep. A vacuum. They’re listening.

“I am the founder and sole owner of Aurelius Technologies. You haven’t heard of it because I didn’t want you to. We operate under a portfolio of silent subsidiaries that have collectively out-earned Stark Industries for the last five years running.”

Gasps. Real ones. Sharp as glass.

Tony’s smile is frozen, faltering.

“I built it before I met Tony. While living in a shared apartment, eating instant noodles, working twenty-hour days. I coded my first AI at nineteen. I designed medical drones that saved lives in war zones. I developed green tech that corporations tried to bury because it was too efficient. And I gave it away. Because I could.”

Eyes. All on you. The women are shocked. The men are unsettled.

“I didn’t advertise any of it. Because my worth doesn’t live in headlines. Or stock prices. Or applause. I donated most of what I made. Quietly. Because power isn’t about what you keep. It’s about what you give.”

Your voice sharpens. Just enough.

“And I didn’t tell anyone—not even my husband—because I wanted a life that wasn’t measured by what I could build, but who I could be.”

Now you look at Tony.

Really look.

He is not blinking.

Not breathing.

“I never wanted to outshine him. But I won’t let people pretend I live in his shadow. I didn’t marry Tony for his money. I married him for the way he believes in things even when no one else does. I married him because his heart is louder than his genius.”

A beat.

“And, frankly, because he’s hot.”

Laughter breaks the tension. Some real. Some still stunned.

You smile now, but only at him.

“I don’t need your approval,” you finish, gaze sweeping the crowd again. “I just needed to say it out loud. For the women who’ve been underestimated. For the men who think brilliance wears only one face. And for myself.”

A pause. Breath. Silence.

Then, applause.

Not polite. Not obligatory. Thunderous.

You step down from the stage.

Tony is still standing there. Still staring. Glass forgotten in his hand. His jaw a fraction open like you just told him he was adopted.

You approach.

“I—” he starts, but stops.

“Surprise,” you say softly.

“You’re Aurelius?” he breathes, like it’s a curse and a prayer.

You nod.

He laughs. Then blinks. Then pulls you into him so fast your feet barely touch the ground.

“You incredible, devious, stunning son of a—” he whispers into your hair. “You really played me.”

You pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “I didn’t play you, Tony. I just didn’t want to be this for the world. I wanted to be me for you.”

His hands cup your face. “You are everything. Everything. Do you know what it’s like to fall in love with someone twice? Because I think I just did.”

You kiss him. Because no words will do now.

And somewhere behind you, the room watches the man who thought he knew everything… be utterly, beautifully, publicly humbled.

And love you even more for it.

It started with a line of code.

Tony should have known better.

You were the ghost in the machine long before you were the girl in his bed, the wife in his heart, the name inked beneath his ribs whether he liked it or not. He had underestimated you once. He would never do it again.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to beat you.

He thought he was clever, writing subroutines into your shared home AI. Thought you wouldn’t notice the nanosecond hiccup in F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice when she called you “Sweetheart” in his tone of voice. Thought you wouldn’t catch the thermal resync that cranked your morning coffee from pleasantly scalding to napalm.

You noticed.

And you retaliated.

The Stark Tower elevators began skipping his floor. His suits would snap shut an inch too tight. His toothbrush sang Bye Bye Bye in perfect sync every morning—until he learned to stop flinching.

You, however, didn’t stop.

You rewrote the sound files of his lab assistant bots. Dum-E began reciting Pride and Prejudice. Butterfingers played Oprah podcasts. U stopped obeying Tony entirely, instead pausing at inconvenient intervals to display curated Pinterest boards titled “Gift Ideas for Your Superior Wife.”

Tony called it cyberbullying.

You called it foreplay.

“War,” he declared one night, his bare chest glowing with the arc reactor’s quiet rhythm. “Total war. You understand this means we can never trust our devices again.”

You took the glass from his hand, sipped, and smirked. “You built them. I just reprogrammed them not to lie to us.”

Pepper caught wind of the chaos when her Friday meetings kept getting overrun by erotic text-to-speech haikus read in her own voice. Steve’s training programs glitched into pastel yoga flows. Natasha’s phone screen blinked with flirtatious offers from “Anonymous Admires You: Buy a Flamethrower on Etsy.” Bruce threatened to move back into the jungle. Sam nearly threw your shared AI out the window.

“STOP,” they all chorused at dinner one night, mid-explosion of Tony’s wine glass—sabotaged with a microscopic vibration hack you’d implanted via a birthday card.

“Stop what?” you and Tony said in sync, both utterly deadpan.

“YOU TWO,” Steve barked. “You’ve got a Cold War going on inside our entire system. My bank account’s been rerouting deposits to an alpaca rescue in Montana.”

“Yeah,” Clint muttered. “Thanks for that. I lost five grand.”

Tony sipped his wine from a coffee mug, smug. “Should’ve updated your firewall, Legolas.”

“It’s not funny,” Natasha said, exasperated, but her eyes flickered with reluctant amusement. “You two are weaponizing love. And Wi-Fi.”

“We’re not weaponizing love,” you replied coolly. “We’re just expressing it.”

“In code,” Tony added. “Beautiful, chaotic, bug-laced code.”

Sam pointed a fork at you both. “We are one hijacked satellite away from an international incident.”

You and Tony fist-bumped beneath the table.

But there was something deeper in it now.

Something that danced just beneath the teasing and the trickery.

Tony watched you across rooms like he was trying to map every galaxy in your gaze. He would touch your back like it anchored him. You’d catch his code open at 3AM—not for the arc reactor, not for the suits—but for you. New tech shaped like your laugh, new designs named after your heartbeat, new languages bent around the way you spoke truth.

You, too, found yourself checking your scripts not once but ten times—just to make sure they said enough. Said everything.

And then one night, it happened.

You walked into the lab, hair pulled up, eyes sharp, wearing his shirt. A normal evening, until everything went wrong.

Or right.

F.R.I.D.A.Y. flickered.

“Good evening, Mrs. Stark,” she said, a little too smoothly. “You have two hundred and seventy new system alerts. And one... emotional one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tony?”

No answer.

You moved to the console.

And that’s when everything began.

Every screen lit up—lab, kitchen, hallway, garage—every surface Tony had ever laid his hands on pulsed to life.

Your code. Your encryption. Overwritten.

But only for this.

On every screen:

"Marriage v1.0: Successful. Proposal v2.0: Pending Approval."

Your heart stuttered.

Then came the voices.

Not Tony’s.

Yours.

Clips from your past. From private logs you didn’t know he had access to. Voice memos you made to yourself, fragments of code-comment love letters.

“He looks at me like I’m the only thing worth breaking the universe for.”

“I never wanted a crown. I just wanted his chaos in my quiet.”

“If he asked again, I’d say yes every lifetime.”

You covered your mouth with your hand.

And then his voice cut in.

“Y/N.”

You turned.

He stood in the doorway.

No suit. No armor. Just Tony. Barefoot, beautiful, and terrified.

“I wanted to do it differently,” he said. “Bigger. Fancier. Less... hostile takeover of your AI. But this? This is us. Messy. Coded. Personal.”

You tried to speak. Couldn't.

“I didn’t know you when I married you,” he continued. “Not all the way. I loved what I saw. But I didn’t see the half of you. Now I do. And I’m not proposing to fix something. I’m proposing because I want to celebrate it.”

He stepped closer.

“Let’s do this again. This time knowing every part. The fire. The firewalls. The madness. The marriage.”

He held out a small device.

A nano-holo ring. Not tangible. Just light. Code. A symbol you could rewrite together, again and again.

The room shimmered.

Another screen lit behind him.

“RENEWAL REQUESTED: TONY STARK TO Y/N STARK. CONFIRM?”

You looked at him.

“You hacked my firewalls for this?”

He grinned. “Took me three months. I haven’t slept. I’m delirious. Marry me again before I pass out.”

You pressed your thumb to the console.

“CONFIRMED.”

Then your voice rang out from his AI.

Every Stark suit paused mid-hover. Every bot froze. Every file opened.

“Tony Stark, I hereby override your protocols and accept your second proposal. Effective immediately. You may now kiss your better half.”

His laughter was pure sunlight.

He crossed the space, kissed you like the first time all over again.

And maybe it was.

The others would scream when they saw what you two had done to the base code. Fury would probably explode. Rhodey would call you both lunatics. Pepper would sigh with a glass of wine and send the Avengers to dinner on another continent just to give you space.

But right now?

Right now you were two halves of the same encrypted flame.

Married again.

Code rewritten.

Love, rebooted.

[housemdork]

house md rewatch: 1x09, "DNR"

overwhelmed at the thought of writing this recap because this episode is so full of The Good Stuff.

first and foremost - we love omar epps in this house! he was so brilliant in this episode. his ability to differentiate foreman's frustration for 3 different audiences - house; chase and cameron; dr. hamilton - carried the whole experience. and foreman's genuine embarrassment when house heard foreman say that he has no humility, but letting his beliefs supersede that embarrassment? ugh. i love it. thank you again, omar.

much like 1x05, this episode is another exercise in house vs. authority/other belief systems, the opposition in this case being the ethics of a DNR. it doesn't surprise me that house is anti-DNR (surely this has no implications for later seasons...), but it was surprising that cameron, chase, and even cuddy seem at least slightly opposed, too. maybe this is a common point of contention among doctors. obviously i have no idea. but cuddy doesn't penalize/chew house out for keeping the patient, john henry, alive like we expect her to. instead, she reveals that 1) she's had a $50k discretionary fund for house's legal fuck-ups ever since he started, and 2) she's going to help lawyer-him-up. a rare case of ethical similarities between them!

lodging a complaint directly @ season 1 - where is cuddy!! i miss her!! get her back in these episodes for more than 30 seconds!!

i'll also wager that this is the episode that confirms (in season 1's small way) that foreman does not like house. but oh man does he respect him. foreman doubts his coworkers very moral codes because they're seemingly unbothered by house's behavior. regardless of foreman's opinion of DNRs, his integrity keeps him from violating it. integrity and humility are exceptionally valuable to foreman at the episode's start, both of which house dismantles during their third act confrontation.

this is by far the most impassioned that we've seen house, which lends a whole lot of credence to cameron's theory that, if house tries to convince foreman to stay, it implies that he needs him. everyone point and laugh at the misanthrope who broke his misanthropy! for a guy who doesn't even like him, no less!

within this, too, house admits to holding foreman in high regard. when he asks foreman who he thinks the better doctor is - house or hamilton - he says that it won't affect his opinion of himself, but it will affect how he sees foreman, because if foreman acquiesces to hamilton's shallow way in the world, then foreman has failed. then house has failed foreman.

and, of course, the visual politics here are pretty flagrant, but pretty awesome, nonetheless. foreman is so anxious about becoming house (something that he'll repeatedly try to escape in the future, as we know) that he's physically manipulating himself in a way that neither he nor house sits like naturally, only to later sit like as a person usually would in a heated exchange with an authority figure:

i think house's speech to foreman bears repeating here because it does 2 things: codifies the pretty global opinion regarding medical professionals that house md inspired, and also feeds more into House As God.

"you took a chance. you did something great. you were wrong. but it was still great. you should feel great that it was great. you should feel like crap that it was wrong. that's the difference between him and me. he thinks you do your job, and what will be will be. i think that what i do and what you do matters."

this works on foreman. he stays. that's how upstanding he is. he's willing to work with someone who does, in fact, abuse the hell out of him, because they coalesce on a singular, but massively important point: what they do matters. it saves people.

relevant anecdote: i have a long medical history from childhood and resulting medical trauma (which is the reason i put off watching this show for a decade!). so when i say that i'd rather have a doctor like house, who finds the solution, rather than basking in apology and self-doubt, like what he sees in hamilton, i mean it. i think a lot of people came to feel this way, too.

what also comes of this exchange is house's stalwart belief that he can control everything, that he can exist beyond the legal, ethical, moral, etc. confines of the system in which he works. he rejects the premise of a DNR because it signifies giving up (in his mind); it signifies a voluntary failure to solve the puzzle, which, we know, alludes to house actually caring about people, despite claiming the contrary. i'll say it a million times: someone doesn't make their purpose in life healing PEOPLE if they don't care about PEOPLE. go to a research lab, greg, if you truly hate humanity.

house's half of the episode is devoted to unpacking What He Does and its implications for the rest of his life. his anger toward foreman also comes from how he sees himself in john henry, a musician whose illness and disability have taken from him what he loves most. he and foreman butt heads about this dilemma at the very top of 1x09 when house says ALS is "a disease of exclusion...it's a death sentence," and foreman replies with, "that doesn't make it wrong."

1x09 quickly and blatantly draws the parellel between john henry and house, going so far as to grant them a conversation about how they're both "south from normal" on account of their respective obsessions: music and medicine. in a rare moment of canonical introspection, house understands and agrees with john. BUT, because he's opposed to the DNR, he can't make the same inner peace with the "failure" that he sees in john. he takes him to the MRI anyway and ends up curing the guy, of course.

the reason this episode is so good on so many accounts is that it doesn't settle for that one parallel between doctor and patient. it reiterates it in the last few minutes, while also finally addressing house's most obvious/most overlooked problem: his vicodin. after successfully playing god, disproving ALS, and helping john henry walk again, they encounter each other in the hospital lobby, each holding the physical representation of their One Thing, music (john's trumpet) and medicine (house's leather bag).

despite being so desperate in dragging john henry away from "failure," house appears slightly gloomy at seeing john henry so rejuvenated. when he asks house where he can buy canes, house says in a wry voice, "you'll be jogging before you need a second one." audiences still don't know how house became disabled, but it's seeming more and more like a tragic accident that can't be healed. he brought back john from the brink, but he's stuck in his own leeway not far behind.

when john henry gives house his trumpet, he's giving up his One Thing. he's achieved an inner peace - only through house's dedication to his One Thing, solving the puzzle - and can move onto a new phase of his life. house feels that he can't, so he pops a vicodin.

so, finally, john henry asks of house what we've been dying to know for 9 episodes now: "how many of those pills are you taking?" with the unspoken "and why?"

house gives his telltale answer for the first time: "i'm in pain."

even for the audience, the walls are back up. that was the biggest glimpse we're getting for the time being, especially since those who are most aware of his addiction - cuddy and wilson - are so desensitized to it.

i love this one! a whole lot! tbh i'm having a much better time with season 1 than i expected. i watched so much of it in an excited rush for the first time that i missed some of the gems in every episode.

OH. and wilson was there. the courtroom scene was funny but kinda irrelevant to any analysis i could bring up here, but check out how good he looked during it:

[tangentiallly]

One way to spot patterns is to show AI models millions of labelled examples. This method requires humans to painstakingly label all this data so they can be analysed by computers. Without them, the algorithms that underpin self-driving cars or facial recognition remain blind. They cannot learn patterns.

The algorithms built in this way now augment or stand in for human judgement in areas as varied as medicine, criminal justice, social welfare and mortgage and loan decisions. Generative AI, the latest iteration of AI software, can create words, code and images. This has transformed them into creative assistants, helping teachers, financial advisers, lawyers, artists and programmers to co-create original works.

To build AI, Silicon Valley’s most illustrious companies are fighting over the limited talent of computer scientists in their backyard, paying hundreds of thousands of dollars to a newly minted Ph.D. But to train and deploy them using real-world data, these same companies have turned to the likes of Sama, and their veritable armies of low-wage workers with basic digital literacy, but no stable employment.

Sama isn’t the only service of its kind globally. Start-ups such as Scale AI, Appen, Hive Micro, iMerit and Mighty AI (now owned by Uber), and more traditional IT companies such as Accenture and Wipro are all part of this growing industry estimated to be worth $17bn by 2030.

Because of the sheer volume of data that AI companies need to be labelled, most start-ups outsource their services to lower-income countries where hundreds of workers like Ian and Benja are paid to sift and interpret data that trains AI systems.

Displaced Syrian doctors train medical software that helps diagnose prostate cancer in Britain. Out-of-work college graduates in recession-hit Venezuela categorize fashion products for e-commerce sites. Impoverished women in Kolkata’s Metiabruz, a poor Muslim neighbourhood, have labelled voice clips for Amazon’s Echo speaker. Their work couches a badly kept secret about so-called artificial intelligence systems – that the technology does not ‘learn’ independently, and it needs humans, millions of them, to power it. Data workers are the invaluable human links in the global AI supply chain.

This workforce is largely fragmented, and made up of the most precarious workers in society: disadvantaged youth, women with dependents, minorities, migrants and refugees. The stated goal of AI companies and the outsourcers they work with is to include these communities in the digital revolution, giving them stable and ethical employment despite their precarity. Yet, as I came to discover, data workers are as precarious as factory workers, their labour is largely ghost work and they remain an undervalued bedrock of the AI industry.

As this community emerges from the shadows, journalists and academics are beginning to understand how these globally dispersed workers impact our daily lives: the wildly popular content generated by AI chatbots like ChatGPT, the content we scroll through on TikTok, Instagram and YouTube, the items we browse when shopping online, the vehicles we drive, even the food we eat, it’s all sorted, labelled and categorized with the help of data workers.

Milagros Miceli, an Argentinian researcher based in Berlin, studies the ethnography of data work in the developing world. When she started out, she couldn’t find anything about the lived experience of AI labourers, nothing about who these people actually were and what their work was like. ‘As a sociologist, I felt it was a big gap,’ she says. ‘There are few who are putting a face to those people: who are they and how do they do their jobs, what do their work practices involve? And what are the labour conditions that they are subject to?’

Miceli was right – it was hard to find a company that would allow me access to its data labourers with minimal interference. Secrecy is often written into their contracts in the form of non-disclosure agreements that forbid direct contact with clients and public disclosure of clients’ names. This is usually imposed by clients rather than the outsourcing companies. For instance, Facebook-owner Meta, who is a client of Sama, asks workers to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Often, workers may not even know who their client is, what type of algorithmic system they are working on, or what their counterparts in other parts of the world are paid for the same job.

The arrangements of a company like Sama – low wages, secrecy, extraction of labour from vulnerable communities – is veered towards inequality. After all, this is ultimately affordable labour. Providing employment to minorities and slum youth may be empowering and uplifting to a point, but these workers are also comparatively inexpensive, with almost no relative bargaining power, leverage or resources to rebel.

Even the objective of data-labelling work felt extractive: it trains AI systems, which will eventually replace the very humans doing the training. But of the dozens of workers I spoke to over the course of two years, not one was aware of the implications of training their replacements, that they were being paid to hasten their own obsolescence.

— Madhumita Murgia, Code Dependent: Living in the Shadow of AI

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jasmine Mithani at The 19th:

A network working to end female genital mutilation and cutting (FGM/C) in the United States and globally says President Donald Trump’s January 28 executive order attempting to restrict gender-affirming care for transgender youth “wrongly and dangerously” conflates the two.

Opponents of transgender rights have sought for several years to co-opt anti-FGM/C laws to further gender-affirming care bans, mostly in state legislatures. The executive order builds on these efforts by directing the Department of Justice and state authorities to review and prioritize the enforcement of laws banning FGM/C, which are unrelated.  FGM/C is a human rights violation and one of the most extreme forms of gender-based violence. According to the World Health Organization, FGM/C “comprises all procedures that involve partial or total removal of the external female genitalia, or other injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons.” It is practiced across many cultures and takes many forms, and is most commonly performed on young girls who are unable to consent. There are no health benefits to FGM/C, and it is more likely to cause medical complications.

In contrast, gender-affirming genital surgeries like phalloplasty or metoidioplasty are medically necessary and done only with the consent of the patient. The World Professional Association for Transgender Health, the international body that publishes research-backed standards of care, does not recommend genital gender-affirming care surgeries for patients under 18. Extensive documentation from medical professionals is required for any medically necessary gender-affirming care surgery.  It is estimated that in 2012, over half a million girls in the United States had either undergone FGM/C or were at risk based on the country of origin of their parents. Survivor advocates think the number could be much higher now.

FGM/C has been a federal crime since 1996. The law has been revised several times — most recently in 2020, when Trump signed the STOP FGM Act, which prevented defendents from using religious or cultural reasons to avoid prosecution. 

[...] Anti-trans extremists have warped these laws to ban health care for trans people “despite clear medical and ethical distinctions,” said Ash Lazarus Orr, press relations manager at Advocates for Trans Equality. Orr also pointed out that this rhetoric excludes non-consensual surgeries performed on intersex youth. Many bans include a carve-out ensuring “corrective” surgeries remain legal for minors with intersex characteristics. Republican lawmakers in Idaho and Texas introduced bills in 2022 that would remove the word “female” from current legal codes banning FGM/C. Anti-FGM/C advocates helped defeat those bills, but Idaho ended up passing a separate law banning gender-affirming care for transgender youth the next year. Excluding the word “female” means these laws no longer prevent FGM/C because they then refer to something else entirely, said Kaitlin Mitchell, policy and advocacy coordinator at the U.S. Network to End FGM/C. Using the laws to restrict gender-affirming care instead of addressing the specific issue they were designed to make it harder for advocates to campaign for more funding or research on this little-known, severe form of gender-based violence.

Donald Trump’s false and transphobia-laden characterizing of gender-affirming care for trans youths as “mutilation” served as the basis for Executive Order 14187, which bans gender-affirming care services for trans youths and adults under 19.

The false characterization of GAC as “mutilation” trivializes the real issue of female genital mutilation.

[boredtechnologist]

Trauma Center: New Blood - “The Miracle of the Scalpel: When Flesh is the Last Lie”

“There are only two worlds: one before the incision, and one after.” - Markus Vaughn, unknowingly

Theology of the Artery: Where Prayer Fails, the Scalpel Reigns

In New Blood, God is not dead - He’s been sterilized.

Valerie and Markus do not walk into the operating room as saviors. They walk in as priests of decay, forced to perform sacrament without belief. Their “Healing Touch” isn’t divine. It’s desperate. Time halts, the blood flows backward - but only long enough to make the dying wait a little longer.

There is no resurrection here - only prolongation. Surgery is not salvation. It is ritual. A forced liturgy in the cathedral of the body, where instead of Eucharist, you offer local anesthesia and laser cauterization. What you save doesn’t stay saved. It just forgets it's dying - for now.

Stigma: The Gospel of Self-Inflicted Plague

Stigma - the viral antagonist - is not just disease. It is retribution. It is consequence. Markus helped create it. And like every Atlus anti-hero, his redemption arc is a weapon turned against himself.

Stigma is not evil. It’s answer. Not punishment from God, but the autoimmune response of reality to human arrogance. GUILT in Under the Knife was terrorism. Stigma is theology. Flesh becomes the scripture, and each mutation is a verse in the Book of the Failed God.

It doesn’t spread. It teaches.

It teaches that the divine cannot be bypassed with scalpels. That evolution itself is a curse disguised as innovation. That healing is nothing but domesticated heresy.

Caduceus: The False Church of Clinical Grace

Atlus always plays with institutions. In Persona, it’s the school. In Catherine, the bar. In New Blood, it’s the hospital - but one wired into global surveillance, military research, and biotech theocracy. Caduceus is a church that wears latex gloves and names its saints after pathogens.

The doctors are not believers. They are sinners begging for one more moment of false control. The OR is a confessional. The beeping monitor, a metronome of guilt.

You are not curing the sick. You are delaying judgment.

The Incision as Sin: Where Persona Lies, New Blood Cuts

In Persona 3–5, trauma is resolved through confrontation. Shadows defeated. Palaces collapsed. The inner world becomes negotiable.

In New Blood, there is no inner world - only inner organs.

When you open a chest cavity, there are no dreams. No metaphor. Just rot. New Blood refuses to lie to you. The Persona protagonists want to believe the soul can be healed. Markus and Valerie know the soul isn’t even in the body anymore. It left years ago, quietly, while they were suturing someone else's regrets.

Echoes of Other Atlus Worlds

Baroque taught us that guilt becomes architecture. In New Blood, guilt becomes diagnosis.

Shin Megami Tensei III dissolved morality in a vat of magatama and asked: What replaces the soul when it’s burned away? In New Blood, that replacement is sterile, coded, and inscribed with liability waivers.

13 Sentinels gave us simulations of flesh. New Blood gives us the consequence of touching it.

Catherine feared consequence. New Blood delivers it - in real time, with medical-grade accuracy.

The Healing Touch is a Lie

It’s not a miracle. It’s denial in bullet time.

Your divine gift lets you pause time, not transcend it. You can suture veins and extract tumors. But you cannot fix why they exist. You cannot heal what humans become when they stare too long into the microscope and decide they can rewrite the Book of Genesis with stem cells and scalpels.

Final Cut: The Gospel of Flesh Ends Here

In New Blood, Atlus says: You wanted to fix the world? Here’s a ribcage. Open it.

There’s no Persona to fuse. No heart to win. No god to summon. Just meat. Failing. Always. And you.

A doctor with trembling hands and a god complex. An apostle of antiseptic failure.

The lights dim. The monitors wail.

This is your Mass.

And you perform it with a scalpel.

[bridgeportbritt]

Creeksbrey Palace | Umbrage, SimDonia

Emmitt: Morning, sweetheart. How'd you sleep?

Bria: Pretty good. How about you?

Emmitt: Alright. I did have a dream that I was a famous jazz piano performer, so that was interesting.

Bria: Ooo! Maybe it's a sign! I wouldn't say no to being serenaded by piano every night.

Emmitt laughs: I'd need a lot more practice before you'd actually enjoy my serenades.

Bria: Well, get on it, babe.

Emmitt chuckles: Sure, dear. Oh, I was meaning to ask you where you were yesterday. I was planning on surprising you for lunch, but when I checked with your staff, they said your schedule was blocked for an urgent, private meeting.

Bria: Oh, yes! I'm glad you brought it up because I've been wanting to talk about it for a hot minute.

Emmitt: Uh-oh. What's this about? Should I be worried?

Bria: You won't believe who I met with.

Emmitt: Who?

Bria: The Queen's mysterious little sidekick - Lydia.

Emmitt: Really? What in the Simverse could she want?

Bria: It was an interesting conversation...

Lydia: Welcome, Grand Duchess. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.

Bria: What is this? Why am I here of all places?

Lydia: We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot and that's the last thing I want, so I wanted to clear the air.

Bria scoffs: Yeah, right. And it's "Your Royal Highness," remember?

Lydia: Of course, Your Royal Highness. My apologies. I don't mean to offend you.

Bria: Yeah, like I'd believe that. You're one of the most offensive people I've ever met. You've done nothing but target me and my family since you've gotten into the Queen's ear.

Lydia: Your Royal Highness, I promise you that that has not been my intention.

Bria: Really? All these insufferable new rules, my whole new wardrobe, and now bringing my kids into this nonsense? Oh, and I'm sure you had something to do with KBE.

Lydia: You've got it all wrong, Your Royal Highness. I want to be an asset to you and the monarchy, not a hinderance.

Bria: How on Earth could you be an asset to me?

Lydia: Well, name your price.

Bria confused: What do you mean?

Lydia: Name what I can do to be of service to you. Anything and I'll make it happen.

Bria: And why would you do that?

Lydia: Isn't it obvious? You and your family are invaluable to the monarchy. You're one of the most influential royals with an incredible global impact on everything you touch. I apologize if you haven't felt appreciated as of late. But I want to make it right.

Bria: Even if I believed any of the crap you're saying right now, I'm sure you wouldn't agree to any of the things that I want.

Lydia: Try me.

Bria: Well for starters, anything that has to do with my children goes through me first. Nothing should be hidden from me especially anything medical. Next, I want leniency provided to my kids when they are not performing official royal duties like on the dress code for example. Lastly, I want our move with KBE to go through without any obstacle. You want to make me happy? Those are my non-negotiable terms.

Emmitt: Wow, you asked for all that?

Bria: I sure did.

Emmitt: That's amazing. I'm proud of you, honey. Surprised by this whole conversation, but proud that you stood your ground. So, what did she say to that?

Bria: That's the craziest part.

Emmitt: Oh, really? Why?

Bria: Because, she said... yes!

[muhdanas]

Become an Expert in Australian Medical Coding with Transorze Solutions – Your Gateway to a Global Healthcare Career

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Pleasure In Pain

— World Building Background Stuff —

[If anyones curious. Also, some feedback could be fun. If you think I should add anything or if something makes more sense. I don't how in-depth I'll go into certain aspects, but this is what's going on in the world while Cordova's going through it.]

+++

C.A.I.N. – Covert Action Initiative: Nemesis

Codename: Nemesis

Founded: Classified (Estimated post-WWII) Affiliation: Off-the-books division under a multinational intelligence coalition Public Knowledge: Nonexistent

ORIGINS

In the aftermath of World War II, as the world reckoned with the atrocities committed in the name of ideology, another secret war was quietly taking shape. Allied intelligence services uncovered scattered reports of inhuman entities used by opposing forces—ferals unleashed on enemy trenches, witches embedded in spy networks, unnatural "weapons" born of occult science.

Most dismissed these reports as wartime paranoia. But a select few believed.

In 1952, a classified multi-agency task force was assembled to assess and neutralize paranormal threats. Over time, this unit evolved, shedding national ties and becoming a shadow operation run by a closed circle of high-level officials, black-budget scientists, and hardened operatives. They named it Nemesis, after the Greek goddess of vengeance—because they weren’t just hunting monsters. They were returning the favor.

STRUCTURE

Nemesis is structured like an elite black-ops team with intelligence tentacles embedded in governments, corporations, and scientific institutions. Its members operate globally, answer to no one but the directive board (simply called The Bishop), and are equipped with high-tech gear laced with arcane enhancements.

Divisions within Nemesis:

R.A.Z.O.R. Teams – Rapid Assault Zone for Occult Reconnaissance. Strike teams for field missions. Specialists in containment, eradication, and urban extractions.

Deneir Division – Linguists, cryptographers, and occult historians decoding supernatural texts and rituals.

Project Caduceus – The medical and scientific arm, studying supernatural physiology and weaponizing it.

Argos – Digital surveillance network that uses predictive algorithms to track supernatural signatures and activity patterns.

PHILOSOPHY & OPERATING PROCEDURE

Nemesis doesn’t see supernatural beings as "individuals"—they are biological anomalies, glitches in the human genome, or outright predators. Vampires, werewolves, witches—each is categorized and logged as a Class N Entity (Non-Human Entity), with sub-codes indicating danger levels. [Ranging from S - C tier. Ex. Lowest rank: C and Highest rank: SSS]

Despite their elite status, Nemesis agents are trained to dehumanize targets. Their motto: “Precision. Purge. Peace.”

While most missions involve silent takedowns or erasure of supernatural nests, some targets are captured alive for experimentation or intel extraction. Few survive interrogation. Fewer still escape.

TECHNOLOGY & TACTICS

Argentum Rounds – Anti-vampire ammunition laced with silver and anticoagulants that ignite on contact with infected blood.

Null Cages – Energy-dampening containment cells that suppress supernatural abilities.

The Alexandria Index – A secret digital archive containing everything known about supernatural bloodlines, weaknesses, and active threats.

REPUTATION

Among supernatural communities, Nemesis is a ghost story. Whispers of entire clans disappearing overnight, of operatives who bleed ice, of agents who know your name before you’ve ever been seen. The term “Nemesis is watching” is used like a curse or a warning.

They’re not just hunters. They’re the reason supernaturals stay underground.

INTERNAL CONFLICT

In recent years, rumors have circulated that not all within C.A.I.N. agree with The Bishop’s total-extermination policy. Agents questioning the mission, and others going rogue after witnessing the humanity in their so-called enemies.

+++

— The Setting of Cordova’s Story: Sneak Peak —

It’s the year 2020, but to the supernatural, the world has always felt more like the dark ages. For centuries, vampires have walked among humans—misunderstood, feared, and relentlessly hunted. They are not the creatures of myth that creep from coffins or cripple at the taste of garlic. No, vampires are born, not made—afflicted from birth with a rare and ancient blood disorder passed down through generations. Their bodies cannot produce enough blood on their own, leaving them in a constant state of deficiency. Their only option is to consume the blood of others to survive. It is not a choice. It is biology.

Still, society brands them monsters. Humanity’s fear has long eclipsed its compassion. Legends twisted science into superstition, and facts were buried beneath folklore. The line between what is necessary for survival and what is called evil blurred long ago.

Among the vampires also lies the Ferals—tragic, horrifying echoes of what happens when a vampire is pushed too far. Either born with aggressive mutations or starved to the edge of madness, Ferals are what humanity imagines all vampires to be: bloodthirsty, mindless, violent. C.A.I.N uses them as proof that no vampire is safe. That all of them are simply waiting to snap.

The Ardeleans. An old family of vampires of many generations. Considered royalty in their circles, though clearly not in the eyes of the human world. And as tradition states, a vampire that reaches the age of maturity is meant to suck the blood of their first human as an initiation. Though, there is a certain heir that is reluctant to follow traditions. Long overdue for his first dose of human blood. One that comes from both vampire and human origins. A Dhampir.

+++

Date: April 17, 2025

Taglist: @turn-the-tables-on-them

[darkmaga-returns]

WHAT RULES ARE THESE THEN?

In the EU, they are known as Rules and Guidance for Pharmaceutical Manufacturers and Distributors 2017 (The Orange Guide). The equivalent in the US is the Code of Federal Regulations, Title 21, otherwise referred to as 21 CFR.

They have been in place for decades, and have become increasingly stringent as incidents have occurred in the supply chain to threaten the safety of patients. In 2007, one such incident occurred, resulting in death and serious adverse events, see below:

Inside Pharma

PHARMACEUTICAL SUPPLY CHAINS IN THE NEWS, FOR THE WRONG REASONS

THE HEPARIN TRAGEDY In 2007/8, pharmaceutical supply chains became the subject of global debate among key stakeholders, but for the wrong reasons. A tragic event occurred that shocked the world into realizing that pharmaceutical supply chains had the potential to kill and maim unsuspecting patients…

Read more

3 years ago · 2 likes · Hedley Rees

This tragic incident lead to legislation being passed on either side of the pond. In the EU, it was the Falsified Medicines Directive, 2011. In the US it was the Drug Supply Chain Security Act (DSCSA), 2013.

The aim of the legislation was to prevent such an incident ever happening again.

RULES IN THE ORANGE GUIDE WERE TIGHTENED TOO

In the EU, major changes were also made to the Orange Guide, Chapter 5: PRODUCTION.

This was to protect patients further, by placing obligations on companies manufacturing medicines to trace right back to the upstream sources of all materials used, to ensure they were genuine. The obligations also required traceability records to be kept, and audits carried out to ensure those companies were working to the regulations.

LEGISLATION DID NOT GO FAR ENOUGH

Unfortunately, as the legislation passed (for a number of reasons we can’t go into here) it only applied, and still does, to finished products as they travel from the finished product manufacturer to wholesalers and pharmacies.

Prevention of upstream adulteration, as per heparin, is dependent on manufacturers complying with the Orange Guide, Chapter 5 provisions.

TRUST ME, THEY COULD NEVER HAVE DONE THAT!

The thing to remember is that Good Manufacturing Practice (cGMP) applies to clinical trials, as well as commercial supply. It would have to, wouldn’t it, as the drugs are being tested on humans.

I would have more chance of climbing Everest naked (not a pretty sight!) than the manufacturers would have had in securing full traceability AND applying the cGMP rules for clinical trial supplies.

Something for medical freedom fighters to ponder, questions welcome :)

Hedley

[we-are-not-a-number]

I read and laid out Trump's "DEFENDING WOMEN FROM GENDER IDEOLOGY EXTREMISM AND RESTORING BIOLOGICAL TRUTH TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT" so you don't have to. Aka, the starting brigade on trans rights.

Trump defined sex as an "immutable" biological classification at birth with it innately only being male or female.

Defined terms such as "women" and "man" only being for adult biological males or females.

Defines male and female as "sex that produces the small reproductive cell".

Defined "gender ideology" as "replaces the biological category of sex with an ever-shifting concept of self-assessed gender identity".

Defined "gender identity" as "reflects a fully internal and subjective sense of self, disconnected from biological reality and sex..."

Declared women are "Recognizing Women Are Biologically Distinct From Men" and there will be an expansion on this order.

End protections or recognition for trans individuals in federal agencies, "Each agency and all Federal employees shall enforce laws governing sex-based rights, protections, opportunities, and accommodations to protect men and women as biologically distinct sexes.  Each agency should therefore give the terms 'sex', 'male', 'female', 'men', 'women', 'boys' and 'girls'..."

All federal agencies and employees will use sex and not gender in all applicable federal policies and documents.

Has ordered "...shall implement changes to require that government-issued identification documents, including passports, visas, and Global Entry cards, accurately reflect the holder’s sex..."

..."Agencies shall remove all statements, policies, regulations, forms, communications, or other internal and external messages that promote or otherwise inculcate gender ideology, and shall cease issuing such statements, policies, regulations, forms, communications or other messages."

Statement to attack Bostock v. Clayton County "The prior Administration argued that the Supreme Court’s decision in Bostock v. Clayton County (2020), which addressed Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, requires gender identity-based access to single-sex spaces under, for example, Title IX of the Educational Amendments Act.  This position is legally untenable and has harmed women."

Remove transgender inmates from prisons of their gender, remove all access for gender affirming care to incarcerated individuals, "The Attorney General and Secretary of Homeland Security shall ensure that males are not detained in women’s prisons or housed in women’s detention centers..." may need to amend "...Part 115.41 of title 28, Code of Federal Regulations and interpretation guidance regarding the Americans with Disabilities Act." If necessary.

"...no Federal funds are expended for any medical procedure, treatment, or drug for the purpose of conforming an inmate’s appearance to that of the opposite sex."

Access to public amenities is defined by sex, "The Attorney General shall issue guidance to ensure the freedom to express the binary nature of sex and the right to single-sex spaces in workplaces and federally funded entities covered by the Civil Rights Act of 1964." And, "Agencies shall effectuate this policy by taking appropriate action to ensure that intimate spaces designated for women, girls, or females (or for men, boys, or males) are designated by sex and not identity."

States 30 days shall present a bill to modify above into law.

I may have missed some policy, comment below if I missed anything and I will add it. This was terrible to read.

120 days for federal agencies to comply

This is stated to be a part of the "Restoring Sanity" agenda.

If you're trans (or have trans loved ones), try to have a clear schedule to fume a bit before you read this crap

[lovefms]

ACCESS  LEVEL  5  OR  ABOVE  REQUIRED

UNAUTHORISED  VIEWING,  REPRODUCTION,  OR  DISTRIBUTION  IS  PROHIBITED. HANDLE  WITH  EXTREME  DISCRETION.

ICHP  INTERNAL  REPORT post-reentry  assessment:  project  39  volunteer  condition  &  support  protocol

date  issued:  april  1,  2039 report  code:  P39-RST-2039-ICHP authorised  by:  dr.  marina  ko,  director  of  reintegration  affairs,  ICHP access  level:  clearance  level  5  or  above

 I.  SUBJECT:  RETURN  OF  PROJECT  39  CREW

at  08:43  GMT  on  march  29,  2039,  the  orpheus  spacecraft  entered  earth’s  lower  orbit  and  successfully  completed  emergency  landing  procedures  at  the  global  aerospace  retrieval  site  (GARS)  in  nevada,  USA. all  17  surviving  members  of  the  original  20-person  crew  were  recovered  alive.  the  crew  exhibits  minimal  biological  aging  consistent  with  the  original  mission  timeline  of  one  (1)  subjective  year,  confirming  relativistic  effects.

 II.  PHYSICAL  CONDITION  OVERVIEW

initial  medical  assessments  indicate:

stable  physical  health  in  87%  of  crew

4  members  showing  signs  of  moderate  radiation  exposure

nutritional  deficiencies  addressed  within  48  hours

all  volunteers  are  cleared  for  continued  observation  and  integration,  pending  psychological  clearance.

III.  PSYCHOLOGICAL  STATUS

subjects  are  exhibiting:

disorientation

grief  response  upon  confirmation  of  personal  losses  (families,  friends,  societal  change)

survivor’s  guilt  in  relation  to  presumed-deceased  crew  members

varying  levels  of  identity  crisis  and  dissociation

interventions  initiated:

individualised  trauma  debriefing  sessions

group  therapy  scheduled  weekly

cultural  literacy  modules  (basic  history,  technology,  sociopolitical  evolution  since  1940)

IV.  SUPPORT  &  REINTEGRATION  PROTOCOL

each  returned  crew  member  will  be  provided  the  following  under  the  ICHP  reintegration  framework:

 • safe  housing:  private  accommodation  in  secure  ICHP  facilities  with  adaptive  design.  • financial  support:  monthly  stipend  equivalent  to  modern  veteran  compensation  rates.   • re-education  programme:  12-week  intensive  course  covering  global  events,  ethics,  and  technology  from  1940–2039.  focus  on  digital  literacy,  rights,  and  autonomous  decision-making  • identity  restoration:    ‣ reissue  of  personal  identification   ‣ access  to  records  of  descendant  family  lines  where  available  • cultural  mentorship  system:  EACH  VOLUNTEER  WILL  BE  ASSIGNED  ONE  ICHP  REPRESENTATIVE  OFFICER  (IRO)   ‣ duties  include:  daily  check-ins,  escort  to  public  spaces  and  medical  appointments,  assistance  navigating  digital  systems,  media,  and  legal  matters.  IROs  are  trained  in  cross-temporal  psychology  and  sociocultural  integration.

V.  SPECIAL  CONSIDERATIONS  • memorial  services  are  being  planned  for  the  crew  members  confirmed  deceased  prior  to  landing.  • requests  for  return  to  former  cities  or  residences  will  be  reviewed  on  a  case-by-case  basis.

[dragoneyes613]

In medicine, there’s a diagnosis known as conversion disorder in which a psychological conflict manifests itself as a physical symptom. That, in a nutshell, is what afflicts the International Federation of Medical Students Associations (IFMSA), whose moral dysfunction is so deeply rooted that it now presents as bureaucratic incompetence.

IFMSA recently acknowledged that its suspension on Aug. 6, 2024, of the Federation of Israeli Medical Students (FIMS) was not grounded in legitimate rationale but in procedural irregularities. Translation: They botched the paperwork.

What they haven’t admitted and likely never will is that this so-called “suspension” was an attempted ideological amputation. And it wasn’t sterile.

Let’s not kid ourselves: FIMS was not excised from IFMSA over any clerical confusion. It was removed like a problematic organ because FIMS president Miri Shvimmer challenged the systemic anti-Israel infection festering within the global medical community.

Her sin? Reminding fellow future physicians that medical ethics should transcend politics. Shvimmer had the audacity to suggest that the Hamas-led terrorist attacks in Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, might warrant a condemnation from those studying to enter the medical profession.

Instead of receiving empathy or even neutral collegiality, she and her organization were diagnosed as the problem. Accused of “genocide,” they were ignored and silenced. It was akin to a digital lobotomy, performed not with scalpels but Zoom mutes and procedural anesthesia. And after the World Medical Association applied pressure like a defibrillator to the heart of this scandal, IFMSA sheepishly reinstated FIMS—not out of repentance, not because the fever broke, but because it had violated its own code of conduct.

In medical terms, the disease was not treated; it merely retreated under duress. But here is what is most clinically disturbing: There was no apology. No retraction. No penance. No gracious walkback. Not even a placebo statement to soothe the reputational hemorrhage inflicted on Israeli medical students. Instead, IFMSA tried to suture the wound with silence, hoping the scar tissue of injustice would simply fade.

This isn’t just bad medicine; it’s malpractice. IFMSA took an oath, as all medical institutions implicitly do: to protect life, uphold human dignity and treat all patients (and peers) with impartial care.

What we saw instead was ideological triage—treat the causes they approve of and ignore the ones they don’t. This isn’t about “procedural missteps.” It’s about metastatic antisemitism hiding behind the white coat of international cooperation. It’s about a global organization failing to live up to the very ethics it pretends to teach. It is, in short, a chronic case of moral arrhythmia.

If the IFMSA wants to regain its ethical pulse, it must do more than quietly reinstate FIMS. It must issue a full, public apology. It must disinfect its own ranks of political bias. And it must remember that the Hippocratic Oath is not a fig leaf for cowardice but a binding moral code.

Because in the end, silence in the face of this discrimination is not just complicity, it’s criminal malpractice.

[sailorgundam308]

how is karlach coded as a person of color? genuine question

In terms of character design and representation: she has southeast Asian, even pacific islander (depending on the area ofc) features. Does that mean there are “asians” or “Europeans” in Toril? No. But visual representation of real groups is huge for people’s self validation. That said, southeast Asian peoples are a wide and varied group but they stand in contrast to the “white Asia” of Korea and Japan (and China to some extent), for example. The “white” Asia is rich, desirable, stylish, culturally relevant in the global stage - and their skin is whiter, to top it off. On the other hand, SEA is seen (not only in the west but ESPECIALLY in these rich Asian countries) as poor, underdeveloped, inconsequential - and darker skinned. No surprised there.

In Asia you might not have the concept of White as in White US Americans, because whiteness is a social construct that will change depending on the location and cultural/historical context. What US people understand as white and poc might differ from what other people in other countries understand it as. Still, in East Asia being literally lighter skinned is the desired beauty ideal and brings with it all the highly privileged misconceptions of “if you’re light skinned, you’re richer, more educated, more well behaved, more beautiful” and so on. SEA peoples have, in general, darker skin tones - therefore, they miss (to say the least) on these “advantageous pre-conceptions”. Also, even within certain SEA countries, being lighter than another is a desirable thing. There is an entire beauty industry here based on “whitening”. Literally making your skin look whiter, because that is more “beautiful and cleaner”. (In Japan, the amount of things you can get to cover your skin from the sun is not due to any cancer concerns, I guarantee you.)

Karlach, having features reminiscent to some SEA people, puts her in this dynamic. Not because this dynamic exists inside the BG3 world, but because the people with whom her character design (her face design at least) resonates are those same people who are seen as less than due to their geographic location and tone of their skin.

I also am under the impression that in some countries, Asian people are also commonly included in the “poc” umbrella, though I cannot be sure where this is true and even if that depends on “what Asia” you are from.

If you get into Forgotten Realms, and Toril lore, things get even more layered, because Karlach is a tiefling. And tieflings are discriminated against for their appearance - something that comes from their heritage and they have no control over. Tieflings are plane touched people, meaning their ascendancy is made of humans mixed with devils/cambions. Is basically because their blood has some devil blood in it that the “devil like” features like horns, tails, claws etc appear. Unlike the aasimar (who are the same but mixed with divine blood) who are accepted and seen as beautiful, the tieflings are discriminated against by most if not all populations in Toril. They are outcasts, often having to settle in marginalized/unfit areas and form their own communities due to the unwillingness of others to interact with them. There is something to be said about how the comments of “devil” towards a tiefling and some religions’ interpretation of indigenous peoples (or even black people) as being cursed or in cohorts with the devil. Aka, this shit is problematic.

You can have an insight on how bad this was in Baldur’s Gate city by a story Karlach tells. She says her mother died of an illness that would have been easily cured if treated early. But mom cliffgate was refused medical care because no physician in the city wanted to visit and help a tiefling family in the outer city. By the time one accepted to go and help, it was too late. The disease had advanced and could not be cured, and so Karlach’s mom died prematurely. I guess that illustrates very obviously the degree to which tieflings are marginalized and discriminated against in Toril. If that is not an analogy to the struggle of peoples of color in a generalized manner, I don’t know what is.