#Material segregation

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Boeing’s deliberately defective fleet of flying sky-wreckage

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TOMORROW (May 2) in WINNIPEG, then Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), Tartu, Estonia, and beyond!

Boeing's 787 "Dreamliner" is manufactured far from the company's Seattle facility, in a non-union shop in Charleston, South Carolina. At that shop, there is a cage full of defective parts that have been pulled from production because they are not airworthy.

Hundreds of parts from that Material Review Segregation Area (MRSA) were secretly pulled from that cage and installed on aircraft that are currently plying the world's skies. Among them, sections 47/48 of a 787 – the last four rows of the plane, along with its galley and rear toilets. As Moe Tkacik writes in her excellent piece on Boeing's lethally corrupt culture of financialization and whistleblower intimidation, this is a big ass chunk of an airplane, and there's no way it could go missing from the MRSA cage without a lot of people knowing about it:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-04-30-whistleblower-laws-protect-lawbreakers/

More: MRSA parts are prominently emblazoned with red marks denoting them as defective and unsafe. For a plane to escape Boeing's production line and find its way to a civilian airport near you with these defective parts installed, many people will have to see and ignore this literal red flag.

The MRSA cage was a special concern of John "Swampy" Barnett, the Boeing whistleblower who is alleged to have killed himself in March. Tkacik's earlier profile of Swampy paints a picture of a fearless, stubborn engineer who refused to go along to get along, refused to allow himself to become inured to Boeing's growing culture of profits over safety:

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-03-28-suicide-mission-boeing/

Boeing is America's last aviation company and its single largest exporter. After the company was allowed to merge with its rival McDonnell-Douglas in 1997, the combined company came under MDD's notoriously financially oriented management culture. MDD CEO Harry Stonecipher became Boeing's CEO in the early 2000s. Stonecipher was a protege of Jack Welch, the man who destroyed General Electric with cuts to quality and workforce and aggressive union-busting, a classic Mafia-style "bust-out" that devoured the company's seed corn and left it a barren wasteland:

https://qz.com/1776080/how-the-mcdonnell-douglas-boeing-merger-led-to-the-737-max-crisis

Post-merger, Boeing became increasingly infected with MDD's culture. The company chased cheap, less-skilled labor to other countries and to America's great onshore-offshore sacrifice zone, the "right-to-work" American south, where bosses can fire uppity workers who balked at criminal orders, without the hassle of a union grievance.

Stonecipher was succeeded by Jim "Prince Jim" McNerney, ex-3M CEO, another Jack Welch protege (Welch spawned a botnet of sociopath looters who seized control of the country's largest, most successful firms, and drove them into the ground). McNerney had a cute name for the company's senior engineers: "phenomenally talented assholes." He created a program to help his managers force these skilled workers – everyone a Boeing who knew how to build a plane – out of the company.

McNerney's big idea was to get rid of "phenomenally talented assholes" and outsource the Dreamliner's design to Boeing's suppliers, who were utterly dependent on the company and could easily be pushed around (McNerney didn't care that most of these companies lacked engineering departments). This resulted in a $80b cost overrun, and a last-minute scramble to save the 787 by shipping a "cleanup crew" from Seattle to South Carolina, in the hopes that those "phenomenally talented assholes" could save McNerney's ass.

Swampy was part of the cleanup crew. He was terrified by what he saw there. Boeing had convinced the FAA to let them company perform its own inspections, replacing independent government inspectors with Boeing employees. The company would mark its own homework, and it swore that it wouldn't cheat.

Boeing cheated. Swampy dutifully reported the legion of safety violations he witnessed and was banished to babysit the MRSA, an assignment his managers viewed as a punishment that would isolate Swampy from the criminality he refused to stop reporting. Instead, Swampy audited the MRSA, and discovered that at least 420 defective aviation components had gone missing from the cage, presumably to be installed in planes that were behind schedule. Swampy then audited the keys to the MRSA and learned that hundreds of keys were "floating around" the Charleston facility. Virtually anyone could liberate a defective part and install it into an airplane without any paper trail.

Swampy's bosses had a plan for dealing with this. They ordered Swampy to "pencil whip" the investigations of 420 missing defective components and close the cases without actually figuring out what happened to them. Swampy refused.

Instead, Swampy took his concerns to a departmental meeting where 12 managers were present and announced that "if we can’t find them, any that we can’t find, we need to report it to the FAA." The only response came from a supervisor, who said, "We’re not going to report anything to the FAA."

The thing is, Swampy wasn't just protecting the lives of the passengers in those defective aircraft – he was also protecting Boeing employees. Under Sec 38 of the US Criminal Code, it's a 15-year felony to make any "materially false writing, entry, certification, document, record, data plate, label, or electronic communication concerning any aircraft or space vehicle part."

(When Swampy told a meeting that he took this seriously because "the paperwork is just as important as the aircraft" the room erupted in laughter.)

Swampy sent his own inspectors to the factory floor, and they discovered "dozens of red-painted defective parts installed on planes."

Swampy blew the whistle. How did the 787 – and the rest of Boeing's defective flying turkeys – escape the hangar and find their way into commercial airlines' fleets? Tkacik blames a 2000 whistleblower law called AIR21 that:

creates such byzantine procedures, locates adjudication power in such an outgunned federal agency, and gives whistleblowers such a narrow chance of success that it effectively immunizes airplane manufacturers, of which there is one in the United States, from suffering any legal repercussions from the testimony of their own workers.

By his own estimation, Swampy was ordered to commit two felonies per week for six years. Tkacik explains that this kind of operation relies on a culture of ignorance – managers must not document their orders, and workers must not be made aware of the law. Whistleblowers like Swampy, who spoke the unspeakable, were sidelined (an assessment by one of Swampy's managers called him "one of the best" and finished that "leadership would give hugs and high fives all around at his departure").

Multiple whistleblowers were singled out for retaliation and forced departure. William Hobek, a quality manager who refused to "pencil whip" the missing, massive 47-48 assembly that had wandered away from the MRSA cage, was given a "weak" performance review and fired despite an HR manager admitting that it was bogus.

Another quality manager, Cynthia Kitchens, filed an ethics complaint against manager Elton Wright who responded to her persistent reporting of defects on the line by shoving her against a wall and shouting that Boeing was "a good ol’ boys’ club and you need to get on board." Kitchens was fired in 2016. She had cancer at the time.

John Woods, yet another quality engineer, was fired after he refused to sign off on a corner-cutting process to repair a fuselage – the FAA later backed up his judgment.

Then there's Sam Salehpour, the 787 quality engineer whose tearful Congressional testimony described more corner-cutting on fuselage repairs:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PP0xhIe1LFE

Salehpour's boss followed the Boeing playbook to the letter: Salehpour was constantly harangued and bullied, and he was isolated from colleagues who might concur with his assessment. When Salehpour announced that he would give Congressional testimony, his car was sabotaged under mysterious circumstances.

It's a playbook. Salehpour's experience isn't unusual at Boeing. Two other engineers, working on the 787 Organization Designation Authorization, held up production by insisting that the company fix the planes' onboard navigation computers. Their boss gave them a terrible performance review, admitting that top management was furious at the delays and had ordered him to punish the engineers. The engineers' union grievance failed, with Boeing concluding that this conduct – which they admitted to – didn't rise to the level of retaliation.

As Tkacik points out, these engineers and managers that Boeing targeted for intimidation and retaliation are the very same staff who are supposed to be performing inspections of behalf of the FAA. In other words, Boeing has spent years attacking its own regulator, with total impunity.

But it's not just the FAA who've failed to take action – it's also the DOJ, who have consistently declined to bring prosecutions in most cases, and who settled the rare case they did bring with "deferred prosecution agreements." This pattern was true under Trump's DOJ and continued under Biden's tenure. Biden's prosecutors have been so lackluster that a federal judge "publicly rebuked the DOJ for failing to take seriously the reputational damage its conduct throughout the Boeing case was inflicting on the agency."

Meanwhile, there's the AIR21 rule, a "whistleblower" rule that actually protects Boeing from whistleblowers. Under AIR21, an aviation whistleblower who is retaliated against by their employer must first try to resolve their problem internally. If that fails, the whistleblower has only one course of action: file an OSHA complaint within 90 days (if HR takes more than 90 days to resolve your internal complaint, you can no have no further recourse). If you manage to raise a complaint with OSHA, it is heard by a secret tribunal that has no subpoena power and routinely takes five years to rule on cases, and rules against whistleblowers 97% of the time.

Boeing whistleblowers who missed the 90-day cutoff have filled the South Carolina courts with last-ditch attempts to hold the company to account. When they lose these cases – as is routine, given Boeing's enormous legal muscle and AIR21's legal handcuffs – they are often ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs.

Tkacik cites Swampy's lawyer, Rob Turkewitz, who says Swampy was the only one of Boeing's whistleblowers who was "savvy, meticulous, and fast-moving enough to bring an AIR 21 case capable of jumping through all the hoops" to file an AIR21 case, which then took seven years. Turkewitz calls Boeing South Carolina "a criminal enterprise."

That's a conclusion that's hard to argue with. Take Boeing's excuse for not producing the documentation of its slapdash reinstallation of the Alaska Air door plug that fell off its plane in flight: the company says it's not criminally liable for failing to provide the paperwork, because it never documented the repair. Not documenting the repair is also a crime.

You might have heard that there's some accountability coming to the Boeing boardroom, with the ouster of CEO David Calhoun. Calhoun's likely successor is Patrick Shanahan, whom Tkacik describes as "the architect of the ethos that governed the 787 program" and whom her source called "a classic schoolyard bully."

If Shanahan's name rings a bell, it might be because he was almost Trump's Secretary of Defense, but that was derailed by the news that he had "emphatically defended" his 17 year old son after the boy nearly beat his mother to death with a baseball bat. Shanahan is presently CEO of Spirit Aerospace, who made the door-plug that fell out of the Alaska Airlines 737 Max.

Boeing is a company where senior managers only fail up and where whistleblowers are terrorized in and out of the workplace. One of Tkacik's sources noticed his car shimmying. The source, an ex-787 worker who'd been fired after raising safety complaints, had tried to bring an AIR21 complaint, but withdrew it out of fear of being bankrupted if he was ordered to pay Boeing's legal costs. When the whistleblower pulled over, he discovered that two of the lug-nuts had been removed from one of his wheels.

The whistleblower texted Tkcacik to say (not for the first time): "If anything happens, I'm not suicidal."

Boeing is a primary aerospace contractor to the US government. It's clear that its management – and investors – consider it too big to jail. It's also clear that they know it's too big to fail – after all, the company did a $43b stock buyback, then got billions in a publicly funded buyback.

Boeing is, effectively, a government agency that is run for the benefit of its investors. It performs its own safety inspections. It investigates its own criminal violations of safety rules. It loots its own coffers and then refills them at public expense.

Meanwhile, the company has filled our skies with at least 420 airplanes with defective, red-painted parts that were locked up in the MRSA cage, then snuck out and fitted to an airplane that you or someone you love could fly on the next time you take your family on vacation or fly somewhere for work.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/01/boeing-boeing/#mrsa

Image: Tom Axford 1 (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Blue_sky_with_wisps_of_cloud_on_a_clear_summer_morning.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

--

Clemens Vasters (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:N7379E_-_Boeing_737_MAX_9.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[ljblueteak]

"Paul Asks About White Australia: Beatle Paul McCartney yesterday showed an unexpected interest in the White Australia policy." From The Sydney Morning Herald, June 19, 1964.

Text of the article reads:

At a Press conference yesterday Paul was approached by a Nigerian journalist.

Paul said "Are you an aborginal?"

The journalist said he was from Nigeria.

Paul said: "I didn't think that Australia allowed coloured people to come in. I remember reading about this in geography in school which I failed, and I thought it was a bit off. I thought they were the only country in the world to do this. I saw you today and I thought: 'Hullo, we'll get onto the Government right away.'

The journalist said he was allowed to stay in Australia under certain conditions which included having a job.

He said Australia was host to more than 3,000 Asian students and he had found no discrimination whatsoever.

Paul said: "That is good because there is in Britain and in America."

He said that apart from kangaroos and koalas his biggest early impression of Australia had been "this white-only business."

"John and I were talking about it only this afternoon."

[theskyexists]

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[agaselectronicmaterials]

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[chenxhen]

Why Social Media Doesn't Actually Connect Us

What is our life? A play of passion;

Our mirth, the music of division,

- Raleigh, "On the Life of Man" 1-2

Social media. This term and the digital entities it describes have become ubiquitous with daily living. Similar to “listening to music” or “eating”, it now comes naturally to us, to use it in daily conversation, and just to use it daily. However, it can’t be more unnatural. 

Auto-Segregation vs. Artificial Segregation

What social media has done has created something I’m going to call artificial segregation. Or I should say, it has propelled it to uncontrollable lengths. Segregation has occurred naturally among the human species - it is the process by which humans have separated into distinct religious, ethnic, and racial groups (aka, auto-segregation). These divisions are all based on evolutionary pathways. The basic knowledge needed here is to know that our species - the homo sapiens, have one common ancestor, and that our lineage begins in Africa. Eventually due to the branching off of different groups of our species, different skin colours developed, different cultures arose, and with that also came different languages and religions. Further, I will also be including personality differences. Although it’s not generally associated with the term, it will be touched upon as I go further into my explanation of artificial segregation. Artificial segregation is a derivative of auto-segregation. I call it artificial because it’s not solidified by evolutionary realities, and is a product of the human mind, and our species’ collective imagination. Here I’m referring to stereotypes and prejudices that are a result of the division of humans into separate groups. Sure, it’s a direct result of our species’ tendency to categorise things, but the connotations derived from it are not always the case. It’s based on assumption, and taken as truth in many scenarios when it is not. For instance, when a woman says that she is Christian, certain terms and images come to mind. One might picture a modest feminine figure, wearing a dress with frills, who doesn’t want to have sex until she’s married. She’s soft-spoken, and devoted to her boyfriend/husband. However, are all Christian women like this? No. And the reason this isn’t the case is a complicated result of both auto and artificial segregation. Natural religious practices arose, due to the natural ways people behave. Over time the culture and language has changed, different races have started intermingling, and how different religions are practised have changed as well. However, the stereotypes based on the “original” way are still propagated as well. Tensions have arisen, and the stereotypes which used to hold truth, and no longer do, are still stuck in people’s minds. Here is where social media comes in. 

Social media and Artificial Segregation

Social media, originally created to connect humans, has now developed into an evil that has done the exact opposite. It has mainly worked to enable stereotypes and prejudices. And this process involves more human psychology. It takes the natural instinct of the human mind to categorise to the next level. Take Instagram for example - the most widely used social media platform for gen Z and millennials. Everyone is influenced by other people, and create pages and post photos that put them into a certain category of people. It could be “the Instagram baddie”, the “booktok girl”, or the “alpha male”. Now yes, there’s no problem with the idea of categorisation, but these terms all bring about a certain superficial image of a type of person. It’s in no way related to natural personality differences. People can be a combination of a myriad of different online social media terms. It has become difficult to see this truth, however. 

What social media has done is that it has created a drastic increase in information intake for the individual. The volume of information we receive each day through our phones is not something our human brain has been prepared to do. Evolutionarily, our brains are still in the hunter-gatherer stage. Chances are, most people wouldn’t be able to describe one post or video they came by the previous day. We are now constantly intaking, yet not reflecting or processing the information. This with a combination of the existence of stereotypes has resulted in the most divisiveness we have ever seen. People feel something from a certain piece of information they see, don’t have the time to fully process the information, and react a certain way based off of relicked knowledge. And even this, most people are not aware of. Then, we speak and act based on these feelings, further creating division. Take for instance, the comments on Instagram reels. This is where people release their irrational thoughts. Others are then privy to these thoughts, resulting in the propagation of more irrationality. It has been detrimental to people's self-perceptions, as the only thing we do reflect somewhat more on is ourselves. We’re around ourselves all the time, and are driven by our inner worlds without the ability to escape from it. I’m certain we’ve all questioned where we fit in within all of the aforementioned "artificial categories" at multiple points throughout our lives. Most don’t fit into any. We are a social species; everyone wants to fit in with everyone else, and so it has caused many to retreat into ourselves, resulting in the individualism and divisiveness we see today. 

Is There Anything We Can Do About It?

It’s evident, if we take into account the history of humans, the end to our species’ path is globalisation. And to do this, groups of people need to come into agreement with each other. Political parties, religious groups, different cultures, and various ethnic groups need to find common ground. And it’s not as if there isn’t common ground. We are still the same species, and all these groups of people arose from one group of people. If you were to take a look into different religious texts, you’ll see that the basic ideas being preached are the same. I’m not here to get into the specifics of religion, so I’ll just say that broadly, our faith as a species lies in “being a good person”. But, with the existence of social media, we’re losing what that means. Everyone’s constantly questioning whether they should or should not do something, and using confirmation bias, which has led to useless arguments and clashes in perspectives. 

We need to cultivate community again, based on shared faith. The intangible ideas, and immaterial virtues of every single civilised being is what will bring us together again.

On a more practical level, practising detachment, focusing on our loved ones, carrying out discernment on the information we receive, and taking moments to reflect on what we value and how we see the world, are what each person can easily do. I’m sure you’ll realise that people aren’t so different after all, once you take a step back from the algorithm. 

The different groups of faith may not be what we used to know of them as anymore, but are the material aspects really something to hold onto?

[argumate]

it's always popular to ask "why is dating so difficult right now?" and the obvious answer is to gesture at the people asking this forever and perhaps rhetorically wonder why you would expect finding someone to share your life with to be easy, end of question.

but some people will plunge on and say it must be because young men have been misled by the manosphere and now they want the wrong thing or behave the wrong way or whatever, and that's such a tempting straw to grasp because Social Media Makes People Worse is a compelling hypothesis when we see it every day (and of course you can ask what all those makeup tutorials and true crime podcasts are doing to young women besides raising their suicide rate).

personally I don't think young men behaved better in the 1970s or the '90s or the early 2010s or whenever the supposed golden age of heterosexual dating was supposed to be, and while the manosphere is obviously a problem (in the sense that it's awash with ideas that are untrue, unkind, and unhelpful) I don't think it is the problem, it seems like a typical exaggerated social media response to other problems (gender segregation on social media doesn't seem more extreme than the gender segregation that ruled most of human history, so that can't be the entire story).

women will say that men don't want to commit (despite all wanting tradwives!) and men will say uh stuff about women that doesn't bear repeating to be honest but let's politely say that both sides will accuse each other of having unrealistic expectations or overly picky standards -- and of course that's a very real possibility, that people can be fixated on fantasies and find real life doesn't measure up; one of the original critiques of social media was that it could give a misleading impression of how good everyone but you is having it (until it became in vogue to post about your mental illnesses).

but if we want to look for material changes that could potentially have impacted the heterosexual dating market, there's no getting around the fact that staying single is a much better deal for women now than it was for much of the 20th century, and indeed the centuries before that, when the desirability of marriage was enforced by incentives that strongly penalised not settling for a man, in the worst case including institutionalisation for single mothers and even the forced sterilisation of unmarried women deemed promiscuous.

as the legal barriers and overt discrimination against women were dismantled in the 20th century, the wage gap followed: in the US prior to 1980, women earned about 60% of what men earned, but by 2002 this had risen to 80% (the rise has slowed, it's 82% today); this reduction in the pay disparity has the side effect of reducing the value of what a man would bring to the household.

it's not a good look for men but there's no denying that some of the value they used to bring to a relationship included privileges like:

access to higher paying jobs

protection from harassment by other men

ability to live independently of controlling parents or guardians

ability to have children without having them taken away

now that many of these privileges are extended to everyone in a more egalitarian fashion, having a man around is simply less necessary than it was; you would expect this reduction of privileges to push some relationships that were already marginal prospects into being nonviable.

and perhaps that's a good thing, for the relationships that survive to be mutually beneficial arrangements and less like hostage situations.

[bloodanddiscoballs]

Texas Residents!

Help us stop HB 3225 in Committee. HB 3225 to be heard by the State Affairs Committee Meeting on Monday, April 14 at 8AM

Provide In-Person Testimony (ATX) or Submit Written Comment (Online) against HB 3225

What does the bill do?

First, it forbids municipal public libraries from allowing anyone under 18 to access “sexually explicit” materials (the quotation marks are important). It also says a public library may not “curate, display, or make available for checkout any sexually explicit material in any minor ’s section of the library.”

The bill also uses an exceptionally broad definition of “sexually explicit.” It defines sexual conduct as “sexual contact, actual or simulated sexual intercourse, deviate sexual intercourse, sexual bestiality, masturbation, sado-masochistic abuse, or lewd exhibition of the genitals, the anus, or any portion of the female breast below the top of the areola.” No, it doesn’t define what “sexual contact” means—does kissing count? Petting?

The bill defines “access” as “the ability to check out “be provided a copy” of a book in either a physical or electronic format. It’s not totally clear to me whether just browsing shelves counts as access or not. But even if not, in order to comply with the law, libraries would have to audit their entire collections for any possible book with any possible description of sexual contact and flag those books as off-limits for checkout by anyone under 18. Which would be a massive undertaking. Practically speaking, the only way a library could comply with this law is to segregate its adult and “minors” sections.

That means two things: First, that libraries would have to restrict anyone under 18 to children’s/teen/YA sections—they could not be allowed into the library’s sections for the general (adult) public, where they might encounter “sexually explicit” books. Second, it would restrict the books that can be made available in those children’s/teen/YA sections. No sex-ed books, no descriptions of “sexual contact” in YA novels meant for older teens. Art books would be at risk, as would innocent books like Eric Carle’s Draw Me a Star and Maurice Sendak’s In the Night Kitchen.

How Can You Help?

1.) Written comments (can be submitted remotely and ahead of time): Can't testify in Austin on Monday? Texas residents can submit written comments through the Texas House's Online Public Comment form HERE. Be sure to select HB 3225. State that you are against the bill, and share why. The Committee Meeting Agenda states written comments will be accepted until Monday's hearing is adjourned.

2.) In-person verbal testimony:  Witnesses are usually given 1-2 minutes to make their public comment on the bill they wish to speak about. You will need to declare your name, and whether you are speaking "for" "against" or "on" (neutral) HB 3225. Note, if you have more to say, than can fit in your given time, you can provide both in-person verbal, and online, written public comment. Be prepared to stay all day- bring food, water, chargers, electronics, books, and patience. Find out more about how to register, once you arrive at the Capitol, HERE.

For in-person verbal testimony, witnesses (you!) will need to arrive at the Texas Capitol and make your way to the John H. Reagan Building Room 120 (1400 Congress Ave., Austin, TX 78701) in time to sign in at a kiosk outside the meeting room before the meeting begins. Paid parking is available at the Capitol Garage found at 1201 San Jacinto Blvd, Austin, TX 78701.

Other Things To Keep In Mind:

The committee members may ask witnesses questions, so be prepared to answer them. It is okay to answer that you do not know and offer to get back to them with more information.

Emotion in your testimony is okay - just be respectful and speak calmly, clearly, and with purpose.

Write down and practice your testimony ahead of time. You can read from it during your turn to speak.

If you hear upsetting or inflammatory comments from other speakers, you need to maintain your composure in the room. Exit quietly if you need to excuse yourself and take a break.

Suggested Talking Points:

Speak from your heart and include short personal anecdotes.

Consider how HB3225 will impact access to books and resources for children, teens, and families in your community.

Consider how HB3225 limits your rights as a parent since there is no opt-in, opt-out requirement for you to decide what books and sections of the public library your minor child may access.

Share how unrestricted access to "adult" sections of the public library helped you grow, develop and learn as a child or teen, or how you have seen unrestricted access meet the needs of children in your life.

Share your thoughts on the government interfering with your rights as a parent to decide what books are not appropriate for your minor children and teens to read.

[sendmyresignation]

always kind of frustrated that the conversation around gendered segregation in sports is sort of dismissed as "well men can't handle losing to women" and it's never deconstructed further like. the elephant in the room is that institutionally it serves a purpose of functionally cosigning women to lesser treatment because of deep, deep, deep misogyny. it's not just pay, though that's the most obvious surface-level marker of inequality, but the time, effort, and support. funding, access to facilities, coaches, safety on the job (if the woman's game is even a viable professional career! if leagues even exist!) that's what support means here. the reason women do not "perform as well as men" is because of fundamental structural inequality. often, the game is decades behind. think about like... what someone playing for the chelsea woman's team could accomplish if she had access to the same salary, coaching staff, and training ground. like its important to consistently bring this up because it directly challenges the idea that "women's sports" are uniformly materially beneficial and even need "protecting" in the first place (protecting, of course, being a word which is all about weakness and coddling womanhood).

[with-a-point-of-view]

Not a new observation, but Claudia should have been the one to write a history of vampires. Her diaries are so important, and her style evolves so much. She travels around universities she's barred from by age, let alone segregation of higher education. She teaches herself Romanian just for a chance to find her history. She's a researcher and a writer at heart, and she's as willing to go out in the world for material as she is into an archive. She more than anyone else deserved to learn of Akasha and Enkil. The way in which she is burnt for the medieval Great Law of not recording her own history is often a footnote, but it's incredibly important. As a child vampire, as a Black vampire, as a woman vampire, she has to write herself into being in a way no other character does. And she is banned from this, and her private diaries become evidence for the trial against her. She has to comb through history to search for echoes of anyone like her who isn't the worst.

And the tragedy works because she doesn't find that. She finds someone else, someone who can build a different future-- And then they're both gone. She'll never write that history. Her own was cut short before she would have even died as a mortal.

And then Louis finds Daniel, the boy in the bar with his tape recorder containing souvenirs of all the lives stuck in the margins of San Francisco. No love at home, a drive for answers, a need to scrapbook fragments of tragedy to find some greater meaning. He lets that boy become a man, even if he doesn't quite understand why. He tells him he's a "bright young reporter with a point of view."

When Louis is ready to speak, it is motivated in part by his love of humanity. A warning before the Great Convergence. And yet, he speaks poetry- Lestat, the coal fire, Paris, the woman.

When Daniel answers, he's sarcastic, abrasive, incisive in his questioning.

Daniel finds himself liking Claudia through her pages. He constantly acknowledges her as a serial killer, compelling writer, more active compared to the "whiny, existential queens" who are her fathers. He's angry that her pages are cut out and edited. He warns that her story will be misunderstood, sexualised, fitted to modern stereotypes of youth violence around video games.

And yet-

FUCK THESE VAMPIRES

The youngest turned vampire in the series and the oldest, sharing the same words about the same people.

Daniel, whose drug is truth and tragedy. When Armand tells him that Claudia's diary full of last words is a mirror, he means it as an insult.

I think it's a compliment.

[velvetvexations]

Like, if the foundation of your transfeminism is just "trans women are women," all you're really saying is "you should only oppress me this much and in these ways," as though we're to declare victory when murder and sexual assault rates are down to how they are for cis women. Cis feminists rarely had to prove they were women in the first place and have always been free to focus on the fact that they're individual human beings who deserve to be equal to cis men, why are we not doing the same? "Trans women are women" is a distraction. Flipping out because someone doesn't realize the implication of the spaceless transwoman is a waste of time and energy.

"You can't just think trans women are women because woman is a meaningless term, you have to recognize they have wymynly souls"

Why? Who cares? What material benefit is there to spending every day trying to argue Platonic forms like this?

"What about bathrooms?"

You're just against sex-segregated spaces, I'm against gender-segregated spaces entirely, we are not the same and you need to get on my level because men and women intermingling is the root of how to solve pretty much every gender-based problem that exists. If your only concern is whether or not you're allowed into Michfest, you're not helping.

[lunarlianna]

Pluto generations

Aries (1823 - 1851)

The presence of Pluto in Aries defines a generation marked by a pioneering and assertive spirit, reflecting a profound longing for independence. Those influenced by this placement often take on key roles in instigating social change and revolutionizing established systems. Historical events from 1823 to 1852, such as the Wars for Latin American Independence, the First Opium War, and the Women's Rights Convention, exemplify the transformative impact of this astrological configuration.

Taurus (1852 - 1881)

Pluto's position in Taurus defines a generation characterized by unwavering perseverance, determination, and a profound connection to the material realm. These individuals prioritize stability, security, and the sustainable use of resources, leaving a lasting imprint on economic systems and environmental consciousness. Notably, during Pluto's transit in Taurus, the Industrial Revolution surged forward, marked by the rise of corporate structures in industries like railroads and steam engines.

Gemini (1882 – 1913)

The generation under the influence of Pluto in Gemini witnessed the dawn of the Second Industrial Revolution, aptly named the Technological Revolution. These individuals, marked by intellectual curiosity and adaptability, excelled in communication and media, significantly shaping cultural and technological progress. The era marked the birth of influential figures like John Maynard Keynes and Benito Mussolini, along with German scientist Robert Koch's identification of the tuberculosis bacterium. Notably, the First World War occurred during this period, bringing significant changes in all areas of life.

Cancer (1914 -1938)

Pluto in Cancer signifies a generation characterized by deep emotional sensitivity, nurturing instincts, and strong family values. Living through World War I, the Spanish flu pandemic, and the Great Depression, they grew up in a challenging era that shaped their conservative outlook. This generation, often referred to as the "Greatest Generation," prioritized family, spirituality, and adherence to societal norms. While their emphasis on politeness and chivalry had positive aspects, it also gave rise to dark elements such as sexist gender roles, racial segregation, and cultural supremacy.

Leo (1939 – 1958)

Pluto in Leo defines a generation marked by a quest for self-expression, creativity, and a hunger for recognition. Born during historical events like the Nazi invasion of Poland and the Battle of Stalingrad, these individuals challenged authority, imprinting their influence on art, entertainment, and leadership styles. Ruled by the Sun, Pluto in Leo symbolizes a fresh start after periods of war and chaos, fostering a sense of self-value and confidence. This prideful, generous, and naturally leadership-oriented generation, however, tends to resist change and stands firm in their philosophies as a fixed sign.

Virgo (1957 – 1971)

Pluto in Virgo defines a generation marked by a robust work ethic, practicality, and an innate drive for perfection. Born during pivotal events such as the first documented AIDS cases and Martin Luther King Jr.'s iconic "I Have a Dream" speech, these individuals contribute to societal shifts in health, wellness, and environmental consciousness. Ruled by Mercury, Pluto in Virgo emphasizes efficiency and hard work, fostering reliability, trustworthiness, and empathy. This generation focuses on rebuilding and technology, epitomizing an era of research and preparation, notably during the Cold War.

Libra (1972 – 1983)

Pluto in Libra defines a generation marked by a profound yearning for harmony, justice, and equality. With Venusian qualities, these individuals are inherently social, compassionate, and value connections with others. The events during their time, such as the end of the Vietnam War, the introduction of VHS, and the rise of personal computers, align with their commitment to justice and duty for the collective. This generation, while not necessarily seeking radical societal reshaping, is more focused on preserving law and order, offering assistance to those in need, and rectifying wrongs through the pursuit of justice.

Scorpio (1984 – 1995)

Pluto in Scorpio defines a generation marked by intensity, depth, and profound transformation, playing a pivotal role in societal shifts related to power dynamics, sexuality, and psychological exploration. While the preceding Pluto in Libra generation advocated for balance, Pluto in Scorpio pushed the limits, ushering in events like the Gulf War, the end of the Cold War, and the advent of the World Wide Web. Resilient and empowered, they navigated constant transformations, developing a keen ability to adapt and thrive through each metamorphosis. This generation also contributed to a shifting cultural perspective on sexuality.

Sagittarius (1996 – 2008)

Pluto in Sagittarius shapes a generation marked by a thirst for knowledge, cultural exchange, and a global perspective, contributing significantly to societal shifts in education, philosophy, and belief systems. This generation, embodies the archer's bravery and fearlessness, fostering a spirit of rebellion and outspokenness. Sagittarius' affinity for networking and socializing with individuals from various nations aligns with the rise of the internet, a tool that facilitates global connectivity. Key events during this period include the successful cloning of Dolly the sheep, the introduction of the Euro to financial markets, and the groundbreaking launch of the iPhone in 2007.

Capricorn (2008 – 2023)

Pluto in Capricorn defines a generation marked by ambition, pragmatism, and a distinct focus on challenging traditional structures, leading to transformative changes in politics, business, and governance. Ruled by Saturn, this era, encompassing events such as the launch of Bitcoin, the Syrian civil war, Edward Snowden's revelations on mass surveillance, and the COVID-19 pandemic, unfolded amidst the Great Recession and the rise of social media. The influence of Saturn instils a commitment to rules, regulations, and social changes that align with a desire for structure and order.

Aquarius (2024 – 2044)

Pluto in Aquarius heralds a generation marked by innovation, individuality, and an impassioned pursuit of freedom and social progress. The current era unfolds amid a new global order, carrying both anticipation and uncertainty. Emerging from the constraining Capricorn era, Aquarius brings a promise of hope, healing, and a future-focused mindset.

Pisces (2044 – 2067)

Pluto in Pisces gives rise to a generation marked by empathy, spirituality, and a deepening of the collective consciousness, contributing to societal shifts in compassion, art, and transcendence. As one era concludes and another begins, this period signals the resurgence of spirituality, with people connecting profoundly to the universe through meditation and prayer. Anticipated as a peaceful time with minimal conflict, technological progress may temporarily slow after the Aquarius era's boom. This wise generation is poised to challenge traditional norms, potentially leading to the disappearance of gender roles, marking a significant chapter in human evolution.

[frostedmagnolias]

Tea Gown

c. 1891

“This tea gown, composed of a cut-up wool shawl woven in a paisley pattern, imitates a black-centered Indian Kashmir shawl. In fact, the material was probably woven in France during the 1860s or 1870s. On the upper right corner of the bodice is embroidered "Cachemire" in white thread. Such a tea gown, intended for gender-segregated leisure, is the feminine analogue to the man's dressing gown or smoking jacket.”

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

[fatehbaz]

In 1833, Parliament finally abolished slavery in the British Caribbean, and the taxpayer payout of £20 million in “compensation” [paid by the government to slave owners] built the material, geophysical (railways, mines, factories), and imperial infrastructures of Britain [...]. Slavery and industrialization were tied by the various afterlives of slavery in the form of indentured and carceral labor that continued to enrich new emergent industrial powers [...]. Enslaved “free” African Americans predominately mined coal in the corporate use of black power or the new “industrial slavery,” [...]. The labor of the coffee - the carceral penance of the rock pile, “breaking rocks out here and keeping on the chain gang” (Nina Simone, Work Song, 1966), laying iron on the railroads - is the carceral future mobilized at plantation’s end (or the “nonevent” of emancipation). [...] [T]he racial circumscription of slavery predates and prepares the material ground for Europe and the Americas in terms of both nation and empire building - and continues to sustain it.

Text by: Kathryn Yusoff. "White Utopia/Black Inferno: Life on a Geologic Spike". e-flux Journal Issue #97. February 2019.

---

When the Haitian Revolution erupted [...], slaveholding regimes around the world grew alarmed. In response to a series of slave rebellions in its own sugar colonies, especially in Jamaica, the British Empire formally abolished slavery in the 1830s. [...] Importing indentured labor from Asia emerged as a potential way to maintain the British Empire’s sugar plantation system. In 1838 John Gladstone, father of future prime minister William E. Gladstone, arranged for the shipment of 396 South Asian workers, bound to five years of indentured labor, to his sugar estates in British Guiana. The experiment [...] inaugurated [...] "a new system of [...] [indentured servitude]," which would endure for nearly a century. [...] Desperate to regain power and authority after the war [and abolition of chattel slavery in the US], Louisiana’s wealthiest planters studied and learned from their Caribbean counterparts. [...] Thousands of Chinese workers landed in Louisiana between 1866 and 1870, recruited from the Caribbean, China and California. [...] When Congress debated excluding the Chinese from the United States in 1882, Rep. Horace F. Page of California argued that the United States could not allow the entry of “millions of cooly slaves and serfs.”

Text by: Moon-Ho Jung. "Making sugar, making 'coolies': Chinese laborers toiled alongside Black workers on 19th-century Louisiana plantations". The Conversation. 13 January 2022.

---

The durability and extensibility of plantations [...] have been tracked most especially in the contemporary United States’ prison archipelago and segregated urban areas [...], [including] “skewed life chances, limited access to health [...], premature death, incarceration [...]”. [...] [In labor arrangements there exists] a moral tie that indefinitely indebts the laborers to their master, [...] the main mechanisms reproducing the plantation system long after the abolition of slavery [...]. [G]enealogies of labor management […] have been traced […] linking different features of plantations to later economic enterprises, such as factories […] or diamond mines […] [,] chartered companies, free ports, dependencies, trusteeships [...].

Text by: Irene Peano, Marta Macedo, and Colette Le Petitcorps. "Introduction: Viewing Plantations at the Intersection of Political Ecologies and Multiple Space-Times". Global Plantations in the Modern World: Sovereignties, Ecologies, Afterlives (edited by Petitcrops, Macedo, and Peano). Published 2023.

---

Louis-Napoleon, still serving in the capacity of president of the [French] republic, threw his weight behind […] the exile of criminals as well as political dissidents. “It seems possible to me,” he declared near the end of 1850, “to render the punishment of hard labor more efficient, more moralizing, less expensive […], by using it to advance French colonization.” [...] Slavery had just been abolished in the French Empire [...]. If slavery were at an end, then the crucial question facing the colony was that of finding an alternative source of labor. During the period of the early penal colony we see this search for new slaves, not only in French Guiana, but also throughout [other European] colonies built on the plantation model.

Text by: Peter Redfield. Space in the Tropics: From Convicts to Rockets in French Guiana. 2000.

---

To control the desperate and the jobless, the authorities passed harsh new laws, a legislative program designed to quell disorder and ensure a pliant workforce for the factories. The Riot Act banned public disorder; the Combination Act made trade unions illegal; the Workhouse Act forced the poor to work; the Vagrancy Act turned joblessness into a crime. Eventually, over 220 offences could attract capital punishment - or, indeed, transportation. […] [C]onvict transportation - a system in which prisoners toiled without pay under military discipline - replicated many of the worst cruelties of slavery. […] Middle-class anti-slavery activists expressed little sympathy for Britain’s ragged and desperate, holding […] [them] responsible for their own misery. The men and women of London’s slums weren’t slaves. They were free individuals - and if they chose criminality, […] they brought their punishment on themselves. That was how Phillip [commander of the British First Fleet settlement in Australia] could decry chattel slavery while simultaneously relying on unfree labour from convicts. The experience of John Moseley, one of the eleven people of colour on the First Fleet, illustrates how, in the Australian settlement, a rhetoric of liberty accompanied a new kind of bondage. [Moseley was Black and had been a slave at a plantation in America before escaping to Britain, where he was charged with a crime and shipped to do convict labor in Australia.] […] The eventual commutation of a capital sentence to transportation meant that armed guards marched a black ex-slave, chained once more by the neck and ankles, to the Scarborough, on which he sailed to New South Wales. […] For John Moseley, the “free land” of New South Wales brought only a replication of that captivity he’d endured in Virginia. His experience was not unique. […] [T]hroughout the settlement, the old strode in, disguised as the new. [...] In the context of that widespread enthusiasm [in Australia] for the [American] South (the welcome extended to the Confederate ship Shenandoah in Melbourne in 1865 led one of its officers to conclude “the heart of colonial Britain was in our cause”), Queenslanders dreamed of building a “second Louisiana”. [...] The men did not merely adopt a lifestyle associated with New World slavery. They also relied on its techniques and its personnel. [...] Hope, for instance, acquired his sugar plants from the old slaver Thomas Scott. He hired supervisors from Jamaica and Barbados, looking for those with experience driving plantation slaves. [...] The Royal Navy’s Commander George Palmer described Lewin’s vessels as “fitted up precisely like an African slaver [...]".

Text by: Jeff Sparrow. “Friday essay: a slave state - how blackbirding in colonial Australia created a legacy of racism.” The Conversation. 4 August 2022.

[fictionalsweethearts]

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN | VI X READER | ARCANE

Synopsis: Life was sweeter when you were together, but it was never as bitter as it is now. A year has passed, and you have contacted your former lover to meet someone else's baby, but which Vi strangely feels as her own. Will it be possible to collect the pieces of the floor and build a second chance?

Contains: arcane!vi, feminine reader, lesbians, lots of arguments and dialogues, arcane universe, secret lovers, romance, unplanned pregnancy, soft Vi

Word count: 4,205

Note: This fic was born from this bot which gave me juicy material to use here, part of the story arises from it, all credits to the creator!

Also, english is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistake in my writing. Enjoy!

Vi played with her fingers, thundered her knuckles as she made her way through the neat streets of Piltover. She didn't like to frequent that part of the bridge, she felt like a tourist without money; unwelcomed. She never developed empathy for the pilties until she fell in love with one, and everything began to fall apart, from her prejudices to her plans. The address was only a couple of blocks away, Violet took a breath and forced herself to gather courage, approaching the door of a narrow house with white walls.

"Get a grip, goddamn." Whispered Vi under her breath, before rising her fist to knock.

The preamble to that moment was not easy, far from it, they were years of emotional ups and downs and social dramas that put in check a relationship that struggled to stay together. You were from Piltover, daughter of an investor whose life was simple in many ways except in love.

You were confrontational ever since you was a kid, questioning the world around you ever since the first moment you put two thoughts together. As soon as you turned seventeen, you sought to question the segregating ideas of the upper part, studying the history and past of Piltover and Zaun. You longed to understand why those above thought they were important and those below wasn't. You soon understood that there was nothing to understand, it was a cruel system that justified itself as long as there were people who supported it. And you didn't.

Little by little you dared to arouse your father's anger and visit Zaun, to soak up the underground culture, the social aspects that reigned in a sector where organized crime proliferated massively. You heard of Shimmer factories, brothels, bars and fight clubs, as well as an entire area destined for shimmer addicts, who lost their reason and their possessions because of that drug and lived wandering for a few coins to get one more dose. It was in such a place, plagued by hopelessness and danger, that you met her. Violet.

She was a charming woman from the first moment, her tall bearing and her tattoos and scars were not enough to intimidate you, rather, they invited you to know more about her. Vi showed you the other side of Zaun, the side where there were families and children, people who with the scarce resources they possessed, were able to deliver hopeful nuances to Undercity. People with aspirations, people who knew there was something beyond a crude bridge that separated two nations. People like her who still believed, even if it was minimally possible, that Zaun was a cradle for love. Love. You didn't know what it was to love until Vi slipped into you mind and heart and settled as a recurring thought and a longing desire.

It was strange, Vi meant not only a risk to know that she was a woman, but a double risk to know that she was from Zaun. But you couldn't stop, no. Not when Vi showed you the nuances of a romance, the hurried and slow kisses, the intimate and banal conversations, the taste of a cup of tea and a neat whiskey, the sad and happy tears, having sex and making love. You could not stop even though your father was at home waiting for you, with an express agreement with the Barton family that in spring a wedding would be held where you would be the bride and the eldest son of the Bartons, Connor, would be the groom.

It was months, even years of intermittent encounters and sad kisses. You put the ring away every time you entered Vi's apartment and she appeased the aroma of alcohol with air spray and hid her cuts with band aids and ointments. Both were handling frustration in their own way, you sneaking to Zaun while your husband was in a business trip and Vi earning a living in the Pit. She was very angry, every pore of her body was filled with rage at the thought that the woman she chose to love was in Piltover satisfying a man who would never know what you are, what you want, what you need. No one would be able to love you like her, and it was a pain that had settled in her chest and was released in waves of anger that in every fight assured her a crushing victory. Or else, assured her of a resounding loss that would led her to the nearest bar, to endless drunkenness and crying in the solitude of her apartment.

The clock was moving mercilessly, days, weeks, months and years of waiting and destructive routines passed, fleeting visits, unrealistic promises and painful silences. Of longer and longer absences that only led Vi to madness and you to depression. Both were losing yourselves to a forbidden love, but you two refused to let go. Until the clock stopped, for both, the day you showed up at your lover's apartment and confessed.

"I'm pregnant." You said. Followed by a silence so deafening that you believed that Vi had not heard you. But she did, and her reaction was the last stab that you needed to understand that both are hurting each other more than anything else.

Vi had frozen upon hearing the words, her entire world crashing down around her.

She couldn't move, barely seemed to breathe, her mind racing through a myriad of emotions—Confusion, disbelief, hurt, anger... despair. It was as if her heart had shattered—the fragile hope she had stubbornly clung to torn away mercilessly.

"Why...?" Her voice was a low, strangled whisper. "Why did you...?"

"I swear I tried to prevent this." You insisted, watching Vi stand up from the bed, pacing around as a caged animal.

"Tried...?" Vi's tone was harsh, bitterness seeping through her words.

She whirled around to face her, eyes flashing. "You tried," she repeated, the word heavy with mockery. "And you failed."

Vi's hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white. She took a step closer, the space between them feeling like a chasm. "How could you let this... this... " She gestured vaguely at your stomach. "Happen?"

"Just happened." you stated. "And I'm not happy either."

Vi scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "Not happy?" she repeated coldly. "Oh, I can see that." Sarcasm dripped from her words, heavy and biting. "That's just great. Wonderful. You're not happy, but you're going to go ahead and have the baby anyway."

"What do you expect?" You inquired, slightly offended.

"I don't know, maybe a little loyalty?" Vi snapped. "Or maybe a little respect?" she continued, her voice rising. "You're married. And now, you're going to have a child. With him."

Vi's voice trembled slightly with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. "Where does that leave me, huh?"

"It wasn't planned, Vi." You stood up. "I swear to you it's easier said than done. Saving face is the only way to let our thing still happen, and I cannot just..." you sighed sharply. "...evade him."

"You're married, and now you're going to have a family with your husband, but you still want me to stick around?"

Vi's voice was harsh, but there was a raw edge of pain beneath her words. "It's not fair. It's not fair to either of us."

"I know it's not!" You couldn't help but let your tone crack in frustration. "But I can't go back, I can't."

Vi shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Of course, you can't," she said sardonically. "You're stuck in too deep. You made your bed, and now you have to lie on it."

She ran a hand through her hair, her frustration mounting. "So where does that leave me, huh? I'm your dirty little secret, forever on the side, watching you build a life with someone else."

"I'm not asking you to stick around." You said, as Vi walked over the counter to pour herself a drink. "I'm just asking you to understand..."

"Understand what, exactly?" Vi snapped, downing the drink in one gulp. "I don't want to be your comfort, your escape. I don't want to be the one you go to when you can't deal with your goddamn husband!"

She slammed the glass on the counter, making you step back when it broke. You gasped, watching the pieces in Vi's palm. She snapped out of her heated stance. She looked down at her hand, a trickle of blood staining her palm as she winced. "Damn," she muttered, the pain breaking her from her anger.

The sight of her bloodied hand seemed to jar her, the gravity of her words—spoken with anger and hurt and too much force—suddenly hitting her. She looked up at you, her expression a mixture of guilt and pain.

"Hey, lemme see..." you mumbled, gingerly walking closer as Vi put the hand under the stream of water. You feared to arouse her anger further. But Vi remained silent, her mind full with thoughts too complex and painful to keep talking them out.

You carefully removed the glass fragments under the water stream as the bleeding began to decrease. Vi could not stop looking at you, thinking that for a few months your belly would house someone else's son and become the last obstacle to finally give up this relationship. By God, how she loved you, but this amount of love could not be equated to the pain that settled in the chest night after night. She was destroying herself to you. And had to accept and deal with it.

The pain in her hand had faded to a dull throb, but the ache in her heart was still keenly present. Finally, she spoke, her voice quiet, almost resigned. "I can't do this, Cupcake." she whispered.

You put your hands off, your eyes threatening to tear up. "I know, Vi." You whispered . "And I'm not asking you to do so..."

She reached out, her bandaged hand finding a resting place on your knee. "Then I guess I have my answer," she mumbled, her voice thick with a mix of resignation and sadness.

Your lips trembled, looking down in an attempt to contain your own tears. But you couldn't. You cried silently, tears falling on Vi's hand over your knee. For a moment, she sat there frozen, unsure of what to say. But then, she found herself leaning forward, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"Stop crying," Vi said gruffly, her voice filled with more emotion than she wanted to admit. "You’re going to make me cry too."

"I'm so sorry." You whispered into the embrace. "I'm sorry I failed us."

"Shhh..." Vi whispered, her grip tightening around you. "It's not your fault. We both knew this was coming."

You felt your heart shattering. What do you mean this is the end? That's it? Over?

"We knew how this would end," she whispered. "I just didn't think it would hurt this much."

And it hurt, how it hurt. No punch or sip of whiskey could have hurt so much, no cry could have calmed a heart that claimed relief. Nothing, absolutely nothing had hurt as much as before. Because this pain was new, and it burned like an open wound, every memory like a pinch of salt on the tender and sensitive flesh. Vi fell into darkness and you resigned yourself to the whims of a pregnancy and a marriage without love.

They were slow and fast months at the same time, Vi remained drunk and asleep for so long that she barely remembered the last time she took a shower or ate a decent meal. Her life depended on the fights and alcohol, on the deafening noise of the music that silenced her thoughts, on the outbursts of anger on the punching bag—hollowed and hanging in her room after having hit it with such impetus that her knuckles bled—,on the girls who approached her and she did not deny because she fantasized that, after a session of bland and empty sex, the woman lying next to her in bed was you. Only to discover the next morning that she was alone, sore, cold and sad, and feeling such hangover that reminded her how cruel it was to feel discarded. Vi lived in a hangover after years of being drunk in your affection. And she struggled to find sobriety.

Until the alcohol didn't taste as sweet as before, nor did the fights awaken in her a numbing adrenaline. The punching bag had already ripped, her knuckles healed and she hadn't brought a girl to bed for months. Suddenly the pain stopped, or maybe, she got used to it to the point that it didn't bother her anymore. However, Vi for the first time woke up without thinking 'why?' And she just got up to drink a glass of water and wash her face instead of having a bottle of beer for breakfast.

Vi needed thirteen months to stand up, you needed thirteen months to gather the courage to write her a letter. It was not a letter of forgiveness, nor of love, it was an express request. "I'd like you to meet her, Vi. It's so beautiful that it reminds me of you."

And Violet thought she was silly for having given in so easily, for having put on her jacket and ascended to Piltover to knock on the door of an apartment a couple of streets from the market.

You had changed, your hair was longer, your perfume felt warmer. But you were as beautiful as the day you said goodbye. You hugged her, thanking her for coming and invited her to come in. It had barely been a year but it felt decades since the last time your hands brushed.

"Connor..." you sighed, taking a sip of the cup of tea. Samara was still sleeping in her crib, Vi had accepted a cup of tea and cookies and sat awkwardly on the couch of your living room. "He was expecting a boy, and I denied him a second child until the end. The divorce was quick."

Vi listened, sipping her tea quietly.

"So, you're divorced now," Vi said, breaking the silence. Her voice was careful, neither judgmental nor encouraging.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing." You scoffed.

"No, that’s not what I meant," Vi said quickly, holding up a hand in defense. "I’m just trying to process... everything."

She paused, her gaze flickering to the baby's nursery room across the hallway.

"You got what you wanted," Vi continued, her voice quieter now. "You're free. And..." She looked back at you. "I'm still here."

Your eyes softened, the guilt settling on her chest all over again. "How have you been?"

Vi shrugged, looking away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "Surviving," she replied simply. "Work keeps me busy. And I..." She paused, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice, "I stay away from relationships."

You put the cup down, leaning against the counter as Vi placed her forearms on her knees. You addressed the easiest matter. "What do you do for work?"

"Security," she said. "Bouncer, security, bodyguard... take your pick. I keep an eye on things, make sure people behave."

She shrugged again, trying to downplay it. "It's just a job. Keeps the bills paid."

You nodded, taking a sip. "I'm glad you quitted stealing."

Vi let out a low chuckle. "You’re glad? Stealing was good money."

She saw the disapproving look in your eyes and smirked. "I’m kidding, calm down," she said, holding up her bandaged hand in a mock peace gesture.

You tilted your head, knowing the second matter was awkward but your curiosity was bigger. "So, no relationships?"

Vi's gaze darkened slightly. "No relationships," she confirmed, her voice flat. "I told you. I stay away from it. I'm not like you," she said, her tone almost accusatory. "I can't just..."

She broke off, sighing. "I can't just move on, Cupcake," she admitted, looking back at you with a mixture of hurt and anger.

If she only knew you couldn't move on either. If she only knew the amount of nights you breastfed Samara on your own, laying on her bed and wishing the empty space beside you would be filled with Vi's presence.

"It's been a year." You mumbled.

"Yeah, a year," she echoed, her voice quiet.

She looked down at her empty cup, fiddling with it idly. "You've moved on," she stated, not entirely a question, but the edge of hope in her tone was undeniable.

It was in that tense silence that many words could have been said. You didn't have the courage to apologize now, much less the right to ask for a second chance. You made your bed and now you must lie on it.

Violet sighed, in the distance the jingling of a clock was heard. "I have to wake up Samara." You said. "It's time for her dinner."

"Yeah, of course." She replied, her voice a little strained. “I should get going anyway." She stood up, setting the empty cup on the counter.

"Hey, no." You placed a soft hand on her forearm. "I told you I wanted you to meet her, didn't I?"

Vi paused, her eyes finding themselves locked with yours once again. She wanted to resist, her mind telling her that staying was not a good idea. But the touch of your soft hand was like a physical plea, anchoring her to this moment.

"Alright," she finally relented, her voice quiet. "I’ll stay a little longer."

They entered the room in silence. The sun snew through the curtains and filled the room with a warm halo, provided with yellow walls and a carpet carefully embroidered in brown and green tones. In the center was the crib, to which they approached carefully. Vi felt her heart in her throat, as if the situation she was in did not correspond her.

Vi looked at the creature sleeping on her crib, just a being of a few kilos wrapped in a onesie, breathing calmly. The woman had to look again to see that Samara's hair was pink.

She looked at you, her eyebrow raised in a silent question. "Pink hair?" She inquired, keeping her voice low to avoid disturbing the baby.

"I don't know where it came from." You whispered. "Connor was pretty sure the baby was someone else's..."

You ran a finger over the baby's pink hair "She's as pretty as you."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere," she quipped, trying not to show the effect those words had on her. "Does..." She paused, her voice quieter now. "Does she have a godfather?"

"Uh, not really. Mom comes to visit her from time to time." You shrugged. "It's me and her the most of the time."

"Must be quiet... lonely."

The words escaped Vi's lips before she could stop them, the image of you alone in this house with the baby stirring a feeling of protectiveness in her.

She cleared her throat. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I don't know why I said that."

"Don't worry, it is lonely..." you agreed. Vi studied the baby, just about three months old, her little hands fisted next to her head, breathing quietly in a peaceful slumber. "Do you wanna hold her?"

Vi's eyes widened slightly at the offer. "Hold her?" She repeated, her voice betraying a hint of nerves. "I don't... I mean, I've never held a baby before," she admitted quietly. "I might drop her or something."

"You won't." You chuckled. "C'mon, you'll like it."

As the baby was placed in her arms, Vi felt her heart skip a beat. Instinctively, she cradled the small bundle close to her chest, her arms finding their place around the tiny form.

Her eyes widened as she looked down at the baby's face. Samara's small limbs squirmed slightly, her tiny fists clenching and unclenching.

"Wow," Vi whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of awe and surprise. "She's... lighter than I imagined."

"But she has quite the appetite..."

"I can believe that," She couldn't help the strange feeling that settled over her. Holding this tiny being—your baby—was surreal, almost like a piece of her that she never got to have. But she pushed that feeling aside, focusing on the small face before her.

"I don't think I'm doing it right," she said, her brow furrowing as she held Samara a bit tighter.

"She's quiet, your doing fine." You said, as the baby whimpered softly.

"Yeah, for now," Vi quipped, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. "But if she starts crying, you're taking her back." Samara's tiny face scrunched up for a moment as if about to cry, but then relaxed again, nuzzling against Vi's chest.

You were drinking this scene as if it came straight out your dreams. And it was. Samara was quiet and comfy between Vi's arms, and she looked at the baby with such nervousness and tenderness that for a moment she believed Samara was hers. Yours and hers.

"She likes you..." you whispered, barely containing the tears that begun pooling on your eyes.

Vi's eyes flickered from the baby to you, noticing the tears gathering.

"Hey, what's wrong?" She asked, her tone gentler now. She shifted the baby in her arms, one hand still supporting her head.

"I couldn't move on neither, Vi." You confessed then. "Not in the slightest."

Vi felt her heart skip. “Neither?” She echoed, her voice raspy, as if the truth hit her with force.

“Why are you telling me this? Why now?” Vi asked, her voice quivering slightly.

A tear rolled down your cheek, you wiped it off quickly. "Cause I miss you, every day."

Vi's gaze darkened. "You... you can't say things like that, Cupcake," Vi said, her words tinged with pain. "Not to me."

She carefully placed Samara back into the crib, her arms feeling strangely cold without the weight of the baby against her chest.

"I'm sorry." You wiped your tears, knowing you had no right to claim Vi back. No when you broke apart because of you. "I know, I'm sorry..."

Vi moved away from the crib, her fists closing with the urge of wanting to wipe the tears off your cheeks. She felt silly for having given in, for having come to your apartment and allowing the pain to return as latent as before. She had to break the cycle or subjugate herself to it.

Samara whined on her crib, noticing the absence of Vi's warmth, to which you went to her and took her in your arms carefully, whispering to her to calm down.

"You... you two should have some time," Vi managed to say, her voice strained.

She looked at the baby in your arms, her heart tugging at the sight. That baby is supposed to be mine.

"I..." She swallowed, the lump in her throat making her voice hoarse. "I should go."

"Violet." You said, turning towards the woman on the threshold. "Thank you for coming."

You held Samara in your arms, her pink hair couldn't help but give Vi a chill. Why did someone else's creature feel so her own? She was beginning to torture herself with the scene, with her own thoughts. The woman let out a sigh and looked at you. No... not that look.

"This isn't fair." she said, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Her voice trembled as she struggled against the myriad of emotions that threatened to spill out.

She crossed the distance between them, standing a few feet apart from you and the baby. The urge to reach out, to run her fingertips across the baby's pink hair, was nearly overwhelming.

"I know it's not, Vi." You said. "But I don't have any right to ask you to stay."

Vi's resolve crumbled, she took a step closer.

"Fuck, I can't..." she mumbled, her voice cracking. "I can't do this. Not when you look at me like that and hold her like that."

"Then stop looking."

"No."

"Violet."

"Please."

You reached the back of her neck with some urgency, pulling her towards you to kiss her as you wanted so long ago. You regretted it as soon as your lips brushed, but Violet gave in as much as you.

She melted against the kiss, a soft whimper escaping her throat as she clung to you, being careful enough to not press on Samara. The pain, the longing, the regret, it all poured into that kiss. When you finally broke apart, Vi was left breathless, her heart thudding in her chest. She pressed her forehead against your, her eyes closed. She felt your breath against her lips and then... a tiny hand on her cheek. Samara was cooing, reaching out for this woman that she sensed, her mother loved deeply.

Vi let out a soft gasp, her eyes flickered open to see the baby. "Is she..." Her voice wavered, a mixture of disbelief and awe.

"Can you stay for dinner?" You asked, almost pleading her.

Your question involved much more, it was a fearful and silent request, risky but necessary. You were afraid, but Vi took Samara's fist in her hands and nodded.

"Yeah. I can stay for dinner."

[zeroseuniverse]

Colors Of Hope

Word Count: 1.3K Summary: “It’s not that simple,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “This place, these walls—they’re more than just paint and stone. They’re proof that beauty can exist even here.” “Beauty doesn’t matter if you’re dead, Sunoo.” Pairing: Sunoo X Fem Reader

Disclaimer: Please be aware that this is apart of the from the ashes series. This series will have aspects of violence, weapons, angst, blood, injuries, killing, and will heavily focus on oppression and segregation of mutants, Look after your mental state if any of these make you uncomfortable please.

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She crouched low, her fingers brushing against the cold asphalt as she inspected the latest find—a piece of polished glass, still intact despite its jagged edges. She slipped it into her satchel alongside bits of wire and scraps of metal, treasures that might serve her community.

Navigating the crumbling maze of the city required skill and silence. Her steps were careful, her breaths shallow as she avoided the shadows that hid both predators and prey. It wasn’t until she rounded a corner that she noticed something strange—a faint burst of color cutting through the monochrome.

Curiosity outweighed caution. She crept closer, her pulse quickening. What she found left her breathless.

The studio was tucked into the shell of an old warehouse, its walls painted with vibrant murals that seemed to glow even in the dim light filtering through shattered windows. Images of soaring birds, blooming flowers, and outstretched hands formed a kaleidoscope of life and hope.

She stepped inside, her boots crunching on broken glass, and froze. Someone was watching her.

A young man stood in the doorway, his head tilted slightly, a smudge of blue paint on his cheek. His dark eyes flickered with surprise, but not fear.

“You’re the first person to find this place without an invitation,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Did the colors give me away?”

She straightened, one hand instinctively hovering near her belt knife. “Kind of hard to miss the rainbow in a city of gray.”

Instead of retreating, the man stepped forward, his smile widening. “I suppose subtlety isn’t my strong suit. I’m Sunoo.”

She hesitated before answering. “Y/N.”

Sunoo gestured to the room around them. “Well, now that you’ve found my little sanctuary, would you like a tour? Or are you here to criticize my color palette?”

Despite herself, she laughed, a rare sound in this world. “It’s bold, I’ll give you that.”

She followed him deeper into the studio, marveling at the sculptures made from twisted metal and shattered glass, the paintings that transformed discarded scraps into masterpieces. For a moment, she forgot about the dangers outside, lost in the beauty Sunoo had created.

But the world didn’t let anyone forget for long. The first time she brought Sunoo something—a handful of colorful shards she’d found near an abandoned train yard—she told herself it was nothing. Just something he might find useful. But when she saw his face light up as he turned the pieces over in his hands, she felt something stir within her.

“These are perfect,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Do you know how rare it is to find glass like this?”

She shrugged. “It was just lying around.”

He smiled at her, warm and genuine. “You didn’t have to bring it, though. Thank you.”

That was the beginning of their exchange. Over time, her scavenging runs became as much about survival as they were about finding materials for Sunoo. In return, he started leaving small paintings or sketches for her to find—a flower tucked into her bag, a sunrise etched onto a piece of scrap wood.

“You should try painting sometime,” he said one day as they sat together, watching the light shift across the murals.

She shook her head. “I don’t have the time. Or patience.”

He chuckled. “That’s what you think. But art doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to mean something.”

For the first time in years, she wondered if there was more to life than just surviving.

Sunoo’s studio became a second home, a rare refuge from the unrelenting hardships of the city. She found herself returning often, drawn by Sunoo’s warmth and the vibrant world he created within those crumbling walls.

One day, as she brought him a bundle of old wiring and a cracked mirror, she noticed the strain in his features. He hadn’t greeted her with his usual teasing smile, and his brushstrokes were slower, less confident.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, leaning against the table piled with half-finished sculptures.

He hesitated, his fingers gripping the brush tightly. “I heard rumors yesterday. The regime’s been cracking down harder on anything they think spreads... hope.”

Her stomach tightened. “Hope?”

He nodded, setting the brush down with a sigh. “Art, music, stories—anything that reminds people there’s more to life than fear. They’re calling it ‘subversive.’” His gaze fell to the mural he’d been working on, a depiction of hands reaching toward a glowing light. “It’s only a matter of time before they find me.”

Her voice hardened. “Then you need to be ready to leave. This place isn’t worth your life.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “This place, these walls—they’re more than just paint and stone. They’re proof that beauty can exist even here.”

“Beauty doesn’t matter if you’re dead, Sunoo.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she thought she’d pushed him too far. But then he sighed, leaning back against the wall. “Maybe you’re right. But leaving this place feels like giving up.”

“You’re not giving up,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re surviving. And you can keep creating somewhere safer. The people you’ve inspired—they’ll remember. And they’ll keep fighting.”

For the first time, she saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “You really believe that?”

“I do,” she said firmly. “And if you don’t, I’ll make you believe it.”

The regime’s crackdown came sooner than either of them expected. Sunoo’s studio wasn’t just a hidden sanctuary anymore—it had become a beacon for the community, a place where people dared to gather and dream.

When patrols began sweeping the area, she knew they were running out of time.

“We have to go,” she said, her voice urgent as she packed his tools and smaller sculptures into a bag.

Sunoo hesitated, his gaze darting to the murals that covered the walls. “I can’t leave them behind. If they destroy this...”

“They’ll destroy it whether you’re here or not,” she snapped. “The only way to save any of this is to save yourself. You can start again, Sunoo. You can rebuild.”

His shoulders slumped, but he nodded, his resolve crumbling under her words. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll take what we can carry,” she said. “The rest... we’ll have to trust the people you’ve inspired to remember. To keep it alive.”

As they worked quickly, packing supplies and dismantling portable pieces, they heard the distant rumble of boots on the street outside.

“They’re close,” Sunoo whispered, fear flickering in his eyes.

She grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Then we move now.”

She led Sunoo through the city’s twisting alleys, her familiarity with its hidden routes keeping them one step ahead of the patrols. The bag of supplies weighed heavily on her back, but she didn’t slow down, her grip firm on Sunoo’s wrist.

When they reached the edge of the city, where the rubble gave way to the overgrown remains of a park, she finally let them rest.

Sunoo collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving. “We made it.”

“For now,” she said, scanning the area for signs of pursuit. “But we need to keep moving. The safe house isn’t far.”

He looked at her, his expression a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. “I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she said, her voice soft. “I believe in what you’re doing, Sunoo. That’s why I couldn’t let them take you.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of everything they’d left behind settling over them. Then Sunoo reached into the bag he’d insisted on carrying and pulled out a small, rolled-up canvas.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A piece of the mural,” he said, unrolling it to reveal a fragment of the hands reaching toward the light. “I couldn’t save it all, but I couldn’t leave this behind.”

Her throat tightened as she looked at the painting. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a reminder,” he said, his voice quiet. “That even in the darkest places, there’s always something worth reaching for.”

She met his gaze, and for the first time, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find something more than survival in this broken world.

[serpentface]

Janeys about to win his first ever duel to the death, mostly by virtue of being a less shitty swordsman than his opponent.

DUELING IN IMPERIAL WARDIN

Dueling is partially legal in Imperial Wardin, with official duels overseen and regulated by authority figures, and unoffical duels regulated largely by social contract. This form of combat allows disputes, accusations, acts of vengeance, and slights of honor to be settled outside of court or pure interpersonal violence. Ritualized aspects of the practice act as a sort of self-regulation, allowing scores to be settled while dissuading the developments of outright feuds.

No one is materially compelled to accept a challenge to a duel, but refusing can be a tricky maneuver. In many cases, this will be taken as cowardice and a stain on the challenged party's honor and masculinity, and may add significant fuel to the challenger's accusations. The circumstances where it is socially 'safe' to refuse are when the challenger is VASTLY physically outmatched, or is of markedly lower status or otherwise seen as a social inferior (being lower class, a eunuch/woman/akoshos, an infamously dishonored party, a sex worker, etc), though even this can be risky depending on the circumstances.

Women and akoshos cannot be challenged in duels, nor can they Legally be challengers (with a very specific exception for Odonii priestesses, who have men's legal rights), though they can indirectly do so via a male relation acting as their proxy in combat. The alternative is not Entirely unheard of, but very rare, and rarer still that a male opponent will accept. The concept is, however, a motif in heroic folktales wherein a young woman disguises herself as a man and enters into a duel to avenge the murder of her brother or another family member. In most variants, this is cast as a heroic as an act of extreme familial piety, with her masculinization being an entirely temporary means of doing so (which is immediately abandoned post-duel).

Once the challenge is accepted, both parties will negotiate terms through a proxy (by convention, this is a blood relative or other legal kin). This decides the time and location of the match, as well as its stakes. The majority of duels are Not to the death, rather to a lesser end- first blood, incapacitation, submission, etc. In fully legal duels, this agreement is submitted to a local authority and its terms become legally enforceable. Even in 'off the books' duels, the terms will generally be enforced by overwhelming social contract. There is effectively no backing out once the formal agreements have been made. One party not showing up at the agreed time and place effectively concedes a victorious social high ground to their opponent, but without the matter being 'settled' (encouraging further escalation).

Legally, duels must either be fought on private property or outside of city limits (as wearing a weapon in any of the capital cities is illegal for most civilians). You can find semi-legal underground dueling sites in most of the cities, though this tends to be associated with the petty, dirty squabblings of commoners and most nobility will opt to fight in the countryside.

Duels are typically overseen by a neutral third party, with legal duels being specifically officiated by a socially protected individual (usually a priest) who directs the ritual elements of the proceedings and observes and records its outcome. The arena is measured out in a circle approximately twelve paces wide, and marked with stakes and a binding of sanctified amenchil rope wound left to right. This form of binding is broadly used in cultural practice to delineate and spiritually protect sacred spaces (wound right to left in these contexts). Its reversed use in duels provides a regulatory psychological function- the arena becomes a segregated liminal space, and the rest of the world is symbolically bound with a protective barrier, keeping the violence of the dispute confined to this space and time.

Additionally, both combatants (and their familial proxies) swear a binding oath (before a holy relic in priest-officiated duels) - swearing to obey pre-negotiated terms and rules, and declaring that the victor shall be recognized as the righteous party and that the outcome of the duel wholly resolves the dispute. Being bound to such an oath might not settle things on an emotional level, but HEAVILY disincentivizes a duel starting or worsening family feuds- even in fatal duels, the defeated party's family has no justification to demand a blood price or avenge their slain kin, or otherwise commit direct reprisals over the dispute (and would be breaking a solemn oath before God, which will have consequences).

Both parties prepare themselves to fight. Exact traditions vary across the region, but duels are near-ubiquitously fought unarmored with a single blade (sometimes, but not always, replaced by staffs or blunted swords for non-fatal fights). In the south of the region (as depicted here), it's traditional to fight topless with one's cloak clasped around their hips and hair bound into a topknot (the gull feather here is not a dueling norm, but it's lucky).

Both combatants enter the ring and stand at opposing sides, and the dual begins at the overseer's signal. The challenging party is not permitted to make the first attack, and instead must dodge or block their opponent's first swing before they can begin to retaliate. The duel will then proceed to its pre-negotiated ending.

There are additional compacts that direct the fighting. Fleeing from the arena is an automatic loss (and an EXTREME stain on one's honor and masculinity). If the combat spills out past the boundaries, it must be halted and the arena entirely moved and re-bound before restarting. Surrender is possible even in fatal fights, and it is generally taboo to kill an opponent who has verbally declared defeat (as they have lost the duel in doing so, and the matter is thus settled- proceeding further is murder). These rules will be enforced by the authority in legally overseen fights, and are largely (though not universally) enforced by social convention in illegal duels.

Upon resolution, the winner extracts a verbal affirmation of their victory from the loser (if they survived), or from the loser's familial proxy (if they didn't). In some traditions, they are specifically permitted to cut the loser's hair (which is a humiliating and somewhat emasculating act, only adolescent boys (and mourners) wear their hair short in most of the Wardi cultural sphere). A winner who feels the loser fought/died valiantly or is otherwise highly respectable may abstain, as a means of protecting their opponent's dignity. The resolution of the fight ostensibly concludes the dispute, with the winning party justified as righteous in their cause, and gaining social capital and Masc Points in their victory.