#Mirachi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

raisindave · 4 months

Text

[Chapter 17] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Themes of sexual assault and depictions of unwanted sexual advances.

It took half a mind not to bite the man. Lash out in raw, feral fury and take out at least one of his eyes. Succumb to your mind’s screaming to descend into a slobbering, gnashing blur of nails and teeth, all growing more and more tempting with every lingering second Aleksandr Ogievich’s hand rested on your lower back. You could do it, too. Take a bite out of his blubbery cheek before he can even register your movement. Your mouth’s proximity to his throat made your thoughts of massacre trickle into your mind. That steady trickle became a thundering waterfall whenever he’d take a breath from blabbering about his Wife’s insistence on buying a second summer home in Monaco and glide his stocky fingers over your ass.

No. Continue twirling his tie between your fingers and steeling your nerves. This is all intel Laswell and co. are watching through your necklace and hearing every vile utterance through the bangle you strategically kept held over his chest. Your coos of affection were so fake, so soulless, though he seemed to lap it up. His breath reeked of olives and vodka, though every slick mouthful of the clear liquid that slid down his gullet sparked growing confidence that he’d get looser with his conversing. Sooner or later, he’ll shut the fuck up about all the grand and expensive things he’s been up to, and the glassy eyes of the target of Ogievich’s dialogue said he shared the same sentiment.

Between giggles and delighted squeals, you occasionally dared to swing your eyes over the growing crowd, moody dim lighting making it increasingly difficult to identify faces since daylight had been extinguished. The woman with the white lipstick from earlier was teetering a shot of either vodka or tequila between her tits, gleefully gulped by a man in snakeskin loafers. The glint of a wedding ring on his left finger forced you to redirect a bursting laugh into a stifled cough. He turned and caught your eyes. Fuck. You waved with fluttering fingers, turning to snuggle closer to your vapid paramore, enraptured by his opinions about authentic Russian vodka.

“That’s Lucia Chacón. He’s the leading presidential candidate for the upcoming Venezuelan election,” Laswell spoke into your ear breathlessly, seeming shocked by the identification.

It was just your luck that the president-elect was swaggering towards you. Your heart sank to a depth you’d never thought possible. You looked away again, begging that dodging eye contact would make him magically disappear into the thunderous, bassy roar of the booming Mirachi music. Feigning giving the Russian diplomat your rapt attention, nodding along attentively. Nope, a shadow darkening your peripheral said otherwise.

“Aren’t you a precious thing,” he cooed in attempted confidence, betrayed by his fumbling English pronunciation.

You blinked dumbly, flicking the gum over your teeth in a snapping pop, offering him a pouting smile. The orc beside you finally recognized the additional presence, huffing into a breathy chortle, making your head that was planted over his shoulder shake in the commotion.

“Ah, Lucia! Good to see you again,” he spoke, oozing the smell of warm olives and liquor over you, “This n’ doesn’t speak. Well, she does, but only Russian.” He slapped his hand on your ass. You disguised barred teeth as a dumbfounded smile.

“Hah, well, you know me,” his palms tilted upwards in an enthusiastic show, “the less talkin’ they do, the better, hey?” the president-elect clamoured, playfully nudging Ogievich’s other shoulder.

Another bellowing laugh. To sell the illusion, you smiled sweetly, turning to look over your shoulder at something in the distance to imply you had no knowledge of their dialogue. In a sick and twisted way, you were pleased that people like Graves were watching an interaction like this through your communicators.

“You know me, Lucia, I’m never shy of sharing my toys,” your companion blurted, the implication sending a chill down your spine as your mind connected with his affiliation with human trafficking back home. “But not this one. She’s my little slice of the motherland,” he retorted in his thick Russian accent.

“Oh, come on, let me take this sweetness off your hands,” he urged, with fumbling pronunciation.

“Wars have been started for less,” Ogievich responded, cheeks glinting with crimson as the alcohol was beginning to work its magic.

That’s when you saw it. Saw her. A slim, relatively tall woman with brown hair and blonde highlights, an oddly lax red dress sat on her shoulders, implying it wasn’t her native wardrobe. Though, to be fair, yours wasn’t either. The sight was just for a moment. A flicker of a visual that made your heart skip before she disappeared into the dim crowd. Adrenaline surging through your veins commanded your feet to rise, but dutiful compliance to the undercover appearance glued you to the couch. Wait for the right time. The angle of your chest mustn’t have caught what you just witnessed; else Laswell, on overwatch, would have chirped into your ear again. You need to get off this fuckers lap, find Samantha, if that’s even her, and communicate the info to the task force that’s lurking somewhere in the inky darkness.

You murmured in your partner’s ear that you needed to visit the lady's room, but the way he rudely waved you off made you confident that you would be easily excused. Standing, you paradoxically lifted and lowered your dress, taking a moment to gather your hips to sway as you sauntered toward the interior cabin area of the boat. Your pounding heels thumped over the planks of the deck, thoroughly muffled by the eccentric music. Taking your time to link eyes with every passing stranger, exchanging a sultry look, all as a veiled attempt to ensure overwatch can gather as many faces as possible. The indoor section of the boat was no less noisy, only slightly more muffled. A sloping, modern art bar was kept exceptionally tidy by waiting staff who shovelled out shots and cocktails to boisterous patrons. Taking quick, efficient steps through the mass of people on crunching tippy toes thanks to your shitty stilettos, you sidled your way through the crowd.

Pale grey eyes met yours. You felt your facial muscles drop. As quickly as your eyes had connected, she dropped your stare, her gaze low and submissive. She looked like hell. Heavy-handed red lipstick covered a busted lip, telltale bruises on her biceps in the shape of fingertips said a thousand words. Eyes on the target, you adjusted your necklace in a camouflaged attempt to ensure Laswell sees what you’re seeing. Despite overstaying your visit with your lingering stare, you even identified that stick-and-poke smiley face on her hand that was wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. It took a concentrated effort to lower your shoulders from the newly induced stress and additional effort to will your face back into an indifferent but sultry scowl.

No response from overwatch on your discovery stuck in your mind like a snagged thread, but you surged forward regardless. That’s her, there’s no doubt.

Why is Laswell being silent? Is she still watching? Fuck, maybe there’s no signal in here, and I’m flying dark. Oh God, what if there’s a signal blocker or some sort of tracker to identify spyware…I have to get off this fucking boat.

Knocking on a bathroom door down a dimly lit hallway, you didn't even bother to wait for a response before you fucked behind the thick wood door. The bathroom was small, tidy and contemporary, with gleaming white porcelain and matte black metalwork piping along with warmly coloured wood-panelled walls. Small, barely wide enough to fully extend your arms, though at this point you had a seeming affinity for finding closets to hide in.

“Laswell, how copy?” you raised your bangle to your lips, sliding your fingers over the smooth bracelet to see if there was some kind of activate switch.

Radio silence, save for a faint crackle in your earpiece. You were half a second away from frantically scrambling onto the deck to get ahold of any friendly voice, regardless of suspicions, before you heard a sound through your ear.

“Cricket, solid copy,” Laswell breathed into your ear, hearing the sounds of paper rustling in the background.

From what you gathered, the copy didn’t sound solid, but you had no authority to question her message's validity. You found yourself gripping the lone porcelain sink, hands on either side and staring deeply into the backlit mirror. A twang of horror prickled down your spine as you realized you were offering a full mirror view down your tight dress from this angle, and your posture snapped to attention.

“The target has been identified as present,” you said sternly, finding yourself out of breath as you whispered, “I repeat, the target has been identified.”

More silence. Utter silence. Deafening, nerve-wracking silence. Something’s up.

“Understood. Return to the party and stand by for instructions.” She finally responded.

“Rog.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Before you could blink, you were slinking back to your paunchy companion, curling your calf around his knee in a relaxed seated position. Marín was chatting with your guest, making a tight circle between the cartel boss, president-elect, and your human-trafficking companion. Boxdye from earlier sat on Lucia’s lap, running long painted fingernails over the collar of his shirt, glinting in the dim light. She caught your eyes, and met yours with a surprising visage of compassion, like she was murmuring keep your chin up girl, you got this, with her eyes. Just then, the dialogue took an unexpected 180 from idle chatter about quarterly reports.

“So I heard the Yanks got their hands on some Team China uniforms the other day,” Armundo Marín spoke in smooth Spanish into the clinking glass of iced rum he slipped under his moustache, his voice stony and unsettling.

“I heard that too,” Lucia, the Venezuelan president-elect from earlier, concurred.

Your guest groaned in agreeance as he plopped another cracker topped with caviar and olives into his mouth, the heaping treat threatening to spill onto his proud blue rose on his lapel.

Uniforms. That familiar code word. A million thoughts washed through your skull like turbulent waves, churning and forceful. You felt your fingertips go cold, joints buckle, scalp pinprickling with trepidation. Could that code mean what you think it meant? How could they know? No, it can’t be. Your mission was British in origin, using SAS equipment and soldiers. This has to be something else. The self-soothing thoughts did nothing to dissuade your mind from heaving over every possible outcome in nauseating detail. Are there more warheads? Had your team just scratched the surface? Maybe they hadn’t even been reported as missing yet. No, it couldn’t be a regular thing that nuclear warheads go missing. Right?

This was something you had to relay to overwatch as soon as possible. After all, it’s not your job to determine the weight of each message. Just report information. It’s not your job to understand international affairs, and even less so to know the inner mechanisms of every nationality’s artillery movement. Still, there was a lingering sense of dread resting in the base of your throat, laying dormant but ever-present.

Boxdye doing a sultry dance to a particularly sensual song that came on enraptured enough of the local's attention to let you dexterously disappear from sight. Slipping into a small closet, off one of the half dozen bedrooms that you reckoned were scarcely used for sleeping, you tucked yourself into the oddly comforting tight space. Hangers clambered at the intrusion, bumped by your sudden movements, which you frantically quieted with hushing fingers. The split-second action gave you precious moments to gather the billions of words that rattled through your mind in order to create a cohesive sentence.

“Actual, this is Cricket. I-” your voice caught in your throat, “One of the guests mentioned Yankees having uniforms , said in a similar context to…”

“Understood,” Laswell responded, now hearing hurried typing from her microphone.

Footsteps, echoing down the carpeted hallway, said you had seconds to evacuate. You could risk hiding, but that could have disastrous consequences. Life-ending consequences. Weighing your options in a matter of nanoseconds, you gauged that the best option would be to surrender to your camouflage and feign as a drunk hooker who got lost on her way to the powder room. Occam's razor would favour that over an undercover spy radioing to HQ to report a nuclear weapon plot.

“Ah, M-Mister Marín,” you purred, fumbling and planting a delicate hand on the chest of his suit, “I- Um, I-” you feigned being drunk, sloppy and ditzy, but most importantly, innocent. “I have too much vodka-” you interrupted your own speech with a squealing giggle.

“You’re a funny one,” he murmured back, tangoing with your artificially drunken self to hand you upright, hand swaying on your lower back “but my sweet, I must confess... your nails are unacceptable .” He clicked his tongue, wrapping gruff fingers around your knuckle to show your mangled cuticles from nervous picking and a distinct lack of polish.

You couldn’t afford to look shocked. You could hardly even afford to register what he was saying. Eyes flickered to your nails, and they were indeed oddly bare. Hardly something you’d expect from a seasoned escort. Fuck. Fuck .

“I didn’t pay Julien top dollar for second best now, did I?” he whispered in your ear rhetorically in a sinister tone, oozing with implication. What felt like minutes passed of him horrifyingly waltzing with your fumbling feet, still dedicating every atom of your body to commit to your act, else your life is forfeit, “Understood, little dove?”

Biting your lip, you smiled dutifully, squeezing your eyes shut before looking up with your sweetest puppy eyes. He seemed satisfied, turning and humming down the hall, one could easily get whiplash from how suddenly his tone changed from hostile to pleased. You felt your upper lip threatening to curl. Gravity begged your knees to buckle under you, and you suddenly became all too aware of the constricting nature of your tight dress on your ribs, exponentially increasing your sudden breathlessness.

“-Oh, and hurry on to the deck now. We’ll be giving the locals a sendoff before we ship off.”

“W-Water?” you gestured to the window that faced the sea, thick Russian accent rolling off your tongue as you gave yourself an imaginary pause to consider the right word.

“Yes, little dove, we’re going for a joyride.” He snapped his fingers in a flinging motion, urging you to make haste to whatever position you were expected to assume. In reality, a new level of panic surged into you. A level of energy no human should be exposed to, like a blast of radioactive energy scrambling the atoms in the body of a helpless scientist at Chornobyl. This could get very messy, very fast.

<< Prev Chapter Next Chapter>>

Master List

2 notes · View notes

big-gay-bird · 11 months

Text

I have kinda a stream on consciousness a lot the I/P stuff I need to get off my chest. I expect it piss off everyone, so I am putting it under a cut.

I just need to say something outloud and my loving gf has listened to me enough.

Some of this rooted in formal education, some is just my understanding. I am not gonna to dig up sources.

Palestine has been home to many different cultural groups for centuries. That includes a lot of different religious practices and unique histories too

Palestine was occupied, as much of the Middle East was at the time, by colonial forces like England between the world wars.

Historically displaced Jews facing antisemitic violence have at times chosen to go Palestine as they felt it was the best option in the face of a lot of shitty ones. (These are Jews whose homes were either burned down or occupied by others.)

After the Shoah, Europe and the US looked at the hundreds of thousands of newly freed Jewish people and said “instead of doing the slow painful work of getting you your original homes and communities back and stable, we’re just gonna send you somewhere else and give you some stuff to figure it and do the work yourself.”

The US actually weighed bringing them all to Alaska at the time but Palestine was chosen.

Out of a desire to, I believe, not have to deal with it, the US and Europe gave the brand new Israel all it needed to do whatever the hell it wanted to do. They didn’t want to actually help displaced people, but they had to do something so we wouldn’t show up in their own countries and require their help.

This began a multiple generations long genocide driven in part by a deep fear that Jewish peoples were no longer safe anywhere in the world so a iron oppressive grip on “Israel” was necessary. Were the early Zionists wrong to be afraid? No. Were they wrong to commit acts of genocide against Palestinian out of that fear? Of course, there were other ways to make a safe place for Jews, and the US and Europe absolutely knew that but they didn’t care enough to reign anyone in (at literally any point.)

I want to state at this point, I despise the way the Israeli government and the IDF especially has taken advantage of Jewish inter generational trauma and fear.

Now are the refugees of the Shoah and their descendants the only Jewish refugees in Israel currently? No! Not by a long shot! There are Jewish refugees from all over the world living in Israel to escape antisemitic violence. Yes this includes groups such as Ethiopian Jews who are not in any way shape or form white! They came to Israel specifically for a reason. To say Israeli citizens are all white is wild af as Israel, to my knowledge, is how to some of the most racially diverse communities of Jews?

Does being a refugee entitle you to genocide of indigenous people? No! Of course not! Refugees and how to support them in ways that keep them safe while not fucking over indigenous populations is an important international conversation that the west is objectively not ready to participate in and it sucks! A lot!!!

I keep hearing “I support all indigenous Palestinians, if you’re Jewish and Palestinian you’re ok!” But a lot of Jewish people in that area are not going to ID as Palestinian! A lot will ID as Mirachi or Sephardi, two identities I will bet that most gentile USAians don’t know much about!

So now getting into this conflict.

What is happening to Palestine currently is genocide plan and simple. The immensity of War crimes committed by the IDF and is isreali government is something I will do everything in my power to see prosecuted. It should not be happening full stop. It is also transparently an apartheid, which is also unacceptable. There absolutely racism being used to target and dehumanize Palestinians. It ALL has to stop and I have organized around this idea in the past.

Westerns who do not know people in the P/I area or do not have people in community that do know people there, are getting their news filtered to them. I understand that, and I understand there is A LOT of propaganda at work.

However I am literally begging leftists to believe average Isreali person who may have a lot of the same beliefs you do in all this. “Unconfirmed” in a war zone does not mean untrue. (Though I also believe the governments repeating it as fact is causing more harm all around too so like there is a little middle ground here.) I am not asking leftist to believe Netanyahu or the IDF, I am asking them to believe people who are literally there living through this who are not all white women.

I am also begging people to understand that not all Jews have a planes to hop on to leave. The reason why you are hearing from those American Jews who did is because they are American and they are more easy to access by news reporters in the US.

It is an absolute shit show over there and everyone has a bias! That is part of existing! It’s ok to have questions and note where accounts disagree, but to assume Jews are always the ones lying because you think they’re all white western colonializers or something actually is antisemitism!

Also I don’t think gentiles understand that Netanyahu and IDF are counting on your antisemitism. They are counting on you making the US unsafe for Jews. They look all this shit that’s being said and say “see, the leftists want you and your loved ones dead. They’ll assume you’re lying. The only safe place that cares about you is here.” So you want to be a real anti-Zionist? You help us fight that propaganda by being both a Palestinian AND a Jewish ally. I promise it is so possible to be both.

3 notes · View notes