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niqhtlord01 · 11 months ago

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Humans are weird: What must be done

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps) (meeting screens fizzle on one by one)

High Commander: Thank you all for attending this alliance conference.

High Commander: I know many of you are scattered across the quadrant, so this conference will have to do for now.

Volgond: Is it not unwise to meet over a transmitted conference?

Vologond: Our enemies could hack into the signal and gain a tactical advantage from our discussions.

Primary C: (In robotic voice) This outcome is unlikely.

Primary C: My people are encrypting the signal with an ever morphing signal frequency that not even our enemies most advanced machines could detect.

Primary C: Only a Cythogen can detect and translate the signal for it to be understandable.

High Commander: To which we are grateful you have contributed your people’s talents to the war effort.

Vologond: (Grumbles) I would still insist our next meeting be in person.

High Commander: Noted.

High Commander: We shall begin with updates along the northern front with Sun Bearer Arthrix.

Sun Bearer Arthrix: We’ve made great strides in recent months in the Hepestus cluster. Three systems have fallen to our forces there but our supply lines now are dangerously spread thin. Our enemies have taken note of this and begun raiding our supply convoys with ever increasing ferocity stalling our campaign.

High Commander: I will dispatch the 4th and 5th reserve fleets to begin escort duties which should alleviate the pressure. In the meantime consolidate the new territories you have captured until you are ready for continued operations.

Sun Bearer Arthrix: It will be done.

High Commander: Now (flips through some pages) for the ongoing battle for Merina, have you made any progress General Anthony?

General Anthony: The world now rests entirely within alliance hands.

(Several gasps and looks of surprise among the gathered alien commanders)

High Commander: You can confirm this?

General Anthony: Aside from the occasional squad or two of enemy forces that escaped the final battle all major installations and population centers are under terrain control. The previously mentioned scattered survivors are being hunted down now.

Taskmaster Folgar: I find this unbelievable.

General Anthony: Careful now, I may take that as an insult.

Taskmaster Folgar: It took me over a year to establish a beachhead on that planet and my forces were nearly wiped out by the automated defense systems employed. Yet you come along and relieve me of my command and suddenly the planet falls within a month?

(murmurs of commanders heard over the background)

High Commander: While it begrudges me to ask this, can you present proof of the conquest?

General Anthony: (says nothing as screen changes to live feed from Merina)

(The feed shows Terran soldiers patrolling through the shattered remnants of once proud cities that had been protected by advanced sky energy domes that blocked orbital fire and walls lined with powerful automated plasma cannons that annihilated enemies from several miles away

Walls of the fortress cities were cracked wide open and shattered in many places. Many of the fierce automated guns now lay broken and battered on the ground and the ones that still were atop the battlements were being dismantled by terrain engineers to send back to their R&D departments)

General Anthony: Our enemies became complacent while they hid behind their walls; so assured of their durability that once they were breached they lacked the ability to mount a suitable defense.

Primary C: How did you breach the walls?

Taskmaster Folgar: I wish to know this as well.

General Anthony: It was rather simple really.

General Anthony: While observing the enemy we noticed that the automated guns would not fire on an area if they detected one of their own within to projected blast radius.

Primary C: No doubt a safety feature built into the weapons targeting parameters to prevent friendly fire incidents.

General Anthony: (Nods) That is what we figured as well.

General Anthony: So over the course of a month we captured as many enemy soldiers as we could-

Taskmaster Folgar: (Scoffs) We tried interrogating them before and they gave up no useful information.

General Anthony: (Glares at the taskmaster before continuing)- and loaded them on to trucks packed with explosives.

High Commander: You did what?

General Anthony: We then remotely controlled those same trucks to drive directly into the base of the wall segments our engineers determined that if damaged would trigger a structural collapse of the entire-

High Commander: YOU DID WHAT?!

General Anthony: These interruptions are quite tiresome now.

Taskmaster Folgar: Do you have any idea the violations of war you have committed?

High Commander: You will be stripped of your rank for such actions!

General Anthony: And what of you then, High Commander?

High Commander: Me?

General Anthony: When you gave me the order to relieve the Taskmaster you told me that you wanted Merina captured by any means necessary.

General Anthony: (Emphasizing) “By any means necessary”.

General Anthony: I followed your orders to the letter and captured the world; so it is you yourself that has ordered any such violations.

High Commander: Do not think you can twist my words to get yourself out of-

General Anthony: (cuts in) Primary C, would you not state that my actions were the most efficient method to bring about the end of a costly conflict?

Primary C: (Silent as it calculates)

Primary C: While removing the organic factor of “honor” and “morality”, I compute that your actions did resolve the matter of Merina without further losses to manpower and resources.

General Anthony: And taskmaster, dear taskmaster; when you spent over a year attempting to crack the planets defenses how many of your men did you lose?

Taskmaster Folgar: That is not the-

General Anthony: How. Many?

Taskmaster Folgar: (Remains silent)

General Anthony: That is what I thought.

General Anthony: (Turns to address High Commander) You cannot give me an order and ask it be completed by any means necessary and not expect me to follow your instructions to the letter.

High Commander: Do you not have a soul?

High Commander: Do you feel nothing for those you sent to their deaths?

General Anthony: Such is the nature of all those who hold positions of power.

General Anthony: But if you must know I was the one who escorted the prisoners to the trucks myself, and they were quite enthusiastic about it.

High Commander: What?

General Anthony: Yes. I told them that they were going home and they hopped right in.

#humans are weird #humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Brian Merchant’s “Blood In the Machine”

Tomorrow (September 27), I'll be at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles with Brian Merchant for a joint launch for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine. On October 2, I'll be in Boise to host an event with VE Schwab.

In Blood In the Machine, Brian Merchant delivers the definitive history of the Luddites, and the clearest analysis of the automator's playbook, where "entrepreneurs'" lawless extraction from workers is called "innovation" and "inevitable":

https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/brian-merchant/blood-in-the-machine/9780316487740/

History is written by the winners, and so you probably think of the Luddites as brainless, terrified, thick-fingered vandals who smashed machines and burned factories because they didn't understand them. Today, "Luddite" is a slur that means "technophobe" – but that's neither fair, nor accurate.

Luddism has been steadily creeping into pro-labor technological criticism, as workers and technology critics reclaim the term and its history, which is a rich and powerful tale of greed versus solidarity, slavery versus freedom.

The true tale of the Luddites starts with workers demanding that the laws be upheld. When factory owners began to buy automation systems for textile production, they did so in violation of laws that required collaboration with existing craft guilds – laws designed to ensure that automation was phased in gradually, with accommodations for displaced workers. These laws also protected the public, with the guilds evaluating the quality of cloth produced on the machine, acting as a proxy for buyers who might otherwise be tricked into buying inferior goods.

Factory owners flouted these laws. Though the machines made cloth that was less durable and of inferior weave, they sold it to consumers as though it were as good as the guild-made textiles. Factory owners made quiet deals with orphanages to send them very young children who were enslaved to work in their factories, where they were routinely maimed and killed by the new machines. Children who balked at the long hours or attempted escape were viciously beaten (the memoir of one former child slave became a bestseller and inspired Oliver Twist).

The craft guilds begged Parliament to act. They sent delegations, wrote petitions, even got Members of Parliament to draft legislation ordering enforcement of existing laws. Instead, Parliament passed laws criminalizing labor organizing.

The stakes were high. Economic malaise and war had driven up the price of life's essentials. Workers displaced by illegal machines faced starvation – as did their children. Communities were shattered. Workers who had apprenticed for years found themselves graduating into a market that had no jobs for them.

This is the context in which the Luddite uprisings began. Secret cells of workers, working with discipline and tight organization, warned factory owners to uphold the law. They sent letters and posted handbills in which they styled themselves as the army of "King Ludd" or "General Ludd" – Ned Ludd being a mythical figure who had fought back against an abusive boss.

When factory owners ignored these warnings, the Luddites smashed their machines, breaking into factories or intercepting machines en route from the blacksmith shops where they'd been created. They won key victories, with many factory owners backing off from automation plans, but the owners were deep-pocketed and determined.

The ruling Tories had no sympathy for the workers and no interest in upholding the law or punishing the factory owners for violating it. Instead, they dispatched troops to the factory towns, escalating the use of force until England's industrial centers were occupied by literal armies of soldiers. Soldiers who balked at turning their guns on Luddites were publicly flogged to death.

I got very interested in the Luddites in late 2021, when it became clear that everything I thought I knew about the Luddites was wrong. The Luddites weren't anti-technology – rather, they were doing the same thing a science fiction writer does: asking not just what a new technology does, but also who it does it for and who it does it to:

https://locusmag.com/2022/01/cory-doctorow-science-fiction-is-a-luddite-literature/

Unsurprisingly, ever since I started publishing on this subject, I've run into people who have no sympathy for the Luddite cause and who slide into my replies to replicate the 19th Century automation debate. One such person accused the Luddites of using "state violence" to suppress progress.

You couldn't ask for a more perfect example of how the history of the Luddites has been forgotten and replaced with a deliberately misleading account. The "state violence" of the Luddite uprising was entirely on one side. Parliament, under the lackadaisical leadership of "Mad King George," imposed the death penalty on the Luddites. It wasn't just machine-breaking that became a capital crime – "oath taking" (swearing loyalty to the Luddites) also carried the death penalties.

As the Luddites fought on against increasingly well-armed factory owners (one owner bought a cannon to use on workers who threatened his machines), they were subjected to spectacular acts of true state violence. Occupying soldiers rounded up Luddites and suspected Luddites and staged public mass executions, hanging them by the dozen, creating scores widows and fatherless children.

The sf writer Steven Brust says that the test to tell whether someone is on the right or the left is simple: ask whether property rights are more important than human rights. If the person says "property rights are human rights," they are on the right.

The state response to the Luddites crisply illustrates this distinction. The Luddites wanted an orderly and lawful transition to automation, one that brought workers along and created shared prosperity and quality goods. The craft guilds took pride in their products, and saw themselves as guardians of their industry. They were accustomed to enjoying a high degree of bargaining power and autonomy, working from small craft workshops in their homes, which allowed them to set their own work pace, eat with their families, and enjoy modest amounts of leisure.

The factory owners' cause wasn't just increased production – it was increased power. They wanted a workforce that would dance to their tune, work longer hours for less pay. They wanted unilateral control over which products they made and what corners they cut in making those products. They wanted to enrich themselves, even if that meant that thousands starved and their factory floors ran red with the blood of dismembered children.

The Luddites destroyed machines. The factory owners killed Luddites, shooting them at the factory gates, or rounding them up for mass executions. Parliament deputized owners to act as extensions of law enforcement, allowing them to drag suspected Luddites to their own private cells for questioning.

The Luddites viewed property rights as just one instrument for achieving human rights – freedom from hunger and cold – and when property rights conflicted with human rights, they didn't hesitate to smash the machines. For them, human rights trumped property rights.

Their bosses – and their bosses' modern defenders – saw the demands to uphold the laws on automation as demands to bring "state violence" to bear on the wholly private matter of how a rich man should organize his business. On the other hand, literal killing – both on the factory floor and at the gallows – was not "state violence" but rather, a defense of the most important of all the human rights: the rights of property owners.

19th century textile factories were the original Big Tech, and the rhetoric of the factory owners echoes down the ages. When tech barons like Peter Thiel say that "freedom is incompatible with democracy," he means that letting people who work for a living vote will eventually lead to limitations on people who own things for a living, like him.

Then, as now, resistance to Big Tech enjoyed widespread support. The Luddites couldn't have organized in their thousands if their neighbors didn't have their backs. Shelley and Byron wrote widely reproduced paeans to worker uprisings (Byron also defended the Luddites in the House of Lords). The Brontes wrote Luddite novels. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was a Luddite novel, in which the monster was a sensitive, intelligent creature who merely demanded a say in the technology that created him.

The erasure of the true history of the Luddites was a deliberate act. Despite the popular and elite support the Luddites enjoyed, the owners and their allies in Parliament were able to crush the uprising, using mass murder and imprisonment to force workers to accept immiseration.

The entire supply chain of the textile revolution was soaked in blood. Merchant devotes multiple chapters to the lives of African slaves in America who produced the cotton that the machines in England wove into cloth. Then – as now – automation served to obscure the violence latent in production of finished goods.

But, as Merchant writes, the Luddites didn't lose outright. Historians who study the uprisings record that the places where the Luddites fought most fiercely were the places where automation came most slowly and workers enjoyed the longest shared prosperity.

The motto of Magpie Killjoy's seminal Steampunk Magazine was: "Love the machine, hate the factory." The workers of the Luddite uprising were skilled technologists themselves.

They performed highly technical tasks to produce extremely high-quality goods. They served in craft workshops and controlled their own time.

The factory increased production, but at the cost of autonomy. Factories and their progeny, like assembly lines, made it possible to make more goods (even goods that eventually rose the quality of the craft goods they replaced), but at the cost of human autonomy. Taylorism and other efficiency cults ended up scripting the motions of workers down to the fingertips, and workers were and are subject to increasing surveillance and discipline from their bosses if they deviate. Take too many pee breaks at the Amazon warehouse and you will be marked down for "time off-task."

Steampunk is a dream of craft production at factory scale: in steampunk fantasies, the worker is a solitary genius who can produce high-tech finished goods in their own laboratory. Steampunk has no "dark, satanic mills," no blood in the factory. It's no coincidence that steampunk gained popularity at the same time as the maker movement, in which individual workers use form digital communities. Makers networked together to provide advice and support in craft projects that turn out the kind of technologically sophisticated goods that we associate with vast, heavily-capitalized assembly lines.

But workers are losing autonomy, not gaining it. The steampunk dream is of a world where we get the benefits of factory production with the life of a craft producer. The gig economy has delivered its opposite: craft workers – Uber drivers, casualized doctors and dog-walkers – who are as surveilled and controlled as factory workers.

Gig workers are dispatched by apps, their faces closely studied by cameras for unauthorized eye-movements, their pay changed from moment to moment by an algorithm that docks them for any infraction. They are "reverse centaurs": workers fused to machines where the machine provides the intelligence and the human does its bidding:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/17/reverse-centaur/#reverse-centaur

Craft workers in home workshops are told that they're their own bosses, but in reality they are constantly monitored by bossware that watches out of their computers' cameras and listens through its mic. They have to pay for the privilege of working for their bosses, and pay to quit. If their children make so much as a peep, they can lose their jobs. They don't work from home – they live at work:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/22/paperback-writer/#toothless

Merchant is a master storyteller and a dedicated researcher. The story he weaves in Blood In the Machine is as gripping as any Propublica deep-dive into the miserable working conditions of today's gig economy. Drawing on primary sources and scholarship, Blood is a kind of Nomadland for Luddites.

Today, Merchant is the technology critic for the LA Times. The final chapters of Blood brings the Luddites into the present day, finding parallels in the labor organizing of the Amazon warehouse workers led by Chris Smalls. The liberal reformers who offered patronizing support to the Luddites – but didn't imagine that they could be masters of their own destiny – are echoed in the rhetoric of Andrew Yang.

And of course, the factory owners' rhetoric is easily transposed to the modern tech baron. Then, as now, we're told that all automation is "progress," that regulatory evasion (Uber's unlicensed taxis, Airbnb's unlicensed hotel rooms, Ring's unregulated surveillance, Tesla's unregulated autopilot) is "innovation." Most of all, we're told that every one of these innovations must exist, that there is no way to stop it, because technology is an autonomous force that is independent of human agency. "There is no alternative" – the rallying cry of Margaret Thatcher – has become our inevitablist catechism.

Squeezing the workers' wages conditions and weakening workers' bargaining power isn't "innovation." It's an old, old story, as old as the factory owners who replaced skilled workers with terrified orphans, sending out for more when a child fell into a machine. Then, as now, this was called "job creation."

Then, as now, there was no way to progress as a worker: no matter how skilled and diligent an Uber driver is, they can't buy their medallion and truly become their own boss, getting a say in their working conditions. They certainly can't hope to rise from a blue-collar job on the streets to a white-collar job in the Uber offices.

Then, as now, a worker was hired by the day, not by the year, and might find themselves with no work the next day, depending on the whim of a factory owner or an algorithm.

As Merchant writes: robots aren't coming for your job; bosses are. The dream of a "dark factory," a "fully automated" Tesla production line, is the dream of a boss who doesn't have to answer to workers, who can press a button and manifest their will, without negotiating with mere workers. The point isn't just to reduce the wage-bill for a finished good – it's to reduce the "friction" of having to care about others and take their needs into account.

Luddites are not – and have never been – anti-technology. Rather, they are pro-human, and see production as a means to an end: broadly shared prosperity. The automation project says it's about replacing humans with machines, but over and over again – in machine learning, in "contactless" delivery, in on-demand workforces – the goal is to turn humans into machines.

There is blood in the machine, Merchant tells us, whether its humans being torn apart by a machine, or humans being transformed into machines.

Brian and I are having a joint book-launch tomorrow night (Sept 27) at Chevalier's Books in Los Angeles for my new book The Internet Con and his new book, Blood in the Machine:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-internet-con-by-cory-doctorow-blood-in-the-machine-by-brian-merchant-tickets-696349940417

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/2023/09/26/enochs-hammer/#thats-fronkonsteen

#pluralistic #books #reviews #brian merchant #luddism #automation #history #gift guide #steampunk #makers #tina #inevitablism #reverse centaurs #amazon #arise

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reasoningdaily · 2 years ago

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NEWBERN, Ala. — There’s a power struggle in Newbern, Alabama, and the rural town’s first Black mayor is at war with the previous administration who he says locked him out of Town Hall.

After years of racist harassment and intimidation, Patrick Braxton is fed up, and in a federal civil rights lawsuit he is accusing town officials of conspiring to deny his civil rights and his position because of his race.

“When I first became mayor, [a white woman told me] the town was not ready for a Black mayor,” Braxton recalls.

The town is 85% Black, and 29% of Black people here live below the poverty line.

“What did she mean by the town wasn’t ready for a Black mayor? They, meaning white people?” Capital B asked.

“Yes. No change,” Braxton says.

Decades removed from a seemingly Jim Crow South, white people continue to thwart Black political progress by refusing to allow them to govern themselves or participate in the country’s democracy, several residents told Capital B. While litigation may take months or years to resolve, Braxton and community members are working to organize voter education, registration, and transportation ahead of the 2024 general election.

But the tension has been brewing for years.

Two years ago, Braxton says he was the only volunteer firefighter in his department to respond to a tree fire near a Black person’s home in the town of 275 people. As Braxton, 57, actively worked to put out the fire, he says, one of his white colleagues tried to take the keys to his fire truck to keep him from using it.

In another incident, Braxton, who was off duty at the time, overheard an emergency dispatch call for a Black woman experiencing a heart attack. He drove to the fire station to retrieve the automated external defibrillator, or AED machine, but the locks were changed, so he couldn’t get into the facility. He raced back to his house, grabbed his personal machine, and drove over to the house, but he didn’t make it in time to save her. Braxton wasn’t able to gain access to the building or equipment until the Hale County Emergency Management Agency director intervened, the lawsuit said.

“I have been on several house fires by myself,” Braxton says. “They hear the radio and wouldn’t come. I know they hear it because I called dispatch, and dispatch set the tone call three or four times for Newbern because we got a certain tone.”

Not only has he been locked out of the town hall and fought fires alone, but he’s been followed by a drone and unable to retrieve the town’s mail and financial accounts, he says. Rather than concede, Haywood “Woody” Stokes III, the former white mayor, along with his council members, reappointed themselves to their positions after ordering a special election that no one knew about.

Braxton is suing them, the People’s Bank of Greensboro, and the postmaster at the U.S. Post Office.

For at least 60 years, there’s never been an election in the town. Instead, the mantle has been treated as a “hand me down” by the small percentage of white residents, according to several residents Capital B interviewed. After being the only one to submit qualifying paperwork and statement of economic interests, Braxton became the mayor.

Stokes and his council — which consists of three white people (Gary Broussard, Jesse Leverett, Willie Tucker) and one Black person (Voncille Brown Thomas) — deny any wrongdoing in their response to the amended complaint filed on April 17. They also claim qualified immunity, which protects state and local officials from individual liability from civil lawsuits.

The attorneys for all parties, including the previous town council, the bank, and Lynn Thiebe, the postmaster at the post office, did not respond to requests for comment.

The town where voting never was

Over the past 50 years, Newbern has held a majority Black population. The town was incorporated in 1854 and became known as a farm town. The Great Depression and the mechanization of the cotton industry contributed to Newbern’s economic and population decline, according to the Encyclopedia of Alabama.

Today, across Newbern’s 1.2 square miles sits the town hall and volunteer fire department constructed by Auburn’s students, an aging library, U.S. Post Office, and Mercantile, the only store there, which Black people seldom frequent because of high prices and a lack of variety of products, Braxton says.

“They want to know why Black [people] don’t shop with them. You don’t have nothin’ the Black [people] want or need,” he says. “No gasoline. … They used to sell country-time bacon and cheese and souse meat. They stopped selling that because they say they didn’t like how it feel on their hands when they cuttin’ the meat.”

To help unify the town, Braxton began hosting annual Halloween parties for the children, and game day for the senior citizens. But his efforts haven’t been enough to stop some people from moving for better jobs, industry, and quality of life.

Residents say the white town leaders have done little to help the predominantly Black area thrive over the years. They question how the town has spent its finances, as Black residents continue to struggle. Under the American Rescue Plan Act, Newbern received $30,000, according to an estimated funding sheet by Alabama Democratic U.S. Rep. Terri Sewell, but residents say they can’t see where it has gone.

At the First Baptist Church of Newbern, Braxton, three of his selected council members — Janice Quarles, 72, Barbara Patrick, 78, and James Ballard, 76 — and the Rev. James Williams, 77, could only remember two former mayors: Robert Walthall, who served as mayor for 44 years, and Paul Owens, who served on the council for 33 years and mayor for 11.

“At one point, we didn’t even know who the mayor was,” Ballard recalls. “If you knew somebody and you was white, and your grandfather was in office when he died or got sick, he passed it on down to the grandson or son, and it’s been that way throughout the history of Newbern.”

Quarles agreed, adding: “It took me a while to know that Mr. Owens was the mayor. I just thought he was just a little man cleaning up on the side of the road, sometimes picking up paper. I didn’t know until I was told that ‘Well, he’s the mayor now.’”

Braxton mentioned he heard of a Black man named Mr. Hicks who previously sought office years ago.

“This was before my time, but I heard Mr. Hicks had won the mayor seat and they took it from him the next day [or] the next night,” Braxton said. “It was another Black guy, had won years ago, and they took it from.”

“I hadn’t heard that one,” Ballard chimes in, sitting a few seats away from Braxton.

“How does someone take the seat from him, if he won?” Capital B asked.

“The same way they’re trying to do now with Mayor Braxton,” Quarles chuckled. “Maybe at that time — I know if it was Mr. Hicks — he really had nobody else to stand up with him.”

Despite the rumor, what they did know for sure: There was never an election, and Stokes had been in office since 2008.

The costs to challenging the white power structure

After years of disinvestment, Braxton’s frustrations mounted at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when he says Stokes refused to commemorate state holidays or hang up American flags. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the majority-white council failed to provide supplies such as disinfectant, masks, and humidifiers to residents to mitigate the risks of contracting the virus.

Instead of waiting, Braxton made several trips to neighboring Greensboro, about 10 miles away, to get food and other items to distribute to Black and white residents. He also placed signs around town about vaccination. He later found his signs had been destroyed and put in “a burn pile,” he said.

After years of unmet needs of the community, Braxton decided to qualify for mayor. Only one Black person — Brown Thomas, who served with Stokes —has ever been named to the council. After Braxton told Stokes, the acting mayor, his intention to run, the conspiracy began, the lawsuit states.

According to the lawsuit, Stokes gave Braxton the wrong information on how to qualify for mayor. Braxton then consulted with the Alabama Conference of Black Mayors, and the organization told him to file his statement of candidacy and statement of the economic interests with the circuit clerk of Hale County and online with the state, the lawsuit states. Vickie Moore, the organization’s executive director, said it also guided Braxton on how to prepare for his first meeting and other mayoral duties.

Moore, an Alabama native and former mayor of Slocomb, said she has never heard of other cases across the state where elected officials who have never been elected are able to serve. This case with Braxton is “racism,” she said.

“The true value of a person can’t be judged by the color of their skin, and that’s what’s happening in this case here, and it’s the worst racism I’ve ever seen,” Moore said. “We have fought so hard for simple rights. It’s one of the most discouraging but encouraging things because it encourages us to continue to move forward … and continue to fight.”

Political and legal experts say what’s happening in Newbern is rare, but the tactics to suppress Black power aren’t, especially across the South. From tampering with ballot boxes to restricting reading material, “the South has been resistant to all types of changes” said Emmitt Riley III, associate professor of political science and Africana Studies at The University of the South.

“This is a clear case of white [people] attempting to seize and maintain political power in the face of someone who went through the appropriate steps to qualify and to run for office and by default wins because no one else qualified,” Riley added. “This raises a number of questions about democracy and a free and fair system of governance.”

Riley mentioned a different, but similar case in rural Greenwood, Mississippi. Sheriel Perkins, a longtime City Council member, became the first Black female mayor in 2006, serving for only two years. She ran again in 2013 and lost by 206 votes to incumbent Carolyn McAdams, who is white. Perkins contested the results, alleging voter fraud. White people allegedly paid other white people to live in the city in order to participate in the election and cast a legal vote, Riley said. In that case, the state Supreme Court dismissed the case and “found Perkins presented no evidence” that anyone voted illegally in a precinct, but rather it was the election materials that ended up in the wrong precincts.

“It was also on record that one white woman got on the witness stand and said, ‘I came back to vote because I was contacted to vote by X person.’ I think you see these tactics happening all across the South in local elections, in particular,” Riley said. “It becomes really difficult for people to really litigate these cases because in many cases it goes before the state courts, and state courts have not been really welcoming to overturning elections and ordering new elections.”

Another example: Camilla, Georgia.

In 2015, Rufus Davis was elected as the first Black male mayor of rural, predominantly Black Camilla. In 2017, the six-person City Council — half Black and half white — voted to deny him a set of keys to City Hall, which includes his office. Davis claimed the white city manager, Bennett Adams, had been keeping him from carrying out his mayoral duties.

The next year, Davis, along with Black City Council member Venterra Pollard, boycotted the city’s meetings because of “discrimination within the city government,” he told a local news outlet. Some of the claims included the absence of Black officers in the police department, and the city’s segregated cemetery, where Black people cannot be buried next to white people. (The wire fence that divided the cemetery was taken down in 2018). In 2018, some citizens of the small town of about 5,000 people wanted to remove Davis from office and circulated a petition that garnered about 200 signatures. In 2019, he did not seek re-election for office.

“You’re not the mayor”

After being the only person to qualify and submit proper paperwork for any municipal office, Braxton became mayor-elect and the first Black mayor in Newbern’s history on July 22, 2020.

Following the announcement, Braxton appointed members to join his council, consistent with the practice of previous leadership. He asked both white and Black people to serve, he said, but the white people told him they didn’t want to get involved.

The next month, Stokes and the former council members, Broussard, Leverett, Brown Thomas, and Tucker, called a secret meeting to adopt an ordinance to conduct a special election on Oct. 6 because they “allegedly forgot to qualify as candidates,” according to the lawsuit, which also alleges the meeting was not publicized. The defendants deny this claim, but admit to filing statements of candidacy to be elected at the special election, according to their response to an amended complaint filed on their behalf.

Because Stokes and his council were the only ones to qualify for the Oct. 6 election, they reappointed themselves as the town council. On Nov. 2, 2020, Braxton and his council members were sworn into office and filed an oath of office with the county probate judge’s office. Ten days later, the city attorney’s office executed an oath of office for Stokes and his council.

After Braxton held his first town meeting in November, Stokes changed the locks to Town Hall to keep him and his council from accessing the building. For months, the two went back and forth on changing the locks until Braxton could no longer gain access. At some point, Braxton says he discovered all official town records had been removed or destroyed, except for a few boxes containing meeting minutes and other documents.

Braxton also was prevented from accessing the town’s financial records with the People’s Bank of Greensboro and the city clerk, and obtaining mail from the town’s post office. At every turn, he was met with a familiar answer: “You’re not the mayor.” Separately, he’s had drones following him to his home and mother’s home and had a white guy almost run him off the road, he says.

Braxton asserts he’s experienced these levels of harassment and intimidation to keep him from being the mayor, he said.

“Not having the Lord on your side, you woulda’ gave up,” he told Capital B.

‘Ready to fire away’

In the midst of the obstacles, Braxton kept pushing. He partnered with LaQuenna Lewis, founder of Love Is What Love Does, a Selma-based nonprofit focused on enriching the lives of disadvantaged people in Dallas, Perry, and Hale counties through such means as food distribution, youth programming, and help with utility bills. While meeting with Braxton, Lewis learned more about his case and became an investigator with her friend Leslie Sebastian, a former advocacy attorney based in California.

The three began reviewing thousands of documents from the few boxes Braxton found in Town Hall, reaching out to several lawyers and state lawmakers such as Sen. Bobby Singleton and organizations such as the Southern Poverty Law Center. No one wanted to help.

When the white residents learned Lewis was helping Braxton, she, too, began receiving threats early last year. She received handwritten notes in the mail with swastikas and derogatory names such as the n-word and b-word. One of theletters had a drawing of her and Braxton being lynched.

Another letter said they had been watching her at the food distribution site and hoped she and Braxton died. They also made reference to her children, she said. Lewis provided photos of the letters, but Capital B will not publish them. In October, Lewis and her children found their house burned to the ground. The cause was undetermined, but she thinks it may have been connected.

Lewis, Sebastian, and Braxton continued to look for attorneys that would take the case. Braxton filed a complaint in Alabama’s circuit court last November, but his attorney at the time stopped answering his calls. In January, they found a new attorney, Richard Rouco, who filed an amended complaint in federal court.

“He went through a total of five attorneys prior to me meeting them last year, and they pretty much took his money. We ran into some big law firms who were supposed to help and they kind of misled him,” Lewis says.

Right now, the lawsuit is in the early stages, Rouco says, and the two central issues of the case center on whether the previous council with Stokes were elected as they claim and if they gave proper notice.

Braxton and his team say they are committed to still doing the work in light of the lawsuit. Despite the obstacles, Braxton is running for mayor again in 2025. Through AlabamaLove.org, the group is raising money to provide voter education and registration, and address food security and youth programming. Additionally, they all hope they can finally bring their vision of a new Newbern to life.

For Braxton, it’s bringing grocery and convenience stores to the town. Quarles wants an educational and recreational center for children. Williams, the First Baptist Church minister, wants to build partnerships to secure grants in hopes of getting internet and more stores.

“I believe we done put a spark to the rocket, and it’s going [to get ready] to fire away,” Williams says at his church. “This rocket ready to fire away, and it’s been hovering too long.”

Correction: In Newbern, Alabama, 29% of the Black population lives below the poverty line. An earlier version of this story misstated the percentage

#alabama #Newbern Alabama #A Black Man Was Elected Mayor in Rural Alabama #but the White Town Leaders Won’t Let Him Serve #Patrick Braxton #AlabamaLove.org #black lives matter

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cardiacreports2 · 5 months ago

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Paramedic Incident Report

Incident Number: 2024-19245 Date: December 6, 2024 Time of Call: 15:23

Incident Location: ClimbX Indoor Gym, 345 Summit Street, Boulder, CO

Patient Information:

Name: Daniel Carson

Age: 20

Gender: Male

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 165 lbs

Physical Description: Lean and muscular build with well-defined arms and torso typical of an experienced climber. Short dark brown hair, light complexion.

Description of Incident: At 15:23, dispatch received a 911 call reporting a young male climber had collapsed while bouldering at an indoor climbing facility. The patient was reportedly scaling a mid-level climb when witnesses described him suddenly clutching his chest, losing his grip, and falling to the mat below. He was unresponsive upon initial assessment by gym staff.

Initial Assessment Upon Arrival (15:30):

Level of Consciousness: Unresponsive

Pulse: Absent

Respiratory Effort: None

Skin Condition: Pale, cool, and clammy

Pupils: Fixed and dilated

Bystanders reported that staff initiated CPR immediately after the collapse and delivered one shock using the facility's automated external defibrillator (AED).

Treatment at Scene (15:30-15:45):

CPR: High-quality chest compressions continued upon paramedics’ arrival.

Airway Management: Airway secured with a bag-valve mask; oxygen at 15 L/min.

AED Analysis: AED advised one additional shock, which was administered at 15:35. Return of spontaneous circulation (ROSC) achieved at 15:37.

Vital Signs Post-ROSC:

Pulse: Weak and irregular at 45 bpm

Blood Pressure: 80/50 mmHg

Respiration: Shallow and labored at 10 breaths/min

Oxygen Saturation: 78%

Transport Summary (15:45-16:00): Patient was loaded into the ambulance for transport to St. Anthony's Hospital. During transport, the patient exhibited further signs of cardiac distress. At 15:50, he experienced ventricular fibrillation (VF).

Intervention: CPR resumed, epinephrine 1 mg administered IV, and defibrillation attempted twice.

Outcome: No ROSC achieved after second cardiac arrest.

Time of Death: 16:00

Remarks: The patient suffered two cardiac arrests within a 30-minute period, likely indicative of a severe underlying cardiac condition. Efforts to stabilize were unsuccessful due to continued arrhythmias and compromised circulation.

Autopsy Report

Case Number: 2024-AU-1245 Date of Examination: December 7, 2024 Time of Examination: 09:00

Name: Daniel Carson Age: 20 Height: 5'11" Weight: 165 lbs Sex: Male Race: Caucasian

External Examination:

General Appearance: Well-developed and muscular young male. No evidence of external trauma except for mild abrasions on the back of hands and forearms, consistent with climbing activities. Skin pale with slight cyanosis around the lips and nail beds.

Scars/Marks: None significant.

Tattoos: None noted.

Clothing: Patient arrived wearing climbing shorts and a tank top.

Internal Examination:

Cardiovascular System:

Heart: Enlarged, weighing 420 grams (average for age/weight: 300-350 grams).

Valves: Mitral valve revealed significant calcification and fibrosis, indicative of a congenital defect. The defective valve exhibited stenosis, which restricted blood flow and created turbulent circulation.

Coronary Arteries: Severe occlusion (95%) of the left anterior descending (LAD) artery due to atherosclerotic plaque.

Myocardium: Evidence of acute ischemic changes and scarring, suggesting prior silent infarctions. The ventricular walls were thickened (hypertrophic cardiomyopathy).

Aorta: Normal caliber and appearance.

Respiratory System:

Lungs congested, with frothy fluid in the trachea and bronchi.

Right lung: 450 grams; Left lung: 430 grams.

Gastrointestinal System:

Stomach contained approximately 200 mL of partially digested food.

No abnormalities in the esophagus, stomach, or intestines.

Central Nervous System:

Brain weight: 1,450 grams. No gross abnormalities.

Other Organs:

Liver: Enlarged (1,600 grams), possibly due to mild congestion.

Kidneys: Unremarkable.

Spleen: Normal size.

Microscopic Examination:

Heart Tissue: Acute myocardial infarction visible in sections of the left ventricle.

Coronary Arteries: Advanced plaque buildup with rupture and thrombus formation.

Mitral Valve: Fibrotic thickening and calcification evident.

Toxicology:

No evidence of drugs or alcohol.

Summary and Cause of Death: Daniel Carson, a 20-year-old male, died from complications of a congenital mitral valve defect and severe coronary artery disease. The primary event was a massive myocardial infarction triggered by the blockage of the LAD artery. A second cardiac arrest during transport proved fatal.

Final Diagnosis:

Acute myocardial infarction secondary to LAD artery occlusion.

Congenital mitral valve stenosis and calcification.

Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy contributing to cardiac instability.

Cause of Death: Cardiac arrest due to a defective valve and blocked artery.

Manner of Death: Natural.

Signed by: Dr. Margaret Li, MD Pathologist

#heart attack #male cpr #cpr #resuscitation

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electronickingdomfox · 2 months ago

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Star Trek TOS ships. Part 2

Continuation of this other post. I list here the TOS alien vessels, as well as ships from the Animated Series. Ships from the movies are here.

Romulan ship

Introduced in Balance of Terror, it appears in The Deadly Years as well. The Romulan ships from The Enterprise Incident, however, are of Klingon design (see below), though the remaster replaced one of these with the properly Romulan ship. They're equipped with cloaking devices and plasma cannons. Although this design is popularly known as a Bird-of-Prey, this name was never used in TOS for the Romulan ships. The early outline of The Search for Spock, where the villains were still Romulans, refers to their ship as a Bird-of-Prey, but it wouldn't be until "Voyager" that this design was named on-screen.

Klingon ship

It makes its debut in Elaan of Troyius, and reappears in Day of the Dove. The Romulans seem to have been using them as well (The Enterprise Incident). Earlier versions of this script specified that this was due to an alliance between the Klingons and Romulans. The remaster introduced Klingon ships in episodes where none was seen originally: Errand of Mercy, A Private Little War and Friday's Child. This model is popularly known as a D7, but this name wasn't canonized until "Deep Space Nine".

Fesarius

The gigantic First Federation vessel, commanded by Balok in The Corbomite Maneuver. It could dispatch smaller pilot ships, as well as tamper with the Enterprise systems.

Tholian ship

Appears in The Tholian Web. Commanded by Loskene, this ship along a second one start weaving an immobilizing web around the Enterprise.

Eymorg ship

Piloted by Kara in Spock's Brain, this vessel used an ion propulsion system. It looks very different in the remaster.

Orion intruder

The ship that follows the Enterprise in Journey to Babel. It also looks quite different in the remaster.

Gorn ship

Only seen in the remaster of Arena, and barely.

Medusan ship

Again, only visible in the remaster of Is There In Truth No Beauty?. Ambassador Kollos' ship.

SHIPS FROM THE ANIMATED SERIES

Bonaventure 10281 NCC

According to Scotty, this was the first ship ever to have warp drive (something that later series obviously retconned). It must have been at least 100 years old, considering the Horizon and Archon had already visited distant planets by that time. It was lost inside the Delta Triangle and thrown into a parallel universe, as seen in The Time Trap. Looks just like a fat Enterprise, if you ask me...

SS Huron NCC-F1913

A freighter commanded by Captain O'Shea, attacked and raided in The Pirates of Orion.

Ariel

A ship commanded by Lt. Commander Markel, and found in orbit around Lactra Seven, in The Eye of the Beholder. Never seen on-screen.

Robot grain ships NCC-61465 and NCC-G1465

Two automated cargo ships that the Enterprise escorted to Sherman's Planet in More Tribbles, More Troubles. They were attacked by Koloth. This design was the inspiration for the remastered Antares and Woden in TOS.

Several Enterprise shuttlecrafts

The animated format eliminated budget problems when it came to showing more ships, so the Enterprise was given a ton of new shuttlecrafts. Among these, there are the ones seen in Mudd's Passion: NCC-1701/4, 9 and 12. Four and twelve seem to be a new model. Also notice the new tubular shuttle in the first image.

Strangely enough, the shuttle Copernicus from The Slaver Weapon is also numbered NCC-1701/12, yet it's not the same as the previous one.

The aquashuttle from The Ambergris Element can sail on water and under it, as well as flying. The registry appears to be NCC-1701/A5 (the "A" probably stands for "aqua")

In the same episode, there's also a scouter-gig sent to rescue the crew, after the aquashuttle is destroyed. Its number appears to be NCC-1701/R6 (the "R" for "rescue"?)

Winston's trading vessel

The ship, apparently piloted by Winston Carter, that sends a distress call in The Survivor.

Cyrano Jones' scout ship

The ship that Cyrano used to escape from the Klingons, in More Tribbles, More Troubles.

Klothos

A Klingon battle cruiser commanded by Kor, that becomes trapped in a parallel universe along the Enterprise, in The Time Trap.

Dramian patrol ship

The ship that Demos (a Dramian alien) uses to pursue the Enterprise, in Albatross.

Traitor's Claw

A Kzinti police vessel from The Slaver Weapon, used to imprison the Enterprise crew.

Orion vessel

The ship that attacks the SS Huron in The Pirates of Orion. Quite different from the one that appears in Journey to Babel.

Phylosian ships

Strange plant-like ships intended to impose peace by the Phylosians, in The Infinite Vulcan.

Pod ship

An insectoid massive ship, destroyed 300 million years ago by an evil entity. Appears in Beyond the Farthest Star.

Antimatter universe ship

Piloted by Karla Five at impossibly high speeds, in The Counter Clock Incident. Originally from an antimatter universe, Karla Five was trying to escape the positive universe by driving this vessel into a supernova.

#star trek tos #star trek ships #klingon ships #romulan ships #star trek tas #reference

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ilkkawhat · 2 years ago

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[Nick Stokes/Reader | 1,723 words | also on ao3 here | I have some of the best inspiring dreams ever, and a couple days ago I had one about a whumped Nick, though there's actually only a few things I took out of it to write this.]

You’ve been in this store before, although you really haven’t been.

“Attention shoppers.”

And you’ve never been in any store past closing, let alone, with all the lights off.

“Attention shoppers.”

You feel like there’s too much space between the aisles, and though the parking lot was scarce you can’t help but feel like someone will emerge from the shadows.

Or come up behind you, as goosebumps tickle your neck.

“Attention shoppers.”

You know better though, having been called here as back-up to investigate a live crime scene, that the owners of those lone cars will never drive them again.

There’s one shopper left in the store however, and you and Grissom are heading straight towards the fast paced rickety cart wheels swimming through the darkness.

“Attention…shooooooppppppppers.”

The automated intercom call warbles out, having been looped likely not on purpose but rather a side effect of the supposed employee that was butchered and fell on top of the controls, according to the account given over the dispatch call.

You also know that Nick Stokes was in this store when it happened. He was assigned to this case first, when it was just a petty burglary before it became a massacre.

Desperately, you want to call out to him. You already tried texting him, and got no response. From a tactical standpoint, the element of surprise is more apropos in this situation but your heart doesn’t give a damn. You just want to see Nick.

And you do see him, when your flashlight passes over the aisle of canned goods.

He’s there, on the floor. Face down. His face striped with blood. Cans are littered around him and one is broken near his head.

“Nick!” you gasp, and run over. His body rises and falls ever so slightly, and he softly wheezes as you kneel next to him, wiping strands of hair out of the way of fluttering eyes and your shaking fingers are becoming sticky with the blood pouring out of the pulsing wound on his forehead.

“Help….her…” he whispers to you in a strangled voice. His eyes roll behind their lids, falling victim to a void of consciousness.

Grissom, who was standing nearby during this time, transfers a bit of the radiation of his concern with a hand to your shoulder, in agreement to Nick’s request.

“We need to move,” Grissom tells you. “I think he’s close.”

“Uh-huh,” you nod shakily, and become Grissom’s heel, after quickly taking your gun out because Grissom doesn’t have his; just a flashlight and a white knuckled fist.

The chase continues down another long, dark aisle but the sound of squeaky wheels carrying weak-wired mesh grows louder. Your heart pounds harder, and faster.

You turn back to look at Nick, and in those few seconds you somehow lose sight of Grissom.

Swearing under your breath, you pick up the pace and quickly shake your head between the rows, finding nothing but fallen items and shadows of fellow officers, but you nearly run into the sliding door that leads out into the garden section of the store.

“So…what are you making?” Grissom’s voice, a disguised disgust with equal intrigue, per his norm of course but you wince as you worry he’s getting too close to the killer—

“Soup,” a strange voice answers simply. “You see my ingredients in the cart here…”

Speak of the devil, the killer is still shopping and throwing items into his cart…

That’s carrying a hopefully unconscious and not dead woman, her arms and legs hanging outside of the cart with various vegetables and meats and packets of flavoring and for some odd reason, large sacks of soil on top. She has a similar wound to Nick’s on her head, though you have no time to wonder what a Nick-flavored soup would have tasted like, as the conversation that you stopped paying attention to goes south, and both the killer and Grissom are suddenly gone—

You whip your head and hear splashes of water, your flashlight locates the source of the struggle below, in a large display of filled ponds and pools for backyard enjoyment, Grissom wrestles the killer and your instinct should tell you to either jump in and help, or draw your weapon and fire but—

BANG-BANG!

Grissom stops and you see the shock on his face in the handheld spotlight that traces the trajectory of the bullets that pinned the killer into the water, and also punctured the walls of the pool that drains away.

Catherine stands breathless, a wordless exchange with Grissom and a side glance to you, freeing you from obligation as they begin to talk out loud—

“I’m going to check on Nicky,” you tell them, and run back towards the love of your life.

The main aisle seems longer than ever, the lights are flickering on and the eerie silence is replaced with chatter, radio chirps, and distant sirens that give you and odd sense of relief—you’re near the end of the story, the day is saved and more importantly—Nick is safe, for the second time in a far too short of time and this time it’s not dirt you’re sliding on to comfort him, but harsh, unforgiving lamination that you know you’ll feel in your knees later.

“Nicky, I’m back, she’s safe…” you half-lie because shit, you forgot to check on that victim and instead chose this one, but you do hear calls for an ambulance to take her.

You tap his cheeks, clammy and pale and still sticky. He’s not responding, and your heart stops beating. You look around the aisle, a halted shopping cart happens to have a case of water that you cut into, and pour onto Nick as if it’ll bring him to life—fortunately, it works; he sputters and rolls over onto his side, propping himself up and you sigh in relief.

“What happened?” a new voice asks, feminine and Sofia’s behind you, ready to relay anything you tell her to the rest of the team.

“We found the perp, and the victim. Cath got him after he tussled with Grissom. Nick here, well…I don’t…” you start bumbling your words, Nick scrunches his face and wipes blood out of his eyes.

“I tried to stop him,” he says in a strained voice, one arm cradles his stomach. “Asshole rammed me with that damn cart and a stupid can fell on my head…”

Nervously, you mutter, “Guess you really got cantripped, huh?” in attempt to lighten the mood. You’re not sure if Nick actually heard it.

“Heard you were the one who caught him in the act, that true?” Sofia asks. Nick nods and your heart pangs. As if the both of you don’t see enough dead horrors as it is, it’s harder to witness live ones.

“Found him cause he was the only guy who didn’t run out of the store when I triggered the alarm.”

“Alarm? There’s nothing ringing…”

“Yeah, cause I used that intercom to tell everyone to evacuate,” Nick clears his throat and adds a bit of deep authority to his voice, “‘Attention shoppers, please get the hell out of the store if you want to stay alive.’”

You can’t help but laugh, “You did not!”

“Course I did. How else would you get the shoppers out?” Nick almost smiles himself, before he reigns himself in. “That’s when the bullet hit the poor John that fell onto the panel, and I took off towards it.”

You stare daggers into Nick’s avoiding gaze, both admiring his bravery but admonishing his stupidity for running towards danger. But he’ll get that earful later. Or sooner, as Sofia puts away her notepad.

“Thanks, Nick. I’m gonna check in with Gil and Catherine. Make sure you get checked out, okay?” Sofia raises her eyebrows and points at Nick’s forehead.

“I’m fine,” Nick waves off.

“You’re not!” you harshly whisper as Sofia walks away. “The hell were you thinking, running towards the gunfire?”

“It’s our job, baby,” Nick tells you.

“Nuh-uh, their job,” you point to the uniformed officers. “We’re supposed to come after.”

“But, they can’t always—”

“Neither can you!” you interrupt. You stand up and Nick takes the opportunity to pull your arm and lift himself up with you.

“Alright, alright, I get it…”

“I don’t think you do, but before we lay this to rest…what if a bullet hits you?”

“Then I’ll just walk it off, like I’m walking this cantripped bullshit off.”

“You’re not invincible.”

“I know that,” Nick tone become sour and frustrated and you feel his muscles tense up. “And you know that I’m damn well aware of that, too.”

You sigh, but notice that he isn’t shrugging you off just yet. You can see a shimmer in his eyes and feel a wave of guilt wash over you.

He’s hurt more than he’s willing to admit.

I wasn’t strong enough, you remember the broken words amidst tears that fell onto your chest, soaking into your clothes.

You know it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than a small head wound for him to get to that point again, but feel the need to comfort and lighten the mood nonetheless.

"You know…it’s a good thing you shaved that stache," you say, once again stroking loose strands of hair out of his reddened, dampened eyes. "Make you look like you're a redhead, at least in facial hair."

"Well, I am attracted to redheads..." Nick smiles coyly and you playfully swat his chest, before he reels you in for a tight hug.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he whispers.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t give up that easily,” you tell him with a soft kiss to the side of his face.

“And neither do you,” he reminds you with a kiss of his own.

You both stand there for a solid minute of silence, and you lean further in, but the slight movement of your body seems to scare him, and he somehow grips you tighter.

“Don’t let go,” he asks of you. “Don’t let go, please…”

“I made that promise to you a long time ago, Nick. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he tells you, and he takes you out of the almost nightmarish, liminal dreamscape into the best fantasy you could ever dream of.

#nick stokes #nick stokes x reader #reader fic #sorry i like to see you suffer nick #mk.op #mk.fic #i don't often do reader fic but i figured this dream specifically would work for it #though again only like 2% of this came from the dream #i'm also still working on that ghost!nick/greg fic but it's nice to do something short and sweet i guess

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dvrylgal · 2 months ago

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⋆༺𓆩 kehetu: chapter three 𓆪༻⋆

synopsis: by a stroke of luck, the group finds sanctuary within the C.D.C... and after you give him a peace offering, daryl has a shocking reaction.

cw: canon typical violence, gore, profanity, mature themes, cannibalism (zombies), zombies (obviously), racism (Merle), reader is black, reader is from jersey, reader is a mechanic, reader was raised native (ish), reader's a bit of an atheist

"All right, everybody. Keep movin'. Go on," Shane ushered, gun drawn as the group waded through the sea of dead bodies laying outside the C.D.C. "Stay quiet. Let's go."

Eyes narrowed, you drew an arrow, surveying the corpses you passed to make sure they were fully dead.

If enough of them were still alive, things could turn ugly fast.

But then again, it would be your fault for tagging along on this suicide mission...

After you and Dale managed to jury-rig the engine of the RV, the group set off to the C.D.C like Rick suggested, Morales splitting pretty early to take his family to Birmingham.

Along the way, you'd lost Jim—the man wanting to die in peace—leaving your numbers even fewer than they already were.

And you wanted nothing more than to leave.

To fuck off back into the woods...

To make your way up north back to your old man's cabin...

To hole up there and ride out the rest of your life, lone-wolf style...

But whenever you thought about it, the image of Carol, or Sophia, or Jacqui flashed in your mind, helpless and weak as they were being stalked by walkers, before being eventually devoured, having no one to protect them.

You knew it went against everything ever taught to you—to look out for number one.

But you just couldn't do it.

You couldn't leave them to fend for themselves when you were perfectly able to lend a hand.

Sharply, you huffed out your nose, annoyed with yourself.

If you kept that mindset, you weren't going to make it another day...

'Survival of the fittest... I can't have dead weight holdin' me down...'

Yet you kept in step, and continued to cover the group's back as you hung in the rear.

You scoffed, almost amused.

'I know Kehetu's rollin' in his grave...'

"Nothin'?" Shane asked as Rick rattled the security grille, giving it a few bangs.

But when he was met with nothing, unease began to settle within the group.

"There's no one here..." T-Dog sighed.

"Then why are these shutters down?" Rick countered.

"You always lock up shop before you leave," you chimed, darkly.

"Walkers!" Daryl called, snatching everyone's attention.

Turning around, the group gasped, but Daryl was quick to dispatch of the one in front of him.

"You led us into a graveyard!"

"Shh!"

"He made a call!"

"It was the wrong damn call!"

"Just shut up!" Shane spat, getting into the man's face. "You hear me? Shut up. Shut up!"

"Rick, this is a dead end."

"Where are we gonna go?"

"Do you hear me? No blame."

"We can't be here, this close to the city after dark!"

"Fort Benning, Rick—still an option."

"On what? No food, no fuel. That's a hundred miles."

"A hundred twenty-five. I checked the map."

"Forget Fort Benning. We need answers tonight, now!"

"We'll think of something!"

"Dixon, we got incoming!" you called, still holding down the back line as more walkers appeared, drawn to the noise.

With a sharp snap, you shot one, hitting it right in the eye and taking it down for the count.

Quickly, Daryl moved back to join, taking aim before shooting down another.

"I count ten," he reported, trailing a biter down his sight with practiced ease.

"Twelve," you corrected, letting loose another arrow. "With four more approaching from way back."

"Goddammit."

"It moved!" Rick exclaimed, staring up at a camera hanging from the awning.

"Rick, it is dead, man! It's an automated device! It's gears, okay?" Shane shut down, grabbing him by the arm. "Now, come on! We've gotta go!"

"Rick, there's nobody here!"

"I know you're in there!" the sheriff shouted, banging on the doors. "I know you can hear me!"

"If there's a time to move, it's now!" you barked, not taking your eyes off the slowly growing horde. "We've got 'bout ten seconds before we're overrun!"

"Everyone get back to the cars now!" Shane ordered, turning to everyone else.

"Please! We're desperate!" Rick pleaded. "We have women! Children! No food! Hardly any gas left! Nowhere else to go!"

"Rick, please!"

"C'mon, buddy, let's go!" Shane ordered, grabbing the man.

"You're killing us!" Rick shouted, utterly desperate. "You're killing us! You're killing us!"

"We got more incoming! Two o'clock!" you quickly turned, now letting out arrows in rapid succession.

"I see 'em!" he turned with you, shooting off a few more bolts.

"I only got so many arrows! Not long before this turns into a fire fight!"

"And ring the dinner bell for the whole damn city?!"

"Well, unless you can pull some arrows out your ass, I'd say we're outta options!"

Suddenly, with a loud thud, the doors pulled open, bathing the entire group in blinding, white light.

'No fuckin' way...'

Rick was right—to everyone's surprise.

Maybe there was some semblance of the world left...

"Daryl! (y/n)! You two cover the back!" Shane ordered as the group quickly entered.

"Hello?"

"Hello?!"

"Close the doors!"

"Watch for walkers."

Taking a moment, you all frantically glanced around the silent lobby, suspicious of the eerie quiet.

The place looks like a ghost town...

A shotgun cock snapped you all out of your stupor, and you, as well as the other gun-wielding members of the group, turned your sights on the red-haired man in the corner.

"Anybody infected?" he barked, sharply.

"One of our group was," Rick answered, divulging a little more information than your liking. "He didn't make it."

"Why are you here? What do you want?" the mystery man continued.

"A chance," Rick responded.

"That's asking an awful lot these days."

"I know..."

Silently, the man scanned over each and every one of you, checking for bite marks or any signs of sickness.

Luckily, he found none.

"You all submit to a blood test. That's the price of admission."

"We can do that," Rick nodded.

"You got stuff to bring in, you do it now. Once this door closes, it stays closed."

"Y'know, in Italy, children have a little bit of wine with dinner," Dale chuckled, pouring Lori a glass. "And in France!"

"Well, when Carl is in Italy or France, he can have some then," she denied, resting her hand over his cup.

"What's it gonna hurt? C'mon," Rick assured with a smile. "C'mon."

With a sigh, she relented, and the group grinned as Dale poured the little boy a glass.

"There you are, young lad."

Eager, Carl drank it, face immediately scrunching at the taste.

"Eww!"

The table rang with laughter, Lori rubbing comforting circles on her son's back.

"That's my boy... That's my boy."

"That tastes nasty!"

"Well, just stick to soda pop there, bud," Shane suggested.

"Not you, Glenn," Daryl chuckled, teasingly.

"What?" the young man smiled, confused.

"Keep drinkin', little man. I wanna see how red your face can get."

You grinned, rolling your eyes as you shoveled some potatoes in your mouth, the table continuing their merriment.

"Don't think you safe either, city girl. You barely touched yours," Daryl doubled down, nudging you. "You a lightweight or somethin'?"

You scoffed, flipping him off as you took a tasteful sip.

"Fuck you. I've been drinkin' since I was twelve."

"So what's yer excuse?"

"I don't do wine."

"Oh, excuse me."

"Go to hell."

At this point, the group was in stitches, amused by your sharp banter with the man.

That is... until Rick called the table's attention, standing from his seat.

"It seems to me we haven't thanked our host properly," he started, smoothly.

"He is more than just our host," T-Dog toasted, raising his glass.

"Hear hear!"

"Here's to you, Doc."

"Booyah!" Daryl cheered, holding up the whole damn bottle.

"Booyah!"

"Thank you."

"Thank you, doctor."

"Booyah!"

"So when are you gonna tell us what the hell happened here, doc?" Shane piped up, silencing all the celebration. "All the-the other doctors that were supposed to be figurin' out what happened, where are they?"

"We're celebratin', Shane," Rick warned. "Don't need to do this now."

"Whoa, wait a second. This is why we're here, right?" Shane countered. "This was your move—supposed to find all the answers. Instead we... we found him... found one man. Why?"

"Well, when things got bad, a lot of people just... left. Went off to be with their families," Jenner started with a sigh. "And when things got worse, when the military cordon got overrun, the rest bolted."

"Every last one?"

"No," Jenner denied. "Many couldn't face walking out the door. They... opted out..."

He let out another sigh, glancing down at his lap.

"That was a bad time."

"You didn't leave..." you stated, looking up from your plate. "Why?"

"I just kept working... hoping to do some good," he answered.

At that, an uncomfortable silence settled over the table, double-tapping all the joy created in the previous few minutes.

Glenn sighed, turning to look at Shane.

"Dude, you are such a buzzkill, man..."

"Knock, knock," you called, softly rapping at Daryl's door before opening, peeking your head in first to make sure it was safe.

Lifting his gaze from his crossbow—which he was cleaning—he sized you up, raising a sharp brow.

"The hell you want?" he asked, gruffly, returning to his work.

Taking that as the go-ahead, you fully entered, adjusting your duffel on your shoulder as you padded forward, setting it down.

Lowering yourself to the floor, you sat on your knees, unzipping the bag before starting your search.

"You deaf or somethin'?" Daryl glared, unappreciative of your self-invitation. "This ain't no social club. Tell me whatchu want, or get the hell out."

Ignoring him, you continued to rummage past your things, until you finally grabbed onto what you were looking for.

Yanking it out, you tossed them in his lap, his eyes widening with surprise as he got a good look at the bundle held together by a hair tie.

"That's about twenty-five, maybe thirty bolts," you stated, nodding to your hard work. "Oak. They're not metal like yours, but they'll do in a pinch."

You sighed, resting your hands in your lap.

"With society down for the count, and ammo scarce, there's gonna be a day in the future where we run out... for good."

You chuckled, dryly.

"If we survive that long... figured it be good for you to know that I can make us some... if it really comes down to it."

Picking up the bundle, Daryl examined it as if it were some sort of alien thing, utterly taken aback by the gesture.

No one had ever given him anything before.

Not like this.

It felt... nice?

Weird?

He didn't know.

What he did know was that it felt even weirder coming from you.

You were supposed to be against him; the enemy of my brother is my enemy, right?

But in this instance, this very moment... he felt no ill-will toward you.

Not an ounce.

"Look," you started up again, letting out a sigh. "I know you don't like me. And I'm sorry t'say, but my issue was with your brother, not you."

At the mention of Merle, he sharpened up again, leveling you with a warning glare.

"But if this is for the long haul, and we're really gonna be surviving together, then I need to know I can trust you."

His brow quirked, eyes silently telling you to elaborate.

"When we're runnin' from walkers, I need t'know you're not gonna take an ax to my head while my back is turned. Or use me as a goddamn human shield."

Your brows furrowed, eyes narrowing as you stood up

"'Cause if that's the case, then I'll just walk out tonight."

"M'not gonna take an ax to yer head," he assured, flatly, rolling his eyes as he looked up at you. "I wouldn't do that... without reason."

"Looked like you would with Jim."

"That was different."

"Not from where I was standin'."

"Why the hell are you even tellin' me this anyway? Why am I the deal breaker?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"Shane's always been unstable," you listed off on your fingers. "Rick's naive, Dale's opinionated at best, and the rest of them wouldn't harm a fly."

Flipping your fingers around, you poked him in the chest, softly.

"I can't defend myself on two fronts. So if I got you comin' at me, too, then it's only a matter of time before I get done in."

Stepping forward, you pressed further into him, further invading his space.

"So, tell me... Dixon..." you lowered your voice, eyeing him up and down with a hooded look. "Can I trust you?"

Daryl swallowed thickly, his shirt suddenly too tight as he glanced at you; the room too hot, despite his lack of sleeves.

He had never seen you like this before.

Sure, you'd always been demanding, maybe even a little bit bossy.

But this was different.

The way you were looking at him—like you'd bite him if he got too close—made his hands clammy, and forced something in his stomach to roar to life.

He felt sick.

Not in the deadly, walker way... but in the churning, nauseous way.

He'd need to check if he got bit when you left...

"Well?" you raised a brow, suspicious of his silence.

Snapping himself out of it, the man quickly cleared his throat, taking a cautionary step back.

"You can trust me," he nodded, gruffly, avoiding all eye contact. "You watch my back, I watch yours. But don't go thinkin' that makes us friends or whatever."

At his awkward reaction, you chuckled, but nodded nonetheless, scooping up your bag and tossing it over your shoulder.

"All right, then," you held your hand out. "Shake on it."

'Fuckin' Christ.'

Why couldn't you just leave?

He needed a moment to deal with... whatever it was you had just done.

With a groan, he snatched up your hand, giving it a firm shake before tossing it off like it burned

But what he had managed to notice in that short time was that—despite your callous-covered palm—the back of your hand was softer than anything he'd felt in a while, practically like silk under his touch.

He immediately wanted to touch it again, but fought the twitch of his fingers, his inner self harshly cussing him out for the betraying thought.

"Then it's settled," you sighed, faintly relieved. "You go back on your word, I cut both your balls off."

At that, he let out a small chuckle, the outlandishness clearing some of the tension in the air.

You were funny, too.

How had he not noticed that?

"Whatever you say."

With that, you turned around, moving to head out the room.

Though... not before Daryl suddenly remembered something.

"(y/n)," he called, stopping you in your tracks.

Turning around, you raised a brow, expectantly.

Suddenly embarrassed, he avoided your eyes, instead holding up his new bundle of ammo.

"Thanks... for the bolts."

At that, you smiled slightly, shooting him a firm nod.

"Don't mention it."

Continuing on your way, you headed out, limply waving over your shoulder.

"Night, Dixon."

Punctuating, you shut the door, leaving the poor man standing in the middle of his room, looking like a goddamn idiot.

'Jesus Christ...'

Silently, Daryl swiped a hand over his face, resting his other hand on his hip.

A million different things had just happened at once, all of them leaving an odd feeling to fester in his stomach.

Where the hell did it come from?

He'd never felt this way around you before... hell, he couldn't stand you before.

So why did he suddenly feel lighter?

With a groan, the man raked a confused hand through his hair, plopping himself down on a nearby couch.

Looking down at the ground, he rested his head in his hands, utterly baffled.

"What the fuck?"

#daryl #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #dvrylgal #the walking dead #the walking dead x reader #twd #twd x reder #horror

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novankenn · 10 months ago

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the Nephokinetic

(Users can utilize vapor in combat, whether it be releasing waves of mist to disorientate their opponents or conceal themselves in order to land sneak attacks, or using vapor to create weapons or having it accompany the user's own attacks.)

RPV was a man down. Jaune Arc their former leader having vanished one night, for no discernable reason, at least to them. So after missing the 40th Vytal Festival due to being a member short, the trio moved into their second year... proving their ability to cope and move forward, despite their disadvantage.

/==/

Pyrrha, Ren and Nora disembarked the bullhead. The small village they were sent to inspect, had no landing pad so the vehicle had to land in a nearby prepared area. Behind them Professor Peach stepped off. It was a second year supervised inspection mission.

The goal of the exercise was to teach the students how to see the strengths and weaknesses in a settlement or hamlet's defensive structures. To help them in those times they were dispatched to protect a settlement how to best utilize the resources at hand.

Their approved site was Fort Vale. A heavily fortified community was situated near the coast to the east of Vale proper, however for some reason while on route the destination was changed to their current location. A small unnamed village of maybe a dozen families or so, protected by a stout wooden palisade, and a few automated sentry turrets.

Peach knew at one glance the place was a death trap. Any serious Bandit or Grimm assault and the place would fold like a house of cards. Yet Peach was also aware of the side objective. There was someone of interest to Ozpin in the area... and she and her charges were the closet available team. Even if team RPV was a member short.

The trio of students lead by Professor Peach closed upon the sturdy-looking main gate. Showing her ID she and her charges were quickly allowed entry. Once past the gate Peach turned to face RPV.

"Now. I want you all to wander about. Take you time. We'll meet back at the gate in a hour." Peach let her eyes glid over the three young adults. "Pay close attention, and when we get back together I want to know from each of you what is good about these defenses... and what is bad. Any questions?"

Ren raised his hand.

"Mr Ren?"

"I thought we were supposed to be inspecting Fort Vale? Is there a reason for..." Ren didn't finish but looked around. The statement was however made.

"It was changed mid-route." Professor Peach informed the trio. "But the assignment is still the same and what you see and deduce here is applicable in other places. Any further questions?"

Pyrrha and Nora remained silent.

"Very well get to it. I'm going to have a chat with whomever is in charge of this place."

It took a little prodding and about twenty minutes but soon Peach found herself leaning against the counter of the General Store, speaking to the proprietor, who just happened to also be the woman in charge of the small settlement.

"So what brings Beacon out here?" the woman named Brittany Birch. "Should I be telling people to start packing?"

"No. It's an inspection exercise, and in fact I was going to ask you if there was a reason for us to actually be here instead of Fort Vale?"

"Well I can tell you we've not put in a call in for Huntsmen." Brittany replied, "No real need once the young fella showed up."

"Young fellow?"

"Yeah, young guy, was just wandering the road. Arrive about three weeks ago. Good thing too..."

"Why?"

"Had a small grimm incursion happen a couple days later." Brittany relayed, "Bad for us too. Pushed our defenses all most to the bring..."

"How big of a group?"

"One or two dozen." Brittany replied, "Nothing a larger settlement couldn't handle, but as you can see... we're still just scraping by."

"Well I assume you made it through... you're still here, obviously."

"Well it was because of the kid." Brittany informed Peach, "Without him we would have been over run."

"Was he that strong a fighter? Up to two dozen grimm is still a task to handle by one person." Peach commented, "Or did he have a strong semblance?"

"Well I'll say this... It was something else."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't really know how to explain it... but the kid used the grimm's own bodies against each other..."

"That makes no sense. Did he control a grimm and make it attack the others?"

"No... you know how a grimm evaporate after dying?"

"Yes."

"Somehow he manipulated that... used it against the pack. I mean it was seriously disturbing... the more grimm that went down, the more powerful and plentiful his attacks and defenses were..."

Peach stood there in silence, her lips pressed together. What the head-woman was speaking off... was impossible. Someone capable of using the essence of grimm as a weapon? There had to be more to it.

"Is this... individual still in the community?" Peach inquired. "I would like to speak with them... if I could."

"He should be. For all his help I put him up at my house. He's got a room in the attic. Private, warm and safe."

The incessant and rapid ringing of an bell sounded in the distance.

#rwby #professor peach #pyrrha nikos #lie ren #nora valkyrie #vapor based semblance #no fall of beacon #nephokinesis

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crosaidi · 5 months ago

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i got woken up in the middle of the night by an emergency automated text from my mother's cell saying that my dad's watch had detected a fall and ems had been dispatched, etc, and i spent the next five hours quietly freaking out bc i couldn't get ahold of anybody

finally got ahold of them and apparently my dad had tossed his watch on the bed and it bounced off and flew behind the bed onto the floor and they couldn't reach it so they left it there til morning and anyway the watch decided that qualified as a 'hard fall' 🫠

#;; & gathered round the campfire. ( ooc )#( better safe than sorry ig but holy shit i'm tired #my dad has epilepsy and is in poor health so #alerts like that are scary )

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post-itpenny · 4 months ago

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Swimming Chapter 3: Hoping

In which Ryley makes some very unfortunate discoveries...

Thank you to everyone who has been reading and enjoying this story so far. A huge thank you to my bestie @clownsgobeepbeep for their continuous support and encouragement. <3

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

After the monster attack at the Aurora, Ryley was determined never to leave his lifepod again. Though, by morning he was hungry enough to recognize this as a poor decision.

It wasn’t as hard as he was afraid it would be to catch the strange v-shaped fish (Boomerang Fish he would later decide to name them in the PDA Catalog). The ones with large eyes (Peepers) were slightly trickier, but he could chase the little fish towards the rocks and corner them easily enough. The lung-shaped ones disturbed him somewhat. But, upon experimentally throwing one in the fabricator, he realized their value as a source of water and decided there were worse things to digest than a weird-shaped fish. So, as a rather terrible joke he would admit, he named them Bladder-Fish.

He spent the day collecting anything that seemed useful and went through two med kits thanks to his discovery of a small cavefish that exploded. But, he persevered and eventually could fabricate a scanner. Ryley set out again to scavenge what he could and, by the end of the day, he had scrounged up enough materials to fabricate a repair tool and simple survival knife.

He felt accomplished, and as he finished soldering together the last wire on the radio, Ryley found himself feeling more at peace. It was good to keep busy, he realized. Staying busy meant he didn’t have time for being afraid. He was a member of the Aurora Maintenence Team after all. He was supposed to fix things, he was supposed to be able to solve problems, he was supposed to always be busy. In a weird way, surviving in an alien ocean was no different. Or, at least rationalizing it as being no different certainly helped.

Ryley flicked the radio’s switch on and jumped in fright as multiple messages began to come through.

“Radio online. Broadcasting emergency distress signal."

"This is Life Pod 3, up-loading our coordinates…”

“This is Ozzy from the Cafeteria. What the hell guys!”

"This is Aurora. Distress signal received. Rescue operation will be dispatched to your location in 9...9...9..."

“This is an automated distress signal from Life Pod 9. Sensors indicate passenger is unresponsive…”

“This is Life Pod 4! We’ve landed close to the Aurora, flotation devices active, but we got some big-old fish in the water with us and I don’t know how long we’re going to last-“

The radio shut off with a pop of sparks and smoke. Overwhelmed with the flood of messages.

Ryley fumbled with his PDA, hoping it had cataloged the coordinates. It had, for most of them. But, with the exception of the messages sent by his own radio, next to each one was an additional tag-

Message sent thirty-six hours ago.

He sat at the bottom of his lifepod, baffled as he stumbled through the math. It had been over twenty-four hours since he first awoke. But, based on his guesswork, this meant he had been unconscious for twelve hours before that.

He thought about the message from Life Pod 4. He knew exactly what fish they were talking about. How close had he been to them? Could he even do anything to help?

He had to try.

Ryley double-checked the messages. Life Pod 3 didn’t seem that far from his location. Rereading their message it looked like they had a sea glide. Maybe they could use it to outswim whatever that thing near the Aurora was and get to Life Pod 4.

He was apprehensive about leaving the safety of his pod considering the sun already set. But he hoped that if the water stayed shallow then hopefully it would be too dangerous a swim.

Ryley climbed out the bottom hatch, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the water, before nearly letting out all his air in a gasp.

The reef he had landed in was quite lovely in the daytime. But at night it had become ethereal. The various flora and fauna glowed gently in the warm currents. It gave him a little flicker of courage as he set off towards the life pod…

Ryley found Life Pod 3 where the reef gave way to an exotic-looking kelp forest, which was lit up by the strange, glowing seed pods that they grew.

The lights were out on Life Pod 3, and as he circled the structure he discovered a large hole ripped into the side.

His heart dropped, and he raced inside clinging to the thinnest of hopes that somehow finding someone alive-

But there was nothing. No person, not even a body. Only the warped remains of what he assumed was a sea glide and a still functioning PDA. Its screen was a spider web of cracks. But its black box function seemed to still be active, which was how Ryley learned of Life Pod 3’s fatal mistake of trying to modify a sea glide to carry two people.

He wanted to scream. They weren’t even that far from the surface! They had been too afraid of whatever was outside-

But what had been outside the pod? Why were there no remains?

Rylee’s stomach lurched, and he threw himself out of the pod and frantically swam to the surface where he promptly vomited what little contents his stomach had.

Why were there no remains?

Did that mean something ate-

-Something bit his ankle, and a scream managed to rip itself out of his throat before he landed a kick on a strange, alligator-like creature which left with an agitated shake of its head.

He was slow in his swim back to his life pod. His ankle stinging and his stomach still twisting itself in knots. He encountered two more of the creatures that had bit him, both easy to out-maneuver. These things were dangerous no doubt. But easy to outswim even without a sea glide. How could the people of Life Pod 3 make such a mistake?

Yet, as he entered the reef. Ryley swore he heard a strange, electronic screech way off in the distance, and he had to wonder if it was something else that made the people of Life Pod 3 afraid to go outside.

#subnautica #subnautica fanfic #creative writing #ryley robinson #Also I'm open to comments and feedback

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