#dog laser therapy at home

[laservetbcure]

Achilles tendon injuries in dogs can be challenging and painful, but with timely intervention and appropriate treatment, dogs can make a successful recovery and regain their mobility. Understanding the common causes, recognizing the signs and symptoms, and seeking prompt veterinary care are crucial steps for a positive outcome.

[b-curelaser]

Cold laser therapy devices offer a unique approach to pain relief by tapping into the intricate mechanisms of nerve cells and pain receptors. Their ability to stimulate ATP production, regulate neurotransmitters, and influence pain receptor sensitivity makes them a promising tool for managing various types of pain. Scientific research and clinical studies continue to shed light on the intricate science behind cold laser therapy's pain-relieving effects, validating its place as a non-invasive and effective pain management solution.

[mandana-the-service-pup]

I was really surprised when Mandana did a blood pressure alert this morning on our potty walk. Usually short trips mess with my heart rate more than blood pressure and since starting red laser therapy my blood pressure has stayed almost exclusively in normal ranges. We’ve also been less active so she hasn’t been getting to practice alerts as frequently, so I was really surprised when she punched me in the back of the leg with her nose and then confirmed it was a blood pressure alert.

I haven’t been doing much with her since she still has stitches in her elbow. They are healing much better this time so I’m hopeful she will be fully recovered soon, but it’s not a good idea to take her out until her skin is fully healed and we have a better understanding of what’s going on with her back. Depending on what the orthopedic surgeon says, theres a good chance she won’t be much more than an at-home service dog but that’s ok with me.

[85alberto]

Pet Cold Laser Therapy Device 2x808nm Red Light Therapy Devices Pain Relief Home Phototherapy for Dogs Cats Horses

[therapyfordogshipdysplasia]

Lifestyle Changes to Support Dogs with Hip Dysplasia

Canine hip dysplasia is a common orthopedic condition that affects the hip joints of dogs, leading to pain, discomfort, and reduced mobility. While there is no cure for hip dysplasia, certain lifestyle changes can significantly improve your dog's quality of life and manage the symptoms effectively. This article explores various lifestyle adjustments and therapies that can support dogs with hip dysplasia.

Understanding Canine Hip Dysplasia Canine hip dysplasia occurs when the hip joint doesn't develop properly, leading to instability and gradual deterioration of the joint. This condition is influenced by both genetic and environmental factors and is more common in certain breeds, including Golden Retrievers, German Shepherds, and Labrador Retrievers.

Lifestyle Changes to Consider Weight Management: Maintaining a healthy weight is crucial for dogs with hip dysplasia. Excess weight places additional stress on the joints, exacerbating pain and discomfort. Consult with your veterinarian to determine the appropriate diet and feeding regimen to help your dog achieve and maintain a healthy weight.

Exercise Modification: Modify your dog's exercise routine to reduce impact on the hips. Low-impact exercises such as swimming and leash walking on soft surfaces (e.g., grass or carpet) are ideal. Avoid activities that involve jumping, rough play, or prolonged running.

Comfortable Living Environment: Create a comfortable living space for your dog by providing supportive bedding with extra cushioning to relieve pressure on the joints. Consider using ramps or steps to help your dog access higher surfaces like beds or sofas without having to jump.

Physical Therapy and Rehabilitation: Physical therapy can be highly beneficial for dogs with hip dysplasia. Therapeutic exercises help strengthen the muscles around the hip joints, improve flexibility, and support overall joint stability. Consult a qualified veterinary therapist for a tailored rehabilitation program.

Pain Management: Manage your dog's pain with the guidance of your veterinarian. Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs), joint supplements (e.g., glucosamine and chondroitin), and alternative therapies such as acupuncture or laser therapy may be recommended to alleviate discomfort and improve mobility.

Nutritional Support: A balanced diet rich in essential nutrients, including omega-3 fatty acids and antioxidants, supports joint health and reduces inflammation. Consider incorporating joint health supplements into your dog's diet under veterinary supervision.

Regular Veterinary Check-ups: Schedule regular veterinary check-ups to monitor your dog's condition and adjust treatment plans as needed. Early intervention and proactive management can help slow the progression of hip dysplasia and minimize complications.

Supporting Your Dog's Well-being Emotional Support: Dogs with chronic conditions like hip dysplasia may experience frustration or anxiety due to limited mobility. Provide plenty of mental stimulation, interactive playtime, and positive reinforcement to enhance their emotional well-being.

Environmental Adaptations: Make necessary adaptations to your home environment to accommodate your dog's condition. This may include installing non-slip flooring, using assistive devices like harnesses or slings for support, and ensuring easy access to food, water, and rest areas.

Conclusion While canine hip dysplasia poses challenges for both dogs and their owners, proactive management and supportive care can significantly improve your dog's comfort and mobility. By implementing lifestyle changes such as weight management, appropriate exercise, physical therapy, and nutritional support, you can help alleviate pain, slow disease progression, and enhance your dog's overall quality of life.

Consult with your veterinarian and consider working with a veterinary therapist or rehabilitation specialist to develop a comprehensive care plan tailored to your dog's individual needs. With dedication and thoughtful management, dogs with hip dysplasia can continue to lead fulfilling lives as cherished companions.

Implementing these lifestyle changes not only supports your dog's physical health but also strengthens the bond between you and your canine companion, ensuring they receive the best possible care and attention throughout their journey with hip dysplasia.

[hockeymusicmore]

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[healinghandsvetacupuncture]

Healing Hands Veterinary Acupuncture

Website: https://www.healinghandsvetacupuncture.com

Address: Southern Tier of New York, USA

Healing Hands Veterinary Acupuncture, founded by Dr. Karin Olsen, specializes in providing house call acupuncture and integrative services to pets, ensuring their comfort by facilitating treatments in their own home. The practice emphasizes a holistic approach, offering a range of services including acupuncture, laser therapy, and herbal consults, as well as compassionate in-home hospice care and euthanasia. Dr. Olsen, with her profound expertise and dedication, ensures pets in the Southern Tier of NY receive optimal care tailored to their unique needs.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100064025744730

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[returntosaturn271995]

Friday, June 9th: Fight for your right to indict

Indictment is stupid word. Yes, I am bad at spelling, but that’s only because English is full of words that force me to go “in-dick-tment” in my head. 

But I digress today because Trump was indicted on 37 (!!) felony counts for stealing documents from the White House, lying about it, and not giving them all back when asked. 

Dude, what the fuck? Will he go to prison? Because in the book I’m (still) reading about the 90′s, OJ had all of evidence against him but fame and media circus’s have turned real life legal cases in to a form of this country’s worst  entertainment.

My vote is that he rots in prison. Anyhoo here’s some other votes (aka choices I made) for the ways I tried to be a better person after ranting and raging in therapy with Angelita yesterday. 

1. Woke up before 11 am (I know. It’s still progress).

2. Got workout-glam for a 2 hr long walk with Ryan after grabbing another lavender latte from Palmy’s. I’m trying to perform less in conversations and enjoy comfortable silences more after my talk with Zach last night brought it up. Yeah...I’m not super great at it, but sober date! Cardio! 

3. Helped a small (but very motivated) dog back in to his home after he broke loose on to the boardwalk. I spilled my coffee and probably looked like a total idiot duck-walking him back, but no good deed goes unpunished, I guess.

4. Rocked a half-up, half down pony, low-cut black workout top, Adidas black leggings, and black and white Asics. Big black headphones, black leather backpack filled with my book and highlighters. 

5. Meditated on letting obsessive thoughts go. Officially hit 83 hours of practice. I sat up straight instead of lying down to let the elements take me. I did torture myself a little with overthinking anyway, but there were some present moments that felt buttery and yellow. Think: amber is the color of your energy. 

6. Made blueberry scones because I am a chef. Folded laundry first thing this morning. Dusted my bedside table because I’m trying to be one of those people that cleaning soothes. (Oh yeah, squeeze that bleach spray, honey! Let’s wipe away our sins and likely a fuck ton of my dead skin cells.)

7. Tried a new Yoga flow today. Intermediate, 22 minuets of thigh flexibility. And may I just say? No. That was terrible. I’m happy I did it but damn. My progress is feeling very non-progressy. BUT I can still touch my toes and do a flat-footed downward dog so there: ceiling and floor. Officially hit 15 hours of practice. 

8. Set up Orange Theory for Monday because I’m a masochist. Set up a leg and brazilian laser for later this month because I am a realist. 

9. Applied to a job on Linkedin, because why not it was right there. Waiting with total nerves to see if I get the Nowadays offer, made sure to send kind follow up email.

10. My goals for tonight? Purchase a new alarm clock that doesn’t suck. No alcohol/going out. Finish/or make progress in 90′s book (this thing is well written but my god is it thickems). Skincare moment. Make steaks with caper butter and roasted potatoes and then wash the dishes. 

I think I’ve done enough work today to both continue the virtuous cycle or feel that I was productive enough to save some goals for tomorrow. We’ll see. It can’t be denied that after every habit I feel better. Daily chores don’t suck the life force out of me like they used to (or maybe the idea of them used to), but instead I affirm my worth and right to be taken care of. Every action is a vote. It’s proving ones love to one-self with quality time, acts of service, words of affirmation, and yes, a couple of gifts. 

Hair grease and inner peace, 

Erin

[flowbeast]

US Pro 2022 Portable Light Therapy Device for Pain Relief, Home Light Therapy, Pain Relief Therapy Device, for Human/Dogs/Animals, Handheld, Rechargeable, Pulse, (5 * 808) Price: [price_with_discount] Customer satisfaction rating 3.5 (according to Amazon product Details) A HOME LIGHT THERAPY DEVICE heals and reduces pain and inflammation in humans, pets, dogs, cats, horses and other animals, with pulse function, 3 * 808nm + 12 * 650 Light Handheld pain relief device cold light therapy for humans/pets. Cold Light Therapy Device for Pain Relief, Portable and Handheld Pain Relief Device for Knee, Shoulder, Safe and Effective. THREE CENTRAL 808NM LIGHT DIODES are invisible to the naked eye. You can use it at home or in the office, anywhere.; Safety cold laser device, LLI low level, CLASS 3B, 30 days return, 1 year warranty, 24 hour technical support. First available date ‏ : ‎ April 30, 2022 Manufacturer ‏ : ‎ YP co ltd ASIN ‏ : ‎ B09YXRRBLP The 808nm wavelength is especially effective in relieving pain, but it is invisible to human eyes. That means you probably don't think it's active, but it's already working. No drugs, no size effects, CLASS 3B, LLLT, portable, portable and effective, easy to operate, specially designed for home use As a large power, it is normal that it is a little hot. We suggest using it 5---10 minutes/time, 2--3 times/day. If it's hot, try a shorter time. Suggest to be 1"--2" away from the skin. It is better to shave the fur of the animal to use it. 30-Day Money Back Guarantee, 1-Year Quality Guarantee, 24/7 Tech Support, Expedited 2-Day USPS Priority Delivery from CA Warehouse. #Pro #Portable #Light #Therapy #Device #Pain #Relief #Home #Light #Therapy #Pain #Relief #Therapy #Device #HumanDogsAnimals #Handheld #Rechargeable #Pulse See more related items: US Pro 2022 Portable Light Therapy Device for Pain Relief, Home Light Therapy, Pain Relief Therapy Device, for Human/Dogs/Animals, Handheld, Rechargeable, Pulse, (5 * 808) Read More: This site is affiliated with Amazon

[jacksonleoblog]

What Should I Give my Cat for Arthritis Pain?

Cat arthritis

Cat arthritis is a frequent illness that causes aching joints in cats and makes movement difficult. Unfortunately , cat arthritis supplements has no cure. The good news is that you can take actions to make your arthritis-affected cat feel better.   Signs your cat has arthritis

Bones in your cat's body should normally slide past one other effortlessly because they are protected by healthy joint fluid and cartilage. If the cat has arthritis, the smooth surface of the bones wears down, and the bones grind against each other like sandpaper. This causes the cat to move slowly or with pain.  

A cat with arthritis will exhibit reluctance or hesitancy jumping up and down, difficulty going up and down stairs, limping, stiffness in the legs after resting or sleeping, difficulty using their litter box, irritability, reduced levels of activity, less time spent grooming, reduced height when jumping, and hiding or sleeping more than usual.   Whereas arthritis can affect any region of the body in a cat, it often affects the feline's legs. When cat arthritis develops in our cat's back legs, it can severely limit the cat's mobility. Cat arthritis can induce lameness in some situations, causing the feline to limp or favor one leg when walking.   Causes of arthritis in cats

To determine what to give your cat to reduce arthritic discomfort, you must first understand the origin of the arthritis.   Some of the most prevalent causes of cat arthritis are age-related joint wear and tear, faulty hip development that damages the cartilage around joints, joint fracture or injury, obesity, and heredity.   Diagnosing arthritis in cats

Once you've determined that your cat has arthritis and investigated all probable causes, taking the pet to a veterinarian for arthritis diagnostic tests is critical. A veterinarian will analyze your cat's medical history and do a physical examination if they suspect arthritis.   The veterinarian will specifically look for any apparent joint deformity, indications of joint pain, symptoms of decreased perception of motion by the cat, grafting or scraping noises when the cat moves its joints, fluid in the joints, and general joint instability during the physical examination. The veterinarian will perform an x-ray to take photographs of the inside of the cat's body, particularly the cat's bones, to determine whether the cat has arthritis.   Arthritis relief for cats

As with dog muscle supplements, cat arthritis relief will entail a veterinarian recommending appropriate therapy alternatives for the cat. Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs), pain management medications, injectable protectants, acupuncture, and cold laser therapy or photobiomodulation (PBMT) are also alternatives.   As the most common treatment for cat arthritis, your veterinarian may prescribe NSAIDs. They will then determine the length and type of NSAID medication your cat requires.   As with dog arthritis, where the veterinarian may recommend over-the-counter (OTC) pain relief medication or an OTC anti-inflammatory for dogs, your veterinarian may recommend painkilling drugs in cases where NSAIDs are deemed ineffective or insufficient to treat the cat's arthritic condition.   The veterinarian may prescribe injectable joint protectants for your cat, which entail injecting the cat with glycosaminoglycan every four weeks or so.   Aside from the cat arthritis therapies listed above, your veterinarian may offer acupuncture or cold laser therapy for your cat. Acupuncture is an ancient medical technique in which needles are inserted into precise places on the cat's body to ease discomfort. On the other hand, cold laser therapy is a noninvasive and painless treatment in which a veterinarian moves a small device emitting therapeutic light waves across the cat's body to relieve pain and inflammation.   You can also give your arthritic cat home remedies for cat arthritis, such as providing a soft and warm bed that is easy to get in and out of, a ramp up to places the cat likes to rest, a liter box with one low side for easy access, keeping everything your cat needs on one floor of the house, using soft brushes for grooming, and helping the cat maintain a healthy weight to reduce pressure on its joints.   For cat arthritis concerns, seek a veterinarian’s help.

Always seek the advice of a competent veterinarian if you feel your cat has arthritis. A professional veterinarian can advise you on the best course of action for your cat.

[laservetbcure]

Chronic ear infections in dogs are a cause for concern, and timely intervention is vital for your furry friend's well-being. As a responsible dog owner, it's essential to recognize the warning signs of a more serious problem and seek professional veterinary care when necessary. By partnering with a qualified veterinarian and following their treatment plan, you can help your dog find relief from chronic ear infections and prevent complications that may arise from untreated infections.

[peachtreehillsvet]

Have You Been Watching Your Cat?

Have You Been Watching Your Cat?

  I know this seems like a silly question, but really take a look. Does your feline friend seem to be acting differently as they have gotten older? Do they sleep more? Is their coat looking unkempt along the back? Do they not jump up on the couch, or climb the stairs as much? Do they groan, or even hiss, when petting along their back? If you are thinking, hmmm, my cat does seem to be acting a bit different, then let’s see how we can give them some relief!

  As cats age, they are very prone to developing ARTHRITIS. Studies even show that 90% of cats will show radiographic signs of arthritis1 . And sometimes these changes can be even earlier than you’d expect.

  When we are developing a game plan for arthritis and pain management, much of our diagnosis is based on our exam, our observations in the room or on home videos, and our discussion with you. X-rays are helpful to aid in the diagnosis, but sometimes arthritis can be present with even a ‘normal’ x-ray!

  As a veterinary team, our overall goal is to try and return your feline friend to their prior activity level and maintain a high comfort and quality of life! Prior to a few months ago, there was a significant challenge in managing pain and arthritis in feline patients. A common therapy in dogs for managing arthritis is prescribing NSAIDs, but long-term therapy of this in cats can be potentially problematic for organs like the kidney and liver.

  But, we have great news! There is a new monoclonal antibody (SolensiaTM) that has been developed specifically for FELINE patients to block nerve growth factor (NGF), a substance that is responsible for worsening arthritis and the pain pathway. This new and innovative medication is given as an injection in the hospital, under the skin, by your veterinary team. It is designed to be given every 30 days and can be repeated on that timeline indefinitely. Some feline patients have seen improvement even after one injection!

  Overall, this is the first medicine of its kind that has the potential to improve the quality of life for cat arthritis/pain, without the significant side effects, risks, and difficulty of medicating cats. To note, with anything in medicine, especially pain, it is a multimodal approach and there are other options including LASER therapy, Acupuncture, appropriate NSAID usage, and other pain medications to help in our ultimate goal of alleviating discomfort.

  Please let us know if you have any questions about this product, it’s safety profile, and its effectiveness. If you’d like to give it a try, let us know and we can get your cat scheduled!

  Thank you and take care!

Dr. Mark Belyeu

  References:

1. Hardie EM, Roe SC, Martin FR. Radiographic evidence of degenerative joint disease in geriatric cats: 100 cases (1994-1997). J Am Vet Med Assoc. 2002 Mar 1;220(5):628-32. doi: 10.2460/javma.2002.220.628. PMID: 12418522.

Originally published here: https://peachtreehillsvet.com/have-you-been-watching-your-cat/

[peacefulapocalypse]

I Sexually Identify as an

Attack Helicopter

by ISABEL FALL

I sexually identify as an attack helicopter.

I lied. According to US Army Technical Manual 0, The Soldier as a System, “attack helicopter” is a

gender identity, not a biological sex. My dog tags and Form 3349 say my body is an XX-karyotope

somatic female.

But, really, I didn’t lie. My body is a component in my mission, subordinate to what I truly am. If I

say I am an attack helicopter, then my body, my sex, is too. I’ll prove it to you.

When I joined the Army I consented to tactical-role gender reassignment. It was mandatory for the

MOS I’d tested into. I was nervous. I’d never been anything but a woman before.

But I decided that I was done with womanhood, over what womanhood could do for me; I wanted to

be something furiously new.

To the people who say a woman would’ve refused to do what I do, I say—

Isn’t that the point?

I fly—

Red evening over the white Mojave, and I watch the sun set through a canopy of polycarbonate and

glass: clitoral bulge of cockpit on the helicopter’s nose. Lightning probes the burned wreck of an oil

refinery and the Santa Ana feeds a smoldering wildfire and pulls pine soot out southwest across the

Big Pacific. We are alone with each other, Axis and I, flying low.

We are traveling south to strike a high school.

Rotor wash flattens rings of desert creosote. Did you know that creosote bushes clone themselves?

The ten-thousand-year elders enforce dead zones where nothing can grow except more creosote.

Beetles and mice live among them, the way our cities had pigeons and mice. I guess the analogy

breaks down because the creosote’s lasted ten thousand years. You don’t need an attack helicopter

to tell you that our cities haven’t. The Army gave me gene therapy to make my blood toxic to

mosquitoes. Soon you will have that too, to fight malaria in the Hudson floodplain and on the banks

of the Greater Lake.

Now I cross Highway 40, southbound at two hundred knots. The Apache’s engine is electric and

silent. Decibel killers sop up the rotor noise. White-bright infrared vision shows me stripes of heat,

the tire tracks left by Pear Mesa school buses. Buried housing projects smolder under the dirt,

radiators curled until sunset. This is enemy territory. You can tell because, though this desert was

once Nevada and California, there are no American flags.

“Barb,” the Apache whispers, in a voice that Axis once identified, to my alarm, as my mother’s.

“Waypoint soon.”

“Axis.” I call out to my gunner, tucked into the nose ahead of me. I can see only gray helmet and

flight suit shoulders, but I know that body wholly, the hard knots of muscle, the ridge of pelvic

girdle, the shallow navel and flat hard chest. An attack helicopter has a crew of two. My gunner is

my marriage, my pillar, the completion of my gender.

“Axis.” The repeated call sign means, I hear you.

“Ten minutes to target.”

“Ready for target,” Axis says.

But there is again that roughness, like a fold in carbon fiber. I heard it when we reviewed our

fragment orders for the strike. I hear it again now. I cannot ignore it any more than I could ignore a

battery fire; it is a fault in a person and a system I trust with my life.

But I can choose to ignore it for now.

The target bumps up over the horizon. The low mounds of Kelso-Ventura District High burn warm

gray through a parfait coating of aerogel insulation and desert soil. We have crossed a third of the

continental US to strike a school built by Americans.

Axis cues up a missile: black eyes narrowed, telltales reflected against clear laser-washed cornea.

“Call the shot, Barb.”

“Stand by. Maneuvering.” I lift us above the desert floor, buying some room for the missile to run,

watching the probability-of-kill calculation change with each motion of the aircraft.

Before the Army my name was Seo Ji Hee. Now my call sign is Barb, which isn’t short for Barbara. I

share a rank (flight warrant officer), a gender, and a urinary system with my gunner Axis: we are

harnessed and catheterized into the narrow tandem cockpit of a Boeing AH-70 Apache Mystic.

America names its helicopters for the people it destroyed.

We are here to degrade and destroy strategic targets in the United States of America’s war against

the Pear Mesa Budget Committee. If you disagree with the war, so be it: I ask your empathy, not

your sympathy. Save your pity for the poor legislators who had to find some constitutional

framework for declaring war against a credit union.

The reasons for war don’t matter much to us. We want to fight the way a woman wants to be

gracious, the way a man wants to be firm. Our need is as vamp-fierce as the strutting queen and

dryly subtle as the dapper lesbian and comfortable as the soft resilience of the demiwoman. How

often do you analyze the reasons for your own gender? You might sigh at the necessity of morning

makeup, or hide your love for your friends behind beer and bravado. Maybe you even resent the

punishment for breaking these norms.

But how often—really—do you think about the grand strategy of gender? The mess of history and

sociology, biology and game theory that gave rise to your pants and your hair and your salary? The

casus belli?

Often, you might say. All the time. It haunts me.

Then you, more than anyone, helped make me.

When I was a woman I wanted to be good at woman. I wanted to darken my eyes and strut in heels.

I wanted to laugh from my throat when I was pleased, laugh so low that women would shiver in

contentment down the block.

And at the same time I resented it all. I wanted to be sharper, stronger, a new-made thing,

exquisite and formidable. Did I want that because I was taught to hate being a woman? Or because I

hated being taught anything at all?

Now I am jointed inside. Now I am geared and shafted, I am a being of opposing torques. The noise

I make is canceled by decibel killers so I am no louder than a woman laughing through two walls.

When I was a woman I wanted to have friends who would gasp at the precision and surprise of my

gifts. Now I show friendship by tracking the motions of your head, looking at what you look at, the

way one helicopter’s sensors can be slaved to the motions of another.

When I was a woman I wanted my skin to be as smooth and dark as the sintered stone countertop

in our kitchen.

Now my skin is boron-carbide and Kevlar. Now I have a wrist callus where I press my hydration

sensor into my skin too hard and too often. Now I have bit-down nails from the claustrophobia of the

bus ride to the flight line. I paint them desert colors, compulsively.

When I was a woman I was always aware of surveillance. The threat of the eyes on me, the chance

that I would cross over some threshold of detection and become a target.

Now I do the exact same thing. But I am counting radars and lidars and pit viper thermal sensors,

waiting for a missile.

I am gas turbines. I am the way I never sit on the same side of the table as a stranger. I am most

comfortable in moonless dark, in low places between hills. I am always thirsty and always tense. I

tense my core and pace my breath even when coiled up in a briefing chair. As if my tail rotor must

cancel the spin of the main blades and the turbines must whirl and the plates flex against the pitch

links or I will go down spinning to my death.

An airplane wants in its very body to stay flying. A helicopter is propelled by its interior

near-disaster.

I speak the attack command to my gunner. “Normalize the target.”

Nothing happens.

“Axis. Comm check.”

“Barb, Axis. I hear you.” No explanation for the fault. There is nothing wrong with the weapon attack

parameters. Nothing wrong with any system at all, except the one without any telltales, my spouse,

my gunner.

“Normalize the target,” I repeat.

“Axis. Rifle one.”

The weapon falls off our wing, ignites, homes in on the hard invisible point of the laser designator.

Missiles are faster than you think, more like a bullet than a bird. If you’ve ever seen a bird.

The weapon penetrates the concrete shelter of Kelso-Ventura High School and fills the empty halls

with thermobaric aerosol. Then: ignition. The detonation hollows out the school like a hooked finger

scooping out an egg. There are not more than a few janitors in there. A few teachers working late.

They are bycatch.

What do I feel in that moment? Relief. Not sexual, not like eating or pissing, not like coming in from

the heat to the cool dry climate shelter. It’s a sense of passing . Walking down the street in the right

clothes, with the right partner, to the right job. That feeling. Have you felt it?

But there is also an itch of worry—why did Axis hesitate? How did Axis hesitate?

Kelso-Ventura High School collapses into its own basement. “Target normalized,” Axis reports,

without emotion, and my heart beats slow and worried.

I want you to understand that the way I feel about Axis is hard and impersonal and lovely. It is

exactly the way you would feel if a beautiful, silent turbine whirled beside you day and night,

protecting you, driving you on, coursing with current, fiercely bladed, devoted. God, it’s love. It’s

love I can’t explain. It’s cold and good.

“Barb,” I say, which means I understand . “Exiting north, zero three zero, cupids two.”

I adjust the collective—feel the swash plate push up against the pitch links, the links tilt the angle of

the rotors so they ease their bite on the air—and the Apache, my body, sinks toward the hot desert

floor. Warm updraft caresses the hull, sensual contrast with the Santa Ana wind. I shiver in delight.

Suddenly: warning receivers hiss in my ear, poke me in the sacral vertebrae, put a dark

thunderstorm note into my air. “Shit,” Axis hisses. “Air search radar active, bearing 192, angles

twenty, distance . . . eighty klicks. It’s a fast-mover. He must’ve heard the blast.”

A fighter. A combat jet. Pear Mesa’s mercenary defenders have an air force, and they are out on the

hunt. “A Werewolf.”

“Must be. Gown?”

“Gown up.” I cue the plasma-sheath stealth system that protects us from radar and laser hits. The

Apache glows with lines of arc-weld light, UFO light. Our rotor wash blasts the plasma into a bright

wedding train behind us. To the enemy’s sensors, that trail of plasma is as thick and soft as

insulating foam. To our eyes it’s cold aurora fire.

“Let’s get the fuck out.” I touch the cyclic and we sideslip through Mojave dust, watching the school

fall into itself. There is no reason to do this except that somehow I know Axis wants to see. Finally I

pull the nose around, aim us northeast, shedding light like a comet buzzing the desert on its way

into the sun.

“Werewolf at seventy klicks,” Axis reports. “Coming our way. Time to intercept . . . six minutes.”

The Werewolf Apostles are mercenaries, survivors from the militaries of climate-seared states. They

sell their training and their hardware to earn their refugee peoples a few degrees more distance from

the equator.

The heat of the broken world has chased them here to chase us.

Before my assignment neurosurgery, they made me sit through (I could bear to sit, back then) the

mandatory course on Applied Constructive Gender Theory. Slouched in a fungus-nibbled plastic chair

as transparencies slid across the cracked screen of a De-networked Briefing Element overhead

projector: how I learned the technology of gender.

Long before we had writing or farms or post-digital strike helicopters, we had each other. We lived

together and changed each other, and so we needed to say “this is who I am, this is what I do.”

So, in the same way that we attached sounds to meanings to make language, we began to attach

clusters of behavior to signal social roles. Those clusters were rich, and quick-changing, and so just

like language, we needed networks devoted to processing them. We needed a place in the brain to

construct and to analyze gender.

Generations of queer activists fought to make gender a self-determined choice, and to undo the

creeping determinism that said the way it is now is the way it always was and always must be.

Generations of scientists mapped the neural wiring that motivated and encoded the gender choice.

And the moment their work reached a usable stage—the moment society was ready to accept plastic

gender, and scientists were ready to manipulate it—the military found a new resource. Armed with

functional connectome mapping and neural plastics, the military can make gender tactical.

If gender has always been a construct, then why not construct new ones?

My gender networks have been reassigned to make me a better AH-70 Apache Mystic pilot. This is

better than conventional skill learning. I can show you why.

Look at a diagram of an attack helicopter’s airframe and components. Tell me how much of it you

grasp at once.

Now look at a person near you, their clothes, their hair, their makeup and expression, the way they

meet or avoid your eyes. Tell me which was richer with information about danger and capability. Tell

me which was easier to access and interpret.

The gender networks are old and well-connected. They work .

I remember being a woman. I remember it the way you remember that old, beloved hobby you left

behind. Woman felt like my prom dress, polyester satin smoothed between little hand and little hip.

Woman felt like a little tic of the lips when I was interrupted, or like teasing out the mood my

boyfriend wouldn’t explain. Like remembering his mom’s birthday for him, or giving him a list of

things to buy at the store, when he wanted to be better about groceries.

I was always aware of being small: aware that people could hurt me. I spent a lot of time thinking

about things that had happened right before something awful. I would look around me and ask

myself, are the same things happening now? Women live in cross-reference. It is harder work than

we know.

Now I think about being small as an advantage for nape-of-earth maneuvers and pop-up guided

missile attacks.

Now I yield to speed walkers in the hall like I need to avoid fouling my rotors.

Now walking beneath high-tension power lines makes me feel the way that a cis man would feel if he

strutted down the street in a miniskirt and heels.

I’m comfortable in open spaces but only if there’s terrain to break it up. I hate conversations I

haven’t started; I interrupt shamelessly so that I can make my point and leave.

People treat me like I’m dangerous, like I could hurt them if I wanted to. They want me protected

and watched over. They bring me water and ask how I’m doing.

People want me on their team. They want what I can do.

A fighter is hunting us, and I am afraid that my gunner has gender dysphoria.

Twenty thousand feet above us (still we use feet for altitude) the bathroom-tiled transceivers cupped

behind the nose cone of a Werewolf Apostle J-20S fighter broadcast fingers of radar light. Each beam

cast at a separate frequency, a fringed caress instead of a pointed prod. But we are jumpy, we are

hypervigilant—we feel that creeper touch.

I get the cold-rush skin-prickle feel of a stranger following you in the dark. Has he seen you? Is he

just going the same way? If he attacks, what will you do, could you get help, could you scream? Put

your keys between your fingers, like it will help. Glass branches of possibility grow from my skin,

waiting to be snapped off by the truth.

“Give me a warning before he’s in IRST range,” I order Axis. “We’re going north.”

“Axis.” The Werewolf’s infrared sensor will pick up the heat of us, our engine and plasma shield,

burning against the twilight desert. The same system that hides us from his radar makes us hot and

visible to his IRST.

I throttle up, running faster, and the Apache whispers alarm. “Gown overspeed.” We’re moving too

fast for the plasma stealth system, and the wind’s tearing it from our skin. We are not modest. I

want to duck behind a ridge to cover myself, but I push through the discomfort, feeling out the

tradeoff between stealth and distance. Like the morning check in the mirror, trading the confidence

of a good look against the threat of reaction.

When the women of Soviet Russia went to war against the Nazis, when they volunteered by the

thousands to serve as snipers and pilots and tank drivers and infantry and partisans, they fought

hard and they fought well. They ate frozen horse dung and hauled men twice their weight out of

burning tanks. They shot at their own mothers to kill the Nazis behind her.

But they did not lose their gender; they gave up the inhibition against killing but would not give up

flowers in their hair, polish for their shoes, a yearning for the young lieutenant, a kiss on his dead

lips.

And if that is not enough to convince you that gender grows deep enough to thrive in war: when the

war ended the Soviet women were punished. They went unmarried and unrespected. They were

excluded from the victory parades. They had violated their gender to fight for the state and the state

judged that violation worth punishment more than their heroism was worth reward.

Gender is stronger than war. It remains when all else flees.

When I was a woman I wanted to machine myself.

I loved nails cut like laser arcs and painted violent-bright in bathrooms that smelled like laboratories.

I wanted to grow thick legs with fat and muscle that made shapes under the skin like Nazca lines. I

loved my birth control, loved that I could turn my period off, loved the home beauty-feedback kits

that told you what to eat and dose to adjust your scent, your skin, your moods. I admired, wasn’t

sure if I wanted to be or wanted to fuck, the women in the build-your-own-shit videos I watched on

our local image of the old Internet. Women who made cyberattack kits and jewelry and

sterile-printed IUDs, made their own huge wedge heels and fitted bras and skin-thin chameleon

dresses. Women who talked about their implants the same way they talked about computers,

phones, tools: technologies of access, technologies of self-expression.

Something about their merciless self-possession and self-modification stirred me. The first time I

ever meant to masturbate I imagined one of those women coming into my house, picking the lock,

telling me exactly what to do, how to be like her. I told my first boyfriend about this, I showed him

pictures, and he said, girl, you bi as hell, which was true, but also wrong. Because I did not want

those dresses, those heels, those bodies in the way I wanted my boyfriend. I wanted to possess that

power. I wanted to have it and be it.

The Apache is my body now, and like most bodies it is sensual. Fabric armor that stiffens beneath

my probing fingers. Stub wings clustered with ordnance. Rotors so light and strong they do not even

droop: as artificial-looking, to an older pilot, as breast implants. And I brush at the black ring of a

sensor housing, like the tip of a nail lifting a stray lash from the white of your eye.

I don’t shave, which all the fast jet pilots do, down to the last curly scrotal hair. Nobody expects a

helicopter to be sleek. I have hairy armpits and thick black bush all the way to my ass crack. The

things that are taboo and arousing to me are the things taboo to helicopters. I like to be picked up,

moved, pressed, bent and folded, held down, made to shudder, made to abandon control.

Do these last details bother you? Does the topography of my pubic hair feel intrusive and

unnecessary? I like that. I like to intrude, inflict damage, withdraw. A year after you read this maybe

those paragraphs will be the only thing you remember: and you will know why the rules of gender

are worth recruitment.

But we cannot linger on the point of attack.

“He’s coming north. Time to intercept three minutes.”

“Shit. How long until he gets us on thermal?”

“Ninety seconds with the gown on.” Danger has swept away Axis’ hesitation.

“Shit.”

“He’s not quite on zero aspect—yeah, he’s coming up a few degrees off our heading. He’s not sure

exactly where we are. He’s hunting.”

“He’ll be sure soon enough. Can we kill him?”

“With sidewinders?” Axis pauses articulately: the target is twenty thousand feet above us, and he

has a laser that can blind our missiles. “We’d have more luck bailing out and hiking.”

“All right. I’m gonna fly us out of this.”

“Sure.”

“Just check the gun.”

“Ten times already, Barb.”

When climate and economy and pathology all went finally and totally critical along the Gulf Coast,

the federal government fled Cabo fever and VARD-2 to huddle behind New York’s flood barriers.

We left eleven hundred and six local disaster governments behind. One of them was the Pear Mesa

Budget Committee. The rest of them were doomed.

Pear Mesa was different because it had bought up and hardened its own hardware and power. So

Pear Mesa’s neural nets kept running, retrained from credit union portfolio management to the

emergency triage of hundreds of thousands of starving sick refugees.

Pear Mesa’s computers taught themselves to govern the forsaken southern seaboard. Now they

coordinate water distribution, re-express crop genomes, ration electricity for survival AC, manage all

the life support humans need to exist in our warmed-over hell.

But, like all advanced neural nets, these systems are black boxes. We have no idea how they work,

what they think. Why do Pear Mesa’s AIs order the planting of pear trees? Because pears were their

corporate icon, and the AIs associate pear trees with areas under their control. Why does no one

make the AIs stop? Because no one knows what else is tangled up with the “plant pear trees”

impulse. The AIs may have learned, through some rewarded fallacy or perverse founder effect, that

pear trees cause humans to have babies. They may believe that their only function is to build

support systems around pear trees.

When America declared war on Pear Mesa, their AIs identified a useful diagnostic criterion for hostile

territory: the posting of fifty-star American flags. Without ever knowing what a flag meant, without

any concept of nations or symbols, they ordered the destruction of the stars and stripes in Pear Mesa

territory.

That was convenient for propaganda. But the real reason for the war, sold to a hesitant Congress by

technocrats and strategic ecologists, was the ideology of scale atrocity . Pear Mesa’s AIs could not be

modified by humans, thus could not be joined with America’s own governing algorithms: thus must

be forced to yield all their control, or else remain forever separate.

And that separation was intolerable. By refusing the United States administration, our superior

resources and planning capability, Pear Mesa’s AIs condemned citizens who might otherwise be

saved to die—a genocide by neglect. Wasn’t that the unforgivable crime of fossil capitalism? The

creation of systems whose failure modes led to mass death?

Didn’t we have a moral imperative to intercede?

Pear Mesa cannot surrender, because the neural nets have a basic imperative to remain online. Pear

Mesa’s citizens cannot question the machines’ decisions. Everything the machines do is connected in

ways no human can comprehend. Disobey one order and you might as well disobey them all.

But none of this is why I kill.

I kill for the same reason men don’t wear short skirts, the same reason I used to pluck my brows,

the reason enby people are supposed to be (unfair and stupid, yes, but still) androgynous with short

hair. Are those good reasons to do something? If you say no, honestly no—can you tell me you

break these rules without fear or cost?

But killing isn’t a gender role, you might tell me. Killing isn’t a decision about how to present your

own autonomous self to the world. It is coercive and punitive. Killing is therefore not an act of

gender.

I wish that were true. Can you tell me honestly that killing is a genderless act? The method? The

motive? The victim?

When you imagine the innocent dead, who do you see?

“Barb,” Axis calls, softly. Your own voice always sounds wrong on recordings—too nasal. Axis’ voice

sounds wrong when it’s not coming straight into my skull through helmet mic.

“Barb.”

“How are we doing?”

“Exiting one hundred and fifty knots north. Still in his radar but he hasn’t locked us up.”

“How are you doing?”

I cringe in discomfort. The question is an indirect way for Axis to admit something’s wrong, and that

indirection is obscene. Like hiding a corroded tail rotor bearing from your maintenance guys.

“I’m good,” I say, with fake ease. “I’m in flow. Can’t you feel it?” I dip the nose to match a drop-off

below, provoking a whine from the terrain detector. I am teasing, striking a pose. “We’re gonna be

okay.”

“I feel it, Barb.” But Axis is tense, worried about our pursuer, and other things. Doesn’t laugh.

“How about you?”

“Nominal.”

Again the indirection, again the denial, and so I blurt it out. “Are you dysphoric?”

“What?” Axis says, calmly.

“You’ve been hesitating. Acting funny. Is your—” There is no way to ask someone if their militarized

gender conditioning is malfunctioning. “Are you good?”

“I . . . ” Hesitation. It makes me cringe again, in secondhand shame. Never hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need to go on report?”

Severe gender dysphoria can be a flight risk. If Axis hesitates over something that needs to be done

instantly, the mission could fail decisively. We could both die.

“I don’t want that,” Axis says.

“I don’t want that either,” I say, desperately. I want nothing less than that. “But, Axis, if—”

The warning receiver climbs to a steady crow call.

“He knows we’re here,” I say, to Axis’ tight inhalation. “He can’t get a lock through the gown but

he’s aware of our presence. Fuck. Blinder, blinder, he’s got his laser on us—”

The fighter’s lidar pod is trying to catch the glint of a reflection off us. “Shit,” Axis says. “We’re

gonna get shot.”

“The gown should defeat it. He’s not close enough for thermal yet.”

“He’s gonna launch anyway. He’s gonna shoot and then get a lock to steer it in.”

“I don’t know—missiles aren’t cheap these days—”

The ESM mast on the Apache’s rotor hub, mounted like a lamp on a post, contains a cluster of

electro-optical sensors that constantly scan the sky: the Distributed Aperture Sensor. When the DAS

detects the flash of a missile launch, it plays a warning tone and uses my vest to poke me in the

small of my back.

My vest pokes me in the small of my back.

“Barb. Missile launch south. Barb. Fox 3 inbound. Inbound. Inbound.”

“He fired,” Axis calls. “Barb?”

“Barb,” I acknowledge.

I fuck—

Oh, you want to know: many of you, at least. It’s all right. An attack helicopter isn’t a private way of

being. Your needs and capabilities must be maintained for the mission.

I don’t think becoming an attack helicopter changed who I wanted to fuck. I like butch assertive

people. I like talent and prestige, the status that comes of doing things well. I was never taught the

lie that I was wired for monogamy, but I was still careful with men, I was still wary, and I could

never tell him why: that I was afraid not because of him, but because of all the men who’d seemed

good like him, at first, and then turned into something else.

No one stalks an attack helicopter. No slack-eyed well-dressed drunk punches you for ignoring the

little rape he slurs at your neckline. No one even breaks your heart: with my dopamine system tied

up by the reassignment surgery, fully assigned to mission behavior, I can’t fall in love with anything

except my own purpose.

Are you aware of your body? Do you feel your spine when you stand, your hips when you walk, the

tightness and the mass in your core? When you look at yourself, whose eyes do you use? Your own?

I am always in myself. I never see myself through my partner’s eyes. I have weapons to use, of

course, ways of moving, moans and cries. But I measure those weapons by their effect, not by their

similarity to some idea of how I should be.

Flying is the loop of machinery and pilot, the sense of your motion on the controls translated into

torque and lift, the airframe’s reaction shaping your next motion until the loop closes and machine

and pilot are one. Awareness collapses to the moment. You are always doing the right thing exactly

as it needs to be done. Sex is the same: the search for everything in an instant.

Of course I fuck Axis. A few decades ago this would’ve been a crime. What a waste of perfectly

useful behavior. What a waste of that lean muscled form and those perfect killing hands that know

me millimeter-by-millimeter system-by-system so there is no mystique between us. No “secret

places” or “feminine mysteries,” only the tortuously exact technical exercise of nerves and pressure.

Oxytocin released, to flow between us, by the press of knuckles in my cunt.

When I come beneath Axis I cry out, I press my body close, I want that utter loss of control that I

feel nowhere else. Heartbeat in arched throat: nipple beneath straining tongue. And my mind is

hyper-activated, free-associating, and as Axis works in me I see the work we do together. I see puffs

of thirty-millimeter autocannon detonating on night-cold desert floor.

Violence doesn’t get me off. But getting off makes me revel in who I am: and I am violent, made for

violence, alive in the fight.

Does that surprise you? Does it bother you to mingle cold technical discipline with hot flesh and

sweat?

Let me ask you: why has the worst insult you can give a combat pilot always been weak dick?

Have you ever been exultant? Have you ever known that you are a triumph? Have you ever felt that

it was your whole life’s purpose to do something, and all that you needed to succeed was to be

entirely yourself?

To be yourself well is the wholest and best feeling that anything has ever felt.

It is what I feel when I am about to live or die.

The Werewolf’s missile arches down on us, motor burned out, falling like an arrow. He is trying a

Shoot On Prospect attack: he cannot find us exactly, so he fires a missile that will finish the search,

lock onto our heat or burn through our stealth with its onboard radar, or acquire us optically like a

staring human eye. Or at least make us react. Like the catcaller’s barked “Hey!” to evoke the flinch

or the huddle, the proof that he has power.

We are ringed in the vortex of a dilemma. If we switch off the stealth gown, the Werewolf fighter will

lock its radar onto us and guide the missile to the kill. If we keep the stealth system on, the missile’s

heat-seeker will home in on the blazing plasma.

I know what to do. Not in the way you learn how to fly a helicopter, but the way you know how to

hold your elbows when you gesture.

A helicopter is more than a hovering fan, see? The blades of the rotor tilt and swivel. When you turn

the aircraft left, the rotors deepen their bite into the air on one side of their spin, to make off-center

lift. You cannot force a helicopter or it will throw you to the earth. You must be gentle.

I caress the cyclic.

The Apache’s nose comes up smooth and fast. The Mojave horizon disappears under the chin. Axis’

gasp from the front seat passes through the microphone and into the bones of my face. The pitch

indicator climbs up toward sixty degrees, ass down, chin up. Our airspeed plummets from a hundred

and fifty knots to sixty.

We hang there for an instant like a dancer in an oversway. The missile is coming straight down at

us. We are not even running anymore.

And I lower the collective, flattening the blades of the rotor, so that they cannot cut the air at an

angle and we lose all lift.

We fall.

I toe the rudder. The tail rotor yields a little of its purpose, which is to counter the torque of the

main rotor: and that liberated torque spins the Apache clockwise, opposite the rotor’s turn, until we

are nose down sixty degrees, facing back the way we came, looking into the Mojave desert as it rises

up to take us.

I have pirouetted us in place. Plasma fire blows in wraith pennants as the stealth system tries to

keep us modest.

“Can you get it?” I ask.

“Axis.”

I raise the collective again and the rotors bite back into the air. We do not rise, but our fall slows

down. Cyclic stick answers to the barest twitch of wrist, and I remember, once, how that slim wrist

made me think of fragility, frailty, fear: I am remembering even as I pitch the helicopter back and

we climb again, nose up, tail down, scudding backward into the sky while aimed at our chasing killer.

Axis is on top now, above me in the front seat, and in front of Axis is the chin gun, pointed sixty

degrees up into heaven.

“Barb,” the helicopter whispers, like my mother in my ear. “Missile ten seconds. Music? Glare?”

No. No jamming. The Werewolf missile will home in on jamming like a wolf with a taste for pepper.

Our laser might dazzle the seeker, drive it off course—but if the missile turns then Axis cannot take

the shot.

It is not a choice. I trust Axis.

Axis steers the nose turret onto the target and I imagine strong fingers on my own chin, turning me

for a kiss, looking up into the red scorched sky—Axis chooses the weapon (30MM GUIDED PROX AP)

and aims and fires with all the idle don’t-have-to-try confidence of the first girl dribbling a soccer ball

who I ever for a moment loved—

The chin autocannon barks out ten rounds a second. It is effective out to one point five kilometers.

The missile is moving more than a hundred meters per second.

Axis has one second almost exactly, ten shots of thirty-millimeter smart grenade, to save us.

A mote of gray shadow rushes at us and intersects the line of cannon fire from the gun. It becomes

a spray of light. The Apache tings and rattles. The desert below us, behind us, stipples with tiny

plumes of dust that pick up in the wind and settle out like sift from a hand.

“Got it,” Axis says.

“I love you.”

“Axis.”

Many of you are veterans in the act of gender. You weigh the gaze and disposition of strangers in a

subway car and select where to stand, how often to look up, how to accept or reject conversation.

Like a frequency-hopping radar, you modulate your attention for the people in your context: do not

look too much, lest you seem interested, or alarming. You regulate your yawns, your appetite, your

toilet. You do it constantly and without failure.

You are aces.

What other way could be better? What other neural pathways are so available to constant

reprogramming, yet so deeply connected to judgment, behavior, reflex?

Some people say that there is no gender, that it is a postmodern construct, that in fact there are

only man and woman and a few marginal confusions. To those people I ask: if your body-fact is

enough to establish your gender, you would willingly wear bright dresses and cry at movies, wouldn’t

you? You would hold hands and compliment each other on your beauty, wouldn’t you? Because your

cock would be enough to make you a man.

Have you ever guarded anything so vigilantly as you protect yourself against the shame of

gender-wrong?

The same force that keeps you from gender-wrong is the force that keeps me from fucking up.

The missile is dead. The Werewolf Apostle is still up there.

“He’s turning off.” Axis has taken over defensive awareness while I fly. “Radar off. Laser off. He’s

letting us go.”

“Afraid of our fighters?” The mercenaries cannot replace a lost J-20S. And he probably has a

wingman, still hiding, who would die too if they stray into a trap.

“Yes,” Axis says.

“Keep the gown on.” In case he’s trying to bluff us into shutting down our stealth. “We’ll stick to the

terrain until he’s over the horizon.”

“Can you fly us out?”

The Apache is fighting me. Fragments of the destroyed missile have pitted the rotors, damaged the

hub assembly, and jammed the control surfaces. I begin to crush the shrapnel with the Apache’s

hydraulics, pounding the metal free with careful control inputs. But the necessary motions also move

the aircraft. Half a second’s error will crash us into the desert. I have to calculate how to un-jam the

shrapnel while accounting for the effects of that shrapnel on my flight authority and keeping the

aircraft stable despite my constant control inputs while moving at a hundred and thirty knots across

the desert.

“Barb,” I say. “Not a problem.”

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing

something that takes everything.

The night desert is black to the naked eye, soft gray to thermal. My attention flips between my left

eye, focused on the instruments, and my right eye, looking outside. I am a black box like the Pear

Mesa AIs. Information arrives—a throb of feedback in the cyclic, a shift of Axis’ weight, a dune crest

ahead—and my hands and feet move to hold us steady. If I focused on what I was doing it would all

fall apart. So I don’t.

“Are you happy?” Axis asks.

Good to talk now. Keep my conscious mind from interfering with the gearbox of reflexes below.

“Yeah,” I say, and I blow out a breath into my mask, “yeah, I am,” a lightness in my ribs, “yeah, I

feel good.”

“Why do you think we just blew up a school?”

Why did I text my best friend the appearance and license number of all my cab drivers, just in case?

Because those were the things that had to be done.

Listen: I exist in this context. To make war is part of my gender. I get what I need from the flight

line, from the ozone tang of charging stations and the shimmer of distant bodies warping in the

tarmac heat, from the twenty minutes of anxiety after we land when I cannot convince myself that I

am home, and safe, and that I am no longer keeping us alive with the constant adjustments of my

hands and feet.

“Deplete their skilled labor supply, I guess. Attack the demographic skill curve.”

“Kind of a long-term objective. Kind of makes you think it’s not gonna be over by election season.”

“We don’t get to know why the AIs pick the targets.” Maybe destroying this school was an accident.

A quirk of some otherwise successful network, coupled to the load-bearing elements of a vast

strategy.

“Hey,” I say, after a beat of silence. “You did good back there.”

“You thought I wouldn’t.”

“Barb.” A more honest yes than “yes,” because it is my name, and it acknowledges that I am the

one with the doubt.

“I didn’t know if I would either,” Axis says, which feels exactly like I don’t know if I love you

anymore . I lose control for a moment and the Apache rattles in bad air and the tail slews until I stop

thinking and bring everything back under control in a burst of rage.

“You’re done?” I whisper, into the helmet. I have never even thought about this before. I am cold,

sweat soaked, and shivering with adrenaline comedown, drawn out like a tendon in high heels, a

just-off-the-dance-floor feeling, post-voracious, satisfied. Why would we choose anything else? Why

would we give this up? When it feels so good to do it? When I love it so much?

“I just . . . have questions.” The tactical channel processes the sound of Axis swallowing into a dull

point of sound, like dropped plastic.

“We don’t need to wonder, Axis. We’re gendered for the mission—”

“We can’t do this forever,” Axis says, startling me. I raise the collective and hop us up a hundred

feet, so I do not plow us into the desert. “We’re not going to be like this forever. The world won’t be

like this forever. I can’t think of myself as . . . always this.”

Yes, we will be this way forever. We survived this mission as we survive everywhere on this hot and

hostile earth. By bending all of what we are to the task. And if we use less than all of ourselves to

survive, we die.

“Are you going to put me on report?” Axis whispers.

On report as a flight risk? As a faulty component in a mission-critical system? “You just intercepted

an air-to-air missile with the autocannon, Axis. Would I ever get rid of you?”

“Because I’m useful,” Axis says, softly. “Because I can still do what I’m supposed to do. That’s what

you love. But if I couldn’t . . . I’m distracting you. I’ll let you fly.”

I spare one glance for the gray helmet in the cockpit below mine. Politeness is a gendered protocol.

Who speaks and who listens. Who denies need and who claims it. As a woman, I would’ve pressed

Axis. As a woman, I would’ve unpacked the unease and the disquiet.

As an attack helicopter, whose problems are communicated in brief, clear datums, I should ignore

Axis.

But who was ever only one thing?

“If you want to be someone else,” I say, “someone who doesn’t do what we do, then . . . I don’t

want to be the thing that stops you.”

“Bird’s gotta land sometime,” Axis says. “Doesn’t it?”

In the Applied Constructive Gender briefing, they told us that there have always been liminal

genders, places that people passed through on their way to somewhere else. Who are we in those

moments when we break our own rules? The straight man who sleeps with men? The woman who

can’t decide if what she feels is intense admiration, or sexual attraction? Where do we go, who do we

become?

Did you know that instability is one of the most vital traits of a combat aircraft? Civilian planes are

built stable, hard to turn, inclined to run straight ahead on an even level. But a military aircraft is

built so it wants to tumble out of control, and it is held steady only by constant automatic feedback.

The way I am holding this Apache steady now.

Something that is unstable is ready to move, eager to change, it wants to turn, to dive, to tear away

from stillness and fly .

Dynamism requires instability. Instability requires the possibility of change.

“Voice recorder’s off, right?” Axis asks.

“Always.”

“I love doing this. I love doing it with you. I just don’t know if it’s . . . if it’s right.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Barb?”

“Thank you for thinking about whether it’s right. Someone needs to.”

Maybe what Axis feels is a necessary new queerness. One which pries the tool of gender back from

the hands of the state and the economy and the war. I like that idea. I cannot think of myself as a

failure, as something wrong, a perversion of a liberty that past generations fought to gain.

But Axis can. And maybe you can too. That skepticism is not what I need . . . but it is necessary

anyway.

I have tried to show you what I am. I have tried to do it without judgment. That I leave to you.

“Are we gonna make it?” Axis asks, quietly.

The airframe shudders in crosswind. I let the vibrations develop, settle into a rhythm, and then I

make my body play the opposite rhythm to cancel it out.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is an answer to both of Axis’ questions, both of the ways our lives are in

danger now. “Depends how well I fly, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all you, Barb,” Axis says, with absolute trust. “Take us home.”

A search radar brushes across us, scatters off the gown, turns away to look in likelier places. The

Apache’s engine growls, eating battery, turning charge into motion. The airframe shudders again,

harder, wind rising as cooling sky fights blazing ground. We are racing a hundred and fifty feet

above the Larger Mojave where we fight a war over some new kind of survival and the planet we

maimed grows that desert kilometer by kilometer. Our aircraft is wounded in its body and in its

crew. We are propelled by disaster. We are moving swiftly.

[simchallah]

Mourning my dog. Writing out a detailed narrative helps me. CW below the read more for animal death, medical issues, and grief.

Two years ago schools shut down for the pandemic, and I was going out of my mind. We didn't know how long we'd be virtual. I promised myself that if school ended up being closed through the end of the school year, I would do two things: I would get a therapist, and I would get a dog. (I did both.)

We were not planning on getting a senior dog, and she definitely was. (Her age was suspect. First she was billed as 8, then 10, then it seemed she was more likely 11.) But when we learned that she had been in rescues and shelters for three years because no one wanted an older dog, we had to adopt her. Every dog deserves a loving home and family.

Right off the bat, two things became clear. First, that she was a loving, sweet, wonderful dog who wanted a family and knew right away that we were her people. She let us pet and cuddle her even when she avoided other strangers when we first picked her up. Despite being crate-trained and having comfy beds in other rooms, she spent her first night in a pile of my laundry on the floor of my bedroom, just to be near me. She was a nanny; she decided when it was time to go to bed, and made every effort to lead us there if we weren't listening. Once, when I was having a bad night, she led me to bed and led my sister to take her on her walk, even though it was my job. She spent her days going to work with me in my little set up in our basement, and I often cuddled her during classes.

Second, it became clear that she was much higher needs than her rescue had realized. She had a gash on her paw that wasn't healing properly. She had cataracts and lenticular sclerosis. She did not have "a little arthritis"- she could barely walk without an NSAID, but she had a sensitive stomach and every NSAID made her sick. She had cracked teeth and wasn't food motivated because of the pain. She had stitches from another operation (we think a tumor removal a year prior) that had never been taken out. The more care we gave her, the more was revealed. There was a point where she was bedridden and our vet had no idea what to do, and sent us off to a physical therapist. In our first visit with the physical therapist, she showed us an x-ray and said that she thought our dog had been hit by a car in the past. Her hip was completely out of its socket, in addition to the arthritis, ruptured tendon, and calcified tendon her body was also dealing with. She had almost no range of motion. We were told she was not a good candidate for surgery and this was the point where some people would consider euthanasia. We had only had her for three months.

I learned a lot about the world of what is available. Not just canine physical therapy, but also acupuncture, hydrotherapy, laser therapy, etc. We did all of it. Her physical therapy team got her happy and walking again. She loved physical therapy- she would walk around the little obstacle courses they set up for her just for fun, and she loved the cuddles and treats. The physical therapist upgraded her from an acute to a maintenance patient, with monthly instead of weekly visits, gave us exercises to do at home, and told us that she should be stable. If she continued to decline, it would be not due to her other musculoskeletal issues but rather a neurological condition, like doggy ALS.

She continued to decline over the past year. By last winter, she stopped going on walks. She needed help to stand up. She started stumbling more, standing with her feet folded under her, having more accidents around the house. In her last few days of life, she could not lie down without support. She had no muscle mass left. Coincidentally, Neil Gaiman recently made a post about his dog, and I recognized a lot of similarities. Most likely she had degenerative myelopathy, which is progressive and incurable, and would have eventually become paralyzed.

She was also losing appetite and weight. By her last weighing, she had lost 10 pounds. Her physical therapist gave us some medication to treat her nausea, which helped, but then last week she developed vomiting and difficulty breathing. She had a bad cough. We told each other it was probably organ failure, but we weren't really ready to hear that diagnosis. My sister brought her to the vet Friday, and I left work early to join when we heard the news.

She had heart failure. Her lungs were slowly filling with fluid, and if left untreated, she would eventually drown. They put her on oxygen to stabilize her. (I had thought her tongue was grayish when we brushed her teeth a couple of days prior. Turns out it was blue from lack of oxygen.) We brought home heart medication to try, adding to the list she was already on. It was a diuretic, and we were warned she would pee and drink more often. (She didn't. Whether because she was too unsteady on her feet to go drink water or because she didn't realize the need, she was dehydrated instead.) They also mentioned anemia and unusual thyroid hormones.

Saturday, they called to tell us her bloodwork indicated she had stage three kidney disease, aka moderate kidney failure, and the heart medication would accelerate her to end-stage, aka severe kidney failure. Her annual physical (hah) had been scheduled for Friday, but they wanted to see her earlier. While her respiration was normal, other problems persisted. She was still losing weight. Her mobility was still worsening. She alternated between lethargic and restless, unable to get comfortable.

On Tuesday, we gave our report, and our vet asked us if we thought it was time to say goodbye. Sobbing, we agreed that things were unlikely to get better, and we didn't want to wait until she was in extreme suffering. We wanted her to die with dignity and peace. She was relaxed and got lots of cuddles from both of us.

I love my dog, more than anything. It is physically painful not having her. My brain keeps expecting her to be around the corner. I catch myself having thoughts like, "I can't put that there, she'll trip on it." I don't want to clean, as silly as it may sound, because I know it will erase the traces of her around the house. I cry often.

Before the pandemic, I had no work/life balance. There would be days where I wouldn't come home until 6. My sister was working a different job in those days, and she was always home before me. Then, the pandemic, and when schools reopened I left work on time to come home to my baby. I have no frame of reference, no preparation to come home to an empty house. To be honest, I avoid spending time in my house alone, trying to be elsewhere or fill it with people. Otherwise the loss feels too great.

I am grateful we adopted our dog, and her memory is a blessing. But I am grieving and it hurts.

[anxiouslyfred]

Puppy Scratches

Summary: Virgil has always avoided getting any sort of injury, scared of infection among other things. Now his soulmate has started scratching words onto his skin from the flowers appearing and Virgil has no clue how to stop it or respond.

Warnings: Sort of self-harm

/\/\

Virgil did not like injuries, especially not of the level that would scar. They could get infected, and those stories of people losing limbs were not pure fiction. He did everything he could to avoid getting any injury, despite the encouragement people gave to at least get one.

His soulmate got injured enough for both of them. There wasn't any concern in Virgil's mind that he would recognise his soulmate if they ever met.

What was concerning, if not terrifying, to Virgil was when the scars got extremely pale, and started forming words. Apparently the lack of him getting scars had given the world opportunity to make his soulmate believe he didn't exist.

He spent a week freaking out, rambling about the scars if his friends ever gave him the opportunity. His soulmate getting hurt as much as the flowers suggested had always been concerning, but now it couldn't be anything but deliberate... That was the worst thing Virgil could imagine.

“Can I see these pale flowers you're talking about?” Logan asked, interrupting another ramble where Virgil was torn between trying to respond and the dangers that could cause. Infections were dangerous, and how would he even be able to write something using a knife?

Virgil blinked at his friend before rolling the side of his hoodie and top up. One of the questions had been written over his side in the pale flowers. “Sure, here they're asking for me to exist.” He muttered, thankful they were at his house when the request was made.

It was odd to have Logan move closer, pushing at the hoodie a little more, frowning. “I know better than to say you were lying about those flowers, but have you realised they are no longer visible?” He asked after a moment, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“But- but they  were scars. Scars don't disappear do they?” The thought of flowers disappearing astounded Virgil. He'd assumed, as did basically everyone that flowers only appeared for permanent scars, things that wouldn't heal any further.

“I'll have to do some research tonight, but I would theorise that injuries that scab over, even ones that wouldn't leave a permanent scar, will still show up if the scratch is enough to, say momentarily draw blood perhaps.” Logan stood again, fetching his notebook of things to research from his briefcase. “If that is the case, would you be willing for me to scratch a reply onto your skin? I could easily do so in a sanitary way and provide plasters to ensure the wounds remain clean and heal rapidly. It would also reduce the fears you've been expressing that your soulmate might continue to harm themself in an attempt to gain a response.”

Virgil nodded along with the explanation, trying to think through what his friend was suggesting and how it could work. “If you're the one to do the scratching then yeah. I can cope with that I think. Just don't make any deep cuts or anything.”

Whomever his soulmate was, Virgil didn't want any harm to come to them, especially not self inflicted as the words must have been.

/To Remus\

Remus had loved the adventures he'd managed to find over his lifetime, whether they ended in injury or merely in some new discovery he could chase after later. It was something that made him feel alive, wild and excited. He wished he could share the adventures with his soulmate when they met but after years of no flowers appearing against his skin, he was beginning to question if they were out there at all.

It took some of the fun out of getting into ridiculous situations to realise he might not have someone to share the stories with in a few years.

That had been when Remus started paying more attention to Roman an Janus. They'd met in school and had been fairly inseparable as soulmates ever since, but that wasn't what interested Remus. He wanted to know how the scars and flowers worked, whether any would disappear and if there was even a faint chance he could actively try to reach out for his soulmate without touring the world.

He managed one week to scratch Roman's cheek, thankfully on the side that hadn't already been covered in flowers. They'd been play-fighting and it had just happened, but it gave Remus a clear view of where the flowers might appear on Janus, regardless of how covered he attempted to be.

Sure enough, instead of the red tulips they claimed appeared for permanent scars Roman gained, there was a trail of pale pink flowers in the place of the scratch. Remus checked over the following weeks to see when it disappeared, and sure enough, long before the scratch had fully healed there were no flowers visible on Janus's face.

If Roman had known his plan after witnessing that, he'd have done everything he could to prevent it, to force Remus into therapy of some kind and keep him company for as long as possible. Whatever they say about twins having a connection was a lie of  superstition and Remus happily traced over words on his skin with a needle until they'd actually scratched into it.

The pain and curiosity over if somehow he'd get a response had been enough to quiet the repeating thought that he had no soulmate or they'd hate him for doing this.

Two weeks passed after Remus had tried to write questions to his soulmate in scratches on his skin. He'd eventually come clean to Roman after a few unexpected hugs and attempts to battle because of some or other absurdity Remus had to share or figure out how to get to. He'd sat through the lecture and Janus's insistence on checking over the scratches with a pout.

You'd think that after all the injuries Remus had lived though the people closest to him would realise he knew how to keep wounds clean and safe. He just didn't always want to enough to miss out on a chance to climb suspension bridges and up onto rooftops.

He'd just gotten up, unbothered about getting dressed while grabbing breakfast and spotted flowers in the mirrors reflection.

There on his arm read “Puppy Village” in pale flowers, possibly lilac but Remus wasn't sure given how close to white the colour was. He now had a new quest to travel the country for, whatever his original intentions for asking if his soulmate existed was.

/Working with Puppies\

Months had passed since Virgil let Logan scratch the name of his workplace onto his side. They'd long since healed and his soulmate hadn't scratched anything else onto his skin, but Virgil still kept an eye out for any more flowers appearing.

He'd had some of the pale green ones appear on his wrists and forearms, as though his soulmate was playing with upset dogs with uncovered skin. They'd all faded with time and Virgil had mentally prepared a number of the lessons and explanations offered to people looking to buy or adopt a dog when they visited his centre.

Part of Virgil had hoped that soon after giving them a clue over where he'd be found someone with a scar on the left of their neck would walk in, introducing themselves as his soulmate. The reasonable side of his brain understood that even in America there could be plenty of places called 'Puppy Village' so even if his soulmate had decided to start trying to look for him, it would take them a while to find him.

Eventually he stopped checking the necks of customers as they came in, deciding to ignore any possibility that his soulmate might come. It was only upsetting Virgil to imagine who they might be and carry on getting no answers regardless.

“I'm here to get cuddles before I'm dragged back to dullville!” A man had tried to kick open the doors, despite them being automatic and already half opened by the time he reached them.

“I assume that means you only intend to help us look after the puppies for an afternoon before leaving town?” Virgil remarked, already moving around the counter.

Occasionally it would happen, generally families trying to decide if they should get a dog, or hoping to convince the kids just how much work and care goes in to having a pet. The occasional tourist wasn't unusual either, although then it would be dog owners from abroad missing their pets at home.

“Any dogs you need looking after... Did you know you have green flowers climbing up your neck?” The man leant far too close to Virgil looking at the flowers and showing off his neck at the same time.

“Have done for years. Kinda curious over the story behind it whenever I meet my soulmate.” Virgil shrugged off the concern, ignoring the scar he could also see as he led the man through to the kennels. “I'm Virgil one of the family for our animals. We treat them all as if they're our own pets until a family arrives to given them a home.”

The man was still trying to stay uncomfortably close to Virgil, looking around at the area, almost as much as he watched Virgil. “Wonderful way to keep them healthy. You know, my soulmate works somewhere called a Puppy Village. Scratched it on when I started to think I might not have any.” The words were deliberately spoken, a laser gaze directed at Virgil's face.

“Does that mean you have a large scar on the back of your calf?” Virgil immediately asked. He knew where all the flowers were on his body, and recognised this man was trying to figure out if they were soulmates. It definitely sounded like they could be.

He'd reached the end of the hallway before he realised the man had sat on the floor to roll up the pants he was wearing. “My right one yes. Got this awesome tattoo on the other and really wanna know how that's appeared on you?”

“Same place the patch I call moss. Logan said it is just a muddled patch, as though there are a lot of the flowers trying to layer up over each other. I guess it's because of how tattoos are done in layers or something.” Virgil muttered. He wasn't going to copy the action. “Get your pants on right, and we can go meet some of my favourite dogs. You need to know how to treat and act around dogs if we're going to be around each other.”

“Awesome, Remus and Virgil the best pairing together. Learnt to be calmer with dogs when I got into a few scraps with them. It got Roman to adopt that dog at least. My brother always was a sucker for a sob story and I definitely made it sound sorry.” Remus cackled, already jumping up again.

Virgil sighed, holding open the door to the kennels for their older dogs. “Glad to hear it. How long do I have you in town before we go to being pen-pals for a while?” He asked, not wanting to immediately let someone in if they'd disappear from his life soon, soulmate connection or now.

“Got a week and then I can get my office to transfer me here in no time. The boss has been looking for an excuse to get me out of there since I started calling him out for the harassment he attempted to do. Can't find an excuse to fire me with Janus on the watch, but also does not want me around.” Remus seemed excited at the plans, even when Virgil knew he had to be basically making it up as he went.

“Are you seriously talking about uprooting your life, just because you met me? Pretty sure anyone normal would want to get to know each other first.” Virgil was sceptical of the idea, but wasn't going to argue. He didn't like the idea of being cities or states away from his soulmate again after they'd just met.

Remus twisted around so much their noses were almost touching. “Is it uprooting if my main friends/ family will literally thank you for giving them a bit of a break from chaos and I can do my job as well from any of our offices? 'Sides, I haven't explored those caves on the lake edge yet and they are just screaming for exploration.”

“Or a cave in. Do you at least know how to get out of them? Or you know mind sharing the stories of the flower patches I'm covered in?” Virgil checked. He had wanted to know something about his soulmate's life with every patch of flowers that appeared. Now he was just a bit confused over how few there were, given Remus seemed set on chasing any impulse he had.

Remus bounced with the question, “Honey, I've been dreaming of sharing those stories with you all my life. Let's meet your dogs and I can start talking too.”

Life with his soulmate around was definitely going to be interesting.

[bitchybutcher]

Texts I sent a friend the first time I watched The Boys, Season 2:

-        Gird your loins

-        I’m dying to know more about Black Noir

-        Ugh ffs Homelander smarming about on stage at Translucents funeral

-        It’s an empty box but I suppose how would people know cause invisible corpse

-        WHY IS ANNIE SINGING AT THE INVISIBLE PERVS FUNERAL

-        Aw no straight in with Sad Kevin

-        Oh ok angry drunk Kevin

-        Ugh not these Samaritans Embrace fuckers again

-        Oh Annie. Parroting the company line. I hope she’s gonna fuck them all over

-        SAD HUGHIE OH NO

-        BILLY JOOOOOELLLL

-        Aw Kimiko is learning

-        Her lil smile

-        Oooh Hughie is a liiiiiar

-        Meeting on the subway like a couple shifty teenagers

-        Oh I forgot they microchipped the supes like dogs

-        Oh nooooo young love angst

-        Oh no a Sad Kevin incident

-        Aaaaand he’s been arrested

-        A nice archer bailed him out

-        Omfg the fake Butcher re-enactment

-        Oh do NOT tell me this crazy bastard is gonna drink the frozen breast milk

-        Oh fuck he is

-        What the FUCK, HOMELANDER

-        This visually impaired ninja seems nice

-        That probably means he’s gonna turn out to be a dick

-        OH FUCK

-        Homelander what the fuuuuuck

-        Ok what the shit is happening here in the motel

-        WHAT

-        What the fuuuuuck

-        I – MM is making a dolls house? That’s so cute

-        Oh shit smuggled people

-        Homelander is nuts with power

-        Uhhhh who is Carol and why is she staring at Kevin while he sleeps

-        Finally an archer who is honest about how useless they can be once they run out of arrows

-        Oh noooo are they gonna try brainwash Kevin with homeopathic stuff? And why do they keep offering him Fresca

-        OH FUCK ME NOT ANOTHER RELIGION THING

-        Oh Hughie has grown a pair since last season. Good for him

-        Where’s Butcherrrrrrrr

-        Body gore porn dude is called Gecko that’s too cute a name for him

-        Stormfront seems like fun

-        She’s gonna be pissing off Homelander so much I like her already

-        OH WHAT THE FUCK THE CIA LADYS HEAD EXPLODED

-        I like Stan

-        Giving Homelander the dressing down he needs

-        I know it’s convenient for Toni to wear the padded suit all the time but does Homelander ever wear anything else

-        Oh hiiii Becca I still think you’re a bitch and Butcher deserved better

-        BUTCHERRRRR YASSSSS

-        “Daddy’s home”

-        I’m dead. It’s official.

-        The fuckin smirk and the voice I’m fuckin dead

-        OH NO KEVIN IS TRYING THE CHURCH THING

-        Is he making shroom tea

-        Why is Patton Oswalt voicing Kevin’s gills this is delightful

-        Atrain is awake again that’s not good

-        I’m cracking up at Sad Kevin and his singing gills

-        Homelander is gone way off the deep end oh boy

-        Awwww soft Maeve in the hospital with her girlfriend

-        I want to like Becca but I can’t shake the bad feeling

-        Homelander is a terrible father

-        I mean I know he has no role models to base his parenting on, but yikes

-        It’s like if Scar was raising Simba instead of Mufasa

-        ….are the gang raiding a party city store

-        I love how Frenchie always looks a mix of horrified and amazed whenever Kimiko kills someone

-        AWWW IT’S HER BROTHER YAY

-        Oh shiiiiiiiit

-        Butcher STOP JUST SHOOTING PEOPLE

-        You were right this season is weird

-        I like Kimiko’s brothers bedazzled denim jacket

-        Butcher don’t punch Hughie wtf

-        Starting with Hughie listening to the same song again, nice

-        Butcher is terrible at apologising it’s so cute

-        I’m sorry did Hughie just fall over trying to throw a punch

-        The kid’s a dandelion omg

-        Why are they on a boat? Did Karl just decide “I like being on boats lemme go on a boat”?

-        I see what you mean about Homelander being scary

-        He’s completely insane

-        Why does this storyboard guys shirt say assbinder

-        Chace Crawford is an excessively veiny man

-        BLACK NOIR IS CRYING

-        Or possibly laughing

-        Hard to tell when they have no face

-        Annie actually leaked all the compound V stuff good for her

-        FRENCHIE KISSED HUGHIE

-        Homelander is gonna get this kid killed tryna make him fly

-        Honestly the kid looks more like Hughie

-        OH MY GOD HE PUSHED HIM OFF THE ROOF

-        OH MY SWEET FUCKING JESUS HOMELANDER YOU CAN’T DO THAT

-        Oop there’s the laser eyes

-        Oh Homelander is back at the Tower and freaking Maeve out

-        OH FUCK THE BROTHER IS LOOSE

-        Hughie don’t do it

-        Oh ok I thought he was gonna jump off the boat

-        Kevin and the cult weirdos are up to something

-        Hughie no you don’t call the girl you like crying over Billy Joel lyrics

-        Oh god boyo you don’t then drop the L word in the same voice message!

-        He’s hopeless

-        Oh nooooo Kevin is attacking the boat goddammit Kevin

-        OH FUCK A WHALE

-        For fuck sake Kevin

-        Ewwwww

-        Butcher what the fuck

-        Hughie having a nervous breakdown inside of a whale

-        No but why is Karl so hot covered in blood

-        Actually I didn’t even need to include the blood part of that question

-        Oh boy here we go, the 7 show up to find Sad Kevin crying over spilt whale

-        ….why is Stormfront tryna get all up in Homelander’s ass?? I thought she was cool but now she’s all lemme suck that radioactive dick

-        OH NO

-        Poor Kevin he’s worked so hard to accept his gills and now Homelander has knocked him back down

-        Oooo dear Atrain is having a heart attack again this isn’t good

-        Oh fuck is Hughie gon get caught

-        Oh no it’s Annie it’s ok

-        OH FUCK

-        ANNIE WHY

-        THAT’S YOUR HUGHIE

-        OH MAN KIMIKO’S BROTHER IS BADASS YES SQUASH THE SMUG PRICK

-        Oh I do NOT like Stormfront holy fuckin shit what’s wrong with this woman

-        Poor Kimiko

-        What’s with the random woman talking about calling off her wedding?

-        Why is Frenchie taking drugs

-        FUCK SAKE FRENCHIE DON’T TRY KISS A GIRL WHEN SHE’S GRIEVING

-        What the FUCK is thiiiiis

-        Is he dreaming or is this the shapeshifter tryna stay alive by granting Homelander some sick wish

-        Yikes I feel bad for Doppelganger

-        I am fascinated by whoever and whatever the fuck Black Noir is

-        MM sees right through everyone’s bullshit

-        I feel so bad for Annie

-        Ooooo Atrain getting fired

-        MM having to put up with Hughie and Annie having a we didn’t start the fire singalong 😂

-        Ok who’s in the weird group therapy sesh with these women with strange views on love

-        Vending machine date so cute

-        Omfg ahahahaha the girl with the Ed Sheeran tattoo

-        I really want to like Becca cause she stands up to Homelander but I can’t shake the suspicions about her

-        I feel bad for Butcher

-        Homelander is a scary good liar

-        Oh shit interviewer lady is pulling out the diversity questions

-        OH FUCK

-        HE’S OUTED MAEVE

-        Poor Maeve what the fuck

-        Ugh Stormfront

-        Shut your racist hole bitch

-        Oh shit Kimiko on the warpath

-        Frenchie! Kimiko listen to him he’s tryna help

-        MM is doing a lotta sharing this episode

-        Ohhhh something bad is gonna come out about this Liberty lady they’re looking for oh fuck

-        Wait WHAT. STORMFRONT IS LIBERTY

-        Stormfront is like 70????

-        She’s really good with social media for an old bird

-        Ohhh fuck Homelander is pisssssssssed

-        Christ you’d know Homelander was an only child

-        Bitch you better not be fucking Butcher over

-        I FUCKIN KNEW IT

-        BECCA YOU RAGING BITCH

-        Got her goodbye fuck then called the supercops on him cause he’s a little broken? FUCK BECCA

-        Oh no Annie don’t give Hughie the “we can’t do this” talk

-        Pick your emo ass up and stop being melodramatic

-        All these women are chatting to Kevin?? Why??

-        Also this most recent one is super weird

-        THEY WERE INTERVIEWING TO BE KEVINS WIFE

-        This cult thing is so fuckin weird omfg

-        KEVIN GET YOUR SAD BUTT OUT OF THE CULT

-        Oh gross not the Doppelganger shit again

-        Doppelganger is really bad at flirting

-        ….

-        WHAT THE SHIT

-        Nonononono don’t do the selfcest

-        Not even Homelander is that fucked up

-        This is super weird

-        Why is Homelander crying

-        OH SHIT HE KILLED HIM

-        Uhhhh are they doing a lesbian scene in a vcu movie

-        Christ that was terrible and way too on the nose

-        “Strong female lesbians”

-        Homelander you himbo fuck what other kind of lesbian do you get

-        I feel bad for Ashley

-        She just wants to do her job well

-        Poor Butcher. His lil heart is broken

-        Oh no baby you’re hurt and upset? That’s so sad let me suck your dick about it

-        Oh no what’s he gonna do

-        BUTCHER WHAT THE SHIT

-        I mean it’s really fuckin hot but still

-        There’s always a cut on the cheekbone

-        “They’ve been moving her around like a Catholic priest” omg HUGHIE

-        Aww he called Hughie his canary

-        Oh shit are Frenchie and Kimiko missing?

-        KEVIN GOT MARRIED

-        BILLY HAS AN AUNTIE

-        Doggiiiiie

-        Awwwww soft Butcher with his dog

-        Aaaand now I feel bad for Atrain cause he’s being kicked to the curb

-        Oh gross this interview with Kevin and his cult wife

-        This is so cringe holy fuck

-        Bring back the Patton Oswalt gills

-        Why are the gangsters discussing musicals specifically Hamilton

-        FUCKING HELL KIMIKO PEELED OFF THAT GUYS FACE

-        Ahahaha the boys showed up at Butchers aunties house

-        The dog’s name is Terror that’s so cute

-        Hahahaha Hughie was holding the fuck pig

-        Why is there a sniper on the roof

-        Oh shit it’s Black Noir

-        Ugh what does Annie’s mom want and why is Stormfront being her friend

-        Oh hey it’s dickless

-        These two writer dudes are hella irritating

-        Poor Elena getting dragged into this shit

-        Yes Maeve scheme against his ass

-        Heartbroken Butcher is so tired

-        He needs a hug

-        Hughie give Butcher a hug please

-        Why is Kimiko in a church

-        Oh hey its Frenchie’s other girlfriend

-        Oh ok Kimiko is doing hits that’s fair

-        The old man just looking away like “I do not see it”

-        Aw no Frenchie don’t break up with Kimiko

-        Oh fuck off Cult Kevin

-        Stormfront again?????

-        Does this bitch ever fuck off

-        DID SHE JUST CALL ATRAIN GARBAGE

-        Wait why is Homelander giving an unapproved speech

-        This is gonna end in someone getting murdered isn’t it

-        OH FUCK

-        That’s a lot more murder than I expected

-        Ohhhh phew ok he was just daydreaming

-        Ashley is gonna go bald from stress

-        I adore grumpy Butcher

-        Omg auntie Judy is a drug dealer I love her

-        Ohhhh shit Homelander is having a nervous breakdown

-        BOBBY FROM X-MEN????

-        Uhhhh why is Homelander talking to Stormfront this can’t be good

-        Ooh MM set a trap this gon be good

-        BUTCHER HAS A BROTHER???? THAT HUGHIE IS LIKE

-        Oop Lenny is dead

-        The random explosions as Black Noir trips the traps

-        Oh shit Butcher locked the others out to face Black Noir alone

-        YES MM

-        OH NO MM

-        YES HUGHIE

-        Oh fuck did he KO Butcher

-        Shiiiit shit shit shit

-        Yes Butcher save your Hughie

-        Oh good they all survived

-        For fuck sake Kevin stop with the cult shit

-        Maeve please save Kevin from the cult

-        Annie why are you sneaking around don’t do it

-        There’s a lot of shots of Annie’s bum

-        What the fuck is Sage Grove

-        Stormfront needs to go choke on a bag of dicks

-        Oh fuck no not Homelander again

-        Uhhhhhhh

-        Stormfront x Homelander was not what I was expecting

-        These two have the WEIRDEST relationship

-        They’re gonna do some really fucked up supe bdsm shit aren’t they

-        Frenchie is Betty White. Fair enough

-        Wait what is happening. Why is Annie letting Frenchie at her with a lil saw

-        Ohhh the chip

-        “This might sting a little” FRENCHIE IT’S A FUCKIN SAW

-        Oh fuck that’s a big chip

-        Oh look it’s loves psychotic dream

-        Well that’s suitably gross

-        Aww Kimiko hugging Annie

-        Butcher is so menacing I love him

-        Kevin tryna be helpful to his buddies he’s so cute

-        NO! NO BAD KEVIN! STOP TRYING TO MAKE PEOPLE JOIN YOUR CULT

-        Kimiko with her brass knuckle

-        Oh man, flowers??? Homelander has it BAD

-        Annie back the fuck off and leave Butcher alone

-        OH SHIT IT’S STORMFRONT AT THE HOSPITAL NOOOO

-        What the fuck is going on at this hospital

-        OH FUCK BOBBY FROM X-MEN IS LAMPLIGHTER

-        Oh shit who got let out

-        What does Cindy do

-        OH SHIT SHE’S THE HEAD BURSTER

-        Aaaaaaand now they’re all out

-        Good job, guys

-        Ewwwwww acid vomit

-        OH NO HUGHIE

-        Are you kidding me?? Annie can’t go all Starlight unless there’s a power source in the immediate vicinity??

-        What kinda fuckin shite superpower is that

-        Aha Butcher agrees with me

-        Ok so I’m guessing Homelander went berserk on set

-        Uhhhh apparently Cult Lunch is a therapy sesh?

-        Atrain get outta there

-        This cult leader guy is an arsehole

-        Hospital escape lookin like a horror survival game

-        Awwww flashbacks to happy times

-        Omfg Butcher with the slicked back hair

-        Welp, Annie just killed a guy

-        Oh shit a baby seat

-        Annie is gonna have a bad case of the guilts now

-        Oh fuck ok Lamplighter killed the kids by accident

-        So Frenchie went to save his friend instead of tailing

-        Oh god that’s the penis isn’t it

-        Stormfront to the…rescue? Maybe? She’s gonna kill Lamplighter isn’t she

-        Oh, no ok she didn’t kill him

-        Aw no sad Butcher cause Hughie’s hurt

-        Oh nooooo Elena found a video from the plane

-        Mallory gon kill sad Lamplighter?

-        Stormfront is coming clean to Homelander? Whaaaa

-        She was buddies with the Nazis??? SHE WAS MARRIED TO THE VOUGHT FOUNDER GUY

-        Oh fuck the head burster is still alive

-        A montage of how Stormfront is brainwashing people into racist attacks, nice

-        I hate Annie’s mom so much

-        Black Noir has just fuckin LAMPED Annie

-        Butchers mum called him 😂😂

-        Oh shit his dad died

-        Why are Hughie and Lamplighter watching knock off supe porn

-        Oh boy a racist rally

-        Homelander just threw Annie under the bus

-        Hughie that’s a really weird pep talk

-        And he’s gonna get Lamplighter killed

-        BUTCHERS MUM IS ADORABLE

-        Oh shit it’s Denethor

-        And he’s not dead

-        Oh fuck he’s why Lenny died?

-        Shit Lenny shot himself

-        Butcher was SAS???

-        WHERE ARE MY PICS OF BUTCHER IN HIS ARMY UNIFORM

-        Ah fuck he’s bringing stepmommy Stormfront to meet the kid

-        I have an urge to run my fingers through Butchers beard

-        Frenchie and Kimiko are too cute she’s teaching him her sign language

-        Is this a cult birthday party?

-        Poor Eagle the Archer. He pissed off the cult so he’s gon be excommunicated

-        Uhhhh kiddo made a Lego film?

-        Good for him

-        I know it shouldn’t be sexy when Butcher starts threatening to brutally murder people in his growly voice, I know, but hear me out: sexy growly voice

-        11/10 would let Karl Urban murder me

-        Oh FUCK Lamplighter killed himself

-        Poor Hughie

-        Why do all the bad things happen to him, like having to saw off a dead guy’s hand with a broken whiskey decanter

-        Annie versus Black Noir, beat his/her ass girl!

-        HUGHIE COME SAVE YOUR ANNIE

-        YAY MAEVE

-        Black Noir has an almond allergy that’s such an off the wall weakness

-        Annie’s favourite chocolate bar saved her life

-        Well Maeve did, technically. But still

-        Omg Hughie accidentally saving Annie’s mom

-        Hughie and Annie are too cute

-        Oh shiiiiit Homelander screwed the pooch and showed the kid everything

-        HAHA SUCK IT BECCA

-        OH SHIT HEADS ARE BURSTING ALL OVER THE PLACE

-        Butcher in his lil jumper

-        For a non-American, this school safety psa video is supremely weird

-        BOBBY FROM SUPERNATURALS CHARACTER IS CALLED BOB

-        BOBBY FROM SUPERNATURALS CHARACTER IS JUST BOBBY FROM SUPERNATURAL BUT FANCY

-        Annie’s mom critiquing her choice in boyfriends while in mortal danger is gas

-        And typical

-        The lads going nuts with weapons they’re so happy look at them

-        And Butcher in his lil jumper again he looks so comfy

-        I would very much like to cuddle him in the soft jumper and give him beard scritches

-        Annie ffs let Hughie enjoy his Billy Joel, that’s a good choice

-        Ahahaha Maeve just called Hughie a twink

-        She’s not wrong

-        Oh fuck off Becca

-        Uuuuugh OF COURSE Mr Edgar is in with the cult

-        Oop Atrain overheard all of that

-        Poor Ashley she’s going bald from stress

-        The kid is gonna have a meltdown

-        Poor Hughie with his mom leaving

-        I wonder if she’ll pop up at some point and turn out to be a supe that would be fun

-        ATRAIN YOU CAN’T JUST APPEAR IN A CAR LIKE THAT YOU COULDA KILLED SOMEONE

-        Hold the phone is Homelander actually being a good dad for a minute

-        What the actual fuck is Stormfront on with this white genocide shit

-        Ahahaha the news broke

-        Uh oh the Vought soldiers got caught by Homelander

-        OH SHIT

-        MM BETTER BE OK

-        Becca fuckin constantly squawking about Ryan is so annoying

-        WHY IS KIMIKO LAUGHING

-        It’s adorable but still

-        Oh FUCK she snapped her neck

-        She’ll be fine

-        She’s like a wolverine, snapped neck won’t keep her down

-        AYYYYY MAEVE

-        The lads just watching them kicking the shit out of her like uhhh

-        Oh hey Becca did something useful and stabbed the Nazi in the eye

-        Huh. The kid melted Stormfront

-        Good for him

-        AHAHAHA YES HE GOT BECCA TOO

-        BYEEEEE FELICIAAAAA

-        I mean yeah, heartbroken sad Butcher isn’t nice to see, but Becca sucked

-        Aaaand now Homelander covered in blood has arrived to listen to Stormfront babble in German

-        This is like in those scenes where it’s like oh who will the dog go to

-        Ayyy Atrain got back into the 7

-        Aww poor Kevin getting rejected again

-        See Kevin this is why we don’t join cults

-        Annie thought he was breaking up with her, girl don’t be daft

-        Butcher and the kid, not awkward at all

-        The one lesson Butcher can teach a kid – “don’t be a cunt”

-        Aww happy endings for all the boys

-        Aaaaand a “happy ending” for Homelander too by the looks of it

-        Oh ffs a corrupt politician in with the cult, what a surprise

-        HIS HEAD BURST

-        Wait the politician lady is the head burster? I’m so confused

-        Confusion may have been aided by it being almost 3am

-        Hughie getting a real job, bless him

-        Too bad it’s with the head burster

-        Oh this is such a good song to end the season with

-        Welp, now begins the long wait for season 3, I guess

-        Should I sleep or find fic to read

-        Body says sleep, heart says fic

-        That’s a lie, heart says Butcher

-        ….Butcher fics it is