#mass depotation

[ye-olde-tardis]

Because we have to talk in code about this on tiktok, I'm here to help spread some helpful tips to all my American anti-fascists out here who may need it. If you see police car that looks like this, (predominant blue stripe),

This is an ICE car. They are out and about right now hunting down immigrants, legal and illegal.

If you see them- or really, any police car- lurking, scream at the top of your lungs.

"La Migra"

Help save a family.

[sanguinesilverlining]

[binabadanmalaysia]

https://binabadan.com/blogs/workout/workout-routines-the-ultimate-guide-for-men

[psychotrenny]

I think one of Imperialism's most evil strategies is the national scale torture you'll see inflicted on countries that dare to dream of freedom. Like it's not just about overthrowing the anti-imperialist regime itself, but utterly breaking the very social, economic and in turn psychological foundations it's built upon. Prolonged periods of destruction that are as systematic as they are sadistic with the aim of making life unlivable until the government either collapses or gives in, accepting whatever concessions are forced upon them as the nation is remoulded into an dependent and obedient little neocolony.

Sometimes an imperialist power will act directly to achieve this (just take the gratuitous and deliberate destruction of civil infrastructure during the bombings of Yugoslavia and Iraq), but the preferred strategy is to employ local proxies. Groups like RENAMO in Mozambique or the Contras of Nicaragua. Bands of reactionaries, traitors and general desperadoes are gathered up, trained, armed and transported over the border at the expense of the Imperialists and their local collaborators. These armed groups have no interest in build mass support, of representing an alternative way of life. Their only purpose is destruction; killing, torturing, looting, burning whatever they can in order to bring their country to its knees. Frequently targeting important nodes in the networks that sustain the nation and the people's faith in it (bridges, rail depots, factories, hospitals and schools) but ultimately happy to attack whatever they can; every house burned or person tortured contributes to the climate of terror and corrosion of government credibility. Because when they kill these groups don't like to do it cleanly; their attacks generate countless reports immolation, disembowelment, victims hacked to pieces and left to bleed. But when possible they prefer to leave their victims alive and capable of further spreading their terror, inflicting the most vicious sorts of rape and mutilation on a mass scale

It's not just just evil for the sake of evil mind you. The cruelty has a point; human destruction to accompany the physical. Every person killed is someone who can no longer contribute to the development of the nation, while even living yet physically and psychologically broken victim places further strain on their country's increasingly fragile support systems. Meanwhile the terror of these actions spreads the impact beyond their immediate victims. The murder and torture of peasants makes the survivors too scared to go back into their fields, slowly starving the nation as the rural economy grind to a halt. The gruesome deaths of traders and travelers leaves the survivors too terrified to continue their business, shutting down the distributive networks that make national development and often life itself possible. The terror unleashed on foreign professionals can prompt the survivors to flee and discourage newcomers from arriving, depriving the underdeveloped economic and education systems of the skilled workers they need to improve or even function. And every broken body, ever broken mind, is proof of the government's weakness and ineptitude; a humiliating failure to protect their own people that demoralises supporters and empowers dissenters. The motivated sadism of these terrorist attacks is a microcosm of the motivated sadism displayed by their Imperialist backers

But why go to all this trouble? Why not just send in the paratroopers or organise a coup to end those troublesome regimes quickly? Sometimes it's a matter of possibility. As great as they are, the powers of Imperialist nations are not unlimited. All manner of constraints (domestic unrest, international condemnation which advantages dangerous rivals, the simple financial and human costs of such operations) limit what actions are viable or desirable. This is especially significant when the targets are motivated and disciplined anti-imperialists with a base of deep-rooted popular support, the sort of regime that won't go down to a simple commando raid or bribe to the right general. But sometimes, it's not enough to merely cut down a dissenting government; you have to salt the earth and make sure nothing similar ever grows back. I'll finish with the words of an anonymous Jesuit priest, talking about Nicaragua yet in terms widely relevant enough to be published in John Saul's conclusion to A Difficult Road: The Transition to Socialism in Mozambique (1985):

In Chile the Americans made a mistake. They cut off the revolution too abruptly. They killed the revolution but, as we can see from recent developments there, they didn't kill the dream. In Nicaragua, they're trying to kill the dream

[swordsandholly]

Fancy

Ch 1: Here’s Your One Chance | Next | Ao3

MDNI

Vampire! Poly! 141 x Plus size! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life.

Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate for the better.

A permanent darkness rests over the city. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city and the constant chill on your skin.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century due to pollution and overpopulation. It will turn your lungs black before the age of five without the proper protection.

Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway.

You squeeze into a black mini dress, tying your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own - the only thing worthy of this club. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips. Red lipstick as a final touch. It’s corny, you know, but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums. To at least make it to the middle city. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles a bit as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop in the upper city. The one that blows all the grime and smog downhill.

The club sits square in central downtown - the bottom level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. It sparkles underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the hunger in their eyes when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light. When your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses.

It’s hard work. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your future.

“Hey! New girl!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Ruin everything? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a call out. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear his words. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are harsh and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough tips to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your hands and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of four thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far more quiet here. The music from the floor muffled by distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight. They could be anyone.

You hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting around the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable customer service headspace you’ve curated over the years. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body slack and comfortable.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. One of your earliest memories is her lifting you into her arms and spinning around to the song. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes glow in the low bar light. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. Theres a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades. They’re cold and leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s hand rests on your upper thigh. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just smells incredible.” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down. That feeling comes back.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at your mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it.

“Alright boys, time for business.” John sighs. He suddenly grabs your chin, turning you to face him. It’s a light touch, not too rough but solid. His pupils dilate and yours with them. “You’ll forget everything we say from now until I snap my fingers.”

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… touched. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by several empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood and pleasure - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They feel heavier in your hand the normal.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it?

There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in it.

[lizardsfromspace]

Why would anyone want to block Youtube ads when they have such hits as

anti-trans documentary

a second anti-trans documentary

Messianic Judaism

The newspaper run by the cult that does Shen Yun

alternative medicine scam

crypto scam

NFT scam

AI scam

That PSA for Sandy Hook Promise that only runs when a new mass shooting happened

a third anti-trans documentary

I stg at one point Youtube ads were primarily like, there's a sale down at the Office Depot! And not...this

[seat-safety-switch]

Have you seen how expensive food is getting? When I was at the grocery store last, I had to actually elbow other people out of the way when I was trying to shoplift. All these amateurs, doing it for their starving families, trying to sneak past the new security guard with an entire box of Lucky Charms tucked under their suspiciously un-seasonal winter coat. That's why he's there, now!

Because of this, I've thought really hard about starting a farm of my own. There's only two big obstacles: my property is entirely covered in shit-box cars, and I don't like hard (or even soft) work. So I had to figure out how to trick someone else into using their property to grow healthy, tasty vegetables for the rest of the community. That way, I could go back to cramming large quantities of mass-produced corporate corn-syrup-injected synthetic food into my bag and then not paying for it.

Here's something that's fun: the university has a lot of free land. And if you trick eager students into doing anything that looks good on their resumés, they will work an infinite amount of hours for no money. They're feeding their fellow citizen! A truly noble endeavour that not even mean old Dean Carbuncle could stand in the way of. Of course, I first needed to make it look like a legitimate enterprise. Have you ever shoplifted raised garden bed planters from a Home Depot? It's surprisingly easy if you wear a hard hat, orange apron, and bring your own forklift. Loaded a couple of those bad boys onto a flat-bed rental truck, signed it out myself ("J. Not-Fakington,") and headed for the campus quad and the co-eds eager to interrupt their high-falutin' studies with some dirt farming.

In a few weeks, the students were getting interviews with the news. One of them got an internship with the United Nations because she figured out how to hyper-grow corn cobs – they're like three meters long, you need at least two people just to lift them – and now the university is paying people to come and take them away. The grocery stores are again empty of all but the ultra-rich and my sticky, sticky fingers, and we've learned that although crime doesn't pay, a whole lot of crime sometimes benefits those around you.

[elderwisp]

Hey, I really appreciate what you post. But something’s been on my mind — if ICE were completely abolished, who would actually go after child smugglers and traffickers crossing the border? I don’t mean in theory, I mean in practice. Because while I hate the raids too, I’ve also seen what happens when there’s no accountability or border enforcement at all.

I like to hear from all sides — red, blue, or middle — and I try to learn the facts before forming strong opinions. I recently saw an interview with Dr. Phil and Tom Homan (who used to run ICE), and he mentioned those recent raids at Home Depot and warehouses were tied to a long criminal investigation involving cartel-linked money laundering. They haven’t made the details public because it’s still ongoing, and releasing them could jeopardize the operation.

I’m not trying to argue, just trying to understand where abolition fits into that kind of reality. Do you think there’s a version of reform that still tackles that kind of crime, or…?

Alright.

Let's talk about why many have braved that journey across the border. The US didn't watch Mexico destabilize, they actively funded it. The US has had a history of intervening in Mexico's election (source) for it's own political and economical safeguarding. Funded violence (source) in Latin America that sent families fleeing for safety. And finally, pushed policies that harmed Mexican farmers (source).

And not only that, I think it's important to discuss what's going on the inside as well. In November of 1998, author Gary Webb published Dark Alliance: The CIA, the Contras, and the Crack Cocaine Explosion. Webb is able to demonstrate how the US government knowingly allowed massive amounts of drugs and money to change hands at the expense of our black and brown communities. For further evidence, the files were later declassified and posted on justice.gov.

I also wanted to compare Barrack Obama's approach of mass deportation in comparison to the current president. Under Obama, 90% of interior removals were convicted of serious crimes. Meanwhile, Trump's administration includes people with no criminal record-simply for being undocumented. However, as of late, there are many reporting's of brown US citizens being detained. Under Obama, he challenged my state's bill (SB1070), taking it to the Supreme Court and striking it down as unconstitutional. Not only that, he created DACA in order to protect undocumented immigrants who were brought here as a child, allowing them to have a dream. Here are some more facts! Now the criticism of both administrations is the mistreatment of individuals being thrown into crowded holding cells without due process. At the end of the day, we still need to treat humans with dignity and respect because we are no better that those we oppose. We are no better.

You've "seen what happens when there’s no accountability or border enforcement at all" but my friend, I've lived my whole life in the state that borders it. There is a substantial amount of evidence that disproves immigrants are likely to increase crime. (source.) However, from the reading I've done, seeing what is happening in person (ex. the peaceful protests) and how the news spins it (focusing on the 10% of violence mostly incited by our law enforcement, showing certain images/cropping videos and withholding certain images/cropping videos to fit a better narrative, and downright generalizing us as criminals), I recognize this one key detail:

You are not immune to propaganda. And man, I understand why ignorance is bliss because the truth fucking hurts. Learning about the history of my own people as well as the country I was born in has been so polarizing because while I am proud to be Mexican-American, there are plenty of things that invoke a sort of visceral anger in me. Both statements can be true at once. While I understand your question comes from a curious standpoint, in the ability of being able to see every angle, I hope I am able to better expand on those viewpoints and maybe allow you to advocate in a way that supports the community and debunks harmful narratives.

So. To answer your question "Do you think there’s a version of reform that still tackles that kind of crime, or…?" While it's important to hold those accountable and create better reforms, it is the job of our government to do so. What the purpose of yesterday's protest is to bring awareness to the authoritarian and fascist regime under Trump's administration, bringing many issues to the surface such as the immigration laws. ICE needs to be abolished. There needs to be a better and safer way for families to migrate. The US has to be held accountable for it's role in consistently destroying black and brown communities for it's own gain. But it is up to the government to do so and it is up to us, the people, to speak up and hold them accountable.

I leave you with this photo as well at the Trump rallies last year. To this administration, it was never about creating a safe America. It was about creating a white one.

[mariacallous]

When Donald Trump deployed more than 2,000 National Guard troops and 700 Marines into Los Angeles earlier this month, he did so without the consent of California Gov. Gavin Newsom or Mayor Karen Bass.

Not only that, but Trump’s justification — that LA is “war zone” under siege by “foreign invaders” — is a preposterous lie. The suspected undocumented immigrants that masked ICE agents are rounding up at Home Depot don’t have weapons of mass destruction, and Californians certainly aren’t greeting Trump’s army as liberators.

As unpopular as the MAGA occupation of LA may be, it appears to be the template Trump plans to inflict upon other blue cities.Last Friday, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem claimed in LA that “we are staying here to liberate this city from the socialist and the burdensome leadership that this governor and that this mayor have placed on this country and what they have tried to insert into this city.” (Watch below.)

Then, on Sunday, Trump declared war on Democratic cities in blue states that won’t go along with his authoritarian program.

“I want ICE, Border Patrol, and our Great and Patriotic Law Enforcement Officers, to FOCUS on our crime ridden and deadly Inner Cities, and those places where Sanctuary Cities play such a big role,” he wrote.

Not so long ago, Republicans would have condemned the White House’s designs as a gross violation of states’ rights — the long-held conservative insistence that political power should reside with individual states and not the federal government.

Indeed, early last year, the Biden administration was in a standoff with Texas Gov. Greg Abbott, who’d lawlessly usurped the federal government’s border enforcement authority. Texas strung up razor wire and buoys across a section of the southern border, which left migrants, including children, with lacerations and open wounds. Eventually, a narrow Supreme Court majority allowed the Border Patrol to cut through the wire, but Abbott ignored this ruling, declaring an “invasion” that gave Texas the right to “defend itself.”

Aside from Vermont’s Phil Scott, every Republican governor in the country publicly supported Abbott thumbing his nose at the federal government. This included then-South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem, who proclaimed that if “Joe Biden federalizes the National Guard, that would be a direct attack on states' rights.”

Now, as secretary of homeland security, Noem is enabling Trump’s authoritarian overreach. She even reportedly asked Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth to order the military to detain and arrest “lawbreakers” (that is, civilian protesters), a direct federal intervention in local law enforcement matters.

This is more than just blatant hypocrisy. Republicans act as if government exists only to advance their own interests, and they dismiss any law or court ruling that hinders their far-right agenda. “States’ rights,” along with any other principle they claim to value under a Democratic president, is just a convenient cudgel.

Quite simply, Republicans don’t think Democrats and the governments they run have any rights they are bound to respect.

[wardenswateringhole]

Can we have Ingo comforting the reader during a storm?

It was just a storm. It wasn’t going to hurt you. Just light and noise. You were safe. No amount of telling yourself that kept you from leaping out of your skin at every blinding flash that lit up your room and every crackling boom that shook the walls. You sat in your bedroom, a trembling heap of blanket curled up in the middle of your bed.

It was dark. The overhead light and the TV had provided some comfort before the power abruptly went out. The storm had full reign on your nerves then. You had quickly retreated to your bedroom and threw the blanket over your head. Your eyes squeezed shut and your hands covered your ears to desperately drown out the turbulent weather.

Your eyes cracked open during a quiet moment to see a floating ray of light cast over you. It moved forward. The edge of the bed dipped as new weight was added. Something gently touched your shoulder.

“I thought you might have been asleep…” A familiar voice spoke. “But you’re too shaky for that. You pulled the blanket away to see Ingo sitting on the edge of the bed. His face was illuminated by the glow of the flashlight that now sat on the mattress. He kept his hand on your shoulder. It carried a pleasant warmth. “The power went out at the gear station as well. The generators didn’t kick in so we were all told to head home until the power returns.” His mouth opened to continue speaking but he was cut off by another bright flash of lightning that made the room glow. You went back under the blanket and braced for the rumbling and crackling resonance that soon followed it. You could hear Ingo hum thoughtfully after the racket passed. The weight on the bed shifted and the mass that was suddenly at your side told you that he had laid down beside you. “Would it help if I talked to you? I do have a bit of gossip to share…” He laughed as you nodded enthusiastically underneath the blanket. While not one to partake himself, he knew how much you liked listening when Emmet went on about the latest happenings among the depot agents. It was like listening to a soap opera he had to admit. He began to speak. You listened. Tales of an epic love triangle happening right under the noses of the people who worked at and frequented the gear station captivated your attention. Rebecca was trying to flirt with Carl but was completely oblivious to the attentions of Jonathan. In a surprising twist, Carl might like Jonathan but is too shy to say anything. It’s obvious to everyone when Carl and Jonathan take lunched together, but the moment Rebecca shows up, Carl looks like a kicked puppy, Jonathan is beaming at Rebecca, and Rebecca is desperately trying to chat up Carl. Unfortunately, it comes off as Rebecca trying to keep Carl included but secretly wants him to leave. It’s such a mess. Ingo and Emmet have wondered why they have not come clean and formed a polycule but have determined the possibility that communication is not a strong point for any of them. Ingo wonders if they should run a job performance evaluation on them since communication is such an important part of being a depot agent and interacting with the public. Emmet is against it since conveying feelings to your peers is very different from public relations… You had only noticed the storm had passed when the overhead light came on and the TV in the living room came to life since you had the volume up to attempt to drown out the storm. You and Ingo both scrambled off the bed and into the living room. Ingo beat you to the remote and lowered the volume. You both stood there and laughed. “That’s the end of the storm…” Ingo smiled looking up at the lights on the ceiling. It didn’t take long for his phone to begin to buzz. He looked at it and his smile faded slightly as he answered. “Subway Master Ingo… Yes… Yes, the power just came on here as well. Oh? Yes. That sounds like the safest option. Thank you for updating me.” Ingo hung up the phone and looked to you. “Seems they want to keep the gear station down until the issue with the generators is figured out in case the power blinks off again. Care to watch a movie with me? I can make popcorn.” The rest of the evening was spent watching some flick that was picked at random. It was more of an excuse to just sit together and enjoy one another’s company with snacks. That suited you just fine.

[matchalovertrait]

no update today

Everyone I know is okay, but it feels odd to post when the ICE raids are happening around me. It is upsetting.

And no, they’re not focusing on criminals. Some of the places they went to were Home Depot and a family-owned car wash.

If only our government took mass shootings and human/drug trafficking this seriously, right? Why take innocent, hard-working people?

* I don’t want to hear “why haven’t they become US citizens, then?” That can take years and years.

[nimbus2224]

Breaking my radio silence to hurl this fantastic animation (imho) to the Tumblr masses so it can get the love it deserves. :D My reaction (TLDR I can't stop singing its praises): +Beautiful animation and visuals. Love the intentionality and realism to the set pieces (machinery gets used for cover). I loved how the weapons had heft, the droids felt mechanical and brutal, the clones were simultaneously vulnerable and incredible. They felt like real soldiers with real fears and the drive to protect each other. +Cody gets to use his jetpack and rifle. It's about time! +I think my favorite moment from the short is the sunlight coming through the larty door and Cody's demeanor changing from brooding to thoughtful and present, before he looks at his men with pride. That scene just oozes everything good about Cody: Seeing the good moments and appreciating them, living for them. Appreciating and being there for his brothers, what they've accomplished together and who they are as individuals. And there are numerous moments throughout the short of his men showing their individual drive and flair, putting those skills to use. +The fight gets a bit desperate and I'm not entirely certain of the story behind it (Cody kinda fights a bit recklessly, though it surprises the droids and pays off in the end). I feel like they were sent there to investigate a dilapidated and 'abandoned' droid depot, and obviously it was a trap set up by Grevious. I'm a bit anxious as to knowing how they'll get out of there alive but I also remember well the one episode in CW where like three or four 212th boys pile on top of Grevious after the Droid General spider walks at them, no less. +I loved the little nods to the Gendy Tarkovsky Clone Wars animated series. The Squad Seven-esque entrance, the Grevious jumpscare, the dilapidated droid depot. I also felt like this was a parallel to Astartes, which I adore also (it got me into Warhammer 40k lore). :) +There was a lot of thought and care put into the character models. I love how realistic they are. Things like seeing the weathering on Cody's face, the grubbiness of the 212th's armor, the way the light hit the different materials --- it really told a sub-story about where the war is at and what these characters have been through up until this point. +Camera angles were great. They elevated the scenes into something akin to Andor or other thoughtfully shot shows or movies. The angles all had a purpose --- from establishing the staging area to giving Cody's charge at the droids extra momentum and scope (watching those B2 bolts whip after him had me on the edge of my seat). I appreciate the skill and awareness of Hoplite for not just creating these shots but using them masterfully to create pacing and feeling.

+ The music felt gritty and very Doom-esque. I think it's fitting in the sense that many might find the 212th's effectiveness and badassery a surprise. If there is any doubt of these two things being true of the 212th, the music puts that to rest. >:D Rip and tear until it is done! XD I also listened to "Tenet - Trucks in place," "Darktide - The Immortal Imperium," "Darktide - Disposal Unit (Imperium Mix)," and more just for a different vibe while rewatching this short.

[vice-president-galade]

I don't subscribe to the New York Times anymore for many reasons, but I'm still signed up for their California Today newsletter, which today had a short profile of Alex Padilla that I think is worth reading.

Padilla’s unlikely moment

By Annie Karni

California is no stranger to spotlight-seeking politicians.

At the top of the heap these days sits Gov. Gavin Newsom, whose every move is viewed through the lens of a potential bid for the White House in 2028. There’s Representative Maxine Waters, a leftist live wire who in the past has encouraged protesters to “get more confrontational.” Representative Ro Khanna has developed a reputation on Capitol Hill as a man who is unavoidable for comment. Not to mention the longtime former Speaker Nancy Pelosi and the 2024 Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris, who attract attention even when they don’t necessarily court it.

And then there’s Senator Alex Padilla, the Democrat appointed in 2021 to fill the seat that Harris left to become Vice President.

On Capitol Hill, Padilla is known as kind and nerdy. He never seems to raise his voice. He sometimes cries during floor speeches.

His comparatively low profile is underscored by the outsized attention commanded by California’s other, officially more junior, senator, Adam Schiff, one of President Trump’s forever nemeses.

In short, Padilla was perhaps the least likely member of California’s congressional delegation to stage a showy protest this week against the Trump Administration’s immigration raids and deployment of federal troops.

Then again, he didn’t exactly stage it — which only made it that much more shocking to see. When Senator Padilla stepped into a news conference featuring Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem and tried to ask her a question, federal agents shoved him out of the room, told him to drop to his knees in a hallway and handcuffed him.

A son of Mexican immigrants, Padilla, 52, grew up in the San Fernando Valley as a rule-following overachiever. He was raised by churchgoing parents who worked as a short-order cook and a house cleaner, and made his way to the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

On Thursday, he told reporters that he was in the federal building in downtown L.A. awaiting a briefing when he learned that Secretary Noem was speaking to reporters down the hall. He said he had been trying for months to get information from her office about “their increasingly extreme immigration enforcement actions,” so he decided to pop in.

“I didn’t barge into the room,” Padilla said on MSNBC Thursday night. “I didn’t even open the door. The door was opened for me. And I spent a few minutes in the back of the room, just listening in, until the rhetoric, the political rhetoric, got to be too much to take. So I spoke up.”

Democrats en masse denounced what happened next, calling it a shocking abuse of power reflective of an administration that was getting too comfortable with authoritarian tactics. If federal agents were this rough with a senator in front of television cameras, Padilla and others pointed out, how much worse must it be for anonymous immigrants being rounded up at carwashes, farms and Home Depot parking lots.

Online, Alex Padilla was trending, maybe for the first time in his political life. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for him, or for the Democratic Party.

The moment was reminiscent of two other recent occasions when individual senators dominated a news cycle, though the other two were planned stunts by more media-savvy politicians.

One was the April trip that Senator Chris Van Hollen, Democrat of Maryland, made to El Salvador after one of his constituents, Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, was mistakenly deported to a prison there.

A couple of weeks earlier, Senator Cory Booker, Democrat of New Jersey, fired up Democrats across the country with a record-breaking 25-hour filibuster, an act of astonishing physical stamina and bladder control.

Padilla’s moment in the spotlight may have been forced upon him, but it resonated as a call to action among Democrats who may never have even heard of him before.

“This is not normal,” he said last night on CNN. “We cannot treat it as normal.”.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Emily Singer at Daily Kos:

President Donald Trump on Thursday admitted that his draconian immigration raids against farm, construction, and hospitality workers are hurting businesses, and said that changes to his mass-deportation agenda are coming. The announcement came in an otherwise incomprehensible Truth Social post, in which Trump couldn't figure out who to blame for how his own immigration policy is harming business. And he didn't say what changes are coming, only that some are. [...] Polling shows that Trump’s efforts to deport immigrants without criminal records are unpopular. And as he sends the military to police the Los Angeles protests against the raids, his approval rating has taken a steep decline over the past few days, according to The New York Times’ polling average. In fact, a poll from the Associated-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research released Thursday found Trump’s job approval at just 39%, with a whopping 60% disapproving of the job he’s doing as president. 

But it’s likely not those numbers that moved Trump to admit that having masked Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents raiding workplaces, rounding people up in Home Depot parking lots, and chasing workers through crop fields to meet arbitrary deportation quotas set by racist White House adviser Stephen Miller is a bad idea. (But that’s something Trump should have known since his real estate and hotel empire relies on undocumented workers.)

TACO Trump forced to back down on his draconian immigration policies, as he admits that his regime’s ICE raids aimed at farm, construction, and hospitality workers are hurting businesses.

[swordsandholly]

Fancy: The Rewrite

Chapter One: Here's Your One Chance

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | next | masterlist | Ao3

A/N: This fic has been haunting me since I stopped working on it. I just wrote myself into a corner and sped through the story far too quickly. Plus, I have some new concepts that I think really fill out the unfortunate issues with the original. Chapter one is the most similar to the original. I'm leaving the original up on tumblr for the hell of it, but I hope you enjoy the re-write as much as I am.

A permanent darkness rests over the city; dense and unbidden. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city. The chill on your skin never lifts. It leaves a shivering underneath, nearly an ache these days. Something ingrained into your very nature by your surroundings.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s purpose made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century of pollution and overpopulation. The constant cover of the dome cannot be broken to filter it - not even for a moment can the eternal night hanging overhead end. Your lungs will turn black before the age of five without proper protection. It’s worse it summer - at least the artificially created facsimile of summer - when the air warms and wets and coats your insides. When the pollutants find their way into the water supply. As if there is any point to the heat with so sunlight in return. Your nails always have a layer of dirt crusted underneath during those months.

The lower city is nothing but old buildings on top of even older structures; all moderately crumbling in some capacity. Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway. Even if the smog has turned the tempered glass a semi-opaque grey.

The slippery polyester of your black dress smooths over your skin, just as artificial as everything else in this place. You tie your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own. The most authentic, at least, and the only thing that makes you seem worthy of the upper city. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips - to get what you need to survive. Red lipstick as a final touch, always. It’s corny, and leaves you cringing every time you glance at the damn thing but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place; can’t be a single reason to cast doubt that you are inhumanly perfect while never losing that very humanity they crave so desperately. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums and at least make it to the middle city. Once you ruin your reputation at a place like this… well, you might as well call it permanently. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore. They died two generations ago.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles at your neck as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop up here. The one that sends all the grime and smog downhill, leaving a fog so thick you can’t even see the building lights properly.

The club sits square in central downtown - bult into the underground level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. At least that’s what the plaque in the lobby says. You had just long enough to change a glance at it while heading up with a client once. The fixtures sparkle underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you. If it weren’t for the small glowing sign that marks the “Back Stage” you might never know it’s there.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the pity in the ancient creatures’ eyes when they look at their human cohorts posturing to appease them. You can see the hunger, in equal measure, when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light; when your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses. It’s all purposeful, of course, maintaining the dance of remaining just out of their grasp, but close enough that if they really wanted to take you, they could.

It’s hard work, the dance. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your theoretical future.

“Hey! You!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. Every outcome of whatever mistake you made. Being thrown out into the city before you can even gather your respirator or coat. Choking on the air as you make your way home and praying you survive the symptoms after. Though, there wouldn’t be much point to surviving them without work.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive, crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a mix up. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear him. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are nonchalant and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold… so much opportunity and disaster…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough extra cash to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? You turn it over in your hands briefly. Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your skin and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of ten thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth under the scrutinizing eye of the owner - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far quieter here; the music from the floor muffled by the distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight.

You just hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting at the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly. Their stares tear through you, seemingly pulling you apart at the seams. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost think that hypervigilance leaned toward fear.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable service headspace you’ve curated. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks, words slow and hushed. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body too tense and words too stilted to sell whatever casual air he is trying for.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red for you from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes don’t leave you and you try not to shrink from them. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John either - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. There’s a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him, voice hushed.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them and leaving goosebumps in their wake before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. You’d think he was staring at the mole just below your collarbone, but that’s probably too presumptuous. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

“That how you got these?” You startle as John slips his fingers beneath the string of pearls, tugging ever so slightly. You meet his eye, only briefly, only long enough to see something hard behind them that wasn’t there before. He rolls the golden clasp between his fingers absently.

“I… I’ve always had them…” You frown, suddenly wracking your mind as to their origin. You’d never thought about it. They were your mother’s… you’re sure… but somehow that doesn’t feel right. The harder you think, the further the answer seems to be.

Either way, John seems placated by that. He retracts his hand, falling back into the simple banter from before. You allow you shoulders to relax, deciding to take his return to form at face value. Not that you have another option, really. It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses as needed - mostly Johnny’s. His face would probably be red from the alcohol were he alive. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s finger traces the exposed upper curve of your spine above the dress. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just...” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at their mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you. It’s not like you’re one of those girls anyone would miss.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it. As you settle back into the booth, you allow yourself to sink comfortably into the soft cushions. A jolt shoots down your spine as a cool finger tucks a section of hair behind your ear. Your eyes meet John’s - some undiscernible pain swirls in those grey-blues. It looks wrong, that much emotion on such a statuesque face. He glances past you, toward Simon, you think.

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. There isn’t any other explanation for your sudden, uninterrupted blackout. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… used. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by five empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. Assuming he is the one that compelled out, of course, though it isn’t exactly a stretch based on his behavior.

It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood or pleasure or both - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They sit heavier in your hand the normal - each movement feels as though you’re moving through molasses.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A few thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat and gathering your things from your locker to make the long trek home before the train stops running. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare. The air is heavy with the implication that they know something you don’t. They must. You aren’t exactly in on the gossip.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it? There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are. Then again, at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. They liked you enough to pay you. There isn’t any point in trying to dissect such a simple transaction beyond that.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in the simple victory of it.

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