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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Wild Flower, Chapter Eleven, (Shalaska) 11/11 - Freyja

A/N: Guys. We’re at the end. I literally still can’t comprehend it - my brain is still planning on beginning the next chapter tomorrow like it has been for the last two months (please don’t ask me how I wrote this in only two months - quarantine is a special time).

It’s really bittersweet - I’ve finished a multichap! It’s as long as a novel! But, I’m going to miss writing this story and this world so, so much. It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever written, and I’m sad it’s over. I’m going to miss everything about it, but I’m really damn proud of it, too. My baby’s going to college, you guys :’)

I want to thank Frey for betaing this entire fic - I love her so much and she’s the best. It’s just facts, people. Here’s hoping she doesn’t drop me like a hot potato before I can get anything else out (because this isn’t the end of me - just the end of my niche cowboy fic that I’m grateful even one person read).

I want to thank everyone for their comments and asks and messages - I love every single one of them, and they really did get my ass into gear. If any of y'all want to shoot me ( @narcoleptic-drag-queen ) asks about this fic (headcanons or questions or anything) or really anything else, I welcome it all. If y'all want an epilogue or any sort of spin off stories, let me know about that as well. I’m sentimental, and I’ll take any excuse not to leave this fic alone just yet.

And now, to top it all off: the playlist, previous chapters (in order), AO3, and the playlist @barbiehytes made (which is better than mine). Thank you for reading, everyone - I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. <3<3<3

Summary: Solomon has Sharon, and the girls go to get her. Alaska will do anything to get her back. Anything.

🌸

“Most of those he did kill deserved what they got.” — A Lincoln County, New Mexico resident talking of Billy the Kid

🌸

For a moment, all Alaska can hear is the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, the world tilting dizzyingly as soon as Phi Phi’s words hit her.

Solomon has her.

Her stomach churns, nausea rising to the back of her throat. Solomon has Sharon. The man who’d killed Chad Michaels in cold blood, seemingly just for fun, has Sharon. The same man who now has reason to hate Sharon, can now do whatever he wants with her. Lawrence Solomon, the man who’s name sends a shiver down Alaska’s spine, has the woman she loves, and he very likely wants to kill her.

All she can do is stare at Phi Phi, unable to form any of the questions she has, shock making her mind numb and her body detached. She hears Willam call for the other women, but it feels like a memory already, like it’s happening far away.

She watches as Roxxxy arrives, a large shotgun in hand, to take her place next to Jinkx’s pale figure. She watches Morgan run towards Willam like a bullet had never been in her thigh, exchanging quiet words with the blonde that Alaska couldn’t hope to hear even if her ears weren’t ringing deafeningly.

She watches Morgan nod at Willam before marching up to Cerrone, reaching Phi Phi’s side with a sneer. She grabs Phi Phi’s shirt and pulls her down violently, and she collapses on the ground in an ungraceful heap. Phi Phi’s sharp cry of pain succeeds in jerking Alaska back into her body, adrenaline flooding through her instead.

“Someone get her to the post,” Willam orders, her voice betraying nothing. Her face, however, is completely drained of color. “We can’t have her running on us.”

Phi Phi doesn’t cry out again when Morgan jerks her arms behind her back, but she grimaces, glaring at Willam with bloodshot eyes. “I didn’t do this,” she snarls, and Morgan shakes her a little, making her sentence end with a whimper of pain.

“I don’t care,” Willam says coldly. “It doesn’t even matter that I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck you,” Phi Phi says. “I came to warn you, I–”

“Exactly,” Willam says. “And that’s suspicious as fuck.”

Phi Phi opens her mouth again, but Morgan cuts her off with another shake. “She’s not interested,” she sneers. “Didn’t you hear?”

Phi Phi doesn’t respond, gritting her teeth, and Willam takes the opportunity to pat her down for weapons. Surprisingly, she comes up with nothing. Alaska is just as confused as Willam looks - surely, Phi Phi would have at least a knife.

Maybe, Alaska thinks darkly, she’s trying to trick us.

“What the fuck?” Willam asks, and Phi Phi glares.

“You took all of my weapons, remember?” she snaps.

“No,” Willam says simply. “But I don’t mind skipping to step two.”

“If you tie me to that post,” Phi Phi says, growing panicked as Morgan tries to march her forwards. She digs her heels into the dirt, stopping Morgan and displaying more strength than Alaska had expected. Her voice, however, is strained as she finishes her sentence. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“Sure,” Willam says dryly, but Alaska feels a thrill of panic run through her at the threat. Even if they manage to crack Phi Phi, it will take too long. She needs to know now.

She steps forward to stop them, to tell Morgan to just shake it out of Phi Phi here and now, but Jinkx beats her to it, raising her voice for the first time since Phi Phi’s grand entrance.

“Stop,” she says, and her voice is wobbly. “I don’t want to make things more difficult than they already are. Not when Sharon’s in danger.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and Alaska’s stomach dips as well, worry rising in her throat.

“How are we supposed to know she’s telling the truth?” Willam asks, flicking her gun lazily at Phi Phi, making her flinch. “I don’t trust her. Wild animals need to be restrained.”

Another flash of panic runs through Alaska like a shock. “Restraining her isn’t going to do anything but make getting Sharon harder,” she says, but Willam’s sharp look silences her from saying any more.

“I think I know what I’m doing,” Willam says, glancing at Phi Phi with something like disgust. “She deserves to be tied up for this.”

“Alaska’s right,” Jinkx says, and Willam’s eyes roll up towards the sky. “I don’t trust her either, but I think we’re going to get the truth a little faster if she’s in the mood to cooperate.”

“Or we’ll get whatever lie she’s got cooked up,” Roxxxy sneers from beside her, and Alaska resists the urge to snap at her to shut up. Phi Phi snarls.

“I’m not lying!” she says, voice loud. “I’m done lying for that bastard!”

“Now that’s interesting,” Willam says, peering curiously down at Phi Phi’s scowling face. “I thought you said you would die for him.”

“That’s when I thought he would die for me,” Phi Phi says, and her voice cracks. “I’m not trying to trick you. Just - please, don’t tie me up.”

“Sharon does always say you’re bad at lyin’,” Willam says, frowning a little. “She says she likes it when he brings you along, because all you do is give him away.”

Phi Phi laughs bitterly. “Makes sense,” she says. “I guess it’s easier to trick me and get shit done that way.” Alaska pauses at that, once again taken aback, the frustration that comes with confusion clenching in her chest. What the hell is Phi Phi talking about?

There’s a beat of silence, and Roxxxy creeps forwards a little, her gun still trained on Phi Phi’s face.

“How do we know she’s not just stalling?” she asks. “How do we know this isn’t all one big ploy to lead Solomon up here to get the rest of us? How do we know Sharon’s not already dead?”

Alaska feels the world tilt again, her stomach plunging with sudden fear. No.

“Because Sharon wouldn’t let that happen,” Jinkx says harshly. “That’s - that’s impossible.”

“Roxxxy,” Willam says, her eyes on Jinkx. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, and Alaska follows her gaze to find Jinkx on the brink of tears, her cheeks flushed an angry red. She feels her own pressing against the back of her throat. “Make yourself useful and go get Kameron.”

Roxxxy frowns. “I’m not saying–”

“Just do it,” Morgan cuts in, and Roxxxy turns without further question, making her way up to the tent nearest Sharon’s. Alaska watches her go, nausea still high in her throat and her heart pounding so hard she can feel it in her fingertips. Even with Roxxxy gone, her words are still a shard in the center of Alaska’s chest, something she doesn’t think will go away until Sharon is back and unharmed.

She tries to ignore the doubt creeping into her mind, choosing her anger instead of her distress. Sharon will be alright - if she isn’t, Alaska will do anything to make sure no one else is, either.

“Spill.”

Willam’s piercing voice tugs her out of her thoughts, and she turns her gaze back to the situation at hand, surprised to see anger making itself known in Willam’s expression as she continues, “And if I even get a feeling that you’re lying, Morgan will twist your arm until you start crying for your mother.”

“Luckily for me,” Phi Phi mutters, glaring up at Willam, “I don’t plan on lying.”

“Congratulations,” Willam says, voice flat. “Maybe you’ll get to keep your arm.”

Alaska thinks Phi Phi is lucky that she isn’t the one holding her, panic and anger making her desperate to hit something - desperate to hit Phi Phi, who isn’t as repentant as Alaska thinks she should be. She should be groveling. She should be begging.

“What were you doing with Sharon?” Jinkx asks after a moment, her voice still shaky, but her expression determined. “Let’s start with that.”

There’s a pause as Phi Phi clearly gets her thoughts in order, frowning as her eyes drift towards the ground. She takes long enough that Roxxxy has time to return with a grave Kameron, and the sight of them has impatience snapping in Alaska’s chest.

“Well?” Alaska snaps, and Phi Phi glares at her.

“Be patient,” she snarls, but her expression softens after a beat, her scowl turning into a slight frown. “It isn’t – It wasn’t my idea,” she starts, “so don’t blame me.”

“I think we’ll decide who to blame when you finish the story,” Willam says, like she’s putting off choosing what she wants Alyssa to cook for dinner. “Which better be the next thing out of your mouth. Otherwise, we’re tying you to the post whether you like it or not.”

Phi Phi scowls, but she takes a deep breath, pressing her lips together. “Sharon decided she wanted to accept Solomon’s peace treaty,” she says, and disbelieving shock once again has Alaska’s organs turning to liquid. Roxxxy clearly feels the same, because she cuts in before Phi Phi can continue.

“She’s lying,” she says, but Willam puts a hand up before Morgan can jostle Phi Phi again. Alaska doesn’t miss the way Willam’s eyes glance towards her, and her heart stutters at the implication.

“Let her finish,” Willam says, looking back at Phi Phi, and Phi Phi waits another moment before continuing.

“I told her that she was lucky, because today is the day that Solomon wanted to meet with her,” she says, and her voice is still, strangely, bitter. “Sharon took me with her in the spirit of the treaty, to give me back. But Solomon didn’t seem very interested in me - just in talking. Stalling.”

“It was a trap,” Willam says, realization dawning in her eyes. “There was no peace treaty.” Alaska’s stomach jolts, her breath catching on an inhale. If Sharon had been right before, but had listened to Alaska’s naivety anyway–

She’s an idiot, Alaska thinks, her heart hurting. But so am I.

“No,” Phi Phi says darkly. “There wasn’t. Solomon’s a good actor - he even had me fooled. He got Sharon to shake his hand. He didn’t let go, and Sharon was trying to reach for her gun when suddenly, men were swarming us. They got Sharon pretty fast, and when I tried to help her - well. They didn’t hesitate to shoot at me.” She pauses, hurt flickering across her face before anger settles back onto her features, the emotion clearly easier to handle. Alaska feels her own rise in response. “They shot my horse, and while I was grabbing Sharon’s, another bullet went through my arm. I ran before they could do any more damage. I don’t know what their plan is with Sharon - all I know is that Solomon likes to play with his victims. And Sharon’s certainly one he won’t want to waste.”

There’s a deafening silence as she finishes, and Alaska stares in numb shock before anger starts to pool within her, Phi Phi’s story slowly unfolding within her mind.

Sharon is in danger, very likely already hurt, and it’s Phi Phi’s fault. It makes Alaska clench her fists, the feeling of her nails cutting into her palms only making her angrier.

“So,” she says slowly, her anger forming a typhoon in her chest. “It’s your fault.”

“Alaska–” Jinkx starts, her voice gentle, but Phi Phi beats her to the punch.

“I wasn’t the only one pushing for the peace treaty,” she snaps. “And I’m definitely not the one that convinced Sharon.”

Alaska feels the accusation like a punch to the gut, hurt and regret sharp in her stomach. “How did you–”

“Sharon likes to talk,” Phi Phi sneers. “I don’t think that’s news to anyone here.”

Alaska itches to hurt her, but she stays back, shaking with anger. “You abandoned her,” she says, her voice growing louder. “You left her there to be taken and you stole her only–”

“They were shooting at me!” Phi Phi shouts over her, leaning forwards like she wants to get closer. “My own camp - my own– argh!” She’s cut off with another cry of pain, having pulled a little too hard against Morgan.

“Get her to Katya,” Willam tells Morgan, but Alaska isn’t finished.

As Morgan begins to march Phi Phi towards the med-tent, Alaska steps forward, opening her mouth to snap back, but before she can form any words, a hand closes around her wrist, stopping her from going very far. She flinches, and she whips her head around to find Jinkx looking at her with a worried expression.

“Alaska,” she says, “it wasn’t her fault.”

Anger flashes through Alaska like lightning, and she jerks her hand away, betrayal mixing in with the hurt. “Are you kidding? She–”

“Alaska,” Jinkx repeats, her voice soft, too soft, and Alaska stares at her, her chest heaving with anger, worry, hurt, regret, shock, guilt–

She bursts into tears.

Jinkx immediately pulls her into a hug, and Alaska can only resist for a brief moment before she gives in, melting into Jinkx and sobbing into her shoulder. She might not get to fix her mistake - she might be to blame for Sharon’s. Right when she had been about to start a new life, to confess her love and her devotion, it had all been ripped away from her. It’s unfair, and it feels good to cry, to let all of her anger and fear out onto Jinkx, who holds her so tightly that she actually feels something like safety.

“Sharon–” she chokes out, and Jinkx shushes her.

“She’s going to be fine,” she says, but Alaska hears the way her voice wobbles. “She’s always fine. We’ll come up with a plan.”

Alaska nods, desperately clinging to her words with a hope that she can only pray isn’t foolish. She sucks in a shaky breath, slowing her sobs. They’ll get Sharon out of this. They have to. Sharon just has to be strong enough to wait for them, and Alaska has no doubts about that.

She pulls away, still sniffling, and she takes Jinkx’s hands in hers, squeezing them as hard as she can. “Thank you,” she whispers, and Jinkx smiles, her own face streaked with tear tracks.

“It’ll be fine,” she tells her again, and resolve steels in Alaska’s gut at the words.

“We’ll get her out,” she says, and she believes it.

She has to.

🌸

“We’ll be no good to her dead,” Willam is saying, cradling a cup of coffee in her hands. Alaska wraps Jinkx’s shawl around herself a little tighter, shivering despite the fire roaring in front of her, her face uncomfortably warm compared to the rest of her body. “So, sorry, Katya, but storming the place isn’t going to be very successful.”

They’ve been making plans for four hours now, each woman throwing out an idea only to be shot down by Willam or Morgan, both more suited for strategy and logic than any of the other women. The sun set around an hour ago, and impatience is threatening to burst out of Alaska in unfriendly ways.

“Why not?” Katya asks, throwing her hands up. “Brute force is a surefire way to get in there!”

“Did you miss the part where Phi Phi said Solomon is camped out in an old mansion?” Willam asks. “We can’t storm a house like that - it’s too defended.”

“When did we decide to trust Phi Phi, again?” Detox asks, eyeing Phi Phi warily. Phi Phi glares back from her place next to Morgan, her hands and feet both bound with rope. She’d been given two options: the post, or to have her hands and feet restrained. She’d chosen the latter, but she’d still been pissed about it. Alaska can’t find it within herself to have any sympathy for her.

“Stop acting like we haven’t answered that question already, Detox,” Jinkx says, clearly annoyed. “She’s the only person who’s actually seen Solomon’s hideaway.”

“She’s the only person who’s ever been aligned with him!” Roxxxy argues, and Jinkx’s lips flatten.

“For once, can you two not be difficult?”

Roxxxy gives her a dark look. “For once, can you not be–”

“Ladies!” Alyssa interrupts from between them, stretching her hands out to either side of her. “This isn’t a time for arguing, bickering, or hollering! This is why we’ve been sitting here for four hours freezing our asses off!”

“And our tits,” Willam adds. “Can we get back to shooting down everyone’s idiotic plans?”

Katya shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “I never said I was a battle strategist,” she says, and Willam snorts.

“I don’t think we ever thought you were,” she says, and Alaska loses grip on her patience, growing tired of the meandering everyone seems to be doing.

“Are we trying to make a plan?” she asks, her voice sharp. “Or are we just waiting until there’s no reason to make a plan, anymore?”

“We’re making a plan,” Morgan says. “But it’s not like we’re going to ride out as soon as we have one. We need to wait until daylight, so we can scout the camp. It isn’t far.”

“According to Phi Phi,” Roxxxy mutters, but Alaska seems to be the only one that hears it, the others instead training their eyes on Willam, who’s clearing her throat.

“I still think the best plan is to just sneak in, and sneak out,” she says. “We have rifles around the camp, and two of us sneak into the shed to get Sharon out.”

“No doubt there’s a guard,” Morgan says, and Willam nods.

“I can take him out without too much trouble,” she says, “I’m good with a knife.”

“I am too,” Kameron pipes up, her Tennessee drawl practically dripping off of her words. She hadn’t spoken much during the discussion, but when she had, it was only good points. Alaska finds herself trusting her judgement more than some of the other women, despite her unfamiliarity. “Just in case there’s more than one.”

“Good,” Willam says, and Detox makes a displeased sound.

“Revenge can’t be the goal, Detox,” Jinkx says, and it sounds like she’s treading lightly, trying to avoid another fight. “This is the safest way we can get Sharon out. Alive.”

“Solomon needs to pay,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska would be amused by her and Detox’s back and forth routine if a dark part of her wasn’t agreeing with their need for violence. “To let him get away with this unscathed is cowardice.”

“You’re acting like we can’t just return to him with bigger guns,” Katya says.

“If he manages to move camp, we won’t,” Morgan says. “But even if it is one or the other, Sharon’s safety comes first.”

“There has to be a way of getting both, though,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska rolls her lips between her teeth.

“Let’s take a vote,” she says, her heart thrumming beneath her skin, shaky with nerves. The feeling hasn’t ceased since Phi Phi had rounded the corner on Cerrone. “Since clearly, we’re incapable of making any progress by talking it out.”

“Good idea,” Willam says, and she raises her hand, hindered only slightly by her corset. “All in favor of keeping Sharon safe, say ‘aye’.”

“Do you want to be fair, or do you want to be a bitch?” Roxxxy snaps, unamused. Willam shrugs.

“Fine. All in favor of not making things worse, say ‘aye’.”

Katya lets out a wheeze, and Alaska has to hold back her own snort, reluctantly amused. Roxxxy looks murderous.

“Why can’t you just–”

“It’s fine,” Detox says, although she looks annoyed as well. She puts a hand over Roxxxy’s in an attempt to calm her down. “It’s just Willam. It would be pointless to argue.”

“It is me,” Willam says. “And it’s pointless to argue because I’m right. Now, raise your hands up where I can see them.”

Alaska raises her hand without hesitation, although anger does churn in her gut at the thought of Solomon getting away with what he’s done. Sharon comes first - and she’s certain that Sharon would like her own piece of revenge, as well.

Alaska resolves to find Solomon again, if he does escape. With the law off of the table, she’s comfortable serving her own justice. She’s comfortable enacting her own vengeance.

It feels good.

She counts the hands raised, and is surprised to count Detox and Roxxxy’s among them. Willam seems to realize this just a few moments after Alaska, because she puts her hand down with a certain degree of smugness, a small smirk at the corner of her mouth.

“What made y’all change your minds?” she asks, and Roxxxy takes a deep breath.

“We want revenge,” she says. “But not more than we want Sharon safe. It wasn’t a hard decision.”

“Thank you,” Jinkx says, and although Roxxxy avoids looking at her, Detox mirrors her smile easily.

“We’re not always difficult,” she says, and Jinkx’s smile grows.

“Only twenty three hours out of the day,” she says.

“Only when Sharon’s the thing we’re arguing about,” Detox corrects, and the reminder casts a silence over them all, Willam’s plan cementing itself in their minds.

“So,” Katya says, after a few moments, “who will be going tomorrow, and how many bandages should I be prepared to use?”

“Hopefully no bandages,” Willam says, and then she casts a thoughtful glance around the circle of logs, her face almost ghoulish in the firelight. “It’ll be me, Roxxxy, Kameron, Morgan, and Alyssa. Detox still can’t move well, and we need some people at camp just in case it really is a trap.”

“I’m going,” Alaska snaps, panic once again making her stomach dip sickeningly.

“Alaska–”

“I’m going,” she repeats, meeting Willam’s gaze with as much determination as she feels. She’s going. There’s no other way. She’ll sneak out of camp to follow them, if she has to. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to sit here worrying about what’s happening. I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t shoot,” Willam says. “You haven’t proven any loyalty, you–”

Anger abruptly bursts in Alaska’s chest, the accusation a spear shooting through her body. “I love Sharon more than you could ever know,” she says, and she means it. God, does she mean it. “Don’t talk to me about loyalty - I have given up everything for her. I’m not about to lose one of the things that I got in return.”

There’s a beat of silence as Willam looks at her, her eyes thoughtful. “Alright,” she finally says, and Alaska thinks that her expression might be a little softer. “But you still can’t shoot.”

“She’s sneaky, though,” Roxxxy says, and Alaska stares at her, surprise briefly knocking her anger out of its place. Roxxxy meets her gaze with something like amusement, like she knows her generosity is unexpected. “She got past Detox and I the first night she was here, and I woke up today when Detox shifted just a little too violently. She can help get Sharon out of whatever hole they have her tied up in.”

Alaska finds herself puffing up a little, pride swelling in her chest and hope threading through it as she looks at Willam expectantly. Willam holds her stare for a long moment, impassive, before she suddenly sighs, relaxing a little with exasperation.

“Fine,” she says, and Alaska lets out the breath that she’d been holding.

“Thank you,” she breathes, and Jinkx takes her hand, squeezing it. Willam rolls her eyes.

“If this is some stupid attempt to get back at me–”

“It’s not,” Roxxxy interrupts. “I think she’s a good addition. And I think she needs to be there - God knows I know what it’s like to worry over someone you love.”

“She’s right,” Alaska says, and she believes it. “I know what I’m doing. And we’re going to get Sharon out.”

🌸

Alaska can’t sleep.

It’s her second night without Sharon, and the empty space beside her feels like ice, like Sharon’s warmth had been the only thing standing between her and the cold darkness. She curls up on Sharon’s bedroll to help fill the emptiness she can’t stop feeling in her chest, burying her face into her pillow to breath in the other woman’s scent, but she still feels her absence like a bullet wedged between her ribs.

She can’t stop thinking about where Sharon is instead, her heart pounding so hard that she feels like she might vomit. Her stomach churns as she thinks about Sharon tied up somewhere, about Sharon getting hurt, about Sharon getting tortured, about Sharon getting killed–

She squeezes her eyes shut, a few tears spilling over her cheeks and onto Sharon’s pillow. There’s no point in thinking about it - they’re leaving as soon as they can, and they can’t help whatever happens before that. Even still, nightmarish images continue to flash behind her eyelids, and she gives into the little sob that crawls up her throat.

Jinkx had invited her to sleep with her and Alyssa, but Alaska had refused, the thought of Sharon’s tent standing empty making her heart ache. It was an irrational feeling, but it had felt dangerously symbolic, so she had told Jinkx that she’d rather be alone.

She regrets it, now.

Sharon’s tent feels dark and unfamiliar without the fury that had clouded her thoughts the night previous, and it makes her jumpy as well as distressed, every snap of a branch or sigh of the wind making her tense up. Jinkx had lent her a revolver once again, telling her that Alyssa’s sharp aim would be enough to cover her if something happened, but it still feels strange in Alaska’s hands, the trigger too close and the handle too thick.

She still doesn’t trust Phi Phi. Her hurt does seem real, and both Willam and Sharon have cited her as a bad actress, but Alaska can’t bring herself to forgive Phi Phi’s part in how Sharon was taken. She may have been innocent, but she’s the one who knows Solomon best - she should have seen through his lie. She should have known that peace was never on his agenda.

That said, Sharon should have as well.

Alaska would be lying if she said a tiny part of her wasn’t also upset with Sharon’s role in this disaster. She had been so resistant to it when Alaska had asked, when they had been on good terms (and the thought that they still aren’t makes Alaska’s stomach twist) – what had made her decide to go against her own judgement? To forget about his previous betrayal and give him a second chance? It seems so stupid, and Alaska wants to take her by the shoulders, ask her what had made her act so foolish so suddenl–

It hits her like a ton of bricks.

Sharon was trying to apologize.

Alaska can recall their fight almost to the word, but this time, it’s not Sharon’s words that work their way under her skin - instead, it’s her own.

You expect me to make these changes for you, Sharon, but you aren’t even willing to budge for me!

Sharon must have been making an attempt, some stupid, grand gesture to entice Alaska back into camp. She’d just picked the wrong thing to bend on.

Warmth flutters up in Alaska’s chest, love and pleasure briefly settling the torrent of emotions still running through her, but guilt snuffs it quickly. She’s just as culpable as Sharon and Phi Phi - perhaps even more so. If she hadn’t been so selfish - if she had just taken a moment to think about how Sharon has changed for her - if she had thought about her words before she spit them out–

She inhales when she realizes that she’s holding her breath, breathing in more of Sharon’s scent as she does. She comforts herself with the thought that Sharon was trying to make amends - clearly, Alaska hadn’t broken their relationship beyond repair.

Sharon hadn’t told anyone where she was going - she was likely expecting to be back before Alaska left. Or, she hadn’t expected Alaska to leave at all.

Guilt once again drops into her stomach like an anchor, but she wipes it away the best that she can, already nauseous with fear and anger. Sharon had told her to leave. Sharon should have been smart enough to talk to her, rather than leaving without telling anyone why.

God, she misses her.

Alaska wraps her blankets around herself more tightly, curling further into herself. She needs to sleep, she needs to be sharp for tomorrow, but she doesn’t think her heart rate is going to slow anytime soon. She can’t sleep when she knows Sharon probably isn’t either - when she knows that Sharon probably can’t.

We’ll save her, she tells herself, clenching her fists into the blankets. We can do it.

She trusts Willam - she trusts that she knows what she’s doing. Willam knows how to play the game, how to navigate this world even better than Jinkx, and she cares about Sharon. The thought soothes some of Alaska’s anxiety.

She trusts the women at camp. It’s not a sudden realization, but one that’s been coming for a long time, creeping in like fog down the mountain tops. It’s comforting to be able to finally trust, to finally feel like she belongs amongst these women that she had once found so frightening and alien.

She trusts them to get Sharon back. She trusts them to protect her while they do it. She trusts them.

She finally drifts off, clinging to her realization with a desperation she doesn’t think she’s ever felt before, the idea comforting enough that she can allow herself to let go of how her stomach twists at every thought.

They will save Sharon, and Alaska will see her again.

She has to.

🌸

Solomon’s camp can hardly be called a camp - it’s a house, nestled in the foothills of the mountains and abandoned (no doubt) due to a poor foundation, with a barn and a tool shed not far from it. Men mill around the place like ants, and Alaska has to squint to see them with any clarity, their vantage point just far enough that binoculars are required.

She’s exhausted - she’d been woken by nightmares throughout the night, and it had felt like she’d gotten only five minutes of sleep before Willam had nudged her awake, the toe of her boot sharp against Alaska’s side. She’d worried over the headache that had been pressing against the backs of her eyes as they’d all reviewed the plan, but now, as she looks down at the shed that Sharon is being kept in, she feels more awake than she’d been since Honard, adrenaline making her headache vanish and her body wired with energy.

“There isn’t a guard by the shed,” Willam says, her binoculars pressed up against her eyes. “Was Phi Phi a hundred percent on the shed being where hostages get tied up?”

“She was,” Morgan says. “Someone’s probably inside with her.”

Alaska feels nausea leap into her throat at the implication, turning from Morgan’s face to look back down at the shed, hatred boiling in her gut. She wants to run to it, sprint to Sharon and get her out as fast as she can, but she forces herself to relax. They were scouting first for a reason - running down only to be apprehended by a man hiding in the bushes wouldn’t be much use to Sharon.

Willam heaves a sigh. “Shit,” she mutters, and she’s silent for a moment before she speaks again. “Well, that’ll make him easier to kill.”

Alaska glances at the wicked knife at Willam’s hip, and she thinks about it in someone’s back. It doesn’t make her stomach dip with dread, and the satisfaction of knowing that it will be going into someone possibly hurting Sharon doesn’t scare her. Instead, it makes her more anxious to put the plan into motion, to speed things along faster. She’s willing to kill if it means that Sharon won’t be. Anything to make sure Sharon isn’t hurt any more.

“Looks like Kameron, Roxxxy, and Alyssa are in position,” Morgan says, and Willam nods.

“Good,” she says. “Let Alaska borrow your binoculars, so that I can tell her exactly where we’ll be going.”

Morgan passes her binoculars over wordlessly, shifting into a shooting position as Alaska takes them, her rifle pressed right up against her cheek. Alaska takes a deep breath at the sight of her before raising the binoculars to her face, turning back to the shed. They’re doing this. Nerves shoot through her at the thought, but she steels herself against them, nothing but Sharon echoing through her mind.

She’s ready.

“Alright,” Willam starts, as soon as Alaska finishes adjusting the binoculars. “We’re going to keep at least a hundred foot difference until the shed is between us and that ugly house. We’ll creep up the side facing us right now. I’ll go in first, while you stand guard. I’ll kill whoever’s in there, and I’ll grab Sharon - be prepared to help carry her back up here, the same way we came. I don’t know what kind of - what kind of condition she’ll be in.” Her voice dips a little as she stutters over the words, and fear runs through Alaska in response, crawling under her skin like ants.

“Alright,” Alaska says, trying her best to keep her voice from warbling. She succeeds, mostly. “Got it.”

“You can’t fuck it up,” Willam warns, her eyes serious when she turns to look at Alaska. “We can’t afford that right now.”

“I won’t,” Alaska says, and she means it. She’s never been good with following instructions, but she thinks that for Sharon, she’d do anything. “You can trust me.”

“I have to, at this point,” Willam says, but Alaska sees her relax somewhat. She takes a breath, taking one last look over the shed before she sets the binoculars down. “Are you ready?”

Alaska copies her, sucking in a deep breath. She draws up her anger, her worry, her love. “Yes,” she says, and she lets some of her emotion shine through. Willam nods at her.

“Morgan?” she says, and Morgan grunts. “Flash the mirror. We’re going.”

Morgan looks back at Willam, her eyebrows raised. “Good fucking luck,” she says, and Willam starts crawling back down the little hill they’d been on.

“Good fucking luck,” Willam repeats grimly, and it sounds rehearsed, like it’s an old joke that’s suddenly gone sour. She stands as soon as the top of their small ledge is at eye level, dusting off the pants that she’d changed into for this. Alaska is grateful for her own as she follows Willam’s lead, going a little further down to accommodate for her height.

Willam waits for Morgan to take a small mirror out of her pocket, using it to flash the bright sunlight at the other side of the camp, signalling to Alyssa and Kameron that the plan is being set in motion. Then, she turns to Alaska.

“Draw your gun,” she says. “They’ll be on their guard now that they have Sharon, but don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary. Follow my lead.”

Alaska obeys, pulling the worn gun that she’d found at the bottom of one of Sharon’s drawers from the holster at her hip, the grip comfortable in her hands. For the first time, wielding a gun feels natural, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she’s held one enough times, or if it’s because this one belongs to Sharon.

They creep along the path that Willam had planned out earlier, low to the ground and on the lookout for any eyes turned their way. Alaska’s heart stutters a couple of times when a member of the camp turns towards them, but there are enough trees that their eyes skip over them each time.

It’s hard not to sprint towards the shed, her instincts screaming at her that running is the safest route, that the less time they can be seen in, the better, but she forces herself to match Willam’s slow crawl, the logic of moving too slow to be noticeable winning. It seems to be working, judging by the lack of trouble they’ve run into so far.

As they near the shed, however, a voice far too close makes them freeze, Willam glancing panickedly over at Alaska, who can only stare back with wide-eyed fear.

Fuck.

“–yeah, he’s in with Needles.”

“Vanhern?”

“Yeah. For his brother.”

Willam waves her arm desperately at Alaska, silently urging her to come closer. Alaska does, as quickly as she can assume is safe, and Willam grabs her wrist, yanking her down so that they’re both crouching behind a particularly thick bunch of bushes.

Almost a second later, they hear the sound of spurred boots approaching, the voices growing louder. Alaska imagines that they’d only gone unnoticed because the two men were too wrapped up in each other to even think to look out for anything.

“Good,” the man with the higher voice sneers. “He’s wanted revenge for a while now. That bitch deserves whatever he’s doing to her.”

Alaska freezes, still with overwhelming anger. Her heart starts pounding so hard it hurts, and she tightens her grip on her gun, squeezing so hard her knuckles turn white. What the hell are they doing to Sharon?

“You gonna go for a turn?” the deeper baritone asks. “I was thinkin’ about it.”

“Me too,” the other man says. Alaska can hear the grin in his voice, and it makes her stomach churn. “It’d be the most fun I’ve had in years. I heard she’s real pretty.”

Alaska sees red.

She goes to stand, ready to fire at them point blank, but Willam’s hand over her own has her jerking to a stop. She glares at the other woman only to be met with a warning stare, but it’s the way Willam’s chest seems to be heaving with a similar rage that has Alaska backing down.

Sharon’s safety is priority - she can’t fuck it up before they’ve even seen her.

“A real pretty bitch,” the baritone laughs. “Perfect. I think I might just have to ask Dutch for some time with her, too.”

“You think Dutch’ll get in trouble for how often he’s leaving his post?”

“Sounds like Dutch’s problem.”

Vomit rises to the back of Alaska’s throat as they laugh, her anger only making her stomach twist harder. She can’t even feel the relief she should as she hears them start to walk away, her fury making her hands shake uncontrollably as she stares resolutely at the leaves on the bush she and Willam are crouched behind.

Willam grabs her wrists, steadying them with an unyielding grip. Alaska looks up at her to find an intense expression looking back at her, Willam’s impenetrable facade finally cracking to reveal more anger than she’d expected.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Willam whispers harshly, shaking Alaska’s wrists a little for emphasis. “We’re getting Sharon out, and we need you on your best game. Put your anger in a box for now. Focus.”

“What is that, your morning routine?” Alaska sneers, but regret instantly plunges in her stomach as Willam’s face flickers with hurt. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I know you’re trying to help.”

“I’m trying to help Sharon,” Willam says, her voice hard. “Don’t forget that. You ready?”

Alaska sucks in a deep breath, nodding. Willam nods back, and she immediately starts towards the shed again, after a quick, cautionary look around them for any other surprise visitors. Alaska follows without hesitation, her eyes trained on the shed, Sharon her only goal.

They don’t have much farther to go, and soon they’re pressed up against the splintered wood of the shed, the sound of a man talking bleeding through the panels. Willam looks back at Alaska from her place in front, raising a finger to her lips. She fingers the knife at her belt, and Alaska follows her as she slides along the wall, close to the edge.

The shed, luckily, marks the outskirts of Solomon’s camp, with the mansion, the firepit, and the men around it on the other side of the shed, the barn acting as the marker for the opposite end. Alaska spots the two men that had passed them earlier walking just ahead, circling the perimeter, and she knows Willam has spotted them as well.

They wait an eternity for the men to disappear behind the mansion, Alaska growing sweaty from the baking sunlight and the man’s voice inside droning on and on. She tries not to think about how there’s no one responding to him.

The moment the two perimeter guards are out of sight, they curve around the edge of the shed, Willam taking one side of the crooked door, and Alaska the other, both still pressed flat against the wall.

Willam begins counting with her fingers, mouthing the numbers along with them.

One, two, th–

The man suddenly begins shouting, making both Alaska and Willam jump. Alaska’s heart stops beating for a moment, frozen with fear as the man’s words echo out of the shed with disturbing clarity.

��Don’t got a response for that either, bitch?” he shouts, and Alaska shivers at the raw anger his voice holds. “How about now?”

There’s a horrifying moment of silence, before a sob of pain bursts out, the voice clearly Sharon’s.

Alaska’s blood turns to ice.

She’s moving before she can think twice about it, wrenching her wrist away from Willam’s desperate attempt to stop her with surprising ease. All she can hear is the blood rushing through her ears, and she kicks the door open, the adrenaline rushing through her making it feel like no more than tissue paper.

Both occupants of the room jump as the door bangs against the wall, and Alaska takes in the scene before her quickly, the room strangely warm. Her eyes hone in on Sharon immediately - pale, gasping for breath, and her head bent, dark hair like a curtain in front of her face - and the man crouching in front of her, the back of his shirt drenched with sweat.

He holds a red hot poker in his right hand. Alaska sees the matching burn mark on Sharon’s shoulder, the edges of her shirt blackened from being burned through. Her heart stops at the sight, tears blurring her vision as an uncontrollable anger washes over her.

“Sharon,” she chokes out, and Sharon lifts her head, her eyes widening.

“Alaska?” she breathes out, chest still heaving. Tear tracks stain down her cheeks, flushed from the heat. Alaska can see her shaking from where she stands, and anger makes her want to sob. “What are you–”

“What the hell?” the man interrupts, standing abruptly. Alaska meets his gaze with a protective fire in her veins, and she raises her revolver, both hands gripping the handle like a lifeline. The man’s eyes grow huge.

Clarity is a sharp accompanist to her fury: she understands, now. She understands what it’s like to choose between protecting those you love and society’s moral code. The decision is easier than she’d expected.

“Alaska,” Willam says from behind her, her voice sharp. “Don’t–”

Alaska pulls the trigger.

The recoil rattles her a little, the gunshot ringing in her ears, and she watches as the man collapses, clutching his stomach and screaming bloody murder.

“Goddamnit, Alaska!” Willam snarls, pushing past her into the shed and slamming the door shut behind her. Shouts can just barely be heard over the man’s screeching. “Great fucking work!”

Alaska stumbles with the force of Willam’s shove, unable to do much but stare at the man writhing on the floor, thick blood coating his fingers as he holds his torso. She’d done that. Nausea rises in her throat at the sight of his face, twisted with agony. She’d done that.

She feels satisfaction spreading from the core of her out to her fingertips. She’d done that.

Her attention immediately snaps to Sharon, Sharon, who’s staring at her like she’s just grown a second head, her eyebrows raised and her jaw slack.

Relief rushes through Alaska so fast that her knees nearly buckle beneath her, and she stumbles towards Sharon, falling to her knees before the other woman. She cups Sharon’s face with both hands, taking her in - her blue eyes, her flushed cheeks, the arch of her eyebrows. “Sharon,” she breathes, the word nearly a sob, “thank god.”

She hears Willam shoot, but she barely registers the gunshot, the man’s sudden silence more comforting than disturbing. Sharon gives her a wobbly smile, the gap between her teeth just barely visible.

“I’m never tying anyone up again,” she says, her laugh sounding more like a sob. “This sucks.”

“I love you,” Alaska says, her voice breaking. “Sharon.”

She lunges forwards, pressing her lips against Sharon’s desperately, love and affection and worry and relief all swirling in her chest as Sharon kisses back. It’s salty from tears and sweat, but Alaska can’t bring herself to mind, enjoying the feeling of Sharon’s warmth beneath her, the other woman solid and finally in her arms.

It feels like a weight being lifted off of her chest, and she suddenly wants to say it again. And again, and again, and again. She pulls away, brushing Sharon’s soaked curls away from her face. “I love you,” she says, her voice wobbly. “I love you, Sharon Needles. Thank god.”

“I love you too,” Sharon tells her, her voice raspier than usual. Her eyes are bright with emotion. “Alaska, I–”

“Later,” Alaska interrupts, rubbing a thumb over Sharon’s cheek. She’s alive. “We need to move fast.”

“I assume shooting Hamilton wasn’t a part of the plan?” Sharon asks as Alaska slides her hands down to mess with the ropes binding her ankles to the legs of the chair, her fingers frustratingly shaky with adrenaline.

“Killing him was,” Alaska says, guilt beginning to trickle into her gut. She can hear shots firing outside of the shed, and Willam shooting back, shouting insults and taunts through the large hole that had been in the side of the door. There had been two rules to the plan: be quiet, and don’t be seen. Alaska had managed to fuck both up royally.

The rope holding Sharon’s left foot loosens, falling to the ground. Alaska immediately starts on the left one, ignoring the way her fingers throb with rope splinters.

“Well,” Sharon says, her voice light. Alaska realizes, with a pang, that she’s trying to comfort Alaska. She thinks, vehemently, that it should be the other way around. “I’ve never been good at the sneak attacks Willam’s so fond of, so I can’t blame you.”

“I never would have guessed,” Alaska shoots back, and Sharon lets out a faint laugh.

“Doesn’t sound very like me, does it?”

Alaska’s fingers slip on the knot for what feels like the third time, and she curses, panic bubbling up in her chest. If she doesn’t get this done quickly enough–

A knife suddenly clatters down beside her, and she flinches, whirling around only to see that Willam had been the culprit.

“It’s a knife,” Willam says, her voice calm as she quickly reloads her rifle. “Use it.” A bullet cracks through the wood a few feet to the left of her, and Alaska startles violently. Willam doesn’t seem phased, turning to poke her rifle through the hole and shouting something unintelligible out at their assailants.

Alaska grabs the knife, her eyebrow twitching a little at how heavy is it, warm from where it’d been against Willam’s hip. She carefully slides it between Sharon’s leg and the rope, sawing with as much force as she can muster. It snaps within seconds, the rope splitting into three sections as it hits the floor.

She lets out a breath. “Thank fuck,” she breathes, and she stands, rounding Sharon to work on the rope binding her hands together. She’s taken aback by what she finds, rage making more tears spring to her eyes.

The rope is double layered around Sharon’s wrists, and Alaska can see the rope burns peeking out beneath it, painful looking blisters rubbed raw from a day’s worth of struggle. “Jesus,” she says, anger and concern making her voice harsh, and she begins cutting at the rope, sawing with a new fury.

The rope falls to pieces, and Sharon gasps with the sudden relief, bringing her hands around to cradle them against her ribcage, flexing her hands as she does so. Alaska sucks in her own breath, moving to kneel in front of Sharon again.

“You definitely have a fever,” she says, glancing at the blotchy red spots high on Sharon’s cheekbones. “Rope burns, and a fucking burn on your shoulder. Anything else?”

“I’m fine,” Sharon says, but she’s shaking, and she hasn’t made any attempt to stand up. She’s still babying her wrists, and Alaska takes one of her hands, squeezing it as panicked concern races through her like lightning.

“You’re not,” she snaps. “We don’t have time for you to lie to us. What else did these bastards do to you?”

Sharon presses her lips together, her lower lip wobbling. Alaska feels like sobbing at the sight of her. “Two burns on the palms of my hands,” she says hurriedly, and Alaska turns the hand she’s holding over, her stomach twisting at the sight of a large welt in the center of Sharon’s palm, bright red and cracked with recent stress, bloodying her hands. “That’s the most of it. I’m pretty sure my ribs are bruised.”

Alaska takes a shuddering breath, pressing her lips to the heel of Sharon’s hand, just below the burn. “I’m glad I shot him,” she says, anger like she’s never felt before rushing through her. “I’m glad he suffered.”

She looks up at Sharon’s face, her chest heaving, and Sharon looks back at her with something like pride, although her eyes are sad.

“Alaska–”

“Guys,” Willam says suddenly, and Sharon’s eyes immediately snap to behind Alaska. Alaska turns, something about the timber of Willam’s voice setting her on edge. Willam stares back at them, her face pale. “Solomon’s just stepped out. He’s calling off his men - he’s asking for a ceasefire.”

Sharon’s face slowly hardens, the vulnerability that had been so visible now hidden behind the mask of a woman who’s murdered more men than Alaska can count. Alaska doesn’t think she’s ever been so relieved to see it.

“Do it,” she says, determination coloring her voice. “Let’s see what he wants.”

Alaska frowns at her, a bad feeling making her heart twist. “Sharon,” she says. “Don’t. Whatever you’re doing–”

“If he wants what I think he wants,” Sharon says, her eyes sparking with anger and resolution. “Then I’ll let him have it. I want it, too.”

“What?” Alaska snaps. “What could he possibly want?”

“Revenge. Fair and square.”

The world outside falls silent, and Willam slowly pulls the door open, sliding her mirror back into her shirt pocket. From the doorway, they have a good view of the mansion, from which a man in denim jeans and a dusty jacket is strolling, his hat tilted proudly back from his face.

Lawrence Solomon.

He’s older - in his sixties, if Alaska had to guess. Clean shaven, with black hair that’s mostly gone gray. His eyes are deep set, and the blue of them is empty like a coffin waiting to be occupied.

Alaska doesn’t think she’s ever felt hatred like this before.

She watches, nausea churning in her gut, as he walks towards the shed, his hands free of any weaponry. A gun glitters at his thigh, however, catching the sunlight, and Alaska readjusts her grip on her own revolver at the sight of it.

“Stop there,” Willam says as Solomon nears them, and he stops without question, around thirty feet away. “What do you want?”

“Needles,” he says, and his voice is deep, gravelly. It makes the hairs on Alaska’s arms stand on end, and she glances at Sharon, protectiveness surging through her. Sharon looks disgusted, an intense fury lying just behind her eyes.

“I want to do this the old fashioned way. Me and Needles, twenty paces apart, one shot each. This is between us.”

“You’re just upset that we have the upper hand,” Willam calls back. “Of course she’s not–”

“I’ll do it,” Sharon says, and Alaska’s breath gets caught in her throat.

“No,” she says, as Willam turns to stare at them. “You won’t.”

“I will,” Sharon says, but as she makes to stand up, she nearly falls, her legs unsteady beneath her. Alaska grabs her wrist as she rights herself, breathing hard. If Sharon goes out there like this–

“You can barely stand,” she says, her voice thick with frustration and tears. “You can’t even use your hands. You’re not going out there.”

“I’ll manage,” Sharon grits out.

“Sharon–”

“Just try and stop me,” Sharon snaps, and Alaska lets out a desperate breath, squeezing Sharon’s wrist to try and make her understand what a bad idea this is.

“I’m waiting!” Solomon singsongs from outside, and Alaska sucks in another breath at the sound of his voice.

“You’ll die,” she whispers in an attempt to keep her tears at bay. It isn’t working. “Sharon, you can’t die, not when I just got you back. Please.”

Sharon’s face softens, and she pulls Alaska into a soft kiss, the hand Alaska isn’t holding coming to rest against her jaw. Alaska kisses her back pleadingly, her gut twisting as Sharon pulls away with a grim expression.

“I need to do this,” she says, and it’s with such finality that Alaska can’t bring herself to stop her from pulling her wrist away, her heart in her throat. “I’m the fastest draw in Colorado,” Sharon tells her as she slowly walks towards the door, smirking confidently. “I’ll win. Don’t worry.”

She grabs her holster from where it was hanging by the door, slinging it across her hips. Alaska feels another tug at her stomach. No.

“Sharon–”

“I love you,” Sharon says. And then, before Alaska can say it back, she steps out of the shed and towards Solomon, who greets her with a grin.

Alaska hates him.

She walks up to stand next to Willam in the doorway, watching nervously as Sharon and Solomon exchange quiet words, Sharon’s face hidden with her back turned to them, but Solomon’s face betraying narrow eyed anger.

“You know how this works?” Willam asks, her eyes never leaving the two leaders. Alaska nods, watching as they stand, back to back, their profiles serious and their guns safe in their holsters.

“Yeah,” she whispers. She thinks she might vomit.

She’d read about duels often as a child, the tradition clogging her history lessons and her favorite novels despite its illegality. The opponents stand, backs touching. They each take ten steps forward, on the count of three. They turn around. They fire.

To win requires a delicate balance of talent and luck, and Alaska can’t stop thinking about Sharon’s condition, about the burns scorched into her palms or the fever burning on her cheeks.

She’s seen how quick Sharon’s draw is, experienced how terrifying it can be. She just doesn’t know if she’ll live up to it after being knocked down so hard.

They begin taking their steps, and Alaska unconsciously tightens her grip on her gun, her finger coming to rest on the trigger. A horrible dread prickles down her spine, and she keeps her eyes on Solomon, despite how his proper posture and his neat steps say otherwise.

One.

Sharon’s chin is up, her expression resolute.

Two.

The buttons on Solomon’s jacket catch the sunlight like flashes of lit gunpowder.

Three.

Sharon’s hair blows in the summer wind, startlingly soft against what she’s about to do.

Four.

Solomon’s hand moves to hover at his hip.

Five.

Solomon stops, glancing behind him towards Sharon. Alaska’s heart leaps into her mouth.

Six.

Solomon turns, pulling his gun out of his holster with wicked speed.

Seven.

A gunshot echoes off of the mountains, deafeningly loud. It leaves Alaska’s ears ringing.

Eight.

Everyone freezes.

Alaska stares at Solomon as he falls to the ground, silent, a bullet hole through his temple. She feels nothing, watching a thin plume of smoke rise from her gun. She feels everything, watching Sharon turn, her own gun already in her hands, and stare at Solomon’s body with expressionless shock.

Willam looks at her, a new appreciation in her eyes. “Good fucking job, bitch,” she says, and Alaska lets out a relieved laugh before vomit suddenly crawls up her throat, and she stumbles out of the shed to puke into the grass, her gun falling uselessly out of her shaking hands.

Everything erupts into chaos.

There aren’t many men left, but the ones that are start shooting immediately, and the sound of gunshots fill the clearing once again. Alaska can hardly bring herself to care, shock still numbing her, distancing her, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still shaking violently.

She’s just killed a man.

She doesn’t regret it.

She takes in a shaky breath. She doesn’t regret it. It was his life or Sharon’s. He’d broken the rules to kill the woman she loved. He deserved it.

She looks up when everything falls quiet again, looking around at the dead men littering the ground. She can’t see Sharon, and she’s just beginning to panic when a hand suddenly touches her wrist.

She startles, whirling around to find Sharon beside her, her brow furrowed with concern and her eyes filled with pride. She lets out the breath she’d been holding, and it comes out more like a sob.

“Wanna explain to me what just happened, back there?” Sharon asks gently, and Alaska wants nothing more than to just hold onto her and never let go.

Alaska falls into her, shaking, and Sharon’s arms come up to hold her tightly. Alaska buries her face into the crook of her neck, relief coming over her in waves.

Sharon is safe. Solomon is gone.

Sharon is safe.

“I love you,” she whispers into Sharon’s skin.

“I love you too.”

🌸

The road back to camp is a rough one, but easy enough, all things considered.

The afternoon sun beats down on them as they pick their way back, moving slowly to accommodate for Sharon’s ribs, unwilling to make anything worse despite Sharon’s insistence that she can take more than the slow gait they’ve settled into.

Sharon rides with Alaska, unable to grip Cerrone’s reins on her own due to the burns in the center of her palms, her back pressed to Alaska’s front, her head resting against Alaska’s shoulder. She’d made a lewd comment or two about ‘riding with Alaska’, smirking and being generally obnoxious, but her eyes had fluttered closed after around a half hour of riding, exhaustion and fever ultimately taking over. Alaska kisses the top of her head, affection swelling in her chest and relief still coursing through her veins.

Sharon is safe.

The thought keeps echoing through Alaska’s head, and she wraps the arm she has around Sharon tighter, relishing in the feeling of her weight pressed against her. Emotion is a ball in her throat still, relief and love palpable on her tongue, but she also feels pride in her fingertips, in the corners of her mouth.

She’d saved Sharon.

She’d killed Solomon with one shot, adrenaline and the strength of her urgency making the world slow down, allowing her to line up her shot without hesitation and pull the trigger. She’d shot before he could, shot faster without thinking than he had with forethought - she’d won.

She’s proven her worth. She belongs amongst these women, these hardened criminals with kind eyes and even kinder hearts. She belongs to Sharon, who’d put a bullet in more than one man to protect Alaska, who’d sworn to always shoot for Alaska.

I’ll protect you, Alaska - I keep my word, and even if you shoot like a goddamn gunslinger, I’ll shoot before you have to.

Sharon had never broken her promise. Love is warm in Alaska’s belly as she glances down at her, her own promise curling itself around her heart.

She will always protect Sharon, no matter how high the cost.

Always.

🌸

That night, Alaska sleeps as close to Sharon as she physically can.

She wraps her arms around her lover’s waist, careful of her bruised ribs, and she buries her face into her dark hair, breathing her in. Emotion balls up in her throat, and she squeezes her eyes shut, tears making her eyelashes damp.

Sharon shifts against her, touching the back of her forearm with her hand.

“Lasky?”

Their arrival at camp had been joyous, Jinkx, Katya, and Detox all running towards them as their horses rounded the corner, abandoning Phi Phi and their game of poker by the fire pit. It had taken them three hours to get to Solomon’s camp, and with the way they’d picked their way back, careful of their injured cargo, it had taken twice as long to return. Evening light had tinged everything with an orange glow as they’d slid off of their horses, shaky with relief, and the fire had been lit, the smell of stew wafting towards them tantalizingly.

It had felt like coming home.

Detox’s screeching laugh had been familiar, and Katya’s odd beratements as she and Alaska had helped Sharon down from Cerrone had been comforting, her lighthearted notes about ointments and bandages soothing Alaska’s worry almost completely. Jinkx’s smile was bright, relieved tears in her eyes as she tugged Sharon into a long embrace, and Alaska had watched them with affection, warmth spreading from her chest down to the tips of her fingers.

Sharon had bragged about Alaska, pulling her in for another deep kiss for the entire camp to witness, and Alaska had blushed into it, her fingers coming up to thread through Sharon’s hair. Katya had whistled, Willam had called them ‘disgusting’, and Alyssa had given them a sly look as they’d broken apart, like she knew exactly how badly they’d wanted to take things further. Sharon had given her the middle finger, grinning like a loon, her own cheeks flushed with fever and exhilaration.

It had felt like coming home.

“Alaska?” Sharon repeats, her voice louder with concern. She turns over in Alaska’s arms so that they’re face to face, their noses just inches apart. Her brow is furrowed. “Are you alright? I thought I heard a sniffle.”

Alaska feels love well up within her, and she laughs, her voice wet with emotion. “I just–” she cuts herself off, her voice wobbling dangerously. The stress of the past two days is suddenly catching up to her, her relief abruptly overwhelming. “Thank god you’re okay.”

Sharon gives her a sad smile, raising a hand to brush some of Alaska’s hair out of her face. Her bandages are a bluish white in the filtered moonlight, thick around her palm and wrist. Alaska’s heart aches at the sight. “Still on about that, are we?”

“Yeah,” Alaska says, the joke feeling something like salt in a wound. “We are. Sharon, you were kidnapped. Solomon was doing god knows what to you, and no one knew for half of that time. All we had was fucking Phi Phi to go off of, and all I could think was that the last thing I said to you was that I didn’t love you, and it was killing me, Sharon.” Tears are flowing freely, now, and Alaska’s voice cracks as she continues, cupping Sharon’s face desperately, searching her expression in the darkness of the tent. “I could have lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Sharon says softly, wrapping her hand around Alaska’s wrist, holding her hand in place. “I’m right here. I’m sorry.”

They lapse into silence, Alaska trying her best to calm herself down and Sharon stroking her wrist with her thumb, lowering their hands so that they’re resting between them. Alaska can hear the crickets chirping outside, the wind softly whistling around the canvas of the tent.

Sharon takes a deep breath after a moment, breaking the quiet that had surrounded them like a bubble. “That fight was all I could think about,” she whispers, looking into Alaska’s eyes with something like regret. “I thought for sure that you had left, that you would be too far for me to chase after you by the time I managed to get away. I’m just so goddamn stupid - I felt like such an idiot. I kept going through all of the things I said, all of the things you said, and I–” her voice breaks, and Alaska’s heart breaks along with it. “I’m sorry.”

“I did leave,” Alaska tells her, and the hurt that flashes across Sharon’s face makes her heart twist painfully. “I was so angry. I thought you’d broken your promise, I felt like– I was betrayed. I thought I didn’t belong here - that I couldn’t. But then I realized just how badly I was wrong - thank god for that.”

Sharon is shaking her head as she finishes, looking at Alaska beseechingly. “Lasky, I didn’t break my promise. I was just so angry–”

“I know,” Alaska interrupts, and she laughs a little at Sharon’s surprised expression. “I promised Willam not to fuck things up, today. You see how that went.”

Sharon gives her a warm smile that slowly spreads across her face. “That’s my girl,” she says, approving, and Alaska flushes with pleasure.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have - I didn’t know what I was talking about, that night. I was stupid, and scared. Scared of how much I’d changed, scared of how much I loved you–”

Sharon cuts her off with a kiss.

Alaska melts into it, love and affection threatening to burst from her chest. She slips her hands into Sharon’s hair, her thumbs resting on the corners of her jawline, delightfully warm. She sighs as Sharon deepens the kiss, heat pooling in her belly.

She breaks the kiss as Sharon attempts to slide on top of her, gently pushing her back down. She smirks at Sharon’s wide eyes, excitement flickering in her chest. God, she loves this woman.

“Not tonight,” she says, raising herself up to straddle Sharon’s hips, cupping the sides of her face. She leans down so that their lips are just centimeters apart, unable to keep from smiling at the new heat in Sharon’s gaze, at the smirk that’s beginning to curl at the corner of her mouth.

“No?” she asks, and Alaska gives her a smirk of her own, shaking her head.

“No. Tonight,” she says, “I’ve got you.”

She pulls Sharon in for another kiss, meaning the words with every fiber of her being. She belongs to Sharon, and Sharon belongs to her. They have each other.

Always.

#rpdr fanfiction #alaska thunderfuck #sharon needles #jinkx monsoon #willam belli #phi phi o'hara #morgan mcmichaels #roxxxy andrews #detox icunt #shalaska #western au #lesbian au #wild flower #freyja #tw violence #tw mild offscreen torture #tw guns #tw murder

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things2mustdo · 3 years

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In order for a nation to survive, two critical emotions must be controlled. Contrary to popular belief, these emotions are not fear and greed—although these are very important to control, as well. Rather, it’s masculine aggression and feminine vanity that must be controlled…and we are doing a terrible job at this.

Unfortunately, over the past 70 years, we’ve seen sex roles and gender dynamics completely turned on their heads. Rather than men and women working together to create better relationships, more functional families, and more powerful countries, we’ve been pit against one another by toxic ideologies and ruthless demagogues.

It is not enough to simply know what is happening, however—we must know precisely how it’s happening, step by step, and more importantly, WHY it’s happening. In this article, I will explore why our society has gone so downhill so fast, and potential solutions we can integrate to remedy it (if we can save it, at all).

The Two Forces

As I said previously, there are two very delicate forces which must constantly be counter-balancing one another, and anytime they grow unbalanced, there will be chaos. These two forces are, of course, masculine aggression and feminine vanity. Too much masculine aggression, and a country becomes war-torn, unable to run itself or stay stable long enough to produce any sort of civilization (think the Middle East).

Too much feminine vanity, however, and the opposite occurs. Men become reclusive, because women become far too difficult to deal with. This is why we’ve seen the rise of the sigma male over the past 20 years—men who refuse to attach themselves to any sort of social hierarchy. They’re not alpha, beta, or omega. They just do as they do, without adhering to any sort of social group or workplace hierarchy.

As feminine vanity grows excessive, female hypergamy is given reign to run loose. Rather than men and women developing healthy relationships with one another, women become so conceited that they refuse to “settle” for anyone less than an alpha male Chad Thundercock, and thus we have a surplus of angry, bitter women who hit the wall at 30 and end up childless and alone.

It’s so obvious that it should go without saying, that we are currently in a serious imbalance. For far too long, masculine aggression has been hampered and stomped down by our effeminate school system, our brainwashing devices (aka TV’s), and our mass media control system. All the while, these things have encouraged women to do as they please, without any consequences or thought of their actions on a larger, societal scale.

Restoring the Balance

Balance will be restored, one way or another. There are only two ways for this imbalance to possibly be restored, and most men here will acknowledge, at least implicitly, that this is the case:

Men in OTHER COUNTRIES restore the balance (by coming here en masse)

Men in THIS COUNTRY restore the balance (by not being pussies)

Those are the only two options. There is no third option, where women somehow magically stop giving men 500,000 shit tests a day and step down to become good, faithful girlfriends, wives, and mothers. This will not happen. When a society reaches this critical imbalance, only one of two things can happen.

Of course, we all know what the elites (oy vey!) are pushing for. They want to bring millions of aggressive, young, fighting-age men to this country, to supposedly help combat “population decline.” We all know that this is complete horse shit, and that their true motive is to destroy America.

Even so, with the full force of the elites raining down upon us, there is hope. Over the past two years, we’ve seen more masculine energy emerge and come to the front of our socio-political battlegrounds than arguably any other time in history. For the first time in the past 70 years, men are reclaiming their manhood.

Let me reiterate that this is the only option. There is no magical world where everything just works out great, where we have millions of violent, aggressive 20-something-year-old men come into this country, and we retain our values as an Anglo-Saxon country. No. This will not happen. We either get our acts together, collectively, as men, or we watch our nation burn.

The Path Forward (2018-2020)

The next two years are of critical importance. We have collectively, successfully memed the most brutally alpha and pro-American president into office arguably since Ronald Reagan. This is not an opportunity that we can afford to squander—we must all begin proactively restoring the balance of masculinity in this country, from the top down, otherwise our nation will perish to globalists and their dumb, but useful allies.

There will be resistance, as there is whenever masculinity tries to assert itself. Pay no attention to this resistance. Simply follow the advice which the manosphere advocates for:

Create an income independent of a massive, bureaucratic, globalist corporation

Increase your testosterone levels (start by avoiding foods that kill testosterone)

Lift weights, and become physically able to stand up for yourself

Proactively participate in the upcoming midterms, and the Presidential Election of 2020

Do everything you can to red pill those who are ready (emphasis on them being ready)

If we, collectively, as a group of thousands of like-minded men all across the nation can successfully pull this off, we will see a resurgence of economic, political, and social growth which will have been unprecedented.

If we do not pull it off however, and our nation succumbs to the manipulations of the elite, a far more grim and sinister future will play out.

The Alternative

If we do not successfully reclaim the balance of masculine aggression and feminine vanity in this country, all will be lost, and we will be forced to either live through hell, or leave our homelands. Here’s what to expect over the next decade or so, if a social justice warrior is elected President in 2020, and we lose the culture wars:

Increasing surveillance over the internet

More thought crime policies instituted into law

The figurative castration of men all across the country

Eventual race wars, or religious wars, spurred on primarily by Islamic migrants

This is non-negotiable. If we lose the culture wars to SJW’s over the next several years, we will begin to see lobbying to shut down any and all manosphere websites dedicated to spreading the truth. We have already seen PayPal, YouTube, Amazon, Facebook, Twitter, and Google begin to censor people like Roosh, Alex Jones, Donald Trump, and other conservative/red pilled speakers. We cannot afford to stand this any longer.

If we lose these mediums to the globalists, they will easily gain the support of the public to institute thought crime policies into our legal system. You have a book by Bronze Age Pervert, that Amazon can track from your order history? NAZI SCUM! You’re going to prison. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t actually hurt anyone in any way shape or form, because you had an opinion that the globalists dislike.

As this begins to happen, men will self-imprison all over the nation. Some will fight, of course, and maybe win (if we’re lucky). Others will leave and attempt to gain citizenship in more male-friendly countries such as Denmark, Austria, and Poland. The rest will be forced to hang their heads in perpetual shame.

Eventually, as the population of third world migrants explodes, and tribalism is exacerbated by the polarizing media, we will begin to see rampant terrorist attacks, which are already happening in Germany, The UK, and other nations around the cucked European Union. Inevitably, this will end in a civil war.

It’s Our Choice

I have presented to you the only two choices that we have, and to me, the decision is quite simple. We can either sit around passively, and squabble amongst ourselves over stupid theories and philosophies, or we can take action to better ourselves and improve the stance of our nation.

The choice is clear to me. We either succumb to globalist propaganda, see the death of masculinity in the West, and see freedom of speech die as it is destined to do, or we fight back and create a better future. Some may say this is melodramatic. I would say that a mere cursory glance at history will prove otherwise.

Read Next: Cultural Collapse Theory: The 7 Steps That Lead To A Complete Culture Decline

It was Joe’s first date with Mary. He asked her what she wanted in life and she replied, “I want to establish my career. That’s the most important thing to me right now.” Undeterred that she had no need for a man in her life, Joe entertained her with enough funny stories and cocky statements that she soon allowed him to lightly pet her forearm.

At the end of the date, he locked arms with her on the walk to the subway station, when two Middle Eastern men on scooter patrol accosted them and said they were forbidden to touch. “This is Sharia zone,” they said in heavily accented English, in front of a Halal butcher shop. Joe and Mary felt bad that they offended the two men, because they were trained in school to respect all religions but that of their ancestors. One of the first things they learned was that their white skin gave them extra privilege in life which must be consciously restrained at all times. Even if they happened to disagree with the two men, they could not verbally object because of anti-hate laws that would put them in jail for religious discrimination. They unlocked arms and maintained a distance of three feet from each other.

Unfortunately for Joe, Mary did not want to go out with him again, but seven years later he did receive a message from her on Facebook saying hello. She became vice president of a company, but could not find a man equal to her station since women now made 25% more than men on average. Joe had long left the country and moved to Thailand, where he married a young Thai girl and had three children. He had no plans on returning to his country, America.

If cultural collapse occurs in the way I will now describe, the above scenario will be the rule within a few decades. The Western world is being colonized in reverse, not by weapons or hard power, but through a combination of progressivism and low reproductive rates. These two factors will lead to a complete cultural collapse of many Western nations within the next 200 years. This theory will show the most likely mechanism that it will proceed in America, Canada, UK, Scandinavia, and Western Europe.

What Is A Cultural Collapse?

Cultural collapse is the decline, decay, or disappearance of a native population’s rituals, habits, interpersonal communication, relationships, art, and language. It coincides with a relative decline of population compared to outside groups. National identity and group identification will be lost while revisionist history will be applied to demonize or find fault with the native population. Cultural collapse is not to be confused with economic or state collapse. A nation that suffers from a cultural collapse can still be economically productive and have a working government.

First I will share a brief summary of the cultural collapse progression before explaining them in more detail. Then I will discuss where I see many countries along its path.

The Cultural Collapse Progression

1. Removal of religious narrative from people’s lives, replaced by a treadmill of scientific and technological “progress.”

2. Elimination of traditional sex roles through feminism, gender equality, political correctness, cultural Marxism, and socialism.

3. Delay or abstainment of family formation by women to pursue careerist lifestyles while men wait in confused limbo.

4. Decreasing birth rate among native population.

5. Government enactment of open immigration policies to prevent economic collapse.

6. Immigrant refusal to fully acclimate, forcing host culture to adopt external rituals and beliefs while being out-reproduced.

7. Natives becoming marginalized in their own country.

1. Removal of religious narrative

Religion has been a powerful restraint for millennia in preventing humans from pursuing their base desires and narcissistic tendencies so that they satisfy a god. Family formation is the central unit of most religions, possibly because children increase membership at zero marginal cost to the church (i.e. they don’t need to be recruited).

Religion may promote scientific ignorance, but it facilitates reproduction by giving people a narrative that places family near the center of their existence.[1] [2] [3] After the Enlightenment, the rapid advance of science and its logical but nihilistic explanations into the universe have removed the religious narrative and replaced it with an empty narrative of scientific progress, knowledge, and technology, which act as a restraint and hindrance to family formation, allowing people to pursue individual goals of wealth accumulation or hedonistic pleasure seeking.[4] As of now, there has not been a single non-religious population that has been able to reproduce above the death rate.[5]

Even though many people today claim to believe in god, they may not step inside a church but once or twice a year for special holidays. Religion went from being a lifestyle, a manual for living, to something that is thought about in passing.

2. Elimination of traditional sex roles

Once religion no longer plays a role in people’s lives, the stage is set to fracture male-female bonding. It is collectively attacked by several ideologies stemming from the beliefs of Cultural Marxist theory, which serve to accomplish one common end: destruction of the family unit so that citizens are dependent on the state. They achieve this goal through the marginalization of men and their role in society under the banner of “equality.”[6] With feminism pushed to the forefront of this umbrella movement, the drive for equality ends up being a power grab by women.[7] This attack is performed on a range of fronts:

medicating boys from a young age with ADHD drugs to eradicate displays of masculinity[8]

shaming of men for having direct sexual interest in attractive and fertile women

criminalization of normal male behavior by redefining some instances of consensual sex as rape[9]

imprisonment of unemployed fathers for non-payment of child support, rendering them destitute and unable to be a part of their children’s lives[10]

taxation of men at higher rates for redistribution to women[11] [12]

promotion of single mother and homosexual lifestyles over that of the nuclear family[13] [14]

The end result is that men, confused about their identify and averse to state punishment from sexual harassment, “date rape,” and divorce proceedings, make a rational decision to wait on the sidelines.[15] Women, still not happy with the increased power given to them, continue their assault on men by instructing them to “man up” into what has become an unfair deal—marriage. The elevation of women above men is allowed by corporations, which adopt “girl power” marketing to expand their consumer base and increase profits.[16] [17] Governments also allow it because it increases their tax revenue. Because there is money to be made with women working and becoming consumers, there is no effort by the elite to halt this development.

3. Women begin to place career above family

At the same time men are emasculated as mere “sperm donors,” women are encouraged to adopt the career goals, mannerisms, and competitive lifestyles of men, inevitably causing them to delay marriage, often into an age where they can no longer find suitable husbands who have more resources than themselves. [18] [19] [20] [21] The average woman will find it exceedingly difficult to balance career and family, and since she has no concern of getting “fired” from her family, who she may see as a hindrance to her career goals, she will devote an increasing proportion of time into her job.

Female income, in aggregate, will soon match or exceed that of men.[22] [23] [24] A key reason that women historically got married was to be economically provided for, but this reason will no longer persist and women will feel less pressure or motivation to marry. The burgeoning spinster population will simply be a money-making opportunity for corporations to market to an increasing population of lonely women. Cat and small dog sales will rise.

Women succumb to their primal sexual and materialistic urges to live the “Sex and the City” lifestyle full of fine dining, casual sex, technological bliss, and general gluttony without learning traditional household skills or feminine qualities that would make them attractive wives.[25] [26] Men adapt to careerist women in a rational way by doing the following:

to sate their natural sexual desires, men allow their income to lower since economic stability no longer provides a draw to women in their prime[27]

they mimic “alpha male” social behavior to get laid with women who, without having an urgent need for a man’s monetary resources to survive, can choose men based on confidence, aesthetics, and general entertainment value[28]

they withdraw into a world of video games and the internet, satisfying their own base desires for play and simulated hunting[29] [30]

Careerist women who decide to marry will do so in a hurried rush around 30 because they fear growing old alone, but since they are well past their fertility peak[31], they may find it difficult to reproduce. In the event of successful reproduction at such a later age, fewer children can be born before biological infertility, limiting family size compared to the historical past.

4. Birth rates decrease among native population

The stage is now set for the death rate to outstrip the birth rate. This creates a demographic cliff where there is a growing population of non-working elderly relative to able-bodied younger workers. Two problems result:

Not enough tax revenue is supplied by the working population in order to provide for the elderly’s medical and social retirement needs.[32] Borrowing can only temporarily maintain these entitlements.

Decrease of economic activity since more people are dying than buying.[33]

No modern nation has figured out how to substantially raise birth rates among native populations. The most successful effort has been done in France, but that has still kept the birth rate among French-born women just under the replacement rate (2.08 vs 2.1).[34] The easiest and fastest way to solve this double-edged problem is to promote mass immigration of non-elderly individuals who will work, spend, and procreate at rates greater than natives.[35]

A replenishing supply of births are necessary to create taxpayers, workers, entrepreneurs, and consumers in order to maintain the nation’s economic development.[36] While many claim that the planet is suffering from “overpopulation,” an economic collapse is inevitable for those countries who do not increase their population at steady rates.

5. Large influx of immigration

An aging population without youthful refilling will cause a scarcity of labor, increasing that labor’s price. Corporate elites will now lobby governments for immigration reform to relieve this upward pressure on wages.[37] [38] At the same time, the modern mantra of sustained GDP growth puts pressure on politicians for dissemination of favorable economic growth data to aid in their re-elections. The simplest way to increase GDP without innovation or development of industry is to expand the population. Both corporate and political elites now have their goals in alignment where the easiest solution becomes immigration.[39] [40]

While politicians hem and haw about designing permanent immigration policies, immigrants continue to settle within the nation.[41] The national birth rate problem is essentially solved overnight, as it’s much easier to drain third-world nations of its starry-eyed population with enticements of living in the first-world than it is to encourage the native women to reproduce. (Lateral immigration from one first-world nation to another is so relatively insignificant that the niche term ‘expatriation’ has been developed to describe it). Native women will show a stubborn resistance at any suggestion they should create families, much preferring a relatively responsibility-free lifestyle of sexual variety, casual internet dating via mobile apps, consumer excess, and comfortable high-paying jobs in air conditioned offices.[42] [43]

Immigrants will almost always come from societies that are more religious and, in the case of Islam with regard to European immigration, far more scientifically primitive and rigid in its customs.[44]

6. Sanitization of host culture coincides with increase in immigrant power

While many adult immigrants will feel gracious at the opportunity to live in a more prosperous nation, others will soon feel resentment that they are forced to work menial jobs in a country that is far more expensive than their own.[45] [46] [47] [48] [49] The majority of them remain in lower economic classes, living in poor “immigrant communities” where they can speak their own language, find their own homeland foods, and follow their own customs or religion.

Instead of breaking out of their foreigner communities, immigrants seek to expand it by organizing. They form local groups and civic organizations to teach natives better ways to understand and serve immigrant populations. They will be eager to publicize cases where immigrants have been insulted by insensitive natives or treated unfairly by police authorities in the case of petty crime.[50] [51] [52] [53] [54] [55] School curriculums may be changed to promote diversity or multiculturalism, at great expense to the native culture.[56] Concessions will be made not to offend immigrants.[57] A continual stream of outrages will be found and this will feed the power of the organizations and create a state within a state where native elites become fearful of applying laws to immigrants.[58]

7. Destruction of native culture

This step has not yet happened in any first-world nation, so I will predict it based on logically extending known events I have already described.

Local elites will give lip service to immigrant groups for votes but will be slow to give them real state or economic power. Citizenship rules may even be tightened to prevent immigrants from being elected. The elites will be mostly insulated from the cultural crises in their isolated communities, private schools, and social clubs, where they can continue to incubate their own sub-culture without outside influence. At the same time, they will make speeches and enact polices to force native citizens to accept multiculturalism and blind immigration. Anti-hate and anti-discrimination laws will be more vigorously enforced than other more serious crimes. Police will monitor social networking to identify those who make statements against protected classes.

Cultural decline begins in earnest when the natives feel shame or guilt for who they are, their history, their way of life, and where their ancestors came from. They will let immigrant groups criticize their customs without protest, or they simply embrace immigrant customs instead with religious conversion and interethnic marriages. Nationalistic pride will be condemned as a “far-right” phenomenon and popular nationalistic politicians will be compared to Hitler. Natives learn the art of self-censorship, limiting the range of their speech and expressions, and soon only the elderly can speak the truths of the cultural decline while a younger multiculturalist within earshot attributes such frankness to senility or racist nostalgia.

With the already entrenched environment of political correctness (see stage 2), the local culture becomes a sort of “world” culture that can be declared tolerant and progressive as long as there is a lack of criticism against immigrants, multiculturalism, and their combined influence. All cultural identity will eventually be lost, and to be “American” or “British,” for example, will no longer have modern meaning from a sociological perspective. Native traditions will be eradicated and a cultural mixing will take place where citizens from one world nation will be nearly identical in behavior, thought, and consumer tastes to citizens of another. Once a collapse occurs, it cannot be reversed. The nation’s cultural heritage will be forever lost.

I want to now take a brief look at six different countries and see where they are along the cultural collapse progression…

Russia

This is an interesting case because, up to recently, we saw very low birth rates not due to progressive ideals but from a rough transition to capitalism in the 1990’s and a high male mortality from alcoholism.[59] [60] To help sustain its population, Russia is readily accepting immigrants from Central Asian regions, treating them like second-class citizens and refusing to make any accommodations away from the ethnic Russian way of life. Even police authorities turn a blind eye when local skinhead groups attack immigrants.[61] In addition, Russia has also shown no tolerance to homosexual or progressive groups,[62] stunting their negative effects upon the culture. The birth rate has risen in recent years to levels seen in Western Europe but it’s still not above the death rate. Russia will see a population collapse before a cultural one.

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Very low

Brazil

We’re seeing rapid movement through stages 2 and 3, where progressive ideology based on the American model is becoming adopted and a large poor population ensure progressive politicians will continue to remain in power with promises of economic redistribution.[63] [64] [65] Within 15 years we should see a sharp drop in birth rates and a relaxation of immigration laws.

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Moderate

America

Some could argue that America is currently experiencing a cultural collapse. It always had a fragile culture because of its immigrant foundings, but immigrants of the past (including my own parents) rapidly acclimated into the host culture to create a sense of national pride around an ethic of hard work and shared democratic values. This is being eroded as a fem-centric culture rises in its place, with its focus on trends, celebrities, homosexuality, multiculturalism, and male-bashing. Natives have become pleasure seekers with little inclination to reproduction during their years of peak fertility.[66]

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Very high

England

While America always had high amounts of immigration, and therefore a system of integration, England is newer to the game. In the past 20 years, they have massively ramped up their immigration efforts.[67] A visit to London will confirm that the native British are slowly becoming minorities, with their iconic red telephone booths left undisturbed purely for tourist photo opportunities. Approximately 5% of the English population is now Muslim.[68] Instead of acclimatizing, they are achieving early success in creating zones with Sharia law.[69] The English elite, in response, is jailing natives under stringent anti-race laws.[70] England had a highly successful immigration story with Polish immigrants who eagerly acclimated to English culture, but have opened the doors to other peoples who don’t want to integrate.[71]

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Very high

Sweden

Sweden is experiencing a similar immigration situation to England, but they possess a higher amount of self-shame and white guilt. Instead of allowing immigrants who could work in the Swedish economy, they are encouraging migration of asylum seekers who have been made destitute by war. These immigrants enter Sweden and immediately receive social benefits. In effect, Sweden is welcoming the least economically productive people in the world.[72] The immigrants will produce little or no economic benefit, and may even worsen Sweden’s economy. Immigrants are turning some parts of Sweden, such as the Rosengard area of Malmo, into a ghetto.[73]

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Very high

Poland

From my one and half years of living in Poland, I have seen a moderate level of progressive ideological creep, careerism among women, hedonism, and idolation of Western values, particularly out of England, where a large percentage of the Polish population have emigrated for work. Younger Poles may not act much different from their Western counterparts in their party lifestyle behavior, but there nonetheless remains a tenuous maintenance of traditional sex roles. Women of fertile age are pursuing relationships over one-night stands, but careerism is causing them to stall family formation. This puts a downward pressure on birth rates, which stems from significant numbers of fertile young women emigrating to countries like the UK and USA, along with continued economic uncertainties faced from transitioning to capitalism[74]. As Europe’s “least multicultural” nation, Poland has long been hesitant to accept immigrants, but this has recently changed and they are encouraging migrants.[75] To its credit, it is seeking first-world entrepreneurs instead of low skilled laborers or asylum seekers. Its cultural fate will be an interesting development in the years to come, but the prognosis will be more negative as long as its young people are eager to leave the homeland.

Likelihood of 50-year cultural collapse: Possible

Poland and Russia show the limitations of Cultural Collapse Theory in that it best applies to first-world nations with highly developed economies. They have low birth rates but not through the mechanism I described, though if they adopt a more Western ideological track like Brazil, I expect to see the same outcome that is befalling England or Sweden.

There can be many paths to cultural destruction, and those nations with the most similarities will gravitate towards the same path, just like how Eastern European nations are suffering low birth rates because of mass emigration due to being introduced into the European Union.

How To Stop Cultural Collapse

Maintaining native birth rates while preventing the elite from allowing immigrant labor is the most effective means at preventing cultural collapse. Since multiculturalism is an experiment with no proven efficacy, a culture can only be maintained by a relatively homogenous group who identify with each other. When that homogeneity breaks down and one citizen looks to the next and does not see a person with the same values as himself, the culture falls in dis-repair as native citizens begin to lose a shared means of communication and identity. Once the percentage of the immigrant population crosses a certain threshold (perhaps 15%), the decline will pick up in pace and cultural breakdown will be readily apparent to all observers.

Current policies to solve low birth rates through immigration is a short-term fix with dire long-term consequences. In effect, it’s a Trojan-horse prescription of irreversible cultural destruction. A state must prevent itself from entering the position where mass immigration is considered a solution by blocking progressive ideologies from taking hold. One way this can be done is through the promotion of a state-sponsored religion which encourages the nuclear family instead of single motherhood and homosexuality. However, introducing religion as a mainstay of citizen life in the post-enlightenment era may be impossible.

We must consider that the scientific era is an evolutionary maladaptive feature of humanity that natural selection will accordingly punish (i.e. those who are anti-religious and pro-science will simply breed less). It must also be considered that with religion in permanent decline, cultural collapse may be a certainty that eventually occurs in all developed nations. Religion, it may turn out, was evolutionary beneficial to the human race.

Another possible solution is to foster a patriarchal society where men serve as strong providers. If you encourage the development of successful men who possess indispensable skills and therefore resources that are lacked by females, there will be women below their station who want to marry and procreate with them, but if strong women are produced instead, marriage and procreation is unlikely to take place at levels above the death rate.

A gap between the sexes should always exist in the favor of men if procreation is to occur at high rates, or else you’ll have something similar to the situation in America where urban professional women cannot find “good men” to begin a family with (i.e., men who are significantly more financially successful than them). They instead remain single and barren, only used occasionally by cads for exciting casual sex.

One issue that I purposefully ignored is the effect of technology and consumerism on lowering birth rates. How much influence does video games, internet, and smartphones contribute to a birth decline? How much of an effect does Western-style consumerism have in delaying marriage? I suspect they have more of an amplification effect than being an outright cause. If a country is proceeding through the cultural collapse model, technology will simply hurry the collapse, but giving internet access to a traditionally religious group of people may not cause them to flip overnight. Research will have to be done in these areas to say for sure.

Conclusion

The first iteration of any theory is sure to create as many questions as answers, but I hope that by proposing this model, it becomes more clear why some cultures seem so quick to degrade while others display a sort of immunity. Some countries may be too far down the wrong path to be saved, but I hope the information presented gives concerned readers ideas on protecting their own culture by allowing them to connect how progressive ideologies that may seem innocent or benign on the surface can eventually lead to an outright collapse of their nation’s culture.

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