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arcielee · 8 months

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Interview With a Writer

Time for another installment of my series Interview With a Writer with the talented, the wonderful @inthedayswhenlandswerefew. Thank you as always for your time and allowing this self-indulgent series to continue!

Dividers by @saradika 💜

Name: inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Story: Comet Donati

Paring: modern Aemond Targaryen x female!reader

Warnings: 18+ mature themes. Sex, drugs, boy bands. Be mindful of chapter warnings.

What inspired the plot for Comet Donati?

I think it will surprise absolutely no one when I say that Comet was born out of my love for One Direction. While I’m at work (I’m a high school teacher), I’ll often put on a Spotify playlist for me and the students to listen to. I like to change it up…for a few days we’ll listen to 80s rock, and then Beyoncé Radio, and then classical music, it’s always something different. At the very end of last school year in June, I got in the mood to revisit my love of One Direction. As I was listening to and falling in love with those songs all over again—History, No Control, Heart Attack, etc.—the idea of the HOTD characters being a boy band occurred to me, first as something ludicrous but then as a weird but potentially viable fic plot.

My long-time readers know that the first specific scene I envision is always one of the last scenes of a story, and while I was listening to that One Direction playlist one afternoon I saw the very end of Comet Donati: a girl on a farm looking out a kitchen window and watching Aemond return to her after a very fraught, magical, horrible, amazing summer touring with the band together. The very first sentence I wrote in my Word Doc was the last sentence of Chapter 10.

And thus, Comet arrived on Earth! :)

So the scene that inspired the rest of Comet Donati…

It was Aemond on that damn Gold Star motorcycle, which is another astronomy reference!

Are you always aware of how your stories will end? Or have you ever balked and changed something?

I always know the ending from the very start, and I’ve never changed one. Because I start writing with the end so clearly in mind, changing it would undermine a lot of the foreshadowing, themes, and character arcs that were present throughout the story, and would honestly feel totally disorienting to me. With that said, there are occasions when unexpected details pop up (ex. in Comet, Aemond clicking so well with Stargirl’s parents wasn’t something that I foresaw or really thought about before writing Chapter 9), but generally I have it all set it stone before the first chapter is ever posted.

Can you give us some insight on your interpretation of Aemond and Aegon?

Aegon and Aemond both have a lot of trauma (clearly), but they have adapted to survive it in completely different ways. Aemond is a brooding, perfectionist, desperately insecure person who lashes out like a wounded animal when he feels wronged. Aegon is the opposite. He directs his anxiety and self-loathing inwards harming only himself, and rarely shares it with anyone else (Stargirl of course is a massive exception).

While Aemond wants to be taken seriously, Aegon dives headfirst into his lackadaisical nature and exacerbates it, largely out of spite for Viserys and to a lesser extent Alicent and Otto. He is lazy, bombastic, rootless, chaotic, an unrepentant addict…and, in perhaps his greatest act of rebellion, someone who is genuinely affectionate and nonjudgmental. Aemond is fangs and claws and storms and wreckage; Aegon has this warm, contagious glow that distracts from his profound inner darkness.

Aemond is someone who always felt uncool, unloved, and unremarkable. At home he was mostly ignored by Viserys (despite Aemond’s attempts to bond with him). Alicent, while well-intentioned, was often distracted by her own marital unhappiness, and furthermore was emotionally closer to Helaena and Daeron than Aemond. At school, he didn’t make friends or get girls in the same effortless way that Aegon or Daeron did.

Like Aegon said in Chapter 3: “I had friends. He had grudges.” But when Aemond masterminded Comet and became an international popstar, he finally got the camaraderie and recognition he always craved, and for the first time in his life felt worthy of love. Losing all of that after the accident at the Budokan was psychologically devastating for him.

When he meets Stargirl, Aemond wants her in a way that is immediate, overpowering, and completely unlike anything he’s ever experienced before…but his fear of losing her—and his lifelong, intense phobia of rejection—sabotages their relationship over and over again.

Was there anything in specific that inspired Stargirl?

Stargirl is, and I say this with nothing but love, the most Hot Mess Express reader insert that I’ve written so far. She is very smart and intuitive, a natural therapist, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t routinely make questionable decisions while touring with the band.

She’s able to help others but struggles when it comes to protecting herself. I think that’s extremely relatable. I also love psychology as a discipline. I’m definitely not a professional; I’ve taken college-level psychology courses and taught it as a high school class, but I would never consider myself to be an expert. However, my interest in psychology (and in redeeming Sigmund Freud!) certainly bled into this fic.

As far as Stargirl’s backstory… I think that unfortunately, most women have had experiences when we were made to feel ashamed, unworthy, unlovable, immoral, etc. because of something related to our sexuality. It’s incredibly frustrating to see this repeat generation after generation. Stargirl has put a lot of time and effort into reprogramming herself from her fundamentalist Christian upbringing/community, and shedding that heartbreak and cynicism as much as possible. I think she’s an inspirational character, and a manifestation of my hope for our society’s future.

How does Stargirl complement Aemond? How does this compare to her relationship with Aegon?

Therapists have to be natural optimists, I believe. They have to be able to look at someone who is struggling and see the best in them, to envision a better path forward. When Stargirl meets Aemond in Rome, she genuinely—from the very first moment—cannot fathom thinking that he is unattractive or pitiful. She thinks he is fascinating, intelligent, talented, charming, and of course fine af (and we all agree!).

Her very first act is to put him at ease by addressing his scar/blindness immediately and in a way that is lighthearted and teasing without being cruel. Aemond is used to people either ignoring the accident entirely (awkward) or outright pitying him (even worse). Stargirl does neither.

Aemond is a source of strength for Stargirl; he is protective of her in a way that can override his own paranoia and resentment (ex. when he notices that she is crying on the jet in Chapter 5 or when he banishes Shelby in Chapter 8).

They share an organic chemistry and respect for each other that—over and over again—they have to fight their way back to. Both Stargirl and Aemond want to make the world a better place, albeit in entirely different ways, and I definitely see them turning into a bit of a power couple in that respect.

Stargirl’s relationship with Aegon is easier (as his demons present differently than Aemond’s), but also isn’t something that could ever become a stable, marriage-like partnership. Stargirl doesn’t desire Aegon in that way, nor is he equipped to be in a committed relationship with anybody (not even Selena Gomez!).

Yet fundamentally—no matter how many years or miles are between them—Aegon and Stargirl feel safe with each other. Aegon knows that Stargirl can see that he’s wounded and yet loves him unconditionally anyway. Stargirl knows that Aegon would never think less of her because of her sexuality or any other choices she might make in life. I think of them as platonic soulmates, which is a little bit inaccurate because they aren’t literally platonic. But they love each other in a way that is entirely separate from if/when/how they have sex and without ownership or expectations.

In the past, you created OCs that might prickle underneath our skin but we ended up loving them. Except for fucking Shelby. What inspired her?

I’ve had a few experiences recently that got me thinking about influencer culture and social media obsession. I think we all know people who put a ton of effort into crafting an online narrative that is radically different from their real life. Shelby is someone who rode the early influencer wave to stardom and now is kind of stuck. She doesn’t know how to create authentic experiences because she’s trained herself to manufacture them for years; similarly, she doesn’t know how to nurture genuine relationships. But Shelby also doesn’t know what comes next in her life. Aemond’s accident gives her a valuable rebranding opportunity: she can shift from “early-twenties hottie” to “self-sacrificing caretaker,” eventually evolving into wife and mommy blogging content. She clings to that so fiercely because she honestly, horrifyingly does not know who she is without a label her millions of subscribers/followers agree upon. And Shelby is willing to do some pretty deplorable things to try to keep Aemond away from Stargirl.

I think my own understanding of Shelby is actually a lot more compassionate than Comet readers might suspect. I don’t feel that she has any desire to harm Aemond, and on the contrary does care for him in the way that she knows how to. She’s definitely wrong for him, and she unintentionally massacres his mental health on a daily basis. But she really, truly thinks that she’s helping him by hiding his “humiliating” disability. She is so engrained in the shallow, deceptive, trope-conforming influencer lifestyle that whoever she was before has been entirely forgotten.

Were there any other characters in your story that you enjoyed writing?

Obviously, I adore the dynamics of the whole band. It was a nice change to write Team Black characters as good guys for the first time: Luke admiring and supporting Aemond in that worshipful sort of way, Rhaena being gentle and intuitive but also increasingly brave, Baela figuring out how to harness her natural assertiveness into advocating for her own ambitions.

Cregan’s dysfunctional childhood hits home for me in a lot of ways, and I absolutely loved him coming into his own as a good father both literally and as a father figure for Comet (especially with Aemond as he prepares for his own fatherhood journey!). Poor Criston definitely needs Cregan’s help parenting this boy band of feral raccoons. Criston is TIRED! Let the man rest!

Finally, I would like to shock everyone by announcing that Jace was one of my favorite parts of writing this fic. He’s a tool, but he also has lines that he won’t cross; way down deep somewhere, he has a fundamental and irrevocable love for Comet. Jace will taunt someone until they hit him, but he rarely hits back. Jace will poke fun at Aemond, but he is also sincerely disturbed by Shelby making Aemond so miserable. Jace body shames Aegon constantly, and yet he’s the one outside the hotel room in Chapter 8 frantically asking if Aegon is okay. Additionally, Jace is really into Stargirl in a way that is completely shameless, sometimes creepy, but also randomly insightful.

There are a lot of little moments of him being concerned about Aemond/Aegon/Stargirl throughout the fic if you look for them. Like, he breaks the awkward silence for Stargirl at the Vegas buffet. Jace is only 90% evil 🥰

I’ve also never gotten to write Jace like this before and I might never get to again, but I really enjoyed it.

As a writer, I think it is safe to say we constantly daydream. How do you know what stories need to be told?

I’ll use Comet as an example. So when I first started kicking around the HOTD boy band idea while listening to One Direction songs, I fully intended to save the potential fic for when Season 2 airs next summer. There was an essence of a story, a general vibe…touring, comets, drinks, smoke…yet it wasn’t urgent or tangible. But as soon as that last scene hit me out of nowhere—Aemond returning to the farm as a better man, riding his motorcycle with displaced snow billowing out behind him—Comet Donati as a story became vivid and real and all-consuming.

As soon as I see a scene like that, I know I have to write the story, and I usually begin immediately planning out chapters that same day. Ideas and vibes flit in and out of my mind all the time, but scenes demand to be written.

Would you ever want to revisit a story for an epilogue?

I won’t say I’ll never write an epilogue, because I suppose inspiration could strike unexpectedly. However, for me, where a story ends is truly the ending. I might have vague ideas about what happens next for certain characters, but I don’t usually see scenes or hear dialogue beyond the last chapter, so trying to write an epilogue would feel forced to me. If anything, I’m usually already in the mental headspace of a new story by the time I’m finishing up the current one! With that said, it’s super heartwarming when readers ask about epilogues, because I know that means they’ve grown to love these characters and aren’t ready to say goodbye yet.

If a reader has a question about what comes next for a character, they’re always welcome to send it my way, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability. 🥰

What is next for the wonderful Miss Maggie?

So, as usual, too many things to possibly keep up with! I have a few original novel projects floating around. But… most relevant to Tumblr… I also have two (yes, TWO!!!) new House Of The Dragon fic ideas that I’m really excited about.

Just last week, one of these ideas turned into a must-write-immediately type of story when I saw the final scene while driving home from work and listening to Fall Out Boy’s second album, From Under The Cork Tree. I’ve had that album on repeat ever since!

It’s always daunting to start a new series; the time commitment is stressful, and there’s a fear of rejection as well. I remember being absolutely terrified to post the first chapter of Comet Donati because I felt like it was so different in tone from NICIY, and I worried that my readers wouldn’t connect with it. But Comet ended up working out in the long run, so I’m trying to use that lesson to talk myself out of any self-doubt.

This new series is going to be very different from Comet in both setting and tone. It’s going to be long, around 15 chapters.

And for more details, you’ll have to check back on Sunday, September 10th! :)

#iwaw #iwaw15 #interview with a writer #bts #of their brilliant writing #writing community #comet donati

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hayffiebird · 29 days

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Taste of Strawberries, chap. 42

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M

Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie returns in to Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is renewed. Will it lead to something more?

Meanwhile Panem has entered a new era. The rebellion’s over, the borders are open but in the shadows, anger and mistrust are smoldering. Something that will affect Haymitch and Effie’s life in a way they never saw coming.

Author's note: As always, thank you for your lovely support! It's almost midnight here, I've been editing for six hours (oh God) and finally had to call it a day even if it ain't perfect. I hope you enjoy the result! Please consider leaving a comment and tell me your thoughts! What do you think will happen next? :)

Slight TRIGGER WARNING for minor mentions like in previous chapters.

Chapter 42

A big big big day

His gift wasn’t among the others. Haymitch turned the presents over. Those big enough to qualify. Squeezed one here, shook one there, holding on to hope that Effie or June or Annabel had signed the delivery while he was passed out.

No such luck. Course not.

Should’ve called the shop sooner.

He ran a tired hand through his hair and poured himself a shaky cup of coffee.

For someone who considered gifts overrated – unless they consisted of food or clothes maybe – he was pretty bloody bummed out about the whole thing. Silly, yeah but … he really wanted the twins to have it and have it on the right day.

Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. The post office in Eleven was famously slow, according to Annabel.

He was halfway through his cup of joe when the front door opened.

Annabel, smiling and carrying the topnotch chocolate cake. And in her wake, Effie. With one birthday child on each hip.

God, was she pretty! Prettier than usual, if that was even possible. With the strawberry dress gone – thanks to a certain retired mentor – she wore a white and pink plaid dress. A wide skirt just brushing her kneecaps, spaghetti straps and a large flat bow at the side of her waist.

Her hair was gathered in a ponytail for a change. Pink ballet flats. No “yank friendly” jewelry around her neck. No lipstick or lipgloss either. She gave that up after the twins were born since she kissed it all off on them anyway. Around her ankle: a simple silver bracelet. Simple but beautiful.

Yeah, she was gonna kill him for sure.

Amy wore pink too. Pink with ruffles. No matching bow or ribbons though. Even if she’d had any hair to speak of, the little girl would not stand for it.

Her mother had gone and dusted off one of her own princess dresses, by the looks of it, in honor of today. A toned down, less outlandish one but still – definitely more Capitol than district. He counted four different shades of pink. Posy would have loved it.

Ian on the other hand looked just about ready for District 4, dressed up in a little sailor’s outfit. White and dark blue with boats printed on the chest.

Silly ol’ Effs.

She wasn’t usually that all consumed by the whole “pink for girls, blue for boys” ideal. At least not anymore. But even she couldn’t help herself sometimes.

He had to hand it to her though – if this was Capitol it was Capitol low key. He’d seen toddlers back in the old city who looked more like fashion accessories than actual human beings. And sure, Effie wasn’t above wrestling Haymitch into gaudy outfits but she always went easy on the twins. Just like she went easy on Alexander, when she was but a girl herself.

Quite telling, if you thought about it. What kind of person she was at the core.

And contrary to popular belief, Effie preferred the district look for her kids. How was that for ironic? And the clothes he wore as a baby and toddler? Shit, she treasured them like they were truffles – the rarest, most (would be) expensive ingredient Sae used in her cooking, once in a blue moon.

Each night before bed, Effie laid out the children’s clothes for tomorrow and make no mistake! Unless they were currently peed in, pooped at or covered in baby spit-up, she always chose something of his.

“What is it with you and these rags?” he once asked her back in Twelve, while he helped Amy into a patched up romper the color of porridge. “Seriously. Capitol Effie would have shuddered. Called them poor man’s gear. Washcloth outfits.”

“I would not!” Effie protested from the other side of the bed, working the mismatched buttons of Ian’s playsuit. “District Vintage, maybe. And these aren’t rags! Don’t call them that! You know how special they are to me.”

“Why?”

She lifted Ian up. Held him close. With her cheek against the top of his head, she glanced over at Haymitch like he was the biggest idiot in all of Panem.

“Because you are!” she said. “Special. Something you really should know by now. I had your love children, for crying out loud. You’d think that if anything would be a tip off. And every time I see Amy or Ian wearing something you wore, it’s like I get a little echo of you. The child you once were. And since I don’t have any baby pictures of you, this is the second best thing. Well”, she added after a moment’s pause. A smile curved her lips. “Except for the twins themselves. Because of course they’d come out looking exactly like you. That’s just my usual luck.”

“Luck or curse”, Haymitch replied. Amy yawned as he lifted her from the bed. “There we go, baby.” He rested her against the side of his chest, her head on his shoulder. “They have your hair”, he said, pointing out the obvious.

“Mm. Only proof we’ve got that you didn’t actually make them all on your own.”

She never made the connection. Between the clothes and his kid brother. So obvious and yet, the lights never came on.

It was alright though. Really. Sure, he always felt a little pinch every time he saw the kids in Amadeus’s clothes. But not as much anymore. Not as the months passed.

Yeah. By some miracle, that particular gash got to scab over. Become a scar. Tender to the touch yes, but not bleeding, festering.

As time wore on he started to associate the clothes not only with his dead brother and dead mother but with Amy and Ian as well. That was one big reason for it. Plus Amadeus would’ve loved it if he knew that his niece and nephew spent their days dressed in his old stuff.

And Sae – that sharp-eyed ol’ busybody – she much have known this. Predicted his change of heart, or else she never would have given the clothes to Effie in the first place.

When the twins were still newborns he thought Effie might break out Alexander’s old clothes for them. The precious few garments she still had of her stars and butterflies and lady bugs baby after that prick Kane burned the rest or whatever.

But she never did. Too painful. And, obviously, he steered clear off the subject since she wasn’t ready to deal with any of that. Perhaps she never would be.

The reality of that heart-breaking situation only made it easier for him to let her have a field day with “his” old rags. Sorry, his special rags.

You couldn’t be flint-hearted with Effie anyway. Her over the moon excitement. You got to be pretty fucking cruel to take that away. Especially after she blessed you with two children.

Oh God. She’s gonna hold that over my head forever!

Little echoes. Special because you are special. Yeah, he could see what she meant by that. If he reversed their positions in his head.

After she bought the house from June and Annabel and the last of their moving vans had left for District 11 – they arranged for her things to be brought back in. Effie had donated a lot of the furniture to vintage and charity shops when she lost her home but some were kept in storage. As were most of her personal belongings. Like, for instance, the piles upon piles of little kiddie clothes.

Not Alexander’s. Effie’s own.

Now, Haymitch didn’t consider himself a sentimental guy. But when he first got a load of those silly little outfits he was almost overcome with tenderness and affection. As if a kitten – Scotch maybe – just rolled over in his chest, flexing his tiny claws.

They were just so small and so ridiculous.

Princess-pink, primrose yellow, spring green and pale shades of purple like a lilac branch. Effie’s ma and pa had stockpiled the stuff like they had ten kids instead of one. Either they planned on producing a shitload of offspring or they lived by the notion that even a newborn’s outfit was to be worn only once.

“Oh, haha! Look at these!” Effie had chuckled over by the couch, holding out a pair of the tiniest high heeled baby shoes you ever saw. White with black dots and red on the inside. “I forgot I even had them. Say what you will about me, Haymitch. I had style. Right from the very beginning.”

“Yeah, totally”, he said, cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by boxes. “But those Haute Couture diapers were a waste on you. You just soiled them 24-7.”

Effie chuckled and placed the little shoes back in the box. Reached for a soft pink hooded romper instead. Velvet, by the look of it. Patterned with raspberry colored hearts.

“My parents always knew they wanted to have children”, she said. “Especially my mother. She had this romantic scenario in her head that she would be blessed with a baby on her wedding night. Or maybe even more than one. Twins run in my family, did I ever tell you?”

“Noo. Really?”

She brushed the soft fabric against her cheek. “Mama was so disappointed when it didn’t happen at the drop of a hat. They ended up trying for years to get pregnant. You know, the old-fashioned way.”

“What other ways are there?”

Effie smiled.

“Well, I for one am an IVF baby.”

“A what?”

“IVF. In vitro fertilization. Hospital procedure. They removed one of my mother’s eggs and mixed it together with my father’s sperm. So, unlike you or Katniss or Peeta I was first on a lil’ petri dish.”

Haymitch grinned.

“Created in a lab. I should have known.”

“Just the embryo, silly! Which was then implanted into my mother’s womb. I was carried and born like any other baby. Took a few tries though. Like … half a dozen eggs or so. My father’s juices weren’t too great. It drove my mother halfway up the wall. The hormone injections she had to take.”

“Yeah, well.” Haymitch gave a light shrug. “It was worth the wait.”

Effie looked up from the romper, an amused glint in her eyes.

“Is that your way of saying you feel fortunate to have me in your life?”

“Is there any other way to put it? The way I see it, I got a pretty decent deal out of it. Three for the price of one.”

Effie chuckled and tossed a pair of baby socks his way.

“You darling you.” She folded the romper neatly and placed it in the “let’s keep” pile on the couch. “So, what do we do with all this? I mean, some we can use but the rest? Do we give it away or …?”

“Nah, too cruel. I vote that we keep ‘em. As a memory. A timestamp. ‘Effs Trinket – The early years’.”

In the end though, even the things they did keep – they hardly ever used. Not only were the clothes hella impractical to get on and off. They were also a pain to wash correctly. Shrunk super easily – especially with Haymitch in charge – and 80 % of it had to be hand washed anyway, if you didn’t want the colors to bleed.

Annabel set the birthday cake on the garden table. The soft clink pulled Haymitch out of his reverie. Amy’s eyes landed on June and the one year old instantly held her arms out with a firm whine. The blonde woman’s face brightened and the little girl soon climbed from her mother’s arms and into her auntie June’s.

The sight pinched Haymitch’s chest, immediately bringing on a self-insult.

Grow up. What’s wrong with people lovin’ them?

Nothing. Nothing at all. But he couldn’t help it. It hurt. Hurt that his daughter’s first impulse was to go to June and not him.

Annabel’s wife may have a hard time dealing with him as of late but she adored his children. They both did.

Ian was still with Effie. His little fist keeping a firm grasp on one of her dress straps.

Haymitch ached to hold him. Hug the crap out of him and seek some comfort in his softness and warmth and sweet baby smell.

But Effie wouldn’t want him to. He knew without her saying it. She didn’t trust him with them yet. Not when he was still so hangover he couldn’t even stomach a slice of birthday cake without puking on the lawn.

He downed the last of his coffee. He was going to need a lot of the stuff to get him through today. All the while, ignoring how much better it would taste with a drop or three of hard liquor.

His eyes kept returning to June, holding his daughter. Annabel said something about “sugar dream cookies” and turned for the house but her wife hardly noticed, absorbed as she was by his little girl. She tickled her tummy and the child giggled and squirmed in her embrace.

It was all he could do not to yank his kid out of her arms and yell something like “Get your own!!”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he turned and poured himself some more coffee.

She’s not taunting me on purpose.

It wasn’t June’s fault that he was a stinking hot mess who couldn’t do a thing right. Not even when his kids had a birthday.

June and Annabel had been some of the first to ever meet the twins. Even before Katniss and Peeta. Annabel at the hospital. June, a few days later.

“Want me to bring you anything?” she asked over the phone and Effie said, quick as a flash:

“Coffee. Please, a bucket of it!”

Black. Just the way she liked it. Along with some homemade cheesecake, courtesy of June.

He remembered the way her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree seeing Amy and Ian, sound asleep against Effie’s bosom. That’s where the twins liked it best, especially since their so called father was still too freaked to hold them.

“Oh, I want two myself”, Annabel had smiled, her brown eyes shiny. “Two just like them.”

“Well, don’t look at me”, Haymitch said, stretched out on the hard leather couch. “This factory’s closed.”

Effie and Annabel exchanged a look and they both chuckled.

“That’s unfortunate”, the latter said.

They were just joking around of course. And lucky him. Because after everything the two ladies had done for his family, he’d be hard-pressed to refuse.

For some reason, he never gave it much thought at the time, but seeing June with Amy just now … It got him wondering.

Why didn’t June and Annabel have any children themselves?

Sure, you could be fond of kids and great with them and still choose to be child-free. Happy to be just “mom’s fun friend” – or “mom’s wacko friend” if you were say Johanna Mason.

But June and Annabel, they seemed like the type who’d want a baby of their own. And they’d been together for like forever.

In the districts, there were of course only two ways you could have a kid. Cum shot or adoption. But, as Effie’d told him, in the Capitol – things worked differently when it came to fertility and conception. And being in a same-sex relationship with no immediate sperm producer in the household didn’t make it that much harder either. Not if you had money.

People sold their semen for cash in the big city. The hospital even made ads about it, urging people to contribute. Hell, guys like Priapus took pride in having fathered half the nation one cup at a time – to hear him tell it at least. And if you had a few eggs to spare and wanted to trade them in for the latest handbag, you needed only book an appointment.

So if June and Annabel wanted to make an omelette, they had options.

Maybe they can’t have kids.

Annabel’s story earlier. Her struggles with food. Maybe starving herself had done something to her menstrual cycle? He was no expert. Far from it. But he remembered a conversation he overheard at the Hob once. Between old Cray and some other peacekeeper.

“At the end of the day”, the full-fledged bastard said, “what you want is a real skintight lass. The flow doesn’t go over barren land, if you know what I mean?”

As for June … He couldn’t say he knew a lot about the woman. She was no open book. Not with him and especially not lately. If anything, she was the quiet, observing type. A bit like himself, maybe.

The only really private piece of information he had about her came from someone else. Plutarch. Who never knew when to shut up.

Haymitch were out grocery shopping for a very pregnant Effie and ran into him on the way back. The man had just returned after a prolonged stay in District 7. Apparently they were shooting the pilot of some wildlife documentary that the former Head Gamemaker pitched for Capitol TV. The first of 12 planned episodes. One season per district, starting in the vast woodlands with its mountain lions and coyotes and river otters. Haymitch remembered because of how much the whole project would have annoyed Johanna.

“Panem et Circenses”, Plutarch said with a land out like Whatcha gonna do? “We have to find new and exciting ways to entertain the audience. Now that the Hunger Games are a thing of the past.”

As for Effie, and her precarious situation – he knew all about it of course. Just like everyone else in town.

Haymitch, standing there in the heat with his full bags of soy milk and brussels sprouts, brown rice and melting ice cream just wanted to get the hell out of dodge but there was no stopping Plutarch Heavensbee once he got going. That man sure loved the sound of his own voice.

“… and ah, yes the Summers. Good people. All of them. I’m friends with her father”, he said. “Great polo player! A real blue-ribbon champion during his time at the University. Shame what happened to his family! Such a tragedy! They wanted a second child, you see. A boy this time. So badly. And when they were finally blessed with another pregnancy, his wife suffered a late-term miscarriage when June was about 16. Little Otho Summer Jr. Oh! An awful, bloody affair. Then some emergency surgery and … that’s that. No more children. Poor man. Was never the same.”

Complications during pregnancy, childbirth and postpartum were not uncommon back in Twelve. Before the war. Especially among the starving families of the Seam. Thank God they had Sae and Tessa Everdeen but even in their expert hands mothers and babies were lost during Snow’s long reign.

“It’s a gamble at best”, Chaff once said, when they got to talking about it. “Not a month goes by in Eleven without us hearing the hammer blows of a coffin being made. A coffin meant for two.”

Haymitch remembered this one family. A young girl who broke off her engagement after her ma went through a really bloody labor, stretching out over three whole days. In the end, Sae managed to save both mother and child but the damage was already done.

Now, he saw no reason worth shit why you’d ever want to get married and have kids in a place like Twelve in a world like Snow’s. Some agreed with him on that note. Others didn’t. In this young woman’s case there was definitely a “before” and “after”.

Sae even had a name for it.

Tokophobia. Morbid fear of childbirth.

Maybe that was the case with June?

“Would you look at that”, Effie whispered, cheek against Ian’s temple. The words pulled Haymitch out of his depressing thoughts for a second time.

His son and baby mama were admiring Annabel’s cake.

“With a teddy for a candle”, Effie smiled and kissed the top of his head. “Just like Little Bear in the bedtime story we read at night. You remember Little Bear, my darling? But oh, we forgot the matches! You can’t blow the candle out and make a wish if not first we light it. Come baby, let’s set you down for a bit while I go look for them. Want to play with your letter blocks?”

She settled their son on the picnic blanket. The one under the apple tree. Kissed his soft, downy head a second time and turned for the house. Squeezed Annabel’s shoulder in passing when the brunette re-appeared with the plate of cookies and a jug of water and cucumber slices.

Haymitch watched as Effie bounded up the front steps and was gone.

She’s stressed out of her mind.

No question about it. She hid it but he could always tell. Recognized that stiff upper lip from the Games, covered behind bright smiles and weird exclamations like “You two are in for a treat! Crystal chandeliers, platinum doorknobs.”

As if the Games weren’t bad enough. With Haymitch Abernathy on your “team”, Effie had her work cut out for her. Because of him, her attention was constantly split. Pretty much since day one and especially in the last few years prior to Katniss and Peeta’s Games.

Her mind was in a constant state of, “Time to get them both on the train and where’s Haymitch? How many drinks has he had?” or “Let’s get these children ready for their interviews and where’s Haymitch? How drunk is he now?”

Yeah, he was little more than added stress on her shoulders.

Same thing now.

But I’m not drunk today. Haven’t had a drink since last night. What’s she thinking I’m gon’ do? Get wasted right in front of my kids?

He thrust the thought from his mind. He had exactly zero right to be annoyed today.

Instead, his gaze went to Ian sitting by himself on the blanket. Haymitch set his cup on an empty spot on the garden table and turned for June. June and Amy.

“Mind if I take a balloon? For the kid. I don’t know how to work that thing.” He nodded toward the container.

June eyed him with those green orbs, then nodded.

“Sure. Help yourself.”

With no knife at his disposal, June’s killer double knots were a challenge. Ian watched his struggles and each time the branches rustled overhead, a giggle rose from under it.

Haymitch allowed himself a small smile.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Laugh at your old man.”

He worked the knot loose and extricated the balloon from the tree. Orange. Like Effie’s hair. Once upon a long time ago.

“Here. Got something for ya.”

He crouched before his son, keeping a firm hold on the end of the string. But he was a little too quick about it, wobbled and slumped back on his ass. Tiny black dots swam across his field of vision. Like specks of dust from a fire.

Ian’s round gray eyes followed his every move. Forcing his lips upward, Haymitch struggled to regain his balance. Swallowed a flood of saliva against the summersaults his stomach made.

Please. Not here. Not now.

Feeling the cool grass underneath his palm he breathed slowly through his nose. And he was in luck. For once. The nausea subsided. The ringing as well. His vision cleared, leaving him with goose bumps all over and stinging armpits.

With shaky hands he tied the balloon string around Ian’s wrist.

“There you go, sweetheart.”

The boy shook his arm eagerly. Gave a breathy grin when the balloon bobbed.

Haymitch caressed his hair. His chubby cheek. Reached for the silver baby rattle next, a old gift of Annabel’s, and struggled to his feet with the gracefulness of someone twice his age.

The rattle found a home in Amy’s hand. He gave her strawberry hair a soft caress, just like he did Ian. His eyes went to her auntie.

“I’ll get you a balloon too if you want. Or … maybe a coffee?”

The woman drew a deep sigh.

“Fine”, she said, slightly less up in arms.

Back at the table he poured another cup. Added some cream and sugar. Behind him the front door opened. Effie with the matches no doubt. He set the hot fragrant peace offering in June’s hand. Contemplated if he actually remembered all the verses of “Happy Birthday” when his gaze dropped to Ian again.

He had but ten seconds to see it before Effie did.

The sight closed his throat up, like someone actually kept a choke hold on him. His hand flew to his back pocket, confirming what his eyes were already telling him.

The hipflask.

In his son’s hands.

Ian’s chubby baby fingers grazed against the scratched silver surface while he explored the corked up lid with his mouth. Chewing on it like he did everything.

Haymitch’s feet were already moving but it was too late.

“No!” The shriek escaping Effie’s lips made them all start. She was by Ian’s side in a heartbeat. Pulled him from the ground so fast that Haymitch’s knot unravelled and the balloon floated into the sky. Up and gone.

The boy was bawling, startled by his mother’s sudden cry. Effie clutched him to her chest, holding the hipflask a meter away.

“You brought this to the party?” she spat at Haymitch. “How could you? Take this revolting thing away from the children this instant!”

#hayffie #haymitch x effie #the hunger games renaissance #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #plutarch heavensbee #fanfiction #district 11 #the capitol #district 12 #my fanfiction

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pupuseriazag · 5 months

Text

Blue Tarantula - 1/??

(Guess who is finally posting this thing LASFHASFJSAH I've been writing this one + other 2 since June and after doing some light editing before exams I think i feel confident enough to share this little thing of my Spidersona Rox :3. Just one thing: I made the mistake of starting it in english but I didnt like so much the idea of Rox and Miguel speaking english between them (him being mexican and Rox being salvadorean) so I apologize for that if you only speak one or the other 😅)

My name… is Roxana Reyes. Years ago I was bitten by a weird spider in the woods while on a trip with some friends, it gave me amazing and unbelievable powers I had to keep as a secret from everyone else.

I could climb walls and ceilings, my senses sharped drastically and some of my teeth changed, becoming more fang-like. I almost felt like this was some type of blessing given to me by the gods themselves…

And so I became the Blue Tarantula, and accidentally joined the fight with the rebellion in my city.

You see my city… and country, has been subjected to a regime ever since I became an adult, one funded by the Alchemax industries in an effort to keep control of both the people and to take advantage of the (few) resources we have.

I had heard about the rebellion when it first started as rumors, I heard how the police had raided some neighborhoods and made them move away since they needed the land to house wealthy individuals, and to set a barrier between “low class” and “high class” with the excuse of progress. And since police would not care about those tagged as “low class” I guess it became my duty to influence people into helping each other.

I was able to help people around during these hard times, I saved countless people so they began to see a ray of light at the end of the tunnel… And I also became a target for the regime. It's incredible the kind of chambres and smear campaigns a corporation can fund because they are scared of your influence.

And I was alone in this. Other than the occasional old lady sharing some pupusas and tamales with me or little kids wanting me to show them some cool tricks… I had no one but myself.

My parents don't live here in the capital, my mom moved out after the divorce and I managed to get her a decent house with my savings from doing tattoos. My dad managed to be considered a “high class” individual and lives over there so I almost never see him… Not like I would love to see him anyways.

Friends? I have a few, but we’re…not so close… not since the "accident", where I had to choose between saving my then boyfriend… and my best friend.

…and I made the wrong choice thinking I could save both.

An accident happened in one of Alchemax’s laboratories, the last one to remain in not a wealthy zone. My best friend… Gwen, she was there to visit her boyfriend. A daddy’s son with an ego bigger than the Lempa.

I told her many times that he was not going to help us, I tried telling her so. Many. Times. That he was not to be trusted, but letting your heart guide your actions sometimes leads to the stupidest things.

In our case, it made her boyfriend try to chase her down with the prototype of a machinery with octopus-like arms… and in my case, it made me save the wrong person.

She fell down a platform, straight to the floor.

And you know the “funniest” part? He dumped me a day later. He said the near death experience made him realize he didn't want to be with me… and I couldn't tell him the reason he was still alive was thanks to me.

I was broken, devastated and severely depressed…I let my best friend, the only closest friend I ever had, to die just so this ingrateful asshole would ditch me… I was so, so stupid.

There's no day I don't regret my decisions, if I could go back in time I would save her. I would not choose him but her… and maybe, just maybe… I could’ve asked her out.

The whole incident was covered afterwards, no investigations were done aside from hunting down those who dare to speak about what happened there… Gwen’s parents did not even get to see their daughter… or know what happened to her. To this day, they still believe she was kidnapped.

After that day, I was relentlessly asked by people to uncover the truth and reveal to them what happened, so the weight of knowing what happened and not being able to speak about it was put on my shoulders, along with the trust of the majority of people expecting me to be the leader of the rebellion…. I refused to be the leader, and that did not stop them from seeing me as one.

So, Blue Tarantula spends their days and nights with heavy eye bags. Watching the hacked cameras and having to rescue people around. They have to escape easily as they are a target of cops… with no one to greet them on their own in a small apartment, no one waiting for them with a meal or a hug.

Just them, and themselves.

That was, of course, until some months ago, when the weirdest shit happened and my life again did a 180. It all started when something appeared on the Flor Blanca Stadium. Something that was not from this world.

So I did as I usually did with the couple of assholes that make my life worse from week to week, kept the civilians away from the scene and dealt with it myself.

And there I was… face to face with a big cyborg that somehow resembled the green goblin… its red eye with a laser pointing at my forehead constantly as I tried to take it down

But no matter what I did, it was way stronger than me, it pinned me to the ground as it pointed its robotic arm at me, charging up a laser that would instantly blow my head.

It was going to end up this way. No more Blue Tarantula, no more fighting, no more suffering.

No more Rox.

As I closed my eyes to accept my death, I felt some strange lights coming from my right. Both the cyborg and I turned around to an impossible sight.

What looked like floating blue hexagons began to spin slowly, and the unmistakable sound of reverb waves increased quickly until they turned orange, revealing the true nature of that almost biblical sight.

It was a portal, there was no other word for it. And something came out of it, like a projectile coming straight for the cyborg and taking it off from me.

Rain began to fall as I watched with heavy eyes how a beast almost obliterated the cyborg, then trapped the robot in what looked like one of those baskets covered with cellophane that people give out in christmas.

The masked beast approached me showing me his humanoid figure, was he an alien? His clothes (or skin, who knows) bearing the symbol of a red holographic spider, or was it a skull? I cannot truly tell as my eyes are begging me to let go of my consciousness.

I also felt fear for a moment, not understanding this impossible situation and not being able to speak as my mouth was full of blood.

His mask disappeared when I slowly blinked, revealing what looked like the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life.. Or at least this week.

He kneeled beside me, putting a hand behind my head to lift it carefully

"I cannot leave you here, not like this.” His eyes were a deep red, something inhuman and another thing to write just about how fucked up this situation was. “You’re coming with me” His demanding voice said as he lifted me from the ground in his arms, I almost felt bad for his pretty suit getting covered in so much blood.

I don't know where he is taking me, but one thing’s for sure, it has been a hell of a long time since someone held me in their arms… but I was so tired, I knocked out before knowing where he was taking me, hopefully to heaven I wished.

This had to be a bad dream, I probably was having a fever and that's why this dream was so weird… it was that or my dying consciousness giving me delusions before I gave my last breath.

I woke up hours later, no longer feeling the synthetic grass on my skin nor the big arms of that guy, but the soft touch of cotton and comfiness of a bed. The soft electric hum of a nearby ac and the mumbling of some people lullabying me, telling me to sleep a little more… just 5 more minutes…

"Oh, she woke up," A feminine voice coming from behind me said.

"She needs to rest more. Her body has not recovered fully yet." The man from before replied.

I opened my eyes slowly, staying still in the bed while my eyes tried to adjust to the white light of the room.

I heard steps coming closer, stopping right where I could feel the person behind me, probably already noticing I was trying to ignore them.

"I know you’re awake." He said in a serious voice.

I turned my head softly, meeting the same red eyes that greeted me after I almost died.

The serious expression in his face softened when we locked eyes. Almost in relief to see me still alive.

"She is awake." He turned to the other person in the room. "I'll take it from here, Layla."

"Got it." But I heard no footsteps or person coming out of the room.

"Glad to see you're alive." He said while still holding eye contact. "Can you sit?"

I lifted my body carefully, sitting down on the bed but closing one eye. These damn lights are too bright for my liking.

"Great." He dragged a very funky looking chair closer, sitting beside me "You may be wondering what you're doing here."

"I'm also wondering who the hell are you… or where the fuck I am" I let out unconsciously.

The situation began to fall on me as I realized that was no dream. I was somewhere I don't know, worst case I’m trapped in Alchemax and this is one of their traps.

The man frowned. "You are in the infirmary of the HQ.” He continued. “My name is Miguel O’Hara.”

"Ah, Miguel te llamás ¿Y me hablas en inglés?." I replied mockingly. “No se quien seas, Miguelito. Pero yo no le contesto a los imbéciles de Alchemax.”

He sighed. “I do not work for Alchemax, at least not the one in your universe-”

“Universe? ¡¿Qué putas estás diciendo?!”

“Si te callas por lo menos 5 minutos.” He raised his hand. “Te puedo explicar qué “putas” está pasando.” Yeah I figured he would cave in.

I crossed my arms, still holding a stern look on him.

“¿Sabes lo que son los universos alternos?”

“¿Lo de que “existe” posibilidad de que una supuesta versión mía tenga una mejor vida? Aja.”

“Ok, eso ya hace más fácil las cosas.” From his right hand, an orange light came out, displaying itself like a holographic and translucent screen that he touched around. “Tu nombre es Roxana-”

“Rox.” I corrected him.

“...Rox Reyes.” He continued reading. “Eres la spiderwoman de la tierra 503-B, nombre en clave: Tarántula Azu-”

“Perate perate.” How does he have so much info on me? “Primeramente que es esa madre, segundo ¿Como tenes mi información?”

“Es una pantalla, y ya casi llego a esa parte así que si no te molesta, déjame terminar.”

“Man, ¡¿Cómo queres que reaccione?! ¡No se donde putas estoy! ¡No se que esta pasando! ¡No entiendo NADA!”

“Eso INTENTO.” His tone went up as well. “Estoy intentando explicarte de la pinche mejor manera. Asique callate y trata de escuchar por lo menos.”

“¡Ah claro! Porque claramente que me empeces a gritar ¡Hará que me calme!”

"Ay coño." He mumbled under his breath bringing his hands to his face. "LYLA." He commanded and a little floating hologram came out of nowhere.

"Mhm?" The little image of a woman with big heart shaped sunglasses and a white fur coat shaping her nails addressed him.

"Help me explain to her-"

"Them." I corrected him again.

"Explain it to them."

"Explain what?" The hologram replied.

"Everything, maybe they will listen to you." He got up from his seat, visibly mad.

"Ok ok." The hologram came closer to me. "Sooo Spiderperson from earth-503. This man you see it's actually the spiderman of this universe.” She pointed at him. “You are the spiderperson of your universe" She pointed at me almost touching my nose. “And big guy saved you from an anomaly becaaaaause that's our job! We’re fixing the maaany anomalies that appeared on the multiverse.”

"In other words," He stood up. "We are working on fixing this mess, so accidents like the one you suffered don't happen anymore."

"So you are like a crusader? Like, beating the shit out of those… things? Ese cyborg era de otro lugar?”

"No, kinda and yes." His angered expression turned into seriousness.

"¿Y qué pasa si no logras atraparlo?"

“¿No notaste nada raro mientras peleabas con él? ¿No lo viste glitchearse?”

“...Osea que no era el cansancio ganándome.”

“Esos errores que viste suceden ya que él no era de tu universo” He took a glance at my hand. “Estarías sufriendo lo mismo, si no fuera por el brazalete que te puse.”

I looked at my hand, just now noticing the weird thing on me.

“Todavía es un prototipo, no lo pierdas por favor.”

“A ver, perate que la cabeza me da vuelta.” I said, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to tie and connect the infodump I just received. “Me estas diciendo que uno, sos de otro universo, dos, estuve a punto de morir por un pendejo que no era de mi universo, tres, que es importante regresarlos por que si no se glitchea…” I opened my eyes, confused by one of the things. “¿Por qué?”

"Porque la presencia de estos en universos donde no pertenecen genera más anomalías, hasta que el mundo colapsa."

"Y esa es teoría o-"

"Sucedió."

This is starting to sound ridiculous, multiverses, anomalies, apocalypses. This has to be a fucking joke.

I leaned in close to Miguel. "¿Y cómo sé que puedo confiar en vos?"

"Tienes mi pa-"

"¿Cómo sé que no me estás mintiendo? Porque después de todo” His eyes focused on mine. “Para mí seguís siendo un extraño que me raptó a un lugar desconocido."

His eyebrows drew closer “Esperaba que te tomaras esto mas enserio.”

“¿Cómo esperas que me tome todo esto en serio? Literal me estas hablando que disque sos de otra dimensión e inventándote mas mamadas.” I launched my hand to his throat, taking him by surprise as he fell to his back and I pinned him to the ground, knocking his chair over as well. He grabbed my hand and I noticed his talons come out. “¿Acaso me queres ver la cara de pendejo? Vas a tener que intentar mejor que inventarte una película.”

He tried to get up and I kept him in place with all my force, but I still haven't recovered completely so he overpowered me and turned me around, now having him pinning me against the cold floor roughly and causing me to cough.

“Me estoy empezando a aburrir de tu maldita actitud.” He growled while showing some of his teeth. “Ni siquiera sabes el peligro en el que estás. Ni siquiera quieres entender que SIMPLEMENTE quiero ayudar a que tu maldito universo no colapse y puedas seguir viviendo tranquilo.”

“¡¿PUES ADIVINA QUE, PENDEJO?! ¡SI ME HUBIERAS DEJADO MORIR ME HUBIERAS SALVADO DE VERDAD! ¡MORIR IBA A SER LO MEJOR QUE ME IBA A PASAR EN LA VIDA!” I yelled at him trying to fight back tears. “¡YA ESTABA LISTO PARA MORIR!”

His expression changed to surprise, I guess he wasn't expecting me to admit that.

“¡Y SI ME VAS A MATAR POR NO ESCUCHARTE, PUES APURATE!”

He let go of me, getting up from the floor and turning around while putting his hands on his hips. Fucking asshole cant even help me get up.

I rolled on the ground, to try to get up on my own, but both my back and stomach hurt like hell and I let out several coughs and held a hand to my stomach. He turned around and immediately went on to help me get up.

“Suéltame, pendejo.” I whispered in pain.

“Todavía no te recuperas.”

“Pero bien que te pusiste a pelear.” I turned my head to him.

“¿Y quien se tiró hacia mí primero?”

I rolled my eyes, letting him sit me on the bed again.

“Discutiremos esto cuando hayas descansado y te sientas mejor.” He crossed his arms.

I was about to speak and he lifted a finger, shushing me off.

“Si vas a decir otro de tus comentarios sarcásticos mejor ahorratelo.”

I closed my mouth, pissed off and looked elsewhere.

“Bien, voy a mandar a que alguien venga a revisar cómo sigues.” He began to walk off to the door. “Cuando estés dispuesto a hablar, decidiré qué hacer contigo.”

“Que mierdas se supone que significa eso”

“Tu vas a elegir si quedarte o irte.” The door opened sideways automatically, showing me a glimpse of the outside hallway before he left without saying more.

If he thought that would make me feel less angry, then he is fucking wrong. He is lucky I’m still not ok, or I would’ve paralyzed his ass.

What am I even supposed to do? Does he expect me to just wait here? Bullshit.

I took a look at the room from the bed, this place felt unreal. Like if I was put in one of those sci-fi movie sets with stereotypical futuristic equipment.. but as much as I tried to find the sound of people outside or someone that confirmed this was just an elaborate joke I couldn't, I could only hear the humming of the ac and my own thoughts.

I refuse to believe he is being serious, theres just no fucking way, even for someone like me who has some faith in the gods and believes in paranormal shit, this is all just too dumb and stupid.

He may think I will cave in and fall for his lies, Pfft, pobre pendejo.

....But why did he leave me alone here? Is he too stupid to believe I will stay here? Nah, as soon as I am capable of walking without pain I will get the fuck out of here and go home. Soon enough I’ll be home and-

…And I’ll keep living my sad life.

…

Ugh, if there's something that I hate more than myself is having to be alone with my thoughts. So I got up from the bed while holding a hand to my stomach, to try and distract me from thinking.

I approached a cabinet sluggishly, putting my free hand on where the outlines of an opening were, but no handles to be seen. And it opened automatically, letting me see that inside was my ripped and bloody mask.

“Puta…” I let out in a whisper, taking a look at it. “Justo le había cosido eso…”

No sight of more of my things though, so no phone to check if I could receive any signal to confirm I was still “in my universe”, even saying that makes me cringe.

I couldn't see a clock either, or at least one that made better sense than one on the wall near the bed… so either way I’m fucked unless I actually go outside and check the place myself. Worst case scenario I’m inside one of Alchemax’s labs…. Even worse case scenario, that man is right.

What am I even thinking?! He is NOT telling the truth. No man that pretty ever tells the truth.

But his suit… The way he knows “classified” stuff, the floating screen, the little holo lady…

Am I inside one of those vr games? I immediately moved my hands to my face. If this is one of those games I will be able to “clip” through my head and see the empty inside of my arm… But my hands touched my face, neither clipping nor letting me feel any headset attached to my head.

No, there has to be a trick, it's always a mirror trick or strings attached to something, I REFUSE to accept that bitch is right.

I walked up to a panel nearby the bed, finally something that I recognized, a touchscreen. The screen lit up showing all the options it had: “Assistance, Options, Lights, Info”. I touched Info and one of those screens appeared. Now’s my chance to confirm this is just layers of glas- My… MY FINGER WENT THROUGH IT?! IT'S LITERALLY LIGHT?! BUT IT’S NOT BEING REFLECTED ON ANYTHING!

Calm down Rox, calm the fuck down. There has to be a pretty clear and believable explanation for this, one that we may not understand completely, but believable nonetheless.

My eyes turned to the holo screen again, it had an orange color similar to the other one that guy pulled out and held my information. “Subject name - Rox Reyes, “Blue Tarantula”, from Earth 503B, Age 27, One anomaly reported in universe, Status: Injured, Recovering in HQ’s infirmary. Not a member of the spider society”

I'm even more confused… No, I shouldn't allow them to get to my head, that's how he will win and I. Won't. Let. Him.

I took a step back and turned to the door. I've seen enough bullshit in one day, or night. I'm getting the fuck out of here.

There were no handles on the door, and even though I was literally touching it, it did not open. Great, he trapped me in here.

I let out the most stressed out sigh I ever had in my life and brought both hands to my face. This is just the worst.

And on top of that, I'm starving. And there was no food around.

This must be one of his tactics, he is trying to starve me so I end up caving in just for the taste of some food in my mouth. WELL GUESS WHAT, DUMBASS?? I'M ACCUSTOMED TO NOT EATING IN A WHOLE DAY!

…but truth be told, I didn't eat last night because of the emergency. So my stomach is hurting like crazy asking me to give it anything.

My only option now is either stare at the ceiling…or try to sleep some more.

But if I fall asleep they may come for me and take me elsewhere.

So I laid down again on the bed, looking at the white ceiling for a while… My eyes began to close themselves… Ugh, I'll just sleep for a moment.. I'll be alerted easily if someone tries to come inside… And I will teach them a lesson…

#zagreusfics #RoxReyes #Im not gonna tag it with Miguel because I dont feel comfy yet of people I dont know finding this xd #these are like 10 pages so enjoy #well 9 and a half but you get me #lots of salvadorean slang with Rox btw #this was a good practice of going between voseo and more neutral spanish #plus some help from some of my mexican friends with Miguel's speech xd

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relaxxattack · 2 years

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hi! it's me :) fic rec anon. things have been hard lately so i have some more stuff to recommend bc it makes me feel better. uh, this one's mostly a like, grab bag of stuff? miscellany yknow. let's get into it (also if i have any repeats of stuff you've rec'd here before then Whoops)

pilot light, pale rapture is a post-game fic about jade and her Issues. jade/davepeta. has some excellent jane work in there and is meant to imply june pre-transition. i'd also like to recommend this author's other work, including the collected works of the originators, and the fanventure kittyquest which you can find on mspfa. both the collected works and kittyquest are about a richly detailed take on earth C, with accompanying myths; kitty quest is about jade and davepeta's daughter kitty harley-leider. very very good.

estrogamer girl is about trans girl roxy! very sweet. gen.

METHODOLOGY AND INTERPRETIVE "RECORD" OF SOULBOT WRECK AA109.23J2 – [DRAFT] is about a post-game grad student accessing the wreckage of one of aradia's soulbots postcanon, and experiencing the feelings of a doomed timeline's aradia. ararezi, outsider pov.

who could ask you to be unbroken or brave again is a fic about rose and vriska talking about trauma and child abuse post-canon. gen.

Metronome of a Night Queen's Heart and Other Unused Romance Novel Names is a fic in which kanaya asks dave to be her bloodbag after becoming a vampire, causing rosemary and davekat misunderstandings. rosemary and davekat.

Jade: Endure is about what it would have been like for jade to grow up with her corpse in her own house. short and very good. gen.

grant me wings that i might fly is about jade english raising jake english up to her eventual death. very good. gen.

DIRK TAKES A PISS is , okay listen i know from that title oyou might be like, fic rec anon, What are you recommending to me BUT LSITEN ITS ABOUT DIRK ACCIDENTALLY DROPPING HIS PACKER ON THE FLOOR OF A BATHROOM AND GETTING MEET CUTE'D. it's good. okay. dirkjake.

one more night (your ex-lover remains dead) is a junejasprose fic about trauma and what it means to be a rose left behind. if you're going to read ANY jasprose fic you have to read this one it's literally iconic to me and changed the way i see her forever. junejasprose.

Light Without Effulgence is a jake & rose friendship manifesto and it is HILARIOUS. "rose, you gather, is like dirk if he were a woman and capable of being happy" like that's hilarious to me. gen.

Bitter is a fancomic about jade and rose and i'm not going to spoil the surprise of what it's about but it's DELICIOUS. jaderose.

CHARGING THE VOID is a space opera roserezi au with hints of vrisrezi left behind and also both rose and terezi are trans and also it's DELICIOUS like i can't even say anything about it. if anyone has read baru cormorant and is familiar with it it's like that. roserezi, unlike pretty much anything else i've recced here it DOES have a sex scene so if you're uncomfortable with that it's not for you.

think about staying alive is a kidswap au! about rose strider my favorite kidswap <3 gen.

Postscript is about rosefef, rebellion au, being the last two left alive carrying out a rebellion against the condesce. rosefef.

Transperience is about calliope and the trans experience! fancomic, gen. very good.

goddess is about june egbert coming out! can you tell i'm a june egbert Believer gsdlkjfsakldj it's gotten to the point it's hard to read fic where she's called john lmao

I'm Hoping One Day Acting Cool Will Make Me Feel More Self Assured is about kanaya maryam and the burdens of being assigned mom friend. rosemary. also she and rose have a long furby.

we are the reckless is a space opera au in which vriska's a pirate captain and aradia's a helmsman. i love the blackrom in this. aravris.

i think this is enough for rn. have fun!

AND WHEN THE WORLD NEEDED THEM MOST…

THEY RETURNED!!!

thank you so much!!!!! these all look very fun and it’s definitely appreciated TwT and kind of you!!! 💞💞💞

#fic recs #fic rec

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scotianostra · 11 months

Text

June 10th is White Rose Day, when Jacobites celebrate their cause, it is the date in1688 that James Edward Stuart, “the Old Pretender”, Anglo-Scottish prince, was born,

It’s not easy with these posts at times. For a start does he deserve to take his place in history of the Scots?

Well I’ve included many others that were not born here in my posts, and the Stewart/Stuart name will always be synonymous with our Nation.James Stuart and his laddie Charlie, The Old and Young Pretenders,as they are often referred to, get more than their fair share of the limelight in my posts, so let's look at the symbolism behind the White Rose itself. The White Rose itself.

The White Rose/Rosa x alba grows all over Scotland. It is a bushy, shrub like rose with dark, grey green foliage and a small five petalled flower, similar to a dog rose, which can be white or pale pink. They only flower in spring, and have a beautiful scent with notes of citrus. The plants are hardy, thrive in poor soil, can tolerate shade and drought and are for the most part resistant to disease.

The white rose became a symbol of the Jacobite cause, a political movement in the 17th & 18th centuries whose aim was to restore the exiled King James II and his descendants to the throne of Scotland, England and Ireland. The roots of the rose as a symbol are somewhat lost in myth and legend. It is said that one of the earliest references refers to the birth of James Francis Edward Stuart, son of the deposed King James II, who was born on this day in 1688, said to be “the longest day of the year in which the white rose flowers”.

In the years leading up to the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745, Jacobites were forced to meet and plot in secret, and the white rose or white cockade (a flower made from ribbon, often worn on a hat) was a way of identifying those who supported the cause. The Jacobites had many other secret symbols, including the sunflower (to symbolise loyalty, as a sunflower always follows the sun) and moths or butterflies (their emergence from a chrysalis symbolised the hope for the return to power of the Stuart family). Another legend tells how Bonnie Prince Charlie plucked a white rose from the roadside and stuck it in his hat as he made his way south from Glenfinnan to start the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745.

The flower has been used in song and poems, The Corries sang the song The White Cockade, a song Robert Burns adapted and made famous:

The White Cockade

My love was born in Aberdeen

The bonniest lad that e'er was seen;

But now he makes our hearts fu' sad,

He's taen the field wi' his white cockade.

O he's a rantin, rovin blade, He's a brisk and a bonny lad, Betide what may, my heart is glad, To see my lad wi his white cockade.

Oh leeze me on the philabeg

The hairy hough and garten'd leg;

But aye the thing that blinds my ee,

The white cockade aboun the bree.I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,

My rippling-kame and spinning wheel,

To buy my lad a tartan plaid,

A braidsword, dirk, and white cockade.I'll sell my rokelay and my tow,

My good grey mare and hawkit cow,

that every loyal Buchan lad

May tak the field wi the white cockade

And of course there is the joyfully short poem by Hugh MacDiarmid;

The Little White Rose

The rose of all the world is not for me

I want for my part

Only the little white rose of Scotland

That smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart

#scotland #scottish #Jacobites #white rose day #history

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911bts · 2 years

Note

Thank you for those podcasts! I listened to that first one after you posted earlier and i feel like I've learned so much about oliver and the show from that alone. Super eye opening (also kinda sad how he thinks about himself lol I want to give him a big hug). I hope he does more - do you know if peter, aisha, kenny and ryan have done any?

You can find them below the cut!

Peter Krause:

Armchair Expert with Dax Shepard - LIVE: Peter Krause

Armchair Expert Live from Detroit at the Fox Theatre. June 21st, 2019.

Spotify - Apple Music

Off Camera with Sam Jones - 147. Peter Krause

Peter joins Off Camera to discuss discovering acting, why playing a character who is too familiar is terrifying, how the baritone horn became the source of his teenage rebellion, and what it's like to be a hero to funeral directors nationwide.

Not on Spotify or Apple Music, but can be found here which also shows other apps that have it.

Aisha Hinds:

Trials to Triumphs - How Aisha Hinds Is Putting Her Pieces Back Together

Ashley chats with close friend and critically acclaimed actress Aisha Hinds about her path to replenishment. Aisha has appeared in a number of hit series including 9-1-1, True Blood and The Shield. She made her mark with a powerful performance in Underground playing icon Harriett Tubman. In this vulnerable conversation, Aisha reflects on how her parents’ divorce left her feeling fractured as a young girl and led to her “pursuit of wholeness.” Aisha discusses how her church family stepped in during a trying time in her youth and helped her get back on the right track. She also reveals how she’s paid that restoration forward with her nephew. Aisha celebrates her “destiny advocates” in the industry who challenged her to dream bigger and pursue iconic roles that have forever shaped the trajectory of her career.

Spotify - Apple Music

Keeping It Reel - 365: Ava DuVernay & Aisha Hinds

This week on the BIG show, Black Reel Award-winning director and producer Ava DuVernay returns to discuss her explosive new Netflix miniseries, When They See Us. Also, one of the most versatile actors in the business, Aisha Hinds will discuss sharing the screen with Godzilla. The promising career of actor Jason Mitchell has hit the skids, we'll discuss the allegations and his future prospects.

Spotify - Apple Music

Really Famous with Kara Mayer Robinson - Aisha Hinds

Are you watching 9-1-1 on FOX? Did you see True Blood, NCIS, Shots Fired, Wet Hot American Summer, Under the Dome or Underground? If so, you know Aisha. But you don't know what a profound human being she is! Don't worry, you will after this conversation with Kara. The actress goes deep about ups and downs, people who touched her life (namely Laurence Fishburne, Ava DuVernay and Sarah Paulson) and VERY UNUSUAL habits. She cries (a few times!), laughs (hysterically!) and shares her BIGGEST secret.

Spotify - Apple Music

Behind Her Faith Podcast - 1.04: Aisha Hinds

This is a follow-up to Aisha's episode of Behind Her Faith.

Spotify - The episode of BHF is available for rent on amazon or you can get a 7-day free trial on ALLBLK

Kenneth Choi:

Behind Greatness (Inspired North) - 66. Kenneth Choi

Ken joins us from LA where he lives, works and breathes his life’s passion. Having grown up in a conservative immigrant family environment in Chicago, Ken felt that he wanted to explore more and differently than what was expected of him. Being very shy and emotionally-tuned, young Ken also understood that he needed to break out of his environment. But, as he explains, he spiralled downwards for several years into his early adulthood. It took a certain self-realization to have him turn it around. And boy, did he. We discuss with him many of life’s lessons that he’s learned along the way and how he weaves them into his work: having empathy for others and leading with compassion, the belief in making happen what you want, the confidence in your own creative self, the courage in leaving everything behind to focus on exploration.

Spotify - Apple Music

Ryan Guzman:

UFC Unfiltered with Jim Norton and Matt Serra - Tony Ferguson, Michael Chandler, actor Ryan Guzman, and co-host TJ De Santis

(Ryan joins at 1:08:00)

Actor and MMA practitioner Ryan Guzman closes the show by explaining why he has decided to train and compete in an amateur MMA bout despite having a successful acting career, explaining his pick for the main event of UFC 262, and reflecting on how his history as a fighter has impacted his acting and modeling career.

Spotify

#i haven't listened to peter or kenny's but i plan to!!#podcast #anon #answered #kenneth choi #peter krause #aisha hinds #ryan guzman

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zvaigzdelasas · 2 years

Text

From 1959 to 1961, the United States turned its focus to two of the most charismatic, ruthless, and despotic rulers in the Caribbean region, Fidel Castro of Cuba and Rafael Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. Over the next two years, the United States government turned to the Central Intelligence Agency to devise a plan to kill both of these men, a task the agency relished. In the case of Fidel Castro, the CIA came up with hair-brained schemes to kill the Cuban leader, including using members of the American mafia to carry out the assassination. In the case of the Rafael Trujillo assassination, the CIA would ship arms and ammunition to certain anti-Trujillo elements in the Dominican Republic that were willing and able to assassinate their ruthless leader.

In the end, the Castro assassination plots failed despite many attempts on his life. As far as the fate of Trujillo was concerned, the outcome was a lot different, with the conspirators having much better luck than their compatriots in Cuba.

In the years since the establishment of the Monroe Doctrine in 1823 by U.S. President James Monroe, the United States considered the Caribbean an “American lake,” an area of strategic importance to Washington. It was the policy of succeeding American presidents to prevent other powers, mostly from Europe, from gaining a foothold in Latin America. If it meant making marriages of convenience with less than stable leaders in the region to protect U.S. interests, so be it.

The United States had a longstanding political and economic relationship with the Dominican Republic going back to the early 1900s. In 1906, the Dominicans signed a 50-year treaty with the United States to give the larger country control over the republic’s customs department. U.S. Marines occupied the Dominican Republic in 1916 and stayed for four years. At the time of the American withdrawal, Trujillo was in charge of the Dominican National Guard. Only a few years before, Trujillo had been a member of group of dissidents who opposed Horacio Vasquez, the leader of the National Party. The group fomented a revolt in the country.

After the rebellion ended, the young Trujillo joined a rag-tag group of thieves and robbers called “The 44.” When the Americans landed in the Dominican Republic, Trujillo was one of hundreds of young men of military age who were given training by the United States, and he was part of the National Guard that battled the rebels in the countryside. Trujillo was a brutal soldier who took every opportunity to torture his prisoners without any retribution from his superiors. When Vasquez became president, he appointed Trujillo as a colonel in the National Guard and later chief of police, a post with unlimited power. [...]

In the decades to come, Rafael Trujillo ruled the country with an iron fist, taking over for his personal gain such industries as oil refining, cement manufacturing, and food production, pocketing large amounts of cash for years to come.

In 1956, Castro was planning a revolt in Cuba whose goal was the removal of the dictator Fulgencio Batista. Secretly, Trujillo offered Batista military supplies to stop Castro but there was never any lasting relationship between the two dictators. Trujillo referred to Batista as “that shitty sergeant,” and said, “I’m going to oust the bastard.” But Trujillo had no love for Castro either. Trujillo sent arms and ammunition to anti-Castro dissidents then living the Miami area. On New Year’s Eve 1959, Castro and his band of revolutionaries ousted the hated Batista, and Castro proclaimed himself the leader of Cuba.

On June 14, 1959, an abortive invasion to topple Trujillo began. On that day, a plane with Dominican markings left Cuba and landed at the Cordillera Central in the Dominican Republic. On board were 225 men led by a Dominican named Enrique Jimenez Moya and a Cuban named Delico Gomez Ochoa, both of whom were friends of Castro. The invasion force was composed of men from various Latin American countries and Spain. Some Americans also participated. As soon as the invaders landed, they were met by soldiers of the Dominican Army, and 30 to 40 men escaped.[...]

The plot was, in reality, tactically directed by many opposition leaders inside the country. Trujillo blamed Castro for the plot, and secretly Castro was behind the entire affair. In time, Trujillo set up a plan to invade Cuba (which never took place) and had his followers loot the Cuban embassy in the capital city of Ciudad Trujillo. Cuba subsequently severed all diplomatic relations with the Dominican Republic.[...]

In Washington, the Eisenhower administration saw the assassination attempt by Trujillo against Betancourt as the last straw. President Dwight D. Eisenhower believed that Trujillo was just as bad as Castro, and if left alone he would turn the Dominican Republic into another bastion of communism in the Western Hemisphere. Eisenhower ordered the CIA to mount a covert operation to help the anti-Trujillo elements in the country to overthrow the bothersome dictator.[...]

In February 1960, Eisenhower approved covert aid to the Dominican dissidents, which was intended to lead to the removal of Trujillo and his replacement by a regime that the United States could support. In the spring of 1960, U.S. Ambassador to the Dominican Republic Joseph Farland made initial contact with dissident elements in the country. [...]

In August 1960, the United States cut off diplomatic relations with Trujillo, leaving Dearborn as the sole U.S. representative in that nation. Dearborn was now the de facto head of the CIA in the Dominican Republic since all the regular CIA personnel had left the country. [...]

John F. Kennedy, who became president of the United States in January 1961, continued the CIA’s covert effort to oust Trujillo. Before the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba in April 1961, the Kennedy administration covertly sent machine guns, pistols, and carbines to the dissidents in the Dominican Republic.[...]

Three .30-caliber M-1 carbines had been left in the U.S. embassy before the United States broke diplomatic relations with Trujillo, and on March 31, 1961, these guns were supplied to the dissidents. These particular carbines eventually found their way into the hands of one of Trujillo’s assassins, Antonio de la Maza.[...]

After the Bay of Pigs disaster, the Kennedy administration tried to convince the dissidents not to kill Trujillo as the political climate was not conducive at that moment. However, the machine guns were dispatched to the U.S. consulate and were taken into possession by Dearborn. Two days before Trujillo’s murder, Kennedy sent a cable to Dearborn informing him that the United States did not condone political assassination in any form and that the United States must not be associated with the attempt on Trujillo’s life. [...]

After the assassination, Dearborn sent a message to Washington saying, “We don’t care if the Dominicans assassinated Trujillo, that is all right. But we don’t want anything to pin this on us, because we aren’t doing it, it is the Dominicans who are doing it.” Shortly thereafter, Dearborn and the remaining Americans left Santo Domingo.[...]

A series of riots took place in Santo Domingo in April 1965. American embassy officials cabled Washington saying that communist elements were trying to take power in the country. President Lyndon Johnson dispatched a force of 22,000 American troops to restore order. In reality, there was no communist revolt, and the American invasion was roundly criticized throughout Latin America.

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 11 months

Text

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

June 18, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUN 18, 2023

Tomorrow is the federal holiday honoring Juneteenth, the celebration of the announcement in Texas on June 19th, 1865, that enslaved Americans were free.

On April 9, 1865, General Robert E. Lee surrendered his Army of Northern Virginia to General Ulysses S. Grant of the U.S. Army, but it was not until June 2 that General Edmund Kirby Smith surrendered the Trans-Mississippi Department, the last major army of the Confederacy, to the United States, in Galveston, Texas. Smith then fled to Mexico.

Seventeen days later, Major General Gordon Granger of the U.S. Army arrived to take charge of the soldiers stationed there. On June 19, he issued General Order Number 3. It read:

“The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor.”

The order went on: “The freedmen are advised to remain quietly at their present homes and work for wages. They are informed that they will not be allowed to collect at military posts and that they will not be supported in idleness either there or elsewhere.”

While the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution abolishing enslavement except as punishment for a crime had passed through Congress on January 31, 1865, and Lincoln had signed it on February 1, the states were still in the process of ratifying it.

So Granger’s order referred not to the Thirteenth Amendment, but to the Emancipation Proclamation of January 1, 1863, which declared that Americans enslaved in states that were in rebellion against the United States “shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free; and that the Executive Government of the United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of such persons.” Granger was informing the people of Galveston that, Texas having been in rebellion on January 1, 1863, their world had changed. The federal government would see to it that, going forward, white people and Black people would be equal.

Black people in Galveston met the news Order No. 3 brought with celebrations in the streets, but emancipation was not a gift from white Americans. Black Americans had fought for the United States and worked in the fields to grow cotton the government could sell. Those unable to leave their homes had hidden U.S. soldiers, while those who could leave indicated their hatred of the Confederacy and enslavement with their feet. They had demonstrated their equality and their importance to the postwar United States.

The next year, after the Thirteenth Amendment had been added to the Constitution, Texas freedpeople gathered on June 19, 1866, to celebrate with prayers, speeches, food, and socializing the coming of their freedom. By the following year, the federal government encouraged “Juneteenth” celebrations, eager to explain to Black citizens the voting rights that had been put in place by the Military Reconstruction Act in early March 1867, and the tradition of Juneteenth began to spread to Black communities across the nation.

But white former Confederates in Texas were demoralized and angered by the changes in their circumstances. “It looked like everything worth living for was gone,” Texas cattleman Charles Goodnight later recalled.

In summer 1865, as white legislators in the states of the former Confederacy grudgingly ratified the Thirteenth Amendment, they also passed laws to keep freedpeople subservient to their white neighbors. These laws, known as the Black Codes, varied by state, but they generally bound Black Americans to yearlong contracts working in the fields owned by white men; prohibited Black people from meeting in groups, owning guns or property, or testifying in court; outlawed interracial marriage; and permitted white men to buy out the jail terms of Black people convicted of a wide swath of petty crimes, and then to force those former prisoners into labor to pay off their debt.

In 1865, Congress refused to readmit the Southern states under the Black Codes, and in 1866, congressmen wrote and passed the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution. Its first section established that “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.” It went on: “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

That was the whole ball game. The federal government had declared that a state could not discriminate against any of its citizens or arbitrarily take away any of a citizen’s rights. Then, like the Thirteenth Amendment before it, the Fourteenth declared that “Congress shall have the power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article,” strengthening the federal government.

The addition of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution in 1868 remade the United States. But those determined to preserve a world that discriminated between Americans according to race, gender, ability, and so on, continued to find workarounds.

On Friday, June 16, 2023, the Department of Justice—created in 1870 to enforce the Fourteenth Amendment—released the report of its investigation into the Minneapolis Police Department (MPD) and the City of Minneapolis in the wake of the May 2020 murder of George Floyd by a police officer. The 19-page document found systemic “conduct that deprives people of their rights under the Constitution and federal law,” discriminating against Black and Native American people, people with behavioral health disabilities, and protesters. Those systemic problems in the MPD’s institutional culture enabled Floyd’s killing.

Minneapolis police performed 22% more searches, 27% more vehicle searches, and 24% more uses of force on Black people than on white residents behaving in similar ways. They conducted 23% more searches and used force 20% more on Indigenous Americans.

The Justice Department’s press release specified that the city and the police department “cooperated fully.” The two parties have “agreed in principle” to fix the problem with sweeping reforms based on community input, with an independent monitor rather than litigation.

While the Senate unanimously approved the measure creating the Juneteenth holiday last year, fourteen far-right Republicans voted against it, many of them complaining that such a holiday would be divisive.

How we remember our history matters.

[General Order No. 3, National Records and Archives Administration, public domain.]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#letters from an american #heather cox richardson #history'#Juneteenth

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antisilver · 2 years

Photo

We call June 5th the Barricade day for the honor of June Rebellion 1832 and Les Miserables

At the same time, I cannot post anything on Chinese website with my Canadian IP, for June 4th recalls The Tiananmen Square protests, 1989

What a coincidence LUL

#jesus christ superstar #jcs #elisabeth das musical #elisabeth the musical #saint just #frev #French Revolution #musical #fanart

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hayffiebird · 2 months

Text

Taste of Strawberries, chap. 41

Hayffie Post-Mockingjay Multi-chapter, Rated M

Four years have passed since the end of the war when Effie returns in to Haymitch’s life once again. An old friendship is renewed. Will it lead to something more?

Author’s note: TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of suicide and life’s general awfulness à la young mentor Haymitch. So, yeah. This lil’ chapter is hella depressing.

Chapter 41

Piece by piece

June wouldn’t look at him – not once – as she tied balloons to a nearby tree. Floating ones of every color, just outside the cream colored party tent. The helium canister stood by her feet. A big cylinder thing, gray as stormy seas. If anything it looked like the bombs that a Capitol hovercraft might drop.

Course, he knew better than to blurt that out.

The party tent was anchored at every corner, accompanied by more of June’s floating balloons. Tethered to the ground and tied up with ribbons. The sidewalls had all been removed, leaving the waterproof ceiling above, just in case of rain.

The garden table was set up with the plump coffee pot and matching china. Pretty glasses with soft yellow napkins. Frog green plastic plates and sippy cups for the birthday kids along with a stack of gifts.

Sitting in a bucket of ice was a bottle of (obviously) alcohol-free apple cider and over by June’s apple tree: Effie’s picnic blanket spread out in the shade – just in case it didn’t rain.

“You did it wonderful out here”, he told the blonde woman’s back. “Sincerely.”

Nothing. Not even a sour: “I didn’t do it for you.” If Annabel’s patience was wearing thin, he was one drunken stupor away from making June an enemy.

Not that he wasn’t used to it. Making enemies.

Her silence. Her body language. He knew it all too well. Used to get it all the time back home. Not so much anymore. Post-rebellion.

“Because you helped put an end to Snow. An end to the Games”, Effie said but that wasn’t it. He hadn’t redeemed himself. The supposed thawing of District 12 toward him was all due to the depressing fact that almost no one survived the fire bombings.

But in the glory days – the hateful glances, the cold shoulders, even confrontations was all part of his everyday life. Took only a few seasons.

For about a second after his Quell, him actually winning breathed a sense of hope into the district. Not only because of Parcel Day - those monthly food packages sent in the first year. It was the fact that Twelve finally, finally had a mentor now. A mentor clever enough to win one of the hardest Games in history. Surely it would make a difference? Surely!

Course, it didn’t take him long to prove them wrong and all that hope and optimism turned cold and bitter as a winter storm. It wasn’t just that they resented him for not doing enough. He was also their living breathing reminder of the Games. Past and future.

And as the dead children under his care accumulated he spent less and less time outside the house, unable to look at the young faces of towners and Seam kids alike, wondering which one was next.

That and their loved ones. Families, friends, sweethearts of the kids he failed to bring home. They shouldn’t have to endure his presence more than absolutely necessary. Not if he could help it.

Like the funerals. Few things on this Earth could compete with his hatred for the reaping but those god awful double funerals were definitely up there.

As the mentor, he was expected to attend. And he did, the first couple of years.

Dandruff wasn’t present of course. You didn’t escort dead children back. It was just him and a handful of mourners, carefully selected. All presided over by an armada of peacekeepers, armed to the teeth.

The Iron Maiden and later old Cray held a speech over the small-sized coffins but it was never really about the dead, or the living. More like … sitting round the table and now let’s all give thanks to our lord and savior president Snow.

You’d think there’d be flowers. White, perfume-reeking roses, reminding you of who ran this show. But of course not. Snow wouldn’t waste a single bloom on something as unimportant as a dead tribute. Not even the local wild rose that Katniss might encounter out in the woods.

The last funeral he ever went to was before she and Peeta were born. Effie must have still been a child.

Dandruff reaped a couple of Seam kids that year, just like she did most seasons. 15 year old Laurel and Douglas – just twelve. None of them made it past the bloodbath.

Their families weren’t to go near the coffins to say a final goodbye or put down a daisy. They were just an audience. A class of school children and like the dutiful crowd they kept their expected distance while the Head Peacekeeper ran their pathetic charade.

Lauren’s parents, her brothers and sisters all sobbed together. Silent ones so as not attract the attention of those rifles. Douglas’s mother seemed in chock. Her eyes stared at nothing, bone dry, while her husband - face sunken, a head shorter than her - cried for the both of them.

Haymitch kept his distance at the scene, like he always did. Out of respect for the families. Their pain. But his eyes had flitted to Douglas‘s father at one point and right in that moment Tucker looked at him.

The coal miner knew the mentor would be there. Or maybe not. The funerals were never aired. Not unless there was a special year, like the Quells. Either way he looked stunned, staggered. Like coming out of a dream.

And then, rage took its place. There was no other word for it. And he left his wife’s side. Elbowed himself right through the crowd. Haymitch knew what was coming. Could have deflected it. Easily. After his time in the arena he had reflexes like a wild rabbit. But he didn’t and Tucker struck him to the ground. His body had barely hit the dirt before the man was all over him.

Hand clenched into a fist he punched his face, over and over. Busted his lip up, his nose, his eyebrow – all the time hollering the same thing.

“Murderer! You murderer! Child-murderer!”

Tucker never got to finish the job. Later that same day, only hours after they buried their son, wails could be heard from the coal miner’s house. Peacekeepers arrived to learn the cause of the racket and found Tucker in the bedroom covered in blood, holding his dead wife’s body.

The realization that her only child was gone must have finally hit her. She’d cut her wrists open with her husband’s shaving knife.

The peacekeepers wanted to retrieve the body but Tucker, mad with grief, wouldn’t let them anywhere near Eliza. Teeth bared he fought their every attempt until they shot him.

Square in the chest.

That night, Haymitch got himself drunk for the first time. The Hob was closed but he found his way into the Seam, guided by whatever moonlight he could make out through his one good eye. Knocked on Ripper’s door. Asked for a bottle of white liquor.

The one-armed woman hesitated, reluctant to sell to someone still so young. But her gaze travelled across his bashed, beat up face. His eye swollen shut. The gashes, the crusts of blood, the red and purple bruises.

Finally she nodded.

The liquor burned just as much as he remembered – from that one time with the butcher’s. A beverage so vile no one with any sense left, or choice, would drink it willingly. But he powered it down.

Every drop.

Sip by sip, mouthful by mouthful – even when he gagged on it, even though he knew he’d puke himself into another nosebleed in just a matter of hours.

He did it anyway. To rid himself off their faces. Their voices. If just for a little while.

Laurel, dead. Douglas, dead. Eliza bleeding out in her husband’s arms. Tucker with a hole in his chest.

Murderer! You murderer! Child-murderer!

That was the last time he ever went to a funeral. They could put him in chains, throw him in a cell, flog him or just shoot him on sight like they did Tucker. He didn’t care.

And as time wore on, he spent less and less of it outside the Victor’s Village. He reckoned there’s where he’d do the least harm. He actively pushed people away, alienated himself from the rest of the community.

Stopped spending any real time with Sae and Hazelle and all the rest. Was rude and hurtful on purpose to keep people at a distance. Like Tessa when she arrived at his door step, wanting to treat his face with her soothing herbs and salves.

He shut her out. Shut them all out.

So they’d be safe.

He drew a deep soundless sigh. Stared at the tiny lady bug crawling up a purple ribbon.

He meant what he told June. And he wanted the twins to have all this. And yet ... the whole thing felt increasingly unreal. Presents, balloons, birthday cake.

Why did he get to be here celebrating his kids growing up when so many good, decent, innocent people were all just bones in the ground?

It wasn’t fair and he didn’t deserve it.

Any of it.

#hayffie #haymitch x effie #the hunger games renaissance #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket #district 11 #my fanfiction #post-mockingjay #young haymitch

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annachum · 7 months

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Some post June Rebellion Marius x Cosette HCs after Valjean dies

. After Valjean dies in early March 1833, Marius and Cosette moved to Marseille ( which is also Valjean's birthplace )

. Marius becomes an investigative journalist in LA Marseillaise ( a neutral news reporting company in Marseille ), while Cosette becomes an art teacher at a Catholic school

. They have 4 children together : Victoire II ( born in 1834 May ), twins Marcelin II and Michel II ( born in 1836 ), and Adelaide ( born in 1838 )

. Marius and Cosette basically juggle between their careers, raising their 4 children, all that

. They work to heal their traumas together, and they can't bear to tell their children the sheer horror details of what they been through in the June Rebellion

. I mean, their children heard some stuff about that at those points, yet still

. On the night before the 1848 French Revolution in Feb for 3 days, Victoire II told her father that she wants to join her friends to defend her school

. Marius told his oldest daughter that he is very sorry, yet she and her siblings shall be in the basement for a few days till the whole hoopla is over

. Victoire sighed and went to the basement with her siblings

. The next morning when Marius and Cosette woke up

. They are HORRIFIED TO DISCOVER THAT VICTOIRE HAS SNUCK OUT ALREADY?!?!?!

. Cue Marius and Cosette scrambling to ride on some rental horses and ask around directions

. Ofc they told the small sized staff in tow of that house to watch over Victoire II's sibs in the basement

. Eventually they managed to find Victoire II joining her friends to help defend her school

. Cue Marius and Cosette risked their lives to rush to save their oldest daughter

. Luckily, she survived

. Unluckily, Victoire II literally nearly died that day and has to be hospitalized for injuries for 2 months

. That event made the Pontmercys closer over shared shock and grief on that

. After the 1848 French Revolution, despite the celebratory cries of victory against the July Monarchy ringing all across France, there is still much work to be done to recover France

. Victoire II's parents visited Victoire II regularly in that hospital. Victoire II's sibs stayed in a health spa for 2 months due to intense PTSD from the 1848 French Revolution

. Ofc Marius and Cosette worked to help their kids and each other recover from the 1848 French Revolution

. After the 1848 French Revolution, Marius soon founded his own social newsletter called La Lumiere, and Cosette switched to be an art teacher at the Marseille Art Museum

. Because they are HAUNTED with how their oldest daughter nearly died in that event, and they are also haunted with how several of their Co workers ( and several of the students in that school Cosette worked in before ) didn't make it in the 1848 French Revolution for some time.... 🤯🤯🥺🥺🥺😭😭😭

. Also also Cosette becomes a lead illustrator for Marius' newsletter after the 1848 French Revolution

. Before that, she already at times helped with illustrations with Marius' journals during his La Marseillaise days

🤩🤩🤩🥺🥺🥺

Victoire II and Marcelin II are more like their father

While Michel II and Adelaide are more like their mother

🤯🤯🤯🥺🥺🥺

It was around after the 1848 French Revolution did those 4 eventually knew what their parents really been through in the June Rebellion

Their parents profusely apologized to them for not telling them sooner due to ' fear of breaking their hearts '

And those 4 understand and forgive them

🤯🤯🥺🥺🥺

A thing is

Marius and Cosette will still be Republican leaning in the 1840s French Revolution

Yet their No. 1 priority especially then is to ensure the securities of their household and their children, especially from the machinations of Royalist thugs

🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯

Plus in my Les Mis fics Cosette soon came to use her art classes as a form of art therapy for her students who been through a lot in the June Rebellion and later the 1840s French Revolution

🤯🤯🤯🥺🥺🥺

She also uses her visual arts skills as a form of helping Marius and their children as a form of art therapy especially after all they been through and such

🤯🤯🤯🥺🥺🥺

During her post Valjean's death era, Whenever she isn't art teaching, Cosette basically juggles with raising her children, managing that household, getting involved with community related matters often, and sometimes likes to hang out at parks with Marius, their children and their friends

She also sometimes likes to visit art galleries, similarly as she has sometimes done during the June Rebellion era ( sometimes with Valjean, her post Convent Era friends and later on Marius )

In the Les Mis book, Cosette came to have a penchant for visual arts

It certainly becomes therapeutic to her especially after all she been through

I'd love to develop that aspect more in my Les Mis fics

🤩🤩🤩🥺🥺🥺🥺

Like post Convent School Era Cosette defo becomes a quirky, gentle, dreamy and brave soft goth girl who carries her art supplies in her bags wherever she went, often wearing flowers on her hats and coiffures, and basically shows Marius and her loved ones a different outlook of life

#post june rebellion hcs #cosette #marius #marius x cosette #1848 french revolution #les mis hcs

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mariacallous · 8 months

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Yveneny Prigozhin’s wartime atrocities propelled the brutal mercenary into the limelight. But Prigozhin—who was once Russian president Vladimir Putin’s chef and a small-time criminal—also held a title as one of the world’s biggest disinformation peddlers. For years, Prigozhin operated the notorious Internet Research Agency, a Russian troll farm that meddled in US elections and beyond.

When Prigozhin suddenly died in a mysterious plane crash on August 23, around two months after he led his Wagner Group mercenaries in a failed mutiny against Putin, the trolls didn’t stop posting. Instead, according to a new analysis shared with WIRED, some continued to show their support for him.

In the days immediately after his death, a coordinated network of pro-Prigozhin accounts on X (formerly known as Twitter) pushed messages saying that the warlord was a hero and good for Russia, despite the Wagner Group’s failed rebellion against Putin in June. These messages also blamed the West for the plane crash and said that the Wagner Group would continue operating in Africa.

“It was not profitable for Putin to kill Prigozhin. PMC [private military company] carry a lot of weight in Africa, and Prigozhin skillfully managed it, despite his ‘character quirks,’” one account posted on X. “Prigozhin served for the good of Russia, remained faithful to his military oath, and was killed by saboteurs, or terrorists mined the plane,” another speculated. “In short, he just ditched his phone and disappeared into the sunset, just like in a typical action movie,” a third posted.

The organized accounts were all identified and shared with WIRED by Antibot4Navalny, an anonymous group of volunteers who track Russian-language influence operations on X. A person behind the group, whom WIRED granted anonymity due to safety concerns, says they started inspecting the posts of suspected X accounts after the crash when they “noticed that Prigozhin is surprisingly covered in an exclusively positive light.” The group found 30 accounts pushing pro-Prigozhin narratives, they say.

The activity could be a sign that Prigozhin remained in control of the Internet Research Agency troll factory until he died, the group claims, adding that it echoes similar activity they previously saw. Reports have said that after the attempted June uprising, Prigozhin-owned news websites and the troll factory were being shut down or looking for new owners. “Domestically, there was a lot of debate whether or not Prigozhin lost his control over the troll factory as one of the immediate aftermaths of the mutiny,” the Antibot4Navalny member says.

While the posts on X are only a tiny snapshot of social media activity, they highlight how Russian-linked propaganda has changed since the Internet Research Agency interfered in US politics in 2016, experts say. The Russian misinformation and disinformation industry has evolved into a rich ecosystem of state-backed media, massive Telegram channels, and more conventional social media posts. Millions of people follow so-called military bloggers and war journalists on Telegram—some of these channels are linked to the Russian state, while others are aligned with Pirgozhin and the Wagner Group. But all can muddy the waters or repeat set lines.

“Confusion in the information space is one of the aims of the Kremlin information operations—to make everything equally unbelievable so people’s trust in all kinds of sources is undermined,” says Eto Buziashvili, a disinformation and influence operations researcher with a focus on Russia at the Atlantic Council’s Digital Forensic Research Lab. Since the start of its full-scale war in Ukraine in February 2022, Russia has blocked and censored social media websites, banned independent news media, and pushed reams of disinformation.

Kyle Walter, head of research at misinformation and disinformation research company Logically, reviewed the posts shared by Antibot4Navalny and says they show “signs of being inauthentic.” The X accounts were largely created earlier this year, have low volumes of original posts, and mostly retweet or reply to accounts, and some of them also follow each other, Walter says. The themes the accounts posted about around the plane crash also match what Logically has seen from monitoring Telegram channels linked to the Wagner Group, he says. Walter adds, however, that linking them directly to the Internet Research Agency is harder to do.

The Antibot4Navalny researcher says that based on their previous research, they believe that the pro-Prigozhin trolls operate in similar ways. They “primarily serve” the interests of Putin, but they also push pro-Prigozhin narratives when it doesn’t “hurt” the Russian president, the researcher says. The approach “still worked in the plane-crash episode: Cover Putin as strongly as possible, but also, it is a nice opportunity to praise Prigozhin,” they say. The researcher says they are reporting the accounts to X.

As well as the posts around the plane crash, the Antibot4Navalny group also shared previous research and analysis with WIRED. In one instance, the group reported more than 7,000 suspected accounts to X. We tested dozens of these accounts and found that they have all been removed from the Elon Musk-owned social media company. Antibot4Navalny says the “troll” accounts are often active in groups, pushing the “same set of talking points” and mostly replying to tweets about news related to Russia and Ukraine or pro-Ukrainian channels. X did not immediately respond to WIRED’s request for comment.

On July 14, the Antibot4Navalny researcher says, some of the accounts they have tracked replied to posts discussing comments from Putin, who said that the Wagner Group “does not exist” and that there is no legal basis for the group. The accounts, the researcher says, sent messages saying that Wagner operated legally and referenced Concord, the catering company owned by Prigozhin. The Antibot4Navalny researcher claims that the points were not included in any Kremlin-controlled media and that mentions of the company “served interests of the troll factory/its owner—rather than interests of the Kremlin.”

Buziashvili, the Atlantic Council researcher, says she believes the troll factory is still operating. “Part of them might be still supporting Prigozhin,” she says. “For most of the people who were working there, they would just continue their work regardless of who is their current boss.”

Following the plane crash, Buziashvili says, Russian officials and state media pushed multiple “theories” simultaneously. On one TV show, both the UK and NATO were blamed for the plane crash, she says. Other instances blame Ukraine and claim that Prigozhin was not killed in the crash. Pro-Wagner Telegram channels were also pushing claims that the plane was shot down by Russian aviation, Buziashvili says, and that they wanted “revenge.” Nobody has formally claimed responsibility for the explosion—both Putin and Ukraine have denied involvement.

Despite the changing information ecosystem, the amount of Russian disinformation on social media is colossal. During the first year after it launched the war in Ukraine, Russia’s disinformation reached an audience of “at least” 165 million and generated 16 billion views across Facebook, Instagram, Twitter/X, YouTube, TikTok, and Telegram, according to a European Commission study of Russia-linked activity published last week. Subscribers to pro-Kremlin Telegram channels have “more than tripled” since the start of the war, the report says. “Preliminary analysis suggests that the reach and influence of Kremlin-backed accounts has grown further in the first half of 2023, driven in particular by the dismantling of Twitter’s safety standards.”

“What we typically see these days is narratives formulated on Telegram,” says Logically’s Walter. The company has recently found pro-Russian channels pushing disinformation about Niger’s military coup, and it has also linked a Russian fact-checking website and Telegram account to a presenter on Russia’s “biggest” propaganda TV show. “You have Western influencers who are sympathetic to Russian causes that will translate those narratives and then share them on mainstream platforms. And they circulate more broadly,” he says.

Walter says that over time, and largely because of the war, it has become easier for Russian propaganda and disinformation to attack the West. “From a tactics perspective, there’s a lot less direct involvement that we can attribute from the Russian state itself, and it is more these proxies,” he says. “Russian disinformation efforts are gradually adapting to any sort of Western countering that gets put in place.”

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