#That every revolution is only empty movement | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bestworstcase · 12 days

Note

Your thoughts about Remnant's kingdoms having imperialistic and expansionist tendencies that don't have anything to do with Salem or Ozma makes me wonder, at least based on what I vaguely remember of the game RWBY Arrowfell:

In Arrowfell, we learn about the existence of ruins outside of Atlas and Mantle with ancient historical artifacts, and that makes me question if Solitas really as empty as it seemed, or was there already indigenous people living there before the displaced settlers of whatever regions of Sanus showed up on their doorstep? Did THEY get destroyed by those settlers?

Did those people live alongside Solitas' Grimm with no issue, and shit only went down AFTER the emotionally repressed imperialists of Sanus came in and wiped out whatever culture they had, imposing their own "Grimm evil emotions bad must repress and subjugate" nonsense onto a culture that might have already figured out a better solution?

I keep thinking about this because of how the settlers of the local settlements there within the game have vastly different appearances, and strongly implied different cultures compared to the likes of Mantle and Atlas.

tumak!

i rotate those ruins in my mind a lot, because the only thing we really know about them is that they predate the great war and they’re a formally-designated “heritage site.” vine talks about artifacts taken from the site as though they’re very ancient, but his statements are framed pretty overtly as bullshit—he comes across more as a new age mumbo jumbo type of hobbyist than someone serious about history. older than the great war just means that the ruins are at least a century old.

so there’s definitely a layer here of atlas—which has probably not been around much longer than a century or two—culturally not having a very accurate sense of historical scale (a la US americans thinking anything older than a century or two is ‘ancient’) and exoticizing The Past. whereas beacon’s professor of history teaches teaches the great war and its aftermath as recent history, because vale is much older.

that said, tumak does look like it’s a few centuries old, because it’s all built of stone. in any other story i’d take it as a given that the people living there were conquered or displaced by mantelian settlers for… the same reasons i take it as a given that mistral being called an “empire” and having “territories” means what it sounds like.

what gives me pause with regard to tumak and mantle is—well, two things:

there were no grimm in western solitas when mantle’s first settlers arrived.

it’s heavily implied that the global industrial revolution began in mantle following the discovery of large dust deposits under the tundra.

now, the one thing we know for certain about grimm is that they eat people and they die in captivity, meaning that they do need to eat. the simplest explanation for there being no grimm in western solitas when the mantelian settlers turned up is that there weren’t any people there for grimm to eat.

the second point matters matters because the industrial revolution is a prerequisite for building anything with steel: before this confluence between practical necessity and a great abundance of underground dust deposits, every large structure on remnant would have been built with timber or stone or clay, or whatever material happened to be abundant in a given region.

(i am making a drastic oversimplification here but, in essence, the main reason we had our industrial revolution when and where we did is england ran out of trees and started digging for coal. coal mines have a lot of coal on site, making coal-powered machines a more cost-effective way to pump water out of deep shafts than manual labor, and then after a certain point these pumps become very efficient and it becomes cost-effective to employ mechanized rotational movement further away from the coal mines, and then you get automated spinning jennies and trains and it all snowballs from there. whether it’s on purpose or not, remnant’s industrial revolution occurred under precisely similar conditions and i think that’s neat.)

one presumes that mantelian settlers didn’t go from living in natural caves or snow shelters to steel-frame construction overnight. the technological innovation needed to build with steel in subzero temperatures would have been a long, iterative process. both tumak and the “ancient monument” built in the same architectural style are also situated on the continent’s western coast, while mantle is at least a few hundred miles inland (although it’s difficult to get an accurate sense of scale from the game map). if i’m right that these settlers were displaced from northeast sanus by valean expansion, the west coast of solitas is where they would have landed.

we also know that mantle itself is built on top of what seems to be an enormous dust mine.

in the WOR episode, the early settlement is represented like this, with people keeping watch over coastal cliffs and grimm being frozen solid by the cold:

the amity arena ice sabyr card indicates that the ice-encrusted solitan grimm adapted to the cold fairly quickly:

These Sabyrs seem to have somehow adapted to Mantle's environment. Gone are the days when the cold kept the Grimm at bay, and now we deal with the ice crusted versions of the Sabyr. Still, there is a burning question in our minds. Didn't these Sabyr… adjust a little too quickly?

(which, lol. it’s dust. solitan grimm incorporate dust into their bodies to give themselves a protective coating against the cold; we’ve seen the geist in the mine use dust to armor itself against attack. a lot of the amity arena grimm cards are fun; the one for seers is literally like “they’re super weird, we have no idea what they do because we’ve only ever found broken husks, but they’re floating crystal balls with tentacles so we assume they must be able to control people. probably.” grimm studies is pseudoscience!)

and then back to the WOR episode, the depicted distance between mantle and alsius is wildly exaggerated:

with mantle located on the southwestern peninsula and alsius being where mantle stands—or stood—in the present day. before playing arrowfell, i always took that to be just a stylistic choice to emphasize the economic separation between mantle and alsius, but:

again, nothing is to scale here, but mantle and the atlesian crater are in the right place, there’s an abandoned dust mine on that southwest peninsula, an outpost with a train on the western island, and tumak and the other ruin along the west coast. so the relocation depicted in the WOR episode—a migration inward from the coastal region to where mantle is today—actually seems to have been literal.

what makes the most sense to me is that these coastal ruins were built by the original settlers a few hundred years ago. both tumak and the “monument” are mainly underground, with these barrow-like stone caps over the entrances: this strikes me as a solidly defensible layout for fending off weakened, scattered packs of grimm, but not one that could withstand the increasing numbers of cold-hardy grimm as time went on.

in the SDC WOR episode, it’s noted that mantle’s existing dust mines were nearly depleted before nicholas schnee discovered new deposits in the mountains to the north. and in arrowfell, if memory serves, the old southwest mine was exhausted and abandoned long ago. taking this to its logical conclusion, the people living in tumak and other coastal settlements had to deal with a relatively fast spike in grimm populations at a time when dust was already becoming scarce, so they abandoned these sites and migrated to a more defensible area—the plain flanked by mountains—where they serendipitously found much larger and deeper dust deposits. and that became mantle and alsius/atlas.

meanwhile, over on the eastern side of the continent…

the geographic separation here is pretty striking! in between mantle and the free towns to the east we have a large inland sea and mountains. these towns are explicitly not part of the kingdom and, as you noted, have a pretty different culture. (including cultural attitudes toward the grimm: a huge megoliath wanders into essen early in the game and the townspeople just… clear out of the immediate area and keep an eye on it from afar, which is probably also how the unnamed village in v4 dealt with that geist. there is also a lady from dormir who goes into GRIMM-INFESTED CAVES, alone, to dig up dust. nothing bad happens to her.)

tellingly, bram thornmane seems to view these free towns as independent polities for the purpose of fueling his persecution complex by treating his residence in essen like a quasi-exile from atlas, but when it’s politically expedient to do so he acts as though these are satellite communities dependent on atlesian protection, hence his use of the grimm lures to attack them as well as atlas and mantle. i imagine that this is a common atlesian attitude.

one of the villagers—cerise claire, who fled from crossed to essen when the former was overwhelmed as a consequence of thornmane’s scheme—mentions having ancestors who fought during the great war; specifically she implies that her ancestors were involved in resistance to the mantelian regime’s prohibition against art and self-expression. the free towns don’t seem to be particularly young—wood and stone, again suggesting pre-industrial construction—so they must have existed before the war.

cerise is also a faunus (i think; it’s hard to tell if the wolfish ears are attached to her head or just to her hood and they’re not the same color as her hair, but they’re a prominent feature of her design and why do that if she’s not meant to be faunus) which certainly. carries a lot of unspoken weight in the remarks she makes about her ancestor bravely keeping a journal of their years fighting in the great war… and if her family lived in crossed back then, well.

gestures at vacuo’s side of the great war being a desperate bid for independence. gestures at the implication that the vytal accords were in large part a decolonial project; vacuo and menagerie became sovereign states, and a huge swath of eastern anima seems to have been freed from mistrali rule.

mantle and mistral formed an alliance during the conquest of northern anima; if if the towns in eastern solitas are older than the great war—which is quite plausible!—then they likely existed during this period of time and it seems reasonable to think that they might have been occupied as well, if not by mantle then by mistral. eastern solitas being under occupation prior to the war and liberated by the accords thanks in part to the efforts of a local rebellion tracks.

but an interesting thought occurs to me: this means the quasi-scientific modern narrative that the grimm “adapted” to the cold unnaturally fast might be baseless. there would have been cold-hardy grimm living east of the mountains already. perhaps the intense hardship and struggle of those early years simply drew an existing population of grimm over the mountains?

#also the implication of that windmill…#it’s why for tdt i put a monster thermal dust deposit under eastern solitas. for the polar farming. brgfjdvk

25 notes · View notes

dailyanarchistposts · 16 days

Text

France, 1968

This has undoubtedly been the greatest revolutionary upheaval in Western Europe since the days of the Paris Commune. Hundreds of thousands of students have fought pitched battles with the police. Nine million workers have been on strike. The red flag of revolt has flown over occupied factories, universities, building sites, shipyards, primary and secondary schools, pit heads, railway stations, department stores, docked transatlantic liners, theatres, hotels. The Paris Opera, the Folies Bergères and the building of the National Council for Scientific Research were taken over, as were the headquarters of the French Football Federation — whose aim was clearly perceived as being “to prevent ordinary footballers enjoying football’.

Virtually every layer of French society has been involved to some extent or other. Hundreds of thousands of people of all ages have discussed every aspect of life in packed-out, non-stop meetings in every available schoolroom and lecture hall, Boys of 14 have invaded a primary school for girls shouting “Liberté pour les filles”. Even such traditionally reactionary enclaves as the Faculties of Medicine and Law have been shaken from top to bottom, their hallowed procedures and institutions challenged and found wanting. Millions have taken a hand in making history. This is the stuff of revolution.

Under the influence of the revolutionary students, thousands began to query the whole principle of hierarchy. The students had questioned it where it seemed the most ‘natural’: in the realms of teaching and knowledge. They proclaimed that democratic self-management was possible — and to prove it began to practice it themselves. They denounced the monopoly of information and produced millions of leaflets to break it. They attacked some of the main pillars of contemporary ‘civilisation’: the barriers between manual workers and intellectuals; the consumer society, the ‘sanctity’ of the university and of other founts of capitalist culture and wisdom. Within a matter of days the tremendous creative potentialities of the people suddenly erupted. The boldest and most realistic ideas — and they are usually the same — were advocated, argued, applied. Language, rendered stale by decades of bureaucratic mumbo- jumbo, eviscerated by those who manipulate it for advertising purposes, suddenly reappeared as something new and fresh. People re-appropriated it in all its fullness. Magnificently apposite and poetic slogans emerged from the anonymous crowd, Children explained to their elders what the function of education should be. The educators were educated, Within a few days, young people of 20 attained a level of understanding and a political and tactical sense which many who had been in the revolutionary movement for 30 years or more were still sadly lacking.

The tumultuous development of the students struggle triggered off the first factory occupations. It transformed both the relation of forces in society and the image, in people’s minds of established leaders. It compelled the State to institutions and of established reveal both its oppressive nature and its fundamental incoherence. It exposed the utter emptiness of Government, Parliament, Administration — and of ALL the political parties. Unarmed students had forced the Establishment to drop its mask, to sweat with fear, to resort to the police club and to the gas grenade. Students finally compelled the bureaucratic leaderships of the ‘working class organisations to reveal themselves as the ultimate custodians of the established order.

But the revolutionary movement did still more. It fought its battles in Paris, not in some under-developed country, exploited by imperialism. In a glorious few weeks the actions of students and young workers dispelled the myth of the well-organised, well-oiled modern capitalist society, from which radical conflict had been eliminated and in which only marginal problems remained to be solved. Administrators who had been administering everything were suddenly shown to have had a grasp of nothing. Planners who had planned everything showed themselves incapable of ensuring the endorsement of their plans by those to whom they applied. This most modern movement should allow real revolutionaries to shed a number of the ideological encumbrances which in the past had hampered revolutionary activity. It wasn’t hunger which drove the students to revolt. There wasn’t an ‘economic crisis’ even in the loosest sense of the term. The revolt had nothing to do with ‘under-consumption’ or with ‘over-production’, The ‘falling rate of profit’ just didn’t come into the picture. Moreover, the student movement wasn’t based on economic demands. On the contrary, the movement only found its real stature, and only evoked its tremendous response, when it went beyond the economic demands within which official student unionism had for so long sought to contain it (incidentally with the blessing of all the political parties and ‘revolutionary’ groups of the ‘Left’). And conversely it was by confining the workers’ struggle to purely economic objectives that the trade union bureaucrats have so far succeeded in coming to the assistance of the regime.

The present movement has shown that the fundamental contradiction of modern bureaucratic capitalism isn’t the ‘anarchy of the market’. It isn’t the ‘contradiction between the forces of production and the property relations’. The central conflict to which all others are related is the conflict between order-givers (dirigeants) and order-takers (éxécutants). The insoluble contradiction which tears the guts out of modern capitalist society is the one which compels it to exclude people from the management of their own activities and Which at the same time compels it to solicit their participation, without which it would collapse. These tendencies find expression on the one hand in the attempt of the bureaucrats to convert men into objects (by violence, mystification, new manipulation techniques — or ‘economic’ carrots’ and, on the other hand, in mankind’s refusal to allow itself to be treated in this way.

The French events show clearly something that all revolutions have shown, but which apparently has again and again to be learned anew. There is no ‘inbuilt revolutionary perspective’, no ‘gradual increase of contradictions’, no ‘progressive development of a revolutionary mass consciousness’. What are given are the contradictions and the conflicts we have described and the fact that modern bureaucratic society more of less inevitably produces periodic ‘accidents’ which disrupt its fuctioning These both provoke popular intervention and provide the people with opportunities for asserting themselves and for changing the social order. The functioning of bureaucratic capitalism creates the conditions within which revolutionary consciousness may appear. These conditions are an integral part of the whole alienating hierarchical and oppressive social structure. Whenever people struggle, sooner or later they are compelled to question the whole of that social structure. These are ideas which many of us in Solidarity have long subscribed to. They were developed at length in some of Paul Cardan’s pamphlets. Writing in Le Monde (20 May 1968) E Morin admits that what is happening today in France is “a blinding resurrection: the resurrection of that libertarian strand which seeks concilation with marxism, in a formula of which Socialisme ou Barbarie had provided a first synthesis a few years ago...”. As after every verification of basic concepts in the crucible of real events, many will proclaim that these had always been their views. This, of course isn’t true.’ The point however isn’t to lay claims to a kind of copyright in the realm of correct revolutionary ideas. We welcome converts, from whatever sources and however belated. We can’t deal here at length with what is now an important problem in France, namely the creation of a new kind of revolutionary movement, Things would indeed have been different if such a movement had existed, strong enough to outwit the bureaucratic manoeuvred, alert enough day by day to expose the duplicity of the ‘left’ leaderships, deeply enough implanted to explain to the workers the real meaning of the students’ struggle, to propagate the idea of autonomous strike committees (linking up union and non-union members); of workers’ management of production and of workers’ councils. Many things which could have been done weren’t done because there wasn’t such a movement. The way the students’ own struggle was unleashed shows that such an organization could have played a most impotent catalytic role without automatically becoming a bureaucratic ‘leadership’. But such regrets are futile. The non-existence of such a movement is no accident, If it had been formed during the previous period it certainly wouldn’t have been the kind of movement of which we are speaking, Even taking the ‘best’ of the small organizations — and multiplying its numbers a hundredfold — wouldn’t have met the requirements of the current situation. When confronted with the test of events all the ‘left’ groups just continued playing their old gramophone records, Whatever their merits as depositories of the cold ashes of the revolution — a task they have now carried out for several decades — they proved incapable of snapping out of their old ideas and routines, incapable of learning or of forgetting anything.

The new revolutionary movement will have to be built from the new elements (students and workers) who have understood the real significance of current events. The revolution must step into the great political void revealed by the crisis of the old society. It must develop a voice, a face, a paper — and it must do it soon. We can understand the reluctance of some students to form such an organization. They feel there is a contradiction between action and thought, between spontaneity and organization. Their hesitation is fed by the whole of their previous experience, They have seen how thought could become sterilizing dogma, organization become bureaucracy or lifeless ritual, speech become a means of mystification, a revolutionary idea become a rigid and stereotyped programme. Through their actions, their boldness, their reluctance to consider long-term aims, they had broken out of this straight-jacket. But this isn’t enough.

Moreover many of them had sampled the traditional ‘left’ groups. In all their fundamental aspects these groups remain trapped within the ideological and organizational frameworks of bureaucratic capitalism. They have programmes fixed once and for all, leaders who utter fixed speeches, whatever the changing reality around them, organizational forms which mirror those of existing society. Such groups reproduce within their own ranks the division between order-takers and order-givers, between those who ‘know’ and those who don’t, the separation between scholastic pseudo-theory and real life. They would even like to impose this division into the working class, whom they all aspire to lead, because (and I was told this again and again) “the workers are only capable of developing a trade union consciousness”.

But these students are wrong. One doesn’t get beyond bureaucratic organization by denying all organization. One doesn’t challenge the sterile rigidity of finished programmes by refusing to define oneself in terms of aims and methods. One doesn’t refute dead dogma by the condemnation of all theoretical reflection. The students and young workers can’t just stay where they are. To accept these ‘contradictions’ as valid and as something which cannot be transcended is to accept the essence of bureaucratic capitalist ideology. It is to accept the prevailing philosophy and the prevailing reality. It is to integrate the revolution into an established historical order. if the revolution is only an explosion lasting a few days (or weeks), the established order — whether it knows it or not — will be able to cope. What is more — at a deep level class society even needs such jolts. This kind of ‘revolution’ permits class society to survive by compelling it to transform and adapt itself. This is the real danger today. Explosions which disrupt the imaginary world in which alienated societies tend to live — and bring them momentarily down to earth help them eliminate outmoded methods of domination and evolve new and more flexible ones. Action or thought? For revolutionary socialists the problem is not to make a synthesis of these two preoccupations of the revolutionary students. It is to destroy the social context in which such false alternatives find root.

8 notes · View notes

theprettynosferatu · 1 year

Text

Season's Greetings

Well, it's that time of the year. A time of symbolic rebirth, of the gradual return of the light, the slow vanishing of the long night. And make no mistake friends and beloveds, there's darkness ahead indeed.

We see trans and non binary folk attacked and demonized. We see sex workers persecuted. We see a planet burning, rights rightfully won being taken away, complete buffoons hoarding enough wealth to feed the world.

The deck is very much stacked against us. And yet, we must give ourselves the ultimate freedom, the greatest right and final answer.

We must allow ourselves to hope.

We are not alone. You are not alone. I'm not going to wish you that empty, mandatory happiness required by so many in these times. I'll just say: dare to hope. Be sad or be upset or be happy or be indifferent. Let the season come to you as it may. You owe it nothing. But you do owe yourself hope.

Hope might not be enough, but nothing comes in its absence. It is the fool's wisdom, the strength of dreamers, the weapon of the peaceful. It is the spark for every revolution, social or personal.

So, do this for me: Hope. Dream. Remember that just because things are a certain way they will always remain so. You're not alone. We have each other. So let us never lose hope, and make the world kinder and more just, even if only in our corner of the online universe. Let us be the example. Let us never, ever give up.

And let our dreaming never fade but spread like a wildfire of the mind.

One person with a dream is a dreamer. Many people with a dream are a movement.

54 notes · View notes

mrspasser · 1 year

Text

4. Observations

Connor keeps an eye out for his little brother Nines. He worries like a good bro and tries to help Nines to fit in as well as possible. Nines does his best to be a good partner to Gavin, even though Gavin is a little oblivious to some of it.

Cover made with fanart by @donlemefo

Connor carefully sticks a thumbtack in the corners of the picture, leaning back to admire his handiwork. The picture of RK900 and detective Reed holding the baby they delivered on the side of the road a couple of weeks back hangs neatly next to the picture of himself and RK.

Each desk in the bullpen is fitted with a screen divider on one corner, both giving the occupant of the desk some privacy and quiet, as well as doubling as a personal message board. Lieutenant Anderson’s board is a collection of notes, old tickets to games of the Detroit Red Wings and the Detroit Lions and a single picture of his late son Cole. Connor uses his for pictures - one of him, Hank and Sumo, several of the Saint Bernard alone and a second copy of the picture of him and RK.

The first two months RK900’s board had been bare. ‘I don’t need to write down notes,’ his ever practical successor told Connor when asked why he had nothing pinned on his board. He let it slide, until he couldn’t stand looking at the bare desk any longer; whenever the android was away for a case, the desk looked like it didn’t belong to anybody. That didn’t feel right.

Connor prompted his fellow detective to at least personalise his board somewhat. RK900 repeated a version of his earlier argument, truthfully stating that every picture he wished to look at was readily available for viewing within his head. A second argument was that his partner, detective Reed, also didn’t decorate his desk - if you didn’t count empty coffee cups and discarded cereal bar wrappers.

Connor felt oddly protective of RK900 ever since he was re-activated by Markus and his troupe. Connor was present, watching the android that was meant to kill him come to life again. His main objective of bringing down the android revolution and its key figures was disabled before re-activation, leaving the choice of a new objective to RK900 himself. Choosing turned out to be rather difficult for the new android, his programming specifically designed to withstand deviancy and strictly follow orders.

Connor knew how much his successor was trying to be a seamless addition to their partnership. Emphasis on trying, because where the RK800 models were designed to integrate with human society, no such goals were kept in mind when programming RK900’s parameters. The last masterpiece of CyberLife was designated to nip the newly started android revolution in the bud and make the RK800 model obsolete. Afterwards, the RK900 models would be deployed as soldiers, for instance in the Arctic conflict. The military was their initial purpose after all; the android revolution merely forced CyberLife to rush the development of the RK900 model.

Luckily, things went differently. There was only one RK900, as a prototype he was even more unique than Connor.

Connor might not always understand why RK900 did things or why he went a certain way about them, yet he always tried to be supportive. ‘Like a true big brother,’ Hank said recently, leaving Connor to ponder about the remark for the rest of the evening. He guessed the way he felt about his successor was similar to the way one might feel about a sibling. He had heard officer Miller talk about his younger brother a couple of times: proud when he graduated from college and annoyed when the young man spent the first weeks after graduation hopping from party to party instead of doing job interviews.

One of his first choices was not even a real choice: RK900 merely aired his preference to go home with Connor instead of staying at CyberLife Tower, the home to the very movement RK900 was originally meant to take down. He never really explained to Connor why he didn’t want to stay there, but it was easy to see the tension in his body during his time at the tower.

Luckily, Hank was easily persuaded to open his home to a second android, saying they didn’t drink his beer anyway. Not that RK900 stayed very long: after he started working for the DPD he only came home for the weekends. During the week he prefered staying at the precinct, in the storage room where the DPD androids were housed before the revolution. The only furniture in the room was a table and two chairs, next to several stasis pods. It was a grey, bare room without windows. Connor hated that he stayed there, yet he was also of a mind to let RK900 make his own choices.

Their build and programming made the RK-models very much suitable to work with partners; CyberLife called them handlers. They were perfectly capable to work alone, yet there was something in their software that made them connect to a partner almost naturally. When Connor met Hank he wasn’t a deviant and the instruction to partner up with the lieutenant was a strong motive to persevere when the human was reluctant to work with an android. Deviancy had not changed that, if anything it had made their bond stronger.

He was proud of his own little brother - who was in fact two inches taller than him - for the way he enrolled in his new job. The RK-series were a perfect fit for police work, especially the later models. It was truly satisfying to see how well he had adapted to working as a detective with the DPD.

Truthfully, Connor had his doubts when RK900 was partnered with detective Reed. It was a logical decision of captain Fowler, as Reed was the only detective without a partner and they wouldn’t let the android start working without a partner. Having a partner was good for RK900, reclusive as he could be; Connor just wished his new partner had more empathy, or just better social skills in general. RK900 said he didn’t mind, he merely saw creating a beneficial partnership with the rude detective as a challenge. Connor suspected it was more a question of not wanting to fail, grasping this opportunity to work at the DPD with both hands, no matter the circumstances.

Gavin Reed was nothing like lieutenant Anderson and although their specifications overlapped greatly, RK900 was totally different from Connor. Where Hank was mainly reluctant towards androids, detective Reed was downright hostile. The approach Connor used on the lieutenant didn’t work on his younger colleague. It was Hank who told RK900 to ‘give that sullen bastard a taste of his own medicine’.

Connor looks at the picture of the detectives with the baby again. The day RK900 delivered that baby had been a joyous one. His brother shared his delight with him through a direct link, extremely joyful that he had helped bring new life into the world. The fact that his partner had called him ‘Nines’ for the first time that day was almost as pleasing to the android. The nickname stuck too, by now it had replaced most of Reed’s name calling when addressing his android partner.

RK900 trying to live up to that advice made for an interesting memory. His android brother always tried to be polite towards others and he had done the same with Reed at first. That one time he had the detective pinned over his desk because Reed tried to hit him, really shook him. At the time he had suppressed it, only for all the stress to come out at night, when he sat on the couch, half hidden under Sumo; RK900’s LED had been red most of the night.

However, the detective never tried to hit him again and for the next couple of days he kept his distance. Of course, being Gavin Reed, the detective returned to his rude self pretty fast. And that’s when RK900 started to talk back, not taking his shit anymore. It had taken some back up from Connor first - their wireless connection came in handy at that point, until RK900 was fluent in countering his partner’s sarcasm and crass remarks.

Movement on the other end of the room has Connor moving again. He receives a ping in greeting as RK900, or Nines, sets foot into the bullpen. He holds the door for his partner, who is too busy on his phone to notice it. The two have returned from lunch at a bistro near the precinct and Connor is pleased to see the white plastic bag Nines is carrying. He takes it from his brother when he passes him on his way to his desk, saying thanks to his brother and nodding a greeting to the detective.

Hank only grunts something, taking a large bite of the pastrami sandwich he just unwrapped.

Reed doesn’t acknowledge him, he stalks towards his desk and lets himself fall into his chair. His phone slides on the desk and he immediately pulls his keyboard towards him to get to work. He has to wait for a file to load however and that’s when his attention lands on the man two desks over.

“What the fuck, Anderson? Where did you get that from?”

“I asked Nines to bring something for the lieutenant,” Connor answers in his stead. “He was too busy to be thinking about proper nutrition, so I placed an order at the bistro.”

“Christ, so now you’ve got two androids to take care of you?” Gavin snickers, his hand automatically moving up to receive the cup of coffee Nines brings him. “Thanks,” he says absentmindedly, before gesturing with his free hand towards the lieutenant and looking back to his partner. “Really, Nines? Is he your sugar daddy now too? Are you two sharing him?”

“You’re one to talk, Reed,” Hank says after another bite of his sandwich. He eyes the cup of coffee in Reed’s hand.

“Gross, Reed! Real mature.” Hank grunts, at the same time as Nines says: “Stop projecting, detective.”

The way Reed flusters is a good example of how well talking back works with him, especially when Nines does it.

“Now who’s projecting?” Gavin exclaims. “You’re the one with his personal caretaker, not me!”

Connor detects no lie in that statement. The detective believes what he says. He opens up a wireless connection.

<Connor> The detective is oblivious, isn’t he?

<RK900> Gavin Reed is an outstanding detective, I wouldn’t call him oblivious.

<Connor> Going out for lunch was your idea, wasn’t it?

<RK900> That’s correct. The detective had a cereal bar for breakfast, I thought it wise to make him sit down for a real lunch.

<Connor> And he didn’t ask you to bring him coffee.

<RK900> I always bring him coffee when we come in, you know that.

<Connor> Then the term that comes to mind to describe detective Reed’s behaviour is still ‘oblivious’.

<RK900> Selectively oblivious maybe.

<RK900> Thank you for the picture. I like it very much.

<Connor> You’re welcome.

A little while later Connor sees detective Reed walk over to Nines’ desk, to look at something on his monitor. When he sees the detective glancing at the memo board, he tunes in to the conversation, pretending to read something at his terminal.

“... have that picture up?”

“Because I like it. It reminds me of a special day.”

Detective Reed is silent for a moment, one hand on the back of Nines’ chair, the other hand leaning on the desk. He studies the picture and Connor sees his face go soft. It’s only for a moment though, that shitty half smirk is back pretty quickly.

“Yeah, okay, I guess it’s not every day you end up between a woman’s legs.”

The detective coughs nervously, straightening up. He looks at the picture again and then bumps Nines’ shoulder with his fist. “Who knew you had it in you to become a midwife, huh?”

“That’s Reese’s mother you’re talking about, detective. We helped bring new life into this world. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t joke about it.”

Although Nines doesn’t look up at Reed, he probably knows the detective’s cheeks turn slightly pink at his words.

All pretense in Connor is gone, he doesn’t look at his terminal anymore, all his attention is focused on his brother and his partner. He is ready to intervene the moment the detective verbally attacks Nines in this vulnerable condition.

There is silence instead of a reaction. Even though it was a rhetorical question, Connor expected his brother to say something in return. Yet Nines stares at his hands, holding them in front of him with the fingers spread out. Connor can’t see his LED from this position, but he bets it’s no longer blue. Reed sees it too, looking from Nines’ temple to his hands and back. The detective makes a half turn and rests his backside against the desk, now facing his partner. He’s about to say something, when Nines speaks up, sounding detached.

“I can break an android’s wrist with one hand. With two hands I can sever a limb from the body. I was made to stop a revolution, by all means necessary. I was made to end life, not help it begin.”

Connor is pleasantly surprised by the detective’s words; they show a great deal of compassion, the opposite of Reed’s more well known traits.

Reed puts his hand over Nines’ lower arm, seeking his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what you are made for. It’s about what you do . You are a police detective. You protect and serve, just like the rest of us here.”

Reed keeps his voice down to keep things private, though his words don’t sound less urgent.

“So what if those fucking freaks at CyberLife made you the perfect killing machine? You chose to do something different. You helped a baby get born for fuck’s sake! Those hands were the first to touch Reese.”

Nines looks at his hands again, the empty stare from before is gone. “She was so slippery,” he says quietly.

Reed chuckles, removing his hand from Nines’ arm and crossing his arms in front of his chest. He looks relaxed now. “I would’ve dropped her for sure!”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Nines answers earnestly, looking up at his partner. It makes Gavin flustered again. Who knew it would be so easy to embarrass the detective? All it takes is an honest observation of his partner.

Said partner changes the subject abruptly. “Can you take a look at the timestamps on the footage I found?”

After a last look to be sure everything is back to normal, Connor turns back to his own terminal. He opens their connection.

Reed recovers quickly, turning back around towards the terminal. “Show me what you got, tin can.”

The two detectives continue to discuss their case, like they didn’t have their short heart to heart just a minute ago.

<Connor> Are you all right?

<RK900> Yes.

<RK900> It’s impolite to listen in to other people’s conversations.

<Connor> I just wanted to make sure the detective wasn’t upsetting you. I must say I was pleasantly surprised about the way he reacted.

<RK900> Surprised?

<Connor> Yes. Didn’t his words surprise you?

<RK900> Of course not. He’s my partner, he’s got my back.

<< 4/10 >>

DBH Partners series masterpost

#dbh partners series #detroit become human #dbh #fanfiction #reblogging is appreciated #gavin reed #rk900 #reed900 #gavin reed x rk900 #also available on AO3 #and wattpad

10 notes · View notes

projectorpheus · 1 year

Text

NIX ⋅𖥔⋅ 29, NB ⋅𖥔⋅ WEAPONRY

trigger warnings: abandonment, implied abuse

You are a twin, but not quite half of a whole. Rather, you were born with too much — too much spirit; too much personality; too much hunger. As if, even within the womb, you craved far more than you could be given, entering the world with a cry that could silence Cerebrus; that could make even Hades shift in his throne. Twin flames that had been meant to be held in the arms of the Sakda patriarch merging into one singular wildfire that flared within your chest and singed anyone who came near.

You had the intelligence of two; you were the beginning of a crescendo that could start a revolution — but they preferred your sister. An empty shell of a being, easily molded into the image of the pristine Sakda heir — soft, while you were all serrated edges and bloodied knuckles. They stuffed you into a cage; into an airtight vacuum of their expectations — until the fire within you was forced to be snuffed out, unable to find a semblance of oxygen to cling onto. When The Divide was implemented, perhaps it should have been no surprise that they chose to discard you altogether. Troublemaker; hopeless; willful — NONE OF THESE NAMES WOUNDED AS DEEP AS SACRIFICE. You were abandoned aboveground in the name of charity; in the name of equality — as the world applauded S Corp for giving up one of their own, only you knew the truth.

Yet what had been intended as your exile became your very sanctuary. The characteristics that had been spoken with disdain within your family conjugated to SURVIVAL aboveground. In this land of hunger; of violence; of desperation — you were able to nurse back to health the flame that been extinguished by compulsion and abandonment, to shape it into into a beast with an appetite that gnaws your chest at night. Feed it rage; feed it blood; feed it vengeance. They wanted you to be tender. They should have known better. To become tender, first — FIRST COMES THE BRUTALITY.

DYNAMICS

PERDITA ⋅𖥔⋅ THE CASKET IS WIDE ENOUGH FOR US BOTH

Your twin, your other half. She, whom you had taken everything within the womb. You sometimes think that it would be futile to blame her — as clay is defenseless in its molding, she became your parents' caricature of perfection simply because it was in her nature. But you remember the emptiness in her eyes as she watched your crucification; saw the set of her lips as you were abandoned to the elements. Without movement — without so much as a cry for mercy. Every time you stare at your reflection, you force your fist to settle at your side instead of shattering the mirror; instead of marring the features that so closely resemble hers. At the end of the world, you hope it's her that you face. And you hope to skin her raw — to gleam what truly lies behind her fixed innocence. You almost pray it's deception. In your mind, monstrosity is far better than cowardice.

FENRIR ⋅𖥔⋅ TWO WOLVES MINGLED THEIR BLOOD / IN STONY EMBRACE

Filaments of his image flicker throughout your memories of childhood. But he was never more than a mirage; the golden child of S Corp, born with a crown set upon his head while you were crushed by the very halo that should have marked your divinity. It was only when you were made to live aboveground that you developed something of a camaraderie — he was resourceful, a natural leader, and you were all too willing to dirty your hands in the name of survival. But he was always too soft; too sympathetic; too good. He reprimanded your plans for revolution. He still cared about those corrupted beyond reproach. You knew it, then — the difference between LEAVING and BEING LEFT. He would never understand. And you couldn't help the smile that bloomed upon your lips as you left him for dead. The ones he holds so dear — this is what they taught you.

JUNO ⋅𖥔⋅ I HAVE NO NAME; FOR I AM ONLY MEMORY SEVERED FROM YOU

Before you found sanctuary in the mouth of the beast, they were your only source of reprieve. There's an intolerable tenderness when your vision fills with them, late at night when the adrenaline has worn off and all that is left in front of you are barren walls and your own hands, calloused and dirt-stained. JUNO had been the only one with enough courage to hold them, back then. You know of their efforts to find you in this Hell — they don't know of your efforts to hide. It is your first and final gift to them; this ignorance. Because if you were to meet again, you know it would not be happiness behind their gaze, but grief — so cleanly have you massacred the child you had once been.

OPEN ⋅𖥔⋅ LINN MASHANNOAD

#open.#nix.#all.

0 notes

bonviesnack234 · 14 days

Text

Sustainable Snacking: Dried Fruits and Eco-Friendly Packaging

In a world where health-conscious customers are looking for economical and nutritious nibble choices, Bonvie Solidify Dried Snacks develops as a frontrunner within the showcase. Advertising a luscious cluster of freeze-dried natural products in eco-friendly bundling, Bonvie reclassifies the concept of snacking, prioritizing wellbeing, maintainability, and flavor. In this web journal, we dig into the domain of economical snacking, investigating the benefits of dried natural products and the eco-friendly practices employed by Bonvie to make a guilt-free snacking involvement.

The Rise of Sustainable Snacking

With the increasing awareness of environmental issues and the importance of health and wellness, the demand for sustainable snack options has witnessed a significant surge. Consumers are no longer satisfied with conventional snacks laden with artificial ingredients and excessive packaging. Instead, they are gravitating towards wholesome alternatives that not only nourish their bodies but also minimize their ecological footprint.

Dried fruits have emerged as a popular choice among health-conscious individuals seeking convenient and nutritious snacks. Packed with vitamins, minerals, and fiber, dried fruits offer a natural burst of energy without the guilt of added sugars or preservatives. Moreover, their long shelf life makes them an ideal option for on-the-go snacking, reducing food waste in the process.

Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks: Redefining Sustainable Snacking

At the forefront of the sustainable snacking revolution stands Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks, a company committed to delivering healthy and delicious snacks while prioritizing environmental stewardship. Bonvie's range of freeze-dried fruits, including strawberries, apples, and bananas, are not only irresistibly tasty but also packed with 100% fruit-like nutrients, making them a wholesome choice for consumers of all ages.

What sets Bonvie apart is its unwavering commitment to sustainability, evident in its eco-friendly packaging solutions. Unlike traditional snack packaging, which often contributes to plastic pollution, Bonvie utilizes innovative packaging materials that are biodegradable and recyclable. By minimizing its environmental impact, Bonvie sets a new standard for sustainable snacking practices within the industry.

Healthy, Yummy, and Gluten-Free: The Bonvie Experience

Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks are not only healthy but also undeniably delicious. Each bite offers a burst of natural flavor, reminiscent of biting into fresh fruit. Whether you're craving the sweet tanginess of strawberries or the crispness of apples, Bonvie has a snack to satisfy every palate.

Moreover, Bonvie snacks are gluten-free and vegan, catering to individuals with dietary restrictions or lifestyle choices. By excluding gluten and animal products from its ingredients, Bonvie ensures that everyone can enjoy its delectable snacks without compromising on taste or nutrition.

No Added Sugar: 100% Real Fruit Goodness

One of the hallmarks of Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks is its commitment to using only natural ingredients. Unlike many commercial snacks that are loaded with added sugars and artificial sweeteners, Bonvie's products contain no added sugar, preserving the natural sweetness of the fruits. This makes them an ideal choice for those looking to indulge in guilt-free snacking without the worry of hidden sugars or empty calories.

By prioritizing eco-friendly packaging, Bonvie not only reduces plastic waste but also sets an example for other companies to follow. Through innovation and dedication to sustainability, Bonvie proves that it's possible to enjoy delicious snacks without harming the planet.

As consumers become increasingly aware of the impact of their purchasing decisions on the environment, the demand for sustainable snack options continues to grow. Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks stands at the forefront of this movement, offering a delectable range of eco-friendly snacks that are both nutritious and delicious.

With its emphasis on natural ingredients, gluten-free and vegan options, and innovative packaging solutions, Bonvie sets a new standard for sustainable snacking. By choosing Bonvie, consumers can indulge in healthy and yummy snacks while contributing to a healthier planet for future generations.

In conclusion, sustainable snacking is not just a trend but a conscious lifestyle choice. With Bonvie Freeze Dried Snacks leading the way, consumers can enjoy guilt-free snacking experiences that nourish both body and soul. So, why settle for ordinary snacks when you can join the sustainable snacking revolution with Bonvie?

#dried fruit snacks #freeze dried blueberries #freeze dried fruits #dried fruits #freeze dried mango #healthy dried fruits #dry fruit snacks

0 notes

leonbloder · 4 months

Text

Through Love Alone

Every once in a while, I read a poem that just hits differently. In my devotional reading the other day, I encountered a poem for the Season of Epiphany by Gian Carlo Menotti that I had to share. This poem encapsulates so much of what many people get wrong about the Christian faith, specifically Jesus himself. Christianity has become a parody of itself in the public eye of late. It doesn't resemble the Way of Christ outlined in the Gospels- a way marked by love, suffering, and sacrifice for the sake of the world. Instead, the dominant forms of Christianity that seem to make the most noise seem to favor a version of the faith characterized by winning, triumphant theology, exclusivity, individualism, and politics that lean hard toward theocracy. This is not the Jesus we see in the Gospels. What we see is beautifully captured by Menotti in the following poem:

You might sum this poem up with these words: Christ has come. Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

And there is more embedded in the lovely words that Menotti uses to describe the nature of Christ and what his coming means to us and all of Creation.

There is no triumphant theology here, save for the way the words speak to a new world and a new life where those on the outside find open doors to the inside, and the only way to find this new life is by losing our own.

It's easy to see why so many Christians chafe at the idea that love alone will bring God's kingdom.

We're accustomed to winning and losing, and the "side" that is most often depicted as winning within the Christian faith is draped in an American flag and kneeling on the necks of their enemies.

If that seems provocative to you, then all you need to do is peruse the inter-webs and social media to watch countless videos of preachers and self-proclaimed Christians espousing that very thing.

No matter our political bent, this should pause us all. The signs and symbols of our faith aren't a raised fist or a flag. The signs and symbols of our faith are a manger, a cross, and an empty tomb.

We follow a Savior who didn't arrive in triumph but entered into history a helpless child, born in a cave to homeless parents, who would eventually become refugees in a foreign land with their young son to escape oppression.

We follow a Savior who spent his ministry healing, speaking words of peace, reaching out to the marginalized, restoring outcasts, calling the religious elites and powerful out on their hypocrisy, and then demonstrating what true love looks like by taking on the worst the world has to offer and rising above it.

We follow a Savior who didn't spark an armed revolution. We follow a Savior who came in peace, forgave his enemies, and laid down his life for his friends.

What charades itself as Christianity in our current culture has gone so far afield that it no longer resembles the movement that began with Jesus of Nazareth all those two thousand years ago.

It is through love alone that God brings God's kingdom.

And it is through love alone that we have the power to join God in this good work through the Spirit of the Christ, who is our guide and example.

May it be so for all of us, and may the grace and peace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with us all, now and forever. Amen.

#presbymusings #dailydevotion #leonbloder #dailydevotional #dailydevo #christian living #leon bloder #faith #spiritualgrowth #spirituality

0 notes

tasconnectlogistics · 9 months

Text

Storage Metamorphosis: How Tasmania's Solutions Reshape Spaces

The Enchanting Universe of Storage

The ability to efficiently manage and optimize storage has become a game-changing idea in the modern world, where space is frequently at a premium. With its own set of logistical and topographical difficulties, Tasmania has seen a rise in creative storage solutions that are revolutionizing the way we use and make the most of space. The intriguing world of storage solutions in Tasmania and their function in changing settings are explored in this blog post.

Revealing Creative Solutions for Storage

Efficiency in a New Light

One way to conceptualize the process of container destuffing is as a meticulously planned organizational symphony. Streamlining inventory management, cutting clutter, and guaranteeing that every item reaches its assigned place are all part of this creative approach to container emptying.

Envision a warehouse that has been optimized to become an efficient model. Every square inch of available space is maximized using container destuffing, making it simple to store and retrieve objects and removing the need to allocate unnecessary space.

What Effect Tasmanian Freight Has

Smooth Communication

Synchronizing Cargo Movement: Envision a situation in which the transportation of freight from Tasmania is not only effective but also easily included into the storage procedure. When freight arrives and is subsequently stored, innovative methods like container destuffing establish a smooth link that reduces disturbances and delays.

Efficiency Over Distance: Consider how container destuffing could help locations like Tasmania and others get closer. The supply chain's total efficiency is improved by this strategy, which guarantees that cargo is handled carefully and precisely.

The Function of Organizing Areas

Reaching Full Potential

From Chaos to Order: Imagine how creative storage solutions might transform an unorganized area into one that is ordered. When clutter is eliminated by container destuffing, an environment where each thing has a specific place is created, which boosts productivity and lowers stress levels.

Quick Retrieval: Picture a situation in which it takes no longer than a few minutes to locate a certain item. By streamlining inventory management and facilitating the easy location and retrieval of things, container destuffing ultimately saves significant time and money.

Tasmanian Businesses in Transition

Accumulating Productivity

Improving Operations: See companies in Tasmania get a lot of extra production. By transforming the way items are managed, container destuffing allows businesses to concentrate on their core competencies and leaves the finer points of storage management to the professionals.

Effective Allocation of Resources: Contemplate a situation in which resources are distributed effectively, reducing wastage and maximizing expenses. Businesses can save money and increase profitability by making the most of their space thanks to container destuffing.

To sum up

In the ever-changing world of storage solutions, Tasmania is becoming a hub for innovation. Rethinking how space is used can have a profoundly positive impact, as demonstrated by container destuffing. Imagine what it will do to the flow of commodities from Tasmania to other areas where connectivity and efficiency are seamlessly interwoven, making the supply chain run more smoothly and quickly.

To sum up, efficiency and innovation are reshaping the landscape of storage solutions in Tasmania. With its ability to maximize space, streamline procedures, and redefine the handling of commodities, container destuffing has emerged as a key component of this revolution. As time goes on, Tasmania's establishments and commercial areas will profit from these progressive methods, fostering a more structured, effective, and efficient atmosphere.

#storage solutions in Tasmania

0 notes

katiescapstone · 2 years

Text

Nothing, or Modernity and the Death of the Spirit

78,000 years ago, people hunted, gathered, and lived in caves like the Panga ya Saidi cave network in Kenya’s Rift Valley. 50,000 years ago, people hunted, gathered, and lived in caves like the Panga ya Saidi cave network in Kenya’s Rift Valley. 10,000 years ago, people hunted, gathered, and lived in caves like the Panga ya Saidi cave network in Kenya’s Rift Valley (Shipton et al). Clearly, for the vast majority of human history, social change happened at a glacial pace. Yet in the age of modernity, a few hundred years marked by transformative movements like the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution, human society changed drastically and rapidly in almost every way. Authors Herman Melville and Ernest Hemingway, in the 1800s and early 1900s respectively, each responded strongly to modernity in their works. Melville’s short story “Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street” and Hemingway’s "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" both reflect a sense that modernity has created a profound emptiness—a kind of death of the human spirit—and provided nothing to fill that hole nor to replace the human connections it has severed.

Both stories feature a character who feels very powerfully the effects of modernity and another character who has bought-in to the social order and doesn’t understand the problem. In Melville’s work, these are Bartleby and the narrator. Bertleby works as a scrivener, which is essentially a human copy machine. At first, Bartleby embodies the efficient mechanical production valued in American society, “an industrializing, urbanizing capitalist society that was becoming increasingly bureaucratized and enamored of regimented routine” (Urie). The narrator notes that Bartleby worked all day and all night, but while the narrator as his boss would benefit from Bartleby’s productivity, he can’t help but note that Bartleby did so “palely, mechanically” (Melville 6). After a few days, however, Bartleby begins to respond to his employer’s requests with the phrase “I would prefer not to.” In doing so, he asserts his own humanity. No machine can say it has a preference, only a person can. However, this act of defiance against the socioeconomic system of control only serves to reveal how drastically modernity has impacted the human spirit, as Bartleby is never capable of articulating what he would prefer to do instead. He doesn’t break free, rather, he simply stays in the office doing nothing all the time. It is as if the system has rendered Bertleby “a human automaton whose banal labor alienates him from his spiritual and emotional dimensions, thereby facilitating his alienation from society at large” (Urie). This alienation is highlighted when Bartleby ends up in jail, a place whose entire purpose is to remove people from society. He ultimately dies of starvation. Put another way, he dies of nothing.

In Hemingway’s piece, it is the older waiter who grasps this nothingness that a younger waiter who doesn’t yet understand. The older waiter relates to the deaf old man who drinks at their café until closing time and wants to explain to the younger waiter, but the disconnect between the two is so vast that the older waiter simply explains it to nobody with the younger waiter already gone. He says he is like “all those who need a light for the night," a light against the darkness that “was not a fear or dread. It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too” (Hemingway 3). In the end, he recites the Lord’s Prayer with the word nada inserted, nothingness where spirit used to be.

Works Cited

Gabriel, Joseph F. “The Logic of Confusion in: Hemingway's ‘A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.’” College English, vol. 22, no. 8, 1961, pp. 539-546.

Kuebrich, David. “Melville’s Doctrine of Assumptions: The Hidden Ideology of Capitalist Production in ‘Bartleby.’” New England Quarterly, vol. 69, no. 3, 1996, pp. 381–405.

Melville, Herman. “Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.” The Piazza Tales, 1856.

Hemingway, Ernest. "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." 1933.

Shipton, Ceri, et al. “78,000-year-old Record of Middle and Later Stone Age Innovation in an East African Tropical Forest.” Nature Communications, vol. 9, no. 1832, 2018.

Urie, Andrew. “Melville’s Majestic Missive: ‘Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.’” New American Studies Journal: A Forum, vol. 71, 2021, doi:10.18422/71-04.

Weinstein, Cindy. “Melville, Labor, and the Discourses of Reception.” The Cambridge Companion to Herman Melville, edited by Robert S. Levine, Cambridge UP, 1998, pp. 202–23.

0 notes

yqc123 · 2 years

Text

"King Xi" was at a dead end, and kept taking hpay picture cakes to make money Hpay, hcoin and hdollar are all sucking at the marrow. The ants should wake up

"King Xi" was at a dead end, and kept taking hpay picture cakes to make money

Hpay, hcoin and hdollar are all sucking at the marrow. The ants should wake up

Today is the eighth day of the first month of the Chinese lunar calendar. Guo Wengui's vigorous so-called "sweet honey" movement is stillborn and has become a big joke at the beginning of the year of the tiger. However, guowengui has long been used to slapping his face, and he still likes to make money in the live broadcast room. No, hpay is "strong attack" again. "Brother bully" spits and boasts in GTV live broadcast. Lying about hpay will be the only way for Chinese people to put money and transfer money safely in the world in the future. He claims that it can be used anywhere in the world, and continues to sell hunger marketing. He calls on "comrades in arms" to buy hdollar/hcoin with wechat Alipay to realize wealth freedom. Hpay can't withdraw cash for value-added, let alone investment. "Master Guo" began to steal money.

In recent years, Guo Wengui used the "disclosure revolution" to cheat a bowl full of money. All the money in the ants' pockets has become the capital for the "plague turtle" to live in luxury. His endless efforts have no return of a penny, leaving many ants with bitter tears, nowhere to sue, breaking their teeth and swallowing blood. According to the experience of these years, the size of Wen GUI's pie painting and the depth of the trap dug for all believers are no surprise. Hpay, hcoin and hdollar are like a dead cycle of withdrawal, all of which are Ponzi schemes that can't get in and out of real money. Recently, Apple store made it clear that hpay is just a game gift card. After purchase, it can only be consumed in the happy circle, or transferred to other members of the consumption circle to buy ground stall gfashion. Deception skills are found out, and then build new deception skills. This pit can be avoided, but there is always a pit that suits your appetite. People on earth can't stop Guo Wengui's deception. The new year has begun, and it's time to revamp the trick. The ghost of hpay, which was praised by Guo Wengui, has disappeared, but it has laid a snare for "comrades in arms".

Guowengui threatened that h-pay was a sharp blade inserted into the liver of the high-level relatives of the Communist Party of China. Whoever stopped this action was a spy or a fake class, and he had a word in advance. If ant powder did not cooperate and did not focus on the interests of his comrades in arms, he would bear the consequences. At that time, if the Federal Reserve can give the sufferer 10 cents, it will be cleared according to legal action, and then take legal means to freeze it for you. Freezing does not guarantee that you can come back in the future. H-pay was still in its womb, and Guo Wengui had already regarded it as a golden chicken laying golden eggs. Various routines came face to face, and the thugs of various farms had been arranged to nuclear coins, check the investment of ants, and prepare to collect wool. The so-called legal basis is all made by Guo Wengui's mouth, and it is also the naked rhythm of open fire robbery.

Guo Wengui, who ran at the end of the road, has cheated money and made his eyes red, creating one mirage after another. He is also a lure, a threat, a guarantee, and an oath. All his extreme means make all believers tremble, and he begins to doubt life in the clouds, and he doesn't know where to go. All this is enough to prove that the plague turtle has become addicted to wealth. He tried every means to empty the last bit of instant noodles in the ant powder pocket, and his bloodthirsty nature was undoubtedly exposed. Fat and big ears, the Buddha's name does not leave the mouth of the "bully brother", is simply a devil who eats people and does not spit bones. The dream of ant powder getting rich overnight is completely broken, and even the coffin has no news. Sad tears flow back into a river. It's really a mistake to get on a thief's boat once, and it's a lamb to be slaughtered all his life.

Heaven's iniquity can still be forgiven, and one's own iniquity can't live. Recently, the judge's ruling in Guo Wengui's contempt of court case has been settled. The "leader Guo" must immediately pay $134million to Pax company, that is, from May 15, 2021 to February 7, 2022, 500000 dollars a day. The amount payable to Pax company will continue to accumulate at the rate of 500000 dollars a day until she returns lady may to jurisdiction. Such a punishment can be said to have given Guo Wengui an arrow through his heart, and also gave many sober ants a little hope. The balance of the law began to tilt towards the ants.

Beset with difficulties at home and abroad, plagued by lawsuits, and heavily indebted, "King Xi" seems to be a grasshopper after autumn, and can't jump for a few times. I advise those ants who have been cheated from the beginning to the end that it is time to wake up, pick up the weapon of law as soon as possible, and "join forces" with sober "comrades in arms" to recover their hard-earned money. It should be noted that those who save themselves will be saved by heaven, and those who abandon themselves will be abandoned by heaven. The beauty of the mirage will eventually become cannon fodder on the road of plague turtle fraud, leaving their wives and children separated and wandering in the streets.

0 notes

mypoisonedvine · 3 years

Text

𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 || (very dark) 70s!Bucky x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: he tried to be sympathetic to your cause, he really did, but he couldn’t just let you get away with disrespecting him like that.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2.4k

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: smut (noncon, plus breeding kink and tons of degradation, like very heavy degradation, and multiple orgasms/overstimulation), misogyny, a bit of dumbification, housewife kink, ‘sir’ kink (brief), choking, implied anal, spitting (not on the reader, unfortunately lmao), quite a bit more than period-typical sexism, awful awful awful this fic is absolutely awful

Brooklyn, 1970.

Bucky’s mornings were sacred. He had his rituals: showering, cooking breakfast, reading the paper and having his first drink and cigarette of the day, all before he left for work.

But throughout this entire week, his mornings had been ruined by the stupid fucking protest in the park just outside his window. And to think he’d actually paid more for an apartment with a view of the park— he hadn’t realized then that the “view” was gonna be a bunch of hippies creating awful music and an unbearable smell that left his whole apartment reeking of reefer if he dared to open his window.

Attempting to ignore it for a week only made him more resentful with each passing day. Each time he figured the crowd would surely leave soon or at least be quiet for the night, they seemed to somehow get louder just to spite him.

He probably should've waited until he was a bit less agitated to go down and try to bargain with you, but he stormed down there instead and tapped you on the shoulder when his presence alone wasn't enough to distract you from your incessant chanting.

“Would you consider being quiet?" he asked firmly. "I have to work in the morning and—”

“We won’t be quiet until women have equal treatment under the eyes of society and the law,” you interrupted to explain condescendingly, shocking him with your icy tone. He could hardly believe your attitude, in fact he couldn’t remember any woman speaking to him that way in his life: so far, he wasn’t enjoying it.

“I just thought you could be a little more respectful,” Bucky shot back, even more stern. “You’re not making anyone wanna support your movement by acting entitled and inconveniencing everyone.”

“I’m sorry the revolution is inconvenient for you,” you replied, but it didn’t sound much like an apology.

He wanted to say more but you blew him off and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him confused and irritated and livid. Up until now he had been quietly skeptical about all this talk of liberation but now he saw it for the poison it really was. A girl like you— who could've been a real looker with some willingness to try and a better attitude— talking to a man like him with so much hate and over what, a polite request?

This could not be tolerated; he couldn't let you get away with acting like that. And lucky for you, he was exactly the guy you needed to teach you your lesson.

The good thing about hippies high on shrooms is they aren’t the most observant. When he returned to the demonstration area the next night, he was able to grab you roughly and pull you back from the crowd with almost no trouble at all, dragging you into an empty alley and clamping his hand down over your mouth as your eyes went wide and your throat vibrated with silent screams.

“Shh, shh,” he soothed against your ear, “whatcha fightin’ for?”

He liked the way it felt to have you squirming against his grasp, using all your strength and not even getting close to escaping.

“How does it feel to know I can do anything I want to you?” he growled against your ear. “C’mon, sweetheart, can’t you put up a better fight than that? I thought you believed in equality… you should be able to get away if you’re as strong as I am.”

He felt your warm tears trailing down around his fingers which held your face tightly, the struggle of your limbs slowing and weakening slightly. His cock was already getting hard as he imagined the moment you would finally give in.

“You remember me, don’t you? You didn’t need to be so rude, darlin’. You could’ve just been nice and none of this would be happening.”

Your elbow shot back into his ribs and he exhaled sharply but didn't let go, grabbing your wrists and holding your arms to your chest as he pinned you to the wall.

"Oh, that's not gonna work, babydoll. I'm so much stronger and bigger than you, all you're gonna do is make me angrier. Is that what you want, sweetheart? To make me angry?" he asked mockingly, leaning in to lick the shell of your ear as you tried to turn away. “Pretty girl like you would make a great wife, why would you want anything else?”

Ignoring your struggle, he reached into your shirt and purred as he groped your chest, your nipples hardening when he pinched them. “Maybe I can get behind this bra-burning thing if it means having easier access to your tits all the time,” he grinned. “How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself when I can see them through your shirt? Shouldn’t be showing ‘em off if you don’t want any attention.”

As fun as it was to play with your tits, he had bigger plans, so he reached lower to start tugging down your jeans, your legs uselessly kicking as he exposed your ass and thighs.

His cock was already rock hard as he hastily opened his fly and pulled it out with one hand, leaning back to spit on it quickly. He spread the fluid with a few strokes over his length, figuring it would be enough to get inside you even if he didn’t really care if he hurt you.

Your eyes went wide and your head bucked wildly as he poked the head of it against your opening, your body fighting a little harder once again. The irony of that, though, was that you were already plenty wet in spite of what he had expected; it was so much funnier to watch you struggle now that he knew you were not-so-secretly enjoying it.

“Don’t be so dramatic," he chuckled darkly, "I bet you can take a cock real easy since you believe in all this ‘free love’ bullshit.”

He groaned as he pushed into you, impressed by how tight you were— so tight that it made his cock throb right away, your walls pulsing and rippling around him as he filled you to the brim.

“Oh fuck, there you go…” he hissed, smiling as you sobbed harder and struggled a bit more before finally relaxing into his tight embrace. "You're gonna take it all, baby, every fuckin' inch of me."

A hard sob choked out of you every time he slammed himself to the end of you; he could feel the hatred radiating from you, the way you would kill him in a moment if only you weren't so weak. But he could feel your reluctant acceptance, too, and the way it was slowly turning into euphoria— you were finally starting to like how it felt to be helpless to him, it was obvious with the way your pussy gave him such a warm and willing welcome while your pretty tits got even harder.

You clearly wanted to hate him, but your body knew better.

"You think I'm a sexist pig, I'm sure," he chuckled, "but I'm really not— I love women! And you know what I love most? Huh?"

He felt you nervously shake your head behind his hand and he laughed.

"I love the way you get so dumb when you get a cock in you. All those useless little thoughts leaving your head when you're finally getting fucked right."

Your cries got louder even though they were still muffled by his hand, your sweet little pussy giving him a squeeze of encouragement.

"It's okay to like it, babydoll, it's what you were meant for. Made to be my brainless fucktoy… born to serve me," he growled. “You really should learn to appreciate," he grunted between brutal thrusts, "that your only purpose is to keep my dinner hot and my cock warm.”

Your eyes rolled back in your head and he felt your walls bear down on him tightly, wetness seeping down around him.

"Oh fuck, are you coming? Shit," he moaned. "Looks like you really needed to be put in your place, just needed to be used... god, you made a fuckin' mess, too, you soaked my cock…"

Your little hands tightened into fists, pushing against where his arm held them back, but he stayed steady as he pumped into you, letting himself get a bit lost in the feeling of you while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

It felt so damn good to have a cunt coming around him, but it was even better knowing that you were fighting it and still couldn’t stop it, completely helpless to how good he was making you feel.

You almost screamed under his hand when he reached down to quickly rub your clit, your back arching to try to run away from his touch; poor thing, you were so sensitive it probably hurt you, but he was having too much fun watching you realize you were going to come again.

"Yeah, gimme another one, slut," he grinned, your legs quivering as waves of slick coated him and started to even drip down your legs. "Can't stop coming like the dirty whore you are, huh? Bet nobody's made you come like this before— cause nobody's given it to you right. Nobody's shown ya what it's supposed to be like when a man takes you and makes you his."

From the way you moaned softly, teary eyes fluttering shut, he knew you liked the sound of that.

"Yeah, wanna be mine, baby? Wanna be my little slut? Or do you want me to pump this pussy full and leave you here on the ground for any other man that comes by to use you if he needs?"

You groaned softly, a weak little noise, and he felt his cock flex; as much as he wanted this to last as long as possible, he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“M’close, honey,” he breathed. “I’m gonna come.”

He laughed breathlessly when you shut your eyes, like you were trying to go somewhere else in your mind, trying to pretend this wasn’t real. But it was real, and he wasn’t going to let you forget that. He was elated to make your nightmares come true.

"I sure wouldn't mind pulling out and covering that pretty face you've got,” he hissed. “It'd be funny to see you go back to your little march and show them how owned you are. But not today, babydoll, I think there's only one way you're gonna learn your lesson."

Another muffled gurgle from you, and this time it didn’t even sound like protest. Maybe you were just too tired for that at this point, but it gave him hope that you could finally behave.

"I'm gonna take my hand away from your mouth and you're gonna beg me to come inside you, is that clear?" he grunted, feeling you nod vigorously. "You're not gonna scream are you?"

You shook your head, and he slowly pulled his hand from your mouth as you gasped for air. "Please— come in me," you panted.

"Address me as 'sir'," he instructed.

"Please, sir, I— I want you to come," you whined.

He chuckled right against your ear, feeling you shiver in his grasp. "Honey, I don't give a fuck what you want."

To think you ever resisted your natural desire for submission was absurd now, considering the way that statement made you openly moan, your walls fluttering around him.

“Gonna fill you so fuckin’ deep you’ll never get it outta you, sweetheart.”

One more orgasm washed over you, making him laugh darkly while he watched you bite your lip to attempt to stay quiet; but that was impossible once he fucked you harder just to spite you, having to hold you tight to make sure he got as deep in you as possible. Your whole body shook as he slammed into you, and he laughed at how dumb and helpless you looked.

"Bet you're on those new birth control pills," he grimaced. They really weren’t that new, but he still hadn’t gotten used to them. "Makes me sick to think you're letting a perfectly good womb go to waste. Betcha want me to breed you nice and deep, yeah? Wanna get knocked up? You don't even care that I'm a stranger, you wanna get your pussy filled by any random man's come so you can have any random man's baby, ain't that right?"

At first he had worried that you would scream or cry for help, but now his concern was more that your moans would be too loud and somebody would catch the two of you in this alley. Even if it was obvious now that you wanted it, public indecency was still a crime.

Good thing he had a new way to shut you up: his hand tight around your throat, silencing your sobs to blessed silence. It was so hot to have you entirely at his mercy like that, to feel your pulse beneath his fingers, that he couldn’t stop himself from speeding up his thrusts suddenly.

"Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasped, “fuck, y-you… little whore…”

He had a habit of running his mouth when he was right on the edge, and the way your pussy was milking him for all he was worth made him spit out whatever filth he could think of.

“Stupid fuckin' bitch," he mumbled under his breath as he fucked you as fast and rough as he could, chasing his high with no regard for your pleasure or your pain. "Dumb whore, fuck, you stupid— ah, shit— stupid fucking cunt!"

He cried out as he filled you, groaning loudly with every pump of his seed into your waiting body. Only when he was sure every drop was inside you did he release his grip on your neck, a loud gasp coming first before a few coughs and chokes that only made his cock harder despite having just filled you.

You started to struggle again, and he couldn’t believe it— after everything, did you still not know your place?

There wasn’t much time to relax and enjoy the afterglow when you were already trying to get away, and so he had to hold you tight again while he smiled exhaustedly.

“N-no,” you stammered, and he covered your mouth again as he pulled your head back to rest on his shoulder. Clearly he hadn’t done enough yet to fuck that word out of you.

“Where ya goin’, sweetheart?” he panted against your ear, still catching his breath, his chest covered in a thin layer of sweat where it was exposed by his shirt. “You’ve still got another hole to fill.”

#dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes dark fic #bucky barnes noncon #dark!bucky barnes smut

3K notes · View notes

bokubear · 3 years

Text

“i want you to be with you forever.” | hq boys

ft. oikawa torū, iwaizumi hajime, atsumu miya, osamu miya, kita shinsuke, suna rintarou

warnings ; none, tooth-rotting fluff

a/n ; these green borders put me in a good mood!

oikawa ☆ he hadn’t thought hard about this. i mean who would? it was simply logical, being with you forever. sitting beside you on the bed, hands entangled messily. but today, he felt the urge to say it. breathing through his nose lightly. “i want to be with you forever.” you snorted at this. “you had to say it?” laughing at his mangled expression. “you know i do.” — “well yes but you’re being sappy.” — “aw don’t be like that-“

iwaizumi ☆ it was raining, the air was frigid. it was horrible weather really. absolutely teeth-chattering. snow was flaking down the sky. strange but unusually casual for late fall. grabbing a handful of snow, you threw it playfully in his direction. “gotcha!” this teasing gesture started an epic revolution, now tackled to the ground, coat drenched in melted snow. “you idiot.” he scolded, cheeks heated with warmth of his face in the cold. “my idiot, forever.” and in a way, he spoke those words without saying them, he didn’t need to say them.

atsumu ☆ the grocery store was okay emptied at this time. hardly a person in sight to observe, atsumu pushed the cart with a pouty expression. he had ate the rest of your taiyaki and was now suffering punishment in the best way possible. he had to cook taiyaki homemade. instructions, ingredients all written down in the online document. you wouldn’t help him whatsoever. “y’know y/n, i’m really sorry and i wanna be with ya forever.” he stared downcast at the floor. “don’t try to be a suck up to me, find more ingredients.” you growled, he only turned around to pepper your face in kisses. “okay okay.. this is your only break.”

osamu ☆ it was stupid. so late into the night driving down the road in the car with osamu miya. “we didn’t have to get it this late.” you yawned, the new pound of rice seated comfortably in the backseat. “it wouldn’t be fresh if we hadn’t darlin’” he stated matter-of-a-factly, that stupid grin slapped on his face. you were tired, having to ride so far at night to get rice. but you understood osamu was excited, merrily prying the massive bag of rice from kita’s hands and nearly skipping back to the car. he loved this career. “i wanted to hate you, but i think i want to be with you forever.“ you groaned into your hands. osamu chuckled.

kita ☆ asking politely to go stargazing with you was a given. now sprawled against an old tree beaded with evidence of decay, leaves scattered and branches bare and thin. the sky was even more brilliant than before. these days, coming outside to see the sky at night was routine. “y/n.” he glanced at you, eyes round and blown. “yes shinsuke?” you asked, not looking at him; to enraptured by the sky. “i want to be with you forever.” he smiled at this, but he wasn’t gazing at the stars; instead, he was watching you, enamored but your every movement. each curve, crevice, dimple and mark on you was engraved in his head. the look you gave him when saying that, ah he was so in love.

suna ☆ had linked pinkies with you. a little habit picked up over the years. he was annoyed about you becoming distracted and wandering off. that was his excuse at least for being worried for your well-being. “you’re a prune.” you’d stuck your tongue out at him, that little dance you did whenever you received his reactions. “it hurts y’know.” and he’d pout, not really, but he thought the way you would coo was cute so he did it anyways. “shame you’ll have to be together with me forever… you want to right?” this time your expression contorted to seriousness. “isn’t this your evidence?” you pursed your lips. “well if you didn’t know, i do want to be with you forever!” — “good for you.” — “see you are a prune!”

-maak

plagiarism, repost, and editing is prohibited

#🌱#maakwrites.#oikawa torū #iwaizumi hajime #atsumu miya #osamu miya #kita shinsuke #suna rintarou #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi x reader #atsumu x reader #osamu x reader #kita x reader #suna x reader #hqxreader #haikyuuxreader #fluff #hq

377 notes · View notes

aleatoryalarmalligator · 3 years

Text

One of my most popular posts I ever made on this website/app like six-seven years ago was that I didn’t think liminal spaces, traumacore, weirdcore, dreamcore, dirtcore, clowncore etc could ever break out into the mainstream or become part of the wasteful empty consumerist landscape of late stage capitalism. I was sorta wrong, and it’s weird to see but almost weirder to see the slightly younger generation of gen z really taking to it as the new counter culture/ internet culture thing that it’s become. It’s not a dis as I still very much enjoy good art for what it is, it’s just surreal to realize how just a few odd blogs on tumblr that existed years ago that were only accessible if you were a strange person on tumblr (and likely spent too much time on here) are now so readily available on tiktok, Facebook and like, I went into hot topic the other day and saw stuff being sold that fit quite well in the style and aesthetic.

It just never ceases to surprise me how right some of the philosophers who’ve critiques capitalism over the last century and a half made claims that every revolution against capitalism be it an art movement or a political one, consumerism and capitalism would make consume every revolution, turn it into a product and sell it back to the counter culture. And they are always right about that. Every time.

#liminal space #dirtcore #rotcore #dreamcore #clowncore #traumacore

191 notes · View notes

draconic-ichor · 3 years

Text

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 38: Labor Pains

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood/gore, violence, guns, medical gore

Summary: Something feels off…Juniper’s body is ready for something.

Feedback appreciated, 18+. It’s GOOOO TIME

Heisenberg helped Juniper down to the arena, the same large room where they tested out their first co-made soldat.

He was lively, wanting to show her the finished panzer. This one intrigued Juniper immensely, having countless conversations over its design over the dinner table.

Heisenberg had already turned the lights on, having a seat ready for her. Juniper sat down, looking over the dirtied steel floor.

The panzer stood like a statue in the center. It was large and intimidating, besides it’s rough humanoid outline there was nothing of it’s previous body left for the eye to see. It’s arms ended with multiple drills, the body entirely encased with heavy scrap armor.

Heisenberg pointed at it, the creation humming to life. Steam escaped through cracking in its armor as it became more fluid, falling from its stock stance as if strings were cut free.

Juniper noted it’s core was entirely protected on this one, as it took a heavy step.

“He can rip apart a hoard of Lycans without sustaining any damage.” Heisenberg announced, “Agile enough to use stairs and operate doors or lifts.”

Juniper felt his powers hum, his charms clinking together as he raised his hand to the side. An assault rifle snapped into his hand. Very unused to seeing him with a gun, Juniper gave out a little gasp.

Her emerald eyes widened when he pointed the barrel at the Panzer. He steadied his breath, taking the gun expertly in his hands.

Loud bangs ripped through the air, the sound of metal being struck followed. The bullets fell to the ground around the Panzer, its armor only dented.

Heisenberg gave a toothy smile, straightening. He unloaded the gun fully on his creation: in part to prove a point, but also because he found it incredibly amusing. Once the gun was empty he tossed it away, turning towards Juniper.

She took a breath to steady herself.

“Well, what do you think?” He asked, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“Are they indestructible?”

“Explosives can still damage their hull, making them more venerable.” He answered simply, adding with a shrug, “But who walks around with a bunch of pipe bombs shoved up their ass?”

Juniper nodded, “They look very formidable.”

“They are.” He smiled, but went on, “Very slow and bulky though. They will be a good last line of defense if all else fails.”

“If intruders get past Sturm?”

“Mhm.” He gave a tight nod, “Or if the Soldats aren’t enough…”

His voice petered off, concerned calculations filling his pale eyes. Juniper reached out, softly taking his hand. The sudden contact made him jump, coming back to reality. He met her gaze.

“You’ll succeed, Karl…with the revolution, I mean.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He gave her a weak smile, her words warming his heart. He turned back towards the arena, thoughts gnawing at his brain.

…would it all be enough? Would the Soldats be able to overrun Miranda’s powers?

They would have to be…

He concluded, eyes shifting downwards. If not, they would die trying. If that would be better than a constant life here, he didn’t know.

As they walked back the pumping machines rattled the grates under their feet. Juniper had to grab the handrail, giggling.

“What is it?” Heisenberg cocked a brow.

“Come here!” She laughed, taking his hand. She moved him until his palm was flat against her swollen belly.

“The baby dances when it feels the machines!” She beamed.

Heisenberg felt movement ripple in her stomach, the skin very taut at this point. His mouth split in a toothy smile. “Takes after their old man.” He commented.

“Liking big metal monstrous machines?”

“And they way they hum.” He bent forward, kissing her forehead.

In this last month it was getting very hard for Juniper to sleep, every position seemed uncomfortable. There also wasn’t much room left inside of her, causing her to run to the bathroom all hours of the night. Heisenberg noticed she began to clean and organize the apartment with a renewed vigor.

After looking in the baby book he realized it was called ‘nesting’; when the mother would subconsciously start preparing for the arrival of the new baby. It made a tight coil of worry begin to form in his stomach. The months seemed to have flown by, him feeling much too unprepared.

It was precisely that feeling that sent him to his cameras, combing over the villagers. His eyes scanned everyone until they recognized one of the midwives. He then busied himself with memorizing her patterns and the quickest way to her home. Just in case.

While Juniper’s hormones went into overdrive. In the days following she enlisted Heisenberg’s help to move some of the unused furniture into the storage room. After begging, he also managed to get her a plush rug and make her a metal rocking chair.

“Well, try it out Mama.” He smiled, presenting the chair to her.

Juniper happily went over to it, it wasn’t quite the level of craftsmanship of the cradle but Heisenberg did his best to make something nice and sturdy for her.

She sat, giving a few testing rocks back and forth, bottom muffled by the new rug.

“This will be perfect.” She smiled, “We can rock the baby to sleep every night, and later we can read them stories…” she mused, rubbing her belly.

Heisenberg’s heart swelled, leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. “I’m happy you like it.” He rumbled.

Juniper woke up, struggling to sit up. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, something feeling off. Her stomach felt tight, but not quite painful.

She swallowed, chalking it up to just pregnancy discomfort, trying to go about her day. She managed to eat a bit of food, but it did not settle well.

Instead, she took a shower and did some very light cleaning.

As the day went on the feeling thickened into discomfort teetering on pain. She tried to ignore it for as long as she could, but when a particularly acute bolt stung her abdomen she knew something was wrong.

It took much too long for her to try to make it to the workshop, each stair she decended feeling painful. She had to take a moment to breathe, continuing forward.

A sharp pain rippled through Juniper, she held her stomach. She winced, leaning against the wall for support. Her body felt tight.

Overhead the speakers rattled to life, Heisenberg’s voice coming through:

“You ok, kitten?”

“I don’t know!” Juniper admitted loudly.

“Stay right there, I’m on my way.” His voice sounded before the speakers clicked off.

Another clenching pain seized her body, Juniper shut her eyes tight in its wake. She felt something warm coat her legs followed by the sound of water hitting the cement floor.

Did she wet herself?

Blinking open her eyes she saw a pool of clear liquid around her boots. Fear shot through her suddenly.

Heisenberg came bursting through the far doors, concern thick across his face. His steps faltered when he saw the liquid.

“Karl.” Juniper clutched her stomach, “I think my water just broke!”

When he didn’t say anything her head shot up to meet his eyes. He looked pale, frozen in place.

“Karl!” Juniper’s tone was warning, tinged with fear.

It seemed to get him out of his trance, rushing forward. His hands shook a bit as they hovered over her.

“W-What does this m-mean exactly?” He gulped.

“I think the baby’s coming.” Juniper pushed off the wall, grabbing onto his arm for support.

“Shit.” He whispered.

He helped her back towards the apartment, almost having to carry her to the elevator. The reality of the situation soaked deep into him, his bones almost aching from the apprehension. Suddenly everything was no longer ideal musings, it was real.

They made it to the apartment. Juniper heavily sat down on the bed, mostly just waves of discomfort would wash over her sporadically.

Heisenberg looked pale, hands twitching.

Juniper looked up to him, eyes full of worry. He swallowed hard, making a hasty decision in his mind.

“Buttercup…” he began.

She winced, blinking her emerald eyes.

“I have to go get something.” Heisenberg’s voice was tense.

“You can’t leave me here alone!” Her voice was desperate, tinged with fear.

“I’ll be quick.” He soothed, “Cross my heart.”

He closed the distance between them, taking her face in his hands, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She whispered.

With that he left the apartment. Juniper sat on the bed, feeling as her body would tighten then give away again just begin again after a whole.

The longer Heisenberg was gone the more she worried, and the deeper her pain seemed to feel.

She started to pace around the apartment, the movement making the aching lessen.

She clutched her stomach, the quietness stretching out.

It was a good few hours before he returned.

“She’s in here.” Heisenberg opened the door to the apartment, leading a middle aged village woman in.

The woman’s eyes filled with worry when they fell on Juniper, asking “Your Lady wife, my Lord?”

“Yes, she’s my wife and she’s in labor.” His voice was tight, ushering her deeper.

She nodded, coming over to where Juniper stood. Juniper looked at her with a mixture of shock and annoyance, eyes going past to lock onto Heisenberg.

“What did you do?!” She asked, voice loud.

Heisenberg winced a bit, murmuring, “I found a midwife to help you.”

“After all the secrecy and keeping me locked up like a songbird you just bring a village woman here?!?”

“We need her, love.” Heisenberg tried to soothe.

She looked as if she was going to argue more but her stomach tightened painfully. Her hands clutched her swollen belly, words turning into a whine on her tongue.

“How are you feeling, my Lady?” The midwife asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Uncomfortable.” Juniper answered tightly, “My water broke a few hours ago.”

“Is this your first baby?” The woman asked.

“Yes.” Juniper nodded.

“Then you are in for a long night, I’m afraid…” sympathy was heavy in her tone, “Come to the bed, let me look you over.”

As the midwife helped Juniper over to the bed Heisenberg busied himself filling basins with warm water, per the woman’s request.

They needed clean water, towels, extra sheets and some medical supplies. Heisenberg found it all as quickly as he could.

When Heisenberg came to the bedside, the midwife gave him a narrow look.

“What?” He almost snapped, wound tightly.

“This isn’t the place for men.” She answered.

Heisenberg bared his teeth, “I’m staying right here.”

She looked away, “Yes…my Lord.”

He huffed out, returning his attention to his wife. He smoother some curls away from her forehead, sweat already gathering on her skin. Juniper looked up at him fearfully.

“You’ll be fine.” He soothed.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #re8 oc #heisenberg x oc #in the steel steeds heart #resident evil #heisenberg

36 notes · View notes

libermachinae · 3 years

Text

Cradle

Available on AO3 Summary: Post-battle roll call. Notes: For @soundwaveweek, prompt was ‘poetry.’

---

The MTOs were stressed. He could understand that, and in fact had little choice but to. Coming online in a crashing shuttle was a less than ideal way to begin life, and the hours of listening to gunfire and artillery going off just outside their prison-slash-shelter almost guaranteed the sorts of injuries no tool could fix. Soundwave had no idea whether the silence that followed the Decepticon victory would have been a welcome reprieve or the most hellish stretch of the experience, but his torch cutting through the crumpled hatch had broken its hold on them, and now they were frantic.

Their thoughts cut him like millions of grains of sand caught up in the exhaust of a shuttle launch. There were questions, the standard Who is that?, Am I going to die?, and Is that supposed to happen? Then the observations, It’s dark, It’s light, He’s blue, He has a gun, and I have a gun.

Mostly, though, they were giving off impressions that could not be condensed so neatly into words, not without at least a few days’ practice to understand the ebb and flow of language. Without it, Soundwave could feel the crush of the darkness, the burning slice of the light. When he announced himself on arrival, his voice came back to him thirteen different ways, shivering or sliding or in boxes, an impressive feat for a group whose sum total life experiences were the inside of a dead shuttle and each other.

The volume increased as he approached them, both due to proximity and their own increasing anxieties. Their thoughts were loud enough to be knocking against his helm, adding to the cacophony the echo of his own internals, but he soldiered on, approaching the first cradle, its occupant staring at him with a mouthless expression that nevertheless seemed to snarl.

“Designation,” Soundwave demanded.

“Megatron.”

Hisses and whispers and flares. Soundwave wished he could turn down his sensitivity, but with all the cassettes investigating other casualty reports, he couldn’t risk making himself that vulnerable, even if it meant he would be taking a splitting processor ache to berth with him that night instead of recharge.

“Your designation,” he said, with no patience to start with.

The MTO stared at Soundwave, optics glancing first over his face and then the length of his frame. He started to speak, aborted the effort, attention straying to his comrades before snapping back to the officer. His thoughts were bright, sour, and runny, becoming more disorganized the longer Soundwave stood waiting for an answer. Now he was tearing through his data packs, the disorganized folders spilling open with instructions on how to shoot, who to shoot, which way to run—

“No designation,” Soundwave concluded, feeling a part of his psyche slump with resignation. “Serial code.”

The uncomprehending stare slid again to the other MTOs, whose own thoughts echoed the globular confusion. A few of them were in the same process of upending their entire storage libraries, and although any one of them could have accurately pinpointed the coordinates where their plummeting ship had disappeared off the edge of the battle map, not one of them could provide him the very basic information he needed to complete this task and leave these soldiers for the recovery teams to salvage.

Soundwave made a quick visual inspection of the MTO, who tried to lean away—not far, given that he was still suspended in the cradle—now that his defensive bluster had dried up. No printed serial code, nor was there on the MTO beside him, a quiet mech who barely glanced at Soundwave as he came close. No serial codes, either printed or coded.

“Any identification markers?” Soundwave asked the room at large. A flicker of movement: Soundwave looked down to the mech at the end of the starboard row, the one installed opposite the sole casualty, aside from the ship itself. His thoughts had been quieter than the rest, colorless and inflexible in a way that had suggested a concussion, but Soundwave’s question had provoked a brief flare. He was looking up: on the ceiling above his squadmate was painted the number 2.

That, unfortunately, was something that could be plugged into a database, checked against the shuttle manifest and production logs, and be used to reverse engineer a serial number. Success, though, depended on this being a legitimate deployment, and certain signs were suggesting the opposite, though none so definitively as to trigger a full investigation. Soundwave put out a recall signal to Frenzy and Ravage, wary of how isolated the shuttle’s final resting place was, and tuned his sensors up higher…

Only to immediately turn them down again as the minutiae of the newbuilds’ thoughts flowed like acid rain through fresh gaps in a roof. He could read the rudimentary threat assessments they were running on him and taste the swell of emotions too new to differentiate yet; the bravest among them had started to free curiosity from the mass, and they plugged it into every observation they made, building questions on top of each other until the thoughts were heavy enough to bend under their own weight. Within the shuttle, everything felt compressed and heavy on top of him.

“Calm down,” he commanded, and winced at spikes of anxiety impaling him from multiple directions.

What a waste, he thought as he recovered from the burst, of his time and their lives. Nova Point was captured, the Autobot base overrun, and Starscream’s choice to put him on recovery meant vital logistics standards were being delayed. The already lengthy identification process would easily be doubled if this much of his processor remained dedicated to his hypersensitivity sensors, and he was vulnerable as long as the soldiers’ thoughts were filling his audio feed. Soldier was even a generous word for the mechs he’d been tasked with risking his life for. Their minimal data packs and emotional instability would make them ill-suited to the promotions occasionally offered to MTOs. They would be getting hauled out of one wreck only to be pressed into another, one that would more likely than not reach its intended destination.

Soundwave did not fault Megatron for leading a chunk of their forces off to the distant front lines on other worlds, but he did long for his leader at times. Megatron would know what was best, whether to forge ahead with the recovery efforts or leave them here to—

“A new row of unlit lanterns is marched in, And I can’t remember what my world looks like In the dark.”

The recording was poor quality, torn from a processor moments before it went offline. Soundwave kept hoping to find the rest of the poem, but bots who survived that time were few and far between, and they guarded their secrets fiercely. Because it was short, he let it play out, and when it finished the attention of the MTOs had narrowed.

“What was that?” the first one asked.

“Untitled,” Soundwave said, which wasn’t entirely accurate. He had a recording of a secondhand account that referred to the poem as ‘The Chain Runners,’ but had never been able to confirm it. He could have asked, but then he would have to tell Megatron he kept the old poem, and that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have yet.

“But what was it?” The MTO jerked in his cradle; despite the clatter of plating, it did nothing to free him.

“Identification: a poem.”

The complete absence of understanding was a hole Soundwave could have fallen into. A couple accepted that as an answer—a poem must have been another form of marching order, the only communication style they had been brought online to understand—but the others prodded him with their curiosity, audials straining to catch another blip of that strange voice.

“That wasn’t you,” one of the others said.

“Negative,” Soundwave said. “Speaker…” He stopped, remembering how the first MTO, now gazing at him with useful curiosity, had snarled the poet’s name. Had that been out of a sense of pride? A desperation to answer the question, using the only scrap of information they had? Or had it been in worship, choosing his lord’s name to be his first word to the real world? The clashing, violent thoughts did not readily bear an answer to Soundwave, but they did give him pause as he considered his response, long enough that the MTOs’ anxiety rose up once more in a wave.

“What’s it mean?” one of them asked.

“Definition subjective,” Soundwave said. He still had so much work to do. “Silence requested.”

“It’s a code.”

“Negative.”

“Then it’s gotta mean something.”

Soundwave grasped uselessly for words, wishing Ravage were there already. He was better at this. Soundwave wasn’t good at conversation, but most of the time he could get out of it by virtue of the fact that the people he ran into were either his subordinates and afraid of him, or at about equal level and jealous of his proximity to Megatron. It was so rare for him to enter a room without his reputation having already made the rounds for him, he had no basis for navigating this.

He couldn’t come up with anything, and the longer he let the silence drag out the louder the background of thoughts grew to compensate. At a loss and desperate for relief, Soundwave dove into his archives and pulled a file at random, plugging it into his speakers without even scanning the contents.

“The revolution failed because the lords were unamused. The smoke that rose from the burning corpses of their clerks Soured their palmful drinks, And the chants which rose to their balconies, Calling for their heads, Were out of tune with the afternoon symphony.

(The first chair would be tossed out at intermission, And the crowd would suck closed empty fuel lines While inside, the lords sipped in peace.)”

Even with his speakers playing at a high volume, the relative noise inside the shuttle dropped instantly. Their minds were still working, turning over each word like they could find the meaning hidden underneath, but without the fear of the unknown it was quieter and reflective.

“If you still say your knuckles ache, Lay them here, on my knee. I cannot take from you That pain, But I will map the seams of your palm. I will memorize you, Memorialize. I will chart your construction And between your seams find…”

Crunching data while listening to Megatron’s voice was second nature by now. Soundwave stood in the center of the wrecked shuttle, seeking out the identity of the MTOs, while around him they leaned and twisted in their cradles, hunting down the poems like the twinkle of an enemy across a battlefield.

#maccadam #transformers #soundwave #soundwave week #my writing #oneshot #cradle

34 notes · View notes