#consumer sovereignty

[mordictionary]

Hitherto Complacent Donor

Noun Phrase

Definition: A party or entity that, until a certain point in time, has been passive, self-satisfied, or unconcerned in its role as a donor. This term suggests a historical complacency that is now changing, signaling a shift towards increased awareness, engagement, or responsibility in the act of giving or contributing.

Example Sentence: "The foundation, once a hitherto complacent donor, has recently reevaluated its philanthropic strategy, adopting more proactive initiatives to address pressing social issues."

#Hitherto Complacent Donor #morneologisms #mordictionary #morwords #morvocabulary #complacent donar #consumer sovereignty #passive giver #moribundmurdoch #moribund institute #mor institute #noun phrase #hitherto

[oathkeeperoxas]

Hello, my friend! 44 or 71 for Icemav, if you're still warming up? <3<3<3

ELWEN yesssss going wild for this one. Forehead press my number 1, you will always be famous to me

71. lingering forehead against forehead, consumed by each other and barely having enough strength to breathe

The call comes at 6:43pm.

Ice lets it ring for three trills, still in that limbo of not knowing. Dead, or not dead? And the less important question of if the mission was a success or not. These two things are not related to each other. A successful mission could still mean a dead pilot. If that's the case, then he's already living in a world without Maverick Mitchell. If that's the case, then he has five more seconds of not knowing about it, before the knowledge sinks its teeth into him, inescapable.

He picks the phone up. He's has a lifetime of doing the hard work, making the terrible choices that no one else wants to make. He can't avoid this forever, and he wouldn't want to, so he puts the phone to his ear and listens, and when he puts it down he has to lean his elbows onto his desk, face in his hands. Gut swooping like he's just pulled an emergency barrel roll and hadn't had the chance to prepare for it. Sick, like he's grown so used to over his treatment, sick, like he's really going to throw up. But he's had a lot of practice with this too, so he swallows it all down neatly enough. There's still work to do, maybe more work, now that they'll have to switch to soothing Russia's ruffled feathers at having their sovereignty impinged upon. Mav and Bradley won't be back in the country for another day at least. He has plenty to do to fill the time until then.

The seconds tick past, and the minutes dribble through his fingers, and the hour hand on his watch inevitably ticks forward. He gets into a shouting match with the SECDEF and is called into conference with the JCS and watches as updates on the pilots who flew the mission trickle into his inbox. Mav's medical report is last, which means he only nibbles on dinner, a bad habit that Mav would scold him for. Ice would take it, would take any words from him, as long as he he here to speak them.

He works through the night and gets to sleep somewhere about quarter to five, and is back at his computer before ten. Mav's report has come in, and while it doesn't look great, it's not all bad news. He's walking under his own power, and while injured, apparently isn't in too much pain. Ice holds his own reservations about that. Mav's never enjoyed telling an authority figure everything. Ice will get the truth out of him when they see each other next.

All the pilots are in flight back to North Island, which means they're out of contact even if Ice wanted to reach out, which he doesn't. This isn't the first time that Mav has been on a mission and Ice has been able to do nothing but wait for him to come home. He prefers to wait to see Mav in person before they talk to each other. It's better that way.

He fends off orders to fly to Washington, at least delaying until tomorrow or the day after, and makes up for it by sitting on conferences all afternoon while typing away furiously at the dozens of emails that have landed in his inbox. Everything is a flurry of activity, everything needs his attention now, and yet he puts everything aside when he sees that the transport has landed at North Island, and that all the pilots have been taken for debriefing, except for the two who spent time on the ground, who have been shuttled to the base hospital. Ice packs up his laptop and notifies his driver, and is on the road immediately.

He's not in uniform, so manages to fly mostly under the radar until he hits the two Marines standing guard outside Mav's hospital room, who only give way when they recognise him. Ice bids them to wait outside, and closes the door behind him when he enters. There's a curtain that's hiding most of Mav from his sight; the only part of him that Ice can see are his feet, which are bare. His toes are poking out from the side of the blanket that Mav has thrown over him, and Ice is hit with a wave of emotion that's as irrational as it is powerful -- Mav's feet are uninjured. His toes are okay. He can see that. It makes it hard to breathe, and he steadies himself before stepping forward, not wanting to cough and worry his partner. This is not a moment for Mav to be worried about Ice.

"Did you bring me some real clothes?" Mav grumbles. "I'm not wearing this. This is an attack on decency. I'm fine. I don't need to be here. Who do I have to speak to, to go home?"

Ice closes his eyes and musters himself after that volley. Then he moves forward under full sail, to stand at the end of Mav's bed and lay a hand on his ankle.

"I didn't bring you any clothes," Ice rumbles, voice hoarse from all the speaking he's been putting it through today. "And you can come home when the doctors say you can leave."

"Ice," Mav says, eyes wide, and Ice can't stay away from him anymore. Mav is already struggling to sit up, and Ice sits on the bed and ropes his arms around him, lashing them together. Mav makes a low sound, torn somewhere from deep in his chest, and presses their heads against each other. Ice tilts them so their foreheads are together, noses and mouths close, breathing the same air. "Ice," Mav repeats, desperate, and Ice wants to squeeze him and never let him go for scaring Ice so badly, for coming to him in the first place and asking to do this, for daring to get shot down and for making Ice receive the news that he's dead, only to be told that he'd pulled off the impossible--

Ice presses a palm to Mav's neck to feel his pulse, and they're both gasping against each other, clinging like they're at sea and the other is their lifeboat. Like lovers to be parted on the morrow. Like they'll never get another day quite like this one.

"You scared the shit out of me," Ice manages, and Mav barks a laugh through his tears.

"You're telling me," Mav manages, cupping a hand on Ice's cheek and wiping away the wetness under his eyes. "I was pretty scared myself."

"The kid?" Ice asks.

"He's better than me. Young bones, and all that."

Ice can hardly breathe. He pulls away to clear his throat, and then comes back to lay his head on Mav's shoulder and press his face into Mav's throat. Mav's hand rests on the back of his neck. There's still so much to do. Ice can feel the weight of his emails piling up in his inbox. But he can put off making the hard decisions for an hour. He can let himself be human for an hour. Mav's arms have the power to protect him. He hasn't lost that privilege. He hasn't lost Mav.

"If you think I'm letting you do anything like that ever again--"

Mav laughs. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I used that one favour up. Won't happen again. We're even now -- how about we don't do that to each other again, yeah?"

It's good he's sitting down. The dizzying relief would have forced him to anyway. He lays a kiss over Mav's pulse.

"I don't think cancer and flying into a deathtrap are particularly equivalent," Ice grits out. "But I'm willing to overlook that if you are."

Mav cradles him gently, laying kisses against his crown. "Sounds like a plan to me."

Ice sighs and sits up. "Are you okay?" he asks. "I know you've been lying to try and get out of here faster."

Mav sniffs, pretending to be offended. "They're not falling for it," he says plaintively.

"Good. Start telling them how you really feel. I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon."

"Yeah?" Mav asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah," Ice says softly. "Gotta keep an eye on my troublemakers."

Mav's eyes crinkle into his familiar smile, and Ice is home, home, home.

A hundred different kisses prompt list

#cyclone is keeping everyone inside today so writing time #icemav #iceman #maverick #top gun #tg #mine #my writing #forehead to forehead really be my number 1 weakness and yes i blame robin hobb for it

[probablyasocialecologist]

If Ugandans have a social safety net, it is woven from banana fibers, and if there is a clear path to socialism, it will be lined with banana leaves. The lusuku model, premised on intercropping and smallholder farming, could be the basis for national agrarian reform that improves the lives of Uganda’s agricultural workers without accelerating the destruction of the natural environment. Uganda faces increasing difficulty feeding itself because of climate extremes and land degradation, and this affects farmers more significantly than anyone else. Moreover, since the 1990s, the ruling National Resistance Movement regime sold off and dismantled most of the coffee, tea, and cotton growers cooperatives, leaving smallholder farmers in the hands of the predatory middlemen which cooperatives had been established to protect them against. Unable to collectively bargain and exposed to dramatic fluctuations in the market prices for cash crops, many people left rural areas to search for employment in cities. This has been a driving force behind the massive inequality between rural and urban workers. Ugandans now produce more food than they consume, even exporting to other countries in the region, yet 41% of people are undernourished, and agricultural production has decreased over the last 20 years. For the most part, the strategy pursued by Uganda’s government has been to encourage the development of ecologically disastrous intensive agriculture for export, privileging foreign investors rather than developing the infrastructure that would benefit peasants. Indeed, while more than 70% of Ugandans are employed in agriculture, the sector only receives around 4% of public investment, and projects aimed at helping smallholder farmers have had very little success, even by their own standards. Many of the government’s investments in agriculture very clearly advantage larger landowners, to the detriment of the poorest farmers. For example, most of the government’s investment in labor-saving technologies has been spent on tractors, which are great for large plots but largely unaffordable or unsuitable for the average farmer, whose plot is usually between 1-3 acres large. However, a socialist transition premised on agroecological reforms could make use of the existing lusuku model to create the kind of growth that actually improves poor farmers’ lives without destroying their environment. This could begin with reestablishing cooperatives and engineering agricultural prices around social needs and goals, like guaranteeing access to food. Research from around the world has shown that while large, monocrop plantations are good at producing huge volumes of one crop, smallholder farms are more productive when evaluated on a per-unit area and are capable of securing national food sovereignty. Why, for example, should Ugandans buy rice imported from Pakistan or Vietnam when banana intercropping yields more calories per hectare than rice? Lusukus could feed the nation without relying on foreign experts, development aid, or the capital-intensive inputs now being imported to grow for export. Because lusukus are far better for the soil, they also improve the nation’s capacity to resist severe floods and drought, effects of climate change that hit poor farmers hardest. In these ways, the lusuku model could provide a sustainable path to socialist development.

#uganda #agroecology #socialism #agriculture #for a banana (socialist) republic #banana discourse

[mishwanders]

• Ganondorf • Hidden Gem •

Summary: A new guest arrives at the Gerudo palace and the king takes an interest in them.

Genre/Warnings: GN!Reader, Smut. Minors DNI with this one.

Author’s Notes: I swear to god, I never thought I’d be writing smut for this mf, but here I am and now I’m subjecting you all to it. Also kind of imagining this one as like, pre-game Ganondorf. Written by Mishwanders.

The king of the Gerudo had an acquired taste for many things, including people. At this point in time in his life, he found that he did not hate the Hylians, but rather their impudent ideals that always seemed to follow them, as if they were born with it being ingrained in the very marrow of their beings. It made it incredibly hard for him to have any kind of communication with them that didn’t involve groveling or bending the knee. He was a king for god's sake! He was not going to bend the knee to another unless it was deserved (or involved in a ploy to gain sovereignty…).

But when one of them showed defiance to the long held Hyrulian ideas - well, that got his attention.

That’s how he found you amidst his presence in the throne room, an interesting gem saved from the clutches of the sands. You had been brought to him, bound by his guards. He studied you as you studied him, a silent interrogation as he made his way around you, taking in every aspect of your body, his attention specifically being drawn to your eyes.

There was a fire in them, one that he found akin to his own. That piqued his curiosity in you even more - so much that he cut your bindings himself. He looked you up and down once more, before bringing his hand to your chin, gently guiding you attention to his eyes as he spoke. “You are a rarity amongst the sands.”

“A hidden gem indeed.” You responded, peering deeply into his own.

That’s when he felt it, noticed the spark, your flame mingling with his. He wanted to feel it burn with every word, to consume it entirely. You would be a welcomed entertainment for the night, even if it were by your words alone. But he wanted more than that, so he decided to make his intentions clear from the start. He allowed his hand to slide down your neck, your shoulder, along the length of your arm until he reached your hand and took it in his own, raising it to place a kiss on your knuckles as he continued to peer into your eyes. “Your shape is like the desert, a rare beauty, an object of admiration. I would love to see its mysteries unfold.”

He caught the glint in your eye as he spoke, knowing he had captivated you. But he was surprised when you knew how to dance around him yourself with your words, every beautiful and fleeting as the wind, feeding into his desires, giving him everything he wanted to hear. He could see right through it, see the desires you craved and a part of him was more than ready to give it to you.

But he wanted to play the game a little while longer, get you desperate and craving more. It was subtle at first, flirtatious words and lingering gazes, but then it slowly turned into more with a soft touch that grew heavier as the evening went on, until you had grown impatient and were exactly where he wanted you.

After that, the night was a whirlwind of desires and emotions, his body mingling with yours, enjoying the taste of you on his tongue. Ganondorf's hands were laced in your hair, pulling your head down the edge of the bed, forcing you to look outward toward the mirror in front of you, ensuring that you would be able to see just how much of a mess he was making of you, just how well you were taking his cock with each long stroke. He loved the way your body reacted to him, the way it squirmed and bounced, how your voice filled the room with abandon, cracking as he continued to bury his cock deep inside you.

The sweat along your skin glimmered under the moonlight in the mirror, making you look even more of a rare jewel before his eyes - only for his eyes.

“Such a pretty jewel you are.” He panted, feeling his release building inside of him.

You were too much of a mess to speak back to him now, your eyes glazed over in an overstimulated lustful haze, your body dripping with cum, more than well spent by four orgasms ago. At this point, you were along for the ride, so pliable for him, easily melding into every touch and movement, feeling the sting of each stretch and stroke of his cock finding its way deeper inside of you, more than you even considered possible than before.

Ganondorf slid his hand up from your thigh, trailing along every curve until he reached your neck, gripping it tightly. He could see your eyes widen, a hint of fear in your eyes, on your expression. He chuckled at your reaction, shifting his hand. He brought his thumb up to graze along your bottom lip before sneaking past it and giving you a simple command. “Suck.”

Your eager obedience would soon be rewarded. The way your tongue gently glided along the pad of his thumb, circling around it, sucking greedily, coating it in your saliva. Such an interesting sight to take in, he was enjoying it just as much as he enjoyed watching you take his cock. It was the combination of the sights, sensations, and sounds that drew him to the edge, coercing a deep and guttural moan to escape him as he slowed, filling you up, making sure you were completely full and well spent.

He soon released you from his grip, pulling you back with him to the head of the bed where he cleaned you up, making sure to tend to your needs while you could not. When he was done, he pulled the sheets around you both, peering down at your exhausted figure beside him, gently stroking your cheek. He smiled at the sight, finding you pleasing to look at even now.

Maybe he’ll keep this precious gem for a little longer.

Maybe he’ll just keep you forever.

#ganondorf x reader #ganondorf #loz fic #legend of zelda fic #legend of zelda fanfiction #spicy writing: ganondorf #mdni #ganon x reader

[an-ambivalent]

Yandere! FE3H House Leaders Headcanons

Warnings: As this is yandere fiction, this deals with behaviours  that can be uncomfortable and triggering to read. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional, I do not condone this behaviour irl. By clicking the ‘read more/keep reading’ you are consenting to read this at your discretion.  

Characters:  Edelgard, Claude & Dimitri 

Edelgard 

Type: clingy & delusional 

~Edelgard finds herself lured by your strength and grit. You may or may not be physically strong, but it is your mental fortitude that arises her initial interest in you. During the academy days, she observed how despite the obstacles in your way, and the adversities of your past, you never broke down. You faced whatever came your way head on, or in the instance challenges deterred you momentarily, you always bounced back. She admired this because it was a reflection of who she was as well, and no matter what battle or war, this essence of intrapersonal strength was the most critical part to determine the last ones standing. 

~She wants you to be part of the Black Eagles - she needs people with your vitality by her side when she plans to start the war as the Adrestine Emperor. Edelgard is driven, if nothing else - ruthlessly ambitious to achieve what she wants. So, there’s no stopping until you are part of the Black Eagles. 

~Once you are part of the Black Eagles, Edelgard inevitably can spend more time with you; by doing so, she sees how hard you work and your unique brilliance that makes you excel in your area of expertise. However, it is your dedication that really makes her fall for you. Subsequently, she begins to imagine your future together. She envisions a new Fodland, unified under the Adesterine Empire. A new era where crests and the church are meaningless, and you’re there to rule right by her side. The rewritten history records would speak of the Flame Emperor and her lover who changed the world with their storm, and their shared ambitions and power that reshaped the sovereignty of Fodland. Eventually, she becomes so consumed by these delusions of your future together, she starts to believe that you are already together. There is no courting, or even asking. It’s just the reality and it’s really frustrating for her when you continue to attempt to dissuade from it. So, she has no other option except to be by your side and cling to you until you realise this. 

Claude 

Type: manipulative & overprotective 

~You were an enigma, and Claude wanted to figure you out. You always wore a genuine bright smile on your face, and kept a cheerful energy. Even during times when everyone else would be visibly upset, you never were. You always maintained your cheerfulness, almost as if you didn’t allow yourself to feel your other emotions. And so out of curiousity, Claude started to watch you discreetly. He noticed that he was right in his assumptions; you never let your true emotions show. In times when something displeased, annoyed, or upset you, it would be only for a mere moment where your mask would slip and your true expression would show. Otherwise, that smile would continue to remain. 

~Truthfully speaking, Claude rather preferred the moments where you were just you, instead of wearing that smile he was beginning to detest. He wanted to dig deeper and see more of you to understand why you hid yourself and didn’t trust your housemates enough to show yourself. What could you possibly be hiding? 

~Claude was cunning and great at maintaining his own facade if nothing else. Perhaps, that’s why he felt drawn to you in the first place. Since you piqued his interest, he couldn’t just let you go without undoing you. He decided that he was going to break you down to nothing to unveil your secrets if that’s what it took. 

~Slowly and surely, Claude started to single you out. From observing you so much, he had a grasp on what he had to say and what buttons to push to set you off. It started off slowly - a brief pointing out of an insecurity, until it kept growing. Seeing that you weren’t close to breaking no matter how much he tried, Claude nearly gave up. But just before he did, you gave in. 

~You couldn’t tolerate his bullying any longer; it reminded you too much of the trauma you experienced at home, and to escape from all of that, was exactly why you came to the Officers Academy in the first place.

~As you break down, and start to Claude why he was being so mean to you and beg him to stop, disclosing hints of your trauma in the process, he achieved his goal. He came to understand that you hid yourself because that’s what you had been shamed for, and that’s who you had been traumatised to hide. It was abhorrent because you were so lovely - the real you, the delicate you. You deserved much more than you had ever been given, and he was going to give that to you. 

~He embraced you, gently rubbed your back to soothe you, and started to mumble apologies. Then, once you settled, the scelara of your eyes red from the crying, and tears hanging onto your eyelashes, he thought you were so pretty. He cupped your face, and turned it so you were looking up directly in his eyes. 

“You don’t have to hide yourself anymore. I promise I won’t let anyone else hurt you. I’ll kill them if they even try.” 

Dimitri  Type: clingy, stalker, & possessive  

~If love-at-first-sight trope met puppy love trope, that’s how your story starts with Dimitri. Definitely, there is physical attraction from the moment he saw you. But more than that, there was also a strange and immersive pull he felt towards you that would make him believe you two were destined soulmates if he was the type of person to blindly believe in such nuances. So, while there was something that felt akin to love at first sight, Dimitri never acted on it, or had plans to act on it. It was something he was aware of, acknowledged, and planned to never think about again. Well, not until you joined the Blue Lions, and then, he had no choice but to be in close proximity to you. 

~You have many good qualities and traits that Dimitri admired. But the one that he valued the most, was your kindness. You were always ready to lend a hand to anyone that needed it. You were always there to support and listen to your housemates whenever they required it. But who was there for you when you needed it? Realistically, your housemates were reliable and all of your support and help was reciprocated when you needed it as well. That’s what you loved about the Blue Lions, and had joined their house in the first place. But for Dimitri, whenever you were present, you were the only thing he ended up focusing on. Everything else was as easy to tune out as white noise. So for him, no was ever there for you. He needed to be there for you. And that’s how his puppy love started. 

~He starts to leave little presents for you - your favourite snacks, flowers, tea, etc. At first, it was flattering, the way most people would feel when they notice they have a secret admirer. You looked forward to finding the things you liked and reading the sweet notes filled with small and delightful compliments that accompanied them. However, it became frightening when the presents were left in your private spaces like your bedroom. With everything that started to happen with the Flame Emperor and the other assaults at the church recently, you didn’t wait around until something more serious happened to address the problem. Immediately, you asked to speak with your house leader privately, and brought up your concerns. 

It was great how proactive you were. You noticed something suspicious and immediately took action to address it; this showed your capability too. But, it was such a shame that you went to the preparator himself. 

Dimitri was hurt that you found his expressions of love for you suspicious and suspected him of being a ‘stalker’. But, he was a realist; he understood that love took time and love took hard work. If he was the type to act on mere biological lust, then he would have courted you from the moment he met you. Nonetheless, he was perfectly content with working hard as well and helping you realise that you belonged together. 

“It’s hurtful that you became suspicious of my presents. I just wanted to show you how much I love you,” he started, stepping closer and closer to you, until he had his arms wrapped around you. 

“W-What?” 

“But it’s okay. I understand that you have not realised your feelings for me yet. I’m more than happy to help you with that.” He whispered softly, before clumsily locking his lips with yours. 

#yandere x reader #dimitri x reader #yandere dimitri #edelgard x reader #yandere fire emblem #claude x reader #yandere fe3h #fe3h x reader #yandere claude #ambivalent writes #yandere edelgard #fire emblem x reader #yandere headcanons

[novoaa1writes]

ours

pairing(s): dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader, dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader

summary:

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk. 

You nod and dip your chin—by all accounts, seeming quite shy all of a sudden. “Did I get it right?” you ask, wide-eyed and hopeful—desperately searching Wanda’s bemused features for a hint of approval. Her approval. 

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

word count: ~4,100

rating: teen

warnings: wanda being kind of unhinged, natasha ALSO being kind of unhinged... generally non-consensual dynamics going on, etc etc. kidnapping for sure! 

notes: implied female reader (through russian/bulgarian terminology). and on that note, wanda uses a bulgarian dialect because i say so! i guess! .. idk this has been sitting in my docs for a minute now but it’s here! i figured a little post couldn’t hurt while i continue to work on other stuff (that being the ‘find you again’ series update and the recent request i got about queen ramonda)

— —

Wanda Maximoff has always harbored something of a… possessive streak. Particularly where it concerns the things—people—that she wants. 

There’s a certain mania in it, she knows—a type of delirium in allowing something to consume you with such sovereignty. A complete loss of self; a sense of desire so vast, you’ll kill every last part of yourself in a bid to make it stay. 

She knows this. She thinks a part of her always has. It used to scare her, once upon a time. 

But then… well. Aliens invaded. Scientists happened. High Evolutionary, HYDRA… Her mind is a mess of jumbled recollections—their mess. Ultron, S.W.O.R.D., Erik, Agatha. A flicker of bright electric blue; trails of cobalt mist floating on air, curled around her like the arms of somebody she used to know. Two little boys, wide-eyed and earnest. Twins, just like… 

A swift movement in her periphery interrupts her train of thought, yanking her back to the present. 

Sound assaults her eardrums on all sides: overlapping chatter, wooden chairs scraping the floors, the faint clinking sounds of cubed ice swirling around in glass tumblers. She blinks—once, twice—and forces herself to relax as a slender figure takes a seat across from her with all the practiced grace of a prima ballerina.

“Couldn’t stay away?” Natalia’s eyes—no longer colored her natural green, but a subtle shade of muted blue—dance with amusement. If Wanda looks intently enough, she can see the edges of each contact lens around her irises. She’s bleached her eyebrows, and toned them, too; they’re now a flaxen platinum hue which makes the blue of her (faux) irises really pop. 

Wanda shrugs, eyeing the bar out the corner of her eye. The bar, behind which you scurry tirelessly this way and that, serving mixed drinks and tap beer and the occasional shot of something harder to a never-ending procession of barely-legal college kids, billiards-enthused grad students, and haggard-looking blue-collar workers fresh off a 10-hour shift. 

“You’re blonde again,” she remarks instead without bothering to tear her gaze away. You’ve always been such a hard worker—even on days that you have every right to be the opposite. It’s one of the many things she admires about you.  

Natalia’s smirk widens, though Wanda hardly catches it. “Figured I’d go for something a little more… subtle,” she responds, tucking an errant lock of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. In the same motion, she turns to angle herself just so, such that she too can monitor your diligent movements from out the corner of her eye. “She’s off at 1:00.”

You’re wiping down the bartop with a damp rag now, and chuckling good-naturedly at a joke one particularly greasy-looking patron has (apparently) told. If you take note of the lecherous way he stares down your shirt as you lean in to scrub at a particularly sticky spot on the burnished wood, you do well not to show it. 

Wanda does. Wanda notices everything about you. 

Her jaw creaks from clenching it so hard. 

It’s only Natalia’s voice, clear and calm, which reaches her through the noise—blood rushing, elevated heart rate pounding in her ears. “Easy,” she cautions lowly. 

Easy, Wanda repeats internally. 

“She’s mine,” Wanda hears herself snarl, fists clenched tightly in her lap as she glares daggers over at the source of her ire. Limp-dicked pervert.

“Ours,” Natalia corrects. There’s a certain edge to her tone, this time—one that Wanda, even as furious as she is, knows better than to disregard. 

With some effort, she tears her gaze from you and looks at Natalia, who levels her with a high-browed look in return. 

“Sorry,” Wanda mumbles, dipping her chin with genuine contrition. (She’s careful not to lose you in her periphery all the same.)

Natalia analyzes her for a brief moment, then gives a shallow nod. “Be patient,” she murmurs, pitching her voice just over the hubbub and chatter filling the pub. “It won’t be long now.”

“Promise?” she asks—pleads, really; quite suddenly feeling so very, very small. 

Natalia has a way of doing that—of making her feel small, and vulnerable, and meek where no one else can, because Wanda swore to herself that she’d never let them. Not again. Not after Stark, and Ultron, and the ever-elusive ghost of a hazel-eyed boy whose name she can’t for the life of her recall. 

She’s simply worked too hard, lost far too much to willfully prostrate herself in such a way. There’s nothing to be gained by kneeling at the foot of someone bigger, stronger, meaner ; nothing beyond pain and suffering without end. She knows that better than most. 

Natalia is different. 

And when Natalia’s lips curve to form a delectably crooked grin, mischief sparking itself alight in her eyes, Wanda is reminded of exactly why that is. And when she says, “Promise,” it doesn’t feel empty, the way it did with everyone else. 

It feels like what it is—a promise. 

— —

“Let me guess—Vieux Carré, hold the lemon.”

It takes everything within Wanda not to jump out of her skin the moment you—of all people, you—slide into the seat across from her at a pristine table for two. Then, you’re starting a conversational dialogue as though it’s the most ordinary thing on Earth.

Good Lord. Are you trying to kill her? “What?”

You grin, slinging the sodden rag over one shoulder and fixing Wanda with a playfully contemplative look. “Your drink of choice. Vieux Carré—”

“Hold the lemon,” Wanda finishes, the corner of her lips twitching—threatening a smirk. 

You nod and dip your chin—by all accounts, seeming quite shy all of a sudden. “Did I get it right?” you ask, wide-eyed and hopeful—desperately searching Wanda’s bemused features for a hint of approval. Her approval. 

Gods, she thinks to herself, telltale warmth pooling low in her belly at the sight of you. You’re perfect.

“I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid,” she admits, eyeing you intently. 

The visible disappointment that flits across your features—though regretful—is damn near as delectable as your naïveté. “Shoot,” you pout, brow furrowed. 

A beat passes in silence. 

Wait. Silence? That can’t be… 

Alarmed, Wanda does a quick visual sweep, logging her surroundings. Head on a swivel. Natalia taught her that. 

Chairs flipped up on tables; an empty bar. The neon signs decorating each wall—dark. Lights out; newly-swept floors spotless and bare. Not a soul in sight. 

Well, besides the pair of you. 

“It’s after 2:00. We closed about a half hour ago,” you offer by way of explanation. There’s an almost… sympathetic look gracing your tawny features; a genuine urge to soothe Wanda’s evident disorientation, strange and unfamiliar though she might be.

“I suppose that… I lost track of the time,” Wanda murmurs more to herself than to you, pinpricks of unease crawling beneath her skin. She can already hear Natalia’s voice in her head—scolding her for losing focus. 

You nod, as if this explanation pleases you. “It happens.”

“Not to me,” Wanda refutes before she can think better of it, words imbued with bitterness and longing and grief beyond measure. “Not after…” she trails off, blinking rapidly. 

You frown, leaning forth with clasped hands. “After…?” Your voice is gentle—so very gentle; your intonation—probing, yet kind. And that look in your eyes—tender, open… warm. Like she could tell you anything, everything, if she wanted to. 

Heaven help her, but Wanda wants to.

It’s only the firm, intent rhythm of boots on wood which stops her from committing any further blunders. Confident footsteps mark the newcomer’s approach, and with them, a rich, intoxicating presence; one ripe with poise and sovereignty.

Saved by the bell.

“I thought I’d find you here,” comes a lofty, languorous intonation. Low, husky; cool and collected as can be. 

Natalia. 

Her hair is a dark, coffee-stained brown; her eyes a startling shade of hazel. Her brows are penciled in to appear fuller, darker; and, as she draws near, there’s a rather overstated sensuality to her stride—a densely-layered suggestiveness that’s as fantastical as it is distracting.

Yes, Natalia has always been a master of deception. Shedding skins and personas like outerwear; changing seamlessly with the winds of every season. And yet, throughout it all, one thing remains; one thing is constant. She’s in charge, always thinking a step—or ten—ahead. As for the rest of them… well. They’re all just window dressing; side-pieces; extras in her production. 

And Wanda surrenders unto it, as she always does. Revels in its close proximity, soaking it up like golden sunlight on a warm summer’s day. 

You, for your part, are not left similarly unruffled. 

“We’re closed,” you assert, rising unsteadily to your feet with an alarmed expression. “How…” you falter, gaze darting this way and that. “How did you get in?”

If Natalia hears you (and Wanda knows that she does), she does not let on. Rather, she comes to stand directly between the pair of you, peering down at Wanda with a decidedly displeased frown. “I expected you back hours ago.”

Wanda dips her chin in a show of deference, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “I know. I was—”

“Distracted?” Natalia interjects tonelessly. “Yes, I can see that.” Wanda hears her heave a quiet sigh. “You’re forcing my hand here, звезда моя.”

You’re well and truly confused, now; looking from Natalia to Wanda and back again, trying desperately to put the puzzle pieces together. Wanda can practically see the gears turning in your pretty little head. “You guys… know each other?”

Poor thing. 

Wanda dares to raise her head, looking up to Natalia with pleading eyes. “I’m sorry,” she professes, her voice small and quiet. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Another sigh, though even before she speaks, Wanda can tell she’s won. (This round, at least.) “Fine,” Natalia huffs, turning to appraise you with a harried look. “It’s high time you took a leave of absence, my dear. You work far too much, anyhow.”

— —

You awaken slowly. Your head spins. And your limbs… tingling, yet numb. So very, very numb. It’s like you’re floating and sinking all at once—suspended in viscous amber, lead weighing heavy in your bones… pressure squeezing your lungs in a steel vice.

And, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone. 

Awareness sparks a lit match in your chest; it burns a fiery trail up your throat as you hack and cough, hot bursts of air leaving you in a blistering rush. You roll over on a whim, wheezing up what meager remains of your burning lungs onto… a bed. Nicely made. Starch-white sheets, all tucked in around the edges. 

And the scent—pleasant, mild, clean. Like a hotel. 

Bleary-eyed and disoriented, you prop yourself up onto your forearms and peer around.

Polished cement flooring, shadow-grey walls... a flat-screen TV mounted up on the opposite wall. You’re still in your work uniform—slim-fit tee with a generous V-neck (black), jeans (also black), and a pair of ratty hi-top Converse (blue). Your head pounds. 

What happened?

For better or worse, you aren’t permitted the time to think about it for too long. At precisely that moment, all the hairs on your body seem to stand on end, and the realization hits (rather belatedly, granted) that you are not alone. 

A pretty, red-haired woman stands in the doorway, regarding you intently with an otherwise blank expression. Delicate, diamond-cut jawline; full, rouge-red lips. Average height, with a slender yet shapely build. Unreasonably attractive. 

You think you might recognize her.

Hesitantly (and with a not insignificant amount of effort), you wriggle over onto your back, feeling her eyes upon you all the while. 

“H-Hi,” you manage awkwardly. Your cheeks feel hot. 

Her full, pinkish lips curve up to form a spine-chilling smirk that dimples both pale cheeks. “Hello,” she answers back in kind, forest-green eyes alight with mischief. 

“Where am I?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

You blink, taken aback. “... Yes?”

She sucks in her lips, as if trying not to laugh. “Is that a question?”

You fall silent, then, feeling rather foolish and small all of a sudden. 

She says nothing, though the amusement remains upon her pretty angular features, causing your skin to heat and itch with mounting discomfort. 

“You look familiar,” you say after a moment. You’ve never been one for awkward silences.  “Do I know you?”

She shrugs once more. “Do you?”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s a close thing. Instead, you shove yourself up into a sitting position and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Even that meager motion alone is enough to make your head pound and spin and shriek like a banshee on speed, but you’re loath to quit now. “I’m leaving now,” you announce shakily, making to push yourself to your feet— 

Only to be intercepted by a deceptively slender body slamming into yours head-on, shoving all the air from your lungs in one fell swoop and jackknifing your upper body violently backward. Instinct allows you to get your elbows behind you in time to stop yourself from tumbling onto your back as she clambers into your lap with all the efficacy and grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times before; steel-wrought thighs clamped around your hips in a bruising grip, an open-faced palm pressed against your sternum. 

“I don’t think so, зайка,” she purrs, bearing down on you much like a predator would its prey. And fuck it all, but she’s so much prettier up close. Not only that, but she smells incredible; like honey and pine needles and something indefinable, something entirely her own. “Why don’t you relax, hm? Stay a while.”

You get the feeling she isn’t really asking so much as she is telling. 

You gulp, trying your very best to re-gather yourself: your composure, your confusion, your ire. “Who are you?” you try again, suppressing a shudder. “What do you want ?” You give your hips an experimental wiggle—endeavoring to loosen her grip, even if only slightly. 

Nothing. If anything, she grips you that much tighter, digs her palm into your chest that much harder until there’s absolutely no question about the impressive bruising you’ll sport come morning. 

You bite your lip to hold back a whine, and don’t flinch when you taste blood. Jesus. 

“Natasha,” she returns airily. She tacks on something else in a decidedly Slavic-sounding dialect (Russian, perhaps?), followed by… your name. 

Your heart skips a beat, your chest beginning to ache beneath her palm. “How do you know my name?” you question dumbfoundedly, ears ringing. 

She—Natasha—just chuckles, low and amused. “Oh, зайка,” she muses, cupping your cheek in the palm of her free hand. “I know everything about you.”

You frown, heart thudding double-time against your ribcage. You’re not sure what compels you to test her knowledge, particularly in your current predicament, but, nevertheless— 

“When was I born?” you inquire—demand, really. You’ve always been a bit too bold for your own good. 

Luckily, though, rather than enraging her, Natasha actually appears… tickled by your impudence. Charmed, even. She rattles off your birthday, complete with the year and time of day—to the minute—without blinking.

“Where was I born?” 

She rattles that one off, too, complete with the city, hospital, and cross-streets. 

“Where’d I go to school as a child?”

Same deal. Lists the full name of the school, its exact locale (cross-streets and all); even includes the name of your favorite teacher, just to rub it in.

Fuck. You swallow thickly, dread churning low in your gut. “What do you want?” Your voice trembles this time, though you haven’t the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it. 

All you can feel is thinly-veiled panic as the reality of your situation hits like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving you lightheaded and dizzy with fear.  

“I want a lot of things.”

Again, you don’t roll your eyes, though it’s not for lack of wanting. “None of which includes answering my questions, I see.”

She smiles, all teeth. “Careful, bunny,” she cautions, leaning further in until your faces are centimeters apart and her hair tickles your collarbones. It takes all your willpower to keep from flinching away at her close proximity. “My patience is not limitless,” she informs you, warm breath ghosting across your lips, “and you are testing it.”

Your cheeks burn as you manage a shallow nod, feeling by all accounts properly chastised. “Sorry,” you mumble, however begrudgingly.

“Your obstinacy is endearing, but unacceptable,” Natasha continues, shoving herself back off of you with the palm of her hand—ouch— and dismounting gracefully from your lap in one fluid motion. Your breastbone aches, and your hips aren’t much better—left smarting from the phantom weight of her touch. You don’t dare move an inch. “We’ll work on that.”

You exhale sharply, head still pounding, blood pooling along your lower lip. “I don’t understand,” you tell her, your eyes burning with unshed tears. 

“Aw,” she coos, lips pushed out to form a sympathetic (read: condescending) pout. “Poor thing.” As she speaks, another figure enters your tear-blurred vision and—

Wait a minute. Another one?

Your teary-eyed gaze darts over to the new arrival, frantically taking her in. White. Pretty. Long, strawberry-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and delicate pink lips. 

You didn’t even hear her come in. 

“Natalia, you’re scaring her,” the strawberry-blonde admonishes, coming to sit directly beside you on the edge of the bed. Her voice is smooth and light, tempered with the faintest hint of Slavic influence. Not only that, but there’s something almost… familiar about her as she urges you to sit upright, begins tucking stray locks of non-existent hair behind your ear with all the tenderness and familiarity of a long-time lover. Have you met her before? “Oh, it’s okay, миличка, don’t cry.”

You shake your head despondently, face hot with embarrassment. You feel like a little kid. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” you whisper hoarsely, willing yourself not to cry. 

“Shh, shh, I know, baby,” she soothes, leaning in to place a feather-light kiss upon your temple. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” She nuzzles along your brow with the tip of her nose, leaving kisses upon every inch of skin. 

You don’t fight it when she mouths her way down your jaw, tilting your face towards her with an insistent touch beneath your chin.

You—teary-eyed, frustrated, critically overwhelmed—can’t move, can hardly breathe. You’re stock-still, locked in place; looking despondently into her blue-green eyes like you’re drowning, and she might just be the one to save you.

It’s something like a dream when she presses her lips to yours in a feather-light kiss that all too quickly turns open-mouthed and heated; her tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your split lower lip until you whimper. 

You don’t mean to. Really, you don’t. It just… it happens so fast.

Your head spins, your lungs burn from lack of oxygen, and God help you, but her kiss is nothing short of intoxicating—warm and solid and there, anchoring you in a moment that feels altogether surreal. 

It takes all your grit—and then some—to tear yourself away, but you manage it all the same.

“Shit,” you gasp, chest heaving, head spinning. You damn near tumble off the edge of the bed. 

If the woman is at all put off by your sudden retreat, she does not let on. Instead, she merely smirks and licks a smear of blood—your blood—from her upper lip with slow, deliberate movements, as though savoring your taste. 

“Delicious,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else, eyes hooded with lust. 

“I-I know you,” you choke out between heaving gasps. And, the moment you’ve said it, you know it to be true. You do recognize her! 

She’s something of a regular at the bar, though certainly not in the conventional sense. She’s never ordered anything; not a drink (non-alcoholic or otherwise), nor food. She was just… there. Sitting alone at a table for two, blending seamlessly into the backdrop of every vibrant night. 

You aren’t sure when you first noticed her. A few months ago? Maybe longer?

“Wanda,” she offers up, presumably by way of introduction. 

“You… You were at the bar,” you say slowly, still quite out of breath. “A lot.”

“Someone had to make sure you did not get into any trouble,” she—Wanda—reasons with a noncommittal shrug. 

“You were there every night… because of me ?”

“Of course, миличка,” Wanda enthuses, stroking her thumb in gentle circles beneath your cheekbone. “You’re ours. Where else would I be?”

Ice slithers down your spine. “W-What?” you question, gaze darting briefly over to Natasha, who silently watches the pair of you with interest, before returning back to Wanda. “What does that mean?”

“You’re confused,” she soothes, and perhaps you’re imagining it, but you think you glimpse a flicker of carmine-red arcing through her pupils—here one moment, gone the next.

And in that instant… 

Woah. 

It’s as if a switch has been flipped. 

Time seems to slow. A strange sensation pulses behind your right eye… probing; curious. Inattention glazes over your vision; lead settles heavy in your bones. And that nagging, inquisitive probe… remains. 

Oh, does it remain. Creeping its way into your thoughts, coiling its way around the base of your spine… polluting your very bloodstream with red, red, red.

“W-What’s happening?” you hear yourself ask from beneath a sea of molten amber. The words sound tinny to your ears.

“Shh-shh-shh,” the other one—Natalie, Natalia, Natasha—coos from… behind you. When did she get there? Slender arms curl around your ribs, tugging you back into her body, and you… you are like dregs on the ocean’s tide; small, lost, helpless. Where it flows, so, too, do you. “No more talking, зайка,” she murmurs, words wrought with a mirth you don’t understand. “I think you’ve done quite enough of that.”

The distant thought registers that perhaps you should take issue with that… stiffen up, flinch away, make a snappy retort. Something.

But, just as quickly as it’s come, it’s gone, leaving nothing—not even the faintest echo—in its wake. 

She’s still pulling you along as she reclines back against the headboard, trading her firm grip on your sides for a looser one around your neck and shoulders. And you… you go willingly. You let her arms pull you back into her chest, tucking your head beneath her chin. You think you might even feel her place a kiss atop your head. Her touch is firm, yet gentle as she holds you against her, and she is so very, very warm… 

Wanda joins, too, a half a second later—straddling one of your legs and crawling her way up the length of your body, planting feather-light kisses everywhere she can reach along the way. 

“It is better like this, hm?” she hums. “Just the three of us. No arguing, no resistance… No fighting.” Once again, you’re struck by the distinct—and fleeting—impression that you should take offense to that. “How it’s meant to be.” 

When she finally comes to rest, it’s with an arm slung around your waist and one of her long, shapely legs tangled with yours. She noses at Natasha’s forearms folded beneath your chin like a brown-nosed puppy, and doesn’t relent until she readjusts her grip with a peevish huff. The moment there’s room, Wanda’s head finds its place against your chest and she lets out a satisfied hum, every warm puff of breath ghosting just so across your sternum. You’re sure she can feel every slow, languorous beat of your heart from there. All at once, it occurs to you to be grateful for your hazy, befuddled state; heaven knows your heart would be thundering out your chest otherwise. 

 “We care for you, миличка,” Wanda murmurs into your chest, punctuating her statement with a gentle kiss beneath your clavicle. “You don’t understand yet, and that is alright.”

“But you will,” Natasha adds, planting tender kisses along your neck and chuckling whenever a particularly sensitive spot makes you shudder. “No matter how long it takes.”

“This is our promise to you,” Wanda whispers, and though her words sound practiced, in a sense—as though she’s said them many times, and is concentrating quite intently on getting them right—they sound genuine, too. Like she really, really means them. 

Moments before you fall asleep, a thought registers—the first rational, clear thought you’ve had since you first saw twin flickers of red flare in Wanda’s pupils: Fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

— —

звезда моя | zvezda moya | my star [russian]

зайка | zaika | bunny (term of endearment) [russian]

миличка | milichka | honey [bulgarian]

end notes: again, this has been sitting in the drafts/docs for a minute, and would love to know what you think! in the meantime, i’m still on that grind for all the shit i need to do that hasn’t yet been completed yet..... heh heh. will probably toss this up on ao3 (but also maybe not?) soon enough. we’ll see </3

link to masterlist

#dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader #dark!natasha romanoff x f!reader #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff x dark!natasha romanoff x reader #stuff i wrote #f!reader

[warsofasoiaf]

What are your thoughts on the Donbass war (2014-2022)? Were the separatists russian puppets or the expression of (parts) of the local population? And what’s your views on the non-implementation of the Minsk agreement ?

The separatists were Russian proxies, full stop. The tapes from Glazyev clearly prove that, and opinion polls in those provinces show that even in Crimea, native Russian weren't enthusiastic on the idea of being annexed or controlled by Russia. Hence, the rebellion was largely manufactured out of whole cloth, and when paid demonstrations failed, Russia responded with importing irregulars to pose as native separatists. Here is an exhaustively well-researched report on exactly what went down with that, and when even irregulars failed, Russia had no choice but to launch its own invasion with its regular forces in 2014.

The idea of a "Donbas genocide" or "Donbas shelling" is a myth. It's a blatantly revisionist take that argues that while the Russian-led separatist forces were allowed to attack and shell the Ukrainians (more casualties were caused by Russians and Russian-led separatists), Ukraine was not allowed to defend itself or conduct counter-insurgency operations against an insurgency in its own territory.

The idea that "the Minsk agreements secured peace, but Ukraine refused to implement it" is likewise false. For one, Russia also habitually failed to implement its own provisions, conducting its own rigged elections in Donetsk and Luhansk contrary to the stated provisions of Minsk. For two, all foreign groups, i.e. Russia's imported forces, were to be removed, and they weren't. For three, Ukraine was supposed to have full sovereignty over its border, which Russia routinely transgressed to resupply its forces. It also blatantly broke the ceasefire to seize more territory. Russia pretended that it held no control over the separatist forces, but that was a transparent lie - repeated investigations and even testimony from the separatists themselves said that they took orders from Moscow.

Pretty much all the arguments are largely post-facto justifications to support Russian deniable asset wars. For all the claims of the Euromaidan being a "CIA-sponsored color revolution" (pro-tip: if someone uses those words unironically, you don't have to take anything they say seriously, they're just an unthinking consumer of Russian disinformation), the "Donbas separatists" were actually far closer to what that operation would be like in reality - imported agitators to create a false appearance of a separatist movement with military support to overthrow an existing government.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#russia #ukraine #russo ukrainian war #war in the donbas

[gingerofsuburbia]

BDS Consumer Boycott Targets

Everything here is copied over from the BDS website.

Hewlett Packard Inc (HP Inc)

HP Inc (US) provides services to the offices of genocide leaders, Israeli PM Netanyahu and Financial Minister Smotrich. HPE, which shares the same brand, provides technology for Israel’s Population and Immigration Authority, a pillar of its apartheid regime.

Chevron (including Caltex and Texaco)

US fossil fuel multinational Chevron is the main corporation extracting gas claimed by apartheid Israel in the East Mediterranean. Chevron generates billions in revenues, strengthening Israel’s war chest and apartheid system, exacerbating the climate crisis and Gaza siege, and is complicit in depriving the Palestinian people of their right to sovereignty over their natural resources. Chevron has thousands of retail gas stations around the world under the Chevron, Caltex, and Texaco brand names.

Siemens

Siemens (Germany) is the main contractor for the Euro-Asia Interconnector, an Israel-EU submarine electricity cable that is planned to connect Israel’s illegal settlements in the occupied Palestinian territory to Europe. Siemens-branded electrical appliances are sold globally.

PUMA

Since 2018, we have called for a boycott of PUMA (Germany) due to its sponsorship of the Israel Football Association (IFA), which governs teams in Israel’s illegal settlements on occupied Palestinian land. In a major BDS win in December 2023, PUMA leaked news to the media that it will not be renewing its IFA contract when it expires in December 2024. Until then, it is still complicit, so we continue to #BoycottPUMA until it finally ends its complicity in apartheid.

Carrefour

Carrefour (France) is a genocide enabler. Carrefour-Israel has supported Israeli soldiers partaking in the unfolding genocide of Palestinians in Gaza with gifts of personal packages. In 2022, it entered a partnership with the Israeli company Electra Consumer Products and its subsidiary Yenot Bitan, both of which are involved in grave violations against the Palestinian people.

AXA

Insurance giant AXA (France) invests in Israeli banks financing war crimes and the theft of Palestinian land and natural resources. When Russia invaded Ukraine, AXA took targeted measures against it. Yet, Axa has taken no action against Israel, a 75-year-old regime of settler-colonialism and apartheid, despite its ongoing genocidal war on Gaza.

SodaStream

SodaStream is an Israeli company that is actively complicit in Israel's policy of displacing the indigenous Bedouin-Palestinian citizens of present-day Israel in the Naqab (Negev) and has a long history of racial discrimination against Palestinian workers.

Ahava

Ahava cosmetics is an Israeli company that has its production site, visitor center, and main store in an illegal Israeli settlement in the occupied Palestinian territory.

RE/MAX

RE/MAX (US) markets and sells property in illegal Israeli settlements built on stolen Palestinian land, thus enabling Israel’s colonization of the occupied West Bank.

Israeli produce in your supermarkets

Boycott produce from Israel in your supermarket and demand their removal from shelves. Beyond being part of a trade that fuels Israel’s apartheid economy, Israeli fruits, vegetables, and wines misleadingly labeled as “Product of Israel” often include products of illegal settlements on stolen Palestinian land. Israeli companies do not distinguish between the two, and neither should consumers.

Non-BDS Grassroots Boycotts:

McDonald’s (US), Burger King (US), Papa John’s (US), Pizza Hut (US), WIX (Israel), etc. are now being targeted in some countries by grassroots organic boycott campaigns, not initiated by the BDS movement. BDS supports these boycott campaigns because these companies, or their branches or franchisees in Israel, have openly supported apartheid Israel and/or provided generous in-kind donations to the Israeli military amid the current genocide. If these grassroots campaigns are not already organically active in your area, we suggest focusing your energies on our strategic campaigns above. 

Recently, McDonald’s franchisee in Malaysia has filed a SLAPP lawsuit against solidarity activists, claiming defamation. Instead of holding the Israel franchisee to account for supporting genocide, we are now witnessing corporate bullying against activists. For both these reasons, we are calling to escalate the boycott of McDonald’s until the parent company takes action and ends the complicity of the brand.

Remember, all Israeli banks and virtually all Israeli companies are complicit to some degree in Israel’s system of occupation and apartheid, and hundreds of international corporations and banks are also deeply complicit. We focus our boycotts on a small number of companies and products for maximum impact.

#palestine #gaza strip #bds #global strike week #free palestine

[strawb3rryqueer]

Indigenous People's Day

"Fuck Columbus"

Great, so true, but how else are you going to show up for Indigenous people today? Columbus has been dead for hundreds of years. While it's perfectly acceptable, and encouraged, to shit talk Columbus, that shouldn't be the only course of action that you take today if you consider yourself to be an Indigenous ally.

Do the work. Learn about some of the current issues affecting Native communities, and then identify Indigenous leadership who are leading actions against those issues. But don't stop there because the work doesn't end at learning. Being an ally is an active process. I'm tired of "allies" simply reblogging some posts and calling it a day.

How are you unlearning colonial thinking? When is the last time you consumed Indigenous media? There are so many amazing films, tv series, and songs produced by and starring Indigenous people. Find them and consume them. Indigenous media matters. How are you demanding justice for Indigenous people? When is the last time you attended a protest relating to Indigenous issues? If you have the ability and means to, get out on the streets. We need numbers to keep the movement going. If you can't physically attend a protest, there are plenty of other ways to help! Designing flyers, infographics, etc. Sending educational emails to keep those in the movement updated. Recruiting. Scheduling events. Securing venue locations. Getting permits. When is the last time you purchased from an Indigenous-owned business? How many Indigenous people do you follow/interact with on social media? Social media provides an incredibly easy way to engage with Indigenous culture and people. How are you raising awareness for the Indigenous people in your everyday life? How are you learning to center Indigenous people? How are you supporting Indigenous sovereignty?

If you're based on the American continents, have you learned the name of the Indigenous peoples whose land you're on? Have you considered paying taxes to that group/tribe (yes, that's something that some states/counties will allow!)? When is the last time that you've been to a powwow? I can't even say how many times I've had non-Indigenous people (primarily White people) tell me that they thought they had to be specifically invited to a powwow by a Native person, or that powwows are closed practices. Please attend your local powwows! Most are open to the public and it's a great place to (respectfully) learn about and directly engage with and support Indigenous culture and people.

I don't want to see anyone (aside from Indigenous people) saying "Happy Indigenous People's Day" or "Fuck Columbus" without doing the necessary work to truly support those statements.

#indigenous peoples day #indigenous #fuck columbus #native american #indigenous rights #native american rights #columbus day

[iberiancadre]

do u have any examples of “non-violent” revolutions, and how they hid the violence?

one topical example because of its 50th year anniversary is Portugal's carnation revolution. The common narrative is that it was a peaceful revolution led by a section of the army, but what is often minimized or just forgotten is the anti-colonial struggle which had been waging since 1961. Not only was the fight for independence very bloody, but it also turned the army sour due to the very poor performance and horrible conditions, and the general population did not like conscription. While violence might not have been explicitly used in the revolution proper, it'd be very disingenuous to both ignore the very violent context of the revolution, and to pretend like anything short of killing the previous government isn't violent. The army still entered Lisbon with tanks and other armored vehicles. The Portuguese people joined them, sure, but it was a very open threat towards the sitting government.

The overthrow of the eastern european socialist states is also commonly touted in liberal historiography as a non-violent matter, with the exception of Romania, a popular and peaceful movement towards "free" elections and a democratic ousting of the various communist parties. However, the entire cold war was characterized by active sabotage, assassinations plots and funding of extreme elements in society to create instability. In the case of Poland, an attempt to introduce market relations to the consumer economy as part of destalinization included the taking of IMF loans and therefore a loss of sovereignty over economic policies. In all of eastern Europe, the supposed free elections of the late 80s and early 90s had to be very supervised by NATO to ensure the still popular communist parties did not get a significant number of votes. Not to mention how the soviet parliament was shelled by yeltsin's tanks, or how the apocalyptic loss of social security, education, healthcare, and other consequences such as the popularization of child prostitution was extremely violent, even if guns were not the cause in the extreme drop in life expectancy.

On the communists' side, any revolution that puts the proletariat in power necessarily means violent oppression of the bourgeoisie, lest they attempt a counter-revolution. Violence is pervasive in any example you can come up with not because I'm jaded like that, but because class society can only be sustained by violence. It does not matter if the violence is as evident as martial law, or as hidden as a mere change in interest rates. Violence is not a moral absolute either, it is simply the tool that makes any society capable of sustaining 8 billion people in a somewhat organized manner. It's our choice whether to ignore it in an idealist dream until our enemies use it on us, or to use it to protect a proletarian revolution and actually get closer to the end of class society

[germiyahu]

And if you really want me to examine why people in the global south also have such an animosity to Jewish sovereignty in their historic homeland, and seem to give Palestinian Resistance a carte blanche... well I'm definitely not as qualified but fine! I have some theories!

A lot of the Global South are Westerners, kind of. This is especially true for Latin America, and they hate to see it, but a huge proportion of those societies is descended from European settlers, their cultures are heavily influenced by Western cultures. A lot of these countries, especially Latin America (and South Africa too interesting) have also had their own substantial Jewish populations. So if it looks like kind of like a Western society, and it treats its own Jews like a Western society... need I go on?

A lot of the Global South, actually most of it, including the countries that fall in category one, was occupied violently by the West. This created another avenue to transfer Western values onto subjugated populations. And no, don't shake your head at me. You can't claim the GS's homophobia was forced on it by the West and then act like the same wouldn't apply to antisemitism? A lot of the Global South never had significant Jewish populations, that much is true. The concept of antisemitism might feel frivolous and remote to them; why is that our problem? See my own anon. All the same, they were colonized by Jew Haters. At the same time they'd lack exposure to say, Holocaust education, and also have exposure to say, the idea that Jews are overrepresented in global finance.

Even in areas where Western influence was never high historically, even when there are not significant Jewish populations, we live in a modern globalized world where Western culture is a commodity and that commodity makes people money. And people in the Global South consume it. Their conception of the average Jew is probably either an Israeli soldier in some news story about Palestinians being harassed, or a white(ish) American who seems the epitome of privilege to them. They use social media, they see what Americans and Europeans say about Jews. It's very easy to conform to whatever opinions are the loudest and most prevalent.

So a lot of Global South Denizens probably are used to persecuting Jews, expelling or killing Jews, and also dealing with colonial masters who were constantly telling them how Jews cannot be trusted. And for a lot of them, if Jews were present, they were there helping the occupying power, as many Jews were imperial citizens and were present in colonies in various occupations. The Imperial Powers would not have passed up the opportunity to pass the buck to Jews where it was convenient. I see a lot of Algerians excuse their cleansing of Jews as "The Jews were made the middle man by the French colonizers, and they reveled in turning their backs on their Algerian brothers." This excuses violent ethnic cleansing in their minds. Why? Because Western propaganda primed the gun they were already loading.

In essence: I'm not surprised that the Global South is "crying out" for Palestine. All they know about Jews they learned from the West, or they have their own history of violently oppressing Jews. Should any of us be surprised? If you picked anyone in their camp and pitted them against a Jewish state, anywhere in the world, they would still see Jews as a foreign arm of Western Imperial Power, sent by the Man to keep them down. Or the Jews would themselves be the Man I guess. Except then the Jewish claim to indigeneity would not only be more tenuous, it would be ludicrous and false on the face of it.

It's the same reason a lot of people of color in the West identify with Palestinians and the Palestinian struggle. I don't say they do so in error. But I wholeheartedly believe they and a lot of people in the GS are projecting their own societal trauma onto Israel. Obviously Israel is very much doing bad things, so this isn't coming from nothing. But if the vitriolic reactions to Israel and the blind support for literal fascists seem extreme, maybe that's why. They don't care to see the difference between an Israel and a Great Britain or a France. And I'm not saying they have to, but when Jews themselves are also a historically oppressed and nearly wiped out persecuted people, it can come across as fairly gauche to say there's no difference between Israel and Germany, to say that Jews just flat out don't belong in their historic homeland.

There you go, there's my unqualified opinion. Are you happy now?

#israel #palestine #antisemitism #leftist antisemitism

[probablyasocialecologist]

A new study launched this week highlights the work of Andhra Pradesh Community-Managed Natural Farming (APCNF) and the remarkable untapped potential of agroecological natural farming in Andhra Pradesh, India.  Spanning over 6 million hectares, and involving 6 million farmers and 50 million consumers, the APCNF represents the largest agroecological transition in the world. Amidst the diverse landscapes of Andhra Pradesh, this state-wide movement is addressing a multitude of development challenges—rural livelihoods, access to nutritious food, biodiversity loss, climate change, water scarcity, and pollution—and their work is redefining the way we approach food systems. Farmers practicing agroecology have witnessed remarkable yield increases. Conventional wisdom suggests that chemical-intensive farming is necessary to maintain high yields. But this study shows agroecological methods were just as productive, if not more so: natural inputs have achieved equal or higher yields compared to the other farming systems—on average, these farms saw an 11% increase in yields—while maintaining higher crop diversity. This significant finding challenges the notion that harmful chemicals are indispensable for meeting the demands of a growing population. The advantages of transitioning to natural farming in Andhra Pradesh have gone beyond just yields. Farmers who used agroecological approaches received higher incomes as well, while villages that used natural farming had higher employment rates. Thanks to greater crop diversity in their farming practice, farmers using agroecology had greater dietary diversity in their households than conventional farmers. The number of ‘sick days’ needed by farmers using natural farming was also significantly lower than those working on chemically-intensive farms. Another important finding was the significant increase in social ‘capital’: community cohesion was higher in natural farming villages, and knowledge sharing had greatly increased—significantly aided by women. The implications for these findings are significant: community-managed natural farming can support not just food security goals, but also sustainable economic development and human development. The study overall sheds light on a promising and optimistic path toward addressing geopolitical and climate impacts, underlining the critical significance of food sovereignty and access to nourishing, wholesome food for communities. Contrary to the misconception that relentlessly increasing food production is the sole solution to cater to a growing population, the truth reveals a different story. While striving for higher yields remains important, the root cause of hunger worldwide does not lie in scarcity, as farmers already produce more than enough to address it. Instead, food insecurity is primarily driven by factors such as poverty, lack of democracy, poor distribution, a lack of post-harvest handling, waste, and unequal access to resources. 

#india #agroecology #farming #True Cost Accounting #agriculture #Andhra Pradesh

[shivrcys]

9 Fandom Peeps to Get to Know Better

Thank you so much for tagging me @missanthropicprinciple

3 ships you like: Rhaenicent (of course), Hürrem x Leo (THEY WOULD HAVE BOTH EATEN THE TURKISH DELIGHTS FOR EACH OTHER), Nurlim (ICONS).

First ship ever: Probably Thasmin?

Last song that you heard: Delilah by Florence and the Machine

Favourite childhood book: Anne of Green Gables

Currently Reading: Fire and Blood by George RR Martin and The Imperial Harem: Women and Sovereignty in the Ottoman Empire by Leslie Peirce

Currently Watching: The Untamed and The Bear (I WOULD be still watching Magnificent Century season 4 but the YouTube admins have stopped uploading the clips. THIS IS RUINING MY LIFE)

Currently consuming: I just had some pizza

Currently craving: a glass of water and some chocolate cake. ALSO THE REST OF MAGNIFICENT CENTURY SEASON 4.

Tagging anyone who wants to do this

[esyra]

You have so much grace and compassion. Even amid this firestorm of grief and helplessness and dehumanization and hatred you find love and care in your heart for Jews and Israelis. At first, when people ask where Israelis are supposed to go, I swallowed my anger and tried to draw analogies to the ending of the South African apartheid and Irish independence and even the Landback Movement that asks only for sovereignty over their lands and not expulsion of settlers. But now the question just fills me with corrosive hatred. It's the height of privileged self-involvement to ask that of Palestinians while they murder your families wholesale. Being surrounded by this kind of murderous racism that justifies the slaughter of children has eroded every bit of compassion and patience in me; sometimes I just want someone to drop a nuke on the whole damn country like the USAmericans still boast of having done to Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

But you, alone and broken hearted with the suffering of your family in your ears and nightmares, constantly attacked by these monsters— you still manage to not let your rage and pain consume you. You build a temple of calm and compassion amid a sea of loss and chaos. I swear I have never seen so much grace and faith and perseverance as in the Palestinian people; you hold your defiance and truth and faith like beacons above you as fire and death rain down from the skies. I don't believe in God but I can't help but feel as though you all must be touched by some holy light, and that all the world's liberation is tied up in yours, that a soil so drenched in the blood of martyrs must be consecrated, no matter how much those demons try to scorch it clean.

I wasn't going to publish this because it's part of the asks I'm keeping to myself, but as we enter the 40th day of war and telecommunications are either too scarce or completely cut off, I'm putting these beautiful words out there for any Palestinian that needs to hear it:

I swear I have never seen so much grace and faith and perseverance as in the Palestinian people; you hold your defiance and truth and faith like beacons above you as fire and death rain down from the skies. I don't believe in God but I can't help but feel as though you all must be touched by some holy light, and that all the world's liberation is tied up in yours, that a soil so drenched in the blood of martyrs must be consecrated, no matter how much those demons try to scorch it clean.

Let no one mistake us for war or violence, for the spoiled poisonous fruit. Palestinians were born from beauty, and to beauty we will return.

#palestinians #one of the most beautiful things I've ever read thank you so much #i read all asks and I thank everyone for the love and support

[vanillabourbon]

the first of many. | intro | ongoing tlou series

story summary. joel arrives at Jackson twenty years after the outbreak with a young girl that cares for him just as much as he cares for her. little did he know, he would soon meet someone else that would urge his returning sense of humanity one step further.

introductory chapter warnings. weaponry. alludes to suicidal thoughts and behavior. mentions of blood and violence. wounds. kinda sad ngl but let’s call it canon. pls let me know if i missed anything.

story pairings. joel miller x reader, tommy miller x platonic!reader

words. 11k (i went a bit overboard, hehe, but editing is going slow so pls ignore any obvious mistakes. this is the first work i’ve taken seriously so please enjoy :))

-

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

The mind and the body’s initial response is always denial – denial of things, of circumstances, and of situations that are too radical, too unconventional, to believe.

How could anyone believe the events of things as they were? Social and societal constructs had been dismantled in a matter of hours, as if the very fabric of everyone’s being had been tied together by a mere string. The justice and sovereignty in belief, in trust in the nature of things themselves, was apparently so fickle, so haphazardly constructed in the first place, that it took a rapidly spreading infection to displace and make known just how unsafe anything is from harm.

No one should be shocked, really. Least of all you.

In hindsight, which is the only perspective anyone can rely on at a moment’s notice, everything gave way to regret and humiliation. How had no one seen this coming? Everything up until that point in time suddenly seemed so obvious – so commonsensical. It was as if someone had balled up every bad thing and every imperfect thing until it could no longer withstand its own constraints and, instead, chose to flow directly toward the seemingly permanent. 

There’s always an element of impermanence in the seemingly permanent.

For whatever reason, now, only a day had passed since the events that led to an abrupt collapse in society as you knew it. You wanted to believe the best – that society and the nature of man would prevent anything from happening. You trusted that the condition of humanity would never outweigh the moral weight of integrity and righteousness. You told yourself that the militant responses of the government were out of necessity and that order and control would fall soon after – or, at least, eventually.

Whether you truly believed that or not no longer mattered.

You were being ushered through the city of Chicago by your older brother, trailing after your uncle, aunt, and two cousins in the wake of another riot. It was dark, darker than any time you had ever stepped foot through the streets of Chicago. And it was bare. Every skitter and harsh knock of a tin trash can sent your brother’s nerves into overdrive; his fingers dug into the flesh of your forearm, dragging you beside him with every step he took. His vice-like grip pained you, but you didn’t bother to tell him that.

You did exactly what he had instructed you before: keep quiet and avoid eye contact.

Military brigades sat empty in the torn and destroyed city streets. Fires engulfed and illuminated countless buildings – convenience stores, pharmacies, mini marts, miscellaneous retail stores. For a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw a young boy, no older than your small cousins, ducking behind a fire hydrant. Tiny fingers braced against the stained red paint, gripping the rusted bolts as if a life depended on it. Maybe it did. But the boy was gone when you chanced a look back.

“Eyes forward,” your brother mumbled.

You didn’t bother to argue. You were far too consumed with wandering, catching stray remnants of the world around you in your peripheral. Anything and everything surrounding you seemed too fantastical, like a stupor you were unable to shake yourself from. The tall, familiar skyscrapers were in stark contrast to the now empty storefronts and abandoned vehicles.

Even though it felt like the end of something, it seemed like the start of something else. Of what, you didn’t know.

Regardless, you wanted to make no effort to distract or distress your brother any further. You’d never seen him so laser-focused, so adamant about one thing, in your life. It was clear that safety was his top priority, and the thought sent your mind and your heart reeling. 

Even if your brother hadn’t been dragging you toward Lawrence Avenue, you felt that your feet would have been bumbling about of their own accord. You were sure they weren’t moving because of anything you were doing. Your mind was elsewhere, eyes flitting to and from every glimpse of dark corners and shattered glass you dared to witness. Surprisingly, it wasn’t fear bubbling up and threatening to overtake your every sense; it was surprise, perhaps confusion. 

Your gaze would’ve gotten lost down a dark side road as you were marched by it, but you were torn from your daze. A slight stumble, the slip of a toddler’s foot, caught everyone by surprise. One of your cousins rested in an awkward heap a few feet in front of you, ground having scraped her knee and stray debris nearly slicing her palm as she braced herself. Among stray tires and pieces of burnt wood, she looked so small, so petite. Her face twisted in pain and sadness as she turned about, first to you and your brother as you approached then to her parents only a few steps away.

Without missing a beat, your uncle ushered your aunt forward, pushing her lower back and guiding her to keep going. He did the same with his young son before going back and reaching down, scooping up his daughter from where she lay on the pavement with one hand and reassuring her with the other.

Momentarily, his eyes flitted toward you and your brother. It was the first time he had turned to look at either of you since you started your trek. For a moment, you wondered if he was about to say something. 

But he didn’t. He only locked eyes for a second, maybe longer, before he was turning on his heels and picking up his pace to a light jog.

Only minutes had gone by before your family’s pounding footsteps were quieted by shouts and gunfire. A frighteningly sudden halt came when you all jolted to a stop. If things were still, you would’ve been gracious for the moment to rest your feet, for the chance to catch your breath and rock back on your heels to ease the pain from your soles. The act of running was starting to take its toll – stripping and coercing your composure and relief from their rightful place.

Calm felt so far removed. Even more so when the gunfire ceased and a loud, nearly automated voice came over a distant speaker: “ALL REMAINING CIVILIANS MUST REPORT TO ONE OF TWO EMERGENCY MEDICAL CAMPS.”

A tan army vehicle passed by your group just then. It rolled passed, and you all did a poor attempt at ducking into the shadows. Your brother’s grip tightened, if that were even possible, and dragged you to his side. Your breath caught in your throat until the back tire of the vehicle disappeared from sight, rolling down the road and toward the loud din still protruding from two streets over.

Whoever was among the shouting didn’t matter. It was clear that there were a lot of them, and that scared you. The streets had seemed so empty, so shallow. For a moment, you could pretend like your family was all that was left, that you all would make it to your aunt and uncle’s vehicle you’d left at airport parking. Maybe drive until you found a place safe enough to sleep. Wake to a world not burnt and bruised on every side.

It was a good dream. A pipe dream, perhaps, but a good one.

Your uncle was the first to move. He wrapped his arms around your aunt and cousins, driving them down a side street a few feet away. Your brother, a slight wild look in his eye, chanced a look around. For a split moment, he looked as if he was going to grab your wrist and keep running, chance a run-in with the military or with a group of people just as scared as the two of you. But he didn’t. He let out a low huff and dragged you toward the same side street.

Your aunt was huddled a few feet away, partially occluded by shadow and rocking one of your cousins in her arms. She was crouched, whispering, or pleading, something in a low voice. It was almost unnerving to watch her come undone.

Your gaze was torn from the sight when your uncle grunted. He was crouched right beside you, tying your other cousin’s shoes. Your cousin’s small hands were splayed across his back as she tried to balance herself.

“Danny boy, you’re with me,” he finally said. He looked over his shoulder and up at your brother. “We’ll run the rest of the way. It’s just a few blocks.”

You furrowed your brow, stepping forward quickly. Danny’s hand was still locked around your arm, but he made no move to stop you nor speak for himself. “Wait, what?”

Your uncle turned his attention back to the small white strings in his hands, his fingers fumbling awkwardly with the small shoelaces. “I know we said we’d get the car checked, but it should run just fine. We’ll come back for them in five minutes, tops.” His head was nodding before he even finished his sentence. “Yeah, yeah. Five minutes. Tops.”

“You can’t be serious.” Since he made no effort to acknowledge you, or to look at either of you again, you turned to your brother. “Is he serious?”

Danny was chewing on his bottom lip then, staring down at your uncle with eyes that did not seem in the least bit alarmed. “You sure about the car?”

“Positive.”

“It’ll run?”

“Should.”

At that point, your chest started to heave. Slightly, but heave all the same. A thickness suddenly but slowly started to coat your throat, like someone had lodged a softball right between your esophagus and windpipe.

Danny might’ve been calling your name, but, if he was, you couldn’t hear him. In seconds, he was dragging you backwards until you were pressed into the wall of the closest building. It was some worn-down bar. Your shoulders dug into the brick. “You have to stay here. Okay? With Aunt Lorraine and the twins.”

And that did it – that truly jolted you. “No,” you protested, hands coming up to grip your brother’s forearms. Now it was your turn to dig your fingers into his flesh. Anything to keep him there and grounded, right beside you, where he belonged. “You can’t just leave me.”

“I have to. We can get the car. Skirt downtown and be on our way to Indiana.”

“What about the military?”

“We can get away from them.”

“How?”

“We can.”

“It’s the military,” you deadpanned.

For a moment, you could almost make out a brief glint of humor in his eyes. The side of his mouth perked up, threatening a smirk that always drove you crazy whenever he found hilarity in situations not in the least bit hilarious. But right now, in this moment, it lifted whatever burden was trying to settle like a rock in your chest. Your brother was still your brother. And, to you, he’d never leave you.

“We just can, alright?” He reasoned. “We have to.”

“Well, what happens when we get to Indiana? What if we can’t find a place to stay?”

“You let me worry about that.”

“But, that’s the problem, Danny. You don’t worry about these things.”

You finally broke eye contact then. Pools of tears were beginning to form, blurring your vision and making everything around you swim.

“Well, that’s why I need you, isn’t it? Gives me an incentive to actually come back for you.”

You scoffed, a slight sniffle leaving you as you did. “As if you’d ever leave me behind.”

“Hey, we need to go, kid,” Your uncle said.

Afar off, he had long since stood and was waiting for your brother at the mouth of the street. When you turned toward him, he looked away, chancing a quick look both ways before exiting the shadows entirely. He loitered there, clearly waiting for Danny to join him.

Your brother had completely ignored him, not taking his eyes off of you for even a second. “Exactly. That’s why you have to trust me when I say I will come back.”

When you returned his gaze, his eyes were as earnest as you had ever seen them. He was telling you the truth and trying his hardest to make sure you believed him before he took off. You did, of course, but something was making every nerve in your body hot and every hair on your head stand. Something wasn’t right.

“I trust your word, Danny, but I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” 

And something told you he didn’t mean himself and your uncle. 

He urged himself forward, pressing a hard kiss to your forehead. He stayed there for a few seconds, crushing you to his chest, before abruptly letting go. He determinedly strode down the street, meeting your uncle on the sidewalk with a firm nod. 

Before he disappeared, he turned once more to you and added, “I’ll see you again.”

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

If Joel could give voice to the crushing weight of a broken heart or the sudden unwillingness to yield to the innate response to keep going, he still wouldn't be able to properly identify it as true sorrow.

He still couldn’t quite pin it – anger, disbelief, pity … guilt. Everything had happened so fast, as they always do. But never to him. Calculations and planning, pure thought – the things he was used to and relied heavily on simply because they worked – were nothing compared to the devastation of unpredictability – of spontaneity, the unexpected. As cruel as fate could be, as cruel as life itself could be, there was very little possibility that it could bring about something like this – to take something so pure, so innocent, as a life. A child’s life.

A life for a life, he determined.

“Swear?” Sara had asked. Long ago now, it felt like. Something about a birthday cake, but the softness in her voice had sent Joel’s heart pumping with love and affection.

“On my life.”

A woman screamed somewhere to his left. His brow twitched, and, for the first time, he became semi-cognizant of his surroundings. A makeshift medical camp was teeming with victims, families, military and doctors alike, swarming and descending around him. White lab coats and camouflage armor were a hazy swirl as frenzied bodies wheeled grocery carts, gurneys, wheelchairs, beds – anything they could find – all through one Austin plaza. 

For one second, one split second, Joel could vividly picture himself and Tommy driving by here on the way to pick up supplies not even two months earlier. He had been laughing, then. Shaking his head at something his brother had said to diffuse his anger for having been late the morning of.

Joel had been clutching a juice box then, too. A ‘good source of vitamin D.’ It felt small and strange in his hand at the time. Foreign. An odd replacement to the coffee usually growing cold in his tired grip. But he had promised her. Even when she threw a smile over her shoulder and clamored out of the truck to bound across her school’s parking lot, he didn’t let the box go until he’d drunk it all. Even when the memory was fading now, lost to a couple of weeks and now permanently overwritten by the last time he’d dropped her off, Joel could still feel the box. 

Small. Strange. Like the last image of her now boring into the backs of his eyelids – curling and uncurling her failing grip in his t-shirt with every gasping breath.

Out of nowhere, a woman screamed again. Not loud enough to startle him from whatever depth he was losing his footing in, but still loud. Loud enough to draw the attention of nearby soldiers, who rapidly trained their weapons toward her. They didn’t shoot. They didn’t stand down either.

The woman was on her knees in the middle of all the chaos. A nurse unknowingly side-stepped a soldier and nearly tripped over the wailing woman. She didn’t notice of course. She just knelt there, rocking and shrieking. It took a moment for Joel to notice the small body she was clutching in her hands. A girl. Straight, dark hair thick and spiraling, down her mother’s lap and nearly sweeping the concrete. Her legs were dangling, bedazzled skechers limp and uncanny. There was a trail of blood leading from a misshapen wound – like indents left from teeth – on the girl’s left calf. 

He looked away.

“Joel.” A voice came. Hardly recognizable. Seconds later, Tommy appeared in front of him, hands gripping his forearms and eyes pleadingly searching Joel’s countenance with growing anxiety.  “Joel, c’mon now. Talk to me, brother. Say something.”

He did say something, though it didn’t quite reach Tommy’s ears. He was muttering, balancing himself on the perch of the old gurney beneath him and rocking himself slightly. 

“On my life,” Joel muttered, continuously, trapped in an earlier memory. An earlier conversation. With the only one who mattered.

“Alright, well,” Tommy started, dropping one hand as he scanned the surrounding area. “We need to get you something to cover that hand.” He turned his attention back to Joel, leaning down and pushing forward to take up Joel’s entire field of vision. “I’ll be back, you hear me? Don’t move.”

He was gone almost as fast as he came. At his words, Joel’s eyes dropped to his hand, the one he’d been unconsciously cradling in his lap. Blood dripped, unceremoniously, down the valley of his palm and onto the cracked pavement under his boots. He vaguely remembered lashing out at some guy before being ushered into the camp. In front of some convenience store. He had landed roughly, shards of glass impaling his skin before Tommy got the chance to haul him up and press him to keep running.

There wasn't a single part of him that felt it, though. The gaping wound – the whole ordeal – seemed like a hallucination, like something plucked from the deepest, most submerged part of his consciousness. Something hardly thinkable. Something vicious and unnerving. Something that simply couldn’t be true.

“Dad … Daddy!”

Joel jolted awake. A stray frosting tip fell from his fingers and rolled across the floor until it hit the edge of Sarah’s heel. His vision swam with exhaustion, drowsy eyes sweeping over the kitchen table. A half frosted cake, a bit lopsided and slightly whiter than the yellow version advertised on the box. A frosting bag filled with purple frosting resting precariously on the edge of the table, inches from his hand now numb from laying on it.

In sudden alarm, he turned back to a curious Sarah. “Baby, I –.” When she met his gaze, he just sighed, dropping his shoulders. “What’re you doing up? It’s late.”

“I saw the light,” she said simply.

She bent down, retrieving the frosting tip before ambling over to his side. He watched her every move, weighing every option that popped into his head about what her expression meant. Child-like innocence. Brief reminders of every year he’d spent enjoying her life right before his eyes.

The small gears were shifting in her head; he could see them from here. She was eyeing the cake, if he could even call the mound of crumbled blocks a cake. Her gaze momentarily slid toward him as she neared him. She stopped at his side, a small hand on his thigh indicating her intent. He pushed his chair back, hands easily guiding her up and onto his lap.

“What’re you doing?” She finally asked.

“Figured I’d try my hand at baking. Construction’s getting slow these days. What’d you think?”

His voice was casual, but he was anything but. He had worried his lip in the aisle of the supermarket just at the thought of buying the wrong cake decorations. The moment of truth had come too soon for him. If he hadn’t been so damn tired, if Tommy had gotten the supplies earlier and hadn’t caused the job to go until ten – 

“It’s pretty.”

Her voice startled him, laced with joy and, what seemed like, pleasant surprise. Her back was leaned against him, and he could just make out her face, angled slightly away from him. She was smiling softly at the poor imitation of whatever he’d bought. The only store left open had been out of cake mix, of course. A woman in the aisle with him explained how easily he could make something close to it with this. Easy for her was hell for Joel, but he couldn’t put a price on Sarah’s smile at that moment.

“Thank you. Tried real hard on it.” He was trying for humor, but he meant every word. His attempts were born from a real place – a place that desperately wanted to see her light up the way she did when he forced himself to sit through her favorite movie, when they decorated the Christmas tree early last year, and when he finally let her drive the truck on Tommy’s lap.

The two looked at the excuse for a cake. It was leaning now. A small portion protruding from where Joel attempted to make a flower out of a mold.

“Is it –,” she paused, cautiously, but hopefully, picking her next words. “Is it for me?”

“‘Course, babygirl. This masterpiece of a cake ain’t for just any eight-year-old.”

“I’m not eight yet,” she reminded him. “Except,” she paused again, frowning. “My birthday’s tomorrow.”

“You always wake up so early. Thought I’d try to surprise you by fixin’ it tonight.”

She stared a bit longer before nodding decisively and throwing an arm around his shoulders. She twisted in his lap, eyes and smile beaming up at him. “I would’ve slept in for you.”

Luck. It had to be luck. Joy, devotion, trust, unquestionable love. A child’s eyes swim with all of the above, and one child in particular, his child, was looking at him with all that and more. Her tightly-wound curls framed her small face and swept her tired eyes, but her expression remained the same. Joel’s heart twisted at the sight.

He cleared his throat, hesitant to speak with the growing lump in his throat. “You would’ve pretendin’ to, anyway.” He rose, maneuvering her until he was carrying her comfortably against his hip. “C’mon, now. It’s late. Gotta get to bed if you want your gifts.”

Abruptly, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, daddy.”

He smiled, part of him worried his eyes were growing wet. “Anything for you, babygirl. Happy birthday.”

Joel was torn from his stupor at the sight in front of him – the sight he’d been staring at while reliving a memory he felt fading almost as fast as he began to remember it. It was a boy, barely old enough to be a teenager. His tear-stained cheeks were nothing compared to the way his eyes rapidly and wildly scanned the area. His gaze hit Joel’s for only a second before he was moving on.

“Dad!” he was shouting. “Dad!”

The boy was turning in circles, looking every which way and shouting into the sea of unknown faces. Every so often he was jostled by complete strangers – unnamed faces covered in weaponry, medication, or grief. One man bumped into him so hard he nearly lost his footing. It didn’t matter. It didn’t stop his shouts or his turns or his wild eyes cutting through the masses of people.

“Dad!” 

“Dad … Dad!”

Joel turned suddenly, new reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose and hands gripping a cup of coffee – fresh seconds. His elbow was propped against the kitchen table he had been occupying for the last hour, mountains of papers and file folders splayed across the tabletop along with a black pen resting atop an unfinished tax document. With Sarah now in sight, his eyes briefly scanned the backyard through the patio-door window, where he’d last seen her playing soccer with Tommy. 

His brother, of course, now leaned against their fence with a shit-eating grin on his face as the woman he was talking to from his neighbor’s yard threw her head back in laughter. 

Of course.

Joel’s eyes turned back to Sarah, breathing in feigned annoyance. “What? Jesus, you keep calling my name like that you’re gonna dad me to death.”

She snorted. “If I wanted that, I’d do it more like this – Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Da–.”

“No, now that’s more like it.”

With a shake of her head, and a small smile, she wandered closer to him with a simple, “What’re you doin’?”

“Takin’ a break from you.”

She ignored him, stepping close enough to peer over the table. Normally, Joel would shoo her away with an obvious hint that she shouldn’t concern herself with whatever was his job. He didn’t like her looking or hearing about their situation in any way, good or bad. She was supposed to be thinking about soccer and school and zoos and the fair he and Tommy were taking her to later that week. Not any of this.

After a moment, he finally did; he abruptly moved forward, reaching and shuffling the papers into a messy stack.

“Nothing you have to worry about, honey, it’s –”

“Line eight E is repeated three times.”

He froze. “What?”

“Line eight, letter ‘E.’ It’s repeated three times.” For emphasis, she pointed down at the document closest to her.

Joel picked up the paper, letting the black pen slide off of it and land with a soft thud on the paper beneath it. She was right. There was no denying she was right. “Huh.”

“‘Sometimes it’s good to have a second pair of eyes,’” she quoted him, turning and strolling to the cabinet to retrieve a bag of chips. He’d told her that when he let her replace the axle nuts on her bike tire. She’d sworn the nuts wouldn’t rotate until he came over to help. The sentiment worked then, and it was working now. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself, Dad.”

He gave her a look, brows furrowing, but her back was turned. She busied herself pouring chips into a bowl. He tried for humor again, responding, “I’m never by myself. I got Tommy breathin’ down my neck every day. He’s all the help I need.”

The only indication of her response was a slight shake of her head, curly hair brushing, back and forth, between her shoulder blades. A quiet huff, something close to a laugh, escaped her.

“We’re also out of milk.” She threw a reply over her shoulder casually, very obviously avoiding turning around.

For a long moment, his eyes were still trained on her. It took a mental connection, a moment of realization, for his brows to lift slightly. His gaze slid over to a purple sticky note hanging diagonally on the refrigerator. Her frilly handwriting, turned cursive upon entering middle school, etched out ‘Get milk from the store!’ in large letters.

“That’s what the note on the fridge is for?”

She remained silent but finished making her snack, ambling back to his side and taking a seat in the chair beside him. There was no need for her to respond, but Joel’s nerves went into overdrive at any and all underlying insinuations. Was she worried about something? Worse yet, was she worried about him?

“Where’s all this coming from?” he continued.

She shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “You just work so much. More than usual. I just thought – Least I can do is help you some.”

“You really wanna help out around here, maybe you can finally get a job,” he tried, verbally poking fun. “Pick up a few hours.” 

“Oh, ha ha.”

She briefly smiled at him, but the act ended as soon as it began. It was clear something was bothering her. Worry was etched between her brows, and it was then Joel realized that’s how she’d been looking at him all month. Eyes wide and deep with concern; brows furrowed with a tight smile that didn’t seem quite as natural anymore. His heart nearly broke, and he cleared his throat to hide his upset.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know I work a lot, and I’m not … around as much as I used to be. I’ll do better. I will. But there’s nothing you need to be worryin’ about.”

She only nodded before adding a soft, “I know.”

“Good. So you also know I love you, babygirl. Not much I wouldn’t do for ya.”

“I know.”

“That all?”

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “I love you too, dad.”

“That all?”

“Well, I wouldn’t wanna ‘dad you to death.’”

“Oh yeah,” he teased, leaning forward to swipe a few chips from her bowl. He flung one towards her, grinning when a laugh erupted that she couldn’t quite contain. Popping the rest of the chips in his mouth, he warned, “Stop playing with your food.”

The sound of laughter, even from a memory, felt jarring, too rich and too pure for the dark scene unfolding around him. He was long-since aware of his eyes growing wet, and, for once, he didn’t care. Couldn’t bring himself to fear or worry about it. He just stared – from the shrieking woman to the shouting boy to the wide, suddenly imposing, city landscape in the distance. It all felt void, lacking meaning in a meaningless world. 

What was to be gained from this? What did any of them gain from anything?

Someone ran by, bumping into Joel’s gurney and swearing a harsh apology in the process. Or maybe just swearing. He couldn’t quite place it, and he didn’t try to. But the action was enough to remind him of his being; his body felt weightless as he drifted from distant memories to distant memories, deliberately failing to grasp one long enough to replace the bitter nightmare threatening to replay itself, over and over again. Maybe if he’d twisted the other way. Or took a chance on running. Or held her a little tighter. Or –

The gurney suddenly felt rough where his hands were gripping the edge, knuckles white and blistering. Now he could sense pain from his open wound. And maybe that was the point. To sense, to feel, something other than what was threatening to send him spiraling. The recent events were still forming pictures in his mind. Consolidation taking its time as depictions kept reordering and restructuring themselves. Building and tearing down again. It was like his brain refused to settle on any one experience.

Because they were all wrong. It was all wrong. It shouldn’t have happened. Not like this.

Emotions had yet to hit him like a brick wall, and, quite frankly, he didn’t want them to. Not now. Not ever. Sensations were returning, sporadically. There was only one he settled on. He vaguely remembered Tommy slipping a handgun into the waistband of his jeans earlier, telling him he might need it before hoisting him to his feet and pushing him to run. To run like his life had depended on it. Even if he was forced to leave his entire life – a child – lying on the cold ground behind him.

That was the sensation he focused on: the hard lick of metal curling its cool touch against his lower back.

-

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

Waiting is just as agonizing as not. You still couldn’t quite decide if you wanted time to go faster or to go slower. You were, however, determined to maintain as much control over the situation as possible. If Danny could manage a calm head, so could you, for his sake and in his absence. You made sure your aunt was comfortable, reassuring her with a few pats on the shoulder after she’d sunken to the ground. Your cousins kept near her, staring up at you with pure curiosity.

You wondered if they understood, or just how much they understood. For their sake, you hoped they hadn’t a clue. If their silence was any indication, you were sure they were fine, probably more so worried about their mother’s – your aunt’s – tear-stained cheeks than anything else.

You tried your best not to glance at the street entrance every minute, but your head was on a swivel. Time itself seemed to stand still. How could you not wish you could do the same? Stand still, as if holding your breath might make it easier to hear your brother’s footsteps come back to you. His footsteps – loud, heavy, familiar.

That’s what you were thinking about when your uncle stumbled through the mouth of the side street he’d left you in. A purple bruise was forming on the lower left side of his jaw. A streak of blood ran across the chest of his gray shirt. Most disturbing of all, he was completely and utterly alone.

“We’ve got to go,” he said.

He hurried right by you, taking long strides towards his family. After checking his wife and daughter, he crouched and busied himself zipping his son’s jacket.

“Where’s Danny?” You asked.

The question hung in the air – thick and unanswered. He ignored you. Easily. His eyes remained pinned to his son’s body as his fingers fumbled, first with the jacket and then with the cuff of his son’s jeans. 

“Where is he?” You were still calm, then. With no answer, you pulled back and stepped cautiously toward the end of the street, looking down where he’d come from. When no one else came by, you returned to your place a few feet away from your family. “Where’s Danny?”

All action and thought cease to exist when laughter brings forth pure, adulterated delight. Especially for a six-year-old child. Laughter and millions of innocent giggles bubble over and make it easy for small feet to run freely. Untamed footsteps can easily fall in line with grass and get lost to rows and rows of trees.

Lost. So, so lost.

You stood in the middle of a clearing. At some point, your laugh had burned down to a chuckle, then to silence, when you realized how far you’d made it alone. Your brother had teased you, playfully giving chase about a mile back, and you had wonderfully ran and leapt over branches and small creeks. Even climbed over a small boulder. You only came to a stop when your echoes seemed too quiet for two.

“Danny?” You called to no one in particular. “Where are you?”

It only took a moment for the beautiful chirps and snaps of branches to seem daunting, not tranquil. Terrifying, not serene. The stillness of it all threatened to suffocate you and evoke fear where you didn’t think it previously possible. You wanted to back away, but your foot had already nearly slipped on a slick mud spot.

Your eyes bounced, wildly, from one tree trunk to another. An unfamiliar feeling coiled up your back and settled at the base of your neck. The sun was starting to slink toward the horizon then. Which way had you come from? What would happen if you didn’t make it back home? What if Danny had gotten hurt, and you hadn’t both to hear him or stop for him? Had you left him somewhere?

“Danny!”

There was no answer. Only the distant sound of water trickling over rocks and another quick snap of a tree branch waving in the wind. Hot tears trickled down your face as you dropped down, sitting and pulling your knees under your chin. You were lost, but, above all, you had lost your brother.

“Hey, little sis, look what I found!” You nearly jumped out of your skin, twisting around to see Danny stepping around a bush and joining you in the clearing. He looked up to proudly present you with a small frog, cupped carefully in the palms of his hands. “Wanna name him?”

For a moment, you stayed right where you were. A soft cry escaped your lips, but there was an early sense of relief flooding every part of your small frame. You still hadn’t relaxed your furrowed brows or the frown that wound tightly on your face. Fear had gripped you, and you were beginning to realize it was the hardest thing to shake.

It only took Danny a second to realize you were crying, and only a second longer to bound over to your side and drop to his knees. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He set the frog down on a dry patch of grass before fixing an intense stare on you. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

You shook your head, sucking in a breath and releasing a broken sob. “I – I thought you were gone.”

Danny’s shoulders dropped a bit. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” He reached out and set a hand on your shoulder. “I would never leave you, okay?”

You nodded, and he dropped his hand. He let you take a few breaths and calm down a bit before he stood to his feet. 

“I think we should go back now. It’s getting dark.” He stuck out his hand, pulling you to your feet when you slipped your hand into his. “Do you remember our secret handshake?”

“Yes.”

An easy grin graced his features once more. “Good, you can show me when we make it back home.”

He moved to leave, but you pulled him back. Your hand fell from his and pointed down at the frog. “What about the frog?”

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t have a name.” He stood back and looked at you expectantly. “I think we should call him Rex.”

Danny nodded, pretending to be lost in thought for a moment. He tapped his chin with the tip of his finger before smiling down at you. “I like Rex. It’s cool.”

Your smile returned, and you skipped out of the clearing, grabbing Danny’s hand as you went. That’s how it was, and that’s how it should be, when an older brother is so near – when another’s presence soothes the quiet that only loneliness can bring about. Your tears had dried and a glimmer of tranquility returned to the noises in the air and the stillness of the environment. A feeling of safety returned soon after, too, and the discomfort of fear had fallen without your notice.

His word was enough: I would never leave you.

You half expected him to scare you like he had when you were children. To step around the wall and stumble towards you, completely oblivious to your worries and concerns about his whereabouts. You would berate him, maybe smack his arm or chest for sending your nerves into overdrive, but you would most likely pull him into a hug and look him over for any bruises. You kept glancing in the direction of the street, waiting for an arrival that would never come.

“Where’s Danny?”

“Honey,” your aunt tried, giving your uncle a sincere look that read: Please answer your niece.

He ignored her too, setting his hands firmly on his son’s shoulders and giving him a nod. He looked at his son intently, probably trying to reassure him with just one look. With the state the world was currently in, words were starting to fail. All anyone could do was offer some sense of familiarity in gestures and in looks.

But that wasn’t enough for you. It never would be.

In desperation, you moved to grab at your uncle’s shirt. “Where is he? Where’s D–.”

Your uncle stood abruptly, whipping around to face you. You were nearly chest to chest as he leered down at you. “He’s not coming back.”

Your response was immediate, taking a step back as if someone had punched you squarely in the chest. “Wha– What?”

A long, silent moment went by. You could just make out the screaming crowd now nothing but a soft, inaudible sound to your ears. Your uncle dropped his gaze. He looked almost guilty for not being able to offer you the reprieve you were obviously searching for – the answer he just couldn’t give you.

“He’s not coming back, kid,” he said, softer this time. “I– I’m sorry.”

He turned, picking up his son and grabbing his wife’s arm to hoist her up with him. Your aunt held her daughter close to her chest, unable to meet your eyes. There was another moment of silence between you all. They stood there, uncertain. Your uncle refused to meet your eyes for longer than a second, flitting his gaze from you to the street behind you. It was the sound of another military vehicle that finally made him straighten his posture and look you in the eye.

“You need to get out of here. It’s not safe out in the open.”

He turned to jog further down the street, in the opposite direction of where you’d all entered originally. That’s when your aunt offered you a sincere look. “Come with us.”

You made no effort to move. Your feet were cemented to the soiled street; Your eyes still glued to your uncle’s distressed countenance. His words were the only thing you heard: He’s not coming back.

“C’mon, Lorraine. We need to go.”

“We can’t just leave her here, David.”

The military truck came louder now just as the backdoor to the bar slammed open. A man stumbled through the door and landed in a heap of tangled limbs on the ground. A low growl escaped him as his hands fisted the concrete, and he doubled over, twice, in obvious pain. His brown hair was awry, fingers caked in something you couldn’t quite place. The back of his shirt was ripped in various places, and his veiny flesh was exposed; skin long since too inhumane to not deserve the look you gave him. Your eyes blown wide and jaw slack.

The man’s head snapped up, wild eyes looking directly at your aunt.

“C’mon, Lorraine!” Your uncle shouted louder, backing away and pulling his son tighter to his chest. “We gotta go now!”

Your aunt stayed there, frozen in fear. You took a step back, foot catching in a small puddle and sending the man’s horrid attention barreling toward you. The break in harsh scrutiny was all your aunt needed. She took that moment to hug her daughter close and sprint after your uncle. Their retreating footsteps hit like lead to your chest, every step sending you reeling backward as your chest heaved with something closer to alarm than fear.

The man shrieked, scrambling to his feet and running toward you. For a moment, your eyes slid to your aunt and uncle’s distant figures just over his shoulder. A part of you half-expected them to chance a look back, to answer their curiosity about you and your wellbeing. But they didn’t. They didn’t spare a single look, even when they turned sharply and disappeared around a corner.

A deep pain began to throb, harsher now, from the spot Danny had been gripping your arm. The man was within arms length now, hand reaching out to grab that same arm – the arm Danny had held protectively in place.

Your body reacted quicker than you did. You weren’t sure you would’ve reacted at all, if not for the slightest inkling, the slightest hope, that Danny was still out there, somewhere close. Who would come for him if you didn’t?

With a surprised yelp, you turned on your heels and sprinted toward the street entrance – toward the street Danny disappeared down not even thirty minutes before. Gnashing teeth and a horrible stench followed you closely, squirming and throwing itself at you like an animal. You had made it only a few feet in the street before the man tackled you to the ground. Pain erupted from your knees and elbows as you fell with a sharp cry.

A hand pulled your hair, clothes, arms, just about everything fingers could find purchase. You twisted sharply, coming face to face with the man. His teeth came dangerously close to your face and, on instinct, you brought your forearm up to his neck, pushing him away with as much strength as you could muster. You gritted your teeth, but a scream soon ripped from your throat as his upper body pushed further and further down on you. Closer and closer until – 

A shot rang out, and the man’s body went limp.

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

The finality of acceptance had still escaped Joel. Maybe that’s why it was so easy for him to take anything in that moment as truth, no matter how outlandish it might have been.

Two white coats rushed by, stopping mere feet away. Even among the chaos, their conversation was easy enough to overhear.

“I have a dad asking after his kid.”

“Everyone’s asking after someone.”

“Yeah, but she was here when they arrived. Apparently lost her in all the confusion.”

“Take him to triage. A lot of missing kids there. We just revived one.”

Joel looked up at the new truth being presented to him – a truth that was far easier to accept than the one bombarding his current experience. His feet were carrying him away from his spot of refuge before he could even think. In fact, he wasn’t thinking. He was scanning for her. Curly hair. Eyes looking for him as much as his eyes were looking for her. 

We just revived one.

If there was a possibility she was here, he was willing to take it. He had already accepted that possibility as fact without his own notice. His heart was elated and his chest was rising just at the thought. It was easier, fairer. And in no way was he preparing, or thinking to prepare, for the inevitable crash that always took place when attempting to deny reality.

“By nine, Dad.” Sarah hopped out of the truck, slamming the door behind her. She went to Tommy’s side, hand clamping down on the opened window and eyes boring into her Dad from where he sat in the passenger seat. “You said nine.”

“I know, I know.”

She opened her mouth to add something, but the bell cut her off. She huffed in resignation before pointing at the two of them, each in turn. With a growing smile, she waved and ran towards her school, throwing a quick “Don’t forget the cake!” over her shoulder.

Just as Tommy pulled out of the lot, his eyes slid over to his brother, and his face twisted into a wide grin he couldn’t hide even if he tried. “Jesus, that kid loves you to death.”

At that, Joel couldn’t hide his own smile, even if the weight of Tommy’s words felt heavy on his shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”

A content quiet fell between the two as Tommy maneuvered out of the school lot. Once he was back on the road, his eyes drifted toward his brother a few times before he shook his head. He always did that when something was on his mind but didn’t know quite how to approach it. Especially when it was Joel he was trying to approach.

“I tell you what, Joel. You gotta cut back.”

Joel was no stranger to the topic Tommy was attempting to bring up. He knew he was working like a madman again, picking up projects and stumbling into the house late at night often long after Sarah had put herself to bed.

Still. He acted oblivious. “What do you mean?”

“Sarah, man. You gotta cut back. Spend more time with her. I know you mean well. You want to provide for her, protect her. I respect that, Joel. Hell, everybody sees and respects that. But she’s still young. Still needs you. It won’t be like that always. She’s got a bright future ahead of her. Nothing’s going to take that from her. From you. Nothing’s going to change that. You don’t have to work so damn hard just to keep it that way.”

Joel didn’t say anything, but he offered his brother a brief nod when he glanced in his direction. They both knew he was right.

“Besides,” Tommy continued with a teasing grin, “you need to get a hold on her before she gets too much older. If she’s anything like we were, they’ll be hell to pay.”

Joel grunted. “Nu uh, my Sarah’s too smart. I ain’t worried ‘bout nothing.”

“You say that now.”

“And I’ll say it then.” Joel nodded decisively. “It’s like you said, she’s got a bright future ahead of her.”

“I know, brother, I know. All I’m saying is that you should make the most of it now. These years will be gone before you know it.” Tommy turned to look at him, more intensely this time. “She’ll be gone before you know it.”

The children were many, but the number that resembled her were few. The child they had revived was a boy no older than four and had been revived for reasons unbeknownst to Joel. The inevitable crash of secret humiliation and embarrassment at his own deception led him to a corner, away from the frenzy and uproar in the camp. Two soldiers stood, with their backs toward him and weapons drawn, with their heads on a swivel. But they paid no attention to Joel. Even with the cool metal resting in his hands, safety off and finger poised at the ready. They still paid him no mind. He might as well have been a dead man.

Should’ve been, anyway.

On my life. Not yours, babygirl.

With that thought, he was ready for anything that might come after. Truth be told, he was more than ready. He wanted to pull the trigger, so he did.

But he flinched. Even before the bullet had left its chamber, a part of him was wholly certain that any shot or amount of lead was not meant for him. It was a destiny he was never meant to share, no matter how much he wanted to.

–

Chicago, Illinois. September 2003.

Four pairs of hands were on you and hauling you to your feet before you could reassess your situation any further. The body slid off of you as you were pulled to your feet; its weight made a sickening noise as it thumped to the pavement at your feet. You were being dragged to an armored truck filled with people – men, women, children. Greedily, you scanned the faces for the only one that mattered. Maybe they’d got him. Maybe they’d saved him, too.

There were a lot of people, but none resembled Danny.

Finally, something broke – anger, bitterness, nauseous … mostly anger. You dug your heels into the pavement, nearly sending one soldier tripping over his feet at your sudden protest. You took the moment of surprise as an opportunity to rip your arm free from his grasp, shoving him away and clawing at the hand still clamped firmly around your other arm. You tried desperately to free yourself, scratching and pulling like your life depended on it. Like Danny’s life depended on it.

“No!” You shouted. “No! Get off me!”

Your doorknob rattled before your brother let himself in, closing the door softly behind him as if he hadn’t already made a world of noise just by entering.

“Jesus,” you started, sitting up in bed, “don’t you know the first thing about knocking?”

“I’ll knock when you stop stealing my sweatshirts from my room.”

Childishly, you stuck out your tongue and crossed your arms. “Fair.”

Without missing a beat, he took three long strides toward your window and looked out, smiling down at something. Undoubtedly his friend’s car, waiting for him in the driveway. “I’m heading out.”

“When are you not?”

“Just open the window for me when I get back, alright?” You got up to join him by the window as he opened it. “I won’t be too late this time.”

“I’m starting to think you like asking for trouble.”

He turned to smile at you – soft, mischievous, winning. Your brother could just as easily ask to leave the house, but he preferred sneaking out. He was defiant just to be defiant, doing so in a way that still made him agreeable and likable. Roping you into his mischief was like a sibling rite of passage, as he put it.

Despite yourself, you smiled back before watching him clamor out of your window. He crouched on the roof, turning to flash you one last smile. “Don’t forget my knock.”

“Three knocks.”

“Always three so you know it's me.” He winked.

“You say that like anyone else would be knocking on my window at one in the morning.”

“You’re right. Because you’re lame.”

“Go before I push you off the roof.”

He grinned widely before turning and inching his way toward the edge. He immediately stopped when you called his name.

“Danny,” you said softly. He looked over his shoulder. “If anything ever happens, don’t be afraid to call the house. I’ll come get you myself if I have to.”

“What could possibly go wrong?”

“I’m serious, Danny.”

“Relax. I know my fearsome sister will always come to my rescue.” He gave a mock salute before jumping down to the lawn. He ran toward the idle car before turning back toward you, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting, “Three knocks!”

When the soldier had recomposed himself, he walked back toward you and yanked your arm, much harder this time. Your outburst drew the attention of the others on the vehicle. A mom pulled her child closer to her, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was still out there, missing, and not a single person seemed to give a damn.

“Get off me!” You screamed again, voice breaking as a tear slipped down your cheek. In frustration, you sent a swift kick that the soldier sidestepped easily. “Get off me!”

One soldier finally let you go as the other wrapped his arms around you, pulling you off your feet and carrying you the rest of the way to the awaiting vehicle. Your struggle was rendered useless as he carried you with ease, tossing you onto the truck like you meant nothing. You probably didn’t, not to him and not to anyone. But you knew you meant something to Danny, and you weren’t going to go down without him. Not without a fight.

You pushed off the bed of the truck, attempting to scramble off of it and back onto the street. “Danny!” You shouted, pushing a stranger out of your way and making a quick jump for it. “Danny!”

You were sure you were still calling his name, even when the butt of a gun connected with the side of your forehead.

–

Austin, Texas. September 2003.

The sound of a weapon firing draws a lot of attention. Namely from uniformed soldiers who were to make sure all civilians had been thoroughly searched and weapons properly confiscated before entering the medical camp.  The mistake was sure to cause one of them trouble, which is probably why they tackled Joel with such ferocity. He was on the ground and surrounded by military and medical personnel before he could blink.

Tommy was shouting his name again, parting the crowd roughly as he clawed his way to his brother. White bandages gripped in his hand. He was searching for him, relentlessly, before catching sight of the commotion. All the while, Joel was calm. The realization hadn’t dawned on him yet; the adrenaline of the deed he was trying to commit had not yet worn off. He was delusional with the loss of will – his volition having been stripped from him through no effort of his or anyone else’s. 

For a second, he let himself believe he was dead. Like some instinctual force hadn’t just caused him to flinch.

Someone hoisted him to his feet; all while someone, most likely Tommy, was shouting, “Don’t shoot him! Don’t shoot him!”

A doctor stepped forward. She flashed a light in his eyes. “Sir. Sir? Can you hear me?”

A trickle of blood slid past his peripheral. It dawned on him that the commotion around him was real – it was happening – and his unfocused eyes finally snapped toward the soldier gripping his arm. His unfeeling expression hidden under his helmet felt familiar. Too familiar.

“Joel,” Tommy warned. He knew his brother well enough to predict his intent. He stepped forward, cautiously, trying but failing to shoo the soldiers and doctors back. He momentarily looked between the wound on Joel’s head and the discarded gun on the ground. He hesitated, partially, but hesitated all the same. “He ain’t sick or nothing.” Tommy turned from the doctors back to Joel. “Joel, listen to me, brother. Let’s get you patched up, alright? Let’s ge–.”

Joel was swinging before he knew what he was doing. He lunged, kicked, and swung wildly, nearly ripping himself from the awkward grip now three soldiers had him in. They were strong; non compliant. They wrestled with him for a moment before another doctor ushered him away.

“Here,” the doctor was saying, “bring him over here.”

 “Careful, I said he ain’t sick,” Tommy butt in, grimacing at the hold they had on his brother. “Joel, calm down. Everything’ll be okay, Joel. Just — Just calm down.”

The soldiers were dragging him to a nearby gurney. A few medical personnel were preparing a syringe somewhere off to his right. He sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight, and every single thing he was doing was an indication of that. Somewhere, deep down, he could hear his brother. Calling for him to stop. Calling for him to settle down before they did something to him. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Maybe they should do something to him. Put him out of his misery. Or subject him to the same fate they subjected her to. It was a cruel thought that they’d spare him – that they’d do everything in their power not to hurt him in the way they hurt her.

They were wrestling him onto his back when his mouth finally caught up to his actions.

“My daughter!” He shouted. “My daughter. You took her.” He leered in the face of the nearest soldier, tears glistening in his eyes. “You took her.”

A needle was being pressed into his skin when a third voice spoke to him, calmly. Another doctor. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find her. I’m sure, wherever she is, she’ll be alright, if she’s not already.”

His next protests were weak as his body suddenly relaxed. His eyes fluttered just as Tommy came into view at his side. Tommy just stared at him. Horrified. Guilty. Sad. They both looked at each other, eyes mirroring one another and telling stories neither one of them were ready to say aloud.

–

2023.

The consequence of grief and sudden loss might be unique to the individual, but it is imminent for all individuals. No one can measure the actions or reactions of another. Neither can blame be given or taken away. The repercussions of any event are often cyclical, far outweighing descriptions or explanations. In any one situation, one might fall and another might rise. Or perhaps one and another might both fall. 

With loss, it’s typically the latter.

Joel’s gruff appearance was unmistakable to the people in the Boston QZ. Unsurprising. Like the rumor that swirled around about him after the day’s shifts ended and the people could return to their nightly rituals of whatever placated their poor souls — beer, pills, sex. The former two either stolen or traded for rations.

The rumor didn’t spread far — not past a block, maybe a sector at most. It was a cautious one. A woman told of her inability to toss a child’s body to the flames during her shift. An unforgiving job. A thankless act of service to the QZ that meant discarding the ones killed at the hands of those in authority — by Fedra. Infected. Suspected. Guilty (or not). Didn’t matter. Her story was one that stoked plenty of bitter, angry people who already hated the QZ for their wrongs and misdoings.

But it was Joel who stoked their feelings too — feelings of fear and avoidance. Wordlessly, he had tossed the lifeless child into the awaiting flames with as much absence of emotion as he always displayed. Unfeeling. Unapproachable. Never spoke a word but was somehow enough all on his own – enough to cause others to steer clear, to look away whenever he came around. 

The only one that could tolerate him, that could placate him, was Tess. Something she could use to her advantage and soak in the pleasure of.

Nearly a thousand miles away, you were pacing wordlessly outside a freezer in the back of a restaurant in downtown Chicago. A bitter cry had long-since been muted by the sounds of grunts and a flurry of punches before a familiar face stepped out. He didn’t say anything, even when he walked right by you and wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

You did as you always did — followed at his heels. “I don’t trust this guy, Dallas. He’s lying.”

“You never trust anyone.” His face was serious, but his voice carried humor. You rolled your eyes.

“And for good reason. He’s been lying since I found him by the old medical camp near Lincoln Park.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

He turned to look at you, eyes boring into yours for a few seconds. You were dropping your gaze before the intensity of it all could get too thick. For a moment, your attention bounced around the small kitchen. Your ears caught the quiet voices of your group outside — a good mix of men and women. 

Dallas turned fully, tossing the rag on the floor and standing in front of you with arms crossed over his chest. “What were you doing near the old med bay?”

“I told you.” Your voice had a dangerous edge to it. You shifted your weight to your other foot and finally met his gaze again. “I ran an errand.”

Unconvinced, Dallas nodded. “You were looking for him again, weren’t you?”

He commanded and barked orders well. You usually followed them — usually. But even he wasn’t stupid enough to mention his name aloud to you. Your sibling’s name was never spoken again after you revealed to Dallas that dark night twenty years earlier. But Dallas knew this was about him. He could tell in the way a muscle in your jaw jumped, and you looked away briefly. 

He chuckled. Dark. Low. “Look, I get it. You haven’t been back here in years, and I figured the thought of finding him’s been tempting you since Arizona. But you keep putting the group at risk, and I’ll have to abandon you.”

You snorted. “As if you’d leave me behind.”

“Watch me.” 

He was grinning, a certain humor in his tone that wasn’t in the least bit light or airy. There was nothing indicating that he wasn’t as serious as his darkened eyes meant to be. Something twisted in your stomach, heart plummeting, as your smile dropped at the thought. Only a moment went by before you forced the feeling away, choking the thick emotions down until the only thing you could feel was cold metal being pushed into your hand.

“If you don’t trust him,” Dallas muttered, stepping closer to you as he pressed the gun into your limp palm a bit firmer, “then end it.”

You swallowed quietly, taking the weapon and testing its weight without once looking up at him. You could feel him hovering over you. His heat dripped off of him and pooled at your feet. Deep. Menacing. Unforgiving. His request wasn’t the first time, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last. But this time, this one time, some part of you felt off. Something tugged at your lips until you unknowingly frowned down at the tigger your finger hovered over. 

Maybe it was the mention of him. Maybe your emotions were too high and your willingness finally waning. Maybe it was the sister waiting back at the old medical camp, looking for the brother you helped kidnapped and now held hostage in some worn-down freezer. 

“Is this really necessary?” You asked. “If he’s really lying, we can still use him.”

“And have them get to him? He’s a damn liar, sure, but he’s a traitor first. He knows what we did.”

“Yeah, but he did the same to them.” You finally looked back up at him, gun held loosely at your side. “For us. Remember? What else did we expect? For him not to turn on us, too?”

Dallas was quiet for a moment, a long moment. But the way he was peering down at you, with hooded eyes and clenched teeth, didn’t change for a second. “I’ve never stopped to question you. We are the only two here. I never left you.”

You knew what he was referencing. Suddenly the group just beyond the thin white door separating the kitchen from the dining area seemed too close, too imposing. Every person in your group was a new face. Their voices were still unfamiliar and discomforting to hear. Your old companions were either dead or dying, snitching to Fedra for brownie points or taking their chances on their own, and Dallas was all you had left...

 He measured the look on your face before leaning in further, adding, “Now’s your chance to prove your loyalty to me.”

Your eyes snapped up at him, mouth now partially agape. Everything you had done leading up to this point had been erased by that measly sentence. Your actions, however gruff and unforgiving, were whittled to nothing before your eyes, and you were made out to be a fraud. Weak. Someone incapable of returning the favor of protection or dishing it out in the first place. The thought made you sick.

With a low huff, you spun on your heels and walked determinedly back to the freezer. You threw open the door to find your old partner, Brett, tied haphazardly to a chair surrounded by two of your guys. At the sight of you, his eyes were blown wide and head shook furiously from side to side. He was shouting something: No. No. No— please, no. But you were already gone, doomed to proving what you had already proved time and time again.

It only took one steady aim before you pulled the trigger.

Your men stood, jaw slack, as Brett’s body fell with a sickening thump. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly as adrenaline seeped from your body in waves, nearly doubling over as a pain hit your chest. You sniffed, waving the barrel of the gun between the two men before pointing it in Brett’s direction.

“Clean this up.”

Perhaps — for you and for Joel and for anyone else — the mind and body’s first instinct is denial. Perhaps sorrow cannot be given a true voice. Perhaps acceptance is far more brutal than the precious time one can spare living a half truth. Whatever the reason, manifestations of pain and suffering matter little when grief goes unnoticed and the heart unattended.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x platonic!reader #the last of us #thelastofus #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #fanfiction #joelmiller #tommymiller #tlou #the last of us tv show

[mariacallous]

Global governance, never really settled, has recently been having an especially hard time. Everyone believes in a rules-based system, but everyone wants to make the rules and dislikes it when the rules work against them, saying that they infringe on their sovereignty and their freedom. There are deep asymmetries, with the powerful countries not only making the rules but also breaking them almost at will, which raises the question: Do we even have a rules-based system, or is it just a facade? Of course, in such circumstances, those who break the rules say they only do so because others are, too.

The current moment is a good illustration. It is the product of longstanding beliefs and power relations. Under this system, industrial subsidies were a no-no, forbidden (so it was thought) not just by World Trade Organization rules, but also by the dictates of what was considered sound economics. “Sound economics” was that set of doctrines known as neoliberal economics, which promised growth and prosperity through, mostly, supposedly freeing the economy by allowing so-called free enterprise to flourish. The “liberal” in neoliberalism stood for freedom and “neo” for new, suggesting that it was a different and updated version of 19th-century liberalism.

In fact, it was neither really new nor really liberating. True, it gave firms more rights to pollute, but in doing so, it took away the freedom to breathe clean air—or in the case of those with asthma, sometimes even the most fundamental of all freedoms, the freedom to live.

“Freedom” meant freedom for the monopolists to exploit consumers, for the monopsonists (the large number of firms that have market power over labor) to exploit workers, and freedom for the banks to exploit all of us—engineering the most massive financial crisis in history, which required taxpayers to fork out trillions of dollars in bailouts, often hidden, to ensure that the so-called free enterprise system could survive.

The promise that this liberalization would lead to faster growth from which all would benefit never materialized. Under these doctrines that have prevailed for more than four decades, growth has actually slowed in most advanced countries. For instance, real growth in GDP per capita (average percent increase per annum) according to data compiled by the St. Louis Fed, was 2.5% from 1960 to 1990, but slowed to 1.5% from 1990 to 2018. Instead of trickle-down economics, where everyone would benefit, we had trickle-up economics, where the top 1 percent and especially the top 0.1 percent, got a larger and larger slice of the pie.

These are illustrations of British political theorist Isaiah Berlin’s dictum that “total liberty for wolves is death to the lambs”; or, as I have sometimes put it less gracefully, freedom for some has meant the unfreedom of others—their loss of freedom.

Just as individuals rightly cherish their freedom, countries do, too, often under the name “sovereignty.” But while these words are easily uttered, there is too little thought about their deeper meanings. Economics has weighed into the debate about what freedom and sovereignty mean, with John Stuart Mill’s contribution in the 19th century (On Liberty), and Milton Friedman’s and Friedrich Hayek’s works in the mid-20th (Capitalism and Freedom and The Road to Serfdom).

But contrary to what Hayek and Friedman asserted, free and unfettered markets do not lead to efficiency and the well-being of society; that should be obvious to anyone looking around. Just think of the inequality crisis, the climate crisis, the opioid crisis, the childhood diabetes crisis, or the 2008 financial crisis.  These are crises created by the market, exacerbated by the market, and/or crises which the market hasn’t been able to deal with adequately.

Economic theorists (including me) have shown that whenever there is imperfect information or imperfect markets (that is to say, always), there is a presumption that markets are not efficient. Even a very little bit of imperfection can have big effects.

The problem is that much of the global economic architecture designed over recent decades has been based on neoliberalism—the kinds of ideas that Hayek and Friedman put forward. The system of rules that evolved from there must be fundamentally rethought.

From an economist’s perspective, freedom is the “freedom to do,” meaning the size of the opportunity set of what a person can do, or the range of the choices that are available.

Someone on the verge of starvation has no real freedom—she does what she must to survive. A rich person obviously has more freedom to choose. “Freedom to do” is also constrained when an individual is harmed. Obviously, if an individual is killed by a gunman or a virus, or even hospitalized by COVID-19, he has lost freedom in a meaningful sense, and we then have a dramatic illustration of Berlin’s dictum: Freedom for some—the freedom to carry guns, or to not be masked, or to be unvaccinated—may entail a large loss of freedom for others.

The same principle applies to the international arena. The rules-based trade system consists of a set of rules intended to expand the freedoms of all in a meaningful way by imposing constraints. The idea that constraints can be freeing, while seemingly self-contradictory, is obvious: Stoplights force us to take turns going through intersections, but without this seeming constraint, there would be gridlock and no one would be able to move.

All contracts are agreements about constraints—with one party agreeing to do or not do something in return for another person making other promises—with the belief that in doing so, all parties will be better off. Of course, if one party cheats and doesn’t deliver on its promise, then that party gains at the expense of others. And there is always the temptation to do so, which is why we require governments to enforce contracts, so that promises mean something. No government could enforce all contracts, and the so-called free market would crash if all participants were grifters.

But while there are similarities between discussions of freedom at the individual level and the country level, there are also a couple of big differences. Most importantly, there is no global government to ensure that the powerful countries obey an agreement, as we are seeing today in the case of U.S. industrial subsidies. The World Trade Organization (WTO) generally forbids such subsidies and especially disapproves of some of the provisions—such as requiring domestic manufacturing (“Made in America”)—in legislation passed recently by the U.S. Congress, including the CHIPS and Science Act.

Moreover, within democratic countries, the role of power in the making and enforcement of the rules is often obscure; we know that inequalities in wealth and income get translated into inequalities in political power, which determines who gets to design the rules and how they are enforced. An imbalance of power means that the powerful within a country determine the rules in ways that benefit them, often at the expense of the weak.

Still, the democratic context means that every once in a while, power is checked—as it was when the antitrust laws were passed in the United States in the latter part of the 19th century, or the Wagner Act was passed during the New Deal of the 1930s, giving workers more power.

In an international setting, power is even more concentrated, and democratic forces are even weaker. What has happened in the past few years illustrates this. The United States was at the center in constructing the rules-based system, in both designing the rules and how they were to be enforced, including dispute resolutions through the WTO’s Appellate Body.  But when the rules—such as those concerning industrial subsidies—were inconvenient, it decided to ignore them, knowing that there was little, if anything, that any country could or would do about it. So much for the rules-based system.

And the United States’ confidence that nothing could or would be done was reinforced by the fact that it had effectively defenestrated the Appellate Body, because that Body had made decisions it didn’t like, and the U.S. thought that the Body was guilty of overreaching, going beyond what it was entitled to do. But rather than going back to the WTO and clarifying what the Body’s role should be, the U.S. simply hamstrung any adjudication within the WTO. The situation would be like suspending the U.S. Supreme Court while figuring out how to bring the justices back to a reasonable theory of jurisprudence.

This imbalance of power has played out repeatedly in recent years. When developed countries attempted to implement industrial policies—even mild policies, such as Brazil’s effort to provide capital to aerospace corporation Embraer at reasonable interest rates through that country’s development bank (as opposed to the outlandishly high rates then prevailing in its financial markets)—they were attacked. When Indonesia tried to ensure that more of the added value associated with its rich nickel deposits remained in Indonesia, it was attacked.

To win the hearts and minds in the new cold war brewing between the United States and China, the United States needs to do more. Washington needs to use the money it has to provide assistance to the poor, and the power that it possesses to construct rules that are fair. Nowhere is that more evident than in response to the debt crisis that the United States faces today and the recent pandemic, another of which the world will almost surely face in the future.

With most sovereign debt contracts written in the United States, Washington has the power to change the legal framework governing these contracts in ways that make the resolution of crises—where countries can’t pay back what they owe—faster and better. This approach would address the “too little, too late” problem by which one crisis is followed by another, which has plagued the world for so long. With more creditors entering the field, debt resolution is becoming ever more difficult. There are important proposals currently before the New York legislature (where most of the money is raised), but support from the Biden administration would be enormously helpful.

The world has just gone through a terrible pandemic, and the recognition that there will be another has spurred work on a proposed pandemic preparedness treaty. Unfortunately, under the influence of Big Pharma, there are no provisions in the treaty for the kind of intellectual property waiver that the world so badly needs, let alone the technology transfer that would allow the production of all the products—protective gear, vaccines, and therapeutics—necessary to fight the next disease that strikes.

The freedom to live is the most important freedom that we have. Our global agreements have not balanced our freedoms in the way they should. Better global agreements can benefit all countries, though not necessarily all people within them: Such agreements would constrain the power of the exploiters to exploit the rest of us, thereby making a dent on their bottom line, but they would benefit society more generally.

Striving to create global agreements that are fair and generous to the poor would, I believe, be in the United States’ self-interest—in its “enlightened” self-interest, taking into account the new geoeconomics and geopolitics. It was never in the United States’ self-interest to pursue a corporatist global agenda, even when it was the hegemon. But it is especially not so today.