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anonymous-dentist · 7 months

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It’s two in the morning, Cellbit is sulking his way back home from yet another attempt at the Federation’s air vent system, and it’s snowing. Christmas is in a week and a half; Richarlyson’s present, a pack of those fancy art markers that cost twice what Cellbit makes in an hour, is in Cellbit’s backpack nestled between a packet of stolen documents and a handgun. He’s tired, he wants to go home, and-

“Stop.”

It’s quiet, a hoarse whisper from a nearby dark shady alley. But Cellbit stops because it’s a kid.

Dying, he hears. Cucurucho, dyingdyingdyingdying-

Cautiously, he looks around. Empty streets, snow piling up in inches. Fucking cold, ice flying in the air. It’s gonna be a nasty storm, so he should really be getting home. But-

But it smells like blood.

So Cellbit hikes his bag up on his shoulder and steps out of the storm and into the alley, and he almost steps on a tiny dying hero.

“Oh,” he softly says, his body losing all its tension as he takes the kid’s broken appearance in. “Hello.”

The kid glares up at him. He’s… small. Just a bit bigger than Richarlyson, maybe. Standard Junior Hero uniform, mask over his eyes and nose, and a lot of blood.

“Stop staring,” the kid huffs. His teeth are chattering, and his lips are blue from the cold. “Just call the Feds for me.”

“Oh, sure,” Cellbit lies. He shuffles to the kid’s side to try and block out the worst of the wind, and then he crouches just a little, just enough to try and see what the damage is. But the kid scowls and curls in on himself, wincing as he moves.

Ribs, then. Cellbit recognizes that flinch, he’s seen it on enough of his victims.

Wounds are fresh, fresh enough for the kid to still be alive, anyway. Torso wounds suck. Easy to give, harder to make lethal.

Cellbit sighs and pulls out his phone. “Which one are you?”

He doesn’t have the Federation’s app downloaded (because fuck that), so he texts Forever instead; he’s the mayor, he’s gotta have some kind of Federation of Heroes Hotline going on. He’s probably awake. If not, well. Maybe the police can actually do something useful for once.

The kid’s chest puffs out despite the pain, and he says, “I’m Thorn, duh.”

He’s a child, that’s what he is. And he’s a fucking terrified one- Cellbit doesn’t need to use his ability to feel the fear coming off of him in waves. Because he’s a little boy who probably hasn’t seen his parents in years and he’s all alone in a storm dying and the villain who did this to him is still out there waiting.

Forever texts back: ‘🤬🤬🤬’

So he’s told the Feds, who probably have an evac team on the way. Because this is the leader of the most recent Junior Hero graduating class, and it’d be bad PR to let him die alone in a ditch somewhere in the city.

But, well… he’s a kid.

So Cellbit slides his phone back into his pocket and presses the back of his hand against Thorn’s cheek. Thorn hisses- fucking hisses- and tries to scoot away, but he can’t get too far with whatever injuries he’s got.

“Calma,” Cellbit says, letting his ability do its work, “I’m just checking for a fever. My son gets them all the time, I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

And, yeah, Thorn’s feverish. More importantly, though, he’s calm. His heartbeat evens out, and so does his breathing.

Thorn stares up at Cellbit in shock. “You’re a dad? No way!”

What the fuck?

“Of course I’m a dad!” Cellbit protests. “Look at me!”

He drops his hand from Thorn’s face and gestures towards his t-shirt, hand-painted by Richarlyson and reading, “World’s Okayest Dad”.

Thorn is not impressed. “You look homeless.”

And technically Cellbit is, but he isn’t just going to say that! Not to someone who’s technically his enemy.

So he huffs and crosses his arms and plays at being dramatic. (He’s got plenty of experience after dealing with Forever for so long.)

“Whatever,” he sulks. “You’re the one in a stinky alley. At least I have a shower.”

The kid’s lips twitch into a very hesitant little smile. Mission accomplished.

“Yeah, but you don’t use it,” he counters.

It’s a shame Richarlyson hates the Federation almost as much as he hates showers, because he and Thorn would probably get along pretty well. (Maybe Forever can set up a play date…)

Cellbit makes a show of smelling his jacket- clean, freshly washed. He makes a face, anyway, and Thorn giggles, and it’s kinda hard to hate the enemy when they’re made up of literal children.

“I never said I do my laundry,” Cellbit sniffs. “Do I look like I have that kind of money?”

“No!”

“Hey!”

The kid laughs, head thrown back. And then he grimaces and doubles over, eyes briefly squeezing shut.

Cellbit takes another look around the alley. Nobody’s there but the two of them, which makes sense. What kind of villain would stick around after supposedly killing the Federation’s Junior Hero poster child?

With a sigh, he settles down into the snow next to Thorn with his back against the chilly wall.

“You called them, right?” Thorn asks.

“I did better than that. I texted the mayor.”

Thorn snorts. “The mayor doesn’t have any friends, pendejo. He’s too busy being the mayor.”

Ouch.

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”

“Tell him that I’m gonna beat him up, too.”

“What?” Cellbit gasps exaggeratedly. “Why would you want to do that? He’s the mayor.”

“He’s stupid. He wants to put the Junior Hero Program into schools so all the babies can join it.”

Thorn frowns. He’s not scared, Cellbit made sure of that, but he’s worried. A bit different, and unfortunately out of Cellbit’s wheelhouse.

“My son wants to join,” he says.

Thorn shakes his head. “Well, get him out of it. It’s not worth it, man. Too much homework.”

“I thought you were gonna tell me it’s too dangerous.”

“Nah, it’s pretty chill.” (Now that’s a lie.) “I spend most of my time doing paperwork.”

Cellbit frowns sympathetically. “Yuck.”

Thorn sticks his tongue out. “Yuck.”

And it keeps snowing. The colder it gets, the closer Thorn gets until he’s pressed up against Cellbit’s arm shivering. Hesitantly, slowly, Cellbit puts that arm around Thorn’s shoulders and lets him try and huddle for warmth as best he can.

“You’re a weirdo,” Thorn mutters.

“I’ve met weirder.”

“Nuh-uh.”

Cellbit rolls his eyes. Yeah, he and Richarlyson would be very good friends.

It’s quiet, and then:

“Can you make me scared again?”

Cellbit’s heart stops. “What?”

Thorn turns his head to give him an unimpressed look. “I’m not stupid. I won’t tell anybody, but it’d be weird if they show up and I’m super chill, you know?”

“But-”

“I’m a hero, man. Nothing scares me.”

He’s also a child.

Cellbit gives him back his fear, anyway, this time with a simple worried head-pat. Thorn grumbles and leans away from the touch, but he got what he wanted.

Cucurucho, Cellbit hears, and, for once, he agrees.

Tires from down the road. That’ll be the Feds.

“You’re a brave kid,” he says. He squeezes Thorn’s shoulder with an assuring smile. “Stay safe, okay?”

He stands, and he helps Thorn up as well.

“Whatever,” Thorn grunts. He swallows the pain and stands up straight and tall as the Federation’s van pulls in front of the alley and slows to a halt.

Cellbit watches Thorn get helped into the van, and he watches the van drive away, and he stands there in that alleyway until he’s cold enough to become a Cellbicicle.

Then, and only then, he looks down at the single red rose poking out of the snow where the kid had been sitting.

(Rumor has it Thorn only grows roses in honor of his parents, reportedly both deceased. Cellbit doesn’t know if that’s true or not, but he leaves the rose be, anyway.)

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose.#deli superhero au #oh bobby

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dontmeantobepoliticalbut · 11 months

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Last week, K.C. Casey stood on a small stage dressed in gold Rocky Horror Picture Show shorts and a see-through blouse to give their college commencement speech. It was a speech that wasn’t supposed to happen, and it almost didn’t. The ceremony, which took place in front of hundreds of the New College of Florida’s graduating students and their family members on May 18 at the Sarasota Art Museum, wasn't the school’s official commencement event, but an alternative graduation, organized by students as an act of exuberant defiance.

This alternative event was a way for students to take a stand against Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis and his plan to make New College the latest target of his public education culture war.

For the last few months, students at the small college in Sarasota have been locked in battle against the Governor and the DeSantis-appointed right-wing board of trustees who have been working to transform the liberal school into a conservative campus in what was called a “hostile takeover” by the college’s former president. The new board closed the Office of Diversity and Equity at the college, and promised to make the school more like Michigan’s Hillsdale College, a private Christian college that doesn’t take any public funds or accept students who need government aid so that it can circumvent federal rules, including Title IX policies against sex discrimination. And while students and faculty fought back against their machinations, DeSantis continued waging his offensive, recently culminating in the Governor’s signing of three education-related anti-LGBTQ bills on New College’s campus.

These changes inspired Casey and their peers to organize the alternative commencement, an event that is the latest example of ways students on campus, including a large group of LGBTQ students, have pushed back against efforts to restrict their rights and educational freedom across Florida.

“It's as simple as I didn't wanna shake hands with someone who is trying to destroy our school,” they said. “The inspiration was a middle school field trip [because of] that sense of innocence and joy that is really hard to find at a time like this.”

Other students wanted graduation to emulate their years on campus. “It's the goal to graduate on our terms,” said Kacie, a student at New College whose last name has been withheld for safety reasons. “The school they want to create is not the one students have been going to.”

In spite of everything, the alternative graduation was also a moment to celebrate. “I am in awe of the freedom and strength that can be found through community and self-expression,” Casey told the crowd during their speech. “At an event like this, it’s just a bit easier to remember that we deserve to feel joy and love, and we deserve to be celebrated.”

Because DeSantis has been targeting LGBTQ people in Florida and at the college, the event was explicitly about queer joy, and organizers went out of their way to make sure LGBTQ students would feel safe and celebrated. There weren’t any caps and gowns at the graduation, but a whole lot of rainbow and pink and blue flags. The event was an undeniable success: Of 119 graduating New College students, 90 showed up, Casey said, adding that about 60 professors also attended. Upon arrival, students, encouraged to wear whatever they wanted, were greeted with piles of pronoun pins and white t-shirts for their peers to sign. The event included college bands and a series of speeches, including a keynote speech from Maya Wiley, the president of the Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights. Organizers and Attendees said the event highlighted how queer joy is the ultimate act of resistance.

"That meant celebrating art, celebrating our identity, fighting for our values, fighting for what we believe is the truth and what we believe to be free and educational freedom," Casey said.

While DeSantis' efforts would make New College less tolerant, students at the school have defied himn by hosting inclusive chess tournaments, dances, garage sales, rallies, and, of course, protests. In February, about 300 students and parents, some dressed in Handmaid's Tale outfits, protested a board meeting held by the new right-wing administration, the Associated Press reported. Students say it all amounts to the same thing: a commitment to maintaining the New College's reputation for being a safe, alternative space.

Though the tiny New College may not seem like a likely battle ground for LGBTQ and civil rights, the school was once known as a safe haven. DeSantis previously said he “rejects woke ideology” and will “fight the woke in the schools.” So it’s not surprising he targeted New College, a school where three quarters of students identified as liberal or very liberal, according to a 2019 survey. The school also boasts the slogan “educating free thinkers, risk takers, and trailblazers,” and Casey described it as “a place that allowed [students] to explore themselves and a vast range of identities and perspectives.”

Right now, Florida is one of the most politically hostile states towards LGBTQ people in the country: Republican lawmakers have introduced an onslaught of anti-trans bills, including major restrictions on education. Last year, DeSantis ushered in the “Don’t Say Gay” bill that prohibits discussion of LGBTQ issues and gender identity. This year, it’s been hard to keep track of the sheer number of anti-trans policies introduced in the state and together the bills restrict gender affirming care, criminalize healthcare providers who provide gender-affirming care, threaten gender affirming parental custody, and ban the use of public funds for gender-affirming care for people of all ages.

Last week, when DeSantis signed the bills on New College’s campus, he also signed SB 266, which increases the power and duties of the board, adds more reviews for tenured professors, and updates the core curriculum to restrict courses that teach “identity politics” or are “based on theories that systemic racism, sexism, oppression, and privilege are inherent in the institutions of the United States.”

When word got out that DeSantis was on campus, New College students quickly mobilized. Kacie said around 70 students showed up at the school’s administration building, where DeSantis was holding a live streamed press conference. In the livestream, audible chants for academic freedom can be heard in the background.

“It was a beautiful moment of collective solidarity and action. Our actions were made communally, and it felt like they opened up the cracks of possibility and hope,” Ellie, a graduating student who was present, told VICE News.

“We are fighting as hard as we can to keep our dignity,” said Kacie. “We won't back down and let it be taken away from us easily.”

Now, students like Kacie fear that the school they love is being destroyed, and wonder if they should leave.

“It's been really, really difficult because like, even if I do leave New College, my grandparents are here. I’m five minutes away from one and 30 minutes away from the other,” Kacie said. “I'm really connected with my family. And so it's really difficult trying to make this hard decision of leaving.”

No matter what, though, Kacie said they will keep protesting on behalf of the college.

“Joy is a form of resistance,” they said, adding that politicians are “doing all of these things to make us lose our motivation and to make us lose our drive. And the fact is we are incredibly resilient students. We are queer students living in Florida…We have survived through this before and we're going to continue surviving through it.”

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midnightraine131 · 5 months

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Introduction

If you see @100reasons2live following or replying to you, that's me! 🤣 . Midnightraine131 is just my secondary blog that I created 10 years ago. I don't want to start a new blog because I don't want to lose 10 years' worth of blog posts.

Please don't be creeped out if I reply on my other account. 😭

Hiding in Plain Sight (On Going)

| Ao3 | Modern AU | Cover art by @petrichorpeacee on X |

Warnings: Mature, Major Character Death, Explicit 18++ Annie, a determined 31-year-old journalist, is assigned to cover the mysterious disappearance of Carly Stratman, an aspiring actress. She hopes that by solving this case, she will earn the approval of her father and establish herself as a successful columnist. However, as Annie delves deeper into the investigation, she realizes that the situation is more complex than she initially thought. On the other hand, Armin, a brilliant 29-year-old district attorney, is also involved in the Carly Stratman case as part of an elite team prosecuting high-profile homicides in New York. Coming from a family of well-known federal judges, Armin feels immense pressure to succeed in his career. Growing up in a divorced family has left him skeptical about finding love and commitment in marriage. As Annie and Armin collaborate to unravel the mystery behind Carly's disappearance, their professional relationship begins to blossom into something more. Chapters: | 1 - Hits Different | 2 - Midnight Stroll | 3- Longing Nights | 4 - You All Over Me | | 5 - Ribs | 6 - Whirlpool | 7 - False God (18++) | 8 - Bad Omen | 9-Borrowed Time | 10 - Bitter Pill | 11 - Ghost | 12 - Burgundy (18++) | 13- Part I: It's in the Girls I Bring to Bed | | 14- Part II: It's in the Girls I Bring to Bed | | 15- Part III: It's in the Girls I Bring to Bed | (18++) | 16 - Part I: Night in New Jersey | | 17 - Part II: Night in New Jersey | (18++)

Love Letters from the Skies to the West Coast (On Going)

| Ao3 | HS Modern AU | Cover art by @klaradraws |

Warnings: Mature They say the most judgmental people are those who attend church on Sundays. Despite growing up in a Christian household, Armin Arlert felt overburdened by the pile of ministry activities assigned to him. So he made a pact with himself to never follow in his father's footsteps and become a pastor. With the goal of saving enough money to persuade his parents to let him move to another state after high school, he started accepting paid essay projects in school in secret. Everything in Armin's busy life seemed manageable until he met Annie Leonhart, a Californian girl whose parents had moved her against her will to Vermont. Upon discovering Armin's secret business, Annie approached him with a unique request: to write love letters for a long-distance lover. To craft the perfect love letters, she would help Armin embark on a journey of firsts— his first kiss, first hug, first date, and first everything in a relationship. Chapters: | 1 - Blind Sided | 2 - Falling into Disgrace | 3 - Word Play | 4 - Angel in Disguise | | 5 - Descendants | 6 - Leap of Faith | 7 - Sixteen & Wild |

Invisible Golden String (One-Shot)

| Ao3 | Modern AU | HiPS extra |

Contribution for Aruani day! Timeline took place after HiPS Chapter 15. Spoiler free!

Day One - Tangerine Skies and Muffled Cries (One-Shot)

| Ao3 | Canonverse (Cadets) | Day 1 of Aruani Week 2024 |

Armin and Annie sneaked out from their night duty for some...

Day Three - Her Last Wishes (One-Shot)

| Ao3 | Modern (HS Caste) | Day 3 of Aruani Week 2024 |

"...you'll find happiness after me."

IVY (On Going)

| Ao3 | Modern Au | A JeanPiku POV in Hiding in Plain Sight |

Pieck Finger, a shut-in artist who works as an editorial illustrator, has been emotionally stagnant for a decade after the death of her lover, Porco Galliard. She has isolated herself from the world and refuses to let anyone in until she crosses paths again with Jean Kirstein, a prosecutor who assists the District Attorney in various homicide cases in New York. They bond over shared experiences and find comfort in each other's company. As their relationship progresses, Pieck reflects on her past love and contemplates the possibility of finally moving on.

| Other Cover Arts |

It's in the Girls I Bring to Bed / Night in Vegas | Cover Art by @BLUEELI0N

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deathtodickens · 1 year

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A Bering & Wells Gift Exchange comic story for @lady-adventuress. Happy Palentines Day, friend! There are typos and drawos, even after my very extensive, not-at-all rushed, proof-reading, so, many advance apologies. Thank you for the ideas, I tried to stay in line with mistaken identity/long lost theme. Hope it is enjoyable!

Myka was seventeen when Emily Lake, her best friend, disappeared. Whisked away into the night by Mrs. Frederic, crying and inconsolable, cursing her father’s name. It was unreal, all of it, from first kiss to final goodbye. But whatever disbelief Myka had held onto, wide awake in her bed most of that night, shattered entirely on her walk to school the next morning.

She remembers hearing the sirens as she’d finally drifted into sleep but there were always sirens. Sirens were never unusual.

She should have known. She should have known.

Emily Lake’s house was burned to the ground. A smoldering pile of charred rubble, surrounded by crime scene tape, police vehicles, and a white Coroner's Office van.

She could only get so close but she could see all she needed to see.

She doesn't remember losing consciousness, though she supposes no one does when they come to. She remembers the spinning. She remembers the falling.

And she remembers waking up in the back of an ambulance with Mrs. Frederic by her side.

Myka sees Mrs. Frederic a lot over the years. Not by choice or chance. Not by want for that woman to be in her life. Just by the mere fact that she loves a ghost. A girl that's supposed to be dead.

Burned up in a house fire.

Buried in the ground.

They'd pulled two bodies from the rubble of Emily Lake's house, too badly burned for an open casket. Too unknown and unrelated to anyone of means to have a proper burial.

Myka went to Emily's memorial at the high school. She listened as others spoke about a girl they knew nothing about. And while she grew angry at their forced tears and fabricated associations to a dead girl they never knew, she, herself, had absolutely nothing to say about it.

Her best friend, Emily Lake, had died in a fire.

Some girl she loves, called Helena, arose from her ashes.

Myka sees Mrs. Frederic once when she's nineteen. This time she hasn't passed out. She's at a cafe on her college campus, listening to music through a set of headphones, and drawing in her sketchbook.

Mrs. Frederic sets a flyer down on the table in front of Myka and takes a seat in the chair across from her.

She doesn't wait for Myka to remove her headphones or even acknowledge her presence.

"This is not cute," the older woman tells her while gesturing down at the paper. "This is too close."

Myka eyes the flyer. It isn't hers per se but she'd been hired by someone on campus to draw it for an upcoming event. It's a very simple drawing of two women holding hands, but one of those women looks a lot like herself and the other looks a lot like someone she used to know.

"You don't like my art?" Myka sighs, turning her attention back to her sketchbook.

"She's dead," Mrs. Frederic recites, not at all for the first time.

Myka puffs out a soft laugh, glances up at Mrs. Frederic, and says, "And yet here you are. Again."

"It isn't safe yet, Myka."

Myka drops her pencil. "When will it be?"

Mrs. Frederic looks away from Myka, over her shoulder, out of a window. She says, without ever turning back, "I told you to forget her. She told you to forget her. You know the consequences of not doing that. You've seen what they're capable of."

"I don't know anything. I certainly don't know the consequences or who they are."

"And believe me when I tell you that you do not want to."

"Is it witness protection?"

"Do I look like I work for the Marshal's office, Ms. Bering? Do our interactions scream Federal Government to you?"

Myka eyes Mrs. Frederic up and down but says nothing at all. In response, she receives a huff of annoyance from the older woman across from her.

"The amount of time I have spent running interference between you and that girl is both baffling and exhausting."

That makes Myka smile. Just a little.

"Finish school, Ms. Bering. Keep your head down. Stop this," Mrs. Frederic taps the paper on the table, "and forget her." She stands and turns then adds, just over her shoulder, "I won't be repeating myself."

Myka sits back in her chair, smiles softly up at the other woman, and says, "Let's do this again sometime, hm?"

Mrs. Frederic rolls her eyes up and sighs. Then turns and walks away.

When Myka graduates college at twenty-two, she catches a glimpse of Mrs. Frederic in the hallway of the auditorium where her commencement ceremony is to take place. She is mentally and emotionally preparing herself to fend off all of that woman's criticisms, about what she should and shouldn't be drawing, about how she should and should not be living her life, about who she should and should not be remembering.

But Mrs. Frederic never approaches her. She disappears into the crowd.

Myka has always just assumed that she is being watched, that Mrs. Frederic is watching her. But Mrs. Frederic has never, before now, allowed herself to be seen in return.

Myka starts dating a boy named Sam when she is twenty-five years old. Sam doesn't remind her of Helena and it's the thing she likes most about him. It's easy. He's nice. They have fun together.

Myka doesn't see Mrs. Frederic the entire two years they are dating. And somehow, somewhere inside of her, she's a little sad about that.

Sam is killed in an accident when Myka is twenty-eight.

They had been broken up for a year at that point but they were still close. Still really good friends with a shared love of art and creating, still collaborating to make what dreams they may have into reality.

A lot of Myka's art shifts back into dark places and in those dark places comes reminders of dark histories. Of grief and sadness. Of love and loss. Of all the pain suffered and endured and, mostly, overcome when the perfect person comes along and holds your hand through it all.

For years, that had been Emily.

Helena.

They'd suffered and endured. They'd held hands through it all. Comforted each other, whenever the other needed it most. Together, they'd imagine themselves on fantastic journeys. The innumerable marks on their skin, souvenirs from their mishaps and adventures.

Myka hasn't cried in so long but she cries the night Sam dies. She cries hard and long, for hours and hours. And when she's all cried out over Sam, she starts crying all over again for Emily Lake.

For the girl named Helena whose last name she doesn't even know. She cries until she falls asleep, then wakes up and does it all over again the next day. She does this for a whole week until the day of Sam's funeral and she doesn't know who she cries for more, Sam, Helena, or herself.

It's been nearly four years since their last encounter but Myka isn't surprised when Mrs. Frederic appears. After the casket is lowered and the crowd dispersed, she steps to Myka's side and stands there just beside her for several moments in silence.

And when Mrs. Frederic has decided she's had enough of the quiet, she says, "You did try. I'll give you that."

Myka doesn't know why but this comment, a simple and useless recognition from the woman who gives almost nothing at all, makes her full belly laugh, crying tears of laughter until she can cry no more.

Myka is almost thirty when she almost dies of a heart attack. And then, immediately after that, almost dies by large-toe bludgeoning.

"I'm glad to see you attempting to move on with your life."

"Oh, fuck!" Myka drops a mixing bowl of cooke dough and the very thin, suddenly sharp lip of that bowl lands square on her big toe. When she turns to Mrs. Frederic, in her kitchen somehow, she swears that woman is smiling.

Even if just barely.

"That's a new trick." Myka growls, calming her racing heart.

"New to whom? You seem to be an expert in the field of accidental self-inflicted wounds."

"I mean you. In my kitchen. Inside of my apartment." Myka sighs. "How did you get in here?"

"Certainly not by working at the Marshal's office." Mrs. Frederic quirks a singular brow in Myka's direction.

"Certainly not." Myka mimics, lowering herself to the ground, to clean the cookie dough from tile floor. "What have I done now?"

"I've seen the draft of your very telling graphic memoir. I thought we were clear on the lines that should not be crossed."

Myka stops cleaning. "Speaking of lines that should not be crossed, I won't bother asking how you've seen something that exists solely on my computer." She stands and crosses her arms and tells Mrs. Frederic, "It doesn't mean anything to anyone except me. Nobody else would know it's her and it's not like it's going to bring her back."

"Myka."

Myka laughs softly, "Wow. First name basis? I have definitely crossed a line."

"The problem is, that is exactly what could happen. It could bring her back. Give her no choice but to return."

"She has a choice now? Because that's not what it looked like when you dragged her away."

"I did not drag her. I simply urged her to move forward, faster. You saw, with your own eyes, what the result would have been had she lingered with you. Two homes might have burned that night and your family--"

"I have a lot of respect for you, Mrs. Frederic, despite your constant intrusions. But please, do not talk about my family."

"Fair enough," Mrs. Frederic concedes after a sigh.

"You know, I thought I'd have more hope over time. That she was alive. That she'd one day come back. That I could go to her. Or that holding on to her the way I do would eventually mean something. Anything.

"But after all this time, I find myself more often grieving Emily's death. Because it's the only thing that's real in my mind, it's the only thing that happened.

"Helena is just... she's an old memory that I struggle to keep alive. Ten minutes in one night in the entirety of my life. And I don't even know if anything about those ten minutes is real. If it even means anything. If it's worth holding on to."

Mrs. Frederic watches Myka in thoughtful silence.

"I do know that I never want to forget the way she makes me feel. They way she always made me feel. As Emily, before Helena. She taught me so much. She helped me open up. She opened up to me.

"If I can't talk about her, in a book about my life, there is no book.

"She was my best friend and I loved her. I do what I love because of her and having known her and loved her, for the little time that I was able to, still impacts my life today. Every single day."

Myka gestures to Mrs. Frederic and smiles.

"You, Mrs. Frederic, are living proof of that." She pauses to laugh and adds, "Or the most prolific stalker the world has ever seen."

The older woman remains quiet, pensive. And for a second, one tiny fraction of a second, Myka thinks she's going to show some kind of emotion. Sympathy. Sadness. Contentedness. Amusement? At this point, Myka would even take her usual dose of exhaustion. But Mrs. Frederic's face remains a facade of unconvinced underwhelm and boredom.

Her words, however, belie genuine emotion.

"I have a story for you."

Myka arches a brow. "How suspicious."

"Two little girls grew up together, lived similar lives with similar fathers, who mistreated them in very similar ways. In a single night, they had the nerve to fall in love, right in front of my eyes. A youthful, foolish love that should have ended a decade ago. And yet, here I stand, an intermediary between two foolish girls who refuse to let each other go. Even as they risk their very ends.

"One of those girls is the daughter of a dangerous man who once had the power to demand ungodly things be done to the families of even more dangerous people.

"And the other girl, Ms. Bering, is you."

Myka breathes in slowly. Breathes out one long steady breath.

"I have... so much work to do. And yet, for some reason, I spend, have spent, most of my time intervening in various shenanigans between the two of you."

"Me, living my life like a normal human being, not constantly under threat by some faceless boogie man, is not shenanigans."

Mrs. Frederic ignores Myka's interjection and goes on.

"Intercepting every little whim of the heart you two decide to try and throw out into the world, in order to find each other without blatantly finding each other, when you both know, very well, that is the last thing you should be doing."

"She's... she's trying to find me?"

"Not the point," Mrs. Frederic cuts in. "The point is that she should not be. She knows that. Nor should you be and you know that. Because they could leverage you to get to her to get to her father. They have tried and they will continue to try. And I will continue exhausting myself to keep you two safe because that is what I am, unfortunately, obligated to do.

"No matter how hard you make the task. No matter how many times you want to laugh in the face of it, believe me when I say that he is not worth either of you dying."

Myka remains quiet. She stills. When Mrs. Frederic says no more, Myka takes in another steadying breath and says, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you actually care about me."

"I care to keep you alive. And her. Until such a time that I no longer have to care about keeping either of you anything for the foreseeable future."

"I do appreciate what you supposedly do, Mrs. Frederic, but in all of our time together, I have never, at any point, felt unsafe or watched by anyone but you."

"And you are welcome for that."

That, to Myka, is the most unnerving thing she has ever heard Mrs. Frederic say to her. In all of their time.

"So what, her dad was some sort of mob boss's hit man?"

"That's a close enough analogy."

"Why didn't you just tell me all of that from the beginning?"

"You were a child. You're no longer a child. I've seen what you've survived. Even if I myself don't find it amusing, I do understand why you laugh when threatened. Now, do you understand the gravity of this ongoing situation?"

Myka nods, "I do."

"I don't believe you."

Myka rolls her eyes. "I understand that I'm supposed to stop doing what I love to do most, drawing and telling stories about my own life, because you want this to end, sooner rather than later."

"No," Mrs. Frederic corrects, "because your life could end, sooner rather than later. You would not have a life to draw or tell stories about."

Myka breathes in deep.

"I am not asking you to give up your passion, Myka, I'm simply reminding you to be mindful, as your passion influences art that grows in popularity, about how much personal information you impress upon it.

"Or one day you'll turn around and it won't be me standing behind you."

Myka is thirty-two years old when Mrs. Frederic appears in a bookstore for one of Myka's book signings and, for whatever reason, that woman chooses to stand in line. Myka catches sight of her when she's at least eight people back, and after three more signings, she motions for Mrs. Frederic to come forward.

To Myka's surprise, the woman does.

Nothing about the way she looks has changed, except that she seems a little less baffled, a little less exhausted. Her visits had slowed, once more, as Myka's preoccupation with Helena's absence continued to wane over time.

"I could have waited," the woman tells Myka.

"The looming anticipation of your next threat was too much for me to handle." Myka smiles. "How is our girl?"

The older woman sighs heavily. All of that exhaustion and bafflement returning to her expression. But Myka is surprised, more than that, when Mrs. Frederic answers her genuinely.

"Insistent. Stubborn."

Myka smiles at the thought of Emily/Helena interacting with Mrs. Frederic in these little ways she occasionally interacts with Mrs. Frederic. A thing she used to think about often but doesn't think about so much anymore.

"Thank you," Myka says softly, lowering her head to face the table below and wiping away a stray tear. When she looks back up to Mrs. Frederic, she adds, "I appreciate knowing she hasn't changed one bit."

Mrs. Frederic reaches into her purse and pulls out a copy of Myka's book. She sets it on the table in front of Myka, who smiles wide.

"You bought my book."

"A birthday gift," Mrs. Frederic says, "for our very insistent friend."

Myka is thirty-four when Mrs. Frederic unexpectedly sits beside her on a park bench then holds an envelope out in front of her. And for the first time, in a long time, Myka isn't startled. She almost expects that other woman's arrival.

She says to the older woman, without ever looking at her, "I don't know what they're paying you but I'm sure it's not enough."

Myka doesn't immediately take that envelope but she can see that her name is on the front. She can see that the handwriting is Emily's. Recognizable in comparison to all of the old notes she has stashed away from high school.

Still, she straightens in her seat and asks, "We're on writing terms now?"

"Proof of life."

"Seventeen years ago, you told me she died." Myka cautiously takes the envelope. "You told me to forget about her."

"And nearly two decades later, look where that has gotten us."

"You've suggested on several occasions that I'd be murdered."

"I resisted the urge myself on many of those occasions."

"A joke?"

Mrs. Frederic arches a brow. The playfulness of that expression, Myka finds, is unnerving at best.

"You said they are dangerous people."

"They were."

"They were?"

"We're on the cusp of a resolution."

"A resolution? With very dangerous people? More dangerous than the man who committed heinous crimes against them?"

Mrs. Frederic nods and simply says, "Even dangerous people grow old."

"Then I guess I feel comforted that you haven't aged a day since we met."

Myka can see Mrs. Frederic suppressing a smile.

"You know, in all these years that I've come to know you, Mrs. Frederic, you don't strike me as the type to negotiate with, much less protect, a man who has done ungodly things to anyone. Dangerous people included."

"You refer to her father as a man, which is something I haven't done in over three decades." A pause follows a thoughtful sigh as Mrs. Frederic turns away from Myka and says. "Still, I find even calling him the monster that he is to be too generous."

Myka gives a subtle, understanding nod.

"The thing you may or may not have come to understand, without the proper context, is that some very terrible people are more valuable to when they are alive, worthless when they are dead, when the survival of many more good people depends on what they know. My employers find value in his living, so he remains alive and, by default, protected."

"And Helena? Where does she come into all of this talk of value and worth?"

"She is her father's collateral damage." Mrs. Frederic turns to Myka. "From the moment she was born, he has been using her existence to further his malintent. Without her, he would already be dead."

Myka can feel her blood rising.

"He had money. He had custody. He had power. He doesn't have any of those things now and I promise you, Myka Bering, that he is not worth the energy you will burn being angry at him."

Myka doesn't quite let the anger go. But she breathes a little steadier now.

Weeks later, Myka finds a Post-It note on her refrigerator door that she didn't place there and doesn't recall seeing the night before.

It reads: Answer the call. - F

Within the hour, Myka's cell phone rings. No name or number appears on the screen. And when she answers, it's with a tease. She says, "It only took you twenty years to realize you could threaten me over the phone instead of constantly sneaking up on me in public?"

"I told Irene," a soft, distantly familiar voice starts, "you'd tire of her appearing act sooner than most."

The voice hits her hard. Harder than the combined weight of every moment in her past that she has felt sorrow or grief or loneliness beyond measure. She has to steady her hands to not drop the phone. She has to steady her breathing to not fall to the floor.

"Helena?"

Soft breathing turns to soft laughter which turns to soft crying, on both ends of that line.

"Is that really you?"

"It really is."

Myka sits before she falls, carefully lowering herself to the kitchen floor. Clutching that phone in her hands. Her back to the cabinet doors. Her legs folded up before her.

She decides to start off small and easy.

"Hi."

And is rewarded beyond measure.

"Hello again, my love."

#bering and wells #b&w holiday gift exchange #lady-adventuress #dickens draws #sorry this is so late #i usually draw and post and then write when i post #and this writing took on a mind of its own #i wasn't even done i just cut myself off lol

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thebinkinator-3000 · 8 months

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here is my story snippet haha i kind of hate it but oh well. maybe i'll like it more tomorrow but who knows. ive stared at this page too long today i think

In 1989 space flights became commerical. They were a huge success among the upper-class and became a regular vacation trip. In 1991 the first Mars colony was established, and by 1996 everyone who could afford to move there did. Then they went further into the stars.

In 1997 Earth was ravaged by aliens. It wasn't exactly an unprovoked attack, they didn't like humans poking around in space. After three months of hell, the humans on Mars decided to show a scrap of humanity and help the remaining Earthlings out. They destroyed the alien's ships, but were unaware of how many remained elsewhere on the planet. A reluctant treaty was formed from the human's need to survive and the alien's need for preservation. With the condition of Earth, adjustments needed to be made. They combined their science and technology and began experiementing. Humans and aliens alike were cross-bred, mutated, and even roboticized. After a decade of failures and causalites, they finally suceeded in a mutation without physical or mental side effects. The missing key had been a child. They were mutating beings too old, it had to be done young.

Click. Bzzz. The shuttle room was filled with cold air, accompanied by bright lights. Glen stood, the baked moss of his terrarium crunching under his feet. It was about two and a half months overdue for replacement, but he didn't care. It was good enough for him. He stepped over the short glass barrier of the terrarium and picked up his clothes off the floor. He donned them quickly and began walking to the next room whilst trying to tie his thick black hair back. After a minute of wrangling he finally suceeded and heated one of his few remaining food canisters. He crossed the shuttle room to a scrawny desk that looked as if it might topple if you looked at it wrong. Atop the desk sat piles of papers, machinery and metal scraps, and a big white computer monitor. There was a keyboard and mouse too, somewhere. He carelessly shoved aside the junk to reveal them, then turned on the computer. He sat in the equally scrawny chair in front of the desk and ate his food. The computer was an old model, late 1990s, and despite its numerous upgrades it still took about 10 minutes to turn on. Once it had finally booted up, the computer automatically opened a tab showing Glen all of the latest scumbags and criminals on the run. While the humans in space were attempting to establish a federation of somesort, bounty hunters thrived on backwater planets like Earth. "1,000 tok. Zirsk, Loth. . ." The computer began to list off several bounties and Glen listened half-heartedly, picking at the scraps of his meal. He listened on for about two minutes before one caught his interest, ". . .24 (custom). Maid equipped with Artificial Intellegence. . ." Before the computer even finished talking, a quick tap on the mouse revealed more information alongside a full body picture of the robot. It had a very unique build, largely decorative but it still had a full range of movement. That was a big design flaw in a lot of HS-class bots. The bot had a sleek, curvy body with pointed joint plates. The head was topped with a black visor-dome, under which were dainty lips painted a shimmery purple. He didn't like robots much, they made him uneasy, but they were one of the few beings capable of fighting and quick thinking without being trained. That made them fun to fight. He got the robot's last known coordinates from the computer and went to the cockpit. He flopped down in the pilot's seat, hit a few buttons, and he was off.

heres art of glen ig. i dont have much art of kyrie (the robot, its her nickname) on my phone atm so you get a kinda half-assed animation

@sundere1181

#glen is a placeholder name btw im the worst at naming my characters #and he is inspired by a character named glen #ocs #the binkening

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taylorthrift · 10 months

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Grief is a terrible, incredible thing.

To most of the people here I'm an erratic fan. Shouting into the void about lost love, Taylor Swift, my gender identity, ai-doom. Each post I make takes a little more out of me and fewer people interact with me.

Only a few mutuals even understand who I am and why I'm here. This is the real, authentic me. This is a LONG READ.

When I came to Tumblr, I was grief-stricken, sobbing for the end of a 20-year relationship. Most of you are pretty young and I'm sure the idea of that is incredibly distant and impossible. Love is hard_HARD_ work.

Throughout our relationship I'd pour my heart into music and then that music into him. When we were younger it was Avril Lavigne, then it became Paramore-then it was Taylor. I didn't have the female voice to express the love to my partner that I wanted to so these womens' words became my words. A way for him to really hear me.

Near the end of the relationship, this was through Folklore specifically. When I needed desperately to feel a connection it was Invisible String. When I wanted him to see how desperately I wanted his love and attention it was Mirrorball. When I felt neglected and forgotten about it was Hoax. When I knew my depression would never leave us it was Peace.

After we split, I couldn't pour myself into that music anymore; now there was no-one to listen to my voice. I was heartbroken doubly and started screaming my grief into the void. It was 20 years, besties: 20.

I've always felt what I call art debt. It's the idea that the people who do art that moves you are owed part of the emotional movement it inspired. Basically, the people who have moved you with their art deserve to know that. Not with some generic 'your art inspired me', but the very specific: "I am who I am because of this art."

It helped make me who I was as a professional. It helped me express who I was as a lover. It built me into someone greater than I had been before.

I came to Tumblr to say thank you, hoping with some small hope that Taylor still lurked and might be able to hear the message. Taylor wasn't the person who found me and helped me in my flailing grief, it was Abby. A disabled girl half my age and suffering worse than I am.

It was Swifties who were there to catch me and help build me up. It was Dani (@meaningtotellyou) and Abby (@whydoifeelthisquiet) and Kelly (@alwaysleadstoyou) and Jam (@maryssongwhen). (with dozens of tiny interactions along the way)

If I couldn't say thank you to Taylor directly, I'd take care of some of the girls who were devoted to her. So, I stayed. I endeavored to be the Taylor that you all seemed to need.

I helped Dani and her friend get to Metlife. I sent little love letters of hope and optimism to girls who were lonely and sad. I bought off some people's debts. I volunteered to give an extra dress I had to Isabella(@missegyptiana) when she lost her luggage. I reached out continuously trying to find ways to help make lives better. I didn't do this to gain anything: most of these I did anonymously. I did this because I cared about these girls now.

Their stories deserve to be told. Their lives deserve to be better.

I learned of the ticket issues. I learned of the scamming. I spent hours researching what was going on and trying to help elsewhere against Ticketmaster. I spent hours with a lawyer. I called the federal government. The pile of Swifties that I was trying to help grew, but the number who actually knew anything about me shrunk.

Caring and being attentive to the updates and individual life struggles of 4 Swifties was hard. When it was 40 it was untenable. I kept going.

I'm not giving up on any of you, but it is killing me to be doing this alone. I am disabled. I am grief stricken. I am stretched thin. My options are to give up on you all or keep going till I burnout. Maybe you don't care about me-I don't really need you to. As someone who's had Taylor speak for her for 10 years, let me speak for her for once:

I need you to care about each other.

The world is mean and hard. Worse going through it alone. Especially if you're marginalized. Band in. Stop broadcasting and start talking to each other. You are all wonderful in your own ways and you wouldn't be nearly as lonely with each other as real friends.

I'm sorry if I'm annoying. I'm sorry if I don't shut up about AI worries. I'm sorry if it seems like I want something. I'm sorry I'm not actually Taylor. Maybe you aren't used to seeing someone actually care about your wellbeing and happiness? The erratic behavior is just fragments of me struggling to survive while not giving up on you.

I want to see you all shine. I want people to see this so people see you. Taylor's already done more for me than I could pay back in a hundred years. I don't need anything from her other than help to take care of you all.

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canine-brained · 27 days

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Rrr big scary dog!! 😡😳

#Waff waff >:(((#Fucking gets you!!!#theriantropy #therian #alterhuman #caninekin #dogkin #wolfkin #theriotype #dog therian #german shepherd kin #german shepherd therian #dog theriotype #therian art #therian community #feder's art pile

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federthenotsogreat · 7 months

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Cackletta but it's @bowletta 's design, simply because it's quite possibly my favorite interpretation of the character, so I just had to draw it 🌟

#Kin if you see this I know your brain is full with monkeys rn BUT #I hope you still enjoy this :3 #I absolutely love the way you draw Cackletta and just had to make some fanart of your design hauahauahauagg💖🔥#mario and luigi #mario and luigi superstar saga #cackletta #super mario #nintendo #feder's art pile #I HOPE YOU LIKE IT AA

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federschwinge · 9 months

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Found these yesterday :)

My first try drawing Akka from over a year ago! Sorry for the bad quality-

#nils holgersson #the wonderful adventures of nils #akka von kebnekaise #captain akka #nils holgerssons underbara resa genom sverige #feder's art pile

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divin8druin · 1 year

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Do I scare you ??....

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Fiona Shade Ripley (@divinaedruin)

instagram

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fishboneart · 2 months

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Fishbone #005

They weren't kidding, that history can rhyme

Only 9 layers and 5 source images this time. Things don't always have to be a federal fucking issue.

With how much ai art wank discourse is rooted in purity politics, especially but not exclusively on tumblr, I was amused by the mental image of slipping into a hazmat suit before venturing into the dangerous and repulsive wasteland of ai art to retrieve alien salvage like the stalkers in Roadside Picnic. It doesn't feel like that, it feels like being a grabby little corvid in the shiny trinket factory, but I still enjoyed the concept.

The rest of the image is about art as alchemical process and I'm not going to explain it.

I've been observing for some time that the objections to ai art are indistinguishable from the objections to photoshop ~20-25 years ago (including the one about "it's different this time bro trust me") so I want to look at some of them a bit closer.

It's not real art

Stop getting your talking points from fascists.

But-

I don't care how you justify it, it's a fascist talking point. Stop.

It's stealing

At risk of resurrecting stupid bullshit I was already bored with 20 years ago, I honestly think there's a better case for this regarding PS than machine learning. PS artists actually do use elements from existing images, lots of them (ideally with permission/license). However, consensus opinion has long since concurred that PS artists substantially transform and recontextualise those elements and the result is an original creation, same as physical collage.

As I've come to understand it, ML doesn't use elements from existing images, just mathematical descriptions of image attributes. It doesn't incorporate images on any level, or even pieces of images, so I'm left wondering what's being stolen here? I'm not being shitty I genuinely can't see anymore what is stolen when ML simply does not use any part of any existing image to generate an image.

There's no skill/creativity involved

The first time I ever used adobe photoshop (I've long since switched to GIMP, change the name, FOSS 5evar, etc.) I spent about fifteen minutes excitedly stacking filters on a picture of a butterfly, before the person showing me how it worked dismissively explained that filters don't make art.

Elements and principles of design are learned skills. They're taught at art school because they're not innate and they're important as hell. I often feel like people are tacitly arguing all that stuff's just padding--and if you're staunchly anti-ai-art I promise that's not an argument you want to make, it will backfire spectacularly on you.

And yeah, I think everyone still agrees that just piling filters on a photo isn't very creative and takes no particular skill. I doubt anyone thinks instagram filters take a good photo for you. I think (or hope) that we all understand now that complex image editing and manipulation does in fact take skill and creativity.

I can't help but wonder how much of the vapid trash we're seeing in the explosion of ai art is the equivalent of the 2000s explosion of shitty filtered photos.

The computer does it for you

There's so much more to PS art than filters, and the computer emphatically does not do any of that stuff for you. It doesn't do composition or colour theory or concepts or art history for you. It just does what you tell it to, you still have to make the art good. Fishbone #001 involved manually isolating dozens of fucked up hands from ML images, and I complained about it the entire time and the computer didn't even get me a cup of tea.

A lot of people used to actually genuinely believe that photoshop was a magical plagiarism machine that you stuck stolen art in and it automatically made perfect composites for you. Probably some people still do, it's a big world. But it never was true, no matter how hard they believed it.

Is there more to ML image generation? Idk I'd have to try it to find out for sure and I'm very tired. But the more I learn about it the more I think there could be. The frequency with which I see very elaborate and specific prompts with garbled and all-but-irrelevant images does at least suggest that the magical ease of making ai art has been somewhat oversold.

Using it in any way is cheating/cheapens your art

I think the cheating idea mostly came from the photography community, who thought PS was a shortcut to better photos for undisciplined talentless hacks who couldn't be bothered to learn to take a good photo. The irony. But for me, since I wasn't using it to improve photos, this was such a weird take. Cheating at what? At photoshop art? I'm cheating at photoshop by... using photoshop?

And the idea that using PS at any stage in your process irredeemably sullies your art is just stupid on its face. It's not radioactive. It's not a PFAS. Sin isn't real. Santa isn't putting you on the naughty list for photoshopping. The Galactic Council of Artistic Integrity aren't checking for pixels.

Needless to say, since 100% of the source images I use in this project are ML generated, I also think it's a bit of a silly objection to ML image generation.

It has no soul

I am not and have never been christian. I do not and will never care what your imaginary friend thinks about art.

Also, this is a repackaged fascist talking point. I told you to stop that.

It sucks

Most of everything sucks, what's your point?

People are going to lose their jobs

Unfortunately this one had some connection to reality. By about 2010 there were almost no painted book covers, and painters who'd made their living from them were forced to adopt PS or find a different job. It wasn't just book covers of course, commercial artists across the board felt the pinch of automation. That's not exactly PS's fault, the parasitic owning class will simply take any opportunity to fuck over a worker for half a buck, and PS art is generally cheaper because it's generally faster to make.

I actually have some questions about how this will play out with ML though. Currently, yes, it's looking very much like in ten years there won't be any PS book covers any more, but I think the parasitic owning class are going to quickly remember they don't actually want art that they can't hold copyright over, and human artists will remain necessary. No one wants a logo they can't trademark. No one wants commercial art if they can't control the licensing. I don't even think it'll take a wholeass test case, just a few things like selfpub novels using the same cover image as a major release or folks using pure ML images from the big stock sellers without paying, and as soon as they realise they can't sue anyone about it they'll come crawling back, cap in hand, to hire you back as a contractor at an insultingly low rate.

People will lose their jobs or find their billable hours severely cut, but, unfortunately, as the brave Luddites showed us, you can't stop automation by fighting the machine, no matter how noble your motives. You need to actually change society somewhat.

But I think this should be enough of a concern without having to also make shit up. You can just object to ML on the basis of tangible harms it will be used to inflict on individuals and society. That's plenty to be mad about, you don't need to put lipstick on it.

It's different this time bro trust me bro

Plenty of people sincerely believed that rise of PS was fully automated skill-free art theft and the sky was falling, and pointing out that all the same things were said about the invention of everything from the photocopier to home video to the printing press to the camera didn't even slow them down because this time it's different, this time it really is that bad. It wasn't.

And I honestly don't know anymore if it is.

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mr-camhed · 10 months

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Talon Corporation Maritime Fleet Cruiser Pride of Aurelia (TCMFC Pride of Aurelia),Formerly known as Brabazonian Federal Navy Cruiser Fort Costa Blanca (BFFC Fort Costa Blanca), is a nuclear powered guided missile cruiser. The ship started its life during the late stages of the Second Atlantide war as the sister ship of Brabazonian Federal Navy's Cruiser Pelico Bay as a conventionally powered heavy cruiser tasked with patrolling the sealine of the Brabazon Federation, intercepting Atlantides' landing and transportation forces.

Unfortunately, before the yet unnamed warship's hull was even finished, the Second Atlantide war was ended unexpectedly during the defense of Fort Costa Blanca, in which the 1000mm caliber main defense gun of the fort sunk the floating city of Atlantide in a lucky shot. And with the war over, the purpose for the ship was also subsequently made obsolete, and the almost finished hull was left mothballed in the dry dock, awaiting to be dismantled or resume construction.

Three decades after the conclusion of the Second Atlantide War, the relationship between Brabazon and Atlantide remnants was once again strained by the Black Tide Crisis, which the Military Industrial Complex of Brabazon Federation was heavily betting on the chance of another war breaking out and is preparing to profiteer from it. And among the many exotic projects flooding the military facilities all over the federation was the second chancefor the ship. Instead of the regular tower shaped superstructure, naval gun turrets and internal combustion engine, the ship was armed with at the time state of the art guided missile systems, a unique box shaped bridge and nuclear power. The newly refurbished and finished warship was Christened Fort Costa Blanca after the site that witnessed the end of the Second Atlantide War, though the purpose of the warship is still the same: intercept and destroy potential threat in the ocean. Unfortunately for the Warship, many other military projects and the profit margin of the Military Industrial Complex, the Black Tide Crisis was ended in peaceful means instead of igniting a new war, and with the ship obsolete again even after being commissioned, it had lost any and all chance of seeing combat, and became nothing but a token that endlessly paraded the ocean just for show for the nine years to come.

After The Catastrophe which caused the destruction of the Brabazon Federation's capital city and the subsequent social and economical unrest which means that the nation, now divided into confederates of city states, are now no longer capable of maintaining a massive active or reserve navy, and the ship was among many that were about to be decomissioned and scrapped to recoup for losses. However, fortunately for them, Colonel Rand Toro, a senior officer of the Brabazonian military, who had seen an opportunity from their recent contact of a formerly unknown land, proposed "Project Talon", which will see them profiteering from the new land natives' schism by exporting war and unrest, shattering their uneasy peace and facade of prosperity. The project was immediately greenlit by the high level personnel in the military, the government, and the Military Industrial Complex, and the Talon Corporation, a Paraterrorist Military Organization under the disguise of a PMC was born, and was made with the purpose to export weaponry and unrest for the purpose of warmongering, while importing plundered resources, enslaved labours and potential stolen technology that they can reap from the war they had mongered. And with the plan in effect, they took the husk of another already decommissioned cruiser, turned it into a replica of the Fort Costa Blanca, before scrapping the shell vessel in a publicity stunt to drum up popular dissatisfaction against the pacifists. While the fake ship was being turned into a pile of scrap to the Brabazonian folks' protest, the real Fort Costa Blanca was rechristened as the Pride of Aurelia after a nonexistent place or people, and the older parts of the ship such as radar systems, anti air guns and what not were changed out with advanced integrated combat system, and the rest of the ship's system were also refitted and upgraded. The newly refurbished Pride of Aurelia became the flagship of Talon Corporation's maritime fleet, and also served as one of the overseas mobile headquarters during the earlier days of Project Talon, while after the Talon Corporation's overseas headquarters finished construction, the Pride of Aurelia would spend most of its time cruising in the artificial layer of cloud and fog surrounding it, hunting and destroying any vessels and aircraft that had got into the premise with its advanced combat system to keep the secret of the HQ, Though it also would go out to do mission elsewhere sometimes.

[ID: USS Long Beach (CGN-9), Which TCMFC Pride of Aurelia/BFFC Fort Costa Blanca was based on, cruising off Oahu, 9 May 1973. End ID.]

#USS Long beach #Fantasy worldbuilding #Fictional warship #Vehicle catalogueing #Fictional worldbuilding #Warship #Talon Corporation

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