#the vagrant as criminal

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"COURT DECIDES DRINKING NEVER ACTUATED CRIME," Hamilton Spectator. October 26, 1943. Page 7. --- Magistrate Rejects Accused's Contention Intoxication Caused His Trouble --- Herman Opperchuk Sentenced to Reformatory For Stealing Hosiery --- Admission of the theft of six pairs of socks from a store resulted in a sentence of six months definite and six months indefinite at the Ontario reformatory being imposed in magistrate's court this morning on Herman Opperchuk, 48, of 42 Bay street north.

After reading the record of the accused, which included many offences, Magistrate H. A. Burbidge rejected his plea that he only stole when he was intoxicated.

Matthew Leeson, who gave the Ontario Hospital as his address, pleaded guilty to the theft of a pair of trousers from a department store. Acting Crown Attorney Hugh Brown consented to a remand of one week.

Given Dual Sentence Albert Hill, 411 King street east, who pleaded guilty to a vagrancy charge in magistrate's court on Saturday, was sentenced to 30 days in jail by Magistrate James McKay this morning. Hill was picked up by the police in the early hours of Saturday riding over the back roads near Aldershot.

Convicted of a breach of the National Selective Service Mobilization Act, he was sentenced to 21 days in jail, the terms to run concurrently.

#hamilton #police court #stolen socks #petty theft #shoplifters #shoplifting #vagrancy #criminalizing vagrancy #the vagrant as criminal #draft dodgers #sentenced to prison #guelph reformatory #barton jail #canada during world war 2 #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada

[racefortheironthrone]

I was reading your yeomen tag and saw the term knave refering to someone bellow a yeoman. But what is a knave?

As I’ve discussed in the past, a lot of our insulting terms for people started out as class signifiers:

a villain was originally a villein (another term for serf).

a knave was a servant (often the "knave" and the "knight" were opposing pairs) but also a low-status and thus dishonorable person.

likewise, "flunky," "minion," "lickspittle" and similar terms all originally were different (mostly insulting) terms for servants.

"vagrants," "vagabonds," and "sturdy beggars" were all descriptions of homeless people, either who were seen as inherently criminal and dangerous because they were disconnected from the feudal system. There is a strong crossover to anti-Romani/anti-Zigany slurs, as well as the "rootless cosmopolitan" variant of anti-semitism, in this category.

similarly, "bumpkins," "yokels," "rubes," "hicks," "rednecks," etc. were all insulting terms for people from rural areas, usually denoting their lack of education, sophistication, and their working in outdoor manual labor.

for some gendered versions, "sluts" and "slatterns" originally had connotations of being dirty, unkempt, and being a low-ranked servant like a scullery or kitchen maid (i.e, they're dirty because they're doing "the dirty work").

upper-class Brits still use "pleb" (plebian) as an insult today.

#feudalism #knaves #cultural history #cw bigotry

[gatheringbones]

[“Fingerprinting was pioneered on women arrested for prostitution for a few reasons. First, there were many of them, so the police had a large pool upon which to experiment. Additionally, previous anthropometric techniques of tracking criminals (what were known as Bertillon measurements) had been developed on men, and they didn’t work well on women. Most importantly, however, women who were repeatedly arrested for prostitution were considered naturally criminal—like “perverts,” or drunks, or vagrants, or “born tireds.” As their deviant bodies supposedly led them to commit crimes, it made sense to track those bodies themselves.

Thus a stunning perversion of justice was accomplished: recidivism became a stand-in for being born bad. Judges began to base sentencing not on the crimes in front of them but on a biologically based assumption of inherent criminality—the “proof” of which was a previous history of arrests. That recidivism might indicate a failure in the system, or that the arrested individual might be experiencing persistent poverty, societal persecution, racism, misogyny, etc. did not seem to occur to the rich, white, straight men who made the system.

This leads to the final reason fingerprinting was pioneered on arrested prostitutes: they were considered fundamentally disposable, and if it turned out that fingerprinting did not work for identification, “the consequences of an error in a prostitution case was not all that dire.”Unless, of course, you were the arrested person. Soon, fingerprinting would be expanded to other disposable classes of feminine people, particularly abortionists and men arrested for homosexuality. Only after it had been thoroughly tested on these groups would fingerprinting be expanded to common procedure.

Fingerprinting put women like Mabel Hampton at a unique disadvantage: unlike men, they couldn’t give a fake name to avoid outstanding warrants or hide previous arrests. Unsurprisingly, the Fingerprint Bureau found that during the 1920s “the problem of the female offender [grew] increasingly difficult.” In the Department of Correction annual report for 1929, they speculated this was caused by “the comparative emancipation of woman, her greater participation in commercial and political affairs and the tendency toward greater sexual freedom.” Or, they acknowledged later in the report, “the figures may merely represent an increased activity on the part of the police.”]

hugh ryan, the women’s house of detention: a queer history of a forgotten prison, 2022

#hugh ryan #history stuff #currently reading #terra preta

[mondaymelon]

— 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝗱 !? ♥

:feat~ xiao, kazuha, scaramouche x gn!reader:

⤷ fluff. fluff to cure to soul.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ (open!) : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @achlysis

Seems like someone is catching feelings... how do they hide them? (...or try to)

XIAO is impossibly perplexed... both at himself, and you.

Because when it comes down to it, he's an immortal and you're merely a human, two contrasting types of beings that should never strive to coexist... alongside one... another...

...Yet, why does he wish for that possibility, with the few remnants of hope that still remain in his soul?

It's something unnatural, these emotions that are welling up in his body, but he can't bring himself to detest it. The feelings that arise when he's with you, the quickened rate of his heartbeat and the strange heat that's risen to his face... while all of it is unnervingly unfamiliar, somehow, it's comforting.

And he can't begin to explain why... but he's felt this warmth in his being before... albeit on a lesser scale. The way his eyes seem to light up, ever so slightly when you appear before him... yes, he's seen this before.

He recognizes it.

And it's what they call 'love.'

He wants to scoff at the very notion of such an outlandish topic. One that he could never even dream of experiencing... until, of course, now.

He's certainly not the most expressive in his emotions, so at first, it's almost like the atmosphere between the two of you hasn't even changed. But soon enough, it's growing more and more clear, from the way his usually unreadable facade has morphed into one of a flustered expression whenever you get too close, how he sometimes flinches when the two of you make contact... and how sometimes, he refuses to meet your eye, staying silent.

Maybe you don't notice it in the beginning, but as time goes on, it'll only become more and more apparent. More and more obvious, until...

"I think I'm in love with you." ♥

KAZUHA has heard tales of such... emotions from the Crux's drunken sailors.

But to say that prepared him for confronting such feelings himself... that was a different topic entirely. The most he'd felt of such 'love' was when his past friend was still alive... but the affection he had experienced then was nothing compared to how passionate his adoration of you was.

Needless to say, he had found himself knee deep in such a predicament. Running through his mind all of those stories the sailors had spun... tales of a beloved...

Kazuha would be jesting if he claimed that he had never imagined himself in such rose-tinted fantasies. And now that he was in one himself, he's already far too entranced to deny it.

Ah... but working up the courage to confess is much too difficult... so for now, the wanderer will tarry with his time, writing poems of professing his adoration and daydreaming about the moment as the Crux's hull is gently lulled by the waves. Perhaps one day he'll sort himself out, perhaps one day he'll find himself speaking those three words that are spoken between lovers.

Kazuha is used to hiding, being a vagrant and a wanted criminal, however, cloaking his affection is another story. The male know's he's being painfully obvious, even when he's trying to act subtle... but he certainly can't help the way his cheeks flush whenever the two of you accidentally brush hands, or the way his mouth can't help but form a serene smile whenever you laugh. And every time those moments reoccur, time and time again, he gains just a slight more incentive.

In the moonlight, his beauty is striking, but all he can think of is you.

"...I have something important to tell you.

I'm in love with you." ♥

SCARAMOUCHE denies it. His feelings for you, and no matter how easily you're able to fluster him.

Why? To be exact, he's not even sure...

Maybe it has to do with the fact that he's closed off his heart to people long before he even met you. He who killed his emotions, so that they wouldn't hinder him. In order for his past torments to end.

"Killed..." Yet somehow, he still... felt something towards you, and unfamiliar emotion that seemed to bubble up from inside him and developed quicker by the day. An affection... obsession towards you that he couldn't stop.

...Would he want to stop it at all?

Needless to say, he's head over heels... but still persists onwards like nothing has transpired within that head of his. Sure, he feels strangely attracted towards you and everything you do, but that doesn't mean anything. Means nothing at all.

Ah, but even someone as powerful as Scaramouche can't keep such pining bottled up for who knows how long... sooner or later, a confession will arrive... and he knows full well of it.

The very thought of it has him disgusted.

Is he even able to feel such an emotion as 'love'? Perhaps he's just imagining it, a delusion forged by his own mind to satiate his sole self... after all, he doesn't even have a heart. He doesn't have anything to prove that he has a single shred of 'humanity.'

Or perhaps, he did 'have' one, and you were the one who stole it.

Haha, if that's the case, perhaps he won't mind. He'll bide his time, clench the fabric over his chest, smiling to himself as he imagines his absent heart beating alongside yours.

And maybe one day, he'll understand what his love towards you means. ♥

(a/n) once again, scaramouche is the only one who doesn't confess to it. (oops)

#★ ˎˊ˗ mondaymelon #astronetwrk #favoniuslibrary #scaramouche x reader #scara x reader #scaramouche #genshin scaramouche #xiao x reader #genshin xiao #genshin kazuha #kazuha x reader #kazuha #wanderer x reader #wanderer headcanons #genshin wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x you #genshin fanfic #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin fanfiction #genshin oneshots #oneshots #x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fluff #genshin headcanons #kaedehara kazuha

[dindjiarin]

The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

The Mandalorian, side-quest extraordinaire, accidentally frees a slave, kills a Senator's son, ends a criminal conspiracy, and falls in love. Just a month in the life of the galaxy's favorite chaotic space cowboy and his son.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

A/N: i fucking love this man. here's the spotify playlist i made while hallucinating being wrecked by him. I accidentally based this fic on Euphoria by Angels & Airwaves.

AO3 Link🤠

TAGS: Fluff, m!falls first, plot with porn, helmet stays on for now, P in V, outdoor activities, protective!Din, soft-ish!Din.

WARNINGS: reader is/was a slave; references to abuse; no curses or slang outside of Star Wars canon (that's a warning if you hate that hahaha)

**************************************************************

"I thought vagrants were barred at the door. How did a Mandalorian get in here?”

The Mandalorian in question does not react to the insult. At the table before him, the taunting Trandoshan guffaws, but his laughter dies when he gets no reaction from the bounty hunter.

"What do you want?" He snaps, his green jaws clicking shut.

Instead of replying, certain the answer is obvious, the beskar-covered man leisurely surveys the colorful, boisterous room, his hands folded in front of him. Having already scouted the upscale casino, he does this for sarcastic effect. He’s also certain that fact is lost on his Trandoshan quarry. 

Upon returning his direct attention to the lizard, a small movement in the booth catches his heat sensor. A young woman, likely his quarry’s slave by her frayed appearance, sits with her head bowed behind her master. 

“Hey, tin man, you in there?” Your master’s voice sounds more like rocks scraping together than fluid language.

The Mandalorian chucks a bounty puck onto the table, the name and alien visage of Rathos Craaf glowing in a blue cone of projected light.

“Go quietly or don’t - it makes no difference to me.” 

“Ahh,” Rathos Craaf hums in his throat and leans back in his seat, making your demure form more visible to the bounty hunter. “What’s the price?”

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response. 

“Can’t be greater than what I’m willing to pay,” Rathos insinuates. 

The tense silence eats through your body as the ruthless men stare at each other - the probability of oncoming violence ratcheting up.

“Go prepare my ship,” your master barks suddenly at you, raising his hand.

Flinching, you scoot around the U-shaped booth to obey. 

You weren’t always a slave. As a child on Kenari, you had been born into a world of vivid green, rippling blue, and rich, brown soil. Trained in both hunting and fighting from birth, you had been too young to save your village from the brutal relocation program of the Empire. 

Dispersed onto harsher worlds, you’d been sold from one slaver to another until finally coming into the collection of one Rathos Craaf. He has been your master for several years by this point, and while not the worst, he was close. 

“What will you do about the girl?” A modulated voice asks.

Pausing on the edge of the hard bench, you look between the two antagonists. Me?

“Who cares about the mudscuffing girl? Tell you what, I’ll sell her to you.” The crafty Trandoshan gets an even better idea: “Or - take her in exchange for the bounty. She’s considered top-tier sentient property.” 

“Not what I was asking,” a gloved hand thumbs his blaster. “Once you’re in carbonite, wh-”

The Trandoshan lunges up from his seat with a booming yell, launching at the cloaked, beskar-free neck of the Mandalorian. Rathos’ claws reach around the smaller man’s throat, but the Mandalorian is lighter of foot, ducking out of the hold. 

Off-balance, Rathos tumbles but rolls back on his feet, his scaly tail acting as a counterweight. Gasps and mutters spill from the crowd as people scramble out of harm’s way.

You remain seated in the booth, frozen and unsure. But then, as the silver bounty hunter aims his blaster, Rathos whips his tail into the Mandalorian’s legs, knocking him with a clang onto his back. 

The blaster goes skittering through the crowd, and you’re shocked to find your legs racing after it. 

The thunder of a powerful flame roars in the cavernous room as you weave through aliens and humans alike, searching. The blackness of the blaster appears on the gray floor and you dive for it. 

Cold steel excites your skin. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, and though you’ve never fired one, your ancient muscle memory remembers the feeling of a bow in your hands; the trajectory, strength, and steadiness necessary. 

Sprinting back through the crowd, you find Rathos pinning the Mandalorian’s chest. The solid armor prevents any of Rathos’ blows from truly hurting the bounty hunter, but the weight of the lizard is too awkward and great for him to shove away from this angle. 

The fire-throwing vambrace comes up again and, as it billows into the Trandoshan’s face, you fire a blast at the substantial tail that had once been used against you. 

Rathos bellows in pain, tumbling to the side, and the Mandalorian takes full advantage. He jumps to his feet, then connects his fist to his quarry's skull, rendering the creature unconscious. Binders clasp around the arms of your master and the successful bounty hunter staggers backward a single step to catch his breath. 

You freeze at what you’ve just done, the blaster still pointed at Rathos. People murmur, and the words, “Killed by his slave” can be heard, though he is only unconscious. Your chest heaves, far more out of breath than the Mandalorian walking toward you.

“Thank you,” he says drily, taking his blaster out of your hands. 

Unsure what else you should do, you follow your master as he is dragged without dignity along the smooth fogstone floor. 

Exiting the casino, snaking down an alley, and traipsing to the outskirts of the city limits, the silhouette of a ship against the orange horizon becomes visible. 

Neither you nor the Mandalorian have spoken a single word since he took the blaster from your hands, but as he presses a button on his vambrace to lower the loading ramp, he turns to you now.

“Grab his tail." 

An order. That you could do. You immediately grab Rathos’ tail and lift. The Mandalorian half-drags and half-lifts the Trandoshan by his cuffed hands and the lizard is loaded into the ship’s hold. 

Standing at the far end of the Mandalorian’s rather busted ship, you’re surprised to see a small, green being. Dressed in what must be a sack, its long ears perk up and its eyes glimmer at the sight of the bounty hunter. A happy coo reverberates in the quiet, metal space. 

The child looks at you and makes another, similar noise. It waddles toward you, but before you can react, the Mandalorian scoops the child into his arms and sequesters it behind a thin blast door. 

“You are free to go.” 

It’s an odd statement. He must be familiar with the underworld. He knows how slaving works.

You’re not sure when you last spoke; you weren’t allowed to speak. But the bounty hunter seems to expect a reply. 

“I am not. The law says I am to be returned to the slavers’ coalition for repurchase.” Your voice is scratchy from disuse and the helmeted man tilts his head in curiosity. 

“You won't run?”

It seems too monumental a task. Hopes and fears trip over each other in their efforts to be heard. Freedom. Finding a place to call home. Your family was long dead. But… maybe there was hope of a family somewhere.

Where would I even go? No way I could stay ahead of the slavers. They’d send hunters like this Mandalorian after me. I’d be worse off than I am now.

“I do not know if I can,” you whisper honestly. 

The Mandalorian looks at you - at least, you think he does - for so long that you begin to squirm under his gaze.

Without warning, the wind is knocked from you. Rathos’ tail slams into the back of your knees, crumpling you to the floor. His claws wrap around your neck, and you yell, plunging two fingers into his lidless eye.

“Traitorous shutta!” Spittle from your master flies onto your cheeks.

As he recoils from your jab, you squirm underneath him, trying to flee, when the weight on your chest vanishes in a rush of air. Coughing and wiping your face, you lie there momentarily until your throbbing pulse abates inside your head. You sit up and widen your eyes to hasten their focus.

The Mandalorian has the Trandoshan by the throat with both hands. Rathos sputters and gags, but you watch as gloved fingers dig harder into the scaly throat. The anonymous man shoves his quarry into the carbon freezing chamber and smashes the button with more force than necessary. 

It's over. 

When you woke in the dark that morning, never would you have expected to watch your master be frozen in carbonite aboard a bounty hunter's ship.

That bounty hunter turns to you now. 

“I have something I need to do. I’ll give you passage if you provide assistance.” 

________________________________

Crossing your arms, tucking your legs under your body, and leaning against the hull in your seat, you try to make yourself as small as possible. You wouldn’t have even climbed up here if the Mandalorian hadn’t indicated that you should.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. He did not trust you around the kid - despite (or perhaps because of) its interest in you. 

Moments after leaving the planet’s atmosphere, a new emotion bubbles in your chest: elation. The stars flow by in a technicolor kaleidoscope; hues and shapes you have never seen race past your eyes. It’s beyond anything you could have imagined. 

“Has it always looked like this?” You wonder to yourself.

You jump when a deep, electronic voice answers, “Yes.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, realizing he had been watching you. “I’ve never seen hyperspace. I was kept in the hold,” you state without self-pity.

The Mandalorian lets that terrible fact hang in the air before eventually saying,“I recommend you get some sleep. It will be several hours before we reach Mid Rim.” 

He turns away from you and folds his arms. The muffled clang of his helmet tipping back against the headrest tells you that he will be taking his own advice.

Interestingly, you feel safe enough to get some rest. Being constantly attuned to the temperamental wills and whims of others, you've become a great judge of character. 

This Mandalorian, though quiet, is clearly capable of kindness to those who deserve it. A rarity for someone in his profession. 

___________________________________

The blue cone glows in his hand, projecting the face of one ugly slug. The name at the bottom, written in a language you had been forced to learn, reads: Salaa the Hutt.

Fearful eyes flick up to the veiled Mandalorian, “A Hutt?”

The helmet nods, “You will be my way in.” You make a whimpering noise, but the bounty hunter continues. “You’re a slave on the run. I will be returning you for a small reward.”

Crushing disappointment deflates your body. Believing yourself to have been wavering between freedom and the life you had known, you realize, now that the decision was being made for you, that you’d chosen freedom. Further adding to your pain is your misjudgement of the Mandalorian. 

I’d have never made it to freedom - far too naive. Thought a karking bounty hunter was doing something out of the kindness of his heart. Unbelievable.

Still, to your credit, you take several steps back, almost as though you might try to outrun the nimble, strong bounty hunter with a kriffing jetpack, of all things. You’re proud of yourself for even thinking about doing it.

The Mandalorian doesn’t react. He pockets the puck and opens his weapons cache on the hull wall. He lifts a small item from the assortment and shuts the doors. You can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t return to you. 

He opens the blast door to the child’s tiny room. The baby snores in his bungalow, and the ever-fascinating Mandalorian rubs the green, fuzzy head before closing the door. He turns and strides toward you.

You take one more step backward, just because you can. Because you should.

He still says nothing. Closer, and closer, the armored man advances on you until you can see your nervous eyes in his breastplate.

“Give me your wrists.” 

Is his voice naturally that persuasive or is it the vocoder?

Overriding your fledgling autonomy, you obey him with a preprogrammed respectful nod. He clasps binders around your wrists.

The Mandalorian steps away to retrieve another weapon, then he lifts his chin toward the boarding ramp. 

Shouldn't you at least try to gain freedom? Beg him to let you go? 

“Please, I can try to pay you,” this is a lie and he knows it. “Or I could work off the debt of transport. Something!”

It’s the loudest your voice has been in living memory, and it both surprises and emboldens you. But the Mandalorian does not seem swayed. 

“Walk,” he orders.

You minutely shake your head twice. It means nothing to him, but everything to you. 

An electronic sigh, then he takes a single step toward you. Fear switches you back into the subservient girl of the last twenty years. You flinch, your manacled hands blocking your face. 

The Mandalorian falters, slightly abashed. “I am not going to hurt you. But you need to start walking.” 

Slowly, you lower your hands. His gloved fingers curl around your bicep, and he leads you out into the sunny air.

It’s a hot day on Niamos. The beachside resort that serves as the capital city is teeming with families of all species bathing in the muggy air. The sandstone path that Mando - that’s what everyone calls them, right? - parades you down is packed with beachgoers. Embarrassed by your plight, you try to hide the binders, but it’s impossible with the angle he holds your arm. 

Finding another gust of will, you reason, “Surely you could find a way inside without turning me in? You’re good at your job. You could've killed my m-”

“Salaa angered powerful people. There is a bounty on him and it’s higher if he’s dead.

“What does that mean?”

“He's careful. Employs expensive security. Easiest way in is through the front door,” Mando finishes. 

Mando’s leathery hold on your arm is soft. Unyielding, of course, but he doesn’t hurt you. It saddens you to realize how different that is from your usual treatment. He had still binded you and planned on turning you in, but hey! At least he wasn’t going to leave a bruise.

Directing you down a narrow alley, the Mandalorian stops in front of a tan-colored, generic shield door. He raps twice on it, standing casually still. If he feels you shaking, he says nothing about it.

A Yaka man is standing behind the door when it opens with a whoosh. His metal implants reflect the sun and you squint. Behind him are another two Yaka and a particularly menacing-looking Zabrak, all armed with pulse rifles. 

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

“I'm here to claim the slave reward.” 

The Yaka stares at the impenetrable, T-shaped slit in the silver helmet, scrutinizing, before stepping aside. Mando guides you ahead of him, then you hear the spur-like sound of his step over the threshold. The close quarters are sweltering, and sweat beads on your temple.

“This way,” the Yaka servant veers to the right and up a steeply inclined hallway. The other members of the security team follow behind you.

The Mandalorian’s thumb slides over your skin. You would give it more thought if a wide, dingy room wasn’t quickly coming into view. 

On the second floor, a muted, sparsely furnished area overlooks the residence across the street, and the beach beyond. However, you can’t see the view because the balcony is being taken up by a massive, blob-like shape, and a tall, spiky silhouette.

“Ahh,” the huge shape speaks, and for the first time in your life, you’re thankful you speak Huttese. “What is this?” 

Bowing, the Yaka guard explains, “This Mandalorian has returned a loose slave.” 

He grabs for your arm, but you lurch when Mando pulls you out of reach, warning, “Careful. She killed her master before fleeing." 

The bodyguard recoils as though you personally threatened him. He steps away, waiting for actual instruction from his boss. The green Rodian next to Salaa tuts in his sour voice.

Deciding it was best not to speak, you raise your chin with dignity as Mando drops his hand from your arm.

“Why do you return her here?” Salaa the Hutt inquires. “Surely you know that I have been removed from my associations. Including the slavers.”

“I am here for information,” Mando drops the ruse completely, his voice calm.

“Information,” the Hutt laughs horribly. “I have much of that, pateesa. What do you wish to know?”

“You should ask what I have to trade first.”

“Hmm. You do not wish to trade the girl, I hope. Must be better than that,” the slimy giant slug laughs derisively.

You don’t even bristle. Worse things had been said to you daily. 

The green, mohawked Rodian chuckles. Though you do not understand his language, the human bounty hunter does: “She is too sad-looking to be any fun. Pity.” The reptilian-looking male then makes a vile comment about what he can see through your ratty, loose clothing.

The Mandalorian's eyes narrow, and his right hand drifts toward his hip of its own accord.

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

“If you provide the information I need, I won’t claim the ten-thousand-credit bounty on your head.”

That horrible, bulging laugh bursts from the ex-crime boss once more, hurting your ears in its pitch and volume. 

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

Salaa’s stubby arm motions at the armed security who raise their rifles at the two of you. 

While you freeze in terror, the Mandalorian stills in focus. Faster than a hyperdrive, he clenches his fist. Miniature rockets whistle through the tense air, eliminating all three bodyguards; the angry Zabrak, the mouthy Rodian, and the blubbery Salaa remain.

The Mandalorian draws his blaster, pushing you behind him, and fires from his hip as the Zabrak guard begins to raise his modified arm. What type of weapon it held, you’ll never know because he falls to the ground, dead, before he can use it.

The Rodian darts away from Salaa, circling the room. To you, it seems as though he is intending to flee, not fight, but the Mandalorian fires a laserblast at his bug-eyed head, dropping him.

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa. 

Resigned, the Hutt slimily states, “Ask what you wish to know, pateesa.”

“I have been told that you have seen another Mandalorian. Where?”

“Ahh, that is all? I have seen one here.”

“On Niamos?” So surprised, Mando forgets to keep the tone from his voice.

“A beskar-covered man does not go unnoticed on a planet filled with water-bathers,” Salaa laughs again. You visibly wince.

“Where?” 

“Where else? Water’s Edge.” 

Mando twists his head toward the opposite window as if he could see his fellow Mandalorian from here. He holsters his weapon and turns to leave. 

“Those Yaka were expensive guards, pateesa,” the Hutt grumbles ominously.

“You paid too much.”

He returns his hold on your arm, pushing you forward. Marching awkwardly down the sloping halfway, you try to make sense of his actions.

Your face screws up in confusion, “You didn’t turn me in or claim the Hutt’s bounty. You're earning no credits.”

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

The silence lengthens as you reach the ground floor, and hurriedly exit the sandstone building. As you soak in the blistering sunshine, the hand on your arm turns you to face him. The Mandalorian’s quick fingers remove your binders. 

“That’s it?” You rub your wrists even though he had left them on the loosest setting.

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you. 

He then nods once and takes his leave. For an interminable length of time, you watch as he calmly walks away, breaking only when he turns down an alley and is lost from sight.

 What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

The new day is growing late. Din Djarin basks in the heat of the single sun. For being one of those odd planets without plural light sources, the strength of the lone sun is incredible. Din much preferred the scorching, arid planets to the ice-covered ones, and Niamos is perfect. The breeze gently carries through his light flight suit, while the sun warms whatever dark material is visible around the beskar. 

While Din feels more comfortable in this climate, heat signatures can be a little bit more difficult to read. He had managed to track a faint heat signature around Water’s Edge. The day before, immediately after speaking with Salaa, Din had come to check the place out, but his quarry had left some hours previously and he had lost the trail.

Din enters the establishment for the second time in as many days. Inside is a large, open floor with dining tables set out across the expanse. High society clinks glasses as they wait for the next act to grace the small stage. Din surveys the room, switching between heat sensors and normal vision, before concluding that the Mandalorian he searches for is beyond the far wall. 

Heads turn and stare as Din, strutting as if he belongs, makes his way to the unobtrusive doorway next to the stage. A Mandalorian stands out here. This was a place for people who employed bounty hunters, not those whom they hunt. Din slides the door open, and he is greeted by a dark hallway.

Light spills from a room to his right. Din flips on his heat sensor again, and presses his lips together in satisfaction when the heat signature picks up.

Rounding into the room with confidence, Din observes everything at once.

A large mirror, complete with lights, sits above a desk. A rack of clothing stands lonely in the far corner. And on a stool in front of the mirror sits a Mandalorian, their flaky, blue-painted armor having seen better days.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he announces. “I have been tasked with finding other Mandalorians in order t-” 

“Oh, my stars!” The Mandalorian squeals. The helmet is removed by purple hands, and a humanoid species stares in awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Mandalorian. I- I do this character because I just love your culture so much.” 

Blinking behind his helm, Din confirms what he's already becoming sure of, “That armor you wear - it is not real beskar.”

“What? This stuff?” The actor scoffs. “This is expensive paint and cheap wetboard.” He stands up, advancing unwisely on the real Mandalorian. “Can I ask you some questions? I’ve got a real opportunity here to elevate my perfor-” 

Din backs out of the room in a single, fluid motion, punching the button for the door. 

He sighs.

***

A blaster shot turns the corner of the building Din had just walked past into dust and debris. He spins, drawing his own blaster, expecting to see the Empire itself. Instead, a young human bounty hunter stands there, nervously fumbling with her jammed blaster. The Mandalorian rushes her, pinning her by the collarbone against the alley wall. 

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.” 

"Who contracted it?" 

She wheezes from under Din’s forearm, “Don't know. It's open Rim-wide for now. Just told to kill you and the girl.”

Under his helm, Din’s brow pinches. “The girl?”

The wide-eyed woman shrugs, again in the dark. If this inexperienced bounty hunter managed to track him down already, it's likely another has found you. Din releases the woman roughly and rockets up into the sky.

_______________________________

The sights and sounds of the beach are incredible. The late-daylight is deliciously warm as it touches your skin through the holes in your clothing. You sit on the top step of the tiered beach area, staring out at the water as you try to come up with a plan of action. Having slept on a lounge chair last night, you’re nearly grateful for the decades of poor lodging training your body. 

The sky is hazy, but the flash of sunlight glinting off of something tiny flying far above has you twisting your head and squinting. Unable to make out the object, you return your attention to the ocean and ignore it. 

From behind you, a voice calls your name and you automatically turn.

As you stare down the barrel of the blaster pointed at you, you remember no one should know your name here.

"Let's go," the bounty hunter tells you.

It's a woman with red skin and long, blue, braided hair. Etches in her cheeks make her bone structure look even sharper. 

You frown. What you’d told the Mandalorian had already been proven correct. You weren't able to run. 

Resignedly standing to your feet, you take a step, but go stumbling forward as the woman kicks your back.

Your second foreign emotion of the last twenty-four hours sparks in your chest, glowing as hot as the sun above. 

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders. 

You continue walking, your eyes scanning for something, anything, to get you out of this.

Ahead on the right is a large crowd of vendors and their customers. If you can duck through them, maybe you can lose the blue-haired madwoman behind you. 

A cold, circular shape presses between your shoulder blades as you march, and your bravery starts to fail. If you make a single wrong move, you'll be shot before you even get to the crowd. 

Just do it - better to die now than live as a slave.

The crowd swells as a school trip pours out from a nearby museum. Your confidence rises at the sight of the increasingly busy, confusing horde.

Closer. So kriffing close.

The female bounty hunter cries out suddenly as a blaster shot scalds her arm. She defensively spins, kicking out powerfully behind her.

A large species you're unfamiliar with, tall and teal, is thrown sideways with the force of the kick. The competing bounty hunter recovers into a crouch and shoots at your captor, hitting her in the chest.

With a violent exhale, she falls. Too busy sprinting into the crowd, you do not hear her final, pathetic breath. 

Weaving, keeping ducked and hidden, you whisper a constant stream of 'excuse me.' You don't want to push anyone, knowing a reaction from an offended beach-goer could give away your position. 

The unblinking bounty hunter, your newest enemy, stands tall above much of the crowd, and it doesn't take him long to spot your trail. 

Thundering forward, happily shoving people you had so politely passed, he roars. Fear ices your stomach.

The sound of a sputtering jetpack drowns out the noise of the people. Never breaking stride, you search for the source of another bounty hunter. 

I know I’m a runaway slave who assaulted her master before turning him into a carbonsicle but, banthashit, is the price on my head really that high?

The massive hunter gains on you, and just as you clear the other side of the crowd, you gasp, pained, when he snatches your hair. You whirl, packing all of your strength into your right fist. Your blow lands on the creature’s lower jaw, which seems to be two pink tubes, and it wails grotesquely. 

The grip on your hair loosens and you rip away, but the much larger creature lunges for you again. It pulls you upward by your shirt this time, and you scream. Kicking out, your foot knocks a breath from the ugly bounty hunter, but it does not release you.

Staring at you with shallow black eyes, it speaks in a language you don’t understand, but the intonation is clearly a question. 

Gasping, you boldly say, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” 

The creature seems to understand Basic because his three-fingered hand leaves your shirt. 

Before you get a chance to make up a lie, the hulking bounty hunter vanishes in a flash of silver. Your head snaps in the direction of travel, and a trail of exhaust follows. 

A hundred yards away, the jetpack flares out and the two fall to the ground in a tumble of fighting. A strangled laugh exits your mouth. 

From bigger fish to bigger fish. Eventually the biggest fish would win and come after you.

The sound of the ugly creature roaring ends abruptly with a choked grunt. You push your legs hard as you run. The doorway to a cantina catches your eye as an intoxicated human stumbles out, and you rush past him. 

Inside the dark, clamorous, smoky business, you slide into the booth furthest from the door, hoping that neither hunter saw you duck in. Panting heavily, you tell the droid waitress you’d like a bit of spotchka. You’ve never had it, but you’ve seen how relaxed and brave it makes people and that sounds wonderful right about now.

The circular cantina door slides open and the silhouette of a tall, broad Mandalorian is outlined by the glaring sun. You can’t tell what color or condition his armor is in, but your stomach clenches all the same. It had been an entire revolution of the planet since your Mandalorian had left, so it can't be him.

Wonder if he found his friend, you think about his ten-thousand-credit question for the Hutt. Must’ve been quite a reunion if it was worth that much. 

Shrinking back against the wall of your booth, you shift completely out of sight and pray to whatever Ancient is listening that the stories about their helmets’ capabilities are exaggerations. 

The droid waitress sets your pretty blue drink on the table without comment, for which you’re grateful. You don’t think your voice works.

Clinking metal is audible despite the volume of the rowdy bar. The sound gradually grows louder as he approaches your booth.

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian has his hands on his hips, and though you cannot see his face, you’re certain he looks like a disapproving parent.

“I- what?” You squeak, completely confused by his question. And why he's here.

He moves to sit down across from you, and your nerves flare.

“Why are you still here?” He asks the same question you want to ask him.

“Where was I supposed to go? I have no credits.”

“There is work available on this planet.” 

You pause, unhappy to give away just how out of your depth you are, “You mean paid employment? I’m not familiar with the process."

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak, he simply stares at you until you break your stare first. 

Looking down at the grimy table, you trace a piece of graffiti with your finger and whisper, “Thank you.” 

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

“He wasn’t a slave hunter.” Mando’s helmet tips down to where the bright blue liquid sits on the table. “You going to drink that?” 

You shake your head, too self-conscious now. 

________________________________

“Good.”

He slides out from the booth and motions for you to walk ahead of him. 

Standing in the bay of the Mandalorian’s ship once more, you engage in a staring contest with the little green baby as it sits on the floor. Its ears move like he’s listening to Mando speak on his holocall above in the cockpit, but its eyes remain on you.

You’ve always liked children. While they could be blunt, they were kind to you and other slaves because they hadn’t yet learned any differently. 

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

In your experience, children prefer to be spoken to as one would an adult, so you refrain from the baby-voice that springs to the surface when you look at the adorable infant. 

He tilts his ears toward you. 

“You’re pretty cute." The baby coos, then babbles once.

“You really are cute. And you seem highly intelligent. Have you been with the Mandalorian long? He seems to pick up strays easily,” you smile warmly. 

The child awkwardly gets to its feet, toddling toward you. Remembering how quickly Mando had taken the child away when it last interacted with you, you slowly move backward toward the ladder. You don’t know if it's dangerous. Maybe the cuteness is a front.

A gurgling noise, as if it’s trying to tell you something, breaks from its little mouth. He raises his hand, pointing, and you whirl.

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching. 

How the kark did he get down the ladder so quietly?

“I’m sorry,” you don’t know what you’re apologizing for. 

Mando strides around you and crouches to pick up the baby, “We're leaving this planet. I won't have enough fuel to get across the galaxy, but there is a job a few systems over."

He cradles the child so gently that it makes your heart ache. 

Who is this guy?

The child in his arms makes grabby hands at his helmet, so he tenderly sets it back down. Mando heads back toward the cockpit, indicating you should follow. 

Up the ladder, sitting once again in the same seat, you keep your eyes on the Mandalorian as he begins the lengthy takeoff procedures. 

“The bounty hunter you encountered was not after the slave reward.”

“But she knew my name?” 

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.” 

“Oh.”

The Mandalorian does not immediately continue, focusing on his tasks for several minutes. 

“There is a reward out for you,” he flips another switch. “And a bounty.” 

“Both? Why both?” 

“The bounty is secondary. Dependant on you giving them m-”

A panicked, childish cry echoes from below, and you’re only a moment behind the Mandalorian as he leaps down the hatch to the hold.

You gasp in horror as you see the long-eared, big-eyed baby squished in the crook of another kriffing bounty hunter’s arm. The loading ramp closes slowly behind him. He must’ve jumped in at the last moment.

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate. 

“Do not hurt him,” he says. Instead of coming out as a plea, his vocoded words come out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end. 

“Din Djarin, you are wanted for the murder of Senator Nesota’s son. I know your reputation, and therefore do not wish to fight. I’ll release your… this," he nods at the green baby, "when you’re in carbonite. There,” the human bounty hunter nods his head at Din’s own carbon freezer. 

He killed a Senator’s kid?

The child frowns, his ears drooping, and he focuses hard on the bounty hunter. His little hand curls, and the man’s ruddy face turns purple. His eyes grow red and glassy.

Din reacts quickly, drawing his blaster and firing at the hunter’s face. The man falls with a clattering thunk, and the child rolls away, unmoving. 

“No," you cry. "Is he alright?” You start toward the kid, fear in your voice. 

“He’s fine,” the Mandalorian replies, holding his palm up for you to stay back. He reverently lifts the unconscious kid. “He’s just asleep.” 

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin - murdered an important person’s child. And his own kid just choked someone without using its hands? I didn’t inhale spice, did I?

“You killed a kid?” 

Din believes you’re still thinking of the baby in his arms. “I said he’s sleeping.”

“A Senator’s son?”

“Oh. Yes, the Rodian with Salaa.” Din hadn’t known he was the son of a powerful person, but it wouldn’t have mattered. 

Relief floods you once again as your evaluation of the Mandalorian’s character remains intact. After seeing the way he cared for the little green one, how could you have believed he would harm any child? 

“Okay." You return to the wildest topic, "What just happened with your kid?”

Din sighs. This was getting more dangerous than negotiating with a Tusken. He places the kid in his hammock and shuts the door. 

Turning on you, he threatens, “Never speak of him outside this ship.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” you promise, surprised by the fierceness in his voice. 

Din is satisfied. He’d watched you speak to his ward earlier, and the kid seems to like you immensely. But he doesn't solely rely on the kid's opinion. 

The experienced, Mandalorian bounty hunter's own character assessment is top-notch, and he finds that he feels strongly about you. He doesn't categorize or identify the specifics, however.  

The Mandalorian does not ask for your help in removing the dead bounty hunter from his ship, so you look on in silence as he does it alone. He lowers the landing ramp, drags the body to the edge, and watches it roll down unceremoniously. He turns and stalks past you.

“So, where's that job?” 

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

The planet blinds you when the Razor Crest launches out of hyperdrive. Brilliantly green, the single sun reflects the vibrant landscape right into your eyes. 

Shielding your face, you venture a question. The Mandalorian had not finished explaining.

"Why is there a bounty on me?" 

Even through the modulator, you can hear his dry tone: "You aided a bounty hunter in entering the Hutt's hideout through false pretenses which ended in the blasting of a Senator's son."

"Right," you frown, slumping in your seat. 

"Don't worry. The bounty on my head is far larger than yours."

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

A deep breath, then you postulate, "Is that what the bounty hunter was asking me? About you?" 

Din doesn't respond. He didn't hear the Aqualish's question. He was too busy aiming at its body with his own, but his best guess is yes. 

"That's the reason you saved me," you mutter, oddly dejected.

A loose end. That's what you are.

Din often - almost constantly, actually - appreciated his helmet for the freedom it gave him to show any emotion at any time. No need to worry about a convincing poker face when no one could see it.

"You could have told them where my ship was."

"Except I thought you'd flown away the day before," you argue, saddened that he thought you would’ve talked. 

Of course, he didn't know you, and he had a child to protect, but it still stings. 

"Why not just kill me?" You wonder seriously.

You're a liability. Two separate prices on your head? The Mandalorian's easiest solution is obvious. A slave of no importance, no one would put a bounty on his head for your death.

Din Djarin's armor clanks as he spins the chair a quarter-turn toward you and he cocks his head. 

"I don't want to die," you read his body language correctly. "But I don't understand you." 

The Mandalorian silently returns to his piloting duties as he nears the lush planet. He does his best to shut his thoughts away, but he stumbles over you again and again. 

Din had rescued you because he didn’t want to see you harmed for his actions with the Hutt. The idea of protecting himself from prying questions had been an afterthought. 

He had flown above the city, looking for your trail. Since you hadn’t moved much, there wasn’t much of a trail to find. Then he spotted the crowd roiling and parting for the violent Aqualish.

When he watched it yank your hair, he felt angry. An emotion he experienced less frequently than many of his friends would believe. Frustration, irritation, sure. But true fury was rare for him.

Not wanting you dead was basic decency, but the anger had been interesting.

On some level, Din knows his emotional responses to you deserve greater scrutiny. But he doesn't have the time nor the energy.

When the Razor Crest lands in a grassy clearing between forest walls, Din rises from his chair and commands, “Stay here. Watch the child.” 

“O-okay,” you agree hesitantly. “What do I do when he wakes up?”

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending. 

“You… you don’t do anything for his… condition?”

“I told you he’s fine.” Din thinks for a moment, and remembers there is actually something you should know: “When he wakes up, he might be hungry. Do not let him eat the metal ball on the thruster.”

With that, he climbs down the ladder, and out of sight.

_________________________________

As the fist flies at you, you subconsciously register that your assailant must be right-handed, because this left hook is much sloppier than the other. Or maybe it's because his left arm is still human.

Ducking, you escape the jab and slam your palm-sized stick into the quarry's metal shins. He doesn’t react except to kick your thigh. You cry out, knowing it will bruise if you survive this.

The blaster you had taken from the Mandalorian’s cache lies just out of reach. The silver gleam is stark against the rich soil of the forest floor.

Enraged, the cyborg quarry leaps at your hunched form, knocking you flat. Surprised by his speed, you forget to keep hold of the heavy branch you use as a weapon. 

The growling man rips the stick from your hands and slams it against your throat like a vise, choking you, “Die, wretch.”

You turn your head to the side, providing yourself with a precious moment of air before the quarry shifts to cut that escape route off, too. 

Swinging your leg up, you kick him in the back of the head, pushing him forward. You take the opportunity to headbutt him - thankful that his head is still completely human - and he falls sideways. Right next to your blaster. 

You snatch up your wooden weapon, but it's too late.

He laughs mechanically as he grabs the blaster, swinging it at you. “Too late, sweetheart.”

Panting, you don't raise your hands. If he's going to kill you, he'll do it when you charge him. 

You take a step and the sound of a laserblast ricochets through the trees. 

The creature cries out, dropping the weapon, his arm useless at his side. Wires spark from the elbow joint that had been blown away.

"Found you," the Mandalorian says flatly, his blaster pointed at the machine.

The metal man lunges but Din fires again - hitting the quarry in what should be its gut. It doubles over, groaning, then topples, fighting for labored breath. 

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

Still trying to catch your own breath, you gasp, "How-" 

"Heard the fight. You were supposed to stay on the ship," his voice turns scolding.

Clenching your jaw, you finally find a steady breath. You had stayed on the ship. This piece of space junk had broken inside through the cockpit window.

As you sat in the hold, dutifully watching the kid, the sound of glass shattering alerted you that it was not Din who was back so soon. You had snatched up the baby, touching him for the first time with no concern about his potential dangers, locked him in the little room, and ripped a small blaster from the Razor Crest’s weapons cache. 

You crouched at the far end of the hold, against the closed boarding ramp, waiting, uncomfortably far from the child. 

A cyborg, more spidery-droid than man, with a human head and fleshy left arm had come skittering down, bypassing the ladder completely. Unwilling to chance a blaster shot going through the baby’s door, you hit the button on the landing ramp and scrambled out.

The forest. It was your home. Your element. If there was any chance you could kill it, to prove to yourself that you could survive this life - it was then and there.

Of course, you hadn't expected the quarry to get your blaster.

"I tried," you breathe as Din binds the still-groaning quarry. 

The helmet turns to face you, understanding. "He entered the ship?”

You nod, and Din stands bolt-upright, his head whipping in the direction of the Razor Crest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him pointedly, walking with your hand outstretched toward the worried Mandalorian. You remember your promise not to speak of the child, “Your ship is fine. Knew you'd hate it if he trashed the thing, so I ran out here.”

The Mandalorian visibly relaxes his broad shoulders, and your heart tugs once again. 

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling. 

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat. 

He really loves that little guy.

Din turns and snatches the connector between the binders, pulling the quarry. Its metal feet dig trenches as it tries to stall, but the Mandalorian is far too strong.

Somehow, it's the first time you've truly noticed. Din is extremely strong. Is it the suit? 

Can't be. It's just metal and fabric. 

The realization might as well be a thunderbolt to your brain. Your assailant must weigh as much as a land speeder, and here your bounty hunter was carting him along like a sack of starfruit.

An unfamiliar feeling, something like hot, sharp sparks shoot through your stomach. Your eyes follow the Mandalorian as he makes his way back to the Razor Crest. 

Is this attraction? You’ve never experienced it. Far too busy surviving, wanting someone in that way is a foreign concept to you. You roll your eyes at yourself. Din Djarin, a kriffing Mandalorian bounty hunter is not going to look twice at a slave, and it's best to kill those feelings before they take root.

***

Across the large clearing, at the ship, the bounty hunter waits patiently while the boarding ramp lowers.

“She yours?” The quarry asks curiously, his voice wheezing. "You orbited me like a karking moon, but as soon as I go after her, you come runnin’.” It laughs. 

The cyborg doesn't expect a verbal answer; he wants a reaction.

Din turns his head slowly with a cold warning, “I would advise you to stop speaking.”

“I damaged her pretty good for you. Might wanna che-” his taunting words end in a pained grunt when Din slams his fist into the man’s cruel mouth. 

Surprised by the sudden violence, you inhale sharply. Din hadn’t knocked the thing unconscious, so what was the point of that? 

The Mandalorian hauls the creature up the ramp and shoves him into the carbon freezer. 

“Should’ve killed me,” the cyborg threatens with a laugh as he freezes into a solid mass.

Din turns to face you and asks in a low voice, “Are you injured?”

The rush of adrenaline you had been riding on slowly fades, and you remember the only blow you’d received had been the one to the side of your thigh. Your hand falls to it, feeling the area through your tattered pants. 

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers. 

“Oh,” you murmur. 

You pull up the ripped, baggy material, exposing your entire leg. The skin had split with the force of the blow, but there’s no serious damage and it would heal on its own. 

The cyborg must’ve been trying to unnerve us. Or distract the Mandalorian? Maybe he thought Din would check right away, you almost laugh aloud at the ridiculous idea.

Din, for his part, really wishes you would let your pant leg fall. It’s insane, it makes no sense to him. Millions of people walked around in far, far less clothing than you, and Din never reacted like this. 

But here you stand before him, slowly checking out the inch-long cut on your mid-thigh, and the Mandalorian can’t tear his eyes away. 

When you look up at the helmet of Din Djarin, he fixes his face as though you could actually see the way his lips had parted. You fleetingly, timidly, smile at him and, miraculously, let go of the flowy pant leg. 

Released from the spell, Din exhales and makes his way to the child’s room. 

“You can use the refresher to clean that, if you’d like.” He does not look at you as he speaks. 

“Is the baby okay?” 

Din need not answer as the child himself murmurs in happiness at the sight of the two of you. To Din’s abject shock, the kid lifts his hands toward you. 

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?” 

Din simply turns sideways so that you can fit between him and the hull wall. You reach for the child and it snuggles into your arms, touching your chin. 

A brilliant smile lights your face. 

“Are we friends now?” You whisper to him. 

The baby babbles a response you’ll take as an affirmative. 

“I’ve not asked. What’s his name?” You turn your still-smiling face up to Din. 

Again thanking the Mythosaur for his helmet, he stares, stuck on your glowing expression as you cradle his ward. His brown eyes swim with an emotion he’s never felt. 

“I don't know.” 

Taken aback, you realize that there is a far deeper story here.

Did he steal this baby?

You move on quickly, “What do you call him?”

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

The child makes a cooing sound, then reaches for the Mandalorian. You hand the baby to his stoic guardian, and your smile changes to a satisfied one. 

“He looks like he belongs there,” you laugh. Then your eyebrows pull together as you regret the too-comfortable comment.

He’s a bounty hunter, a killer, and he may or may not have stolen this fuzzy, long-eared infant. 

And you’re just a runaway slave. 

You back up a step, feeling awkward now. “You said I could use the ‘fresher?” 

Din simply nods his head in the direction of the tiny facility.

When you've shut the door, Din's body relaxes. 

                               ***

But not for long. He didn't account for the sound of your clothes hitting the floor and the sound of the sonics. You are steps away, unclothed, and some wild instinct inside him awakens. Ashamed, he sets the child back in the hammock and climbs up to the cockpit to relieve himself. 

_________________________________

The planet is purple. Dark and cloudy, the yellow, green, and blue street lights cast strange shadows. Neon signs of every shade flash from every corner. You've been to thousands of cities like this one. An underworld. 

The Mandalorian landed the Razor Crest on the outskirts despite there being a busy spaceport made for that purpose. He transported the carbonite body of the cyborg to the edge of the city where he was met by some anonymous creature in a cloak. He asked no questions. 

Din had entrusted you with the care of the child. He directed you and the kid to go on ahead to one of the less-reputable inns. The worse-looking, the better. People were more likely to mind their business. 

You've found the perfect one. Din wanted seedy, he was getting the seediest. After all, most of your tasks as a slave had been spent in this environment since your masters hated to be seen in them. 

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

Din, having tracked the child's chain code, returns later that night. His eyebrows rise at the size of the room.

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips. 

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk." 

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise." 

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him. 

"The kid?" 

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.” 

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside. 

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?" 

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down. 

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window. 

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs. 

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does." 

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?" 

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it." 

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation. 

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it. 

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable. 

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you. 

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't. 

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are. 

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated. 

And they are a gift from Din Djarin. 

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical. 

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric. 

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me." 

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth. 

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them." 

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much. 

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn. 

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box. 

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise. 

"Dank farrik, you move quietly." 

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom. 

                          ***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random. 

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed. 

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted." 

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees. 

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy." 

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation. 

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been." 

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now. 

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing. 

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him. 

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible. 

Is that his wrist? 

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window. 

“I am glad,” Din says. 

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement. 

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question. 

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.” 

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.” 

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone. 

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.” 

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.” 

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling? 

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.” 

“I am not convinced of that last one.” 

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever. 

"Why not?" 

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door. 

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated. 

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes. 

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand. 

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door. 

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply. 

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you. 

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter. 

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?” 

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.” 

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality. 

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch. 

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word. 

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason. 

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.” 

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-” 

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.” 

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh. 

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?” 

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised. 

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully. 

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door. 

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken. 

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg. 

"You need to learn to use it." 

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos." 

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance. 

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it? 

He can. 

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves. 

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs. 

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow. 

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center. 

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips. 

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought. 

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence. 

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again." 

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on. 

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear." 

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips. 

"That's how I grew up," you answer. 

"Okay. Grab one." 

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you." 

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon. 

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win." 

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first. 

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you. 

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry. 

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions. 

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face. 

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod. 

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator. 

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.  

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so. 

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head. 

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly. 

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk. 

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy. 

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator. 

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say. 

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves. 

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality. 

____________________________________

#din djarin #my fics #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Spotify #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #grogu #baby yoda #my writing

[fatehbaz]

[A]nti-homeless laws [...] rooted in European anti-vagrancy laws were adapted across parts of the Japanese empire [...] at the turn of the 20th century. [...] [C]riminalising ideas transferred from anti-vagrancy statutes into [contemporary] welfare systems. [...] [W]elfare and border control systems - substantively shaped by imperial aversions to racialised ideas of uncivilised vagrants - mutually served as a transnational legal architecture [...] [leading to] [t]oday's modern divides between homeless persons, migrants, and refugees [...].

---

By the Boer Wars (1880–1902), Euro-American powers and settler-colonial governments professed anxieties about White degeneration and the so-called “Yellow Peril” alongside other existential threats to White supremacy [...]. Japan [...] validated the creation of transnational racial hierarchies as it sought to elevate its own global standing [...]. [O]ne key legal instrument for achieving such racialised orders was the vagrancy concept, rooted in vagrancy laws that originated in Europe and proliferated globally through imperial-colonial conquest [...].

[A]nti-vagrancy regulation [...] shaped public thinking around homelessness [...]. Such laws were applied as a “criminal making device” (Kimber 2013:544) and "catch-all detention rationale" (Agee 2018:1659) targeting persons deemed threats for their supposedly transgressive or "wayward interiority" (Nicolazzo 2014:339) measured against raced, gendered, ableist, and classed norms [...]. Through the mid-20th century, vagrancy laws were aggressively used to control migration [and] encourage labour [...]. As vagrancy laws fell out of favour, [...] a "vagrancy concept" nonetheless thrived in welfare systems that similarly meted out punishment for ostensible vagrant-like qualities [...], [which] helps explain why particular discourses about the mobile poor have persisted to date [...].

---

During high imperialism (1870–1914), European, American, and Japanese empires expanded rapidly, aided by technologies like steam and electricity. The Boer Wars and Japan's ascent to Great Power status each profoundly influenced trans-imperial dynamics, hardening Euro-American concerns regarding a perceived deterioration of the White race. [...] Through the 1870s [...] the [Japanese] government introduced modern police forces and a centralised koseki register to monitor spatial movement. The koseki register, which recorded geographic origins, also served as a tool for marking racialised groups including Ainu, Burakumin, Chinese, [...] and Korean subjects across Japan's empire [...]. The 1880 Penal Code contained Japan's first anti-vagrancy statute, based on French models [...]. Tokyo's Governor Matsuda, known for introducing geographic segregation of the rich and poor, expressed concern around 1882 for kichinyado (daily lodgings), which he identified as “den[s] for people without fixed employment or [koseki] registration” [...].

Attention to “vagrant foreigners” (furō-gaikokujin) emerged in Japanese media and politics in the mid-1890s. It stemmed directly from contemporary British debates over immigration restrictions targeting predominantly Jewish “destitute aliens” [...].

The 1896 Landing Regulation for Qing Nationals barred entry of “people without fixed employment” and “Chinese labourers” [...], justified as essential "for maintaining public peace and morals" in legal documents [...]. Notably, prohibitions against Chinese labourers were repeatedly modified at the British consulate's behest through 1899 to ensure more workers for [the British-affiliated plantation] tea industry. [...]

---

Simultaneously, new welfaristic measures emerged alongside such punitive anti-vagrancy statutes. [...] Such border control regulations were eventually standardised in Japan's first immigration law, the 1918 Foreigners’ Entry Order. [...] This turn towards instituting racialised territorial boundaries should be understood in light of empire's concurrent welfarist turn [...]. Japanese administration established a quasi-carceral workhouse system in 1906 [in colonized territory of East Asia] [...] which sentenced [...] vagrants to years in workhouses. This law still treated vagrancy as illegal, but touted its remedy of compulsory labour as welfaristic. [...] This welfarist tum led to a proliferation of state-run programmes [...] connecting [lower classes] to employment. Therein, the vagrancy concept became operative in sorting between subjects deemed deserving, or undeserving, of aid. Effectively, surveillance practices in welfare systems mobilised the vagrancy concept to, firstly, justify supportive assistance and labour protections centring able-bodied, and especially married, Japanese men deemed “willing to work” and, secondly, withhold protections from racialised persons for their perceived waywardness [...] as contemporaneous Burakumin, Korean, and Ainu movements frequently protested [...]. [D]uring the American occupation (1945–1952), not only were anti-vagrancy statutes reinstituted in Japan's 1948 Minor Offences Act, but [...] the 1946 Livelihood Protection Act (Article 2) excluded “people unwilling to work or lazy” from social insurance coverage [...].

---

Imperial expansion relied on not only claiming new markets and territories, but also using borders as places for negotiating legal powers and personhood [...]. Japan [...] integrated Euro-American ideas and practices attached to extraterritorial governance, like exceptionalism and legal immunity, into its legal systems. [...] (Importantly, because supportive systems [welfare], like punitive ones, were racialised to differentially regulate mobilities according to racial-ethic hierarchies, they were not universally beneficial to all eligible subjects.) [...]

At the turn of the century, imperialism and industrial capitalism had co-produced new transnational mobilities [which induced mass movements of poor and newly displaced people seeking income] [...]. These mobilities - unlike those celebrated in imperial travel writing - conflicted with racist imaginaries of who should possess freedom of movement, thereby triggering racialised concerns over vagrancy [...]. In both Euro-American and Japanese contexts, [...] racialised “lawless” Others (readily associated with vagrancy) were treated as threats to “public order” and “public peace and morals”. [...] Early 20th century discourse about vagrants, undesirable aliens, and “vagrant foreigners” [...] produced [...] "new categories of [illegal] people" [...] that cast particular people outside of systems of state aid and protection. [...] [P]ractices of illegalisation impress upon people, “the constant threat of removal, of being coercively forced out and physically removed [...] … an expulsion from life and living itself”.

---

All text above by: Rayna Rusenko. "The Vagrancy Concept, Border Control, and Legal Architectures of Human In/Security". Antipode [A Radical Journal of Geography] Volume 56, Issue 2, pages 628-650. First published 24 October 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. Presented here for criticism, teaching, commentary purposes.]

#abolition

[y-rhywbeth2]

FR legal nonsense continues to turn in my brain, so I'm still musing over Astarion's legal career. It would be interesting to learn about Astarion's pre-Cazador life, because it sounds like I would kill him with my bare hands - do tell me about your days as an Ace Attorney villain, Saer Ancunín.

I don't think he's ever been "innocent" or good, although I also think he would disagree. What little we see of his law career suggests to me that he had his own strong ideas of right and wrong; he scoffed at mercy and softness, and believed that wrong should be punished hard. Possibly lethally. To "discourage the next vagrant". Obviously, there are "good people" and "bad people", and some individuals (including entire cultures) are in the latter category.

(I'm aware of the original early concept thing where he was selling people to vampires, but I'm working on the assumption that got dropped and no longer applies.)

Considering that Astarion still voices some of these opinions 200 years later, even if he's now decided all laws and morals are bullshit (bad things are wrong only when they happen to him now), and he carries them into his endings... It's interesting to me that once he's fully free of Cazador and has had time to sort his mind out, the former hanging judge starts bounty hunting and eating criminals. (I'm not passing judgement on that, I just find the link interesting) Ascended Astarion would be an absolute nightmare to work with; carrying that black-and-white draconian approach to punishment with everything Cazador's taught him about the art of abusing people...

He was most likely still a fun-loving little gremlin back then, but he also had one hell of a lawful evil/neutral mindset. He might've been - and quite possibly was - corrupt and open to bribes and such, but at the very least he seems to have had "standards", and I get the impression he felt he had a duty to see that "proper" society was safeguarded from what he and his friends considered the "wrong sorts".

Plus his being a terrible person, then becoming a victim and becoming a different flavour of terrible person (who still doesn't "deserve" abuse) makes him more appealing to me as a character.

I'd love to put his brain in a jar and shake it.

#babbling #so much babbling #/astarion #edgelord hours

[officecyborg]

Vagrant Story is about violence making places go bad, it is about having a cool dragon, it is about heresy, it is about absolution through submission to the divine, it is about attacking monster's limbs individually, it is about BDSM, it is about cycles of fate, it is about doing a PhD in criminal justice and psychology, it is about politics, it is about memory. and most importantly. it is about gay divorce

#clearing out my drafts #vagrant story #I could’ve sworn I’d already posted this but apparently not. memory of a goldfish

[passionateabteverything]

Good Omens Wild West Headcanons

Based on my cosplays of both Crowley's fem and masc forms

Crowley and Aziraphale head over to America for a couple years on a little "vacation" just to see how the "new world" has been doing since all those years

Crowley quickly becomes a bandit because spreading terror and mischief is exactly his brand of demonism, although he has a peculiar way of doing so

He has a gun but it's only there for decorative purposes, though he has accidentally fired another while staying in America

Crowley's main form of terrorism (apart from the occasional robberies) is untying horses from their reins so that their owners have to run after them (he takes much delight in this absolutely devious crime)

(He also does this cuz he hates the fkn animals)

His bandit name is The Red-Bellied Bandit (a reference to his snake form) and he becomes sort of famous—he's been banned from a few towns, more on that later

One night, while Crowley is doing his Evil Deeds, one of the horses he unleashes bolts onto a renowned criminal that was robbing the town's bank and harming the citizens, ultimately incapacitating the criminal in his escape

The townspeople who saw it happen believed it was Crowley's attempt at stopping the criminal and as a token of gratitude, they elect him sheriff

Crowley agrees cuz government officials are the most corrupt therefore it makes sense that he, a demon, would take on such a role

But in reality, he just wants to keep the townspeople safe cuz he got attached to them

At some point, the town's saloon needs a new owner and Crowley decides to try his hand at business owning (bcuz there is nth more evil than customer service, especially in such a sinful establishment like a saloon where booze, lust, greed, and wrath are involved)

Thus, fem-presenting Crowley manages the saloon she names Eden (totally not as a form of therapy where she can exert her authority over a secluded environment and banish those she deems unworthy, not at all–)

Crowley is then sheriff by day and saloon owner by night

The townspeople believe the sheriff has a twin sister who owns the saloon but they've never actually seen the two siblings at the same place at the same time...

Crowley's saloon is a hit what with great showgirl performances, good music and alcohol

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has been doing his Good Angel Stuff, helping people around, hanging out with vagrant authors like Walt Whitman and Herman Melville

He enjoys visiting Crowley's saloon and soon gets permission to perform there as well

Aziraphale puts on a showgirl magic act while fem-presenting

Any hecklers (or admirers) are forthwith removed from the premises never to be seen again, much to the angel's ignorance

The townspeople see how often masc-presenting Aziraphale visits Crowley's saloon and assume the sheriff's sister is having an affair with the bizarre englishman because have you seen the way they look at one another? And they sometimes share bottles of wine on the upper floor alone—how scandalous!

But the englishman's affection is very clearly directed toward the sheriff as well—but that's impossible for it would be sacrilegious otherwise...

Now remember how Crowley accidentally fired a gun during his banditing? What happened was he accidentally pulled the trigger of a bandit's gun he had confiscated (because his own gun doesn't have any bullets of course)

the bullet ricocheted through the entire town, causing signs to fall, horses to run off, the water cistern spilling, a fire starting, etc.

Because of the utter chaos, Crowley was banned from the town, and neighboring towns as well

This is the one act that made The Red-Bellied Bandit a name worth remembering

Crowley sometimes chills in the desert in his snake form to feel like a true predator in the wild

(He doesn't do it often cuz he gets scared of getting pecked on by a roadrunner)

He loves rattlesnakes and thinks it's so cool they get an instrument attached to them

Crowley is most excited when the railway gets installed in America because it means he doesn't have to struggle with horseback riding anymore

He also spends some time with inventors such as Graham Bell and Thomas Edison (he shares some of his inventor-expertise with them)

Thats all I have for now, please add on any headcanons you have!

#good omens wild west #good omens wild west headcanons #good omens crowley #anthony j crowley #fem crowley #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #wild west Crowley #the red bellied bandit #ineffable husbands #neil gaiman #books #tv show #gomens #gomens 2 #good omens season 2 #good omens s2 #good omens #headcanon

[falling-heights]

☆ Arthur Morgan ☆ -  I gave you all

Pt. 3 (Final part)

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Word count: 1.6k

"I t w a s a l o n g t i m e a g o .

I t d o e s n ' t m a t t e r a n y m o r e .

A n d y e t I c a n n o t l e t i t g o .

I c a n n o t l e t i t g o . . . "

A reason?

With eyes idly looking downward to the side, your mind lulled to memories you had not wished to relive. A grimace of a dull ire echoed behind your gaze, and haunted your visage.

"It's simple, really," Gathering an amalgamation of blood and saliva, you spit out to clean your mouth a little more. Your little tumble left quite the gash along your inner lip. Chunks of buccal tissue were expelled with your spit, you were sure. "I'd had enough."

The answer to 'everything' was easy, as you saw it now. You began your little story.

It was becoming all too predictable.

Your friends, if that's what they were, would continue without change, going about their lives, reaching the inevitability that they would all end up dead for petty crimes. Their debts would inexorably catch up to them, yet they seemed inept to it.

They continued, at the hope of finally reaching a point where they might be able to stop. If they had a little more money, a little more time, a few more lives to add to the insurmountable tally. Though, that point was never reached. It wasn't enough. It never would be.

No matter what you or anyone else did for the hope of changing times, change would never come. It was some absurd paradox. That by taking and killing, one might hope they don't need to take or kill.

And all of them, even Arthur followed it like some kind of mad religion. Putting their faith into some senseless cause as though the beliefs they followed would allow them to find happiness in the end.

You were the only one to see what would happen next. You felt your time coming to a close. And the death of a gunslinger and a criminal was not one you chose to accept.

You did not want this to be your only triumph. To be a thief. A vagrant-

A killer.

No, more, you had thought, you were done. Although, leaving freely could have never been an option. Abandonment was worse than betrayal. You had seen others, others who had become enlightened to the truth try to leave quietly.

They never survived long.

So, betrayal was the only option. The only choice you had if you wished to truly be free from both the law and the lawless.

Two thousand. That was all they offered you for your word. Your bounty alone was worth at least three times as much, yet you still took it. You took it and ran.

Two thousand. Less than you were worth. Certainly less than the lives of those whom you'd called 'friend' or 'family'. Yet, two thousand was what cost them their lives and freedom in exchange for yours.

Two thousand was all the Pinkertons thought you and they were worth.

Of everything else, that was one of the things that lingered the longest. The time that small sum of cash lasted was, in itself, a sin you believed absolution would never forgive. A few weeks, and it had already bled dry. The last few coins were spent on a small meal and a large bottle of whiskey.

Your horse, though loved, was sold for your train ticket. And your guns, gifted to you by your worst regret, were buried deep in the earth, somewhere up near Rhodes.

Perhaps if you had asked for more, it wouldn't have felt like such a waste. Although you truly doubted any amount they offered could have made you feel any better. It would have gone dry regardless, and you would have nothing left to excuse the decision.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Everything would have ended the same. You, here, awaiting the decision of a man you gave up for little more than pocket change.

He listened to your story silently. By the end of it, you felt hot tears rolling down your face every few seconds, though your disposition showed no indication of how you were feeling. Having to face the demons of your past is something no one wants to experience, and for you, it seemed to have renewed every moment since then of shame, guilt, and grief.

But you sat there, deflated, unmoving. Barely even breathing. Some of this may have been procured by the blood loss you were suffering, but you couldn't tell. Your legs had been numb for a while now. Your eyes were hollow as they stared at nothing, hoping for nothing, only thinking of what might happen in the next few seconds. Beyond that, you had no worries.

"How many survived?" Did you truly want to know? You suppose it wouldn't hurt any worse knowing the extent of damage caused. Who, if anyone, had died that night.

He glanced at you, his eyebrows twitched for a moment, confusion laced his eyes, before realization struck.

"Oh," He scoffed in disbelief. "You don't even know what happened..."

"No, I left before they came." You shook your head. It was hard to look him in the eyes. Admitting you planned when to leave, to avoid what would happen to everyone else, as though your actions were more malicious than intended. "I read the newspapers for a few weeks, but nothing ever came up. Nothing in the obituaries either. I just… hoped for the best."

"No… no," He grimaced, and grunted to himself. "That is a luxury our kind is cannot afford. They don't pay respects to us like they do normal folk, you ought to know better than that, sweetheart."

He let out a long sigh. It was raspy, as though squeezing through years of lung abuse. He was silent, mostly, thinking to himself. His eyes scanned what few stars could be seen beyond the trees overhead. By now, they were at their brightest. Though the moon wouldn't show her face, the forest below was brightly visible.

"I suppose… you deserve to know," He finally said. Removing his gaze from the sky, he stared at your leg, pondering something. He was fiddling with his hat, rotating it in his grip. When it seemed he had found his answer, his eyes met yours, and a sick sort of grin possessed his lips. "I doubt you have much more time left. Might as well tell you."

Resting his head against the trunk, he raised his face once again to the star-burned sky. And for a moment, you joined him, wondering what it was he sought in them. Your leg was throbbing, and you ached to untie the bandana, to allow it some reprieve from its futile effort. To uncork the wound, and let it all out. Yet, you were waiting for his answer, so you refrained.

"Tilly was the first to get shot. Before we knew what was happening," He spoke quietly, reserved. Having to speak of that night resurfaced unwanted memories and images in his mind. His voice seemed distant. "Hosea was next."

"They took Jack, and Abigail was shot twice trying to stop them." You listened as he continued, choking back your emotions. You knew your hopes for the best was the result of selfish avoidance. It was just some silly ploy to keep yourself from going insane. But the thought of someone like Jack being thrown into the situation seemed to finally crack that hope. "He'd be a grown man by now, I think. We never found out what happened to him. Probably made him some kind of ward of the court."

"Dutch, Molly, Grimshaw-- all them were killed in crossfire. I didn't see how the others went, just after it was over," His eyes were vacant, and he fell silent for a few minutes. Whether out of respect for the dead, or for the pain it caused him, there was no way to tell, but his jaw was clenched, and body tense. Your chest was tight, unable to hold back the stress of his words. Tears that you thought would have dried up seemed to find a second life, freely pouring from your glossy eyes. You couldn't hardly see anything through them. "And the reverend, he was probably too drunk to know what was happening. We found him stabbed just outside his tent."

"Oh, god," You finally broke out of your silent stupor, covering your mouth with your hands, choking back a slew of sobs. Arthur found himself staring at you in a morbid curiosity. Almost as though he found your reaction to be a slight surprise. What sort of terrible person could have done this to their own people? Turned them in to be slaughtered as though it didn't matter. And you seriously thought there was any hope for redemption?

What a joke.

What a pathetic thing you were.

You seethed, finally letting a small whimper escape your quivering lips. Your chest hurt in ways you couldn't understand. Pain was something you thought you understood, but not like this.

"Sadie, Charles, Sean, and John made it out that night," He sighed. He began to unbutton his shirt. Pulling it to the side, you were met with a ghastly sight. Two scars, sat right between two of his ribs. You glanced at them and met his stare. If only you had the strength to show your pain, your regret for doing this to him. "Some weren't as lucky. I don't know what happened to Mary-Beth or Karen, or even Micah. That rat ran off and never came back. Haven't seen him since. I wanted to blame him for all of it, but then, where had you gone? Only for us to find your tent had been nearly cleaned out. When we returned for the bodies, wasn't nothing left in there, save for some old souvenirs…"

"You had this coming a long time, my dear." He spoke with little pity. Standing up, he brushed off his pants and hat, and approached your weakening state. "I'm just glad I weren't the one to put you down."

 By now, you becoming lightheaded, either from overexertion, or your worsening state of health, or both. You could hardly sit up any longer, having to lay your head against dry, dead leaves and moss. He stared down, for a moment, saying nothing, studying the exquisite emotions on your face, the fear in your eyes. Though a small part of you was grateful he had decided to wait for death to arrive, rather than end things himself. You would not have gotten these last moment with your former lover had he not.

He kneeled beside you, lifting you into his arms gentler than you deserved. He cradled you, wiping your leftover tears from your face. He stared into you, for what you imagined was his chance to watch the life leave your eyes.

"I think this could have all been avoided," You whispered to him, bittersweetly. "Somewhere, sometime, back then. This must be my greatest failure. Do you expect I'll see any of them?"

"No," He said calmly. He watched you drift into a comatose state, though you continued to breathe in his arms. " I don't imagine you will."

In another moment of quiet thought, Arthur studied your face. It was slick with sweat and caked with dried blood and dirt. Yet, he somehow found you to be just as beautiful as you were so many years ago. His hatred had been fighting his other emotions for some time now. Tonight, at the first sight of you, at Sean's mention of your name, he wanted nothing more than to shoot you dead. To finally rid himself of the rage that had lingered since that night almost seven years ago.

Yet he couldn't find it in himself to do it, to kill you. And even now, more so now than before, something prevented him from leaving you here in this forest.

Raising himself, still held against him, he carried you towards his black shire. Laying you against the front of the saddle, he climbed up onto the horse. Your limp body sat caged between his arms as he grabbed the reigns.

If you were to die, it would not be now. He was under no obligation to make any sense of it. Not to himself, or anyone else.

He was not ready to let you go. You still had much to suffer for, yet, death did not seem fitting for him just yet. Or, perhaps, he found death to be a fate too merciful for your crimes.

But even he couldn't deny the truth that lay deep down in his subconscious. A tiny, unapparent part of him could not let go. An illusion of possibility haunted his mind. An idea that things could still be any different.

You were spared of death, but, perhaps, your new fate is far worse.

#arthur morgan #yandere #yandere arthur morgan #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #yandere rdr2 #yandere red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #yandere x reader #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan fanfiction

[erosathelstan]

WARNING: Spoilers for Act 3

I don't really have much BG3 friends irl and I have a lot of thoughts that I cannot put into proper writing yet so I'll just post it here:

As much as I love the idea of giving Astarion an item that allows him to walk in the sun (my durge also does that, bcs in my headcanon the "Sunwalker's Gift" is the perfect item to do just that) I just want to talk about one other thing that Astarion mentions about being a vampire that I don't see a lot of people posting about: the aspect of hunger.

In one of his conversations with a Dark Urge PC, he mentions being unable to speak and think clearly when he wasn't able to feed for a long time because the hunger deprives him of reason. During one of the post-Cazador dialogues, too (if you kill Cazador without him, regardless if you're DU or Tav) he talks about being condemned to an eternity of hunger without being able to make a choice about it. Freedom to choose and consent is a major theme in Astarion's story, and with Cazador gone, that hunger then becomes the primary contender for his ability to choose for himself, because that hunger can literally rob him of reason when left unchecked.

Yes, he's also a murder hobo and wouldn't even blink twice if he had to kill someone, especially if it's for the sake of keeping himself safe and well-fed. At the moment, considering that our Tav/Durge is also a willing Personal Juicebox™ for his twink ass, then the guy is pretty much food secure. However, I don't think that later on in their relationship, he'd be comfortable with continuing that arrangement with their partner - whether it's due to old age/sickness on Tav's part, or some sort of self-realization that we can all only headcanon about. Him hunting down criminals/vagrants/random strangers also inadvertently puts Tav and whatever home they've made in danger, as someone at some point will want to hunt the vampire that killed their friend/family/workmate/what-have-you. Idk maybe some mofo with a strong sense of justice will also eventually go after his ass because he's a total menace to society.

Fighting is not a problem, or at least at first. Tav can fight. Tav literally led the group into fucking up an Elder Brain ffs, so what's a couple of vampire hunters and/or vengeful band of misfits, amiryt? But again, it will be kinda tiring to have to always be on guard, because someone might just kill you and the love of your life because you fed on someone else's. Also, again, he can fight for as long as he needs to, but what about Tav? Esp if our Tavs are not from long-lived races.

Part of getting Astarion's life back has to not only include making him able to stand in the sun again, but also ridding him of that hunger. Vampiric hunger can be an all-consuming thing that could put both him and his lover in significant danger. Whether he as a character would want to address this is a matter of our personal interpretations as fans/writers/artists, but I personally want to see more of this aspect of his vampirism being explored in fan works.

Anyway, I have said too many words. Maybe I need to finally give in and go hunting in Ao3 for this type of content. But for now, I slep 🙃

#Astarion #astarion ancunin #Dark Urge #Tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #Random ramblings #I need more friends that play this game ffs #the pale elf #just how much redemption can we give him? #basically just break my heart some more maybe #like... maybe Tav/Durge dies in pursuit for a cure for his vampirism???

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Delegate Is Held After Complaint Regarding Relief,” Toronto Globe. October 24, 1932. Page 1. ---- City Asking Deportation for Allegedly Troublesome Irishman --- MAYOR WITHOUT ESCORT ---- Draper Withdraws Special Police Assigned to Prevent Annoyance ----- Leaving Mayor Stewart’s office late yesterday afternoon, after reading a carefully prepared document, in which he made a complaint regarding the treatment of the unemployed in city hostels, William McKnight, aged 23, no home, was arrested by city detectives, on instructions of Commissioner of Public Welfare A. W. Laver.

McKnight was taken to the nearest police station, and held on a charge of vagrancy. He will be remanded, and in the meantime Commissioner Laver will ask the Federal Department of Immigration to deport him to Ireland. McKnight said he was born in Dublin, but later claimed to be born in Belfast. Recently McKnight was arrested in connection with a case of stolen property, and after being held in the Don Jail, for some days, was released from custody. After his release, he took part in a meeting in a downtown church on Sunday afternoon, during which demands were framed by the unemployed.

Escort Withdrawn Coincident with McKnight’s arrest, Chief Constable Draper withdrew the police escort which has been accompanying the mayor about the city. The Mayor’s family have been annoyed greatly during the past three weeks by men of some organization, one of whom endeavored to prevent Miss Stewart from driving an automobile into the family garage. Mrs. Stewart has been annoyed also with telephone messages, during which she was subjected to abusive language.

Interrogated by Mayor Stewart yesterday afternoon, McKnight is said to have admitted that he was not alone in the agitation, and that there were two dozen men associated with him. He declared that while in jail on the former charge the Canadian Labor Defense League’s solicitor, Onie Brown, handled his case.

Commissioner of Public Welfare Laver stated that the charge of vagrancy would be preferred against him, because he, McKnight, had refused to do light work when his turn in Wellington House in return for food and lodging. The request for deportation must be made by the city on account of the policy of the Federal Government to deport a British-born citizen unless asked to do so by a municipality.

Rejects Assistance McKnight’s agitation on behalf of the unemployed took the form of a personal criticism on Saturday. He refused to accept what Wellington House had to offer him, tossed back into an official’s face a ticket for the Fred Victor Mission, and would have nothing to do with Seaton House. He charged that officials in charge of the hostels were ‘grafters and thieves,’ and alleged that one was intoxicated. McKnight, it is said, became more infuriated with each attempt on the part of the civic officials to satisfy his demands, and finally he left his office at Church and Adelaide Streets, asserting he intended to pay a visit to Mayor Stewart’s home last night to present his demands in person.

Police, who are in touch continually with the unemployed, learned what McKnight claimed he would do, and despatched an officer to Mayor Stewart’s home. McKnight, however, did not appear, and yesterday they were asked by Commissioner Laver to locate him.

Found at Mission McKnight is said to have been located in the Fred Victor Mission and taken to Detective headquarters in the City Hall by Detectives Waterhouse and Storm. The Mayor requested the police to bring him to his office. McKnight read his carefully prepared in which he claimed that the city had no legal right to send him to the House of Industry and that it was obliged to provide him with lodging and food as he required. The Mayor replied to him emphatically and finally instructed Commissioner Laver to take him away. As McKnight left the Mayor’s office, the Commissioner called the police and ordered his arrest.

McKnight is said to have told Commissioner Laver that he and his wife were on relief distributed from the House of Industry in 1930 and that Mrs. McKnight returned to Ireland nine months ago.

Mayor Stewart and Commissioner Laver last night visited the hostels of the Department of Public Welfare. They found the hostels spotlessly clean, and in the rooms set aside for recreation, men in groups were singing the more familiar hymns. In one hostel, a clergyman sought the right to speak to the men. This was refused him by Commissioner Laver, who pointed out that any man living in city hostels could attend a church, and there were churches of all denominations in the heart of the city.

When Detectives Harold Waterhouse and Fred Storm asked McKnight what the trouble was, he is alleged to have accused Commissioner Laver, Captain Heron and the staff administering welfare work in the city of ‘grafting.’

Complains of Food Detective Waterhouse reported the prisoner was livng in the Wellington House. He said he refused to eat the food given in the House of Industry, claiming it was not fit to eat.

He complained bitterly of the food in the Wellington House, declaring that for the amount of money expended by the city to provide for the unemployed, those adminsitering the relief must be grafting. It was then, police allege, that he mentioned the names of the officials.

It is charged by police, McKnight has spent much time agitating inmates of the Wellington House and the House of Industry. Complaints have reached police of McKnight addressing those on relief, and making bitter remarks about food and living quarters for the needy.

Searching a room of a house in Dundas Street East, last night, police found asuitcase, which, they say, belongs to McKnight. It was correspondence from Irish papers in which McKnight had articles published concerning the Free State.

Police also claim to have established evidence that McKnight had been writing letters to different city appears protesting against the City Welfare Department. The articles were written, they said, under the signature of ‘Irishman.’ A number of obscene pictures are also alleged to have been found in the house.

When asked if it was true, his wife had returned to Ireland, McKnight told the detectives it was so, and it was then he announced his desire to be deported.

[AL; McKnight sounds like an awesome dude, fighting the good fight, making life miserable for the Mayor of Toronto and the god-botherers that ran the cities shelters for unemployed and homeless.]

#toronto #working class hero #unemployment relief #unemployed #agitator #unemployed protest #political protest #what the ruling class does when it rules #unemployment #unemployed workers' association #house of industry #homeless shelter #welfare as social control #punishing the poor #irish immigration to canada #great depression in canada #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada #the vagrant as criminal #canadian labor defence league

[pentacass]

A/N: Post-BG3 Evil™ AU where Shadowheart becomes Mother Superior and Sol retakes her mantle as Lolth's personal assassin.

"More of our agents have gone missing in Amn. Those who remain sent word that Selûnite presence is growing heavier in the city. Likely they have caught wind of our plan to establish an enclave there."

Shadowheart drums her fingers idly on the armrest. This news is not unexpected - recent Selûnite movements have all but led up to it.

"Again, Mother Superior, I must voice my concern. The city's streets are filled with common criminals and vagrants. Mere refuse. The caliber of recruits Amn has to offer does not justify the effort we have-"

She raises a hand; while her advisor falls quiet immediately, she remains staring at the black widow perched on the back of her hand. How long has it been there?

"Do not be so quick to dismiss 'mere refuse', Barros. They are desperate. They lack direction. They harbour resentment for those who stand above them, blind or indifferent to their suffering. All it will take to turn them to our Lady is…a little nudge." She waves her hand in a smooth flourish; the spider remains still, save for the excited chitter of its fangs at the movement. She has to bite down a smile.

"I will not tolerate any more excuses," Shadowheart adds when Barros opens his mouth. "We will continue as planned; if any Selûnite dares interfere, show no mercy."

"Yes, Mother Superior. As you say."

He bows his head, but Shadowheart has already swept out of her seat. She leaves the room and cuts through the main hall, hardly sparing a glance at the faithful who bow at her passing. The dormitory is empty, as is usual during the day, and she shuts the door behind herself. Striding down the length of the chamber, she catches the ropes of the heavy draperies at its very end, and tugs them loose - curtaining the Mother Superior's quarters from the rest of the dormitory.

She raises her hand, and the black widow pounces onto the bed. Dark magic wreathes its tiny body, twisting and elongating into an elven form, finally falling away from the drow woman lying casually across the covers - much too casually for one who had infiltrated a secret Sharran cloister.

"Amn, hm? Such a wonderful, gilded little cesspit," Solistre drawls, as a smile touches Shadowheart's lips. "You could murder someone in broad daylight, and the guards will forget about you in a week."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Perhaps."

She mirrors Shadowheart's smile. The years in Lolth's service have not been kind to Solistre, leaving her with a scar that splits brow and eye, an acid burn across her neck, and more blemishes hidden by her leathers. Most notable, however, are the whites of her sclera that have turned black. A sign of Lolth's favour, Solistre had explained dismissively one night, many years ago, but Shadowheart suspects that is not the whole truth. The Spider Queen's mark on a beloved daughter, like the incurable puncture on her own hand, perhaps?

No matter. Shadowheart kneels on the bed, sets a hand on Solistre's neck, and pushes her down roughly. The drow doesn't resist, reaching for her hips as she straddles the assassin.

"Though I am the Dark Mother's favoured blade, I could spare some time to remove those pesky Selûnites for you." Solistre's fingers slip between the slit of her dress, grasping the naked flesh of her thigh. "For a price."

"Of course. I am eager to begin negotiations." Her hand tightens around Solistre's neck, teasing a smirk from her partner's lips.

"Well then," Solistre purrs, nails digging into flesh. "Make your starting offer."

-

A/N: had a go at making lolthian sol and i'm going insane

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #shadowheart #solistre #yzwrites #idk how toxique their dynamic will be here but it'll be delish #'you did not save me or my parents; you pushed me into the darkness' #vs 'you gave your heart to your goddess; i will give mine to another' #'we will ravage all that we have left in a sick fascimile of what we once had'

[thedeafprophet]

hewwo I was just curious about your trio because I’m love them :0 I’ve seen some of your posts before about their childhoods and where they’re from, and I was wondering what their relationship was like before the present day. like, how did they meet (since from what I gather, they’re from different places)? how old were they? how did they end up becoming so important to each other? when/why was the break up?

I was just curious, feel free to ignore! or take this as an opportunity to just talk randomly about your guys if you’re in the mood for that, no need to answer those questions if they’re a lot! :) also sorry if you’ve posted about this before/recently and I missed it!

gasp...... im always delighted to have an oppurtunity to talk about my blorbos. im sure ive posted about this before - But i will happily summarize again. I did an overview on where each of them were from Here (as well as some talk on accents), and I have the basic overview of their individual backstories in their character summaries linked in my pinned post

this is long so im gonna put it under the cut oop. hope you dont mind an essay

Meeting and School Years

The story of their dynamics really begins as many dreaded childhoods begin: at school. They all were attending the same industrial school as kids/teens, which is where they met. (if you dont know what an industrial school was, they were basically a type of charity run boarding schools created for 'vagrant' children. as a girl's school they wouldve been taught Employable Skills alongside sewing and cooking and such, alongside regular School Stuff)

Jamie was initially there before the other two were, only being around when they were 12 and Josie was 10 that the two of them met, Josie having ended up being sent there some time after her brother died. Jamie had been heavily ostracized from their peers prior to this, so kind of latched onto Josie after they started talking as they, well, didnt really have any other friends. The balancing out of the overly energetic and talkative nature from Jam was also helpful for Josie in a way, giving her the time to adjust and talk on her own accords. Jamie had a habit of sneaking out of the school to wander off into the nearby woods to play, and eventually began inviting Josephine on those 'adventures', which had its highlights and its dangerous moments- kids stuff, yknow how it is.

About a year later, Alex ended up at the same school after being 'transfered' from a reformatory school, long since having already been involved in criminal areas as a kid. (at this point the ages are 15, 13, and 11 for Alex, Jamie, and Josie respectivly)

Alex ended up becoming friends with the other two sort of on accident, when he punched out another girl for bullying Jamie - even back then, he didnt take well to bullies - and subsequently took the fall for such an action. After that Jamie basically wouldnt leave him alone, and dragged him along into the friendship and introduced him to Josie.

The trio spent another couple years at the school, where they learned to balance around and support one anoher in this place that Kind Of Sucks. Alex had plans to leave and meant to break away from the place when he was 17, but the other two insisted on coming with him.

Teen and Adult years

To what im sure is no surprise, Alex basically planned to continue being involved in crime upon his leaving. The other two were a touch involved as well, so to speak, in the matters of surviving on their own. I generally imagine Alex's plan was to return to Birmingham, so thats likely where they ended up.

The rest of this part of the timeline is less specific, a collection of key points between now and the decent to the neath. Important things include Alex's 'pretending' to be a boy for easier access into some spaces stop being pretending, and officially starts to go by Alex. The other two are pretty much okay with it . Jamie starts being involved with artsy groups and eventually gets a job at a theater - it is here they first meet their future ex. Josephine pursued further less typical education outside of the school, before her want to seek answers about personal matters overweighed that desire to just learn things.. and a whole bunch of other things, like Joise returning to Liverpool to seek answers there, Alex becoming more and more tied up in criminal activities (and arson) on the surface, Jamie playing games of copy get to try and climb higher (alongside burgeoning worsening mental health problems but thats another story).

So suffice to say - a lot of time and a lot of things occured. how did they end up becoming so important to each other? well, it was simply a matter of time and the commitment of having only a couple people you can rely on in a world that otherwise cares little for you. Build up of connection, and a support of friendship.

It was the same reason their dynamic ended up falling apart.

Ive talked before on how I don't really know how to qualify their relationship; its not romantic (especially considering the younger years), but its not entierly platonic. There's defiently familia aspects to it, but I wouldnt say they're directly siblings or such (though Jamie def has middle child syndrome lmao). Its a kind of found family relationship that doesn't quite fit within the expectations of expected dynamics.

The 'break up' so to speak wasnt neccearily because of one specific reason. When you have three young adults all in closed spaces, each dealing with their own issues, none having learned how to properly communicate..... well, when the foundation begins to crack, eventually the building is going to topple.

There was no 'final deciding argument' but rather many small ones, over long periods of time. conversations becoming less easy, time together less friendly. what once brought great joy and support instead brought feelings of tension and hurt. Some bends to the foundation simply become to great to support the weight, and it was a slow crumble, day by day.

The final descion to come to the neath was still based on one another, especially as Josie planned to leave one way or another to track down her brother's killer, and by all accounts they still came together. But by then the dynamic had already become fragile, and it would never quite be what it was again.

Sometimes thats just what happens when you grow up, and the people you love and the cricumstances change. Sometimes things just dont work anymore. Perhaps they never truly did.

#thankkkkk u for asking i Love Them #tried to keep summary General but god this is already long ajdkfkfkgh #if theres anything like Specific that i didnt cover here that u wanna know feel free to ask further and i will happily answer lmao #asks #the trio #oc talk

[theoutcastrogue]

"Thieves' Cant" is a misnomer

An old post of mine got deleted, and I remembered that tumblr nuked the OP's account (epicdndmemes IIRC) so maybe they also nuked everything they ever posted and all the reblogs? Idek, they posted d&d memes for pete's sake. In any case, yay for archiving stuff, here's the rescued text. The op's meme (sadly not rescued) was claiming that all d&d rogues MUST be criminals, otherwise they wouldn't know thieves' cant and how to use thieves' tools. A narrow-minded and unimaginative take which made me go off and

Oh for the love of fuck.

Stop thinking of thieves’ cant (which is a real thing, not a D&D invention) as a jargon of Thieves, and start thinking of it as a jargon of People in the Margins: petty thieves (the big ones live in mansions and speak on a higher register, not cant), gamblers, sex workers, vagrants, beggars, performers of all sorts (actors, acrobats, buskers, carnies etc), slum dwellers, peddlers, itinerant and migrant workers of all sorts, whatever minorities have reason to mistrust the law, and whatever professions are considered disreputable or “unclean”. In a word: rogues.

Cant’s purpose is to be unintelligible to respectable law-abiding god-fearing outsiders, because if you’re in the margins, these folks are dangerous. (They’re also potential marks for your scams, sure, but cant is primarily a defence mechanism.) That doesn’t mean it’s magically unintelligible to outsiders. Anyone associating with this underworld can potentially learn it, or at least parts of it. And in fact, all cant dictionaries were written by respectable law-abiding god-fearing outsiders.

So in order to speak Thieves’ Cant, your Rogue can be criminal, or criminalised, or otherwise marginal, or someone who has associated with these elements enough to pick up the lingo. You’re not required by law to be an urchin -> pickpocket -> thieves’ guild member, geez.

As for thieves’ tools, it’s a toolkit used by burglars, locksmiths, investigators, cops, spies, activists, revolutionaries, and lockpicking lawyers amateurs who like a puzzle. Your Rogue can be any of these, or somehow related to any of these. It’s not even a stretch of the imagination, geez.

#trs #d&d #how to rogue #theory #thieves' cant #words of the trade #thieves' tools #fluff #5e

[unsoundedcomic]

Amazing, I thought Alderode couldn't get any more awful and then you reveal half the population considers human leather to be a great accessory for showing off your piety. Do they even bother putting up regulations on how such skin can be obtained? It sounds like they don't since apparently vagrants commonly wind up having their skinless corpses found in the gutter and nobody is trying very hard to do anything about it.

Oh, there are plenty of regulations, and skinning vagrants - even ghersless vagrants - is patently illegal. Criminals gonna crim tho.

If it makes you feel better, Cresce and the rest of the Gefendur continent also used to believe their scripture had to be bound in human leather. They just chilled out a few centuries ago and stopped doing it. The Gefendur paladins of Sharteshane think this is weak and backsliding and keep ancient human-bound texts as sacred relics in their shrines and chapels, though they don't go so far as to make new ones. However it's worth mentioning that they're called the Eye of Redemption because they used to eat the eyes of their dead to absorb and preserve their wisdom and blessings. They still demand all new members spend a night locked in a tower tripping on softi, and not everyone survives this. But no more eye-eating.

No eye-eating in Alderode either!

I daresay it's the Gefendur religion that's really frigged up. I mean, the Dammakhert and its caste system aren't doing Alderode any favours but it might have a better chance of modernizing if Gefendurism didn't keep its feet nailed to the floor.