#tw chemical warfare | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

battleangel · 5 months

Text

Why I am Antinatalist

TW: mentions & descriptions of r*pe.

Absolutely fucking sickening.

Dude, its motherfucking December.

Its practically freezing temperatures outside, in the 30s.

So, tell me why the fucking humidity is 80%+?

I am 42 and I have never seen humidity levels this high during winter.

Whats the cause?

Climate change endlessly driven by capitalist excess, human greed, zero sum late stage capitalism, consumerism, overconsumption, materialism, corporatism, lobbying and profiteering.

Basically, humanity.

Humanity caused climate change.

Therefore, end humanity.

Its not complicated.

Neither is antinatalism, which is the belief that is morally unjust to create a life.

Why?

The better question is, why is society so endlessly pronatalist?

Why is pronatalism the default stance?

Why?

Because people cant get over their disgusting self-serving obsessive egotistical need to have little mini-mes running around as extensions of their pathetic self-aggrandizing selves and their disgusting myopic need to continue their respective bloodlines, add to their lineages, create their own family trees and create and propagate endless children, grandchildren, greatgrandchildren and so on because individually if you (universal) have 1 to 2+ kid(s) and those kid(s) go on to have their own kid(s) -- when does it stop?

When does it ever stop?

How many ecocidal, environmentally destroying, climate change causing and contributing, landfill filling, ozone depleting, overconsuming, plastic using, oil guzzling, carbon footprint having, non biodegradable using, GMO consuming, pollutant causing, fast fashion shopping, Amazon Prime Delivery in 1 Day demanding, 1400 pounds of trash a year generating, thousands of gallons of water wasted a year just showering, electricity consuming, excessive indoor temperature control (AC/heat) energy vampire little cunts do you need to personally shit out to feel "complete" and "fulfilled"?

Pronatalism is a motherfucking joke but is the literal default in virtually all human societies.

Humanity is nothing but a self-replicating virus that has caused immeasurable harm to the planet and inexplicably to itself as a species yet still it continues to endlessly self-replicate as mindlessly as the Borg on Star Trek.

Never an independent rational emotionally detached logical reasoned out devoid of societal pressures, rewards and punishments thought, just wombs to be endlessly assimilated by the Pronatalist Borg Masculine Patriarchal Seed Collective.

How many little shits will you generate even from having "just 1 kid" because then how many kid(s) does that "only 1 kid" go on to have?

Just dont have them.

Stop your own personal lineage with yourself.

Stop adding to the human experiment.

It has failed.

Why?

I would think it would be obvious but here we are at this late stage in the game in 2023 with people allowing themselves to become impregnanted and I am endelssly pressured as a woman to immediately say, "Congratulations!"

Congratulations for fucking what?

The human experiment has failed for endless reasons:

Genocides. War crimes. Ethnic cleansings. Chemical warfare. Mass graves. Mass incarceration. Public executions. Lynchings.

Terrorism. Carpet bombings. Civilian slaughter. Bombing schools. Bombing hospitals. Hostage taking. Hostage execution.

Human experimentation. Tuskegee Airmen. Forced sterilizations (Puerto Rican women by the US government).

MK Ultra. Big agriculture. Big pharma. Military industrial complex.

Raytheon, Northrop Grumman & Lockheed Martin company stocks exponentially increasing 300%+ since 20k+ Palestinian civilians have been murdered over the past 2 months.

Endless wars. Endless profiteering. Duopoly. False agendas. Propaganda. Misinformation campaigns.

Burning innocent witches at the stake.

Forced births.

Crack epidemic in the 80s caused by Reagan flooding the Black inner cities with crack cocaine.

Endless exploitation.

Hundreds of millions killed by the death cult known as capitalism via houselessness, poverty, hunger, famine, lack of universal health care and affordable medical insurance, violence stemming from capitalist patriarchal systems held and endlessly reinforced by militarism, police states, toxic masculinity, sexual violence, misogyny, oppression of females and femmes, transphobia and homophobia, policing of women and femmes behavior, dress, mannerisms, sexuality, career choices, life decisions (marriage, motherhood) and personality and a constant demand for women and femmes to be polite, "nice", agreeable, inoffensive, pliant, and especially likeable at all times even and especially when we are being mentally/physically/emotionally/sexually/spiritually/financially abused, manipulated, gaslit, harrassed, assaulted, attacked, controlled, coerced, raped, beaten, isolated, ostracized, humiliated, silenced, repressed, suppressed, oppressed, intimidated, stalked, threatened and even killed.

As a woman and a femme, you are endlessly groomed, societally conditioned, raised, brainwashed and endlessly pressured and rewarded for constantly apologizing, shrinking yourself, making everyone else feel comfortable at the expense of yourself, endlessly justifying yourself, endlessly having to explain yourself and defend yourself, never being confident as it will be misconstrued as cocky, never being assertive because it will be misconstrued as aggressive, never speaking up for yourself because you will wrongly be called a bitch, never taking charge as you will be hated, never being logical by detaching your emotions as you will be accused of being cold and heartless, never deciding your actions and behavior through reasoning and logical deduction as you will be endlessly pilloried for not thinking with your heart instead of your head, endless pressure at all times to perform emotion and to "wear your heart on your sleeve", constant demands at a societal macro level to perform feminity, maternal care and emotional labor at work meetings & functions, holiday parties/dinners/events, performing emotional labor in all situations and environments regardless of personality (having to attend baby showers at work even if you are an antinatalist and/or childfree woman, having to excessively emote if there is a personal tragedy reported at work with no corresponding requirement for male employees -- miscarriage, hospitalization, accident, death, firing, layoff, etc.).

Rapes, sexual trafficking, sexual slavery, slavery, child sex trafficking, child molestation, child abuse, pedophilia, murders, tortures.

Pharmaceutical industrial complex, pathologizing of normal behavior by the psychiatric industrial complex, overmedicalization, misdiagnoses, overprescribing prescription medication, excessive nonsensical harmful medical interventions, extending life beyond all sense and reason to the point where the interventions are needlessly painful, harmful and completely unnecessary versus accepting death as not just a part of life but a beautiful transformation that should be embraced and not feared, contrived forced and constantly pushed and reinforced fear of death, sexual repression.

Women getting a scarlet letter for being a slut, whore, hoe; men getting an "attaboy" for being a player, stud, ladies man for the exact same sexually promiscuous behavior.

Tyranny of motherhood and demands for women to do constant endless unpaid domestic and emotional labor for their children for absolutely zero compensation and very little social reward beyond perfunctory lip service once a year on Mothers Day.

Endless materialism, endless consumption, endless consumerism, capitalist excess, corporatism, lobbying, fake news, us vs them, tribalism, political prisoners.

Child soldiers, child brides.

Famine, poverty, houselessness, lack of clean water, gun crime, gun deaths, drivebys, AK-47s, machine guns, serial killers, serial rapists, Columbines, Sandy Hooks.

False flag events, paid actors, green screens, sound stages, scripted events, rigged elections, Mandela effects, strangers in Moscow.

Gang violence, frat hazings, initiations, kidnappings, abductions.

Religious cults, priests raping altar boys, Eagle Scouts raping Cub Scouts, ISIS, Al Qaeda, Hamas, IDF, US military.

Elementary schools, churches and theaters being shot up.

Police brutality, Ahmed Arbery, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Say Her Name, Hands Up Dont Shoot, Sandra Bland, Trayvon Martin, Its just a bag of Skittles officer.

13 year old boy shot dead, not by the police, but by a Stand Your Ground civilian.

Dont Tread On Me Zionist Proud Boy.

Islamophobia, racism, white supremacy, racially motivated killings, hate crimes.

Donald J. Trump and Elon Musk.

Jeff Bezos and Tim Cook.

Mark Zuckerberg and Peter Thiel.

Roger Goodell and Vince McMahon.

She was asking for it, what was she wearing, was she drinking, why was she out so late, she went upstairs with him what did she expect.

Theres no such thing as marital rape, feminazis invented that term in the 90s.

I dont care if you have a headache.

I dont care if you dont like anal, flip over and stop complaining.

Its not my fault that youre bleeding.

Then stop tensing up and it wont hurt so much.

I bought you the anal numbing cream and youre still complaining? Its lidocaine. Shut up.

I want anal every week so were having it.

I hit you open handed no bruising. Stop complaining.

I want to cum on your face. Theres nothing wrong with facials. Stop complaining. Leave your glasses on. Now take them off. Open your eyes. Keep them open.

Im into golden showers. Stop complaining.

Im into scat. Stop complaining.

Im into spanking. I didnt hit you that hard. Stop complaining.

Im into choking during sex. Its okay to not be able to breathe. Its only for a few seconds. Stop complaining.

I like biting your nipples. Its supposed to hurt. Stop complaining.

I like slapping your cunt. Stop complaining.

I like spitting in your mouth. Stop complaining.

I like roleplaying. Youre going to be 8 years old. Im going to be your uncle. Yes, during sex. Its just a roleplay. Stop complaining.

When can I put one of our videos on stileproject? You'd be good in porn. Why cant I upload them? Why do you say no to everything?

Okay, put your forearms on the floor and your legs on the coach on either side of my waist. No, were going to have anal this way. Im tired of doggy and Im tired of you riding me and Im tired of missionary. Were going to have anal in different positions. Youre tiny and flexible. Do it. Stop complaining.

Then stop gagging and stop throwing up. Theres no reason why you shouldnt be able to deepthroat me. Then work on your gag reflex. Stop complaining.

Get in the bathroom stall. Now. We'll be done in time for the start of Revenge of the Sith. Face away from me. The wall. Stop complaining. Pull your shorts down. Hurry up. No, in the butt. I dont want to wait to get to my house. Hurry up so you can still get your popcorn shrimp. Stay still. Stop moving so I can get it in. Be quiet. Youre not bleeding that much. Stop complaining.

Take your jeans off now. Do it. Im not in the mood for your little girl shit. Take them off. Stop crying. Both pant legs. Now. Hurry up so I can take you home to your fucking father. Stop crying! Be quiet. Hurry up. Its the least you can do after you danced all night at your cousins party.

Dont lie to me. Youve had sex since the restraining order. Shut up. Dont tell me what to do. Nothing hurts. I dont believe you. Hm. It is tight. Youre not hurt. Shut up. Be quiet, let me do this. Stop moving around and stay on top of me. Stay still. Stop shaking. Youre not bruised and youre not swollen. Stop talking. I still dont believe you havent had sex since we stopped dating. Dont talk to me. Leave me alone.

Dark side of private life.

Abusive spouses, murderous spouses.

Respected couple, matriarch and patriach, pillars of the church and community, married for almost 50 years.

Golden anniversary, golden showers.

Dark secrets, dark pasts, hidden criminal pasts, hidden felonies, hidden convictions, hidden prison sentences, lies to daughters, lies to mothers, lies to wives, repressed background check reports.

Might makes right, force, violence, imposing physical will, domination, vanquishing, crushing, destroying.

Humanity has had hundreds of thousands of years to fix these issues.

But we havent.

Were still -- as a species -- murdering, killing, raping, shooting, stabbing, enslaving, ethnic cleansing, erasing, occupying, colonizing, settling, imprisoning, making thousands of animal species extinct, filling thousands of landfills, destroying thousands of acres of rainforests, destroying ecosystems, overfishing, overextracting earths resources, killing indigenous people for diamonds, emeralds, ore, minerals, etc., pillaging, causing climate change, unsustainably raising the planets temperatures, causing wars and genocides, profiting off of and creating jobs for the manufacture and sale of weapons and bombs used to kill civilians mothers daughters grandmothers babies toddlers children teens students hospital patients fathers sons grandfathers teachers doctors nurses volunteers protestors intellectuals conscientious objectors love warriors revolutionaries prophets, AI cloning metaverse social media messaging apps streaming shows endless scroll always on never off, non stop notifications Slack Teams Google Meet Citrix Trello Asana Outlook Gmail corporate slave golden handcuffs modern day plantation.

The solution to all of the above unimaginable suffering is human extinction.

The solution is stop reproducing.

Stop procreating.

Stop pronatalism.

Stop humanity.

Reject societys non-stop endless brainwashing, programming, conditioning, grooming, messaging, demands, pressures and coercion to be pronatalist and reproduce endless bodies for the capitalist Borg machine.

Stop producing workers for them!

Rockefeller invented modern day public education and school systems because he wanted a "docile and obedient" workforce.

Thats all K-12 is because its all it was designed to be -- a feeder system for corporate, nothing more nothing less.

K-12 -- and college -- works exactly the way its designed to.

It breeds endless acquiescence to authoritatian figures.

Coaches, band leaders, music conductors, dance instructors, choir leaders, school counselors, school nurses, teachers, disciplinarians, principal as God figurehead.

Organized religion is the exact same -- endless acquiescence to authoritarian figures (priests, bishops, nuns, ministers, pastors, imams, Catholic pope as ultimate authority and God figurehead).

Corporate is the exact same (supervisor, +1, VP, Officer, CEO as ultimate authority and God figurehead).

Nuclear patriarchal family is the exact same (older siblings, older cousins, aunts/uncles, grandparents, mother, father as ulimate authority and God figurehead).

Government is the exact same (local representatives, mayor, governor, Congressmen/women, Senator, Speaker of the House, Supreme Court justices, President & Commander In Chief as ultimate authority and God figurehead; provinical representatives, Prime Minister, princes & princesses, dukes & duchesses, King as ultimate authorities and God figureheads; Queen is ultimate maternal archetype - "God save the Queen!").

Law enforcement is the exact same (beat and traffic cops, detectives, officers, seargants, captains, Chief of Police as precincts ultimate authority and God figurehead).

Military is the exact same (foot soldiers cannon fodder sausage for the sausage factory, squad leaders, corporals, seargents, captains, generals (1 through 5 star), Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as ultimate authority and God figurehead).

End the karmic cycle of humanitys universal suffering.

Say no to pronatalism and no to breeding.

Say no to continuing environmental destruction, ecological destruction, ecocide, rainforest destruction, landfills, environmental waste, climate change, ozone depletion, animal species going extinct, wars, genocides, ethnic cleansing, chemical warfare, civilian slaughter, carper bombings, hostage taking, executions, tortures, lynchings, slavery, sexual slavery, sex trafficking, child trafficking, rapes, molestation, abuse, child abuse, domestic violence, murders, shootings, stabbings, drivebys, fatal hazings, kidnappings, abudctions, child soldiers, child brides, political prisoners, civil wars, tribalism, homophobia, transphobia, racism, misogyny, hate crimes, racialized violence, toxic masculinity, military industrial complex, police states, militarism, empire building, war machines, commodification, profiteering, capitalism, excess, materialism, overconsumption, consumerism, lobbying, duopoly, fake news, agendas, misinformation campaigns, forced births, misdiagnoses, overmedicalizations, pathologizing of normal behavior, CTE, concussions, head impacts, permanent brain damage, violence, misogynoir, terorrism, mass shootings, human experimentation, forced sterilizations, mass incarceration, prison industrial complex, military industrial complex, medical industrial complex, corporate plantation, man as machine, dehumanizations, beatings, objectifications, fetishizations, cheapening of human life, commodifications, globalism, slave labor, slave wages, exploitation, endless wars, death squads, rape rooms, comfort women, profiteering, religious cults, forced baptisms, family secrets, abusive family patriachs and matriarchs, capitalist death cult, dictatorships, cults of personality, strongmen, deceivers, manipulators, gaslighters, thieves in the night...

Stop contributing to the endless cycle of human suffering and do something to end it.

Dont reproduce. Dont procreate. Dont have children.

Abstain from sex and be celibate, masturbate, watch porn, read erotica. Or have sex and use birth control, pills, sponges, patches, injections, surgical implants, spermicide, condoms, tubes tied or lasered, withdrawal, Plan B and/or abortion. Or have sex other than vaginal sex (oral, anal, manual, intercrural, etc.).

Just dont add to the already failed and flailing on its ass 7 billion plus strong current human experiment.

6 notes · View notes

agentsquirrelsgotrobots · 10 months

Text

A little thing for Father's day.

Tw: child death

Ratchet found him giving first aid to a bot that was already dead.

Little tiny fingers grabbed Ratchet's hand. The battlefield stunk of the chemical warfare the Decepticons used to melt the plating off the Autobots. He had barely been able to coax the little yellow sparkling away from the worst of the contamination before it was too late. His little eyes barely peaked above the filtering system in the gas mask Ratchet had slipped over his head.

The sparkling tugged Ratchet through bombed out alleys and precariously leaning buildings, to a shack built out of bits of metal from a roof.

Inside, whoever the sparkling wanted to see was already dead.

"Awww. Papa Hornet's already gray." The sparkling chirped. "He kept telling me that gray can't be saved, and if he turned gray, to find someone with the grouchy red button. You're even better! Grouchy red button, and medic markings. That's OK, I will find a new papa. That's what I do. I will stay with each Papa until the Papa goes away."

Ratchet was speechless. This kid just admitted to being passed around like a bottle of engex in order to survive.

The kid picked up a few toys and a datapad and stuffed them into his subspace. He then waddled back to Ratchet and took his hand again.

"Hey, kid, can I pick you up?" Ratchet asked.

"Ya huh!" The kid said. "Uppies!"

Ratchet picked the sparkling up, wincing at his creaking joints. He was a lot heavier than he looked, which was better than the alternative.

"What's your name, kid?" Ratchet asked, walking away from the shack. The little one needed a decontamination bath and some energon, and he only had a medical grade on him and enough solvent to clean a wound.

"Papa called me Bee, but my name is Bumblebee." He fluttered his door wings and popped his round little antennas up. He really did look like a bug.

They made it back to base without incident, though there were many stops to have Bumblebee talk and babble at everyone that passed him.

It was a little different when he got to base and the rest of the war frames. He was a bit quieter around the bots that were bigger than Ratchet. All except one.

"Hi!" Bumblebee giggled. "You're so big!" He pointed at Optimus.

Optimus crouched down where he stood, letting himself be eye level with the little yellow sparkling. "Yes, I am big. Is Ratchet going to help you?"

Bumblebee reached for Optimus's auto brand, grabbing on the side of the badge and tugging on it. "Grouchy face!" He giggled, and Optimus offered his hand. Bumblebee took it, and Optimus smiled.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Bumblebee, but you can call me Bee!"

"Well Bee, I have to go to a meeting, but I bet Ratchet has got some energon for you in the medbay."

"Yep, I got First Aid on babysitting duty."

Ratchet brought Bee to the medbay. He was fine, just underfed and in need of a nap.

_____

Optimus was broken.

Bee had just barely celebrated coming into a youngling frame when their current base was attacked.

Megatron ripped off Bee's head with a ferocity he usually reserved for Optimus. He then beat Optimus within an inch of his life and left morale as shattered as the door to the bunker he ripped through as if it was paper.

Optimus refused all but the most necessary medical care, leaving his plating dented and badly scratched.

He started to get paranoid, refusing to see anyone after Bumblebee was taken from him. He had a piece of his plating in his subspace, along with three backup pieces given to people he trusted the most.

It got to the point where even after battles, he couldn't even look at Ratchet, refusing to even be in the same room as him. Engex started to go missing, and empty bottles started popping up in places where the Prime went to get away from the other bots.

Ratchet got desperate and tried something incredibly underhanded.

He still had a few recordings of Bee's voice, mostly of him laughing and saying cute things. Usually swear words he learned from Wheeljack.

Sadly, it worked. With the careful planting of a small bottle of nightmare fuel, Optimus stumbled after the sounds of the sparkling he had claimed as his own as if Bumblebee was playing a long game of hide and seek, not in a component donor box in a back room of the medbay.

It worked until Jazz tried to "help" him by snapping him back to reality and taking the bottle away from him.

He didn't take that well, yanking the bottle back from Jazz and running down the hallway.

He ducked into a mostly empty storage room, backing himself against the wall.

He could hear Jazz and Ratchet talking, but was too drunk to really focus on what they were saying.

Ratchet crouched a ways in front of him and smiled sadly, and Optimus lost it.

"I- I know he's gone but… oh, little Bee… why did you have to leave me?" Optimus sobbed, the almost empty bottle of engex still in his hand. Ratchet made the mistake of coming closer.

Optimus downed the rest of the bottle in a single gulp and threw it at Ratchet's head.

Ratchet ducked, well practiced in dealing with drunk war frames.

He grabbed Optimus's hands, and Jazz snuck behind him and got him with a sedative.

He woke up in the medbay, a cup of plain energon on his bedside table, a few monitors hooked to his plating.

Ratchet walked in a little while later.

"Ratchet? What happened?"

"You weren't doing well. Jazz brought you here so you could be around friends for the night."

"You won't let me leave, will you?" Optimus said, remembering all the times he had said that to other bots.

"No, I can't in good conscience let you leave. I'm sorry, but you need to get a grip on yourself. We are gonna get you sober, then go from there." Ratchet said.

"It's only fair that I help you with this. You did the same with me and my demons. Haven't touched a blade outside of work in a while." Jazz said, helping Optimus sit up.

"Fine. I just want to get back to work."

"Just as long as you aren't replacing a bottle with work or a blade. I made that mistake. I just want to make sure it doesn't become one of yours. Besides, I have something for you."

Jazz took out a locket, and opened it. On one side, two photos, one of him and Elita-1, and one with him and Bumblebee. On the other side, a half circle of each of the deceased bots came together to one whole. Optimus cried. Both of some of the most important people he had lost, all together in one place.

He ran his finger over Bee's plating, and tucked the pocket carefully into his subspace. "Thank you, Jazz." Optimus said.

"It was Ratchet's idea." Jazz admitted.

"Ratchet?" Optimus said. He looked up at his oldest friend with tears in his eyes.

"I couldn't just let you have nothing of them but memories, could I? I had a spare photo of me, you and Elita, so I had Wheeljack scan and alter it so it's just you two. I still have the original, I keep it with me."

"Thank you, Ratchet." Optimus said, pulling Ratchet into a hug.

Ratchet returned it. "Of course, Orion."

#maccadam

4 notes · View notes

crash-bump-bring-the-whump · 2 years

Text

Not gonna lie, the poison mist stages have really grown on me

TWs: Poisoning, collapse, chemical warfare

"We need backup--Linnaeus' squad is still ten minutes out!"

Adair wasn't usually deployed so quickly in a fight, but circumstances weren't kind to them that day. A thick haze hung in the air as he sprinted, and the freshly destroyed chemical plant that had diverted their escort explained how it burned his lungs. It was no wonder his friends hacked and coughed like they did--as he raised his staff, his healing Arts wrapped around the two teammates that had leaped to defend the Felines they were guiding.

Elliot shot him a quick grin in thanks as he dashed forward, knives out and clashing with the Ursus men that led the enemy charge. Glancing over, their other vanguard 120, had taken the other choke point and flared his brilliant black feathers in challenge--that was safe for now.

"Celestite! We need to get through this quick!" Lila called, helping their clients fit the few intact gas masks to their faces as she cast her Arts over the little group.

"I know--I know! Follow me!" Straining, Adair pushed his healing further, wrapping it around Gabriel and Throl who sailed into the fray. Gabriel charged past Elliot, sharp talons and teeth bared as he grabbed one of the mercenaries and spiked him into the toxic dust.

Dark, shadowed hands rose up around Throl as he strode towards a pack of charging Ursus fighters, grasping the limbs of the men and dragging them to their knees. "Ignition, if you'd be so kind." Elliot didn't hesitate to help clear the path for Lila and their charges, invigorated by the rush of healing Adair sent his way.

Diligently, Adair kept his focus moving, shifting, never letting his squadmates go without a pick-me-up for too long. Enemy casters charged onto the field, and he pressed more juice into 120 so that he could focus on his own Arts counter-attack. Gabriel took a hard hit from one of the few Sarkaz of the group, leaping back up a little quicker than normal when Adair's healing cleansed his lungs.

They all moved with Adair, taking solace in the relief his shining blue Arts provided. Everyone was safe, or as safe as one could be in an active battlefield, while they were near him. "How close are we to--to the hand-off, Daybreak?" He called over the chaos, stumbling for just a moment.

Lila answered quickly, eyes lingering on Adair for longer than usual when she glanced back at him. "Very close, Linnaeus is almost here."

Adair swallowed hard, coughing as he nodded. "Good--I..." He realized that he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus, like his glasses had somehow suddenly become too weak. "Daybreak, I--" His chest hitched, suddenly feeling heavy despite how loose his tactical coat was. The Arts flowing from his staff flickered as he doubled over into a coughing fit, stuttering like an old light bulb.

What was wrong? He'd been using his Arts correctly, and his Infection wasn't this far along. His staff was high quality, and he'd been pushing himself, but not anything beyond what he'd do in training. "I feel...weird..."

Dimly, a thought crossed his mind. Had he been remembering to heal himself? He could only target two people at once, three in an emergency. 120 and Ignition, Chordata and Totality, Daybreak, the Felines...he had to have been healing himself when doing his rotations, right?

He wasn't so caught up in everything that he'd neglected his own lungs. Right?

Adair didn't even feel himself hit the ground.

#arknights au #whump #lightning eyes and alibis #I want to scream but can't open my mouth #you could be the renegade #burn me to the ground #the original sin #it's sacrilege #poisoning /#chemical warfare /#collapse /

4 notes · View notes

voidlists · 2 years

Text

bruin bear face gorilla

I saw a photo of the UCLA bruin bear statue and became convinced that its face would look better on a gorilla. After some photoshopping, I created a monster and a playlist.

Description: cursed. I wish I could add creepy scratched record effects to this entire thing. gives you the true 2am anxiety attack experience. A lot of whispering and creepiness in this one.

Loudness: 4/5 for some screaming. One metal song and some others which are chaotic bring an otherwise fairly quiet playlist up to a 4/5.

Spotify Link

Song list with content warnings under the cut:

“Goodnite, Dr. Death” by My Chemical Romance (loud static at the end)

“Blod” by Avatar (heavy metal song, 5/5 loudness. I don’t know German so may be more gory than I think it is)

“Kyoto Song” by The Cure (tw implied cannibalism)

“where are my fucking pills?” by Death Spells (5/5 loudness. tw suicide, drug abuse)

“Black Angels: I. Departure” by George Crumb, played by the Kronos Quartet (instrumental with spiky violin sounds)

“Nerves” by Bauhaus

“Daydream Believer” by The Monkees

“Chemical Warfare” by Dead Kennedys (tw death by mustard gas)

“Lullaby” by The Cure (tw implied abuse and consumption by a spider man)

“Interlude” by My Chemical Romance

“Poison Ivy” by Trust Fund Ozu (loud in a hyperpop way)

“All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey, My Chemical Romance cover (trust me)

“Early Sunsets Over Monroeville” by My Chemical Romance (tw killing someone because they are a zombie)

“3:08am” by Noah Tyson

#anxiety tunes #spooky time #featuring:#my chemical romance #the cure

1 note · View note

anotherhawk · 2 years

Text

Play At War - Part 1

The Mechanisms fanfic set during the Lunar War. In which Tim and Bertie are stuck with the weirdest fucking soldiers the moon has ever seen.

Many thanks to @hirilelfwraith for the fantastic discussions we've had around this. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Private d'Ville was a bloody awful soldier, that had been clear to Tim right from the start.

He'd had the misfortune of being present when he and the Toy Soldier had first turned up in their little corner of hell - if he hadn't then the course of his life likely would have been very different. For a start it would have been unfathomably shorter.

He was in the command bunker, listening to Captain Cutter drone on about the importance of highly polished boots in tunnel warfare, when the door slammed open and two figures were briefly silhouetted in the doorway before they marched - well, one swaggered - straight up to the captain, ignoring every guard and officer that tried to get in the way.

"Jonny d'Ville and the Toy Soldier reporting for violence," the smaller one said, with a wide grin and nothing even approaching a salute. He was wearing the uniform of a private, rumpled and bloodstained and seemed to have more belts than he could possibly need - certainly more than was regulation. There were thick soot lines all around his eyes and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

"Lost your salute, private?" Cutter barked out, and Tim winced reflexively - that was the tone that generally preceded someone being sent out alone into no-man's land, on corpse clean-up duty.

d'Ville shrugged, and the salute he gave had rather less fingers than the one taught at basic. His companion stepped forwards and gave a crisp, textbook salute. Its uniform in contrast to d'Ville's, was immaculate if a little…confused. It was wearing the usual khaki tunics, sure, but also a cavalry man's gloves and a Lenny's pointed helmet. Was that some kind of war trophy? If so, it was liable to get shot. "Greetings, Captain. We Are Jolly Happy To Be Joining Your Unit. Our Last Outfit Suffered 100% Casualties A Few Days Ago. Alas. Such Are The Perils Of War."

Oh. Fuck. Tim had seen a lot of death in the three months he and Bertie had been out here, but to lose an entire unit - shit, he couldn't even imagine.

Even Bastard Cutter's face seemed to soften a little, and he pointedly looked away from d'Ville, probably dismissing him as a battle stress case, and spoke exclusively to the Toy Soldier. "Do you have your papers? Transfer orders?"

"Yes!" the Soldier, who must have an actual name now Tim came to think about it, said cheerfully. "These Are Our Papers Which Contain Entirely Truthful Details About Our Origins And Ages. And Here Are Our Transfer Orders Signed In The Name Of Major Winchell. With His Own Pen Which Was Clutched In His Own Hand That Was Most Certainly Alive At The Time."

Cutter had the look of a man that had just been punched in the face by a fish. The papers that the Soldier was happily holding out appeared to have been written in red crayon. At least Tim hoped it was crayon.

With no one paying attention to him, d'Ville lit a cigarette and started looking over the map table.

"Erm, jolly good, jolly good," Cutter said, gingerly picking through the papers. "I'm sure you'll do very well here."

"Thank you, old bean, sir," the Soldier chirped.

"Corporal Tim, are you still here?"

"Yessir." He stepped into the light and for the first time got a good look at the Soldier's face. It was incredibly stiff, almost wooden. Damn - there were rumours about what happened if you were 'lucky' enough to survive a microwave attack in the open. Looked like they were true.

"Right. Take our two new soldiers here and show them around. Find them a place to bed down and add them to the roster."

Ah, fuck. His squad was close, a real band of brothers. The last thing they needed was two random weirdos thrown in. "Of course, sir." He gestured towards the door. "Shall we?"

As they stepped out of the bunker and into the dark outside a minor commotion broke out behind them. Somehow the map table had caught fire.

Showing them around camp didn't take long, partly because it wasn't that big, partly because it was all in pitch darkness anyway, and mostly because they buggered off as soon as they were out of the bunker. Because of the aforementioned pitch darkness it took Tim a while to realise that though, and he was explaining the layout of their front and rear trenches for quite some time to what he thought was an unusually attentive audience before a well timed laser artillery strike lit up the tunnels and showed him that he was in fact talking to himself.

"Fucking wankers," he grumbled.

A lukewarm tin mug was pushed into his hands. "Who's got your goat now?" Bertie asked cheerfully.

"Couple of new tommies, just got transferred from some spike-bozzled disaster," he said, taking a swig of tea. Not bad; by the taste of it the teabag could only have been reused a couple of times. "I was there when they reported into Cutter, so bad news we've copped it."

Bertie groaned, and Tim smiled, imagining the face he was pulling. "Just what we need; a couple of albatrosses round our neck. As if our luck isn't bad enough already."

"I don't know about that, luv. We're still alive, aren't we? Maybe our luck will hold. Maybe the two weirdos will turn out to be our lucky charm. Maybe this all-expenses paid Lunar vacation really will be over by Christmas."

An elbow caught him in the ribs as Bertie settled in next to him. "Christmas was last month, Tim."

"I meant next Christmas," he said, but an alarm cut through his words. High pitched. Short blasts. A gas attack. Fuck, had the new guys stuck around long enough to hear where the respirators were? The pumps had been dodgy lately.

Bertie grabbed his arm, pulling him up. "Come on, there's a respirator just down the trench!"

"The new guys," he yelled back, struggling to be sure of making himself heard above the blaring alarm. "I need to find them!"

"Goddamnit! Alright. Let's make it quick for fuck's sake."

He rushed down the trench, trusting Bertie was on his heels, calling out "Private d'Ville! Private Soldier! Has anyone seen them?"

"Private Soldier?" Bertie panted behind him.

"I don't fucking know that's how it was introduced - d'Ville! Toy Soldier! Where the fuck are you?" Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of burnt horseradish on the air? Fuck, he couldn't hear the pumps at all. "d'Ville! Toy Soldier! Where are you, you fucking bastards?" He was rushing past knots of soldiers, gathered round their own respirators and he checked each group and found nothing. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. He took a deep breath, ready to shout again, and reflexively started coughing. Fuck.

Holding his breath, he fumbled behind him, feeling for Bertie's hand, and with that desperate grip intact, started feeling along the tunnel wall for a respirator nook.

His eyes were watering and he was reduced to crawling when he felt wooden fingers grip the scruff of his neck, hoisting him up effortlessly.

"Hello Corporal Gunpowder Tim, Sir! It Is A Pleasure To See You Again. Why Don't You And Your Friend Come With Me To The Respirator? Breathing Is Jolly Good Fun For Mortals."

Bertie's hand was still in his, and he was easily able to translate the weak squeeze. "What the fuck?" Bertie was asking.

What the fuck indeed.

The Toy Soldier dragged the pair of them to the nearest respirator, seemingly having no problem with the poison in the air. By contrast it took Tim a good ten minutes of sucking down sweet oxygen before he was able to pull the mask aside long enough to choke out "d'Ville?"

"Oh, He Just Stepped Out For A Quick Walk. I Believe He Was Looking For More Cigarettes."

Oh. "He's dead then," he said dully. No one could survive a gas attack in the open for that long.

The Toy Soldier shifted and sounded confused. "No? I Shouldn't Think So Anyway, That Sounds Most Unlike Him."

Right. Tim couldn't blame it for being in denial. It had outlived the rest of its unit, and now it saw the last of them die barely days later. No wonder it couldn't cope.

At that moment, as if trying to be ironic, the pumps finally kicked in.

Thank fuck.

"Right." He cleared his throat, cautiously, and when no coughing fit started up, spoke with increasing confidence. "Toy Soldier, you're with us. It's getting late. I'll show you where you can get some chow and bed down."

"That Would Be Jolly Nice. I Will Be Sure To Save Some Chow For When Jonny Comes Marching Home."

"Uh, right. Sure. You do that." He exchanged confused and incredulous shoulder bumps with Bertie in the dark.

In the morning, when Tim woke up, the first thing he saw was Bertie's beautifully sleeping face, inches from his own. The second thing he saw, once he recovered his wits enough to realise that he could see, if barely, was Private Jonny Fucking d'Ville, present and accounted for, lying back with his head on the Toy Soldier's stomach, smoking a cigarette that was dimly illuminating their cosy little dugout. Tim could just see the packet - there was writing in Lunar German on it, a picture of the moon, and a fairly unambiguous bloodstain.

"Private d'Ville?" He was calm. Very calm.

"Mmm?" Jonny didn't so much as raise his head.

"You're on punishment detail. Report to Corporal Smythe for latrine digging duty."

Jonny looked straight at him. "What the fuck?"

#my writing #the mechs #the mechanisms fanfiction #gunpowder tim #the toy soldier #jonny d'ville #tw chemical warfare #tw death

30 notes · View notes

the-empires-weapon · 6 years

Text

Harbringer Pt. 5

I pull down Miroslav to kneel beside me as I try to come up with a plan. My mind fires back to the Academy, studying old SIS tactics - but I know it won’t help. It’s been too many years, and they will have changed their tactics since then. The fact that they’d put chemicals in the air is enough indication of that. There’s no way to know how many men are out there, but I know there’ll be enough to shoot us down if the want us both dead.

I don’t doubt the severity of the situation. We’re in deep shit.

I look to Miroslav. His eyes are watering, burning red, and I slap a hand over them to keep him from going blind, at least. Even now, I can hardly see through the tears, but I force myself to let them fall down my face, enough to clear my vision just enough. I don’t know what it is they’ve filled the air with, but there’s no doubting it’s awful. Even if I’m trying to hold my breath, my lungs are in such pain it’s a miracle I’m not fainting. They hadn’t healed from Quesh, and now I’ve exerted myself. And it wasn’t even over.

I need help, I think. But there’s no help coming, not yet. And Miroslav’s not going to be a help. Even like this, even if he’s armed, there’s no way he can go through a battle like this. He’s just too ill, looking so bruised and broken I don’t even know how he’s been walking. Probably because he’s only been following orders.

He’s been a machine, and now I’ve used him, too.

I pull my hand from his face and put it to my own, trying to think. And then Miroslav moves.

“N-!” I nearly scream, only choking down not to give away our position, but he’s moving away from me, down the hall, closer to the exit. I lunge up and try to follow him, but he stops short of the opening, and takes something from off the ground, and I gasp so hard I nearly choke.

An air mask.

He walks back and holds it out to me, eyes dull, body shaking. A tool - even if Miroslav’s feeling like shit, he’s still got the instincts of a fighter, a soldier. The mask is cracked, just a little, but it’d be enough to block the gas out. One of the agents must’ve tossed it when they saw the crack.

If we had a mask . . . something to filter the air . . .

A good Imperial Agent would wear it themselves.

Then in this case . . . I guess I’ve failed.

I take the mask from his hands, and immediately begin to secure it to his face as the plan forms in my head. The worst plan I may have ever concocted.

“Keyword: onomatophobia. You’re going to get on my back, Miroslav, and hide your face against my shoulder, okay?” my hands are shaking as I fix the straps around the back of his head, fingers brushing through the fine black hair there. “You’re going to get on my back, hide your face, and you’re going to hold on and not let go, ever. If you’re hit, you’re going to tap my shoulder twice with your hand. And you’re going to give me your gun, and you’re not going to let go of me until I tell you. Okay?”

My eyes are watering so much more now, not just from the gas, but from tears. I’m shaking so hard that I must be breaking down. Still, I pull him into my arms one more time, and hold him as tight as I can. I hold him like I held him when we were back in the Academy. I hold him like . . . like when we first made love. The first and the last time.

I pull in a quivering breath, and I pull back, and I turn and kneel down so he can get on my back.

“Do it, Miroslav. Now.”

I hear him unstrap his gun. I feel the weight of it in my free hand, the other clasped around my cannon. And then I feel him lean into me, and wrap his limbs around my body.

I stand up. He’s not as heavy as he might’ve been, given how little he’s eaten, but he’ll be a burden. Less of one with him on his feet, for sure, but the weight will throw me for a bit. And I’m not used to dual wielding, especially when my cannon typically requires two hands.

Still, I adjust. My forearm under the barrel, hefted to one side. Miroslav’s shotgun aimed the other way, so they formed a V. Attacking the sides, and if I shifted enough, the front.

The Force was within me, they’d said. The Force was within me, and . . .

I dive out into the main entrance. The expanse of the room is filled with agents of all types, weapons pointed out aimed for my face, but I let out a scream, and I rush into the fray with all the strength I have left.

The Force is within me. And I am its harbringer.

#harbringer #ji-yeong lyanther #miroslav ivanov #imperial agent #sis #swtor #star wars the old republic #tw chemical warfare #tw brainwashing #tw violence #my writing #fanfiction #the galaxy shattering around us

2 notes · View notes

alexanderwesker · 2 years

Note

You know i been thinking about this for a while and i think the modern irl soldiers could possibly harness the first creation of chemical warfare on the universe of the dsmp. You might be wondering how? Simple the modern irl soldiers have begun learning the revolutionary works of redstone engineering and since they knew there are potions could being made by hand why not make an splash or the other kind of potion i have forgetten that about.. and possibly insert inside the dispenser and with some redstone and redstone repeater that are connected on by an switch of an lever they could possibly done it...now the question is wether could work?! they could possibly made an extension room far away from the Deepmire crews and possibly built an testing chamber on it. Now they needed test subject and they someone borrow an wandering living lifestock outside the deepmire like first example chicken, cows and sheeps... or possibly an hostile mob like zombie, skeleton and creeper probably it could end in failure by calculations or caliberations but now after testing they made progress and it work now there's an moral dilemma that stands in their way the testing living human... everyone is hesitating to use one of the brothers in arms to be subjected on this morally wrong experimentation but one of their soldiers volunteering for being their first guinea pig test everyone on the modern irl soldiers is objecting against this but the sole soldier is very determine on it. After an few hesitation and such they agreed and added more precautionary measures for the safety of their brother in arms now they first tested the converted splash of poison at first the effects are not being seeing but after a few minutes the soldier begun coughing violently with an speck of blood oozing out of his mouth and from the outside of the testing chamber the modern irl soldiers are scrambling in their feet, panic lingering to their very core as 3 or 5 soldiers equipped with improvised hazmat suit and some wearing gas masks dragged their sole volunteer for the experiment swiftly out of the testing chamber they quickly gave the volunteer soldier an bunch of regeneration potions, potions of healing and glass of cow milk considering they have unlock the knowledge to wear off the effects of potions and possibly put it on a month or two for continue health observation and surprisingly the volunteer soldier have recovered quickly from the effects of the converted splash potions of poison. Now they have forbidden anymore human experimentation on anyone wether their are soldiers, or volunteers from their squads or any enemy soldier they could possibly captured on the near future... after an few weeks on they made an announcement one night after dinner to the members of Pogtopian Rebellions that they have firstly created the first weapon of chemical warfare on the dsmp universe! Now the question what would be the reaction of every members of Pogtopian Rebellions after learning a new method of weaponry never been before seen is on their hands? aside from cc! Wilbur and cc! Philza since they knew this from our world. And besides they only only only gonna use it when things became in vain like everyone is on the edge of very very death.

[Listen mun, i got to be honest this ask i am gonna sent to you are very very disturbingly, dark and such because of me learning of chemical weaponry and seeing them on action on the documentaries during the Great war on Europe i have watched if you felt very very uncomfortable after reading this ask or what if scenario i am 100% giving you the permission to deleted it out of existence even it takes me an hour or two making this and I'll promised that I'll never ever talk about any of this nor mention about it in the near future...]

What if anon.

Welcome back What-if Anon! Hmmm, I've to say this is a very interesting idea, and I can see that maybe happening, after all it would do good for the Rebellion to have more weapons with which they know would give them the upper hand in combat. The only think I doubt any would agree, even if the soldier offered as volunteer, would be experimenting on one of their own. The Burs would be absolutely opposed to it, Soot because he cares for his men and knows how dangerous self-experimentation with potions can be and Wilbur by the simple principle of 'we can't use our friends like this'. And I doubt any of the other Pogtopians would budge, which lets be honest would probably show the IRL Soldiers just how much more this world is different from theirs, and the fact that they, for the first time since joining the army, are valued more as people than simple assets by their superiors. I can see Soot suggesting to use fresh zombies though since they are still mostly human and not that affected by the magic that makes them walk again, if they have to test the effects of such weapons on something. [Don't worry!! I'm very fascinated by the darkest part of war (as I think you can tell from the fact that I don't shy away from describing it in my fics) and I won't tell you off for presenting me this scenario.]

#ask answered #more like comment replied #anon ask #what if anon #AToL/IRL Soldiers AU #fic AU #chemical warfare #fantasy science #a twin of light #[Wilbur Speaks]#tw: chemical warfare #tw: war

3 notes · View notes

miqojak · 3 years

Text

Bitter Pill

The music here is too peppy. The decorations, too gaudy - flashy, blinding you to the sickening cycle of consumption within these gilded walls.

I haven’t been here in a long while, but the Gold Saucer’s shitty wine is still familiarly sour on my tongue.

I have a few too many glasses of it, anyways.

Instead of heading to the Southern Front personally, I had some field notes brought to me. I’m glad I had the foresight to research, and not just...show up. The collected information leaves me...dazed, furious, and teetering perilously close to a place I’d rather keep avoiding.

Genetic testing. Chemical experiments. People, and creatures twisted into things that shouldn’t exist. Things biological and mechanical alike, fused in ways that make my stomach lurch, even now. Though, that could be the wine.

I remember when I was as addicted to this shitty casino as the somnus - anything to chase out the demons of Garlemald. There’s a familiarity, and a forced sort of cheer, here, that combines with my rancid disgust for those around me that...briefly distracts from the horrible truth of me.

What all did they do to me? Am I a shitty person because of who I am, or because of them? The anger that threatens to devour me day in and day out - is that me, or them? How much of who I am is me?

All of it now. It’s all that’s left. What I became under the pressure.

It’s hard not to get lost in that place again. It’s hard to look at myself in the mirror, and see spotless skin where scars should be...hard not to feel disgusted with myself for the blemish-less flesh...now scarred by other hands, though it will never bear the scars of the sins put upon me in years past; the weight of what I carry remains an invisible burden. A life sentence as surely as if I were still in a cage.

Everyone is gone, thanks to ‘testing’ like this, and I have nothing to show for my suffering - just one scar, on my nose, to remind me that I lost that first day. Their healing concoctions were rough on the body, even if they seemingly got the job done; it’s led me to worry, that - like my Wolf - I likely shouldn’t test the theory of how well my body will hold up under extreme duress. Too many times broken - and then mended by their ‘miracle drug’ in testing...a thing then still too volatile to use reliably on soldiers, or anyone that wasn’t a savage, or a ‘beastman’.

There’s no way to know what the long-term effects are, or how it’s changed me - I wasn’t supposed to live, ultimately. Or not for terribly long, at least.

Sour grapes bite back - at the tip of my tongue, spreading to tingle at the sides of as much, before it’s all washed down to join the rest.

I don’t think I do want to go to the Southern Front, anymore; it’s not a fear I can look in the face, at present - not a demon I can face down, in my current state. In fact, I should probably attempt to teleport across the world, and drink some tea that keeps the nightmares concerning as much at bay.

I finish the wine that no one should ever be asked to pay their own gil for, first.

#tw: PTSD #survivor's guilt #body dysphoria #recovering alcoholic has a few drinks #and second guesses facing her fears #she's only so brave #POW #war is hell #Garlemald #bio chemical warfare #genetic testing #[Becoming]

22 notes · View notes

genshin-obsessed · 3 years

Note

(Continuation, platonic, Toxin, Gun/Mars)

<sorry, honestly didn't expect this to go as long as it has. How about chemical warfare. Because Toxin=chemicals, warfare=Mars, roman god of war>

Well just because you can't change someone doesn't mean they're all bad. Everyone has reasons for how they turned out, even if it doesn't excuse their actions.

But even so, you have to try. Just look at me: I have started, on several occasions, wars in numerous countries by assassination, I've robbed banks, killed people because I was ordered to, I even stole forty cakes! What kind of madman does that?!

But I still got a second chance. And if I can, I don't see how anyone can't.

sounds good o: not sure if i'll be able to find the other asks lol

i think i kinda remember what i said last time o:

Toxin: she stared at him for a moment before speaking in a robotic voice did you commit genocide? Did you go to all 40 plus orphanages you created and slaughtered everyone inside? Did you stare at the faces of the children that you swore to protect as you brought down your sword and watched them bleed to death? Did you watch them beg for their lives- beg for mercy only to turn away and continue killing their brothers and sisters? Because if you did... then you have no right to speak to me that way. You're just as rotten as me. And no amount of good deeds can forgive your sins.

#character interaction #oc interaction #━✩ chemical warfare #i feel like this needs a tw #cuz like #it mentions murder?#tw: mentions of murder #tw: mention of death #yall lemme know if i need more

4 notes · View notes

swordrose-fluidflux · 3 years

Text

30th November: Day of Remembrance for all Victims of Chemical Warfare

The Conference of the States Parties to the Chemical Weapons Convention decided on a memorial “Day of Remembrance for all Victims of Chemical Warfare”.

This commemoration provides an opportunity to pay tribute to the victims of chemical warfare, as well as to reaffirm the commitment of the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW) to the elimination of the threat of chemical weapons, thereby promoting the goals of peace, security, and multilateralism.

Global chemical weapons ban - Background

“The history of the serious efforts to achieve chemical disarmament that includes the Chemical Weapons Convention began more than a century ago. Chemical weapons were used on a massive scale during World War I, resulting in more than 100,000 fatalities and a million casualties.“

However, chemical weapons were not used on the battleground in Europe in World War II. Following World War II, and with the advent of the nuclear debate, several countries gradually came to the realisation that the marginal value of having chemical weapons in their arsenals was limited, while the threat posed by the availability and proliferation of such weapons made a comprehensive ban desirable.

Adopted in 1993, the Chemical Weapons Convention entered into force on 29 April 1997. It determined, “for the sake of all mankind, to exclude completely the possibility of the use of chemical weapons.”

The States Parties to this Convention established the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons “to achieve the object and purpose of this Convention, to ensure the implementation of its provisions, including those for international verification of compliance with it, and to provide a forum for consultation and cooperation among States Parties.”

#chemical warfare #victims #chemical weapons #chemical weapons ban #world war #nuclear debate #international day #tw murder #tw massacre

0 notes

potteresque-ire · 3 years

Text

I humbly present a meta series on the Zhang Zhehan (張哲瀚) Incident, based on what has transpired up to 2021/08/22. I hope it provides the answers to the Asks I’ve got.

I must apologise for the length of the series, and the time I took to finish them. Given the gravity and complexity of its historical background, I thought the incident deserves a more detailed write-up (I learned a lot as well). For those from Zhang’s related fandoms who wish to read the backgrounds without reminders of the incident: Parts 1 to 3 are written with you in mind.

Under the cut is Part 1 of the five-part meta series:

1) The 2nd Sino-Japanese War (1937-45) & the Yasukuni Shrine 2) Post-War Sino-Japanese Relations; “Every Chinese should visit the Yasukuni Shrine” 3) The Summer of 2021: The Brewing Storms for One 4) My Thoughts on Zhang’s Incident, Part A 5) My Thoughts on Zhang’s Incident, Part B

(TW: Mentions of War Violence)

1) The 2nd Sino-Japanese War (1937-45) & the Yasukuni Shrine

I’d like to start this meta series with this important statement: the atrocities committed by the Imperial Japanese Army on the people of China between 1937 and the end of the Second World War (1945) were very, very real.

Roughly, the history went like this ~

On July 7th, 1937, the Japanese troops invaded China, still governed at the time by the Kuomintang (KMT; Nationalist) government. The Nanking Massacre (December 1937 - January 1938) was perhaps the most well known incident during that period. Ubiquitous looting and burning aside, over those six weeks, the Chinese civilian death count was estimated to be as high as 300,000. Soldiers competed to kill as many as they could. Up to 80,000 women (and children) were raped … and often, also disemboweled, or had their breasts sliced off, or their pregnant stomachs cut open, or had bayonets rammed through their bodies.

A 1937/12/13 Japanese-language news article about the “Contest to Kill 100 people using a Sword” (百人斬) between 2 Japanese Army Officers (Source)

(Here’s a link to more historical photos of the Nanking Massacre (WARNING: Graphic Violence)).

A notable consequence of this mass murder and rape—the Nanking Massacre was therefore also known as the Rape of Nanking—was that the Japanese army soon initiated a military prostitution network to reduce the rape of local women, the concern being the spread of sexually transmitted diseases among its ranks. Eventually, this network would force into sex slavery ~200,000 women from the then Japanese occupied territories, with most women from China, the Japanese colonies of Korea and the Philippines, making it the largest scale human trafficking and sexual slavery in modern history. These brothels became known as “comfort stations”, and the victims, “comfort women”.

A Japanese soldier posing with Korean comfort women (Source: WARNING: Graphic Violence)

Meanwhile, in the northeastern Chinese city of Harbin, Unit 731, the covert biological and chemical warfare research unit of the Imperial Japanese Army, carried out experiments that rivalled in brutality to those carried out in the Holocaust; these “researchers” also carried out “field studies”, dropping germ bombs and poisons into local lands and water sources. Altogether, the Japanese army was believed to be responsible for 20 million Chinese deaths between 1937 and 1945, a period also known as the Second Sino-Japanese War.

Unit 731 conducting a frostbite experiment on a live Chinese person, 1941 (Source)

(Here’s a link to historical photos of Unit 731 (WARNING: Graphic Violence)).

I stated, emphasised the above because while the events I’ve mentioned were generally accepted by the world as historical facts, there remains a vocal and powerful sector in the Japanese society — the Japanese Far Right — that denies their truth. During World War II, mentions of the massacre (and other articles and photos that portrayed the Imperial Japanese Army in an unfavourable light) were mostly censored. For decades after, Japanese textbooks omitted mentions of the Japanese invasion of China and the war crimes its Imperial Army committed, downplayed the severity of the crimes or kept their mentions extremely brief.

A Japanese student from the 1990s recalled her textbook devoting one sentence, and in the footnotes, about the Nanking Massacre, one sentence about the comfort women, and one sentence about atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Tokyo University professor Nobukatsu Fujioka claimed that no systemic massacre or rape occurred, that the victims were hired actors from the Chinese government and the comfort women were paid prostitutes. The New History Textbook, which Fujioka authored, was nonetheless approved by the Japanese Ministry of Education in 2001.

As recently as 2017, Japanese history textbooks that neglected to mention the death and rape count in Nanking remained in circulation; an author claimed the massacre was “communist propaganda”, and Koreans had been the ones exploiting the Japanese during Korea’s time as a Japanese colony.

Expectedly, this kind of history denial—and more importantly, the Japanese government’s tolerance, even encouragement of it—greatly upset the countries that were victims of Japanese military aggression during the 1930s and 40s. The publication of The New History Textbook in 2001 led to widespread protests in China, North and South Korea and also, in Japan—despite the approval to publish from the Ministry of Education, many history teachers in the country were against such historical revisionism, and few (though not zero) Japanese schools actually adopted the textbook. Nonetheless, Nanking Massacre denial remains common in public discourse, and is viewed as the staple of Japanese nationalist / far right discourse.

Another prominent symbol of Japanese nationalism? The Yasukuni Shrine (靖國神社).

The Yasukuni Shrine (Source)

The Yasukuni Shrine is a Shinto (神道, the Japanese indigenous religion) shrine founded all the way back in 1869, built to honour those who had fought for the Emperor Meiji. Its Honden (“main hall”) has mostly been reserved for those who have sacrificed for the country and its Emperor. Nonetheless, the war dead enshrined there isn’t limited to those who died in combat. War time nurses were included, as well as prime ministers who took part in the war effort, and students who committed suicide in shame after World War II.

The shrine is therefore huge in terms of the number of deceased it honours — 2.4 million names are listed, including those of children and even animals.

Among these millions of names, 14 of them are Class A criminals from World War II. They were collectively enshrined as the “Martyrs of Shōwa”, with Shōwa referring to the reign of Emperor Shōwa (better known by his personal name Hirohito) that spanned the decades leading to and after World War II (1926-1989).

What does “Class A criminals” mean? It means these 14 people had been convicted, by the 1946 International Military Tribunal for the Far East (aka, The Tokyo Trial, equivalent to the Nuremberg Trails in Germany), to have been involved in “the planning, preparation, initiation, or waging of wars of aggression”. Their enshrinement at the Yasukuni Shrine didn’t happen right after the war—when the Japanese government decreed that it should take place, the head priest at the time, Fujimaro Tsukuba, refused to comply. It was not until 1978 when Tsukuba’s successor and rejector of Tokyo Trial's verdicts, Nagayoshi Matsudaira, enshrined these war criminals.

The trial of Hideki Tōjō, the Prime Minister of Japan between 1941-44, on 1941/11/12. Tōjō was widely considered to be the most notorious among Japan’s war criminals from World War II, and was sentenced to death by hanging. Fearing the Japanese nationalists would steal his body to honour him, the U.S. Army cremated him and scattered his ashes into the Pacific Ocean. That didn’t stop the Japanese right wing from their remembrances, and Tōjō would become one of the Class A war criminals worshipped in the Yasukuni Shrine. (Source)

Today, the total number of war criminals in the Yasukuni Shrine remains at less than two thousand—a very small percent to the millions enshrined there.

With that said, I hope one can understand why visiting the Yasukuni Shrine is considered highly offensive to many who are familiar with World War II history in the Far East: it’s akin to visiting religious memorials dedicated to the Nazi’s highest command—enshrinement is, after all, more than just a burial; in Shinto religion, enshrinement frees the soul, or kami, of the deceased, transforms them into deities to be worshipped by their descendants.

I hope one can also understand why some of the highest officials of the Japanese government have elected to visit Yasukuni Shrine in an officially private capacity (ie, they officially state that they are visiting as private citizens; separation of religion and state is explicit in the Japanese constitution, thus politicians should not perform religious acts): the Yasukuni Shrine is a memorial for not only the 14 Class A war criminals, but millions of patriots who have died for their country.

These visits inevitably draw protests and heavy criticisms from the Chinese and Korean governments and their people, especially because visiting the Yasukuni Shrine is not exactly tradition. No Japanese emperors have visited the shrine since 1975 by Emperor Hirohito, who reportedly disagreed with the government’s decision to house the Class A criminals in the shrine and therefore, refused to visit after the decision had been made.

The prime ministers had also only made sporadic visits until Junichiro Koizumi (小泉純一郎), who was in office 2001-2006 and was also the president of the conservative, nationalist Liberal Democratic Party. While Koizumi avoided visiting the shrine on the anniversary of Japanese surrender (August 15th) until 2006, his yearly visits were interpreted to have a deeper—and to China, Korea, and the more liberal citizens in his native country—a troubling political meaning: the return of Japanese nationalism and Imperialism. Remember this meta started with the invasion of China, followed soon by a mention that Korea and the Philippines were also Japanese colonies? Japan—or, more accurately, the Empire of Japan, as the country was known pre-1947, did have imperialistic intentions before and during World War II. Multiple nations had been fully or partially annexed by Japan between 1931 and 1945 or, in their language, joined the “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere” (大東亜共栄圏).

The Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere in 1942, showing the extent of Japanese occupation or colonisation (Source).

The Yasukuni Shrine itself has also been accused of historical revisionism. Its museum, the Yushukan, still reportedly neglects to mention the atrocities committed by the Imperial Japanese Army including the Nanking Massacre, frames Japan’s invasion of multiple neighbour countries as saving these countries from Western colonial imperialism, and portrays Japan as being forced into World War II by the U.S.. The shrine has also rejected the proposal by the liberal / progressive Japanese parties to move the Class A war criminals to alternate burial sites, citing that housed kamis cannot be moved according to the Shinto religion.

Screenshot from Yushukan’s English-language visitor pamphlet, which describes Japan’s 1937 Invasion of China as “The China Incident”.

While the Yasukuni Shrine is a military shrine, it may be worth nothing that, given post-war Japan’s strict separation of state and religion, neither the Japanese government nor the Imperial family can control it in any way, such as requesting the shrine to update its museum materials. The Yasukuni Shrine is a private religious institution, and is controversial even within Japan itself.

Now that I’ve provided a bit of (hopefully accurate) historical background, I’d like to share a few thoughts I’ve had about it.

If atrocities committed in a war can be viewed as a debt that can/should be repaid, then, the Japanese government does owe this world at least one thing: a better education of its people about its history. Japanese spectators of international sports, for example, should understand why their fellow spectators recoil at the sight of the Rising Sun flag (kyokujitsuki) they bring along with them—the Rising Sun flag that isn’t Japan’s national flag, but the flag of its military since before World War II. The Rising Sun flag has therefore been viewed by many Koreans and Chinese as a symbol of Japanese military aggression and oppression during World War II—South Korea being, perhaps, the most vocal about opposing the flag’s appearance in international venues.

Photos from a controversial Japan vs S. Korea football game in 2013. Japanese fans raised the Rising Sun flag (Right; with its characteristic 16 rays). Korean fans brought a banner that said “A nation that forgets its history has no future” (Left). (Source)

The goal isn’t to bring shame to Japanese or their country, but to make sure the atrocities, the humanitarian crisis, will not happen again.

The conversations are, and will be very difficult. Some of you may be wondering… why can’t the Japanese government “own up” this piece of their past, denounce it like Germany has done to the Nazi regime, educates its youth in no uncertain terms that it was a mistake committed by their country? Is Japan really evil, as some of you may have read about online from Chinese fans recently? Does Japan truly have renewed imperialistic ambitions in its mind, want to … build another Co-prosperity Sphere?

Here’s one likely very simplistic explanation I can offer…you see, unlike modern Japan, Japan prior to 1947 was a mix of constitutional and absolute monarchy. Emperor Hirohito, like his 123 ancestors who had sat on the Chrysanthemum Throne, was officially the descendant of the goddess of the sun, Amaterasu. In its native language, the Japanese Emperor is Tennō (天皇), which translates to "Divine Emperor”—he was god-like. Some have therefore argued that Emperor Hirohito was at least partially accountable for the war crimes committed by the Imperial Japanese Army. After all, in Imperial Japan’s constitution, the Emperor had supreme command of the military; his approval was also required for the use of toxic gas by Unit 731, for example, and for declaring war against the United States. Some, however—with the U.S. being the most famous among this group—maintained that Emperor Hirohito, who, even then, was bound by the Imperial constitution to refrain from making political decisions, was merely a figurehead, held hostage by his military and innocent.

19th century woodblock print depicting the Japanese sun goddess Amaterasu, the ancestress of the Imperial Japanese family, emerging from her cave (Source).

In all cases, Emperor Hirohito was exempted from the Tokyo Trial. He continued his reign after the war, but with his power, and also, his divinity, stripped away. The Allies issued the Shinto Directive of 1945 to separate the Japanese state and the so-called State Shinto religion (which didn’t formally exist), claiming the latter to be responsible for Japan’s ultra-nationalism in the period. The Imperial family was saved, but not without a major “downgrade” in its power.

What would it mean for the Japanese government to talk openly and frankly about its war crimes then? It would mean making clear, admitting to one of the two choices: A) The Japanese Emperor was actually a powerless muppet of his military, despite being… The Emperor, the Descendant of the Sun; or B) The Japanese Emperor of most of 20th century, and the grandfather of their current Emperor (Naruhito), was a mass murderer, had blood on his hands. Lots of blood.

Unlike China, Japan has never changed its dynasty. The actual political power wielded by its imperial line has waxed and waned, but the Chrysanthemum Throne has always been the Chrysanthemum Throne. One can supposedly start with Emperor Naruhito of 2021, and trace back 125 times to Amaterasu. The Japanese emperors and their monarchy is, therefore, a far more integral, far more important part of the Japanese identity than even the most powerful Chinese emperor had been to the Chinese identity—after all, every Chinese dynasty fell; every “change of ownership” came with a different emperor’s surname, despite all Chinese emperors claimed to have been the son of the Heavens (天子). Oh, Chinese knew too that their emperors had actually started out from all walks of life, included a runaway official, even a beggar.

Whether this is the reason of not, the Japanese government has been reluctant to apologise for its war crimes, and when it does, the wording is often sparse, at times curious. Requests for reparations by its now very old, dwindling war vicim population—the comfort women, for example—was met with avoidance of acknowledging the violation of human rights in its actions. How has its victim countries responded to that then? And since our focus is ultimately on China, how has China, in particular, responded to that? The wrath online against Zhang’s visit to the Yasukuni Shrine … the fury must’ve been far worse before, right? When the wounds were fresh? When far more victims were alive?

Not really.

===

The Zhang Zhehan Incident Meta Series:

PART 1 <- YOU ARE HERE PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5

#pie metas #zhang zhehan #word of honor

379 notes · View notes

catparking · 4 years

Text

So it turns out tear gas should be classified as a nerve agent (but it isn't which is a whole different can of worms), and use of tear gas in war is a war crime as layed out in the 1993 Chemical Weapons Convention. Why then is it so commonly used against protestors, especially in the cases of peaceful protests? Oh right bc #acab.

Some more information on that as well as medical advice for responding to tear gas and pepper spray:

#acab #protest #chemical warfare #tw violence #george floyd #ahmaud abery #breonna taylor

0 notes

emachinescat · 3 years

Text

Poison + Mac + Paralysis

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat @whumptober2021 day 7 - My Spidey-Sense Is Tingling (helplessness, numbness)

Summary: When Mac is dosed with an experimental poison that slowly paralyzes him, he must rely increasingly on Jack to get him to exfil before it's too late.

Whumpee: Mac

Words: 3,640

Note: I am taking a lot of creative leeway with this poison. Though it is loosely based off of an existing toxin, I’m going to cling onto that moniker of “experimental” with my (or more accurately, Mac’s) dying breath. :) Also, this is NOT a death fic, despite appearances. It is also a two-parter (sorry!), to be continued on day 29 (again, sorry!). Enjoy!

TW: paralysis, deterioration of motor functions, suffocation

Jack Dalton studied his partner from across the small clearing, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as Mac slowly opened and closed his hands. Mac’s pupils were blown wider than the midday sun trickling down through the gaps in the leaves would warrant, and he watched his fingers curl and uncurl with an expression of uncomfortable fascination.

Jack’s feet hurt from running across the uneven, rocky terrain, but he heaved himself to his feet anyway and casually made his way over to his distracted partner. Mac actually jumped when Jack’s hand came down on his shoulder. His blue eyes did a poor job of hiding the anxiety behind them, which just made the alarm bells clang louder.

Lowering himself onto the dirt beside his friend, Jack asked with a calm he didn’t feel, “Mac? How’s it goin’, bud?”

Mac cleared his throat and stowed his hands in his lap, though Jack didn’t miss the way his eyes kept twitching down, or the way his fists continued to clench and unclench even as Mac strove to turn his attention to Jack. “Good. Hopefully once Riley gets us back online, we’ll be well on our way to exfil.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mac opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head and looked down again.

Real fear blossomed in Jack’s chest at Mac’s uncharacteristic behavior, and he decided that the subtle, friendly approach was out. “Okay, out with it, Mac,” he ordered abruptly, his Texas twang even more pronounced since he’d spent the last four days in the heart of the Southern US on a mission to take down an up and coming domestic terrorist group that had made their base in the heart of the Appalachians.

This mission involved some truly nasty stuff – including bioweapons and chemical warfare. This band of rogue scientists-turned-domestic terrorists – they called themselves Curis, which was, according to Mac, a rough Latin translation of healthcare – had been growing steadily in numbers and power over the past few months.

Matty’s intel, Riley's hacking skills, and some good old fashioned teamwork had eventually led them to the terrorist organization’s home base – an abandoned mental hospital in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, where poverty and corruption often turned a blind eye to crime. The Appalachians were the oldest in the U.S. and though they weren’t the most imposing any longer, they were rugged and pocked with sheer drops and steep inclines and populated with black bears, cougars, and a handful of venomous snakes. And enough superstition still lingered in those mountains that tales of Bigfoot and other urban legends and eldritch horrors kept most of the population well away from remote, unmapped insane asylums entombed within the craggy rocks, gaping caves, and thickly growing trees of the ancient mountain range.

Their mission was simple: Get into their base and steal the plans for their newest bioweapon, as well as any information they could snag on the organization itself. These mad scientists were a truly paranoid bunch and didn’t keep digital records of their research, clients, or future plans, so there had been no way to hack the information. Riley had still made herself invaluable from the Phoenix when it came to navigating the winding corridors of the mental facility, though.

Jack had wanted to go ahead and take the whole operation down while they were there, but Matty had ordered that under no uncertain terms were they to take this organization on by themselves. This mission was mostly reconnaissance, as most of the intel Matty had been able to procure had been … extracted from a tight-lipped lower-level member they’d lucked upon last week. Until they knew the scope of this organization and exactly how they operated, this was a grab-n-go mission only (Jack’s words, not Matty’s).

And so they’d grabbed. They’d tried to go, but one of the guards hadn’t had his radio on, and since the radio waves were how Riles had been keeping track of and helping them avoid their enemies, Mac and Jack had been caught by surprise. Still, after a few exchanged punches and some hardcore sprinting, the pair had made it back to a nearby clearing without serious injury. Jack had some bruised ribs and Mac had been knocked into an industrial shelving unit filled with beakers and jars and vials and had a sore back and a shallow cut on his arm to show for it, but otherwise, they’d made it out with their prize only a tiny bit worse for the wear.

Or so Jack had thought.

He knew Mac well enough to realize that his partner was hiding something from them, something that had him worried. Mac worried was scary enough – this was the man with the plan, the dude who exuded a natural confidence 24/7 because he was smart and resourceful enough to get himself out of pretty much any predicament. The few times Jack had seen Mac truly worried he could count on one hand, and each time had involved the direst of circumstances. And if Mac felt the need to hide whatever was scaring him, that just meant things were even worse than Jack had realized.

“C’mon, hoss,” Jack urged when Mac didn’t immediately respond. “How bad is it? What are you hiding?”

Mac’s face flushed red, and he crossed his arms over his chest. Finally, his fingers were still, but it was an unnatural stillness – Mac was always moving, always fidgeting, always working on something. To see Mac’s hands hanging almost limp from his wrists carved a great pit in his stomach, a pit that was promptly overflowed with panic as Mac finally, eyes bright with fear, answered honestly.

“I think… I think it’s bad.” His voice was barely even a whisper. “Really bad.” He turned his neck and Jack’s blood froze. There, sticking out of Mac’s neck, was a small dart, probably from a blow gun.

Jack swallowed hard, almost choking on the lump in his throat as he plucked the dart from Mac's neck and carefully pocketed it. “Okay,” he said softly, determined to keep his voice low, even, and calm. If Mac were already on the verge of panic, then Jack’s own fear would only send him spiraling. For Mac’s sake, he had to keep a level head, figure out how to fix whatever the hell was wrong with Mac, and get to exfil before night fell. “Okay,” he said again, then took a deep breath and let it out through his teeth. “What’s going on, Mac? What’s wrong with your hands?”

“It must have happened sometime during the fight or as we were running away. I didn’t even realize I’d been hit until we made it to safety, and by that time, my hands…” He trailed off. “Jack… That bioweapon they were working on, I don’t think it was only in the planning stages like we thought.”

Jack felt bile rising in his throat. All he knew about the poison was that it was an experimental paralytic. Even though he now knew with certainty the answer to his question, he couldn’t stop from asking it again, perhaps in the vain hope that it wasn’t what he thought. “Mac. What is wrong with your hands?”

Mac’s voice broke and his face was tight with fear as he answered: “I can’t feel them, Jack.” A deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t move them at all.”

***

Less than half an hour later, Mac stumbled after Jack, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He’d lost full control over them far quicker than he’d anticipated. When he’d realized that he’d been exposed to the not-quite-as-hypothetical-as-they’d-hoped paralytic agent, he’d expected it to act similarly to the poison this new toxin was being developed from, which offered a slow and horrific death via paralysis.

“So tell me,” Jack called back as he struggled through the choking sea of undergrowth, brambles, and what looked like a healthy amount of poison ivy (Mac was very thankful for their thick, protective boots). “What exactly is runnin’ through your veins right now?”

The Tennessee air was thick, muggy, and humid, and Mac felt like he was swimming rather than walking through it. Sweat poured down his face in thin rivulets that felt almost like tears. They tickled, or maybe that was just the mosquitos. Mac wanted more than anything to scrub his hand across his face, but no matter how urgently he willed his arm to move, nothing happened. His stomach twisted in a stark terror he had never felt before, and the icy claws of panic tore at his chest like a caged monster trying to escape.

He knew that Jack was just trying to make sure he knew what they were dealing with. He also knew that the Phoenix had already called in one of the leading toxicologists in the country, and that this specialist and his friends were listening in over the comms, silently analyzing everything he said, doing everything possible to prepare for Mac’s return. The more information they had, the better chance they would have of reversing the effects. Of saving his life.

Mac swallowed heavily, forcing any lingering anxiety out of his voice. He knew Jack was barely hanging on at this point, and if he showed weakness, revealed to his partner how scared he really was, then that would heighten Jack’s own worry. The guy was already under enough stress as it was. He adopted what Jack affectionately (or irritably, depending on the circumstance) coined his “Einstein voice.” This was a tone and cadence he’d learned growing up with an emotionally distant and highly logical father. He liked Riley’s term for it, Macsplaining, only slightly better.

“I didn’t get a chance to read through all the research notes,” he panted, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. “But from what I did see, this experimental toxin is based upon curare poison.”

“Who-rah-ray?” Mac’s lips curved into a slight smile as Bozer’s voice crackled over the comms. Of course Boze was still there, listening, waiting, there. He had always been there for Mac.

“Curare,” Mac repeated. “It’s derived from resources natural to the Amazon. A powerful paralytic. It’s how many native tribes hunt for game – and a variation of the formula is used in war as well.”

“So, these scientists just took this curare poison and, what, modified it?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Riles,” Mac huffed. His foot caught on a tree root and he pitched forward into Jack’s back, his arms swinging uselessly at his sides.

“Whoa, partner,” Jack said gently, and his dark eyes were glittering when he turned to steady his friend. “Maybe we should take a quick breather.”

Mac shook his head almost frantically. Though this variation was taking longer to incapacitate than curare itself, he could already feel the tingling in his feet. He needed to press forward for as long as he could. If he was right about the poison’s properties, he’d be unable to walk on his own soon. Unable to move at all a bit after that. When his vocal cords seized up, he’d be unable to talk.

Instead, he insisted, “No, I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” He plowed ahead, pushing past Jack in his haste to do something other than sit around and wait for his body to betray him. Addressing his friends back at the Phoenix, he explained, “All I know is that they used curare as the baseline for their experiments. I’m guessing they wanted to refine it, make it more potent, or at least easier to mass produce and distribute over large populations in a less concentrated form.”

“So what happens now?” Bozer’s voice was subdued, anxious, though Mac could tell he was trying not to show it. “I mean, if the poison keeps doing its thing?”

If this new toxin behaved similarly to curare, his lungs would freeze and he would suffocate, betrayed by his own body. A shudder passed through him. No need to bring that up to his friends yet. Maybe this poison had been adapted to incapacitate without causing death. Considering the people who had developed it, that scenario was very unlikely, but Mac found himself unable to voice the grimmest of possibilities aloud. Mac forced his teeth to unclench, the roaring panic having locked his jaw in place and hedged, “Based upon how quickly the paralytic is taking effect, I could be completely paralyzed in a couple of hours.” Given Jack’s face at this sugar-coated answer, Mac was glad he’d left the worst part out for now.

With any luck, they’d make it to exfil and be on their way to a hospital before Mac’s body began its final betrayal.

***

They were forced to take a break fifteen minutes later when Mac’s legs finally stopped working. Jack caught him right before he could crash onto the mossy ground and carefully propped him against the smooth trunk of a great birch tree. Mac allowed his head to flop back against the papery bark in exhaustion as Jack carefully arranged his legs in front of him. The numbness in his body had taken residence in his soul, and Mac watched the proceedings with a detached interest.

At least he wasn’t in pain, he thought. In fact, he felt nothing at all as Jack gently jostled the limbs. His partner could have slammed his feet into the ground and Mac wouldn’t have noticed unless he had watched Jack do it. Of course, with the lack of pain came the lack of control over his extremities and the increasingly real knowledge that this paralytic was working far too quickly for his liking and that he would soon be struggling to breathe, and that his death would not be anywhere as painless as his arms and legs were now.

Jack finished with Mac’s legs and stooped over his bag, pulling out a canteen of water. “Hey, Mac,” he said quietly, like he was addressing a spooked horse. “How about we get some water in ya?”

Mac shook his head and panic lanced through the blissful nothing he’d been feeling as the familiar tingle that foretold paralysis flared through his neck muscles at the movement. He hadn’t even realized his stomach had turned into the North Sea, with great waves of sickness swirling around, until he said it. Logically, he knew he needed to stay hydrated, especially since his ability to swallow could soon be taken away from him, but the thought of drinking or eating anything summoned bile to his throat.

Before Jack could argue, Matty’s voice sizzled over the comms. She, Bozer, or Riley had been busy planning Mac’s extraction and treatment with Dr. Bonner, the toxicologist, but someone had been checking in about every ten minutes. “How’s our boy doing, Jack?”

Mac watched languidly as Jack valiantly strove to keep his face arranged into a facade of calm and failed to keep his voice steady, “He’s, uh, hangin’ in there, boss.”

Matty’s voice was firm but kind as she scolded, “I appreciate your attempt at levity, Jack, but Dr. Bonner needs a real answer. Mac?”

Mac cleared his throat and somehow managed to find his voice. “I… uh, the toxin is progressing slower than curare, but I’m beginning to suspect that’s what Curis was working toward. It’s very possible they are trying to drag out the paralysis to build fear. Maybe as a torture technique.” Certainly effective in that regard, he thought darkly.

“That’s all well and good, Mac, but she didn’t ask about the poison,” Jack reminded Mac gently, squatting down in front of his younger friend so that they were eye level. “How are you?”

“I have lost complete control over the skeletal muscles in my arms and legs,” Mac answered brusquely. “My neck is starting to weaken as well.”

“What about your chest?” With all of her hardness and training, Matty couldn’t quite keep the anxiety out of her voice. Of course Matty knew about the final stages of the poison. The toxicologist would have informed her of what to expect.

Jack, however, had heard no such thing. “Chest? Matty, what are you talking about? Mac didn’t mention anything about chest paralysis.” Jack’s voice was now tinged with panic he could no longer hide.

Mac sighed. “I didn’t want to worry you–” At Jack’s incredulous look, he added, “–more than you already were, but… If this poison behaves like curare, then the final stage is paralysis of the lungs.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Mac knew that Jack understood exactly what it meant, but he was clinging desperately onto any hope that he might be wrong, much like Mac himself had done earlier.

Matty, never one to hold her punches, answered, her tone clipped and scared: “It means that you need to get back on the move, Dalton. If Mac’s lungs seize up before you he can get medical help, then he will suffocate.”

“Shit,” Jack swore loudly, his dark eyes glittering as he regarded Mac, limp against the tree.

“Shit,” Matty agreed, and Mac couldn’t help but chuckle at her assessment. She pressed on: “Okay, so as you know, we’ve rerouted exfil to the smallest nearby clearing that can fit the chopper. It’s going to be a squeeze and we wouldn’t normally risk it, but we need Blondie in a hospital, stat. Still, you’ve still got about five miles to go, and it’s not exactly the easiest terrain, so let’s hustle.” Jack nodded even though he knew Matty couldn’t see him, and he grunted as he rose to his full height. He still held the canteen loosely in one hand and was about to pack it again when Matty added, “Oh, and Jack – the doctor says to get as much water into his system as you can – and Blondie, don’t you dare fight him on this. It’s only a matter of time before your throat muscles stop working, and we’re not fighting this hard to save you from this toxin just to lose you to dehydration.”

Although the mere thought of the water made Mac’s stomach clench, he tried to nod, found he couldn’t, and swallowed heavily, grateful that he could still do that, at least. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jack’s hand carefully cupped the back of his head and tilted it back, though Mac felt neither his touch nor the motion. He managed to get a few good gulps of water in him before he felt his throat muscles weaken, a strangled gurgling sound the only indication that he was choking. Jack pulled the canteen away and leaned back, guilt festering in his eyes, but he didn’t apologize. Mac knew it was because he couldn’t find the words to say, and honestly, Mac was glad.

It’s not like he would be able to respond now, anyway.

Jack lifted Mac from the ground and held him like a bride – a floppy, ragdoll of a bride – as they made their careful way toward exfil and prayed they wouldn’t be too late.

***

It was nearing dusk when they made it to the clearing, the helicopter pressed in on all sides by trees. The mosquitos had called their friends with the promise of a great meal, and Jack and Mac were covered in itchy bites that only Jack could feel.

Mac was completely limp in his arms, his body dead weight, head lolling back against the crook of Jack’s arm, face lax and pale. He hadn’t spoken for a couple of hours at least, unable to form words or use his vocal cords, but his eyes remained open. His chest still rose and fell somehow, and despite the cocktail of fear and acceptance swirling in Mac’s glassy eyes, his breathing was slow and steady, almost calm. Jack suspected that Curis had somehow managed to manipulate the poison to attack certain parts of the body first for optimal torture. He didn’t have any clue how anyone could do that, or if it were even possible, but the systematic way that Mac’s motor functions had deteriorated, leaving at last only his lungs and eyes with full range of motion, was too cruel to not be deliberate torture, he was sure of it.

It had been hours since Mac lost the ability to move the muscles in his face, but the toxin hadn’t seemed to progress any further and Jack was beginning to hope that maybe this modified version of the curare poison was only meant to incapacitate and not actually kill. It was as he laid Mac down on the waiting stretcher that he saw the slightest of shifts in Mac’s eyes, the anxiety turning to panic, and his eyes traveled down to see that Mac’s chest was jerking, spasming, as his kid desperately fought the paralysis that was now creeping into his lungs.

Jack forced himself to step back as the field medics that accompanied every exfil – sorely undertrained for something like this but welcome all the same – swarmed the stretcher. Jack’s mind was spinning, his whole body screamed at him to do something, to help, to save Mac, but there was nothing he could do, Mac was suffocating, God, please, no, he was dying, and there was nothing Jack could do.

Jack’s eyes found Mac’s face once more and his heart skipped a beat as he saw his kid was still alert, still fighting. His filmy blue eyes were fixed stolidly on Jack, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“I’m here, kid,” Jack called out, his voice lost in the urgent voices of the men and women trying to save Mac’s life. “I’m here.”

Mac blinked, slowly, with difficulty, and then his eyes went wide, rolling back into his head. Wet eyelashes fluttered closed, and Jack watched, helpless, paralyzed as his entire world collapsed around him.

36 notes · View notes