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auriel187 · 3 years

Text

Purgatory Ch.1

Word count: 8500 (around)

Warnings: Creepy Capitals being Creepy Capitals...

Pairings: None yet (ship who you want)

The Conclave

In times I tremble, I hold onto my heart knowing their safety is more important than my own.

In krono mhe slipp lowa, mhe kep onto mi beeta knowing demens secur is masal imprativ than mi own.

Eulalia

The cityscape was unapologetically urban. There were no trees or city planted blooms, just monoliths of concrete and glass soaring out of the sidewalk in an exact grid pattern. At night it was beautiful in it's own way, there were so many lights. By day you relied on the sky to let you know that it wasn't a monochromatic world; just one in which the people were too busy for life. For over a generation progress had meant the teaching of specific skill sets to the children of The Felicity and The Hope Rises. In most parts of this city we only work and eat, there was no time to sweep fall leaves or plant spring flowers, so they eliminated them. It was sad how mundane and rigid life became. There was no beauty, hardly even enough to notice the blue above. With no more designers, our clothing and cars never change, there are five styles of everything in Ellis, but you’ll very rarely see different districts dressed the same way. In this way our city outperforms those in the region.

In the mind of the young outcast I used to be, it was like a story to me. One that became more and more like a nightmare as time ripped every shred of innocence from my life.

The coldness of the slate tile and it's dampness seeped through the thin polyester trousers my brother, Hami, had stolen from the market. With knees pulled tight to my pronounced rib cage I shivered in the early morning chill. In this poor light the roof-tops spread in every direction like great grey serpents with rectangular scales. Only the red brick chimneys ruined the illusion, but in this light they were just as monochromatic as everything else, the slate, the swirling smog, the streets that were never deserted, the unfriendly sky with its dense cloud robbing me of the sunrise. From here I could see what a maze this borough was, every house three stories and each joined to the next. The streets curved as if laid down on a whim a few centuries ago before anyone had conceived of a grid pattern idea.

There I’d stay while I waited for school to begin, in my ripped khakis and oversized faded maroon shirt. There I’d stay telling myself stories of brave heroes who had it all wishing I could be one of them. Hungry, cold and tired from all the city had to give me, was it selfish of me to wish this on the little girl in my class who called me by the wrong name telling me I’d live the rest of my life covered in mud and shit and drinking out of a clogged gutter?

From the Mass, you could see all the things to love about the city, and there was a lot to love about this city. It was one thing I loved about Capital Hill. From the high arches in the towering glass buildings to the balconies that look over the sea of homes and businesses. It was one of the things I never had back home. The views from here were stunning. I could see The Torch glistening in the golden rays of sunlight, and the sense of safety that fills me is almost overwhelming. “Miss Suarez,” I heard behind me as I felt the soft breeze hitting the apples of my cheeks. The stray hairs behind my ears flailed about behind my ears as I turned to face the intruder now standing before me. He practically filled the doorway, in his uniform that made him look more like a cinder block than a man. His half shaved black hair glistened in the light before he took a step toward me. “The work day is over for you. There’s gonna be a Conclave later this evening at The Torch.”

I tried to keep my face as neutral as possible, but judging by the way he held back his laughter I guess I failed. “What for?” I proceeded on as if I didn’t realise the cameras were there, and Seraphineas was living for it. Now it was his turn to roll his eyes as he chuckled boredly, “Maybe it’s another execution...or maybe they’re announcing a new system in place that only benefits them.” It was impossible not to hear the humour in his deep voice as he mocked the Capitals and the past Conclaves. Of course, knowing that he would never say anything like this in front of his other guard buddies really put a damper on things. He must’ve seen my fading smile because he immediately turned to walk me out. I slipped into the elevator, the wall of glass turned into a mirror. I see why people assumed we were related. We were both relatively tall, him at six feet and myself at almost five foot eight. Thin figures adorned with muscle that came from our unique forms of exercise. “The Conclave begins at five. You’ll be charted too so be careful.” Phineas warned me as we exited the elevator just before we parted ways.

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. You’d think something like that would bother a girl, but no. I’ve lived in this city my whole life. A girl gets used to the threats disguised as requests. They don’t just crash suddenly before you like lightning in a storm, I’ve known them to be the sudden raindrop before a downpour. It reminded me of the unease I felt every time I entered The Felicity. The Capital Hill district was beautiful. With their grand buildings and picturesque views, it was easy to say how much nicer it was then The Barrens or The Shadows. It was just another monster behind the curtain. A puppeteer pulling the strings of laws and lives of the people around them. They were an oxygen mask filled with poisonous gas to anyone that wasn’t their own. Luckily, I was close enough for them to view my life worth saving if shit ever happened.

I was a Regal now. Almost thirty eight percent of the population, we were almost untouchable in the eyes of society. We were privileged and we knew it, most of us acting like assholes because of it. I knew better. I used to be part of the forty two percent of Ellis. In short, my family was living ration to ration, sick and in a small house that was barely standing. I had a mother who worked her ass off just to come home to four kids and a father I barely knew because he was off working the most shifts he could. Unfortunately, the whole family plan didn’t work out when my mother and brothers all got Galixx, leaving only my dad and I.

I think we lived because we weren’t always home. I was the only one who went to school. Maybe if they didn’t think to send me away, I could’ve been with them. Instead, I left for school everyday and came home one day to my crying mother holding my brother, Devis, whose face was covered with sweat, dirt and tears as he coughed up blood. I turned and ran outside my home and began screaming until I found one of the town guard. I don’t know who long it took me to find him but when we got back, my mother was wailing and begging for the guard to take me away as she started coughing between her sobs.

I went to bed that night with tear stains running down my face, and to make matters worse, I was completely alone. I didn’t call anyone, simply sitting in my room with my eyes screwed shut until I eventually dozed off.

I woke up the next morning with a guard outside ready to escort me to my new home. My new home in The Hope Rises. It was nicer than my old home there was also more room up here not that my dad would be spending much time at home. It didn’t matter though, I was never completely alone. We all had our own family, mine just came in the form of Tauriel.

She was at the root of most of my happy memories. From my first day of school when she braided my hair and told me stories from books she had read from before the bunkers opened. I’d spend some nights at her house doing homework. She never really paid attention to anything aside from Earth Class. It was considered a Rogue class, but that didn’t stop a few Blends from coming in. Maybe she was interested because of the books she read of mountains that reached clouds, or butterflies with bright wings and this class was the closest thing to actually learning about them. She just wanted a world beyond these walls. I understood that. It just made us better friends. Even when I changed districts, we were still inseparable.

But, as Murphy’s Law dictates, “Everything that can go wrong will.” It was one of those days where Tauriel’s mom and I were baking for some Capital party. One of the snobby events where they needed catering and waiters. Zenobia, Tauriel’s mother, had been working for hours and seemed glad to have the assistance of a twelve year old. I had been decorating the large cake when I heard screaming from outside. Zenobia quickly ran to the window and nearly passed out. I muttered ‘Tori?’ before I was out the front door, seeing three guards trying to cuff her and shocking her into submission. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Her mom asked, trying to make it for her child. “Your child hacked into a government system with intent to distribute information.” I saw red, almost jumping on the guard closest to me. “She’s eleven, you lunatics!” Her mother reached for her daughter and the guard holding her hit her in the stomach. Tauriel and I froze. I didn’t know where to look. From the guard beating Zenobia to the guards dragging Tauriel to a large truck and throwing her in. I took a step in Tauriel’s direction and regretted it instantly.

A loud clang echoed behind me and Zenobia was lying on the ground, the guard walking to the truck without a second thought. When I ran to the unconscious woman, the truck drove away and I was stuck. Do I run for help or do I stay with her? I couldn’t shake the memory of my mom and Devis and what if I could just have faster? I need to stay with her. I’m not risking it again.

“Miss Fa Suarez?” I heard a voice say from behind me. I only turn my head but I stay pretty much in place as the swaying of the shuttle brings me back to the world I should be in. “It’s your stop.” He looks concerned. In his words, I’m usually ‘sharp as a tack’. I walk to the front of the shuttle and reach into my pocket. He’s here everyday. From my six AM trips to The Felicity straight to my trips back home at eight PM. “Take a day.” I say handing him my fair, plus another tip for waiting for me to get off. He never accepts my tips, but that doesn’t stop me from stuffing it in the small basket where he keeps his personal belongings. “This is why I got you these. Tell that sister yours I said to eat.” He handed me four wraps. I nodded my thanks at the sweet old man. “My love to the greats.” He laughed at my words before watching to make sure I descended the shuttle safely.

I turned towards my building. A large gold bricked building not very many stories high, but it was honestly much smaller on the inside than one would think when examining the building from outside. The air was cold here, it always was. With Tauriel constantly in the garage and having several pieces of machinery, the cool air prevented her and I from becoming casualties of her rage. She only ever got into tinkering when she was pissed. Based on the loud echoing clanking I could hear echoing from downstairs, I figured she’d need time to cool off and maybe put down whatever large metal object was colliding with her desk. In any sense, we had to be at a Conclave in a few hours.

My room wasn’t very big, only enough space to place my bed and two drawers. The room already had a large closet in the back so it’s not like I needed much in here anyways. The bronze and turquoise lights that swirled designs in my room. The premise of light and shadow was always appealing to me, maybe because it accrued anywhere and remained a natural part of life no matter what district you lived in. I headed towards my closet in search of something formal for the Conclave. I was never one for overt femininity, having been taught at a young age to not give a crap about what I look like and to just get the work done. That being said, I always managed to find a dress or two that I really did like. Scouring through pieces of cotton and linen, I stopped suddenly when I saw it again. A distressed brown leather coat.

It was just a jacket. It was just a stupid leather jacket with a padded quilt patch on the left elbow and a crap ton of buckles. There were faded letters on the left chest and a sort of mesh material that would cover my knuckles. It was just a jacket, and I loved it. Like a hidden piece of me that I never really show. This jacket screamed Rogue in uppercase letters. I loved that, even though I hadn’t been a Rogue in sixteen years. It almost felt wrong to wear it sometimes. Like I was an impostor trying to pass as something I wasn’t. I wasn’t even close.

I always envied Tauriel in that regard. Despite living here in The Regal Ward, The Hope Rises, with me, she never seemed to fear being shunned for not attempting to fit into the higher classed district. Fiercely adorning leather and denim in her everyday attire, she looked more like a Rogue than a Blend. Then again, why try fitting in when the world already looks down on you. Being that Tauriel’s district accounted for only one percent, and having been around Rogues most of her life it was easy to understand why she might be more comfortable in leather and studs.

“Are you wearing that tonight?” I heard her ask behind me. I should’ve figured she was on her way up when the banging and crashing ceased. I was holding the jacket in my hands, my fingers running over the cuff. “No...it doesn’t go with anything I own.” I gave my reply, letting my eyes drift past the coat and toward some of the other items of clothing in the confined space. I grab an old dress. The ornate gold dress collar along the black halter top matched the asymmetrical leaves on the red rose skirt. If it still fits like I remember, it should stop a little above my knee. “I’ll be in the shower. Do you…” before I could even finish asking, she responded. “Yes.” And with that, I left.

I spent almost thirty minutes in the bathroom, I was wrapped in my robe with my hair soaking wet. In the mirror, I hold my own gaze for just a second before taking into account how tired I must look. The bags under my eyes were devastatingly prominent. I don’t look at myself often, too afraid to not recognize myself from the old photos I had hanging in my room, and I was right. My features are sharper now, more pronounced jaw, higher cheekbones, and my eyes look more almond than monolid. I look like my mom. Though her hair was shiny black and mine was dark brown and my eyes are slightly darker than hers, I can still see it sickeningly clear. I placed my hand on the scar on my neck, remembering where my birthmark used to be. Descended from Natives and Malaysian ancestors, teachers at school would tell me that the very DNA in my bones held more history than our textbooks.

I’d know. I read them all.

It wasn’t much but keeping my hair down with a braid securely clipped behind my ears, neither Tauriel nor I had any makeup so my bare face and simple hairdo, Just dry your tears and fake a smile. Nobody wants to see a Regal cry. “You know, your eyes are going to get all puffed up. Here.” Tauriel stood behind me clutching a bottle of eye drops. I smiled at my oldest friend before I slung my arm over her shoulder and we walked to her room. I could never imagine my life without her. At this point, she was all I had to live for.

My little sister. I would walk from Heaven to Hell (and everywhere in between) for.

Tauriel

I always hated Conclaves. They always seemed too public. Ironic when you think about it. The word ‘conclave’ actually meant private meeting so the large citywide events seemed like a lie. I felt almost pageant-ish, told to look my best because of how many “eligible bachelors” there were. I honestly just think it’s because the Capitals would never want to be seen with the lower districts in our ‘rags and cheap coats’. In my opinion, the clothes the lower districts could afford only seemed to make the Capitals look more classy, almost like they were subtly jabbing at us in a way that said “haha, even in your best you’re not at level with our best.” And if we were looking to impress the eligible, more attractive people, The Rogues held that trophy for decades. Honestly, the glassy dullness of Capitals creeped me out. I wasn’t the only one who thought that either, the distinct features of each district were almost immediately identifiable.

The Capitals, born and raised in Capital Hill (aka The Felicity) had the most interesting eyes in the world, very distinctive for their central heterochromic irises that housed multiple colours at a time. That and the fact that most of them were fat faced from being able to eat was a dead giveaway. They look like the Bill Nye bobblehead Eulalia had on her desk. Capital also wore their hair short. I never understood why, but long hair was a sign of rebellion against the “oppressive and derogatory order of the Capital men.” I’ll give you one guess what demographic was saying shit like that. I’ll give you a hint, they steal daddy’s cards and mommy’s rocks to go flirt with the Rogue boys much to the disapproval of the elders. Acting like they were edgy for going through the same phase as their mothers did, before they realize that Rogue men don’t give a fuck about rocks unless it gets them paid.

The Regals were similar, wearing their hair slightly longer. Most had extremely lean frames due to the training most of them worked for since the age of six to become a guard. The Regal Ward housed most of the idiotic soldier boys, I was honestly surprised when a Regal came along and decided that they would rather sell booze to the city rather than tote a gun and act like you owned the place. Most regal women (like Eulalia) studied for the higher grades, like doctors and lawyers. It was cool to see Regals, though. Their tag was their hair. Yes it was usually cut short but I think they made up for it with the silver that rimmed their hair from birth.

Rogues were almost unbelievable in their district appearance. They had all the most beautiful features from their naturally sharp jawlines with either dimples or freckles (sometimes both). The boys usually had long hair, mostly because the Government didn’t think it was a good idea to give Rogues and Infects access to sharp edged tools, partly because most of them thought they looked tough. They were all ripped, boys and girls from years of literal heavy lifting. I always considered myself lucky to be a Blend in that regard. We always got some kind of Rogue gene. I dawned dimples. My Jawline wasn’t as defined but I had that feature and I was glad I did. Eulalia was of Native descent so her bone structure resembled a statue carved of marble.

Eulalia kept fidgeting with the metal collar on her dress, her jacket fitting her narrow frame as the dress hung above her knees. I know for a fact how much she hated wearing tight, single layers. Regales often wore baggy jumpers with tattered looking overlayers. It was the perfect look for her. Mostly Regal but with an obvious Rogue history. “Hey.” I whispered, her head snapping down to me due to her not only being a few inches taller than me but in heels nearly the same height Seraphineas. “You okay?” I asked. The huge influx of people walking towards The Torch, once a mighty statue.

She always had this moment where she stands just out of view of the guard. The Conclaves would separate people based on district and having only recently (not recently) turned twenty one, the word Regal was now branded on her identifications, she still felt like a traitor for standing with them. She nodded, softly patting my hand before walking towards the desk. I did the same.

“Hold out your hand please.” A woman asked, holding a large glass plate with a few small censors out to me. It was cold under my palms as it scanned the fingerprints. My face appeared on a small screen in front of the woman. It must’ve had the words Bruise in big block letters because the demeanor of this woman changed as she stared me down. She quickly gripped my arm and clasped a large silver cuff on my wrist. Could she feel me rolling my eyes at this? I huffed a laugh at her attempt to be nonchalant. She has to know how obvious it is that she now fears a twenty three year old. I stared at the blinking light as I walked through the stone arch that led to the city center. The four sectors were at least proportional to the Districts population, Blends/ Bruises having the least amount of people. I stood in the back, my eyes glancing over to the Regal section where I attempted to find Eulalia. I can see Seraphineas walking down the row and walking towards the back of the section. The silver streaks in his shortened hair I can recognize immediately, even in the sea of silver headed citizens. He liked to dye his hair darker, I know he tries to keep his hair as neutral as possible as to not get busted right away when he gets sent undercover, but that only made the silver look like a slate blue.

The microphone screamed. A short, sickly woman stood on the stage with a tall, semi healthy looking man. They were Capital to the heights accord. The Jevons to be exact. They were the parents to three kids. Spoiled like asshats as most people like to call them. They come to the Mopes once a week. They go thrifting cause it sounds real fun and looks real cool when a Capital is down to get down, while they wear their false lashes that wave like flags to the men here. I can see their eldest, a girl by the name of Apathy and yes she lives up to her name. A narcissist who spends her time ridiculing the districts for the fact that The Felicity robs us blind. Places like The Barrens and The Bounds were trash holes where the people should bow down and kiss her feet. The only reason she even dares cross the boundary is to find a piece of ass they’d dump after a month anyway.

Even now, Apathy and Power (yes, Elodora and Zenier Jevon named their son Power) were basking in the spotlight of Capital glory, whilst Anarchy, the youngest, was staring off into the Regal section with her lower lip between her teeth. Apparently mommy and daddy’s speech was a bore. She really thought she was somebody though. Her honey gold tresses dangle to her lower back rather than the neatly buzzed pixie most of the women wore.

“We celebrate another year of safety and sanctity behind the walls of Ellis...” The woman on stage spoke in a shrill voice that instantly made my whole brain throb. Can this day get any better? Well yes actually. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the one and only October Vervent. I was nearly four years older than him and I'm thoroughly convinced he’s been taller than me since birth. I slowly weaved my way through the section to find the taller young man. I pat his shoulder causing him to jump slightly and smile almost immediately. His mother was a Rogue, just like mine. His jawline was more rounded, less sharp than most Rogues and Blends. He was of Chinese descent, which gave him shiny black hair that only cut off below his ears with a single streak of silver just behind his left ear. Just below but still in sight, was a tattoo that read “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.” Well, that’s one way to tell the world you’re deaf and mute.

I knew he had spent the better half of ten minutes reading the lips of the Jevons standing on the large metal podium. I turned to face him. He followed suit with an even bigger smile. I saw two small scars just above his ears. I’ll have to do something with that later. “It is our pleasure to present the recipients of this year's Grands.” Elodora continued with her rehearsed and very poorly executed speech. I normally would have stopped listening by now, but October needed a break from people being completely oblivious to his needs and the needs of people like him. I began signing to him, each word they said. “Mara Fox of the Barrens District. An extra one hundred was added to your wage, congratulations on receiving Dead Eye, Miss Fox.” A knew the name. I’m sure Everybody did. Every member of the Fox family walking the earth had naturally bright red hair. Mara was the only one with a fiery red.

She walked up on stage almost gingerly. The apprehension in her warm brown eyes as she twisted the material of her dusty rose dress, which was actually just an oversized T shirt with bleach stains and burn holes at the bottom. Her hair was in an updo. The front was twisted up to the right side of her head with a long braid that wrapped the rest into a sock bun. The smile on her face was fake. She usually had these deep dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. She was on the stage, the uncomfortable feeling that this was some kind of sick joke was evident by her wandering eyes. The part that made me sick, though, was when Zenier Jevon looked her up and down, biting his lip at the exposed fair skin of her legs. He stared at her almost greedily as he shook her hand. He was married with three demon children and was currently drooling at the thought of being with a twenty five year old on a public stage. A girl the same age as his youngest daughter with his wife standing right next to him as the creep caressed her hand. Were all men in power this fucking gross? She bid the couple a near silent thank you as she practically flew off the stage.

A low applause filled the room as she returned to her place with all the other Rogues and Infects. Everyone began to move out of the aisle, heading for the doors when, “The next recipient of this grand is…” What the hell? In the 23 years I’ve lived in the city and all the Conclaves I attended, there was never more than one recipient. Never has there been multiple. Ever. The crowds all stood frozen. Something wasn’t quite right about this. “...Eulalia Fa Suarez!”

Something definitely was right here.

Eulalia looked more confused than I thought she would. Her eyes narrowed as she slowly walked to the stage. She kept shooting questioning looks to both Seraphineas and I as she shook the hands of the Jevon’s on stage. Xenier had the fakest of fake smiles before he practically pushed her off the stage, where the crowd raised their hands in an awkwardly pushed applause. October and I didn't applaud though. I think he might’ve been able to sense my worry because even as I stood completely spaced out, staring at the empty space where Eulalia was standing not that long ago.

“The next grand being received,” I snapped out of my daze and signed to October. I know he was able to read lips but honestly he deserved all the help the world had to offer. “Thayer Michaels for bringing in the most food for the city!” Eladora spoke pridefully as the Rogues and Blends (Infects and Bruises included) either scoffed or dramatically rolled their eyes. Of course we did. Regals had the highest population and spent most days begging for scraps. Blends were treated just the same unless both parents were in the picture. Capitals were less than fifteen percent of Ellis and for some ridiculous reason, they deem themselves more important than every other district taking first picks of long hauls and leaving enough for them to have a chuckle watching the poorest of citizens fight for stale bread or and water rations.

I wasn’t complaining. If anyone deserved the grand, it was Mara Fox, EulaliaFa Suarez and Thayer Michaels. Mara Fox, when she wasn’t doing the wood work or in the meat room, spent hours teaching young Rogues how to read, giving them the education most of them had to give up in order to eat. Eulalia bought big portions of food and would walk the streets of the Barren giving food to families. She cries when she comes back and begs me not to ask about it. In guilt, she pushes to raise the ration fund for Capitals and Regals before she offers her leisure time (which she barely has) to teach kids in the neighborhoods that had no doctors basic medical skills. Thayer spent his time not hunting as a caretaker. He would walk October and a few other people to and from places, getting them groceries and even playing with them in parks. It didn’t need to be said that October was his favorite. October was partial to him too, if the smile that was currently on his face said anything as he watched the much taller, much older man walk on stage. He deserved it. All three of them did, but giving them grands to commemorate for all they’ve done almost exclusively for The Felicity made them seem far less noble.

At this point, for October, I tried not to focus on the fact that Eladore was eyeing Thayer the same way Zenier was eyeing Mara. What the fuck is wrong with these people?

When the Conclave ended, there was this feeling of unease. October and I still stood side by side as the Capitals made their way out first, not wanting to be surrounded by the lowest of lows for longer than necessary. They also just got to leave. Every other district was either held back to get your cuff taken off or you were waiting for someone who did. Yet another way to separate us and treat us like crap. All because I have a flashy red label next to my name. To hell with it all. I stood in the line watching as people existed around me. I never felt like I was existing anywhere close to them. Eulalia was having a conversation with October, Mara was having a moment with her boyfriend and Seraphineas is breaking up a fight. Oh this chaotic world of mine.

“You know,” I heard a deep voice behind me. An air of familiarity hit and shifted to my comfortable numbness once I knew who it was. “The point is for you to move up when people leave, right. Don’t tell me you grew attached to that thing.” Yup, same old Thayer. I took a few steps forward closing the gap between me and the tall Rogue girl in front of me. “Still not much of a talker, huh, Jailbait?” He said quietly enough so only I could hear him. Part of me wanted to clock him for bring up that stupid ass nickname. Another part wanted to give a smart ass reply. I was so in my own head, I missed the opportunity. “You always did prefer hunks of metal to people.” He bit. I just knew the bastard had a smirk on his face right now. “Hunks of metal don’t talk and aren’t nearly as narcissistic.” I responded, adamant on getting away from the prick.

I was never so glad to see a Capital in my life and this one was a real bitch. The younger woman had the angriest look in her eye when I walked up, not sure why. I don’t fuck with Capitals and the feeling was mutual. “Have you stolen any property not belonging to you during the conclave?” What the fuck was there to steal, all the shits a person could give? “No.” She sized me up before shooting a quick glance to Thayer, who was still behind me. “During the Conclave, did you skip a mandatory announcement for-” She looked at Thayer again, this time slowly taking in his features, “any reason of recreation?” Is she serious? I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, we ran off to tap dance on the Torch. I guess you caught us.” I could hear a few people snickering at my rebuttal. At least they have a sense of humour.

Eulalia

Tauriel looked about as comfortable as I thought she would. She had a scowl on her face as the attendant pried the cuff off of her wrist. “Ak heppia?” I called out to her. She turned to me with a small smile. She didn’t have to look up to see who was talking to her, I’m pretty sure only a handful of people still speak Dyselian. It made Tauriel feel safe, like people couldn’t poke their nose into our thoughts and conversations. She nodded slowly, she was alright but the exhaustion of having to deal with so many people was getting to her. “Mhe am heppia, mhe just desir to vette hadven.” I chuckled at that, because of course she just wanted to go back home. I honestly am not sure why she didn’t want to stay. Most girls would kill to get Thayer to utter a single word to them. Like most Regal boys, he was broad shouldered with rippling muscles that were obvious under any shirt and tall as hell. Who was I kidding, she'd rather break every bone than deal with her old tormenter again.

She walked over to Toby and I, glad to be with people she could actually tolerate. “U beso to gat allies!” I whispered, pinching her arm. She visibly cringed at the idea. “Mhe would rather pia in hutted.” she replied, turning to look at October. She quickly signed ‘Eula says I need to make friends.’ The taller boys tried to stifle his laughter before he signed ‘She’s right.’ Tauriel rolled her eyes before the two began to playfully bicker back and forth. I left them to their devices when I turned to notice Mara standing to the side waiting for Cecil to get his cuff off.

“Hey, Fox.” I said nudging the redhead’s shoulder. She quickly turned to face me, a smile quickly spread when she realized I wasn’t some other Regal. She whispered a quiet hello before turning to look at her boyfriend. It’s been a while since I’d seen Cecil but he grew up nice. He was now a little over six foot two, typical for Rogue males. “He asks about you two.” Mara stated seemingly out of the blue. I know she worried about him all the time, more so since he stopped coming over for exams. It was the same look in her eyes the night she called Tauriel and I to help him after a few guards thought it right to attack him. “You let him know it’s nothing for me to do an exam?” I asked as the freckled young man moved up in the line. Mara’s voice quivered as she nodded “Everyday. He doesn’t want to bother you, you being a doctor and all.” She smiled slightly when he waved our way. “He still working in the mines?” I asked. Mara scoffed, “Like he’d ever stop. Thick as he and his buddies are?” I couldn't help but laugh. Cecil definitely hadn’t changed. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the chimes rang throughout the city. Fuck!

“Tell him I say to give that shoulder a break every once in a while!” I say before I began running back to Tauriel and October. This wasn’t good. Tauriel looked ready to break something. Her fists were clenched so tight, I thought she'd pierce the skin. As quickly as I could, I signed to the two of them, ‘We need to leave. October, you’re staying at our house for tonight.’ Tauriel froze in place. I only sent her a sympathetic smile when October ran to grab his protector. Thayer had placed his hoodie over October as we all started to Tori and my building. We walked the back alleys and listened for the easy to identify marching of the guards.

I’m not surprised that Thayer is good at this. He was a hunter. Standing at nearly six six, he is both light on his feet and stealthy. I imagine his training was horrifying but I know for a fact that he learned his skills while he was in prison not when he got out. He had the same urgent distrust of his surroundings that Tauriel has whenever she leaves our house. What the fuck did they do to them?

Tauriel sneaks to the back of the building and then there’s silence. I held my breath as I waited for her. I smiled when I heard a whistle emit from around the corner. We were behind the building in a second as she held the window open. She turned to Thayer first, I know it was because he was the tallest and the window was a little more than seven feet above the ground. He went down feet first and let out a satisfied smirk when he landed. I sent October in next, only because I wanted him inside before any guards decided to check back here. I went next, grabbing onto the copper pole that hung above the window I quickly slid in. Thayer made sure to place me down on the concrete floor rather than actually let me jump. Tauriel came in and jumped from the window, closing it before the guards could see her.

We got inside just before eight. The second we entered upstairs from the basement, the alarms started blaring. They had placed a curfew after the Conclave. I can see Tauriel standing awkwardly by the door before she disappeared into the garage. October sent me a curious look and I was glad he didn’t hear what I assumed to be her shelf colliding with the ground or the string of Dyselian profanities. He didn’t need to witness that. Thayer seemed a little shocked at first but I guess he knew the feeling because he sent me a sorrowful half smile.

“Hey! Go lon out isei yella!” She reluctantly exited the garage with a kid bruise forming at her knuckles. She looked beyond pissed. “Mhe deid howa infolo! Mhe deid howa infolo it was a angaari!” She began pacing around. I sent a look to October who was all too quick to leave, practically dragging Thayer behind him as he headed upstairs. I could feel Tori’s blood boiling from here. “I knew they were up to something. I should’ve guessed there would be a trap too!” I said nothing. She was right about something weird going on. The Capitals never offered more money than necessary, they never offered grands and fundings to more than one person each. It’s fairly odd that three people won the grands and six won the funding.

We walked upstairs seeing Thayer and Toby looking for something to eat. Tauriel had walked into her room, closing the door behind her as I walked into the kitchen. October was stuffing his face with bread, not at all worried about anything today had to offer. Thayer on the other hand was standing against the wall, watching as his little brother consumed his food ravenously. I could see how hungry he was too. I tossed him a loaf of his own, standing next to him as we watched the near twenty year old fill himself while sitting on the floor. “You take great care of him.” I said quietly. Most people thought that Rogues like Thayer, tough guys who got into fights, were barbaric animals. They get told that they’re animals so much that they believe it so much.

He looked me in the eye before quickly averting his gaze to the floor. He shrugged off my compliment like it was nothing, but the itching of his lip and the dimple in his cheek let me know that he appreciated it. We sat in silence for a minute before I blurted out “Can I ask you something?” To which he laughed in response. He rolled his shoulders back and relaxed a bit. “Go ahead but I might not answer.” ‘Cheeky bastard’ I thought, rolling my eyes at him “It’s about Tauriel.” He got serious rather quickly at the mention of her name, standing up and staring at me in concern. “Sure, what’s up?” His voice dropped a bit.

“What was she like? In prison?” It hurt me to ask but I might learn something. I pretended not to notice the disappointment and guilt in his eyes even though his long hair had fallen in his eyes.He scratched the back of his neck before clearing his throat. “She was noticeable.” He smiled to himself. “When she got there, a bunch of guys sought her out as a punching bag. They learned pretty quick not to mess with her.” his voice carried such pride as he spoke it was kinda heartwarming. I knew this story. Some prick came in ready to throw punches on anyone in there, he immediately thought Tauriel would make a good target. Thayer got in the way just in time. It’s why he started calling her Jailbait. Easy pickings for a prison brawl. “She was so fucking smart! So much smarter than the guards there. Smart ass got into her fair share of trouble. They threw her in the pit the first night!” That explained a lot. “She came back with a tattoo, we all did.” He mumbled, pulling down the neckline of his shirt to reveal his collarbone. Liberties lined his skin from his collarbone to his right shoulder. “What does “people are poison” mean?” I asked suddenly. He seemed caught off guard. “It means that most people will try to kill you before they actually help you.” He must’ve noticed my furrowed brow because he immediately nudged me with his shoulder “Don’t worry. It’s about Capitals.”

I scoffed. “You definitely sound like Tauriel. She always worries. Thinks they’re monsters that suck the world around them dry.” He laughed at the idea. “You think they’re evil too?” I asked. He shook his head. “I think they know not to poison the water they need to drink.” He says picking up October, who had fallen asleep on my kitchen floor with a half eaten bread roll in his hand. “You boys take my and Tauriel’s beds. We got a couch in the garage.” Thayer shot me a look of refusal. “Like you AND October can fit on the thing, go!” I shooed him away with a humoured grin plastered on my face. He put October in my room, I had a sneaking suspicion he would. “Any particular reason why you opted to take the room of a young girl, Mr. Michaels?” I heard him scoff. He looked up at me with a grin. “She fashioned her room like I did mine.” He responded. I shot him a curious look before it hit me. It looked and felt like a prison cell. That’s why it was always so cold.

I stood silently in the doorway of the garage. Tauriel, currently sitting on the floor fixing her busted shelf with her braid in a sort of bun, paid no mind to my existence as she worked. “You can come in here.” She mumbled under her breath before filling the shelf so it stood at its proper height. I sat on my bench, filled with some of my tools as Tauriel sat in hers. She was tinkering away at something.

When she was arrested, I became her only family left. I would call her everyday and visit her every chance I got, but these walls became so quiet when she went away. I would go to school, earn some quick cash from dumb kids then big bucks from dumb adults. I called her and taught her lessons over the phone and she’d be happy. When I’d go visit her, she’d keep her head down and speak slowly. There were times I’d wonder if she’d make it, but as time went on she became the queen. When she was finally let out, due to the ‘Liberty Act’ all occupants twenty one and lower got released at that point she was seventeen and only a fraction of the eleven year old I saw arrested over a decade ago for no real reason.

She came out with a tattoo, two Liberties on her waist and a new habit of looking over her shoulder at every turn. On her twenty first, when she was branded Bruise by the rule of the Capitals I noticed the scars on her back for the first time. She was wearing her hair up, similar to how it was styled right now, and her top tied around her neck leaving her upper back open. She said she wanted to see the rain so we figured out a way to do it. That year, she spent over a hundred days teaching me how to fix things. I guess when you have a tendency to break things you learn how to fix them.

“I saw Mara earlier. She and Cecil said hi.” I saw her break into a small smile. She adored the redhead, always finding humour in her quickly retorts and sarcastic remarks. “Tell them I say hi.” Tauriel went back to work in a much better mood. “You know…” I started watching Tauriel place an old pair of headphones over her ears. She nodded at me to continue. “With Cecil’s longer hair and dimples, he kinda looks like Thayer…” I held in my laughter when Tauriel’s face fell. She rolled her eyes dramatically before taking off the headphones. “Eula, sharp bone structure and long hair is kinda the norm. And don’t go ruining Cecil for me, he’s my friend.” She still laughed. It’s been years since I heard that sound.

I always loved the sound of Liberties in the morning. The sweet sound of their bird song that let me know I was still in the garage when I should’ve been sleeping hours ago. What did I care? I spent most of my nights on this very bench and often woke up with my head against the cool metal of my desk. I sit with my head in my hand for a minute or two before I actually stand. The boots I ditched last night were still on the floor by my feet, so I decided to leave them there and go eat. The fixed up headphones were around Tauriel’s neck, with a stray wire tickling the back of her head. “Need your room back?” He asked from behind me. I actually did but I wasn’t going to let him know that. I spared a glance in his direction, he almost filled the door frame. He was smirking at me. That devilish smirk, like I didn’t know that's not who he really was. “Is October awake, I need him for something.” I kept my voice cold as I spoke to the older man. He gave me that look, the same one he gave me in prison when he wasn’t overly trying to be a jerk or when he thought I wouldn’t notice. He gave me a quick smile before heading into my room for the sleeping twenty year old.

Toby came out rubbing his dark brown eyes. I pulled him into the kitchen as Thayer emerged. He smiled at his brother before pushing off the door post he was leaning on and going back into Tauriel’s room to get dressed. October kept looking around the kitchen for food as I placed a food bag in front of him. We went through the cupboards, grabbing things for the young man to take home. I knew it would be easier for me to stock my cupboards rather than Toby and Thayer to stock theirs. We were almost done wrapping the bread when the alarm blared throughout the city. “THAYER MICHAELS, REPORT TO THE HAULING STATION.” I nodded at October to continue, letting him know I’d be right back before quickly making my way to the hall where Tauriel was waiting outside the bathroom. When he came out of the bathroom, his hair was tousled and slightly damp. Tauriel wasted no time heading into the steam filled room, waving the soft white clouds from her face. “Sorry in advance. I used a lot of hot water.” He stated through the door to which Tauriel offered no reply. Whatever he did to get this reaction from her must’ve been bad. I saw a glint of that subtle irritation in his eyes, understanding too, but mostly just irritation. “Don’t worry, she likes to take cold showers.” He looked my way with a forced smile. I watched as he quickly put on his jacket and boots shooting me a questioning look. I chuckled knowing exactly what he planned to ask me. “I’ve got work in a couple hours, but Tori will watch him okay?”

He only stiffly nodded before opening the door and heading to the Hauling Station.

@jayloxoxo @thinkinghardhardlythinking @justagirlinafandomworld @mashedpotatowithcheese

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howsyouredge · 4 years

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So... during lockdown I got some writing done.. here’s some of what I’ve got so far :D

Prologue

Darkness swallowed her as she sat in the corner of the cell, her knees drawn up to her chest, taking slow and measured breaths to steady her nerves. The events that lead her to this raced through her mind. Now was not the time to fall apart, there would be a time and a place for that later. This situation was not ideal but they had planned for it, not the outcome they had hoped for but one could not argue with what the fates desired. Footsteps echoed down the hallway and River jumped smoothly to her feet. Feeling her way around the edge of the dark cell she positioned herself by the door. An earlier visit from her gaoler had proved the door opened inwards (a poor design choice by the architect) it allowed some cover when the door was opened. Grasping the hidden dagger she kept on her at all times River waited. The time to dance was drawing near and she was not going to ask her partner politely…

One: A Quick History Lesson

It’s easy to go unnoticed when you are small and slight and plain. You fade into the surroundings and nobody pays you any attention. The wealthy and privileged don't concern themselves with what or who lurks in the shadows. They should, if they did they would notice that their fat coin purses were no longer attached to their shiny belts or that the timepiece daddy bought for them was no longer on their wrist. The heirloom necklace would still be clasped safely on their fat neck and not fetching a pretty penny on the black markets. On the other side of the coin, without their blatant complacency the ghosts of the world would not be able to eat or feed their families. Sometimes the stupidity of the wealthy worked in the favour of the forgotten. Still, it required some level of skill to blend so seamlessly with the shadows. River flowed through the crowds like her namesake, always there but overlooked, unnoticed, forgotten, invisible. Castleton was a bustling market city. The capital of Gallo, stuck on the wrong side of the Thorn Wall (if there even was another side). River was too young to remember a world where the wall didn't exist.

The legend had been twisted and re-written over the years, there were no books left to confirm or deny the rumours. Some thought it was a punishment, erected by the Mages and Sorcerers of old to trap the greedy and power hungry inside. Others thought Gallo was the safe haven and the wall was keeping out the terrors of the world. River didn’t bother herself worrying about the wall. An orphan abandoned on the streets of Castleton, the seedy dark underground was all she had never known. Plucked out of the gutter by the Sisterhood of Shadows when she was just a babe, she trained and excelled as a thief, pickpocket and assassin. The band she built was her family, the Sisterhood itself offered a place to lay their heads and a way to put food in their bellies. Yes they trained them all but that was about all they offered. The Sisterhood of Shadows. Sounds ominous, on the outside it is an orphanage for girls run by nuns. Not that scary, sounds pretty innocent right? Wrong. Sometime after the wall was erected magic died within Gallo and along with it went any kind of structure. The legends say that the first few years after the Thorn Wall appeared were filled with in-fighting and civil wars. To survive you had to be ruthless and the Nuns of the Sisterhood went from innocent god-fearing women to savages. Doing all they could to survive, they became the lords of the underground. Factions spread across Gallo, the biggest being in Castleton as the capital with smaller units in the few towns and cities that survived. No one messed with the Shadows, not if you wanted to live anyway. The Council of Elders came later and managed to restore some order and laws.

They built a wall (yes another one) around Castleton and created The City Guard to police its streets. They tried to take down the Sisterhood but it didn’t work, they were too well established by this point and the good people of Gallo turned a blind eye to their less savoury dealings. They took in the orphan girls and gave them a home, just sweet old lady nuns doing good work for the community (no assasins here, no thieving or pick-pocketing or whoring). Anyway, while this brief history lesson was fun, the past is not why we are here today. River. Not her real name, she has no clue what her parents named her or who her parents are, the nuns named her that because that's where they found her, by the river. Raised in the sisterhood she was deadly by age twelve. Now age twenty-one messing with her was your own peril. The girl had daggers hidden all over her body, not to mention the ones visible on her belt. A master assassin and a master thief she didn’t care much for people. The only ones who mattered were her Band (it's a sisterhood thing) usually made up of four girls of the same age Rivers band was a bit of an oddity. His name is Lynx, but more about that later.

Small, slight and plain. River summed up in three words. Short in height, slight (starved) with no exceptional features. Pretty but not beautiful, not one to stand out from the crowd. Her face was forgettable which for her was perfect. Big brown eyes, mousy brown hair and her nose and lips were in proportion to the rest of her face. Men were not throwing themselves at her which was fine, Lynx was the only male she could tolerate. Calcifer was OK too she supposed (again, more about that later) but the Band didn't need him as often anymore. They were the best and that is exactly why River was currently making her way to see the head of the Sisterhood in Castleton to take on a job. Summoned by the Mother Superior with the promise of an extremely lucrative job, the band could retire; not that they would, they all loved what they did. River stood outside the grand doors before her and allowed herself a moment to be nervous. The woman inside was terrifying, her reputation was cruel and vicious and she was the closest thing River had ever had to a mother. Taking a deep breath she stepped forward and knocked. “Enter”.

River slowly pushed the door open and walked into the large room. The high ceilings were vaulted and the walls were shining bright marble, matching the floors. There was hardly any furniture in the room, just the large mahogany desk and two chairs in front. Behind the desk sat Mother Superior, her aged face surrounded by her blood red habit which flowed seamlessly from the top of her head to her feet leaving only her face and hands uncovered. The image she gave was imposing and intimidating, for someone who was called ‘Mother’ motherly was not the aura she presented. “Mother Superior, you summoned me?” “Yes child, please have a seat. This conversation could be a long one.” She gestured to one the chairs before her and River stepped forward, throwing herself into the chair. “I find myself needing to call upon yourself and your band for a job of utmost importance to the Sisterhood, and I would imagine yourself as all of your band are strong Remnants.” Rivers interest was immediately peaked. The more Mother explained the more tense River became. This job was important and close to her heart. The last sentence from her mouth was the one to seal the deal though. “My child, I hate to be the one to deliver this news, but Lynx is missing. No one has seen him in a number of days, I know he was on a scouting mission for yourself but he missed his last check in.”

It’s a work in progress but if people are interested I can post more chapters :D

#writing #story #fantasy #reading #young adult #fun #cool

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ckret2 · 5 years

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Rats Look out for Rats

Prompt: this was originally for @tfspeedwriting 12/1, Prompt 3: Hired assassin. But considering it took me a month and a half to write, I don’t think it counts anymore. Continuity: IDW, prewar Characters: Prowl & Rattrap. Guest appearance from Lockdown. Wordcount: 5300 Summary: When the Decepticons ask Rattrap to do one job too many, he runs to Autobot law enforcement to offer information in exchange for protection from the ‘Cons. At least, that’s the story the Decepticons tell Rattrap to tell Prowl. One last job—one last job, and one dead cop—and Rattrap’s outta this game for good.

"They said it would be easy money," Rattrap said miserably. He was mumbling directly into the surface of the enforcer's desk, both hands clasped over the top of his head. "Followin' a few guys, a hint of petty theft, a coupla deliveries where I wasn't s'posed to look in the boxes—nothin' worse! I knew what they were probably up to, but—but it wasn't my problem, you know? I wasn't the one shooting people. I was just tryin' to make an honest livin'!"

"'Honest.'"

"Tch—fine, a decent livin'. Decent as it gets when ya had to replace your hind legs with cheap wheels and still can't hide your tail in 'bot mode. How do you sound so monotone and so judgmental at the same time? Do you practice that? Is that a—a skill ya practice, here? You got your good cops, your bad cops, and your completely-neutral-but-vaguely-condescendin' cops?"

The officer that Rattrap was talking to, one Prowl of Petrex—and oh, boy, did he exemplify everything Rattrap had ever heard about Petrex—didn't even acknowledge the jab. "So. Stalking, robbery, smuggling—"

"Whoa whoa whoa, don't make it sound that bad! It's nothin' worse than petty misdemeanors, you've got my word." Rattrap lifted his head enough to give Prowl an earnest look. "But, hey, you wanna fine me, throw me in the slammer a couple weeks to pay off my debt to society? Be my guest, pal. Anythin' it'll take to get away from the 'Cons. I ain't even a 'Con, myself! Think they're crazy!"

"I'm not charging you with anything yet—"

"'Yet.'"

"—I'm just repeating what you told me," Prowl said, just as dryly and droningly as always. He wasn't even looking at Rattrap—his gaze was fixed on his datapad, fingers tap tap tapping away, no doubt taking copious notes on everything Rattrap said. No wonder the Senate had this guy on statistical analysis up until Orion dragged him into his crack team of hero cops (pfeh to that); based on the one comm call and fifteen minutes of conversation Rattrap had had with him so far, he had the personality of a calculator. He'd actually said, out loud, with his mouth, like he'd really done the math, that there was only a 2% chance anybody would walk into Prowl's office while Rattrap was talking to him. He should have a numpad instead of a light bar. "And you were okay with doing all that."

"Sure. Like I said: easy money. That ex-senator they got in their ranks's got a pile of shanix the size of Luna Two, and he don't care about givin' it away almost exactly as much as I do care about gettin' it."

"I take it you're talking about Shockwave and not Ratbat."

"Heh! Yeah, you got it. Shockwave's been bankrollin' me. Ratbat? Pffft." He shifted, laying his head flat down on Prowl's desk, staring at the wall behind Prowl's elbow. "All Ratbat does is sigh wistfully 'bout all the moolah he don't have anymore and wishes he did. You'd think him 'n' me would get along better—bein' a couple greedy beastformer Rats like we are—but nah, he's still all high-n-mighty. Hehn! Like he still thinks he's the king of Kaon and everyone around him is wallowin' knee-deep in the gutter."

Rattrap had to give Prowl this: he endured Rattrap's tangents with good grace and greater patience than most people Rattrap had met. The twitching of his elbow, however, suggested that he was still typing. "... You uh... you think that's relevant to your case, here?"

"Everything is relevant."

"Yeesh. Little intense—but okay, whatever you say. You're the cop."

"So what changed? There's an enormous change from 'rolling in easy money' to 'not only backing out, but also calling up a cop frequently seen in the company of Orion Pax, Decepticon hunter, to confess to petty misdemeanors and gossip about ex-senators.'"

"You think I offered to be your stool pigeon because you hang out with Orion Pax? I woulda called him up if I wanted to catch his audial."

"It's certainly not because I have a reputation for being open and approachable."

Rattrap let out a genuine laugh. He finally lifted his head off Prowl's desk, sitting upright. "You're self-aware, neutral cop. I like that."

And a little too savvy. Prowl was right: Rattrap had sought to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

Or rather, he'd been sent to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

"But—do me a favor and keep the big 'bot outta this, would ya? It's not that I don't respect what he's doing, takin' down as many 'Cons as possible, and all—like I said, I ain't one of them, I just take their money—but word on the street is he ain't too careful about how many pieces they're in when he gets them in to the station, you know what I mean? And I might not be wearin' their badge, but, considerin' what I've been doing for them..."

Without glancing up, Prowl cut Rattrap off with a swift, small hand gesture. It was the most expressive gesture Rattrap had seen him make so far. "I understand completely. He won't be involved in this at all. If things progress to the point where I need backup, I'll ask," he paused for a couple of seconds—even his typing paused—and finished, "Bumblebee, most likely."

Rattrap perked up. That was a new name. "You got a bugformer on the force?"

"No, that's just his name."

Disappointed, Rattrap said, "Ah."

"He's a car. About your size."

Rattrap scoffed. "We don't want the new senate to be too progressive, I s'pose."

"Sarcasm?"

Rattrap gave him a startled look. Did he really just—? "Nah, not at all."

Prowl said, "Hm," in a vaguely uncertain way that made Rattrap think he wasn't sure if that was sarcasm either. He really was a calculator in a cop car's body, wasn't he? No wonder Shockwave was wary of him. He probably thought Prowl was gonna horn in on his schtick.

"Back to my question. What changed? What made you come to me and offer to tell me everything you know about the Decepticons?"

Rattrap hesitated. "Okay. Lemme emphasize first that—that—I had no idea things were gonna get this bad. If I'd ever expected things were gonna end up like this, I'd never have agreed."

Prowl nodded once, stiffly, like a ratcheting joint clicking down and back up. "No doubt." Somehow, he sounded even more monotone.

"Pfeh. I bet all your informants say that, don't they."

"You're self-aware, too."

"Okay, okay." Rattrap slouched back in his seat and laced his hands behind his head. "Tell you what, neutral cop—if you promise to make a note in your unnervingly thorough report you've got goin' there that says I defended my honor fiercely, I'll do us both a favor and skip past all the excuse-makin' and face-savin'."

Prowl looked directly at Rattrap, for what Rattrap was sure was the very first time since Prowl had met him in a shadowy back alley and hustled him in through the back door. "I appreciate that," he said; and if he'd had slightly more emotional expressivity than the average text-to-speech program, Rattrap might have even believed he meant it. "So what's your story?"

Here was Rattrap's story:

The last and biggest job he'd done for Shockwave had been to sneak into a secure energon refinery, steal the access codes, and take them to the 'Cons. He'd thought that the Decepticons wanted to jack a few free cubes. That's what he'd been lead to believe—although they'd never told him that was what they wanted, they were always talking about how hungry they were, how worried they were about running out of fuel. Instead, the results...

Well, Prowl no doubt knew the results. He might've been one of the enforcers sent out to what was left of the refinery to try to pick forensic evidence off of the smelted workers.

And that was it for Rattrap. Forget the easy jobs for easy money. He'd been willing to go along with it as long as the Decepticons had him doing small jobs with small consequences, but now people were dying and energon refineries were exploding, and he was getting out.

So he'd done some snooping, found Prowl's frequency, and called him up. He could help—he could tell the 'Bots all sorts of things about the 'Cons—and in exchange, all he asked for was protection in case the 'Cons found out and retaliated.

That was the story Rattrap told Prowl.

It was true.

But here was the part of the story Rattrap didn't tell Prowl:

Between deciding he wanted out and contacting Prowl—which originally, he'd never intended to do—he'd gone down to Nyon to chew out Swindle for getting him into this fragged up game in the first place. Swindle had told him not to do anything hasty, not to walk away just yet—he'd get Rattrap one last job, just wait and see, with a very lucrative payout. Think of it as generous severance pay. And while Swindle had steered a great many people very, very wrong, he'd never steered Rattrap wrong—rats had to stick together, after all, and Swindle was certainly one in spark if not in body—so, begrudgingly, he'd let Swindle talk him into taking one last job.

A week later, Shockwave had called him in for his final assignment: take out Orion Pax's top supporter, the stiff white-and-black knockoff with the army-builder frame that seemed to be scowling just a step behind Orion every time he was on the news. Orion might have been the face of the new senate's war on Decepticons, but, Shockwave assured Rattrap, the vast majority of what passed as Orion's brain power was actually located inside Prowl's head. Without Prowl reeling him in, he'd be just another dumb jock cop who liked beating up suspects in dark alleys and then saying they resisted arrest in his reports.

Now. Rattrap was no moron. He wasn't overcome with misty-opticked patriotism at the sight of the enforcers' recently-adopted "Autobot" symbol. He'd been telling the truth when he said he was no Decepticon; but he was no Autobot, either. And he sure didn't think Cybertron would suffer with one less enforcer on the streets.

But if the enforcer that was being taken off the streets was, as Shockwave had suggested, a good ninety percent of Orion Pax Hero Cop's impulse control? Rattrap wasn't so sure he wanted to see that one, in particular, get the ax.

And that aside—Rattrap was no murderer. He was torqued off—no, more than that, he was horrified—that his info had been used to kill so many innocent refinery workers. He didn't want someone else's life on his hands, especially knowingly. Even a cop. Hell, especially a cop—if he was caught...

... But...

But...

But.

But then Shockwave showed Rattrap what he'd pay him to do it.

And, well—Primus below—that changed everything, didn't it?

Rattrap and Ratbat didn't like each other, but they both liked the Decepticons even less. And rats had to stick together. If this was fishy—if Shockwave was gonna go back on this deal, or arrange for Rattrap to be found out later—Ratbat would know, and Ratbat would tell him. What Ratbat said, though, was that Shockwave was playing on the expectation that if Rattrap was greedy enough to take this job, he'd be greedy enough to take just one more, and just one more, and just one more, until he'd just-one-mored himself straight into the Decepticon army.

Shockwave didn't know Rattrap. Unlike Ratbat or Swindle, he didn't do what he did for the love of money; he was doing it to get his legs back.

He'd lost them a few millennia back—workplace accident. The medic who'd repaired him had fixed him down to his hips, then slapped a couple wheels on and called it a day. When Rattrap had protested—said he was supposed to have legs, said he wanted his legs, said he was a rat, it was even in the name—the hospital had told him that, in their professional medical opinion, wheels were an improvement on a rodent's haunches, and he oughta be grateful for them. And what did it matter if he wasn't mobile enough to do his old job anymore? Planting explosives for building demolition wasn't what one would call specialized labor. Anyone could fill his position. Just a dirty job for dirty 'bots.

Ever since, Rattrap hadn't considered his relationship with Cybertron to be what one might call cordial.

This last job wouldn't just push him over what he needed to get some back-alley surgeon to reconstruct and reattach his legs; it'd also give him the means to get off this stupid planet and find one where he wasn't gonna be judged for having as many limbs in one mode as in the other. At least in the GC he could be judged for something different for a change.

So he took the job. Okay. Just one more.

Here was the plan: Rattrap was to contact Prowl like he wanted to be an informant ratting on the Decepticons. He had permission to say whatever he had to in order to make it believable. Shockwave had long since reaped the benefits of all the old jobs Rattrap had done for the Decepticons, and he and his cadre of terrorists had only ever met Rattrap at neutral locations, so Rattrap didn't have any info Prowl could honestly use against the 'Cons. As long as Rattrap achieved these two things:

One, make sure that Orion Pax didn't get involved.

Two, make sure that Prowl agreed to protect Rattrap.

At the start, Prowl might keep a couple officers stationed around Rattrap's place at all times. Probably no more than that; he didn't have much pull without Orion to back it, and he wouldn't be able to turn to Orion for this case. Eventually it would be down to one officer. Shockwave was convinced—although Rattrap had doubts—that Prowl would put himself in the rotation of officers protecting Rattrap.

When Prowl was watching him, and only Prowl was watching him, a hired killer—nominally sent to dispose of Rattrap—would show up. Prowl would fight him. He would retreat, and Prowl, like a good little enforcer, would pursue. And the hired killer would lure him into a trap.

Now, Rattrap wasn't too keen on the whole "hired killer pretending to try to kill Rattrap" part. That sounded a little too likely to end in tears—specifically, Rattrap's tears, as he lay dying. Shockwave offered to let Rattrap meet the guy who'd be doing the job ahead of time.

They had dinner. He was a decent thug. Good lookin', too, in a patchwork kinda way. They'd lamented together over the costs of getting good bodymod work done outside of the official healthcare system; Lockdown even recommended a guy who did medical work for gladiators that might be able to handle Rattrap's repairs—don't let the constructibot alt mislead you; he's the best doc on Cybertron who's never been to medical school. Lockdown said he was saving up for his own ship to get work as an interstellar bounty hunter; Rattrap was planning to head to Hedonia when he was fixed up and all this was over. He invited Lockdown to look him up on Hedonia sometime down the line.

So, Rattrap was in.

And when Prowl said, "We're stretched thin right now; if I get Orion to pull some strings, I might be able to get two officers posted around your apartment at all times, but if you don't want to get him involved I can probably only manage to get one officer to look in on your place"?

Rattrap said, "Hey, that's fine. I don't need my place swarming with law enforcement anyway, you know what I mean? I think I can trust ya to make sure nobody's gonna get to me."

Waiting to be attacked was nerve wracking.

Even if he knew the guy that was gonna do it—well. What if Lockdown's hook slipped? What if he was a bad shot? Rattrap had no idea what kind of a shot he was.

What if Prowl decided he didn't need Rattrap's info as much as he'd originally thought, and decided to just... not worry too hard about keeping him safe? What if he didn't even have someone stationed outside anymore?

Rattrap had fallen into the habit of pacing in the evenings after dark fell—the time he thought it was most likely Lockdown would come for him. Rolling back and forth in a long figure eight through his filthy apartment, crumbs of dirt breaking up and discarded foil wrappers crinkling under his wheels. He cast green and orange shadows across the walls, illuminated by strings of light and a couple of lamps buried so thoroughly in his collection of things that he hadn't been able to scramble up to them to turn them off since he'd lost his legs. He figured nervously pacing was an appropriately in-character action for a 'bot who supposedly thought he was gonna get hunted down while only a single plucky enforcer stood between him and certain doom.

Whenever Rattrap glanced out the window, he never saw anybody standing guard. He told himself that meant that whatever officers Prowl had assigned him were good at their job, not standing out and all—but it still made him nervous.

Surely, though, Lockdown wasn't gonna attack until he was absolutely sure that Prowl, and only Prowl, was outside—right? Right. Right?

It was eleven nights in before his window shattered. Someone barreled Rattrap over; he crashed to the ground screaming. Please be Lockdown. "What're ya—hey!" Rattrap reflexively swung a fist at Lockdown's face. Lockdown held Rattrap down with his hook pressed to Rattrap's throat and leaned back. Rattrap's fist couldn't even reach his face. "That ain't fair."

Lockdown grinned crookedly. "Half my job is about making things as unfair for my target as possible."

"Okay—point." He tried, unsuccessfully, to wiggle out from underneath Lockdown. His wheels squealed against the floor as he spun them uselessly. That probably had to look good to any officers watching from outside. "So how're we gonna do this? You pretend I actually managed to slip free and chase me around the room a couple times 'til siren-butt shows up?"

"Naaah, I'm not letting you up."

Well, that was disappointing news. "Yeah? What if it takes him a while to get in here? He's gonna be suspicious if you've got me pinned for a while and don't take the opportunity to kill me."

"Oh, I don't need to worry about that." In his hand, he raised— That was a gun. Why was he pointing a gun at Rattrap's head. "See ya."

"See ya?!" Rattrap crossed his arms over his face. Lockdown snagged his hook around a wrist and tried to tug Rattrap's arms back down. "Whaddaya mean, see ya?! What's the gun for! I thought we was on the same page!"

"Yeah, we were," Lockdown said. "But when Shockwave heard you were planning to make a run for Hedonia—"

"You told him?!"

"—he decided there's no point in paying out if you're not gonna eventually come back to the 'Cons for more jobs." Lockdown successfully tugged one arm away from Rattrap's face. Rattrap wrapped his other arm more tightly over his forehead. "Prowl's my target, but I get a nice bonus if I take you out too."

"H-hold on! What's Shockwave payin'?! I can beat it! Or, or pretend I'm dead, and we'll both pay ya—"

"He's paying me with your bank account info."

Rattrap's jaw dropped. "... I hate how clever that is."

The gun jammed into his mouth. "Sorry about Hedonia." Rattrap squeezed his optics shut.

Lockdown's weight suddenly disappeared. Rattrap's optics flew open again, and all he saw above him was the ceiling. He turned toward a noise just in time to see Lockdown and Prowl tumbling back his direction. He scrambled out of the way, crabwalking/rolling backwards.

Watching Prowl grappling with Lockdown was somehow one of the most terrifying things Rattrap had ever seen. Not because of his fighting—Rattrap was actually pretty confident that Lockdown could take him—but something about his face. His eyes were wide and his jaw was set tight, and he should've looked angry but he didn't, and somehow that was more disconcerting than having a furious cop twice Rattrap's height in his apartment would've been.

Lockdown got a hook in one of Prowl's doors; Prowl pulled his knee to his chest and kicked Lockdown's shoulder, and Lockdown's hook snapped off in Prowl's door. He drew back, hesitated as he glanced at Rattrap, and retreated out the window. Prowl rushed to the window and leaned out, watching which way Lockdown went.

Lockdown had dropped his gun.

Rattrap picked it up.

Maybe it wasn't too late. If he killed Prowl himself, threw himself on Shockwave's mercy, and gave some bunk about seeing how awful the Autobots' noble enforcers were up close and wanting to get rid of them, maybe Shockwave would let him sign up as a full fledged Decepticon. He didn't want to be a Decepticon, hell no, but it was better than being dead. He could empty out his bank account in a couple of minutes—buy a bunch of scrap he didn't need, maybe a mountain of lottery tickets—an empty bank account would buy him some time if Lockdown came back and Rattrap told him there was no longer a bonus for him to claim—plus Shockwave might believe Rattrap’s professions of allegiance if he could check and see Rattrap no longer had any funds to get himself off-world. It was a long shot, it was a gamble, it'd mean several more millennia before he could get his legs back; but Primus what was the alternative? If Rattrap warned Prowl that this was a trap, admitted he'd been in on the setup, and begged for some real protection, he'd get hauled to some Autobot secret prison and beaten to death. The only other option was running for his life. Once Prowl took off after Lockdown, Rattrap would only have until Lockdown had lured Prowl into the trap and killed him to pack his things and run, and Rattrap might've been more familiar than most with Cybertron's underworld—both the figurative one and the literal one—but there were more Decepticons in dark corners and subterranean tunnels by the day, and it wouldn't be long before one saw him and reported back to Shockwave.

Running wouldn't work. This was his only chance. He had to kill Prowl—now, right now, before he jumped out the window and ran off and Lockdown killed him instead—

Prowl did not jump out the window. He turned around.

Rattrap froze, gun pointed at Prowl's chest. Prowl looked at the gun, then Rattrap's face—his expression was ice cold, his gaze so sharp it seemed to pierce straight through Rattrap’s head.

Then Prowl pointed at the floor and snapped, crossly, "Gun safety."

Rattrap almost dropped the gun. "What?"

"Gun safety," Prowl repeated. He reached forward and pushed the gun barrel down, so it was aimed between their feet. "Never point your gun at something you aren't interested in shooting. There's no point in trying to cover the window if there's someone between you and it."

And then, to Rattrap's further disbelief, Prowl walked away from the window, and turned to survey the mess of crates and packing materials that had been recycled into Rattrap's shabby—but very thrifty—furniture. "Does any of this serve as a chair?"

Rattrap gestured at his lower body. "Do I look like I need chairs? My butt's two inches off the floor."

"Hm." And then Prowl sat, on the floor, and turned to face the window. Like he planned on staying there.

"... Okay. All right," Rattrap said. "I give. What's going on, here?"

"You said you don't have chairs. Did you want me to sit on a table?" Prowl glanced at a stack of flat boxes. "This is a table, right?"

"Not that! How come you ain't going after the guy that just tried to kill me? Isn't that your job?"

"Ah," Prowl said, like he finally got it. "No."

"No?!" Rattrap gestured emphatically at Prowl. "You, a law enforcer, your job ain't to enforce the law! Is that what you’re telling me? Because I'm pretty sure he just tried to kill a bot! Last I checked, that was a crime!"

"As I understand the parameters of my job, my duty is not to prevent criminals from killing bots." Rattrap's jaw dropped, but Prowl immediately went on: "It's to prevent bots from being killed by criminals."

Rattrap almost said there was absolutely no difference; but paused, uncertain, as he started to realize maybe there might be.

"Sometimes, yes, the best way to prevent murders is to chase after the murderer. In this case? I think the best way to prevent a murder is to stick close to the potential murder victim, in case the original assailant doubles back or an accomplice arrives."

"... Yeah," Rattrap said. "Sure. Makes sense." It made perfect sense, for anyone whose priority was protection instead of punishment. Except Rattrap had never once considered the possibility that that would be Prowl's priority. Nor, apparently, had Shockwave; nor had Ratbat, nor had Lockdown; nor had any of the other 'Cons.

But here Prowl was, blithely avoiding a fatal trap just by not being interested in it.

Rattrap attempted one last time to fit this information into what he already expected out of Prowl. "You uh— You think the info I've got is that valuable, then, huh? On Shockwave?"

Prowl looked—not at Rattrap, but near him—with an expression that, while basically emotionless, Rattrap was pretty sure was meant to convey cluelessness.

"That you'd rather guard me than chase after one of Shockwave's goons?" Rattrap prompted.

"Oh. No, I don't think so. We checked out the info you gave us so far; it all appears to be about projects that the Decepticons have concluded or bases that they've burned. From our past experience with the Decepticons, we've determined that they only have outside agents like you doing jobs that they could wrap up almost immediately after their involvement, just in case those agents decide to do exactly what you've done. You've probably got nothing useful to us," Prowl said. "I'm guarding you anyway. You're a living person and therefore automatically worthy of being protected. That's true even if you're not a vector for strategically valuable information."

"A vect—?!" Rattrap laughed. "You know, that's the first time anyone's ever called me a vector for something and meant it as a compliment?"

Prowl looked around at the piles of empty cubes and broken-down equipment scattered around Rattrap's apartment. "I wonder why."

Rattrap swatted at Prowl's shoulder. Prowl visibly flinched. "You know what?" Rattrap asked. "I think that maybe—just maybe—you're one of the good ones." He didn't need to specify that he was talking about enforcers.

"I'm the only good one."

Rattrap snorted. "You includin' the famous Orion Pax in that statement, neutral cop?"

"I didn't include any qualifiers when I said 'only.'"

Rattrap didn't know whether Prowl's declaration was a statement of supreme egotism, or a sweeping indictment of every other enforcer on the planet.

Whichever one it was, in that moment, he decided he liked Prowl. Cop he might've been, but there was a little bit of rat in him—and Rattrap meant that as a compliment. You had to be a rat to openly distrust the cops from inside the cops. And only fellow rats had ever looked out for Rattrap.

That's what rats do. Look out for each other.

Rattrap looked at the window—somewhere out there was Lockdown, sitting in the center of a trap that was never going to be sprung—and then at the gun in his hand.

He tossed it on a makeshift table, rolled up next to Prowl, and sat. Okay. He was taking a chance. Maybe he was still gonna end up dead in an Autobot prison, but he wasn't going to end up anywhere better any time soon if he didn't take the chance.

"Well, as long as you and me are all cozy in here," Rattrap said, "I figure I might as well tell you I am, in fact, a vector for strategically valuable information. Somethin' you might find personally interesting."

Rattrap couldn't even tell whether or not Prowl was surprised at the revelation. "And that would be?"

"First, you gotta promise you're not gonna hold it against me."

"Hold what against you? Holding out on me?"

"No. Conspirin' to lead you into a fatal trap."

And Rattrap still couldn't tell whether Prowl looked surprised. But he did notice how Prowl glanced at the gun on the table.

"I switched sides," Rattrap said quickly. "For real, this time."

"Glad to hear it. Tell me about this trap."

"First," Rattrap said, "before Shockwave realizes I've sold out, you've gotta let me transfer my whole bank account into yours."

For a long moment, Prowl was silent. "... What?"

"Yeah, Starscream's let me into everything," Rattrap whispered into the comm to Earth. Every once in a while he threw glances over at the entrances to his hidden quarters, double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking that they were still blocked. "He's havin' me pass around his orders, he's tellin' me which guys he wants to have trailed—he's even tellin' me who he expects to backstab him, in what order, and his plans for backstabbing 'em first. And I'm on the list. Can you believe that? And he's still trusting me with all this?"

"Starscream takes 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer' to excessive new heights." Even through the many alterations to the comm signal—from distance, from a dozen layers of encryption, and from the deliberate distortion of the pitch to disguise the voice—Prowl's old, familiar monotone was unmistakable. Rattrap didn't know why he even bothered to disguise his voice. "Is he up to anything that calls for an immediate response?"

"Nah. Just dealin' with infrastructural issues and doing some ego-stroking projects—you know, things that'll make him look good to the populace." Another check to the door, and Rattrap lowered his voice again: "He's made some worrying talk about plans to contact Caminus, though. I wouldn't say he's up to anything bad—yet—but I don't like the way he's talking about Caminus, you know? Like he's already viewing them as future citizens."

"If Starscream starts expanding his empire, he's never going to stop. Keep me updated on his plans. We need to be ready to stop them as soon as he puts them into action."

Prowl was already talking about empires, was he? Rattrap didn't think Starscream was anywhere near that yet—but he also didn't think Starscream would pass up the opportunity if it came to him. And Prowl always did think far ahead. "You got it, boss. I'll call you when I've got more."

Over the course of the war, Prowl had become something of a rat king: the point at which a hundred little rats tangled together. Spies, saboteurs, and assassins—every dirty 'bot that did every dirty job the Autobots had. And as long as Rattrap had known him, Prowl had always looked out for his rats. He'd kept Rattrap out of the 'Cons, he'd connected Rattrap with the medic that gave him his legs back, and he'd kept Rattrap at one of the safest (and, admittedly, most boring) stations in the war when he didn't have more practical ways to make use of Rattrap's skills. And Rattrap was proud for Prowl to make use of them.

Because no matter what nasty accusations were flung at Prowl (some of which, Rattrap happened to know quite intimately, were true) and no matter how many people declared that Prowl was cold and sparkless, and no matter how many people said that Prowl was nothing but a manipulator—Rattrap would always know that he was the one cop on Cybertron who'd sneered at the idea of arresting a murderer when instead he could protect a useless rat. And Rattrap didn't believe for a second that was manipulation. That was Prowl's core.

Four million years later and Rattrap was still willing to trust Prowl with his life. After all, Prowl had never steered Rattrap wrong.

Rattrap hung up the call, transformed to beast mode, and scampered out into Metroplex's tunnels. Back to work.

Also posted on AO3, see link in my sidebar.

#prowl #rattrap #transformers #maccadam #fanfic #my writing

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melindarowens · 7 years

Text

The Corporate Media Continues To Torch Its Reputation

Authored by Mike Krieger via Liberty Blitzkrieg blog,

Last December, I noted the following in the post, ‘Then We Will Fight in the Shade’ – A Guide to Winning the Media Wars:

It is when you get desperate, scared and panicky that you make the biggest mistakes, and the legacy media is currently desperate, scared and panicky. As Napoleon Bonaparte allegedly said:

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”

Whether or not he actually said them, those words still ring true. We mustn’t get in the way of the legacy media’s inevitable self-destruction. Part of this means that we do not self-destruct in the process. We need to recognize that there’s a reason independent, alternative media is winning the battle of ideas in the first place. For all the warts, mistakes and bad actors, the emergence of the internet is indeed the historical equivalent of the invention of the printing press on steroids.

Only a clueless self-important elitist actually believes that the smartest, most informed people in America are the pundits on tv and the journalists employed by the mainstream media. With a handful of companies and a few oligarchs in charge, you’d have to be the most naive fool on earth to not understand that legacy media is driven by well defined narratives, and that these narratives are not in your best interest. The rest of us understand that the Internet has served as a much needed countervailing force, and has been an incredible blessing to human knowledge, connectivity and the marketplace of ideas. Just because some people can’t distinguish truth from fiction, doesn’t negate the incredible progress that decentralized information dissemination provides. It is only those who do not wish to engage in public debate on the issues themselves who want to censor stuff. The rest of us are more than happy to have an open discussion.

In a pathetic attempt to reinflate the discredited and failed neoliberal/neocon status quo bubble it supports, corporate media has been relentless in its attacks on anything or anyone that offers an alternative vision. These attacks more often than not focus on Donald Trump, but it’s important to note that contempt for Bernie Sanders and his supporters is not far behind. It doesn’t matter what the alternative vision is, if it falls outside the neoliberal/neocon status quo, it must be demonized and destroyed by the likes of billionaire-owned media properties such as The Washington Post and The New York Times.

The alarm bells really went off for me regarding the hatred of Sanders by the New York Times upon reading the paper’s nonsensical endorsement of Hillary Clinton during the primary. You should read the entire article, but here’s some of what I wrote at the time:

One of the biggest trends of the post financial crisis period has been a plunge in the American public’s perception of the country’s powerful institutions. The establishment often admits this reality with a mixture of bewilderment and erroneous conclusions, ultimately settling on the idea people are upset because “Washington can’t get anything done.” However, nothing could be further from the truth. When it comes to corruption and serving big monied interests, both Congress and the President are very, very good at getting things done. Yes it’s true Congress doesn’t get anything done on behalf of the people, but this is no accident. The government doesn’t work for the people.

With its dishonest and shifty endorsement of Hillary Clinton, I believe the New York Times has finally come out of the closet as an unabashed gatekeeper of the status quo. I suppose this makes sense since the paper has become the ultimate status quo journalistic publication. The sad truth is the publication has been living on borrowed time and a borrowed reputation for a long time. Long on prestige, it remains very short on substance when it comes to fighting difficult battles in the public interest. Content with its position of power and influence within the current paradigm, the paper doesn’t want to rock the boat. What the New York Times is actually telling its readers with the Hillary Clinton endorsement is that it likes things just the way they are, and will fight hard to keep them that way. It is as much a part of the American establishment as any government institution.

Truth be told, the paper continues to act just as upset about Sanders as it is about Donald Trump. What really seems to get under the skin of people of who write there is that her highness, Hillary Clinton, had her coronation disrupted. As such, the paper’s writers seem to be throwing daily temper tantrums filled with lies and misdirection at anyone who doesn’t swallow status quo neoliberal/neocon garbage.

Earlier this week, I highlighted one recent case in the post, Lee Camp Explains How The New York Times Manufactures “Hit Piece Propaganda.” Then yesterday, we had yet another embarrassing example. Here’s the title of the much maligned, and utterly shameful article, written by Yamiche Al Cindor.

If that title doesn’t betray that what’s to follow is a piece of unabashed propaganda, I don’t know what does. Then here’s how the piece begins…

WASHINGTON — The most ardent supporters of Senator Bernie Sanders have long been outspoken about their anger toward Republicans — and in some cases toward Democrats. Their idol, the senator from Vermont, has called President Trump a “demagogue” and said recently that he was “perhaps the worst and most dangerous president in the history of our country.”

Now, in Mr. Sanders’s world, his fans have something concrete to grapple with: James T. Hodgkinson, a former volunteer for Mr. Sanders’s presidential campaign, is suspected of opening fire on Republican lawmakers practicing baseball in Alexandria, Va.

My lord, where to begin. First of all, the vitriol and conspiracy theories directed at Donald Trump have been far worse from Hillary cultists and NeverTrump neocons than from Sanders supporters. In fact, the Sanders supporters are far more focused on taking over the Democratic Party and pushing aside discredited neoliberals than they are about demonizing Trump. If any group of people is singularly obsessed with removing Trump from office it is establishment, corporate Democrats, not Sanders supporters. As such, Sanders fans have absolutely nothing unique to grapple with, and to suggest otherwise is shady and dishonest. Then there’s this.

That shooting on Wednesday, which wounded four people, may prove to be an unexpected test for a movement born out of Mr. Sanders’s left-wing, populist politics and a moment for liberals to figure out how to balance anger at Mr. Trump with inciting violence.

Again, this is ridiculous. While I do think the political dialogue in this country has descended into a dangerous gutter and must be reexamined, the notion that this pertains particularly to Sanders supporters is simply preposterous. But it gets even worse.

But long before the shooting on Wednesday, some of Mr. Sanders’s supporters had earned a belligerent reputation for their criticism of Hillary Clinton, the Democratic Party and others who they believed disagreed with their ideas. Sanders fans, sometimes referred to derogatorily as “Bernie Bros” or “Bernie Bots,” at times harassed reporters covering Mr. Sanders and flooded social media with angry posts directed at the “corporate media,” a term often used by the senator.

Sorry, what’s wrong with accurately describing corporate media for what it is. This clearly seems to have gotten under the author’s skin. Meanwhile…

The suspect in the shooting in Virginia put a new spotlight on the rage buried in some corners of the progressive left.

Mr. Hodgkinson filled his Facebook page with photographs of the senator and quotes from his speeches. Mr. Hodgkinson also wrote messages filled with expletives directed at the president, and a post in March said: “Trump is a traitor. Trump has destroyed our democracy. It’s time to destroy Trump & co.”

Perhaps we should ask the question, which wing of the Democratic Party tends to use this sort of language most often, Hillary dead-enders or Bernie supporters? The answer is obvious.

Next we have this gem.

On Tuesday, Mr. Hodgkinson posted a cartoon on Facebook explaining “How does a bill work?” “That’s an easy one, Billy,” the cartoon reads. “Corporations write the bill and then bribe Congress until it becomes law.”

“That’s Exactly How It Works. ….” Mr. Hodgkinson wrote.

That is not far from Mr. Sanders’s own message.

But that is exactly how it works. Are we supposed to pretend that’s not the case just because some lunatic went on a shooting spree?

Recall: Citigroup Written Legislation Moves Through the House of Representatives.

Remarkably, it isn’t until the final two paragraphs that the truth is finally able to peak its stubborn head above the drivel.

RoseAnn DeMoro, the executive director of National Nurses United, a union that campaigned heavily for Mr. Sanders and continues to work with him, said some were hoping to discredit Mr. Sanders to slow down the continuing success of his brand of politics. She called it a “boldface lie” to connect the shooting to Mr. Sanders’s push for opposing Mr. Trump’s proposals.

“He’s the most popular politician in America,” Ms. DeMoro said of Mr. Sanders. “That doesn’t sit well with establishment Democrats or Republicans. They are trying to delegitimize and discredit anyone who is speaking out for a better society. That’s what’s happening.”

Winner, winner chicken dinner. This is the real issue. A lot of very powerful people are extremely concerned that Sanders might dare run again in 2020, so the attacks must escalate to bury him ahead of time. It won’t work.

Finally, I think the following tweet sums it up perfectly.

The NYT is uncomfortable because some psycho took their Russophobia at face value, so their shining the spotlight elsewhere.

— Brian Eppert (@BrianEppert) June 15, 2017

source http://capitalisthq.com/the-corporate-media-continues-to-torch-its-reputation/ from CapitalistHQ http://capitalisthq.blogspot.com/2017/06/the-corporate-media-continues-to-torch.html

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everettwilkinson · 7 years

Text

The Corporate Media Continues To Torch Its Reputation

Authored by Mike Krieger via Liberty Blitzkrieg blog,

Last December, I noted the following in the post, ‘Then We Will Fight in the Shade’ – A Guide to Winning the Media Wars:

It is when you get desperate, scared and panicky that you make the biggest mistakes, and the legacy media is currently desperate, scared and panicky. As Napoleon Bonaparte allegedly said:

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”

If that title doesn’t betray that what’s to follow is a piece of unabashed propaganda, I don’t know what does. Then here’s how the piece begins…

Sorry, what’s wrong with accurately describing corporate media for what it is. This clearly seems to have gotten under the author’s skin. Meanwhile…

The suspect in the shooting in Virginia put a new spotlight on the rage buried in some corners of the progressive left.

Perhaps we should ask the question, which wing of the Democratic Party tends to use this sort of language most often, Hillary dead-enders or Bernie supporters? The answer is obvious.

Next we have this gem.

“That’s Exactly How It Works. ….” Mr. Hodgkinson wrote.

That is not far from Mr. Sanders’s own message.

But that is exactly how it works. Are we supposed to pretend that’s not the case just because some lunatic went on a shooting spree?

Recall: Citigroup Written Legislation Moves Through the House of Representatives.

Remarkably, it isn’t until the final two paragraphs that the truth is finally able to peak its stubborn head above the drivel.

Finally, I think the following tweet sums it up perfectly.

The NYT is uncomfortable because some psycho took their Russophobia at face value, so their shining the spotlight elsewhere.

— Brian Eppert (@BrianEppert) June 15, 2017

from CapitalistHQ.com http://capitalisthq.com/the-corporate-media-continues-to-torch-its-reputation/

#TrumpNews #CapitalistHQ.com

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