#the rest of the region wouldn’t be so goddamn hostile

[indefiniteavatar]

holy shit these israeli propaganda ads lack self-awareness - ‘no country in the world would allow repeated threats to its existence’, huh?

the unholy fuck y’all think you’re doing to palestine?!?

#every time i see that shit my brain short circuits #i was just reading a perfectly good manhwa serial #then from the commercial break on the bob ross channel of all places that acts as my bg noise specifically cos it’s calming #‘oh no we’re getting attacked poor us’ #i swear it’s an instant fuckin rage spiral #maybe if you didn’t epitomize being given an inch and taking a mile since day one of us being allowed haven (which was problematic enough) #the rest of the region wouldn’t be so goddamn hostile #war in the middle east #israel #save palestine #jewish antizionism

[hysterialevi]

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 6

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

Author’s note: This part’s a bit shorter than the others, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Thank you for all your support so far :)

Previous chapter | Next chapter

This story is also on AO3

THAT NIGHT

BLACKWATER SALOON

Storming up the wooden staircase, Micah quickly breezed through the other customers scattered around the saloon as he made his way to the young man, ready to beat some answers out of him.

According to the bartender, the man was still in Blackwater and hadn’t taken his leave yet, so Micah decided he’d pay the boy a visit after all the hell that broke loose at the bank.

He knew that the boy would cause some type of damage -- he didn’t seem to be on good terms with the Van der Lindes, after all -- but Micah never expected the kid to cause this much chaos.

Thanks to him, one of their men was dead, the Pinkertons were after them, their supplies had been destroyed, and on top of all that, Dutch was now on high alert for any traitors within the gang.

Micah had no idea if the boy was trying to get them arrested by the law, or just kill the whole lot of them by himself, but he planned on getting an explanation tonight.

And he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Hey!” Micah called out, pounding a fist on the door. “I know you’re in there, princess. You and I need to have a chat.”

Waiting for a response, Micah heard nothing but the muffled sound of someone pacing around the room for a moment, leading him to believe that the boy was either trying to escape or find something to defend himself.

Micah knocked again. “Hey, cowpoke! Open up! Don’t make me break in there.”

This time, a voice replied.

“Gimme a damn minute!”

After a while of waiting, the door finally creaked open to a slit and revealed nothing more than the protruding barrel of a pistol, causing Micah to let out an amused laugh at the hostile greeting.

“...You really is the suspicious type, ain’t you?” He teased.

Isaac didn’t budge. “I prefer the word ‘cautious.”

Micah leaned forward, speaking to the young man in a patronizing voice. “Well, whatever you wanna call it, I’d suggest openin’ this goddamn door right now. ‘Cause otherwise, I might just kick my way in there and give you a beating after that shit you pulled at the camp...!”

The young man scoffed. “I may be suspicious, but at least I ain’t stupid. You really wanna threaten someone who has a gun on you?”

Micah chuckled darkly. “A gun won’t do you no favors when we’re this deep in civilization, boy. You shoot me, and the law’ll be on top of you within minutes. I think I’ll be just fine.”

Isaac widened the gap slightly, allowing the other man to see him more clearly through the door.

“So why did you come here, then? You don’t exactly look like you’re here for a talk.”

Micah leaned against the wall, grinning slyly. “On the contrary, I came here for answers. It’s clear to me now that I underestimated you before, but after all the help I’ve given, I’d say an explanation is due.”

Isaac paused for a minute, contemplating whether to let Micah in or not.

“...Fine.” He settled with. “But I’ll keep my gun handy, if you don’t mind. You don’t exactly radiate with trust.”

Micah smirked at that. “Well, ain’t you a gentleman.”

Letting the other man walk in, Isaac quickly shut the door once Micah was through the entryway and lowered his voice, wanting to avoid the attention of unknown listeners.

It didn’t look like anyone else had followed Micah into the saloon, but purely based on the man’s sour mood alone, Isaac assumed the gang might’ve wanted revenge after everything he’d done.

He’d have to tread carefully from here on out.

“So,” Isaac began, sliding his pistol back into its holster, “what did you wanna ask me?”

Micah took a seat on one of the chairs and lit a cigarette, allowing himself to get comfortable.

“Well, for starters...” he let out a puff of smoke, “...why don’t you tell me your name, boy? Seems only fair, seein’ as how you know mine.”

The young man crossed his arms, admittedly reluctant to share it.

“...Isaac.”

“Isaac?” Micah repeated, dangling the cigarette from between his fingers. “That’s a good name. A strong name. I actually ran with a fella named Isaac many years ago. Sadly, the poor bastard couldn’t live up to it. He was a clumsy drunk. Only in it for the money. But you...”

The outlaw rose from his chair, pointing a finger at the boy. “...You’re smarter than you look, ain’t you? Not many people could’ve snuck into our camp the way you did. But damn, did you take us by surprise.”

Isaac gave him a puzzled look. “How d’you mean?”

“Joe and Cleet never saw you coming,” Micah explained. “They were certain that no one had tampered with our supplies while we was robbin’ the bank, and the encounter with the Pinkertons didn’t exactly help matters neither. Funny how they managed to corner us on the same day of our robbery.”

Micah narrowed his eyes at Isaac. “It’s almost like... someone told them what would happen.”

The boy shrugged. “You gave me the information.”

“All I told you was that we had plans for a robbery,” the older man corrected, his tone more stern now. “I never mentioned nothin’ about a bank. How the hell did you know?”

Isaac gestured loosely to the town around them. “What else is their to rob around these parts? I assumed you weren’t gonna rustle livestock.”

Micah sighed in frustration. “Well, whatever you was plannin’ with that Pinkerton ambush, it nearly got us all killed. Dutch had to take a woman hostage just to get us outta there. And when we got back to camp, poor old Cleet ended up chokin’ on his food. The rest of us probably woulda dropped too if he didn’t go down first.”

That caught the young man’s attention. “The poison worked? Who else did it kill?”

“Nobody.” Micah answered. “Cleet’s the only one.”

Isaac was visibly disappointed at the news. “So Mackintosh is still alive, then.” He pounded a fist on the desk’s surface. “Dammit...!”

Micah perked his head up in interest upon hearing that, causing him to pause mid-action.

“Wait, that’s who you’re after? Shay Mackintosh?” He chuckled at the realization, suddenly understanding why the young man was here. “I see now... you’re tryin’ to eliminate the rest of us, so you can reach little ol’ Shay. Not a bad plan, except for one tiny flaw...”

Isaac let out a bored breath. “...What?”

“Well, you did just poison our food. And destroy our supplies. And steal our money. And break our weapons. I just fail to understand how you expect me to give you information... when I’m starvin’ to death.”

The boy didn’t seem to concerned with the idea. “Simple. You give me what I need, and I’ll pay you back the money I stole. Bit by bit.”

Micah laid a hand on the grip of his revolver. “Or... I could just kill you now, and take it all.”

“You’d never know where to find it.” Isaac countered.

“You don’t have the money on you?”

“Of course not. You think I didn’t expect you to come stompin’ back over here after I took everything you own? Keepin’ that much money on me would’ve been a death sentence.”

Micah backed down from the argument and grumpily conceded Isaac’s point, clearly not too happy with where he’d ended up.  

Just a few days ago, he thought he finally had the opportunity to kick Arthur out of the picture and was planning to use Isaac as the weapon, only to now discover that the boy carried more experience than he initially thought.

If Micah had known that Isaac would actually be able to come through with his plans, he’d never have given him that much information. He figured the boy would’ve gotten killed somewhere along the way, but now, thanks to his own naivety, Isaac was hoarding all of their savings in some godforsaken armpit in West Elizabeth, and using that as a way to keep Micah on a leash.

He was trapped. And the only way out of this mess was through the very man who deceived him in the first place.

What a strange world they lived in.

“...Fine.” Micah grumbled. “What other information d’you need?”

Isaac glanced through the room’s window, making sure that nobody was listening in.

“Now that you’ve finished robbin’ the bank, I assume your gang’s gonna relocate?”

The outlaw nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

Isaac took out the map Micah drew for him, flipping it to the blank side. “I need to know how you’re plannin’ to get there. Just gimme a route, or a town, or anything that could point me in the right direction.”

Micah eyed the map suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you just be concerned with the location itself? Why d’you need to know how we’re gettin’ there?”

“Because that’s the only time your gang will be vulnerable.”

The outlaw paused for a second, piecing the puzzle together in his head. “...So you’re thinking of attacking us on the road, then. Is that it?”

Isaac took out a pencil for Micah. “Yes. The poison didn’t kill Mackintosh, so it looks like I’m gonna have to take a more head-on approach. No more hiding in the shadows or attacking from a distance. I need to confront him face-to-face.”

Micah shrugged in uncertainty. “You sure, princess? It ain’t gon’ be easy. Especially since the rest of the gang will be there, too.”

The boy practically shoved the pencil into his hands. “That’s why I need your information. Then I can decide how I’m gonna separate the lot of you.”

The older man gave in to the kid’s persistence. “Alright, alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though.”

Taking a few minutes to scribble down another map, Micah roughly drew a clear line that carved its way through the Tall Trees region and down to Manzanita Post, curving back up to the Montana River just before the road hit Blackwater. 

“You’re takin’ the gang through Skinner Brother territory?” Isaac asked, noticing the direction of the route.

“We have to. Dutch wants to head back east in search of a cure for his illness.”

The young man rubbed his chin in thought, putting together a new plan in his head. 

“...That’d be a good spot to ambush the gang. There’s a lotta trees, and not that many places to escape. There’s also the fact that you have all them Skinner Brothers crawling around everywhere. It’d be easy to trap Dutch and his men.”

“Yeah, but it’d be easy for you to get stuck, too.”

Isaac’s mind wasn’t swayed. “I’m willin’ to risk it for this.”

“Fair enough.” Micah replied. “Just don’t come cryin’ to me when some crazy bastard’s got your hide roasting on a spit.”

Setting the pencil down, the outlaw finished his map before handing it to the boy, checking to see if he was satisfied with it.

“Is that everything you need?” He questioned flatly, evidently just wanting to go back to the camp.

Isaac thoroughly examined the piece of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

“For now.”

Micah held a hand out. “And my payment?”

Glancing up from the map for a second, Isaac dug into his pockets and pulled out another eighteen dollars, slapping the wad of cash into Micah’s palm.

“There.”

The outlaw licked his finger and began counting the individual bills, stuffing the clump of money into his coat once he was finished.

“Thank you, kind sir. I think I’ll head home now. Good luck on concludin’ whatever business it is you have with Shay. Can’t imagine what he’s done to get you on his tail... but I won’t cry for him.”

Leaving Isaac to his own devices, Micah made a swift exit out of the room and began quietly descending the stairs, not wanting to alert any of the other customers in case the Van der Lindes were among them.

He assumed the rest of the gang would have questions about where he was getting these sudden bundles of cash, but their skepticism meant virtually nothing to him, seeing as how they were already on the verge of death anyways.

At this point, Micah wasn’t even sure if he was interested in leading the gang anymore. He supposed it’d be possible to try and rebuild from the ashes that Dutch left behind, but considering the sad state of their small group of degenerates, he’d be better off hightailing it on his own and making money elsewhere.

He just hoped he could get rid of Arthur before that happened. That man had been a thorn in Micah’s side for far too long, and he knew as well as anybody that they’d never see eye-to-eye on anything. 

His only chance right now was to get Morgan out of the way, and then run off with whatever dwindling legacy Dutch left behind in his absence. 

Some may have called it cowardly, others may’ve called it rotten. All that mattered to Micah was that he made it out of this alive, and a whole lot richer.

It was the only thing he cared about these days, and the only thing that was holding him back.

Money.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #isaac morgan #dutch van der linde #Micah Bell #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 oc

[echoesoforre]

Unlikely Heroes | Wes & Michael

Plotted Ahead! | @lightoforre

He never thought he’d have to deal with this shit again. He was certainly prepared for it – so much so that when news broke out about the return of Cipher, all he could do was rest his hand on his forehead and heave a disappointed sigh – but dammit, it’s not like he wanted this to happen. This was the third time now – three times… far too many; two times more than was absolutely excessive by now. He was beyond frightened; he was beyond angry; he was just… fucking tired. And it was sad, too; he once thought of Cipher as the more advanced group – they, who created the technology that would be able to trap negative emotions of abuse and neglect and torture within a Pokemon and hold it down by chains, and prompt that animalistic, angry fight-or-flight response in them perpetually; Cipher did that. They created a disgusting research lab that monitored their abuse scientifically – studied the dark auras that radiated off of these Pokemon they had afflicted. They had Snagem under their thumb – those buffoons who’d decided they’d do just about anything for Cipher if it meant they could steal their fill and sell off the rest to the Under’s black market where those hostile Pokemon would be released to the masses to create chaos. Snagem, who, compared to Cipher’s brilliance, seemed like a bunch of fucking chimps running circles around their masters for a banana. Cipher had that much power. That much prestige. That much reach. That. Much. Genius.

And they were all just dumbasses like the rest of them.

Honestly – not even Snagem put up that much of a resistance at this point. Snagem – who was known for their brutality and their scrappiness, being able to exist like the worms they were in every corner of the great sand dunes that were Orre like coyotes waiting for a kill – yes, even they gave up when Wes himself squarely kicked their collective asses and showed them just who the fuck they were up against. They realized they fucked up. They called it quits. But Cipher? Cipher – no. Call it resilience or call it tenacity or whatever the hell else you’d like, but it was nothing more than sheer stupidity. Tenacity suits a group straggling on its last legs trying to put on a brave face in front of adversity beyond compare. It’s calculating your regrowth and regroup so that you can rise at the perfect opportunity with full force and full ambition. And certainly – most certainly – the attack two years prior was just that: it was calculated; it was cunning; it was unexpected and it was at that very same perfect opportunity. It was… honestly brilliant. Still failed – but. Brilliant nonetheless. But this time around?

Needless to say, Wes just didn’t fucking understand it; it seemed to him like the most neophytic and ragtag of moves. Where, previously, they had spent five years slowly building and building and improving, now there… wasn’t any sense in it. Second time around, they made a goddamn island as their base of operations; for Christ’s sake, they created a Shadow Pokemon that, without Krane’s recent breakthrough in Shadow Purification, would’ve been irreversible. Honestly, Krane never had a reason to continue his Shadow research as anything more than a whim and a precaution – all the same reason as why Wes kept his Snag Machine with him at all times after all these years, rather than destroying the damned thing like he honestly should. Had that man not been curious; had he not been cautious and wary of this very same thing, that… Lugia – that XD001 – would’ve been something far greater than Wes ever could’ve handled. But… now?

Well, first and foremost, Wes was certainly more prepared this time around. Two years ago, he wasn’t even here; he was halfway across the subcontinent at the time, living his good life ready to be married to the man of his dreams. Orre decided that slaving around one man to be a martyr and a hero wasn’t enough anymore – now that he was gone and had snuck himself away off to Unova to live his happy life; how dare he – and that the best thing that they could do was scrape up another hero to look to like the Superman that’d solve all their problems.

The second resurgence of Cipher only ever tore Wes up inside, especially now looking back. His affairs in Unova only ever led him to nothing – nothing but heartbreak and a bunch of other bulllshit he’d rather not dwell on – and it only served to make the situation at home all the more embittering. He could’ve spent all of that time in Unova building himself up and building himself up – gathering memories of the happiest days of his life – only to have them crash and burn, and for him to fall from his perch – fall from his high horse; his peak, his mountain – and go and taint and ruin all of those memories that he once held dear; or… he could’ve spent his good time back in Orre, taken his lumps and meet with mayors he didn’t care for, become the Thief Hero of Orre, the poster boy that anybody – anybody – could be a hero if they go through enough shit and get screwed over by the system enough to get desperate and be at the right place at the very wrong time and decorate it around as herodom. It made him sick. After Poster Boy #1 got sick and tired of being flanderized and his struggles glamorized for the news and media, they just went and got another fucking kid – he was seventeen at the time – quirky and starry-eyed; he’d seen pictures of the kid and his bright smile and bright red hair, though he never quite got around to a name – they’d called him the Light of Orre; where Wes had been decorated around as an under-the-radar, renegade hero, this kid was all polished and dolled-up well enough that he could’ve been sparkling porcelain – a much better picture to hang up on the walls and flash around the news that the kid was the hometown hero that Orre needed.

And Wes could only ever have preferred that… it was still him. Not for the stardom, no – God, he could give less of a shit about that – but… because he knew. He knew what it was like to be a bright-eyed kid at eighteen, much more naïve and… susceptible to it all (except, well, Wes was an eighteen-year-old of a far less innocent shade by then), being grabbed up by the masses and swallowed up with their demands; he was the purified liquid fountain that the desert-swept region had never before experienced, and they all rushed at the chance with greedy, dirty hands to scoop up whatever opportunity they could to use him and take what they could from him when they could. It was… exhausting. Physically, mentally; but… Wes knew himself; he could tolerate it all. He wasn’t knocking this kid, nor any ability to take his own lumps – this new Poster Boy #2 and his cocky grin, no – but… he wouldn’t have wished that incessant publicity on anybody, let alone the conflict itself. Wes saw terrors beyond his imagination; he saw torture, beatings, abuse; he was threatened within an inch of his life and beaten himself and scarred – took too many knocks hiding Rui behind himself to defend her so he could take the brunt of it and she could save herself. Despite their idiocy, Cipher and Snagem were… terrifying; they were dangerous and they were brutal and they were real. And that poor kid – that starry-eyed, idealistic kid – had to go at it alone. He had to fend for himself with nobody there beside him; goddamn it, Wes’s heart already lurched for the kid and what he must’ve gone through.

That was why. That was why he still wished to be the Renegade Hero – Orre’s first and Orre’s only; it was… glamorization and it was photoshoots and it was interviews with Ancha just about every other fucking week, but it was a burden, above all, that he never would’ve wished for anyone else to have to hold on their shoulders. And maybe… maybe battling it out with these resurging dumbasses was a way of setting that record straight – that Wes Wagner was fucking back to beat their little resurrection back into Hell where it belonged, and that he would always be there, hunting them down underground or waiting above the surface for them to show up so he could beat them back down again.

And he was not running away this time. Not now. Not ever again.

He’d heard stirrings of a small resurgence brewing up in an abandoned military base out by the north side – past what was known as the Cipher Key Lair through the crags. He packed his team lightly – the old familiar six – keeping only Umo with him. Yes, it was unfamiliar for a region where carrying two is the norm, but he knew Cipher by now and knew them well – no matter how scraped-together their team might be only two years after licking their wounds, they would not be unprepared. He traveled out as far as he could, stocking up on items in the Outskirt Stand – plenty of Pokeballs; plenty of those – until he came past where the wind blew so fast and so heavy, the sand swept across in great waves and gritted across Wes’s forehead and his cheeks, billowing through and leaving the rocks bare and sunbaked and jutting out like jagged horns. It was only a way’s past when they began to form like blunted thorns through their own hedge maze of rock that he began to see what this little military base was all about. And yes – it was… teeming with activity.

Clad in their stark-white outfits – stark-white and purple and blue; so obvious against the drab brown sand even in the dead of night as it was – those Cipher Peons wandered about their makeshift base as lookouts, searchlights beaming down high, high above and cast down for any intruders – like him, for example. He made sure to park his bike a far, far distance from anywhere near that tin building, Umo stealthily padding beside him with his yellow ringlets dimmed down to black. The two were invisible in the night – all but Wes’s skin tone and hair and the slightly-lighter blue color of his jacket, sidling the building beneath a window that he might dare to look inside.

But he found his plans cut short. Within earshot, in the distance, he heard a voice – loud and accusatory and… British, among all things – shouting and approaching with heavy footfalls. “Oi! Cipher! You’re not getting away with it this time!” The voice shouted, and for a moment Wes could only believe it was some poor schmuck trying to play hero, but those fast-paced footsteps only approached faster and faster towards… him of all people – and soon, he was met eye-to-eye with a tuft of fiery red hair just as tenacious as this kid’s spirit, and his bright, attention-seeking yellow jacket, his green eyes blazing and teeth and fists clenched with anger towards… Wes? Wait – no; was he… being serious?

Wes could only look to the kid with bewilderment, his body tensing at the force this kid brought by his conviction alone – and God, he was… still shouting; Wes couldn’t even gather what he was saying past the kid’s accent and past his own shock that the kid honestly thought he was Cipher – that the only thing he could do was… react. His arms shot out and he spun the kid around, pulling his arm flush across the kid’s shoulders and reaching his other hand to cup over his mouth. “Shut up!” He hissed, his voice low, but not without a viper’s bite, “Shut up! Shut up and just listen. I am not part of Cipher. My name is Wes Wagner; I’m the fucker that beat these assholes seven years ago. Now you will do well to shut the hell up before we’re both spotted and get captured because of your loud mouth. I’m not even wearing the right uniform for Christ’s sake – and why in God’s name would I be trying to bust into my own building if I was Cipher, huh?” 

He knew who this kid was right away. The bright green eyes and bright ambition – yeah, it was all still there, just the same as it was on the front page of the news. It was Poster Boy #2 – the Light of Orre – though he was certainly not light on his tone. But, well, light was only one part of the storm – after that always came thunder, loud and booming and without care nor consideration for anybody or anything else. He only hoped that the thunder of this kid’s voice wouldn’t serve to screw them both over now.

#Unlikely Heroes | lightoforre #((HERE U GO LEO MY DEAR LETS GET THIS TRAINWRECK STARTED)) #((if u need me to change anything just p unt me into outer space ok))