#tw murder/death

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

If you’re up for it, can we see Azalea breaking Caliban out of that interrogation room? That one where his cravings are really bad and Aza poisons the guard and gets him out?

Oh, I'm definitely up for it! (By the way, are you the one who sent that original ask?) I hope you didn't mind the wait, but here it is! Enjoy!

(Trigger Warnings: implications of illegal business, murder/death, poisoning, descriptions of cravings/hunger pangs, blood, implied cannibalism, mentions of unconsciousness, mentions of drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.) 

___

“Drink it. . .” Azalea’s voice was soft, just barely an octave above a whisper, and yet her words still came out in an impatient, acidic growl. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Drink it already, you son of a bitch!”

It was a well-known fact that mobsters tended to avoid police departments like the plague. Another well-known fact about mobsters was that they often worked in the dark. And as of right now, the local station was very dark, save for a few lights here and there.

That was why she, Murdock, and The Newcomer had snuck in just ten minutes ago. It’d been pure luck that they’d gotten here before the officers had returned to drag Caliban into one of the interrogation rooms.

Even if things had taken a turn for the worse, at least it’d been long after sunset. The station’s doors officially locked at five o’clock or so, but that didn’t always mean officers weren’t at work here. It did mean that there were far less of them to deal with—three in this case—so that was something. 

She’d already taken care of the security cameras. . .

(Erasing video footage was pretty damn easy, so long as you knew which buttons to press.)

. . .Except for one. 

She was fully prepared to knock off that camera’s evidence, mind you. That particular camera would be as good as belonging to an amateur vlogger soon. 

Right now, however, it had to stay on. 

It wasn’t like Azalea wanted to watch three pigs try to intimidate her brother, but last-minute plans like this had to be handled carefully. 

“Has he taken a sip?” A hushed, familiar baritone voice called.

Azalea glanced over her shoulder to see Murdock slither into the office, having left his car’s trunk a bit heavier than before. It felt like only seconds had passed since he’d crept up behind the security guard, since he’d jerked that guard’s neck on a violent right-angle.

“Not yet.” Azalea chewed her lip, shaking her head. “I can accept someone deciding that they need coffee at this hour, but taking this long with it once you’ve got it? Ridiculous!” 

The very second those officers had entered the building, Azalea had easily overheard the ringleader ordering one of his cronies to put a pot of coffee on. 

Sure, coffee-makers always took time to prepare that addictive battery acid. And sure, policemen were always way, way too unobservant to be as revered as they were.

Still, it’d felt a little miraculous that Azalea had been able to sneak over to the station’s canteen, slip a cyanide pill into that pressed-bean-juice, let that pill fully dissolve, and stir it in before slinking back to the security office.

“. . .I mean, when was the last time you heard of a cop doing things efficiently?” Murdock inquired as he came to stand beside the chair Azalea had claimed. The remaining camera’s blue-glow light reflected off of his shades.

“Fair point,” Azalea admitted, sighing. “I just—I need him to die already.”

“So do I, so do I. One way or another, we’ll get Cal out of here,” Murdock promised. “It doesn’t matter if that asshole is one of those weirdos who likes his brew lukewarm. What matters is how long your little secret ingredient will need to take effect.”

“It should knock him out in less than a minute,” Azalea mused, “but depending on his weight, it’ll take two or four minutes for him to actually keel over.”

“Not too shabby,” Murdock hummed. “Newbie’s on the far corner of the building. They’re gonna set off a distraction on my signal. I’ll help them with an ambush when those two try to investigate.”

Azalea nodded. “Sounds good.” 

A brief silence settled over the office as the two of them stared at the camera monitors.

They watched as Caliban slowly but surely began to shudder, making an effort not to squirm in his chair.

They watched as Caliban’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates, as he immediately tried not to look at the photographs of blood-spattered crime scenes that the interviewing officer placed on the table. 

They watched as Caliban grappled with not being able to reach up and wipe at the thin strands of saliva now rolling past his lips. 

“Today was supposed to be a feeding day,” Murdock murmured, sounding equal parts frustrated and guilty while kneading at his forehead.

“You think I don’t know that?” Azalea replied in a somewhat pointed voice. She could already tell that Murdock knew just how furious she was right now, knew that she couldn’t be blamed for her anger-fear cocktail. “You’re gonna be making up for this for weeks.” 

“I know I am,” Murdock answered, side-eyeing her right back. Unlike the majority of the time he spoke, there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his tone. 

This wasn’t the first time a problem had come up during a job, and it wouldn’t be the last, either. Underground business was always risky, always dangerous. What happened earlier wasn’t exactly Murdock’s fault. . .but tonight’s little rendezvous had still been his idea. 

But Murdock’s new debt had to be put on the back burner right now becAUSE OH GOD THE RINGLEADER-COP FINALLY DRANK SOME OF HIS FUCKING COFFEE HOLY SHIT THIS IS HAPPENING NOW!

“There! That’s it!” Azalea hissed, sitting up so violently that it was a wonder she didn't punch a hole in the monitor screen. “The others can’t see the side-effects! Go! Signal the distraction! Hurry!”

Murdock was out the office door and down the hall before his accomplice had even finished her sentence. The fact that he still managed to be mostly silent was as impressive as it would’ve been unsettling to outsiders. 

Azalea’s hands were a blur now that she was finally able to clean out that last damn camera. The image on the monitor paused, flickering and blurring before clicking to blackness. With that, she ducked behind a nearby filing cabinet. The seconds jeered at her as they dragged by. And yet, just as she was about to start colorfully muttering to the void, she narrowly avoided jumping out of her skin as some kind of alarm came shrieking through the air. 

Yelps of shock followed the distress call, as though the officers down the hall thought they could outdo whatever Murdock and The Newcomer had triggered. Azalea held her breath as muffled footsteps thundered past the security office’s closed door. She could’ve sworn that her heart skipped multiple beats as she was forced to wait for the right moment. Violent shudders wracked her body as she crept up to the threshold and peered through the gap.

As soon as the sound of a stampede faded, as soon as Azalea was sure that the officers had moved far enough away, most of her stealth was kicked to the curb (a few stubborn strands held on, but only because of instinct).

She bolted down the corridor, not caring one bit how there didn’t seem to be any air in her lungs. Through the alarm, through her own thundering pulse, she could still hear the dull thump of a hundred-odd pounds of something hitting linoleum. 

She turned a corner, discovering two doors. One hung open; it probably would’ve drifted shut by now, but the heap of man lying in its path had other ideas. At first, the ringleader-cop could’ve just been mistaken for being sloppy-drunk, what with the way he twitched and gurgled. Foamy, blood-tinged drool leaked out of his mouth to form a puddle where his face met the floor.

It would’ve been impossible to enter the room without tripping over him, but Azalea kept her footing via stomping down on his neck. The choked, pathetic sputter she elicited sounded as though it’d come from somewhere much farther away.

Time seemed to slow down as Azalea raced over to the interview table, as she snatched up the paperclip that was keeping all those crime scene photos together. It was only after she’d picked the handcuffs open, when her brother’s arms limply fell to his sides, that she realized Caliban was slumped over the table, eyes closed. 

He’d only fainted. Azalea knew he’d only fainted, and yet her eyes still stung as she shook his shoulder. Caliban’s breathing wasn’t weak, but it was shaky, labored. She’d seen all the stress and fear he’d had to go through, and she still couldn’t understand how an unconscious person could look so tense.

Azalea had to bare her teeth to avoid sobbing as she tried to coax him awake, as she struggled to lift him, because the people who tried to hurt him were dead and he wasn’t in danger anymore and she needed her brother—

She startled badly at the sound of rustling plastic. A scream caught in her throat as The Newcomer materialized before her. They mimicked Azalea, grabbing hold of Caliban’s other arm and draping it over their shoulders.

“Murdock’s handling the other two bodies,” they announced as they helped Azalea half-carry half-drag Caliban over the ringleader-cop (who was now wrapped up in a fresh body bag) and out of the interrogation room. “He said he’d take care of the one in here! We just need to focus on Cal!”

Azalea didn’t answer. Her head practically swam. She kept moving forward, but she wasn’t actually seeing whatever was in front of her. Old, awful memories were trapped in her vision, and if she wasn’t busy clinging to Caliban, she would’ve tried clawing at her eyes to force those memories out. The noise all around her made it so much worse.

Somehow, after Azalea eventually managed to blink, she briefly felt cool nighttime air against her skin. The blaring alarm hadn’t disappeared, but it was muffled enough that the telltale sound of a seat belt being buckled rang in her ears. She didn’t remember The Newcomer calling shotgun, but their gray eyes peered at her as they turned around in the passenger seat of Murdock’s car. 

“I wiped down the security office,” they coughed. “On my way to you, I mean. Got rid of the handcuffs, too.”

“. . .Oh,” Azalea replied. “Well, good work. Thank you.” On one hand, she hadn’t even thought about fingerprints, and was impressed at The Newcomer’s thoroughness. On the other hand, she didn’t have the heart to remind The Newcomer that she’d been wearing her work gloves all night.

A small smile appeared on The Newcomer’s face. That smile died a quick death when a low, rolling, organic sound broke the awkward silence. Azalea didn’t flinch as she glanced over at Caliban, who had been sat down on the other side of the backseat. 

Azalea felt her shoulders slump. She peered back and forth between Caliban and The Newcomer, who was trying (but failing) not to wince. Not that Azalea could really blame them. She’d had plenty of experience helping her brother with his hunger. 

But The Newcomer. . .well, even if they’d adjusted to working with a cannibal, and even if Azalea only knew so much about their past, she still had her doubts that they’d ever heard a person’s stomach growl so loudly. 

Azalea’s worry came back at breakneck speed. Thankfully, out of the corner of her eye, she spied something shiny and red lying in a heap on the car’s floor. 

Her brother’s favorite jacket.

The same one that had interior pockets for days. . .

She snatched the threads up, quickly rummaging through aforementioned pockets until she fished out a small, rectangular bottle. It was shiny, having been designed with a marble-esque pattern that complimented the damascus material of Caliban’s favorite meat cleaver. 

Azalea twisted the little cap off, allowing a strong, metallic, infamous smell to seep into the air. She moved closer to Caliban, reaching up to gently take hold of his lower jaw and tilt his head back. Then, she raised the vial to his lips—her hand was still shaking, so it was a wonder how none of the processed blood dripped onto his face.

She heard The Newcomer declare that Murdock was finally leaving the station, heard them get out of the car with the same speed as a cat with a violent case of the zoomies. And while it would’ve been very funny to watch Murdock struggle to carry three full bodybags in a manner similar to a dad refusing to take more than one unloading trip, she wouldn’t take her focus off of Caliban.

Though Caliban’s eyes remained closed, instinct still kicked in (with a little help from gravity, of course). One massive twitch shuddered through his whole body. His brow furrowed as a cough forced its way out of his throat. 

“Shh. . .deep breaths, Cal. Deep breaths,” Azalea coached. “Drink.”

A few seconds passed the siblings by.

Then, as the car began to tremble in response to a frustrated hitman bodyslamming its trunk, Caliban’s eyes fluttered open.

“. . .Aza. . ?” he muttered. 

And just like that, Azalea grinned at him. All the dread she’d felt up until now. . .something else came along and ate it up. “You owe me big time.”

Caliban squinted at her, obviously still attempting to convince his body to work again, but it took no time at all for him to grin right back. 

It didn’t last, as he and his sister yelped in tandem when the car suddenly lurched forward, the tires underneath squealing in excitement. 

“Well, that can count as our cardio for the week,” Murdock pronounced, reaching over to clap The Newcomer on the shoulder. He then glanced over his shoulder to peer at his other two accomplices. “How’s it going, Cal?”

“I don't know. How the hell do you think it's going?" Caliban snarked as he leaned back in his seat.

Seeing that her brother was probably coherent enough to do things for himself, Azalea slipped the vial into his hand. Her prediction was confirmed when he immediately took a swig of blood. 

Murdock smirked. “That’s a weird way of saying ‘thank you,’ but I’ll take it.”

“Listen, do you know what it feels like to be hungry right now?” Caliban asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “It hurts. Not as much as last month’s target, but it hurts. So I’ll thank you when I’m not so damn hungry, okay?”

“Okay,” Murdock agreed after a second of consideration.

“I mean, there are four dead people crammed in the back. . .” The Newcomer mentioned

Caliban’s eyes lit up at that.

“Ah, you can’t eat any of them, though,” Azalea interjected, offering an apologetic cringe as her brother automatically pouted. “Hey, look, I’m sorry, but you know the drill when it comes to cops. We’ve gotta go the old-fashioned route for disposal—”

“Because the DNA of important public figures can’t be traced anywhere near us. I know, I know,” Caliban finished, sighing. However, his disappointment still didn’t stop him from pulling Azalea into a side hug, which she was quick to reciprocate.

#the edgelord gets fed #writing requests #my characters #azalea/aza #rosanna pansino #nerdy nummies egos #caliban #caliban the cannibal #matpat #egopats #the newcomer #murdock/murderplier #iswm murdock #markiplier #the pentas family #[the future mob project] #tw blood #tw cravings/hunger pangs #tw implied cannibalism #tw murder/death #tw poisoning #tw mentions of drinking

[genderkoolaid]

(Source)

On February 8th, this nonbinary child was violently beaten by three cis girls. The school did not call them an ambulance after the beating was stopped, and they later died in the hospital from head trauma. They have also been deadnamed and misgendered in their obituary and in the news. As the author of the article puts it:

How is that not national news? A 16 year old beaten to death in a public school bathroom? By other students. All these unanswered seemingly obvious questions about what transpired, and how the adults involved acted. That should be every headline. In fact, almost every local outlet covering the story misgender and deadnames Nex, using their same assigned at birth. The indignities pile on. We don’t yet know if Nex’s nonbinary identity is directly tied to this incident. But, my God, it sure matters to me that this would happen to any child. A nonbinary kid assaulted in a girl’s bathroom. That outcome from the narrative of anti-trans rhetoric these past years. Still why wasn’t this story breaking news? It involves a nonbinary student in a public school. And school violence and school police resource officers. It involves the deep fear so many trans youth have shared with me about their schools.

#m. #exorsexism #hate crime tw #murder tw #child death tw #tdor

[hussyknee]

#this is like 9/11 all over again #gaza genocide #tw murder #tw death #ethnic cleansing #palestinian genocide #genocide joe #state terrorism #islamphobia #arab americans #media suppression #freedom of speech #human rights #us politics #white supremacy #journalism #free palestine #fascism #authoritarianism #knee of huss

[yaoiboypussy]

Righteous Torrence “Chevy” Hill, A black trans man, was murdered on February 29, 2024 in Atlanta. I’ve seen very few people reporting on this, other than a few small local news sites and queer news sites, please don’t let his murder be overlooked.

https://www.gayemagazine.com/post/35-year-old-black-trans-man-hair-salon-owner-righteous-torrence-tk-hill-murdered-in-atlanta

#.txt #trans #transgender #trans man #transmasc #tw murder #current events #tw death #lgbt #lgbtq #lgbtqi #transphobia

[a-gay-poptart]

Say their name.

CW AND TW: CHILD DEATH

Say.

Their.

Name.

Nex Benedict was a indigenous trans nonbinary teenager. Their head was beaten against the floor in a bathroom stall. Less than 24 hours later, they died, most likely from undiagnosed head trauma. Conservatives say they want to, "protect the children", where was the protection for Nex? That's the thing. There wasn't any. Nex died. And many more trans, queer, and nonbinary minors will if we don't step up and do something. What happened to Nex has and will happen to queer folk around the globe. Say their name.

Edit: I didn't expect this to get much attention, but thank you everyone. What alot of people, "forget" to mention was that Nex was two spirited, which means they were indigenous. The fact that I wouldn't have heard about this if I didn't have Tumblr is absolutely revolting. News needs to be covering this. But what are Republicans doing? Sucking their thumbs and crying about how, "trans people shouldn't be able to piss". What are Democrats doing? Twiddling their thumbs and groveling to an old geezer that somehow falls up the stairs and supports I$r3@l. It's disgusting and America needs to do better.

Edit 2: Any and all hate/saying that Nex Benedict wasn't murdered (they were) will immediately get deleted, just because you don't like trans people doesn't mean you can be an whiny little bitch. A child was murdered. This has nothing to do with politics, a child was murdered.

#nex benedict #queer #queer pride #lgbtqia #queer community #lgbtq #lgbtq community #nonbinary #non bianry #transgender #trans joy #protect trans kids #protect queer kids #protect queer youth #child death tw #child murder tw #hate crime tw #death tw #murder tw #fuck transphobes #fuck homophobia #save the children #rip nex benedict

[noonesgaylikegatson]

Some messages left by queer Palestinians who face annihilation by the Israeli government in their retaliation against Hamas. The Israeli government has dropped thousand of bombs, leveled streets, cut off water, gas, and electricity, bombed hospitals, ambulances, mandated evacuation and then bomb evacuees. Innocent people are dying in the mass.

There is no need for this government to employ these acts of collective punishment. The same logic that is used to condemn the acts of Hamas, should be used to condemn the actions of the Israeli government. No one deserves to slaughtered and dehumanized.

And keep in mind, that this terror is not unusual for the Palestinian people, and this is another horrific event in a decades long oppression and apartheid.

#gmadi #politics #tw #death #war #murder #genocide #cw

[one-time-i-dreamt]

miss Stephanie Soo you might have deleted your many true crime mukbangs but I will never forget about them nor the harm they caused

#not a dream #stephanie soo #rotten mango #true crime #mukbang #food #eating #disgusting #crime #murder tw #death tw #violence tw

[our-trans-youth-experience]

Rest in Power, Nex Benedict

A 16 year old kid who loved nature and looking after their cat Zeus. Who enjoyed reading, watching the Walking Dead, and playing Ark and Minecraft. They loved to cook and would often make up their own recipes. They did well in school, being a straight-A student. Rest in power a teen who was human and had interests and ambitions and challenges and friendships. A trans youth who was brutally murdered just for being trans, when that was only a fragment of who they were as a person.

Nex Benedict, Jacob Williamson, Brianna Ghey, and other trans youth like them were real people with real lives. They deserved better, longer, happier lives. They deserved to grow up and not fear for their lives. They deserve to be remembered as who they were, not just as another trans kid who was killed, as people with families and normal human lives.

#trans youth #our trans youth experience #trans kids #transgender #enby #nonbinary #trans #queer #protect trans lives #protect trans kids #nex benedict #child death tw #tw murder #rest in power #brianna ghey #jacob williamson #trans people are people #trans genocide

[doctorsiren]

Part 1

next ->

#doctorsiren #ace attorney #ace attorney au #gregory edgeworth #miles edgeworth #manfred von karma #yanni yogi #tyrell badd #metis cykes #ace attorney fanart #astro boy edgeworth au #art #digital art #my art #fanart #procreate #comic #au name will come soon lmao #time to draw the next set HAHA #tw child murder #tw child death #tw gun #idk why but I feel like I could eat this and it would taste like a specific type of paper #like soft newsprint y’know #also the page with the flowers and the rain… #I HAVENT PLAYED AAI2 YET SO DONT ASK ME ANYTHING ABOUT STUFF THAT RELATES TO THAT ONE AHH #it’s kinda sad that the cutest child miles I’ve drawn is in a comic where he freaking DIES #😭💥💀 #… Gregory without his glasses looks just like Mumbo without his mustache #also I think Metis is 13 in 2001

[seaslugsims]

March 1st is Disability day of Mourning/Remembrance. Today we remember all the disabled people who have died as the result of negligent or intentional homicide by caregivers and family. Disabled lives are worth living and protecting.

anti-filicide toolkit | list of disability charities/orgs

#disability #disabled #disability day of mourning #feel free to reblog #filicide #death tw #murder tw

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

For the WIP guessing game: blood

~ @sammys-magical-au :3

You know me too well, Sammy~

(Also, the reason I'm using italics and normal text in reverse is just because a lot of the books I've read go about flashbacks like that.)

Despite how hard it’d been to focus on anything except the specks of blood adorning Murdock’s tinted glasses, or the dark puddle that had been spreading out from beneath the body at his feet...

(Miguel’s cleaning capabilities weren’t just limited to blood-spatters, thank you very much.)

If it wasn’t for all that oozing blood, the rival’s slumped-over-yet-still-standing position would have resembled a nasty hangover.

On the other hand, pretty much everything below Caliban’s eyes was mottled with blood, and his red-drenched teeth were practically gnashing at the air as he laughed.

Blood seeped from it at a slightly slower rate than the gashes in his chest.

(Miguel cringed, as he would’ve been lying if he said that he hadn’t expected Caliban to lick the blood off.)

Blood was still oozing, but it wouldn’t leak through.

 He held them carefully in order for there to be no direct skin-to-blood contact.

The average human body only contained about 1.5 gallons of blood.

Not if the pile of all those paper towels, now crumpled-up and bloodstained, had anything to say about it.

#the edgelord gets fed #sammy's magical au #friendship #my writing #future stories #sammys' magical au's lixian egos #idwbf miguel #lixian #caliban #caliban the cannibal #matpat #egopats #my character #my fan egos #fanmade egos #iswm murdock #murdock/murderplier #markiplier #tw blood #tw murder/death #asking game

[faeriekit]

Feet on the Ground

loose phic phight fill for @oldfashionedbattlehymn

warnings for: murder attempt, discussion of child death

********

Danny wakes up in a garbage bag.

It isn’t as gross as it sounds. Danny’s the only thing in there, and it’s not like the lack of air is going to kill him; he could rip his way out, but honestly, going intangible is just as effective and twice as easy.

And, of course, once he’s phased his way out of the dumpster behind the gas station, Danny is very, very grateful that he didn’t even try. Everything else in there is….eeugh. He shivers.

Well. It’s got to be early morning now—it’s dark. There’s no other cars on the highway. Even the gas station itself is closed, and the stars have already lost their spark.

Time to head home.

*

Danny wakes up behind the gas station. Again.

…Okay?

The first time, Danny had just assumed he’d fallen asleep somewhere weird while flying around the neighborhood, but a second time is a pattern. It’s definitely not his fault this time either, because there’s no way he would have duct taped his arms and legs together or slapped a gag on his mouth.

That’s kind of. Ominous.

Danny frees himself of the garbage bag first— and thank goodness he doesn’t have to breathe— he floats himself out of the bag and the dumpster, which had…thankfully been given a good scrubbing since last time? There’s some other trash, apparently, but nothing sharp enough to cut through his durable, tape-based bonds. It takes some finagling and some eye lasers for Danny to finally get his arms free.

And. Hoo Boy. There’s no more liberating a feeling than peeling tape off your mouth, even if your mouth skin kind of comes off with it and you bleed a little. But it’s fine! It’s green, which means it’ll heal.

Fabulous. Danny zooms off invisibly into the night, more than willing to put the night behind him.

*

…Okay, the third time is what makes it more than a coincidence.

Danny shucks out of the bruise-tight ropes around his wrists, torso, knees, and legs, spits out his gag, and flies home. He finally has to give into the inevitable, and attempts the last resort:

“Jazz?” he whispers, slowly rocking his sister in her bed. Jazz mumbles in her sleep.

“Jaaaaazzy…” Danny tries again, trying not to look either too spooky or too imposing. Jazz’s reflexes are such that—

The laser she keeps under her pillow goes off. Danny loses a few millimeters of hair, which means that her aim is getting better.

 He doesn’t have any trouble seeing in the dark (or, uh, not anymore, anyway), but it’s easy to see Jazz’s sleepy squint as she pulls herself somewhat upright. More like a shrimp with scoliosis, but, well. You know.

“Whuh,” Jazz asks. “...Danny?”

“Hey,” Danny whispers, a ghost at her bedside. Jazz grunts. “Uh. What does it mean when you keep waking up in a trash bag behind the gas station?”

Jazz blinks. Jazz rubs her eyes. Jazz blinks again, looking more sleepy than coherent but at least somewhat aware of her surroundings.

“Garbage bag?” Jazz asks blearily. “You were in a garbage bag?”

“Yeah,” Danny whispers back. “My legs were tied down?”

“...Danny, were you murdered?”

Danny stops.

“Huh?” says Danny.

*

“So, if you look here,” Tucker points out, finger not quite touching the glass of his CRT monitor, “That’s when Danny gets murdered.”

There is a collective eeew from the assembled viewers— Jazz, Sam, and Danny, all crowded in Tucker’s room.

“Yeah, Tucker agrees. The light from the black-and-white footage flashes in the reflection of his glasses. “Here’s where he’s tossed in…there. And this is when they tossed him in the dumpster.”

There’s no sound on the gas station surveillance footage, but Danny imagines that his body clanged on the way in. What the hell. Danny got murdered behind a gas station, and he didn’t even notice?!

They watch the archived footage of a Ford F-150 driving off the property, and then Danny’s dead body being unceremoniously tossed in a dumpster. It’s kind of surreal. No one had noticed. There was no one to report the crime committed.

“I can’t believe that guy just clocked you over the head, like that,” Sam points out. “It’s just a regular car jack. It shouldn’t have gotten you in the first place.”

The observation isn’t appreciated.

“Be nice! My brother was just murdered,” Jazz scolds. Danny doesn’t think she sounds as offended as she should be. “Either way, it’s certainly an attempted murder, if not a successful one. We have to do something.”

“…Can’t we just call the cops?” Tucker asks, turning away from the computer. “I mean. Look. That’s proof. We have proof right here.”

Sure enough, there is footage. Right there. There’s Danny’s murder, in 240p black and white.

“Where’s the body?” Sam asks dryly, and. Uh. That’s a problem they’ll have to solve.

Everyone looks at everyone else. No one has a good solution.

“…Do we have to do this?” Tucker realizes at the same second as the rest of them.

Jazz looks at Danny. Danny looks at Sam. Sam looks at Tucker.

Tucker stares back at them, entirely unenthused with the conclusion they’ve come to.

“…Okay then,” Jazz exhales. “How do you want to do this?”

*

Sam ends up on top of the gas station, a cell phone in her hand.

Tucker, PDA in hand, sits in Jazz’s passenger seat. The camera feed is ongoing and recording for posterity.

Jazz taps her fingers on the wheel of her car. There isn’t anywhere better to hide than down the road and around the corner, so she does, hoping that they’re on the other end of the road from whoever’s killing her brother every night.

Danny is, of course, wandering through the neighborhood.

Losing her baby brother—on purpose—is the worst thing Jazz can imagine. She feels sick. She wants to throw him into the car and speed away, and break every speed limit law in the county on her way out. She wants to pack him in bubble wrap and ship him expedited to France.

But she does leave her brother alone. She lets Tucker look over the footage as Danny roams around town, just as unaware and unsuspecting as his last few outings.

Tucker sees the man first.

He bolts upright, eyes on his PDA. “Jazz.”

Her head whips around. They watch, silently, as someone approaches Danny’s lone figure on the doorstep outside the gas station.

They can’t hear anything. That’s the scariest part.

“Call,” Jazz demands. Tucker does.

Doubtlessly, on the roof of the gas station, Sam is dialing too.

*

So. Danny knows this guy.

And. Uh. It’s kind of embarrassing; he’d asked if Danny was okay walking home alone at night a few hours before his dumpster wake-up call, and Danny had said it was fine.

Apparently, no, it wasn’t fine. That being said, Danny hadn’t been expecting a guy in a button-up and khakis to be the guy murdering him on the down low. He kind of looks like the dude who sells you televisions and burner phones at a Wal-Mart.

The guy comes all the way over to where Danny is sitting on the thin concrete step of the gas station. His breath fogs up from the weather and his eyes rake over Danny, up and down; down and up.

“Hey,” he says, looking all the world like any other concerned citizen. Danny’s heart throbs. “It’s cold outside. You need a ride back to town?”

“…No,” says Danny, who doesn’t.

“Your mom okay with you comin’ home late by yourself?” the man asks nervously, hands going to his hair.

Danny thinks about how many times he’s woken up in the dumpster. He thinks about seeing his own body on the camera tape. Prone. Dead.

“You still keep a car jack in your passenger seat?” Danny asks instead.

The man freezes. An attempted murderer he might be, but he’s not exactly an Oscar-winning actor. “What?”

“The car jack,” Danny repeats. He doesn’t know if he’s mad the man keeps targeting him, or whether he’s grateful Danny’s the only one who’s died so far. “It’s got a lot of sharp corners. They hurt, you know.”

The man…carefully laughs the statement off, but he looks. Nervous.

Danny doesn’t really need to confront him; he only has to stall long enough that Tucker or Sam can call the cops, so that they can see this man’s face and get him on the record. But.

There’s a part of Danny…

The man looks so human. Flush with blood. Solid enough to break. Fragile enough to be made broken.

Danny still resents being made dead. This man didn’t kill Danny—not in any way that mattered, but he’s an easy target.

He doesn’t breathe. The man watches a boy sit in the shadows of a building where he’s been dumping bodies, and Danny can taste his fear.

“It hurt a lot,” Danny says, and he isn’t referring to waking up in the bags every couple of mornings in the last few weeks. “It hurt so much. I was screaming.”

The man is silent.

“Do you like to hear the screaming?” Danny asks, suddenly curious. Did he care, if Danny had screamed, or if he had been too unaware to notice he was dying? Would he have cared, if there were others more breakable than Danny that he had hurt?

He doesn’t answer.

“I don’t like it,” Danny confesses. In a horrible way, it’s easy to tell his would-be murderer about his death—unlike Tucker or Sam, who witnessed it, or Jazz, who loves him, this man can’t be affected by Danny’s take on his own death. In fact, if he is hurt by the thought of Danny’s death…good. It’s better if he is. If there is remorse in him. “I don’t like to hear screaming. I screamed for so long, and so loud. It felt like forever.”

The man’s hands curl. He steps back.

Danny can’t help but to frown. If he leaves, the whole point of calling the cops will be for nothing, and he’ll be warier of coming back to where Danny’s body was dropped. “Where are you going?”

The man takes another step back. Danny rockets upright. He’s on his feet in seconds. “Weren’t you here for me?” Danny asks, genuinely confused, arms outstretched. “We’re here. You dumped me here over and over again.”

“Shut up,” the man snaps, startling the both of them with his volume. “He—you’re not real. You’re… Be quiet. I have real things to get done tonight!”

Danny’s dead heart throbs. Is there another dead kid? Did Danny let another kid get killed in Danny’s place? “Do you?”

The man loses his voice.

“We’re already here,” Danny points out. He steps closer—closer to the truck that drove his dead body around town, further from the dumpster where his body had been dropped. The disposal hadn’t been a funeral, but it’s closer than anything Danny’s ever had. “You’re here. I’m here. Aren’t you here for me?”

A choked breath. Danny gets closer. The ectoplasm in his skin is too warm and too cold—but he has no idea what he looks like from the outside. Is he glowing? Is he see-through? Does he just look like any other dead kid: a little too cold, a little too pale?

They’re eye to increasingly shorter eye. Up close, the man just looks like any other guy. Shaved in the face. Wrinkles around his eyes. A nose. A mouth.

Danny’s not afraid of him. His head tilts. “You’ve already killed me three times. What are you going to do now? I’ll just come back again. I won’t even notice. I died. I know what you look like—I know how to find you. It’ll be easy.”

The man’s pupils dilate—

And then there’re hands on Danny’s neck. And. It’s kind of painful, but Danny doesn’t have to breathe. So. He just kind of…pretends to be hurt?

He’s meant to be stalling for time. The cops are coming. All he needs is time.  

So Danny makes some somewhat dramatic sounds and kicks out with his feet, because a fight lasts longer than a passive victim. He lands a hit to the man’s stomach, and another to his chest—he doesn’t drop Danny the way Danny might have expected, but Danny isn’t going to run out of air, so this can last forever until the man lets go. Or does something.

“Stop— coming— back,” the man snarls, and suddenly sounds nothing like the dudes who man the tech counter at the Walmart. “I got you— you should be gone!” 

Danny is gone. But he’s also here. And he’s also been gone for a very long time, and he’s also getting choked out by a guy in a gas station parking lot. It’s been a rough few hours of waiting for this dude. He might as well make it worth it. 

So maybe his body turns a little translucent. Just a little. Just enough to see the streetlight through his skin, probably, and the hazy road behind them. 

Getting thrown to the concrete hurts, but, you know, not as badly as getting tossed into a wall by Skulker on a rampage. Danny’s barely going to be bruised after this. 

The guy runs to his car, and Danny frowns, scrambling back up, and, wait. Wouldn’t having bruises be better? As evidence? They better not heal too quickly, or else that’ll be it of his physical proof. 

“Where are you going?” Danny asks, more perplexed and angry than anything. Isn’t he supposed to try to kill the witness??

But the guy hauls butt into the cab of his truck— and then the lights go on and the tires start spinning, the engine roaring to life. 

If Danny wasn’t actively on camera at the moment, it would be easy to fly after the car. As it is, he’s pretty fast, but he’s not quite quick enough on his feet to chase after a pickup truck careening down the highway in the dark. 

The man’s gone in a few seconds. Honestly, Danny’s kind of annoyed about the whole thing. It would have been nice for it to work. 

Sam climbs down from the roof of the gas station, phone in her hand. “No, I just— he choked out my friend and drove off! Send someone over here already!! You— do you need the license plate again?!” 

Danny just looks at her. Sam covers her phone’s mic with a hand: “They’re saying five minutes,” she mouths. 

Great. 

Danny hunkers down, throat bruising, and Sam sits down beside him. They wait.  

By the time the cops pull into the gas station, the guy’s more than out of sight. Sam’s the one who takes the lead on dictating their story. Danny sort of doesn’t realize how out of it he is until someone tries to throw a shock blanket on him. He almost hits the guy square in the face— and Sam’s the one who has to catch his arm. 

Uh. Oops. 

Jazz and Tucker roll in, hardly pretending to have not been nearby; Jazz wraps her arms around him, and Danny lets her. 

Sue him. It’s late. He’s tired. 

“...And I can’t believe you weren’t able to get down the road in time to catch a man who choked out my best friend,” Sam snaps, which, aw! Danny’s a best friend. The cop she’s attempting to strip down for parts looks less sympathetic than Danny feels. “You’re barely a ten minute drive up the highway! What were you doing, meandering?” 

“No,” the cop grits out, eying Sam like a bug on his shoe. “We were telling the officer down the road what to look out for.” 

Apparently, jamming the gas down hard enough to bust your speedometer gets you pulled over at the speed check. 

The night is over before Danny knows it. Someone gets him to the station, someone takes photos of his bruises and takes his statement. Someone calls Mom and Dad and then Danny’s in the GAV, half asleep and exhausted beyond belief. 

He falls asleep on the couch, Mom’s fingers in his hair. 

*

It’s not like the Amity Park police tell them anything, but Jazz is the one who finds the report on the news. 

She records it on the TiVo for him. 

“Eustace Miller, from Tennessee,” Sam reads aloud, knee to knee on his couch. Tucker adjusts his glasses. “Looks like he was already on the run.” 

“Or as good as,” Tucker agrees quietly. “Looks like they’re pinning a couple of cold cases to him.” 

They watch; there’s pictures of him from his hometown, and from the towns he would visit on his joyride across the country. There were pictures of his family. There were pictures of kids Danny would never meet: kids who were already dead, and who had been for months. Years, even. 

They’d looked so happy in the photos from when they were alive. 

…Danny could relate. 

Jazz turns the report off that night, thumb on the power button. And that’s all it takes for Danny to stop waking up in a trash bag. 

#phic phight 2024 #tw murder #tw child murder #tw death #I think that covers it??? #wait #tw choking #there we go #Danny works out some of his feelings about dying young #danny phantom #phic phight #this is very quickly being edited and posted on lunch break please bear w/ me #faer fic #sam manson #tucker foley #jazz fenton

[hussyknee]

People seem to think this is fake because it's written in English. Apart from the racism in believing that Arab doctors and nurses aren't fluent in English (a second or official language for half of Asia), Palestinians have deliberately been addressing their audience in English on every social media, from journalists to children, because they know speaking English to Westerners immediately makes people more human in their eyes. Because language is one of the ways the imperial cultural hegemony conditions us (yes, everyone in the world) to see who qualifies as "people" and who are simply a mass of bodies who were always made to suffer and die. Gazans know this deeply, which is why they have been using English to beg and plead through social media, "We're not numbers! We're not numbers! We're people like you, we speak your language, we deserve to live!" all the while they're systematically slaughtered.

Israeli forces also encircled Al Shifa Hospital yesterday and bombed it for several hours while shooting dead anyone trying to flee including medical staff moving between buildings. Not sure whether it's still continuing because WHO lost all communications with its staff there a few hours after. The last new report said that thirty-nine babies had been removed from the incubators before the power went out. It's extremely unlikely they will survive.

Please understand that these atrocities depend on the war of attrition between governments and public attention. The momentum of public outcry is difficult to sustain through repeated stonewalling and bureaucratic intractability. When we're flooded with these reports and a sense of futility and despair replaces the anger, it allows compassion fatigue to set in and the violence to become normalized. Massacring hospitals, killing sick children and openly targeting humanitarian aid workers (Netanyahu just declared the UNRWA is in league with Hamas) will become simply more news articles that fade into the background, and open genocides will soon become part of the "lesser evil".

Take care of yourselves how you can, take distance where needed, but please never tune out and give up on the two million people for whom we are the only witness and hope. Never stop boosting and sharing the news and posts you find, never stop getting out there and joining every protest you can, however small. Anger burns out, which is why activism must depend on an immovable sense of justice and uncompromising value for human life. It's not just about Gaza, it's about the kind of evil our generation will be coerced into accepting as unchangeable and inevitable hereafter.

#but also like it's a lot about us and especially you in the West #every bomb dropped on Gaza brings us closer to the brink of‚ if not a world war‚ an eruption of regional conflict #with devastating economic and environmental effects across the world #I'm tired of repeating this and my followers are prob tired of seeing it #but someone has to #war of attrition like I said #free Palestine #tw child murder #tw child death #tw baby killing #tw ableism #disability justice #war crimes #gaza genocide #save gaza #gaza under attack #palestinian genocide #israel is a terrorist state #knee of huss

[yaoiboypussy]

Another trans man dead. Tee Arnold, also known as ‘Lagend Billions’, was a 36 year old black trans man who was shot on April 3rd in Hallandale Beach, Florida.

Most news reports are using his legal/deadname when reporting his death.

https://www.pghlesbian.com/2024/04/black-trans-man-shot-to-death-in-miami/

#.txt #trans #transgender #trans man #transmasc #lgbt #lgbtq #current events #tw death #tw murder

[kokodrawings]

Spoils of war

#naruto #minato namikaze #namikaze minato #yondaime hokage #fourth hokage #yellow flash #digital art #artists on tumblr #digital drawing #naruto shippuden #koko draws #tw blood #tw death #too many wholesome Minato drawings and not enough murder-happy ones on my dashboard lately #time to remedy that <3

[vague-humanoid]

I see people sharing those "fun" videos of IDF troops playing with Palestinian kids

reminder from a 2015 story

During the Israeli bombardment and shelling of the Gaza Strip last summer, an Israeli soldier approached a 74-year-old Palestinian woman Ghalya Abu-Rida to give her a sip of water. He gave her the water, took a photo with her and then he shot her in the head from a distance of one metre. He then watched as she bled to death, the Palestine Information Centre reported.

these photo ops aren't reality

#murder tw #state violence tw #death tw