the song is hail to the victor by thirty seconds to mars and i did not intend for it to capture the vibe of this so well but it did skldfjlskd
tw: kinda graphic descriptions of murder, blood, misgendering/deadnaming- but the character doesn’t know what gender they are yet, assassination, drugs
Another life, another love
Viktoria was going to be Queen one day.
That was what she said to herself at least, pacing the halls of the castle.
She knew it was a lie. Her mother had been a maid, her father had been a servant, and she-
Well. She was the scum of the earth, it seemed.
The King’s daughter ran past the window outside. Her dress billowed in the wind as she ran, bare feet touching the ground only for a second before lifting off again, almost like a rabbit.
She was beautiful.
Viktoria hated her.
She had everything. She wasn’t avoided like the plague, she was revered and treasured and so pretty Viktoria nearly swooned every time she saw her and-
Viktoria hated her, she reminded herself.
She sighed. A knock at the door she was supposed to be guarding sounded, and she walked over to it, expecting another knight.
It was the Princess’s birthday today, and that meant she was working overtime to get everything set up and everyone in the castle.
She opened the door.
A hand reached out and covered her mouth.
She screamed.
Everything went dark.
Another kill, another drug
Viktoria tiptoed through the shadows.
Like the night, like the night, like the night.
Pressing her back against the door, she calmed her breathing.
In, two, three. Out, two, three.
She took another breath.
She turned the handle of the door. Holding her breath- don’t creak don’t creak don’t creak- she made her way into the room.
The door closed behind her with a soft thump.
The person in the bed stirred slightly. Viktoria padded over to them.
She didn’t know who they were. She rarely did.
She just followed orders.
She pulled a knife out of her pocket.
The person screamed. Blood. And it was over.
Viktoria wiped her knife on her shirt, and slipped back into the shadows.
Another touch, another taste
Viktoria was bored.
She idly twirled her spoon in her hand, mentally calculating the ways you could kill someone with it.
What? She was nothing if not handy.
She took a bite of the food in front of her. Wrinkling her nose- why was it so fancy- she took a look at her surroundings again.
Fancy party? Check. Knights at almost every exit? Check. One exit clear? Check.
She tried to calm her nerves. This job would be easy.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was supposed to kill the King.
Her nerves spiked again. Ha.
She got up. Time to play her part.
Making her way over to the King, she tipped into a curtsy.
“Good evening, my leige.”
The King looked amused. “Good evening-” He glanced at her name tag. “Astra.” He smiled. “What a lovely name.”
Viktoria gagged internally. “Yes, my mother picked it quite well. It means ‘stars’.” She did her best to smile politely back at him.
The King chuckled. “Yes, I know. I do study up on languages, you know.”
Viktoria seethed silently. “Oh of course, my King. How-” She gritted her teeth. “Foolish of me to assume otherwise.”
The King laughed again. “Oh, it’s quite alright, Astra.” He got a wistful look in his eyes. “You know, you remind me of my late wife- your Queen.”
Viktoria had never seen the last Queen, but knew enough about her to know she was nothing like her. Still, she nodded along. “How gracious of you to compare me to someone so lovely.”
The King seemed far away. “You know, she fought to her last breath.” He sighed. “So stubborn, that one.”
Viktoria shakily got a small flask out of her sleeve. She pulled the cork out, and upended the entire thing into his glass. Hastily shoving it back into her sleeve, she smiled. “She sounds perfect.”
The King turned back to her, eyes misty. “She was.”
He shook himself. “Well it seems I have-” He laughed, wiped at his eyes. “Gotten things a bit off track. Was there something you came to tell me?”
“Oh, just that the food was delightful.” She fibbed easily. “Give my compliments to the chef.”
The King beamed. “Oh, that was Flori!” He waved the Princess over. “She made everything! You know, she’s gotten into cooking lately, so I thought-”
Viktoria tuned him out. She needed to get out of here.
The King took a sip of his drink.
Viktoria panicked.
As the King finished his drink, she bolted upright, looking startled. Time to put her acting skills to use.
She hurriedly stood up, making sure to put a deer-in-headlights expression on her face.
The King stood up with her, looking concerned. “Astra?”
She inhaled sharply, turning to him. “I- I have to go.” She said, making sure to trip over her words- and her dress, as she turned to leave.
She sprawled across the floor, letting out a “Dresses.”- as she’d seen many of the more tomboy-ish nobles do.
The King helped her to her feet. “Why do you have to leave?” He asked her, the crease in his forehead deepening.
Viktoria lowered her voice, not quite low enough that it would stop the people now looking on to stop hearing her, but enough that they had to strain.
“Him.” She pointed across the room, making sure to look terrified when there was no one there. “Wait- where did he go?”
The King looked around worriedly. “Who?”
Viktoria bit her lip, made an attempt to look meek. “I'm… not quite sure. He’s been- almost- stalking me, and-” She shivered. “I- I think he might- have a knife.”
The King, despite having obviously seen much more than knives, still nodded seriously.
He led her outside, and when he collapsed, Viktoria did the only thing she could.
She screamed.
Guards came running, and she was escorted safely away.
A grim smile on her face, she put the mask of the scared girl she was playing back on.
Time to see how far she would take this story.
Another night, another war
Viktoria sat on a throne. It was almost hard to believe she’d come this far.
She sighed. She still hasn’t killed her last target.
She- she couldn’t make herself do it. She was loathe to admit it, but she’d fallen quite a bit in love with the Princess- Queen, she reminded herself.
But. Her superiors had ordered today as her last day with Flori.
Unless-
Viktoria shook the thought out of her head. No. She wouldn’t betray her group.
She could, a voice in her head whispered. It would be so easy, just a few slit throats and the job would be done.
She bit her lip. The option was becoming more and more tempting.
Her mind made up, she left the castle.
Another 'what are we fighting for?’
Viktor sat surrounded by blood. So much, it was hard to tell whose was whose.
He trailed a hand through it, thinking. If he could get back to the castle today, he could claim he warded off more assassins. They were all on their guard after the King's… “incident” a few months ago.
And it technically was true. Seeing as he was a part of the Royal family now- he bit back a smile- and they were going to come after him, it wouldn’t be a complete lie.
He set out for the castle.
Another lost to bitter pain
Viktor couldn’t breathe.
How could this have happened, he should have never left, he-
It was his fault.
Flori was dead.
And it was his fault.
Viktor sank into himself, and vowed to never let anyone else get hurt.
Is everybody out here crazy?
Anybody want a war?
Everybody out here crazy
Viktor sat on his throne.
They say he ruled with an iron fist- he knew he had everyone trapped with something much stronger than that.
Revenge.
Viktor smiled cruelly.
My turn.
Outside, people screamed. Viktor paid them no mind.
this needs to spread outside of italy. 3 days ago willy monteiro, a 21 years old italian boy, was beaten up to death by 4 people. his fault? he was trying to defend a friend. their names: marco bianchi, gabriele bianchi, mario pincarelli, francesco belleggia. since willy had capo verdean origins and had dark skin, one of the aggressors relatives commented what happened with: “what did he do so bad? he just killed an immigrant” following alongside the demands of justice. the journalists describe them as four boys with the cult of tattoos. but they’re just fascists.
FOUR FASCISTS KILLED A BOY. SAY HIS NAME, WILLY MONTEIRO. SPREAD THE WORD.
The level of evil it is to shoot a Palestinian journalist in the head, falsely claim you didn’t do it, and then send the military to attack her funeral, the mourners, and forcefully rip the Palestinian flag off her coffin. It’s monstrous.
ID: Tweet one by Yara Alafandi @/ AfandiYara reads: Israeli police forcing a Palestinian woman to take off her hijab because it’s the same colours as the Palestinian flag and you’re still arguing that Israel isn’t an apartheid state? #Shereen_Abu_Aqleh
Tweet two by disorientalist @/ princessmlokhia reads: Colonizers in Hebron took the collective Palestinian mourning for Shireen as a chance to sieze a new building in the city. Look at them, bold and pathetic. When we say Israel is a settler-colony we mean it in the most literal sense.
I don’t know what to say that hasn’t already been said, another Palestinian has been murdered by the occupation, and one known by so many of us as a journalist on Al Jazeera - Shireen Abu Aqla cannot be forgotten, may she rest
also, a note: I notice Europeans both here and elsewhere, talk awfully, gallingly authoritatively about Jewish experiences and antisemitism. I know a lot of you have never met Jews because your great-grandparents murdered most of the ones who would have been in your communities, so you’re not used to talking about Jews in front of Jews, so you can talk about us like you’re experts and we’re a museum exhibition, but we do in fact still exist and you can’t pull that shit here.
If you hadn’t heard about this, you are not in the minority. *I* hadn’t heard about this. It’s not being covered or talked about at all, aside from by individuals in disabled communities. This is a horrific hate crime and Annie’s response to ableism and activists’ lack of attention to disability issues is so incredibly eloquent, powerful, and necessary. If you are a fellow marginalized person or an ally in general, you need to be sharing the hell out of this.
A little old hotel in the middle of nowhere, with a creaking wooden sign instead of neon? Red flag.
A hollow-eyed, weary-looking young woman at the desk who seemed hesitant to let me get a room? Red flag.
A picturesquely old-fashioned room with a patchwork quilt on the bed that smells a little too musty? HUGE red flag.
Only they’re actually not. Not the first two, anyway. I travel a lot. There are a lot more seems-haunted old-house-turned-traveller’s-rest places than most people think, and in my experience most night auditors are hollow-eyed, faintly eldritch, and disinclined to let someone check in just before dawn.
Of course, the patchwork quilt should have been a dead giveaway. Tired 80s decor and a chenille bedspread? Entirely normal. Patchwork quilt and nineteenth century charm for less than $100 a night? Sus. Very sus. Should have warned me then and there.
In my defense, I was really tired. I’d been driving for two nights and a day, I was exhausted, all my car snacks were gone, and I just wanted to close my eyes and get horizontal. I handed over some cash, stumbled upstairs, made sure the blinds were down, and passed out.
I didn’t wake up until late afternoon, and I felt like shit on a shingle when I did. It took me a couple of attempts to put on my pants and stumble out of the room to look for some sustenance. My expectations weren’t high, but most places at least have coffee-making facilities, and in a pinch a cup of coffee and chugging all the available milk will keep me going for a while. There might even be some of those little packages of cookies, which usually give me an upset stomach but are better than nothing.
There wasn’t a coffee station. What there was was a vending machine with a buzzing, flickering light inside it that made the dusty snacks look even less appealing than they already did.
I was debating whether to risk a can of soda of unknown brand and vintage - sugar and caffeine don’t readily go bad, and I was starving - when I heard a little cough behind me. “Are you a guest, dear?” the old woman said when I turned around to blink at her. She was thin and tottering, faded-looking, and while there weren’t actually cobwebs on her, she looked as if there should be.
“Yes. Is there a kitchen or something where I can get some food from this century?”
Her eyes flicked away. “There’s a diner,” she told me. “Not far down the road. You should try there. I’m afraid the facilities here aren’t what they once were.” She sighed deeply.
Belatedly, my sense for the uncanny started to tingle. “So I should check out and keep moving, huh?”
“Yes, dear. If you can,” she added, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Before sunset.”
Aha.
I could have been more tactful with the old dear, I suppose, but I didn’t have it in me just then. “Lady,” I said, folding my arms and glaring at her, “I am very tired, and very hungry, and being tired and hungry makes me very cranky, so I’d really appreciate it if you could get to the fucking point. You’re a ghost. This is one of those haunted hotels that lure in travellers to sacrifice them to demons or beg them to break curses or whatever. Fine. That’s on me. Shouldn’t have been suckered in. But enough with the veiled warnings. Just tell me what you want.”
The old woman hissed softly, like a startled cat, but she didn’t vanish on me. That was good. The really timid spirits did, and it was annoying as shit. Then she shook herself and cocked her head. “I see,” she said, her voice stronger but less human-sounding. Ghost voices don’t have the body of a human voice, unless they really work at it. “You’re not… ordinary.”
“That’s an understatement.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. You’re here. You’re trying to warn people off, so you’re not a willing participant in whatever’s going on here. I don’t mind releasing you, because I personally find the binding of unconsenting spirits to be a disgusting abomination, but if you don’t get to the point I’m going to get even testier than I am now.”
“We’re bound here.” The night-auditor was in the doorway, three or four shadowy figures behind her. I heard a faint murmur that suggested there were more further back where I couldn’t see. “He traps us, and kills us, and then we’re still trapped.”
“Okay, there’s a he. Necromancer?”
“Not exactly,” the old woman said grimly. “It’s the fear that sustains him, the fear and the suffering. Do you know how long it takes someone to starve to death?”
“About a month, usually.”
“He can usually drag it out to at least two, by allowing a little food now and then. An illusion of hope.” The old woman looked bitter. “I was the first. This was my house. He came, one night, and I opened my door to a lost traveller. I’ve had many long years to regret that.”
I allowed myself a small growl. That wasn’t just evil, it was rude. “Well, he made a mistake this time, just like you did.” I paused. “He’s not a demon or something is he? Because that takes special equipment, and I’m not sure I have enough wormwood in the car.”
“No, he’s no demon. Only a mortal magician who draws power from the suffering of others.” This was a spirit who hadn’t spoken before, a man with the pouchy, drooping look of a stout man who’d lost a lot of weight before he died. He looked shrewd, though, and the look he gave me was assessing. “He’s living.”
“Oh, good. In that case, lead me to him.” I felt in my pockets for the charm I’d picked up six small towns ago. I tend to tap out protective charms fairly quickly, but this one still had some life in it. She’d been a gifted witch, that one… and a good kisser, too. I’d try to stop by there again soon.
They led me down to the cellar, and showed me the hidden door. In theory, the door couldn’t be opened from the outside. In practice, most doors open once you put your fist through them and then rip them right off their hinges. That sounds impressive, but behind the disguising layer of dried clay it was one of those flimsy modern doors that’s basically made of laminated paper and plywood a toddler could break through.
I went through the door fast, not wanting to give him time to get a spell ready if he didn’t already have one going. He hadn’t been expecting me to come through the door - I got a look into his scrying mirror over his shoulder, and he was watching my car. Probably getting ready to pixie-lead me back to the hotel when I tried to leave, the normal next step in this game.
I’d taken him completely by surprise. He managed one hex-bolt, which I shrugged off, and then I had hold of him. Like most of the spider-types, who let their webs do their hunting for them, he wasn’t physically strong or fast. I am.
Much more so than any human.
It felt fitting, that a man who starved and tormented his prey should find that he’d caught a bigger predator than he was. I didn’t drop the body until I’d drained it of every accessible drop of blood. We don’t usually do that, despite the stories. We’re still equipped with all the usual human organs, and a human stomach is not designed to hold five liters of fluid in a hurry. Ours do get a bit bigger, over time, taking up some of the space in the abdomen that the atrophied bowel doesn’t need any more, but I still felt as bloated as a tick when I finally dropped him.
“I needed that,” I admitted, licking a trace of blood off my lips and tucking the feeding fangs away behind my teeth. “Thank you.”
The ghosts might have feared a vampire in life, but they all looked delighted now. They clearly appreciated the poetry of the man who had starved them being devoured before their eyes. “At least he left someone with a full belly,” the girl who’d posed as a night auditor said with satisfaction. They were already looking less… real, and less human. Without magical anchoring, ghosts who have been dead for a while can’t usually pass for living any more. There were at least thirty of them, all up. He’d been here for a long time.
“His spells still bind us here,” the formerly-stout man said, tugging on something I couldn’t see with spectral hands. “Can you undo them?”
“Technically, no. Most vampires aren’t magicians.” I grinned at him. “But here’s an interesting fact. Phosphorus fires burn magic. That’s why so many vampire and magician strongholds are burned down.”
He grinned back, a deaths-head grin that would have frightened someone mortal. “And you have phosphorus?”
“Got some in the car. I’ll go get it as soon as the sun goes down and set this place alight.”
We had a nice chat until sundown. The old lady showed me around, and I filled a few boxes with antiques and other valuables or items of sentimental value that she didn’t want torched. I put all the identifiable stuff the wizard had taken from his victims - IDs, rings, engraved watches, that sort of thing - in a separate box, and buried it with enough juice from the corpse that any dog, sniffer trained or otherwise, would go straight to it. The ghosts’ bodies were all buried under the floor of the cellar, they said, so once the fire was out and the investigation started, they’d be found.
Of course not all vampires are alike. We’re as different as any humans are from each other. But most of us feel a certain kinship with our fellow dead, especially the ones who didn’t go by choice. I volunteered to be turned, but I know plenty who didn’t, and I don’t care for that any more than I do for binding spirits. It was a pleasure to be able to help them out, and make sure their families found out what happened to them.
It doesn’t take much phosphorus to set a fire. When I drove away, the house was already ablaze, and the ghosts had vanished.
Or so I thought. Three miles down the road, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a familiar face. “Haunting the photographs, huh?”
The old lady shrugged. “I can if I want to.”
“I’m not judging. Anywhere you want me to take them?”
She beamed. “Somewhere interesting. A museum or something, where there are a lot of people and interesting things to see.”
So yeah, I’m basically the reason there’s a haunted 200-year-old patchwork quilt hanging in the Texas Quilt Museum. I donated it, along with the picture of my old lady’s grandmother (who made the quilt) and the old lady (who I credited with the donation). Nobody seems to have noticed yet, except a local witch who’s started hanging out there to get knitting advice from the old lady.
You know, vampires get a bad rap, but we really do a lot of good for the community… in our own way.
#
Note: To my knowledge, there isn’t a haunted quilt in the Texas Quilt Museum. But the museum itself exists, which is very neat, and it looks well worth the visit even without a ghost.
. // tw police brutality, death, guns, and shooting //
for those who aren’t aware, yesterday there was a shooting in paniqui, tarlac. a mother, sonya gregorio (52), and her son, frank anthony gregorio (25) were both shot in the head TWICE because they lit up fireworks in their area, and a police officer, jonel nuezca, got mad. jonel nuezca was off-duty and police officers aren’t allowed to bring their guns around when not on duty. it’s also been said that there were some previous altercations regarding right of way and the issue resurfaced during the confrontation. this man killed two people due to a personal vendetta.
there were many witnesses around, one of them being nuezca’s daughter, who was about 12 (i can’t find any news articles disclosing her age). his daughter just stood and watched as they argued, even going as far to say “my father is a police man!” to which sonya replied, “i don’t care!” sonya’s last statement angered nuezca brought the gun to her head and said “putangina, gusto mo tapusin kita ha?” (trans: “son of a bitch, do you want me to finish you?”) he then shot her and her son point blank, shooting the son twice and then shooting sonya once more after she had already hit the ground.
this all happened yesterday afternoon, sunday, december 20th, 2020, at 5:00 pm. jonel nuezca has since then turned himself and his pistol in to the police.
authorities have been claiming this shooting as an isolated case, when in fact, there have been many headlines regarding police officers shooting civilians.
videos of the shooting have been going viral on social media. i’ve seen the video for myself, and it’s messed up how you can see that nuezca barely even FLINCHES when he brings his gun up to sonya’s head. and the fact that he did that when his daughter was right beside him and there were so many witnesses is even more messed up. it’s reported that he said “mission accomplished,” to his daughter after he shot them.
now, if nuezca could shoot these people in broad daylight with witnesses and in front of his own daughter, imagine what he could’ve done at night, with no one around. imagine all the deaths that have been unrecorded because there was no one around.
i know other people will be able to say more and say it better, because i really still can’t wrap my head around this. most people say he shot them because they were lighting fireworks, but clearly he shot them because he knew he could abuse his power. he knew he could do it because police and military officers often get praised by the president for doing things like this.
i honestly can’t say much of my own opinions at the moment because i’m still in a state of shock, but i just wanted to post this on here because i want people to be aware of this. so many countries have been suffering because of police brutality, and it’s so unfortunate that these kind of instances often get shooed under the rug because people want to continue living in their picture perfect world where people don’t get killed and people don’t abuse their power. it’s heartbreaking to see this people die at the hands of these so-called authoritative figures.
i’m not saying what the gregorios did was right. if i’m not wrong, it’s illegal to light fireworks in your barangay/district without authority (but i could be wrong so please don’t quote me on that). still, nuezca shouldn’t have shot them.
what happened is absolutely sickening, and it could still be happening right now as i’m typing this. somewhere out there another person is being punished by an authoritative figure for doing essentially nothing. i just hope that more light would be shed onto these kind of cases, and not shooed under the rug two days after it happened.
may the souls of sonya gregorio and frank anthony gregorio rest in peace, and condolences to their family.
June is pride month and we as a community need to remember that our history was not a peaceful history. We did not shy away from punching police officers and destroying property because the police sure as hell did not shy away from beating and raping and killing us and raiding our bars and businesses. We did not shy away from breaking the law because our very existence was against the law. And we cannot forget that working class lgbt people of colour, especially black gays and lesbians, were and still are fundamental in the fight against the pervasive system of homophobia that still exists today. Remember and acknowledge them, and remember and acknowledge that we would not have our rights if not for riots and revolutions.
send in “ you don’t have to do this… ” for the sender to intervene just as the receiver is about to kill someone. ( feel free to explain why they’re trying to kill them! )
alternatively, send in “ walk away. you don’t need to see this. ” for the sender to notice the receiver trying to intervene as they’re about to kill someone.
A little old hotel in the middle of nowhere, with a creaking wooden sign instead of neon? Red flag.
A hollow-eyed, weary-looking young woman at the desk who seemed hesitant to let me get a room? Red flag.
A picturesquely old-fashioned room with a patchwork quilt on the bed that smells a little too musty? HUGE red flag.
Only they’re actually not. Not the first two, anyway. I travel a lot. There are a lot more seems-haunted old-house-turned-traveller’s-rest places than most people think, and in my experience most night auditors are hollow-eyed, faintly eldritch, and disinclined to let someone check in just before dawn.
Of course, the patchwork quilt should have been a dead giveaway. Tired 80s decor and a chenille bedspread? Entirely normal. Patchwork quilt and nineteenth century charm for less than $100 a night? Sus. Very sus. Should have warned me then and there.
In my defense, I was really tired. I’d been driving for two nights and a day, I was exhausted, all my car snacks were gone, and I just wanted to close my eyes and get horizontal. I handed over some cash, stumbled upstairs, made sure the blinds were down, and passed out.
I didn’t wake up until late afternoon, and I felt like shit on a shingle when I did. It took me a couple of attempts to put on my pants and stumble out of the room to look for some sustenance. My expectations weren’t high, but most places at least have coffee-making facilities, and in a pinch a cup of coffee and chugging all the available milk will keep me going for a while. There might even be some of those little packages of cookies, which usually give me an upset stomach but are better than nothing.
There wasn’t a coffee station. What there was was a vending machine with a buzzing, flickering light inside it that made the dusty snacks look even less appealing than they already did.
I was debating whether to risk a can of soda of unknown brand and vintage - sugar and caffeine don’t readily go bad, and I was starving - when I heard a little cough behind me. “Are you a guest, dear?” the old woman said when I turned around to blink at her. She was thin and tottering, faded-looking, and while there weren’t actually cobwebs on her, she looked as if there should be.
“Yes. Is there a kitchen or something where I can get some food from this century?”
Her eyes flicked away. “There’s a diner,” she told me. “Not far down the road. You should try there. I’m afraid the facilities here aren’t what they once were.” She sighed deeply.
Belatedly, my sense for the uncanny started to tingle. “So I should check out and keep moving, huh?”
“Yes, dear. If you can,” she added, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Before sunset.”
Genivaldo de Jesus Santos, 38, was stopped by the federal highway police in the city of Umbaúba on Wednesday. Video footage of the incident shows two officers in helmets holding the car boot closed on his thrashing legs, as clouds of gas billow out of the vehicle.
“They’re going to kill the guy,” an onlooker can be heard saying, as Santos’s legs go still.
An autopsy report confirmed on Thursday that Santos had died of asphyxiation. HIs death came two years to the day after George Floyd was killed in Minneapolis by a white police officer who was later found guilty of murder.
a decade ago, 20 children and 6 staff members were shot and killed in the tragic sandy hook elementary school shooting. today, a decade later, 14 children and 1 teacher had their lives taken at robb elementary school in texas. it’s been a decade, and there has been nothing done to prevent this from ever happening again. may they all rest in peace.
