outside agitators

the more angry and organised a violent protest is, the more certain the media and politicians are that they must be ‘outside agitators’ - and I feel like the roots of this are not so much in fear of these spectral ‘outsiders’ as the firm belief that “ordinary” people don’t ever get angry and organise themselves - it’s unsupportable historically, but i really think they believe that it must be outsiders because it can’t be ordinary everyday folks - because to be ordinary, to them, is to be docile and malleable, capable of being whipped up by agitators, sure - but incapable of coming up with it yourself. You can feel it in the patronising way they talk to us.

I’m not saying that there has never been an instance of people coming from outside to cause trouble at a protest - but I am saying that when that’s the immediate, instinctual explanation that people arrive at in the absence of any evidence, it’s about discounting, diminishing and dismissing the agency of ‘ordinary’ people. It’s saying that whatever you’re experiencing, nomatter how bad it is, it could never make you angry enough to get organised and start hitting back. They can keep thinking that - we know it’s bullshit.

I feel like the three liberal theories about black bloc–that they are entirely white dudes who are just partaking in some fun, that they are ‘outside agitators’ (another way of saying they’re white guys) that they are actually undercover police/right wingers–combines to make a single statement, that there’s no way that people could actually be angry, not poor people anyways, there’s no way that people from an area could feel alienated by their economic system, there’s no legitimate way they could be lashing out

They need a little history. Martin Luther King was an outside agitator. Malcolm X was an agitator. Jesus Christ was an agitator. You can’t keep a problem like police brutality a local thing. The world is watching Baltimore now.
— 

Larry Holmes, Peoples Power Assembly Movement, responds to Baltimore officials’ attacks on “outside agitators” in protests for killer cop victim Freddie Grey 

Source

The idea that MLK was ‘nice’ to white supremacists is also just historical revisionism 

He was sent death threats. The FBI considered him dangerous. People assaulted and murdered many of his followers. White America thought he was too confrontational and not appeasing enough to the sensibilities of whites. He was considered disruptive and an “outside agitator.” He was not a beloved man. He was hated and despised.

His protests came with the risk of being brutalized or killed by police or vigilantes. He decried the white moderate for caring more about order than justice. He refused to condemn riots, ‘the language of the unheard,’ because of how violent America was to Black people. Despite their differences, Malcolm X offered him protection and self-defense. Even though he was committed to nonviolent resistance, which meant breaking the law, disrupting traffic and yes - willingly opening yourself to being brutalized, he was more complicated than you give him credit.

The United States hated him and for his troubles he was killed.

He was not the caricature of nonviolence you think he was. Read a fucking book.

— 

insurrectionarycompassion 

Click the link and read the whole thread. While the Civil Rights Movemnt brought with it many advances, one of its most unfortunate legacies is the way history is re-written so that our leaders are used to silence & guilt those who want to fight racism and refuse to prioritize the feelings of racists.

Happy Martin Luther King Day, please use this day to reflect and educate your self. 

Reject revisionist history when it comes to the horrors of racism and the battles that were held to oppose it.

We were in a battle then, and we are in a battle now.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was arrested on 12 April 1963 (Good Friday) in Birmingham, AL, along with Ralph Abernathy, Fred Shuttlesworth, and other marches, for their nonviolent marches and sit-ins protesting racial segregation. It was the 13th time King had been arrested. He was placed alone in a dark cell without a mattress and denied his right to a phone call.

A newspaper was smuggled into King’s cell, which contained an article written by 8 white Alabama clergy, condemning King and his protests. The article prompted King to write his “Letter from Birmingham” on 16 April 1963.

King addressed the letter to the clergy: “Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.“

He also directly addressed the calls of him being an outsider, discussing his ties with Birmingham, the fact that he had been invited, and the larger issue of injustice: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.“

He then outlined his methods and rationale for action, as well as the accusation that it had been “ill-timed”: “We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This “Wait” has almost always meant ‘Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that ‘justice too long delayed is justice denied.’"

King wrote the letter in the margins of the smuggled newspaper and scraps of paper and gave it to his lawyer. The New York Times expressed interest in publishing it, but ultimately declined. The New York Post published unauthorized excerpts on 19 May 1963, before its official publication in Liberation magazine in June, and the 12 June issue of The Christian Century magazine. It gained widespread publication in the July issue of Atlantic Monthly.

King was released on bond from the Birmingham jail on 20 April 1963.

On this day in 1773, outside agitators staged an illegitimate protest and incited an illegal riot by destroying private property when they dumped hundreds of crates of tea into Boston Harbor

England Boyfriend Headcanons

-He will surprise you. Never underestimate him. He is never what he seems on the surface and has many layers.

-At the beginning of the relationship, he’d be a typical English gentleman who enjoys sipping on tea and spending quiet afternoons working on his cross-stitch or reading a novel in his armchair. However, once he’s settled in a relationship, his rebellious streak (which he tries fairly hard to keep hidden) will start to emerge…

-He has a whole secondary wardrobe filled with tight leader, ripped skinny jeans, band shirts, fishnets, studs and chains. He will be quite flustered when you first discover this, insisting that it’s just from his troublesome teen years and he’s “just hanging on to it for sentimental reasons…”

-He wears that stuff when he goes to loud concerts (and always returns home with a hoarse voice from screaming all night long).

-He smokes when agitated. Always outside, and not very often, but he keeps a pack in his back pocket at all times (don’t smoke, kiddies. It’s a nasty habit). You could convince him to use one of those newfangled vapour sticks, though.

-He is incredibly gentle and soft-spoken with his significant other – a 180 in comparison to how he is with his (few) friends (loud, obnoxious, and a more than a little bit argumentative).

-He loves babies. Human babies and baby animals. He will gush. (he 100% wants kids in the future). He is surprisingly wonderful with children. He is very patient with them. 

-Fights with him are usually loud and passionate.

-He’s not often the first to apologize, he’s too stubborn, but as soon as you do (assuming you do) he will crumble in his willpower and beg for your forgiveness. He’s usually torn up inside after any argument.

-When he’s upset about something, he will let you know about it before you need to ask. He’s excellent at communicating these things.

-If you share a bed with him, he prefers to sleep on his own side; however, he will reach over and play with your hair or trail his hand on your skin in silly little patterns, often drawing simple pictures of spelling out cheesy phrases.

-He’s a passionate kisser once he gets going.

-He is a fan of PDA. He likes showing the world that he has you. He never really considered himself date-able, so it gives him great pleasure to show you off to the world and brag about you to anyone who will listen. He will list your accomplishments to strangers when he’s feeling particularly happy.

-He loves to hold your hand and murmur sweet nothings into your ears when you’re out and about. For example, while you are standing in line at the mall to pay for something, he’ll come up behind you and quietly tell you how lovely you are.

-He’s not the best at cuddling (he’s a one-armed cuddler), but he does enjoy when you snuggle up into him while watching a movie.

-He will make an excellent impression on your family when he meets them for the first time. However, once they get to know him, half will continue to love him and the rest will get into heated debates at the dinner table and end the evening with fierce glares.

-He will pretend not to remember every single specific date, insisting that he only has room in his mind for ‘important ones’ like birthdays and anniversaries; but, if you were to snoop through his day planner, you’d see little notes marked very neatly in pencil cataloguing every little thing that he found significant (holding hands, he brought you somewhere that you really enjoyed – ideas for future dates, when he discovered your favourite colour, your favourite flower, when he first noticed how beautiful your eyes were, the first time he made you laugh, etc.)

Breaking Point

After the Great War, nothing was the same.  Anything on the surface was barren, mostly tainted with radiation, and the people that lived there weren’t to be trusted — they were hardly people anymore.  

The people lucky, or unlucky, enough to have made it into a Vault were spared from death and guaranteed safety, but in the new world, safety wasn’t something that could be so easily promised.   Some were even starting to believe that the makers of the vaults, while they had spared their lives, may have not done so out of the goodness of their hearts.

Recently, there had been a… change… in some of the inhabitants of their Vault.  As far as they knew, everything was fine — the water worked and there was enough food to satisfy and enough clothes to keep warm — but there had been fights over their small territory, sometimes over people, and there had been more than one occurrence of people with intensely high fevers, hardly able to function.  Groups were starting to form, calling themselves packs as if the people were wolves, nothing more than instinct, and those who had remained unaffected by the mysterious changes thus far were quickly becoming the minority.

The occurrences were becoming more and more frequent and what scared Sousuke down to his core was that he was starting to feel it too.  It was small, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, but he could feel himself changing and he wondered just how long he had before he fell fully to his primal instincts.  He’d felt strangely possessive recently, as if he had some need to claim territory, he’d nearly started a fight with someone he didn’t know just for bumping into him, and he’d been restless as of late, agitated, wandering outside the Vault a bit more often at night now when he couldn’t sleep just to think.  He wondered if Nezumi had noticed at all.

He never strayed too far when he left the Vault as he had no sense of direction, but he paced and sometimes just sat on the barren ground, looking up at the stars, wondering if the friends he’d lost contact with so long ago were still alive and were surviving in their own ways, if they’d succumb to radiation and become monsters like some others they’d seen or, perhaps, if they’d found some safe haven that was better than the vaults.

After adjusting the bit of cloth he wore over his nose and mouth again, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and slowly began to walk back, hoping somewhere that this was all just a bad dream.  

@nezumi-vc-103221

Notice how the chickens striking for shorter hours and smaller quotas is explicitly presented as a bad thing, and how they only strike because of outside agitation and trickery. Walt Disney was as hardcore anti-union as they came.

Another year, another Black History Month, and another round of idiots talking about tired ol’ black ladies, and “what happened to peaceful protest?!” like they got hit on the head by the stupid racist stick and forgot how brutally beaten, viciously and vitriolically attacked, lynched, shot, and set on fire those peaceful protesters (‘scuse me, “outside agitators”) were. You want to bring the systemic, infrastructural racist, classist, misogynist, sexist, heterosexist, white supremacist, ageist, ableist (etc…) bullshit to an end? Then stop lying to yourself and, more importantly, to our kids, our adversaries, and anyone else who wasn’t there, or doesn’t have those images of police dogs and fires hoses, Bull Connor, burned out churches, and little black girls walking against the waves on a sea of pure white hot hatred burned into their memories. Stop the denial and quit the mythology of how easy–or even “peaceful”–non-violent protest was or is. It takes staring into the face of your own death at the hands of an entire machine constructed for the sole purpose of crushing dissent–hell, it doesn’t even care about you individually enough to identify you as anything but “obstacle to hegemony.” Ms. Parks was pissed the hell off. She was pissed and she spent years of her life preparing and training for the day when she could finally say “NO!” to the machine that was crushing, destroying, devouring her entire heritage, her community, her lovers, friends, family, and even her enemies–to say “NO!” and have it be heard beyond the impotent whimpers of a broken, beaten, bloodied body in the middle of the night, just before being hanged, or set aflame, or thrown from a bridge into a rushing river below. THAT is what I want us to teach, whether you are white or black or of an ethnicity, nationality, or cultural identity for which this almost intrinsically American violence seems like maybe just a setup for an Oscar-winning (or ignoring) performance. Let us, together, collectively, and unflinchingly, stare our terrible and terrorizing history in the face; let’s those of us with cultural privilege, however it maybe defined, see our visages in the reflection of those horrors; let’s witness and teach and never candycoat or obfuscate the violence of our past and, MOST IMPORTANTLY RIGHT NOW, recognize our past’s connection to the present extreme violence inherent in a machine of anti-dissent, racism, classism, misogyny, sexism, heterosexism, white supremacy, ageism, ableism, and so many other culturally constructed modes of spewing hatred and perpetrating violence against any person not exactly like “me.”

No Venom Like Secrets

Aedus hadn’t seen his sister so agitated before, outside of when the villagers had come after him when the incident between him and his friend occurred. He sat worriedly in his small dining room and watched her pace back and forth. He’d asked her if he could help and was informed that no he could not, it was a personal problem and she had a friend on the way who was supposed to help her.

She had also asked him to take a walk when her friend showed up, which had hurt honestly, but he could understand that if it was personal she might want some privacy. There was a knock on the door as he was sitting there thinking about what he would do while she did what she needed.

Raina turned to look at her brother giving him a look that told him he had better keep his promise before opening the door for Leon. The dark haired man nodded to Aedus and arched an eyebrow in question at Raina.

She sighed, “Aedus was just on his way out of the house. You can go sit in the living room.”

Leon nodded and headed that way. Aedus stood, placing a hand on his sister’s shoulder, “I hope he can help you get this sorted out. I’ve never seen you so stressed about anything before.”

She nodded, “He will. Don’t worry too much about it.” 

Aedus gave his sister one last concerned look before heading out the door. He’d probably just take a quick walk or see if Chi wanted to have lunch.

Right Here With Me

For @stephanythedramaqueen
Random, random drabble and free write based off her obsessing and sharing that concept art of Noctis in a hoodie in a very messy room. I’m just going to end up dedicating all the writing to you. No doubt that mentioning you in these kind of things will become very common. Also if you look at Noct’s concept art and Light’s FFLR concept art where she’s on a roof with her gunblade, they seem to pair off very well.

-

The skyline of Insomnia dazzled brilliantly. The lights from the ginormous skyscrapers, expansive streets below, and the sky ships above persisted over the cosmos.

Lightning winced and tore her eyes away from the large window pane facing the view. Such appreciation for the sights is better spent when a person wasn’t trying to sleep. The light pollution and the noise outside served as a constant reminder that she was in Lucis. The sprawling metropolis, in fact, lived up to its name, habitual sleeplessness. At least in her own apartment she afforded black out curtains and ear plugs. There were none to be found here. Throwing the sheets off her body, she leaned against the wall and buried her forehead into her bare knees, attempting to block out the environment from her retinas. She missed being able to lose count of the billions of stars in her seaside homeland at night. The constellations would not remain in the same location, always shifting elsewhere than the previous night unlike how the city lights just glare from the same direction.

The door to the room opened and Noctis entered, clad in a black hoodie with white strips over the short sleeves, matching sweatshorts, and a towel draped over his shoulders. “You’re not asleep yet?” He asked as he patted at his damp hair.

She shook her head in response. How could she? She didn’t have work the next day but having a normal sleep schedule would be nice. She should have refused to stay the night when Noctis asked her. Her boyfriend’s mattress accommodated one body and he slept next to the invasive lights; no wonder why it’s difficult to wake him up in the morning. Just how long does it take for him to fall asleep? “It’s too bright and noisy. Just how you can get any sleep here is beyond me.”

Noctis took a seat on the mattress, the bed squeaking under his weight as he silently looked outside and to his agitated pink-haired lover as though he was considering her complaints.

Lightning thought that she had offended his humble abode when the intention wasn’t there. Far from that, the expectation that a prince’s room was extravagant and large-scale couldn’t be found in his simple quarters. She was always told that her words were too harsh or critical and had aimed to curb them. She tensed as she took in the water drops dripping from his raven locks, his crisp cobalt eyes now somber, and his handsome expression wistful.

“The last thing I like to see before going to bed is the capital. It reminds me of my responsibilities as king and how much I have to live up to my old man’s name and more. It’s my home that I want to protect.” He smiled. “But if I were to die tomorrow, I wouldn’t mind the last thing I see being you.”

Lightning punched him in the shoulder, not forceful enough to inflict pain, but enough to shove him a little. “Aren’t you the romantic?” She said, dryly. Her lover had a tendency and a gall to pull off morbid jokes occasionally.

“Just saying it for the record.” Noctis shrugged as he shook off the blow. “I’ll get some curtains for you. This isn’t the only sleepover we’re having.”

“And how will I survive tonight?” She crossed her arms over her chest. As attractive as the idea was to just wait until the brink of exhaustion to fall asleep, she rather not resort to a desperate measure. She already draped herself with sheets much too thin to block out the lights and pillows did nothing to cancel out blaring cars and turbines.

Noctis held up one finger before propelling his chest to the edge of the bed and kicking his legs up against the glass.

Lightning raised an eyebrow as she studied the curve of where Noctis’ lower back meets with his well-rounded ass.

As tantalizing it was ogle Noctis’ agile and powerfully-built form, her annoyance at the current predicament overpowered stimulating ideas to run her hands over him.

Noctis returned, summoning with a single earbud headphone that he had fished from under his bed. He inserted them into his cell phone and motioned Lightning to come closer. Stroking her hair away from her right ear, he placed the bud in and tapped at his screen.

Humoring him, Lightning was about to ask how music could help but stayed her tongue when a classical melody played in her ear. The beginning notes of a piano were slow and melancholy. Regardless, she found it moving and strained to listen better, positioning herself closer to her prince as that was the solution.

Noctis fastened his legs outside her’s and caressed her calf lovingly. “Like it?”

Her heart swelled when the violin added along with the piano notes. It was a nice touch, she felt, both beautiful and haunting. She nodded, tempted to hum along with the song but at the same time not wanting to ruin the experience.

Noctis beamed expectantly as he nudged his forehead against hers. When he took her hand in his and laced them together, she gently squeezed back.

Lightning broke away first when the song concluded. All the irritation she held earlier had dissipated and warmth replaced it, relishing the physical and emotional contact she shared with her beloved.

“Somnus Nemoris.” Noctis stated breathily as he grazed her cheek with his fingers. “That’s the name of the song.”

“Noct, I…” She swallowed.

“It always helps me sleep almost every night.” He continued as he retrieved the earbud from Lightning’s ear before taking out his own and placing the phone beside him. “I sometimes get good dreams because of it. But…” He brought Lightning’s hand to his lips. “In the world of your dreams, anything is possible, Claire. Right here with me, where nobody could reach you.”

Lightning found herself mesmerized the longing and intensity in Noctis’ eyes. Look into his eyes and the sky’s the limit, she thought, and she could believe in him with every part of her soul.

She wanted to know what Noctis’ dream world entailed and if he was a king in it as well, but…

“World of my dreams, huh?” She repeated as she closed her eyes. “So if I want steak right now, would I get it?”

Noctis laughed. “Midnight craving? I hope you just don’t dream about that.”

“What would you know about my dreams?” She retorted loftily as she put her hands at her hips. “I love a mean steak so will I get it?”

Noctis’ eyes glowed magenta for a moment as they scanned her from top to bottom. “Yes… The juiciest steak you ever had. All yours…” His voice dropped to alluring whisper, promising that all her desires will be his to grant.

“Is that right?” Lightning’s hand found the zipper to Noctis’ hoodie and it came undone without any effort. She enjoyed the low growl that came from her prince’s throat when her hand traveled down south. “Do you think…” She reached over to yank a pamphlet off the wall behind Noctis. “The Banquet of the Lord does take out at this time?”

Noctis was stunned and speechless, already he was on his back expecting his goddess to ravish him. But clearly she wasn’t on the same subject as he was. “Tease.” He chuckled finally as he sat up and planted a trail of kisses on Lightning’s bare arms, pulling away the pink tendrils aside to have access to her neck. “You’re really hungry?”

Lightning examined the menu. Noctis had several taped to his wall, right near his bed. The Banquet of the Lord turned out to be one of her favorite places to dine at. “Never get between a girl and her steak.” She smirked, pointing to the menu. “Behemoth steak.”

Noctis blinked. “How about I make your steak?” He frowned when she tilted her head quizzically at him. “Don’t give me that look. I know how to make it.”

“I’m touchy when it comes to my meats. I don’t think you’re ready to handle my critique.”

“Look, Iggy’s been teaching me. I think I can pull it off. I should have all the ingredients here.”

Lightning considered it. She had nothing to lose than mourning over a potential dinner. “Hmm. All right, you’re on.”

Modern governments, which have long studied methods of social control, no longer view peace as the default social condition, interrupted only by outside agitators. Now they understand that the natural condition of the world (the world they created, I should editorialize) is conflict: rebellion to their rule is inevitable and continuous. Statecraft has become the art of managing conflict, permanently. As long as rebels continue to carry olive branches and a naive view of the struggle, the state knows that it is safe. But the same governments whose representatives hold polite talks with or rudely dismiss conscientious hunger strikers also constantly spy on the resistance and train agents in counterinsurgency-warfare techniques drawn from wars of extermination waged to subdue rebellious colonies from Ireland to Algeria. The state is prepared to use those methods against us.
—  How Nonviolence Protects the State by Peter Gelderloos

i remember one time i googled “outside agitator” and the search put a result where MLK condemned the term in Letter from a Birmingham Jail right next to a result where Governor George Wallace was explicitly invoking the term to say that all unrest in Alabama was the fault of “outsiders”

State of Grace

Find the first chapter here: 01 

Summary: When Liam Dunbar spots an incredibly alluring girl in the hallway with glowing green eyes, the pack (or more like Stiles) becomes suspicious and investigates.

*I don’t own the gif; credit goes to the wonderful owner/maker*

Note: So the first four chapters are written; I’m still working on the fifth one (which has the siren request in it lmao I know I went nuts). I’m still trying to figure out if I want to continue it after the fifth part… I think I’ll wait to see how you guys feel about it and then go from there…


02

“There she is!” Liam shouted, and Stiles slammed on the breaks. The four of them lurched forward; Mason’s head smacked against the back of the passenger seat and he let out a groan.

           “Liam, what the hell?” Stiles nearly shouted. Frantically, he glanced over at Malia, doing a two-second full-body scan. Once he had assessed that she was indeed alright- in fact, she was giving him a weird look- he craned his neck to glare at his back seat riders. Liam was looking out the window, one hand pressed against the glass. “Do you want to explain-”

           “That’s the girl I saw in the hallway! The one with the green eyes! That’s her.” He jabbed his finger against the window impatiently. “Look, she’s got the polka-dot backpack. She’s standing next to the guy in the red shirt. Can you see her? She’s right over there-”

           Mason threw his hands up. “Liam, what girl? What are you talking about?”

           Malia was staring hard at the young Beta. “Yeah, I’d like to know too. When you say ‘green eyes’…”

           Liam talked very fast. His eyes were still locked on some far away figure near the school that Stiles had yet to pin-point. “Earlier in the hallway I saw this girl and she smelled really good. Plus she was really, really hot. At one point she looked at me and her eyes flashed to a bright green. I think she’s some kind of thing or something… Stiles, drive! She’s heading for the other side of the parking lot!”

           Stiles scoffed. “Are you crazy? I’m not going to-” Suddenly Malia’s hand was on his thigh, pushing his foot down on the gas. Letting out a yell, Stiles turned and gripped the wheel tightly, fighting for control of the shuddering Jeep. “You can’t just do that! She’s got some age on her!” He scolded, stroking the dashboard while sending a death glare at Malia. “Besides, you just wasted about twenty bucks of gas.”

           “Just follow her.” Malia hissed. With a suddenly dry throat, Stiles complied without a single argument. Sometimes his girlfriend was the scariest thing he had ever encountered- and that was saying something.

           As Stiles crossed the parking lot as casually as he could, Mason shifted to face Liam. “When you saw this girl… was it when I was with you earlier?”

           Liam peeled his eyes away from the lot to look at him guiltily. “Maybe.”

           “Why didn’t you say anything?”

           “Because… I don’t know…” Liam let out a breath. “I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I saw her and I panicked. It was weird.”

           Mason nodded, licking over his lips. His tone became harsher. “You know, I’m getting real tired of you lying to me, Liam.”

           Liam’s mouth opened wide. “I’m not lying to you!”

           “Oh, maybe not now. But earlier in the hallway, when I asked you what was wrong, you told me it was because of the lacrosse game tomorrow night.”

           “Look, Mason-”

           “I know that girl.” Malia declared. When Stiles glanced over at her, he saw her face in a focused frown as she stared out at the sea of students with her nose slightly wrinkled. He couldn’t help but think she looked cute. Of course he wouldn’t say that out loud- not right now, at least.

           Liam practically had his nose against the window. “You do?”

           Slowly, Malia nodded. “Yeah, that’s Y/N. She’s new. Lydia and I met her today. We had to help her find the choir room.” She paused as if she were remembering it. Stiles wished he had been there with her. “You’re right Liam; she did smell good. Extremely good.”  

           It was quiet in the Jeep as they all began to process the new information. “Well,” Stiles broke the silence after a moment. “Do you have any idea what she could be? Any evil vibes coming off her or anything?”

           “No!” Liam nearly hollered, drawing plenty of attention from the kids outside of the Jeep. Agitated, Stiles pulled out of the parking lot. “Sorry.” Liam muttered. Then he cleared his throat. “She’s not evil.”

           “How do you know that?” Mason snapped. “What, just because she’s a pretty face and you’re hoping that she’ll give you the time of day?”

           “Damn,” Malia whispered. Stiles snickered. Liam was speechless. “I think I agree with Liam, though.” She said after a moment. “Y/N acted very sweet, and she smelled like pure happiness and innocence.”

           Liam pursed his lips. “Maybe she doesn’t know that she is… whatever she is.”

           “Like Parrish.” Stiles nodded to himself and wet his lips. “He had no idea he was even supernatural until the Deadpool. Maybe this Y/N girl won’t know unless she’s told or something.”

           “Do you think Deaton might know?” The reflection of the stop light shone in Malia’s eyes as she stared out the windshield.

           “It wouldn’t hurt to bring it up with him.” Stiles submitted.

           Liam fished his cell phone out of his back pocket. “Scott’s working a shift today at the animal clinic. I could text him and see if he can ask?”

           —

The moment Deaton heard green eyes and sweet-smelling scent, he knew exactly what they were dealing with. “It sounds to me like we’ve got ourselves a siren.” He said while putting away some tools.

           “A siren?” Scott repeated, mouth dropping open.

           Deaton nodded and closed the storage cabinet. “Yes- although it’s highly unusual for one to be without a pod and not directly near a body of salt water.” Scott was hanging onto his every word. “She can’t be underestimated. Sirens are notorious for being vengeful creatures. They want to take their anger and pain out on everyone; they allure people by singing and then kill them.”

           Scott was absorbing all the information. “So what you’re saying is watch her.”

           “No,” Deaton gave him a small smile. Scott had been through so much in the past two years. Deaton didn’t blame him for automatically assuming the worst. “Just be wary of her. See what she decides to do.”


Find the third chapter here: 03 

Letter from Birmingham Jail

While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling our present activities “unwise and untimely.” Seldom, if ever, do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all of the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would be engaged in little else in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I would like to answer your statement in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.

I think I should give the reason for my being in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the argument of “outsiders coming in”

I am in Birmingham because injustice is here …I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial “outside agitator” idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider …

We have waited for more than three hundred and forty years for our God-given and constitutional rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward the goal of political independence, and we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward the gaining of a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. I guess it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say “wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick, brutalize, and even kill your black brothers and sisters with impunity; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she cannot go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her little eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see the depressing clouds of inferiority begin to form in her little mental sky, and see her begin to distort her little personality by unconsciously developing a bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son asking in agonizing pathos, “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger” and your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and when your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodyness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over and men are no longer willing to be plunged into an abyss of injustice where they experience the bleakness of corroding despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience …

You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, it is rather strange and paradoxical to find us consciously breaking laws. One may well ask, “How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?” The answer is found in the fact that there are two types of laws: there are just laws, and there are unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “An unjust law is no law at all.”

Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine when a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law, or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas, an unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality …

There are some instances when a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I was arrested Friday on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong with an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade, but when the ordinance is used to preserve segregation and to deny citizens the First Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and peaceful protest, then it becomes unjust.

Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was seen sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar because a higher moral law was involved. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks before submitting to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience.

We can never forget that everything Hitler did in Germany was “legal” and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was “illegal.” It was “illegal” to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. But I am sure that if I had lived in Germany during that time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers even though it was illegal. If I lived in a Communist country today where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I believe I would openly advocate disobeying these anti-religious laws …

I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are presently misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with the destiny of America. Before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson scratched across the pages of history the majestic word of the Declaration of Independence, we were here …If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands …

Never before have I written a letter this long–or should I say a book? I’m afraid that it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else is there to do when you are alone for days in the dull monotony of a narrow jail cell other than write long letters, think strange thoughts, and pray long prayers?

If I have said anything in this letter that is an understatement of the truth and is indicative of an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything in this letter that is an overstatement of the truth and is indicative of my having a patience that makes me patient with anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.

Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood,
MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

Last night during the Ferguson protests in Philly there were at least two dozen people in full bloc mixed throughout the march. In addition there were dozens of people with bandannas, or scarves covering their faces. A friend pointed out two undercover cops early on. I hadn’t even noticed them yet, but I am positive that I would have known they were cops immediately.

What I saw was two beefy white macho-guys in jeans (one in a blue jacket and one in a red phillies hoodie with a baseball cap) wearing two black and white paisley bandannas, and holding similar signs (same shape, same thickness of marker, similar vague slogan, same stick holding them up.) We had a good laugh at the (chumps) and I went right up to them and took a few pictures (unfortunately not many good ones.) These “protestors” (See. cops) were walking right next to the row of bike cops, always on the left side. They barely “infiltrated” the march by any means of geographical depth.

Time went by and I decided to follow them and see what they were up to. Another friend rolled up next to me and told me they were undercover cops, I told them I knew. Time went by and that friend went back into the march and I lingered off to the side. The Cop in red was behind me and the cop in blue was right next to me.

I heard the cop in blue loudly talking to the bike cops to “back up” and other pseudo-aggressive statements that the cop thought a protestor would say to cops. He then walked over to me (who was alone next to the march) and said:

“Do you want to fucking jump these guys?”

And I couldn’t help but laugh right in his face. Did he not remember when I went right up to him and took pictures of his face? from about two or three feet away?

I immediately said “Show me your badge number or shut the fuck up.”
His eyes widened and then became angry immediately.

“Oh is that right?”
“Yeah, you can shut the fuck up and stop talking to me.”

He walked away. I went up to a Legal Observer that I was familiar with and told them about the situation and showed them the pictures. I moved on to tell as many friends in bloc about them. I never saw the blue shirted cop again that night, but I was later pointing out the phillies hoodie cop to a group and as I was pointing at him, watched him turn away out of the crowd.

Obviously the philly cops haven’t learned that big beefy white men with jeans and a bandanna stick out like a sore thumb. Most people I talked to about it either already knew, or were not surprised to find out.

It’s business as usual, but I guess this is just an heavy-winded way of saying to only work with your crew. Don’t listen to strangers. Especially if it’s random advice and bad idea. (during a completely nonviolent march, the idea of two people taking on a row of 100 bike cops is preposterous. I would have laughed at my best friend if they had proposed the same idea)

Just keep secure and keep safe. Get work done and keep fighting. Not to push the whole (outside agitator or infiltrator) trope but be careful. Remember, the cops (in Philly) are obviously incompetent as fuck at this. We can laugh at their weakness, but should also warn any younger or less experienced radicals to be careful.

P.S. The guy in orange was posing as a reporter but went up to a group of people in bloc outside of the police station (where the march was holding a rally) and tried to film our faces under his arm. We pointed out we could see the shape of his gun tucked into the back of his jeans and he laughed and walked away. Not minutes later I took the picture of him talking to the cops. Later as the march began moving towards city hall again, he was on the other side of the line of bike cops (the cops being between him and the protestors.)