Last night I attended the protest against Donald Trump’s rally in Chicago and I am very proud to have been a part of such a spirited and diverse gathering of people, banding together to let that hateful shit know that his values are not welcome in this city. Hopefully last night was the beginning of the end of his campaign. Earlier in the day, in a very different context, I snagged this They Live style flyer for an upcoming Sci-Fi film fest. The illustration is by Mitch O’Connell.
Dean ignores the open-mouthed stares as he walks through the promenade. He must he a sight for these people. Full human, decked out in his dress whites with every medal in the goddamn galaxy hanging on his chest. The fucking uniform is going to start sagging if they pin one more on him. It’s worth it, though. Doing what he does ensures his family’s safety, and right now that’s the most important thing to him.
Even if his and Benny’s kids are fixing to blow through all of his hazard pay for their birthday spree. Holo games, candy from at least four planets, new anti-grav skate shoes, and their daughter is probably going to buy everything from this cosmetics display. She’s the sales associate’s new favorite customer, he’s sure.
They’re just so goddamn happy, though. This is the kind of shit he gets shot at for. This is why it’s worth it to count the ticking of the shields as integrity falls and he wonders if maybe, this time, he might not get home. At least they’ll still have a home once he’s gone.
Benny’s hands are a steady weight on his sides, and he smiles as their son slides across the floor while testing the shoes. “He’s your son.”
Dean laughs. “Hey, they cloned those assholes from both of us, I don’t want to hear it.”
Benny scoffs and wraps his arms around Dean’s middle, then spends almost fifteen seconds trying to find a comfortable spot for his chin on Dean’s shoulders. Command really needs to work on consolidating his fucking medals.