Good Drones Obey: Communism and Kink in Post-Revolutionary America

[RiverDelta]

"Really, Tom, you used your last phone call for me?" he heard the atomic transgender say over the phone. "I thought you said I was an evil pervert," Calliope said. It was a grey room, and even the guards found it visibly uncomfortable.

Former President Tom Picano sat in Revolutionary Detention Center Miami. Apparently the revolutionaries wanted to abolish prisons. It was probably just because they preferred bullets to bedrooms, he thought. He was a portly man with slick-backed hair and an American flag pin. "Please don't laugh." The goons with red armbands stood around him as he sat in the plastic chair.

"Oh, what's going on? You gonna call me a troon again?" Calliope said, laughing. She was probably smoking. The Queen Troon and her degenerate friends smoked to Hell and back. She could pretend to be Woke Bitch of the year, but everyone knew behind the rainbow flag was the Air Force roundel. Marines, too. Some of the Deads, the cop fiefdoms, had pledged allegiance to her later in the war. It was crazy, he thought, that a bunch of American badasses would do what a troon said.

"You're a real piece of work. Look, I need you to help me. You're woker than Drag Queen Story Hour, but at least you aren't a red."

"Oh, sorry, I can't hear you over my mimosa," she said, and Tom thought to himself that she was just as useless as most of the women he'd known. Maybe she was a real woman. It'd explain why she wimped out rather than get captured.

He waited.

"Please, President Anderson, talk to me!" he said. "You're one of the progressive darlings, right? The commies are woke, you have to say something on my behalf! I'll make it up to you!"

"Why would I come along and defend a faux-MAGA Republican pissant like you?" Calliope asked.

Tom found himself sweating 5.56 rounds. "I'll be in your debt, okay? The entire Miami Government's remnants and all of the random dots on the map that paid allegiance to them will be yours."

"Nobody listens to Picano anymore," she said.

"Well, they listen to you. I don't care what you want, money, drugs, a goddamn blowjob, I'll do it. Do you want me to start championing troon rights and pledging allegiance to the rainbow flag? I'll do it, just don't leave me in here!"

He heard Anderson tap her fingers against her desk in Hawaii. "I had my cock cut into a pussy, Tom," she said. Classic military bluntness, he thought. He knew it from all those photo ops.

"Christ! Please, dear God, you need to get me out!"

She laughed again. "Sorry, buddy. They don't listen to me. They don't even like me. You were an idiot for calling me. The commies think I'm a war criminal, like there's any real law in war beyond 'win quick and win good," she snickered. "Tom, don't worry, it won't be any worse than it was for all those gay kids. So, you made your bed. Time to lay in it."

She hung up, and he screamed.

 

[RiverDelta]

The Kink in Yellow: The Forum for Cultplay, Cthulhurotica, and Azathottery
Cultplay Kink Glossary​

This is a glossary of common terms used in the cultplay community, a BDSM community originating in countercultural movements during the civil war. While occultism and eldritch horror have long been sexually fetishized, the specific domination and roleplay dynamics and terms which cultplay typically uses are a newer innovation. Please see our generic BDSM glossary for more standard BDSM terms.

Potentially relevant cultplay terms are as follows:

Ace of Stars: A term for kinky asexuals in the cultplay community, aces of stars are typically interested in acts of worship, magic, service, and the like rather than overt sex, though some certainly are fine with it. As the cultplay community is one of the more convoluted kink communities and has many options for those uninterested in intercourse, it has a strong asexual community.

Angelplay: Sort of the opposite of Devilry, Angelplay involves play with angels and those possessed or "possessed" by angels. Often overlaps with faithplay.

Atompilz Division: A genocidal neo-Nazi terror organization that worked under the infamous Christian Republic. A subset of Atompilz types known as the Brotherhood of the Ascended Masters were Satanists who drew heavily from Theosophy, and while neither the Christian Republic or Atompilz had much of a chance at winning the civil war, they were known for their atrocities. It was the R'lyeh seasteading disaster and the attempt by Thorin Calvert of the Ascended Masters to market himself as a cultplayer that started the Realignment.

Avatar: One who is being possessed by an occult entity. This can be entirely a matter of roleplay, though some occultists in the community may take this more seriously than one might think. One of the typical dom archetypes in cultplay, the other being the cult leader.

Azathottery: Contrast to Cthulhurotica, a once-derogatory term for those who simply aped the aesthetics of cultplay without respect for the literature, mythology, or magick underpinning it. This was the more popular form of cultplay used by sex workers during the civil war, and continues to be popular among non-WR sex workers and those who produce erotic art for labor vouchers. Typically heavily anime-influenced, Azathottery often comes from a very different place than the core Cthulhurotica community. However, a new wave of Socialist Azathottery in the Worldwide Council Republic of Socialists has challenged existing stereotypes, creating vibrant fantasies, new looks, and elaborate settings. While those of us who prefer to wear flapper dresses and leather detective coats might look down upon the Azathots, it is increasingly hard to call them lazy.

Call of Cthulhu Mature LARPing: A euphemism for some dizzyingly elaborate cultplay sessions disguised as live-action roleplaying sessions, "MaLARPing" can be anything from an impromptu sideshow during a standard LARP to entire days-long sessions of dazzlingly blasphemous fun.

Cthulhurotica: Typically originating from more academically inclined communities, Cthulhurotica specifically refers to cultplay done with respect for occult and occult literary traditions. Cthulhurotica is so named due to the supposed propensity of those who participate in it to "play a lot of Call of Cthulhu", an RPG produced by the company Chaosium in Japan. Cthulhurotics may participate in chaos magic, do great research into their symbolism of choice, or genuinely be practicing occultists.

Cult: An association of cultplayers typically oriented around the worship of a single dominant.

Devilry: The practice of including devil worship or demonic possession into kink. Devilry can range from teasing (and, rarely for cultplay, potentially submissive) imps to generic demon kings and queens all the way to painstakingly accurate role-play and "authentic" possessions of entities from the Ars Goetia.

Dominant/"Dom"/"Domme" (Cultplay): The participant in cultplay who takes on an authoritative, controlling role and leads the scene, roleplay, or ritual. Typically, this is the person who has entered inhumanity or who is the head of the cult or coven.

Erisianism: The practice of worshipping or pretending to worship Eris, goddess of chaos and discord. Erisianism centers around the creation of an Erisian Avatar, a person who either gets into the headspace of the goddess of discord or who believes they are possessed by said goddess. Elements of Discordianism, a joke religion that is also an actual religion, are often also integrated, and while Erisianism overlaps heavily with Cthulhurotica, its less "scary" appearance and more relaxed mindset have given it a certain niche.

Falling: The act in angelplay of attempting to get the avatar of an angel to make some great lusty moral compromise, thus making that angel "fallen" within the roleplay. For obvious reasons, this is almost always just roleplay and has no "real" occultist equivalent.

Femboy Imp: The most common form of the rare "submissive Avatar", a Femboy Imp is a fairly memetic way to describe a specific archetype of an androgyne demonic male, typically an oversexed and playful one.

Hospitality: The presence of providing consistent service—sexual or otherwise—to an avatar in one's home. This can last for a mere hour to entire months: essentially as long as the dom can maintain their inhumanity and the sub wishes for it to continue. This is often a softer or more romantic form of cultplay.

Inhumanity: The equivalent to things like subspace, inhumanity is the state of mind in which one is fully inhuman and beyond human, a headspace of great power, confidence, and low-level madness. Typically the result of a willing possession, found in an avatar. It may require hypnosis or being "psyched into" this headspace, though some can enter it easily.

Kink Abuse/Mass Kink Abuse: A term coined by the mainstream BDSM community but used most in the cultplay community. A "kink abuser" is an abusive personality who happens to be into kink or uses kink as a justification for abuse, and "kink abuse" is a form of abuse done with the aesthetics of kink. The term "Mass Kink Abuser" or "MKA" gained most common use in the cultplay community as a term used in place of "cult leader", which is a more positive term within the cultplay community.

Lovecraft, Howard Phillips: Known author of 1920s and 1930s horror fiction, also known for his infamous racism and anxiety. While his works are masterpieces and much of the basis of the cultplay community, they also do have these extreme biases.

Marking: An avatar may mark their submissive/cultist/follower with a symbol such as a pentacle or Elder Sign underneath their clothes, thus reminding their submissive that they are owned throughout the day. Especially dedicated submissives may even get these marks tattooed.

Oviposition: The kink of laying eggs, typically done with an ovipositor device which implants jelly eggs into one's vagina to be laid at a later date. This can be done to help maintain the aesthetic of inhumanity, or simply for its own sake.

Paganplay: An extremely niche form of cultplay involving historical pagan and neopagan dieties and concepts, such as Norse seidhr magic.

Possession Polycule: A relationship between two or more partners in which one partner is frequently possessed and turned into an Avatar, with the relationship being considered between three parties. This can often be much softer and homier than you would expect, and while most examples are mere extended roleplay there are UPG examples of said possession.

Prohibition Fashion: The fetishized, Hollywoodized-equivalent of 1920s fashion to have come out of the Cthulhurotica community, typically known for ties, smart hats, fringed flapper dresses, dangling jewelry, and so on. A fairly uncommon aesthetic, but one that's gotten some notice due to revolutionary connotations that have been added to it. Only somewhat related to cultplay at this point.

Realignment: The process of ostracizing abusive or reactionary members of the cultplay community, such as cult leaders in the NXIVM sense rather than the mystery cult sense or Atompilz Satanists.

Ritual: The practice of roleplaying out or genuinely participating in Magick. This may include implements such as candles, altars, statuettes of gods, symbols, offerings, libations, or the like. It may also include more sexual tools, such as tentacle dildos, dripping wax, handjobs with excessive lube, blindfolds, or rope bondage.

Sacrifice: Something given up to appease a demon, Outer God, or other occult entity. Typically cum or orgasmic pleasure are used, though mock human sacrifice scenes and rare bloodplay are not unheard of.

Technohorror: A sort of mix of drone fetishes and cultplay. A Technohorror is a dominant in the style of a drone, though one whose mechanical thought processes are based not on conformity and subjugation but on dominating others. If drones are into being the Borg, Technohorrors want to be a hotter version of Skynet. Extremely niche, but a growing community.

Unverified Personal Gnosis: A term for a supernatural event happening that cannot be corroborated by scientific evidence or religious tradition. The term originates from neopagan and Magickal communities, and is more or less a way to say "What you believe happened to you is your choice, but I don't have to include that in my worldview".

Verified Personal Gnosis: A supernatural event that can be corroborated by scholarly evidence or religious tradition.

Wannabe Novelists: Though cultplayers are often the excessively creative sort, there are some cultplayers who are so dedicated to occultism or creative roleplaying that they seem almost less interested in the actual kink play. Though it started as a derogatory term, it nonetheless picked up steam as a term of self-identification during the Realignment.

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[RiverDelta]

"Author's" Notes: I've been sitting on the Deads for a bit, the informal de facto police autocracies to have formed in a few major cities and their surrounding areas. I went to watch the TV show Brooklyn Nine-Nine for the first time on an unrelated note. I've only seen the first episode, so it might well get better or less unsettling as the series goes on. However, I was astonished at the callousness and levity with which the police officers went about a very consequential job.

For example, in the first episode, wisecracking lead Jake Peralta and seeming love interest Gina Linetti have a competition to see who can get more arrests. Given the fact that an arrest in the US prison system often means lengthy jail time and coerced labor in inhumane conditions, and that not even Wholesome Supercop Jake Peralta can ensure every arrest is entirely justified, it struck me as sick to create a game out of ruining lives. I'm probably going to watch more of the show, so don't think of this as a dig at Brooklyn Nine-Nine, but that first episode's copagandistic qualities did inspire this piece in part.

CW: This one hints at some pretty dark stuff involving power, torture, and abuse of power. Be advised before reading. Unlike one of my other works, American Intoxicants, I try and keep this stuff from getting too graphic, so hopefully this CW will be enough. This isn't meant to be nearly as edgy a fic as that one.



Aiah Hirsch stretched their arms behind their head as they lay on the therapist's couch. "So, do you want to hear about all my trauma?" they asked. They were dressed like a Cthulhurotic, but they weren't interested in the kink. They just were in love with the archetype of the noir detective, even after it all.

Dr. Erica Bishop crossed one nylon-covered leg over the other. She wore heels, and Aiah approved. Nothing like the classic femme-fatale, they thought. "Well, let's start with what you're comfortable with." Her pen pressed against the corners of her black lips. She spoke with a Texan accent, but a curt and aristocratic form of one.

"Well, my mom was a big neo-grunge musician and druggie, my sister converted to Islam and was killed on a trip to visit her girlfriend in Miami territory, my dad was a lawyer who focused on work to avoid being in the same room as my bipolar mom, and I was a cop—NYPD. Detective Aiah Hirsch, I had a badge.

"I'm not mad at my mom anymore, though. She's in a psych ward, but the New York state government under the Reds is good about making sure those aren't too bad. I know she was just...off, that she had a problem. She had her demons, you know? We all do. I know she can't take back Khadija, Beck, and I seeing her in hospitals after overdoses and attempts. I know she can't take back the misery and fear she gave us, the growing sense that we might not get to grow old with our mom. She was an awful mother, but I don't think she had the capacity to be anything else." Aiah sighed. "Oh, and I'm nonbinary. They/them," they hastily appended.

Dr. Bishop gave a nod. "Well, first, I want to validate that you're thinking with a lot of wisdom right now. It's clear that you're seeing all sides of things, and that you're giving her compassion. Was taking care of your mother Kira the reason you stopped being a cop?" she asked.

"I could have joined the Citizen's Militia, but even with the vast reworking of that system to make it in any way palatable it's still police work. It isn't absolute power over life and death anymore, and it sure isn't a racist jackboot, but even with all the effort to make it as humane and subject to checks and balances as any other governmental office it's still police work. It's still enforcing laws, even if there's different and less laws than there used to be, enforced in different ways. They say eventually even the Citizen's Militia cops will wither away. I just didn't want to be a cop. Honestly, I don't think most people who want to be a cop enough to go through police academy should be a cop."

"Oh? Why do you say that?" Dr. Bishop asked.

"I did things in the NYPD I can't take back, and I was one of the good cops. The system's fucked, like the commies and progressives said before the civil war. I wasn't a Red then, but power is something you have to keep a close eye on, and the NYPD had almost absolute power and nobody watching us."

---

"Hey, I'm Benji, and this is Adalwolfa," ve heard the man in the room say. He was slender, a redhead with freckles, and toying with one of the loops of his belt. Pyrite Morreo felt ver body pushed into a hard plastic chair. The room was white, and the anarcho-punk rocker in ver disdain looked up at the two pigs. In contrast to the John Mulaney-esque man, the woman was hard-bitten and tall, either a stone butch or a German. By the name, ve assumed she was German.

"Detective Cross and Captain Botsch," Adalwolfa said. Her hair was white streaks on onyx.

"I dunno, that seems a little formal, doesn't it?" Benji said, in a voice that reminded Pyrite of a less funny John Mulaney. "Nice to meet ya." He gave a little wave.

"Shut up, pig," Pyrite snarled. "Long live the Commune."

"Oh, you think you're a jokester, huh?" Benji said, sounding exactly like John Mulaney.

"I'm a musician," Pyrite said.

"Well, we have an office betting pool," Benji said. "We all bet on which detective is going to get the most convictions by the end of the year. Everyone's putting their money on Madeline Albright, the cowboy drug buster who doesn't play by the rules, but I put all my money on myself!"

"Are you an idiot?" Pyrite asked. Adalwolfa glared at ver.

"I'm not an idiot, I'm just extremely drunk!" he said, as ve realized he was slurring his words. Ve thought about a line ve could think of involving John Mulaney, but ve came to the conclusion that it was a bit tasteless.

Ve turned to Adalwolfa. "Is he always like this?" ve asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. With the swell in the ranks of the NYPD under the Police Protection Zone, we've had to recruit more than a few eccentric geniuses and other weirdos," she said.

"Wonder what Callie thinks of this," Pyrite mused aloud.

"She can't stop us. We hold territory." Adalwolfa turned to Benji. "I tire of the anarchist's lip. Knife."

Benji gave an apologetic chuckle. "Whoops, I guess you're about to meet your maker!" he said.

"Are you John Mulaney's evil clone?" Pyrite blurted out.

"I can make you into horse feed," he said, punching ver twice in the nose. It snapped. "Sounds like you've got a few things to learn about the law!" he laughed. Nobody else in the room did.

---

Two women sat in an interrogation room. One wore her makeup perfect, her blonde hair curled, and her FBI jacket proudly. The other wore a red sweatshirt. "Look, I don't want to do this," Special Agent Lottie Cross said.

"I know the coke was placed on me, you pig bitch," Emily Mendez hissed.

"You don't get it. Do you know how this system works? Everything's based on arrests and looking out for each other. The system's meant so there's more arrests and incarcerations than there needs to be."

"Yes, I know how the carceral state works," Emily mumbled. "So, what, I'm going to prison for drug possession?" she asked.

"You're going to prison for being a communist, we just needed an excuse." Lottie sighed. "The point of justice is to keep people from doing things against society. That's what cops, the FBI, what we all do."

Emily drummed her fingers against the table. "Look, can I get out of your obviously bullshit system?" she asked.

Lottie nodded. "Yeah. I'd be pretty cruel if we just did this to you without giving you an out." Lottie was another one of the good cops. When she framed someone, she gave them the chance to recant their "free" speech. "Just go on TV, tell the Gen Xers that you were found innocent, that you've changed your mind on this whole communism thing, and that you want to get back to making a difference the right way. We'll film it ahead of time. That's all you need to do, and I'll let you go."

Emily sighed. "Hey, I'll do it, but only if you answer one question for me. I...I appreciate that you're giving me this out. It's bullshit, but the NYPD would just shoot me for being socialist."

"Well, President Anderson has a slightly higher amount of morals than the NYPD—slightly—and we answer to her. Do you think I like this job? Making people's lives miserable sucks. I drink myself half to death after work daily. It's just this or anarchy. There's no other options. So, yeah, what's your question?"

"How did you become...this?" Emily asked. "Morally, I mean. What brought you to this point?"

"My dad was a cop, neglectful, shitty, transphobic, and I wanted to be the kind of cop that Sam Cross never could have been. I studied, I joined the FBI, and I found my place in the world. I'm a survivor, I've had to survive. There isn't much room for utopias when it comes to that."

Emily's face softened. "Don't you dream of a better world?"

"Sure, then I wake..." She stopped herself.

Emily gave it some thought. "Where are you from?"

"I'm from California, but I moved to New York to be with a boyfriend. We're not together anymore."

"Do you have anyone here?" Emily asked.

"No, I'm not really the kind of person who makes close friends," Lottie said.

"The New York Commune's gone, but there are Red-controlled areas across the country. There's a big Red blob in Seattle." An idea entered Emily's desperate brain, in hopes that she wouldn't have to humiliate herself on camera.

Lottie Cross was obviously less than heroic, but Emily found her in that moment to be worthy of pity. "Let's go upstate, find a plane, go to Seattle. Come on, don't you want to be a good person, to fight for something worth fighting for?" Emily asked.

The only way for me to be a good person is to stop, Lottie thought. Framing a kid? What the fuck is wrong with me? Lottie gave it some more moments of thought. It'll get me away from Benji, at least. "Is there booze with the Reds?"

"Yeah, lots," Emily said.

"Long live the revolution," she forced herself to whisper.

---

When Lottie got of the private plane from Buffalo, Emily walking next to her, she heard her phone ring. "Hey, Maxine," she said. It was a nice phone, a Nokia Blackberry with a touch screen. "I put in my two-weeks notice. I'm in Seattle."

She heard the aging woman cough in her wheelchair. "Where are we going to get another FBI Liasion?" she asked.

"Ask Boston," Lottie said, hanging up and deleting the number. What the fuck am I doing? she asked herself. I followed a stranger across the country to Red territory. What am I, an idiot? she thought.

Then, Emily held her hand, and Lottie saw that everyone was armed and getting along.

Well, if they have the Second Amendment, they can't be that bad, she thought.

Emily held her hand, and wondered why she was so comfortable with this. Her mom was NYPD. Emily had figurative scars: bad wife, bad mother, bad job, bad person.

"Thank you so much for leaving," Emily said, fighting the urge to tear up.

A very confused Lottie gave a nod. "...I guess."

Emily hugged her. Unlike Officer Mendez, this cop wouldn't hurt anyone else.

If she ever does relapse, I'll kill her, Emily thought.

---

As Pyrite Morreo drove in ver hotwired car as far as ve could get from New York, ve wore nothing. Benji had stripped ver. Benji had hurt ver. Benji was about to kill ver. Ve had his scars across ver belly and sides.

Benji.

Ve drove like a maniac, and ve already felt as though ve was half-crazy. Anyone would be.

Anyone who got to know Benji Cross, at least. He was a creature of the absurd.

 

[RiverDelta]

Zodiac Peer-to-Peer Text Communication System
Worldwide Republic Office of Telecommunications​

Hey, Dakota, do you ever hate having a human body?

Click to shrink...

Yeah. All the time. I truly wish I could just physically be a devil or an eldritch horror or something. Being human's Hell. No pun intended.

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A devil? How do you square that with Jesus?

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Well, I believe Christ died for the sins of all beings, and that even a demon is morally obligated to let Jesus into her heart. So, uh, yeah, humanity.

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I don't know. I just feel like...I look at myself, with my wrinkles and red spots and fat, and it sucks. I hate being human. I want to be simplified, artificial, and perfect, like an anime girl or a robot.

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I know exactly what you mean. I go and look in the mirror after I'm done being possessed by a demon for cultplay, and I see my head. There's no horns. My skin's this horrible shade of eggshell, and I feel like a crazy person.

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Yeah, and, like, having a face is awful too, right? It's imperfect and wrong.

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You feel like a lump of weird clay. I know God made me in His image, but sometimes it ain't easy to remember.

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It must be nice to believe in God, right?

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Are you asking if it's reassuring?

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I guess?

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Well, it ain't, and anyone who says it should be don't wanna put in any real effort to follow His way. Frankly, I'm terrified that what I did in the revolution, what I do as a cultplayer, looking into drone adoption...Well, I'm afraid it ain't what Jesus wants. I'm scared of that all the damn time. I've read my Bible, I've tried to square it, and I think I've done a pretty good job, but belief is about sacrifice. If you ain't sacrificing anything for your God, what's even the point of worshipping Him?

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What if God isn't real? What if we made Him up?

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No need to put a question mark there. I know you ain't religious.

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I was raised Hindu.

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Look, my point is that I don't get why God made me like this, as a human being. It ain't right. It hurt when I fought for Sacramento, and it hurts now.

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Same. I'm just praying to nothing in particular that they invent robot bodies so I can cut my brain out and stick it in one.

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I suppose I could get those horn implants, tattoo my skin red or something. I don't know. It just hurts. It hurts so goddamn much.

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Yeah. I look at my organic body and I want to rip my flesh right out.

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[RiverDelta]

Lottie Cross sat in her and Emily's apartment. Emily lay on the bed, and she said what they both were thinking: "I think we should break up."

Lottie, as was expected for someone with a shot of whiskey and two shots of moxie in her, yelled. "The hell? After the war? After I went to rehab for you?"

Emily looked at their thirty-day chips which sat on a bookshelf, which they'd gotten by faking sobriety. Lottie's demon came in a tallboy, while Emily did anything she could get her hands on. Lottie adjusted her women's tie, still dressed in FBI chic. Emily spoke. "This was a stupid idea."

"You're right. Communism is a stupid idea," Lottie said. The lights flickered. Somehow, this was Emily's fault. On the same shelf was a rolled up poster of Michael Moore with "Thought you'd like this — Benji" written on it, as well as a row of beauty pageant trophies.

"No, moving in together. Communism's working damn well, no thanks to you."

"Honeymoon theory," Lottie mumbled.

"What?"

"We fell in love, did something stupid, and it didn't pan out. A relationship is based on when the honeymoon period ends, and we botched it."

Emily cleaned her glasses above her head with her sweatshirt. "Can you get me some painkillers?"

"You're not in pain," Lottie said.

"I'm in emotional pain," Emily said. "You might not know about it, because all of your emotions were drowned in performing idiotic masculinity rituals."

"Well, maybe there's a purpose for masculinity," Lottie said.

"No, there fucking isn't. Abolish gender."

"You're cis," Lottie said, forcefully.

"You're the most cis trans woman I've ever met," Emily said, before getting up to rummage around the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She returned with bottles of Notxycontin and popped a few painkillers into her mouth. "Thank god for society-provided healthcare," she said with an apathetic sigh.

Lottie reapplied her lipstick. "Get out of my house."

"This is my apartment!"

Lottie pursed her lips. "It's the state's apartment, because we live in fucking Leningrad."

"It's societal property owned by occupation. I hope you drink yourself to death so you can choke on Reagan's cock and die all over again," Emily spat.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Lottie said.

"There's this hot Indian Maoist who might need a roomie," Emily said. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

"Hell, probably," Lottie said.

"You're such a fucking cliche."

"Most depressed people sound like cliches. It's because we have no energy to be original," Lottie said. "Sounds like I have more to lose than you, so you go un-occupy and un-use this apartment."

"Or what?" Emily asked. "I'm the reason the Reds in New York didn't give you a show trial.

Lottie looked at the Order of the Red Rose she won in the Battle of Eugene on the shelf. "Look, motherfucker, I've done more for this country than you have. You spent your time after we fled writing blog posts and mooching."

Frankly, Lottie wasn't even sure if she was a conservative or a communist anymore. Ideologically, she was a conservative, but her service during the civil war for the community she loved had made her a model socialist. The system did work, mostly, better than Lottie would have imagined, even for someone who leaned more to the right but who'd done work for the Left. There were a lot of people like that out there. Emily looked at the medal after Lottie did. "...Yeah, you're right." Emily seemed to believe it, and Lottie wondered how the painkillers were affecting it. "I'm a real piece of shit. Maybe I should just go away."

"Don't go there," Lottie said.

Emily gave it some thought. "Nah. I've got a novel to write. It'll probably suck, but at least it'll give me a reason not to bite it."

Lottie realized that Emily was more attempting to float the idea that she was in danger than she actually was—at least, in danger of going away.

"I'm going to hit up the hipster bar in town. When I come back barely awake, there's going to be a guest bedroom in this apartment. If there isn't one, I'll make one, and tell everyone that a little shit misusing the medical supplies dispensary is hogging the place. I'm a war hero, they'll noose you."

"Maybe I want to be kicked out," Emily said, eyeing a belly skirt and top combo meant to resemble a dress. It was Lottie's mother's, in 2005. Her mother had moved to Seattle. Apparently she'd found a new husband.

"Why?" Lottie asked. There was an Iraq War challenge coin on the shelf, too: her old husband.

"Then I won't have to deal with your goddamn mom."

"You're just envious that I have a mother who's alive and who loves me," Lottie said. It came with fire, of course. "You're envious of anyone who lives a better life than you. You're envious of me, you're envious of your shitty psycho cop mom still doing her damage in the Militia, you're envious of Kendra Goddamn Oswald on TV because she looks better than you and probably isn't abusing painkillers, you're even envious of the Congress of Councils because they have agency over their lives! You were envious of me when I was told to frame you, all because I wore makeup and you didn't! That's why you wanted me in that room!" Lottie said.

There was a full minute of silence, and Emily nodded. "Yeah, you've got me dead to rights. I'll pack my things. Wonder what New York's like these days."

---

When Lottie Cross approached the bar counter, she expected to see the usual rascals. She did not expect to see a Kendra Oswald wearing so much makeup she looked like an android. That, or some kind of female Indian skinhead hanging off of her arm. "Hey, gimme a whiskey sour," she asked the current person tending bar. He got right on it.

"You don't look so hot, huh?" Kendra said. "What brings you here?"

"What brings me here? What brings a celebrity to here?" Lottie asked.

"I like it here," Ruby Singh said. "It's a good bar, good community."

Lottie pursed her lips. "Yeah, it's okay."

"So, what're you drinking for?" Ruby Singh said. "War trauma, war guilt, family issues, depressive disorder, or just a habit?" she asked.

"You're fun at parties, babe," Kendra said play-mockingly.

"I know her type," Ruby said, and somehow she made it sound sympathetic.

Lottie considered just saying it was a habit, or that she just liked going to bars on weekends, but she wasn't afraid to make a celebrity uncomfortable. "Broke up with my girlfriend. I spent the civil war fighting people trying to kill the people I loved, she spent it abusing painkillers and writing a terrible fantasy novel."

"Hey, uh, how terrible was the fantasy novel? Maybe there was something there?" Kendra asked.

"So, there's this girl who's abused in an orphanage—" Lottie began.

Kendra laughed. "Yeah, uh, no offense but that sounds pretty bad," she said.

"Yeah. Honestly, I'm not even here because of her problems. I'm here because she ticked off my mom, and I care way more about my mom than Emily Who," Lottie said.

Ruby spoke, nursing a beer. "Family's pretty important. I had good parents, but I know not everyone gets that."

"Wanna make this a group therapy session?" Lottie joked.

"We are at a bar, sure," Ruby said.

"Well, I'll just say that my childhood involved making pasta for dinner when my dad was out and trying to keep my psychopathic brother from doing anything to my friends," Lottie said. "It was...exaggerated. I kind of didn't believe I lived like that until I grew up and gave it too much thought."

Kendra nodded. "My parents were...Well, my dad thought he was the 'cool dad'. That's great when he'll help you make a fake ID or—"

"Your dad helped you make a fake ID?" Lottie asked.

"Yeah. Honestly, there was a lot of booze in our house. The guy was—"

"Legendary director Dane Oswald helped you break the law to drink underage?" Lottie said.

"Yeah, like I said, he wanted to be the cool dad. My mom was, you know, a tough woman, which was why he—"

"He cheated on her, right?" Lottie asked.

"Four times," Kendra said. "She got used to it after the first one. Hey, uh, what's your name, new girl?"

"Lottie Cross," she said.

"Well, you ever tried acting? I can't find a good Peggy Carter, and you have the right noir energy," Kendra said. "Maybe I can give you an audition?"

 

[RiverDelta]

TZ Pernet wore a black latex jumpsuit and a leather trench coat along with aviator sunglasses, and frankly he felt cooler than the water that chilled his computer parts to operating temperature. He sat on the set of Awaken the Sleeper, a half-homage to The Matrix intended to explore its themes of gender, reality, and mental illness in more thorough and concrete ways. TZ Pernet had done a lot of avante-garde work recently (Fire Rising, Red Star/Blue Sun, The King of Chicago), so making a big budget artsy homage was a nice change.

He entered his trailer, the door slamming agaisnt the wall as he stepped in like a Roman general on his Triumph. He sat down at his RTC (Revolutionary Technological Council Congress) laptop. It ran a pirated version of Windows, mostly because TZ liked to be able to run games from back when they would ruin people's lives rather than scale down their ambitions. He loaded up Pokémon Copper, which he regarded as something like a great Egyptian pyramid made by the unjustifable exploitation of toiling farmers.

While he did that, he started to text his daughter:

Hey, Transistor.

Click to shrink...

Hey, Dad.

Click to shrink...

So, I bet you're wondering what the coolest guy in the Worldwide Republic's doing right now, right?

Click to shrink...

I guess. What's up?

Click to shrink...

We just shot the scene where the lead's love interest turns out to be an agent of the simulation, and he tries to turn her to the side of good.

Click to shrink...

Didn't they do a good Agent Smith in the actual Matrix? Fourth movie, right?

Click to shrink...

The best one.

Click to shrink...

Sure, whatever. Look, I've got more important things to do.

Click to shrink...

Oh?

Click to shrink...

I'm gonna blow this commie mind control plot right open.

Click to shrink...

What?

Click to shrink...

I know how the Reds won the civil war: they used MKUltra mind control, which was actually reprogramming because we live in a simulation ruled over by Roko's Basilisk to torture us! None of this is real! That's why everything went crazy when Bush came to power. You're a computer program!

Click to shrink...

...If you're in some kind of simulation created in 2001, how come there's no computer from then or now with enough processing power to simulate an entire brain down to the last atom, let alone to simulate a universe? Please, Transistor, I know you get into your kinks sometimes...

Click to shrink...

Don't you get it? The movie's called Awaken the Sleeper! It's a coded message to me. I know you're trying to tell me I need to escape, even if you don't know you're doing it. Someone's trying to save me!

Click to shrink...

I really don't want to be like your mother, she was a real piece of work, but she was right that the LSD isn't good for you.

Click to shrink...

I saw things, Dad.

Click to shrink...

Please, go to rehab. I know a place in Malibu that's nicer than most of them. You're a strong woman, Transistor. You're a Pernet, and I love you. It's just a movie and it's not real.

Click to shrink...

 

[RiverDelta]

From: RealKendraOswald@leftmail.wr
To: RSingh@leftmail.wr

Dear Ruby,

Hey. I'm going to be out for a while. They've finally declared LA to be safe for visitation, so I thought I'd go and check it out. I'll see if my mom and dad are still around. That's where they were living last I checked. You probably wouldn't like my dad, but he was a decent guy, mostly. My mom was...I dunno.

Kendra


Dear Ruby,

I found my dad in Malibu. He lives in a former hotel. It's a hostel now, or something like that. He's mourning. He says he's scared that Mom died hating him. I mean, I know that's the case, but I told him she loved him deep down.

Kendra


Dear Ruby,

I was wandering the streets of LA. Most of the buildings are these horrible, twisting spires of burned metal and broken glass. It's like a big junkyard. The people living there look the way homeless people used to before the revolution. There's been some rebuilding, but it's only just started.

Kendra


Dear Ruby,

I saw Anderson's public "apology" for the nuking. Have you ever puked and cried at the same time?

Kendra


Dear Ruby,

I went down the broken streets to the local reconstruction office. I asked where Liza Oswald was. Apparently she died from the fallout. I wish I wanted to choke Anderson to death. I'm not really a poet, but once I finished crying I wrote something.

Kendra

---

Help me, dear God, forgive
those who did me wrong
I wish I had the honor
To sing a loving song

It hurts, I'm dying
To hold her in my hand
Please, no crying
Dad can barely stand

I wish I could feel horror
or rage at her death in torture
I can only plant seeds
In this hateful orchard

The wind, it burned, it cut and severed
four million souls gone forever
Dear god, I still hear her crying
and choking

mother

please, mother

hold me

---

From: RealCalliopeAnderson@amazonmail.com
To: RealKendraOswald@leftmail.wr

Dear Kendra,

Hey. I read the poem you wrote for that magazine. I just want to say that I know there's no way for me to take back what I did. Bombing the Sacramento Government wasn't a good decision. It definitely wasn't the right decision. I could say a lot of things. I could say that war is never easy, that it was life or death, that using the warheads we got was the only way to keep people alive. That's what I told myself. I didn't want to think I was like cowardly Picano or lunatic Strecker. I told myself it had to be done.

It didn't.

I'm so, so sorry about your mother. I killed millions of people, Kendra. I wish I could take it back. I wish there didn't have to be a war. I wish I hadn't been so blind, so stupid to believe that I had some kind of special purpose. At the time, I thought Sacramento weren't strong enough to survive. I knew Miami hated people like us, same with the Christers. The Deads, I got, but...God. I'm pretty sure I'm going to burn in Hell if there is one.

Look, whatever you want me to do, I'll do it. I'll pay for a funeral, a mausoleum, for reconstruction in LA, anything. I have money. I know you guys don't really do money anymore, but I can make something work. Please. I was a real piece of shit, and there's no way I can stop, but I just want to be as decent as a monster like me can. Anything I can do to honor Liza Oswald, I'll do it. If you want me to get your movies shown in Hawaii, just ask.

I'm so tired, and it was all so pointless. Strecker's being tried, Picano's in prison, Ashley's fighting in Canada, I'm in exile, Lowell died in LA...It's over. It's all over. All this time, I thought that if the ChiComs had just given me more nukes, maybe I could have won the war. Maybe I could have reunited the country. I would have stepped out of power, eventually. Look, you spend all your time in Hawaii thinking about how you could have won, until you realize that you lost, that it's easy to kill four million people from afar.

I don't know, something about your poem spoke to me. I guess you gave the victims a voice. I'd been avoiding the news coverage. I don't like to feel sad.

Former President Calliope Anderson



From: RealKendraOswald@leftmail.wr
To: RealCalliopeAnderson@amazonmail.com

Calliope Anderson,

You know what I want? I want to talk to Mom again. I've spent fifty thousand dollars to hire Russian mafiya men to kill you and chop up your corpse—not in that order. You have one day to start running. As you are a war criminal and Public Enemy #1, no Red American jury would possibly convict me.

Kendra Oswald

PS: Send anything to me or anyone I know again, and I'll edit your shitty apology to make it look like you were trying to solicit me.



From: RealKendraOswald@leftmail.wr
To: RSingh@leftmail.wr

Dear Ruby,

So Calliope Anderson saw my poem in a magazine and sent me a personal apology message. I decided to do what my mom would have done: I lied to her.

Kendra

 

[RiverDelta]

Speaking of, how old is this person? I can't help but feel that she was a fan of a certain vtuber before they transitioned. I'm assuming all the named characters are zoomers?

Click to shrink...

She was born in 1997, and was actually a fan of Homestuck as a teenager, hence the name.

 

[RiverDelta]

"Wow, pumpkin, that sounds pretty fun," Dane Oswald said, him and his daughter having made the silent agreement to try and maintain what connection they had after the death of Liza Oswald. "So you're telling me this includes latex, bondage, S&M, and gas masks?" he said. He still looked a bit youthful, even in his old age. He was eighty-six, but he looked more like fifty.

Dane's apartment was nowhere near his old penthouse, but he still kept the defaced Norman Rockwell hanging on the wall as if it was. Kendra, clad in one of her usual cocktail dresses that exposed her circuitry tattoo on her arm and shoulder, spoke. "Yeah, Dad, it's really fun. I dunno if it's your thing, though, it's kind of more of a zoomer kink," she said. This wasn't the kind of thing he'd ever talked about with her as a kid. He tried to hide the whips. He might have been Dane Oswald, but he wasn't bad in that particular way.

He nodded, sipping his sherry. "I've always been more into leather and whips, myself. I'm dating this amazing girl, she's a Red, her name's Alexa. Like the Siri knockoff."

Kendra chuckled at that. "Yeah." She supposed that ten years after Liza's passing was enough time for Dane to find another girltoy. Was that a word? Girltoy? If it wasn't, it needed to exist to describe his romantic habits. "How're your projects going?" she asked.

"Oh, I've actually decided to retire. I'm old enough to. I think I made my mark on Hollywood. It's your turn now," he said. "You?"

"Well, I found this depressed ex-cop—"

"Kendra, isn't everyone in your life depressed?" Dane joked. "Didn't the DSA used to talk about how when the revolution came there'd be cheering in the streets?"

Kendra chose to ignore the politics in that statement. She didn't want to get into it. "Dad, not everyone in my life's depressed. Transistor's dad isn't. Anyway, my point is that I found this depressed ex-cop, and she's actually a natural actor, so right now we're kind of giving her a crash course to play Peggy Carter."

"Who?" Dane asked, sipping his wine.

"She's the secret agent that Captain America meets in the 1940s. She's tied into Hydra as a double agent for the Allies. The shitty 2011 adaptation had Hydra be a generic evil conspiracy. They thought that Nazis wouldn't be marketable. Fuck that. We're doing something radical: we're having the Red Skull be based on Reinhard Heydrich."

"Who?" Dane asked, again.

"The guy who engineered the Holocaust," Kendra said.

"Honey, I know you're talented and all, but doesn't involving the Holocaust seem like a bit much for some capeshit flick?" Dane asked, taking another sip of his wine.

"They're the Nazis, you have to depict them as the scum they are, or else you get the Christofash or Atompilz. You can't pull punches. In the Age of Cyberpunk they made Nazis into generic villains, and look where it got them. You have to show the Joy Divisons and the crematoriums. You make people sick so they don't fall for it."

Dane looked down at the floor. "All I'm saying is that people usually expect a Captain America movie to be, you know, a popcorn movie. What if nobody watches it? Won't you get fired?"

"People don't get fired anymore, society isn't organized that way. There are jobs that need doing, people do them, and society recognizes their labor. It...weirdly works out pretty well," Kendra said.

"Sure, but even if you're just allowed to do this stuff—and I still don't know how they keep people from just doing BS jobs that require low effort for high voucher payout—what if nobody sees it? What if you become known as the person who did the Captain America movie with a death camp scene?"

Kendra raised a finger. "Band of Brothers had a scene in Dachau where—"

Dane cut her off. "He wears blue spandex, pumpkin. Who the heck's even writing this script?"

"Oh, there's this up and coming scriptwriter, Andreas Levy."

"Why's he so concerned with the gritty realism of a story about a guy with a magic shield and wings on his head?" Dane asked. "Want some more sherry?" he asked.

Kendra gave it some thought. "I'll just have a merlot," she said. You could count on Dane Oswald to have a well-stocked wine cellar. He nodded and returned with a glass of sherry for him and of a merlot for her. She started to drink, leaving purple lipstick marks on the rim. "Well, um, I guess to answer your question the reason why he wants to write it this way is because his brother was killed by Atompilz in their exclave in Montana, and his great-cousin was shot by the Einsatzgruppen."

The color drained from the father's face. "...Oh. So, you can just...I mean, with all due respect..."

"He wrote the script for Captain America because the character originated as a way for Jews to symbolically fight the Nazis. It's symbolic."

"That's beautiful," he said, finishing his second glass. "I can't wait to see the movie."

Kendra gave him a hug. "Thanks for telling me the truth," she said.

"I'm trying to do that more," he said, choosing to omit that in his eyes it was Liza who was the one who lied more often. Kendra thought she noticed him staring at her cleavage.

"Hey, next time you come over, do you think you could wear something less...boobs?" he asked. "It's distracting." She found herself staring at his chest while he mentioned it.

"Yeah, definitely, I'll have to get a jacket or something," she said.

 

[RiverDelta]

"Evening, Tom," Dakota Eckhart said, a light white top on her body and a handgun holstered at her hip. Sitting on the couch of the former South Carolina Governor's Mansion was one Tom Picano. The two had gotten to know each other, her his equivalent of a parole officer and he her charge.

"Evening, Kody." Tom didn't get much exercise with an ankle monitor on, so he'd kept his portly physique.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Good as it can be," he said. "You sure you can't get them to give me internet access? It's nine years since the end of the Second Civil War. I've served my time, I'm sure as shit not going anywhere, why can't I?"

"Security risk. What else?" Dakota said, sitting down on the couch next to him.

"How're you doing?" he asked.

"Other than working here, not much. Mostly just, you know, thinking."

Tom gave a warm chuckle, the kind he gave at CPAC so long ago. "Thinking about Jesus?" he asked.

"No, the Devil."

"What're you thinking about with him?" he asked, popping some baked potato chips in his mouth. Somehow, they tasted better.

She thought about it. "I dunno, just thinkin'. All the leaders in the Civil War were just people, you know? Lowell was part of the California Machine, Ashley was just an old soldier—hell, a politician, even—and the Reds didn't even have a big leader. About Strecker, well, you know how he is."

Picano chuckled again. "Strecker drank the punch. The point of nostalgia is that you sell it to other people, right?"

Dakota nodded, reminded for a moment about Tom Picano's true nature. "I guess that's the way politics was," she said.

"You're forgetting someone, aren't you?" he asked, popping another chip into his mouth. "Anderson. She was, you know, larger than life." Great, now I've got to refer to that freak as "she". I guess that's the downside of going hard on the trans-baiting and then losing. It's crap that there's laws about pronouns, now.

"She was the goddamn devil herself," Dakota said.

Picano nodded. He had to admit that he had a fairly cushy existence by traitor standards, but he had marks from his time in military prison on his body. "You know what? That actually makes a hell of a lot of sense. Think about it. She pushed all these ideas to destroy the family, she worked with the lefties only to betray them when she thought she could get away with it, she never seems to have any doubt or fear or problems, she never shows her eyes behind those glasses...Hey, you think if she ever took her Air Force hat off we might see horns?" he said.

Dakota shrugged. "Ain't too far-fetched," she said.

"Honestly, I hate to say it, but I'm almost glad the Reds won rather than her."

"Wait, really?" Dakota asked, as he popped another chip into his mouth.

"Yeah. You're a Red, and you're fairly reasonable. Don't get me wrong, I don't like the commie shit, I don't like not being able to buy Heineken anymore or whatever, but most of you Reds aren't these woke lunatics. You're the people I spent a lifetime lying to, but it's a hell of a lot easier to talk to a West Virginia coal miner than it is to talk to some purple-haired freak in Seattle. I'd say New York, but the Punisher-skull people beat it out of most of the wokes there. Obviously, I think it would've been best if I won, but if I had to rank it I'd say Miami, then Sacramento, then the Christian Republic, then the Reds, then Denver, and then finally Boston."

"Really? You'd want to live in the Christian Republic?" Dakota asked. "They ain't Christian. They worked with Atompilz, for God's sake, who have a Satanist cult. Besides, you couldn't watch DVDs or text people."

He gave it some thought and opened up another bag of chips. "Yeah, that's true. Let's say the Reds over the Christian Republic. Besides, the Christers called me a RINO enough times to get me a little scared." His hair was a mess, and he didn't bother to take care of it anymore. Who would see it? "My point is that there are wokes in Socialist America, and there are a hell of a lot of weirdos, but it isn't a government based on woke crap, you know? It's a government based on working people getting shit done, and apparently that actually works reasonably well. Not as well as capitalism, but what can you do?"

Dakota smiled, just a bit. "Maybe I can see if I can get you internet. My usual username on Zodiac is 'SouthernByGraceOfGod', just so you know."

"Got that down. I always had a good memory. You wanna know the funny thing, Kody?" Picano asked.

"What?"

"I think I might be the only deposed leader who isn't a headcase. Strecker's five seconds from a meltdown at any time, Miss Calliope's so much of a coward that she'd rather flee to Hawaii than admit she lost, Ashley's dead, and Lowell's gotten the Puyi treatment. Here I am, though, shooting the shit with a Red Evangelical. I really did think the South was going to go to Hell if the Reds won, but it's still South Carolina, you know? It's still home."

Dakota smiled wide as her entire body relaxed on the couch. "How come you think you adapted while Strecker didn't?"

Picano said it instantly. "Strecker's a fantasist, but I'm a politician. While he was imagining some Stepford wonderland, I was getting crap from the RINOs and the crazies. I learned to take hits, and I learned to get used to the idea that I might not win. All he did was tell himself he was gonna win, day in and day out."

"Maybe," Dakota said. "Or maybe it's just that your beliefs were, you know, flexible, while his he had written in stone."

"Yeah, maybe I am just much more adaptable," he said.

"Vague" or "pandering" could be a mite better, Dakota thought.