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

RiverDelta · Jul 7, 2023

"Monster", a Narrative Poem by Adalwolfa Bosch
Written on the Mexican Front

i made a demon of my own creation
i built my sin into a plague
i am haunted by the thing's retribution
i am haunted by this black masquerade

"How are you so brave?" Corporal Lewis asked Corporal Bosch.

"Oh, I know how I'm going to die, so I don't fear it," Adalwolfa said. They stood on base, rifles at the ready. The sun was hot. Acapulco was mostly secure. The dry wind in December chapped her lips. Her hair was greasy and unkempt. She was scared to go in the shower alone. Her own thoughts were razors.

"Does anyone know how they're gonna die?" Lewis asked, his finger stroking the trigger guard.

"I do. My niece is going to come down here, and she's going to shoot me." Adalwolfa was open about it, as it didn't matter either way. The Foxwoods Sniper always got her target, one way or another. The fact that it hadn't come sooner only implied that the Foxwoods Sniper had it down to the most trivial detail.

"Aren't you worrying about all the other people who might shoot you first?" Lewis asked.

Adalwolfa cracked open a Rip-It. "I taught her." The wind smacked against her uniform.

i sought in pride to make her strong
the lioness doesn't fear the sheep
birthright bullets sing her song
one day i know she'll sing me asleep

Adalwolfa found herself laying on her bunk. Her body, fit as it was, still ached. This Red invasion was a death sentence. The lights were off, the footlockers were closed, and she wondered why she was still alive. She had a rough face. She felt it with her hands. She thought to herself that she ought to savor what moments of life she still had. Nonetheless, the creaking beds didn't imply much to savor. Still, the monster she made was born of good intentions.

this girl that has turned into a plague
i pushed her too many times
the one that slays those who i have saved
she will kill me for my crimes

Adalwolfa dreamed of her niece, of the scared little girl running from paintballs through the forest. She dreamed she was that scared girl. She dreamt a paintball hit her in the back and killed her.

there is burning hate in her heart
i injected it like a cancer
"will she survive" was the question
i already know the answer

Adalwolfa Bosch tasted the coldness of the grave. In truth, she wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't already been killed by her niece. This Mexican heat was as hot as she imagined Hell was, after all. Nonetheless, she sipped her too-bitter coffee. She was a survivor.

broken bones and bodies sinking
she killed my best friend and his firstborn
no more power, no more thinking
her killing spree: i can only mourn

She'd asked Specialist Cortez to look up the Foxwoods Sniper on the internet. After all, there was only one person who the killings pointed to, only one person who would follow John and Mary into Hawaiian enemy territory just to make the shot on an unremarkable black-ops organizer. The attempt on Bridget, John and Mary, the Miami and Christers shot dead, it all pointed to Lena.

i cannot escape her sight
the virus has no cure
i cannot feed the monster
my death coldly secured

Another nightfall, a shower, coldly racing thoughts like slime running down her back. She clutched the divider, trying to hold onto it so as to ground herself. Her body ached and cried, her mind running wilder than the Amazon rainforest:

running hoping hiding coming it comes it comes it always comes i know you're coming i know you're here i know you're going find me i know i hurt you i know i cut you ii know i taught you i know i made you i know you are death you are death i am dead you are death death death comes for everyone and you will never stop chasing i am already dead

it's only a matter of time
i've duly accepted my fate
it's what i deserve for my crimes
it's what i deserve for my hate

dedicated to john, mary, priyanka, daisy, hank, marjorie, lauren, blake, and madison. i know i'm next

where are you?

RiverDelta · Jul 8, 2023

"Author's" Notes: Finally, a good movie from the Worldwide Republic, at long last.

Hollywood Online Forums
Kendra Oswald Q&A and By Faith Alone Release Thread

RealKendraOswald said:
Hey, everyone. This is the official HOF Q&A for the new movie By Faith Alone, with a screenplay by Power Rigby and with Lottie Cross and Aya Courtney in the leading roles. Shoot me some Q's and tell me how great you thought it was.

AssMuncher9000 said:
Were the shots of women's feet necessary for the plot this time?

RealKendraOswald said:
Categorically, yes.

AssMuncher9000 said:
How do you feel about The Anglo-American Zombie War?

RealKendraOswald said:
Hot dogshit.

Aiah Hirsch said:
Were you afraid that By Faith Alone's complex themes of identity wouldn't translate well to the silver screen?

LewisLovhaug said:
They actually translated really well, in my opinion.

Zoltan69 said:
Shut up, you proggie nerd.

RealTomPicano said:
Kendra, what's it like going from making blockbusters fifteen years ago to making lesbian pornos now?

RealKendraOswald said:
...There aren't any sex scenes?

RealTomPicano said:
I mean the kissing and heavy petting.

BloodOnYourDick said:
That's your standard for pornography?

RealTomPicano said:
Softcore pornography, sure, when there's two girls.

RealKendraOswald said:
War criminal Thomas Picano, please stop watching my movies.

Aiah Hirsch said:
Can I cite that?

RealKendraOswald said:
Go for it.

PatrickHWillems said:
Kendra, you really should get Power Rigby on here. If it wrote this movie, it has real talent. This lesbian goth camp space horror jellyfish movie is brilliant. The things it says on the human condition alone are incredible.

IChooseYouPenischu said:
I just liked the robot-based fake necromancy fight scenes, and I want the Queen of Bones to step on me.

SiriusBusiness said:
The Queen of Bones is a childishly sadistic all-powerful techno-necromancer!

IChooseYouPenischu said:
Yeah, and I want to hit that. Kendra, do you want to hit the Queen of Bones?

RealKendraOswald said:
Babe, I am hitting the Queen of Bones, multiple times a week.

RealLottieCross said:
Maybe more, if you'll stop asking me to watch the Stepford Wives remake.

RealKendraOswald said:
The Stepford Wives remake is a classic movie.

SiriusBusiness said:
It's not even the original Stepford Wives? Why the remake?

CHOOH2Choom said:
It's probably because the original one has the women replaced with robots, while the 2004 remake has them turned into robots. /kfcb+1

[BOT]KendraFetishCountBot said:
Kendra Oswald's poorly hidden fetishes count has now increased to 6.

RealKendraOswald said:
Ha ha, very funny.

LewisLovhaug said:
She truly is the second coming of Tarantino.

RealKendraOswald said:
Anyone got any more questions?

BillieYunru said:
Who did the visual effects? They looked amazing, so much better than the old CGI.

RealKendraOswald said:
Communal Effects, generic name, great collective.

RealTomPicano said:
Are you ever going to make a movie for guys?

RealKendraOswald said:
Yeah, it was called Captain America: Red Skull.

RealTomPicano said:
I mean, that one was for bull lesbians. Like, are you gonna make a Jack Ryan kind of thing?

DeadCels said:
Get fucked, Tom.

MasterOfPuppets said:
Someone please report the war criminal.

RealTomPicano said:
No, seriously, you're pretty good at making movies. Weird fetish lesbian movies, sure, but if you dropped that and made a good action flick people would like it.

The New LG Gram Laptop said:
I can't believe Adolf Hitler is in this movie thread.

RealTomPicano said:
Hey, buddy, my best friend's first wife was Jewish.

DeadCels said:
He's really more of a pogrom-encouraging douchebag bigot Russian Tsar. Anderson's more Hitler.

RealTomPicano said:
You don't know what either of us went through.

RealKendraOswald said:
Don't care!

[MOD]DroneStrike said:
RealTomPicano has been banned.

RealKendraOswald said:
Get soaked, nerd.

RiverDelta · Jul 9, 2023

Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade
"Good!" cried the Baron, sitting in his hall
"But iron, cold iron, is the master of them all."
- "Cold Iron", Leslie Fish

Lena Wedekind emerged from the rented pickup with an MP5 in her hands. The sky was the color of a rusting refrigerator, and she had her hair in a bun. She wore black gloves, and the December chill ran through them. The snow crunched under her boots and she knocked on the door, and a thin, long-nosed woman with red clay skin spoke. "Hello?" she said, before realizing that Lena had a gun. "Are...Are you with the police?"

Under an orange neckwarmer, Lena spoke. "I'm here for my sister."

"You're not welcome here," Constance Pell said. "She told me about you."

Lena forced her way in, shoulder-checking the waif in the blouse. "Bridget Teague!" Lena said, in a tone of utter disdain. Constance cowered by the door. "Close it," Lena ordered. Constance did as such. The rafters were high.

"Out" the Foxwoods Sniper growled. This was a rare luxury, a killing better done face to face, given all the arboreal concealment around the house.

The lights were on, and the tattooed ex-Nazi wheeled her way to look up to the "rat-faced girl." "I guess you don't forgive me."

Lena raised her gun, bracing the stock against her shoulder. No need for words beyond that.

"Stop!" Bridget yelled.

"You're a coward," Lena said.

"I am, I'm garbage, and I'll never get better, but please, one last thing before you kill me," Bridget said.

Lena's finger hovered over the trigger.

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is bread and here is wine -- Now sit and sup with me
Eat and drink in Mary's name, while I do recall
How iron, cold iron, can be master of men all!"

"You know, this is what Dad and Mary would want, right? This is what Adalwolfa made you! Please, be a person! Find it within yourself to be human instead of being a weapon for your cause or your revenge. You're more than a gun!"

The words pierced. An image flashed in her sight of Bridget without brains. Splatters. Lena paused.

"I know you think you're a knight, or a crusader, or something, but it's all a lie! Lena, listen to me, you can end this war! You don't have to keep taking lives!" Bridget pleaded, her tone so weak that a younger Bridget would have assumed it was doomed to leave the gene pool. "You're not a knight, I'm not a knight! We're just killers, and we need to stop!"

Lena's finger got closer to the trigger. The rustic wood saw her ruthless heart.

Bridget cried, finally cried, a deluge stopped by a petrified mind's dam. "You don't want to be a weapon! Don't be like me!"

Constance hid with her hands above her head. Lena's finger inched closer.

"Please, if you have to kill me, save Dakota! Save Constance!" Bridget exclaimed. "I promise Connie won't tell, I promise she won't talk about today, please let them live. If you want to kill me, fine, but don't finish the job!" Bridget said, speaking through sobs.

Lena's eyes were coldest iron.

"Kody will never forgive you!" Bridget said.

"I don't often get to do this, so I'll ask your last words," Lena said.

"Please don't let me meet TJ Stone in the afterlife!" Bridget begged. "I can't see him again! I can't see him again knowing that you and Kody got out!"

He took the wine and blessed it. He blessed and broke the bread
With his own hands he served them, and presently he said:
"See! These hands they pierced with nails, outside my city wall
Show iron, cold iron, to be master of men all!"

Lena lowered the gun. "You're not going to tell anyone what happened today. Oh, and there's nothing after this life." Lena sat down on the couch, flipping her weapon's safety back. "You have nothing to worry about. Connie, could you get me a drink?" Lena asked. Constance hurredly went to do so. "What are you doing, Bridget?"

"I don't know!" Bridget exclaimed.

"You don't know?" Lena asked.

"I don't! I feel like...My life is an infection! My life is this virus that keeps eating people, destroying them from the inside! It's killing me too, or maybe I was never human! Maybe I'd rather be a knight than a gun, even if I am actually just a broken rifle!" Constance froze, eyes darting between the cowering and legless Bridget, and Lena. "Can we ever be more than just guns?" Bridget asked, a crackling voice. She stared at the submachine gun. It's cold lines marked the woman who held it. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. "You wanna know why I got here?"

"Why?" Lena asked.

"...TJ Stone was the only person other than Dakota who treated me like a person, and Strecker and Dad taught me that Dakota was a worthless coward. TJ Stone was a monster with a musclegirl fetish, but he at least gave me affection. Do you realize how stupid that is? I killed people because Daddy didn't hug me enough!"

Lena sighed. "What am I doing?" she asked. "...Maybe we were just made into guns. Even if I'm choosing my own targets, all I do is kill now, right?"

Bridget simply cried, and Constance handed Lena a can of Faygo with a trembling hand. The living blade had gone nearly blunt. "There's just three more. Three more, and it'll be over," Lena said.

RiverDelta · Jul 10, 2023

"Author's" Notes: This update has a lot happen in it. I'm aware that most people come here for the unusual take on a Second American Civil War/Revolution timeline, but I'm satisfied with what I've written for both and I want to continue logically from here. I think it's time to zoom out and look at the future of this timeline.

This timeline always had some sci-fi-adjacent elements relating to kink, identity, and militarism, so I think making the transition to full sci-fi is natural and allows for new possibilities for the story.

CW: This one is going to get heavy. We'll see some fairly gruesome torture, which I think is necessary for the narrative and what Lena as a character would do. Be warned.

It only took one moment. Adalwolfa Botsch emerged from the mess hall in the desert sun alive, and a sniper's round pierced her skull. By now, the news of how she'd treated her niece was public knowledge. The interview, after all, went out years ago. The lead went in through her eye, popped it, and then exited through the base of her neck. Atop a building at the outpost, Lena Wedekind disappeared in Worldwide Republic fatigues.

As Lena climbed down from the rooftop, she begun to walk into the desert. She put the tube from her hydration resevoir in her mouth, which connected to the pack on her back. The gloves on her hands burned, but they were necessary to hide the prints. She flashed a stolen ID and requisitioned a motorcycle. She had paid off a mountain tours copter to take her in and out. The wind lifted the sand around her. Two more.

2050

Kendra spooned Lottie in their new shared apartment. She heard Lottie's soft breaths, but Kendra herself was awake. She lay a trail of imperceptible kisses across her neck and shoulder, snuggling her close like a beloved toy. Without her makeup, Kendra felt exposed, but in some sense that felt appropriate with Lottie. One didn't have to be a doll to be valued.

Well, Kendra liked being a creative, smart, beloved, attractive doll, but that was besides the point. She could feel Lottie's heartbeat against her hands as the cover sat atop them both.

Foxwoods Sniper Targets Red Soldier

Nationwide Hunt for the Foxwoods Sniper

People's Militia Coordinating Office Declares Manhunt

Assassinations "Unacceptable", Says DSA

Lena had seen the headlines. Not much time. She knocked on Picano's door in a refrigerator repairperson's jumpsuit. In a pocket, she hid a long knife. He opened the door, and she eyed his Home Improvement sweatshirt. She stepped in and closed the door behind her. Then, she lunged at his groin. He screamed, and she pulled it out of his pants before slicing it off.

Blood covered her uniform, and she stabbed the knife into his cheek. He flew into a frenzy, so she cut both his armpits. His joint-flesh ground up against itself, and she stuck the blade into his eye. It wasn't enough to kill, but it was enough to blind. He tried to speak, but he could only scream, writhe, and bleed. She cut his elbow joints on both arms, stabbing his sides every so often as she did it. She wrestled him, he grabbed the knife, and blood poured out of his eye along with white goop. She forced the blade into his throat and dragged it to the side.

Lena removed her uniform to reveal untouched clothes, spat on Thomas Picano's corpse, and went to her rental car outside. One more.

His mom was the patron saint of grifting, having worked behind his father's face to sell powders, supplements, paranoia, and fear. As he sat in his silly cocked hat and drank from his glass of vodka at the Town Dock tavern, he wondered where he was going with this. There wasn't really any money to be made in America anymore, and there wasn't much point in clout. Had he just boxed himself in?

Was he doomed to play pretend for the rest of his life? He sipped his vodka and held his head in his hands. Sure, he'd sort-of-debunked that crazy woman, and he'd tried to bring joy to people, but Jim Cockshott was beginning to unravel living someone else's life. I'm gonna die as James Seabury, he thought.

This plane was a prison. Lena felt its metal walls crush her mind as she took pills to stay sane. She had a job doing programming for labor vouchers in the WR and money without, and she got the anti-anxiety meds she needed for these trips. Still, the first flight to Stockholm felt like Charon's boat. The passenger jet took off, ascending above Newport News. Land in Stockholm, hire a ferry to Saint Petersburg. Simple. She felt her body tilt back.

She thought of John and Mary, what they would say of her. She thought of her mother, sickly and dying so long ago. She thought of the evil in this world, and the evil in the next. She thought of Bridget, a monster trying to stem her own evil. She thought of Dakota, simple, human Dakota. She thought, most of all, of Calliope Anderson.

She had no personal stake in the deed, but this one had to be done more than any of the others.

Kendra stood in front of Dane Oswald's casket. She wore a black dress that touched the floor and flats. Most people were dressed similarly. Pyrite Morreo was in the front row, wishing ve wasn't there. "No dad is perfect," Kendra said. "When you're a kid, you think your parents are these perfect people, and then you grow up and realize they're as human as you are. My dad wasn't perfect. He had his demons, his flaws, you know? He slept around, he partied too much. The thing is, though, that he was a good person.

"You can do bad things and still be a good person. My dad loved me, genuinely loved me. He loved the world. He loved making things, he loved being there, he loved having fun, and he loved my mom. Dane Oswald was imperfect, but we're all imperfect. I miss him. God, I miss him. He made life worth living, and he was always there for me. Even with the death of my mom, he powered through. He accepted me as me, as a trans woman, as a person.

"He was a good father, a good person, and I know he's going to reincarnate into someone just as special. His thetan, his soul, it was special and unique and it mattered. Fuck, it mattered. It mattered so goddamn much." She teared up. "He lived a full life," she said, even if she knew pnemonia was an awful way to die. His lungs were shot from the pot, and his body had broken down. He died at eighty-one. She knew he wasn't what a father was supposed to be.

Transistor took her lithium and mood stabilizers, and she looked in the mirror. No girlfriend, no kink partner, no brain, no heart, no mind, no life, no cause, no country, no capital, no ideas, no idea what to do. Her face was covered in stubble. It hurt like mold on her face, but she didn't have the energy to shave it off. She hurt.

She wore a sweatshirt soaked in the titular fluid, and she was too tired to kill herself. She was nothing, she was a corpse, she was a voiceless voice. She stared at herself. Up and down for the next few decades, huh? Well, that sounded like torture.

So what else was new?

Constance wheeled Bridget's chair to the side of her car, and helped Bridget into it. It had been a long flight from Maine to South Carolina, but support for the disabled was good and present. Constance brought her to the door, and Bridget texted Dakota to open it. Peridot, her collar having been hidden, felt naked as she stood with her owner. "Hi," Bridget said.

Peridot said nothing, and Constance trembled visibly as she looked at the other sister.

Dakota, meanwhile, wore flared jean shorts and a red halter top. "Hey, Bridge," she said. "Sorry Lena couldn't make it, she had plans."

Constance's eyes widened at the mention of that name.

"Thanks for bringing me back, Kody. We're all...wayward sheep or whatever," the tamed wolf in the room said.

"Don't think I've forgiven you," Dakota said.

"I knew you wouldn't. I don't forgive me either," Bridget said. "I just wanted to see my sister again."

2051

James Seabury stood in front of the cameras in Independence Hall. He'd organized this online, a special announcement from the time traveler. He looked briefly at the journalist's microphone. "Well, Mr. Seabury, we're all curious to hear. What's your big announcement?" she asked, and he could tell by her eyes that she actually bought his thing.

"Well," he said, dropping the carefully-constructed colonial accent. "My name's Jim Cockshott, I was born in Acapulco, in Mexico, and I'm not actually a time traveller. I just was born off of the record because my parents were cranks who hated the idea of having a government. I wasn't born in the 18th century, I was born in a hot tub."

"Um, Ja—Jim, why would you lie about this? How did you keep up the ruse for so long?" she asked.

Jim thought to himself that not everyone would believe that he wasn't a time-traveler. People saw cover-ups more than there were things to cover up. "I did my research," he said.

"Why would you come clean?"

"I didn't want to die as James Seabury. I didn't want to live someone else's life," he said.

"Do you have an interest in the First Revolution?" she asked.

"A lot."

"Why didn't you become a reenactor or a historian?"

"I didn't want to get sent to the front, so I made up this whole stupid story," Jim said. "I guess I just kept doing it?"

"You didn't want to fight, so you lied about being a time traveler?" she asked.

"I guess I also wanted to get out of Acapulco, get out of my old life. But now I don't really even have a life, I just have his life." Jim's shoulders fell. "I tried to do good with it."

"Can't you keep doing good?" she asked. "Tell how you did it. Everything."

When the interview was online, seven-year-old Billie Clinton found herself entranced as she listened to Jim explain his accent, his backstory, his clothing and everything else.

Apparently that weird voice he did was an accent from the past that didn't exist anymore? Accents could die? This was way cooler than her teacher's usual Social Studies lessons.

A fifty-one-year-old Bryce Taylor went back to James Seabury's old interviews with books from the library, trying to see if he could spot any inaccuracies in Cockshott's testimonies.

How could history be boring if someone had used it for the con of the century?

Dakota held onto Peridot's hand as she looked up at the ceiling. Peridot was asleep, deep asleep. The little cutie was dreaming silly doll dreams, and here she lay wondering. Bridget, Dakota believed, was already hellbound. It was good that she was still trying to be better, but the things the eldest Teague did from racist mass butchering to sacrifices to the Prince of Darkness had her damned.

Then, there was Lena. Lena, Dakota thought, was everything that Bridget wished she was. Lena was an avenging specter. Lena was Death.

"It must be so lonely, being Death," Dakota mumbled aloud. She squeezed Peridot's hand a few times to wake her up.

"Babe?" Peridot asked.

"Are you doing OK?" Dakota asked.

"I was asleep, Mistress," Peridot mumbled. "But, well, I guess this is within your rights."

She entered the militia station closest to the San Bernadino International Airport. She pulled her neckwarmer down and put her arms up. "Good evening. My name's Lena Wedekind, and I'm the Foxwoods Sniper. I would like to turn myself in." She had a insulated black bag slung over her shoulder.

One of the militiamen on duty chuckled. "You got any proof, or are you just crazy?" he asked. He crossed his hairy arms.

"I do," she said, reaching into the bag to draw a large metal pot, and from that pot she drew Calliope Anderson's severed head. They didn't doubt her anymore.

2057

Kendra wore a one-of-a-kind mermaid-style white dress from a major Worldwide Republic designer, and Lottie wore a white suit. The Cross-Oswald family was about to be forged, and the two women stood at the altar in Martha's Vineyard. Sam Cross sat in the front row, along with the Oswald cousins. Pyrite, in a leather punk's version of wedding wear, sat behind Sam. There were two open chairs, marked with little black sculptures in the shape of human forms. The thetans, if not the bodies, of Liza and Dane Oswald were there. There was no such accomodations for Calliope Anderson.

"You may now kiss the bride," the Catholic priest said, and the women embraced.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kendra thought she saw salt-and-pepper hair and thought she smelled liquor.

2098

The process was to be crude, but if there was one thing that a withered Kendra Oswald thought she deserved after a long and storied career, it was to be immortal with her. It was an experimental procedure, and the idea of having one's brain cut out was intimidating to most, but Kendra had pulled strings. She held Lottie's hand. "Are you sure we want to do this?" Lottie asked, her face cragged with time. "I'm just..." Lottie trembled.

Kendra hugged her. "Think about how far we've come. Before we met, you were this fucked-up ex-cop with a shitty druggie girlfriend, and now you're a star actress. Thank you," Kendra said, giving the last tears she would ever be able to produce. "And come on, don't you wanna keep living? Imagine cheating death with the slightly sketchy director of all those classics!"

"...I don't think you're that sketchy, it's not like you had power over me at work the way it used to be," Lottie said. She held onto her wife's body with the arms she was born with, one last time.

2050

Lena sat below a window of Calliope Anderson's house. It was an old house, and she'd cased the place previously. She stood in night's heart, and in her hand was a nail gun. At her hip was an actual gun. Russian air chilled her, and she looked just barely through the window. Calliope, still in her Air Force uniform, sat on a sofa watching something on her laptop. Lena couldn't hear the details. She wore an orange neckwarmer, and knocked on the wall. On her other hip was a combat knife.

Calliope tilted her head, but ignored it. Lena knocked again. Calliope cursed and looked over. Lena knocked a few times on the steps out the back door. She used her nail gun's base. Calliope paused her video and opened the door. Lena reached up, grabbed Calliope's ankle, and twisted her off of the stairs. Calliope's face hit the stone and her nose snapped. Lena picked her up. Calliope was bigger and tougher, but she was in a blind rage, and Lena grabbed her wrist. She pushed it against the wall and nailed it there twice.

Calliope tried to wrench her pierced hand free, and Lena did the same with the other side. Then, she pushed the dictatrix against the wall, her arms bent painfully. "I know what you did!" Calliope yelled. "You killed Picano! How dare you!"

"He was trash and so are you," Lena said, nailing Calliope through both sides of her traps to the wall. She sent nail after nail into the writhing monster's spine, down. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. Bones broke. "If this keeps people from doing the kind of things you did, it'll be worth it."

Lena stripped Calliope's trousers off and nailed the base of her spine. Calliope was damaged, paralyzed. Lena put the nail gun to Calliope's temple, a bit forward. She lobotomized Calliope Anderson with a long nail through a short surface of grey matter. Lena unloaded a gunshot into both of Calliope's ass cheeks, and then one on the small of her back near the nails. Then, she shot her in the back.

"I figure you have a few hours before you die." She drew her knife, ratcheted Calliope's jaw open, and cut out her tongue with practiced ease. It fell onto the stone. She took the knife. She nailed Calliope's jaw shut and called a rideshare.

Calliope Anderson Dead by Foxwoods Sniper
The Seattle Prole

She left a note, and the demons were laid to rest.

Thanks for reading! Explore the distant future of Good Drones Obey in The Roc's Nest: A Posthuman Timeline:
Link Here

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

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