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Wait, author appeal for what?
Good Drones Obey: Communism and Kink in Post-Revolutionary America
- Thread starter RiverDelta
- Start date
- Mature Timeline Future
Terra Allias
World's only Magical Girl Spec Ops Asuka fan
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Pretty lesbians
Because I kinda think Bridget was redeemed because she was a woman primarily
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I mean, most of the cast are women, and we've seen women not get redeemed before?Pretty lesbians
Because I kinda think Bridget was redeemed because she was a woman primarily
Besides, honestly, I think my biggest concern (other than just not doing what I did in American Intoxicants) was to show that rehabilitative concepts of justice can work, or else otherwise the Worldwide Republic kind of comes off as entirely stupid.
Also, if pretty women were much more likely to get redeemed, Calliope Anderson would probably be given more sympathy by the narrative.
Oh, and to clarify, Bridget is irredeemable. It's laudable (or, more to the point, basically what she should have been doing to begin with) that she's stopped being a mass murder, but she still...was a racist mass murdering fascist, and you can't take back murder.
"Redemption" is a strong word for Bridget. She's moving on and trying to do better, but I don't think you can ever be morally untainted when you've taken a life in the name of an idea, let alone many in the name of bigotry.
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I'm not sure if it would be totally out of tone with the rest of the story, but part of me wants to write an update about a "free-birthed" kid with no papers who was raised in Acapulco and who comes back to the US as an adult with his dad's reenactment uniform to go and begin a con pretending to be a time-traveler.
It would be goofy, but I feel like we've done some goofy stuff before?
How do people feel about that idea?
It would be goofy, but I feel like we've done some goofy stuff before?
How do people feel about that idea?
Sounds fun!
- Location
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Why does anyone get anything? Many who live deserve death. Many more die who deserve life. That Bridget decided to do something good with the time left to her is still a good outcome. That she can stop being a Nazi willingly is a greater strike against the ideology than if she'd just died too. Figureheads turning away from the cause has the potential to weaken it far more than death.
Terra Allias
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I wouldn't be surprised if somebody finds where she lives and kills her though
Update 41: The Other Revolution
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As Jim Cockshott adjusted the cocked hat on his head and felt his breeches press against his legs, he left the house of Harper Sugar with confidence. Whether that evil lunatic knew that his "time traveler" act was a lie didn't matter. She'd spun it to her conspiracist audience, and that meant that he might get an interview with the Seattle Prole or the Chronicle soon. He'd trained himself to speak in a practiced accent, a mix of modern, Received Pronunciation, and Original Pronunciation that he'd gotten from Youtube. His father had been a Revolutionary War reenactor, and Jim had always been interested in history. With an unrecorded birth in a hot tub in Acapulco in 2011 by an ancap mother at war, he had no papers to show that he wasn't who he claimed to be.
Of course, he was even more interested in money then and survival now with a side of doing good, and he'd spent a long while in Massachusetts as a local curiosity. Anderson or the DSA had never shown interest in humoring him, but lesser people did. He'd gone on speaking tours around the country as James Seabury, the mysterious time traveler from 1783. He'd told people that he believed God had put him in this strange new time to support the New Patriots—the Reds in Cape Cod and elsewhere. With the Boston Government's early crimes it was a bad idea to take that side, and with the atomic hellfire the very idea made him sick.
He'd tried to promote liberty, freedom, honor, respect for tradition so long as it didn't conflict with human rights or kindness, support for pluralism and for the downtrodden, all the things that he thought needed to be said. It wasn't just the money, though he was paid, and it wasn't even that being a time-traveling curiosity meant that he wouldn't get drafted. Key to the lie was that Jim had abandoned his friends and family in Acapulco for the ruse. As he saw it, the job needed to be done, and Acapulco wasn't as safe as it used to be.
He had nothing to lose.
Someone gave him a friendly wave on the street. He gave them a bow.
So, on a plane to Boston, Jim Cockshott died, and James Seabury the time traveller was born. Jim had done his research online and knew how to tell a lie. His mother was a grifter of the highest degree, after all, and he'd learned from her. He'd even modeled his new manner of speech on the Federalist Papers and other documents of the Founding Fathers. So, James Seabury, son of a lawyer and soldier in the Continental Army, walked down the streets of Communist Boston.
Someone asked him to sign her copy of the Declaration obtained at the Boston Tea Party Museum. He obliged, though not without cracking a joke about how odd ballpoint pens were.
Meanwhile, Amber Wen—898 Autonomous Apogee—had come to Boston to find herself. Her girlfriend, her owner, had been institutionalized again. It was the damn conspiracy sites. Once more, she was lost at sea. She ran a hand through her hair and looked up at the anachronism. "Oh, great."
"I must wonder what sort of dissatisfaction enters your mind on my mere sight, Miss," James—or Jim, whichever—said.
"You're a real piece of crap, buddy." Amber said. "Why are you even still doing this? You're not getting paid anymore."
"I think little of treasure," James said, nearly tipping his cocked hat.
"Is it just because you'll get arrested if anyone finds out?" Amber asked.
"I am very much unsure as to the origin of your discomfort," he said. "Now, may perhaps I be of service?"
Amber gave it some thought and kept walking. "It's who you work with," she said, before she disappeared.
James continued on his way, entering a coffeehouse—coffee room, coffee shop, coffeehouse, it was hard for him to juggle the words of the Worldwide Republic, the United States of America, and the Colony of Massachusetts. "Excuse me, could a fine fellow—or lady, or the ones in between or outside—perhaps help me make some coffee with these most new instruments?" He had to have a certain amount of confusion with the new way of seeing things, but James didn't like to be bigoted and so preferred to allow people to think that his time in the future had allowed him to grow as a person. "It would be a most beneficent deed, to aid a man."
He was received well and allowed a man in his fifties to help "teach" him to use the communal coffee machine. He'd done it before, at other coffee rooms around the Northeast, but people seemed to like the chance to teach him something. When he finished pouring his coffee, he said something about how it was the finest coffee he'd ever tasted, and the room gave good-natured chuckles at that. Still, there was that one woman on the street.
While there were few historians of any kind who bought into his act, he'd found that many people simply liked to pretend that there was something mystical and strange about the world. After the horrors of the revolution—the new one—he thought, maybe that was what people needed.
He tried not to make his act too political, but wherever the center-left consensus was, he allowed the impression of him to sit there. He finished his coffee and sat down for a while. Why did that woman hate his act so much? Was it those conspiracy people? He'd tried to tell Harper Sugar that he wasn't a supporter of anything like the old Qanon conspiracies, and that he certainly wasn't some kind of reactionary. He was just a person, who'd had to fight for his liberties against the colonial oppressor.
People had tried to startle him, to get him to drop the accent, but he'd practiced long enough before the ruse that he even thought in that accent now.
James Seabury owned no slaves and had not participated in the genocide to the West. Still, he remembered Harper Sugar trying to sell him as some kind of symbol of a need to return to some glorious past. The truth was, Jim thought, the 18th century wasn't that great. In researching it for his backstory, he'd found that the time was as messy and complicated as his. Is this what it felt like for the real colonials? This big revolution changing everything, loyalist against patriot, brother against brother? he thought.
He kept sipping his coffee. Maybe it was time James Seabury said something about people now who reminded him of those who sided with King George: the opportunists, the entrenched elites, the reactionaries, that kind of thing.
He wondered if he could use this crazy woman to get him an interview in a real paper. They probably wouldn't take him too seriously, but at least they might find he had some interesting things to say.
"Mr. Seabury?" the middle-aged man asked.
"Why, yes, of course?" he said.
"You seem kind of deep in thought. Everything OK?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I am merely inspired in this moment by a wondrous illumination delivered from our Creator."
Of course, he was even more interested in money then and survival now with a side of doing good, and he'd spent a long while in Massachusetts as a local curiosity. Anderson or the DSA had never shown interest in humoring him, but lesser people did. He'd gone on speaking tours around the country as James Seabury, the mysterious time traveler from 1783. He'd told people that he believed God had put him in this strange new time to support the New Patriots—the Reds in Cape Cod and elsewhere. With the Boston Government's early crimes it was a bad idea to take that side, and with the atomic hellfire the very idea made him sick.
He'd tried to promote liberty, freedom, honor, respect for tradition so long as it didn't conflict with human rights or kindness, support for pluralism and for the downtrodden, all the things that he thought needed to be said. It wasn't just the money, though he was paid, and it wasn't even that being a time-traveling curiosity meant that he wouldn't get drafted. Key to the lie was that Jim had abandoned his friends and family in Acapulco for the ruse. As he saw it, the job needed to be done, and Acapulco wasn't as safe as it used to be.
He had nothing to lose.
Someone gave him a friendly wave on the street. He gave them a bow.
So, on a plane to Boston, Jim Cockshott died, and James Seabury the time traveller was born. Jim had done his research online and knew how to tell a lie. His mother was a grifter of the highest degree, after all, and he'd learned from her. He'd even modeled his new manner of speech on the Federalist Papers and other documents of the Founding Fathers. So, James Seabury, son of a lawyer and soldier in the Continental Army, walked down the streets of Communist Boston.
Someone asked him to sign her copy of the Declaration obtained at the Boston Tea Party Museum. He obliged, though not without cracking a joke about how odd ballpoint pens were.
Meanwhile, Amber Wen—898 Autonomous Apogee—had come to Boston to find herself. Her girlfriend, her owner, had been institutionalized again. It was the damn conspiracy sites. Once more, she was lost at sea. She ran a hand through her hair and looked up at the anachronism. "Oh, great."
"I must wonder what sort of dissatisfaction enters your mind on my mere sight, Miss," James—or Jim, whichever—said.
"You're a real piece of crap, buddy." Amber said. "Why are you even still doing this? You're not getting paid anymore."
"I think little of treasure," James said, nearly tipping his cocked hat.
"Is it just because you'll get arrested if anyone finds out?" Amber asked.
"I am very much unsure as to the origin of your discomfort," he said. "Now, may perhaps I be of service?"
Amber gave it some thought and kept walking. "It's who you work with," she said, before she disappeared.
James continued on his way, entering a coffeehouse—coffee room, coffee shop, coffeehouse, it was hard for him to juggle the words of the Worldwide Republic, the United States of America, and the Colony of Massachusetts. "Excuse me, could a fine fellow—or lady, or the ones in between or outside—perhaps help me make some coffee with these most new instruments?" He had to have a certain amount of confusion with the new way of seeing things, but James didn't like to be bigoted and so preferred to allow people to think that his time in the future had allowed him to grow as a person. "It would be a most beneficent deed, to aid a man."
He was received well and allowed a man in his fifties to help "teach" him to use the communal coffee machine. He'd done it before, at other coffee rooms around the Northeast, but people seemed to like the chance to teach him something. When he finished pouring his coffee, he said something about how it was the finest coffee he'd ever tasted, and the room gave good-natured chuckles at that. Still, there was that one woman on the street.
While there were few historians of any kind who bought into his act, he'd found that many people simply liked to pretend that there was something mystical and strange about the world. After the horrors of the revolution—the new one—he thought, maybe that was what people needed.
He tried not to make his act too political, but wherever the center-left consensus was, he allowed the impression of him to sit there. He finished his coffee and sat down for a while. Why did that woman hate his act so much? Was it those conspiracy people? He'd tried to tell Harper Sugar that he wasn't a supporter of anything like the old Qanon conspiracies, and that he certainly wasn't some kind of reactionary. He was just a person, who'd had to fight for his liberties against the colonial oppressor.
People had tried to startle him, to get him to drop the accent, but he'd practiced long enough before the ruse that he even thought in that accent now.
James Seabury owned no slaves and had not participated in the genocide to the West. Still, he remembered Harper Sugar trying to sell him as some kind of symbol of a need to return to some glorious past. The truth was, Jim thought, the 18th century wasn't that great. In researching it for his backstory, he'd found that the time was as messy and complicated as his. Is this what it felt like for the real colonials? This big revolution changing everything, loyalist against patriot, brother against brother? he thought.
He kept sipping his coffee. Maybe it was time James Seabury said something about people now who reminded him of those who sided with King George: the opportunists, the entrenched elites, the reactionaries, that kind of thing.
He wondered if he could use this crazy woman to get him an interview in a real paper. They probably wouldn't take him too seriously, but at least they might find he had some interesting things to say.
"Mr. Seabury?" the middle-aged man asked.
"Why, yes, of course?" he said.
"You seem kind of deep in thought. Everything OK?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I am merely inspired in this moment by a wondrous illumination delivered from our Creator."
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Oh, thank you! He's definitely fun to write, even if his manner of speaking is a bit of a challenge at times. Mind if I ask what appeals to you?
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Honestly, that sleazy trickster archetype is already fun by itself (think Han Solo or other characters like that), but it's even better when combined with genuine niceness, like you did with Seabury here. Is he running a con? Yeah. But he also isn't malicious and seems to genuinely want to use the grift for noble purposes (criticizing fashies). There's also the smaller things, like how he put letting the 50 year old "teach" him. It read to me like he just genuinely (as in, not for the con) wanted to make the guy happy and knew that would do it.
I also like the 18th-century aesthetics.
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Oh, that absolutely makes sense, I'm glad you like him.
Also, y'all might remember Harper Sugar as the person who ran that "newspaper" that Transistor was reading during her suicidal manic-depressive breakdown.
I'm still trying to figure out how to write Harper Sugar, because in my head she and Calliope are the closest people to the Antichrist of this TL, but I'm not sure if I'm satisfied writing her that way.
- Location
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Either she believes all of her bullshit or none of it. Potentially grounds for a dual personality (not literally but in a stage sense). One mask for the viewers, one mask for her backers, nothing but shallow acquisition behind it. Entirely short term thinking. It's all a grab to make it to the next goal, the next scheme, the next whatever. Using other people is second nature to her. Obvious sociopathic tendencies.
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Update 42: Claim it Like an Oligarch
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When Calliope Anderson looked at Rakhil Sergeyevna Sergeyeva, there was only one thought that crossed her mind: Do me. Sergeyeva wore burgundy lipstick and her hair had the fluffy perfection of a freshly-groomed dog's fur. Calliope stared through her computer monitor at the woman on her video chat program. "Evening, Callie," Rakhil said, in a Russian accent that had a bit of California put in there.
"How's the Oligarchy doing?" Calliope asked.
"It's doing quite well, the slaves put up a bit of a fuss, though. We got them back to work. It's also the 'Russian Federation'. How's Hawaii?" she asked. "Oh, and you ought to take those sunglasses off."
Calliope hadn't taken off her sunglasses in years, even indoors. "Hawaii's fine. Not that many creature comforts, and I'm sick of the CCP ordering me around."
"Well..." Rakhil chortled. "Have you ever considered trying caviar rather than lo mein?" she asked.
Calliope had the political sense to see where she was going. "You can get me off this rock?" She sounded almost hopeful. If anyone could do it, it was Sergeyeva.
Rakhil lifted a cigarette to her lips with her acrylic nails, lighting it in one smooth motion. "Callie, I don't think you deserve to be stuck in America, surrounded by failure and impotence. Look at you: a brilliant general, an expert leader, and I'd even go so far as to say that you deserved to win that war."
Calliope knew it was flattery, but honestly she didn't really care. "You're so sweet." Miss Gazprom sure had a way with words.
"Sweeter than honey, and twice as addictive," Rakhil said. "Come on, you must be so bored in Hawaii."
"It'd be dangerous, though, right?" Calliope asked. "Both because of the Russian collapse and my whole gender thing."
"You'll stay in the nicer areas of St. Petersburg, it's not so bad there. It isn't Putin's reign anymore, and you'll be an oligarch."
"What?" Calliope asked. "You're kidding."
"Sure, through Gazprom. We'll get you a sinecure. It has to be better than dealing with the Christian Republic, Denver, and Miami exiles, hm?"
Calliope looked around for a moment, then checked her laptop to make sure this was secure. It was. "They'll like me in Russia?" she asked.
"The people who matter will love you," Rakhil assured. "Why not bring it up with Sam?"
Calliope almost choked. "The mall cop? Why does he get a say?"
"Well, what about your kids?"
"My kids are adults and Sam's suicidal. If they want to stay in Commie Land or on this rock, they can. You're sure I can be open?" she asked.
"Anyone who so much as insults you I can have assassinated," Rakhil said. "Vodka cocktails, prostitutes, me, endless money, and you can even help out with some of the tactical stuff if we can figure that out. Why not?"
Calliope gave it some thought. "You know what? It's time I mattered again. What's this make me, a kind of high-ranking mercenary?"
"Sure, if you want to think of it in that way," Rakhil laughed. Calliope blushed.
"Do you ever get the sense that you're a truly shitty person?" Calliope asked, almost proud of it.
"Always," Rakhil said. "We can be shitty together. If we're lucky, maybe we'll make each other worse."
"Works for me," Calliope said, before signing off to make it official. It was a dark room. She got up and turned on the light.
A few hours later, Calliope heard her phone ring on the wooden kitchen table. It was the sort of place where the napkins—against Calliope's preferences but with a lower price on sale—had little cartoon bees on them. She snatched up the phone and put it to her hear. "Oh, it's my less psycho maybe-kid. What do you want? Did Sam give you my number?" Calliope asked.
"No, I just wanted to talk," Lottie said, on the other end.
"About what? Deregulation?" Calliope scoffed.
"No, about us. You might be my mom, and I think we both need to come to terms with it." Lottie's tone was ringed with iron spikes.
"You two were an accident," Calliope said.
"...Are you trying to sound like a cartoon villain?" Lottie asked, disappointed more than angry.
"No, I just talk like this," Calliope said. "I'm kind of at peace with myself."
Lottie exhaled almost inaudibly. "...Please support the family. I'm struggling with Dad, and Benji's under house arrest."
"Actually, I was kinda going to fuck off to Russia and sleep with a woman half my age," Calliope said, trying to sound as shameless as possible.
"...Do you think if you lean into it it somehow makes you not as bad as if you were obliviously evil?" Lottie asked. "Look, you have a responsibility, okay?"
Calliope contemplated hanging up right there. "Listen, I don't have responsibilities. I have privileges and rights. That's how it goes. I took that stuff with my own two hands."
"Please stop play-acting as a Bond villain for just one goddamn moment!" Lottie said, and Calliope could hear the tears. "Look, can we at least get me DNA tested so I can see if you're my mom? If you aren't actually my mom, you can fuck off to Russia, okay?"
Calliope decided that if this would get her out of this conversation, she'd take it. "Sure, bye." She hung up.
A week later, Calliope Anderson found herself sitting on her porch with a bellini she'd made herself, smoking a cigarette and feeling the sun on her skin in her short-sleeved blouse with a peter pan collar. Something buzzed in her pocket, and she drew her phone from it. New email, forwarded.
Calliope sent a text to her daughter.
For the first time, she felt as though things were looking up.
"How's the Oligarchy doing?" Calliope asked.
"It's doing quite well, the slaves put up a bit of a fuss, though. We got them back to work. It's also the 'Russian Federation'. How's Hawaii?" she asked. "Oh, and you ought to take those sunglasses off."
Calliope hadn't taken off her sunglasses in years, even indoors. "Hawaii's fine. Not that many creature comforts, and I'm sick of the CCP ordering me around."
"Well..." Rakhil chortled. "Have you ever considered trying caviar rather than lo mein?" she asked.
Calliope had the political sense to see where she was going. "You can get me off this rock?" She sounded almost hopeful. If anyone could do it, it was Sergeyeva.
Rakhil lifted a cigarette to her lips with her acrylic nails, lighting it in one smooth motion. "Callie, I don't think you deserve to be stuck in America, surrounded by failure and impotence. Look at you: a brilliant general, an expert leader, and I'd even go so far as to say that you deserved to win that war."
Calliope knew it was flattery, but honestly she didn't really care. "You're so sweet." Miss Gazprom sure had a way with words.
"Sweeter than honey, and twice as addictive," Rakhil said. "Come on, you must be so bored in Hawaii."
"It'd be dangerous, though, right?" Calliope asked. "Both because of the Russian collapse and my whole gender thing."
"You'll stay in the nicer areas of St. Petersburg, it's not so bad there. It isn't Putin's reign anymore, and you'll be an oligarch."
"What?" Calliope asked. "You're kidding."
"Sure, through Gazprom. We'll get you a sinecure. It has to be better than dealing with the Christian Republic, Denver, and Miami exiles, hm?"
Calliope looked around for a moment, then checked her laptop to make sure this was secure. It was. "They'll like me in Russia?" she asked.
"The people who matter will love you," Rakhil assured. "Why not bring it up with Sam?"
Calliope almost choked. "The mall cop? Why does he get a say?"
"Well, what about your kids?"
"My kids are adults and Sam's suicidal. If they want to stay in Commie Land or on this rock, they can. You're sure I can be open?" she asked.
"Anyone who so much as insults you I can have assassinated," Rakhil said. "Vodka cocktails, prostitutes, me, endless money, and you can even help out with some of the tactical stuff if we can figure that out. Why not?"
Calliope gave it some thought. "You know what? It's time I mattered again. What's this make me, a kind of high-ranking mercenary?"
"Sure, if you want to think of it in that way," Rakhil laughed. Calliope blushed.
"Do you ever get the sense that you're a truly shitty person?" Calliope asked, almost proud of it.
"Always," Rakhil said. "We can be shitty together. If we're lucky, maybe we'll make each other worse."
"Works for me," Calliope said, before signing off to make it official. It was a dark room. She got up and turned on the light.
A few hours later, Calliope heard her phone ring on the wooden kitchen table. It was the sort of place where the napkins—against Calliope's preferences but with a lower price on sale—had little cartoon bees on them. She snatched up the phone and put it to her hear. "Oh, it's my less psycho maybe-kid. What do you want? Did Sam give you my number?" Calliope asked.
"No, I just wanted to talk," Lottie said, on the other end.
"About what? Deregulation?" Calliope scoffed.
"No, about us. You might be my mom, and I think we both need to come to terms with it." Lottie's tone was ringed with iron spikes.
"You two were an accident," Calliope said.
"...Are you trying to sound like a cartoon villain?" Lottie asked, disappointed more than angry.
"No, I just talk like this," Calliope said. "I'm kind of at peace with myself."
Lottie exhaled almost inaudibly. "...Please support the family. I'm struggling with Dad, and Benji's under house arrest."
"Actually, I was kinda going to fuck off to Russia and sleep with a woman half my age," Calliope said, trying to sound as shameless as possible.
"...Do you think if you lean into it it somehow makes you not as bad as if you were obliviously evil?" Lottie asked. "Look, you have a responsibility, okay?"
Calliope contemplated hanging up right there. "Listen, I don't have responsibilities. I have privileges and rights. That's how it goes. I took that stuff with my own two hands."
"Please stop play-acting as a Bond villain for just one goddamn moment!" Lottie said, and Calliope could hear the tears. "Look, can we at least get me DNA tested so I can see if you're my mom? If you aren't actually my mom, you can fuck off to Russia, okay?"
Calliope decided that if this would get her out of this conversation, she'd take it. "Sure, bye." She hung up.
A week later, Calliope Anderson found herself sitting on her porch with a bellini she'd made herself, smoking a cigarette and feeling the sun on her skin in her short-sleeved blouse with a peter pan collar. Something buzzed in her pocket, and she drew her phone from it. New email, forwarded.
University of Washington Paternity said:
Calliope sent a text to her daughter.
Calliope Anderson said:
For the first time, she felt as though things were looking up.
Last edited:
- Location
- Auckland
Holy Shit. Calliope Anderson mother of year folks.
What a goddamn asshole
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There's a quote from Rich Burlew about one of his characters that really fits her. "[Calliope's] completely and wholly unapologetically evil, but more to the point, [she's] kind of a dick."
I think that more or less describes her pretty well. Not only is she (IMO) the most evil character in the story (even compared to "Repentant Nazi War Criminal" Bridget, "Cult Leader" Artemis, or even characters like Strecker or Stone) due to her sheer body count, she's just...She has no real traits about it that could possibly make it feel like even the smallest fraction of her actions were outside of her control.
Benji obviously has something going on, Dane is trying to be a good father and failing miserably, TJ Stone probably loved Bridget as much as a violent misogynist can like a woman (not that that excuses his entire life of murderous hate), Bridget at the end decided to finally stop doing incredible damage to others around the same time she lost her legs, Artemis clearly bought into her own bullshit, and so on. None of these excuses makes any of their actions even the tiniest bit less unacceptable, but there's some level of complexity.
Calliope, meanwhile, is just a selfish, lying, genocidal, neglectful piece of shit, and that's pretty much the depth of her. I think that's the difference between her and the fascist trans woman Jackie from American Intoxicants. Early when I started this fic, I wondered aloud what made Calliope more than just a Jackie knockoff.
I think the answer is that Jackie became a monster due to her own actions and due to the society she was raised in. She was a broken, mentally ill girl who developed into an utter monster.
Calliope doesn't have that sadness. She doesn't have a sad backstory. She's just one of those people who always looks out for number one, and who wants to have her ego massaged. Jackie was a mess of a person, while Calliope is actually very sane. She's just terrible. Unfortunately, there are exploitative, deceitful, and cruel people in the real world who didn't suffer in their lives at all, as if suffering would make their cruelty OK.
Jackie wanted redemption but was too vile to ever get it. Calliope doesn't even know why someone would want redemption. She just goes through life, taking and taking and hurting and hurting, and she'll never feel guilt because she can't feel guilt.
Jackie was an introspective character, Calliope is painfully superficial. Jackie asked "What's the right thing to do?" and always settled on the wrong answer, while Calliope just doesn't bother to ask that question at all. Instead, she asks "I want more, how do I get it?"
In a way, she's the closest the story has to an avatar of the Age of Cyberpunk, of capitalism as a whole.
Calliope Anderson is the profit motive, and the profit motive is an asshole.
Wherever there is the mindset of:
"fuck you, I got mine"
there is also the mindset of:
"if you aren't fucked, I don't got mine"
- Location
- Within the Light of Hope
I'm genuinely confused how does LGBT work in a communist country? I'm pretty sure those two words have never gone together before great change was enacted.
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- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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21st century American communists in real life and in this timeline are broadly pro-LGBT. While historical communists were often (though certainly not always) queerphobic, that is by no means an inherent part of the ideology. It's sort of like how 20th century capitalists were also at times queerphobic, but that also isn't an inherent part of capitalism.
- Location
- Within the Light of Hope
So a more reasonable AU then fair enough my experience with 21st century communism in regards to Pro-LGBT was weird like try to find ways to somehow prove historical communism was totally pro-LGBT weird.
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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Yeah, those kinds of people exist, but they're pretty marginal. The 21st century communist movement is definitely full of cranks, but one of the earliest conceits of the setting is that those kinds of cranks aren't the people who would matter very much in a real revolution.
- Location
- Within the Light of Hope
Imagining those kinds of people languishing in how their revolution happened but they got bupkiss for 'keeping the idea alive' amuses me.
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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That's more or less what happens in Update 5.