A group called Guns Down America is providing a voter resource that will allow people to report voter intimidation, including intimidation carried out with firearms, occurring at polling sites on Election Day.
Voters who observe intimidation at polling sites are encouraged to text “GUNSDOWN” to 91990. The reports will then be forwarded to the Lawyer’s Committee for Civil Rights, which can take further action.
He knows now, but he certainly didn’t know it all night. The Doctor pushes himself up in bed, just enough that it’s clear he’s decided he’s not going to try and go back to sleep.
The night has been a long one, full of nightmares for him. He doesn’t remember all of them. They were fever-fuelled, panicky and loud. Too loud. With the amount of shouting and probably crying he’s done, he suspects the Master might know more about his nightmares than he himself does at this moment in time.
“Were you stroking my hair? I couldn’t tell if it was real or just in my head.”
Real or not, it definitely helped. He remembers crying, then, about the dream. All about how it’s his fault his friends all die. How he can’t save them, ever, and anybody who travels with him is doomed to suffer. He has these kind of thoughts regularly, but usually they’re in his own voice, which he can ignore for the most part. It becomes a little harder when it’s them. Their faces, their voices, accusing. Hatred for himself projected into the faces of his lost friends, blaming him like he deserves to be blamed.
It occurs to him that this might be the first time this face has cried in front of this Master. He’s cried in front of Missy before. Or… well, cried on Missy might be a more accurate description. But he’s normally quite good at holding himself together. Teary eyes sometimes give Koschei a window to his emotion, but he’s quite sure he’s never actually sobbed. Apparently while stuck halfway between nightmare and reality, he’s not so strong. He can still feel the tears on his face. It can’t be long since he had that dream, then.
He notices that the covers are still over him. Given his tendency to physically struggle against them when dreaming, he wonders how many times they’ve been picked up and laid over him again.
The Doctor sits slowly, reaching out to Koschei. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. It’s so much gentler than the torrent of apologies that spilled from him during his nightmares. Those words were rushed and frantic. Painful. He presses his face against the Master’s shoulder when he’s close enough. “You didn’t have to stay. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t want to see.” See me, see my pain. Of course he didn’t have to stay. The Doctor can never ask that of anyone. He never will. It’s not fair, no matter how much it helps him to know that he’s not alone. “But thank you for staying anyway.”
The Master opens his mouth. Considers. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have been the embodiment of your pain too many times. I don’t know … how I couldn’t have stayed, or seen it.”
That would be a kind of unforgivable that excels any and all of his present litany of crimes. Because it would be hypocrisy. The Doctor is the storm. And he who quarrels with the stormy sky cannot abide hypocrisy.
He’s still in his own nightclothes. He slides closer to his best and oldest friend.
“It’s not as if it’s anything I haven’t seen before, love.”
Many times; the change of faces does not erase all of the most poignant memories. Nothing ever could.
He takes the hand offered him and sits in silence.
“Yeah, the … hair-stroking was real,” he ventures, feebly.
And the blanket covering. And the humming, and the touch-telepathic guided meditation that wrecked Koschei because he is so telepathically permeable and naturally assumes the emotions to which he’s exposed. Especially from the one person he adores.
“You wanna … ah, try resting again? I’ve ways to block bad thoughts for you. If you. Want.”
Koschei deposits all his work on the long laboratory table and strides over to his husband. He straddles his lap and gazes at him with marmish incredulity.
“Yeah, luv, as soon as you can explain to me how you couldpossibly forget all the reasons. Shall I catalogue them alphabetically or by subject?”
“It’s not a reflection of you, I promise,” he says, taking his husband’s face in his hands and kissing his forehead before pressing their heads together. “Just a bad head day. You know how it goes.”
Koschei removes his reading glasses and settles himself more firmly on Jack’s lap.
“That I do, husband, but you miss my point. I am prepared to lavish you with reasons for your greatness. Gird your loins, or rather, don’t, for I’m about to charm off your knickers.”
He clears his throat, theatrically.
“The High Classical Greeks have striven in vain to sculpt your perfect face and body. But this barely touches upon the beauty of your mind, heart, and soul. You have the mind of a scientist, an artist, and an intellect. The heart of a poet and an adventurer. The soul of one who secretly, for all his playful transgressions, wishes to warm his feet by a hearth cozied up with a special someone.”
He wriggles a bit.
“Lucky for you, here I am, dearest friend, father of my children, hero of my hearts. You may now express your accolades in return.”
Hey so friendly reminder about voting and elections that I haven’t seen going around yet but is SUPER IMPORTANT.
Watch what you wear and say while you’re waiting in line for the voting booth/at the polls. It is against federal law to do anything that might be considered campaigning once you’re there, and since we know that voter suppression is the name of the game this election, there will be people looking for ANY reason to remove you from the polling place. And they will nitpick. You have a shirt with a artistic picture of donkey on it? You’re visibly supporting the Democrats, you’re disqualified from voting. Want to wear a Black Lives Matter shirt? Not there you don’t. They’ll call it intimidation and kick you out. Pins, buttons, stickers, none of it. Wear the most bland, plain clothes you can imagine.
And then keep your mouth shut. Even the slightest hint of discussion about which candidate you’re voting for can get used against you. Don’t assume the people around you are safe to discuss it with. You might be overheard. There WILL people watching for these things, hoping to get rid of anyone they can. Voter suppression isn’t just about making registration impossible. It happens at the polling stations too. Be smart, be bland, be quiet, and make sure your vote gets in.
Also- and I have seen this mentioned but it bears repeating- DO NOT TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR BALLOT. EVER. It’ll also disqualify your vote. Take a selfie when you’re out of their with your fun little sticker.
This is for your protection as much as your oppression: this means the opposition party can’t use those tactics against you either – and if anyone tries, REPORT THEM.
Icarus 