<html><a href="http://jezebel.com/michigan-passes-bill-requiring-women-to-purchase-rape-1481922092">This shit</a></html> is untenable. I am angry as fuck, and I own a womb that I wish could destroy this stupid system.
<<if $love_womb eq "yes">>No one knew what to make of it when the Auora Borealis appeared in the middle of the day, over the Capitol. The mediacasts were confused when it settled over the city like a blanket, terrified when the politicians began dropping dead, their shrieks filling the air. They scrambled the military, they flew jets through it, but it ignored them as it seeped through the old buildings, probing the cracks and locked doors with its iridescent light. When it found the nutrient pool of the Archsenate, the noises caused nose bleeds and hallucinations. The mediacasts went to static, but came back seconds later, their anchordroids chanting the same thing over and over again: \n\n"No one owns you."\n\nIt was hours before normal service resumed, and even then, the only thing the media covered was the disappearance of the Congolmorate.\n\n<html><i>You</i></html> made them say those words. But now you are a coruscating, avenging light, the color of space.\n\n<<else>>The military tried to shoot you down, blow you up and considered nuking their own Capitol, but it didn't matter. You and zie were unstoppable.\n\nYou tore through the buildings, and you found the politicians wherever they were. Zie tore them apart, scattering their bile and rot everywhere, spitting them back out as shriveled, wet messes.\n\nWhen zie was sated, you went for the Archsenate. Zie devoured the security like it wasn't there, and you sank your fingers into the coalesced misogyny of millennia, shredding it with your fingernails, screaming your hate into it.\n\nWhen you emerged, covered in Senate nutrients, the city was waiting for you, silent and awed. You thrust your blood-drenched fist into the air, and zie howled, shaking the ground.\n\n"NO ONE OWNS YOU."<<endif>>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[[About|about]]
The uterus thrashes and wails in an unholy voice. The louder it gets, the bigger it grows. When you hear the windows shatter you know: zie's ready.\n\nYou climb up zir spiked spine, and find a notch to sit in between, straddling zir leathery red scales. Zie twists a fallopian tube back to inspect you, the ova-eye glaring, bathing you in firey shades. You snarl at it, and zie keens zir acceptance. You howl together, then zie bursts through the wall of your apartment, taloned pseudopods digging into the cement outside as zie shakes the earth with zir stride.\n\n[[You know what has to be done|finish]].
<<silently>>\n<<set $hate_womb = "yes">>\n<<set $love_womb = "no">>\n<<endsilently>>There was blood and pain, a new monthly agony. You didn't appreciate one of your own organs apparently rebelling against you. What was it good for anyway? Babies, maybe. Whether or not you wanted any of those wasn't <html><i>its</i></html> decision, though. You resented its interference in your life.\n\nSo, fuck it. If it was going to be a monster, that's what it would be. But it was still <html><i>your</i></html> monster, not [[theirs|legislation]].
Though it hadn't been human in eons, the Archsenate Conglomorate liked to pretend it was. For whatever reason, the Archsenate had maintained a millennia long fascination with biological females. Particularly, their wombs.\n\nARTICLE XXVI, SECTION SEVENTY-THREE OF THE UTERAL BILL OF HEALTH\n\n1. Wherein all wombs shall eventually produce one offspring, regardless of, and without complaint or reference to, the gender identity -- or lack thereof -- of the womb's homonid constituent.\n\n2. Wherein all wombs' constituents are responsible for the fertility of the womb. \n\n 2a. Impregenation of a womb will not be refered to by, or as, any of the following: 'mistake', 'unhealthy', 'unwanted'.\n\n 2b. Impregnation as a result of the crimes of rape or incest still requires that womb to be accountable for its fertility.\n\n i) Wombs without insurance against rape, incest, or life-threatening defects of pregnancy are not admissible for abortion or redress.\n\n3. Wherein all wombs must be cared for and maintained in peak fertility until such a time as menopause occurrs.\n\n 3a. Removal of wombs, for purposes of identity, or cases of less than life-threatening medical reasons is prohibited. \n\n 3b. Menopause and/or amenorrhea must then be medically addressed to ensure the longest period of legislatable fertility possible. [...]\n\nIt's been on broadcast since last month, chanted over the crackling loudspeakers on every corner of your habiblock. Every morning, three times in a row, in the deadened voice of some Capitol drone.\n\n[[Your head is splitting; your womb is cramping in time.|decide]]
<<silently>>\n<<set $hate_womb = "no">>\n<<set $love_womb = "no">>\n<<endsilently>>The year is 3259, and nothing has changed.\n\nThey are still legislating against [[your body|argue]]. You are not given the option of deciding what is best for your health, for your mind. That decision rests, as it always has, in the cavernous maw of the [[Archsenate Congolomorate|archsenate]].
<<silently>>\n<<set $love_womb = "yes">>\n<<set $hate_womb = "no">>\n<<endsilently>>There was blood and pain, but you appreciated what it meant. You and the womb shared a secret, a monthly pact -- a blood rite. You were fomenting something.\n\nNeither of you appreciated the intrusion of [[others|legislation]] into your ritual.
<<if $love_womb eq "yes">>You haven't slept in a week. The floors and walls of your shitty apartment are covered in blood sigils. You covered the windows with newspaper, but the phosphor fire of the sigils is enough to see by. \n\nThe middle of the floor is dominated by a pool of blood -- yours. An egg floats over it, pulsating slightly. You smile, because you and your womb know its secret.\n\nYou both know it will [[hatch|hatchling]] soon.\n\n<<else>>Fuck them. Fuck everyone. They can't legislate what isn't a womb, right?\n\nYou laugh, but it comes out a rasp, raw from the screaming, the chanting and the swearing. Your floor is a disaster, splattered with gore. Your abdomen is another disaster, a ragged, whistling wound, but it's healing already.\n\nMaybe you and the womb never saw eye to ovary, but you put that aside. You smirk, watching the disembodied organ writhe in the blood on the floor.\n\nIt's <html><i><b>your</b></i></html> [[monster|monster]].<<endif>>
Hellmother Sparby
Michigan Revenge Story
Your body, but not your body.\n\nYou press your hands against your abdomen. There, somewhere interior, is a womb. You were born with it, such was the lot your parents drew in the Genet-O-Mix. You were told your mother cried when it was decided.\n\nFor much of your life, you were oblivious to it. Then, suddenly, it became aware, tuning into its own cycle -- one you became part of.\n\n[[Caress your abdomen, soothing the womb within.|love womb]]\n\n[[Reject your womb, curling your fingers against your abdomen, seething.|hate womb]]
Its gelatinous neuron pool still knows what's best, how a body should be maintained, and what it is allowed to do, or be. The coalesced DNA slop of the greatest politicians quivers within it, some dating all the way back to the early 21st century. How could you [[argue|argue]] with its wisdom?
The egg stretches and bubbles in unsettling ways, testing its confines. You wait for hours outside the ring of runes, enraptured by its struggles.\n\nFinally, the egg inverts into itself, shudders once and <html><i>unfolds</i></html>, as though it had been a blanket compressed into a tiny bag. It becomes a mass of phosphorescent, iridescent light. Just that; a shifting aurora in your living room. \n\nYou raise your arms to it, and it flickers across the space, enveloping you. You hear it, whispers and tones, you know what [[has to be done|finish]].