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bro i LOVE indigenous fusion music i love it when indigenous people take traditional practices and language and apply them in new cool ways i love the slow decay and decolonisation of the modern music industry
Another one for Inuit artists is Piqsiq! Two sisters whoāve been doing traditional throat singing since they were kids. They make some really gorgeous, eerie, atmospheric stuff. Highly recommend watching this video of them performing live a cappella using a looping machine, because they might be the coolest people on the planet actually
For anyone into North Asian and Central Asian folk music, there's this incredible Siberian folk-pop band called Otyken! The group is mostly women and they're from multiple indigenous groups in Siberia, with songs being sung in their range of different languages. They're so much fun and their music videos are amazing!
i'll go ahead and recommend The Halluci Nation (formerly known as A Tribe Called Red), an EDM group from First Nations Ontario that do really cool fusions of First Nations music with dubstep, moombahton, and hip hop.
I really really really appreciate people who share videos on posts like these, because almost without a doubt every time I love the music but Iāve never got the spoons to click on links and look through a bunch of music or worse google the artist I always end up too overwhelmed to start and I hate that
Haven't seen Belle Sisoski here yet so here we go: she's the current Artist of Year for BURO impact Awards. She's from Malaysia and knows how to play an insane amount of ethnic instruments and mixes them with her own voice. She does covers and her own songs, mixes ethnic instruments with Techno and shows the process. And she's also a live DJ at 19!
And one of her own:
Oh and of course there's also the HU and Bloodywood for people who like more rock and metal mixed in:
Truncated text of tweet from MrPitBull, Mar 11, 2026:
She kept finding women in laboratory photographs from the 1800s. Then she read the published papersāand every single woman had vanished. Someone had erased them from history.
Yale University, 1969.
Margaret Rossiter was a graduate student studying the history of science. She was one of very few women in her program.
Every Friday afternoon, students and faculty gathered for beers and informal conversation. One week, Margaret asked a simple question: "Were there ever any women scientists?"
The faculty answered firmly: No.
Someone mentioned Marie Curie. The group dismissed itāher husband Pierre really deserved the credit.
Margaret didn't argue. But she also didn't believe them.
So she started looking.
She found a reference book called "American Men of Science"āessentially a Who's Who of scientific achievement. Despite the title, she was shocked to discover it contained entries about women. Botanists trained at Wellesley. Geologists from Vermont.
There were names. There were credentials. There were careers.
The professors had been wrong.
But Margaret's discovery was just the beginning. Because as she dug deeper into archives across the country, she found something far more disturbing.
Photograph after photograph showed women standing at laboratory benches, working with equipment, listed on research teams.
But when she read the published papers, the award citations, the official historiesāthose same women had disappeared. Their names were missing. Their contributions erased.
It wasn't random. It was systematic.
Women who designed experiments watched male colleagues publish results without giving them credit. Women whose discoveries were assigned to supervisors. Women listed in acknowledgments instead of as authors. Women passed over for awards that went to male collaborators who contributed far less.
Margaret realized she was witnessing a pattern that stretched across centuries.
Women had always been present in science. The record had simply pushed them aside.
She needed a name for what she was documenting.
In the early 1990s, she found it in the work of Matilda Joslyn Gageāa 19th-century suffragist who had written about this exact phenomenon in 1870.
In 1993, Margaret published a paper formally naming it: The Matilda Effect.
The term captured something that had been hidden in plain sight for generations. Once you knew the term, you saw it everywhere.
Her dissertation became a lifelong mission.
For more than 30 years, Margaret researched and wrote her landmark three-volume series: Women Scientists in America. She examined letters, institutional policies, individual careers. She gathered undeniable evidence that women in science had been consistently under-credited and structurally excluded.
Her work faced resistance. Many dismissed women's history as political rather than academic. Others insisted she was exaggerating.
Margaret didn't argue emotionally. She presented data. Documented cases. Patterns repeated across decades and institutions.
Eventually, the evidence became undeniable.
Her research helped restore recognition to scientists who had been erased:
Rosalind Franklin, whose X-ray work revealed DNA's structureācredit went to Watson and Crick.
Lise Meitner, who explained nuclear fissionāomitted from the Nobel Prize.
Nettie Stevens, who discovered sex chromosomesāreceived little credit.
Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin, who discovered stars are made of hydrogenāinitially dismissed.
And countless others whose names had nearly vanished.
Margaret changed the narrative. Science was no longer just the story of solitary male geniuses. It became a story of collaboration that included women who had been written out.
The Matilda Effect became standard terminology. Scholars used it to examine how credit is assigned, how authors are listed, who receives awards, who gets left out.
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it would suck being a new immortal. like itād be 2109 and people would go,Ā āwhat was it like seeing ancient civilizations rise and fall like that? seeing the pyramids being built? watching the expansion and growth of the new world?ā and iād just be like,Ā ānoā¦no i was born in 1991. so like, wow iām gonna see some cool stuff, but, i mean iām not that much older than just a really, really old person, you know? phones were big back then. so big. but only for like ten years, then they got like, as good as they are now. uh. rhinos existed. donāt think i ever saw one in person. cool, good talk.ā
even worse, imagine being an immortal who keeps missing stuff.Ā āWhat was it like seeing the pyramids being built?ā
āFuck if I know, I was in Madagascar.ā
āOh, okay. Well, how was the Renaissance?ā
āI fell down a hole in Scotland and people thought I was an enchanted well for four hundred years, it was over by the time I convinced someone to get me out.ā
We barely know anything about Madagascar pre-500CE. We donāt even know whether the island had a permanent population before then, despite finding a bunch of much older signs of temporary human presence.
Malagasy mythology makes mention of the vazimba, a āprecursorā ethnic group that might or might not be distinct from Madagascarās current population.
The point is, we do not know.
So you were in Madagascar when the pyramids were being built in Egypt, i.e. during one of the most obscure, most undocumented parts of Madagascarās human history?
Oh, buddy, you better go and make a bunch of anthropologists and archeologists really happy RIGHT NOW instead of feeling bad about missing everyone elseās pet Major Event.
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When ranchers in Utah's Rich County found eighteen sheep killed in March 2022, they assumed coyotes. USDA Wildlife Services flew a plane over the kill site and found something feeding on the carcasses that had only been confirmed in the state eight times in forty years.
It was a wolverine.
Utah sits at the extreme southern margin of the wolverine's North American range. The animal is built for the deep snow and high alpine of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming, country above ten thousand feet where the winters last eight months and the terrain rejects everything that is not specifically engineered to survive it. A wolverine showing up in Utah's ranch country was not a routine predator complaint. It was a biological event. State wildlife managers had no protocol for it because they had never needed one.
Biologists set specialized barrel traps near the sheep carcasses. Catching a wolverine in a live trap is considered one of the most difficult captures in North American wildlife management. The animal is trap-smart, solitary, covers enormous distances daily, and operates almost exclusively in terrain that humans struggle to access on foot. The odds of a wolverine walking into a barrel trap were close to zero. The next morning, a sheepherder found one of the trap doors dropped. Inside was a healthy, twenty-eight-pound male, estimated at three to four years old.
It was the first wolverine ever live-captured by biologists in Utah's history.
The team sedated him, packed his body in ice to keep his core temperature stable during the examination, fitted him with a GPS tracking collar, and released him into the deep snow of the Uinta Mountains. For researchers who had spent careers studying an animal they almost never got to see, that collar was the first real-time data source on wolverine movement the state had ever produced.
The data that came back over the next twenty-five days confirmed what wolverine biologists in other states had documented but Utah had never been able to verify on its own ground. The animal logged over 195 miles of travel in less than a month. He did not drift south toward lower elevations or leave the state. He locked into the high peaks of the Uintas above ten thousand feet and ran massive looping circuits through avalanche chutes, rocky ridgelines, and snowfields deep enough to bury a man standing upright. The daily distances he covered would qualify as an endurance event for a human athlete on flat ground. He was doing it through the most physically punishing terrain in the state, in winter, alone, at elevation, without stopping.
The eighteen dead sheep that started the whole sequence were never repeated. The wolverine moved into the high country and stayed there, operating in a landscape so remote and so hostile that the only evidence of his existence was the GPS signal pinging coordinates from ridgelines that no person had visited in months. The collar proved what the forty years of scattered sightings could only suggest. The wolverine was not passing through Utah. It was living there, quietly covering nearly two hundred miles of frozen alpine rock in less than a month, completely invisible to every human being in the state.
Source: Utah Division of Wildlife Resources / USDA Wildlife Services
19. Equilibrium
(noun)
a state in which opposing forces or influences are balancedĀ
Ao3 link here
A/N: This is the last chapter that I will be posting, the 20th and final chapter will be posted by Sineater. Thank you so very, very, very much to everyone who's been commenting and reposting. I cannot tell you how valuable and how encouraging those comments have been - both on this story and everything leading up to it - from the wonderful paragraphs of break downs and delving into the themes, to the howls and wails and key-smashes with generous lashings of exclamation marks that had us giggling with sheer glee. Thank you so very much for all of them.
I also want to say thank you to my darling Hubby for his support (and wide-eyed looks when I've cackled over something), to @the-original-sineater for letting me lure her into what was supposed to be her 'first and last' CSaTM story and for the many, many hours of plotting, scheming, cackling, and writing together we've had since, to Womble1, Tikatu, and AmosAcker for so gleefully adding to this tapestry, and most of all to @janetm74 for listening when the muse first nibbled, then weaving together this saga, and letting us come and play in it. None of this would have existed without you, so thank you so very, very much.
31 May 2066 0900hrs, Gran Roca Ranch
Eighteen days - or seventeen, depending on which side of the Date Line you started counting on - whipped past in a blur of meetings, legalities, press statements, and discoveries as decades of secrets were brought to the light and lies were peeled off like the layers of a foul and rotten onion. John had shown Scott and Gordon what he and Virgil found in UnNamedās office and it was only the follow up information - that the FBI and a whole alphabet soup of other organisations had been alerted and started moving the instant Thunderfall had been triggered - that had kept them both from shattering anew.Ā
As they worked to uncover all the hidden caches and documents, the world news headlines changed daily, sometimes hourly, as different names were uncovered, connections were made, and new secrets were dragged into the light. UnNamed had gathered up many people into his slipstream as he chased his dream; his ignoble end had also triggered the end of the dreams of many others.Ā
Everyone took a small measure of grim satisfaction in that.Ā
Lee Taylor, surprisingly, had remained untouched by most of UnNamedās filth, to the point that the attempted assault in the boardroom was the only thing that could be pinned on him and that had earned him little more than a legal slap on the wrists. But despite that, he hadnāt escaped the fall out. Disgraced and shamed but still stridently asserting UnNamedās innocence, the Helios Colony staunchly refused to allow him to come back (not that Spectrum would have permitted it anyway), very few of his friends returned his calls, and heād been forced to move in with his sister. Lee was still trying to drum up support for UnNamedās memory, but he didnāt have the charm or the cunning to turn that into a credible assault on the Tracys and EOS made a project out of keeping his voice in the public sphere as muted as possible.
Eighteen days had also provided more than enough time for the Mysterons to strike again, an attack in Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand, offering the perfect cover story to close the literal and proverbial files for āCaptain Cobaltā and āCaptain Xanthicā.Ā
That, Scott was honest enough to admit, was something he was still wrestling with. āCobaltā had been intended as an identity, a mask to cover himself with, but taking off that mask hadnāt been as simple or easy as packing up his room and taking off his uniform. He had to unlearn āCobaltā and relearn who āScott Tracyā was, and that was taking time. Gordon, he knew, was also stumbling a little with the transition, but overall it was easier for him; Gordon had let go of more identities than he had.
In those preceding eighteen days theyād also had the funeral, held at the small cemetery in Kansas where generations of Tracys had already been laid to rest.Ā
As per the instructions in his will, UnNamed had been cremated. Thereād been a very polite question from the staff at Arlington if they wished to make use of a grave there, as was UnNamedās right due to his military service, but theyād just as politely refused the offer and the box of ashes had been put into the ground next to Grant Tracy. The entire thing had been very small and very quiet by design: the online hordes of keyboard warriors had rallied by this point, declaiming all sorts of nonsense and rubbish about conspiracy theories and how āconvenientlyā UnNamed had died so quickly after being arrested, and no one wanted to give them an opportunity to spread their lies and hate.
(There had been mutterings about shooting the box of ashes into space and getting rid of all traces of him, but Scott had quietly put a stop to that for Grandmaās sake. Yes, UnNamed had been a monster, but heād also been her son. Those wounds were obscure, difficult, and they ran deep, and he knew the value of having a place to go to to grieve.)Ā
The ceremony - what little there was of it anyway - had been attended by himself, Grandma, and two of the cemetery staff, and the spot was being left unmarked for now; again, because of the die-hards and conspiracy theorists.Ā
Eighteen days was also how long it took until Scott felt safe enough - and strong enough - to leave the Island and go to Gran Roca Ranch. A Spectrum team had already gone through the outbuildings, the house, and the training facility, uncovering a small horde of information. Theyād been made privy to a portion of it, and the number of deals, blackmail schemes, and plots UnNamed had been involved in was mind boggling.
Entering the house, Scott walked through the hall slowly, letting his thoughts drift. He'd always wondered why UnNamed hadn't sold the ranch. The will reading had revealed that he couldn't, it was set up in an ironclad trust for Scott, and Scott alone. There had been several tries to break the trust, but they hadn't worked. Thinking back, matching dates and events, Scott could trace those moments to points in his life when UnNamed had been especially callous.
Finding out that the ranch was his, and his alone, made it even more precious to him.
The house was going to need a cleaning from attic to training facility, along with a redo of the decor. He had already decided that every hint of UnNamed was going to be excised from it. But there was one place Scott knew that UnNamed hadn't gone but once after his mother had died: her office.
Scott stood in front of the door, both gathering his courage and steeling his heart. The others had wanted to come. Kayo had argued with him about it, that he'd need the back up. Even Grandma had offered. But he'd refused them all, pointing out to his beloved that while yes, he didn't need to do this alone, it was something he wanted to do alone. Kayo had kissed him fiercely and told him she'd be no more than fifteen minutes away, if he required her. God, how he loved that woman.
He took a deep breath, and opened the door. The room was full of light, Lucy had always loved the light after the grey of England and had claimed a south facing bedroom as her office. Scott just stood there to take in the room. It hadn't changed since UnNamed had swept in, taking all her work, papers, and computer after her death. Scott had made sure to clean and dust the room whenever they came to the ranch, and after UnNamed had vanished, left instructions for the cleaning crew to do so. So there wasn't even the suggestion of her perfume, just a whiff of lemon and oil.
His eyes were drawn to the drafting table, a huge thing that his mom had found at some sale before he had even been conceived. She had taken it through every move she had until it had been sent here, after Gordon's birth. He'd spent a lot of the first four years of his life either next to or under that table. Finally leaving the doorway, he went first to that, and laid a hand on the back of the drafting stool that seemed much too short. He picked up a mechanical drafting pencil, an ancient thing, at least a century old and heavy enough to use as a weapon. He'd offer it to Virgil, and if Virgil didn't want it, he would keep it. Their mom had written so much of her work with this. All the other pencils and pens were the normal collection of an engineer, so he left those.
Scott moved to the desk and sat down,Ā the steel pencil flipping slowly through his fingers. The chair padding hadn't fared too well in the light and heat, it sounded - crunchy. He chuckled to himself. āEverything ages, even furniture.ā He tried to roll the pencil around his thumb, only to send it tumbling to the floor.
"Smooth move, dumbass." He sighed, slid off the chair and crawled into the footwell. He sneezed as his feeling around sent the dust bunnies running for cover. His questing fingers wrapped around the barrel of the pen. But it was on the vertical and not the horizontal. "Huh?"
He got his phone out to have some light. In the harsh photo light was the pencil, standing up in a hole in a floorboard. Which made him blink, none of the other boards were that rough. He plucked the pencil free, then wedged a finger into the hole and pulled. The board came up and revealed a dark space below. Curiosity well and fully engaged led him to reaching into the shadows, to have his hand brush something dusty and rough. He swallowed hard, and pulled out a brown envelope. An old fashioned one that was closed with string and a knot he recognized.
Scott weighed the envelope in his hand. It was heavy, far heavier than the size made it out to be. He was also loathed to open it. This was something special, something important, something his mom hadn't wanted found, so opening it would almost be like betraying her trust. However, his mom was long gone and any betrayal couldn't hurt her now. If it was too personal - well, there was the firepit out back. He took a hard breath, undid the string, and slid the contents out onto his lap.Ā
What landed there made no sense to him, not at first. Papers, passports, several flash drives, two more envelopes with pre-paid credit cards in one and a thick stack of 100 dollar bills in the other. He fixated on her passport, the picture was horrible of course, but it was one more image of his mother. A piece of paper behind the passport caught his attention, only to lose it when he realized that there were two more passports, both his, one for America and the other for the United Kingdom. Lucy had never renounced her citizenship, so he had a dual one.
Dear God, if he'd known that when he was younger. If he'd had this in those days - would he have run? Left his brothers behind, in the care of UnNamed? He was pretty sure he wouldn't have, but to know he had an out? That might have made the bad times more bearable.Ā
The paper between them was a list, with several things crossed off: passports, marriage license, birth certificates, residency proof for me, pictures, money - that had been circled and underlined. Other items hadn't been: clothes, one stuffie each, Scott Bernie Bear, books for John, crayons for Virgil, Blub the Fish for Gordon (need dumb hand held), baby ?, Val - phone.
ā... itās an escape plan.ā Scott found himself sitting on the floor without remembering how heād gotten there. āMom was going to escape with all of usā¦ she saw what was going onā¦ what he was doingā¦ and she was going to save usā¦āĀ Ā
He was crying, but he did not care. This was catharsis, the purging of long-hidden wounds and washing them clean. Yes, it would hurt, like any washing of a wound, but this was healing that he desperately needed.Ā
T H U N D E R F A L LĀ
Hours later, the night was warm as he came out onto the porch, the wooden planks creaking underfoot. He leaned on the railing and stared out, a thousand and one thoughts tumbling through his mind. If not for the avalanche, that cruel twist of fate, Mom would have done it. He knew that down to his bones. Sheād have taken all of them, found a safe bolt hole, and sheād have fought UnNamed tooth and nail and forced him to concede.Ā
A shift of air, a faint smell of perfume, spices, and av-gas, and - just as he suspected would happen - Kayo was there, her arm around his waist and her head resting on his shoulder. He looped his arm around her, kissed the top of her head, and held her close. āI hadnāt called, but she still knew she needed to come. God I love her so much.āĀ
āBig thoughts?ā she asked him.Ā
āYeah.ā Scott let the comfortable silence wrap around them both. The smells of wet ground, creosote, sage, and cedarwood gave Scott a deep sense of nostalgia and comfort. There was also an edge of longing to it. The pain of his mom's death would always colour his life, but at this very moment it was the shadow that made the light even brighter.Ā
It wasnāt a conscious decision, a stringing together of thoughts into a logical order with a logical conclusion. It was, he knew, something that heād already decided years ago, but heād buried it under layer upon layer of secrets and shame and fear to keep her safe. If heād let even a hint of it show, UnNamed would have turned it into another chain, another shackle, another way to control them all like puppets on strings.Ā
āBut now weāre free.ā It still felt like it was too good to be true, even though UnNamed was dead, cremated, and buried, even though heād seen that box go into the ground, there was still some corner of his mind that was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everything to get turned upside down again. āTo hell with that. Iām not letting a dead man rule me any more.ā
This wasnāt the moment heād let himself fantasise about, he didnāt even have a ring, but it was the right moment, and that was what mattered more; to both of them.Ā
He turned so he could hold Kayo in both of his arms, brushed a kiss against her lips, then he got down on one knee, her hands in his and his heart in his eyes. āKayoā¦Tanusha, will you marry me?āĀ
āYes!ā She was in his arms, crouched down on the old wooden planks, her arms around him and her head in the crook of his neck. āYes.ā Kayo murmured the word like a prayer. āYes.ā
Scott cradled her like the precious treasure she wasā¦and in the same moment he knew something important had shifted. Everything prior to this - the lead up to Thunderfall, what had happened on the Island and in New York - that had all been reclaiming, recovering, restoring, getting back what was rightfully theirs. But this? This was something new. This was something different. This was something all his - and, very importantly - all hers too.Ā
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Never thought I'd have the opportunity to say this again: Reducing women and girls to their vaginas and then forcing them to show those vaginas to strangers is not a feminist ideal.
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