Flipping off Pride Month virtue signaling with Liza Fury and Kress Conway
Celebrating Pride Month may be the most godforsaken virtue signal in the history of Western Civilization. So I created a same-sex couple the Left would despise.
Terrian Chronicles is the biggest “shitshow” of a series that blatantly targets the Left and Leftist institutions. From COVID conspiracies to history departments telling a sanitized version on the “story of man,” nothing in my playbook makes the Left cringe more.
No, it doesn’t cater to the Right. Not with Necromancers, magical creatures that’d give priests and pastors strokes in front of a mass or congregation, or even my perpetual spitting on institutional Christianity.
Only the most die-hard TC Marti fans WILL GET Terrian Chronicles, especially Liza Fury and her beloved girlfriend, Kress Conway.
Let’s take a deep dive.
👉 Catch what happened before Liza met Kress at The Rebel Lore Vault
Liza and Kress aren’t about to celebrate Pride Month
The reason Liza and Kress wouldn’t fit with modern LGBT activist culture is that their sexuality isn’t their governing identity. It’s part of who they are, but it doesn’t override their deeper traits: self-defense, loyalty, distrust of institutions, anti-censorship instincts, personal responsibility, and a strong “leave me the fuck alone unless you’re threatening my people (the Renegades)” streak.
Liza especially would repulse the activist crowd because she’s not a victimhood-seeking character. She has real trauma, anxiety, and wounds, but her core drive is rescue, vengeance, loyalty, and freedom.
In Catch 22, she’s not sitting around asking a system to validate her. She’s trying to rescue Stef, survive Maddie, understand Elemental Society, and act. The early material frames her as wounded and panicked, yes, but also stubbornly mission-driven and protective, especially once Kress becomes her anchor in the crisis.
Liza’s identity is action-based, not category-based
Liza’s worldview leans toward liberty, population-control skepticism, and anti-centralized power. She references liberty-preserving ideas, distrusts the Intrepid’s coercive mentality, and Catch 22 explicitly invokes places like the Mises Institute, FEE, and Reason in connection with her worldview.
That alone separates her from the institutional Pride Month world, because that culture usually expects automatic loyalty to progressive political packaging. Liza would spit on that.
Then Sophomore Year makes the contrast even clearer. Liza openly praises Ainge Edwards for exposing the “Benight warfare state,” the Machi-Intrepid agenda, deep states, and shadow governments.
When Braden defends censorship for the “greater good,” Liza’s reaction is immediate: she calls out the use of force to keep people quiet. That’s not Pride-corporate messaging. It’s radical anti-censorship, anti-war, anti-security-state energy.
👉 Catch Liza’s short story before she teams up with Kress Conway
Liza Fury is bisexual, but she’s not useful to corporate messaging
She doesn’t function as a regime-approved minority identity. Nor will she validate bureaucracies, censorship, speech codes, mass surveillance, state education, or ideological conformity. She has the “wrong” opinions, likes the “wrong” thinkers, and fights the “wrong” institutions. The Left would only tolerate her until she opened her mouth.
Kress is a little different, but the same broad argument applies. She’s not written as a rainbow-banner spokesperson either. She’s a werewolf, an operator, a tactician, and a dangerous ally. Her lesbian identity doesn’t turn her into a soft social-message character.
She’s the kind of person who can help with IDs, infiltration, protective logistics, and violence when necessary. In Sophomore Year, even when she’s connected to Liza emotionally, her role is practical and combative, not ideological branding. Kress is someone others have to restrain because her instincts turn violent fast.
Liza and Kress would stick their middle fingers at “group identity”
Modern activist culture often wants LGBT characters to represent group identity. Liza and Kress reject it and represent individual will.
Liza is bi, but she’s also anti-censorship, anti-war-machine, anti-deep-state, pro-self-defense, and openly hostile toward coercive authority. Kress is lesbian, but she is also a werewolf, a covert operator, and someone with violent protective instincts. Neither character’s asking to be normalized by institutions.
Their sexuality isn’t sanitized into a corporate June slogan. It’s embedded inside a much larger identity: survivor, fighter, protector, outlaw, sister, lover, Renegade. That makes them threats to institutions that scream “representation matters.”
Liza and Kress would say, “Then go represent yourself and stop fucking begging others to do it for you.”
👉 Catch Liza’s first misadventure before she met Kress
Real individuality cannot be reduced to political branding
They’re not “representation” in the sterile, institutional sense. They’re LGBT while rejecting the ideological machinery that often claims ownership over LGBT people and uses them as political props. And that’s all Pride Month is.
This creates a very TC Marti-style irony: the characters who would supposedly be celebrated by Pride Month culture are probably too anti-authoritarian, too armed, too heterodox, too spiritually strange, too liberty-minded, and too personally loyal to survive inside it.
And that’s a beautiful thing.
