#Anomalous Radar Station | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ofmontys · 6 years ago

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“ — and if you’re just tuning in now, you’ve made it just in time for our ‘ sleep with me ’ segment. nightfall has sufficiently fueled my ego and i’m reared and ready to go, compiling a playlist curated to get one lucky, hand-picked bastard in bed with me. tonight’s submission comes from camila, age 18 2/3, from two towns over. ” rustling paper. a delighted scoff. “ tonight, as per camila’s request, i’ll be attempting to seduce vincent van gogh. vince, this is acid ghost’s ‘ the artist’s high ’, also known as what i hope i can be for you. ”

or, alternatively : yo yo, my dudes! the name’s linc (19/est/she&her) and you just witnessed an excerpt from bez holmes’s radio show quite appropriately named, ‘ fuckin’ hell ! ’ that airs weekdays and sundays from 7pm to 8am!

i am absolutely stoked out of my mind to write with all of y’all! beneath the read more you’ll find a very unapologetically messy introduction to my strange son, killian beelzebub holmes !

* TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET & CISMALE / / here we’ve got KILLIAN BEELZEBUB HOLMES , the TWENTY-ONE year old LOCAL RADIO HOST. with a reputation for being + SLY, + ANOMALOUS, - OSSIFIED, and - RECKLESS, it’s surprising we haven’t heard more about him. BEZ has been around faulk hollow for TEN YEARS, but they ain’t leaving anytime soon. you hear ME AND MICHAEL by MGMT? that means you’ll see ‘em soon.

“road work ahead? uh, yeah, i sure hope it does!” ( alternatively: bez holmes, a roadmap. )

so bez is… kind of a nutcase. he’s just… he’s that guy in the bar who seems so desirable. voice like warmed honey, a smile that could kill – but dear lord, don’t get close to him. he’s fucked in the head. and unless you’re prepared for that, friendships/relationships with him can get... pretty darn overwhelming.

he’s a host at the local radio station, so he curates the music and talks through little segments throughout the day. well, i should say night -- because the show he’s known for occurs weekdays and sunday nights from 7pm - 8am. weird hours. weird guy. so it all clicks right into place! people tune in for the music ( a lot of indie eclectic vibes ) but also his personality. bez tends to veer off-script a lot, which both aggravates and amuses his superiors. he’s basically the only reason the tiny radio station is still alive & kickin’, so what are they gonna do to him, huh? fire him and take the whole station down with that bullshit move? not likely. so bez’ll keep doing and saying whatever the hell he wants on air, thank you very much.

can he get... a mfing... cinnamon raisin waffle??? dude’s friggin’ obsessed. don’t mess with his waffles, man. waffles don’t play.

has a knack for stumbling into stupid situations. y’know how there’s two kinds of people in this world? the kinds that act upon the universe and the kinds the universe acts upon? bez is that guy in textbook math probelms who has 42 apples for no apparent reason. he’s the dude in on top of spaghetti all covered with cheese whose poor meatball fuckin’ rolled out the door. things happen to bez holmes no matter how much he might try to convince you otherwise. his whole life is just a string of varied ( and usually nonchalant/unbothered/troublingly chill ) reactions to crazy shit.

case in point: why did the holmes family move to faulk hollow? well. their old house had like... a freakin’ meltdown. yes, the house. it swallowed their dog. and their mom. casual... house-y things. but when people ask, bez and his father like to say they just wanted to “ see the sights ”. and apparently faulk hollow was one of those.

[ tw: death, murder mentions ] basically, faulk hollow offered a place for them to disappear, since the disappearance of bez’s mother couldn’t exactly be explained to and/or believed by police. bez’s father is wanted for her murder. so they friggin’ skrrt skrrted out of iowa and plopped down here, under the radar. “holmes” is an adopted last name.

so bez has been here since his 11th birthday! honestly, he probably earned a reputation pretty quick for being that kid who’d, like, “hey buddy!” at all the insects on the playground. “ do you believe in magic? ” was often his best icebreaker.

so... fun fact. he accidentally inherited his dead dentist’s vintage jukebox. yes, i know how that sounds, and it’s exactly that. but dear lord, that thing has just been infinitely fucking with him since the day it showed up on his doorstep three months ago. more about that later!

an example of a normal occurrence in bez’s life: “hey. so, uh… i know we just met, and maybe this is moving fast? but i saw this keychain in walgreens and it made me think of you. so… yeah. here. tell anyone i did anything nice for you and you’re dead to me tho.”

he seems smart. he seems so cunning, you guys. like, holy shit, he makes these deep ass statements on the air and curates music that makes people feel things. but don’t be fooled. he’ll drive wearing shades at 10pm just to look cool, all while bumping 80′s glam rock from his blue ‘67 impala. he’ll do that cliché head bop at stoplights, encourage other drivers to join in.

don’t call him killian!! killian who?? his parents gave him “beelzebub” as a middle name to be funny and fuck with his mother’s father, who was a pastor. what they didn’t bank on was four-year-old bez insisting on being called by it – you can guess how well that went over with his teachers and his peers. so to appease them, he accepted the nickname “bez” and has gone mainly by that ever since. most people probably don’t know his true first name, since he goes by “bez” on the air. but close friends and trusted individuals might occasionally call him “kill” or something to that effect.

pets are not bez’s thing. every houseplant he’s had has died. succulents wilt in his presence too, and he thinks maybe at this point, it’s a running joke among plantkind because his birth name has the worldkill in it. still, even with his track record, he has a fish named nigel. nigel dislikes affection and bez. they engage in staredowns and silent mental warfare. bez often “forgets” to feed nigel or change the water in his tank, but that fish just will not die. nigel’s probably just truckin’ on to spite him.

aggressively writes the wrong date for like… 8 months following new year’s. so he finally gets it right for the final ¼, and then the cycle begins again. additionally, cannot keep the days of the week straight. he’s started a multi-song alarm campaign in an attempt to rectify this situation. bez’ll report his findings in a week. if he remembers.

one time he got pulled over for speeding back from the radio station at 7 in the morning, and you know what he did? he freakin’ offered the cop some hard shit from his flask and some of his opened bag of funions. so the two of them got tastefully buzzed in bez’s car and talked about the kardashians for two hours. and it was through that very conversation that bez learned he’d been doing a very shit job of keeping up with them.

scared of birds. yes. those things? with the wings? terrified. how dare they occupy space above his head. how dare they swoop and swerve all around. no. his neighbor in iowa had a parakeet. maybe that bird finally went missing one day, while they were on vacation. maybe it escaped. to like, the afterlife. maybe bez helped. maybe.

he’s really bad at like … taking care of himself? funions, candy, and takeout forever. what do you mean raisin bran crunch isn’t a wholesome, well-rounded meal? you mean you’re not supposed to pour the entire carafe of syrup on your waffles every time? someone… pls fix that.

hella prone to bullshit! like… did you know aliens are real? yeah. really. hey did you check your horoscope today? what zodiac sign are you? he’ll pretend to know what zodiac he is like: hey, uh… listen .. . if your zodiac is asparagus don’t even bother being my friend… i’m a caprisun & it’s just not gonna work out. sorry.

memorizes commercial jingles. will sing them to prove points.

“what the fuck’s a kanye” - bez holmes, 2k18

“a mug shot? i don’t even drink coffee.” ( alternatively: more pointless headcanons because apparently i think this is necessary. )

don’t be fooled by the title of this section. he drinks coffee. a lot of coffee. with a lot of sugar added to it. could probably kill a horse, tbh. he’s not sorry.

his signature half-smirk drives folks mad. he also has a collection of faithful listeners who like to call in and tell him how soothing his voice is.

lowkey writes his own music? lowkey was in a band called ashes when he was 13; it lasted about 6 seconds. lowkey has a few things recorded on his laptop? but he’ll never actually do anything with ‘em.

owns an unironic walkman! enjoys it immensely! i know!

catch him in the local 24 hour diner spending his life savings on cinnamon raisin waffles and dimes for the jukeboxes! because LMAO, he’s not using the old one at his place!!!

convinced said old, stupid, 1947 jukebox in his apartment lays host to goblins. that thing shakes and quakes at odd hours. it’ll play shitty pop music that isn’t even in the dumb catalogue. sometimes it lights up when he trips over his own feet or accidentally burns his microwave popcorn. the fuckin’ thing is possessed and it’s mocking him. so, naturally, what is there to do but appease the tiny beings inside it?? he makes biweekly sacrifices to it – mainly consisting of snack foods, candies, a casual sprinkling of his own blood. y’know. casual.

super into space? honestly would love to grab sushi with an alien sometime?

uh… he’s convinced everyone he sleeps with kind of mysteriously dies exactly 53 hours after. maybe that was inspired by like... two isolated incidents. but you can see how this is… kind of a problem, for a guy who likes to sleep around from time to time. is he a murderer? uhm, no, not exactly – but he’s grown kind of immune to the guilt at this point. he stalks obituaries a couple days after his one-night-stands, just to check. so far, it hasn’t been a 100% consistent thing, but... he’s worried. he’ll still leave the bar with you tho. ;)

he’s trying out this whole new thing of like… not going all the way? trying to save lives? but it’s really difficult and he’s losing resolve. he also can’t exactly tell his buddies, “ stop introducing me to your hot friends; if i fuck them, they’re dead. ” that probably wouldn’t go over well. he’s got enough crazy on his plate trying to appease the damn goblins.

consistently blindsided by genuinely liking other people? so if he’s into you... he’s gonna look awestruck and baffled like 99% of the time your face is within a 1-mile radius.

he’s always running his hands through his hair, which just adds to his #indiegrungeaesthetic, if i’m honest.

“girl, you’re thicker than a bowl of oatmeal!” (alternatively: wanted plots.)

childhood neighbor / best friend. i would love to have a person ( or several ) who knew him growing up (from age 11 on), and kind of got to bear witness to how strange he’s become? maybe even be weirdos together? i dunno, let’s talk. we

past relationships. i imagine he’s had his fair share of flings in the past. he’s made many mistakes for sure. let’s uncover them.

close friends. #squadgoals. but really, though. i’d love for bez to have a tightknit group of 3-4 people who he just clicks with. they wreak havoc, but it’s all in good fun.

enemies. i would love to have an enemies plot that’s actually hilarious? like one tiny thing catapulted these two into a mutual, deep, to-the-bones kind of hatred. it’s irrational, but they’re so infuriated by one another’s presence that all they can do is think of stupid quips and glare from afar. i imagine their public interactions bring onlookers a lot of poorly stifled laughs, because it’s just like… they’re so obviously trying so hard to hate one another with absolutely zero grounds.

miscellaneous. maybe they got his mail and returned it to his door, and it sparked the beginning of a beautiful friendship. maybe they met in the park when this person’s dog peed on bez’s shoe. maybe they’re a frequent listener to bez’s show and they bonded over that? or perhaps they both enjoy engaging in semi-friendly grocery store competitions to see who can get to the ripest apples the quickest? anything’s possible!

chris! is that a weed?! smoke with him, my dudes!! or like, anything? my guy’s not shy about investing in “life enhancements”.

but yes come message me on here for plots or hmu for my discord! so hype!

#faulk:intro

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zoltanberrigomo · 7 years ago

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Statistical Significance

Item #: SCP-3285

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Foundation agents have been placed in positions of power within the governments of Israel, Iran, North Korea, Japan, India, and Pakistan. At the discretion of the O5 council, a sequence of events culminating in a nuclear exchange between Israel/Iran, North Korea/Japan, or India/Pakistan can be put into motion at approximately a week's notice. Description: SCP-3285 is the collective designation given to patterns of events which bring the world to the brink of nuclear annihilation before de-escalation. The archetypal events grouped under this designation are:

SCP-3285-001: On Sep 26, 1983, Soviet early warnings satellites recorded five Minutemen intercontinental ballistic missiles launched from an American military base. The event occurred in the aftermath of Ronald Reagan's "evil empire" speech. Lieutenant Colonel Stanislav Petrov, shift supervisor at the Soviet command center, chose to report to his superiors that the incoming data was erroneous. The available evidence did not support this unequivocal judgement and Lt. Col. Petrov later described his choice as a "gut decision." Although ultimately correct, Lt. Col. Petrov was reprimanded, ostensibly for improperly documenting the event in the logs, and relieved of duty. It is notable that Lt. Col. Petrov was the on-duty staff officer as a result of covering for a colleague who was ill.

SCP-3285-002: In Oct. 1963, in the midst of the Cuban missile crisis, the captain of a Soviet submarine stationed off the coast of Cuba mistook depth charges for an assault and gave the order to launch a nuclear torpedo at an American ship. Regulations required unanimity among the top three officers; while the first officer concurred with the captain, the second officer, Commander Vasili Arkhipov, refused to agree to the launch.

SCP-3285-003: On November 9, 1973, a computer error at NORAD resulted in a faulty notification of a Soviet nuclear attack. Initial estimates placed the number of incoming Soviet missiles at approximately 250, which was almost immediately revised to over 2,200. National Security Adviser Zbigniew Brzezinski was advised the decision to retaliate must be made within minutes. However, just as this deadline was passing additional information became available which contradicted the initial reports.

Additional events considered part of SCP-3285 are:

The entirety of the Cuban missile crisis.

The assassination of John F. Kennedy (which lead to a nuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union in the majority of war games simulated by the Foundation).

The Norwegian rocket incident of 1995 (when Russian radars recorded an unexpected missile launch, consistent with an attack from a nuclear-armed submarine, projected to hit Moscow in under than 5 minutes).

The Thule false alarm of 1960 (when NORAD reported a 99.9% likelihood of a Soviet nuclear strike landing within minutes).

Additional █ classified instances believed to be part of SCP-3285 are listed in document SCP-3285-LJKW.

While the positive outcome associated with each of these events can be explained by reference to the laws of chance, the chance of humanity surviving all the events comprising SCP-3285 is exceedingly small. Precise assignment of probabilities is problematic, but the key observation is that probabilities of independent events multiply. As a result, attempts to assign probabilities to positive outcomes of events in SCP-3285 typically lead to extremely low estimates for the probability of all of them occurring together.

Additional evidence for the anomalous origin of the phenomenon lies in the apparent coincidences or unusual events that prevented many of the events comprising SCP-3285 from escalating into full-blown nuclear war. Lt. Col. Petrov was on-duty covering for a sick colleague; a different staff officer might have reported to the Kremlin that a nuclear attack was underway. The Thule false alarm occurred during Soviet Premier Khruschev's widely publicized visit to the United States, leading NORAD operators to consider a Soviet attack at the time unlikely. Testimony was not extracted from Lee Harvey Oswald due to his murder by Jack Ruby, a Dallas nightclub owner without explicit Soviet connections.

The most plausible explanation derives from the anthropic principle. A nuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union would have escalated to a "nuclear winter" and the likely extinction of humanity. In all the universes where these events happened, humanity and the Foundation do not exist. Thus any human being alive at the end of the cold war will inhabit a universe where a nuclear exchange between the United States and Soviet Union was averted.

Stronger versions of the anthropic principle propose to make predictions based on what a "typical living observer" is likely to experience. This framework appears to match SCP-3285: given that the cold war has a propensity to repeatedly escalate into nuclear confrontation, the typical living observer will inhabit a universe which comes to brink of nuclear war before ultimately retreating [1].

An implication is that humanity is unlikely to survive confrontations between nuclear powers, as the anthropic principle cannot ensure humanity's safety in the future. As nuclear weapons grow progressively easier to construct due to technological progress, the danger from SCP-3285 is projected to grow exponentially. In particular, it appears highly unlikely that humanity will survive a future in which small states and private/subnational actors are capable of building substantial nuclear arsenals.

Possibilities for containment: On 5/6/2007, the Historical Dynamics Division proposed a possible means of containment. Project Controlled Burn is premised on the observation that excesses of violence often drive periods of peace in human history. For example, broad revulsion at the atrocities of Nazi Germany is considered to be responsible for the relative peacefulness of the post-WW-II period in Europe.

It is therefore proposed that a limited nuclear exchange, comprising between 20-40 atomic explosions, would result in a widespread abhorrence of nuclear weapons with a strong preventative effect. The probability that an exchange of that size would lead to the extinction of humanity is believed to be exceedingly small, although a large number of civilian casualties are to be expected.

The Historical Dynamics division has argued that a controlled nuclear war between North Korea and Japan is the most attractive possibility for containment of SCP-3285. Since nuclear weapons were used in World War II on Japanese soil, it is conjectured that the destruction of several Japanese cities would evoke a particularly strong wave of worldwide sympathy. It is therefore recommended that, if the Foundation chooses to provoke a nuclear exchange, either Hiroshima or Nagasaki (or both) be included within the list of targets to emphasize historical resonance.

The Ethics Committee approved Project Controlled Burn on 2/8/2013. On 1/7/2015, the O5 council voted 10-3 to forego implementation, with the proviso that the vote be revisited every five years. On 9/20/2017, following increased tensions between US and North Korea with threats of nuclear attack on both sides, the O5 council met to discuss the matter again. The possibility that an uncontrolled nuclear exchange in which one side emerged as the clear victor might in fact accelerate nuclear proliferation was discussed. By a vote of 8-5, the previous decision was affirmed. The next vote is scheduled for 1/7/2020.

[1] There are a number of mathematical ways to formalize this statement. The simplest is to model relations between cold war powers as a one-dimensional random walk which has a tendency to move towards an absorptive state corresponding to nuclear war. Conditional on lack of absorption, Eq. (3.4) of E.A. Van Doorn, ``Quasi-stationary distributions and convergence to quasi-stationarity of birth-death processes,'' Annals of Applied Probability, pp. 683-700, 1991 provides a concentration result for such a random walk around the absorptive state.

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abovethesmokestacks · 7 years ago

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Run, Run, Run

Title: Run, Run, Run Character: Bucky Barnes, mentions of Steve Rogers Rating: General Audiences Word count: 2.4k Spoilers: general spoilers for CA: CW

I signed up for Annie’s (@hellomissmabel) 1k followers celebration, opting to do her shuffle challenge. I got assigned “Living In the City” by Rhys Lewis, and this is what came out of it. Tag list at the end.

Brooklyn, New York, US

The Asset doesn’t really know how he ends up here. The borough calls to him, lights the way back like a beacon that he can’t help but follow. His desperate exit from D.C has him shedding his tac suit like old skin, rifling for whatever clothing he can find that fits him, resorting to petty pickpocketing for cash to make it through his days.

Brooklyn makes something jar inside him, a vertigo creeping in to grab hold of him when he walks down streets, looks at buildings too long, lingers at intersections. The eyes tell him this is not the same, but the mind disagrees. The mind says ‘home’. The mind says ‘belong’. The mind says ‘Steve’.

The mind should have no memories of either. The mind should be blank, a canvas for handlers to paint missions onto. Simple instructions. Defrost protocols, briefing, supply, exit protocols. A different kind of beacon mercilessly pulling him back. Fulfillment of mission, extraction, debrief, cryo.

The Asset stays only long enough to get on his feet, gather funds, recon his own exit protocols. His body shudders. It says ‘Brooklyn is not the same’. It says ‘I’ve been gone for too long’. It says ‘I’ve been living in the city too long’.

He leaves at first light, a month after D.C.

London, UK

He takes the name offered to him back in D.C. It carries meaning, the mind painting vivid memories of the disbelief and pain in the other man’s eyes. Bucky. He keeps it to himself, a closely guarded treasure that won’t be ripped from him again. The mind is oddly cluttered, a strange cesspool of fragments he tries to put into order, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it. It makes his head ache, his body shiver, pulls him out of disjointed nightmares.

There is no more cryo, no more resets. He can’t forget, and shouldn’t want to, right? Do normal people wish they could wipe their consciousness clean of all the emotions brought upon them? Measures need to be taken. Self-discipline not encouraged. He is not an asset anymore. Integration critical.

London is bustling, a pulse underneath his skin that refuses to settle. Maybe it’s because Bucky keeps looking over his shoulder, keeps expecting extraction and forcible reset. Like any other metropolitan area, HYDRA has strongholds here. The mind supplies the locations of two (2) storage areas and fifteen (15) resupply caches. These have everything needed for extended missions, but it’s too soon. They will no doubt be crawling with operatives. He cannot risk detection.

Bucky walks around London with that syncopathic pulse beating inside him, takes a job where the bare minimum of questions are asked and his pay comes in a nice stack of bills twice a month. He moves around, tries to stay nondescript. London is great for flying below the radar. It’s cold enough that no one looks twice at the jacket he wears, the gloves covering his hands. He switches between different kinds of caps and hats, lets his scruff grow out. The language adapts in his mouth, bends to the environment, takes on a different cadence. He eats, eagerly tasting anything that strikes him. It’s a wonderful start, he thinks. He can do this, he thinks. It’s okay. Nondescript. Incognito.

Except for when he wakes from his dreams. He screams in an accent his heart refuses to forget, refuses to relinquish until he talks himself back into the one he has adopted for his cover. It happens too often for him to bear it. Something needs to be done. Measures-

No.

He is not an asset. Maybe he can’t go to a shrink like normal people do, but he is not a thing for which measures are taken to fix glitches in the programming. Bucky will… deal with himself. Somehow.

Months crawl by. A notebook finds its way into his belongings, his hands rifling for it in the darkness when he wakes up from another horror playing out in his head. Pages are filled, his writing in the beginning so shaky he can hardly read it. It evens out over time. Memories supply more memories.

London has been good to him. He packs up after six months, the whispers of a HYDRA ops sending him running. It won’t do to be recaptured. It won’t do to be discovered. If HYDRA is here, the man on the br- Steve might come. Bucky is not ready.

London has been good. He’s been here too long.

Vienna, Austria

He picks his cities with delicate balance. Large so he can blend in, be just another person milling about. His mind readily supplies him with intel on HYDRA presence, number of cryo storages, resupply caches. It is intel he doesn’t want to know how he acquired it, but it undoubtedly proves useful.

Vienna straddles the balance. Bucky can hide, but the number of resupply caches worry him. The city is a hub, a focal point in a network quietly seeping into the continent. But there are no cryo storages, no active ops near as far as he can tell. It will do. It will have to.

It is easier to settle, to find work that will pay in cash, to find shelter, to find a rhythm. For all the niggling worry in the back of his mind, Bucky takes to Vienna a lot better than London. The language is softer, wrapping pleasantly around his tongue as he makes small talk with the men stuck on the same work detail. Bucky tries to think of it as practice. This is normal. Talking, interacting. Staying quiet would be anomalous. He chooses a different name than in London, something universal that speaks both of here and anywhere. Bucky is for his own time.

It’s for the apfelstrudel he eats in a corner of Stephansplatz, watching people milling about while the spire of the Stephansdom reaches towards the sky. It’s for the quiet moments when he wakes one morning because the sun’s rays are filtering through the dirty windows after a night without nightmares. It’s for the moment his detail has been directed to the Wiener Musikverein and the floating notes of a classical piece his mind knows but can’t put a name on stops him dead in his tracks. He wants to break off, sneak closer. Hell, he wants to find a damn air vent so he can crawl unseen into the hall and listen to the piece, the crescendo slowly rising to grip tightly at his heart.

“You have not lived until you have experienced Beethoven in that room.” It’s one of the men he works with, peering at Bucky with a curious smile.

“Then I guess I’ll never live,” Bucky replies, knowing that although he might scrape together the cash needed for a ticket, he could never truly go to a performance.

It doesn’t stop him from buying a burner phone, just so he can waste the preset data limit on listening to the Beethoven piece throughout the nights when he’s ripped awake. The screen gets wrecked on the third night, and he forces his body to learn to only grab the phone with his right hand. The melody soothes him, his tears hitting just as the crescendo starts building. This person he is, the consciousness aching inside his body… It doesn’t quite belong.

Bucky plans his exit meticulously. Vienna has been good, but it’s time to move on. His final paycheck has been tucked away into his backpack, all goodbyes have been said, a convincing lie that will lead any pursuers in the wrong direction should they come looking. The numerous caches in the city are too good to give up. He could hit one of them. Raid it and get out. Five show signs of recent activity. Out. Another five are too old to have updated supplies. Probability of old currency high. Avoid. Three more are nixed because they stray too far from his exit strategy.

He ends up outside an inconspicuous building in Josefstadt. No one has come or gone in the three days he has surveilled it. It underwent a remodel no more than five years ago, meaning supplies needed to be shifted and upgraded. It’s a simple enough mission. Infiltrate, retrieve, exit. Bucky’s heart is beating a mile a minute, his body covered in cold sweat when he walks out no more than ten minutes later with his backpack and duffel filled. Cash, intel, equipment. Everything he needs.

If HYDRA comes looking, they will find their cache raided. They will find their surveillance cameras mangled, showing the face of their ghost just before they flicker out. They will show his picture to the people at the nearby train station, find out a man bought a one way ticket to Bern. CCTV will show the man boarding the train and disappear from Vienna. The ghost knows when to disappear.

Naples, Italy

It’s not the best choice Bucky’s made, but he figures HYDRA would assume he wouldn’t hide out in a city off the coast of the Mediterranean in the middle of summer. Naples is hot as hell, the language takes days to adapt to, he has to wait until a rainy day makes his attire less likely to be held to scrutiny, and even that requires a shopping trip he most definitely did not ask for.

It’s another round of night shifts, another set of envelopes with wads of bills, jumping between safehouses. He sleeps naked under thin sheets that cling to his body when he wakes in the late afternoon. There’s not much to do, he can’t go outside, not while the sun is still blazing down on the city. He fills his notebook - notebooks, now - with memories, rough drawings, newspaper clippings when he can find them and they spark something in his addled mind.

It’s a whirlwind spilling onto the pages, and in the eye of the storm is the man on the- Steve. He knows his name is Steve, every bone in his body, every fiber, every muscle aches in recognition. It’s a feeling of same-but-different, echoes of Steve’s voice in the dark calling for him. His memories supply contradicting images, conversations indicating worry about health and financial situation, vivid memories of the force behind the shield and pulling a heavy body to shore.

Managing the chaos becomes… not exactly easier, but he tries. Out of nothing came everything, and his thoughts beg for order, for synchronicity, for logic. A timeline helps with the nightmares, helps him identify when, why, where.

Being confined like this, it eats away at him. Even after the sun sets, the temperatures remain sweltering, and by the time Bucky sneaks out of the shoddy apartment to go to his shift at the docks, it has cooled down just enough to make his attire of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt seem inconspicuous enough. Naples, for all its beauty remains largely unexplored.

When it’s time to move on again, Bucky scouts out another cache to loot. He wants to stock up enough that he could survive without having to do another loot in the next city. His manager at the docks didn’t say much. Same as always. Final paycheck, a simple goodbye. Hiding in an alley outside the cache he decided to hit, Bucky realizes that for all that he has tried to fit in in order to remain forgettable, he has not gained a single friend, not a single acquaintance.

His only friend is a man he can’t fully remember.

He leaves Naples a fairly wealthy man, his soul as restless as his legs. Nothing to leave behind, everything to run towards. He should have left long ago.

Bucharest, Romania

Bucky doesn’t intend to make it a home, but Bucharest takes him in and sweeps him up in a bubble where he can relax for the first time in over a year. The city has minimal HYDRA presence, only a few caches that are all a little outdated. The city tells him he is okay. The city tells him it will keep him safe. It provides for him; a small apartment that he pays for with stolen cash, a language that sits comfortably, flows easily from his lips. It’s a far cry from the toughness of Brooklyn, the rough edges of London. It is kinder than the Austrian German, softer than the Naples variation of Italian.

Bucky finds companionships in the old ladies down the hall who keep fawning over “the handsome young man”. They inundate him in food until he can find his bearings in preparing meals for himself, they provide him with a few necessities, call him little bear in a way that has him smiling instead of telling them he is far more dangerous than any bear could ever be. He tentatively makes a home, something that is his. Maybe it’s a little dark, but it’s all his making, his choices, his preferences. Some part of him settles in that apartment, sinks its roots into the dingy sofa he picked up at a yard sale, takes great pleasure in preparing oatmeal with fresh fruit sliced on top, hums in contentment at the sound of the radio that is perpetually set just a little out of alignment so the voices rasp in a way that his mind says is good and familiar.

Of course he makes plans, works out contingencies. The backpack with his notebooks, his memories, gets stashed under a floorboard he pries loose one night. He walks through ten different kinds of exit strategies, considers distances, destinations, calculates for minimal collateral damage. That is also familiar. If he has to keep one thing of his old life, it might as well be this, because he can use it to keep people safe. He can keep Adela, Ileana and Vera safe. He can make his new life without a fuss. He can be a little bear.

None of this helps the day it all comes crashing down. Bucky knows the second he sees his old moniker in the newspapers, knows the moment he sees an all too familiar silhouette browsing the notebook he’d written in the night before, knows when the tell-tale sound of heavy boots close in, knows when the first bullets start zinging through the air. He should have run away already. But with each bullet blocked, each projectile hurled in defense, flying through the air with his gaze fixed on the roof he’s aiming for, surrounded by law enforcement and a goddamn man in a flying suit, his mind quietly tells him:

This is where we stayed. This is where we stop.

@ursulaismymiddlename, @loup-malin, @bakexprayxlove, @callamint, @mrshopkirk, @tatortot2701, @ceebeetumbles, @thetalesofmooseandsquirrel, @lenia1d, @andhiseyesweregreen, @basicallybucky, @thatgirlsar, @bubblebathsandsarcasm, @amrita31199, @netflixa, @erisjade, @rockintensse, @marvelrevival, @jurassicbarnes, @writemarvelousthings, @gallifreyansass, @allyallyally-oh, @shy2shot, @angryschnauzer, @engineeringgirlcve, @hellstempermentalangel, @whyisbuckyso, @melconnor2007, @brookebarnes, @snuggleducky, @avengerofyourheart, @booksandshowsandmovies-ohmy, @themcuhasruinedme, @creideamhgradochas, @feepsmoothie, @nuvoleincielo, @wellfuckbuck, @mellifluous-melodramas, @sarahsassafras13, @romanosgirl1978, @bovaria, @sebbytrash, @rosyskies, @cyanide-candyx, @thelastjedl, @4theluvofall, @just-another-fangirl777, @avengingnights, @softwhispers, @therealgingermermaid, @c-maximoffs, @ipaintmelodies, @reniescarlett, @mizzzpink, @winter-in-wakanda, @viollettes, @lenavonschweetz, @stephanie11220

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #marvel imagine #my fics #fic: run run run

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eatbreathewrite · 8 years ago

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First Contact

(Inspired by a binge play of Mass Effect 1, a silly conversation with @ysmirel and also from reading too many (wonderful) alien stories on tumblr. A bit longer than what I usually write here, at about 4k words.)

Part I | Part II | Part III

They thought they were safe.

They thought their galaxy would never be a problem, because no sane, sentient organism would ever venture into, or out of, that hazardous place willingly—that dangerous fortress of a planet far too close to its star center, simultaneously protected and threatened by Planet ZS-01’s gravitational field and vibrantly thriving despite several near-misses with asteroid strikes and gradually increasing heat deterioration.

They assumed this for several decades, centuries, passing detailed warnings and fearmongering education of the singular species down by generations and knowing they’d never face an issue with too much interest in that isolated, forbidden corner of the megaverse because of the carefully-maintained precautions.

For all their calculations, however, they overlooked one vital detail—something so incredibly basic that in hindsight they should have predicted it—in omnisight, should have known it would happen, yet overlooked it out of—they weren’t too vain to admit it—sheer arrogance. That detail was: when one species reaches out and repeatedly attempts to communicate, especially one not deterred by radio silence, another species will inevitably respond. Particularly, those ugly, unsavory, desperate Isa from the Kraal System who were warned, always warned, and heavily fined, but never listened. But the fault originated with them, for not keeping a closer eye on those anomalous creatures, for being too complacent in believing the Isa were far too worthless for those beings to accept.

And so, despite their efforts, and due to their own failings, first contact was made.

“Gormar Xeldan? We’ve, intercepted a transmission, from—” The waifish Eeos were known for their frail and stammering vocal clicks, but this pause was intentional, and unsettling, “—from Planet TF-01. From Earth, Xir.”

“Your point? Handle it as you always do. Close communications and quarantine the sound waves.” The gormar said the words automatically, hoping they would suffice. Praying this wasn’t a unique situation, because no one being ever mentioned that planet by its given name.

“I would, Xir, but, Xir, this message has a, specific recipient, in the Kraal System—the Isa. Specifically, to Kann’ir, their self-appointed magnate. They—they are, arranging a summit. Accepting an, invitation.”

“Accepting? When was the invitation sent? How did we not intercept unauthorized communication waves to the Xeno System?”

“Because, you’ve said it yourself, Xir, they lack the proper intelligence, and, their messages can hold no significant content. We—we simply missed it, because, we weren’t looking.”

“Block all further communications between TF-01 and the Kraal System! Open up a contact channel with Gormar I’il immediately!”

“Not Kann’ir, Xir?”

“Not that bumbling gorgav, no!”

This was their worst circadian vision come true. It was what this very organization was built to prevent—the first, and last, line of defense between Earth and everything beyond. Everything that needed to be protected from its flagrant neocortal pollution, because there was a higher moral order, one that could not be ignored, and that planet’s very existence threatened to tear it all down and destroy the very foundation.

“Xir, we’ve received readings of light travel, in the Xeno System! Earthians, are on the move! I repeat, Earthians, are on the move!”

Every manner of abrasive language escaped the gormar’s tentacled vocal orifice as he rushed to the comm screen, manually connecting to the Kraal System’s military alliance and cranking its priority to zeta.

“Ah, Gormar Xeldan! How nice it is to hear from you,” came the croaking, liquidy warble of the Isa’s highest-ranked military overseer upon immediate response. Not that they needed one, because, by H’orlak, the species was as pacifistic and indolent as they came. It was a glorified armchair position, a societal bragging right, Xeldan knew, but going through the proper channels was protocol and he was obligated by rank.

“Do not patronize me, Gormar I’il. Reveal this Earthian scheme of yours before you endanger the megaverse!”

“Scheme? There’s no scheme,” I’il was quick to deny. “We Isa are only acting as cordial hosts extending the hand of friendship to a most intriguing species. Don’t take us for fools, Xeldan, as I know you do—we’ve arranged the meeting to take place on your station. Neutral territory. Safe territory, as you say. Our revered Kann’ir and two others are transporting to Holos now.”

“There is nothing even remotely friendly about your intention, I’il. Of all the intergalactic species, you Isa are as repulsive as the Earthians.”

“Your bias is unfounded, Xeldan. Rooted in fear. Not surprising, coming from the group that named the Earthian’s system Xeno. From the group that denominated our system such a shameful word. Or perhaps you are just upset your sibling entered unity with one of us. Isa and Vendarian hybrid offspring are quite adorable. And Xeldiir is such a wonderful custodial unit. Very kind. Caring. Accepting.” A low, hum vibrated in her throat—a derisive laugh—as Xeldan’s facial glands emanated a pulsing, furious bioluminescence. “Give my regards to the Earthians, Xeldan. Please don’t scare them away with your prejudice.”

Xeldan slammed his tactile extremity to the hologram board to cut the call, but the channel had already been closed. He realized his bioluminescent pulses were illuminating the darkened screen before him and paused a moment to meditate, to regulate his levels, and spoke as the glowing white lights flickered away into the folds of his skin.

“Prepare to receive Magnate Kann’ir and his guards at the transport bay. Ready the access ways for docking. Enact all decontamination procedures. Earthians are scheduled to board.”

The Eeos gasped collectively. “Xir?”

“It wasn’t a mistake. We will allow them onto the Holos.”

It was a mistake, however. Any contact with disreputable Earthians could be nothing less.

Kann’ir and his duo of guards did not meet Xeldan on the bridge after arrival, but rather hovered eagerly near the access way airlocks, crowding together near a semi-sphere porthole, waiting for the first signs of their Earthian friends’ arrival among the stars, and blatantly disregarding decontamination measures.

To Xeldan, the trio looked more like an unnecessary smudge of gelp on the window, in need of cleaning. How his bio-organic counterpart could ever pledge unity to one of—those—forever escaped his understanding.

“Kann’ir,” he spoke as he approached, never one to mask his presence, never one to quiet his many footsteps, but knowing the Isa would ignore him if he didn’t vocally announce himself.

“Gormar Xeldan! Gormar, this is an absolutely monumental light cycle! First contact with the Earthians—humans—”

“Do not speak that word. Not on the Holos, not in the Kraal System—nowhere. Ever,” he spoke, containing his rage, but inadequately, much to his irritation. “And do not think you’ve escaped disciplinary action for arranging this entirely under our radar.”

“You are so uptight, Gormar. Xeldiir was not exaggerating.” Kann’ir hovered near the tempered Ilite glass a moment longer before turning to face him. If Xeldan hadn’t been watching, he wouldn’t know what side of the Isa he was looking at. If they didn’t each have distinct voice patterns, he wouldn’t know who he was speaking with. “Old ideals, rhetoric, propaganda—do you not see that the megaverse is changing? Earthians are of this plane. They have a right to meet with us. To interact. To be part of what we have.”

“There is only one thing Earthians are interested in having.”

The orb in Kann’ir’s center, the hub of a system of web-like veins throughout its body, hummed as its hue seeped into black. “Misconceptions. That is—you let yourself be blind to their true potential. They are intelligent. Progressive. And…lonely. I don’t suppose a Vendarian would understand, not even if H’orlak or the Orveran spoke it in their own verses.”

“You speak so highly, so certainly, of a singular species that wishes to copulate with anything—anything.”

“Misconceptions, as I said. Not incorrect—but only a subset of the whole.”

“As if luring a Vendarian into your collective wasn’t appalling enough, now you seek to absorb Earthian lineage? Just like them, you Isa will copulate with anything as well.”

Kann’ir did not respond immediately, but regarded him with a tangible air of dismay.

“We are a small species. A dying species. Procreating is not priority zeta, however—we only wish to pass on our existence. Our history. H’orlak knows none of you or your association will preserve us. Humanity expressed interest. Curiosity. Drive. Not only toward the Isa—but any other beings who would cast aside their pride and reciprocate communication. Vendarian, Eeos, even Gorgav. Earthians are, first and foremost, pioneers.”

“Speak this garbage to any other being, and you would be persecuted.”

“Further than we already have been?”

This was a conflict between two species that would never reconcile their differences, at least not without adequate motivation. For now, their argument was at a standstill, and would have to remain as such for the time being, because a glinting light in the distance signaled the Earthians’ long-belated arrival.

There was not much about the Earthians Xeldan did not know, as much as it pained him to admit it. One of his duties on Holos was to monitor their activity within the Xeno System, and on Earth itself. It was not unknown that they’d embarked into stellar real estate ventures, sending recreation stations up to orbit their planet. Last he’d checked, they’d been in the process of installing amusement parks on their only moon. AR-01, Mars, was a work in progress, but it seemed they intended to expand their population outward as far as they could go. The further from the star center, the better, he always said of his own system. But he was also aware the Earthians could not survive too far from their star center.

He was aware of their appearance—and the variations of morphology therein. He was aware of their fondness for warfare, which, over the decades, had waned considerably. It was a danger that could be rekindled, now that they had been granted confirmation of and contact with sentient, intelligent celestial lifeforms beyond their galaxy, the center of their own small world.

They were small-minded, one-track creatures, he firmly believed. Only a small step above the Isa, and only due to their superior bipedal evolution.

But no matter how much he thought he knew, meeting two Earthians for the first time was something no one being could have prepared him for.

The docking process was slow, if only because their Earth ship was small and the particle pathway joining them to the Holos had to calibrate its vacuum seals appropriately to prevent gas leaks, and then, once that was resolved, their entrance should have been relatively swift. Yet, the two Earthians procrastinated, examining every bit of the translucent pathway as they walked over the void of space, vocal orifices—no, they called them mouths—rounded in—awe, was it? He’d studied their facial patterns in depth, but he found in person, they were difficult to decode.

The Isa vibrated in joy at his side, buzzing with anticipation, nerve webs crackling, as they watched the Earthians make their way ever closer, but all Xeldan felt was dread. It wasn’t often he felt much of anything. His tactile extremities had dried, sliding uncomfortably against the standard-issue laser blade holstered at his side. Only as a precaution.

The second the pressure locks disengaged and the airlock released, hatch sliding upwards, chattering noises and peculiar throat-vibrations filled the area. It took Xeldan a fair nano tic to realize the Earthians were laughing. Bouncing, hyper gestures—spasmodic as the Eeos—as they held each other by the arms and spread their vocal orifices, displaying their tusks—no, teeth—in a startlingly bold gesture.

The Isa, however, weren’t shaken. Eagerly, they approached, and several quick gestures were exchanged. None came across correctly—their customs were of a different scale. But they laughed it off—both the Earthians and the Isa. As if they’d long been acquainted. Allied.

Preposterous.

The Earthian with the long, limp, brown skull-tendrils—hair—spoke to him suddenly, fixed her two oculars—eyes, no, oculars, as that word equated something different in his language, yet he couldn’t call them biolumes, either—shielded by her helmet’s lens, on him, and he didn’t realize until her comrade approached and moved his mouth as well that he hadn’t adjusted his aural frequencies to accommodate Earthian tongue. He tapped the side of his headset once, twice, filtering through Earthian languages, before locking in on the proper translation channel.

“Can they understand?” The Earthian with the sheared skull-tendrils and dark skin spoke, oculars flitting from his companion to Kann’ir as he set a hand against his helmet and shifted on his legs, awaiting response.

“Connor? Can they understand us? Or, uh, do you have to translate?” The female Earthian asked Kann’ir, mouth puckered into a peculiar shape reminiscent of a Gorgav’s. Disgusting.

“There will be no need for that. I understand just fine.”

Confusion transitioned into shock, oculars going wide, and mouths rounding once again. The scale of which their facial patterns could alternate, and with such speed, horrified him. But he wouldn’t show it, and to his relief, his biolumes did not betray him.

“I am Gormar—General—Xeldan, and I am the head of the Holos Station.”

“Good Gods, he can speak English!” The male Earthian’s vocals boomed as he took a step back, pressing his tactile—hand—to his thorax—chest, Xeldan corrected himself, finding this experience becoming increasingly irritating, among everything else.

“Wow! Hi, um, General—Gormar—sir! My name is Greta. Greta Christie. This is Nwoye Jordan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Gormar Zeldan, sir.”

Hearing their foreign vocals speak his native language, and doing a poor job of it, was not a pleasure. Especially when their round, wide oculars continued to watch him, incessant.

“Now, Gormar Xeldan, mind your manners.” Kann’ir prodded, hovering higher at his side. “And you two, as well, Greta, Nwoye. Staring is not something the Vendarian are accustomed to.”

“So—so sorry about that. It’s just—you’re huge! Gormar, sir,” Greta added, displaying her teeth again, giddy. “And Vendarian are just so different from the Isa. I don’t know what I expected, maybe a lot of similar-looking, uniform beings like Connor, like big jelly slugs, but,” her oculars caught sight of a nosy Eeos lurking near the maintenance station and her head wobbled. “You’re all so…so different. So many. I—I want to hug—”

“I’d like permission to take photos, to document this. May I?” Nwoye spoke up, spoke over his companion and stepped in front of her in a daring display of disrespect that, for other species, could assure death, and pulled up a black cube of an object with a cylindrical attachment and a shining lens. It looked much like an obsolete replication device from several orbit cycles past. “It would be a great advantage to take records back with us, for posterity.” The Earthian watched him intently, then looked away, recalling Kann’ir’s previous cautions.

“Be sure to capture my good side,” Kann’ir warbled lightly, always making light of any potential hazard.

Xeldan was not so lenient.

“No. Enough chatter. You will follow me to the conference chamber—and you will not freely wander this station. Understood?”

Greta’s breathing patterns hitched, while Nwoye tucked his replication device into a large pocket and hummed, holding his extremities—arms—out in a helpless motion.

“Understood, Earthians?”

They exchanged a look—a look Xeldan did not like—and wobbled their heads.

“Understood, sir.”

He did not have full confidence that they did.

The conference chamber was apparently to their liking—without waiting for permission, they dropped their bodies into the rounded chairs and reached for their helmets, communicating that the O-readings were sufficient, and removed them with a hiss of vapor that had Xeldan taking an unwilling step backward, toward the hatch, in apprehension. Then, much to his mortification, they continued to shed their bulky, protective shielding, until all that remained were fashions similar to what he’d seen in “magazines.”

Kann’ir and his guards took the head of the table, floating above their seats, cores pulsing a low blue. Bioluminescence ran the spectrum for varying species—that hue indicated calm, if he wasn’t mistaken. Nwoye held his replication device on the table surface, oculars wandering longingly throughout the area, specifically to the sealed hatch. Greta focused on a square attached to her wrist before bringing up a hologram screen displaying a geo map and a series of symbols—Earth numerals. Their initial giddiness seemed to have subsided.

“Okay, so, Nwoye, I’m gonna be honest here,” Greta spoke as she eyed the screen, specifically a flickering pinpoint. “Ensign Rodgers doesn’t know I took the Griselda out for a deep space spin, so, as much as I don’t want to, we’ll have to make this conference quick.”

Nwoye quickly pivoted his head in a way that made Xeldan’s ache. “You didn’t tell me that, Gret. You said you had his permission!”

“I said I had access to my brother’s—uh, General Salcedo’s private ship. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I can not believe—”

“What, you really can’t? Really? It’s okay! Don’t worry. We have two hours—Earth time—before he gets back and…well, yeah. Shit will hit the fan. I’ll get sent back to Earth for, like, a month, and you’ll be given a slap on the wrist. Nothing that would make us regret this trip.”

“Alright…okay. Yeah. Let’s make this quick—we’re here to establish ambassadorship, right, Connor, my man?”

“I’m just here for the sightseeing. And sights there are.”

If Xeldan wasn’t mistaken, her oculars drifted to him for a tic longer than was comfortable—and that brief look was all he needed to confirm his suspicions of their visit. “There will be no ambassadorship. Kann’ir, what is this? How long have you continued communications with Earthians?”

“I met Connor when I was fourteen!” Greta raised her hand high and bared her teeth. “Caught a weird radio wave. Oh, I’m twenty-three, now, if that answers any questions. I told Nwoye about it when we were in sophomore year and we’ve all been talking ever since.”

It did answer questions.

Xeldan turned on the Isa and slammed his extremities to the table, rattling its surface, shocking the Earthians into swiftly drawing their arms away from it.

“Sixteen orbit cycles, Kann’ir!?”

Nwoye exhaled. “Seems like you underestimate the Isa. So we’ve been told.”

Greta’s oculars narrowed a bit with an indecipherable nuance. “Yeeep. They’re not as stupid as you think. Also, they’re, like, super horny? In a weird way. Are you all down to fuck humans?” This, she directed at Xeldan, who, with repulsion, watched Kann’ir’s biolumes flash yellow in a rare show of embarrassment. He was sure his own were steadily approaching white.

“Greta,” Nwoye warned, dragging his hand over his face. “Don’t.”

“No, no, wait—I wanna know. I’m an opportunist, and the general’s got it goin’ on with that space Cthulhu look.”

Kann’ir warned her, too. “Greta, Vendarian do not take kindly to jokes. They are literal—and close-minded.” His vocals were hushed, at those final words.

Greta looked to him, and was silent for a tic.

“Not fully joking, but I’ll shut up.”

It was the final straw for Xeldan.

“Yes, do ‘shut up.’ Do not dare to think you Earthians were invited here unanimously. This meeting is strictly between you and the Isa. I am only here to ensure you understand your place. If it were up to me, neither you, nor the Isa would be within a negameter of this station. You Earthians are a blight upon the megaverse. Nothing more than gelp on the bottom side of a Gorgav.”

Greta slapped a hand to her chest, mouth curving downward, as she reeled back in her seat as if physically struck, and did not shut up.

“Wow. Rude much. I know what a Gorgav is and ouch. Look, I know you Vendarian are typically pretty strait-laced—going by what Connor’s said before, at least—and dirty humor apparently isn’t in your pristine DNA. But humans are not a blight. We try to reach out, and only one, one, species responds, out of many. Do you know how long we’ve tried to make contact? How many oribit cycles? Why don’t you actually try to get to know us before being such a—a bormlat.”

It was supposed to be an insult in their language, he was certain, but it was terribly botched. So, a bormlat he was going to be. “The only thing we need to know of you is that you remain permanently in your star system. You Earthians who possess no moral center, who abandon all dignity and draw no lines concerning who or what you will fornicate with and corrupt completely. Even your necrotic are continually violated, as well as your fellow Earth organisms and yourselves. Sometimes into a necrotic state. But there is also what you wish to violate—cheap imitations of interstellar species you have never seen, yet join with regardless, projecting threats—don’t act innocent, Earthian, when you yourself attempt to seduce me.”

He hadn’t intended to lash out—knew better, had trained, regulated himself so carefully over several cycles—but the Earthians had caught him off guard. Scrambled his equilibrium. His biolumes were flashing, brightening the room, and all oculars were trained on him, like laser sights.

“Gormar Xeldan, please,” Kann’ir attempted to speak, gently, but Greta’s vocals sounded firmly over his in another rude spectacle.

“What the fuck is he talking about?”

“Greta, don’t. Please don’t.” Nwoye had concealed his entire facial structure behind his hands, shaking his head back and forth. “You promised. You promised it wouldn’t get like this. This was supposed to be an ambassadorship meeting. Ambassadors are supposed to be…to be gracious. Gods. Gods… Don’t start a galactic war.”

“Connor?”

Kann’ir had fallen silent, core pulsing, neuron network branching out of his soft body like spindles to anchor himself to the table, too exhausted to expend energy hovering.

“What the fuck do you think humans are? You—you’re simplifying us into shallow porn stereotypes. Where did you get all this bad information? Literal pornography?” Slowly, she stood, pressing her hands firmly to the table surface, oculars focused like laser beams, set directly on him despite knowing it would be best not to. She wasn’t deterred even as Nwoye set a cautioning hand on the arm nearest to him.

“And don’t flatter yourself. There’s a small, insignificantly small, percentage of humans who would seriously be attracted—or desperate—enough to get on that. They’re out there, sure, but they won’t be coming for any of you in droves. Not the Isa, and definitely not the Vendarian. Furthermore, there’s even a portion of us who don’t think of fornicating at all.” She swiveled her oculars to the ceiling before blinking her ocular folds several times consecutively. “I can’t believe species who live in such a diverse society can still be so damn biased. Maybe we are better off staying in our own system, if this is the kind of shitty, uninformed welcome we’ll get.” She grabbed her insulated suit and pulled it on roughly. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand, Nwoye.”

Kann’ir hummed from his spot atop the table, gelatinous form losing its shape, wobbling in disappointment. “I tried to tell him.”

“The Isa are welcome to visit Earth anytime, and we’ll treat you well. Full V.I.P. treatment, as long as you promise to be good,” Nwoye consoled him as he reached for his helmet, securing it over his head with a dull whump. “We didn’t want it to end this way, and we wish it hadn’t. But Greta’s right, as crude as her words are, and we won’t apologize. It’s not right. We expected better.”

Xeldan held his silence as the Earthians were suited up, and the entire time, his biolumes flared a blinding yellow, which no one drew attention to.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been such a bormlat. Perhaps their intercepted data had provided an…incorrect perspective, rooted in broadcasted data waves that did not reveal an entire picture of humanity. Meeting the Earthians, and furthermore, attempting to visit their system, would provide more reliable data. Just from meeting these two, he’d come to discover they weren’t lusty, thirsting, all-consuming organisms that would stop for no one being. They were not dissimilar from the other species, in their desire to be recognized and accepted.

It was a mistake due to arrogance—the same pitfall that allowed this meeting to occur in the first place.

“’Scuse us, General.”

Greta stood before him, Nwoye at her side, Kann’ir and his guards wobbling forward on spindle nerves behind them. He hadn’t realized he was blocking the exit. Without a word, he stepped aside and pressed the hatch release.

It wasn’t until they reached the access ways that he spoke again.

“An apology is in order.” There was nothing wrong with the phrasing, he didn’t believe, but perhaps his vocals were too harsh. Greta stopped, whirled on her heel and opened her mouth wide, no doubt preparing to further educate the error of his ways, before he held up a tactile extremity—recognizable communication for stop. And she did. “On my behalf. Our data on Earth is incomplete and prone to fallacy. You claim you are different, and as such, I will take you on your word. We are not experts.” He paused for one, two, three tics. “Forgive me.”

This time, they were silent. Including Kann’ir, who glowed pale green in surprise.

“Your time seems to be short on this light cycle, but I’d like to arrange a summit with Earth in the near future. In the meantime, you, Greta Christie and Nwoye Jordan, are free to visit the Holos Station—for educational purposes—at your discretion.”

The Earthians stared.

For a tic, Xeldan feared he’d spoken the wrong phrases, forgotten to translate properly, but in the next instant, Greta raised her hand and slapped the soft palm-side against the rigid grip-side of his tactile extremity, teeth bared once again. It didn’t harm him—startled him, most definitely, and he only stared, all sets of biolumes fixed on her as she removed her hand and waved, as Nwoye waved in turn, and they took their leave, passing through the airlock, wandering through the translucent pathway, and disappearing into their ship. Then, just like that, their ship vanished into the stars and still, his extremity was raised, frozen in place, and his biolumes pulsed yellow, lighting up the corridor.

“…What happened just now, Kann’ir?” he asked the Isa at his side, who buzzed with mirth.

“I believe Earthian Greta Christie just offered unity to you, Gormar Xeldan.”

#humans are weird #space orcs #humans in space #original writing #aliens #incorporating old ideas from a dead sci fi story #it was supposed to be a joke but it turned into this #original #there is swearing #WIP

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margohouchens-blog · 7 years ago

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Articles, Labelled With "Youngsters".

In times where effective production tools are at your fingertips with a couple of clicks of a computer mouse, and marketing your own self to millions of individuals globally is actually equally quick and easy, its own important to possess a quick overview for newbies. The music was conducted predominantly by qualified artists affixed to the church as well as was not for parish involvement. Choosing the right method book to utilize is actually extremely important in educating private critical music courses. The Estonian Literary Gallery music stores have roughly 100,000 audios. Songs has a place in any type of productive public library story hr or even preschool classroom setup. That slips under the radar" because of many aspects from the popular music: resonance, the musical moods as well as the rhythm. We often remove all our worries and also tensions by adjusting in to FMs, music stations and so on So that meant that each day, Monday through Friday, four or even 5 days a week, I sat in the orchestra at Columbia Studios playing under Mr. Stoloff's direction, and also viewing him highlight films concerning westerns, or love stories, or even terrifying films, or even funnies, or whatever, and possessed a direct view, as an orchestra participant, from exactly how this process from creating and proper popular music to movie went.

You do, nevertheless, should recognize ways to utilize your MP3 player, including playing and also publishing music. Each Schellenberg and also Levitin agree that popular music will certainly have various impacts on your human brain and habits depend on exactly how this produces you think. Pandora has been trimming expenses in a variety of places, and the information that nation outreach and also advertising will definitely continue to be financed remains in my sight great information for the supply. Various other financial aids provided by the Sunroom demand students to make an application for FAFSA, the Free Function for Federal Trainee Assistance Furthermore, there are several music scholarships offered to pick from. Lengthy just before music ended up being a wealthy resource from higher paying out projects nowadays, this was as soon as component of humankind's way of life as shown on the heritages and also cultures of varied human races. Stop Talking Bloom Boy Band is an anomalous music dramatization - gritty, relentless and extremely elegant to the punk conviction, yet always along with soul. He is actually a bit older than me and he has actually certainly never been an ABBA follower like me and also my pals were at the time, although he likes their popular music. Through music guideline, children find out willpower, persistence, problem-solving abilities, peace of mind and also responsibility.

Songs is just one of our most strong portals to connect to our religious nature - our spiritual source - the undetected, in addition to to deep space around us and also those various other divine beings that populate it along with our company. I know of no other art that can transport our company as instantly, on all amounts from our life, beyond excess from our intelligence and physique to a higher, mysterious and commonly blissful state. Discover the perils as well as conquests on-line popular music has actually experienced to get coming from the Web to your headphones. There are many music celebrations kept in Hawaii every year, including the Merrie Monarch Hula Festivity, the Molokai Songs Festivity as well as Oahu's Steel Guitar Association.

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tastydregs · 7 years ago

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Key component for quantum computers miniaturized by 1000 times

The Microwave circulator is a key part of many quantum computer implementations and researchers has been miniaturized by 1000 times. Making parts like these smaller will help enable quantum computers with millions of qubits.

Above – Lead author of the study, PhD candidate Alice Mahoney, in the quantum science laboratories at the Sydney Nanoscience Hub.

The Sydney team’s component, coined a microwave circulator, acts like a traffic roundabout, ensuring that electrical signals only propagate in one direction, clockwise or anti-clockwise, as required. Similar devices are found in mobile phone base-stations and radar systems, and will be required in large quantities in the construction of quantum computers. A major limitation, until now, is that typical circulators are bulky objects the size of your hand.

They used the properties of topological insulators to slow the speed of light in the material. This miniaturization paves the way for many circulators to be integrated on a chip and manufactured in the large quantities that will be needed to build quantum computers.

The work to scale-up quantum computing is driving breakthroughs in related areas of electronics and nanoscience.

“It is not just about qubits, the fundamental building blocks for quantum machines. Building a large-scale quantum computer will also need a revolution in classical computing and device engineering,” Professor Reilly said.

“Even if we had millions of qubits today, it is not clear that we have the classical technology to control them. Realising a scaled-up quantum computer will require the invention of new devices and techniques at the quantum-classical interface.”

Lead author of the paper and PhD candidate Alice Mahoney said: “Such compact circulators could be implemented in a variety of quantum hardware platforms, irrespective of the particular quantum system used.”

A practical quantum computer is still some years away. Scientists expect to be able to carry out currently unsolvable computations with quantum computers that will have applications in fields such as chemistry and drug design, climate and economic modeling, and cryptography.

Professor David Reilly is director of the University of Sydney’s Microsoft Quantum Laboratory, a multimillion dollar partnership, which is part of a global effort by Microsoft to build the world’s first practical quantum computer. The partnership is housed in the Sydney Nanoscience Hub, the flagship building of the University of Sydney Nano Institute.

Nature Communications – Zero-field edge plasmons in a magnetic topological insulator.

Abstract

Incorporating ferromagnetic dopants into three-dimensional topological insulator thin films has recently led to the realisation of the quantum anomalous Hall effect. These materials are of great interest since they may support electrical currents that flow without resistance, even at zero magnetic field. To date, the quantum anomalous Hall effect has been investigated using low-frequency transport measurements. However, transport results can be difficult to interpret due to the presence of parallel conductive paths, or because additional non-chiral edge channels may exist. Here we move beyond transport measurements by probing the microwave response of a magnetised disk of Cr-(Bi,Sb)2Te3. We identify features associated with chiral edge plasmons, a signature that robust edge channels are intrinsic to this material system. Our results provide a measure of the velocity of edge excitations without contacting the sample, and pave the way for an on-chip circuit element of practical importance: the zero-field microwave circulator.

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

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North Korea shot down a U.S. spy plane in 1969. Trump might be appalled by the response.

By Michael S. Rosenwald, Washington Post, November 7, 2017

On April 15, 1969, a U.S. Navy reconnaissance plane took off in from an airbase in Japan on a routine mission to spy on an increasingly belligerent threat--North Korea.

The flight commander was nervous. Four months earlier, North Korea had captured the USS Pueblo spy ship, holding more than 80 crewmen hostage at a prison camp. Preflight intelligence reports indicated the North Koreans were still agitated about the snooping.

The plane had been flying over the Sea of Japan for about five hours when two North Korean MiGs pounced, firing a missile that killed all 31 crew members.

Nearly 50 years later, the incident has been mostly forgotten. But now, with North Korea girding for war--conducting frequent missile tests, threatening to shoot down U.S. planes, trading insults with President Trump--historians and national security analysts are reexamining the 1969 attack, particularly declassified documents that reveal President Richard M. Nixon’s struggle to retaliate amid the Vietnam War.

Short of all-out destruction of North Korea, Nixon’s national security team couldn’t promise that even targeted airstrikes wouldn’t escalate the conflict, leading to untold deaths in South Korea and a wider conflict in the region, perhaps drawing in China and Russia.

“I think it’s a problem that’s still present today,” said Robert A. Wampler, a senior fellow at the National Security Archive, a George Washington University think tank that successfully pushed for release of documents related to the incident. “What can you do to ensure that nothing else will happen?”

From Truman to Trump, North Korea has vexed 13 presidents--during the bloody Korean War, which claimed the lives of more than 33,000 U.S. military service members; in 1976, when North Korea attacked and killed several American soldiers with axes in the demilitarized zone; in 1994, when a U.S. military helicopter was shot down, leaving the co-pilot dead; in 2009, when North Korea sank a South Korean warship, killing 46 crew members.

Only now, there’s a new wrinkle: nuclear missiles.

Just last week, the Pentagon warned lawmakers that a ground invasion would be required to secure all of North Korea’s nuclear weapons sites and that U.S. forces could face biological and chemical weapons.

A pre-emptive U.S. military strike on North Korea would trigger “a large-scale peninsular and regional conflict, involving hundreds of thousands of troops and potentially hundreds of thousands of civilian casualties,” a recent Brookings Institution report concluded.

Both sides are amping up the rhetoric.

Trump, who will visit South Korea on Tuesday as part of a 12-day trip to Asia, has taken to calling North Korean leader Kim Jong Un “Little Rocket Man.” Kim, in return, has called Trump a “mentally deranged U.S. dotard.” Beyond the name calling, the leaders have each threatened horrific destruction upon the other, with Trump promising “fire and fury.”

To the families who lost relatives that day in 1969, the verbal missiles have been a traumatic flashback to the very real rocket North Korea fired at the Navy plane. Many belong to a Facebook group, sharing old photos and memories--and, lately, their views on the conflict.

Joe Ribar, a Texas police officer, was just three months old when his father, Lt. Joseph R. Ribar, was killed. His body and another were the only ones recovered in the rough waters of the Sea of Japan.

Ribar has a hunch about where the tensions are headed.

“I’m fully expecting,” he said, “another plane to be shot down out there.”

The plane North Korea shot down was an EC-121--hulking and armed only with high-tech surveillance gear that monitored sensitive communications in the region, including in Vietnam.

Lt. Cdr. James H. Overstreet led the operation, code named “Deep Sea 129.” He’d been on dangerous missions before, including harrowing flights in Vietnam. But something about this flight, over less dangerous international waters, made the 34-year-old pilot from Mississippi anxious.

“He told my mother he might not be coming back,” said his son, Joe Overstreet, who was six years old at the time. “There was something different about this mission. He knew it.”

Documents declassified in 2010 explain why.

Before the attack, military commanders “were aware of anomalous North Korean behavior,” according to a 2015 unclassified article in a CIA intelligence journal. National security officials knew North Korea was becoming increasingly agitated by U.S. intelligence gathering missions, but there were disagreements about the seriousness of the threats.

Overstreet briefed crew members before the flight.

“He discussed a message from the commander of US Forces Korea, warning of unusually vehement and vicious language used by the North,” the CIA paper said.

What the commander didn’t know: In the days leading up to the attack, North Korea had been quietly moving fighter jets to a base just off the coast. U.S. intelligence identified the activity as preparation for pilot training. They were wrong.

The EC-121 took off unaccompanied by any protection. An Air Force tracking station monitored the flight on radar.

“Suddenly, two new blips appeared on the radar screen,” according to a 1969 Newsweek article on the attack. “A pair of supersonic North Korean MIG’s were closing in fast on the EC-121.”

An urgent warning was sent. But the North Koreans fired, and the American plane was destroyed.

Henry Kissinger’s phone rang at 1 a.m. It was the duty officer at the Pentagon notifying him of the attack.

Kissinger was then a special assistant to Nixon on national security affairs. He raced to his basement office in the West Wing to gather facts before phoning the president around 7 a.m., according to his memoirs.

It was the first national security crisis Nixon faced in office beyond the ongoing conflict in Vietnam.

Nixon certainly knew North Korea was a growing threat. The Pueblo incident occurred during the campaign. He assailed President Lyndon B. Johnson for not forcefully responding to what many saw as an act of war. Now Nixon faced the same dilemma.

“We were being tested,” the president wrote in his memoirs. “And therefore force must be met with force.”

But what type of force?

Johnson had considered a variety of military responses, including naval blockades and even nuclear strikes, according to declassified documents. He eventually decided it was too dangerous to respond.

In Nixon’s case, declassified documents, administration memoirs, and other scholarly research reveal an extraordinary effort throughout the government to identify a military response not just to the attack on the U.S. plane, but to any future provocations by North Korea.

The options ranged from a single targeted airstrike on North Korean airfields to a limited nuclear attack--code named FREEDOM DROP--to a full-scale nuclear war.

But it quickly became clear that even the most limited responses risked wider conflict in the region, as well as depleting U.S. military power in Vietnam.

A memo to Nixon in the hours after the attack warned of “vigorous defense measures” from North Korea targeting the U.S. military and South Korean airfields. Even as Kissinger pushed for retaliation--in his memoir, he called the administration’s response “weak”--Nixon and Pentagon officials pushed back.

“It was a calculated risk that the North Koreans would not escalate the situation further if we retaliated with a single strike against one of their airfields,” Nixon wrote. “But what if they did and we suddenly found ourselves at war in Korea?”

That had been a disaster the first time around. More than 5 million died in the Korean War.

In the end, Nixon ordered a show of naval force in the region and the resumption of reconnaissance flights--with protection.

Many people couldn’t fathom why Nixon didn’t respond with force, Overstreet, the son of the EC-121 commander, recalls his mother telling him. He later became a Navy pilot and learned the military reasons why Nixon sat on his hands.

“It probably hasn’t changed that much over the years,” he said.

Nixon swore North Korea would be dealt with eventually.

“They got away with it this time,” he told Kissinger, “but they’ll never get away with it again.”

Now, decades later, another president is talking tough. Trump responded to North Korea’s threat to shoot down U.S. military planes by vowing, “I’ll fix that mess.”

“It’s called the military option,” Trump said.

He insists there is one.

#North Korea #Richard Nixon #1969 spy plane shot down

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fardell24b · 6 years ago

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Rise of Weirdness - Part 19

January 1, 1955

Benigno Andrade holds yet another demonstration in Madrid.

January 18, 1955:

Project SUNSHINE; U.S. Department of Defense and the Department of Energy, conduct experiments across the country to "trigger" persons into Transformed for possible use in a military capacity,.....

February 10, 1955

The library from Ashley, Kansas reappears on the former site of the town. Subsequent investigation finds no clues as to where the rest of the town went.

April 25th, 1955 :

First reports in Auvergne of the existence of a dragon.

July 17, 1955:

Walt Disney unveils his first series of "golems" with the Disneyland amusement park in Anaheim, California, sparking international attention with the technological development,.....

September 2, 1955:

"Gummy the Golem" makes his television debut on the Howdy Doody Show (CBS-TV) sparking international attention to the idea of golems for entertainment purposes in Hollywood, California,....

September 17-20, 1955:

German Chancellor (insert name here) meets with Lavrentii Beria, in an effort to prevent possible Soviet invasion,...

September 24, 1955:

President Douglas MacArthur dies of a heart attack, Vice-president Dwight Eisenhower is sworn in as president,....

September 25, 1955:

French troops are deployed into Cambodia, as violence spreads throughout Indochina, sparking international attention and concern,...

September 29, 1955:

CIA operatives in Maracaibo, Venezuela claim to have seen Adolph Hitler alive, fueling tensions in the region,...

December 9, 1955:

French troops are deployed into South Vietnam , as violence spreads throughout Indochina, sparking international attention and concern,...

March 23, 1956:

Song Fluffy is Untrustworthy by Wendy Oliver sparks controversy with its lyrics being seen as an attack against Transformed persons, sparking national controversy,....

May 27, 1956:

French writer Jean Cocteau joins fascist leader Pierre Plantard in support of a "French National Renewal" at Annemasse, France,...

June 25, 1956:

Fascist leader Pierre Plantard leads the "Priory of Sion" proclaiming that a "national rebirth" at Montaigne du Sion, France,...

July 17, 1956:

Macbeth based on the play by William Shakespeare, starring Vivian Leigh and Laurence Olivier, flops at the box office amidst talks of "the Curse", on the play,...

October 15, 1956:

IBM invents "Formula Translation" (a.k.a. FORTRAN) for purposes of effectively using spells in Urbana, Illinois,.

October 22, 1956

The Winchester Library of Magic is discovered by Laura Neverton...

October 29, 1956:

British Prime Minister Anthony Eden and French President Rene Coty announce the formation of the Anglo-French Union, becoming the largest land empire in recorded history, fueling tensions with the United States and Soviet Union,.....

February 27, 1957:

Soviet Premier Lavrentii Beria warns of the "grave threat" posed by Transformed and neo-pagans during a speech before the Duma,...

May 11, 1957:

French troops are deployed into Laos, as violence spreads throughout Indochina, sparking international attention and concern,...

September 4, 1957: The term 'Buzzer' becomes popular slang for magical practitioners; 'Fluffy' becomes a popular slang for magical beings,...

October 5, 1957 A strange contact is reported over the Caspian sea by several Soviet radar stations.

October 8, 1957 Eisenhower receives a visit from a mysterious visitor, who states that 'the world is changing', and that America needs to be ready for that change.

October 9, 1957 In a small village somewhere in Nebraska, a strange humming stone is discovered.

October 14, 1957 Eisenhower issues an Executive Order establishing a Magical Investigations Office...

October 15, 1957 The Nebraska Stone is put on display, in the town's museum.

October 18, 1957 An American agent in Moscow, learns of a special Soviet Project.

October 19, 1957 Several strange contacts are sighted in the Caspian Sea by Soviet radar stations.

October 20, 1957 A strange signal is detected by a tracking station in the Canadian Arctic.

October 22, 1957 An Oxford student discovers a strange tome in her college library.

October 24, 1957 The Magical Investigations Office officially sets up it's first team.

October 25, 1957 A tanker that had disppeared in the Pacific is found again, but empty of both crew and cargo...

October 27, 1957 A Coast Guard cutter, sent to find one of the missing tankers, also disappears.

October 28, 1957 The student who had discovered the strange tome six days before returns to the same spot in the library, but finds it missing!

October 31, 1957 In many American cities, some children vanish while going on 'trick or treat'.

1 November 1957 Authorities begin searching for the missing children...

November 3, 1957 An Air Force warplane sent over the area where the ships disappeared, also disappears.

November 4, 1957 A second plane sent into the area, does return.

November 6, 1957 A third flight sent to look for the missing ships sends out a confusing radio message before disappearing off radar...

November 7, 1957 It is decided to try to map the anomalous area, where the ships and planes had vanished.

November 8, 1967 Wreckage from one of the planes is discovered near the anomalous area.

November 12, 1957 A fourth plane disappears in the anomalous area while on a mapping mission. November 13, 1957 Storm activity begins to make attempts at mapping of the anomalous region impossible.

November 14, 1957 The Oxford student finds that she can't sleep, due to nightmares.

November 15, 1957 An American agent in Warsaw disappears...

November 16, 1957 In Oxford, an agent rummages through the room of the student who had read the mysterious tome. He doesn't find it, as she was returning it to the library, having read it a second time. Upon returning to find her room a mess, she is gripped by intense paranoia.

November 17, 1957 In Oxford, police are called to St. Hilda's College, where a student is threatening other students while rambling in what seems to be gibberish. Upon seeing the police the student faints. When she comes to, she doesn't remember what had transpired...

November 18, 1957 The St. Hilda's student, having (mostly) recovered from the previous day's experience, goes back to the library to look for that tome, wondering what was in it that may have affected her so.

November 19, 1957 The St. Hilda's student borrows the tome another time, so that no one else would read it...

November 20, 1957 Oxford is enveloped in some kind of unnatural fog... Strange reports come from the university, particularly St. Hilda's. One thing is certain, the student has vanished...

November 21, 1957 Second day of the Oxford Fog. Students at St. Hilda's find that the structure of the building is changing...

November 22, 1957 Third day of the Oxford Fog. St. Hilda's is evacuated.

November 23, 1957 An American task force approaches a spot in the Pacific where a Soviet ship has been investigating, something...

November 24, 1957 Fifth Day of the Oxford Fog. The team from the American Magical Investigations Office arrives...

December 24, 1957 Christmas Eve proves quite eventful in an otherwise quiet town in northern Maryland, when a father tries to be Santa using a jury-rigged sleigh and robot reindeer. (However, see Sept. 18th entry for the next year...)

#alternate history #rise of weirdness

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