#I did get bit my an enterprising mosquito though

[onioneyez]

I’m so happy :)

[kmsherrard]

In praise of roller coaster rides

“...the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise….”

-Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Despite what teachers of high school science classes solemnly intone, this business of doing science is the least straightforward endeavor that can possibly be imagined. This was brought home to me in a series of unfortunate events that unfolded this week.

At first, it seemed to be that rare triumph where my simple test of a straightforward prediction actually yielded a clear positive result, instead of the more typical back-to-the-drawing board head-scratcher. If this were a story, that the protagonist was a protein named Diaphanous could serve as a hint that the plot would not prove as solid as one might hope. (Like many genes first discovered in fruit flies, Diaphanous evokes the appearance of animals lacking a functional version of that protein).

The backstory: Lately, my research has been on how stress fibers remodel  to accommodate the movements of migrating cells. But as I work on cells in intact tissues, namely the rind of follicular cells that envelops the developing cluster of cells that give rise to a fruit fly egg, I like to consider the natural experiments that unfold in the course of normal development. For example, these follicle cells migrate for a time, going round and round like hamsters running on a wheel, but then they stop and do other things, like flatten out and secrete the eggshell. They still have stress fibers—these are long contractile bundles of a similar composition to muscle, that help attach the cells to the fibrous surface outside them. But these later-stage stress fibers are much stouter and of somewhat different composition.

I had already established that the stress fibers in the migrating cells depend on an unusual partner, amusingly called DAAM, to form. The more typical protein to help build stress fibers is DAAM’s cousin Diaphanous, but I’d done experiments depleting Diaphanous that clearly showed it was not needed in this case. When I depleted DAAM, though, the stress fibers got really wispy. Oddly enough, I’d noticed that in the much later stages, after the cells stopped migrating, had stress fibers unaffected by loss of DAAM.

So the experiment I wanted to do next was to deplete Diaphanous in the later stages. This was not completely straightforward to execute, though, because I had to avoid depleting it too early. I’d already seen that this caused cells to have trouble with their normal round of cell divisions. It’s a common problem in this sort of work that it can be harder to study later processes if you mess things up before they have begun to happen. The solution makes use of the dazzling array of tissue-specific drivers of gene expression that have been invented for fruit flies. They allow you to drive expression of a gene at specific times and places, targeting particular processes you want to study. To keep a gene from being expressed, you can use something called RNAi, which basically makes a cell chop up the instructions for making a protein sent from the DNA so that protein does not get produced.

In short, I needed a driver that acted late in the follicle cells but not early. Our lab did not have such a driver, since we study the earlier stages. But we’d read a paper with some very clever experiments that made use of just such a late driver, one called Cy2. We requested the fly stock from one of the paper’s authors and she promptly mailed it off to us. Fly researchers are awesomely generous. It’s a tradition that goes back to the earliest days of the field over a century ago to share reagents this way.

Chapter the First: Quarantine. The flies arrived and had to be put in quarantine, out of an abundance of caution concerning the possible introduction of mites into our hundreds of lab stocks. In practice, this consists of isolating the vials on the top of the lab refrigerator. All stocks that arrive from elsewhere must be taken through quarantine, save those from the renowned and very reliably mite-free Bloomington stock center. It meant a delay to the start of my planned experiment, until I could obtain 3rd instar larvae and wash them, a rather amusing exercise on which I have previously posted.

So there the flies sat, two healthy vials with clearly written labels: Cy2/(Cyo); Dr/TM6b. This cryptic shorthand conveyed that along with the driver I’d asked for, the flies conveniently included markers on another chromosome, in case I wanted to build more things into the stock. Annoyingly, they were all senescent adults and developing pupal cases—ideal for surviving the mailing process, but the worst possible stage of colony development for obtaining sufficient larvae for my purposes. I would have to wait several weeks for the new generation to produce larvae I could wash.

In pre-covid times, I could have done the cross right away with existing males, dissecting the offspring on a quarantine-use microscope belonging to a neighboring lab. Normally we share a lot of equipment freely in our department. But the physical distancing requirements have temporarily stopped that sort of thing. And we can’t risk getting mites onto the equipment we use for all our normal work.

To shorten the waiting time (a frequent concern of fruit fly researchers, especially I would think those of us who work on adult rather than embryonic or larval structures, meaning our crosses must extend to the full 10+ days of development time beyond any stock-building that precedes it), I planned to wash enough larvae to siphon off a number of males for the experimental cross. To that end, I also began “blowing up” the stocks I would obtain the females from; I could virgin them ahead of time and have them all ready to go as soon as their husbands emerged from their pupal cases.

When you’re waiting to wash a quarantine stock, impatient for the experiment to begin, they seem to take longer to develop, much like a watched pot. The stock contained the mutation Tubby, which makes for shorter flies but a longer developmental time, so that was part of it. Also room temperature (on top of the fridge) slows development compared to the flies’ optimal temperature of 25 C (that’s 77 to your Fahrenheiters...and to be honest, most of us American scientists are very compartmentalized in their understanding of Celsius; outside of the lab context we speak it no better than the average U.S. citizen). So far, then, the slowness makes sense both physical and psychological. But why the quarantined flies should always produce their burst of 3rd instar larvae on a weekend day, and on the one weekend day I don’t pop into the lab, is more puzzling. But it is the rule, I have found.

I wasn’t going to let it happen this time. I watched them like a hawk (a mosquito hawk?) and sure enough, it was a Sunday when all the larvae began to wander. Wandering larvae is the other, more romantic name for the 3rd instar of Drosophila melanogaster, because they have at last eaten their fill of the mushy rotten fruit they have been burrowing through, and there is nothing else for them to do but come out into the light and air and begin to claim their inheritance as winged creatures of the sky. First, though, they must choose a spot in which to prepare their new bodies. Here in that lab, they climb around on the clean walls of the vial, above the caramel-colored dollop of food, fat, juicy larvae as big as a good-sized grain of rice, big enough to grasp gently in forceps and take through the three ritual baths, soapy water, ethanol, and salty water, that remove any lurking mites or mite eggs from their surfaces. After being placed in a fresh vial and wicked dry with a twist of Kimwipe (lab Kleenex), they will crawl around a bit more, mingling with their certified-mite-free compatriots. In a few more hours they will settle down, stop moving, and let their skins harden into bark. Inside that bark, they pretty much dissolve themselves, save for a few set-aside clusters of cells. They go on to rebuild their bodies into the adult form, complete with intricate jointed legs and multitudinously-faceted eyes and iridescent, cellophane-like wings over the course of about a week (at room temperature).

I spent several hours washing more larvae than usual to establish a clean stock, wanting to have plenty of extra males to father the experimental crosses. If I’d had access to the quarantine microscope, I could have selected extra male larvae—you can already distinguish males and females at this stage-- but it would not really have saved time. I played the numbers game instead. It was a Sunday afternoon, quietest time of the week in lab, and very peaceful. I took my time and changed the bath solutions often to make sure there wasn’t too much soapy water in the ethanol or too much ethanol in the final rinse. I wanted this all to go smoothly with no delays.

I put the now-lawful vial in the 25C incubator to develop, after carefully copying the genotype from the original handwritten labels: Cy2/(Cyo); Dr/TM6b. Incidentally, there are lots of markers of chromosomes, many going back to the original mutations described by early fly workers such as Calvin Bridges and Alfred Sturtevant. They let you follow with visible traits the invisible genes that you wish to follow through the generations. Various labs have their favorite markers, but some such as Cyo (which makes for curly wings) are ubiquitous, and Dr and TM6b were familiar to me as well. Dr (short for Dropped, I don’t know why) makes the eyes very slitted, and TM6b is a whole set of markers that comprises what is called a balancer chromosome: a chromosome that has been scrambled and rearranged so that even though it still has all its genes, they are in the wrong places. This means that none of the usual recombination between sister chromosomes that occurs when egg and sperm form can happen. The advantage to the researcher is that this keeps genes segregated in predictable places. Otherwise, all those markers would not be reliable indicators letting you keep track of the genes you put in place from one generation to another. TM6b can actually include various different markers, but one of them is Tb, easy to recognize in both the shorter larvae and pupal cases and to some extent discernible in adults as well.

Chapter the Second: Cross Purposes. Fast forward two weeks (you can—I sadly could not—this being November of 2020, I would certainly have appreciated the distraction). So I waited, none too patiently, for the new adults to emerge. Meanwhile, I tended the stocks I would virgin for females: two different RNAi lines for Diaphanous and one, a control, for its cousin DAAM which I already knew was not required for the later-stage stress fibers. I built up a collection of ladies in waiting, captured shortly after their eclosion and isolated in vials away from all male contact, so I could be sure their offspring would be the genotype I wanted. [A note about the term ‘eclosion’: one might be tempted to call the emergence of the adults from their pupal cases ‘hatching’, but that term is reserved for the larvae coming out their eggshell. You only hatch once, even in the doubled lifestyle of these metamorphosing beasties.]

Finally the washed flies began to eclose. All my usable Cy2 flies were in that one vial. I briefly knocked them out with carbon dioxide gas, used a fine paintbrush to separate the males, and added 3 males each to the three bevvies of expectant females. There were still a few males left, enough to establish the new stock of Cy2 for future use.

At last, more than a month after conceiving it, I’d begun the experimental cross. It would be two more weeks before I had the flies to dissect and the beginnings of an answer. Fly work involves a lot of waiting, and to cope with that we tend to have a lot of irons in the fire. All that juggling can be rather distracting. Sometimes, depending on how other experiments have gone in the interim, I’ve unfortunately moved on from the original urgency of a question by the time the flies are ready to examine. It’s a hazard of the work.

Though I did not yet realize it, I’d made two mistakes. First, I should have looked a bit more carefully at those Cy flies. Second, I should have done the proper control. Sure, crossing them to the DAAM flies was a pretty good control, but there was an even stricter one, that tested whether the driver stock alone had any effect (it should not, but you like to be sure). I should have crossed the Cy2 flies to what we call wild-type, a stock called w1118 that has white eyes, incidentally [link] the first fly mutant ever identified and the foundation of fly genetics.

I hadn’t wanted to use up any more of my precious males, and figured I could always do that control later, if the experiment turned out promising. A lot of us cut corners that way, and it isn’t necessarily less efficient. But sometimes it snarls you up and wastes your time instead of saving it, and makes you go through all sorts of contortions trying to make sense of your data with less information than you should have had.

Chapter the Third: The Experiment. I waited out that two weeks, pursuing other work and trying not to pay too much attention to the news. I wore my mask and stayed in touch with my loved ones over zoom and the like. I hung up bird feeders to entertain my cats and my family alike. I went on long walks by the lake. Time passed. At last the grand day arrived: my experimental flies had begun to eclose. I gassed them and tapped them out of the CO2 pad. Now here was a wrinkle I’d shoved to the back of my mind: those extra markers that I didn’t need, the Dr and TM6b. In a clean experiment I’d have gotten rid of them, but that would have required another couple generations. I’d wanted a quick provisional answer, in order to decide whether it was worth the time and trouble to do the more careful version of the experiment. So: would I dissect the TM6b-carrying flies, or the Dr-carrying flies? It had to be one or the other. The balancer chromosome carries a number of mutations so it would be more likely to do something weird to the cells I was interested in. Not that that was very likely, but I might as well be careful. Dr it was then: that only affected the eyes, as far as I knew. What were the chances it would mess up my experiment on stress fibers in follicle cells?

But none of the flies had Dr eyes. That was odd. I looked closer. Half of them sure looked like Tb flies, shorter and a bit chubbier, though you never want to depend on your ability to discern that marker in adults. The others, the longer ones? They did have some oddly short hairs on their dorsal thorax (around the back of the lower neck, if you want to be anthropomorphic about it), much shorter than the clipped ones you see with the marker Stubble. It kind of reminded me of a marker I’d seen once or twice. Well, that must be what these were; maybe the label had been written wrong.

Impatient to get the experiment done, I swept the short-haired flies into a fresh vial with a bit of yeast. The yeast was to encourage egg production (they’re called fruit flies or vinegar flies, but it’s really the yeast on the rotting fruit that they’re after). I added a few males which were there for the same end. You could say the way to a fine set of ovaries is through both the heart and the stomach. Two more days to go before the dissection. For good measure I put some plain-vanilla w1118 flies on yeast to serve as extra controls.

On the appointed day, I got out my fiercely pointed #55 forceps and began the dissection. I nearly messed up by dissecting the early stages by habit—the technique to do so destroys most of the older egg chambers—but luckily remembered what I was about it time, and switched to the method to optimize acquisition of undamaged later stages. I fixed for 15 minutes in 4% paraformaldehyde, rinsed three times in phosphate-buffered saline solution with Triton-X detergent, and added a stain that would label the filamentous actin, the principle component of stress fibers among many other cellular structures. I put it in the lab fridge (the one where no food is allowed!) to stain overnight. The next morning, early, I came in and rinsed off the stain and made slides. Then I went to the womb-like room where one of my favorite workhouse microscope lives, the renowned Nikon 800 laser scanning confocal microscope. I did the necessary 2020 ritual wipe-down of all surfaces with 70% ethanol, and fired her up.

And oh, it was beautiful. I was so disciplined; I began with the controls to set up the correct laser intensity and gain at which to collect all the images, so the brighter ones would not be out of the range of measurable brightness and everything could be properly quantified. But it was already clear from the what I saw on the computer screen as I centered examples, focused, and took images that the experimental egg chambers had strongly reduced stress fibers. I took lots of pictures, happy that for once my experiment had gone as planned and given me a clear answer.

Also, can I just say how much I love the stain Oregon Green phalloidin? The name itself is lovely: as a native of the Pacific northwest I find it so evocative: the green of deep cushiony moss and ferns and forests of hemlock and douglas firs; and phalloidin itself is a stain derived from mushrooms with which those forests are rife. (Phalloidin, now there’s a scary toxin: it binds so tightly to filamentous actin that it stops your heart. Unlike a lot of other toxins, it doesn’t make you nauseated, so you absorb it until it’s too late for any antidote. But that’s why it’s such a good stain. You just have to wear gloves, or wash your hands after pipetting it. And we all wash our hands so often nowadays it makes no never mind.) There’s red phalloidin, and far-red phalloidin, and even ultraviolet phalloidin (but most microscopes don’t have the right filter sets to light it up very well): but green phalloidin is the king as far as I’m concerned. So bright, and a short enough wavelength (only 488 nanometers, vs. 566 or 647) that it shows up structures the more finely. You can definitely see the difference: it’s sharp as can be.

So, I had the preliminary results I had hoped for: the Diaphanous flies had reduced stress fibers. It doesn’t actually happen to me all that often, that I get a clear answer, either what I predicted or the opposite which is almost as good in science. At least that’s progress, an increase in understanding. No, usually I stumble over these head-scratchers of outcomes. Interesting results, but interesting in a complicated way that require a lot more work to make sense of, if you ever do. It’s partly down to most of my experiments involving imaging with a microscope: you get a lot of unexpected information that way, if you keep your eyes open. But it’s also that I seem to be attracted to the sort of problem that does not yield neat answers—the way some people are attracted to overly hairy guys on motorcycles who are a bit too into mild-altering substances and petty crime. I think I’m the one to straighten them out, but usually I’m the one who gets burned. But this time I had prevailed!

This was just a start; of course I needed to replicate, do some more dissections, get more numbers, reach levels of statistical unassailibility. In particular, I didn’t have as many clear examples of the DAAM control as I needed. Also, I’d do the proper control, and maybe even un-double-balance that Cy2 stock to get rid of the pesky extra markers.

Chapter the Fourth: The morning after. Yeah, and now I’d better take the time to figure out what is going on with that marker that is not Dr. Because, unlikely as it was, wouldn’t it be a shame if it were somehow affecting my results? Worst-case scenario—because that’s how we self-questioning scientists have to operate, ever since the dawn of time or at least the Enlightenment—worst-case scenario, then, is this marker, whatever it is, is the thing responsible for the reduction in stress fibers. Oh, but that’s very unlikely, I tell myself. Besides, the DAAM controls didn’t have reduced stress fibers.

I looked at the original handwritten label, still on the vial of flies on top of the fridge in quarantine. Maybe that D might actually be a P. What was Pr? I’d never heard of it.

I went to the master compendium of fruit fly genetics, FlyBase.org, and looked up Pr. Purple, an eye color gene on the first chromosome. I was looking for a gene on the third chromosome, so that couldn’t be it. I tried a different approach: I DuckDuckWent (DuckDuckGoed doesn’t sound right; if you haven’t heard of it, it’s a more private alternative to Google) images of Drosophila markers. There was that classic poster I’ve seen hanging in various labs, of the most common markers. And there was that marker I’d been reminded of, with the very short hairs. Sn it was called. Could that be my marker? It would have to be some pretty bad handwriting, to make an S look like a D; r to n is easier to imagine.

I went back to FlyBase and looked up Sn. It was the gene Singed. Like if you got to close to the outdoor fire pit on the patio (a way to safely hang out with your friends outdoors even during the Chicago winter), and singed your eyebrows most of the way off (and no, I haven’t done that yet). Also on the first chromosome, though. But look here, this is interesting: Singed is an actin-bundling protein. I read further down the page that summarized the work of dozens or hundreds of researchers over the decades. Yes, it was expressed in the ovaries, and yes, it was known to affect stress fibers. That would be worrying if it were my marker. Lucky it’s not.

I wasn’t getting anywhere. I tried yet another method, going to the webpage for the Bloomington stock center. It’s very well organized, and they have a page showing the details of all the balancer stocks they keep. There ought to be a clue here, for any marker that a researcher could assume another lab would recognize. I go down the list to the TM6b stocks, and find it. Pri, aka Pr, for Prickly. Causes short thoracic bristles. That’s my guy.

Back on FlyBase, I learn that Prickly is one of the classic mutants discovered in the early days of fly research. And this is weird: it has not been annotated. That is, nobody has figured out what gene it is a mutation of, let alone what biological processes it participates in or what tissues it’s expressed in (this matters because if it’s not active in the follicle cells, my experiment would still be valid). They could; it’s a straightforward enough task given that the whole genome is sequenced, but apparently it’s not one that anyone’s found worthwhile. So all we know is it makes very short, deformed bristles that look to me a lot like those of Sn.

Okay, now I am getting worried. What are the chances that this is NOT a protein that affects something like actin bundling and therefore messes up stress fibers? Maybe I had only seen what I wanted to see with the DAAM control. That’s a hazard of doing science, because it’s a hazard of being human. That’s why controls are so important. I consider my experiment in this new and harsher light. Maybe the Diaphanous results are just a phantom of wish fulfillment, summoned by this Prickly hitchhiker I’d never meant to take along for the ride.

I’d already begun the proper control that would answer this question, but meanwhile, while I wait for those flies to emerge, is there anything else I can do? Maybe I should dissect those formerly scorned Tubby flies; at least they lack Prickly. But according to the list at Bloomington, that particular stock has a number of other mutations on its TM6b chromosome, including one called Bri. Bri is a twin of Pri in more ways than one: it also causes very short bristles, and is also unannotated so we have no idea what protein it makes or when or where it acts in the body. Without asking the researchers who sent me the flies, I had no way of knowing if Bri was in there or not.

It would be a bit awkward quizzing them about their flies. We all tend to overdo the shorthand in labeling our stocks, and don’t always remember all the extra mutations lurking there. It’s tripped me up before, when I uncovered interacting mutations I hadn’t known to worry about until they unhinged my crosses. Don’t get me started on vermillian eye color: it’s a real bear. Either way, I’d have to check the controls and unbalance the stock to have a real answer, so probably better not to pester them.

I can’t resist having a quick peek at the TM6b flies though; I’ll be dissecting them tomorrow and should know by Sunday or Monday if the Diaphanous results are evaporating or not...that is, if Bri or something else is not further muddying the waters. A positive result would be definitive; a negative one will require further research. Well, either one will require further research, but one will be more cheerful and the other more like putting nails in a coffin of my hopes one more time. And that, my friends, is what it’s like to do science. (At least I get to see more Oregon green on the confocal, though).

Epilogue. What lessons can we draw from this (mis)adventure, this stomach-churning roller coaster ride of thrills and doubts that is my life in science?

1. Do the proper controls from the beginning. (Although that would have cut out the thrills as well as the doubts, so to be honest, I’m not totally on board with this one).

2. Take the time to look at the flies you are about to cross, and make sure they have the markers you expect. Harder, probably unrealistically hard, is to make sure they don’t have the markers you don’t expect. That would require a Rumsfeldian level of perceiving unknowns unknowns.

3. Remember the limitations of shorthand for conveying a genotype, which like the face we present to the world is invariably far more complex than there is room enough and time to write out.

4. Murphy’s law reigns supreme in this world of ours. What were the chances that the unwanted marker  I’d thought I could ignore for a first-pass experiment would turn out to be a different marker I’d never heard of that might  affect stress fibers in my cells? Still, it made for a good story, which I haven’t come across in all this interminable slog of an Autumn.

[belphegor1982]

Thought I’d make a the Mummy/Returns fic recs posts for @counterwiddershins (EDIT: whom I can tag now!) because they asked for recs. So here are my favourite (complete) Mummy stories under the cut in alphabetical order, title-summary-why it’s on my list style. A few are Old, because I discovered this fandom in 2003 and there’s some great oldies. Hope you - and anyone else looking for great fics - enjoy them!

As Sweet as This / Coming Clean, by robot-iconography

Summary:  Evelyn reflects on the changes Ahm Shere has wrought upon her brother, husband, and son. /  Rick takes his life in his hands as he faces his greatest challenge ever: fatherhood.

Comments: I put these two in the same bag because they’re basically a diptych. They’re like two sides of the same coin. On one hand, you have a lovely story in Evy’s voice, on the other, a hilarious one in Rick’s. Both stories are sweet and more touching than they sound.

Circumstantial Evidence, by robot-iconography

Summary: “She could be damnably silly at times; she dressed like a spinster and carried herself like bloody royalty; but she was my baby sister, the only one I’d ever have. I’d been through hell to get her back, and now I was going to lose her anyway.”

Comments: Probably my favourite Mummy story ever. I love it so much I translated it into French in 2004, and even more so now I’ve read PG Wodehouse. Basically, there is canoodling, funny misunderstandings, and the closing scene is adorable (and made me discover Ella Fitzgerald’s “Always”, which is perfect as Ella Fitzgerald always is). Peak Carnahan siblings shenanigans and a great Rick.

Deeper Within Darkness, by Laurie M

Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that wherever Rick O'Connell and Evelyn Carnahan are, trouble is not far away. What begins as an innocent night out soon leads to danger that threatens all of Egypt.

Comments: a great follow-up on the 1st film, with still-developing relationships, a mysterious medallion, and ghostly (sort of) crocodiles. The main four are very well written. 3rd person limited POVs alternate with 1st person POVs in a very natural way, allowing us glimpses into the characters’ heads. Sometimes a little bit sombre, but a lovely story.

A Favour for a Friend, by queueingtrilobite [orphan account]

Summary: Roped into doing a favour for a friend, Jonathan finds himself in charge of an antiques shop in Cairo. This is honestly the very last favour he's going to do for anyone. Ever.

If you ship Ardeth and Jonathan, there’s plenty of fun and/or feelsy stories for you! Like this fun little romp, which features a hilarious style, a Jonathan who is equally good at thinking on his toes as he is as making disasters happen (being a bit of a disaster himself).

Finding Ma’at, by exchequered [orphan account]

Summary: “Hamunaptra Cruises.” Ardeth’s tone was thoughtful. “Do you not fear a curse upon your enterprise, for naming it thus?”

Another Ardeth/Jonathan fic - and boy, this one is *chef’s kiss* I mean, the only three tags are Tourism, Pining, and denial is a river in Egypt :D

Hereafter, by Marxbros

Summary: After TMR. Imhotep has raised Ancksunamun and conquered the earth. Rick, Evy, Ardeth, Jonathan, and some new characters must find each other to defeat Imhotep once more.

Comments: ooh, this one’s a monster to tackle (134k words), and it gets pretty epic - and is worth every second of reading. The OCs are great, necessary, and everyone gets their chance to shine.

Never Spellbound by a Starry Sky, by robot-iconography

Summary: Strange goings-on mar Rick and Evelyn's wedding preparations. Can they and Jonathan solve the mystery?

Comments: another follow-up on TM, as Evy and Rick navigate their relationship and how much they should wait before any sort of hanky-panky. Life interferes in the form of a mysterious object (though NOT the obvious one) and the three are thrust into adventure again. There are battles with the mosquito netting, someone getting a few stitches on their arse (again, not the obvious choice), and all the chapter titles come from dialogue from Elizabeth Peters’ Crocodile on the Sandbank. It’s often hilarious and the dialogue is to die for.

The Mummy: Curse of the Seven Scorpions, by Jac Danvers

Summary: Libby O’Connell hasn’t heard from her brother in years. The word ‘mummy’ meant nothing to her. But when a tiny gold scorpion is revealed to have much greater value, she is thrust back into her family’s life, and the life of a man she once hated.

Comments: back in the day, the “Rick’s sister tags along and falls in love with [usually Ardeth]” trope was a staple of Mummy fanfic, and one I didn’t have much interest in. This little story, mostly set after TMR, is a fun romp; Libby is a good character, well handled, and the little developing romance with Jonathan is fun to watch.

Sidekick, by madsthenerdy girl (on FFnet here)

Summary: Jonathan honestly tries to be a big brother. No, really.

Comments: Fantastic portrait of Jonathan through the years, warts and all, and his relationship with Evy (and later Alex). It’s heartfelt, often funny, and honest (sometimes painfully).

Take That, Bembridge Scholars!, by seren-ccd

Summary: The world has been saved and there's really only one thing left to do. Evy writes a strongly worded letter to the Bembridge Scholars. Oh, she gets married, too. 

It’s a great look at Evelyn, Rick and Jonathan in a few scenes, from the night after Hamunaptra to the start of Rick’s and Evy’s life as a married couple, interspersed by extracts from the aforementioned strongly-worded letter (and it’s great).

The Tenth Plague, by Khedi (on FFnet here)

Summary: Did anyone while watching The Mummy wonder about what would have happened if the tenth of the Biblical plagues had come to pass?

Not a death fic (well, not quite) but a great little look at (again, I’m nothing if not predictable) the Carnahan siblings just after they get back to Cairo after The Mummy. It’s a punch in the feels and a hug. I love it.

Travelers by Night, by 20thcenturyvole

Summary: Very quickly, Jonathan weighed the odds. On one hand, potential death, whether by armed bandits, a mummy’s curse, or people who looked like bandits and who were very angry about someone unleashing a mummy’s curse. On the other hand, potential riches, home ground, and topics of conversation other than what happened at school fifteen years ago and who got it in the neck where.

A great look at Jonathan post-first film and a great take on Ardeth, too. Can be shippy if you tilt your head and squint, or not. Your call.

We Three Together series, by Tinydooms

Basically a series that can act as a novelisation for The Mummy, mostly “missing scenes” and character studies. A joy to read if you like Evy, Rick, and Jonathan.

The Witches’ Library, by jones2000 (on FFnet here)

Summary: He would like to state emphatically for the record that none of this was his fault, thank you very much. It was all entirely coincidental. He should know by now that these things have a tendency to snowball. Or, Jonathan doesn't need the O’Connells to find trouble.

Comments: I read this last year and it immediately made my shortlist of favourites, on top of hitting me in the heart and over the head with the subtlety of a freight train. I even made a rec post about it. The writing is so sharp it might as well be written with a bloody scalpel, the OCs are fascinating, and Jonathan is somewhat jaded but still wonderfully entertaining. It’s the only post-WW2 Mummy story I’ve ever loved (read?), and certainly the only one that incorporates Tomb of the Dragon Emperor elements I’ve ever loved. Give it plenty of reviews, it deserves them.

Edited to add a few and make it more dash-friendly :o)

Also, I wrote a few things if you’re interested:

After the Sunset: What’s left to do, after saving the world and riding triumphantly into the setting sun? A lot, as it turns out. Our Heroes ride camels, negotiate the shift from acquaintances and allies to something like a family, and encounter a couple of surprises good and bad on the way back from Hamunaptra. (Or, the one where Evelyn and Rick discover the contents of their saddlebag, Jonathan finds out that whiskey doesn’t quite cut it when a scarab has burrowed its way into your hand and arm and out your shoulder, and Ardeth gives his name and saves the day. Well, night.)

Long one-shot set just after “the end” of The Mummy.

Fairy Tales and Hokum: 1937: Two years after the events of Ahm Shere, the O’Connells are “required” by the British Government to bring the Diamond taken there from Egypt to England. In Cairo, while Evelyn deals with the negotiations and Rick waits for doom to strike again, Jonathan bumps into an old friend of his from university, Tom Ferguson. Things start to go awry when the Diamond is stolen from the Museum and old loyalties are tested...

This one is looong. It’s 160k+ words. (also took me 16 years to finish but shhh)

Carnahan-O’Connells musings and snapshots: Headcanons and one-shots about the disaster family.

Like it says on the tin - mostly headcanons with a few actual stories with dialogue.

I know, there’s not a lot of them, but they’re my very favourites. If you have other recs, feel free to add them!

[kinkykinard]

Beyond Survival

Fandom: Star Trek AOS. Pairing: Leonard McCoy X Reader. Word Count: 2064. Rating: Mature (18+). Summary: Three years in space takes its toll on a body, and you decide you want to get as far away from the Enterprise as possible for a week, even if it means facing the wildnerness. Author’s Note: For @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse‘s birthday challenge!  Happy now horribly belated birthday you gorgeous, lovely lady!  Love you tons!  Somewhat inspired by Kid Rock’s All Summer Long and with references to Camping with Bones.  Reposting because Tumblr apparently ate the first one.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this again.” Leonard chuckles from where he’s sunning himself on the beach next to you and turns his head to look at you. “We’ve been here for three days, darlin’,” he teases gently.  “And if memory serves, it was your idea.” You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses and sit up from where you’re lying on the blanket beneath a large umbrella at the edge of the lake Leonard had first brought you to on your first ever camping trip three years before under the guise of getting you survival certified. You’d hated it less than you’d thought you would back then, and while it’s painful to admit it, right now you’re really, genuinely enjoying yourself, even if you know you’ve got another night of getting bled dry by mosquitoes and sleeping on a camp cot ahead of you. “If you ever say you told me so, they’ll never find your body,” you threaten darkly as you shift to a standing position, brushing some sand from between your toes.

It’s for naught a moment later, though, as you just step onto the beach and feel the minute grains working their way right back into the spots you’d just cleared.  Wading closer to the lake you can’t help but feel tiny amidst the towering trees of the woods at your back and the mountain peaks breaking the panorama in the distance across the lake before you. Stepping forward, you take your time approaching the water line, glancing out at the gently rolling waves, inhaling the fresh air.  As you cross the threshold from wet to dry, you feel the water-kissed sediment beneath your feet shift with every step, and you gasp as a wave of glacial water licks at your ankles.  It’s almost too cold to bear, but you persevere as you hike up your beach skirt before it can drag in the wash.  The water feels amazing against your overheated skin and by the time you’re up to your thighs, the slight tremors that wracked your body wading in have subsided and you feel content. You close your eyes as the sun beats on your skin and you relinquish your hold on the hem of your skirt, letting it trail in the water, dragging your fingertips through the wash as it ebbs and flows around you.  It’s all stillness and near-silence around you for a few moments and then, suddenly, you’re being snapped out of your reverie by a warm set of hands coming to rest on your upper arms.  Whipping your head around and glancing over your shoulder, you come face to face with Leonard and he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “You scared me half to death,” you murmur only half-seriously. “Sorry, sweetheart,” Leonard says with a soft chuckle.  “Just wanted to come and enjoy the view with you.” “I thought I was the view,” you tease playfully. Leonard leans in closer and gently nips at the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, his teeth eliciting an electrifying sensation.  His hands come up to where your bikini is tied between your shoulder blades and you inhale sharply as you feel him tug on the strings, letting them fall aside and freeing your breasts from the top’s cups. “Leonard!”  You admonish with a squeak, reaching up to hastily hold the suit in place. “What are you doing?!  What if someone sees?!” “It’s just you, me, and the birds out here, darlin’,” Leonard says softly.  “No one’s going to see, I promise.” As he speaks, his hands slip higher up along your back, reaching the ties at your neck.  You feel them come loose a half second later and gravity quickly comes to Leonard’s aid, pulling your top down as you move your hands away from your chest, leaving it floating on the waves and you exposed to the sunshine and mountain air. You bite your lip as his hands come to rest on your waist for a brief moment before slowly sliding up your sides and around to your chest.  His chest presses up against your back as he pulls you close and his hands come to cup your breasts, kneading them gently as his lips find purchase on your shoulder. His kisses are so gentle they feel like no more than the brush of butterfly wings against your skin and you exhale softly, closing your eyes and enjoying the sensation. “You’re so beautiful,” Leonard murmurs into your shoulder. His hands are your undoing.  You sag in relaxation, grateful for the support of his body against yours as he massages your breasts, his thumbs occasionally flicking over your nipples.  It’s sensual more than anything and as your head drops back to rest against his collarbone you wish you could stay entwined with him forever. You don’t know how much time has passed by the time Leonard slowly, hesitantly slips his hands down away from your breasts but whether it’s been minutes or hours it’s been woefully little.  You reluctantly turn to face him, reaching out with one hand to fish out the bikini top that’s floating on the waves nearby feeling grateful that it hasn’t sunk yet. “Let’s head back in and have lunch,” Leonard suggests softly, leaning down a little to press a kiss to your forehead. You nod and shiver as he steps away from you, his body heat dissipating in the wake of his departure and leaving you chilled. Gritting your teeth, you slap the now-drenched bikini top back onto your chest and adjust it before reaching back to do up the ties.  It’s a clumsy and awkward process but you manage and wade into the shallows, wringing water out of your beach skirt as you go.  It doesn’t take you long to reach the spot where Leonard is packing up the umbrella and towels and you slip your feet into your sandals as you stop, grimacing at the feel of the sand between your shoes and skin. The walk back to the campsite is a quite one, but the silence is amiable.  You smile as the sun beats down on your face and shoulders, and as birdsong fills your ears and carries you far away from all of your worries back on the Enterprise. You’re still shaken and exhausted after the weeks-long combat situation that pre-empted the shore leave and so the further away from it all you can put your mind, the better. “Go ahead and get changed, I’ll get a fire started,” Leonard instructs you. You snap out of your reverie and realize that you’ve reached the campsite while you were lost in thought.  You smile and nod, half-surprised that he’s not coercing you into proving to him you remember everything he taught you during survival training by having you start the fire. It takes you only a few minutes to strip out of your wet clothes, dry off, and pull on a comfortable pair of shorts and a tank top.  Once you’ve gotten your feet into a pair of hiking boots, you make your way over to where Leonard’s already got a fire going and wrap your arms around his waist as he leans in to stoke it. “What’s for lunch?”  You ask. “I’ve got some chili stewing, and I was just about to whip up some corn bread,” Leonard replies. “That sounds amazing,” you say enthusiastically, suddenly ravenous at the thought of it. “Well it won’t take too much longer,” Leonard assures you with a smile.  “And if you’re still looking to work up a bit more of an appetite, I could use a little more firewood.” “Consider it done,” you say with a nod. You hurry off into the woods, glancing around for hazards and wild animals as you stoop down here and there to pick up some nice, dry pieces of wood.  You’re still a little uneasy being out in the forest by yourself, but the late afternoon sunlight still illuminates enough of the surrounding area that you won’t be surprised by anything creeping up on you. With a bundle of firewood in your arms, you finally turn to make your way back to the campsite.  You can’t see the path immediately ahead of you and so you try awkwardly to feel your way around with the toes of your boots.  You know you’re nearly back at the site when you start to smell smoke on the air and see glimpses of Leonard’s heathered gray t-shirt through the trees.  You’re just about to call to him when your foot catches a root and you’re sent sailing through the air and sprawling out on the ground. You groan as pain flares in your chest, dragging in a lungful of air after being winded upon landing.  You can feel scrapes smarting on your hands and knees and there are loose pieces of wood jabbing at you from all sides.  You’re about to roll over onto your back to relieve some of the discomfort when a pair of boots appears in your view and you glance up to meet Leonard’s concerned gaze as he crouches in front of you. “Alright there, sugar?”  He asks. You grunt at him and slowly haul yourself onto your knees, hissing as you’re reminded of the scrapes there.  You take the hand he offers to help you to your feet moments later and glance around at the wood you’ve scattered everywhere. “Fine,” you reply at last.  “Only my pride is irreparably damaged.” Leonard chuckles and reaches out, gently taking your face in hand and tipping it up.  As you stretch your neck a bit, you feel a stinging at your chin and realize you’ve scraped it, too.  Rolling your eyes, you pull away from his hold and stoop to pick up the wood, piling it back up awkwardly and starting off toward the campsite again, being careful to avoid the root that did you in the last time. Back at the campsite, you offload the bundle of wood next to the fire pit and step back to take stock of yourself. Leonard is right behind you and before you can protest, he leads you over to the truck and guides you to sit up on the tailgate while he retrieves his med kit.  As he pulls out the antiseptic and salve, you set your face in a contemplative albeit grim expression, earning yourself a quirk of his eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”  He asks. “I’m trying to decide what’s worse – this or the sprained ankle from last time,” you explain. Leonard shakes his head and gives you a second to brace yourself against the stinging before he goes to work on cleaning out the wounds on your palms and knees.  It’s unpleasant but the discomfort becomes a bit muddled as you take in the expression of utmost care and concentration on his handsome face. It doesn’t take him long to finish with your wounds even with as much care as he’s using to avoid causing you any further pain and before long you’re sliding off of the tailgate and brushing the leftover dirt from your clothes. “The chili should be done by now,” Leonard offers as he returns from putting the med kit away.  “A hearty lunch is the cure for what ails you.” You snort at the sentiment and step forward instead, wrapping your arms around Leonard’s waist as your chest connects with his. “How about a little kiss to make it better instead?”  You suggest. “I think that can be arranged…”  Leonard trails off as he dips his head down a little, his lips brushing yours gently before coming in closer for a proper kiss. Soon, his hands are lost in your hair and yours are slipping under the fabric of his shirt to stroke along the skin of his ribcage.  The two of you become entwined in one another as you deepen the kiss and it’s not long until the chili is all but forgotten.   The two of you spend the next hour consummating the trip on one of the camp cots in the tent and as you lie tangled in each other’s arms in a post-coital bliss surrounded by the sounds and smells of summer in the woods, you can’t help but smile at your choice of destination for this shore leave.   It’s just what the doctor ordered.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Wrack and Ruin

Part I

Part II

Part III

Joseph is cheerful at breakfast and Napoleon is congenial. Arthur considers Napoleon's nocturnal visit a strange fever dream. He considers most of the man's nocturnal visits strange fever dreams. It is easier to parse them as the imaginings of his evidently disturbed mind than things he allows because he has become fond of the wretched man.

Joseph says, 'we will start directly after breakfast. Better to get in a full day I think.'

'Just the three of us?' Napoleon asks. 'Wouldn't a wider search party be better?'

'Unfortunately it's planting season so most everyone is occupied. We're still making up for the weather a few years ago. Did you get red snow? We got red snow. In July!'

Napoleon brightens, 'oh yes. We got that. I thought that was just a result of some of the strange magic happening on our side of the pond.'

'Volcano,' Arthur says as he butters toast. 'I read a thing on it.'

Napoleon makes a face at him, 'be more precise. What thing when?'

'Hm, Royal Society, a year ago? This time? Or in the autumn? Whenever their annual journal comes out. I was reading it and there was something or other about a volcano.'

Napoleon looks to Joseph, 'volcano, brother.'

'Indeed, brother, volcano.'

Arthur looks up from his toast. Both Bonapartes stare at him. He takes a bite. Chews very slowly and upon swallowing says, 'you're hair is sticking up.' Both reach up to check. Arthur stares at them. Napoleon is the first to break with a grin.

'You're wicked, Arthur Wellesley. Positive rascal.'

'Pot, kettle,' he waves his knife.

Joseph turns in his chair and says with firmness, 'tell me of mother.'

Napoleon, switching into Italian, 'mother is well. She remains in Rome with Fesche.'

'Good, good. She is keeping her spirits up?'

'She is, though I have heard worrying things about the company she keeps. Lucien wrote me about it.'

Joseph raises his eyebrows. Napoleon bats his arm. Lucien and I, he declares, are quite made up.

'I don't believe it.' Joseph turns to Arthur, still speaking in Italian, 'do you believe it?'

Arthur shrugs.

Joseph takes this as confirmation of bias, 'he doesn't believe it either.'

'He doesn't speak Italian,' Napoleon replies in French. 'He knows. He is on my side.'

'Who?'

'Wellesley.'

'Something for the history books.'

Napoleon leans over and flicks Joseph's nose. Joseph returns the sentiment and the rest of break is spent with the brothers bickering over who Lucien favours most between the two of them. Arthur is deeply relieved when Napoleon finally stands and says that it is time to look for devils. Joseph spreads his hands, 'by all means, run my table.'

Napoleon, although not in a grudging manner but certainly stilted, says 'my apologies. Force of habit.'

Joseph is mollified for the moment. Dabs his lips with his napkin before standing and leading the way to the gun room.

--

Napoleon is not sure what he expected when they set out into the Pine Barrens but given the name and the rough translation from Wellesley he had not expected quite so many trees. He takes up the point of confusion with Joseph who explains that the name comes from the poor soil. He says it is not sufficient for most plants to thrive and so we have pine trees. Pines and pines and pines. The monotony of the forest, which is wide and never ending, creates a disjointed effect.

It is nothing like the Shrubbery in Woodford with it's cool, quiet, claustrophobic English atmosphere. No, no this is a little like some parts of Austria. But not quite. He attempts to think of a comparison but all he calls to mind are either lacking something or have too much of something. But, as he is not botanist, he does not wrestle with the subject for long.

'I think it was loitering around your estate last night,' Napoleon says as they stop for Joseph to tie a piece of ribbon to a tree. 'I heard something hissing very early this morning.'

Arthur glances, sidelong, towards him.

'I happened to be up.'

Joseph rejoins them nodding, 'Yes I've heard it around before. I dislike that it can fly. Makes me want to reinforce the windows.'

Napoleon is uncomfortable with that reminder. Indeed, if it can fly then it can reach their first floor rooms. What he had seen had been on the ground but who is to say it had not been up in the air spying. He looks towards Arthur who is scanning the trees with a resolute expression.

Joseph explains the history of the Pine Barrens to them as they continue to pick their way through the forest.  They had forgone horses as they were tracking and it is best to be on foot for such work. Joseph had also said that many of the accounts he and his friend Nicholas Biddle has accumulated over recent months have most encounters occurring to people on foot. Being without sturdy animals adds a layer of unease to the group.

'There are people who make their living out in these woods,' Joseph says. 'We may run across them or signs of them. They are friendly if wary. They do not trust easily but, in my experience, they will cause no trouble to us. It is lucky we have his grace here to translate. I have run into them on my own and by the grace of God one of their wives was an Acadian woman and had something like French. Down from Nova Scotia. We made piece-meal sense. It worked.'

'How do they survive?' Napoleon wonders. It is clear that the sand beneath foot is barren of nutrients. What grows here much suck bare minimal of survival from dusty earth.

'There is some industry. Bog iron is mined although that is slowing down of late. It was apparently quite big thirty, forty years ago. There are mills here and there, paper, saw, grist and the like.' Joseph hums for a moment as he considers the forest around them. 'I think, if someone were to be enterprising, they could have a fair go at a sawmill. But you would have to be intelligent about it but I do believe it entirely manageable.'

'Not going into trade are you?' Napoleon teases.

'No, no. It was just a conversation I had with Mr. Biddle recently. We usually talk banks. He picks my brain about France's and I am woefully inadequate when it comes to answering his questions.'

Spying Arthur's quietude and pensive features Napoleon asks him what it is he is so concerned about. This is merely one creature. We've dealt with more.

'I dislike the quiet,' Arthur says. 'I do not trust a quiet forest.'

Napoleon agrees and the three find themselves glancing over their shoulders more. The peaceful transforms into the sinister. It is the unheimlich, the familiar becoming the terrifying. Horror in a place of safety. Perhaps a bit much to apply it to a forest that is, for two of them, foreign. But Napoleon likes the word and so uses it when he can.

He had first applied it to his home after the Fairy Incident in Woodford. Everything was uncanny, then. What had been safe bore memories of terror. The Bertrand children regularly woke crying. He wishes he had the word earlier in his life. He might have been able to explain things with greater ease to Josephine and Louise.

Things can make the familiar alien. The obvious one for him is war. It gets worse, too, the more he is removed from it. He had mentioned it to Bertrand who had said that it is because the body understands it is safe now to be weird. The way bodies are weird. He had said, It is how you become ill only after big events. It's as if your body knows it is safe to be weak.

//

It is in the late afternoon that they come upon a bog. Reeds and dead, over salted tree stumps jut up from the mire. Mosquitoes, midges and a few early black flies buzz around making a nuisance of themselves.

'I haven't seen anything yet,' Arthur says waving away the pests. 'Just a damn lot of bugs.'

'July is worse,' Joseph mutters. 'Can barely go out shooting for the things. Anyway, there's not much of way through here without a boat but I do know an alternative path back so we won't be covering the same ground twice.'

To get to the path they follow the edge of the bog for half a mile and just as they turn to head back into the trees Arthur grabs Napoleon's arm.

'There,' he says. He points to tracks in the mud. 'Hoof prints. Fresh too. They'd be more shallow if the mud had time to fill them in.'

Napoleon looks around them and sees little sign of the creature then scans the trees and heavens above. All equally void. Joseph inspects the prints and confirms that they are identical to the ones he saw the previous winter.

'It clearly stood here for a time,' Joseph says. 'Judging by the depth of them.'

The three again look out to the bog. It is, baring the bugs, a peaceful place. There is a beauty in it and Arthur says that isn't it odd? A creature such as this devil admiring the view?

Returning to the forest they follow a clear hunting trail back towards the township. The pines thin the closer they get to Bordentown and the air cooler. Shoulders relax, grips on muskets more friendly. Napoleon teases Arthur about being nervous. Arthur says he is never nervous, only ever prepared. Joseph says that he remember Napoleon almost pissing himself once, as a boy on Corsica.

'With good reason,' Napoleon sagely replies. 'We were cornered by Antonia di Piero Vezzani's dog in an alleyway. I almost wet myself. You actually did.'

Leaving the Pineland they are laughing. There is relief, for a moment. Napoleon glances back towards the trees and thinks he sees something watching them. Hovering six feet above the ground. Large wings flapping. Then, gone. As if it had never been.

He returns his attention to Joseph and Arthur. Listens amiably to Joseph's stories of their youth and only corrects when absolutely necessary and not nearly as often as he usually would. The urge to take command of the narrative is only an ember, not even a flicker of a flame. The land around them worth looking at. The sky, something to admire. He looks up to clouds and blue and the gold of an afternoon sun. He wonders when he will learn how to speak to Joseph again. When they will rediscover that lost language they had as brothers.

Part IV

[jamest-kirk]

Hey there I know you're real busy with school these days so feel free to ignore this or whatever but have you ever done anything where the trio met as kids/teens?? I love you, your blog and your writing!!! 💖💖💖

Okay I know I’ve done something like this before but I can’t find it. It’s lost in my Tumblr forever probably. :(

Leonard is 12 when he moves to Riverside, Iowa with his family. Jim feels bad for him, really. Born and raised in downtown Atlanta, Riverside must be a bore. And he speaks with a funny accent, that southern drawl is something he gets picked on in school. Leonard doesn’t give a shit about these other kids, though. He’s one of the smartest people in school, intimidating with words and an angry frown, and surprisingly strong, too. He likes Jim, and that’s the most important thing. They hang out together all the time after school, and they make homework together. Even though they’re not in the same grade, they just sit at the kitchen table in Jim’s home, and do their work until they’re done. Then they either play outside in the fields, or hide in the basement to play old fashioned board games. It’s just the two of them against the world, and that’s all they need.

Until one night, all of that changes. School’s out for the summer, and it’s close to midnight but still warm enough to roam the corn fields. Bones mans the flash light, but Jim is the one running ahead of him. They reach the end of the field, and climb a short hill that overlooks the small farm houses and the fields surrounding them. There, Jim sinks down on the grass and stares at the sky. Leonard joins in next to him. “I’m gonna go to space someday,” Jim says, and Leonard frowns. “What'cha gonna do up there? Very little air to breathe.” “Exploring,” Jim replies. “Aint no explorin’ when you’re dead,” Leonard says. “That’s the spirit, Bones,” Jim replies. 

They both look at the stars, and Jim’s pointing out different constellations - some real, some entirely made up. "What’s that, then, you smartass?“ Bones asks, pointings towards a flashing light in the sky. “A plane,” Jim says, “maybe a falling star?” But it’s neither. And it’s rapidly coming closer. By the time they realize it’s probably a meteor, it’s already too close to really run away from it. Jim almost automatically shields himself over Bones when it hits, landing in the field with a deafening crash, and the impact destroys the crops around it in an instant. By the time the dust settles, and grain and grass is no longer falling around them, Jim looks up. “That’s not a meteor,” Leonard says, sitting up straight, too, “that’s a-” “spaceship,” Jim finishes, jumping up on his feet and rushing towards it. 

Though the shuttle looks mostly destroyed, the alien inside of it climbs out in one piece. He looks young, barely any older than Leonard. Very human-like, too, except his ears are oddly pointy, and the few scratches he does have ooze a little green instead of red. “Oh my God,” Jim says, “you are an alien!” Bones, rather than approaching the alien with open arms, holds Jim back a little. He’s seen those alien movies, they don’t usually end well. “Yes,” the alien-boy replies. “You speak English?” Bones asks. “I speak many languages,” he replies. “Cool,” Jim says, “what’s your name?” “Spock,” Spock replies. “Are you okay?” Bones asks carefully, still not a 100% sure about this stranger. Spock eyes him with similar caution. “My ship crashed on a planet with only average intelligence,” Spock says, “I’ll be okay if I can rebuild my ship to fly out of here.”

Jim offers to help rebuild that ship, even though he has no idea how. Leonard is a bit more reluctant, but he, too, offers to try and find solutions to get Spock back up into space. “D'you think we can join you?” Jim asks curiously. He offers Spock a beanie to hide those pointy ears, despite it being way too hot for that. Spock doesn’t seem to mind, though, he actually looks quite cold. “No,” Spock says, “that would be illogical. My ship doesn’t have enough room, and you require different living conditions than we do.” “Who’s ‘we’, exactly?” Bones asks. They rummage through the shed in Bones’ garden, looking for useful material, but honestly, they have no clue what to look for. “Vulcans,” Spock explains, “from the planet Vulcan.” “I wanna go so bad,” Jim groans, grabbing a handful of wires from Mr. McCoy’s workbench.  

Come morning, they are no closer to finding Spock’s way home. Jim’s mom’s away for work and doesn’t mind strangers joining for dinner, so Spock just pretends to be human while they look for a solution. He sucks at it, too. He’s way too smart to be a convincing 12 year old, he can’t lie for some reason, so he blatantly tells Jim’s mom he’s a Vulcan. Jim laughs it off as a joke to get his mom less suspicious about it. Spock gets sick from the human food, too. Leonard patches him up with some bland tea and toast, which he somehow seems to love, so that’s most of what he eats when there’s no grownups around.

When summer comes to an end, they’re no closer to finding Spock a way home. Luckily, they don’t have to. The Vulcans find him. There’s a bonfire night in town and everyone’s having marshmallows and cold drinks. Leonard thinks it’s boring and there’s too many mosquitos, but Jim loves it and they drag Spock along to get to know humanity a little better, too. And it’s really just out of the blue that amidst the crowd of townspeople, a bunch more Vulcans beam down to pick up Spock. Spock gets up immediately, dropping his marshmallow sticks to rush over. “Father, you came!”

After the initial scare, the Vulcans talk to the people to try and explain, and Spock takes this time to say goodbye to his newfound friends. “Thank you,” Spock says, “for everything.” “No problemo,” Jim replies. “Yeah, just don’t forget us when you’re so busy studying,” Leonard says, “try and relax sometimes, too.” Spock smiles, nodding slowly. “I will,” he says. He takes off his beanie, and hands it to Jim. Jim shakes his head. “Keep it,” he says, “a reminder of your Earth friends.” Spock holds it tightly as he walks over to his Vulcan family, and he waves at the two of them before they’re beamed away.

It takes at least another ten years before humans actually establish alliances with Vulcans and other species alike. And then another ten before space travel is more easily accessible; the only reason it happened all so quickly is thanks to Vulcan funding. Bones, by then, graduated medicine and is easily accepted into Starfleet Academy. Jim’s a bit more of a troublemaker, a college dropout - though highly intelligent - and it isn’t until he receives recommendation from Captain Pike, he actually gets to attend, too, though the pressure to perform is definitely on.

Jim's pretty smart - much more than he lets on, anyway, but even he is struggling to juggle classes, assignments, partying and sleep. There's just not enough hours in the day. So on Saturday before exams, Jim and Bones are sitting outside on the campus, cramming for their exams, when they're approached by a Vulcan. Tall and slender, as stoic as all the other Vulcans, but there's a glint in his eyes. "Hello," he says, and both boys look up from their books. "Hello?" Jim says. "It's me," Spock says, "Spock." And as soon as he says it, both boys are up, and Spock gets a lesson in human greeting. A hug from both of them simultaneously, which leaves him a little flustered. "How have you been?" Bones asks, gently squeezing Spock's shoulder, which really doesn't make Spock any less distracted. "Good," Spock says. "You're a first officer!" Jim says, fingers pressing against the Starfleet insignia on Spock's chest. "Indeed, I'm with Pike," Spock says. "Did you convince Pike to talk the school committee into accepting Jim?" Bones asks curiously, and Spock shrugs casually. "It was merely a suggestion," he replies, "after all, we want what's best for the USS Enterprise." "Yeah," Bones huffs, "I'm sure it was just for the Enterprise."

[thevelonaut]

The Right Stuff.

Reader, I took a train. A student I’d worked with at college told me, at graduation last week, that his legs had been pretty shonked after a tour from The Hook to Amsterdam. He said he was covering 50k a day for 5 days, and that’d been plenty. I didn’t ask his gearing, but I know he was riding something nuts like a 48 x 18 when last I saw his rig. I’d loaded my own Rig a couple days before, and taken it for a yeager round the block. Not unwieldy; the gear felt okay, but it’s true that the 5 or 6% climbs about West Norwood did give me cause for uncertainty - it’s clear 80-miles to Dover from here, and I did not want to be locked up on some 11% gradient hammering my legs, my teeth locked up in a shitball self-hatred, and a curse heard around the world.

The first day / West Norwood → Cannon St → Dover → France

I cycled up to Cannon St on the same day that the Prudential-Ride-London-hubris-fest was heading back into the city (or, at least, the 100-mile maniacs who were done and dusted by 12.30pm were..) and found it quiet and nutso-simple. Two hours later I’m at the Dover seaport, eyeing the monstrous climbs over the North Downs and the clifftop roads that would, most likely, have devoured all my goodwill before I even left the continent.

So the train was a smart idea. So was the ferry. Even though it is, essentially, a motorway service station that happens to float, I was first on (a cyclist’s real advantage) and first off. This meant I bagged a seat at the front of the sea lounge, sat with my espresso and watched the white, sunlit cliffs in the late afternoon. The weather was breezy, nice, the sea calm. Other passengers seem to be Dutch or Belgian, since the boat was heading to Dunkirk and not Calais; this is some 25 miles further East, and thus a half-hour closer to the flatter end of continental Europe. It’s hard not to lament the end of the UK’s involvement in the EU as you pass over the short water; the channel feels very small indeed, and it’s almost impossible not to think of how close the potential for invasion has always been in the history of our small islands. We land in Dunkirk at 8pm, and I hoon it off the ramp. A man and his son, about thirteen, are on their Joe Waugh supertouristes. I pass them, and the man says he’s never seen a fixed tourer before; me neither, I say, although I do see a fella in Ypres five days later, churning it on a piece of retro steel. It’s not the worst plan. The ride into Dunkirk town is about 20k from the ferry port, a mainly uninspiring clumber through the industrial architecture and chimneytops of its massive port, through the old town and past its 19th century villas, and out to the campsite on the eastern side of the town. The bike works, cruises right nice; as expected, the only ballache is stop-starting, and this grates a little when you’re all loaded up. My right knee is a bit grumbly; I think I hurt the ligaments a while back, and it’s recurring when I train or ride harder. I also recognise I have a total bias toward my right leg; I always start on that side, I trackstand on that side, and I push harder there when I’m tired. Someone told me that backpedalling on a turbo is an excellent way of redressing this bias, but that’s not something I’m about to do.

The second day / Dunkirk → Gent

The next day, I feel good. The weather is drizzly but the sun comes out at midday. I bollock it along the sea roads, get lost because I’ve no map, and trace a line toward Ostend because that makes the most sense. When I get there, I realise there’s an ace network of canal paths and back-roads to help you get.. well, anywhere in Belgium. I haphazardly find my way to Brugges at 2pm, and eat bread and houmous on the drunkards’ benches, under a Napoleonic canopy, watching the assembled hordes of Italian, American and Chinese tourists be guided around the - admittedly beautiful - streets. Because my bags (a couple of 13l bags front and back, and a stuff sack under my saddle) are SO well-packed, I can barely carry anything extra in them. This means any and all food must be consumed on the spot. This means I eat every last spot of houmous. With a spoon. The Italians eye my with horror, My beard is a righteous ginger, tahini and chickpea flavoured wind-breaker. Indeed, I could perhaps store spare food here. I chuckle as I strap my shoes back on, and head along the Gent-Brugges canal. Now THAT is the way to travel.

This is the bike touring dream; long, straight and perfect asphalt, the canal cuts across 40k of Belgian farmland and occasional towns. I fly. There’s a wind coming out of the North East, which makes my life supreme (although I will of course be cursing it all the way back later in the week) and I get lost only once.

How? Because I WAS STUPID AND I LEFT THE CANAL PATH.

Why? BECAUSE IT SEEMED TOO EASY.

But why is easy a problem? IT ISN’T. BUT IT IS.

That’s the paradigm shift I deal with every day. If something is easy, then I shouldn’t be doing it. I know, I know; what a dipshit I am. When I started using the word velonaut to describe my adventures, that was always a reference to the early aviators, or the pioneers of Jules Verne, of Chuck Yeagerness, of the Mercury projects. Tom Wolfe, submariners, polarnauts et al. Jam-packed with self-righteousness and hubris, the Mallorian concept of doing a thing because it is there. Or Kennedy’s doing a thing because it is hard. Why climb Ventoux? Why ride to the Pyrenees? Why ride a fixed all winter? Why tour on a fixed? Why no carbon? Why does your knee hurt? Why not eat in a cafe or a restaurant? Why not take a hotel or a gites? Why the romance of motion, of tents and a can of Jupiler on a patch of grass? When will this stop?

All good questions.

But anyways, I got lost, got found, called HC from a backwater bus stop (below) and she navigated me to a social enterprise campsite nearby. The camp was run by a non-profit, started by socialists and communists who’d fought in the Belgian resistance during the second world war, and now professed a message of peace and equality in all things. It was one of my all-time favourite campings. And it was less than a tenner. The Belgian hardcase asked where my fancy gears were when looking at the Rig. One gear, I said. Old style, he said. He grunted approval and told me about the history of communism in Belgium, told me Duvel “isn’t a strong beer” and then walked by later on, as I was pished-up and lost in a stupor watching massive campsite spiders prey on the mosquitoes they’d caught. I was leathered. I’d had two bottles.

The third day / Gent → Brussels

More canals. More bridges. More sheep.

More farm roads. A hideous set of spaghetti-coiled A-roads, overpasses, gyratories and weird airport roads. I came upon Brussels from the North after about 80k of riding. It wasn’t necessarily hard work, but constant; hills became a bit more frequent, and the airport near which my destination lay never seemed to come any closer. All of a sudden, by the use of the sun, some immense triangulation of my position, and about ten wrong roads, I was outside the house where I’d be staying. It lay some 210k from where I’d left the day before, along a cobbled road near a military base. A strange, quiet part of a big city, with the only punctuation to the peace coming from intermittent jet engines. It’s where HC’s brother is living this summer. He and his wife greet me, squeeze me, feed me, leave me alone to start the rehabilitation process toward smelling nice. Merino wool wears the salty medals of effort, cycle shorts can only maintain about 130k before smelling like a dog farm. I got in a shower and eeked with the cold on my legs, the warm on my sunburned neck, and the satisfaction one can only feel when they got to where they’re heading. That’s what I think I mean by the nautics of the velo.