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givemeonereason · 7 months ago

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Meditations: First, the Friend and then, the Son

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Photo Credit: Here

Dragon Ball Masterlist Givemeonereason Masterlist

Rating: SO MANY FEELS

Plot: Krillin seeks out Gohan to get some more information about the girl who lost her "Piccolo." A warmth between friends and family.

A/N: Hello, and thank you for patiently waiting for me to write up this next installment. I kept saying I was writing and I kept pushing it aside. Depression is so real and writers burn out is really real too. I think I just overdid it.

I'm so excited and happy that this series has taken off. Seems like there really is an audience for Piccolo. And he deserves it! I'll keep it going for as long as the story needs it. Tall, green, and handsome love for all.

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The police speeder came to an abrupt halt outside Son Gohan estate.

When Krillin gingerly unhooked his regulation helmet and hung it from the handlebars of his unit, the elderly man who was tending to flowers in the garden was swiftly walking towards the main house.

After he disappeared through a side door a kind-looking, middle-aged woman came out to greet him.

"Good morning, sir." She bowed her head politely. "To what do we owe the pleasure of the local law enforcement?"

The formality of the situation made Krillin perk up his shoulders. "Sorry, ma'am I need to speak with Gohan. Do you know if he's around?"

"I believe he is in the library." She turned on her heel. "Please follow me."

What seemed like an endless amount of stairs for a pair of small legs, the door to the library was ajar. Gohan was buried among several piles of books, a laptop, and three mugs, which presumably had an unknown concoction of caffeine.

"Gohan." Krillin called out to him as he walked towards the desk, but Gohan only pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He scribbled vigorously at the notepad before him.

"Gohan?" Krillin repeated with a little more oomph. Gohan began to mumble to himself.

with the help of prefectural flora cultivation, this can provide direct resources to the habitat of-

"Gohan! Snap out of it."

Gohan shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times while readjusting his thick black frames. "Whoa, Krillin I didn't see you there."

"Obviously..." Krillin rolled his eyes.

"Gosh, how long have you been here." Gohan finished the sentence he was muttering and almost stabbed the notepad when he poked the paper at the period.

"Well, I've been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now."

"Okay, I'm sorry I'm on the verge of a breakthrough here." He picked up a large blue mug and took a swig, only to spit it back into the glass. His face contorted when he tried to wipe his tongue on his sleeve.

Krillin had picked up a book nearest him and flipped through a few pages. "Cognitive Ecology of Pollination: Animal Behaviour and Floral Evolution." Too many words. He set the book back down and crossed his arms. "This might be out of left field, but have you seen Piccolo lately?"

"Not today, no."

"No, I just mean recently. There is something fishy is going on. I don't know if you know about the girl?"

"There's a girl?" Gohan took a sip from a different mug garnished with a Satan City logo. He set that one down quickly. "Did Piccolo do something to a girl? I'm not sure I understand."

"That's what I'm trying to find out." Krillin took a seat in a wooden car adjacent to the large desk. "This is going to sound odd. Considering we've seen and experienced some very odd things in the past, this one is hard to place when it comes to weird."

Krillins folded his hands and relaxed his shoulders. "Well, here goes. Long story short; I got a report of a girl screaming on a hillside about an instrument. When I went to investigate the girl said she lost her piccolo. I put two and two together and figured she might be talking about our Piccolo. So when I went to The Hideout to ask Piccolo about this girl, he got defensive and said he did something to her. And I think he couldn't forgive himself, or I don't remember fine details."

Gohan sat for a few moments in silence thinking. "Do you know this girl?"

"Never met her a day in my life...until I spoke with her."

Gohan scratched at his hairline, pushing the rouge tuft of hair out of his face only for it to fall back down towards his eyes. "Piccolo hasn't said anything to me about a woman." His shoulders were undulated with confusion.

Before Gohan could circle the same conclusion, he spoke again. "Whatever it is, he seems to care enough about this girl. You know him. He's a pretty unfazed guy. Very serious. Not too emotional, or softish. You know what I mean."

Gohan reached out for the last mug on the desk, hesitating before grabbing the handle. He stared down at the contents swirling around in contemplation and decided against it. The mug clanked against the desk surface as Krillin's pleaded with him.

"I was kind of wondering if you would go talk to him? He practically demanded I leave The Hideout when I pressed the issue. If he's going to talk to anyone it's got to be you. You're practically his son."

The last bit made Gohan chuckle. "I don't know Krillin. If he didn't want to talk about it, maybe we should just leave it alone."

Krillin stood up and walked towards Gohan. "Could you just at least try. If he doesn't open up to you then I'll let it go, okay?"

"Okay, okay." Gohan stood up, pressing his palms against the armrests of his chair. "I'll go to talk to him tomorrow morning. I'll call you when I get back."

Krillin smiled widely. "Thanks Gohan. I just think, you know, he does.. has done so much for us that we can try and help him too sometimes. Even if he says he doesn't want it."

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When the morning light touched the western side of The Hideout, Gohan walked through the threshold Piccolos room. “Hey, Piccolo.”

Piccolo turned towards the similarly dressed young man, putting down the small, leather bound book in his hands on the small desk beside him. “Gohan, what brings you here this early.”

Gohan stretched his arms, his elbow popping loud enough to warrant a light echo. He laughed with some embarrassment. “Well, I guess I’m just a little rusty. I was wondering if we could spar?”

The upturned smirk told all Gohan needed to know before the two of them were passing blows hovering over the ground far below them.

One after the other, fists flying, blocking, dodging, power surging. Time was passing as the sun arched across the sky, but it only felt like moments. The adrenaline of the fight.

When Gohan began to tire slightly he landed a singular hit that propelled Piccolo back that anyone with even the best eyesight wouldn’t have seen. The super Sayain gives his all in the last throes of battle.

Piccolo gathered his equilibrium, and wiped the blood staining his lip against his forearm. He laughed as he landed on the grass below them. “You say you’re rusty, but you still got it, kid. You just got to put your mind to it.” He gently patted Gohan’s head, shaking his hair lightly.

Gohan plopped down to the ground and lay sprawling, taking in breaths. Piccolo sat down near him cross-legged. "I still think you have it in you to be the strongest, Gohan. But you've got a family now and your studies. You have more important battles to fight than just with your fists."

Gohan put his hands behind the back of his head. "I get discouraged sometimes. Everyone chastizes me for not keeping up with training. I'm 'a shame to the Sayain race,' or 'If only he could have---'" He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if Dad is still proud of me, even if my progress is strictly academic." He pondered on the thought. "It really doesn't matter, does it? Between Dad and Vegta there won't be anyone as strong. There won't be anyone who can't save the world." He looked over at Piccolo. "You're pretty strong too Piccolo."

Piccolo let out a deep, humph. "You are still stronger than me. And I only get involved when I am needed."

"Right. Why should we constantly have to be ready for a threat that might never come?"

"They always do."

Gohan sighed, closing his eyes. "Well, if they need me I will always be there. I won't let anything happen to anyone. Not after all the things we faced before."

The subtle sounds of nature became more apparent with this silence. The shallow sounds of breathing between them. Piccolo looked off into the near distance, his voice calm and relaxed. "If it accounts for anything, I am very proud of the man you've become."

Arms were tightly wrapped around. "Thank you for never giving up on me Piccolo."

Piccolo smiled to himself as Gohan sat down next to him. "I've been meaning to ask you something. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"A what?" Piccolo's voice turned deep again with seriousness.

"A girlfriend. You know, someone who you like and date." The look in Gohan's eyes was hopeful and sweet.

Tch- "I know what a girlfriend is. Why are you asking me this?"

"Well, Krillin stopped by and---"

"Not this again. Did that small man send you to do his bidding?"

Gohan got up and followed Piccolo when he began to walk away. He shouted, "I told him to stay out of it."

Gohan picked up his pace to meet the Namekian. "I don't even understand what Krillin was saying. But I wish you would just tell me what's going on. If not, you know he's going to get my dad involved."

Piccolo stopped and grunted. His arms crossed in defiance. Anything but Goku getting involved. Piccolo will NEVER hear the end of this. And if Goku makes a big deal out of this, it's everyone's problem.

But it's just his problem.

He stood quiet and tense. Gohan stood beside him stretching his legs and preparing to leave for home.

"I--" He started and stopped.

Hmmm, Gohan turned towards him.

"I don't even know how it happened. She came out of nowhere. Day after day, she prodded me with questions about myself. She sat with me as I meditated. She wasn't frightened of me." Piccolo was speaking so fervently and fastidiously that he was almost out of breath. "And I didn't know why or what to do. So I tried to show her that she shouldn't be so curious. I tried to scare her. I tried to stop her from coming around." His arms were tight against his chest. His chin pressed down into his collarbone.

Gohan watched Piccolo in awe. He's never seen this man act in such a way. The sorrow within the tightness of his shut eyes. The deep purple across his cheeks. Piccolo usually being a towering man, now pulling inward at his middle.

Gohan reached out and hugged him again. "Okay..." He looked at Piccolo, who bent his shoulders, which would normally be difficult to see over his shoulder pads. "Okay." Gohan's hand on Piccolo's forearm. His voice was so sweet and kind. "What did you do to scare her?"

Piccolo only took a deep breath. His booming voice was now almost a whisper. "I picked her up and took her in the air, flying. I flew and made myself out to be like another version of myself. I tried to make myself into King Piccolo." He's bent over near Gohan's shoulder, and Gohan lets him rest his forehead. "I made myself into something worth being frightened by. I didn't want her to trust so easily because she can easily become fodder like so many others have." His voice was almost nonexistent. "I could have killed her."

"But you didn't kill her, right?"

Piccolo shook his head. "But I could have."

"You didn't though. Sure, you could have maybe got your point across in a different way, but she's alright, right?"

"The look of terror in her eyes. The tears. I don't know why-- why I went--"

Gohan could hear the choked sobs before he pushed Piccolo back to face him. "Piccolo, I have known you my whole life and I've never seen you like this. You're like a whole different person. Usually, you're a very reserved guy, but I know these types of feelings. You must care a great deal for this girl. You're beating yourself up over the smallest thing." Piccolo kept his eyes closed shut, but his head lifted slightly, his arms relaxing as much as he could muster. "Hey, at least you don't explode or anything. You don't resort to your power because a lady is hurt or in danger. Blame it on the Sayain blood.”

Piccolo tried to straighten up and fix his posture. He wiped the tears that escaped from his eyes against his sleeve. Swallowing down his feelings deep into his chest.

“Piccolo, you’re allowed to have feelings like everyone else. Look at Dad, he’s an alien and he’s insane half the time.” Gohan laughed. “It’s okay to care about something for once. I know you care about me, about my family. But you can also care about something for yourself. If you care that deeply about this girl then I think you should talk to her. I think you should set things right between the two of you. Even if nothing comes of it and you just get closure.” Gohan pointed to Piccolo’s chest, pressing down into the fabric of the Namekian’s purple Gi. “If for all of us, but just for you.”

Gohan turned and started to walk away, calling over his shoulder. “You don’t need to bare the weight of this on your own. We’re always here for you. This is just a different type of fight.” He began hovering over the ground. “I have to get home before Videl gets angry.” He laughed. “Responsibilities.”

Piccolo could he his voice fading as he flew away. “All you have to do is try, Piccolo.”

Piccolo stood there, silent. The weight in his chest was still heavy. Do I care about this woman this greatly? He pressed his palm firmly against his chest, his cape flittering in the wind behind him. A heart beating strong behind his fingers. Is this love or understanding?

What I was once so sure about, I am at a loss.

Who do I want to be now?

(Just an extra reference photo here of our precious, green boy) Credit

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Don’t steal other people’s works! Respect creators!

Reblogs and likes appreciated :)

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Tag List:

@jadew-08, @sussybacca, @imaginarydreams, @oriistar, @mddbsf, @boogeysmoth, @stefnarda

To be added or removed from the tag list reach out through asks or messages. Please and thank you.

#dragon ball z piccolo #dragon ball super piccolo #piccolo x reader #piccolo and you #Piccolo #Son Gohan #Gohan #dragon ball fanfiction #Dragon Ball z #Dragon Ball Super #slug man #green king #Fanfiction

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outofangband · 8 months ago

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Working on some longer xenobiology/speculative biology posts so in the meantime here are some more random thoughts

Updated edition a year later! I hope these are ok!!

These are more jotting down ideas, please please feel free to give me any to elaborate on!

Also not all of these I necessarily consider my Headcanons, they’re just fun to play around with

Location edition

1. Tapetum lucidum or, eyes that can glow in the dark. (similar to the eyes of cats and raccoons) This is not limited to the Caliquendi and so is not directly related to Treelight.

Related to this is the potential ability to see infrared or other light spectrums like certain animals. I do like the idea that elven vision in the dark is more complicated than simply being able to see through the dark.

They navigate in unique ways, using the earth, trees, and even rocks to orient themselves. (I’m basing this in part of Legolas’s words about the elves of Hollin where he appears to draw sense memories from flora and stones) This also fits into my ideas for some ways elves are disoriented and controlled within Angband.

When elves are kept away from the natural world, in monotonous environments, without access to plant life or even a variety of geological information, they can enter a sort of stupor. Even in Angband which of course does contain rocks and life in the form of fungi, algae and even some plants, Cyanobacteria and certain creatures, much of the mines and dungeons are deliberately kept barren, lifeless and separated enough from the caverns and tunnels. What information they receive is never comforting. On that note, Ecological empathy taken to an extreme. Elves becoming depressed from ecological destruction, feeling the changes to landscapes on an innate level. Hence again why Angband is so damaging

Ears that express a wide range of emotions like how eyebrows do with humans. Elven ears will flatten, perk up, twitch, and even fold at times.

. I talked about phosphorescence here which actually has roots in canon!

Being able to navigate on all fours with ease, particularly while climbing and on a similar note, advanced balance.

For some of them, partially webbed feet and possibly even gill like structures on their chests for the sea elves.

On that note I think evolution works obviously differently for elves. Traits adapt and spread at different rates.

Pressure to areas of their body causes them to fall still, like with puppies and kittens. They have very sensitive areas in the backs of their necks and behind their ears. I've talked about this on my states of consciousness and sleep posts!

They do not have fingerprints though the skin on their hands will sometimes absorb and take in the colors of the things they touch, regardless of skin tone though skin tone does effect how clearly these show. For example, if an elven child spends some time playing in grass or clay, they may come back home with the skin up to their forearms that color.

Elves rarely have freckles but those that do will notice that they change colors and shades. Sometimes russet, sometimes even silvery, gold, or blueish. This is also true with birthmarks and even some scars. As they predate the sun their freckles are more similar to spots for camouflage and most words for them translates something to spots or foilage.

Elves can imitate sounds of animals very easily, especially bird and insect songs. While being able to communicate with animals is a rare gift among them, most can speak basic warnings and declarations, such as being able to warn sparrows that there is a hawk around. They can also pick up song very easily, often feeling the rhythm of even very gentle music in their hands.

I have a lot of thoughts on elves and synesthesia. I think most stimuli and input for elves is experienced through multiple senses for example being able to feel sound (obviously humans can to through vibrations but elves are more attuned to this). Synesthesia of the kind humans experience is somewhat more common in elves and other kinds unique to them also exist. (I have a whole post about this here!)

I talked about snow blindness and elves’ unique experiences with winter here!

I headcanon that elves have a specific sense for growth; they can hear and feel for lack of a better phrasing, shoots of grass growing, flowers blooming, roots expanding out. Not all are equally attuned to it or aware of it and some can become extremely overwhelmed by it if their ability to process is affected.

#the silmarillion #beleriand #musing and meta #elves #lotr

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toubledrouble · 1 year ago

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In the honor of my uranium post, here are more things my chemistry teacher has said and done:

Explained that actually electro cars are stupidly unecological because they use lithium batteries - creating them ruins the environment and we have no clue how to get rid of them

Microplastics in our blood are his favourite topic

Artificially supplied hormones and how they get from our bodies through the sewer systems to water (we can't filter them) where they mess up fish and make them gay (then the fish die) and then apparently make people gay. Somehow. He didn't elaborate because he was too busy with calculating how many gay people should statistically be in our class (it was like 3.5 btw)

Keeps bringing up how he supports gay people because there isn't enough love in the world ("but you at the last desk please do whatever you're doing at home, this is a chemistry class")

Explained how his hearing and sight work - apparently, now he can't enjoy much music because his hearing makes them sound out of tune

Talked about their fave kdramas with my friend

So many 'fun' stories from his past jobs (like when one of his university students committed suicide by poisoning himself with something they were working with in the middle of his class. Out of unrequited love. It was a very dangerous solution or something and he died before they could help him)

Frequently reminds us that we shouldn't swing on our chairs because he has already seen a human brain on the floor and doesn't really want to repeat that experience (another work accident)

The last class before Christmas break, he came in in full Christmas themed clothing (an ugly sweater, a winter had with a white front that he turned into a snowman, reindeer shoes, you name it)

Calculated how many wind turbines would it take to replace Temelín

Proceeded to calculate that they would make a straight line from said Temelín to Belgium

When our medic group was at a competition, he came to walk with us and our teacher with a tote bag where he had bananas that he then handed out and made us eat them

Also gave us good marks for participating in the competition because safety is important in a lab

Complained that we as a country care too much about other ecological/economical problems when we have our own ("mně je tygřík usurijský srdečně u prdele")

Talked about how our economy went to shit with the nazis and them the communists. Again, in chemistry, for some reason

He follows our school meme page (I'm one of the creators so this made me happy) and he laughs at the memes, even the ones about him

Told me that moravians (for context: I'm moravian but now live in central bohemia) are the best people

Made fun ways to explain chemistry to us when someone didn't understand the original versions (instead of repeating how one atom replaces another and creates a different solution, he made an explanation using relationships so people could relate and understand better)

Genuenly seemed like he was going to cry when I gave him homemade fancy decorated gingerbread (because mom is amazing and decorating it)

Always checks what book am I reading and talks to me about it for a bit

Doesn't mind when I zone out in class and miss a question which is so nice

When he saw our 'time till we leave' countdown, he said we may be happy but he will be sad and will miss us

Said that men are a dead end branch of evolution (loosely translated from "slepá vývojová větev") and had facts to back that claim up

Told us how someone poisoned his coworker by switching ethanol, which he poured into his morning tea, for methanol

Gave us a literal sheet with numbers of classes and exams that we will have. Like "lesson 24: carbohydrates I" so that we could prepare ahead

Cancelled final exam because he didn't feel like teaching (and because it wouldn't fix anyone's grade anyway) but then decided to make it voluntary in case someone would actually want to take it

Played 'calming Japanese music' during a test

Kept the nickname "Gargamel" that students gave him because he seriously looks a lot like him

He keeps all the gifts from his past students in his chemistry classrom/lab (it's 2 in 1)

Always tells us not to sit on the floor because we will get sick and won't be able to have children (aka the most slavic thing ever said)

Always has a speech about trash and the existence of trashcans when he sees some trash on the floor

When someone is being too stupid even for his patience, he says "I get that you have one brain cell that is jumping around trying to find its friends so hard it gave itself a concussion, but-"

Assigned us numbers based on the alphabetical order of our last names and made us sign tests with it to keep it anonymous so he can just throw them out without having to worry about our names being leaked (yeah it's a whole thing) because getting rid of the papers otherwise takes too long

#czech republic #czech #chemistry #teacher stories #čumblr

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traxanaxanos · 1 year ago

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I'd love to hear about one random headcanon you have about Greskrendtregk, if you'd like!

You know how in some videogames certain actions will get you a little "Clementine will remember that" or "Leliana <3 (+10)" message that pops up in the left hand corner? Please envision a "Traxanaxanos was so excited to answer this all day at work +100 Tumblr delight" message in the top left of your screen right now. Thank you for asking me about my favorite non-character, my specialist guy, Greskrendtregk Wildman.

Five facts exist about him in canon: his name is Greskrendtregk (name which has been passed down for five generations), he's a Ktarian, he's married to Samantha, and he was aboard Deep Space 9 when Voyager left. Samantha phrases it as "my husband is still at Deep Space 9" in Elogium, which I think was meant to imply more of a Starfleet assignment than him just chilling there as a civilian, and beta-canon then makes it explicit that he is enrolled in Starfleet as well. So - Deep Space 9 assignment:

Greskrendtregk is an engineer, but not the kind of Starfleet engineer we typically see involved with the engines and the warpcores of starships. I think he's much more interested in the immediate biological needs of living in space: the environmental controls, humidity and breathable air and comfortable temperatures, the structural soundness of bulkheads and walls. He's an HVAC guy, he does structural and mechanical engineering, he's who you call if life-support goes down, or if the ambassador from Betazed somehow accidentally sets the whole station to a relative humidity of 70% instead of just her quarters.

While this is of course a useful skill-set on starships, he's more interested in environemnts that are much more oriented towards long-term or permanent habitation, and preferably stationary (and boy after Samantha goes missing on a two week expedition does this sedentary tendency increase a thousand fold), such as space stations, nascent colonies, and far-flung research stations, which is why he was assigned to Deep Space 9.

Also, because I love him and because I love this ask: a bonus second headcanon!

This is an image I have seen around tumblr. I think it is from Chainsaw Man (?), but to me it is pure Wildmancore.

Greskrendtregk and Samantha's first date was probably her taking him to like an aquarium or a birdblind or something and just infodumping about an animal for way too long but at minute 4 of 26 Greskrendtregk is already like

<<<:3 *planning their wedding*

She does realize she's doing it eventually and tries to ask him his thoughts on the animal to give him a moment to talk and he's like "I have never once before considered the existence of this animal but now I understand it is a wonder of evolution and will look for it everywhere and treat it with the appropriate awe when I see it. What are your thoughts on [species of mold that evolved to fill the ecological niche of Jeffries tubes]?" and then Samantha also starts planning their wedding.

#also he's trans #Greskrendtregk #star trek voyager #star trek #samantha wildman #asks

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bleachbleachbleach · 8 months ago

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The post was getting very long, so I started a new thread, but this comes from this meme post here. Thank you for the tag, @dreaming-about-seireitei!

I'll no-pressure tag @withoutteamalice, @inkyperson, @crysuzumushi, and @mikansei, using the very scientific metric, "the last 4 people who left narrative tags on one of our posts/reblogs." Also anyone else who wants to!!!! (Please feel free to tag us so I can read your lists!)

list 5 things you can talk about for hours without preparing any material:

I’m bad at these kinds of memes because I know they’re hypothetical, but then my brain is like, “Well, I would not do that.” XP I wouldn’t talk for hours about something unless I were completely convinced my conversation partner was 1) equally interested in the thing, and, specifically, 2) open to being engaged for that duration. I don’t want to be too much and burn them out on me and then not get to be friends with them anymore. 😖

But five things I would really love to be in dialogue with people about for hours, Bleach edition:

The maps and calendars of Soul Society — Especially the potential for maps that engage with space-time in interesting ways, and don’t fit the form of what most people on Earth envision as a ‘typical’ map.

Any kind of municipal/regional service in Soul Society (mail, foodways, billing, professional services) — Stuff that would show up in the Encyclopedia Soulttanica, essentially.

Ecology/evolution in Soul Society — Both in terms of biome/weather/flora/fauna and also in terms of how shinigami came to be. I’ve been back to thinking recently about shinigami having had a very different form prior to modern human development. But have also been wondering about the possibility that Soul Society (not just the Yamamoto-created society, but the place in general) potentially being a much younger universe than ours, and despite the “longevity” of shinigami as individual units, their world actually being much younger than life on Earth. And also like, if it is a true reflection/shadow of the Living World, is their ecology complex enough to weather sharp changes? Or is it more prone to ecological collapse because it lacks the ecological complexity to support different epochs of life? (Re: the existential threat of Yhwach.)

Regional foods/holidays/accents in Soul Society — Possibly in contrast to the musings above, but (mostly) Rukongai culture as NOT just a reflection of what exists in the living world, and life not just being a waiting game, but the possibility of rich life/culture/time worth having in Rukongai.

My fanfic, your fanfic. — I miss having writerly community. It’s rare and difficult to come by in any fandom, in any era, but I feel like the parallel play aspect of fandom has only increased, and that’s a huge bummer to me!

#meme #bleach #shinigamiology

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mixelation · 2 years ago

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if you go into the notes on this post, or any of the other tumblr posts about it, or even this reddit thread about it, you will get so many people very patiently explaining how natural selection works and then explaining how it made these flowers look like birds (looking like a bird deters insects somehow! looking like a bird keeps other birds from eating you!) and i need you to know that every single one of these "explanations" is actually just that person spewing literal bullshit

those photos (and i want to stress that googling "magnolia bird" just returns the same 3-4 photos and NO reliable sources) look like birds to you. but please. use your brain before you go loudly posting your weird hypotheses like they are fact, because I'm not kidding about scammers on amazon piggybacking on this weird fixation on the bird flowers, so maybe we shouldn't all join hands repeat the asme type of misinfo on popular posts over and over. ignoring that the photos are probably fake or else are a very rare phenomenon based on other photos of yulan magnolias from actual websites that aren't 30% ad space (or lily magnolias-- no one can actually agree on what type of magnolia it IS).... do you personally know what challenges a magnolia faces and what might deter those challenges? do you actually know that looking like you have a flock of birds on you will deter insects, a benefit you only need during the time of the year that you are actively flowering for some reason? if the flowers are to keep other birds away, do you know what birds bother magnolia trees so bad they'd evolve a whole new flower morphology? can you confidently say these flowers look like birds to insects or other birds or anything but a bored human on pinterest? no! you can't! because you just made that up to sound smart on the internet!!

mimicry is a term used in ecology & evolution to describe a phenomenon in which an organism (the mimic) resembles another species (the model) to a third player in the game (the receiver), presumably as some sort of benefit to the mimic. (Note that the model and the receiver can be the same species, i.e. orchids mimicking female insects to trick male insects to pollinate them). there are some truly remarkable examples of mimicry out there, but note that the pretend armchair hypothesizing can't even point out a good model. the flowers look like birds..... what birds? can you show me an actual bird sitting in a magnolia tree that looks like the flower? who is the receiver? why is this receiver avoiding birds and what cues do they need to recognize something as a bird? do they think the flowers look like birds? how is it that these geniuses on reddit know all the answers but i can't find one single botanist talking about these incredible flowers??

OR maybe it's just that human brains evolved to be able to look for patterns and you are just seeing birds because evolution and life experience taught you to see them and i mean the photos are most likely fake anyway

EDIT: found some blossom photos that look kind of like the flower ones here-- you can see how these could be easily manipulated (by hand, clever angling by a photographer, and/or in editing software) to look like birds

EDIT OF THE EDIT: at least a couple of the photos being passed around seem like they might come from here? at least this is the oldest place I've found them posted, and the writer claims they took the photos themselves. note that both these sources are chinese news sites, which i don't know enough about to assess reliability (but which i will take over a rando clickbait website)

ah, my old enemy, the yulan magnolia, has a new post for people to be wrong on again

#someone said that buddhist monks very carefully selectively bred the trees #which is ALSO JUST MADE UP BULLSHIT???#if there were special trees in a monastery somewhere WE'D KNOW WHERE AND THERE WOULD BE MORE PHOTOS #yulan magnolia #do i have a science tag #there's barely any science but i threw up some definitions for you

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thespacebetweenmoments · 3 years ago

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okay i get assigned my dissertation supervisor next week and i’m kind of hoping i don’t get assigned my first choice (mushroom foraging) anymore because i am rapidly becoming fascinated by eels and would love to do a project tracking their changes in habitat

#my second choice is a GIS-based thing where i can track species/ecosystems #and oh i would love to do something like that with eels #sometimes my interest-based nervous system is a blessing #read: i would love to do my dissertation on eel spatial ecology #also two of my six potential diss advisors would probably let me do something with eels #so please everyone pray i get assigned my second or fourth choice #also if anyone wants to talk with me about taxonomy or evolution ever then please hit me up because i love it SO much #i know it’s my degree but i’m finally enjoying it and it’s so lovely #these are my thoughts #ecology thoughts

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iloveallmyocs · 3 years ago

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the third person part-2

here’s the second installment, it’s just been a few weeks since Kari broke up. I apologize in advance for the angst.

July 2015

Mari dug her fingernails into her palm, stopping only when the skin around it turned to an alarming colour. They reminded herself to breathe and to not stare. At least, to not stare so obviously.

After putting in some effort, Mari’s respiratory rate was brought down, only for her to look at the young couple again and for it to rise once more.

Kit looked the most relaxed he had been for the past few days, the wind from the beach blowing on his hair, damp due to LA humidity. He had his fingers entwined with Ty’s and the two of them stared into the ocean, neither of them noticing the other’s rosy cheeks as they were too busy trying to hide their own.

Every once in a while, Kit would steal a glance at Ty and his look would shatter Mari’s heart into a million different pieces. He looked at Ty like as if he were all the things that were worthy of love in the world combined together. Mari knew that look. Not long ago, Kit had looked at her the same way.

She was as familiar with the look as the sky was of the stars and seeing that look being directed at someone else felt like Mari had been robbed.

The Nephilim and downworlders involved with taking down the demons once and for had been called to Los Angeles for a celebration. Mari had been unwilling at first to go all the way to the united states just for a party, but had changed her mind when she received an acceptance letter from UCLA. The department of ecology and evolution were glad to have her on board as a marine biology major.

That wasn’t the only reason for her to change her mind, although it was enough of a reason, there was another. She had also arrived because Kit had requested her to do so.

‘I don’t want us to be one of those people who pretend like they never happened after their breakup’ he had said, ‘please, you’re like my best friend and I’d love for you to be there and you’re coming to LA anyways’

Mari was glad that Kit considered her to be his best friend but that didn’t help with the sharp pain in her chest that she got every time she saw him with Ty.

Mary supposed that in her situation, she should hate Ty, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Whenever she looked at the boy, she saw too much of herself in him. The way his eyes lit up when talking about marine life, the way his hands at his side didn’t cease its motion sometimes, the way he too glanced at Kit when he wasn’t looking.

“You’ve been staring at those two white boys for a really long time. You’re not planning on murdering them or anything, are you?” asked a voice from behind them, bringing them back to the present.

“Murder seems like a bit of a stretch, doesn’t it?” suggested Mari, turning to face the source of the voice. It had come a girl who looked almost the same age as Mari, a girl with the kindest smile they had ever seen.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, it’s Dru’s influence. You can’t have a conversation with her and not hear the word at least five times, not exaggerating” agreed the girl.

Mari managed a smile, probably for the first time in a few weeks. “My name’s Maria Machado, call me Mari, everyone does��

“Thais Pedroso”

so here it is, part 2, let me know what you think.

I originally was going to add a Mari-Ty interaction scene but then came across another fic (ugh I can’t find the fic someone help me, they talked about marine biology in it)

tagging people interested in Mari content (lmk if you want to be added/removed):

@littlx-songbxrd @thechangeling @ti-bae-rius @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @foxglove-airmid @the-wckd-powers @wagnerthedragon @adoravel-fenomeno @lxdyblackthorn @icouldnotask @fair-childd @goodoldfashionednerd @fevermadness @hardlymatters @carstairgray @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @thecodexsays @thechangeling @littlx-songbxrd @anarmorofwords @kitandtyarelife @cant-think-of-anything @clarys-heosphoros

@greywarens-magician step one complete

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

Link

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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infinitevariety · 4 years ago

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Stargazing

Crowley parks the Bentley at the far side of the empty car park, looking out over the sea. The sea is not what they are here to look at, but as he climbs out the driver’s seat Crowley glances out to the ocean, a mass of moving blackness with the light of the moon reflecting off the surface.

“It’s beautiful, even at night.”

Crowley turns to see Aziraphale, also out of the car and looking at the ocean.

“Not as beautiful as—”

“Me?” Aziraphale flashes Crowley a wide grin.

“I was going to say the stars, but neither of them hold a candle to your beauty, angel.”

Even in the moonlight Crowley can see the faint blush colouring Aziraphale’s cheeks. It’s accompanied by that small, pleased smiled that Crowley so loves.

“Come on, then,” says Crowley as he climbs up onto the roof of the Bentley.

From his new vantage point he sees the smile drop from Aziraphale’s face.

“What?”

“You’d rather lay on the floor of the car park? Or get a crick in your neck? Come on, I’ll help you up.” Crowley lowers an arm and offers his hand to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looks between Crowley’s hand and face a couple of times before rolling his eyes and muttering, “This is ridiculous,” under his breath. But he grasps Crowley’s hand and allows himself to be hoisted onto the roof of the car.

They settle down, laying side by side. Just as Crowley’s head touches the metal of the car, he sits back up again.

“Almost forgot! Hang on a sec.”

Crowley leans the entire front half of his body over the edge and into the open diver’s side door. He reaches behind the seat and grabs what he’s after. Sitting back up on the roof he hands Aziraphale one of the pillows.

“Here you go, bit more comfortable for your head.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear.”

They both shove pillows under their heads and resume their flat positions, eyes looking up at the stars.

Crowley takes a deep breath and lets the sight astound him a new. It’s been a long time since he’s taken the time to really appreciate this whole other world, out there in the ether, that he helped to create.

They are quiet for a time. No sounds but the far away crashing of the waves below them and their quiet breathing. At some point their fingers brush and Aziraphale reaches for him. Crowley gladly weaves their fingers together and squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezes back.

Eventually, Aziraphale speaks, softly into the quiet of the night.

“What was your plan?”

“Oh, this was it, really,” replies Crowley just as softly. “Pillows and stargazing. I’ve got some snacks, if you want them?”

He turns his head to see Aziraphale, who is shaking his.

“Not tonight, I meant—when you asked me to run away with you to Alpha Centauri. What was your plan?”

“Oh. Er.” Crowley’s mind races for something to say, but the embarrassing truth tumbles out on its own. “Even less of a plan than this, to be honest. Just… get us away, keep us safe. It was rubbish, really.”

“No,” Aziraphale rushes to assure him. “No, it wasn’t. It was lovely. A very romantic gesture, really.”

“Ngk,” says Crowley.

“I just wondered if you’d thought about what we’d do there. How… how being there, together, would work. Obviously there’s no music halls, theatres, or restaurants…”

“Yeah, no, thing is, erm…” Crowley trails off, suddenly feeling hot under the collar even as the cool night air ruffles his hair.

From the corner of his eye Crowley sees Aziraphale turn to look at him, face serious.

“Crowley, what did you do?”

“Nothing!” Crowley quickly affirms. Then he clarifies, “Nothing… recently, anyway.”

“Crowley!” At Aziraphale’s hard tone, Crowley turns to look at him fully. “What did you do?”

“It was so long ago—before all of this.” He motions to their surroundings��the car park, the sea, Earth. “It was back before the Fall, while I was working on the Alpha Centauri project.”

Aziraphale doesn’t speak, but make a motion to indicate Crowley should continue. Crowley sighs.

“I knew someone in ecology who was working on microrganisms for the Earth project. They’d been fucking around with microbial evolution, but of course She wasn’t interested in that. So I…”

Crowley pauses to buy time he knows he doesn’t have. He scratches his chin, clears his throat, looks anywhere by at Aziraphale.

“So you…” Aziraphale prompts.

“So I may have taken a few samples and chucked them on a few planets,” Crowley says in a rush.

“You didn’t!”

“I did! I meant to keep an eye on them, see what shook out, but then… you know.” Crowley lifts a finger and whistles, slowly getting lower in pitch as he drops his finger.

Aziraphale lifts a hand to cover his eyes, obviously astounded by the levels of Crowley’s recklessness.

“So yeah, it’s been thousands of years. I didn’t know what to plan for. Who knows what they’ve evolved into. I just knew there’d be some life out there we could’ve joined. They might even have gravlax with dill sauce and old books.”

Crowley stops talking, knowing he’s just rambling now.

Aziraphale uncovers his eyes and looks at Crowley. He rolls over on to his side, taking Crowley’s face in his hands. Aziraphale’s hands are warm, and Crowley relaxes into their hold.

“You are most absurd creature I have ever come across, and I love you dearly.”

Crowley smiles. “I love you too, angel.”

They resettle on their backs and look up at the stars. Crowley’s eyes feel heavy and he’s considering a short nap. His eyes close for only a few seconds before they shoot open again when Aziraphale speaks softly beside him.

“Of course now we have to go to Alpha Centauri and check up on your children.”

————————————————–

Written for the Summer Omens challenge that @thetunewillcome was hosting back in August. IDK. This is the last prompt, so I went a bit silly. Crowley ‘accidentally’ playing God to a world he hasn’t kept tabs on seems just about silly enough.

————————————————–

(Series on AO3) (Sand) (Ice Cream) (Burn) (Camp) (Grass) (Pride) (Bloom) (Sunset) (Freckles) (Sweat) (Festival) (Snooze) (Lavender) (Lightning) (Relax) (Garden) (Road Trip) (Berries) (Independence) (Solstice) (Trail) (Melting) (Firefly) (Petrichor) (Ice) (Dandelion) (Marshmallow) (Swim) (Fireworks)

#good omens #ineffable husbands fic #ineffable husbands #summeromens #idk #i wrote this

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demi-shoggoth · 4 years ago

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COVID-19 Reading Log, pt 22

As my state goes back into lockdown, and the numbers of COVID-19 cases are skyrocketing, I am happy to stay inside and keep reading. My behavior hasn’t changed all that much through the various “waves” (because I’ve studied disease ecology and I know how this works. Also, I’m lucky enough to be able to work from home). The opening of my local library for curbside pickup has increased the variety, and decreased the cost, of the influx of books.

116. Sloths: A Celebration of the World’s Most Misunderstood Mammal by William Harston. This is a breezy book, a combined natural and social history of the type that British authors seem to specialize in. The book talks about sloth anatomy, behavior and conservation, as well as how they were maligned by early natural historians and given the name “sloth”. This comes down to, in this account, a lot of French bashing and claims that the English redeemed the sloth’s reputation, which I found charmingly parochial. The book also discusses the modern phenomenon of sloth popularity through YouTube, and the possible hazards that their new stardom puts them in through profit, but this is more a passing mention than a focus. Ample color photographs in multiple sections help remind the reader that yes, sloths are fricking adorable, and serve as a contrast to the inaccurate engravings and other Early Modern renditions.

117. Nose Dive: A Field Guide to the World’s Smells by Harold McGee. McGee is a food author, which makes sense. This book profiles the organic chemistry of volatile compounds in their guise as scents, grouped into broad categories and following the journeys of “Hero Carbon” through the land, sea, sky and living things. The book is filled to the brim with interesting connections between the molecules produced by different things, and is a surprisingly deep dive into the world of the microbiome (as many volatiles are made through bacterial and fungal digestion, not by animals themselves). Each of the things it talks about has “tasting notes” of different scent molecules and their aspects. This might be a fun book to have on hand while engaging in a wine tasting or dinner party (remember those?)

118. Luke Skywalker Can’t Read and Other Geeky Truths by Ryan Britt. Another book recommended to me by library algorithms, this is a collection of essays about pop culture nerd topics. Most of them don’t really have a thesis, just sort of a general “let me tell you about a thing I like” vibe. The title essay, about why the Star Wars universe sucks because of pervasive illiteracy, is one of the better ones, as is the mirror image later in the book about how Star Trek, even most bad Star Trek, incorporates literary themes. The author has a few good zingers sprinkled throughout that I enjoyed, but also makes enough glaringly obvious factual errors (in a nerd book! gasp!) that I suspect that he’s trolling the reader. Also, it’s a glaring act of hubris to include the word “truths” in the title of your book of opinions. Overall, it was fine, but I’m probably never going to think about it again.

119. Life Changing by Helen Pilcher. After being pleased with Death by Shakespeare, I went on a binge of the Bloomsbury Sigma catalog, which my local library has seemingly all of. This is one of their books from this year, about human directed evolution, both intentional (domestication and genetic engineering) and unintentional (humans as a selective pressure on environments). The writing style is pleasant, and the book wanders down quite a few garden paths, making it a highly enjoyable read and purveyor of trivia. Did you know that Argentina’s premier polo player keeps a stable of cloned ponies, and has been known to switch between clones during matches? Did you know that the inventor of Sea Monkeys was a violent white supremacist? Did you know that about 65 billion chickens are killed for food every year? The whole book is filled with tidbits like this, and ends with a discussion of conservation and a plea for rewilding—not necessarily the dramatic examples like introducing elephants to Europe, but just letting large animals like cows and pigs behave like animals instead of commodities, and the positive impact that can have on biodiversity.

120. Forgotten Peoples of the Ancient World by Philip Matyszak. I always forget how much I enjoy archaeology and anthropology until I read some. This book is filled with brief articles about cultures in the history of the Levant and Mediterranean that have less name recognition than your Assyrians, Egyptians, Greeks or Romans. Some of these are peoples mentioned in the Bible but forgotten outside of their influence on histories or parables, like the Chaldeans, Philistines and Samaritans. Others are those that are more famous for their namesakes than their actual cultures, like the Vandals or Phrygians. Some are people I’d never heard of before. The book has a subtle, wry humor to it, and begins and ends with a reminder that all civilizations are temporary and our perspective is inherently a biased one. After all, Sargon of Akkadia thought his empire spanned the four corners of the world, and he would be remembered forever.

#reading log #archaeology #smell #artificial selection #sloth

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f-nodragonart · 4 years ago

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Vertebrate Wings, PART 3: Flight

Return to main post + TOC >>HERE<<

Flight TOC

Basic Flight Theory

Bird vs. Bat vs. Pterosaur

Aspect Ratio and Wing Loading

Special Cases: Hoverers

Basic Flight Theory

I will openly admit here and now, I’m not well-versed in physics. I apologize if this section is a bit disorganized, since I’ll be stitching together others’ more comprehensible flight descriptions/explanations.

This first bit is from a kind follower, Rahjital, who sent us this quick explanation of flight theory a while back (sadly the images they added no longer seem to be working, so I tried to find fitting images as substitutes):

The first step to learn how lift works is to debunk the popular explanation of how lift forces are created, called the Equal Transit Time theory. The reasoning is that air flowing around the wing splits into two streams, one of which has to travel over the wing and another which travels below it. Due to the shape of the wing, the upper stream has to move faster to cover the same distance. This difference in velocities generates a difference in pressure and therefore lift.

However, what happens if you fly upside down?

The upper side of your wing points towards the ground, and so does the lift force. I would have said you’d fall like a rock, but the fall would actually be faster since your wings would drag you down. We all know that’s not how flight works, though, so how is lift actually created?

All you need to do is tilt the wings a bit. Seriously, I’m not kidding. No need for a specialized wing shape, as the majority of people seems to believe. (although it helps.) Why? Let me explain:

There are two phenomena causing lift to be created:

1. As air flows around the wing, its direction changes downwards and it leaves the back edge of the wing moving slightly more down. Mister Newton tells us that every action has its reaction, so if the air moves down, our wing has to rise.

2. Due to the tilting, the air flowing on the underside of the wing ends up colliding with it and slowing down, raising the pressure. On the other hand, the air flowing over the wings goes upwards because it has to get over the raised front edge, but as it can’t get back down immediately, it ends up travelling in an arc over the wing. This forms a small ‘pocket’ of low pressure straight above the top surface of the wings. These two fields of pressure then generate additional lift. (this is similar to how the Equal Transit Time theory states lift is generated, but with a very different reason, and not as important as the theory states it to be).

Next time you are traveling in a car, try reaching out of the window with your arm when going reasonably fast. As long as you keep your hand parallel to the ground, not much is going to happen, but once you tilt it even a little, the wind is going to push it up. (or down, depending on which direction you tilted it.) That’s it - your hand is generating enough lift to hit the frame of the car window. Just imagine how much lift does a properly built wing get in a similar situation.

The tilt I am talking about the entire time here is called the angle of attack, often abbreviated just AOA. The greater the angle of attack is, the more lift is generated, but the more drag there is, too. For airplanes, the AOA is negligible from an artist’s perspective, but for winged creatures, this is far more of a concern.

Therefore, the flight theory rule #1 is: Whenever you draw a flying creature, always make its wings slightly inclined. It wouldn’t be able to fly otherwise.

~~end quote~~

Bird vs. Bat vs. Pterosaur

This first bit will be borrowed from Koryos’ article “Bat Flight Versus Bird Flight” (which I highly suggest reading in-full for a deeper explanation). Fair warning though—from the short explanation they give of basic flight/lift, it seems they do believe (at least at the time of writing the article) in the now-defunct Equal Transit Time Theory, though their points on bird vs. bat flight are still valid otherwise:

If you look closely at the above gif, you’ll notice that at several points during flight, the bat actually bends its fingers, which dramatically changes the shape of its wings. Birds do not have joints in their feathers, so they cannot do this.

....

Flexible joints are not all the bat has in its arsenal. Its actual bones are flexible, due to a lack of calcium in its diet. This means that they deform and reform their shape during flight.

Birds minimize air resistance by rotating their primaries during their upstroke, allowing air to slip between the feathers. Bats, with solid membranes, can’t do this- so they have an even finer means of control. There are lines of muscle present within the bat’s wing membrane that can actually change the stiffness and malleability of its skin. You can see them quite clearly under the skin of our entangled bat friend.

This is a big brown bat (Eptesicus fuscus), by the way.

These muscles allow the bat to make their membranes flexible during their upstroke to decrease resistance, yet stiff during their downstroke in order to provide lift. It also allows them to change the camber (angle) of their wings on a whim!

This slow-mo video really displays just how incredibly flexible bat wings are.

youtube

Bat wings are also covered by millions of tiny, hyper-sensitive hairs that allow the bat to sense air currents and adjust accordingly.

So what does all this control do for the bat?

Well, for one thing, it means they’re not limited by symmetry. Bird wings will almost always mirror each other in shape, while bats may form two different wings shapes at the same time, allowing them to perform some crazy aerial acrobatics. Some insect-eating bats will actually grab an insect by wrapping one wing around it midflight (don’t believe me? You can see it in the beginning of this video!) and then get the insect in their mouth all in a split second, while still flying.

Now, in terms of speed, birds can generally outpace bats. But in terms of maneuverability, bats can fly circles around birds.

The fact that bats’ bones, unlike those of birds, aren’t hollow, and that their skin is heavier than feathers might seem like a disadvantage- but it isn’t. Birds have much more mass in the center of their body than they do in their wings; by contrast, bats have more mass distributed through each wing (12-20% per wing). This means that bats can actually push off their own mass to do things like flip, spin, roll, etc. No bird can stop midflight and flip over to land upside-down, but bats can.

Because they have such fine control over their airfoil shape, bats can also generate lift using less energy than birds. Remember when I talked about minimizing surface area during the upstroke and maximizing it during the downstroke? Bats can bend their fingers and ‘crumple’ their wings as they raise them, conserving energy. Think of it like opening and closing an umbrella. While birds can pull their feathers together more tightly, they can’t exactly clench them like fists.

Decreasing energy costs is good in any situation, but particularly for fliers. It takes a lot of energy to fly. In this case, bats can outcompete both birds and insects for energy efficiency- one study found that nectar-feeding bats, though the largest in size, expended the least energy hovering when compared to both moths and hummingbirds.

~~end quote~~

As for pterosaurs, I’ll leave it up to Mike Habib’s article “Feathers vs Membranes”:

The structure and efficiency of pterosaur wings is obviously not known in as much detail as those of birds or bats, for the simple reason that no living representatives of pterosaurs are available for study. However, soft tissue preservation in pterosaurs does give some critical information about their wing morphology, and the overall shape and structure of the wing can be used (along with first principles from aerodynamics) to estimate efficiency and performance.

…((I’ll just be pasting the basic findings, but please read the full article if you’re interested in specifics))…

Now, for some punchlines...

Based on the structural information above, we might expect the following regarding pterosaurs and birds:

- Pterosaurs would have a base advantage in terms of maneuverability and slow flight competency.

- Pterosaurs would also have had an advantage in terms of soaring capability and efficiency

- Pterosaurs would have been better suited to the evolution of large sizes (though this was affected more by differences in takeoff - see earlier posts about pterosaur launch).

- Birds will perform a bit better as mid-sized, broad-winged morphs (because they can use slotted wing tips and span reduction).

- Birds would have an advantage in steep climb-out after takeoff at small body sizes (because they can work with shorter wings and engage them earlier). This might pre-dispose them to burst launch morphologies/ecologies.

~~end quote~~

(other articles by Habib about Pterosaur anatomy and flight can be found here and here, for anyone interested)

When Exdraghunt linked us this information about pterosaur wings, it was in relation to a question about pterosaur keels and why they differed from bird keels. Exdraghunt suggested this might be due to pterosaur preference for soaring compared to bird flapping. However, plenty of inland pterosaurs could have been flappers, so I think the shallowness is more likely caused by their muscular setup compared to birds, discussed in more detail in the Basic Anatomy section.

Aspect Ratio and Wing Loading

Now that we have a basic understanding of the different modes of vertebrate flight, we can get to the fun stuff—wing diversity! Believe it or not, my friends, wing shapes and sizes can drastically effect an animal’s flight style.

Aspect ratio is the ratio of length to width in a wing, where high ratio indicates narrow wings, and low ratio indicates wide wings.

Loading is the ratio of body weight to wing size, where low loading = large wings + small weight, and high loading = small wings + large weight.

Measuring these two aspects against each other helps us determine different flight styles.

For a short n’ sweet rundown:

1) Long, narrow wings (low loading, high ratio)= gliding, low speed

2) Long, wide wings (low loading, low ratio)= soaring

3) Short, wide wings (high loading, low ratio)= high acceleration (burst speed), maneuverability

4) Short, narrow wings (high loading, high ratio)= high speed

Though there are other aspects of wing shape to take into account as well.

(via^)

Pointedness refers to a wing tip’s position on the leading edge; IE- is the longest point of the wing further back behind the leading edge (A, round), or does the longest point lie along the leading edge (B, pointed)?. Rounder wings increase thrust, and lend towards greater maneuverability-- particularly in short/wide wings. Pointed wings reduce drag on the air (which increases speed), particularly in short wings, and can make for smoother flight.

Convexity refers to the acuteness of a wingtip; IE- is the shape of the wingtip curved relatively inwards (C, concave) or outwards (D, convex)? Concave wings are better suited for constant high speed. Convex wings create more lift, so are ideal for slow flying and increase acceleration.

Measuring these two aspects against each other gives us another fun chart of wing types.

(via^)

And let’s not forget that slotted wings—those whose primary remiges have notches which create gaps between these feathers—reduce drag and tend to be found in wide (low ratio) wings.

Put all these aspects and little details together, and you can observe some very unique flight patterns. Most ornithologists tend to organize wings into 4 different types, as shown below.

Though I personally like to use a few more types as organization (list via):

1) Marine soarers are birds that fly for long periods over the open ocean and have very high aspect-ratio wings and average or low wing loading that reduce the energetic cost of flight. Birds in this category include the albatrosses (Procellariiformes).

2) Divers/swimmers are birds with medium to high aspect ratios and high wing loading, including murres, loons, grebes, scoters, mergansers, ducks, and swans. These birds fly rapidly, but with limited maneuverability, characteristics useful for birds that often fly long distances (e.g., during migration or to feeding areas) and take-off and land on water where precise maneuverability is not as important.

3) Aerial hunters are birds with high aspect-ratio wings and low wing loading, a combination permitting rapid flight and excellent maneuverability. Aerial hunters include swallows and martins (Passeriformes), swifts (Apodiformes), nightjars (Caprimulgiformes), Swallow-tailed Kites (Falconiformes), frigatebirds (Fregatidae), terns (Sterninae), some falcons (e.g., hobbies and Eleonora’s Falcon), and tropicbirds (Phaethontidae).

4) Soarers/coursers include birds with low aspect ratios and low wing loading, characteristics that allow relatively large birds to either soar or fly just above the vegetation in open habitats in search of prey. Birds in the soaring category include hawks and eagles (Falconiformes), vultures, condors, and storks (Ciconiiformes), and cranes (Gruiformes). Coursing birds include some owls (e.g., Barn Owl and Short-eared Owl; Strigiformes) and harriers (Falconiformes).

5) Short-burst fliers are birds with low aspect ratios and high wing loading that fly infrequently and only for short distances. Birds in this category include those in the orders Galliformes (e.g., turkeys, pheasants, quail, grouse, and megapodes) and Tinamiformes (tinamous).

6) Hoverers are birds capable of flying in one position without wind and have high aspect ratios and, surprisingly, high wing loading. The high aspect ratio reduces the energetic cost of flight, whereas the high wing loading permits relatively fast, agile flight (Rayner 1998). The only true hoverers are the hummingbirds (Apodiformes).

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I don’t have an outside source to verify this observation, but I’ve found that a longer “hand” section and shorter arm generally correlate with high-speed flight, while a shorter “hand” and longer arm correlates to low-speed gliding. I can only assume this may be due to a shorter arm section being easier to flap rapidly, but again, this is conjecture.

While much of this information is bird-specific, I was able to scrounge up a graph of bat aspect ratios and loading, so I can only assume these concepts similarly apply to bat flight.

(via^)

There sadly seems to be much less information available on bat wing/flight diversity…

As for pterosaur wing diversity, exdraghunt sent in some great input (as well as that chart of different bat wings featured above~):

There actually is a fair amount of wing diversity among pterosaurs, and it fairly closely parallels that in birds. (Though they do not reach the extreme variety in shapes that birds do, due to the limitations in variety of “arm+wing finger” combos)

One of the most extreme examples is Nyctosaurus gracilis, a long-distance marine soarer, similar to albatrosses. They have very long, thin wings (and also lost their other wing fingers, presumably because they came on land rarely)

Other species of pterosaur, like insect eaters (which need short, broad wings for manuverability) or over-land fliers would’ve had different wing shapes.

Some of this difference was achieved by varying the ratio between “arm” and “wing finger” lengths. You’ll notice that smaller, earlier “Rhamphorhynchoids” (the top half, with the long tails) tended towards short arms vs long wing fingers. While larger, later Pterodactyloid species developed longer arms in relationships to the wing finger. (Especially in the wrist)

Wing shape silhouettes, by Mark Witton. (Not to scale, obvs.)

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Special Cases: Hoverers

Hoverers such as hummingbirds are special cases in the world of vertebrate flight, because much of their lifestyle and physiology mimics that of insects-- including their flight.

The basic rules of flight theory discussed above won’t exactly apply to these guys, because air doesn’t travel over their wings in the same way it does in other vertebrate flyers. Take a look at this post and compare the animations between the hummingbird, goose, and bat. What exactly is unique about the hummingbird animation compared to the other two?

A few things-- for one, hummingbirds don’t have nearly as many points of wing articulation during flight. If you look closely, you’ll see there’s no bend at the elbow or wrist for a hummingbird; they move their whole arm in a completely stiff, figure-8 pattern. Such high-speed flapping can’t handle that much articulation.

Why a figure-8? Here’s the thing-- hummingbirds don’t technically have an upstroke they have to account for. Every stroke of their wings is a downstroke because when they pull their wings back, the topside of their wings tilts down and also pushes against the air as a “downstroke”. Thus, there’s never a gap between downstrokes-- they’re always efficiently pushing down against the air.

This is also why, unlike most every other flying vertebrate, their flight is more vertical than horizontal. In order to properly swing their wings in a figure-8 motion, they have to tilt their bodies up.

While hovering flight is cool as hell, it comes with a lot of restrictions; mainly, hoverers are always small. The energetic restrictions required for hovering are so incredibly high that bodies much bigger than a hummingbird wouldn’t be able to consume enough energy to make up for hovering. Plus, hoverers tend to live right on the edge of starvation because what energy they do manage to consume is used up so quickly.

If you do want to integrate hovering into your dragons, consider making it a secondary form of flight that they can only keep up for short bursts, rather than their primary mode of flight. Unless you’re ready to give your dragon a lot of physiological restrictions, which is cool too.

-Mod Spiral

#wings #flight #mod spiral

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