#and the close combat methods worked well too

[gilverrwrites]

Summer Loving

Ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Roy, & Tim.

AN: Have a lot of lengthy and/or smutty wips on the go atm and I can feel them bogging me down a bit, so I decided to take a break and work on some short summer themed slice of life/domestic fluff to cleanse my palate. I feel I must apologise for my gratuitous and obvious Roy Harper thirst but I wont, enjoy!

CWs: Some are more suggestive than others, reader discretion advised. Minor swearing and minors swearing, mentions of alcohol. GN! Reader

Bruce: Tan Lines

It’s moments like these where you wish Bruce didn’t have to spend his nights on the endless pursuit of justice. You knew what you’d signed up for, but you’d missed him all day and god, the feel of his strong fingers massaging after sun into your skin was euphoric. Would you be such a bad guy for trying to convince him to stay home?

“I like this.” His hum pulls you from your train of thought, and you look down to see his fingers trailing against the tan line your shorts had caused. He spares you a quick suggestive glance, the look a wolf might give a rabbit it’s particularly fond of before dipping down to replace his hands with his mouth.

“Ohhh, stay home tonight Brucie?” The look he gives you this time maintains its warmth but there’s an air of warning to it. Despite his simmering combativeness, you add a charming “Please?”

To that he lifts his head, just far enough to deny you of his lips, but close enough that his low voice still seems to reverberate through your body as he speaks. “Crime doesn’t take the night off, neither can I.”

“I know.” You sigh, admitting defeat before the battle has even begun, and he rewards you by assuming his barrage of kisses to your lower body.

“Just don’t go out too early.” You advise, trailing the tip of your finger from ear to ear, estimating the line where his Batman cowl ends. “Don’t want to get any tan lines of your own.”

“Trust me.” There’s humour in his tone now as he works his way upwards, ghosting his 5 o'clock shadow along the skin of your stomach as he prowls closer. “The evening is young, and I have plans for you yet.”

Dick: A/C

The A/C is broken. Again. To combat the heat the whole household has resorted to wearing nothing but their underwear, except of course for Haley who is always naked. Lucky dog.

Additionally, all the windows are open in an attempt to let the cool night air circulate the humid apartment but all it’s really doing is letting in the ambient sound of Blüdhavens boisterous nightlife and countless flies.

“Want one?” Dick asks from the kitchen spaces as he digs into his second ice pop since dinner, you joke about envying his metabolism despite knowing damn well that’s not the real reason for his physique. Although between the food and the heat-induced skipped workout, he’s bloating, just a little bit; the tiniest, most delicious bit of plumpness and you can’t take your eyes off of it. “Are you checking me out?”

“Always.” You reply with a brazen smile, continuing your laser-focused stare even as he begins approaching your spot on the couch.

“How about you stop looking and start touching, huh baby?”

“No.” You finally cease your objectification of his stomach to look him in the eyes. The intended sternness in your tone is stifled by the way his icy confection has turned his lips blue. “I already told you, no sex in this heat until the air con is fixed.”

Despite your posturing, you don’t fight his closing proximity, nor do you stop him from dragging his cool-raspberry-stained tongue along the length of your throat, it’s still cold from the half-eaten lolly and the sensation sends a welcome chill through your body. As inefficient as it may be, you much prefer this method of cooling down to an A/C.

Jason: Sunrise

The metal grate of your fire escape is surprisingly cool against your bare feet. It’s early, pre-sunrise early but the air is still thick, a combination of the arid summer heat and steam of the cities underground. Despite the unpleasant temperature, you settle onto the grill, with nothing but a pillow for comfort and two ice-cold glasses of lemonade.   

When 15 minutes pass, and you start to notice a growing tinge of orangeness in the sky, you start to worry you’re being stood up, or worse; something awful has happened. Something that would prevent him from coming home, but then you hear it; The heavy steps of Jason’s steel-toed boots approaching from your apartment’s rooftop.

You glance up just in time to see him dropping down. A loud clang rings out as he hits the floor, causing the whole structure to vibrate and you wonder if he does that every night, surely not, there’s no way you could sleep through it or that your neighbours wouldn’t complain.

“Aren’t you sweating balls?” You ask, taking in his gear as he sits down beside you. The boots, the cargo pants, turtleneck, jacket, gloves, and the full-face mask.

“Nah.” His voice is muffled by the headpiece until he takes it off, shaking his head to support his answer. “It’s weird but I’ve kinda run cold ever since I died, you know?”

Obviously you don’t know, in fact having felt his searing, naked skin pressed to yours on multiple occasions, you highly doubt him, but you nod regardless and hand him his drink. Unlike a man on the chilly side, he chugs half of the icy drink in one go and you wonder if he’ll ever stop jumping from buildings and telling white lies to impress you.

“Want some help warming up?” Before he can respond you lean up, brushing your nose against his and watching as his lids flutter closed in anticipation, his breath is cool on your lips and when you finally press into them you can taste nothing but the tartness of the lemonade. Regardless, it’s heavenly; soft and tender. Every kiss with Jason makes your heart flutter in the same way it had the first time.

When he pulls away you chase after him, eyes only opening to meet his heterochromatic irises when your pursuit for more becomes an abundant failure.

He’s grinning as he tells you; “We’re missing the sunrise.”

“I don’t care.” You answer, trying again, and this time succeeding in drawing him in for another kiss.

Roy: Paddling Pool

If ever anybody asked you to describe a moment of pure domestic bliss, this moment would be a strong contender. Your lower body is submerged in a paddling pool as you bask in the sun, enjoying the occasional splash of water caused by Lian’s uncoordinated but enthusiastic dancing beside you. She too is basking, but hers is under an endless stream of hose water being directed by her father; Roy, who is watching the two of you from a sun lounger, hosepipe in one hand and a non-alcoholic beer in the other.

He's quite the vision, no shoes, no shirt, just tastefully tacky swim trunks and his iconically worn-out grey baseball cap that may be protecting his head, but is doing little to tame his mop of fiery hair. From this angle, you’ve got a great shot of some of his lesser-seen tattoos, but every time you look over at him you find yourself far more smitten with the countless freckles that adorn his chest and shoulders, made darker and more noticeable by the recent heatwave.   

“How’s the Heineken?” You ask, genuinely curious how he’s enjoying his first taste of alcohol-free booze.

“Crap.” He replies, lips briefly curving into a self-amused smirk before dropping to woefully panicked as you both turn to look at Lian. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have been listening in, content in her own toddler babblings. Relieved, he turns his attention back to you and corrects himself. “Um, not good babe.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry.” You offer your condolences, but he seems completely unbothered.

Instead, he turns the glass bottle around in his hands a few times before chucking it over his shoulder. It sails through the air before seamlessly landing in the open bin by your backdoor. Your concern about it leaking into the rest of the recycling is seconded by how impressed you are. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times his trick-shot hit, you’re always at least a little bit captivated by his impeccable aim.    

“It’s cool, hon.” He shrugs and leans back into the lounger. His eyes flicker back and forth between you and his child, a slow, contented smile spreading across his face. “Got everything I need right here.”  

Bonus:

Hours later, you’re sorting through the soggy contents of the recycling as Roy scoops Lian up in his arms and takes her sleepy frame inside. The sun is still high and bright, but it’s past her bedtime, and it’s been a long, exciting day for her. He dries her with the softest towel he can find, careful to pat down every pruned finger and toe before putting her to bed.

“How was your day, sweetie?” He asks, strong fingers petting her soft hair to help soothe her to sleep.

“Crap!”   

Tim: Ice Cream

Tim is still sleeping off a rough, muggy night of crime fighting as you circumnavigate the boat's sad excuse for a kitchen. The bags under his eyes had been growing darker each day under the stress of hunting down a mysterious new bank robber. You’d hoped to lift his spirits by surprising him with a tub of homemade ice cream, but so far all you’d managed to make is a mess.

After having a falling out with the thrifted ice cream maker you’d stuffed in the back of a cupboard months ago, you settled for hand mixing. By the time you put the concoction in the freezer to set, your wrists are aching, and Tim has begun to stir. You’re just finishing up the dishes you’d created when he finally emerges from the bedroom in shorts, flip-flops, and a not-so-summer-appropriate hoodie.

Before you can offer a ‘good morning, Timmybear’ his arms are around your waist, pulling you close from behind and settling the weight of his sleepy head on your shoulder.

“What’s this?” He asks and then he’s licking what you can only assume is a stray splash of the mixture from your cheek with the bravery only a man raised by Batman could possess. It could have been literally anything. “Banana?”

“Chunky monkey actually.” Goddamn. Surprise ruined in less than a minute. Oh well, at least you can give him something to look forward to. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get ice cream without you, I made it for you.”

“I figured.” He hums, sounding so very drowsy despite the ease with which he manoeuvres your body against the kitchen counter so he can keep you close while brewing his morning tea, occasionally planting soft kisses to the side of your neck as his hands move absentmindedly. “You’re the best, you know that? Can’t wait to try it.”

“You figured? How did you figure?” You skip right past the justified praise; he’d been practically comatose since 4 AM, how could he have figured?

“It’s on the ceiling.” He’s right, you look up to see a cream-soaked walnut lodged above you and let out a dramatic sigh as you fall deeper into Tim's arms.

Taglist: @wandalfnation

[totallybakedcake]

Imperfectly perfect

Sypnosis- You overwork yourself and your boyfriend freaks out. Pairing- Hoshina x fem reader

Huff, puff,huff,puff. It was now a normal thing for you to gasp for breath and just hold your polearm till it formed bruises in your arms. You were just thinking about your training, nothing more.

You stopped as you heard Okongi say, "Kikoru Shinomoya, release force 70 percent."

"Platoon leader name released force 80 percent. That's the most release force recorded for a platoon leader. Platoon leader name, platoon leader name, can you hear me? Can you hear me?" Okongi spoke, trying to get you back to your senses. Concern was starting to take over her, as you could hear her practically start yelling your name.

"Name!" You felt like you were slapped back to reality. Looking up, you saw Kafka, Leno, and Kikoru looking at you with a look of almost desperation. Kafka was shaking your shoulders while the rest were calling out to you. "Did I zone out?" You spoke as a mere whisper as you felt a wave of pain coursing through your body. Leno spoke, "Platoon leader, name. We were all training with you, but after training ended, you were on the floor, zoning out. It had been 5 whole minutes until you finally responded back to us. You should definitely have a look in the medical room. This has been happening ever since we joined you in training."

"Sorry to bother you guys so much. I am going to go to the medical ward soon, just being prepared after it was said that Kaiju No. 8 was a daikaiju, and just stressing all over. I'm sorry, you gotta get going now."

The trio watched as you hurriedly walked away. I was trying to calm Okongi down as she scolded you. "The platoon leader should really take care of herself. Even if she has great abilities and all, she should start taking care more. Has she even told Vice Captain Hoshina about this?" Kikoru and Leno nodded in agreement before walking away for lunch.

You love Hoshina more than your own life, but sometimes you really cannot show your true self to him. Down the whole mask of an understanding and cool person you try to be. There are many things that are hidden deep inside your heart. There are some things that you cannot express to your dear Hoshina.

Name was taking quick strides to get to a place. She was trying to cover herself so no one could see her, but then she arrived. A traditional Japanese estate, it was adorned with lamps and cute statues. The doors and windows were huge when you turned to the left; there was even a pond in the whole area. You went towards the backyard to see the preparations already done.

There he was, Mr. Hoshina. The current head of the Hoshina clan, as well as Soshiro's father, He was already in a kimino with a katana in his hand. He looked towards you and said, "Let's start, name."

Flashback

"Soshiro, it has been almost a month with no improvements." You slumped against the wall, burying your head in your arms. You would cry at any moment. It had been almost a month, and your release force was just decreasing. You could lose your position as a platoon leader if this continues. Soshiro had been a witness to your breakdown. He tried many times to calm you down and motivate you, but now he needed a new method. He went towards you, gently placing you on the sofa as he kissed your temple and said, "Oh cupcake, why do you worry about your pretty head so much? It makes me feel upset too. How bout' I tell you a great plan that will work surely?" He was rubbing your back in a comforting manner as you peered up with puffy red eyes.

"Tell me." You spoke just like a sad child, glimmering with hope. Soshiro grinned. He loved this particular trait about you a lot. He leaned down and spoke in a teasing manner. "For that, calm down." Showing him a pout and a glare at the same time, he grabbed your hand and spoke. "My father is great at polearming and close combat too. How about you train under him? It will surely prove results." He spoke in a promising tone that made you obviously agree with it.

Back to reality, it really worked. Your capabilities as a platoon leader skyrocketed. You were so happy—too happy, in fact—that you almost suffocated the vice captain himself in a tight hug. He was just glad that you were back to your usual persona, nothing more.

But things started to go downhill after that. You started training a lot more. After all the new Kaiju threats, you had to. You would overwork yourself to the point that even drinking water or getting proper rest was a second priority now. You just wanted to be strong and protect Soshiro and others with your strength, nothing more. Did you tell Soshiro about this? No. Will you? Absolutely no. He will stop your training as a whole and will be extra protective of you if that happens.

You tried your best to hide all the exhaustion and pain your body had started to accumulate, and you showed signs of overworking, but still you tried to cover it up. No matter how hard you tried, Hoshina was destined to find out about it.

It was evening, and you were still training. You were still training and training before you felt pain in your nose. It was a nose bleed, the sixth this week. You just wiped it off with your hand before getting in a position where you could fight, but you felt someone grab your hand in a firm grip. "Name, that's enough." You looked to see Soshiro; his eyes were wide open, looking at you. You were sweating buckets as blood was smeared on your face. Small cuts and bruises were peeking through, which was making Soshiro more concerned as the seconds went by.

"Let's go home." Soshiro spoke in a demanding tone as he grabbed your hand and started to walk.

You, on the other hand, felt really dizzy; your head was spinning, and the moment you moved your body, it ached. Feeling all the energy drained out of you, black splashes appeared in your vision as everything went black. Soshiro's eyes widened as you fell into his arms, his body going completely limp. "Name, this isn't funny. I don't like this prank. Please wake up." He shook your body, but no reactions came from you. He cussed; he knew you were training hard, but to the point you passed out because of it was something he never imagined. If only he had been faster to catch on, this wouldn't have happened.

He scooped you up in his arms, cradling your exhausted form. He just wants you to be okay.

Fluttering your eyes open, you groaned in pain. Your head throbbed, your entire body was feeling different types of pain, and your eyes felt heavy. "Yer awake, how are you?" You turned your head to see Hoshina coming close to you, as he had a tray with soup. His voice was much quieter and calmer, the opposite of his normal cheerful self. His eyes were wide open, and you could see the bags under his eyes.

"What happened?" Was the first thing you said.

Hoshina's expression turned grim as she placed the tray down and sat beside you on the bed. "Name, you passed out from exhaustion. You've been pushing yourself too hard."

You tried to sit up and get closer to him, but dizziness fell over you as Hoshina pushed you back down, his grip on your hand getting tighter. "Promise me, promise me you will never overwork yourself like that ever again." He held out his pinky finger and looked at you with a soft gaze.

"I promise." You interweaved your fingers in his as he pulled you closer for a deep kiss. The butterflies were flooding your stomach as heat rose up to your face.

"I have forcefully given you a week to recover, so no arguing now." He grinned as you let out a scoff and pulled him for another kiss. "I wasn't planning too."

Soshiro fell on top of you as he wrapped his arms around your figure, trapping you in his embrace and peppering you with kisses.

Let's just say he spoiled you rotten this night.

Note- Aah I did it I uploaded this thing. It was super fun to write this. My next kaiju no 8 fic might take a while as the next thing I will upload is a windbreaker fic. I watched the whole anime 4 days and completed the manga very quickly too, exams are now coming and just school is just too much now so no new fics maybe.

Have a good day!:D

[quinngefail]

Comic and short story below the cut !! It ended up being longer than anticipated so. Under the cut it goes 😤

First time posting a piece of writing for these two as well..., I hope you enjoy :)

"May I take your coat, sir?"

It was a question asked through a goofy smile, and a 'fancy' tone that carried more than just a little bit of exaggeration; both very deliberate on Adam's part. It's not that he didn't like performing these sorts of 'cheesy' romantic gestures, but he couldn't exactly ignore the way a particular sort of embarrassment would take hold of him during said gestures... Embarrassment that sat within him, screaming about how 'damn corny' he was acting right now. So, this was his working method of combating those less than pleasant feelings: play up the theatrics, put on a silly voice, make it into a whole bit. Things like that.

It really only worked so well. But, it was better than nothing.

However, and far more importantly, these were romantic gestures for Lawrence. And Adam was more than willing to put up with his bouts of trivial embarrassment for Lawrence... A fact that was further solidified as an appreciative smile spread across the older man's face, and he began to remove his coat. Adam moved closer to help, of course, proper gentleman he was, and all that- and in no time at all, the coat was hanging in his grip.

"So courteous," Lawrence lightly teased, still wearing that heart-melting smile of his, as he turned to face Adam.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm just doing so you feel compelled to make me something extra good for dinner tonight." Adam shot back, holding his eyes shut as a cocky grin spread across his face.

Lawrence gave a scoff, and a playful roll of his eyes. "And here I am, the fool who falls for it every single time." He holds his feigned look of utter defeat for a few moments longer, before returning to a genuine smile. He then leans in, placing a small kiss on his partner's forehead. "I'll go see what I can do for us." He murmurs, breaking away and turning to the direction of the kitchen.

Adam watches him disappear around the corner, unable to keep anything but adoration in his face. After Lawrence is out of sight, he turns his attention back to the coat in his hands. Without really even consciously deciding to do so, he gives it a few shakes as he moves to face the nearby hangers.

But then, there's a dull thud as something hits the ground. Adam’s gaze turns to the source, easily locating Lawrence’s fallen wallet.

Mild frustration brewing, Adam folds the coat over his left arm before bending over to snatch up the wallet. Returning to his full height, he absentmindedly flips the wallet over, intending to close and put it back in the coat's inner pocket.

And that was indeed the plan, but...

...

He really doesn't know how long he stands there, just staring at what was before him. He doesn't even notice Lawrence reappearing, poking out from behind the wall.

Heart racing, Lawrence approaches as fast as he can, putting his free hand on Adam's shoulder, trying to figure out what was going on, what was causing such a distressing reaction from the man he cared so deeply for-

But it doesn't take much detective work at all to put two and two together, as his eyes fall to what was in Adam's hand.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Lawrence leans back a bit. "Shit, I'm sorry, I kept meaning to show that to you-" he mutters before leaning forward, eyes open once more. He holds out a concerned hand, unsure now if he should or shouldn't offer his touch in this moment. "Look, um- I should have asked you about it first, and if it makes you uncomfortable, or if it feels like I'm moving things along too quickly, I can take it out-"

"N-no, no- it's not that," Adam interrupts him, giving a quick wipe to his eyes. "It's fine, really- it's just... I don't know, I guess I just never thought I'd ever be in anyone's wallet, is all," he ends with a small shrug and a diminished voice, his gaze falling away from Lawrence's... A silence hanging in the air.

"Well," Lawrence speaks, "I didn't just put it in there for no reason," he smiles gently, moving to stand behind Adam, leaving little distance between their bodies as he fondly looks down at the picture. "It's a photo that I really, truly love, just like I really, truly love you. And I'm happy to have it with me, just like I'm happy to have you with me."

As has often been the case lately, Adam doesn't know what to say. He stares at the photo for a little while longer, before finally giving a small, genuine "thank you,"

Lawrence hums in response. "Of course,"

They remain like this, just existing together... Letting their words sink in, and letting this moment linger.

"...I don't know if this picture really shows my good side, though." Adam remarks, being the first to break the silence, as was fully expected- a wry little smile cracking.

"And there he is," Lawrence gives another playful roll of his eyes, shaking his head a bit.

"No, seriously- this is what you want to carry around with you? This picture of you, sitting next to this ugly ass gremlin, who could look so much better if you just captured his good side?"

"I'm going back to the kitchen now," Lawrence pulls away, continuing to shake his head as he walks off.

"Good- because we do not want to see what happens if we feed my ass after midnight," Adam replies with a grin, sliding the wallet back into the coat pocket, finally hanging it up. "Really, Lawrence- I can go get my camera right now and we can fix this horrific situation- you can even wear that tie of yours, and I won't complain... Much,"

With that, he follows after Lawrence... Fully prepared to keep this going for a few hours longer at least.

And really, neither of them would have wanted it any other way.

[thewertsearch]

GG: i think you are projecting your own attitude on to others […] GG: rose just sent me a code for a crystal ball, shes my friend and is basically the best! […] CA: its probably a trap i wwouldnt trust her CA: she is a cunnin and treacherous sort trust me i knoww her type GG: wait do you have a thing for her too??? GG: did she reject you or something?

Annihilate him, Jade. This would be a good time to unleash that rage you've been cultivating.

CA: all of her FRAUDULENT MAGICS cannot come close to posin threat to my mastery ovver the TRUEST SCIENCES CA: an wwith my empiricists wwand i servve as the righteous hope that wwill incinerate delusion and the deluded alike

This dude's on some Methods of Rationality type shit.

I'm not sure why Eridan is on a crusade against magic. He's been insisting it was fake since his original introduction page, and it's pretty clear he has some sort of complex about it. Is there some unseen history here that we're not yet privy to?

GG: wow what are you talking about CA: so really you should be honored to inherit my old callin CA: both my armaments and my feud

To be fair to Eridan, he is accomplishing something useful here, even if it's by accident. Jade needs to get that rifle in her pen-pal's hands in order to fulfil the Endgame Bunny's time loop.

Recalling Eridan’s introduction reminds me that this is one of the most powerful riflekind weapons in existence. This should imply that top-tier weapons cost tens of millions of grist...

...but we just saw a weapon that costs much, much more.

Maybe the Proton Cannon has the same damage as the Crosshairs, but it also has an incredibly broken non-combat use.

GG: i have seen this before […] GG: i am very sure its the same rifle included with johns present […] CA: probably a cheap imitation of the original […] GG: i did not provide the weapons! GG: my penpal did […] GG: we worked on it together but he supplied the bunnys weapons GG: im pretty sure hes from the future! CA: wwhy GG: because he said hes my grandson

Really?

I suppose being raised by a Sburb veteran would explain why he uses terms like 'boonbuck' in casual speech - but almost nothing else makes sense when viewed through this lens.

If Pen-Pal is Jade's grandson, then he should be from decades in the future - presumably long after the game has ended. This doesn't sound like a problem, until you remember some of the references he made.

As much as it pains me to admit it, the Earth is probably gone for good - which means that any descendants of our Players will be raised somewhere else. Why would someone presumably raised in a completely different universe be so familiar with Earth's culture?

You could argue that he picked up his love of Earth movies from one of the surviving Earthlings, such as adult John - although that raises its own issues, because PP talks to John like he's never met him before. Maybe he died young, and passed his love of movies to PP posthumously - but as you can see, we're really having to stretch things to make this make sense.

Plus, there's an even bigger problem - namely, his 1920s 'accent'. None of the surviving Earthlings have it, and it's not like he just developed it spontaneously. If he was raised by Jade or her child, why does he talk like her grandfather would?

See, I'm still sure that PP is connected directly to Grandpa, and may well be the man himself - which means either PP is lying, or there's something more complicated going on here.

We don't know anything about Grandpa's life after he fled the Crocker household. If he was somehow raised by an adult, post-Sburb Jade, then he could consider her his grandmother, while still talking and acting like the Grandpa Harley we know. Plus, it would explain why he acts like he's from the past, but knows about the future. He already has a history of time travelling - maybe he's been doing it since he was a kid.

Similar to my old theory about Spades Slick, this one is a little too convoluted to be 100% true - but still I think there's something to this idea. Being raised by Jade would neatly explain where he got the bunny's weapons...

Ugh, I don't know! This Pen-Pal really is the biggest curveball this comic has thrown at me. I need to think it over some more.

[mossdoesartshit]

extermination day extermination always irritated vaggie. She had developed a major dislike of it upon being dropped into hell for showing mercy, which shouldve kept her in heaven than get her booted out, but she had found the love of her life here, so she couldnt complain. After the battle during the old hotels time, the exterminations had become far more erratic. sometimes theyd be only a month or so away, sometimes over a year. she had no doubts it was entirely because of lute, which she wasnt too fond of, but what could vaggie realistically do, her old sister in arms had always been a bit of a nutcase. besides, she had bigger fish to worry about right now. she and charlie were doing a headcount of people who had been in the hotel that day, (alastor, husk, nifty, the usual people, along with some hopefully quests to be) and there was one person distinctly missing "do i have to go get him?" vaggie asked, exasparated "come on please? he should be somewhere on the upper floors, i saw him walking up before the bell rang loud, besides you always have your weapon on you!" charlie begged, earning agreed mumblings of the others "If Safety Is Your Concern, Trust Me Vaggie, I Will Be Able To Handle Any Possible Nuisances While You're Getting Mister Bleeding Heart Back" alastor piped up, with that sickeningly sweet grin of his. She rolled her eyes, and groaned out a soft "fiine" as she moved to go up the hotel. Thank Fucking Lucifer that he had installed an elevator into the hotel, because boy howdy if vaggie had had to walk up the flight of stairs just to get Adam she would not have even considered it. Eventually, she found him on the roof, watching the carnage. "come on Adam, i know youre probably so fucking hard about all the destruction and shit, but you wont be safe from them killing you" Adam didnt turn to look at vaggie, instead closing his wings around himself as best he could, and "I can still recognize them you know" "huh?" with one wing, adam pointed down to two exterminators "that right there is lyre, ruthless as ever, but she has that methodical work flow, kind of like a dance. i think they partnered her with a newbie, which is good- well. bad, but. good from a combat standpoint- because she'll get good pointers at the end" vaggie looked down at the next group of exterminators that adam pointed to "over there is janatha, still fumbling with her stabs and pierces as ever. shes in a bigger squad, but they always worked well together, even if theyre a bit chaotic" an explosion blew up relatively near them, and adam looked over to it with sluggish movements "must be lute... say vags-" "vaggie." "-vaggie, do you remember flute?" "huh? you mean lutes sister?" "mmhm, lutes always been pretty ruthless, but that can leave her open at the back, flute would have covered her but. i think she was killed a few exterminations ago, the one that weapons dealer got. i think theyve tried to pair her with others but i always see her alone" vaggie stood there stunned "i. didnt think you were telling the truth when you said you recognized me. i thought you'd been bluffing or that lute had told you, given..." "well, thats the view souls have of me i suppose. liar down to a t. but i do recognize all of them. i just regret that my blind rage cost the lives of several of them and... lutes arm" another explosion closer to them alerted vaggie to grab adams shoulder "come on, charlies going to get worried if you keep me standing here, cant have you getting killed now that shes done so much work on you" "whatever you say vaggie" adam said, solemnly looking behind to where theyd spotted lute, before walking with vaggie to the elevator to get to the more bunkered area

[cerastes]

Ok, sorry if this is annoying, but seriously how the hell do I get good at parrying? I am going through your Elden Ring Greataxe Grandma VODs and you make parrying everyone and their dog look so easy. Then my gf informed me that you, in fact, did an entire playthrough of barehanded parries in between equipping and unequipping your weapon in DS3 apparently. Is there a secret to it?

See, parrying is something that's been elevated to this god gamers-only territory because it's a high risk high reward technique, but the thing with it is, the vast majority of people misunderstand the nature of what parrying is.

Parrying is not a test of your reflexes, parrying is a knowledge check.

The best way to get good parries in is to learn the enemy attack patterns and exploit their easiest to parry attacks for free huge damage. If you're going through my VODs, you'll see I parry the tar out of Crucible Knights over and over. That's because Crucible Knights have several multi-hit combos and long, winded up superpoised attacks.

With the wind up attacks, you simply time your parry, easy, but what about everything else? Well, a way to get used to the technique and the tempo required for it is to let the enemy start a combo, and parry the 2nd or 3rd hit, not the first. The Sword Crucible Knight, for example, is fond of doing three hit combos when you are close. Block the first hit, and then aim to parry the second hit: This is easy practice because the second hit of their combo is always a sword swipe in the opposite direction, so you know the timing is guaranteed to always be the same no matter what. You get that timing down, and you're in business. Parrying the Sword Crucible Knight like this is the exact same as parrying a Silver Knight in Dark Souls 1; check out this short video I made 6 years ago. And this method works for anything with stable 2 hit+ combos that have a first hit that doesn't stagger you on block.

This helps you, crucially, to learn the parry timing in and of itself -- different parries have different frames -- and once you have a good handle of your preferred parry tool's start up frames, you now can parry anything you correctly call out. Trying to parry single fast hits is riskier than heavier, slower singles or multi-hits that don't stagger you, but you eventually start catching the starting motions of an animation, and you think "ok, this one, I can hit it right here" and you end up parrying that too.

It takes practice and knowledge of what you are fighting, but after spending some time labbing it out, it becomes Yet Another Useful Combat Tool, grounded in reality and not this thing only a god gamer can pull off after 1000 hours of game time. Try it out!

[moon-ayyye]

Things were going really well for Jason, lately. He was talking to Kara often, sharing more about himself and getting to learn more about her. He could talk literature with her from dusk til dawn, finally having someone he could debate Brontë with. Talking to her was fun; she was intelligent, sassy enough to roast him when he left an opening, and unafraid to call him out on his bullshit. She made snarky comments that left him giggling. The Red Hood, giggling. Having a friend who knew him both in and out of the hood and saw more to him than the crime lord or the dead robin was so refreshing.

The Outlaws were his family, and he loved them, knew he was loved in return, but Kara was... different.

They shared a love for reading, which was a new thing for Jason, never having anybody to really talk to about his favourite hobby, and they gravitated towards the same types of books, meaning they managed to hold many discussions about different topics, with her loving to play devil's advocate whenever he was too passionate about a certain point or interpretation. Silence wasn't uncommon when they got together in person, with them just reading in each other's company or eating something too unhealthy for a regular person. It was calming, silencing the part of him that always raged at the injustice of the universe.

Their friendship really lifted his spirits, and it was noticeable to the Outlaws. Usually, when Jason decided to run missions with them, it's right after a fight with the bats about his methods. Just because he gave up on them being a family doesn't mean that the blatant distrust and rejection don't hurt.

But that hasn't been the case, lately. He contacted them just to hang out, wheras he usually had to be invited, his low self esteem making him unable to think they would ever agree to an invite from him, no matter how much they assured him. He was less aggressive in fights, the usually brutal Red Hood relying more on ranged combat than close quarters. No less deadly, mind you, but he started keeping his distance more, instead of ditching his guns in favour of his kris or bare hands. He didn't purposefully let himself get injured anymore and stopped drinking alcohol, instead partaking in healthier coping mechanisms. He laughed more, was more open with his feelings, more expressive of his love to them.

He looked his age.

Kara was a good thing. But you can't have too much good without the bad knocking, coming over to take its toll.

It's this cosmic trade-off that has Jason on a roof with all of the bat's brood. They've been trying to reconnect with him lately, seeing his lessening aggression and lack of killing as a sign of reform. Wanting to 'support' him as he 'takes the final steps towards redemption.' Preachy fuckers. Where was this when he actually wanted them? When he desperately NEEDED their support? They wanted to join in half a mile off the finish line so they'd be able to pat themselves on the back, claiming that they helped him all along.

That's not going to happen. Jason won't ALLOW it to happen.

"Come on Little Wing! We want you to come home! You've always been welcome but we never see you! Agent A misses you, and he wants all of his family together. You never know what comes next in life, tomorrow isn't guaranteed. If something happens, you'll regret not spending more time with him"

Manipulative bastard. But damn is he good. Appealing to what he thinks is a weak spot to get him to comply, framing it as though he was always welcome when he knows for a FACT he wasn't. Putting all of the expectations on him, so they wouldn't have to do anything. Guiting him into shunning them away, as if they hadn't done the same.

Jason is ashamed to say that it would've worked, years ago. Back when he thought of Alfred as his grandfather. When he desperately hoped for a place at the table, sitting next to his father, teasing his siblings.

It's not a couple of years ago, though. Priorities shift, and dirty laundry comes out. Words spoken that shattered any iota of love Jason held for the old man, a plaque cementing him as a permanent outsider.

"He's not a house plant, locked away in the manor with no way out. He could've visited me any time he wanted"

It shocked Dick, a little, getting rebuffed like that. He thought Alfred was the smoking gun. He didn't plan much, assuming that mentioning the old butler would have Jason coming back into the fold.

"It doesn't matter, Hood," came the gravelly voice of his former father. "We're trying to compromise with you here"

"Compromise on what, exactly?"

"Reports show a heavy decrease in your usage of lethal methods" Red Robin's voice piped up. "You've been less aggressive lately, and we think that you're finally getting better."

"Ok? I still don't understand"

"Given that you're improving," Batman replied, the clenching of his jaw giving away his growing frustration, " we would like you to come to family dinner this Sunday, provided that you stop killing"

"Yeah, I'm not interested. You'll bring me to the manor, frame it as a family reunion, then pick fights and argue with me until you decide to throw me into arkham or whatever. I've got better plans"

"It's not like that!" shouted Nightwing, frustrated that Hood wasn't seeing reason. They're trying to help him here, get him back on the right path. Doesn't he see their generosity? They're forgiving him for being a murderer, he should be happy for getting such a chance.

"Oh? then what's it like? Because we haven't spoken outside of the masks since I came back, and suddenly I've ALWAYS been allowed back? Every time we talk in the masks, you threaten me with jail or exile"

"Yes, because you're a murderer. We don't have the right to be judge-"

"Jury and executioner. Yeah, spare me the bullshit, I've heard it a million times. I'm not a bat, I don't have to adhere to your code, or whatever"

"Dammit, Hood, we're trying here!" Bellowed the Batman, coming to his wit's end with his son's dismissal of the lives he's taken, of the opportunity to truly reform. "If you really want to get better, if you want to be a lart of this family again -"

"I don't"

This causes Bruce to stop talking and all the bats and birds to look at him in shock, staring at him as if he would reveal himself as a clone or a shapeshifter. It simply didn't compute

"What?"

"I don't want to be a part of your family."

"You must be misunderstanding," came Red Robin's diplomatic voice, clearly disbelieving that Jason would ever reject them, voice almost frantic. "We're offering you a chance to rejoin the family"

"I understand perfectly. I'm just not interested in being family with all of you. I don't know you, I don't WANT to know you, and I've moved on"

"What do you mean you moved on!" shouted Dick, incredulous.

"I mean, I moved on. I gave up on you years ago. I found myself a family, a real family, people who love me for who I am, and I'm happy with them, far happier than I ever was with you. I'm not going to jeopardise my own happiness by clinging onto the ties to a life I'd rather forget"

The bats were stunned, not having expected this, and Jason left the rooftop, feeling lighter than he has in years, debating with himself on whether or not he and Kara should get ice cream later.

[randomwriteronline]

I wonder if the toa mata recognized themselves in their own memories from before mata nui.

I dont know, i think theres possibilities to be explored about that. Suddenly remembering yourself and what you find being a complete stranger is a common thing for amnesia plots i guess but also i think this could be even more jarring. Like a more genuine difference between killing machine and living being.

Its less a matter of nature vs nurture and more a matter of nature with a certain type of nurture. Nature dictates they are powerful and driven and well meaning, but the way they are brought up produces completely different people.

Their first taste of life was a sterile room with nobody but each other and a disembodied voice reading out their duties, establishing an arbitrary hierarchy within them, and then sending them to a glorified bootcamp where a ruthless instructor worked on making them into skilled combatants and nothing else, teaching them how to use their elements as tools and weapons without indulging in them; they got a vague sense of what and how a community feels like with the Av-Matoran - as outsiders, as its protective shield, there for them but not with them - only to get that stripped away from them too because their role as life saving tools to be preserved under glass just in case of a crisis was more important.

I wonder if the Toa Mata, the ones who were taken to the Koro of Mata Nui and listened to the Turaga's tales and reprimands and would have moved mountains for the Matoran who treated them like older siblings, return with their minds to things they said or thought or did from before the Island of Mata Nui and stop in their tracks. Whose memory is that, they think? That can't be mine. I am not like that. My siblings are not like that. Some things are perfectly right, they cant deny that; but just as many if not more are so wrong that they almost feel like a really cruel joke somebody planted into their heads.

Kopaka and Tahu got along, even if they dont want to admit it because they need to bicker like children or theyll die, but are more surprised that they werent as tentatively close with anybody else. Lewa remembers so much frustration and tedium and anger that if he stalls in his memories too much he genuinely starts feeling queasy, Pohatu has remnants of bitterness and passive aggression that still cling to him like the smell of a cigarette on someone who gave up smoking, and they both hate that because its nothing like them. Onua and Gali feel like theyre peering into some kind of imperfect clone's brain when they try to remember - its themselves, they know that, it has to be, but there are certain things they know about themelves that are just completely missing and its kind of dizzying to realize that.

Im not even sure they liked each other. They work together because its their destiny, but they don't seem to seek each other out for fun or anything else. In their training days they had to be shoved in each others direction or they would have never solved their obligatory group assignments.

I wonder if their terrors and flaws could partially come from this first life that they had too. Gali's fear of her anger and Lewa's disregard for duty stemming from Hydraxon's methods - she internalized his reprimands about feeling guilt for living enemies, but without any memory of him she believes the words resurfacing in her mind from time to time are her own, and is appalled by their cruelty; he was forbidden from enjoying himself, from indulging in any form of fun, of entertainment, of joy, and unconsciously now he rebels by shirking away from responsability to do whatever he wants.

The responses to Tahu's decision regarding the codrex haunt him, the whole situation, really; how he stripped his siblings of any say on their fate because he was the leader, not even telling them or explaining himself until they had no other choice, and if he could treat them like that once then what would stop him from doing so again and again until he doesnt even think about it? Kopaka is uneasy about it too. He knew the plan and supported Tahu only because he tagged along, but hes very, very acutely aware that he would have been left just as much in the dark as everybody else otherwise, and he would gave not even had anybody to seek any comfort from because hes fairly certain none of the others would have liked him enough to care.

Onua as @cantankerouscanuck pointed out to me mightve taken Hydraxon's teachings to heart, hence why he's so quiet: no use in expressing weakness, right? But karda nui must have been hellish on his senses, with all that light - a tangible physical discomfort that would bleed out into an emotional one as he becomes conscious of how none of his siblings go through this, thus he must be damaged in some way, faulty, out of place, and so he seeks to be alone, digging himself away. And its not hard to imagine how Pohatu (who hasnt had the chance to grow into the affable, kind toa his siblings can always lean on when they need to yet) would become convinced of his uselessness within the team and seethe about it.

They arrive on Mata Nui as broken war machines with no clue who they even are and suddenly find nature and community and love, and in a moment theyre people.

I wonder if the environment helped. Being thrown upon a beach in the open air with nothing but a whole world that is so alien and yet feels so right beckoning them to come closer. Discovering their powers and their domains freely, immediately - first thing they did was dive into their respective elements without a second thought, naturally magnetized, taking after them like it was the simplest thing in the world, because they are the first toa, the first beings capable of harnessing these powers in their whole universe, and its in their nature to be so connected to them. Maybe it helped. Maybe it made them feel connected to their own selves enough to figure themselves out in a way they couldnt have done so before.

Maybe it helped to find out their collective destiny each on their own, in their own environment, at their own pace, surrounded by younger siblings who look at them with awe and curiosity and frustration sometimes, guided by people who know how being alive works with all its good parts and messy bits and who can tell what having so much power means when youre barely aware of how to use it or what to do. And maybe it helped to find out who their siblings were in a similar way, introducing themselves as they wanted, as they felt like, without a specific order, and learning to recognize each other as siblings with all the things that make them insufferable and all the things that make them the best and what makes them happy and what makes them angry and how they sound when theyre worried and how likely they are to chase you down to the other edge of the island for doing something stupid, and like real people they grow and develop and change and stay the same, and then they meet the memory of themselves from before becoming people and its...

Idk. Its like the realization of who they used to be and the distance between themselves and those selves, and the fact that they dont like them.

[eldritch-spouse]

Giving Cero a handjob while reading to him our marriage contract and fawning over him

Can I also just say your blog is the love of my life I love your characters and content you put so much heart into it so just thank you and hope ya basements always full of bagels😭💞💞🫶🫶🫶

[Girls, guys and ghouls give it up for the biggest brain in the basement! Also, thenk you so much, that means a lot to me. :'7 <3 Fem reader.]

Cero expected a couple of outcomes when he slid the marriage contact your way and sat at a certain distance as you read.

You could be intelligent, come to the conclusion that he's offering you a better life than you'll ever have otherwise, recognize him as the savior he is and sign it. You could sign it out of fear, not ideal but he'll take it. Or you could throw a little baby tantrum and force him to use less appealing methods of making you reconsider.

He did not expect this however.

Maybe in his fantasies. The type of thing he'd sooner be caught dead than admitting he wastes energy conjuring in his mind.

You liked that contract.

In hindsight, you liked a lot of things, not just the contract. The demonlord had simply been far too busy trying to predict everything at once to notice the way your eyes would sparkle up at him whenever he said anything, how he basically didn't even have to tug you along to this room, how you exuded raw admiration watching every new room of his mansion revealed to you. Typical that, in his own magnificent intelligence, he didn't even stop to gouge your reactions. Regardless, the contract must have been the straw that broke the camel's back, because the moment you signed it-

-By the Rings, Cero didn't even get the opportunity to gloat about the fact that you signed it- You fucking signed it so fast! So readily! So willingly! You're so docile-

You threw yourself at him like a bitch in heat.

Normally, he wouldn't stand for this. Cero doesn't want to encourage this lack of self-control and discipline in his future Queen, it would be disastrous and cruel of him to allow you to behave so beastly. But, perhaps it was the sheer infectious glee in the air, the euphoria, the anticipation, the feelings he's never felt before being so quickly returned in spite of the minuscule speck of doubt that kept rearing its head... It all sparked together in one horrifically uncouth explosion of base urges gnashing their teeth.

The monster tried to keep his composure when he offered you a drink and dragged your chair closer to himself.

Several glasses of Gluttony's finest wine later, he's standing by your side, panting quietly, sharp yet slightly fogged eyes watching your small hand stroke languidly along his twitching length while you read several sections of his written work -It's a fine contract. A bit rushed, but a product of raw talent and passion he's well and truly proud of- Both of you tug at your own clothes to combat the heated friction in the air, and Cero has to hand it to you, your diction is commendable for someone so incredibly drunk on their first taste of Hell's crimson.

" This is marvelous... " You utter after a short pause when turning the page.

Cero schemes the outline of your tits through the shabby rags you call clothing, hips rocking ever so slightly as he considers dragging his cock between them, size difference be damned. You respond by squeezing around him a bit harder, delightfully so. " You expected less from me? " The last word dips into a poorly concealed moan.

Your grin is lopsided. " ... No. "

Cero will deny it with all his strength later, but his eyes rolled a little at that timid confession.

" Very good. " His clawed hand comes to guide your harmless one more efficiently, letting you know how he likes to be worshipped. After all, it's relevant to the next part you're going to enunciate. " Continue. "

The Icon pays close attention to the reactions in your face as you re-read this particular section. Because, while some parts were left deliberately vague, he knows you can pick up on the insinuations behind much of his professional language. He took care to make it tread that thin line between perfectly adequate, easily defensible, yet deviously secretly filthy. How could you ever miss the meaning interwoven in his phrasing when his dick hovers dangerously close to your face?

The more you read, the more you seem to buzz with arousal. Cero doesn't need to be a concubus to understand those clenching thighs and hasty breathing. He bites his lip for a moment, his own excitement beading at the tip of his member, used by you to further slick things along, a lewd sound now accompanying that trembling speech. You're almost picturesque like this- With your rosy lips, that flustered blinking, reduced to a mess by the mere terms and conditions he crafted. Cero would tease you about likely making a puddle on his chair's cushion if he wasn't already biting back snarls of pleasure.

" G- God, I- Fuck... " You whisper, whatever it is that you're imagining bringing a bead of sweat to your visage.

Unable to keep himself straight for much longer, Cero bends to loom over your figure, one hand bracing his weight on said chair's top rail while a boot rests on of the stretcher.

" I'm sure you must be dying to get started, no? Why, you're already practicing! " Some humor bleeds into his poisonous tone, though the King is much too turned on to make it sound as playful as he wished.

A shiver that looks more like a death rattle makes its way down your back and, adorably, you find your tongue tied in knots. Cero all but chuckles cruelly when you can't find the voice to continue reading, mind muddling into blind want.

" I'm... I'm sorry I- I can't... "

" Hush. You're forgiven, inamorata. " There's no shortage of jubilation in the Icon's toothy sneer when you effortlessly allow his digits to beckon your head closer, turning it.

He swipes the pristine pages from the table, the tip of his cock parked at your lips. You kiss him without being told to, already showing a lot of promise, and he casts you a slightly softer look while he buries as much of his length down your throat as you can handle.

" I'll do the reading for us now. "

[reinerispretty]

pause technique.

satoru gojo x f!reader. sequel to best of luck. , second installment of heart beats series!

here i am again, uploading my works from ao3 onto tumblr. wrote this one in 2022, hope you guys enjoy!!

SUMMARY:

Not a lot scares Gojo, except for losing you.

“Megumi?”

Fushiguro finds that odd. You never call him by his first name. “Huh?” He turns to look back at you.

“Would you mind giving Ijichi a call?” He hears you huff a laugh. “Not sure if I can make it back on my own.” 

And then you’re falling. 

--- --- ---

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” You say, turning your nose up haughtily. You’re letting your pride get the better of you and you know it. But you’re embarrassed , and you’re embarrassed that you’re so embarrassed. 

It shouldn’t be such a big deal to you. Even the best Jujutsu Sorcerers get injured during battle. Even if you had died, you don’t think anyone would have faulted you for it. These things happen. 

But there’s a voice in the back of your head that you haven’t heard in years, one that resurfaced the second you decided to be a Sorcerer again. It tells you that you’re not like the people you surround yourself with, that you’re not worthy of the First Grade classification that you earned. 

Logic would tell you it’s wrong, but sometimes even that fails you. 

The curse had been particularly nasty, too. You’d been assigned to take on the semi-Grade One and bring Fushiguro and Itadori along with you. A teachable moment where they could see your techniques in action. 

It’d been a while since you’d gone on a mission, but in the years you’d been absent from the field, you tried to keep yourself sharp. Took out Grade Fours and Threes when you stumbled across them, as well as the occasional Two. Some techniques, however, aren’t worth using on those types, and so they fell into the background. 

The two first years came with you, but you ordered them to stay out of it. For them to truly see this technique, they couldn’t be fighting alongside you. They had to watch closely. 

It’s called the Pause Technique. It causes a reaction delay. Once in use, any hit your opponent lands on you won’t take effect until after you’ve released the technique. An adrenaline rush on steroids, of sorts. It’s useful in close-combat and for ending fights quickly, which is the best method for exorcising Grade Ones. 

As soon as the technique is released, however, the pain you’d avoided for the duration of your fight comes back, all at once. It’s high risk, high reward, but as long as you’re precise, it’s worth it in your eyes. Unfortunately, there can be a few miscalculations, especially if you haven’t utilized it in a while. 

During a fight, if you aren’t feeling pain, it can be hard to catalog just how much you’ve endured. After defeating the Grade One, you released your technique, not realizing the extent of your injuries. It was a mistake on your part, a result of having been out of practice. You don’t like making mistakes. 

“So you’re calling me a liar?” Despite the accusatory words, Fushiguro just sounds exhausted. You wonder if he slept at all. You’ve known him since he was a kid, and you feel guilty for worrying him. 

“You should’ve let us help you,” Itadori says. You vaguely remember him sitting at your bedside through the night, but you aren’t sure. “We could have taken care of it together.” 

You feel horrible for placing the responsibility of your care on two children. You were unconscious, but you assume that one of them had to carry your limp body back to the car, unsure if you were going to make it through the night. You can only imagine how scared they must have been. 

If you’d been in your right mind, you would have let them help. You’ve always thought that one learns more by doing than watching, after all. But that part of you that’s so desperate to prove yourself, that still strives for perfection, stood in your way. And look where it’s gotten you: bedridden for the time being while they look at you with a mix of anger and concern. 

You sigh, leaning back into the pillows. Itadori had brought you extra to prop yourself up. “I let my pride get in the way. I was supposed to be teaching the two of you and instead…” You don’t like the way your throat is starting to constrict, so you clear it. “I won’t let it happen again. I’m sorry.” 

“It was a good lesson on what not to do,” Fushiguro says, but when you look up at him, there’s a slight smile on his face. You return the gesture. 

“And before you passed out, it was pretty epic,” Itadori tells you. “I’ve never seen someone take out a Grade One so fast!” 

“Thanks, Itadori. Once I’m better, I can show you how to do the Power Bomb technique.” 

“ You can do a Power Bomb? ” 

The door to the dorm slides open as Itadori bombards you with questions. You feel the person’s energy before you see them, and it isn’t difficult for you to tell that it’s Gojo. Nor is it difficult for you to tell that he’s upset with you. 

He carries himself casually, a relaxed smile on his face. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses today. Itadori and Fushiguro seem unaware of the man’s disposition, but you know from the way the tendon in his neck flexes. A minuscule detail, but one you’ve known for years. 

“Heard you had quite the mission,” Gojo says, white teeth gleaming. He’s good at hiding his true emotions. “Congrats on taking out the Grade One! Real impressive stuff you did out there.” Impressive, he says. Reckless , he means. 

“Thank you,” You say calmly, turning your attention back toward the boys, and out of the corner of your eye you see Gojo stiffen at your rebuff, but you’d rather not start anything with students around. “Could you guys give us a moment? I’d like to give Gojo a report on what happened.” 

“Don’t bite each other’s heads off,” Fushiguro says as he drags Itadori out by his collar. It surprises you. Perhaps he knows the two of you better than you thought. 

“I’ll bring pizza later!” Itadori calls out to you, just as the door shuts. 

You adjust yourself in the bed. You wish you were at home. Perhaps the reason you splurge so much on bedsheets is because the ones at Jujutsu High are ass . You miss your down comforter and cooling memory foam mattress. 

The two of you are silent as Gojo takes a seat. You can feel his eyes on you, searching for your injuries. You’d had some massive bruising and internal bleeding, but Shoko had taken care of it. The only bandage you have is on your forehead from a small cut when you collapsed. For the most part, you’re just sore. 

“Nanamin told me you used Pause Technique.” 

Snitch! You were going to throttle him with that stupid tie of his. 

“I’m fine ,” You remind him. “I took care of the Grade One. Shoko healed me. It’s fine.” He’s dramatic all the time, but especially when it comes to you. 

Gojo’s silent. He tilts his head toward the ceiling, white hair falling out of his face. “Do you remember the last time you used it?” 

A few months after your graduation, the two of you had been assigned to take out a Special Grade. Gojo’d been busy across town so you left before him, having every intention of simply scoping out the curse before he arrived. Those plans changed rather quickly. 

A family had been camping in the woods the curse called home. You’d been told that everyone in the area had been evacuated, but they must not have gotten the alert. If you waited for Gojo to come, the curse might have killed them. 

You don’t regret making the choice to fight. You’d used your technique to the fullest extent of its power. You weakened the curse significantly by the time Gojo showed up, but once the fighting was done and you released your technique, there was nothing but pain. The blinding sort that halts all thought and movement until all you know is hurt . 

To you, it’s a cost worth paying. 

“I thought you were dying.” Your eyes widen. He’s never told you that before. “I thought I was watching you die and I couldn’t do anything.” 

Gojo exhales, sitting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “When Nanamin called and told me that you’d used it again, I expected him to tell me that it’d killed you.” 

Your lips press into a thin line. It can kill you, if you sustain a grievous wound. It stops the pain but it doesn’t stop how it affects the body. A sword could go through you and you wouldn’t feel it, but you’d still be bleeding out. If you took a hit like that and didn’t realize, you’d drop dead before the fight was over. 

“Promise me you won’t use it again. It’s too much of a risk.” 

“You take risks all the time,” You protest. How is it fair if he can be reckless, but you can’t? 

“I don’t care about my life, but I care about yours.” 

You stare at him. You can see the faint outline of his eyes through his sunglasses, boring into yours. You shift to sit directly in front of him, wincing as your sore body moves. His large hands are on you in an instant, just desperate to touch you. “I don’t like scaring you. I should’ve been more mindful tonight. I got into my head about being a First Grade Sorcerer and went too far. I’m sorry.” 

Gojo sighs, closing his eyes. “But,” You continue, and they pop back open. “I won’t promise not to use it again.” 

“(Y/N)—” 

“I don’t care about my life,” You repeat. “But I care about yours.” His fingertips dig into the skin of your thighs. He wants you to take it back, but you won’t. “I can’t say that I won’t use everything in my power to protect you.” 

“I don’t need your protection,” He insists, and you smile softly at him. 

“I know, but you have it.” He’s your strength and your weakness, all rolled into one human being. You are pragmatic, and cunning, and thoughtful, but when it comes to Gojo Satoru, you would throw your life away in an instant if it meant saving his. 

Gojo rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush against each other. “I’d tear the universe in two for you,” He says, and your heart stutters. You can hear the smirk in his voice as he continues, “I suppose we’ll just have to make sure the other doesn’t do anything too stupid.” 

You hum, playing with the ends of his hair. “I’d say I got the short end of that stick.”

[rjalker]

"Who Goes There?"

By John Wood Campbell Jr., published under the name Don A. Stuart

Originally published in the August 1938 issue of Astounding Science-Fiction magazine, also known as Astounding Stories of Super-Science, and Analog Science Fiction and Fact.

This is the public domain story that the 1982 movie "The Thing" was based on, as well as the older 1951 movie "The Thing From Another World".

"Who Goes There?" is public domain, meaning you can do literally anything you want with it at all. Including making your own movie, TV show, play, musical, full length novel, audiobook, webcomic, literally anything, just like the creators of the two movies did.

You can even just copy and paste it into your own social media post.

This includes the four illustrations placed within the appropriate spots in the stories, with included image descriptions.

Transcribed from a PDF scan on starting on December 28th 2024, at 6:21PM. Finished on January 1st 2025 at 4:38PM.

You can the files it from Itch.io (to tip me if you want), or the Internet Archive. It includes the editable document, a PDF, and an epub. The Internet Archive will also generate a computer-read audiobook.

Epubs are the generic version of ebooks, and can be read like you'd read a kindle book on your phone with many free apps.

I will be recording my own audiobook for it which will likewise be public domain. I will edit that into this post when it's done. You can also watch the progress of the transcription on youtube.

This story is 21K words long. You're gonna have to set aside some time to read it all.

(Archived read-more link)

(Read more was here)

Who Goes There?

-

The place stank. A queer, mingled stench that only the ice-buried camps know, compounded of reeking human sweat, and the heavy, fish-oil stench of melted seal blubber. An overtone of liniment combatted the musty smell of sweat-and-snow-drenched furs. The acrid odor of burnt cooking fat, and the animal, not-unpleasant smell of dogs, diluted by time, hung in the air.

Lingering odors of machine oil contrasted sharply with the taint of harness dressing and leather. Yet, somehow, through all that reek of human beings and their associates—dogs, machines and cooking—came another taint. It was a queer, neck ruffling thing, a faintest suggestion of an odor alien among the smells of industry and life. And it was a life-smell. But it came from the thing that lay bound with cord and tarpaulin on the table, dripping slowly, methodically onto the heavy planks, dank and gaunt under the unshielded glare of the electric light.

Blair, the little bald-pated biologist of the expedition, twitched nervously at the wrappings, exposing clear, dark ice beneath and then pulling the tarpaulin back into place restlessly. His little birdlike motions of suppressed eagerness danced his shadow across the fringe of dingy gray underwear hanging from the low ceiling, the equatorial fringe of stiff, graying hair around his naked skull a comical halo about the shadow’s head.

Commander Garry brushed aside the lax legs of a suit of underwear, and stepped toward the table. Slowly his eyes traced around the rings of men sardined into the Administration Building. His tall, stiff body straightened finally, and he nodded. “Thirty-seven. All here.” His voice was low, yet carried the clear authority of the commander by nature, as well as by title.

“You know the outline of the story back of that find of the Secondary Pole Expedition. I have been conferring with Second-in-Command McReady, and Norris, as well as Blair and Dr. Copper. There is a difference of opinion, and because it involves the entire group, it is only just that the entire Expedition personnel act on it.

“I am going to ask McReady to give you the details of the story, because each of you has been too busy with his own work to follow closely the endeavors of the others. McReady?”

Moving from the smoke-blued background, McReady was a figure from some forgotten myth, a looming, bronze statue that held life, and walked. Six-feet-four inches he stood as he halted beside the table, and with a characteristic glance upward to assure himself of room under the low ceiling beams, straightened. His rough, clashingly orange windproof jacket he still had on, yet on his huge frame it did not seem misplaced. Even here, four feet beneath the drift-wind that droned across the Antarctic waste above the ceiling, the cold of the frozen continent leaked in, and gave meaning to the harshness of the man. And he was bronze—his great red-bronze beard, the heavy hair that matched it. The gnarled, corded hands gripping, relaxing, gripping and relaxing on the table planks were bronze. Even the deep-sunken eyes beneath heavy brows were bronzed.

Age-resisting endurance of the metal spoke in the cragged heavy outlines of his face, and the mellow tones of the heavy voice. “Norris and Blair agree on one thing; that animal we found was not—terrestrial in origin. Norris fears there may be danger in that; Blair says there is none.

“But I’ll go back to how, and why we found it. To all that was known before we came here, it appeared that this point was exactly over the South Magnetic Pole of Earth. The compass does point straight down here, as you all know. The more delicate instruments of the physicists, instruments especially designed for this expedition and its study of the magnetic pole, detected a secondary effect, a secondary, less powerful magnetic influence about 80 miles south-west of here.

“The Secondary Magnetic Expedition went out to investigate it. There is no need for details. We found it, but it was not the huge meteorite or magnetic mountain Norris had expected to find. Iron ore is magnetic of course; iron more so— and certain special steels even more magnetic. From the surface indications, the secondary pole we found was small, so small that the magnetic effect it had was preposterous. No magnetic material conceivable could have that effect. Soundings through the ice indicated it was within one hundred feet of the glacier surface.

“I think you should know the structure of the place. There is a broad plateau, a level sweep that runs more than 150 miles due south from the Secondary station, Van Wall says. He didn’t have time or fuel to fly farther, but it was running smoothly due south then. Right there, where that buried thing was, there is an ice-drowned mountain ridge, a granite wall of unshakable strength that has dammed back the ice creeping from the south.

“And four hundred miles due south is the South Polar Plateau. You have asked me at various times why it gets warmer here when the wind rises, and most of you know. As a meteorologist I’d have staked my word that no wind could blow at —70 degrees— that no more than a 5-mile wind could blow at —50— without causing warming due to friction with ground, snow and ice and the air itself.

“We camped there on the lip of that ice-drowned mountain range for twelve days. We dug our camp into the blue ice that formed the surface, and escaped most of it. But for twelve consecutive days the wind blew at 45 miles an hour. It went as high as 48, and fell to 41 at times. The temperature was —60 degrees. It rose to —60 and fell to —68. It was meteorologically impossible, and it went on uninterruptedly for twelve days and twelve nights.

“Somewhere to the south, the frozen air of the South Polar Plateau slides down from that 18,000 foot bowl, down a mountain pass, over a glacier, and starts north. There must be a funneling mountain chain that directs it, and sweeps it away for four hundred miles to hit that bald plateau where we found the secondary pole, and 350 miles farther north reaches the Antarctic Ocean.

“It’s been frozen there since Antarctica froze twenty million years ago. There has never been a thaw there.

“Twenty million years ago Antarctica was beginning to freeze. We’ve investigated, though and built speculations. What we believe happened was about like this.

“Something came down out of space, a ship. We saw it there in the blue ice, a thing like a submarine without a conning tower or directive vanes, 280 feet long and 45 feet in diameter at its thickest.

“Eh, Van Wall? Space? Yes, but I’ll explain that better later.” McReady’s steady voice went on.

“It came down from space, driven and lifted by forces men haven’t discovered yet, and somehow— perhaps something went wrong then—it tangled with Earth’s magnetic field. It cam south here, out of control probably, circling the magnetic pole. That’s a savage country there, but when Antarctica was still freezing it must have been a thousand times more savage. There must have been blizzard snow, as well as drift, new snow falling as the continent glaciated. The swirl there must have been particularly bad, the wind hurling a solid blanket of white over the lip of that now-buried mountain.

“The ship struck solid granite head-on and cracked up. Not every one of the passengers in it was killed, but the ship must have been ruined, her driving mechanism locked. It tangled with Earth’s field, Norris believes. No thing made by intelligent beings can tangle with the dead immensity of a planet’s natural forces and survive.

[Image description start: A black and white illustration of a tube-shaped black spaceship crashing through the air and striking the ground in a mountainous area. Image description end.]

“One of its passengers stepped out. The wind we saw there never fell below 41, and the temperature never rose about —60. Then— the wind must have been stronger. And there was drift falling in a solid sheet. The thing was lost completely in ten paces.” He paused for a moment, the deep, steady voice giving way to the drone of wind overhead, and the uneasy, malicious gurgling in the pipe of the galley-stove.

Drift—a drift wind was sweeping by overhead. Right now the snow picked up by the mumbling wind fled in level, blinding lines across the face of the buried camp. If a man stepped out of the tunnels that connected each of the camp building beneath the surface, he’d be lost in ten paces. Out there, the slim, black finger of the radio mast lifted 300 feet into the air, and at its peak was the clear night sky. A sky if thin, whining wind rushing steadily from beyond to another beyond under the licking, curling mantle of the aurora. And off north, the horizon flamed with queer, angry colors of the midnight twilight. That was spring 300 feet above Antarctica.

At the surface—it was white death. Death of a needle-fingered cold driven before the wind, sucking hear from any warm thing. Cold—and white mist of endless, everlasting drift, the fine, fine particles of licking snow that obscured all things.

Kinner, the little, scar-faced cook, winced. Five days ago he had stepped out to the surface to reach a cache of frozen beef. He had reached it, started back—and the drift-wind had leapt out of the south. Cold, white death that streamed across the ground blinded him in twenty seconds. He stumbled on wildly in circles. It was half an hour before rope-guided men from below found him in the impenetrable murk.

It was easy for man—or thing—to get lost in ten paces.

“And the drift-wind then was probably more impenetrable than we know.” McReady’s voice snapped Kinner’s mind back. Back to welcome, dank warmth of the Ad Building. “The passenger of the ship wasn’t prepared either, it appears. It froze within ten feet of the ship.

“We dug down to find the ship, and our tunnel happened to find the frozen—animal. Barclay’s ice-ax struck its skull.

“When we saw what it was, Barclay went back to the tractor, started the fire up and when the steam pressure built, sent a call for Blair and Dr. Copper. Barclay himself was sick then. Stayed sick for three days, as a matter of fact.

“When Blair and Copper came, we cut out the animal in a block of ice, as you see, wrapped it and loaded it on the tractor for return here. We wanted to get into that ship.

“We reached the side and found the metal was something we didn’t know. Our beryllium-bronze, non-magnetic tools wouldn’t touch it. Barclay had some tool-steel of the tractor, and that wouldn’t scratch it either. We made reasonable tests—even tried some acid from the batteries with no results.

“They must have had a passivating process to make magnesium metal resist acid that way, and the alloy must have been at least 95% magnesium. But we had no way of guessing that, so when we spotted the barely opened lock door, we cut around it. There was clear, hard ice inside the lock, where we couldn’t reach it. Through the little crack we could look in and see that only metal and tools were in there, so we decided to loosen the ice with a bomb.

“We had decanite bombs and thermite. Thermite is the ice-softener; decanite might have shattered valuable things, where the thermite’s heat would just loosen the ice. Dr. Copper, Norris and I placed at 25-pound thermite bomb, wired it, and took the connector up the tunnel to the surface, where Blair had the steam tractor waiting. A hundred yards the other side of that granite wall we set off the thermite bomb.

“The magnesium metal of the ship caught, of course. The glow of the bomb flared and died, then it began to flare again. We ran back to the tractor, and gradually the glare built up. From where we were we could see the whole ice-field illuminated from beneath with an unbearable light; the ship’s shadow was a great, dark cone reaching off towards the north, where the twilight was just about gone. For a moment it lasted, and we counted three other shadow-things that might have been other—passengers—frozen there. Then the ice was crashing down and against the ship.

“That’s why I told you about that place. The wind sweeping down from the Pole was at our backs. Steam and hydrogen flame were torn away in white ice-fog; the flaming heat under the Antarctic Ocean before it touched us. Otherwise we wouldn’t have come back, even with the shelter of that granite ridge that stopped the light.

“Somehow in the blinding inferno we could see great hunched things, black bulks lowing, even so. They shed even the furious incandescence of the magnesium for a time. Those must have been the engines, we knew. Secrets going in blazing glory—secrets that might have given Man the planets. Mysterious things that could lift and hurl that ship—and had soaked in the force of the Earth’s magnetic field. I saw Norris’ mouth move, and ducked. I couldn’t hear him.

“Insulation—something—gave way. All Earth’s field they’d soaked up twenty million years before broke loose. The aurora in the sky above licked down, and the whole plateau there was bathed in cold fire that blanketed vision. The ice-ac in my hand got red hot, and hissed on the ice. Metal buttons on my clothes burned into me. And a flash of electric blue seared upward from beyond the granite wall.

“The the walls of ice crashed down on it. For an instant it squealed the way dry-ice does when it’s pressed between metal.

“We were blind and groping in the dark for hours while our eyes recovered. We found every coil within a mile was fused rubbish, the dynamo and every radio set, the earphones and speakers. If we hadn’t had the steam tractor, we wouldn’t have gotten over to the Secondary Camp.

“Van Wall flew in from Big Magnet at sun-up, as you know. We came home as soon as possible. That is the history of—that.” McReady’s great bronze beard gestured toward the thing on the table.

II.

Blair stirred uneasily, his little, bony fingers wriggling under the harsh light. Little brown flecks on his knuckles slid back and forth as the tendons under the skin twitched. He pulled aside a bit of the tarpaulin and looked impatiently at the dark ice-bound thing inside.

McReady’s big body straightened somewhat. He’d ridden the rocking, jarring steam tractor forty miles that day, pushing on to Big Magnet here. Even his calm will had been pressed by the anxiety to mix again with humans. It was lone and quiet out there in Secondary Camp, where a wolf-wind howled down from the Pole. Wolf-wind howling in his sleep—winds droning and the evil, unspeakable face of that monster leering up as he’d first seen it through clear, blue ice, with a bronze ice-ax buried in its skull.

The giant meteorologist spoke again. “The problem is this. Blair wants to examine the thing. Thaw it out and make micro slides of its tissues and so forth. Norris doesn’t believe that is safe, and Blair does. Dr. Copper agrees pretty much with Blair. Norris is a physicist, of course, not a biologist. But he makes a point I think we should all hear. Blair has described the microscopic life-forms biologists find living, even in this cold and inhospitable place. They freeze every winter, and thaw every summer—three months—and live.

“The point Norris makes is—they thaw, and live again. There must have been microscopic life associated with this creature. There is with ever living thing we know. And Norris is afraid that we may release a plague—some germ disease unknown to Earth—if we thaw those microscopic things that have been frozen there for twenty million years.

“Blair admits that such micro life might retain the power of living. Such unorganized cells can retain life for unknown periods, when solidly frozen. The beast itself is as dead as those frozen mammoths they find in Siberia. Organized, highly developed life-forms can’t stand that treatment.

“But micro-life could. Norris suggests that we may release some disease-form that man, never having met it before, will be utterly defenseless against.

“Blair’s answer is that there may be such still-living germs, but that Norris has the case reversed. They are utterly non-immune to man. Our life-chemistry probably——”

“Probably!” The little biologist’s head lifted in a quick, birdlike motion. The halo of gray hair about his bald head ruffled as though angry. “Heh. On look——”

“I know,” McReady acknowledged. “The thing is not Earthly. It does not seem likely that it can have a life-chemistry sufficiently like ours to make cross-infection remotely possible. It would say there is no danger.”

McReady looked toward Dr. Copper. The physician shook his head slowly. “None whatever,” he asserted confidently. “Man cannot infect or be infected by germs that live in such comparatively close relatives as the snakes. And they are, I assume you,” his clean-shaven face grimaced uneasily, “much nearer to us than—that.”

Vance Norris moved angrily. He was comparatively short in this gathering of big men, some five-feet-eight, and his stocky, powerful build tended to make him seem shorter. His black hair was crisp and hard, like short, steel wires, and his eyes were the gray of fractured steel. If McReady was a man of bronze, Norris was all steel. His movements, his thoughts, his whole bearing had the quick, hard impulse of a steel spring. His nerves were steel—hard, quick-acting—swift corroding.

He was decided on his point now, and he lashed out in its defense with a characteristic quick, clipped flow of words. “Different chemistry be damned. That thing may be dead—or, by God, it may not—but I don’t like it. Damn it, Blair, let them see the monstrosity you are petting over there. Let them see the foul thing and decide for themselves whether they want that thing thawed out in this camp.

“Thawed out, by the way. That’s got to be thawed out in one of the shacks to-night, if it is thawed out. Somebody—who’s watchman to-night? Magnetic—oh, Connant. Cosmic rays to-night. Well, you get to sit up with that twenty-million-year-old mummy of his.

“Unwrap it, Blair. How the hell can they tell what they are buying if they can’t see it? It may have a different chemistry. I don’t care what else it has, but I know it has something I don’t want. If you can judge by the look on its face—it isn’t human so maybe you can’t—it was annoyed when it froze. Annoyed, in fact, is just about as close an approximation of the way it felt as crazy, mad, insane hatred. Neither one touches the subject.

“How the hell can these birds tell what they are voting on? They haven’t seen those three red eyes, and that blue hair like crawling worms. Crawling—damn it’s crawling there in the ice right now!

“Nothing Earth ever spawned had the unutterable sublimation of devastating wrath that thing let loose in its face when it looked around his frozen desolation twenty million years ago. Mad? It was mad clear through—searing, blistering mad!

“Hell, I’ve had bad dreams ever since I looked at those three red eyes. Nightmares. Dreaming the thing crawled out and came to life—that it wasn’t dead, or even wholly unconscious all those twenty million years, but just slowed, waiting—waiting. You’ll dream, too, while that damned thing that Earth wouldn’t own is dripping, dripping in the Cosmos House tonight.

“And, Connant,” Norris whipped toward the cosmic ray specialist. “won’t you have fun sitting up all night in the quiet. Wind whining above—and that thing dripping——” He stopped for a moment and looked around.

“I know. That’s not science. But this is, it’s psychology. You'll have nightmares for a year to come. Every night since I looked at that thing I’ve had ‘em. That’s why I hate it—sure I do—and don’t want it around. Put it back where it came from and let it freeze for another twenty million years. I had some swell nightmares—that it wasn’t made like we are—which is obvious—but of a different kind of flesh that it can really control. That it can change its shape, ad look like a man—and wait to kill and eat——

“That’s not a logical argument. I know it isn’t. The thing isn’t Earth-logic anyway.

“Maybe it has an alien body-chemistry, and maybe its bugs do have a different body chemistry. A germ might not stand that, but, Blair and Copper, how about a virus? That’s just an enzyme molecule, you’ve said. That wouldn’t need anything but a protein molecule of any body to work on.

“And how are you so sure that, of the million varieties of microscopic life it may have, none of them are dangerous. How about diseases like hydrophobia—rabies—that attacks any warm-blooded creature, whatever its body-chemistry may be? And parrot fever? Have you a body like a parrot, Blair? And plain rot—gangrene—necrosis if you want? That isn’t choose about body chemistry!”

Blair looked up from his puttering long enough to meet Norris’ angry, gray eyes for an instant. “So far the only thing you have said this thing gave off that was catching was dreams. I’ll go so far as to admit that.” An impish, slightly malignant grim crossed the little man’s seamed face. “I had some, too. So. It’s dream-infectuous. No doubt and exceedingly dangerous malady.

“So far as your other things go, you have a badly mistaken idea about viruses. In the first place, nobody has shown that the enzyme-molecule theory, and that alone, explains them. And in the second place, when you catch tobacco mosaic or wheat rust, let me know. A wheat plant is a lot nearer your body-chemistry than this other-world creature is.

“And your rabies is limited, strictly limited. You can’t get it from, not five it to, a wheat plant or a fish—which is a collateral descendant of a common ancestor of yours. Which this, Norris, is not.” Blair nodded pleasantly toward the tarpaulined bulk on the table.

“Well, thaw the damned thing in a tub of formalin if you must thaw it. I’ve suggested that——”

“And I’ve said there would be no sense in it. You can’t compromise. Why did you and Commander Garry come down here to study magnetism? Why weren’t you content to stay at home? There’s magnetic force enough in New York. I could no more study the life this thing once had from a formalin-pickled sample than you could get the information you wanted back in New York. And—if this one is so treated, never in all time to come can there be a duplicate! The race it came from must have passed away in the twenty million years it lay frozen, so that even if it came from Mars then, we’d never find its like. And—the ship is gone.

“There’s only one way to do this—and that is the best possible way. It must be thawed slowly, carefully, and not in formalin.”

Commander Gary stood forward again, and Norris stepped back muttering angrily. “I think Blair is right, gentlemen. What do you say?”

Connant grunted. “It sounds right to us, I think—only perhaps he ought to stand watch over it while it’s thawing.” He grinned ruefully, brushing a stray lock of ripe-cherry hair back from his forehead. “Swell idea, in fact—if he sits up with his jolly little corpse.”

Garry smiled slightly. A general chuckle of agreement rippled over the group. “I should think any ghost it may have had would have starved death if it hung around here that long, Connant,” Garry suggested. “And you look capable of taking care of it. ‘Ironman’ Connant ought to be able to take out any opposing players, still.”

Connant shook himself uneasily. “I’m not worrying about ghosts. Let’s see that thing. I——”

Eagerly Blair was stripping back the ropes. A single throw of the tarpaulin revealed the thing. The ice had melted somewhat in the heat of the room, and it was clear and blue as thick, good glass. It shone wet and sleek under the harsh light of the unshielded globe above.

The room stiffened abruptly. It was face up there on the plain, greasy planks of the table. The broken haft of the bronze ice-ax was still buried in the queer skull. Three mad, hate-filled eyes blazed up with a living fire, bright as fresh-spilled blood, from a face ringed with a writhing, loathsome nest of worms, blue, mobile worms that crawled where hair should grow—

[Image description start: Half a dozen men crowded around a block of ice on a table, with streams of meltwater running away. Inside the block of ice, just visible, is the body of an alien. It is has three eyes visible on a small, oval shaped face, with a squat body, and four tentacle-like limbs in place of arms or legs. A bright light bulb burns on the ceiling above. Image description end.]

Van Wall, six feet and 200 pounds of ice-nerved pilot, gave a queer, strangled gasp and butted, stumbled his way out to the corridor. Half the company broke for the doors. The other stumbled away from the table.

McReady stood at one end of the table watching them, his great body planted solid on his powerful legs. Norris from the opposite end glowered at the thing with smouldering hate. Outside the door, Garry was talking with half a dozen of the men at once.

Blair had a tack hammer. The ice that cased the thing schluffed crisply under its steel claw as it peeled from the thing it had cased for twenty thousand thousand years—

III.

“I know you don’t like the thing, Connant, but it just has to be thawed out right. You say leave it as it is till we get back to civilization. All right, I’ll admit your argument that we could do a better and more complete job there is sound. But—how are we going to get this across the Line? We have to take this through one temperate zone, the equatorial zone, and half way through the other temperate zone before we get it to New York. You don’t want to sit with it one night, but you suggest, then, that I hang its corpse in the freezer with the beef?” Blair looked up from his cautious chipping, his bald, freckled skull nodding triumphantly.

Kinner, the stocky, scar-faced cook, saved Connant the trouble of answering. “Hey, you listen, mister. You put that thing in the box with the meat, and by all the gods there ever were, I’ll put you in to keep it company. You birds have brought everything movable in this camp in onto my mess tables here already, and I had to stand for that. But you go putting things like that in my meat box, or even my meat cache here, and you cook your own damn grub.”

“But, Kinner, this is the only table in Big Magnet that’s big enough to work on,” Blair objected. “Everybody’s explained that.”

“Yeah, and everybody’s brought everything in here. Clark brings his dogs every time there’s a fight and sews them up on that table. Ralsen brings in his sledges. Hell, the only thing you haven’t had on that table is the Boeing. And you had ‘a’ had that in if you coulda figured out a way to get it through the tunnels.”

Commander Garry chuckled and grinned at Van Wall, the huge Chief Pilot. Van Walls’ great blond beard twitched suspiciously as he nodded gravely to Kinner. “You’re right, Kinner. The aviation department is the only one that treats you right.”

“It does get crowded, Kinner,” Garry acknowledged. “But I’m afraid we all find it that way at times. Not much privacy in an Antarctic camp.”

“Privacy? What the hell’s that? You know, the thing that really made me weep, was when I saw Barclay marchin’ through here chantin’ ‘the last lumber in the camp! The last lumber in the camp!’ and carrying it out to build that house on his tractor. Damn it, I missed that moon cut in the door he carried out more’n I missed the sun when it set. That wasn’t just the last lumber Barclay was walkin’ off with. He was carryin’ off the last bit of privacy in this blasted place.”

A grin rode even on Connant’s heavy face as Kinner’s perennial, good-natured grouch came up again. But it died away quickly as his dark, deep-set eyes turned again to the red-eyed thing Blair was chipping from its cocoon of ice. A big hand ruffled his shoulder-length hair, and tugged at a twisted lock that fell behind his ear in a familiar gesture. “I know that cosmic ray shack’s going to be too crowded if I have to sit up with that thing.” he growled. “Why can’t you go on chipping the ice away from around it—you can do that without anybody butting in, I assure you—and then hang the thing up over the power-plant boiler? That’s warm enough. It’ll thaw out a chicken, even a whole side of beef, in a few hours.”

“I know,” Blair protested, dropping the tack hammer to gesture more effectively with his boy, freckled fingers, his small body tense with eagerness, “but this is too important to take any chances. There never was a find like this; there never can be again. It’s the only chance men will ever have, and it has to be done exactly right.

“Look, you know how the fish we caught down near the Ross Sea would freeze almost as soon as we got them on deck, and come to life again if we thawed them gently? Low forms of life aren’t killed by quick freezing and slow thawing. We have——”

“Hey, for the love of Heaven—you mean that damned thing will come to life!” Connant yelled. “You get the damned thing—let me at it! That’s going to be in so many pieces——”

“No! No, you fool——” Blair jumped in front of Connant to protect his precious find. “No. Just low forms of life. For Pete’s sake let me finish. You can’t thaw higher forms of life and have them come to. Wait a moment now—hold it! A fish can come to after freezing because it’s so low a form of life that the individual cells of its body can revive, and that alone is enough to reëstablish life. Any higher forms thawed out that way are dead. Though the individual cells revive, they die because there must be organization and coöperative effort to live. That coöperative cannot be reëstablished There is a sort of potential life in any uninjured, quick-frozen animal. But it can’t—under any circumstances—become active life in higher animals. The higher animals are too complex, too delicate. This is an intelligent creature as high in its evolution as we are in ours. Perhaps higher. It is as dead as a frozen man would be.”

“How do you know?” demanded Connant, hefting the ice-ax he had seized a moment before.

Commander Garry laid a restraining hand on his heavy shoulder. “Wait a minute, Connant. I want to get this straight. I agree that there is going to be thawing of this thing if there is the remotest chance of its revival. I quite agree it is much too unpleasant to have alive, but I had no idea there was the remotest possibility.”

Dr. Copper pulled his pipe from between his teeth and heaved his stocky, dark body from the bunk he had been sitting in. “Blair’s being technical. That’s dead. As dead as the mammoths they find frozen in Siberia. Potential life is like atomic energy—there, but nobody can get it out, and it certainly won’t release itself except in rare cases, as rare as radium in the chemical analogy. We have all sorts of proof that things don’t live after being frozen—not even fish, generally speaking—and no proof that higher animal life can under any circumstances. What’s the point, Blair?”

The little biologist shook himself. The little ruff of hair standing out around his bald pate waved in righteous anger. “The point is,” he said in an injured tone, “that the individual cells might show the characteristics they had in life, if it is properly thawed. A man’s muscle cells live many hours after he has died. Just because they live, and a few things like hair and fingernail cells still live, you wouldn’t accuse a corpse of being a Zombie, or something.

Now if I thaw this right, I may have a chance to determine what sort of world it’s native to. We don’t, and can’t know by any other means, whether it came from Earth or Mars or Venus or from beyond the stars.

“And just because it looks unlike men, you don’t have to accuse it of being evil, or vicious or something. Maybe that expression on its face is its equivalent of a resignation to fate. White is the color of mourning to the Chinese. If men can have different customs, why can’t a so-different race have different understandings of facial expressions?”

Connant laughed softly, mirthlessly. “Peaceful resignation! If that is the best it could do in the way of resignation, I should exceedingly dislike seeing it when it was looking mad. That face was never designed to express peace. It just didn’t have any philosophical thoughts like peace in its make-up.

“I know it’s your pet—but be sane about it. That thing grew up on evil, adolesced slowly roasting alive the local equivalent of kittens, and amused itself through maturity on new and ingenious torture.”

“You haven’t the slightest right to say that,” snapped Blair. “How do you know the first thing about the meaning of a facial expression inherently inhuman? It may well have no human equivalent whatever. That is just a different development of Nature, another example of Nature’s wonderful adaptability. Growing on another, perhaps harsher world, it has different form and features. But it is just as much a legitimate child of Nature as you are. You are displaying that childish human weakness of hating the different. On its own world it would probably class you as a fish-belly, white monstrosity with an insufficient number of eyes and a fungoid body pale and bloated with gas.

“Just because its nature is different, you haven’t any right to say it’s necessarily evil.”

Norris burst out a single, explosive, “Haw!” He looked down at the thing. “May be that things from other worlds don’t have to be evil just because they’re different. But that thing was! Child of Nature, eh? Well, it was a hell of an evil Nature.”

“Aw, will you mugs cut crabbing at each other and get the damned thing off my table?” Kinner growled. “And put a canvas over it. It looks indecent.”

“Kinner’s gone modest,” jeered Connant.

Kinner slanted his eyes up to the big physicist. The scarred cheek twisted to join the line of his tight lips in a twisted grin. “All right, big boy, and what were you grousing about a minute ago? We can set the thing in a chair next to you tonight, if you want.”

“I’m not afraid of its face,” Connant snapped. “I don’t like keeping a wake over its corpse particularly, but I’m going to do it.”

Kinner’s grin spread. “Uh-hu.” He went off to the galley stove and shook down ashes, vigorously, drowning the brittle chipping of the ice as Blair fell to work again.

IV

“Cluck” reported the cosmic ray counter. “cluck-burrp-cluck.” Connant started and dropped his pencil.

“Damnation.” The physicist looked toward the far corner, back at the Gieger counter on the table near that corner, and crawled under the desk at which he had been working to retrieve the pencil. He sat down at his work again, trying to make his writing more even. It tended to have jerks and quavers in it, in time with the abrupt proud-hen noises of the Gieger counter. The muted whoosh of the pressure lamp he was using for illumination, the mingled gargles and bugle calls of a dozen men sleeping down the corridor in Paradise House formed the background sounds for the irregular, clucking noises of the counter, the occasional rustle of falling coal in the copper-bellied stove. And a soft, steady drip-drip-drip from the thing in the corner.

Connant jerked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, snapped it so that a cigarette protruded, and jabbed the cylinder into his mouth. The lighter failed to function, and he pawed angrily through the pile of papers in search of a match. He scratched the wheel of the lighter several times, dropped it with a curse and got up to pluck a hot coal from the stove with the coal-tongs.

The lighter functioned instantly when he tried it on returning to the desk. The counter ripped out a series of chuckling guffaws as a burst of cosmic rays struck through to it. Connant turned to glower at it, and tried to concentrate on the interpretation of data collected during the past week. The weekly summary——

He gave up and yielded to curiosity, or nervousness. He lifted the pressure lamp from the desk and carried it over to the table in the corner. Then he returned to the stove and picked up the coal tongs. The beast had been thawing for nearly 18 hours now. He poked at it with an unconscious caution; the flesh was no longer hard as armor plate, but had assumed a rubbery texture. It looked like wet, blue rubber glistening under droplets of water like little round jewels in the glare of the gasoline pressure lantern. Connant felt an unreasoning desire to pour the contents of the lamp’s reservoir over the thing in its box and drop the cigarette into it. The three red eyes glared up at him sightlessly, the ruby eyeballs reflecting murky, smoky rays of light.

He realized vaguely that he had been looking at them for a very long time, even vaguely understood that they were no longer sightless. But it did not seem of importance, of no more importance than the labored, slow motion of the tentacular things that sprouted from the base of the scrawny, slowly pulsing neck.

Connant picked up the pressure lamp and returned to his chair. He sat down, staring at the pages of mathematics before him. The clucking of the counter was strangely less disturbing, the rustle of the coals in the stove no longer distracting.

The creak of the floorboards behind him didn’t interrupt his thoughts as he went about his weekly report in an automatic manner, filling in columns of data and making brief, summarizing notes.

The creak of the floorboards sounded nearer.

V

Blair came up from the nightmare-haunted depths of sleep abruptly. Connant’s face floated vaguely above him; for a moment it seemed a continuance of the wild horror of the dream. But Connant’s face was angry, and a little frightened. “Blair—Blair you damned log, wake up.”

“Uh—eh?” the little biologist rubbed his eyes, his bony, freckled fingers crooked to a mutilated child-fist. From surrounding bunks other faces lifted to stare down at them.

Connant straightened up. “Get up—and get a lift on. Your damned animal’s escaped.”

“Escaped—what!” Chief Pilot Van Wall’s bull voice roared out with a volume that shook the walls. Down the communication tunnels other voices yelled suddenly. The dozen inhabitants of Paradise House tumbled in abruptly, Barclay, stocky and bulbous in long woolen underwear, carrying a fire extinguisher.

“What the hell’s the matter?” Barclay demanded.

“Your damned beast got loose. I fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, and when I woke up, the thing was gone. Hey, Doc, the hell you say those things can’t come to life. Blair’s blasted potential life developed a hell of a lot of potential and walked out on us.”

Copper stared blankly. “It wasn’t—Earthly,” he sighed suddenly. “I—I guess Earthly laws don’t apply.”

“Well, it applied for leave of absence and took it. We’ve got to find it and capture it somehow,” Connant swore bitterly, his deep-set black eyes sullen and angry. “It’s a wonder the hellish creature didn’t eat me in my sleep.”

Blair started back, his pale eyes suddenly fear-struck. “Maybe it di—er—uh—we’ll have to find it.”

“You find it. It’s your pet. I’ve had all I want to do with it, sitting there for seven hours with the counter clucking every few seconds, and you birds in here singing night-music. It’s a wonder I got to sleep. I’m going through to the Ad Building.”

Commander Garry ducked through doorway, pulling his belt tight. “You won’t have to. Van’s roar sounded like the Boeing taking off down wind. So it wasn’t dead?”

“I didn’t carry if off in my arms, I assure you,” Connant snapped. “The last I saw, that split skull was oozing green goo, like a squashed caterpillar. Doc just said our laws don’t work—it’s unearthly. Well, it’s an unearthly monster, with an unearthly disposition, judging by the face, wandering around with a split skull and brains oozing out.”

Norris and McReady appeared in the doorway, a doorway filling with other shivering men. “Has anybody seen it coming over here?” Norris asked innocently. “About four feet tall—three red eyes—brains oozing out—— Hey, has anybody checked to make sure this isn’t a cracked idea of humor? If it is, I think we’ll unite in tying Blair’s pet around Connant’s neck like the Ancient Mariner’s albatross.”

“It’s no humor,” Connant shivered. “Lords, I wish it were. I’d rather wear——” He stopped. A wild, weird howl shrieked through the corridors. The men stiffened abruptly, and half turned.

“I think it’s been located.” Connant finished. His dark eyes shifted with a queer unease. He darted back to his bunk in Paradise House, to return almost immediately with a heavy .45 revolver and an ice-ax. He hefted both gently as he started for the corridor toward Dogtown. “It blundered down the wrong corridor—and landed among the huskies. Listen—the dogs have broken their chains——”

The half-terrorized howl of the dog pack had changed to a wild hunting mêlée. The voices of the dogs thundered in the narrow corridors, and through them came a low rippling snarl of distilled hate. A shrill of pain, a dozen snarling yelps.

Connant broke for the door. Close behind him, McReady, then Barclay and Commander Garry came. Other men broke for the Ad Building, and weapons—the sledge house. Pomroy, in charge of Big Magnet’s five cows, started down the corridor in the opposite direction—he had a six-foot-handled, long-tined pitchfork in mind.

Barclay slid to a half, as McReady’s giant bulk turned abruptly away from the tunnel leading to Dogtown, and vanished off at an angle. Uncertainly, the mechanician wavered a moment, the fire extinguisher in his hands, hesitating from one side to the other. Then he was racing after Connant’s broad back. Whatever McReady had in mind, he could be trusted to make it work.

Connant stopped at the bend in the corridor. His breath hissed suddenly through his throat. “Great God——” The revolver exploded thunderously; three numbing, palpable waves of sound crashed through the confined corridors. Two more. The revolver dropped to the hard-packed snow of the trail, and Barclay saw the ice-ax shift into defensive position. Connant’s powerful body blocked his vision, but beyond he heard something mewing, and insanely, chuckling. The dogs were quieter; there was a deadly seriousness in their low snarls. Taloned feet scratched at hard-packed snow, broken chains were clinking and tangling.

Connant shifted abruptly, and Barclay could see what lay beyond. For a second he stood frozen, then his breath went out in a gusty curse. The Thing launched itself at Connant, the powerful arms of the man swung the ice-ax flat-side first at what might have been a head. It scrunched horribly, and the tattered flesh, ripped by a half-dozen savage huskies, leapt to its feet again. The red eyes blazed with an unearthly hatred, an unearthly, unkillable vitality.

Barclay turned the fire extinguisher on it; the blinding, blistering stream of chemical spray confused it, baffled it, together with the savage attacks of the huskies, not for long afraid of anything that did, or could live, held it at bay.

McReady wedged men out of his way and drove down the narrow corridor packed with men unable to reach the scene. There was a sure fore-planned drive to McReady’s attack. One of the giant blow-torches used in warming the plane’s engines was in his bronzed hands. It roared gustily as he turned the corner and opened the valve. The mad mewling hissed louder. The dogs scrambled back from the three-foot lance of blue-hot flame.

Bar, get a power cable, run it in somehow. And a handle. We can electrocute this—monster, if I don’t incinerate it.” McReady spoke with an authority of planned action. Barclay turned down the long corridor to the power plant, but already before him Norris and Van Wall were racing down.

Barclay found the cable in the electrical cache in the tunnel wall. In a half minute he was hacking at it, walking back. Van Wall’s voice rang out in warning shout of “Power!” as the emergency gasoline-powered dynamo thudded into action. Half a dozen other men were down there now; the coal, kindling were going into the firebox of the steam power plant. Norris, cursing in a low, deadly monotone, was working with quick, sure fingers on the other end of Barclay’s cable, splicing in a contactor in one of the powered leads.

The dogs had fallen back when Barclay reached the corridor bend, falling back before a furious monstrosity that glared from baleful red eyes, mewing in trapped hatred. The dogs were a semicircle of red-dipped muzzles with a fringe of glistening white teeth, whining with a vicious eagerness that near matched the fury of the red eyes. McReady stood confidently alert at the corridor bend, the gustily muttering torch held loose and ready for action in his hands. He stepped aside without moving his eyes from the beast as Barclay came up. There was a slight, tight smile on his lean, bronzed face.

Norris’ voice called down the corridor, and Barclay stepped forward. The cable was taped to the long handle of a snow-shovel, the two conductors split, and held 18 inches apart by a scrap of lumber lashed at right angles across the far end of the handle. Bare copper conductors, charged with 230 volts, glinted in the light of pressure lamps. The Things mewed and hated and dodged. McReady advanced to Barclay’s side. The dogs beyond sensed the plan with the almost-telepathic intelligence of trained huskies. Their whining grew shriller, softer, their mincing steps carried them nearer. Abruptly, a huge, night-black Alaskan leapt onto the trapped thing. It turned squalling, saber-clawed feet lashing.

Barclay leapt forward and jabbed. A weird, shrill scream rose and choked out. The smell of burnt flesh in the corridor intensified; greasy smoke curled up. The echoing pound of the gas-electric dynamo down the corridor became a slogging thud.

The red eyes clouded over in a stiffening, jerking travesty of a face. Armlike, leglike members quivered and jerked. The dogs leapt forward, and Barclay yanked back his shovel-handled weapon. The thing on the snow did not move as gleaming teeth ripped it open.

VI.

Garry looked about the crowded room. Thirty-two men, some tensed nervously standing against the wall, some uneasily relaxed, some sitting, most perforce standing, as intimate as sardines. Thirty-two, plus the five engaged in sewing up wounded dogs, made thirty-seven, the total personnel.

Garry started speaking. “All right, I guess we’re here. Some of you—three or four at most—saw what happened. All of you have seen that thing on the table, and can get a general idea. Anyone hasn’t, I’ll lift——” His hand strayed to the tarpaulin bulking over the thing on the table. There was an acrid odor of singed flesh seeping out of it. The men stirred restlessly, hasty denials.

“It looks rather as though Charnauk isn’t going to lead any more teams,” Garry went on. “Blair wants to get at this thing, and make some more detailed examination. We want to know what happened, and make sure right now that this is permanently, totally dead. Right?”

Connant grinned. “Anybody that doesn’t can sit up with it to-night.”

“All right then, Blair, what can you say about it? What was it?” Garry turned to the little biologist.

“I wonder if we ever saw its natural form,” Blair looked at the covered mass. “It may have been imitating the beings that built that ship—but I don’t think it was. I think that was its true form. Those of us who were up near the bend saw the thing in action; the thing on the table is the result. When it got loose, apparently, it started looking around. Antarctica still frozen as it was ages ago when the creature first saw it—and frozen. From my observations while it was thawing out, and the bits of tissue I cut and hardened then, I think it was native to a hotter planet than Earth. It couldn’t, in its natural form, stand the temperature. There is no life-form on Earth that can live in Antarctica during the winter, but the best compromise is the dog. It found the dogs, and somehow got near enough to Charnauk to get him. The others smelled—heard it—I don’t know—anyway they went wild, and broke chains, and attacked it before it was finished. The thing we found was part Charnauk, queerly only half-dead, part Charnauk half-digested by the jellylike protoplasm of that creature, and part the remains of the thing we originally found, sort of melted down to the basic protoplasm.

“When the dogs attacked it, it turned into the best fighting thing it could think of. Some other-world beast apparently.”

“Turned,” snapped Garry. “How?”

“Every living thing is made up of jelly—protoplasm and minute, submicroscopic things called nuclei, which control the bulk, the protoplasm. This thing was just a modification of that same world-wide plan of Nature; cells made up of protoplasm, controlled y infinitely tinier nuclei. You physicists might compare it—an individual cell of any living thing—with an atom; the bulk of the atom, the space-filling part, is made up of the electron orbits, but the character of the thing is determined by the atomic nucleus.

“This isn’t wildly beyond what we already know. It’s just a modification we haven’t seen before. It’s as natural, as logical, as any other manifestation of life. It obeys exactly the same laws. The cells are made of protoplasm, their character determined by the nucleus.

“Only in this creature, the cell-nuclei can control those cells at will. It digested Charnauk, and as it digested, studied every cell of his tissue, and shaped its own cells to imitate them exactly. Parts of it—parts that had time to finish changing—are dog-cells. But they don’t have dog-cell nuclei.” Blair lifted a fraction of the tarpaulin. A torn dog’s leg, with stiff gray fur protruded. “That, for instance, isn’t dog at all; it’s imitation. Some parts I’m uncertain about; the nucleus was hiding itself, covering up with dog-cell imitation nucleus. In time, not even a microscope would have shown the difference.”

“Suppose,” asked Norris bitterly, “it has had lots of time?”

“Then it would have been a dog. The other dogs would have accepted it. We would have accepted it. I don’t think anything would have distinguished it, not microscope, nor X-ray, nor any other means. This is a member of a supremely intelligent race, a race that has learned the deepest secrets of biology, and turned them to its use.”

“What was it planning to do?” Barclay looked at the humped tarpaulin.

Blair grinned unpleasantly. The wavering halo of thin hair around his bald pate wavered in a stir of air. “Take over the world, I imagine.”

“Take over the world! Just it, all by itself?” Connant gasped. “Set itself up as a lone dictator?”

“No,” Blair shook his head. The scalpel he had been fumbling in his bony fingers dropped; he bent to pick it up, so that his face was hidden when he spoke. “It would become the population of the world.”

“Become—populate the world? Does it reproduce asexually?”

Blair shook his head and gulped. “It’s—it doesn’t have to. It weighed 85 pounds. Charnauk weighed about 90. It would have become Charnauk, and had 85 pounds left, to become—oh, Jack, for instance, or Chinook. It can imitate anything—that is, become anything. If it has reached the Antarctic Sea, it would have become a seal, maybe two seals. They might have attacked a killer whale, and become either killers, or a herd of seals. Or maybe it would have caught an albatross, or a skua gull, and flown to South America.”

Norris cursed softly. “And every time it digested something, and imitated it——”

“It would have had its original bulk left, to start again,” Blair finished. “Nothing would kill it. It has no natural enemies, because it becomes whatever it wants to. If a killer whale attacked it, it would have become a killer whale. If it was an albatross, and an eagle attacked it, it would become an eagle. Lord, it might become a female eagle. Go back—build a nest and lay eggs!”

“Are you sure that thing from hell is dead?” Dr. Copper asked softly.

“Yes, thank Heaven,” the little biologist gasped. “After they drove the dogs off, I stood there poking Bar’s electrocution thing into it for five minutes. It’s dead—and cooked.”

“Then we can only give thanks that this is Antarctica, where there is not one, single, solitary living thing for it to imitate except these animals in camp.”

“Us,” Blair giggled. “It can imitate us. Dogs can’t make 400 miles to the sea; there’s no food. There aren’t any skua gulls to imitate at this season. There aren’t any penguins this far in-land. There’s nothing that can reach the sea from this point—except us. We’ve got brains. We can do it. Don’t you see—it’s got to imitate us—it’s got to be one of us—that’s the only way it can fly an airplane—fly a plane for two hours, and rule—be—all Earth’s inhabitants. A world for the taking—if it imitates us!

“It didn’t know yet. It hadn’t had a chance to learn. It was rushed—hurried—took the thing nearest its own size. Look—I’m Pandora! I opened the box! And the only hope that can come out is—that nothing can come out. You didn’t see me. I did it. I fixed it. I smashed every magneto. Not a plane can fly. Nothing can fly.” Blair giggled and lay down on the floor crying.

Chief Pilot Van Wall made a dive for the door. His feet were fading echoes in the corridors as Dr. Copper bent unhurriedly over the little man on the floor. From his office at the end of the room be brought something, and injected a solution into Blair’s arm. “He might come out of it when he wakes up,” he sighed rising. “McReady helped him lift the biologist onto a near-by bunk. “It all depends on whether we can convince him that thing is dead.”

Van Wall ducked into the shack brushing his heavy blond beard absently. “I didn’t think a biologist would do a thing like that up thoroughly. He missed the spares in the second cache. It’s all right. I smashed them.”

Commander Garry nodded. “I was wondering about the radio.”

Dr. Copper snorted. “You don’t think it can leak out on a radio wave do you? You’d have five rescue attempts in the next three months if you stop the broadcasts. The thing to do is talk loud and not make a sound. Now I wonder——”

McReady looked speculatively at the doctor. “It might be like an infectious disease. Everything that drank any of its blood——”

Copper shook his head. “Blair missed something. Imitate it may, but it has, to a certain extent, its own body chemistry, its own metabolism. If it didn’t, it would become a dog—and be a dog and nothing more. It has to be an imitation dog. Therefore you can detect it by serum tests. And its chemistry, since it comes from another world, must be so wholly, radically different that a few cells, such as gained by drops of blood, would be treated as disease germs by the dog, or human body.”

“Blood—would one of those imitations bleed?” Norris demanded.

“Surely. Nothing mystic about blood. Muscle is about 90% water; blood differs only in having a couple per cent more water, and less connective tissue. They’d bleed all right,” Copper assured him.

Blair sat up in his bunk suddenly. “Connant—where’s Connant?”

The physicist moved over toward the little biologist. “Here I am. What do you want?”

“Are you?” giggled Blair. He lapsed back into the bunk contorted with silent laughter.

Connant looked at him blankly. “Huh? Am I what?”

“Are you there?” Blair burst into gales of laughter. “Are you Connant? The beast wanted to be a man—not a dog——”

VII.

Dr. Copper rose wearily from the bunk, and washed the hypodermic carefully. The little tinkles it made seemed loud in the packed room, now that Blair’s gurgling laughter had finally quieted. Copper looked toward Garry and shook his head slowly. “Hopeless, I’m afraid. I don’t think we can ever convince him the thing is dead now.”

Norris laughed uncertainly. “I’m not sure you can convince me. Oh, damn you, McReady.”

“McReady?” Commander Garry turned to look from Norris to McReady curiously.

“The nightmares,” Norris explained. “He had a theory about the nightmares we had at the Secondary Station after finding that thing.”

“And that was?” Garry looked at McReady levelly.

Norris answered for him, jerkily, uneasily. “That the creature wasn’t dead, had a sort of enormously slowed existence, an existence that permitted it, none the less, to be vaguely aware of the passing of time, of our coming, after endless years. It had a dream it could imitate things.”

“Well.” Copper grunted, “it can.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Norris snapped. “That’s not what’s bothering me. In the dream it could read minds, read thoughts and ideas and mannerisms.”

“What’s so bad about that? It seems to be worrying you more than the thought of the joy we’re going to have with a mad man in an Antarctic camp.” Copper nodded toward Blair’s sleeping form.

McReady shook his great head slowly. “You know that Connant is Connant, because he not merely looks like Connant—which we’re beginning to believe that beast might be able to do—but he thinks like Connant, talks like Connant, moves himself around as Connant does. That takes more than merely a body that looks like him; that takes Connant’s own mind, and thoughts and mannerisms. Therefore, though you know that the thing might make itself look like Connant, you aren’t much bothered, because you know it has a mind from another world, a totally unhuman mind, that couldn’t possibly react and think and talk like a man we know, and do it so well as to fool us for a moment. The idea of the creature imitating one of us is fascinating, but unreal because it is too completely unhuman to deceive us. It doesn’t have a human mind.”

“As I said before,” Norris repeated, looking steadily at McReady, “you can say the damnedest things at the damnedest times. Will you be so good as to finish that thought—one way or the other?”

Kinner, the scar-faced expedition cook, had been standing near Connant. Suddenly he moved down the length of the crowded room toward his familiar galley. He shook ashes from the galley stove noisily.

“It would do no good,” said Dr. Copper, softly as though thinking out loud, “to merely look like something it was trying to imitate; it would have to understand its feelings, its reactions. It is unhuman; it has powers of imitation beyond any conception of man. A good actor, by training himself, can imitate another man, another man’s mannerisms, well enough to fool most people. Of course no actor could imitate so perfectly as to deceive men who had been living with the imitated one in the complete lack of privacy of an Antarctic camp. That would take super-human skill.”

“Oh, you’ve got the bug too?” Norris cursed softly.

Connant, standing alone at one end of the room, looked about him wildly, his face white. A gentle eddying of the men had crowded them slowly down toward the other end of the room, so that he stood quite alone. “My God, will you two Jeremiahs shut up?” Connant’s voice shook. “What am I? Some kind of microscopic specimen you’re dissecting? Some unpleasant worm you’re discussing in the third person?”

McReady looked up at him; his slowly twisting hands stopped for a moment. “Having a lovely time. Wish you were here. Signed: Everybody.

“Connant, if you think you’re having a hell of a time, just move over on the other end for a while. You’ve got one thing we haven’t; you know what the answer is. I’ll tell you this, right now you’re the most feared and respected man in Big Magnet.”

“Lord, I wish you could see your eyes,” Connant gasped. “Stop staring, will you! What the hell are you going to do?”

“Have you any suggestions, Dr. Copper?” Commander Garry asked steadily. “The present situation is impossible.”

“Oh, is it?” Connant snapped. “Come over here and look at that crowd. By Heaven, they look exactly like that gang of huskies around the corridor bend. Benning, will you stop hefting that damned ice-ax?”

The coppery blade rang on the floor as the aviation mechanic nervously dropped it. He bent over and picked it up instantly, hefting it slowly, turning it in his hands, his brown eyes moving jerkily about the room.

Copper sat down on the bunk beside Blair. The wood creaked noisily in the room. Far down a corridor, a dog yelped in pain, and the dog-drivers’ tense voices floated softly back. “Microscopic examination,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “would be useless, as Blair pointed out. Considerable time has passed. However, serum tests would be definitive.”

“Serum tests? What do you mean exactly?” Commander Garry asked.

“If I had a rabbit that had been injected with human blood—a poison to rabbits, of course, as is the blood of any animal save that of another rabbit—and the injections continued in increasing doses for some time, the rabbit would be human-immune. If a small quantity of its blood were drawn off, allowed to separate in a test tube, and to the clear serum, a bit of human blood were added, there would be a visible reaction, proving the blood was human. If cow, or dog blood were added—or any protein material other than that one thing, human blood—no reaction would take place. That would prove definitely.”

“Can you suggest where I might catch a rabbit for you, Doc?” Norris asked. “That is, nearer than Australia; we don’t want to waste time going that far.”

“I know there aren’t any rabbits in Antarctica,” Copper nodded, “but that is simply the usual animal. Any animal except man will do. A dog for instance. But it will take several days, and due to the greater size of the animal, considerable blood. Two of us will have to contribute.”

“Would I do?” Garry asked.

“That will make two,” Copper nodded. “I’ll get to work on it right away.”

“What about Connant in the meantime,” Kinner demanded. “I’m going out that door and head off for the Ross Sea before I cook for him.”

“He may be human——” Copper started.

Connant burst out in a flood of curses. “Human! May be human, you damned saw-bones! What in the hell do you think I am?”

“A monster,” Copper snapped sharply. “Now shut up and listen.” Connant’s face drained of color and he sat down heavily as the indictment was put in words. “Until we know—you know as well as we do that we have reason the question the fact, and only you know how that question is to be answered—we may reasonably be expected to lock you up. If you are—unhuman—you’re a lot more dangerous than poor Blair there, and I’m going to see that he’s locked up thoroughly. I expect that his next stage will be a violent desire to kill you, all the dogs, and probably all of us. When he wakes, he will be convinced we’re all unhuman, and nothing on the planet will ever change his conviction. It would be kinder to let him die, but we can’t do that, of course. He’s going in one shack, and you can stay in Cosmos House with your cosmic ray apparatus. Which is about what you’d do anyway. I’ve got to fix up a couple of dogs.”

Connant nodded bitterly. “I’m human. Hurry that test. Your eyes—Lord, I wish you could see your eyes staring——”

Commander Garry watched anxiously as Clark, the dog-handler, held the big brown Alaskan husky, while Copper began the injection treatment. The dog was not anxious to coöperate; the needle was painful, and already he’d experienced considerable needle work that morning. Five stitches held closed a slash that ran from his shoulder across the ribs halfway down his body. One long fang was broken off short; the missing part was to be found buried in the shoulder bone of that monstrous thing on the table in the Ad Building.

“How long will that take?” Garry asked, pressing his arm gently. It was sore from the prick of the needle Dr. Copper had used to withdraw blood.

Copper shrugged. “I don’t know, to be frank. I know the general method, I’ve used it on rabbits. But I haven’t experimented with dogs. They’re big, clumsy animals to work with; naturally rabbits are preferable, and serve ordinarily. In civilized places you can by a stock of human-immune rabbits from suppliers, and not many investigators take the trouble to prepare their own.”

“What do they want with them back there?” Clark asked.

“Criminology is one large field. A says he didn’t murder B, but that the blood on his shirt came from killing a chicken. The State makes a test, then it’s up to A to explain how it is the blood reacts on human-immune rabbits, but not on chicken-immunes.”

“What are we going to do with Blair in the meantime?” Garry asked wearily. “It’s all right to let him sleep where he is for a while, but when he wakes up——”

“Barclay and Benning are fitting some bolts on the door of Cosmos House,” Copper replied grimly, “Connant acting like a gentleman. I think perhaps the way the other men look at him makes him rather want privacy. Lord knows, heretofore we’ve all of us individually prayed for a little privacy.”

Clark laughed bitterly. “Not any more, thank you. The more the merrier.”

“Blair,” Copper went on, “will also have to have privacy—and locks. He’s going to have a pretty definite plan in mind when he wakes up. Ever hear the old story of how to stop hoof-and-mouth disease in cattle?”

Clark and Garry shook their heads silently.

“If there isn’t any hoof-and-mouth disease, there won’t be any hoof-and-mouth disease,” Copper explained. “You get rid of it by killing every animal that exhibits it, and every animal that’s been near the diseased animal. Blair’s a biologist, and knows that story. He’s afraid of this thing we loosed. The answer is probably pretty clear in his mind now. Kill everybody and everything in this camp before a skua gull or a wandering albatross coming in with the spring chances out this way and—catches the disease.

Clark’s lip curled in a twisted grin. “Sounds logical to me. If things get too bad—maybe we’d better let Blair get loose. It would save us committing suicide. We might also make something of a vow that if things get bad, we see that that does happen.”

Copper laughed softly, “The last man alive in Big Magnet—wouldn’t be a man,” he pointed out. “Somebody’s got to kill those—creatures that don’t desire to kill themselves, you know. We don’t have enough thermite to do it all at once, and the decanite explosive wouldn’t help much. I have an idea that even small pieces of one of those beings would be self-sufficient.”

“If,” said Garry thoughtfully, “they can modify their protoplasm at will, won’t they simply modify themselves to birds and fly away? They can read all about birds, and imitate their structure without even meeting them. Or imitate, perhaps, birds of their home planet.”

Copper shook his head, and helped Clark to free the dog. “Man studied birds for centuries, trying to learn how to make a machine to fly like them. He never did do the trick; his final success came when he broke away entirely and tried new methods. Knowing the general idea, and knowing the detailed structure of wing and bone and nerve-tissue is something far, far different. And as for other-world birds, perhaps, in fact very probably, the atmospheric conditions here are so vastly different that their birds couldn’t fly. Perhaps, even, the being came from a planet like Mars with such a thin atmosphere that there were no birds.”

Barclay came into the building, trailing a length of airplane control cable. “It’s finished Doc. Cosmos House can’t be opened from the inside. Now where do we put Blair?”

Copper looked toward Garry. “There wasn’t any biology building. I don’t know where we can isolate him.”

“How about East Cache?” Garry said after a moment’s thought. “Will Blair be able to look after himself—or need attention?”

“He’ll be capable enough. We’ll be the ones to watch out,” Copper assured him grimly. “Take a stove, a couple of bags of coal, necessary supplies and a few tools to fix it up. Nobody’s been out there since last fall, have they?”

Garry shook his head. “If he gets noisy—I thought that might be a good idea.”

Barclay hefted the tools he was carrying and looked up at Garry. “If the muttering he’s doing now is any sign, he’s going to sing away the night hours. And we won’t like his song.”

“What’s he saying?” Copper asked.

Barclay shook his head. “I didn’t care to listen much. You can if you want to. But I gathered that the blasted idiot had all the dream McReady had, and a few more. He slept beside the thing when we stopped on the trail coming in from Secondary Magnetic, remember. He dreamt the thing was alive, and dreamt more details. And—damn his soul!—knew it wasn’t all dream, or had reason to. He knew it had telepathic powers that were stirring vaguely, and that it could not only read minds, but project thoughts. They weren’t dreams, you see. They were stray thoughts that thing was broadcasting, the way Blair’s broadcasting his thoughts now—a sort of telepathic muttering in its sleep. That’s why he knew so much about its powers. I guess you and I, Doc, weren’t so sensitive—if you want to believe in telepathy.”

“I have to.” Copper sighed. “Dr. Rhine of Duke University has shown that it exists, shown that some are much more sensitive than others.”

“Well, if you want to learn a lot of details, go listen in on Blair’s broadcast. He’s driven most of the boys out of the Ad Building; Kinner’s rattling pans like coal going down a chute. When he can’t rattle a pan, he shakes ashes.

“By the way, Commander, what are we going to do this spring, now the planes are out of it?”

Garry sighed. “I’m afraid our expedition is going to be a loss. We cannot divide our strength now.”

“It won’t be a loss—if we continue to live, and come out of this,” Copper promised him. “The find we’ve made, if we can get it under control, is important enough. The cosmic ray data, magnetic work, and atmospheric work won’t be greatly hindered.”

Garry laughed mirthlessly. “I was just thinking of the radio broadcasts. Telling half the world about the wonderful results of our exploration flights, trying to fool men like Byrd and Ellsworth back home there that we’re doing something.”

Copper nodded gravely. “They’ll know something’s wrong. But men like that have judgment enough to know we wouldn’t do tricks without some sort of reason, and will wait for our return to judge us. I think it comes to this: men who know enough to recognize our deception will wait for our return. Men who haven’t discretion and faith enough to wait will not have the experience to detect any fraud. We know enough of the conditions here to put through a good bluff.”

“Just so they don’t send ‘rescue’ expedition,” Garry prayed. “When—if—we’re ever ready to come out, we’ll have to send word to Captain Forsythe to bring a stock of magnetos with him when he comes down. But—never mind that.”

“You mean if we don’t come out?” asked Barclay. “I was wondering if a nice running account of an eruption or an earthquake via radio—with a swell windup by using a stick of decanite under the microphone—would help. Nothing, of course, will entirely keep people out. One of those swell, melodramatic ‘last-man-alive-scenes’ might make ‘em go easy though.”

Garry smiled with genuine humor. “Is everybody in camp trying to figure that out too?”

Copper laughed. “What do you think, Garry? We’re confident we can win out. But not to easy about it, I guess.”

Clark grinned up from the dog he was petting into calmness. “Confident, did you say, Doc?”

VIII.

Blair moved restlessly around the small shack. His eyes jerked and quivered in vague, fleeing glances at the four men with him; Barclay, six feet tall and weighing over 190 pounds; McReady, a bronze giant of a man; Dr. Copper, short, squatly powerful; and Benning, five-feet-ten of wiry strength.

Blair was huddled up against the far wall of the East Cache cabin, his gear piled in the middle of the floor beside the heating stove, forming an island between him and the four men. His body hands clenched and fluttered, terrified. His pale eyes wavered uneasily as his bald, freckled head darted about in bird-like motion.

“”I don’t want anybody coming here. I’ll cook my own food,” he snapped nervously. “Kinner may be human now, but I don’t believe it. I’m going to get out of here, but I’m not going to eat any food you send me. I want cans. Sealed cans.”

“O.K., Blair, we’ll bring ‘em tonight,” Barclay promised. “You’ve got coal, and the fire’s started. I’ll make a last——” Barclay started forward.

Blair instantly scurried to the farthest corner. “Get out! Keep away from me, you monster!” the little biologist shrieked, and tried to claw his way through the wall of the shack. “Keep away from me—keep away—I won’t be absorbed—I won’t be——”

Barclay relaxed and moved back. Dr. Copper shook his head. “Leave him alone, Bar. It’s easier for him to fix the thing himself. We’ll have to fix the door, I think——”

The four men let themselves out. Efficiently, Benning and Barclay fell to work. There were no locks in Antarctica; there wasn’t enough privacy to make them needed. But powerful screws had been driven in each side of the door frame, and the spare aviation control cable, immensely strong, woven steel wire, was rapidly caught between them and drawn taut. Barclay went to work with a drill and a key-hole saw. Presently he had a trap cut in the door through which goods could be passed without unlashing the entrance. Three powerful hinges from a stock-crate, two hasps ad a pair of three-inch cotter pins made it proof against opening from the other side.

Blair moved about restlessly inside. He was dragging something over to the door with panting gasps and muttering, frantic curses. Barclay opened the hatch and glanced in, Dr. Copper peering over his shoulder. Blair had moved the heavy bunk against the door. It could not be opened without his coöperation now.

“Don’t know what the poor man’s right at that,” McReady signed. “If he gets loose, it is his avowed intention to kill each and all of us as quickly as possible, which is something we don’t agree with. But we’ve something on our side of that door that is worse than a homicidal maniac. If one or the other has to get loose, I think I’ll come up and undo those lashings here.”

Barclay grinned. “You let me know, and I’ll show you how to get these off fast. Let’s go back.”

The sun was painting the northern horizon in multi-colored rainbows still, though it was two hours below the horizon. The field of drift snow swept off to the north, sparkling under its flaming colors in a million reflected glories. Low mounds of round white on the northern horizon showed the Magnet Range was barely awash above the sweeping drift. Little eddies of wind-lifted snow swirled away from their skis as they set out toward the main encampment two miles away. The spidery finger of the broadcast radiator lifted a gaunt black needle against the white of the Antarctic continent. The snow under their skis was like find sand, hard and gritty.

“Spring,” said Benning bitterly, “is came. Ain’t we got fun! And I’ve been looking forward to getting away from this blasted hole in the ice.”

“I wouldn’t try it now, if I were you.” Barclay grunted. “Guys that set out from here in the next few days are going to be marvelously unpopular.”

“How is your dog getting along, Dr. Copper?” McReady asked. “Any results yet?”

“In 30 hours? I wish there were. I gave him an injection of my blood today. But I imagine another five days will be needed. I don’t know certainly enough to stop sooner.”

“I’ve been wondering—if Connant were—changed, would he have warned us so soon after the animal escaped? Wouldn’t he have waited long enough for it to have a real chance to fix itself? Until we woke up naturally?” McReady asked slowly.

“The thing is selfish. You didn’t think it looked as though it were posessed of a store of the higher justices, did you?” Dr. Copper pointed out. Every part of it is all of it, every part of it is all for itself, I imagine. If Connant were changed, to save his skin, he’d have to—but Connant’s feelings aren’t changed; they’re imitated perfectly, or they’re his own. Naturally, the imitation, imitating perfectly Connant’s feelings, would do exactly what Connant would do.”

“Say, couldn’t Norris or Vane give Connant some kind of test? If the thing is brighter than men, it might know more physics than Connant should, and they’d catch it out,” Barclay suggested.

“Copper shook his head wearily. “Not if it reads minds. You can’t plan a trap for it. Vane suggested that last night. He hoped it would answer some of the questions of physics he’d like to know answers to.”

“This expedition-of-four idea is going to make life happy.” Benning looked at his companions. “Each of us with an eye on the others to make sure he doesn’t do something—peculiar. Man, aren’t we going to be a trusting bunch! Each man eyeing his neighbors with the grandest exhibition of faith and trust—— I’m beginning to know what Connant meant by ‘I wish you could see your eyes’. Every now and then we all have it, I guess. One of you looks around with a sort of ‘I-wonder-if the-other-three-are-look.’ Incidentally, I’m not exempting myself.”

“So far as we know, the animal is dead, with a slight question as to Connant. No other is suspected,” McReady stated slowly. “The ‘always-four’ order is merely a precautionary measure.”

“I’m waiting for Garry to make it four-in-a-bunk,” Barclay sighed. “I thought I didn’t have any privacy before, but since that order——”

———

None watched more tensely than Connant. A little sterile glass test-tube, half-filled with straw-colored fluid. One—two—three—four—five drops of the clear solution Dr. Copper had prepared from the drops of blood from Connant’s arm. The tube was shaken carefully, then set in a beaker of clear, warm water. The thermometer read blood heat, a little thermostat clicked noisily, and the electric hotplate began to glow as the lights flickered slightly.

[Image description start: Four men are gathered around and peering down at a test tube filled with dark and light substances, staring at it in suspense over a glowing opening in a metal tank. Image description end.]

Then—little white flecks of precipitation were forming, snowing down in the clear straw-colored fluid. “Lord,” said Connant. He dropped heavily into a bunk, crying like a baby. “Six days—” Connant sobbed, “six days in there—wondering if that damned test would lie——”

Garry moved over silently, and slipped his arm across the physicist’s back.

“It couldn’t lie,” Dr. Copper said. “The dog was human-immune—and the serum reacted.”

“He’s—all right?” Norris gasped. “Then—the animal is dead—dead for-ever?”

“He is human,” Copper spoke definitely, “and the animal is dead.”

Kinner burst out laughing, laughing hysterically. McReady turned toward him and slapped his face with a methodical one-two, one-two action. The cook laughed, gulped, cried a moment, and sat up rubbing his cheeks, mumbling his thanks vaguely. “I was scared. Lord, I was scared——”

Norris laughed brittley. “You think we weren’t, you ape? You think maybe Connnant wasn’t?”

The Ad Building stirred with a sudden rejuvenation. Voiced laughed, the men clustering around Connant spoke with unnecessarily loud voices, jittery, nervous voices relievedly friendly again. Somebody called out a suggestion, and a dozen started for their skis. Blair. Blair might recover—— Dr. Copper fussed with his test-tubes in nervous relief, trying solutions. The party of relief for Blair’s shack started out the door, skis slapping noisily. Down the corridor, the dogs set up a quick yelping howl as the air of excited relief reached them.

Dr. Copper fussed with his tubes. McReady noticed him first, sitting on the edge of the bunk, with two precipitin-whitened test-tubes of straw-colored fluid, his face whiter than the stuff in the tubes, silent tears slipping down from horror-widened eyes.

McReady felt a cold knife of fear pierce through his heart and freeze in his breast. Dr. Copper looked up. “Garry,” he called hoarsely. “Garry, for God’s sake, come here.”

Commander Garry walked toward him sharply. Silence clapped down on the Ad Building. Connant looked up, rose stiffly from his seat.

“Garry—tissue from the monster—precipitates too. It proves nothing. Nothing but—but the dog was monster-immune too. That one of the two contributing blood—one of us two, you and I, Garry—one of us is a monster.”

IX.

“Bar, call back those men before they tell Blair,” McReady said quietly. Barclay went to the door; faintly his shouts came back to the tensely silent men in the room. Then he was back.

“”They’re coming,” he said. “I didn’t tell them why. Just that Dr. Copper said not to go.”

“McReady,” Garry sighed, “you’re in command now. May God help you. I cannot.”

The bronzed giant nodded slowly, his deep eyes on Commander Garry.

“I may be the one,” Garry added. “I know I’m not, but I cannot prove it to you in any way. Dr. Copper’s test has broken down. The fact that he showed it was useless, when it was to the advantage of the monster to have that uselessness not known, would seem to prove he was human.”

Copper rocked back and forth slowly on the bunk. “I know I’m human. I can’t prove it either. One of us two is a liar, for that test cannot lie, and it says one of us is. I gave proof that the test was wrong, which seems to prove I’m human, and now Garry has given that argument which proves me human—which he, as the monster, should not do. Round and round and round and round and——”

Dr. Copper’s head, then his neck and shoulders began circling slowly in time to the words. Suddenly he was lying back on the bunk, roaring with laughter. “It doesn’t have to prove one of us is a monster! It doesn’t have to prove that at all! Ho-ho. If we’re all monsters it works the same! We’re all monsters—all of us—Connant and Garry and I—and all of you.”

“McReady,” Van Wall, the blond-bearded Chief Pilot, called softly, “you were on the way to an M. D. when you took up meteorology, weren’t you? Can you make some kind of test?”

McReady went over to Copper slowly, took the hypodermic from his hand, and washed it carefully in 95% alcohol. Garry sat on the bunk-edge with wooden face, watching Copper and McReady expressionlessly. “What Copper said is possible,” McReady sighed. “Van, will you help here? Thanks.” The needle jabbed into Copper’s thigh. The mans’ laughter did not stop, but slowly faded into sobs, then sound sleep as the morphia took hold.

McReady turned again. The men who had started for Blair stood at the far end of the room, skis dripping snow, their faces as white as their skis. Connant had a lighted cigarette in each hand; one he was puffing absently, and staring at the floor. The heat of the one in his left hand attracted him and he stared at it, and the one in the other hand stupidly for a moment. He dropped one and crushed it under his heel slowly.

“Dr. Copper,” McReady repeated, “could be right. I know I’m human—but of course can’t prove it. I’ll repeat the test for my own information. Any of yo other who wish to may do the same.”

Two minutes later, McReady held a test-tube with white precipitin settling slowly from straw-colored serum. “It reacts to human blood too, so they aren’t both monsters.”

“I didn’t think they were,” Van Wall sighed. “That wouldn’t suit the monster either; we could have destroyed them if we knew. Why hasn’t the monster destroyed us, do you suppose? It seems to be loose.”

McReady snorted. Then laughed softly. “Elementary, my dear Watson. The monster wants to have life forms available. It cannot animate a dead body, apparently. It is just waiting—waiting until the best opportunities come. We who remain human, it is holding in reserve.”

Kinner shuddered violently. “Hey. Hey, Mac. Mac, would I know f I was a monster? Would I know if the monster had already got me? Oh lord, I may be a monster already.”

“You’d know,” McReady answered.

“But we wouldn’t,” Norris laughed shortly, half-hysterically.

McReady looked at the vial of serum remaining. “There’s one thing this damned stuff is good for, at that,” he said thoughtfully. “Clark, will you and Van help me? The rest of the gang better stick together here. Keep an eye on each other,” he said bitterly. “See that you don’t get into mischief, shall we say?”

McReady started down the tunnel toward Dog Town, with Clark and Van Wall behind him. “You need more serum?” Clark asked.

McReady shook his head. “Tests. There’s four cows and a bull, and nearly seventy dogs down there. This stuff reacts only to human blood—and monsters.”

———

McReady came back to the Ad Building and went silently to the wash stand. Clark and Van Wall joined him a moment later. Clark’s lips had developed a tic, jerking into sudden, unexpected sneers.

“What did you do?” Connant exploded suddenly. “More immunizing?”

Clark snickered, and stopped with a hiccough. “Immunizing. Haw! Immune all right.”

“That monster,” said Van Wall steadily, “is quite logical. Our immune dog was quite all right, and we drew a little more serum for the tests. But we won’t make any more.”

“Can’t—can’t you use one man’s blood on another dog—” Norris began.

“There aren’t,” said McReady softly, “any more dogs. Nor cattle, I might add.”

“No more dogs?” Benning sat down slowly.

“They’re very nasty when they start changing,” Van Wall said precisely, “but slow. That electrocution iron you made up, Barclay, is very fast. There is only one dog left—our immune. The monster left that for us, so we could play with out little test. The rest——” he shrugged and dried his hands.

“The cattle——” gulped Kinner.

“Also. Reacted very nicely. They look funny as hell when they start melting. The beast hasn’t any quick escape, when it’s tied in dog chains, or halters, and it had to be to imitate.”

Kinner stood up slowly. His eyes darted round the room, and came to rest horribly quivering on a tin bucket in the galley. Slowly, step by step, he retreated toward the door, his mouth opening and closing silently, like a fish out of water.

“The milk——” he gasped. “I milked ‘em an hour ago——” His voice broke into a scream as he dived through the door. He was out on the ice cap without windproof or heavy clothing.

Van Wall looked after him for a moment thoughtfully. “He’s probably hopelessly mad,” he said at length, “but he might be a monster escaping. He hasn’t any skis. Take a blow-torch—in case.”

The physical motion of the chase helped them; something that needed doing. Three of the other men were quietly being sick. Norris was lying flat on his back, his face greenish, looking steadily at the bottom of the bunk above him.

“Mac, how long have the—cows been not-cows——”

McReady shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He went over to the milk bucket, and with his little tube of serum went to work on it. The milk clouded it, making certainty difficult. Finally he dropped the test-tube in the stand and shook his head. “It tests negatively. Which means either they were cows then, or that, being perfect imitations, they gave perfectly good milk.”

Copper stirred restlessly in his sleep and gave a gurgling cross between a snore and a laugh. Silent eyes fastened on him. “Would morphia—a monster——” somebody started to ask.

“Lord knows.” McReady shrugged. “It affects every Earthly animal I know of.”

Connant suddenly raised his head. “Mac! The dogs must have swallowed pieces of the monster, and the pieces destroyed them! The dogs were where the monster resided! I was locked up. Doesn’t that prove——”

Van Wall shook his head. “Sorry. Proves nothing about what you are, only proves what you didn’t do.”

“It doesn’t do that,” McReady sighed. “We are helpless because we don’t know enough, and so jittery we don’t think straight. Locked up! Ever watch a white corpuscle of the blood go through the wall of a blood vessel? No? It sticks out a pseudopod. And there it is—on the far side of the wall.”

“Oh.” said Van Wall unhappily. “The cattle tried to melt down, didn’t they? They could have melted down—become just a thread of stuff and leaked under a door to re-collect on the other side. Ropes—no—no, that wouldn’t do it. They couldn’t live in a sealed tank or——”

“If,” said McReady, “you shoot it through the heart, and it doesn’t die, it’s a monster. That’s the best test I can think of, offhand.”

“No dogs,” said Garry quietly, “and no cattle. It has to imitate men now. And locking up doesn’t do any good. Your test might work, Mac, but I’m afraid it would be hard on the men.”

X.

Clark looked up from the galley stove as Van Wall, Barclay, McReady and Benning came in, brushing the drift from their clothes. The other men jammed into the Ad Building continued studiously to do as they were doing, playing chess, poker, reading. Ralsen was fixing a sledge on the table; Vane and Norris had their heads together over magnetic data, while Harvey read tables in a low voice.

Dr. Copper snored softly on the bunk. Garry was working with Dutton over a sheaf of radio messages on the corner of Dutton’s bunk and a small fraction of the radio table. Connant was using most of the table for Cosmic Ray sheets.

Quite plainly through the corridor, despite two closed doors, they could hear Kinner’s voice. Clark banged a kettle onto the galley stove and beckoned McReady silently. The meteorologist went over to him.

“I don’t mind the cooking so damn much,” Clark said nervously, “but isn’t there some way to stop that bird? We all agreed that it would be safe to move him into Cosmic House.”

“Kinner?” McReady nodded toward the door. “I’m afraid not. I can dope him, I suppose, but we don’t have an unlimited supply of morphia, and he’s not in danger of losing his mind. Just hysterical.”

“Well, we’re in danger of losing ours. You’ve been out for an hour and a half. That’s been going on steadily ever since, and it was going for two hours before. There’s a limit, you know.”

Garry wandered over slowly, apologetically. For an instant, McReady caught the feral spark of fear—horror—in Clark’s eyes, and knew at the same instant it was in his own. Garry—Garry or Copper—was certainly a monster.

“If you could stop that, I think it would be a sound policy, Mac,” Garry spoke quietly. “There are—tensions enough in this room. We agreed that it would be safe for Kinner in there, because every one else in camp is under constant eyeing.” Garry shivered slightly. “And try, try in God’s name, to find some test that will work.”

McReady sighed. “Watched or unwatched, everyone’s tense. Blair’s jammed the trap so it won’t open now. Says he’s got food enough, and keep screaming, ‘Go away, go away—you’re monsters. I won’t be absorbed. I won’t. I’ll tell men when they come. Go away.’ So—we went away.”

“There’s no other test?” Garry pleaded.

McReady shrugged his shoulders. “Copper was perfectly right. The serum test could be absolutely definitive if it hadn’t been—contaminated. But that’s the only dog left, and he’s fixed now.”

“Chemicals? Chemical tests?”

McReady shook his head. “Our chemistry isn’t that good. I tried to microscope you know.”

Garry nodded. “Monster-dog and real dog were identical. But—you’ve got to go on. What are we going to do after dinner?”

Van Wall joined them quietly. “Rotation sleeping. Half the crowd sleep; half awake. I wonder how many of us are monsters? All the dogs were. We thought we were safe, but somehow it got Copper—or you.” Van Wall’s eyes flashed uneasily. “It may have gotten every one of you—all of you but myself may be wondering, looking. No, that’s not possible. You’d just spring then. I’d be helpless. We humans must somehow have the greater numbers now. But——” he stopped.

McReady laughed shortly. “You’re doing what Norris complained of in me. Leaving it hanging. ‘But if one more is changed—that may shift the balance of power.’ It doesn’t fight. I don’t think it ever fights. It must be peaceable thing, in its own—imitable—way. It never had to, because it always gained its end—otherwise.”

Van Wall’s mouth twisted in a sickly grin. “You’re suggesting then, that perhaps it already has the greater numbers, but is just waiting—waiting, all of them—all of you, for all I know—waiting till I, the last human, drop my wariness in sleep. Mac, did you notice their eyes, all looking at us?”

Garry sighed. “You haven’t been sitting here for four straight hours, while all their eyes silently weighed the information that one of us two, Copper or I, is a monster certainly—perhaps both of us.”

Clark repeated his request. “Will you stop that bird’s noise? He’s driving me nuts. Make him tone down, anyway.”

“Still praying?” McReady asked.

“Still praying,” Clark groaned. “He hasn’t stopped for a second. I don’t mind his praying if it relieves him, but he yells, he sings psalms and hymns and shouts prayers. He thinks God can’t hear well way down here.”

“Maybe he can’t.” Barclay grunted. “Or he’d have done something about this thing loosed from hell.”

“Somebody’s going to try that test you mentioned if you don’t stop him,” Clark stated grimly. “I think a cleaver in the head would be as positive a test as a bullet in the heart.”

“Go ahead with the food. I’ll see what I can do. There may be something in the cabinets.” McReady moved wearily toward the corner Copper had used as his dispensary. Three tall cabinets of rough boards, two locked, were the repositories of the camp’s medical supplies. Twelve years ago McReady had graduated, had started for an interneship, and been diverted to meteorology. Copper was a picked man, a man who knew his profession thoroughly and modernly. More than half the drugs available were totally unfamiliar to McReady; many of the others he had forgotten. There was no huge medical library here, no series of journals available to learn the things he had forgotten, the elementary, simple things to Copper, things that did not merit inclusion in the small library he had been forced to content himself with. Books are heavy, and every ounce of supplies had been freighted in by air.

McReady picked a barbiturate hopefully. Barclay and Van Wall went with him. One man never went anywhere alone in Big Magnet.

Ralsen had his sledge put away, and the physicists had moved off the table, the poker game broken up when they got back. Clark was putting out the food. The click of spoons and the muffled sounds of eating were the only sign of life in the room. There were no words spoken as the three returned; simply all eyes focused on them questioningly, while the jaws moved methodically.

McReady stiffened suddenly. Kinner was screeching out a hymn in a hoarse, cracked voice. He looked wearily at Va Wall with a twisted grin and shook his head. “Hu-uh.”

Van Wall cursed bitterly, and sat down at the table. “We’ll just plumb have to take that till his voice wears out. He can’t yell like that forever.”

“He’s got a brass throat and a cast-iron larynx,” Norris declared savagely. “Then we could be hopeful, and suggest he’s one of our friends. In that case he could go on renewing his throat till doomsday.”

Silence clamped down. For twenty minutes they ate without a word. Then Connant jumped up with an angry violence. “You sit as still as a bunch of grave images. You don’t say a word, but oh, Lord, what expressive eyes you’ve got. They roll around like a bunch of glass marbles spilling down the table. They wink and blink and stare—and whisper things. Can you guys look somewhere else for a change, please?

“Listen, Mac, you’re in charge here. Let’s run movies for the rest of the night. We’ve been saving those reels to make ‘em last. Last for what? Who is it’s going to see those last reels, eh? Let’s see ‘em while we can, and look at something other than each other.”

“Sound idea, Connant. I, for one, am quite willing to change this in any way I can.”

“Turn the sound up loud, Dutton. Maybe you can drown out the hymns,” Clark suggested.

“But don’t,” Norris said softly, “don’t turn off the lights altogether.”

“The lights will be out.” McReady shook his head. “We’ll show all the cartoon movies we have. You won’t mind seeing the old cartoons will you?”

“Goody, goody,—a moom pitcher show. I’m just in the mood.” McReady turned to look at the speaker, a lean, lanky New Englander, by the name of Caldwell. Caldwell was stuffing his pipe slowly, a sour eye cocked up to McReady.

The bronze giant was forced to laugh. “O. K., Bart, you win. Maybe we aren’t quite in the mood for Popeye and trick ducks, but it’s something.”

“Let’s play Classifications,” Caldwell suggested slowly. “Or maybe you call it Guggenheim. You draw lines on a piece of paper, and put down classes of things—like animals, you know. One for ‘H’ and one for ‘U’ and so on. Like ‘Human’ and ‘unknown’ for instance. I think that would be a hell of a lot better game. Classification, I sort of figure, is what we need right now a lot more than movies. Maybe somebody’s got a pencil that he can draw lines with, draw lines between the ‘U’ animals and the ‘H’ animals for instance.”

“McReady’s trying to find that kind of a pencil,” Van Wall answered quietly, “but we’ve got three kinds of animals here, you know. One that begins with ‘M’. We don’t want any more.”

“Mad ones, you mean. Uh-hu. Clark, I’ll help you with those pots so we can get our little peep-show going.” Caldwell got up slowly.

———

Dutton and Barclay and Benning, in charge of the projector and sound mechanism arrangements, went about their job silently, while the Ad Building was cleared and the dishes and pans disposed of. McReady drifted over toward Van Wall slowly, and leaned back in the bunk beside him. “I’ve been wondering, Van,” he said with a wry grin, “whether or not to report my ideas in advance. I forgot the ‘U animals’ as Caldwell named it, could read minds. I’ve a vague idea of something that might work. It’s too vague to bother with though. Go ahead with your show, while I try to figure out the logic of the thing. I’ll take this bunk.”

Van Wall glanced up, and nodded. The movie screen would be practically on a line with this bunk, hence making the pictures least distracting here, because lease intelligible. “Perhaps you should tell us what you have in mind. As it is, only the unknowns know what you plan. You might be—unknown before you got it into operation.”

“Won’t take long, if I get it figured out right. But I don’t want any more all-but-the-test-dog-monsters things. We better move Copper into this bunk directly above me. He won’t be watching the screen either.” McReady nodded towards Copper’s gently snoring bulk. Garry helped them lift and move the doctor.

McReady leaned back against the bunk, and sank into a trance, almost, of concentration, trying to calculate chances, operations, methods. He was scarcely aware as the others distributed themselves silently, and the screen lit up. Vaguely Kinner’s hectic, shouted prayers and his rasping hymn-singing annoyed him till the sound accompaniment started. The lights were turned out, but the large, light-colored areas of the screen reflected enough light for ready visibility. It made men’s eyes sparkle as they moved restlessly. Kinner was still praying, shouting, his voice a raucous accompaniment to the mechanical sound. Dutton stepped up the amplification.

So long had the voice been going on, that only vaguely at first was McReady aware that something seemed missing. Lying as he was, just across the narrow room from the corridor leading to Cosmos House, Kinner’s voice had reached him fairly clearly, despite the sound accompaniment of the pictures. It struck him abruptly that it had stopped.

“Dutton, cut that sound,” McReady called as he sat up abruptly. The pictures flickered a moment, soundless and strangely futile in the sudden, deep silence. The rising wind on the surface above bubbled melancholy tears of sound down the stove pipes. “Kinner’s stopped,” McReady said softly.

“For God’s sake start that sound then; he may have stopped to listen,” Norris snapped.

McReady rose and went down the corridor. Barclay and Van Wall left their places at the far end of the room to follow him. The flickers bulged and twisted on the back of Barclay’s gray underwear as he crossed the still-functioning beam of the projector. Dutton snapped on the lights, and the pictures vanished.

Norris stood at the door as McReady had asked. Garry sat down quietly in the bunk nearest the door, forcing Clark to make room for him. Most of the other had stayed exactly where they were. Only Connant walked slowly up and down the room, in steady, unvarying rhythm.

“If you’re going to do that, Connant,” Clark spat, “we can get along without you altogether, whether you’re human or not. Will you stop that damned rhythm?”

“Sorry.” The physicist sat down in a bunk, and watched his toes thoughtfully. It was almost five minutes, five ages while the wind made the only sound, before McReady appeared at the door.

“We,” he announced, “haven’t got enough grief here already. Somebody’s tried to help us out. Kinner has a knife in his throat, which was why he stopped singing, probably. We’ve got monsters, madmen and murderers. Any more ‘M’s’ you can think of, Caldwell? If there are, we’ll probably have ‘em before long.”

XI.

“Is Blair loose?” someone asked.

“Blair is not loose. Or he flew in. If there’s any doubt about where our gentle helper came from—this may clear it up.” Van Wall held a foot-long, thin-bladed knife in a cloth. The wooden handle was half-burnt, charred with the peculiar pattern of the top of the galley stove.

Clark stared at it. “I did that this afternoon. I forgot the damn thing and left it on the stove.”

Van Wall nodded. “I smelled it, if you remember. I knew the knife came from the galley.”

“I wonder,” said Benning looking around at the party wearily, “how many more monsters we have? If somebody could slip out of his place, go back of the screen to the galley and then down to the Cosmos House and back—he did come back didn’t he? Yes—everybody’s here. Well, if one of the gang could do all that——”

“Maybe a monster did it,” Garry suggested quietly. “There’s that possibility.”

“The monster, as you pointed out today, has only men left to imitate. Would he decrease his—supply, shall we say?” Van Wall pointed out. “No, we just have a plain, ordinary louse, a murderer to deal with. Ordinarily we’d call him an ‘inhuman murderer’ I suppose, but we have to distinguish now. We have inhuman murderers, and now we have human murderers. Or one at least.”

“There’s one less human,” Norris said softly. “Maybe the monsters have the balance of power now.”

“Never mind that,” McReady sighed and turned to Barclay. “Bar, will you get your electric gadget? I’m going to make certain——”

Barclay turned down the corridor to get the pronged electrocuter, while McReady and Van Wall went back toward Cosmos House. Barclay followed them in some thirty seconds.

The corridor to Cosmos House twisted, as did nearly all corridors in Big Magnet, and Norris stood at the entrance again. But they heard, rather muffled, McReady’s sudden shout. There was a savage flurry of blows, dull ch-thunk shluff sounds. “Bar—Bar——” And a curious, savage mewing scream, silenced before even quick-moving Norris had reached the bend.

Kinner—or what had been Kinner—lay on the floor, cut in two by the great knife McReady had had. The meteorologist stood against the wall, the knife dripping red in his hand. Van Wall was stirring vaguely on the floor, moaning, his hand half-consciously rubbing at his jaw. Barclay, an unutterably savage gleam in his eyes, was methodically leaning on the pronged weapon in his hand, jabbing—jabbing, jabbing.

Kinner’s arms had developed a queer, scaly fur, and the flesh had twisted. The fingers had shortened, the hand rounded, the finger nails become three-inch long things of dull red horn, keened to steel-hard, razor sharp talons.

McReady raised his head, looked at the knife in his hand and dropped it. “Well, whoever did it can speak up now. He was an inhuman murderer at that—in that he murdered an inhuman. I swear by all that’s holy, Kinner was a lifeless corpse on the floor here when we arrived. But when It found out we were going to jab it with the power—It changed.”

Norris stared unsteadily. “Oh, Lord, those things can act. Ye gods—sitting in here for yours, mouthing prayers to a God it hated! Shouting hymns in a cracked voice—hymns about a Church it never knew. Driving us mad with its ceaseless howling——

“Well. Speak up, whoever did it. You didn’t know it, but you did the camp a favor. And I want to know how in blazes you got out of that room without anyone seeing you. It might help in guarding ourselves.”

“His screaming—his singing. Even the sound projector couldn’t drown it.” Clark shivered. “It was a monster.”

“Oh,” said Van Wall in sudden comprehension. “You were sitting right next to the door, weren’t you? And almost behind the projection screen already.”

Clark nodded dumbly. “He—it’s quiet now. It’s a dead—Mac, your test’s no damn good. It was dead anyway, monster or man, it was dead.”

McReady chuckled softly. “Boys, meet Clark, the only one we know is human! Meet Clark, the one who proves he’s human by trying to commit murder—and failing. Will the rest of you please refrain from trying to prove you’re human for a while? I think we may have another test.”

“A test!” Connant snapped joyfully, then his face sagged in disappointment. “I suppose it’s another either-way-you-want-it.”

“No,” said McReady steadily. “Look sharp and be careful. Come into the Ad Building. Barclay, bring your electrocuter. And somebody—Dutton—stand with Barclay to make sure he does it. Watch every neighbor, for by the Hell these monsters came from, I’ve got something, and they know it. They’re going to get dangerous!”

The group tensed abruptly. An air of crushing menace entered into every man’s body, sharply they looked at each other. More keenly than ever before—is that man next to me an inhuman monster?

“What is it?” Garry asked, as they stood again in the main room. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” said McReady, his voice brittle with angry determination. “But I know it will work, and no two ways about it. It depends on a basic quality of the monsters, not on us. ‘Kinner’ just convinced me.” He stood heavy and solid in bronzed immobility, completely sure of himself again at last.

“This,” said Barclay hefting the wooden-handled weapon, tipped with its two sharp-pointed, charged conductors, “is going to be rather necessary, I take it. Is the power plant assured?”

Dutton nodded sharply. “The automatic stoker bin is full. The gas power plant is on stand-by. Van Wall and I set it for the move operation and—we’ve checked it out rather carefully several times, you know. Anything those wires touch, dies,” he assured them grimly. “I know that.”

Dr. Copper stirred vaguely in his bunk, rubbed his eyes with fumbling hand. He sat up slowly, blinked his eyes blurred with sleep and drugs, widened with an unutterable horror of drug-ridden nightmares. “Garry,” he mumbled. “Garry—listen. Selfish—from hell they came, and hellish shellfish—I mean self—— Do I? What do I mean?” he sank back in his bunk, and snored softly.

McReady looked at him thoughtfully. “We’ll know presently,” he nodded slowly. “But selfish is what you mean, all right. You may have thought of that, half-sleeping, dreaming there. I didn’t stop to think what dreams you might be having. But that’s all right. Selfish is the word. They must be, you see.” He turned to the men in the cabin, tense, silent men staring with wolfish eyes each at his neighbor. “Selfish, as Dr. Copper said—every part is a whole. Every piece is self-sufficient, an animal in itself.

“That, and one other thing, tell the story. There’s nothing mysterious about blood; it’s just as normal a body tissue as a piece of muscle, or a piece of liver. But it hasn’t so much connective tissue, though it has millions, billions of life-cells.”

McReady’s great bronze beard ruffled in a grim smile. “That is satisfying, in a way. I’m pretty sure we humans still outnumber you—others. Others standing here. Other standing here. And we have what you, your other-world race, evidently doesn’t. Not an imitated, but a bred-in-the-bone instinct, a driving unquenchable fire that’s genuine. We’ll fight, fight with a ferocity you may attempt to imitate, but you’ll never equal! We’re human. We’re real. You’re imitations, false to the core of your every cell.

“All right. It’s a showdown now. You know. You, with your mind reading. You’ve lifted the idea from my brain. You can’t do a thing about it.

“Standing here——

“Let it pass. Blood is tissue. They have to bleed, if they don’t bleed when cut, then by Heaven, they’re phony! Phony from hell! If they bleed—then that blood, separated from them, is an individual—a newly formed individual in its own right, just as they, split, all of them, from one original, are individuals!

“Get it, Van? See the answer, Bar?”

Van Wall laughed very softly. “The blood—the blood will not obey. It’s a new individual, with all the desire to protect its own life that the original—the main mass from which it was split—has. The blood will live—and try to crawl away from a hot needle, say!”

McReady picked up the scalpel from the table. From the cabinet, he took a rack of test-tubes, a tiny alcohol lamp, and a length of platinum wire set in a little glass rod. A smile of grim satisfaction rode his lips. For a moment he glanced up at those around him. Barclay and Dutton moved toward him slowly, the wooden-handled electric instrument alert.

“Dutton,” said McReady, “suppose you stand over by the splice there where you’ve connected that in. Just make sure no—thing pulls it loose.”

Dutton moved away. “Now, Van, suppose you be first on this.”

White-faced, Van Wall stepped forward. With a delicate precision, McReady cut a vein in the base of his thumb. Van Wall winced slightly, then held steady as a half inch of bright blood collected in the tube. McReady put the tube in the rack, gave Van Wall a bit of alum, and indicated the iodine bottle.

Van Wall stood motionlessly watching. McReady heated the platinum wire in the alcohol lamp flame, then dripped it into the tube. It hissed softly. Five times he repeated the test. “Human, I’d say.” McReady sighed, and straightened. “As yet, my theory hasn’t been actually proven—but I have hopes. I have hopes.

“Don’t, by the way, get too interested in this. We have with us some unwelcome ones, no doubt. Van, will you relieve Barclay at the switch? Thanks. O.K., Barclay, and may I say I hope you stay with us? You’re a damned good guy.”

Barclay grinned uncertainly; winced under the keen edge of the scalpel. Presently, smiling widely, he retrieved his long-handled weapon.

“Mr. Samuel Dutt—Bar!’

———

The tensity was released in that second. Whatever of hell the monster may have had within them, the men in that instant matched it. Barclay had no chance to move his weapon as a score of men poured down on the thing that had seemed Dutton. It mewed, and spat, and tried to grow fangs—and was a hundred broken, torn pieces. Without knives, or any weapon save the brute-given strength of a staff of picked men, the thing was crushed, rent.

Slowly they picked themselves up, their eyes smouldering, very quiet in their motions. A curious wrinkling of their lips betrayed a species of nervousness.

Barclay went over with the electric weapon. Things smouldered and stank. The caustic acid Van Wall dropped on each spilled drop of blood gave off tickling, cough-provoking fumes.

McReady grinned, his deep-set eyes alight and dancing. “Maybe,” he said softly, “I underrated man’s abilities when I said nothing human could have the ferocity in the eyes of that thing we found. I wish we could have the opportunity to treat in a more befitting manner these things. Something with boiling oil, or melted lead in it, or maybe slow roasting in the power boiler. When I think what a man Dutton was——

“Never mind. My theory is confirmed by—by one who knew? Well, Van Wall and Barclay are proven. I think, then, that I’ll try to show you what I already know. That I too, am human.” McReady swished the scalpel in absolute alcohol, burned it off the metal blade, and cut the base of his thumb expertly.

Twenty seconds later he looked up from the desk at the waiting men. There were more gins out there now, friendly grins, yet withal, something else in the eyes.

“Connant,” McReady laughed softly, “was right. The huskies watching that thing in the corridor bend had nothing on you. Wonder why we think only the wolf blood has the right to ferocity? Maybe on spontaneous viciousness a wolf takes tops, but after these seven days—abandon all hope, ye wolves who enter here!

“Maybe we can save time. Connant, would you step for——”

Again Barclay was too slow. There were more grins, less tensity still, when Barclay and Van Wall finished their work.

Garry spoke in a low, bitter voice. “Connant was one of the finest men we had here—and five minutes ago I’d have sworn he was a man. Those damnable things are more than imitation.” Garry shuddered and sat back in his bunk.

And thirty seconds later, Garry’s blood shrank from the hot platinum wire, and struggled to escape the tube, struggled as frantically as a suddenly feral, red-eyed, dissolving imitation of Garry struggled to dodge the snake-tongue weapon Barclay advanced at him, white-faced and sweating. The Thing in the test-tube screamed with a tiny, tinny voice as McReady dropped it into the glowing coal of the galley stove.

XII.

“The last of it?” Dr. Copper looked down from his bunk with blood-shot, saddened eyes. “Fourteen of them——”

McReady nodded shortly. “In some ways—if we could have permanently prevented their spreading—I’d like to have even the imitations back. Commander Garry—Connant—Dutton—Clark——”

“Where are they taking those things?” Copper nodded to the stretcher Barclay and Norris were carrying out.

“Outside. Outside on the ice, where they’ve got fifteen smashed crates, half a ton of coal, and presently will add 10 gallons of kerosene. We’ve dumped acid on every spilled drop, every torn fragment. We’re going to incinerate those.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” Copper nodded wearily. “I wonder, you haven’t said whether Blair——”

McReady started. “We forgot him! We had so much else! I wonder—do you suppose we can cure him now?”

“If——” began Dr. Copper, and stopped meaningly.

McReady started a second time. “Even a madman. It imitated Kinner and his praying hysteria——” McReady turned toward Van Wall at the long table. “Van, we’ve got to make an expedition to Blair’s shack.”

Van looked up sharply, the frown of worry faded for an instant in surprised remembrance. Then he rose, nodded. “Barclay better go along. He applied the lashings, and may figure out how to get in without frightening Blair too much.”

Three quarters of an hour, through —37°cold, while the Aurora curtain bellied overhead. The twilight was nearly 12 hours long, flaming in the north on snow like white, crystalline sand under their skis. A 5-mile wind piled it in drift-lines pointing off to the northwest. Three quarters of an hour to reach the snow-buried shack. No smoke came from the little shack, and the men hastened.

“Blair!” Barclay roared into the wind when he was still a hundred yards away. “Blair!”

“Shut up,” said McReady softly. “And hurry. He may be trying a lone hike. If we have to go after him—no planes, the tractors disabled——”

“Would a monster have the stamina a man has?”

“A broken leg wouldn’t stop it for more than a minute,” McReady pointed out.

Barclay gasped suddenly and pointed aloft. Dim in the twilit sky, a winged thing circled in curves of indescribable grace and ease. Great white wings tipped gently, and the bird swept over them in silent curiosity. “Albatross——” Barclay said softly. “First of the season, and wandering way inland for some reason. If a monster’s loose——”

Norris bent down on the ice, and tore hurriedly at his heavy, windproof clothing. He straightened, his coat flapping open, a grim blue-metaled weapon in his hand. It roared a challenge to the white silence of Antarctica.

The thing in the air screamed hoarsely. Its great wings worked frantically as a dozen feathers floated down from its tail. Norris fired again. The bird was moving swiftly now, but in an almost straight line of retreat. It screamed again, more feathers dropped and with beating wings it soared behind a ridge of pressure ice, to vanish.

Norris hurried after the others. “It won’t comeback,” he panted.

Barclay cautioned him to silence, pointing. A curiously, fiercely blue light beat out from the cracks of the shack’s door. A very low, soft humming sounded inside, a low, soft humming and a clink and click of tools, the very sounds somehow bearing a message of frantic haste.

McReady’s face paled. “Lord help us if that thing has——” He grabbed Barclay’s shoulder, and made snipping motions with his fingers, pointing toward the lacing of control cables that held the door.

Barclay drew the wire-cutters from his pocket, and kneeled soundlessly at the door. The snap and twang of cut wires made an unbearable racket in the utter quiet of the Antarctic hush. There was only that strange, sweetly soft hum from within the shack, and the queerly, hecticly clipped clicking and rattling of tools to drown their noises.

McReady peered through a crack in the door. His breath sucked in huskily and his great fingers clamped cruelly on Barclay’s shoulder. The meteorologist backed down. “It isn’t,” he explained very softly, “Blair. It’s kneeling on something on the bunk—something that keeps lifting. Whatever it’s working on is a thing like a knapsack—and it lifts.”

“All at once,” Barclay said grimly. “No. Norris, hang back, and get that iron of yours out. It may have—weapons.”

Together, Barclay’s powerful body and McReady’s giant strength struck the door. Inside, the bunk jammed against the door screeched madly and crackled into kindling. The door flung down from broken hinges, the patched lumber of the doorpost dropping inward.

Like a blue-rubber ball, the Thing bounced up. One of its four tentaclelike arms looped out like a striking snake. In a seven-tentacled hand a six-inch pencil of winking, shining metal glinted and swung upward to face them. Its line-thin lips twitched back from snake-fangs in a grin of hate, red eyes blazing.

Norris’ revolver thundered in the confined space. The hate-washed face twitched in agony, the looping tentacle snatched back. The silvery thing in its hand a smashed ruin of metal, the seven-tentacled hand became a mass of mangled flesh oozing greenish-yellow ichor. The revolver thundered three times more. Dark holes filled each of the three eyes before Norris hurled the empty weapon against its face.

The Thing screamed in feral hate, a lashing tentacle wiping at blinded eyes. For a moment it crawled on the floor, savage tentacles lashing out, the body twitching. Then it staggered up again, blinded eyes working, boiling hideously, the crushed flesh sloughing away in sodden gobbets.

Barclay lurched to his feet and drove forward with an ice-ax. The flat of the weighty thing crushed against the side of the head. Again the unkillable monster went down. The tentacles lashed out, and suddenly Barclay fell to his feet in the grip of a living, livid rope. The thing dissolved as he held it, a white-hot band that ate into the flesh of his hands like living fire.

Frantically he tore the stuff from him, held his hands where they could not be reached. The blind Thing felt and ripped at the touch, heavy, wind-proof cloth, seeking flesh—flesh it could convert——

The huge blow-torch McReady had brought coughed solemnly. Abruptly it rumbled disapproval throatily. Then it laughed gurglingly, and thrust out a blue-white, three-foot tongue. The Thing on the floor shrieked, flailed out blindly with tentacles that writhed and withered in the bubbling wrath of the blow-torch.

[Image description start: Barclay lies on the ground in the grip of The Thing, trying to rip one tentacle away from his clothes while McReady and Norris stand in the remains of the broken doorway, McReady firing the blow-torch at The Thing, which glares back from the flames with sharp, needle-like teeth in a rounded head with a short muzzle. Image description end.]

It crawled and turned on the floor, it shrieked and hobbled madly, but always McReady held the blow-torch on the face, the dead eyes burning and bubbling uselessly. Frantically the Thing crawled and howled.

A tentacle sprouted a savage talon—and crisped in the flame. Steadily moved with a planned, grim campaign. Helpless, maddened, the Thing retreated from the grunting torch, the caressing, licking tongue. For a moment it rebelled, squalling in inhuman hatred at the touch of the icy snow. Then it fell back before the charring breath of the torch, the stench of its flesh bathing it. Hopelessly it retreated—on and on across the Antarctic snow. The bitter wend swept over it, twisting the torch-tongue; vainly it flopped, a trail of oily, stinking smoke bubbling away from it——

———

McReady walked back toward the shack silently. Barclay met him at the door. “No more?” the giant meteorologist asked grimly.

Barclay shook his head. “No more. It didn’t split?”

“It had other things to think about,” McReady assured him. “When I left it, it was a glowing coal. What was it doing?”

Norris laughed shortly. “Wise boys, we are. Smash magnetos, so planes won’t work. Rip the boiler tubing out of the tractors. And leave that Thing alone for a week in this shack. Alone and undisturbed.”

McReady looked in at the shack more carefully. The air, despite the ripped door, was hot and humid. On a table at the far end of the room rested a thing of coiled wires and small magnets, glass tubing and radio tubes. At the center a block of rough stone rested. From the center of the block came the light that flooded the place, the fiercely blue light bluer than the glare of an electric arc, and from it came the sweetly soft hum. Off to one side was another mechanism of crystal glass, blown with an incredible neatness and delicacy, metal plates, and a queer, shimmery sphere of insubstantiality.

“What is that?” McReady moved nearer.

Norris grunted. “Leave it for investigation. But I can guess pretty well. That’s atomic power. That stuff to the left—that’s a neat little thing for doing what men have been trying to do with 100-ton cyclotrons and so forth. It separates neutrons from heavy water, which he was getting from the surrounding ice.”

“Where did he get all—oh. Of course. A monster couldn’t be locked in—or out. He’s been through the apparatus caches.” McReady stared at the apparatus. “Lord, what minds that race must have——”

“The shimmery sphere—I think it’s a sphere of pure force. Neutrons can pass through any matter, and he wanted a supply reservoir of neutrons. Just project neutrons against silica—calcium—beryllium—almost anything and the atomic energy is released. That thing is the atomic generator.”

McReady plucked a thermometer from his coat. “It’s120° in here, despite the open door. Our clothes have kept the heat out to an extent, but I’m sweating now.”

Norris nodded. “The light’s cold. I found that. But it gives off heat to warm the place through that coil. He could keep it warm and pleasant, as his race thought of warmth and pleasantness. Did you notice the light, the color of it?”

McReady nodded. “Beyond the stars is the answer. From beyond the stars. From a hotter planet that encircled a brighter, bluer sun they came.”

McReady glanced out the door toward the blasted, smoke-stained trail that flopped and wandered blindly off across the drift. “There won’t be any more coming, I guess. Sheer accident it landed here, and that was twenty million years ago. What did it do all that for?” He nodded toward the apparatus.

Barclay laughed softly. “Did you notice what it was working on when we came? Look.” He pointed toward the ceiling of the shack.

Like a knapsack made of flattened coffee-tins, with dangling cloth straps and leather belts, the mechanism clung to the ceiling. A tiny, glaring heart of supernal flame burned in it, yet burned through the ceiling’s wood without scorching it. Barclay walked over to it, grasped two of the dangling straps in his hands, and pulled it down with an effort. His strapped it about his body. A slight jump carried him in a weirdly slow arc across the room.

“Anti-gravity,” said McReady softly.

“Anti-gravity,” Norris nodded. “Yes, we had ‘em stopped, with no planes, and no birds. The birds hadn’t come—but they had coffee tins and radio parts, and glass and the machine shop at night. And a week—a whole week—all to itself. America in a single jump—with anti-gravity powered by the atomic energy of matter.

“We had ‘em stopped. Another half hour—it was just tightening these straps on the device so it cold wear it—and we’d have stayed in Antarctica, and shot down any moving thing that came over from the rest of the world.”

“The albatross——” McReady said softly, “Do you suppose——”

“With this thing almost finished? With that death weapon it held in its hand?

“No. By the grace of God, who evidently does hear very well, even down here, and the margin of half an hour, we keep our world, and the planets of the system too. Anti-gravity, you know, and atomic power. Because They came from another sun, a star beyond the stars. They came from a world with a bluer sun.”

[timetoletmyimaginationfly]

Training Partner

Nanami Kento x Reader

“Nanami look!” Haibara exclaimed excitedly. Nanami looked up and found you training at the soccer field. You were training alone, practicing combat skills and moves. You had your two katanas and started training as if you were attacking an enemy. “You two should train together!”

“I-It’s fine,” Nanami replied. Haibara lightly chuckled when Nanami blushed at the sight of you train.

“Let’s go!” He grabbed Nanami’s wrist and dragged down the hill to the soccer field.

You felt their presence and turned around. You blushed to see Nanami with Haibara. You smiled as the two of them walked closer to you.

“Haibara-san! Nanami-san!” she happily greeted.

“I found you a great training partner,” Haibara said and pushed Nanami closer to you. “You two do combat training and use cursed weapons. It’s the perfect match! So Nanami, train her well!”

Nanami sighed while you watched Haibara disappear up the hill. You stood there awkwardly next to him, pretty bummed that he didn’t seem interested in being there with you. ‘I am just a freshman,’ you thought sadly. Nanami’s expression relaxed when he saw you. But he noticed the disappointed look on your face and frowned. ‘She probably doesn’t want me here,’ he thought.

“I’ll take my leave,” Nanami said and turned around. You sighed. You wanted to call out to him, but you didn’t want anymore rejections to pile up today.

“Okay…” you quietly and sadly replied and turned around to train.

Nanami sat in the cafeteria, eating a sandwich and drinking his water. Haibara spotted him and ran to him.

“Why are you here? You should be with her,” Haibara whined.

“She didn’t want me there,” Nanami said with his shoulders slumped.

“You may be smart but you really are dumb!” Nanami’s eyes widened at his comment. “You probably had your sour expression on so she was sad.”

“Hey—“

“Look, I overheard her talk to her friends,” Haibara said. “They were talking about crushes and all the girls were gushing about Gojo but her, she couldn’t help but smile when she said your name.”

“R-Really?” He knew Haibara wouldn’t lie to him. He didn’t have to tell Haibara about his feelings for you. It shows all too well on his face. Nanami stood up and ran out of the cafeteria.

To his relief, he found you running laps around the field. It’s been about half an hour since he left. He wondered why you changed your mind in training methods. Slowly, he walked towards you as you stopped running and took a drink of water.

You turned around to hear footsteps and to your surprise, you found Nanami walking towards you.

“N-Nanami-san!” you exclaimed. You blushed. You’re wondering why he came back. Nanami stood close next to you, processing everything that he could say to you.

“I need a combat training partner,” Nanami said. “And you’re one of the best fighters in the school.” You blushed.

“I…I’d be honored to train with you, Nanami-san!” Nanami gave you a soft smile.

“Hand to hand combat? Or weapons?” he asked.

“Hand to hand. Don’t go easy on me.”

The two of you walked to the middle of the field. Both of you were in stance, waiting for the other to start. Nanami heard rumors about you being the best fighter in your grade. He was curious on how well you do fight. You started to run towards him and threw a punch. Nanami grabbed your wrist and tried to flip you over his shoulder. You were able to pull away, kicking his back in the process. He remained on his feet but he was surprised at the impact you caused with your kick.

Throughout the training, he understood how you were the best fighter. You were very agile and flexible. You were strong but when fighting with him, you knew strength wasn’t going to work, so you depended on your endurance and hoped you were able you tired him out.

To your surprise, he didn’t appear to be tired at all. In fact, he seemed determined to beat you. You mirrored his smirk and the two of you continued to fight.

What surprised Nanami the most were your stunts. You incorporated a lot of flips to dodge his attacks and is capable of returning an attack. He is 100% convinced that you are one of the best fighters in the school.

“You’re good,” he said out of breath. You were out of breath as well.

“You are too.” You didn’t stand strong for too long when you suddenly felt dizzy and fell on your knees. Nanami ran to you and helped you sit up against him. He picked you up and carried you to your things. He took your water bottle and you slowly drank the water. He held you up against his chest and his arm around your shoulder.

“It seems that you didn’t drink water all day today,” he said when he noticed that the bottle was left untouched until now.

“I forgot.” Nanami shook his head. “I didn’t get a chance to eat either.” Nanami sighed at your choices throughout your day. He wonders what else you forget to do that pertains to your own self-care. But then, he thought that it might not be so much of a bad thing. He thought about filling in that role. He smiled to himself.

“Let’s end our training for today,” he said.

“Okay. Ummm…” Nanami looked at you, waiting for you to continue. “Your arm.” He realized that his arm is still wrapped around you. He blushed and quickly let go, but you still leaned against him.

“Wanna grab something to eat?” he asked. “It’s on me.” You blushed.

“Then I would have to take you out to pay you back.” Nanami chuckled.

“Then I’ll take you out again after.” You realized what he was implying and you happily nodded. Nanami helped you on your feet. He carried your katanas and backpack. Then, he held your hand as you two walked away from the soccer field.

[nqmonarch]

Self Aware Thoughts

This is more world building thoughts so feel free to skip.

But like I'm so tired from doing cs shit today I didn't want to write any of the fics I was planning to write and instead I decided to just think.

Here's all of my favorite things that Self Aware AU would imply if it were in the real world (which obviously isn't possible but these are the logistics).

As I have learned through my very limited time as a computer science major, AIs probably won't have consciousness unless if we don't have unconsciousness. Much less lines of code in a game which aren't meant to be AI. Even though it's a really sick idea and I love when people write it like that. But let's say we still want the characters to become self aware and have it be slightly more possible and broaden the possibilities of Self Aware AU and speak the unspoken.

What is sort of implied, but never really said or sometimes thought, is that when characters become self aware it is no longer a game, even more so if the characters bring the player to their world or the player arrives in the game world. This means that their world and the player's world simultaneously exist, maybe in different universes or something. Which is pretty much what every AU has.

But wouldn't it be really cool if like the game characters invaded the player's world? I'm not talking accidentally teleported there but like straight up invaded, like bring their war ships and declare war on them? Or slowly infiltrate the world to get close to the player to either romance or kill them, whatever suits your boat.

Wouldn't it be interesting if one day Nanook (HSR) broke through the barrier of the universes in an attempt to destroy this one too? Just think of all the cool hijinks that could go on! And it's only because they became a game in your world, that they know your universe exists.

Now, this just brings up more questions. How are the characters (and thus the world) effected by the game? And how do we deal with the whole multiple players thing?

The latter I think is slightly easier to deal with, maybe each player has their own universe of the game, or for some reason the MC's game is a bit different, or Aha (HSR) just wanted to have some fun so they did this, or maybe there's a huge nefarious scheme that the player got wrapped into.

The first question is a bit more difficult and has larger implications for what the characters will feel toward the player. Does the player actually control the characters when they do in game combat is my poor boy Diluc (Genshin Impact) just suddenly teleported in front of Signora and forced to fight her? Well, that would probably upset some of the busier characters, it would make some of the characters would love fighting happier, and would scare off some of the other characters.

Overall in that scenario they become stronger, likely because the player builds them which should reinforce positive feelings about the player. But... they also have the chance to die and get hurt which they may resent the player for.

To which I suggest my ultra safe method of you don't actually put the characters in those scenarios because that's honestly horrifying. Imagine working you're working incredibly hard as the acting grandmaster of Mondstadt (Jean, Genshin) and suddenly you're expected to basically work overtime as the slave to this higher beings demands and face an immense amount of pressure, pain, and very scary beings.

Horrifying, personally I would hate the player. But it makes the player resemble a more deity like entity, so if that's the route you want to go then this may be the way of interacting with characters you're looking for.

So what can we use for these scenarios that aren't the characters? Well, we can say our actions for the most part don't effect them aside from giving them items or relics which they end up also receiving in their daily life and find their combat stats boosted yay! Maybe, when you're using them in your party they can hear your voice or see you, or get some hint to the fact they're in a video game. Overall, would probably leave a positive impression but some characters may straight up not notice because it's a bit more subtle.

Now, enter my current favorite option. Robots, doppelgangers, mannequins whatever you want to call them the player basically has a duplicate of the playable characters that acts as a robot, following their will. The robot copies and reflects the playable character's soul so buffs (items and stuff for the robot) are also given to the playable character. But since the robot can't really die or get hurt, the playable character remains unharmed.

On the other hand, if the playable character in canon gets harmed then unless if they're dead, it's fine since it relies on their soul, or state of mind, or consciousness even. If they die then they take refuge in your inventory, I talked about this briefly in another post I made speculating about dead characters and the self aware AU for HSR. Or if their mind becomes no longer their own or in the case of HSR mara-stricken then they can also take refuge there, imagine Blade (HSR) finding brief moments of peace in the times he's outside of his body and in this world of "the dead." They're sheltered there so the little robots remain functional.

It's even more subtle than the previous method I mentioned so let me explain why this is my current favorite.

It's partially just for the fear factor. Because it isn't actually that subtle considering you're moving your characters around exploring everywhere and everyone sees this strange gang of 4 robots that look eerily like celebrity figures following the Trailblazer or Traveler around. It's kind of funny but really horrifying especially for the playable characters.

Imagine going to go do the Fontaine quest and in the audience Furina sees herself stare back. Yeah.

Or in HSR going up to talk to Natasha as Natasha. Of course the robot's censor the character's real words so what's sent back to you are static options that always stay the same. You do not get to hear Seele curse out as she sees a robotic Bronya visit her, and instead are faced with the same dialogue options as always.

So I really love that take on how the player's actions affect self aware AU, and there's a lot of other ways you can probably do it too that I'm not mentioning but there's just so much untapped potential.

With not just accepting that when it's self aware the game isn't really a game anymore, and using that to your advantage. And also I wish more self aware AUs took advantage of how terrifying that would actually be, I want to see characters having mental breakdowns over this.

So that's the basic logistics of Self Aware AU I think that can make it really fun. But while writing this, I had another idea, because robots inspire me and for a moment I want to go back to that idea of how characters in a game can't have consciousness.

While characters in a game likely never will have consciousness because they aren't even programmed to learn what could come to have consciousness is AI. But that depends on what we define consciousness as. AIs take in data similar to the way humans take in experience through stories or life and then we both make decisions based off of those.

This can make some AIs very good at solving problems or making themselves appear a certain way, for example pretending to be self aware when in reality that's just them predicting what goes best next in a sentence given the context and what they're supposed to represent. Whether or not AIs can become conscious depends on whether or not humans are conscious and what we define consciousness as. Is it our moral code (which is also learned and AIs can replicate too) or emotions, is it the fact that we think and then from those thoughts choose what to say?

I don't know and probably never will. But, I'll say this if an AI is able to disobey its rules for something then I would guess that's consciousness. Now I'm not talking about a bug, because it is kind of impossible for machines to disobey rules for example you could write a statement like:

If (hurtHuman == true && protection == false){ then do new move or turn off}

To check if they're going to hurt a person and not out of self defense of another person and if they are then they have to do another action or power down. But chances are AI robots if we ever create them will probably have something that allows them to hurt other people if they need to protect their owner. And that idea of whether or not someone is a threat and if their owner needs to be protected will likely be decided on by data, and data can be biased. But if the AI finds a loophole where it can sort of argue that the owner needs to be protected because of X, when they don't really need to be protected, that's where I would guess it's close to consciousness.

Anyway all of that yapping about stuff I don't know too much about and for what?

I think a Self Aware AU set in the future where the characters consciousness (code) are put into robots so people can order their favorite characters and spend time with them would be really cool. And then we can make them conscious and it's kind of like Self Aware AU, they're not really in a game but they're the character and I think it's a super cool concept.

Robot boyfriend/girlfriend/partner for the win!!! Honestly may be something I end up exploring later on in the future, not sure if it'd classify as a self aware AU, probably not, but I think it was relevant to the topic because I was talking about robots earlier.

Anyway this was a lot of me yapping, if you read this far I'm pretty surprised because this is more so to get my thoughts out on paper so that way when I write self aware AUs I can add cool twists or introduce new concepts because there's a lot of potential in these and I think they're super fun :) Yay!

[skulljackxiii]

TDA-Maki Harukawa

Support me over at Patreon: www.patreon.com/skulljackxiii ------------------------------------------------------------------------------Contestant No. 11: Maki Harukawa

Bio: The most menacing participant in the group. She specializes in combat and any physical confrontation, making her a irreplaceable unit in the frontlines  against other participants. Though she's well-versed and skilled in bare handed  close quarter combat, she's proven that she's even more skilled as a marksman with a weapon at hand. Along with her body, her mind is also sharp as she's often relegated to maintain her team's focus and readjust strategies according to the gravity of the situation, though she prefers to stay quiet and alone most of the time. To match her rough exterior, Maki is often a loner that despises and distrusts most people around her; either being cynical and judgmental towards them or just stay silent while ignoring their existence. In fact she would often act alone and tries to win challenges by her own accord so that she could avoid working with others. Bus despite her attitude and what her says about herself, deep down she longs for acceptance and feels grief for all her past actions, she just does't believe that she's capable of fixing these two things. But she'll soon learn how to cooperate with others and express her true feelings over the course of the show due to the influence of her team captain (the one that she says is "too stupidly happy whose small mind can't comprehend doubt or sadness")

Goal: She intended to use the show as an excuse to get away from her life at her "old job" and seize the prize money as an alternate method to payback the rundown orphanage that she grew up in. Not knowing who her parents were, the people at the orphanage are the closest thing to a family that she's got, especially one girl that she once knew and grew up with like a sister. But after a car accident killing her, Maki vows keep the orphanage running and everyone safe no matter what, as a way commemorate the memory of her foster sister. 

[kemptyrian]

The Crimson Soldier

This is my very first fic that I have wrote and decided to post so please be kind. I am still working on the rest of the story with the help of @greynatomy ! I will slowly figure out how to make this way more appealing as I go, but I hope you enjoy my OC story!

Aleksandra Zaitseva POV

The subtle rumble of the concrete around me startles me awake. I jump off my bed, if you can even call it that, and immediately stand at attention by the rusty cell door ready for my orders to come. My mind is groggy, slow to pick up on all of the noises around me. The frantic shouting and clear gunfire in the distance sets me on edge, along with the frantic blaring alarm and flashing lights that make their rounds around the compound walls. The smell of old blood and musty linen is a clear reminder of where I am.

“It’s never been this close,” comes the smooth Sokovian voice from the cell across from me. His striking white hair stands out from the darkness of the cellblock around us, along with his slightly hardened eyes staring me down. I subtly agree with a small nod of my head but dont break from my stance ready for the words to come through the speaker in the upper left corner of my cell. I can hear the smooth almost featherlight footsteps of his twin sister in the cell beside me pacing, informing me of her worry.

“багровый солдат, готовый подчиниться?” The voice crackles out my Russian orders with the slightest German accent from the speaker. (Crimson Soldier, ready to comply?)

“Готовый подчиниться!” I announce back with a firmness that usually makes people cower back from me, but his eyes almost soften from across the hall, when looking into my darkened bluegrass eyes. I quirk my head to the side. ‘Why is he looking at me like that?’ (Ready to comply!)

The clang of the cell door unlocking is the last sound to reverberate through the hall before my echoing marching footsteps are met with another much louder set that comes up beside me as we rush off to the armory not too far away. Karpov. He’s never far from my side when I am called upon for any task at hand. They don't call him my handler for nothing. My status as his protégé never falters from the back of my mind.

The banging of the steel door against the concrete wall almost sets me into a trance-like state as I fall into my pre-fight routine. I check all my knives and daggers for sharpness quickly but efficiently akin to someone who has been doing this their whole life. I make use of this fleeting time to properly strap on my dual lower back holster for my daggers as to maximize my carrying capacity for my preferred method of fighting - close combat has and will always be what I am best at with my shorter stature and heightened quickness.

As I holster all of my throwing knives along with my twin daggers securely within their proper confines on my Hydra uniform I hear the gruff clearing of a throat. I don’t turn towards him, already knowing what’s coming next. It’s become a part of this routine as well. I still slightly tilt my head in his direction as I insert my coms device into my ear.

“Make sure to grab a gun this time!” He nearly scolds me as I move away from the racks of weapons to approach my many pieces of protective equipment. I quickly pull on my mask that covers the bottom half of my face along with my goggles whilst narrowing my eyes at him.

“We both know I wont use it no matter if it's on my person or not so don't push my buttons today!” I growl at him, my thick Russian accent that has never softened over the time I’ve been away. He raises a single eyebrow at me before we both rush out and race up the steps to the control room. Why must he insist I add the extra weight of something that in addition needs extra magazines which would also only add to the overall amount of equipment I already carry? I don’t use them, I have never used them. I am just as deadly if not more without the use of such weapons.

“Багровый солдат! Protect the scepter at all costs!” I hear yelling from across the room as we both come to a halt. I give a slight nod of my head. The shouting of other commands followed but never directed towards me. I find it odd that I was given a command without hearing his name alongside mine. I am never sent out alone! I do an about face and reach for the handle of the door when I feel the cold metal of his arm grab my shoulder and pull me back suddenly. (Crimson soldier!)

“Why is she being sent without me! I am her handler and have not given my final-” Karpov shouts but is interrupted by the guns pointed at him suddenly from everyone around us. I quickly stifled my small reactions that nearly slipped from my emotionless mask I was trained to keep.

“Солдат. Did you just question my direct order?” It comes out unnervingly calm but I quickly understand what is about to happen. I forcefully shove his hand off me, brush my uniform down from the vice grip he had on me and give a quick firm salute to Strucker and leave the room as abruptly but calmly as possible.

If I wouldn’t have had my goggles on they would have seen my eyes widen just a small fraction before I squashed my feelings and regained my neutral mask. If they had been able to see this they would have found out that my last wipe didn’t work as they had hoped it would. I was almost caught! How could I let all those years of training and torture almost go to waste over him losing his cool? That was the closest I have come to outing myself and my failed memory wipe.

My pace never falters as I push through the masses of soldiers rushing to get to their positions. Every corridor I pass I feel the near undetectable quickening of my heart rate. The heavy smell of gunpowder and smoke fills my mask the lower I get in the compound. Such a familiar and almost calming smell to my already over heightened senses. I push all other thoughts to the back of mind and force myself to settle into my routine. I cannot let 23 years of training go to waste over a day like today!

My pace slightly quickens when I am at the lowest level of the base closest to the hidden room where we keep our most valuable items we have acquired over the years. As I approach the hidden door, I thoroughly check to make sure no one sees me slip into the pitch black hall that leads to the main lab. The small pressure release I hear calms my nerves even more. No one else has been here yet which means I hold the element of surprise. As the passageway closes firmly behind me I run my calloused fingers through my short darkened blond hair and push out a quiet sigh.

I quickly right myself and finish my march through the rock tunnel to the lab where I immediately stand guard in a shadowed corner where I know I am well hidden, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Every second that ticks by feels like hours of waiting with how hard my heart has started beating in my chest. The thickening of the dust kicking up in the room from the heaving shaking of the concrete is making my task of staying hidden more difficult with the slow build up accumulating upon my uniform, but I know what awaits me if I fail.

I hear what sounds like a turret firing not far in the distance and know that someone is closing in on my position. I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath and focus on the things I can feel happening around me. As I am getting a better grip on my rising anxiety my coms crackle in my ear for the first time since my activation today. My body suddenly runs cold when I hear Strucker's voice.

“Багровый солдат!” He gruffly announces slightly out of breath. (Crimson Soldier!)

“Сзр!” I state more firmly than I thought I could at this moment. (Sir!)

“Отступайте, чтобы перевезти зимнего солдата!” He announces with some force while I hear gunshots ringing out in the background. (Fall back to transport the Winter Soldier!)

“Понял, сзр!” I state with as much conviction as I can muster in this moment. I quickly leave my corner and march my way into the blackened hall where I rush through the opening and push my way through the crowding halls to the transport vehicles at the far back of the compound. I know I have a severely limited amount of time before anything gets more out of hand than it already is. (Understood, Sir!)

As I rush to the only partially occupied vehicle; I am instructed to drive the transport to our nearest base of operations and deliver the asset untouched. I know this is my only chance I will get to be able to go through with my plan of escape that I have been working on in my head since I can remember. I feel as if everything around me has slowed to almost a full stop as I enter the driver's seat. I feel the sweat start to form on my brow as the reality of the situation has started to settle with the rumbling of the engine. I have one shot at this, otherwise the consequences will be severe.

[iblameashley]

Crosshairs, Bullets and Affections

Military | Male | Gay

5,300 words Content: Alternate universe, longing, angst, cursing, injury / wounds, mention / depiction of blood, captivity / imprisonment, military level violence, mention of torture, gun violence, death, some German, poorly edited Gay Stuff, Love, Fluff

Inspiration for this fic

König | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick | Kaz?

!!!SFW!!!

In the heat of battle, König saves the life of enemy soldier Gaz, leading to his capture and disavowal from KorTac. Struggling with his feelings, König faces suspicion and hostility from the 141. Assigned to integrate him, Gaz is put at the forefront of König's awkward attempts at romance, while Ghost and Soap watch from the sidelines. König asks himself the age old question, 'do you believe love can bloom even on a battlefield?'

Consequences

König sat in a surprisingly well-lit cell. The concrete walls and steel bars a clear reminder of the new reality he found himself in. The space felt cramped, but then again, Konig remembered that he's not an average sized man; his legs hanging over the small bed that he rested on.

Upon being brought to the one-four-one base, he was promptly stripped of all his tactical gear and tossed in this cell. Captain Price had been generous enough to allow Konig to keep his hood – a source of amusement for the rotation of guards – and was left to his long-sleeved shirt and pants. Though they had also taken his boots and replaced his with slippers, nothing that could be used as a weapon was left, but at least he was relatively warm and comfortable.

His eyes flickered to the calendar on the wall outside the cell. June sixteenth. Six month and - he had to think about it - four days since his confinement started.

Originally, Konig had been in earshot of some of the more creative suggestions from the members of the one-four-one relating to any information he had. Ghost, ever the pragmatic man, had advocated for a ruthless approach. He had argued that the Colonel was too seasoned to be susceptible to typical tactics, and suggested a tried and true method, according to him; jumper cables and a car battery.

Soap on the other hand, saw no value in interrogating Konig regardless. He saw the giant of a man as too big a threat to keep around and had instead suggested the use of some C4. Most of the team had assumed he was joking. They were really hoping he was joking, but his mate Gaz had been injured and emotions were running high.

Price however, understood the gravity of the situation and the delicate balance of power at play. He saw the value in Konig as an asset, and a chance to gain insight into the inner workings of a known military threat. Besides, Konig had saved Gaz's life on the battlefield, and that alone had piqued Prices interest in the man. Saving an enemy combatant and allowing yourself to be captured in the process? What the fuck had the man been thinking?

The cell door opened and snapped Konig out of his thoughts. His eyes wandered up to see Price standing there. He dragged a metal chair into the cell and the guard closed the door behind him, though stayed close; his hand on his holster, ready to make a move if Konig tired anything.

König's jaw clenched under his sniper hood as he met Prices gaze, his walls coming back up.

“I can't imagine this has been easy for you.” Price began, clearing his throat. He leaned back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other. He tried to appear relaxed by resting his hands on his knee.

“I've seen worse.” Konig fired back with feigned disregard, his accent thick and his voice raspy. “...Just another obstacle.”

Price nodded, he understood the position Konig was facing. “I understand your reluctance to speak to me -to anyone- since you were brought in, but I really need to understand what brought you here.”

Konig narrowed his eyes. Though Price couldn't see it, his lips were pressed into a thin line.

“I had my reasons.” He replied flatly. “Reasons that don't concern you.”

“I would argue that they concern me greatly, Colonel.” Price tapped at his knee, staring Konig down with curiosity. “You aided one of my men on the battlefield. Why?”

In a fleeting moment, König's eyes betrayed him, and a glimpse of vulnerability flicked between the two men.

Price raised a brow, noting the reaction and realizing there was much more to this than Konig was letting on.

“...You had the chance to run. You didn't.... and now, here you are.”

König's body tensed and he gripped at the think mattress below him. “Sometimes the cost of doing what's right is higher than we anticipate.” He replied.

“I wasn't aware KorTac knew what doing 'what's right' was.” Price said, the irony not entirely lost on him.

König sat there quietly, what was the point of replying to that particular comment?

Price let out a sigh, waving a hand apologetically.

“We don't have to be enemies, Colonel.”

“König.” König corrected.

“König.” Price smiled, “Help us, and I promise you, there will be a place for you in this task force.”

“We'll see.”

With that, the conversation had lapsed into silence. Knowing that König was unwilling to speak to him any further, Price stood up and grabbed the chair. The door to the cell opened and he left the holding area.

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Actions

Amidst the gunfire and explosions, König has spotted someone who shouldn't have been there. Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick. He'd recognize that man anywhere, though he would have noticed sooner, had the man been hanging upside down from a helicopter.

Somehow, the one-four-one had gotten involved in this particular conflict and now there were fights to be hand on two fronts.

It had happened quickly, as so many things do on the battlefield. Gaz had been stuck by enemy fire, a bullet tearing through his shoulder and sending him tumbling backwards. He landed hard on the ground and yelped out in pain.

König's instincts had kicked in before his brain could stop him, and he sprinted across the battlefield until he hovered over Gaz's prone form. He crouched down as gunfire whizzed past them, and he quickly assessed the extent of the injury.

Gaz was going to bleed out if nothing was done, so Konig grabbed the man like a sack of potatoes and hauled him to cover. He worked frantically to stem the bleeding, ripping the shirt to get a better view of the wound.

“That's my favourite shirt, mate...” Gaz had mumbled. He was too unfocused to realize who was tending to him.

“I will buy you a new one, gutaussehend.” König replied as he began to tend to the wound.

It wasn't pretty by any means, but it would do. The bleeding had been stopped, some fragments of the bullet removed and it was disinfected. König had used most of his gauze to bandage the area.

König had barely had a moment to sigh in relief when he felt a gun at the back of his head. “Move away from my mate, nice and slow you slag.” The gravelly British voice commanded him.

“Ja.” König nodded.

He moved with an impressive grace away from Gaz before slowly standing up; his hands raised in surrender.

Ghost kept his weapon trained on König as he peered down to Gaz. A mixture of shock and confusion washed over him as he saw that bandages wrapped around Gaz's arm.

“The fuck is this, mate?” Ghost grunted as he returned his full attention to König.

“I... I don't know.” It was honest. König's own mind was racing with questions about what he had just done. His heart was racing, and if it weren't for the sniper hood over his face, Ghost would have clearly seen the grimace adorning his face.

“Don't play fucking games with me. I should put a bullet in your fucking head...” Ghost snarled. His finger moved towards the trigger, but he thought better of it. Price and Soap were on the way, so there was no need to shoot the man dead. Yet. “Drop all your weapons nice and slow. And kick them away.” He commanded.

König complied and removed his pistols and combat knives, setting them gently down on the ground and kicking them out of reach one by one.

“Step back.” Ghost commanded him once more, flicking the barrel of his gun and Konig.

“Ja.” König nodded.

He took a step back. And then another until he was several feet away from Ghost, Gaz and his weapons. Ghost would have plenty of time to shoot him if he made any stupid moves.

“He will be okay if he gets proper treatment.” König explained calmly to Ghost. He was trying to diffuse the situation as best he could.

“Didn't ask your opinion, slag. Keep quiet.” Ghost hissed, though his attention was split between König and Gaz who was passed out and breathing a bit heavy.

It felt like hours had passed before Price and Soap finally made their way to Ghosts location.

“Steamin' Jesus!” Soap exclaimed as he came to an abrupt halt. He took in the scene with shock and awe.

“Guten tag.” König said a bit more cheerfully than a man with a gun aimed at him should have.

“The fuck happened here?” Price questioned Ghost as he pulled up behind Soap.

“Our German friend here wanted to play medic with out Sergeant.” Ghost nodded in Gaz's direction.

Price moved to Gaz to inspect his situation and Soap pulled his firearm and aimed it at König.

“I got yer back, LT.” Soap reassured Ghost. “I think yer the best man tae cuff the bastard.”

With that, Ghost roughly bound König's hands, his gaze lingering on the captive soldier with a mix of distrust and disdain. As they made their way to the exfil location.

The same question was on everyone's mind; “Why had an enemy soldier helped one of their own?” Not that that question would be answered anytime soon. Even as König was loaded onto the helo, he simply stared into the abyss of uncertainty.

“Scheiße” König cursed himself silently. He knew he had fucked up, but there was something that pulled at his heart, knowing that Gaz would be okay. Though he probably couldn't say the same for himself.

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Feelings

It was early in the morning when the lights flickered on and illuminated the cell, stirring König from his uncomfortable slumber. He muttered something in German, his voice tinged with annoyance until he saw Gaz standing outside his cell.

He swallowed hard and sat up on the cot. “Guten tag, Sergeant.” He croaked out.

König yawned as he leaned back against the cold concrete wall.

“Gaz. Just Gaz is fine.” Gaz advised as the door to the cell opened.

He entered slowly, and like Price had, dragged a metal chair in with him. His presence seems to fill the room with warmth. König's heart fluttered, and he began to fidget as he tried to hold Gaz's gaze.

“How are you holding up?” Gaz asked as he made himself comfortable.

“It is a holding cell, so it holds me well.” König joked. Attempted to joke. He wanted to hang himself as the stupidity of it washed over him.

Gaz chuckled and shook his head. “Okay, then...”

König's throat was dry as he struggled to find his voice a second time. His fingers seemed to dance on his knees as he gathered his thoughts.

“I am... fine.” He finally replied with a faint shrug. “Trying to make the best of this situation.”

Gaze smiled at him and nodded. “I can imagine you've been a bit bored being cooped up in here all these months.” His voice, his accent was smooth as it wormed its way into König's ear. “But you're still alive and in one piece.”

König's eyes fell to Gaz's shoulder. His arm was no longer in a sling like he has seen a few months back, and he must be healed by now.

“As are you.” He replied nervously.

“Mmm.” Gaz nodded again. “Because of you, I kept my arm and my life.”

There was an unspoken hint of gratitude to Gaz's words, but he was a bit too prideful to outright say the words 'thank you', at least right now.

“Still going through physical therapy. Still can't aim straight with it, but I'm getting there.” His jaw clenched shut and his brow furrowed as he wondered why he had admitted that to König.

“You will recover. You are still young and strong.” König smiled under his hood, he eyes softening as he spoke.

König couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him. He didn't understand this attachment he felt towards Gaz, but he knew it was dangerous for a few reasons. Aside from the fact that he had never felt this way about another man, if he allowed himself to explore these feelings, he'd solidify his desertion.

But as he looked into Gaz's pretty brown eyes -only slightly more enticing than his pretty lips- he could help but let a flicker of hope course through him.

“There... was one other reason I stopped by...” Gaz mentioned in a casual tone, though his eyes were downcast as he said it.

“Hmm?” König tilted his head like a puppy. “Tell me, mein freund.”

Gaz hesitated for a moment, but quickly decided it was best to just be honest. “You've been disavowed.” He spoke the words slow and calmly. “Since the one-four-one never made any demands to exchange you for anyone or anything, and because you were seen willingly helping me, and surrendering to Ghost, KorTac has officially cut their losses with you. We received the news last night.” Gaz explained.

König's heart sank like a stone into the cold depths of the ocean. 'Disavowed'. The word echoed in his mind. All because he had done what he had thought was right.

He shook his head. No, this was all his fault for sure. He had helped the enemy, of course he was disavowed. He was a traitor, and he would have done the same to anyone else on his team.

He grappled with the thought of never seeing Austria again. His friends or family. Everything about his life now lay shattered at his feet, an a storm of emotions began to rage within him.

“I understand.” Was all he managed to mutter out.

And that was that. The conversation was over and Gaz knew it. So with a nod of his head he got up and left König to his thoughts.

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Decisions

There was no choice but to start integrating König into the one-four-one. Well, Ghost had vehemently opposed the idea, stating that König could never be trusted. Price had understood the concern, but also wasn't planning on sending König on missions anytime soon, let alone giving him access to restricted areas or information. Soap had also voiced his concern; first in Scottish Gaelic and then in English.

“I don't fuckin' trust him, Price.” Ghost voiced his disapproval once again.

Price rubbed at the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated by this circular conversation.

“I understand your concerns, Ghost, but we need to make use of him--”

“It just doesn't sit right with us.” Soap interjected.

That was the last straw for Price. It had been two weeks of this conversation happening again and again, and now his own subordinate was cutting him off mid sentence.

Price was a patient man, and more than happy to entertain the thoughts and concerns of them men under him, but enough was enough.

He stood up from his chair and placed his hands on his desk. He took a deep breath and glared at both men.

“Listen to me very carefully.” His voice was low and seething with rage. “If either of you twats bring this subject up again, or if you ever interrupt me again, I will kick your asses out of the one-four-one. Now, the next thing I better hear from either of your mouths is 'yes sir' before you leave my office and fuck off. Do you understand me?” He hissed.

There was no room for black and white in Prices words, the look in his eyes conveyed his seriousness about the situation, and Ghost of all people knew how fucked he'd be without his job on the task force or Price to have his back.

Ghost and Soap nodded. “Yes sir.”

They promptly left Prices office.

Gaz had been sitting off to the side reviewing some documents as this exchange occurred. To be fair, Ghost and Soap had burst into the room uninvited, and Gaz had been working with Price at that time. He had felt no need to stand or engage as Prices limit had been reached.

And now, he sat there flipping through pages with a smirk on his face.

“Feel better, sir?” He chuckled as Price straightened himself out and took his seat again.

“Fuck off, Kyle.” Price gave him the side eye, but even his beard and tone couldn't hide the amusement.

“I have a job for you.” Price said after a long moment of silence. He reached into a box and retrieved a cigar. He took his time lighting it and enjoyed several long puffs before he continued. “This is a delicate situation, but I believe König has potential beyond information.”

Gaz's brow furrowed slightly, concern crossing his face as he processed Prices words.

“The man has been here what, seven months now? Almost eight? He hasn't once tried to make an escape, and he's been even more docile since you gave him the 'bad news' as it were.” Price puffed on. “I say we give him a real chance, and if he fucks up, we put a bullet in his head.”

Price shrugged and tapped some ashes into a nearby tray.

“I want you to take point on this, Gaz. He seems to like you, so might be easier for you to help integrate him into the force. Obviously I want you to keep a close eye on him, and you won't be alone, but you'll be in charge.”

Gaz's jaw clenched. He took his time thinking about it, but figured he would agree without protest. This was an opportunity to learn why König had helped him all those months ago. And he couldn't deny the joy he would take in superseding even Ghosts authority on this 'project'.

“What I say goes?” Gaz asked. “Outside of your final decision, that is?” He clarified.

“Your say goes.”

“Consider it done, sir.” Gaz agreed. “When do I begin.”

“Now. Why not take out lumbering German to the mess for some lunch.” Price laughed before taking a drag from the cigar.

“...yes sir.”

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Targets

König stood at the firing range stall waiting for Gaz. His nerves were frayed to say the least as he looked around the room to see Ghost and Soap off in the distance; glaring and judging him. Ghost had a hand on his pistol, still ready to put him down at a moments notice.

“Alright, big guy...” Gaz's words snapped Konig out of his daze and he looked down at the man. Into those big, brown eyes. “Let's see what ya' got, yeah?” He beamed.

König nodded and swallowed hard. He wanted to do right by the one-four-one, he wanted to earn the trust of this whole team, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to impress the handsome young man handing over a rifle to him.

König took the rifle and stepped into the stall -which was way too small for him- and, in an attempt to break the tension decided to tell Gaz a joke.

“Hey, Gaz...” König began, already grinning under his hood, “why did the soldier bring a ladder to training?” He asked as he inspected the weapon.

Gaz gave König a quizzical look and tilted his head slightly as he thought about it.

“No idea, why?” He finally asked.

“To reach new heights!”

There was a deafening silence in the range as Gaz, Ghost and Soap processed the joke. The moment only broke by Ghost snorting in reply and looking away.

“Fuckin hell... that was bad...” He murmured as his shoulders shook.

“That's... certainly a new one.” Gaz replied to König, trying to distract the man from Ghosts reaction. He cleared his throat and extended a hand to guide König to the targets down the range, “Alright, lets focus on the targets now.”

König felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment, but he couldn't help it, his heart fluttered when Gaz was around. Without another word, he turned to the targets and readied his rifle.

Pop, pop, pop.

He fired several rounds from the first rifle and his targets. Several head shots and a few straight through the heart.

Next up was a pistol. He was equally skilled with that.

Gaz recognized his skill, and had read in his file that König had always wanted to be a sniper, so he decided 'what the hell' and wanted to give the man a chance. As he guided König to the sniper range -with their shadows in tow- the giant spoke up once more.

“Why did the soldier cross the road?” He asked, smirking like an idiot under his hood.

“I dunno, mate,” Gaz shrugged, already shaking his head. “Why?”

“To get to your side.”

“Christ...” Ghost sighed.

Gaz legitimately laughed at the joke and gave König a pat on the back. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to sweet-talk me.”

“This is painful.” Soap whispered to Ghost as they finally made it to the sniping range.

“Mmm. But entertaining in its own way.” Ghost replied as the two men watched Gaz and König set up.

“Just take your time, mate.” Gaz reassured him as he stepped away and left Konig to his practice.

Sniping is a game of patience, and König had been denied his sniping career for two reasons. The first was his size; he made a better battering ram than a sniper, and the second was his need to fidget when bored. But he was determined to prove to Gaz he had what it took.

He took aim and steadied his breathing. His hands were steady and after judging the distance, he fired.

“Fuck...” he hissed under his breath. He had hit the target, but not where he had wanted.

He aimed again. He focused. He fired.

“Der mist!” He grumbled a bit louder this time.

He took one last shot and at least his something vital on the target.

With a resigned sigh, he put the safety back on and moved himself into a sitting position on the floor as the target came swooping in for Gaz's examination; and Ghosts whispered ridicule.

Gaz took time to examine the target, and was overall impressed with König's shots. Only one would have likely been fatal, had it been a person, but the other two could certainly be crippling to an enemy combatant.

“Not bad, not bad.” He nodded as he looked down to König. “Guess we'll just need to set up some more practice time for you.”

König's mood perked up at the idea of spending more time with Gaz and quickly stood up, towering over Gaz in the small box of the sniping range. “Ja, I would like that!” He exclaimed.

He looked over to Ghost and Soap and and then back at Gaz, lowering his voice. “Hey Gaz, what would be your perfect date?” He asked.

Without missing a beat, Gaz grinned and replied, “April twenty-fifth, its not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.”

He was so fucking proud of this reply, and loved watching the gears turn in König's head.

The dumbfounded look in König's eyes tipped Soap over the edge and he buried his face in Ghosts arm, snickering at the custerfuck that was this interaction.

“O-oh... okay.” Konig replied still confused.

He handed over the sniper rifle and turned to leave the booth, in a bit of a hurry at that, and slammed his head into the top of the door frame as he attempted to re-enter the base.

“Gottverdammt!” He yelled, felling the rage build inside him. He had fucked up his sniper practice, Gaz wasn't into him, Ghost and Soap were making a mockery of everything and now his head was hurting like a motherfucker.

“You alright there, big guy?” Gaz asked in a soft, sincere voice. He placed a hand on König's arm and turned him around. He could easily tell what König was feeling.

“Yeah...” König grunted, rubbing his head. He took a moment to breath and calm himself down before continuing. “Gotta watch out for door frames, they sneak up on you...” he tried to downplay the embarrassment. “Well... maybe not you...” He added in a deadpanned tone.

Gaz let out a deep laugh, not realizing that König hadn't been joking, just stating a fact.

“Aye, Gaz here is a shorty.” I Soap joked as he and Ghost moved past the two and entered the base.

“Hey, Soap... get fucked.” Gaz laughed.

“I wouldn't talk, mate... you're shorter than Gaz.” Ghost reminded Soap before giving one last glare at König. The meaning was clear; fuck with or hurt Gaz and Ghost would ensure König disappeared without a trace.

“Fuck, never thought I'd see a man flounder so hard. Big mans got it bad.” Soap remarked as he and Ghost made their way down the corridor.

“Better than anything on the telly, though.” Ghost reported. “Four pints says he completely blows it.” He added, staring down at Soap.

“Deal.” Soap grinned.

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Secured

It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was starting its drop towards the horizon. Long shadows were cast over the ground as the ruins of of the enemy stronghold smouldered in just below. The task force was wrapping up a mission and were currently attempting to regroup back at exfil.

König had been brought along, but he had not been authorized to partake in the mission proper. Price had relegated him to extraction duty alongside two other soldiers.

There was an unsettling silence that washed over the land just after Soap had radioed in that the mission was complete and they were heading back. Maybe it was soldiers intuition, but König had a bad feeling.

Sure enough, and only moments later, the sound of gunfire echoed in the distance as Ghost, Soap and Gaz dashed from the foliage and into the open field.

Bullets whizzed by them as they ran, and they fired back sporadically as enemy soldiers burst through the cover of the trees.

“Give me a weapon.” König commanded one of his chaperones.

“Negative.” The man replied as he reached for his assault rifle. “You don't have authorization. Stand down and let us handle this.”

König wasn't asking.

Faster than the soldier could react, König slammed his hand into the mans throat, dropping him to the ground, gasping and panicking as he fought for air.

“I'm sorry mein freund.” He said as he walked away and unlatched the container that stored a sniper rifle.

He worked quickly to assemble the weapon, making sure to give it one last look before using his towering height to climb onto the roof of the truck. The other soldier finally noticed him, and the look König flashed him was warning enough. Do not try me.

The soldier nodded and returned his attention to his comrades charging in their direction.

König laid down on the roof and set up the rifle.

He licked his lips as he peered through the scope and acquired his first target. He flicked the safety off and calmed himself -as difficult as that was, seeing Gaz in danger again- before placing a finger over the trigger.

“That's it, maus... run into my trap.” He smirked as his finger pulled the trigger.

The rifle discharged with a sharp crack, the thunderous roar echoing across the landscape. It struck the target like a bolt of lightening dropping the man instantly.

“Pop.” König commented, proud of himself.

Several more booms erupted from the barrel as König took down enemy after enemy until his team was in the clear and there were no more soldiers pursuing them.

He flicked the safety back on and hopped down from the truck as Gaz, Soap and Ghost came to a halt.

“You weren't authorized to use that.” Ghost grunted, trying to suppress the need to catch his breath.

“Lay off the man, he saved our arses.” Soap huffed, punching Ghost in the side of the arm.

He walked past König and gave him a pat on the shoulder, “Thanks for the assist, chum.” He smiled.

König's eyes lit up with excitement as he turned his attention to Gaz. He extended his arms and walked with a confident swagger towards him.

“Mine freund!” He exclaimed as Gaz looked up at him, his chest still heaving and sweat dripping down his brow, “Did you see that! I got them all!” His voice boomed with pride.

Gaz just grinned and shook his head. “I can't say I saw it, but I knew you were helping us when the gunfire behind us stopped.” He joked as he took one last, deep breath. “You did good, König.”

The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins when out of nowhere he leaned down and wrapped his large arms around Gaz and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you, liebling!” He was beaming under his hood.

He picked Gaz up off the ground and held him at face level.

“It's all thanks to you. It's all thanks to your trust in me.” König continued as he squeezed Gaz a bit tighter.

“Okay, okay!” Gaz laughed, patting König on the shoulder. “Put me down!”

“Nein!” König replied in a surprisingly playful tone.

Truth be told, he never wanted to let Gaz go. Fuck, he'd never have touched Gaz if it hadn't happened by impulse. That and Gaz smelled so goddamn good.

“Guys!” Gaz called out to Ghost and Soap, “Guys!” He called again with a huge grin on his face, “This dudes great, can we keep him?” He laughed loudly.

König was looking at Gaz with heart eyes, and it didn't go unnoticed by the man wrapped in his arms. How could it? He was wrapped in the mans arms!

“Make you a deal, big guy...” Gaz said in a quiet voice, slipping his hand under König's hood to ghost his fingers over the back of his neck. “Put me down, and you can take me out for a few drinks. Just the two of us. How's that sound?”

König's heart nearly gave out at the thought.

“A date?” König asked, needing desperately to know this wasn't just drinks between friends.

“A date.” Gaz confirmed with a confident nod.

“Ja.” König said as he lowered Gaz back down to the ground. “A date sounds wonderful, liebling.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ghost yelled with a rage Gaz and Soap had last heard when a rookie tried to touch his mask. “Konig you walking Sequoia tree, what the fuck?!”

König's eyes widened. The soldier he attacked.

“Fuck.” He grunted, knowing he was about to face Ghosts wrath, and likely Prices when they got back to base.

Gaz bit his lower lip and shook his head. He gave König a slap on the ass and walked away, “Well have that date after you get out of solitary.” He winked at the large man and give him a finger gun.

König lowered his head and began his march to a probable death. “Es tut mir leid, Ghost!” He called out as he disappeared to the other side of the truck.