#can a tortoise survive outside

[turtlespet]

Can a Tortoise Live Outside?

Yes, a tortoise can live outside. Tortoises are well-adapted to living in the outdoors and they thrive in a natural habitat. Tortoises are equipped with thick shells that protect them from predators and the elements. They do best in temperatures ranging from 70 to 80 degrees Fahrenheit and need access to both shade and direct sunlight. A pen should also be large enough for your pet tortoise to…

[dogtoling]

OK. . . seems i missed the whole 'chickens are controversial in splatoon' thing. . . why?

To put it short there's evidence both for and against them existing, and this is without me actually looking anything up so i might be missing something.

cases for chickens being extant: there's been chickens present in SOME form in several splatfests, they're not mammals so they're not NECESSARILY extinct, despite being domesticated animals and thus being unlikely to survive it doesn't mean it'd be IMPOSSIBLE because pigeons and other relatively human-dependent birds still survive in Splatoon, and of course there are many instances of Eggs being a staple in inkling culinary culture. egg is everywhere

cases for chickens being extinct: we only actually See chickens (or chicken, as in food) in splatfest art and splatfest dialogue which isn't (or at least definitely wasn't until Splatoon 3) canon-compliant at all. We havent actually seen chickens in-universe to my knowledge, nor had them mentioned outside splatfest. probably the biggest nail in the coffin is that there IS a chicken statue in Splatsville, and typically when there are big animal statues in the cities those are statues depicting extinct animals. this is something from an interview that touched on the crane and tortoise statues in Inkopolis Square; which also confirms that it wasn't JUST MAMMALS that suffered and went extinct, it was also other miscellaneous land animals and even random birds which I think me and initially a lot of other people thought were just. Fine and safe. But if a random bird like a crane can be extinct now then chickens are absolutely not safe just because they're not mammals. although eggs are in like every food it's not really been confirmed in any way that those are CHICKEN eggs (although that is the most likely), they could as well be farming domesticated pigeons or something

So really it's a big case of no real confirmation they DO exist, but also no real confirmation they DON'T exist, but also the only context we see them in-universe is in a context where every other animal depicted there IS extinct and it's like a lore thing. So the existence of eggs is a big hint TOWARDS them existing but could easily mean nothing whereas the other one is more in line with proving they do not exist. it is a very uncertain situation for the chicken

HOWEVER!!!!!! there is hope for the chicken. splatfests in Splatoon 3 have had more in-universe accurate themes and dialogue so far (meaning they dont randomly make up shit like "marina's landlord is a narwhal" and "inklings eat red meat" or whatever the fuck in that sea food vs mountain food one we didnt even have that one it was regional). SO THIS MEANS! in the next splatfest we Could get a somewhat stable answer to if chickens exist or not. of course the other 2 options are extinct animals whereas the chicken is 50/50. i'm HOPING the dialogue touches upon this fact and doesn't just talk about all of those like they just Exist. basically we are very close to some kind of progress on this issue that would be Somewhat credible because while splatfest dialogue has never been a credible source in the past, it has been WAY better in S3

TL;DR we just don't know. Chickens are a mystery

[wwwjam]

Chapter II: The Hare >Her basement< >Chapter III<

Basic Route info and theoretical end speech beneath the cut.

To be frank, I mostly just wanted to draw Princess as a bunnygirl, but I did still have some thoughts about the route, though nothing too in-depth. Rather than come up with a new dialogue option, I figure it'd be best to take advantage of options that are already there. Currently, both instances of slaying the Princess when the Narrator compels you lead to Witch, but what if the second time led you somewhere else? Internal logic: Soft Princess has just dodged your first (initially unwilling) strike, proving to be swift enough to avoid you, though clearly in a panic. Despite her unease, she's much faster than you. Like you're a... tortoise, and she's the Hare... Just roll with it. (I don't think anyone's noticed/mentioned her crown has that turtle shape on it)

For the snow thing, I just wanted to give her a dress that'd allow her to run, but didn't want to go with a loincloth like design a la Adversary. I settled on that short, fur trimmed one and thought "what if there was snow" and hey, now there's some manner of conflict and explanation for why she's not chained up and is able to avoid you.

And extremely early draft of a theoretical Shifting Mound speech. For context, I imagine you have to sort of chase Hare out of the cabin. Make her choose between constantly avoiding you, or heading into the freezing winter air she's afraid of. "Survive, evade, run. Flee, escape, take shelter, hide, live another day. But death comes all the same, whether it waits outside your door, or comes barreling through it. Do you look it in the eye, meet it on your own terms, or do you keep running, do you keep hiding? You drove me to make a choice, and only in choosing to confront the cold death I feared was I truly alive. One always has a choice to make, even in fear.

But without that fear of the end, do one's choices truly matter? Can a life mean anything if your decision to survive, or to die, is as meaningless as your decision to breathe? Is being given that choice so unimportant to you?" -That fear is what pushes one to survive, but it makes life itself terrifying. "Or is it the terror itself that makes life worth surviving? The fear of not seeing what comes tomorrow?" -I would never take that choice from you, or from others. "Then make your own choice to join with me once again, and give back that choice to the world."

[julieverne]

You are You, because all tortoises are You. You know this inherently. You have a stored wealth of knowledge from all who came before You. One day You would like to meet another tortoise and create a new generation of Yous, but for now life is nice enough as it is.

You are aware of being contained; there are hard borders all around this enclosure. You do not mind; in summer, The One You Live With takes you outside to bask in the sun. You like the sun; You don't like the noises so loud outside, the slapping of rubber against something hard. You don't like how exposed You are, with so little ground cover. It makes You nervous.

The One You Live With isn't always there. You like her; she knows You well. She knows where to scratch Your hard shell, which food You are in the mood for. She knows very well how to live with You. She is quiet and predictable. You have trained her well.

Her friend, Talks Loudly, is another matter entirely. She is erratic and energetic, and You always find somewhere else to be when she is around. She appears to be the mate of The One You Live With, but their nesting behaviour is odd. They spend too much time together; once the eggs are fertilised, there is no point to sticking around.

And they have no children. It makes You sad when You think about it. You don't like children. They're loud and unpredictable as well; it's undignified. But The One You Live With deserves a long generation of hers to follow her. She is marvellous and there should be more of her.

You realise, of course, that You are a prisoner. But Your world is comfortable, and escape into the outside world doesn't seem... survivable. It's too loud. It's too unpredictable. You have faint memories of a beach somewhere You have never been, somewhere Your ancestors lived with white sand, plentiful sun and probably pineapple. You like pineapple. It's the first thing The One You Live With offers you if You've had a shock, or if You're simply in a Mood because Talks Loudly is over too much, talking too loudly. You can forgive her a little, since she earns You pineapple.

She talks, sometimes, not the loud one. The quiet one, the one You like, the one with soft hands and understanding eyes. You could almost believe she was intelligent. It's like she's trying to communicate, but her language is too full of nuance for You to learn it. You nod, though, because she doesn't always need words to communicate. Her gentle touch on Your shell means she's leaving, and You wonder where else there is to go, what else she could do in her life that's better than spending time with You.

She's gone overnight, and it's stressful for You. Her accomplice, acquaintance, whoever, the other Loud One comes in. You can see she's trying to be kind, so you take the proffered pineapple. You even let her pat Your shell without grunting at her. Then Talks Loudly comes in, and You've never liked her and she's never liked You, but she sits on the floor beside You, holding Small Mammal in her arms too tightly.

Small Mammal is Your friend. She licks Your face when it's dirty. She preserves Your dignity. She is warm when she deigns to curl up next to You.

But today Talks Loudly is curled up next to You instead, and You are aware something is wrong. You shuffle, and Talks Loudly rests a gentle hand on Your shell and looks You in the eyes.

She surprises You; there is intelligence there. And sorrow, deep sorrow. Her eyes are wet and her voice is quiet and fierce, and for the first time You find Yourself liking her. She makes You a promise and You keep tally of it inside Yourself, so the future Yous will know.

She stays all night. She sleeps on the couch so You're not alone. You like being alone, but something is wrong so You don't, for once, mind her company.

She comes home the next evening, The One You Live With, and she's pleased to see You. You preen in her admiration for a moment, then You head to where increasingly extravagant foods have been laid out for You in deference to Your majesty. When You look up, mulberries staining Your chin, You see Talks Loudly kissing The One You Live With, and You nod to Yourself, because everything is back where it should be. You like order; You like things to be predictable. And for this evening, unlike the last, everything is perfect.

For You, at least.

[tea-and-secrets]

I've been tempted for months to steal a cute tortoise shell cat from down streets away.

Hear me out. It's an outside cat, the neighbourhood is at least dangerous enough that I find and have to out in bags and dispose off at least 2 cats every month, there's LOTS of uneutered feral cats and we have a rat problem too.

I've found the cat locked outside more times that I can remember because they leave it out when they go out.

Being an outside cat they'll probably wake up to it being gone never to come back (probs death) or dying outside the house after a bad fight.

There's also a dog problem because they leave them out without supervision and uneutered so they're very territorial.

I rather it is safe and it is also so Lovely, a purring machine and so trusting which is also, in my opinion, a bad thing to survive on the streets.

I'm going to take it I don't care

.

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch.197 thoughts

[Rider Kick!!!]

(Contents: speculation - Haruka, thematic analysis - life)

Tozuka, we need to talk about your sense for chapter titles. It's "ready, get set, go" not "get set, ready, go." Maybe it's different in Japan?

Anyway

HARUKA DEVELOPMENT!!!

Seeing that Haruka's soul is still her child self from her original backstory, I wonder if we'll be seeing a flashback of how her tragedy was averted. Given Isshin XII's statement that Haruka's heart hasn't matured, my supposition last week that Fuuko's soul resembling her appearance from when she just joined the Union symbolizes that she's the same person at heart seems to have been correct. The shape of a person's soul is a reflection of who they are; Andy is an old soul, Fuuko is a member of the Union, Lucy is a free spirit, and Haruka is a scared child. Cowardice has been a core trait of Haruka's the entire time, and while this arc seemed to suggest that she'd grown out of that between loops, this moment implies that just because she's braver doesn't mean that she isn't scared

Presumably the circumstances of her becoming Unbreakable contributed to her soul taking that shape, a moment in her past that she can't move on from. I doubt her father died the same way this time if at all, but even if it was just the shock of seeing her grandfather die of natural causes, I could see that rooting Haruka's heart in a particular time. It would also be interesting if Tozuka uses that plot point to elaborate on why Haruka got into cobbling, what inspired her to make that choice specifically, and how her relationship with Top developed after she saved his friends. I don't know if that's a story that Tozuka is interested in telling, but it's one I'm interested in reading, for sure!

The other major element of this chapter was Isshin XII's advice to Haruka. "Use the power of those who never merely live and die." Therein lies the thesis statement for this arc and possibly the entire series: "[humans] never merely live and die." We aren't alive just because blood pumps through our veins (Victor's original view) or because we have thoughts in our heads (Andy's original view); we're alive because we can form connections, because we can leave an impact on the world, because we can create

A beast lives on instinct. A beast kills and eats to survive and breed, and one day dies so that something else may feed and survive. As UMA Beast said, beasts do not desire coexistence. I would argue that they don't desire anything, their biology simply compels them to eat and procreate, even if they don't have what we would call an "understanding" of the purpose of their actions

A human, though, can eat to survive, but doesn't have to. Eating can be a purely utilitarian experience, just a way to fuel up the body for the next day, but people don't typically do that. People cook, they maximize the taste of the dish as well as the nutritional value if they even pay attention to it in the first place, and they partake of their meals communally. We do understand the purpose of eating, but that purpose is of secondary concern to anyone outside of a life-or-death scenario; instead, the priority is to enjoy our meals, whether it's through the company we keep, the flavor of the dish, or even simply the joy of creation

And that, I think, is where Unbreakable's true power comes from. Unbreakable isn't slapping two scraps of metal together and calling it a shield, it's an artform, a craft that one dedicates their life to, the culmination of skill and pride passed down for generations. It's not enough to simply know how it works; watching a knitting tutorial on youtube isn't enough to create a beautiful quilt, you have to understand the materials and the tools and the techniques intimately

There's no pride or craftsmanship in Beast simply growing Unbreakable armor. Does a tortoise build its own shell and take pride in it, or does it simply happen to grow around an otherwise oblivious reptile? As I've said a thousand times, Undead Unluck is a series about "the proof of a life lived," and the mastering of an art, the inheritance of a legacy, is just another in a long line of angles that Tozuka has chosen to tackle this theme from

Haruka's new Unbreakable, seemingly able to reconfigure her armor to match someone else, suggests that she has achieved that mastery and pride. Unbreakable is not about rigid conformity to one shape, it's about the ability to adapt to the scenario; "the reed which bends in the wind is stronger than the oak which breaks in a storm." Beast has no understanding or appreciation of the effort that forged Unbreakable itself, much less the armor it creates, and thus does not have the pride nor conviction to allow for it to be flexible or adaptable

Beast has Unbreakable, but he does not have the spirit to create. Beast devalues that which proves that one has lived, and that will ultimately be his undoing

Until next time, let's enjoy life!

[xoxobuckybarnes]

November 2024 Reading List

Complete

Not In The Answer But The Question (Rated: T, Words: 27K) by aimmyarrowshigh / @aimmyarrowshigh

Summary: It rankles that his drink was made before he even got a chance to order it. What if he wanted a change? What if he were adventurous and bold? What if he tried something new? --- Or, Steve Rogers shakes up his gray daily routine in 2014 by going back home to Vinegar Hill. To his surprise, the Jewish deli he used to frequent with Arnie is still standing. And Steve's whole life changes again.

Little House In The Suburbs (series)

Good Grief (Rated: G, Words 23K) Summary: All Bucky wants is to be the best he can be for Becca. It gets harder when his feelings start getting in the way. Birds and the Bees (and a thing called Love) (Rated: G, Words: 2K) Summary: Becca starts to ask the hard questions.

The Tortoise and the Hare (Rated: G, Words: 10K)

Summary: Bucky loves all kids, but no one's kid is better than Steve Rogers's.

Boy, Where Do You Think You're Going (Rated: E, Words: 20K) by Jibbly

Summary: That small head of blonde hair whips around and glares at Steve. He isn’t prepared for that anger. “This is all your fault.” More tears come and her glare crumbles. She’s furiously wiping at her eyes and hiccupping in distress. Sam leans in to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Who is that?” Steve stares helplessly at those hunching and shaking shoulders, whispering back to Sam. “She’s Bucky’s daughter.” “What?” It’ whispered through clenched teeth.

Love Will Make a Home Inside You (Rated: M, Words: 18K) by moshiznik & art by @koreanrage

Summary: "All children need is love, a grown-up to take responsibility for them, and a soft place to land." (A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness) Or, the one in which two super soldiers adopt two super children and, incidentally, fall in love.

The Happy Days (Rated: G, Words: 1K) by Ranger616

Summary: Steve and Bucky, being domestic dads during a quiet, cold evening in December. Fluffier than fairy floss.

Family Matters (Series) by attackofthezee (noxlunate)

Captain America And The Accidental Baby Acquisition (Rated: G, Words: 2K) Summary: The baby looks up at Steve with big brown eyes and pulls it’s fists from it’s slobbery mouth to hold them out to Steve. Right. Right. There’s a baby on Steve’s doorstep. Steve can handle this. Aka Steve Rogers And The Accidental Baby Acquisition. Aka sometimes assholes on twitter say "Captain America would never wear a papoose" and you gotta write a fic just to spite them. Nature's Masterpieces (Rated: G, Words: 2K) Summary: “Snow.” Ella says solemnly, pointing towards the window and the white fluff drifting down to gather in piles outside. “Yep. That’d be the fluffy cold white stuff out there.” Steve agrees, “We can go play in it when Pops comes home.” Ella sighs in a way that Steve is 110% sure she’s gotten from Bucky, presses a hand to Steve’s face and says, “Daddy, listen.” In which Steve has a precocious as hell three year old, snow ball fights are had, snow angels are made, and the future is talked about.

Don't Hate the Player (Rated: M, Words: 60K) by LoserOnTheInternet

Summary: Steve breathes heavily as he processes what he just did. The Gamemakers are staring down at Steve with gaping mouths and wide eyes. Shoving his panic down, Steve shoots them a cocky smirk and says, “Thank you for your consideration.” He gives them a lazy salute before dropping the shield and exiting the room. Steve Rogers and James Barnes are this year's tributes for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. Being from District 12, their chances of survival are next to none. In order to gain sponsors, the two create a fake star-crossed lovers scenario that quickly goes south once Steve starts to fall for the other boy. In a game where all but one are destined to die, who will be announced victor?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name (Rated: E, Words, 22K) by romanticalgirl & art by kittyandmulder

Summary: Bucky Barnes came back from the war short one arm and pissed off about it. His luck went downhill from there, and now he's listening to Clint, of all people, for life advice. He sends him to a bar that only hires vets and, despite a rough start, Bucky ends up working for Steve Rogers. Which he regrets instantly. Things get better. Bucky gets better. Steve's still an asshole, but maybe that's not so bad.

On The Other Side of a Downward Spiral (Rated: E, Words: 31K) by torakowalski

Summary: Bucky Barnes is barely functioning, let alone living, but when the Avengers find an abandoned baby girl, Bucky has to learn to look after himself, and keep the baby out of Hydra's hands. All while trying to work out exactly what kind of relationship he and Steve want from each other.

[harry-du-barry]

Oh, on the topic of cryptids and a previous answer: what would an organism that has mercury blood be like?

🤔

Sorry it took me a bit to get to this. I had to put it in a folder and come back to it periodically. I'm not a scientist by any means, by the way, this is like. After a visit to the library and stuff. And a lot of it's just a shitload of guesswork.

Probably... extremely dense. Not dense in the brain (dumb), but dense in terms of molecular body mass. Mercury is about 13x the weight of blood--1 ml of blood tends to weigh about 1 g and 1 ml of mercury is about 13.5 g. So you could kind of assume that whatever creature it is would probably weigh somewhere around 13x more than an average human, if they're of comparable body mass.

The organs would have to be majorly different than what we're used to in order to compensate for how heavy mercury is. Whatever the creature is would definitely be poisonous to humans consumption. Also, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe the mercury itself isn't the entirety of the blood, but the creature's equivalent to water in our blood? That might affect the total weight of its blood, though whether it's positive or negative, I'm unsure.

I also imagine that the nervous system would have to be an entirely different beast to prevent the blood from coalescing at the bottom of the creature. I'm thinking that it's a massive heart with a strong and consistent heartbeat compared to the size of the creature. But I also imagine that the creature would have to be comparatively small to us, because imagine you at your size moving a body that weighs over 13x more than you already do.

Imagine metal bones and thick, hide-like skin that's almost metal itself to keep the flesh stable. Imagine the creature being more bottom-heavy than it is top-heavy. It's probably evolved to be close to the ground so that it doesn't need to evolve a more complicated sense of balance than what it needs to be. Think like a crab or a tortoise.

A creature that lives in low gravity would probably evolve to be taller than a creature that evolved outside of that. I wonder if the blood would function like ours, carrying air to different parts of the body to help it function. Would it have lungs? Would the weight of its own flesh prevent it from breathing? What kind of gas would a creature like this thrive in? Or are we assuming that this creature exist separate from any reality that we know to exist? Does it need to breathe? And if it doesn't need air, can it still constitute as being alive?

Uhhh I can go on and on like this... What kind of bed would the creature have... What environment would it thrive in... Would it be able to survive at the bottom of the ocean or not... Would it need a different PSI of latent air pressure to keep itself together... I'm going to stop there because. Haha wow. That's already a lot to think about! 😵‍💫

[gaygamesstarringmary]

Rimworld: Do You Like to Lose?

Three people stand outside their makeshift shelter. It wasn’t made very well and the beds are hard, but they’re glad to have a roof over their head. 

Everyone else that had been on their ship perished during the crash. Only these three had survived- crashlanding on the planet in pods. 

The tropical air buzzes with insects. The aliens move as one, dense cloud, lazily swatted away by a survivor. Her eyes remained on the horizon. As a distant figure moves into view, she raises her pistol. She’s never shot a gun before. Not really. She’s shot at animals, sure, to provide food for the group, but never had she shot at a person.

Fuck, the girl was only 19. She was too young for this. 

She shoots. It bounces off the ground at the invader’s foot. She curses, reloads.

The invader holds a knife. It’s dull, but dangerous nonetheless. From the look in the wild man’s eyes, he’d been born on this godforsaken planet. And of course. No person from any civilized community would so readily throw themselves at another in an act that can only be interpreted as suicide. 

He lunges for one of her friends. He is older, but he survived the crash alongside her. He is also the only one of the three survivors without a gun. He’s older with a heart problem. But he doesn’t run.

The third of their group, an elderly woman, brandishes a shotgun. She takes aim down the sights, even as the younger girl struggles to differentiate between friend and foe in the struggle, and shoots. Perfectly. The bullet enters the front of the invader’s skull and exits the back as a bloody mess.

He stumbles and falls. Even before he is down, the bugs go for his sickly sweet blood. The girl forces down vomit as she watches the aliens drink his blood, unable to look away.

Then, another siren goes off.

Shit. Again? Already? The fuck was wrong with this planet?

The male of the group is uninjured. He looks out towards the trees and clicks his tongue. In his rough voice, he says, “Twenty goddamn rabid tortoises headed this way.”

My colonists did not survive the tortoises. I mean, come on, there were twenty of them. No matter how slow-moving they were, those little fuckers were tough.

That’s the beauty of Rimworld, though. The most random stuff will kill you whenever it pleases. 

Rimworld is a game lovingly nicknamed “Warcrime Simulator” by its fanbase. Whatever horrible acts against humanity you can think of, it's probably possible in Rimworld. Personally, I like taking alcoholics and banning them from drinking alcohol, so they have to go through a painful withdrawal.

Others (Not me! I have not done this! I am not this mean!) employ child soldiers to fight on the front lines. They purposefully explode boomalope (prompted by death, of course, these gasoline-filled cattle explode with the force of several sticks of dynamite). They summon robotic threats knowing full well that their tribe equipped with some javelins won’t stand a chance. They, more morbidly, (as if child soldiers weren’t morbid, but Rimworld has numbed me to the more tame crimes against humanity) harvest the organs of enemies to either sell, eat, play with, or give to one of their friends.

There are plenty of ways to die (or kill) in Rimworld. Disease. Starvation. Cold. Hot. Any kind of animal. Other people. Old age. Dementia. A friend might kill you. One of your traps might accidentally spring. Giant bugs. Fire. A coma. Boomalope bombing. Cave collapse. Wild goose. Eldrich deities. Giant robots. Small robots. Maybe a medium robot will kill you.

No matter what, you will die. Just like real life. And who knows how horrific and morbid your death will be. Just like real life.

Is the talk of death making you anxious?

Well, you and Rimworld NPCs alike. 

Rimworld NPCs have traits- even animals, who can be stuck with life-long diseases. They typically have three traits, ranging from ‘kind’ to ‘pyromaniac’. Colonists can be ‘bisexual’, ‘misandrist’, and ‘insomniac’. Perhaps someone in your group is ‘trigger-happy’, ‘agoraphobic’, and ‘sanguine’.

You’re stuck with whoever comes into your group. Sure, you can ‘get rid of them’ later on, but, especially early on, you’ll need as much manpower as you can get. So you’re stuck with the wonderful person who manages to be ‘pyromaniac’, ‘sociopath’, and ‘sickly’ all at the same time. Pretty much anything a real person can be translated to Rimworld NPCs. If I were a Rimworld colonist, for example, I believe I would be ‘animal lover’, ‘asexual’, and ‘anxious’.

So long as you don’t get the guy who can’t be bothered to haul a pile of wood from one side of the room to the other.

[dream-meister-translations]

THE TALE OF FOOD

NOTE : These translations are done using the SG/MY version of the game, we apologize for any inconsistencies that may come with the official English release.

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP - STORY #1

━

Inside a pitch-black cave, time had lost all meaning, and as silence prevailed, the only company allowed of Eight Trigram Soup was his own darkened silhouette, and his tortoise's eternal presence.

A feeble ray of light seeped through a crack in the cave, momentarily breaking the boundless darkness with its fleeting brilliance.

The light brought hope and awareness, prompting Tortoise to extend its head from Eight Trigram Soup's chest, gazing longingly at the unreachable sky through the vanishing beam of light.

This was their only moment amidst this relentless darkness to perceive the outside world. Once this precious light vanished, Eight Trigram Soup and Tortoise would return to a simulated state of death, until...

Until that enigmatic formation reenacted the inescapable and endless cycle of pain...

━

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Judging from the footprints, he should be hiding nearby...

Having caught wind of the rumored appearance of the Vice Hall Master of the Liantang near his martial arts school, Eight Trigram Soup, concerned for his fellow disciples, hurried from Kongsang to Wudang Mountain to track their whereabouts.

He had followed the footprints for a while but had come up empty-handed. Well, not entirely empty; at least the faint footprints on the ground occasionally reappeared, offering him some direction.

Eight Trigram Soup continued to follow these tracks. However, as he realized the intentional nature of these footprints, seemingly tracing the path of the Eight Trigrams, he had unwittingly entered a ritual formation.

Sensing danger, Tortoise withdrew into Eight Trigram Soup's embrace, but when Eight Trigram Soup first entered the formation, he believed it to be a mere illusion or at worst the formation of a malevolent spirit. And that if he relied on his unique spiritual powers, he would eventually escape. If only he paid more attention…

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Tortoise, don't worry. If we encounter an enemy we can't beat, we can take refuge in hibernation. That way, no one can harm us.

Tortoise nodded in relief, hearing Eight Trigram Soup's words. At that time, they were both being careless, blissfully unaware of the true nature of a formation that not only silenced their powers, but also aimed to devastate their hearts.

━

The disturbance began with an angry bellow. The voice was so piercing that Eight Trigram Soup found himself momentarily stunned upon hearing it...

DEMON EXORCIST : You failed again?! You useless piece of trash! I've given you every opportunity, every resource at my disposal, and you still can't produce a single elixir! You're utterly worthless!

The berating voice drew nearer, accompanied by a menacing whip marked with traces of the past beatings Eight Trigram Soup had endured. The bloodstains on the whip were all from Eight Trigram Soup, and he remembered the origin of each one.

Eight Trigram Soup recognized the approaching figure immediately without even needing to lift his gaze, but his initial resistance proved far too sluggish… And consequently… He took another lash of the whip.

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Ma...ster?

DEMON EXORCIST : What, did getting blown up by the alchemical furnace make you forget who I am? Don't think that you can avoid this. Get up and try again!

DEMON EXORCIST : You can survive in the snow by entering hibernation… You must have a wealth of unique abilities, and the elixirs you create should be just as unique...

The voice’s familiar tone and scathing words brought Eight Trigram Soup back to the time he was taken in by the Demon Exorcist. His rational self acknowledged that the Demon Exorcist was long gone, but his emotions had spiraled beyond his control.

It was during the time he was taken in that Eight Trigram Soup had suffered through all of this. Despite repeatedly emphasizing that he couldn't do anything, the Demon Exorcist believed he could create marvelous potions and elixirs, compelling him to practice alchemy daily.

But here he was—Eight Trigram Soup glanced at his own hands in the midst of the hazy boundary between reality and illusion, realizing that he couldn't accomplish anything. His hands were destined to disappoint the Demon Exorcist.

DEMON EXORCIST : Stop standing there! Get back to the alchemy room! In the art of Maoshan, I've seen you have no talent at all. If you can't even do alchemy...

The Demon Exorcist's words suddenly halted, as he continued with an eerie, calm anger. Eight Trigram Soup did not comprehend the deeper meaning in that gaze. And then, mere days later...

DEMON EXORCIST : The clown-faced craftsmen are attacking. The sect's defensive formation is unstable, and it's on the verge of collapse. You're a member of the Maoshan Sect; it's your duty to do your part.

Jerked from his sleep, Eight Trigram Soup felt dazed and confused. Cold from his head to his toes. He wasn't waking up from a nightmare this time... The despair and pain seeping from the depths of his soul were all too real.

The memory of this event was etched into his soul, and his desire to forget it was futile. The pain of having his flesh cut, tendons severed, and bones dissected was unbearable. He craved life, and at the same time, death seemed an unattainable relief.

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Stop... This is all a lie. It's all a lie, I can't do this...

Rising from his bed, Eight Trigram Soup began to exit the room, but the Demon Exorcist, upon hearing him utter the word "stop," erupted into fury, berating him loudly.

DEMON EXORCIST : What do you mean you can’t do this?! Do you think you can defy me? Me? The one who saved you from the snow? The one who provided you with food and shelter, and the clothes on your back, and gifted you the honor of being my senior disciple? Get back to the alchemy room!

Eight Trigram Soup turned to run out of the room at this point, but the furious Demon Exorcist got ahead of him, his voice stifling any protest.

DEMON EXORCIST : Stop standing there! Get back to the alchemy room! In the art of Maoshan, I've seen you have no talent at all. If you can't even do alchemy...

It was at this moment that Eight Trigram Soup finally understood everything. He had entered a cycle of rebirth, and in a cycle, there was no end, no beginning, no death, and no rest.

By now, that tiny flicker of light, that singular ray from the crack in the cave, had long vanished, and the surrounding darkness returned. Exhausted, Eight Trigram Soup closed his eyes and entered a state of meditative hibernation once more.

━

OPTION 1 : “Eight Trigram Soup… Wake up…” A shake of Eight Trigram Soup in attempt to wake him. And right as he closed his eyes to embrace the coming cycle once again, he seemed to hear a faint and distant cry. A voice so familiar to Eight Trigram Soup that, even in hearing but a vague whisper, he recognized it... OPTION 2 : “Eight Trigram Soup, I’m here to save you!” As Eight Trigram Soup closed his eyes to embrace the impending cycle, he heard another familiar voice, one that he just couldn't forget. Nor could he help but smile weakly in his slumber... EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : I can’t believe it, Tortoise… We’ve barely even begun to hibernate, and already I hear Master’s voice calling to me... Maybe this cycle’s already driven me crazy...

Eight Trigram Soup shook his head, as if to dispel such delusive thoughts from his mind, before patting Tortoise gently, and closing his eyes once more...

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Sleep, Tortoise... In our slumber, we won't feel the pain...

OPTION 1 : Embrace Eight Trigram Soup… Feeling the embrace, Eight Trigram Soup suddenly opened his eyes. However, before he could make out the figure before him, the cycle of illusion had started once again… OPTION 2 : Wake Eight Trigram Soup… Feeling someone shaking him, Eight Trigram Soup suddenly opened his eyes. But it was too late… The environment had already shifted to accommodate the cycle once more, and he failed to discern the figure calling out to him…

EIGHT TRIGRAM SOUP : Master... Is it really you…?

Trapped amidst the instability of time and space, Eight Trigram Soup could only utter his master's name before being drawn into the cycle anew...

[letsgoshadows]

Starting Line

Xavier had been with the Shadow Company a little over three months– eighty seven days, he knows, could probably guess it down to the hour if he was pressed, and rounds up anyways– when he first met Lieutenant Rockanstansky.

He had needed Mbabazi. His direct superior, yes, but far more than that, far more than the men he could say the same of in the Army were to him, and he would know what to do. Because this wasn’t the Army– and thank God for that. The leash was longer, the collar looser, but when it snapped on you, you had far more to worry about than a discharge. Which was why he needed Mbabazi to sort it out. If it were only him and Fontaine involved, he could handle it. Could handle his bullshit. Knock his teeth out if he was really pressed. But the big, mean son of a bitch had dragged his guys into it, dragged the new kid into it too, made a big goddamn problem of it rather than hashing it out with him outside like real men.

He knocked at the office door, stood at attention, and waited. Shifted his feet a little further apart after he checked his laces and found that he was standing with them close. The lock clicked and the gathered the breath needed for the lines he’d rehearsed and– 

It wasn’t his Sergeant who opened the door. A masked face, eyes perfectly level with his own behind thick tortoise shell aviators. “Ah,” they had said, like he’d shown up right on time. Actually made him doublethink, had he been called and forgot, but then remembered enough for his brain to make something up? “Sergeant,” they leant back into the room, hand still on the door. “I believe your man is here. Spared us the effort of going to find him.” Mbabazi had said something, too quiet for him to really make out but his low voice carried enough to let him know he’d spoken. When they leant back out they’d fixed him with an analytical look, a contemplative sweep over him that made him self conscious of the faults he didn’t even know he had. “You’re here about James?” Was Fontaine’s first name James? He didn’t look like a James. But then again, what he looked like wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you could name a baby. And James, the other James, he’d hardly ever spoken to, let alone had an issue with. So this had to be about Fontaine. “Yessir.” He hoped. They’d nodded, just once, and he knew they were done with him.

He stepped to the side, which they acknowledged with a polite nod as they passed, attention already shifted back to the documents in hand, and he slipped inside before turning to watch them go. 

And that is what they are to him for nearly half a year. A tall body, a broad back clad in Shadows black even when they could have dressed down, and a head of shorn off strawberry blonde hair, disappearing down a hall.

In the five months since then, he’s learned a great many things about the life of a mercenary.

Mostly what Mbabzi teaches him. Starting with the fact that he can rely on him to set things right, that even here there were good men and bad men.

He learns that he can choose which he’s going to be, and that you make that choice every day.

He also learns a hell of a lot about explosives. About materials and how they behave when they’re blown up, set on fire, crushed with a hammer, shot full of bullets, or destroyed in any other way he can think of. He learns that he’s a good fit for extraction. Strong, reliable, and safe. Inert, Mbabazi tells him once. Stable and unreactive under the specified conditions, the chemistry textbook he pirates later that night adds. That means that he can go through anything he’s asked to, no matter how hot it gets, and come out the other side intact. It makes him indispensable, lets him make himself so, and it sets him up for a long career in this company. So long as he can survive the lifestyle, the one he learns is a hard one. 

The money, though, is good. If he weren’t as aware of his shortcomings as he is, he might say that was what kept him around.

The others blow theirs as soon as it comes to them. Drugs, women, top shelf alcohol that doesn’t even taste all that much better than the cheap stuff. He likes the drugs too, maybe too much, but he lived in Boston long enough to know what any of them do to you if you take too much, too long. Besides that, prefers his women willing and enthused, not on a payroll. They come to him easy, though, too easy, some part of him knows, and he supposes that makes him say it. If he were like the others, too broken inside and out to lure in anyone near without the promise of a paycheck at the end of it, he might feel differently. But as it stands, he has his pick of the litter. So his money goes elsewhere. He saves part, sends part home. It goes towards his parents' mortgage and his sister's college. When the others ask, and they don’t ask often, he lies. He lies because this is not a job for a man with a family he loves.

The missions are grueling and thankless in a way Army work wasn’t. Hard and dangerous— the people even more so. In eight months he’s seen three men die, men that weren’t meant to, men he knew the names of. One choked on his own blood as it filled his lungs, one burned, and one dead on impact. He knew each time that the next time, if he got careless, if he was unlucky, that could be him too. But he won’t be leaving any orphans.

Not that he knows, anyways. And you can’t fault yourself for what you don’t know.

He learned after joining, for instance, that Russia has been in Iran since the eighteen hundreds. Or, since the 19th century, which he is pretty sure means the eighteen hundreds. And that people have been fighting them since then, hiring people to push them out. It hasn’t worked yet, but that’s never stopped anyone.

It was included in the debrief for the initial mission in the area, a few weeks back. Why they were there, the history and the impact. He doesn’t know if many cared, doesn’t know if he cared all that much, but it was interesting. Meant that someone cared. Felt the need to inform them even when it was all but wasted.

That first mission had gone… decently. Sort of. They got what they needed done, but it was sloppy. No deaths, but Cruz and Moltalvo had gotten hurt, Moltalvo badly. Out of commission for at least a few weeks. Maybe more if the grafts didn’t take right away.

Forever, if they didn’t take at all. The Commander had been angrier than he’d ever seen him. He’d seen people dressed down before, pulled out of the line while he listed off everything they’d gotten wrong. Shouted in their faces, made some of them cry with the abuse. All standard fare for a job with stakes like theirs.

He hadn’t been worried, though. As bad as it felt, and it felt bad, man, to be on the other side of his anger, of his disappointment, he knew it wasn’t him who’d fucked up. Then it had turned into a fucking lynch mob. He’d pulled Benson and Daniels out, same as usual, but when he went for his hip holster, when his pistol grip made contact with Daniel’s temple, dropped the man into a kneel, Xavier knew it would be different. Benson had recognized this, followed suit right after, falling to his knees trying to avoid the same. It hadn’t worked. Graves stood over them both, drove a kick right into his chest, yelling even as he wheezed and doubled. It was ostensibly on behalf of the men hurt, but Xavier knew it wasn’t. It was because they’d fucked up and embarassed the Commander. Made a goddamn joke of the reputation he’d worked so hard to earn, cost him money and time and personnel. Those two were lucky to be alive after what they’d done, what he’d heard they’d done, at least, let alone to have a job at the end of it.

It’s why he wasn’t surprised when he’d invited the others to join in. They were angry too, the only thing keeping it buckled beneath the surface being the fear of reprisal from the boss, and letting them burn it off where it actually belonged only made the punishment easier. Xavier had stood off to the side, watching frozen as the others crowded around. The violence had blurred, his heart beating too fast to let him remember what he had even seen then. Raised voices, the smell of blood. Daniels threw up. Someone had kicked him hard in the stomach. He could have sworn he saw the blood in it. It made him step back, the movement drawing attention. The Commander’s head had snapped up, gaze fixed on him. And he’d asked him what was wrong, low and slow. Why was he standing out? It was the first time he’d ever had such undivided attention from the man. So he’d answered, fumbled something out that he never really heard himself, and that seemed to put out a little of his anger. He tucked his gun away.

And then it was over. He ordered two of them to drag Benson and Daniels off, another to clean up the mess. The rest were dismissed and told not to fuck up the same way.

Left unscathed, it made Xavier all the warier of misstepping. He thinks the Commander knew that too, saw it in his eyes; he’s been on and off of missions since then, in the rotation far more often than most. It makes his bones ache, layers bruise on bruise, but it hurts just right. Keeps his blood pumping, earns him scars with stories, and learns him right. That’s how he knows it’s bad, things gone from tense to desperate, when the Commander calls his Lieutenant down from the tower. Five months and he’d seen them only in passing, a polite nod when their paths crossed or a hop to attention. Only heard their name passed quietly around tables in what he took as a familiar respect, or spit in contempt. He can guess why. The authority chain within the Shadows works as so: Graves, then everyone else. The other officers included. The exception is the Lieutenant.

Operating in that grey space between the top and the rest, the only one whose word is as good as Graves when he’s not around. Not well liked, not by the people Xavier speaks to, works with, but well respected by those closer to them. Carrying a kind of undeniability with them. 

(Them, not him or her, he learned a few weeks in. Some people said otherwise, made sure everyone knew who they meant with the venom in their voices, but the Commander was clear in the way he addressed them. The Lieutenant was something else entirely and that was not up for question.)

When the brief came in the morning before, it’s their name on it that changes the energy of the room completely. It would be them and the Commander both on this one. A low boiling tension, a kind of vicious excitement that simmered under the guise of enthusiasm for the job, swelled in the room. There would be no room for fuckups today, lest either of them catch sight of it.

He wonders if that’s why they stay up in the cockpit with Graves until they’re fifteen minutes out from touchdown. Giving them a moment longer to prepare before they arrive.

When they do come out it’s different from before, the shape of them shrouded in the same heavy gear as him, but still recognizable by the breadth of their shoulders, their stride, towards, rather than away this time. 

They halt at the first row of seats, arms folded behind their back, scan their eyes over the assembled men.

They stop on him, just briefly, and he can’t help but thrill at the sight. They’re of a height with him, but carry themselves with the kind of bearing that sets them miles higher. He wants to earn that kind of attention.

The others bristle, mumble complaints soft enough to keep them from hearing, but fall in line all the same.

(All but the ones with the eye tattoos. The tiny things inked dark and clear that he sees sometimes when he passes their table during downtime, glancing over to see if he can join them, should join them, though he hardly speaks a lick of Spanish, let alone Arabic or Hebrew or Russian or anything else the men there are speaking.)

(They sit a little taller, a little straighter, and he thinks he does too. There was more to them than the insults, the rumors, the hate. They’d been here too fucking long to have earned that vitriol and not made it back in respect along the way.)

“You all know who I am?”

Shadow 0-2. Control. 

Peril.

(He knows the name is a joke, too. Half of a pair that the Commander doesn’t wear his side of, but he doesn’t get it.)

“Yes, LT!”

“Well, alright.” He can’t see their mouth, what of their face wasn’t perpetually hidden behind a mask was now hidden behind goggles and a helmet, a muzzle-like respirator, but he can hear it. He thinks.

“It’s been a while, but I’m glad to see most of you still around,” The words come out in well formed, largely unaccented English. “Most of you.”

If they’re from the States, he couldn’t speak to where. Nor could he say where else. Not England, he’s sure, but past that he couldn't say. They sound educated in that way that peels the accent off of anyone, the way that he doesn’t think he could ever be, the Boston lilt marked too deeply into his voice to be taken seriously.

They run through the mission, secure, extract, rinse, and repeat, six buildings belonging to a shell company that filtered Russian arms into Central Asia, and from there into India and the Middle East, same as Graves had told them before they left, but with an utterly different air to it. If they had been to begin with, they were not smiling anymore.

The Commander smiles, gestures, looks you in the eye while he talks. Takes your shoulder when he needs you to listen closely, leans in and lowers his voice when he needs you to feel important. They talk into the middle distance, sweeping their eyes across the audience, hands moving like talking was what they did to make a living, rather than killing.

He’d been to a college a few times as a teenager. Not to college, but inside of one, touring them in case that was what he wanted to do with his life. It wasn’t, of course, he was built for learning with his body more than learning by listening to others speak, but he remembers it well.

The voice of the graduate professor who’d agreed to give a lecture to the group of listless highschool juniors, the way her voice carried in the hall. He remembers leaning over to his seat mate, some boy that counted him as a friend that he hadn’t liked much but hadn’t done anything annoying enough to tell him to fuck off– he’d wanted to make some smarmy comment to make him laugh. Just to do something besides sit and feel stupid. Before he’d even had the words all the way out, she was calling to him. Asking if he had a question, saying that if he wanted her to answer, he would have to speak up. He, unable to back down, had tried to think of something, muster something up about whatever she’d been talking about. The people around him had snickered into their fists, the boy next to him included. They knew he was dumb, everyone knew that except the too-earnest professor, and those snickers had turned into legitimate laughs as she did her best to actually answer his stupid question.

The ghost of embarrassment rolls down his back, beneath the layers of kevlar and polyester, and he pushes the memory down, tunes back into the present.

It would be 1-2 through 1-5 with the Commander, no surprise there, 4-1 covering for his Sergeant and taking his usual team, which left everyone else with… 

“With me, 3-4, 2-3, and 2-5.”

Before he can really register that he’s been forgotten, the Commander whistles, sauntering up from the cockpit with his helmet in hand, and lays his free hand on their lower back. 

“0-5.” Xavier does his best to repress the jolt that runs through him. Repress the memory of his eyes on him. Of Benson on his knees, of Daniel choking on his own vomit. 

They turn and look at him, not snappishly, but still in a way that makes him tense. You didn’t question in the Army and you certainly don’t question here.

“Extra hand. He’s our new Yamoto.” He’d never met the man– he’d been long gone by the time he’d arrived, much less been chosen to train up as his replacement, but he’s heard his name often. 

“Understood.” And the pressure ebbs. 

It doesn’t leave, it never really leaves when you’re in a life-and-death kind of career, but it mellows.

“Are we all clear on what is to be done today?” Graves takes the reins back and the LT all but fades into the backdrop.

“Yep yep!” It echoed in the little space, louder than the people in there should have been able to make it. “S’what I like to hear.” He chuckles. “We land in ten. Be ready.”

They disappear to the front again on the Commander’s heels. With them behind him, he disappears entirely from sight. It’s no stretch of the imagination to see them doing that on purpose, a warm body between the man they all follow into danger and the danger they follow him into.

The men beside him jostle in a way that couldn’t be passed off as simple turbulence. He keeps his eyes in his lap.

No one speaks, the mics are about to go hot and no one wants to be caught with their CO’s name in their mouth like that, but it makes him think of the things he’s heard elsewhere. Some made his skin crawl enough that he can hardly recall them, save for the lingering feeling of discomfort. 

But some bled together, knit a kind of picture of who they were, filtered with the kind of distaste usually reserved for strict teachers and the parents of spoiled children who’d had enough. They were all ex-military, some with a decade or more under their belts already, and… what? It felt too easy to assume it was the… gender thing. He was no expert in hating women, but the tint to the complaints didn’t seem to point that way. They got that way sometimes, sure, but the better portion was standard military bitching. Vague threats, the promise that they could do better, never mind what they’d have to do to get their position, the works. Maybe they were the worst of the lot. Isn’t that the expression– it’s always the quiet ones? 

Maybe he’d just not been around long enough to see it, maybe he’d see it today, but with the way the same men say his Sergeant’s name when they think he can’t hear, he’s hesitant to believe anything they say.

What he does know: No one has been with the Company as long. His Sergeant came close, by mere months, same as a few others collected early on, but none quite as long as them. No one stood quite as close to Graves, dared to look him so dead on when they spoke. The Lieutenant always seemed to know where they stood with an enviable certainty.

And they would be the one leading him.

The plane sets down on a patch of freshly leveled, clearcut jungle that one could generously call an airstrip. The landing is smooth as it can be for a makeshift touchdown, Gibson is a hell of a pilot, pulled them through fire before, but he still feels every rock and bit of gravel like they’re stuck in his teeth. 

He’s one of the last to pile off, and when he can’t find them at the head of the pack, he turns back to look at the plane.

They’re halfway down the cockpit stairs, their respirator pulled down beneath their chin, eyes closed. It strikes him so oddly that he doesn’t think to look away, that he’s witnessing something private. 

They draw a breath through their mouth, long and slow, then hold it just a moment longer before releasing it. Their eyes open and they quickly go about resetting the respirator over their nose, adjusting the strap holding it in place until it was like it had never been removed. 

Their head rises, gaze meets his, and they tense.

He’s acknowledged with a flash of the fingers– a sign? He doesn’t sign, has a hard time believing they wouldn’t know that, and struggles for a response. They pass him without further acknowledgement. 

Maybe that’s the point; something here was communicated that he has no way to understand.

He follows them back to the pack anyways. From there they divide up, do final checks, and part into the brush.

His team, the Lieutenants team, tracks the long way around in silence. Through the jungle, 2-3 carefully probing for IEDs as they do, and over a series of barbed wire and cinder block walls. One, he notices, stands alone. A wall unconnected to any others. It has a line of bullet holes in it. About neck high on him, broken up by gaps just wide enough to fit his shoulders into. He makes a point not to notice any more on the hour or so march before they reach their target. They ready up to breach the first warehouse as soon as it comes into view– the other teams in position to do the same all over the complex. All at once, together as Shadows. Don’t give them time to know what’s happening. 

There’s seven inside. 2-3 confirms it on his camera. Going about their lives. Hostile. Armed. “No hesitation,” they remind gently. Beside him, 2-5 nods to himself and Xavier thinks the reminder wasn’t for him. They split up, then, the Lieutenant beckoning him to follow. They take him around the far side, while their men handle the front side door. Radios are live, the quiet sounds of movement on the other side as the others get into position. “Set,” they whisper, wary of being heard inside. “Ready?” The Commander asks.

“Ready,” 2-5 confirms for all of them. The others follow suit.

The first gunshots break out in the distance. First far to the west, with 0-4. Then to the north with the Commander. 

“Door,” they whisper, and he’s moving before the word is even done.

He can see clear through the building as it swings open under his sledge, see the other trio claim their kills with ease, one after the other and before he can even pull his rifle. The Lieutenant takes one through the head as he tries to come at them with a knife, then another at the same time that one of the others catches him in the back.

The last two fall together, one pierced through the shoulder by the same bullet that opened his brother's neck. He doesn’t die immediately, hitting the concrete with a bloody, gurgled scream and another bullet finds the space between cheek and jaw before he can turn his head enough to confirm his loss. 

“Reloading.” It’s all they say before confirming the others are ready to continue, and heading forward.

He keeps his rifle up, checking for hideouts as steps over the bodies, the two men about his age whose eyelids still twitch with the last ounces of life in them. The others pay no attention to their own, save for 2-3 frisking down the bodies as the others stand watch.

Before she finds anything, though, the radio crackles to life.

“Need help at six.” He thinks he can recognize 4-1’s voice. Nervous, though, whoever it is. Weren’t they meant to be at warehouse five? “More than we thought. 0-4 got nicked– not bad, but it cut right through his armor, and–”

“Identify hostiles,” They order immediately, voice almost artificially leveled.

“We have a bead on twelve. Men on foot inside the warehouse, two levels. Has eyes on us.”

“Nationality, providence,” They hiss.

“Armament,” the Commander adds, low and sharp.

“Iranian militia,” 4-1 growls. “Better armed than the fuckin’ convoys we passed going in. Russkie money filtering through here.” Which meant better armed than the men here. He looks to the two boys, with the rifles older than they were, older than they’d ever be, now, and spares a thought to the briefing he’d kept folded up on his desk. Then returns his attention to the person he is sure now to have written it.

They shake their head, but go quiet. Thoughtful silence, he thinks. They seem like the thoughtful kind.

They linger on the button and he watches, soft– and how does he know they’re soft?– fingertips stroking it idly as the silence draws long. He doesn’t know how long passes before they press it, leaning into their shoulder.

“Commander?” Graves sighs. 

“I’m thinkin’, Peril.” The way he says their name makes him shiver. How can it rest so easy in his mouth? Experience? Or did it come with the title? “Don’t rush me unless you have a better idea.” They pull their fingers away.

The operative word there, he knows, is better. It’s a challenge. 

Mbabazi does that, sometimes, too when someone won’t quit pushing. Not enough to punish outright, but too much to tolerate. So you set them up to learn a lesson, let them reveal their own faults so that you can excise them.

The Lieutenant does no such thing. They heel, wait for his word. 

Still as a statue they wait, shrouded entirely in black. They all are, head to toe and near identical, but they had always been covered that way. He’d never seen their face before today. Trying to connect it, the now-blurry image in his head, to the person he was looking at felt like trying to put a face to a tombstone. Someone you knew once but would not ever see again. He hoped it was otherwise, but–

He hears a tongue click and his eyes snap back to the radio, like there’s anything more to see than their hand wrapped around it. 

“4-1, you and yours are gonna sit tight. Do not engage and do not move until we come and join you.” Oh, he was mad.

“I’ll collect the LT, get us ready for a firefight, keep the scene tight, and be with you in ten. Fifteen, max.”

“In the meantime, our mission is clearance, not containment. You see someone running and you put them the fuck down. This is a closed scene and American Ops aren’t welcome here. We understood?”

He responds on reflex, confirming his agreement like it actually matters here, despite the call button remaining distinctly undepressed.

3-4 throws him a look. He flips him off while the others aren’t looking.

“Peril, you come and find me. Round the back of warehouse five.” “Yessir,” they echo gently into their silenced radio.

They spare a look to 2-3, who nods, holding her rifle aloft again.

It’s a short trek between buildings, though with 4-1’s warning in mind they take it far slower, more cautiously than before. They make for the edges of the clearing, where the foggy floodlights don’t quite penetrate, and stay there in the shadows until they sight Graves.

They pick up their pace to meet him, the Lieutenant quickly taking their place closest to him. He stays close to the Lieutenant as they do, trailing their heels just a few feet back, and hears the Commander hiss as they come to his side. “Fuckin’ worthless.” The Lieutenant either does not hear this, or willingly ignores it. “Put them on cover, go in ourselves?”

“Gonna have to.” He spits. “You, me, Heliodor?” He shakes his head. “Want a better rifle. Keller.” “Keller,” they echo dully. “And Baby. Need a hammer.” Their head tilts.

“Baby?” He isn’t sure how to take the incredulity in their voice, but he tries not to take it personally.

“0-5,”  the Commander drawls, the curl of his mouth pressing the words into shape as he tips his head towards them. He thinks he hears them snort behind the mask. “Ah, Wolffe. Cute.” It was not an amused ‘cute’.

“Get us ready,” he snaps. They stiffen, but confirm they will as he stalks off to retrieve the needed men.

The Lieutenant doesn’t seem worried, though, crouching down and popping their computer case open on their knees. He stands loosely beside them, just in case. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t make an effort to know more than is offered to him. But when their hand comes up, trying to shield the screen from the full moon, he shifts to the right. Puts his bulk, if you could call it that, between them and it. A little laugh wells from them, barely enough to hear, let alone recognize as a laugh, if he hadn’t been listening for their response so carefully.

“Thank you, Wolffe.” They tap away a few minutes, 2-3 coming over to deliver their gear to them. They trade a few objects, allow him to fasten a few to their armor, then shut the laptop and pass it off to him. 

“Good luck, LT,” he tells them with a pat on the arm. Then, catches him off guard by addressing him as well. “You too, Baby. Stay safe.” 

Unsure what to say, he lets the man take off for the larger group being sorted out by Graves.

He returns a moment later with Keller in tow. With the others stalking off, taking stock of the area again and keeping it clear for them to work, their own team starts for the building. 

They had been tipped off by the firefights earlier, it would be a careful creep towards the building. The windows are dark, cloudy panes of old plate glass embedded in rusty metal siding. Along the side of the building, leading up to the only door they could reasonably get to with the floodlights illuminating all other avenues, is a narrow fire escape, leading up to a balcony. “You wanna take the lead, Peril? You got the camera.” Their head dips and they slide past him to take point. “Step to the outside, reduces noise,” they instruct at the bottom of the steps. They follow them up the iron fire escape in single file. At the top of the stairs, they crouch to get an eye beneath the door frame. “Wolffe, here,” they whisper. He’s at their side before he can even digest the order. “Wedge the door up for me, enough space for a snake.” He pulls a knife off his belt, the one he’d won off of Fontaine that had gotten them into that fight all those months back, and bends the blade prying the door up. He focuses on keeping it that way, even as Graves leans over him, puts his weight on his shoulder. The space is small, Keller can’t even fit up there with them, he was just trying to see what Peril– the Lieutenant– was looking at.

“East, just one for now,”  they order. 

The ordered shot rings, followed by a harsh machine sound and a dull flash of light from inside. They lean in towards the Commander.

“Half a second?” Graves sniffs. 

“Plus the turn.” His voice is low and tense, but cooler than he thinks he’d be in the circumstance. 

“Second and a half,” they amend.

“Think so?”

They turn over their shoulder to glance at him, pulling the camera back and coiling it as they do. 

“How fast can you get the door open, given the space we have?” Meaning: without blowing it up.

He slips up between them, heart picking up speed at the space being yielded to him by them both. The door itself was solid, iron shell over wood and set in a metal frame, but sliding his fingers around it he can tell that it’s a metal brace– more for appearances of security than actual impenetrability. The whole warehouse was built that way, some Cold War relic with too many coats of paint to make it look new again to people who didn’t know better. (Something about that initial brief comes back up in his memory, connecting to the thought in a way he can’t quite place, but it’s quickly replaced with more immediately pressing concerns.) “I can take it off fast, no problem, but they’ll hear it.” They nod and a giddy kind of warmth blooms in his chest. Just doing something right wasn’t cause for celebration, but it feels like it is in the moment, coming from them. “Understood. Keller, Graves, cover?” Both affirm. “Ready.” They slide past, ready to join in right behind. The screws holding the door hinges on are so old that once the solvent eats away the paint on them, they all but crumble away under his screwdriver. Testing it with his fingers reveals that the lock is all that holds it on.

“All ready?” His voice almost surprises him, the edge to it sounding unlike him. Nothing for it but to lean into it, though.

“Ready,” the three echo. He raises his hammer high.

The door cracks, spins on its corner, and falls to the side as they come out onto the balcony. Keller and Graves each take a guard on the rail, while the Lieutenant drops the man on the chain gun, before it can even begin to whir. 

The other men scramble to recover, one taken by Graves when he goes for the mounted gun and another by Keller when he gets a bead on the LT as they duck out of cover for their own shot. 

He’d dropped his hammer in the same motion he’d taken the lock off with, just to get it out of the way faster, but drawing a rifle took time and the fight was all but over  already. The men inside were scattered and panicking and no budget on imported gear can make up for you dropping your gun. 

Graves picks off another, and the LT takes the one beside him. Keller sends one stumbling, coughing, when whatever he’d been hiding behind starts to smoke, the rounds fired into it setting something off inside, wandering right into the LT’s line of sight.

Another follows, then another, one without a gun in his hands, and he picks off one of his own when he darts between crates. He kills the man who tries to drag him back into cover, too.

One, he doesn’t even see him until his rifle is peering over the balcony, and a shot from the LT sends him right back down the ladder. That– was that twelve? It had to be, but it felt like more– “Cover,” The Commander demands as he moves to slide down the ladder. The sound of his boots hitting the cement are muffled in the chest of the man who’d fallen, quickly kicked aside. Keller follows. The Lieutenant issues him down before themselves, a large hand splayed on his shoulder that he feels even once it’s pulled away.

There’s silence on the first floor, but for the sound of their footsteps, their breathing. Each row of crates yielding nothing but gently bleeding bodies, surreptitiously checked for life and then forgotten, as the silence grows deeper. Then, a horrible, proud yell from the lone survivor, a blur of movement in his peripheries, spattered in others blood as he rears up from behi—

The sound is cut short. His knife, wickedly curved and shining even in the dingy light, clatters to the ground. The Commander has to step to the side to avoid the body tipping over onto him.

“That was fourteen,” the Lieutenant grits, popping the clip from their rifle.

“Check,” The Commander snaps in the same breath.

4-3 retrieves the small screened device from the Lieutenant’s back.

“Only things in here are us and the rats, Commander.” The waver in his voice betrays his upset, despite the aggressive professionalism employed.

And that was that. Mission accomplished. 

The walk is still nearly an hour back to the plane, but somehow it feels shorter this time. With the sun coming up, Keller and Graves leading the pack again and keeping watch for mines, he’s not watching his steps as carefully, and he can let his mind wander. Walking closer to the Lieutenant, he falls into a steady  pace beside them, struggling to think of something to say that he wouldn’t hate himself for tomorrow. By the time he finally settles on asking about their name, the plane appears through the gaps in the trees, and he decides to save it for later. Graves breaks away immediately, saying nothing. He meets the waiting pilot at the door, exchanges what could have only been a handful of words, and climbs the cockpit steps inside. That leaves the Lieutenant for final checks with the rest of the Shadows. Going through each of them as they board, reporting injuries back to base ahead of time, making sure everything is strapped in for the flight, and ensuring that 4-0 isn’t gonna bleed out before they get back. It’s peaceful, really. The fear, of the Commander, mostly, but also of his Lieutenant’s presence among them, means it’s quiet. But they don’t bother him like they do the others, even less so now that he’s been under fire with them. It’s comfortable, almost. Once the engines start up, he can hardly hear himself breathe. Sometimes, he has to remind himself to when it feels like he isn’t. They move so quietly around the room he wonders if they breathe at all. It’s a stupid thought, he knows, but seeing them work, carefully zip up the long diagonal line that crosses 4-0’s back, it makes him feel… He doesn’t know.

He likes it, though. The Lieutenant leaves after the graze is clean, sealed to their satisfaction. They toss him a spare shirt and some instruction, and make their exit. They say nothing to him, which he tells himself does not hurt, is to be expected.

No one else speaks either, even once they’re gone. The mission is done, in short order too, but something feels… wrong.

The uneasy  peace holds that way, tense and awkward, until they’re in the air. Cruising altitude. The plane levels out and the Commander comes through the door hard enough to throw it into the wall.

“Who the fuck said twelve!” Xavier hadn’t been in any danger of falling asleep, but he’d certainly turned off the part of his brain that dealt with danger, giving it a rest after the hours of work it had put in. Having to start it up quickly made him jolt, made his head swim. “I want to know right now who the fuck put me and my people in danger like that!” He’d taken his helmet off, which in the quick track change from safety to danger, makes Xavier worry. Like it means someone is gonna hurt him, because he wasn’t ready. That thought makes him tense, nearly undo his belt and get to his feet as 4-1 rises. He tries to say something, tries to argue, he thinks, but Xavier can’t hear it over the roar of blood in his ears. Graves responds in kind, louder, angrier, and so does 4-1. He wouldn’t lay a hand on him, right? None of them would, the Commander– Movement catches his eye. The glint of mirrored glass. The Lieutenant is in the doorway. He relaxes before he even realizes he is. If they’re there, if they aren’t charging in… It was alright. They thought it was safe. They wouldn’t let anything happen to Graves. He realizes he’s staring when they give him a little wave, an unspoken: ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’

He tries to refocus on the argument, but it seems to be over.

“Then what the fuck do we pay you for?” The Commander throws him back into the seats. His head makes an ugly sound where it hits the frame. 

“Fuck up like that again, it’s not the goddamn Russians you have to worry about, you fuckin’ understand me?”

4-1 mumbles something like ‘Yes, Sir.’, but Graves isn’t around to hear it. The Lieutenant shuts the door behind him. He hears the lock click.

It’s quiet again, deadly so, after that, until they make it home.

The hangar crew is waiting there on arrival, the assistant medic whose name has yet to stick in his head there for 4-0.

And that’s it, really. No more fanfare. Seems to him like the Commander had worn himself out on the flight back, would handle everything else later. They’re dismissed back to do as they like, reports due in the next twelve hours.

(In his head, he had already begun rehearsing his, using the little frame Mbabazi had given him. Cause and effect, what happened and why he thinks it did, how to attribute it to the people who did it. It made him feel like he was back in highschool again, but–) He’s halfway to the inner door, head deep in his own concerns, when they find him. A hand catches his arm, not roughly, which is the first clue as to who it is, but he doesn’t register that until he’s already turning to face them. He comes to a heel reflexively, before they even signal that they’re going to speak. Before he can ask, he’s frozen in place.

They’d replaced their goggles and muzzle with their usual again, beret gone and pale hair plastered to their head with sweat. It makes his teeth hurt, makes him feel hot. He isn’t focusing and he needs to, but their tac vest is open and hanging off like they’d been in the middle of taking it off and the last thing in the world he needs to think about is Graves’ lieutenant taking anything off and– They smile at him. Their face is still covered, all hidden but the bridge of their nose and what he can see beneath the glass of their glasses, but he recognizes the expression from that alone. “You did well today, Wolffe. I’m glad to have you with us.” They say it with a little nod that makes a curl of light, nearly pink looking, red hair that’s slipped from the rest bounce. They reach up to tuck it back behind their ear and he notes, ever so briefly, the slight shine to their nails. Painted, clear. Short and neat, at the end of long, pale fingers, marked with simple black eyes over each joint. 

Then they’re gone again, a new memory of the way they look pacing away from him to usurp the old.

[thecreaturecodex]

Tortle

Image © Wizards of the Coast

[The tortle is a monster that originated in Basic D&D before migrating over to AD&D in the Mystara Monstrous Compendium. In 5e, they first appeared in Tomb of Annihilation, then as a playable race in a PDF sold by WoTC, then in Mordenkainen's. Tortles have gone back and forth as PC species vs. monster, but I'm more interested in them as monsters. Humanoids are allowed to have Hit Dice sometimes. I did want to put a spin on them, namely, making them a bit more like real tortoises. Tortles traditionally have shorter lifespans than humans and are semelparous, dying after they lay eggs. That's weird, especially for an anthro tortoise, so I changed that. I also made them generally polysexual and promiscuous, in part because it fits with real tortoise behavior, and in part to drive a wedge between "lawful" and "boring". D&D has long characterized lawful characters and cultures as stodgy and boring, presumably because lots of D&D players like to think of themselves as rebels. Which is funny, considering that the hobby is taking make-believe and adding more rules.]

Tortle CR 2 LG Humanoid This creature appears to be a humanoid tortoise, with a bulky shell and clawed hands. It has a steady, calm expression.

Tortles are peaceful wandering humanoids of turtle-like aspect. It is said that a tortle’s home is on their back, and most tortles travel throughout their lives. Those few settlements that tortles make are agricultural in nature, farming the land for a few years and then moving on to clear new land and allow the old to return to a natural state. A few tortles live and work here full time, and these communities serve as waystations for tortles to rest, socialize and raise children. Tortles can live for more than a hundred years easily, and have several clutches of young during that time. Parenting duties are shared by the entire community as a matter of course. Something that surprises many outsiders is that most tortles practice free love; they care little for monogamy, are frequently pansexual, and may pursue romantic relationships with members of other species.

Tortles rarely come into conflict with non-evil humanoids, as they are peaceful and patient creatures. They usually fight only to defend themselves, which they can do with their clawed hands or with weapons. If a tortle is sorely pressed, it will often withdraw into its shell and hope that its foe gives up, or to give reinforcements time to catch up to them. Tortles are decent swimmers, and may flee a losing fight by stepping into a nearby river and floating downstream to safety. When defending their community, they work together in units called warbales.

Tortles advance by character class, with paladin, cleric and monk common choices. Few tortles become evil, but even fewer become chaotic. They venerate a number of spirits of nature and order with honorifics instead of names; Mother Earth, Father Ocean, Sister Grain and Brother Shell. Treat this as worshiping a pantheon with access to the following domains: Earth, Law, Plant, Protection, and Water. Clerics of the tortle pantheon can access the Defense, Growth, Loyalty, Ocean and Solitude subdomains

Tortle    CR 2 XP 600 LG Medium humanoid (tortle) Init +0; Senses low-light vision, Perception +5 Defense AC 17, touch 10, flat-footed 17 (+7 natural) hp 22 (4d8+4) Fort +3, Ref +1, Will +5 Defensive Abilities shell defense Offense Speed 20 ft. Melee 2 claws +5 (1d4+2) or spear +5 (1d8+3/x3) Ranged light crossbow +3 (1d8/19-20) Statistics Str 15, Dex 10, Con 13, Int 11, Wis 12, Cha 10 Base Atk +3; CMB +5; CMD 15 Feats Endurance (B), Great Fortitude, Self Sufficient Skills Heal +10, Perception +5, Survival +10, Swim +10; Racial Modifier +4 Swim Languages Common, Tortle SQ buoyant, hold breath Ecology Environment warm land Organization solitary, bale (4-9), warbale (10-24 plus 1 leader of 3rd-5th level) or tribe (30-300 plus 1 leader of 3rd-5th level per 20 individuals and 50% noncombatants) Treasure standard (spear, light crossbow, 20 bolts, other treasure) Special Abilities Buoyant (Ex) A tortle gains a +4 racial bonus to Swim checks, and can rise to the surface of a body of water without making a Swim check if it chooses to do so. Shell Defense (Ex) As a move action, a tortle can withdraw into its shell. When withdrawn, it gains a +6 natural armor bonus to its AC and a +6 racial bonus to CMD, but can only take purely mental actions or emerge from its shell as a move action. A tortle gains no benefit from wearing armor.

[rothjuje]

Less than 16 days left in Texas.

There are so many parts to moving (going through and getting rid of stuff, selling this house, market research, finding the next house, buying the next house, saying goodbyes) that the 3.5 in between weeks from leaving TX and arriving in Georgetown have been overlooked. But to be fair we didn’t know they wanted a rent back until they had already accepted our offer.

We priced out air bnbs but there are a few issues. First we still need to be within 90 minutes from Justin’s job for him to commute. Second, it’s summer, so a lot of places are already booked for certain days or weeks and we want a continuous stay for George and the cat. Third, service fees for 3.5 weeks are woah. It’d be cheaper/easier at this point to stay in a hotel. Not quite sure how that will work but it’s temporary so we’ll figure it out.

In positive news, helping my friend house hunt has made me appreciate Georgetown even more. It’s so close to his work, it’s (much) closer to the water and Maine than Groton was and it’s almost as pretty. It feels more remote than most other places we looked at (a positive) but is still close to everything. I think Georgetown is a perfect landing spot. I’m not as worried about the house, talked to a few people and apparently it’s not that weird to not have a master bathroom out there. And apparently it doesn’t affect the septic tank to add a bathroom, so adding one wouldn’t be as challenging as previously thought. But I also don’t think we’d need one, the kids’ bathroom is right outside the master bedroom. Had a lot of people confirm that the lack of AC isn’t a huge deal, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was 97 on a day we were there in May. Justin cannot be soothed on the AC front because climate change freaks him out. But he runs cold so he’ll probably be fine. We could always put a window unit in the master or install ceiling fans.

I am a little sad about chickens not being allowed. I wanted to make an incubator and hatch chicks with the kids in the spring. Sigh. We could get a pig or two. Or a tortoise. Perhaps goats? I don’t know. Their laws are written so weirdly. It says no grazing animals but per the internet a goat is a browsing animal, not a grazing one. I don’t even like goats, but I do like options. It says something about 2 swine allowed on less than 5 acres, but why on earth would they allow pigs and goats but not chickens??? Goats are destructive and pigs stink. Sigh.

I’m not ready for any new pets anyway. Honestly, it’s been so crazy since the twins were born. I’d like to focus this next year on getting everyone adjusted and thriving. I want to explore the area and make memories. Maybe in a few months we can rip out the carpet downstairs (living room, guest room/playroom, hallway) and replace with wood floors.

I also want to focus more on growing our own food. I want each kid to have their own garden bed, I want to start composting and researching the best method, and I would like to get a greenhouse. And thinking of the yard, I would like to build a tree house for the kids. We had a couple growing up and there is just something magical about them.

I really like the layout of the new house. Office and library will be in the finished basement. 4th bedroom is downstairs and will be the playroom/guest room. We will probably get another pull out sofa for the basement. Living room, kitchen and dining are also downstairs. Upstairs has two massive rooms and a third good sized one. And the fun blue bathroom. I am excited that our bedroom will be relatively close to the kids’ rooms. Here they are on the other side of the house and I hate how far they are.

So. Lots to look forward to. Now to survive the next few weeks...

[squegbeg]

no no “and scene”

Sea turtles (superfamily Chelonioidea), sometimes called marine turtles,[3] are reptiles of the order Testudines and of the suborder Cryptodira. The seven existing species of sea turtles are the flatback, green, hawksbill, leatherback, loggerhead, Kemp's ridley, and olive ridley sea turtles.[4] All six of the sea turtle species present in US waters (all of those listed above except the flatback) are listed as endangered and/or threatened under the Endangered Species Act.[5] The seventh sea turtle species is the flatback, which exists in the waters of Australia, Papua New Guinea and Indonesia.[5] Sea turtles can be separated into the categories of hard-shelled (cheloniid) and leathery-shelled (dermochelyid).[6] There is only one dermochelyid species which is the leatherback sea turtle.[6]

For each of the seven types of sea turtles, females and males are the same size; there is no sexual dimorphism.[7]

In general, sea turtles have a more fusiform body plan than their terrestrial or freshwater counterparts. This tapering at both ends reduces volume and means that sea turtles cannot retract their head and limbs into their shells for protection, unlike many other turtles and tortoises.[8] However, the streamlined body plan reduces friction and drag in the water and allows sea turtles to swim more easily and swiftly.

The leatherback sea turtle is the largest sea turtle, measuring 2–3 m (6–9 ft) in length, 1–1.5 m (3–5 ft) in width, and weighing up to 700 kg (1500 lb). Other sea turtle species are smaller, being mostly 60–120 cm (2–4 ft) long and proportionally narrower.[9]

The skulls of sea turtles have cheek regions that are enclosed in bone.[10][11] Although this condition appears to resemble that found in the earliest known fossil reptiles (anapsids), it is possible it is a more recently evolved trait in sea turtles, placing them outside the anapsids.

Sea turtles, along with other turtles and tortoises, are part of the order Testudines. All species except the leatherback sea turtle are in the family Cheloniidae. The superfamily name Chelonioidea and family name Cheloniidae are based on the Ancient Greek word for tortoise: χελώνη (khelone).[13] The leatherback sea turtle is the only extant member of the family Dermochelyidae.

Fossil evidence of marine turtles goes back to the Late Jurassic (150 million years ago) with genera such as Plesiochelys, from Europe. In Africa, the first marine turtle is Angolachelys, from the Turonian of Angola.[14] A lineage of unrelated marine testudines, the pleurodire (side-necked) bothremydids, also survived well into the Cenozoic. Other pleurodires are also thought to have lived at sea, such as Araripemys[15] and extinct pelomedusids.[16] Modern sea turtles are not descended from more than one of the groups of sea-going turtles that have existed in the past; they instead constitute a single radiation that became distinct from all other turtles at least 110 million years ago.[17][18][19] Their closest extant relatives are in fact the snapping turtles (Chelydridae), musk turtles (Kinosternidae), and hickatee (Dermatemyidae) of the Americas, which alongside the sea turtles constitute the clade Americhelydia.[20]

The oldest possible representative of the lineage (Panchelonioidea) leading to modern sea turtles was possibly Desmatochelys padillaifrom the Early Cretaceous. Desmatochelys was a protostegid, a lineage that would later give rise to some very large species but went extinct at the end of the Cretaceous. Presently thought to be outside the crown group that contains modern sea turtles (Chelonioidea), the exact relationships of protostegids to modern sea turtles are still debated due to their primitive morphology; they may be the sister group to the Chelonoidea, or an unrelated turtle lineage that convergently evolved similar adaptations.[21][22] The earliest "true" sea turtle that is known from fossils is Nichollsemys from the Early Cretaceous (Albian) of Canada. In 2022, the giant fossil species Leviathanochelys was described from Spain. This species inhabited the oceans covering Europe in the Late Cretaceous and rivaled the concurrent giant protostegids such as Archelon and Protostega as one of the largest turtles to ever exist. Unlike the protostegids, which have an uncertain relationship to modern sea turtles, Leviathanochelys is thought to be a true sea turtle of the superfamily Chelonioidea.[23]

Sea turtles' limbs and brains have evolved to adapt to their diets. Their limbs originally evolved for locomotion, but more recently evolved to aid them in feeding. They use their limbs to hold, swipe, and forage their food. This helps them eat more efficiently.[24][25]

PSA

avoid conforming to traditional gender norms by avoiding this common palette:

try using these palettes instead!!

[lifeiszestyy]

Bond

*A Sparkle Star Galaxy short story*

day 29 of @writersmonth - bond / animal hybrids AO3

Summary: Astrophel and Stella learn about the troubles of a small seaside village. Astrophel bonds with a turtle to glean more information.

Date: Year 13 Scenario: The early years of the Star Age Setting: Leviathan region, Astraea Characters: Esma (19) + Astrophel ("19") + Stella (22)

“So, how much do you know about turtles?” Esma asks.

“I’ve never seen one,” Astrophel says.

“I haven’t either,” says Stella, “although I believe the ark had a few species that were local to the area we’re from. These are specifically land tortoises we’re dealing with, yes?”

Esma nods. “Like nana explained, we think they may have evolved outside of the arks, because these guys are huge! I honestly thought all the big ones died a long time ago.”

“Yes, I think that many of the larger species were left on the surface when humanity went underground,” Stella says. “Although, if they survived, then they must have changed quite a bit. Do these ones behave like ordinary tortoises?” Stella asks.

“Well, I think so? I guess I wouldn’t know. I mean, they seem to be distressed, but we’ve only just begun exploring and researching this area. There’s so much we still don’t understand.”

“Yeah, the world is very different from our records.”

“Naturally. Even when our eyes are closed, everything’s constantly changing.”

Stella looks over at Astrophel and notices his frown. “Everything okay, Phel? You’ve been very quiet.”

“Oh. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“It’s not that important. This time, I’m going to focus on the matter at hand.”

Stella giggles. “Alright, I trust you to be focused. But if it’s still bothering you later, you can always talk to me, okay?”

Esma smiles. “You both seem close. I’m a bit jealous.” She points ahead and says, “We’re here.”

She parks her cart and hops out. Stella and Astrophel step out tentatively and look out at the beach before them. Dozens of turtles, some as large as a human child, roam the beach.

“Oh… They really are distressed,” Astrophel says.

“How can you tell?” Esma asks.

Astrophel grins sheepishly. “I’m… I’m really sensitive to plants and animals. Stella says it’s my superpower.”

“He’s basically empathetic, but in a way that’s mysterious,” says Stella. “Do you have anyone from your settlements like that? There are a few where we’re from.”

“People who’ve developed abilities that set them apart? Yeah, we call them distinctions. Glad to know they’ve developed in other places even though we’ve been isolated for so long.”

Esma leads Astrophel and Stella down to the beach where a few turtles stand by the shore and stare out at the water.

“We’ve been calling them turtles since they mostly hang out on land,” says Esma. “I know there’s a difference between turtles and tortoises, but these guys seem to be able to swim. I mean, according to one of our scouts, they all swam here at the same time.”

“They all swam en masse?” Stella asks. “Maybe something happened to their habitat or they’re being threatened.”

“Yeah, I mean, look at how these guys are watching the horizon.” Esma pauses. “Well… We sent a team out over the sea a few years ago. They never came back, so I’m assuming something dangerous is out there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Stella.

Astrophel slowly walks behind the two girls, looking at the ground to make sure he doesn’t stumble. As the two continue talking, Astrophel adjusts his goggles and looks out at the sea. He walks to the edge of the water, closes his eyes, and concentrates. He tries to heighten his senses, but the presence of so many turtles causes him to lose focus.

Something touches the palm of his hand, and he gasps. He opens his eyes and turns his head to see a turtle rubbing its head against his hand.

“Hey there,” Astrophel says gently. He places his hand on the turtle’s head and says, “Ah… That’s what I thought. Just like the shrooms, you’re intelligent too, aren’t you? But you can’t talk… That’s a problem.” He glances at Esma and then leans closer to the turtle. “I can’t do anything right now, so we’re going to communicate quietly, okay?”

Astrophel closes his eyes and concentrates, keeping his hand on the turtle’s head. In his mind, he sees the image of a tropical island, sandy beaches, palm trees, and large ferns. The feeling he senses is that of peace. Wordless fear invades Astrophel’s heart, and he sees flashes of a colossal scaly creature slithering out of the water, massive fangs protruding from a massive jaw lunging forward–

He gasps and falls backwards into the water.

“Phel!” Stella runs up to him and kneels beside him. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah… Sorry.” He tries to speak, but he’s breathing heavily, tears fogging up the inside of his goggles.

“Did something happen?” Esma asks, walking over.

“No. Yes. I was just trying to bond with my new friend here.” Astrophel pulls on his goggles to try to wipe his cheeks without taking his goggles off.

“You can take those off if you need to,” Esma says.

“Ah, no! I’m okay!”

“Did you get any information?” Stella asks, helping Astrophel stand up.

Astrophel nods. “Yes… You were right. It seems as though their home was invaded by…” He takes a deep breath. “Some kind of… monster.”

“Wait,” says Esma, “how do you know?”

Astrophel shrugs helplessly. “My, um, distinction allows me to bond with creatures and see their memories.”

Esma’s eyes widen. “What? That’s incredible!” She frowns. “But also terrifying! How big was it?”

Astrophel shakes his head. “Massive. It could swallow them whole.”

Esma turns to the turtle that’s now rubbing its head against Astrophel’s hand again. “Excuse me, did you say it could swallow them whole?”

“...Yeah.”

Esma smacks her hand against her forehead. “I know we’re from the Leviathan ark, but that’s just ridiculous.” She takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. That’s honestly really helpful.” She smiles and says, “That’s a very useful gift you’ve got there. No wonder you’ve survived traveling for so long.”

Stella laughs nervously. “We have more luck than the average person.” She looks at Astrophel and says, “So, what do you think? Do you think we can help?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know what we can do, but I don’t think I’d be able to leave until this is resolved.”

Esma frowns. “Are you sure? What if it’s something that can’t be resolved?”

“Nothing’s impossible!” Astrophel says. “Er, at the very least, I’ll do everything I can to help! That’s a promise!”

Stella laughs. “He’s a bit stubborn, but he’s right. We’re gonna stay and help out. That is, if your village will allow us to.”

Esma claps her hands. “Oh, we’ve never had a guest from so far away before! I just know that everyone’s excited just from your presence.” Her smile softens. “It would be nice if you could help us avenge our fallen friends, but you don’t have to.” She glances at the turtle and says, “That one’s really taken a liking to you, Astrophel. I think you should give it a name.”

Astrophel looks at Stella nervously. “Oh, I’m not good with names…”

Stella smiles and says, “Just pick something that feels right to you, Phel.”

He looks at the turtle and places his hand on top of its head. “What kind of name would you like?” He tilts his head as a name forms in his mind. “Ku…rosh?”

Esma stiffens. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Um… This turtle…” Astrophel trails off as he senses a wave of grief blossom from Esma’s heart.

“What’s wrong?” Stella asks gently.

Esma shakes her head and turns away. “I… don’t want to talk about it.”

After a moment of silence, Astrophel says, “His name is Ku. Um… If that’s okay.”

The turtle nods.

“I think he likes it,” says Stella.

Esma turns back and looks at the turtle. She laughs softly. “Heh. Ku. That’s fine with me.” She glances out at the water and says, “We should head back to the village before sundown. Don’t worry about the turtles. The scouts are keeping watch along the beach.”

“Come on, Phel. Let’s go.” Stella smiles reassuringly.

Astrophel looks at Ku and says, “Will you be okay here?”

Ku nods.

Astrophel smiles. “Then watch over your family until we return.”

Ku nudges Astrophel’s hand.

“Wow,” Esma whispers. “You’d never believe this, Kurosh.”

[psychicdreamfriendoperator]

You think like each animal has their own language or sound they communicate by?

Languages in Beastars

I honestly hadn't considered this before! Thanks for the ask! I rambled a lot here, but I did try to cut it down a bit!

I did have to rewrite this entirely from my memory as Tumblr ate the original, but I still hope it's okay, Anon!

— Psychic

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General Headcanons

In the current day, there are two main languages; the Language of the Land and the Language of the Sea.

During the time of Life Animals and Nature Animals, there was another language. It is from this Old Langauge that the Land Language is derived.

However, this third language is considered to be dead.

There are also species-specific languages, however, even these are only spoken by a few animals.

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Species-Specific Languages

Most species do not have a specific langauge unique to them.

Rather, there are countless forms of non-verbal communication that are used.

These could be considered “langauges”, however, they are more commonly referred to as just “social behaviour”.

Social behaviour is rewarded, punished and reinforced by the particular animal’s place of birth, their native culture, and the culture they grow up in.

While certain behaviours are more or less universal, other behaviours are unique to specific animals, or may carry different meanings depending on the particular animal.

For example, canine and canine-adjacent species communicate non-verbally via their tails and ears.

A canine with a wagging tail is likely happy.

A cat with a flicking or lashing tail is likely agitated or annoyed.

In terms of verbal communication, growls, hissing, panting, baaing, and similar noises are also commonplace.

These are often involuntary actions and sounds; like saying “ow” when you have been hurt, or sneezing.

You can train yourself to not rely on these things, but most animals opt not to.

Thus, when the term “species-specific language” is given, it refers mainly to the behaviours explained above.

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Accounting for Generations

“Most species do not have a specific langauge unique to them.”

Exceptions to this apply.

Long-lived animal species, such as tortoises, are considered to be the last link between the Land Language, and the Old Language.

Being longer-lived typically ensures that the animal’s culture, oral traditions and certain social behaviours do not diminish much over time.

With other species, it is not atypical for the things mentioned above to disappear, be forgotten, or otherwise become lost.

In an attempt to explain this phenomenon a bit better, we should look to the Carni-Herbi War, which was 100 years ago.

One generation is typically 25 years.

Thus, for most species, the Carni-Herbi War lies outside of living memory; i.e, it was 4 generations ago.

Conversely, for long-lived species, 100 years in the past may only be 1 or 2 generations ago.

This being said, with the Carni-Herbi War being a century ago, imagine how long ago the time of Life Animals and Nature Animals was.

Ultimately, animals with a lengthy lifespan would have less generations between then and the present day when compared to animals with an average lifespan.

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Remnants of the Old Language

As was discussed above, animals with an above-average lifespan are considered an important link to the Old Language.

Bits and pieces of the Old Language survive through them, along with elements of the past’s culture.

Unfortunately though, these remnants of the Old Language can disappear easily.

This can be attributed to rapid urbanisation, and a lack of appropriate protections for these particularly long-lived animals.

Still, with appropriate funding and due diligence, the last connection to Life Snimals and Nature Animals can be preserved.