#five is seven inches taller than seven.... giant and tiny......

[i-am-become-a-name]

sort of listening to cold fusion, and if Tegan does not get adopted by seven I'll riot.

[kingorqueenofnarnia]

TCON HEADCANON

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Peter used to be the tallest of the four, until Susan turned fourteen and shot up to six feet— one inch taller than him. It earned him weeks of teasing from his three little shits until he hit sixteen and and shot up half a foot, reaching an astounding six feet four inches. This was in the middle of a campaign against the Raiders of Korentha, and even he did not realise he had grown until he returned home from war and suddenly he had to tilt his head down to look at Susan. Susan sulked for days, and was only appeased when Peter gifted her a beautiful pair of high heels. Peter likes being tall, even though he's not as tall as a Centaur— Susan likes his bear hugs, and he gets to make fun of the younger ones for being tiny squirts. Lucy regularly climbs him like a jungle gym until she hits her own growth spurt.

Susan cut an imposing figure at 15, with wide shoulders and a slender torso, standing at an impressive 6 feet even without her famous heels. She hated it at first— girls from England were short, much shorter than her, and so were many of the men. She always felt a little self conscious in a crowd because of how she towered over the average human. In Narnia, however, it was different. Druids and Naiads and Dryads regularly reached six feet, and centaurs were rarely shorter than seven. Fauns were short, but Bears stood on their hind legs and towered over her only to hand out the warmest hugs Susan had ever experienced apart from Peter's. Secretly though, no matter how much she teased Peter about being shorter than her, she was glad when he grew taller than her. (His hugs aren't as comforting if you're taller than him, alright?)

Halfway through Edmund's fifteenth year of existence, he was both shocked and pleased to find out he did not need to tilt his head back to look at Peter anymore. Peter was 18 and a giant, bear-like warrior king, his furs and long braids and armour making him look even larger, and Edmund was a lanky teenager with remnants of baby fat still on his cheeks and wiry muscle wrapped around thin bones— both of them were the same height, but Edmund looked boyish where Peter looked manly. It took him till he was in his early twenties to match Peter's bulk, but he stayed as tall as Peter for the rest of his life, not an inch here or there. (and Peter thanks the Fates for that. He doesnt know if he could withstand the amount of heckling that would come with being shorter than his brother.)

Lucy was the shortest of them her entire life. Until she was 14, she was about 5ft 4 inches, at which point she started growing like a weed and stopped at the very admirable height of five feet ten inches— just two inches short of Susan's height. It infuriated her to no end; being shorter than everyone was annoying, and even more so when you weren't actually short at all, just shorter than your siblings. At 5'10, she towered over many Narnian species as well as her classmates when she returned to England and went through puberty a second time, but she loved it. She loved being taller, loved that she was only shorter than her siblings— they may annoy her by teasing her about their heights, but being smaller meant the hugs were better, and really, why would she give up on a chance to climb Peter like a monkey so she could sit on his shoulders? No, Su, she doesn't care that it looks uncouth.

[ill-skillsgard]

Hey lovely:) I wanted to ask if I please could get a continuation of the Adrian and Mickey roommate imagine? If not I totally understand. Have a lovely day 💗

Hello, love! I'm terribly sorry it took me so long to get to this. I have the worst attention span, and I didn't want to write something for you that was lacklustre. But I've had a pang of inspiration, and I missed these two boys a lot. With that said, I give you the continuation you requested <3 The previous imagine is here [x]

+

You looked around the apartment...If one could call it such. It was more of a hallway, with a sliver of a kitchen that certainly would never suit the type of meals you liked to cook. You imagined one of the guys barreling through, knocking over a pot of sauce or bumping you with their broad shoulders, sending a sheet of cookies flying to their crumbly death.

"Okay... I know I said I'd be happy in a broom closet, but how are we supposed to cook Thanksgiving dinner here? The stove might as well be an Easy Bake Oven; it's so small. And I've seen coolers bigger than that fridge."

"It's fine," said Mickey.

"I think she has a point," Adrian replied.

The cupboards were apartments for mice, and when you walked down the tiled hall toward the bedrooms, the checkered floor rose and fell, creating an optical illusion of a giant woman in a tiny passage. Mickey and Adrian tried to stifle their giggles.

"Mickey, you try walking through without smashing your head on the ceiling."

It was true—Mickey couldn't make it through the corridor without ducking. But it wasn't the most inconvenient feature of the place. When you reached the first bedroom on the left side, all three of you went in and had a thorough glance around, determining it wasn't so bad until Adrian opened the closet and let out a sigh.

"So... There's a door inside the closet."

"What do you mean 'a door'?"

"Like, there's a tiny door right there in the back of the closet. Right there!"

You and Mickey crowded in to see the small door Adrian spoke of. Mickey nudged Adrian with his elbow. "Open it, Adrian."

"No! What if there's a body in there?"

"Honestly, that'd be the least surprising thing," you muttered as Adrian ventured further into the bare board closet. He twisted the rusty knob and pulled open the door. You watched him hunch down and inch through the space, his shuffles growing distant. "Guys, you're never gonna believe this!"

"What! Is it treasure?" Mickey called out.

"Check it out!" Adrian's voice sounded from behind, startling shrieks from you and Mickey. The taller man clung to you like a frightened child.

"How did you get there?" You asked.

"The door leads to the other room!"

"That's...Deeply unsettling," Mickey said.

"Let's check out the other bedroom," you huffed, leaving the interconnected rooms.

The third bedroom was that broom closet you had assured would be acceptable living quarters. However, the more time you spent inside the narrow square bedroom, the more you convinced yourself tortured spirits of people long-dead whispered in the corners. The cobwebs hung down like Christmas garlands, and the light fixture was a bizarre handicraft of deer antlers with a pull-string hanging down in the center of the room.

Mickey came in behind you and patted you on the shoulder. "Seems like murders happened in here."

Adrian soon followed his friend in, and suddenly, the space was entirely too cramped. "Uh, yeah. This whole place definitely belonged to a serial killer."

Next came the bathroom, which all of you piled into at once just to get the inspection over with. You couldn't tell if the toilet was purchased that way or if years of neglect had stained it a troubling shade of brown. Hunks of porcelain were missing from the sink and counter as if somebody had gone on a baseball bat rampage. The shower was a pipe with a transparent curtain surrounding it. You pulled the stiff plastic back and saw a black spider spinning a web on the faucet—a faucet located near the bottom that had no business being there, for there was no tub of which to speak.

"So, do we have any other options, or are we all set on Buffalo Bill's first apartment?" You asked.

"I dunno," said Mickey. "The rent is cheap, and it's close to downtown."

"It's also close to one of the circles of Hell," you said as you backed out of the room. "Not exactly a selling feature, if you ask me."

"She's right, Mick. This place is shit."

"Oh, come on... We can fix it up!"

"Says the guy who's never fixed a thing in his life," Adrian grumbled. "Said you'd fix the bike you broke, and that was five years ago."

"Aw, you guys have been married for five years?" You cooed before they chased you back down the hall to the living room.

Peculiar stains blotted every corner of the carpets, and the windows had seen better days. One of them had been nailed shut, the posts rusty and screaming with Tetanus. The layer of dust alone set Adrian off on a sneezing fit as Mickey flounced onto a couch seemingly made of animal dander and cigarette smoke-laced tweed.

"Think they'd throw in this couch? It's pretty comfy even with the spring stickin' in my ass."

"I'd pay them to take the thing," you waved the dust motes from your face.

Once Adrian recovered from his theatrical chain of sneezes, he marched into the center of the room, eyes dark and drawn to the floor. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket and kicked at a spot of dirt embedded in the rug, or it could have been a patch of singed fibres.

"No," he said.

Mickey perked. "No, what?"

"No... Just no. We deserve better than this! This place is a dump. I'd rather make a fort in a dumpster than live here."

Mickey went contemplative. "We should make a fort."

"Mick... Come on. Look at this piece of shit. You think she wants to live here? It's awful!"

"I know," Mickey sighed. "It's the worst... What do you think, roomie?"

You stood next to Adrian and squeezed his arm. "I think Adrian's right. We should definitely check out some other options. We're better than this."

"Are we, though?" Mickey's voice squeaked.

"YES!" You and Adrian yelled. Mickey sealed his lips and clasped his hands between his knees.

"Well, okay. Let's look for something else. But you're never gonna beat seven hundred dollars a month."

"And a lifelong curse."

"And a disease from that nasty-ass toilet."

"And probably ghosts!"

"All right, all right, picky-nickies! Let's get out of here then."

You left as a dejected unit of sour faces. When Mickey reached the sidewalk just outside of the dilapidated apartment building, he turned around and jangled the change in his pocket. "I'm hungry! Let's get Taco Bell."

"We have to save our pennies, Mick," Adrian said.

Mickey looked down at the ground and booted a pebble, frowning. You chuckled at them both. Their moods were dampened, but you knew you could rekindle their spirits just as quickly.

"Come on, guys. Let's go get some shitty burritos. It's on me."

Mickey gasped, and Adrian grimaced. "You know...if you want to ditch us and forget this whole deal... We'd totally understand."

"I'm not going anywhere, Adrian. We just hit a bad patch. We'll find something better. Let's get a paper and go look over some ads with some Baja Blast, yeah?"

"I like yooou!" Mickey sang. "Let's keep her, Adrian."

[insideabunker]

The Games: Chapter 2

"I don't care how good she is, Mike, there's just no reason to take her. There are more than enough good tall guys out there, and it would be a strict disadvantage to put someone so small behind the net."

In a cradle of loose netting behind the crossbar, a tiny transistor radio crackled to life, filling the frozen air with the staticky voices of commentators.  The sound echoed through the empty rink, followed by the sharp metal ding of a puck as it ricocheted off the goal post.

"We gonna listen to that thing the whole fucking time?"

"It motivates me."

"To what, have an aneurysm?"

The crack of a slap shot rang out like a bullet from a gun, followed immediately by the hard thud of vulcanized rubber hitting leather at 80 miles an hour.

"Are you throwing softballs?"

Lincoln eyed the goalie skeptically.  "Why am I even shooting from the line? You should be working on close up stuff. The teams you're going to be playing will be focusing on dekes, tips, and wrists more than they will slap shots.  You need to work on reading the body."

"Pussy."

Another crack filled the area, another hollow thud as the puck was stopped mid-flight.

"That's more like it."

Lincoln scowled.  As irritating as she could be, there was no denying his friend's talent.  The problem was that Lexa would be the first one to the point that out, and it made the goaltender hard to bear, and on rare occasions, pretty tough to like.

The radio crackled to life again, the static fragmenting the voices as they droned on.

"Oh, come on!  Remember Enroth?  He was five foot eleven, and the fans up in Buffalo didn't seem to mind him."

"Enroth? Enroth!?  Mike, if you're going to use someone as an example at least pick someone who still plays in the NHL.  The last time I checked Enroth was sent packing to a KHL team in Belarus or some such place.  Meanwhile, Halak and Khudobin, the only goalies in the league I can think of that are under six feet tall, haven't started more than half the games in a season."

"Keith, I played with Gerry Cheevers, who is arguably one of the greatest goaltenders in history.  He had to have been no taller than five foot eleven, and a hundred and eighty pounds soaking wet.  Now, Woods is only one inch and five pounds smaller than that.  You cannot tell me that she can't compete at a professional level."

"Ok Mike, thousands of years ago, when you played, it wasn't uncommon to see a guy five foot ten or five foot eleven between the pipes.  And for the record, I'm not arguing that she can't play.  She's good. I've seen her play. I know she's good. She might even be better than good. My point is there's just no reason to take her in an era of giant goaltenders.  Right now, the average goalie in the NHL is six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds.  And that's just the average.  Ben Bishop is six foot seven, two hundred and sixteen pounds.  Why on earth would you bother taking this girl when there are guys like that out there? Does she have the chops for the NHL? Sure. Fine. But, why sign a small, average quality NHL prospect, when you've got guys playing at the same level who can also fill up the net like they're the Rock of Gibraltar?"

"Well, either way, her selection to the Canadian national team should make this Olympics an interesting one."

"One thing is for sure.  If this girl wants a shot at being selected to a professional team, there had better be a shiny, gold medal hanging around her neck at the end of the games.  I doubt any NHL team is going to sustain interest if she can't bring home gold when she's just playing against other women."

“Can we please turn that crap off,” Lincoln pleaded with her, his arms dangling at his sides as he kicked a puck into position for another shot."

“I don’t want to.” Lexa adjusting her footing as she waited for him to snap the puck.

“Dante's gonna be pissed when he hears you've been binge-listening to this crap again.”

“He won't,” she crouched low in the net, superstitious that the mere mention of the surly, wizened goalie coach might summon him to appear before her.

“It's gonna get into your head.”

“It won't,” she crouching lower still, dismissing the momentary sting of guilt at her dishonesty.

“Whatever you say.”

Lincoln wound back, his body twisting forward violently as he slapped the puck in her direction, full force.

Most people would have believed Lexa when she told them that the detractors and skeptics didn’t get to her, but not Lincoln. He had known her too intimately for far too long.  Lincoln knew when Lexa was lying to herself. When they were children, it had been easier to recognize, easier to see the hurt hidden behind the brave face. Now though, the cracks around the edges were almost imperceptible, and when the naysaying was at its worst, Lexa only doubled down on her cocksure bravado.  It was an act that had become so calculated, so much a part of her, that he doubted she could tell the difference between the facade and the emotional truth behind it.

On the rare occasions that Lexa's emotions did break the surface, they always came out convoluted, manifesting themselves as anger and aggression rather than hurt and disappointment.  There were times when Lincoln wanted to do more, say more to help her, but his oldest friend lived in abject fear of losing her competitive edge. Frustratingly, Lexa believed that it was her fury, rather than her natural talent alone, that continued to propel her forward. Lincoln knew that his words would fall on deaf ears.

“So you want me to bring it in close?”

“Nope.”

Lincoln sighed, kicking at a puck.

“Lex, the teams at the Olympics...”

“I'm not training to play the teams at the Olympics, Lincoln."

"Lexa..."

They're women, Lincoln!  I've been playing in the damn OHL for three years now.  Men's professional hockey is my reality.  The Olympic games are a distraction at best, and when they're over, I need to be playing at a level that's going to get me drafted out of here. Training for the women's game isn't going to help me with that."

"And training like you're about to play Zdeno Chara is going to lose you the gold!"

Lincoln sent a puck flying towards the stands in frustration. It barely missed the glass, making a terrible rattling sound as it shook the board.

"Lexa, just listen to me for once! You're minimizing how good these players are."

The hulking former defenseman skated over to his friend, pulling off his helmet and discarding it gently on ice as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"You're not wrong.  The women's game is different, but different doesn't mean worse, it doesn't mean unskilled.  These women play a different style of hockey, and all of them are extremely good at it.  Some of them are unbelievably good at it.  More importantly, because you've spent your entire career playing in all-male leagues, their style of hockey isn't one you've played before.  If you underestimate how hard it's going to be for you to adjust to that, you do so at your own peril."

Lexa sighed, pulling her goalie mask off. “I swear Lincoln; coaching women has gotten you soft.”

She winked, smirking at her already exacerbated friend. After a two year stint in the NHL, a catastrophic injury had realigned Lincoln's stars, setting him on a new path as the assistant coach of a collegiate women's team in Wisconsin.  His transition from rising playboy all-star to a champion of Title IX and female athletes was a sensitive matter, though he remained a good sport when it came to teasing.  She expected him to roll his eyes, groan, or perhaps playfully punch her in the arm.  Instead, he made Lexa jump as he threw his stick onto the ice, furious.

“Lexa! Can you just drop your fucking attitude for once?”

He skated away from her, his hands resting behind his head as he took a moment to cool off.

"You know… I get it. I grew up with you. I was there when you and those other girls petitioned to play in the boy’s league.  I saw how you were the only one left standing after years of harassment and abuse.  I've been with you every step of the way, so I understand how you ended up with the mindset you have, but you've got to get over this toxic masculinity shit! Somewhere, deep down inside of you, you still believe that you've gotten this far in spite of being a woman.  That belief is wrong, Lexa.  That thinking is your Achille's heel."

He turned back to her, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache form an afternoon of clenching his jaw.

"Those girls don't think that way.  I know you believe that if they were as good as you, they'd be playing in the men's leagues too, but you're wrong.  They didn't grow up where we did; they didn't have to walk that path.  They grew up playing in women's leagues, where nobody ever told them they weren't good enough.  They're not playing to prove anything to anyone."

He eyed her knowingly, an unspoken truth passing between them."

"If you shove it in their face that you think you're better than them because you play with men, they're going to use that attitude to humiliate you."

Lexa's face was red, her eyes fixed and furious.  She threw her goalie stick in Lincoln's general direction and tossed her glove and blocker down in disgust.

“I didn't even want to compete with these women! Playing for the stupid Olympic team was your idea; you and Dante!  I don't understand why the hell I'm supposed to learn some whole new style of play for something that's going to last all of three weeks!"

"Because it's a damn honor!"

Lincoln and Lexa both froze as the gravelly voice of Dante Wallace rumbled at them from across the ice.

"And would either of you care to tell me what you're doing here on a day that I specifically told you to take off?"

For a second, Lexa just watched her coach approaching, frozen in shock as though she were an eight-year-old who'd just been caught goofing off in practice. She was accustomed to her coach's frequent irritability, but this was a different mood altogether. The old salt was raging, his anger fueled by the audacity of his protege's defiance. Dante was the kind of man who refused to take insubordination lightly, and as he stomped towards them, fisherman's cap pulled low on his brow, unlit cigarette gripped between his gritted teeth, unshaven jaw clenched, Lexa knew she was about to catch hell.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!"

"Dante, I..."

Dante held up his hand, pointing directly at Lincoln as he continued to stare Lexa down.

"Don't you even start!"

He thrust his index finger in Lexa's direction.

"You want to practice? Fine, let's practice.  Suicides, go!"

Lexa remained frozen for a moment, trying in vain to process an excuse.

"Now!" He pointed at Lincoln.  "You too, blockhead!"  

The pair finally sprung into action, dashing off towards the closest line and hustling back towards the goal.

Dante watched his unfortunate trainees sprint towards center ice, already panting.  He muttered, pulling up the zipper on the ancient Red Wings Starter jacket he was never without.  He stood there, letting a full five minutes pass until the suffering athletes had begun to turn red and pour sweat before he launched into his lecture.

"You're a damn fool, Woods! Only a fool would underestimate their opponent to service their individual, selfish pride."

He chewed on the end of the unlit cigarette, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other.

"You've been granted the privilege of representing your country because you're the best it has to offer, a paragon of true Olympic prowess, and like a jackass, you choose to squander that opportunity. Why? Because you don't like the stipulations?!"

He spat his cigarette out on the ice, finally blowing the whistle around his neck to give the go-ahead for Lexa and Lincoln to stop.  The two dropped to the ice, gasping for breath.

"Woods, you're one of the best goalies I've ever coached, you might even be the best. Right now, however, you could fit the number of people that believe that into a pee-wee locker room. This season is the last one you'll be eligible to play Major Junior, and if you're betting on those NHL scouts suddenly coming to their senses, you've got another thing coming."

Dante walked over to where the players were slumped over on the ice, still trying to catch their breaths.  He crouched directly in front of Lexa's face, staring her dead in the eye.

"Kid, you've spent the last three years playing for the worst team in Northern Ontario.  Nobody gives a rat's ass how good you are if they don't see you play.  You're invisible up here, and as long as you're invisible, the NHL can ignore you all they like.   Play net at the Olympics and you get to show the whole world what you can do.  Nobody will be able to ignore you after that.  That's why I insisted you play for the women's national team."

Dante stood, brushing the wrinkles out of his pants, and popping another cigarette into his mouth.

"Now get off my ice and go clean yourselves up.”  He paused looking over the pathetic, exhausted skaters with disdain.  "You two look like a damn soup sandwich."

With that, he trudged off, the scent of bay rum and stale Camel Straights lingering in his wake.

Next Chapter ->

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[megacircuit9universe]

Escape Velocity

If the Earth were bigger... say ten percent bigger, then people would be, on average, smaller... because the stronger gravity would make it impractical to stand, say, six feet tall.

In reality, we rarely see humans who are seven feet or taller, and the few that we do see, have extreme difficulty pumping the blood through their bodies, against the force of our normal gravity. 

And there are also issues with our feet and spines not being very well designed for... well, honestly... even normal sized humans, let alone ones who are seven feet or taller.

In Earth’s past, we’ve had enormously large land animals, such as brontosaurs, or even the T-Rex, but these creatures evolved at a time when the atmosphere was far richer in oxygen than it is now... allowing them more energy to power much larger hearts and other large muscular structures.

If Jurassic Park were real... most of the dinos would either die of hypoxia in adulthood, or... just not get that big.

Still, we humans have evolved for today's oxygen levels and... given Earth’s relatively unchanging mass, and therefore unchanging gravitational pull... we don’t get a lot taller than six feet.

An Earth 10% larger, would mean maybe five feet was the max.  I haven’t done the actual math on that but the point is that the bigger the Earth, the smaller the humans... until at some point, there is an Earth so massive, that the humans can’t be humans anymore, because they’d be too small to have brains that can do the things human brains do.

Not that brain size is everything... because it’s not.  Even humans with relatively small brains can be just as intelligent, or even as genius as humans with big brains (and humans with big brains can be morons) but there still is some lower limit on the size of a brain case that can house the computing power of a humanoid brain.

Maybe on a planet much larger than Earth, evolution would be more efficient in the way it gets to that level of computing power in even a tiny brain case... possibly so...

But those intelligent humanoids... let’s say they are only a foot tall in adulthood, but every bit as clever as we are... would have a much harder time ever getting into space than we do... because the escape velocity of their planet would be much greater.

You may be thinking here... well, but they would weigh less, so their ships would weigh less, so it wouldn’t be a problem.

That would be wrong, because they would weigh the same as we do.

At least if the analogy is one to one, then a twelve-inch tall human on a much larger Earth would experience the same pull of gravity that we six-foot humans do on our own planet. 

In other words... everything would “weigh” more.

All the elements of the periodic table have their specific “weights” as determined by the number of protons and neutrons in the nucleus... So all of the carbon they are made of... all of the steel... the copper... the gold... used to make their rockets or satellites... would require more energy (per molecule) to accelerate to escape velocity than the same materials require here at home.

The energy, on the other hand, available from burning any of he fuels we burn as propellants... would be the same.

Yes, they would probably use less overall material, and on a larger planet they’d have more raw materials to mine but... the mining of all that material would take more work, thanks to gravity and... in the end the scales tip toward our little humans on a giant Earth having an extremely difficult time launching anything into orbit... even if they had all the math down cold.

And such a people might decide it makes no economic sense to bother with space. The cost just outweighs the benefit, so... forget it.

Where am I going with this?

Well... the reverse is also true that humanoids living on a smaller Earth will “weigh” the same as us, even though they could be much larger... and will, all things considered, have a much easier time with escape velocity... possibly to the point where space travel is a no-brainer, because it’s just so easy to do, and the benefits far outweigh the costs.

When we’re thinking about earth like planets in the universe, the earliest of which could only have formed several million years before ours (given that several generations of stars had to pass before there was enough higher elements to form earth like planets)...

...and when we’re talking about which ones may have given birth to humanoids who got the space faring jump on everybody else... using their millions of years of lead time to create vast intergalactic empires... 

...we are probably talking about humanoids who evolved on “sub earths.”

I use that term to contrast the common term, “super earth,” that is applied to exoplanets we’ve discovered which are similar to Earth, but a good deal larger.

Everything we’ve examined about the Earth Moon relationship, and how it has been critical to human evolution... could work with a smaller Earth, that had a comparably smaller moon.

As long as the two planets in such a double planetary system are roughly the same size, and distance with respect to one another... all the same benefits will be present, such as a stable axis, and a relatively slow rotation period.

So... while we don’t know how common such double planetary systems are... i.e. ones like the Earth and Moon in a star’s habitable zone... we CAN safely assume that within that subset... our particular instance is most likely near the middle... in terms of size.

Half the earth/moon systems out there are bigger than ours... with the biggest being the most rare... but half are smaller...

...and somewhere in that smaller half is some perfectly ideal pocket where, if humanoids evolve... they just jump right out into space as soon as somebody gets the idea to try it... the way we’ve done with aircraft.

Now, there ARE issues with a small planet holding on to a decent atmosphere, such that it can give rise to humanoids.

Without as much gravity to hold the air down, it would need a stronger magnetic field... which is hard to do if you don’t have as much mass in the molten core... which is also cooling off faster than a larger molten core would cool.

But... all things considered again... there’s still a nice pocket there where slightly smaller earths than ours, with slightly smaller moons, could still have enough mass and magnetosphere to allow humanoid evolution... yet would have an escape velocity low enough to make space exploration a relative walk in the park.

It’s important to remember here, that once you’ve established a decent orbital infrastructure of space stations and moon bases... the resources of your whole solar system are easy pickings.

Establishing that orbital infrastructure is the hard part, because of all the hardware and fuel you first have to launch off the surface... not to mention all the resupply of food for all the people in your space stations before they get to the point where they can produce their own food.

For humanoids living on a sub-earth, creating that orbital infrastructure could be as economical as what we’ve done here, colonizing the continents and establishing all our surface level metros, with their air and shipping routes.

If our escape velocity wasn’t such a costly hurdle... we could have whole factories in orbit by now, along with colonies on both the Moon and mars.

What would our alien visitors think of that?

But instead, what they see is a planet of humans who... because our escape velocity is just a tad too burdensome... have all but given up on space travel...

Preferring to settle for orbital communication satellites, a token space station, and a smattering of robots to go and take pictures of planets we can’t afford to visit first hand.

This must be why we are so fond of our whimsical little airplanes... because we know the sky... the blue part with the clouds in it... really is the limit.

But that’s an atmosphere with some issues... growing hotter as we pump out more CO2 by the ton... which can happen when you don’t take your industry off planet.

They see a world of humans using their most advanced tech... such as their nukes... to war over limited resources on the surface... rather than just get out into space where there are unlimited resources.

And they see us slowly destroying our planet with the waste that comes from using up those ground resources... as well as all the destruction that comes from all the warring.

They’ve probably seen this before.

This is just what you get from a planet of this particular mass.

People on planets of this particular mass are always bitching and moaning about how expensive it is to get into space, like jobless pot-smoking kids in their late twenties, still living with Mom and Dad, whining about their crushing student debt, and the shitty gig economy.  

Wah Wah Wah...

Not to bash young adults. I’m not. That’s just what the Aliens think, because they fail to recognize how their ancestors came from “escape velocity privilege.” And they should be helping us, but they don’t care.

They don’t care, because centuries of space travel has made them comfortable, and lazy... with their nearly useless limbs up there in near-zero G, eating their bon bons.

So... despite the fact that the universe as a whole may be teeming with intelligent life... we really are on our own at this juncture in our history.  

And as much as everybody squabbles about racism, pollution, climate change, and economic disparity... pointing fingers this way and that way at what party, or corporation is to blame...

The only sustainable solution for the human race is to invest in space.  

Given our body plans, and our brains, space is our legacy. 

And that legacy is ours to lose.

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

Skyscraper Jones

Notes: I thank her on every single one of these and I always will because this verse wouldn’t exist without her - @welllpthisishappening. (She’s perfect so if you don’t follow her, you’re really missing out!) Anyway, I know that everyone loves Wes/is waiting for something Wes centric, but Harrison is my puppy dog and he’s slightly based upon my ridiculous younger brother who is giant. (I call him Moose.) Anyway, this one-shot is based upon the actual events involving my younger brother who everyone seemed to think was in the fifth grade instead of second grade on our first day at a new elementary school. (Little Pirates ‘verse: By the Hook, Breakfast for Boys, Pirate Halloween and Children and Understandings.) You can also read this on AO3 here: [LINK] Summary: Harrison Jones is a big kid. Five inches and fifteen pounds heavier than the other kids in Ms. Zellar’s second grade class. He’s a bit hard to miss, which is why Emma Swan can’t understand why she’s getting a phone call in the middle of day from Storybrooke Elementary informing her that her son is missing. Rating: T Word Count: 4,1000+

Harrison Liam Jones is a big kid.

But this is nothing new as he was a big baby too and that’s something Emma Swan won’t ever forget because pushing out eleven pounds and two ounces of a human being is something that deserves a mention in the Guinness Book of World Records. (Henry likes to inform her that bigger babies have been born around fifteen and sixteen pounds and she cannot help but wince. She cannot imagine pushing out something bigger than Harrison, who nearly ripped her apart and broke his collarbone on the way out.) She remembers turning to her husband not long after Harrison was taken away by the attendants and telling him if he wanted another kid, he was going to have to carry it himself because there’s no way she’s going through childbirth again. (Six months later, of course, she makes a liar out of herself when whispers in his ear to tell him she wants another. Wes is born not long after that and Beth less than two years after him. Thankfully neither kid is as big as their brother when they’re born. Wes is a respectful seven pounds and nine ounces. Beth is their tiny girl; born four pounds and eleven ounces.)

They aren’t quite sure where Harrison’s stature comes from. It’s not that Killian is particularly short, but he’s not the six feet and four inches that their pediatrician estimates their boy will be. David is tall and broad, but he’s not gigantic enough to explain why their son will be towering over them before long. All and all, they chalk it as a medical and genetic mystery, and just accept that Harrison is going to be a very big boy.

David loves it and often heckles Emma to sign him up for pee-wee football despite the fact that he’s only seven, a year or two too young to even be on the team. He’s a proud grandfather and sees so much athletic potential in Harrison who is taller than Neal now, despite the fact Neal is a good year and some months older than him.

“He’s bigger than half the fourth graders and he would be on the same team as Neal!” Her father argues, looking at her like she’s insane for saying ‘no.’

“He’s not old enough!” Emma huffs, glaring at him with her hands on her hips. This is an argument they’re had too many times. “Besides, I don’t want him getting hurt.”

“Hurt? Your son is a bear cub compared to those kids. If anyone is going to get hurt, it’s the poor quarterback who stands no chance against a kid his size. Come on, Emma, you have a baby Brian Urlacher on your hands. If Hook knew anything about football he would agree with me!”

Emma cannot help but snort. Everyone is so caught up on the size of the boy that it seems that they cannot look past it and realize that her kid isn’t just big in size, he has a big soft heart as well. Harrison is a sweet boy who wouldn’t want to hurt a fly let alone tackle another kid. He’s incredibly gentle with his younger siblings, often guiding them around and picking them up when they fall over. He’s more likely to help a kid up after being tackled than doing the tackling himself. (Her other little kiddos are different story entirely. At five, she can already tell Wes has a bit of a mean streak as well as a wily cunning that goes beyond his years while three-year-old Beth doesn’t care about anything except getting her way.) No, Harrison Jones is very much a lover, not a fighter; no matter how much of a big kid he was.

“Dad, Harrison isn’t old enough. I don’t care how big he is. We’re not signing him up for football. At least not until next year.”

“Fine! But no one would ever know! It’s not like he looks seven!”

He’s right. At seven-years-old, Harrison is four-foot, five inches and sixty-five pounds, which is five inches taller and fifteen pounds heavier than the average demographic for his age. Emma figured that this wouldn’t be a problem as long as he was a healthy and able-bodied boy until it was…

Because David is right; Harrison does not look like a seven-year-old.

Killian and Emma are finishing a follow up on a break-in at the pharmacy when Emma’s phone rings and the caller ID reveals that it’s the elementary school calling her…again. They share an exasperated look as she reaches to answer it.

“Wes?” Killian predicts with a sigh. Their youngest son has been causing some trouble in his kindergarten class. His sticky fingers are a little too sticky with his classmates’ belongings. It’s become an issue that they’re sorely hoping to nip in the butt. Everyone seems to believe Wes is emulating Killian with his thieving skills, but Emma privately sees herself in the boy; her own pickpocketing days seem to be forgotten by all but her.

“Probably,” Emma sighs before pulling up her phone. “Hello. This is Sheriff Swan.”

“Hello…Sheriff Swan…its Principal Pratt from Storybrooke Elementary…” The principal’s voice sounds more hesitant than annoyed, and something about that makes the hair on Emma’s arm raise.

“I know, Marie, you’ve called at least once a week. What did Wes do this time?” Emma asks with a sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t even bother calling the woman by her title anymore. They talk enough to be on a first name basis, regardless of any sense of propriety that the principal has.

“It’s not Wes I’m calling about, Sheriff. It’s Harrison. He’s missing.”

Emma Swan and fear are good old friends. After living in Storybrooke for some long, it’s almost an expected part of her day to feel adrenaline kicks, shivers down her spine and to choke down all feelings of panic in order to launch herself into action, to save everyone else. What she’s feeling isn’t normal fear; it’s hysteria. She’s not facing down some nameless monster. This is her kid in trouble, her kid in danger, her kid that is missing. Every part of her is screaming and it feels like a blaring red alarm is going off in her head. She’s lived through the Final Battle and honestly, she can say, this feels worse than that. The very concept of her child being in danger is worse than any possibility of death. It is the one thing that they don’t tell you when you become a parent. 

She doesn’t stand around waiting for the school to update her. She can’t. She’s the Savior and she’s a woman of action. She and her husband march into the school, war faces at the ready. They stride into Principal Pratt’s office, ignoring the squawking secretaries and administrative staff that tries to stop them. They don’t do more than yell at them to stop however. She’s the Savior and Killian is in full Hook mode, looking positively murderous. They couldn’t have stopped them if they tried.

Principal Pratt and the young woman, who Emma recognizes as Harrison’s teacher Ms. Zellar, jump as they jar open the door to Pratt’s office. Emma also wishes she had a sword so she could jab it into the desk and let Principal Pratt know exactly how angry she is.

“Where is my son?” Emma hisses as she strides over and slams her hands against the desk.

Killian settles himself against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest with the hook on display. He’s letting her handle this…for now. He’s just as upset as she is at the moment, but he’s stewing. This joke of a school administration needs to figure its shit before Killian goes off, full on Captain Hook on them. Emma would let him. Gladly.

Ms. Zellar, whose eyes were red and cheeks blotchy, starts to cry. Her entire body shakes and Principal Pratt looks helplessly between the teacher and Emma.

“I don’t know!” Ms. Zellar wails. “He went out to recess with the rest of the kids and he didn’t come back in with them! We haven’t been able to find him since!”

“My son is the biggest kid in your class! He’s like the Empire State Building compared to the rest of them! You don’t just lose the Empire State Building!” Emma replies, her voice is so loud that it could be considered yelling. It’s not yelling though. Not yet. She’s just warming up.

“With all due respect, Sheriff Swan, all the grades recess together. So Harrison isn’t as noticeable as the Empire State Building. We do have grades kindergarten through fifth grade playing outside together after all,” Principal Pratt replies, placing a hand on Ms. Zellar’s shoulder. “It’s entirely possible that Harrison could have run off without any of the staff noticing.”

“Harrison run off…” Emma repeats. The words are distasteful on her tongue. “Bullshit, Marie. Harrison has never caused any issues in his time at this school. Wes run off? I would believe that in a heartbeat because none of you seem to be able to manage my five year old. Harrison? Never.”

Emma wants to say more, but she hears Killian shift behind her and she can see the facial expressions of the two women change as he approaches. She tilts her head to the side to look at him. Killian is stalking towards the desk and though there’s a small smile on his face, there’s no joy in it. It’s a dangerous smile and it reminds her of a time long ago when he was the Dark One.

“So, correct me if I’m wrong, ladies, but from what I’m hearing, the policy of this school to bring every single child outside during a period of the day when you do not have enough adults supervising them to ensure their safety and make sure they aren’t capable of running off? In Storybrooke nonetheless where we are favored with a monster of the week?” Killian asks in a soft voice that makes a chill even run up Emma’s spine. She’s not sure these women realize exactly how angry her husband is at the moment and that they should be considering their words carefully.

“It’s been our policy as long as I can remember, Cap-Mr. Jones. The children prefer it because some of them have kids in other grades. Your own children included.”

“You know that my sons have friends in other grades, but not where my eldest is? You need to work on priorities in regards to your observation skills,” Killian responds, standing next to Emma. She grabs his hand and gives it a squeeze in solidarity.

Principal Pratt’s face colors at the comment and she opens her mouth to respond, but the door opens again and this time, it’s Mary Margaret who strides in. She looks almost as murderous as Emma and Killian, her face flushed with anger. She couldn’t have looked more threatening even if she had her bow.

“Where is my grandson?” She asks, wedging herself between Emma and Killian and placing her hands on both of their shoulders. Principal Pratt looks at a lost with how to deal with an angry Snow White, Captain Hook and Savior. Ms. Zellar looks like she wants to faint.

“Shouldn’t you be teaching fourth grade, Mrs. Nolan?” Principal Pratt responds.

“Jim is looking in on them,” Mary Margaret replies. “I know how to responsibly take care of my students unlike some teachers. Now answer the question. Where is my grandson?”

“We’re looking for him, Mary Margaret, I promise,” Principal Pratt responds, looking very haggard at having to deal with all three of them. “We’ve got Mike, Isodora, James and Ava all looking for him.”

“And yet, you’re both in here,” Mary Margaret responds. “A child is missing and you’re in your office, doing nothing. This time could be better spent looking for Harrison.”

Emma’s heart warms a bit at the conviction and accusation in her mother’s voice. Her mother is risking her career at the moment by talking this way to her boss, but Emma loves her more for it. Their family is more important to her mother than her job. If she wasn’t so keyed up about Harrison being missing, she would have hugged her.

Principal Pratt looks dumbfounded that Mary Margaret is speaking to her in such a way. Her mouth opens and closes a few times without actually uttering anything. Ms. Zellar’s face, which was red before, is now closer to a shade of purple and she keeps her eyes trained on the floor as if she wanted it to swallow her up.

“I…I…” Principal Pratt is lost for words. “You’re right. We should help look for the boy.”

“Not the boy,” Killian hisses. “Harrison. He’s not the boy. He’s not any boy. He’s my son and you will remember that.”

Principal Pratt’s face goes white at Killian’s tone and Emma squeezes his hand, debating to herself whether she could tell him to dial it down a notch or kiss him for being so fiercely protective of their son. Mary Margaret gives him a look of approval and nods in agreement. All five of them are about to walk out the door when there is a commotion outside the office. All the secretaries are buzzing about something. Emma and Mary Margaret exchange a look while Killian pushes open a door.

A young man no older than twenty-seven is in engaged with an angry verbal spar with one of the secretaries. Not only is he angrily spitting at the harassed looking women, but he is also holding up Emma and Killian’s son Harrison by his ear and it’s obvious by the redness of the appendage and the tears in Harrison’s eyes that the man had dragged him into the office by it.

“I need to talk to Principal Pratt about this punk right now! This kid thinks he’s funny! Trying to play off like he’s a second grader! The dumbest ploy I’ve heard to get out of a test! He needs to learn a lesson! You can’t pull this kind of stunt on a substitute teacher!” The man shouts at the secretary.

Mary Margaret lets out a horrified sound. The secretaries, the man and Harrison, turn to see the five out of them standing outside of Pratt’s office.

“Mom!” Harrison shouts and yanks himself free of the man’s grasp, flinching as he did so. He runs towards Emma at full speed and Emma gathers her big little boy in her arms, tugging him as close as she can. He’s honestly too big at held at this point but Emma doesn’t care. Relief is a palpable thing and Emma feels like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Harrison is safe.

Killian darts past her at a speed that Emma hadn’t realized that he was capable of until that moment. The young man’s eyes bulge in alarm as Killian approaches, taking a step back in hopes of getting away from him. Killian isn’t deterred, he lifts the man up by his hook and slams the man against the wall. The administration gasps. Principal Pratt moves forward to intervene, but Mary Margaret places an arm in front of her to stop her from interfering.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Killian snarls, barring his teeth like some feral creature. The muscles in his jaw and neck twitch under the strain of his rage. “And what makes you think it’s okay to manhandle MY SON!?”

“You okay, Kid?” Emma asks Harrison in a murmur, gently running her hand over his back in a smoothing motion. Her arms ache from holding him up, but he deserves to be held and after the sheer terror she felt while he was missing, she’s reluctant to let him go. She frowns at the redness of his ear. It looks like it hurts like hell. They might have to stop at the nurse’s office for an ice pack.

“He didn’t believe me, Mom,” Harrison whispers. “He didn’t believe I was in Ms. Zellar’s class.”

“The kid was trying to get out of a test and thought he could pull a fast one on me,” the man wheezes out.

Emma’s certain if she wasn’t so focused on her son at the moment, she would have hit the guy over the head because he just doesn’t know her kid. Harrison, without question, is the easiest of her children to handle aside from Henry who is now grown and in college. Wes is the one who would pull a fast one on a teacher. Beth, once she finally is old enough, will probably try to pull fast ones too. She does a marvelous job hoodwinking Killian as is. Harrison is the one most likely to rat someone out because, despite his age, he has an extreme sense of justice to him that makes his grandfather proud.

“And that gives you an excuse to manhandle a child?” Mary Margaret demands. Despite the fact she’s wearing frilly pastels, she looks positively terrifying like she’s ready to pull out her bow and use the man for target practice.

“Mr. Jones could you kindly put Mr. Abad down so we can get to the bottom of this business?” Principal Pratt asks in a tired tone. She sounds like she’s in desperate need of a drink. Emma doesn’t blame her. She wants one too.

Killian acquiesces to her demands, reluctantly pulling away from Mr. Abad, but not without ripping the collar of his shirt. Young Mr. Abad looks torn between indignation and terror as he regards Killian with a wary eye. Killian continues to glower at him, looking like he would delight in nothing more than ripping the man to shreds for touching their son. If Harrison wasn’t clinging so hard to Emma, she’s sure she might have slung at the man.

“You have the floor for the moment, Mr. Abad,” Principal Pratt says with another sigh. “I suggest you explain yourself and your actions before Mr. Jones, Mrs. Nolan and Sheriff Swan get impatient with you.”

“Well,” Mr. Abad starts, licking his lip as his eyes dart back and forth between Emma, Killian, Mary Margaret and Principal Pratt. His pupils remind Emma of a pinball machine with how fast they move. “I caught this kid-“

“Harrison,” Mary Margaret interrupts, crossing her arms in front of her chest and glowering at him. “Not this kid. Harrison. We know our students’ names at this school. Did you even ask?”

“No, but-”Mary Margaret doesn’t let him finish again.

“You didn’t ask? You brought him to the principal’s office but you didn’t bother to learn his name? Do you even know any of your students? Did you even do roll call? Attendance? Because if you did, you might have learned Harrison doesn’t belong in fifth grade and you would have saved everyone here an hour of panic!”

“Well, I didn’t know if he was lying to me or if any of the other punks were! I mean the kid said he was in the second grade for Pete’s sake! He tried as far as to go in through the second grade doors when he came back from recess. That’s ridiculous!”

“Mr. Abad,” Ms. Zellar speaks for the first time. Her face is still red, but Emma is now certain it’s from anger now instead of embarrassment. “Harrison is one of my students. He is the second grade and I’ve been frantic for the last hour because you took one of my students without even consulting anyone!”

“I didn’t think I needed to consult anyone on taking a fifth grade student! The kid doesn’t look like a second grader! If that kid is a second grader, then he’s the mammoth of all second graders! The beanstalk of the second grade!”

“We prefer to call him the Empire State Building of the second grade. Skyscraper Jones when we’re being clever, thank you very much,” Emma replies, glaring at him and giving her son, the aforementioned Empire State Building of the second grade, a kiss on the forehead. Harrison cuddles his face into her neck like he does at home when they’re watching a movie and he’s getting second-hand embarrassment from a particularly dumb scene. Typical of her sweet boy. Wes, Beth and even Henry would be straight up angry and kicking up a storm of indignation to be in this situation, but Harrison? He’s just embarrassed.

“How are you even a teacher?” Mary Margaret says, still going for the kill. “You don’t take attendance. You don’t know who are your students and who aren’t. Oh! You call the students “little punks” and you manhandled my grandson in front of the entire administration staff. Seriously, how did you get a teaching license?”

“Yeah, this is a public school. If you want to pull that kind of stuff, go to a private Catholic school. You’ll fit right in,” Emma replies because she can’t help herself. Mr. Abad is a young teacher (soon to ex-teacher) but he reminds her of all the nuns she dealt with when she was put in Catholic school by the Smiths in Montana.

Mr. Abad seems to sense that he’s in a world of trouble at the moment and makes the intelligent decision not to reply to Mary Margaret or Emma. He does however keep his eyes trained on Killian’s hook as if he is just waiting for it to gut him. Killian, of course, who notices the look, offers him a smirk and continues to look at him with murder in his eyes.

“Mr. Abad, I think it’s time for us to discuss your future as a substitute for Mrs. Decker’s class and that you give Ms. Zellar an apology for this…situation,” Principal Pratt says finally, gesturing for Mr. Abad to join her in her office. Mr. Abad’s face blanches, but he enters the office quickly as if trying to get away from Emma, Mary Margaret and Killian as fast as possible. Smart man.

“You will receive a formal apology from the school in the mail and acknowledgement of Mr. Abad’s termination in regard to this incident,” Principal Pratt says in a weary tone as she regards Emma with a tired look. “I’m sorry for this situation.”

“If it’s all the same to you, we’re going to take Harrison home for the rest of the day,” Emma replies, silently challenging the woman to protest the course of action.

“Of course,” she replies, obviously not willing to argue with Emma. “He’s had a trying day.”

“What do you say, bud? You, me and Dad get ice cream at Granny’s?” Emma says to her son, meeting Killian’s eyes over Harrison’s dark hair as she always says when she calls him ‘Dad.’ They have a seven-year-old, a five-year-old, a three-year-old and he arguably helped raise her college sophomore, but it still brings out an unnamable emotion when she calls him that.

“Yeah…I would like that,” Harrison replies, voice still muffled by Emma’s neck.

Killian, who still looks pissed off about the whole fiasco, softens a bit. It’s as if the reminder that he’s father pacifies the rage beast that was dying to be set loose today. He steps forward and takes Harrison from Emma’s arms, hefting their son over his head so Harrison is sitting on his shoulders. It’s a picture that it is both absurd and impossibly adorable since Harrison strongly resembles his father despite his stature; their facial structure near identical, the only key differences being Harrison’s green eyes, chubby child cheeks and more pointed chin. Emma smiles and shakes her head, mainly because Harrison is far too big now to be receiving rides on his father’s shoulders. Killian is relatively strong, especially for a man with one hand, but she knows he’s going to be sore as well later.

“I will see you later at Granny’s?” Mary Margaret asks with a smile. All evidence of her previous ire is erased by a picture of pleasantness. Emma doesn’t know how her mother pulls it off.

“Sure,” Emma replies, chuckling as she watches Killian squat down so he can both himself and Harrison through the doorway. If he drops their son, he’s sleeping on the couch for a week. “We’ll see you there. Hopefully without another mashed potato incident.”

Mary Margaret laughs.

“Yes, extra eyes on the boys is always necessary,” she says with a smile. “But let’s worry about that later. Go enjoy your ice cream. Give Harrison some extra sprinkles courtesy of Grandma.”

“Done,” Emma replies, following her husband and her son out the door.

Harrison ends up getting only extra sprinkles, but hot fudge, whipped cream and a cherry on top of the mountain size portion of vanilla ice cream. Granny defends the decision by stating that big boys need big portions.

[demondeanismybaby]

Alone

Pairing: Dean x Reader, Sam

Word Count: 2058

Warnings: Angst, zombies, post-apocalypse, canon-typical violence

Summary: You scared, alone, and tired of fighting. You never expected your life to turn into this, running from the undead and fighting to survive. Then you meet someone who saves you, not from a zombie but from yourself. 

A/N: This is for anon who requested,  Can you do a Dean x reader where its the end of the world an there are zombies. The reader is all alone and decides to give up but Dean comes in and saves her and gives a reason to live.  So this ened up being much much longer than a typical one shot, so before it becomes overwhelming I decided to make it into a series. This first part is just setting the scene. 

You crouched down, your hands prickled with the loose gravel that was pressed underneath your palms, craning your neck you did your best to try and see beyond the edge of the bumper of the car you were hiding behind. The sun was setting, it was summer time so it was probably already seven or so but there was still a faint pink and orange glow tinting the horizon and slightly illuminating the road in front of you. Still, you squinted as you scanned the area, making sure you were absolutely alone before you started to get up again. 

There was no sound, not even the croaking of frogs in the pond you had seen nearby or crickets playing their chirping tune in the high brush the lined the road, everything was still. 

The brief crack that caused you to duck for cover had to have been a twig under your chuck’s but you couldn’t risk it. These were dark times, ever since the virus had caught hold forcing urban legends to come to life, you couldn’t risk taking even a slight noise for granted. 

Minutes crept by and you stayed still for as long as you could but finally, you decided you were on your own here and pushed yourself off the ground. Making your way back onto the asphalt path laid out in front of you. As you listened to the crunch of you sneakers you thought about how strange it was to be one of the few people that were left after everything, honestly, you weren’t sure how you had managed to survive. 

It had only been two weeks after the news reports had said that the impossible had happened that the things had come to your little town. The bigger cities were in flaming ruins by that point but you were hoping that your tiny place in the middle of nowhere didn’t have enough citizens to worry about it spreading there. You had been wrong. You didn’t even hear a news report on the local channel that night, just the typical, “and the Lawrence High Cougars beat them 10-2,” and, “tomorrow we are expecting highs in the mid-50′s,” before you went to bed. 

It had happened in the middle of the night, the sound of breaking glass and screams and they had killed your entire family in one blow. You had hidden in the back of your closet, crying and waiting for them to come, but it never happened. After hours of listening to silence you had opened the door and found nothing but broken bodies and blood and from there it was a race to survive. 

You were lucky that you dad had managed to have a safe loaded to the hilt with an arsenal that would have made any Republican smile and that your earliest family memories were going to the gun range for target practice and shooting bottles out in the field behind your house. You were a good shot. Your parents had wanted you to learn to use a gun responsibly and now you were forced to use them to save your life. 

You carried the same duffle bag now that you had packed that first day, but the contents had changed slightly. The guns were still there with various boxes of ammo, you had water and some food that you kept taking out of the different stores, now vacant, that you came across. You had a few pairs of clothes and that was it. Nothing else mattered, the family pictures, your diary, you had dumped those months ago. 

“Damn it,” you cried out as your foot wobbled and fell onto the hard blacktop, you hissed at the sting as your knee scraped the ground. You tried not to focus on how your words echoed in the stillness of the oncoming night air and just how alone you truly were. 

You needed to camp out for the night. You didn’t have to worry about a tent or camping supplies, the summer kept it warm enough you didn’t need a fire and the houses were all abandoned so you just choose the first one you came across with an unlocked deal and let yourself in. Even in this post-apocalypse hellscape, you didn’t ever sleep in their beds, it was too creepy instead curling up on whatever bit of sofa or floor you felt like being on for the night. 

Tonight was different. It had been so long that you had been on your own, you were tired and you knee was still stinging you just wanted to feel close to another human so you climbed the stairs of the place you had picked out on the edge of the random town you had just made it to tonight and crawled into the first bed you saw. The room was decorated in a way that made you think it probably had belonged to a girl around your age, music posters were hung around and there were photos pinned onto a giant corkboard on one wall. You didn’t look too close. Just pulled the strange covers up to your chin and you just let yourself cry. 

Eventually, you fell into an uneasy sleep. 

“Hey,” a deep smokey voice rumbled through your half-sleeping mind, “hey, you’ve got to wake up.” 

“Just five more minutes,” you grumbled as you buried your face into the pillow. 

You felt a hand on your shoulder jerking you roughly back and forth, “seriously, get up, we’ve got to go.” 

Your head shot up and your eyes snapped open. You saw a man standing over you arm outstretched where his hand was still gripping you roughly by the shoulder. You jerked yourself away from him, on one hand, you had a mad desire to start shrieking but on the other hand, you knew all too well that any sound could make things far worse for you. You landed in the middle and made a strangled gurgle in the back of your throat in terror. 

Knowing he wasn’t a zombie wasn’t the problem, it was the fact that this was the first normal human you had seen in weeks and here they were in this random house with you. When your heartbeat slowed to a semi-normal pace, your brain started to catch up with everything that was going on. 

“Are they here?” You whispered as you watched the way the blond haired strong-jawed man was looking at the door. 

“Yeah downstairs,” he said. 

Straining you tried to see if you could hear any movement, a second later, you heard the clanging and clashing of what sounded like pots and pans slamming against the kitchen tiles. Clearly, you had company. You remembered the bag that you normally kept with you and the thought gripped you that it was currently sitting in a heap next to the door. 

“I need a gun,” you said to the stranger hoping that he would toss you one from the bag he was standing beside. 

However, at that exact moment, the door to the room crashed inward. 

“Dean, we’ve got to go now,” it was another man, he was tall with long dusty brown hair. Clearly, the new each other but you still didn’t understand why either of them was here in this room with you now.

A harsh tug on your shoulder reminded you that the stranger's hand was still attached to you. You didn’t need the reminder, your limbs started working on muscle memory alone, and you popped out of the bed. Grateful for once about the fact that you were still fully dressed from the night before. It made the quick get away much easier. 

“Alright,” you said shaking the last bit of sleep out of your mind, “what do we do?” You could have come up with a plan but you had a heavy suspicion that you were already in the midst of theirs.

“Come on,” the shorter blond haired man who had woken you said and started to walk away from the one entrance to the room you were in and going for the little window instead. 

You got the idea, you didn’t need him to explain further so as soon as he had shimmied open the pane of glass you stretched your sneaker-clad foot out onto the slanted roof below, you knew if you feel the drop was going to be one that broke a few bones at the least, so you tried to be as careful as possible as you flattened your stomach onto the roof tiles and used your toes to dig into them as much as possible. You used to be a kid that would climb trees, so you did your best to maneuver on the angled surface the same way, toes and fingers pushing into any little crack or crevice you could find, looking behind your shoulder you spotted the drain pipe connected to the side of the house and made your way slowly over to it. From there it was a careful shimmy downward until your feet hit the soft grass below. 

A few seconds later you heard a thud and the large man was now standing beside you, you stepped back to make room for his friend. 

“Are they still inside?” The taller man asked you as he made his way to stand beside the two of you. 

You scanned through the giant window on the ground floor, the view was perfect to see into the kitchen, and there they were. Two figures with pale half-rotted flesh, bumping around against the open cupboards, one of them turned just enough so you could see the milky white blur of its eyes, its face was ripped open revealing its wiggling tongue inside of its mouth. 

“Yeah, but we should get going, thanks for the help,” you said as you started to walk away from the house and the strangers unsure of what to do next since you were mainly wandering around aimlessly anymore, what with everyone you knew dead and gone, or worse. 

Striding forward you tried to get as far away from the scene as you could, but it was only seconds later you spun around at the sounds of footsteps scratching the pavement behind you.

“Hey,” the shorter stranger, he was still at least eight inches taller than you, said as he put his hand out on your arm, “where are you headed?” 

You weren’t sure what to do, a part of you wanted to divulge your entire life to this person, desperate for a little human contact. However, you couldn’t help but feel that his running into you was something more than a coincidence. You landed somewhere in the middle before things became even more awkward. 

“The next town over I guess, I can’t stay here at least,” you said as you tried to take another step forward. 

His hand stopped you, “you can’t go there, it's swarming with the things,” his green eyes were awash with the obvious horrors he must have encountered there. 

“Well,” you turned to face him, “I’ve got to go somewhere.”

“Me and my brother,” he pointed over his shoulder at the other man standing slightly behind him, “we had this idea, maybe you could come with us, my name’s Dean by the way and that’s Sam.” 

“Alright, Dean, Sam” you directed your gaze at the brown haired man, “I don’t know how you found me but just so you know I’m doing just fine on my own.” 

Obviously, it was a lie but you figured they didn’t know you well enough to see through that. You couldn’t risk getting attached to anyone else, you knew that much for certain though. It was better to leave now and go forward with the plan you had been cooking up since the last person you had known had died bloody. 

“Please,” his face seemed tight with concern, “just come with us, at least until we find a place that is safer.”

You contemplated it for a second, realizing with a growing dread, that you were faced with at least accompanying them to a place that had a little less of the dawn of the dead vibe. 

“Fine,” you said, “which way do we go?” 

You were shocked when he grabbed your hand and started to lead you back towards the house. 

Forever Tag

@tardis-full-of-fallen-angels

@jarpadandjensenaremyheroes

[lordofthebigtimesupernatural]

Ima ask on anon bc I'm shy af but can I ask for a one shot of Keef tellin Shiro he's engaged? (like years down the line in life) To the dork Lance? For the Dad au? I can only live through so much angst. I had to watch a bby!voltron speedpaint 2day !!

Hi there nonny! I hope this isn’t too late for you! Aww, I hear you there. Sometimes we need some more fluff (I  love me some angst and it seems like a lot of you all do too :)) And this is very cute! So I’m guess this is like a sequel to this oneshot, but it’s an AU of the single dad Shiro AU bc no set pairings here but it was cute. I hope the speedpaint was super adorable and enjoy! I love when you nonnies send in great asks.

x.V.x

              It wastoo early to think coherently.

              Lancewished he had gotten coffee first.

              He really wished he had gotten coffee. Itwas too early to be awake.

              But herehe was. Awake and sitting in the terminal of an airport with a little old lady,trying to connect to the world-wide web via a worldwide travel book, a lonelyman asleep with half an omelet still on his plate, and a pile of gum wrappersthat didn’t even get close to making it in the trash can. The airport terminalwasn’t busy by any means, but Lance was still pleasantly surprised at how manypeople were here at five-fifty in the morning. Here and awake.

              At leasthe wasn’t the only one who was barely able to form thoughts and maneuverhimself into a waiting chair, after he had watched a man about twice his agerun straight into a pillar in the wall. Earlier, a woman had almost taken amorning dip into the fountains. It was safe to say that these people probablyweren’t morning people either.

              When was the last time you wokeup this early? Middle school? Lance groaned, leaning back into his chair.He rubbed his eyes tiredly and glanced over to where Shiro and the others weresnoozing in their chairs. At least he wasn’t the only one suffering at thishour. Lance glanced back up at the time board that lay above their waitingarea.

              Flight 201CA has landed.

              Oh yeah.

              Keithwas coming home.

              Afterfive years of service, Keith was finally coming home for good. No more havingto go back. No more training others. No more emergency service. Keith hadfulfilled his time in the military, paid many prices for it, and he was finallycoming home.

              Lancehad nearly sobbed at learning that his boyfriend of seven years was going to becoming home. Shiro had actually cried (There were tear marks all over Keith’sletter, but that was okay, Lance wasn’t about to ruin the father’s moment).Everyone was more than a little excited about welcoming Keith home, and soon awelcoming party had gone underway under the supervision of Pidge and Coran.Which was not a good idea.

              Shiro andLance both knew that Keith wouldn’t want a big party, but while Shiro wanted tostop the party and keep everyone from overwhelming Keith, Lance didn’t see theharm in getting Keith out. After all alot of people had missed him while he was gone. Shiro and Lance had arguedfor a bit about Keith’s party, but eventually Lance won after insisting thatKeith should realize how loved hewas.

              He’dnever seen his boyfriend’s father so awed before.

              Hopefully soon-to-be father-in-law.

              Theheavy weight of a small box in Lance’s pocket suddenly felt much heavier thanever before. His heart rate speed up and soon enough, any trace of sleep wasgone and Lance was wide awake. Unlike his companions. For a split second, Lancewas quite jealous of how his friends could sleep through this waiting period.As if the rest of their lives didn’t rest on the sole moment of Keith walkingthrough those gates, ready to determine how their futures would end – oh wait,that only affected him. Right.

              To befair though, none of them even knewwhat plans Lance had made for when Keith came in today. Not even Shiro, whichmay or may not have been a good idea.Guess I’ll find out soon. Lance thought nervously as he looked down at hiswatch for the millionth time this morning.

              He wasso busy lost in thought and thinking about the impending future, that Lance andthe others had failed to notice when people had entered into the waiting areafrom the gates and were now walking towards them. In fact, none of them noticeduntil a pair of brown combat boots had stopped in Lance’s line of sight and avoice chuckled.

              “Guys?”

              “Keith!” Of course, Shiro was the firstto shoot out of his chair, awake in less than a second (damn, Lance needed tolearn how to do that). Lance looked up in time to see the others awakening at aslower pace, but with smiles all around and saw Shiro making a break for hisson.

              Keith,in his uniform with that especially tight black shirt and those loose cargopants with two sets of dog tagshanging around his neck, smiled tiredly at his father before dropping his bagto the ground. He easily caught his dad into a hug, standing at an impressive two-inchtaller height than Shiro before pulling a surprised Shiro up into the air.

              “Dad!”Keith laughed when Shiro gawked. “It’s so good to be home.” Shiro was surprisedfor only another second before scowling playfully at his son.

              “Whatthe hell are they feeding you there, where did my little child go?” He whinedbefore ruffling Keith’s hair (which had finally grown back out to the familiarmullet he used to have). Keith chuckled and set his father on the ground,before the two embraced in a much tighter and more heartfelt hug. Lance and theothers could feel their eyes beginning to grow misty as Keith and Shiropractically hung onto each other for several long minutes. All around thempeople were watching and smiling at the small display, sharing happy commentswith one another, to which Keith and the rest of them ignored mainly.

              Eventually,Keith and Shiro pulled back, both with wet eyes and bright smiles, as Shirogently pat Keith on the back.

              “I’m sohappy you’re home. Shiro whispered before letting go of Keith’s hand.

              “Imissed you too dad.” The twenty-three-year-old grinned at his dad beforeturning to Lance and the others. Lance was the first to leap at Keith, jumpingright into his arms (Ha, he was stilltaller than Keith and Shiro) and pressing a full-on kiss right onto Keith’smouth. Keith blinked in surprise but caught Lance without a struggle andeventually melted into the kiss. The two lovers could hears some clapping andcheers all around them but ignored it in favor or holding on to each other fora few moment’s longer. Lance felt tears dripping down his face and he blushedin embarrassment, though to be fair it had been almost 13 months since he’dlast seen his boyfriend in person.

              EvenShiro was clapping from behind them.Looks like I’ve gotten dad’s approval after all. Hopefully he won’t try to killme after today.

              WhenLance and Keith finally broke apart, Lance rest his forehead against Keith,looking into those beautiful blue eyes he’d memorized after nineteen years.

              “Heybabe.” Lance grinned crookedly, drying his eyes while Keith snorted.

              “Thatwas quite a greeting Lance.” Keith huffed, but Lance could see the love andamusement in Keith’s eyes as he continued to hold Lance against him. Lancegrinned.

              “I’m allabout the big show stopper babe. Go big or go home.” Lance winked before givingKeith another peck on the lips, who happily closed his eyes at the kiss, andhopped out of Keith’s arm. His heart was hammering like a drum in his chest andthe small box in his pocket felt like a giant weight. Nervously he wiped hishands against his jeans.

              “I’vemissed you. Kissing your sleeping face on a computer screen just doesn’tmeasure up to the real deal.” Lance joked, causing Keith to laugh in thatadorable way where he sounded like he was too embarrassed to be laughing. It waslaugh that always make Lance’s heart stop.

              “I’vemissed you too.” Keith said sincerely and brushed some of Lance’s hair out ofhis eyes. Lance swallowed heavily and his fingers itched for the box in hispocket. This is the perfect moment. Do itnow. “Except for when you hog all the blankets. I did not miss that.”

              Okay, so maybe not now because that wasrude.

              Keithlaughed at Lance’s pout and Shiro snickered from behind them. Rude.

              “Hey don’thog Keith! Let us say hello!” Pidge finally smacked Lance’s arm and shoved himaside just before Keith was attacked by Hunk and Pidge with everyone elsehanging behind them. Keith laughed happily and accepted the hugs and high-fivesfrom everyone. He gently gave Hunk a pat on the back when he started bawling inKeith’s arm. He accepted the manly hug from his grandpa and gave his grandma akiss on the cheek. Keith accepted Allura’s scolding for making them all worrybefore hugging her and narrowly avoided a long-winded story about Coran’s timein his youth with young love. From the side, Lance watched this all with lovingeyes finding himself falling more and more in love with this man, even afterseven years of being together.

              Do it now. Now it the perfect chance.

              Lancenervously licked his lips, as his hands dug into his pocket. He thumbed thesmall box in his pocket and eyed Keith.

              Do it.

              Lancegripped the box tightly with sweating fingers. Shiro glanced over.

              Do it.

              As Lancepulled the box out from his pocket, his heart hammered heavily in his chest andShiro’s eyes widened.

              DO IT.

              “Eat food with me forever?!”Lance had suddenly shot out before Shiro could open his mouth, right in frontof Keith (in front of everyone) before taking a knee and thrusting the smallbox unromantically towards Keith.

              Theairport was dead silent.

              Keith’seyes were as wide as the moon and he stared at Lance with his mouth open. Thesilence etched on as Lance was frozen in horror. Did I just propose like an idiot?! He could hear Pidge and Alluratrying to hide their snickers while Hunk was sobbing again. Still Keith saidnothing and Lance’s heart shook.

              “W-what?”He finally squeaked, and normally Lance would have teased the hell out of himfor his tiny mouse voice but he probably was seconds away from passing out.

              “Er, um,marry me?” Lance tried again before mentally slapping himself. How was that any more romantic than before?Keith blinked again.

              “Is thisa joke?” Keith’s face suddenly grew hot and a heavy blush spread over hischeeks. Lance thought it was adorable.

              “No!Fuck, I bought a ring and everything see?!” Lance thrust the box back at Keithbefore realizing that the lid was closed.Oh. Quickly he opened the lid with shaking fingers and presented the ring toKeith.

              “Whatthe?” Keith gawked and stared at the silver band with intricate diamonds andstones that represented his birth month. He blinked again, this time feelinghot tears behind his eyes. The ring was stunning. It was hard, simple but itwas beautiful too with stones that Keith always mentioned were pretty to Lance. He remembered. It wasn’t too masculineor too feminine. It was perfect.

              Keithwas mortified.

              “Youidiot.” Keith sniffled before gripping Lance’s collar ad hauling him to hisfeet. Lance swallowed thickly, thinking he had somehow messed up. “You couldn’twait until we were home?! Or when I wasn’t so tired, I could barely say my ownname?!” Keith sniffled again and Lance frowned. Was that a yes?        

              “Er, areyou gonna marry me or not? ‘Cause you’re not making much sense.” Lance laughednervously and Keith rolled his eyes.

              “That’sbecause it’s six in the fucking morning, and I got two hours of sleep.” Keithrolled his eyes with a snort. “And my stupid boyfriend thought it would be niceto propose to me, while I was dead on my feet, he was exhausted and hungry instead of during a nice quietdinner or at home.”

              “I can,uh, do it over again? If you want?”            

              “No,give me that goddamn ring. This is perfect.”

              Lanceblinked once. Twice. Three times before Keith finally pulled him in for a deeploving kiss. There was no battle for dominance, no tongue lashing ordesperation. But rather it was full of love, passion and promises for their future.

              Theairport exploded with the sounds of screaming cheers, sobbing and clapping whenLance and Keith finally pulled away. Lance eagerly pulled off one of Keith’sglove before slipping the ring on his finger. A perfect fit.

              Keithand Lance both stared at the ring, with goofy and tired smiles.

              “I loveyou.” Keith whispered, eyes staring into Lance’s and Lance broke into a huge grin.

              “I loveyou too.” The two broke apart when everyone else came rushing towards the newlyengaged couple to give their congratulations. Keith happily accepted all hugsfrom everyone, while Lance did the same. Eventually, Lance felt a familiar metalhand grab his shoulder and his stomach dropped. He turned around to face Shiro,who wore an unreadable expression on his face.

              “Shiro,sir, I know I should have asked for your hand in marriage and talked to youfirst –” Lance babbled nervously.

              “Youshould have.” Shiro said and Lance swallowed. He was then pleasantly surprisedwhen Shiro pulled him into a bone crushing hug. “Thank you for making him sohappy. Welcome to the family, Lance and please take care of my son.” Shirowhispered into Lance’s ears and the tears were falling again on Lance’s face. He clutched at the back of Shiro’s jacketbefore burying his face into the shirt.

              “Thankyou Shiro. I promise to take care of him for the rest of our lives.”

              “Thankyou.”

x.V.x

              “I hopeyou don’t mind that I gave dad my dog tags.” Keith said when he and Lance werefinally alone in their house. Hiseyes continuously wandered back to his ring every few minutes and Lance foundthat absolutely adorable. Keith might not be the most verbal about his appreciationbut Lance wouldn’t be with him otherwise if that was the only reason he’d wantto love him.

              “Nah, Ifigured you were going to.” Lance admitted with a smile. He remembered that momentwhen Shiro and Keith started cryinglike babies. Shiro’s tags were still resting against Keith’s pale chest, fullof new scars.

              “I wasalways going to give them to him. It only felt right.” Keith said softly. “Evenwhen we got together, I knew I was going to give them to him. After everythingI put him through.”

              “Heloves them Keith. He loves you. Don’t worry about anything else.” Lance saidquickly before Keith could go into a guilt-filled rant about his time in the military.Keith never regretted his decision but he’d seen how much it had hurt hisfriends and family. He often took it out on himself for their pain. “I loveyou, okay. Besides, you’ve given me a muchbetter gift.” Keith frowned.

              “What?”

              “You’regonna be my husband.” Lance grinnedand snaked an arm around Keith’s waist. Keith squeaked at the touch andplayfully swatted at Lance’s arm. He snorted but allowed Lance to pull himclose into another soft kiss.

              “Mhm,yeah. I’m excited for our future. But Lance?”

              “Yeahbabe?”

              “There’sno way I’m going to be Keith McClain. You better get used to Lance Shirogane.”

[stag28]

"There have always been tall athletes among the pros, and average heights had increased incrementally for years. But over the last two decades, players — women and men alike — have become significantly bigger, a point that was underscored last month at Wimbledon. When Hingis won in 1997, the tallest woman to reach the quarterfinals was 5-foot-9. This year, there were only two women in the quarterfinals under that height. On the men’s side, the numbers were even more arresting. Five of the eight quarterfinalists this year were 6-foot-4 or above, and not one was under six feet. It was Big Dude Tennis, you might say, and it continued in the lead-up to the U.S. Open. [..] when you walk through the players’ lounge of a tournament these days, you can easily think that you have stepped into a misplaced N.B.A. locker room. [..] Kei Nishikori is the only player in the men’s Top 10 who is under six feet, and no man under six feet tall has won a major since 2004. In a 2015 interview, the Spaniard David Ferrer, who is 5-foot-9 and was ranked as high as No. 3 in the world, suggested there was no hope for players his size. “I would guess that you will have to be at least between 5-foot-11 or 6-foot-3 to play tennis,” he said. “I think players like me, around my height, are going to be extinct.” In many professional sports, the athletes are a lot bigger now than they were a generation or two ago. Since the late 1940s, the average height of N.B.A. players has gone from 6-foot-2 to about 6-foot-7. But basketball was always a big person’s sport. Tennis was not. Tennis used to be like soccer: a sport in which height was considered largely inconsequential. Many of the game’s greatest champions were on the compact side. Rod Laver was 5-foot-8, Jimmy Connors 5-foot-10. John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg were under six feet. Martina Navratilova was 5-foot-8 and Chris Evert 5-foot-6. Billie Jean King was only 5-foot-4 1/2. Now, however, height seems to matter a great deal. The ramifications of this are being felt not just at the professional level but at the junior level too. Young players — and their parents and coaches — have always had to wonder whether they had the athletic ability and emotional resilience to make it in tennis. Now there is a more fundamental question: Will they grow big enough to be competitive? [..] Players this size used to be outliers, and they didn’t enjoy much success. They usually had thunderous serves, with their long limbs generating enormous force and their height letting them pound the ball down toward the court at severe angles. But booming serves were often all they had. They tended to be lumbering giants who couldn’t keep rallies going and struggled with balls hit below their waists. Being of modest height, or even a little on the short side, was considered preferable to being supersize. Things are different now. The sport’s so-called Big 4 — Federer, Rafael Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray — are all between 6-foot-1 and 6-foot-3. For a while now, this height has been considered the sweet spot for male players, even as taller competitors enter the scene. In 2009, Juan Martín del Potro, a 6-foot-6 Argentine, overpowered Federer to win the U.S. Open, becoming the tallest man ever to win a grand slam title. Three years ago, Marin Cilic of Croatia, who is also 6-foot-6, won the Open. The 6-foot-5 Canadian Milos Raonic was a Wimbledon finalist last year and a quarterfinalist this year. And then there’s Sascha Zverev, 6-foot-6, who seems likeliest to recalibrate the “sweet spot” entirely. [..] Like other big men, he has a huge serve, but there is much more to his game than blistering serves and groundstrokes. He’s also exceptionally nimble and supple — he has what his fitness trainer, Jez Green, calls “elasticity.” It is a word that has been used to describe the N.B.A. star Kevin Durant, whose speed and ball handling have redefined what’s possible for an N.B.A. big man. Zverev, whose lanky frame is not unlike the seven-foot Durant’s, could have a similarly revolutionary impact on tennis. [..] “Anything up to 6-foot-7, 6-foot-8 is a great height for tennis these days. You look at Cilic, at del Potro, at me — we all move really well, which is a big change from how it was 20 or 30 years ago.” He credited his agility to having played soccer and field hockey as a kid. “They are low-gravity sports,” he explained. “They taught me how to be low all the time, how to change direction quickly.” He thought smaller players could still hold their own in today’s game, and figured anything over 6-foot-11 was probably too tall to reach the top of the rankings. Even this caveat underscored just how much things have changed: Not so long ago, the mere idea of a seven-footer competing successfully would have seemed ridiculous. [..] “I don’t know if it was deliberate or not, but having him play soccer and field hockey was a masterstroke,” he said. “For someone that tall to get used to playing low — it helped his movement hugely.” [..] On the women’s side, players aren’t necessarily getting taller; 6-foot-3 still seems to be the ceiling. But they are becoming even more powerful. You hear the word “convergence” in tennis circles these days. It refers to the way the women’s game is coming to resemble the men’s game — specifically, the narrowing of the gender gap on serves and groundstrokes. [..] En route to winning the French Open this year, Jelena Ostapenko, a 20-year-old Latvian, averaged 76 miles per hour on her forehand, three miles per hour faster than Murray, then the No. 1 male player. [..] Lindsay Davenport, who now coaches Keys, doesn’t believe that height is the sole or even primary explanation for why the women are hitting so much harder these days. When we spoke recently, she said much of it had to do with lighter, more flexible rackets. “Everyone can crack the ball now, even the shorter players,” she says. She also points to a change in attitude, on the women’s tour, about the role of the serve. “For so long, the serve was just seen as a means of starting the rally,” she told me. “When I was playing, we’d practice groundstrokes and volleys for 45 minutes, then do just a few minutes of serves and returns.” Now, there’s much more emphasis on developing and refining the serve. [..] more important is the increased athleticism, across the board. Even in her era, players didn’t pour their time into the gym, and big ones weren’t spending hours a day trying to develop the footwork and balance of players six inches shorter than them. “They are such great athletes now,” she says. “You could take them and put them into another sport, and they’d succeed. I was a great tennis player, but I wasn’t a great athlete. If you’d stuck me in another sport, I probably would have drowned or something.” [..] size is now widely seen as a critical benchmark in evaluating a kid’s prospects: “In the coaching community, it is talked about all the time.” Parents talk about it, too, often with a kind of crude Darwinism — “Yeah, she’s good, but she’s such a tiny little thing.” [..] The discussion about height inevitably revolves around the serve, but string technology has now given taller players an edge in rallies, too. Polyester strings can generate enormous topspin, producing forehands and backhands that come down deep in the court and jump up after landing. “The strike zone was a lot lower 20 years ago,” DeHeart said — and higher balls can be a nightmare for undersize players, forcing them to move back from the baseline or play lots of shots above their shoulders, which can be exhausting. For a tall player like Gracia, those topspin shots will end up just above the hips, an ideal contact point. [..] While she was lavish in her praise of the Williams sisters and also spoke admiringly of a couple of other current stars, Hingis said a lot of women these days — even some who have cracked the Top 20 — were very limited in their abilities. “They are one-dimensional,” she said. “It’s boom, boom, boom, and when they don’t hit a winner after three or four shots, they panic. Once you get them on the run, they are in trouble. The big players are not as agile. Shorter players just have to learn to defend the first and second shot. Once the ball passes over the net three times, we have the advantage.” Still, she had to acknowledge the value in being a little closer in height to today’s giants. “I wish I was five centimeters taller,” she said. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”“