#fleet glide galaxy

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 3

Through the Sea of Time from Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Time/Darkness/Sky

vs.

Fleet Glide Galaxy from Super Mario Galaxy 2

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Through the Sea of Time:

Aaaaaaaah, the feelings! This song gives a feeling of enthusiasm, discovery, and is really sad also. This is the game that brought to tears a generation of pokéfans.

[dragongirlintestines]

Hunger Over Levin-3, Part 1

A vore fic featuring Thorne and Prin (@wolfgirlguts)

Ashvale station, in the orbit of Levin-3, has lain derelict for several years. The only things keeping it functional are the autonomous maintenance systems, still diligently scrubbing oxygen filters and purifying water. Designed to last, the half-mile long series of abandoned habitation rings has become a favorite stop of pirates, mercenaries, and others who would otherwise prefer to lay low for a few days. It's a far cry from the tourist-heavy resort destination whatever megacorp built the structure intended it for.

However, such shadowed corners of the galaxy are ideal hunting grounds for monsters.

Content warnings: Mentions of Sex, Blood, Gore, Graphic Digestion, General Cruelty.

Retro-rockets fire as a lone shuttle makes its final approach to Ashvale station, its raider crew cramped from the arduous journey and ready to spend some time reveling in their recent spoils. The raid had gone easier than expected, and they have some time to waste before they're due to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.

Six bodies cross the umbilical between fuselage and installation, a mix of soft furs, ears of various shapes, and one tough, scaly hide. Two foxgirls, one red and one silver, mischievous grins flashing in the half light. A deergirl with an impressive rack of antlers spins an ill-gotten amulet around one finger, while a bright-eyed rabbit boy follows closely behind, eagerly chatting to her about something. Behind those four, standing two heads above the rest, a broad croc gal trudges, hauling one unwieldy laser cannon over her shoulder. Finally, a wolfman with greying muzzle follows, his walking staff thrumming with arcane power.

"Did you see the way that one looked when we busted down the door?" the rabbit remarks to the doe, "Priceless! I never get tired of those corpos' reactions when they realize they've fucked up!"

One of the vixens turns and smirks back at him, "Maybe we should see if we can get you to make that same face tonight!"

"I think you'd look quite cute begging for your life like that," the other vixen chimes in, moving to flank the leporine young man. A blush crosses his face as he recalls the pair's reputation for needing to burn off excess energy after a raid.

Similar jests continue as the motley crew make their way through slowly rotating habitation rings, finding a cluster of rooms around a common dining hall. It would seem the last residents to make use of the station had a sense of thieves-honor, and kept the rooms decently well maintained before their departure. The halls themselves are silent, lights extinguished except when the approaching party's life signs trigger their activation. The revelrous sound of footfalls and energetic excitement echo back and forth as the pirates set up for several sols of post-raid debauchery.

Not one of them notices as another small shuttle silently glides in to dock alongside their craft.

--

"Ahhh, it was so nice of them to leave that booze behind the bar! I was worried we'd have to dip into some of our own stash tonight!" sighs the red-furred vixen, reclining on a bed laden with pillows. The bunny boy, now thoroughly winded, rests his head on her slightly chubby belly, too exhausted and drunk to do anything about the mix of fluids matting down their fur. Beside them, the other vixen lays an arm across the pair, completing the rabbit sandwich.

"Yeah, and we still wouldn't have to if you hadn't drank half the bar, Shay," the silver fox groans, a teasing grin playing across her face as she gazes longingly into her girlfriend's eyes.

"Shut up, Bella," The other shoots back, flicking her partner's snout playfully. Above them, something creaks in the station.

"I didn't think we were that rough…" Bella jokes, before turning back to her lovers. "Whatever."

"Uggghhhh…" moans the cottontail between them, as he begins to roll off of Shay. "Gotta piss, do you know where the toilet is?"

"Nope! Let us know where it is when you find it!" Bella laughs. "Maybe after you use it. Unless you're into that, Ollie!"

"Ew. No." he deadpans as he disentangles himself from the horny vixen.

"Okie! Take your time, I'll get Shay here warmed up for round four!"

"Those stupid horny foxes…" Ollie thinks to himself as he leaves the room, unable to help but glance back at their still-throbbing cocks. It doesn't go unnoticed, and Shay shoots him a mischievous wink in response.

--

"Where is the damn bathroom?" The rabbit finds himself thinking, as he meanders through the hallways of the derelict station. The thought crosses his mind that this kind of poor design may have been one of the factors that led to its failure as a resort, and he chuckles to himself.

Up ahead, one of the sensor lights flickers on.

"Hello?" he calls out, wondering if one of his comrades was also up and about. As he casually strolls towards the light, it flickers out again, before reigniting when he comes in range.

"odd…" he mutters to himself.

"If I remember tomorrow, I should check that out and see if anything else is malfunctioning" he thinks. He is, at least sometimes, the responsible one of the crew. Finally, his wandering eyes catch sight of a sign, and he sighs in relief as he realizes his search has come to an end.

--

As the heat of the dryer cleans the fur on his hands, one of Ollie's ears perks up, as he hears the sound of footsteps outside the small lavatory. "I'll be out in a second!" he calls, hoping whoever is waiting didn't have to search quite as hard as he had.

Paws still slightly damp, he hurries through the door, and gently closes it behind himself. Turning back around, adrenaline spikes in his veins as he finds his vision filled with a mass of ashen blue scales. A pair of digitigrade legs, each foot tipped with sharp, bony talons ten centimeters long. Behind them flicks a long tail, pale golden ventral scales underneath contrasting with the same blue as the creature's thighs.

He slowly lifts his vision, trying not to stare too hard at the slight bulge in the golden scales and wide hips sitting just above his eye level. The creature's torso is a mass of muscle and flesh, and nestled between her breasts sits a strange device, a grey half-sphere glowing with baleful blue light. Hoses run from this core, most punching down into the flesh of the creature, but as his eyes follow two of them up to its left where they join into a terrifying mess of metal and synthetic muscle. A prosthetic arm, though he considers that it may have simply been an "upgrade" to the flesh it once was, given how its construction speaks of pure violent intent. It ends in a set of three fingers and a thumb, each tipped with sharp, polished points, the whole hand larger than his head. The terrifying metallic claws of the creature's left arm, however, seem barely an upgrade when he compares to the equally terrifying fleshy right arm. The whole body is framed by massive blue wings, tucked neatly up against its back.

Finally, he looks up to the creature's head, crocodilian to a certain extent, with pale ivory horns protruding from a mane of blue hair. Piercing, lightning-blue eyes leer down at him, and a pale red tongue runs along her lips as she looks down, hungrily.

"h… hello." he stammers, before the creature's metallic claw wraps around his torso and lifts him three feet off the ground, slamming him painfully against the door he just closed.

"Hey there, little snack," The creature growls, a wicked grin splitting its lips, revealing two dozen vicious teeth, each three inches long. Pure terror shoots through his veins, and he screams, every molecule of air he can expend tearing out of his lungs in a desperate cry for someone to save him.

Be it through sheer bad luck or a cruel twist of fate, he can hear a fox's scream of pleasure echoing faintly back through the halls of the station.

"Shame," the beast laughs, "you'll need that breath to run." It whips around, hurling Ollie's limp body 15 feet down the hallway. He bounces and tumbles, and feels several of his ribs bruise from the impact. "Get to it, little meat,"

"Meat?" he thinks to himself, unsure if he heard correctly, before the creature's draconic maw speaks again.

"I need to work up an appetite before dinner."

Oh. He heard correctly, he realizes. She wants to eat him. His mind races, the thought that a fellow sapient would stoop to something so taboo. Sure, some sapients would give in to their predatory instincts, but even the most depraved raiders stuck to hunting non-sapient animals.

"What, did I break you already?" a laughing growl peals from the beast's throat.

He doesn't need to be prompted. He needs to get back to his crew. They have weapons there. Victor might be able to weave a spell to bring her down. Or he could just be leading the monster to them. To devour them all.

No time to worry about that though. He needs to run. Now.

His paws scramble against the metallic floor, struggling for purchase. After agonizing seconds he pushes himself up off the ground, tearing down the corridors of the station.

He takes the forks on instinct, first left, then right, right feels correct here; there's no sense of direction, he just has to hope that by some miracle these labyrinthine corridors don't come to a dead end, and that he doesn't end dead.

No such luck. One wrong turn, and he rounds a corner into a common area of sorts. A large window looks out over the infinte void of space, the peaceful horizon of Levin-3 turning carefree down below. It would be beautiful, if he were anyone else.

To him, all it spells is despair. He's trapped here, in this beautiful lounge, with a monster between him any anyone who could save him. He's going to die here. He's going to die and be devoured by some sort of unhinged dragon woman. He's going to die and then she's going to slaughter his crew and no one will ever find their bodies.

No. he's not given up yet. Though the beast's pounding footsteps echo distantly through the station, he might yet be able to hide. He takes a chance to look around, noticing several doors labeled "penthouse suite" around the corners of the room.

He picks one, and to his relief, it opens with a quiet hiss. He dashes through, and finds a button with a padlock icon on the other side. His paw slams into it frantically, and the door gently clicks behind him. The lights in the room turn on, revealing a dusty, but lavishly decorated suite. A couch, table, and entertainment suite are laid out in front of him, with a kitchenette occupying one corner of the room. Through another doorway, he spies a comfortable looking bed, equally lavishly furnished.

He just needs to stay calm, and hopefully that… thing… will leave him be. He doesn't want to think about what that means for his friends, but that's a problem for when he makes it out alive.

Bile surges in his throat as exertion finally catches up to him, and he leaves a mess on the carpet as he retches. Recovering slowly, he tiptoes his way to the bedroom, tucking himself underneath the bed, behind the bed runner. It's sheer, and he can see the door through it, but it's as concealed as he can hope.

--

Agonizing minutes pass, and he can feel reverberations as the massive creature treads her way through the halls of the station.

"Did I put enough distance between us? Did she lose my trail?" Oliver wonders to himself.

The motion sensor lights turn off in the room, and he realizes the station itself kept his trail, writ large in pale LED lighting. A single, heavy footfall shakes the floor, and he knows death awaits right beyond the door.

A surprisingly gentle knock breaks the silence, followed by a mocking falsetto growl.

"Room service!"

A momentary pause that could last a lifetime. A prey animal trapped in its own nest holds its breath desperately hoping against hope that his doom would turn her gaze elsewhere.

"Ah well, worth a try," comes the growl, taking cruel pleasure in its little joke.

Metal shrieks against metal as hardened steel talons punch through the door, tearing through the it like paper. Blue scales fill the doorframe, and the creature stoops to let itself in. It sniffs a moment, then wrinkles its nose at the small vomit stain on the floor. A low, throaty growl escapes its lips, as it scans the room.

Oliver's eyes fall upon it at the same time as the beast's. A clean trail of pawprints in the otherwise pristine carpet of the room.

The beast crouches down, taking its time to crawl towards the poor rabbit's hiding place. "I didn't know you thought of me this way," she croons as she steps slowly, deliberately towards the bedroom. Stooping again through the second doorway, it presses itself to the ground. It lifts the bed runner, making full eye contact with one terrified lagomorph. Her claw lashes out, filling his vision, metal fingers splaying around his ears. He feels crushing pressure around his skull, and wonders if this is the end.

It is not. She pulls him out from under the bed by his ears, pain shooting through his scalp, and he can feel something warm run down the back of his neck.

"nononoNONONO!" he screams and kicks as she lifts him slowly up off the ground, before forcing him down onto the bed. Not too long ago, he remembers dreaming of something similar with a certain vixen, but this is much less desirable. For the second time within the hour, a scream rips its way through his throat, hoarse and ragged.

The monster does not allow it to last. She climbs up onto the bed after him, its lightweight orbit-alloy frame cracking under half a ton of draconic flesh. Her claws wrap around his arms, and those terrifying jaws crack open impossibly wide. He tries to squirm, but his arms are held tight to his torso, leaving only his legs to flail helplessly against the air, while the beast lifts him towards her rows of flesh-rending fangs.

The deathly maw snaps forward, driving daggers into his arms and gut, forcing the last screaming breath out of his lungs. He shuts his eyes, not wanting to stare down the yawning throat that pulses and throbs, eager for meat. It is only when she takes another hungry swallow, teeth this time piercing his soft ass, that he realizes this monster has no intent to chew. Her tounge dances along his abdomen, and a growl of pleasure reverberates up through the throat around him. Wretched, hot air wafts up from within its throat as he feels its tongue play across his body, tip winding its way into gaping wounds, lapping at his freely flowing blood. The agony is exquisite, but he can only manage a tiny whimper.

Again, the creature swallows, her tongue slipping between his thighs to push him deeper down her throat, rubbing against a sensitive nub of flesh. He is cruelly reminded of a joke Shay made about "playing with her prey" when her tongue had been in a similar position earlier that night.

He can feel as his ears slip into her gullet, and his face is pressed firmly into the soft entrance. Another burst of adrenaline kicks in, and his whole body flexes and writhes, raging against the terrifying thought of being digested alive. His arms, now free of the claws holding them in place, desperately grasp at something, anything, that he might use to pull himself out. Too late he realizes his paw has grasped something bony and round. Murderous jaws once again slam shut around him, and his hand is quickly turned to a mangled, bloody mess as it is impaled between dragon teeth. Likewise, his writhing legs are stilled as daggers sever nerves in his thighs, before pressure builds and he can feel a femur snap beneath several tons of bite force.

Her prey now somewhat more subdued, the dragon tosses her head back, letting gravity aid in pulling this morsel down her throat. One leg hangs limply outside her maw, as the still living meat is hungrily dragged into her throat. The rabbit can't even feel as she wraps her tongue around that limb, and lazily drags it down with the rest of him, not a care given for the disfigured mass of flesh it has become.

The throat is crushingly tight around Oliver, but compared to the bite force he had just experienced, it feels downright gentle. Peristaltic motions pull him ever deeper, and he cannot help but whimper, knowing in his heart that there is no escaping now; only slow, agonizing death. As he whimpers, his body shakes, and tears fall from his eyes, mingling with the esophageal mucous surrounding him. The beast's gullet, ignorant to his misery, pulls him ever deeper.

He feels a gentle pressure against his head, which gives way as the esophageal muscles push him into a more open chamber. He gasps, and immediately regrets it. Painfully acidic fumes burn the sensitive inside of his nose, down his throat, all the way into his lungs. A moment later he opens his eyes, another immediate regret. The throat pushes again. His face is plunged into chemical soup, immediately searing his corneas blind. Now panicking in sightless darkness, he can't help but thrash wildly with what little strength he has left. He feels himself fall for a brief moment, and a weight lands on top of him. He realizes that he can't feel his legs anymore.

As he thrashes, he can hear that same rumbling growl from before, only now it emanates from all around him.

"Mmmmm… yeah. I should get rabbit more often…"

He can feel something pushing on the stomach walls, as the beast rubs her slightly swollen gut. To an outside observer, were it not for the occasional bump, it would be barely obvious that an entire sapient had just been tucked away behind those scales.

"Shouldn't have crushed his legs though… they'd probably feel real good kicking in there…" Impotent fury surges through his mind as Ollie realizes she's taking pleasure in his digestive demise.

"Let me out! You fucker!" he screams, his voice hoarse from his previous exertions, as well as the scouring acidic air of her guts.

"Hmmmm… Aww, does food not know its place?" the monster ackowledges him, pure cruel mockery in its voice.

"Why… We're both sapients… You're a monster…" he moans, delirium starting to set in from lack of air.

"Oh I'm aware, you're hardly the first delicious little morsel to call me that."

"You've gotta let me ou- glrk" the poor rabbit's voice chokes as cruel hands force him under gastric juices. Bloody chime quickly surges into his throat, violating his insides. His tongue feels slippery as it begins to melt, and he finds himself unable to speak as his vocal cords sear through.

"Oh, no, I've still got a whole meal to worry about before that…"

Muscular claws push down on the belly, and it clenches painfully around him. He feels burning inside his chest, and pressure outside. Something twitches, then gives. His ribcage collapses, crushing his heart. Sensation begins to fade.

"I wonder if Prin's caught anything yet…" the bunny hears, moments before hopping off the mortal coil.

[churchobones]

Taking His Time

Previous

Do what you will with her, Zelion's letter read.

Don't waste this opportunity, read his father's.

“How strange that you should take your time.”

He shook the memory from his head and threw open wide the door.

He always hoped she would visit his workshop.

Mess that it was!

She arrived at his mansion in the remote mountains of the Plaguelands a month prior, moon-eyed and on stilt-like legs with a sungrass joint tucked behind her ear.

She was a bit stiff, at first, but he was accustomed to that; his family was, after all, enormously wealthy and powerful even among their fellow Sin’dorei.

Or at least Corwin Bloodrose Senior was.

The facade was easy enough to crack. When he couldn't recall the honorific the Mournvalor family title demanded, he took to using several-- and the first of many inside jokes was born. After a few bowls of Horde-e-o’s supped in his Observatory together and a night in which he schooled her in the basics of Hearthstone, the awkwardness of their first meeting melted away.

And awkward it had been. For a fleeting moment, as they sat across from one another at the dinner table, he was convinced she was sent to surveil his research-- his real research, not the Mournstone drivel he did for his father nor the hogwash he used as a distraction for the masses.

And she--

“I think I was sent here to die.”

He could feel it, like a beast lurking in the dark outside a frosted window pane. It began meager, plaintive like a cat demanding entry from the cold; then, the further his fingers trailed down her split bodice, the more fervid it became-- like claws scoring the arcane defenses of his mind.

But proof lay beneath the high neck and ruffles of her stately blouse: a Mournstone, as promised by the letters of Zelion and Corwin Bloodrose Senior.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, but it wasn't her husband's handiwork to which he referred.

It was a golden curl, painted warm by the nearby candle light.

“You have beautiful hair.”

Then-- “Sorry,” he professed for the inappropriate nature of his remark.

And, “Sorry,” she echoed with a wild stare as she slipped the knife into his gut.

How awkward! Until they shared a laugh as she tidied his weak attempt to mend the wound with Holy magic.

“Lady Dame Admiral Hesterlynn Mournvalor! First you stab me, then you apologize and heal me!”

Because she was right!

She was right to act in self defense. She was sent to him to die!

And he was to be her executioner.

“I really don't know how you feel about me at this point. You'd better stab me one more time for good measure!”

“How strange that you should take your time.”

He shook the thought from his head and threw open wide the door.

"Lady Dame Admiral Hesterlynn Mournvalor!” He ushered her into his shop, where a jazzy, swingy mix crackled on the gramophone.

An ugly bruise painted the bridge of his nose shades of violet and red, like a galaxy born of brute and malice. A bandage obscured the worst of it, acting as a stint and padding to the scratched glasses resting gingerly atop.

"I wanna show you something!”

He took her by the wrist and lead her through a narrow path, between tables scattered with gears; between a cooled blacksmith's furnace with a glass-blowing port and an anvil, draped with hooded leather gloves; over the spilled bits and teeth and the toolchest that had fallen; between hanging lights and lamps, all of which could be drawn closer on a gliding rail; and finally, in the rear of the shop beneath the shadow of a mechanized colossus, to an unassuming, messy desk scattered with books, a tobacco pipe laced with mana thistle, a faded photograph of two dark haired boys and their prized Hearthstone cards, and a dozen half-finished, hand-sized projects with dead lights and exposed copper wires.

Cory pushed up the slipping glasses on the bridge of his broken nose and plucked a wrist plate from the center of it all.

"Are you ready?" he asked with a grin.

[all-the-things-2020]

Year of Fandom Crossovers: July

Title: “Not All Heroes Wear Capes”

Pedro Character: Marcus Moreno

Fandom Crossover: Star Trek TNG

Warnings: description of panic attack, loss of a loved one

Word Count: ~6800

Summary: Lt. Marcus Moreno is posted to the Enterprise after a stint at Starfleet headquarters. His daughter Missy is eager to go but is he ready to return to space after losing his wife?

@yearofcreation2023

All Starbases smelled the same, of filtered air and the faint tang of electronics, freshly cleaned carpet and stale coffee. Marcus had grown used to the natural scents of his home in San Francisco: the slight tang of salt from the ocean, the resin of pine and redwood trees in the sun, the spicy-sweet smell of chaparral. It smelled of life and comfort; the Starbase smelled of bureaucracy.

“Check it out, Dad,” his daughter Missy said, dragging him toward a viewport. “You can see all the ships docking from here.” She peered out the transparent aluminum window, her breath fogging up the surface. “Which one is ours?”

“The Enterprise,” he said. “That one. Over there.” He pointed out a sleek Galaxy class cruiser docked on the far right side. 

“She’s one of the best ships in the fleet, Grandma said.”

Marcus nodded. The Enterprise was considered by many the flagship of Starfleet. People had turned down promotions, ships of their own command, to serve on her, to serve with Captain Jean-Luc Picard. It was a great honor — and a testament to his mother’s ability to pull strings — to be posted aboard her. Or so Marcus kept telling himself. 

“Why do we have to wait until 1900 hours?,” Missy lamented. “I want to see our quarters. This Starbase is boring.”

“The ship is undergoing maintenance,” Marcus explained. “No one can go aboard until it’s completed. Some sort of deep cleaning subparticle sweep or something.” He hadn’t really paid attention when he’d skimmed his orders that morning. “Look, why don’t we go back to our room and relax until it’s time to go?”

Missy shook her head, but stopped short of actually rolling her eyes. “I want to watch the ships,” she said. “They’re like big boats gliding into port.” 

He suppressed a chuckle. “That’s why they’re called ships, kiddo,” he said gently. This time Missy did roll her eyes, but she soon turned back to the viewport, entranced by the cosmic ballet outside.

Marcus sat on a bench nearby. The collar of his new uniform was tight and he resisted the urge to fiddle with it. He’d grown used to civilian clothes while working as a Starfleet liaison and had favored loose fitting necklines. Anything too tight reminded him of … he forced the thought away. No time for that, he chided himself. This is a fresh start. He fingered the lieutenant’s pips on his collar. Despite all the talk about new beginnings, this felt like a denial of the past five years. It felt like a betrayal.

************************************************

“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Moreno!” Commander William Riker was too chipper for Marcus’ taste. He wondered what rumors had arrived on the Enterprise before him. “And you must be Melissa.”

“Missy, sir,” she said, all eyes as she took in the sleek lines of the starship corridor. 

“I stand corrected,” Riker said with a smile. “I’ve asked Counselor Troi to show you to your quarters, and get you settled in.” He nodded toward a dark-eyed woman dressed in civilian clothes who nevertheless had the poise and posture of a Starfleet officer.

“Please follow me,” Troi said. Her voice was slightly accented, something Marcus couldn’t quite place. Oh, right, he thought, half-Betazoid. His mother had sent him a dossier on all the senior officers on the ship, as well as the dozen or so crew members he was most likely to be working with. 

Missy had a thousand questions, which Troi answered good-naturedly. Marcus half listened, focused on keeping his breathing even and regular. The counselor was an empath and he didn’t want her to sense anything other than the usual anticipatory stress of beginning a new assignment. 

“These are your quarters. Missy, you’ll start school in the morning. That’s on deck 14. Do you know how to use the turbo lifts?” After an enthusiastic nod from the girl, Troi turned to Marcus. “And you, Lieutenant? Do you have any questions or concerns for me before I go?” 

“No, thank you, Counselor,” he said. 

Her eyes tightened a bit but she merely nodded and smiled. “Then I’ll see you both around the ship. Welcome to the Enterprise family.”

As the door slid shut behind her, Marcus let himself relax a bit. Missy ran around, checking out every inch of their new living space. Marcus sank into the closest chair. First hurdle cleared.

***********************************

“So, Counselor, what can you tell me about our new lieutenant?” Captain Jean-Luc Picard sipped at his cup of tea. Deanna enjoyed the emotions that emanated from the captain when he was indulging in a cup of Earl Gray. Cozy, she thought. It was not an emotion many would associate with the ever-so-proper Picard, but she knew he liked his little comforts as much as anyone.

“He is very guarded,” she said. “He didn’t speak much, but I know he was very aware of my empathic abilities. He was careful to regulate his breathing. This could have been a self-coping technique, which means he is healthily aware of his own emotions and seeking to control them in a novel situation, or could simply mean he is wary of me and trying to hide his anxiety.”

Picard nodded. “I hope bringing him on board won’t be too much extra work for you.”

“Don’t worry about that, Captain,” she said. “It’s my job to help everyone on board the Enterprise feel safe and supported. Most of our crew only need a little nudge now and then. It’s the interesting cases, like Reg Barclay or Lieutenant Moreno, that keep me on my toes.”

“Admiral Moreno personally requested this posting because of your reputation as a counselor,” Picard said carefully. “She is quite concerned about her son.”

“Understandably,” Deanna replied. “I reviewed his record and he was on the fast track to command. Three days from being tapped for a promotion to Lt. Commander.” She sighed. She didn’t always need to be near someone to feel their pain. “He suffered a profound loss, and it revealed an underlying emotional issue. I know the Admiral would have preferred he continued up the ladder, but as a healer, I have to hope that this will be better for him in the long run than shoving his feelings under the rug, so to speak.”

“I agree,” Picard said. “I have the utmost trust in your abilities, Counselor, and your judgment. We will take it slowly with Lieutenant Moreno. I’ve already spoken to Geordi and he’ll report any possible issues to you, as will Miss Moreno’s teacher. I hate to hover over a crew member like this, but I promised the admiral we will keep a close eye on him.”

“With any luck, it will be temporary, sir. I’ll work with Geordi and we’ll do our utmost to make the transition as smooth as possible.”

“Thank you, Counselor. Dismissed.”

Just before the doors closed behind her, Deanna felt a wave of doubt from the captain. She shook it off. Marcus Moreno was a good man who has simply lost his way for a bit. She was confident she could help him find it again.

****************************************************

The chief engineer greeted Marcus when he arrived on duty the next morning. “Hey, there, Marcus, I’m Lt. Commander LaForge, but pretty much everyone calls me Geordi. I like my team to feel comfortable and relaxed, but I expect everyone to do their best at all times.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Marcus said. LaForge tilted his head, his silver visor catching a reflection of the ceiling lights. “I mean, Geordi.”

LaForge smiled and clapped his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “There you go. You’ll fit in nicely. Let me introduce you to the folks you’ll be working with to start.”

Ensign Nurik gave Marcus a polite nod and returned to her work, as befitted a Vulcan. Lt. Jamison, however, wanted to chat.

“So, any relation to Admiral Miranda Moreno?”

“She’s my mother,” Marcus said. “Are we starting with the first battery of circuits?”  He gestured toward the open panel in front of them. 

“Um, no, we’re already on the third one,” Jamison said. “Must be a real change being on a starship after being on Earth for so long. I only get back once in a blue moon and wow … you just forget what it’s like being on the planet you evolved for, right?”

“I can start on the fourth battery if you want,” Marcus said. “It’s inside the Jeffries tube, right?” He grabbed a tool case and headed for the tube before Jamison could reply. He wasn’t here to share his life story; he was here to do maintenance and make sure the ship was safe and ready to respond to whatever the captain might ask of her. 

“Yeah,” Jamison’s voice was already muffled by the wall of the tube. “Go ahead and get started in there.”

Marcus opened a panel and began carefully testing the array of circuits he had exposed. It was grunt work, tedious and routine, but it needed to be done carefully and properly, so he focused on it. It was cramped in the tube, but he was alone, with a task before him, so he was satisfied.

A few minutes in, he heard someone at the tube entrance. Please don’t be Jamison.

“I will only disturb you for a moment,” Nurik said softly. “I have completed the second battery and will commence on the sixth one. It will be more efficient, and comfortable for both of us, if we hopscotch.”

Marcus smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a Vulcan use that term before,” he said, scooting over to give her room to pass by him.

“I have picked up several human colloquialisms working with Lt. Commander LaForge,” Nurik said simply. “They are often more efficient when communicating with humans, in my experience.” She paused behind him. “I believe you find Lt. Jamison as intrusive as I do. He is a fine engineer but he needs to work on his people skills, as Mr. LaForge would say.”

“You don’t call him Geordi?”

Nurik raised an eyebrow. “Humans are altogether too familiar with each other. I understand that it creates a sense of camaraderie, but I cannot bring myself to address him by anything but his title.”

“So I should call you Ensign Nurik at all times?”

“While we are on duty, of course,” she said, settling in front of the sixth battery. “Off duty, if our paths cross, you may address me as Nurik. It is logical that we will become friends.” 

She opened the panel and went to work. Marcus did the same. It was quiet in the tube, but it was a companionable silence. He liked it.

*******************************************

Missy did most of the talking at dinner. It was good to see her so enthusiastic about her new classmates, her teacher, and being on board a starship. “Dad, there’s a holodeck! And we get to use it for physical fitness once a week! Like, we can go rock climbing or play Parrises Squares …”

Marcus cut her off. “Wait, they let you play Parrises Squares in school?” Holodecks had safety features that should prevent any injuries, but even so, it seemed dangerous.

“Well, a sort of modified version,” she admitted. “So we can learn the basics. I promise it’s safe.”

He wanted to say no, to charge down to the schoolroom and tell the teacher that Missy could not participate in anything so risky, but he saw in her eyes that she wanted desperately to fit in. She was a social creature, like her mother, like his mother. He might be content with a quiet evening after a day of meaningful work, Missy wanted friends. She wanted to belong.

“I suppose your teacher wouldn’t allow anything too dangerous,” he said. “But be careful.”

“I’m always careful, Dad.” He gave her a Look. “Well, most of the time.” She ducked her head, probably remembering a few of her more recent escapades. She was a good kid, just a little too eager to jump in if she saw an opportunity to be helpful or to distinguish herself from the pack. Like her mother. The thought made his heart clench and he left the rest of his dinner untouched. 

****************************************************

“So far, so good, Captain,” LaForge said, leaning forward in his chair. “Moreno seems to be fitting in well with his team, especially Ensign Nurik. Jamison gets on his nerves a bit, but he has that effect on everybody. I’m trying to sand off his rough edges, but it’s an uphill battle.”

Troi nodded. “I know Marcus is holding back a bit in our sessions, but I’m not sensing anything troubling from him. He’s still settling in. His daughter is thriving, according to her teacher, and I have definitely felt less anxiety from him when discussing her.”

Picard leaned back. “Would you say that he’s ready to be put into the rotation for away teams, Geordi?”

“Not just yet,” LaForge said. “I’d like to see how he does in the new training simulations Data and I have been working on. Sort of a controlled environment to see how he responds under pressure.”

“Agreed,” Picard said. “I do appreciate everything both of you are doing to ensure that Lieutenant Moreno is successful here. It’s not just because of his mother, I assure you. I’ve looked at his record, and he has the makings of a fine officer, a good leader, but he needs our help to get there.”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” LaForge said.

“I feel it in him as well, Captain,” Troi said. “He’s just afraid to step out of the safe place he’s built for himself. Once he can do that, his potential will blossom again.”

LaForge chuckled. “Sorry, Deanna, but the idea of Marcus Moreno as a flower just doesn’t quite jibe with the man I’ve been working with.”

****************************************************

Marcus was lying on his back in a Jeffries tube, replacing some junction boxes. It was boring work, but he’d volunteered for the job. It was nice to get off by himself now and then, without the constant need to come up with small talk to pacify Jamison. The man wasn’t really nosy, he just liked to talk — constantly. If you ran out of things to say, he’d start asking questions, which could quickly get too personal for Marcus’ liking. So, he kept abreast of the latest political and scientific news, as well as the sports standings. Jamison was a rabid springball fan and had been on the Velocity team at the Academy.

His comm badge pinged. “LaForge to Lieutenant Moreno.”

“Moreno here.”

“Marcus, remember that simulation you and Nurik did a few days ago? The one with the melted fuses?”

“Of course.” It had been a tricky problem, where a false move could result in the complete loss of the system involved, but also requiring speed to complete repairs before the temperature of the system reached critical.

“Well, we have a similar situation down on Talus IV. We’re on route and should arrive in about thirty minutes. I need you and Nurik on the away team. Report to Transporter 

Room Three.”

“Aye, sir.” So, this was it. His first away mission. He’d been on board the Enterprise for almost two months now and save for a few minor hiccups here and there, things had been going smoothly. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Time to face his first real hurdle.

He finished up the box he was working on and packed up his tools. He fumbled a little with the latch and stopped to look at his trembling hands. None of that. What would Mom think? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

By the time he reached the transporter room, Marcus’s whole body was shaking. He told himself it was just excitement, anticipation of taking part in his first away team for the Enterprise, but he was lying. Nurik greeted him with a nod, her face calm and focused as always. Marcus bit his lip, struggling to swallow as the lump in his throat grew larger. The muscles in his neck weren’t responding. He couldn’t swallow; he couldn’t breathe.

LaForge was briefing the team, but Marcus couldn’t hear him. His throat was rigid. He was choking, just like —-

“I’m sorry, sir, I — I can’t —.” He ran from the room, stumbling into the corridor, his hand clutching at his throat. If he just massaged the muscles a little, maybe then he could swallow, maybe then he could breathe.

“Marcus, what the hell?” LaForge was standing over him as Marcus bent double in the corridor. His vision was growing fuzzy around the edges.

“I — I can’t — I’m sorry, Geordi — I — I can’t — breathe.” His lungs hitched as he tried to pull in oxygen.

“LaForge to Counselor Troi. Transporter Room Three corridor, now.”

**************************************************************

Captain Jean-Luc Picard leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. “Have a seat, Mr. Moreno.” He simply looked at Marcus for a moment. “I could have you brought up on charges of insubordination.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus replied. “I know, sir.” He stared at the floor, unable to meet the captain’s eyes. He was ashamed of himself.

“However, it appears to me that your actions were not deliberate, that there was no malicious intent behind your refusal to join the away team,” Picard said. “And I do not believe in punishing someone for something they have no control over.” He leaned forward, his voice softening. “I know what it’s like to be haunted by a memory, Mr. Moreno. And I have no doubt you will be able to come to terms with it, given enough time and assistance.”

“But I don’t want to,” Marcus admitted. “I was perfectly happy in San Francisco.” He looked up, met Picard’s gaze. “Rejoining Starfleet was my mother’s idea, not mine.”

Picard nodded. “I gathered as much from her messages to me,” he said. “And while I do believe you have the right to choose your own path in life, I think your mother had the right idea, getting you to face your bete noir now before you became too entrenched, too set in your ways.”

Marcus closed his eyes. “I only did this because of Missy,” he said. “She … she was bored on Earth. She’s like her mother, sir. She wants the stars.”

“And you are a good father, and you are giving her the opportunity to try out her dreams,” Picard said. “I know this is hard for you, Mr. Moreno, but Counselor Troi and Commander LaForge and I are here to help you. I see the makings of a fine officer in you. Otherwise, I would gladly send you back to San Francisco. But I owe it to Starfleet — and to you — to assist you in becoming that officer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will return to your post in Engineering and continue your sessions with Counselor Troi. This incident will be noted in your record, but there will be no repercussions, no formal action taken. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Marcus left the Ready Room, feeling the gaze of several bridge officers on him as he walked quickly to the turbo lift. He knew the rumors had already spread throughout the ship. Moreno had a breakdown. Moreno refused to beam down. Moreno was a coward. Moreno was unreliable. As the turbo lift doors slid shut, he rubbed his hand across his face. He wondered how much Missy had heard, and how much of it she believed.

********************************************************

She was sitting on the couch, reading on her padd when he came home. “Hey, Dad,” she said quietly.

“Hey. How was your day?”

She shrugged. “Okay.” She laid down the padd. “Counselor Troi came to see me. She told me about what happened. She said … you might not want to talk about it and that was okay.”

He sat beside her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Only if you want to. I don’t need to know.”

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “Look, I just wasn’t ready for an away mission. I thought I was but my body knew otherwise.”

“Did you get scared?”

He took a deep breath. “Not exactly. It’s … hard to explain. You know how most animals have a flight or fight instinct, right? But when your body can’t decide, sometimes you freeze instead.”

“Is it … because of Mom?”

Marcus closed his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. His hand crept toward his throat and he had to concentrate hard to stop it. 

“It’s okay,” Missy said, taking his hand. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore. I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

“You are the most amazing girl in the galaxy,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “So much like your mother.”

“But I’m like you, too,” she said, her voice small. “I get — frozen sometimes.”

“We all do,” Marcus said. “I just have a harder time getting unfrozen than most people.” 

“Grandma said you were so quiet when we first went back to Earth. I guess you were kind of frozen, huh? But you thawed out.” She poked him in the ribs.

“Yeah, I did,” he said, poking her back. “Now, what do you want for dinner? And don’t say hot dogs again.”

*********************************************************

“I’m fine, Mom,” Marcus said. His mothers’s image on the screen was slightly distorted, probably due to the nebula the Enterprise was currently studying. It was playing havoc with the sensors and most of Engineering had been working overtime to track down all the little anomalies. “Just had a long shift yesterday.”

“Well, don’t let them overwork you, mijo. If you have to name-drop me, do it.”

“I wouldn’t do that, and you know it. We’re all due extra shore leave because of it, so no one is complaining.” Except Jamison, but his complaints were more just a matter of speaking his frustrations with the situation out loud instead of keeping them inside like everyone else. 

“And how’s Missy? She sent me a message a few days ago about a report she’s doing for school, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”

“She’s doing really well. Has friends and started a Kadis-kot club. You were right; she needed this.”

“So did you. Captain Picard forwards all the reports he gets from Lt. Commander LaForge and Counselor Troi.”

Marcus’ jaw worked as he held back a smart remark. “I wish you’d stop monitoring me like that, Mom. It feels like I’m back in school, trying to get a good report card. It’s bad enough knowing they’re talking to the captain about me.”

“Fine, I’ll tell him to stop sending updates. Forgive me for being concerned about my only son’s welfare.”

Marcus sighed. “I know you’re concerned, Mom, but please … let me do this at my own pace. In my own time.”

She leaned closer to the camera. “If you can’t participate in an away team by the end of your first year of service, Starfleet can recall you. In fact, I’ll make a point of it. You can’t waste time, Marcus. The Enterprise needs a crew member she can rely on. Missy needs a father she can rely on.”

“That’s not fair! I haven’t done one thing to jeopardize Missy.”

“Then why did she message me in tears after that panic attack you had a while back? Why did I have to reassure my granddaughter that everything was going to be alright, that her father isn’t crazy?”

Marcus stood up. “I talked with her. She’s come to a couple of sessions with the counselor. She understands, Mom, which is more than I can say for you at the moment. End communication.” He punched the interface with more force than was strictly necessary, but it felt good. No one could soothe him like his mother, but at the same time, no one could push his buttons faster. 

************************************

“You seem agitated,” Troi said, leaning back in her chair.

“I had a conversation with my mother earlier today,” Marcus said.

Troi laughed. “Say no more. I am very familiar with the stress of conversing with one’s mother. Mine may not be a Starfleet admiral, but she has her own very strong sense of importance. And parents often have a hard time seeing their children as independent entities.”

Marcus shifted in his chair. He could never quite get comfortable in it, which probably had more to do with his reluctance to be in therapy than any ergonomic aspect of the chair’s design. “She said something that made me mad,” he admitted.

“And what was that?” Troi’s voice was calm and neutral, as always. She was an excellent counselor, and he would have opened up more to her if he hadn’t known that her reports were landing on his mother’s desk.

“I’m not sure if I should confide in you. After all, she told me Captain Picard forwards all your reports to her.”

“I don’t reveal anything personal in my reports,” Troi said evenly. “Just my impressions of your emotional state. Counselor-patient privilege is very important to me.”

Marcus bit his lip. He’d been doing that less often but his mother’s words had brought the habit back. “She said … if I can’t go on an away team by the time I’ve completed my first year on the ship, she’ll have me recalled.”

Troi nodded. “And why did that make you mad? I would have thought you would welcome the opportunity to return to Earth.”

“Because Missy is so happy here,” he said. “She had friends back in San Francisco, of course, and she did well in school, but ….” He took a deep steadying breath. “I get up in the morning and she’s sitting on the couch in our living room, staring out the window at the stars. She keeps a log of every system the Enterprise visits and researches every planet, every nebula, everything we encounter. She wants to be a stellar cartographer. I can’t take her back to Earth.”

“But you’re afraid you won’t be able to stay on board the Enterprise.”

He nodded. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to fix this, Counselor. I want to be, for my mother, and for Missy, but …”

“You have to be strong for yourself, Marcus,” Troi said. “Not for me, or the captain, or even for your family. For you. Don’t deny your true self just to please others.”

“So you think I should quit. Just give up, go back to San Francisco.”

“No, I think you should do what you want to do. Your mother and daughter will understand if you can’t remain on a starship. They won’t love you any less. I promise you they want what’s best for you. We all do. And we still believe that being an officer on this ship is the best path for you. But you are the only one who can make the final decision, and you don’t have to make it today. You have over five months left before the deadline your mother has given you. A lot can happen in that time. Look how far you’ve come already.”

“I want to try,” he said. 

Troi smiled. “Then let’s work out a plan to help you achieve your goal. I’ll request some holodeck time, so we can do some desensitization. You’ve done very well in the training simulations, according to Geordi.”

“Because I know they aren’t real,” Marcus admitted. “I appreciate the offer, Counselor, but I don’t think playacting on the holodeck is going to help me.”

***********************************

“I talked to Grandma today,” Marcus said over dinner. “She said you’d sent her a message about a school project.”

Missy nodded as she chewed a big bite of spaghetti. “Yeah,” she said when she’d swallowed. “We’re doing a project about heroes and I wanted to know if she still had any of those drawings I did when I was little, when I was obsessed with superheroes. Remember?”

Marcus nodded. He did remember. After her mother’s death, when they were still adjusting to life back on Earth, Missy had spent hours drawing and painting pictures of superheroes, men and women who used extraordinary powers to save others. Some were ancient Earth characters, like Wonder Woman and Spider-Man; others more recent creations like The Photon and Blue Bat’leth. 

“Did she have them?”

“Yeah, she’s going to send me some holoscans of them so I can pick out which one to put in my project. Ms. Karatha has been talking about how some heroes are larger than life, like story characters, and others are real people who do heroic things. We’re supposed to find an example of each kind in our cultural heritage, and also in a culture we aren’t familiar with. Kraathaa and I are collaborating; she’ll teach me about Andorian stuff and I’ll teach her about human stuff.” She pushed her spaghetti around on her plate. “We also have to write about someone we know who is a hero, but I’m kind of stuck. I haven’t been on board as long as the other kids, and a lot of them know people who did stuff on away teams or during a battle or something.”

“Well, being a hero isn’t always about saving people or winning a battle,” Marcus said. “What about Kraathaa? She was your first real friend here. She welcomed you right away.”

Missy shrugged. “But she didn’t have to overcome anything to be my friend. Being a hero means doing the right thing even though you’re scared, or you know the odds are against you.”

“You’ll think of someone,” Marcus said, his mind already wandering, latched onto her words: even though you’re scared. 

******************************************

“Count me in.”

Geordi LaForge was taken aback. Had he really heard Marcus Moreno volunteer for an away team? “Um, okay, Marcus. But are you sure?”

Moreno nodded firmly. “Yes. It’s routine work, no pressure.” He looked around the briefing table, meeting the eyes of every crew member. “I need to do this.”

Nurik spoke first. “I agree. And I will accompany you.”

“Me, too,” Jamison chimed in. “We’re a good team, you and Nurik and me. I know I talk too much, but between the three of us, we can handle anything LaForge throws at us.”

Geordi smiled. “It’s settled, then. Jamison, Nurik and Moreno will beam down to Beta Doradus V tomorrow and help the research team update their sensor arrays. Let’s get back to work, people.”

He watched as the delta shift filed out of the briefing room. Once he was alone, he pressed a button on his data screen. “LaForge to Counselor Troi. I have some interesting news for you.”

***********************************************************

Marcus hadn’t slept much, but he was up at his usual time to have breakfast with Missy before they headed off to school and Engineering. “We’re doing sculpture today for art class,” she said. “The little kids are using clay but we get to try laser sculpting. Back in the old days they used hammers and chisels, can you believe it? We saw some holograms of ancient sculptures from lots of different planets and it was amazing what they could do with primitive tools.”

“Those ‘primitive’ tools were the height of technology at the time,” Marcus reminded her. “Someday, people are going to look back on what we have and think ‘How did they ever live like that?’”

Missy shrugged. “I guess. But it’s still pretty cool what they could do back then.” She looked at the chronometer. “Oops, I have to go. See you tonight, Dad.”

He hadn’t told her about his away mission. She thought he was just going to spend the day on board the ship as usual. Maybe I should tell her, but I don’t want her to worry. He pushed his coffee away. The last thing he needed today was caffeine.

At 0900 he headed for the transporter room. Nurik and Jamison were already there, Nurik meticulously going over the toolbox she’d packed so carefully the day before. Transporter Chief O’Brien gave him a cheery “Good morning, Lieutenant,” as he walked in. 

No one acted as if this was anything out of the ordinary, but Marcus could feel the panic building inside him. He knew that O’Brien had been briefed by LaForge and Troi, possibly by the Captain himself. He knew that Nurik was watching him, looking for any minute sign of distress. And he knew that Jamison was biting his tongue, full to bursting with words but afraid to set him off. 

“Good morning,” he said. “Are we ready to go?”

Jamison smiled awkwardly. “I think so, if Nurik is done triple-checking her own work.”

“I am finished,” Nurik said. “And there is nothing inherently wrong with triple-checking one’s work. In fact, it is considered standard practice on Vulcan.” She turned to Marcus. “Are you ready to go, Lieutenant?”

Marcus took a deep breath. Even though you’re scared. “Yes.” He stepped toward the transporter platform. Every step was like moving through a strong current of water, pushing him backwards. His heart was racing, his breathing was erratic, his throat was constricting … he paused, took a deep breath and thought of Missy, gazing out the window at the stars, drawing meticulous diagrams of the places the Enterprise had visited. 

“Lt. Moreno?” O’Brien was quiet but concerned. Nurik and Jamison were already on the platform.

“Sorry,” Marcus said. He took the last few steps and centered himself on one of the circles on the platform. “Ready when you are, Chief.”

“Good luck,” O’Brien said. “Energizing.”

The transporter room dissolved around him and Marcus felt the familiar disorientation as the beam reassembled his body on the planet’s surface. There was always a moment when everything was simply wrong before the atoms snapped back into place. And then he was there, on Beta Doradus V and the research team was welcoming them, and he was following Nurik and Jamison into the depths of the facility and nothing bad happened. There were no power failures, no strange creatures appearing suddenly out of the mist, no rocks crumbling beneath their feet, no one being choked to death by tentacles that snaked out of the trees without a moment’s warning … it was all so mundane and boring that Marcus felt like laughing at himself. 

“You’re doing great,” Jamison said about three hours into the work. “I hope you don’t mind, but I looked up your service record and … I can see why you had a hard time. I mean, the last away team you went on — I can’t imagine …”

Marcus laid down his tools. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said quietly. “It happened so fast. Out of nowhere.” He shook his head to clear the thought. “We all know that things can happen fast, but to actually witness it, happening to someone you love …”

Jamison laid his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “I hope I never find out,” he said. “And I hope it never happens to you again. To anyone.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “We’d better get back to work or Nurik will be tattling to LaForge.”

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “And Jamison … thanks. For understanding.”

“Thanks for putting up with me, Moreno.”

********************************************************************

The research team invited them to lunch, which was served on a wide terrace overlooking the forest which surrounded the facility. 

“We like to get outside now and then,” Dr. Kemal explained. “But we’re so busy with our work, we forget unless we make it part of the schedule. So, we eat out here most of the time, unless the weather is really bad.”

Marcus took the seat offered him, under the hanging branches of a tree that provided dappled shade. One of the young research assistants, a girl barely out of university, sat beside him. He thought her name was Dina or Diana or something like that.

The conversation focused mostly on science and some mild gossip about the folks at the other research facility in the planet’s arctic zone. Marcus concentrated on his meal, which was delicious — he’d forgotten how much better fresh food was than replicated — and plentiful.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he spied something snaking down from the tree branch above. He was out of his chair in an instant, his heart racing. It was happening again. It was after the girl. He needed to save her. To his surprise, the scientists laughed.

“That’s just Simon,” Dr. Kemal said. She held out her arm and a long-limbed, long-tailed simian like creature slithered out of the tree and onto her shoulders. “One of the local creatures. They’re kind of like lemurs.” She scratched Simon’s head and the creature made a purring sound. “Simon was curious about us from the beginning, and he comes to visit most days. He’s harmless. Sorry if he startled you.”

Marcus sat back down, feeling a little foolish. It’s just a pet, he told himself. Still, he kept a wary eye on the branches while he picked at the rest of his lunch. He’d feel safer once they were back indoors and working.

*****************************************************

When they returned to the Enterprise, Counselor Troi was waiting. 

“How do you feel, Marcus?”

“Worn out,” he admitted. “I had a few … moments.”

Troi smiled softly. “That’s only to be expected. No one is ‘cured’ overnight. These things take time, but you’ve cleared the first hurdle and now it will be easier to build on that success.” She led him out of the transporter room. “I hope you don’t mind, but I let Missy know that you were on an away mission, so she wouldn’t worry if you didn’t get home on time.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Marcus said. “I should have told her this morning, but I didn’t want her to worry about me.”

They entered a turbo lift. “Deck 8,” Troi said. “I’m off duty now, but don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything. You did excellent work today, Marcus, professionally and personally. You should be proud.” The door opened and she stepped off the lift. “Good night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night, Counselor.” The doors slid shut and the lift continued on its way to his own deck. Things hadn’t gone perfectly — he was still beating himself up over the Simon incident — but they had gone well. He’d gotten onto the transporter platform without panicking, he’d performed his duties to the best of his ability, and his team had completed their work in the time allotted. Lt. Commander LaForge would compliment them at tomorrow’s briefing. And Missy and I can stay on the ship.

He was smiling as he approached his quarters. The door slid open for him and Missy popped up from the couch. “Dad! Welcome back!” She held up a drawing that said I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT in multicolored letters surrounded by stars and comets and planets. She giggled and threw her arms around him.

“I wasn’t gone any longer than usual,” he said. “You’d think I’d been gone for a month.” He hugged her tightly, giving himself a moment to blink back the tears that were forming in his eyes before he faced her again.

“Well, yeah, but it’s a big deal,” she said. “When I got the message from Counselor Troi I was scared for a second, but then I was so proud of you.” She led him to the table. “I made your favorite for dinner: tamales! They aren’t as good as Grandma’s, of course, but they’re pretty good for replicated.” 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Marcus said. 

After they had eaten, Missy cleared the table without being prompted and pulled out her padd to start her homework. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?” He was on the couch, his feet propped on an ottoman, eyes closed. It had been a long and exhausting day.

“I think I know who I’m going to do my hero report on.”

“That’s good.” Maybe he would take a nice hot shower before bed, to relax the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders.

“Want to guess who?”

“Um, I don’t know. Captain Picard?”

She snorted. “Like six different kids picked him. No … I’m going to write about you, Dad.”

Marcus sat up. “Me? But I’m no hero.”

Missy put down her padd. “Yes, you are. You went on that away mission even though you were scared to go. That’s pretty heroic to me.” She came to sit next to him. “I know you were thinking about Mom the whole time, but you went anyway. You did the right thing.”

“That’s not the only right thing I’ve done,” Marcus said softly. “I raised you pretty well, didn’t I?”

“You sure did, Lieutenant.” 

[milksnake-tea]

Hey, I wanna drop something...

[Pokes pokes]

You're either just an acquaintance of his or just a mere fling during the lively nights of sucking the bettors' cash dry in the casino, he won a bet against you and spent a night. To dance the night away, he didn't even let a drop of his emotions leak out from the cracks of his already wearing down mask, despite how you followed his steps with your own rhythm and such a gleeful smile on your face. To see someone so unburdened, who enjoys even the most fleeting of a moment, he wanted to feel - to be - as free as you.

But you can't see how his heart burns with that mask of his that'll never come down, you do have a feeling how his grip on your waist would tighten or loosen, you noticed how even his own rhythm would stagger, and before you could analyse him more the dance has ended. Rather disappointed from both ends, but an entertaining one nonetheless. You bid him farewell, slipping your hand away from his as he felt coldness replacing the warmth in his palms. As he gazed to your form glide on the floor of the establishment, you halted to turn around, a sweet smile on your face with a wave before you're gone from his line of sight.

That’s all there is to it, and that’s the extent of your relationship with him.

That’s what he initially thought.

What fate brought you two to meet at certain intervals are too good to be a coincidence, you caught the glances of that one they call a ‘Stoneheart’. It may sound as cheesy as it is but the sincerity of your smile and how your laugh gave such a sweet ring to his ears would pave a way to come back to that establishment, to see you, or have himself looking forward when he's assigned to a world.

Cerulean and magenta would drift their attention away from whatever once they saw you behind his shades, just listening to a guitarist express their soul on the bench just by the road, right there when you’re alone did he propose for another bet and an upcoming date.

And you’d just drag him with you to do something, no bets, no losers would do anything the winner wants. You know your chance of winning against Aventurine is little to none, so if he wants to do an encore he’s gonna get an encore, no bets needed. In these moments, of you babbling on and about as you walked on the streets or in an establishment would not feel as awkward anymore, of course you both didn't make a foundation filled with sincerity and truth but a foundation is a foundation, you took his persona and ZOOMS with it. It is in these moments where Aventurine found himself slowly, willingly or not, peeling of his mask bit by bit, an excruciatingly slow process but you see it.

And this would happen for quite a while after coincidental encounters in planets, star systems, galaxies, it reached the point he’d touch you freely like an old friend. Aventurine doesn’t want to admit how you led him to take attraction to you, was it boredom from that second time he saw you? Was it how you seem to enjoy just with him being there? Or was it how you held him so gently like an angel’s touch as you danced with him in your first fling? Aventurine would not admit it, but your brash movements but soft touches reached the innermost part of him crave for that gentleness.

It scared him. You’re not his first fling oh no no, but you’re the first person he invited to have a night to destress who touched him so gently, and he’s not one to ask hem to be gentle or caring. It’s intoxicating, he craves for more but the butterflies inside him makes him feel vulnerable and weak. Oh how he’d love to take you anywhere in the universe if he’s not a busy, busy man, and a coward that pull away from you the more he realized that you mean so much more to him. Caution at first tease and a bit of a trickster to test how trustworthy you are, you found a way to slip past the security of his mask and reached his shattered heart. To have genuine conversations - moments - with someone with no bigger agenda shackled alongside it, he felt undeserving, to have a friend that can anchor his thoughts and think of the present. He'll push back those thoughts, even if it's just a little bit.

Until he notices that this coincidental encounters starts to lessen, with his position in the IPC it's no surprise that he wouldn't have the time to contact you and you’d reply much later than usual, texts from you would be more rare after a long while. He wants to be relieved for the calmness and solitude but his heart aches at the thoughts of you abandoning him. He fears genuine affection, he’s afraid that you’ll risk your life mingling with someone like him. This is an optimal solution for both of you, right?

Seeing you again in Penacony after a long time of not meeting one another again made him forget how much he misses you, the way your eyes lit up - in his eyes, so bright it could lit up a whole room - to finally see him again and how you smirked mischievously at your Astral Express crew’s shocked face about your beloved old friend. Aventurine has many things to catch up with you, to be part of the Nameless you follow the tracks forged by the Trailblaze, you’d save worlds and seal Stellarons, to cross path with one another is once in a lifetime.

He’d calm himself down and take things slowly with you, what do you say about a dance together?

- 🪽

BRO IM SO SORRY FOR THE LATE RESPONSE I GOT MADDD BUSY THESE COUPLE WEEKS AND IM SO TIRED BUT OH MY GOD ??? i love soft aventurine yes cmere bbg let me hug you and calm you down and give u a smooch AND NAMELESS X AVENTURINE GOES SO HARD LIKE FATE REALLY JUST STRINGED US ALONG AND THE DANCING !!! THE DANCING !!! i love dancing sm its so intimate and romantic and HBIFDSJKJK OUTDID URSELF AGAIN 🪽 !!!!

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

Pallas' Fritillary Butterfly - Argynnis laodice

While researching what specie this Fritillary might be, I learned just how deep the rabbit hole goes for this subfamily of Brush-Foots. There are a multitude of species to discover and many of them share orange-colored wings that are decorated with spots, markings and patterns. As such, they are quite similar to the Pallas Fritillary. This does make them very recognizable as Fritillaries however, especially when contrasted with other orange Butterflies of similar size such as the American Lady or the Eastern Comma. Despite the continental and oceanic distances between habitats, we can see the many similarities between this individual (from South Korea) and the only other image I have of a Fritillary Butterfly; that being a male Great Spangled Fritillary (Speyeria cybele) from High Park. Taken from the lone split second of probing the milkweed flowers before flying off into the distance. Looking at them both, they share the ornate orange and black wings; and the latter specimen reveals that the underside of the wing is vastly different with white spots versus black streaks and dots.

Though barely visible, an underside glimpse of the Pallas' Fritillary's hindwing can be seen, revealing the different patterns relative to topside of the wings as a whole. Images I've found describe an orange section of hindwing that becomes divided by a border of white spots into a section of fading red, but this specimen is more faded. Alternatively, the pattern may be different depending on the range A. loadice occupies or the particular subspecie that is observed. I can't narrow it down to a subspecie, and deciding on the specie alone was tough enough. Without the live specimen, I focused mainly on the wings to identify it, but after staring at the wings of tropical Asian Fritillary Butterflies that have a range in Korea, the patterns all begin to blur together. The deciding factor for this magnificent find was the pattern arrangement at the top of the forewing combined with a "Ƨ" arrangement of spots on the hindwing (see Picture 4) towards where the wings connect to the thorax. It's a bit of a longshot, but with only a fleeting glimpse it's the best match for now. I may revisit this specie again if I can find a North American Fritillary to photograph. If you plan to go looking, always check the flowers and hope that it isn't too skittish for a photo.

The Pallas' Fritillary pictures were taken on July 8, 2019 in South Korea with a Google Pixel from Sarali's yearlong trip of Asia. The supplementary Great Spangled Fritillary was taken on August 18, 2016 in High Park with a Samsung Galaxy Glide.

[highgeneralkenobi]

@prvtocol asked: ❛ i'm here for business — not pleasure. ❜

The last dregs of sunlight spilled in through the wide window, casting long shadows across the surface of the table. Intricate patterns of imported stone colored the floor, gleaming with years of diligent polish, while the paneled walls boasted artworks from the galaxy’s finest. This was the realm of the Coruscanti elite: cradled high in the atmosphere, the tower offered an unparalleled view of the city sprawl as it glittered in the fading dusk. Obi-Wan had arranged for a private room at no small expense, sparing their exchange the bustle of the crowded restaurant below. 

Not for his own sake, but for that of his guest. This was her natural habitat, after all. It was the least he could do to ensure she was comfortable.

Footsteps sounded from the hall, the delicate clack of heels on hard floors, and she whisked into the room with all the grace of a seabird gliding on a storm. He made no move as she took the seat across from him. He was not her customary clientele—he wore no silks, no jewels, he had no assistant at his side to spare him the onus of direct communication. He was simply dressed, impeccably groomed. The plain, soft fabric of his robe was neatly tucked and wrapped, complementing the frame of a warrior. His hood was pulled low, the hungry evening shadows swallowing his likeness whole. There was no urgency to his presence; his calm bore with it an uncommon gravity, as if all the futile rush of the city might slow to a stop at his word. 

He shifted only slightly to look at her as she spoke, the hint of a smile playing across shadowed lips. A rich, lyrical voice offered his reply: "I imagine you must be quite accustomed to beating back the advances of your clientele.”

She was every bit the vision she was rumored to be. She came from money, wearing her finery as comfortably as a second skin, but the clothes served only as a frame to her natural elegance. No doubt it garnered unwelcome interest from her business associates, and his insistence on a private introduction must have put her on edge.

“— But rest assured, my request to meet was entirely professional.”

Careful fingers drew back the hood of his cloak, revealing a warm countenance and rich auburn hair. Crystalline eyes peered at her from across the table, steady and discerning. “I am Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I've been authorized to act on behalf of Kuat Drive Yards.” One hand brushed a datapad toward her—documentation, should she desire it.

“Perhaps you’ve seen the fleet of Star Destroyers stationed at the shipyard off the edge of the Federal District.” He shifted, settling his weight against the back of his seat. His attention drifted toward the window once more, idly tracking the evening rush of the city. “KDY is responsible for the manufacture of some of the Grand Army’s most powerful ships, including those Star Destroyers. The smooth operation of their business is instrumental to the Republic war effort. Over the past six months, there have been a string of unauthorized transactions working their way through the various accounts of KDY and its subsidiaries. These transactions have not been reported to your organization—nor would I like them to be. Not yet.”

A pause. His distant gaze refocused, cutting back across to Brianne. For all the modesty of his bearing, there was an intensity to those eyes. “I am here to track the breach to its source. And to that effect, I need your help. I realize this may be an intimidating request, given the political repercussions—and should you wish that I pursue this investigation with the assistance of another representative, I understand. But if you choose to provide me your assistance, I promise, there will be no evidence of your involvement. I will personally ensure no harm shall come to you—bodily or otherwise.”

[desireandduty]

@skyhaunter sent "you'll never leave me, right?" from the Morbid curiosity meme | Response based on this beautiful fan art

She is floating. Weightless. Fully at peace for the first time in years. There's a dull sort of ache throbbing in the back of her mind, but it has, mercifully, left her drifting in a state of semi-consciousness for now. As the bacta tank she is floating in works to heal her body, her mind glides backwards, into the part of her past that is full of happy memories.

"You'll never leave me, right?" Anakin asks her. They are curled up together in their bed on Coruscant after he'd returned home from a particularly brutal campaign. The longer the war raged on, the worse of a toll it took on everyone, but especially those who were sent to the front lines again and again. And again. She can see the fear flickering in the depths of his beautiful blue eyes as he voices the question in trembling tones.

"Never. You're stuck with me," she teases, then adds more seriously, lifting a hand to stroke the back of her fingertips down his face: "I will always love you, Ani. No matter where circumstances send you in the galaxy, there will never be a day when I don't wish to be by your side."

And as the memory fades, her mind suddenly leaps forward to the more recent past, skipping like stones across the last few weeks: Vader capturing her, transporting her to his fortress on Mustafar. Her realization of his true identity. Vader Anakin? informing her she could have anything she wished, except to leave. Her growing desperation and worry for her friends and contacts in the fledgling rebellion. The fleeting joy of freedom when she manages to sneak out of the fortress, headed for the landing pad to attempt to steal a ship and fly... anywhere but here.

The memories grow more troubling as her mind drifts closer to consciousness: the unexpected pain of blaster fire striking her in her thigh, her shoulder, then her side as she tumbles face first to the ground. The unhinged shout of rage as a figure in black vaults past her and engages the quartet of bounty hunters in furious battle. The unbearable agony erupting along her entire backside as a flume of lava sprays up from below and pelts her back with searing flecks of magma. And then... nothing. Until-

Her eyes fly open, staring straight out from the bacta tank in which she is floating, and into the same blue eyes that she has known and loved, that she has desperately missed seeing. His gloved hand is pressed against the glass. She has no idea how long he has been standing there, but she recognizes now that he must have been the figure in black. Something about the expression in his eyes twists at her heart as she remembers his question to her all those years ago: you'll never leave me, right? Despite what she had promised him, she had. And he had come to her rescue even while she was in the midst of running away from him. She cannot speak with the respirator in her mouth. All she can do is lift her hand and press it against the glass to meet his in a silent gesture of thanks and apology.

[wolverenmayden]

So much in the universe

So much in the universe, Endless galaxies, stars, and planets Stretching out into infinity. We are but a speck in the grand scheme of things, A tiny blip on the radar of existence.

The universe is a vast expanse Of mysteries waiting to be uncovered, Of secrets waiting to be revealed. We may never fully understand The complexity of it all.

But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. Exploring, discovering, seeking knowledge - These are what drive us forward. To unlock the secrets of the cosmos, To grasp at understanding, even if just a little bit.

So much in the universe, So many wonders yet to behold. From supernovas exploding with power, To black holes swallowing light whole. There is so much beauty and terror, In this vast expanse we call home.

And yet, amidst it all, We find ourselves feeling small. Lost in the grandeur of it all, Feeling insignificant against its backdrop.

But let us not forget - We are made from stardust and dreams, Brought forth from the very fabric of creation itself. Our existence is no mistake or accident - It is part of something greater than ourselves.

So as we gaze up at the night sky, Let us remember our place within it all. Not just observers or spectators, But active participants - Connected to every corner and crevice , of this magnificent tapestry unfold.

For even though life may seem fleeting , in comparison tot he age old stars above we too leave an imprint , however small on this universe wonder land .

So let's embrace our insignificance And revel in our connection to everything around us . beholding beauty with heart wide open taking solace knowing that while we may be minute and temporary beings amongst giants we play an essential role in keeping balance within these celestial majesties for there exist so few places with such potential for wonder While loss reverberates throughout time letting go opens doors for new beginnings

Thus ensues endless cycle living dying born anew breathing living loving endlessly towards eternity dispense

And hand n' heart will guide through darkness taking comfort finding light across divides steadfast despite uncertainty

Embracing ever ebbing tide we'll sail beyond event horizon into spatial seas galaxy glide trusting path transcend defining

Together pass through cosmic gates embrace mystery expand into awe discover moment embracing fate into boundless possibility before return crescendo

May your spirit forever echo dancing among astral symphonies resonating eternal laughter

[princesscolumbia]

Code of Ethics - Ch. 5 - Debriefing

Completely forgot to post this to Tumblr on Saturday when I updated Scribblehub.

Dylan and his team gather for the planning meeting leading up to his 'deep dive' into the VRMMO Galaxies Unlimited: Master and Commander

Preview below the cut:

Dylan cleared his throat and grabbed another donut, doing his best to seem nonchalant, like the atavistic fear of being abducted from your own body wasn’t making him want to curl up in a corner, “Well, on a brighter note, who was the lucky S.O.B. that got to sit around after we got word of the assignment and spend all their time reading game journals?” He made a show of taking a bite out of the donut and scanning the room as a couple of chuckles filled the air and Tyler started getting a few pokes and elbow jabs from the team members around him. “Right! It was Tyler! So what’s the situation on this game I’ll be getting paid by American tax dollars to play, Mustache?”

Tyler ran his forefinger and thumb over his spruce mustache, “You’re just jealous, bossman,” he pulled out his own phone and, similar to Geoffry earlier but with a pinch more flair, put some visuals on the main screen. “Galaxy Unlimited: Master and Commander, or Gee-Eyoo-Emm-See to use the player’s shorthand, is the latest VRMMO game in- or out-side the wall.” As he spoke, a starfield faded in, like a movie producer was filling a dark theater with a movie of a space opera. Sure enough, a massive ship glided onto the screen, the forward bow in the shape of a dull arrow and the hull festooned with gewgaws that made it look appropriately futuristic and sciency. With the sound off, it may as well have been a brochure for a special effects company. “Players assume the role of some type of commander. There’s a few different classes, and they differ from the common VRMMO fare. There’s the Naval Captain, where you command a single ship in the navy of one of several galactic powers. Kinda like...what’s that show? Space Trek?”

Dylan knew Tyler was jerking his chain, as if the cheshire grin didn’t give it away, “Get on with it ‘stache.”

Tyler just snickered and threw another video up on the screen, this one of a caravan of ships, only a handful of which were obviously geared toward combat running picket around the others, “Then you’ve got the Merchant Marines, this option’s the most straight-up capitalistic, and apparently there’s a couple prestige classes that involve things like smuggling, naval fleet support, working for the various mob families, that sort of thing.”

“There’s this odd one called ‘Swarm Royalty,’ which I guess is an alien race of some sort,” another video showed a, well, swarm of nearly identical craft of indeterminate size. As the camera followed the trajectory of the cloud of ships, they began attacking a larger craft, apparently some form of cargo ship, and it appeared the swarm ships were single or two-person craft. “Since the game is all about being some sort of commander, I guess you’d be the head of the swarm? Honestly, I think this class was built for the A.I., I can’t seem to wrap my head around how you’re supposed to control that many ships.”

Dylan frowned, “Yeah, not going to pick that one. What’s next?”

Tyler rolled his eyes theatrically as he started the next video, “Next up is planetary governor. Not a popular option, since it’s more about micromanaging an individual planet instead of doing stuff out in space, but apparently it’s a fast track to being able to claim a seat in the Galactic Senate, which is a pretty big deal at the higher levels of the game.”

Jake made a noise that sounded a bit like a cat hacking up a hairball, “They gamified politics?!”

Tyler held up his hands as though surrendering, “Don’t look at me, man, I didn’t design the game.”

“So assuming I just wanted to give up my soul instead of fighting the A.I., I’ll go the political track,” joked Dylan, “Let’s hear the other options first.”

“Next up is Warleader, it’s popular with the people who played just straight up hack-and-slash or run-and-gun in other games. You start off with a cluster of ships and zero reputation and basically just agro and claim as much space as you can hold. It goes from just commanding a few ships to, potentially, being in charge of a small galactic nation that could potentially threaten the major powers. I say, ‘potentially,’ because no player has been able to do more than grab a handful of systems and nation build since the game’s release a month ago. Any time any of them get to be too big the alliance that seized the systems falls apart or another player team declares war and one side or another gets wiped out.”

Dylan grimaced, “I’m not going in there to pretend to be a tinpot dictator, so that one’s obviously off the table.”

Tyler nodded, “Finally we’ve got the Independent,” he flicked a video up onto the screen. This time instead of a ship, fleet, or planet, a space station appeared. It was a bulbus thing, spherical in shape with four arms jutting out like spokes of a wheel, but instead of a ring there were four additional, smaller spheres equidistant from the central sphere. “This is one of several station types, and the longer the player in charge of the station plays, the more likely their station is going to look unique. Basically, the Independents are the type that don’t want to get directly involved with galactic politics, at least not right away. They have freedom to do pretty much anything they want as long as it’s within reach of their station and fleet, they have none of the restrictions on their actions and they don’t take orders. That said, they also don’t have any of the support structure any of the other options has. They’re not empire building, so there’s never going to be resources to exploit. They’re not part of the galactic government, at least at first, so there’s nobody to go to if a player bigger and meaner than you decides to pick on your station, and there’s no chain of command to pass the buck upstream.”

Tyler set his phone down and gave Dylan a serious look, “I’m also thinking this last class would be the best choice for the mission. The others simply have too many obstacles to make them practical.”

Dylan finished his coffee and set his cup aside, then folded his hands, “Explain, please.”

“Well, let’s run down the list again,” Tyler flicked at his phone and a list that was, apparently, his meeting outline for this session appeared on the screen.

“The naval captain is stuck doing exactly what their higher-ups tell them to do. It’s got more flexibility than a real navy would, it wouldn’t be fun to play otherwise, but if you’re wanting to chase a lead and it goes into one of the neutral zones or no-mans-lands between space empires, or even into one of the neighboring nations, you’re locked out unless you want to go expat or rogue, which puts you back in the same condition as an Independent but without the station.”

“The Merchant Marines would seem to be a good choice, but it has a lot of the same drawbacks of the naval captain in that you’re stuck with a duty roster. Additionally, the majority of the M.M. class draw seems to be for people who are all about making deals and haggling prices. They’re the economic backbone of the game, but unless you get into the black markets, you’re unlikely to be dealing with the types of people who are smuggling the A.I. in the game.”

Dylan’s face pinched as a sick feeling churned his gut at the thought of even pretending to traffic sentient beings, “Yeah, I definitely see your point there.”

“We’ve already talked about the swarm and how that’s not a good option, so moving on to governor; it’s too high-level. It’s dealing with ratifying laws and brokering political deals, not getting into the day-to-day of actually running, say, a police force or three-letter-agency to try and do an in-game hunt. You’d be spending all your time governing and shaking hands instead of working on the mission.” Dylan nodded, not interested in playing politics, even in a game.

“And then there’s the war leader, which has a mirror opposite problem as the governor; you’d be spending all your time either empire building or defending the territory you claimed to do any sort of behind the scenes investigations.”

Tyler leaned forward on his elbows, “And that brings us back to the Independent; you’d be without significant support, sure, and you’d have to do a decent amount of logistics and brokering for goods and services to support your station, but you’d also be in the heart of, well, everything.”

Dylan leaned forward as well, “How do you mean?”

Tyler smirked, “Well, take a look,” he swiped at his phone and flicked an image up, this time showing what looked like a map of the galaxy with territories splitting it up. “This is the most recent player-created map I could find,” he stood and circled the table so he could point to the map with his hand, “This blue section is the Terran Federation.” He pointed at a small dot that had a callout with the word ‘Sol,’ “This is in-game Earth, and it’s buried pretty deep inside Terran space.” He indicated a red blotch that took up a significant stretch of space along the rim of the galaxy, “This is the Crotuk Empire...think ‘orcs in space’ or maybe Klingons,” he then indicated a yellow section, “This here is Swarm space, they’re kind of a mix between the Borg and the xenomorphs from Aliens.” He then waved at a green section of the map, “This here is the Lantru, an insect-like race.” He then gestured at the parts of the map that weren’t colored in, “All the space in-between these empires? Neutral space, even the governments of the four major factions aren’t going to push too significantly into these areas because it’d be basically declaring open war.”

“That means,” said Tyler as he turned to face the team, “That this,” he rapped the screen with a knuckle inside Neutral space, “Is where the real action happens. Intelligence? Trade? Mercenaries? Information brokers? Black markets? All of it happens here,” he once again rapped the screen for emphasis, “And that is where all the Independent stations are. If you choose to play as an Independent, you’re automatically going to spawn aboard your own station right at the heart of all the action. All you have to do then is make your station attractive enough to draw the right sorts of people who might want to use your station to do business and keep your ear to the ground.”

Dylan’s eyebrows went up, “Well, I guess that settles it. I guess my dreams of playing Captain Kirk are going to have to wait,” he grinned as he took a bite out of another donut.

Read the rest on Scribblehub

[vgtrackbracket]

Video Game Track Bracket Round 2

Fleet Glide Galaxy from Super Mario Galaxy 2

vs.

Trilobyte from Rogue Legacy

Propaganda under the cut. If you want your propaganda reblogged and added to future polls, please tag it as propaganda or otherwise indicate this!

Trilobyte:

[dungeon noises]

[unfair-water-plane]

(I took you at your word @operator42ndstate !)

It’s a natural decision really, when the news floods in. The war with the geth is pointless, wrong when the rest of the galaxy is fighting for its very survival. He feels justified, even vindicated, in using the confusion and the distraction to make his choice.

They changed the transponder codes years ago, but it’s not hard to fix. The name never fit her anyway, and so the Emerial drops its fake name somewhere past the first relay jump, and the SSV Jarhead heads for the Citadel.

He weeps for Arcturus, for Earth and the fleets who died for it, for those were his brothers and sisters. He cannot help them now. But he can find a berth, because it won’t be a long wait. And he’s there when the Normandy glides in. Shepard has a lot in their mind, and few allies, but somehow returning the salute of Lieutenant Commander Kal’Reegar- because Shepard will absolutely match his rank with the Quarian one he’s earned- makes it a little better.

The Jarhead is not quiet and it’s not fast, but it has purpose. Kal’Reegar knows he is not built for war with the geth, but he has been training reluctant Quarians in quasi-human combat his whole adult life. There are not enough drill sergeants to handle the draft that Udina has rightly imposed, not enough instructors to turn scared and angry civilians into soldiers and no ships to get the ones on the citadel where they need to go.

And so corsair loads up. A familiar face, tired and rugged, slaps him on the back, and Master Sergeant Greg ‘Granite’ Malloy actually returns Karl’s tight hug— before ordering the Quarian on his face for a few celebratory push ups.

Later, after the war, there will be stories from some of the soldiers of their odd training. Of how old soldiers came out to teach them to fight, to shoot and run and be strong. And how they learned to jump just as much when a Quarian bellowed at them, his words and cadence no different from the rest.

Kal doesn’t go back to the fleet, this time. When things slowly get back to normal he does what he always wished he could have done from the first, and returns to HanShan. There is work to do, to rebuild the Marine Corp, for they truly are the few now, and he knows where his duty lies.

Oorah.

(Greg ‘Granite’ Malloy, 1931-2010

Proud Marine, beloved father and grandfather. Would have knocked ‘em dead, Poppy)

So one thing that has always made me chuckle in ME2 is the fact that Kal’Reegar is a marine in a Quarian suit. And he fits in with Shepard easily, the same attitude and headspace and cadence (for mShep at least). And I’m sitting here at work and the thought just hit me.

What if that’s because he is a marine in a Quarian suit?

Hear me out. Kal is older than Tali, or at least gives off those vibes, and so he would have been on his pilgrimage a while ago. Like maybe right after first contact. And here are these brand new people who came out of nowhere and had apparently enough fire power and attitude to give the Turians a very brief pause. The whole galaxy wants to know more. And humanity has no idea who is out there, but surely they can’t all be like the creepy bird people?

Cue one very curious Quarian in Shanxi, just as curious an out humanity as humanity is about everything. Meeting with early alliance brass, giving them information common palace to any kid with an extranet feed but wholly new to humanity. He explains that the Quarian don’t have ground forces because they don’t have a ground, and is honest about the geth, and is like ‘so how did you make the Turian Hierarchy freak out?’

And somehow ends up observing basic training, and falls in love with it. To the point where he actively asks to go through marine boot camp in Hanshan, and is just earnest and endearing enough to be allowed. So he goes through it, puts in the work and the blood and sweat and tears and makes the kinds of friends that you sort of have on the Flotilla, but everyone also knows you are all going to separate ships eventually and getting attached is hard.

But the humans will pack bond with a robot vacuum without issue, and when they meet a Quarian who wants to learn and thinks it’s amazing that they stood up to the biggest military in the galaxy running on old fashioned rocketry and spite? The marines adopt him as one of their own. They are brothers, something most single child Quarians have no experience with, and Kal gives it back in spades. He talks like them, fights like them, jokes and learns and is like them.

And when it is over and they graduate, it’s hard to turn down the offer to stay. But humanity respects the loyalty to his people that takes him back to the fleet, and it almost brings him to tears when his graduating class passes a cap for his passage back to the fleet in more comfort than sitting on a box in a volus cargo ship.

It actually brings him to tears when his drill instructor informs him that while it might not be in great shape, Arcturus has authorized them to gift Kal’Reegar with a battered but space worthy corsair and an official greeting from the Systems Alliance to the Migrant Fleet.

The SSV Jarhead is perhaps the best gift anyone is his age range can give to a future captain, though his practical military experience is a gift to the whole fleet. It catapults him through the Quarian military, from for soldier to instructor to commander, and somewhere he hopes that his brothers and sisters are as proud of them as he is of every transmission that makes it back to him.

On Haestrom, that training keeps him alive long enough to watch his squad die, and that cuts like nothing else. But he can’t stop, because the principle is still depending on him, and until his suit gives out he has to fight to her.

But then the voice cuts through the chatter of his own mind, and he *knows it*. Knows the cadence and the phrasing, knows how a human mouth forms the phrases that he has spent years trying to teach. Commander Shepard might not be a marine, but they are a human combat specialist and the fraternity is there.

Maybe it’s just three more people who are going to die for this fools errand, but somehow Kal doesn’t think so. There are two bone deep beliefs that he will carry it’s him to either the home world or the afterlife, and it has always felt appropriate to him that they rhyme. That they sound similar, when he breathes them into the air.

Keelah Salai. Semper Fi.

[everymariogalaxy]

Fly higher Fluzzard! 

76/91-Fleet Glide Galaxy

[vintagegeekculture]

I discovered that my local library's ebook selection only had "First Lensman" out of the whole series, shrugged and checked it out anyway, and - well - long story short, my cosplayer's heart went all a-flutter over Jill's "violent shade of 'radio-active' green" dress from the Ambassadors' Ball.

I'm leaning kind of "Iris van Herpen but 1950s spacefuture" as I try to design something based on the description given (the nature of the bodice in particular made me think of her designs), but then I realized you'd probably know if there was an illustrated edition out there to use as further reference. So - is there? Or am I flying blind beyond the implicit influence of eveningwear styles in the year the book was published?

(Either way, I finally have an excuse to dip my toes into constructing an evening gown! Thank you for selling me on this series!)

I am delighted to hear I inspired you. My statement there was not entirely serious and I never expected anyone would do it. I'd like to see what you come up with. You should consider looking into the works of my personal favorite fashion designer, Charles James, active from the 40s-60s. One of the most striking things about his outfits are the simplicity. This, for instance, is all one piece of cloth, the emphasis is not on frills or ornamentation but streamlining, calling attention to the silhouette.

There are a couple moments in the Lensman books you should probably take a look at, if you're interested in costume ideas for women that are evening gowns. The first is the Grand Ball for the Grand Fleet in Chapter 2 of Gray Lensman. I always liked that one because it was a rare glimpse of what everyday life in the Lensman Galaxy looked like. We spent too much time with Lensman and in the criminal underworld and with battle fleets.

The city's largest ball-room was a blaze of light and color. A thousand polychromatic lamps flooded their radiance downward through draped bunting upon an even more colorful throng. Two thousand items of feminine loveliness were there, in raiment whose fabrics were the boasts of hundreds of planets, whose hues and shades put the spectrum itself to shame. There were over two thousand men, clad in plain or beribboned or bemedaled full civilian dress, or in the variously panoplied dress uniforms of the many Services.

"You're dancing with Miss Forrester first, Kinnison," the surgeon introduced them informally, and the Lensman found himself gliding away with a stunning blonde, ravishingly and revealingly dressed in a dazzlingly blue wisp of Manarkan glamorette--fashion's dernier cri.

To the uninformed, Kinnison's garb of plain gray leather might have seemed incongruous indeed in that brilliantly and fastidiously dressed assemblage. But to those people, as to us of today, the drab, starkly utilitarian uniform of the Unattached Lensman transcended far any other, however resplendent, worn by man: and literally hundreds of eyes followed the strikingly handsome couple as they slid rhythmically out upon the polished floor. But a measure of the tall beauty's customary poise had deserted her. She was slimly taut in the circle of the Lensman's arm, her eyes were downcast, and suddenly she missed a step.

I don't recommend dressing up as a Lyranian at all, unless you wish to be very very popular. Although there is one notable and terrible female villain, in a series for which that is a rarity: one of the Black Lensmen, the evil counterparts created to counter the Lensmen, is a psionically gifted female Lyranian.

Another outfit that probably suggests itself is in Second Stage Lensmen, when Clarissa becomes the Red Lensman, the first female Lensman in history. Clarissa MacDougal was prone to Midwestern modesty to the point it was hysterical:

It was, and very shortly Sector Chief Nurse Clarrissa MacDougall appeared in her wonted immaculately-white, stiffly-starched uniform. She would not wear the Grays to which she was entitled; nor would she--except when defying Kinnison--claim as her right any one of the perquisites or privileges which were so indubitably hers. She was not, never had been, and never would or could be a real Lensman, she insisted. At best, she was only a synthetic--or an imitation--or a sort of amateur--or maybe a "Red" Lensman--handy to have around, perhaps, for certain kinds of jobs, but absolutely and definitely not a regular Lensman. And it was this attitude which was to make the Red Lensman not merely tolerated, but loved as she was loved by Lensmen, Patrolmen, and civilians alike throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of Civilization's bounds.

[random-thought-depository]

Lots of interesting commentary in there! Right now, I want to talk about this part:

"In the months after Pearl Harbor the driving aim of Japanese strategy was to capture a string of islands running the length of the western Pacific and fortify them against an American counterattack. This defensive perimeter would set the boundaries of their new empire -- or, as they called it, the "Greater Asia Coprosperity Sphere." Midway Island, the westernmost of the Hawaiian Islands, was one of the last links they needed to complete the chain. They sent an enormous fleet, the heart of the Japanese navy, to do the job: four enormous aircraft carriers, together with a whole galaxy of escort ships. On June 4 the attack force arrived at Midway, where they found a smaller American fleet waiting for them.

Or so the history-book version normally runs. But the sailors on board the Japanese fleet saw things differently. They didn't meet any American ships on June 4. That day, as on all the other days of their voyage, they saw nothing from horizon to horizon but the immensity of the Pacific. Somewhere beyond the horizon line, shortly after dawn, Japanese pilots from the carriers had discovered the presence of the American fleet, but for the Japanese sailors, the only indications of anything unusual that morning were two brief flyovers by American fighter squadrons. Both had made ineffectual attacks and flown off again. Coming on toward 10:30 AM, with no further sign of enemy activity anywhere near, the commanders ordered the crews on the aircraft carriers to prepare for the final assault on the island, which wasn't yet visible on the horizon.

That was when a squadron of American dive-bombers came out of the clouds overhead. They'd got lost earlier that morning and were trying to make their way back to base. In the empty ocean below they spotted a fading wake -- one of the Japanese escort ships had been diverted from the convoy to drop a depth charge on a suspected American submarine. The squadron followed it just to see where it might lead. A few minutes later they cleared a cloud deck and discovered themselves directly above the single largest "target of opportunity," as the military saying goes, that any American bomber had ever been offered.

When we try to imagine what happened next we're likely to get an image out of Star Wars -- daring attack planes, as graceful as swallows, darting among the ponderously churning cannons of some behemoth of a Death Star. But the sci-fi trappings of Star Wars disguise an archaic and sluggish idea of battle. What happened instead was this: the American squadron commander gave the order to attack, the planes came hurtling down from around 12,000 feet and released their bombs, and then they pulled out of their dives and were gone. That was all. Most of the Japanese sailors didn't even see them.

The aircraft carriers were in a frenzy just then. Dozens of planes were being refueled and rearmed on the hangar decks, and elevators were raising them to the flight decks, where other planes were already revving up for takeoff. The noise was deafening, and the warning sirens were inaudible. Only the sudden, shattering bass thunder of the big guns going off underneath the bedlam alerted the sailors that anything was wrong. That was when they looked up. By then the planes were already soaring out of sight, and the black blobs of the bombs were already descending from the brilliant sky in a languorous glide.

One bomb fell on the flight deck of the Akagi, the flagship of the fleet, and exploded amidships near the elevator. The concussion wave of the blast roared through the open shaft to the hangar deck below, where it detonated a stack of torpedoes. The explosion that followed was so powerful it ruptured the flight deck; a fireball flashed like a volcano through the blast crater and swallowed up the midsection of the ship. Sailors were killed instantly by the fierce heat, by hydrostatic shock from the concussion wave, by flying shards of steel; they were hurled overboard unconscious and drowned. The sailors in the engine room were killed by flames drawn through the ventilating system. Two hundred died in all. Then came more explosions rumbling up from below decks as the fuel reserves ignited. That was when the captain, still frozen in shock and disbelief, collected his wits sufficiently to recognize that the ship had to be abandoned.

Meanwhile another carrier, the Kaga, was hit by a bomb that exploded directly on the hangar deck. The deck was strewn with live artillery shells, and open fuel lines snaked everywhere. Within seconds, explosions were going off in cascading chain reactions, and uncontrollable fuel fires were breaking out all along the length of the ship. Eight hundred sailors died. On the flight deck a fuel truck exploded and began shooting wide fans of ignited fuel in all directions; the captain and the rest of the senior officers, watching in horror from the bridge, were caught in the spray, and they all burned to death.

Less than five minutes had passed since the American planes had first appeared overhead. The Akagi and the Kaga were breaking up. Billowing columns of smoke towered above the horizon line. These attracted another American bomber squadron, which immediately launched an attack on a third aircraft carrier, the Soryu. These bombs were less effective -- they set off fuel fires all over the ship, but the desperate crew managed to get them under control. Still, the Soryu was so badly damaged it was helpless. Shortly afterward it was targeted by an American submarine (the same one the escort ship had earlier tried to drop a depth charge on). American subs in those days were a byword for military ineffectiveness; they were notorious for their faulty and unpredictable torpedoes. But the crew of this particular sub had a large stationary target to fire at point-blank. The Soryu was blasted apart by repeated direct hits. Seven hundred sailors died.

The last of the carriers, the Hiryu, managed to escape untouched, but later that afternoon it was located and attacked by another flight of American bombers. One bomb set off an explosion so strong it blew the elevator assembly into the bridge. More than 400 died, and the crippled ship had to be scuttled a few hours later to keep it from being captured.

Now there was nothing left of the Japanese attack force except a scattering of escort ships and the planes still in the air. The pilots were the final casualties of the battle; with the aircraft carriers gone, and with Midway still in American hands, they had nowhere to land. They were doomed to circle helplessly above the sinking debris, the floating bodies, and the burning oil slicks until their fuel ran out.

This was the Battle of Midway. As John Keegan writes, it was "the most stunning and decisive blow in the history of naval warfare." Its consequences were instant, permanent and devastating. It gutted Japan's navy and broke its strategy for the Pacific war. The Japanese would never complete their perimeter around their new empire; instead they were thrown back on the defensive, against an increasingly large and better-organized American force, which grew surgingly confident after its spectacular victory. After Midway, as the Japanese scrambled to rebuild their shattered fleet, the Americans went on the attack. In August 1942 they began landing a marine force on the small island of Guadalcanal (it's in the Solomons, near New Guinea) and inexorably forced a breach in the perimeter in the southern Pacific. From there American forces began fanning out into the outer reaches of the empire, cutting supply lines and isolating the strongest garrisons. From Midway till the end of the war the Japanese didn't win a single substantial engagement against the Americans. They had "lost the initiative," as the bland military saying goes, and they never got it back.

But it seems somehow paltry and wrong to call what happened at Midway a "battle." It had nothing to do with battles the way they were pictured in the popular imagination. There were no last-gasp gestures of transcendent heroism, no brilliant counterstrategies that saved the day. It was more like an industrial accident. It was a clash not between armies, but between TNT and ignited petroleum and drop-forged steel. The thousands who died there weren't warriors but bystanders -- the workers at the factory who happened to draw the shift when the boiler exploded."

-----------

""Shigata na gai," Mrs. Nakamura says about what happened to her city that day; Hersey glosses: "A Japanese expression as common as, and corresponding to, the Russian word nichevo: It can't be helped. Oh well. Too bad."

Hersey doesn't say so directly, but he appears on the surface to agree. He presents the bombing neutrally, without commentary, as though it's a new species of natural disaster, motiveless and agentless. As far as any reader of Hiroshima can tell, the bomb came out of nowhere, was dropped by nobody, and had no purpose.

...

Hersey was describing for the first time the war's true legacy: a permanent condition of helpless anger and universal dread."

-------------

Oh, hey, it's the thing I talked about here:

"It’s also the culmination of a modern trend of increasingly destructive weapons reducing the individual soldier’s scope for personal agency (one might say, for heroism). The explosion of an atomic bomb doesn’t look like anything an ancient warrior would have recognized as a battle, it looks like a natural disaster, like a storm or an earthquake; its typical victim experiences it as something that cannot be fought or hurt or meaningfully defied, only endured.

For most of the time war has existed, war consisted mostly of personal combat (broadly defined). I suspect there’s a relatively common sort of person (often male) who finds personal combat kind of fun, in the way some some people find playing football and rugby fun. I suspect the historically common cultural romanticization of war partially reflects this; for much of history a non-trivial number of the combatants really did kind of enjoy it.

Being in a WWI trench charge or being on the receiving end of a nuclear strike isn’t anybody’s idea of fun... Broadly speaking, it has the horrible parts of combat, but not the parts that I suspect some people find kind of fun; the opportunity to exercise personal agency in a heroic way, the opportunity to feel strong and powerful, the opportunity to feel like you’re playing a heroic role in some grand and important narrative, etc.. The experience of having an artillery barrage or a nuke dropped on you is closer to the experience of the Midianite women in Numbers 31; you feel impotent and afraid and you suffer and if you die it’ll probably be in a squalid and humiliating and painful way and you probably won’t even get to hurt the people who are doing this to you.

...

WWI trench warfare and fire-bombing with napalm and nuclear MAD are hard to romanticize. And I suspect that’s part of the reason we romanticize war a lot less than we used to."

Tempted to call this the feminization of war (see the point where I reference the Numbers 31 for why).

just finished this essay. highly recommended

[delfiore]

i need you so much closer

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

synopsis: nat has been working hard to research the stones. you catch a moment with her late at night.

word count: 0.9k

a/n: just a small fic because i miss her. kinda angsty :’)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Your bed was empty when you swatted your hands over the cold sheets. Sleepiness clung onto your eyelids as you rolled over to check the time on your phone. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but it was definitely way later than you had anticipated. When you found out it was almost one in the morning, you grumbled and felt a breeze that made you shiver as you got up from your warm bed.

Your slippers slapped against the floor and echoed through the hallway. The living room was empty, so you took the elevator downstairs. You sighed quietly once you saw faint light coming from the common lounge where your lover sat hunched over, scribbling furiously into her notepad. Her brows creased and her lips pursed the way they always do when she’s focused, but she looked so strained that you wondered how long she had sat there writing, that her face muscles would cramp once she released them.

“Honey.” You said quietly, and watched her perk up at the sound of your voice. Her eyebrows now hung high. That was when you saw how her eyes were dull, barely open, but she strained them just to see you.

“It’s getting late.” You said, walking towards the couch where she was surrounded by scrap paper and half-written notes.

She was still wearing the grey tank top from earlier today, and when you touched her arm, it was cold. As simple as the gesture was, it gave you butterflies when your fingertips glided over her smooth skin. You found it miraculous how you could feel so warm around a person without any fear. You leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“I know.” Nat sighed. “I just need to finish these . . .”

Her voice trailed off. You knew she was only saying it as a small form of protest. Fatigue weighed down every word she spoke.

“You have no regard for your own health, love.” You chuckled quietly, and wrap your arms around her neck, gently guiding her head towards you with a small tug at her chin. You let her lean in and capture your lips in a fleeting kiss.

“Guess you’ll always have to keep a watch on me then.” Her words made your smile again. Your eyes trailed down to the open notepad in her hands. It was written three fourths of the way, and you found it adorable that amidst the endless scribbles, they were a few sparkling Infinity Stones littering the page.

“What’s this one about?” You gestured towards the page.

“The Soul Stone. Apparently has the ability to manipulate souls, dead or alive. Nebula said it’s on Vormir.”

“And what’s Vormir?” You grinned, amused.

Natasha paused and pursed her lips, scanning through her endless scribbles. Finally, she looked up and mirrored your smile. “I have no idea.”

You leaned back against the couch. She did the same as the hand you let rest against the frame encircled her shoulders, as she closed her eyes and enjoyed your touch.

“This all seems so crazy.” You shook her head, looking down at her notes. “Time travel.”

“Yeah.” Nat breathed out. “But we have to try. For our family.”

Her eyes met yours. She looked so tired that it broke your heart. Everyone had their own grievances, and Nat most of all, because she was the person to always check up on everyone. Five long years she spent in the Compound running the place, frequently communicating with those afar, sometimes on other planets, other galaxies. And you were there by her side, making sure she ate and slept properly, and if she didn’t, you would be there to make her. On days when the guilt became too much, you would be there to pick up the pieces, to place her back together and make her whole again.

“Do you miss them too?” You whispered. You already knew the answer by the way her eyes became glossy.

“Everyday.” She whispered, a forced smile on her lips.

You hated that damned alien man, that descended upon your lives like a devil and turned your world upside down. Most of all you hated him for the pain he’s caused, tearing families apart, breaking worlds down, all for his ignorant purpose. You remembered the look on Nat’s face after she realized the battle was lost. She never lost and she never gave up hope, ever, but some parts of her died that day when the dust settled and the shockwaves washed over.

Nat put her notes down and buried her head into your neck. She never made a sound when she cried, but you let her tears soak the fabric of your shirt. She was exhausted, and so were you. Yet you held her close, as you always have, and always will. And when she nuzzled her face against your cheek and kissed you again, you tasted the saltiness of her bitter, grief-stricken tears and knew you would stay no matter what. She needed you the same way you needed her.

“Come, babe. It’s late.” You kissed the top of her head and stood up. “We got a long day of work tomorrow. Volmir awaits.”

“Vormir.” She grinned at you and wiped her cheek.

“Whatever.” You smiled back at her, pulling her up by the hands. “Come on, big girl.”

You didn’t know what tomorrow holds, but all you needed was your favorite girl in your arms and to make her feel safe. The world can wait for its most unflagging Avenger to rest for a few hours. It owed her that much.