#high-speed direct warping

[flickering-nightfall]

Neuron misproduction ideas that spawned from this ask about iterators getting sick - maybe more along that line in the future?

Full transcript under the cut.

Neuron Misproduction

--

Neuron flies are comparable to living RAM for iterators. Their purpose is to process short-term information.

They are mostly made out of fat. A high-calorie snack for a slugcat.

Simplified anatomy chart labels each part of the body:

a. Protective membrane (Encapsulates the neuron)

b. Nucleus. (Large ellipsoid at the top-center of the neuron.) Longer-term data caching; oldest data is lost when it is overwritten by new data or when the cache is flushed.

c. Processing organelles. (Several smaller ellipsoids that line the inside of the neuron's membrane.) Data is constantly and cyclically refreshed.

d. Anchoring/connective tissue between the nucleus and processing organelles.

e. Cytosol that provides structural integrity to the neuron fly, and facilitates storage and transport of various resources. (Fills all the extra space of the neuron)

f. Nutrient processing system. Neuron flies mostly function off direct energy transferral, but organic components are still necessary. Both are absorbed directly through other iterator macro-microorganisms. (Resembles a simplified digestive system)

g. Connective tissue between the nucleus and flagellum, used when directly interfacing with other iterator components. (Fibrous tissue surrounded by myelin sheaths, like an axon or the umbilical cord of an iterator)

h. Flagellum, primarily used for locomotion (Long whiplike protrusions on the bottom of the neuron fly)

i. Dendrites that unsheath when interfacing (Many tiny split ends at the end of the flagellum)

--

Type: Flagellum deformation Neuron is missing some or all of its flagellum, and/or flagellum are uneven lengths

Not as deadly as spheroid neurons, but harder to detect by inspectors. Neurons without flagellum often cannot access other macro-microorganisms to interface with, and therefore gain resources from, so they usually die on their own. Can rarely cause clogs in single-row neuron transit or affect overall processing speed. A rising count of flagellum deformations may be an early indicator of issues with biological synthesis.

Neuron 1: Typical

Neuron 2: Very reduced flagellum with some shriveling

Neuron 3: Left flagellum forks into a second partially-formed flagellum. Right flagellum exhibits slight shriveling and fraying at the end.

--

Type: Gutless body Neurons that often appear normal from the outside, but are missing essential internal components.

This neuron type can often be detected early through careful inspections. Often presents as a virtual husk, only capable of consuming energy and moving about.

Ironically, the nutrient processing system is sometimes enlarged, taking up more space where the other organelles are smaller or missing. This neuron type is relatively easy to remove when detected, and doesn't cause major issues other than resource consumption.

Neuron 1: Typical

Neuron 2: Enlarged nutrient processing system, no processing organelles, severely reduced nucleus

Neuron 3: All organelles are severely reduced, neuron is slimmer and mostly composed of cytosol

--

Type: Spheroid Neuron's body length is significantly reduced, often resulting in a spheroid shape.

A spheroid neuron has warped or missing crucial internal structures. It is more dangerous than a gutless neuron due to still being able to process, and therefore corrupt, or result in the loss of information.

Not all neurons of this type are spheroid; it's just named after the common distinct shape. Many neurons of this type lack structural integrity, and do not make it past the production phase.

In a healthy iterator, faulty neurons are rare, and are usually recycled before they can even leave the production phase, or are otherwise destroyed by inspectors.

Mass production of spheroid neurons indicate severe internal issues. At that point, equipment and inspectors likely are failing to recognize faulty neurons or, worse, are indiscriminately destroying all of them. This encourages a stressful rapid production of neurons, which may lead to further equipment failure.

Due to neuron flies' major role in memory encoding and retrieval, neuron corruption can disrupt active processes and cause errors in data storage. In severe cases, affected neurons can corrupt the macro-microorganisms they interface with, and vice versa in a cascade effect, possibly leading to seizures and dementia.

Neuron 1: Typical

Neuron 2: Very round and flattened neuron. Nucleus is partially split and merged with a processing organelle. The rest of the cytoplasm is squished.

Neuron 3: Membrane is pinched into the neuron. Lacks a clear nucleus. Flagella connection is fused at one segment, forming an X-shape.

Neuron 4: Membrane is pinched and folded in several areas, resulting in an unusual asymmetric shape. Organelles are reduced and shoved into whatever space is available. Only one flagellum is connected.

Neuron 5: Membrane is overgrown on one side, leaving little space for the cytoplasm. The nutrient processing system is partially ingrown within the membrane.

[often-daydreaming]

Wishes

"I just wish I could help him."

Tim sighed, tired eyes staring at the rows of monitors searching for any kind of change as he recalls the last thing he can remember Bart saying to him before everything went to hell when a barrier appeared around Central City cutting it off from the rest of the world. It had taken three days before anyone even realized what had happened and that was only after Barry returned from a mission in space and ran face first into the glowing green monstrosity trapping his friends inside some sort of otherworldly magical nonsense.

And it was kind of depressing that, that was all they knew after two months.

It was pure magic, old, ancient magic that had his friends living out the kind of picture perfect high school drama you'd find on tv and they only figured out that much after Cyborg accidentally picked up a weak signal being broadcast to anyone who got close enough.

That was the only real way anyone had to check up on everyone trapped inside and in a way Tim was kind of glad it was mainly focused on his friends and the meta kid Bart had been trying to introduce to everyone cause he had constant proof they were alive. Everyone else wasn't as lucky.

He was also mostly annoyed though cause the League couldn't even damage the stupid barrier anymore. They'd cracked it once, but that just seemed to annoy whatever was powering the thing because it spread out for miles in every direction in response to the Justice League's attempts at forcing open a door and ended up swallowing dozens of government agents and heroes who couldn't escape the danger zone in time.

"Any changes?"

"None." Like always.

He knew Dick was just as worried as he was about everyone trapped inside but the glowing green eyesore wasn't reacting to anything anymore.

Science didn't work.

Magic annoyed it.

They'd finally started looking into some of the more off world solutions that were available to them but so far nothing anyone tried seemed to affect it and he should know since he hasn't stopped monitoring the situation.

He's offered up rewards, called in every single favor he's ever been owed as Tim Drake and Red Robin and read up on everything magical he could get his hands on.

He's even hacked every government agency on the planet on the off chance there might have been a possible answer hidden away somewhere and was nowhere near as professional or gentle as he usually was while doing it. He was tired, worried and more than a little angry and didn’t care about how much damage he did to anyone's computer systems as he ripped even the slightest bit of information out of any server he came across taking anything and everything from Waller's own notes on the matter to research material from a rogue sect of the government calling themselves the GIW.

That had led him down a rabbit hole of government conspiracies and cover ups that would have normally kept him busy for weeks but he had passed on the worst of it to the rest of the League and focused on the handful of files they had on an off the books company called Fenton Works.

They apparently had a functional portal with more than enough power to punch a hole between dimensions so hopefully an investigation into them would keep him busy while they waited for a response from the Green Lanterns.

-_- -_- -_-

"You need to stop this Desiree."

"Why, Phantom and his paramour are happy aren't they?"

She already knew the answer since it was her magic warping such a large area and her grin only grew as she watched Undergrowth's little champion twitch at her words.

Because that was thing, Phantom was happy.

He was the happiest he's ever been in a very long time and well out of the way on a long overdue 'vacation'. So what if everyone was taking his absence as an excuse to run a little wild. Amity would survive. They always did. The avatar of the Speed Force didn't even seem to mind and Clockwork wasn't interfering with her latest wish either so she wasn't overstepping anywhere that really mattered since the Ancient of Time usually erased anyone who went too far with his favorite student.

He hadn't even popped in to deliver any of his usual threats when she overheard the little speedster's heartbroken wish so she banished the girl back to Amity Park without a second thought.

They couldn't force her to grant wishes anymore, not after Phantom went out of his way to help alter her curse and their constant whining was starting to get annoying.

If it wasn't Undergrowth's champion then it was the Pharaoh or Phantom's sister.

None of them could take the hint and leave well enough alone.

Cause, the thing is, she left more than enough wiggle room in the wish for Phantom to get free if he ever really wanted to get free and she wasn't sure he did.

Oh, on some level he was probably well aware of something being off but he was purposely ignoring that feeling.

He was happy in the world she shaped around him and his little speedster and Desiree wasn't about to ruin that for either of them.

She'd just head back to her lair if anyone tried.

No one could get to her there, not without wasting a lot of power so maybe she'd finally have a little piece and quit to enjoy her favorite show in peace.

It's not much but I wanted to try and think up a way for Danny to experience his very own version of WandaVision.

Essentially a sad Danny from any kind of reason really but for now I'm just blaming his entire life for this one and a desperately trying to be helpful Bart who has vague memories of a future with Danny get a starring role in a new life that was perfectly prepared just for them at the cost of pretty much everyone else.

I don't remember what it's called but there was a Disney movie about a superhero school so I'm kind of imagining that and a lot of really cheesy musical moments thrown in somewhere while everyone outside of the barrier is left worrying about their friends and family.

I know it's weird, but my mind just comes up with really weird ideas when I'm tired.

[deepdreamnights]

I remade the trailer to Robot Monster, to serve as a trailer for a hypothetical remake of... you guessed it, Robot Monster.

Destruction has come, hu-mans, and its silliness will not protect you.

My thoughts and how-to process blog post under the fold.

I made Robot Monster's Trailer Remake primarily with Vidu and with Midjourney.

For most shots I started with a photoshopped midjourney gen (or stack of them), which was used either as a prompt image or starting frame.

Some shots, like the earthquake, were done with start-and-end frames.

Vidu has some quirks for my Roland Emmerich Christ-the-Redeemer shot. I attempted the image several times as a direct image as start frame, but it would reset to a new camera angle each time, rebelling against my inaccurate version:

As the AI could recognize the statue, but not it being in inaccurate surroundings. I eventually used it as a prompt and not a start frame got a good enough shot.

I tended to go for 8-second shots on quality mode, to give me more to cut around and edit. Almost no shots play without some cropping, speed adjustments or other edits in this, and anyone using AI for a larger project is going to find much the same.

While 90% of the shots are from Vidu a few I used Hailuo's Minmax to accomplish. Mainly things like a few low-motion Ro-man talking shots, the computer-communication device, and the motion title card for "electrifying", etc.

Vidu likes to move, a lot, and for stuff that needs subtle movement I sometimes find it helps to mix things up.

I've found that when image prompting for a character, like Ro-Alice, it sometimes helps to do a fullbody and portrait two-for-one. This helps keep the character design consistent, and you can kinda tell which Ro-Man shots I made before I figured this trick out.

I also reused shots of the dinosaurs from my other AI video projects for meta reasons.

Right now it doesn't make videos so much as it makes shots you can weave into videos.

I'm actually impressed at how well it understood the concept of Ro-Man, only giving him a full ape face or a weird tail or the like a couple of times.

My general approach to the concept was "What if you kept the premise the same but had a budget." Whereas in reality you'd never actually get that combo, since if they had money, they wouldn't have made Robot Monster.

It also let me play with a fanon idea I've had for awhile that the Ro-Men were the helmets, and the ape-creature was some biological organism used as a conveyance.

For the audio, I took the audio to the trailer and used Suno's cover-features to both clean up the sound and change the musical style. The back half of the original track was completely warped by the cover process, but I used another bit of trailer-style music to cover that bit, and to extend for the longer ending shot, since my version of the trailer is about 20 seconds longer than the original.

Some prompts utilized:

in a sci-fi lab in a cave, a furry alien monster wearing a spherical helmet with reflective faceplate walks around aubrey plaza in a white sleeveless slip-dress and dark pantyhose in a glass tube, the tube pulses with green light. She is in a glass cylinder, he is walking around it, with curiosity. The scene is menacing, slow movement, pensive. horror movie scene, the tone is tense and frightening. professional lighting and cinematography. Oscar winning, 2003, practical lighting, effects, and costuming.

the robot spider-robots with spherical heads walk around as though searching for something. horror movie scene, the tone is tense and frightening. professional lighting and cinematography. Oscar winning, 2003, practical lighting, effects, and costuming.

the alien ape-creature wearing a space helmet (the robot monster), in a modern city. He throws green lightning from his hand, disintegrating a policeman into ash. Monster-movie sci-fi scene, dramatic camera angles and lighting. Practical costuming and special effects. High budget and high concept.

slow motion fly-through footage, the air is full of slow-moving glowing bubbles. green electric sparks arc from one bubble to the next producing an ominous mood. The scene conveys spreading menace and fear. One long, unbroken shot. filmed on location, effects by weta digital, ILM, stan winston studios, believable and hyper-realistic. Shot on location. trailer shot. high-speed film

All-in-all, a fun project, and one that came along when I really, really, really needed something to concentrate on for long stretches of time.

Make something fun, folks.

[swanno-arts]

remade that long post i accidentally posted oops. anyways. have some barely comprehensible rambles abt my limbus ocs bc art block </3

Only one Sinner per Canto could listen into another Sinner's inner thoughts (?) ala Dante. All Sinners could still see and interact with the other's story dungeon as usual.

In order of Canto: Yossarian hears Parker's, Winston hears Yossarian's, JS hears Quail's, Parker hears Winston's, and Quail hears JS'. Time Traveller hears none and cannot be heard by others ...?

(Tentative) The bus that Branch F uses is a kind of crude recreation of The Mephistopheles, supposedly made by Time Traveller. It has no name officially, but some unaffectionately refer to it as The Beelzebub.

Strongest to weakest Sinner, ala Regular Check-Up: Time Traveller, Quail, JS, Parker, Yossarian, Winston. TT had initially been uncounted for due to his mechanical existence. Quail ranks high due to her Color Fixer background. JS ranks third due to the influence of Blank Slate. Parker ranks average but has more potential should she considers her habits. Yossarian would've overtaken most if not for his avoidance. Winston ranks last because he has every ailment under the sun /hj

Any machinery created by T Corp could literally be considered as Time Traveller's relatives. This includes Steam Transport Machine and Backward Clock. Sometimes, TT refers to Backward Clock as his "older sister", unironically.

Before being nerfed by T Corp, Time Traveller had visited both distant pasts and futures. He knows how a lot of things had or will (as experienced) happen. He finds it interesting when a future occurance does not happen as he remembers them.

TT would sometimes feel "nauseous" and disorientated if his inner clock/sense of time is extremely distorted - He does not fare exceptionally well in WARP trains.

Every Sinner has an N Corp Inquisitor ID (Klein Yossarian, Mittel Parker, Groß Winston, One Who Shall Grip Quail, and One Who Grips JS) - except Time Traveller. This is because in this Mirror World, Grips!JS had killed TT, as shown in what would be Grips!JS' uptie 3 art :]

In direct dialogues, JS is referred by others by Jayes, but indirect texts would still refer him by JS.

Any excerpts, documents, and dossiers that had JS' full name have them either censored, scribbled out, or left blank completely. This is the effect of his name being incinerated/deleted. What is left is his ID, JS/07 M 378, which he uses as an alternative to his full name.

Abnormalities are Distortions that had gone too far. JS' distortion was already immediately in the brink of full control after losing Blank Slate's influence that held back the voice of distortion. Had the Sinners not reach him in time, JS might've been fully lost.

Quail, pulling JS out of the distortion: GET OUT OF MY DAD MS. CARMEN 💥💥💥‼️‼️‼️

Quail looking at Siegfried post-The Reliving: 🧍‍♀️wow i can't believe k corp replaced me with this dude

(tentative) Quail has a connection to the Star Luminary and Blue-ish Star/Blue Star during her time as a Color Fixer.

Winston's satchel uses the same space-storing technology as Butlers. He fits quite a lot of things in there.

Winston's weapon is literally his book. Thwack Thwack Thwack. 💥💥💥

He's trying to lose the habit, but Winston still speaks in Newspeak sometimes. You'll hear him replace simple words to things like "doubleplusungood" (meaning "horrible" or when he intends to swear).

JS, when Winston admits to cheating on his wife for Julia: are you fucking stupid

Parker, when Winston insisted he could fix Julia, seeing him nearly distort as well: are you fucking stupid

Charlie, when Winston continues to sob over Julia after his Canto: are you fucking stupid

Winston has the slowest speed due to a slight limp on his left leg.

Charlie worships One Sin and Hundreds of Good Deeds.

I have no idea where both Parker and Yossarian's native district are. You two talk it over and come back to me when you have the answer /j

JS was literally the first reason why I made LCB OCs. Now you know why I think about him the most <3 SORRY LOL

[marvelshifter111]

Could I request a sound manipulation power pack?

Dude i was literally thinking about doing this next ❤️

Superpower pack - sound manipulation

Sound manipulation - User can mimic, intensify, hush, and distort, as well warp, strengthen, echo, speed up, and slow down sound, using it as a powerful physical force and high-speed movement.

Sonic Scream - The ability to emit a deafening, sonic blast from one's voice.

Soundwaves Manipulation -The ability to generate and control soundwaves, manipulating their amplitude, frequency, and direction.

Ultrasonic Communication - The ability to communicate through supersonic and infrasonic frequencies.

Voice manipulation - The user is freely capable of manipulating their voice, allowing them to control their voices to imitate sounds of creatures such as animal noises and explosions or increase or decrease the tone of their voice.

Sound mimicry - The power to transform into or have a physical body made up of solid sound. (Dunno sounded dramatic, but imagine being like see through and like when you turn that painful screech is heard, idk sounds cool)

Siren song - The power to emit irresistible sound that lures anyone who hears it towards the user.

Vibro-telekinesis - The user can move, manipulate or otherwise interact with matter using vibrations.

Vocal mind control - The power to control people with the power of one's voice.

Enchanted hearing - Users of this power have their hearing abilities enhanced far beyond the human limit.

[dragonblobz]

The Desert Pt 8

We pull over. I feel SO anxious. As that door next to me glides open. Fingers feeling numb as I unbuckle this harness around me. Pulling myself from this car. Standing nervously. Watching the others approach and slow.

Just a human standing in a lonely forest. Beings around me that I’m aware I’ll never understand. Shoulder pack across my chest, my fists clutching at the handle so tightly.

I lean back against the frame of the car behind me. My Christine. Sunstreaker. Solid. Grumpy and crabby and so familiar. MY ghost car.

“Don’t be afraid….” His voice. That same gentle sound. And I feel so much more brave at it. He’s here. He won’t let anyone hurt me.

I watch that cherry red van warp and change. One of my hands flailing away from my pack to just press against Sunstreaker’s yellow paint. Almost grounding myself. I know him. I know Sideswipe. I don’t know THIS fellow.

Ironhide. That’s what Sideswipe had called him. This big red robot. HUGE. Just crouching slowly and looking at me like I’m a PERSON. Like he’s TRYING to lower himself to my level.

“I don’t know yer name, human.” Its such an oddly human accent. So blunt and direct. I tremble. I don’t….. I don’t KNOW him…..

“Sunstreaker told me yeh wanna see Prime?” A question. I’m speechless. Can they communicate in some way I can’t hear? How does he know why I’m here? But…. I try.

“Ye… yeah. Sideswipe told me that Prime would know what to do…. I…. just…. Wow…..”

It’s hard to communicate. To speak. So many things which I always knew could never be real. But here I am with my heavy pack on my shoulder and this impossible being in front of me. Crouching and so obviously trying to appear non threatening.

“He told me ye’d be nervous. But he’d said yer brave too.” The massive red creature reaches forward with one of those big hands. Almost placating. Almost like he’s reaching for a shake.

“I’m Ironhide. How d’ya do?” Ernhide. That’s how his accent makes it sound. Big metal hand waiting like he thinks I want to shake.

I’m leaning against Sunstreaker. Nervousness fading away into such a child’s warmth. Big red metal possibly alien thing reaching it’s hand out like I’m a friend.

My nails scrape on this yellow paint. Sunstreaker feels so solid and safe and so real under my hand. And this new being is so…. Unthreatening. So hesitant and polite.

“Hi….” It’s a nervous little croak. As I push myself away from the safety of my yellow Lamborghini. And step forward to push my hand onto the massive fingers of this new robot crouching before me.

“Ironhide….. hi…..” his big metal finger is so WARM. As all of his fingers curl gently. My entire arm hidden in all of those fingers.

“Sideswipe’s right. Yeh ARE brave.” His voice is so wonderfully friendly and warm. So calm and so strong. Not boyish like Sideswipe. Nor grumpy like Sunstreaker. My nervousness melts away entirely and I just smile up at his big face.

That big giant face. Smiling down at me with such warmth. Like he knows I’m nervous. Like he knows there’s no NEED for me to be nervous. Like he’s HAPPY to see me.

“Hello, Ironhide.” I repeat myself. But I don’t feel stupid, for some reason. I just…. I just want him to KNOW that I’m happy to see him.

“Hiya.” Big thrumming voice around me as those massive fingers squeeze ever so gently around my arm. Like he KNOWS that I’m fragile compared to him.

“Oh wow…. You’re cool too….” I feel oddly emotional. And he’s chuckling. So friendly and warm. As that giant hand pulls away from my arm.

Giant red robot just grinning down at me as the sound of another engine breaks this unearthly calm. This one not a high pitched super tuned sound like my Sunstreaker. Like my Sideswipe. This one a lower roar. All American. Deep.

I turn. Leaning. Reaching for Sunstreaker instinctively. How many of them ARE there??

I watch a shiny yellow Chevrolet Camaro speeding thru the trees towards us. Dirt and leaves spraying away from it. I press my hands into the paint of my Lamborghini. Not afraid. But still, HE is real to me.

“Ugh. Bumblebee.” That voice is SO grumpy. I lean and press my face into Sunny’s yellow paint. Smiling. Watching this new car approach. Feeling nervous again. But still feeling safe. Sunstreaker will keep me safe. Sideswipe will keep me safe. And I dont think I’ll ever meet anyone that’ll make me feel safer than Ironhide behind us.

That Camaro warps almost mid drive. Big yellow robot chirping and clapping it’s big hands almost before it’s entirely stilled. Motioning at me erratically.

“Oh I bet you’re excited, Bee.” Sideswipe sounds so amused. I hadn’t even realized he’s a robot again. Not a car. Only Sunstreaker is still an immovable solid car under my hands. Like he’s just being as still as possible because I’m clinging to him. I….. I ADORE him….

The new yellow robot is whirring and clicking. Happy noises. Hands motioning and reaching for me. He looks SO happy. SO SO happy to see me. It makes all my nervousness melt into nothing.

“He won’t harm you….” It’s a soft voice under my cheek. My ghost car talking just to me. Comforting and protective.

That must be why I feel brave enough to pull away. Away from my Sunstreaker. To walk cautiously towards this happy yellow robot that’s reaching for me.

It stills as I approach. Squatting. Hands open and splayed. As if it’s TRYING to make itself look harmless.

This particular robot is much smaller than any I’ve seen thus far. It’s still very big compared to me. But still….

It’s big glowing blue eyes shine into mine. This fellow is FRIEND shaped. I smile and spread my hands too. Just like his.

“Bumblebee?” It’s just a quiet question. My inner child just bathing in everything that’s happening around me.

“That’s your name?” my voice sounds foolish. But I don’t care. 

That new yellow robot reaches forward. A sound from him. Like a car horn but much quieter. Like he’s fretting. Those big hands of his reaching forward. SO strange. I don’t feel any fear at all as I feel his big fingers pressing into my face. Little touches.

No fear. But there IS emotion. I feel myself choking a bit. And I try to explain.

“It’s….. it’s just bruising….. that’s all….” I feel so fragile and humble. This fellow is gently touching my bruised face. The first of these creatures that’s seemed to RECOGNIZE that that’s what’s ON my face. Bruises. Big fingers prodding with more gentleness than anyone has ever bestowed on the skin of my face around my nose. Those same quiet cooing noises that sound like a car horn but so very subtle.

“I’m okay….” It’s stunted. I feel my chest thrumming with warmth. Just letting this big fellow fret over my bruised face.

“His voice box was damaged.” I can hear Sideswipe explaining. I couldn’t care less. Hands just reaching up to cup those big hands that are touching my face. Feeling so very much at peace. So understanding. Language isn’t even a factor here. Just appreciating this creature fretting over my bruised face.

“Hi, Bee.” I’m smiling like an absolute idiot. Hands just holding his. While he’s fussing and touching my face. It’s so very protective and gentle and safe.

I’ve known Bumblebee for one minute. But if anything ever happens to him, I’ll kill everything in this forest and then myself.

Just smiling and feeling more comfortable than I’ve felt in years. Like I’ve known this robot my whole life.

He pulls his hands away. I let my own hands fall away too, respecting him. Just staring up at him. Smiling SO hard.

I hear Ironhide speaking again.

“C’mon. I’ll take yeh to Prime.”

I finally turn away from Bumblebee. I don’t want to. But I’m so…..

Oh I’m happy. I’m so glad that I’ve come here. I feel like a little kid that’s opened a door and found that magic is REAL.

Ghost cars. Robots. Aliens?

I don’t CARE. They’re REAL. Right here. With me.

Only the slightest hesitation. Turning and searching with my eyes.

“Sun… Sunstreaker??”

There is no more yellow Lamborghini. It’s him. I must have been so distracted with Bumblebee touching my face, to not hear him transforming. But he’s here. Big yellow robot looking down at me with his wonderful grumpy face. Just scowling down at me like he’s butthurt that I’ve ever looked at any other shiny robot possibly alien thing other than him.

“You’re….. you’re coming too….. right?”

His scowl morphs into SUCH a smirk. He’s so…. Oh…. He’s SO cool….. I don’t think I’ll ever go anywhere again if he’s not coming too. I almost want to REACH for him.

“I’m coming. I won’t leave you.”

It’s so quiet. So certain and confident. I feel so safe. And I smile up at him like a hopeful potato.

He chuckles at this. It’s such a lovely comforting sound.

“Go on. I’ll be with you.”

I turn, prepared to walk.

“Whelp. Here we go, little buddy!”

Sideswipe’s big hands wrap around me. Lifting me to cradle me to his big metal chest. I chirp a surprised cry which bubbles away into giggles.

I can hear Sunstreaker growling as Sideswipe walks forward.

“It can walk, Sides.”

I just laugh into Sideswipe’s warm chest. Funny, I can hear HIS heart too. Thrumming and deep on my cheek.

“I think Prime’s gonna like you.” Sideswipe’s soft chuckle brushes away any vestiges of nervousness inside me. One of his big thumbs rubbing up and down my spine. I go completely limp in his grasp. Just so very comfortable. Trusting.

“Well that’s just….. prime….” I splutter more giggles as my big red friend walks on. My other friends with us. I’m not alone. I’ll never be alone again. And it’s WONDERFUL.

[baenyth]

More on my Bizarre V3 AU

Welp, you voted for it. I decided to do this on a character-by-character basis. Watch out! Direct and indirect V3 spoilers ahead!

Shuichi Saihara: The sort-of protagonist of this story (although there's meant to be focus on a multitude of characters,) and runs a local detective agency. His plot begins with him getting multiple cases on disappearances, reappearances, and displacements, which all seem to be somehow connected. Harbors a crush on Kaede.

Kaito Momota: The self-proclaimed "Luminary of the Stars" and a young man attempting to become an astronaut, although is waiting on his application to come back after multiple attempts to submit a fake application, including in his teenage years. Runs multiple gigs and odd jobs, including one at Shuichi's detective agency. He calls Shuichi his "sidekick," despite the fact that it tends to be the other way around. Another job he has is as a babysitter, putting him in contact with other babysitters for larger groups of children as a result.

Kaede Akamatsu: A pianist that plays at large theaters and is commissioned for her work at restaurants, parties, plays, etc. Harbors a crush on Shuichi and eventually assists him in his detective work as the case grows larger and more connections are made. As more information is obtained on the case from both Shuichi and others, she ends up getting captured repeatedly by DICE, although she's treated surprisingly well in captivity. Has also had multiple run-ins with Miu Iruma, none of which Kaede likes to talk about.

Miu Iruma: Inventor and multi-talented engineer commissioned by various groups for devices. Kaito occasionally works as an assistant in her lab as one of his gigs/odd jobs, especially since Miu often gets commissioned for designs from the space agency Kaito applied for. Is unnaturally flexible and elastic. Has another long-term assistant in the form of Kiibo.

Kiibo: A mysteriously high-tech android currently working as an assistant at Miu's laboratory. Hired Shuichi to look for Professor Idabashi, the man who supposedly created him, but the case has unfortunately gone cold. Will have more relevance in season 2 as more on Professor Idabashi is revealed.

Maki Harukawa: A babysitter that despite her sinister nature, is really good with kids. Actually an assassin working for an organization that is essentially the world's military, and her current target is the ex-convict Ryoma Hoshi. Would rather be a babysitter, despite saying that she doesn't like kids. Secretly harbors a crush on Kaito Momota after multiple conversations while the two of them cared for the same group of kids. Has an unnatural degree of control over her body and some of her targets have their bodies warped or downright blown-up.

Ryoma Hoshi: A tennis player and prisoner formerly on death row for massacring a mafia for killing everyone he knew, released by and put under the protection of DICE, who want him to join the organization. Was put on a hitlist by the military organization Maki works for solely because of his destructive capabilities, including superhuman speed and reflexes, despite his lack of will to live, which DICE correctly concluded makes him harmless.

Kokichi Oma: The enigmatic leader of DICE, a criminal organization known for pranks, thievery of all sorts, and being averse to killing. Abhors killing, as his organization suggests, and one of the current goals of both him and DICE in general are to prevent the assassination of Ryoma Hoshi. Became a babysitter to gather information on Maki and hamper her assassination attempts, meeting Katio and eventually Shuichi in the process. Repeatedly flirts with both Kaito and Shuichi. Has a bizarre relationship with Miu, where they're both openly hostile to eachother despite DICE using plenty of Miu's inventions and Miu never retaliating against DICE aside from insulting their leader. Known to seemingly shift into the shadows and is said that a black smoke cloud is a sign of him being near.

Gonta Gokuhara: The heir of the rich Gokuhara family of well-acclaimed botanists and only survivor after the rest of the family mysteriously died over the years. Attempts to combine his entomology knowledge with the family business of botany, to effective results. Said to be able to communicate with a variety of animals, especially insects. Is currently looking for an odd blue glowing dragonfly he saw once at night, being assisted by his maid, Kirumi Tojo.

Kirumi Tojo: The sole maid and only other inhabitant of the Gokuhara manor. Her responsibilities include cooking, cleaning, bodyguarding, managing the vegetation growing in and around Gokuhara manor, and other services for her master, Gonta, including helping to find an odd blue glowing dragonfly he saw one night. Is actually a government agent working directly under the president/prime minister to monitor and protect the last member of the Gokuhara family as well as find this blue dragonfly to keep it out of anyone else's hands. Seems to always carry cleaning supplies and odd string on hand, even if it's unsure where she got them from. Has an uncannily good instinct and ability to read other people, as well as various convenient things happening when she's around, such as inexplicable strikes of lightning or the the plants of Gokuhara manor surviving longer and growing more flowers and fruits despite no change to their upkeep. Said to have a really good singing voice.

Himiko Yumeno: A talented magician and self-proclaimed mage that performs in both large shows and small birthday parties. As a child, she once touched a mysterious glowing blue flower that supposedly gave her her "magic powers". Likes visiting the local artist-priestess for weekly sermons. Has an assistant and bodyguard in the form of Tenko Chabashira.

Tenko Chabashira: The bodyguard, assistant, and lover(?) of Himiko Yumeno, protecting her from threats male and female alike. Practices "Neo-Aikido," an aggressive variant of aikido that takes elements from both athletic and professional wrestling. She's very protective of Himiko, verging on overprotective at times. Thinks a lean long-haired man is stalking both her and Himiko and doesn't trust the artist-priestess Himiko likes so much. Is unnaturally flexible and elastic.

Angie Yonaga: An artist and high priestess spreading the word of a new freeform monotheistic religion of a god that goes by many names that cares for all of their creations, even if it doesn't seem like that at first or in odd ways, and uses humans like her as vessels to spread the word as oracles and priests. Her weekly sermons include her preaching the religion's ideals and beliefs, praying, art activities, and blood donations.

Korekiyo Shinguji: A traveling anthropologist with a slight lean towards folklore that studies cultures from big and popular to small and secluded. Is especially curious about what are known as the "seven holy essences," seven colorful items that take many forms, as well as several smaller, lesser essences. Both the main seven and the lesser essences are said to grant powers and wishes and appeared in a variety of cultures all over. Joins in Angie's sermons due to the interest in her religion and its ideals. Is also planning on becoming a serial killer to give his recently-deceased sister 100 friends, and has found his first target.

Rantaro Amami: A drifter looking for his twelve sisters as well as some item known as "Mercury," which he believes to have caused at least one of his sisters' disappearances. Used to be the green ranger in version 2 of the government-sponsored "Star-Hunter Squadron: Elite Rangers" and the only member that is known to be alive or at the very least safe. Doesn't like Tsumugi Shirogane.

Tsumugi Shirogane: An ordinary girl that likes fiction and cosplay and works at a clothing store.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA scientists spot candidate for speediest exoplanet system

Astronomers may have discovered a scrawny star bolting through the middle of our galaxy with a planet in tow. If confirmed, the pair sets a new record for the fastest-moving exoplanet system, nearly double our solar system’s speed through the Milky Way.

The planetary system is thought to move at least 1.2 million miles per hour, or 540 kilometers per second.

“We think this is a so-called super-Neptune world orbiting a low-mass star at a distance that would lie between the orbits of Venus and Earth if it were in our solar system,” said Sean Terry, a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Maryland, College Park and NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland. Since the star is so feeble, that’s well outside its habitable zone. “If so, it will be the first planet ever found orbiting a hypervelocity star.”

A paper describing the results, led by Terry, was published in The Astronomical Journal on February 10.

A Star on the Move

The pair of objects was first spotted indirectly in 2011 thanks to a chance alignment. A team of scientists combed through archived data from MOA (Microlensing Observations in Astrophysics) – a collaborative project focused on a microlensing survey conducted using the University of Canterbury Mount John Observatory in New Zealand — in search of light signals that betray the presence of exoplanets, or planets outside our solar system.

Microlensing occurs because the presence of mass warps the fabric of space-time. Any time an intervening object appears to drift near a background star, light from the star curves as it travels through the warped space-time around the nearer object. If the alignment is especially close, the warping around the object can act like a natural lens, amplifying the background star’s light.

In this case, microlensing signals revealed a pair of celestial bodies. Scientists determined their relative masses (one is about 2,300 times heavier than the other), but their exact masses depend on how far away they are from Earth. It’s sort of like how the magnification changes if you hold a magnifying glass over a page and move it up and down.

“Determining the mass ratio is easy,” said David Bennett, a senior research scientist at the University of Maryland, College Park and NASA Goddard, who co-authored the new paper and led the original study in 2011. “It’s much more difficult to calculate their actual masses.”

The 2011 discovery team suspected the microlensed objects were either a star about 20 percent as massive as our Sun and a planet roughly 29 times heavier than Earth, or a nearer “rogue” planet about four times Jupiter’s mass with a moon smaller than Earth.

To figure out which explanation is more likely, astronomers searched through data from the Keck Observatory in Hawaii and ESA’s (European Space Agency’s) Gaia satellite. If the pair were a rogue planet and moon, they’d be effectively invisible – dark objects lost in the inky void of space. But scientists might be able to identify the star if the alternative explanation were correct (though the orbiting planet would be much too faint to see).

They found a strong suspect located about 24,000 light-years away, putting it within the Milky Way’s galactic bulge — the central hub where stars are more densely packed. By comparing the star’s location in 2011 and 2021, the team calculated its high speed.

But that’s just its 2D motion; if it’s also moving toward or away from us, it must be moving even faster. Its true speed may even be high enough to exceed the galaxy’s escape velocity of just over 1.3 million miles per hour, or about 600 kilometers per second. If so, the planetary system is destined to traverse intergalactic space many millions of years in the future.

“To be certain the newly identified star is part of the system that caused the 2011 signal, we’d like to look again in another year and see if it moves the right amount and in the right direction to confirm it came from the point where we detected the signal,” Bennett said.

“If high-resolution observations show that the star just stays in the same position, then we can tell for sure that it is not part of the system that caused the signal,” said Aparna Bhattacharya, a research scientist at the University of Maryland, College Park and NASA Goddard who co-authored the new paper. “That would mean the rogue planet and exomoon model is favored.”

NASA’s upcoming Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope will help us find out how common planets are around such speedy stars, and may offer clues to how these systems are accelerated. The mission will conduct a survey of the galactic bulge, pairing a large view of space with crisp resolution.

“In this case we used MOA for its broad field of view and then followed up with Keck and Gaia for their sharper resolution, but thanks to Roman’s powerful view and planned survey strategy, we won’t need to rely on additional telescopes,” Terry said. “Roman will do it all.”

IMAGE ; This artist's concept visualizes a super-Neptune world orbiting a low-mass star near the center of our Milky Way galaxy. Scientists recently discovered such a system that may break the current record for fastest exoplanet system, traveling at least 1.2 million miles per hour, or 540 kilometers per second. Credit NASA/JPL-Caltech/R. Hurt (Caltech-IPAC)

[sswwmmpptthhnngg]

Bat Out of Hell | Chapter One

→ Pairings: Eddie x HendersonSister!Reader

→ Warnings: angst, anxiety, mental health, hurt/comfort, vignette style flashbacks, eventual smut, slow burn, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ minors dni

→ WC: 13k+

→ A/N: Y'all. This is feeling mightily like a magnum opus sorts. I can't tell you how many times I've written and rewritten, hemmed and hawed. I finally just had to hit post. Here there probably be typos, not beta-ed in the slightest. I figured I'll go back and edit, just needed to get the story out.

In penance, I made y'all a playlist, featuring some of the tracks mentioned in this chapter and some funk tracks that I really just like and would 1000% be playing at the record shop if I worked at one.

Here we go.

→ Playlist: Maggot Brain

Chicago, March 13, 1991

Silence. Blissful, impenetrable, being-less silence. The quiet of your apartment enveloped you from the brisk March bustle of the city at your back. Windy City indeed. You thought you were prepared for Chicago’s so called spring growing up in the Midwest all your life, but the proximity to the lake changed all that. Icy torrents ripping at warp speeds at slush sludged in between the laces of your Docs. Or at least it used to until you wised up and purchased a pair of Sportos. Not the pinnacle of fashion, but damn were they functional against Chicago’s street funk.

Kicking off said boots, your toes uncurled on the warm wood floor, welcoming the relief of being able to spread out. The day had droned on, picking up that double was an instant regret. Noon to midnight. What the hell had you been thinking? Especially when you had to cram your feet into the dress code mandated pointy toe pumps, which you tossed in the direction of your closet, not caring where they landed. Whoever decided bartenders had to wear heels during their shift deserved an extra hot seat in hell. Maybe a few extra pokers for good measure. 

Tight, pinching spasms wracked your muscles as you unfurled your scarf from your neck and shlepped your heavy coat from your shoulders. Dense fabric pooled at your feet as you rubbed at your shoulder, willing away the already forming kink. Damn your overly altruistic nature of wanting to help a fellow coworker out of a tight spot. Thankfully, Wednesday nights at The Signature were fairly quiet, at least as quiet as an upscale bar on The Mile could be. Bankers, business men, and bourgeoisie. Typical clientele for the elite establishment. Top shelf liquor at a high sticker price, steak, chrome, velvet, pretty waitstaff, a cliche of 90’s decadence atop one of Chicago’s tallest buildings giving the patrons ample opportunity to look down at the city as well as down their noses. Sure, it wasn’t the most you placed you’ve ever worked. But it was a living and the tips were generous. Always an incentive for the trouble. That and the two shots your last patron of the night insisted that he didn’t do alone. Another perk. 

Tequila was already at work, doing its job dulling your senses, lulling you out into the sea of unconscious dissociation. Lights were off in your apartment, just the glow of the streetlights filtering though the window into the darkness of the small studio. Typically your neighborhood was awash with lights, music, and the scene; the punk bustle of Halsted your initial draw. Tonight, dampened by the sleeting snow, all was quiet. Just like you needed it to be. 

Only Wednesday and it had already been a week. Between tonight’s double, a full 10 days on shift in a row, and the weather, exhaustion permeated your bones. It was March, no holidays in sight, yet the bar buzzed with loaded tables, even on what were supposed to be the slow nights. People were insane for traversing the blustering streets when the gales amassed snow piles as deep as your knees. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays the alcoholics from the swift completion of their rounds. The sheer number of appletinis you had to mix threatened your sanity and the massive orders for mojitos left your palms raw from their encounter with the muddler. Tips. That’s why you were doing all of this. To afford your modest studio apartment. And to live. Though you really weren’t doing too much of that lately.

Flicking the light switch on the wall next to you, your apartment lit with a soft orange glow from the small lamp nestled in the corner of the space. One of the few things not encased in cardboard. Yet. What little time you had between shifts was unfortunately spent packing. Exactly on what you had wanted to spend your precious free time. Heaving a sigh, you surveyed your once cozy apartment. A narrow path cut through the maze of boxes in your apartment from the front door to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the couch, the couch to your bed. How there were so many boxes temporarily housing your meager cache of belongings, you’ll never know. It seemed as though each box you packed, another three were needed. Seeing everything you had to your name entombed in cardboard felt hollowed. Displaced.

Truly, aside from the last week, you hadn’t spent a lot time in your own apartment, or really even on your own. This time of year and the memories attached to it— you didn’t want to dredge them up if you could avoid it. And avoid you did. Working 10 days on, catching up with friends for dinner, crashing with a friend. You had once loved your little studio, but times had changed. You had changed. What once was a haven felt like a lifeless shrine to a life you used to live. A relic of a life that wouldn’t come to be, full of memories you wished to bury.  

Life altered vastly since the first time you came to Chicago to now. The one constant, this small haven had been the place you lay your head for the better part of the last seven years. Seven years. How had it been that long? Keeping busy in a city like Chicago was all too easy you supposed, having learned this firsthand when you had first moved to The Windy City all those years ago as a bright-eyed freshman stepping foot on Northwestern’s campus. Initially, you had moved into the tiny on campus dorms. The vivacious energy of other eager freshman only enlivened you for your first real no responsibilities experience, other than your school responsibilities of course. Being the elder Henderson sibling put a heavy mantle on your shoulders and college was the first time you got to lay the burden down. 

At first it was odd, adjusting to not having to take care of the house or pick your little brother up from school and run him all over Hawkins to his activities. You were truly living for yourself. Classwork and your part time job at the campus library were your only two obligations. The world truly felt like your oyster in those days. Free. Expansive. Yours for the taking. 

Campus life exhilarated, with the many new people and experiences. Your head was on a constant swivel that first semester. Clubs to join, parties to attend, people to meet. Your calendar burst at the seams with the new, wanting to experience everything and anything you could get your hands on. Too many years in a small town will do that you. You wanted a life so far removed from your life in Hawkins and it was in your grasp. 

Classes scintillated, broadening your horizons at every lecture. Friends joined your ranks, falling in with another merry band of misfits much like your chosen few friends in Hawkins. The only downside being your rather finicky first semester roommate who didn’t seem to grasp the concept that the room was shared, not just hers. Lauren, not be pronounced like normal, but “Lore-Ren” as in Ralph Lauren she would constantly correct. Her spiteful “toleration” of your “devil music” and distastefully drab wardrobe lead her Lacoste to leech onto your side of the room, inch by inch.  There were only so much poppy plaid, debutante delicacies, and Chad Lowe posters you could stomach. Enter your search for a space of your own.

Weeks of perusing periodicals for spaces for rent in your price range returned a fruitless search. Seems like every twenty-something was jonesing for their own slice of the city to sink their teeth into. You didn’t just want any old apartment in any old neighborhood. If you were going to strike out on your own, there was only one place to be. 

Halsted was your chosen borough, the scene rife with lovable riffraff, your kind of folks. Every spare moment you had was spent in the neighborhood; it wasn’t all about the jocks and cheerleaders— freaks ruled the roost in Halsted. Leather jackets, punk t-shirts, sky-high mowhawks, Halsted attracted those outside of the mainstream. Naturally, it was hard to find a feasible place to live in freak central due to the draw. 

You had discovered Halstead on complete accident. A rare Saturday you had to yourself with no tests to study or homework littering your desk, left you jonesing for a trip into the city. Needing to get out of your head with finals just around the corner, a trip to the city was just what the doctor ordered. With a loaded whole day plan, centering around a visit to the Institute of Art and lunch at the famed hole-in-the-wall diner Jim’s Grill, the promise of reprieve from studying seeped into your overwork brain as you nestled into a window seat on the Red Line. The ambling lull of the train proved too much for your lack of sleep as you settled into a casual doze. You should have gotten off the train in Buena Park near Wrigley Field to catch the 80 to Irving Park, but your doze was a full blown sleep and you missed your stop by several. Waking up as the Red Line pulled into Belmont Station, the rest is history. You fell in love with blossoming counterculture the moment your Chuck Taylors hit the pavement in Halsted. 

Berlin’s cavernous nightlife club with a diverse, no-attitude, all-orientations crowd on the dance floor, Susie’s 24 hour diner on Montrose, The Alley’s punk duds. Every corner housed a haven for the freaks. You had never seen anything like it. When night fell, Halsted really sprung to life. A glitter gulch filled with people pouring in and out of clubs, cars circling for non-existent parking spaces on cruise congested streets. Part-time tourists suburbanites and street freaks mingled together in club queues. Places like Punkin’ Doughnuts became a mainstay staple in your social calendar. A booming 24 hour street scene, a beacon for the offbeat. Straight up sugar fiends filled the parking lot of the Belmont and Clark Dunkin Doughnuts, loitering in the lot while music blasted through ghetto blasters or a scuffle of a live band. It was electric and eclectic, a place where you could go and find like-minded folks; a rarity in the midwest. It wasn’t just the punks, but other folks outside of the mainstream: house music fanatics, antifascist skinheads, skaters, trans folks, drag queens, goths, runaways. It was a corner hub awash with a tapestry of folks that could just hang out together. With the constellation of music venues and bars, there was always something going on in Halsted.

Perhaps your favorite of all the establishments was The Wax Trax! The bread and butter of the neighborhood, Wax Trax! was the anchor for the disenfranchised. A punk/new wave/industrial haven. Many hours were spent flipping through LPs and adding treasures to your already expansive collection. It was more than just a record store. Amid the death grip of AIDS, the arrival of Ronald Regan’s trickle-down economics, and the specter of Cold War nuclear Armaggedon, Wax Trax! was the neon-lit musical club house or a hidden community. A community that liked fringe music and transgressive humor, a community that identified as gay, trans, punk, misfit or “other,” a community that found solace in glam, dirty disco, girl groups with magnificent beehives, rockabilly of the most impolite sort, or the gritty grinding of industrial music. To be a regular at Wax Trax!, meant you didn’t fit in anywhere else. Who new there were so many of your kind? Especially in there. Not only were the vinyls cool, it became your regular haunt. Where you worked after classes and on the weekends. Where you found home.

Literally. Perusing the records a few weeks after finals while finishing up your May Term class, you spotted it. A for rent sign in the fourth story window right across the street from The Trax. Your fingers flew to dial the number during your shift and the landlord answered on the second ring. The appointment was set to the view the apartment that evening. 

It was love at first sight. You had found it. Home. Your oasis among the grit of the punk scene of Halsted. The small studio nestled on the top floor of the building facing Halsted, giving you the perfect birds-eye view of the street happenings below. Warm wood floors, crisp freshly painted while walls, tall cathedral ceilings, skylights peppering the ceiling emitting an otherworldly glow. You couldn’t have custom cherry picked a better apartment if you tried. It enveloped you from the first moment you opened the door. You had to have it. 

The place was a steal, so much so that there had to be something wrong with it beyond what the naked eye could see. Your potential future landlord had mumbled something about goddamn punks creating a ruckus and driving away renters, but thought better of finishing the statement when taking in your appearance. You may look like a punk, but your credentials were anything but riffraff. Your full ride scholarship to Northwestern, solid employment history at Wax Trax!, he didn’t even hesitate to have you sign a lease. And sign you did. It was perfect. You were home.

That was 1984. Back when the world made sense. Back before monsters, evil Russians, the Upside Down, back before you lost— Yeah, not tonight. A shake of the head dispelled the mounting thoughts. Getting out of your uncomfortable pencil skirt and Oxford was what you needed right now. Basic needs. That’s at least what your newly acquired therapist had recommended last session. Keep it simple, especially in this period of transition.  

Weaving through your box maze to where your bed nestled underneath one of the skylights, you slumped down on the mattress, unclipping your suspenders as you sat. Working at a place you didn’t enjoy really took it out of you. The stuffy clientele, bitchy backbiting coworkers primed to see you fall flat on your face. The only saving grace was your surprisingly affable bar manger and boss Jerry. He had been absolutely gutted when you put in your two weeks notice. Losing my best and brightest, he had all but cried when you handed in your resignation. 

Tending bar wasn’t the plan, it really wasn’t even in the realm of what you wanted to do with your life. It was merely a means to an end. ’Til you found your footing again. A temporary stepping stone on your way to bigger and better things, to quote your therapist. Yeah, a five year stepping stone. Aggravatedly, you stood, pulling open your dresser drawer keen to find something comfortable to lounge in for the sixteen hours you had yourself only to be met with emptiness. Shit. SHIT. Your gaze turned to the stack of boxes next to the dresser labeled “BEDROOM” in bold black block lettering. Focused packing had clearly hit your dressers, and if you had to guess your closet too, in preparation for your impending move. Like everything else in your apartment. Shoulder slumping at even the thought of having to dig through boxes to find something, anything at this point. Had it been summer, you could strip to your under layers and just laze on the couch as you pleased. But no, it was the tail end of winter, always the most biting time in Chicago. Heaters were already working overtime against the squall, radiators simmering as the steam heat fought to keep the chill at bay. 

Fighting the heavy sigh threatening to spill from your lungs, you righted your shoulders. Better to get this over with quickly so you could finally be horizontal. Just a minor inconvenience, that’s all. You’ve had more than your share of those this week. The snow, a grabby patron, everything you own in a box, and now not even being able to find a t-shirt. Fuck this week. Actually, fuck the whole month. March was the worst anyways. 

Not even bothering to find a blade or keys to make opening the boxes infinitesimally easier, you pick at the heavy packing tape. Cardboard ripping filling the silence of your apartment as you tore into the first box destined for your future bedroom. Socks. You rummaged around deeper in the box only to find more socks and stockings. Who packs an entire box of just socks? Apparently you do. Could you have at least specified that the box contained socks? No, of course not. That would have made things all too easy, too convenient for present you. 

Packing in a sleep addled state clearly was a mistake as the next box contained heavy wool sweaters and layers meant to stave off the elements, and the following only contained bottoms. Strike three. You calves quaked as you heaved the offending, wholly unhelpful boxes to the side so you could get to the next stack. Relabelling and re-taping the boxes was a future you problem. 

Another box, another disappointment. This one straining to contain a portion of your LPs, dust jackets laden with dust from disuse. When was the last time you had even played one of these? Physical Graffiti, Led Zeppelin. Queens of Noise, The Runaways. Space Oddity, David Bowie. Creatures of the Night, Kiss. The Number of The Beast, Iron Maiden. So many greats made up the backbone of a comprehensive collection once your pride and joy. Warn paper spines felt familiar under your fingertips, a warm musk kicking up as you traced the them. So much of your youth was spent in a constant rotation of these albums on your turntable, lost in the euphony each album created. How long had it been since you pulled one of these out? If the layer of thick dust accumulating upon your turntable was any indication, it had been an eon. 

Subsequent boxes contained more records hidden away, stale with desertion. Perhaps the dust added to the heft as you sloughed the boxes into a disorganized pile on your quest for something comfortable, desperation and tiredness mounting upon each disappointing box. The last box at the bottom of the stack was unsurprisingly unlabeled. It had better not be more records. Three full boxes packed to the gills with LPs was enough. Even the thought of having to transport those ratcheted up the tiredness. You peeled back the tape and popped open the flaps and your hands froze. Box flaps fell from your shocked hands as you peered down at the box’s contents. 

Soft baby blue satin glinted in the low light of your apartment. You couldn’t hold back the soft smile that quirked your lips in recognition as your fingers traced the lettering on the cool fabric. Sound Hound looped across the satin expanse in white script formed by patch and chainstitch. Almost reverently, you lifted the jacket from the box. How it was still in near mint condtion, you couldn’t fathom as you brought the fabric to your nose. The Oakmoss, anise, and bergamot notes of Brut met your inhale; it still smelled like him. Your dad. Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson.

One thousand percent responsible for your record collection and former deep love of music, Don was WINN 104.9’s premiere drive time radio spot Not My First Radio. Perhaps your dad was also one thousand percent responsible for your sense of humor. All leather jackets, KISS t-shirts, and cigarette smoke, he was a true rock’n’roller and he immersed you in that world from your conception. Playing you Pink Floyd in utero, playing you acoustic cover lullabies of Led Zeppelin, giving you the finer points of imitating Barry Gibb for your grade school talent show, sneaking you out of middle school to see Cheap Trick in Chicago and subsequently finding Meat Loaf thus beginning your life long obsession, and all the late night concerts as you began high school. Bowie, KISS, Journey, Nazareth, AC/DC, Bee Gees, Billy Squire, Black Sabbath, Bruce Springsteen. If it was a major musical act playing anywhere near the Indianapolis area, you could bet DJ Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson was in attendance. And by proxy, you if he could steal you away as his assistant in “research”. 

It wasn’t just rock and roll, it was soul. Your dad may have been a rock virtuoso, but he was also a funk junkie. Kool and The Gang, Funkadelic, Cymande, Earth, Wind, & Fire. Anything with a groove sent you and your dad whirling around the living room to the beat, laughing until your sides ached as much as your cheeks from smiling. Often roping your mother and your brother in on your hijinks. Music wove the very fabric of your life from before you were born. It was a tether, entwining especially you and your dad together, as thick at thieves. You idolized him. He was your best friend.

At least he was until cancer took him when you were 14. Watching your idol succumb to that nasty, eating disease broke you. He wasted away in a matter of months post diagnosis. It was then you resolved you wanted to be just like him, setting your sights on Northwestern’s broadcasting program. You were going to carry on the Henderson name, at least in the radio world. Desperate to keep the music thread continuing in your life. 

A telltale lump began to form in the back of your throat, tightening in that all too familiar way. Guard already low due to energy dangling dangerously close to burnout, you set the bomber jacket aside to assuage the brewing feelings, but were startled with a clatter. Curious, you pressed a hand to the jacket, feeling a rectangular lump beneath the fabric. Slipping your hand in the pocket, you produced a clear case housing a cassette. A yellowed label read “Sound Hound: September 1, 1979 Broadcast”,  your dad’s familiar scrawl clearly scripted. Feet moving of their own volition, you hardly realized you had crossed the room until you were popping open the tape deck on your alarm clock and pressing play. 

The tape began to spool, clicking and clacking reverberating from the player. Not even fading in, the tinny recording began abruptly. 

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Graham Bonnet’s iron lung of a voice faded as a voice you hadn’t heard in a long while began to talk over the outro.

“And if you are just tuning in to WINN, you’re listening to The Sound Hound!” Your dad’s voice enthused followed by a very cheesy Halloween werewolf howling sound effect. “That is a new drop from across the pond. After the rain there’s always a Rainbow. And off their new album Down to Earth that was Since You’ve Been Gone. Hoping your ride home has been rockin’ and rolling smoothly. Keep an eye on the traffic headed southbound on 65, there’s heavy traffic in all lanes. Speaking of traffic, here’s one last jam to take you home. And this one is for a little creature who should be just getting off school. See y’all tomorrow on the next Not My First Radio Show!”

A Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Barbara Ann

Take my hand

Another bitter smile formed on your lips. As hard rock as your dad could be, he had a secret soft spot. One only known to you. The Beach Boys. No one would expect a love of The Beach Boys. But he did, he loved them un-ironically. It became your thing. Taking his prized powder blue Fairlane, affectionally known as Babs, out for a cruise down the 31. Top down, summer sun warming your skin and wind tousling your hair. Barbara Ann pouring through the speakers at the highest volume possible. You singing along at the top of your lungs. Your dad singing off-key in his best Boris Karloff impersonation, coaxing a peel of giggles from you in your younger years. 

Oh Barbara Ann, take my hand

Barbara Ann

You got me rockin' and a-rollin'

Rockin' and a-reelin'

Barbara Ann ba ba

Ba Barbara Ann

Those were the kind of hazy days of summer that you wished would last forever. Some of your fondest childhood memories lived in the cream leather interior, the soft blue dashboard, the treads of the tires. Barbara Ann became your code. Anytime it played on air, it was his way of say hi or he was thinking about you. Now, when you happened to hear it, it was your dad’s way of saying he was with you even beyond the grave and Babs… Well, she was a last corporeal piece of him. 

Honestly, it was bittersweet. Babs was a little bit of your dad to keep with you wherever you went. In later years, she became a scared space of shared secrets, long drives to Lover's Lake with Led Zeppelin on the radio, a stolen away solace at the back of the drive-in lot. But for the last five, she sat in your apartment’s parking structure. Under some sheet like a ghost of your past life. 

Nostalgia. What was with it today? Threatening to swallow you whole like the squall outside. As if this month wasn’t already charged enough. Now all this nostalgia to contend with? No thank you. While a trip down memory lane was nice and all, what you needed desperately was a little sleep. And to do that, you needed to be comfortable. Endeavoring to not let anything else sidetrack your mission, you return to the box you had opened, Beach Boys still bopping along in the background. Jackpot. Finally, past you did something that made sense. A box with a jacket AND other garments. It only took eight boxes, but you had found something to wear. Finally, a soft cotton tee was in your hands. You could almost cry in tired elation. The heathered forest green tee was Nirvana in your grasp. Shaking it out, eager to slip into comfort, you used the last ounce of your waining will straighten out the garment and— ugh, you had got to be kidding. 

Out of all the tees you owned, it would be this one. It was your lot. A huge cosmic joke where you were the punchline. Your shoulders sagged in weary acceptance. Clearly the universe was out to get you. As if you hadn’t been served enough sentimentality, the sole tee you could find would be for Shepherd’s Records. Shepherd’s had been your first job. Manning the counter and keep track of inventory for your dad’s best friend, Irwin Shepherd. Lord help you if you called him by his first name. He was Shep, and only Shep. God, you had loved that job, working nights after school and weekends, even coming home in the summer to man the shop. There was no place better for a music fanatic to work. Playing records all day and getting paid to chat with folks about music? Nothing better. 

You snorted ruefully as you lay the tee on your bed and began to disrobe. Seemingly everything today saw fit to remind you of things that were no longer part of your life. Dad. Shepherd’s. Music. So much loss in a short nearly three decades. But that was something better saved for your therapist office, not standing half naked staring at a t-shirt listening to Barbara Ann in the middle of your apartment at 1:30 in the morning. You just needed sleep. Sweet sleep. And maybe a Bartles & James to take the edge off. Yeah, that sounded good. Slipping on the comically large shirt, it hung down to mid-thigh, ample coverage for a night’s sleep. You rucked off your tights and snagged a pair of tall, thick socks from your box of socks before shuffling to the kitchen for your intended beverage.

The cool of the refrigerator breezed across your bare legs as you tugged open the door and plucked the peach flavored wine cooler from the scant contents of your fridge. Plunking the door closed, your hurried to the couch, pulled on your socks, and nestled under the bulky knit blanket, sinking into the warm reprieve from the chilled air of your apartment. One of the few things you hadn’t packed was a bottle opener. You grinned at your own genius as you reached for the tool on your coffee table and popped the top off your beverage. The sweet peach of the fizzy drink titillated your tastebuds as you took a deep swig, relaxing into the plush of your couch. 

Silence once again. The tape player had clicked off as you dressed and you were once again left in the quiet of your apartment. Gentle rattling of the radiator only added to the soundtrack of your mounting thoughts. This time of year always dredged up encroaching feelings. Giant, monstrous, beast like feelings unfurling their tentacles, probing through the mirk for some soft flesh to sink into. Testing the virility of the armor you’ve built over the years, craving to find some chink in your defenses. Most days you could stave off the onslaught with tools from your therapist wielded like weapons hewn in hard work of facing down your demons. Other days, much like today, when tiredness seeped from every pore and the calendar slowly progressing towards the day you dreaded most, your defenses offered little resistance to the strike. 

In the turbulent grey of March, you couldn’t help but think on it. Of him. The irony wasn’t lost on you that you lazed on your couch wearing the shirt bearing the name of the first place you truly saw him. The first time that unruly mop of brown hair waltzed into your life, setting you on a collision course of inevitable destruction.

Hawkins June 20, 1981

Summer. Might as well be called hell season as far as you were concerned. Asphalt hot enough to cook an egg or melt the rubber off your sneakers. Mercury bursting to the top of thermometers, 100 degrees and counting. Heat haze blurring the corn fields along the sides of the road as you drove into town. The mid-afternoon Midwest sun was as unforgiving as you could get, so much so that despite your car’s air-conditioning being on the fritz, having the top down wasn’t even in the realm of possibility lest you scorched your hide clean off. Dewey beads of sweat caused your baby hairs to stick to your brow and your legs to the leather of the seats. It was a scorcher, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

School was officially done for the year. No schedules, no assignments. Just you and your favorite place on earth, thankfully with air conditioning. Pulling into your designated spot, you cut the engine, twirling the keys around your finger as you walked up the back door of Shepherd’s Records. Locking the door behind you, pressing your back to the door, you relished in the cool air, an oasis from the broiling heat outside.

The quiet cool of the shop was peaceful as you made your way through the stacks of records. A familiar scent of plastic wrap, laminated cardboard, and heavily treaded carpet. Inviting, a place of comfort. Being the only record institution in Hawkins, the store was always a little less than clean, clear that many people have trampled through the shop. Stained carpeting, a little rubbish stuck in a corner somewhere no matter how thoroughly you scoured the shop, and the ever-present hint of fast food, plastic, and hairspray lived in the soft lines. 

Posters hung from the rafters debut the newest albums and in store promotions. The community bulletin board was littered with flyers for local shows and stacks of independent zines by filled the table by the door. Oasis was certainly the right word for Shepherd’s progressive palace in the midwestern malum. The devil-may-care attitude the outsider rock and roll nature of Shepherd’s offered appealed to some, but the real draw was of course the music. Rows and rows of illustrations and photos, containing everything from heavy metal to new wave to Motown to Shostakovich. 

Folks occasionally bought an album or single after hearing it played over the store’s sound system, or something of your recommendation. Husband’s utterly lost trying to find a gift for their wife. Some girl humming something she heard over the radio that she was desperate to have a copy of her own. Local DJ’s jonesing to find an international import of an obscure funk album. The true diehards never wanted assistance, nor did they really need it. “Don’t buy that album, there’s only one good song” or “This might be there best ever”, you didn’t dare even breathe it in their direction; they’d find your opinions more than annoying wanting to draw their own conclusions. Elitists aside, you gleaned a lot of joy in connecting folks to the music that excited them. After all, vinyl was how you fell in the love with music. 

While other kids were listening on Fisher 100 watt hi-fi systems, you were spinning records on a Technic SP-10. Direct drive, the pinnacle of hi-fi. Much more crisp than a sad sounding mono speaker and better yet, loud, much to the dismay of your family and neighbors. It made music a much more visceral listening experience for you. It wasn’t just the superior audio quality, it was also the album itself. Nothing tops the feeling of cracking open the record sleeve, peeling back the plastic wrap not knowing what was inside. Were there lyrics? Tour photos? Pure unadulterated excitement. When there was a lack of stuff inside, it was always disappointing. 

Nothing topped browsing the aisles of Shepherd’s, looking for an exotic gem or a familiar favorite. And you got to do it everyday. And get paid. Summer, heat side, was your second favorite time of the year. Five days a week you basked in the haven Shepherd’s provided. Briefly you wondered if this is how your dad felt, being at the station surrounded by albums as far as the eye could see. Ample avenues and journeys to take, music to be carried way by… if only he was here. Your love of music stemmed from wholly your dad. While you mom fancied Barry Manilow and The Beatles, not terrible choices if you're honest, she was a causal listener, not one who was consumed by what she heard. You and your dad had that in common, cut from the same sensitive cloth. 

“Come here, Creature,” he’d beckon you from the floor of his office, kneeling next to his record player adjusting the gain. “Listen to this.” He set the needle on the record and sound would pour out as he lay on the floor, limbs stretched and eyes closed. Completely succumbing to the music.

You’d nestle into his side in kind. Your nights typically consisted of this. Waiting for your dad to return home from the station with a new release to show you. You’d both lay on the floor and close your eyes and be taken away. As the music would build, gooseflesh broke out upon your arms, sending zinging chills throughout your whole being. Utterly and completely alive. The first time you recall feeling this sensation was the first time you listened to Ramble On by Led Zeppelin in this exact manner. Barely 6, your father could hardly wait to share one of his favorite albums with you. 

“Whadya think?” he’d turn to you and ask, eyes alight. You’d tell him exactly what you thought, how it made you feel. Swapping sensations and your deep, newly acquired love of Robert Plant. 

What you wouldn’t give for him to be tucked behind the counter right now, discussing that the Creature Feature would be for the day. Creature, your dad’s nickname for you, raised many eyebrows. Part due to your penchant for staying up into the early hours of the morning, part due to your love of Creature From The Black Lagoon. You had made him watch that film on repeat so frequently that the tape began to run thin, needing replaced. Twice. What could you say? There was just something about a creature just wanting love. The outcast, the oddity, the one never to belong thirsting deeply for companionship. Or that’s at least what your interpretation of the plot was, not a bloodthirsty Gil-Man out to ensure a beautiful woman. 

Your Creature Feature turntable choice of the day: Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. Was there any better way than to start you day with funk? Maybe a little mind-melting for the beginning of your shift, but it was one of your favorite albums of all time. Rife with protest-soul, brimming with rage over Vietnam and raised fists in support of Martin Luther King Jr., Maggot Brain spoke through brooding delusions, screaming from the shadows in a time bereft with injustice. You drop the needle on the record and just marinated a minute. 

Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time

For y'all have knocked her up.

I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe

I was not offended

For I knew I had to rise above it all

Or drown in my own shit.

Bandleader George Clinton’s spoken word begins fading into one of the most powerful and passionate guitar solos ever etched in wax. Fuzz and wah ala Hendrix, combined with the delay and echoplexed improvisation, Eddie Hazel’s solo brayed through the shop, eerie and mournful, an emotional apocalypse of sound. The one-take-wonder and titular track was your favorite, not just for sound, but also for lore. Clinton told Hazel to play as if he just found out his mother passed. The heartbreak and subsequent spiral of loss was palpable as the music pumped through the overhead speakers, vibrating in your chest as you set about turning on the lights readying for open.

This is why you loved working here. Learning all the interconnectedness of the music tapestry. How artists and styles inspired and wove together. If you paid close enough attention, funk was the epicenter of a lot of musical genres. Funkadelic for example influenced Miles Davis’ Agharta with their Wars of Armageddon which could really only be described as a paranoid freak out jam. Decadent, dizzying, and heady. There were even tunes Black Sabbath would have been proud of like Super Stupid. Funk to jazz, funk to metal. It was all connected; that such pain could transmute into something so poignant it echoed for decades after. 

Far to heady thoughts for barely noon. Proceeding with your opening duties, you flicked on the open sign, the connected neon lights flickering to life as you unlocked the front door, officially ready for the day. As per the nature of the biz, your first hour was slow, not a customer in sight. Which was fine, you had plenty to keep you occupied. Between cleaning, much needed dusting, straightening up the store, and bringing stock up from the back, you hardly noticed the bell above the door jingle with your first customers of the day.

“I’ll be right up!” You called, making your voice heard over Wars of Armeggedon. A feat considering you were in the back room contesting with protest audio, crowd ambiance, odd mouth noises, and otherwise cacophonous and riotous noise driven funk.

No response was given as you trotted up to the front. “How can I help—” your customer service smile dropped in an instant when you saw who was standing in the center of the store. “You,” your voice deadpanned in summation. 

“For starters, you could play something a little more, oh I don’t know, sane?” 

A hulking frame draped in a lettermen’s jacket despite the heat were blocked your path to the front of the store. Flanked by two of cronies, clearly amused with the cat and mouse game that had just instigated, they caged you in. Terrific. What had started out as a laissez faire day now had been severely sidetracked. Summer was supposed mean less encounters from the masses at school. Something you had greatly looked forward to: no jocks for a glorious three months. It had only been two days. Of all the record stores in all of Indiana, he had to walk into yours.

“Last I checked, I was the employee here, not you Carver,” you spat with clenched teeth, standing your ground not being at all intimidated by the goons. 

Chet Carver, the eldest Carver sibling. Most notably known for captaining the Hawkins High football team as quarterback. And also being a grade A douche canoe. Blonde. Brawny. Entitled. You would think for a pastor’s son he’d be a bit more humble. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. The aggressive meathead saw fit to target anyone who was slightly off center from the norm. Mathletes, drama geeks, no one was safe from his ire. His sway over those who looked up to him was strong, seeing as his little brother was following along in his exact footsteps. 

You knew his type, all too well unfortunately. Just a year or so ago, you were going steady. Holding hands, kissing in his car at the drive-in, the whole lot. Dumping the King of Hawkins High made you persona non grata, top mark in his crosshairs. He leered down at you, sussing out your stance for any weakness, thirsty to rend you to your knees as you had done to him. That smarmy captious grin made your blood boil and your palm itch to smack the look off his face. 

“What do you want?” You over-annunciated each syllable, hopefully the direct manner would somehow seep into his peabrain. 

“Oh you know,” he casually began, finally putting distance between the two of you. He began walking his fingers over the albums as he spoke, “we were out for a drive before heading to Benny’s for a burger and I thought to myself, you know what I could use? A new record.” He paused to flip through one of the bins he was standing in front of, taking time to muss the alphabetical order. 

Your lips pressed into a thin line, jaw aching in restraint as you bit back a smarting remark. As much as you would love to engage him in witty repartee, the sooner he left the shop, the better. You watch unmoving, your eyes trailed Chet and his cronies as the perused. Watching only, not interfering. Sure, they were making your job difficult by bringing chaos to your inventory, but if it was the worst they did, so be it. A few disorganized records? They could do much worse. 

“Ah, this is the one,” Chet had stopped his perusal, pulling a record out of the country bin and holding it out to you. Ronnie Milsap. There’s No Gettin’ Over Me. Fitting.

With a short snort, you took the record from him and made for the cash wrap. Of course he would pick the worst song of the year with the most blatant messaging.

Well you can walk out on me tonight

If you think that it ain’t feeling right

But darling

There’s ain’t no getting over me

Well you can say that you need to be free

But there ain’t no place that I won’e be

As one would assume, such a cocksure clydesdale didn’t take being dumped too kindly. If his constant harassment was enough of an indicator, this cheap shot was as clear as a foghorn. There ain’t no getting over me. Please. You had heard the song all but once over the radio at Melvald’s and it was enough. Utter trash. A narcissist’s anthem if you’ve ever heard one. You had been over him the day you dumped him. He had changed after your dad passed. All your friends had. Treating you different for grieving; you weren’t the peppy upstart you used to be. Not cool enough to hang with the in crowd. And honestly it suited you fine. The exhaustion that came a long with keeping up The Joneses was too much anyway.

Your frustration leeched out onto the register keys, punching the pricing into the cash register as you thought back on it. You may have been over Chet, but the feelings of your world turning upside down were a little too fresh. “$9.98.” You foisted your palm in his direction, not bothering to make eye contact as you rummaged beneath the counter with your freehand for a bag 

From the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. “I’ll let you keep the change if you give me a smile,” he taunted, laying a crisp ten dollar bill in your awaiting palm, as he leaned over the counter, encroaching inch by inch on your personal space. 

Change was made quickly and dropped into the bag. “Have a nice day,” you spoke flatly, slapping the bagged record into his chest. The paper bag crinkled against his jacket, the force and surprise propelling him back a few steps, bemused expression on his face at your reaction.  

HIs cronies chortled again, the interaction pulling them out of the mussing miscreancy.  “Seems like we’re not wanted here, Carver,” one of them mused, flanking Chet. 

“I supposed not,” Chet clapped him on the back. “Let’s get outta here.” 

Finally, FINALLY, the three skulked their way to the exit. Only being in the store for all of ten minutes, they had sufficiently made a large enough mess of your racks that it would take you nearly half the day to restore the order. Scooping up the nearest stack, you took the armful of albums back over the the counter. 

“Hey Henderson,” he called to your retreating back, pausing you mid step. 

Your abrupt turn and the heft of the records in your arms put you off kilter are you stared him down in the doorway. 

“I always thought you were prettiest when you smiled,” he winked, disquieting you to the very core as he exited.

Had your hands been free, you would have flipped him the bird, double time. That fucker. Thinking he could come in here, invade your sanctuary, and leer like that? Who did he think he was? Right, god’s gift to womankind. The albums met the counter with more force than you intended, the pile spilling onto the floor with the force. A breath didn’t know you were holding released, your shoulders slumping in resignation. This was going to be a long shift.

Several hours and almost the entirety of Iron Maiden’s Killers later, all was righted in the store. All of the jazz section had to be completely reorganized from Armstrong to Zawinul. Pain in the ass was the understatement of the year. Wistfully, you wished you had given Chet a piece of your mind, read him for all the filth he was, but being in his presence any longer than necessary would have been a drain on your day. Engaging him in the slightest would have bated him to linger. Just the short encounter had been enough. 

Gloriously, you hadn’t had another customer all afternoon, nothing too atypical for a Friday. The lull in activity gave you ample time to right Carver’s wrongs. Something about organizing provided the proper channel for your aggravation. A before B, B before C. A rhyme and a reason, no chaos in an easily understood system. The balm you desperately needed, smoothing the wrinkles out in your day.

“Hey Henderson!” 

Your head snapped up, the voice catching you off guard. The sound system must have obscured the door bell as you had not heard the group of boys enter, too lost in your world of alphabetized jazz. Anxiety left your body in a rush, spine slackening in relief as you looked upon a familiar face. “Hi Grant.”

The sophomore flustered under your recognition, looking down at his shoes as a blush tinted his round cheeks pink. Among your job at the record shop and a babysitting gig here and there, you also tutored students as a part of the Hawkins Library Aide program. Looked good on college applications and provided some extra scratch. 

“Got that new Demon album in. Set aside a copy for you,” you continued, wiping your hands off on your jean shorts, ridding the dust from your sticky palms. 

“Hey,” one of Grant’s friends good naturedly ribbed, “getting in in tight with the record store girl. Sucking at English has it perks.”

“Shut up, Gareth,” Grant admonished his blonde friend. 

Gentle giant Grant. You would never understand why the school thought him such a freak. Grant aired more on the quiet side, odd considering his large frame. Had he been popular, he more than likely would have been a starting lineman or something like that. Instead, he favored music, art, softer pursuits. He reminded you a lot of your brother’s friend Will in temperament at least. Grant’s whole friend ground reminded you of your brother’s Party come to think of it.

“Speaking of which,” you dashed back behind the cash warp to retrieve his hold, easily finding under GOODMAN, “how’d you do on your final?” Your hands moved on muscle memory as you prepared the sale, stamping the brown paper bag with the satisfying ka-chunk with the store’s branded stamp. 

“He aced it,” Jeff beamed at his friend as they neared the counter. 

“Way to go!” You beamed proudly at your pupil as he handed you the payment for his tape. Prepping for the exam tested Grant’s resolve. Really, the only reason he needed a tutor was due to O’Donnell’s impatience. Had she taken the necessary time and not written him off as a “problem”, like she did with any student who wasn’t a grade A ass kisser, he would have been just fine. All he needed was a little time and reassurance. 

“Right?” Gareth added, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Now your parents can’t say shit when we practice in your garage all summer.”

“We owe our future success to you,” Jeff grinned. “We would be down a guitarist if it wasn't for your help.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange, this friend group not unlike your brother’s in the slightest. Through tutoring, you came to know Grant well, and by proxy, you had become casually acquainted with his friends. Gareth: loud, boisterous, ostentatious. Jeff: quiet, contemplative, congenial. And—

“Hey sorry, I’m late! The copier kept jamming at the print shop,” the boy who was more mass of hair than human skidded into the shop. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Out of all of the group, you had interacted with it’s defacto leader the least. No words had been exchanged, solely a head nod or a wave. He flapped around like a bat out of hell. Hyperactive. Mercurial. Rough around the edges. The crowned town freak. Though you suspected that wasn’t truly the case. Was he unruly? Absolutely. Did he draw attention to himself in spectacle? Everyday. But was he a freak? Doubtful. More than likely merely misunderstood. Not unlike your own brother. Same hyperactive, overly chatty, nerd tendencies.

You watched the group flurry about as Eddie tacked up a boisterous flyer. CORRODED COFFIN @ THE HIDEOUT AUGUST 4th 7pm it read in what you assume to be Eddie’s scratchy scrawl, complete with the stereotypical rock paraphernalia sketched on the neon paper. 

“Dude, how did you manage that?” Gareth jerked a thumb at the poster. “The Hideout is bar.”

“Power of persuasion my friend, power of persuasion,” Eddie lips drew back in a wide grin full of pomp, his ego on full display. Unruly curls jostled in time with his animated movements as he regaled his friends with the full tale. From your station behind the counter, the mischievous twinkle in his eye was easily seen, overly proud of his cleverness in securing their gig. 

His chains glinted in the neon light lights of the shop, causing them to glow more pink and blue against the cut off black denim shorts and shirt he wore. Iron Maiden and Eddie the Head barely stood out on the fabric, faded with much wear. Rough around the edges indeed. He certainly contrasted the punchy hunter green and burnt orange of Hawkins High School’s logo. Of the town’s sun-faded siding of the houses along Main Street. The pastels and polos of the in crowd. How had you not noticed before? 

“And a Tuesday? There’s gonna be no one there,” you overheard Gareth complain as you tuned back into the conversation. 

“Gentlemen, come on,” he threw his arms around Gareth and Jeff’s shoulders. He spoke in a manner of a commander quelling his troops before a charge. His persuasive aura huddling the group  “Sure it’s not Market Square Arena, but it’s a start.”

The group looked unsure between themselves. 

“One person doth an audience make. Right?” He was all smiles. Affable and relaxed having swayed his friends over to his point of view. Curious. You regarded him as they continued to converse, perusing the shop leisurely. In the way one should. Try as you could to look at anything else, your eyes followed Eddie’s movements. Pouring through the records, admiring the album with their due reverence. His love of music read from across the store. If it wasn’t his sheer enthusiasm for his gig, it was the way he handled each vinyl with care. Like each was a priceless antiquity meant for the Smithsonian, not a dusty old Indiana record shop. 

He cuts through your perusal, his deep boisterous laugh filling the space. Head thrown back, fully body shaking. Lopsided grin toying at the edges of his lips. Free, you thought idly. He was utterly free. A foreign chink sounded somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach at the thought. When was the last time you had laughed like that? Let your hair down and allowed yourself to be free? Hell, just even be. 

Jesus Christ, what planets were in transit today that made every thought that wafted through your head wax the poetic? Turning to busy yourself with something other than staring at Eddie Munson, receipts from the week begging to be filed demanded your attention. 

The slips of paper consumed your attention, filing expenses for the week, returns from the one lady who insisted Stevie Nicks was the devil incarnate and insisted on a refund, and preparing the order for next week’s shipment for Shep. Lost in your own clerical world you had missed the small scuffle and sound of light cajoling behind you. That was until a voice was cleared, loudly and comically. Clearly intended to garner your attention. 

“H-hi there,” you were greeted as you looked over your shoulder. Eddie was standing at the counter across from you.

“What can I do for you, Cousin It?” You could hardly withhold the jibe that left your lips. Cousin It? You mentally reprimanded yourself for your lack of filter. It had been a long day. The perfect defense, but your excuse died in your throat. 

A wry smile quirked the corner of his lips as his friends chortled behind him, trying and failing to pretend like they weren’t eavesdropping. “You wound me!” His hands flew over his heart as he staggered a few steps back as if he had been stabbed. “Is this what customer service has come to nowadays?”  He faux fainted into the support of the record bins behind him with the grace of a 1800’s courtesan. 

His friends burst into full guffaws, unable to ignore the hijinks. You huffed, folding your arms across your chest. Clearly, this clown wasn’t too unlike the other who came in to chat you up and goad a smile out of you. 

He caught you mid eye-roll, those deep brown eyes. A flash of amusement in the neon lights of the shop. “Listen,” he said lowly, demeanor changing to something resembling a semi-respectable member of society. “I bet those numb skulls over there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friends as he sidled up the counter again, “my DM seat, my—”

“Dungeon Master seat, yeah I’m tracking with you,” you interrupted, all too familiar with the term. Dustin’s inane rambling about Dungeons & Dragons had permeated your brain. He only talked about it 24/7.

His eyes widened, surprise clear as he looked at you. “Well then,” the laugh lines appeared on either side of his mouth, clearly pleased at this turn of events, “a lady informed.” He propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in hand as he leaned closer to you. “Then you know the severity of this bet,” he all but whispered into the space between you. 

You stared at him for a beat, sussing out his intent. Narrowing your eyes at him slightly and still his grinned persisted, not fading a mite. 

“Right, so I bet them my DM sea aha I could get a lovely lady as yourself’s phone number by the end of the day. They don’t believe in the Munson charm.”

Eyes flicking to the clock, it was 5:47pm. Nearly the end of the day. Per his early statement, most of his day sounded like it was spent wrestling a copier prior to killing time in your shop. His options were limited. A wry smile cracked your features. “Let me guess,” you leaned onto the counter mimicking his position, “I’m your only hope?” He returned your grin. “You’d be correct, Obi Wan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My undying gratitude,” he answered quickly, hand flourishing over his heart.

“You’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

At that, his palm flew up to cover his mouth, the thought process propelled him to pace, unable to stay still to ponder. The need to make a show of it all too great. He paused, as if a great idea dawned on him.

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude.” You really didn’t. This being the first time you’ve ever directly spoken to the boy, how on Earth could he provide you a favor? Would you even want a favor from a complete stranger?

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude."

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

You never really believed what the rumors whispered. Cultist. Satanist. Evil. If he was any of those things, he certainly would be blushing in front of you trying to come up with something to offer. 

His gaze returned to yours. “You’re nice,” he arrived at with what you were sure was less subtly and finesse than he wanted, “at least that what Grant says. He raves about you. So I know you’ve got some small soft spot for us freaks.”

Your brow lifted in response. “Is that so?” you challenged.

“Me thinks so,” he mirrored you, leaning back in, closing the distance. “You know,” he offered casually, “we aren’t totally strangers. We’re just meeting now. I’m Eddie by the way.” 

“Oh I know.”

“I do declare,” he gasped in a rather surprisingly accurate mimicry of a southern belle. “Henderson the Great knows my name?”

A snort was your only response as his chocolate eyes did their best to woo you into helping him. You rested your chin on your fist, staring him down in equal kind. A Mexican standoff over the counter. He trying desperately to sway you. You trying to determine his motives. Narrowing your eyes slightly, you weighed your options. What did you really have to lose in this situation? Your phone number was permanently etched in the men’s bathroom at Hawkins High thanks to Chet and his minions. Crank calls weren’t something with which you were unfamiliar. But what you had to gain, that was a mystery. What could Eddie Munson do for you that you couldn’t do for yourself?  Something about Eddie made you want to say yes, seal yourself in this devil’s bargain where you had the power and he owed you.

“A favor I can call in for anything at anytime. No questions asked?”

“I draw the line at animal sacrifice,” he grinned, “but yeah. Anything, anytime.” He drew a little x over his heart, sealing the deal. 

“Charming.” You proffered your hand. 

He stares at you, startled that it worked? His lips the perfect “o” in shock.

“Give me your arm,” you laughed lightly, fishing a pen from a drawer behind the counter. 

Eddie all but threw his arm into your await grasp, eagerness rolling off of him in waves. His skin vibrated under your palm as your phone number took shape on his arm. 

“I really appreciate this.” The timbre of his voice had changed, warm. Rife with what felt like true meaning. You didn’t doubt his appreciation and if you had looked up, you would have caught the shy blush that blossomed on his cheeks at your gentle touch. Deeper and redder than before.

“Just doing my civic duty. Can’t let Princess Leia lose her seat.”

With that he laughed. Full on belly laugh like before. But this time at your prompting, you had earned a bit of his free savoir faire. Pleasure at the fact bloomed small in your chest, causing you to nearly drop the pen in your grasp. 

“Munson, are you accosting my tutor?” Grant keyed in on the moment, just realizing what was happening. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” His large hands landed on Eddie’s shoulders pulling him away from the counter, severing your connection. “I’ll get him out of your hair,” Grant said as he shooed his friend to the exit.

“See ya around, Creech,” called over his shoulder as Grant manhandled him to the door. “What did you just call me?” the world hitting you like a slur.

“Creech, like Creature?” He grinned, pointing at your t-shirt. “Like Creature from The Black Lagoon? Rad shirt by the way,” he complimented as Grant finally herded him out the door and onto the sidewalk. 

Creature. That world fell upon you like cold bucket of water. No one had called you that in years. The only person to ever use the nickname, your father. In disbelief you looked down at your tee. The familiar movie poster was there, same black ink on the love-worn shirt. Creature. Out of all the things he could have called you… 

“You did not just get her number!” You heard Gareth’s shout from outside the shop in total shock of his friend’s success. A laugh you needed worked it’s way up and out of you. At both the outburst and the absurdity of the last five minutes of your life. Creature. You couldn’t wait until he found out that you had given him the shop phone number. 

If someone from the future had beamed down in that instant and told you that the two of you— that you and him— he and you— You would have never believed it. In what timeline were the two of you destined to be together? You threw an arm over your eyes as you surfaced from the memory you'd always carry with you, no matter how hard you've tried to erase it. Carry? His memory, a boulder and you, Sisyphus. Forever rolling his echo up the mountainside and just as you are about to crest, to be free from the niggling guilt and ever-present ache, it plummets back down, right back into the pit you from which you crawled. Fingers bloody and war torn, muscles aching only second to the affliction of your heart. Would you ever not feel the boulder in your chest? The throb of the rock lurching about, staggering your thoughts, keeping you off-kilter. In a session, your therapist had suggested that you never shrink your grief, you eventually outgrow it. But how long? Ten years? Fifteen years? Fifty years? The past five constricted, your skin pulled taut over the sorrow stone. Tightness hindering your ability to draw breath, to think clearly, to move on.

Or was it more like maggots? Worming away in the decay of your heart, carving out tracts for all the guilt and shame to fester. Wriggling, putrid, filth. Yeah, no. Beginning to the lose the battle with the constriction in your throat, you stood lest you be swallowed by the mounting wave of grief. Before the wave crested, you stooped back to the kitchen, grabbed the dwindling content of the six pack you started days priors, and schlepped back to the couch. If you were to face the sleepless undertow pulling at your ankles, you wouldn’t do so without liquid courage. Sleep evaded you most nights, but this time of year it was damn near impossible to find rest in the choppy waves that thundered your shore. And even if sleep did take you, this was going to be a long night.

Shrill ringing woke you from your post-shift slumber. Groaning, you swore, feeling as if you had just closed your eyes only to have your sleep so rudely interrupted.

The ringing didn’t quit, the blasted thing rattling from your side table just above your lounging head.  Blindly from your prostrate position on your couch, your hand roved until it met the glossy plastic of your telephone. With a groan, your fingers curled around the receiver, hoisting into the air and foisting it to your ear with a grumbled, “hello?”

“Come home.” 

A demand, a cracked intonation you hadn’t heard in your younger brother’s voice in a long while. The mere sound doused you like a frigid bucket of water. You froze, heart thrumming loudly in your ear overriding your functions to knee-jerk. Shocked, you propelled yourself sitting, dread pooling in your gut. Shit, shit, shitting shit.

Tantalizingly, the thought of just simply hanging up waltzed to the front of your brain. Oops, the phone happened to fall out of hand and right onto the cradle, your muscles too tired from mixing drinks to hold the receiver. Believable? Yes. Easy to execute? Yes. Your palm itched at the idea. A faked bad connection had gotten you off the phone a time or two, but this called for more drastic tactics. Surely this would work. Your brother would understand, wouldn’t he?

Frustration was evident in his tone as he yammered on, his words falling upon deaf ears. You couldn’t blame him; he had every right to be frustrated with you. Five years is a long time to stay away, no matter how good your reasoning. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Dustin in five years. He had come to visit during breaks after he got his license, your family drove up to celebrate your birthday one or twice, meeting for a quick catch up in Indianapolis on a Saturday. You had seen your family. Perhaps not as often as they would like. 

Just a few months ago you were all together. Now that was a magical Christmas. Soft white fluffy snow, the kind you see on those “Wish You Were Here” postcards, blanketed the roads as you took the bus from Cambridge into New York City Dustin’s first year at MIT. The world always has a little more glow that time of year, but something about being in New York made it even more so. Skating in Times Square, hot chocolate in Central Park freezing your butts off, forcing your mom to eat street hot dogs with you and her bellyaching about all the hazards of imbibing, getting lost in the natural history museum for hours. Complete bliss. It was almost enough to make you forget. Almost.

It wasn’t like you were radio silent either. Save for the last few months, regular phone were a Wednesday night staple. There were cards exchanged for the birthdays and holidays you dodged coming home to celebrate. So you had missed a few birthdays, Christmas, high school graduations, college acceptances— ok so you had missed some major milestones. An even more appealing reason to add to the list of why you needed off this call. A big ol’ pit of guilt.

Who were you kidding, though? Really. This is Dustin Henderson. That dogged determination would have him ringing you again and again until you rip the phone from the jack, and burying it under your floorboards a la Edgar Alan Poe’s Telltale Heart. Even then, the phantom ringing would drive you mad. The alternative: The National Guard would show up on your doorstep and drag you kicking and screaming all the way back to Hawkins. As much as you dreaded this exact scenario, he was your little brother and you loved that little punk more than anything. Though the fantasy of a final desperate dodge appealed, you couldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t do that to him. Resigned, your shoulders slumped. You had to take this call. There were no more ways around it. You were trapped. Great, just great. 

As if your anxiety wasn’t high enough, the thought of being trapped only served to make the walls of your studio apartment feel smaller than they already were. With each nervous breath, they closed in a little more, creeping closer and closer. Your beloved little hole in the wall was now a refrigerator box of rigid tension. What was it that your therapist had reminded you of last session? Chewing on your cuticle and maintaining your breath evenly, you tried to recall her words. A breath would help. Slowly, you unfurled yourself from your tense seat, placing your feet flat on the floor and inhaling and holding. In. Out. In and out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat as many times as it takes to gain your bearings. As many time as it takes to not want to claw your way out of your own skin. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. 

Finally releasing the stranglehold on your eardrums, the ringing subsided, bringing your brother’s frantic calling of your name into focus.

“Dust—”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you had a coronary.” The relief in his voice was palpable, even cutting through his obvious frustration.

“Sorry.” Hopefully he’d pickup on the sheepish tone to your voice. You hadn’t meant to startle him. Hell, that was the last thing you’d want to do. Things had been hard enough for Dustin Henderson. A basket case sister is not what he needed right now. With a deep swallow and additional breath for good measure, you consoled, “I spaced is all.” 

While the ringing had stopped, uneasiness licked up your spine. Pressing your palm to your abdomen did little to quell the steady rise of heat, but it was a minor comfort. A minor comfort you’d continue to give yourself until this wave of anxiety releases you from its undertow. 

“Don’t do that!” His admonishments continued, ratcheting your guilt at every word. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. Yes, initially you were avoidant, then it just became your modus operandi. Avoidance was easier than the inevitable bursting of the bubble. And god did you want that bubble to last forever. Really it had superseded a want; it was now a need. That sweet bubble of blissful feigned ignorance. Yep, you could hide in that no problem. 

Dodging this call for the past several weeks had been a Herculean effort on your part. Picking up extra shifts at The Signature Lounge to keep you out of your apartment until the wee hours of the morning, conveniently forgetting to change the tape in your answering machine, staying out all hours of the night dancing and drinking until your stomach was more sore than your feet, even going as far as leaving your phone off the hook to avoid this dreaded call.

Three months. Three blissful months of not acknowledging the impending anniversary. Ides of March took on a whole new meaning since 1986. At the thought, you swallowed harshly, your throat drying at the memory. A nearly empty Bartles & James offered you salvation from your coffee table and you sought it, finishing the bottle before adding it to the pile of its discarded twins. Beware indeed. Even with all the time past, stomaching this call was not on the list of things you wanted to do today. Honestly, probably ever. 

You sighed in the receiver, the nervous sweats already starting to coat your palms, the receiver slackening in your grasp. An excuse already forming on your tongue as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted what was sure to be your anxiety ridden ramble.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said you were coming. You’re already three days late. Everyone’s counting on you being here.” 

Grounding. That was what your therapist recommended. Grounding. Sitting on the ground felt more appropriate to ground yourself, already feeling what little energy your brief nap gleaned left your body. Okay, so maybe lying on the floor would be better. Already feeling gelatinous, you poured yourself onto the floor. Flat as a board, staring up at the ceiling. 

Five. Five things you can see. 

The image of yourself reflected convex back to you in the screen of the small television sitting on the floor. Hair askew, dark circles forming under your eyes darkened by the remnant mascara smudged from your couch cushion. Oversized tee hanging off your frame, you looked as gaunt as you felt. No, you wouldn’t dwell on your haggardness. What else? Cobwebs in the corners that really needed your attention. Really, how long had those been there and how hadn’t you noticed an arachnid roommate taking over the corners of your space? Equally egregious dust tufts under your couch. The mountain of boxes awaiting Friday’s movers. Last one. Your eyes roved over your apartment, your body unwilling to move. What else could you see from supine spot? Your window. Diluted light of the city glinting through your sheers. A favorite of yours, especially this late at night. The kind of light that makes you feel like you're the only one in the world awake. A familiar friend for your sleepless nights. 

Four. Four things you can touch. 

The firm plastic of the phone if your hand, transferring the heat of your palms. Threadbare cotton of your favorite tee. Warmth seeping through the floor, bonus of being the top floor apartment. The heat always rose.Soft pile of your barf green shag rug that you adored and everyone hated, including your mom and that is how it came into your possession. Love for the stupid thing brought brief smile to your face as your hands wandered through the strands. 

Three. Three things you can hear. 

The city, the white noise churn of traffic passing by your window. The soundtrack to your day to day, thankfully minus the honking. Some kind of jazz in a time signature that should be outlawed played by your most adjacent neighbor. Your brother’s voice, rattling off plans for your visit at a speed beyond your current comprehension. 

Two. Two things you you can smell. 

One of your neighbors cooking something with garlic down the hall. Your stomach thundered at the smell. Maybe as a reward for making it through this call, a late night slice was in order. Leftover remnants of the perfume you spritz at your pulse point before your shifts today.

And one. One thing you can taste. 

The acrid aftertaste of the Battles & James churned with bile slowly climbing up your throat. Delectable. Your phone cord could reach to the bathroom, maybe a quick brush would suffice. If you could be bothered to get up from the floor. 

To your amazement, your therapist had been correct. Or maybe it was more to your chagrin. You did feel a little more centered and your anxiety had eased from a chokehold to a tight grip on the back your neck. But progress was progress, and you’d take it.

“Did you hear anything I said?” 

Right, you were still on the phone. Dustin’s voice lasered through the haze, bringing you back into the moment. Truthfully, you hadn’t heard a single word he said, too preoccupied with keeping your heart from beating through your ribs like a Chestburster from Alien. Guilty you had’t paid attention, you settled on the response, “Mhmm.”

“Oh yeah? Repeat it back to me?”

Nevermind he was now a college sophmore, Dustin Henderson was still a butthead. “What happened to respecting you elders?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about you start acting like the elder sibling for once?”

The ringing in your ears returned, tinning out all background noise. A stab straight to the gut. You really had shirked your duties as eldest sibling. Retreating into yourself for the better part of the last three years, only to emerge a disjointed caterpillar figuring out how to wiggle yourself into a chrysalis to heal for the last two. Therapy was new, and it was helping, but clearly to everyone else progress wasn’t being made. 

“Dustin—” the shock not kept from your voice at your brother’s sharp barb. You knew he was angry, despite him not outrightly saying so. He had been pulling the weight as the defacto elder sibling, you could admit that. Really, the guilt of sticking Dustin to carry on and grieve alone may have contributed to your negligence in reaching out. Heat burned in your cheeks. You deserved all the ire coming your way. Simple as that. 

“Sorry, too harsh,” he joked, his usual tone settling in place. “When you didn’t show up on Sunday, we thought—”

“I know,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he thought. Pre-therapy, he had a right to be concerned; those days were dicey at best. But now— what about now? You weren’t ready to check out, this you knew. But the aimless distractions you sought, what was even the point? You had no heading.

“I worry about you.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If I had visual proof of your existence every once in awhile that would help. Ma too.”

“I’m coming home now aren’t I?”

“You were supposed to be here Sunday.”

Heavily you sighed, the bridge of you nose pinched between the fingers of your free hand. “You’re an ignoramus, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. I just miss you, alright?”

“Miss you too, kid.” You really did. Your relationship with your brother wasn’t the typical cat and dog. Even six years your junior, he was you best friend. With all the shit you went through together, you were all each other really had. The support, the understanding, the trauma. It bonded you together deeper than the average siblings. You couldn’t disappoint him again. You wouldn’t disappoint him again.  “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“I picked up another shift. If I’m going to be gone for two weeks, gotta have a little more savings in the can.”

He sighed heavily into the receiver, frustration begging to flow again. It wasn’t your usual excuse, he seemed to buy it. “Okay,” he said slowly, disbelief coloring his words. “If you’re not here by Friday—”

“You’ll reign down holy hellfire on me and drag me kicking and screaming back to Hawkins. I know. How many times have you threatened me with that?”

“This time I have back up.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. You knew he did. If you dared to not show, not only Dustin would be at your door, certainly all of Hellfire would be. With that many people to let down, you knew you would be going regardless of how much you dreaded it. 

“What, you think the guilt trip isn’t enough to sway me?”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughed, jovial nature returning. “Friday?”

“Friday,” you confirmed. “Love you, Dust.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected on his end, the dial tone tolling from the receiver still clenched in your grasp. You were going home. You were going to Eddie’s Memorial. You had agreed to come home to attend Eddie’s Memorial. That was that. Finally the receiver had made it’s way back to the cradle as you collapsed back into the couch, dragging your hands over your face. What did you just do?

[gusty-wind]

U.N. Chief Guterres Rails at the World for Ignoring Globalist Body

26 Feb 2024309

1:56

Fighters in places such as Congo, Gaza, Myanmar, Ukraine, Haiti, and Sudan are turning a “blind eye” to international law in general and the United Nations in particular, the globalist organization’s chief Antonio Guterres despaired Monday.

Speaking as the U.N.’s top human rights body opened its latest session in Geneva, Switzerland, the veteran Portuguese Socialist warned the world is becoming “less safe by the day.”

He then lashed out at countries that ignore the directions of the U.N. and its unelected high office holders who demand immediate action to end conflicts.

“Our world is changing at warp speed,” Guterres told the U.N. Human Rights Council. “The multiplication of conflicts is causing unprecedented suffering. But human rights are a constant.”

U.N. Chief Guterres Backs Complete Fossil Fuel ‘Phaseout’ Before Flying to Climate Meeting https://t.co/HmzXIL04aY — Breitbart London (@BreitbartLondon) November 30, 2023

AP reports he reiterated his frequent calls for debt relief for some of the world’s poorest countries and greater spending to fight climate change.

He defended the agency for Palestinian refugees, praising UNRWA as the “backbone” of aid efforts in Gaza at a time when top Israeli authorities have called for its dismantling due to corruption and alliances with Hamas terrorists.

[jack-in-the-dark]

Jack Builds Spaceboats: The Rally Vincent, Part 3: All of the Torpedoes for Everyone Forever

Disclaimer: I am not an expert on this game, and some information I present may be erroneous.

So let's talk about how i took my beloved Akira-class USS Rally Vincent, and make Star Trek Online's engine cry by having to render too many objects at once via torpedo spam.

If you recall Part 3 of the USS Martinet's build, a lot of this is going to seem very familiar because this is the build the Martinet is extrapolated from.

Up front she rocks a single phaser beam array, three crafted photon torpedo launchers with the [Spr] modifier (as explained in the Martinet's build), and a Maelstrom Quantum Torpedo Launcher, with two [Spr] photons and a Mael in the back. I'll discuss the Maels in a bit.

The DECS are similar to the Martinet as well; Colony deflector, Adapted MACO impulse and shields. The Warp Core is an Elite Fleet Plasma-Integrated core, with admittedly not much of note to it.

Upgraded to Tier 6-X2, this gives her two universal console slots, which are filled with the Hangar Craft Power Transmission advanced consoles mentioned in I think Part 2. The Engineering console slots are also filled with them, for a total of seven. Each of these boosts the ship's pets' weapons power (which boosts energy weapon damage) and torpedo damage, as well as boosting the Rally Vincent's torpedo damage.

For the two science console slots, we have a Swarmer Matrix console which boosts pet speed and damage as well as the Rally Vincent's torpedo damage, while also providing a clicky that summons a drone swarm. The other slot is an Ominous Device, which grants the Rally Vincent +20% to all damage, and a clicky that I tend to forget exists.

The five tactical console slots mostly contain toys that also boost torpedo damage. Lorca's Custom Fire Controls, which I covered with the Hyperion's build, is a staple. Next is the Torpedo Point-Defense System, which grants a clicky that fires six torpedoes at up to eight nearby targets, which is just beautiful to watch. She also has the Covert Warhead Module for reasons discussed in the Martinet's Build (that is, reduced global torpedo cooldown). She is also equipped with the Tricobalt Tear Launcher, which is a neat little long-range clicky that deals a lot of damage as well as dropping an AOE DOT and providing a passive boost to torpedo damage. Lastly, there's the Multi-Directional Artillery Barrage which is similar to the Torpedo Point-Defense System.

The Rally Vincent's single hangar bay is equipped with an Elite Valkyrie Fighter Squadron, which allows her to launch up to six squadrons of Valkyrie fighters. Valks are fun, because they're the first pets (that I'm aware of) to be more torpedo-focused than energy-weapon focused; each squadron has access to Torpedo: Spread III and Torpedo: High-Yield III.

Now let's talk about the Maelstroms. Maelstrom Quantum Torpedo Launchers behave differently to other torpedo launchers in STO. You really don't want to keep them on autofire; they hold three charges, and regenerate a charge every 25 seconds. Maels have a much higher base damage than other torpedoes, and each charge multiplies their damage. So if you combine Maels with, say, Torpedo: Spread III, it is entirely possible to relegate an entire wave of enemy warships to the past tense.

They're fun.

On to the Bridge Officer abilities!

The Rally Vincent sports two Tactical seats, one at Lieutenant Commander and one Ensign. The Ensign rank is slotted with Kemocite-laced Weaponry, which has a chance to make each attack with an energy weapon cause an AOE radiation explosion on the target - which is guaranteed to happen on torpedo attacks. The LtC seat has Tactical Team I for reasons explained in the Hyperion series, BFAW II, and Torpedo: Spread III.

The Lieutenant-rank universal seat is occupied by a science officer, granting us Science Team I and Hazard Emitters II for science cleanse and minor shield heal, and hazard cleanse and hull HOT respectively.

Then we have a hybrid Science/Miracle Worker seat. This is slotted with Align Shield Frequencies I (which grants an AOE shield heal and shield resistance buff), Photonic Officer II (combined with Boimler, as explained in Hyperion Part 2 for cooldown management), and Mixed Armaments Synergy II. When you activate MAS, for ten seconds, firing a Beam, Cannon, Mine, or Torpedo weapon will boost the other types by 40%. Having both beams and torpedoes on the build, activating MAS means both get boosted by 40%.

Lastly, we have a Commander-level hybrid Engineering/Command seat. First up on that is Deploy Construction Shuttle Wing, which grants us a hull HOT with the caveat that the things giving us the HOT might explode. Next is Engineering Team II for the Engi cleanse and hull heal. Then, we have the beloved Concentrate Firepower III. CF marks your targeting enemy, making them take 20% extra shield-bypassing damage from torpedoes, and every 2 seconds a player and a pet attacking the target get a free activation of Torpedo: High Yield I that also resets their torpedo cooldowns.

Now, the traits. Of course we have Ceaseless Momentum (covered in Part 2 of the Martinet series), to further shore up torpedo cooldown times.

Next the ship has Entwined Tactical Matrices. What this trait does is every time I activate any rank of Beams: Fire At Will or Cannons: Scatter Volley, I am granted a free Torpedo: Spread I activation. And any time I activate any rank of Torpedo: Spread, I am granted a free activation of Beams: Fire At Will I and Cannons: Scatter Volley I. Normally this is used to extend the uptime of BFAW, here it's used to spam Torpedo: Spread.

The next trait I have equipped is Piercing Projectiles. This is straightforward enough; activating any torpedo-enhancing ability (such as Spread or High Yield) grants 15 seconds of enhanced shield and armor penetration for my torpedoes.

Next is Angle On The Bow, which again grants stacking shield penetration and damage when I deal damage with a torpedo.

Now, for the three traits that really crank up what the Rally Vincent can do.

First is Repurposed Cargo bay Hanger. This trait allows the Rally Vincent to launch an additional Advanced Valkyrie Fighter Squadron every time she launches a pet, up to six times. This functionally gives the Rally Vincent a second hangar bay, doubling the amount of fighters she launches (and thus their damage, even if they are only Advanced and not Elite).

Remember the trait Superior Area Denial from the USS Hyperion series? That's here too, granting BFAW and CSV to all my pets every time I activated BFAW or CSV, and debuffing enemies I hit.

Next, we have Target That Explosion. When I activate a torpedo or Command bridge officer ability, it causes my next torpedo hit to grant up to six nearby allies (including pets) a free torpedo attack on the target. It's beautiful.

Lastly, we have Torpedo Command & Control, the trait from this ship. Whenever I use a Command BOFF ability, my pets' torpedo attack grant a stacking kinetic resistance debuff for two minutes. Additionally, whenever I use a Miracle Worker BOFF ability, it causes my own torpedo attacks to do the same. Remember how the BOFF seating had both Miracle Worker and Commander? haha, yeah.

So there she is, a breakdown of my much-cherished Akira-class torpedo-spamming cruiser-carrier, the USS Rally Vincent. I love to her pieces, and she's an absolute beast of a ship.

[the-greatest-choice-developer]

[System Notification]

Your choice has been registered:

Prepare for Confrontation

[System Notification]

-Scene 2: The Aftermath-

-Part 4-

Lloyd and Javier stood at the edge of the forest, the eerie silence pressing down on them. Ahead lay the Everglow Forest, a place twisted by distortions. The trees stretched high, their leaves glowing faintly under the dim light.

“Let’s just get what we need and get out of here. The elves will understand,” Lloyd muttered, tightening the straps on his gear. His unsettling confidence felt misplaced given the task ahead.

Javier glanced at him, unimpressed. “The elves don’t ‘understand’ anything involving humans touching their sacred tree or entering their territory. This isn’t going to be simple.”

Lloyd shrugged. “I’ll talk to them.” He left no room for further questions.

Javier sighed, keeping his thoughts to himself. They’d just have to face whatever came their way.

Back at the estate, the Fronteras and Sir Bayern were already fortifying their defenses. If things went wrong here, their problems would only multiply.

As they ventured deeper into the Everglow Forest, the distortions grew stronger, warping the very fabric of the environment. The trees shifted, their bark rippling as though alive, and strange, unidentifiable sounds echoed from every direction.

The ground was littered with white flowers—once delicate and serene—now warped by the distortions. Their petals shimmered in unnatural colors, occasionally phasing between solid and translucent, almost as if they were fading in and out of existence. Some flowers pulsed faintly, releasing strange, sweet fragrances that clouded the air.

Suddenly, Javier sneezed, breaking the silence and scrunching his face in discomfort.

Lloyd chuckled, glancing at him. “You can sneeze? Guess you're really not Mr. Perfect anymore.”

Javier glared at him, still rubbing his nose. “I don’t know what kind of nightmare these flowers are, but they’re—” He sneezed again. “—not natural.”

Lloyd looked horrified. "You know... you’re uglier than I thought when you do that."

Javier shot him a hard look, jaw clenched. "That’s YOUR face."

Lloyd surveyed the warped flowers. “Weird as they are, though, you’re still the ugliest thing in this forest.”

‘Just once. Let me punch you just once,’ Javier thought.

Lloyd blinked, then grinned, unfazed. "I guess you should have taken the chance to get a shot in when no one would know we switched."

Javier sat puzzled. How did this man always know what he was thinking?

Without warning, elves materialized from the trees, bows drawn and aimed at the two intruders. The leader stepped forward, eyes flashing with irritation.

"You two have been making so much noise we could hear you from a mile away!" the elf spat.

Lloyd held up his hands, adopting a polite smile.. “Look, we’re not here to cause trouble. We’re trying to help—”

The elf’s glare softened at the sight of Javier. “Help? You think humans come into our forest and help?”

“The distortions—” Lloyd began, but the elf cut him off.

“We know about the distortions. We’re dealing with them. What we don’t need is humans disturbing our land further.”

Javier’s shoulders tensed. This wasn’t going well.

Lloyd stepped forward, undeterred. “We just need some of the Elensia tree’s sap. It’s for a—”

The elves’ expressions darkened instantly, their bows tightening.

“You dare ask for sap from the Elensia tree?” the elf leader growled. “You would harm what we protect?”

Lloyd frowned. “It’s just sap. We won’t leave a lasting effect. Plus, it—”

The elves attacked swiftly, interrupting him.

Instinctively, Javier moved to shield Lloyd, forgetting their roles were reversed. Lloyd adjusted quickly, pushing Javier back as he fended off the arrows with surprising finesse. His strikes were sharp and instinctive, showcasing the muscle memory Javier had built over time.

But while Lloyd had the form, he struggled with mental speed—his reflexes too slow to block every attack. Behind him, Javier could see the trajectory of every arrow, instincts screaming to act. In Lloyd’s weaker body, he couldn’t react fast enough. He knew how to fight, but his body’s sluggishness made it impossible to keep up.

The elves were relentless, using the trees and leaves as jumping-off points, darting in and out, overwhelming the two.

Suddenly, a blast of mana erupted from Javier, knocking every arrow out of the sky. Lloyd blinked in shock, breath heavy. "Oh yeah, that’s a thing I can do," he muttered, a sinister grin spreading across his face—an expression that felt out of place on Javier.

Stressed by the onslaught, Lloyd felt something stirring inside him. He had been avoiding it, fearing what could happen, but the pressure was too much. His raw, unstable magic, affected by the distortion, reacted to his instincts.

Before the elves could catch their breath, a loud crack echoed through the forest. Reality bent and twisted around them as the distortions intensified. The trees themselves seemed to shudder as Lloyd’s uncontrolled magic flared wildly.

The elves froze, panic flashing in their eyes as their attack faltered.

[skaruresonic]

I think the argument about Sonic's inconsistency is, like many things, one of those criticisms that actually was born from a somewhat solid foundation but got warped over time by virtue of the Sonic fandom being what it is

Because to claim that Sonic is an inconsistent series in terms of general quality and direction...well that's actually true. I'd even argue it's undeniable, as the series has gone from the highs of the Classics to the lows of 06, to gaining back its momentum with the likes of Gens and Mania, to losing it again thanks to Boom and others. Even direction wise: sometimes it's silly, sometimes it's dark, sometimes it's both, other times it's who knows what?

Of course none of this is unique to Sonic, but the series has had so many ups and downs (while also being the target of many internet personalities and such) that a lot more attention has been given to it

Let's also consider that most of the fans that we see flinging these takes around are, most likely, folks who grew up with the 2000s games aka the period when Sonic was arguably at his most inconsistent, in terms of tone, quality and even gameplay style, so to many Sonic being inconsistent is like an inherent part of the series' identity, thus making it that Sonic has always been inconsistent...to them

Because to imply that Sonic has ALWAYS been inconsistent since day one, since the early 90s, would not only require some interesting mental gymnastics but it would also be pretty weird: how can a series that is so inconsistent become one of the best selling of the 90s, able to keep the pace with Mario? Able to survive through thick and thin for decades?

At the end of the day this is just another way of unleashing one's own frustrations on and about the franchise, frustrations that are even somewhat justified in some cases but, like it's often the case in the radioactive wasteland that is the Sonic fanbase, these frustrations take on some twisted forms

Let's also consider that most of the fans that we see flinging these takes around are, most likely, folks who grew up with the 2000s games aka the period when Sonic was arguably at his most inconsistent, in terms of tone, quality and even gameplay style, so to many Sonic being inconsistent is like an inherent part of the series' identity, thus making it that Sonic has always been inconsistent...to them

Hello. Hi. I grew up with those games just as much as they did. Just stating for the record that not everyone in this Adventure-era-fan Chili's is like this.

Not necessarily saying that every Sonic game is homogenous, but like... One man's inconsistent is another man's versatile. I had no problem playing gritty ShTH and colorful Sonic Advance 3 side-by-side, because to me it was just Sonic, you know? Not that I didn't have opinions about those games, but back then I was in more of this "yay, more of the thing I like" headspace.

Besides, quality is so subjective, it's difficult to say what counts as "inconsistent" from one person to the next. I for one think ShTH is an underrated masterpiece

I think, overall, as we move forward, we tend to lose the historical context in which these games were made, and that influences people to judge the series through a much harsher lens.

---

Because to imply that Sonic has ALWAYS been inconsistent since day one, since the early 90s, would not only require some interesting mental gymnastics but it would also be pretty weird: how can a series that is so inconsistent become one of the best selling of the 90s, able to keep the pace with Mario? Able to survive through thick and thin for decades?

I mean. They did it with "Classic Sonic games don't reward instant speed at all times, therefore they're not good games, therefore they only trick you into thinking they're good," they can certainly do that to the games' narratives.

---

At the end of the day this is just another way of unleashing one's own frustrations on and about the franchise, frustrations that are even somewhat justified in some cases but, like it's often the case in the radioactive wasteland that is the Sonic fanbase, these frustrations take on some twisted forms

Maybe there is some grain of truth in there, but like all needles in haystacks, it gets buried under avalanches of bullshit.

To be completely honest, with Sonic being as old and as storied as it is, I don't see the point in calling it "inconsistent" even on a quality or marketing level. I don't see any reason to single out or focus on the inconsistency as if it's something special. Because if we judged everything according to that metric, every single franchise in existence would be "inconsistent" as well.

That's why I called the sentiment a thought-terminating cliché; it pretends to impart genuine information when people only use it when they want to end the argument. We've already lost the original context in which the argument ought to be used, if it even existed to begin with.

[monstersdownthepath]

Fun fact! Grendel actually has a stat block in pathfinder! I think he was in Bestiary 4 and just come out in 2E (I haven’t played much of Pathfinder 2E so can’t speak for that version). But it’s a really interesting stat block!

First and foremost he is one of the few Mythic Monsters and is CR 19 and has SEVEN that’s right Seven Mythic ranks on top of that! He is a legendarily powerful monster which befits him since his clash with Beowulf is epic and Beowulf himself is absurdly powerful (I mean look at the feats under his belt).

Grendel’s base stats without his mythic ranks is already impressive, he has regeneration 10 (only suppressed by natural weapons or unarmed strikes which is really cool and THEMATIC), Ferocity, blood rage, and a nasty set of feats that improve his critical hits and make them hurt. He’s got three attacks a round with a +32 to hit (with claws. it’s only +27 with his bite). He’s got a staggeringly high base Str stat of 36. But average intelligence with only a 9 Int, 15 Wis, and 8 Cha. Which is still scary. He is intelligent. Not a genius but he does posses a cunning which can take people off guard.

And we haven’t even touched his mythic abilities yet. He’s got 7 mythic power a day to use and OH BOY can he use it. With his special ability Gruesome Dismemberment. In which he can rip off the limbs of any creature he has grappled. Did I mention his claws have grab? Because his claws have grab. He has to succeed two grapple checks against you to do this, once to pick you up and than another to…I guess move you into the correct position for DISMEMBERMENT but he has a small bonus of +38 to his grapple checks and a CMD of 48. By the way he also has the Unstoppable Mythic feature which means he can end a single condition he is under at any time. The list of conditions he can do this to is massive.

A party that fights Grendel is a party that walks away from that fight bleeding and bloody if alive at all. Because Grendel should be hitting and running, stalking and taunting, gloating and mocking, since he has intelligence and a cruelty to match. Hehe I haven’t used Grendel in a campaign yet but ohh so many of his features and abilities would make for some fantastic storytelling! Like, why is it that only natural weapons or unarmed strikes bypass his regeneration? Is this Grendel the demigod of the wild? An antithesis of civilization where nothing created can harm him? Perhaps he captured or ate a piece of a god of creation or craftsmanship and stole some of their power? Or is he something ancient, that has stalked and hated civilization for so long it has warped him, changed him.

Plus his role in Beowulf has a ton of stuff to pull from as well!

Yes yes YES! THIS is the kind of energy I like seeing in my asks, it's contagious!!! If I hadn't already gotten Grendel's article out, this would likely do it! but now I'm buzzing with energy JUST before bed and have nowhere to direct it... im gonna have to come read this tomorrow and see what speeds out of my hands

[syncopein3d]

Kill Team Audax: Run

This is where stars die. This is where stars are born.

The supermassive isn’t as big as some others of its kind, perhaps 10,000 times the mass of Sol. Stars revolve around the event horizon at a rate scarcely perceptible to an observer with any rational perception of time. The redshift as their angle to the observer changes gives the black heart a red-orange halo. A “thin” lance of stars and dust fires in two directions, showing the axis of rotation. The knowledge of how something that eats light can give birth to so much light has long been lost.

The distance from which any of this may be viewed challenges any sane sense of scale. In the skies of worlds that orbit the stars outside the event horizon, the dust around the accretion disc has created a nightly river of light that has different names in different systems: the Emperor’s Belt, the Throne Road, or among the more pessimistic, Temptation’s Way.

Absolutely anything could hide among the stars of the great lance. Its radiation confounded vox traffic and confused navigators, making the Astronomican hard to see. The currents of the Warp were strange out at this end of the galactic Arm, faster and faster the nearer one was to the lance. A ship whose Masters were careless, or just unlucky, could overshoot its course and find itself among the stars of the lance, lost beyond finding, never to be heard from again.

The human denizens of this sector called it the Grave Spires. There was an excellent view of it from the rocky moon that orbited Desolus I. It shone ominously down on a Thunderhawk gently nosing its way into the blackness of a high-sided ravine. Lumes played over the spiny protrusions on the walls as the vessel dipped lower. A gangplank lowered as it swooped down within a few meters of the uneven floor of the crevasse. Five shapes dropped into the darkness, black ceramite barely delineated by the gleam of reflection, and the Thunderhawk curved up and away and was gone.

Without a sense of scale, the five Astartes looked very small here as they stood among the rocks. They were all dressed in the black armor and silver left pauldron of the Deathwatch, but they were by no means identical. One was markedly taller than the others, and one, the one with the black right pauldron, was a bit shorter and slighter.

“Well?” the gravel voice came from a marine with a black cross on a white field on his right pauldron. La’um’s HUD tagged him as Theta-2.

“Our objective is 600 kilometers bearing five degrees left as you face the Throne Road. We all arrive, or none of us does,” said another, whose right shoulder bore a red lightning bolt. His voice bore no sign of obvious damage, but something in the unhurried way he weighed each word felt older. He was marked Theta-1. “The terminator moves slowly, but do not be deceived. If you are caught out in the sun here, your armor will not save you. Kill Team Audax, run.”

La’um ran. In his own chapter he would have the copper stripe to his red helm that would mark him a veteran and a sergeant, but here and now he was only callsign Theta-3, and his helmet was black. Only his dull green right pauldron with the golden icon of the winged bull’s head marked him as a Harrower.

That did not bother him particularly. He was only the third man ever to be seconded to the Deathwatch in the entire history of the chapter, an honor superseding all minor inconveniences.

They had to scramble up the far side of the ravine, losing time as they climbed. Over his shoulder, La’um glimpsed a distant golden rim to the black horizon. Not even an Astartes could outrun the turning of a moon, he was certain. The objective was to stay ahead long enough to reach the destination. La’um understood his own top speed over distance to be something like 60 kilometers per hour. It would normally take him ten hours to run that far over uneven terrain.

As they burst onto level ground, he could already see the Blackshield start to pull ahead, but then his steps stuttered oddly and he fell back beside La’um. He had never turned his head. The gray-black plain sprawled in front of them all the way to the horizon.

For a couple of hours, they ran without incident. The watch-sergeant, Theta-1, did not have to keep pulling himself back to keep outpacing the others; his armored legs moved like clockwork, pace seemingly unvarying. But then, he’d done this run before. At around three hours by Terran reckoning, La’um’s vox clicked.

“If your strength should fail you, say so before you fall, cousin. I can carry you.”

His head jerked around in surprise. It was Theta-4 on a private channel. He had a green pauldron with a black dragon or lizard on it. His accent in Low Gothic was notably different even among a group from different worlds. He wasn’t small, about the same as Theta-2, but La’um had a hard time imagining him grabbing up an armored marine a foot taller than himself without difficulty. Still, his tone was not mocking. La’um thought he meant it.

“Acknowledged, 4,” he said.

When they had been running five hours, he could hear the others starting to struggle, harsh breathing audible even with all of them still helmed. The Blackshield Theta-5 had stopped jumping ahead and falling back. Now he was keeping pace with the others. He had shorter legs, but he also had less weight to carry and needed less air. It was 2 and 4 La’um was worried about. The watch-sergeant was obviously still having no trouble at all.

At about seven hours, Theta-2 stumbled for the first time. He caught it immediately and only lost a step, but the others had to check for that half-second, or he would not have been able to catch up.

La’um opened the team channel.

“Theta-4, trade places.” He wasn’t going to waste breath explaining why he was having an easier time of it. He was sweating, they all were, the recycling system in his armor humming faintly as it parsed poison from water in his sweat. The smell of Astartes sweat was chemical and bitter. But La’um was less out of breath than any of them.

They slid past each other, barely breaking stride. Now he was in the middle of their line, with the Blackshield Theta-5 over on 2’s left and the watch-sergeant on 4’s right. The next time Theta-2 stumbled, La’um and 5 each caught an arm and righted him, barely slowing.

At close to eight, Theta-4 stumbled, too. Again, La’um grabbed an arm to stop him from falling. He wasn’t sure if the watch-sergeant would actually help, but in fact he did, at exactly the same time as La’um. The sun was getting closer behind them now, steam rising from the cold rocks as the heat struck. La’um could hear it hissing. They were slower now because of the necessity of climbing over larger rocks. They dragged each other over boulders with a shaming amount of clumsiness for Angels of Death. Nothing on the horizon looked like any kind of objective to La’um, vision occasionally strobing in time with the beat of both hearts. He wondered if the watch-sergeant would in fact share their fate, or if he had some means of saving himself he had not mentioned. He didn’t seem worried.

By the time they topped a spiny rise and he saw the bunker a kilometer below, even La’um was starting to hurt, legs and back aching. His armor complained at the power usage incumbent on keeping him from hyperthermia. He ignored it as he bent to haul Theta-2 up over his shoulder before the man’s knees could finish buckling. He could hear his muffled swearing, but he wasn’t stupid enough to fight it.

Somewhat to his surprise, 4 was still going, staggering down the slope being half-dragged by the watch-sergeant. Theta-5 put on a burst of speed. La’um saw him skid to a halt at the bunker, checking the heavy door, then shouldering it open with an audible groan of effort. La’um ran into the cold shade with the sun at his heels, all of them ahead of him, and the watch-sergeant slammed the bunker door. A faint pop and hiss traveled over the structure all around them as the terminator passed over it outside. Faint lumes guttered to life. The room wasn’t large for five space marines, but it was untouched by the heat. A stairwell to one side led down into darkness, big enough for two of them to walk abreast. Cold air blew from the vents, enriching the air. It felt thicker to La’um now.

“Put me down, damn you,” growled Theta-2. La’um slid him off his shoulders, watching him land on his feet. He leaned into the wall, then tore off his helm to reveal features that were probably very pale when they weren’t beet-red. He had short, dark hair, and two skull-shaped iron studs were embedded in his brow.

The others, seeing no reprimand from Theta-1, dragged their helmets off as well. La’um had never seen them before today. He hesitated, but the watch-sergeant had removed his, revealing a sharp high-boned face with more normal-looking eyes than the others. The bun on the back of his head was half-down, strands of black hair sticking to his neck padding, but he stood straight and alert, watching all of them.

La’um doffed his helm slowly, shaking his head slightly to free his copper earrings. The helmet pulled free of the socket in the back of his neck and the HUD vanished from in front of his eyes. Now he was looking at the kill-team with his unaided vision. He adjusted to the dark relatively quickly. Theta-4 was black, not just dark-skinned like some of the humans at the watch fortress, but as black as a moonless night. Red cracks seamed the surface of his face and his bald head. His eyes were red, too, but the surfaces of them were naked like the others, and like the others they were oddly round in shape. Theta-5 was even paler than 2 beneath the red spot high on each cheekbone. He had a thin fuzz of very white hair, and his eyes were a very light purple, something La’um had never seen, either. He was very pretty in an oddly frail and mortal-looking way for an Astartes. A pair of straight scars, like equals signs, lay old and stretched across the hollow of each cheek.

They were looking up at La’um. He looked back, leaning his helm on one hip.

“I’ve never seen an Astartes that color,” Theta-4 said.

“I’ve never seen one like you, either,” La’um said. Theta-4 laughed. Wrinkles shifted around his eyes as they crinkled in genuine amusement.

“Mutants,” said 2. “All filthy mutants, by the - ”

La’um was glad he’d left his helm recording, because he didn’t actually see what the watch-sergeant did. He wasn’t looking away. It was just too fast, and then Theta-2 was lying on his back with a boot on his throat, wheezing. He grabbed at Theta-1’s greave, but could not twist away. He wasn’t making a good attempt, fingers weaker than normal.

“Are you a mutant, too?” he demanded.

“No. I am just faster than you,” said the watch-sergeant. “You say this because of my appearance?”

All of them had bolters and knives. Nobody had drawn one.

“No,” gritted 2. “There are such men in my Crusade. I said it because - ” He cut off, gasping, as 1 leaned on his throat.

“Mark me well, Theta-2. You are Deathwatch now, not Black Templar. You outrank no one. You are here to kill xenos. They,” an abrupt gesture indicated the others. “Are here to kill xenos. That is all that matters.”

“Watch-sergeant, a question,” La’um said. Theta-1 grunted as he stepped back, leaving 2 to kip back onto his feet. For a moment Theta-2 swayed, trying to be unobtrusive about grabbing the wall with one hand.

“Ask,” said Theta-1.

“Why did we run here? What is our objective?”

“Different chapters. Different traditions. All veterans,” said the watch-sergeant. “Perhaps one in ten Astartes seconded to the Deathwatch return alive. For those trained at Watch Fortress Desolus it’s four out of ten. We do not collect men and toss them out into the field like mice from a sack. We work them together until they are one unit.”

“All or none,” said Theta-4.

La’um nodded. He was younger than the others at seventy-five Terran, he was certain. He remembered what neophyte training had been like. With the benefit of hindsight it had been obvious that some of the purpose of that brutality was conditioning that the hypnomats couldn’t perform, or couldn’t perform well enough. He hadn’t been told that would happen here, but it made sense that it would.

“So you will run. You will fight. You will work until even you, mighty Angels of Death, can hardly stand. Then you’ll do it again. And I will be here with you, because I am your watch-sergeant. We emerge from the crucible as one body, or we do not emerge at all.”

He was barely out of breath now. La’um was mildly impressed.

“That was easier for you than me, little brother,” Theta-4 said to him. He had to look up to see the Harrower’s face. La’um’s lip twitched.

“My world’s air is thin, honored elder,” La’um said. “Everyone who lives there has adapted lungs.”

“Our strengths differ,” the watch-sergeant said. “This year you will learn what they are. You will learn your brothers and how they fight and what they bring.”

“And what about you?” Theta-2 asked, looking at the Blackshield. “Can you even speak?” La’um could tell he wanted to say “mutant,” biting off the word and swallowing it like a bitter pill.

“I can,” said Theta-5. His voice was lighter and his accent more rounded, as if he had been trained how to make the sounds with more precision. “When there is something needful to say.”

The watch-sergeant grunted. “Rehydrate. In one hour, we enter the tunnels.”