#junior scientist power hour

[abby-howard]

I'm going to be asking a lot of artists I follow this question, but how did you develop your style? It SEEMS like most people find their style and stick with it forever, just making improvements and iterations. I tend to work in a lot of different styles because I enjoy doing that, though I know there are things I gravitate towards as well. But I wonder what your journey was and how you got feedback and improved while staying true to what you enjoyed?

Hi there!

I definitely wouldn't say that I've found my style and stuck with it forever-- I feel like each of my projects has asked for a certain kind of art, and has presented new challenges that push me in new directions.

Some of that comes from seeing someone else's work and having something click into place that might fix errors/faults in my own, and then I might try to incorporate that, such as bigger outlines on my characters to help distinguish them from the background, or maybe a way someone else simplifies eyes that can help make mine look less weird.

When I first started drawing, I can see where I encountered certain influences because my sketchbooks suddenly switch to incorporating some new stylistic element that I liked from whatever I was reading/watching at the time. But it was never QUITE right, it was never just copying, there was always something ~wrong~ with it. And that wrongness was my style! As much as I hated it, that was what distinguished my art from being just a copy of someone else's. I hate it less now, and understand that other people see something there that maybe I don't, because it's just what happens when I filter other people's work through my head. My soul, if you will.

There are definitely through-lines with my work, driven by what I like drawing and what comes easily to me-- hatching is almost always a major component, and I like making expressive characters. Here's some of my earliest available stuff, from my old webcomic:

Then not long after that, I started The Last Halloween, which pushed me to challenge myself in both layout and style:

And here's the same comic, years later:

And here's a series I did for kids, where I had to use full color and lay off on the hatching, as well as learn how to reconstruct animals that we have no photo references for, which is definitely a place where style comes majorly into play, whether I wanted it to or not:

Then there was the horror book I did, where I tried to push my work to be less cartoony overall, and to work very hard on improving my hatching:

Then I started work on Scarlet Hollow, where I incorporated a limited/muted palette and had to once again push myself to make less-cartoony art, as well as learn more consistency so I could draw sprite sets. This was a big challenge for me, and has helped me grow as an artist so much!

And most recently, I wrapped up work on Slay the Princess, which required that I go back in the cartoony direction, but in a very different way than I was used to. This took a lot of sketching to figure out, and there's still a decent amount of artistic stumbling in Chapter 1 while I settled into it.

She's drawing on anime/Disney influence, but each Princess required a bit of stylistic variability. Some are more anime, while some are more realistic than even the Scarlet Hollow characters.

So I wouldn't worry too much, honestly! A person's style is often something that reveals itself over the course of their career, rather than something they choose and then try to stick to forever.

Even if you don't think you have a style, you do. It might vary a lot piece by piece, especially if you're trying to closely imitate another person's art, but the more work you do, the more you'll figure out your own strengths and interests!

[ronearoundblindly]

would you ever write an invisible reader? Like let’s say she’s an agent or a scientist. Quiet and stuff right? She always keeps to herself has the biggest crush on Steve but because she’s thinks she’s invisible she doesn’t ever think he might be interested too. There’s a mission she goes on and things go awry and she actually turns invisible. Something akin to how in the Fantastic Four movies they get their powers she gets this one? But it takes time to get under control. Steve thinks it’s his fault so he tries to help out. And through the the process of helping her gain back visibility she realizes Steve has seen her all along. Lol this really just came to my head when I was thinking about Steve using paint on someone’s body as a way to show them he thinks they’re art.

This. Is. Spectacular. I'm gonna fudge it a bit. Headcanon/stream of consciousness format. No warnings just canon-level "action." gif credit: @meidui

Erasure (Steve Rogers x junior agent!Reader)

My first instinct is to make it an ability to alter someone perception--i.e. you're constantly a little embarrassed of your input, so you tell people to 'forget you said that'--and let's say that constant hope that you won't be remembered badly is the innate trigger for your ability.

Probably a science experiment of Tony's gone wrong. He and the team are arguing about something that needs to be recovered before a damaged thing reaches critical mass. You sneak in to just grab what he wants and not waste time arguing. Tony doesn't know you're in there and locks the lab down until the dangerous pulse dissipates. (Steve doesn't know you're in there either because you popped in while he was facing and yelling at Tony, fwiw.) Maybe Tony saunters in once the doors open, finds you there with the part in your hand and knocked on your ass.

Your skin touches his as he reaches for you and the part. You jokingly tell him there's nothing to worry about, nothing to see here. You're surprised that he listens and walks off immediately, chatting and leading the team away down the hall to show them something else he's working on in the hangar bay.

Overall, once you catch your breath, you're fine. You don't want to go to the infirmary and tell them you did something so dumb.

Life continues.

Through a lot of trial and error, you realize what you can do--forcibly--by erasing people's memory of you being around. The head count for meetings is off. Several teammates you know you spoke to see security footage of you at the time and curiously remark that they don't recall you being there. Things like that. It works on everybody, or so you think.

There's a brainstorming session about how to infiltrate a possibly corrupt corporation's facility to gain intel. Everyone agrees to this elaborate rouse where two ripped agent dudes pose as janitors and blah blah blah. It's a little absurd.

You check the companies job listings, and knowing you qualify for one, submit an application the next day. The woman in HR who hires you doesn't work on the same floor as where you are technically snooping, and you can handle the work they actually want you to do in just a few hours a day, giving you a bunch of time to access nearly everywhere and nudge everyone to forget you were there.

The attempted break-in of fake janitors is the talk of the office on your last day, the one where you find the info Stark wanted to begin with, and then you quit, still quietly, returning to the Avengers the next morning.

You drop off the intel to Tony's office when he's not there, but just as you get situated back at your little desk, Steve comes up.

He looks concerned, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the flimsy cubicle wall.

"Feeling better?"

You're so confused.

"You were out for over a week. Did you need to go to the hospital? Was a family member with you at least? You could have called in for help."

On impulse, you grab his arm and tell him not to worry about you, yet he...doesn't move. After a flawless use of the power hundreds of times in a row, you don't understand.

Blinking up at Steve, you blurt, "I should be erased. Why are you still noticing me?"

He's bewildered, sure, but Steve tucks his head and smiles shyly.

"Can't erase you, doll," he chuckles, so soft only you can hear. "I draw you in pen--" Steve taps his temple "--up here..."

He bends down, his hand gently gripping your arm and his cheek touching yours.

"...now where you been for a week?"

And then, yes, some beautiful closeness and Steve paints on you to highlight what parts he drew so permanently on his mind!

🤗

a/n: Thank you for sending in this lovely idea, nonnie! I'm sorry everything I'm writing has been short and convoluted the last...while, but this is such a sweet premise. (Also, my apologies if you really, really wanted straight invisibility as the power. Just send in another ask, and I'll try to come up with an alternate version!)

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[iffeelscouldkill]

Fic: the old stars are of no importance

Summary: In which RJ McCabe has more emotions about listening to a drunken group singalong than they'd expected. Set during season 1 episodes 9 & 10 and the aftermath of episode 10.

Also posted to Dreamwidth & AO3, or just keep reading for the fic!

---

Junior Agent RJ McCabe is having a terrible day.

A terrible week, actually. Or make that a terrible career.

RJ is no stranger to hard work – no-one can power through the Academy and get a Junior Agent role at twenty-three without working incredibly hard. But since Park was tak- since Park was rightfully apprehended, it’s not felt like hard work so much as desperately paddling to keep their head above water. All the weird stares, the muttering, the pointed questions from their superiors that RJ answers as honestly as possible while frantically analysing the words for anything that could reflect negatively on them.

They go from urgent briefing to the office to one-on-one report with the Major General to another briefing to the office to home, finally, though they’re barely sleeping. RJ is pretty sure their blood volume is 95% caffeine, lately – thankfully the IGR doesn’t test for that.

In recognition of the awfulness of break room coffee, they brew it at home and bring a big flask with them. Or they would, except that this morning they tiredly fumbled the pot while pouring and scalded their hand, causing them to flinch and drop it, splattering half of the coffee across their tiny kitchen floor. They lost ten minutes to the clean-up and they have half as much coffee as they need, damn it.

All of which is to say that they’re not in the mood for Junior Agent Goodman’s attitude.

“Twelve hours of nothing?” RJ repeats as they stare down at Goodman, whose normal mask of impassiveness has given way to annoyance. He looks tired, but RJ is no stranger to all-nighters, and Goodman shouldn’t be either if he wants to get anywhere in the Republic.

“The crew was mostly asleep for part of it,” Goodman responds. “Is there coffee?”

“It’s dreck,” RJ says. They’re wondering if padding out their stock of coffee with the break room sludge will result in halfway drinkable coffee. It will probably just taint the decent stuff.

“Yes, because I drink break room coffee for the delicate aroma,” Goodman says, his sarcasm acidic, and RJ’s patience snaps.

“I don’t want to write you up for insubordination—”

They listen to Goodman’s rationale for throwing away a full twelve hours of audio, interjecting with pointed questions. When Goodman says, “Trust me,” they almost snort. Trust Goodman. Trust Goodman after his leading questions about Park and his poorly-hidden recording device. After RJ had confronted him about the recording, he’d simply smiled and said, “You can’t be too careful.”

RJ is just taking his advice. They hold out their hand. “Hand me the headphones.”

The audio picks up mid-conversation, and at first it sounds like so much nonsensical rambling, until RJ is able to pick up the thread of what the insurgents are talking about. Edict 1837. Any confession by a known criminal needs to be transcribed, analysed, and examined for veracity – no matter what the contents.

RJ has to suppress a smirk when they realise what Goodman has been dealing with all night. For once, they’re glad they’re the ranking Agent.

They’re tempted to skip over it, but they can at least listen to the entirety of the group’s confessions. Patel and Tripathi’s knowledge of Republic laws and edicts gives them the advantage in creating, if not convincing confessions, certainly detailed ones. Jeeter’s is less elaborate, but would require a qualified Ancient Pre-Crisis Languages expert to verify. The Dwarnian Krejjh’s ‘confession’ is a pure flight of fantasy – no-one rational has believed Dwarnians can shapeshift since at least 2175.

As for Violet Liu – RJ would have expected her to choose a confession oriented towards her history as a Republic scientist. “The lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong” is just silly.

Their finger hovers over the fast forward button as Patel drunkenly challenges Liu to “prove it”.

And then –

Violet Liu starts to sing.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ has heard Violet sing before, during 'Report 1: Violet Liu', but there's something startling about hearing her suddenly strike out into song, a little unsteady but clear and melodious.

The note hangs there for an uncertain few seconds before Patel takes up the next line.

“But it’s not the sea that’s coming for me-”

And then Liu joins back in-

“-and it’s not the storm, no, it’s not the storm…”

Tripathi starts playing a guitar – they’ve heard her idly strumming it in her room during downtime – and suddenly they’re all singing.

“When I go to sea, don’t fear for me,

“Fear for the storm, fear for the storm!”

RJ squints in confusion, forehead creasing. What are they all doing? Is this a taunt? Because they know they’re being listened to? Why else would the whole crew be sitting around singing like they don’t have a care?

(Fleetingly, RJ wonders what it would be like to have that level of comfort with a group. An image of Nan and Ferdy flashes across their mind’s eye before they quickly squash it. They’re getting distracted).

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside,

“The old stars are of no importance,

“They’re not what I navigate by...”

In hours of monitoring, RJ has never heard the crew sing together, yet they harmonise seamlessly like they’ve done it a hundred times.

The words are – nonsensical, just old-world seafaring imagery of seas and charts and stars. But the way the group sings gives them an energy; makes them important. Like they might be the last thing you’ll ever hear.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm...

“Fear for the storm.”

Liu sings the final lines, and then Krejjh exclaims, delighted,

“Oops – I guess we’re all Birdy and the Swansong. What a coincidence!”

The whole group bursts into laughter, and RJ’s finger stabs angrily down on the fast forward button.

“Don’t tell me it’s all like this.”

They pretend not to see Agent Goodman rolling his eyes.

---

The rest of the day blurs past, the usual chain of reports, audio, meetings, exchanging terse words with Goodman (who’s even more sarcastic thanks to his all-nighter), more reports, more audio.

They dismiss Goodman at the end of the workday, even though overtime is the norm in the Republic to the point where the ‘workday’ doesn’t really have a beginning and an end. (This was less depressing to RJ when they thought the agents were all getting overtime pay). He quickly goes, obviously not wanting to wait around for them to change their mind.

Silence descends.

RJ mechanically fills in a few more forms, initials some reports, getting caught up on the endless paperwork that’s generated by active cases. The Rumor audio isn’t being logged as it’s coming in; last night was an exceptional case in the aftermath of the insurgents making contact with the other Violet Liu, but based on the subsequent twelve hours of audio and today’s similar experience, they’ve determined it’s a more prudent use of resources to analyse it after the fact.

So, there’s no reason for RJ to be going over to the bank of audio desks and slipping on a pair of headphones. An audio file has just come in, but RJ pulls up an older file and scrubs through it, looking for the right timestamp.

They’re just double-checking Goodman’s work – making sure nothing was omitted when investigating the insurgents’ confessions under Edict 1837. A missed detail could give rise to a lot of additional paperwork, and their department can’t afford another blot on its track record. They pull an empty notepad towards them and poise a pen over it, ready to take notes.

But the notepad stays blank throughout the confessions, and then the singing begins.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on…”

Maybe the lyrics could be – could contain some kind of code? RJ scrawls, The old stars are of no importance, and then just as quickly scratches it out. Code for who? That wouldn’t make any sense. The words don’t mean anything.

“So gather your charts and your portents,

“Throw them aside...”

RJ has never been one for music or singing (especially in public); they always shrugged Nan off when she tried to cajole them into karaoke. At the Academy, they’d sat on the sidelines during that kind of drunken, raucous group bonding, nursing one drink and wishing they could be literally anywhere else. Eventually, they’d started making excuses about work to catch up on.

Listening to the Rumor crew sing should sound like that – the kind of alcohol-fuelled stupidity that RJ has never wanted to be a part of.

It shouldn’t sound like –

Like family.

“Though I may burn, the heavens may learn to fear for the storm…”

The song ends, and RJ quickly hits ‘stop’. Almost guiltily, they navigate back through the audio to where the beginning of the song would be.

Distant footsteps sound in the corridor, and RJ goes very still, listening. Clark went home hours ago, so it’s not her.

They refuse to look around furtively, because that would be childish and also, they’re not doing anything wrong. They’re just doing their job.

RJ hits ‘play’ again.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn…”

---

Chaos reigns as RJ, Park, Liu, Patel and Krejjh dash towards the window where Tripathi hovers with the heisted spaceship. The Vre Chel Noke nanoswarm, which had been a thick, shimmering mist around them seconds ago, hovers ominously like a warning.

It’s enough to keep Goodman and the other guards from trying to retaliate as Tripathi begins helping each of them into the open spaceship door. (RJ was tempted to take a potshot at Goodman in the chaos, but they told themself they’re better than that. Also, they didn’t want to waste any time). RJ is keeping their eyes fixed on Park, deliberately not thinking about what they’re doing, just thinking about the next moment. Stay alive. Get out of here. And then – we’ll see.

As Tripathi holds out her hand to RJ, though, they can’t resist a last glance behind them at everything they’re leaving behind. They thought this building would be the site of a long and (hopefully) distinguished career; it was practically their home, their life – until recently.

A line bubbles up in their mind, and RJ stifles the absurd urge to laugh. The old stars are of no importance – They’re not what I navigate by…

RJ turns away and accepts Tripathi’s hand up into the ship.

---

All things considered, it’s not surprising that only a few hours after joining the crew, RJ finds themself in the middle of a group singalong.

The mood is a mixture of tense and exhilarated in the immediate aftermath of their getaway. Everyone is visibly exhausted, Park possibly most of all, but it’s clear they’re all too wired to sleep or rest. They wander around the new ship, acquainting themselves with the layout and the rooms. The Rumor crew all exclaim over the size of the mess hall, which is pretty small to RJ’s eyes, but they guess anything would seem impressive compared to the homemade junk bucket the crew were flying in before.

The crew have a couple of bags stowed away, stuffed with supplies – all that’s left of the old ship. RJ thinks fleetingly of their small, bare apartment. There’s nothing they’ll miss.

Jeeter – Brian – makes some food and crucially, coffee, which is as bad as the break room dreck, but RJ will inhale anything at this point. The group chatters, their voices still surreal for RJ to hear in person and not through headphones.

They glance at Park, who looks more relaxed than they’ve ever seen him. The Rumor crew are sharing details about what happened to each of them during ‘The Plan’; Park volunteers a little about his own part, though there’s a conspicuous lack of detail about anything related to Zone Z. Sometimes the conversation falls awkwardly silent when the subject comes up. RJ isn’t about to push, and can tell the others don’t want to, either.

Trip- Sana and Krejjh determine it’s safe to set the new ship to autopilot, and Krejjh comes into the mess, intensifying the noise and cheerfulness. RJ tries not to stare; they’ve never been in close quarters with a Dwarnian (well, before shooting Krejjh earlier) and have only ever seen them in Republic training footage and, uh, Sh’th Hremreh. But Krejjh seems to find them fascinating, too, gamely questioning them about their ‘sharpshooting’ skills. Apparently sparing their life carries more weight than shooting them in the leg.

Eventually, Krejjh’s attention turns to their fiancé and the wider group, and RJ, no longer observed, lets their shoulders slump. They’ve drained the last of their coffee and want to ask for more, even though they’re practically vibrating. Adrenaline has carried them this far, and they don’t want to find out what happens when they crash and the reality of what they’ve done hits them. Part of RJ feels like they left their body back at Headquarters; or like they’re about to blink and wake up in their office chair with Goodman glaring at them.

“You okay?” Park asks in an undertone, and RJ jolts, upsetting their thankfully empty cup. They open their mouth to reply, but then Sana calls, “Okay, everyone!”

She’s holding a guitar, and RJ stares, wondering how much space that must have taken up in the supply bags. Arkady groans, but she doesn’t look angry. Violet covers her mouth in amusement, and Krejjh cheers.

“I thought we could christen our new ship with a bit of a song,” Sana says earnestly (RJ is learning that ‘earnest’ is Sana’s default mode). Park’s eyes widen, which makes RJ glad that they’re not the only one experiencing slight panic. Is it too late to sneak out? Sana plucks at the guitar strings, twiddling the pegs to tune them. She strums a chord and nods, satisfied.

“What shall we start with? Any suggestions?” Her gaze alights on Park and RJ, and she smiles encouragingly. “McCabe – do you want to suggest a song? You don’t have to sing if you’re not comfortable.”

“Uh…” RJ would like to suggest something less – incriminating, but unfortunately, there’s only one song currently on their mind. “What about... ‘Fear for the Storm’?”

To their relief, Sana doesn’t ask questions. “Good choice!” she says, and RJ feels, ridiculously, pleased. Park quirks an eyebrow at them after Sana looks away, but RJ just shrugs, not wanting to explain.

Sana strums a few opening chords, and Violet and Arkady begin, singing the first line together.

“So long, can’t dodge the dawn, red light shines on and on and on and on and on...”

RJ sits back in their chair and fractionally, begins to relax, letting the singing wash over and around them.

Quietly, too quietly, to be heard beneath the singing, they hum along.

---

A/N: So the idea conception for this fic went something like this:

Me: Okay, I've got this fun idea I want to write about the real lead singer of Birdie and the Swansong listening to the Iris casefiles and reacting to the group singalong-

My brain: I have an even better version of that idea!

Me: Yes?

My brain: What if McCabe-

Me: OH MY GOD

...Go on...

I have one (1) character whose perspective I'm consistently inspired to write from and can do so at the drop of a hat xD (I was trying to write this in a few days for the Small Fandoms Surprise Scramble on Dreamwidth. I succeeded!

The idea that became this idea was sparked off by listening to the full cast version of Fear for the Storm and having some Emotions about it again :D I remember how captivated I was by this song when listening to Episode 9 for the very first time, and so the idea of giving McCabe some of those Emotions was a very appealing one. Poor thing is going through it.

This also gave me a chance to write about the immediate aftermath of Episode 10, which I had not done before!

[tickfleato]

smh at slay the princess fans. REAL abby howard enjoyers are the ppl who like her stuff cause of junior scientist power hour

[ironchef13]

Psychic Boogie Bot (Psychonauts x Poppy Playtime OC)

Hey there, so for those of you who don't remember I previously made a post of a story idea involving a crossover with the games Psychonauts and Poppy Playtime. Well, I just came up with an OC that would fit into this AU perfectly. Now does anyone remember the psychic Brain Tanks created by Coach Oleander from the first psychonauts game?

And do you also remember the Poppy Playtime character named Boogie Bot?

Well, what if someone at PlayTime Co. took Oleander's idea but instead created something a little smaller than a tank?

My OC would first start off as a small orphan boy living in PlayCare before the Hour of Joy starts. One of the head scientists would discover that the child possesses blossoming psychic abilities. Seeing an opportunity too good to pass up, the scientist would experiment on the boy, by removing the boy's brain and placing it in a larger more advanced version of the popular toy Boogie Bot. The toy would probably be the same size as Raz. The plan would be to use the toy as a sort of security drone to patrol restricted areas of the factory and remove intruders. Like the brain tank, Boogie bot would be able to access its psychic abilities through the arms that can transform into blasters (kind of like Mega man)

Psy-Blasts would come out as energy blasts, telekinesis would be tractor beams, Pyrokinesis would be a heated laser. Boogie bot would also possess Technopathy (a power that hasn't been seen in psychonauts yet) which would allow him to interact with machines telepathically. such as opening a door without the use of a GrabPack. Unfortunately, before Boogie Bot could be tested the Hour of Joy occurred causing him to be left in stasis for many years (Much like Helmut Fullbear in Psychonauts 2) Then when the Junior psychonaut agents came to investigate the abandoned Playtime factory, they discover the deactivated Boogie Bot and turn him on. At first, he has no memory of who he used to be and assumes he was always a toy. Boogie bot would have a playful personality and enjoy music and dancing. He would then join the junior agents in exploring the toy factory and along the way would slowly begin to regain his human memories.

Now at the end of Psychonauts 2 (spoilers ahead) we are hinted that Helmut Fullbear would eventually get his body back from the frozen lake in Grulovia. So, to add a hint of tragedy to Boogie Bots character, what if he regains his human memories, but doesn't have a body to return to? Because while the scientist experimented on his brain, he sent the boy's body to be incinerated in the factories recycling mill aka the Destroy-A-Toy center.

so, even if they did find his body, it would only be a burnt skeleton. Meaning he would be stuck as a brain in a robot toy for the rest of his life.

So, there you have it I hope you all find this idea inspiring and as always, my ideas are free for anyone to use.

[hatersmad]

Seeing slay the princess get huge is so crazy. Thats abby howard from junior scientist power hour. From my eighth grade favorite web comics

[rockislandadultreads]

Hot Summer Reads: Fiction Picks

As the sweltering summer heat settles in, don't forget to add these hot summer reads to your TBR list!

Just for the Summer by Abby Jimenez

Justin has a curse, and thanks to a Reddit thread, it's now all over the internet. Every woman he dates goes on to find their soul mate the second they break up. When a woman named Emma slides into his DMs with the same problem, they come up with a plan: They'll date each other and break up. Their curses will cancel each other’s out, and they’ll both go on to find the love of their lives. But what if this time Fate has actually brought the perfect pair together? 

This is the third volume in the "Part of Your World" series.

Long After We Are Gone by Terah Shelton Harris

Told from the alternating points of view of four siblings, this emotional story about the power of family and letting go follows CeCe, Junior, Nance, and Angeline as they return home to North Carolina to save their ancestral land after the death of their father. While fighting to save the land, the siblings must also save themselves from the secrets they've been holding onto and from the personal battles each sibling is fighting.

Malas by Marcela Fuentes

In 1951, a mysterious old woman confronts Pilar Aguierre in the small border town of La Cienega, Texas. The old woman is sure Pilar stole her husband and, in a heated outburst, lays a curse on Pilar and her family. More than forty years later, when her beloved grandmother passes away, Lulu Muñoz finds herself drawn to the glamorous stranger who crashed the funeral and who lives alone and shunned on the edge of town. Their unexpected kinship picks at the secrets of Lulu’s family’s past.

The Last Murder at the End of the World by Stuart Turton

Outside the island there is nothing: the world was destroyed by a fog that swept the planet, killing anyone it touched. On the island: it is idyllic. One hundred and twenty-two villagers and three scientists, living in peaceful harmony. Until one of the scientists is found stabbed to death. And then they learn that the murder has triggered a lowering of the security system around the island, the only thing that was keeping the fog at bay. If the murder isn't solved within 107 hours, the fog will smother the island - and everyone on it.

[fractalcloning]

Time Troubles

"Alright, you three, let's keep this one simple and by the book, we're just here to collect some good, old fashioned surface telemetry. Maybe scan a few plants and see how well they cope with the weather," Pike said.

The junior lieutenants at the controls of the transporters were at the ready, the computer was tracking the ion storms around them, and still Pike felt a bit off. It was a bit excessive, having the room fully staffed for a simple survey mission, but Pike hadn't liked the look of those ion storms. From the moment they'd entered the system something about them had set him on edge. He was seasoned enough that he knew to listen to his gut in situations like this.

"Aye, aye, Sir," La'an answered automatically. Lieutenant Noonien-Singh stood at perfect attention, weapons stowed and expression even. Una stepped onto the platform and took position in front of her, her expression professional but knowing. Pike shared a look with her that noted her judgement about his overt paranoia, and then glanced between the three of them. Spock, as usual, looked prepared bordering on inscrutable. At least these three weren't the sort to willingly engage with trouble. That was probably the best he could hope for.

"We'll have another fifteen minute window in three hours," Pike explained to the assembled crew. "If there are any hostile species on this planet, try to play nice until then."

"We'll be on our best behavior," Una assured him, her tone mostly serious, and Pike gave her a long look.

"Alright, get out of here. Ensign: energize."

This system was uncharted, was well beyond the edges of Federation space, but even at a distance the readings it gave off were exceptional. The stellar phenomena were truly breathtaking to behold. This star system was sunk into a larger nebulae, formed out of the outer edges no doubt, and it had a haze about it. The particulate matter that permeated the open space between the celestial bodies was lovely, akin to colorful fog. Unfortunately, pretty as it was, it gummed up their sensors, their collection systems, and made engineering almost as paranoid as Pike, spiking the power in their deflector, shields, and the engines at random intervals. Closer to the planets, the fog coalesced into a perpetual storm of ion energy, swirling like clouds between the moons and the atmosphere, discharging bolts of energy across open space. The whole light show flooded their sensor data with an absurd amount of static and noise.

It was a good system to hide in and, more than anything, that was what had the Captain on edge.

They couldn't scan the surface, the surface (presumably) couldn't scan them, and everything outside the windows read on screen like electromagnetic soup. Pike couldn't have engineered a better location for an ambush if he had tried, but so far, there were no signs of any other ships. There were life signs on the planet, hazy though they appeared on Enterprise. In the absence of tangible danger, it was their responsibility as scientists to stop and take a look. So, with the usual Starfleet aplomb, they checked atmospheric composition and sent an away team. Unfortunately, advanced as the Enterprise was, they were at a disadvantage. They had no idea that they should have scanned for chronitons, nor did they technically have the capability to do so. They couldn't have known that those clouds were heavy with chronitons like they were getting ready to monsoon. It was a fluke, nothing more than pure chance that they managed to time their transporter signal just right to send it straight through a chroniton discharge. The temporal particles split the beam apart like a prism and all three officers ended up on different parts of the surface at different points in time. They weren't separated by much, either distance or time, so that was a spot of luck, but they most certainly didn't materialize where or when they'd expected. (A closed starter for @starfleetsxvulcan and SNW Spock)

[literatehiss]

Disappointment

5+1 times that Zachariah Trench was a disgrace to the title of Director of the FBC Read on AO3 here tw: suicide (canonical charater death)

1

It had only been a few days since Northmoor's incarceration and Trench's promotion to director.

You wouldn't expect it compared to the life-threatening missions he went on as an agent, but Trench had never been so stressed. And when Zachariah Trench was stressed, he did one of three things.

Smoke.

Drink.

Go see Casper.

He had run out of cigarettes an hour ago.

It was unwise and unsafe to be drunk in the Oldest House, especially as its protector.

So going to see Darling it was.

Except for the fact that things were different now. He wasn't some semi-anonymous agent anymore; he had responsibilities, and people were always watching him. He couldn't just sneak off to see Darling, not without major questions, and the man himself was also busy as his beloved Head of Research. Trench hadn't been alone with Casper since the incident with Northmoor, and honestly, he was starting to lose it. He had shouted at an intern this morning and had sent 2 agents home in tears.

He could understand why Northmoor was constantly on edge... Well, mostly that was because the man was a goddamn megalomaniac, but also being director was a stressful job.

He had just been released from the Hotline, his head aching, no cigarettes to be found, and he wanted his stupid fucking best friend here!

A grind of stone, a sudden shift in the House. Trench sighed, more work to do he supposed, there would be employees trapped and injured all over the place. Stepping out of his office, Trench came face to face with the very man he had just been thinking of. The corridor behind him had been blocked off.

It seemed that the House had responded to his desperate prayers.

Grabbing the lapels of Darling's lab coat, Trench dragged him into his office, slamming the door behind him.

2

Trench strode through the halls of the FBC. His kingdom, his domain. Everything the light touched belonged to him and in the Oldest House everything was very well lit. He walked with the confidence of a man who had nothing to fear, who knew he was powerful and well respected. Trench was the king of this castle and everyone knew it. Since he had risen to power his record was exemplary, the FBC had never ran smoother than under his control, there had been no catastrophes and the recent AWEs had been carefully and thoroughly contained.

Trench was in perfect control of his employees, of the House, of his parautilitarian powers and of himself, of course. Junior agents whispered about him in the halls—a model of behaviour and competence to aspire to, a legend even within his own lifetime. Some whispers were exaggerated, of course, taking his true feats and successes and pushing them to near-mythological proportions. He had attempted to cull the wild speculations, but then he deemed it a waste of time; if anything, it was useful to be so feared and respected in equal measure.

Trench saw it as both a reward and a responsibility to walk these halls to regularly check-in on each department. He didn't like to think of himself as controlling, he just thought it important to make sure everything was running as it should. He knew from his own past how easy it was for enterprising individuals to slip under the radar, for rules to be broken or ignored when appropriate oversight wasn't present.

Walking in through the research sector, Trench looked at the various tests and experiments, keeping an eye on the nervous scientists scurrying around. He knew his presence scared them, like chickens when the fox got in. They knew the leader was dear to the director, that they had the biggest budget and that they had the most leeway to do as they wished. That could change though; Casper could always lose his favour, they could always be moved to a different department. Keeping him happy, keeping the director pleased, that may as well have been the number one priority for everyone who worked under Casper Darling.

Yes, Trench felt like the king of this particular castle, in power, in control, respected by everyone.

A flash of bow-tie. 

His Head of Research's bright smile. 

The briefest distraction.

The director of the FBC, distracted by the bright and buzzing Queen Bee of the Research Division, did not notice the box of files in his path. 

He was lucky he hit the ground so fast that by the time Darling looked over at the commotion, Trench was already out of sight.

3

Trench’s hand shook, a slight tremor that caused ash to fall from the embers of his lit cigarette. His other hand was clenched around the arm of his chair. Finger tips dug into the plastic, like it could snap it in two with just a little more effort. Trench stared blankly, unmoving and unceasing. Only the slightest flicker of movement in his eyes as the object of his current obsession moved around the room.

He tracked Darling as he stood up to present his latest budget proposal; well, that's what Trench presumed he was talking about, he was at the very moment quite distracted. At least Casper had the decency to not fidget while he was presenting, keeping his hands either by his sides or gesturing at the slide behind him. But once his favourite scientist had finished and sat back down, Trench was lost again.

It wasn't that Casper was doing anything particularly obscene. His hands were where everyone could see them and, as far as Trench could tell, Darling, at least, was paying attention to the other Department Heads' presentations. It really was a shame, and Trench did feel bad for his unprofessionalism, that he hadn't paid attention to a single word that had been said that afternoon.

It was just that Casper kept–

Oh for God's sake, he was doing it again.

Darling, relaxing back in his chair, had taken his glasses off to rest his eyes. This is fine, would have been fine, except at some point when Trench wasn't paying attention to him, Darling had picked up the habit of putting the end of his glasses into his mouth. Sucking, chewing, occasionally just tapping it on his lips. It was driving Trench insane. Really, he didn't know what was wrong with him.

Yes, he wasn't unaware of his attraction to Casper; they had been sleeping together since he was a junior agent and Darling had been a nervous intern in Research. But he had never been so swept off his feet by something so small. The worst part was that he was sure Darling was completely oblivious to the torment he was putting Trench through in the middle of this meeting. Trench was intimately familiar with what it looked like when Darling was purposely teasing him—Casper could never hide his smug little grin, but this time Darling was completely absorbed in the presentation before him.

A groan caught in his throat as Darling stretched, a tiny sliver of skin showing from where his jumper had ridden up. He hopefully disguised his moment of indiscretion with a cough, and tried to drag his eyes away from the scientist and onto Tommasi's rather dry report, only for his focus to be immediately ruined by Casper slowly dragging the end of his glasses out of his mouth and across his bottom lip.

A sudden pinch to his side making him flinch. He glanced over to see Marshall looking at him like he was a misbehaving child. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, looking to the world like she was passing on confidential information.

"Get a grip. He isn't going to disappear if you look away. You do have a job to do here, Trench."

He flushed ever so slightly in embarrassment at being caught ogling his head of research. She was right after all, he did have a job to do here, and it didn't include staring at Casper's mouth. He was patient, he could wait. He was not a teenager with no impulse control. He would wait for the workday to be over and then ask Casper out for a drink or two. Perfectly reasonable.

A tap of his phone and Darling found an email awaiting him, asking him to stay after the meeting was over for a private talk with the director.

4

Trench sighed as he opened the door to his office. He'd been rushed off his feet all morning, and he was dying to sit down and have a smoke. Unfortunately, unlike others in his position in normal government departments or in private companies, being director of the FBC often did not come with the ability to have fixed breaks each day, and he grasped each free minute with the desperation of a dying man. So he knew that any moment of relaxation would not be long before there would be some crisis that apparently only he could deal with.

Which was why, when he opened his office door to see Salvador, Marshall, and Tommasi already in there waiting for him, the curse that fell from his lips was more instinctual than out of any genuine anger at the three.

"Oh, for fucks sake."

"Sorry Director," and Salvador did at least have the decency to look sorry for disrupting Trench's break, unlike his unrepentant co-conspirators, "but we need to have a chat about the budget."

"And this couldn't wait?! Do we not have scheduled meetings every month for this specific purpose? I wasn't aware you cared for my company quite that much. If that is all, I think this conversation can wait until next week."

With his point thoroughly made, he walked over to his desk, pulling a pack of unopened Black Pyramids from his desk, rescuing a cigarette from within with a shake of the packet.

"For that matter, you haven't even gone to get Darling for this impromptu budget. Or did he disagree with the need for this little meeting? At least someone here respects my time."

The three looked between each other.

"We are here because of Casper, or to be more specific, the Research Sector—his budget." Tommasi complained.

Well shit.

Goddamnit. 

Trench shook a couple more cigarettes from the packet before lighting the one in his hand. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

"And if I said that Darling's budget was just as carefully considered as your own?"

"Then I would say that you are bullshitting us, Sir." You could always count on Marshall to be blunt, straight to the point. He normally appreciated it, he wasn't like Northmoor—he wanted people to keep him in check. Just... not in this one particular case.

"It is unfortunate that research is costly, and I was unaware that any of you were struggling to fund your own departments. You know that I do my best to make sure you are all capable of running your departments... We even have an entire meeting about said budget, so if you have any complaints-"

"Trench" an admonishment echoed by all three. It was a sound eerily reminiscent of back when he was with Kate; she too spoke his name like a disapproving teacher, mostly when he came home late, or didn't come home at all.

He would be getting frustrated with the three in front of him, if he wasn't fully aware of what they were actually complaining about, if they weren't absolutely correct.

So he liked to spoil Casper, sue him. It wasn't a crime to make sure his favourite department, or to be more precise, his favourite department head, was overfunded. He thought that perhaps the others wouldn't notice, it wasn't like they were suffering with funds. Apparently not.

The problem was that even as he was stared down, he still didn't want to take away any of his Darling's budget.

"If I promise to consider reducing Darling's budget, will you go away and leave me in peace?"

"I don't like your use of the word ‘consider’, but yes, fine."

He shooed them out, already lighting up his second cigarette.

He wasn't getting out of this one.

He supposed he would have to make it up to Casper some other way.

5

Marshall looked across at Trench from across his desk.

He stared back.

Neither willing to break eye contact or the uncomfortable silence that stretched between them.

He refused to look at the report in front of him.

A single raised eyebrow in his direction.

Honestly, the disrespect he allowed his department heads to get away with. He should be more strict, more authoritative. Broderick would never have put up with this.

"Is there som-"

"A shark? Really?"

He shut his mouth and the silence continued.

+1

Sat at his desk, Trench looked at the Service Pistol. He had made many mistakes in his time as Director—things he couldn't fix, things that got people hurt. It was only now, on the precipice of the destruction of all he had built, that Trench considered that this was not a mistake he could come back from.

The Hiss was bearing down on the Oldest House, let in by his own stupidity and hubris.

His staff, his friends, scattered and hurt.

He'd abandoned his post.

He'd abandoned his Darling.

And now what was left?

Darling was gone. Trench hoped that he had been taken somewhere by Hedron, but part of him suspected that was foolish optimism. Not that it mattered; he wasn't here, he wasn’t with him.

God if only he had listened, if he hadn't let the Hiss twist his thoughts. Turn him into the exact type of man he had never wanted to be.

The Service Pistol was heavy in his hands, he'd used it to save lives and to put down monsters that threatened not only The House but the whole world.

He brought the Service Pistol up to his head, resting the muzzle against his temple. His hands didn’t waver. He wasn’t nervous, if anything, he was relieved. Finally, this would all be over.

He was, he supposed, just another monster to be put down.

[dishaclasses1234]

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[rauhauser]

Straight Into Nonlinearity

If you read the hardcore climate science news, say the stuff that appears on phys.org, you probably noticed the articles over the last few years that mentioned scientists fretting about things becoming “non-linear”. Last year seemed to me to be an inflection point; I began saying “2100 is here, 78 years early”. That was based on anecdotes piling up, things that had never happened before coming one after the other in quick succession. That graph is science.

We have to call it something. These are the early years of the Anthropocene, which could be conveniently dated to 1945, thanks to unnatural radioisotopes that started with the Trinity test. But these events of 2022/2023 have the same relationship to the Anthropocene that the Chixilub bolide had to the Paleogene. One is an event, the other a period of time.

I’m glad that’s settled. Welcome to the Nonlinearity.

This is a recurring theme for me. First Dead Gods of Atacama in 2009, then Gamma Draconis Rising in 2017. They’re not precisely the dictionary definition of jeremiads, but I’m no Puritan.

The Book of Jeremiah prophesies the coming downfall of the Kingdom of Judah, and asserts that this is because its rulers have broken the covenant with the Lord. There’s a different covenant that forms the basis of my views – Thomas Covenant. His Wikipedia article describes him as “an embittered and cynical writer, afflicted with leprosy and shunned by society, and fated to become the heroic savior of the Land, an alternate world.”

I read the first two trilogies as they came out in junior high and high school. Donaldson took a twenty one year break between 1983’s White Gold Wielder and 2004’s The Runes of the Earth. Back in 2010 I read all 4,250 pages of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower over the summer. Given the condition of my reading queue I don’t see myself adding something the size of the final Covenent tetralogy, let alone revisiting the first two trilogies, and I wouldn’t read the tetralogy without that review.

Maybe it’s easier for you to sit and listen for a little over six minutes to a fifty year old song.

Some of them were angry At the way the earth was abused By the men who learned how to forge her beauty into power And they struggled to protect her from them Only to be confused By the magnitude of her fury in the final hour And when the sand was gone and the time arrived In the naked dawn only a few survived And in attempts to understand a thing So simple and so huge Believed that they were meant to live after the deluge

=================================

Twenty five years ago I stood on the fantail of a tour boat in Resurrection Bay, holding my infant son, watching a tower of ice a fifth of a mile tall come off the front of a tidewater glacier. More than half of the rest of the passengers were throwing up over the railings, having made the mistake of eating the smoked salmon on the buffet.

Today the salmon runs are fading and without the phosphorus they transported upstream the forests of the Pacific Northwest are nutrient starved. They'll burn, sooner rather than later, and the conditions under which they evolved are gone.

The tidewater glaciers of the Kenai Fjords still put on one of nature's greatest shows, but we stopped at the visitor center at the far end of the Turnigan Arm on our way to that cruise. The place where the visitors center stands was under a thousand feet of ice when my grandparents were born, right at the end of the 19th century.

I don't mention Last Of The Laurentide nearly so often as I do the other two essays I mentioned above, but today seems like a good time for that.

[maybetheyregiants]

A short (uncomprehensive) list of webcomic creators listed in this document.

Andrew Hussie (Homestuck)

Randall Munroe (XKCD)

Ryan North (Doesn't really draw but he's the dinosaur comics guy?)

Chris Onstad (Achewood)

Christopher Hastings (Dr. McNinja)

Kate Beaton (Hark a vagrant!)

Fred Gallagher (MegaTokyo)

Mike Krahulik (Penny Arcade)

Jeph Jacques (Questionable Content)

Zach Weinersmith (SMBC)

Tatsuya Ishida (Fuck this guy and his stupid nazi comic, but, Sinfest)

Sarah Andersen (Sarah's Scribbles)

Nicholas Gurewitch (Perry Bible Fellowship)

ND Stevenson (Nimona, credited under deadname)

Rich Burlew (Order of the Stick)

Hidekaz Himaruya (I forget this is a webcomic all the time, but Hetalia)

Jeffery Rowland (Wigu)

John Allison (Scary Go Round)

Kris Straub (Broodhollow)

Evan Dahm (Riceboy)

David Willis (Dumbing of Age)

Kaja Foglio (Girl Genius)

Brianne Drouhard (Harpy Gee)

Mary Cagle (Sleepless Domain)

Brian Clevinger (Arise, Ye Skeleton King)

Minna Sundberg (Stand Still Stay Silent)

Christopher Baldwin (Spacetrawler)

Jess Fink (Kid With Experience)

Abby Howard (Junior Scientist Power Hour)

Dave Kellett (Drive)

Erika Moen (Oh Joy Sex Toy)

Jon Rosenberg (Scenes from a Multiverse)

Ian McConville (Three Panel Soul)

I'm more than confident that there will be artists I've missed in this list, but this is what I've been able to find.

lmfao fuck yes the midjourney artist list leaked as part of court discovery and it has SOOOOO MANY webcomic names on it. im genuinely shocked, i thought they would just scrape from art station.

[a-year-of-twrp]

Tupperware Remix Party: The Comics

In case you didn't know, the incredibly talented Abby Howard made some killer comics about our resident space boys! Check them out here:

1. Tupperware Remix Party

2. TWRP: The Device-- part I

3. TWRP: The Device Part 2-1

4. TWRP: The Device Part 2-2

(And here are links to Abby's archive, Twitter, and Tumblr if you want to see more of her work!)

[hellhoundmaggie]

Bus Guy IS real

Abby and Tony encountered him one time

started playing scarlet hollow and at first i was like "oh that's kinda spooky, the game gives Duke's chicken the same name as the player" kinda weird though, what if I had an even more masculine name? but after a quick look on wikipedia, nope, that's just the chicken's name and it's a weird coincidence.

[goodbye--1989]

When youre one to follow multiple webcomics all with different, ever changing schedules, you just gotta put aside 10 minutes to go back and read ‘em evry sunday instead of trying to play their game

[starryeyes2000]

Spock's Escape

Chapter 2

Series Masterlist | OCMasterlist | Author Masterlist

Status: In-progress

Pairing: Christopher Pike x Fem!OC (Aalin)

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Spock’s mind is fractured disassociating him from time, identity, and physical reality. An act of violence shows him a way out of this madness and unlocks knowledge of a looming cataclysm. Convinced he must warn others Spock chooses the unthinkable for one of his species, a mating bond with another’s spouse, the only crime on Vulcan punishable by death.

This story takes place during Discovery Season 2. It is a sequel to previous story in this series, That Night and Morning on Discovery.

ooooo

Scientists, theologians, and politicians would be debating for decades the reason ‘Control got Out-of-Control’ (a phrase coined by the Mayan ambassador that, unfortunately, stuck.). A higher power at work? Destiny? An unsupervised Section 31, led by the obsessed and paranoid, developing increasingly sophisticated artificial intelligence applications?

Or dangers inherent in time travel itself? While there were many assumptions and guesses regarding the capability and effects of time travel, few qualified as theories and none were tested via practical experimentation. Except for the Section 31 project code-named Daedalus, though now only five people remained with the clearance to view that data.

Was the timeline linear? Unalterable? Did each decision spawn a discrete set of possible timelines? Was time a loop? Multiple loops? Or a jumble of events that touched and interacted with one another?

Did a desperate mother’s impulsive time jump to save her family alter Control’s trajectory? Did each of that same woman’s jumps through time battling Control instead increase its abilities exponentially? Did analysis of the red bursts by Section 31’s threat assessment program set in motion the catastrophe? Can the effect trigger the cause?

Or is time itself sentient? Manipulating events in what appears to be coincidence? Perhaps cruel, perhaps benign, but always with an agenda of its own?

ooooo

Simultaneously, seven federation sensors spread over a vast distance came online and called home. The watch commander on duty in Starfleet Command’s Operations Center compared the reports, paled, and called his commanding officer. The comms specialist who had received the reports, an agent (secret) for Section 31, called her handler.

One Hour Later

“How bad can it be?” Number One said aloud to herself as the turbolift climbed to the bridge. “They said please.” Delta shift was at its midpoint when the call came for her to please come and advise. Arriving at the bridge, she put on her most stern expression as reminder high-ranking officers were not called out at 3:00am for trivial problems. Most of the junior bridge crew were huddled around the communication station, engaged in a vigorous discussion. “Report,” she ordered. It was bad.

Captain Leland was conferring with Patar when an aide rushed into the Admiral’s office and whispered in her ear. Patar nodded, dismissed the aide, returned her attention to Leland and ordered, “Report to Section 31 headquarters, best speed plus. You have a new mission.”

ooooo

Though it seems an oxymoron, Dr. Gabrielle Burnham had learned through trial and error when you initiated a jump into the past mattered. Pick the wrong moment and the eddies of the timestream remained undisturbed altering nothing.

Her next plan was a Hail Mary, but after hundreds of attempts and failures to neutralize Control, it remained her only option. Her previous attempt – revealing the outcome of the current timeline to Spock, who as a child understood her words when his sister was in danger – held promise but those hopes faded when Spock committed himself to a mental health facility. Unsure if his illness was an unrelated happenstance or stemmed from the side effects of atemporal dysplasia which was, so far, an unsurmountable obstacle when communicating directly with anyone in the past, she decided to risk this unusual and potentially dangerous approach.

The jump had to be initiated soon and final preparations remained.

ooooo

Number One reread the message, ‘… Chris, drinks on you when you arrive as you lost the bet … signed WJ Abbott.’ As she was reading the lieutenant with conn duty this shift continued explaining, “Sir, the message doesn’t appear urgent but it’s from a four-star admiral. We were unsure if it could wait until morning or should be sent to the Captain immediately. Nicola and then Mann were called but neither have checked in yet.”

Nicola, the chief communications officer, and Mann, the senior operations officer, arrived in the next turbolift and exchanged sheepish looks. Enterprise was on its way home following the cease-fire with the Klingon Empire carrying a Captain and crew exasperated with being ordered to wait out the conflict outside the boundary of Federation space. The crew spent the wait mapping the rarely traveled, little know sector and fine-tuning the ship’s systems. The department heads spent the wait managing the crew’s morale and voicing to their superior officers strong objections regarding the illogic of keeping Enterprise out of the fight. Nicola and Mann had discussed a few theories of their own regarding the real reason Enterprise was ordered to stay away and none involved the time and distance required for warping home.

Number One threw them an ‘I’ll deal with you later’ look as they took their posts; she won the pool betting when the two lieutenants would act on their mutual attraction. “Everyone back to your stations,” Una ordered and then continued, “Full stop. Call the Captain to the bridge. Someone wake up Connelly, I want him manning the science station before the Captain arrives. Comm, setup a secure channel to Command and prepare for additional encrypted messages. Nicola, you need to review clear text emergency message protocols with your staff.”

Amid the chorus of “Aye sirs,” the junior comms office whispered to Nicola, “What did I miss?”

“It’s a rarely used heads-up message for an emergency situation, one unexpected and developing rapidly. The message body is irrelevant; the clue is the sender, a high-ranking admiral who, though he or she doesn’t exist, will have a full bio record in our databases.”

ooooo

Leland accepted the universe is brutal. This supported his justification of tactics many viewed as over the line, and his assumption the unknown invariably is dangerous, riddled with perils only his organization can neutralize. Section 31 existed to defeat chaos, a mission to which he devoted his life. Yes, Section 31 was powerful, but it had to be, it wielded that power for the greater good.

Tuning out the rehash of the limited information available regarding the red bursts recorded by Federation sensors, Leland ticked through possibilities. Perhaps they were synchronization signals for a vast force preparing to invade. Super-novae weaponized. Intentional tears in the fabric of space-time. Mass extinction events speeding toward the Federation.

He tuned into the conversation once Patar began speaking, “… a task force is being assembled; Johnson ensure our assets, the Xryllian ambassador and the astrophysics dean of the Vulcan Science Academy, are assigned. Do we have any agents on Enterprise?”

“No,” Johnson confirmed.

She continued, “Leland, Enterprise has been assigned to investigate. Find it, shadow it, and report everything they learn. Intervention is authorized when you deem necessary. Your history with Captain Pike will be an asset.”

Leland nodded and went to ready his ship for departure. He agreed this was not a situation which should left in the hands of a man who would invariably err on the side of ideals rather than practicalities.

ooooo

Everything was ready. The jump window opened in 30 minutes. Dr. Gabrielle Burnham activated her time travel suit and readied the transmission. If she couldn’t communicate directly with anyone in the past, perhaps she could plant a message in a ship’s communication system with her instructions for defeating Control.

Her failed dialogue with Spock had had two objectives. First, disseminate her knowledge about Control. Second, urge Spock to brief Captain Pike, who she judged possessed the openness to listen and the clout necessary for forcing change in Section 31 and to Control.

There was about to be a solar flare near Enterprise’s trajectory. It would conceal her from the ship’s sensors while she transmitted her message encoded as a computer worm.

ooooo

Pike emerged from his ready room and the latest conference with Starfleet’s senior admiralty. He muttered, “Damn holograms,” before asking, “any change?”

“One of the phenomena may be stabilizing,” Connelly answered.

Amin added, “Trying to get a navigation fix now.”

Pike nodded his acknowledgement and motioned for Number One to join him at the empty engineering station. Softly he told her, “Command remains divided as to whether the bursts are malevolent or benign. Thoughts?”

“I find it premature to assign motive with so little data.”

Before he could respond Amin said, “We have it sir.”

“Very well. Set course, Warp 5. Head out when ready. Nicola, inform fleet operations,” he ordered. Then to Una he said, “Stay here and continue coordinating the analysis. Go to Yellow Alert when we’re thirty minutes from dropping out of warp.” She nodded and returned to her station.

When the worm’s transmission completed, the anchor pulled Dr. Burnham back to Terralysium.

Designs which delight theoretical engineers sometimes clash with the realities of solo missions in deep space where assistance or rescue can be months away or, more likely, not an option. Once on board, a ship’s chief engineer often ‘enhanced’ the equipment and its programming. One of those enhancements, in this case automatically isolating life support systems based on specific event triggers, saved the Enterprise crew. As Dr. Burnham’s message worm burrowed into the comm system’s code, it hit an undetected bug in a little used subroutine of the new holographic application. The bug rewrote the invasive code rendering it more virulent and then started replicating it across all primary systems.

Red alert abruptly sounded, and shields raised automatically. Navigation went down first. Then helm, science, impulse and warp engines. Circuits overloaded all over the ship. Lights failed. Gravity generators switched to backup systems. Pike raced onto the bridge as Number One ordered a link established with command, Mercury protocol.

Damage reports flooded in. Pike held up his hand to stop the status details, “Make a list of what’s still working, issue a priority one distress call and encrypt it,” he ordered. Turning to Nicola he asked, “Can you route the comms channel you established to my ready room?” Nicola nodded. “Do it. Get Admiral Cornwell.” As the Captain entered his ready room announcements continued, “Comms to Engineering just went down … Send a runner to get a status, send one to Medical too … Fire on deck 7, section A force fields are holding … Thrusters out, starboard side.”

“This investigation is too important to leave entirely to another ship, a science ship with a battered crew and a caretaker captain,” Kat Cornwell shot back as their argument continued, “if it’s a military threat we need an experienced solider, if it’s a first contact we need an experienced diplomat.”

“But my crew,” Pike began again.

“Will be in the excellent care of Commander Chin-Riley. And you know that,” Cornwell finished.

Pike conceded her accurate point.

“Discovery will be in range of your distress call soon. Take command under Regulation 19, section C. The spore drive may prove an asset if this is a threat.” The commination link failed just as the briefing materials for Discovery arrived.

Pike informed his first officer in private. They spent time planning emergency contingencies. Then he informed the bridge officers.

“Captain, we are receiving a message in Morse Code from the USS Discovery.”

ooooo

Three Weeks Later

“Lieutenant Spock is one of the keys, perhaps the crucial key, for unraveling the mystery of these seven red bursts. I am certain of it,” Leland reiterated to his commanding officer, Admiral Patar. “And if we control Spock, we control Chris Pike. He is particularly close with his young Vulcan science officer. Pull strings and have Spock transferred to a Section 31 medical facility.”

“You have not carefully considered this plan and are overestimating the Captain’s response. He may care for his officer, but threats are unlikely to elicit his cooperation,” Patar responded. “And Sarek wields considerable influence on the Federation Council. We should not alienate him; we may need his support in the future.”

“The family is not close, I doubt Sarek is aware his son is ill,” Leland countered. “And he can be convinced we are Spock’s best chance for successful treatment. Admiral, you ordered me to unravel the meaning of the bursts before Pike does. He has a head start and an unexpected asset in Discovery’s spore drive. The timing of Spock’s illness is too coincidental and undoubtedly related. Hell, Kat Cornwall said Spock was drawing these phenomena months before they appeared. If we can extract his memories …”

“Do we have an agent on Discovery?” Patar asked.

“No, Lorca may have been a son of a bitch, but he was a clever one. Our agents never lasted more than a week.”

Patar steepled her fingers against her chin and considered. “Very well, proceed. Use Philippa Georgiou as a resource.”

“There is one wrinkle. Pike sent a crewman from Enterprise to Starbase 5 as a caretaker for Spock. One with a direct link back to him.”

“Your vagueness and misdirection are wasted on me,” Patar scolded with that impassive, condescending look of hers. “You mean Pike’s wife.”

“Yes. She won’t agree to place Spock under our care,” Leland said.

“That matters little, she is a mere lieutenant, and you are a captain. Make the transfer an order, not a request,” Patar replied in a dismissive tone. It came out as a sneer.

“She may be an insignificant junior officer; yet she has access to formidable resources. Through her Pike will block our plan.”

“Pike is on a different ship and often out of communications range, Enterprise isn’t space worthy, and its other senior officers are busy with its repairs. Those resources have dwindled,” Patar said.

Leland shook his head, secretly pleased this arrogant Vulcan was wrong and he had the pleasure of correcting her. “Lieutenant Aalin Matthews Pike is the daughter of William Matthews, Esquire. The famed attorney and constitutional expert. He knows every favorable and unfavorable judge in the quadrant. And this is exactly the type of civil rights violation he crusades against. It will become his cause célèbre.”

Patar looked nonplussed. “Then see to it the two problem lieutenants are separated and Mrs. Pike remains out of reach.”

Chapter 2

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