#look at moon's antennae between each picture. look at them. look to the antennae

[flickering-nightfall]

i am going to scream

[senkusphone]

Dr. Stone chapter 1D Trivia post

Spoilers ahead

We knew there was a slippery slope but we didn't know which one it was.

First things first, as we saw, Kaseki was not dead after all, and neither was Francois.

This clears things from chapter 232.5 (Dr. Stone Terraforming) where Kaseki was not shown at all, and although Francois was shown to be at the plane at the moment of the crash, they were never shown to be rescued.

We do get a glimpse at Senku throughout his lifetime (hypothetically at least). The pictured time machine, just like the large one they are building, features the telltale disk from the movie "The time machine" (duh) from 1960, based on a novel by H.G. Wells, written in 1895.

We also see him using a bunch of yagi antennas again, as well as a small satellite dish, all pointed in different directions in his homebrew setup, perhaps in an attempt to catch the signal regardless of which direction it's coming from. A concern I've heard is why would Byakuya contact Senku's future attempt but not the one from his childhood, and the answer likely boils down to the technology. As Xeno said they used a specialized detector to spot tiny bursts of petrification beam

I am not sure what such a detector might entail, but since the petri beam involves a flash of light, perhaps something like a photomultiplier tube could do it, as they can detect individual photons

The Tokyo Sky Tree is a radio tower, housing a restaurant and an observation deck, it is also the tallest manmade structure in Japan with a height of 634 meters, or 532.7 times the canon height of Suika in chapter 178.

Here it looks like they've drawn the wrong design for the medusa capsule, this one has a speaker on the inside like the original that was sent to the moon, whereas once whyman was discovered, they changed the design to one with a small antenna in its place, and a speaker/microphone on the outside for them to communicate.

This is what I feel like in university

Yes we are

next up, energy

1.21 Exawatts has no basis I know of other than being a reference to the 1.21 Gigawatts used by the time machine from Back to the Future. 1 exawatt = 1000000000 gigawatts, so I guess Dr. Brown's machine was actually very fuel efficient.

The (exa)watt is technically not a unit of energy but rather of the rate of energy transfer (or how fast energy's being delivered in layman's terms).

I assume he means (exa) watt-hours, a multiple of the watt-hour, which is an energy unit handy for working with electricity calculations. This amount of energy is equivalent to a bit shy of 900000 megatons of TNT. However, if you could capture 100% of the sun's output (and I mean all of it, a la dyson sphere, not just what hits the earth, and with 100% efficiency) and store it, you could collect that amount of energy in just under 30 seconds. This amount is also probably larger than the consumption of humanity over the last 60 years. It is in fact larger than the energy consumed wordwide between 1800 and 2010 by a factor of about two, going from adding and converting the data here.

https://www.encyclopedie-energie.org/en/world-energy-consumption-1800-2000-results/

Helium 3 is an isotope of helium with a nucleus made of 2 protons and 1 neutron (unlike normal helium which consists of 2 and 2 of each).

Because it's a very light gas, it tends to float away from the earth and get swept off into space much like regular helium does, and it is believed that larger amounts of it will be available on the moon, where it is formed naturally in a slow but steady supply when natural lithium is bombarded with neutrons from cosmic rays. Helium 3 can theoretically function as fuel in a fusion reactor, having the advantage that it does not release neutrons in the reaction, meaning it does not bombard other materials inside the reactor making them radioactive (and He-3 is not radioactive itself either).

The big issues are its low availability and the fact that a reactor for this fuel would need even higher temperatures than the reactors we are experimenting with today, and we are barely starting. On that note, Tsukasa eating chip

These robots are very strange, they walk on their claws, only having wheels at the back and carrying what looks a lot like an old time minecart. If anyone knows what the name Johnny 7 might be referring to, let me know. So far I can see that there was a sentient robot named Johnny 5 in the 1986 film Short Circuit, which looked like this.

I could also note that the robots have "Battery A" and "Battery B" noted on them.

It might just be a coincidence, but I like to think it might be a nod to an early project in the series, the cellphone.

The cellphone had two battery packs, the lead acid pack to run the vacuum tube filament, and Gen's manganese battery pack, which ran the tube anode. Historically these two battery packs were designated "A" and "B".

For the record this is also the reason you can buy AAA, AA, C, and D size cells, but no B batteries. Those batteries used to exist, but they don't anymore, since the equipment they powered is long obsolete. Next up, Chrome has a flashback to Ruri's flashback.

Kirisame's headpiece has reverted to the seldom seen spiral horn version, she is most typically seen with the one shaped like cat ears.

Next up:

No, I will not apologise

This does not seem to be the same restaurant mentioned in chapter 43, though I guess it could have changed, since Senku seems older (might it be the restaurant in the sky tree?)

Also Senku puts on Byakuya's coat that was on the back of his chair.

Speaking of chapter 43...

Ukyo is not well

It's no longer Nanami Corp, it's just Ryusui

To conclude, my take on what is happening

It's been hinted multiple times that we may see the involvement of alternate timelines, which comes as an answer to the occurence of a paradox if Senku were to travel back in time or even just contact himself. The title of the chapter comes to echo this. Higher dimensions have been a bit of a popular topic lately with people making games in four dimensions, etcetera. This however is not that by the looks of it, the fourth dimension mentioned would be an additional time dimension, which can be interpreted as the existence of convergent or divergent timelines. One of the less obvious things that remain to be seen is how Byakuya (or someone pretending to be him) knew when and where to contact someone in a different timeline. We also don't know where in time they are located. It is assumed at first that the incoming message is from the future but if we are dealing with a parallel universe it may as well be coming from the past or even be coming in in "real time" (as if such concepts of relative time held up in multidimensional time).

Suika cute pose

[listlesswhistle]

So, I made a thing. As I mentioned, I’ve been having a lot of fun making up my own rain world stuff, y’know, like an entire custom region. Well, you may have noticed that the bonus pictures of my notes included information on a couple things that didn’t show up in the forest. Namely, my iterator oc, One Thousand Silent Eyes.

Well, I’ve been possessed by the need to write a short ficlet about them discovering what happened to the canon iterators through finding broadcasts as they attempt to reestablish their long range communications.

I’ve discussed Silent Eyes in more detail over on @nerdydowntherabbithole‘s blog, and I don’t won’t to go over everything about them again, so here’s the main thing you need to know before reading: Silent Eyes operates as a sort of hivemind. They have multiple different bodies, each with their own unique copy of Silent Eyes, but they think and act as a single entity when together. This does become relevant occasionally in this ficlet, most often when they switch between “themself” and “themselves,” depending on whichever is appropriate. They will also occasionally reference actions performed by different bodies happening at the same or similar time, as they see themselves as being in both of those bodies at once.

With that clarified, the story can be found below the read more. (Please be gentle, I’ve literally never written a fic before)

They let out a thoughtful chirp from their speakers as they hovered up to the antenna of the decrepit relay station; a habit they’d picked up from time spent around their citizens. On instinct, they went to store the information in their general memory banks, only to stutter in their flight as they failed to connect.

They were... still getting used to that. Silent Eyes knew that these long distance missions were necessary for reestablishing communication with the other clusters, but that didn’t make it any less uncomfortable to be cut off from so much of themselves.

At least the sensation eased up somewhat when they hunkered down in the MMSP to wait out the rain. Some of their citizens had come along for the ride, even after the extended nature of this outing was explained to them. Truthfully, they were grateful for the company. Tending to the needs of the adventurous group of slugcats served as a much appreciated distraction from the concerns that plagued them lately.

And ah, there was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? The thing that they’d wanted to pass off to the rest of themselves while they focused on documenting what material components they’d need to fabricate in order to get this ancient transmitter back up and running: the broadcasts. They’d been found stored on the station’s barely functional servers and the contents were... distressing.

They weren’t stupid; they’d heard the rumors. Those were all on public chatrooms, after all, so they had made it much further out than any encrypted private conversations. But Eyes had treated them with a hopeful skepticism. They hadn’t know Unparalleled Innocence very well, and the rumors were just that: rumors. They’d helped iterators handle cases of rot before, they were sure Five Pebbles could handle himself. And losing contact with Looks To The Moon doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad happened to her. Everyone’s communications were breaking down. Heck, they’d had to repair their own communication arrays before they could even talk to the iterators right next to them! Their neighboring cluster was most likely perfectly fine. They probably just needed a few new antennas, a couple fresh dishes, a good rewiring and bam! Problem solved.

Except, well... these old messages paint a slightly different picture.

It’s probably nothing! They’re probably just overthinking things, making false assumptions because they’re working with much less information than they’re used to. This will all make much more sense when they get this relay back to working order, so they can take a new look at this data with all of their processing power at their disposal. The ARU that they’re piloting wasn’t exactly built for complex thinking, after all, with its internals mostly full of sensors and data storage. That’s why ARUs are always accompanied by an MMSP; its large computing system dedicated to housing Silent Eyes picks up the slack for its smaller cousins.

They’re just maybe, slightly freaking out because even with the additional processing power of the MMSP parked right outside, the messages are still setting off all kinds of alarm bells in their brain. Contents aside, just the fact that they’re seeing these messages at all is frankly concerning.

Silent Eyes has become intimately familiar with the inner workings of an iterator’s communication arrays. They know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that incoming messages are not meant to bounce like this. The different systems for incoming and outgoing information are completely separate, only connected in that they are both part of communications. The fact that they found the messages here, in a relay station almost halfway between the two clusters, is indicative of a catastrophic malfunction on Looks To The Moon’s end. Her systems would’ve had to be physically rewired for them to broadcast a message in its entirety to a random recipient immediately upon receiving it, rather than download its contents for Moon to read. It’s honestly a miracle that the header and group name were the only things lost in the process.

It would be a different story for a public communiqué sent to a group discussion- long range broadcasts are sent along multiple relays, so that there are redundancies in case one breaks down- but these were clearly meant to be direct communications between iterators in the same cluster, with their names listed directly beneath the missing group: “No Significant Harassment, Big Sis Moon.” It should’ve been impossible, and yet here it is, scanned directly into Silent Eyes’ internal storage.

As for the messages themselves... there’s not much to be said. Two short chatlogs between users “No Significant Harassment” and “Big Sis Moon.” NSH is the only one to speak. He is unsure if his messages will reach Moon, citing an unknown amount of damage to her systems. Five Pebbles appears to be uncooperative, and NSH seems to be planning something. All in all, it sounds like a grim situation.

But, well, it’s only two messages! Maybe NSH’s plan worked, and Moon’s communication arrays stopped sending messages here! Or, maybe they can find more messages once they restore power to the upper floor! Oh, and what if-

Plink! Silent Eyes jolted at the sound of something hitting the base of their wings. Oh, the rain is coming. It seems they weren’t doing a very good job of focusing on repairs.

They spur themselves into motion, abandoning the various tasks around the station that they’d been idling at for the last half an hour. It seems they’ll have to wait until the next cycle before they can reconnect with the rest of themselves.

As they settle themselves down to charge in the vast hanger of the MMSP, and their large, armored form prepares to weather the rain, Silent Eyes takes comfort in the fact that all of their citizens appear to be fed and accounted for. They flutter their wings in amusement as the slugcats begin to bully them into the quickly forming cuddle pile on the floor, adjusting themself slightly to support the one that’s already fallen asleep on their back. They don’t appear bothered in the slightest by the rigid metal form of the ARUs, seeming perfectly content with the fact that all four of them together provide a comfortable amount of heat.

Surrounded on all sides by warm bodies, with the sounds of purring echoing off the walls of their hanger, Eyes feels their fans start to slow as the worry that had been eating at them finally begins to abate.

The messages are concerning, and Eyes is still concerned at the apparent state of their fellow iterators, but they will not let their fear dismantle them. With a clearer mind and a new objective, One Thousand Silent Eyes finds themselves wishing they could tell NSH the same thing he tried to tell Looks To The Moon: “Hang in there. I’m coming to help.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the meet-ugly prompts: #13, Indruck, SFW ? 👁️👁️

Here you go!

13: we make contact before trying to steal the last seat on the subway/bus/train and I end up in your lap and fuck you, I’m going to stay here because I’ve had a really long day and this seat was mine

The Phoenix Starport is a labyrinth, while technically made of chrome and touch-screens, is really made of lines.

Duck stands in line to show his ticket, to deposit his bags, to go through three separate security check-points and, when he gets to the section for the shuttle to take him to the Starliner, a fourth one because when your clients are high paying, you don’t want them getting blown to pieces.

He isn’t high-paying, he isn’t a seasoned space traveler, and he isn’t going to spend one second more on his feet than he has to. It’s been two solid hours of that just to get to this point. Unfortunately, every other passenger shares this sentiment. When the shuttle door opens a mass of lifeforms pile in, hunting for seats. Duck spots one, turns to sit, and finds it’s much fuzzier than it looked.

“Excuse me.” The creature whose laps he’s in reminds him of the pictures of Mothman scattered around his home state, “but this seat is taken.”

“Yeah, by me, because I saw it first.”

A click from inside the mothmans chest, “You are wrong. I saw it first, and did not foresee anyone being rude enough to use me in its place.”

Every other seat is filled, and it’s a fifteen minute ride to the Starliner. Duck crosses his arms, “you don’t wanna be a seat, you better get up.”

That earns him an annoyed chirr, “Not a chance.”

The shuttle ride is smooth, but his seat keeps prodding him with a clawed finger whenever he puts his weight on it. When they arrive, the two of them stand one after the other. The mothman shakes out his feathers, tosses a glare over his shoulder, and steps through the doors.

Unsurprisingly, the Sylvain Dream makes opulence seem subdued. There are rare flowers studding the fountain by the concierge desk, art from across the universe on the walls, and a sound dampening, shimmering carpet lining the hall to his room. He’s looking forward to some alone time; while all the suites at this level are technically two person, they’re so expensive that most travelers get their own rooms.

He keys open the door and comes face to chest with the same fucking alien from the shuttle.

“Ah. So we are in this timeline. Lovely.” The mothman says dryly, passing him to greet the bellhop who just finished scurrying up the stairs, “I see you have a message from minister Woodbridge. Kindly have someone reply and tell him that if it’s an emergency, they may contact me directly, but if the matter is anything else, they are to leave me in peace during my journey.”

“Yes, Seer Cold.”

“Thank you.” the seer drops a coin into his hand and brushes past Duck without another word.

Duck finally makes it past the entryway and gasps; when the people paying for his journey asked if he’d prefer forest, city, beach, or desert, he assumed it was some sort of vague theme. Instead, the carpet is lush, soft grass, there are flowers everywhere, and the furniture is all made to be woodsy and rustic. The bath and shower are like a mini water-fall and pool, his bed housed in a mock cabin.

“This is amazing.”

“If you are here purely for a leisure trip.” His suite-mate crosses both sets of arms, “some of us are being transported back to work.”

“Now look, this is a work trip for me too. You gotta admit this is pretty swank.”

“And an attempt to soften the blow.” Mothman mutters.

Duck rolls his eyes, decides this is not his problem to deal with, and goes to unpack for the month-long journey ahead.

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

For the first two days he and Indrid--which is what the aloof, perpetually touchy Sylph likes to be called--do their best to ignore each other. They’re stuck on the same dining schedule, which means Duck accidentally insults the alien by giggling when he sees him lick his dessert up with an absurdly long tongue. He makes it up to the next night by saving the pineapple soda delivered in their lunch basket for the Sylph.

On day three, he’s reading by the holo-fire pit when a white badge with blue writing dangles before him.

“Would you like to accompany me to the spa?”

“Uh….”

“Since I foresee you asking no, we do not have to spend the entire time together.”

“I, uh, I was gonna say sure, but was wonderin’ why you offered it to me.”

“Oh.” His antenna flick in a new way, “I, ah, they gave me two. I have no one else to go with and it seemed silly to let it go to waste.”

“I gotta wear anything special?”

“Since humans require clothes in all but a few scenarios, I suggest wearing your robe.”

The spa is just as elaborate as the rest of the ship, with cushy chairs and complimentary booze. The secretary hands them each a menu of treatments bigger than any Duck’s held at a restaurant.

“Sugar scrub….talon wax….rock massage. Do they mean hot rocks?”

“No, that treatment helps those with scales shed.”

“Huh.” Duck pokes his tongue in his cheek, “wish they said which of these were safe for, uh, squishy human bodies.”

Indrid reaches out a claw, tapping several on the list, “This ful massage would be good; you’re muscular, it will be nice to have those muscles tended to.”

“Oh, uh, thanks. Have been workin out more, nice to have someone else notice.”

The Sylph smiles, “you may also like the hair luxury add-on; I’ve always thought humans with salt and pepper hair should show it off.”

Before Duck can ask how Indrid developed that opinion or learned that slang, they’re ushered off into separate rooms. He’s scrubbed and rubbed until his body surrenders the last of it’s stress, the oils they rub on his skin and into his hair smelling pleasantly of pine and cedar. His session ends with one of the staff leading him to a small room covered in deep green marble, where he can rinse and dry off in his own time.

Indrid is in the same room, reclining in a chair with a sun lamp on his wings. They’ve been groomed, the feather straighter and smoother than this morning. Duck takes his first real look at them, notices how the black is iridescent and that there are two bands of deep grey on the inside close to Indrid’s torso.

He’s really quite stunning.

“I feel” Indrid murmurs, “as if we got off to a bad start.”

“You think?” Duck aims for a genial tone.

Indrid cocks his head, “Yes. That is why I said it. I, ah, I ought to apologize for my temperament over the last few days. I am so very fond of earth, of humans, and I’d hoped to be able to work there indefinitely. But Sylvain is in crisis, and so they need me near. Never mind that we have the capability to transmit messages quickly between planets.”

“What’s the crisis?”

“Our plants are dying or failing to produce the resources we need. The belief is that-”

“-it’s a leftover contamination or mutation from the earth plants that crossed through the gate before it was destroyed.”

Indrid blinks, then grins, “it is novel to be the one having their sentences finished. Yes, Duck Newton; the gate has been gone for over two hundred years, but both our worlds will feel it’s effects for many more years.” His antenna perk up, “you’re the one they’re bringing on to consult.”

“Yep. That’s why they gave me such a sweet deal on the trip; they know it’s gonna be fuckin exhaustin work. Even with all the other perks they’re offerin, I know a lot of folks didn’t wanna apply.”

“Why did you feel differently?”

He pushes to the other side of the little pool so they can be closer, “I spent my whole life in the town I grew up in. I love what I do, I love helpin forests stay healthy and regrow and I...I dunno, how often do you get the chance to go to space and see forests on another planet?”

“Once, if you are me.” Indrid closes his wings, clicks off the light, and offers Duck a hand, “and I am glad you will have the chance to do the same.”

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

“You know” Indrid passes Duck the plate of toast, “I am named for Sylph who was the second most recent seer after myself. He and I are the same kind of Sylph, and when my parents learned their mothling-to-be was the next seer, they decided I would be Indrid Cold.”

“Not gonna lie, people actin like your fate is set in stone from birth gives me the creeps.”

“Understandable. I would not admit this to the other ministers, but I am no longer content with reporting on the futures. I try to change fate when I can. In this way, I am also like the first Indrid Cold. He kept trying to intervene in disasters; that’s how he got seen when he should not have been.”

“Holy fuck, there really was a mothman!”

“Indeed. I also learned from his personal notes that he was so fond of humans, he ended up marrying one.”

“Damn” Duck passes him the sweetener for his tea, teases, “you share that habit too?”

Red eyes linger a moment too long on his body before Indrid grins, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

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

“You sure you don’t wanna swim?” Duck treads water in the green lagoon of some distant moon. The cruise is docked for an activity day, Duck having selected to spend it snorkeling and Indrid deciding to spend it with Duck.

“The wings are not built for it. Though the water does look pleasant.” Indrid lazily sifts black sand through his claws.

“You could wade in. It stays pretty shallow there” he points to a sand bar.

“If I get in over my head, will you come to my aid?”

“You know it.”

Indrid wades in, chirping as the waves hit his knees. When Duck next glances at him, Indrid is glancing right back. He’s smiling, soft and secretive.

“I am glad you picked this spot. The view is spectacular.”

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

They’ve hit turbulence a handful of times, all of which pale in comparison to the jolt that sends him tumbling out of bed. There are stabilizer controls to lighten the gravity in the room so they won’t feel the bumps as badly. But when he wobbles over, he finds it’s already up to the lowest it can be without him floating.

He stumbles to the window, the curtains shut against the vast universe. Is turbulence this severe normal? If the gravity doohickey isn’t able to help, maybe that means they’ve never hit a storm this bad.

Opening the window is a terrible idea; there’s no cause of the turbulence to be seen, and now he’s in a dark room staring into the depths of space, it’s so big, he’s so small, they all are, the forces of nature still have it in them to crack this ship like an egg, killing them all.

“Would it help if I said there are no futures where this storm poses a threat to us?” Indrid whispers from behind him.

“Kinda.”

“Would it help to see something breathtaking?”

“Wh-”

Indrid taps the glass, drawing Ducks attention to two massive, starry shapes, “Celestial whales. At least that’s the human name for them.”

“Holy fuck.” They remind Duck of Whale Sharks, but impossibly bigger, skin coated in thousands of star-spots, “how can they do that? I mean, obviously they ain’t mammals, but fuckin nothin thrives in deep space.”

“No one is certain.” Indrid sighs, happily, “isn’t it wonderful to know there are such things in the universe?”

“Yeah. AHfuck” He hits the wall as the whole ship shudders, “fuck, sorry-”

“It’s alright. It can be alarming when you’re on your first trip through the cosmos. I, ah, I have something that may help, if you’re alright with me touching you some.”

“Fine by me.” Duck follows Indrid to the Sylph’s bed. The seer sits cross-legged with his back against the wall and instructs Duck to rest his head in his lap. The points of his claws begin rubbing his neck and the base of his skull, Indrid humming at a low, steady pitch until Duck’s eyes start to close.

The pressure points are helping, he can tell by his loosening spine. But what soothes him to sleep is the repetitive reminder of Indrid there with him in the dark.

When he wakes up the storm is gone. His body is still moving, rising and falling in time with Indrid’s breath as he sleeps. He pulled Duck atop him in the night, and at some point must have wrapped him in his wings, since once, is still half-flopped on Duck’s back.

Seized with affection, Duck kisses his shoulder. When this earns him a happy chirp, he does it again, then kisses a cheerful path up to Indrid’s cheek. Red eyes open, sleepy and full of tenderness, just in time for the Sylph to turn his head and kiss Duck properly.

“What a lovely thing to awaken to.”

“No kiddin” Duck kisses him again, “fuck, Indrid, this is the weirdest goddamn thing to ever happen to me and I’m thinkin it might also be the best.”

Indrid hugs him close, “We shall have ample time to find out, if you wish to do so.”

“Hell yeah. But we only got a few days before we hit Sylvain.”

“Yes” Indrid kisses his nose, “but I happen to foresee Woodbridge ignoring my request for peace and sending me a message saying I will be working closely with a certain, visiting forestry expert.”

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

           Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

           “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

[beautifultypewriter]

Soon ~ Fili ~ Part Two

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,758

Pairing: Fili x fem!oc

Summary:  A Thumbelina AU. Áine is much smaller than the rest of her family and hopes that one day she’ll meet someone her own size. Her hopes are answered when she meets the Dwarven Prince, Fili.

Part One

A/N: The next part! I love this series, just in case anyone was wondering.  This story is based on the 1994 animated film Thumbelina. I’m going to be using some parts of the songs and I claim no ownership over them or any of the original story points or similar dialogue.

Áine spun one last time as her song came to an end. She hugged herself tightly as she stared at the picture of the happy couple. With a sigh and downcast eyes, she turned away from the book, her gaze moving over the window and landing on her clamshell bed. Her shoulders tensed as she turned back to the window. She could have sworn she saw… Áine gasped as she saw the figure again. Stumbling back, she turned her body towards Kili, keeping her eyes on the stranger in the window opening. Whatever it was, it moved forward quickly, stepping into the candlelight, its arms held out in front of its body and its eyes wide, “Please, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 Áine halted herself, her mouth closing as she caught sight of the wings on the stranger’s back. Her eyes roved over the dragonfly shaped wings. They were a deep, rich purple color and the edges glimmered with a thin line of gold. Áine toyed with the ends of her hair as she stared at the wings, her eyes moving quickly to her book and back again. The stranger stepped forward again, “Are you alright?” 

Áine let her eyes move over the rest of the stranger, he wasn’t much taller than her, with broad shoulders and strong arms. She took note of his long blonde hair, adorned with several braids, and his half smile. Then her eyes met his and there was a rush of air around her. She felt like she was floating amongst the stars with only him to hold onto and she felt a warmth blooming in her chest. The stranger felt it too and he moved towards her again, his lips parting slightly as that same warmth flooded his own chest. This time Áine didn’t step back, but she moved forward as well, wanting to be closer to him. Neither of them knew what to do once they were stood directly in front of each other, still unable to fall from the reverie they had found themselves in. The stranger smiled as he reached out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear. Áine shivered when his fingertips grazed her cheek, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

 She was able to pull her eyes away at that moment and she glanced at the book again. The wings on the prince in the picture were the same shape as those of the man in front of her and both figment and reality had braids in their hair. She smiled at the stranger, her eyes widening, “You’re a dwarf.” She sighed as his fingers grazed her skin again before he pulled away from her, taking a step back.

 He nodded, “Fili,” he bowed at the waist, “at your service.” As he stood straight again, he gently grabbed her hand a placed a kiss on her knuckles.

 She blushed, “I’m Áine.” With her free hand, she grabbed the skirt of her nightdress and bowed her head as she gave a small curtsey.

 Fili chuckled, “Áine.”

 She nodded, her smile widening, “Fili.” He nodded back, still holding her hand in his. She smiled up at him, moving closer again. He leaned down, his senses flooding with her. He watched her eyes slip closed and he smiled.

 Then a loud snorting sound broke the moment and caused the two to jump apart. Áine’s hand slipped from Fili’s grip as she spun around to face the side of the room where Kili’s bed was. Fili drew his sword with one hand as he threw the other around the young woman’s waist. He pulled her close, holding his sword out, ready for whatever attacker had made that horrible sound. Áine placed her hand on Fili’s shoulder, “It’s alright. It’s just my brother.” She pointed to the bed where Kili was sprawled out and snoring, “His snoring sounds quite terrible, but he’s harmless.” She smiled up at Fili as he nodded and put his sword back in its sheath. He looked to the place where she pointed and saw what appeared to be a large lump laying in a human sized bed. The lump moved as it let out another loud sound. Áine started giggling and Fili turned to her quickly, a smile spreading over his lips as the sound reached his ears. He much preferred her sweet laugh to anything else.

 Fili nodded over at the lump, “Your brother, huh?” Áine nodded. Fili glanced between the two of them, “He’s not like you though.” It wasn’t a question, but still Áine nodded.

 She took a few steps away from Fili, walking towards that clothbound book that was still propped up on the table, the picture somehow paling in comparison to the dwarf in her room. She turned back to Fili, “Neither is my mother.” She looked down at her bare feet, rocking slightly, “I’m not like anyone else it seems,” she looked up at his beautiful purple wings, “not even like you.” Her sadness flooded his veins and he jumped up, his wings moving quickly to carry him over to her. As he landed, he took her in his arms, wanting her to go back to laughing and to dancing. She looked up at him, a sad smile on her face, “Is it wonderful having wings?”

 Fili breathed out a laugh as he nodded, “I won’t lie to you, it’s quite nice.” Áine nodded as she turned her head away from him. They may have been the same size, but she still was quite different from Fili. She was still the only person in the world who was just like her. Áine sighed, “I wish I knew what it was like.”

 Fili’s fingertips grazed her jaw, moving to rest on her chin. He turned her head, so that she was looking in his eyes again, “You never know, maybe one day you will.” He said it with so much assurance that she couldn’t help but believe that he knew something she didn’t. Áine pulled away from Fili when she heard a buzzing sound come from outside.

 She looked back at him, “Do you hear that?”

 Fili sighed as he closed his eyes, “Yeah, that’s just my bumble,” he nodded to the window, “Mithril, he uh, I guess he’s done resting.” Shaking his head, Fili chuckled, “He likes to make it known when he’s ready to move on.”

 Áine’s eyes lit up as she moved forward a step, “A bumble?” Turning back, she grabbed Fili’s hand and pulled him over to the window opening, “Come on.” She giggled as she squeezed out onto the windowsill, stopping when she saw a large bumblebee stepping in circles. The bumble stopped and jumped back when it noticed her standing there. Áine drew in a long breath, “He’s beautiful.” Fili stared at her, his eyes softening as hers lit up in wonder. Her jaw was dropped open as she watched Mithril move about.

 Fili stepped up next to her, “Want to go for a ride?” He nodded to Mithril, watching Áine carefully for her reaction. Her jaw dropped further as her head whipped over to him. She glanced back through the window, searching her bedroom briefly before she turned back to Fili.

 With a nod, she smiled, “Yes.” Fili grinned as he grabbed her hands and led her over to Mithril. The bumble moved back a few steps before he moved forward again. Fili patted his head before slowly helping Áine onto his back. Once she was situated, he climbed up in front of her, taking hold of Mithril’s antennae. He turned his head, “You may want to hold on.” Áine didn’t say anything as her arms encircled his waist, her hands clasping together and resting on his stomach. Fili placed one of his hands on her clasped ones before he gently kicked Mithril into motion. The bumble took off easily, soaring higher in the air as Áine’s grip on Fili tightened and her laughter rang in his ears.

 The wind blew through Áine’s hair as she held tightly to the dwarf in front of her. She had never felt so free as she did in that moment, and she wondered if Fili felt like this all the time. Mithril flew them over the low wall that stood between her home and the river, following the water downstream for a bit before Fili guided him over to the right. Áine gasped as they flew over a vast field of wildflowers. She could see every color flower imaginable in the light of the moon. They were low enough that she could reach over and brush her hands along the petals, so she did, laughing quietly at the softness of the flowers. Fili pulled Mithril to a stop before he quickly climbed down, his own wings fluttering to keep him hovering just above the flowers. He turned to Áine, holding his hands out to her. She stared at him, her smile dropping and her eyes widening.

 He chuckled, “Come on.” He beckoned her towards him, but she stayed where she was, glancing down to the ground, noting that it was a pretty far way to fall. Fili moved forward, taking one of her hands in his own, “I’ll be your wings.” Áine stared into his eyes and he nodded, “I’ll never let you fall.” Taking a deep breath, Áine pinched her eyes shut and grabbed Fili’s other hand, slipping from Mithril’s back. Fili’s arm went to her waist and held her tightly to his chest. Áine opened her eyes as she felt her body floating in one spot instead of falling and she looked down to see that the flower petals were brushing her feet. She looked up at Fili to see him grinning down at her. He held her easily, one arm around her waist and the other holding her hand out to the side. His wings fluttered, moving them in slow circles around the field. Áine laughed as the flowers brushed over her bare feet, Fili’s smile widening as she did so.

 They danced through the flowers, Fili holding her up as she hummed quietly in his ear. Fili sighed contentedly, nuzzling into Áine’s neck. She pulled away from him slightly, “Fili?” He hummed and she continued, “Are Ones real?”

 He pulled his head back completely, looking down into her nervous eyes, “Where’d you hear about Ones?”

 She blushed, “In a storybook.” Fili chuckled and she felt her blush spread down her neck. She looked down.

 He pressed his forehead against hers, trying to catch her eye, “They are.”

 She looked into his eyes again, “How do you know when you’ve found them?”

 Fili shook his head, “I’m not entirely sure myself. I’ve heard so many different descriptions of what it feels like. I’m starting to think it’s different for everyone.” He pressed a bit harder with his forehead, “It probably feels warm and it probably happens all at once when you see them.” He pulled her closer to his body, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Áine, will you sing for me?” Fili leaned his head on her shoulder.

 She nodded, humming a quiet melody before starting her song, “You will be my wings. You will lift me high above.” Fili sighed as he continued to move them through the field, dancing through the air with her under the moonlight. Áine smiled, ��Everything we’re dreaming of will soon be ours.” She ran her free hand through Fili’s hair, pulling away from him slightly. He put both of his hands on her waist and lifted her up, smiling as he spun her in circles.

 His movements got wider, and their dance picked up the pace a bit as he smiled at her, “Anything that you desire. Anything at all.” He pulled her close again as he flew upwards, away from the flowers, “Every day I’ll take you higher and I’ll never let you fall.”

 The pair floated gently back to the flowers, both oblivious to the dangers lurking in the darkness, instead completely wrapped up in the other. Fili was grinning and Áine was blushing as she sang quietly to him. Just below their feet, hidden among the stems and grass was a group of four goblins. All were enchanted by the young woman’s song, but one in particular was far gone. Without needing to say anything, the group decided that she was the missing piece to their musical collection. As the dwarven prince flew off with her, they watched his path, following quickly on foot.

 It took no time at all for Mithril to land on Áine’s windowsill once again. The young woman giggled as Fili helped her to her feet, twirling in his arms as his wings fluttered. He smiled down at her, “Áine, something’s happened tonight. I… I don’t know that I’ve ever felt this before.” He leaned closer to her, “There’s something about you, something special.” Áine looked down, but Fili was quick to lift her chin again, “Can I see you again?”

 She nodded, “Of course.” Fili opened his mouth, ready to say something else, but he was cut off by a far-off shout of his name. Áine looked in the direction of the shout, her eyebrows knitting together, “What’s going on? Who is that?” Fili groaned as he pulled her towards the window opening, successfully hiding her within the shadows.

 He ran a hand over his face, “That’s the king of the dwarves.” He waved a dismissive hand, “He’s my uncle.”

 Áine stared at him, “Your uncle?”

 Fili nodded, looking out into the night, “Yes, my uncle.” He turned back to Áine, rushing his words, knowing that he needed to get back to his uncle before he found him, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

 Áine’s head was spinning. She was sure that some of it had to do with Fili pulling her into a hiding place so quickly, but most of it had to do with the new information being presented to her. If Fili’s uncle was the king of the dwarves then he must be some sort of… Áine gasped, “But then you’re… tomorrow?”

 Fili chuckled quietly, “Yes, I’m a prince and yes, tomorrow.” He took her face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones, “Will you welcome me tomorrow?” He searched her eyes for her answer, and he found it when they softened.

 She nodded, “Of course I will.” Fili breathed a sigh of relief, pressing his forehead to hers quickly before pulling back and sliding his fingers through her hair. With nimble fingers, he created a small plait behind her ear. Áine watched as he reached for one of his own braids, pulling the carved bead from the end of it. With a smile, he fastened the bead to her own hair, kissing her forehead as she stared up at him. Taking the end of the braid into her hands, she turned the bead over, smiling at the beautiful detail put into it. Fili watched her, wishing he could stay there with her forever. Áine looked up at him again and without a word, she pulled a pin from her own hair and tucked it into his. He glanced at the pin, seeing it decorated with glass forget-me-not flowers.

 Fili cupped her cheek, “I could never forget you.” Áine blushed as he kissed her forehead one more time. Then he stood from his crouched position and made his way back to the windowsill, rushing to Mithril, hopping onto the bumble’s back easily, and turned back and smiled at her, “Tomorrow.” She nodded as he took off into the night.

 She rushed from her place in the window opening and waved after him, “Tomorrow.” Smiling to herself, Áine squeezed back through the window opening and climbed back into bed. She sighed as she snuggled into her blankets, the only thoughts running through her head as she fell to sleep were of Fili.

 As both siblings slept, their bedroom window was pushed further open, a snarling goblin easing itself into the room. Glowing eyes moved around the room before they landed on the sleeping girl in the clamshell box turned into a bed. Rubbing his hands together, the goblin moved forward, circling the bed, and coming to a stop at the back of it. With a quiet chuckle, he snapped the lid of the box shut, reaching over to slide the latch into place. Then he heaved the box into his arms and moved to make his way back to the window.

[sariahsue]

The Open Line - Ch 18, Masks

Read Chapter 1 Here Read Chapter 17 Here

"It's not a patrol night, Marinette," Tikki said.

"Cat Noir says he has something for me." Marinette wondered what it could be. Her hand had felt warm since last night, and she couldn't shake the feeling of what it had been like to have his lips all over it. She shivered, then turned to her mirror. Outside of her bedroom, everything was quiet. Her parents had already gone to bed, and the rest of the city sounded like it was asleep. Marinette, on the other hand, couldn't have been more awake.

"So why are you brushing your hair?"

"I don't want it to look like something lives in it. Like... like a nest."

"Ooh! You want to look nice for Cat Noir, don't you?"

"NO." She yanked, pulling on a tangle painfully. "I brush my hair all the time! It's going to get messed up anyway. Because- With all the wind, and-" And he already thinks I'm beautiful. "He has nothing to do with this!"

She slammed her hairbrush down on the stack of Adrien's pictures she'd pulled off her wall a few hours before. The pile slipped and spilled onto the floor. "Sorry, sorry! Ah! I'm so sorry, Adrien." It had taken most of the afternoon to decide which pictures to take down, and there were still plenty of them up, but... she'd needed more room for all the pictures of Cat Noir. There were just too many good ones of him. She'd had a hard time choosing.

No matter what she said to Tikki, Marinette couldn't deny the obvious truth of what was happening. As she shuffled Adrien's pictures and stacked them up neatly, she had to admit that Cat Noir had been right last night. She was falling for him, with no end in sight, and she wanted to keep falling forever. Adrien's pictures were tucked quietly into a drawer.

"I'm just... still not sure if I'm ready. Dating as superheroes would be so complicated, the city's safety depends on us, and-" She motioned to the many pictures of Adrien that remained around her room. She still had feelings for him.

Tikki's antennae wiggled, the way they always did when the kwami was holding back information.

"Never mind our identities!" Marinette continued. "There's so many problems that could come from sharing those! And we'd have to share them." If they got together, she would tell him who she was. It would be horrible to only be with him for part of her life. She wanted him all the time.

"So share identities," Tikki said.

"It's not that simple!" Marinette said, turning back to the mirror. Her hair was a probably a lost cause, but she tried to tie it up nicely anyway.

"It could be that simple," Tikki said. "Either way, you need to decide soon."

Marinette agreed. It was wrong to keep giving him hope if it turned out to be false. Stop it now, or choose him. She wasn't sure which option she wanted to take. Both sounded scary.

"Say... say I did choose Cat Noir," Marinette said. "What would happen? Just out of curiosity."

Tikki flitted around Marinette's head, tucking in loose strands of hair before stopping in front of her face to look her in the eye. "Then I think you would both be very happy."

***

The night was unseasonably warm, and a thick fog had rolled in. Combined with the dark night, it was difficult to pick out her partner until she almost swung past him. That suited Ladybug just fine. They'd have more privacy.

As usual, Cat Noir was waiting for her when she reached their meeting point. This time, he had chosen the Pons des Arts, the Lovelock Bridge. She didn't miss the implication, and she found that she didn't mind it either. Water lapped peacefully below them, and the dampness, fog and late hour ensured they were alone. After she dropped down next to him, she realized Cat Noir had his hands behind his back.

"You look nice."

"Thanks," Ladybug said. Unsure if she should keep her distance or stand closer to him like she wanted to, she compromised by leaning against the railing and shuffling her feet. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you got me something just so you'd have an excuse to see me again."

He smiled. "Purr-haps."

"Oh, please, don't start with those."

Instead of pun-ishing her further, he looked above them, Ladybug following his gaze. The flog blocked out the sky. A dull smudge was the only evidence of the moon.

"No stars," he said. "So I think I have a promise to keep." With a sweeping bow, he knelt and brought out a small, white jewelry box from behind his back and presented it to her. Ladybug couldn't help the coy smile that spread across her face as she reached for it, and was grateful that the night hid the color that was slowly pooling in her cheeks.

Tissue paper crinkled as she lifted the lid and peeked inside, and Cat Noir said, "I told you I would get you more stars. Now you can see them all the time. Plus, it matches your eyes." Inside was necklace, a spherical pendant on a thin chain. Cat Noir reached over and pulled it out, holding it up for her so she could get a better look.

She squinted at it. In the darkness, the dangling pendant looked black, barely distinguishable from the surrounding night.

"Oh, sorry," Cat Noir said, pulling out his baton and using the screen for a flashlight. "I forgot you don't have magical eyesight. Here." The necklace swung and arced into the light and with a flash was illuminated.

The glass sphere blazed bright blue and sparkled. He hadn't just given her stars, he'd given her a whole galaxy. Tiny planets swirled, carving avenues through stellar star dust, while pinpricks of light sparkled. It was a whirlpool of life, blue, purple, black, all burning and tumbling and dancing together. It was fixed in a small marble of glass, and yet it seemed to be growing and spinning as she stared.

"Thank you," she whispered, awed. "It's beautiful." What an understatement, but she couldn't think of anything to say that would do it justice.

The glow vanished suddenly as he moved the necklace out of the light to give it to her, but she put up a hand to stop him.

"What?" he asked.

There was no way she'd be able to do up the clasp behind her neck on the first try, and she'd rather not look like an idiot just now. Not in front of him.

"Help me put it on?" And she turned around without waiting for his answer.

It was a mistake.

She knew it as soon as he pulled her hair away from her neck, his claws grazing over her bare skin. She shivered as she felt her self fall in love just a little bit deeper, just a little bit closer to the precipice of choosing him.

Standing there quietly as he adjusted the necklace and fiddled with the clasp, she weighed her options. She should leave now. Before she got them both into trouble.

Before she changed her mind.

Before she chose to stay.

"Done," he said.

Ladybug took her time turning around, staring at the pendant resting just below her collarbone instead of looking at him and betraying how much his simple touch had affected her. But when he cleared his throat, she instinctively looked up.

Try though she had to hide her feelings, he saw them. His eyes softened, and she could see the tiniest bit of a blush around the edges of his mask. Was she staring at him? Was that weird? Had they been looking at each other too long? Maybe. And she didn't care.

Taking a step closer, Cat Noir reached forward and cupped her face even more tenderly than he had put on the necklace. Like she was fragile, precious, forbidden.

For the first time that night, Ladybug stopped thinking. Her hand floated up to his cheek in echo of his movement, and her fingers caressed the edge of his mask, then slipped underneath. He wanted her to know.

As he leaned in, her finger lifted the mask further. Two sets of eyes closed. His lips ghosted over hers, as gently as a breath, soft and timid and sweet.

Is this what choosing him feels like? 

Ladybug's brain re-engaged, her fears stuttering back to life, and her lips skimmed over his skin, away from his dangerous mouth and landed her kiss on his cheek. "S-sorry," she whispered into his hair.

He wilted against her before quickly pulling his disappointment and his head away from her. The edge of his mask fell back into place as her fingers slipped down, clenched at her sides, and she felt her own pangs of disappointment. Ladybug couldn't bring herself to step away, but he made no move to either, so they stayed there, chest to chest, Ladybug staring at a point on shoulder, both waiting for the other to move.

She was stuck. Undecided.

Who was he? She had almost kissed him.

She couldn't unmask him. She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted to stay and kiss away all his sadness, all the memories of being ignored, everyone one his problems. But she couldn't.

She still liked someone else. She hadn't decided. She couldn't unmask him. They had responsibilities. The city had to come before either of them.

All these arguments seemed little in comparison to the pounding of her heart, or the way he held her. He kept one hand in her hair, the other around her waist, and she could feel it trembling slightly, like he was trying to pull her closer and make himself let her go at the same time. Last night in the leaves she had wanted it kiss him, but it had been nothing compared to this. If she just leaned back into him, she could make her decision right now. It would be so easy.

She wanted to stay, but if she didn't leave him know, she wasn't sure she ever would.

Fighting the urge to kiss his cheek a second time, Ladybug pulled away. The gap between them felt suddenly isolating, though it was only a few inches. "Sorry," she whispered to the ground, and then she ran away.

Was she hoping to hear him chasing her? Did she want him to call out her name and hold her again? Or did she really want to be alone right now? Ladybug wasn't sure. One thing she was certain of, she wasn't going to keep doing this to him. With each pounding footstep she hammered out a promise. She would take the time to decide before she spent any more time with him. No matter what, she wouldn't hurt him further.

She didn't take out her yoyo the whole way home, preferring the rhythmic beat and exertion of running and leaping. The necklace bounced against her chest, reminding her of the mistake she had just made and how much it could cost her, or more importantly, cost her partner.

Out of breath, she landed on her roof, dropped through her skylight, and released her transformation. Everything was as still and dark as she had left it, which caught her off guard. Marinette tensed, looking around for something out of place, before realizing it was her. She was what felt different, felt like everything around her should be changed, too.

"Marinette," Tikki finally said.

"I know. I know!" Marinette flopped onto her back and blinked in the darkness. The necklace hadn't disappeared with her suit. The pendant's weight was heavy on her throat. "I shouldn't have almost kissed him like that. It was wrong."

"That wasn't what I was going to say," Tikki said. She floated toward the edge of the bed and out of sight.

"Then what?" Marinette called after her.

"You wanted to stay," Tikki said. "I think it was wrong of you to leave."

Marinette sat up and took the necklace off. So what? she wanted to ask. You think I should choose him? Or do you think I already have? But she wasn't sure she was brave enough to hear the answers, so she kept those questions to herself. The pendant swung by the chain in her hand, and it pulled her attention back to problems that were less scary, ones she knew she could fix. What to do with the necklace? She occasionally ran into Cat Noir when she wasn't masked, so wearing it as a civilian was out of the question. But it was too pretty to hide away.

In a burst of inspiration, Marinette turned on the lamp next to her bed. The halo of light it cast on her wall was the perfect place, and she tacked the necklace up. The pendant glowed, casting a streak of gold-flecked blue instead of a shadow across the picture Cat Noir had sent to her of their night at the park so long ago.

Even though it was late, Marinette was too wired to sleep. Knowing she had to at least try or she'd be a zombie in the morning, she curled up beneath her blankets and stared at the decorations on her wall. Her hand wandered up to her cheek where he had held her. His touch had been so soft, almost hesitant. She hadn't expected that. Nor had she expected to find herself wishing she hadn't run away, so she would know if his kisses were as gentle as his hands.

Their next patrol was Wednesday night. With luck, there wouldn't be any akumas before then, and she'd have 48 hours to think things through.

She was not lucky.

Read Chapter 19 Here

***

Author’s note: FOR REAL, LADYBUG. JUST KISS HIM ALREADY. (Thank you for waiting for this chapter! (Like you had a choice.) Next up is Cat Noir's POV! OOooOOh!)

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Galaxy Girl

Fox Mulder x Reader

Words: 2980

Summary: The Mulder family celebrates the eighth birthday of their daughter, Grace. 

Notes: Not much of a summary, but I hope you guys really enjoy this one. I wanted to write some fluff for Fox, but I also had to throw in some sad moments concerning the other kids at their daughter's school. Again, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! (P.S., I named their daughter after Grace from Return to Me.)

-

You woke up to feel the emptiness in your arms and panic sent through you. 

“Fox.” You whispered, nudging your husband’s arm to wake him up. When he didn’t stir, you spoke louder. “Fox.” 

“Hmmm,” He groaned, his eyes slowly opening. When he saw the fear in your eyes, he was wide awake. 

“Where is she?” You asked, searching every corner of the tent. A snapping twig outside caught both of your attention. Fox cautiously moved the flap of the tent to the side, stepping out when it seemed safe. The rising sun cast his shadow onto the tent, along with the small mass creeping out of the bushes. 

“No… please!” He exclaimed as the shape leaped onto him. Hearing him scream, you bolted out of the tent. Fox was lying in the grass, attempting to defend himself as the little creature tickled him. You sighed with relief and couldn’t help but laugh. “Save me! Save me!” Fox begged through his uncontrollable laughter, the masked fiend on top of him pinching and poking his sides. You lifted the beast off of him, removing the ugly monster mask to reveal your giggling daughter beneath. 

“Rawr!” Grace growled, pretending that her fingers were claws. You set her down and leaned so that only she would hear you.

“Tag team?” You suggested, bringing a giant grin to her face. You both slowly turned back to Fox, who had just gotten up. 

“What?” He asked innocently. You and Grace exchanged a mischievous smile. 

“Attack!” 

You both charged him, tackling him back into the grass in a whirlwind of tickling and pinching. 

“This isn’t fair!” Fox shouted through a chorus of laughter. Powering through your very brutal attack, Fox grabbed you and rolled over, turning the battle on you. Seeing that her team was losing, Grace quickly joined her father’s side. 

“Traitor!” You exclaimed, hardly able to breathe from laughing so hard. After a few minutes of tickling torment, the three of you lay in the grass out of breath but all with grins on your faces. Grace was in between the two of you, holding hands with each of you. You turned to her and smiled. “Happy birthday Gracie.”

You went inside and made breakfast- blueberry pancakes and bacon, Grace’s favorite. Fox and Grace sat at the table, drawing pictures of the tent outside. Grace’s had a small flying saucer hovering over it. 

It was her idea to camp out in the backyard, using a low hanging branch to hang the tent and bringing out the couch cushions to sleep on. Since it was her day, you let her decide everything- within reasonable limits. No trips to the moon would be arranged, but you would try to make it as special as possible. 

“So who did you invite to the party?” Fox asked, putting Grace’s drawing up on the fridge. Grace shook her head. 

“I didn’t invite anybody. I want to spend the day with you guys.” She was smiling, but her finger tapped her side. She did that every time you asked who had taken your best shoes and she told you it was the little green men. “That’s my perfect birthday.” You could just see Fox’s heart melt, kneeling down to envelope her in a hug. 

“That’s my Galaxy Girl.” He beamed. You felt a twinge in your heart, knowing the true reason why there wouldn’t be any party. 

Grace wasn’t the most popular girl in her third-grade class. You had spoken to the teacher a few times and she told you that Grace was being teased by the other kids. They called her names like Alien Girl and Space Geek. You didn’t remember eight-year-olds being so mean. 

“I hope there’s room for one more at this party.” A voice said from around the corner. 

“Auntie Dana!” Grace squealed, practically tackling Dana and her bags of presents. 

“Hey Scully.” Fox greeted happily. Clearing the table and putting in the sink- without rinsing them off, as usual.

"Can I open them now?" Grace begged. Dana shrugged. 

"Ask your mom." Grace looked up at you and pouted her lips, her green-blue eyes wide and pleading. Those same eyes gave you a wink, but now it was Fox trying to persuade you. You sighed. 

"You can open one." Dana handed her the smaller of the two bags and Grace tossed the tissue paper aside. Inside was a box of those little plastic stars that stuck to the ceiling and glowed in the dark. 

"I love them!" Gracie exclaimed, capturing Dana in another hug. Fox reached for something on the counter, but whatever he wanted wasn't there.  

"Where are my sunflower seeds?" He asked. Grace shrugged and a cascade of shells fell out of her jacket pockets. A guilty grin spread across her face and shook took off up the stairs. "Gracie Samantha Mulder get back here!" Fox chased after her and you and Dana laughed.

"She's just like him" She chuckled. You leaned against the counter.

"Sometimes I worry she's too much like him." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I love Fox." You sighed. "But he isn't exactly the most popular agent in the bureau."

"The other kids don't like her," Dana concluded grimly. To her, Grace was one of the sweetest little girls she'd ever met, but she could see why her interest in extraterrestrials and UFOs might not be well accepted amongst the other children. 

“According to her teacher, she doesn’t have any friends, the other kids pick on her, and all she does at recess is sit alone reading tabloid magazines.” You opened one of the drawers and took out a pile of invitations. “Her teacher found these in her desk.”

Scrawled across almost all of them were crudely drawn flying saucers with the words “Space Freak” and “Alien Girl” in big letters. Dana shook her head, her heart breaking for that little girl. 

“She told Fox that she didn’t invite anyone. She doesn’t want us to know that this is all happening.” You ran your fingers through your hair. “I don’t know, maybe she thinks that she can just handle it on her own.” Dana gave you a small smirk. 

“She gets that from you.” You laughed, knowing she was right. “Have you talked to Mulder about it?” You shook your head. 

“I can’t…” You looked at the picture on the fridge and smiled. It was taken when Grace was born. The night you brought her home, you found Fox fast asleep on the couch with Grace sleeping on his chest. “You know how he is. He would feel like this is his fault. Grace is his world. Besides, those 8-year-olds wouldn’t know what hit them.” 

“I’m about to call some parents myself,” Dana added, only slightly kidding. 

You put the vandalized invitations back in the drawer and the two of you went out to the back porch. Unbeknownst to you, after reclaiming his sunflower seeds from his thieving daughter, Fox had come back to the kitchen to ask you about the plans for the day. He came out from the doorway, having heard the exchange between you and Scully. He opened the drawer where you had hidden the invitations and felt his heart drop. One had the image of a figure he presumed was supposed to be Grace, but the bully had added antenna and pointed teeth under the words “E.T… Go Home!” 

He couldn’t believe it. Gracie told him everything. Why hadn’t she told him about being bullied by the other kids? Not only was Grace keeping secrets, but you knew about the whole situation and kept it from him. He put the papers back in the drawer, running a hand down his face. 

“Why didn’t she tell me?” He muttered to himself. The last time you hid something from him was when you were being threatened by a secret society to stay away from him. But that was years ago before you were married. 

“Daddy, can we go to the park now?” Gracie asked from behind him, making him jump. He pushed back all of his confusion and hurt and just smiled. 

“Of course,” He leaned over to be at her level. “We can do whatever you want. It’s your birthday, sweetie.” Her smile broadened and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was really feeling. 

“You’re the swamp monster!” She shrieked, sprinting out the door towards the nearby park. He tried to push everything he’d heard to the back of his mind and chased after her, making monster sounds that would probably concern the neighbors. 

-

The table was oddly tense while Grace blew out her candles. Fox was glancing at you while he crunched his sunflower seeds. While Gracie had a big grin on her face, you could tell there was another emotion hiding underneath. Dana, wanting to defuse the situation before anything happened, suggested for Grace to open her presents. 

You gathered in the living room and sat next to your husband, putting your hand on his knee. 

“Everything okay?” You asked, feeling a twinge of guilt. Once you figured everything out, you would tell him. He shrugged and put on a smile that you could tell was fake. 

“Yeah, of course.” The first present Grace picked was the second one Dana had brought. This one was in a rather big box that Grace tore open quickly. Her excited squeal told you exactly what was inside. 

“It’s a microscope!” Grace bear-hugged Dana and your jaw dropped.

“Dana, when you said you had a big surprise, I wasn’t expecting this.” Microscopes were expensive, even ones made for kids. 

“So you knew about this too?” Fox muttered angrily. 

“Too?” You turned to him with a confused expression. 

“Are you okay, dad?” Grace asked. 

“Nothing honey. Why doesn’t Aunt Dana show you how to use your new gift?” He explained, motioning for you to follow him into the kitchen. You and Dana exchanged a look before you followed him. 

“Fox, what’s going on?” You asked. He leaned against the fridge, crossing his arms. 

“Why didn’t you tell me that Grace is being bullied?” You stepped back, about to ask what he was talking about. "I heard you talking to Scully." He pulled the invitations out of the drawer.

"I didn't…" You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. "I didn't want you to worry. I knew how much her keeping this from you would hurt and I wanted to try and figure out how to handle it before I told you- which I promise I was going to."

"Jesus, Y/N, they're calling her 'Alien Girl'." He lowered his voice to keep from shouting. "That's my fault."

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?" You could see where his frustration with you was coming from. He wasn't angry. It was guilt. 

“If I hadn’t always been so… me with her maybe she would be like the other kids. Maybe she’d be popular and liked, like you.” 

“You think I’m a freak.” A small voice whimpered. You both turned around, a horrified look spreading across your husband’s face.

“Gracie, no, of course not.” He stammered. Everything was just spinning out of his control. 

“You both think that.” She said accusingly, turning her glare on you. “Just like the kids at school.” Her big blue-green eyes welled up with tears and she ran off, disappearing up the stairs to her room. 

“Grace!” Fox shouted after her, taking a step to follow. You grabbed his arm. 

“Give her a while… she’ll be okay.” You said sadly. He looked like he desperately wanted to say something, but instead, he stormed off to his office to think in the dark. You groaned, laying your head against the cool countertop. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Dana walk into the doorway.

“I’ll get the wine.” 

-

You lightly tapped on the door and opened it slowly. Dana had gone home and wished you luck. There was a single lamp on, besides the chair that faced the window. You made your way around the desk and knelt down. 

“Fox?” You began quietly. He had a pile of drawings on his lap that he’d been looking through for the past hour. Each depicted some alien or monster being fought off by a caped hero known only as ‘Galaxy Girl.’ 

“I never wanted her to change…” He said, turning to another picture. In this one, Galaxy Girl was accompanied by two others with the words Mommy and Daddy underneath each. “I just didn’t realize how much my obsessions were rubbing off on her.” 

“Our obsessions.” You corrected, putting your hands on top of his. “I’m just as much a part of this as you are.” You took the drawings and set them on his desk. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He put a hand on your cheek. 

“I’m sorry I stormed off.” He moved off his chair so he was sitting on the floor beside you. “Do you remember what I said to you the night we brought her home?” You paused, thinking back eight years. “I said that you were my moon and stars.” 

“And that I’d given you a galaxy.” You smiled and laid your head on his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him. “She’s going to be okay.” He took a deep breath.

“I know.” He shifted, a devious grin spreading on his lips. “You know… I’m sure that if I went to her school and told all those kids they were under investigation for grand larceny, they would leave Gracie alone.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You looked up at him with a mischievous look of your own. “Say they’re parents are committing tax fraud.” You both laughed and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You didn’t get very many intimate moments with your husband, but this one was perfect. 

You and Fox went upstairs and made your way to Grace’s room. More drawings were scattered across her floor, along with different toys and art projects. 

“Gracie?” Fox called out. There was a dim glow coming from under her closet door, so you knocked gently. 

“Leave me alone.” 

Fox sighed and turned the knob. Grace was curled up in the corner of her closet, hiding under a blanket. 

“Permission to enter?” He asked. She threw the blanket down, revealing a scowl and a tear-streaked face. 

“Permission denied.” 

“Come on, Gracie.” He begged. She shook her head and threw the blanket over herself again. 

You blew out a long, dramatic breath. “I guess we’ll just have to open your present all by ourselves out here.” You shook the box lightly. Grace slowly peaked out again. “We’ll be out here… opening your present.” You closed the door and Fox gave you a look. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Just wait.” You whispered sitting down on her bed. After a few seconds, the closet door creaked open. This time, she covered her face using a piece of tape and a sheet of paper. “Grace, why do you keep hiding your face?” 

“Because I’m a freak.” 

“Grace, you know that’s not true.” Fox scolded. “Now can I please see my beautiful daughter’s face?” She nodded and he lifted the paper off, lightly taking off the tape. “Grace, what I was saying before, I just meant I wished the other kids didn’t make fun of you.” 

“Everybody has bullies, Grace.” You put a comforting hand on her shoulder as she sat between you. “Even me and your dad.” 

“Really?” 

Fox nodded. “Oh yeah. You know what everyone at work used to call me?” She shook her head. “Spooky Mulder. They thought I was weird because I’m interested in the unexplained. Because I want to find the truth.” 

“And when I was in high school, there was a group of girls who would spread rumors about me.” You figured telling her that those rumors falsely accused you of sleeping with the whole soccer team was probably for a different time. “We just had to learn how to face them.”

“But you’ll have us supporting you the whole time,” Fox added. Grace sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve. “We love you more than anything in the world, Gracie.”  A smile spread across her face, making your heart leap. 

“Can I open my present now?” 

You and Fox chuckled as you handed her the box. She ripped the wrapping paper, looking down at the image on the box. Without hesitating, she tore open the box and pulled out the telescope. 

“Happy birthday sweetie.” You beamed. She pulled you and Fox into a big hug. “This was the best birthday ever.” The hug tightened. “I love you guys.” 

-

Grace had just fallen asleep in the tent after you spent the rest of the night using her new telescope to look at the stars. You and Fox were sitting on the lawn, eating leftover pieces of cake. 

“So what did you mean about those girls in high school?” Fox asked suddenly. “I thought you were always Miss-Loved-And-Adored-By-All.” You scoffed. 

“Yes well, according to those girls I was ‘adored’ by basically every male athlete in school.” Fox whistled. 

“Damn.” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” You shrugged. “Besides, I never really liked jocks.” He moved closer to you. 

“Oh really?” 

You nodded, leaning in. “I’m more into the nerdy type. You know, the ones with offices in the basement surrounded by file cabinets full of conspiracies and unexplained phenomena.” “Are you making fun of me?” He wondered in mock offense. 

“Not at all.” He draped an arm around your waist and pulled you into a kiss. 

And that’s how the day ended. Grace was a year older and the three of you were closer than ever. You knew that it wouldn’t last forever. But for this night, all there was, was your perfect family, lying under the moon

[chapter-17]

Not quite 10 years of pony

Well I feel like since we’re here at the decade mark since Friendship is Magic first aired I should probably say SOMETHING in my usual effort to pretend I’m even remotely close to being someone anyone would want to listen to!

I don’t know what it was about Friendship is Magic. It was a good show but there had been good shows before and there will be plenty of good shows to come, but I think what clicked the MOST is that when it came out I had recently moved out of my parent’s house for the second time at age 23, and for the first time I could just... do what I WANTED to do, stress free.

Flashback way further to when we first got satellite TV when I was at the tail end of grade school. Prior to that TV was just our antenna, and let me tell you, that was the crappest of shoots. At least 50% of the time there would be too much signal interference. We got the joy of picking between the channel with no sound, the channel with sound but no picture, or the channel with maybe 25% of each but we could KINDA detect something coherent in it. I’d wait all week for episodes of Dragonball Z to air at 6 AM on Saturday only to have my kid heart crushed by the entire episode being in varying states of chaotic viewability... not that things HAPPENED that much. You dang kids are spoiled with your DBZ Kai! (Shakes cane!)

 But then, satellite TV! My GOD it was amazing. Not only could we SEE AND HEAR THINGS BESIDES STATIC, we got a guide with a menu and everything so we could see upcoming shows! But then also, Cartoon Network... and Toonami... and DBZ EPISODES EVERY NIGHT HOLY FUUUUUCK also this other show called Gundam Wing or whatever I don’t think anyone paid any attention to that one.

...

(Discretely adjusts camera away from shelf full of Gundam models in the background)

Anyway another couple Cartoon Network/Toonami shows I remember actually watching for the first time was The Powerpuff Girls and Sailor Moon... but I watched them HESITANTLY, and in secret. We had two TVs set up and if mom and dad were watching something I didn’t want to watch I’d be fine going to the other side of the house to chill and watch the other connected set on a different channel. This was stress incarnate. I’d split my attention between watching the show at low volume and listening for footsteps getting even REMOTELY CLOSE so I could hit the previous channel button before they could hear what I was watching. There are grown adults who watch outright pornography at their workplace office with less caution than barely teen kid me watched perfectly harmless CARTOON SHOWS. I was thoroughly ashamed of watching these shows but in spite of this I watched them anyway and came to really like them, Powerpuff Girls in particular.

Now of course this was a big nothing burger to worry about, my parents wound up really liking Powerpuff Girls too, but this is a trend for me. I’m internally terrified of anyone in real life finding out I LIKE... well, anything. At some point when I was a kid it became cool to hate Power Rangers, and I didn’t hate Power Rangers, but if I ever said I didn’t hate Power Rangers I would get absolutely shit on for it. I took away the lesson that you shouldn’t outwardly LIKE THINGS.

Basically just Rainbow Dash realizing she likes to read Daring Do books and keeping it a secret with the same fervor a murderer would employ to hide a corpse, but it’s for DECADES instead of 22 minutes. Frankly, I still feel this way. All my shirts are monotone with no art or anything, and I even feel a slight cringe whenever I bring out my wallet to pay for stuff because my wallet has a Nuka-Cola logo on it. I go out of my way to make sure you know nothing concrete about my interests just by looking at me.

So then decades later I’m living on my own for the first real time with a job and everything and one of my WoW buddies keeps linking me stuff related to a MY LITTLE PONY show of all things. Eventually he gives me a link to watch the, then latest, episode called Call of the Cutie and I begrudgingly watch it. Then I say “...god damn it” and start looking for episode 1. I never would have done that if I were still living with my parents, no fucking WAY. Friendship is Magic was the first show I realized I could just WATCH without perpetual existential terror clawing at my brain because I was alone, and it was genuinely positive at a time in my life where I thought about suicide way too much without thinking it was a PROBLEM.

Then something WEIRD happened.

See somewhere in my mid teen years I made a personal vow to never write fanfiction again after writing a small chunk of fanfiction. My teen self thought that fanfiction was an uncreative endeavor, and that people who wrote it were foolishly wasting their time with something that could never legally make them any money when they could be writing original fiction instead, and potentially getting published! But for some reason, for the first time in like a DECADE, Friendship is Magic actually got me to read fanfiction from other people. Not just fanfiction, but cringy crossover fanfiction with genres that couldn’t POSSIBLY work for something like My Little Pony!

Then for SOME reason I got the idea to write a sequel to someone else’s crossover fanfiction and crossover MLP fanfiction now accounts for basically ALL of my online writing material what the fuck happened.

But yeah here we are a decade later. I still haven’t finished Reunion, I’ve taken the better part of three years to write what I have of this miniseries, dad’s dead, I had to move back in with my parents, my dogs are dead, grandma’s dead, Friendship is Magic is over and done with and I likely missed all opportunity to get a readership from my inaction and mental issues, most of my friends have little to no interest remaining for the show so the thing that got me friends in the first place is now ISOLATING ME due to my continued interest, I’ve been diagnosed with severe depressive disorder and since I lost my job I have no reasonable access to medication, a conversation with a friend recently made me consider that I might have undiagnosed ADHD but, again, no access to medical care, I’m trapped in a situation I see no way out of short of basically leaving my loved ones to die without my help, I have little to no privacy anymore so my introverted ass gets NO MENTAL REPRIEVE and it’s so... fucking... tiring.

I’m TIRED. I feel at 33 the way I assume someone would feel at 63 and I never ever ever see it getting any better than it was for me around the time season 5 was still airing.

About the only thing that feels good anymore is knowing how much weight I lost this year.

So yeah... I miss Friendship is Magic, sure, but I also just miss WHEN Friendship is Magic was airing, because it may likely end up being the best time in my entire life.

Sad. 

[lillegalloli94]

Moonlit Café

Back when I was in my last semester of college, I took a creative writing course and wrote a short ten-minute play called “Moth to the Flame” about a moth that fell in love with a spider and went to spend her last night with her. Since that play ended tragically, I’ve since imagined those characters in different scenarios and, of course, one of those scenarios is a coffee shop au.

Click… Click… Click… Click…

The mindless noise pinging by her ear was all Allura could do to keep herself awake in this late, dead hour.

Click… Click… Click…

The Moonlit Café prided itself in serving the nocturnal crowd into the darkest hours of night. Be it 3pm or 3am, they had a coffee fix for all types, from the earliest bird to the latest night owls. Of course, that did mean someone had to man the front line, and that someone, five days a week, was none other than Allura herself.

Click… Click…

She didn’t mind it too terribly. She was a moth herself so such a schedule was natural for someone like her. She didn’t have an issue with the hours itself but in the lack of action she typically saw on an average day. There were the regular patrons that liked to take advantage of the cool, quiet atmosphere; they’re the ones that kept the graveyard shift alive and kicking. But between those revitalizing few, was nothing but the smell of coffee, the lingering sweet air from the pastries and mindless, almost automatic, clicking.

Ding!

The front door’s bell chimed, a sudden shift but not alarming enough to encourage professionalism in Allura’s stature. The most her body would manage was get herself ready to ring up the customer at the till.

“Welcome to the Moonlit Café. Will you be dining in house this evening or to-go?”

“To-go,” a deep, husky voice spoke back to her, drawing her eyes up from the screen to find her patron staring down at her with dark, expectant eyes.

Now, Allura has dealt with spiders before and was self-assured that they never gave her pause for alarm. Sure, there were still people that would insist that they’d gulp her down in a second if given the chance, but she never took such warnings to heart. She’s seen small and cute little jumpers. She’s talked with gentle giants much too aware of their overwhelming size to want to hurt anyone. But this…this was possibly the first time she ever felt her chest seize up, her heart stilling and her breath catching in her lungs, under a spider’s striking gaze.

“Hello?” she waved a hand towards Allura, “Still there?”

Her normal body functions rebooted and her brain remember that she still had a job to do. “Y-Yes, sorry about that.” she straightened up her posture, her eyes looking much more awake and her antennae perked from their droopy dog positioning. A quick clearing of her throat and a kind smile and she was ready to serve. “What can I get for you?”

She followed her hand, long, slender fingers wrapping around her chin as she pondered the menu, “Hm… let’s go with a small mochaccino. Extra milk and whip cream.” she said, pointing towards the item’s picture display.

Allura tapped away on the till, ignoring the stabbing sensation ramming through her body while using up every fiber of her willpower to keep her hand from shaking. “Will that be regular or decaf coffee for your mocha?” she asked.

“Oh, decaf then.” she answered, the soft upturn in her tone sending a soft fluttering sensation through Allura’s stomach.

“Alright…” she successfully managed to restrain herself from squeaking out, “Will that be all for you?”

“Yep, think that’ll do it for me.”

“Gotcha. And…” she reached for a cup and braced her pen against the side, “could a get a name for you?”

Her spider guest stared at her for a moment. She supposed it was a strange request with it just being the two of them, but Allura considered it the perfect excuse to learn this new customer’s name. She was just doing her job, after all.

“Just Eva is fine. You don’t want to try writing my full name on that tiny thing.” she told her with a soft chuckle, waving off the idea of even trying to attempt the impossible.

“Just Eva, then.” Allura muttered, taking a second to make her penmanship as pretty as she could against the curved surface. She even went as far to as add a curling heart at the end of her name. “I’ll have it ready for you in a sec.”

Allura turned from the front counter and walked closer to the machine. She set the cup down with a soft tap and lifted her arms to let a second set of limbs sprout free from her sides. A couple extra hands always got the job done faster but she more liked the flare four arms could accomplish as opposed to two. It kept her mind entertained and sane to perform a little show, to add a bit of pizzazz to her coffee making process.

Extra milk, she reminded herself as she poured more into the cup. Extra whip, she shook the can and squeezed on a hearty amount while keeping the spiral neatly coiled. Some cocoa powder to dust it like chocolate snow and some chocolate shavings sprinkled on because why not.

The whole time, she could feel her heart thudding in her chest, her eyes desperately wanting to turn back and gauge her audience’s reception but held tightly to the strain. But she was watching, wasn’t she? This electrifying tingle she felt coursing through veins and tickling the ends of her nerves, she was definitely watching, waiting…staring.

“One decaf mochaccino, extra milk and whip cream.” Allura swallowed down the hum of her racing blood, topping the drink with a domed lid before passing it over.

“Looks good. So, what do I owe you?” she asked her, voice smoother that butter and richer than fresh cream. Her gaze lowered towards her wallet, a perfect display of her lovely lashes that added an extra sultry shade to her already dangerously seductive irises.

Immediately, a thousand answered raced across her brain, most of which pretraining to abandoning her post and taking the rest of the evening off with this late-night patron. But she couldn’t, not over coffee anyway.

Allura eased down those impulsive thoughts and gave her brightest smile that could rival the full moon waiting outside. “Actually, it’s on the house.” Okay, maybe one impulsive thought might have slipped past her.

Her guest gave a concerned raise of her brow, the corners of her lips turning upward in a nervous smile. “You sure about that?” she asked.

She couldn’t just take it back now, that would be even more off-putting. Double-down, she commanded, barking the order to the rest of her body, Double-fucking-down. “Certainly. It’s only a couple of bucks, anyway. Think of it as a free sample.”

She laughed softly, “And you’re positive you can be giving out free samples this good?” she asked, a bit of a smirk on her lips as she eyed the barista.

“You want to pay that badly?” Allura tilted her head, putting on an innocently curious façade.

She laughed a little louder this time, “I’d feel a bit better knowing my drink won’t be putting you in some future trouble.”

“Oh, if that’s what you’re worried about, it’ll be fine. The owner is one of my best friends. The worst she’ll do is take it out of my pay and I can live with that.” she said, unable to keep the bubbling giggle from escaping her lips. “However… if you really want to offer compensation, then perhaps… could you tell me what your full name is?” 

She could see the intrigue starting to come over her eyes again, flickers of bewilderment and a hint of suspicion rising in her gaze. 

Allura waved a hand, “No need to worry, I don’t plan on doing anything wicked with it. You’ve just got me curious about how long your full name would have been.”

The spider considered it, studying Allura’s eyes and possibly deciding how much she could trust her. She must have figured she could trust her word decently enough judging by the returning smile on her lips. She reached for her drink, wrapping her fingers around the warm cup and lifting it off the counter. “It’s Evangeline.” she said, tipping her cup slightly towards her server before turning, “Thanks for the drink.”

“Have a nice night.”

The door’s bell chimed again, a soft thud from the closing door leaving a gentle ringing in the air before everything died down into silence once more. It was then, when everything was still and her spider visitor’s figure disappeared into the dimly lit, midnight air, did Allura find it the perfect time to officially freak-the-fuck out.

Each of her four hands grabbed at her thick, rosy locks, pulling the hair over her face and squealing into its voluminous mass. What was that, her heart raced in her chest. What even was that?? The organ pumped harder and faster, feeling like it was about ready to explode in her ribcage. Is this death? Is this what death feels like? But it felt so warm and freeing and, honestly, kind of good too. No, actually, really good. The scared tingle of adrenaline tickling at the back of her head was amazing, like her body was truly living for the first time.

Her upper hands lowered her hair from her eyes, her glistening, pleading gaze searching the glass door and begging for her spider to come back sooner. To give her another dosage of her piercing eyes. Another taste of her dark chocolate voice. Another feel of her incredibly intimidating, towering stature. Allura already felt herself addicted to the spider’s surplus of flavor. And the icing on top, the juicy cherry sitting right on the peak, was that enchanting song of a name.

Evangeline. 

Evangeline. 

Had she ever known a name as enticing as Evangeline? Had she ever known one as charming, as stunningly gorgeous, as Evangeline? Surely not. She would have remembered. She would have been prepared for the striking beauty of the letters that made up Evangeline. This was new. A deep fascination. A worthwhile obsession. All for the spider known only as Evangeline.

(Disclaimer: I don’t drink coffee but I love the idea of cafes)

[scifigeneration]

5 Moon-landing innovations that changed life on Earth

by Jean Creighton

Astronaut Buzz Aldrin on the Moon during the Apollo 11 mission. Neil Armstrong/NASA

Much of the technology common in daily life today originates from the drive to put a human being on the Moon. This effort reached its pinnacle when Neil Armstrong stepped off the Eagle landing module onto the lunar surface 50 years ago.

As a NASA airborne astronomy ambassador and director of the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Manfred Olson Planetarium, I know that the technologies behind weather forecasting, GPS and even smartphones can trace their origins to the race to the Moon.

1. Rockets

A Saturn V rocket carrying Apollo 11 and its crew toward the Moon lifts off on July 16, 1969. NASA

October 4, 1957 marked the dawn of the Space Age, when the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1, the first human-made satellite. The Soviets were the first to make powerful launch vehicles by adapting World War II-era long-range missiles, especially the German V-2.

From there, space propulsion and satellite technology moved fast: Luna 1 escaped the Earth’s gravitational field to fly past the Moon on January 4, 1959; Vostok 1 carried the first human, Yuri Gagarin, into space on April 12, 1961; and Telstar, the first commercial satellite, sent TV signals across the Atlantic Ocean on July 10, 1962.

The 1969 lunar landing also harnessed the expertise of German scientists, such as Wernher von Braun, to send massive payloads into space. The F-1 engines in Saturn V, the Apollo program’s launch vehicle, burned a total of 2,800 tons of fuel at a rate of 12.9 tons per second.

Saturn V still stands as the most powerful rocket ever built, but rockets today are far cheaper to launch. For example, whereas Saturn V cost US$185 million, which translates into over $1 billion in 2019, today’s Falcon Heavy launch costs only $90 million. Those rockets are how satellites, astronauts and other spacecraft get off the Earth’s surface, to continue bringing back information and insights from other worlds.

2. Satellites

The quest for enough thrust to land a man on the Moon led to the building of vehicles powerful enough to launch payloads to heights of 21,200 to 22,600 miles (34,100 to 36,440 km) above the Earth’s surface. At such altitudes, satellites’ orbiting speed aligns with how fast the planet spins – so satellites remain over a fixed point, in what is called geosynchronous orbit. Geosynchronous satellites are responsible for communications, providing both internet connectivity and TV programming.

At the beginning of 2019, there were 4,987 satellites orbiting Earth; in 2018 alone, there were more than 382 orbital launches worldwide. Of the currently operational satellites, approximately 40% of payloads enable communications, 36% observe the Earth, 11% demonstrate technologies, 7% improve navigation and positioning and 6% advance space and earth science.

3. Miniaturization

Space missions – back then and even today – have strict limits on how big and how heavy their equipment can be, because so much energy is required to lift off and achieve orbit. These constraints pushed the space industry to find ways to make smaller and lighter versions of almost everything: Even the walls of the lunar landing module were reduced to the thickness of two sheets of paper.

From the late 1940s to the late 1960s, the weight and energy consumption of electronics was reduced by a factor of several hundred at least – from the 30 tons and 160 kilowatts of the Electric Numerical Integrator and Computer to the 70 pounds and 70 watts of the Apollo guidance computer. This weight difference is equivalent to that between a humpback whale and an armadillo.

The Apollo Guidance Computer next to a laptop computer. Autopilot/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA

Manned missions required more complex systems than earlier, unmanned ones. For example, in 1951, the Universal Automatic Computer was capable of 1,905 instructions per second, whereas the Saturn V’s guidance system performed 12,190 instructions per second. The trend toward nimble electronics has continued, with modern hand-held devices routinely capable of performing instructions 120 million times faster than the guidance system that enabled the liftoff of Apollo 11. The need to miniaturize computers for space exploration in the 1960s motivated the entire industry to design smaller, faster and more energy-efficient computers, which have affected practically every facet of life today, from communications to health and from manufacturing to transportation.

4. Global network of ground stations

Communicating with vehicles and people in space was just as important as getting them up there in the first place. An important breakthrough associated with the 1969 lunar landing was the construction of a global network of ground stations, called the Deep Space Network, to let controllers on Earth communicate constantly with missions in highly elliptical Earth orbits or beyond. This continuity was possible because the ground facilities were placed strategically 120 degrees apart in longitude so that each spacecraft would be in range of one of the ground stations at all times.

Because of the spacecraft’s limited power capacity, large antennas were built on Earth to simulate “big ears” to hear weak messages and to act as “big mouths” to broadcast loud commands. In fact, the Deep Space Network was used to communicate with the astronauts on Apollo 11 and was used to relay the first dramatic TV images of Neil Armstrong stepping onto the Moon. The network was also critical for the survival of the crew on Apollo 13 because they needed guidance from ground personnel without wasting their precious power on communications.

Several dozen missions use the Deep Space Network as part of the continuing exploration of our solar system and beyond. In addition, the Deep Space Network permits communications with satellites that are on highly elliptical orbits, to monitor the poles and deliver radio signals.

‘Earthrise,’ a view of Earth while orbiting the Moon. Bill Anders, Apollo 8, NASA

5. Looking back at Earth

Getting to space has allowed people to turn their research efforts toward Earth. In August 1959, the unmanned satellite Explorer VI took the first crude photos of Earth from space on a mission researching the upper atmosphere, in preparation for the Apollo program.

Almost a decade later, the crew of Apollo 8 took a famous picture of the Earth rising over the lunar landscape, aptly named “Earthrise.” This image helped people understand our planet as a unique shared world and boosted the environmental movement.

Understanding of our planet’s role in the universe deepened with Voyager 1’s “pale blue dot” photo – an image received by the Deep Space Network.

Earth from the edge of the solar system, visible as a minuscule pale blue dot in the center of the right-most brown stripe. NASA, Voyager 1

People and our machines have been taking pictures of the Earth from space ever since. Views of Earth from space guide people both globally and locally. What started in the early 1960s as a U.S. Navy satellite system to track its Polaris submarines to within 600 feet (185 meters) has blossomed into the Global Positioning System network of satellites providing location services worldwide.

Images from a series of Earth-observing satellites called Landsat are used to determine crop health, identify algae blooms and find potential oil deposits. Other uses include identifying which types of forest management are most effective in slowing the spread of wildfires or recognizing global changes such as glacier coverage and urban development.

As we learn more about our own planet and about exoplanets – planets around other stars – we become more aware of how precious our planet is. Efforts to preserve Earth itself may yet find help from fuel cells, another technology from the Apollo program. These storage systems for hydrogen and oxygen in the Apollo Service Module, which contained life-support systems and supplies for the lunar landing missions, generated power and produced potable water for the astronauts. Much cleaner energy sources than traditional combustion engines, fuel cells may play a part in transforming global energy production to fight climate change.

We can only wonder what innovations from the effort to send people to other planets will affect earthlings 50 years after the first Marswalk.

About The Author:

Jean Creighton is the Planetarium Director and NASA Airborne Astronomy Ambassador at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee

This article is republished from our content partners at The Conversation under a Creative Commons license.

[quickeningheart]

Three

     Charley suddenly found herself grappling with a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight. "Fantastic," she grunted, hefting Alley's slumped form in her arms. "Way to make a first impression, you lunkheads. One of you care to help me out here?"

     The mice snapped out of their stupor and Vinnie hurried forward, scooping up the unconscious woman and carefully depositing her onto the worn couch that had been made up as a bed. "What can I say?" he preened. "No woman can resist this studly bod! They're just overcome by my sheer awesomeness."

     "Yeah, keep telling yourself that, pal. Maybe someday it'll come true."

     Vinnie pouted and whipped his tail at his snickering bros. "So what'll we do with Sleeping Beauty here?"

     "Will she be all right?" Modo hovered over the couch, looking worried. "I didn't mean to scare the little lady."

     "It's okay, big guy." Charley patted his arm. "Give her a few minutes. She'll come around."

     "Maybe we should clear out before that happens."

     "She's gotta get used to you at some point. Better now than never. But … maybe give her some breathing space, huh?" Charley eyed the three hovering males with amusement as they hastily backed away from the couch. And then she bit back a curse when the bell went off in the garage. She checked the wall clock and sighed. "Damn. Opening time already?" She looked torn. "I hate to leave Alley alone, after what happened…"

     "Want us to hang around until she wakes up?"

     "I dunno if that's such a good idea. All three of you might be too much for her."

     "So, one of us stays and the others come back later. Someone needs to explain things to her."

     "I'll do it!" Vinnie volunteered eagerly.

     "We need to reassure her. I don't wanna come back and find her curled up in a whimpering little ball in the back of a closet," Charley snorted.

     "Hey!" he protested over more snickers.

     "I'd do it," Modo said slowly, "but I guess I sorta blew it a bit. I'd probably just scare her again." His ears drooped and he looked so dejected that Charley gave him a hug.

     "She'll get over it. It's half my fault, anyway. I should've told her a little sooner, I guess." She turned to Throttle. "Aside from Modo, you're the calmest and most diplomatic. You're probably the best choice in the matter."

     "Swell," Throttle sighed, settling back into an armchair to wait. Well, it beat lugging furniture up a flight of stairs, at least.

     ~*~*~*~*~

     He was bored.

     Nope. Scratch that. He was really bored. He was starting to regret ever agreeing to this whole babysitting gig, especially since there were so many more interesting things he could've been doing. Like flossing his teeth, or picking the lint out from under his toenails. He heaved a heavy sigh and switched positions, folding one leg across his knee and resting his chin on his fist. The fingers of his other hand drummed an impatient rhythm against the armrest of the chair he'd been sitting in for way too long.

     Twenty minutes had already passed, and Alley was still out for the count. He shot her an irritated glance, wondering—not for the first time—how two such completely different people could come from the same family. Sure, Charley had been afraid of them, too, but she hadn't fainted like some delicate little snowflake. She'd threatened to knock his head off when he got too close! Now that was someone he could admire.

     He sighed again, putting some extra oomph into it, in the hopes of drawing the little princess out of her slumber. No such luck. He pouted, then decided that, since he was sitting there, he might as well take a closer look. So, he slid off the chair and knee-walked over to the couch, where he proceeded to give his charge a critical once-over.

     Sure. Watching a lady sleep might be considered sort of stalkerish and creepy by some people, but some people weren't there, and Alley was far more interesting to look at than the wall. He had to admit; she was kind of pretty, for a wimp. Charley hadn't been kidding about her unique tastes, though. She looked like a dead rainbow. Bright colors streaked through her pale knot of hair. Each of her fingernails was painted with a different shade of glittery polish, and a lacy purple butterfly was tattooed on her right hand between her thumb and forefinger. The fingers of her left were decorated with silver rings. So were her ears—two piercings on the left, one on the right—and crystal stars and a moon dangled from the tiny hoops.

     Her face was made up, too. Smokey eyelids, thickened lashes, and a shiny, pink gloss slicked across her mouth. Throttle found the whole concept of makeup strange. Charley almost never wore it, and of course no female mouse could wear it because of the mess it would make of their fur. It clearly wasn't practical, but the effect was rather alluring. Especially the way those full, pink lips glistened, drawing his attention almost against his will.

     It was probably a good thing that Alley chose that moment to finally rejoin the land of the living.

     Throttle bit back a yelp and all but scrambled back into his chair, sitting with hands folded primly in his lap, the very picture of innocence as the girl slowly stirred and opened her eyes. She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, then scowled and muttered to herself, "Weird dream. That's what I get for mixing expired cream into my coffee."

     Throttle chuckled despite himself, and the sudden noise made Alley yip and sit up … a little too quickly, apparently. She gripped the back of the couch for a moment, before cautiously taking a quick glance around. And Throttle suddenly found himself looking into the biggest blue eyes he'd ever seen. They reminded him of the blue crystal formations found in the deepest caverns of his home planet, clear and bright and piercing.

     Unfortunately, so was her voice. Which she demonstrated by opening her pretty pink lips and letting loose a shriek that made his teeth vibrate in the back of his skull. He cringed into his seat, clapped his hands to his ringing ears, and wondered how such a big noise could come out of such a small woman.

     "Lower the volume, lady! I'm not deaf," he grumbled. Yet.

     She responded by attempting to burrow into the back of the couch in a bid to get as far away from him as possible. Throttle was insulted. Geez, you'd think he had fleas or something, the way she was acting! But, as the last thing he wanted to do was make her pass out again, he gathered all the patience he could muster and held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Easy there, Sweetheart," he crooned in his softest voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just here to make sure you're okay."

     Alley glanced wildly around the empty apartment. "Charley!" she bellowed.

     Throttle winced. So much for not going deaf. "She's in the garage. A customer came in or she wouldn't have left you alone. She'll be back in a bit," he explained, still keeping his voice as low and soothing as possible. He didn't get it; he'd been told on more than one occasion that his voice could make any female (and possibly some males) swoon right into his arms. Hell, he'd used it on Carbine on more than one occasion in the past, with spectacular results. But for some reason, it just didn't seem to be working right on Alley.

     Talk about a blow to the ego.

     Alley had given up on yelling and was now curled up in the corner of the couch, using the afghan like a flimsy shield. "Wh-what are you?" Her voice quavered, and she looked ready to burst into tears.

     He sighed. Swell. The last thing he needed was a crying, hysterical woman on his hands. The non-crying version was irritating enough. "My name is Throttle Thorneboy. Just so you know, I'm a mouse, not a rat. I come from the planet Mars." He gestured to the red antenna atop his head.

     Alley's eyes slowly followed the gesture, studying the appendages, before lowering to look the rest of him over. "A … Martian mouse."

     "Yep."

     She chewed on her lip for a moment, glanced around before asking, "Weren't there … three of you?"

     Oh, yeah. He'd almost forgotten about them. "Ah, yeah. My bros, Modo Maverick and Vincent Van Wham. We, uh, decided it was probably better to wait a bit before proper introduction. Until, you know, things got explained a bit more. They'll be back later."

     Alley didn't look particularly happy to hear it. "Why are you in Chicago? And how did you meet my cousin?"

     "That's kind of a long story," he sighed.

     She frowned. "You don't want to tell me?"

     "It's more like … it'd probably be easier if I showed you." He eased off the chair and crept closer, hesitating when she edged away. "May I?" He pointed to his antenna. "I can transmit my memories through these, from my mind straight into yours. It'll be faster than talking."

     Her eyes widened. "You're telepathic?"

     He sought to reassure her before she started screaming again. "In a sense. We can't transmit direct thought unless we're in physical contact. But we are empathic, capable of picking up on heightened emotion from a distance." He peered over the rim of his specs and met her eyes. "You don't have to be afraid. I promise it won't hurt you. You can ask Charley; I once used the same method on her and she's never suffered any ill-effects."

     Alley hesitated another second, then took a deep breath, gathering her composure, and nodded once. She closed her eyes, startled a little when he nudged her chin up and gripped the back of her head. He pressed his antenna to her temples and opened his mind. She jerked, but he'd been expecting that and held her still, knowing the sudden explosion of information pouring into her head would be a bit overwhelming to a human. He kept the stream slow and steady and mentally explained what she was seeing, and she gradually relaxed as understanding replaced fear. He showed her everything that had happened, from the complete strip-mining of Mars by the Plutarkians, to the present struggle to prevent Limburger from doing the same thing to Earth.

     It only took a few minutes, and when he finally withdrew, Alley opened her eyes and stared at him, looking stunned. "Wow," was all she said.

     "Yup." He chuckled. "That about sums it up."

     She shook her head. "Well, I guess that explains why half of Chicago looks like the aftermath of a natural disaster." She eased back, drawing her knees up to her chin. "Does this happen a lot? With the whole thwarting evil and … blowing up that guy's tower and such?"

     "Once or twice a month," Throttle replied. "Usually depends on how fast old Cheese Head can rebuild. It's been pretty quiet lately, though. Makes me think he's up to something. His tower's probably due for another toppling any day now."

     "And Charley is dragged into this war how often?"

     Nope. She definitely did not sound happy about the casual way he spoke of wanton destruction.

     "Easy, Alley-girl. That's what we're here for, to make sure nothing happens to her," he tried to reassure her.

     "But stuff does happen. She's been kidnapped already, a few times!"

     He pouted. "We've always gotten her back again! It isn't like we willingly let her go charging into danger. We try to leave her behind where it's safe, but she's pretty stubborn. You should see how well she handles a rocket launcher, though."

     Alley did not look impressed.

     Throttle decided it was probably time to change the subject. "So, uh, Charley-girl tells us you're here to attend school," he began awkwardly, after a few long moments of silence.

     She blinked. "Yes. College."

     Aaaand, apparently she wasn't much of a talker. Or maybe she just didn't want to talk to him. While Charley had warmed right up to the trio—He supposed saving her life repeatedly within the first few hours of meeting probably had something to do with that—Alley still looked like she was ready to head for the hills.

     For the love of Mars, what did it take to get this girl to relax? She was wound tighter than Vinnie on a sugar binge! Throttle drummed his fingers on the armrest again, considered whether he ought to go drag Charley back up, or even call his bros back … anything so he didn't have to be in this supremely awkward situation all by himself.

     And then, a long, low growl greeted his sensitive ears. Alley blushed and clapped her arms across her stomach. He had to chuckle at the embarrassment on her face. "You hungry, huh?"

      "No shit, Sherlock," she grumbled. "I didn't get around to breakfast yet."

     He raised an eyebrow. Finally. A spark of something other than quivering terror. They were making progress! "You can go ahead and eat," he offered gallantly.

     She slowly got to her feet. "You, um, you don't have to stay here. If you ... have other places you need to be." She sounded so hopeful.

     And she'd just handed him the out he'd been so desperately wishing for! Why wasn't he scrambling to take it?

     Maybe it was because he felt just a bit offended that she was still so eager to get rid of him.

     Or maybe he was too distracted by the second tattoo he'd just spotted on the back of her neck; a larger, more colorful version of the one on her hand.

     Then again, even that wasn't nearly as distracting as the way the thin strap of her fluttery, lacy, very girly top kept trying to slip down her shoulder. Or the way the tight black jean shorts she wore under it hugged her hips and butt. He gulped and quickly dropped his gaze, then blinked. Good grief, even her toenails were painted. A bright, glossy purple that matched the color of her shirt.

     "Do … uh … do you want some?"

     Throttle guiltily jerked his gaze to meet Alley's; apparently he'd been staring just a little too hard. She had set a glass casserole dish full of … something unfamiliar on the table, and was now regarding him with a questioning look. His nose twitched as the scent of cinnamon tickled his senses. "Sure," he agreed, before common sense could catch up with his brain. "Er, what is it?"

     She tilted her head. "It's baked oatmeal. You've never eaten oatmeal before?"

     "Can't say I have. We don't have oatmeal on Mars."

     "Yes, but … Oh. You're why Charley keeps the fridge packed with soda and hot dogs, huh?"

     He grinned. "Yeah. Good stuff, that. Can't get that on Mars, either."

     She considered. "Is that really all you eat? It can't be good for you."

     "Hasn't killed us yet," he replied with a chuckle.

     She snorted. "Give it time. I'm sure your heart will give out eventually."

     He scoffed. "Nah, we're made of stronger stuff than that."

     Alley seemed to realize that she was fighting a losing battle. She simply shrugged, cut two large squares of the oatmeal and put them into shallow bowls. While they heated in the microwave, she dug around in the fridge and withdrew a fresh gallon of milk and a can of whipped cream. "I take mine with milk and cream," she told him. "You can try it with or without."

     "Can't say I've ever had milk, either," he admitted, eyeballing the bottle with distaste.

     She gaped. "Seriously? Not once?"

     "There aren't a lot of milk-producing mammals on Mars," he explained. "Aside from us mice. And the rats. And the sand raiders. And maybe one or two other species that are usually too busy trying to eat us to let someone … eh…"

     "Milk them?"

     "Yeah. Ugh."

     She actually cracked a smile at that. He noted that her teeth were shiny white, but a little crooked. She pulled a small glass out of the cabinet and poured it half-full of milk, offering it to him. He regarded it with a raised eyebrow. She raised hers in silent challenge. "Just try it. This came from a cow, incidentally."

     "And that makes it better … how?" But he accepted the glass, because he was finally getting her to relax and didn't want to ruin it by being rude. Took a cautious sip. Let it roll around in his mouth a bit before swallowing. It was … not as horrible as expected. But it was an odd texture; kind of thick, with a faintly sweet taste. He could feel it coating his tongue and throat and wasn't sure he liked that. He also wasn't used to drinking anything that wasn't carbonated aside from water.

     "So?"

     "Eh. I think I prefer the root beer." But he finished the glass in two more gulps, because she was smiling at him again.

     Her grin widened. "You've got a little…" She gestured at her mouth; he raised his hand and was embarrassed to find a ring of cream soaking the fur on his muzzle. "Don't worry. Milk mustaches are pretty normal for the uninitiated," she teased, taking the heated oatmeal from the microwave and sliding one of the bowls across the table to him. She added a bit of milk and a healthy dollop of whipped cream on top of hers, and dug in.

     He followed her example and took a cautious bite; he had tried different Earth foods in the past, but most of them tended to be fried, grilled, and heavily seasoned. This, however, was surprisingly good. A faint flavor of cinnamon and what he assumed was the oats; without the milk and cream to sweeten it, it would have been pretty bland, actually. But it was warm, and filling. A good staple food (although still not as good as hot dogs). "That wasn't bad," he told her when he finished. "Thanks for the grub."

     "Sure." She cleared the dishes, carrying them to the sink. He helped by putting the food back in the fridge, snatching a root beer with his tail before closing the door. He felt Alley's gaze on him, and found her watching his actions with a look of fascination. He set the root beer on the counter, then used his tail to turn on the faucet and grab the bottle of dish soap to squeeze some into the filling sink. Her eyes followed his every move.

     "Your tail is prehensile?" she asked after a moment.

     "You sound surprised."

     "Well, uh, I guess because earth rodents don't have prehensile tails."

     "Well, I'm a bit different from an earth rodent," he sniffed.

     "Oh. I didn't mean-" She bit her lip and turned to the sink to begin washing out the bowls. He waited; he could feel her curiosity tickling along his senses. Now that the fear was fading, it was inevitably kicking in. "So, uh, can you do anything with that tail, or are you limited with its mobility?" she asked after a moment. "I mean, is it very strong?"

     "Strong enough to lift a fully-grown mouse. Or a human," he replied. Although he wouldn't have chosen to use himself as a topic, at least she was starting to open up and talk. "Think of it as a third arm, or something. Losing a tail impacts a mouse as much as losing an arm or leg would impact a human."

     She nodded, stacking the dishes in the drainer beside the sink. "And it doesn't hurt to lift something that heavy? I mean, your tail is attached directly to your spine, right? It doesn't put excess strain on your back or anything?"

     "We develop very strong muscles from a very young age. Our backs are well-padded, don't worry." Throttle was surprised by Alley's blunt questioning. Charley had never asked them such things, in all the years she'd known them. Perhaps she felt such questions were too personal. He rather felt they were too personal, but he supposed he could put up with it. At least she was no longer screaming, or crying, or attempting to throw blunt objects at his head.

     "Hey, guys. Anyone here?" Charley's voice drifted from the direction of the living room, making them both jump in surprise.

     Throttle felt a rush of relief at her appearance. It was about time! "In here," he called, and a moment later she appeared in the doorway. She took everything in with a raised eyebrow, then tossed him a catty grin. "Well, isn't this the cozy little domestic scene. Getting along, are we?"

     He was glad for his thick fur at times like these, when it felt like his whole head might erupt in flame. "Sure. Piece of cake." He shrugged, attempting to affect casual aloofness. "She fed me and everything."

     "There's still some oatmeal left in the fridge if you want any," Alley put in. "I can make more tomorrow. I bought fresh ingredients yesterday."

     Charley straightened, looking back and forth between Alley and a highly-embarrassed mouse. "Wait. You fed Throttle," she repeated.

     Alley blinked at her. "Uh-huh."

     "You fed him oatmeal."

     Throttle scowled at her; she ignored him.

     "Yeeeees," Alley replied slowly, looking confused. "And half a glass of milk."

     Charley slumped against the counter, one hand dramatically clutching her heart. "I don't believe it. I've spent years trying to get these macho mice to eat anything resembling health food, and you somehow manage it within the first half hour of meeting them!" She reached across the counter and clutched a very confused Alley's hands in hers. "Please. I must know your secret!"

     Throttle growled, trying to sound annoyed despite the grin that kept twitching at his mouth. He whipped his tail around to give Charley a playful smack on the rear, making her yelp and laugh. "Don't go getting any ideas, now. I was just bein' polite!"

Next

[oasisofbabel]

1 Intro - (working title: not a voltron fanfic)

Rebecca Athena Promachos

<Let’s see; four gun emplacements, thirty some armed Crădyn, and a VITA walker,>[Joy] Tyler’s voice drifted into my mind, projected through the air on a tightly aimed infrared beam.

<We planned for this; we knew the walker might come into play the moment we found out they’d taken it,>[Confident] I projected.

Six confirmations pulsed back at me, hidden among the electromagnetic spectrum under encryption that would make it look like random noise to anyone else. The pulse carried various other bits of data with it, and my body dutifully implanted the direction of each pulse into my mind to confirm that the others were in position around the pirate camp.

The camp was built from camouflaged tarp and rough-cut wood, likely gathered from the swamps around it. Pallets and pallets of hard cases stood under tarps meant mostly to hide them from overhead eyes. If we were right, there were millions of credits worth of black-market weaponry holed up in this camp – as well as the VITA walker we’d tracked to find this place.

The VITA was by far the most modern weapon these pirates owned, all the rest were ancient things but in good repair. The VITA could sprint through almost any terrain and carry its rifled cannon into the battlefield with it, unlike the Crădyn whose myriad of shelled legs didn’t give them a lot of maneuverability to begin with. The VITA’s mounted gun could tear through our armor, and if it managed to hit one of us with its cannon … well, best not to think of that sort of thing.

We crouched in thick undergrowth, on the dark side of a tiny moon orbiting a banded gas giant. A storm plagued this part of the little world, further hiding us in the gloom. Even to the ever-watchful sensors of the VITA walker and its vigilant turret we were practically invisible. Infrared detection would see a silhouette breaking temperature pattern built directly into the hardened plates of our armor, and the same plates could absorb LIDAR and other radiation.

The aliens couldn’t see us. The walking gun couldn’t see us. But I could see everything: Two binocular eyes that could pick out the lice crawling on the pirates and tell me that they were exactly one hundred and six point three meters away from me; two more monocular eyes that extended my peripheral vision until I could practically see in all directions at once and into spectrum bands well beyond color. A fifth “eye” buried in my skull could even see gravity.

<I see two Crădyn with recoilless rifles> Elizabeth reported. <Nine rifles of various make, and the rest are armed with spears.> With her pulse came a long list of data that my body quickly parsed through, confirming what I’d suspected since we arrived.

<Liz, Tyler, John, Evan: you round up the Crădyn, capture who you can and silence resistance quickly>[Command] I pulsed. <James, Kelly, and I will collect the VITA.>[Command]

Six confirmations projected back to me, and when I sent the pulse to move we would switch out of silent running and strike at the same time.

Silent running mode stiffened the muscles and closed the armor around my joints, face, and over the exhaust ports along my spine. I was invisible, but stiff and slow. The moment I intended to move, however, my entire body unlocked.

I pulsed the others and willed myself into motion in the next instant. At my will electricity flared through my skin: it flexed muscles attached to my armor plates in critical points to pull them out of the way, and finally unlock my limbs so they could really move. With my nose and the exhausts along my spine finally free to breathe the turbine in my chest screamed to life. Joints free and air flowing through our radiators we exploded up the hill with titanium claws extended.

We crossed into the camp in four seconds, sixty-five tonnes of screaming metal and polymer slammed into the side of the walker at nearly one hundred kilometers per hour. James and I ducked our heads at the last moment, contacting with the horns on our heads. Kelly slammed into it in a full body tackle. Our combined momentum launched the much heavier vehicle off three of its trunk-like legs and we pushed against it.

James’s turbine screamed louder as he urged the VITA to tip over onto its side, but caught itself and teetered but would not fall. He was the largest and strongest among all of us, but even with Kelly and I we simply could not hold it. The VITA’s legs kicked and curled as its inertia saved it, and gravity began to overcome us.

In the back of my mind update pulses from the others flashed across my perception: They’d routed or killed the armed Crădyn that had been on patrol. Evan had cleared a command tent, but whoever had been running the camp was long gone. Various data leaked in with every update, but it was nothing unexpected, so I didn’t bother to comprehend any of it.

As it was, without its troop support we could take down the VITA with impunity.

I pulsed at James and Kelly and we dropped the VITA back onto all six legs. I moved quickly to latch my jaw over its cannon and the others surrounded it. The cannon fired into the ground and I felt the recoil wrench at my entire body, but it wasn’t enough to shake me loose. It dragged me along the ground as it tried to back away or turn its turret, but the turret lacked the strength of the legs and could not maneuver the gun with my weight hanging off it.

Kelly and James leapt onto the VITA’s back and together nearly drove it to the ground. James braced himself against the cannon and wrapped his jaws around the mounted gun to twist it away. It barked angrily but compared to the cannon in my mouth its recoil was nothing; if he wanted to I suspected James might be able to rip it off.

Kelly scrambled to get her teeth into the hatch, chewing on where she hoped the latch or the hinge was. Electricity arced as the capacitors mounted inside her mouth discharged into the VITA, it was a long shot but in simpler systems the shock could open electronic locks all on its own. When the shock failed to be effective she started on the seal between the hatch and the hull. Her claws and hardened steel teeth quickly opened a tiny crack that the pressurized air of the cabin hissed out of.

Kelly pulsed at James and they switched places. She took the gun and gave it its own shock to try to deter the gunner from firing any more, and James attacked the hatch with the sharpened armor on his nose. Essentially a head mounted axe, James swung the entire weight of his head into the crack Kelly had made for him and wedged open a hole in the hatch.

A sidearm barked inside the cabin and James flinched as the plasma deflected off his armor. He dove back in and used his jaws to open the hole just enough that the fuel pumps in the back of his throat could spray accelerant into the cabin.

The panicked hissing from the Crădyn had been subdued before, but it rose to a crescendo now. I activated the radio sitting between my shoulders and aimed a high-powered radio burst at the antennas attached to the walker, demanding immediate surrender. The walker capitulated through the Crădyn equivalent of violent coughing.

The hatch unlocked, and James backed off as the Crădyn rushed out of the VITA, desperate for fresh air in their gills. Kelly herded the crew of six away from the tank and circled them, just in case the oily fuel that was soaking into the creases between their shell plates wasn’t threat enough for them.

With the VITA and its crew secured I recalled the others, who gathered the few prisoners they’d secured and made their way toward our position at the walker. John arrived first and took a running leap over the VITA, close enough to James that he had to flinch back to avoid being hit. John landed in front of the huddled crew and revved his turbine in an imitation of a scream.

<Stand down!> I pulsed as the Crădyn startled.

John froze instantly. He didn’t broadcast it, but I could almost sense his shame as he began dutifully inspecting the other members of the pack for damage. He spent more time with Kelly, checking to see if her botched tackle had hurt her.

Tyler arrived a moment later dragging a pair of Crădyn across the ground in a net that was still attached to the mechanism mounted in the back of his throat. Elizabeth was close behind and quickly deployed her own net over the VITA crew with a pneumatic hiss.

Evan approached in a relaxed trot and hopped casually up onto the crouched VITA alongside James. Evan leaned over the hatch and I braced myself as a set of segmented legs pulled a small drone free from the mount at the back of Evan’s throat. It dropped into the tank and I could hear its little legs as it moved into the pilot seat and began to manipulate the controls.

[Disgust] Kelly broadcast as she turned her head away.

<I still say the drone is grosser than the nets>[Mirth] James noted.

<”Grosser” isn’t a word>[Mirth] I broadcast idly with a shake of my head.

<I said it didn’t I?>[Smug]

<So gross!>[Disgust] Kelly’s whole body shivered, and even though neither broadcast it I could almost picture the ear to ear grin James and Evan would be wearing.

I only remembered to activate our retrieval beacon as an afterthought, too caught up in the bantering that James had started. I may have prided myself in being able to read the squad, but James had an uncanny ability to derail concentration.

Evan stood the tank up with jerky motions. I could only imagine how difficult it was to pilot the drone, using the drone to remotely pilot the walker had to be ridiculously awkward. Add James’s pestering and that a VITA wasn’t very graceful to begin with when compared to us and it was a miracle Evan could even stand the thing up, let alone get it walking. Nothing that any alien had ever built could possibly match up with even one of us.

I knew the tank could easily reach forty kilometers per hour in the muck of the swamps, but we could double that easily – more on favorable terrain. Wide webbed paws kept our weight spread across unstable footing, while this walker would sink into the ground and move by sheer strength and mass alone. If they flipped, turning back over was an awkward affair – but we were agile, enough that we could twist and turn in the air.

The walker was blind and dumb, even compared to James who only had two eyes. Most of us had at least four bioelectronic eyes, both in binocular and monocular position. A second artificial brain hooked directly into our own meant information processing and reaction time was almost instant. No alien pilot or system could compete.

A roar shook the air at the approach of the SST Stargazer, our modified System Security Transport. A moment later and the clouds opened around the ship. The clouds swirled around it as it circled the camp and lowered itself down until its hangar doors were level with the hill. Only the very front balanced on the soft soil of the hill, the rest was supported by its reactionless drives and the generously sized grove it had crushed in the process of landing.

Before the doors even opened our Director was on the radio, she growled and yipped over the airwaves to demand my presence on the bridge immediately.

Evan piloted the tank toward the hangar door as it opened, heedless of the ranks of furry Centillan officers filing out to collect the contents of the camp. The cavernous interior of the hangar slowly revealed itself, eventually just wide enough to carefully walk the VITA through. We rushed in ahead of it, and while the rest secured the cargo and prisoners I moved to my rack.

Seven metallic frames circled the hangar, my own at the rear. Metal restraints unfolded from their carefully secured position as I approached, bare polymer actuators flexed and twitched to life in a clumsy imitation of the real mounts they were based on.

I turned around in front of it and the restraints began to guide me into their embrace. They firmly secured and immobilized my tail and limbs before lifting my entire body into the air. Override connectors snaked their way into ports revealed as the muscles sown into my armor flexed, an autonomous response to the specific electrical signal of my frame. As they connected, my mind began to fragment in a familiar way. I felt the connection to my body and artificial brain terminate in stages, gently but firmly separating us.

I gasped within my cockpit as carbon dioxide began to build inside me, the reflex normally overridden by direct blood oxygenation given to me by my body – no, by the warform I was piloting. The binocular eyes of the warform closed, and with it my vision was returned to my real body.

The pilot’s cradle was dark and claustrophobic, but the firm grip the seat held on me slowly began to release me as its cells shrank. I felt the frame settle the warform into its final reclining position as the layers of armor in front of my eyes began to open like a zipper.

The stomach of my warform flayed itself open to reveal the interior of the hangar. The frame carefully positioned the warform in front of a hanging catwalk and the heavy metal supports to either side of my warform grasped. I felt the machine sigh as the final connection it had to me was terminated and the cradle fully released me from its firm hold. Metal connectors along my spine unlocked from the seat and I pulled my arms down from above my head.

Climbing free of the cradle was always difficult, after such a long synchronization with the warform my own muscles felt stiff and unresponsive. A set of handles on articulated arms presented themselves to me and I pulled myself out of a reclining position onto the catwalk, the texture of the metal stabbed at my flesh through the polymer-weave wraps around my feet.

The stab resistant unitard that was standard for the females in the squad left the spine exposed to the air: Every motion, even breathing, made it feel like sandpaper against my skin even though I know the weave was nearly as fine as silk. The oversensitivity was normal, and thankfully the hangar lights were dimmed or else I’d have been blinded when the warform opened.

After twelve hours in the warform I needed to move to the grooming suite, but even thinking about scrubbing myself clean made my skin itch – and besides, the Director was waiting. I hissed with every step as I made my way toward the bridge. I passed scaled Vyrăis wayfarers who examined our warforms as they went about their business, marveling at the wonders of human innovation – innovations from a long, lost empire. I felt their quartet of eyes on me as I walked, fixated on one of the only humans alive.

I checked in my belt with its knife at the lockers near the exit of the hangar. I even risked the pain of pulling the cap from my head to release my hair, I hissed as even the relief of removing the tight cap brought pain with it.

By the time I entered the bridge I was feeling slightly better, at least enough that the lights didn’t immediately blind me.

The bridge of the Stargazer was a hodgepodge. There were as many science officers as actual security officers huddled around workstations, all keeping the vast machine that allowed us to deploy afloat. And the consoles were equally mixed, either standard as they would be in a normal Security transport or something that James and Evan had torn apart and put together again to interface with our warforms. Director Astrid Dromgoole paced along the raised platform running down its center, her authority amplified by the higher ground.

Director Dromgoole was in charge of the entire assembly, a position she continued to decry as a punishment in disguise as a promotion. She was Centillan, a long and slender people with short arms and legs tipped with clawed paws. Her long muzzle was tipped with a nose unparalleled in sniffing out criminals, and a chipped fang that flashed in the light as she turned to face me.

She walked away from the officer she’d been arched over, rising to her full height to tower over me as she demanded my report. I delivered it in my best imitation of her language, from what I knew they had many languages but that this one had become their trade standard because it was easiest for alien species to learn. Lots of species did that – except for humans, there were only seven of us around and we all spoke the same language.

I could imagine that my accent was terrible, the language was easy to learn but I could see her cringe on every other syllable. I tried to be terse for her sake, summarizing how the assault went for her from my perspective. As I spoke a science officer offered her a tablet that began to display other data we’d recovered, like the water-logged ledger Evan had managed to find. Her long whiskers twitched thoughtfully as I finished my report and scanned the data.

She growled her displeasure. She’d been hoping to find the “head of the serpent” during this raid. Unfortunately, other than the weapons, this pirate cache had been practically abandoned. With what amounted to a Centillan sigh, she asked me what my thoughts were.

I dutifully reported that my team and I were exhausted and needed to recover after a long synch. One of her round ears flicked at me in annoyance, but she agreed on the condition that I send her a memo on the subject as soon as I could.

She dismissed me, and I knocked my ankles together in my haste to perform a stiff Imperial salute. I managed to hold my expression of pain until after I’d exited the bridge. Now all we had to do was wait to return to the Home Ship and take an extremely unpleasant shower.

[mst3kproject]

K09: Phase IV

Remember I said the movies were all coming together?  Well, Phase IV is definitely a prequel to Overdrawn at the Memory Bank. Think about it – why are the people of the future nothing but replaceable cogs in a few giant companies, or colonies if you will?  Why is individuality so strongly discouraged?  Why does everybody hate anteaters?  Because the world is ruled by ants! See?  See?  It's all part of one great ur-movie!

And honestly, that's as seriously as I've ever been able to take Phase IV.  It's a shame, really, because despite lurid posters in which ants eat their way through a human hand, Phase IV really wants to be a serious science fiction movie.  It's trying to imagine humanity confronted by an intelligence greater than ours, from the most unlikely source – man humbled before God's humblest creatures!  The title apparently refers to all life on Earth eventually merging into a single super-consciousness.  I can definitely see where they were trying to go.  Sadly, when the journey isn't boring me to tears, it's making me giggle like a Tickle-Me Elmo doll at things that weren't supposed to be funny.  Was Tickle-Me Elmo really over twenty years ago?

Dr. Hubbs is an entomologist studying a frighteningly intelligent multi-species ant colony in Arizona – or are the ants studying him? He calls in a cryptographer, Dr. Lesko, to help him try to communicate with the insects.  For the next hour or so, the scientists do scientist stuff and the ants do ant stuff. Occasionally something happens.  The ants tear a house down, and the people inside flee only to be accidentally sprayed with a massive overdose of pesticide. The scientists have praying mantises to keep the ants from getting into their little moon dome, but the ants take them out with ant assassins. Stuff like that.  Eventually Hubbs dies of an ant bite, but the ants capture everybody else to do... something... to them... and then the movie's over.

For the most part Phase IV is deathly boring.  We're either listening to the scientists talk about whatever, or watching ants wiggle their antennas at other ants that are never in the same shot because in the real world two different types of ants put together will either ignore or eat each other.  Dr. Hubbs goes off on poetic flights about the perfection of ant society, and shows that he is the Mad Scientist of the movie by discounting the deaths of actual people.  Dr. Lesko translates ant-language to come up with weird oscilloscope traces and geometric diagrams that might or might not mean anything. Desert Wildlife Stock Footage appears and there's a teenage girl named Kendra who has to hang around because going outside would mean crawly formic death.  The soundtrack is kinda trippy but at the same time impossibly dull.

In fact, it's because Phase IV is dull that I often find it so funny.  Since nothing much is happening, my brain wanders off on odd tangents with the sparse information the film gives me.  We begin with Dr. Lesko's narration telling us that this was all caused by some kind of unspecified celestial event.  Really? A conjuction of the planets created smart ants?  Jupiter is in retrograde and Mercury is rising in Libra, so be conservative with your investments – and watch out, because this month's full moon is the perfect time for ants to suddenly develop a superintelligent hive mind!

Then the narration starts talking about ants 'doing things ants don't do', like holding meetings.  This bodes ill for mankind, sure, but the word 'meetings' just makes me picture ants at tiny tables, sipping tiny lattes while they discuss how best to put the wasp nest under the porch out of business.  Never mind that Lesko's voice is over footage of ants doing... well, exactly what ants do; grooming, fighting, and carrying stuff through tunnels.  The shots cut back and forth from one ant to another of a different species in a way that suggests we're probably supposed to be imagining a dialogue between them, but there's not even any squeaking sounds dubbed in.  I admit that this is realistic, because ants communicate chemically.  It still looks ridiculous.

How about the bit where the ant queen (who I'm pretty sure is not played by an ant – the animal we see looks more like some kind of wasp) assimilates an insecticide, producing offspring that are immune to it?  Sure, scary idea, but Dr. Hubbs intones, 'we challenge with yellow chemistry, they respond with yellow creatures'.  Is that how that works?  Because now I'm pondering the artistic possibilities of feeding Skittles to the ants.

Or how about when the ants decide to cook the humans in their hideaway by focusing solar radiation onto it?  Revenge for all those kids with magnifying glasses, am I right?  Or how Dr. Lesko blasts the tops off the ant towers to try to get a reaction?  That seems a little extra, when any bored six-year-old knows much easier ways to get an ant colony moving.  How about the fact that at the end everybody runs off into the desert in their bare feet when they know damned well there's seventy billion pissed-off ants out there?

The ants only get one moment in the movie that's really effective, when it does seem like there's a higher intellect at work behind these millions of mindless drones in perhaps the same sort of way as billions of neurons come together to create a conscious human brain. That's when the ants bring a sample of the yellow pesticide back to the hill for their queen to examine.  One ant carries this as far as it can before the poison kills it, then another one picks it up and does the same.  Individual ants are expendable. There are just so damn many of them that it makes no difference, and the colony can always produce more to replace what has been lost.  This uses what makes ants scary even when they're not superintelligent, along with reminding us that their purpose here is to study our weapons and learn to neutralize them.

The dead ants laid out in rows like the aftermath of a battle is also sort of cool, but it has the opposite effect, actually humanizing the ants by depicting them as individual lost lives.  Hubbs has already explained to us that's not how ants work, and if ants are individuals who care enough to gather up their dead colony-mates, they become a lot less alien and therefore a lot less frightening.

The behaviour of the ants also suffers from the same problem as a lot of killer animal movies, in which their intelligence seems to have come with a few lessons in electrical engineering.  Intelligence does not automatically confer knowledge – INT is a stat, while knowledge is a skill!  Humans have sophisticated brains, but much of what we do with them depends upon thousands of years of accumulated learning.  Before we could build a generator, we needed at least a primitive understanding of the physics of electricity.  It is true that destroying a generator is simpler than inventing it, but how did the ants even know what the significance of the generator was?  How did they know what the air conditioner was, never mind how to shut it down?  These ants have been sentient for a couple of months at best, and during that time they seem to have been too busy building towers and exterminating their predators (things that actually seem like pretty plausible ant priorities) to go to trade school.

These are all quibbles, though.  The biggest problem with Phase IV is that it raises a lot of questions and then never bothers to even try answering them.  Dr. Lesko makes some progress at communicating with the ants, and the fact that the ants bother to listen and reply suggests that they do want something from these humans... but what? Hubbs dies of the ant venom, but Lesko and Kendra are captured and taken inside an enormous ant hill, where the ants begin doing something to them that seems poised to begin a real dialogue.  In the final moments of the movie we're on the verge of finding out what's really been going on... and then it just ends.

So what was all that leading up to?  We don't know!  And Lesko's final words of narration, we didn't know for what purpose, but we knew we would be told, just seem to rub the anticlimax in our faces – he found out, but we never will!  I'm left with the impression that writer Mayo Simon didn't have any real idea, himself.  I guess the point is supposed to be that the ants are such a completely alien mind that Lesko probably couldn't explain it to us if he wanted to.  Fair enough, but still a lousy non-ending to a boring eighty-four minute movie.

All this movie needed was a conclusion.  Not even a conclusion to the overall 'smart ants take over the world' thing, just a conclusion to the 'kidnap Lesko and Kendra and make them members of the hive' thing.  Are the ants after human knowledge?  Do they need human emmissaries?  Human spies?  Human slaves?  Humans to play the slots in Vegas while the ants manipulate the machines to pay out big wins? A fertile couple to be the progenitors of a new race of Ant-People? See, there I go again, off on tangents trying to supply the entertainment this movie so conspicuously failed to give me.

There are people who really like this movie.  El Santo of 1000 Misspent Hours says it's one of his favourites, because it makes him think.  It made me think, too, but about all the wrong things.

[monkeyandelf]

Enigmatic old paintings with images of UFOs

The study of UFOs has given amazing revelations to humanity. Without doubt, one of the most important findings is the presence of flying objects in old paintings, demonstrating that, possibly, they have visited us from the origin of everything ... One of the greatest concerns of society is know if there is life outside our planet and today, that curiosity is increased thanks to the large number of sightings of unidentified flying objects worldwide. However, everything seems to indicate that these sightings are not unique to pop culture and could go back to centuries in the past. There are very old paintings where you can see UFOs, however, the question we all ask ourselves is why did they paint them? Were they so common that adding them to art was normal? However, these curious flying ships do not go back only at the birth of contemporary art, since they are in paintings, in caves, where our aboriginal ancestors captured humanoid figures. And it is worth remembering that all these paintings are nothing more than a testimony what life was like during that time. But without a doubt, the one who has given us the most to think about is the Renaissance art, the one who was greatly influenced by religion, which has puzzled scholars even more ...

Wandjina's paintings

Australian aboriginal paintings showing humanoids. Credit: Public Domain

Wandjina wall art The Australian aborigines painted in caves what they believed were the creators of everything what exists on Earth. These figures have a humanoid appearance, big black eyes, no mouth and seem to wear a kind of helmet. There is a great debate about what they wanted to capture in this representation, but they certainly seem to tell us about a extraterrestrial contact.

Svetishoveil Cathedral Fresco

The Svetishoveil Cathedral Fresco painting features two rather out of place UFOs, which resemble jelly fish, either side of JesusCredit: Steffen Schulein ( Georgian Tourism Association) This wall mural, or fresco, from 1350 by an unknown artist can be found in the Visoki Decani Monestary in Kosovo, Serbia. Two odd-looking objects with 'pilots' can be seen in the sky on both sides of Jesus. “As odd as the details in the upper left and right sections of the Kosovo fresco may seem to modern eyes, they, in fact, refer to something readily familiar: the sun and the moon,” Dennis Geronimus, associate professor of Italian Renaissance at New York University, told the Huffington Post. “None of these painted details amount to early modern UFO sightings, which isn’t to say that the Kosovo muralist’s or Carlo Crivelli’s contemporary audiences did not believe in otherworldly beings or supernatural events.”

Saint Wolfgang and the Devil 

This painting based on the legend that Saint Wolfgang tricked the devil into building a church sparked a wave of conspiracy theoriesCredit: Getty Images The work of a famous German Renaissance painter Michael Pacher in the 15th century. It is based around a legend that Saint Wolfgang, the Bishop of Regensburg in Bavaria during the 10th century, tricked the devil into building a church. Internet sleuths believe the odd green shaped figure supposedly representing the devil appears more alien.

The Madonna with Saint Giovannino

In the right corner you can see a man and his dog watching a strange flying object. Credit: Domenico Ghirlandail / Wikimedia Commons Work of the fifteenth century, belonging to Domenico Ghirlandail. Another religious image of the Renaissance, where a UFO can be observed in detail. Ghirlandail "hid" this object, since it can only be seen very vaguely to a corner of the painting and, in addition, a man and his dog are seen on a hill staring To the strange ship.

The miracle of the snow

In this work, Jesus and Mary are inside what appears to be a ship, and behind them are others following them. Credit: Masolino Da Panicale / Public Domain Painting made by Masolino Da Panicale in 1428 where he shows us Jesus and Mary on a strange machine and apparently, followed by similar ones. These strange artifacts are found flying over the sky, so they can easily be seen as flying ships.

The Crucifixion of 1350

Two flying ships can be seen at each end of the painting. Credit: Public Domain / Wikimedia Commons Visoki Decanís, one of the most representative works he has painted, where he portrays the crucifixion of Jesus. But what most attracts attention are the two flying ships which can be seen on the right and on the left of the painting, including passengers. This painting is from the fourteenth century and many people have interpreted what he "meant" with these figures. However, it is difficult to add another interpretation to something that is so literal.

The Annunciation of Saint Emidius

A UFO shoots a kind of lightning at a person praying. Credit: Carlo Crivelli / Wikimedia Commons Carlo Crivelli painted this work in 1486 and in it you can see a mysterious circle in the sky attacking with a lightning bolt to the head a young woman who is praying. There is also a white dove flying, being pierced by lightning, as if it were descending from a spaceship.

The glorification of the Eucharist

God and Jesus taking a metallic object through their antennae. Credit: Bonaventura Salimbeni / Wkimedia Commons Bonaventura Salimbeni made this work in 1600, being one of the most important of his career, so it is protected in the church of San Lorenzo, in San Pedro, Florence. This painting also shows a mysterious metallic sphere, with antennas, which are seized by Jesus and God. This UFO is very similar to satellites that were made hundreds of years later, so it has generated much controversy between believers and ufologists.

Triumph of Summer Tapestry

Photo credit: World 5 List via YouTube Not precisely a painting but a Renaissance tapestry, this Belgian work of art is one of the few that doesn’t actually depict a religious scene. This tapestry is a celebratory artwork depicting the ascension of a ruler to power in Belgium. Although it’s not clear who he is, it could be referring to Emperor Charles V, who also governed West Flanders. Anyway, what caught the attention in this intricate tapestry is the fact that in the upper-left part of the image you can see many creatures and objects that match our modern perception of extraterrestrial imagery, to which there’s no religious association at all. However, it’s believed it was the artisan’s way of showing this monarchs' divine right to rule, which doesn’t sound that far-fetched at all.

La Tebaide

Photo credit: Scheggia Painted in the mid-15th century, La Tebaide (aka Scene di vita eremitica) is a montage of scenes showing various aspects and beliefs of monastic life. Part of this picture shows Jesus on the cross, and many eagle-eyed enthusiasts have picked out a small, red, disc-shaped UFO at the bottom of that scene. Debunkers claim that the red, saucer-shaped object is nothing more than a traditional cardinal’s hat that belongs to St. Jerome, the person kneeling in front of the cross. On the other hand, UFOlogists believe that the red trails projecting from the “UFO” show its erratic movements. However, the trails are probably just the tassels of the traditional headpiece. Besides, this hat appears in many other paintings of St. Jerome. As in this picture, the hat is usually found close to him. La Tebaide is currently on display at the Academy of Florence, Italy.

‘Israel, Put Your Hope In The Lord’

The UFO-like object depicted in a wall painting in a medieval Romanian church (Image: Credit: Catalina Borta) This mysterious painting depicts a giant disc-shaped object above a burning church. The painting currently sits in the Church of the Dominican Monastery in Sighisoara, Romania. This location is in the legendary region of Transylvania, which was the birthplace of Vlad III, prince of Wallachia. You may know him better as “Vlad the Impaler” or “Vlad III Dracula”—the same Dracula that inspired Bram Stoker’s classic 1897 novel. It is not known if there is a connection between Dracula and the painting. Although mainstream historians argue that the disc-shaped object is nothing more than a shield, its size as well as the smoke that appears to be trailing out of it suggests otherwise. Although it is not known exactly when the painting was created or by whom, the German caption below it reads: Israel, hoffe auf den Herrn (“Israel, put your hope in the Lord”). As the Bible was not translated into German until 1523 and a fire destroyed the original monastery in the 17th century, the painting was probably created after those two events.

The baptism of Christ

A strange luminous disk illuminates the baptism of Jesus. Credit: Aert De Gelder / Wikimedia Commons Aert De Gelder painted in 1710 one of the most representative works of the Renaissance and is currently on display in the Museum of Fitzwilliam, Cambrindge. It shows a UFO illuminating the baptism of Jesus, in such a literal way that there is no way to interpret it any other way. Read the full article

[kathleenseiber]

SpaceWatch: A matter about dark matter

Dark matter theories may lack something

Astronomers suspect something is missing in current theories of how dark matter behaves.

An international team has uncovered an unexpected discrepancy between observations of the dark matter concentrations in a sample of massive galaxy clusters and theoretical computer simulations of how dark matter should be distributed in clusters.

The findings, published in the journal Science, indicate that some small-scale concentrations of dark matter produce lensing effects that are 10 times stronger than expected.

“There’s a feature of the real Universe that we are simply not capturing in our current theoretical models,” says senior author Priyamvada Natarajan, from Yale University, US.

“This could signal a gap in our current understanding of the nature of dark matter and its properties, as these exquisite data have permitted us to probe the detailed distribution of dark matter on the smallest scales.”

Astronomers “map” the distribution of dark matter within galaxy clusters via the bending of light that the galaxies produce, a concept called gravitational lensing.

By combining imaging from the Hubble Space Telescope and spectroscopy from ESO’s Very Large Telescope (VLT) in Chile, the astronomers were able to assemble a well-calibrated, high-resolution map of the mass distribution of dark matter in each cluster.

They then compared the maps with samples of simulated galaxy clusters with similar masses located at roughly the same distances. The clusters in the computer model did not show any of the same level of dark-matter concentration on the smallest scales – the scales associated with individual cluster galaxies.

“We have done a lot of careful testing in comparing the simulations and data in this study, and our finding of the mismatch persists,” says lead author Massimo Meneghetti of the INAF-Observatory of Astrophysics and Space Science in Italy. Investigations will continue.

Bennu is getting its rocks off

The asteroid Bennu. Credit: NASA, Goddard, University of Arizona, Lockheed Martin

Detailed observations of the asteroid Bennu reveal that it is ejecting material on a regular basis, adding to an emerging picture of asteroids as quite dynamic worlds.

It is particularly active during two-hour afternoon and evening timeframes, scientists with the OSIRIS-REx NASA mission write in the Journal of Geophysical Research: Planets.

“We thought that Bennu’s boulder-covered surface was the wildcard discovery at the asteroid, but these particle events definitely surprised us,” says principal investigator Dante Lauretta, from the University of Arizona.

The authors considered various mechanisms that could cause the phenomena, including released water vapour, impacts by small space rocks known as meteoroids and rocks cracking from thermal stress.

They say the latter two were found to be the most likely, confirming predictions about Bennu’s environment based on ground observations preceding the space mission.

The video animation below shows the trajectories of particles after their ejection. It emphasises the four largest events detected from December 2018 to September 2019. Additional particles, some with lifetimes of several days, that are not related to the ejections are also visible.

Using software algorithms, the scientists determined that the largest of the particles is about six centimetres in diameter. And as they are ejected at low velocities – like a shower of tiny pebbles in super slow motion – it is considered they are not a threat to the spacecraft.

OSIRIS-REx will get close enough to grab a sample from the surface of Bennu in October and return it to Earth on in September 2023.

Credit: M. Brozovic/JPL/Caltech/NASA/University of Arizona

Are Jupiter’s moons warming each other?

Jupiter’s moons are hotter than they should be, given how far they are from the Sun. Some have warm enough interiors to host oceans of liquid water.

It’s because of a process called tidal heating: gravitational tugs from the moons and Jupiter itself stretch and squish the moons enough to warm them. But the process might not work quite how we thought.

It’s been assumed the planet was responsible for most of the tidal heating, but a study led by Hamish Hay from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California, US, and published in Geophysical Research Letters suggests that moon-moon interactions may be the key players.

According to the researchers’ model, Jupiter’s influence alone can’t create tides with the right frequency to resonate with the moons because the moons’ oceans are thought to be too thick. It’s only when they added in the gravitational influence of the other moons that they started to see tidal forces approaching the natural frequencies of the moons.

Jupiter’s largest moons in order of distance from the planet: Io, Europa, Ganymede and Callisto. Credit: NASA

When the tides generated by other objects in Jupiter’s moon system match each moon’s own resonant frequency, the moon begins to experience more heating than that due to tides raised by Jupiter alone, and in the most extreme cases, this could result in the melting of ice or rock internally.

There are some caveats to the initial findings, however: the model assumes that tidal resonances never get too extreme. Hay and his team want to return to this variable and see what happens when they lift that constraint.

Big search but no alien signs

Astronomers using the Murchison Widefield Array (MWA) telescope in outback Western Australia have completed the deepest and broadest search at low frequencies for alien technologies, but come away empty handed.

The MWA has an extraordinarily wide field-of-view that allows millions of stars to be observed simultaneously.

However, despite scanning a patch of sky around the Vela constellation known to include at least 10 million stars, and looking “more than 100 times broader and deeper than ever before”, according to Chenoa Tremblay from Australia’s CSIRO, they detected no powerful radio emissions (technosignatures) that could indicate the presence of an intelligent source.

This is reported officially in a paper in the journal Publications of the Astronomical Society of Australia.

Dipole antennas of the MWA radio telescope in Western Australia. Credit: Dragonfly Media.

While no doubt disappointed, Tremblay and co-author Steven Tingay, from the Curtin University node of the International Centre for Radio Astronomy Research, are not completely surprised.

“[E]ven though this was a really big study, the amount of space we looked at was the equivalent of trying to find something in the Earth’s oceans but only searching a volume of water equivalent to a large backyard swimming pool,” says Tingay.

“Since we can’t really assume how possible alien civilisations might utilise technology, we need to search in many different ways. Using radio telescopes, we can explore an eight-dimensional search space.”

And the search will continue, with even more tech behind it.

The new Square Kilometre Array (SKA), which will have telescopes alongside the MWA in Western Australia and in South Africa, will be 50 times more sensitive. Early science observations with SKA are expected to start in the mid-2020s with a partial array.

SpaceWatch: A matter about dark matter published first on https://triviaqaweb.weebly.com/