#malcolm jameson

[nerds-yearbook]

A 75-year-old successful business man made a deal with the Devil to travel back into his past to the year 1910. He was upset to learn that despite looking 30 in the past physically he was still 75 and probably wouldn't live long enough to see his financial plans through. All his plans ended up as failures and he was barely able to return to the future with nothing to his name. Worse, due to alterations in his past, he was now a janitor and his former janitor was now the owner of his company. ("Of Late I Think of Cliffordville", The Twilight Zone, TV)

[gollygeedash]

The past couple days I've been slowly picking at drawing the full (currently designed) 'In the Cracks' cast! The black boxes are spoilers, but in total it's about 41 guys/gals!!!! It's also still growing, so this'll be a constant project for me.

A few of these characters belong to @knoggart!!! :] Namely Eda and the rest of the monkey family (plus Nebby), but she's got more behind the scenes >:]c

I'm excited!!!! to eventually share this story with you guys!!! Whenever that can happen!

[byneddiedingo]

Early Hitchcock

Ian Hunter, Carl Brisson, and Eugene Corri in The Ring

Lillian Hall-Davis and Jameson Thomas in The Farmer's Wife

Anny Ondra, Carl Brisson, and Malcolm Keen in The Manxman

The Ring (Alfred Hitchcock, 1927)

Cast: Carl Brisson, Ian Hunter, Lillian Hall-Davis, Forrester Harvey, Harry Terry, Gordon Harker. Screenplay: Alfred Hitchcock. Cinematography: Jack E. Cox.

The Farmer's Wife (Alfred Hitchcock, 1928)

Cast: Jameson Thomas, Lillian Hall-Davis, Gordon Harker, Louie Pounds, Maud Gill, Olga Slade, Ruth Maitland. Screenplay: Eliot Stannard, based on a play by Eden Phillpotts. Cinematography: Jack E. Cox.

The Manxman (Alfred Hitchcock, 1929)

Cast: Carl Brisson, Malcolm Keen, Anny Ondra, Randle Ayrton, Clare Greet. Screenplay: Eliot Stannard, based on a novel by Hall Caine. Cinematography: Jack E. Cox.

These nicely restored silent Hitchcock films don't have a lot that's "Hitchcockian" about them except his ability to tell a story visually. Even compared to his other silents like Downhill (1927) and especially The Lodger (1927), they feel a little routine. What sets them apart from his later work is the focus on working-class people: carnival workers, farmers, and fishermen. Two of them are romantic melodramas involving a love triangle, the other a comedy about a widower in search of a wife. The Ring is the liveliest, with an impressive opening sequence that establishes the carnival setting with some kinetic camerawork and introduces the hero, "One-Round" Jack Sander (Carl Brisson), a carny boxer who takes on all comers, with the promise that anyone who lasts more than one round with him wins a pound. His girlfriend, Mabel (Lillian Hall-Davis), is the ticket-taker, and our first sight of Jack in the ring comes as she pulls up a flap between her booth and the interior -- a characteristic Hitchcock point-of-view take. Hitchcock also doesn't show the fights at first, only the boastful contenders being knocked back by Jack's punches, until his real antagonist, the professional fighter Bob Corby (Ian Hunter), puts up a real fight. From there, it's a story of Jack's rise as a pro and Mabel's increasing infatuation with Corby, even after she marries Jack. This is the only film on which Hitchcock took a solo credit as screenwriter, and though it's an entirely predictable plot, it's a workable one. Brisson, the handsome Danish actor who plays Jack, returns in The Manxman, which is somewhat overplotted -- it's based on a popular novel. Once again, he's on the outs in a marriage. Pete (Brisson), a fisherman, loves Kate (Anny Ondra), a publican's daughter, who agrees to wait for him while he earns his fortune on an overseas voyage, but she also loves Philip (Malcolm Keen), Pete's best friend, a lawyer with ambitions to become a "deemster," the name for a judge on the Isle of Man. And when a report comes that Pete has been killed, she and Philip feel free to indulge their love, though his family opposes their marriage as destructive to his ambitions -- apparently Philip's father damaged his career by marrying beneath him. When Pete turns up very much alive, he marries Kate, who is pregnant with Philip's child, whereupon much anguish ensues. Eliot Stannard wrangles the material from the Hall Caine novel into something coherent, but Hitchcock rarely seems terribly interested in it. The Farmer's Wife gives Hitchcock a chance to show off a talent for comic pacing that he rarely exhibited in his later career except in the "lighter side" moments of his thrillers and in such marginally successful comedies as Mr. & Mrs. Smith (1941) and The Trouble With Harry (1955). The film opens with Farmer Sweetland's (Jameson Thomas) wife on her deathbed, followed shortly by the marriage of their daughter, leaving the farmer open to suggestions that he needs to take a new wife. Completely, and somewhat illogically, ignoring the pretty housekeeper, Araminta (Lillian Hall-Davis), he courts -- disastrously -- some obviously unsuitable local women before realizing that Araminta is the one for him. A hint of misogyny pervades The Farmer's Wife in the comic portrayals of the mannish Widow Windeatt (Louie Pounds), the prudish Thirza Tapper (Maud Gill), and the hysterics-prone Mary Hearn (Olga Slade). It could be said that a similar misogyny colors the portrayals of Mabel in The Ring and Kate in The Manxman, women who seem to have no fixity in their affections. But Hitchcock was never the most "woke" director when it came to the treatment of women in his films.

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

cowboy like me

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: As a part-time criminal and a full-time escape artist your first priority was always to keep people at arm's length. When you meet someone who also knows what it's like to live from day to day, you're not so sure you want to let her slip away.

Foreword: Title taken from the Taylor Swift song cause it’s evermore season y’all

The first time you met the Black Widow was aboard a train heading south toward London. 

You sat, facing the window and watching the people mill about the terminal outside. Your cheeks were still red and wind bitten from your commute to the station. The car was almost full now, most everyone dressed in Manchester United jerseys and hats and the like. You blended in just fine among them. Another fan headed home after the match with a scarf and an old pair of trainers. 

You rehashed the details of your current mark in your head like a mantra. Jameson Harris. 42 Malcolm Rd. Wife was Anna Harris. Two children, Marcus and Emily. 

“All aboard. The 5:00 train from Manchester to London is off in three minutes,” the conductor announced from a speaker overhead. You could barely hear it over the excitement of the crowd. A little boy ran screaming down the aisle, his mother giving a futile chase. 

In the set of seats facing you two men about your age sat down. They were clearly drunk, laughing like hyenas and shoving each other in a manner that bordered on real anger. At least one of them smelled like heavy smoke.

“Hey, mate,” the tall, lanky one with a bad neck tattoo waved at you. “How about that game, eh?” 

You grinned widely as if you had one too many drinks coursing through your veins. “Fucking wild.” You stumbled over the words as if your tongue didn’t sit correctly in your mouth. “Best match of the season, if you ask me.” 

The other guy, fitter and dark-haired took out a lighter and a cigarette. He lit it and pulled a huge drag. The exhaled smoke blew right into the face of a passing attendant. 

She coughed stiffly into her hand. “Sir, there is no smoking allowed onboard. I am going to have to ask you to step out or please put it out.”

“Are you talking to me, sweetheart?” You averted your gaze, scrolling mindlessly through the contacts in your phone. If the woman was looking for a hero, you were a false beacon of hope. 

“Yes. Now, please. There is truly no smoking allowed in the car.” The acrid stench of nicotine once more assaulted everyone misfortunate enough to be in the general vicinity.

The man took a deep breath and stood. Elaborately he stubbed the cigarette out on the back of his seat, little bits of ash flaking into the air. The attendant moved on and he dropped back into the chair. “Fucking cunt,” he swore loud enough to cut through the din. 

You closed your eyes to shut out the cloudy winter light intent on piercing your retinas and the jerky movements of the other passengers, high off the energy from the match. You swore you would take a break after this job. You had made that exact same promise to yourself last week in Bogota, and the time before in Cairo. No, you wouldn’t stop. Just as relentless as the blood rushing through your veins, stopping would be tantamount to death.

“Excuse me.” A voice caused your train of thought to come to a screeching halt. Innocence dripped from the words like honey, and you could tell the woman’s voice was pitched up from her normal tone. “Is anyone sitting here?” A slender hand gestured at the seat next to yours. 

You pushed yourself up from the slouch you had been lounging in, feeling self-conscious. “No. Go right ahead,” you answered, cockney accent shining right through. She was pretty, you noted; about your age as well. A hitch tugged at the back of your brain. An evolutionary alarm from living your entire life on the move. This woman was not to be trusted. Underneath the wide eyes and the girlish smile was a viper coiled to strike. 

“Thank you,” she said, looking quite small against the backdrop of the raucous train car.

A wolf whistle pierced the air, looking for trouble. The bloke who had been smoking flashed a predator’s grin at the blonde beside you. “Where are you traveling to all alone now, girlie?” 

You watched the exchange from the corner of your eye. Why did conflict seem to follow wherever you stepped foot? The woman merely glanced up from her book, unwilling to feed the fire. 

“Oi. Why don’t you go ahead and look at me when I’m talking to you? I know you can hear me.” The train had begun to depart, ushering in a wave of quiet to the car as passengers settled down. The demand was impossible to ignore. Even as parents hushed children and drunkards passed out in increasing numbers, his voice only gained intensity. 

“This train is headed for London, is it not?” She asked, face as innocent as a blank sheet of paper. 

“Hey Jack. She’s a witty one,” he said, slapping his friend on the chest. The woman flicked her gaze at you. Your attention wandered to her like a moth to a flame. You stomped down on any inclination to help her. You weren’t going to lose this game of chicken.

“Sweetheart.” The man so called Jack joined in the instigating. “How about you come home with us, eh? I’ve got a real nice flat. I bet you’d like the bedroom.”

“No, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with me to the bathroom right now?” The dark-haired one surged forward, grimy hand outstretched toward the woman. Caution gone with the wind, your arm darted out on its own accord. You intercepted his wrist, tugging harshly enough for him to stumble closer to you. 

The blonde’s eyes widened and she shrank in on herself in her seat. You saw right through the act. An elderly man with a newsboy cap across the aisle watched the altercation like a deer caught in headlights. You prayed he wouldn’t call for help.

The entire damn point was to not draw attention to yourself. Today though, electricity charged the air with biting energy. The presence of the mystery-shrouded person beside you drove you past the gates of reason. 

You squeezed the man’s pinky until you heard the crunch of bone pushed too far. He screeched like a cat. “Go and find yourself another seat. I don’t care if the car is full. You’ll throw yourself out the rear if you have to. Don’t let me see your fucking face again,” you whispered in his ear. The words leapt flaming from your tongue.

Eyes wild with adrenaline and the courage of alcohol, he swung at you with his free fist. You caught the clumsy punch, seized the man by the wrist, and snapped it clean. He screamed, turning the heads of the other passengers. Your gaze swept like a searchlight through the crowd, promising more hurt to anyone who might even think about interfering. 

He crashed back into his friend’s lap before staggering to his feet. His sniffles and shuffling footsteps echoed through the silent traincar. “Go on,” you directed his buddy, who wasted no time before similarly scrambling from his seat. A final burst of dauntlessness flared up your throat. “What the fuck are you all staring at me for?” You broadcasted to the intrigued onlookers.

Half of these people weren’t sober enough to remember this in the morning. For those who did, you would be a completely different person the second you stepped foot off this godforsaken vehicle. 

“Thank you,” the woman said, sickly sweet.

“Don’t mention it.” You admitted beating up assholes wasn’t an entirely cumbersome task.

“I feel obliged now to ask what your name is,” she continued.

You raised your eyebrows, turning in her direction. “What about stranger danger? How do you know I didn’t just stop them so I could be alone with you?”

“How do you know I needed your help?” She batted the question back at you.

“Touche.” You knew she didn’t. But she had indeed wanted to keep her cards close to her chest at the expense of you revealing yours. You offered a hand. “I’m Sam.”

“Nadia,” she replied, conceding the handshake. Her palms and fingers were lined with ridges of calluses. 

“That’s a pretty name.” But not one that belonged to her, you thought.

She was so close now. The setting sunlight streamed through the window and coaxed the vibrance from the green of her irises. You stopped yourself from lingering there too long. You imagined all the people who had lost to her siren’s call before.

You cleared your throat and broke off the staring match. “Can I ask what you’re doing in England? Excuse me assuming that you’re not from around here.” If she wanted to play this game, you didn’t see the harm in joining in. 

“I’m visiting a friend.” Her American accent drew attention. Odd for a thief or a spy or whoever she was to forgo language assimilation. “What about you, Sam? Did you grow up here?” 

“I did. Never been out of the country meself.” Lies to you, but truths for Sam the football fan.

“Got anyone special at home?” She smirked, looking up at you from a downturned face.

You scoffed. She was messing with you. “No. Not for me. I like to keep available. You never know when an opportunity might come around. I’m not usually one to let a good thing pass me by.”

“And what makes a special opportunity? How do you know one when you see it?” How fitting that smoke still lingered in the air. 

“I guess,” you started slowly. “Some people just have this spark about them.” 

She wet her lips. “Do you think I have it?” If some people sparked with electricity, she certainly blazed with the sun’s heat. 

The corner of your mouth lifted in a smile. You rolled your eyes with playful mirth. That was all the answer she needed.

Good thing as soon as the train pulled into the station in London you would get your ass as far away from her as possible. And with any luck, as the moon eclipses the sun your paths would cease to cross for a very long time.

—

Prime Minister Jameson Harris had an expensive taste in liquor. You were alone in his house, save for a half dozen security agents scattered about various entryways. Tonight you doubled as the man himself while he and his family had been whisked away to another secure location. You owed a friend in MI6 a favor, so you played the sitting duck amidst rumors of an assassination plot. Just another average night.

You snagged a crystal bottle of mystery alcohol from the shelf. Twisting the cork off with a pop you smelled it experimentally before taking a swig straight from the jug. Mister Harris had a fine taste in whiskey indeed. You rounded a giant mahogany table and sat, polished leather squeaking in protest. 

The study lights weren’t overwhelming thanks to the dimmers you had spent way too long fiddling with. In addition you had lit a couple of candles. The room had smelled too much like mothballs and stale paper for your taste.

You raised the whiskey bottle in a toast to an imaginary gathering. “Long live the United Kingdom. To the prosperity of humankind. May all mutant scum drop dead,” you pronounced with the fanfare of a juvenile king. No one had stuck around to tell you your birthday, but you still had a good year or two before you were of drinking age. That much at least, you knew.

You didn’t follow politics, not keen on allying yourself with a particular nation, but the anti-mutant sentiment reached you anyhow. Hate and fear for you and your kind served as a rallying point for human leaders. They ceased pointing their guns at each other and instead set their targets on you. 

Bottle in hand, you stood abruptly and turned toward the giant bookshelf behind you. Classic novels, history collections, and political theory publications lined the entire wall. You traced your fingers down their spines. You had to stay the night here, but thought it may be wiser to resist the call of sleep lest you don’t wake in the morning. 

You pulled a relatively thin volume down. Between the stealing and fleeing and occasional strong-arming you didn’t have a lot of time to read. Tonight, you could start playing catch up with The Scarlet Letter. 

You meandered back toward the desk. Glancing up, a cool breeze rushed at you from an open window. Your stomach dropped, heavy with an iron pit. The curtains flapped in the wind, taunting you for letting your guard down.

You set the whiskey and the book down on the desk and instead wrapped your hand around the slick steel of a pistol hidden beneath. “Show yourself,” you called in the voice of Jameson Harris. “Don’t think I won’t shoot you for breaking and entering.” 

The study was by no means cramped for room, but even still there were few places to hide. You cleared the room in less than a second before realizing the door was ajar too. 

You stalked out into the hall, only to find a guard passed out on the floor. You dug your fingers into your temple. Someone was clearly amusing themselves with the game they were playing. Even so, a chill ran down your spine. You weren’t used to being the rat in the maze in these situations. 

Outside the study, the rest of the house was blanketed in darkness. For you, the absence of light made no difference. You could see just fine with the barest hint of sunshine. From above the bannister, you peered down the sight of the gun at the foyer. The ground floor lay still, as if holding its breath. The security guard posted at the front door sat slumped against the wall. You couldn’t tell if the dark spot pooling beneath his body was born of shadow or something much more sinister. 

A cold hand on your shoulder jolted you from your search. Before you could turn around, meticulously sharpened steel carved a grinning line across your throat. You clamped a hand around the wound, panic fluttering in your chest like a trapped canary. From the corner of your warping vision you saw a figure, wrapped in a shawl of shadows. The light from their eyes waited eagerly for the one in yours to wink out.

You stumbled, choking on your own blood. Pink froth bubbled from your mouth, burning with the chase of death. Your attention slipped and you shifted from the body of Jameson Harris and back into yourself. Well, almost. What you imagined you might look like without the lizard eyes and cobalt blue skin of a freak. 

Beneath your palm your skin grew unnaturally warm. The waterfall of blood ceased its torrential flow. Slowly your skin sewed itself back together. You sighed in relief. You knew you could heal, but had never tested your powers to this extreme.

Behind you a voice muttered in Russian, “What the fuck?” 

You stood straight up, flicking blood absentmindedly from your hand. Surprise gripped your heart. Standing in the corner, as still as a statue was the girl from the train that had brought you here. Nadia no longer looked the picturesque part of a wonderstruck American teenager visiting London. Blonde hair, that you now decided had definitely been dyed, lay neatly down her back in an intricate braid. She wore a black form-fitting tactical suit. Not military issued, you thought. 

You blinked and found yourself staring down the muzzle of a pistol. You raised your hands in surrender, assuming the form you had been posing as on the train. A familiar rush raced from the top of your head to the ends of your limbs as your skin reformed itself. “Remember me?” You asked, spitting out a glob of blood and exposing red-stained teeth.

She cocked her head ever so slightly and just a moment of opportunity presented itself. You lunged for the gun while she grappled with the fact you’d been three completely different people in less than a minute. You let yourself shift back to your common appearance and vaulted across the floor. Muscles wound tight, you straightened your torso and kicked at the weapon.

Snapping back to reality she snatched the gun away just in time. You stood before she could re-aim and cut at her wrist. The gun clattered to the floor and you kicked it further down the hall. 

You craned your head to avoid a viscous elbow to the nose. Sweat began to build along your hairline and drip down the back of your neck. You didn’t fight often, preferring to run into the foliage rather than confront the enemy and run the risk of being caught. You missed the rush.

She fought like a dancer. Momentum built from a lunge forward charged a stinging jab at your ribs. You pushed her two steps back and she went for a low sweep at your legs. You moved so fast you could hear the rush of cloth through the air, the sound of a fist soaring at your gut. A knife appeared in her hand, opening a surgical gash along the length of your tricep. 

Hot blood ran down your arm. You weren’t sure what the limit of your healing factor was, but as the cut refused to close, you realized you might have spent it for tonight. 

Your heart thundered in your chest. You couldn’t lose, no doubt that if she caught you she wouldn’t hesitate to snap your neck and unload an entire round into your head, just in case. But you had to think five steps ahead even as a boot came flying hairwidths from your face and lightning fast slashes struck at any spot you left unprotected. 

She flipped herself and suddenly you were flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling. You pulled air back into your spent lungs, gasping as your fingers dug into the floorboards. From the corner of your vision you saw her bolt for the discarded gun. Panic flared through you and you sprung yourself up, tackling her off course.

The both of you crashed through the bannister and went soaring onto the ground floor. She managed to maneuver herself midair so that she would land on top of you. The impact shot up the knobs of your spine, your head whipping painfully against the cool floor. Her shoulder dug into your collarbone, breaths coming in steady little exhales. You lost your focus for a split second, the pain radiating from the back of your skull overwhelming everything else. 

Involuntarily you transformed into your natural appearance, attention split in so many ways you couldn’t hold onto maintaining your looks. You grit your teeth and shoved the woman off of you with all the strength you could muster, which admittedly beat the strongest of humans even on your worst days. She flew back and smashed into a side table, residing lamp tumbling down and shattering on the floor. 

You hurdled over the staircase railing at the halfway point and cleared the rest of the steps in one bound. You normalized your complexion, hoping the dark had shielded you from her seeing the momentary exposure. 

You scooped a gun up from the ground and whipped around, catching her at the top of the staircase. Strangling the grip, you tensed the muscles in your forearms and leveled it at her chest.

“Where’s Harris?” She asked, voice as harsh as the blade caught in her fist, still drip, drip, dripping with your blood. 

“A safe place. Somewhere far away from pretty women with sharp objects.” Your pointer finger ghosted over the trigger. A voice in the back of your mind urged you to pull it. Return the favor.

She arched one eyebrow. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you’re good.” You’d never tell her, but even with your enhanced strength and agility she’d had you on the ropes the entire fight. If you had so much as breathed differently you were sure the roles would be reversed right now. 

“But not good enough for you,” she finished. Even as she bowed completely at your mercy her expression gave nothing away. A long time ago, you thought, she sculpted her face from marble, and the mask had been cemented in place since.

You lowered the gun. You weren’t a killer anyhow.

Blood crusted under your fingernails and in the lines of your palms, your shirt was starting to stick to your skin. You slid it over your head and tossed it on the floor, well aware of the woman’s lingering gaze. 

You turned your back on her and strode into the bedroom, stealing a new shirt before locking yourself in the bathroom.

With a sigh you stopped holding a normal appearance and shifted back into your innate form. Staying in shape had become easier as you’d grown and fully navigated your powers but the process still ate up much of your concentration. Exhaustion slogged endlessly at your mind. 

You eyed your arm which had thankfully stopped actively bleeding, but the flesh still gaped open in a deep red valley. You pulled all the cabinets open, coming up with a roll of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Catching your lip between your teeth you washed the stinging wound, a hiss escaping as you flushed it out. You wrapped the bandage tight around your arm, ripping the extra with your teeth.

Methodically you cleaned yourself up. Filling your mouth with cold water from the tap, the sour coppery taste flushed away from your tongue. Then you scrubbed at your face, neck, and chest, trying hard to ignore the blue ridged flesh of an aberration. As the adrenaline started to drain from your system, the realization that death had been seconds away from stealing your life weighed on your mind like a wet blanket. 

You scrubbed harshly at your hands until the water ran clear and then some. Staring at your reflection you slowly recomposed yourself. Freakishly red hair gave way to a more muted color, the yellow in your eyes faded to white, and bit by bit, the blue scales that cursed you with this power overturned into ordinary skin.

You curled your lips into a careless grin lined with a protective amount of cockiness. The great Mystique smiled back at you.

There you are, you thought.

The first time you had ever lied you were small and alone and desperately hungry for food. You had stolen a loaf of bread from a baker’s cart and bolted around a corner before shifting into someone else. When the seller asked you if you had seen a child run off, you looked him in the eye and told him no. 

You weren’t sure how that one little lie had consumed you until there was no you left. Every morning you woke up and put on a charming show at the cost of further warping the person you ought to be. You’d die in your castle of lies, alone and bitter. 

You walked back out into the hall, finding your attacker right where you left her. She stared down at the pool of blood staining the wood floor as if maybe she had imagined the entire ordeal.

“Unfortunately for you, I am still here,” you said. Unease churned in your stomach. Perhaps she was simply lying in wait, like a predator crouching in the tall yellow grass. “Made quite the mess though, don’t you think? The Prime Minister might have to look at new flooring.” You cringed as you stepped over the dark, coppery smelling spot. The warm light from the study spilled out into the hall. You walked into it, boldly turning your back on the woman. “Come on. I know you have questions.”

You leaned against the desk, next to a little bobble head of a dog. She walked in a few moments later, looking infinitely more at ease than she had in the hall. The knife had disappeared from her grasp. You saw right through the veil, having constructed a similar one in the privacy of the bathroom. 

“So you’re not Jameson Harris, and you’re not Sam from London’s east end.” You shook your head, flicking at the toy. “Then who are you?” She stopped a respectable distance away, standing with her shoulders back and chin high.

You told her your name. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d done that truthfully. Yet this stranger managed to coax it out of you with one question. Faith was a funny thing. “And you?” You asked, tracing the curve of her jaw with your eyes.

“Romanova. Natalia.” She told you so almost robotically, as if the name was reserved for other people to use against her. As if she did not have the right to define herself.

“Nice to meet you, Natalia.” You took another sip of the whiskey before offering her the bottle. She eyed it suspiciously. “It’s not poisoned, I promise. It’ll get you damn drunk though.”

She took the bottle, fingers brushing yours momentarily. “I prefer vodka,” she said, drinking as if she’d been denied water for the past week. She passed it back, staring at you as if searching for something. “How?” She asked, your expression denying her any plausible answer.

“How what?” You asked, failing to suppress a growing smirk.

“The disguises.” The firm line of her lips told you she wasn’t entertained by your antics. “You’re wearing some kind of suit, are you not?” You could imagine the gears turning in her head, trying to explain the impossible.  

You slid yourself back until you sat fully on the desktop. “Nope. Fanciest piece of technology I own is a little flip phone,” you said, tracing the smooth lip of the desk with your fingertips. “And I don’t wear tacky suits.” 

“I’m offended,” she said lowly, not sounding the slightest bit bothered.

“Don’t be. The whole dark assassin thing suits you,” you said, waving your hand. “Not me though. I mean, could you imagine me in a skin tight suit?” 

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short. I think you could pull it off.” She raked her gaze over you and heat rose to your cheeks. 

You transformed into an exact copy of her, inspecting your hands in wonder as if she wasn’t standing an arm’s length away. “You’re right,” you said in her voice. “I do look good.” You threw a toothy grin her way before shifting back with a woosh. 

Realization dawned on her, green eyes brightening. “You’re one of them,” she said.

“Yep.” You swirled the alcohol around, watching how the light played off the bottle. “One of them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just I’ve never—I’ve never met a mutant before.” She seemed awestruck at the revelation. You were so used to being met with fear and disgust. 

“I’m sure you have. Especially with all of the traveling you do,” you said. You remembered the window, still propped open from earlier. “Those of us that can try to blend in with everyone else. Take any street in a big city, for example. If you walked around for a little I guarantee you’d pass at least one of us.” You gazed up at the night sky, dotted with a billion brilliant stars. The estate sat well removed from the city and its hungry lights. “Most of us learned pretty quickly how to adapt, how to stay safe and hidden in the crowd,” you explained. 

“And those of you who can’t?” You looked over your shoulder at Natalia, so curious yet so far from innocent herself. 

“We go underground to survive. Or run the risk of being killed, or worse.” You’d heard the rumors. Missing mutants spawned stories. Stories of various governments and other organizations abducting your kind for experimentation. A shiver crawled down your spine.

“Sounds like a lonely way to live.”

You slammed the window shut with more force than necessary. “Takes one to know one.” You guessed people in her life were nothing more than fleeting moments either. “My turn,” you said. “What’s got you sneaking around in the middle of the night, attempting murder on the British prime minister?” 

“That’s none of your business,” she said as if speaking to a child. She took another long drink, fingers twitching at her side as a nervous tic. “What’s got you sitting in his house playing body double?” Her voice had taken on a defensive edge.

“A friend,” you replied smoothly. “And money, of course. Turns out protecting politicians pays almost as well as stealing from them.” 

“Well I’m not a sellout.”

You narrowed your gaze. “No, you just slit throats because you’re told to, then.” Natalia furrowed her brow. “Unless you’re telling me you got bored and picked up a new hobby.” She stayed quiet, your words seemingly falling on deaf ears. “What?” You asked. Her lips were slightly parted. She stalked closer, eyes flickering over your face. “Hey, hey,” you stuttered, tripping over your feet as you backpedaled. 

You huffed as you slammed into the wall. She reached out, so close now you could feel her breath on your face. You froze, heart thundering in your chest. She cupped your cheek tenderly, thumb brushing your flaming skin. 

“Your eye,” she whispered as if it were something holy. 

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“It’s yellow. They weren’t different colors before.”

You broke out of her hold, forcing yourself not to run to the mirror on the wall. The frame was a golden oval, hung in between a family portrait and a pair of framed university degrees. Sure enough your right eye had slipped back. You blinked and it fixed itself, but the damage was done. 

“I should go,” you muttered, staring at the floor and beelining for the door. Too much alcohol and too little sleep and this was what you wound up with. 

Natalia snagged your wrist and held you from taking off. You knew if you pulled away she’d let you go. You untensed the muscles in your back and let her spin you around. 

You tilted your head down and met her in a slow kiss. She had you hooked and you didn’t care. You couldn’t think straight, the taste of her lips clouded your head like a powerful drug. 

You threaded your fingers through her hair and undid her braid while her hand wandered down to your belt. You pulled back, breathless. “I’m not looking for nothing here,” you insisted, even if only to try to convince yourself.

“Me neither,” she agreed. “One night.” She kissed your neck and a low grunt wound its way up from the back of your throat. “You’ll never have to see me again.”

You didn’t know why a pang wracked your chest still her words. That was the plan, after all. You knew you weren’t cut out for more than tonight. And with the way Natalia dragged her nails down your back, you guessed she wasn’t either.

“Bedroom,” you demanded, stepping out of your pants that now lay pooled around your ankles. You stumbled down the hall, blinded by her body as she lost her suit, and deafened by the way she panted your name between desperate kisses.

God, you were screwed.

—

You didn’t sleep, knowing you’d lose grip on your appearance if you did, but with each passing minute you found it harder and harder to stay awake. Natalia lay pressed into your side, so close that you could feel her heartbeat in your ribcage. Her body radiated heat, not the kind that made your face flush with infatuation, but the kind that felt like finally finding shelter after an eternity in the freezing rain. Her breaths wound in and out as if she were sleeping, but you knew she couldn’t. No. Someone who led her life had to be hardwired to never let their guard down.

Finally, after catching yourself almost dozing off for the tenth time you peeled back the covers and forced yourself to leave the confines of the mattress that seemed intent on sucking you back down. Goosebumps immediately rose along your skin, but you didn’t dare to glance back at bed and the woman feigning slumber. You stood and stretched, working the stiff muscles in your back and shoulders. Don’t look back. You followed the trail of hastily removed clothing down the dark hall and back to the study, candles still alight. 

You buckled your jeans and grabbed your bag, lingering by the door. Don’t go back. Hastily you rummaged through the desk drawers, finding a pen and pad of paper. You scribbled down the address of a PO box that you checked quarterly along with a note that read, For another one night. 

A/N

If you didn't catch it, R is a shapeshifter like Mystique from the X-Men. I wrote this piece with the intent of having it serve as the first chapter in a longer story. I wasn't certain of the amount of interest in a series though... I fear Tumblr may be drying up some.

Let me know if you'd like to see more and I can post up the second chapter, otherwise I'll leave it be as a one-shot.

As always, thanks for reading and just a reminder, my requests are open.

[bookmaven]

WHO GOES THERE? by John W. Campbell, Jr. (Chicago: Shasta, 1948) Wrap-around dustwrapper art by Hannes Bok. 3,000 copy edition of which 200 were signed by the author.

The films The Thing from Another World (1951) and The Thing (1982) by John Carpenter, were based on the title story. The stories originally appeared in the magazine Astounding SF under Campbell's pseudonym Don A. Stuart.

Astounding Science-Fiction, August 1938 [v21 #6] Cover by H.W. Wesso

contents:

“Hell Ship” by Arthur J. Burks [as Josh McNab]

Jason Comes Home by A. B. L. Macfadyen, Jr.

Food for the First Planet by Thomas Calvert McClary

Resilient Planet by Warner Van Lorne

“Who Goes There?” by Don A. Stuart [aka John W. Campbell, Jr.]

The Terrible Sense by Calvin Peregoy

“Power” by John W. Campbell, Jr. (editorial)

Asteroid Pirates by Royal W. Heckman

Orbits, Take-offs and Landings by Willy Ley (article)

Eviction by Isotherm · Malcolm Jameson

The Disinherited · Henry Kuttner

[zpl1nt3r3d-b0n3-zhardz]

hi! maybe names similar to remington that dont sound to ‘nerdy’ ?! thanks lmao TuT

hope these work!!

rennox

Rexford

Templeton

Samuel

remmie

braxton

rexton

Sawyer

everete

grayson

maddox

Wyatt

Oakland

Oakley

lennox

Lennon

kysenin

Kizer

bryton

ryder

Finnigan

Sutton

Colton

sterling

Bently

Bennett

Jameson

Emerson

Lincoln

Sullivan

Graham

hunter

Samson

Malcolm

Sabastion

Roswell

maxwell

Maximilian

Phineas

porter

Montgomery

[eridanisanenby]

Atlantis Attacks

Ant Ant

Arkham Asylum

Agent A (Alfred)

Amity Arkham

Amadeus Arkham

All-American comics

Baxter Building

Bombastic-Bag man

robert Bruce Banner

james Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes

Black Blot/Blackagar Boltagon

elizabeth “Betsy” Braddock

Brian Braddock

william “Billy” Braddock

Billy Batson

Beast Boy

Blue Beetle

Boston Brand

BlueBird

Bouncing Boy

Carl “Crusher” Creel

Captain Carter

nathan Christopher Charles summers/Cable

Curtis "Curt" Connors

Caped Crusader

oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot

Captain Cold

Captain Carrot

Catherine Cobert

Cressida Clarke

Crocky the Crodile

Doctor Darrk

Doctor Destiny

Dorthy Duncan

Ding-Dong Daddy

yankee Doodle Dandy

Dinah Drake

Darla Dudley

Damien Darhk

(new) Fantastic Four

Four Freedoms plaza

Fin Fang Foom

Freedom Fighters

Freddy Freeman

Felix Faust

Guardian of the Galaxy

Green Goblin

Guy Gardener

Gorilla Grodd

Gotham Gazette

Gotham Globe

Gotham General

Green Guardsman

Golden Glider

Glorious Gordon Godfrey

Happy Hogan

Hank Hensley

Hank Hall (Hawk)

Henry “Hank” Henshaw

Hank Hall

Hippolyta "lyta" Hall

Hank Haywood

Jessica Jones

John Jonah Jameson

Katherine “Kate” Kane

Kristen Kringle

Kip Kettering

Lacie Lorraine

Loki Laufeyson

Lunella Lafayette

Lonnie Lincoln

Lois Lane

Lex Luther

Lighting Lad

Linda Lee

Luma Lynai

Lana Lang

Laura Lang

Louise Lincoln

dinah Laurel Lance

Linda Lang

Lena Luther

MasterMind

May Melinda

Miles Morales (og 42)

Meows Morales

Michael Morbius

Multiverse of Madness

MilkMan Man

Mateo Maximoff

Marya Maximoff

Mole Man

Mister Mxyptlk “Mxy”

M’gann M’orzz/Megan Morse/Miss Martian

Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi

Mary Marvel

Miguel Montez

Music Master

Mr. Miracle

Mirror Master

Mad Mod

Malcolm Merlyn

Maria Mercedes Mooney

Matches Malone

Monsieur Mallah

Nia Nal

Olivia Octavius (doctor Octopus/doc Ock)

Pepper Potts

Peter Parker(s)

Pabitr Prabhakav

Peni Parker

Peter Porker

Pedro Peña

Penny Plunderer

Quasar’s Quantum bands

Quentin Quale

Reed Richards

Rocket Raccoon

Richard Rider

Roberto “Robbie” Reyes (og 69)

Rachel Roth (Raven)

Ronald Raymond

SlapStick

Sun Spider

Scarlet Spider

Serpent Society

Super Skrull

Silver Sable/Silvija Sablinova

Sinister Syndicate

Sinister Six

Steven Strange (dr Strange)

Sybil Silverlock

Susan “Sue” Storm

Spider-Society

Samuel Sterns

Sebastian Shaw

Suicide Squad

Star Sapphire

Silver St. Cloud

Secret Six

Pter Ptarker (TT)

Taneleer Tivan

Tyros The Terrible (Terrax)

Teen Titans

Titans Tomorrow

Tom Turbine

Traci Thirteen

Unus the Untouchable

Vicki Vale

Valerie Vale

Web Warriors

Wade Winston Wilson

Wallace “Wally” West

Wallace “ace” West II

Wonder Woman

Warlock the Wizard

Wizards & Warlocks

Zatanna Zatara

Zachary Zatara

Zilius Zox

Duela Dent Napier Nigma

Cooper Coen/Web Weaver

Matthew Michael “Matt” Murdock/DareDevil

Kamala Khan/Ms. Marvel

Otto Octavius (doctor Octopus/doc Ock)/Superior Spider-man

Victor Von doom/Doctor Doom

Warren Worthington III/ArchAngel

Cassandra “Cass” Cain/Black Bat

J’onn J’onnz/John Jones/Hank Henshaw/Martian Manhunter

Kei Kawade/Kaiju Kid(/Kid Kaiju)

Mitchell Mayo/Condiment King

Max Mercury/Windrunner Whip WhirlWind

Red Robin/Joker Junior

Cletus Cortland Kassidy (Carnage)

Clark Kent

Conner “Kon” Kent

Chemical King

Carrie Kelley

Killer Croc

Karen Crane

Seaboard City

Total alliteration: 207

[georgefairbrother]

Inspired by @robbielewis and his brilliant ongoing series featuring a pictorial history of the Northeast, this is the first in an occasional series of posts on film, theatre and television luminaries with a strong personal or professional link with Northeast England, beginning with John Nightingale.

There doesn't appear to be a great deal of information available; he was apparently born in Burnley, Lancashire, in 1942, and attended St Cuthbert’s College, Durham University. He also spent several years with the National Youth Theatre, and while with the NYT made his television debut, which was noted by the Durham University paper, Palatinate, in 1964.

John Nightingale's highest profile role was in the BBC’s When the Boat Comes In, a gritty social and political drama set during the years after the Great War in the struggling Tyneside community of Gallowshields. Appearing in 39 episodes over 1976 and 77, he played the troubled but likeable Tom Seaton. It was a standout performance in the company of some very fine actors, including James Bolam, Susan Jameson, Edward Wilson, Jean Heywood, James Garbutt, Malcolm Terris, Ian Cullen, Madelaine Newton and Michelle Newell.

John Nightingale’s other television credits include appearances in Crown Court, in three episodes of Alan Plater’s dramatisation of the AJ Cronin novel, The Stars Look Down, the epic drama-documentary Fall of Eagles, and the Thames political drama, Bill Brand, as well as a handful of appearances in BBC television plays.

He passed away in 1980, aged just 37, from cancer. His challenging role in When the Boat Comes In demonstrated that he was one of the most gifted actors of his generation, and makes you wonder just what he could have achieved given the chance of a long life and career.

Thanks (again) to @robbielewis for a little additional history of Durham University.

[sodascherrycola]

Full Name: Sarah Darlene Chapman DOB: November 24th 1972 Age: 52 years old Instagram: @sarahchap

Parents: Seamus and Lily Chapman Siblings: Daniel, Clare, Deidre, and Sinead S/O: Sean Healy (1986-1992) William Gallagher (1993-2015) Married: September 11th 2000 (28 yrs old) Divorced: October 17th 2015 (43 yrs old) Hometown: Manchester, England Nicknames: Sare, Sari, Sally, Sadie Best Friend(s): Mary Gallagher and Charlotte Albarn Job: Stay at Home Mother / Model Personality Traits: Charming, Rational, Night Owl, and Calm

Children: Miles Dean Healy-Gallagher (18, 1990) Charlie Jameson Gallagher (24, 1996) Phoebe Tamsin Gallagher (26, 1998) Matthew Theodore & Alexander Malcolm Gallagher (29, 2001) Amelia Lily Gallagher (32, 2004) Isla Maisie Gallagher (35, 2007) Rosie Lucille & Arthur Jack Gallagher (42, 2014)

Appearance: - Blonde Short Hair - Green Eyes - Gold Jewelry Only Ever - Laid Back Stylish Style (Model Off-Duty)

[sircarolyn]

eight shows to get to know me, tagged by @malcolm-f-tucker <3 tried to pick things that aren't just stuff i've watched recently but also i can't remember anything so. this is a p random list

doctor who (as anyone who has ever met me could tell you)

buffy the vampire slayer (tbh i only watched it for tony head to begin with instead of studying for exams)

agents of shield (it's just fun. it's not deep but it's fun)

sarah jane adventures (she means everything to me literally. also the greatest offshoot of the dr who universe ever ever and i mean that so seriously)

the thick of it (my a level comfort show. for some reason. which i watched for roger allam. every year it gets more relevant)

wallander (secretly i really like crime drama actually but i picked this one because it keeps being relevant in such circular ways to me. originally watched it for tom hiddleston and then got weirdly obsessed with it and then forgot all about it until i rewatched a few episodes for karen gledhill the other day. circles)

the omega factor (this show is not good but louise jameson is a physicist so you can understand why i enjoyed it. also the big finish audios are actually so superb)

the x files (it's bad. it's good. it's iconic. they're insane. what's not to love)

[lilyofthevvlley]

( drew starkey. he&him. cis man. ) the courts of veritas welcome JAMESON MALCOLM! it’s been said that the 31 year old HUMAN is known to be COURAGEOUS and CUNNING. when JAMES isn’t working as a PIRATE, they can be found participating in ‘COMPLETELY LEGAL’ FIGHTING COMPETITIONS. if you visit their home in JUSTPORT, it may remind you of never being told no, nautical decoration, the need to prove yourself, a gilded lifestyle, punching bags, worn out boxing gloves, black coffee, vintage art, fresh tattoos, ashtrays, and bloody knuckles. they may be your best friend or your greatest enemy.

I wanted to be a better brother, better son Wanted to be a better adversary to the evil I have done I have none to show to the one I love But deny, deny, denial

trigger warnings ;; n/a

CHARACTER BASICS

Full Name: jameson michael malcolm

Nickname: james

Age: 31

Gender: cis man

Pronouns: he & him

Ethnicity: caucasian

Nationality: english

Education: schooling on the island

Occupation: pirate

Hometown: cantebury, england

Current location: justport

Species: human

Written Aesthetics: never being told no, nautical decoration, the need to prove yourself, a gilded lifestyle, punching bags, worn out boxing gloves, black coffee, vintage art, fresh tattoos, ashtrays, and bloody knuckles

CHARACTER APPEARANCE 

Face Claim: drew starkey

Height: 6'3

Hair Colour: blonde

Eye Colour: hazel

Dominant Hand: right

Distinguishing Features: a wide variety of tattoos, a large scar on his thigh from a near-death sword fight.

SUPERNATURAL EXTRAS 

n/a

PERSONALITY

Positive Traits: courageous, problem-solving, adaptable

Negative Traits: cunning, selfish, power-hungry

Neutral Traits: intelligent, persuasive, witty

Goals/desires: he wants to be someone people sing shanties about one day

Fears: death. he acts as if he's unphased by the concept of dying, but it petrifies him.

Hobbies: boxing and swimming

Habits: he has a stone from the sea that he rubs his thumb on whenever he's distracted

CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT Q’S

your answers to these questions do not have to be in depth, though of course they can be! they’re just here to help you grasp your character a little more, as well as for me to get an understanding ! 

QUESTION ONE: were you born on the island, if so, what kind of curiosities do you have about the world beyond? if you weren’t, what do you miss about the world outside veritas isles? 

having been born in england and brought to veritas by his father, a well-known pirate, he doesn't miss much of his hometown. he travels enough to satiate his need for travel, but his lack of caring to 'settle down' means he doesn't miss home.

QUESTION TWO: what is your favorite part about the island? 

all of the opportunities to make a name for himself (plus the gorgeous women)

QUESTION THREE: if your character is supernatural, do they fear humans? if human, do they fear the supernatural? 

as a human, i think jameson is not as scared of the supernatural as he ought to be. he's undoubtedly pissed more than one of them off, but he's too cocky to admit that they could beat him with their eyes closed.

QUESTION FOUR: share a fun headcanon or fact about your character! this doesn’t have to be long, just something to introduce us to your character! 

jameson loved hearing his father's stories from his travels, and he would often listen to his dad speak in awe, imagining him as a swashbuckling hero fighting off the bad guys as a child. while some children read fairy tales, james' bed time stories were firsthand tales of his pirating adventures.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION 

more to come!

[gollygeedash]

I was told to do this and now you must all suffer.

[lboogie1906]

Mike Randal Colter (August 26, 1976) is an actor known for his role as Luke Cage in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, appearing in Luke Cage (2016–18), The Defenders (2017), and Jessica Jones (2015; 2019). He has appeared as Lemond Bishop in The Good Wife (2010–15) and The Good Fight (2017–present), Malcolm Ward in Ringer (2011–12), Jameson Locke in the Halo franchise (2014–15), Agent J’s father in Men in Black 3, and David Acosta, a former journalist studying to be a Catholic priest in Evil.

He was born in Columbia, South Carolina the youngest of four children born to Eddie Lee, Sr. and Freddie Marion Colter grew up in St. Matthews, South Carolina. He is a graduate of Calhoun County High School. He spent a year at Benedict College before transferring to the University of South Carolina, receiving a BA in theater. He obtained an MFA from the Rutgers University Mason Gross School of the Arts.

His first role was in the film Million Dollar Baby as boxer Big Willie Little. His guests starred in Law & Order: Trial By Jury, Law, and Order: Criminal Intent, ER, and The Parkers as well as several TV movies. He starred in Extinction and Ringer.

In 2020, he starred in Social Distance.

He met his wife, Iva, at Rutgers University while they were in graduate school. The couple married in 2016, they have two daughters. He is a second cousin of actress Viola Davis. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[bookmaven]

JUDGEMENT NIGHT by C.L. Moore (New York: Gnome Press, ) Cover art by Frank Kelly Freas.

Astounding Science-Fiction v31 #6, August 1943 edited by John W. Campbell, Jr. Cover by William Timmins

JUDGEMENT NIGHT by C.L. Moore. Illustrated by A. Williams [Part 1 of 2]

“The Mutant’s Brother” by Fritz Leiber, Jr. Illustrated by F. Kramer

“One-Way Trip” by Anthony Boucher. Illustrated by Kolliker

“Endowment Policy” by Lewis Padgett. Illustrated by Hall

“M 33 in Andromeda” by A.E. van Vogt. Illustrated by A. Williams [Beagle]

“When Is When?” by Malcolm Jameson. Illustrated by F. Kramer [Anachron, Inc.]

(New York: Popular Library, 1965) Cover artist unknown. // [aka LA NUIT DU JUGEMENT] (Paris: J’ai Lu, 1966) Cover art by Wojtek Siudmak.

[kwebtv]

When the Boat Comes In - BBC One - January 8, 1976 - April 21, 1981

Period Drama (51 Episodes)

Running Time: 60 minutes

Stars:

James Bolam as Jack Ford

James Garbutt as Bill Seaton (Series 1–3)

Jean Heywood as Bella Seaton (Series 1–3)

John Nightingale as Tom Seaton (Series 1–3)

Edward Wilson as Billy Seaton (Series 1–4)

Malcolm Terris as Matt Headley (Series 1–3)

Susan Jameson as Jessie Ashton née Seaton (Series 1–4)

Madelaine Newton as Dolly (Series 1–3)

Basil Henson as Sir Horatio Manners (Series 1–3)

Geoffrey Rose as Arthur Ashton (Series 1–3)

Rosalind Bailey as Sarah Headley née Lytton (Series 2–4)

William Fox as the Duke of Bedlington (Series 2–3)

Lois Baxter as Lady Caroline No. 2 (Series 3–4)

Recurring:

Michelle Newell as Mary Seaton née Routledge (Series 1)

Noel O'Connell as Young Tommy (Series 2–3)

Catherine Terris as Miss Laidlaw (Series 2–3)

Vernon Drake as Hotel Porter (Series 2–3)

Isla Blair as Lady Caroline No. 1 (Series 2)

Roger Avon as Stan Liddell (Series 2–4)

Ian Cullen as Geordie Watson (Series 2–4)

Bobby Pattinson as Eddy Morton (Series 2–3)

[philippmichelreichold]

Space Dreadnoughts by Dave Drake

Space Dreadnoughts is a Military Science Fiction anthology by David Drake, Martin H Greenberg and Charles G Waugh. The contents in order of appearance are:

"Introduction: A quick Look at Battle Fleets" by David Drake

"The Only Thing We Learn" by Cyril M. Kornbluth

"C-Chute" by Isaac Asimov

"Allamagoosa" by Eric Frank Russell (won the Hugo Award for bestshort story in 1955)

"A Question of Courage" by J. F. Bone

"Superiority" by Arthur C. Clarke

"Hindsight" by Jack Williamson

"The Last Battalion" by David Drake

"Shadow on the Stars" by Algis Budrys

"Time Lag" by Poul Anderson

The first Military Sci Fi story I remember is the Star Trek TOS episode "Balance of Terror," in which Enterprise duels with a Romulan interloper. The military conflict was setting to other conflicts between the crew, the story was full of suspense, and actual battle was a small part of the story. And so it is here.

The book's title is a misnomer. The back cover blurb is misleading-- "Massive and arrogant, they patrol the final war zone-- deep space. All great battleships before them-- . . . are mere toys in comparison." It goes on about "bristling artillery" and "battalions of souldiers." I expected fleet actions involving capital ships. Tactics. Maneuvers. Gunplay. While there are fleet actions and even battleships in some of these stories, they are mere backdrops on a stage where people play out the stories. Truly good Science Fiction involves people, and in all these stories, the people overshadow the military settings that serve only to bring out the characters and whatever lessons there are to be learned from them. All of these stories are well worth reading.

"Introduction: A quick Look at Battle Fleets" Mr Drake's introduction is a wonderful introspective about the history of the Dreadnought battleships with a mention of two 1950's Astounding essays on the armaments of spaceships-- one by Willy Ley, the other by Malcolm Jameson. If one is going to write stories about ship-to-ship combat, the introduction is a good starting point. But only a starting point. One should definitely read Mahan, and consider the lessons of Taranto and Pearl Harbor. And the US Navy's Harpoon's and Tomahawk's are wonderful arguments in favor of missles over guns. One should also consider the time honored techniques of ramming and boarding actions.

Perhaps the question of guns vs missles is mooted today. The arms race has continued in Sci-Fi beyond what could be imagined with a knowledge of 1950's physics. The Ley and Jameson essays were written before Empire of Man fighters raked Formoria, before rail guns, and CTD imploders, before GRASER's, X-ray LASER's and phaser banks, before the Moties bombarded Mote Prime with asteroids, and before Captain Sheridan laid a gigaton on Z'ha'dum.

"The Only Thing We Learn" Kornbluth tells a cautionary tale of faded Imperial glory. The barbarians at the gates will one day have descendants that are as decadent and prissy as the effete and ineffectual empire they deposed and replaced. History blurs and magnifies the epic tales of glory. The details are lost. The character is lost. One day a fresh wave of barbarians sweeps aside succcessors that their ancestors would be ashamed to acknowledge. The reader may decide what relationship if any there is between this story and the quote from Friedrich Hegel. A fun story despite the dire consequences for the past and future losers. In his column, "Rereading Kornbluth", Robert Silverberg calls The Only Thing We Learn, "a subtle, oblique, elliptical, sardonic piece of work."

"C-Chute" Dr. Asimov wrote this story in 1951. It is a psychodrama set aboard a passenger ship taken as a prize by a race of chlorine breathers in Earth's first intersteller war. Each of the passengers is sketched by Asimov to reveal their several flaws of personality, physicality or character. Each has reasons why he should not exit the cabin via the C-chute, EVA, and enter and retake the control room from outside the ship. The reason for the dubious hero to take the heroic action required to retake the ship is one unlikey to appear in the work of any author but Dr. Asimov.

"Allamagoosa" This story won the 1955 Hugo for best short story. It's a farcical look at officious bureaucracy of the greatest gravity. It's sort of a shaggy dog story, wink, wink. This story in and of itself is worth buying the book for. The build up and so obvious in hindsight ending is fresh enough to be as enjoyable today as it was then.

"A Question of Courage" Sometimes flair and heedless risk taking can be mistaken for true personal courage. When the genuine article appears, there's no mistaking it. Bone craftliy deveops his characters and sets the reader up for the old maidish Captain "Cautious Charley" Chase of Lachesis to reveal his true nature. It is available from Project Gutenberg.

"Superiority" Sir Arthur requires no introduction for this story, a reductio ad absurdum about the principle of Illusory Superiority. Technology and bedazzlment with the latest, most theoretically wonderful advances are no substitutes for common sense and sound military doctrine. Perhaps this should serve as a cautionary tale at a time when Iraqi insurgents hack into our drones. According to Wikipedia, this gem was required reading at West Point. The reader easily empathizes with the narrator and his plight, revealed at the end.

"Hindsight" Jack Williamson has won both the Nebula and the Hugo Awards, and had a career that spanned about seventy years. This story involves temporal mechanics and love, oppression and liberation, and meeting engagements. Incidentally, the guns employed by the Astrach's fleet are of 20-inch caliber and fire four salvos per second. It's a tightly written story, though I think the ending is a little drippy.

"The Last Battalion" Imagine that Hitler did not die in a bunker in Berlin, but escaped via U-Boat to a secret Waffen-SS base in New Swabia. There German scientists built flying saucers from which they reached the moon to to mine aluminum and build more flying saucers. Now imagine them getting into a war with aliens. With things not looking so good, they kidnap a US Senator to let him know what is going on, intending to drag the US into the conflict. Before they can get where they're going with the Senator, the aliens lay a nuke on their Antartic base. They drop the Senator off to find his own way home. He asks them what they will do. Their colonel replies, we are SS-- we will fight.

"Shadow on the Stars" Budrys's Farlans are felinoid aliens who at first blush look like humans in cat suits. But they are, on a closer look, "raving paranoid quote." The paranoia is pathological and eventually fatal for Farla-- any military leader with sufficient ability to be effective cannot be trusted by Farla's rulers, and will be killed at the earliest sign of that fatal disease, military competence. The story is a retrospective, the central character telling how he and Farla came to be in their present straits. It is too late for him to convey the warning against trusting Earth, and to late to avoid the inevitable dissolution of Farla.

I have a problem accepting the plot device Budrys uses to set up the narrative, but otherwise the story is interesting and fun to read. The prose is a bit over decourous and affected, but that brings out the effeteness and pretentiousness of the Farlan culture. At the start, the Farlans are hard-pressed by a barabarian culture, the Vilk, and need a strong, capable leader to drive them back. OF course the strong, capable leaders keep their heads down so has not to find themselves assassinated by the Ministry of Preparedness-- and then comes L'Miranid. A previously unknown reservist, he quickly dominates the Fleet and whips them into shape. Victory follows victory until the Vilk host is driven back, their subject planets pounded to rubble, and a Farlan imposed king seated upon their throne.

The real story action is not fleet engatgements and daring raids, though. The story is related by Henlo, one of those capable leaders who has balanced command of a capital ship wtih avoiding notice by the governmental hunters down of competence. He starts the story as having a clear understanding of Farla's problems and the steps necessary to remedy them, but can't afford to be noticed. He becomes L'Mararind's aid, admirer, vice-admiral, intended assasin and successor, and finally, his unwilling co-conspirator and successor. Unwilling to be assasinated himself, he seizes control of the Farlan government. By this time, the sad (for Farla) truth is known to him, but (I love Latin quotes.) "alea jacta est." This is a fine little story with a lovely twist toward the end.

"Time Lag" Poul Anderson has won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards. Time Lag is a study in contrasts-- evil, greedy invaders against noble, selfless defenders. Chertkoi is a heavily overpopulated industrial planet, drowning in pollution and resource starved. Vaynamo is pristine, with a population sustainable through resource management. Vayanmo is never the less technologically advanced, with the technology's goal as preservation rather than exploitation. Expolitation is the name of Chertkoi's game. It's people conquer other worlds to fuel the industrial fires that smother their world under a cloud of pollution.

The archetype of the Chertoi is the Admiral commanding the invasion fleet. He is matched against the story's view point character, Elva. Elva is the widow of a Vayanmoan noble and prisoner of the Admiral. He is gross, vulgar and uncouth. She is pretty, cultured and well-mannered. He is a love struck boor, hopelessly smitten by her. She subtly endures his presence to manipulate him so that she an return herself and the other captives to Vayanmo in a portrayal that is believable and sympathetic. The invasion is a leveraged takeover in three stages-- a scouting raid, a strategic strike to destroy what little industry the Vayanmo posses, and a full-scale invasion. The title relativistic time lag (fifteen years) gives the Chertkoi time to build their invasion fleet and the Vaynamo time to prepare their reception.

References

Space Dreadnoughts by Dave Drake. Philipp Michel Reichold. JUL 19TH, 2017

Space Dreadnoughts. ed. David Drake, Martin H. Greenberg, Charles G. Waugh. July 1990.

Star Trek. "Balance of Terror."

The Mote in God's Eye. Jerry Purnelle and Larry Niven.

Various Polity universe stores. Neal Asher.

Babylon 5. "Z'ha'dum"

The Battle of Sauron. John F. Carr and Don Hawthorne.