#monthly quota met

[the-nefarious-vampire]

im sorry im getting emotional i just really really appreciate all other aspecs. youre all incredibly important, valuable members of the community, no matter what labels or lack thereof you use. hope all of you get an opportunity for free food in this coming month fr

[spiderzlover]

Frye got bitey💙💛

[prettymediocrewizard]

Once again wishing I could just draw rough sketches for the rest of my life. Every day I become a lazier artist and my own worst enemy

[crayolacolor]

boy there is a lot of likes vs reblogs discourse on my dash all of a sudden. as per usual i think we need a middleground here, guys.

no, it is not okay to guilt-trip people for liking posts. yes, it does have a purpose even if there isn't an algorithm, and most people who like posts are genuinely doing it to show appreciation for what you made. sometimes when my energy is running low i will just like things, and that is completely okay. some people are mostly lurkers and don't post much in general / don't have very many followers, so reblogging wouldn't help you much anyway, so they just like. that is also completely okay!!

HOWEVER.

reblogging art is important to give artists more visibility. and it is okay for artists to want that. some artists are okay with their art just being seen by their immediate followers, and that's completely valid and fair. but others want more visibility, for a number of different reasons. maybe they're taking comms and need the visibility to make money. maybe they're hoping to pursue a career in art someday and the more well known they are, the more it'll help them. maybe their art getting a lot of visibility helps give them the motivation to create.

all of those are valid reasons to want their art to be spread, and valid reasons to get frustrated when almost nobody is reblogging their art.

these sentiments are not mutually exclusive.

so, here's the middleground:

be nice. it is okay to kindly request reblogs. (i.e putting "reblogs are appreciated!" in the tags or body of your post). it is not okay to be extremely passive aggressive about it, and all that's going to do is make people not like you and be even less likely to reblog your art.

however!! on the other side, if you see a piece of art you really like and you can reblog it, and you feel like it would be beneficial to the artist to do so, then it's generally good practice to do that.

does that mean you have to? no! if you really don't feel like it for whatever reason, you don't have to feel forced. go ahead and hit the like button. maybe you'll see it again some other time and decide you do feel like reblogging it, and that's okay too.

[sunnyskies281]

Some people need to understand the difference between an excuse and an explanation

[humiliatemeplesse]

You didn't meet your monthly quota this month again faggot, so you're gonna have to suffer my stinking socked feet stomping and using your face as my footstool again. Don't worry, the staff has gotten used to seeing your face bruised and stinking like my sweaty socks once a month. Pathetic how you can't reach your goal even once. Here we go.... (and the faggot had met it's monthly quota every month it had worked there but it'd never know that because it's Boss enjoyed humiliating and hurting it so much).

[oursecretways]

Hello!! ☺️

Could I please get #7 with Lee Know 💕

No pressure at all!

7. He calms you down while you're having a panic attack

idol!Lee Know × fem!Reader note(s): ahh of course lovely, hope you enjoy it, I really tried ngl lmao😭 I just love writing gentle and caring Minho content, he can be a bully, but we all know he is there to help anyone he loves 😌 hope you enjoy it ♥ it became a two parter because apparently you can only have so much characters in one tumblr post it is a two parter genre(s): fluff, angst word count: 1.1K (the two part together) warning(s): reader having a panic attack, strong language, toxic work environment being called “baby” and “love” a lot

masterlist ║ invisible ask game ║ part two

It was the most typical day at work: working your ass off so someone higher above, or some older colleague can steal your work, but what made it even worse that your work bestie can’t be here, since she went overseas with her family… “Lucky her” you think to yourself, as you come back from your lunch break, which you wished you wouldn’t have done. Looking back you should’ve said that you aren’t feeling well — which to some degree was true, you know one of those days when everything seems suffocating, much, much darker, and one ugly tone, and you break… yeah it was one of those days. As you sat down at your desk to continue your market research needed for your company new product. Man, you wished you would do what actually excited you: creating the product itself based on the research, but you are only a researcher, which is way more stressful than you like to admit to anyone, especially your boyfriend Minho. You two met him when you first moved to Korea — because you were always fascinated by the countries’ culture, and it was a childhood dream of yours to move to Seoul. Unbeknownst to you, that meant that you meet with a K-pop idol that happened to be your ideal man. When the two of you met, you did not know much about Stray Kids, only heard their song called Hellavator. But now you are a fully pledged STAY, teasing Minho that Ji is your bias every time you get the chance — even tho he secretly agrees and tells you that Han is his bias too.

Once everyone got back to their respected desk, your boss called you into his office, “Y/N, please come, I need to talk to you.” You already know it probably won’t be a talk of a lifetime, especially that he has been even a bigger prick than usual, because your department haven’t been meeting the monthly quota. Making Mr. Whang’s life harder than he would want it to be. “Yes sir? How can help you?” you asked sincerely. You felt your throat dry, and tried to focus on your breathing, believing it to be a little nervousness. The nicer you can act, the easier he would let you off… at least that was your oh so naive thought. He made sure that you know where is your place: six feet under him. He made you feel like you should crawl, especially that you accused his great friend, an honest, hardworking colleague, of stealing your assignment. And you tried to explain it to him that there has been injustice, because he did, in fact, steal your presentation that you have put countless all-nighters in, but he just kept on going. Even scolded you about being so uptight and a prude, how women nowadays suck “Woman nowadays don’t get put into their place well enough. I am sure if I would be that boyfriend of yours, I would teach you to know where is your place.” After that sentence, your view started spinning, as you became very dizzy. The autopilot mode been turned on, and you were agreeing with all he said, but in reality you couldn’t been further away from reality. “You can go, don’t bother for today, you are seemingly useless, not even saying what you think, all you can do is agree, truly useless. I don’t even know how they can hire an intern like you.” You felt as if your chest closing up by the time you got out of his office. If anyone tried to call your name, you couldn’t hear it with your heart beating loudly in your ear. Without noticing, you went straight to the dance studio, where your boyfriend of many years tries his best to come up with new choreography for their comeback. You knew he is alone because Hyunjin is on a fashion show and Felix is in the studio recording his parts.

[yohohonabottle]

Never-ending as the seas (Reposted from A03)

🖋️Summary: Everything looks goofy and funny to the players, but what does it look like to the characters? Well, poor Sinbad found out and one round of drinks at the inn won't be enough.

📖 Work status: Completed, oneshot

======================== Everything was fine until some random guy and his two hamsters got washed ashore one day. Back then, Sinbad had thought nothing of it–His initial surprise aside– and merely chalked them up as adding to his monthly quota of saving unfortunate folks. The man looked around his age, give or take, with clothes he hasn't seen in Rustport and was kind of an eccentric but other than that? Pretty much nothing new. 

...Except for his eyes. The look in them that flashed for a split-second–The rugged young man couldn't put his finger on it. It's like something between knowing and..pitying? Wanly sympathetic? Sort of hollow and cold as well, or just very detached and distant–It almost made the seaside savant shiver, bit creeped out. For some reason, this man felt like he simply knows too much or has seen many things and has grown numb, harboring plenty of dark secrets. And that brief look was haunting in so many ways. 

Sinbad has never felt this unsettled before, having seen lotta stuff himself in his life. But back then, it's like that rando had stared right through him and to his very soul. And so, off he went with the newly arrived to town, explaining the whole turf war going on between the local gang running the place and the other rivaling gang along with the Immortal fleet looming. One thing led to another, then another as their little adventure unfolded bit by bit. Throughout it all–Running back and forth looking for medicine to save Chippy, the misunderstanding, escaping from Darkstone Cave, going to the workshop and introducing himself to the Carmine Whispers properly, vouching for the trio after discovering their real identities (Or so he had believed. Turned out later "Merlin" isn't so simple.) and going to chase after Tesio in pursuit of revenge.. The whole time that ominous chill never left him. 

Eventually everything came to its end, the adventure reached its conclusion and Merlin had to bid goodbye to everyone. Even then, the blond couldn't stop wondering just what in Trithon's name is happening. Every single time his eyes landed on Merlin, he knew something was lurking under the 'innocent' surface. Or like he has had been looking at two separate people somehow crammed into one. It was impossible to shake that nagging feeling off! 

Take the misunderstanding at the Golden Guest inn for example:

Merlin, Chippy and Hammie had come downstairs and eavesdropped on his conversation with Bols. After that they confronted him about it. In that moment, he could feel anger coming off of the mage and also...strong, miffed disapproval. Not directed at him by any means, mind you. Nope, it was at Merlin and his hamsters. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sinbad had wondered if he has had one drink too many or if his pint had been spiked and was messing with him. Or if he was starting to loose his mind. 

Nope–Perfectly sober and sound of mind. Could've sworn the place froze for a quick second– Like the blink of a camera! (Or so it felt and seemed. It's hard to trust memory at this point.) And there, right next to the Magister, stood another guy who looked so much like a ghost that he might as well have been one. Chalk-white skin, snowy hair, almost skin and bones and dressed with a fancy attire Sinbad has definitely never seen anywhere in Rustport–not even in the upper class. And so, so annoyed at them, muttering sourly in some lingo he has no idea about or heard very often before hissing out a surly "Stupid idiots." with a voice that sounds like Death. The eerie pearly eyes met his—

And the ghost faded away. Time resumed, no one had noticed a thing. The rest is history. He had foolishly assumed that was that. Several days later, he was down at the coast, minding his business and fishing. (How's it he always reels nothing but junk while the magister caught fish after fish, each bigger than the last??) At first, the mercenary had thought his hook had caught on another boot or some other piece of trash, til he reeled it in– There it was. Or were, actually. Ten red envelopes with fancy gold ornaments. Deciding them useless– Seriously, what was I to do with those? Sell them? –he tossed the letters aside without bothering to unseal any of them. 

Then he fished out ten more. Same thing. A little confused but shrugged it off. 

Then came the next ten. Who keeps throwing these things? By that point, thirty envelopes were innocently scattered on the beach. Before..slowly vanishing??? A wee frustrated at having no bite, puzzled and wary, Sinbad had continued fishing. Surely at least a minnow will take the bait, right? A man can hope. 

Well what he got was not a minnow, that's for sure. 

Instead it was a letter, exactly like the other ones he had fished out a moment earlier. The other nine scattered who knew where, but the tenth? The tenth homed in like a cannon ball or arrow. Startled, he dropped his rod, gave up on fishing and turned on his heels to dash right out of there. Too slow, too late. A violet light had enveloped him, shooting up in the gloomy skies like a beacon and next second–-He's catapulted straight to the heavens, flying up at an alarming speed. Next thing Sinbad knew, he was standing in front of a bar counter at some spacious tavern with nice lively music playing. And so many different people, from Graveborns and fellow Lightbearers to literal gods and demons, all relaxing and mingling around the lounge without animosity. He honestly couldn't believe his eyes. Oh and Merlin and his familiars were also around, wandering sort of aimlessly. He felt hollow and stiff–The Magister, that is. 

That ghost was back, leaning his elbows on the balcony's railway upstairs overlooking the lounge. No one batted an eye or was concerned. Some even went to chat with him, like old pals. Nothing was the same after that day.

—"Something's on your mind again." The quiet breathless tenor tugs at Sinbad's attention, pulling him back to the present. Heaving a puff of humorless laugh, the weary scruffy youth looks up from the rolling waves, turning his head to look up at 'Merlin'. Or rather the Magister's 'stand-in' as the thing had described himself last night. Makes the situation at the Bols' inn ironically funny when looking back. The great, legendary, Magister had been so mad at him for being dishonest earlier and setting them up to be caught by the Whispers, complaining about how he can't be trusted and how he would always lie, trick for his own gain. Even went as far as to tie him up real good, and ignored his every word just as the rodents said. 

And here that mage is, having struck a neat deal with this phantom to play substitute and laze back at the Mystical House or whatever. While his stand-in carries all of the responsibilities and does the dirty work. And I'm two-faced. 

—"That obvious, am I? How long have you been hanging back there anyway? Like the view?" A nonchalant shrug. The man calmly pushes off from the tree and crosses the shore to gracefully settle down next to him on the sand, legs crossed comfortably. 

—"You looked like a kicked or lost puppy. So, yes." The orphan snorts at this easy-going flat deadpan, not bothering to scoot aside. It's been months of traveling with the guy and his team now. They're pretty much well-acquainted colleagues at this point. The way his other inquiry and friendly teasing goes ignored doesn't escape his notice but he lets it slide. Not that important. Turning back to the waves, an arm resting on his drawn up knee and drawing a puff of his cigarette, he watches the tides draw back then lap at the shore, some seagulls flitting overhead. 

The memories still sting badly. How everything suddenly felt so shallow and mechanic, empty where it once was so normal and alive. Rustport and the other islands, Brineville, the people–All carboards pulled along by invisible strings. How I wish I stayed oblivious. It was like lifting his head out of the water after having been submerged for so long or suddenly waking up from a dream, everything coming into sharp focus. When he first opened his eyes, what greeted him that was once invisible...was otherworldly and so, very, chilling. 

Affinity, his abilities described in detail with terms and numbers he could never understand for the life of him, more numbers off in the bottom right corner with a K after them, his dagger on the left greyed out and with a padlock, some slots filled with golden hand mirror-shaped charms, more random icons and numbers...Every time a new level was added to him, he's seen that K number go up by some digits. And somehow felt stronger right after that. Each level, charm, upgrade to his equipped gear and with each diamond star reached, Sinbad has only been feeling himself becoming stronger. A far cry than what he used to be like before. Back in those days, he would struggle when faced with five thugs and need help, nevermind clashing with anyone of the Whispers or Water Wights. Now? Now he can wipe the floor with a squad of ten men in a street fight without even breaking a sweat and dusts his hands off. Or go toe to toe with Lucca and Sonja and send them both running for the hills. 

The fight would take between twenty to fourthy seconds tops, or less. Maybe fifty seconds or sixty, if they give him some trouble like stunning him. But the fact remains that he'd still wind up triumphant in the end, somehow. It's just a matter of trying. A part of him is.. a little grateful for the boost, while another had been alarmed. Worst part has to be discovering everyone around him was just a listless pawn more or less to make the place not look or feel barren. 

That part Sinbad recalls most vividly even to this day. 

That day he had left his team to run back home, frantic and worried sick as he beelined right for his mothers. The widows that had raised him to the best they could with whatever few scraps were left with the village being constantly robbed. Every woman he attempted to talk to, felt like she was looking past him as though he's a ghost (and looks exactly the same as the women in town, like recycled cardboard copies. Faceless. Same as their voices. Indistinguishable. Faceless. ) Every single one of them, would go on to say her lines of dialog then he'd be given the option to leave after she finished talking. Every time he tried to talk to them, make them say something–anything else it was all the exact same. 

The foster son had fallen to his knees and wept like a small child; lashed out and shouted, cursed in anguished anger; kicked and punched like a petulant brat throwing a fit... 

It didn't matter in the end. 

It doesn't matter in the end. Never did. 

It was all the same.

It's all the same. Always has been.  I was simply too ignorant to notice it.

Eventually the street rat traipsed his way back to where Pirin and the other lads stood waiting, head hung in dejection and shoulders slumped in devastated defeat. Not sparing a glance back at what was once home. .

Maybe, a part of him died, too, that day. Was crushed, shattered like frail glass and lost in the abyss to make way for something else. Something inside simply cracked and fell away, replaced by an emotion or numbing sensation Sinbad was too afraid to face at the time, let alone name aloud to anyone. Somehow, a hysterical laugh bubbled up, lodged right in his throat like a suffocating lump. 'Cause everything seemed suddenly so, hilariously absurd, insignificant. Meaningless. His life, his worries, his memories, dad's stories, the widows and village, the gang war--Trivial buzz. All of it. And all this time, he'd been such an idiot, to be so worked up over it all--When he would've gotten at this point anyways. It's what has already been long predetermined. So who cares, right? A silly, little pawn playing his role. That day, Sinbad's step was quick to loose its despair and become a jaunty stride and frown turned upside down. His blows to the enemies, faceless like everyone else in this fictional world, cold-blooded with no regret, mercy or remorse. It was...strangely, morbidly, therapeutic, to simply turn off his brain and hack 'n slash away 'an watch 'em go down. Blind to their fear, deaf to the pleas for mercy and apologies, bargains. Let loose, fully. What does it matter? Those were, are, all disposable obstacles. All that matters is victory, no?  Didn't even bother with taking their loot, their money. It means nothing now. Nothing matters, but victory in battle. 

I should have never 'woken up' and seen the 'Truth'. 

Exhaling the smoke, Sinbad speaks up in a tone that would've freaked him out long ago with how tranquil and peaceful it is. Considering the subject and all.

—"Say, think you can do some magic, Pirin? Wipe out my memories of that day? Or the weeks after it, that'll work too. You're a pretty powerful and amazing mage yourself, maybe more than the Magister." If the explanation given last night is true and anything to go by, about how vampires are generally more magic-attuned by nature and pretty strong that each one could rival Merlin if not surpass with age.

The pained grimace that his teammate makes as though having bitten a slice of lemon is enough clue to his hunch. I was hoping I'm wrong. No dice, huh? Pity.

—"I...can..do that, yes." Ho? 

What he says in addition is even better. Instantly, the sailor snaps his head up, rum-hued eyes wide and alight with excitement, and a big bright grin tugs on his scarred face, teeth showing. The breeze tussles his disheveled dust-blond hair, it barely makes a difference. "I can burn all your memories of our journey, including the day you got recruited; Leave you with only those of your shennanigans with Merlin 'round Rustport."  —"Really?! Awesome! Well, mister Magician," -He sweeps a callous hand with a flourish, a roguishly charming grin on his scarred face. "by all means do your thing. I fully sign-up, and can't wait for the treatment. And! I'll also gladly pay up, just name your price."

His enthusiasm takes a nose-dive as Pirin lifts a gloved hand so to say 'wait' with a somber shake of his head, pale irises resting on him..understandingly. Haggard, to an extent. Perhaps a bit sad. 

—"Even if I do carry on with this course of action–It'll be rendered pointless soon after." A puzzled look crosses the mercenary's stubbled visage, turning to fully face his companion and blinks dumbly. 

—"What're you on about? Why would it be useless? You can do very powerful spells, right? You said it yourself." Is this about that 'time and other world' stuff? Do we need the Player to get here, like with progressing the story? What was her name.? It was something slavic again.. Rila, I think? Something about a 'half'. The strained faint smile he gets flashed isn't a good sign. But it does help to clue him in. So it is. Or has something to do with the latter. 

—"Sinbad. Remember the dynamite analogy I used a week ago?" 

—"Yup, sure do, 'Magister'." A pointed leer, the shorter man huffing a stern "We're not around a crowded area. You can refer to me by my name, you know." before shifting to sit on his knees. Aah, always gets him without fail. Sinbad raises his hands in mock defense.

—"Relaax–I'm just messing with you. No need to get riled up."  Letting his hands drop, he goes on to add, sheepishly scratching the back of his head–

"So, what about it? To be honest, most of that talk went over my head actually. I know using the analogy was the only way to dumb it down but..yeah, it still sounded like geeky gibberish. Sorry." 

—"It was difficult for me explaining it, so I don't blame you. But you did get the gist for the most part, right?" 

—"Eeh, yeah, I think so. Sorta." 

Heaving a long-suffering sigh and tossing him a half wryly amused look as if to say 'you're hopeless' or 'what to do with you', Pirin turns to gaze at the skies. There's an air of peace about him, tone serene.

Before, the scavenger used to get either envious or mildly frustrated whenever he asked a question and the 'mage' would answer him languidly with such tranquil patience, always looking off somewhere. Like an old wise sage or thinker. It used to make Sinbad want to grab him by the shoulders and roughly shake him up, demanding a straight answer impatiently or roll his eyes with a grumpy pout. 

After getting recruited and placed onto the main teams, over time during the journey he came to learn how to truly be patient. And recognize that 'Merlin' isn't simply being a deliberately cryptid or vague jerk. It's just simple peace. 

—"Then you'll understand when I say it wouldn't amount to anything. You'll inevitably find out all over again. You're simply bound to, sooner or later. It's what happens to those 'lucky' few who are favored by her. The more you're out and about, interacted with by her, the more aware you would get...Until you're right back to this point." This time Sinbad scoffs and returns his gaze to the tides, muttering sourly "Still not thrilled about it." From the corner of his eye, he catches Pirin give a small shrug of his shoulders as if nonchalant. 

—"Now I see why Valen plays poker or spars with that bear-landlubber from the desert.. What was his name again? Soren?" A nod. "It's the only way to cope, I guess. Y'know? Pretend we're still the same old mates, do the things we used to...It helps keep some of our sanity–Or what's left of it anyways. It's like we're, I dunno, normal like everyone else again, instead of some powerful immortal freaks." The 'Magister' winces, hands resting on his knees and tosses him a side-glance.

—"...A little harsh, no? I understand the need for normalcy–But I wouldn't really call any of you 'freaks'. You're still... you, eventually, still human." The blond swindler shoots him an unimpressed look, moving to cross his legs and rests his hands in his lap listlessly, his rich clear tenor holding ample sarcasm as he fires back. Almost dismissively, earning himself a chuckle. 

—"Yup, still human, alright. A bunch of humans who can beat up literal gods and Hypogeans in sixty seconds tops. Pretty sure we're kind of not supposed to do these sort of things."  

—"Still doesn't change anything."

Narrowing his eyes, Sinbad clenches his jaw and lifts a hand, placing it on the other man's right shoulder. And shakes him up harshly, annoyed at how seemingly blasé he's being. Still, he does mind his strength and isn't too rough. A serious, grim deadpan on his face as he then turns fully towards the blood-sucker, not just slightly twisting his torso.

Gripping his traveling pal firmly by the shoulders, the intel-broker lowers his head and hunches over a bit to be more on eye-level, tone calm and flat... But the simmering discontent is there. The frustration and exasperation.

—"Pirin. None of us need to eat, drink or sleep, have you noticed? I can run for days or hell! Years! And guess what? I still won't get tired, or sore–I literally don't feel pain anymore when I get hit. It's like I've gone numb! Or became a weird Graveborn." He very narrowly face-palms, when the spirit looks at him with that same peaceful, simple, innocent smile and says in a sincere voice–

—"You're still you. Always will be." 

Silence.

—"....Are you high on weed or something? Did you manage to get sloshed by any chance?" 

—"No." 

—"I see, riight... You sure?" 

—"Mmhm. Positive. Still stand by what I said." 

Sinbad promptly takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a second...And headbutts Pirin like a goat, then lets go of his shoulders and stands up. Turning to walk away from the pier, he calls out over his shoulder at the very confused man. 

—"Come on Magister, the crew is waiting for us in the forest. We should be able to advance and clear the miasma." 

Getting up while rubbing his forehead with a hand, Pirin shakes his head and quickly jogs over. Catching up, he lightly swats at the taller man's scarred arm then darts off ahead with a small jovial "Race you!" followed by a laugh. The seaside savant couldn't help but shake his head and grin before taking off after him with a small puff of laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Pirin's goofy words of seemingly child-like conviction ring out in his head, bringing a sense of comfort and warmth secretly. In a way..They're the plain, simple truth. 

No matter what, you're still you when all is said and done. Always will be.

[behindthewox]

Conclusion

Unless something of major importance shows up, I'm not posting anything more about WoE for the time being. I realise that this blog could potentially make the drama a lot worse and as far as my original intentions are concerned I've achieved my goal: people have been heard, both sides of the story have been shared and constructive criticism is now public. The gears have been set in motion.

There's a reason I decided to only summarise and share bits of the many submitted posts I got, and I'd already made the decision to leave it at that (just forgot to add in to the last post, I'm sorry for those of you who were concerned there would be more drama added). Sharing more won't be productive or helpful in any way, it's far more likely to be destructive. My goal isn't to destroy the good that exists within, and in connection with, WoX. If anything, I want to strengthen it. Sometimes that means poking holes and doing a bit of damage but I'm not trying to tear the whole wall down, I'm just trying to get the process of repairs and reinforcements started.

I've been informed that the site leaders have taken the criticism and responded correctly, opening up for criticism and making changes accordingly. That was the goal, it's been achieved and I'm done here. Despite the harsh words, none of the harsh words I've received in return are from the leaders themselves and I'm confident that WoE is in good and professional hands.

As a former site leader myself, I wish the WoE leaders the best of luck. It's not an easy job and working with people is hard, but based on what I've heard and seen I believe they've got what it takes and I look forward to see where it will go. If you can get through a trial of fire drama like this, I have no doubt you have what it takes to tackle the future challenges as well.

Note: Hi, Fish here. I've received a summary of the outcome, which I can post if requested. Otherwise I'm sticking to my prior decision, no more WoE posts. At some point in the future I've got some thoughts to share regarding the challenges with building a site based on Avatar: the Last Airbender and Legend of Korra, but that can wait. I've met and exceeded my monthly quota of woe, pun intended.

[daisukoth]

oh right, twitter hadn't met their monthly "demonizing lesbians" quota in a while..

[antics-pedantic]

In the not-too-distant-future of the 22nd century…

          The Wishbone was an old ‘Bakshi-Class’ freighter, currently being refitted for service as part of a new INTERPLAN initiative (a shortening of the Interplanetary Alliance/Fleet/ETC). Truth be told, the construction of the starship looked closer to a tuning fork the size of a town, or a small city. Its scanners and research laboratory were state of the art for the sake of the work it was conducting. But besides the lab and some standard-issue particle projector banks, everything else came as is. Largely in the form of refurbished, industrial-strength mining equipment.

          Next to the name on the side of the vessel were the letters U.F.V., signifying the initiative as a joint venture between INTERPLAN and colleges from its various member worlds as a University-Fleet Vessel. Of course, some preferred P.O.S. (Piece of Slag, and other unflattering four-letter words). Only a few ships were ordered into the service this way as surveyor-support craft, intended to conduct preliminary scouting for the exploration flagships…

          It was a bright and early morning. A new batch of crew members were being taken up to the Wishbone while it was in orbital spacedock. One could go in aces high with the Officers' Academy where the cream of the crop got made (or so they say). Transfers could use their experience from working in local Solar System Self-Defense Network or bring in a sterling desk job resume from the uppermost suites of the corpo-colony atmoskyscrapers.

          Of course, one could also do as the mutant Nougat Ntlor did, and get sloshed at a bar on the Ganymede strip. Stumble into a fleet recruitment center that hadn't met monthly quota yet, as the kind of grunt that was expected to carry boxes and barrels from one part of the ship across to another. There were also a number of prisoners from the corporations that seceded from Earth and other INTERPLAN member worlds put on a work-release program, many were just glad to be away from there. The off-world corpo-colonies were already overburdened before the secession. Now they were warring with one another and other cultures.

          In terms of the turnout from the colleges, they had a mix of professors and students. That is, professors who had not seen a drop of grant funding in quite some time, whose magnum opus of scientific research was laughed out of every scholarly journal. And the students in question were either on academic probation, or were such overachievers they volunteered here of all places. Truly, it was a recipe for turbulence; but also, for those who remained after everything was said and done, it might very well have been the only place they could go if they wanted to touch the stars themselves, to be more than a mere tourist.

          “—And I am telling you, as a chief medical officer I believe I should be accommodated with one of the deluxe penthouses.” said a woman in her forties, who couldn’t stop reminding everyone she held up in line behind herself, as well as the crew member acting as a customs officer, that she had her doctorate degree.

          “Dr. Hwan, those are reserved for our VIP guests. All members of the crew manifest are to stick to their assigned quarters.”

          “Preposterous!” spat Dr. Hwan. “How the devil am I going to be able to get any work done if I can’t be provided state-of-the-art quarters to relax in?”

          “You would have your own personal quarters, just not penthouse suite quality, ma’am.”

          “So, I could have a penthouse then?”

          “You’d have to share. Optimize crew space.”

          Dr. Hwan looked back at everyone in line. Naïve grinning and evil smirks painted these faces. She looked back at the customs official/crew member, and groaned.

          “I’ll see you in the final dimension for this.”

X

          There were service robots, referred to as the Buffers. These were the descendants of the humble Roomba, now equipped with hover-jets and an extendable armature with which to do tasks. An android crew member was taking inventory on one of the cargo bays: This was one of the J.E.V. series (Just Effectively Vacuums), named for the very first task they could ever perform. Since then, they had developed to perform a variety of other functions, eventually serving as crew members on starships. Some were even built to be the vaunted K.E.V.s (Kills Effectively & Victoriously), deployed into combat or security.

          W4-114CE fit into the former category as a JEV. He used to work on Earth at a volcanic research station, built onto a cliffside overlooking a river of lava somewhere. And if he had not gone to space, he might have carted off to work on an undersea base. In the end, he opted for the space assignment. The organics would chafe, but W4 swore he would do fine through the power of superior robotics.

          *THUD-THUMP*

          W4 looked around. Something clearly hadn’t been sealed properly. He wondered if it was those damnable blue barrels again, or one of those big, new-fangled containers with seven or more different locking mechanisms that had to be activated in a certain order or the whole thing would explode. W4 approached the particular container that was making the offending rumbling noises, and sure enough it was one of those multi-lock nightmares. The service android proceeded to access the shipboard database, used authorization codes to acquire the access information, and promptly entered in a simple enough pin number of four digits.

          Then everything immediately went to ruin, as W4 was then made to work with some kind of glorified rhythm toy: including pressable buttons, pull handles, twisting cranks, spinnable wheels, and flickable switches. Following the patterns set forth by the device was difficult enough for an organic, but it even managed to tax W4’s robotic dexterity. At least, he thought-computed, that it would be over after this. It had to. Until a screen offered an unforgiving message:

          “PLEASE CREATE A 52 INPUT PASSWORD FOR FUTURE USAGE.”

          W4 looked at the input device. It offered no sound, no lights. Nothing charming. And then the locking mechanism activated a self-destruct with a 2-second window to escape, W4 only able to hop away just far enough that the explosion would only send him flying through the air, with small flames all over his jumpsuit. And then there before him, emerged some kind of hostile mutated alien animal.

          And just when there were no organic lifeforms around, one crew member strolled right into the cargo bay with audio-cubes over their square, ear-like structures. This meant that W4-114CE had to adhere to the Asimov subroutines and make sure the organic wasn’t killed. To that end the android put up his fists, and started swinging at the creature. This eventually resulted in an arm being torn off by a claw that could vibrate at high-frequencies to enhance its cutting power. With W4-114CE’s remaining arm, he grabbed onto the creature, and dragged it towards the next nearest holding container. A fool’s gambit, as the creature’s thagomizer-equipped tail started smashing boxes marked with warning stickers for explosive hazards—and eventually, opened the nearest airlock.

          Sounds were muffled in the void, as the service android and mutated alien animal went at it. W4 kicking the creature repeatedly in the hopes of hitting some sensitive area that would have earned a serious foul from the referee of a Dysonball game. Likewise, the creature tried everything it had: acid spit announced by head-frills flaring, the aforementioned high-frequency claws, and some kind of egg-based missile. The egg of course was the creature’s undoing, as W4 caught the projectile and used it to bash the creature over the head, encasing it within an amber-like yolk while W4 was brought back aboard by a slew of loyal buffers.

          “WHAT-A DA HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!”

          It was one of the galley cooks. The human looked like they were about to explode while W4-114CE was trying to reattach his arm.

          “That-a creature was gonna be the crew’s dinner! It was gifted to us by one-a the Dagarian Kingdoms!”

          W4 looked back. The amber-yolk encased creature was probably long gone by now. It was at times like these an intrepid INTERPLAN crew member had to think fast.

          “Let’s check the uh… the star charts. There’s gotta be some place we can rustle up some ingredients.”

          The galley cook stared at W4-114CE for the longest time before pulling out a portable teledex screen, with which he began to press buttons and turn dials. Examining nearby planets, moons, and other places for potential replacements.

          There was no time to argue.

X

          On a ship like the UFV Wishbone, there should have been a captain. In lieu of that, was an administrative adjutant. Tasked with all the responsibilities of the captaincy, but minus its perks. Respect was not guaranteed whatsoever. And worst of all it was a title conferred to someone already working. In this case, the inimitable technician second-class Nero Pathan was selected for the duty.

          The personal terminal at the desk of his quarters hummed to life with the gradual start-up. Immediately, a communication program activated before any other. On-screen were coordinates for a distant star system, followed by the frog-like face of a politician. The amphibious one’s camera was zoomed in too closely, rather than keeping his face in frame.

          “Is this thing on?” asked the frog-like politician.

          “Mayor L-Mes, on behalf of the INTERPLAN fleet, I’m honored that you would invite our humble ship and crew to—”

          Just then, Nero had to cover his ears. A horrible sound began to fill his room as Governor L-Mes fiddled needlessly with his microphone of choice—which resembled one of Earth’s early telephones of the 1890s, as L-Mes held up a stand with a speaker and held up a wired receiver to the side of his head.

          “Is this ruddy thing on?” sputtered L-Mes. “Hallew. Hallew~? Is that the correct word? Grief upon grief, is my universal translator working? Is yours?!”

          “More than well.” said Nero, through grit teeth, turning some dials to focus the image and an attempt to soften the audio. “If you wouldn’t mind going easy on the mic, maybe knock down outgoing volume a bit?”

          “Ah, but of course. It is our honor to be the first stop on your latest mission, Captain Rickles! The USS Hebe is welcome here, along with that delegation from the Minoazoans, and the roller coaster people to survey for a new amusement park—”

          Nero cut off L-Mes with a teeth-sucking sound that went ‘Tssss!’, to preface some unfortunate development.

          “About that: The USS Hebe is conducting field research in… some nebula some ways away from here. They’ll only arrive after we’ve scouted in advance for them.”

          “… Who’s we, exactly?” asked L-Mes, taking on a sour tone.

          “That would be our University-Fleet joint Vessel—UFV Wishbone. We’re part of the preliminary survey and reconnaissance initiative with a few other ships.”

          Silence at first. Then, L-Mes consulted with one of his advisors.

          “So. You mean to say we don’t have to roll out the red carpet? Or really, use any of our exceptional preparations for you lot? It costed us a considerable amount.”

          “They would be nice—”

          “Ha! But unnecessary, understood. We shall receive you shortly.”

          The screen shut off. Nero stared at the screen for a good minute, and his reflection within it before sauntering out of his quarters and onto the bridge of the ship. Watching as others in INTERPLAN fleet uniforms, prison jumpsuits, lab coats, and casual clothing all attempted to find their appropriate stations. He’d have to take a shuttlecraft down to the planet soon, the tele-pad array onboard the Wishbone was unreliable right now.

          The shuttle itself was given the unofficial designation ‘Hodgson-class,’ meaning it was potentially going to be a screaming metal deathtrap, or *somehow* the arrangement of miscellaneous spare parts would work together well enough to safely transport people from ship-to-planetary surface. He stared long and hard at the captain’s chair, before traveling to the appropriate launch bay and boarding. Here he would take attendance of the crew members he buzzed.

          “Jenndy Klortho?”

          “Here!” exclaimed a chipper woman’s voice. “You think we’re gonna shoot at anybody, sir?!”

          “With that attitude, I’m sure someone will want to hurt us.” said Nero, offering a thumbs up. “Next up, we’ve got… Bolso Torbiton?”

          “Spare me the zapcrap and drive the ship, tek-boy.”

          Nero looked around the shuttle interior, offended. Jenndy was just bouncing in her seat. Nero resumed checking his attendance datapad. No one would support him here.

          “Okay. Lint Corpuscule? Is there a Lint Corpuscule here?”

          No response.

          “There’s like two other people here instead.” Said Nero “Who are you two?”

          “I’m Gurt,” said a mutant, before gesturing at another mutant. “And he’s Gort.”

          “Alright. Awesome, very flavorblasted.” said Nero, kicking the shuttlecraft into gear languidly. “And awaaaaay we go.”

X

          Lint Corpuscule rose from his cabin bed in a fright, bashing his quadruple forehead alien cranium against the empty top bunk of an only slightly more dutiful crewmate that had already left the room to begin on ship duties five minutes ago. There was no possible way he could spin this in such a way that he wasn’t disregarding his responsibilities.

          Unless.

          Lint Corpuscule raced to a certain room, one of a few aboard the UFV Wishbone. Doing so in spite of the fact there was an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign in large, intimidating red ink and given a marker outline for better readability, in as much as a crew member trying not to put too much effort in all at once could provide. For this was the room where an array of telepad platforms were located. Lint would start slapping buttons and levers, before diving onto a platform that began to glow and hum. He was certain he could make it to the planet in advance of the shuttlecraft.

          Trouble is, he was telepunted.

          Teleporting was an apt description for successfully transporting every little iota of matter from one position to another safely. Telepunting on the other hand, was more like something, or someone on another plane of existence kicked a person in the pants in such a horrendously forceful manner that they were quantum-propelled somewhere. Maybe not even the target destination. To Lint Corpuscule’s credit, he at least landed on L-Mes’s planet. Simply erring due to the fact that he manifested with grazed asscheeks in some random part of the desert, on the outskirts of L-Mes’s settlement if coordinates from the mission briefing were to be trusted.

          Well. This was what INTERPLAN was all about, wasn’t it? Exploring the cosmos.

          Lint Corpuscule marched for a time across the arid land, as purple clouds rolled in, thunder and lightning cracks occurring in shades of brilliant, unsettling red. The Wishbone crewmate could spot a village in the distance.

X

          Immediately after landing, the Wishbone’s Away Team was almost immediately ambushed by L-Mes’s security forces. The group was beaten soundly about the sensitive areas and got tossed into the settlement sheriff’s jail.

          “What is the MEANING of this?!” demanded Nero, rattling the bars with a tin cup. “I demand to speak with Mayor L-Mes at once! We’re INTERPLAN!”

          “Oh, I damn well know you’re with INTERPLAN.” said the Sheriff, some kind of a mutated lifeform with craggy stone-like calcium protrusions all over his body, one of which was shaped like a handlebar mustache, just over what was probably his nose. The only clothing he could wear was a pair of swim trunks and a sash for his badge.

          “Then let us go?”

          “Shut up, Gort.”

          “I’m Gurt.” said Gort, trying to play mindgames on Sheriff Cragg. “He’s Gort.”

          Gurt mischievously waved hello with fingers wiggling. Sheriff Cragg scowled at them and looked to Jenndy.

          “And what’s your game? Huh?”

          Jenndy sashayed over from her bench-cot. After a delicate twirl, she proceeded to reach through the bars to try and strangle Sheriff Cragg. Nero halfhartedly tried to pull her away, weakly saying things like ‘nooo stop, please,’ and ‘don’t kill him, pleeeaaase’ among inaudible murmurs. Sheriff Cragg eventually broke free of Jenndy’s grasp, with the help of the only member of the crew not in jail: Bolso Torbiton!

          “Bolso! Bolso, let us outta here and I’ll promote you to lieutenant!” exclaimed Nero.

          “You won’t.” said Bolso.

          “Okay, okay, lieutenant-COMMANDER!”

          “You don’t have that power, idiot!” said Bolso. “You’re just an administrative adjutant, not a real captain. But with L-Mes’s recommendation I’ll bet I could jump up the INTERPLAN ranks. Or I could take my talents to some other space faction.”

          “Jenndy, go for the jugular!”

          Jenndy Klortho reached through the bars again. But Bolso, devious fiend that he was, was standing just out of her reach. She grasped at air and nothing more. Just then, Mayor L-Mes arrived.

          “L-Mes! What is this zapcrap?!” hissed Nero.

          “I ought to be askin’ you that exact question, boy!” hissed L-Mes. “Sheriff, chain these chumps. We’re gonna show ‘em our evidence.”

          The Wishbone Away Team each got tazed, and then once too weak to fight back, they were shackled to one another. At first, they were transported through the desert aboard a hover-skiff, but once there was a quarter of the distance left to go, the group was forced to march the rest of the way there, where they found a more rural village, accompanied by local specialists in anthropology and paleontology.

          “We’ve also contacted your ship’s chief medical officer to confirm.” said Sheriff Cragg, offering up a portable viewscreen, on-call with the disheveled Dr. Hwan.

          “Not that you really needed it, but I have a DNA match with one of our crew members, sir.” said Dr. Hwan. “A Lint Corpuscule?”

          “That dipstick was supposed to be part of our Away Team!” exclaimed Gurt.

          “He was plotting some kind of a SCHEME!” screamed Jenndy. Though less in terror, more in gleeful delight that there was a conspiracy.

          “Now hold on a minute—” said Nero, pointing a finger. “Let’s not jump to conclusions until AFTER we’ve seen the remains.”

          L-Mes and Sheriff Cragg waved to one of the archaeologists on-site. Lo and behold they found one of many skeletons, only this one wore an INTERPLAN uniform shirt. Tattered now, but still bearing a legible name tag. No uniform pants, however: Lint Corpuscule insisted that only one article of clothing was necessary for himself. ‘If only,’ thought Nero. ‘If only he chose to wear only pants instead of uniform shirts,’ and perhaps they would not have been in this mess.

          “Wait. How did he get there? Lint Corpuscule is a present-day member of the INTERPLAN fleet.” said Nero, probing for answers. “I literally have him marked on my crew manifest with birthday and everything.”

          “We detected tachyons, among other curious particles.” said one of the archaeologists. “Don’t look at me funny, you’ve seen some weird, anomalous bullshit out there too. We have reason to believe Lint time-traveled.”

          “How in the blue blazes—” hummed Nero, before realizing what they were getting at. “You think we sent him to—to what, plant some kind of a trap? Sabotage your settlement? Are you daft? Have you been in contact with mind-bending moon rocks? Or both??”

          “Wouldn’t you like to know, ass-tronaut.”

          Nero looked over at the rest of his Away Team, trying to garner some sympathy and support against these accusations, but no one leaped to dispute any of this.

          “Now listen, if you just contacted Captain Rickles already, I’m sure we can hash this out minus any retribution—”

          “Tell it to the judge, INTERPLAN man.” said L-Mes.

“With your luck you’ll be put on the cerebral scrambler.” said Bolso.

          And then Nero and his cohorts were clubbed about the head, or similarly disorienting bodily regions until rendered unconscious.

X

          A fog machine filled the stone-like chamber. Really, all the large stone bricks were actually purely cosmetic, like a 20th century recreational laser tag facility’s approximation of an even more ancient culture. Strange iconography adorned the place, from truly alien designs to the familiar, such as a “SIGN ON FOR PRODUCT LAYAWAY TODAY!” sign, or a spinning blue light, used in the ancient commerce temples to indicate a clearance sale on discounted items. Devout followers traveled the aisles and corridors in the sacred vestments. Which in this case were single color vests adorned with at least one pin to indicate the retailer of goods they were employed by. But these practitioners did not serve any surviving company: Instead, they mourned for the demise of others, and the quality they guaranteed. Even if it was only marginally better than anything they had today in the near future of the 22nd century.

          It was in the great council conference room that the Prime Mall Santa, Vice Councilor Easter Bunny, and other gaudy figures addressed their muscular visitor.

          “Hark, and be readied: Are you prepared for the undertaking upon which ye shall have to embark?” asked Prime Mall Santa. “Are you tired of waiting for your greatest quest of all? Do you find yourself possessed of superior skill and dedication? Could you benefit from exploring the greater cosmos?”

          “Aye, Prime Mall Santa.” said the muscular visitor.

          “But that’s not all: It may also throw in an exceptionally long time away from here.” said an arcade mascot themed after a narwhal. “But don’t delay: If you do not order transportation now, the sabbatical may be tripled for the price of one altercation.”

          The muscular visitor did not hesitate, and began entering the sacred numbers—made even more sacred through the use of a device modeled after an old Earth-style cash register combined with a home telephone. He felt a brief comfort as his fingers pressed each button, which yielded an equally satisfying *BEEP!*, *BOOP*, or the rarely heard *BUP!* followed by the ‘hum of establishment,’ in which everyone opened their mouths to offer the sacred Dial-Up Cry.

          “He is ready.”

          “They will need him soon.”

          “Go now!”

          The muscular visitor turned to see something. It was like the edges of a public swimming pool, as the archaic symphony behind him wordlessly foretold of mystery, great danger, and opportunities for storied heroism. The swimming pool archway began to glow, as chlorinated water gushed outwardly, then back in, after a device blew a giant lifeguard’s whistle to regulate the poolwater flow. With no further hesitation, he kept a steady grip on his lacrosse stick and plasma grenades.

          The muscular visitor burst from a strikingly similar portal arch on L-Mes’s planet. He proceeded to pummel the tar out of a couple of Sheriff Cragg’s deputies, and sprayed their resting place with air freshener. In the distance, the settlement was not far off. A bell had begun to ring out as the Wishbone’s Away Team was being carted off to the courthouse with burlap sacks over their heads. This, the muscular visitor saw with a pair of binoculars he ordered from a ‘wun-ayt-hundred-numb-barr,’ in the short span of time afforded to him by a vid-screen commercial.

          He could only hope he wasn’t too late to intervene.

X

          L-Mes activated the town’s robot judge. It seemed to just be a figurehead for his orders. But by the looks of things even the jury had some idea what to expect, if their scowls and obscene hand gestures were any indication. The Wishbone Away Team huddled up together to figure out a plan of attack.

          “Alright. Any idea why they might be doing this to us?” said Nero.

          “Maybe it’s a secret AN-XR scheme to subtly conquer this sector?” said Gurt.

          “No no, it’s a scheme alright. But it’s clearly being perpetrated by some kind of semi or fully technological culture that absorbs anything and anyone it comes into contact with.”

          Nero just stared at everyone, exasperated.

          “Lint used the telepads, didn’t he.”

          “Wow! You must be some kind of detective, boss!” said Jenndy. “Alright, we’ll just show our telepad records to Mayor L-Mes and that should clear things right up.”

          “I don’t think that’s a good idea--” said Nero, raising an index finger. The trial began, and everyone urged Nero to start tapping at his wristcomm to get the telepad data as the others insisted. The robot judge seemed to nod and offer an approving *DING!* sound.

          “This just proves you achieved a form of time travel!” bellowed L-Mes. “And even if you didn’t order your crew member, they might have gone AWOL, or started acting on orders from higher up at INTERPLAN command. Can you honestly say that’s not possible?!”

          Nero was about to speak. Usually in these situations an experienced leader like Captain Rickles would read aloud a legal disclaimer and be absolved near instantly. Trouble was, Nero had no such disclaimer. Just workplace culture (and stacks of over-exacting rulebooks, more composed by HR to absolve the organization than adhere to moral tidings with clarity) whose only guarantee that INTERPLAN recognized self-determination as an inherent right to all lifeforms, was all sentiment and assumed standard operating procedure. Claiming to operate purely on vibes would not hold up in court whatsoever and would in fact cause an uproar.

          “Errm. Well…”

          Where was a definite answer he could cite when he needed one?

X

          The worst part, was that Bolso Torbiton was approaching to testify on that very point, in his swanky new five-piece suit made from megarachnoid silk as he walked through the halls. Or he would have made it, if the muscular visitor hadn’t arrived, accompanied by a handful of the planet’s native inhabitants.

          “… The hell?”

          “I have witnessed infomercial visions foretelling of secret actions,” said the muscular visitor. “If you or your loved ones have gone back on your oath to the Interplanetary Fleet, you may be entitled to a sound beating.”

          “Dude,” said Bolso Torbiton. “Eat a piece.”

          Bolso swung a fist at the muscular visitor, who rolled from weathering the blow, to kneeing Bolso Torbiton in the groin, and tossing him through the doors into the courtroom, where he would use his lacrosse stick to lob plasma grenades, forcing Sheriff Cragg and L-Mes away.

          “What is the meaning of this?!” spat L-Mes. “Sherriff, call the marines!”

          “We don’t have marines, sir. But we could wheel in the cannon from Fort Gordie.”

          “You will do no such thing,” said the muscular visitor, pointing his lacrosse stick. “Not while Bowflex draws breath. I bring with me the rightful population of this planet to protest this farce you call a fair trial. Mayor L-Mes seeks to extort INTERPLAN.”

          “That’s right.” said one of the local aliens, who resembled a classic style little grey-greenish humanoid with bulbous black eyes and a large head on a short, gangling body. “We have been here since time immemorial, with artifacts held by the local museum putting us within hundreds of thousands of years, minimum. L-Mes’s settlement is barely thirty years old. He’s been trying to build all sorts of tourist traps around here in all that time after we allowed him to build this township. The one called Lint Corpuscule was killed by birds before he could even meet our ancestors. All they could do was bury him.”

          “Indeed.” said Bowflex. “And as a potential INTERPLAN member world, you must treat other lifeforms with a certain modicum of respect and dignity. The crew of this visiting ship would not be remiss to pummel you about the sensitive areas for your works against the Muuldarian Greys, L-Mes.”

          Nero looked to Bowflex, who nodded back. Just as Lint Corpuscule chose to use the malfunctioning telepads and L-Mes set about his scheme, so too did other lifeforms retain the power of choice, and the potential to use it for purposes beyond harm, greed, or snitching on each other over emulating rare old video games. Maybe, just maybe, not everything in this universe sucked after all.

          “Hey, he got away! And funny thing, I remember seeing Bolso’s new suit in a store display on the way over—for fifteen thousand credits.”

          Jenndy pointed at the recently departed Sheriff Cragg and Mayor L-Mes, who hopped aboard a hover-skiff and raced for the Star Portal that Bowflex entered the planet through. Bolso was still writhing in pain when he dropped a receipt that indicated the credit utilized was under L-Mes’s bank account.

          “We’ll sort out things here in town in case they come back.” said another member of the local alien group—Seftar. “If you wish for the planet Muuldar to join your coalition, then bring Mayor L-Mes to us.”

          Nero pointed and nodded to Seftar.

          “You got it. Let’s move it, people!”

          On the way out, everyone each took a turn kicking Bolso in the ribs.

X

          L-Mes and Cragg were fiddling with the cash register/telephone styled interface that activated the Star Portal. They had just emerged on one of their neighboring planet’s moons, where a disgruntled chef and an android were hunting for some big game in the form of the wild ‘Dodecapus,’ that with just one body’s meats, could feed many.

          “Hey.” said the chef. “Aren’t you-a that mayor our adjutant was-a supposed to meet?”

          “It is.” said W4-114CE, before taking out a handheld device. “Oop. Just got a long-range, subspace communique. Shoot this guy. I repeat—eighty-six this toad.”

After that they ran like cowards, and tried dialing a random sequence, which briefly deposited them on a world conquered by the AN-XR empire, with its chrome-brutalist architecture. Regal-uniformed commandants led troops in armor-vests with an abundance of extra pouches as they interrogated pedestrians in an attempt to root out anything they deemed seditious.

          Sure enough, being chased by imperialists with electri-knives and particle projectors in the form of pistols and rifles wasn’t their idea of a good time. Cragg and L-Mes’s attempt to dial for a pleasure planet of some sort had also failed, and landed them in the middle of a battle between two Dagarian Kingdoms, part of a larger feudalistic structure that yearned so much for the clash of blades, like their isosceles swords with two grips at the center of the awkward triangular sword. Harrowed by the failed Star Portal attempts and currently pursued by several goose-stepping stormtroopers and chainmail chic honor-lusted warriors, they returned to planet Muuldar, where the Wishbone Away Team was waiting for them. Gurt and Gort both simultaneously attacked a Dagarian warrior by pinching two exposed areas on his body, causing some kind of electrical overload within the nervous system, using some esoteric technique. Jenndy Klortho was having a standoff with an AN-XR commandant, twisting his arm so that the electri-knife went around her—coincidentally stabbing L-Mess in the gut, or some other organ.

          Bowflex was lobbing plasma grenades and throwing an Olympic discus to prevent anyone else from entering through the Star Portal. Nero was trading punches with Sheriff Cragg, before remembering he could also use at least one of his legs at a time to kick, sending the Sheriff backwards through the Star Portal with an unforgiving boot sole back to the Dagarian battlefield he thought he’d escaped. It was at that point that Nero was tired, yet bitter enough that he produced his particle pistol from his side holster and fired. On the other side, Sherriff Cragg was mostly vaporized, stray chunks of himself flying out in every direction, unintentionally slaughtering a dozen warriors via high velocity shrapnel.

          In any case, the mortally wounded L-Mes was apprehended.

X

          Back aboard the Wishbone…

          Dr. Hwan was not an engineer. She was a doctor. But in a pinch, she proved she could fill in on other tasks. Like when she saw Lint Corpuscule—who had been the INTERPLAN officer in charge of boarding and customs checks the morning of departure—racing towards a telepad room. Without hesitating to consider the Hippocratic oath, she tore a panel off the corridor wall and tampered. Mostly in the hopes that he would explode right then and there. But using the longe-range scanners aboard the UFV Wishbone to confirm he’d died during planet Muuldar’s distant past would suffice.

          As Dr. Hwan poured herself another light blue liquid—some manner of ale, Technician-Adjutant Nero, the newcomer Bowflex, and Jenndy Klortho were all seated together for a dinner meeting with her. Jenndy was burning an effigy of Bolso Torbiton, the poppet seated within a diorama of L-Mes’s courtroom back on the non-grey Muuldar settlement. She really wanted Bolso harmed further, maybe more chaos erupting as a general thing. Bowflex took to his protein shake, having joined the crew as evidenced by the badge he wore over his regular garb. Gurt and Gort were fidgeting in their seats.

          “… So, wait. You didn’t know I interfered with Lint’s telepad?” said Dr. Hwan, incredulously. “I could have kept that a secret?”

          “No, I didn’t know.” said Nero, not waiting a moment to respond. “Yes, you could have literally gone the rest of your life without having told anyone that. Under anyone else’s command you’d be court-martialed.”

          “And I’d take you bastards down with me. Every. Time.” said Dr. Hwan, raising up her ale. “Cheers. And here’s to honor among thieves.”

          “Technician-Adjutant Nero, I believe this is not entirely unsatisfactory.” said Bowflex, leaning in to address the INTERPLAN crewman. “Lint still made his choice. As did Dr. Hwan when she attempted to slay him. I would dare even say this is cause for celebration, along with the fact that your Away Team was not disembowled, disintegrated, or stretched out over a—”

          “THANK you, Bowflex.”

          “Indeed.”

          W4-114CE had personally offered to wheel in the grilled Dodecapus, and after delivery plugged himself into the room’s audio system to start playing some fast-paced techno. Bowflex took up a barbell and started doing an intricate dance he picked up at the gym back on Adworld. Jenndy just rested her elbows on the table, and put her hands on the cheek as the colors of the diorama fire deepened. And at last, Gurt and Gort just played patty cake.

          Nero just slumped in his seat.

          This was going to be a long journey. Maybe not *completely* insufferable. But still, it would be very, very grating.

[worldend]

i think if spamton was human sized he would just look like luke atmey from aa3. there i met my monthly deltarune post quota now

[jacobsvoice]

Remembering Jacob

(January 17, 2023 / JNS) My grandfather Jacob came to visit when I was four years old. I was fascinated by him because he was my only relative with a beard. He sat quietly and I hesitated to speak to him. I never saw him again.

When I pestered my father, Jacob’s son, about why he had not returned, I was told that he had died 13 years before I was born. But I vividly remembered his visit, so that was hard to believe.

My father showed me his only photograph of Jacob. Dressed in a suit with his jacket buttoned and a pocket handkerchief visible, he is seated on a chair in front of a stone wall. A wide mustache and long beard covered much of his face. A dark fedora hat rested on one knee. It was some consolation that our first names both began with the letter “J.” That, I eventually realized, was meant to bind us together and preserve his memory.

I learned that, as a wave of antisemitism loomed near Kishinev in the 1880s, Jacob’s father Mendel relocated his family to Botosani, the second-largest Jewish community in Moldavia. But Jewish life was no less precarious there. Near the end of the century, synagogues were desecrated and violent rioting against Jews increased. One-third of Romanian Jews, Jacob among them, left their country behind. The United States was his destination.

It was not an easy transition. Prospering German-American Jews did not welcome Jews from eastern Europe. Jacob Schiff, a prominent philanthropist, suggested that other countries be their destination. Even the New York Romanian Committee criticized the arrival of “beggars” and urged a monthly quota of 200 immigrants.

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Leaving his wife and young child behind, Jacob, then 45 years old, arrived at Ellis Island, the major American immigration center. Newcomers were processed through a series of medical examinations for “contagious and loathsome” diseases. If health problems were discovered, compulsory return to Europe loomed.

After an overnight train ride from New York, Jacob arrived in Pittsburgh. He was met by Israel Cohen, a family member who guided him to the Hill District, a shabby neighborhood uphill from the railroad station and the center of Jewish life. Jacob’s first impression of Pittsburgh could not have been pleasing. Visitors described it as “dark, dismal and dirty” and “an unattractive, smokey city.”

Jacob soon began to work in Cohen’s stogy factory, where he earned three to seven dollars weekly for 65 hours of work. It must have been tedious. A photo showed a cramped and shabby room without windows. Two middle-aged bearded men wearing kippot are working at a cluttered table. An open carton filled with stogies was nearby.

Within a year, Jacob was able to bring his wife Minnie and their young daughter to Pittsburgh. One year later, she gave birth to a son named Menachem Moshe to honor the memory of his grandfather. His name was Americanized to M. Maurice, eventually abbreviated to Morry, the name by which my father would always be known.

Life was not easy for the Auerbach family. Jacob left the stogy business to work as a railroad watchman while Morry sold newspapers and shined shoes to help financially. He fondly remembered Jacob singing Romanian folk songs and their time together for high holiday services in the nearby, oldest Pittsburgh synagogue. Although the life of impoverished immigrants was not easy, American possibilities were preferable to Romanian realities. In 1907, there was a pogrom in Botosani where Jews were robbed and murdered.

Early in the evening of Jan. 22, 1923, as Jacob was driving a horse-drawn bakery wagon, it was struck broadside by a car. Flung to the street, he suffered a fractured skull and died that night. Jacob was buried in the Kasa Torah cemetery, where his gravestone—with a Star of David at the top—identifies him in large letters as “Father.” He was 58 years old.

A yahrzeit candle will commemorate one hundred years since Jacob’s tragic death. How I could remember a visit from the grandfather who died before I was born is a mystery. But that embedded yearning has enabled Jacob to remain with me. A solitary photograph may be all there is, but as I light the candle and watch it flicker, Jacob will surely return, if only in wistful memory.

My son Jeffrey, our third generation “J” and fellow historian, was my companion researcher for this article.

Jerold S. Auerbach is the author of twelve books, including Jacob’s Voices: Reflections of a Wandering American Jew.

[therealraeweber]

A little self portrait I took this week while on a reading break trip up to Caernarfon Castle, up in North Wales. This was my first ever solo trip and I had such an amazing time! I took a couple hours first just to explore this gorgeous 13th century castle (IT WAS HUGE!!!), and then got some lovely self portraits.

This definitely met my monthly quota of "doing weird things in public in costumes". Oh, how I missed those confused stares of people passing by :) There were a couple people who stopped to chat about what I was up to, and everyone seemed very interested! There was even a group of people who spotted me taking this picture while they were on top of one of the castle towers, and they started shouting at me to tell me I looked amazing. They later came over and got pictures with me, which was so sweet <3

Find this picture on my Instagram!

Princess of the Castle

[foulserpent]

so does greymoor not have falmer in it 

edit nvm

[redeyedryu]

FINE. THERE HE IS. (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻