#only now it's had more research before becoming an illustration

[hobnob-moth]

Extremely high effort Lilin revamp in the style of a scientific illustration. It doesn't show, but there's only three layers for the colors outside of black. One blue, one yellow, and one red like an actual lithographic print. On a scale from 1-10 I’d say that this is about a 2 for the likelihood that I’ll ever color like this again outside of maybe commission work. It was hardddddd. (see video below)

Although she's heavily inspired by sea slugs and copopods (among other aquatic, "squish" invertabrates as I call them), she's not supposed to be one specifically. Just a fictional brain parasite. I toned down her brain color from what real sea slugs apparently have. A cheeto-dust orange.

Lines done in toonboom with colors done in sai cause I have a weird process

She severs the corpus callosum (either as the species grows into maturity or by manually doing so with their soon to be prior host), takes residency in the lateral ventricle to feed upon fresh cerebrospinal fluid, and acts like an enhanced corpus callosum replacement while also being an overriding, primary brain to the host’s body. As much as she wants to be herself, she’ll always have a ghost in the machine with her. Her current host’s old experiences, knowledge, ticks, habbits, self, etc influencing her current personality. She’s just a small, core brain in comparison and relies on the host’s brain constantly.

There's a lot more that I can say about what's changed since her original design biology wise. How she now filter feeds with with something between what sea cucumbers have for filter feeding and the proboscus shape of "Gorgonorhynchus repens" ribbon worms. Her modified cnidosacs taking the place of her prior "transmitters" in purpose. Oh yeah, instead of coming through an eye she goes through the top of the skull. Its a change I made a while ago (See whenever her head started having flesh sloughed off to make her mask though that is a purely cosmetic decision on her part. She choses that)

[spacelazarwolf]

so this is a trashfire for many reasons.

lack of historical knowledge and complete lack of perspective

israel was not created by britain. israel declared independence from britain. israel was not "designed to funnel jewish people out of all other countries." israel is not "puppeted by america for the purposes of colonizing southwest asia" and the insinuation that israel's goal is to colonize the entirety of southwest asia is actually a documented antisemitic conspiracy theory.

"Even before the State of Israel came into existence, Arab leaders accused Zionists of seeking to rule most of the Middle East," a secret Jewish plot to establish a "Greater Israel" extending from the Nile to the Eurphrates and the Persian Gulf, and south deep into Saudi Arabia. Albeit "farfetched" and a "calumny," this notion has "become so routinized and accepted" that it "now serves as the conventional wisdom in all the Arabic-speaking countries and Iran." Pipes 1998, 49, 69. This is one of two maps in the collection alleged to provide evidence of the "Greater Israel" conspiracy. (The other is ID #2411, "Jewish Imperial Ambitions In Palestine and Neighbouring Countries," 1967.) This map, "Dream of Zionism," shows Zionism as a giant serpent, its back decorated with a pattern of triangles described as "Freemasons Eye, 'Symbol of Jewry.'" The snake's circular outline marks the "Proposed Boundary of 'Greater Israel,'" an area including all of Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and the Sinai Peninsula; the Nile delta region of Egypt along the Suez Canal and northwest of Cairo; and virtually all of Iraq, including access to the Persian Gulf. It also includes a large portion of northwestern Saudi Arabia, a corridor well over 100 miles wide along the Red Sea, stretching south more than 450 miles from the Gulf of Aqaba to the Holy City of Medina. "Curiously," the conspiracy theorists "see Greater Israel including Medina but not Mecca; the oil fields of Kuwait but not those of Saudi Arabia; and more of Turkey than Iran." The State of Israel is identified as "Occupied Palestine." Pipes 62. This map first appeared in an English-language edition of the fraudulent "Protocols of the Elders of Zion" - the infamous blood libel against the Jewish people - published in Iran in 1985. Ibid. This version appears in a new edition, "Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion," attributed to "The Representatives of Zion, of the 33rd Degree" and published in Kuwait by the "Scientific Research House." The estimated publication date is 2018. The current version of the map varies only slightly from that of 1985 illustrated in Pipes: the words "Symbol of Jewry" have been added in script beneath the legend "Freemasons Eye," and a partially legible signature ("Mir"?) appears at the lower right.

also i'm not sure what the intention was with bringing up the rwandan genocide because rwanda was colonized by germany and belgium, not the british. unless you think literally everything bad that happens in the world is tied to britain... which just so happens to be another antisemitic conspiracy theory that originated in the ussr. all the while jews were being demonized in the uk for being "communist sympathizers." because jews are the symbol of everything you hate, all the problems in your life. that is how antisemitism functions.

2. tokenizing jews for your own benefit

"i had followed [jewish blogs] in an attempt to better understand jewish concerns ... and i've been unfollowing them one by one ... i was getting genuine perspectives on issues i knew very little about - and now, for those blogs in particular, it's impossible to separate what might be a genuine concern verses wht's being weaponised to justify a settler state"

this is an open admission that you are only able to take in jewish perspectives from jews you agree with. and considering the ignorance that's rampant in the rest of the post, my guess is that what you saw was jews who were scared and angry at the way people acted after october 7th and the way antisemitism is rising, but the non jews you follow were insistent that those sentiments could not coexist with palestinian liberation. additionally, the fact you are unable to separate genuine concern verses "what's being weaponised" is your own problem, not ours. the way jewish pain is being downplayed, mocked, ignored, and demonized, the way people have insisted that any mourning for the victims of october 7th or concern for the hostages must be propaganda is antisemitic. and you are actively contributing to that, particularly by saying that western powers arresting people during protests "has been a setup from the beginning" with the very clear insinuation that it is "zionists" who are to blame for the setup.

3. you are really fucking entitled

you are a british goy (not a "goyim" btw, goy is singular, goyim is plural). you literally admitted that you "don't know how to talk about this with the tat and care [you] should be as a [non jew]" and that "certainly there is a degree in arrogance for [you] to talk about judaism as an outsider." and yet you wrote this whole post full of antisemitic conspiracy theories and antisemitic biases while claiming you know how to protect jewish people and while claiming that zionism is "the biggest danger to jewish people right now."

let us be very fucking clear. the biggest danger to jewish people right now is antisemites and the actions they choose to take, and the consequences of those actions.

you say that "if you tell the general public, who are very susceptible to the broader news cycle, that judaism and zionism is the same thing, they very well will be motivated to do antisemitic things, because they believe they are fighting zionism."

this has already happened and has been happening for decades. framing jews as zionists and demonizing zionism as a jewish ideology is not new. it happened all across swana, even before israel declared independence, including during the farhud which was a pogrom that occurred as part of the holocaust in iraq where jews were executed, beaten, and tens of thousands had to flee from government-sponsored persecution specifically and explicitly targeted at jews under the guise of "antizionism." it also happened in the ussr.

the desire to completely separate judaism from zionism as a jewish ideology is not out of concern for jews. zionism is a jewish ideology founded on one possible solution to global antisemitism, as an attempt to keep jews safe from constant persecution, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. it's not a solution you have to agree with, but trying to completely divorce it from judaism only opens the door for the very people you claim to be concerned about who will use zionism as an excuse to attack jews, as they have been for decades.

i have said it before and i'll say it again. zionism is one of the jewish answers to the question "what do we do with the jews?" historically, the answers gentiles have come up with have been "subjugate them, ethnically cleanse them, slaughter them, genocide them." so when you respond to that question of "what do we do with the jews?" with "i don't really care, but not that! and actually your jewish answer is what's causing this in the first place so really it's your fault!" it's kind of fucking bonkers to expect most jews to respond in any positive way. if you expect to have a productive conversation with zionist jews or with jews as a whole, you must present your own answer to "what do we do with the jews?" and if you're thinking "well how the fuck am i supposed to figure out a plan to get antisemitism all over the world to go away? that’s going to take too long!" you almost understand the point. the eradication of antisemitism is a global effort, and one that won't be achieved in our lifetimes. so the least you can do in the meantime is educate yourself, interact with jews in good faith, listen to jewish perspectives even if you don't agree with them, and realize that you are still going to have only scratched the surface.

so yes, you're right. it was extremely arrogant of you to post this, and you are an example of how ignorance breeds antisemitism among the uneducated masses.

[hexesandroses]

By your name (all the stars, rivers, cities)

Akademiya! Zandik is probably my favorite version of Dottore but also one that I really struggle to write. If he's ooc here, close your eyes <3 Not proofread lol out of sight out of mind Fluff, mutual pining inspired by one of my favorite songs - Твоим именем by Svidaniye Also on AO3

You prayed he didn't notice the trembling of your hands.

Zandik hadn't spoken a word to you since he opened his leather-bound journal, opting instead to sketch the ruin golem that was nestled between the tall hills of Ardravi Valley. You'd robbed yourself of the privilege of observing him in his element; the close proximity between the two of you made you nervous. It felt dangerous to observe your surroundings, to move your limbs, and so you sat frozen beside him, afraid that Zandik would become suspicious of you.

The reason for your shyness was clear as day: Zandik had never allowed you to come this close before, always rejecting your goodwill with the apprehension of someone who had only ever known cruelty. But now, the blanket you sat on was barely big enough to fit both of you, and Zandik didn't seem to mind; not the way your thighs touched, nor the way your shoulders bumped. You imagined that his soft curls would brush against your cheek if he were to turn his head to the side - and that thought only served to fluster you even more.

How is he so calm, you wondered, when we've never been this close before?

You were frustrated with yourself. So much time had been spent by his side - studying, drinking coffee, wandering the lush expanses of the rainforest - yet you still felt deeply, indescribably nervous. Anxiety sank into your bones and jumbled your mind; you knew why, had known for weeks, but it was impossible to accept. How could you?

Your focus shifted to the Sumeru rose in your hand. Zandik picked it for you on your way to your favorite picnic spot - the hill that overlooked Vimara village - and said the simple words, "for your book". You accepted the flower with a polite "thank you", heart fluttering in your chest when he gave you a faint smile - the sight forever etched in your mind.

It was meant to be pressed between the pages of your favorite book. You didn't have the heart to do it, though; damaging a rose given to you by Zandik felt wrong. Even if his actions carried no underlying implications, it didn't matter. You wanted to keep it. Once you returned to your dorm, you would place this delicate rose in a small vase and ensure it survived a few more days.

You twirled it between your fingers. A little more time and this embarrassment would end. Zandik would forget you behaved this way, engrossed in his research, and you would be the sole person to carry the burden of remembering every second you spent fiddling with the hem of your shirt, too shy to move from the spot beside your friend.

Friend. The word tasted sour in your mouth.

"You're eerily quiet today," said Zandik, "what's the matter?"

This time, you had no choice but to look at him. Zandik had long finished drawing. The journal lay on his lap, open to reveal a surprisingly detailed illustration of the ruin golem across the river. Your breath nearly hitched when your eyes met Zandik's.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

You felt small under his gaze; he observed you as if you were something interesting - one of those ruin mechanisms that he so adored. You couldn't take it.

You pointed at his journal, "the drawing turned out so well."

"It's a simple sketch, really. But that ruin golem lying ahead... it is the pinnacle of human wisdom. Isn't it awe-inspiring?"

His ruby eyes glimmered with excitement; the sort that only awakened when Zandik spoke about his interests. It warmed your heart - it always did - but this time, the close proximity between your faces was enough to make you blush.

You smiled, "yes, it is."

"I am set to join an investigation team as a trainee dastur soon," Zandik said, "we will conduct field research near that golem. If I'm lucky, we'll even study its interior..."

He gazed ahead, no doubt imagining the discoveries he would make. This was what he lived for - refining his understanding of the world around him, its inner workings. You would never be...

Stupid, stupid thoughts. Weren't you just his friend?

"You'll have to tell me all about it," you said. That was appropriate. That wouldn't raise any questions. Zandik loved to talk about his research and he loved to talk about it with someone who cared. You just so happened to care more than anyone.

Zandik looked at you with newfound delight. It all came back to you then: the proximity between the two of you, the rose in your hand, his smile. How were you supposed to understand any of this? When his arm brushed against yours, his thigh pressed against your own and his lips were only inches away from yours - how would a stranger look at this?

Doesn't matter, you thought, because it means nothing. He's just my friend.

"A pity you can't join."

Not the words you expected to hear from Zandik, of all people. Your brain must have short-circuited, for you couldn't form a single coherent thought as you watched him casually put his journal away like he hadn't just...

Your cheeks tinted red. A cruel voice in your head told you that Zandik would definitely miss you, think of you whenever you weren't by his side.

"Well, a Rtawahist student has no use in field research..." you mumbled, making Zandik huff in amusement.

"It has nothing to do with your darshan."

A thousand different thoughts swarmed in your head. "Then what?"

He didn't give his answer just yet. Zandik chose to inspect you once more as if to fluster you - and though it worked exceedingly well, you couldn't bring yourself to look away, captivated by his boyish charm.

Zandik looked so utterly serene; olive skin bathed in the soft light of the evening sun, soft cyan hair tousled by the warm breeze. The corners of his thin lips were tilted upwards in a roguish smirk, and your poor, frail heart was threatened to give out. It still made no sense to you: how anyone could look at Zandik and see a monster.

He exhaled softly, "your behavior these past few weeks was puzzling. My initial assumption was that you had grown to fear me, just like the others..." Zandik reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jawline, "but the answer has become a bit clearer now."

Your breath hitched. He knew. He knew the truth, had guessed it long ago, and you - ever the fool - were oblivious all along.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, ashamed beyond compare; for even with the possibility of your feelings being unrequited, you reveled in the way his fingertips warmed your skin.

"Sorry? I never said you had to be sorry."

Zandik sat impossibly close. He cupped your cheek and watched you melt into his touch.

"But it's a bother, isn't it?" You asked, to which Zandik blinked owlishly before chuckling - a saccharine melody that you wanted to keep in your memory forever.

He gazed at you fondly, in a way he never had before, "would I keep spending my time with you if I thought you were a bother?"

"I guess not," you breathed, painfully aware of the tiny distance between the two of you. It felt unreal; you doubted you fully comprehended his words, lost in Zandik's touch as you were.

You could kiss him. The idea baffled you, making the words ring in your head, over and over, I can kiss him, I can kiss him, I can kiss him.

By the looks of it, Zandik had similar thoughts but enough self-control to hold back. You, on the other hand, lacked the courage to go through with your idea, and so you sat basking in his tender touches like you would never feel them again.

You couldn't ask for anything more, anyway.

[thoughts-of-a-heathen]

Hello, I wonder if you can help me stay away from the Nazis?

A while ago I saw this excellent spreadsheet on different heathen authors and associations: which had reliable information, which were white supremacist, etc. Somehow I didn't save it. I can't find it anywhere and I don't remember who posted it. Did you maybe see the same one (or even make it)?

Hi there!

While I haven't seen that specific post, I think that referencing declaration 127 can be a helpful place to start.

In general, it's important to be mindful of what organisations, etc. that you're following. In my experience, heathens and pagans who aren't nazi or right wing will be very happy to tell you about that fact. Any degree of vagueness on this topic would make me cautious about the person/organisation in question.

I'll give you an example to illustrate this:

In Sweden, there are two larger heathen organisations. One (Forn Sed) won't accept you as a member if you disagree with their statutes about inclusivity. Like, you have to sign a document saying that you share their views on this matter. They make it abundantly clear that bigots, racists and nazis aren't welcome. Their statutes of inclusivity reads:

"[Samfundet Forn Sed] stands for a humane and democratic view of life, and recognises [that] all people are equal, regardless of gender, gender-nonconforming identity, origin, disability, age or sexuality. The association stands for religious tolerance and religious freedom in the multicultural society of today. The association is open to everyone who accepts these values."

The other organisation (Nordiska asasamfundet) has one sentence about "not making any distinction based on origin, gender or sexuality," while simultaneously claiming that "asatro" has a focus on "traditional values". They also state that asatro is "open to anyone who shares [their] values and wants to protect the nordic heritage and ancient customs." Furthermore, they want asatro to become a world religion. As in actively turning more people pagan. They also state that they don't eat food that has been consecrated to other religions. (In a Swedish context, this can only be understood as an antisemitic and islamophobic dog whistle.)

I could go on, but I think this is enough to make my point.

SFS doesn't care about your religion or how you choose to practice it, as long as you believe in equality, democracy and tolerance. NAS, on the other hand, clearly places their version of asatro above other religions. They don't make any kind of demand on you believing in equality or tolerance.

Picking up on these kinds of things requires knowledge, and I highly recommend reading up on nazi symbolism, ideology, and dog whistles. The more you know about them, the easier it is to avoid them.

@notthesomefather also made a post that is relevant to this conversation. Research, research, research! Think critically. Question things. Look into people's backgrounds and who they choose to associate with.

I know that I have written about this before, but I can't find the actual posts right now.

Maybe my followers have more to add to this?

[askvectorprime]

What are the universal streams of Earthspark and Transformers One? With the Shrouding preventing the TransTech from plotting the multiverse, it falls on us fans to do so instead. That brings up a couple of questions. What exactly is the exact, precise definition of a universal cluster which we can use to checklist all future media to determine whether it’s a new cluster or not? You previously designated Cyberverse as Khathos cluster. All three use evergreen. Are they the same cluster?

Dear Continuity Codifier,

As you note, the actions of my brother Nexus have greatly limited the Transcendent Technomorphs' ability to map the universe. Since the Shroud fell, Axiom Nexus had only been able to concretely identify four new "pillar realities"; while consensus has labelled one of the four as Primax 623.14 Gamma, the other three—temporarily classified as 818.27 Alpha, 1122.11 Alpha, and 924.20 Delta—have yet to be conclusively named. As you say, stream 818.27 Alpha has tentatively been classified as part of the Khathos cluster; however, there are still many who argue it belongs as part of the Primax or Uniend clusters. Universe 1122.11 Alpha has been similarly argued to be part of the Primax, Uniend or Khathos clusters; among those who consider it to be part of its own cluster, proposed names include Gaius, Pentis, Ninmah, Onogo, and Dheghom. As for stream 924.20 Delta—well, it was detected so recently that there is nowhere near consensus on its placement or classification, with some scientists proposing it to be part of the Tyran cluster thanks to their near-identical levels of Lorenz-Ω electromagnetic force.

Of course, as I've mentioned before, the academic discourse surrounding universal streams is far from settled. In fact, in the aftermath of the Shroud, a significant corpus has come to believe that the terminology of "universal clusters", while once useful, has become redundant now that there are barely a Prime's dozen reality streams to keep track of. Some have proposed adopting the "spacetime" system of Cloud World to more precisely pinpoint spatio-temporal coordinates within these realities, while others have suggested entirely new systems that would "lump" universes together more broadly—though, of course, each of these approaches introduces its own difficulties that make me doubt that the current paradigm will be abandoned any time soon. The universal stream system may not be perfect, but it is functional, and I have my doubts that any replacement would have benefits outweighing the difficulties in completely overhauling the system from the ground up.

Ah, but I digress. You wanted to know how universal clusters are determined? Well, as I have illustrated, that is a complex and highly subjective process. Generally, TransTech scientists will log a reality stream's most fundamental traits—ranging from macro-scale aspects such as a high level of WY-att interference waves, to micro-scale details like the presence or absence of the AllSpark—and compare them to other, similar realities, grouping them by their most common shared traits. Thus, a reality in which the Mini-Cons were central to the Cybertronians' war, the power of Primus manifests through Cyber Keys, and the planet Xerxes is at least five parsecs off-course from impact with the Omicron Rift might be classed as part of the Aurex Cluster, and so on. These heuristics might strike you as rather arbitrary, and indeed there are one or two outspoken researchers to have come out of Axiom Nexus’ organic population, who are increasingly vocal in their criticism of the TransTechs’ classification system for its cybercentric framing of reality.

Ultimately, I think you are correct: it is up to you, not we Transformers, to determine how to categorize the multiverse in the way you find most useful. Surely you would be better served by a taxonomy that reflects more human-relevant concerns—perhaps distinguishing realities by whether or not the Federation of Western Europe was founded, or the number of Earth's moons?

[mariiatrushartist]

Creator of the flat "Earth" and the Apostle of the Cat God: the most interesting facts from the life of Terry Pratchett

Dreamed of becoming an astronomer

As a child, the boy was very interested in astronomy and stars in general. In adulthood, he not only did not lose interest in this topic, but also built an observatory in his garden.

The first story and a typewriter for earned money

Terry's first work was written when he was 13 years old, and a year later it was published in a school magazine called The Hades Business. On this story, the future writer earned £14 and used them to buy his first typewriter.

The first published novel

In 1971, when Terry was only 23 years old, the world saw his first novel The Carpet People. It is a comic fantasy novel about a tribe of tiny people living on the carpet. When the writer became more famous, he decided to rewrite it by adding an updated text, original black and white illustrations and an exclusive story written when he was 17 years old

From journalism to electricity production

After the Three Mile Island nuclear disaster in March 1979, Pratchett left journalism to become a press officer for four nuclear power plants at the Central Electricity Production Council.

He lost in popularity only J.K. Rowling

In 1996, the Times declared Pratchett a best-selling author in the UK. He sold 70 million books worldwide and was the second most read author in Britain, second only to the J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series.

The award he was most proud of

It may surprise you, but most of all Pratchett was proud of the Carnegie Medal, which was awarded to his children's book The Amazing Maurice and His Raised Rodents. He got it in 2002.

Illness

At the peak of popularity, Pratchett was diagnosed with a severe form of Alzheimer's disease, posterior cortical atrophy. He had gradual degeneration of the cortex, the outer layer of the brain, on the back of the head. The disease leads to difficulties in reading, estimating distance, using tools and spelling. However, the disease did not stop Pratchett's success: in addition to continuing to write, he also became a patron of Alzheimer's Research UK and actively supported fundraising efforts and advocated raising awareness of the disease.

Own sword

The writer has always had an eccentric personality and imagination. Now that he became a knight, Terry needed the right sword he made himself from meteoric iron. The writer found a field with iron deposits near his home in Wiltshire, he himself dug up ore – 81 kilograms. Then he smelted iron ore using a homemade clay and hay furnace. A local blacksmith killed Pratchett's handmade iron rods into a silver-trimmed sword.

The last book

Pratchett's Alzheimer's disease has progressed. However, despite brain atrophy, he still continued to produce books. A few months before his death in March 2015, he finished his last novel about Discworld. Many Pratchett fans keep the book unread on their shelves in his honour.

There were 10 unfinished novels on the hard drive of his computer at the time of his death, but we will never know what they are about. According to the writer's last desire, Pratchett's unfinished works were destroyed. The hard drive was not only broken with a steam roller, but also passed through the stone crusher.

[blackfeathercourt]

Got Nocmos Brain Rot™ again and made a timeline to pinpoint the most important events of her life and to illustrate the way she's been changing and growing

Close-ups and some notes below the cut

weirdly cut because I didn't want images to be giant and long to scroll by x_x

Just a baby. Nocmos had a relatively normal early childhood. Definitely cast her first spell before spoke her first word.

Nocmos begins her studies when she's around 10 years old… and that's when her free time is done for. Almost every minute of her day now is dedicated to studying, with magic being most paid attention to, which is a given with her Telvanni background. Moreover, she was taught with the intention of her enrolling to Shad Astula, a prestigious magic academy near Mournhold. She wastes all her teen years being stuck in her family's tower in Sadrith Mora, barely leaving the settlement and having little idea of the world outside.

elves must hit their puberty later then humans, so she's still yet to grow a little

Alright, Nocmos makes it to Shad Astula. She immediately starts distancing herself from her family back on Vvardenfell, since now she's away on the mainland (kinda). She keeps her studies up, a bit more enthusiastically now since she can finally meet people all over the Ebonheart Pact and not be limited to the Telvanni bunch. Starts learning to socialise on her own, catastrophically at first, with accidental racism all over the place... But it's alright, she even manages to make some first friends.

Initial meeting with Endalwe occurs at around this time, somewhere on a field trip I suppose while Endalwe is adventuring around the region. Neither one of them pays much mind to each other at this point.

Nocmos (barely) graduates Shad Astula and begins her own independent research, albeit under Divayth Fyr's guidance. She becomes his apprentice, living in the same tower as him, assisting him when he makes her and accompanying him in his travels. She learns a lot during that time and finally gets to explore Tamriel a little, which inspires her greatly to continue her studies.

At around that time, Nocmos discovers her new special interest - tinkering and constructing, though still on a very early stage. She meets Endalwe again in Vivec, when she's completing the Morrowind story line, and spontaneously decides to assist her. That allows not only for them to develop deeper friendship, but also for Nocmos to become acquainted with a former Clockwork apostle, Barilzar. I imagine she does all the quests which involve him, which means she gets a peek of the Clockwork city at the very end of the storyline. And… she becomes obsessed! Barilzar kicks her out and doesn't really want anything to do with her anymore, so she takes matters into her own hands and starts exploring Dwarven ruins on her own, eager to study the nature of the constructs. She even tries to build something on her own, bringing home spare parts and tools, thinking Divayth isn't aware of her new hobby. He is.

So, this is the most crucial point of Nocmos's life. She completes the Clockwork City DLC! With Divayth's guidance, as he notices her interest and deems her worthy of such endeavour, but she does all the quests mostly on her own. After that, they bid farewell and he officially ends her apprenticeship. Nocmos decides to stay in the Clockwork City and later becomes an Apostle. This allows her to bring two of her hyperfixations together - she starts practicing some actual constructing and occasionally studying magic from Sotha Sil himself as she's now in a pretty favourable position, having rescued his life and everything. Yeah, that also makes her times more religious than before.

Another point of importance is that her design finally settles down. Her appearance doesn't change much past that. She gets that Apostle tiara, crafts some ear extensions to correct their shape, loses her arm in an accident and gets a prosthetic (along with her staff, but that happens a little later) from Sotha Sil, adopts local clothing style which she uses later independently and grows her hair out to its final length, not letting it get longer or shorter.

Some time later, Nocmos's Telvanni heritage starts calling out to her. She gets a permit to travel freely to and from the Brass Fortress, and returns to Tamriel, intent to make a name for herself as a Telvanni sorceress, just to spice up her life a little. Nocmos manages to get on Mistress Dratha's good side in Vos, and gets a permission to grow her own tower in there. Then she starts eagerly and deliberately climbing up the ladder, rising in ranks, using all means to get as high as she can - charisma, cunning, thievery, backstabbing, secondhand murder... whatever. She acquires all those necessary skills which help her later on in life. Of course, this process is a very long one, and goes on for decades, but eventually she manages to rise to the rank of Master and only then does she settle down.

Here she's pictured in a Telvanni attire from ESO, tweaked a bit to my liking, but I think she continues wearing her Apostle robes just to remind people who she is

This is the point in her life when she reunites properly with Endalwe and starts adventuring with her, along with Bliss and Tanarion. Endalwe lures her in by promises of an endless research material during their world-saving quests... and Nocmos doesn't need a lot of persuading, since she's herself eager to travel and explore, especially in the safety of the company of warriors. And since she likes Endalwe as it is, of course.

Okay, so I haven't developed anything much beyond that point. Nocmos and others does all those big chapter and dlc storylines... and that takes years and years because I absolutely refuse to believe that Vestige has to do everything on their own within the span of one year. They also have periods of rest in between them, when Nocmos either collects the data she's earned on their adventures and writes a paper or too, ooor comes back to her duties in the Clockwork city.

[ideas-4-stories]

Apologies for the mistakes and the bother. I just have some ideas, but no one to ask opinions about it. Since the Cross Guild first appeared it took charge of my mind. Every idea is revolving around these three dysfunctional and improbable "allies." Some days ago a fan-made illustration popped up, possibly inspired by the film Red, in which Buggy's daughter was pictured. And something clicked. An idea. (I know that inserting OC is an annoyance to some, sorry, it amuses me instead.) In the trail of parallelisms and similarities, I thought: what if Buggy, like Shanks, raised and adopted a little girl? From there, a whole story unfolded.

When Buggy was still fairly young, with no large crew, not yet the crew he later made, was all the more fixated on treasures and instant riches. Still too afraid to venture out, insecure of what he could be, anchored in the East Blue, he looked for treasure maps and he found the map for the legendary Gold Island. He figured he could become the wealthiest man in East Blue and sailed there. Except he found nothing, save for a silent child.

Nearly subconsciously, mindful of what Gol D. Roger did long ago, he took her with him. Giving her a name, a name the foundling without any memory of herself hadn't. (Pierroy, after a doll found in a store on a different island, days later, stolen during a hurried escape) Years pass and Buggy's crew changes, he becomes the Genius Jester, the Flashy Clown. And Pierroy emulates him a bit, in admiration. Trusting him blindly. Adoring him, as only a daughter would. But Pierroy, Buggy realized, for he was never a fool, has something unusual. Something of value. Lots of value. Thus Buggy lets her cover an eye. Helps her dye the hair a deepest blue. Helps her disguise herself. Meanwhile, he discovers. And he holds all the research in a secret file in his cabin. On his notes he underlines "government" and "experiments" and little else painstakingly discovered.

At the same time, Pierroy grows up. Among acrobatics and circus tricks. Amid chemistry lessons and basic physics. With joy, mostly. Misfortune though always comes, and for Pierroy it's called Luffy. And his father's defeat. And the exposure of all the research he did. And odd notes. Almost as to study her (use her, Nami suggests her) and insecurity, doubt, assaults Pierroy. And when Buggy comes back it's confrontation the first thing she seeks. Misunderstandings and lack of communication, like a rebellious teenager against her parents, Pierroy abruptly vanishes overnight without even a goodbye note.

But life goes on and Buggy carries on. He occasionally search information, finds some from time to time, but ultimately convinces himself that it was for the best. A pirate ship is no place to grow up, least of all his own. And time passes and so much happens. And then, one day, news, rumor almost, of a secret execution that occurred in utter silence. The Marine, rumor says, killed a young woman with a red star eyepatch over her eye. And everything changes.

Buggy erupts into fits of rage first and grave silence later. He disappears from view. No more public appearances. No more meetings. And no threats have any effect anymore. Nothing Crocodile can do has any effect. Nothing Mihawk can say has any effect. Buggy is deaf to all. In a guilty state, he rambles at the moon. Drinking too much, eating too little. (Refusing to admit it, Mihawk and Crocodile become increasingly concerned) And with Buggy's past exposed (from the insecurities he felt as a child, what life was like before he was found, what it was after, about Shanks and Pierroy and a sea of confessions) undesirable feelings of empathy arise in Crocodile, memories that no longer want to be removed, not now they resurface. (Nightmares, he calls it. A stubborn woman died alone. A man who thought he had all the solutions for every evil, all the time. Child's eyes) And memories arise in Mihawk, too. (A large family. A kindly foolish father. A monastery and a silver sword soiled with tragedy. Devil's eye) Past and present mingle. Unspoken truths and others to be silenced again. And more that have always been lies. (Spoiler: while Buggy is mourning, there's a ship with a crew of frauds that fishes out a redheaded and gives him to the care of a weird woman, who talks to a closet from which pink feathers slide out, now and then in a fit of laughter; on their way to a circus, so they say)

I sincerely apologize for the length of the ask. I know it's not an original or outstanding idea, but could it be of any interest at least slightly? If you want, I would be very happy to receive feedback. But anyhow, I thank you so much.

Please never apologize for the length, I love reading asks and don’t worry about grammer mistakes because I ain’t the best at it either. Anyway, HOLY STARS ABOVE AND BEYOND! I do not care if it’s not original or outstanding idea, it’s definitely very interesting, don’t you worry (I have some OCs that are basically Buggy’s children all but blood, it’s not so weird)

This is so heartbreaking, noooooooooooooooooooo, I want to feel like Buggy did it so he could find away to help her with it and it goes all wrong. I don’t know, this sounds so depressing. Pierroy! Poor girl, Buggy going away from public view becuase of mourning, the marines didn’t want things to go down the same way as Ace’s execution did.

The spoiler, hopefully Pierroy is okay… right?

[mortalkombartwistedreflectionau]

Mirror Shang Tsung/TR Shang Tsung Bio

Shang Tsung was born thousands of years ago. He was the son of Shang Jing, an expert in magic from Outworld who had moved to Earthrealm after meeting the love of her life in that realm during a trip she had done just for the curiosity of seeing if new forms of magic had been developed there. As a half-Outworlder, Shang’s lifespan as well as his mother’s was far longer than his father, who had to accept that fact before his death. He died being honored and missed by both his wife and son.

During his youth, Shang Tsung was educated in magic by his mother. Being a curious man, the more he was able to learn, the more he wished to expand his knowledge even further. This curiosity led him to travel to Outworld, following his mother’s instructions in order to avoid any area particularly full of dangerous conflict. Seeing the realm from where part of his heritage came from was a new experience he was grateful to have. He was able to learn much from it during his travels, from its different cultures to new magic knowledge. It ultimately led him to Shao Kahn… who, as usual, had zero problem assisting people who wanted to learn more. 

The protector god of Outworld assisted Shang Tsung in acquiring more knowledge, guided him from time to time so he could keep exploring areas safely, and even decided to illustrate him in the kind of job he performed when Shang Tsung decided to ask him about it. Seeing such a powerful being dedicate himself to the protection of others definitely gave Tsung a good example to follow from then on. Shao Kahn could see in him potential to be more than a researcher, potential to become a hero once the time arrived. With that in mind, he decided to teach him quite a selfless magic ability: given part of his life force (thus reducing his own lifespan) so he would be able to heal others in situations in which regular healing magic wasn’t enough. Tsung decided to learn it, to use it when the situation called for it. After learning all he needed from Outworld and its protector god, he decided to return home.

As he grew older, Shang Tsung would become an expert sorcerer dedicated to researching more knowledge of all kinds and helping others more than occasionally. Among those who know of the existence of magic in Earthrealm, he is known as a healer, who is even able to share part of his life force with a person in need, as his old body despite being half-Outworlder shows.

Another passion of Tsung alongside magic has been martial arts. He has also trained in those arts through the years, becoming quite a combatant to be feared too. He even decided to create and host a friendly tournament, Mortal Kombat (which he always has to clarify refers to only mortals being allowed to make things fair, not to the fights being particularly brutal), in which warriors through the realms are invited so they can show their abilities and share knowledge with one another.

For much time, Shang Tsung kept himself neutral, at least as a combatant, in the conflict through the realms caused by the Edenian Regime and its allies. He thought himself ultimately as a healer and peaceful combatant, he didn’t wish to go to war, although he was willing to help the opposition of the Edenian Regime through sharing knowledge or acting as a healer if they came to ask for help. That changed when he learned of Lord Raiden and his White Lotus allying with the Edenian Regime. 

Seeing none other than the protector god of his realm being turned to their cause was the greatest proof that the influence of the Edenian Regime could not be allowed to be spreaded any longer, and fighting against it would be a necessary mean. He and every ally he had on Earthrealm decided to go to Outworld to offer an alliance with the forces that opposed the Edenian Regime there, which they gladly accepted.

A good hearted sorcerer in this world, but now willing to be deadly when the situation calls for it. He is yet another opponent those who wish to dictate their ‘peace’ in the realms have to be weary of.

And here we have, Tsung himself.

Take the chance to mention two things:

1 - The idea of Tsung being half-Outworlder half-Earthrealmer is actually the original concept of his character, as this screenshot of a John Tobias tweet I will be sharing below. Is quite an interesting yet unknown concept if you ask me.

2 - The OC for Shang Tsung's mother, Shang Jing, is not mine, she was created by my friend Froster, who makes awesome stuff that I highly recommend you to read, so here are links to her DeviantArt and FFN! 😊

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 14: Unraveling the Future

Solas led her to his private library, a space filled with ancient tomes and manuscripts, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and faded ink. Isera’s rambling never faltered, her words flowing in a constant, unbroken stream. She’d glance up at him now and then, as if to make sure he was still listening, still engaged, before diving right back into her thoughts.

For the most part, she matched his pace, walking in-step with him. But there were moments when her enthusiasm got the better of her—when an idea struck her so suddenly and vividly that she’d slow to a stop or even twirl in place, her arms gesturing wildly to illustrate her point. Her spins were a mix of excitement and bewilderment, like a child who’d just discovered the vastness of the world for the first time, her movements punctuating her words with a physical energy that was almost infectious.

Solas watched her with a bemused expression, his eyes only periodically leaving her as he adjusted his pace to match her bursts of excitement. There was a softness in his gaze, something that hinted at understanding or perhaps even admiration, as if he found her curiosity and the raw honesty of her thoughts refreshing in a way that caught him off guard.

But beneath that layer of admiration and understanding, Solas's own thoughts were swirling in a storm of calculations and possibilities. As she rambled on, unaware of his inner turmoil, he couldn't help but silently agree with Felassan's assessment—she wasn’t a spy. Her bewildered reaction to magic, the genuine awe and confusion that played across her face, all but confirmed that she wasn't of this era. She wasn't lying; she didn't belong here.

The implications of that revelation lingered in his mind, sending his thoughts skittering in a dozen directions. Theories of time travel had always existed, whispered among scholars and dismissed as mere fantasies by even the most ambitious of mages. Despite all his knowledge of the Fade and the countless hours he'd spent in its dream-like pathways, he had never witnessed anything that suggested true time travel was possible. Many had tried to manipulate time, to bend it to their will, but none had come close to orchestrating a ritual capable of transporting someone even a few moments into the past or future, let alone eons.

Yet, here she was—living proof that such an impossibility had somehow become reality. He kept his face composed, his expression a mask of gentle curiosity as he continued to nod along to her words. But inside, his mind raced to find answers, to piece together the puzzle that Isera represented. How had she been pulled from her time? Was it her who did something or someone else? Who or what—was powerful enough to tear her from her world and drop her here, in his time? And, more importantly, why?

For the last few months, Solas and Felassan had watched her closely—well, Solas had quietly observed her. Felassan, on the other hand, had taken a more active role, engaging with her in his usual infuriatingly playful way. Perhaps Solas should have been grateful for Felassan’s meddling; it was, after all, Felassan who had ignored Solas’s orders and allowed her to work the soil. Solas had thought it pointless to let her labor in such a barren plot of land, stripped of essential nutrients and incapable of sustaining even the most resilient plants.

He remembered how mages before her had tried and failed to heal that earth, their attempts never more than temporary solutions. Even when the soil showed brief signs of revival, it always reverted back to its drained, infertile state, as if rejecting their efforts outright. Yet, despite his initial skepticism and Felassan's insubordination, she had coaxed life back into the ground in a way that defied logic—without spells, without rituals, just a stubborn determination and a knowledge of plants that seemed to border on instinct.

It was Felassan who had argued on her behalf to grant her access to the conservatory, and once again, Solas had said no. Predictably, Felassan had defied him, forcing Solas to send him to another location for a time to keep his meddling in check. Solas had been adamant about denying her access; he didn’t see the point in indulging her fascination with plants when their situation required focus on strategy, not horticulture. But plans had a way of unravelling, and after another grueling meeting, one that left him drained and heavy with exhaustion, he had stumbled upon her.

He remembered the moment clearly—late into the night, the room filled with a soft glow of magic lighting her intent face. She was seated in the conservatory, her attention entirely consumed by a journal belonging to their late herbalist. The look on her face was one of pure, unguarded focus, almost reverence, as she devoured the contents. She had called herself a botanist—a term he’d never heard before, a concept that seemed strange and yet so precise in the way she approached the plants.

Solas had watched her, then, not as a prisoner or a trespasser, but as a mystery he couldn’t yet solve. The way she poured over that journal, with the kind of hunger he only ever saw in those who truly sought knowledge, stirred something in him. Something he saw in himself. It made him hesitate, made him reconsider the iron grip of control he’d tried to maintain over her movements. Perhaps it was that look on her face, or the fact that she could find meaning in something as mundane as plant life, that led him to let her be.

He remembered the way her entire demeanor had shifted that night when he called out to her, the way her body tensed, and her eyes widened with startled recognition. In that moment, it was as if the roles had reversed, and he was the trespasser in her sanctuary, an intruder into a space she had claimed for herself. The way she had recoiled at his presence, like a startled deer ready to flee, had been unexpected—disappointing, even.

Solas had offered an apology, a rarity for him, and followed it up with a thoughtless comment about Felassan’s defiance, muttering how the elf had ignored his orders yet again. His plan changed, in truth, was to finally concede, to tell her she could continue to use the conservatory and the adjoining arboretum without restriction. But before he could get the words out, he watched her retreat, saw the sadness cloud her expression as she quietly stood, resigned. She simply announced that she would leave, without argument, without the fight he had half-expected from her.

It was clear she didn’t want to go. Her movements were slow, hesitant, as though each step away from that space took something from her. Then, he blocked her path. “That will not be necessary,” his own words echoing in his mind as he recalls the memory. She eyed him with suspicion, he did not trust his words, which was not surprising.

Solas didn’t trust her—not then, not entirely. The night before, he had deliberately set out to provoke her, his words sharp and calculated. He'd circled her with the precision of a predator, searching for any cracks in her armor, any sign of deception that might reveal her true intentions. Every comment was designed to unsettle her, to draw out something he could use to confirm his suspicions.

His own words echoed in his mind, a bitter reminder of his attempt to cut through her defenses: “It is surprising that you’ve managed to live to adulthood with such a complete lack of understanding of magic and barely the skill of a novice.”

He remembered how she’d stiffened at the insult, how her eyes had flashed not with the hurt he expected but with confusion and something far fiercer. Her response had been swift, sharp as the edge of a blade. She'd turned his words back on him with the same precision, challenging his own knowledge with a deliberate disdain as she questioned him on herbal medicine and the use of plant-based remedies. Her voice steady, her words carefully chosen, she’d mocked his ignorance with an insult that mirrored his own.

He’d antagonized her on purpose, convinced that she was an infiltrator—a pawn sent to undermine everything he’d worked for. Her sudden appearance couldn’t have been mere chance. An i've'an'amelan, a Protector of the Fade, showing up precisely when he was on the brink of executing his most intricate plans—a strategy that could reshape and protect the destiny of the elven people—felt too convenient, too perfectly timed to be dismissed as fate. It had the distinct scent of manipulation, as though someone had placed her there with the sole intent of disrupting his work. Specially when one considers all i've'an'amelan had been killed at the start of this war.

The implications were too significant to ignore. An i’ve’an’amelan possessed power that could rival, perhaps even surpass, those who held the title of sou'i've'an, the high-ranked mages deeply woven into the elven political landscape.

Yet, her reactions had been genuine, her confusion and frustration too raw to be easily feigned. Her defiance, her knowledge of herbal medicine, her access to her own magic was blocked and slumbering, and that fierce spark in her eyes when she threw his insult back at him—it didn’t fit the pattern of a calculated saboteur

But the night in the conservatory...he’d seen it in her eyes, the way they flicked back to the desk, her fingers twitching as though she was aching to return to her readings. He could tell she wanted nothing more than to stay there, in the conservatory—a rare sanctuary in this strange, hostile world. But instead, she’d drawn in a breath, forced her gaze away from the desk, and quietly stated that it was late. She turned to leave, the unspoken resignation in her voice slicing through the air like a blade.

He was left standing in the stillness of the conservatory, his own presence feeling like an intrusion. The room seemed to echo with the quiet sounds of her departure, her footsteps growing distant, until he was surrounded by nothing but the soft rustle of leaves and the faint hum of the plants. And in that silence, he felt the weight of his own actions settle over him. He’d stripped her of the one thing that had given her solace, the one place where she’d found a sense of purpose in a world that otherwise made no sense to her.

Her refusal to aid Abelas with the poison only deepened his suspicions. To him, it confirmed that, at best, she was a sympathizer—too soft-hearted to understand the necessity of their cause—and at worst, an infiltrator planted to sow doubt among his ranks. Yet, despite everything, she had looked genuinely confused by Abelas's demands. Even Solas, the ever-watchful Dread Wolf, who had spent centuries learning to read the truth in people's eyes, found himself at a loss. Her reactions didn’t fit neatly into any of his expectations.

When he’d shown her the memories in the Fade, some of the events that have lead to where they are today, he had watched her face closely, waiting for that telltale flicker of recognition, the moment when her façade would crack and reveal her true intentions. But instead, what he saw was something else entirely—raw horror and disbelief. The way she reacted to the sacrifices, the horror etched in her features, was too visceral, too real. She had thrown herself in front of the executioner’s blade, as if she truly believed she could stop the memory from playing out, as if she didn’t understand that it was a memory at all.

In that moment, she seemed more like a lost child trying to make sense of a world gone mad than a cunning infiltrator bent on deceiving him. Her confusion, her outrage—it all felt painfully genuine, and it left him with more questions than answers.

His plan had been to confront her within the next few days, to probe deeper into her intentions and force some clarity from her tangled responses. But then, the situation shifted. The day after their encounter in the Fade, he learned she had spent hours in the library, listening intently to the stories of the elders. He watched from a distance as she engaged in conversations with one of them—an elder who, after observing Isera closely, also noted the suppression of her power.

There was no feigned interest or pretension in her demeanor. What he heard instead was genuine curiosity, a hunger to understand the history of the People, of her magic, and her place in all of it. She didn't act like someone with an agenda to deceive; she acted like someone who was desperately trying to piece together a puzzle that was her own life, and that sincerity gnawed at his initial certainty of her being a threat.

That very night, Isera unknowingly crossed a threshold she hadn’t before—she used her magic to walk the Fade, her mind drifting to the coast, lost in her own visions. Solas and Felassan, hidden in the shadows, watched her closely, Felassan’s smug expression silently confirming that he’d been right all along about her potential. Solas felt a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in seeing her reach this milestone, but that was quickly overtaken by a calculated resolve. When she spotted them, the dream began to warp, and Solas sensed an opportunity.

This was the moment he’d been waiting for—the right time to... encourage the unraveling of the block that was suppressing her magic. He seized it, subtly amplifying the energy within the Fade, pushing her toward the edges of her power. It was a delicate balance—one wrong move could have shattered her mind, but the unraveling needed to begin, and he had to see if she could survive it. If she was truly an i've'an'amelan, then she had the strength to endure this. And if not, then he’d have his answer once and for all.

The following day, Solas allowed Felassan to return, despite the earlier tension between them. Felassan, not wasting a moment, tracked down Isera, a large jug of poison in hand, which she set on the desk before him. She left the room and the conversation quickly escalated into an argument about the events of the previous night. Felassan’s alarm was palpable, his voice tinged with urgency as he confronted Solas about the rapidly unraveling state of Isera's mind—her sudden detachment, as if she were quickly coming undone. It was happening too quickly.

And then, Isera broke. The tight grip she'd been holding onto her composure finally snapped, and she fled. It didn’t take long for them to track her, both Solas and Felassan trailing after her, the signs of her distress leaving a path too clear to miss. A chaotic trail of magical residue was easy to follow. She wasn't even attempting to hide the trail. When they found her, she was desperately clawing at the eluvian, her cries raw and unrestrained, tears streaming down her face as if trying to force herself through the mirror.

Solas watched as the seal within her mind shattered faster than he’d anticipated. He could feel the tempo of her magic increasing, the suppressed power thrashing against its restraints, a maelstrom swirling beneath the surface. Then came the moment he both dreaded and expected—a guttural scream tore from Isera’s throat, and in that instant, the seal shattered completely. The release of her magic sent out an unseen force, a shockwave that radiated outward, hitting them both with such intensity that it knocked Solas and Felassan to the ground.

She had been unconscious for a week, a state that left Solas waiting in uncertainty, recalculating his every step. And then, yesterday, she finally woke. That day was different—significant. It was when he confronted her, expecting to push her into a corner where her lies would unravel. Instead, she told him something that shattered his assumptions; she confessed that she was from another time, a time far in the future.

That was not the direction he had anticipated their conversation taking. Her words sent a ripple through his carefully laid plans, forcing him to halt and reassess. His mind, ever calculating, now turned over possibilities he hadn’t considered. He’d underestimated her, not because of her magic or strength but because of the potential implications of her truth.

In the aftermath of her revelation, Solas found himself reaching out to one of the only people he truly trusted, a confidant who had been a quiet advisor through many turning points in his life. He laid out the situation, every detail, his doubts, and the unexpected twist of Isera's origins. His contact's response was not what he had expected. Instead of dismissing Isera’s claims, she urged him to consider the possibility that there were forces at play even beyond his understanding—forces that might be trying to correct the order of the world.

She advised him not to dismiss Isera as a pawn or a distraction but to see her as a potential ally, someone whose untapped power might be crucial in ways he couldn't yet foresee. “Nurture the power within the girl,” she’d said, her words laced with the kind of insight that always made Solas pause and think twice, "or kill her if you feel you must." 

And now, here they were. Isera's unrestrained enthusiasm as she babbled on was more telling than she realized. To Solas, it was like looking through a window into a world where magic was either misunderstood or had faded into the realm of myths and distant memories. Her fascination, her eagerness to understand, suggested that the magic he wielded with such precision and control was something rare or perhaps even non-existent in the era she came from—or at least something that manifested differently.

This revelation intrigued him on multiple levels. What could have caused such a dramatic change in the nature or presence of magic? When had it occurred, and what forces or events had brought it about? These were questions that demanded answers, not only for his immediate plans but for the implications they held for the world itself.

As he watched her animated expressions, her eyes alight with a childlike wonder, Solas's thoughts shifted from suspicion to something else—something resembling curiosity tinged with the faintest hint of hope. How much of this hidden knowledge would she reveal if he simply guided her in the right direction? Would she share the secrets of her time freely, or would he have to pull each fragment from her like a reluctant witness in his grand, ongoing trial against the fate of his people?

He had underestimated her before, dismissing her as a potential threat or distraction. Now, he saw an opportunity—a puzzle that might hold the answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. He resolved to tread carefully, to nurture this newfound connection, and to coax the knowledge from her in a way that would benefit them both. For now, he would play the role of a mentor, but his mind was already racing ahead, strategizing how to turn this revelation into something far more powerful.

[positivelybeastly]

It's the dead of night. Victor finds Hanks window with memorized steps, the path up the tree and along the ledge and across two balconies written in his bones now. It's instinct that draws him this way. He has to see him. Smell him. Embrace him. Kiss him. Consume him.

Victor's hand spreads across the glass, just enough pressure so his skin can pull it open. He remembers being here before. He remembers this echo, this hum, this siren song pulling him to the place he felt safe. The place he could let his shoulders slack, feel the tension of every muscle finally snap.

He's surprised the window isn't locked, and maybe it's the only invitation he needs. Maybe it's the only invitation he'll get.

He climbs into the room with the grace a man of his size shouldn't have, boots touching the carper, coat cascading from the window sill to billow around him. Then he stands, just a silhoutte against the light of the moon through the window. His eyes adjust to the dark of the familiar room, searching for Hank.

As the predator outside his room stared through the pane of glass like the spectre of death itself, he would find the room exactly as it had been when he had known it - books piled high, research papers filed away into what always had felt like too many bookshelves, photo albums splayed open for where a new memory was to be inserted and commemorated.

And there, on the bed, just as he had expected and hoped, lay a massive blue lump, a broad, muscular back presented to the Sabretooth, splayed out in rest - but, already, something was different. Already, it was becoming apparent that the room was exactly as Victor had known it . . . but Hank wasn't.

Scars he knew should run up Hank's back, like that knot of slightly warped cerulean in his sternum where he'd been shot, or the ugly, misshapen gnarl of tissue at the base of his skull from where he'd been bludgeoned by a baseball bat, the marks of Victor's own claws, were missing. The royal blue fur was fresh. Pristine. Perfect.

If he hadn't known better, he might've thought that he'd been mistaken, gotten the wrong room. Maybe Hank and the elf had swapped, for whatever reason. But no, this was a figure too big and too bulky to be Nightcrawler, this was unmistakably Beast . . . and yet. Where was the tapestry? Where was their history? Where was the body he knew?

Making a soft noise of rest, Hank turned, his face caught in the moonlight - and he would see that Hank had changed again. It wasn't the first time, he'd known Hank when he was smaller, more human - still blue and fuzzy, but not the feline he'd come to know, come to love - but this . . . well, now. It was different. It was one thing for a stranger to change his face, an enemy.

But a lover? A lover who no longer resembled the memories he'd come chasing?

And yet . . . even as Hank had turned and shown an unfamiliar face, his outstretched arm, haphazardly strewn across the bed, flopped beside him - a thumb limply keeping a collection of folk stories open to an illustration of a strong, hardy outdoorsman, and what seemed to be some kind of blue animal.

'Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.'

[mokeonn]

Ive been drawing for 10 years and no one wants my art and i live in a community of people who dont care for each other i reslly just dont see how it gets better for me in this case and i just wish i had you optimism

Well, I don't truly know your situation so there's a lot I can't comment on or give advice for. However, I am noticing some language in this message that gives me an idea (whether it's a good one or not is up to you) of what could help.

NOTE: I'm an unemployed 23 year old who is off their depression medication. I am NOT the one to go to for life advice, I'm just speaking from personal experience.

I think the first and easiest step is to take a moment, breathe, and just think. What do you want? Do you enjoy art as a hobby and would enjoy a non-art related job? Do you want art as a job/career, but you're not exactly picky on what that job should be? Do you have a specific dream in mind, i.e., comic artist/game developer/fantasy writer/illustrator/independent business owner? Because the answer to this question means a lot to what you should do!

For example: I'm all three.

I could absolutely keep art as a passionate thing I do for myself that I happen to post online while also working at, say, a library or a laboratory. I would love to make art my primary job/career, but I'm not very picky on how I get there! I have some ideas in mind, but if they're not a good fit, I won't be too upset. I would also love to be a comic artist/game developer, I am currently working on a comic and a game right now, actually. It's taking a long time, and it's going to take ages before I get to a point where I can even post things related to it online.

So I have a metric fuck ton of options. Let's make that clear, my goal in life is to just be happy, fulfilled, and surrounded by my friends. How I get there? Doesn't matter. As long as I stay true to my personal core values and it makes me happy, I am down for whatever. This absolutely gives me an advantage over someone who, say, only wants to be a professional animator or someone who wants to sell their knitted goods in shops and online.

So once you identify what you want to do, you gotta get ready for the next step: research. Ask yourself a million questions, find an answer, talk to other artists on or off the internet, find an answer.

For example: let's say you want to be a tattoo artist, but everyone in your area thinks tattoos are of the devil. Well, some questions to ask yourself would be:

How do I become a tattoo artist? What does that entail?

Are people the next town over more alright with tattoos? What about the nearest city?

Are these locations too far to travel to?

Would I have to move to make this dream a reality? Or could I start a tattoo community here?

How will I make the money in the meantime while working towards this?

And so on and so forth. In fact, imagine under every single one of these questions, there are sub questions that expand upon your answer, ask you if that answer is achievable, and ask you if that would make you happy. Like I'm taking dig deep, man. Get into the nitty and gritty of what you want to do and how you're gonna get there. Because, at the very least, this will give you some basic goals to work towards and ideas of what you are and aren't able to do. Don't be afraid to get out of your comfort zone! If you spend your whole life in your comfort zone, you're never gonna learn anything.

However, I think the biggest obstacle that gets in a LOT of artists way that I pretty much spotted immediately when I read this ask: having low self-confidence and being pessimistic is absolutely getting in your way.

I've been working on my self-confidence for the last 10 months, give or take, and to say that there is a difference is an UNDERSTATEMENT. I had extremely low confidence, possibly because of a lifetime of bullying, mistreatment, depression, and a childhood of undiagnosed autism... but in all honesty the reasons don't really matter. I made self depreciating jokes ALL the time (the really harsh kind that made people uncomfortable rather than laughing with me) I constantly held myself back from doing things because I didn't believe I could do it, I hid myself all the time (metaphorically because I rarely showed others the things I was passionate in and kept myself very private out of fear of judgement... and literally too. I never fucking left the house.)

I basically was my own worst enemy, and what got me out of it was working with my friend. One day, I made a self depreciating joke or something along those lines, and she just looked at me and said "You know, it makes me very said to hear you talk about yourself like that."

She then went on to explain how I was a kind and wonderful person and it made her sad to hear me say things like that because it wasn't true and it was only preventing me from seeing what she saw. I ended up crying because it was so kind, and I never even thought about that. Around that time as well, I had made a joke around my Dad, and he said, "You know, I wish you didn't talk about yourself that way."

Over the upcoming months, I started working on my self-confidence. My friend helped a LOT whenever I went to her place to help out with her art business. She helped me gain confidence in asking questions, because before I would just avoid asking out of fear. She never yelled at me or got upset at asking questions, and would compliment me or thank me for asking a good one. It helped me learn that if someone yells at me for asking a question, they're the jerk! They're the problem, not me!

I slowly switched my language from "I think I can..." to "I can", "I'll try my best", and similar language. I went from being afraid to trying new things because I was afraid of failure to feeling completely fine with trying new things because a majority of those new things are completely low risk! If it doesn't work out, it just doesn't work out! I didn't lose anything but a little bit of time! A year ago, if something didn't work out, you might as well thought I shot your puppy or something with the way I would cry and apologize. I got better at not apologizing all the damn time, because there's no point in apologizing for things that aren't your fault!

I went to a pretty awful show with my friend where pretty much everything went wrong, and during the show it ended up POURING. We had an absolute downpour of rain. It ended up destroying a ton of stock and packaging for transportation. I had to stop myself from apologizing so much, why? Because I don't control the rain! It's not my fault that we got rained on and things got destroyed! Apologizing is not the right thing to do in this situation because there's nothing to apologize for. I ended up being a huge help in putting things away, and when I later told my friend that I had to stop myself from apologizing, she said the same thing: "it's not your fault it rained."

I can safely say that since working on my self-confidence, my mental health has been at an all-time high. My medication is more effective than ever, I am no longer struggling with depression unless off my medication, my anxiety is pretty much gone unless off medication (I need to make it abundantly clear that I have chronic depression and anxiety and I need medication to be able to function and I know that my mental health struggles are nowhere near as bad on medication, because I am currently off my meds due to doctor problems)

I have been more willing to get out of my comfort zone, learn, try new things, and work towards actual tangible goals. Because I took the time to work on my EXTREMELY LOW (I can not emphasize enough how bad it was), self-confidence, with the help of those who care about me.

Your anon message absolutely tells me you do not have very high confidence in yourself. The way you talk about "no one wanting your art" (I don't know how you know that for certain), and how you wish you had my optimism because you see no options for yourself remind me SO MUCH of how I used to be. So my biggest message really comes down to this:

If you want ANY success in life, you're going to have to allow yourself to have it.

Having low self-confidence and being pessimistic is honestly just... denying yourself the happiness you deserve. You're going to have to work on that because you deserve that happiness.

[jcmarchi]

Milky Way-like Galaxy Found in the Early Universe - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/milky-way-like-galaxy-found-in-the-early-universe-technology-org/

Milky Way-like Galaxy Found in the Early Universe - Technology Org

Using the James Webb Space Telescope, an international team, including astronomer Alexander de la Vega of the University of California, Riverside, has discovered the most distant barred spiral galaxy similar to the Milky Way observed to date.

Artistic representation of the spiral barred galaxy ceers-2112, observed in the early Uni-verse. The Earth is reflected on an illusive bubble surrounding the galaxy, recalling the connection between the Milky Way and ceers-2112. Image credit: Luca Costantin/CAB/CSIC-INTA

Until now it was believed that barred spiral galaxies like the Milky Way could not be observed before the universe, estimated to be 13.8 billion years old, reached half of its current age.

The research, published in Nature, was led by scientists at the Centro de Astrobiología in Spain.

“This galaxy, named ceers-2112, formed soon after the Big Bang,” said coauthor de la Vega, a postdoctoral researcher in the Department of Physics and Astronomy. “Finding ceers-2112 shows that galaxies in the early universe could be as ordered as the Milky Way. This is surprising because galaxies were much more chaotic in the early universe and very few had similar structures to the Milky Way.” 

Ceers-2112 has a bar in its center. De la Vega explained that a galactic bar is a structure, made of stars, within galaxies. Galactic bars resemble bars in our everyday lives, such as a candy bar. It is possible to find bars in non-spiral galaxies, he said, but they are very rare. 

Milky Way in the night sky – illustrative photo. Image credit: Jeremy Thomas via Unsplash, free license

“Nearly all bars are found in spiral galaxies,” said de la Vega, who joined UCR last year after receiving his doctoral degree in astronomy at Johns Hopkins University. “The bar in ceers-2112 suggests that galaxies matured and became ordered much faster than we previously thought, which means some aspects of our theories of galaxy formation and evolution need revision.”

Astronomers’ previous understanding of galaxy evolution was that it took several billion years for galaxies to become ordered enough to develop bars. 

“The discovery of ceers-2112 shows that it can happen in only a fraction of that time, in about one billion years or less,” de la Vega said.

According to him, galactic bars are thought to form in spiral galaxies with stars that rotate in an ordered fashion, the way they do in the Milky Way.

“In such galaxies, bars can form spontaneously due to instabilities in the spiral structure or gravitational effects from a neighboring galaxy,” de la Vega said. “In the past, when the universe was very young, galaxies were unstable and chaotic. It was thought that bars could not form or last long in galaxies in the early universe.”

The discovery of ceers-2112 is expected to change at least two aspects of astronomy. 

“First, theoretical models of galaxy formation and evolution will need to account for some galaxies becoming stable enough to host bars very early in the universe’s history,” de la Vega said.

“These models may need to adjust how much dark matter makes up galaxies in the early universe, as dark matter is believed to affect the rate at which bars form. Second, the discovery of ceers-2112 demonstrates that structures like bars can be detected when the universe was very young. This is important because galaxies in the distant past were smaller than they are now, which makes finding bars harder. The discovery of ceers-2112 paves the way for more bars to be discovered in the young universe.” 

De la Vega helped the research team by estimating the redshift and properties of ceers-2112. He also contributed to the interpretation of the measurements. 

“Redshift is an observable property of a galaxy that indicates how far away it is and how far back in time the galaxy is seen, which is a consequence of the finite speed of light,” he said. 

What surprised de la Vega most about the discovery of ceers-2112 is how well the properties of its bar could be constrained. 

“Initially, I thought detecting and estimating properties of bars in galaxies like ceers-2112 would be fraught with measurement uncertainties,” he said. “But the power of the James Webb Space Telescope and the expertise of our research team helped us place strong constraints on the size and shape of the bar.”

At UCR, de la Vega oversees astronomy outreach. He plans telescope nights on and off campus, and visits to local schools to give presentations on astronomy. He also leads the public astronomy talk series “Cosmic Thursdays” as well as one-off events for special occasions, such as viewing parties for eclipses.

The research paper is titled “A Milky Way-like barred spiral galaxy at a redshift of 3.”

Source: UC Riverside

You can offer your link to a page which is relevant to the topic of this post.

[kellanved-ammanas]

So I have a request for the nye event, could please you write a drabble with the pairing heavy/engineer/medic where heavy has the one braincell (knows that just because you can do something doesn't mean that you should do that thing)

Thank you for the request! (For this request event.)

Not Infallible

One of the greatest things about their relationship arrangement was how Heavy got to sit nearby and listen to Medic and Engie talk through and about their experiments, things they were working on together or their own personal projects. He did not understand a lot of what they said, they often spoke too fast and used lingo Heavy was unfamiliar with, but listening to them discuss so energetically the things they were passionate about was a treat. … Except when it wasn’t.

It had started as idle speculation. Which one of them had even brought up the idea, Heavy didn’t know anymore and probably neither did either of them. But now they were discussing it seriously, going over all they’d need to actually perform their proposed experiment.

“Nyet,” he said as he closed the book he’d been pretending to read. “No more giant bread monsters. Two is enough.” The one on the moon had been particularly troublesome. Risking releasing such a beast in a far less easily controlled zone was a bad idea.

Over at Engie’s workbench, the two of them had already laid out and fired up their testing teleporters. Medic had pulled out one of the cages containing one of the many small bread monsters they’d made when researching the beasts. “But I wish to study how it so thoroughly infiltrated the entire moon base. Which I could’ve done on the moon if not for the pesky BLU team blowing it up.”

Secretly Heavy was glad the BLU team had blown it up before Medic and Engie could do too much with it. He trusted them to know what they were doing but he didn’t trust them to take their own safety into as much account as they should. The thing had killed all the scientists in the base after all and while Medic and Engie were smarter than the lot of them, it was unlikely any of them had been stupid. All it would take was one mistake, overlooking a single safety measure, or underestimating it one time and they’d end up as its lunch.

“Also,” Engie added, “we want to see how big we can make one before it collapses under its own weight.” Such speculation had been the start of the conversation.

“No,” Heavy said again, firmer this time. “Is dumb idea. Too dangerous. I do not think even I could fight such beast if gets out of control.” If it attacked either of his lovers, he’d try anyway of course but likely wouldn’t win. That wasn’t how he intended to die and thus this was another reason why he couldn’t let them do this experiment. “And is only matter of time before that happens. We barely killed big bread monster in base and that was small, itty-bitty, compared to moon one and you two want to make one even bigger.”

“We could rig it with explosives before hand,” Engie said. “That way we could blow it up if it got out and started rampaging.”

“How would we attach the bombs?” Medic asked. “It’s far too small for anything that would do substantial harm to it once it’s big as we’re trying to make it.” He gestured to the quite small cage in his hand to illustrate his point.

Engie frowned in silent thought for a few moments before replying. “And once it’s big enough for that, it’d be quite hard to attach the explosives without risking it being able to make them blow up in our faces and/or us becoming its lunch. So… perhaps Heavy’s right; this is one of those ideas we shouldn’t test. Not ‘til we got better equipment and whatnot anyway.”

Medic gave Engie an annoyed look that he then turned onto Heavy but ultimately he sighed in resignation. “Yes. Heavy is correct. With our current testing setup, it is too dangerous.”

“Thank you,” Heavy said, giving them an approving nod as Engie turned the teleporters off and Medic turned to place the bread monster cage back on the wall where he’d taken it from. Even the two of them, genius as they were, needed the occasional reminder that they weren’t infallible. Heavy was proud they trusted him enough to let him give them that reminder.

[usafphantom2]

A CIA Spyplane Crashed Outside Area 51 a Half-Century Ago. This Explorer Found It.

How urban explorers uncovered the site—and the memory—of a covert Cold War–era accident.

Sarah Scoles

composite illustration and picture of a jet in a desert

Stealth A-12 jets were never meant to be seen, then one went missing in the Nevada desert. US Air Force

“OXCART” WAS AN ODD NICKNAME for the plane that killed pilot Walter Ray. Oxcarts are slow, cumbersome, and old. Ray’s A-12 jet, meanwhile, was fast, almost invisible, and novel. Among the US’s first attempts at stealth aircraft, it could travel as quickly as a rifle bullet, and fly at altitudes around 90,000 feet. On a radar screen, it appeared as barely a blip—all the better to spy on Soviets with—and had only one seat.

On January 5, 1967, that single space belonged to Ray, a quiet, clean-cut 33-year-old who spent his workdays inside Area 51, then the CIA’s advanced-aviation research facility. Set atop the dried-up bed of Groom Lake in the Nevada desert, the now-infamous spot made for good runways, and was remote enough to keep prying eyes off covert Cold War projects. On the books, Ray was a civilian pilot for Lockheed Martin. In reality, and in secret, he reported to the CIA.

Ray’s last morning on Earth was chilled and windy, with clouds moving in and preparing to drop snow on the nearby mountains. He took off for his four-hour flight to Florida and back a minute ahead of schedule at 11:59 a.m., the sleek curves of the Oxcart’s titanium body triggering sonic shock waves (booms) as it sliced through the atmosphere. He’d done this many times, having already logged 358 hours in these crafts.

At 3:22 p.m., Ray radioed back to base: His gas was low. “I don’t know where my fuel’s gone to,” he said. He lowered the plane out of the speedy headwinds, hoping to save some fuel. But the altitude change couldn’t cut his consumption enough.

Thirty-eight minutes later, Ray radioed in more bad news.

The fuel tank’s low-pressure lights had blinked on. The A-12′s jet engines—so powerful that the director of central intelligence once said they sounded as if “the Devil himself were blasting his way straight from Hell”—began to fail, then sputtered out.

At 4:02, Ray sent his final known transmission: He was going to eject.

Home Plate—as this group of airmen referred to Area 51—began to search. They hoped to hear a transmission from the shortwave radio in his survival kit. For them, this hunt was also personal. Many worked on the same mission as Ray: developing planes that didn’t exist in a place that didn’t exist, sometimes risking an accident like this, which also wouldn’t exist.

Isolated in the desert, the group of about 30 staffers Barnes worked with on the site’s Special Projects felt like family. “We went up on Monday morning, came home Friday night,” recalls former Area 51 crewmember T.D. Barnes. “We couldn’t tell our wives where we were at or what we were doing.”

At 3:25 p.m. the next day, a helicopter found the plane, strewn across three canyons. The crews cut a road through the sand to schlep out the debris before anyone else found it—and found out about the secret flight.

Two days after takeoff, a CIA aircraft finally spotted Ray’s parachute, and men helicoptered in to locate their comrade. His chute formed a shroud around his body, and his ejection seat sat some 50 yards above him on the hillside. The two hadn’t separated, his parachute hadn’t deployed, and so he had slammed straight into the Earth. Blood spattered the ground, but Ray’s boots still had their spurs.

To explain the aerial search going on, the Air Force told the public a cover story: An SR-71 Blackbird—whose existence had recently been revealed—flying out of Edwards Air Force Base, had gone down.

For years, Ray’s crash sites remained largely hidden from the public. But in the late 1990s, an explorer named Jeremy Krans began what would become a decades-long quest to uncover it all, and ultimately to make Ray’s once-classified life public. “I felt that we needed to do something,” he says, “because nobody knows who the hell Walt is.”

Krans had a pastime that gave him the skills to do something about it: urban exploring, sometimes called “urbex” by the initiated. It’s the art of adventuring in and around abandoned or hidden structures, urban and otherwise. Urbexers scavenger-hunt for sites and then crawl through closed tunnels, scour old buildings, flashlight around finished mines, and trek through old military bases. The community—small and loose but dedicated, lurking and sharing on forums and blogs—is populated by photographers and amateur historians. They like to go places that used to be something else, to someone else. They’ve uncovered spots others likely never knew about, like the New Jersey State Hospital for the Insane and the rainwater drains under Sydney. Krans, once a frequent poster on the urbex forum UER.ca, has always favored defense sites, beginning with empty missile silos and ghostly military installations in his early 20s.

In 1995, he and a group of like-minded friends formed an exploratory crew dubbed “Strategic Beer Command” (a riff on the US’s then-recently disbanded Strategic Air Command). It would be a few years before they’d learn of Ray’s site, but the motivation was already there: a desire to remember what the rest of the world had forgotten.

KRANS’ INTEREST IN AVIATION goes back to the 1980s, when his dad, a machinist fascinated by engineering and innovative planes, would sometimes bring home jet models. Krans’s favorite was the SR-71 Blackbird, a Cylon-ship of a craft, and the follow-on to the A-12 he’d one day search out. Meanwhile, Krans devoured films like Indiana Jones and The Goonies—tales of explorers and treasure-hunters.

His own journey into such journeying began just months after his father passed away. Krans’s employer, a General Motors dealership, had sent him to its Automotive Service Educational Program. He felt lost and listless, and spent hours killing time between classes in the school’s computer lab, largely sucked into websites about Area 51, where he had recently made a road trip. He started reading Bluefire, a blog run by a guy named Tom Mahood. In 1997, Mahood spun a tale of searching for—and finding—a long-lost A-12 crash site. It had taken him more than two years, 20 trips, and $6,000 to replace a sunk truck.

Mahood was a veteran prober of Area 51 secrets, having, for instance, dug into the conspiratorial claims of Bob Lazar, whose stories underpin most of the site’s alien lore. (The site’s true Cold War purpose wouldn’t be acknowledged until 2013.) Mahood first read about the A-12 crash in The Oxcart Story, a 1996 CIA history of the plane’s development, which said only that Ray’s craft had gone down about 70 miles from Groom Lake. That’s not a lot to go on. The lack of information appealed to Krans: a quest.

Before Bluefire, Krans hadn’t heard of an A-12, let alone one that had gone down in the desert. The jet, he soon learned, was a marvel in its time. It could fly nearly four miles higher and four times faster (around 2,200 miles per hour, or nearly three times the speed of sound) than its predecessor, the U-2.

At such speeds, friction with the air heated much of its skin up to 600 degrees Fahrenheit. In the 1960s, the only metal light and tough enough for such a feat was a titanium alloy, which made up 90 percent of the aircraft. The remainder comprised composite materials—relying heavily on iron ferrite and silicone laminate, swirled with asbestos—that absorbed radar, rather than bouncing the waves back to whoever was watching.

That wasn’t the end of the innovation list. The lubricants also had to work at both the extreme temperatures reached while traveling at three times the speed of sound, and at lower, cooler speeds. The engines needed “spike-shaped cones’’ that could slow down, squish, and then superheat the air coming in for better combustion. According to a CIA history of the plane’s development, without the spikes, the engines would only have gotten 20 percent of the required power. Amidst all this, pilots had to don astronaut-ish suits, with their own temperature and pressure controls and oxygen supplies.

While the A-12 represented a big leap forward, its usefulness would be short-lived. The US decided to stop flying over the USSR in 1960 after a U-2 pilot was shot down; satellites had begun to snap recon pictures from orbit; and the A-12 progeny, the SR-71 had performed its first test flight in 1964. The Oxcart flew only 29 missions, between May 1967 and May 1968, in an operation called Black Shield out of East Asia.

Ray was preparing for Black Shield during his final ride, which went sideways due to several factors: a malfunctioning fuel gauge, electrical mishaps, and perhaps an untested modification he himself had added—a common practice for test pilots. Ray, a short man, had added a 2-by-4 to his seat to make the headrest hit right. When he ejected, the wood kept him from separating from the seat, which stopped the parachute from deploying.

It was in that entrapment that Ray lost his life. And it was in that computer lab that Krans decided he needed to go find out where. At the time, it was just another exploration. “It’s Indiana Jones,” he says. “It’s treasure hunting.”

He liked how his explorations changed his conception of the past. “I’ve had a love-hate relationship with history,” he says. Reading stuff in school? Closer to “hate.” But seeking and finding something physical felt different. “You walk back in time, and you say, ‘Okay, what was happening right here if I was here 40 years ago?’” he says. “It gets you thinking.”

So he set out to think about Walt Ray.

KRANS BEGAN COLLECTING information that might lead him to Ray. The accident had left two crash sites, one for the pilot and one for his plane, which rocketed on after Ray ejected. He started with the details Mahood had spilled, which did not include the actual site of the crash. Urbexers don’t like to spoil the ending, or make it too easy for crowds to spoil the site itself, and generally leave what they discover as a mystery for others to keep solving. Maps and satellite images are typically their best tools, supplemented by databases of historical, military, or former industrial sites. UrbexUnderground.com recommends aimlessly following rivers, railroad beds, or rural roads—because those routes usually track development.

Mahood had scoured old newspapers. The Los Angeles Times put reports of the covered-up version of the crash four miles southeast of a Union Pacific Railroad site called Leith; the Las Vegas Review-Journal and the Las Vegas Sun plotted it four miles to Leith’s southwest. Not helpful. He’d searched topographic maps and the land itself, looking for scars on the landscape, or roads that seemed to lead nowhere. Krans gathered all the information he could from Mahood’s descriptions.

Wanting to get more details, Krans told officials a “BS story” and then offered to cover a doughnut bill for the recorder’s office in Pioche, Nevada. Information gathered from the paperwork, which included Ray’s death certificate, revealed that the pilot had died 200 yards east of a particular mining claim, a couple miles from the larger Cherokee mining operation. Krans began to gather his own detailed maps of the area, and negatives of aerial photos. Soon, he knew approximately where Ray had met his end: just off an area called Meadow Valley Wash—a low drainage that flows with water when it storms. The spot was miles from anywhere, on the side of a hill whose poky desert plants scrape anyone who walks by, and over which wild horses keep watch.

The search for Walter Ray

Krans first headed out in the fall of 1998, driving to Cherokee Mine, and searching for plane debris, at a site somewhere farther out than Ray’s landing spot. To try to find that second location, he took pictures, tried to match them to his maps, and marked down the labeled sticks denoting mining claims. Two more subsequent trips, over a few ensuing years, also revealed nothing.

He gave up for a while. But the story kept flying through his mind. Not a good quitter, he ordered more digital photos from the United States Geological Survey (USGS) and filed a Freedom of Information Act request with the CIA. The results offered a few (differing) sets of coordinates for Ray’s hard landing and his plane’s.

The next time Krans went out, in 2005, he took eight people and three trucks. At the time, a flood had washed out the area, leaving 30-foot drops off the side of a narrow road. They uncovered nothing that he was sure came from a downed jet.

When he returned next in 2008, Krans brought along two four-wheelers, companions, and his daughter, Mercedes. At four years old, she’d been hearing about Ray much of her life. All they discovered were water bottles from earlier explorers.

“Something just told us that we were close,” Krans wrote at the time in a post on Roadrunners Internationale’s website, run by Area 51 veteran Barnes. The group aims to preserve the history of those who worked on Area 51′s classified aircrafts during the Cold War—and reunite, digitally and physically, the ones who are left, now that they can freely talk. The Roadrunners, about two dozen strong, have inducted Krans as an “associate member.”

On Krans’s next trip in 2009, he brought old hands and newcomers. One first-timer asked Krans if—after so many years of seeing nothing—he expected to just walk up and uncover the crash site. “Yup,” Krans said around the campfire, a cigar in his mouth and a near-empty beer in his hand. “I’ve been here too many times and know too many places that it wasn’t,” he wrote for the Roadrunners. “Like a life-size game of Battleship, it just can’t hide anymore.”

The next morning, the Commanders began their search where the group had halted the year before. It happened right away: As Krans was walking up a wash offshoot, something synthetic-looking caught his eye. Leaning down, he picked it up. It was an artifact from the A-12.

The others fanned out, and soon found their own pieces. They were right in the middle of the field of debris, left scattered by tragedy more than 40 years before.

Recalling this moment, Krans—who, since graduating from GM, has owned his own car-servicing shop and worked as an HVAC specialist—what it was like to find the site after so long, his voice breaks. “I don’t know how to describe it, I really don’t,” he says.

His limbic system manifests mostly in actions. Such as when, five years later, in 2014, Krans brought a memorial—a model of the A-12, welded to a metal pole—to near Ray’s resting place. He and Mercedes made it. They traced the plane’s edges onto body-shop paper, overlaid it onto a steel plate, and sliced the shape with a plasma cutter. Using a pipe bender from Krans’s old shop, they fabricated the engine housings, which stick out like devilish exhaust pipes.

At one point in their explorations, Mercedes asked her father why they were doing all this.

“Because nobody else did,” Krans told her.

OVER THE 12 YEARS Krans and various Strategic Beer Command adherents had spent seeking, the true goal of their quest had shifted. “As I kept making trips back, I just—” he pauses. “It got to be more about Walt.”

It became about pulling Ray and the other Area 51 workers—like Barnes—out of anonymity and back into existence. “A bunch of these guys, they were ghosts,” he says. “They didn’t exist for that portion of their lives.” A little metal memorial could change that.

On a September day, I attempted to find it. Outside the small town of Caliente in southeast Nevada, the road turned to well-graded dirt, curving around the rocky mountains whose strata mark the tectonics and erosions that led them to their current state.

The much-worse road that winds up to Cherokee Mine doesn’t have a name. At the intersection, Google Maps says only “Turn left.” Deep gravel threatened to strand the tires; cacti aimed to pierce them. At Cherokee Mine, a wild horse watched from the ridge above, still as a monument.

It was hot outside—115 degrees, much different than the morning Ray took off.

In the valley, I stopped following the wash and hiked toward the approximate place where I thought Ray went down, based on a scouring of topographic maps—matched with a picture of the saddle where the recovery helicopter had landed 53 years ago, and a close reading of descriptions from Mahood’s and Krans’s adventures. I scampered up another hill, around its side, back down, up another, and then back to the wash to survey again.

Finally, from the elevation where I started, I saw above me a stick-like object poking up out of a rock just one ridge over. No, I thought. That’s a dead tree. But next to the wood, there it was: a matte black pole poking from the rock, a sculpture at its top. I had been right next to it, just like Krans was when he found the debris field, the remnants of humans past blending within the landscape.

When I reached the spot, a low buzzing came from the scaled-down plane. The wind was sliding across the open ends of its engine housings. Krans didn’t intend for that to happen; it’s just how moving air and open pipes work. “It almost brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?” Krans asks me later.

It did. I started thinking of Ray, falling to Earth. Here. Of a secret death to go with his secret life.

Drilled into the rock next to the memorial is a metal sign: Walter L. Ray, it says, the words welded into the plaque. In service of his country, 5 Jan 1967.

Past the Oxcart, there were no other signs of humans. No evidence of their aerospace achievements, wars cold or hot, lives, or deaths. Only this miniaturized A-12, whose silhouette sits stark against scrubby plants—its nose pointed toward Home Plate.

An Army-green ammo box sits nearby, bolted down and hosting notes from those few who’ve visited. Along with a laminated printout of Ray’s story, there’s a handwritten page from Krans, addressed to Ray. “I will always have a beer for you and the boys,” it says. “You guys earned it. And after the Roadrunners organization is gone, know that the memory will live on.”

The Roadrunners are getting older. The last reunion at the time this was written in 2021, which Krans attended, happened in 2015. After that, there weren’t enough of them left. One year at the Nevada Aerospace Hall of Fame annual banquet, which has become something of a makeshift reunion for Roadrunners and their associates, Frank Murray, an A-12 pilot himself, came up to Krans and shook his hand. “You make us remember,” Murray told him.

Memories of their time inside Area 51 are, in fact, all the Roadrunners have of that ghost-like period of their lives. “None of us has ever got to go back out there,” says Barnes. “Once you leave, you’re gone.”

Sarah Scoles is a freelance science journalist and regular Popular Science contributor, who’s been writing for the publication since 2014. She covers the ways that science and technology interact with societal, corporate, and national security interests.

[blankticket]

It's been a great day.

Vash had been errand-running since this morning. He's been like an absentminded mother bird making a nest, taking multiple trips to and from his housing to retrieve and collect ideas for gifts.

Of course, it'd be easier in every way to simply make a list and stick to it, but his magpie eyes enable his wayward heart. It's so much more exciting to leave spontaneity unchallenged—and besides, his head's been a little fuzzy today.

For the other Vash, the gifts are on the perishable side. Since the two have their differences, it's hard to say with full certainty that the other Vash isn't materialistic. But being the Humanoid Typhoon meant being a drifter, and being the type to cherish something as fleeting as life; the younger Stampede figures he'd find a way to appreciate it, regardless.

There's an iconic pink box that needs no further description, and a small paper bag of homemade seed bombs. (The latter is wrapped in plastic and bagged twice, in case of any worry for contamination).

As for his brother! …Well, the big one is a strange, sizable bit of plastic that Vash had happened across in a thrift store. To any layman out of the know, its design could be considered tacky, unintuitive, or unremarkable at the least, but appearances deceive. After researching the object (of course, after buying it on impulse anyway), it turned out to be an electronic musical instrument!

Vash himself had given it a try, and found that its sound was wonderfully pleasing to his ears; like ringing a little set of chimes, or strumming a digital harp. Although it didn't have traditional piano keys inlaid, he hoped that Knives would be able to find peace in self-expression through the Omnichord anyway, and that he could begin to associate the gentle sound of it with him.

The Plant stands there, contemplating the gifts compiled before him on his room's table. There's been a nagging thought all throughout these trips that he's forgetting something important.

Oh! It's his own birthday too, isn't it?

He smiles, embarrassed despite being the only one in the room. Vash could laugh at himself with the revelation of it; he's always been caught in daydreams, thinking of others first. Of course. Because it's been July for some time, now, and, and, and, and

It's an unconscious-made move; his gloved hand pulls his phone up to his eyes, and shows him a lock screen date that argues that April has only begun. But that couldn't be, because he'd met Meryl shortly before becoming here, and that was at the end of May, and then Spirale was freezing in January, and July isn't there anymore, and JuLai was a trap, Vash, please DON'T GO

The ground rushes up at him in an instant. Vash is barely able to turn his head away before the side of his face is slammed against wood. It sounds like a crack, he's not sure if it's him or the floor or the phone or his glasses or his mind, and gravity keeps every limb pinned like a butterfly.

"Ah—"

Did he inhale? Did he exhale? Does he remember how to breathe, anymore? His body is maddeningly unresponsive while his eyes are shut, the backdrop of a flood of memories he can't slow down, he can't stop, he can't look away from. Two months.

And yet there are burn holes in the film roll, frames fully blacked out, information yet suppressed by NULL's intervention.

Home is still there, safe in his mind; all that time spent with Luida and Brad and the others, and the geodome flourishing there. But he's not exactly sure what it was that he was trying to crawl away from, before they happened upon him there in the sand, or who had taken care of him and his brother before then. Inexplicably his mind concludes with an image conjured from his childhood; an illustration from a picture book, of an empty bird's nest. There was something haunting about happening across just the image of it, while reading underneath the shade of the ship's tree.

"Naï?" his mouth asks foolishly, hoarsely, for the last person he'd seen. Where was he?

His throat is sore—had he been screaming, again?

Vash suddenly finds himself able to move, and he does at once, logrolling his sweat-covered body over with a warbling groan, each action yet feeling performed by someone else. Someone new.

The sun's gone by now. The side of his face smarts and stings, and his phone screen feels shattered, lost-tech finger bumping against the texture to confirm it. He curls into himself when he drags the lit screen closer to himself. It still works, against all odds.

April, it continues to argue, flawlessly.