#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)

[nanamisgirly]

nanami kento was a man of precision.

every decision calculated, every action efficient—whether it was handling business reports, managing exorcisms, or making his morning coffee just right. he prided himself on knowing things, on understanding the inner workings of whatever he dedicated his time to.

so, when he found himself utterly, hopelessly obsessed with you— your body, your pleasure, the way you melted under his touch—he approached it the only way he knew how : research.

which was why he was currently sitting in his living room, highlighter in hand, brow furrowed in deep concentration, flipping through the pages of 'The Modern Man's Guide to Pleasuring Women' like it was a business report.

his lips pressed into a firm line as he read aloud under his breath, “the cervix can become more sensitive during arousal, and deep stimulation—when done correctly—can induce a different type of orgasm.” he hummed in approval, nodding as he underlined the passage. noted. he even marked the page with a sticky note. how cute.

nanami was so engrossed in his studies that he didn't hear the front door open, nor the sound of your footsteps padding through the hallway. “nanami, i'm back!” you frowned at the silence that welcomed you. usually, he greeted you the moment you walked in, peppering your face with kisses— ever the gentleman. but today? nothing. 

the living room light was on, though, so you quietly stepped inside, excited to surprise him. after all, you were home earlier than expected!

as you approached the couch, you caught sight of him—brow slightly furrowed, golden lashes casting soft shadows over his cheeks, his posture hunched as he scribbled something in the margins of his book. 'taking notes?'

curiosity got the better of you. you crept forward, slowly and then— “BOO!!”

nanami jolted, sucking in a sharp breath as he slammed the book shut, but it was too late— you saw. your eyes caught a glimpse of the highlighted passages and the little annotations he had made. 

and the page the page he had just been reading? oh. oh. a very detailed illustration of a couple— the man eating out the woman as his hands were pushing her thighs on her breasts, keeping them open. your lips curled in amusement. 

“kento…” you purred, fighting back a grin. “what's that?” 

nanami shot up so fast he nearly knocked over his cup of tea, shoving the book behind his back as he faces you. “i—” his voice failed him. your smile only grew as you crossed your arms over your chest, tilting your head. “nanami," you repeated, voice teasing, ”what exactly were you studying so hard, huh?"

he stiffened, shoulders locked in place as if he were facing down a high-stakes negotiation instead of his very amused girlfriend. his fingers fidgeted around the edges of the book behind his back, grip tightening like it was his last lifeline.

“i…i was simply…” he cleared his throat, adjusting his tie out of sheer habit, but his voice still came out strained. his eyes darted to the ceiling, the bookshelf, the floor—anywhere but at you. his usual composed demeanor was crumbling right in front of your eyes, and it was the cutest thing ever.

“you were simply what?” you pressed, stepping closer. he backed up instinctively, only to bump against the coffee table, effectively trapping himself. you gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “ohhh, wait, don't tell me—” you peeked behind his back, catching another glimpse of the book's title before he quickly shifted to block your view. “the modern man's guide to pleasuring women?” you looked up at him, eyes practically sparkling. “nanami kento, are you studying how to make me feel good?”

his ears were fully red now, and his jaw clenched—then relaxed, then clenched again—as he desperately tried to maintain any shred of dignity. “i— that is not—” he sighs in defeat, eyes fixed firmly on the ground as the flush creeps down his neck “it's simply for informational purposes,” he mumbled, voice uncharacteristically high.

you giggled, stepping even closer, and he sucked in a sharp breath, clearly short-circuiting at your proximity. “ken,” you whispered, reaching up to trace your fingers along the collar of his button-up. he visibly shivered.

“i—i j-just wanted to be…” he exhaled shakily, finally meeting your gaze for a brief second before looking away again, as if eye contact alone would kill him. “…thorough.”

your heart swelled. god, he was so adorable. you could devour him right now. “but you already make me feel amazing,” you reassured, running your fingers up to cup his burning cheek. he practically melted into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he tried to compose himself.

“that doesn't mean i shouldn't strive for improvement,” he admitted softly, his voice so low it was barely audible. you couldn't take it anymore, your heart was on the verge of exploding due to his cuteness.

you wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face against his chest. you could feel his heart racing.

“kento,” you cooed, looking up at him through your lashes. “you're so sweet. and you're adorably cute when you're shy.” his hands hesitantly found your waist, but his eyes still refused to meet yours. he sighs in resignation, pressing his lips together.

“…are you done teasing me?” he muttered.

“never,” you stand on your tiptoes, brushing a lingering kiss against his cheek. “look, if you're sooo dedicated to your studies…” you slid your hands down his chest, fingers curling around his belt loops. “maybe we should put all that research to good use, mhh? what 'bout that?”

nanami let out the softest, most defeated, exhale before gently, but firmly, pulling you flush against him. his hands were warm, his touch grounding. “i suppose a practical demonstration would be beneficial,” he murmured, voice finally steady— until you grinned up at him and whispered, "i expect a full presentation, Mr. Nanami."

that earned you the deepest groan of embarrassment before he swiftly scooped you up, carrying you toward the bedroom— where he fully intended to prove just how thorough of a student he really was.

a/n i want to write it for nerdjo as well 🙂‍↕️ let me know if you are interested!!

[simp-ly-writes]

Dreams of Dragons (pt.1)

─────── · · A House of the Dragon FanFic

PAIRING: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen!Reader

SUMMARY: It had been centuries since Kings and Dragons ruled over Westeros but in your dreams- they still do. Being a descendant of the Targaryens, your parents told you stories of the great battles your family had fought generations ago that inspire to to become an archeologist determined to dig up more on your families past. So on a opportunity trip to Dragonstone, you are met by an invisible force that appears to have its own plans for you.

TAGS: alternate universe, canon divergence, no use of y/n, second person perspective, female pronouns used, coarse language, depictions of blood and anxiety attacks, emotional hurt/comfort, protective!Daemon, angst, soulmates, time travel, not beta read. MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 2,070 | NEXT PART A/N: this is my first time writing something for this fandom, please be kind and I hope you all enjoy!

─────── · ·

EVER SINCE YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE FASCINATED BY DRAGONS. Once night would fall your parents would sit at the foot of your bed, a flickering lamp by your bedside acted as the only illumination of the room and played with the shadows to cast the great tales of your ancestors, the once mighty House Targaryen upon your ceiling.

Eyes feeling heavy and body sore from running about all day, your mind was always active, imagination sparking to life as their stories washed over into your dreams that you often confused with reality. Your dreams always felt too real, as if that distant past was increasingly tangible every time you opened your mind to rest.

You could hear the sounds of battle, the clashing of metal and cries of men fighting amongst ash and blood that seemingly rained down from the skies. You were unflinching to the thunderous roars of dragons above, their wings the wind carrying the smoke over to everyone neighbouring in warning not to mess with the Targaryen's. But it was a dream you woke up from nevertheless as you found yourself back in the waking realm day after day.

Your parents thought nothing of your over-active imagination nor your constant desire to learn more of your ancestry, just taking it to you being a curious child with an ambitious mind for knowledge so they kept telling you stories of the bravest princesses and princes that defended the realm, the tricks and battles they faced, and of course, the dragons they rode above the clouds touching the sun before anyone else could.

But as you grew older and your peers 'matured past fantasies' as your teachers put it, you became distanced from the people of your years and wanted to stuff your face in a book or memorize another historical map than attend any social events or soccer practices.

The walls of your room could not expand like your mind and became increasingly flooded in your illustrations and detailed diagrams of each house crest and dragon you read in your books.

Once the upper years of your secondary school education came, so did your time to shine in your historical, political, and classical studies. With ease you could recite the lineage of the great houses and every battle waged from coast to coast of Westeros that allowed you an early pass into college where your passions could be fully envisioned.

But with every sleepless night that passed you by from being enveloped in your studies, your once vivid dreams of the battlefields faded to staring at the back of your eyelids and waking up to the sound of your alarm.

─────── · ·

You would be one of the earliest graduates from your doctorate program in archeology and history, the slips of paper hung proudly up on your office walls beside your original illustrations that you hoped to inspire the younger generations that stepped foot into your office with a thirst for knowledge just like you were and to some point, still are.

The university you graduated from and now worked at was sending you and a small research team to the remains of Dragonstone and you nearly kissed your department head in thanks as you ran out of the meeting room to pack your bags and equipment. 

A heavy backpack, duffle bag, and camera bag were all thrown into the back of your car as you made your way towards the airport for your overnight flight to the coast where it would be a few days of boat travel before you would reach the island. 

You fell asleep easily on the flight contradicting the restless excitement you felt and for the first time in years, you didn’t see the back of your eyelids but vines slithering between weathered stones. The bench you sat on was a cold hard stone, porous and rough underneath your palms as you observed the long black dress you wore. 

Pinching the material between our fingers, its softness confused you for the garment materials you researched for the lower classes were definitely not so velvety. Hiking up your gown slightly you stared at your polished short heels that confirmed your suspicions. You were a noble woman of some kind in this new dream and by the looks of your hands, had yet to see battle if you ever were. 

A cough has your eyes snapping upwards, your skirt dropping as your neck warms and crawls up to your cheeks. “To be scandalized or enthralled by seeing the princesses hiked up skirts, hm,” a tall man with long white hair hums to himself whilst leans against a pillar, hand lazily resting upon the hilt of a sword, their smirk wavering on a grin as they await your response with humour evident not only in their tone but in they violet eyes. 

You look away confused, you recognize the man from some place yet cannot place a name to the face as you take in the gardens that surround you in search of an answer. The rain of blood from past dreams is now a small fountain with a swan spraying water in a steady stream from its beak into a porcelain bowl. The flowers that surround you are thriving in various pigmented shades of reds, blues, and yellows; land untrampled and not a single corpse or dragon in sight.

Your distant attitude and lack of response seem to offend the man, his smile sliding off his face as he casts a glare to the foliage for taking your attention away from him. He takes long strides, sword and cape swinging by his sides to stand before you, casting you in his shadow as a gloved hand tucks a strand of your matching white hair behind your ear. 

“What troubles your mind?” His voice is tender, all traces of humour left as you turn to look into his eyes. No one had ever spoken to you nevertheless touched you in a dream before… you pinch yourself in an effort to wake the real you up only to see a bruise starting to form against your skin. The silver-haired man before you hisses, separating your hand from your skin with a glare, “why are you punishing yourself? What have you done?” 

You watch as the pastel violet fades to a deep purple and look away, mind racing to conjure an explanation but any thoughts are ripped away as a gloved hand grips your chin, forcing your eyes to cast upon his refined features set between a dozen healed scars. “Are you still ill? Do you need me to grab a Maester?” 

He uses his teeth to pull the glove off his other hand, leaving it to fall amongst the grass and clovers before resting his knuckles against your forehead to check your temperature, “you don’t feel hot…” his voice a mere murmur in his observation before sharpening, “who has made you this way?” 

His grip is unwavering on your chin, bordering on a physical comfort and hurtful as you mistake his growing concern for anger and rush to speak, “It is me! This is all of my doing, your highness.” You swallow deeply and pray that you stated the correct title so as to not lose your physical head. You shake yourself away from his touch before moving to stand. 

Yet just as you step around his broad frame his hand reaches for your upper arm, keeping you in place, “Do you forget yourself?” his mouth pressed directly near your near, he feels you still beneath his touch. 

“Please, excuse me,” you look straight forwards, peering down the open hallway for an escape. 

“I demand you tell-” the man is cut off by a new feminine tone that steps out into the sunlight. She too wears a long dress yet hers is mostly red with gold accents. Her hair braided across the top of her head to form a crown, her stance upright, gaze as violet and piercing as the man who holds you and suddenly it dawns on you. 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you whisper before slowly turning your head to meet the Rogue Prince’s gaze. Your mouth is agape, eyes wide before casting down as you try and bow yet Daemon’s hold on your arm keeps you. 

“She is not right in the head,” Dameon calls over his shoulder to his niece who looks between the two people she adores most in concern. You shoot the prince a glare for his choice of words that he chooses to ignore. 

“But the Maester promised that once she woke up again she would be herself again,” Rhaenyra frowns. Dameons hand slips down your arm, fingers interlacing with your own before raising your hands to press a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His thumb tracing the sparks leftover from his mouth to your skin.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water, breathing starting to become ragged as you feel overwhelmed, not understand why you have yet to wake up, why the royals you to some part idolized in the stories your parents told you were worried over you presently, “It's just not adding up,” and you don’t realize to be speaking your thoughts. 

“What does not?” Rhaenyra takes another step forwards, hesitant to give you space, not wanting to overwhelm you further. Your lip quivers and you swear to hear a bee humming in your ears as your body begins to sweat. You start to grip at your bodice that feels too tight against your body, feet wavering on stability before you feel yourself falling back and into an awaiting chest. 

“Get the Maesters!” Daemon roars before hearing a dozen rushed feet of servants departing down the hall. He walks you both towards the bench to sit in his lap, pushing your head gently back to rest against his padded shoulder. 

Rhaenyra falls to her knees before you both, gripping your hands with tears welling in her eyes, “please,” she squeezes your hands, “stay with me, I cannot do this alone again, I need my-” you fail to catch the rest of her words feeling as your eyes grow heavy with every passing moment. Your breaths begin to even out in contrast to Daemons short panicked ones as his hands rubs up in down your waist in a reassurance for you or himself you will never get to know as sleep overcomes you, the last thing you hear are his pleas, “wake up, I will not live to see you laying lifeless for another day!”

─────── · ·

You find yourself in the waking world and being blinded by artificial lighting as a stewardess politely asks you to place your seat upright and tray up. You hastily comply with an anxious smile as your co-worker in the aisle seat across from you greets you a polite, “good morning.”

But as you deboard the plane, grab your luggage and head for the boats down by the docks, it is as if a presence lingered behind you… watching… waiting, your paranoia growing with every step you took closer towards Dragonstone. You could hear your heartbeat like a drum ringing in your ears with every step you took, connecting to your soul as you were unflinching to the waves coming over the boat, soaking you to the core. 

You debated turning back as you were last to leave the boat and step onto rocky terrain yet your body was acting on its own volition, physically keeping you from moving backwards and dragged you to the cliff face as the sun was setting, a pastel painting of hues reflecting across the deep blue sea that you stood before. A town of tents behind you and a fortress awaiting just up the hill. 

The cool ocean breeze kissed your skin and blades of grass brushed up against your ankles like the island was comforting you for something you had yet to discover. A call of your name has you snapping from your thoughts, a flash of silver out of the corner of your eye has you ignoring your peers before you squeeze your eyes to shut off the nonsense you were experiencing and join everyone for a communal dinner that you are last to leave from, childish to say you were scared to fall asleep in fear of waking up on the other side again… 

─────── · ·

NEXT PART

─ · · A/N: what did you think? and is there anything you want to happen next? 😊

[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.

[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.

[9bantamanga]

Hello, I'm 9Banta. Thanks for the follow!

Today, I’d like to share my self-introduction post from no+e.

💻 Occupation: Web Designer

I’ve been working in web design ever since I entered the workforce! I originally wanted to become an illustrator, and once entered a CD artwork contest for a music group… but I drew three members when they actually had only two. That failure made me realize I needed more real-world experience.

So, I started a part-time job in web design (which I had only touched on in vocational school), and I’ve been doing it ever since. I can even handle customer service calls!

✏️ I’ve been drawing since I was about 3

When I was three, I drew people with limbs sprouting out of their heads. Then one day I saw a friend’s drawing and discovered “torsos.” In elementary school, I went through a phase of drawing only cavity bacteria and demons—my parents were very concerned (and honestly, I still carry some baggage from that).

In adulthood, I didn’t draw much for years due to being absorbed in work. But around 2018, I became obsessed with One Punch Man and started drawing fanart daily as a form of rehab. Now I focus entirely on my original series, Zigoku’s Foreman.

Old drawings

🍴🎶 Hobbies: Eating and listening to music

I love simple things like spinach with soy sauce and miso soup... but I also love meat and sweets! Musically, I’m especially drawn to ethnic fusion with modern avant-garde vibes.

🔥 How Zigoku’s Foreman started

I used to make fanworks of a certain character, but I always had an interest in original creations. One day, I sketched a character filled with everything I love—that was Mizuchi, the foreman. My creative partner Kamishiro liked him and wrote a short story based on the setting I came up with. That was the beginning.

👹⛑ About Mizuchi, the Foreman

Mizuchi was first designed in 2020 for a Twitter event called “#CharacterDesignMashupGame.” Eight participants each contributed a theme, and we all made characters based on the combined prompts: “covered eyes,” “undead,” “sunglasses,” “katana,” “gloves,” “studded accessories,” “long hair,” and “tattoos.”

At first, Mizuchi was meant to be a villain (the skull tattoo on his chest is a leftover from that). But I wanted to try making him the protagonist—and his current, more lovable personality emerged. (He probably would’ve been a charming villain too.)

First drawing of Mizuchi

He’s packed with all my personal tastes, so I haven’t really felt the need to draw anything else lately. (Sometimes I do, though.) For now, I’m fully devoted to Zigoku’s Foreman.

🧠💪 About My Style

I think my art style speaks for itself.

Mizuchi in private mode

(Writing his end-of-day report before bed. He’s a serious one.)

I draw mostly humanoid non-humans, and only male characters . I like muscles, so I often draw shirtless guys. I love animals too. My process is very character-centric—I enjoy fussing over outfits and accessories.

My manga tends to lean comedic and is said to have good pacing. Despite being set in Hell, there are no real “villains.” Rather than focusing on plots, I enjoy portraying and exploring the characters. The worldbuilding is also super detailed—I don’t want it to feel shallow, so I’ve ended up diving into research on Buddhism and Kabuki, which I now genuinely enjoy.

💭 Why Do I Create?

The main reason is to express what’s inside me. In my day job, I create 100% to meet clients’ needs—and I love that too, especially when it makes them happy. But I can’t really put myself into it.

I sometimes worry that I’d regret it on my deathbed if I never did anything for me. So now, I’m doing everything I can while I can. Thankfully, some people have said they love my manga works—and I do my best to give back to them. Even if it’s a hobby, I give it my all.🔥

🧓👁️ Future Plans

I want to keep creating for the rest of my life. That’s really it. Though... I am worried about my aging eyesight.

Also, I’d like to contribute to society in some way, someday.

That’s about it! (Abrupt, I know) Thanks for reading!

[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! 😊

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Darrell Lucus at Loud, Liberal, Christian:

Gooden then crassly declared on Twitter that he wasn’t about to allow anyone to disrespect Trump while he was around. This coming from a party that has tried to make free speech its mantra. Riddle me this, Lance. Would you sit idly by if this had been a Democratic president’s State of the Union, and a Democratic congressman ripped a sign out of the hands out of one of your female Republican compatriots? What you did is just as crass, vile, and unbecoming.  [...] Put simply, if Green’s behavior merited a censure resolution, Gooden’s behavior is even more so. After all, it encompasses everything the GOP has become since Trump came down the escalator, and illustrates why we call Trump and his acolytes “deplorable” and “weird.” By all rights, the Democrats should be calling the Republicans’ bluff. Unfortunately, later in the speech, the Democrats may have lost any chance to gain any traction from Gooden’s behavior. Trump highlighted D. J. Daniel, a 13-year-old who had dreams of becoming a cop before being diagnosed with terminal brain cancer in 2018. At the time of his diagnosis, he’d only been given five months to live. Trump made him an honorary member of the Secret Service. With few exceptions, the Democrats stayed seated. Now, I make no secret that I despise Trump. But not standing up and applauding a little boy fighting cancer—a boy of color, no less—is a bad look, regardless of how you slice it. It would have looked far better if they’d stood up while holding up signs highlighting the steaming hypocrisy of Trump profiling little D. J. so soon after he and Elon Musk took a meat-ax to the cancer research that has allowed him to beat the odds. They knew D. J. was coming and had plenty of time to prepare a response. All they did was make it appear that this country has become so polarized that we can’t cheer for cancer survivors. There’s no denying it—the Democrats’ messaging problems come from a lack of infrastructure. We actually had a fairly robust infrastructure, but it got ripped away from us in stages. First, after a torrent of criticism for not doing enough to tamp down disinformation during the 2016 campaign, Facebook and Google tweaked their algorithms in a way that throttled the reach of the blogs that had become staples for the left. I saw this first-hand while at Liberal America and RDTDaily. In the name of dropping the hammer on the likes of Alex Jones, they harmed blogs who followed the rules. Granted, we rebuilt enough to harness the anger at Trump in 2018, allowing us to retake the House. But right as we were building momentum for 2020, the pandemic hit and severely crimped our ability to organize. Then in 2022, Elon Musk bought Twitter, and his twisted idea of free speech allowed so much bile to flow there that it was untenable for a lot of lefties to stay there—if for no other reason than our own safety. But that doesn’t excuse not being able to use the tools we have to fight back, especially in this day and age. In order to fight a demagogue like Trump, we have to tell people what we’re for. It shows we have a competing vision for the country. Granted, poll after poll shows that Trump’s tactics aren’t playing well. But we have to convince people on the fence to trust us.

Darrell Lucus is right: Most Democrats staying seated during the moment that Donald Trump mentioned Devarjaye Daniel, who got diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, is bad optics.

[astrid017]

Museum Visit - Pérez Art Museum Miami (PAMM)

Works I largely appreciated

There were many works that I did appreciate during my time at PAMM. The first work is by Calida Rawles where she captured this moment in time and illustrated the movement of water so perfectly. When entering her exhibited, there was a lot of intention that she set initially. I felt connected with her piece where she illustrated the gentrification of Overtown by photographing those who live there and bringing them to Virginia Key Beach. Where the beach used to be an area of racial segregation. As someone born and raised here, there are times where due to the influx of people moving and the extremely high rent places, Miami is not a place where I can truly live anymore. I appreciate Rawles observation, research, and overall technique to explore something that feels very familiar to a lot of people.

In terms of Tomokazu Matsuyama' work, I could not describe how I instantly gravitated towards his work. The use of vibrant colors, graphic design elements, shape of the canvas, and the layering of patterns. There was so much to appreciate within this piece. The exploration of growing up between two places with different aesthetics is beautifully illustrated. From the colors to the patterns, I understood the artist's vision and felt an enormous amount of appreciation towards the work.

Lastly, Antonia Wright's installation had such mixed reactions by each person that enters. Wright's piece is a current conversation happening right now in the state of Florida. Within this current election cycle, we are voting on Amendment 4 to codify access to abortion. Before entering this dark room, you are met with a glass glass hanger. This glass hanger is titled, Hang-her, which has a very morbid connotation. When considering the material, borosilicate glass is something that breaks into very sharp pieces after blunt force. I felt that the material itself serves as a metaphor for unwanted pregnancies and the mental/physical/emotion anguish that a person goes through during these moments. Within this dark room, the only source of light is a red one directly on and above the bench. As you enter deeper into the room, the recordings become more and more intense. During this moment, I felt like the baby in the womb experiencing these loud noises of labor. This piece was interesting since it relies on lack of perception and heightening of others.

Work that I disliked

Carrasco's piece did not feel compelling alongside the different artists. As each artist explores the themes regarding war and protest around the same time period, many of those works have a clear define idea being executed. The usage of colors and the portraits felt like a cover of an English young adult literature book. In terms of the text, Carrasco list different politicians where four are past US presidents. I did not understand the purpose of listing them. I feel like the artist needed to go through another iteration of their work. Different color palate, where it was more muted tones would of strengthen the piece. As well as I think the artist should think about how their work would translate if there wasn't any writing. Overall, I felt that this piece did not make sense to the exhibition.

[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

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[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.