#vapor America

[envisitadecortesia]

Las tres vidas del "Trinacria"

Desde primeras horas de la mañana del 9 de julio de 1921 se había concentrado un gran gentío en la Estación Marítima del puerto de Barcelona, que lucía un impecable aspecto con adornos de la bandera tricolor italiana. Y no era para menos ya que para ese día era esperado el vapor “Trinacria”, el que antaño fuera el yate de la familia real italiana y ahora visitaba la ciudad Condal convertido en…

[dumbbullet]

me when the male vocalist does a pretty run or a vocal growl or changes up the notes in the song

[pandadrake]

@the0neto0thedsktch Here you go. OK actually he is a normal-sized person of normal weight it's just that 80% of the people around him are grabby and have super strength.

It's mostly Gwen which IDK what else I expected.

When you're trying to watch the Spider-Gwen manga but she keeps being bullied by some fucking weeb.

[blackkatmagic]

If ur taking Moonknight ships, Marc Spector and Steve Rodgers with mind control!

“Fuck you, that’s a lie,” Marc hisses, pressed as flat as he can get to the wall of the shrine that the Prince of Orphans led them to. The Mandarin was supposed to be here. The Mandarin is not here.

Scarlet Witch is, though, and it seems like she’s having one hell of a bad day.

Sprawled out in his throne, one leg crossed over the other and a dusty glass of something that absolutely isn't wine in his hand, Khonshu chuckles. “I would never lie to my knight,” he lies. “It’s the simplest way to break her control over him, my son. You asked for a cure and I've provided one.”

“Fuck you,” Marc growls, and ignores the look Clint is giving him from the other side of the small shrine. Clint knows Khonshu is real, or he’d better, after their detour into ancient Egypt that one time when the West Coast Avengers were still a thing. “Give me a different cure. A better one.”

Khonshu cocks his head thoughtfully, like that will hide the gleam of wicked mirth that swirls through the galaxies in his empty eye sockets. “That would require a quest seeking my sister-son Heka, my knight, and a remedy brewed by his divine hands. I don’t believe you have that much time at the moment.”

“If you depart your body now of all times,” Valkyrie tells him, low but very definitely dangerous, “I will tell your cab driver friend where you hid all of his false mustaches.”

Marc grimaces, ducking a little more as there's a loud crash, a thud, a groan. The Prince of Orphans lands hard on the stone, and Natasha drops down a few paces from him, breathing hard with a bruise already disappearing across one cheekbone.

With a loud, ringing thud, Steve’s shield embeds itself into the stone of the wall just to the left of the Prince, and heavy footfalls sound.

“Shit,” Marc mutters, and closes his eyes, ignoring the heavy weight of Khonshu’s amused stare. Breathes, steeling himself—

“Moon Knight,” Valkyrie warns, alarm sliding into her tone. “If it is that foolish an idea—”

“All of my ideas are foolish,” Marc tells her. "If he throws me across the room, try to catch me.”

“Moon Knight!” she protests, but Marc ducks away from her grab, vaults the wall, and then stops dead, something thudding in his chest. Steve is staring at him, looking dangerous as hell in the black of his old Nomad costume, even though no other man alive could probably pull off that V-neck. His eyes are red, though, and his expression is icy cold, in a way Steve would never be when standing in front of his own team. Whatever Wanda did to him—

Whatever she did, Khonshu gave Marc the way to fix it. It’s just a really fucking stupid fix.

“Moon Knight,” Steve says, and there's a rough, almost gravelly edge to it that makes Marc feel like a stupid teenager sneaking Captain America comics and fantasizing about them again. Him again. Which is absolutely not an appropriate thought to have when Steve’s currently a brain puppet of the Scarlet Witch during one of her breakdowns over her teenage kids getting pissy at her. Especially not given what Marc is about to try and do.

Steven would be better at this, Marc thinks, mostly resigned to getting punched in the face. Too bad Steven is a squishy human and Cap would turn him into a slinky.

“Hey, Cap,” Marc says, and tries to think of a way to say how about you let me get within grabbing distance without breaking my arms in a way that will go over well. “If Iron Man sees you walking around like that, you're going to give him the vapors.”

Steve’s expression darkens, and he flexes one hand like he’s imagining closing it around Stark’s neck. That’s a pretty standard reaction to Stark, though. It does give Marc cover to take two steps towards Steve, braced to move if things get violent, and he opens his hands, like an offer.

“Think you want a henchman?” he asks, and hears the bursts of indignation that come from four different directions as the team catches his words. Ignoring them, because Natasha is the only one close and conscious enough to be a threat if they decide to dogpile him, marc reaches up, pulling his mask off deliberately, and tells Steve, “Look, I don’t want to stick with these lunch detention nerd rejects if you're going off to do your own thing, Cap. I can be a good little right hand if you want me to.”

There's a pause, more thoughtful than before, and Steve finally turns, gives Marc his full attention rather than keeping one eye on Natasha and the Prince. “You want to be my henchman,” he says, flat, and the red light clinging to him like a second skin flickers, whirls.

“Henchman, goon, pet damsel if that’s more your speed,” Marc says, taking another two steps closer. He’s almost within arm’s reach now, and Steve still hasn’t tried to twist his head off his neck, so that’s promising. Probably. “I look great in a pink feathered negligée.”

Somewhere behind him, Clint gags pointedly, and Marc tries not to scowl, making a mental note to put ink in his coffee as soon as he gets the chance.

“Pink feathers?” Steve asks, and for the first time his tone slips out of cold anger, right into bemusement.

“I can lounge around your secret lair and let you test it out, if you want,” Marc offers, not even bothering to try for charming. Steven could manage that, but—yeah, Steven isn't going to touch this one. Besides, Steve seems blindsided enough by the offer that Marc steps right up to him, reaches out, and presses a hand to his broad chest without losing his head. When he looks up at Steve, halfheartedly trying to make it looking through his lashes like Marlene sometimes used to do to him when she couldn’t tell it wasn’t Steven in front of her, Steve looks down at him, something Marc can't read on his face, but—well. It’s not violent, at least. Marc got worse responses from other guys in the Marines, and given Steve’s from the 40’s, he wasn’t holding out much hope of better.

“So what about it?” he asks, leaning in, and Steve’s hand settles on his waist—

Marc kisses him, hard, no time wasted with finesse. He slams their mouths together, and feels more than hears the dry-bone-rattle of Khonshu’s laughter. Something burns, burns right through him and into Steve, as bright as the moon hanging full and round above them, and Steve jerks. His arm snaps tight around Marc’s back, and Marc braces to get tossed like a frisbee—

Instead, there's a groan, winded, warm. The kiss gentles, and a hand curls over Marc’s cheek, tips his head into an angle that’s a little less awkward. It feels a bit like an electric shock, and Marc twitches, almost jerks away, but…this is actually kind of pleasant. Not just awkward bodies, like sometimes happens, but—well. All those years spent crushing on Captain America probably have something to do with that.

Then, slow, gentle, Steve draws back, the shimmer of red around him gone. His eyes are sky-blue again, bright and familiar, and Marc takes one look at him, catches his breath, and says, “Fuck. Cap?”

Steve blinks, blinks again. Then, all at once, his eyes widen, and he says with deep relief, “Marc. You broke her control?”

“It was the image of the pink feathered negligée,” Marc tells him, flat, and desperately tries to jam his mask back over his head before something in his face gives away the whole I have a crush on the most unattainable man in existence thing. “You’re welcome. Thank Khonshu.”

“If I'm thanking Khonshu, I feel like it probably wasn’t that,” Steve says, and grimaces, putting a hand up to his head. “Ugh. I think I have a migraine.”

“Wanda’ll do that to you,” Clint says, cautiously poking his head above the edge of the low wall. “Moonie, did you really just break the evil witch’s curse with a kiss? Are you a fairy tale princess?”

“No, I'm Sailor Moon. And Wanda’s not evil,” Marc says, rolling his eyes, and drags his mask down a little more securely. “Shut up, bastard.”

Khonshu, still chuckling, tips his glass full of unidentified and unsettlingly-colored liquid at Marc. “You would make an excellent henchman, my knight,” he says, and is gone in the space between seconds.

“Damsel?” Natasha asks judgmentally, raising one red brow.

“Who wouldn’t want an easy retirement?” Marc counters. “If Cap wanted to take over the world, I think he could.”

Natasha weighs that for a moment, then snorts and waves in agreement, leaning down to check the Prince of Orphans.

“Please don’t ever let me take over the world,” Steve says, one hand still pressed over his eyes. “Even for the sake of your retirement.”

“Don’t look at me,” Clint tells him. “I look terrible in pink feathers. And my kiss can't break a curse.”

Marc flips him off, going to grab Steve’s arm and steer him out of the shrine. “Come on,” he says pointedly. “You should probably lie down. The birdbrain can handle getting everyone back to the ship.”

“While you play damsel? Come on, I can rock purple feathers—”

“Not as well as Moon Knight,” Valkyrie says, and between her and Natasha, they heave the Prince up. “Retrieve the good Captain’s shield, Hawkeye.”

Marc very firmly kicks the door closed before he can hear Clint’s protest.

Steve makes a quiet sound of amusement, body heavy where he’s leaning on Marc’s shoulder. “Do we need to have a talk about you offering to be a villain’s henchman?” he asks.

Marc rolls his eyes. “Only yours,” he counters, but instead of getting uncomfortable, the way he expects, Steve shoots him a thoughtful look.

“We should have downtime in Berlin once this mission is over,” he says after a moment. “I know you normally go back to New York, but you should stay. If you meant that kiss.”

Electricity, again. A frisson, sharp through Marc’s nerves, but—it makes breathing a little more difficult than it really should be.

“I could mean it,” he says, and looks away, feeling entirely too self-conscious. It was a bad kiss. Right up until Steve took over. “Assuming I didn’t scare you off.”

“I'm hard to scare,” Steve says gently, and—

Well. There's a fine line between supporting Steve and walking with Steve’s arm over his shoulder. Not that Marc is about to protest.

[lethargiclitany]

obviously the best headcanon for george's relationship with thomas when he grows up is the one where george is also gay and he looks to thomas for advice/community/understanding/etc. be it in person (he can move to the us) or through mail

BUT consider the second best, and debatably funniest, headcanon for their relationship in the future: which is basically the bertie & his gay cousin dynamic. like, george is straight and marries a nice girl and everything, but he's a sensitive, kind person, who doesn't treat thomas' sexuality the way robert did (with tolerance but irresponsibility and disregard for thomas' feelings and privacy) or thomas' ex-coworkers (poking fun, using it against him, outing him left and right, not understanding how hard it is for him, etc.). instead, he explains to his wife that the reason why he still keeps in touch with his once servant, is that thomas was the one who spent the most time with him throughout his childhood, allowing him and his siblings to ride on his back for hours at a time while his mother was supervising the estate and going out, often out of town, other adults not being much less busy, and the endless stream of nannies not being very interested in playtime. he waxes poetic about how kind thomas' smile was, and how he was the only adult who was never, ever annoyed at them, not even slightly, who seemingly always had time for them despite his many duties, who has never spoken a single ill word or made an irritated sigh towards them out of tiredness. how, one day, thomas left for good, and he asked his mother why would thomas choose to leave downton when they had so much fun playing together, and his mother said "because he found a person who would make him really happy, and that person lives in america, so they left to be happy there, together". how he taught himself how to write so that he could write to thomas in america, to ask him what was so good about that person, and then what was so good about america, and then what was thomas doing exactly, and then they just kept in touch. thomas never revealed the identity or gender of that person, not even when george discovered that you could fall in love with girls, and started to ask thomas for advice (he would never give his sisters that ammo), since apparently he was so in love with some girl that he moved across the ocean for her. thomas gave him some great advice, although george did find it a bit, well, vaporous at the time. at some point, george discovers gay people (insert your favourite scenario here), and has his hmmm moment, after which he puts all of his writing skills into the effort of helping thomas put his trust in him in regards to his sexuality and choice of partner. having perfected the art of discussing thomas' private life in their letters, he tells his wife (obviously with thomas' consent) about the amazing home that they have built together and about their role in their local community and about how amazing and brave thomas is to have lived through what he did and come out on the other side of it as such a considerate, emotionally developed person, and how much he admires thomas and treasures their correspondence as a genuinely important interpersonal connection in his life, and will never allow anyone who wants to stay in his good graces to disrespect thomas.

TLDR; george & thomas = bertie & his cousin, allyship headcanon 4lyfe

[reality-detective]

The U.S. Space Force Reveals ‘Rods of God’: Inside the Cheyenne Mountain Arsenal Reshaping Space Warfare!

The U.S. Space Force is ushering in a new era of warfare with weapons like the “Rods of God” and hypersonic missile interceptors, aiming to dominate the skies and crush threats from orbit.

Commanding the High Ground: Redefining Warfare The future battlefield isn’t on land or sea—it's in space. Controlling orbiting vantage points is crucial for military dominance. The global arms race for space-based weapons is fierce, with stakes higher than ever.

Deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, once visited by President Ronald Reagan, lies the heart of NORAD. Reagan’s 1979 visit highlighted the fragility of U.S. defenses against nuclear threats. Today, the scenario is even more dire with Russia's Avangard hypersonic missile, traveling at Mach 27, challenging any notion of safety.

“Rods of God”: Orbital Domination America's answer to emerging threats is the “Rods from God,” a kinetic weapon system using tungsten rods launched from orbit at hypersonic speeds to deliver devastating impacts without nuclear fallout. These rods vaporize targets like missile silos and bunkers with stealth-like precision, being undetectable until impact.

The Return of Brilliant Pebbles: Swarms of Lethal Satellites The Brilliant Pebbles project, part of Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative, features autonomous satellites armed with sensors and lasers. Modernized with AI and nanotechnology, these satellites can intercept enemy missiles early, neutralizing threats before they can cause harm.

Multiple Kill Vehicle (MKV): Overwhelming Force The MKV redefines missile interception with a cluster of independently guided kill vehicles that can destroy multiple targets, including decoys, from a single launch. This system ensures that no missile attack, no matter how complex, can penetrate U.S. defenses.

The Avangard Missile: Russia’s Challenge Russia’s Avangard hypersonic missile represents a significant threat with its ability to deliver payloads while evading missile defenses. America’s countermeasures like the MKV and Brilliant Pebbles are crucial in maintaining balance and ensuring that no nation holds space superiority uncontested.

The Battle Above: Space as the Ultimate War Zone Space has become a dynamic war zone. The U.S. is committed to maintaining superiority with advanced weapons systems like the “Rods of God,” Brilliant Pebbles, and the MKV. These technologies ensure that any threat against the U.S. can be met with swift and decisive annihilation from above. The race for space dominance is not just about technological superiority but survival.

Let's be clear here... They will NOT be launched from space. High altitudes yes, but nothing can get through the firmament. Satellites are attached to balloons there is NO space station. Russia is NOT the threat.

However the "Rods of God" are real and you WILL more than likely see what they are capable of...

Stay vigilant, Remain Strong, Stand United, "Do Not Fear" and don't be stupid.🤔

[meidui]

stevetony sex pollen fic recs

for @fluffystevefest day 5: aphrodisiac 💕

Aphrodisiac by @kandisheek

Steve gets hit with some sort of sex pollen. It must be the universe's idea of a joke to let Captain America die from horniness and make Tony his only chance at survival.

Simple Biology by @stark---contrast

“God, I'm sweating bullets in this thing,” Tony said, already unzipping his undersuit. “It’s not just me, right? It feels like a sauna in here.” And Steve's resolve crumbled by each inch of sweat-slick skin that was revealed.

Or, Tony gets hit by sex pollen. Fortunately, Steve is there to help him out.

the thorn in his side by @fohatic (or @moon-language-0 until justice is served)

It had been there from the beginning. There was no end to it, that mutual wanting between them—forever unresolved—that had grown so terribly soft and unbearably romantic with age...

But there was an unspoken rule between them, as well: an understanding that they could never act on it.

That is, until an alien parasite's brood nest gets violently dislodged from its Chitauri Leviathan host during the Battle of New York, dispersing its contents directly over two time-jumping tourists who are very much in the wrong place and the wrong timeline.

All the Love You Hold and Hide by Mireille

On a mission, Steve triggers a booby trap that turns out to be a skeevy sex curse, of the "fuck or die" variety.

Tony volunteers as tribute.

Exposed by @festiveferret @sirsapling

Of all the people Steve could be stuck with while this agonizing drug surged through him, of course, it had to be Tony Stark.

I Want to Hurt You by @festiveferret

How could Steve ever look Tony in the eye again? He loved Tony, so desperately, but he didn't know how to come back from this. He didn't know how many apologies would be enough to make up for what he'd done.

He could still feel Tony's soft skin giving to dark bruises under his fingers.

Side Effects by @elimymoons

"So what I'd like to propose," Tony continued on, "is for you to let me help you out a little, yeah? We'll work off some of this energy, some of this adrenaline, and you don't have to worry about hurting yourself anymore, okay?"

Steve's in a bit of trouble. Tony wants to help him out. Sexily.

Emergency Contact by @valdomarx

Steve has been exposed to sex pollen, and for some reason Tony is the person who's been called in to assist him.

Tony knows that he can't take advantage of Steve in this desperate state, but it's awfully hard to remember that when Steve is rubbing up against him and describing all of his deepest fantasies in excruciating detail.

Double Blind by @loftyperch

Steve signs up for a drug trial. Naughty side effects ensue.

Long Distance Relationship by @cookinguptales

So what do you do when your boyfriend gets sex pollened and you're thousands of miles away? The correct answer here is Extremis sex. Obviously.

Messes We Make by @navaan

Commander Rogers locks himself in his office with a sex-pollend Tony, he's not exactly back on speaking terms with. Things get out of hand.

calling (screaming) your name by orphan_account

in which the whole team gets vapored during battle and it affects everyone differently. Tony finds out, first-hand, how it affects Steve.

Dishonest John's Special Rates by @meh-guh

Steve runs afoul of sex pollen and Tony reaps the benefit

honey from your hive by @meidui

"Steve, stop that," Tony says, sounding strangled as his grip tightens and Steve stops, letting Tony grab his face and tilt him up. "You're kind of scaring the crap out of me. What is it? What's going on with you?"

"We blew up the lab," Steve manages, and something dawns on Tony's face. "Everyone had a reaction 'cept me. Think 'm having it now."

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 01 || AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

“What’s this?” I ran my hand curiously over the box.

“Oh, only a wee present.”

He didn’t look at me, but the tips of his ears were pink. “Open it, hm?” It was a heavy box, both wide and deep. Carved of a dense, fine-grained dark wood, it bore the marks of heavy use—nicks and dents that had seasoned but not impaired its polished beauty. It was hasped for a lock, but there was none; the lid rose easily on oiled brass hinges, and a whiff of camphor floated out, vaporous as a jinn. The instruments gleamed under the smoky sun, bright despite a hazing of disuse. Each had its own pocket, carefully fitted and lined in green velvet. A small, heavy-toothed saw; scissors, three scalpels—round-bladed, straight-bladed, scoop-bladed; the silver blade of a tongue depressor, a tenaculum … “Jamie!” Delighted, I lifted out a short ebony rod, to the end of which was affixed a ball of worsted, wrapped in rather moth-eaten velvet. I’d seen one before, at Versailles; the eighteenth-century version of a reflex hammer.

“Oh, Jamie! How wonderful!”

He wiggled his feet, pleased. “Oh, ye like it?” “I love it! Oh, look—there’s more in the lid, under this flap—” I stared for a moment at the disjointed tubes, screws, platforms and mirrors, until my mind’s eye shuffled them and presented me with the neatly assembled vision.

“A microscope!”

I touched it reverently. “My God, a microscope.” “There’s more,” he pointed out, eager to show me. “The front opens and there are wee drawers inside.” There were—containing, among other things, a miniature balance and set of brass weights, a tile for rolling pills, and a stained marble mortar, its pestle wrapped in cloth to prevent its being cracked in transit. Inside the front, above the drawers, were row upon row of small, corked bottles made of stone or glass. “Oh, they’re beautiful!” I said, handling the small scalpel with reverence. The polished wood of the handle fit my hand as though it had been made for me, the blade weighted to an exquisite balance. “Oh, Jamie, thank you!” “Ye like them, then?” His ears had gone bright red with pleasure. “I thought they’d maybe do. I’ve no notion what they’re meant for, but I could see they were finely made.”

I had no notion what some of the pieces were meant for, but all of them were beautiful in themselves; made by or for a man who loved his tools and what they did. “Who did they belong to, I wonder?” I breathed heavily on the rounded surface of a lenticular and brought it to a soft gleam with a fold of my skirt. “The woman who sold it to me didna ken; he left behind his doctor’s book, though, and I took that, as well—perhaps it will give his name.” Lifting the top tray of instruments, he revealed another, shallower tray, from which he drew out a fat square-bound book, some eight inches wide, covered in scuffed black leather. “I thought ye might be wanting a book, too, like the one ye kept in France,” he explained. “The one where ye kept the pictures and the notes of the people ye saw at L’Hôpital. He’s written a bit in this one, but there’s a deal of blank pages left at the back.” Perhaps a quarter of the book had been used; the pages were covered with a closely written, fine black script, interspersed with drawings that took my eye with their clinical familiarity: an ulcerated toe, a shattered kneecap, the skin neatly peeled aside; the grotesque swelling of advanced goiter, and a dissection of the calf muscles, each neatly labeled. I turned back to the inside cover; sure enough, his name was written on the first page, adorned with a small, gentlemanly flourish: Dr. Daniel Rawlings, Esq. “What happened to Dr. Rawlings, I wonder? Did the woman who had the box say?” Jamie nodded, his brow slightly creased. “The Doctor lodged with her for a night. He said he’d come from Virginia, where his home was, bound upon some errand, and his case with him. He was looking for a man named Garver—she thought that was the name, at least. But that night after supper he went out—and never came back.” I stared at him. “Never came back? Did she find out what happened to him?” Jamie shook his head, batting away a small cloud of midges. The sun was sinking, painting the surface of the water gold and orange, and bugs were beginning to gather as the afternoon cooled into evening. “No. She went to the sheriff, and to the justice, and the constable searched high and low—but there was nay sign of the man. They looked for a week, and then gave up. He had never told his landlady which town it was in Virginia, so they couldna trace him further.” “How very odd.” I wiped a droplet of moisture off my chin. “When did the Doctor disappear?” “A year past, she said.” He looked at me, a little anxious. “Ye dinna mind? Using his things, I mean?” “No.” I closed the lid and stroked it gently, the dark wood warm and smooth under my fingers. “If it were me—I’d want someone to use them.” I remembered vividly the feel of my own doctor’s bag—cordovan leather, with my initials stamped in gilt on the handle. Originally stamped in gilt on

the handle, that is; they had long since worn off, the leather gone smooth and shiny, rich with handling. Frank had given me the bag when I graduated from medical school; I had given it to my friend Joe Abernathy, wanting it to be used by someone who would treasure it as I had. He saw the shadow drift across my face—I saw the reflection of it darken his—but I took his hand and smiled as I squeezed it. “It’s a wonderful gift. However did you find it?” He smiled then, in return. The sun blazed low, a brilliant orange ball glimpsed briefly through dark treetops. “I’d seen the box when I went to the goldsmith’s shop—it was the goldsmith’s wife who’d kept it. Then I went back yesterday, meaning to buy ye a bit of jewelry—maybe a brooch—and whilst the goodwife was showing me the gauds, we happened to speak of this and that, and she told me of the Doctor, and—” He shrugged. “Why did you want to buy me jewelry?” I looked at him, puzzled. The sale of the ruby had left us with a bit of money, but extravagance was not at all like him, and under the circumstances— “Oh! To make up for sending all that money to Laoghaire? I didn’t mind; I said I didn’t.” He had—with some reluctance—arranged to send the bulk of the proceeds from the sale of the stone to Scotland, in payment of a promise made to Laoghaire MacKenzie—damn her eyes—Fraser, whom he had married at his sister’s persuasion while under the rather logical impression that if I was not dead, I was at least not coming back. My apparent resurrection from the dead had caused any amount of complications, Laoghaire not least among them. “Aye, ye said so,” he said, openly cynical. “I meant it—more or less,” I said, and laughed. “You couldn’t very well let the beastly woman starve to death, appealing as the idea is.” He smiled, faintly. “No. I shouldna like to have that on my conscience; there’s enough without. But that’s not why I wished to buy ye a present.” “Why, then?” The box was heavy; a gracious, substantial, satisfying weight across my legs, its wood a delight under my hands. He turned his head to look full at me, then, his hair fire-struck with the setting sun, face dark in silhouette.

“Twenty-four years ago today, I married ye, Sassenach,” he said softly. “I hope ye willna have cause yet to regret it.”

[dustedmagazine]

Godspeed You! Black Emperor — "NO TITLE AS OF 13 FEBRUARY 2024 28,340 DEAD" (Constellation)

The night of the election in America, Godspeed You! Black Emperor played a show in Toronto. As they almost always do, they said nothing. No interaction beyond playing music and then expressing wordless thanks to the crowd as each stepped off stage to the roaring feedback surge that closed out “Piss Crowns Are Trebled” and the concert. Even if they’d taken a moment to check the news that night, what was there to say? As suggested last time here, the ineffable, unspeakable power of the Montreal collective can be read at least partially as the only possible response to the deranged and deranging power of repression and evil in the world. 2021 felt dark. Suffice it to say that things have not gotten better and appear set on getting quite a bit worse.

The title this time, of course, is a reference to the verified (and thus almost certainly lower than actual) death toll of the genocide in Gaza at the time of creation. Associate and Constellation labelmate Jessica Moss released her own powerful statement on the same issue this year, and again, things have not improved in the meantime. It’s enough to lead to a rare appearance of lyrics, with “RAINDROPS CAST IN LEAD” featuring a poem in Spanish read (and written? as always, the band remains gnomic) by Michele Fiedler Fuentes. Of course the current album will be viewed in light of current events (they almost beg you to do so, from track titles and statements on down), and while no Godspeed You! Black Emperor record is exactly drowning in levity, they cast a particularly grim panic over affairs here.

If G_d's Pee AT STATE'S END! frequently felt like the massive, sweeping motions of some sort of gestalt entity, it’s fitting that things here feel fractured at times, if no less cohesive. Halfway through “PALE SPECTATOR TAKES PHOTOGRAPHS” it feels like there’s a fire alarm going on behind the banks of sound. One of the guitarists frequently sounds as if they’re trying to pickaxe their way through a boulder (especially on parts of “BABYS IN A THUNDERCLOUD”). The opening “SUN IS A HOLE SUN IS VAPORS” sounds equally as if they might be tuning up for most of its length and like it’s a shame they’d already gotten around to using the name “Anthem for No State” as a title.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor has always been oriented towards apocalypse (the machine has been bleeding to death since their first album as a group, if not long before), and it continues to be queasily terrifying how swiftly the world rushes to meet them there. These are always someone’s last days; the rest of us wake up each morning and fall a little further down. They themselves say, this time, “what gestures make sense while tiny bodies fall? what context? what broken melody?” That may be the reason they close with “GREY RUBBLE - GREEN SHOOTS,” a tidy just-under-seven-minutes that presents both a stirring crescendo and an aching coda. Determined as always to nurture what is left growing after all the valedictions and maledictions are handed out. Every triumphant moment here feels wrested from the jaws of death, all too aware of who still gets claimed. They, and we, have to keep going.

Ian Mathers

[pxmun2]

With his appearance in the TV show, his involvement with Vault-Tec, and that New Vegas is somewhat still standing (mainly the Lucky 38). I believe House is still around and that he is part of the reason as to why Lucy's dad Hank headed to Vegas. As for the fate of Vegas, if the show runners don't use any of the in-game endings, I think they'll at least fudge it so Mr. House can remain alive. From a speculation angle from seeing Vegas in the end credits and that in TV series canon the NCR capitol of Shady Sands was vaporized (At least a good portion) I speculate that once word got to the NCR stationed in Vegas about the fall of Shady Sands, they tried to take over Vegas in a desperate attempt. This could've caused a chain reaction were other factions started fighting for control and would fit in with Hank's speech to Lucy about factions. The factions wiped each other out on the Strip and any survivors escaped to the smaller settlements outside the Strip as we do see campfire smoke rising from a few of them. This leaves Mr. House as the only living sole left in his beloved city and possibly open for agreements in helping Hank or not if Lucy can get to him first and convince House otherwise. From my own perspective, I'm hoping the show will do more justice for Mr. House instead of turning him into a greedy capitalist that was for Vault- Tec dropping the bombs. I'm hoping it'll turn out that he was smart and insightful enough to conclude that the dropping of the nukes wouldn't be from Pre-war Americas enemies and that the reason he was at the meeting was to confirm his suspicions and counter act Vault-Tecs plan to save Vegas. I think it would be a good addition as to why the platinum chip was delayed would be due to Vault-Tec intervention because they figured out Mr. House used them for his own advantage by playing along.

[cypher-is-sane]

[Pandora had seen all those ads about not connecting to random unsafe networks or not giving information to websites. They were basically ingrained into her memories at this point. And yet here she was, doing that while doing menial stuff, like messaging her friends or booking the fiftieth ticket to America.]

[She should’ve expected her stuff to start messing up. She would’ve used someone like her as easy food back in her early days. But she didn’t, and grumbled to herself.]

For fuck’s sake…

(@vapor-web)

<< it was simple little things at first, things that could be passed off as a brief lapse in your internet connection. Like the computer glitching when she messaged her friends and deleting all her text. Or the buttons to book tickets shifting just enough to make her miss them, just once. >>

<< that was until it got worse. Some of her contacts would go missing, but messages from them would still come in. The contacts would often reappear in different groups after a while. Sometimes the computer flat-out just shut off, emitting a horrid buzzing noise. >>

<< this was no simple lapse in connection. >>

[wendievergreen]

Miscellaneous Snakes

I'm proud of myself for drawing 14 snakes in one week, but I also kind of regret it (￣ ￣|||) spread myself a leeeetle thin. Real snakes cited and quick thoughts under the cut

1: Mlegtugwam (Calloselasma rhodostoma, Malayan pit viper, Malayan ground snake, Malayan moccasin)- most of the asps were assigned random venomous snakes. I picked the reference image based on the pose.

2: Girtranaeg (Xenopeltis unicolor, sunbeam/iridescent snake)- god its eyes look so silly. Anyway, y'all should look up sunbeam snakes, they're beautiful

3: Hrukgolklo (Micrelaps bicoloratus, Kenya two-headed snake)- I didn't draw it in a circle shape because I was so charmed by the original photo. They really look like they have two heads, it's adorable.

6: Tafmiwukri (Micruroides euryxanthus, Sonoran/western/Arizona coral snake)- red because its victims sweat blood

4: Thagolgrom (Naja naja, Indian/spectacled/Asian/binocellate cobra)- obvs I had to include the most iconique serpent somewhere

5: Shabalrang (Rhabdophis subminiatus, red-necked keelback)- in my sketch its eyes were closed, but than I remembered that snakes don't have eyelids😔

7: Krefemklog (Vipera berus, common European adder/viper)- I really like how the vapor turned out.

9: Nrogklongo (Neelaps calonotus, black-striped burrowing snake)- just a little guy

11: Zriggwanto (Chrysopelea ornata, golden tree snake, ornate flying snake)- ZHOOM

8: Kraehozdim (Elaphe quatuorlineata, four-lined snake, Bulgarian ratsnake)- lives in Italy, on the larger side for a European snake. The pattern is from a stereotypical dairy cow, the white lip is a milk mustache.

10: Samgleshti (Crotalus cerastes, sidewinder, horned rattlesnake)- I'm 90% certain I found the original species during research. Luckily, there's a very similar snake in North America, lol. Horns are inspired by Jacob sheep

12: Kramlengga (Macrovipera lebetina, blunt-nosed/Lebetine/Levant viper)- I like how its eyes turned out. So piercing! (◉-◉)

13: Galwinglik (Bitis schneideri, Namaqua/spotted dwarf adder, Schneider's adder)- the smallest venomous snake

14: Yeakrindra (Leptotyphlops carlae, Barbados threadsnake)- the tiniest snake of all!

I finally got around to listening to the Maniculum Podcast this week :) I love it! 10/10

[orchidbreezefc]

literal hot take: fahrenheit is better than celsius. not just for everyday use, in every context.

first off: the degrees are smaller so the system is more precise, simple as. but more importantly fahrenheit--which is older, and originally european--was designed to be intuitive to the human experience. celsius was designed to match two of the conversion points (it doesn't account for the vaporization point) of one (1) substance, and... well, that's all!

0°F is about as cold as we can stand for much time, 100°F is about as hot, and 50-60°F is comfortable (depending on the weather you're used to). it's an easily-understood system where numbers convey meaning without requiring memorization.

those figures in celsius are -17.777°C and 37.777°C. if you dont have a learning disability/dysgraphia, take a moment to imagine how hard it would be to interpret those numbers. the comfortable goldilocks temperature of 60°F becomes 15.555°C, which doesnt map to any scale we use. but people use scales of 1 to 10 to describe comfort every day! a 1 or 10 is too extreme, and so are 10°F and 100°F.

celsius saves us having to memorize two important numbers--which every american does have memorized, 32 and 212--and sacrifices the legibility of every other number on the scale! is it better to memorize two numbers and make the rest of your system intuitive, or to make those two numbers easy and need to memorize everything else?

i don't think this argument is unreasonable or difficult to grasp, but it always gets intense pushback from international folks, even friends that i know are reasonable people, who don't engage with my points and insist that the universality of celsius must mean it's better. it uncritically considers the system one was raised with as superior purely because it's familiar--which is what americans are accused of!

i get it. america sucks real bad in a vast wealth of ways you are absolutely correct to criticize. and when our systems differ they often really are worse (imperial vs metric) or are equal, which means it would be better to match the rest of the world (driving on the right, though we aren't the only country that does). this is not one of those times! popularity doesnt make something better.

you're welcome to prefer the one you're used to, and you can even argue that americans should adopt celsius because you think ease of conversion matters more than ease of use. but claiming celsius is a better system is just not true.

P.S.: if you say something on this post, i politely ask that you 1. keep a sense of proportion regarding how important this really is (i.e. not very), 2. take the time to consider and engage with my points instead of clowning on my stance without actually thinking about it in the way i described above. uncritical acceptance of local customs is supposed to be an american thing, don't bite our style!

[ainsi-soit-il]

Quote #4

"When Emerson decided, in 1832, that he could no longer celebrate the Lord's Supper unless the bread and wine were removed, an important step in the vaporization of religion in America was taken, and the spirit of that step has continued apace. When the physical fact is separated from the spiritual reality, the dissolution of belief is eventually inevitable."

This is part of a series of guessing-game style polls that I am doing for the first fourteen days of October.

For the next fourteen days, my queue will spit out a quote from either a Protestant or a Catholic theologian. Responders make their best guess as to which this is.

This is strictly a no-nuance poll. No "They were accused of being a Lollard" this, no "Counter-Reformation" that. Despite the complex theological realities of Late Medieval Western Europe, if they died before 1517, they are being counted as Catholic.

Happy guessing!

Flannery O'Connor, Mystery and Manners, 1963

While she did not consider herself a theologian, the novels and short stories of Irish-American author Flannery O'Connor were deeply influenced by her Catholic faith. Mystery and Manners is a collection of essays and lectures given by O'Connor over the course of her life. Many of them center on the intersection between her faith and her writing.

[starryoak]

Apparently we’re going to be seeing more of Hobie’s universe and I am SO pumped about that because I have so many questions about how they’ll change it from the official comics, because a lot of Hobie’s universe is so intrinsically American that I can’t wait to see how it changes.

See, Spider-Punk’s universe is one where Norman Osborn became president by either creating artificial copies of or allying with Symbiotes (like Venom), dubbing them Variable Engagement Neuro-sensitive Organic Mesh, or V.E.N.O.M, both bonding with them himself and distributing them to cops and law enforcement everywhere to create super soldiers who could, and in his own words, “Make America Great Again.” His introductory comic depicts this in four pages (one of them a two page spread) where it shows Hobie and his band leading a riot against a wave of cop-Symbiotes called the Thunderbolt Department and using 5,000 watts worth of amps blasting punk music to vaporize the Symbiotes (being weak to loud noises), then personally bashing Norman Osborn’s skull in with his guitar.

Obviously while cops are fucking fascists everywhere, the symbolism of “Make America Great Again” is, well, quintessentially American, so I think it’s pretty clear some of the rhetoric will change, and I really can’t wait to see how it will, honestly. As well, when Hobie says “I hate the PM”, he can be seen tearing a poster of not Norman Osborn, but Kingpin, indicating that he likely is this universe’s equivalent to President Osborn.

As well, his teammates/the Spider-Band are also worth examining, and I really, really can’t wait to see what’s done with them, especially Karl Morningdew.

Karl Morningdew, AKA Captain Anarchy, is obviously intrinsically connected to Captain America, as his universe’s equivalent, but also because he’s Native American, specifically named as the Sentinel of the Cowlitz People. He’s got a not-a-superhero boyfriend named Rick, but that’s not important to this conversation. He’s obviously pretty tied to America, not just in his being very obviously a variant of Captain America with the same powers, but also because his people have lived in America before there was an America to live in, and their oppression by the American government is inextricable to his character. So how they will, or, I suppose, if they will, translate Karl into a British setting is obviously a big question! While not as intrinsically tied to an American identity, he has other teammates who are variants of other Marvel universe characters; Riri Williams, AKA Ironheart, is known as Riotheart in this universe, Mattea Murdock, AKA the Daredevil Drummer of Philly, a counterpart to Daredevil, Kamala Khan, who seems to be pretty much the same + brass knuckles, (will she have her powers changed to fit the new Ms. Marvel show?), and Robert “Robbie” Bruce Banner, a reluctant member of the team who doesn’t actually really want to be there, having tried to give up on that part of his life.

I really, really hope these guys show up, I want to see how they translate these very American characters into the UK, and I think, frankly, they’re really cool and fun!

[dropofbittersea]

“I watched a documentary on the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima a while ago. In the blast radius, sometimes a… a person blocked the bleaching effect of the radiation. So the person was vaporized, but a shadow was left behind, on a bridge or a wall – their shape, their outline, when they were completely gone," Steve said. "It’s called a nuclear shadow.”

“If you’re implying the Soldier is like a nuclear shadow, then that is seriously fucking dark, man,” Sam said dryly.

OR

Before the fall of the Soviet Union, the Winter Soldier was sent to the American arm of Hydra - only there was a malfunction in the cryo-unit that meant it couldn't be opened, and it was left, powered but abandoned, in an underground base.

25 years later, the Avengers find it.