#Outlander Conference

[brian-in-finance]

Diana Gabaldon spoke at the University of Glasgow's Outlander conference. Photo: Martin Shields

Diana Gabaldon recalls how first Outlander book ‘almost cancelled’

Best-selling Outlander author Diana Gabaldon has created nine beloved books and a seven-season TV series - but the franchise almost didn't happen.

The American writer told fans in Glasgow her first novel was almost cancelled because publishers could not decide what to do with it.

It took more than a year to go on sale as a debate raged about where it would sit on bookshop shelves.

The series has boosted Scottish tourism with fans flocking to Scotland to visit the book and TV programme's locations.

The author spoke at the word's first international academic Outlander conference at the University of Glasgow, which has been the backdrop for several scenes in the Starz TV series.

Expert scholars and Outlander fans have come together for events in the city, exploring themes such as Jacobite history, screen production, Scottish tourism, Gaelic and Scots, costume design, fandom, main character Claire Fraser's medicine, and witchcraft.

Ms Gabaldon - originally an academic herself - was awarded an honorary doctorate by the university in June last year.

The drama series stars Catriona Balfe and Sam Heughan as Claire and Jamie Fraser. Photo: Starz

Speaking about her first book, she said: "It took the publishers 18 months to figure out what to do with it. I learned later that they came very close to cancelling the contract and giving me back the book because they couldn't decide how to sell it.

"This was before Amazon where a book can be classified as several things at once and people can pick off the web what they want, and they still get the same book.

"Back in the day it was only bookstores, you had to put a book on a certain shelf, the shelf had to have a label and the book also had to have that label."

She said the decision to sell it as a romance came as a shock.

"My agent finally called me up and said they had decided to publish it but sell it as a romance. I said, 'What?' that isn't what I wrote.

"He pointed out that a best seller in fantasy fiction was 50,000 copies in paperback while in romance it is 500,000 copies. So we sold it as romance."

'Too weird'

She said that the success of the books was down to readers' recommendations.

"My first editor said to me early on these have to be word of mouths books because they are too weird to describe, which is totally true and that is also true about the word of mouth.

"So that being the case it made total sense to expose the book to 500,000 people in the romance category who will go out and tell their friends and the word will spread.

"So we did that and that is exactly what happened."

The Outlander series is currently nine books, with the author working on the tenth - and believed to be the final - book.

It follows the story of a post-World War Two nurse visiting Scotland who accidentally time travels to the Jacobite era.

Roger (Richard Rankin) and Brianna (Sophie Skelton) are main characters in the show. Photo: Aimee Spinks

It has now become one of the bestselling book series of all time and spawned the popular TV series, currently in its seventh season.

Ms Gabaldon's talk was entitled, '"Why Scotland? Why Not Mexico?" Genes, Borders, Culture and Fiction: Why They Matter and When They Don't'.

In it, she explained why she picked Scotland as the location of Outlander.

She said: "What I learned from my research and contact with Scots is that Scots are, and historically were, very literate. They wrote down things. They also have a very strong oral culture, they told their stories.

"They also have a lot of history available. Then there is the nature of Scottish history, it has a lot of heroes and heroines as well as conflict which is what you need for a good story."

The conference runs until Saturday and has seen fringe events including music concerts and battle re-enactments in the university's famous cloisters.

Transformative impact

Senior Lecturer in Gaelic at the University, Gillebride Macmillan, who has appeared in the programme, said it had been really important for the Gaelic language.

"It's so important for a minoritized language, such as Gaelic, to be seen on a world level, on a world stage, and Outlander gives Gaelic that opportunity.

"And I think it's been fantastic to hear Gaelic spoken by the actors and in the books, and also the use of Gaelic music, Gaelic song. I've been very lucky myself to be a part of that and I think it's been an incredibly positive thing for the language.

"Which I think has been born out by things such as, one and a half million people learning Gaelic in Duolingo. Obviously, many people are learning Gaelic for many different reasons, but Outlander has been one of the major factors for that."

Prof Willy Maley, professor of Renaissance studies (English Literature), at the university, said: "Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series has had a transformative impact on Scottish culture, generating global interest in the history, languages and landscapes of Scotland.

"Vivid and visceral, Outlander is an otherworldly but never unworldly phenomenon that takes a time-travelling nurse-turned-doctor and propels her from 1946 to 1743, two worlds of war that collide in an elaborate and painstaking reconstruction that make the series much more than historical fiction and more an innovative and pioneering rethinking of how we excavate and examine the narratives of the past.

"Outlander has also been a brilliant boost for the Scottish film industry."

BBC News

Gifs: @scotsmanandsassenach S01E03 The Way Out, Gillebride Macmillan as Gwyllyn the bard

Remember… I think it's been fantastic to hear Gaelic spoken by the actors and in the books, and also the use of Gaelic music, Gaelic song. I've been very lucky myself to be a part of that and I think it's been an incredibly positive thing for the language. — Gillebride Macmillan

[outlanderanatomy]

2024 SiWC Panel with Diana Gabaldon

Greetings Outlander fans! My, I have missed you all… 🤗

This weekend I find myself in beautiful Surrey, British Columbia,  Canada, attending the Surrey International Writers’ Conference, more commonly known as SiWC!

I drove from Oregon to Canada lastThursday. It was a beautiful day but the  normally 5.5 hr drive turned into nearly 7 hours due to two collisions in Washington state.  Yes, it was an inconvenience for those on the freeway, but I was grateful to arrive safely and I hope those involved in the crashes are OK.

Thus far, I have attended several events featuring Diana – she is one busy lass! All were delightful and I will share them with you, but not in chronological order mostly due to the technical issues of posting via  iPad. 😉

Today’s event was titled “Compelling Expositions,” a panel featuring Diana Gabaldon, Michael Slade, Robyn Harding, and Darren Groth (not shown).  K. C. Dyer moderated (also not shown).

Diana looked stunning, layered with in a deep red shawl because the room was freezing! 🥶

Many fruitful topics were covered by the panel. Here are some highlights including Diana’s responses:

Question:  Which is your fav scene from your writings? Diana chose the scene from “Outlander” book wherein Jamie rescues Claire from Black Jack Randall’s clutches. They shelter at a tavern –  Jamie tells Claire he is not ready for bed and proceeds to whip her with his sword belt. This set up a major clash between the two characters because each POV was justified from their perspective. Claire was trying to find a way back to Frank but Jamie knew her actions put all of their lives  in danger. I must confess, this choice surprised me. I suppose because Diana has written so many splendid scenes. How would one even choose? 🤔

This is wee bit of the excerpt from the scene (pp. 249-250 “Outlander” Kindle version) that is Diana’s fav!

“Come to bed, Jamie. What are you waiting for?”

He came to stand by the bed, swinging the belt gently back and forth.

“Well, lass, I’m afraid we’ve a matter still to settle between us before we sleep tonight.” I felt a sudden stab of apprehension.

“What is it?” He didn’t answer at once. Deliberately not sitting down on the bed by me, he pulled up a stool and sat facing me instead.… 😯

Question: How do you deal with pacing? Diana responded that pacing depends on context. For example, if there is an emergency then the writer wants to keep sentences short and terse. Pacing allows the author to create tension between two elements. A question is raised and then answered to move the story forward. (Psst…. She didn’t mention that sometimes the answers to questions she raises don’t get resolved until two books and ten years later!) 😂

Question: How do you deal with slang or dialect? Diana feels dialogue is the most important way to define a character.  An author using another language (e.g. Gaelic) needs to educate themself in the language. She watched films with Scottish characters to hear their spoken English. At conferences, if she heard anyone speaking with a Scottish accent, she invited them for coffee and listened to them speak. Diana also recommended reading books written by someone who speaks the language. She read several Scottish authors to help her get a feel for syntax, cadence, etc. Frankly, her devotion to her craft is a splendid example to all aspiring authors. 🥰

Question: Do you plan out a chapter or scene ahead of time? Diana does not. We already know she doesn’t write in a straight line. She also does not tell her characters what to say or do. She waits patiently for them to speak to her.  This being my fourth SiWC, I can tell you hers is a unique approach. Most writers I encounter plan out scenes, many even work from  a classic outline. She also doesn’t know ahead of time how a book will end. I guess the one exception here is that she seems to know how the “Outlander” books will end. Sob! 😢

Question: Who is your favorite author. James Clavell, she answered without a moment’s hesitation.  Clavell authored the marvelous, “Shogun,” for those who might not know. Although it has been some time since I read it, it is well worth doing so. 👍🏻

These were highlights of the panel for me.

The full panel discussion can be accessed on the blog.

I hope you enjoyed the panel. Need I say, my fav author for “Compelling Exposition” is none other than Diana Gabaldon? 🤩 🥇 🏆

The deeply grateful,

Outlander Anatomist

Follow me on:

Twitter: @OutLandAnatomy

Facebook: OutlandishAnatomyLessons

Instagram: @outlanderanatomy

Tumblr: @outlanderanatomy

Youtube: Outlander Anatomy

Photo and audio credits: Outlander Anatomy

[outlanderskin]

I've been in this fandom for so long that I consider myself a fandom dinosaur 😅. In all these years, I've never seen any shipper say that they were waiting for Outlander to end because they were sure that Sam and Caitríona would publicly assume their relationship the next day. In fact, we all have the same opinion that they won't give a press conference saying " we've been lying this whole time." After all, why would they do that? No shipper cares about the end of Outlander in relation to Sam and Cait, because we believe that they have a life together and therefore don't need to be working together to be together. However, by the desperation of the Anons here, we can see that SC's behavior after the series ended was never a concern of ours: Antis and Onlyes are more worried about this than we are. They also seem obsessed with knowing if we're going to leave, as if their lives depended on it.

Dear Alecrins Dourados: I don't know where you got the idea that we should leave, but I advise you not to waste time waiting for us to leave the scene, because that's not going to happen. If on your side, where there are people who don't have a real life to take care of, every now and then someone disappears briefly (with the most diverse excuses possible, from "eye problems" to "third-degree relatives' illnesses), imagine on our side, where we all have a real life and we work and pay our own bills.

The most interesting thing about all of this is that you still dedicate your time to finding out who among us hasn't posted anything and for how long. Honestly, I only know that some of you have retreated when there is a warning beforehand (and you always give the most dramatic warning possible). I can't understand this obsession you have with us.

[theawkwardterrier]

wip wednesday

Tagged by the wonderful @walkinginland 🫶🫶🫶 I've been (Ross Geller voice) ON A BREAK but literally this afternoon wrote the first 500 words of a new Outlander AU. (Am I annoyed to be pursued by an idea? Maybe. Did I write all 500 of those words while I was still at work? No comment!)

Her eyes stray down the page to the last item she'd listed. There are more immediate concerns, making certain that he's safe and sheltered and appropriately cared for physically, but she knows that she can't neglect his mental state either. Losing both parents so suddenly, left alone in an unfamiliar place, not to mention that from the short glimpses she's gotten over the years, she knows that there has already been rather more adjustment in his life than that required of a typical child: strange characters, different languages, new countries, parents whose relationship was a roller coaster that would be confusing even to an adult. Then again, she acknowledges, that bears more than a passing resemblance to her own life, and she's turned out perfectly fine. She glances down at the bare place on her left hand, at her blouse and slacks, wrinkled and smelling very slightly of sweat and disinfectant; the surgical ward would have been able to manage without her and Mr. Gowan had been extremely accommodating, yet she'd worked her regular shift before coming to sort out the complete upheaval of her life. Therapy, she underlines firmly, and looks up again as the door to the small conference room opens.

Tagging my beloved meme bestie @lavellenchanted, and anyone else who's interested in sharing something they're working on!

[aceofwhump]

For the Anon wanting books with panic attack scenes, here's a few I can think of on the top of my head:

Male Whumpees: ▪These Silent Woods by Kimi Cunninngham Grant (MMC is a war veteran with PTSD) ▪The Small Hand: A Ghost Story by Susan Hill ▪A Breath of Snow and Ashes by Diana Gabaldon (IIRC Roger has one as a result of his PTSD from his hanging, book 6 in a long ass series though) ▪We Redeemed the Rain by Ashley Dill (closed door romance, the MMC has what he describes as panic attacks but they're later revealed to be more like PTSD flashback episodes as a result of CSA)

Also, I feel like you're right about Reviver by Seth Patrick, (I feel like Jonah for sure sort of had one when he had to do a speech at a conference or something)

Female whumpees: ▪The Woman in Cabin 10 by Ruth Ware (thriller) ▪Billy Summers by Stephen King (TW for this as the character in question suffers them as a result of being gang r*ped)

I asked my friend who mainly reads romance and she recommended a bunch so thought I'd include them just in case nonny is into that (all of these are male whumpees): ▪How to End a Love story by Yulin Kuang (chaps 3, 19 & 22) ▪The Lifechanging Magic of Falling in Love by Eve Devon (chaps 2, 7, 16 & 23, this one has zero spice) ▪The Cheat Sheet by Sarah Adams (chaps 26 & 27) ▪Yours Truly by Abby Jiminez (MMC in this has severe social anxiety) ▪Unsteady by Corinne Peyton (sports romance) ▪ The Charm Offensive by Alison Cochrun ▪The Ex Vows by Jessica Joyce ▪Emergency Contact by Mary HK Choi (young adult) ▪One Star Romance by Laura Hankin ▪Take a Hint, Dani Brown by Talia Hibbert ▪Red, White & Royal Blue by Casey McQuiston ▪ Oxford Star by Laura Bradbury

▪Just Last Night by Mhairi McFarlane

Also, just a hint, if Nonny goes to either the triggerwarningdatabase or booktriggerwarnings website and selects anxiety/ panic attacks from the list of triggers then a list of books tagged with that will come up and they may be able to discover some more.

BOOKS!! YES!! THANK YOU NONNY!!!! Oh my god this list is amazing!! And Roger in Outlander!! That's the book I was trying to think of but couldn't figure it out!

I also remembered Project Hail Mary and doesn't Ryland have a panic attack in it? At least once? And I just finished reading System Collapse (a Murderbot book) and SecUnit for sure has a panic attack in it. It has a flashback and a couple of panic attack moments. So good.

And thank you for that website rec! I didn't know that existed tbh. Very cool.

[sgiandubh]

Onlies at large

Sometimes (often, even), I can't sleep. And when I can't sleep, I get easily bored, if not focused on something. And there was nothing of particular import on Netflix or Amazon Prime, yesterday night. Aaand, as I don't have access to my bookshelves back home, I went looking for a light something to read myself to the Land of Nod.

I am, since forever, a solid reader of non-fiction. Memoirs, diaries are a special interest, too. So I just wanted to see if there were any nice memoirs of people who went to Scotland in search of a new life/love/whatever, Under The Tuscan Sun -style. Everand/Scribd is a decent starting point for the such, at 2 AM.

There weren't and I wonder why. But as I was browsing around, lo and behold, I found a tiny, self-published memoir by a certain Ninya (not her real name, of course): Scotland with a Stranger (2020).

Great literature it is not. It is naive and the narrative line sounded really, really meh to me: a 43 year old Alabama depressed divorcee finds healing and a renewed purpose for life, while traveling to Scotland with an improbable companion.

So, I skimmed and skimmed and skimmed (FFS, when is she going to PACK, this one?). Then, I found this and no, I am not sorry AT ALL for the length (passages are bolded by me).

Thank you Baby Jesus, she finally made it to her EDI flight:

'(...) I noticed a little emblem on the shirts of many of the women on this flight. It looked like mountains and said Peaker. All the women were laughing and chatting and carrying on like they had known each other forever.

“Is this your first trip to Scotland?” I tried to make small talk with the lady next to me.

“Heavens, no! It’s my sixth.”

“Wow,” I said. “It’s such a big world, but you keep coming back here?”

“Yes, it’s just incredibly beautiful. I never get tired of it. There is no other place as magical on earth.” She smiled wistfully. “I’m actually coming for a gala.”

“A gala?” I parroted back to her. I thought galas were reserved for Barbie movies. In my social circle, no one I knew ever attended a gala.

“Yes! It’s called My Peak Challenge.” She leaned in closer, excited to share. “Have you read the Outlander series?”

“Funny you ask that because I just downloaded the first book.” It seemed like required reading when you went to Scotland. I loved to read and had nothing but time due to my social media fast, so it was sitting unopened on my iPad.

“Well, the character of Jamie is played by Sam Heughan, and he is the founder of My Peak Challenge. It’s not just a club; it’s a movement, and every year they have a gala in Edinburgh. People come from all over the world for this event.”

The germaphobe next to me chimed in. “This is my first year, but he has truly changed my life. I’ve lost twenty-two pounds.” I was impressed, having weighed nearly two hundred myself at one point. Losing sixty of it was one of the biggest accomplishments of my life.

“Losing weight is so hard,” I commiserated with her. “How did you do it?”

“The boring way, eating right and exercising.” She laughed, and I laughed with her because I knew too well it was the only way that worked long-term.

She continued on. “My Peak Challenge is a training and nutrition program where we support and challenge each other, but it’s not just that because Sam has raised nearly two million dollars for charities all over the world. He’s just incredible.” She was practically swooning and literally fanning herself. I wasn’t sure if it was because he was hot, or because she was.

That nutrition program must include the Sam Heughan is a God Kool-aid.

“This conference includes a meet and greet and a gala and a special workout that Sam leads. He’s just an amazing human being,” she gushed. She clearly was in love with Sam Heughan.

“I have been chosen to introduce him,” the sweet older lady to my left said. “So, I’ve got the next eight hours to figure out the words to say to introduce the man who has completely changed my life.”

“Yes!” She went on. “It’s an incredible organization. He’s really affecting change on a global level.” (sic!)

Great. I am stuck between two evangelists at a Sam Heughan-is-the-greatest-human-in-the-world presentation.

“We have a Facebook group, and everyone is just so awesome and supportive. It really is a family.”

“And how much does it cost to be in this family?” I asked skeptically.

“It wasn’t much,” she defended, quickly changing the topic. “Nearly every penny is donated to charity. He is changing lives,” she stressed so incredibly seriously I had to cover my mouth to stifle a giggle.

Is this a cult? It sounds like a cult. I am trapped on an airplane for the next eight hours with the Sam Heughan cult.

Luckily for me, headphones exist. It was an overnight flight, which meant I could close my eyes and pretend to sleep, and there were movies to be seen.' (Ninya - Scotland with a Stranger: A Memoir, Chapter Thirteen).

For some reason, I doubt Ninya ever opened that OL first tome, on her IPad or elsewhere. But the point of my post is not to poke fun at SRH, MPC and all the gracious Peakers who read and often comment on this humble blog (@ladyjane-lj, @rosfrank immediately come to mind and I am sure they are not the only ones).

The reason I quoted this passage at almost full length, despite the paltry writing skills and abysmal grammar/spelling on display (Sweet Baby Jesus, please make people see the real difference between affect and effect, thank you and amen) is that we are dealing here with a unique perspective on a sizeable chunk of this fandom. You see, Ninya has no damn agenda to promote, in OL terms. She is not a shipper, but she is not an Anti, either. She couldn't care less if S+C=❤️, or if Tait rhymes with Fate (it rhymes with Bait, if you ask me). She doesn't know anything about OL, its cast, its Best Fans Ever, you and me and her.

And this is precisely why her perspective is so damn interesting. She is a mere passer-by, who failed to be grabbed in by the OTT Only Mommie gushing and who saw possessiveness and objectification disguised as love. She saw the most problematic, hypocrite and unimportant side of this whole experience and this whole fandom. And it's terrible and I am really sorry she did.

Maybe someone else than us reads this. For once, I wish they did, for it is an unadulterated, faraway echo of Real Life and the Real World. Selling that Toy Boi image is WRONG, *** and PR and TPTB. It's counterproductive and a total turnoff to real people who can't be arsed to even look for the Balmaclellan Adonis on Google, just because this fan substack is really, really embarrassing.

Of course, they blindly buy the booze, religiously sign in year after year to just about everything he sells around. Of course they show up every single time and pitch their tents on the rude city pavement in front of God Knows Which liquor store in Whoville, America. But they also show up with baked lasagna, pinch his ass (Madame Tussaud's, anyone?) and geriatrically swoon front row, cackling and giggling and catcalling like they were 12. It's also because of these women that OL lost its fabulous innocence and authenticity and it's because of these women we do have the Global Merry-Go-Round Seasonal Shitshow that keeps all of us (sickly, I am the first to admit it) engaged here.

Finally, this is also why I am closely following all the business side of this ahem, universe. It's the road less traveled by and of course, probably the most rewarding.

Shoot me, the very moment I turn into Neilie. Let it be clearly known beforehand. And no, please do not resuscitate. I'd be too ashamed.

[scotianostra]

On 9th April 1747 Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat, the leading Scottish Jacobite rebel was beheaded on Tower Green, London.

Lovat has the unwanted notoriety of being the last man to be publicly beheaded at the Tower of London, our outlander fans will recall him as "The Fox"

Simon ‘The Fox’, 11th Lord Lovat and chief of Clan Fraser, was the Jacobite rogue everyone loved to hate. From his teenage years until his death by execution aged 80, he had been involved in every imaginable intrigue, both personally and politically.

He changed sides between King James and King William so often that it’s not certainly known whose side he was really on – if anyone’s. He wrote two autobiographies in his own lifetime which serve simply to muddy the waters further.

He was outlawed twice for acts of treason and spent much of his days pursued and accused of the rape and forced marriage of the previous Fraser chief’s widow to cement his own claim to the title. But despite a great deal of legal action over the case, she refused to testify against him. It’s one of the few crimes he regularly denied having committed.

The Fox had a different side: among poor Scots he was known and loved for constant acts of charity, he demonstrated an active concern for the wellbeing of his family and clan, and loved quoting Latin and Greek literature in any situation.

He eventually supported the Jacobite cause during the 45 after Charlie promised him a Dukedom.

The Fox was slippery to the end, he was summoned to Inverness by the Government and put under house arrest before the Battle of Culloden but made his escape through a "secret passage" that all these old houses supposedly had! A loyal servant then rowed him down Loch Ness to Gorthleck House, high on a hill overlooking the loch.

His half brother Master of Lovat, lead those loyal to Lovat to Culloden but it is broadly believed the battle was over by the time he approached the moor. Lovat later claimed this was against his wishes.

Clan Fraser, led by Charles of Inverallochy, suffered heavy losses during battle with 300 clansmen on the front of Jacobite lines.

Lovat met Charles Stuart after the defeat on Drumossie moor at Gorthleck House where it is said they conversed in French and drank wine. After the Prince made his escape, the Fox decided maybe he should also make his and was once again rowed across Loch Ness towards Castle Dounie seeing it in flames having already been looted by those supporting the Hanoverians.

Lovat was an old man and by this time riddled with arthritis and suffering from gout had to be carried around by his servants, even so he still managed to have a conference with other Jacobites near Loch Arkaig deciding they should raise a body of three thousand men and play cat and mouse with Cumberland's troops while he himself was going to escape to France.

He was captured on the shores of Loch Morar and sent south to London where his fate was sealed at a seven day trial in March 1647, six of which was the prosecution case, the final day being him stating his own case, the verdict was always going to be guilty and he was sentenced as all traitors were, to death by hanging, drawing and quartering, the King commuted this to "just" beheading.

Executions were a popular attraction back in the day and thousands gathered on Tower Hill, Lovat was said to be in "good spirits" in the days leading up to it, described as having a "good sense of humour" it amused him when a stand built for spectators to see him losing his head collapsed leaving many injured and 9 dead.

Among his last words was a line of Horace: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. (It is sweet and seemly to die for one’s country). He died, in his own eyes, as a Scottish patriot.

On to his burial, another controversial subject, the Government ordered his body be laid to rest in the Chapel within the Tower of London, St. Peter ad Vincula. For days his body was on display for 9 days it could be viewed for one penny until the authorities put a stop to it as ‘unseemly’. During this time it is claimed it was switched and his family took it north to The Wardlaw Mausoleum.

Many Outlanders have visited The Mausoleum, Diana Gabbiadini herself has been at least twice, the coffin said to be his had a bronze nameplate, now separated reading in Latin,

“In this coffin are laid the remains of Simon Lord Fraser of Lovat who, after twenty years in His own Land and abroad with the greatest distinction and renown, at the risk of his own life, restored and preserved his race, clan and household from the tyranny of the Athol and the treacherous plotting of the Mackenzies of Tarbat. To preserve an ancient house is not the greatest credit. Nor is there any honour for the enemy who despoiled it. Although that enemy was strong in his plotting and unrelenting warfare, yet Simon who was also skillful and cunning defeated him in war." it bears the Lovat coat of arms underneath.

In 2018 tests concluded that the remains found in the lead casket at Wardlaw Mausoleum, were actually those of a young woman, not the "Old Fox"

[inkblot-inc]

"Go Fish"

Summary: We get to see a bit of what the Council of Nine got to discussing while our main trio was getting acquainted (and re-acquainted) with the living island. Among other things anyways...

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Mutant!TigerShark!Reader

[AU Masterlist] Arc 2: [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] This is Part 4

Warning(s): Starting with a bit of human discriminaiton in the beginning, and then there's a touch of mutant discrimination/racism at the end...also language cuz of course there is-

Note(s): There's a lot more dialogue than i thought in this chapter- There’s even a whole scene of dialogue spoken between Enokan people, and while initially I was going to be difficult and use code for the whole exchange, I decided to keep it in regular text. I figure from the perspective of the scene, everyone knows and is speaking the Enokan language, whereas for other scenes, there were people present that don’t speak or understand the language. God I hope that makes sense. That really just means that you have a brief break.

Word Count: Just scraping by 3k

*squints* I give NO ONE permission to repost or translate my work. Make your own shit!

While Sienna met with the Council of Nine, they came to the decision that the two humans were to be left alone for now. Not only because of their apparent connection to one of their people, that being Y/n, but Enoka herself hasn’t shown herself hostile toward them.

They could have been done away with as soon as they set foot on her soil if She wanted to, as history has proved before.

Of course there was confusion and disagreement among most of the council members, as humans have been nothing but trouble for them. But at the end of the day, the Council of Nine acts as Enoka’s mouthpiece, and to deliberately go against Her would be sacrilege.

-----

One of the oldest members in the Council of Nine, Gideon, was not as easily appeased at the “stagnant” solution, and decided to speak up. “But we were ALL there at LumeCrest,” A few of the council member’s eyes went downward, “Even She couldn’t prevent things from going tits up! We must be proactive in getting rid of all of our potential threats.”

“And we are, that’s why we’re discussing this here and now. Enoka sees all that happens on this island. If she believes that the outlanders are safe enough to be here, then that’s all there is to it. She has yet to change her mind, but if she does, we will be the first to know and act.” Leander, the member of the council chosen to be impartial while presiding over this discourse, definitely had his exercise in patience. 

Gideon would not let up, “But can She read hearts? She speaks to the mind, but can she foresee what these strangers will do? It would serve us well to be vigilant and get rid of the root of the problem before it decides to grow. And who’s to say that these humans couldn’t have poisoned one of our own against us and had them lead the two here?”

Sienna set her glass of water down firmly, her eyes narrowed and fixed on the table in front of her. “Mind your tongue. That’s my blood you’re smearing, you cretin.” She took another sip of water to cool her head. This greybeard would not be getting a rise out of her to try and discredit Leander’s point with bias.

The older man’s indignation was clear as he banged his staff on the polished flooring. “By Sthenya’s Wings!-”

Sienna didn’t even turn her head to look at the white haired man, “Don’t you dare attach my mother’s name to your tantrum, Gideon. I could care less that you’re my elder. Keep my family’s name out of your mouth. They have nothing to do with our conference,”

One of the younger members, Aeris, piped up as she ran her index finger around the top of her own glass, “Hells, Gideon, with your lack of faith in the fucking ground you walk on, it’s a miracle you’ve been on the council this long.”

There was a pregnant pause after Aeris was the only one to chuckle at the ridiculous debate. Leander eventually cleared his throat, “Regardless of our personal feelings, Enoka has spoken. To not heed her words would make us impious figures. If you still find you cannot trust or show confidence in Her judgment, then let someone else take your place” Leander looked between all the council members before releasing a breath to recenter himself. “That’s all that will be said about the matter. Our people will express caution with the outlanders and they will be monitored during their time here,” He nodded his head in Sienna’s direction, “And they will leave Enoka physically and mentally intact,” He stared directly at Gideon who continued to grumble under his breath. “This meeting has come to its conclusion, I trust all of you have your work cut out for you over the next few days. May Enoka hold your hand.” With that, Leander got up from his own seat along with all of the other council members save for one.

---

Despite her overall stoic demeanor, Sienna was overjoyed to have found her youngest sibling.

It doesn’t take her long for her to find you, Natasha and Wanda walking through one of the more secluded Enokan flower fields before joining you.

Realizing that the three of you have only been on the surface level of the living island, Sienna then takes it upon herself to show you all the developments that Enoka has gone through in your *ahem*... time away.

The atmosphere was a bit awkward between the three of you as it hadn’t been that long since your last conversation reached a rather unsatisfying conclusion.

Both Natasha and Wanda didn’t have the time nor were they really eager to explain that neither of them really felt wanted on the island. In an effort to say something, both women took to saying that the timing of going to Enoka’s main vessel was too soon.

-----

“It’s not that we don’t want to visit the…..being that we’re literally standing on, but maybe we do that when we’re more settled.” Wanda placed a placating hand on your shoulder as she could feel your rebuttal brewing.

Natasha looked toward the lighter footsteps she heard in the distance briefly before speaking up in a slightly louder tone. “Maybe sometime after we find where our bags were put.”

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly, “Preferably, yes.”

Your eyebrows still furrowed, you let up on the idea for now, “Alright alright, fine. But I’m gonna make sure that shit happens,” You were still slightly confused at their insistence, but you could partially see their point, maybe easing into it was easier?

You coughed a bit before you reached up to your neck to smack your apparatus a bit. It was then that you heard a slight sloshing sound that shouldn’t be there. “Tash’, can you come look at my bulbs real quick?”

Natasha came closer to see that the domes holding water around your neck were only half full, and only managed to splash against the gills on your neck instead of surrounding them. “It’s emptying.”

The redhead moved to tighten the bulbs or see if the reservoir needed adjusting before Sienna finally approached the three of you. “I trust the three of you have been staying out of trouble,” She raised a brow at the device around your neck with curiosity and a hint of apprehension. “Is everything alright?” I saw that around your neck when we met as well.”

You briefly tapped Natasha’s hands before going to remove  the apparatus yourself, “I’m just fine, my ‘rratus is just fuckin’ up. Probably from when you knocked it off my neck back on the boat.” Your eyes were looking over the breathing device with practiced diligence before sighing, “It looks like it’s an internal issue, and I don’t have my bag with my kit inside to try and fix it.”

“If it’s tools you require to fix your… contraption, then you would certainly find such if we go below,” She looked up at the sky to see the Sun just starting to wane following a darker blue hue. “We should make it by sunset if you’re in a hurry. Follow me,”

---

The four of you walk (it’s a walkable place for sure bud goddamn the three of you are getting your steps in) toward the center of the island that almost resembles a plaza with a gigantic sinkhole in the middle that certainly wasn’t there before in your memory.

Sienna explains that the sinkhole came about as a byproduct of the flood.

If you look over the lip of the sinkhole you can see an encased cross section of the newer underground/underwater parts of Enoka that have been developed over the past ten-plus years.

For mutants whose mutations don’t do well in water, there’s a walkway as well as elevator of sorts down to the lower levels of Enoka.

The four of you decide to take the elevator to the underground layer that’s between the surface and underwater layers of the living island.

Sienna makes it clear that Enoka has rebuilt herself the best She could and is now identified, not only what’s on the surface, but by three residential layers known as: The Survived (surface), The Buried (underground), and The Sunken (underwater)

There are just as many homes and establishments underground as there are on the surface and one could conclude that the same could be said for the underwater portion as well.

The underground is flooded in artificial light in the form of lanterns and poles that hold resemblance to streetlights.

It turns out that over the years, the Natural energon Enoka produces was synthesized to be used in smaller devices put around the subterranean portions of the island.

The natural energon has found many new uses, not only as a form of energy/power, but also helps produce stronger currents of electricity.

Those eclectic currents were then used to jumpstart their private network, allowing one to pluck signals from outside of Enoka.

et voilà: secured access to the internet and media from all over.

-----

Sienna had the four of you walk around the rim of the layer closest to the wall to avoid regular civilians as they had the habit to stare at Natasha and Wanda. The two of them not only felt but probably smelt off to the general population of mutants, and while you'd gotten agitated more than once at the squints and partial glares your partner and close friend received, you took to almost straddling the stone wall to minimize attention.

“Enoka certainly feels bigger than she was before the flood,” You rested your hand on the large stone wall that made up the integrity of The Buried. “Y teb u'yore a 'hll fo a tol torgresn, oto.” There was the smallest pulse underneath your hand that made you chuckle. You turned toward Wanda and Natasha and gestured for them to come closer to the wall. “Here, feel for yourself.”

Natasha didn’t need much convincing, but Wanda was a bit more hesitant. “I’m not stroking a wall, gup.”

Natasha’s hand stayed in one place, but the rough surface was rather warm as opposed to the cooler temperature of normal sediment. “She really is everywhere,”

You nodded at the russian’s remark with a flash of your pointy grin. “Basically,” You then reached for Wanda’s hand before she could protest and continued to goad her until she lightly placed it on the wall. There were a quick few pulses under the brunette’s hand that almost tickled and made her hand flinch.

You chuckled at Wanda's response as you slowly let go of her wrist while she kept it there, “ese, u'yore nief, Wandy.”

Sienna watched the exchange with a far away look in her eye.

~ “Just rest your hand on the tree, grumps. She’s not gonna bite your hand off if you touch her.” A younger Sienna had the adolescent version of you by the wrist to try and place your hand on one of the trees along the shoreline.

Younger you definitely fought a lot harder than Wanda seemed to be, “That’s not what Rudy said! ‘Noka snacks on kids and I don’t wanna get eaten!”

Sienna briefly chuckled before kneeling in front of you, “I told you that you can’t trust anything that that birdbrain says, Y/n. come here, I’ll show you,” She grasped your wrist once again and slowly moved your smaller hand toward the trunk of the tree.

Once it touched the scratchy texture of the tree, your little face scrunched together to brace for the impending chomp on your hand. A chomp that never came even after more than a few seconds. You slowly opened your eyes to see your hand perfectly intact before slightly blushing in embarrassment.

Sienna rested her hand on your shoulder as you focused more on the warm feeling radiating under your hand. “The last thing She wants is to hurt us, Y/n. The most she’ll do is reprimand you, and I’m sure Rudy knows that much well enough” You jumped slightly after feeling a few stronger pulses from the tree trunk under your hand, almost as if She was cosigning Sienna’s words. You laughed at the thought of the Bird boy that always managed to get in trouble or piss someone off.

Sienna took her hand off of your shoulder to ruffle your hair with a smile, “Ese, u'yore nief, Y/nn.” ~

Sienna cleared her throat as she returned back to the present. “The passage to The Sunken is just this way.”

---

The passage down to The Sunken is inside of some form of glass tube that allows the four of you to see out into the ocean,  where people and sea life alike are going about their day.

Aquariums have nothing on this view fr-

You’d gone down far enough that you can even start to see farmers at a few of the brine pools and sea farms by the ocean floor.

The difference in air was something even Natasha and Wanda had begun to notice as you could almost taste the residual salt that still hung in the air at this deep of a level.

-----

The four of you finally reached a space that looked more like a medical building of sorts. Though the expectant smell of sterilizer was replaced with that of pear and lemon.

“Everything that isn’t grown directly by Enoka herself comes out of this building. We’ve even started Sunken Gardens down here so that that our lowest layer has access to plants that were originally only grown on the surface. Our bigger brains do work down here.” She led you into one of the smaller laboratories that had shelves stocked with tools, machines, and naturally made (as well as engineered) chemicals and metals.

You inspected a stack of thinner sheet metal with a smirk, “Well ain’t that somethin. I’ll definitely be able to make hella improvements down here,” You grabbed a few sheets of the white gray metal and a mess of other things and set them on an empty table before you turned to the three women in the room. “This shouldn’t take me too long, but I don’t blame you guys if you aren’t too interested in just watching me.”

Natasha spoke up before the thought could fully register, “Watching you has never bothered me before,” Wanda and Sienna were content to pretend that neither had heard what the redhead said while she found the rubber tile flooring to be more interesting.

Sienna pushed ahead, “I figured you all would want to get to your belongings and where you’ll be staying sooner or later.”

At the mention of their belongings, Wanda perked up and agreed. “I really should,” The brunette gave a longer look toward Natasha before turning to Sienna, “Both Wanda and Jaws can stay here, but if you could show me where we’ll be staying that’d be great.” There were a few things Wanda had to look over in her bags, and maybe call Vision to unwind a bit, but maybe this would also be a small opportunity to have a positive interaction with Sienna.

Sienna, for her part, seemed neutral about the prospect, “We should get going now, since I believe your things were set up on the surface.” The security chief watched Wanda’s eyes widen at the thought of having to walk back up through the two layers before fracking a knowing smirk that looked very similar to your own. “There’s an elevator to The Survived in this building, no need to worry for your arches.”

---

Far outside of Enoka was a deep gray ship that was occupied by a great deal of armed forces in full black suits roaming around. Below the main deck in the cockpit/planning room of the ship was a familiar brown haired man standing over the screen in the center console showing a map with a small blip on it that was no longer moving. It hadn’t moved for about five hours now. The Brown haired man looked to his left at the woman at the helm steering the ship, “You told us we had to fall back, but how far out are we?” The woman internally sighed before taking her eye off of the waters in front of her. “A little over a week. I told you we would have to take this slow so that they don’t catch on. Stay on the move and circle around so we don’t get caught by their defense and surveillance. We’ve been over this, Graydon. I urge you to find your patience.” Graydon ran a frustrated hand through his hair before taking a breath and calm his rather antsy behavior. He looked back down at the virtual map with the steady blinking light on their target. “I know, Tar’. I just want to do this as soon as possible before the higher ups decide to pull us out of this job.” “Well they’ll know we’re there as soon as we step foot on the goddamn sand, so urgency isn’t really a factor,” Tara looked at Graydon for a second before putting the ship on autopilot and getting up. This isn’t a high level op. There’s only a 75% chance they’ll put us on more if we do this right.” She moved to stand next to Graydon before taking a look at the map to try and see what he was seeing. “What’s so important about this job that you’ve wanted to run it three different times?” “My birth mother was one of these muties. Said she wanted a place just like this for people like her where they could breed mutants and make more of them like rats. She’d go so far for her perfect world that she threw me away… She’s gotta be there, and even if she’s not I want to burn her dream to the fucking ground.”

** footnote: I wanted to use a completely different script for the Enokan language being spoken, but I couldn’t find a way to import it so that it was shown, so instead I made a simple code using typoglycemia (aka just unscramble the letters of each word). To make it so that it didn’t look as clunky, I sometimes replaced (i) with (y). Some words that end with vowels may have an apostrophe that takes the place of the vowel. Apostrophes can also be found at the beginning of words with vowels for fluidity’s sake. I didn’t think swears should be scrambled cuz that just *looks* off to me. The point of these changes is to have this resemble a spoken language more than it is a blatant tactic to confuse you.

Here’s a word unscrambler in case you need it

[3pirouette]

Fic: The Infinity Leap (1/1)

Title: The Infinity Leap

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Spoilers: Through Endgame, Basic Quantum Leap Orginal Series knowledge required. 

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Word Count: 

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :) 

Story Summary: Dr. Sam Beckett leaps into Agent Peggy Carter to write a wrong, but in the end, he may just end up righting two of them. 

Story A/N: This story assumes 3 things: 1. Season 2 of Agent Carter never happened 2. The MCU up though Endgame is otherwise intact and 3. The reader has basic knowledge of Quantum Leap. Quite Frankly, this is really more of a Quantum Leap episode than anything, so I know there’s gonna be like… 5 people interested? But for those of you interested, I hope you really, really enjoy this. 

Also, I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a subscriber to the Outlander/Doctor Who version of time travel that makes the events of Infinity War possible in the Main MCU timeline. Seems Quantum Leap rules also fit into that. 

This story is set in 2000, about 5 years after the last “leap” we see in the series, and assumes they get to continue the Quantum Leap program for several years. 

I had hoped to really get this to a full length story, but it’s been sitting on my hard drive for a LONG time. In the end, I’m pretty happy with it, even if it isn’t exactly what I set out to write. 

For Steggy Week 2023, Day 3: AU’s and Crossovers @steggyfanevents

~*~

Peggy Carter blinked. 

Before she’d blinked, she’d been in the conference room, sipping the dregs of the morning coffee as Thompson addressed the room with his usual narcissistic flare. 

After she blinked, she was in a white room she’d never seen before, in a white unitard she’d never worn before, and she didn’t feel a thing. 

~*~

Sam took a slow breath as the tingling dissipated and did his best to keep a neutral facial expression. He kept his eyes on the man talking, hoping to feign interest. It was always hard stepping into a person when there was something happening, when people expected him to be able to contribute. 

He slowly brought his hands under the table and down his stomach: a suit jacket. That seemed to track for the way the rest of the room was dressed, but he felt that funny feeling where his chest was too tight and his neck wasn’t constricted enough. A little lower with his hands and he confirmed what he’d been afraid of: a skirt. He was a woman. Again. 

He wiggled his toes and rolled his ankles; at least the heels were sensible. Was he the secretary? He hated being someone’s secretary. 

“So that’s it,” the man at the front said sharply, turning to hook his thumbs in his suspenders. “Any questions?”

Sam stayed quiet, hoping to get through the meeting without having to say a word. He looked down at the folder in front of him and immediately tossed the idea of “secretary” out the door. Secretaries didn’t usually have folders marked “eyes only” and “top secret.”

“Even you, Carter?” The man looked directly at Sam, and he looked up, locking gazes. “No thoughts or suggestions?”

Sam knew that tone, recognized it for the goad that it was and wished he could fire back. He almost did, as the man seemed to expect something from him, but he didn’t know what was going on, and didn’t want to change anything before he knew what he was really here to change. “No. Not right now,” he replied, shooting what he hoped was just enough of a smile laced with just enough sarcasm that the man would believe it. 

“Yeah, fine. Right.” He turned back to the rest of the men around the table, seemingly upset he wasn’t going to get to spar with him. “You have your assignments.” He waved his hand and everyone stood to leave. 

Sam did the same, gathering the papers and coffee in front of him, standing slowly to get used to the feeling of the heels on his feet. 

A man with a crutch stopped next to him, whispering even though they were the only people left in the room. “I thought you were ready to give him hell about that plan?”

Sam shrugged, juggling the folder for a second. “Well, I decided it wasn’t the right time.”

The man sighed, stepping forward and through the door. “One of these days he’s going to listen to you, Peggy.” 

Sam nodded, slowly following him out to the bullpen of desks. Peggy. Peggy… Carter. He scanned the nameplates and found a Margaret Carter in the back and made his way to the desk. The one thing that was on his side was that everyone seemed engrossed in their own work. Sam sat at the desk and kicked the heels off underneath, wiggling his toes as he looked at the clean desktop. He pulled open drawers and sifted through the papers there, finding little to go on. 

He heard the woosh of the imaging room door open behind him and picked out a pad and pulled a pen to his fingers as Al’s voice drifted over him in the noisy room. “Let me tell you, Sam, this is going to be a tough one, that lady in there- she isn’t spilling a thing! We had a hell of a time finding you, and even then, it was a wing and a prayer. Ziggy’s been malfunctioning ever since you leaped, insisting you’re in the 40’s.” He spun, frustrated. “We don’t even have a name.” Sam smiled to himself and tapped the nameplate on the front of the desk, just like he was thinking.

Al moved around in front of him, meandering to look at the name plate. “Margaret Carter…” He huffed, typing it into his handlink. “Well, that’s more than we’ve gotten all morning.” Al leaned back, looking Sam over. “Wow, Sam, you’re…”

Sam looked up, annoyance on his face, but he said nothing. 

Al let his hands wave in the air for a moment and sighed. “Yeah, you’re a ‘she’ for sure.” He snapped his mouth closed, for the first time realizing where they were. He looked over the clothes, the decorations on the walls, the telephone on the desk. “This looks a little…” He stepped over to the desk across from Sam where a newspaper was lying next to an Agent drinking his coffee. Al leaned over, eyebrows raising. “April 16, 1948.” He looked at the handlink as it beeped at him. “Ok, fine. You were right.”

Sam looked up, surprised, but put his head down and wrote furiously on the pad before him. “1948?”

Al looked at Sam’s note. “I mean, it’s not unheard of- you have leapt out of your lifetime before… not a lot but…” Al shrugged, then looked up at his handlink as it beeped and blinked in his hand. “This can’t be right.”

“What?” Sam wrote. 

Al huffed. “Ziggy is saying that this woman is classified.” Sam’s look asked the question he couldn’t say out loud. “Well, I don’t know!” Al waved his arms, one disappearing through the man seated in front of them as the hologram interreacted with the world around them. “I don’t know how a whole, entire person can be classified. I’m gonna…” He huffed again and pointed to where Sam suspected the door to the imaging chamber was. “We’ll get it sorted. In the mean time, just…” Al shrugged, disappearing into the air. 

Sam sighed, crossing out the notes on the paper until they couldn’t be seen. “Oh, boy.”

~*~

Peggy gaped at the woman across from her. “This is, frankly, the worst interrogation I’ve ever been a part of,” she leaned back and crossed her arms, fighting to keep her breathing even. She was trying to come up with a clue as to where she was or why she was taken, but the woman across from her was giving Peggy as little as Peggy was providing. 

The woman sighed gently. “I’ve told you, this isn’t an interrogation. I asked your name.”

She laughed, shaking her head and sitting back into the couch more. “You’ve kidnapped me and you don’t even know my name?” Peggy looked her up and down. She was probably poisoned. Maybe gas. She couldn’t believe they’d managed to get her out of the SSR building without anyone noticing or putting up a fight she didn’t remember. It must have been gas. She wondered how many others they had. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“Miss,” the young, dark- skinned woman continued, closing the notepad she had in front of her. “If you don’t cooperate, we can’t help you.”

“You’ve refused to tell me who you are or why I’m here, and you don’t even know who I am. I believe we’re done speaking.” Peggy’s mind was racing, but she was somewhat relieved to see the woman slip her pad in her pocket and stand. 

~*~

Al stood at the entrance to the Starbright Project, waiting patiently. He was sure Sam needed him in some way, that he’d been gone too long now, but surely a few hours wouldn’t hurt.

He hoped. 

The black SUVs stopped in front of him, and out stepped a man in a black suit with unnecessary sunglasses as it was nearly night. He turned, and helped a stately woman out of the back. She was old, older than Al, with fine lines around her mouth and an expertly twisted hairstyle. She moved toward Al with purpose, the man following just a step behind. 

The woman stopped right in front of him, and the man that followed stepped next to them. “Admiral Al Calavichi?”

“That’s me,” Al gave a short salute. “And you are…”

The man nodded, then held out his hand. “Agent Coulson, and this is Former Shield Director Margaret Carter.”

“Admiral,” she started, in a soft English tone that let Al know exactly who she was, “I believe we have a lot to talk about.”

~*~

Sam was following the flow of people out of the building, thankful for the idea of a general quitting time. He turned his ankle more than once on the pumps, stumbling out of the elevator just as the sound of the imaging chamber set his teeth on edge. He turned his head, but couldn’t say anything in the crush of people. His eyes said it all: where have you been?

“I know, I know!” Al waved his hands, following Sam as he made his way through the building. “I was sidetracked by… well, you’re not going to believe it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows and stopped, hoping for a payphone but settling for the little door to the side labeled “women.” He slipped into the bathroom and checked each stall before locking the door behind him, Al floating through. 

“You’ve been gone all day!” Sam accused, dropping his briefcase on the floor. 

“Like I said: sidetracked.” Al shrugged, barely able to hide his excitement. 

Sam leaned on the sink, exhausted. “Well, it better be good, because tht bull pen was hell. Those guys, this time…” He shook his head and caught his hat as it fell into his hands. “’Coffee, Peggy. Can you take notes, Peggy? File these, would ya, Peg?’” He made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “Leaping into women has given me such a different appreciation for them.” 

“I have an appreciation for them.” Al pulled the cigar from between his teeth, his eyes unfocusing as he thought back to earlier that day, “And the one that got me sidetracked. When I tell you she was a knock-out! A ten! A real silver fox. I mean—”

“Al!” Sam turned, rolling his ankle and kicking off the heels. “You left me here all day to see a woman?”

“No, actually, I was visited by the head of one of the countries most prestigious intelligence organizations.” He shrugged, a light smile on his face, “who just so happens to be, well…” He smiled and raised his eyebrows. 

Sam stared at his reflection, truly seeing Peggy for the first time, mumbling at his friend. “Let’s go, will you?” 

Sam’s whisper of desperation stopped the man mid rude gesture and he shrugged. “Anyway, big to-do on arrival, she comes into my office, leaves her goon outside, and starts in on the story.”

Sam tried to straighten his hat in the mirror, feeling nothing of the complex hair style under his hands. “What story?”

“Turns out, you’ve lept into Agent Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter. She was a Great American Hero, Sam.” Al’s eyes sparkled. “During World War Two she was a code breaker with the SOE then a spy with the SSR. She was Captain America’s liaison to the agency and tracked Hydra through Europe with the Howling Commandos!”

Sam looked blankly at him, then turned to look at the soft-boned woman in the mirror that stared back at him. It didn’t make sense to him that a woman with that kind of resume was relegated to getting coffee and filing paperwork. “Must be the Swiss Cheese… none of that means much to me.” 

“She’s one of the best spies who ever lived,” Al threw up his hand and paced the small bathroom. “But that’s why literally her entire life was classified.”

“Classified?” Sam barked out a laugh, pacing the small bathroom. “What do you mean, classified? We have the highest clearance of any—”

Al lifted his eyebrows, punching more buttons. “Not from SHIELD.”

“SHIELD?” Sam ran his hand over his face, shaking his head. “Why did she show up?”

“Any search for her in a government database gets flagged.” Al shrugged. “She said when she saw it was Starbright, she knew she had to come.”

“She remembers?” Sam asked, astounded. 

“She can’t. Well, shouldn’t.” He dropped the handlink down and pushed his cigar back between his lips. “She didn’t say if she did or not.”

“But, if she remembers, that means what I’ve needed to change—”

“Is already changed?” Al twisted his face up and shook his head. “No. No, no, no. That’s not how…” He shrugged and sagged. “I was going to say that’s not how this works, but every time I think we have a handle on it, something surprises me.”

Sam looked at the door, knowing it was only a matter of time before someone else was going to try to get into the bathroom. “So then, did she tell you want I’m here to do?”

“No,” All huffed, twiddling the cigar. “but…”

“But?”

He changed the subject. “But Ziggy thinks you’re here to stop an assassination.” 

Sam perked up. He wasn’t sure how he could make something like that happen, especially if an actual spy like Peggy hadn’t been able to. “Assassination? Of who?”

“Angie Martinelli.” Al tapped the handlink and started reading off the facts. “Angie Martinelli was a broadway actress. She and Peggy are roomates, living at the Manhattan home of one Howard Stark.”

Sam rolled his eyes, leaning back into the sink. “Now that name I remember.”

“Imagine if Tony Stark had bankrolled us…” Al mused for a moment, eyes bright. He stopped and sighed. “Missed out. Anyway,” He hit the keys again, waiting for the next bit of information to pop up. “Tomorrow afternoon, Angie will be found in her bedroom, half naked with her throat slit. It’s only after the fact that it was discovered she was hiding that someone had been stalking her, meeting her at the stage door, sending her threatening letters…”

Sam leaned back on the sink, “Is that what Peggy told you?”

“No.” All sighed and shrugged. “She made me explain Project Quantum Leap, in detail, and then nodded.”

“Nodded?” Sam asked, confused. “That’s it?”

“Once she knew what it was all about, she asked what we knew about where you were, and then she came up with the same idea Ziggy did- Angie.”

“I don’t like you running around telling other agencies about-“

“You tell SHIELD what ever they ask for, Sam. You know that.” Al, paused and  shrugged. “Knew that. Anyway,” He shifted, walking through the sinks as he paced. “She said that missing that Angie was in danger was something she never forgave herself for, and if we could fix it, well…”

“Well, what?”

“She just kinda stopped and looked sad. Asked if we had any way of targeting where you went.” Al frowned. “ I told her no and then she looked up at me and said the damndest thing.” 

“What?”

Al, knit his brow, shaking his head. “She said, ‘I suppose you should save her, then, who knows if his chance will ever come.”

“His who?” Sam asked as the door rattled. 

“Dunno,” Al shrugged, watching Sam pull his shoes on and grab his briefcase. “She and her goon left.”

“Look, just get me to her apartment and we’ll take it from there, ok?” Sam smiled, opening the door to the face a bewildered young woman. 

“Everything ok in there?” She asked, looking Sam over. 

“Fine, just…” he paused, smiling, “Classified.”

Sam rushed past her, headed out to save a life. 

~*~

Angie stood with her hands on her hips. “What do you mean I’m not going in today?”

Sam matched her pose, the standoff tense in the living area of the Stark apartment they shared. Angie had barely been home, and Sam had only been able to track her down with Al’s help half the time. “I mean, you need to stay home tonight. Both of us do.”

Angie walked right up to him, got in his face the way that only best friends or siblings do. “You’re gonna get me fired, Peg.”

“Call in sick,” Sam held his ground, placing his hands on her shoulders. 

“To Broadway?” Angie rolled her eyes and started pacing back and forth. “What in the world could be so important that-“

Sam had one card to pull, and he hoped his plan would be right. Peggy, in the original time line, had missed that Angie was being stalked. Probably, he’d thought more times than he could count as he tried to track the girl down, because she was never around. But Angie knew some of what Peggy did for a living, even if she didn’t know all of it, and he was banking on their bond of friendship being enough cause for Angie’s trust. “Why didn’t you tell me about what’s going on?”

It was enough to get her to stop in her tracks, back to Sam. Her shoulders tightened. “Tell you want?”

“You’re being stalked.”

Angie tried to brush it off with a laugh. “What? Like corn?”

Sam shook his head. It wasn’t a term that was familiar yet. “Who's harassing you?”

“I don’t even know the guy.” Angie looked down at her feet, shaking her head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing and you know it,” Sam moved closer to her, lifting her chin to him. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Tell me.”

~*~

Sam was supposed to be on a stake out, the very one he’d heard planned out as he lept into Peggy Carter. He took his own advice and called himself in sick, and now sat with a very disgruntled, and somewhat anxious, Angie, Peggy’s gun sitting next to him on the table as he read. 

“Nobody’s coming,” Angie muttered, focusing on the script in her hands. 

“You trying to convince me or convince yourself?” Sam asked, looking up from the newspaper in his hands. 

“You,” Angie shot back, weakly. 

They went back to reading, radio playing softly in the background, when after a few minutes Sam’s head popped up. It was the sound of scratching. Quiet, but there. 

Angie watched as he pulled the gun into his hand, slowly standing. Sam hushed her with a finger at his lips. 

The imaging chandler door opened, Al popping through. “Sam, it looks like any time between about a half hour ago and-“ He stopped, watching Sam slip through the dark apartment. “Oh, shoot, it’s happening now, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded, Angie following close behind as he swept through each bedroom, Al walking through walls and calling out as he cleared each room ahead. 

“You really think someone-“

“Shh,” Sam quieted Angie again. “Stay close, ok?”

She cringed to his hips, following along like the caboose of a train. “You’re the one with the gun, I ain’t going nowhere.”

“Sam!” All called, two rooms ahead. “Here, in the Pantry. One guy coming up the dumbwaiter!” 

Sam moved swiftly, Angie following. On Al’s cue, he pushed through the door to the kitchen, hitting the intruder in the face with the door and knocking him back. Angie’s screams mingled with the swing music pouring from the radio as Sam jumped on him, landing a solid right hook before tumbling him to the ground, unconscious. 

Between Al’s supportive cries, Angie’s screams, and the music, Sam could barely focus as he reached for the handcuffs in Peggy’s pocket. “Angie, go call the police.”

“Aren’t you-“

Sam shook his head, sitting heavily on the man. “We need the regular police, not the SSR.”

Angie ran out of the room while All finally focused. “Good job, Sam! According to Ziggy,” he paused, tapping the handlink gently before giving it a final hard knock, “Angie lives a long life and has a fabulous career.”

“She get fired for calling in sick?”

All frowned. “Yeah, but it won’t matter. She gets picked up to be a series regular for a radio serial in a few months, then breaks into the movies.” 

“Peggy?” Sam asks, slipping to the side of the intruder and sitting on the floor, one hand on him in case he woke up. “She still get to be Director of SHIELD?”

Al knocks his handlink again and it beeps. He smiles and nods. “Yup. Looks like the little information we had didn’t change, so-“ He pause,d listening to a voice only Al could hear back on the other side of the hologram. “What letter?” He waited again, and Sam watched, confused. “There is no letter!”

“Letter?” Sam asked quietly, knowing they only had a few seconds before Angie came back or their assailant came to. 

Al shook his head. “Gushy is telling me there’s a letter in my office and it’s been there since Carter entered the waiting room for me to open, top secret, high priority. There’s no letter in my office.”

Sam tilted his head. “There wasn’t a letter in your office.”

Al opened his mouth to argue, but then it hit him. There hadn’t been a letter before Sam changed history. 

Now there was. 

“I’m gonna go read that letter.” 

Al disappeared through the imaging chamber door just as Angie came back. “They’re on their way…” Her voice died out as she got a glimpse of the face of the man on the floor. 

“You know him?”

Angie nodded, eyes wide. “That’s our stage manager! You mean to say he’s the one…”

~*~

Al tried to hold on to the feeling that there was no letter. He knew as soon as he stepped outside of the Imaging chamber, whatever had changed in history would feel like reality to him. 

He needed to read it, to try to compare it with what he could remember. 

He strode through Project Starbright’s halls without saying a word to anyone, holding his hand up to stop people from talking with him. Once in his office, he din’t even bother sitting to open the Manila envelope marked “eyes only, top secret.”

Admiral Calavichi, 

If you’re reading this, that means the day has come when my younger self has shown up in your lovely white waiting room. I have been told that this is how this must happen, that to stray from this would be to mess with forces beyond all of our comprehension, and so though I have not given you any reason to trust me, I must ask that you do as I say. 

If we do this right, all will stay exactly as it is, for it has already happened, and always will happen this way. Do not ask me how, for I have no understanding of it myself. What I do have is a deep desire for things to be as they are, and not as they could be. 

Dr. Beckett has leaped into my younger self. You will find no record of me, as little exists. At that time I was Agent Margaret Carter of the SSR, a spy. I remember nothing of that time when I sat in your waiting room. Whatever right Dr. Beckett put wrong, I have no memory of, and cannot help you with this, but I know that he succeeded, or will succeed. 

And when that is over, you must give Sam a message. You must tell him exactly this: He must go to the research level and wait. When he sees him, tell him to go home. Tell him, I’ve said to come home. 1952, to be exact. 

The “him” I refer to must remain a mystery, but rest assured both you and Sam will know exactly who when the time comes, as Sam told him that much. He’ll be confused, but accepting, as time travel is not unknown to him. 

You must deliver your message. It’s the only chance we’ll have to right this wrong. 

Al looked for another page, for something that made sense, but there was nothing except Director Carter’s signature and a date: 1953. 

~*~

Sam looked up from his desk in the SSR bullpen as Al stepped into the room, right through a desk and two men passing. 

It was always jarring to see his friend moved through like a ghost. 

Sam pulled over a pad and wrote, “Why haven’t I leaped yet?”

“Because I gotta show you this.” Al hovered the letter from Director Carter over the pad so Sam could read it. He waited as he watched his eyes go back and forth, Sam mouthing him over and over. 

He leaned down, scribbling, “Who do you think ‘him’ is?”

Al shrugged. “No way to tell. We got bupkis on most of her life.” Al sighed. “You know where research is?”

Sam started to answer, but Al felt his heart drop as the blue lightning started to envelop him. 

Sam was leaping. 

There was no time to go to the research level. 

There was no time to right one more wrong. 

~*~

Sam took the long moment to let the blood rush to his fingers and toes, to feel the energy that crackled through him just a second ago dissipate. He took a deep breath and let his eyes see and his body feel. 

Heels. Again. 

Pants. A sensible pants suit. 

He looked down in the small office at the papers in his hands. They were marked classified with a symbol that suddenly seemed very familiar. He looked up, searching for the answer he already knew. He picked up the nameplate on the desk and smiled. 

“Director Carter,” he mumbled to himself, smiling before placing it back. “Glad to see they finally listened to you.”

He sat in the chair behind him, looking over the documents on the table to try to get a clue as to why he was there when the phone on the desk rang. “He-hello?” He stuttered out. 

“Director Carter?” A male voice confidently replied, “You asked me to call when I detected that energy spike?”

“I did?” he asked, then caught himself and cleared his throat. “I did. Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know how you knew it was going to happen, but just now we got an alert from the research subbasement. Do you want me to send someout out?”

He felt fear and excitement run through him, the letter Al had shown him clear in his mind. “No, no. I’ll go.”

“Are you sure?”

He sat back, surprised after all this time they were still questioning her. “You think I can’t handle myself?”

“No, not at- I was just.”

“Thank you for the report, that will be all.” Sam hung up the phone and popped from his chair as the door to the imaging chamber opened. 

“Sam—” Al started excitedly. 

“I know.” Sam pointed to the plaque on the desk. “Can you get me to… the research subbasement?” he asked, carefully trying to remember the name. 

“Yeah. Start moving and we’ll see what…” He tapped the hand link then pounded it against his palm as they moved out of the office. “I’m guessing down.”

Sam started through the base, trying to feign confidence as Al called out lefts and rights to bring him to a set of elevators. Once in, he hit the button and waited for Al to talk, he couldn’t say anything with the other people in there. 

“So, you’re Peggy Carter again, Director do SHIELD, this time. It’s April 16th, 1970 and you’re in a SHIELD research facility at Camp Lehigh in New Jersey.” The elevator stopped, and the pair of scientist stepped off, leaving Sam and Al to descend to the lowest research level. 

“And I gotta tell someone… to go home?” Sam asked. “I remembered the research level but-“

“Him was all she told us. You’re gonna know him when you see him.” Al emphasized the vagueness with his cigar, pointing it towards the doors. Al sighed, “You gotta tell him Peggy says to go home to 1952.”

“Which means he’s got to be another time traveler?” Sam asked, anxious as the elevator dinged. 

He stepped out, Al following. “I’d assume, but you know what that makes out of you and me.” Al shoved the cigar in his mouth, wandering through rows of machines. “There’s nobody here, Sam.”

“There was some kind of energy spike,” Sam whispered, clearing the space one row of desks and shelves at a time. “Something has-“

“It oh.”

Sam stopped in his tracks, “What ut oh?”

Sam could see Al, frozen with his hands up, staring at a a corner he couldn’t see into. “He can see me, Sam.”

“Who?”

He pulled the cigar from his mouth, astounded. “Remember when she said you’ll know him when you see him?”

Sam slipped quietly up beside Al until he saw a figure hiding in the dark, red and white flight suit, nothing that belonged in this time, or any time Sam had ever been a part of, lifting and lowering a shimmering visor on his helmet, eyes wide with surprise and confusion. What stood out, though, was the shield on his arm. Even with his Swiss Cheese brain, Sam would have known that shield anywhere. 

“Captain America,” he whispered out, in awe. 

“Captain Freaking America,” Al echoed, in nearly as much shock. “She wants us to right that wrong.”

“I can hear you, too.” He let the visor stay down, his face partially hidden but the futuristic helmet. “You seem to know who I am,” Steve started, intensely. “So how about you tell me who the two of you are, and start explaining why you’re impersonating Director Carter.”

Sam smiled. “Oh, boy.”

End A/N: So, there wasn’t a place to PUT this, but the theory in my head goes that Without the visor to the suit up, Steve sees Peggy. However, with the nanotech visor up, which is partially powered by Pym particles and has been affected by traveling through the Quantum Realm, Steve can see Sam as he really is and see and hear Al. I had hoped to work that into the story, but I really liked the idea of ending on an “oh boy” for all my QL fans. 

[brian-in-finance]

A Tale of Two Tonys

and Brian knows the difference 😉

Part Four of Four

It was suggested elsewhere in July* Brian confuses the Tonys’ roles. It’s also suggested one Tony entered the spotlight only when a(n imagined) narrative required a participant. (*Waited for today’s Happy Birthday 🥳)

Longer still before TV-Outlander…

The Fratellis — Jon, Mince, and Baz — and manager Tony McGill at SXSW 2007 (Photo: Wikipedia)

Music agency wound down after discord over funding

A MUSIC organisation which helped Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol find fame has been wound down amid uncertainty over its financial future.

One official from NewMusic in Scotland (Nemis) has criticised the government and the Scottish Arts Council (SAC) for failing to give contemporary music the level of support of other art forms.

However, the SAC said Nemis had failed to provide audited accounts and a business plan, and pointed out that a number of its board members had resigned recently. It has already had GBP 100,000 of public money.

Nemis, which has an office in Jamaica Street, Glasgow, offers advice to musicians and bands on a one-to-one basis and through organised seminars, as well as helping with marketing and promotion. It also has had a pivotal role in the annual Musicworks convention in Glasgow.

Two years ago, it produced a promotional CD of Scottishbased bands which went to some of Europe's most influential industry executives at the MTVEurope Music Awards in Edinburgh, including offerings from the-then little known bands Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol.

But now the four-year-old development agency has said it has run out of money and it will effectively have to halt operations. Only its website, offering contacts and diary dates, will remain.

The agency has had arts council grants worth GBP 70,000, and GBP 30,000 in start-up help from Scottish Enterprise.

Alec Downie, new music development officer forNemis, said the body could not continue its work and was scathing of "elitism" in arts funding.

"In my view, the arts council is nepotistic and bureaucratic and, most of all, is out of touch with what is happening now. I would argue that the likes of The Delgados, Chemikal Underground, and Belle and Sebastian are culturally significant, but they (the arts council)would not.

"That shows the mentality of the people that control the arts here."

Scott Twynholm, of the Glasgow electro-pop band Hoboken said help from Nemis had proved vital. The band released an album last year and will release a single next month.

"Through Nemis, we appeared on two CDs which were distributed at the majormusic conferences throughout the world, " Mr Twynholm said.

"There is no way we would be in the position of recording our second album, or our new single, were it not for the help and advice Nemis has provided."

Tony McGill, manager of The Fratellis, who recently signed to Island records, said: "I have got the MD of Island to send a strongly worded e-mail to the SAC because the work Nemis does is crucial.

"When you are starting out as a band, you don't knowwhat to do, you don't have the contacts or the knowhow, and Nemis supplies all that. I am shocked this is happening."

An SAC spokeswoman said there was no doubt of "absolute commitment" by Nemis to its work, but the council was "a steward of public funds and needs to be confident that public funding is being spent to best effect in an organisation that can clearly articulate where it is going".

She said it was not accurate to say that Nemis's funds had been cut, as it was not given revenue grants, but one-off assistance. Neither, she said, had it officially applied for new funds of any kind, nor did it raise any of its own income.

The SAC statement added:

"Essentially . . . it is an issue of confidence: information requested has not been supplied - fundamental information such as audited accounts and a clear business plan.

"We are primarily concerned with the governance and structure of Nemis. It is unclear whether Nemis is a membership organisation solely or is a limited company purporting to represent the contemporary music sector in Scotland."

SUCCESS STORIES

NEMIS promotional CD given out at MTV Europe Awards in November 2003 included:

The Darts of Pleasure - Franz Ferdinand

Spitting Games - Snow Patrol

I Love You Cause I Have To - Dogs Die in Hot Cars

Sons & Daughters - Johnny Cash

With Aplomb -Biffy Clyro

Maybe It's Time -The Grim Northern Social

Black Path - Aereogramme

Destroy Rock & Roll - Mylo

The Herald 26 October 2005

Music Week 2 September 2006

World Radio History 26 April 2008

World Radio History 7 June 2008

Remember… when you are starting out as a band, you don't know what to do, you don't have the contacts or the knowhow, and Nemis supplies all that. I am shocked this is happening. — Tony McGill

MD - music director

Later edit: “Waited for today’s Happy Birthday” in the first paragraph should say “yesterday’s.” The birthday is 12 October. I got busy, posted late, and forgot to update. Oops… (This bit won’t show up on reblogs posted before 19 October 2024.)

[outlanderanatomy]

2024 SiWC Michael Slade’s SHOCK Theater!

Greetings Outlander fans!🤗

Last Friday evening at SiWC, we were treated to Michael Slade’s Shock Theater! This slap-stick event, written by Michael, has been an ongoing feature of the conference for the past 17 years. Being a great sport, Diana has participated every year since its inception! 🤩

Shock Theater  is a spooky and spectacular take on a radio play, “complete with show-stopping twists, unexpected turns, and delightfully devious foley sound effects.” This year’s production was “The Fly!!!” 🪰

Michael is the only one who sees the the script ahead of time; no one else will have seen their parts. Thus, they perform more or less “on the fly.!” 😜

For those too young, the original “The Fly” was a 1958 black and white film starring Vincent Price and a host of other actors you probably have never heard of. 😉

This year’s presentation was as silly as ever. It portrays the story of Frank Randall who engineers  a time transport machine and Diana as Claire Randall, devoted wife. Frank accidentally transports himself with a fly in the machine! Molecules intermix so Frank emerges from the device with a fly hand and head and the fly ends up with a human head and hand. 🪰

Follow this meandering and entertaining story if you dare! 👹

Warning! A volunteer screams loudly about four times in the video, so be prepared! 👂

The deeply grateful,

Outlander Anatomist

Follow me on:

Twitter: @OutLandAnatomy

Facebook: OutlandishAnatomyLessons

Instagram: @outlanderanatomy

Tumblr: @outlanderanatomy

Youtube: Outlander Anatomy

Video and Photo credits: Outlander Anatomy, https://www.digitaltrends.com/movies/the-fly-remake/

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[grumpygreenwitch]

Machina Ex Machina 38-39

And we're back! At least for a bit. I think I'm over the hurdle, though the queue is still woefully thin. I'm also coming to the endgame, slowly but surely. I apologize for the interruption regardless; I got overconfident on this being a short story.

A lot of the fic I write serves as an exercise on dealing with difficult themes - in this case, loss.

As always, if you enjoy the writing, please like and reblog. There’s no algorithms here; my publicity is you. And if you’d like to buy me a Ko-fi, I certainly won’t complain.

1+2 - 3+3.5 - 4+5 - 6+.6.5 - 7+8 - 8.5+9 - 10+11 - 12+13 - 13.5+14 - 15+16 - 17+17.5 - 18+18.5 - 19+20 - 21+22 - 22.5+23+24 - 25+26 - 27-28 - 29.29.5 - 30+31 - 32+33 - 34+35 - 36+37 - 38+39 - 40+41 - 42+ AO3 Link

THIRTY EIGHT

The Drakkar left behind the Sea of Simulation and passed over the rough terrain that was the Outlands of Om, making a beeline for the distant, storm-outlined Spire of the oldest city in the Grid.

The little repeating tone began to play on Adas’ screen when they were, according to Gungnir’s latest broadcast, a microcycle away from the city. She straightened up at once, abandoning all the remote work she’d been doing, which mostly had to do with the safety and comfort of the Ilo refugees back at Halcyon. She was about to answer when she saw GAM draw up sharply. Off to the side, where MAR and Vidi were intently examining something on the former’s disk, the Master of Parnassus suddenly looked up in mild confusion. “Your Users?”

“Yes,” GAM replied. “And yours?”

“I suppose, but Robert hardly ever communicates in pure text.”

“It can’t be,” Vidi said. “I got a message too.”

They stared at one another in confusion, and opened the commline, only to receive an immediate redirect.

“Nuh-uh!” Vidi exclaimed.

“I second that,” MAR declared, sounding even more dubious.

“It’s attached to Lily’s frequency, though.”

“And Emil’s. Interesting. I probably have the more solid personal protections of us all, yes?” He got nods from everyone, and accepted the redirect, going silent.

“WallSec, don’t make us nervous,” Vidi snapped at him.

“I am… not sure what I’m looking at,” he admitted after a long moment.

“Pure visual data?” When he nodded, Adas accepted the redirect. It took her less than a picocycle to realize what she was looking at. “Oh!”

In a moment she had set up a connection between the conference table and the feed, and screens began to pop up, six, ten, twelve, twenty. The table was full of rolling text, in some places scrolling along at a swift gallop, in others taking its time. “It’s the Users,” she breathed out. “It’s the Users’ communication lines.”

GAM took three steps to the communication console. “WallSec for Pevir SysAdmin.” Regardless of what had gone down between them, Gungnir replied quite promptly. “Go for SysAdmin.”

“Accept the redirect.”

“Was the thing sent Grid-wide?” Gungnir mused on the line. “Hold on – oh, what in the name of the Users!”

“That’d be about right,” GAM replied dryly, then left the console to stare at the table.

“Is this all of them?” MAR asked no one in particular.

“No. There’s hundreds of them,” Adas’ faceplate was gleaming with facts and statistics and graphs, “but there’s tens of thousands of programs on the Grid. Even allowing for Users that… no longer exist,” she glanced quickly at GAM, “this can’t be their entire population.” She spread her hands on the table. “It’s us. They’re talking about us.”

“They’re talking about the virus,” MAR pointed to one of the screens, and Adas brought it to the center of the table. “Oh, it’s the time differential kicking in, look at it. For them, the fight on the Drakkar ended just a little while ago.”

“It’s ideas,” Vidi’s hair was looking in every direction, but she seemed to have no problem absorbing the communications her dreadlocks were picking up. “It’s their thoughts, or what they’re guessing at, it’s everything. It’s like… It’s like a Souk of ideas.”

“This helps,” GAM murmured. “This helps immensely. I can’t even begin to fathom how much… There’s no delay here beyond the time differential, if they find something out and put it here, on any of these communication channels, we’ll know right away.”

“Adas, that’s an Ilo commcon,” Vidi pointed.

“What?!” Adas stalked over and found one of the smaller screens seemed to be entirely composed of the Users looking to the Ilo refugees back in Halcyon. Suddenly the status reports she was waiting on were moot – each User was reporting on their own program and those around them: what they were doing, what they were saying.

“They’re exceptionally organized,” MAR remarked. “Other than idle chat, they’re all being very careful about details.”

GAM lowered his head. In the privacy of his helm, he murmured, “Thank you, Emil.” He looked at Vidi. “Is there one for every city?”

“Not for every city, it’s like… places or groups inside the cities? That’s the Drakkar,” she pointed, then pointed again. “And I think that’s some sort of engineering group in Flow -”

“This one’s all Users complaining about the shutdown of the Souk,” MAR identified another screen.

“Ugh. Get over it.” Vidi rolled her eyes. “Not even if beans were real.”

The door suddenly slid open with a clear musical tone, and Gungnir charged in, Fortis close behind him. “Are you seeing this?” He noticed that Adas and Vidi were glaring at him. “Get it out of your systems now, I want everyone’s focus on this. Let’s hear it.”

“For the sake of future diplomatic relationships,” Adas replied primly, “let’s not. Vidi, where are any communications pertaining the Drakkar or Om?” As she pointed them out, the GO4 brought them to the center of the table.

They stared at the communications, and Gungnir couldn’t help but shake his head. “I might as well be in Om. This is rich, this is priceless. This is as good as pure energy.” He looked at Fortis. “I want someone in every ship’s control center monitoring these feeds. Several someones, if we can match program to User. If I can’t speak to my fleet through Om’s storm they certainly can, time differential or not.”

“Couldn’t you just fly over the storm to avoid the interference?” MAR asked.

Gungnir shook his head. “Spire won’t let you. It takes offense at anything going up nearly as much as it does to something coming straight at it.”

“Well, I know how you can fix that,” Vidi shrugged.

Everyone gave her a curious look. “What? I’m from Halcyon.”

Gungnir lifted a hand. “Hold that thought. Did this broadcast to the entire Grid?”

Thin lines of crimson energy passed over Fortis’ surface. “No one in Pevir is acknowledging a redirect.”

“There’s a virus loose,” GAM pointed out. “It doesn’t seem unlikely that some random, unknown redirect would make a program nervous.”

“Fair,” Gungnir admitted. “Confirm with Pip-Pip, Fort. Put my personal tags on it, tell her to do the same, and send the confirmation to everyone and anyone the Drakkar and Pevir can reach.” He turned back to Vidi. “Alright, go.”

THIRTY NINE

The Drakkar docked next to Om’s weather monitoring tower, the highest structure in that ancient city, marking the upper limit of the Spire’s tolerance.

Lightning slid over the black and crimson hull, crackling along, unable to touch the carrier and vanishing back into the black clouds. Beneath and all around it stood the massed fleets of the Grid in all their shapes and colors, from immense, heavy Flowian energy barges to three single, elegant Arkite sailers. And there were Pevirian carriers and warships everywhere, forming a bristling line of defense between Om and the distant shores of the Sea of Simulation. The terrain around the city was dotted with the lights of further defenses.

Gungnir stalked down the Drakkar’s ramp, flanked by MAR and Adas, GAM directly behind him. Adas was carrying an umbrella, and MAR had a very elegant raincoat on, but neither Pevir’s SysAdmin nor the Sentry seemed to care about the spitting rain.

OM was alone, waiting for them in the rain. He cocked a brow minutely at the sight of them, and smiled faintly. “I feel vaguely outnumbered.”

“You should,” Gungnir replied evenly. “Is everyone ready?”

OM stepped aside and gestured them on, leading them inside. “As ready as we can be.”

“And the Users?”

“Would you like to meet them?”

“If I’m gonna pick a fight with your friends, I’d rather do it in front of an audience.”

“Showmanship?” OM teased dryly.

“Witnesses,” Gungnir countered sternly.

OM laughed as they all walked in.

Kane and Sam were standing off to one side of the large hexagonal room. Rain pattered on the window at their backs, and they had a good look at the many projections that a number of programs were nursing to life amidst bouts of storm-caused static. Sam was leaning back, arms crossed, the white of his circuitry stark against his black outfit. Kane had surrendered to the inevitable and wore a matching outfit, but his had the delicate, almost filigree-like white circuitry of a last-gen program. He still looked like he was trying to catch up with all the information being piled up on him – which he was.

He did have at least two things that could be set to rest easily, and he decided to jump on them while they waited for the meeting of all the city leaders to begin. “You knew.”

“Me? Nah.” Flynn, who’d been watching with intense curiosity, looked vaguely amused. “Why didn’t you?” He lifted a finger to point at the world in general. “This is your world, your Grid.”

Kane rubbed at his face. “Moll’s the programmer. Moll and Rob. She looked, she knew the code, she probably knows all of what’s going on. Other than the boards, the chats, other than making sure everything was running right… I’m hardware. I’m an engineer.”

“So this, the weather, that’s on you.”

“No. There’s no reason for the Upload Spiral to reject proximity, it’s not like it can be activated from this side. There are other safeguards, but… I have no idea what’s going on, man.”

Sam could only laugh quietly at the wanly resigned tone of the young man. “You really thought I was warning you about the people, didn’t you.”

Kane just sighed. “Who’s he look like?”

“Hm?”

“OM. You said he looks exactly like someone else.”

“My uncle.”

Kane blinked at him, then stared at OM. “But…”

“I asked. OM’s a title, not his name.” He smiled a little. “Told you he’d been here from the beginning.”

“Right.” OM stepped forward, the new arrivals moving to where they were directed. “Is everyone here?” He waited for several nods from his techs. “Does anyone have eyes on the virus?”

Kane listened restlessly as the various programs spoke of cities, terrains, of wonders that under any other circumstance he would’ve loved to see, if it weren’t because everyone around him seemed to be discussing how best to kill his sister. His hands had gone to fists and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Sam bumped him lightly, chin redirecting his attention.

Kane turned, and found himself staring at a black, impenetrable faceplate. There was a tank of a man, er, program in black with sparse violet circuitry standing between two of the speakers, a short, curvy woman in white and indigo, and a lean, elegant man dressed like something out of a trashy romance novel, colors shimmering through his clothin- “Crap, MAR!”

The meeting came to an abrupt halt, and every head turned to look at Kane. Even Sam pivoted very pointedly to stare at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Perhaps the User,” MAR spoke in a diffident, cultured tone, “minds that you’re talking about destroying another User with such cavalier authority.”

The meeting exploded into chaos. Sam’s brows shot up. “That’s Robert’s program?”

Kane stared in disbelief that someone had totaled the careful political dance he’d been watching with one casual revelation. “I guess.”

“MAR was there!” The SysAdmin in red shouted over everyone else, silencing every argument. “MAR fought it. So did I. And if you think testimony from a SysAdmin is not objective enough for your tastes, so did the Sentry.”

Everyone seemed to measure the giant in black and violet. If it bothered him, there was no way for even the Users to tell.

“I trust MAR,” one of the programs said quietly. “I wouldn’t trust you, Gungnir. Not because I don’t like you, or because of our history, but because you’re too eager for a fight, and in the middle of fighting things can be… mistaken. I trust MAR to keep a cool head.”

Gungnir seemed to think hard on that. “You know, that’s fair.”

“Oh, irony,” ACM declared. “I trust Gungnir precisely because of the same thing.” Pevir’s SysAdmin snorted a laugh, truly caught by surprise.

“Halcyon trusts its own,” another program declared with calm assurance. “Identify yourself, please.”

“GAM,” the program replied. “Wall Security Defender.”

“I remember you,” PEN said. “You protected the refugees in Sector 42.” It laced its hands together. “Sentry GAM. Do we harm a User if we harm the virus?”

The black faceplate turned directly toward Kane. “Yes. During the fighting on board the Drakkar, one of the Users appealed to it. And it answered… briefly. Before the virus cut it off.”

“She answered?” Kane surged forward, uncaring of whatever protocols he might be breaking. “You heard her? You heard my sister?”

“Didn’t you?” MAR asked in puzzlement. “You could have heard a voxel drop at that point in the fighting.”

The black faceplate tipped minutely to one side. “Your name,” the Sentry replied calmly, “is Kane.”

[dankusner]

My Sinéad O’Connor story

It must have been late 1993.

She was at the height of her fame and I was in the earliest days of my journalism career.

I was working for a small press agency in Clerkenwell whose stock in trade was day work for newspapers: court cases, press conferences and particularly door knocks and door steps.

As a rookie, I did an awful lot of these.

With my cover story now established, I went back to bed on that sofa

Away from work I was in my twenties in London and had quite the party lifestyle – clubbing every weekend.

The club of choice was Subterranea in Ladbroke Grove and I’d go most Saturday nights.

But on this occasion, I was the rota reporter on the following Sunday, due in at 9 a.m., so when midnight came around I made moves to go home to bed.

My companion, however, would hear nothing of this and he cooked up a slightly ridiculous and elaborate plan to keep me out all night.

He worked for a national tabloid and the plan was that he would ask my agency to do a fictitious job for him which would allow me to stay in bed all morning.

It seemed like a great idea at midnight but when I came to ring my news editor at 8 a.m. and enact it, suddenly it didn’t.

I had had barely two hours sleep and the hangover hadn’t even started.

So to make the plan more convincing before calling my editor, I had a flip through the Sunday papers to find a story I could pretend I’d been asked to follow up.

Which brings us back to Sinéad.

She was a newspaper staple in those days and there was a page lead in one tabloid about something she’d supposedly said or done, a nothingy forgettable story.

But it suited me perfectly as she lived just around the corner from the sofa I was lying on in Notting Hill Gate.

So I went to her flat and knocked on her door.

And she answered.

And we went through this contrived exchange in which I asked her if she had anything to say about this pointless story and she very politely confirmed what I’d expected, which was that she hadn’t.

So, with my cover story now established, I went back to bed on that sofa.

I got up again at a more civilised hour, around noon, and then we went to the pub for a hair of the dog.

This led to another and then another.

Then we went for a long liquid lunch – those were the days when you needed to make a Sunday lunch three or four hours until the pubs reopened in the evening.

By 7 p.m., I was bladdered.

We were staggering between the Walmer Castle and the Portobello Star when, coming in the other direction, was Sinéad O’Connor.

She clocked me as the person who’d bothered her hours earlier and then realised the state I was in.

And she started laughing, properly laughing. And then I started laughing.

I never saw her again, but after that I always liked her.

I should point out that I learned my lesson that day. I abandoned this kind of unprofessional behaviour and have been a model of journalistic diligence and reliability ever since, obviously.

The Unapologetic Brilliance of Sinéad O’Connor

I think what O’Connor sought in her music was anguish, laid bare, and then a gorgeous moment of communion.

The outspoken Irish songstress Sinead O'Connor.

On Wednesday, the Irish singer and songwriter Sinéad O’Connor was found dead in a private home in London.

She was fifty-six.

O’Connor’s discography—she released ten studio albums, beginning in 1987—is so broad and dynamic that it’s difficult to efficiently characterize her sound, from the buoyant, whooping new wave of “Mandinka,” a single from her début LP, to her voluptuous, breathy take on Cole Porter’s “You Do Something to Me,” to her haunted rendition of the traditional Scottish tune “The Skye Boat Song,” which she recently recorded for the title sequence of the television show “Outlander.”

Throughout her career, the richness of O’Connor’s music was often surpassed by the vehemence and scorch of her politics.

Perhaps most notably, she once ripped up an eight-by-ten photograph of Pope John Paul II on “Saturday Night Live” while singing the word “evil”—an act of righteous dissent against the Catholic Church’s ghastly mishandling of sexual abuse by clergy.

O’Connor had her biggest hit in 1990, with “Nothing Compares 2 U,” a song originally written by Prince for the Family, a side project that he was producing.

It feels ludicrous to suggest that anyone has ever sung anything better than Prince—let alone sung one of Prince’s own songs better than Prince (!)—but, whatever, let’s say it:

O’Connor embodied that track in an unusually profound and singular way.

She understood its rage.

Prince played it live sometimes;

his version was always a little jazzier, funkier, sexier, airier.

O’Connor sounds only furious.

It’s tempting to read the song as an account of romantic collapse, but it applies to any sort of loss: a breakup, a death, the end of some love.

(There’s a line in the final verse that alludes to O’Connor’s mother, who died when O’Connor was eighteen, and whom O’Connor would later characterize as a physically abusive alcoholic.)

When something disappears before we want it to, we are left powerless, incomplete, yearning.

There is simply no antidote to that kind of humiliation:

Since you been gone, I can do whatever I want I can see whomever I choose I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant But nothing I said nothing can take away these blues ’Cause nothing compares Nothing compares to you

For years, O’Connor remained adamant that her performance on “S.N.L.” did not “derail” her career, as many critics claimed—she continued making the exact sort of music that she wanted to make, and if it did not reach the same commercial heights, so what?

That had never been the goal.

O’Connor had been thrashing against the dumb, stultifying demands of capitalism and pop stardom even before she was famous.

In her 2021 memoir “Rememberings,” she tells a story about Nigel Grainge, the British record executive who signed her, suggesting that she “wear short skirts with boots and perhaps some feminine accessories such as earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and other noisy items one couldn’t possibly wear close to a microphone.”

She walked out of the lunch.

The next day, she went to a barbershop—a “Greek place by a bathhouse”—and had her head shaved by a reluctant employee.

“I loved it. I looked like an alien. Looked like Star Trek. Didn’t matter what I wore now,” she wrote.

When “Rememberings” was first published, someone from O’Connor’s team reached out to me to see if I might be interested in joining her for a conversation at Greenlight Bookstore, in Brooklyn.

(In 2016, after O’Connor had briefly gone missing from a Chicago suburb, I’d written a piece about what her music had meant to me.)

I was due to give birth the same week of the event, but I said yes, of course, absolutely, yes.

Selfishly, I was eager to talk to O’Connor about motherhood.

In the final days of my pregnancy, I’d been waddling around the neighborhood, ordering increasingly larger sizes of lemon Italian ice, feeling moony with love yet utterly terrified. O’Connor had given birth to four children—Jake, Roisin, Shane, and Yeshua, each by a different father—between 1987, when she was twenty, and 2006, when she was forty.

She had written so vividly about the supposedly incompatible experience of being a single parent and an artist, and of finding deep satisfaction in both pursuits.

She portrayed parenthood as noble and gratifying.

“If I have no other purpose in this life other than to put these four children on the earth, well, that’s enough for me to feel like I did something useful in this world,” she wrote.

Of course, she had done so much more.

O’Connor cancelled the event the afternoon before it.

Her publicist said it was due to illness, though the next day O’Connor tweeted that she was retiring:

“I’ve gotten older and I’m tired… there’ll be no more touring or promo.”

I gave birth to my daughter shortly thereafter.

In January of 2022, O’Connor’s second son, Shane, died by suicide after disappearing from a hospital; he was seventeen.

Though O’Connor and I had never met, I was gutted when I heard the news.

It was plain from her writing that she had been a fierce and steadfast parent.

Later that year, while navigating my own seismic loss, I felt that perhaps I understood some of her grief.

On a Twitter account that’s since been deleted, she described the vastness of her suffering:

“Been living as undead night creature since. He was the love of my life, the lamp of my soul. We were one soul in two halves. He was the only person who ever loved me unconditionally. I am lost in the bardo without him.”

O’Connor was never quiet about her pain, even when it would have been easier to swallow or evade it—in fact, being unapologetic about the crippling weight of certain sorrows was the defining characteristic of her work.

It feels dangerous to say that it is possible to die of a broken heart, but anyone who has gone through it knows how grief can feel insurmountable sometimes.

It is a violent rupture.

You prepare the tourniquets, you apply pressure, you pray that you will stop bleeding before it’s too late.

My copy of “Rememberings” is still filled with Post-it notes and highlighted passages, preparations for an evening that never happened.

I circled one section from the foreword twice:

“I never made sense to anyone, even myself, unless I was singing. But I hope this book makes sense. If not, maybe try singing it and see if that helps.”

O’Connor could be cheeky; the line feels sly.

Yet it reminds me that any true attempt to understand her life requires a return to her singing.

In 2010, she performed a duet, with her friend Kris Kristofferson, of “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” a ballad about the kind of loneliness that can only be abated by sustained human contact.

Kristofferson wrote the song in 1970; it has been recorded various times, by various artists, over the last fifty years.

The duet with O’Connor is my favorite rendition: raw, quivering, a little off-kilter, unbearably intimate.

It’s only two minutes long.

O’Connor could be a belter—her voice was resolute, bold, loud—but here, she is quiet, almost reverent, almost timid.

The footage is grainy, but at the end you can see them smile widely at each other.

This, I think, is what O’Connor always wanted: anguish, laid bare.

And then a gorgeous moment of communion, a weight lifted, a reminder that we do not have to be alone in our despair.

With that smile, she is free.

P.S. The Irish singer Sinéad O’Connor was born on this day in 1966.

“Throughout her career, the richness of O’Connor’s music was often surpassed by the vehemence and scorch of her politics,” Amanda Petrusich wrote, in an obituary for the musician, in 2023.

But, O’Connor “had been thrashing against the dumb, stultifying demands of capitalism and pop stardom even before she was famous.” 💚

[briefcupcakealpaca]

Outlander Conference Glasgow (18th-22th of July 2023). Scottish Kitchen with Gary Maclean 19th of July.

Scotland's National Chef Gary Maclean joins us this July in the iconic University of Glasgow cloisters to celebrate Scottish cuisine as part of our international Outlander conference celebrations. Since becoming BBC's Masterchef: The Professional's champion, Chef Gary Maclean has travelled all over the world promoting Scottish food and culture.

Attendees will have the opportunity to buy a signed copy of Gary's books, including his most recent publication 'Scottish Kitchen' with foreword by Outlander star Sam Heughan who shares Gary's passion for Scottish culture.

'For many years now, I’ve been passionate about bringing Scotland’s heritage to the world stage through my own work, and this is also precisely what Gary does in Scottish Kitchen.' Sam Heughan, 2022.

Book now to see Gary in action in this live cookery demo, hear more about his exciting career and find out more about Scotland's national dishes!

Wednesday 19 July 2023

4.30pm - 5.45pm

University of Glasgow Cloisters

Book here: https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/scottish-kitchen-with-gary-maclean-tickets-663652361077?fbclid=IwAR1eh7bjGWrjvLlCIcCBzc1K1fce8cwb7gR2M3cnML9rinogrNq3_HNIEe4

[spikewriter]

Buckle up, folks, because I'm going to bitch about Diana Gabaldon for a moment. I've watched this series of book and how it's been marketed--by both her publisher and her-- since I first got online back in 1991, shortly after Outlander was published.

Yes, I probably shouldn't bitch about a fellow author, but Gabaldon's shown herself fairly immune to criticism and all of this has to do with how the book is officially marketed, the author's comments as to what genre it is, what many readers think it is, and how one of the largest genres in the business is leveraged for that sweet, sweet romance money and held in contempt at the same time.

I first encountered Outlander when I signed onto the Compuserve Romance Novel forum. The forum was almost exclusively focused on this book. Gabaldon was a presence on the forum, and interacted with folks. It felt, in some ways, as if you really could have called it the Outlander Forum at that point. A hardcover of Dragonfly in Amber was in the goodie back for my first RWA conference in 1992. So, it's a romance, right?

Some quotes from the article:

A romance is a courtship story. In the 19th century, the definition of the romance genre was an escape from daily life that included adventure and love and battle. But in the 20th century, that term changed, and now it’s deemed only a love story, specifically a courtship story. When I first wrote the books, we sold them to an editor who just loved the story. And then the publisher asked her, “Well, now what kind of book is it? We have to think about marketing.” And she stared at it and said, “Well, I really couldn’t tell you. There’s a wonderful love story …” And they’re like, “Oh! That’s romance. Bosoms. Fabio.” And she said, “Oh no, it’s also got time travel and it’s a historical novel …” The historical aspect is accurate, but you don’t want to market it like a Ken Follett novel. So the publisher sat on the book for 18 months. They were afraid that if they put it out as general fiction, no one would be able to understand what it is, and it would fall flat. So they very nearly came close to actually giving me back the book and canceling the contract. I didn’t learn this until much later, but they mostly didn’t cancel because my editor said she would quit if they did. [Laughs.] Finally, my agent called and he said, “Well, they finally decided what to do with your book! The hardcover will go out with the other hardcover fiction, but they’d like to try to sell the paperback as romance.” I had two objections. If you call it a romance, it will never be reviewed by the New York Times or any other respectable literary venue. And that’s okay. I can live with that. But more importantly, you will cut off the entire male half of my readership. They would say, “Oh, well, it’s probably not for me.” So my agent said, “Well, we could insist that they call it science-fiction or fantasy, because of the weird elements, but bear in mind that a bestseller in sci-fi is 50,000 in paperback. A bestseller in romance is 500,000.” And I said, “Well, you’ve got a point!”

:: Clears throat :: So, not a romance, but, hey, that romance money is nice. Remember, she was active on the Compuserve ROMANCE Forum.

So you agreed to sell the paperback as romance? Provided we had dignified covers — we wouldn’t have bosoms and Fabio and things like that — and also that if the books became visible, they would reposition them as fiction. Which they did. When Voyager, the third book of the series, hit the New York Times bestseller list, they very honorably redesigned the covers and started calling them fiction. Barnes & Noble, however, wasn’t having any of this. They just said, “The first book you wrote was called romance, so everything you write for the rest of your life is a romance as far as we’re concerned.” It took me eight years to disabuse them of this notion, but I finally won.  Whenever you’re dealing with something that’s difficult to describe, that you can’t get across to someone in a sound bite, it sounds like the normal default is to pick what’s easiest, and in the case of fiction written by women, fiction involving women, fiction involving any sort of relationship, the word that comes to mind is romance. It’s canned stuff: “It’s steamy, it’s stirring, it’s sizzling, it’s a bodice ripper.” And as I say, in romance novels, those are courtship stories. Once the couple is married, that’s the end of the story. And in our story, that means we would have stopped at episode seven.

Now, I would argue romance is at the heart of Outlander. With all the other crap that goes on, the core is the love story between Jamie and Claire. If that wasn't there, I don't readers would put up with a number of things. But that these two come from different worlds, different times, and keep fighting as hard as they can to be together despite everything that the world throws at them is amazing. I think Gabaldon's wrong, that a couple being married is not necessarily the end of the love story. Okay, back in 1991, the convention was that way, but even then there were books where the love story continued after the wedding, especially with historical.

But, as you can see, she doesn't want it classed as a romance. The first book is under three categories on Amazon: Time-Travel Romance (which seems absolutely appropriate), Historical Fantasy, and Romantic Fantasy. Guess which category has the highest ranking? Right. Time-Travel Romance. Where is it located in a bookstore? Romance. Barnes & Noble? Romance. In fact, the "Note From Your Bookseller" calls it a romance within the first five words.

So I agree anyone who picks up these books and is surprised that there is romance and sex hasn't been paying attention to the cultural zeitgeist around the series. But if you were to only read the blurb on Amazon, and not scroll all the way down to the categories, one could get the impression this was a historical novel and the romance wasn't the focus. (The Kindle version of Outlander does quote a review that mentions sex and romance; this is not on any of the other formats.)

So that's my beef. Yes, it's foolish to complain about a book that is largely regarded as a romance because you didn't bother to look at the reviews or comments. But it's disheartening to see the publisher and the author try to play both sides because romance is, well, Fabio, but, boy does it sell.

If I ever need a perfect bookish example of “Dead Dove — Do Not Eat,” it’s gonna be the people who complain that Outlander is filled with sex and romance.

Yes. People complain that a historical romance novel has too much romance in it. Because apparently they couldn’t be arsed to find out anything about the book they were reading before they started reading it.

[saint-hildegard-of-bingen]

OL Academic Conference

Outlander (2014-) is a major US television series based on the historical fantasy novels of Diana Gabaldon, combining time travel with 18th-century Scottish politics and post-war British and American culture. The globally successful series has triggered more interest in Scotland and its history than any other cultural artefact in recent years. Interest continues to grow as Outlander moves into its fifth season.

While hundreds of fan-based gatherings and interest groups around the world promote and encourage Outlander fandom, and thousands of media articles ponder its reach and appeal, there has not yet been an event which takes an academic approach to the series and brings together the multiple areas of expertise involved in its creation. The University of Glasgow plans to do just this: it will host a major international Outlander conference in June 2020 which will offer the chance to discuss the elements that make up this remarkable phenomenon.  Link

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is a great depth of wisdom and knowledge among our Tumblr fandom. Hopefully some among us will be able to present at this conference. Attention fanfic writers - there is a call for submissions on this topic.