eligiblebastard

[eligiblebastard]

hi!!!! just wanted to drop in and tell you your mask and wearer reblog comment inspired the seeds of a gruesome poem in my mind, i haven't written poetry in years so thank youuuu

I WANNA READ IT SO BAD

[eligiblebastard]

go follow my main @soil-boy

how much of ur online presence is performative and how much is it u being u

[eligiblebastard]

copying my favorite HFY greentext over because reasons

About twelve years ago, a man died in high orbit over Tau Ceti V.

His name was Drake McDougal, and aside from a few snapshots and vague anecdotes from his drinking buddies, that’s probably all we’ll ever know about him. Another colony-born man with little records and little documentation, working whatever asteroid field the Dracs deigned to allow them. Every now and then a Drac gunship would strut on through the system, Pax Draconia and all that. But that was it.

One fine day, one of those gunships had a misjump. A bad one. It arrived only ninety clicks above atmo, with all its impellers blown out by the gravatic feedback of Tau Ceti V’s gravity well. The Dracs scraped enough power together for a good system-wide broadbeam and were already beginning the Death Chant when they hit atmo.

People laughed at the recording of sixty Dracs going from mysterious chanting to “’what-the-fuck’ing” for years after they forgot the name Drake McDougal. The deafening “CLANG” and split second of stunned silence afterwards never failed to entertain. Drake had performed a hasty re-entry seconds after the gunship and partially slagged his heatshield diving after it. Experts later calculated he suffered 11Gs when he leaned on the retro to match velocities with the Dracs long enough to engage the mag-grapples on his little mining tug.

Even the massively overpowered drive of a tug has its limits, and Drake’s little ship hit hers about one and a half minutes later. Pushed too far, the tug’s fusion plant lost containment just as he finished slingshotting the gunship into low orbit. (It was unharmed, of course; the Drac opinion of fusion power best translated as “quaint,” kind of how we view butter churns.)

It was on the local news within hours, on newsnets across human space within days. It was discussed, memorialized, marveled upon, chewed over by daytime talk-show hosts, and I think somebody even bought a plaque or some shit like that. Then there was a freighter accident, and a mass-shooting on Orbital 5, and of course, the first Vandal attacks in the periphery.

The galaxy moved on.

Twelve years is a long time, especially during war, so twelve years later, as the Vandal’s main fleet was jumping in near Jupiter and we were strapping into the crash couches of what wee enthusiastically called “warships,” I guaran-fucking-tee you not one man in the entire Defense Force could remember who Drake McDougal was.

Well, the Dracs sure as hell did.

Dracs do not fuck around. Dozens of two-kilometer long Drac supercaps jumped in barely 90K klicks away, and then we just stood around staring at our displays like the slack-jawed apes we were as we watched what a real can of galactic whoop-ass looked like. You could actually see the atmosphere of Jupiter roil occasionally when a Vandal ship happened to cross between it and the Drac fleet. There’s still lightning storms on Jupiter now, something about residual heavy ions and massive static charges or something.

Fifty-eight hours later, with every Vandal ship reduced to slagged debris and nine wounded Drac ships spinning about as they vented atmosphere, they started with the broad-band chanting again. And then the communiqué that confused the hell out of us all.

“Do you hold out debt fulfilled?”

After the sixth or seventh comms officer told them “we don’t know what the hell you’re talking about” as politely as possible, the Drac fleet commander got on the horn and asked to speak to a human Admiral in roughly the same tone as a telemarketer telling a kid to give the phone to Daddy. When the Admiral didn’t know either, the Drac went silent for a minute, and when he came back on his translator was using much smaller words, and talking slower.

“Is our blood debt to Drake McDougal’s clan now satisfied?”

The Admiral said “Who?”

What the Drac commander said next would’ve caused a major diplomatic incident had he remembered to revert to the more complex translation protocols. He thought the Admiral must be an idiot, a coward, or both. Eventually, the diplomats were called out, and we were asked why the human race has largely forgotten the sacrifice of Drake McDougal.

Humans, we explained, sacrifice themselves all the time.

We trotted out every news clip from the space-wide Nets from the last twelve years. Some freighter cook that fell on a grenade during a pirate raid on Outreach. A ship engineer who locked himself into the reactor room and kept containment until the crew evacuated. Firefighter who died shielding a child from falling debris with his body, during an earthquake. Stuff like that.

That Dracs were utterly stunned. Their diplomats wandered out of the conference room in a daze. We’d just told them that the rarest, most selfless and honorable of acts - acts that incurred generations-long blood-debts and moved entire fleets - was so routine for our species that they were bumped off the news by the latest celebrity scandal.

Everything changed for humanity after that. And it was all thanks to a single tug pilot who taught the galaxy what truly defines Man.

[eligiblebastard]

copying my favorite HFY greentext over because reasons

About twelve years ago, a man died in high orbit over Tau Ceti V.

His name was Drake McDougal, and aside from a few snapshots and vague anecdotes from his drinking buddies, that’s probably all we’ll ever know about him. Another colony-born man with little records and little documentation, working whatever asteroid field the Dracs deigned to allow them. Every now and then a Drac gunship would strut on through the system, Pax Draconia and all that. But that was it.

One fine day, one of those gunships had a misjump. A bad one. It arrived only ninety clicks above atmo, with all its impellers blown out by the gravatic feedback of Tau Ceti V’s gravity well. The Dracs scraped enough power together for a good system-wide broadbeam and were already beginning the Death Chant when they hit atmo.

People laughed at the recording of sixty Dracs going from mysterious chanting to “’what-the-fuck’ing” for years after they forgot the name Drake McDougal. The deafening “CLANG” and split second of stunned silence afterwards never failed to entertain. Drake had performed a hasty re-entry seconds after the gunship and partially slagged his heatshield diving after it. Experts later calculated he suffered 11Gs when he leaned on the retro to match velocities with the Dracs long enough to engage the mag-grapples on his little mining tug.

Even the massively overpowered drive of a tug has its limits, and Drake’s little ship hit hers about one and a half minutes later. Pushed too far, the tug’s fusion plant lost containment just as he finished slingshotting the gunship into low orbit. (It was unharmed, of course; the Drac opinion of fusion power best translated as “quaint,” kind of how we view butter churns.)

It was on the local news within hours, on newsnets across human space within days. It was discussed, memorialized, marveled upon, chewed over by daytime talk-show hosts, and I think somebody even bought a plaque or some shit like that. Then there was a freighter accident, and a mass-shooting on Orbital 5, and of course, the first Vandal attacks in the periphery.

The galaxy moved on.

Twelve years is a long time, especially during war, so twelve years later, as the Vandal’s main fleet was jumping in near Jupiter and we were strapping into the crash couches of what wee enthusiastically called “warships,” I guaran-fucking-tee you not one man in the entire Defense Force could remember who Drake McDougal was.

Well, the Dracs sure as hell did.

Dracs do not fuck around. Dozens of two-kilometer long Drac supercaps jumped in barely 90K klicks away, and then we just stood around staring at our displays like the slack-jawed apes we were as we watched what a real can of galactic whoop-ass looked like. You could actually see the atmosphere of Jupiter roil occasionally when a Vandal ship happened to cross between it and the Drac fleet. There’s still lightning storms on Jupiter now, something about residual heavy ions and massive static charges or something.

Fifty-eight hours later, with every Vandal ship reduced to slagged debris and nine wounded Drac ships spinning about as they vented atmosphere, they started with the broad-band chanting again. And then the communiqué that confused the hell out of us all.

“Do you hold out debt fulfilled?”

After the sixth or seventh comms officer told them “we don’t know what the hell you’re talking about” as politely as possible, the Drac fleet commander got on the horn and asked to speak to a human Admiral in roughly the same tone as a telemarketer telling a kid to give the phone to Daddy. When the Admiral didn’t know either, the Drac went silent for a minute, and when he came back on his translator was using much smaller words, and talking slower.

“Is our blood debt to Drake McDougal’s clan now satisfied?”

The Admiral said “Who?”

What the Drac commander said next would’ve caused a major diplomatic incident had he remembered to revert to the more complex translation protocols. He thought the Admiral must be an idiot, a coward, or both. Eventually, the diplomats were called out, and we were asked why the human race has largely forgotten the sacrifice of Drake McDougal.

Humans, we explained, sacrifice themselves all the time.

We trotted out every news clip from the space-wide Nets from the last twelve years. Some freighter cook that fell on a grenade during a pirate raid on Outreach. A ship engineer who locked himself into the reactor room and kept containment until the crew evacuated. Firefighter who died shielding a child from falling debris with his body, during an earthquake. Stuff like that.

That Dracs were utterly stunned. Their diplomats wandered out of the conference room in a daze. We’d just told them that the rarest, most selfless and honorable of acts - acts that incurred generations-long blood-debts and moved entire fleets - was so routine for our species that they were bumped off the news by the latest celebrity scandal.

Everything changed for humanity after that. And it was all thanks to a single tug pilot who taught the galaxy what truly defines Man.

[eligiblebastard]

“Hey, sweetheart, heard you got into a fight with some laundry and lost.” Xorne looked up from his holopad to see that human-Todd was standing next to human-Penny’s cot.

“You should see the other guy,” she muttered but her speech was slurred.

“Hope he looks just as bad.” He said before he brushed hair out of her face. Xorne was intrigued. He so rarely had a chance to observe casual interactions between humans. He knew humans were pack animals-it was the first lesson that any individual needed to know when working with humans-but this kind of physical intimacy was stunning to Xorne. “Darling, they gave you the good stuff,” human-Todd laughed at her and then looked at her wrist, wrapped firmly in bandages and a heavy brace. “You’re a klutz! You didn’t have to go this far to avoid buying drinks tonight.”

“You’re buying,” she mumbled. He smiled and pressed lips to her forehead. Xorne would have blushed if he were capable of doing so. He had not known that human-Todd and human-Penny were mated.

“You’re sticking to water til you sober up.”

“Jerk.”

As she drifted to sleep human-Todd looked at Xorne. “What’s the prognosis?”

“human-Penny will make a full recovery.” Xorne said. His tone was flustered to his own ears. “I am sorry to intrude upon your intimate time. I will leave if you wish to continue. I did not realize you two were mates…” He stumbled over the words. He had thought that humans were supposed to be prudish by other species’ standards! The guidebooks all said so!

“What?” human-Todd had a confused expression. “Theres nothing intimate going on. That’s disgusting!”

Xorne hesitated. “I have offended and angered you. I apologize for my actions. What have I done that I may not repeat it in the future.”

Human-Todd made a disgusted noise. “Penny is like my kid sister! We grew up on Charon Six together in the old Catholic group home in the city. I would never ‘mate’ with her!” He was very upset. Xorne tried to puzzle this out.

“You are… hatchmates?” Xorne asked tentatively.

Human-Todd sighed. “Not literally but… you guys don’t have adoptive families? Found family?”

“My people are solitary by nature.” Xorne said. “I can recognize hatchmates by scent to avoid inbreeding but we do not form social groups similar to your ‘families’.” Human-Todd seemed so… sad. “Do not cry, human-Todd!”

“I wasn’t going to cry.” He replied. “That’s just… sad, I guess. I never knew my…” he fumbled for a word. “What would you call parents?”

“That term is sufficient.”

Human-Todd nodded “Anyway, never knew my parents. The Sisters said I was a war orphan. So I made my family. Penny and I signed on here together… hell, I couldn’t leave her alone. You see how klutzy she is! She needs someone to look after her.” He said mostly to himself. “I think you’re part of my family too, Xorne.”

Xorne blinked. He felt oddly good at the statement. It was clearly very significant to him.

“You’ve always been good to us and you try to look out for Penny. So… honorary cousin or something?” Human-Todd offered his hand. Xorne hesitated before he recognized the human gesture for handshake. He extended his clawed hand

“I am honored.” Human-Todd grinned. The expression always seemed predatory to Xorne but he had been assured it was a friendly expression. They released hands. Xorne paused a moment before speaking up. “What is a ‘cousin’?”

Human-Todd laughed. “Its uh… your parent’s hatchmate’s kid.” Xorne made an odd face. “Part of our families.” He assured Xorne. “Hey, I gotta get back to that meeting with the researcher. Shes gonna bitch if I don’t and then the Commander will scold me. Not that I would mind that too much.” Xorne did not understand what was obviously some kind of human innuendo. “Keep an eye on her? Lemme know when she wakes up?”

“I will… cousin-Todd.” Xorne said, testing the new phrase. His human cousin grinned.

“I like it!” And he left. Xorne felt his frill rise and fall in pleasure at this new feeling. He was part of a human family! He gave a little trill before he settled back in his seat with his holopad, contented now to be watching over his new human-cousin.

[eligiblebastard]

A lot of ‘humans are weird’ posts play with the idea that humans are one of the few species that actually evolved as a predator and, as such, we are unusually strong and fast— but what if we’re not.

What if we’re tiny?

What if, to the majority of species in the galaxy, ten feet tall is unusually short— it basically only happens due to rare genetic conditions— and the average human is basically cat sized or smaller?

Instead of being terrified by our strength, the aliens’ most pressing concern is how exactly they’re going to communicate with us when we’re all the way down on the ground.

There are experiments, with aliens crouching low or humans standing on high platforms— but it usually ends up being either uncomfortable for the alien or dangerous for the human, or both, and just generally impractical for everyone.

But, while the diplomats and politicians are trying to figure out a dignified and simple solution, the ordinary people who actually have to work with the aliens have found one. Humans are, generally, pretty good climbers, and most species have conveniently places scales, feathers, fur or clothing that can act as a hand or foothold. Sure, some humans have a fear of heights, but those aren’t typically the ones going into space. Besides, climbing on a living alien often feels safer than climbing up a rock or something— at least you know you’ve got somebody to catch you.

Soon it becomes accepted that that’s the way humans travel with aliens— up high, easy to see and hard to tread on (there were quite a few… near misses, in the first few meetings between humans and aliens), balanced on somebody’s shoulder like the overgrown monkeys that we are.

Many humans see this as kind of an insult and absolutely refuse to go along with it, but they aren’t the ones who end up spending a lot of time with aliens— it’s just too inconvenient to talk to somebody all the way down on the ground. The ones that do best are the ones who just treat it like it’s normal, allowing themselves to be carried (at least, it’s ‘carrying’ when the aliens are within earshot. Among themselves, most humans jokingly refer to it as ‘riding’), and passing on tips to their friends about the best ways to ride on different species without damaging feathers, or stepping on sensitive spots (or, in at least one case, ending up with a foot full of poisonous spines…).

The reason they don’t feel patronised by this is that they know, and they know that nearly everyone else in the galaxy knows, that humans are not just pets.

After all, you’d be surprised when a small size comes in handy.

Need somebody to look at the wiring in a small and fairly inaccessible area of the ship? Ask a human.

Need somebody to fix this fairly small and very detailed piece of machinery? Ask a human, they’re so small that their eyes naturally pick up smaller details.

Trapped under rubble and need somebody to crawl through a small gap and get help? Ask a human— most can wriggle through any gap that they can fit their head and shoulders through.

If you’re a friend, humans can be very useful. If, on the other hand, you’re an enemy…

Rumours spread all around the galaxy, of ships that threatened humans or human allies and started experiencing technical problems. Lights going off, wires being cut— in some cases, the cases where the threats were more than just words and humans or friends of humans were killed, life support lines have been severed, or airlocks have mysteriously malfunctioned and whole crews have been sucked out into space.

If the subject comes up, most humans will blame it on “gremlins” and exchange grim smiles when they’re other species friends aren’t looking.

By this point, most ships have a crew of humans, whether they like it or not. Lots of humans, young ones generally, the ones who want to see a bit of the universe but don’t have the money or connections to make it happen any other way, like to stowaway on ships. They’ll hang around the space ports, wait for a ship’s door to open and dart on in. The average human can have quite a nice time scurrying around in the walls of an alien ship, so long as they’re careful not to dislodge anything important.

Normally nobody notices them, and the ones that do tend not  to say anything— it’s generally recognised that having humans on your ship is good luck.

If there are humans on your ship, they say, then anything you lose will be found within a matter of days, sometimes even in your quarters; any minor task you leave out— some dishes that need to be cleaned, a report that needs to be spellchecked, some calculations that need to be done— will be quickly and quietly completed during the night; any small children on the ship, who are still young enough to start to cry in the night, will be soothed almost before their parents even wake, sometimes even by words in their own tongue, spoken clumsily through human vocal chords. If any of the human are engineers (and a lot of them are, and still more of them aren’t, but have picked up quite a few tricks on their travels from humans who are) then minor malfunctions will be fixed before you even notice them, and your ship is significantly less likely to experience any major problems.

The humans are eager to earn their keep, especially when the more grateful aliens start leaving out dishes of human-safe foods for them.

This, again, is considered good luck��� especially since the aliens who aren’t kind to the humans often end up losing things, or waking up to find that their fur has been cut, or the report they spent hours on yesterday has mysteriously been deleted.

To human crew members, who work on alien ships out in the open, and have their names on the crew manifest and everything, these small groups of humans are colloquially referred to as ‘ship’s rats’. There’s a sort of uneasy relationship between the two groups. On the one hand, the crew members regard the ship’s rats as spongers and potential nuisances— on the other hand, most human crew members started out as ship’s rats themselves, and now benefit from the respect (and more than a little awe) that the ship’s rats have made most aliens feel for humans. The general arrangement is that ship’s rats try to avoid ships with human crew members and, when they can’t, then they make sure to stay out of the crew members’ way, and the crew members who do see one make sure not to mention them to any alien crew members.

The aliens who know, on the other hand, have gotten into the habit of not calling them by name— mainly because they’re shaky as the legality of this arrangement, and don’t want to admit that anything’s going on. Instead they talk about “the little people” or “the ones in the walls” or, more vaguely, “Them”.

Their human friends— balancing on their shoulders, occasionally scurrying down and arm so as to get to a table, or jumping from one person’s shoulder to another, in order to better follow the conversation— laugh quietly to themselves when they hear this.

Back before the first first contact, lot of people on Earth thought that humans would become space orcs. Little did they know, they’d actually end up as space fae.

[eligiblebastard]

I’ve seen a lot of videos going around of urban-dwelling critters coming to humans for help with various problems, ranging from boxes stuck on their heads to young trapped down a storm drain, and it’s gotten me to thinking:

On the one hand, it’s kind of fascinating that they know to do that.

On the other hand, setting any questions of how this sort of behaviour must have arisen aside for the nonce, does it ever strike you how weird it is that we’ve got a whole collection of prey species whose basic problem-solving script ends with the step “if all else fails, go bother one of the local apex predators and maybe they’ll fix the problem for no reason”?

[eligiblebastard]

people who think humans are sucky animals because we dont have claws or fangs or tails are………..  foolish

[eligiblebastard]

Man human imprinting is crazy. My friend’s roomba zoomed by me and I got this intense urge to reach down and pat it. Like it’s just a machine? But it’s a good boy? It spends all day cleaning and sleeping and exploring the house and never complains and it’s just so good little robot? Pet robot?? Pet the robot????? Why am I like this???

[eligiblebastard]

Humans: a primer

Paradoxical. Bloodthirsty. Pacifistic. Unpredictable. Stubborn. Unkillable. Fragile. Skeptical. Naïve. No single word or phrase seems able to encapsulate the uniqueness of a human. Relatively new on the galactic stage, humans have created a disproportionate stir in galactic society. Disproportionate, at least, if you’ve never interacted with a human. If you’ve met one… you may wonder why the rest of the universe isn’t more thoroughly freaked out.

Warnings and behavior notes are [bracketed], side notes are in (parentheses), and points that call for references are marked RF.

Origin: Humans evolved on a terrestrial-oceanic world, called interchangeably Terra or Earth among other names, orbiting a main-sequence yellow star named Sol. The planet’s surface temperature ranges from -50 to 45 degrees centigrade (humans usually also use centigrade temperature measurements, though legacy systems still exist, RF: Fahrenheit), with a global average of approximately 17 degrees. Temperatures vary wildly between areas and seasons. There are a staggering number of different biomes and climates on the world, a result of its considerable axial tilt and resultant extreme seasonal changes, combined with the tidal effects of its one huge moon and its highly active tectonic geology. Terra’s dense, molten metal core provides a magnetic shield against solar radiation, as expected for a life-bearing world so close to its star. Terra’s gravity is approximately 3 standard gravities at its surface.

Terra is a Class Six Death World: its weather can be extreme (RF: hurricane, typhoon, tornado) and its active geology causes frequent earthquakes and volcanoes. Its flora, fauna, and microorganisms are exceedingly dangerous, many being poisonous or venomous, and many more possessing physical traits sufficient to pose legitimate threats to military-grade vehicles. In accordance with basic principles of coëvolution, the creatures of Terra (humans included) have many resistances or immunities to the poisons and chemicals other Terran life employs. Of particular note are caffeine and theobromine, mild stimulants to humans but lethal metabolic exaggerants to many other species, and capsaicin, a powerful antimicrobial/antifungal that produces traumatic sensations of burning, which humans regard as a basic cooking spice.

Much Terran life is resilient against common poisonous chemicals. Ethanol is consumed recreationally by humans, for the deliberate purpose of temporarily disrupting their brain chemical balance and impairing cognitive functions.

Infestations of Terran pests is an emergency of extreme significance, as they can adapt to and overwhelm most carbonic ecosystems in terrifyingly short timeframes, and many pose significant threats to sophonts. All biological matter from Terra must undergo quarantine both at Terra’s Planetary Protection Office and again at the destination.

Biology: [Warning: Humans can be easily offended by certain topics relating to biology. Read all reference notes and obey applicable warnings before attempting discussion of biology with a human] Humans are bilaterally symmetrical tetrapods, with an upright, bipedal stance. Their lower limbs are exclusively legs, and their upper limbs are arms. Their torso comprises approximately 40% of their height, is around half that wide, and comparatively flat front-to-back. Their head is atop the torso, with a short, highly flexible neck. Most vital organs are within the torso: the brain and most sensory organs are within the head.

Humans are endoskeletal, with bones composed of mineralized tissues that are tremendously strong. Their tissues and organs are soft and largely water, as is typical of carbon-based life. Their skin is moderately durable. Humans have variable amounts of keratinous hair (not fur; RF “hair vs fur vs feathers”). Usually there is a dense patch of hair atop the head and another at the lowest section of the ventral side of the torso. Amounts of body hair range from almost nil to nearly as dense as the head hair, with males tending towards slightly more. Humans frequently practice depilation, the shaving, trimming, or removal of hair for aesthetic or practical reasons. [Do not expect to be able to reliably identify a human by hair pattern or length, as these can be changed with little notice. Humans also often dye their hair different colors.] Human skin colors range from pale near-translucence that takes a pinkish hue from their red blood, to yellowish, reddish, or brown pigmentation. Humans usually have very little patterning, except small occasional spots called moles or freckles. There are swirling stripes, caused by cell migration during embryo development and called Blaschko’s lines, but these are not normally visible to humans. Blaschko’s lines are visible to humans only under ultraviolet light, which is mildly damaging to humans and not useful to their sight, or due to certain diseases.

Humans range from 1.2 to 2.5 meters in height, with some exceptions. They have two biological sexes: the progeny-bearing females and the genetic transmitter males. Gametes from male and female are required for procreation. Fertilization is internal, and the female gestates internally for slightly more than two cycles [approx 9 Terran months (RF: “Earth Time”)] before giving live birth, usually to a singleton. Human newborns are fragile and helpless. Maturation takes approximately 60 cycles [18 Terran years] before widely-accepted biological, mental, and legal maturity. The interference of medical technology makes natural lifespan difficult to calculate, but estimates are around 261 cycles [90 Terran years] for unassisted lifespan.

Sexual dimorphism exists, but is moderately subtle. Males tend towards slightly higher average height (~10 cm) and similarly increased tendency for muscle mass. Females more readily accumulate reserves of lipids and other biological energy storage (RF: cellulite). The upper ventral area of the torso hosts mammary glands (breasts) meant to provide a nourishment fluid (milk) to newborn young; in males these are flat and nearly nonfunctional, while in females they bulge out noticeably to accommodate their function. The proportion of female breast size and shape varies significantly by individual and age. [Female breasts are part of the complicated assessment of beauty, and careless discussion of them is an extremely easy way to gravely offend all nearby humans. Do not attempt non-medical discussion without extensive knowledge, preferably obtained from a human tutor.] There are other dimorphic tendencies of proportion, but these are quite small, and difficult for most other species to identify without practice.

Humans have concepts of gender, but although it originated with biological sexes this topic is dizzyingly complicated and of utmost delicacy. When speaking a language that offers gendered pronouns, utilize whichever ones the human in question requests be used. Do not ask why they use that particular set. Do not attempt to correct the human. Gender is often a touchy subject. Most humans fall into the “male” and “female” genders, simplifying their address, but once again, use the pronouns they request because they may defy or contradict the aforementioned dimorphic cues. (RF: “Human Sex, Gender, and Sexuality”)

The more superlative traits of humans are in their chemical adaptability, endurance and regenerative powers. Humans can consume a staggering range of foods without difficulty. There are, of course, many chemicals that are poisonous to them in even small quantities, but their tolerance for many poisons is significantly higher than is average for carbon-based life. Humans have a reputation for being able to eat anything, which in the arena of carbon-based foods is nearly true. Some foods they consume have little or no nutritional value to them, and are consumed for either the pleasure of eating, or to fulfill a challenge (RF: alcohol, capsaicin, “Junk Food”, “Dextrorotary and Levorotary molecules”).

Humans evolved as pursuit predators, meaning that their primitive ancestors simply walked after their prey for days until the prey collapsed from exhaustion. Human ancestors also hunted by ambush, traps, or direct confrontation with weapons. Humans are omnivores, and fruits, grains and vegetables comprise 40-80% of their typical diet.

Humans recover from injury at an amazing rate. Small cuts or abrasions on their skin generally heal completely within 3 standard days. Larger damage, such as a gash into muscular tissue, can be healed in as little as 20 standard days. Even major broken bones can heal in as little as one cycle. Humans cannot regrow amputated limbs, but recently severed limbs can be reattached with prompt medical care.

Behavior: Humans are highly varied and difficult to generalize. Many humans, particularly those who go to space, are highly motivated in the pursuit of their interests. Said interests can also vary wildly, being as broad or practical as “engineering” to as narrow or useless as “eggshell cameo paintings” (RF: eggs, cameos).

Humans have (usually) a highly developed sense of humor, though all sophont’s senses of humor vary noticeably. The range of human humor is varied enough to merit its own monograph.

Humans have decently good intelligence, and often specialize into a particular trade, profession, or task. Some generalize, being able to slot into a wide variety of moderate-complexity tasks. Many specialists will take secondary training in another task, such as a medical specialist taking combat training. Don’t bother attempting to guess what a particular human does; with few exceptions their profession doesn’t alter their appearance.

Humans possess a remarkable ability to form emotional connections, a form of pack-bonding left over from evolutionary times. Unlike most pack-bonding sophonts, humans will bond readily with creatures of any species, and will do so at any point in their life. Humans will bond with non-sapient animals, and even with robots or inanimate objects. (RF: “Stabby the Space Roomba) In particular, there are several Terran species widely accepted as ‘pets’, (RF: dog, cat) and it is generally considered wise for any ship/station with several permanent or semipermanent humans to acquire one or more of these pets for the humans to bond with. This is particularly advised if the ship is an exploratory vessel, since a human without a pet might attempt to bond with possibly dangerous wildlife.

Human pack-bonding can be exceedingly useful, as a human will display their superlative endurance and durability in order to assist a pack member in distress or danger: thus a human can significantly increase the survival rate of an entire crew to whom they’ve bonded. [Warning: never betray a human who has bonded to you, nor someone to whom that human has bonded. The ability of a human to hold a grudge is legendary]

Humans have a wide variety of cultural customs, which they will pursue often to the immense confusion of crewmates. Explanations of these customs sometimes result in fascinating discussions of human history, and sometimes result in the human saying “I don’t know” or “I just like it”. It is advised to not question these two sayings.

Supernal ability: Humans do not possess any measurable psychic or mystic power (to the great relief of their neighbors). However, humans often demonstrate a form of limited precognition, usually described as a “gut feeling”, that is uncannily accurate. Like most predatory sophonts, humans can “thin slice” a situation, rapidly assessing it from innumerable small cues with high accuracy. However, human “instinct” (different from the normal use of that term) and gut feeling (sometimes “gut instinct”) demonstrate statistically significant defiance of statistics. Humans tend to make decisions that they don’t fully understand, but which regardless lead to utterly unforeseeable positive outcomes. Research into this precognitive sense is ongoing, but thus far entirely unsuccessful.

[eligiblebastard]

Just thinking about how it’s cool that our brains can process information instantaneously then it occurred to me that a measure of time we consider “instantaneous” may only seem instantaneous because that’s the limit of how quickly our brains can process information.

Need a better way to phrase this but our brains only seem super fast because the speed they run is literally the fastest thing we brain-dependent organisms can comprehend.

To a faster system, a second may seem excruciatingly long, and we humans appear to be stuck making dial-up noises for most of this excruciatingly long existence.

[eligiblebastard]

humans are terrifying

If you ever think about attacking earth, maybe don’t.

Sure, the humans’ technology isn’t that scary. You would think they’d be an easy target, but humans are weird, and scary in ways that aren’t always immediately recognizable. Consider for a moment the teacup chihuahua. It’s a small carnivore that humans occasionally keep as pets, and it is a great example of just what humans are.

The domestication of carnivores might appear aberrant to most of the civilized galaxy, but that’s only the beginning. Humans created the teacup chihuahua, and they did so without the use of genetic engineering. They started with wolves, a pack predator that would prey on humans for most of their development. They took wolves and they trained them with food and pain and then they kept them in captivity for generations, until these descendents of wolves could safely be trusted with human infants. That’s not even the true horror of the human will to shape though.

They took these domesticated predators and made them small and fragile. They broke their bodies over generations, until all these poor creatures knew was fear. Did they do this out of a sense of revenge, maybe remembering when their ancestors fled from the ancient wolves? No. They took this proud creature and shaped it into this fragile ball of fear because they thought it was cuter that way. They broke an entire subspecies in the name of aesthetics. Think what they would do to something they were angry at. That is the true terror that is humans.

[eligiblebastard]

Send me to Mars with party supplies before next august 5th

[eligiblebastard]

Antivenom

have you ever stop to think that we don’t just synthetize antivenom, but we fucking brew it from the venom itself? like, oh, you got bitten by a rattlesnake? fear not, here, inject a bit more venom which have been scienced to antagonize itself. 

and it is not just that- we science venom for medicinal purposes. we take stuff that is uber toxic to us, science a bit with it (well, it takes years and a great effort from our scientists) and TA DAH, here is a brand new uber effective drug against blood clots. 

heck, we BREED venomous snake to extract their venom to use for medicinal purpouse!!!

it is the same principles at the base of vaccines - take what’s dangerous and use it to make yourself stronger. 

this is the most DeathWorlders thing I can think of. aliens don’t stand a chance. 

[eligiblebastard]

Submitted by @ attentiondeficitohlookasquirre

Imagine an alien species that venerates the spoken word.

Speaking is a sacred thing to them. Why wouldn’t it be? it’s the ritual exchange of information through a complex series of structures evolved over millennia. That’s a really big deal. So they only ever speak to each other in words to relay important information, like orders or thins not already obvious. Small talk either doesn’t exist or is only exchanged with your closest friends or family members. Otherwise it’s not just impolite, but practically blasphemy.

Then humans come along. At first they seem like they’re the same way–their ambassadors are eloquent and polite, and sure maybe their wording can be a little needlessly fancy, but every species is a little different and you’ve gotta make some allowances.

That’s what the aliens think until they actually meet their human crew mates.

And they discover that humans??? Will just say???? Anything?????

One human is braiding another’s hair and comments, “you have so much hair!” as if the other human didn’t know that already??? Their alien crew member is absolutely appalled at the casual use of speech to relay such pithy information. But the other human doesn’t even care???

Another human sees something funny and says “I’m dying” and the alien runs over like “OH NO WHERE DOES IT HURT” and the human is utterly baffled and says “I didn’t actually mean it” which is outrageous because why would that human dare use the power of speech to state something blatantly untrue?

The alien thinks they’ve seen the worst of it. And then a human comes out of the latrine. And they open their mouth.

“YOOOO GUYS I JUST TOOK THE BIGGEST SHIT”

[eligiblebastard]

You know what I want more of? Variety in aliens. No, I don’t mean more designs for alien species. I mean variety within a species. They always seem to have the same government, the same culture, the same religion, the same language. Come on, humans don’t work that way! 

“Say, there’s a Qualar over there. What are they saying?”

“No idea.”

“What?”

“That’s a Kinzian Qualar. I’m a Surolian Qualar. You’d have just as much luck understanding them as I would. You’re lucky I even speak Human.”

“Human isn’t a language.”

“What?”

[eligiblebastard]

I Had a Great Idea

for a Humans are Weird story.

So human babies REALLY need to be touched. Its totally critical for development. Small babies can literally die if you don’t cuddle them enough.

But imagine that the aliens are more like reptiles, in that they just sort of hatch and their parents feed them or stay around (and presumably, like, educate them, since they’re intelligent aliens), but don’t carry them around or cuddle in the same way.

So one of them gets stuck with a human baby that they’re responsible for and of course, they go ask a xenobiologist or someone ‘what do you do for a human baby, they’re all weird and squishy’.

And the scientist says: well, you have to stroke them. Like actually pick them up and stroke their skin.

Why, says the alien, what could that possibly accomplish. Does it make their skin tougher. Will they grow proper scales.

No, no, that’s just what human skin is like, you just… you have stroke them or they won’t grow right. They get a stroking-deficiency and can die.