#Road Simulation Systems

[grandwitchbird]

My favorite disaster game is FFXV which is probably all you need to ever know about me.

It actually approaches disasterpiece levels. What if we had a boyband road trip, but it’s actually a royal convoy, but it also makes zero sense as a royal convoy cuz the convoy is an idiot boyband. What if you spend the entire game rolling around a dying world with these idiots, and you get really attached to them in spite of yourself because you spend all your time fishing and camping like normal people. What if the game was just an ad for Coleman. What if you stay up all night fishing while the demons swarm you while your Coleman camping gear is safely enshrined in holy light. What if there’s a resort that’s also the only port in a bajillion miles, and that’s apparently normal and also it’s always busy but nobody uses it. What if the villain isn’t a villain at all but just the broken half of your savior narrative because the villains are the gods actually and you’re going to act out their fucked up sacrificial narrative no matter what. What if there’s a train to nowhere and everything is demons. What if the heroine is the most important character and we don’t even make her a character. What if we don’t even put the story in the base game at all.

Oh and the combat is a frustrating mix between hold-button simulator and a genuinely innovative and fun teleportation magic system. Good luck.

I love this stupid game.

[dreamersworldduh]

BEYOND THE FUTURE

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner reunited with the future version of Conner, and other two your children—Cole and Cameron—each of whom reflects a unique blend of your legacy and Conner's strength. Over the course of a single day, you reconnect with each of them, learning who they've become and quietly mourning the years you missed. What began as a heartfelt reunion becomes a declaration of war.

This is no longer just your fight—it's a battle for your family, your legacy, and the future.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence.

WORDS! 12.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the wait, babes! We have ended the semester and freed up some time for me to get this up! How are we liking the picture of an old Conner- I tried to do it in 10 minutes and that's the result. There’s more fics upcoming, so keep a lookout. Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE PAST

BY THE TIME morning arrived, the soft lighting of Mount Justice had already shifted from its cool night glow to a warmer, more natural hue, simulating the rise of a calm, early sun. The base was quiet, save for the subtle hum of technology and distant footsteps echoing through the corridors as systems returned to life. You and Conner walked side by side down the hall toward the Zeta-Tube chamber, your pace steady but filled with anticipation. Sleep had come in fits, broken by dreams and emotions that still hadn't fully settled, but the quiet intimacy of the night had steadied you both.

As the doors to the Zeta Bay slid open, your eyes were immediately drawn to the two figures waiting at the base of the platform.

Casey and Corra were already there, dressed not in their hero uniforms, but in something entirely different—something that struck you more deeply than you expected. They wore casual, modest clothing that bore the unmistakable flavor of Smallville, Kansas.

Casey had on a flannel button-up—faded red and black—and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into dark work boots. The sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, and a soft gray hoodie hung loosely around his waist, knotted by the arms. It was the kind of outfit that didn't come from fashion, but from habit. Practical. Earthy. Familiar.

Corra leaned against the wall beside him, wearing an oversized denim jacket layered over a soft, wheat-colored sweater. Her jeans were cuffed just above her boots, and a baseball cap rested backward on her head, pushing a few stubborn strands of hair down over her forehead. Even her posture had shifted—less the poised, tactical field leader from the night before, and more the confident, grounded young woman who knew how to mend a fence or drive an old truck down a dirt road.

It wasn't just their clothes. It was the way they stood, the way they carried themselves. There was something deeply Midwestern about it—humble, familiar, tied to the land. And it told you one thing loud and clear: you had a home there.

When Casey spotted the two of you entering the room, he straightened from his casual lean against the Zeta controls and gave a faint smile.

"Morning," he greeted, voice light but still carrying that quiet depth of emotion that had become familiar in such a short time. "Hope you slept okay."

Conner nodded. "Well enough." He glanced at Casey's flannel and smirked. "You raiding Grandpa's closet or something?"

Casey gave a small chuckle. "Nah. This is just how we do it in Smallville. Didn't want you guys showing up in the future dressed like city boys."

Corra pushed off the wall and walked over to you, giving your arm a small nudge as she took in your sleep-rumpled clothes. "We're going into Dad's house, remember? He'll notice if your shirt's not tucked in or if you track mud onto the porch." She gave you a wink. "Just a heads-up."

You blinked, the realization settling more fully now.

You were about to walk into the house where your children had been raised. Where the future version of Conner—your partner, your other half—had spent years alone, trying to hold together the pieces of the life you'd once shared.

And now... you were going to step back into it.

Back into a life you hadn't yet built.

Casey approached the console and tapped a few commands. The Zeta-Tube flared to life, its light swirling in anticipation. "It's synced to the local receiver in Smallville," he explained. "We'll land just a few steps outside the house."

Corra slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and tilted her head, glancing between you and Conner. "You ready for this?"

You met Conner's eyes, searching the quiet tension behind his gaze. He nodded once, and then you turned back to your children—your grown children, who somehow still looked at you with wonder in their eyes.

"Let's go home," you said.

And with that, the four of you stepped onto the Zeta platform—two fathers, two future children, bound together by time, love, and a farm in Kansas waiting to greet you.

THE MOMENT the Zeta-Tube light faded and the quiet hum of Mount Justice vanished behind you, you were enveloped in the warm, open air of Kansas.

But not just any Kansas—the future Kansas.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the countryside. The sun was higher here than it had been in the base, casting long golden rays across sprawling fields of wheat and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly turned soil, honeysuckle, and something that could only be described as home drifted in the air.

You stepped down from the receiver pad, which had been cleverly disguised within an old, worn-down shed near the edge of the property. The familiar crunch of gravel under your boots grounded you as your gaze swept the landscape.

It was... peaceful.

And beside you, Conner had stopped moving altogether.

He stood stock-still just a few feet ahead of you, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the view. The farmhouse sat proudly at the top of the gently sloping hill, the whitewashed siding now a soft cream from years of sun exposure. A wraparound porch with a freshly painted railing circled the front, and a wind chime clinked gently near the door.

But it wasn't just the house. It was the fence line that curved along the edge of the property, repaired in places with new wood that hadn't quite aged yet. It was the red barn, taller now, expanded and reinforced. It was the family garden, thriving along the side of the porch in neat, structured rows.

Everything had been touched, altered, aged—lived in.

Conner's chest rose with a slow, deep breath as he looked at the place that had once been his safe haven—the place where Martha Kent had taught him how to plant tomatoes, how to fix a broken tractor, how to find peace in silence. A place that had grounded him when the world felt too loud.

His voice, when it came, was rough with emotion.

"...It's the same." He swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "But not. Everything's grown, rebuilt, improved... but it still feels like her."

You stepped up beside him, watching as the breeze shifted his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"This was your home," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Even after all this time."

Conner gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the farmhouse ahead. "Other than you... and the Cave... this is the only place that ever felt like mine."

Behind you, Casey and Corra gave you both space, standing a few paces back with soft expressions. Casey smiled faintly, his voice low as he stepped closer.

"Dad never left it. Even after everything." He glanced toward the house. "He stayed here. Raised us here. Trained us here."

Corra chimed in with a softer tone. "He said it was the only place that reminded him of who he used to be... and who he loved."

You and Conner exchanged a glance.

The weight of this place pressed into your chests—not in a suffocating way, but like a memory that hadn't yet happened.

And as you all began walking toward the house, your boots crunching against the packed dirt path, the fields swaying around you, and the wind whispering through the leaves, you realized something important:

You were already part of this future.

Even if time had tried to take you from it.

THE FRONT door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that came from years of wear but had never quite been fixed—left as-is because it was a sound that meant home. Corra stepped in first, her boots thudding lightly against the aged hardwood floors, followed by Casey, who held the door open for you and Conner as the warm, late-morning Kansas breeze drifted in behind you.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, something shifted deep inside you. The air smelled like aged wood, flour, cinnamon, and earth—so distinctly Midwestern, so Kent. This place didn't just feel like a home; it felt like a memory you hadn't made yet.

You and Conner paused just inside the foyer, your eyes instinctively drawn to the left wall, where a long stretch of framed photos lined the hallway like a timeline of lives lived fully. You stepped toward them slowly, your footsteps almost hesitant, as if approaching sacred ground.

The earliest photos made your breath catch in your throat.

There you were—both of you—younger versions of yourselves holding a swaddled baby in a hospital room. Conner beaming with proud, tear-brimmed eyes. You looking down at a tiny sleeping infant—Casey—with awe and disbelief etched on your face. The next few photos showed first birthdays, tiny toddler shoes, a birthday cake shaped like a rocket, little handprints pressed into plaster.

And then came Corra. One picture showed you and Conner each holding one of the children while sitting on the porch swing, her wild dark hair already escaping its bows, her tiny hands pulling at Conner's collar as she giggled.

More followed: Cole, scowling even as a toddler, standing stubbornly in a patch of mud while you knelt behind him, clearly trying not to laugh. Then Cameron, shy and quiet even in photos, always nestled in someone's arms or pressed into your side, clutching one of your sleeves.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. The joy, the warmth, the love—it was all there. Frozen in time. Proof that you had been a father, and not just in title. You were present. Involved. Loving. Essential.

But as your eyes moved farther down the line, you noticed the shift.

By the time Casey reached around thirteen, Corra nine, Cole eight, and Cameron five... you were gone from the photos.

In the later images, Conner stood alone—his face a little tighter around the eyes, his smiles a little more subdued. Sometimes he was behind the camera. Sometimes he was beside the kids, arms around them. But always without you.

The absence was deafening.

Conner stood beside you, jaw tight as he took in the same realization. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of one of the frames—a family dinner photo where a high chair sat at the table, but only one parent was there.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. The silence between you was filled with understanding, grief, and quiet determination.

Then, somewhere deeper in the house, the stillness shattered.

A loud voice rang out from upstairs—young, frustrated, and unmistakably a sibling-in-command kind of voice.

"CAMERON! I swear, if you don't get your slow ass down here before Corra and Casey show up, I'm telling Dad you were the one who crashed the grav-cycle!"

You heard the thud-thud-thud of boots stomping across the upstairs floor, followed by the unmistakable slam of a bedroom door opening.

Corra rolled her eyes with a fond groan. "And that would be Cole. Never quiet. Never subtle."

Casey smirked beside her. "He's got Dad's temper and Pa's sarcasm. It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Conner snorted at that. "Sounds about right."

But even as the banter passed between your children, your eyes drifted back to that last photo with you still in it—Cameron perched on your hip, arms looped around your neck, while the rest of the kids crowded in around you, all beaming at the camera.

It was a life you hadn't lived yet.

And it was time to reclaim it.

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway—a sharp, relentless rhythm pounding against the wooden floorboards, each step faster than the last. They echoed with the urgency of someone already mid-argument, someone whose frustration had momentum. Then came the telltale thud of someone hopping the last stair, followed by a second of silence—a breathless beat—and finally, the whip-crack sound of a body turning sharply at the corner of the hall.

Cole appeared, coming into view, all lean muscle and attitude. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, stretched slightly and smudged with streaks of motor oil—obvious signs he'd just come from the garage or the barn, elbow-deep in gears and grease. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the familiar places, the cuffs bunched just above scuffed boots that hit the floor like thunder. His dark hair was a little messy, his jaw set in that unmistakable way that meant he had something to say, and it wasn't going to be quiet.

His mouth was already open, mid-complaint—about Cameron, no doubt—but the moment his eyes locked onto the figures in the hallway, the words choked off before they could even form.

He skidded to a halt.

First, his eyes landed on Corra and Casey. A crease formed between his brows, a flicker of annoyance and confusion surfacing—probably expecting to find them already handling whatever mess Cameron had left behind. But then his gaze drifted past them. It caught you.

And Conner.

But not his Conner—the tired, timeworn version who bore the weight of a thousand decisions and too many lonely nights. This Conner was younger, more vibrant, sharper in the eyes and shoulders. The sight alone was jarring.

And then there was you.

Time seemed to stop around him. The sound in the hallway dropped away, the air itself thickened. His breath caught in his throat. You could almost see the flicker in his eyes as recognition tried to claw its way through years of disbelief and grief.

His body froze, muscles locking up like a system overload. His expression twisted—first into confusion, then something wide-eyed and raw. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to say something, but couldn't find the words. He blinked, slow and hard, like maybe he could shake the image from his vision.

But you were still there.

Still real.

You watched as his gaze searched yours—desperate for confirmation, for understanding, for something to anchor him. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs had just remembered how to breathe. His face, usually so guarded with stubbornness and pride, softened with something heartbreakingly childlike.

"...Pa?"

The word fell from his lips like a ghost being set free. It cracked the air open.

You swallowed hard, barely able to speak past the emotion crawling up your throat. You took a slow, steady step forward, your voice a gentle thread. "Yeah... it's me."

But Cole didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, eyes locked to yours like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the illusion. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, caught in the war between disbelief and desperate hope.

Conner shifted beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back in a grounding gesture—quiet support. But Cole's eyes didn't leave you.

That's when Corra stepped forward, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's really him," she said with a soft smile, her eyes shimmering. "They came from the past."

Casey nodded, his voice firmer, trying to be the voice of logic. "We brought them here. It's not a dream. Not a trick. No shapeshifting. No magic. They're real. They're ours, Cole."

Cole gave a small shake of his head, like the words weren't computing. You saw his throat bob with a hard swallow, the shine in his eyes becoming harder to hide.

"You were gone," he said, barely getting the words out. "Since I was eight. I don't..." His voice broke. His jaw clenched. He stopped himself before the emotion could splinter too deep.

You took another step forward, your heart heavy, your voice laced with apology. "I never meant to leave you."

That undid him.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

Cole surged forward in a single, desperate stride and crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your frame as he pulled you into him like he was trying to fuse time itself. His fists clutched the back of your shirt, knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, his entire body seemed to melt against yours—not in weakness, but in the exhausted surrender of someone who had spent too long bracing himself against the ache of your absence. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt, clutching you like a lifeline, like letting go might somehow send you slipping back through time. You could feel the strength in his grip, not just physical, but emotional—every year, every missed moment poured into this one desperate hold.

Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his thick, tousled hair, still smelling faintly of oil and the outdoors. He trembled faintly in your arms, even as he fought to stay composed. You pressed your cheek to the crown of his head and closed your eyes, swallowing the bittersweet lump in your throat. There was a peace in holding him, a soft, aching peace that ran through your chest and out through your fingertips.

But then—upstairs—a door creaked open.

The faint sound of a voice drifted into the silence.

"I'm coming, Cole, alright? Calm down, I was—"

It wasn't loud or booming. It didn't crackle with irritation like Cole's had earlier. This voice was quieter, rounder, full of that melodic, slightly stubborn edge that still somehow sounded like kindness.

Your heart stuttered at the sound. It shouldn't have been enough to shake you—but it did.

Because you knew that voice.

You had never heard it in real life, but you had felt it in every story, every bedtime memory told secondhand by Conner or one of the older kids. You had imagined it a thousand different ways. But never like this. Never this real.

Cameron.

Soft, measured footsteps descended the staircase, lighter than Cole's. They landed with careful rhythm—like someone who'd learned how to move gently through spaces, like someone who thought more often than he spoke.

He came into view slowly, like time itself was pausing to let you see him properly.

He looked young—so heartbreakingly young. His dark hair was a soft mess, flopping lazily across his forehead, and his eyes were a pale, luminous shade of your own, wide and blinking in the morning light. He wore a loose green sweater that nearly swallowed him, the sleeves tugged down past his wrists, making him look smaller than he was. There was still sleep in his eyes, confusion pulling faint lines across his brow as he adjusted to the scene before him.

And then his gaze landed on you.

He stopped on the final step, his body going still, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared—not at the room, not at his siblings—but only at you.

You and Cole, locked in that quiet, reverent embrace.

His lips parted slightly, but the breath caught in his throat.

His expression fractured into disbelief.

His eyes—so open, so heartbreakingly clear—filled with something indescribable.

And then, in a voice so faint it nearly disappeared into the quiet...

"...Pa?"

It was barely more than a whisper.

But it cracked something in you.

The way he said it—it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years, too sacred to speak aloud, too painful to hope for.

You turned to him slowly, your hand still resting gently on Cole's back, and extended your other hand toward your youngest boy, your heart in your throat.

"Hi, Cameron," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He blinked, once, then again, and his lower lip began to tremble. You could see it happening behind his eyes—a battle of hope and fear, of disbelief crashing against something buried too deep to name.

Corra moved beside him, her hand a comforting presence at the center of his back. "It's real," she said, her voice gentle, as though speaking too loud might break him. "He's really here."

That was all it took.

Cameron took one tentative step.

Then another.

And then all at once, he was running.

He sprinted across the hallway in a blur, his feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between you, his arms already outstretched.

Cole stepped back just in time as Cameron collided into you, arms flinging around your waist, his face burying into your chest with the sheer force of a boy trying to make up for lost time in a single second.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately, pressing him to you with everything you had. His body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers gripping your sides through your shirt as he clung to you like he might never get another chance.

"I missed you," he choked out, voice muffled and raw, breaking in the middle. "I missed you so much..."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice catching against the weight of your own tears. "All of you."

You held him like you were afraid the moment might vanish—like time would come and steal him back again. Cole stood just beside you now, his arm still brushing yours, close enough to lean in again if he needed to. And there you were, surrounded by them, your boys. One tall and quiet with motor oil on his hands. One small and trembling, buried against your chest.

And in that quiet moment, in the center of a house that had gone on without you, you held them both.

For the first time in years.

For the first time ever.

Conner stood a short distance away from the scene, just outside the intimate circle of the embrace unfolding in front of him. His arms hung loosely at his sides, shoulders square but still, and his eyes—blue-gray and fathomless—were locked on the three of you. His expression was difficult to read at first—his face composed, mouth set in a line, brows resting low—but there was a storm simmering beneath the calm. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if resisting the urge to do something.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his silence said more than words could've.

He watched as. Cameron hadn't let go. He stayed pressed to your chest, clutching at your shirt like if he loosened his hold, you might vanish again. His shoulders trembled faintly, the top of his head tucked beneath your chin.

And still, Conner watched.

But it wasn't jealousy in his gaze. It wasn't anger either.

It was ache.

Because he had carried all of this—these children, this home, the weight of your absence—alone. Because he had been the one to soothe them through tears, to lift them when they fell, to tell them stories of who you were, to believe in the memory of you even when it got harder and harder to remember the sound of your laugh.

Because he had done it all—without you.

And now, here you stood, like time had gifted you back to them. Alive. Whole. Real.

It was a beautiful moment. But it trembled with tension, too—like a glass sculpture perched too close to the edge.

Then came the sound that shattered the silence: the soft, familiar creak of a door swinging open at the back of the house.

A moment later came the measured, heavy thud of boots stepping onto tile—confident, grounded, practical.

Then a voice followed, distant but distinct—gruff and sure, low like a slow river over gravel. It carried no urgency, just the casual weariness of someone returning from work.

"I'm home. Someone left the barn door open again."

You felt Conner beside you—your Conner—go rigid. Not visibly, but you sensed the shift in him. The way his breath slowed. The tension in his spine. The subtle straightening of his stance.

The voice came again—closer this time. A tone you hadn't heard, but knew, like a song you'd forgotten the lyrics to.

"Where is everybody? Cole? Cam?"

Footsteps approached with purpose, solid and familiar. The sound echoed faintly through the kitchen until, at last, he stepped into view—into the hall.

The older Conner Kent.

He emerged through the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old cloth, his boots heavy with the day's labor. A dark, flannel-lined jacket hung over a fitted black T-shirt, his jeans faded and frayed at the knees. Earth clung to the soles of his boots, and his presence filled the space without even trying.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.

Older. Weathered. Not broken, but worn by time in the way a tree becomes strong—scarred and rooted. There were streaks of silver threading through his hair near his temples, and faint lines carved around his eyes. A full, well-kept beard framed his jaw, adding a certain gravity to his already strong features. His frame was still powerful, still broad-shouldered and straight-backed, like he hadn't let the world bend him no matter how much it tried.

And then he saw you.

He stopped.

Dead still.

His eyes—the same eyes as your Conner's—swept the foyer, quickly taking in the scene. Cameron, still pressed into your chest. Cole, lingering at your side with wet lashes and parted lips. A version of himself standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and rigid, staring back at him like a reflection stolen from another life.

And then... you.

His gaze landed on you, and it stayed there.

You watched the recognition flood into his face—slow at first, then sharp and consuming. The way his eyes widened slightly, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. The way his entire body shifted, not back, but forward, drawn in by something primal.

"...You," he breathed.

His voice was quieter now. Hollowed out by disbelief. There was no anger in it—only awe, raw and trembling beneath a shell of hard-earned restraint.

You nodded slowly, your throat thick, your heart pounding as you echoed softly, "Yeah. It's me."

Time itself seemed to fold in on the space between you.

The older Conner stood there, unmoving but completely undone behind his eyes. You could see it all—the memories rising like ghosts, the years without you, the nights spent aching for answers, the weight of fatherhood that never let up. And now, here you were, alive and real, looking at him with the same love he had carried like a burden for decades.

And behind you, your Conner stared at his future.

He saw the lines etched by sleepless nights, the stiff spine from too many years of standing alone, the shoulders grown broader from carrying four children's pain. He saw what he would become—who he had to become—if you never made it back.

And Conner—the older one—looked into his past. The man he used to be. The man who still loved you. Who never stopped.

THE SILENCE that fell over the room was suffocating—thick and unmoving, like the air had congealed into something heavy enough to crush lungs. No one dared to speak. No one even shifted. The overhead fan continued its slow, methodical spin above them, and the ticking of the clock on the wall marched on—both sounds suddenly deafening in the stillness, in the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Older Conner remained rooted in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand still gripping the grease-stained rag he'd carried in, forgotten. His eyes were locked onto you—hard and unblinking—as if the mere act of looking at you took everything he had. His chest rose and fell in deliberate, restrained movements. But there was nothing steady about him. You could feel the tremor beneath his stillness, the tension vibrating through the air like electricity before a storm. His heartbeat wasn't just fast—it was furious, a silent percussion you swore you could feel thudding through the floor beneath your feet.

He was caught between two instincts—run to you, or run from you.

His gaze shifted, breaking from yours for only a moment as it scanned his children.

Cameron still clung to your side, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head buried into your chest like a boy who hadn't aged past the moment you'd vanished from his life. Cole stood just beside you, still trying to stay composed but visibly shaken, eyes flickering between the two versions of Conner—his brain struggling to reconcile the man who raised him with the man who had suddenly returned.

Corra and Casey stood apart, closer to the staircase, but the anxiety radiating off of them was palpable. Corra's hands were clenched in front of her, as if holding herself still would somehow keep the moment from fracturing further. Casey stood like a soldier—tall, square-shouldered, resolute—but his jaw was tight, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Older Conner's eyes landed on him last.

And that's when the question finally left his lips—scraped raw and hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

"...What did you do?"

There was no awe in his voice. No joy. Just the brittle edge of disbelief laced with an old, festering pain.

His gaze darkened, narrowed. "How is this possible?" His voice hardened. "How is he—how are they—here?"

Casey didn't back down.

"I brought them," he said simply, each word measured and unflinching. "From the past."

Older Conner blinked. Hard. His body flinched like the words physically struck him. "You what?"

"I used a time tether," Casey said, eyes never leaving his father's. "Zatanna helped me. I found her, convinced her. It took weeks. It was dangerous. But it worked."

"You used magic—" Conner cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap. "You tampered with the timeline? With—him?"

He jabbed a shaking hand in your direction. The word stuck in his throat, the emotion behind it too thick to swallow.

This wasn't fury born from arrogance—it was anguish. It was the terror of a man who had spent years surviving loss, only to have that wound reopened.

"You don't understand what you've done," he continued, his voice cracking, his hands beginning to tremble. "The timeline—our lives—the world—everything we've fought for—he—"

"He was going to die," Casey snapped, his voice rising now to match his father's. "You both were. Olympian went back to their time. We were losing. I wasn't going to wait around and let it happen again."

"You had no right!" Conner shouted, taking a step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and betrayal.

"I had every right," Casey barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You weren't the only one who lost him. I did. We all did. I saw a chance to save him—and you. And I took it."

A breathless silence settled again—this one different. Not suffocating, but shell-shocked.

Older Conner stood completely still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His chest was rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, like the storm inside him was trying to break loose.

And then, his gaze drifted back to you.

His eyes softened—barely—but it was enough for you to see it. The break. The crack in the armor he'd spent years welding together.

"I buried you once," he said quietly, voice like gravel. "I carried your body. I had to tell them you weren't coming back. I've lived every single day knowing what it's like to wake up without you. I can't..." his voice wavered, "I can't do that again."

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him you weren't going anywhere. That this was different. That it wasn't some illusion, some cosmic fluke.

But you never got the chance.

In a single, jagged motion, he turned on his heel. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor like a shed skin.

The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, hard and fast, the air behind him thick with grief and fury.

The back door flung open with a sharp click and then—

SLAM.

The screen door swung shut behind him with a final, violent rattle, and he was gone.

Gone like he had been trained to disappear. Like pain had taught him that walking away was the only way to survive it.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Casey stood frozen, his chest heaving slightly, his face a war between guilt and defiance. His hands shook, though he clenched them tight, determined not to let anyone see.

Corra turned away slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she was trying to contain the swell of emotion rising in her throat.

Cameron stayed pressed against you, eyes glassy and scared, small fingers tangled in your shirt as if the slamming door had threatened to take you with it.

You stared at the door.

The space he had filled. The silence he left behind.

And you knew, without question, what needed to happen next.

You'd have to go to him. You'd have to find the man behind that wall of pain and time.

But not yet.

You'd give him the space to breathe, to break, to feel what he needed to feel.

Because when you went to him—you wanted him to be ready.

And you'd be there, waiting. For him.

THE FRONT door creaked faintly behind him as Younger Conner stepped out, letting it close with a soft click that was swallowed quickly by the open air. The Kansas morning wrapped around him like a memory—warm, slightly humid, tinged with the scent of rich soil and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was a canvas of soft gold and pale blue, the early sun stretching its light across the land in long, honeyed streaks that dappled the edges of the farmhouse and the worn gravel driveway.

He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds of the farm settle into him. Birds chirping lazily from the tree line, the occasional buzz of a bee passing too close, and the rhythmic clink of metal tools from near the barn—deliberate, steady, unhurried. He followed the noise with his eyes and found him.

His older self.

Just past the barn doors, Older Conner was crouched beside the weathered frame of a long-retired red tractor, its paint chipped and dulled by time. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and sun-worn skin. He was focused on tightening a stubborn bolt, muttering under his breath when the wrench slipped, and then tightening it again like his life depended on the motion. Like if he kept doing, he wouldn't have to feel.

Younger Conner took a slow step forward, gravel crunching lightly under his boots. He hesitated, watching.

The man in front of him was undeniably him, yet not. His frame was heavier with time—stronger, yes, but slower, steadier. His once-coal black hair now held thick streaks of silver, especially around the temples. His beard was full and salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, but aged him even more than the years had. And his face—hardened. The youthful sharpness of it had been carved into something more stoic, more weary. Every line etched by stress, by grief. By you.

Because now Conner could see it.

What Corra had meant.

He wasn't just seeing a version of himself that had grown older. He was seeing a version that had grown lonelier.

There was a weight in every movement, a heaviness in the way Older Conner stood, in the way his brow furrowed even when he wasn't speaking. He didn't move like someone carrying responsibilities.

He moved like someone carrying a void.

And that void had a shape.

Your shape.

Younger Conner exhaled quietly, then finally stepped closer, his tone light—gentle. "You're really giving that bolt hell."

Older Conner didn't glance up. He gave the bolt one final turn, tested it with a nudge of his thumb, then reached for a different tool.

"You don't get an old machine to keep running by taking it easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Everything worth keeping takes effort."

Younger Conner didn't crowd him. He leaned against the edge of the barn doorframe, arms folded, gaze soft as he watched his future self in silence.

Time passed between them—not empty, but charged. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick with understanding neither of them had the words for yet.

"I saw the photos," Conner finally said. "In the hallway. I saw the point where he stopped being in them."

Older Conner's hand paused on the wrench. Just for a second. His fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening. But he didn't turn.

Younger Conner swallowed and kept going. "I didn't get it at first. I thought maybe it was just... the way things played out. That people drift, or something happened. But I get it now. What it must've done to you. What it meant."

At that, Older Conner finally straightened. He didn't speak immediately—just looked out across the open fields beyond the barn, where wheat was beginning to ripple beneath a light breeze. His shoulders rose and fell once before he said anything.

"He died twelve years ago," he murmured. "Felt like the world cracked down the middle."

Younger Conner stayed still, barely breathing.

"One minute, he was there," Older Conner continued, voice even rougher now. "Standing in front of us, glowing. Burning brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Pushing back everything dark that wanted to swallow us. The next minute..."

His jaw flexed. His eyes closed.

"Gone."

Younger Conner lowered his head, letting the silence speak for him.

"He wasn't just my husband," Older Conner said, voice quieter. "He was my best friend. My partner. My reason to keep going. He reminded me who I was, when the world tried to make me forget. I didn't build a life. I built one with him. And then—"

He stopped, then gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

"I never planned for what came after."

Younger Conner looked down at his own hands, his voice soft but sincere. "I wouldn't have either."

Older Conner turned his head just slightly. Their eyes met—his older gaze heavy with memory, grief, and a sharp understanding. He looked at his younger self not with disappointment, but with knowing.

"You will," he said. "If you love him like I did—do—you'll understand. Every inch of it. Every price. And it'll still be worth it."

"I already do," Younger Conner replied immediately, without hesitation. "That's why I came out here. I didn't want to argue. I didn't come to question what you've done. I just wanted you to know... we're not here to reopen anything. We're here because we still have a chance."

Older Conner finally turned to face him fully. His arms lowered. His face—still guarded—softened just a fraction.

"It's not the wounds I'm afraid of," he said after a moment. "It's the ghosts. They don't scream. They whisper. All day. All night. And when you live with them long enough... they're the only voices you remember."

Younger Conner stepped off the frame of the barn and took a slow step forward, stopping just a few feet away.

"Well... he's not a ghost today," he said gently. "He's standing in that house, holding our boys, breathing, smiling. Right now. We don't have to imagine him. We don't have to remember."

Older Conner stared at him.

Not as a man looking into a mirror.

But as someone looking at the possibility of healing—and being terrified of it.

And yet... his expression shifted. The tension in his brow loosened. His hands relaxed at his sides. His eyes shimmered faintly—not with tears, but with life beginning to seep into old cracks.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"No," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not."

And for the first time in over a decade... the door inside him began to creak open.

THE SCREEN door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the morning breeze as two sets of footsteps crossed the threshold—measured, unhurried, in sync without effort. One set was lighter, younger, familiar with movement yet not heavy with burden. The other was older, deeper, each step resonating with the weight of time and memory. The footsteps traveled into the warmth of the house, where the scent of home clung to the walls like something sacred—sizzling eggs, golden toast, the faint sugary perfume of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

You sat in the heart of it all—at the center of the farmhouse kitchen table, surrounded by the world you thought you'd never see again.

The table was crowded, alive with voices and food and the kind of chaos only a well-loved family can create. Casey was posted at the far end, animatedly cutting into a towering stack of pancakes as he gestured through a half-told story. Corra, effortlessly comfortable, sat sideways in her chair with one leg folded underneath her, nonchalantly stealing berries from her twin brother's plate. Cole batted her hand away with a groan but didn't actually move his plate, smirking all the same.

And then there was Cameron.

Still shaking off the sleep in his bones, he leaned drowsily into your side, head tilted ever so slightly against your shoulder, letting your arm rest around him like it had never left. His plate sat barely touched in front of him, and your other hand held a mug of coffee, warm against your fingers. His presence was quiet, but solid—anchored. Like the world had finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You smiled, soft and full. The kind of smile that only came when something lost had been found.

In that moment, to anyone looking, it was as if you had never left. As if time had stitched itself back into place, no seams, no gaps. Just home.

Then came the creak of the door again.

The hush before a storm—or something gentler.

The footfalls crossed the threshold and stopped just inside the hallway entrance.

And slowly, instinctively, the room turned.

It wasn't planned or rehearsed. It was reflex. Every face shifted toward the doorway, every conversation dropped off mid-sentence. Eyes moved like a silent current toward the figures now standing at the edge of the kitchen.

Younger Conner stood there first—his frame taut, alert, his hands loosely clenched at his sides. His gaze was calm but watchful, as if bracing for a ripple he couldn't quite predict. And beside him, towering just slightly more, was Older Conner.

Bearded. Weathered. Steel-eyed. But different now.

Softer.

There was a stillness in him that hadn't been there before. A kind of fragile peace resting in the space where pain had lived for too long.

The warmth of the kitchen dimmed into quiet as every pair of eyes took him in. Your children didn't flinch. They didn't recoil. But they didn't speak either. They waited.

And then—his eyes found you.

Time didn't freeze, but it bent. Just enough.

You held his gaze across the expanse of the room, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. He didn't look away. He didn't try to guard himself like before. He simply stood—watching you, breathing you in, the faintest tremble in his exhale betraying everything he felt but couldn't yet say.

His eyes traveled the room slowly, resting on each of his children—Casey, Corra, Cole, and Cameron—all of them alive, all of them together. And then back to you.

And then... he stepped forward.

"I owe some apologies," he said, voice low and sandpapered but no longer clenched in fury. "Especially to you, Casey."

The words carried weight. More than just acknowledgment—they were a surrender.

Casey, midway through a bite of pancakes, paused and looked up, lips parted. He didn't speak right away. He watched his father with quiet caution, waiting to hear the rest.

Older Conner shifted his weight, hands twitching slightly at his sides, as if speaking the truth was harder than lifting mountains.

"You did what you thought was right. Because you love him. Because you love us." His eyes flicked briefly toward you, then back. "I was too angry to see it. I didn't want to believe anyone had to make that choice. But I understand now. You just didn't want to keep losing the people you love."

Casey lowered his fork. His nod was small, but it was enough. "I didn't want to lose you either," he said quietly.

Conner swallowed hard.

His gaze turned to you.

"And you..." His voice faltered—just a little. But he pressed on. "I didn't mean to walk out on you. I didn't know what to say when I saw you. I still don't. I've been angry for so long. Not at you. At everything. At myself."

You rose slowly from your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The table faded away. The kitchen faded away.

All that existed was the space between you.

"I understand," you said, voice gentle, your eyes never leaving his.

He nodded—barely. His jaw clenched again, fighting for composure. But the storm behind his eyes had calmed. The years between you had dulled, just for a moment, enough for love to find a way through the cracks.

And then—

"Does this mean Dad won't yell at me if I skip dishes today?" Cameron piped up, his voice light, teasing, hopeful.

There was a beat of silence—just one.

Then laughter burst across the table. Rich, free, and warm. Corra snorted into her drink. Cole rolled his eyes. Casey grinned and tossed a berry at Cameron, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Older Conner shook his head, a small huff escaping him that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"Nice try," he said.

But then he looked at you again.

And this time, the pain was still there—but so was the healing. Something in his gaze had changed. A door had opened. The shadows weren't gone, but the light had found a way in.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

THE GOLDEN haze of afternoon had given way to the soft, amber tones of early evening, casting long, sleepy shadows across the Kent farmhouse. Outside, the fields glowed like sunlit oceans of wheat, swaying in a gentle breeze that whispered through open windows and carried with it the scent of tilled earth, honeysuckle, and late-summer warmth.

Inside, the house pulsed with a kind of quiet magic—not from powers or fate, but from the simple, sacred rhythm of family. It was the rhythm of a home in motion, familiar and foreign all at once. The sound of your children laughing, the clatter of dishes, the echo of music humming faintly from a speaker somewhere in the background—it filled the rooms like sunlight, chasing away the years you'd missed with something far more real.

And you'd spent most of the day watching—drinking in the sight of them not as soldiers or missions or headlines, but as your kids. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. People who had grown up without you but still, somehow, carried pieces of you inside them.

Casey was every bit the soldier you'd heard about—calm, efficient, sharp-eyed. But beneath that perfect posture and tactical precision was a young man who struggled to turn his brain off. He filled every spare moment with action: reviewing data logs, drafting new patrol routes, analyzing mission reports with all the seriousness of a general. You'd watched him furrow his brow over a report at lunch, the others teasing him for it, and you'd felt both pride and heartbreak.

Corra was a whirlwind wrapped in contradictions. Wild, witty, full of opinions and utterly uninterested in being told no. She spoke her mind like a weapon and laughed like a firecracker. But then you'd seen her disappear into the corner of the porch later, sketchpad in hand, drawing with a delicacy that didn't match her brash energy. Faces. Always faces. She didn't want anyone to see them, but you caught her looking at you once as she quietly flipped to a new page.

Cole—gods, he was a handful. The sarcasm practically leaked from his pores, and his arguments with Corra were already legendary. But there was depth behind the bravado. He worked with his hands, disappearing for hours into the barn or the garage, reengineering things that didn't need fixing just because he could. He didn't brag about it, but there was a tenderness hidden in the things he built. You noticed the way he followed Cameron with his eyes, always a few paces behind, pretending not to hover. But he did.

And Cameron. Already more attuned to emotion than most adults. He didn't say much, but his silences weren't empty. They were listening. Feeling. You caught him once standing by the window, fingers trailing the frame, just watching the sunset like it was speaking to him. Later, Corra told you he kept a box of dried flowers under his bed, collected from every place he'd been. A silent collection of beauty gathered in the cracks between missions. A quiet archive of everything he'd survived.

You'd missed so much.

But now, with the sky bleeding orange and lavender and the scent of dinner curling through the hallways, you were here. You were part of it.

By the time the sun had slipped behind the hills, the house had become a warm cacophony of clatter, chaos, and comfort.

Corra and Cole were currently locked in a full-on wrestling match in the middle of the living room rug, shrieking with laughter as limbs tangled.

"Say it!" Corra shouted, pinning Cole's arm behind his back. "Say I'm stronger!"

"NEVER!" Cole barked back, red-faced and thrashing beneath her grip, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Say it or I'm gonna make you eat that stupid sock you call a beanie!"

"IT'S VINTAGE!"

In the hallway, Cameron guided Younger Conner through the den, stopping in front of a long shelf lined with trophies, medals, and keepsakes. "That one's from the peace summit on New Genesis," he said softly, tapping a glass orb filled with silvery dust. "I helped stop a civil war by translating emotion through shared dreams. No violence. Just... understanding."

Younger Conner blinked. "You're telling me you pulled off intergalactic therapy?"

Cameron grinned shyly. "Dad says it made him cry. He denies it, though."

"Hell, I believe it. That's some next-level empathy, kid."

Meanwhile, the kitchen had become its own warm ecosystem.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifted thick through the air as Older Conner stood over the stove, focused and precise, stirring a dark, bubbling sauce with military attention. He wore an old, grease-smudged apron, and the corners of his mouth twitched every time the oven timer dinged. The clink of metal utensils, the low sizzle from the roast, and the occasional mutter under his breath filled the space.

Beside him, Casey stood at the counter, chopping carrots like he was disarming a bomb, sneaking glances at his father between every cut.

"You don't have to hover," Conner muttered.

"You burn the bread every time," Casey replied, sliding a tray toward the oven.

"That happened once."

"Three times. M'gann's rations remember."

Older Conner scoffed. "You wanna cook?"

"Not unless we want tactical failure by dessert."

That's when you stepped in.

You dried your hands on a dish towel as you entered, the glow of the kitchen lights catching in your eyes. You paused for just a moment, leaning against the counter, taking it all in—Conner and Casey side-by-side, sharing quiet jabs and glances, moving together in a rhythm only built through years of love and resilience.

"I figured I'd come help," you said, casual, your voice soft but certain as you stepped forward.

Both heads turned toward you.

Older Conner met your gaze. There was a beat—a pause in the air thick enough to press against your chest—but he nodded slowly, then motioned to a colander of washed vegetables.

"You can prep the salad," he said. His tone was gruff, but there was no edge to it. Just something warm. "And keep Casey from over-engineering the dressing."

"Hey," Casey said, smirking. "Don't knock molecular gastronomy."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, sliding in beside them and reaching for a knife. The cutting board thudded gently beneath your hands, the simple rhythm of dinner prep grounding you more than anything else had since arriving.

And there you were.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had carried your memory for over a decade, and the son you didn't get to raise—but already admired.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. No speeches. No big declarations.

It was chopping lettuce. Stirring vinaigrette. Passing a spoon. Sharing space.

And in that quiet, unremarkable task—amid the scents of rosemary and warm bread, the bubbling laughter from the living room, and the sound of your children being home—you weren't just a guest in their lives anymore.

You were back.

Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.

As part of it.

A father. A partner. A piece of the family they had tried so hard to keep whole.

THE OVEN let out a low, steady hum, its warmth bleeding into the kitchen like a soft heartbeat. The scent of rosemary, roasted vegetables, garlic, and slow-cooked meat hung thick in the air—comforting, familiar, and grounding. It mingled with the golden glow of early evening, spilling through the kitchen window and bathing everything in soft, amber light. The room, once bustling with chatter and overlapping voices, had settled into a rare, well-earned stillness.

It wasn't silence that felt empty. It felt full—weighted with all the things said, unsaid, and finally starting to heal.

Somewhere deeper in the house, the distant sounds of life carried on. From the living room, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone—likely Cole—falling off the couch again, accompanied by Corra's triumphant shout. Muffled music buzzed from Cameron's room, underscored by the soft cadence of conversation filtering faintly through the hallway.

The house was alive. A heartbeat. A home.

But here, in the kitchen, it was just the two of you.

Older Conner stood across from you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but laced with something deeper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows of a well-worn flannel shirt, and his beard caught the kitchen light in thin streaks of silver and warmth. His gaze wasn't on you—not directly. He stared at the pot simmering on the stovetop, but his eyes were far away, caught in memories too fragile to voice yet.

You stood at the cutting board, the gentle thunk of your knife slicing through cucumber the only real sound in the room besides the hum of the oven and the faint tick of the wall clock. You weren't really paying attention to the salad anymore. Your focus kept drifting to him. The silence between you was thick—not tense, but tender. Like standing on the edge of a moment neither of you wanted to rush.

Then, quietly, you broke it.

"Casey's... remarkable," you said, your voice soft. "I've only been here a day and already I can see it. How grounded he is. How sharp. How deeply he loves all of you. I can't believe I missed getting to watch him become that."

Conner didn't answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, or maybe a memory passing through him.

"He always had that fire," he murmured. "Even as a kid. He wanted to fix things. Protect people. He didn't wait to be given permission—he stepped into the role. Always two steps ahead. That part..." he looked up, finally meeting your eyes, "that part's all you."

You looked down, heart swelling and aching at once. "He has your strength. And your stillness. He sees everything."

Conner's gaze softened. "He's ours."

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. "I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. J'onn thought it was a mutation at first, something unstable—because I wasn't supposed to be able to carry. And then... suddenly, I was. With him."

Conner straightened, the memory flickering like a light inside him. He stepped forward, closer, his voice low and cracked with a kind of reverence.

"That day..." he said, eyes fixed on yours, "was one of the happiest of my life."

You blinked, surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"I remember you coming into the Cave," he went on, quieter now. "You'd just had that check-up with J'onn and Bruce. You walked straight toward me, but your hands were shaking. You didn't say anything at first. And then you did. You whispered it. And for a second, I couldn't breathe."

He gave a faint, breathless laugh. "Like the world just... stopped. Like all the war, all the missions, all the noise had quieted to give me that one moment."

You said nothing, afraid if you did, you'd lose your hold on the emotions flooding your chest.

"I used to talk to him," he continued. "Every night. While you slept. Even when there was nothing to feel yet. I'd press my hand to your stomach and tell him how much I loved you. How we were going to make this work. Give him a life that felt safe. That felt like home."

A long, quiet beat.

"And for a while... we did."

You closed your eyes, drawing in a slow breath to keep yourself steady. But the guilt settled over you like an old, familiar ache.

"I'm sorry I left you to do it alone," you whispered, voice barely audible.

Conner turned toward you fully then, his expression solid, eyes bright with a kind of fire that hadn't dimmed, even with time.

"You didn't leave," he said, firm and immediate. "You fought. You died protecting us. Protecting them. You didn't walk away. You didn't run. You saved us."

He paused, stepping closer until he was beside you, until the warmth from him was real and close and steady.

"You just didn't come back."

The words struck deep—soft, painful, but true. And somehow, they brought a measure of peace.

You looked at him then—not as a memory or a scar, but as a man. The boy who once kissed you in the rain behind the Tower. The father who had raised your children without you. The soldier who carried the weight of grief like it was armor.

And the man who never stopped loving you.

He reached out, his hand finding yours on the counter. His palm was calloused, rough at the edges, but warm—solid in a way that made you want to lean into him and never let go.

His fingers closed around yours.

"But now," he said softly, "you're here. Even if it's borrowed time. Even if the world pulls you back again... I needed this. I needed you. Just once more."

You blinked fast, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over. "I needed it too."

Neither of you moved after that.

The soft tick-tick-tick of the oven timer was the only sound that lingered in the kitchen after your quiet exchange with Older Conner. It filled the air like a metronome to your thoughts—slow, constant, reminding you both of the fragile thread holding this moment together. The kind of stillness that comes after an emotional tide—when words have done their part, and all that remains is breath.

And then, from the next room, a low crackle broke through the silence.

The stereo—old, slightly dusty, clearly temperamental—whirred to life with a soft hiss before spilling music into the house. A slow, soulful tune emerged from its speakers, all faded vinyl warmth and aching melody. It was the kind of song made for twilight moments—the ones that exist between conversation and silence. The kind that wraps around you like old sheets and distant memories.

You knew the song. Not just in the way people know lyrics, but in the way it lived in your bones.

You'd danced to it once. In a different kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom with the lights low. Barefoot. Laughing. Wrapped in his arms while the world spun quietly outside your window.

And now, it played again. Like the universe had rewound the clock for just a little while.

You turned slightly, eyes drawn toward the soft hum of the music bleeding in from the living room. A smile tugged at your lips—nostalgic, tentative, real.

Before you could speak, Conner shifted beside you.

And then... his hand reached out.

Palm open. Steady. Offering—not demanding. A quiet invitation, spoken not through words but through the weight in his gaze. A gaze that held grief and memory, but more than anything else... longing.

"Dance with me?" he asked. Barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart caught, your breath stuttered—but only for a second.

"Yes," you breathed.

You slid your fingers into his. His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, and he guided you gently—out of the kitchen's narrow space, toward the center of the room, where the worn hardwood caught the fading golden light just right.

He pulled you close—not roughly, not even with urgency. Just close.

The space between your bodies vanished. His arm slipped around your back, drawing you in, while his other hand rested against the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair like he couldn't believe you were really there. You felt his chest rise against yours, then fall in a quiet, steady rhythm.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his collarbone without thinking. The scent of him—earth, spice, the faintest trace of engine grease—surrounded you like an embrace all its own.

He started to sway—slow, careful, as if he were relearning how to move with you. One step, then another. Barely dancing, really. Just holding. Rocking. Breathing.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Slow. Steady. Anchoring.

And neither of you said a word.

There was no need.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about what had been said—it was about what hadn't. About the years that lived between you, and how, somehow, you had found your way back to each other across the ruins of all that was lost.

It wasn't romantic, not in the way the movies tried to sell it.

It was real.

In the doorway, unseen by either of you, four figures appeared.

Casey was first—leaning just enough to see. His brow furrowed at the sight, then softened. Corra stepped beside him, lips parted, one hand lifting to her chest, as though something deep in her had cracked open. Behind them, Cole folded his arms and muttered, "You guys are so sappy," but didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Cameron... Cameron just smiled. Quietly. Brightly. Like something unspoken in his chest had clicked back into place.

They all watched for a few seconds longer—long enough to feel it. The gravity in the room. The history. The ache and the healing. And then, like shadows, they retreated—silent and reverent.

In the hallway, they found Younger Conner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and casual, though his eyes betrayed far more than his posture suggested.

"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised, tone half-curious, half-defensive.

Corra smirked, nudging him playfully. "You still got moves."

Casey chuckled under his breath. "And a vice grip. He's holding Pa like if he lets go, the world might end again."

Younger Conner didn't respond right away.

Because he'd seen it, too. Felt it.

Not just the love—but the depth of it. The need. The ache. The sacredness of a bond that had endured time, tragedy, and death itself.

And somewhere, behind the glimmer in his eyes, a thought took root.

I don't ever want to have to hold him like that.

Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose you.

Back in the kitchen, the song played on.

The light dimmed further, gold fading into soft, muted lavender. The house exhaled around you. And you... you were still there. In his arms. Swallowed by the melody, grounded by the weight of his embrace.

He held you like a man who had been forced to let go once before.

And this time, he didn't plan to loosen his grip again.

You remained nestled against Older Conner's chest, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of him as the soft song spun through the kitchen like a slow-motion dream. It wrapped around the two of you like a shared memory made real again, each note more tender than the last. The overhead lights glowed low and golden, casting a halo over the moment—catching on polished countertops, reflecting off the glass of the cabinets, and dancing across the windowpanes. Outside, the horizon had dipped fully into twilight, stars just beginning to pierce the deepening sky.

But in here, all you could see was him.

His arms tightened around you, a subtle but undeniable shift in pressure—as if every inch of him still feared this was a trick, that if he loosened his hold, you'd vanish like smoke. You leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up toward him. His eyes met yours immediately—clear, piercing, ocean-deep. They were older now. Worn. Carrying a thousand battles and years of grief. But they were still his.

Still the same blue that once saw straight through you.

You reached up slowly, your fingers finding the edge of his flannel shirt, curling into the fabric for reassurance as your heart thudded wildly inside your chest. You studied him—every crease at the corner of his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard. Your thumb brushed gently along his jaw.

"Conner..." you whispered, your voice delicate, shaped by emotion too large to name.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His head dipped just slightly, his breath brushing across your lips. The space between you narrowed, impossibly fragile. You leaned forward, your eyes drifting closed, the promise of a kiss hanging in the air like a heartbeat away.

And then—the world ruptured.

A deafening CRACK shattered the silence as the kitchen window exploded inward in a vortex of burning violet light. The force slammed through the glass, through the wall, a wave of raw, corrupted cosmic energy that howled with an unnatural pitch. It wasn't just fire or wind or impact—it was like the universe itself had been ripped open and hurled through your home.

You didn't even have time to scream.

Before your mind could register what had happened, Older Conner's body was in motion.

He moved with supernatural speed—faster than thought—shoving you behind him, arms outstretched, every muscle tensed with primal instinct. The blast struck him squarely, flaring violet against his back as it detonated, engulfing you both in the eruption.

The kitchen imploded.

You were airborne before you even realized it, flung like a ragdoll through cabinets, walls, through everything. A chorus of wood splintering and glass screaming filled your ears, followed by the deafening crash as your bodies blew through drywall and collapsed into the living room in a hail of dust and debris.

You landed hard—shoulder-first into the floor, a flare of pain shooting through your ribs. You hit and rolled, instinctively curling in on yourself, hands flying to shield your stomach, your child. A heartbeat later, Conner's body slammed down beside you, skidding across the floor in a haze of broken wood and pulverized plaster. He didn't cry out—just grunted, arms still reaching in your direction even as a beam collapsed across his back.

The music cut off mid-note.

Silence fell for a beat—shattered only by the electrical hiss of sparking wires, the groan of settling walls, and the ringing in your ears.

And then—

"Dad!"

"Pa?!"

"Get them out—NOW!"

Familiar voices. Panic. Movement.

You blinked against the dust, vision swimming. Everything hurt. Your fingers flexed against the floor, and you tried to lift yourself, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Then hands—warm, frantic, familiar—were on you.

Casey. Cole. Corra. Cameron.

They were there, clawing through debris, lifting splintered beams, tearing apart the wreckage with desperation only children fighting to save their parents could possess.

You coughed, the motion sending a wave of pain through your side. Your mouth tasted of dust and blood. Through blurred vision, you turned—Conner—

He stirred beside you with a low groan, his arms still outstretched as if they'd never stopped trying to shield you. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, his flannel torn, body covered in plaster dust and fragments of wood. But his head snapped up the second he found you, his eyes wide, terrified.

"Are you okay?" he rasped, already reaching.

You nodded through the pain, voice hoarse. "Y-Yeah... I think so—just—"

You were cut off by the sharp CRACK of impact as Younger Conner burst through the wreckage like a comet, his body glowing faintly with energy, his fists sparking with raw power. His eyes scanned the carnage, then found you, then the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had once been.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. He dropped to one knee, hands flying to the broken pieces trapping you and Older Conner, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing.

Then, a second blast fired.

BOOM.

It scorched across the far wall, narrowly missing the roof as it seared a molten path from one end of the room to the other, punching through family photos, memories—everything.

The ground shuddered. Lights flickered.

Violet light bled through the hole like an open artery, flickering in rhythmic pulses that made the shadows twitch and the air hum with cosmic distortion.

Older Conner reached for you, his grip firm, anchoring. His hand slid into yours like it had always belonged there, and he pulled you to your feet in one swift, protective motion. There was a new urgency in his eyes—a fire that hadn't burned this bright in years. He held onto you like if he let go now, he might lose you to the stars again.

Younger Conner stood beside him, muscles coiled like a loaded weapon. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides, and his body trembled not with fear—but fury. Raw and barely restrained. His eyes, once soft when they looked at you, now burned like twin supernovae fixed on the source of this chaos.

Behind you, the sound of movement was quick, clean, trained. Casey's voice barked commands low and sharp as he tossed weapons and tech out of a hidden drawer, each of your children moving like instinct had taken over. Corra rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, energy thrumming at her fingertips. Cole moved in precision—fluid and fast—pulling twin energy blades into being with a flick of his wrists. Cameron stood still, centered, calm—but his eyes glowed faintly, hands lifted, his power already dancing at his palms like a storm waiting to be called.

And then—that voice.

Low. Hollow. Dark.

It drifted through the shattered front wall like smoke through cracked stone.

"Come outside."

You went still. Everyone did.

That voice was carved into your bones now. Olympian.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge.

It was a summons.

Conner squeezed your hand once, then let go as the group moved like a unit—every step synced in silent resolve as boots thudded down the front steps and onto the ruined porch. The last light of day had vanished, consumed by storm clouds that weren't quite natural, swirling with streaks of dark violet lightning. The air itself was wrong—too heavy, too still. Like time was holding its breath.

And there he was.

Hovering above the yard, as if gravity had no hold on him. Olympian.

His black armor gleamed like obsidian in the light of the pulsing crystal embedded in his chest—deep, violet, almost alive. Each pulse sent a ripple through the air around him, distorting it like heat rising from broken asphalt. His crimson cape billowed behind him, slow and ominous, as though it were drifting through water. The very space around him warped, bent—not just visually, but spiritually. He didn't belong here.

And yet he had come.

He didn't raise his arms in threat. He didn't need to.

His voice cracked through the storm.

"I don't want them." His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing behind the helm, gaze flicking to each member of your family before returning to you. "You know why I'm here. I want you."

The words hit like a thunderclap, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.

You stepped forward slowly, fists clenched. "I don't even know what it is you want."

"You will," Olympian said, voice dripping with certainty. "You carry something inside you—something ancient. Buried in your blood. Power that was never meant for this world. It was stolen. And I will have it back."

A cold pressure curled in your stomach. That pull you had felt before—that strange, cosmic thrum that responded to him—grew stronger, vibrating just beneath your skin like a calling only he and you could hear. The connection was real. Tainted. Undeniable.

But you didn't waver.

Casey stepped beside you, his stance wide and grounded, arms beginning to shimmer with celestial light. "You'll have to go through all of us first."

Corra smirked, fire dancing in her hands. "Seriously. Try me."

Cole cracked his neck, blades fully drawn, the soft hum of energy ringing at his sides. "You should've stayed in whatever black hole spat you out of."

Cameron stood a step behind, quiet but unmoving. "You're not laying a single finger on him."

Younger Conner stepped forward too, voice like a blade. "If you want him," he said, chin tilted high, "you're gonna have to fight the man he loved before you ruined his life... and the man who still stands by him now."

Then, Older Conner moved up to your side—shoulders squared, body still bloodied from the blast, but steady as ever. "You attacked my home. My children. My family. That was your last mistake."

You looked at them all—your family.

Conner and Conner.

Your children, radiant and ready, no longer the little ones you'd held in your arms, but warriors now. Guardians.

And something shifted inside you.

This wasn't about mystery anymore. It wasn't about destiny or some ancient bloodline.

It was about them. About us.

About love, and legacy, and choosing not to let anyone take that away from you again.

You stepped forward, standing at the front of your family, your voice clear and sure as it cut through the still air.

"Then come and try."

Because this wasn't just a standoff.

This was the beginning of a war.

And your family had already chosen their side.

[gemmahale]

Okay, I'm home, I've been on the road for the better part of 4 hours today due to a miscommunication and a cancelled event, and I've had this rant brewing.

Being Anti-Military and Pro-Veteran are stances that can mutually exist.

Games like CoD and whatever other FPS/Military Simulation game is out there is propaganda. It’s meant to make you want to sign up or support military action.

The military (I’m speaking specifically to the US, as I am most familiar with them by proxy) uses some incredibly underhanded techniques to ensure they have the warm bodies soldiers they need to keep the system working as intended.

This includes but is not limited to: promises of paying for education, aspirations of “seeing the world”, provision of job security, access to healthcare, a stable job and housing, etc. They use things like “patriotism” and “glory” and “security” to lure people in.

And then, when that person is wholly and completely reliant on the military - for a paycheck, housing, healthcare, you name it - they spit them back out into the world with a "thanks a lot and good fucking luck."

Into a world where:

Financial support for care has been axed and axed and axed again under "budget cuts"

Care is secured with red tape so thick you can tightrope walk across it

Care is denied for things the military caused (by saying "it didn't happen while you were serving".) *Yes, that's a direct quote from a doctor to one of Kallen's peers. When assessing a life-altering injury sustained while they were in country overseas, it was deemed as "non-service related injury”.

In comparison to civilians:

Veterans are ~40% more likely to be homeless.

Veterans are ~80% more likely to suffer from untreated mental and physical health issues - PTSD, hearing loss, nerve damage, etc.

Veterans are ~60% more likely to turn to addictive substances - alcohol, drugs, etc.

Veterans are ~70% more likely to commit suicide.

This isn’t limited to combat vets. Logistics specialists, administrative specialists, IT specialists all get screwed when they leave.

Ask just about any veteran that has served, they are incredibly likely to be staunchly anti-military.

The military causes a tremendous amount of damage to every person involved, even if they aren't aware of it at the time.

It’s a cult, it’s an abusive relationship, it’s predatory. Treat it as such.

Support veterans, advocate for their care. They made choices you may not agree with, but they made them because of what they thought the military was offering to them. Many thought they were doing the right thing for their country - that was the lie they were fed from 9/11 on (in the US). Then they were chewed up, spit out, and left for dead by the same people that made all those promises to them.

Here are some US-based, apolitical Veteran Support groups (many have International chapters/members):

22 Until None - 501-C3 that provides support to veterans by veterans. There are local chapters on Facebook that are all active and are listed on the website

Disabled American Veteran - Veteran help association; involved in legislation and local assistance, connections to VA advocates to help navigate the VA

Wounded Warrior Project - 501-C3 charity supporting disabled veterans.

Note: I am absolutely not doing the "not all servicemembers" thing here. I'm saying "veterans are living with their choices, and still deserve access to care."

[cwwv9]

I read and your second part for the acrobatic speedster kid and the bit with Ego making a training makes me cackle. Ego is there going "kid I'll pay you to help with training, you get to have free sweets, action figures, and toys" the stranger in the van type behaviour. Julian is at his wits end. Not only is Charles like a little kid himself, he also has Rin and Shidou to deal with. The way Shidou would volunteer to be the chaperone to Charles and the kid only to instantly be turned down cause both Charles and the kid are a tornado now add Shidou to the mix they become a Hurricane. Shidou and Bachira are on the " not allowed as chaperones list". I can also imagine Rin not liking the kid until the kid says something like "for a guy that has hair the colour of cotton candy, you're bland and boring" to Sae. The kid instantly becomes Rins favourite. Honestly I adore this fic so much there's so many funny scenarios that can come from it

«Blue Lock: Hurricane in the shape of a child»

— Ego Jinpachi, Julian Loki, Charles Chevalier, Shidou Ryusei, Rin Itoshi

warning: humor, chaos, Shito as the perfect anti-nanny, characters suffer morally (especially Julian), but will survive, one hyperactive child is able to destroy the training system of Ego.

Note: thank you very much for the request, I hope you will like it! I lost one more request.. I am very sad because of this.

You can write a request..!

– I need a child.

The phrase with which Ego breaks into Blue Lock’s headquarters in the middle of the night does not bode well. Julian, who at that moment was drinking a calming tea and perhaps for the first time in three weeks felt safe, almost poured it all into his papers.

– What? – he hissed.

– Me. I need it. Baby. For a training simulation. I’ll pay him with candy and toys.

– You just described the behavior of a criminal from the van.

After two days in the center of Blue Lock he announces - acrobatic, talkative, with a head, as if on hinges. Jumps on the road, eats candy, talks to three people at once and calls Bachir "weird but funny". Everyone is in shock. Especially Julian.

– Charles, he exhaled. – Please don’t...

– He’s my friend, Jule! He’s got a squirrel-fly jump! – Charles is already rolling with the kid on the floor, both in candy and flyers.

– We’re doomed, said Julian and wiped his face.

Shido, as it happens, comes up with the idea:

– I’ll babysit.

– No.

– Come on, I’m great with kids.

– You’re like a child with a mania for destruction.

– That’s why we’re gonna get along!

The attempt fails after 11 minutes, when someone lights a sports net, someone jumps from a crossbar on Charles, and someone yells "I am the GOD OF FIELDS!" in Shido’s voice. No one is sure who it is. Perhaps all three at once.

Shido and Bachira officially fall into the list «NEVER be accompanying».

Rin is the last bastion of hope. He is sitting on a bed with a stone face, holding in his hands a tablet on which is broadcast a match where there is a semi. It didn’t presage trouble, but that this child in arms stood against him and looked at the screen of this tablet.

– Back off.

— He’s lame. , –muttered the boy, pointing to the saé.

— What?

— He’s got cotton-candy hair, but he’s so dull and boring. Probably not good.

From now on, the child is rina’s favorite. He does not smile, but suddenly «accidentally» sweets appear in the pocket of the child after training. He «does not know how the ball got in his hands at the right moment». And of course, Rin «accidentally came along to reassure him».

In the end, Ego is satisfied: simulations are effective, children are chaos, adults are broken, but in a good way.

Julian is sitting in the corner, with dark circles under his eyes, and he writes a report to headquarters, starting with:

– "We were all not prepared for this hurricane. But, damn it, he’s ours."

[jennamoran]

The Far Roofs: Systems

Hi!

Today I’m going to talk a little bit more about my forthcoming RPG, the Far Roofs. More specifically, I want to give a general overview of its game mechanics!

So the idea that first started the Far Roofs on the road to being its own game came out of me thinking a lot about what large projects feel like.

I was in one of those moods where I felt like the important thing in an RPG system was the parallel between that system and real-world experience. Where I felt like the key to art was always thinking about the end goal, or at least a local goal, as one did the work; and, the key to design was symmetry between the goals and methods, the means and ends.

I don't always feel that way, but it's how I work when I'm feeling both ambitious and technical.

So what I wanted to do was come up with an RPG mechanic that was really like the thing it was simulating:

Finding answers. Solving problems. Doing big things.

And it struck me that what that felt like, really, was a bit like ...

You get pieces over time. You wiggle them around. You try to fit them together. Sometimes, they fit together into larger pieces and then eventually a whole. Sometimes you just collect them and wiggle them around until suddenly there's an insight, an oh!, and you now know everything works.

The ideal thing to do here would probably be having a bag of widgets that can fit together in different ways---not as universally as Legos or whatever, but, like, gears and connectors and springs and motors and whatever. If I were going to be building a computer game I would probably think along those lines, anyway. You'd go to your screen of bits and bobs and move them around with your mouse until it hooked together into something that you liked.

... that's not really feasible for a tabletop RPG, though, at least, not with my typical financial resources. I could probably swing making that kind of thing, finding a 3d printing or woodworking partner or something to make the pieces, for the final kickstarter, but I don't have the resources to make a bunch of different physical object sets over time while I'm playtesting.

So the way I decided that I could implement this was by drawing letter tiles.

That I could do a system where you'd draw letter tiles ... not constantly, not specifically when you were working, but over time; in the moments, most of all, that could give you insight or progress.

Then, at some point, you'd have enough of them.

You'd see a word.

That word'd be your answer.

... not necessarily the word itself, but, like, what the word means to you and what the answer means to you, those would be the same.

The word would be a symbol for the answer that you've found, as a player and a character.

(The leftover letters would then stick around in your hand, bits of thought and experience that didn't directly lead to a solution there, but might help with something else later on.)

Anyway, I figured that this basic idea was feasible because, like, lots of people own Scrabble sets. Even if you don't, they're easier to find than sets of dice!

For a short indie game focused on just that this would probably have been enough of a mechanic all on its own. For a large release, though, the game needed more.

After thinking about it I decided that what it wanted was two more core resolution systems:

One, for stuff like, say ... kickstarter results ... where you're more interested in "how well did this do?" or "how good of an answer is this?" than in whether those results better fit AXLOTL or TEXTUAL. For this, I added cards, which you draw like letter tiles and combine into poker hands. A face card is probably enough for a baseline success, a pair of Kings would make the results rather exciting, and a royal flush result would smash records.

The other core system was for like ... everyday stuff. For starting a campfire or jumping a gap. That, by established RPG tradition, would use dice.

...

I guess technically it didn't have to; I mean, like, most of my games have been diceless, and in fact we've gotten to a point in the hobby where that's just "sort of unusual" instead of actually rare.

But, like, I like dice. I do. If I don't use them often, it's because I don't like the empty page of where to start in the first place building a bespoke diced system when I have so many good diceless systems right there.

... this time, though, I decided to just go for it.

--

The Dice System

So a long, long time ago I was working on a game called the Weapons of the Gods RPG. Eos Press had brought me in to do the setting, and somewhere in the middle of that endeavor, the game lost its system.

I only ever heard Eos' side of this, and these days I tend to take Eos' claims with a grain of salt ... but, my best guess is that all this stuff did happen, just, with a little more context that I don't and might not ever know?

Anyway, as best as I remember, the first writer they had doing their system quit midway through development. So they brought in a newer team to do the system, and halfway through that the team decided they'd have more fun using the system for their own game, and instead wrote up a quick alternate system for Weapons of the Gods to use.

This would have been fine if the alternate system were any good, but it was ... pretty obviously a quick kludge. It was ...

I think the best word for it would be "bad."

I don't even like the system they took away to be their own game, but at least I could believe that it was constructed with love. It was janky but like in a heartfelt way.

The replacement system was more the kind of thing where if you stepped in it you'd need a new pair of shoes.

It upset me.

It upset me, and so, full wroth, I decided to write a system to use for the game.

Now, I'd never done a diced system before at that point. My only solo game had been Nobilis. So I took a bunch of dice and started rolling them, to see ... like ... what the most fun way of reading them was.

Where I landed, ultimately, was looking for matches.

The core system for Weapons of the Gods was basically, roll some number of d10s, and if you got 3 4s, that was a 34. If you got 2 9s, that was a 29. If your best die was a 7 and you had no pairs at all, you got 1 7. 17.

It didn't have any really amazing statistical properties, but the act of rolling was fun. It was rhythmic, you know, you'd see 3 4s and putting them together into 34 was a tiny tiny dopamine shot at the cost of basically zero brain effort. It was pattern recognition, which the brain tends to enjoy.

I mean, obviously, it would pall in a few minutes if you just sat there rolling the dice for no reason ... but, as far as dice rolling goes, it was fun.

So when I went to do an optional diced system for the Chuubo's Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine RPG, years later, to post here on tumblr ... I already knew what would make that roll fun. That is, rolling a handful of dice and looking for matches.

What about making it even more fun?

... well, critical results are fun, so what about adding them and aiming to have a lot of them, though still like rare enough to surprise?

It made sense to me to call no matches at all a critical failure, and a triple a critical success. So I started fiddling with dice pool size to get the numbers where I wanted them.

I'm reconstructing a bit at this point, but I imagine that I hit 6d10 and was like: "these are roughly the right odds, but this is one too many dice to look at quickly on the table, and I don't like that critical failure would be a bit more common than crit success."

So after some wrestling with things I wound up with a dice pool of 5d6, which is the dice pool I'm still using today.

If you roll 5d6, you'll probably get a pair. But now and then, you'll get a triple (or more!) My combinatorics is rusty, so I might have missed a case, but, like ... 17% of the time, triples, quadruples, or quintuples? And around 9% chance, for no matches at all?

I think I was probably looking for 15% and 10%, that those were likely my optimum, but ... well, 5d6 comes pretty close. Roughly 25% total was about as far as I thought I could push critical results while still having them feel kind or rare. Like ...

If I'm rolling a d20 in a D&D-like system, and if I'm going to succeed on an 18+, that's around when success is exciting, right? Maybe 17+, though that's pushing it? So we want to fall in the 15-20% range for a "special good roll." And people have been playing for a very long time now with the 5% chance of a "1" as a "special bad roll," and that seemed fine, so, like, 20-25% chance total is good.

And like ...

People talk a lot about Rolemaster crit fail tables in my vicinity, and complain about the whiff fests you see in some games where you keep rolling and rolling and nothing good or bad actually happens, and so I was naturally drawn to pushing crit failure odds a bit higher than you see in a d20-type game.

Now, one way people in indie circles tend to address "whiff fests" is by rethinking the whole dice-rolling ... paradigm ... so you never whiff; setting things up, in short, so that every roll means something, and every success and failure mean something too.

It's a leaner, richer way of doing things than you see in, say, D&D.

... I just didn't feel like it, here, because the whole point of things was to make dice rolling fun. I wanted people coming out of traditional games to be able to just pick up the dice and say "I'm rolling for this!" because the roll would be fun. Because consulting the dice oracle here, would be fun.

So in the end, that was the heart of it:

A 5d6 roll, focusing on the ease of counting matches and the high but not exorbitant frequency of special results.

But at the same time ...

I'm indie enough that I do really like rolls where, you know, every outcome is meaningful. Where you roll, and there's never a "whiff," just a set of possible meaningful outcomes.

A lot of the time, where I'm leaning into "rolls are fun, go ahead and roll," what it means to succeed, to fail, to crit, all that's up to the group, and sometimes it'll be unsatisfying. Other times, you'll crit succeed or crit fail and the GM will give you basically the exact same result as you'd have gotten on a regular success or failure, just, you know, jazzing up the description a bit with more narrative weight.

But I did manage to pull out about a third of the rolls you'll wind up actually making and assign strong mechanical and narrative weight to each outcome. Where what you were doing was well enough defined in the system that I could add some real meat to those crits, and even regular success and regular failure.

... though that's a story, I think, to be told some other time. ^_^

[mysticstronomy]

WHAT WILL IT TAKE TO REACH ZERO SPACE DEBRIS??

Blog#476

Saturday, February 1st, 2025.

Welcome back,

The space debris problem won’t solve itself. We’ve been kicking the can down the road for years as we continue launching more rockets and payloads into space. In the last couple of years, organizations—especially the European Space Association—have begun to address the problem more seriously.

Now they’re asking this question: What will it take to reach zero space debris?

At first glance, it may seem unreal, maybe naive. There are billions of pieces of space junk orbiting Earth, and more than 25,000 of those pieces are larger than 10 cm. Though small, these pieces are travelling fast and can cause significant damage when impacting satellites or space stations. What will it take to get rid of all this debris?

The ESA has released the Zero Debris Technical Booklet to elucidate the challenges to a zero-debris future and propose solutions to get there. The Booklet’s development follows the signing of the Zero Debris Charter by members of the Zero-Debris community.

“Despite several initiatives for space debris mitigation in recent years and modest improvements in public awareness, there is a general consensus that more ambitious actions are urgently needed from all space stakeholders to prevent, mitigate, and remediate debris,” the report states. The report points out that the Guidelines for the Long-term Sustainability of Outer Space Activities of the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space outlines how access to space is hindered by debris.

The booklet defines zero debris targets and presents “technical needs, solutions and key enablers” that can help organizations achieve them.

The obvious first step is to cease creating more debris.

It begins with avoiding the unintentional release of debris. Exposure to the space environment can degrade materials during missions and beyond their end date, and unintentional impacts can also release debris. The Booklet promotes the “Development of multi-layer insulation and coating technologies preventing long-term degradation of materials” and similar developments for materials that can resist impacts. Improved monitoring, simulations, and testing can help us get there.

The Booklet also points out the need for different propulsion technologies. Some propulsion technologies release enormous quantities of small particles. The Booklet promotes the development of alternate propulsion systems based on things like electromagnetic tethers, momentum-transfer tethers, and drag or solar radiation pressure augmentation devices.

Originally published on https://www.universetoday.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, February 5th, 2025)

"COULD HUMANS SURVIVE LIVING IN SPACE??"

[mindblowingscience]

Scientists may have solved a lingering mystery surrounding the ice giant Uranus and its weak radiation belts. It's possible the belts' weakness is linked to the planet's curiously tilted and lopsided magnetic field; the field could be causing "traffic jams" for particles whipping around the world. The mystery dates back to Voyager 2's visit to Uranus in January 1986, far before the probe left the solar system in 2018. The spacecraft found that Uranus' magnetic field is asymmetric and tilted roughly 60° away from its spin axis. Additionally, Voyager 2 found that the radiation belts of Uranus, consisting of particles trapped by this magnetic field, are about 100 times weaker than predicted.  The new research, based on simulations made using Voyager 2 data, suggests these two strange aspects of the ice giant are related.

Continue Reading.

[grimm-the-tiger]

My favorite works of fiction described as badly as possible, part 6:

Galactic leftist infighting simulator. (Andor)

Dude with a martyr complex gets the shit beaten out of him by a creepy witch and her equally creepy ex for >700,000 words. (Weight of Both Worlds)

Man helps other man kidnap his kid, then traumatizes another kid with a really fucked-up video game. (Petscop)

?no gniog si kcuf lautca eht tahW (House of Leaves)

The Deep South gets anti-gravity tech and immediately fucks off to build Confederacy 2: Electric Boogaloo. (Bioshock Infinite)

Kid finds spooky photographs and goes on a quest to hook up with his granddad's girlfriend. (Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children)

Depressed alcoholic gets radicalized by the voices he's arguing with in his head. (Disco Elysium)

Wannabe disc jockey starts a podcast while trapped in an even worse version of COVID quarantine. (Find Us Alive)

Evil eye possesses Neptune and tries to take over the solar system. (Gemini Home Entertainment)

Comedy manga protagonists are shoved into an RPG Maker horror game. Chaos ensues. (HetaOni)

Two strangers take a kid to Alaska to find a lady who might be his mom while being chased by a breeder cult (alt: The Road by Cormac McCarthy, child-friendly edition). (Sweet Tooth)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

[confession-of-the-heart]

People need to stop trying to find the best KH game because they’re all good in their own ways. KH1 is cozy and reassuring and the beginning of an adventure. COM is dual sided and great fun for all its jank. KH2 is a quiet loneliness and a time capsule that will never quite be what it once was, be remains a masterpiece regardless. Days is a comedy and a tragedy and a 9 to 5 simulator. BBS is for people who want to be doomed by the narrative even more than Days. I’ve heard Coded has a really well done gameplay system. DDD has some of the cutest creatures imaginable. 0.8 lets you wear cat ears while struggling with depression. KH3 is just fun, and has some really hype moments to boot. Union X features a self insert and a good story. Dark Road makes you feel bad for the villain before revealing that you personally are responsible for Xehanort being the way he is. They’ve all got something to love why are people so aggressive about a Disney game made by the Final Fantasy guy

~~~

[hxroic-wxlls-fxrever]

Dash Event: The S.S. Mario Sets Sail, Once Again!

Announcement From Mario:

‘Greetings, paisano! I hope this letter finds you all, well! In celebration of this new year, my bro and I brought back our old cruise ship and did a few touches to make it a little more enjoyable for all potential passengers, this time around!’

‘Everyone’s who’s read this is invited to come along on this little cruise of ours! Every passenger will be provided with a cabin of their own, and no need to worry about tickets or pay. This is for fun, so you don’t have to pay a dime for anything!’

‘On the S.S. Mario, we provide a variety of services and activities that all of you paisanos can enjoy! These services include:’

Giant VR Testing and Gaming Room where guests can play any game they wish without limit. The VR system works by allowing anyone to change the environment of the room, whether it be a sunny beach, or a chilly snow mountain. This way, they can do just about anything they wish, sport-wise, like volleyball or skiing.

A giant swimming pool with the world’s most adventurous water slides in history. The fun in the sun never ends, especially when you’re racing down a slide with all sorts of twists, turns, and obstacles along the way!

Free Drinks and Food Galore! If you’re hungry, feel free to stop by any of the hundreds of food stands we have set up! Anything you’re craving, we have! For those with a fancy for more adult drinks, we recommend the Super Rainbow Road Cocktail. That’ll leave you seeing stars in just a tiny sip.

A safe and extremely well contained battle simulation room for those who have a thrill for battle, even on vacation. This room has been crafted to safely contain even the most destructive attacks and maneuvers. So, don’t be afraid to go all out, in here! Just uh…make sure the fights ONLY take place in here.

A mass variety of luxury Spas and Top of the Line Customer Service. Your comfort is our priority, so all our employees will do our best to ensure you have a stressless and enjoyable trip.

Endless Gift Stores! For those who wanted to bring something home after this trip, we have a large quantity of gift shops on the cruise that all passengers can browse through at their leisure.

Underwater Submarine Tours! For the adventurous crowd who’d like to see what lies beneath the ocean’s waves, we’ve prepared the Super Mario Submarine, capable of carrying 100+ passengers at once! It’s been tested to be able to reach the very bottom of the ocean, without any difficulties, so no need to worry!

‘And that’s-a just a small teaser of what’s to come! We have plenty more services, lying in wait! Anyways, we hope to see you soon, paisanos!’

‘Oh, and also, for those participating in this event, there’s no need to sign up or anything! Just use the Hashtag ‘Mario’s Cruise Adventure’ on your post! Anyways, have fun!’

[captorations]

once again out here at 4am baffled and amazed by simcity 3000's ability to trick you to, in search of optimization, end up mimicking actual infrastructure patterns. particularly the ones they don't fucking explain in-game or even in the official guides. like. due to a combination of factors that i cannot even begin to pick apart much less imagine how to code on purpose, subways end up functioning optimally when laid out in local loops rather than in one big interconnected grid. but you *can* make a grid. you can treat subway tunnels like roads with intersections every which way and it works decently enough. it doesn't stop you or give you any direct reason to try another pattern. it doesn't say "hey that's not how subways work dumbass" and it doesn't Detect Absence Of Defined Loop and turn a dial labeled "Make Subways Worse." it just quietly back-end codes every transportation system wildly differently in a way that results in the "realistic" setup nearly always being the most reliable for each one. and that's insane. that's not how most games work anymore! not even more recent simulation games! it's wild to me that someone playing simcity to make Art and someone playing simcity to Be Good At SimCity will eventually end up with the same fucking designs. okay alright i'm going to bed but. what the hell

[no-future-mudwasps]

< Hey, Saleh! It’s Hachiko, with Luna Wing.

So, mechs aren’t really my strong suit, but a few months back, I briefly tried out a chassis in simulation. GMS-SP1C variant, quadruped, with a few little mods. It hit mach 1.5 before it blew up

It was amazing. Ever since, I’ve been digging up whatever I can on chassis racing, and it seems like all roads lead to Suldan. Somehow, I’ve got a hunch that you might know a thing or two about the topic. :)

I don’t know how it grew to be such a huge sport over there, but I’ve seen a tiny bit of the chassis designs, the circuits…what’s it like? Out of curiosity, is combat permitted during races? >

Hachi! You most perfect of creatures, hello, and bless you dearly for this question. I'm no racer myself, but what I am is ready to proselytize about my planet's culture and history, and any engineer worth salt on Suldan knows about the races.

(I will bring back my signature for this so it is not all terrible to read in green-text, by the by.)

SO. I am going to help Chandresekhar & Herschel Ltd. save some money on their advertising budget today and speak a bit on the sport of chassis racing in Suldan.

One cannot have the races without first having mechs, and one cannot have mechs without having trouble. This is and was the case for Suldan, as our planet was-- like many others-- terraformed in brief bursts by the charter which deigned to bring humanity there. I admit I am lacking on the particulars in this era, but they must have had chassis for the purpose of handling the local environ, construction, defense, et cetera... And, naturally, when humans have a thing which moves, they will wish to see who can move it the fastest. At any rate, Suldan's particular family of charter groups had an eye for fine engineering, and Suldan has large swathes of flat land ideal for the building of tracks, and before even a fifth of the planet's 250-odd years of habitation were up the concept of bespoke mech racing was well-entrenched in the Suldani consciousness.

Naturally, the Emir came and fucked this up.

The reasons for this are twofold, and only one is ‘because he rotted what he touched’. You see, chassis racing on Suldan has taken many forms, but by and large it has remained both wholly terrestrial and at least somewhat circuit-based. This means that while there are dead sprints out there, most races have to remain low-speed enough that spin-outs and red-outs alike can be protected against. I prefer this; it is harder to engineer a thing which can survive dynamic environmental stress and endurance tests than simply building a vaguely-human-shaped mass driver. However, the Emir had a taste for raw adrenaline and blood, and so under his rule the sport turned brutal. Where there had been scant rules regarding ‘demotivator’ systems and bodyblocking beforehand, there was now more and more open combat at high speed. Imagine, dear starfighter that you are, attempting overtake maneuvers in atmosphere by virtue of your own superstructure, no more than a meter from the ground, only to be met by a sword or explosive every few seconds. There is no time for artistry, only war.

We lost many celebrated racers that way. Most simply stopped competing, others went down in flame. Our own Matthias Herschel, a prodigy on the track since the age of 16, nearly lost his life trying to keep up with the changing sport.

Now, we find ourselves in the nascent post-Emir future. As with all things, racing is rebuilding itself slowly, and as with many things C&H has had a hand in this. Matthias Herschel has done much as his partner has for the muhak, and championed greater regulation in this sport; now two distinct variants tend to exist, that of the official trials such as you can find through the Blueshift Racing League we have begun to sponsor offworld in which weapons are kept to a minimum, and the scrappier live-fire races, unofficially known as ‘the pursuits’. Even these are made safer now, as C&H has lent large parts of their design philosophy to the sorts of specialized tuning, ruggedization, and denial-based weaponry that is required of the field.

That is the history lesson, and most of what I can speak to; however, I may also tell you that a specialized racing chassis is a thing of beauty. It is also for this reason why I love official circuits most; one can generalize for combat aptitude, true, but when every aspect of a machine is made to survive at its barest tolerance, that is when you find poetry in motion. A turn becomes instinct, the machine a thing of viscera as it strains to defend its pilot against the most primordial harm. The ground flies beneath, be it under roller-foot or skid— touching the earth, you cannot forget your speed, move so quick as to shoot right past infinity and into meaninglessness, as in vacuum. Each movement must be concerted, intended, perfect, or the wind will tear you apart like the limbs of a howling beast. To race terrestrial is to know thrust beyond sanity.

[S H]

[boxboxblog]

How Do F1 Cars Work?: Power, Transmit, Suspend

Alright part 2 everyone. Let's go.

1.Power Units

You have probably heard lots of yammering about power unit components before. Things like 'they took on too many and now have a grid penalty' are common to hear. But what is the power unit, and what does that mean?

So the power unit refers to the engine system that helps power the car. The modern F1 car is a hybrid, a mix between a typical Internal Combustion Engine (ICE) and Energy Recover Systems (ERS). The modern F1 ICE is a 1.6 liter V6 turbocharged engine and can rev up to 15,000 RPM. It uses gasoline and generates a majority of the power. I've explained how it works in an older post, but briefly it compresses air and fuel and ignites it to create combustion which generates energy. The turbocharger is a part of the ICE that helps condense air more, in turn forcing the engine to create more energy.

The ERS has two components. The first is Motor Generator Unit-Kinetic (MGU-K), which recovers energy from braking, stores it in the battery (which stores energy from the two units), and can be used as a boost to power. The second is Motor Generator Unit- Heat (MGU-H). This unit recovers heat energy from the turbocharger and converts it to electrical energy. It can either charge the battery directly or assist the ICE.

When teams get in trouble taking too many power units it essentially means they have replaced something like the MGU-H too many times. There is a cap for how many times you can replace a power unit component, but with the addition of more races every year the FIA is under pressure to increase this limit. Almost every single car takes the penalty at some point.

2. Transmission

The transmission is the semi-automatic gear box inside of F1 cars, which for them is 8-speed. It is located at the rear of the car and connects to the power unit. This is a part of the car that is famous for having issues, and often when a drivers car retires it is due to a gear box failure. With paddle shifters located under the steering wheel, drivers can change the gear in which they are driving. Different gears effect the traction, grip, fuel economy, and speed of the car and are used strategically throughout the race. Part of the transmission is the differential. The differential distributes power between the rear wheels when cornering, allowing the inside tire to rotate slower than the outside tire. The final majorly important part of the transmission is the clutch. In F1 the clutch, which is a device that connects the engine and transmission to the car is automated and controlled by electronics. It is usually used when starting the race or leaving the pit lane.

Grip levels, cornering speeds, and straight-line speeds all play a crucial role in gear ratio calculations. The teams have to find the perfect balance between acceleration, top speed, and adaptability. The team’s engineers use advanced simulations and data analysis to calculate the optimal ratios for each gear. They also take into account factors like tire wear and fuel consumption to fine-tune their calculations. All of this information can be gathered from electronic data gatherers inside of the car, running simulations, and also the drivers reporting themselves. Its why radio communication is so important in F1. This decision can make or break a race, and we have seen drivers lose due to an incorrect gear decision.

3. Suspension

The suspension system works to keep the tires in contact with the road and helps absorb the shocks F1 cars experience. This is created through a variety of springs, shock absorbers, sway bars, etc. Without the suspension, the chassis would be experiencing the full extent of the shaking and pressure, which would do damage to the car and be very painful for the driver. Anytime you see a driver shaking like crazy in the car, it usually means there is something off with the suspension. Suspension also allows the force of the bumps and the kinetic energy to be stored by a spring, which is then compressed, absorbing the energy transferred by that bump in the road and allowing all four tires to grip the road. The biggest difference between street car suspension and F1 suspension is that in an F1 car each tire is independently sprung, which means that they move on their own, useful around corners.

In F1 cars they have a pushrod or pullrod suspension. These systems transfer pressure from the wheels to the suspension dampers and springs. In a push-rod system, the rocker arms are placed at the highest point in the car. As such, the rod is under pressure as it transfers compression forces upwards into the rocker arms. In a pull-rod system however, the rocker arms are located between the upper and lower control arms, at the center of the car This means every time it hits a bump or curb, the wheel pulls on the spring which causes the pull-rod to go up and outwards from the chassis. Both are regularly used suspension types.

Teams regularly change how their suspension is functioning, and it is by far one of the most tweaked systems on the car. Truly, a weak suspension can make any car one of the slowest cars on the grid. So next time you hear a. driver complain about how slow they are on the straights, or how much their back hurts, it usually means their suspension is not where it should be.

That's all for this post, next one should be about braking, the various electronics/sensors, cooling systems, and wrap up of how everything works together.

Cheers,

-B

[zenith--sims]

‼️ Please note I am only testing it in the Zenith Sims Discord Server for right now <3 ‼️

https://discord.gg/Z3NxX2AdzZ - > Click to Join

I’ve been spending a few hours on a little side-project called Z Simulations...basically a life-sim RPG stuffed into a chat bot. It’s very early testing. Mostly just working on this for fun while I complete my studies. Not sure if it will go anywhere, but if there is any interest, I'm happy to keep building it up with more features. Was feeling inspired by the Tatsu bot and obviously The Sims!

Overview of Current Features

Create custom households, characters, and pets

Give them traits, moods, jobs, vehicles, houses, pets, and work with an in-bot economy system

Watch stats tick down over time—yes, your custom pets will get hangry if you forget them, don't forget!

Earn cash, level skills, and unlock goodies by exploring funky biomes or clocking shifts at work

Example Future Modules

Random events – jury duty, phone scams, alien abductions, surprise tax refunds, bump into other users’ characters!

Buddy-up Adventures – team up or just hang out together

Education System – go to school, get a degree, influence your job potential

Social System – characters will form their own relationships with others through random events / activities

Health System & doctor visits – ignore wellness too long and it’s clinic time (or pricey energy drinks)

Marketplace & player trades/sales – create, buy, and share with the community

Seasonal events – festivals, holiday celebrations, etc.

Control-panel embed – one-click toggles for pings, setting management, random-event on/off, etc.

Horse & stable system – create, train, compete, and manage your stable

Achievements & badges – “First Million,” “Pet Hoarder,” etc., attachable to a profile card

Reputation System – what road will you go down?

Mini-games – card games, casino, trivia nights—quick ways to earn (or lose) cash and compete with others

Open to other ideas as well!

Extra Info

This is 100 % an experimental project as of now—done purely for fun while I'm bored sometimes

Bugs will happen (missing buttons, typos, exploding embeds) → please let me know though so I can fix it!

Balance/Stats will need work—prices and stat decay might change while I’m still tuning the bot

Feedback—bug reports, feature requests, or suggestions are welcome; feel free to message me!

If there’s something you’d really like to see with the bot or you’re interested in testing it in your own server, please reach out. My direct messages are open if it’s related to the project.

[eitherlyingorstupid]

Holofun

Transformers animated, Bumblebee/Prowl('s holoform)

Bumblebee had a holoform, but he didn't really use it. It wasn't that short, scrawny human protoform that he'd ended up as in Soundwave's weird simulation, either — he'd based it on a popular music star instead. Bumblebee figured if he was going to have one, it would at least be a good-looking one.

He hadn't really thought much about it until he'd gone on an Allspark shard-retrieving mission across Michigan with Prowl.

Prowl, having a motorcycle for an alt-mode, naturally used a holoform along with it since human vehicles didn't drive themselves. Bumblebee's mind had started to drift during the trip, and he wondered what it would be like to interface with a holoform. They were mostly just solid light, right?

Bumblebee had never interfaced with humans before. Mostly because he knew how delicate and squishy they were, and that their spikes and valves would be way too small in comparison to his own frame.

Holoforms, though…

“Hey, Prowl. You wanna fool around with our holoforms?”

“What do you mean by that?”

The two bots were parked in alt-mode just off the road, sitting in inch-deep snow. Slick black ice covered the asphalt, making it hazardous for both human vehicles and bots. Prowl had suggested they stop for the night and wait for the sun to melt the roads, unless Bumblebee wanted to try his luck with ice skating.

“I mean your holoform feels me up.” Bumblebee transforming with a flourish, coming to sit cross-legged in the snow. “Holoforms come with spikes and valves, don't they?”

“Well,” Prowl began, using his lecturing-about-organics tone, “humans seem to have something called sexual dimorphism. About half of the species possess what we would call valves, and the other half possess spikes.”

“What, not both? They're missing out.” Bumblebee looked down at Prowl's holoform, which was sitting idly on Prowl's alt-mode. “What does yours have?”

“Only a spike.”

Bumblebee grinned. “So you've self-serviced with your holoform before, huh?”

“It was simply a matter of curiosity."

"Yeah, sure," Bumblebee said. "Hey, I bet you liked it, though. Didn't you?"

"Bumblebee," Prowl warned.

Bumblebee scooted closer to where Prowl's holoform sat. He used one finger to stroke its back, feeling the slight give of its body. "It's so lifelike," he said. "Can you control what it feels like?"

"I could adjust some parameters. Could, mind you.”

“What, you're not gonna frag me with your holo?” Bumblebee pouted. “Man, what're we gonna do all night, then?”

Prowl sighed. "Alright, I could give it a shot," he said. "But just this once, and only for the sake of experimentation."

The holoform got off of the motorcycle. Its clothes faded, lowering in opacity until the human figure was naked save for a helmet and glasses.

Bumblebee gently ran his fingertips over the artificial skin. In reality, there wasn't anything there — Prowl's hologram projector was just sending simulated data directly to Bumblebee's sensory net. A tactile illusion, so to speak.

"What's this for?" Bumblebee fondled the weird hanging bag under the holoform's floppy spike. "Some human thing?"

Prowl — rather, his holoform — nodded. "It's called a scrotum. It's part of their reproductive system."

Bumblebee continued his gentle exploration. At first, it seemed the only hair on the body was a path between the legs and under the arms, but Bumblebee found nearly every inch of skin was covered in very soft, fine hairs.

"So… if you had the chance, would you… you know, frag a human using your holoform?"

"I think it would be a good learning experience." The holoform stepped forward, in between Bumblebee's legs. It ran a hand across his yellow thigh, bizarrely soft. "I may have experimented a little, but it's all theoretical."

"You'd totally frag a human," Bumblebee said. He watched the holoform stroke the panel that hid his spike.

"Would you?" The holoform made a tiny smile that was identical to the expression Prowl wore when he was being sly.

Bumblebee thought back to the humans he'd seen in Detroit. They'd been fascinating to observe when he'd first arrived on earth, but now, with the possibility of feeling one up close, his curiosity piqued. He watched as Prowl's holoform grew bolder, its hands moving to caress the space between his leg and hip.

"Yeah, I think I'd do it. You know there's a Bumblebee fan club online? Humans love me."

The holoform leaned closer, pressing its body against Bumblebee's. "You're quite popular indeed," it murmured, its hand sliding up to the softer, unarmed black protoform of Bumblebee's torso.

Bumblebee's spike began to react to the sensation, extending into the chill air. It was nearly half the height of Prowl's holoform. "You know, I've never felt anything like this before," he confessed. "It's… weird."

Prowl hummed, stroking the length. The holoform's hands were tinier than even the tips of Bumblebee's fingers, little fleshy mitts that could rub every individual node along the sides. The pinpoint precision was almost ticklish, a strange sensation that made him shiver.

The holoform leaned forward and licked, its tongue absolutely tiny, but soft and wet, and it sent sparks of sensation through Bumblebee's circuits.

"Whoa, okay, that's…" Bumblebee's voice trailed off. "That's new."

The combination of two hands and a mouth had Bumblebee squirming, his servos clenching and unclenching. The holoform pressed its bare chest to his spike, sliding soft flesh against his hard metal.

The sight was almost as hot as the sensation, and Bumblebee's frame quivered as his pleasure suddenly peaked into an overload.

His transfluid went right through the holoform, letting drops of liquid metal fall onto the snow.

Bumblebee sat back, panting, watching as the snow hissed and steamed where the drops hit. "Okay, okay. That was… unexpectedly intense," he managed.

Prowl's holoform faded to nothing, then reappeared fully dressed on his alt-mode.

"Well, Bumblebee," Prowl said. "How was that for your first time with a human?"

"It was… interesting," Bumblebee said, his voice a little shaky. "But I don't think it's for me. Maybe you're the one who's got a thing for humans."

"You seemed to enjoy it."

"Well… yeah, but it's because it's you. I wouldn't react like that to any old human… holoform… thingy."

The holoform's face twitched into something resembling a smirk. "I'm flattered, I suppose," he said.

[adamantvoyagerrune]

How to Pass Your First Try at the Knowledge Test for a Canadian License

The knowledge test is a critical step for anyone obtaining their first driver’s license in Canada. It assesses your understanding of traffic rules, road signs, and driving laws specific to your province. Here’s how you can increase your chances of passing on your first try!

1. Know What’s On the Test

Each province has its own set of driving rules and road signs, but all knowledge tests include questions about:

Traffic signs: Shapes, colors, and meanings.

Rules of the road: Speed limits, stopping regulations, and lane changes.

Penalties and fines: Consequences of traffic violations, such as speeding or distracted driving.

Driving in different conditions: Night driving, winter conditions, and highway rules.

Some provinces also focus on environmental driving (eco-driving) or distracted driving laws.

2. Study the Driver’s Handbook

Every province provides a driver’s handbook that contains everything you need to know for the test.

Example: In Ontario, it’s called the Official Ministry Driver’s Handbook.

Make sure to read it cover-to-cover to familiarize yourself with the rules.

Keep the handbook handy for quick reference while studying.

3. Take Practice Tests

Practice tests are an excellent way to gauge your readiness.

Websites like licenseprep.ca offer online practice tests that simulate the actual exam. These tests cover the exact type of questions you'll face, including the layout and timing.

Practice consistently to improve your timing and accuracy.

4. Focus on Road Signs

Road signs can be tricky because each province has some unique signage.

Flashcards are a great tool to memorize the meanings of road signs.

Pay attention to warning signs, regulatory signs, and information signs.

5. Understand Key Road Rules

Make sure you know the answers to these common knowledge test topics:

Speed limits (including school zones, residential areas, and highways).

Right-of-way rules (who goes first in different scenarios).

Alcohol and drug limits: Learn the legal blood alcohol content (BAC) for drivers in your province.

Demerit points system: Know the points assigned to common violations.

6. Stay Calm During the Test

On test day:

Arrive early to avoid rushing.

Bring your ID and any other required documents.

Read each question carefully before answering — don’t rush.

If you don’t know an answer, make your best guess, and move on to avoid wasting time.

7. Know the Passing Score

Most provinces require a pass rate of 80-85% on the knowledge test.

Review your answers carefully if you have time left. Guide your teen's journey with help from licenseprep.ca.