#The Terror of Air-Level Six

[rjalker]

The Terror of Air-Level Six, By Harl Vincent.

Originally published in the July edition of Astounding Stories of Super-Science, which can be read and downloaded here for free on Project Gutenberg.

This story is public domain, meaning the plot, characters, and title belong to everyone and no one. Do whatever you want with it.

= = =

It was a sweltering evening in mid-August, during that unprecedented heat wave which broke Weather Bureau records in 2011. New York City had simmered under a blazing sun for more than three weeks, and all who were able had deserted the city for spots of lesser torridity. But I was one of those unfortunates who could not leave on account of the pressing urgency of business matters and, there being nothing else to do, kept doggedly at my work until it seemed that nerves and body must soon give way under the strain. To-night, as I boarded the pneumatic tube, I dropped into the nearest seat and could not even summon the energy to open my newspaper.

For some minutes I sat as in a daze, wishing merely that the journey was over, and that I was on my own front porch out in Rutherford. After awhile I stirred and looked around. Seeing none of my acquaintances in the car, I finally opened the newspaper and was considerably startled by the screaming headlines that confronted me from its usually conservative first page:[Pg 60]

Second Coast Transport Plane Lost! Disaster Like First in Air-Level Six!

No wonder the newsboys had been crying an extra on Broadway! I had given no heed to the import of their shoutings, but this was real news and well worthy of an extra edition. Since the mysterious loss of the SP-61, only four days previously, the facilities of the several air transportation systems were seriously handicapped on account of the shaken confidence of the general public. It was not surprising that there was widespread reluctance at trusting human lives and valuable merchandise to the mercies of the inexplicable power which had apparently wiped out of existence the SP-61, together with its twenty-eight passengers and the consignment of one-half million dollars in gold. And now the NY-18 had gone the way of the other!

-

Details were meager. Both ships had failed to reply to the regular ten-minute radio calls from headquarters and had not since been seen or heard from. In both cases the last call had been answered when the ship was proceeding at full speed on its regular course in air-level six. The SF-61 last reported from a position over Mora in New Mexico, and four days of intensive search by thousands of planes had failed to locate ship or passengers. To-day, in the early hours of the morning, the NY-18 reported over Colorado Springs, on the northern route, and then, like the SF-61, dropped out of existence insofar as any attempts at communicating with or locating her were concerned. She, too, carried a heavy consignment of specie, though only eleven passengers had risked the westward journey.

Someone had dropped into a seat at my side, and I looked up from my reading to meet the solemn eyes of Hartley Jones, a young friend whom I had not seen for several months.

"Why, hello, Hart," I greeted him. "Glad to see you, old man. Where in Sam Hill have you been keeping yourself?"

"Glad to see you, too, Jack," he returned warmly. "Been spending most of my time out at the hangar."

"Oh, that's right. You fellows built a new one at Newark Airport, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Got a great outfit there now, too. Why don't you drop around and see us one of these days?"

"I will, Hart, and I want you to take me up some time. You know I have never been in one of these new ships of yours. But what do you think of this mess?" I pointed to the black headlines.

He grinned joyously and flipped back the lapel of his coat, displaying a nickeled badge. "George and I are starting out to-night to look around a little," he gloated. "Just been appointed deputy air commissioners; and we got a couple of guns on our newest plane. Air Traffic Bureau thinks there's dirty work afoot. Twelve-motored planes don't disappear without leaving a trace. Anyhow, we've got a job, and we're going to try and find out what's wrong. How'd you like to come along?"

"What?" I replied. "You know darn well I'm too busy. Besides, I'd be no good to you. Just extra load, and not pay load at that. And then, I'm broke—as usual."

Hartley Jones grinned in his engaging way. "You'd be good company," he parried; "and, what's more, I think the trip would do you a lot of good. You look all shot to pieces."

"Forget it," I laughed. "It's just the heat. And I'll have to leave you here, Hart. Drop in and see us, will you? The wife was asking for you only yesterday."

"Jack, dear," my wife greeted me at the door of my modest suburban home, "Mr. Preston just called, and he wants you to call him right back."[Pg 61]

"Oh, Lord," I groaned, "can't I forget the office for one evening?" Preston was manager of the concern for which I worked.

Nevertheless, though our two fine youngsters were clamoring for their dinner, I made the telephone call at once.

"Makely," came the voice of the boss, when the connection was completed, "I want you to take the night plane for Frisco. Hate to ask you, but it must be done. Townley is sick and someone has to take those Canadian Ex. bonds out to Farnsworth. You're the only one to do it, and after you get there, you can start on that vacation you need. Take a month if you wish."

The thought of Hartley Jones' offer flashed through my mind. "But have you read of the loss of the NY-18?" I asked Preston.

"I have, Makely. There'll be another hundred a month in your check, too, to make up for the worry of your family. But the government is sending thirty Secret Service men along on the SF-22, which leaves to-night. In addition, there will be a convoy of seven fighting planes, so there is not likely to be a repetition of the previous disasters."

That hundred a month sounded mighty good, for expenses had been mounting rapidly of late. "All right, Mr. Preston," I agreed. "I will be at the airport before midnight. But how about the bonds?"

"I'll drive around after dinner and deliver them to you. And thanks for your willingness, Makely. You'll not be sorry."

My wife had listened intently and, from my words, she knew what to expect. Her face was a tragic mask when I replaced the receiver on its hook, and my heart sank at her expression.

Then there came the ring of the telephone and, for some reason, my pulse raced as I went to the hall to answer it. Hartley Jones' cheerful voice greeted me and he was positively gleeful when I told him of my projected trip.

"Hooray!" he shouted. "But you'll not take the SF-22. You'll take the trip with me as I wanted. I tell you what: You be out at Newark Airport at eleven-thirty, but come to my hangar instead of to that of the transportation company. We'll leave at the same time as the regular liner, and we'll get your old bonds to Frisco, regardless of what might happen to the big ship. Also we might learn something mighty interesting."

I argued with him, but to no avail. And the more I argued, the greater appeal was presented by his proposition. Finally there was nothing to do but agree.

Preston arrived with the bonds shortly after the children were tucked in their beds. I did not tell him of my change in plans. He did not stay long, and I could see that he was uncomfortable under the accusing eyes of Marie, for all his own confidence in the safety of the trip in the closely-guarded SF-22.

At precisely eleven-thirty I reached the great steel and glass hangar where Hart Jones and George Boehm carried on their experiments with super-modern types of aircraft. Hart Jones had inherited more than two million dollars, and was in a fair way to spend it all on his favorite hobby, though those who knew him best vowed that he would make many times that amount through royalties on his ever-growing number of valuable inventions.

The immense doors were open, and I gazed for the first time into the hangar whose spacious interior provided storage and manufacturing facilities for a dozen or more planes of Hart Jones' design. A curiously constructed example of his handiwork stood directly before me, and several mechanics were engaged in making it ready for flight. My friend advanced from their midst to meet me, a broad smile on his grease smeared countenance.[Pg 62]

"Greetings, Jack," he said, taking my small bag from my hands. "Right on time, I see. And I can't tell you how glad I am that you are coming with us. So is George."

"Well, I didn't expect to," I admitted; "but there is no need of telling you that I had far rather be in your ship than in the big one."

George Boehm, the same jolly chap I had several times met in Hart's company, but fatter than ever, crawled from beneath the shiny metal body of the plane and scrambled to his feet at my side.

"Going in for a bit of adventuring, Mr. Makely?" he asked, wiping his hand with a piece of cotton waste before extending it.

"Yes," I replied, as I squeezed his chubby fingers. "Can't stick in the mud all my life, George. And I wouldn't want to be in better company for my first attempt either."

"Nor we," he returned, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Rather have a greenhorn on the Pioneer than some government agent, who'd be butting in and trying to run everything. Think you'll be scared?"

"Probably," I admitted; "but I guess I can stand it."

"Hear the latest news broadcast?" interrupted Hart Jones.

"No. What was it?" I asked.

"There has been a report from out near Cripple Creek," said Hart solemnly, "that a pillar of fire was observed in the mountains shortly after the time the NY-18 last reported. The time and the location coincide with her probable position and the report was confirmed by no less than three of the natives of that locality. Of course the statements are probably extravagant, but they claim this pillar of fire extended for miles into the heavens and was accompanied by a tremendous roaring sound that ceased abruptly as the light of the flame disappeared, leaving nothing but blackness and awe-inspiring silence behind."

"Lot of bunk!" grunted George, who was vigorously scrubbing the back of his neck.

"Sounds like a fairy tale," I commented.

"Nevertheless, there may be something in it. In fact, there must be. Three of these mountaineers observed practically the same phenomenon from quite widely separated points, though one of them said there were three pillars of fire and that these looked more like the beams of powerful search-lights. All agreed on the terrific roar. And, after all, these two liners did disappear. There must be something quite out of the ordinary about the way in which they were captured or destroyed, and this occurrence may well be supposed to have a bearing on the matter."

"Possibly they were destroyed by some freak electrical storm," I suggested.

"Where then are the wrecked vessels?" asked Hart. "No, Jack, electrical storms do not destroy huge air liners and then suck them out into space beyond our vision. These two ships are no longer on the surface of the earth, else they would have been long since located. The magnetic direction finders of the transportation people have covered every inch of the United States, as well as Mexico and Canada."

"Of course they might have been carried halfway around the world by a wind of unprecedented velocity." I commenced a silly argument in favor of the theory that the elements had accounted for the two vessels, but was interrupted by the mounting roar of great engines throbbing overhead.

"Hurry up there, George!" shouted Hart. "It's the SF-22 coming in. We have to be ready for the take-off in five minutes!"

He hastened to take George's place at the washbowl and all was activity within the confines of our hangar. George and I left the office and went out to the landing field, which[Pg 63] was now brilliant with the glare of floodlights. The Pioneer had been trundled into the open and stood ready for the flight. Not a hundred feet above the field, the huge silver moth that was the SF-22 swept by in a wide circle that would bring her into the wind. The roar of her engines died as she swung out of the circle of light into the surrounding darkness.

The crowds which had gathered to witness her landing buzzed with excited comment and speculation. Her nose brought slightly up, she dropped to a perfect three-point landing, the brakes screeching as she was brought to a standstill at the hangar of the transportation company.

"Come on now, you fellows," came the voice of Hart Jones from the hangar entrance, "there's no time to lose. The Pioneer takes off immediately after the big fellow."

We hurried to the waiting ship, which seemed like a tiny toy when compared with the giant SF-22. I had observed very little of the construction of the Pioneer, but I could now see that she was quite different in design from the ordinary plane. A monoplane she was, but the wing structure was abnormally short and of great thickness, and there were a number of tubes projecting from the leading edge that gave the appearance of a battery of small cannon. The body, like all planes designed for travel in air-level six, was cigar-shaped, and had hermetically sealed ports and entrance manholes. A cluster of the cannon-shaped tubes enclosed the tail just back of the fins and rudder and, behind the wing structure atop the curved upper surface of the body, there was a sphere of gleaming metal that was probably three feet in diameter.

Before I could formulate questions regarding the unusual features of the design, we were within the Pioneer's cabin and Hart Jones was engaged in clamping the entrance manhole cover to its rubber seat. A throbbing roar that penetrated our double hull attracted my attention and, looking through a nearby porthole, I saw that the convoy of army planes had taken off and was circling over the SF-22 in anticipation of her start. Trim, speedy fighting ships these were, with heavy caliber machine-guns in turrets fore and aft and normally manned by crews of twelve each. The under surfaces of their bodies glistened smooth and sleek in the light from the field, for the landing gears had been drawn within and the openings sealed by the close-fitted armor plate that protected these ordinarily vulnerable portions when in flight.

The SF-22 was ready to take off and the crowds were drawing back into the obscurity beyond the huge circle of blinding light. One after another her twelve engines sputtered into life, and ponderously she moved over the field, gathering speed as the staccato barking of the exhausts gradually blended into a smooth though deafening purr. The tail of the great vessel came up, then the wheels, and she was off into the night.

Hart Jones sat at a bewildering array of instruments that covered almost the entire forward partition of the cabin. He pressed a button and the starting motor whined for a moment. Then the single engine of the Pioneer coughed and roared. Slowly we taxied in the direction taken by the SF-22, whose lights were now vanishing in the darkness. I saw George open a valve on the wall and Hart stretched the fingers of his left hand to what appeared to be the keyboard of a typewriter set into the instrument board. He pressed several of the keys and pulled back his stick. There was a whistling scream from astern and I was thrown back in my seat with painful force. With that, the motor roared into full speed and we had left the airport far behind.

"What on earth?" I gasped.

"Rocket propulsion," laughed Hart.[Pg 64] "I should have warned you. Those tubes you saw outside at the tail and along the leading edge of the wings. Only used three of them, but that was sufficient for the take-off."

"But I thought this rocket business was not feasible on account of the wastage of fuel due to its low efficiency," I objected.

"We should worry about fuel," said Hart.

I looked about me and saw that there was very little space for the storage of this essential commodity. "Why?" I inquired. "What fuel do you use?"

"Make our own," he replied shortly. He was busy at the moment, maneuvering the Pioneer into a position above and behind the SF-22 and her convoy.

"You make your own fuel enroute?" I asked in astonishment.

"Yes. That sphere you saw on top. It is the collecting end of an electrical system for extracting nitrogen and other elements, from the air. This extraction goes on constantly while we are in the atmosphere and my fuel is an extremely powerful explosive of which nitrates are the base. The supply is replenished continuously, so we have no fear of running short even in the upper levels."

George had crawled through a small opening into some inaccessible region in the stern of the vessel. I pondered over what Hart had just told me, still keeping my eyes glued to the port, through which could be seen the fleet we were following. The altimeter registered thirty-five thousand feet. We were entering air-level six—the stratosphere! Below us the troposphere, divided into five levels, each of seven thousand feet, teemed with the life of the air. The regular lanes were filled with traffic, the lights of the speeding thousands of freight and pleasure craft moving in orderly procession along their prescribed routes.

Up here in the sixth level, which was entirely for high-speed traffic of commercial and government vessels making transcontinental or transoceanic voyages, we were the only adventurers in sight—we and the convoyed liner we were following. The speed indicator showed six hundred miles an hour, and the tiny spot of light that traveled over the chart to indicate our position showed that we were nearing Buffalo.

Glancing through one of the lower ports, I saw the lights of the city shining dimly through a light mist that fringed the shore of Lake Erie and extended northward along the Niagara. Then we were out over the lake, and the luminous hue was slipping rapidly behind. I looked ahead and saw that the distance to the SF-22 and her convoy had somewhat increased. We were a mile behind and some two thousand feet above them. Evidently Hart was figuring on keeping at a safe distance for observation of anything that might happen.

Our motor was running smoothly and the angle of the propeller blades had been altered to take care of the change in air density from the lower altitudes. It flashed across my mind that this was an ideal location for an attack, if such was to be made on the SF-22.

Then, far ahead, I saw a beam of light stab through the darkness and strike the tossing surface of the lake. Another and another followed, and I could see that the SF-22 and her convoy were surrounded by these unearthly rays. They converged from high above to outline a brilliant circle where they met on the surface of the waters, and in the midst of the cone formed by the beams, the liner and its seven tiny followers could be seen to falter, and huddle more closely together.

It all happened in the twinkling of an eye—so quickly, in fact, that Hart and I had not the time to exchange remarks over the strange occurrence. For a moment the eight vessels hovered, halted suddenly by this inexplicable force from out the heavens. Then[Pg 65] there rose from the apex of the inverted cone of light a blinding column of blue-white radiance that poured skyward an instant and was gone. To our ears came a terrific roaring that could be likened to nothing we had heard on earth. The Pioneer was tossed and buffeted as by a cyclone, and George came tumbling from the opening he had entered, his round face grown solemn. Then came eery silence, for the Pioneer's motor had gone dead. Ahead there was utter darkness. The liner and her convoy had completely vanished and the Pioneer was slipping into a spin!

"What's up?" asked George of Hart, who was tugging frantically at the controls.

"The liner has gone the way of the first two," he replied: "and the yarn about the pillar of fire was not so far wrong after all."

"You saw the same thing?" asked George incredulously.

"Yes, and so did Jack. There came some beams of light from the sky; then the pillar of fire and the roaring you heard, after which the vessels were gone and our electrical system paralyzed."

"Holy smoke!" ejaculated George. "What to do now?"

As he spoke, the Pioneer came out of the spin, and we were able to resume our positions in the seats. None of us was strapped in, and we had been clinging to whatever was handiest to keep from being tossed about in the cabin. Hart wiped his forehead and growled out an oath. The instrument board was still illuminated, for its tiny lamps were supplied with current from the storage battery. But the main lights of the cabin and the ignition system refused to function. We were gliding now, but losing altitude rapidly, having already dropped to the lower limits of level five.

"Can't you use the rocket tubes?" I inquired hesitatingly.

"They are fired in the same manner as the motor," replied Hart; "but we might try an emergency connection from the storage battery, which is ordinarily used only in starting and for the panel lights."

George was already fussing with the connections in a small junction box from which he had removed the cover. Meanwhile, the black waters of Lake Erie were rushing upward to meet us, and the needle of the altimeter registered twelve thousand feet.

"Here's the trouble!" shouted George, triumphantly holding up a small object he had removed from the junction box. "Ignition fuse is blown."

"Probably by some radiations from the cone of light and the column that destroyed the liner. Lucky we were no closer," were Hart's muttered comments.

George produced a spare fuse and inserted it in its proper place. The cabin lights glowed instantly and the motor started at once.

"Well, I'm going up after the generators of this mysterious force that is destroying our cross-country ships and killing our people," asserted Hart. "The rays came from high above, but the Pioneer can go as high as anything that ever flew—higher."

He snapped a switch and a beam of light that rivalled the so-called pillar of fire bored far into the night, dimming the stars by its brilliance. Again his fingers strayed to the rows of white keys and the rocket tubes shrieked in response to his pressure. This time I was prepared for the shock of acceleration, but the action was maintained for several seconds and I found the pressure against my back growing painful. Then it was relieved, and I glanced at the altimeter. Its needle had reached the end of the scale, which was graduated to eighty thousand feet!

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to tell me that we are more than sixteen miles in the air?"

"Nearly thirty," replied Hart, pointing to another dial which I had not[Pg 66] seen. This one was graduated in miles above sea-level, and its needle wavered between the twenty-nine and thirty mark!

Again Hart pressed the rocket buttons, and we shot still higher into the heavens. Thirty, forty, fifty miles registered the meter, and still we climbed.

"Great Scott!" blurted a voice I knew was my own, though I had no consciousness of willing the speech. "At this rate we'll reach the moon!"

"We could, if we wished," was Hart's astounding reply; "I wish you wouldn't say too much about it when we return. We have oxygen to breathe and an air-tight vessel to retain it. With the fuel we are using, we could easily do it, provided a sufficient supply were available. However, the Pioneer does not have large enough storage tanks as yet, and, of course, we cannot now replenish our supply with sufficient rapidity, for the atmosphere has become very rare indeed—where we are. My ultimate object, though, in building the Pioneer, was to construct a vessel that is capable of a trip to the moon."

"You think you could reach a great enough velocity to escape the gravitational pull of the earth?" I asked, marveling more and more at the temerity and resourcefulness of my science-minded friend.

"Absolutely," he replied. "The speed required is less than seven miles a second, and I have calculated that the Pioneer can do no less than twenty."

Mentally I multiplied by sixty. I could hardly credit the result. Twelve hundred miles a minute!

"But, how about the acceleration?" I ventured. "Could the human body stand up under the strain?"

"That is the one problem remaining," he replied; "and I am now working on a method of neutralizing it. From the latest results of our experiments, George and I are certain of its feasibility."

The Pioneer was now losing altitude once more, and Hart played the beam of the searchlight in all directions as we descended. He and George watched through one of the floor ports and I followed suit. We were falling, unhampered by air resistance, and our bodies were practically weightless with reference to the Pioneer. It was a strange sensation: there was the feeling of exhilaration one experiences when inhaling the first whiff of nitrous oxide in the dentist's chair—a feeling of absolute detachment and care-free confidence in the ultimate result of our precipitous descent.

I found considerable amusement in pushing myself from side to side of the cabin with a mere touch of a finger. There was no up nor down, and sometimes it seemed to me that we were drifting sideways, sometimes that we fell upward rather than downward. Hart and George were unconcerned. Evidently they were quite accustomed to the sensations. They bent their every energy toward discovering what had caused the disaster to the SF-22 and its convoy.

For several hours we cruised about on the strangest search ever made in the air. Alternately shooting skyward to unconscionable altitudes and dropping to levels five and six to replenish our fuel supply, we covered the greater portion of the United States before the night was over. But the powerful searchlight of the Pioneer failed to disclose anything that might be remotely connected with the disappearance of the SF-22.

For me it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Lightning dashes from coast to coast which required but a few minutes of time—circling many miles above New York or Washington or Savannah in broad daylight with the sun low on the up-curved horizon; then shooting westward into the darkness and skirting the Pacific coast less than fifteen minutes later, but with four hours' actual time difference. Space and time were almost one.[Pg 67]

Hart had not provided the Pioneer with a radio or television transmitter, but there was an excellent receiver, and, through its agency we learned that the world was in a veritable uproar over the latest visitation of the mysterious terror of the sixth air level. All commercial traffic in levels four, five and six was ordered discontinued, and the government air control stations were flashing long messages in code, the import of which could but be guessed. Vision flashes showed immense gatherings at the large airports and in the public squares of the great cities, where the general populace become more and more excited and terrified by the awful possibilities pictured by various prominent speakers.

The governments of all foreign powers made haste to disclaim responsibility for the air attacks or for any attempt at making war on the United States. News broadcasts failed to mention Hart Jones or the Pioneer, since the mission had been kept secret. The phenomenon of the rays and the roaring column of light had been observed from many points on this occasion and there was no longer any doubt as to the nature of the terror as visible to the eye, though theories as to the action and source of the rays conflicted greatly and formed the basis of much heated discussion.

Eventually the advancing dawn reached San Francisco, and with its advent Hart decided to make a landing in that city so that my bonds could be delivered.

Jones was apparently a very much mystified and discouraged man. "Jack," he said, "it seems to me that this thing is but the beginning of some tremendous campaign that is being waged against our country by a clever and powerful enemy. And I feel that our work in connection with the unraveling of the mystery and overcoming the enemy or enemies is but begun. It's a cinch that the thing is organized by human minds and is not any sort of a freak of the elements. Our work is cut out for us, all right, and I wish you would stick to George and me through the mess. Will you?"

"Sure," I agreed, readily enough. "After these bonds are delivered I am free for a month."

"Ha! Ha!" cackled George, without mirth. "A month! We're doggoned lucky if we get to the bottom of this in a year."

"Nonsense!" snapped Hart, who was considerably upset by the failure to locate the source of the disastrous rays. "There is nothing supernatural about this, and anything that can be explained on a scientific basis can be run to earth in short order. These rays are man-made and, as such, can be accounted for by man. Our greatest scientists must be put to work on the problem at once—in fact, they have quite probably been called in by the government already."

He was maneuvering the Pioneer to a landing on the broad field of the San Francisco airport. Hundreds of idle planes of all sizes lined the field, and, unmindful of the earliness the hour, a great crowd was collected in expectation of sensational reports from the occupants of arriving ships. The unusual construction of the Pioneer attracted considerable attention and it was with difficulty that the police kept back the crowd when she rolled to a stop near the office of the local government supervisor. We hustled inside and were greeted by that official with open arms.

"Glory be!" he exclaimed. "Hart Jones and the Pioneer. Every airport in the land has been on the lookout for you all night. It was feared you had been lost with the SF-22 and the others. Code messages to the supervisors of all districts advised of your mission, though it has been kept out of the general news, as has the message from the enemy."

"Message from the enemy!" gasped[Pg 68] Hart, George and I, echoing the words like parrots.

"Yes. A demand that the United States surrender, and a threat to descend into the lower levels if the demand is not complied with in twenty-four hours!"

"Who is this enemy?" asked Hart, "and where?"

"Who they are is not known," replied the official gravely; "and as to the location, the War Department is puzzled. Direction finders throughout the country took readings on the position of their radio transmitter and these readings differed widely in result. But the consensus of opinion is that the messages originate somewhere out in space, probably between fifty and one hundred thousand miles from our earth."

"Great guns!" Hart glanced at George and me, where we stood with stupidly hanging jaws. "And what does the government want of me now?"

"You are considered to be the one man who might be able to cope with the problem, and are ordered to report to the Secretary of War, in person, immediately."

Hart was electrified into instant activity. "Here," he said in a voice of authority that commanded the official's attention and respect, "see that this package of bonds is delivered at once to the addressee and that the addressor is advised of its safe arrival. We're off at once."

Suiting action to the words, he thrust my packet into the hands of the astonished supervisor. Then, turning sharply on his heel, he flung back, "Advise the Secretary of War that I shall report to him in person in less than one hour."

As we stepped through the entrance of the Pioneer, he shot a final look at the official and laughed heartily at his sudden accession of energy. We had not the slightest doubt that Hart's orders would be immediately and efficiently carried out.

In precisely forty-five minutes, we stood before the desk of Lawrence Simler, then Secretary of War, in Washington.

"You are Mr. Hartley Jones?" inquired the stern-visaged little man.

"I am, Mr. Secretary, and these are my friends and co-workers, George Boehm and John Makely."

The Secretary acknowledged the introduction gravely, then plunged into the heart of the matter at hand with the quick energy for which he was famed.

"It may or may not be a serious situation," he said, "but certainly it has thus far been quite alarming. In any event, we have taken the matter out of the hands of the Air Traffic Bureau. We are prepared to defy the ultimatum of the enemy, whoever he may be. But we want your help, Mr. Jones. Every ship of the Air Navy will be in the upper levels within the prescribed twenty-four hours, and we will endeavor to stave off their attacks until such time as you can fit the Pioneer for a journey to their headquarters."

"How can your antiquated war vessels, capable of hurling a high explosive shell no more than fifty miles, fight off an enemy that is thousands of miles distant?" asked Hart.

"It is believed by the research engineers of the government that, though their headquarters may be located at a great distance, the raiders drop to a comparatively low altitude at the time of one of their attacks, returning immediately thereafter to their base."

Hart Jones shook his head. "The engineers may be correct," he stated; "but how on earth can you expect a little vessel like the Pioneer to battle an enemy who is possessed of these terribly destructive weapons and who has sufficient confidence in his own invulnerability to declare war on the greatest country on earth?"

Secretary Simler dropped his voice to a confidential tone, and his keen gray eyes flashed excitement as he unfolded the details of the[Pg 69] discoveries and plans of the War Department. We three listened in undisguised amazement to a tale of the unceasing labors of our Secret Service agents in foreign countries, of elaborate experiments with deadly weapons and the chemicals of warfare.

We heard of marvelous new rays that could be projected for many miles and destroy whole armies at a single blast; rays that would, in less time than that required to tell of the feat, reduce to a mass of fused metal the greatest firstline battleships of the old days of ocean warfare. We heard of preparations for defensive warfare throughout the civilized world, preparedness that insured so terrible and final a war that it was literally impossible for a great world conflagration to again break out. We learned that the present mysterious signs of a coming war could not possibly have originated in any country on earth, else they would have been known of long in advance, due to the network of the Secret Service system. This war, so unexpectedly thrust upon us, was undoubtedly a war of planets!

"But," objected Hart, "the messages were in English, were they not?"

"They were," continued Secretary Simler, "and that puzzled our experts in the beginning. But, it may well be that our enemy from out the skies has had spies among us for many years and could thus have learned our languages and radio codes. In any event, we are to meet destructive rays with others equally destructive, and you, Hartley Jones, are the man who can make our effectiveness certain."

"I?"

"Yes. How long a time will be required in fitting out the Pioneer for reliable space flying?"

Hart Jones pondered the matter and I could see that he was overjoyed at the prospect of getting into the thing in earnest. "About one week," he replied, "providing you can send a force of fifty expert mechanics to my hangar at once and supply all material as fast as I shall require it."

"Excellent," said the Secretary. "We'll have the men there in a few hours and will obtain whatever you need, regardless of cost, for immediate delivery. Incidentally, there will be several scientists as well, who will supervise the installation of two types of ray generators and their projecting mechanisms on the Pioneer. You will need them later."

"I don't doubt we shall," said Hart. "And now, with your permission, we shall leave for the hangar. I'm ready to start work."

"Capital!" Secretary Simler pressed every one of a row of buttons set in his desk top. We were dismissed.

"Well," said I, when we reached the outside, "he has given you quite a job, Hart!"

"You said something," he replied. "But, if this threat from the skies proves as real and as calamitous as I think it will, we all have our work cut out for us."

"Do you really believe this enemy comes from another planet?" asked George as we entered the Pioneer for the trip home.

"Where else can they be from?" countered Hart. "But, really it makes no difference to us now. We have to go after them in earnest. Don't want to quit, do you, George?"

"Wha-a-at?" shouted George, as he jerked savagely at the main switch of the Pioneer. "You know me better than that, Hart. Did I ever let you down in anything?"

"No," admitted the smiling Hart, "you never did, bless your heart. But Jack here is another matter. He has a wife and two kids to look after. That lets him out automatically."

My heart sank at the words, for I knew that he meant what he said. And, truth to tell, I saw the justice in his remarks.

"But, Hart," I faltered, "I'd like to be in on this thing."

"I know you would, old man. But I[Pg 70] think it's out of the question, for the present at least. You can help with the reconstruction of the Pioneer, however."

And meekly I accepted his dictum, though with secretly conflicting emotions. Little did I realize at the time that Hart knew far more than he pretended and that he had merely attempted to salve his own conscience in this manner.

I was very anxious to return to my family, and, as I sped homeward in a taxicab after the Pioneer landed at her own hangar, my mind was filled with doubts and fears. Secretary Simler had been very brief in his talk, but his every word carried home the gravity of the situation. What if these invaders carried the war to the surface? Suppose they seared the countryside and the cities and suburbs with rays of horrible nature that would shrivel and blast all that lay in their path? My heart chilled at the thought and it was a distinct relief when I gazed on my little home and saw that it was safe—so far. I paid the driver with a much too large bank note and dashed up my own front steps two at a time.

A few hours later I tore myself away and returned to the hangar, where the Pioneer now reposed in a scaffolded cradle. The sight which met my eyes was astonishing in the extreme, for the hangar had been transformed into a huge workshop with seemingly hundreds of men already at work. It was a scene of furious activity, and, to my utter amazement, I observed that the Pioneer was already in an advanced stage of disassembly.

I had no difficulty in locating Hart Jones, for he was striding from lathe to workbench to boring mill, issuing his orders with the sureness and decision of a born leader of men. He welcomed me in his most brisk manner and immediately assigned me to a portion of the work in the chemical laboratory—something I was at least partly fitted for.

We labored far into the night, when a siren called us to rest and food. This was to be a night and day job, and not a man of those on duty gave thought to the intense nervous and physical strain. Sixty-five of us I learned there were, though it had seemed there were several times that number.

During the rest period, Hart switched on the large television and sound mechanism of the public news broadcasts. Great excitement prevailed throughout the United States, for there had been a leak and the news had gone abroad regarding the message from the enemy. There was widespread panic and disorder and the government was besieged with demands for authentic news. The twenty-four hours of grace had nearly expired.

Finally the public was told of what actually was happening. Our entire fleet of one thousand air cruisers was in air-level six, waiting for the enemy. America was going to fight in earnest!

Flashes of our air cruisers in construction and in action came over the screen; voice-vision records of the popular officers of the fleet followed in quick succession. Then came the blow—the first of the strange war.

Two vessels of the air fleet had been destroyed by the triple rays and pillar of fire! Fifty cruisers rushing to the scene had been unable to find any traces of the source of the deadly rays. And, this time, there was an alarming added element. The pillar of fire had risen from a point near Gadsden in Alabama and, in its wake, there spread a sulphurous, smoldering fire that crept along the ground and destroyed all in its path. Farms, factories, and even the steel rails of the railroads were consumed and burned into the ground as if by the breath of some tremendous blast furnace. Hundreds of inhabitants of the section perished, and it was reported that the fumes from the strange fires were drifting in the direction of Birmingham, terrifyingly visible in blue-green clouds of searing vapor.[Pg 71]

With the first news of the disaster came a wave of fear that spread over the country with the rapidity of the ether waves that carried the news. Then came stern determination. This enemy must be swept from the skies! Gatherings in public places volunteered en masse for whatever service the government might ask of them. The entire world was in an uproar, and from Great Britain, France, Germany and Russia, came immediate offers of their air fleets to assist in fighting off the Terror.

In less than an hour there were nearly five thousand cruisers in air-level six, patroling its entire depth from thirty-five thousand to one hundred thousand feet altitude.

We resumed work in the hangar, but the news service was kept in operation as far as the amplifiers were concerned, though the television screen was switched off on account of the likelihood of its distracting the workers.

Again came the report of a major disaster, this time over Butte in Montana. Four American vessels and one British were the victims in level six. And the city of Butte was in flames; blue, horrible flames that literally melted the city into the ground. Again there was no trace of the invaders.

How puny were the efforts of the five thousand air cruisers! Marvels of engineering and mechanical skill, these vessels were. Deadly as were the weapons they carried—weapons so terrible that war on earth was considered impossible since their development—they were helpless against an enemy who could not be located. Though our vessels were capable of boring high into the stratosphere, the enemy worked from still higher.

"Holy smoke!" gasped Hart Jones, who had stopped at my side. "What a contract I have on my hands!"

He looked in the direction of the partly dismantled Pioneer, and I could see by the fixedness of his stare that he was thinking of her insignificant size in comparison with the job she was to undertake.

Above the din of the machines in the hangar rang the startled voice of a news announcer. Panic-stricken he seemed, and we stopped to listen. Another blow of the terror of the skies—and now close by! Over Westchester County in New York State there was a repetition of the previous attacks. Only two of the cruisers had vanished this time; but several towns, including Larchmont and Scarsdale, were pools of molten fire!

Sick at heart, I thought of my little home in Rutherford and of the dear ones it contained. I thought of telephoning, but, what was the use? There was no warding off of this terrible thing that had so suddenly come to our portion of the world. It was the blowing of the last trumpet, the way things looked.

The announcer had calmed himself. His voice droned tonelessly now, as was the custom. Another raid, on the Mexican Border now. We were stupefied by the rapidity of the enemy's attacks; then electrified once more by the most astounding news of all. Alexandria, in Egypt, was the base of a pillar of fire! Fully half of the city was wiped out, and the remainder in a mortal funk, terrorized and riotous. The United States was not alone in the war!

The foreign fleets which reinforced our own were ordered home immediately. But to what avail? The world was doomed!

In the morning, after nine fearful attacks during the night, there came another message from the enemy and this was repeated in five languages and addressed to the entire world:

"People of Earth," it read, "this is our final warning. One chance has been given and you have proved stubborn. Consider well that your civilization be not entirely destroyed, and answer as the expiration of forty-eight[Pg 72] hours, using our transmitting frequency. Our hand is to be withheld for that period only, when, unless our demands are met, all of your large cities and towns will be destroyed. Our terms for peace are that we be permitted to land without resistance on your part; that you surrender farm and forest lands, cities and towns, able-bodied men of twenty to forty, selected women of seventeen to thirty, and tribute in the form of such supplies and precious metals as we may specify, all to the extent of forty per cent of your resources. No compromise will be accepted."

That was all. It was during a rest period at the Jones hangar and I had brought Hart and George to my home for breakfast. We sat at the table when the news instrument brought the message. Marie was pouring the coffee, and my two small boys, Jim and Jack, had gone to the playroom, from whence their joyous voices could be heard. We four were struck dumb at the announcement, and Marie looked at me with so awful an expression of dread that my coffee turned bitter in my mouth. Marie was just twenty-eight!

"What beasts!" cried Hart. "Allow them to land without resistance? I should say not! Rather we should fight them off until all of us perish."

He had risen from his chair in his anger. Now he sat down suddenly and shook a forefinger in my face.

"Say!" he exploded. "You can't tell me that some master mind of our own world is not back of this!"

"I'm not telling you," I replied, startled at the fierce fire that flashed from his eyes.

"I know. I'm just trying to think aloud and I'm liable to say anything. But this sort of business is the work of humans as sure as you're born. Still I believe that what Simler says is true. I can't believe that any country on earth is back of the thing. It must be an attack from beings of another planet, but I think they have as a leader a man who is of our own earth."

Marie's eyes opened wide at this. "But how could that be?" she asked. "Surely no one from our earth has made the trip to one of the other planets?"

"It may be that someone has," replied Hart. "Do you remember Professor Oradel? Remember, about ten years ago, I think it was, when he and a half dozen or more of extremely radical scientists built a rocket they claimed would reach the moon? They were ridiculed and hissed and relegated to the position of half-baked, crazy inventors. But Oradel had a large private fortune, and he and his crowd built themselves a workshop and laboratory in a secluded region in the Ozarks. Here they labored and experimented and eventually the rocket ship was constructed. No person was in their confidence, but when the machine was completed they issued a statement to the press to the effect that they were ready for the voyage to the moon, and that, when they returned, a reckoning with the world was to be made for its disbelief and total lack of sympathy. Again the press subjected Oradel to a series of scathing denunciations, and the scientific publications refused to take cognizance of his claims in any way, shape or form."

"Then, one night, a great rocket roared into the heavens, leaving a terror-stricken countryside in the wake of its brilliantly visible tail. Several observatories whose telescopes picked up and followed the trail of the contraption reported that it described a huge parabola, mounting high into the stratosphere and falling back to earth, where it was lost in the depths of the Pacific Ocean. There the thing ended and it was soon forgotten. But I believe that this rocket ship of Oradel's reached Mars or Venus and that the peoples of whichever planet they reached have been prevailed upon and prepared to war upon the world."

"That would explain their knowl[Pg 73]edge of our languages and codes." I ventured, "and would likewise account for the fact that the first of our ships to be attacked were those carrying large shipments of currency. Though if these were destroyed by the fire columns, I can not see what good the money would do them."

"Don't believe the first three were destroyed," grunted Hart. "You'll remember that in these cases the pillars of fire, or whatever you want to call them, were of a cold light, whereas now they are viciously hot and leave behind them the terrible destructive fires that spread and spread and seemingly never are extinguished. No, I think that the force used is something of the nature of an atom-disrupting triad of beams and that these set up the column as a veritable tornado, a whirling column of roaring wind rushing skyward with tremendous velocity. The first ships, I believe, were carried into the stratosphere and captured intact by the enemy.

"Since the declaration of war the nature of the column has altered. The three beams, instead of meeting at or near the surface of the earth, now join high in the heavens and the column strikes downward instead of expending its force upward. An added energy is used which produces the terribly destructive force below. And now we are able to locate fragments of the ships destroyed above, whereas previously there were no traces."

"Sounds reasonable," commented George. "But why have they not landed and waged their war right here without warning, if that is what they now intend to do?"

"A natural question, George. But I have a hunch that the space flier or fliers of the enemy are conserving fuel by remaining beyond gravity. You know, in space flying, the greatest expenditures of energy are in leaving or landing on a body and, once landed, they might not have sufficient fuel for a getaway. They know we are not exactly helpless, once they are in our midst, and are taking this means of reducing us to the point of complete subjection before risking their precious selves among us."

The telephone startled us by its insistent ring. It was a call from the hangar for Hart. The news broadcast announcer was in the midst of a long dissertation regarding the discovery only this morning that there were certain apparent discrepancies in the movements of the tides and unwonted perturbations of the moon's orbit. There flashed on the screen a view of the great observatory at Mount Wilson, and Professor Laughlin of that institution stepped into the foreground of the scene to take up the discussion so mechanically repeated by the announcer.

"Must leave for the hangar at once," declared Hart, returning from the telephone. "Simler and his staff are there and we are wanted immediately."

"Oh, Jack!" Marie begged with her eyes.

"Got to be done, Honey," I responded, "and, believe me, I am going to do what little I can to help. Suppose we surrendered!"

I shuddered anew at the very thought and took hurried leave of my family, Hart and George awaiting me in the hall. Had I known what was to transpire before the end of the war, I am certain I would have been in much less of a hurry.

We rushed to the hangar, where Secretary Simler and his party awaited us in the office. Rather, I should say, they waited for Hart Jones.

"Mr. Jones," said the Secretary of War, when the introductions were over, "it is up to you to get the Pioneer in shape to go out after these terrible creatures before the forty-eight hours have expired. We have replied to their ultimatum and have told them we will have our answer ready within the appointed time, but it is already agreed between the nations of the World Al[Pg 74]liance that our reply is to be negative. Better far that we submit to the utter destruction of our civilization than agree to their terms."

"I believe I can do it, Mr. Secretary," was Hart Jones' simple comment. "At least I will try. But you must let me have an experienced astronomer at once with whom to consult."

"Astronomer?"

"Yes—immediately. I have a theory, but am not enough of a student of astronomy myself to work it out."

"You shall have the best man in the Air Naval Observatory at once." Secretary Simler chewed his cigar savagely. "And anything else you might need," he concluded.

"There is nothing else, sir." Hart turned from the great men who regarded him solemnly, some with expressions of hope, others with plain distrust written large on their countenances.

They left in silence and we returned to our work with renewed vigor. Within an hour there arrived by fast plane an undersized, thick-spectacled man who presented himself as Professor Linquist from the government observatory. He was immediately taken into the office by Hart and the two remained behind closed doors for the best part of four hours.

Meanwhile the hangar hummed with activity as usual. We in the chemical laboratory were engaged in compounding the high explosive used as fuel in the Pioneer. This was being compressed to its absolute limit and was stored in long steel cylinders in the form of a liquid of extremely low temperature. These cylinders were at once transferred to a special steel vault where the temperature was kept at a low enough point to prevent expansion and consequent loss of the explosive, not to speak of the danger of destroying the entire lot of us in its escape.

The generating apparatus of the Pioneer was to be dispensed with for this trip, since it was of no value outside the atmosphere where there was no air from which to extract the elements necessary for the production of the explosive. Instead, the entire supply of fuel for the trip was to be carried aboard the vessel in the cylinders we were engaged in filling. Hart had calculated that there was just sufficient room to store fuel for a trip of about two hundred thousand miles from the earth and a safe return. We hoped this would be enough.

On the scaffolding around the Pioneer there were now so many workers that it seemed they must forever be in one another's way. But the work was progressing with extreme rapidity. Already there projected from her blunt nose a slender rod of shining metal which was the projector of one of the destructive rays whose generator and auxiliaries were being installed under the supervision of the government experts. The force had been trebled and was now working in shifts of two hours each, the pace being so exhausting that highest efficiency was obtained by using these short periods.

Additional rocket tubes were being installed, and the steel framework of a bulge now showed on the hull, this bulge being an additional fuel storage compartment that would provide a slight additional resistance and consequently lower speed in the lower levels, but would prove little hindrance in level six and none at all in outer space.

When Hart emerged from his office he appeared to be very tired, indeed, but his face bore an expression of triumph that could not be mistaken. He and this little scientist from Washington had evidently arrived at some momentous conclusion regarding the enemy.

"Jack," he said, when he reached my bench during his first round of the hanger, "celestial mechanics is a wonderful thing. I had a hunch, and this astronomer chap has proved it correct[Pg 75] with his mathematics. Our friend the enemy is out there in space at a point where his own mass and velocity are exactly counteracted by those of the earth and its satellite, the moon. He is just floating around in space, doing no work whatsoever to maintain his own position. He has temporarily assumed the rôle of a second satellite to us and is revolving around us at a definite period that was calculated by Lindquist. The gravitational pull of the moon keeps him from falling to the earth and that of the earth keeps him from approaching the moon. The resultant of the set of forces is what determines his orbit and the disturbance in the normal balance is what has been observed by the astronomers who reported changes in the tides and in the moon's orbit."

"But Lindquist's figures prove that the vessel or fleet of the enemy must be of tremendous size to produce such discrepancies, infinitesimally small though they might seem. We have a big fellow with whom to deal, but we know where to find him now."

"How can he work from a fixed position to make his attacks on the earth at such widely separated points?" I asked.

"It isn't a fixed position in the first place, and besides the earth rotates once in twenty-four hours, while the moon travels around the earth once in about twenty-eight days. But, even so, the widespread destruction could not be accounted for. He must send out scouting parties or something of that sort. That is one of the things we are to learn when we get out there. We'll have some fun, Jack."

"Will the Pioneer be ready?" I asked. Evidently I was to go.

"She will, with the exception of the acceleration neutralizers. But I'm having some heavily-cushioned and elastic supports made that will, I believe, save us from injury. And I guess we can stand the discomfort for once."

"Yes," I agreed, "in such a cause, I, for one, am willing to go through anything to help keep this overwhelming disaster from our good old world."

"Jack," he whispered, "we must prevent it. We've got to!"

Then he was gone, and I watched him for a moment as he dashed headlong from one task to another. He was a whirlwind of energy once more.

Forty-three hours and twenty minutes had passed since the receipt of the enemy's ultimatum. The last bolt was being tightened in the remodeled Pioneer, and Secretary Simler and his staff were on hand to witness the take-off of the vessel on which the hopes of the world were pinned. The news of our attempt had been spread by cable and printed news only, for there was fear that the enemy might be able to pick up the broadcasts of the news service and thus be able to anticipate us. As usual, there were many scoffers, but the consensus of opinion was in favor of the project. At any rate, what better expedient was there to offer?

The huge airport, now unused on account of the complete cessation of air traffic, was closed to the public. But there was quite a crowd to witness the take-off, the visitors from Washington, the officials of the field, and the two hundred workers who had enabled us to make ready for the adventure in time. There were four to enter the Pioneer: Hart, George, Professor Lindquist, and myself. And when the entrance manhole was bolted home behind us, the watchers stood in silence, waiting for the roar of the Pioneer's motor. As the starter took hold, Hart waved his hand at one of the ports and every man of those two hundred and some watchers stood at attention and saluted is if he were a born soldier and Hart a born commander-in-chief.

We taxied heavily across the field, for the Pioneer was much overloaded for a quick take-off. She[Pg 76] bumped and bounced for a quarter-mile before taking to the air and then climbed very slowly indeed, for several minutes. Our speed was a scant two hundred miles an hour when we swung out over New York and headed for the Atlantic. And then Hart made first use of the rocket tubes, not daring to discharge the hot gases below while over populated land at so low an altitude. He touched one button, maintaining the pressure for but a fraction of a second. The ocean slipped more rapidly away from beneath our feet and he touched the button once more. Our speed was now nearly seven hundred miles an hour and we made haste to buckle ourselves into the padded, hammocklike contrivances which had been substituted for the former seats. In a very few minutes we entered level six and the motor was cut off entirely.

A blast from a number of the tail rockets drove me into my supporting hammock so heavily that I found difficulty in breathing, and could scarcely move a muscle to change position. The rate of acceleration was terrific, and I am still unable to understand how Hart was able to manipulate the controls. For myself, I could not even turn my head from its position in the padding and I felt as if I were being crushed by thousands of tons of pressure. Then, the pressure was somewhat relieved and I glanced to the instruments. We were more than a thousand miles from our starting point and the speed indicator read seven thousand miles an hour. We were traveling at the rate of nearly two miles a second!

Another blast from the rockets, this one of interminable length, and I must have lost consciousness. For when I next took note of things I found that we had been out for nearly two hours and that the tremendous pressure of acceleration was relieved. I moved my head, experimentally and found that my senses were normal, though there was a strange and alarming sensation of being wrong side up. Then I remembered that I had experienced the same thing when we first searched the upper levels of the atmosphere for the origin of the destructive rays of the enemy.

But this was different! I gazed through a nearby port and saw that the sky was entirely black, the stars shining magnificently brilliant against their velvet background. Streamers of brilliant sunlight from the floor ports struck across the cabin and patterned the ceiling. Looking between my feet I saw the sun as a flaming orb with streamers of incandescence that spread in every direction with such blinding luminosity that I could not bear the sight for more than a few seconds. Off to what I was pleased to think of as our left side, there was a huge globe that I quickly made out as our own earth. Eerily green it shone, and, though a considerable portion of the surface was obscured by patches of white that I recognized as clouds, I could clearly make out the continents of the eastern hemisphere. It was a marvelous sight and I lost several minutes in awed contemplation of the wonder. Then I heard Hart laugh.

"Just coming out of it, Jack?" he asked.

I stared at him foolishly. It had seemed to me that I was alone in this vast universe, and the sound of his voice startled me. "Guess I'm not fully out of it yet," I said. "Where are we?"

"Oh, about sixty thousand miles out," he replied carelessly; "and we are traveling at our maximum speed—that is, the maximum we need for this little voyage."

"Little voyage!" I gasped. And then I looked at George and the professor and saw that they, too, were grinning at my discomfiture. I laughed crazily, I suppose, for they all sobered at once.

Traveling through space at more than forty thousand miles an hour, it seemed that we were stationary. Move[Pg 77]ment was now easy—too easy, in fact, for we were practically weightless. The professor was having a time of it manipulating a pencil and a pad of paper on which he had a mass of small figures that were absolutely meaningless to me. He was calculating and plotting our course and, without him, we should never have reached the object we sought.

Time passed rapidly, for the wonders of the naked universe were a never-ending source of fascination. Occasionally a series of rocket charges was fired to keep our direction and velocity, but these were light, and the acceleration so insignificant that we were put to no discomfort whatever. But it was necessary that we keep our straps buckled, for, in the weightless condition, even the slightest increase or decrease in speed or change in direction was sufficient to throw us the length of the cabin, from which painful bruises might be received.

The supports to which we were strapped and which saved us from being crushed by the acceleration and deceleration, were similar to hammocks, being hooked to the floor and ceiling of the cabin rather than suspended horizontally in the conventional manner. This was for the reason that the energy of the rockets was expended fore and aft, except for steering, and the forces were therefore along the horizontal axis of the vessel. The supports were elastic and the padding deep and soft. Being swiveled at top and bottom, they could swing around so that deceleration as well as acceleration was relieved. For this reason the controls had been altered so that the flexible support in which Hart was suspended could rotate about their pedestal, thus allowing for their operation by the pilot either when accelerating or decelerating. How he could control the muscles of his arms and hands under the extreme conditions is still a mystery to me, however, and George agrees with me in this. We found ourselves to be utterly helpless.

My next impression of the trip is that of swinging rapidly around and finding myself facing the rear wall of the cabin. Then the tremendous pressure once more at a burst from the forward tubes. We had commenced deceleration. For me there were alternate periods of full and semi-consciousness and, to this day, I can remember no more than the high spots of that historical expedition.

Then we were free to move once more, and I turned to face the instrument board. Our relative velocity had become practically zero; that is, we were traveling through space at about the same speed and in the same direction as the earth. The professor and Hart were consulting a pencil chart and excitedly looking first through the forward ports and then into the screen of the periscope.

"This is the approximate location," averred the professor.

"But they are not here," replied Hart.

George and I peered in all directions and could see nothing excepting the marvels of the universe we had been viewing. The moon now seemed very close and its craters and so-called seas were as plainly visible as in a four-inch telescope on earth. But we saw nothing of the enemy.

The earth was a huge ball still, but much smaller than when I had first observed it from the heavens. The sun's corona—the flaming streamers which the professor declared extended as much as five million miles into space—was partly hidden behind the rim of the earth and the effect was blinding. A thin crescent of brilliant light marked the rim of our planet and the rest was in shadow, but a shadow that was lighted awesomely in cold green by reflected light from her satellite.

"I have it!" suddenly shouted the professor. "We are all in very nearly the same line with reference to the sun, and the enemy is between the blazing[Pg 78] body and ourselves. We must shift our position, move into the shadow of the earth. We have missed our calculation by a few hundred miles, that is all."

All! I thought. These astronomers, so accustomed to dealing in tremendous distances that must be measured in light-years, thought nothing of an error of several hundred miles. But I suppose it was really an inconsiderable amount, at that.

At any rate, we shifted position and looked around a bit more. We saw nothing at first. Then Hart consulted the chronometer.

"Time is up!" he shouted.

On the instant there was a flash of dazzling green light from a point not a hundred miles from our position, a flash that was followed by a streaking pencil of the same light shooting earthward with terrific velocity. Breathlessly we followed its length, saw it burst like a bomb and hurl three green balls from itself which sped at equally spaced angles to form a perfect triangle. They hovered a moment at about two thousand miles above the surface of the earth, according to the professor, who was using the telescope at the time, and shot their deadly rays toward our world. We were too late to prevent the renewal of hostilities!

Another and another streak of green light followed and we knew that great havoc was being wrought back home. But these served to locate the enemy's position definitely and we immediately set about to draw nearer. We were still somewhat on the dark side of the object, which had prevented our seeing it. Now we swung about so that it was plainly visible. And, what a strange appearance it presented, out here in space!

Fully fifteen miles in diameter, it was a huge doughnut, a great ring of tubing with a center-opening that was at least eighty per cent of its maximum diameter. There it hovered, sending out those deadly missiles in a continuous stream toward our poor world. As we approached the weird space flier, we saw that a number of objects floated about within the great circle of its inner circumference. The NY-18, the SF-61 and the SF-22, without doubt! The theory of Hart's was correct in every detail.

We were still at about ten miles distance from the great ring and the streaking light pencils were speeding earthward at the rate of one a minute now. There was no time to lose. Already there was more destruction on its way than had been previously wrought—several times over.

Hart was sighting along a tiny tube that projected into the forward partition and he maneuvered the Pioneer until she was nose on to the great ring. He pulled a switch and there came a purring that was entirely new. A row of huge vacuum tubes along the wall lighted to vivid brilliancy and a throbbing vibration filled the artificial air of the cabin.

He pulled a small lever at the side of the tube and the vessel rocked to the energy that was released from those vacuum tubes. The thin rod which had been installed at the Pioneer's nose burst into brilliant flame—orange tinted luminescence that grew to a sphere of probably ten feet in diameter. Then there was a heavy shock and the ball of fire left its position and, with inconceivable velocity, sprang straight for the side of the great ring. It was a fair hit and, when the weird missile found its mark, it simply vanished—swallowed up in the metal walls of the monster vessel. For a moment we thought nothing was to result. Then we burst into shouts of joy, for a great section of the ring fused into nothingness and was gone! Fully a quarter of the circumference of the ring had disappeared into the vacuum of space. Truly, the governments of Earth had developed some terrible weapons of their own!

We watched, breathless.[Pg 79]

The green light pencils no longer streaked their paths of death in the direction of our world, which now seemed so remote. The great ring with the vacant space in its rim wabbled uncertainly for a moment as though some terrific upheaval from within was tearing it asunder. Then it lurched directly for the Pioneer. We had been observed!

But Hart was equal to the occasion and he shot the Pioneer in the direction of the earth with such acceleration that we all were flattened into our supports with the same old violence. Then, with equal violence, we decelerated. The ring was following so closely that it actually rushed many hundreds of miles past us before it was brought to rest. From it there sprang one of the light pencils, and the Pioneer was rocked as by a heavy gale when it rushed past on its harmless way into infinity. The enemy had missed.

Meanwhile, Hart was operating another mechanism that was new to the Pioneer and again he sighted along the tiny tube. This time there was no sound within, no ball of fire without, no visible ray. But, when he had pressed the release of this second energy, the ring seemed to shrivel and twist as if gripped by a giant's hand. It reeled and spun. Then, no longer in a balance of forces, it commenced its long drop earthward.

His job finished and finished well, Hart Jones collapsed.

Following his more than three days and four nights of superhuman endeavor, it seemed strange to see Hart slumped white and still over the control pedestal. He who had energy far in excess of that of any of the rest of us had worn himself out. Having had no rest or sleep in nearly a hundred hours, the body that housed so wonderful a spirit simply refused to carry on. Tenderly we stretched him on the cabin floor, the Pioneer drifting in space the while. The professor, who was likewise something of a physician, listened to his heart, drew back his eyelids, and pronounced him in no danger whatever.

We slapped his wrists, sprinkled his face and neck with cold water from the drinking supply, and were soon rewarded by his return to consciousness. He smiled weakly and fell sound asleep. No war in the universe could have wakened him then, so we lifted him to his feet—rather I should say, we guided his practically floating body—and strapped him in George's hammock, preparing for the homeward journey. Though dangling from the straps in a position that would be vertical were we on earth, he slept like a baby. George took the controls in Hart's place and the professor and I returned to our accustomed supports.

The return trip was considerably slower, as George did not wish to push the Pioneer to its limit as had been necessary when coming out to meet the enemy, nor was he able to keep control of the ship against a too-rapid acceleration. Consequently, the rate of acceleration was much lower and we were not nearly as uncomfortable as on the outgoing trip. Thus, nearly ten hours were required for the return. And Hart slept through it all.

In order to make best use of the small amount of fuel still in the cylinders, George circled the earth five times before we entered the upper limits of the atmosphere, the circles becoming of smaller diameter at each revolution and the speed of the ship proportionately reduced. An occasional discharge from one of the forward rocket tubes assisted materially in the deceleration, yet, when we slipped into level five, our speed was so great that the temperature of the cabin rose alarmingly, due to the friction of the air against the hull of the vessel. It was necessary to use the last remaining ounce of fuel to reduce the velocity to a safe value. A long glide to earth was then our only means of landing and, since we were over the[Pg 80] Gulf of Mexico at the time, we had no recourse other than landing in the State of Texas.

Passing over Galveston in level three, we found that the Humble oil fields and a great section of the surrounding country had been the center of one of the enemy bombardments. All was blackness and ruin for many miles between this point and Houston. At Houston Airport we landed, unheralded but welcome.

The lower levels were once more filled with traffic, and one of the southern route transcontinental liners had just made its stop at this point. The arrival of the Pioneer was thus witnessed by an unusually large crowd, and, when the news was spread to the city, their numbers increased with all the rapidity made possible by the various means of transportation from the city.

So it was that Hart Jones, after we finally succeeded in awakening him and getting him to his feet, was hailed by a veritable multitude as the greatest hero of all time. The demonstrations become so enthusiastic that police reserves, hastily summoned from the city, were helpless in their attempts to keep the crowd in order.

It was with greatest difficulty that Hart was finally extricated from the clutches of the mob and conveyed to the new Rice Hotel in Houston, where it was necessary to obtain medical attention for him immediately. He was in no condition at the time to receive the richly deserved plaudits of the multitude, and, truth to tell, we others from the Pioneer were in much the same shape.

To me that night will always be the most terrible of nightmares. My first thought was of my family and, when I had been assigned to a room, I immediately asked the switchboard operator for a long-distance connection to my home in Rutherford. There was complete silence for a minute and I jangled the hook impatiently, my head throbbing with a thousand aches and pains. Then, to my surprise, the voice of the hotel manager greeted me.

"Mr. Makely," he said softly, and I thought there was a peculiar ring in his voice, "I think you had better not try to get Rutherford this evening. We are sending the house physician to your room at once and—there are orders from Washington, you know—you are to think of nothing at the present but sleep and a long rest."

"Why—why—" I stammered, "can't you see? I must communicate with my family. They must know of my return. I must know if they're safe and well."

"I'm sorry, sir," apologized the manager, "Government orders, you know." And he hung up.

Something in that soft voice brought to me an inkling of the truth. An icy hand gripped my heart as I heard a knock at the door. With palsied fingers I turned the key and admitted the professor and a kindly-faced elderly gentleman with a small black bag. One look at the professor told me the truth. I seized his two arms in a grip that made him wince.

"Tell me! Tell me!" I demanded, "Has anything happened to my family?"

"Jack," said the professor slowly, "while we were out there watching Hart destroy the enemy vessel, Rutherford was destroyed!"

It must be that I frightened him by my answering stare, for he backed away from me in apparent fear. I noticed that the doctor was rummaging in his bag. I know I did not speak, did not cry out, for my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. It seemed I must go mad. The professor still backed away from me; then, wiry little athlete that he was, he sprang directly for my knees in a beautiful football tackle. I remember that point clearly and how I admired his agility at the time. I remember the glint of a small instrument in the doctor's hand. Then all was blackness.[Pg 81]

Eight days later, they tell me it was, I returned to painful consciousness in a hospital bed. But let me skip the agony of mind I experienced then. Suffice it to say that, when I was able, I set forth for Washington. Hart Jones was there and he had sent for me. But I took little interest in the going; did not even bother to speculate as to the reason for his summons. I had devoured the news during my convalescence and now, more than two weeks after the destruction of the Terror, I knew the extent of the damage wrought upon our earth by those deadly green light pencils we had seen issuing from the huge ring up there in the skies. The horror of it all was fresh in my mind, but my own private horror overshadowed all.

I was glad that Hart had been so signally honored by the World Peace Board, that he was now the most famous and popular man in the entire world. He deserved it all and more. But what cared I—I who had done least of all to help in his great work—that the Terror had been found where it buried itself in the sand of the Sahara when falling to earth? What cared I that the discoveries made in the excavating of the huge metal ring were of inestimable value to science?

It gave me passing satisfaction to note that all of Hart Jones' theories were borne out by the discoveries; that Oradel and his minions were responsible for this terrible war; that the planet they aligned against us was Venus and that more than a hundred thousand of the Venerians had been carried in that weird engine of destruction which had been brought down by Hart.

It was interesting to read of the fall of that huge ring; how it was heated to incandescence when it entered our atmosphere at such tremendous velocity; of the tidal waves of concentric billows in the sand that led to its discovery by Egyptian Government planes. The broadcast descriptions and the television views of the stunted and twisted Venerians whose bodies were recovered from the partly consumed wreckage were interesting. But it all left me cold. I had no further interest in life. That the world had escaped an overwhelming disaster was clear, and it gave me a certain pleasure. But for me it might as well have been completely destroyed.

Nevertheless, I went to Washington. I felt somehow that I owed it to Hart Jones, the greatest world hero since Lindbergh. I would at least listen to what he had to say.

A fast plane carried me, a plane chartered by the government. To me it seemed that it crawled, though it was a sixth-level ship, and made the trip in record time. Why I was impatient to reach Washington I do not know, for I was absolutely disinterested in anything that might occur there. It was merely that my nerves were on edge, I suppose, and everything annoyed me.

Hart met me at the airport and greeted me like a long-lost brother. He talked incessantly and jumped from one subject to the other with the obvious intention of trying to get my mind off my troubles until we reached his office in the Air Traffic building.

On his door there was the legend, "Director of Research," and, when we had entered, I observed that the office was furnished with all the luxury that suited his new position. I dropped into a deeply upholstered chair at the side of his mahogany desk, and, for the space of several minutes, Hart regarded me with concern, speaking not a word.

"Jack, old man," he finally ventured. "I can't talk to you of this thing. But it makes me feel very badly to see you take it so hard. There are many things you have to live for, old top, and it is to talk about these that I sent for you."

"You mean work?" I asked.

"Yes. That is the best thing for us all, in any emergency or under any[Pg 82] circumstances whatever. Preston wants you back for one thing, and he authorized me to tell you that the job of office manager is waiting for you at double your former salary."

My eyes misted at this. Preston was a good old scout! But I could never bear it to return to the old surroundings, even in the city. "No, Hart," I said, "I'd rather be away from New York and from that part of the country. Associations, you know."

"I understand," he replied, "and that is just what I had hoped you would decide. Because I have a job for you in the Air Service. A good one, too.

"You know there is much reconstruction work to be done on earth. More than forty cities and towns have been wiped out of existence and these must be rebuilt. That will occupy the minds and energies of thousands who have been bereaved as you have. But, in the Air Service, we have a program that I believe will be more to your liking. The log of the Terror, in Oradel's handwriting, was found intact, as were a number of manuscripts pertaining to plans of the Venerians.

"These misshapen creatures were quite evidently educated by Oradel to a hatred of our world. We have reason to believe that other attacks may follow, for they were obviously intending to migrate here in millions. And, according to records found aboard the Terror, they are of advanced scientific accomplishment. We may expect them to construct other vessels similar to the Terror and to come here again. We must be prepared to fight them off, to carry the war to their own planet if necessary. My work is to organize a world fleet of space ships for this purpose, and I'd like you to help me in this. The work will take you all over the world and will keep you too busy to think about—things."

It was just like Hart, and I thanked him wordlessly, but from the bottom of my heart. Yes, I would accept his generous offer. Though I was no engineer, I had a knowledge of scientific subjects a little above the average, and I could follow instructions. By George, it was the very thing! Suddenly I grew enthusiastic.

There was the sound of voices in the outer office, and Hart's secretary entered to announce the arrival of George Boehm and Professor Lindquist. This was great!

Chubby George, red-faced and smiling as ever, embraced me with one short arm and pounded me on the back with his other fist in his jovial, joking manner. It was good to have friends like these! The professor held forth his hand timidly. He was thinking of that tackle and the half-Nelson he had used on me while the doctor slipped that needle into my arm back there in Houston.

"Don't remove your glasses, Professor," I laughed; "I'm not going to hit you. That was a swell tackle of yours, and you did me a big service down there in the Rice Hotel."

He beamed with pleasure and gripped my hand—mightily, for such a little fellow. George was whispering to Hart, and I could see that they were greatly excited over something.

"Jack," said Hart, when the professor and I finished talking things over, "George here wants you to take a little trip over to Philly with him. He has something there he wants to show you."

I looked from one to the other for signs of a hoax. These two, under normal circumstances, were always up to something. But what I saw in their expressions convinced me that I had better go, and somehow, there rose in my breast a forlorn hope.

"All right," I agreed. "Let's go!"

Once more we four took off together, this time in a speedy little first-level cabin plane of Hart's design, piloted by the irrepressible George. I was brimming with questions, but George kept up such a run[Pg 83]ning fire of small talk that I was unable to get in a single word throughout the short trip to the Quaker City. It was quite evident that something was in the wind.

Instead of landing at the airport, George swung across the city and dropped to the roof landing space of a large building which I recognized as the Germantown Hospital. We had no sooner landed when I was rushed from the plane to the penthouse over the elevator shafts. We were soon on the main floor and George went immediately to the desk at the receiving office, where he engaged in earnest conversation with the nurse in charge.

"What are you doing—committing me?" I asked, half joking only. For, from the mysterious expression of my friends' faces, I was not sure what to expect.

"No," laughed Hart. "George learned of the existence of a patient here who may turn out to be a very good friend of yours."

I turned this over in my mind, which did not yet function quite normally. A friend? Why, I had very few that could really be termed good friends outside of those that accompanied me. It could mean but one thing. Possibly one of my children—or even my dear wife—might have escaped somehow. I followed in a daze as a white-capped and gowned nurse led us along the corridor and into a ward where there were dozens of high, white beds.

Some of the patients were swathed in bandages; some sat up in their beds, reading or just staring; others lay inert and pale. The reek of iodoform pervaded the large room.

We stopped at the bedside of one of the staring patients, a young woman who looked unseeingly at our party. Great heavens, it was Marie!

A physician stood at the other side of her bed, finger on her pulse. The others drew back as I approached her side, raised her free hand to my lips and spoke to her.

"Marie, dear," I asked gently, forcing the lump from my throat as best I could, "don't you know me? It's Jack, Honey."

The fixed stare of the great blue eyes shifted in my direction. It seemed that they looked through and past me into some terrible realm where only horror held sway. She drew her hand from my grasp and passed it before those staring, unnatural eyes. There was an audible gulp from George. But the doctor smiled encouragement to me. I tried once more.

"Marie," I said, "where are Jim and Jackie?"

The hand fluttered to her lap, where it lay, blue-veined and pitifully thin. The stare focussed on me, seemed to concentrate. Then the film was gone from the eyes and she saw—she knew me!

"Oh, Jack!" she wailed, "I have been away. Don't you know where they are?"

My heart nearly stopped at this, but I sat on the edge of the bed and took her in my arms, looking at the doctor for approval. He nodded his head brightly and beckoned to the nurse.

"Bring the children," I heard him whisper.

My cup was full. But I must be calm for Marie's sake. She had closed her eyes now and great tears coursed down her waxen cheeks. Her body shook with sobs.

"She'll recover?" I asked the doctor.

"You bet. Just an aggravated case of amnesia. Hasn't eaten. Didn't even know her children. Cured now, but she'll need a few weeks to build up." He snapped shut the lid of his watch.

Those succinct sentences were the finest I had ever heard.

Marie clung to me like an infant to its mother. Her sobs gradually ceased and she looked into my eyes. Little Jim and Jack had come in and were clamoring for recognition.

"Oh, Jack," Marie whispered, "I'm so happy."[Pg 84]

She relinquished me and turned her attention to the children. I saw that my friends had left and that an orderly was placing screens about us. So I'll close the screen on the remainder of this most happy reunion.

It was several days before I had the complete story. Being lonesome during my absence when we were preparing for the voyage into space, and not knowing just when I would return, Marie had packed a grip and taken the train for Philadelphia, deciding to spend a few days with her Aunt Margaret, or at least to remain there with the children until I returned.

She had boarded the train at Manhattan Transfer at about the time we reached the location of the Terror and the train was just pulling out of the station when there came the first of the new attacks of the enemy. She thought that the pillar of fire rose from the approximate location of Rutherford, but was not sure until they reached Newark, when the news was spread throughout the train by passengers who boarded it there. She worried and cried over the loss of our little home and had worked herself into a state of extreme nervousness and near-hysteria by the time they reached New Brunswick.

Then, as the long train left New Brunswick, there was another attack, this one on the town they had just left. The last two cars of the train were blown from the track by the initial concussion, and the remainder of the train brought to a grinding, jerking stop that threw the passengers into a panic.

Already hysterical, Marie was in no condition to bear up under the shock, and the loss of memory followed. Jack and Jim clung to her, of course, and were taken to the Germantown Hospital with her when the wreck victims were transferred to that point. She had no identification on her person, and it was by sheerest luck that George, who was visiting a friend in the same hospital, chanced to see her and thought he recognized her.

That was all of it, but to me it was more than enough. From the depths of despondency, I rose to the peaks of elation. It was true that we would have to establish a new home, but this would be a joy as never before. Those I had given up as lost were restored to me and I was content. Hart would have to make some changes in the duties of that new job—the world travel was out of the picture. I had had my fill of adventure.

Besides, the hot spell was over.

[frances-baby-houseman]

I would have bled out in the parking lot

Amber Nicole Thurman's death is on Trump's hands

Bess Kalb

Sep 17

In 2019, about six weeks after my first child was born, I found myself on the bathroom floor in a small, but nonetheless unsettling puddle of blood.

“Oh no,” I remember thinking. “I just did the laundry.”

I called out my husband’s name, but the sound caught in my throat. The pain I felt inhaling to get enough air out of my lungs to yell the two syllables in “Char-lie” jabbed my guts like a bicycle spoke to the abdomen.

So I was quiet, trying to keep breathing in a way that didn’t move anything inside me, and the pain pulsed a bit, then steadied, then dulled, then evaporated into whatever hell ether it came from.

Because there is no G-d (unless there is, in which case I abbreviated His name so as not to desecrate it, and also thank you, King of the Universe, for subscribing to this newsletter) this was the one time in my life I hadn’t brought my phone with me to the bathroom.

I decided to sort of slither-lumber to the door like a lame harbor seal, because I didn’t want to stand and loosen the spoke that had just stabbed me. I reached for the knob and let the door creak open.

The cat was there, looking at me right at eye level, keenly aware what was happening, and completely unmoved by it.

“You are dying,” he blinked, “Pity. Have a nice time.” He sashayed away.

Fortunately, our house in Los Angeles was small enough that from the bathroom door one could see everything. My husband was sitting on the couch with our infant, and I knocked on the open door to summon him. Within one one thousandth of a second, he set the baby on the (since-recalled) donut pillow and was holding my head.

I sat up. I breathed. No pain. I took a picture of the bloody mess on my husband’s phone, texted it to myself, he found my phone, then I texted the picture to my OBGYN.

Apologies for being graphic, but within the puddle there was something roughly the size and shape and color of a fig.

“Is this ok?” I said to my doctor, the bicycle spoke scraping lightly at my insides again from all the lumbering.

“Come in,” she replied.

Within two hours, I was in the waiting room of her office, accompanied by my terrified but SMILING mother, who was still, as is the Jewish custom, in town for “a few days or so” after the birth.

An ultrasound which felt like the finger of Satan himself revealed there was retained placenta in my uterus. If I hadn’t come in, there would have been more hemorrhaging, then sepsis, then whatever the cat foretold.

The next day, I was in surgery getting a Dilation and Curettage.

I went home, pumped the anesthesia milk, then fell asleep perfectly fine, my sweet newborn cooing merrily in the bassinet next to his alive mother.

Amber Nicole Thurman’s story was the same as mine, but it happened to her in Georgia in 2024, not California in 2019. She was a Black woman in a healthcare system that disproportionately kills Black women, especially postpartum. In 2021, the Black maternal mortality rate was nearly three times the rate it is for white women. Post-Roe, the toll is and will continue to be staggering.

Because post-Roe, the procedure that saved my life, the D&C, is something doctors cannot perform in states where matters of life and death have been left up to non-medical Christian-supremacist superstitions.

I know the pain Amber Thurman felt when that placenta dislodged and carved its tiny, treacherous hole in her uterine wall. I know the terror she felt when she saw the blood, and the rush of dread when she thought of what her child would do without her.

And when I vote in November for Kamala Harris and every progressive down-ballot candidate, I will do it because she can’t. And I will do it so that women in Georgia and Idaho and Texas and North Dakota and South Dakota and Utah, Arizona, Nebraska Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Florida, South Carolina, and West Virginia won’t have to meet the same completely preventable doom.

This election isn’t just about Amber Thurman. Every day of my lucky, breathing life is about Amber Thurman. Because the only thing that separates us, is one of us bled out under the right Supreme Court.

Let’s raise absolute federal hell about it.

-- From Bess Kalb's newsletter The Grudge Report. I pay for this substack -- though it's free-- and think this is a message worth sharing far beyond her newsletter.

[bebe-writes-stuff]

Hiii ive been seeing ur account all over my fyp and i really do love ur posts and i was wondering if i could request one too!? And ive been thinking of timeskip Taiju having the cutest little daughter who looks forward to him and yk he is just trying to heal the burden inside of him that he had caused by his past actions:/ (ik many people hate him but deep inside i feel sorry for him too because he was a kid too when their mother had passed away and stuff idk but yea) whatever thank youu stay safe💗

Taiju honestly is an interesting character fr, like I'm glad he was able to reform himself but like bro, ughhhh I hate what he did to Yuzuha. but it's okay, he changed ✨(I actually secretly changed him 🤫)

Timeskip Taiju x reader

He couldn't believe it sometimes to the point where he was constantly questioning his life. But the sight of his daughter always calmed his heart, Taiju couldn't believe it after all those years of suffering and torment all by himself on his own, he had a family. You, the love of his life was by his side, his beautiful daughter, that had the same eyes as you.

Taiju's worst fear, what made his muscles tighten, what made him dread, was you, or his daughter ever looking at him with fear. the thought terrorizes him. The thought of his past self slowly rising to the top, it hurt his heart. The only thing that lightened his load,

"DADDY, I MISSED YOU!" His angel called out, Taiju was zoned out, overwhelmed with his emotions, as he waited for you and your daughter to arrive at one of his restaurants. The air was filled with anticipation as he reflected on the six wonderful years you both had shared with your daughter. The significance of the occasion, your 6-year anniversary, added an extra layer of emotional intensity to the moment. Taiju couldn't help but feel a mix of nostalgia and love.

It was like an instant relief from the load on his chest, he looked up at your gorgeous figure moving closer and closer to him, your beautiful silk dress gracefully drapes over your stunning, accentuating the curves with an ethereal elegance. The way it embraced your body showcases a perfect harmony between the luxurious material and the captivating form, resulting in a sight of breathtaking beauty. Running towards him, Aoi, his only daughter who he loved her unconditionally. He was the unwavering presence that shapes her world with warmth, care, and a deep sense of security.

leaving his chair to embrace her in a heartfelt hug, their connection evident in the warmth and tenderness of the moment. As he enfolds her in his arms, there's a sense of protection and reassurance that radiates from him. His daughter, nestled against him, finds comfort and security in the familiar embrace. The sight made your heart melt, if you were to die tonight, you'd be happy knowing Taiju wouldn't be alone.

Greeting you with a deep kiss, savoring the taste of each other's lips. By the way you felt Taiju's body quiver ever so slightly against yours made you wrap your arms around him as a way to reassure him,

"I love you, Taiju okay? I'm here for you, no matter what. You are not alone. And I am grateful for every moment we share."

For Taiju, the world pauses, caught in the breathless interlude of their shared moment. Time seems to stand still as their gaze meets, and everything around them fades into a blur.

"Mommyyy, stop stealing daddy away!!" Aoi, whined while pouting. She crossed both her arms and looked down. You put a hand on your mouth to hold in your laughter while Taiju crouched down to her level again and this time picked her up and responded playful and affectionate tone,

"Don't worry sweetheart, Mommy isn't stealing me away; I'll always have time for you, my little princess."

It was your turn to pout and glance sidelong,

Not fair

you thought.

[sgt-tombstone]

Ocean Eyes

A few months ago, I started writing a Call of Duty/James Bond crossover fic because I was endlessly fascinated by the idea of Ghost and 007 interacting with each other and, maybe, having a shared past. Unfortunately, I hit a brick wall soon after and I’ll probably never finish it, so here’s the first chapter, which is the part that I’m most proud of. It’s comic canon compliant up to a point, so be mindful!

Cw: torture, death (not main characters), comic canon backstory and all of its associated traumas, implied sexual assault

————

They’re kept in the same room.

Roba calls them his “blond English boys” and they’re kept in the same room at all times.

Whenever his skin is sliced through, whenever he’s forced to fight his own teammates, whenever his body is violated, the other man is there. Bound and gagged, still and quiet, the other man has no choice but to watch through blackened eyes almost swollen shut.

He doesn’t know why Roba has forced them together like this. Their pale hair, perhaps, or their somewhat similar stature, he thinks, when his mind is clear from pain enough to muse over such patterns. More often than not, he doesn’t care. Roba’s intentions mean little in the face of the reality of his actions, and he has long-since given up trying to parse out his torturer’s twisted logic.

All he knows is this: the man has blue eyes.

Piercing blue eyes, as cold as ice, nearly aglow in the dim light of their cell.

Relentless blue eyes that have seen every inch of him, inside and out, have borne witness to every agony, every injustice, every humiliation.

Unflinching blue eyes that have faithfully watched the beatings that left more of his skin red than white, the knife edges coated in hallucinogenic drugs slicing thinly across vital veins, the white-hot metal pressing over and over to smooth inches of skin between inflamed gouges.

More often than not, that blue, the startling intensity, the singular pop of colour in the Stygian catacomb, is the only thing that keeps him from breaking, from babbling every secret that has been entrusted to him since basic training in the face of Roba’s inventiveness. He has been torn to shreds, down to the foundational, microscopic level, and every time that his cellmate whispers to him in the aftermath, too quiet for the guards to hear, his steady, stalwart gaze never recoiling from their shared agony, he knows that those blue eyes are being stitched back into the underpinning that makes him who he is. He doesn’t know who he is anymore, but he knows that his soul is navy bright-blue.

Blue keeps him strong.

Blue keeps him sane.

He knows, when he is forced, in turn, to watch his cellmate’s own torment, when his cellmate can’t look away from his own honey-brown eyes, that the reliance, bordering on dependency, is mutual. His cellmate, whoever he is, whatever he has been reduced to, has a soul the colour of army green-brown to match.

That makes it all the worse when, six months and seventeen days after his capture, he is dragged from the cell by Roba. It’s the first time he’s been outside of his cell, the first time he’s been without his cellmate.

Without his strength.

Without his sanity.

The last thing he sees before finding himself unceremoniously buried alive in his former commanding officer’s casket is pain-terror-desperation shining in bright blue eyes.

————

When Simon pushes his way to the surface thirteen hours later, jawbone in hand, dirt covering every inch of his skin, coating his mouth and lungs, sucking in burning breaths of dry air, the first thing he sees is blue, brilliant blue sky.

It is not the same. It will never be the same.

It is not strength. It is not sanity.

But it is close enough for now.

————

The subsequent five months are spent in a haze of agony.

He pushes all thoughts of anguish-filled blue eyes from his mind. It takes him a month to reach the border of Texas and four more months to summon the courage to step foot in Credenhill.

When he finds his family a week later, bled out like pigs, laid like Christmas presents under the still-flashing tree, red viscera soaking into the rug, dying the red wrapping paper an even deeper shade of crimson, he doesn’t allow himself to grieve. He laughs, maniacally, hysterically, and adds their names to his mental list of people stolen from his life by Roba, alongside the blank space left for the other blond English boy. Family in every way that had mattered. He considers suicide, goes so far as to test his jaw’s capacity to open against the muzzle of his own pistol, but the harsh scrape of metal against his teeth only triggers his gag reflex.

He calls the police and refuses to think about blue eyes that never got justice. He answers the detectives’ questions and refuses to think about blue eyes that had slowly broken, drops of truth scattered amongst the waterfall of lies that had fallen from his lips under Roba’s knife, impossible to parse out. He attends the funeral and refuses to think about blue eyes that likely ended up in an unmarked grave, just another MIA soldier. He returns to his flat to drink himself into reckless oblivion and refuses to think about blue eyes waiting for him on the other side. If he thinks like that, he might as well crawl back into Vernon’s coffin and let the maggots finish what they had started.

He hunts down Sparks and Washington with single-minded determination. Washington’s life drips from his slit throat, Sparks’ life splatters against the wall, and Riley’s life goes up in smoke.

He boxes up the anger, the despair, the numbness, and he returns to work.

————

Simon Riley dons the mask, and when his new captain, freshly promoted, pulls him into his office, quietly murmuring about a joint task force targeting the Zaragoza Cartel, he volunteers on the spot.

————

James Bond pulls himself back from yet another brush with mortality, and when M pulls him into her office, bluntly informing him of a joint task force targeting the Zaragoza Cartel, he volunteers on the spot.

————

When their eyes meet across the airstrip, everything else ceases to exist. All Simon, not-yet-Ghost, can see is brilliant blue, and nothing in the world, not the strongest restraints nor the harshest orders, could keep them from collapsing into each other like dying stars, like desperate men clinging to the familiarity that their very souls yearn for. It is the first time they have touched. They have seen every inch of each other, have witnessed each other’s agony and atrophy, could identify each other by their scars and screams alone, but this is the first brush of skin and it is more vulnerable than anything they saw in that basement. The tarmac is sweltering but neither of them move, army fatigue green-brown pressed to Tom Ford navy-blue, the bulk of each other’s bodies clutched together, physical for the first time.

It should be awkward. In the six months they had spent together, Simon had never even known the other man’s name, yet here he is, clinging to him like a burr, and it is the first voluntary human contact he’s had since he crawled out of Vernon’s grave. The other man is clinging back just as strongly. The hard press of bodies should be distressing after six months of watching each other be violated in every way imaginable, but it’s not sexual. It’s hardly even physical; the squeeze of their bodies is a meaningless byproduct of their true intention, to fill the aching void in their souls that Roba had carved and they had been forced to fill with each other.

It should be wary. It has only been two months since Simon discovered Sparks’ and Washington’s loyalty to Roba, since he was betrayed by those he thought he could trust to sympathise and support, since he slit Washington’s throat and shot Sparks. It has only been two months since Simon Riley was forced to die because of Roba’s brainwashing and he should not trust the blue-eyed man clinging to his fatigues. Sparks had had blue eyes. He should take a step back, distance himself from this stranger who is returning to Roba’s lair with him. He should not trust that bright blue eyed gaze, but he does.

It is strength.

It is sanity.

————

When Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley takes the shot, his rifle aimed directly between Roba’s eyes at 600 metres, it is with Commander James Bond, 007, on the scope at his side, calling the shot, and Simon has never trusted anyone more in his life.

————

Seven years later, Ghost catches a glimpse of Sergeant John “Soap” MacTavish’s blazing blue eyes, nearly aglow in the dim light of the night-darkened airstrip, piercing, relentless, unflinching, and he knows that he is fucked.

Blue keeps him strong.

Blue keeps him sane.

His long-buried soul is navy bright-blue, and it thrums in his chest, resonance reverberating beneath his ribs. He has never trusted anyone more in his life, and he will burn the world to keep pain-terror-desperation from shining in those bright blue eyes.

[two-white-butterflies]

post mortem | part five

Description: Six thieves gather hostages and lock themselves in the Royal Mint of Spain - a criminal mastermind by the alias of the Dragon manipulates the police to buy them enough time to print money. (money heist au)

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader, Aegon Targaryen x Reader, and Aemond Targaryen x Reader.

Rating: Mature 18+

series masterlist | part four

(BEL-AIR, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA. COLE ESTATE.)

Alicent Hightower knew the price of fortune - all of the material things she had in this life was because of her hard work. She was born in a small village; Bohoniki. It was engraved in her mind that the only way that she'd escape poverty was to study hard. - and study, she did.

Studied so hard that her eyes were strained after a few years - and when the exam results came out - she was thrown away, casted aside for some hot-shot heiress that would probably waste the opportunity of going to college. That was the day that she vowed to work - to step on whoever's corpse it took to have what she wanted.

But she was a woman.

She always had to be a victim against other people's actions. She worked hard to get accepted into a new university, but she ends up falling in love with her Economics Professor. He was beautiful - with silver hair that went past his shoulders. She was enthralled with the way that the words spewed out of his mouth. She had three beautiful children with him - same in temperament, same in looks.

You could take a girl out of the cold, but not the cold out of the girl.

Sooner or later, she'd become the abuser too. She left her family for a businessman - a man that could provide the life that she desired - was it her fault? Partly, but now it's come to bite her.

"Aegon has always been a mischievous child. I don't know why - we always provided him everything that he wanted. Maybe, that was the reason - he had everything and nothing in this world made him happy. But stealing made him happy - he says that it excites him." Alicent cleared her throat, stirring her tea clockwise.

"- it's not the first time that the cops have knocked on my door." she chuckled bitterly, assuming that what had happened was a minor thing - a small shoplifting incident that would be fixed with a few hundred dollars.

"What Mr. Aegon Targaryen has done - is of a different level, Congresswoman. We'll need your help to get him back." Corlys smiled. The government airlifted him to USA the moment they found out about Aegon's identity. What they were doing needed to be stop - before it could become a precedence for other terrorists.

"Get him back? Is he lost?" Alicent joked again. Corlys' demeanor shifted, and he leaned back on the sofa. "He is a terrorist," he said bluntly, and the atmosphere slowly turned dull. "Is this about the PETA Organization again? He's a soft hearted boy," she reasoned and the man shook his head, placing a yellow file on the coffee table.

She quickly placed the teacup beside her - hands shaking as she reached for the file. "The Royal Mint of Spain: Currently Occupied by Terrorists." the headline read out, a picture of her son in the bubble beside the drawing. Her lips shudder, fingers touching the picture.

How long has it been since she's last seen a photograph of her son? Those chubby cheeks still remained, but his eyes were down-set and his eye-bags were more prominent. "This is not real, whatever game you're playing Inspector Corlys - it's not funny. Especially now that election season is moving closer." her voice turned stoic.

"I am afraid that it is not a game - The Government of Spain is losing money in their attempts to quell this act of terrorism. One of the accused is your son, and you will help us if you want to win the reelection." he threatened, placing the deal more bluntly - aware of how politicians could turn and twist narratives. "I can just deny his existence, there are no records that the boy is mine." Alicent's face suddenly turned cold.

Corlys resisted the urge to roll his eyes - the Congresswoman's poker face was as stupid as her platforms. "You and I both know that you're not going to do that. Parents love their children more than anything, even when they are the shackles that bind us." he stated, taking a nonchalant sip of his chamomile tea. Alicent breathes a sigh of relief, partly afraid of what they'd ask her to do next.

"How am I going to help you? In Aegon's eyes, I'm good as dead." she scoffed, unable to entertain the notion that her children still loved her. She didn't deserve their love, neither their time. "What year did you leave Spain, congresswoman?" Corlys inquired and her teeth burrowed into her lower lip. "Twenty-one years ago," she answered.

"Your son was 2-3?"

"4 or 6. I'm not sure," she replied - in a tone that told her that she still loved her children. "A little too young, but still old enough to realize that you abandoned him." he further explains, taking something out of a separate folder. He places it on the coffee table. In all bold letters, she could barely make out the outline of her son's name.

MY MOTHER, MY HERO By Aegon Matthew Targaryen

Her eyes trailed up - until she was staring deep inside of the Old Snake's eyes. She'll do everything it takes to save her son, even risk her political career.

(EIGHT HOURS INTO THE HEIST.)

"Is he going to be alright?" Rhaenyra couldn't help but inquire. She's only been around her brother as much as there were fingers in her hands, but she's grown to love him. She loves him the same way that a woman loves her son. The thought of him possibly dying - it didn't sit well with her. "There's a bit of bleeding, but Mysaria had it fixed." Daemon responded, and his niece raised an eyebrow.

"I thought we weren't allowed to use real names?" she placed a hand on his collar, straightening his zipper with rehearsed ease. "Force of habit," he shrugged while freeing himself from her grasps. It was impossible to stay sated around his niece - around a beautiful girl. When she came into his life - he rebuked her. He couldn't understand why his older brother would adopt his ex-wife's daughter.

Aemma cheated on him with a barber - now after she's died of Cancer. Viserys still loves her. Loves her more than he loves Daemon. He couldn't stand the girl, that's why he left for college - he'd rather live in another country than watch his brother play house.

"Does the Professor know that his son is bleeding?" Rhaenyra asked, staring into the camera - knowing that her father was watching from behind it. "He doesn't need to know, worst comes to worst, we'll need better medical care." Daemon took a sip of his cappuccino. "Does that mean that he's stopped bleeding?" she frowned and he shook his head. "Stop babying him, it's a fucking scratch." he placed the mug loudly on the ceramic table - carefully retreating into the halls before anything else happened between them.

Daemon prepared another cup of instant coffee, surprised to see Aemond cleaning his bandaged wound. "What are you doing?" his nephew sanitized the skin around the gash, Daemon takes a mammoth stride towards the window - watching the police prepare their camp around the Royal Mint. "Just because we're on the clock, doesn't mean that there isn't time for slacking off." he responded.

Turning to look at his nephew - whose attention was plastered back into that bleeding piece of skin. "I hope you don't mind, but I haven't told Volantis about this little injury yet." he pointed at the young boy and Aemond frowned. "Why would she need to know?" he acted oblivious, adding more fuel to Daemon's anger.

"You're clearly together," he gritted his teeth - voice full of envy. It was unfair! He fucked the girl first, but his nephew was reaping late game rewards. "We're not." Aemond responded bluntly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the entire world. "Explain to me why there's always a moaning contest in her room, then?" Daemon scoffed. "Is she always stretching? Watching a horror movie perhaps?" Daemon antagonized, watching his nephew throw a piece of cloth angrily.

"I don't care if she's learning pilates or watching fucking Annabelle. I just want to get my money and get out of here." Aemond could feel his patience running thin. "You wouldn't mind then, if I made her my wife?" Daemon smiled mischievously. Aemond was just about to reply, but Aegon suddenly barges inside the room.

"You have to look at what's happening outside. It's urgent!" the boy's panicked voice caught their attention. "What is it?" Aemond groaned - aware that he was unable to walk due to his injury. "Mother." Aegon whispered, and the room's atmosphere dulled.

(TWENTY-TWO YEARS BEFORE D-DAY.)

Alicent couldn't stand staring at her children. They'd cry all the time - and she couldn't stand their constant need for her attention. "Aemond please stop crying, I don't know what to do." she cried, holding her son close to her chest.

It was going to be four hours before her husband returned, and by then, he was going to be too tired to take care of children. It was unfortunate because he was the only one who knew what to do. Viserys was the only one responsible enough to maintain a home.

"He's probably hungry," Aegon peeked through the dark living-room. Alicent could feel more tears flow out of her irises. Her son needed milk, and she was too stupid to even think about that. "Yeah, yeah. Uhh Aegon can you please call Peepaw for me. I-I need help." she stuttered - ashamed of her stupidity.

---

"You shouldn't have called me at this time, I had a sermon today." Otto scolded his daughter, removing his coat and placing it on the rack beside the door. "I didn't know what to do - the kids haven't stopped crying since their father left." she sobbed.

"I always told you that having children this young was a mistake. Imagine, you're only eighteen and you already have two-children? It is an abomination, Alicent." her father scolded, and she could only bow her head in the face of his criticism. She severely needed his help.

He reached for Aemond who was fussing in Alicent's arms. "I didn't have a choice, you told me that I'd go to hell if I didn't marry Viserys." she grimaced, and his dark glare returns. "Premarital Sex, Alicent. I couldn't allow you to sin." he gritted his teeth. His face softened, seeing the familiar figure of his favorite grandchild. "Aegon," he smiled before turning to his daughter.

"Go and rest, I will handle everything."

@fan-goddess @marvelescvpe @theshatteredideal @acollectionofcells1 @mxacegrey @bellstwd @nyctophilic0vitnir @icarusgloom @pearlstiare @themotherofblood @immyowndefender @ammo23 @ladywin17

[curator-on-ao3]

Again, cool response to the last question, so I'll let you pick from these options:

And there are things I have fan-fixed in my head to the point that I have to remind myself that the fix-it isn’t part of the actual canon: favourite one of these?

Or

Your/a favourite part of actual canon. Like, maybe something little but it's just so lovely and fitting to you and you're just happy that it exists?

I’ve been a little down on Trek lately, so I’m going to type as fast as I can to brain-dump, in show order, the first things that pop into my mind that I absolutely love in Trek canon:

Kirk calling Nomad his son, the doctor

Christine Chapel’s snark to Roger Korby about schtupping the androids

Mark Leonard’s performance in Balance of Terror

the Horta (a great mama)

“Edith Keeler must die.”

Captain John Christopher, United States Air Force. Serial number 4857932.

Tribbles

the lesson of The Cloud Minders that we must have empathy and listen to others when they tell us about their lived experience in an environment unlike our own

the cheap-ass animation of TAS

Q

Bynars and Minuet

Beverly Crusher’s frustration in Arsenal of Freedom (and the episode’s Good Ship Lollipop joke)

Picard shooting the other version of himself in Time Squared (to clarify: out of respect for those times when we have to stop ourselves from getting caught in loops/doing stupid stuff and we summon up the courage to break a bad cycle and move forward)

K'Ehleyr

Picard out-lawyering the Sheliak

Rachel Garrett; Yar and Castillo

Lal (but I can’t watch the end anymore, it hurts too much)

the Shakespeare and “Set a course for Betazed. Warp 9.” comedy in Ménage a Troi

Best of Both Worlds, I and II (Shelby inclusive)

every conference table discussion in all of TNG

Beverly’s jump in Remember Me (such a damn good episode)

the reveal in Future Imperfect (which one? all of them)

The Dancing Doctor tap dancing with Data

Darmok. And Jalad. At Tenagra.

Ro Laren

Troi saying, “You could have easily been right” to Ro in Disaster

Hugh, Third of Five

the fact that The Next Phase has so many plotholes and they’re forgivable because the episode is so fun and great

Scotty on the holodeck version of the TOS bridge and Picard joining him

Rascals!

Deanna’s “Ancient West” outfit

the Jefferies tube music and make out session in Lessons

Attached. Oh, my heart.

the Enterprise with three nacelles … and that absolutely perfect last shot of the series

“You exist here.”

Sisko’s casual, everyday affection for Jake

“Old Man”

Rejoined. Lenara Khan. The love. That kiss. The emotional stakes. All of it.

the three Ferengi hitting their own heads to try to fix their universal translators so the 20th century Earth military people mimic the movement to try to communicate

every second of Trials and Tribble-ations including Sisko working overtime to stop fuckmaster Dax, tossing the tribbles, Sisko meeting Kirk, “We do not discuss it with outsiders,” and so much more

Kira blaming Bashir for putting the baby inside her when … you know … behind the scenes

The Sons of Mogh helping with the harvest in Children of Time

Far Beyond the Stars — some of the best if not the best science fiction I have ever seen

the monster fakeout (and kindness) in The Sound of Her Voice, even though the end makes me cry

“Computer, erase that entire personal log.”

Solok

Sisko and Kassidy discussing their comfort levels about a simulation in which the reality was segregation

Janeway waterfalling off the sofa to be closer to Mark on the screen

“Warp particles!”

the lizard babies

the two Janeways in Deadlock

Remember (a painfully good Holocaust episode that doesn’t get enough credit and, yes, I know the path the script took and I’m glad it ended up as a B’Elanna episode)

“I don't know what I'm seeking.” “Then I believe you are ready to begin.”

“The child you spoke of, the girl. Her favorite color was red.” Also, Tuvok’s meditation lamp in the window for Kes.

hot damn, Counterpoint, yaaas

everything in Relativity

“The Yankees, in six games.”

Janeway going after Seven in The Voyager Conspiracy

“This is Lieutenant Reginald Barclay at Starfleet Command.” “It's good to hear your voice, Lieutenant. We've been waiting a long time for this moment.” “The feeling is mutual. Unfortunately, the micro-wormhole is collapsing. We have only a few moments.” “Understood. We are transmitting our ship's logs, crew reports, and navigational records to you now.” “Acknowledged. And we're sending you data on some new hyper-subspace technology. We're hoping eventually to use it to keep in regular contact, and we're including some recommended modifications for your comm system.” “We'll implement them as soon as possible.” “There's someone else here who would also like to say something.” “This is Admiral Paris.” “Hello, sir.” “How are your people holding up?” “Very well. They're an exemplary crew, your son included.” “Tell him, tell him I miss him. And I'm proud of him.” “He heard you, Admiral.” “The wormhole is collapsing.” “I want you all to know we're doing everything we can to bring you home.” “We appreciate it, sir. Keep a docking bay open for us.”

“Nice hair.” (Live Fast and Prosper)

Janeway and Jaffen in Workforce

the spot-on legal concerns of Author, Author

“Set a course. For home.”

(Nothing from Enterprise or Prodigy only because I haven’t watched enough of Enterprise or any of Prodigy)

Burnham and Georgiou forming the delta with their footsteps

the CGI on only the shields protecting Burnham from space

“Are we in session? Because I didn't know you were practicing again. Because if I have your undivided attention for fifty minutes, I can think of a whole bunch of other things we could be doing.”

“That's as depressing a trait as I've ever heard.” “I don't give a damn … I still don't give a damn.”

Cornwell beaming in, phaser aimed, taking command of Discovery

Cornwell phasering the fortune cookies

Cornwell’s voice breaking: “So my Gabriel is dead.”

Detmer’s little bounce when Emperor-as-Captain Georgiou takes command

Pike beaming aboard and instantly being all like MOJAVE to prove to the audience he’s the guy from The Cage

New Eden. Everything. Oh my God (pun intended). The visuals. Owo’s backstory. Pollard patching Pike up after he’s shot. The light at the end. Oh my God, yes. That episode. Yes.

Number freaking One beaming aboard and having her lunch briefing with Pike (Chris and Una’s decades-long friendship wasn’t canon yet, but it shows here so beautifully)

Gabrielle Burnham

“In case the shit hit the fan.”

Michael Burnham on truth serum

Book

Laira Rillak, everyone!

Q&A

season 1 Raffi Musiker

Fleet Admiral and Commander-in-Chief Kirsten Clancy

“You owe me a ship, Picard.”

“You need a feather in your hat.”

Riker greeting Picard

Hugh greeting Picard

the separate trio of Raffi, Clancy, and Deanna all telling Picard he’s shit

Rios singing in Spanish

President Annika Hansen

everybody finding each other in the Confederation Universe

Liam Shaw — a character with incredible highs and lows

Majel Barrett as the computer voice when the crew gets to the Enterprise D

“Somehow I figured you might.”

everything in Ghosts of Illyria

Spock and La’an’s mind meld

Spock and T’Pring in Spock Amok

“You cannot resign. The loss to Enterprise would be unimaginable. To me.”

“If you’re going to steal a starship, do it correctly.”

Neera Ketoul

La’an normalizing needing to eat all the time as a teenager (especially important for girls to hear)

Pike and Una visually checking in with each other so often that it’s in their cartoon versions (that whole episode, actually, including, “Riker!”)

That’s scrolling through episode titles and jotting down stuff I love off the top of my head, fam.✨

Thank you so much for this ask, anon! ❤️ I needed this positive energy in my life.

[heli-writes]

Marriage of Convenience, part 8: injuries.

Pairing: Yoriichi x you

Summary: Yoriichi's friends think that Yoriichi is too lonely and needs a wife and family to take care of him. They propose a marriage of convenience to a woman who's in need of a husband. The arrangement of the marriage is simple: both parties live their lives as before, y/n takes care of Yoriichi as a wife and Yoriichi keeps unwanted men (and demons) away. Love is not required, friendship is appreciated. However, how detached can one be when living so close to each other?

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

Series Masterlist

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Yoriichi wakes up abruptly. He feels restless. Was there a noise, he thinks. He sits up and grabs the sword that even at night always is at his side. He looks over at (y/n) and (y/s/n). They both sleep peacefully in their respective futons. Yoriichi slowly gets up and slides the sword out of its sheath. He slowly moves to the bedroom door and exits the room silently. His eyes slowly get used to the darkness in the hallway. Right now, he only can hear his own heartbeat. He makes his way to the living area, slowly creeping along the hallway. He pushes the door open with his foot and a loud bang, hoping to gain a sense of surprise. There's nothing. The kitchen looks the same as Yoriichi and (y/n) left it in the evening. There's still the faint smell of cold food and dish soap in the air. Nothing points towards an intrusion of any sort. Yorichii lowers his sword. Was I wrong?, he thinks, Why did I wake up? I'm sure I sensed something, he thinks.

Suddenly, he hears a crack in the floorboard behind him. He whips around and is face-to-face with (y/n) who rubs her eyes tiredly. "Why are you up?", she asks him while suppressing a yawn. Her eyes fall onto the sword in Yoriichi's hands. "What is it?", she whispers as fear creeps upon her. Yoriichi turns to the window and stares out into the blackness of the woods. "Nothing.", he tells her. (Y/n) takes a few steps towards him and takes hold of his arm. He can pick up on her hitched breath and sped-up heart rate. Slowly, he eases his stance. One of his hands let go of the sword and he puts his hand on her lower back. "Let's go back to sleep.", he says while leading her back to the bedroom.

Outside of the window, deep in the darkness of the forest, six yellow glowing eyes watch the pair retreat to the bedroom and lie their heads on their pillows in a false sense of security.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was a loud chatter outside. (Y/n) lets out an exaggerated sigh. "(Y/s/n)! What are you up to?", she yells from the kitchen. The boy went outside some time ago with his ball. "Yoriichi, can you keep an eye on the stove for a second?", (y/n) yells. Yoriichi makes his way into the kitchen. "Thanks", (y/n) says quickly and pushes the wooden spoon she was holding in her hands. "Keep stirring the paste.", she instructs him while rushing outside. Yoriichi does as he is told while he watches (y/n) and (y/s/n) through the kitchen window.

"Buddy, seriously, you have to be more careful.", (y/n) says while leading (y/s/n) inside. "What happened?", Yoriichi asks. "He kicked his ball into the pile of firewood and it fell on top of him.", (y/n) anwers while gathering some first aid things. She carefully cleans the wound on (y/s/n)'s knee and then wraps a bandage around it. "You're really good at this.", Yoriichi notes. (Y/n) gives him a sly grin. "That's nothing you should see me doing stitches.", she proudly replies. Little do both know that Yoriichi will get to see (y/n) stitching skills rather soon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was supposed to be a slow night. Word of demon activity on the other side of the forest reached Yorichii. Upon further research, he came to the conclusion that the demon terrorizing a village of woodcutters was just a low-level demon. Indeed it was just as Yoriichi thought. A demon with a blood demon art not worth mentioning kidnapped young children and ate them. It was not even a real fight. Yoriichi beheaded the demon swiftly and efficiently.

He reached the path that leads home when he caught a faint smell of blood from another direction, the direction to the nearby village. He hesitates for a moment, tempted to go home and look after (y/n) and (y/s/n). Knowing that he can't leave the helpless villagers to themselves, he turns around and takes off to the village.

The first thing he saw when entering the outskirts of the village were bodies. Men, women, and children scrawled in unnatural positions across the streets. The smell of burning buildings and death rose high in the sky. Yoriichi races through the streets, his sword held high. He follows his instincts, they lead him right where the demons are. The village square comes into sight and a demon comes into view which pushes a severed leg into his mouth which seems to widen to fit the body part into it. Yoriichi raises his sword and sets off to attack. To behead the demon and end this massacre. Just when his weapon was supposed to make an impact on the demon's neck, a piercing scream filled the air from the opposite direction. Yoriichi took on the profession of a demon slayer to save lives, not for the glory of the kill. Thus, he swiftly adverts his attack and turns to the other side. He didn't see any danger in the demon behind him, which was too occupied with his meal. However, being focused on the danger that lures in the direction of the soul-piercing scream, Yoriichi misses the puddle of blood through which a hand appears and grabs him by the ankle. This in return gives the feasting demon enough time to drop the leg and sink his fangs into Yoriichi's shoulder.

Yoriichi reacts quickly and beheads the demon behind him. The second demon, however, retreats into the puddle of blood. Without paying attention to his injuries, Yoriichi takes off in the direction of the scream. In a side street, he finds an injured woman. Her throat has been clawed out by a pair of sharp nails. Incapable of speech, the only sound the woman lets out is a rattled breath. She's beyond survival, Yoriichi thinks. Before he has to face a decision no one should have to make, a pair of hands shoots up from the blood puddle beneath the woman and attacks Yoriichi. The arms seem to stretch endlessly and Yoriichi needs to retreat quickly. I need to lure him out of his hiding, he thinks to himself. He's sure that if he just cuts off the arms, the demon will just regenerate them without showing his true body.

By now, at least six pairs of arms hor out of the puddle and are reaching for Yoriichi. I need to find a way to stop the arms without cutting them off, he concludes. Since Yoriichi followed (y/n) to this village many times, he knows the layout of the streets. He can use this knowledge to stop the demon. Yoriichi quickly retreats into the labyrinth of streets and switches directions every few seconds. More and more arms reach for him and follow him through the village. A roaring laughter fills the air and the demon mocks him for trying to escape.

As he makes his way through the village  the demon doesn't notice that Yoriichi lead him right back to where they started: the blood puddle in which the demon hides. Yoriichi comes to an abrupt stop and so do the arms behind him, caught in a web of knots that Yoriichi created throughout the entire village. A raging howl comes from the puddle. Hundreds of arms stretch out of the puddle and spread into all directions. The demon's only got two choices: Come out of its safe hiding in prospects of untangling his arms or wait until the sun burns off his limbs, and hopefully the rest of him as well. It's an arrogant one, Yoriichi thinks, it will come out. The demon proves Yoriichi right when it raises out of the puddle. However, it hides between the masses of his own arms. I have to cut through the arms and neck in one attack, Yoriichi decides. He readies himself for the final attack and takes off. Swiftly, his sword cuts through the first few layer of arms. Unlucky, the demon saw the move coming and quickly moves out of reach. Instantly, the arms regenerate and set off to attack Yoriichi again. Yoriichi can advert a fatal blow, but a clawed hand scratches his face and blood runs into one of his eyes.

Quickly, Yoriichi brings some distance between them. Yoriichi notice how their movement slowed down and so does their regeneration after a few cuts. I can tire him out, Yoriichi thinks to himself. He starts focusing his attacks on the arms and cuts them off as often and fast as possible. Unlucky for the demon, Yoriichi is known for his incredibly fast swordsmanship. The demon becomes visibly slower and slower. Eventually, Yoriichi can dodge its attack while getting closer to the core of the demon. In an attempt to protect himself, he pulls all of its remaining arms around him. I can see where you're hiding, Yoriichi thinks to himself. He sets off for another final attack and this time he succeeds. He cuts through the ball of arms diagonally and his sword connects with the demon's neck before that one can react. The last thing Yoriichi can see before the demon dissolves into nothingness, are the words 'lower moon two'.

He watches as the wind blows away the bits and pieces of the demon. What is a lower moon doing in a place like this?, he ponders. This is a small, unimportant village. Places like this are usually not targets of lower or upper moons. Moreover, this demon wasn't alone. By the look of the state of the village, there were more than just the two demons that Yoriichi killed. Yoriichi doesn't have much time to brood on this. He needs to help the survivors and put out the fires to prevent further damage to the infrastructure of the village. When he sets off to help the citizens, he can hear shouting at the edge of the village. Upon investigation, he finds a team of demon slayers who were sent to the village. "Yoriichi, thank god you're here!!", one of them shouts when he sees the burgundy-haired man. "What happened here?", another one asks. He quickly brings them up to speed. "How lucky you were in the area! Things could've been so much worse without you!", they all agree in relief. "But Yoriichi... you're hurt. Your shoulder bleeds really bad!", a demon slayer notices. "I'm fine.", Yoriichi brushes him off. "Where are the medics? These people need help.", Yoriichi says as he points toward the village. "They're on their way. We were sent first to...", a demon slayer starts but the sound of his voice becomes more and more quiet to Yoriichi. Instead, a shrill whistle spreads in his ear and his sight begins to turn. The demon slayer doesn't get to end his sentence as Yoriichi faints before him and everybody quickly tries to grab Yoriichi before he knocks his head into the cold hard ground below.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Quickly! He's losing too much blood!", a voice yells. "How could this happen? Isn't he the strongest?", another voice asks. "Shut up, Tahiro! We need to get him medical attention!", someone else bites back. "Why don't wait for the medics?", the second voice asks. "Because the villagers need them. His wife is our best shot. She's a healer.", the first voice answers. They stumble forward, in the darkness of the forest, heaving an unconscious Yoriichi with them. "We're almost there!", one of the slayers wheezes as he sees the glowing of a lantern that (y/n) lit in front of their house, in hopes that it will lead Yoriichi home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A milky veil seems to lay over Yoriichi's eyes when he regains consciousness again. Bright light falls into the room and he groans when he feels the pain in his shoulder. He tries to move his other arm to grab his shoulder but is incapable of moving it. When the veil slowly fates and his senses start to sharpen again, he hears the clattering of kitchen utensils in the other room. He sighs and closes his eyes again. There's an unfamiliar pressure on his left side but he doesn't have enough energy to care. Suddenly, the door to the bedroom opens and more clattering can be heard. He slowly opens his eyes and sees (y/s/n) with a tablet. He carries two glasses of freshly pressed juice which are filled to the brim and they swap over with every step he takes. Upon his arrival, the air is filled with the smell of something burned. Yoriichi tries to sit up in order to help him, but something keeps pushing him down. When he takes a closer look at his side, he notices (y/n) lying on the uninjured side of his body. Her hands clench the side of his yukata. She's nuzzled into his side and there is a dried crust of tears beneath her eyes. Suddenly, Yoriichi's heart feels heavy.

(Y/s/n) pulls on his sleeve to get his attention. When he turns to the boy again, (y/s/n) tries to give him one of the glasses. Some drops of juice land on the blanket with which Yoriichi is covered. Yoriichi awkwardly sits up, trying not to wake (y/n). He thanks (y/s/n) and takes a sip of the juice. It's awful. It's way too sour and some kernels still swim around in the glass. "Did you make it yourself?", Yoriichi asks the boy hoarsely. The boy nods enthusiastically in response. "It's very good, thank you.", Yoriichi tells him. (Y/s/n) gives him a proud smile. (Y/n) stirs at Yoriichi's side. (Y/s/n) quickly shushes Yoriichi and climbs over to his mother. He pulls the blanket over her shoulder and pats her hair. Yoriichi can see that the child is worried about his mother. After a few seconds, Yoriichi asks him: "Did she cry because of me?". (Y/s/n) stares at him for a second or two and then nods. Yoriichi has to look away from (y/s/n)'s blank stare. Suddenly, he hears the tapping of (y/s/n)'s bare feet on the floor and then the boy crashes into Yoriichi's lap. The boy grips onto the blanket and hides his face into Yoriichi's chest. Yoriichi can't help but gently stroke his hair.

"What a fool I am.", Yoriichi thinks, "I wasn't careful enough. I got hurt and my family had to cry because of it. They deserve better. I should be ashamed.". Lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't notice how (y/n) wakes up. "Yoriichi!!", her voice suddenly reaches his ear. When he looks up, he sees her hovering next to his face. Her hair is disheveled and there are imprints of his yukata on the side of her face. "Are you fine? Are you in pain?", (y/n) starts to ramble. "I'm sorry.", is all that Yoriichi manages to say. (Y/n) stares at him for a second. Then, tears start to well in her eyes. "Oh, Yoriichi! You silly man...", she weakly says before crushing into his arms. (Y/n) wraps one arm around Yoriichi and (y/s/n). She sinks her other hand into Yoriichi's hair and pulls him close so that her nose touches his neck. She breathes in deeply and feels Yoriichi hug them back.

They stay for this for a while. While Yoriichi still feels guilty for worrying (y/n) and (y/s/n), he also feels warm. He hasn't felt like this in a long time and he's not ready yet to let go of them.

[saints-who-never-existed]

Rereading The Terror

Two short chapters combined for you today, each more gut-wrenching than the last!

Chapter Fifty-Five: Goodsir

Goodsir's first few days in the Mutineer Camp have not been pleasant, needless to say. He begins describing Hickey as The Devil and the other men as an "Infernal Legion" celebrating with a "Feast of Human Flesh" after the confrontation with Crozier.

There are a few familiar and unexpected faces within that 'infernal legion' including Billy Orren, John Morfin, and Billy Gibson, all very much still living so far. Interestingly, several of the Mutineers are still actively resisting the descent into cannibalism - Morfin and Hodgson most notably - but Goodsir suspects they won't be able to hold out much longer - "the smell of Roasting Human Flesh is Horribly Enticing".

Just like the main party, the Mutineers also appear to have found leads in the ice. 17 men pile into a boat only meant for 8 and begin to paddle northward but it's clear quickly that they cannot continue to do so for long, and it's not because of the leads themselves: "I Heard Hickey and Aylmore whispering after we landed to pitch Tents this Evening - they made Little Effort to lower their Voices. Someone will have to go. ...now that they do not need Man-haulers, which Men will be Sacrificed to the Food stores so that the boat can be Lightened for tomorrow's Sailing?"

-

Chapter Fifty-Six: Jopson

Oh gang... I'm afraid this is it...!

Jopson doesn't understand. He doesn't fully understand what's happening to his body anymore - why his teeth and hair are falling out and he's bleeding from every orifice. And he doesn't understand why he's being left behind on this, his literal birthday: "...but he was not an old man. He was thirty-one years old today and they were leaving him behind to die on his birthday." :(((

He has just enough wherewithal to smell the roasting of the seal meat Des Voeux's men brought back to camp, and to note the stream of men visiting his tent, unwilling to show their faces but leaving behind a pile of mouldy ships biscuits for him "like so many white rocks in preparation for his burial."

Jopson can only really protest in his own head - against the men and their actions and, interestingly, against Crozier... "Hadn't he stayed by Captain Crozier's side a hundred times during the captain's illnesses and moody low points and outright bouts of drunkenness? Hadn't he quietly, uncomplainingly, like the good steward he was, hauled pails of vomit from the captain's cabin in the middle of the night and wiped the Irish drunkard's arse when he shat himself in his fever delirium? Perhaps that's why the bastard is leaving me to die." Good Christ if that thought doesn't actually fucking destroy me! It's not even the idea of doing all that for someone and it somehow not being good enough, it's almost as if it was too good instead. Like something about reaching that level of intimacy being too unbearable in some way and somehow being the thing that dooms him? Ooh lordy I'm unwell... :(((

Soon enough, Jopson's birthday becomes more surreal and yet more literal as his crawling from the tent is described almost like labour, like an actual birth - "He had grown used to the canvas-filtered dim light and stuffy air of his tent-womb that this openness and glare made his lungs labour and filled his squinted-shut eyes with tears."

Crawling over food - "brought to him as if he were some damned pagan idol or sacrificial offering to the gods" - Jopson exits the tent which all too quickly fades into the fog behind him so he can't go back, and tries to shout after the departing men.

He's so weak but so utterly utterly desperate that he even tries to use his fucking chin to drag himself along the ground when his arms fail him. But of course it's not enough. Just like that, the departing men are gone. "It was as if they had never existed."

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Choral

CR 6

Neutral Good Small Outsider

Bestiary 5, pg. 23 (pic taken from 2e’s Bestiary 1, pg. 17)

Created from the souls of poets, songwriters, musicians, and bards of every sort, these glorious angels are the answer to the question of “where is that holy, vaguely-Latin orchestral music coming from?” whenever especially powerful celestial beings appear. Responsible for providing the background music to every upper plane, Choral Angels tend to remain in those planes for the majority of their existence, composing new songs and ballads to all that is Good. Occasionally, their superiors will ask them to deliver messages to the mortal flocks in their care, a task they do with as much pomp and presentation as one could ask for; subtlety isn’t their strong suit... unless they spot fellow musicians in distress. While this practice isn’t always authorized, the Choral Angels rarely care for dealing with red tape and will descend from the upper planes to provide musical inspiration to unfortunate creatives who’ve been abandoned by their muses and are falling into despair because of it. Sometimes, they even fall in love. And that’s where Aasimar Bards come from!

Like all angels, Choral possess a suit of restorative spells available to them, including Dispel Evil, Remove Curse, and Remove Disease at will, making them boons for any society that hosts one. Because they occupy a relatively low rung on the celestial ladder, Choral Angels can usually get away with sneaking off to aid those in need of their talents and provide much-needed morale where it’s at its lowest. These facts combined mean the generous beings can sometimes end up living among mortals as healers and musicians for years, though their penchant for song means they tend not to be the best at keeping their heads down when Evil is afoot.

Given their small size (literally Small, something I hadn’t noticed until I wrote it down!), relatively low importance in the halls of Good, and relatively harmless appearance, any fiend or vile mortal may believe that these creatures to be easy prey... And, for the most part, they’re right! IF, and only if, the attacker can get them to land, because if a Choral takes to the air, they can fight back with a staggering amount of destructive power for their size. I don’t mean physical power, mind, because a Choral in melee is absolutely pathetic, having only a 1d3+1 slam attack. What I mean is their primary offensive measure: Piercing Hymn.

This note of divine destruction is a ranged touch attack with a 90ft range that’s so damn loud anyone struck by it must succeed a DC 17 Fortitude save or be rendered deaf for minutes at a time, but more importantly it deals 4d6 Sonic damage. With a Fly speed of 60ft and 0 melee power, there’s no reason for a Choral to ever not spend its turn getting as high above a foe as they can and blasting them to pieces with holy hymns. Their Protective Aura is especially useful in helping them maintain their dangerous distance, because if for whatever reason some fiend, or even the party, needs to fight them at an appropriate level of 4~6... well, suddenly immunity to 3rd level or lower spells goes from a nuisance to encounter defining. Hope you have someone in your party with good ranged attacks!

As Heaven’s bards, you may expect the Choral to possess some bardic talent, but you’re only partially right. They do have Countersong to drown out hostile noises and a 3/day Sculpt Sound to cause diversions and silence allied movements, but their real power lies in the terror that’s unleashed if Chorals form a chorus. Able to Harmonize with one another to join their divine voices into a myriad of holy sounds, their abilities become more potent and dangerous the more Chorals spend their swift action to join in the song: two Choral working in tandem can cast Calm Emotions and Heroism at will to bolster those in their care while Harmonizing, four can use Shout to blast cones of powerful Sonic energy outwards, while an ensemble of six Choral can generate Greater Heroism for their allies and Holy Word for their enemies.

It serves as a fun lesson, I think. Even the most harmless and gentle agent of Heaven can split eardrums, turn a cadre of peasants into a heroic army, and obliterate an entire swath of villainous forces with song alone... if they work together.

You can read more about them here.

[shostakobitchh]

Chapter 2: fever dream

The fourth day — or rather, night — Ariel wakes up in a cold sweat. 

She finds the room blanketed in darkness. It’s coating the walls and the floor and the ceiling, leaving her feeling like the bed is suspended in air. She can’t even make out the moonlight from the window, which means her father must’ve drawn the curtains and blinds. He’d wanted her to rest as much as possible. 

And she’s alone. Dad isn’t here, and the hallway light is off. He must’ve tried to get some sleep. 

Ariel feels about sixty-percent better, but still not her normal self, but the darkness — this level of darkness — is quite disorienting. She blinks rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust as she scans the room, trying to pull out familiar shapes, remembering where everything is. Her desk is against the far wall, her closet to the left, her bookshelf on the right. 

Which is why when she hears it, she suspects that she’s having another fever dream.

It starts as a slight whisper, like a far-off wind whistling through an open window. Her ears prick up at the sound, trying to discern its direction.  

“Ariel.” 

It’s the voice again. The voice coming from the closet. 

Ariel's eyes flicker to the door, wondering if she should bolt — scream for her father — but something keeps her frozen in place. She’ll never quite know what it is that keeps her there. Maybe a morbid curiosity, a desire to prove to herself that this is just a figment of her imagination. 

“Ariel.” 

You’re dreaming, Ariel tells herself. You’re dreaming and you’ll wake up any minute now.

But she doesn't wake up. Instead, the whispering continues, growing louder, more insistent.

“Ariel, Ariel, Ariel —” 

She swallows hard, her throat dry. 

Be brighter, have some fire — she tries to remember what Mum told her, right before — 

A light, Ariel. You must always carry your light — 

Ariel shuts her eyes tight, willing the pounding of her heart to still.

The voice from the closet continues — persistent. "Ariel, Ariel, Ariel —” 

(She wants to call for her father)

It stops, all at once, like the eye of a hurricane. The silence is too much, so much so that Ariel throws a hand over her mouth because she’s breathing so hard. Her head feels disjointed, like she’s stayed underwater for too long, the cold sweat she’d woke up in now soaking through her back. 

She moves slowly, so slowly that the rustle of her sheets and limbs is barely audible. She holds her breath and doesn’t dare to break her line of sight with the closet. There has been no voice for several seconds, and so Ariel starts to count. 

One, two, three — 

Ariel gets all the way to eighty-six and a half when the closet door creaks open.

A strangled gasp escapes her, echoing in the stillness of her bedroom. The door moves, just a sliver, but it's enough to send a fresh wave of terror coursing through her veins. Her fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles white, as if it could shield her from whatever was lurking.

She eyes the door to her bedroom. It’s directly next to the closet. If she could launch herself quick enough over the foot of the bed, she could make it to her father’s room, but the closet door is open now, and something tells Ariel that whatever is inside knows exactly what she's thinking.

And then the voice changes. It’s soft and lilting, carrying with it an ache that makes Ariel feel like her chest is going to rupture, like her heart is going to shatter. 

“Ariel,” calls Mum — 

 — and it’s Mummy. 

Ariel would know that voice anywhere. She knows it in the cracks in her memory, in the void of her heart, and it’s then that Ariel realizes she’s forgotten what Mum sounded like, until now. 

She feels her breath catch in her throat. It turns into a sob, and she’s burying her face in her hands to stifle the tears that come without warning, without mercy. She wants to wake up, she wants to wake up, but she feels a wave of crushing guilt at leaving that voice behind again. 

"Come here, darling." The voice is soft, enticing, a siren's song that makes Ariel's heart throb with longing. "I've missed you so much."

Ariel's mind reels. She is torn, she is simply overwhelmed, then. Her hands tremble as she slowly lowers them from her face, her wide eyes fixed on the closet door. The voice — her mother's voice — is like a balm to her aching heart, soothing the raw edges of grief that have never truly healed. 

But there's something else, something that makes Ariel's skin crawl, makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A whisper of wrongness that she can't quite place, like a dissonant note in a familiar melody.

She doesn’t care. She can’t find it in herself. She’s got nothing left — not when it comes to this. 

"Mummy?" Ariel whispers.

The voice from the closet is like honey, thick and warm. "Yes, my sweet girl. My perfect girl. It's me."

She wants to believe it, wants it so badly that her chest aches with the force of it. She sits up, leaning on the back of her legs, her hands pressed into the mattress in front of her. A breeze seems to swell up, then, the smell of jasmine and cinnamon — her smell. 

The closet cracks open another inch. Ariel leans in closer. 

“Mum,” she manages to croak out. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you more.” the voice croons. “Come closer, let me see you.” 

Ariel’s breath quickens. Falls into a fast staccato, making her feel dizzy. She knows this can’t be real, it can’t — 

“Can — can you come here?” she asks in a small voice. “I’m frightened.” 

The closet door opens wider still, a yawning darkness that seems to swallow the dim light of the bedroom. A dim light — when had there been light at all —? 

"Oh, my sweet girl," the voice sighs, and it's like a caress, a phantom touch that makes Ariel shudder involuntarily. "There is nothing to fear. I’m here now.” 

Ariel desperately wants to believe those words, and maybe, deep down, the bowels of her grief, she does. Her feet move of their own accord, swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold against her bare feet, but she barely notices. Her eyes are fixed on the closet, in the darkness that seems to pulse with a life of its own.

"That's it, just a few more steps.” the voice coos, and it’s warm, warm like her. “Come sit beside me. I’ve been so lonely…”

Ariel’s heart is a wild thing, now. This is a wild thing — this dream — and if she wakes up she will be both glad and not. She takes another step, then another. The darkness from the closet seems to reach out, tendrils of shadow curling around her ankles, urging her forward. She feels a tug, gentle but insistent, and before she knows it, she's standing right in front of the closet. 

She sits. Waits. 

And then the voice hums, almost to itself. 

“Now, my sweet girl.” Mum says. “Tell me how I died.”

[eyestothe-skies]

Atlantic Ocean (Jul. 18, 2007) - A F/A-18C from the "Knighthawks" of Strike Fighter Squadron One Three Six (VFA-136) launches from the bow of the nuclear powered aircraft carrier USS Enterprise (CVN-65) on a unit level training mission. VFA-136 is part of Carrier Air Wing One (CVW-1) embarked aboard the USS Enterprise, currently on a scheduled six-month deployment in support of Maritime Security Operations and the global war on terrorism. U.S. Navy photo by Lt. Peter Scheu (RELEASED)

Source

[franzis-frantic-thoughts]

thanks for the updates from Maddie and Twitter! I can’t believe whats going on. The relaunch of Magnus in combination with stopping so many cool ongoing shows is so weird

You are very welcome! I actually revived my Twitter account to be able to check regularly for new posts, either from Maddy or others. There doesn’t seem to have been anything new in a few hours now, even if I personally missed it, I’d have heard about it via one of the multiple discords I’m on.

Yes, RQ has made incredibly strange decisions this past year (or even beyond that) which leave me as a fan - and highest tier Noble - incredibly frustrated.

When they shut the discord down, they said they’d reevaluate six months later. RQO recently “celebrated” its first death day. Personally, I don’t want RQO back. But I would have liked to have that promised reevaluation.

The reason the discord had to be shut down can apparently also be traced back to shit communication between RQ and the team of volunteer and unpaid mods.

When Chapter&Multiverse, Trice Forgotten, and Cry Havoc (Ask Questions Later) were announced in late 2021, they were projected to air within the first half of 2022. Instead, only C&M aired “on time”, Trice has a change in director and was delayed until summer, and Cry Havoc has now been pushed back until 2023. It’s great that they don’t want to burn out their cast and crew, but they’ve also been releasing Enthusigasm episodes twice a week and C&M main campaign and specials in parallel earlier this year. Clearly, someone didn’t think their schedule through properly.

Instead of making sure their new shows are taking off, they instead drag TMA’s corpse out of its grave. I love Magnus as much as the next person, it was an incredible show. Writing, acting, soundscaping… but the way RQ keeps pushing it into the limelight and down our throats to the detriment of their other shows (formerly only RQG and STL, but now even more shockingly also new shows like C&M and Trice), has fostered a real resentment towards TMA in me and others.

When the transcripts were put out, after literal years of delay, they were - and still are - full of errors, inconsistent, or incomplete. There have been no responses to feedback given via the appropriate feedback form, there have been no responses to emails, and there have been little to no corrections made to the transcripts, whether for old shows or new ones. Transcripts are Accessibility tools and should fulfil certain standards. Apart from that, the quality of these transcripts offends me on a professional level. RQ has referred to an agency multiple times in their updates. That agency clearly didn’t work to professional standards and RQ didn’t have any quality assurance process internally either. What an utter waste of (my and other patreons’) money.

Some of the TMA transcripts were apparently taken down this week for maintenance, which was ridiculous timing that made people think it was related to the ARG. Again: shit communication.

They’ve lost so many great people in the last two years: Auto and all the mods, Bryn, Mike, now Maddy. I didn’t listen to RQ podcasts, because they were RQ podcasts. I listened to them, because I enjoyed the content and creators. If the creators leave RQ, I’ll follow them to their next endeavours. Go check out @re-dracula for Karim, Jonny, Beth, Alasdair, Sasha, and Ben; @thekilda for Alasdair, Ben and Sasha; @faustiannonsense for Alasdair, Ben, Tim, and Jonny. I hear Mike is in Tiny Terrors. Sasha and Jonny create TTRPGs. Jonny just published his second book. Also check out everyone’s streams (I particularly enjoy Bryn and Auto struggling to solve puzzles together) and individual patreons and kofis.

Sorry this reply turned into a rant. I’m just fed up at the moment. I’ll go to bed and probably feel better in the morning.

[myfavouritelunatic]

The Blacksmith

The penultimate chapter. What will Halbrand do? And will Galadriel face the consequences...?

Pairing: Halbrand/Sauron x Female Reader; Galadriel x Female Reader; light Haladriel/Saurondriel.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Violence, minor character deaths.

Links to Chapter One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, and Thirty-Six!

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Halbrand felt you go limp in his arms. Pulling back from the kiss, and upon seeing your lifeless expression, he surrendered uncontrollably to his grief. The screams of lamentation that roared out of him were unmatched by all that had gone before him and all that would come after. He pulled you closer to him, clinging to you hopelessly, rocking back and forth. No other sounds filled the air. Even the wind fell silent to let the king grieve. The longer he cried out, the worse it got. For his voice started to change. And not just from heartache to rage. But from Halbrand... to Sauron. Slowly but surely it happened, little by little the darkness crept into his sound, fusing together with it, to reforge a voice the dark lord had not used in almost an age.

The wind that blew past him suddenly blew from him. Each being was affected by it, fear sweeping over the city. Even your brothers could no longer hold onto you, and they stumbled back on the road, filled with terror. Power began to pulsate outward from Halbrand, wave after wave of it crashing through the air. The only one unaffected by this change, was Galadriel. Her grief was cascading from her eyes still, as her blonde locks fanned out behind her. But she did not move. She dared her sight to leave you and find Halbrand. The moment she did, she was greeted with a familiar face. The face she remembered from her own visions: wrath personified. A pallid veiny face. Eyes with red edges. Black slits for pupils. Pure evil.

Halbrand was no more. Sauron had returned.

Suddenly the sky boomed with roaring thunder, nature screaming for the dark lord now, and the sunlight was swallowed up by twisted swirls of menacing cloud that were darkening by the second. The wind from Sauron picked up in speed, becoming a gale of grief that threatened to level Pelargir itself. Galadriel turned her head to watch as the masses behind her struggled to stay on their feet, with dirt, dust, and leaves breezing quickly through them, stinging their eyes and filling their mouths. The fear now was enough for them to run, scattering away as fast as they could, hoping to escape the malevolence of the being who was once their king.

Though Sauron had other ideas. Lightning shot down from the storm overhead, striking hard the people who fled, incinerating the unfortunate struck soul on the spot, and setting alight those in the immediate vicinity. Soon, dozens of people were on fire, running and screaming in agony. Arondir did not hesitate, launching an arrow aimed straight for the dark lords head. Sauron caught it with ease. And the next one. And the next one. Still, Galadriel was controlled by her pain, her shock. She did nothing, for she did not know what to do. All hope was lost.

Sauron gazed back down at you, and slowly, placed one final kiss upon your forehead. In feeling the cooler touch of your skin, tears silently escaped him, landing on your face once more, just as the rain from the sky began to fall again, the storm manifesting his lament. Galadriel saw smoke begin to rise from the corpses of the burnt, as their flames were extinguished. No other people had dared to run, their fear now holding them in place in the town square, lest they die horribly. Though, their chances of remaining alive were not high. As Sauron removed his lips from you, he whispered words in black speech into your ear. Words you would never hear. These words caused your body to catch fire. Your love stood, the wind from him slowing, and all who were present watched as your corpse burned, a funeral pyre on the street of the city you had wished to call your home.

The rain from above did not put out this fire, despite the droplets falling into it. Sauron ensured the flames endured, watching with his snake like eyes as your body was quickly reduced to ashes. The fire had been so powerful, so searingly hot, that not even your bones remained intact. All that was left of you and your mark on this world, was your crown, your dagger, and your wedding ring. Galadriel's sobs entered the air as the image of you destroyed now before her broke her out of her shock. Sauron leaned down, taking the circular symbols of your queenship and your love into his hand, sliding the smaller object on his finger to join it with his own. Raising his right arm, his palm over your ashes, the dark lord whispered more black speech. The wind picked up again, though this time, it lifted your remains up, and they whirled in a spiral around your love. Sauron smiled, and it was not of evil. It was of love, as he felt your spirit around him. Then he watched as you were carried along on the air, in the direction of your home.

Galadriel's eyes darted to your blood that had stained Sauron's tunic, all that was left of you now in the place where you died. Where she had taken your life. Another clap of thunder roared overhead as the loving smile disappeared from Sauron's face, replaced with an expression of pure fury. "The city of Pelargir has decided it's own fate," the dark lord's voice boomed, not a trace of Halbrand's tone to be found within it. "If you will not have me as your king… then you will have me as your enemy…" Galadriel turned her gaze back to the citizens, watching a small group of them congregate, with Arondir seemingly discussing a plan of attack. This was the moment she finally decided to act.

Picking herself up from the wet street, she hastily ran to Arondir's side. "We cannot best him. We will die trying. Our only play is to convince him to let us retreat." the she-elf implored. "You saw what he did to those that attempted to retreat!" Arondir exclaimed, "We will not survive this day, Galadriel. And we will not die whilst fleeing in fear."

Galadriel cast her eyes on the people around her. Bronwyn matched Arondir's resolve, Theo was trying desperately to imitate it, but Olwenna, Padrig, and the few others… the terror was clear in their eyes. Nothing would abate it. "Understand this… if you do stay… your fate will be extraordinarily worse. Sauron will not just kill you. He will maim you. He will torture you. He will strip you limb from limb, separate the skin from your flesh, and keep you alive as he does it. Do not let your pride interfere. If we are to die, I do not wish you to suffer that fate."

Sauron began to cackle in amusement. "Galadriel… my sweet… don't ruin the surprise. Why must you insist on draining the fun out of everything?" This caused the she-elf to sigh in frustration, as her mind was cast back to the feeling of his body trapped within hers, your dagger to his neck. One simple slice then and perhaps all of this would have been avoided. Perhaps you would still be with her.

"I will wait for death no longer." spoke Olwenna abruptly, sprinting towards where the dark lord stood. "No!" protested the she-elf, but the lady ignored her. She picked up your dagger from the ground, holding it aloft in the air as she charged towards him, and he did not flinch at her approach. Sauron effortlessly grabbed her forearm as Olwenna began to bring the weapon down, holding her in place, his slitted eyes staring menacingly into hers. "I am glad my love is not here to see this… in fact… she would likely have ended you herself." A wicked grin slowly crept upon his face, and he brought down Olwenna's arm so that your dagger embedded itself in her gut. "So I suppose it is rather fitting that it is her blade that takes your life now."

Padrig cried out in the distance and ran fast towards his aunt. Sauron moved his hand to cover Olwenna's ensuring her grip remained on the hilt as he then moved the blade up through her torso, stopping in the centre of her chest. The fair auburn woman was now a ghost as her body collapsed to the ground, the dark lord removing your dagger from her flesh. Padrig arrived in that moment, hysterical, his adolescent voice breaking and squeaking as he cried. Sauron could not stand it, and without hesitation he swiped the blade across Padrig's throat with such force that the poor boy was almost decapitated. He now lay lifeless on the ground beside Olwenna, and no remorse was to be found in Sauron's eyes. He was done with such pitiful sentiments.

The storm continued to rage on, the rain intensifying, droplets landing hard against the skin of every being left alive in the town square. The darkened clouds overhead were illuminated with consistent lightning strikes, igniting the sky, the thunder now so loud Galadriel felt as if her eardrums might burst. She looked over at Sauron, who was drenched like the rest of them, as he stood over his freshest victims, watching as their blood flowed into the rainwater on the road. The she-elf was unsure if you would approve of what your love had just done. Then her eyes were caught by your brothers, who stood together but alone, in the distance off to her left. The two men of Númenor had yet to choose a side in this war, and Galadriel hoped now to reach them.

"Azrahin… Târikun… your sister chose the light… she would want you both to do the same." They both looked at Galadriel, stunned. Târikun burst out laughing. The noise was unsettling and empty. "Light… dark… what does it even matter anymore? All three of you chose 'the light'… and now none of it remains. The only light in this world was our sister… and you snuffed it out, elf!" Târikun hissed at Galadriel, a man consumed by his loss, now devoid of reason. The she-elf knew in that moment your brothers were not to be saved. At least not yet. Azrahin limped towards Sauron, his younger brother following, the dark lord turning his head slowly to look upon them. No words were exchanged, but an understanding came between them. Sauron nodded his head slightly, and let the two men walk away alive.

With their backs fading into the horizon, the dark lord returned his focus to his enemies before him. Galadriel could see his eyes from across the square, as they had begun to glow as if on fire. His skin had become so pale it was almost translucent, the veins within him not only visible on his face, but on his throat, and his hands. Sauron began to stroll slowly, deliberately towards Galadriel who was at the forefront of the group of would be rebels. "I must know… elf…" he began to speak, that sinister voice piercing the air over the sound of the rain on rooftops nearby. "You love me… do you not?"

The she-elf felt all eyes burn through the skin of her back, their judgment was palpable, and sadly, deserved. She could not bring herself to reply to him, yet that was all the admission the dark lord needed. Sauron snickered, enjoying making Galadriel squirm under the glare of her allies. "You loved my wife…" he uttered, still clutching tightly to your dagger and diadem. Each step of his boots on the wet pavement were like notes of a dark symphony, building to a crescendo as he edged closer to where the she-elf stood. "Yet you betray us… you dare to end my life… and you end that of my love, our love instead. Before I steal your light from this world… I ask you… why?" He came to a halt, his body mere inches from Galadriel. She stared up at the dark lord defiantly from under her brow.

"Because despite my feelings, my love for you both… I have a duty that is much greater. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one." "You have failed your duty. You and I are now back where we started. Drenched and anguished." Galadriel's lips trembled. "I… I did not wish to kill her-" "AND YET YOU DID!" The dark lord's voice was like a sonic boom as he screamed at her, the wind blowing fast from him once again. Though still, Galadriel stood her ground. The only thing moving about her was her hair cascading out behind her back, and her tears that fell silently down her cheeks. "I wanted to save her. Care for her, after you were gone. I do love you, Halbrand, but I was right, you are beyond saving."

"If you love me, elf… stay with me. Rule by my side in my queen's stead. Take up the offer I once gave you. Bind me to your light. Save me." He was practically begging Galadriel to accept him, and her face became marred with confusion. For she swore she could hear the honourable tones of Halbrand emerging in Sauron's speech. In a split second she made a choice, and it was one that she made selflessly. "Let these people live, let them go… then perhaps… I might consider it." The rain finally began to ease, and sensing his calm, she raised a hand to the face of the dark lord, cupping his damp and pale cheek, staring unwaveringly into his eyes of flame.

Time stopped. In this moment it was only Sauron and Galadriel, small smiles creeping into their expressions as they thought of you. The one they had both loved and now lost. They still had each other, and with your spirit to strengthen them then perhaps their bond might be enough to stave off the darkness for good. As Sauron had put it, rule by his side in his queen's stead. The two of them shared an understanding in this timeless instant, as Sauron mimicked Galadriel's gesture of affection. The she-elf closed her eyes at his touch, the sensation seemingly restoring her to the reality of what had occurred, and what would occur should she not act now that she had the chance.

She had a duty. Greater than her own desires.

Moving with speed like the flashes of lightning Sauron seemed to control, Galadriel took hold of your dagger from within his hand and jammed it deeply into his chest. The face of the dark lord went even paler if it were possible, his evil eyes widening with shock at the sudden violent blow and the betrayal with which it had been struck. "Run! Do it now!" Galadriel shouted at the dozens of people still behind her. The wet footsteps of the survivors slammed across the ground as they took off as fast as they could. One thing the she-elf did not expect, was footsteps coming towards her.

"We shall not leave you, my lady." It was Arondir, his loyalty everlasting. "Now is the time to escape, not fight, dear Arondir. Sauron is mine, and mine alone." she hissed, not removing her gaze from her wounded enemy. "Galadriel-" Theo attempted to no avail. She turned her head to look at her allies, hoping the urgency on her face would reinforce that in her tone. "Please. My life is forfeit, you have the chance to win again someday." Reluctantly, Arondir nodded, accepting he would not sway his elven commander, and he, Theo, and Bronwyn left Galadriel's sight, which now returned to Sauron. Her hand was still on the hilt of the dagger buried within him, almost mirroring the fatal blow she had struck you only minutes ago. She twisted it, slowly, causing Sauron to cry out in pain, letting a little bit of her own darkness come out in the process. "Fool." she spat at him through gritted teeth. "It is as I said when I rejected you. I will never be at your side."

Galadriel removed the blade from his torso, blood spurting outward and onto her dress. Then in one final strike, she aimed your dagger directly at his heart, penetrating it with all the force she could, Sauron gasping as if short of breath. He raised shaky hands to hold her face in a final caress, as she watched the flame dwindle in his eyes, fighting back her tears. Galadriel had wished there could have been a way to save him, another option for her to choose that could keep him alive, keep him with her. For part of her did feel as if she was truly betraying you now by ending Sauron's life. By ending Halbrand's life. Though despite the unhinged rapture she had felt being tangled up in your bodies last night, she knew all roads lead here. The three of your destinies were indeed entwined, the light had been chosen, and Middle-earth had indeed been saved.

Sauron could not speak, and losing his strength, collapsed helplessly onto the pavement beneath him. His eyes, like yours, were now shut. The rain completely stopped, and slowly, sunshine peaked through the clouds as they began to lighten and disperse overhead. Galadriel trembled, overwhelmed by the plethora of emotions she was now feeling. Disbelief, heartache, relief, joy, grief… it all washed over her simultaneously as the defeat of the dark lord at long last finally sank in. Closing her eyes, she pictured her brother, Finrod, and his smiling face, beaming with pride. "It is done." With that, Galadriel removed her eyes from the body of Sauron, and strode away in the direction of the people of Pelargir, her mind now on healing them and repairing the damage that their king and queen had wrought. She did not look back.

If only she had.

For she would have seen the blood of the dark lord pool no longer on the ground, but return back into the flesh where it belonged. She would have seen his slitted fiery eyes open once more, and his body, very much alive, rise from the ground. She would have seen him smile wickedly as he turned to walk slowly away, heading out of the town square. She would have seen him transform his physical self into a black winged creature, clutching your crowns between its jaws, flying up and over the city of Pelargir.

She would have heard his malevolent cackle on the wind.

Tagging: @denzit @heronamedhawks @pursuitseternal @coraleethroughthelookingglass @hikarielizabethbloom @restless-tides @vaguelyvibin @imjustsuperweird @gil-galadhwen @somebirdortheother @lady-of-imladris @princessfantaghiro

[daughter-of-inklings]

word count: 1,086 excerpt: Lost Princess || Ch. 8 - Of Thorns & Roses

“How dare you…” her voice trembled, breaking under the weight of her anger. “How dare ALL  OF YOU-” she snapped at those behind her, a snarl clawing its way from her throat, forcing the crowd back in mixed terror and revelry, “-how dare you- all of you! Gather here celebrating- celebrating the day you burned my kingdom to the ground!” She rounded on them, fangs bared, measuring every step forward against her waning self-control, “After everything my father and my kind did for you- for your gods! For gods we owe nothing to but the first breath of life- you have the gall to come here, drinking and toasting to our deathbeds?”  

“All because-” she turned, bounding up the stairs in a single flap of her wings, “-of you.” The guards stumbled to draw their weapons to her throat, flanking their empress. They tried to gain ground, pushing forward until the points of their spears dug into the sides of Elanoriel’s dress. But she refused, stalking forward until she could nearly touch the empress. “All because of our darling little Jules.” 

“Because of-” Julienna scoffed, leveling herself to meet the young girl’s gaze. She bit the inside of her cheek to restrain herself, hard enough to taste blood. “What do you know of sacrifice, elfling?” she hissed to the space between them, “What do you know about the cruelties of the world outside your gilded manor? What do you know of how the world works outside of your blind faith in long dead kings?” That struck a nerve, and the girl’s eyes flared. “Who in the nine hell’s do you think you are, princess, to come into my kingdom- to MY throne- flinging accusations around of something you know nothing about?”

“My name,” Elanoriel glared, turning towards the crowd with outstretched arms, wings mirroring the movement at either side of her, delighted at the way they ate up this performance, “Is Elanoriel Cottontail Helvyn-Falamir, King Thalion’s first-born daughter, and the rightful heir to the Yggdrasilian throne.” 

Gasps ripple through her audience, the echoes of shattered wine glasses ringing out over them as they slipped from nobles’ hands. Elanoriel let the moment hang in the air, allowing them the sight of her wings for a moment longer. They towered over her, each easily a few yards across from the shoulder blade to the tip of the outermost feather, white as snow with black fringes and spots like spilled ink in no particular pattern. 

“I am the daughter of a forgotten king. He now lies on a slab of dirt and stone, without a crown and without our home, because he believed in you-” she snapped back to glare at Julienna in one solid, fluid movement, “- because he made the mistake to believe in all of you. That you would come to our aid when we needed it most as we’d done for you– more times than he lived years!” Her voice rose, almost breaking, “That you would protect his people and keep his children safe, like you promised him that night-”

“I kept my promise–”

“LIAR!” Elanoriel’s snarl drowned out her voice, her wings snapping in one sharp push to launch her into the air above them, above the throne and towering over Julienna and her knights. 

“I SAVED you!” The empress’s voice trembled, a slow rage sinking into her words, her composure beginning to crumble as she took a step down to meet Elanoriel’s gaze. “You have no idea what I’ve done to keep you and your brother safe inside that castle, hatchling. You’ve no idea of how cruel the world is outside of your little manor, how quickly and easily it guts hope and kills it inside you until all you’re left with is anger–” 

“You left me to DIE!” Silver drops began to fall from Elanoriel’s closed fists to the floor, the marble giving way to brilliant sunstar flowers. “I was six years old! I didn’t need saving! I needed to feel safe, and loved, and to be with my father! And you– you-” 

“And did you not have it all?” Julienna went down another step, close enough to touch the avariel now. “Were you not safe? Loved?” she hissed, “By parents who put you before all the worlds? Who stopped at nothing when it came to you and their others? What else had I to give you in this life when you’d had all and myself, salen lyth?”

“You took my home,” Elanoriel’s eyes flashed, magick broiling within them. “And when that wasn’t enough to satisfy you, you took my people and my family- my life. You plucked their feathers off, one by one– from every person, every child, who couldn’t escape the wrath of your sword!”

Julienna opened her mouth, cut off by a sudden screech that rang out throughout the room. The guards at either side of her raised their weapons, too late to stop the horned owl that flew overhead onto Elanoriel’s outstretched hand. It gave another screech, there dropping Julienna’s crown- a piece with four stars suspended to float about their own columns, each centered with a different colored jewel- before landing atop Elanoriel’s horns. She moved from Julienna’s reach, a breadth away from her fingertips, just as the guards moved between them. They raised their weapons, spears pointed to pierce her through, and yet she refused to move. Rather, she wrapped her fingers around the crown, slowly pulling at the metal from either side. 

“You hunted, and you cut and plucked until you had enough to stuff your mattress and your pillow and your dogs, resting here and feasting while others were massacred in your name!” 

The scrape of strained metal filled the pauses of her silence, hairline fractures cracking into the stones as the crown struggled to cave.

“They wanted you dead, Elanoriel— you and your brother! The noblemen and the people you’re quick to defend and martyr for wanted you both dead. You were a curse to them, a plague sent by the gods they denounced to bring ruin to their kingdom!” Julienna’s voice trembled, rising above the tumult of noise thrumming through the crowd below them, stroked and flamed every passing moment by the beat of Elanoriel’s wings. “They didn’t want you! They made your life a misery to their enjoyment, because hurting a child who couldn’t fight back was the only power those cowards held. I gave you new life—" “You shot me and left me to burn or die on that castle floor!”

[ripperdoc-is-daddy]

Fred the Squish

TW: Fucked up squishy monster shit. There is no monster fucking just lots of violence, blood, gore, tentacles, many mouths, many eyes, derp monster shit. LOTS OF FOOD MENTIONS AND EATING!!! Based off a very herb filled session of Carrion. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! PERMISSION TO REPOST, TRANSLATE, REPRODUCE AND READ ON ANY PLATFORM DENIED.

Enjoy the Spoopy entry to Spoopy season. You may thank @animupiglett for making me post this which should have never seen the light of day.

Moving through whatever this place is your hunger which started out at a tolerable level grows. Your instincts command you to find sustenance and quickly. You pause to think what would happen if you could not find food in time but are interrupted shortly into your thoughts when you feel pressure on a tentacle. Reflexively you wrap around the object and pull it towards your mouth. Dagger like teeth tear and shred as whatever this is moves through your heavily dentata filled orifice. 

Prologue 

 

 

You awake feeling hungry. No memories. Just the all-consuming urge to feed. Your vision is limited. Things are dark but you possess long tendrils and tentacles that have amazing perception. Extending your limbs outward you pull yourself along a flat, smooth surface. Everything is alien to you. Each time you touch the floor you notice the viscous fluids of your body leave behind a mess.  

 

You will remember that.  

Upon consumption of the creature, you feel...sensation. A tickling in your brain. You grow in mass. Five more eyes and six mouths emerge from you. Your vision has also improved. You can distinguish colors, make out objects a fair distance away and you can hear. This is a new. You launch a tentacle up above and grip the surface above. Cautiously you pull yourself up. Observing the red fluid that drips from your being. Fascinating.  

You file this information away for later. 

Sliding along the ceiling you make your way through what appears to be a hallway. How did you not know this before? Perhaps with each meal you grow...smarter? There is only one way to find out. Pausing you send out several slender tendrils to feel out in front of you. The ceiling appears to be slotted not far in front of your and there is air flow. Pushing through you wiggle about enjoying the feel of the current on your appendages.  

Your mass grows ever larger and once again you multiply in mouths and eyes. Your senses increase and you become more intelligent. The theory is correct. With each meal the smarter you become and the more sentient you become. But how did you arrive here? You ponder this new train of thought as you spot another of these bipedal meals. There are four of them this time. They emit some sort of noise when they see you. You imitate the noise back at them and one of them begins to leak fluid from its lower half. Fascinating.  

Suddenly, you feel pain! A lot of pain! Retracting your tendrils, you open one of your mouths and scream! You cannot hear it but you know you have done something as now there is a red flashing light moving about. Annoyed and angered by the pain you launch forward from your position and move through where you earlier sent your tendrils. Angered at whatever dared to harm you. You detect heat coming from your side and you thrust several thick tentacles in that direction. You wrap around a strange looking upright blob thing. You pull it towards you and devour it in your rage. The feel of its meat and liquids pooling in your mouths and being rend asunder brings you great joy. 

 

You will remember that. 

You cruise through the containment facility. Devouring the poor wretches that dwelled beneath. Some tried to fight. Some tried to hide. Most just screamed. The adrenaline they secreted enhanced their flavor so you made sure to instill as much terror as possible into the tiny beings. Each one tasting more delicious than the next. They were almost as addicting as your rage. Almost. The slight they had dealt you still needed to be dealt with.  

You grab the creatures and feast upon their delicious fleshmeats. The crunch of their bones brings you great joy. You now enjoy textures. The smoothness of the bones changes when you chomp down. They become sharp and help break up the enjoyable but monotonous squishy smoothness that your meal felt like previously. The creatures flavor however, now that is something that is piquing your interest.  

 

This is familiar. A memory forms in your head. These bipedal creatures. You. Some sort of a container. Blood. Blood? What is blood?  

 

Pulling a tentacle up to one of your many, uncountable eyes you observe the drippage trailing off of it. Was this stuff blood? You plunge the appendage into your mouth and feel yourself feeling yourself. Interesting sensation but you have other matters to focus on. The liquid tastes pleasant. You surmise that the red substance you are oozing and trailing behind is blood. And it comes from these delicious bipedal, moving fleshsacks. You purr in excitement. You desire, no! You crave more of them! So more you shall have.  

 

With newfound gusto you traverse through the hallways. Eating new meals, gaining intelligence, recovering lost memories and rediscovering who you are. You are not native to this planet. You are new. You were being studied by these beings. Humans. Tasty little treats who got in over their heads. They believed you could be controlled. How stupid of them. They were prey. Simple as that. Nothing more and nothing less. You had consumed so many of them before your most unfortunate capture.  

 

Rage fills you as you remember the pain and humiliation of your capture. How they reduced you to that simple thinking biomass with limited abilities. So small and pathetic. Prey. They had made you prey! YOU! YOU WERE NOT PREY! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO ATE! They must pay for their mistakes! You resolved to punish the humans. Forcefully taking their life’s blood to sustain yourself but also in revenge. You were satisfied and no longer needed to eat to keep yourself alive in this moment. You were well fee.  

 

No, now you wanted to eat to punish these disgusting yet delicious humans. Remind them they are little more than cattle. They exist for your consumption just like everything else. They had no other purpose than to provide sustenance. And you were going to drill that into their tiny, soft, squishy, fatty masses they called brains. Brains which by the way tasted quite nice with gunpowder. Something you learned when a gun mech blew up within you as you shredded it down to get to its soft, gooey, humanoid center.  

 

And you were almost at your goal.  

You could read their language now and you knew you were far above the subterranean levels you had started at. You were nearing the exit. The airflow was different here. It smelled different and felt...fresh? It wasn't recycled like it was down below. Perhaps there were more of these tasty treats beyond whatever this door was?  

 

You had to know!  

So, you forced your massive, wet, dripping mass through the opening and thrust yourself into the unknown. And were summarily let down. There were more pathetic meat bags and some weird hovering machines. The memories of one of these creatures told you they were called helicopters. They were used to transports lifeforms and objects to and fro through the air. But you had to know how to fly them and you were well above their weight limit being double their size.  

 

Oh well, maybe they had larger ones you could attempt to use? That is for the future. Right now, you wanted to explore more of this outside. Propelling yourself forward you wander about. Eating the new creatures, you came upon with your newfound freedom. None tasting as good as the human fleshbags you had feasted upon previously. You craved them like a drug. At this point you needed them to scratch an itch you didn’t know you had but damn did they soothe it. Their mouth feel and flavor was second to none. Crunchy, metallic, smooth with a subtle sweetness that made your mass shudder and pool juicy, wet fluids beneath you in excitement. You needed more and you would have more. 

 

Fin 

[mariacallous]

Tunisia has largely moved on from the May 9 killing of five people at the El Ghriba synagogue on the island of Djerba by a National Guardsman. The event’s prominence on the country’s news sites has diminished and its claim on Tunisian conversation has largely been ceded to the other items competing for space at the national table.

On-air criticism of police recruitment methods by radio hosts Haythem El Mekki and Elyes Gharbi swiftly resulted in a legal complaint from the security services and, essentially, an end to discussion.

Thus far, Tunisia has steadfastly refused to publicly address the anti-Semitic nature of the attack, preferring instead to characterize it as “criminal.” However, the fact that the Jewish tourists and locals gathering to celebrate the festival of Lag B’Omer were specifically targeted by the attacker, 30-year-old National Guardsman Wissam Khazri, is hard to dispute.

After killing his colleague, Khazri donned body armor and rode 12 miles by quad bike to attack the pilgrims at the synagogue. However, beyond the arrest of four conspirators, his motivation for doing so, or details of any radicalization, remains unknown.

Responding to the murders, Germany and France characterized the attack as anti-Semitic, with Paris going even further and launching a terrorism probe into the killing of one of its citizens—a dual-national who was among the victims.

For Tunisian President Kais Saied’s government, the story was simply too messy. This year’s tourism revenues, which are vital following the uncertainty surrounding the hard-pressed country’s latest bailout from the International Monetary Fund, represent one of the few economic bright spots on a dark financial horizon. That security around the synagogue appeared to have failed—the attack was undertaken by one of the island’s supposed defenders—despite the massive expense and planning involved was also pushed to the sidelines.

However, underpinning all of this was the identity of the targeted victims and the deliberate and premeditated assault upon the Jewish community.

The Jewish presence in Tunisia reaches back almost 2,000 years. Over the centuries, through occupation by Phoenicians and Romans, conquest by Arabs, and colonization by Ottomans and the French, Tunisia’s Jews have maintained an unbroken thread linking past and present Tunisia. However, since World War II and the establishment of Israel in 1948, their numbers have dwindled. Pressure at home and opportunities overseas have reduced the population from around 100,000 in 1948 to less than 1,800 today.

Of all the Jewish communities that once dotted northern Tunisia, only that on the island of Djerba remains. The synagogue there, whose foundations are said to date back to Jerusalem’s Temple of Solomon, remains a cornerstone of not simply Tunisian Jewish identity, but Jewish identity as a whole.

The reasons for this declining population are rooted in recent history. Tunisia’s steadfast support of the Palestinian cause, a matter of profound faith for many, has embedded itself across all levels of society. From 1982 to 1985, Tunisia hosted the headquarters of the Palestinian Liberation Organization in a suburb just south of the capital, Tunis, until an Israeli air campaign essentially wiped it from the map, inspiring one of the first isolated assaults on the synagogue on Djerba by way of reprisal.

Many Tunisians are acutely aware of every injustice visited upon the Palestinian population. That, along with years of unflinching official opposition to the Israeli state, has almost certainly combined to make life in the country uncomfortable for many Tunisian Jews. By way of evidence, we only need to look to the spikes in emigration to both France and Israel that followed the Six-Day War in 1967 and the Yom Kippur War of 1973.

Whatever some may say, it is clear that what happens in the Middle East carries consequences for Tunisia’s Jews and how they’re regarded by their compatriots.

In the wake of the synagogue attack last month, one Twitter user achieved temporary notoriety after discovering that one of the victims, Aviel Hadad, was to be buried in Israel. Hadad had held dual citizenship with Israel and—in much the same way as many Muslims ask to be buried in Mecca, without opining on Saudi politics—had asked to be interred there. Nevertheless, one Tunisian blogger called for Hadad’s Tunisian family to be expelled from the country and any officials who knew of his wishes to be prosecuted.

A prominent journalist, on discovering that a victim of the attack held an Israeli passport, asked if the country was mourning Zionists. Across the country’s ubiquitous radio channels, a major source of news and information for many, conversations on Tunisia’s attitudes to Jews came to be almost exclusively couched in discussions on the Palestinian and Israeli conflict, with the fate and welfare of Tunisian citizens judged by the actions of a distant state that few had any connections with.

Unsurprisingly, the president has proven no exception. On a visit to the Tunis suburb of Ariana the weekend after the attack, Saied rejected accusations of anti-Semitism, recalling his own family’s history of offering shelter to Tunisia’s Jews during the 1942-43 Nazi occupation of the country, when Tunisia’s Jews faced extreme persecution. From there, he demonstrated little difficulty in segueing effortlessly into a discussion on Israeli attacks on Palestine. Their relevance to Tunisia’s Jews was not made clear.

“Despite the fact that most of the Jews of Tunisia have never set foot in Israel and that their homeland has been Tunisia for centuries, they are taken as scapegoats for actions committed in another part of the world,” said Joachim Lellouche, the son of Jacob Lellouche, a prominent member of the Tunisia’s Jewish community. The younger Lellouche, who grew up spending time in both France and Tunisia, told FP, “Most of the Jews in the world feel close to Israel—because of their ancestral history; that does not mean that they support the internal policy of the government.”

Lellouche, who spent his childhood shuttling between France and his father’s busy restaurant in La Goulette, a port town near Tunis, recalled the kind of prejudice his family encountered. “It’s ridiculous, but there’s this thing about Jews smelling of the dead,” he said. “Around 15, maybe 20 years ago, my father told us about a [Tunisian] man who came up and sniffed him. The thing is, that was a poor and uneducated man. Now, since the revolution, mass media and fake news, those attitudes are everywhere.”

Lellouche has seen the consequences of Tunisia’s anti-Semitism. In 2015, his father’s kosher restaurant, Mama Lily, a mainstay of cultural life in the city, closed due to anti-Semitic threats.

“Tunisia’s Jews are always held to a higher account,” Amine Snoussi, a Tunisian political analyst, said. “People always expect them to prove their loyalty to Tunisia and to reject Israel before they’ll even engage with them. No one else has to deal with that.”

“Jews, or minorities even, don’t really fit with [Saied’s] agenda,” Snoussi continued. “He doesn’t have time for them. He deals in a very utopian vision. Anything that contradicts that—such as anti-Semitism or the recent attacks on the country’s undocumented black migrants—has to be rejected and denied.”

In Snoussi’s opinion, Saied’s entire reaction to the synagogue attack has been shaped, not so much by any sense of anti-Semitism, but by his almost exclusively populist mindset. “He’s sought to frame this in terms of Palestine,” Snoussi said. “That fits with his ideas of what the country thinks, as well as the wider Arab nationalist world. He doesn’t think about Tunisia’s Jews. He doesn’t think about minorities. He doesn’t care how linking them so clearly to Israel puts them at risk.”

That attitude is causing real damage. In early May, the University of Manouba in Tunis announced it would revoke the title of professor emeritus from Habib Kazdaghli, a Muslim-born historian of Tunisia’s Jewish traditions who had attended a French conference alongside Israelis.

Hardline attitudes to Israel appear hardwired into entire strata of Tunisian society. “It’s not just me,” Kazdaghli told Foreign Policy via a translator. “It goes further. Tunisia’s wrestlers and tennis players have all been accused of normalizing relations with Israel through sporting events.

“I’ve been studying this for 25 years,” he said. “This bothers them. Every time they do this”—referring to the implicit barriers placed in the way of his research by both government and academia—“they’re saying they’re anti-Semitic without actually saying they’re anti-Semitic.”

Beyond his own academic specialism, Kazdaghli has grounds to speak with authority on the topic. He was on the bus outside El Ghriba synagogue when the May attack took place.

“Now when something happens, the state doesn’t address it,” he said. “I don’t think it’s anti-Semitism on their part. It’s more about being scared of even addressing the issue, and that’s worse.”