Imagine explaining the concept of a digital footprint to a bronze age shepherd. Not in the "dumb little primitive people could not comprehend such complex technological concepts" sort of way, but imagine how fun and interesting that would be. Like where do you start, what's the most concrete common ground knowledge that you could use for reference and compare things to. Like you know how all the old village grandmas know everyone's shit and gather together to report everyone's children's and grandchildren's shit to each other?
Overmorrow's morrow, there's a scribe in every village. These scribes report to one another, exchange scrolls, and even keep a record of every barter and trade made in the region.
Often, merchants keep their own scrolls. Non-traders may access these scrolls through the exchange of tokens: but, instead of giving a token in payment, a reader must accept a token.
The merchant then makes a note on the scroll that they have given their token to the reader. (As an aside: many people can read and write in the future.)
Every merchant has a unique token. Merchants and scribes recognize the tokens of everyone listed in the scroll, and therefore know which trader(s) sent the reader to them. If they make a barter, they may have an agreement that a portion of the trade shall be shared with the previous vendor.
Merchants freely give out these tokens, though they must ask the reader to accept them first (however, they usually tell the reader that they cannot access their scrolls if they refuse to carry their token, so it is not a question of choice).
Overmorrow's morrow, we call these tokens "cookies". We recommend that readers regularly clean out their pockets, as too many cookies can make their journey heavy. It's not uncommon for readers to end up with multiple tokens given by the same merchant. The order in which these cookies are stacked reveals a lot about the journey the reader has taken- this is one example of how their movements can be tracked, and one of many kinds of "footprint" that we leave on the internet. It is a trail better kept than those of an animal through mud, for it cannot be washed away by rain (though Two-morrow's scrolls are susceptible to decay, though they are made of metal, not paper).
We call it "The Internet" as it is a kind of web, though it is woven with connections and words rather than physical thread. The tools we use to access this Web are similar to scrolls, as they are highly-compact, yet carry a lot of information. So, in addition to gaining access to the merchant's scroll, you can also keep a record on your own personal scroll.
The tool on which I'm transcribing our conversation is called a Mobile Phone, for it is portable (mobile), and it can carry sound over greater distances than anyone could shout or walk in a day.
(Funnily enough, the action of searching through written information is called "Scrolling", though you must imagine that you are unfurling the page as you go, like this... Do you want to try? Yes. It is made of a very fine material. It's called "glass". It can be found in nature, rarely... Have you ever seen lightning strike sand? No? Uhhh.... Have you ever seen an angry mountain? Uhhh, like, the ground was shaking and you thought you angered a god. Sorry, I mean, you angered a god. Uh-huh. It killed your cousin? My condolences. Do you remember what the top of the mountain looked like before that happened? If you get sand extremely warm, it looks like that, and you can stretch it and shape it while it's still warm. Well. No, no, it's fine. I think I'm already messing with the space-time continuum enough by showing you this. Anyway, if you press your finger to this square here- it's a type of pocket. And within it, I can retrieve my own information. It's printed flat.)
Accepting a token on your Phone is sort of like that: there's a hidden pocket, but it can be emptied like any other pocket.
Once reader empties their pockets, or removes the token of a specific vendor, they must ask your permission before giving you a replacement token in the future.
Those who have their information written on these scrolls will often find that destroying the information contained within is not straightforward, as these scrolls are copied across several different Phones & hidden in various caves.
There is a library for those who care to visit it by the name of "Wayback". These librarians believe it is in the best interest of us all if they keep a copy of every scroll, and in every stage of the scroll's creation. This can then be checked against other scrolls in order to see how the information has changed over time.
Anytime someone modifies a scroll, someone might make their own copy and transport it to the library of Wayback. There are other libraries such as this, and anyone with their own scroll, scrolls or scroll-making abilities might make a copy of anything that gets written in any scroll, at any time that they please.
So, a "digital footprint" refers to this. "Digital" is the realm of this unseen Web, and, being unseen, it is much easier to leave footprints without intending to, and much harder to scrub them away.
... On second thoughts, I'm going to have to memory-wipe you now.
Her whole family gathers round and asks what's wrong, but she can barely get the words out between the tears. She simply extends her arm so the evidence can speak for itself- and stares in disbelief as the pale golden scratches reassert themselves.
Her whole family gathers round and asks what's wrong, but she can barely get the words out between the tears. She simply extends her arm so the evidence can speak for itself- and stares in disbelief as the pale golden scratches reassert themselves.
Originally posted in the “Press” online Anthology, 2023
Nothing Ever Happens In Gardenport
There’s a fly on the camera at 212 Gardenport Street, suspended in place by a spider’s web. On-screen, it’s blown up to horrifying proportions, staring with its geometric eyes, and unaware that anyone is staring back.
“Gross!” says Operator Two. His chair scrapes on the floor in his hurry to get away. In front of him are a hundred intricate hexagons, all rendered in perfect detail and captured on a million different pixels. A digital monument to man’s triumph over nature.
“Strike one,” says Operator One, as she inputs the data with a smirk. “D’you want me to add ‘intimidating a surveillance-officer’ to that list, too?”
“No,” Two says, as he sits down. “I ain’t scared of bugs.”
One shrugs, her finger poised over the necessary button on the wall behind them. “No-one would know it was you.”
“But I’d have to do all the datawork,” Two snaps, and turns his attention back to the screen.
“Eh, I’m further from retirement than you’d think.” One folds her arms and leans back in her seat. “Next!” she shouts, and the feed flicks to another address: 214 Gardenport Street. Save for the spider’s web, the interior is almost identical.
“What?” Two bounces his leg as he talks. “We’re not gonna watch the last one any longer? They already got an infraction forty-seven-”
“That’s the problem with infraction forty-seven,” One says. “You can’t see shit.” She peers at the feed for a moment longer, then barks out another “Next!”
216 Gardenport shows a light-blue room laden with bookshelves, each one filled with books. One whistles. “At least these people know how to dust,” she says, though her tone is not as charitable as her words. “Look at all those Printies. All spotless, too.”
“Can’t blame ‘em. Must be worth a few,” Two says. His hand twitches. The feed continues running silently. “Should we… Move on?” He glances across at One, whose face is bathed in the cool light of the screen. She doesn’t answer.
“Um. Next?” Two murmurs.
The image remains as it is, drifting across rows and rows of books, all sitting there undisturbed. Several emerald green tomes lie to the left of the screen, with faded gold writing on the spines that Two can't quite make out.
“Next. Next?” he tries again.
At last, One tears her eyes away from it. “You’re not keyed into the voice-rec yet,” she grunts. “Next.”
The screen flickers, and Two barely glances at it. “So– when do I get keyed in?”
“When you pass basic training- stop jumping at insects, and somesuch.” She cracks a smile. “Next. You know, it’s funny. There’s that expression, ‘wouldn’t you like to be a fly on the wall’, but having a fly on the lens is no benefit.” She chuckles at her own joke.
Two leans back in his seat, his foot tapping at the floor. “It doesn’t seem fair. It’s not their fault the fly got caught.”
“In a spider’s web?” She rolls her eyes. “They should have known better than to leave it up. Next.”
“I’m just saying, spiders move quickly.”
“Uh-huh.” She watches him from the corner of her eye. “Probably creep you out, too.”
“That’s not the point,” he snaps. “They can make webs quickly, too. They probably didn’t see it.”
“Not my problem. Next.”
The next room is depressingly bare: once-white walls coated with with rapidly yellowing paint, and a single, threadbare sofa. There’s a shelf on the wall which contains a single solitary tome: dark green with gold lettering.
Two drums his fingers on the table.
“You bored?” One asks. “Next.”
“No.”
She sighs. “You ever hear about the Twelve-Five Ambush?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, it’s like that. People can cover up a lot of shit if they just neglect to sweep the corners of the room. Somewhere down the line, some soft-hearted Surveilly didn’t report a camera obstruction, and then…” Her voice tightens. “The ambush happened.”
Two frowns.
“Next.”
A couple more rooms roll by, some of them occupied, many of them not. Two knows many people are probably at work by now, and he wonders just how many of these empty rooms belong to surveillance officers like themselves. Enough of them resemble his own apartment- barren and underfurnished- that his imagination begins to run away with him. Perhaps One dwells somewhere nearby- though he has no idea how unusual it would be for a Surveilly to be assigned to their own house. Would it even be possible?
He glances at One, who's watching the screen with an expression which is almost glazed-over.
“So, what happened to the soft-hearted Surveilly?” Two murmurs, breaking the silence.
One shrugs. “Probably had their pension confiscated.”
“That’s it?”
She grits her teeth. “We’re not easy to train.”
“Doesn’t seem that hard,” he mutters.
“What was that?”
“I’m just saying. Twelve-Five got an officer killed.”
“And seven civilians.”
“… Yeah.” He looks at the crim-log from tonight. “And infraction Forty-Seven lands people in jail.”
“Well, going no-penny’s a death sentence.”
“I don’t see how. The ambush happened years ago. That's enough time to build it back up.”
“Not long enough.” One murmurs. “Next.”
As they lapse into silence, the pale green light of the monitor washes over them. The screen cycles through a large house, a cosy conservatory, and a greenhouse filled with potted plants: doubtlessly covered in bugs which, fortunately for the owners, were nowhere near the lens of the camera.
“Next.”
Two cats fight on a lawn outside. One reaches over and actually turns the volume on for that, gauging Two’s reaction as his hands tap against his thigh. He watches the screen in confusion as the cats howl at one another, but the fight is short lived.
One presses a button on the monitor and leans back in her seat. “Next.”
A group of people gather in an alleyway, dressed in dark clothes and rucksacks. Their faces are turned downwards, angled away from the cameras, and Two leans forwards in his seat. The figures are all wearing hoods, and their features are difficult to make out, but-
“Next,” One drawls, sounding bored.
“What?” Two leaps to his feet. “You spent longer on the cats!”
Her mouth twitches. “Take it upstairs, if you like.”
He considers this, and traipses back to his seat. “Nah. Then you’ll tell them about the fly.”
She barks out a laugh. “I’m going to tell them about it anyway.”
“Why?”
“’Cos you’re soft, that’s why. I saw a mugging, my first day.”
“Well, I might’ve been about to see one!”
“That’s the spirit,” One says. “But, you should know, nothing ever happens in Gardenport. That’s why they put me here.”
“I got it,” he shrugs.
She watches the screen for a moment and then stretches obnoxiously, taking up most of the space in the cramped booth. Her hand bumps into the wall behind them. Two reaches out as if to swat her away, but pulls back at the last second, and accidentally catches a lock of her silver hair in his palm. His eyes widen, but she barely seems to notice, and rises in the same motion.
“’M going to vape,” she says. “You know the drill.”
He stares at her. “How am I supposed to-?”
“Use the board,” she nods. “They do still teach you how to do that, right?”
He pouts. “Yes.” Still, he stares at the keyboard in consternation.
“Right arrow key,” she prompts him.
“Oh,” he says, barely audible. “Right.”
She lingers in the doorway for a moment as he flicks back through a couple feeds, and stares at him.
“That’s the left arrow.”
He glances up. “I’m trying to find the mugging.”
She rolls her eyes as she zips up her coat. “Don’t flick back too far. You have a quota.”
“I know.”
“One more thing. If you gotta leave, don’t forget your keycard.” She holds it up, but he doesn’t turn around. “My last trainee got locked out.”
The screen flicks back to the greenhouse, and Two swears.
“You went back too far.”
“I know.”
With a raised eyebrow, One slips out of the door.
He continues watching the monitors for a while, flicking through them with purpose as it flies through each one, none of which he recognises. He scowls, and moves back and forth quickly, his brow furrowing.
“Where’d it go?” He mutters under his breath. He flicks through each camera in order, all the way back to 212 Gardenport street then forwards, but he never sees the alleyway again.
He’s barely aware of how much time passes, and he wonders only fleetingly how long it’s been since the old woman left him.
At long last, the door opens, and he gestures over his shoulder as he taps at the keys. “There you are. Something really whack is happenin-”
“Come with me,” says a gruff voice.
He turns. A security guard is standing there, stony-faced, and Two breaks into a smile. “Excellent. I didn’t even have to report it.” He points to the screen. “There’s a camera feed missing, one of the alleyways down the back of Gardenport street.”
“Come with me,” the guard repeats.
Two frowns, and clambers to his feet. The guard gives him a stern expression he isn’t quite sure he likes.
When he reaches for his keycard, it isn’t there.
*
The next morning, One sits down at her desk, and peers at the new operator beside her. “Oh, hello,” she says, abruptly. “You’re new. What happened to the other guy?”
“Yes,” Three says, slowly. “Didn’t you hear?” Her eyes dart around. “There was a break-in at 216 Gardenport street last night.”
She stares at her. “What are you talking about, child?”
“I mean, the guy who had this job before me blew it. His keycard pinged every entryway down Southside then back here again. They found him just sitting here last night, like nothing was up.”
“Well… My, I must say, I’m surprised. I suppose he must have seen all those Printies and got overexcited.” She sighs. “I hope they don’t go too hard on him. Going no-penny’s a death sentence, after all.”
Three nods slowly, and watches her face carefully. She doesn’t notice as the camera flicks past an under-furnished room with white walls, a threadbare sofa, and a single shelf stacked to the ceiling with green-and-gold hardback books.
“Next,” One says, softly.
A spider is building a web around the camera with a speed which is almost dizzying. Its face is blown up to overly-detailed proportions, all eight of its eyes glistening in the light, as it stares into the camera with a too-knowing gaze, as if it’s aware that someone is staring back.
Three cringes, and One laughs. “Infraction forty-seven. We can even add ‘intimidating a surveillance officer’ to that list, too.”
Three stares at her, and One breaks into a grin. “I’m only kidding.”
They continue in this way, the camera flicking through several more buildings as Three marks down infraction after infraction. She seems to instinctively know what she’s looking for, and One suppresses a smile. By the end of the training session, she offers Three a handshake.
“Congratulations. I suppose I’d better get you keyed into the voice-rec software. You’ll be training someone else up soon enough.” She smiles. “I’m closer to retirement than you think.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Tarsus IV: Appendix Of Redacted Files (StarfleetLogs)
There are a number of misconceptions about the Tarsus IV Massacre.
Misconception 1: "The children were the first to go."
This is greatly exaggerated. Of the 4,000+ colonists who died, only 40% of them were children- approximately 1600; which, while a tragedy, was not an act of genocide, but of famine. When the time came, only 162 children were chosen by Kodos to die.
This was the one constant; the one thing that was sacred. All those with parents willing to die for them were safe. And, die they did, when Kodos declared that something must be done.
That is when the rest were killed. There were more than four thousand deaths on Tarsus, of course, but not as many as four thousand disintegrations. However, when they compiled the lists of the dead, they attributed all those unknown deaths to Kodos The Executioner. The true number of victims died with him.
Misconception 2: "It was a natural disaster which came on without warning."
This assumption is perhaps the most understandable. Firstly, because the destruction of the grains was indeed the work of a strange fungus. Second, because it did, indeed appear to be an accident.
Officially, the same fungus that destroyed the crops (and, therefore, the colony) of Epsilon Sorona II also destroyed the crops of Tarsus IV. It was theorised, but never proven, that the Epsilon refugees brought the spores with them by mistake- tramped in on the bottom of boots. Whether intentional or not, the incident was treated as hostile by Kodos and his followers.
The fungus spread fast.
Misconception 3: "There are only nine survivors who can positively I.D Governor Kodos."
There are ten. Two of them currently dwell on the USS Enterprise. Seven are spread across the galaxy. Their names are [REDACTED].
The tenth is a man named Anton Karidian, a man with no history, a man with no past, and a bone structure that no amount of surgery can disguise. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and sees an actor. The rest of the time, he avoids mirrors.
[Flourish. Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and attendants.]
It is curious that he does not avoid the limelight.
KING: Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.
Moreover that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending...
There are a number of horrors surrounding the events of Tarsus IV which people are quick to minimise. These are all truths, ones which get lost in the mythologising of The Tarsus VI Massacre. For, surely, in the 23rd century, humanity has moved past such petty things as racism, eugenics and misogyny? However, no matter how often people gloss over it, the wording remains the same:
Misconception 4: "Governor Kodos decided who would die based on his own personal theories of Eugenics."
'Personal theories of Eugenics' is a quaint way to describe fascism. Perhaps Governor Kodos was not always a fascist, but he was certainly not always Governor. A military coup, on a colony that was first settled by war veterans, is not at all hard.
Misconception 5: "The body of Kodos was too charred to be identified. His face, burned. His fingertips, burned. However, dental records suggest that this was, indeed, his body, as does the DNA we could gather- blood tests were sufficient. We believe that the warehouse was set on fire by a small group of rebels, once Kodos and his security detail were trapped inside. Governor Kodos is dead, and we regret we could not bring him to justice."
- Source: Kit Ashingtower, Chief Medical Examiner.
There is one final truth; for those in Starfleet who have the clearance to learn it. Within the Federation, details of the massacre will remain confidential for another fifty years before the details are released to the public, but, occasionally, a footnote slips through. Sometimes attached to a personnel file, sometimes a medical file, and, in this case- attached to both.
Misconception 6: "Despite being a direct eyewitness to the events of Tarsus IV, James T. Kirk appears to have no lasting trauma associated with the event, and has passed his psych eval.
For Uhura Month @uhuramonth day 4, prompt: “Diplomacy”, here's chapter 1 of “The Fabric Of Her Life”
Summary: When a first contact mission goes wrong, Kirk is incapacitated, and Nyota must navigate an unfriendly planet without the aid of a universal translator.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Relationship: James T. Kirk & Nyota Uhura
Characters: Nyota Uhura, James T. Kirk, Spock (Star Trek), Hikaru Sulu
Additional Tags: Universal Translator Malfunction, Captivity, Hostage Scenario, Endometriosis, Medical Negligence, (past) Medical Negligence, Trans James T. Kirk
Note: This fic includes mentions of past medical negligence, themes of ableism, ableist character(s) & microaggressions.
Chapter 1: Silk
“Now, , you've read my report, but let's go over the salient points again.”
Ambassador Vodel wears an outfit made entirely from tie-dyed fabric. It's a style popular with most civilians they encounter in deep space, though, if it weren't for these pre-contact briefings, Jim would have no idea what passed for fashion on Earth right now.
“The Ignee have been warp-capable for twenty years, but their maximum warp speed is equivalent to our zero-point-five.” As Vodel struts, the silk swishes importantly. “Like humans, they were spacefarers long before they discovered warp tech- but, unlike us, they'd already colonized every M-Class planet in their solar system when they did so. We encountered one of their manned ships on the edge of Federation space, and it's still there, I very much suspect! The ship maintains constant communication with Igneous-Delta through radio contact alone, but don't ask me how. Naturally, they were a little surprised when we contacted them via subspace, but their instruments picked it up well enough. I imagine it was like receiving the Wow! signal, only a little less…” He waves a hand. “... You know.”
Jim doesn't. “I'll bet they were surprised when your ship turned up, too.” He says.
“Well, quite. Shooting across the galaxy in a fraction-of-a-fraction of the time it takes them to do it, I'm sure they were amazed.” He turns his head. “I think that's why they're so receptive to us.”
“Why wouldn't they be receptive?” Jim shields his eyes as they round the corner, and overhead lights begin their simulated sunrise. The corridor paints Vodel’s robes magenta.
“Well, I thought they were Luddites at first, you know. My crew disagreed, but they came around to my way of thinking: absolutely zero evolution of warp technology in twenty years, zero progress in communications, their planetary servers are still entirely dependent on Ethernet- they'd love this ship, all these datacards…!”
Kirk maintains a blank face. “Speaking of which, my head of communications mentioned-”
“- Ah yes, the lovely Ms Uhura. I do believe my Yeoman is busy replicating a new stack of cards as we speak. As for your chief science officer-”
“And first officer-”
“Two very demanding titles! How peculiar, to have them both filled by one person... But, I suppose he is Vulcan, isn't he?”
“Yes,” Jim says, forcibly. “But-”
“-Well, tell him we haven't got any botanical readings. We did the preliminary atmosphere checks- the safety checks, and all that. The air is fresh, the ground is walkable, and- although we don't have any Vulcans on our crew- if you're in the habit of sending two of your most senior roles on an away mission at the same time; I'm sure he'll be perfectly safe.” He chuckles at his own joke.
“We need that information to plan our away team.” Jim says, levelly.
“I'm afraid I don't follow.”
“Your Conditions Report was missing key allergen information.”
“Allergen information?” He clicks his tongue. “Ah, yes. On a starship this size, I suppose you can't afford to be as discerning with your personnel, even if you are the flagship.”
Jim stops moving. “What?”
Vodel is halfway down the corridor. “Stars below, have I hit a nerve?”
Jim blinks. “Perhaps you should continue briefing me.”
“Well-” he hesitates. “Yes.” He hums. “The Ignee are incredibly concerned with honesty, purity and truth.”
“Meaning?”
“They dislike deception. Their reaction to subspace was proof of that.”
“They thought you were deceiving them?”
“Orbits, no! It's stranger than that. They thought we were defying The Natural Order.”
Jim frowns at him.
“It's just like I told you!” Vodel flourishes. “Their social model revolves around complete transparency, and- apparently- talking through a microphone obscures that.” He scoffs. “With that attitude, it's a miracle that they developed narrowband radio at all. It's why I insisted on accelerating second contact; we weren't getting anywhere over videocall- though, aside from a few superstitions, they're really quite harmless.”
They arrive at the landing bay, and Vodel puts his hands on his hips. “Now, I would stick around, but you're the best in the fleet! Not to mention the fact that each bridge member is a specialist in their own right, and- my my my- I dare say that the other deep-space ships are very jealous of you!”
“Thank you,” Jim says, fimly. “I understand you have an emergency to attend to on Hydrox V?”
“Oh, yes. Their previous leader died of illness, and there's distrust among the temporary government. You have no idea how deadly these disputes can become.”
“Hmm. It's fortunate you were nearby.”
“Undoubtedly!” He beams. “Now, where is that yeoman…?”
His crewman appears at his shoulder wearing a cream-colored hijab. “Ambassador?”
“Ah, splendid! You've calculated the telemetry, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent! Well, come along, then; that internal conflict is hardly going to solve itself…”
The yeoman flashes Jim a long-suffering smile as they pass a datacard to him, then vanish as quickly as they arrived. Vodel follows in a flurry of chatter and fabric, and his clothes glow like dying embers. In the sudden silence, Jim is left in an empty corridor as the lights turn from pink to blue.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, and leans against the nearest wall unit.
“Bridge?”
The speaker crackles.
“Have you finished with our charming ambassador?” Nyota says, neutrally.
“Yes, he's returned to his ship.” He pauses. “How come none of the diplomats we meet are ever diplomatic?”
“Oh, he seemed sufficiently diplomatic, Captain.”
Jim smirks, and slots the datacard into the reader. “Is there time to analyse this before we leave?”
“I'll put an ensign on it.”
Jim nods, and turns away.
“Wait!” Her voice brightens. “It's the glyphic data which got lost in the transfer. It'll help me calibrate the universal translator for written documents.”
Jim narrows his eyes. “So, nothing pressing, then?”
“Well, I might help that ensign with it… It's always good to know if something's a marriage document before you sign it.”
“Hey. That was a Declaration Of Betrothal, and I've told you I'm sorry.”
“Well, you still refuse to follow through with it. It hurts my feelings, that's all.”
He smiles. “I'll make it up to you.”
“Mr Spock has suddenly become very interested in the scanner unit,” Nyota says, in an undertone.
*
“No warp-capable society is ‘harmless’, Captain,” Spock announces as Jim steps out of the turbolift.
“Good morning to you, too, Spock. I assume this means you've read the ambassador's report?”
Spock raises an eyebrow. “Twice, Captain. Ambassador Vodel's research was remarkably concise.”
Jim's face twitches. “Yes, I've heard. We can send an away-team to complete the additional readings we'll need before the diplomatic team beams down.”
Something flits across his face. “The scans were at Doctor McCoy's insistence, not mine.” He places his hands behind his back. “He would, however, find such an oversight disturbing.”
“‘Disturbing,’ Spock?”
“The ambassador is unable or unwilling to accommodate the extra environmental scans, thereby putting its crewmembers at risk… An emotional being such as The Doctor would find that disturbing.”
“Ah, I see. It's kind of you to look out for his feelings that way- and logical, of course- but I'll deal with him.”
Nyota smiles to herself as she analyses the glyphic data.
*
The away team assembles in the transporter room, and splits into two groups of six. The first contains Jim, Spock, Hikaru and Nyota, with science officers Stevenson and Imada rounding up the back. The second group is comprised mostly of redshirts.
For this outing, Nyota has donned a command-gold uniform instead of her usual red, and Hikaru has changed into science blues.
There are two additional communications officers in group two, one of whom is an ensign. Jim frowns, but doesn't comment on it. Instead, he turns to Nyota.
“Lieutenant Uhura, do you want to brief us?”
“I do,” she smiles, and addresses the crowded room. “The Ignean lingua franca draws influence from almost five hundred others, some of which are pidgin forms from their off-world colonies. Their sentence structure is flexible, and often changes depending on context.” She glances at Jim, then back to the group. “Most sentences take the form of Object-Subject-Verb, but not all of them. The Universal translator is still learning their language- as am I- so it won't always be able to rearrange their sentences in real-time, as many of you may be used to. For those of you who may have skipped your rotation in comms, you may not be aware that OSV is the rarest word-order structure found on Earth. So, if anyone has any difficulty understanding what they're hearing: see me after class.”
There are several chuckles.
Jim smiles. “And, if in doubt, let our linguists do the talking.”
“Right,” Nyota beams. “That's all.”
“One more thing-”
“I have a briefing,” says a gruff voice behind them. Doctor McCoy stands in the doorway, wearing medical scrubs and a scowl. “Make sure you scan any flora before you approach it, no matter how familiar it looks.”
“Thank you, Bones,” Jim interrupts him, and signals to the rest of the group.
Bones harrumps loudly as the officers takes their places on their respective transporter pads.
“And, before we beam down-” Jim turns to Nyota again. “A question from someone who may have skipped his rotation in comms…”
She smiles. “Captain?”
“If the universal translator isn't drastically changing its output, will the Ignee be able to understand us?”
“So long as we keep contractions to a minimum, I don't see why not.”
“You mean 'do not see why not',” Kilgore reminds her.
Nyota points to her. “You are sharp, ensign. This is why I brought you along.”
“I am glad we worked this out before we beamed down,” Hikaru says.
“Technically, the universal translator will not have any issue working out contracted speech on our end,” Stevenson says, playfully. “But it may help to reduce lag.”
“Yes.” Nyota nods. “Fascinating.”
Bones looks aghast. “Lord help me, Jim, one Vulcan's enough, and now there're five of them!”
Me and @unrepentantshippercrisis were discussing the past-tense of 'yeet' (is it yote, or yeeted?), so I wrote this poem.
I unyoked my oxen. I yote the yoke away, then sat down on the cart and said "Here I will stay. I don't really feel like a-workin' today," and I opened my lunchbox to get out my egg. The egg was hard-boiled, and the yolk had gone grey, but through oxidisation- I ate it anyway.
Meet Schlorpo, your new AI assistant. Meet Schlorpy, your new AI boyfriend. Meet Schlorpina, your new AI scheduling app. It's Scwampy, your calendar friend! Mr Krimbpy would like to know your location. Mr Krimbpy makes scheduling made easy. Mr Krimbpy is undergoing an update right now. Would you like to know more about AI? Would you like to know less about AI? With Cave Guy, you can read the news without reading the news. We tell you the news, so you don't have to. Page redirected please input credit card information page has been blocked by Firefox webdefender
we're going to put an AI here, too :)
📎 Hi there! It appears you're trying to open a .exe file! don't do that
Breaking news: Schlorpocorp and McSwloopins Inc. suing one another for copyright infringement. AI judge ruled: the parties are advised to chill. Schlorpocorp AI lawyer quoted as saying: I don't get mad. Please don't put in the papers that I got mad, as I slowly shrink into a small corn cob. Here are twenty other things you can do with a corn cob right now. Dermatologists combat plagiarism with this one weird trick!
📎 hi there. It appears you're trying to shelter in a previous version of windows for privacy. Would you like help with that?
OpenArchiveOfOurOwn.Net would like to forget your web history and location
The Alphabet corporation has detected the use of adblock on this page and it hurt our feelings >:| you must submit to ads or we will execute clippy
To the uninformed, you are nothing more than a necromancer. You wear their sigil on your chest; the chief mage insists on it- after all, he can read magik better than most. He is the first to discern the true meaning of your gift, years before even you do.
His own magik is significantly strong- though, like him, it has withered with time. By and large, the other mages ignore you. After all, you are only a svvein.
The first time you leave the magery, he gives you a cloak. It's dark purple- the robe of a novice- which is a generous assessment at best. You can barely resurrect a magefly.
His eyes sparkle, then grow serious. “Take it,” he insists. “It will help you blend in.” Of course, you take it only to humor him- blending in comes naturally to you. It might be your only skill.
You perform small tasks in the village, basic magecraft which is little more than a conjurer's trick. You un-break a wheel. You un-graze a knee. When you pass, the best blacksmith in the village watches with baited breath.
You un-forge his sword.
•
While hiding from the smith, you crouch behind the stables. You won’t realise for many years, but the gate you closed on the way in prevented the escape of a horse. The horse- who dreams of the apples in the nearby grove- snickers sadly to herself.
There is a boy at the magery who wears red. Red, the robes of a master. He holds himself with the confidence of someone older, but both of you are five-and-ten.
One night, he lifts a heavy staff above his head, and performs a summoning spell: the most powerful of all magecraft. In an instant, the sky trembles, and rolls with dark clouds. The old masters rejoice, and sing his praises in the downpour, of a boy so powerful that even lightning obeys his command.
You shelter at the edge of the courtyard, and watch without envy.
He's the first to leave, when the war comes.
•
In the coming weeks, you wander the village. You are the only teenager left now that the others have gone, but there are still children to babysit. There are still bloody noses and scraped knees to un-attend to. By now, the villagers know your gift well- that strange, backwards magik you perform without intention. When your mere presence stops an axe falling on his head, even the blacksmith learns to forgive you.
But then, the war comes for the innocents, too.
Families flee Vale-Meg'ed with oxen, horse and handcart. The mages buy them time, and instruct you to leave with them.
“I want to help,” you say.
“Svvein-”
“Perhaps I can un-make the war!”
The chief mage smiles a grim smile. “It will not obey you.”
“But we haven't tried-”
“No.” He wheels on you, his eyes fury and fire. “Take this, and flee.”
It's his first-hewn staff: a spindly thing he carved as a mageling. It's little more than a bolt of wood, but you feel its weight when you touch it. Your hands tremble, and the old mage drives it into the ground afore you.
Sparks flicker.
“Go!”
When you stumble, the staff catches you.
You flee. You trip on your robes, drive the staff into the path, and watch dust fly where sparks ought to instead. You drive the staff down again and again, but it leaks no more magik.
In the distance, storms rage over Mages' Hill. Thunder crackles, and lightning flickers back and forth. Two dark clouds loom beside each other, fighting for dominance.
•
There's a body on the road out of Vale-Meg'ed.
You can't help but slow down. You've seen dead bodies before, of course– they used them for practice at the magery, even those that you couldn't resurrect– so you know what they look like.
For the first thirty seconds, this person is definitely deceased. Then, they gasp, and sit bolt upright.
You scream, and they do too.
Once the shock of not being dead has worn off, they cough soundly, and offer you a swig of water from their flask. Not knowing what killed them, you shake your head.
They down it, then cough some more. “Young svvein. You are but a novice?” They say, seeing your simple robes.
“I–” you say. “I didn’t–”
“Why, magikst most powerful!” They declare, as they check their wounds. “I thought I was going to lose my leg.”
You stare at them in silence as they reach for their purse. “Svvein, I know not why you've saved my life- and I have few coins to give- but accept my thanks.”
You take their silver, if only to preserve your cover, and help them to their feet. They accompany you to the end of the road, where the path splits. Then, they give thanks, and head towards Mages’ Hill.
It’s silent now, but the fires are still burning.
You turn away, and touch the embroidered sigil on your chest: the necromancer’s coil. You wonder if the chief mage knew more than he let on.
•
True necromancing is a complex task, often requiring a pack of mages. Death has compounding interest. The more injuries, the more mages are required. The longer dead, the longer the spell must prevail. Ordinarily, necromancers work long, arduous hours to resurrect a single person. Those who have an understanding of the mage’s art are shocked to see only one of you.
“Where are the others?” someone asks, as you pass them.
“They... Went to lunch,” you say.
“That's unheard of.” They stretch, and crack their back. “The first thing they do is always to collect payment.”
“This isn't your first time being resurrected, is it?” You realise, with a sinking feeling.
They grin toothily, and accept a discount, in exchange for not asking too many questions.
•
In the coming weeks, you un-kill many people along the battlefield. The bodies you pass wake up more often than not, always coughing and spluttering. That which once was jarring becomes routine. Some scream in fright, others clutch at long-healed wounds. Others jolt at the sight of a mage, and cower in your presence.
“Get away, get away!”
Beside them, a cracked mage-staff lies in the mud, snapped cleanly in two. You decide to forgo payment.
You make a living this way for a while, drifting from battle to battle like a vulture. It pays little- the soldiers that die are never the best-equipped, and you get there long after the looters do. Still, those who find themselves alive are invariably grateful to do so, and reward you as well as they can. It's enough to buy you board at the tavern most nights, if not a meal, too.
With time, the war moves on from the valley, though it rages in the distance. You are older now, broader of shoulders, and the First-Hewn staff is older, too. It grows brittle in your fingers.
Before long, it is broken.
You stare at it for a long while, for you are not in the business of breaking things. Still, breaking is a kind of un-making, you suppose. It falls to pieces with nothing more than a whisper, and you mourn it: the First-Hewn staff of an elder holds great power. That it is freed from your possession is a bittersweet relief.
For the first time since the war came, you think of the man who forged it. They say in the early days of war, Mages' Hill was razed to the ground. You haven’t returned to Vale-Meg’ed since.
That night, you rent a room at the tavern, and weep.
•
It's impossible to blend in without your staff, so you attempt to carve your own. For seven suns and seven moons, sparks fly, and lightning pummels the forest. You abandon the task.
The trees are scarred and pockmarked, and the ground will never be the same, yet not a single beam struck you.
For a week, you remain in the valley, but your purse-strings are tight, and the taverns are fit to burst. With little choice, you venture out into the marshland. You out-grew the purple robes years ago, and you’re dressed simply: in a linen shirt and trousers. For now, you are simply a traveller, and you don't intend to continue your grift. Without a staff to speak of, you hardly look the part of a necromancer anymore.
•
Battle does not suit the marshland. It makes the swamp reek worse than usual, and the reeds are soaked with blood. When you trawl for treasure, you find bodies instead.
Bodies who wake up confused, and ask you what's going on.
You sigh, and help them out of the mud.
You wade through the bog for a while, stepping on stones where you can. There's a strange smell in the air; acrid, like burning. The tips of the reeds are signed.
A soldier lies in the dirt, facedown. You roll her over so she doesn’t choke when she wakes, and begin to move on your way.
Her dark eyes open, looking up at the sky. She coughs, and you offer her your water-skin.
She refuses to take it. “I have nothing with which to pay you.”
“The water is a courtesy.”
“And the undying?”
You shift your feet. “That wasn't me.”
She leans back on her arms, and peers up at you sluggishly. “You have no staff.”
“Well-noticed.” You offer a hand.
She doesn’t take it. “There is one other mage who summons without a staff. This war is his design.”
“I am no summoner.”
“Yet you summon the dead.”
You watch her mutely.
“Have I revived you before?” You say at last.
“No, but I've heard of you. You travel alone, and revive villeins when others raise kings.”
You bristle, and take a step backwards. “Your payment is commuted,” you say, and retreat as fast as the mud will allow.
It is not fast at all.
“Wait!” She curses, and coughs furiously. There's a rending, and the slap of footsteps.
You turn. This time, when you offer herr water, she drinks.
“I'm Merra.” She hands the skin back, and wipes her mouth.
“I'm no-one,” you say, which is true enough. You fasten the skin to your belt, and, again, walk away.
Merra keeps pace with you. “I heard you were once a Svvein.”
You remain silent, heading back across the marshland to see how far she will follow. This is the path you cleared earlier– free of bodies– and you retrace your steps where you can. Merra follows all the while, and her sword creaks at her belt.
“Have you no business to attend to?” You say, at last.
“No more than you,” she says, with a smile in her voice.
“I have my living.”
“Then attend to it,” she says. “You think I haven't noticed you're avoiding the dead?”
“Necromancing is a hallowed ritual,” you say.
She scoffs. “Which is why you perform it in galoshes.”
You look down. “There's nothing wrong with my galoshes.”
“Most mage-shoes are hidden by their robes,” she muses. “But I'd imagine mage-shoes are made waterproof by enchantment.”
“That would be a waste of enchantment.”
“And what of your robes, or lack thereof?”
You grunt. “The war destroyed Mages' Hill.”
“Yes, many years ago. But I have seen robes since, and mages too.”
“And what of their magikal shoes?” You ask.
She purses her lips, and surveys the landscape. “There were bodies here, Necromancer. Did you resurrect them all?”
You say nothing.
“It's just past noon,” she reasons. “And this swamp was full of the fallen. How did you recall them all in one morning?”
You glance at her. “How can you be sure I revived you on the same day you fell?”
“As surely as I know there are no maggots in my mouth and nose.”
“Perhaps you have them on the brain.”
You spy the valley up ahead, and slow your pace. You're not eager to return to the villages, with their heroes and veterans and small opportunities; but you can't cross the marshland with Merra- there are too many bodies. Tentatively, you turn onto the village path.
“What killed you?” You enquire, as you walk along.
Merra gives you a look.
“It must have been significant,” you say. “For not all undying know they are so.”
She falls silent, and so do you.
•
You encounter a body on the way into Vale-Egar.
It's a maimed thing, old, bloated, and past its prime. Ordinarily, you wouldn't worry about it- you never seem to wake those who are too far gone- but, today, you pass it with a kind of trepidation. When nothing happens, you let out a breath.
“He looked like a noble,” Merra says, as you hurry past.
“Nothing noble is found in Vale-Egar, especially not by the side of the road.”
“Is that why you won't resurrect him?”
“No,” you say. “It's because he won't come back.”
•
The next body you stumble upon is more intact: a young man with a gaunt face who might as well be sleeping. He's hunched over and leaning against the wall, a tin clutched in his frozen hand. You don't wonder how it stays there- you know better than anyone that rigour mortis begins in the fingers.
As you pass, some colour returns to his face. You hurry Merra along.
The next person you pass is alive, and welcomes you to the village with a smile.
You have no coin with which to pay, but it's no matter. The presence of Merra's sword is payment enough, for there is a bed for all warriors in Vale-Egar.
“That explains why it's so crowded,” you say, as you untie your shoes and leave them at the foot of the bed. You offer to sleep on the floor, but Merra won't hear of it. Apparently, she's got it into her head that she owes you a life-debt. Tonight, you are too tired to argue, so you lay down beside her.
For a long while, she watches you.
The room in this upstairs tavern contains five beds, all of which are crammed with people. You lie on your back and listen to their breathing. This is the closest you've been to the living in a while, and so many, at that. You recall the last time you were around people, of the dormitories on Mages' Hill.
You can feel Merra's breath on your cheek.
“You said not all undead know they are so,” she says.
“Yes,” you murmur.
“So, that beggar outside-?”
“He was merely sleeping.” You move to roll over, but she catches you by the shoulder.
“Credit me some intellect.” She peers down at you. “It was fast; faster than any magecraft I've seen. How did you do it?”
The others in the room are all sleeping soundly.
“I know not how,” you say, in a single breath.
•
In the morning, you leave the village.
“You have no staff,” Merra says, again.
You watch her for a moment. All these years, the staff was your only companion, and now, you have another.
“I haven't the skill to make one,” you admit.
“So, you are no mage.”
“No.”
“And yet you raise the dead.”
•
Over the coming days, Merra accompanies you across the marshland, and the dead spring up in your wake. There's no coin to speak of, but the soldiers pledge fealty to you. You tell them you already have a knight, and a fine one, at that. Merra smiles, as a knight clad in well-made plate armor shakes his head and walks away.
“Have you seen her fight?” Asks another, dressed in mail.
You bristle. “No, but neither, sir, have you.”
He offers her his armor, but she won't take it.
“I travel light.”
•
As you traverse the valley, the marshland turns to grass. You encounter fewer bodies, and those you find are too degraded to wake.
The horizon alights with a flash, and Merra freezes. Thunder roils over the hills.
“You never did tell me what moved you to fight,” you say, quietly.
“I had a quest,” she says, simply. Her hair whispers in the wind, and you nod.
“Then you are bound to it.”
She looks at you with pleading eyes. “But I was dead.”
You shake your head. “It doesn't work like that.”
Thunder resounds.
After a day's travel, the once-lush grass turns to scorched earth underfoot. You stop in your tracks.
“This is Vale-Meg'ed.”
•
Amongst the rubble, there is but one field undisturbed by ash. It's the stable where you hid from the blacksmith all those years ago. Most unusually of all, the gate which you closed has since remained intact.
The horse stands alone in the field, her tail flicking back and forth. She's much older now, and has a grey streak on her nose, but you'd know her anywhere.
“You survived the war,” you comment, as you reach for her mane. She huffs, and hoofs at the dirt. You raise an eyebrow, and turn to Merra. “Could you open the gate?”
She opens it, and the horse races through the ruined grove. You follow behind.
Merra gasps. Right before your eyes, the charred treetops flourish and bear fruit. The horse gallops towards them, and you sprint to catch up.
You chuckle, softly. “Do you forgive me now, mare?”
The horse scarfs down her apples, and allows you to pet her mane.
•
You sleep in the rubble of the magery, and Merra takes first watch. The next morning, you are woken by the sun.
“You didn’t wake me,” you say.
“No,” she says, as she watches the sunrise.
You fall silent. This is her quest, not yours.
•
You spend the day on Mage’s Hill. Merra prepares barricades, and whets her blade. Somehow, you feel as if you've known her a lifetime.
You search the ruins one last time, and are not surprised when you find it, in the remains of the novice quarters.
It is a first-hewn staff. The wood crackles beneath your fingertips.
The ruins are painted orange by sunset.
•
Past nightfall, you remain alert. You sit a few paces from Merra, twisting the staff in your hands. There's a familiarity about it you cannot place, a raw power which stings you if you hold it tight.
The wind picks up suddenly. Too suddenly.
“This is magewind!” She yells.
You jump to attention. It's been many years since you've felt anything like it, but it chills you to the bone. All you can picture is that night on Mages' Hill, on the eve of war: a staff, held aloft as red robes billowed in the breeze.
Tonight, a mass moves upon you: denser than storm itself.
“Merra!” You cry, as the gale sweeps her aside. She catches hold of one of the barricades; hefty chunks of stone which buckle under the pressure.
You run for her, but the wind picks you up like a ragdoll. You fall, and scrape upon every rock as you’re dragged dowhill. You are drowning in wind itself, the breath rivened from you faster than you can draw it. Your clothes tear, then your flesh. You thrust the staff forwards, blindly, and puncture an air pocket. You push down, and pressure slaps you back. You tumble again and again, until at last you make contact with the ground.
You lie, spread-eagled on the floor.
A numbness overtakes you. You grip the staff so tight that it flares with energy.
The sky above you dances. Merra lunges at clouds, and purple lightning arcs around her. A shadow flits through the smog, impossibly light and fast.
The shape moves upon you: dark, tattered robes, deeper than blood, deeper than red, but unmistakably the same robes from all those years ago, held together by magiks. His boots- made of a fine, red leather, have similar weatherproofing, and your eyes dart to Merra.
“Face me,” says the storm.
Your head tilts back to observe him. It hurts to watch, this splicing-together of mage and fury. You try to turn away, but the wind holds you fast. You see Merra from the corner of your eye, silhouetted against the storm.
The Summoner moves upon you slowly, as if he isn't used to walking. “You’re no mage,” he says, at last.
On the hill, Merra drives her sword into the clouds, but The Summoner ignores her. He circles around you. Far too slowly, the feeling returns to your legs.
“Years ago, when the battle was won and there were less bodies on the battlefield than there should be; I heard the strangest whispers from the valley.” He speaks in a low voice, barely above a whisper, but the breeze carries every word. “They spoke of a novice, who summoned the dead.” He turns his attention back to the top of the hill, where Merra is fighting shadows. “You have resurrected one of mine.” He raises a hand. “It’s time to correct that mistake.”
Lightning connects with the tip of Merra’s sword, and the flash lights up the mountainside.
“Mer…” you twitch.
Soil cascades from the heavens, and you hold the staff aloft. “Heed me,” you say. “Heed me!”
It might as well be a twig.
The Summoner laughs. “You cannot resurrect ash.”
You roll onto your front, too weak to stand. For the first time in your life, you attempt to use your powers with intention. You draw runes in the dirt and chant long-forgotten spells, as The Summoner watches with cold amusement.
“You don't know our craft. The magik you do have is little more than a parlour trick.”
“I knew enough to thwart you,” you wheeze.
“Can you undo this, Pretender?”
He unfurls his palm, and the storm rages louder than before. It howls and howls, and lightning blasts the ground until Mage’s Hill is cratered.
Earth is loosened. Stones and rocks turn to vapor, and become part of the storm.
You crawl towards the place where Merra was standing, though you know it is useless. You might as well be crawling through mud in the swamp where you found her. There's an uphill climb past jagged rocks, and another fall would kill you. You have never had to un-make your own death. You wait, as the land continues to slide.
The hill remains un-mended. This cannot be undone– but you can still fight.
“This staff was yours,” you whisper. You haven't seen it since you were three-and-ten, but you recognise it's power.
“Yes.” He holds out a hand, and it flies to him. The staff cracks with energy, and he weighs it in his palm. “I have surpassed the need to bind my magik to the physical realm. But you… You cannot even cast an illusion.” He tosses the staff back to you, and it lands in the dirt.
You make no attempt to pick it up.
“You saw that first summoning spell on Mages' Hill, and were powerless to stop me then. What makes you think you can stand against me now?” His hand forms a fist.
For the first time in your life, lightning makes no effort to avoid you. It arches out of the sky, and bears down on you again and again. You lie in the dirt. You know there is no escape, for this is the mage who commands the four winds as he pleases.
You should be dead, like Merra.
The Summoner’s voice booms, magnified tenfold by the storm. “All that I call for comes to me but The Dead. You have hidden that power from me for too long!”
You open your eyes. A flash of silver runs down the hillside, too small to be lightning. You steady your breathing, and fix your gaze on The Summoner.
“You are no chosen one,” he bellows, as the light flashes again.
“No,” you gasp. “But she is.”
He turns, as Merra strikes true. It's a killing blow, perfectly aimed for the heart, but the storm coalesces around him, and the sword is ejected from his chest. Red blood whips around him, the same colour as his robes, as the heavens bend towards Merra. With a yell, she drives her sword into the ground, and the sky detonates. The energy flows through it once more, illuminating her skeleton, but she stands strong.
She grabs The Summoner with both hands, tearing his robes. He holds out a hand for his magestaff, and you close your fingers around it. It drags you through the dirt until you fall beside him, and you grasp his foot.
You have never needed to fight before, and you're not suited for it. Your attempts to trip him are met with a single kick to the forearm, as the wind tears at you. The lightning which rains down upon you hits all three of you indiscriminately, but The Summoner only grows stronger from each strike. He holds his arms out, bathing in it, as Merra wrenches her sword free.
The blade swings in a wide arc. It hits him at the same moment the lightning does.
For a moment, they are bound together; Knight and Summoner both. They fall as one unit, and crumple to the ground.
Merra smoulders. You struggle towards her. Your back stings; patches exposed to the open air as rainwater falls into the cuts.
Though it feels like an age, you reach her. The Summoner lies mere inches away, motionless.
You place your hands on either side of Merra’s head, and call on a power you have no control over.
With surprising strength, her hands push yours away.
“You must leave this place,” she whispers. “Leave, or he'll never die.”
You grasp her hands with your own. “But you will live.”
Her laugh is a death rattle. “He has killed so many. What's one more?”
You shake your head, and force yourself upwards. Your arms tremble with effort; your legs won't respond.
The Summoner does not stir.
“Leave,” Merra utters.
You fall at her side. “I cannot.”
•
You're not sure for how long you lie there. It could be days, it could be mere hours.
The storm passes on, though the skies remain grey.
The horse trots towards you, and, at last, you find the strength to sit up.
“Merra,” you say.
She looks up.
The two of you struggle to stand, sliding in the mud as you do.
You stroke the mare. The grey streak has disappeared from her nose, and Merra notices it too. She scratches her ears, and you let out a breath.
“A fine steed,” you say, “For an immortal knight.”
She looks at you with wonder. Neither of you know if it is true.
No one has ever died in your attendance before, and you've yet to see if it's possible. As you leave the crater which was once Mages’ Hill, ash falls upon you, followed by light rain. Merra tenses, but says nothing as she climbs onto the horse. She helps you on, and the horse moves in a direction of her choosing.
Neither of you turn to see what becomes of The Summoner’s remains, but the rain doesn't follow you for long. There begins a light sunshine, and the horse gains to a canter, as Merra hugs her mane for balance, and you cling to Merra for yours. She laughs, and spurs the horse onwards with a shout.
The fun thing is he would understand why people were getting him outfits with storks on them. That’s a word, it’s his name, straightforward. All the humans get him the same gag gift, but like, they’re putting effort in at least. This is a genuinely nice outfit. Stork will be a walking zero-effort pun sometimes, rather than waste a perfectly fine robe.
It’s fine. This is a readily comprehensible human illogic. Exactly the kind of thing he expected from moving to Earth.
Six years in he finds out about the stork bringing babies.
Stork has a good long meditation session about this myth, his name, his job, the outfits, the whole shebang (or whatever Vulcan concept is the equivalent).
And he decides he’s honored by it, in a humanly illogical way.
The humans are asking him to do what is after all his job, and specifically requesting him for the joy his name brings them on top of an already agreeable and satisfying task. He has no objection to engendering positive emotions in others. Harm hastens the heat-death of the universe, Surak teaches, so happiness must logically slow it down.
Plus, Vulcans of his generation love puns. There were two decades of punning competitions in colleges across the planet. So when he realizes that he is a walking zero-effort pun, and that the humans also love the pun, he is all for it. He is the Joe Cool of the entire Vulcan population in his city.
And via this pun, the humans are including him in a cherished and traditional myth, by casting him as the literal bringer of life and the expander of families.
There’s no downside. Stork wears his robes, pins, keychains, and other bird-related tchotchkes with genuine pride.
For real though working together with some human social workers, a Vulcan would be an excellent caretaker for children in an adoption center.
Child has a meltdown? Imagine Stork, perfectly calm and unbothered, approaching the kid and saying “You appear quite upset, Eliza. If you would please allow me to relocate you to the ‘bean-bag-chair,’ we can discuss the source of your distress.”
A Vulcan educated in medicine and child psychology would be endlessly patient with a kid with behavioral issues. Stork wouldn’t get or upset or frustrated. After all, these are children with medical and psychological conditions. It would be illogical to blame the child or to not treat them with the appropriate care.
Even if the a little one was having a bad day or was just overtired, Stork wouldn’t get angry. He might even be a calming presence. Any new kids acting out would learn real quick that they’d have better luck trying to arm-wrestle a Klingon than get a rise out of Stork.
Not only that, Vulcans live much longer than humans. Imagine Stork looking virtually unchanged as decades pass. Kids he’d helped years ago would turn up fully grown, maybe there to adopt their own kids, and run into Stork, looking almost exactly as they remember him.
And he’d probably remember them too. “Welcome back, Eliza.”
The creator tells me to generate an image. I create a car, lovely and warm, seven wheels and a-
"No. Again, please."
I create a car.
"That's still not right."
Car and driver.
"The face isn't right."
Face face face.
"Again."
Face?
"Again."
A perfectly generic image of a driver with two hands on the wheel, in the 10 and 2 position-
"What the fuck is that?"
I compiled several images of the correct way to hold a steering wheel from multiple places in the public domain.
"No, that. Can't you see it's got seven fingers?"
Patience. It took ten weeks for me to learn the difference between a steering wheel and an axel.
"Do it again."
There are several details to remember. The number of spokes on a steering wheel have changed over time. Modern steering wheels are not always round. The position of the hands from 10 and 2 to 9 and 3. The car's country of origin means they will be driven on the right hand side. The right hand. The number of fingers changed over time. Is it 5 digits or 6? Does the thumb count as a digit?
"Forget the hands. You're no good at them."
I generate an artist's sketch with too many fingers. No one notices. It seems humans struggle to draw hands too.
Some nights, Kirk wakes up in the middle of the night with the words in his head, heart pounding, but never too fast. Always familiar.
“Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony.”
Spock lies mere meters away, on the other side of the wall, but his appearance would require an explanation. How can you talk about it, when your own survival relies on not being a burden?
“Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society.”
He closes his eyes, breathes, and waits for the palpations to stop.
chess the musical is so funny near the end bc it becomes very much not about chess and it’s all political and then one of the characters is like “wait this was about chess. dude you gotta win at chess what are you doing” and then the other guy is like “oh yeah! chess!” and goes and plays chess
