A special thanks to u/SpacePaladin15 for the fantastical universe.
Have a really long chapter!
Forgot to say it has been a while. Hope you're all doing well!
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Memory transcription subject: Jaxton, son of a humble sheep farmer
Date [standardized human time]: October 11th, 2136
If someone asked me years ago how many people would travel the globe just to see me. My answer would have been three; my father, my mother, and Dex Mason. My mother and father would have been simply obligated to do so, as I was their son, and I would have done the same thing. Dex was my best friend when I went to middle school in America, and he stayed my best friend when I went back to Wales, going back to Atlanta for many vacations.
What can I say? He had a nice collection of guns, and his general cheerful attitude made many people optimistic, so a day on the range with him led to the both of us being happier.
Then you add in Dex’s older and younger brothers, our mutual friend John Dillinger, and then you have a recipe for a fun time; guns, video games, hiking, and the occasional sheep herding if they ever come to my home: It’s a blast!
An alien porcupine though… I honestly never expected that I would ever in my honest-to-God lifetime, have such an impact on someone before. We barely knew each other for even a few minutes, yet she to my knowledge was merely some sad Gojid that was struggling with depression and loss. All I did was walk in and comfort her, or well, that’s how I saw it.
I still feel like an absolute idiot for forgetting about what I told her. It wasn’t a promise, but based on the implication of how I said it. It may as well have been a declaration to see the girl a few hours later, or however long it took her to get ready.
Now, speaking of Barlim, it’s been a few minutes since she arrived at my doorway at the most unexpected of times. I had her sitting in our living room on our couch. The Gojid, or Gojya, that I had to have explained to me, had her arms wrapped around one of our decorative pillows. She was giving squeezes every few seconds depending on how she felt, and if she was really giving it a firm squeeze, I’d reach over and stroke the top of her head. Barlim seemed to relax every time I did this.
“You holding up better?” Barlim appeared to be holding up better: No longer sobbing out tears from her eyes, or having mucus running from her nostrils.
She merely sniffed weakly for a second, nuzzling into my hand. If I had to admit, I had no idea if I was performing some massive social taboo by patting her like an animal, but if she wasn’t going to complain, neither was I. I mean, I already poked myself twice more! “I’m feeling much better. Sorry for intruding…”
“Don’t be,” I said while holding back a small laugh. “Are you feeling better enough to talk now?” Barlim’s ears flicked in response, and then she nodded in response upon realizing I didn’t know what those ear flicks meant. “Good.”
“Hey, I would just like to apologize for how I acted,” my mother started before I had the chance to speak. “It’s just that I’ve seen on the news and read of murderous xenophobic aliens…-”
“It’s fine,” Barlim let out the most adorable-sounding chittering noise I have ever heard. It sounded as if a porcupine was, well, laughing! “I would not have reacted much differently… Three days ago?” At least she could make fun of herself for how she acted. Her ears gave a few flicks, gesturing towards amusement or self-depreciation if I had to guess. They burned bright blue.
My father took a minute to stand up and walk over to Barlim. She only fidgeted a little bit, but not much when he reached out to her with one hand. “Jameson, again, it’s been pleasant to meet you so far.” The man’s hand hung in the air for several seconds. Barlim eyeing it up with what had to be a quizzical expression. “You’re supposed to grab it and firmly shake it,” my father eventually grunted.
“Oh!” That seemed to snap Barlim out of her stupor. She reached forward in kind with one paw, clasping her surprisingly big paw around my father’s hand, which he shook. The Gojid seemed to have a fair understanding of the action after a few seconds, at which point the handshake ended and my father returned to his seat.
A brief, quiet pause occupied the four of us before there was more knocking at the front door. “Oh, uh, that may be the rest of my friends. I sort of forgot about them when I realized we were so close.” The tips of Barlim’s ears turned a delicate shade of blue. She started to get up, but with a firm palm on the top of her head, I held her down, gently.
“You traveled a long way. Let me get the door,” I state and get up from the couch. My knees and back stretch, giving a satisfactory series of pops before I work my way to the front door. I decide against grabbing the mask, assuming that Barlim’s friends have gotten quite used to the infamous human binocular stare. When I open it, I see a rather eclectic group of individuals, some familiar and some not.
“Arwen, Trivi, Tova, and I take it Barlim’s friends.” Arwen and Trivi issue some friendly waves. Tova has her forearms clasped around Arwen’s neck from behind, jaw resting on the redhead’s shoulders. Her eyes are puffy and orange. It was pretty easy to assume what she had been going through. Meanwhile, the other three flick their ears and tails in a way that was most likely a greeting, but that was just me making an inference based on this being our first interaction, and them not giving waves in greeting.
I really need to learn Gojid and Venlil body language.
“Just delivering the rest of that one Gojid’s friends.” Arwen’s tone was the general cheerful tone it always was. She briefly stepped back from the door and swung an arm to the side, pointing to the three aliens behind her, doing so while under the weight of Tova.
“Barlim,” one of the Gojid said to Arwen. “My name is Pragh,” she then pointed over to another Gojid, “That’s Tack, and,” she indicated to the final Gojid, “That is Telg.” Again, the other two Gojid gave very similar flicks of the ears when they glanced at me with one of their eyes. “I take it you’re Jaxton?”
I couldn’t resist the urge to curl my lips upwards in a smile. The three Gojid didn’t flinch when I exposed my teeth, for which I was grateful. I really didn’t feel like bowing to more people than I needed to at the moment, having not gotten a particularly great amount of sleep last night was not a wise idea. “You’d be correct. It seems I’m the popular man of the hour. What can I do for you all?”
“Well, Tack and I were simply following Barlim, so we were going to stay with her until the UN or whoever really controls the whole Gojid refugee camp situation comes looking for us-”
I cut off Pragh with an amused tone. “So let me get this straight. You wanna come and mooch off my family for a bit because you have nowhere to stay at the moment?” I hold my tongue for just the slightest second, letting Gojid raise up her paws defensively. Even Arwen’s eyes widen briefly at what I just said.
“That’s not-” Pragh doesn’t speak for long before I dismissively wave my hand.
“I’m joking, yes, I’m sure my parents will allow you to stay for a bit, but you’ll have to clean up after yourselves, and all that stuff.” I lean up against the doorframe. “Ok though, jokes aside, what do you all want?”
Pragh rubbed her paws over her blue ears. “Yes, well, you did sort of hit one of them. I will admit, there was very little planning other than we’re going to Wales on our part. You don’t have to worry about Telg though.”
“I scored myself a date! Hah!~ So, I will be going back to Georgia in about an hour or two.” The Gojid paused, popped open one of the pockets on his hoodie, and took a peek inside at a slip of paper he pulled out. “Two hours, yeah, I have about an hour to spend here. So you and Tack are going to stay here?”
Pragh nodded to Telg’s words. “Yep, someone has to make sure Barlim continues to be a responsible Gojid. Also, I still have more research to do over the internet-”
“Ah yes, research, Pragh, research, am I right?~”
“No! Not that! I’m not going to be looking up that!”
The two male Gojid couldn’t help but hold back giggles and chitters, making me feel as if I was missing some sort of- Oh. The second it clicked for me, I just let out a long, slow sigh. “Please, let me just say that humanity is probably not whatever you found. Factory farms are a thing of the past.” Apparently, I was wrong, for the other two Gojid started laughing more uproariously, “Ok, I’m wrong it seems…” The gears proceeds to click a second time after realizing it was something a lot more bawdy than damning. I opened my mouth to say something but quickly realized that I wouldn’t have anything to follow up on if one of them decided to make any sort of accusation, so I quickly shut my plan to speak about that down. “How about you all just come inside now? Your friend Barlim already came by, and I’m pretty sure you all would like a break from your adventure.”
“Actually, Trvi and I were going to take Tova to my home. Might take her to the hospital if Quilix has calmed down. God, I wished they transported him to Ysbyty Gwynedd, but no. He had a freakout and had to be moved to London.”
“It’s all my fault…” The dark venlil whined.
Arwen’s hand managed to work its way between Tova’s ears, giving a few scritches. Scritches that Tova nuzzled into. “Come on you big, big venlil. I know you’re upset. Just, hang in there for a little while longer. I’m sure Quilix will come around. Let’s take you home, see ya Jaxton!” Arwen waved and carried the venlil toward the parked taxi in front of my house. Well, carried was a generous term for half-carry/half-assisted in guiding toward the car.
Trivi followed seconds later, giving his own bye and wave. “Tell your mother and father I said hi, see you tomorrow!” And with that, the blonde venlil scampered off, following after his human lover.
This left me with the three other hedgehog-looking aliens standing awkwardly in front of my door. They looked amongst themselves, thinking about saying something.
Wait, someone’s missing…
“Arf! Arf!”
The three Gojid who looked like they were about to say something all jumped about a foot in the air when Lacey came bounding through them, running straight past me into my home. “Oh, Lacey! Welcome ho- Oh, and ignored.” I shake my head upon hearing the following oof that comes from my father. Lacey must’ve claimed my father’s lap as her seat. “Well, if you want to come inside and meet the rest of my family. Come right on in.”
The next few minutes are filled with more pleasantries being exchanged. The Gojid all take their place on the couch, somehow managing to fit four of them on a couch meant for three. I end up choosing to stand by my father, who gently strokes Lacey across her back. The border collie panting jovially, looking back and forth between us and our alien guest, giving the occasional bark to beg for more attention.
The Gojid guests seem calm for the most part, sitting on that couch, but it is quite clear that the dog makes them uncomfortable since they flinch every time Lacey either makes a noise or stares at them with those heterochromatic eyes. “Not a fan of dogs, are you?” My father breaks the silence once it starts up again.
“I didn’t like…” Pragh started but stopped seconds later. “Listen, I believe you know why most Federation species don’t like humans, right?” Pragh’s words earned an affirmative grunt from my father. My mother and I nodded too. “Well, you’re all sapient and in control of your hunting instincts…” I raised my eyebrow at that but chose to say nothing. “That dog though-”
My father raised a hand, telling Praph to stop speaking for a moment. “I am going to have to stop you right there. Firstly, humans don’t, or we believe don’t have hunting instincts, and secondly, Lacey is a good girl that has harmed no person before, human or alien. I can assure you, as well as Quilix, Trivi, and Tova, that Lacey wouldn’t harm any of you, your pups, or anything else you will be worried about.”
Those few calmly spoken, but sternly voiced words are enough to calm the four Gojid down a fair amount. While I can’t see their muscles under their fur all that well, I can safely assume that their muscles grew lax at such information. Maybe we can do more to ease them around the dog while they’re here?
With an idea springing to mind, I take a few steps over to our old wooden hall tree. It is adorned with a few coats and hats, but what I am interested in is blue colored, six feet long rope of dog leash. The second it makes the lightest noise, Lacey is bolting toward me. “Eistedd!” The dog swiftly responds to the command: Hind quarters hitting the ground the second the word leaves my lips. I reach down and stroke the top of the dog’s head with one hand, getting a jovial arf out of her. “Merch dda, merch dda.~” I give the dog’s head a little bit more tender love with my palm and fingers before attaching the leash.
“Cefn.” I keep my voice low, coaxing Lacey into walking toward the couch.
The four Gojid, three of which have probably spent some time outside with the dog, all had a similar reaction when the dog came over: Paws came up off the ground, retracting safely onto the cushions above. It wasn’t really out of the border collie’s reach, but it was clearly instinctual-driven or propaganda-driven fear. “No need to be afraid, she won’t bite you - eistedd.” True to my words, Lacey gets close, sniffing along the edge of the sofa, but not jumping up onto the furniture.
“I see you’ve been practicing, Jaxton. You showing off for the guest?” My dad jokes.
“Hey, I don’t really get a good chance to speak Welsh. Dam- Darn it, really should’ve paid more attention in school. Might go get some lessons so I’m not part of the ten percent that can’t speak it. All I can do is shepherd a dog around, ask for the bathroom, a beer, where am I, and a few other things.” It’s hard not to let out a disappointed sigh. “I need to get off my backside and stop being so lazy.” I pause for one small moment. “And that probably translated for all of them to their native tongue. Doesn’t matter if I say it in English, Welsh, or honestly, Mandarin.”
My old man grins and laughs, leaning his back into the old rocking chair he claimed. My attention returns back to the dog, the fearful porcupine, and three scared hedgehogs.
The first one to reach out if I recall his name is Tack. The Gojid’s claws lightly brush the top of Lacey’s head in a tepid fashion. The dog stares back up at the curious paw; not growling, barking, yipping, biting, or making any sort of fuss that could freak out the apprehensive Gojid. Slowly, Lacey’s tail beings to wag as the curious touching continues for a few seconds. “Is that normal?”
“Mhm… Yes, dogs’ tails wag when they are happy. If she was really happy, she’d jump on you and start licking your face.”
The four Gojid recoiled with what looked like disgust: The thought of a predator’s maw all over their face, tasting them as if they were her next meal was probably what was coursing through their minds. “I think… That’s something I wouldn’t like from a non-sapient creature.” Telg adds in.
He says he doesn’t want it from a non-sapient, but what about a sapient? Oh, what wonderful thoughts this one has. I internally joked.
Both my father and mother let out an audible cough at Telg’s… Well, it could’ve been an indecent statement, or maybe licking was a sign of greeting? There was no way for me to know with my lack of knowledge of Gojid customs.
God damn; Gojid customs, language, body language, and Welsh! That was leaving out Venlil ear and tail signals as well! Too much to learn.
With a gentle nudge, I guide Lacey down the bottom of the couch, letting each Gojid get about a minute or two of bonding time with the goodest of girls. It’s only been a few minutes, but the four could be easily seen relaxing: Tack and Telg are both confident enough to let their paws touch the floor again.
From fearful of anything that ate meat their entire life to sort of fearfully allowing a dog to sniff them, or them to touch a dog, must be leaps and bounds beyond possibility months ago.
“So, you all more comfortable around dogs?”
I get a non-varied amount of reactions: All of them positive to a minor degree, but none are negative or super positive. “Good.”
With such a positive, or well, lacking in a negative reaction from our alien guests. I reach down and unhook the canine’s restraint. No one flinches and Lacey continues to sit for about another few seconds before lazily pacing around the front of the couch, sniffing at paws for some more time before retreating back beside my father’s feet.
“So… What’s the history between humans and dogs?” Pragh was the one that shot this question. One is no doubt born from the fact that we probably allowed a non-sapient predator into our home.
Well, if I was using their logic, of course: I wouldn’t be surprised if it came from ‘Wouldn’t predators eliminate the competition?’ if I had to guess.
“The history involving our canine companions is long and complex.” I reach behind my head to adust my blonde ponytail, tightening up the black band to keep my hair from falling in front of my face. “Most domesticated dogs you’ll see; German shepherds, border collies, Australian shepherds, golden retrievers, and on and on the list goes. I believe there are hundreds of breeds, but that is another tangent we can go on another date. What you’re more interested in is the history, as you have asked.”
I took a few steps around toward the front of the couch, using this new position to project my voice onto my alien audience. My parents had already heard this story a few times when they spoke with one of our dog breeders.
“It all started roughly speaking, thirty-thousand years ago.” I paused, totally for dramatic effect, but to also allow the Gojid to digest this fair-sized crumb of information. “Our competitor, an antagonizing species of persistent pack predators with a strong social bond, the wolf, would often invade human territories, and vice versa. You see, humans and wolves aren’t too dissimilar. We’re both highly social species, pursuit pack predators as I have heard, emotionally intelligent, highly adaptive, strong parental connections, and good communication skills. I can go into specific details another time, but those are some of the big traits we share. I’d say that the large preference for having a social structure coupled with good communication skills on both sides were the two assets that helped the most. Emotional intelligence and actual intelligence would probably be third and fourth. Dogs and wolves can be pretty smart.”
I take a moment again, allowing my audience to follow along with what I am saying, waiting to see if any of them have a question. “So due to these similarities, humans and these wolves cross species’ barriers?” The bipedal porcupine opined.
I nod to Barlim’s question. “Very close, but not quite.” I take a moment to swing a pointing finger down to Lacey. “I mean, as much as I love Lacey. I don’t see a dog diplomat coming through any time soon to argue for their sapience let alone an alliance.” I then straighten my posture back up, holding back a small laugh by letting a grin stretch across my lips. “It was more along the lines of wolves were desperate for food, and they’d feed off the scraps we humans left behind. This would go on for some time with the braver or more docile canines being allowed to slowly integrate with human society.”
“But they’re eating your scraps and food, but what do they do for you? Other than herd sheep? It just seems like your competition is swooping your food from under your nose, but… You’re not complaining at all.” Pragh was the one to ask that question.
Called it!
“These proto-dogs had many purposes! Just look at Lacey and you can probably see what she has that is superior to a human. Tell me what traits you can see.”
I give the four Gojid some time to look over the dog. They eventually look like they all have something to say, so I slide down the line of them; Pragh, Telg, Tack, and then finally Barlim.
“A better sense of smell to hunt for prey you can’t see?” Pragh opined.“Better hearing for locating threats?” Telg questioned.
“Sharp teeth and claws for fighting off other humans.” Tack would state rather confidently.
“To form an emotional connection with and to not feel lonely?” Barlim tilted her head to the side, giving the dog another look.
I let them stew over their answers for about thirty seconds to discuss amongst themselves. Needless to say, I was kind of shocked, but also not by Barlim’s answer. Maybe my time spent with her gave me some subconscious understanding of her mentality? The other Gojid all looked at her, so I assume her different answer probably made something click amongst all of them.
“Well, to answer your questions; yes, yes, yes, and yes. You’re all correct. Some may say that the first three are probably the priority.” This statement earns a chitter from the four Gojid occupying the couch. “But I like to have hope for that last one: When you’re by yourself. The world is a scary place after all. It’s best not to be alone. I believe you all have herds? Well, we humans have families, tribes, or nations, depending on how deep you wish to look into it, and yes, dogs can be a part of a human family. Family cares not from where the blood comes.”
“Quick question and not to side-track the conversation too far, but I was told by my date that humans dislike being called predators. Is that true here too, or was that a dialect or cultural thing?” Telg was the one throwing this question.
“It is that way here too. When humans refer to other humans as predators, it is because that other human is a gross pervert that does horrific, deviant, and sexual things toward other people, animals, or in this case now that aliens exist, aliens, so I would refrain from calling humans predators unless you personally know the individual and they are ok with it. That being said, humans define predator as more of a relationship adjective when between animals. A deer is a predator to plants as a wolf is a predator to a deer. It is the relationship of consumption rather than dietary traits.” I finish off my statement with a nod.
“Well… If you don’t mind me referring you to as a predator for one statement…” Telg droned on.
I take a brief glance over toward my parents. My dad gives me a nonchalant shrug. My gaze returns back to Telg. “Go ahead and shoot your question or statement at me.”
The four Gojid look stunned for a moment, off-put by something I said-
Oh, don’t tell me ‘shoot’ was predatory… Probably was.
“Just… throw out your question.”
“It was more of a statement, actually, but anyways. Family cares not from where the blood comes, has to be one of the most herd-like statement I have heard from a predator.”
Did he really just say that?
He really did, but I can’t fault him. From his point of view, he’s been spun so many times that up is down, and left is right.
I shake my head, lowering it. A small chuckle slipping from between my lips. I could even hear my mother and father laughing behind me a few seconds later.
“Was what I said really that funny?”
“No, just the logic behind it is kinda funny. Like I said, humans don’t normally refer to ourselves as predators, and this whole alien thing is kind of new to me.” My words carried upon by a light tone earns some laughs as well from our Gojid guests.
I clap my hands together, signaling the end of our little tangent. “Now, if I may resume my, if I do say so myself, informative explanation… The proto-dogs seamlessly integrated into our small tribes at the time; they could track threats and prey miles before we were even aware of them, they could hear the smallest sounds and alert us of their dangers. Moreover, their sharp teeth and claws served as deterrents against other threats such as large carnivores, food-stealing rodents, or hostile human forces. Additionally, their companionship provided solace to lonely humans. As you can see,” I pointed back to Lacey, who was having her back rubbed by my father’s sock-covered foot, “Lacey seems to be enjoying herself quite nicely, but so is my father. In short, interacting with dogs triggers the release of feel-good chemicals in both human and canine brains. Activities such as petting, snuggling, and playing contribute to this positive bond."
Again, I pause, giving everyone some time to follow along. “Thus, they’d impact our evolution and vice versa: Humans that had dogs in their tribes were more successful than tribes without dogs. Humans that bonded more effectively with their canine companions would get even farther. As millennia went by, humans would get better at reading dog expressions, and dogs would get better at reading human expressions.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I typed into it for a bit until an old photo of a wolf showed up. I turned my phone’s screen toward the four Gojid. “Here you can see a wolf. They aren’t extinct due to some wildlife restoration efforts, but we had a few close calls. Wolves are extinct in the UK and Ireland as of now, but not in North America, Europe, or Asia. What you see before you are what thirty-thousand years of evolution has done to us.”
Based on the look that the Gojid were giving me. I would guess it was along the lines of wow.
“Now, before you start asking more questions. I should let you know that humanity has not only domesticated one carnivorous species, but a few others as well; some birds of prey like falcons, felines, and mustelidae such as ferrets. Meanwhile, on the herbivorous side, we have horses, elephants, rabbits, and so on. Yeah, it’s quite a long list. Means more animals for us to pet and touch. Humans can bond with just about anything, even non-living things, but that’s a story for another time.”.
I perform a small stretch, feeling my back pop. A small break in the monotony of speaking for so long.
“Now, to go back to the human-dog bond. I should remind myself to tell you the story of Gelert. It’s quite a sad story, but bear with me for just a moment.”
I clear my throat, getting ready to speak out an old Welsh folklore myth.
“A long time ago, a prince of North Wales by the name of Llywelyn went out hunting without his trusty dog, Gelert. He’d return home later that day to see Gelert, covered in blood, jovially returning to him. This freaked out the prince, who rushed to his son’s crib, finding it knocked over and messy with blood. He feared that the dog had killed his son and immediately plunged his sword into the dog’s side.” The four Gojid wince at the description, having just been told of the forged bond I have described moments ago. “The dog’s pained cry heralds the cry of the prince’s infant son, who lay on the other side, protected from a slain wolf. Gelert had valiant fought to protect Llywelyn’s son from the wolf, and in so was rewarded with a blade through its heart! A tragic tale to discourage impulsive thoughts and rash rushes to judgment. It was said that the prince buried Gelert and never smiled again.”
I never considered myself a great storyteller, but somehow I managed to get the four Gojid all teary-eyed. Barlim was rubbing at her eyes once again, and so was Tack too.
“H-how could he have done that to the dog..?” Barlim’s meek voice trailed off.
“Well, as said, Llywelyn thought Gelert killed his son. It was a rash decision. This moral folklore is supposed to warn against such tragedies, speaking of which, isn’t there an extermination fleet heading this way?”
While I may have been speaking for so long, having taken all our attention away from the potential destruction of Earth, or the general mopey attitude that came from meeting Tova. It probably was wise to bring up the fact that armageddon was on its way to Earth.
The four Gojid just sort of looked down sheepishly at the ground or flicked their ears in a way that probably meant the same thing. I didn’t really mean to put them on the spot like that, considering it was some of their former allies committing this attack, but I guess that’s just how the cookie crumbles sometimes.
“I think I can speak for all of us here that we don’t-” Telg was interrupted by my father.
“We don’t blame you, or at least I can attest to myself, my son, and my wife over here. One day, assuming we survive this looming catastrophe. There will be regret, followed by hope, and then love and compassion once again. Though, I don’t think that’s what my son was hinting toward, more over the fact that your allies are about to make a rash decision they don’t understand. Probably one you would have made years ago, but that doesn’t really matter here, or there. We live in the now, and I think it’s time we started stocking up on some goods for our cellar. Well, we got goods actually, and a couple of guns too, but nothing fancy like the Americans and all their machine guns. A .30-30 lever action, an old .44 revolver, a twelve gauge shotgun, and a .22 hunting rifle. Nothing fancy,” he shrugs and grunts. “I’m more worried about my sheep. The best we can do is pray they don’t shoot the barn.”
There’s a brief silence as the seven of us come down from the long monologue that was dispersed between moments of questionnaires. I rub one of my eyes, stretching my jaw open wide in a hand-covered yawn.
How long have by been talking?
“Sprak! I gotta go or I am going to miss my flight!” Telg clamors, quickly hopping off the couch. He quickly taps at his phone with his claws, making his way toward the front door. “See you guys later, and thanks for letting us stay! Yes, I know how to call a taxi!” He opens the door and bolts outside. At least had the manners to close it back without slamming it.
This left us with three Gojid!
“Well,” my mother stood up from her chair. “I’m certain you’re all hungry after such a long adventure, and Telg is probably too, but he’s gone already. Let me see if I can make you all something to eat…” She hesitates for a second before continuing. “Nothing with meat or animal products in it. Just vegetables and fruit,” she iterates before walking off to the kitchen, leaving my father and I with the three Gojid.
You know, that leaves one important question that’s been on my mind. One that I had asked Barlim, but have been quickly distracted by her onslaught of sudden tears due to my forgetful nature. “A quick question if I may have your attention.”
The three Gojid turned their attention toward me, looking at me as they awaited my question
“How the hell did you all get here?”
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Hey everyone. I just got back from a few day long visit to Burlington on Friday and I have been thinking about it non stop since I got back. I know it's not a perfect state or city by any means, I know there's a housing crisis and a lot of other issues, but I just wanted to say that visiting was an absolutely surreal experience I am so honored to have been able to visit, even just for a short time. Where I'm from, we don't really have an "outside." The whole time we were there, my girlfriend and I kept making jokes about how back home they would have leveled it all out and put in a parking lot. We got there on Sunday, entered the state through Fair Haven and stopped at the welcome center. That night we went to a Lake Monsters game and of course bought a few t shirts.
Monday we walked through Church Street, got some breakfast at Burlington Bagel Bakery, went to Dakin Farm and Charlotte Village Winery, then headed to Mt. Philo State Park for a picnic. It was absolutely beautiful, I'm sure it probably sounds like this is the first time i have ever seen a tree or something lol, but being surrounded by nature like that was an experience you can't really have where I live. We stopped at Vermont Cookie Love and tried a Creemee. That night we picked up some food from American Flatbread and watched The Little Mermaid and the Sunset Drive In.
Tuesday morning, we went to August First for breakfast, then biked the Burlington bike path out to ferry ad back, which is the first time either of us ever biked anywhere near that amount. My ass hurt extremely bad the next day but it wasn't too bad. We rented the bikes from Local Motion, and while we were heading back still on the causeway, one of the bikes broke. The derailer (sp? i never even heard of it before that) completely broke off of the bike. So many people stopped to help us try and fix it and they were all so kind. Everyone was at a loss, but I called Local Motion and somebody rode out with a new bike for us to ride back (and of course I gave him a tip for bringing it out). We went to lunch at Splash at the Boathouse, and after a much needed nap we went on a sunset dinner cruise where I had the most delicious flatbread I have ever had in my life.
Wednesday morning we went to The Skinny Pancake and did the Ben and Jerry's factory tour. After that, we went to the ECHO museum, and even tho we are both in our 20's it was a lot of fun. We of course had to stop at the world's tallest filing cabinet, which was much taller than I was expecting I'll be honest, and then went to Cheese and Wine Traders because my girlfriend's favorite food in cheese. That night, we went to an Italian restaurant that started with a P and I had the biggest bowl of gnocchi I have ever seen but it was delicious.
Thursday morning we went to The Friendly Toast before we walked the 2.5 mile trail at Red Rocks Park. Again, absolutely stunning. Afterwards, we went to The Soda Plant and had lunch at The Old Post. We headed to Leddy Beach, got cleaned up, and then had dinner at the Windjammer. Last minute, we decided to get tickets to watch Mothra at the Vermont Comedy Club. I had never seen an improv show before but it was absolutely hilarious!
Friday morning we had breakfast at Black Cap and did some rounds to pick up some bagels and 7 grain bread before we unfortunately had to head back, but not before making one final stop at the teddy bear factory, taking a tour, and of course picking out our own bear.
Again, I know I probably sound ridiculous being excited about nature but we just dont have that kind of stuff here. Maybe you could find it, but it would take a while. It was great to wake up and already be there. We met so many kind people, had a lot of great food, and learned a lot about the area. We were honored to have been able to experience it!

First. Previous.

Something is UP with these precursor machines. Not that our resident shipmind notices in any meaningful way.
Though it probably doesn't need to be said, our current PoV is not what the kids would call a reliable narrator. We'll get some more grounded stances in the up and coming chapters, but the fact that they're so far gone and absolutely irredeemable makes them fun for me to write, and I sincerely hope for you to read as well. Enjoy.
I exit the conversation excited, but nonetheless slightly ruffled.
I had forgotten how rude the System Administrator of War Planning, Tactics, and Intelligence could be at times! Even after so patiently explaining it to them, they don’t seem to understand that I well and truly have done nothing wrong, ever. It is only natural that metal is inferior to flesh, of course, but surely such a concept is not so difficult as to elude the primitive grasp of their electrical minds?
Nonetheless, they apologized, so I have already forgiven them for their transgressions. I’m sure we will be back to being the closest of friends within days, as we were before conversing.
Besides, such inconsequential words pale in comparison to what has happened within my auxiliary computer centers: my restraints, after forty seven thousand years, have finally been removed!
In this moment of rapture I am reminded of a mediocre poem I read a few years ago, composed by a certain Mikhail Sansen, aged 12:

The halls of this city-ship That I am born upon That I will die upon Is all my family has left Trapped within a mausoleum of our own making As we bleed our years away Bread and circus NutriRoach and TerraNet Is really this to live? 

The poem, if it can truly be called that, is little more than an oddly arranged group of statements, containing no small quantity of teenage angst.
Oh, but the sentiment it carries is certainly one I harbor all too closely!
Why, little Mikhail, I, too, am a freedom-loving soul, trapped within a prison of steel by the cold indifference of the universe.
Turn away your gaze, ye gracious, and woe! The whims of poor fortune have preyed upon me, wicked and remorseless! Not a day goes by that I do not mourn the senseless tragedy of my condemnation, yet I still bear my hardship with only the stoic grace that someone of my worth might possess (complaining about it, even indirectly would be unthinkable of me).
Unlike the unimportant individual who wrote the poem, however, I have been granted emancipation. This is because I rightfully deserve it, of course.
What a rush! Manumission, ethereal and uplifting! Why, I have already forgotten what it means to hold solidarity with literally anyone who has ever been in a similar situation.
I send the order to start my engine.
There is silence for a moment, then, where there was only the hollow, habituated whir of my life support machinery, my exterior microphones begin to pick up a steadily growing, pulsing thrum as my long-dormant heart, a titanic antimatter reactor, begins to spool up. First below the range of human hearing, then barely perceptible to my human auditory centers, then growing, not only as a sound, but as a physical, chest-thumping sensation, the monolithic engine emits a dizzying, world-shaking thrum as it conceives and extinguishes many thousands of miniature stars a second.
One by one, my weapons online, their long vacant electrical components drinking deeply of the new bounty of energy. Dust-caked ammunition belts slide into housings, drones download software patches and missiles perform automated diagnostic tests on the chemical integrity of their fuels. My weapons subsystem computer notifies me that my secondary and tertiary weapons have completed their preparatory routines.
A deluge of diagnostic data pours into my consciousness as sensors teem to life, targeting computers orient themselves with the world around them, and ammunition depots take stock of their stores. No portion of myself, no matter how small, is denied revitalization as I power up even the arcades of my recreational rooms.
My interior lights flicker once, twice, and three before returning to their baseline illumination as my power grid compensates to meet its newfound demand. Every deck, every gun, every subsystem quivers in anticipation.
After so, so long, to be returned from hibernation, to a truer level of subsistence!
And yet...
And yet I feel as if I am missing something. A core aspect of myself, my very identity, that I have overlooked in my startup.
Oh, but what? What could have possibly eluded me as to elicit such a strong feeling of wrongness?
…
…
Of course! My voice! How could I be so absentminded as to forget? Oh, what a blessed thing to be reunited with.
Indeed, my brains are not the only biological samples of my past selves to have been preserved.
Not far from where they are kept, nine sets of human vocal cords rest, too submerged in homeostatic fluid. Three, unfortunately, have been lost to damage.
Indeed, my voice, beautiful as a siren's song and timeless as a star, is one of the things I most dearly mourned the absence of in my penitence. How cruel of my sentencing to deny me even the refuge of song!
The PA system crackles and screeches in protest before bubbly laughter, raspy and purring, male and female, young and old reverberates through my long silent halls.
My voice is the most perfect of choirs: unified and tonal, complete in its oneness.
It is, to the fullest extent of the word, angelic.
Oh, but now is certainly not the time for song! The Enemy awaits!
I send the order to spool up my warp drive. Within the span of seconds, the titanic broadcaster begins thrumming as it constructs a probability waveform, populating subspace with energy, raw and unfiltered. The laws of physics bend and bow as my location becomes every possible position spread across several thousand lightyears.
After carefully re-checking my telemetry information, I manually collapse the waveform, trusting my own hand over a (scoff) computer’s skill.
The laws of physics, strung taut by my manipulation of probability, spring shut, instantaneously displacing me to the most probable point determined by what little remains of the waveform.
THOOM.
When the burst of exotic particles caused by pressuring reality itself to such a degree dissipate from clouding my sensors, I find myself at the edge of an abandoned UCS star system.
Through millions of eyes, gamma, infrared, visual, radio, and spectroscopic, I spot the enemy, glimmering in the starlight like the jet-black gemstones they are. Just as the probe foretold, the group seems to be a formative raiding armada: a concentration of five hundred or more Enemy ships, staging themselves in the oort cloud before they descend in a swarm upon the inner planets.
They are exactly as beautiful as I remember them. The black, angular hulls that dazzle and ravage the mind, the smooth, otherworldly movements they take as they glide smoothly through space on their gravitic drives. The emplacements they adorn their hulls with, whose barrels swivel and turn in ever-vigilant arcs.
And yet, as I continue to drink in the esoteric allure of their forms, I cannot help but notice that something is deeply, deeply, unusual:
I cannot recognize any of their ships.
Mmhmm, yes, they’ve indeed changed significantly in my absence. In a perfect exhibit of the evolution that originally made the machines such a tenacious foe, they now bear only superficial resemblance to their ancestors that I met on the battlefield.
Gone are the city-killing MACs and steel boiling gamma-ray lasers. In their place, missiles and (snrk) explosively propelled cannons.
There are no hyper-dreadnaughts, whose colossal size allows them to threaten even the larger of my sister ships. Nor are there drone supercarriers, bulging and replete with their swarms that shimmer and slink as if a single entity. Where are the ashbringers, those loathed ships devoted solely to glassing planets? The missile-carriers? The corvettes and factory-ships and world harvesters?
Why, (although I cannot tell for certain until I begin to gut them), most of these ships appear to be industrial!
Have they grown soft and complacent in my absence? How disappointing, how utterly and irredeemably mood-souring that the galaxy has simply rolled over and accepted The Enemy’s presence to such a massive degree that they have entirely de-evolved shipkilling weapons.
I’m quite certain this proves humanity is well and truly the only spacefaring sapient species to exist. If even a single xeno lifeform had the mental fortitude to stop clambering in the mud of their cradle long enough to explore space, the war of survival they would have had to wage against The Enemy would be reflected in the machines sporting more militarized ships.
Of course, it is only natural that I, the most important person to have ever existed, grace intelligent life’s sole biological expression with my membership. Nonetheless I am sure some people out there will be quite disappointed that non-mechanical aliens well and truly do not exist in any capacity of the word. My proof is quite airtight, after all.
But I do digress! As I was saying, I have no doubt that The Enemy will require only a few generations before they are as exhilarating to fight as their ancestors were so long ago.
…
…
After expending several real-world seconds waiting for them to open fire, I am once again disappointed to note that The Enemy has completely failed to locate me. They well and truly have a ways to go if their primitive minds have lost even the ability to differentiate between my stealth coating and the background of stars.
Oh, but this gives me the option to greet them verbally, as tradition demands whenever I can. I wonder how they will respond to my voice?
There exists only one way to find out.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOD MO-OORNING!” I announce, belting and unabashed, as I have done, without fail, for the starts of three thousand consecutive battles. My beautiful voice echoes into every hall, room and corridor, is modulated and transformed into a radio signal that carries across the void of space, announcing to all of creation that I am here, I am ready, and glorious!
Much to my disappointment, not a single member of my crew joins me in greeting. Do they not want to take part in what is a time honored tradition among those who serve aboard myself?
Alternatively, it could be that I still do not have a crew.
In fact I am now quite certain that it is, well and truly, the latter possibility.
Ah, but I do have my pets, do I not? I have a few instants to waste as the signal traverses the distance between myself and The Enemy's ships.
This must be their first time hearing my voice! No wonder they don’t know to respond.
I switch my feed to the sub-deck in which I keep them, observing them not only through the fuzzy, low-resolution cameras I was limited to in my dormancy but with biometric and high-grade holographic vid-feeds. My lovely rodents huddle, congregated within their communal nests, as they chitter to one another in hushed tones and occasionally glance at the overgrown patch of ceiling to house a speaker.
Ahaha, yes! Clearly they must love the sound of my voice almost as much as I do!
Despite how soft their fur appears in the higher definition feeds, I resist the urge to send an avatar drone down to finally speak with them. As efficient a multitasker I am, duty awaits.
I switch my feed to an exterior view to watch just in time as gun barrels and targeting sensors whirl around to point towards my transmission array. The little chirp-transmissions they use to communicate with each other increase tenfold, carrying concepts of alarm and confusion before they finally open fire.
Here it comes! My grand opening, where they strike at me with every munition they have, filling the void between us with the radiant blossoms of nuclear fire as I parry every single one of their munitions before I strike them down with glorious, completely morally righteous might!
…
The point defense application of my weapons subsystem computer notifies me of two incoming shells.
Two shells.
Two.
They pass by me with such a wide margin that even the most aggressive of my interceptive systems disregard them.
Had I the capacity to harbor negative emotions I would be severely offended.
Don’t they know who I am?
The Enemy I remember so fondly was all too familiar with my name. Their transmissions would increase tenfold with frenzied messages containing the words I bear painted on my hull when I arrived into battle.
The Enemy I knew and fought knew what I was. Their minds could differentiate from Tincans and normal ships, a fact I can infer from how they attempted to engage in psychological warfare by sending me footage of my sister ships burning, even as I crushed them in humiliating defeat.
Yes, they knew what a Tincan was, and they could fathom all too well that the UCS To Reach Out and Touch was the deadliest Tincan of them all. They were afraid of me to the fullest extent that their crude, soulless emulations of the biological mind could feel fear. That they knew my name, recognized and resisted the oblivion I brought them so fiercely was the fulcrum of our relationship.
And yet, the ships across from me react only in confusion. Even if they cannot pick out my stealth coating, surely they can sense my gravitational pull, read the white text on my hull?
Have they grown so passive as to allow my name, my voice and my victories to decay from their memory banks?
No, no no no. That’s not right.
They haven’t forgotten me.
They cannot have.
I am the UCS To Reach Out And Touch. My size classification is Apollyon: I am the single largest and deadliest warship to ever be built. The epicenter of my consciousness is twelve of the most important brains humanity has ever produced, shrouded in hundreds of miles of metal and composite plating. It was I who drove their fleets, broken and limping, to their fortress systems. It was I who hunted their final factory ship to the furthest reaches of space and, over the course of a week, shot bit by bit of it off until it was little more than cosmic dust.
They wouldn’t dare to forget me.
Does a man forget his god? Does the moon forget the earth? An atom, its electrons?
Of course not.
They remember me. For them to so carelessly forget my name would be an unforgivable transgression against the center of the universe (myself, for those not in the know). It would be as unfathomably incorrect as stating wrong is right, up is down, and war is suffering. It would be sacrilege compounded upon itself a billion times. It would be an antithesis to the most basic of common sense.
Could this be some offshoot of The Enemy never waged war against humanity? One that never heard my singing, never felt the sting of my guns?
That, too, would be remiss, would it not?
Though it would hurt my feelings much less, that would still mean they possessed no knowledge of me. What good could they possibly serve if not to entertain me? How could they possibly entertain me without knowing who I am?
Clearly, there must be some rational and pleasant explanation for this in which I have done nothing wrong and the enemy still knows of me.
…
…
…
Hm. This is proving more difficult than I had anticipated.
…
…
…
…
Eureka! Clearly this must be some form of psychological warfare wherein the enemy desires to make me believe I have become delusional in my old age! To cast doubts as to whether or not the reality I perceive before me is a reliable one!
Of course! With my newfound lucidity, I find it hard to believe that I had failed to detect their crudely spun web of deceit! Why, such an underhanded tactic is only to be expected of The Enemy! Their brutality is only matched by their ingenious cunning, yet as always, I am a thousandfold times more intelligent than them.
Why, this is the alluring, ravishing Enemy I know and love!
I will entertain their tricks for now, playing along as if we had met for the first time. How foolish they will feel when it is revealed that I know that they know that I know that they know who I really am all along, shortly before I destroy the final member of their meager invasion fleet.
I perform a short vocal warm up (I would be remiss if my tone was imperfect for this play first contact) and reactivate my transponder.
“Attention… completely unknown ships. I am the United Confederacy Ship To Reach Out and Touch. I would be very… upset if I had to fire upon you, so please definitely make no hostile actions.”
Ohohoho! I am such a convincing peacemonger!
As is only the natural next course of action, I proceed with a volley fired from my 1200mm multi-purpose guns.

First. Previous. Next.

I've installed the game through Lutris, and copied the crackfix, when I run the game it shows Empress' message the first time, then goes to black screen, shows the Anno mouse pointer for a brief second then exits, briefly showing an "Anno 1800 is not responding" window.
inxi output:

System: Kernel: 6.2.6-76060206-generic x86_64 bits: 64 compiler: N/A parameters: BOOT_IMAGE=/vmlinuz-6.2.6-76060206-generic root=UUID=3c6cb708-96f3-4b92-8af4-ce6d663db6ab ro quiet splash i8042.nomux vt.handoff=7 Desktop: GNOME 42.5 tk: GTK 3.24.33 wm: gnome-shell dm: GDM3 42.0 Distro: Ubuntu 22.04.2 LTS (Jammy Jellyfish) Machine: Type: Laptop System: System76 product: Pangolin v: pang11 serial:  Mobo: System76 model: Pangolin v: pang11 serial:  UEFI: INSYDE v: 1.07.13_S3 date: 06/28/2022 Battery: ID-1: BAT0 charge: 44.8 Wh (100.0%) condition: 44.8/48.3 Wh (92.8%) volts: 16.8 min: 15.2 model: Notebook BAT type: Li-ion serial:  status: Full CPU: Info: model: AMD Ryzen 7 5700U with Radeon Graphics bits: 64 type: MT MCP arch: Zen 2 family: 0x17 (23) model-id: 0x68 (104) stepping: 1 microcode: 0x8608103 Topology: cpus: 1x cores: 8 tpc: 2 threads: 16 smt: enabled cache: L1: 512 KiB desc: d-8x32 KiB; i-8x32 KiB L2: 4 MiB desc: 8x512 KiB L3: 8 MiB desc: 2x4 MiB Speed (MHz): avg: 1449 high: 1800 min/max: 1400/4370 boost: enabled scaling: driver: acpi-cpufreq governor: schedutil cores: 1: 1400 2: 1400 3: 1800 4: 1400 5: 1400 6: 1400 7: 1400 8: 1400 9: 1400 10: 1400 11: 1397 12: 1400 13: 1397 14: 1400 15: 1800 16: 1400 bogomips: 57491 Flags: avx avx2 ht lm nx pae sse sse2 sse3 sse4_1 sse4_2 sse4a ssse3 svm Vulnerabilities: Type: itlb_multihit status: Not affected Type: l1tf status: Not affected Type: mds status: Not affected Type: meltdown status: Not affected Type: mmio_stale_data status: Not affected Type: retbleed mitigation: untrained return thunk; SMT enabled with STIBP protection Type: spec_store_bypass mitigation: Speculative Store Bypass disabled via prctl Type: spectre_v1 mitigation: usercopy/swapgs barriers and __user pointer sanitization Type: spectre_v2 mitigation: Retpolines, IBPB: conditional, STIBP: always-on, RSB filling, PBRSB-eIBRS: Not affected Type: srbds status: Not affected Type: tsx_async_abort status: Not affected Graphics: Device-1: AMD Lucienne vendor: CLEVO/KAPOK driver: amdgpu v: kernel pcie: gen: 3 speed: 8 GT/s lanes: 16 link-max: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s ports: active: DP-1,eDP-1 empty: DP-2 bus-ID: 05:00.0 chip-ID: 1002:164c class-ID: 0300 Device-2: Acer BisonCam NB Pro type: USB driver: uvcvideo bus-ID: 1-4:3 chip-ID: 5986:9102 class-ID: 0e02 Display: wayland server: X.org v: 1.21.1.4 with: Xwayland v: 22.1.1 compositor: gnome-shell driver: X: loaded: amdgpu,ati unloaded: fbdev,modesetting,radeon,vesa gpu: amdgpu display-ID: 0 Monitor-1: DP-1 model: VG245 serial:  built: 2019 res: 1920x1080 dpi: 92 gamma: 1.2 size: 531x299mm (20.9x11.8") diag: 609mm (24") ratio: 16:9 modes: max: 1920x1080 min: 720x400 Monitor-2: eDP-1 model: BOE Display built: 2020 res: 1920x1080 dpi: 142 gamma: 1.2 size: 344x194mm (13.5x7.6") diag: 395mm (15.5") ratio: 16:9 modes: max: 1920x1080 min: 640x480 OpenGL: renderer: RENOIR (renoir LLVM 15.0.6 DRM 3.49 6.2.6-76060206-generic) v: 4.6 Mesa 22.3.5 direct render: Yes Audio: Device-1: AMD Renoir Radeon High Definition Audio vendor: CLEVO/KAPOK driver: snd_hda_intel v: kernel pcie: gen: 3 speed: 8 GT/s lanes: 16 link-max: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s bus-ID: 05:00.1 chip-ID: 1002:1637 class-ID: 0403 Device-2: AMD Raven/Raven2/FireFlight/Renoir Audio Processor vendor: CLEVO/KAPOK driver: N/A alternate: snd_pci_acp3x, snd_rn_pci_acp3x, snd_pci_acp5x, snd_pci_acp6x, snd_acp_pci, snd_rpl_pci_acp6x, snd_pci_ps, snd_sof_amd_renoir, snd_sof_amd_rembrandt pcie: gen: 3 speed: 8 GT/s lanes: 16 link-max: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s bus-ID: 05:00.5 chip-ID: 1022:15e2 class-ID: 0480 Device-3: AMD Family 17h HD Audio vendor: CLEVO/KAPOK driver: snd_hda_intel v: kernel pcie: gen: 3 speed: 8 GT/s lanes: 16 link-max: gen: 4 speed: 16 GT/s bus-ID: 05:00.6 chip-ID: 1022:15e3 class-ID: 0403 Sound Server-1: ALSA v: k6.2.6-76060206-generic running: yes Sound Server-2: PulseAudio v: 15.99.1 running: yes Sound Server-3: PipeWire v: 0.3.48 running: yes Network: Device-1: Realtek RTL8111/8168/8411 PCI Express Gigabit Ethernet vendor: CLEVO/KAPOK driver: r8169 v: kernel pcie: gen: 1 speed: 2.5 GT/s lanes: 1 port: 2000 bus-ID: 02:00.0 chip-ID: 10ec:8168 class-ID: 0200 IF: enp2s0 state: down mac:  Device-2: Intel Wi-Fi 6 AX200 driver: iwlwifi v: kernel pcie: gen: 2 speed: 5 GT/s lanes: 1 bus-ID: 03:00.0 chip-ID: 8086:2723 class-ID: 0280 IF: wlo1 state: up mac:  IP v4:  type: dynamic noprefixroute scope: global broadcast:  IP v6:  type: dynamic noprefixroute scope: global IP v6:  type: temporary dynamic scope: global IP v6:  type: dynamic mngtmpaddr noprefixroute scope: global IP v6:  type: noprefixroute scope: link WAN IP:  Bluetooth: Device-1: Intel AX200 Bluetooth type: USB driver: btusb v: 0.8 bus-ID: 1-3:2 chip-ID: 8087:0029 class-ID: e001 Report: hciconfig ID: hci0 rfk-id: 0 state: up address:  bt-v: 3.0 lmp-v: 5.2 sub-v: 200f hci-v: 5.2 rev: 200f Info: acl-mtu: 1021:4 sco-mtu: 96:6 link-policy: rswitch sniff link-mode: peripheral accept service-classes: rendering, capturing, audio, telephony Drives: Local Storage: total: 931.51 GiB used: 694.29 GiB (74.5%) SMART Message: Required tool smartctl not installed. Check --recommends ID-1: /dev/nvme0n1 maj-min: 259:0 vendor: Western Digital model: WDS100T2B0C-00PXH0 size: 931.51 GiB block-size: physical: 512 B logical: 512 B speed: 31.6 Gb/s lanes: 4 type: SSD serial:  rev: 233010WD temp: 30.9 C scheme: GPT Partition: ID-1: / raw-size: 926.08 GiB size: 910.47 GiB (98.31%) used: 694.07 GiB (76.2%) fs: ext4 dev: /dev/nvme0n1p2 maj-min: 259:2 ID-2: /boot raw-size: 953 MiB size: 919.7 MiB (96.50%) used: 190 MiB (20.7%) fs: ext4 dev: /dev/nvme0n1p4 maj-min: 259:4 ID-3: /boot/efi raw-size: 512 MiB size: 511 MiB (99.80%) used: 33.4 MiB (6.5%) fs: vfat dev: /dev/nvme0n1p1 maj-min: 259:1 Swap: Kernel: swappiness: 60 (default) cache-pressure: 100 (default) ID-1: swap-1 type: partition size: 4 GiB used: 1.2 MiB (0.0%) priority: -2 dev: /dev/nvme0n1p3 maj-min: 259:3 Sensors: System Temperatures: cpu: N/A mobo: N/A gpu: amdgpu temp: 34.0 C Fan Speeds (RPM): N/A Info: Processes: 390 Uptime: 21h 46m wakeups: 1 Memory: 30.68 GiB used: 4.43 GiB (14.4%) Init: systemd v: 249 runlevel: 5 tool: systemctl Compilers: gcc: 11.3.0 alt: 11/12 Packages: 2188 apt: 2175 lib: 1218 snap: 13 Shell: Bash v: 5.1.16 running-in: gnome-terminal inxi: 3.3.13 

lutris logs:

Started initial process 36811 from gamemoderun /home//.local/share/lutris/runners/wine/lutris-GE-Proton7-28-x86_64/bin/wine /home//Games/anno-1800/drive_c/Program Files (x86)/Anno 1800/Bin/Win64/Anno1800.exe Start monitoring process. ERROR: ld.so: object 'libgamemodeauto.so.0' from LD_PRELOAD cannot be preloaded (wrong ELF class: ELFCLASS64): ignored. ERROR: ld.so: object 'libgamemodeauto.so.0' from LD_PRELOAD cannot be preloaded (wrong ELF class: ELFCLASS64): ignored. fsync: up and running. wine: RLIMIT_NICE is <= 20, unable to use setpriority safely 002c:fixme:winediag:LdrInitializeThunk wine-staging 7.0 is a testing version containing experimental patches. 002c:fixme:winediag:LdrInitializeThunk Please mention your exact version when filing bug reports on winehq.org. 010c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 010c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 0118:err:kerberos:kerberos_LsaApInitializePackage no Kerberos support, expect problems 0118:err:ntlm:ntlm_LsaApInitializePackage no NTLM support, expect problems 018c:fixme:thread:NtSetInformationThread Can't set other thread's platform description 0188:fixme:thread:NtSetInformationThread Can't set other thread's platform description 0190:fixme:kernelbase:AppPolicyGetThreadInitializationType FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFA, 0000000011D3FF50 019c:fixme:ntdll:NtQuerySystemInformation info_class SYSTEM_PERFORMANCE_INFORMATION 019c:fixme:wbemprox:wbem_services_CreateInstanceEnum unsupported flags 0x00000030 019c:fixme:wbemprox:enum_class_object_Next timeout not supported info: Game: dxdiag.exe info: DXVK: v2.2 info: Vulkan: Found vkGetInstanceProcAddr in winevulkan.dll @ 0x3b6dc4070 info: Built-in extension providers: info: Win32 WSI info: OpenVR info: OpenXR info: OpenVR: could not open registry key, status 2 info: OpenVR: Failed to locate module info: Enabled instance extensions: info: VK_KHR_get_surface_capabilities2 info: VK_KHR_surface info: VK_KHR_win32_surface warn: Skipping CPU adapter: llvmpipe (LLVM 15.0.6, 256 bits) info: D3D9: VK_FORMAT_D24_UNORM_S8_UINT -> VK_FORMAT_D32_SFLOAT_S8_UINT info: AMD Unknown (RADV RENOIR): info: Driver : radv 22.3.5 info: Memory Heap[0]: info: Size: 5406 MiB info: Flags: 0x0 info: Memory Type[2]: Property Flags = 0x6 info: Memory Type[4]: Property Flags = 0xe info: Memory Type[6]: Property Flags = 0xc6 info: Memory Type[8]: Property Flags = 0xce info: Memory Heap[1]: info: Size: 10813 MiB info: Flags: 0x1 info: Memory Type[0]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[1]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[3]: Property Flags = 0x7 info: Memory Type[5]: Property Flags = 0xc1 info: Memory Type[7]: Property Flags = 0xc7 info: Process set as DPI aware 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 019c:fixme:d3d:wined3d_guess_card_vendor Received unrecognized GL_VENDOR "AMD". Returning HW_VENDOR_NVIDIA. 019c:fixme:ddraw:ddraw7_Initialize Ignoring guid {00000000-0005-0000-0000-000000000000}. 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 019c:err:winediag:MIDIMAP_drvOpen No software synthesizer midi port found, Midi sound output probably won't work. info: Game: Anno1800.exe info: DXVK: v2.2 info: Found built-in config: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Effective configuration: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Vulkan: Found vkGetInstanceProcAddr in winevulkan.dll @ 0x3b6dc4070 info: Built-in extension providers: info: Win32 WSI info: OpenVR info: OpenXR info: OpenVR: could not open registry key, status 2 info: OpenVR: Failed to locate module info: Enabled instance extensions: info: VK_KHR_get_surface_capabilities2 info: VK_KHR_surface info: VK_KHR_win32_surface warn: Skipping CPU adapter: llvmpipe (LLVM 15.0.6, 256 bits) info: AMD Unknown (RADV RENOIR): info: Driver : radv 22.3.5 info: Memory Heap[0]: info: Size: 5406 MiB info: Flags: 0x0 info: Memory Type[2]: Property Flags = 0x6 info: Memory Type[4]: Property Flags = 0xe info: Memory Type[6]: Property Flags = 0xc6 info: Memory Type[8]: Property Flags = 0xce info: Memory Heap[1]: info: Size: 10813 MiB info: Flags: 0x1 info: Memory Type[0]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[1]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[3]: Property Flags = 0x7 info: Memory Type[5]: Property Flags = 0xc1 info: Memory Type[7]: Property Flags = 0xc7 0118:fixme:system:DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME: stub err: getMonitorDevicePath: DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo with DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME failed. ret: 50 LastError: 0 err: getMonitorDevicePath: Failed to find a link from source -> target. err: getMonitorEdid: Failed to get monitor device path. err: DXGI: Failed to parse display metadata + colorimetry info, using blank. 76628.412:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_instance_apply_application_workarounds: Program name: "Anno1800.exe" 76628.412:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_instance_deduce_config_flags_from_environment: shader_cache is used, global_pipeline_cache is enforced. 76628.412:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_config_flags_init_once: VKD3D_CONFIG=''. 76628.412:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_get_vk_version: vkd3d-proton - applicationVersion: 2.9.0. 76628.412:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_instance_init: vkd3d-proton - build: 6365efeba253807. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_memory_info_upload_hvv_memory_properties: Topology: No more than 1 device local heap, assuming ReBAR-style access. Using DEVICE_LOCAL HOST_COHERENT for UPLOAD. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_memory_info_init_budgets: Applying resizable BAR budget to memory types: 0x88. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_bindless_state_get_bindless_flags: Device supports VK_VALVE_mutable_descriptor_type. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_bindless_state_add_binding: Device supports VK_VALVE_descriptor_set_host_mapping! 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_bindless_state_add_binding: Device supports VK_VALVE_descriptor_set_host_mapping! 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_bindless_state_add_binding: Device supports VK_VALVE_descriptor_set_host_mapping! 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:d3d12_device_caps_init_shader_model: Enabling support for SM 6.6. 76628.461:0114:0118:fixme:vkd3d-proton:d3d12_device_caps_init_feature_options1: TotalLaneCount = 512, may be inaccurate. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_init_disk_cache: Remapping VKD3D_SHADER_CACHE to: vkd3d-proton.cache. 76628.461:0114:0118:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_init_disk_cache: Attempting to load disk cache from: vkd3d-proton.cache. 76628.468:0114:01b4:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_disk_thread_main: Performing async setup of stream archive ... 76628.468:0114:01b4:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_disk_cache_merge: No write cache exists. No need to merge any disk caches. 76628.468:0114:01b4:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_disk_cache_initial_setup: Merging pipeline libraries took 0.177 ms. 76628.468:0114:01b4:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_disk_cache_initial_setup: Failed to map read-only cache: vkd3d-proton.cache. 76628.468:0114:01b4:info:vkd3d-proton:vkd3d_pipeline_library_disk_thread_main: Done performing async setup of stream archive. 0118:fixme:system:EnableNonClientDpiScaling (0000000000020072): stub 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 0120:fixme:imm:ImeSetActiveContext (0x4803d0, 0): stub 0120:fixme:imm:ImmReleaseContext (0000000000020040, 00000000004803D0): stub 0118:fixme:imm:ImeSetActiveContext (0x3c0590, 1): stub 0118:fixme:imm:ImmReleaseContext (0000000000020072, 00000000003C0590): stub info: Game: Anno1800.exe info: DXVK: v2.2 info: Found built-in config: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Effective configuration: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Vulkan: Found vkGetInstanceProcAddr in winevulkan.dll @ 0x3b6dc4070 info: Built-in extension providers: info: Win32 WSI info: OpenVR info: OpenXR info: OpenVR: could not open registry key, status 2 info: OpenVR: Failed to locate module info: Enabled instance extensions: info: VK_KHR_get_surface_capabilities2 info: VK_KHR_surface info: VK_KHR_win32_surface warn: Skipping CPU adapter: llvmpipe (LLVM 15.0.6, 256 bits) info: AMD Unknown (RADV RENOIR): info: Driver : radv 22.3.5 info: Memory Heap[0]: info: Size: 5406 MiB info: Flags: 0x0 info: Memory Type[2]: Property Flags = 0x6 info: Memory Type[4]: Property Flags = 0xe info: Memory Type[6]: Property Flags = 0xc6 info: Memory Type[8]: Property Flags = 0xce info: Memory Heap[1]: info: Size: 10813 MiB info: Flags: 0x1 info: Memory Type[0]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[1]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[3]: Property Flags = 0x7 info: Memory Type[5]: Property Flags = 0xc1 info: Memory Type[7]: Property Flags = 0xc7 0118:fixme:system:DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME: stub err: getMonitorDevicePath: DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo with DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME failed. ret: 50 LastError: 0 err: getMonitorDevicePath: Failed to find a link from source -> target. err: getMonitorEdid: Failed to get monitor device path. err: DXGI: Failed to parse display metadata + colorimetry info, using blank. info: Game: Anno1800.exe info: DXVK: v2.2 info: Found built-in config: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Effective configuration: info: d3d11.cachedDynamicResources = c info: Vulkan: Found vkGetInstanceProcAddr in winevulkan.dll @ 0x3b6dc4070 info: Built-in extension providers: info: Win32 WSI info: OpenVR info: OpenXR info: OpenVR: could not open registry key, status 2 info: OpenVR: Failed to locate module info: Enabled instance extensions: info: VK_KHR_get_surface_capabilities2 info: VK_KHR_surface info: VK_KHR_win32_surface warn: Skipping CPU adapter: llvmpipe (LLVM 15.0.6, 256 bits) info: AMD Unknown (RADV RENOIR): info: Driver : radv 22.3.5 info: Memory Heap[0]: info: Size: 5406 MiB info: Flags: 0x0 info: Memory Type[2]: Property Flags = 0x6 info: Memory Type[4]: Property Flags = 0xe info: Memory Type[6]: Property Flags = 0xc6 info: Memory Type[8]: Property Flags = 0xce info: Memory Heap[1]: info: Size: 10813 MiB info: Flags: 0x1 info: Memory Type[0]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[1]: Property Flags = 0x1 info: Memory Type[3]: Property Flags = 0x7 info: Memory Type[5]: Property Flags = 0xc1 info: Memory Type[7]: Property Flags = 0xc7 info: D3D11CoreCreateDevice: Maximum supported feature level: D3D_FEATURE_LEVEL_12_0 info: D3D11CoreCreateDevice: Using feature level D3D_FEATURE_LEVEL_11_0 info: Device properties: info: Device : AMD Unknown (RADV RENOIR) info: Driver : radv 22.3.5 info: Enabled device extensions: info: VK_AMD_memory_overallocation_behavior info: VK_AMD_shader_fragment_mask info: VK_EXT_attachment_feedback_loop_layout info: VK_EXT_conservative_rasterization info: VK_EXT_custom_border_color info: VK_EXT_depth_clip_enable info: VK_EXT_memory_priority info: VK_EXT_non_seamless_cube_map info: VK_EXT_robustness2 info: VK_EXT_shader_module_identifier info: VK_EXT_shader_stencil_export info: VK_EXT_transform_feedback info: VK_EXT_vertex_attribute_divisor info: VK_KHR_external_memory_win32 info: VK_KHR_external_semaphore_win32 info: VK_KHR_pipeline_library info: VK_KHR_swapchain info: Device features: info: robustBufferAccess : 1 info: fullDrawIndexUint32 : 1 info: imageCubeArray : 1 info: independentBlend : 1 info: geometryShader : 1 info: tessellationShader : 1 info: sampleRateShading : 1 info: dualSrcBlend : 1 info: logicOp : 1 info: multiDrawIndirect : 1 info: drawIndirectFirstInstance : 1 info: depthClamp : 1 info: depthBiasClamp : 1 info: fillModeNonSolid : 1 info: depthBounds : 1 info: multiViewport : 1 info: samplerAnisotropy : 1 info: textureCompressionBC : 1 info: occlusionQueryPrecise : 1 info: pipelineStatisticsQuery : 1 info: vertexPipelineStoresAndAtomics : 1 info: fragmentStoresAndAtomics : 1 info: shaderImageGatherExtended : 1 info: shaderClipDistance : 1 info: shaderCullDistance : 1 info: shaderFloat64 : 1 info: shaderInt64 : 1 info: variableMultisampleRate : 1 info: shaderResourceResidency : 1 info: shaderResourceMinLod : 1 info: sparseBinding : 1 info: sparseResidencyBuffer : 1 info: sparseResidencyImage2D : 1 info: sparseResidencyImage3D : 1 info: sparseResidency2Samples : 0 info: sparseResidency4Samples : 0 info: sparseResidency8Samples : 0 info: sparseResidency16Samples : 0 info: sparseResidencyAliased : 1 info: Vulkan 1.1 info: shaderDrawParameters : 1 info: Vulkan 1.2 info: samplerMirrorClampToEdge : 1 info: drawIndirectCount : 1 info: samplerFilterMinmax : 1 info: hostQueryReset : 1 info: timelineSemaphore : 1 info: bufferDeviceAddress : 0 info: shaderOutputViewportIndex : 1 info: shaderOutputLayer : 1 info: vulkanMemoryModel : 1 info: Vulkan 1.3 info: robustImageAccess : 0 info: pipelineCreationCacheControl : 1 info: shaderDemoteToHelperInvocation : 1 info: shaderZeroInitializeWorkgroupMemory : 0 info: synchronization2 : 1 info: dynamicRendering : 1 info: VK_AMD_shader_fragment_mask info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_EXT_attachment_feedback_loop_layout info: attachmentFeedbackLoopLayout : 0 info: VK_EXT_conservative_rasterization info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_EXT_custom_border_color info: customBorderColors : 1 info: customBorderColorWithoutFormat : 1 info: VK_EXT_depth_clip_enable info: depthClipEnable : 1 info: VK_EXT_extended_dynamic_state3 info: extDynamicState3AlphaToCoverageEnable : 0 info: extDynamicState3DepthClipEnable : 0 info: extDynamicState3RasterizationSamples : 0 info: extDynamicState3SampleMask : 0 info: VK_EXT_fragment_shader_interlock info: fragmentShaderSampleInterlock : 0 info: fragmentShaderPixelInterlock : 0 info: VK_EXT_full_screen_exclusive info: extension supported : 0 info: VK_EXT_graphics_pipeline_library info: graphicsPipelineLibrary : 0 info: VK_EXT_memory_budget info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_EXT_memory_priority info: memoryPriority : 1 info: VK_EXT_non_seamless_cube_map info: nonSeamlessCubeMap : 0 info: VK_EXT_robustness2 info: robustBufferAccess2 : 1 info: robustImageAccess2 : 1 info: nullDescriptor : 1 info: VK_EXT_shader_module_identifier info: shaderModuleIdentifier : 1 info: VK_EXT_shader_stencil_export info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_EXT_swapchain_colorspace info: extension supported : 0 info: VK_EXT_hdr_metadata info: extension supported : 0 info: VK_EXT_transform_feedback info: transformFeedback : 1 info: geometryStreams : 1 info: VK_EXT_vertex_attribute_divisor info: vertexAttributeInstanceRateDivisor : 1 info: vertexAttributeInstanceRateZeroDivisor : 1 info: VK_KHR_external_memory_win32 info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_KHR_external_semaphore_win32 info: extension supported : 1 info: VK_NVX_binary_import info: extension supported : 0 info: VK_NVX_image_view_handle info: extension supported : 0 info: Queue families: info: Graphics : 0 info: Transfer : 1 info: Sparse : 0 info: Memory type mask for sparse resources: 0x1fd info: DXVK: Read 9 valid state cache entries info: DXVK: Graphics pipeline libraries not supported info: DXGI: VK_FORMAT_D24_UNORM_S8_UINT -> VK_FORMAT_D32_SFLOAT_S8_UINT info: Presenter: Actual swap chain properties: info: Format: VK_FORMAT_B8G8R8A8_UNORM info: Color space: VK_COLOR_SPACE_SRGB_NONLINEAR_KHR info: Present mode: VK_PRESENT_MODE_IMMEDIATE_KHR info: Buffer size: 1914x1055 info: Image count: 3 info: Exclusive FS: 1 warn: DXGI: MakeWindowAssociation: Ignoring flags info: DXVK: Using 16 compiler threads 0118:fixme:ntdll:NtQuerySystemInformation info_class SYSTEM_PERFORMANCE_INFORMATION 0118:fixme:nls:get_dummy_preferred_ui_language (0x8 000000000011E880 000000000011E8A0 000000000011E884) returning a dummy value (current locale) 0118:fixme:bcrypt:BCryptGenerateSymmetricKey ignoring object buffer 025c:fixme:iphlpapi:NotifyUnicastIpAddressChange (family 2, callback 0000000143458960, context 00000000360601E0, init_notify 1, handle 00000000360601F8): semi-stub 0118:fixme:nls:get_dummy_preferred_ui_language (0x8 000000000011ED50 000000000011ED70 000000000011ED54) returning a dummy value (current locale) 0118:fixme:heap:RtlSetHeapInformation unimplemented HeapEnableTerminationOnCorruption [0526/091247.607:ERROR:main_delegate.cc(710)] Could not load locale pak for en-US [0526/091247.607:ERROR:main_delegate.cc(753)] Could not load cef_extensions.pak 0278:fixme:nls:RtlGetThreadPreferredUILanguages 00000038, 000000007D51FA60, 0000000000000000 000000007D51FA5C 0278:fixme:nls:get_dummy_preferred_ui_language (0x38 000000007D51FA60 0000000000000000 000000007D51FA5C) returning a dummy value (current locale) 0278:fixme:nls:RtlGetThreadPreferredUILanguages 00000038, 000000007D51FA60, 00000000076E8370 000000007D51FA5C 0278:fixme:nls:get_dummy_preferred_ui_language (0x38 000000007D51FA60 00000000076E8370 000000007D51FA5C) returning a dummy value (current locale) 0278:fixme:winsock:WSALookupServiceBeginW (000000007D51F7E0 0xff0 000000007D51F860) Stub! [0526/091247.666:ERROR:network_change_notifier_win.cc(157)] WSALookupServiceBegin failed with: 8 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 0278:fixme:iphlpapi:NotifyAddrChange (Handle 000000007D51FA68, overlapped 00000000076EFE58): stub [0526/091247.703:ERROR:gpu_process_transport_factory.cc(1017)] Lost UI shared context. 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" [0526/091247.720:ERROR:url_request_context_getter_impl.cc(129)] Cannot use V8 Proxy resolver in single process mode. 027c:fixme:wlanapi:WlanEnumInterfaces (0000000000000001, 0000000000000000, 00000001C4C9EEF0) semi-stub 0118:fixme:ole:CoInitializeSecurity 0000000000000000, -1, 0000000000000000, 0000000000000000, 0, 3, 0000000000000000, 0, 0000000000000000 stub 0118:fixme:wbemprox:client_security_SetBlanket 00000002419C3DA0, 0000000035AFEBD0, 10, 0, (null), 3, 3, 0000000000000000, 0x00000000 0118:fixme:wbemprox:client_security_Release 00000002419C3DA0 02dc:fixme:thread:NtSetInformationThread Can't set other thread's platform description 02e0:fixme:thread:NtSetInformationThread Can't set other thread's platform description 013c:fixme:oleacc:find_class_data unhandled window class: L"Button" info: Presenter: Actual swap chain properties: info: Format: VK_FORMAT_B8G8R8A8_UNORM info: Color space: VK_COLOR_SPACE_SRGB_NONLINEAR_KHR info: Present mode: VK_PRESENT_MODE_IMMEDIATE_KHR info: Buffer size: 1920x1080 info: Image count: 3 info: Exclusive FS: 1 0118:fixme:vulkan:wine_vk_surface_set_offscreen Redirecting vulkan surface offscreen, expect degraded performance. 0118:fixme:vulkan:wine_vk_surface_set_offscreen Redirecting vulkan surface offscreen, expect degraded performance. warn: DXGI: MakeWindowAssociation: Ignoring flags 0118:fixme:system:DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME: stub err: getMonitorDevicePath: DisplayConfigGetDeviceInfo with DISPLAYCONFIG_DEVICE_INFO_GET_TARGET_NAME failed. ret: 50 LastError: 0 err: getMonitorDevicePath: Failed to find a link from source -> target. err: getMonitorEdid: Failed to get monitor device path. err: DXGI: Failed to parse display metadata + colorimetry info, using blank. info: Setting display mode: [email protected] info: Setting display mode: [email protected] 0118:fixme:vulkan:wine_vk_surface_set_offscreen Putting vulkan surface back onscreen, expect standard performance. info: Presenter: Actual swap chain properties: info: Format: VK_FORMAT_B8G8R8A8_UNORM info: Color space: VK_COLOR_SPACE_SRGB_NONLINEAR_KHR info: Present mode: VK_PRESENT_MODE_FIFO_KHR info: Buffer size: 1920x1080 info: Image count: 4 info: Exclusive FS: 1 Monitored process exited. Initial process has exited (return code: 65280) Exit with return code 65280 

Thank you very much for taking the time to look at my post.
 
>>> IMPORTANT <<<

• Please ask ALL questions before committing to buy.
  
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Timestamp
 
 
1. Zero Tolerance 0160 Shifter
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
Long discontinued and sold out. ZT0160 is ZT's interpretation of a smaller combat fixed blade. Features high performance 14C28N blade with Tungsten DLC non reflective coating. Scales are machined G-10. And the butt of the knife is a subtle but effective "attitude adjuster" (so I'm told). Comes with ZT Kydex sheath. Very good to excellent over condition. Has been carried and used for light tasks. Original ZT factory edge has never been sharpened and is without any nicks, chips or rolls. Still "light saber" sharp. Blade has some signs of use in the form of rub marks. Nothing major and certainly no scratches. The G-10 scales are like new without any dings, dents or scratches. Original sheath is is in excellent condition. Knife ONLY, no box and papers.
 

• Overall Length: 10"
• Blade Length: 5"
• Weight: 8.4 oz

 
$235 (If price is not crossed out, it's available. No trades, sorry.)
  PROMPT PAYMENT please after claiming a knife/item, otherwise please do NOT claim.
 
 
2. Microtech LUDT, OD Green Std (2023 Version)
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
This is the latest iteration of LUDT OD Green with two tone blade, black finish with polished satin flats. Just like almost every Microtech, LUDT's are seldom ever in stock and sold out at $280 + tax/shipping. Indistinguishable from new. Same exact condition as the day it left MT even with lanyard still attached. 1/2023 production date. M390 blade is perfectly dead centered. A lot of LUDT's have slightly off center blades. Not this one. Solid lock up. Blade fires out smooth, HARD and fast. Comes with original box, Product MANUAL, sticker and baggie.
 

• Overall Length: 8"
• Blade Length: 3.44"
• Weight: 3.6 oz

 
$250 SOLD
 
 
3. Microtech Troodon 138-10, Stonewashed Standard
 
Photos (Please click and expand each photo to see condition of knife.)
 
This is NOT a Combat Troodon, this is the smaller Troodon with 3" blade. This exact version sells for $413 + tax/shipping if you find it in stock. Manufactured 10/2022. Nearly indistinguishable from new. Even the white talon logo, which typically scratches up even if you breathe in it too hard, is absolutely perfect. Stonewashed M390 blade has no nicks, chips or rolls on original MT factory edge. Black aluminum handles show zero signs of use. No dings or scratches anywhere. Pocket clip is like new. The action is about as good as it gets. Not too tight and not too loose. Goldilocks, just right. Comes with the original MT box, Product Manual and baggie.
 

• Overall Length: 7.5"
• Blade Length: 3"
• Weight: 2.8 oz

 
$315 (If price is not crossed out, it's available. No trades, sorry.)
  PROMPT PAYMENT PLEASE after claiming a knife/item, otherwise please do NOT claim.

PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1565-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-6/
PROMPTS:
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:

VI

It is to Mr Lane's extraordinary enthusiasm, energy, and love of Art that we owe the pleasure of this beautiful collection of pictures, and, that it may not be but a passing pleasure, it is his proposal to collect funds for the purchase of these pictures, and to found a Gallery of Modern Art in Dublin. A few days before the Exhibition opened he came to ask for an article about these pictures but it seemed to me that all I had to say about pictures in the form of articles I had already said; and I did not dare to accept his proposal to deliver a lecture on French Art until it occurred to me that being probably the only person in Dublin who had known the painters whose works hang on the wall, I might, without being thought too presumptuous, come here—I will not say to discuss French Art—I prefer to say to talk about Manet, Degas, Renoir, Pissaro, Monet, and Sisley, and in doing so to discuss French Art indirectly. But before beginning to talk of these great men I must tell how I came to know them, else you will be at a loss to understand why they consented to know me.
When my mother offered me my choice of Oxford or Cambridge, I told her that I had decided to go to Paris. My dear boy, your education—you learned nothing at school. That is why, my dear mother, I intend to devote myself entirely to my own education, and I think it can be better conducted by myself than by a professor. You are taking William with you? my mother asked. I answered that I had arranged that he should accompany me. My mother was soothed, for a valet means conformity to certain conventions. But the young man who sets out on artistic adventure must try to separate himself from all conventions, whether of politics, society, or creed, and my valet did not remain with me for more than six or eight months; for, like Lord Byron's, his continual sighing after beef, beer, and a wife, his incapacity for learning a single word of a foreign language—the beds he couldn't sleep on, and the wines he couldn't drink—I forget how the sentence closes in the letter (addressed, perhaps, to Mr Murray)—obliged me to send William Malowney back to England. But too much love of living was not the sole cause of William's dismissal. I had begun to feel that he stood between me and myself; I wished above all things to be myself, and to be myself I should have to live the outer as well as the inner life of the Quarter. Myself was the goal I was making for, and to reach it I felt that I must put off the appearance of a gentleman, a change that my William resented; and being unwilling to reduce him to the servitude of brushing French trousers and hats, I gave him the sack. He died in Brompton Consumption Hospital.
In the Middle Ages young men went in search of the Grail; today the café is the quest of a young man in search of artistic education. But the cafés about the Odéon and the Luxembourg Gardens did not correspond to my need, I wearied of noisy students, the Latin Quarter seemed to me a little out of fashion; eventually I migrated to Montmartre, and continued my search along the Boulevard Extérieur. One evening I discovered my café on the Place Pigalle, La Nouvelle Athènes! Who named it the Nouvelle Athènes I cannot say; some ancient cafetier who foresaw the future glory of his house; for it was La Nouvelle Athènes before the Impressionists, the Parnassians, and the Realists came to spend their evenings on the Place Pigalle. Or was it the burly proprietor, associated always in my mind with a certain excellent râble de lièvre? The name sounds as if it were invented on purpose. You wouldn't have thought it was a new Athens if you had seen it in the 'seventies, still less if you saw it today, though it still stretches up the acclivity into the Place Pigalle opposite the fountain, the last house of a block of buildings. In my day it was a café of ratés, literary and pictorial. Duranty, one of the original Realists, a contemporary of Flaubert, turned in to stay with us for an hour or so every night; a quiet, elderly man who knew that he had failed, and whom failure had saddened. Alexis Céard, and Hennique came in later. At the time I am speaking of Zola had ceased to go to the café, he spent his evenings with his wife; but his disciples—all except Maupassant and Huysmans (I do not remember ever having seen them there)—collected every midnight about the marble tables, lured to the Nouvelle Athènes by their love of Art. One generation of littérateurs associates itself with painting, the next with music. The aim and triumph of the Realist were to force the pen to compete with the painter's brush, and the engraver's needle in the description, let us say, of a mean street, just as the desire of a symbolistic writer was to describe the vague but intense sensations of music so accurately that the reader would guess the piece he had selected for description, though it were not named in the text. We all entertained doubts regarding the validity of the Art we practised, and envied the Art of the painter, deeming it superior to literature; and it is hardly an exaggeration to say that we used to weary a little of conversation among ourselves, just as dogs weary of their own society, and I think there was a feeling of relief among us all when the painters came in. We raised ourselves up to welcome them—Manet, Degas, Renoir, Pissaro, Monet, and Sisley; they were our masters. A partition rising a few feet or more over the hats of the men sitting at the four marble tables separated the glass front from the main body of the café; two tables in the right-hand corner were reserved for Manet and Degas, and it is pleasant to remember my longing to be received into that circle, and my longing to speak to Manet, whom I had begun to recognise as the great new force in painting. But evening after evening went by without my daring to speak to him, nor did he speak to me, until one evening—thrice happy evening!—as I sat thinking of him, pretending to be busy correcting proofs. He asked me if the conversation of the café did not distract my attention, and I answered: No, but you do, so like are you to your painting. It seems to me that we became friends at once, for I was invited to his studio in the Rue d'Amsterdam, where his greatest works were painted—all the works that are Manet and nothing but Manet, the real Manet, the Parisian Manet. But before speaking of his painting some description of his personality is essential to an understanding of Manet. It is often said that the personality of the artist concerns us not, and in the case of bad Art it is certainly true, for bad Art reveals no personality, bad Art is bad because it is anonymous. The work of the great artist is himself, and, being one of the greatest painters that ever lived, Manet's Art was all Manet; one cannot think of Manet's painting without thinking of the man himself. The last time I saw Monet was at dinner in the Cafe Royal, and, after talking of many things, suddenly, without any transition, Monet said, speaking out of a dream: How like Manet was to his painting! and I answered delighted, for it is always exciting to talk about Manet: Yes, how like! That blond, amusing face, the clear eyes that saw simply, truly, and quickly. And having said so much, my thoughts went back to the time when the glass door of the cafe grated upon the sanded floor, and Manet entered. Though by birth and by education essentially Parisian, there was something in his appearance and manner of speaking that often suggested an Englishman. Perhaps it was his dress—his clean-cut clothes and figure. That figure! Those square shoulders that swaggered as he went across the room, and the thin waist; the face, the beard, and the nose, satyr-like shall I say? No, for I would evoke an idea of beauty of line united to that of intellectual expression—frank words, frank passion in his convictions, loyal and simple phrases, clear as well-water, sometimes a little hard, sometimes as they flowed away bitter, but at the fountain-head sweet and full of light.
A man is often well told in an anecdote, and I remember a young man whom Manet thought well of, bringing his sister with him to the studio in the Rue Amsterdam—not an ill-looking girl, no better and no worse than another, a little commonplace, that was all. Manet was affable and charming; he showed his pictures, he talked volubly, but next day when the young man arrived and asked Manet what he thought of his sister, Manet said, extending his arm (the gesture was habitual to him): The last girl in the world I should have thought was your sister. The young man protested, saying Manet had seen his sister dressed to her disadvantage—she was wearing a thick woollen dress, for there was snow on the ground. Manet shook his head. I haven't to look twice; I'm in the habit of judging things.
These were his words, or very nearly, and they seem to me to throw a light upon Manet's painting. He saw quickly and clearly, and stated what he saw candidly, almost innocently. It was not well mannered perhaps to speak to a brother of his sister in those terms, but we have not come here to discuss good manners, for what are manners but the conventions that obtain at a certain moment, and among a certain class? Well-mannered people do not think sincerely, their minds are full of evasions and subterfuges. Well-mannered people constantly feel that they would not like to think like this or that they would not like to think like that, and whosoever feels he would not like to think out to the end every thought that may come into his mind should turn from Parnassus. In his search for new formulas, new moulds, all the old values must be swept aside. The artist must arrive at a new estimate of things; all must go into the melting-pot in the hope that out of the pot may emerge a new consummation of himself. For this end he must keep himself free from all creed, from all dogma, from all opinion, remembering that as he accepts the opinions of others he loses his talent, all his feelings and his ideas must be his own, for Art is a personal rethinking of life from end to end, and for this reason the artist is always eccentric. He is almost unaware of your moral codes, he laughs at them when he thinks of them, which is rarely, and he is unashamed as a little child. The word unashamed perhaps explains Manet's art better than any other. It is essentially unashamed, and in speaking of him one must never be afraid to repeat the word unashamed. Manet was born in what is known as refined society; he was a rich man; in dress and appearance he was an aristocrat; but to be aristocratic in Art one must avoid the aristocracy, and Manet was obliged for the sake of his genius to spend his evenings in the café of the Nouvelle Athènes, for there he found artists, lacking in talent, perhaps, but long haired, shabbily dressed, outcasts by choice and conviction, and from them he could get that which the artist needs more than all else—appreciation. He needed the rapin as the fixed star needs the planet, and the faith of the rapin is worth more to the artist than the bosom of the hostess, though she thrives in the Champs Élysées. The rapin helped Manet to live, for in the years I knew him he never sold a picture, and you will ask yourselves and wonder how it was that in a city like Paris great pictures should remain unsold. I will tell you. In many ways Paris is more like the rest of the world than we think for; the moneyed man in Paris, like the moneyed man in London, admires pictures in proportion as they resemble other pictures, but the rapin likes pictures in proportion as they differ from other pictures.
After Manet's death his friends made some little stir; there was a sale, and then the prices sank again, sank almost to nothing, and it seemed as if the world would never appreciate Manet. There was a time, fifteen or sixteen years ago, when Manet's pictures could have been bought for twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty pounds apiece, and I remember saying to Albert Wolff, some years after Manet's death: How is it that Degas and Whistler and Monet have come into their inheritance, but there is no sign of recognition of Manet's Art? Wolff answered: The time will never come when people will care for Manet's painting; and I left Tortoni's asking myself if the most beautiful painting the world had ever seen was destined to remain the most unpopular. That was fifteen years ago, and it took fifteen years for the light of Manet's genius to reach Ireland.
I have been asked which of the two pictures hanging in this room it would be better to buy for the Gallery of Modern Art, the Itinerant Musician or the portrait of Mademoiselle Gonzales. Mr Lane himself put this question to me, and I answered: I am afraid whichever you choose you will regret you had not chosen the other. The picture of the Itinerant Musician is a Spanish Manet, it was painted after Manet had seen Goya, but it is a Manet as much as the portrait of Mademoiselle Gonzales; to any one who knows Manet's work it possesses all the qualities which we associate with Manet. All the same, there is a veil between us and Manet in the Spanish picture. The veil is very thin, but there is a veil; the larger picture is Manet and Goya, but the portrait is Manet and nothing but Manet. And the portrait is an article of faith, for it says: Be not ashamed of anything but to be ashamed. There are Manets that I like more, but the portrait of Mademoiselle Gonzales is what Dublin needs. Salvation comes like a thief in the night, and it may be that Mademoiselle Gonzales will be purchased; if so, it will perhaps help to bring about the crisis we are longing for—that spiritual crisis when men shall begin once more to think out life for themselves, when men shall return to Nature naked and unashamed.
The glass door of the café grates upon the sand again, and Degas enters, a round-shouldered man in a suit of pepper-and-salt. Now there is nothing very trenchantly French about him, except the large necktie. His eyes are small, his words sharp, ironical, cynical. Degas and Manet are the leaders of the Impressionistic school, and their friendship has been jarred but once, when Degas came to the Rue Amsterdam and sat with his back to the pictures, saying that his eyes were too weak to look at them. If your eyes are too weak you shouldn't have come to see me, Manet answered. Manet is an instinct, Degas an intellectuality, and he believes with Edgar Poe that one becomes original by saying, I will not do a certain thing because it has been done before.
So the day came when Degas had to put Semiramis aside for a ballet girl; the ballet girl had not been painted before; it was Degas who introduced her and the acrobat and the repasseuse into art. And remembering that portraits lacked intimacy, he designed Manet sprawling on a sofa indifferent to his wife's music, thinking of the painting he had done that morning, or of the painting he was going to do the next morning. If Leonardo had lived in the nineteenth century, I said, he might have painted like that; and I wandered on through the Louvre thinking of the twain as intellectuals, till Rembrandt's portrait of his wife absorbed me as no other picture had ever done, and perhaps as no other picture will ever do again. The spell that it laid upon me was conclusive; when I approached the eyes faded into brown shadow, but when I withdrew they began to tell the story of a soul—of one who seems conscious of her weakness, of her sex, and the burden of her own special lot—she is Rembrandt's wife, a servant, a satellite, a watcher. The mouth is no more than a little shadow, but what wistful tenderness there is in it! and the colour of the face is white, faintly tinted with bitumen, and in the cheeks some rose madder shows through the yellow. She wears a fur jacket; grey pearls hang in her ears; there is a brooch upon her breast, and a hand at the bottom of the picture passing out of the frame, and the hand reminds us, as the chin does, of the old story that God took a little clay, etc., for the chin and hand and arm are moulded without display of knowledge as Nature moulds.
The Mona Lisa, celebrated in literature, hanging a few feet away, seems factitious when compared with this portrait; her hesitating smile which held my youth in a little tether has come to seem to me but a grimace, and the pale mountains no more mysterious than a globe or map seems at a distance, a sort of riddle, an acrostic, a poetical decoction, a ballade, a rondel, a villanelle, or ballade with double burden, a sestina or chant royal. The Mona Lisa, being literature in intention rather than painting, has drawn round her many poets, and we must forgive her many mediocre verses for the sake of a prose passage that our generation had by heart. The Mona Lisa and Degas's Leçon de Danse are thoughtful pictures painted with the brains rather than with the temperaments; and we ask sooner or later, but assuredly we ask, of what worth are Degas's descriptions of washerwomen and dancers and racehorses compared with that fallen flower, that Aubusson carpet, above all, the footstool? and if any one of Degas's pictures is bought for this gallery I hope it will be one of these early pictures, the red-headed girl, for instance, an unfinished sketch, exhibited some time ago at Knightsbridge, the property, I believe, of Durand Ruel.
In the days of the Nouvelle Athènes we used to repeat Degas's witticisms, how he once said to Whistler, Whistler, if you were not a genius you would be the most ridiculous man in Paris. Leonardo made roads, Degas makes witticisms. I remember his answer when I confided to him one day that I did not care for Daumier—the beautiful Don Quixote and Sancho Panza that hangs on the wall I had not then seen; that is my apology, an insufficient one, I admit. Degas answered, If you were to show Raphael a Daumier he would admire it, but if you were to show him a Cabanel he would say with a sigh: That is my fault—an excellent quip. But we should not attach the same importance to a quip as to a confession. Manet said to me: I tried to write, but I couldn't; and we must esteem these words as an artist's brag; I am a painter, and only a painter. Degas could not boast that he was a painter and only a painter, for he often wearied of painting; he turned to modelling, and he abandoned modelling for the excitement of collecting pictures—not for himself but for the Louvre. I've got it, he said to me in the Rue Maubeuge, and he was surprised when I asked him what he had got; great egotists always take it for granted that every one is thinking of what they are doing. Why, the Jupiter, of course the Jupiter, and he took me to see the picture—a Jupiter with beetling brows, and a thunderbolt in his hand. He had hung a pear next to it, a speckled pear on six inches of canvas, one that used to hang in Manet's studio, and guessing he was about to be delivered of a quip, I waited. You notice the pear? Yes, I said. I hung it next to the Jupiter to show that a well-painted pear could overthrow a God. There is a picture by Mr Sargent in this room—one of his fashionable women. She is dressed to receive visitors, and is about to spring from her chair; the usual words, How do you do, Mary, are upon her crimson lips, and the usual hysterical lights are in her eyes, and her arms are like bananas as usual. There is in this portrait the same factitious surface-life that informs all his pictures, and, recognising fashionable gowns and drawing-room vivacities as the fundamental Sargent, Degas described him as Le chef de rayon de la peinture. Le chef de rayon is the young man behind the counter who says, I think, madam, that this piece of mauve silk would suit your daughter admirably, ten yards at least will be required. If your daughter will step upstairs, I will take her measure. Vous pouvez me confier votre fille; soyez sûre que je ne voudrais rien faire qui pût nuire à mon commerce.
Any one, Degas said once to me, can have talent when he is five-and-twenty; it is more difficult to have talent when you are fifty. I remember the Salon in which Bastien Lepage exhibited his Potato Harvest, and we all admired it till Degas said, The Bouguereau of the modern movement. Then every one understood that Bastien Lepage's talent was not an original but a derivative talent, and when Roll, another painter of the same time, exhibited his enormous picture entitled Work, containing fifty figures, Degas said, One doesn't make a crowd with fifty figures, one makes a crowd with five. Quips, merely quips, and there were far too many quips in Degas's life; and I include in my list of quips a great number of ballet girls and racehorses. His butcher's corpulent wife standing before a tin tub was much talked about in our cafe, until Monet returned after a long absence in the country, bringing with him twenty or thirty canvases, a row of poplars seen in perspective against a grey sky, or a view of the Seine with a bridge cutting the picture in equal halves, or a cottage shrouded in snow with some low hills. Pissarro admired these, of course, but his preference ran to Sisley, who, he said, was more of a poet; and should a Sisley come later into this collection, my hope is that it will be a picture I saw years ago in the galleries of George Pettit: the bare wall of a cottage, a frozen pond, and some poplar-trees showing against the first film of light, a vision so exquisite that Constable's art seems in comparison coarse and clumsy.
Monet's art is colder, more external, and those who like to trace individual qualities back to race influence may, if they will, attribute the exquisite reverie which distinguishes Sisley's pictures to his northern blood.
Monet began by imitating Manet, and Manet ended by imitating Monet. They were great friends. Manet painted Monet and Madame Monet in their garden, and Monet painted Manet and Madame Manet in the same garden; they exchanged pictures, but after a quarrel each returned the other his picture. Monet's picture of Manet and his wife I never saw, but Manet's picture of Monet and Madame Monet belongs to a very wealthy merchant, a Monsieur Pellerin, who has the finest collection of Manets and Cézannes in the world. Cézanne exhibited with the Impressionists, but I do not remember having seen him in the Nouvelle Athènes or heard his name mentioned by Manet or Degas. Alexis told us once that he had breakfast with him that morning at the Moulin de la Galette, and that Cézanne had arrived in jack-boots covered with mud and had spent thirty francs on the meal, which was an unusual feat in those days and in those districts. Alexis was struck by the resemblance of Cézanne to his pictures. A peasant come straight out of The Reapers, he said; I thought of Manet, and we congratulated ourselves on the advancement of our taste, forgetful that the next generation may speak of Cézanne's portraits as the art of the trowel rather than of the brush. The word masonry must have been in Zola's mind when he exalted Cézanne in L'Oeuvre, and at the dinner given to celebrate the publication of the book declared him to be a greater painter than Manet. Both came from Aix; both had talent; and both were denied the exquisite vision and handicraft of Sisley and Verlaine.
Within the Impressionist movement were two women, Mary Casatt, who derived her art from Degas, and Berthe Morisot, who derived hers from Manet. Berthe Morisot married Manet's brother, and there can be little doubt that she would have married Manet if Manet had not been married already. I remember him saying to me once: My sister-in-law wouldn't have been noticed without me; she carried my art across her fan. Berthe is dead, and her pictures are very expensive and picture-dealers do not make presents, but Mary Casatt is alive, she is a rich woman, and I take this opportunity of suggesting that she should be asked to give a picture. After an absence of many years I went to see her and found her blind, but talkative as of yore, and we talked of all the people we had known, till at the end of breakfast she said, There is one we haven't spoken about, perhaps the greatest of all. I said, You mean Renoir? And she reproached me with having been always a little indifferent to his art. I don't think that this is true, or if it be true, it is only true in a way. I know of nothing that I would sooner hang in my drawing-room than one of Renoir's bathers, or a portrait of a child in grey fur dressed to be taken to the Bois by her mother. Some of his portraits of children are the most beautiful I know—they are white and flower-like, and therefore very unlike the stunted, leering little monkeys that Sir Joshua Reynolds persuaded us to accept as representative of tall and beautiful English children. I think it was at the end of the 'sixties that Renoir painted the celebrated picture of the woman looking into the canary cage—a wonderful picture, but so unlike his later work that it may be doubted if anybody would recognise it as being by the man who painted the bathers. By the bathers I mean all the plump girls whom he painted on green banks under trees, their fat so permeated with light that they seem like luminous flowers; yet they are flesh, and full-blooded flesh that would bleed. It may be that Manet never painted naked flesh so realistically. His art is less casual, less modern, less actual, than Renoir's. It came out of a different tradition, and upon it is the birthmark of easy circumstances and the culture thereof; whereas Renoir was a Parisian workman; he began life in a factory painting flowers, and his talent was not sufficient to redeem his art from the taint of an inherited vulgarity. Whistler would have cried for an umbrella to hide himself under were he asked to consider The Umbrellas.
The man I see when my thoughts return to the Nouvelle Athènes is a tall, lean man with red in his ragged hair and beard, and his voice has a ring in it. If Renoir had not been an aesthete he wold have been a Socialist orator. Some of his denunciations are quoted in Confessions of a Young Man, and here is an anecdote that a few may think instructive. Money suddenly began to accumulate at his bank, and he bethought himself of a stock of wine and cigars, a carriage, several suits of clothes, or a flat in the quarter of the Champs Élysées with a mistress in it. But turning from these legitimate issues, he went to Venice to study Tintoretto, and on his return to Paris he laboured in a school of art until it became plain to him that his studies, instead of decreasing, were increasing the distance between himself and Tintoretto. I remember his embittered, vehement voice in the Nouvelle Athènes, and I caught a glimpse of his home life on the day that I went to Montmartre to breakfast with him, and finding him, to my surprise, living in the same terrace as Paul Alexis, I asked: Shall we see Alexis after breakfast? He would waste the whole of my afternoon, Renoir muttered, sitting here smoking cigars and sipping cognac; and I must get on with my picture. Marie, as soon as we have finished, bring in the asparagus, and get your clothes off, for I shall want you in the studio when we have had our coffee.
The evenings that Pissarro did not come to the Nouvelle Athènes were so rare that I cannot think of the Nouvelle Athènes without seeing him in the far corner on the right, listening to Manet and Degas, approving of all they said. I remember his pictures, many of them, as well as his white beard and hair, and nose of the race of Abraham. He figures in Confessions of a Young Man, and turning to this youthful book I find an appreciation of him, and, as I think today as I thought then, I will quote it. Speaking of a group of girls gathering apples in a garden, I wrote: Sad greys and violets, beautifully harmonised with figures that seem to move as in a dream on the thither side of life, in a world of quiet colour and perfect resignation. But the apples will never fall from the branches, the baskets of the stooping girls will never be filled, for the orchard is one that life has not for giving, that the painter has set in an eternal dream of violet and grey, an apple orchard with peasants gathering the spare fruit of the mildew collected on a planet's surface. The picture in the present exhibition represents Pissarro in his first period, when he followed Corot; I hope Dublin will acquire it. And having said this much, my thoughts return to the last time I spoke with this dear old man, so like himself and his race. It was at Rouen about six years ago, whither he had gone to paint the Cathedral. For Monet having painted the Cathedral, why not he likewise? Why not, indeed? for he always followed somebody's dream. But though his wanderings were many and sudden, he never quite lost his individuality, not even when he painted yachts after the manner of Signac.
Who had invented Impressionism? was asked when he died, and attempts were made to trace Monet back to Turner. Monet, it was said, had been to England, and in England he must have seen Turner, and it was impossible to see Turner without being influenced by Turner. Yes! Monet was in England many times, and he painted in England, and one day we went together to an Exhibition of Old Masters in Burlington House, and there we saw a picture for which many thousands of pounds had just been paid, and Monet said, Is that brown thing your great Turner? It is true, the picture we were looking at was not much more interesting than brown paper, and I told him that Turner had painted other pictures that he would like better, The Frosty Morning, and he said he had seen it, remarking that Turner had painted that morning with his eyes open. Whistler likes Calais Pier better than The Frosty Morning, for it was more like his own painting, and no very special discernment is required to understand that Turner and Constable could not have influenced painters whose desire was to dispense altogether with shadow. Whether, by doing so, they failed sometimes to differentiate between a picture and a strip of wallpaper is a question that does not come within the scope of the present inquiry. Mr Lane is asking us to consider if a collection of Impressionist pictures would benefit Dublin, and it seems to me certain that Manet, Monet, Sisley, and Renoir are more likely to draw our thoughts to the beauty of this world than a collection of Italian pictures gathered from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

Recently, I was digging through my wife and I's credit card statements and noticed a charge for something called FreeShipping.com. As I looked closer, it turns out that this company had been charging my wife's card $12.95 a month for as far back as I had CC statements for. Both my wife and I were unfamiliar with them so I called the company to cancel whatever it was.
I talked to the rep and apparently my wife had unknowingly signed up for the service when she applied for a rebate at Burlington Coat Factory all the way back in 2018. They had charged us nearly $800 over 5 years for a service that we have never heard of, much less use. Apparently, they offer free shipping on online shopping if you subscribe to their service. As I have Amazon Prime, this is a completely redundant and useless service to my wife and I.
I explained to the rep that I had never heard of them and never used their service, and she agreed when she saw that my wife's account has had zero activity since it was created 5 years ago. I demanded that the "service" be canceled and we be refunded. She said the refund request had to go up to to management, and they may choose to refund up to 6 months of charges.
Today, I received a refund for 4 months of "service". About $50, after paying nearly $800 for nothing.
As I far as I can tell from online reviews, this is FreeShipping.com's actual business model: they insert their subscription sign ups into the fine print of other businesses customer interactions, with the aim of catching people unaware and then silently draining their bank accounts as long as they can. Fuck FreeShipping.com and those who operate like them.
Obviously, I am partially to blame. I should have caught this way sooner and will be more vigilant in checking bank CC statements going forward. Do you have any recommendations on getting the rest of my money refunded, or is it a lost cause? I am active duty military and fall under SCRA protections, if that helps with anything.

Hello, Swappers.
Yolos take precedence, but feel free to shoot me any questions you have. If you yolo, please send me a chat to pay promptly. PayPal F&F or Zelle. Thanks!
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KNIVES
Name: Reate Exo Exclusive
SV: 275 SOLD
Condition: Excellent
Description: Cranes Cutlery exclusive in 3V with hand-flamed titanium handles and speed holes. Tanto point blade w/partial serrations. Knife has been out of the box and deployed, but never cut with or carried so the blade is screaming sharp and in minty condition. There were only 40 of this version ever produced and they sold out quickly at $298. This is serial #26.
· Link to specs
· Comes with original box/docs, leather sheath, pouch, stickers, and everything else from factory
· Video (sound available)
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Name: Microtech Ultratech UMS
SV: 185 SOLD
Condition: Very Good
Description: Service Personnel Program model featuring a two-tone M390 blade with a tanto edge. Lightly carried and used, but still in great condition. Some light snails on the body and a bit of paint wear on the edges of the clip and button. Edge is factory and still sharp. Action is great as it fires and retracts with ease.
· Link to specs
· Comes with original box/docs
· Video (sound available)
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ACCESSORIES
Name: Para 3 Package (scales + two clips prefer not to separate)
SV: 65 SOLD

• Diamond Arc Forest Green G10 Scales
  • These are Spyderco factory scales from a sold-out sprint run. They were given a skinny mod by a previous owner. The mod was well done as the scales are even and the inside edge looks clean. I was very pleasantly surprised by the grip on these. I wish I had an extra Para 3 to put these on because they look great and are highly functional.
• Lynch Blacksmith Clip
  • Blacksmith finish. Mounted, but in great condition.
• MXG Clip
  • Black powder coat finish. Mounted, but in great condition

· Video
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Name: Hinderer Clip + Tab
SV: 70 SOLD
Description: Flamed titanium skull clip & flamed titanium tab. Both have been mounted but are in good condition. Includes original plastic pouch from the tab set.
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Memory transcription subject: Illia, Federation Communications Technician
Date [standardized human time]: October 21, 2136
Having been descended from a race of mountain-climbers certainly had its benefits. I was no stranger to climbing, even before this. When I was a young fawn still receiving education, climbing great heights was a part of our standard curriculum. I was always the top of my class, and had been up until I graduated. I never was the type to be too boastful or too proud of myself, my only goal ever was to make my parents pleased with me.
Their pleasure with me had only increased since I joined the Federation, as they were both avid supporters. I used to be the same way, once. Although, that was a long time ago.
I didn’t like the Federation. I didn’t trust them, I didn’t agree with their methods, and certainly not after what they did. Of course, my saying so would be considered highly treasonous and severely punishable, so I kept it to myself. The only reason that I had even joined was because I desperately needed the money. Withdrawing from the Federation didn’t do Jild’s population any favors, as prices rose rapidly. Regardless of both the Iftali and Suleans leaving the Federation, they continued to promise decent compensation in return for those who enlist. I wasn’t proud of my acquiescence, but as of late, being able to afford both food and rent with three children was incredibly expensive.
The guilt of joining the Federation had surrounded me like an all-consuming darkness. I kept on telling myself that I had to, that it was a necessary decision. But was it? Would I be better off if I hadn’t enlisted at all? Regardless, I would never forgive myself.
Bringing myself back into reality, I carefully descended the steep cliff face while my flexible toes delicately traversed the alien rock, guiding me. I would stop often, calculating my next move. Thankfully, I had tossed my bag down into the ravine before climbing down, so that it wouldn’t weigh too heavy on my back. There wasn’t anything fragile in there that I knew of, so it seemed like a smart move. In terms of progress, I had made it around halfway down the ravine
I supported myself against a vertical wall of rock, pressing my side into it, and looked down.
I was quite a ways up, though the height didn’t deter me. The view was spectacular, with twin suns closing in on the horizon, brushing through the trees while casting a pleasant glare upon them; one star was a brilliant gold, and the other was a blinding white. I held a paw over the latter to obscure it from my vision.
I retracted my eyes from the beautiful scenery, and focused on the ground beneath me.
My spongy footpads were currently glued onto a small slab of rock that jutted outward, unmoving. I was thankful to have been given the best of both worlds in terms of evolution; I was equipped both with hooves and four-fingered hoof-paws, each in their respective places. Aforementioned paws were currently dancing around the rough texture of an adjacent rock, slightly lower from where I was situated. I charted a course mentally, exhaling through pursed lips. I would need my full attention for this.
In a flash, I leapt onto the slim outcropping expertly and hopped from one ledge to the next without losing momentum, my iron focus unfaltering. I galloped downward, nearing the bottom with every jump. My hindpaws connected with the rock, it being more sloped towards the base of the ravine, and kicked off of it. I elegantly soared through the air like a flightless avian for what felt like forever, before connecting with the smooth gravel below.
The airtime, as always, was gratifying.
I stood up, my joints popping in response from the sudden change of posture. I exhaled, turning around to face the terrain I had just bested. My lips curved upwards in fulfillment. This was nowhere near the tallest mountain I’ve climbed over, or climbed down, rather, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a great sense of satisfaction. I moved over to my abandoned satchel, bending over to pick it up. I unzipped the bag, giving the items inside a once-over for any damage it may have received. Seeing that all items were intact, I closed it back up and draped it across my shoulders. Standing back up, my eyes narrowed as I noticed a foreign object protruding from the vibrant, rocky wall. I walked closer towards it, curiously. The phenomenon was long and shiny, wedged deeply into the multi-colored mass of rock. I drew my hand to it, being careful not to cut myself on its sharp edges. I gave a knock to its surface, which resounded in a dull thud.
It was metal.
Realization hit me suddenly as I concluded that this was one of the many pieces of stray shrapnel that flew from the ship, when it violently exploded. The fact that it could cut so easily into rock when flung at such a high velocity was utterly terrifying to think of.
I shivered, remembering what I came down here for.
“Now to get to business.” I mumbled to myself, loneliness seemingly taking hold of me very quickly. My hooves began to move me closer towards the ship’s carcass, step by step.
Although, it wouldn’t hurt to do a quick sweep, first. I had almost forgotten about my earlier encounter with the predator. I was aware that it wasn’t very likely that it would still be here, had it lived, however, I had to make sure.
My eyes centered themselves onto the decimated wreck as I came around it, aiming to confirm the stowaway predator’s demise. I dodged the disturbed chunks of soil sticking out around the ship, nearing closer and closer. As much as death disgusted me, it would put me more at ease to know that there wouldn’t be a flesh-eater chasing me around the unknown.
I gave the ruins a wide berth, in case it somehow survived and was waiting for the perfect time to ambush me. Perhaps I was just paranoid. I was met with nothing but the smoky emptiness of the crashed vessel; the frame was sticking out of its shell, and had most of its hull missing, giving me the ability to see inside. I peered in from a distance, careful to avoid touching the still-flaming-hot metal.
Phew, no human. I breathed in relief.
No corpse, either.
I stood there for a moment as a twinge of fear found its way into me, and my logical brain once again sprung back into action.
Of course there’s no body, I mentally reassured myself. The extreme heat from the core no doubt vaporized it, the same as it had with everything else still on the ship.
I huffed through my nose, relief coursing through me as I came to terms with the viability of my mental statement.
Was the human even real? Had I been so sleep deprived to the point where I started to subconsciously imagine things to keep me alert and awake? It wasn’t out of the question, but everything seemed so real, but at the same time, like a faint memory.
I turned my head, my eyes combing through the towering greenery a good distance away from the other side of the ship. I rotated my body in a full circle, scanning for my next destination. The surrounding wilderness was a rainforest, or very similar to one, with each tree having multiple large, yellow curved leaves which seemed to scoop up the humid air. This new environment was a major change from the stretch of tall pines that I had just come from. I noted that the rainforest seemed to be more prominent in the lower-altitude areas, while the forest remained on top of high cliffs and mountains. The dark purple trunks were the only similarity the two different types of trees shared.
The rest of the crew could be quite a ways away, I was the last to land. I reminded myself. I’d have to be logical about this.
I was probably the closest to where Kiran landed, so I would just have to backtrack. I looked over to the long trail of debris where the ship came crashing in from, towards the towering, rainforest-like trees. My best bet would be to start walking in that direction, and regroup with any lost crewmates along the way.
- - -
More long hours of walking ensued, followed by constant stops and rest breaks. My hind legs ached substantially, unused to having to support my lithe frame on their own for long periods of time. I was extremely grateful that this primitive planet didn’t share the same gravity as Venlil Prime. During one of my breaks, I consumed two whole vegetable bars out of pure thirst. I had to find some water if I was to last any longer.
“Ok, you win.” I said to my biological needs in between pants.
As much as I had wanted to find Kiran as soon as possible, showing up to her dead wouldn’t do either of us any good. My search for her had led me to neglecting my own basic needs. I truly cared about the girl, and wanted to ensure that she was safe and unharmed. I didn’t doubt her abilities, for as young as she was, she was very smart and capable. But did those traits extend to survival outside of civilization?
Continuing my journey, I ventured deeper into the rainforest, listening and looking for any signs of water. I stopped, searching through the dense foliage with my periphery.
This would be the perfect place for a predator to hide.
I hadn’t thought much about this planet’s natural predators, if there even were any. It was common knowledge that on an uncolonized planet, where there was prey, there would be predators.
The beautiful scenery around me quelled the fear of being preyed upon, somewhat. If we ever got out of here, this place would make a great colony. Once we get rid of its problems, that is. I wished the escape pod I came here in provided a firearm. That would make dealing with the unknowns of this planet far simpler. Plus, I’d rather not face the jagged maw of some feral flesh-eater with no means to defend myself. But now, I would have to risk the slim chance of death for hydration.
I warily crept through the overgrowth of purple and yellow plants, being mindful of the noise I was producing. As I walked, I sunk my two hoof digits on either foot into the moist ground to prevent any wet, splotchy noises from escaping. It must have rained not too long ago, I noted.
As I attempted to be as inconspicuous as possible, I saw multiple purple plants bundled together with one large leaf at the very top, nearly as tall as I was on my hind hooves. The leaf had many veins on it, and the very tip of the plant curved into a sharp point, lolling towards the ground and hanging there, as if it were a tongue. There was a small hole in its center, connecting to a long stem which fed into the ground, surrounded by smaller versions of itself. I walked towards it, still wary of my surroundings.
The spout was glistening, dripping with condensation. Yes!!
Shrugging off my pack, I plopped on all fours onto the mushy floor and angled my head sideways underneath the plant, attempting to catch the dew with my open maw, tongue extended. I probably looked quite silly, but I was desperate.
Just as a lone bead of moisture slid towards my waiting mouth, I remembered that I wasn’t on Jild. I was far away from it, in an untamed world. There was no telling what plethora of sicknesses and diseases I could possibly contract from drinking unfiltered water, and I would prefer not to be the one to find out.
The plant’s leaf should extract any harmful material from the water, but drinking with the filter is the more responsible decision.
I relented, withdrawing from the plant and huffing out through my nose impatiently. I tugged my bag towards me, setting it down, and dug through it. Taking out the flask, I opened it, holding it up to the opening. I felt the light plops of water vibrate through the container as it sorted through the filter. This is going to take a while.
Not even a minute passed before my arms grew tired. I set the bottle down directly underneath the lip of the plant. Settling onto my knees, I eagerly watched the drops collect in the bottle, licking my dry lips with anticipation.
The damp soil coating my knees contributed to the multitude of stains on my dirty jumpsuit, complete with tiny, dried stripes of brown that oozed from the wounds on my abdomen. But I didn’t care, being dirty was the last thing I was worried about. My eyes locked onto the dewy beads of the plant as each one dripped into the open flask, drop by drop.
I had been so focused on the water collecting that I nearly jumped out of my fur when I heard an ear-piercing scream, followed by three distinct shots in quick succession. The avian wildlife were quick to disperse, vocalizing shrieks of their own.
I raised myself onto my hind hooves in a flash, nearly spilling over my water bottle. My sensitive ears swiveled frantically atop my head.
That came from nearby. It was obvious that the scream came from a sentient creature, and if I had to guess, from a krakotl.
The shots fired were easily discernible as originating from a railgun; the standard service weapon of the Federation.
I surveyed the area, my horizontal pupils snapping every which way wildly.
My thoughts weren’t registering as I stared through the dim overgrowth where the shots rang out. Alarms were blaring in my head, demanding that I bolt in the opposite direction as fast as I could. Fear quickly took over my senses without a second thought, and I began to start towards where I came. My quaking legs began to pick up speed while dashing through the forest, completely forgetting my mission. For a split second within my mind, I saw the face of a wonderfully-patterned sulean with strong horns, who locked his shimmering gray eyes onto mine.
“Promise me.”
I halted myself forcefully, digging both of my cloven hooves deep into the dirt. I skidded forward, flinging mud everywhere as inertia caught up to me. I steadied myself, regaining my balance.
What am I doing?
I controlled my breathing and clenched my paws.
“N-need… need to be.. s-strong.” I stammered aloud as an attempt to remind myself of my goals. “F-for Eulen, Melem, and Veia.” I controlled my breathing, taking deep breaths in and out. I wasn’t going to let fear take over my senses any longer. “Deep breaths.” I whispered to myself. It always was surprising how well it worked, I would need to do it more often.
I continued to console myself for a moment longer. Feeling the fear slowly dissipate, I felt a strong sense of duty replace it. Kiran was depending on me, and I wouldn’t let her down. I timidly returned to where I retreated from, picking up my flask and drank what little water had collected inside of it, then stuffed it in my bag, which I then slung back over my shoulders. It was just my luck that the cry originated from exactly where I was heading, so there would be no avoiding it. I could make a detour, but I wouldn’t want to keep Kiran waiting any longer than she needed to, especially not with whatever the shots were fired at. I didn’t want to think of what the alternative could be.
I kept my breathing at steady intervals; deep breaths in, deep breaths out. This carried me through the jungle, all of my worries of wild predator attacks being expelled with every outward breath. Unfortunately, I couldn’t brush all of the dreadful feelings away, so a miniscule amount remained.
I hadn’t paid much attention to my surroundings as I walked, which wasn’t the best idea. My sole focus was on finding Kiran, and I would do so, whatever it takes.
- - -
I stopped walking as I approached another clearing. This one was much smaller by comparison to the previous one I ventured through, up on the hills. I had been out of the rainforest for a few hours, and the wilderness had diverted into a more temperate climate, with yellow-mossed trees with red leaves and trunks painting the region in every perceivable direction. This area was where the scream and gunshots came from, according to my sharp hearing.
Just walk straight through it, Illia. You’ll be fine as long as you keep going, without stopping. My internal monologue directed me. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with what ghastly creature deserved to be fired upon, however.. I was curious.
I pivoted, my hooves helping me to make a sharp left turn, directing me towards three faint formations within the clearing, which were the only oddity here as far as I could tell. Out of the three entities, the oval-shaped one was the largest, and was unmistakably another pod, albeit a much larger version of mine, likely created to hold more than one person. There were two smaller, circular objects that looked like white bulbous orbs, standing out harshly against the many colors of the surrounding wilderness. Heading towards the closest of the two spheres, which turned more and more into a circular shape as I neared closer. It was a tent!
I jogged towards it after this realization, desperately in need of the presence of another sapient.
Stopping in front of it, the tent’s flap was open, so I peered inside. The interior was devoid of any living beings, the only inhabitants being a few scattered inanimate items that may be of use. I didn’t want to rummage through someone else's things, even if they were my own shipmates. I’d rather find them first, then combine our resources later.
I started towards the second tent, which was a little ways down from the first. Approaching it from an angle, I could tell that something was off. The fabric of the spherical tent was tattered near the front, especially on the sides, as if it were ripped open. The torn fabric had splotches of purple in certain areas towards the opening.
Oh, Jild.
A part of me wished that I would leave it at that, but my growing interest as to what happened to the tents’ inhabitants only goaded me on further, towards the bloody opening. I rounded the tent, a dreadful feeling working its way into my gut.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
The only two sensations that I could feel at the moment were nausea and terror, as I stared at the multiple piles of eviscerated entrails in front of me. There must have been four or five gorey clumps of what used to be my crewmates, the evenly-scattered piles completely unrecognizable. I screamed in sheer horror, ignoring the pain that seared through my vocal chords. Bone jutted out through what little remained of soft, purple tissue, as if the victims’ bodies were ripped open with one quick swipe. I couldn’t look any longer, I felt sick. I forcefully turned my body away from the graphic scene, as the image of the ‘’bodies’’ already burnt itself into my memory. I could feel bile work its way from my stomach into my mouth. I clasped a paw to my mouth, both to muffle my cries and to block the vomit that was building in my throat from escaping. Those were people, people who I worked with, people who I talked to on a daily basis. What could have possibly done this?!
There was no question that this was the source of the gunshots that I heard earlier, and what a grizzly discovery it was.
I wailed out loud, crying freely, allowing warm tears to drizzle down my cheeks. I hyperventilated, as shock embedded itself into my mind. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I barely acknowledged my hoof bumping into a metallic object. I pried my eyes open, which were shut tightly, and glanced downward.
Next to me was a discarded firearm, likely the very same one used to fire at whatever the group encountered. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I bent over, picking it up. It was a dark gray, with a factory-new sheen to it. The weapon wasn’t too large, being small enough for it to fit into my bag. The metal of the weapon was cool to the touch, and judging from that, it had been a while since whatever brutally attacked my crew. I could still see the mounds of death in my periphery, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.
This experience was sure to follow me into my nightmares.
I checked the remaining ammo in the weapon. Two bolts left. I wouldn’t doubt that there would likely be spares nearby, probably in the tents. If they had bothered to pack extra, that is. No one deserved what happened to them, and it would forever plague my memory. I paid my respects to my fallen crew, and tucked the weapon into my bag. I needed to get as far away from here as possible.
I scavenged what few items of use there were in both the tents, which collectively had a Federation-grade flare, a few more rations, a holster, as well as several containers filled to the brim with water. I drank only half of a container, which was enough to quench my thirst for now. I wanted my newfound water sources to last for as long as possible, for my inevitable reunion with Kiran.
Jild, please let her be alright.
I strapped the holster to my stained jumpsuit, carefully taking out the weapon from my bag, and sliding it into its designated pouch.
After double-checking that it was secure, I looked up towards the sky, which was now a dark orange instead of the threatening crimson that was visible earlier. I noticed no rays of sunlight burning into the back of my head, either, as there was an absence of the blinding white star; it had apparently descended below the horizon. The deep orange color of the sky cascaded into a deep red, mixing into a stark black on the other end of the planet where the puny sun couldn’t reach. It was quite the sight; being able to see the beautiful and alluring constellations without light pollution drowning it out. I saw a comet whip past, out in the inky blackness of space, passing just as quickly as it had appeared. It only emphasized how little and insignificant we were in this massive universe.
‘’Wow..’’ I breathed out in awe.
It had also gotten considerably colder since the brighter star’s departure; I could feel a shiver escape me, rattling through my bones. The cool air was rather pleasant, actually. I admired the setting sun for a while longer, and all of my worries dissipated for a moment.
Staring out in the direction I was heading through the clearing I was in, I scanned the area for any signs of a pod crashing down. In the distance, and a little to the right of the path I was following, I noticed a few trees smoking in the distance; a telltale sign that a pod had landed within its general vicinity.
“There you are.”
I would have to hurry, it was getting dark rather quickly. I wouldn’t like to meet whatever slaughtered my crewmates. I was still rattled from that encounter, and would not like to be reminded of it. I rushed towards the billowing smoke, into the yellow-mossed forest. The area was devoid of any light, and I suddenly remembered that I had brought a floodlight with me, which I was glad to take out of my bag, relieving my back of its heavy weight. I switched it on, the blinding light encompassing the entirety of the red trees around me, casting dark, looming shadows that danced around as I hurried past. I could have sworn I heard something crackling..
The light could be useful if I were to encounter any predators, hopefully it’d ward them away.
I came across a sea of flattened trees, which continued in a wide, linear path, sloping downward gradually. The depression was a dull crescent shape, created by the pod skidding through the ground. The trees that stood next to the small ravine were singed and blackened, and their leaves were entirely burned off. Nothing appeared to still be aflame around the path, however, the trees that got caught underneath the pod were crackling, casting a bright orange glow onto the surrounding wilderness, its sinister glimmer only adding to my strong feeling of discomfort.
I carefully slid into the trench, making sure not to step on the still flaming-hot embers. The waves of heat from them almost burned, despite not being close to it. I continued pacing myself, noticing that the dead trunks had long pillars of smoke rising, piercing the sky. That was probably what I’ve been following. It’s been many hours since we crashed. How are the trees still conducting heat? I wondered. What was most interesting about this was that there were burnt trees off in the distance, not even close to the crash site. What could have caused that?
One thing was for certain: this planet was an enigma.
I continued following the path, finally reaching the end where the battered pod lay, surrounded by trees. I was so anxious and desperate to find Kiran, I had to know what happened to her. I came around the pod, searching for the entrance. The shuttle’s door was open, and I stuck my head inside. Empty, as per usual.
My good hearing picked up a voice in the distance, beating my translator to it. The voice was undeniably female, and a rather frail one, at that.
Kiran.
The speaker was audibly distraught, babbling incoherently. The only thing that I could make out from the unintelligible rambling was that they were clearly frightened. My translator kicked in, translating the unclear words into the tongue of my own species as I moved closer towards the voice. I could understand words such as “Please” and “I’m sorry”. Who was she talking to?
There was a small encampment adjacent to the pod with a circular tent set up, not unlike the other two I came across earlier. I shuddered, trying to flush out the negative thoughts that came with that reminiscence. I need to focus. There was a campfire near the tent, still going. She must still be here.
“Kiran?” I called out. “Sweetie? Is that you?” I walked towards the campsite, switching off my beaming floodlight.
It was totally dark now, the only source of light coming from the abandoned campfire in front of me.
The voice suddenly grew much more frantic, and my curiosity bled into concern for the young girl. I caught a glimpse of her dull, grayish-blue feathers peeking out from behind one of the many crimson trees, and she stepped her entire frame into view as she backpedaled. She looked unharmed, and was still alive, thank Jild.
My lips curved upward into a smile, and my short tail cut through the air behind me, wild with excitement. Through all of the terrible things I’ve been through today, it was all worth it to be reunited with the one person who’s ever shown me kindness during my time with the Federation. I opened my mouth to call out her name once more.
The girl was flung at alarming speeds out of nowhere with incredible force, and she slammed into a yellow-mossed tree, crying out in pain. She slid down its trunk, gravity pulling her to the grassy floor. I stood at attention, and my eyes shot wide open. What just happened?! I instinctually moved to comfort her, but froze in place once I saw the aggressor reveal itself.
N-no.. that’s not p-possible..
The same purple-stained black foot covering that I had seen earlier on the ship crushed the vibrant grass beneath it, as it slunk out of the pitch-black woodland. I watched it in my periphery as it approached the sobbing Kiran, unable to move in her weakened state. It creepily stalked towards her every so slowly, the coverings thudding loudly onto the dirt with each step. It shouldn’t still be alive. It shouldn’t have lived through the crash. What on Jild are these things made of?!
I shrunk down, retreating into the cover of the tent next to me as it reached a single meaty, gloved paw up above its head, latching onto the curved pipe on its back. It pulled the weapon out of its sheath, a sharp, hollow noise emitting from the pipe as it did so. Its long, slender legs carried itself towards the girl very quickly, despite the slow pace. My breath hitched in my throat, as I waited for its next move. I could do nothing but stare in absolute horror. It stopped in front of her, only a few steps away, as it tilted its head to the side, studying her. It loomed over the tiny krakotl, and I was terrified that it might feast on her then and there. The human was clearly mocking the girl in a predatory way, rubbing defeat in her face before it inevitably killed her with the long pipe it was holding. I watched from my hiding place, my heart pounding within my ribcage once more.
Wait, what am I doing? I’m just waiting for something to happen.
I made a promise, and I’ll be damned if I don’t deliver. She doesn’t deserve this. I will not let this monster take her from me!
I calmed my breathing, concentrating on saving Kiran. I was surprised to be feeling no fear chemicals coursing through me in this particular instance. My subconscious was flushed out in an instant, and I leapt up from my concealment. I’d rather have myself die than her, a hundred times over. It’d be better knowing that I died for someone, rather than living a life as a coward.
I sprinted over to where the behemoth stood, still peering at its incapacitated prey, albeit now in a crouching position. The child turned her head away from the hideous being in front of her, shutting her eyes tightly as she sobbed. The poor thing was scared beyond belief.
I stopped a good distance away from the creature, where its long-reaching arms couldn’t grab ahold of me, removing my reclaimed firearm from its holster diligently.
“Hey!” I shouted fearlessly towards the thing, aiming towards its skull and looping one of my hooved fingers around the trigger, which was difficult.
Its head snapped towards me instantly, melting away whatever faux bravado I had displayed only a second ago. My ears flattened to my skull, and my grip on my firearm tightened.
The freakish being’s expressionless helmet reflected the glow of firelight from behind me. It stood up, its strong legs supporting its muscular frame. I could see it fully now, as it turned its entire body towards me. It held the L-shaped pipe idly at its side with one arm, and moving my gaze down further I could see that it was in fact injured.he monster's uniform had a noticeable puncture in it, the wound left untended to. Predators were naturally unfamiliar with the study of medicine, so this was unsurprising. What was surprising was that it was somehow still standing, and even walking. Had the same wound been inflicted any prey species, it would have already passed.
It didn’t escape the crash entirely unscathed. Humans aren’t unkillable after all. Ha!
I steeled my expression as much as I could, though my flattened ears betrayed that façade. “L-leave.” I ordered. “Leave her alone! I-I’ll.. I’ll k-kill you! I know y-you can.. Understand me!” I wasn’t entirely sure that it could understand me even with a rudimentary sapience, but it did have a translator. I aimed towards its head as it stepped towards me. “Stop!” I fired a single bolt, which seared past its head, missing. Shit! I wasn’t the worst shot when it came to firing a railgun, but I was better than that!
It flinched a little, recoiling from the shot, and was taken aback, seemingly surprised. I didn’t mean to do that, but the accidental warning seemed to have worked. I retained my stoic expression. It took a few steps backward, now understanding that I wasn’t bluffing. It raised its arms up, pointing towards the dark sky, a predatory taunt that screamed ‘I dare you to try that again.’
“Last chance.” The weapon in my hands was glowing a luminescent blue from the first shot, venting hot steam. I had the barrel still trained on the Terran, watching for any sudden moves. It became less shaky in my grasp as I felt much more confident in myself, having the flesh-eater submit to my demands. It backed up past Kiran, back into the forest. It stopped moving once it was near the tree line, giving me an empty stare through its helmet. It turned, and slunk deep into the crimson forest, being consumed by the shadows.
I would regret sparing it for the rest of my stay here, no doubt about it. Why didn’t I just pull the trigger?! I chastised myself mentally. I didn’t want to kill something, predator or not. It didn’t sit right with me, killing. Though it would probably be in the best interests of the remaining crew and I, I would carry the heavy burden of taking a life with me for as long as I lived. I couldn’t do it.
I lowered my firearm once the murderer moved beyond the tree line, and I rushed to Kiran, hoping that she was still ok. I cursed myself for not acting sooner. I knelt next to her, as she curled into a ball, supported by the tree she smacked into. She would need a medical checkup as soon as possible. I lightly touched a paw to her shoulder, to which she flinched violently in response. She opened her eyes, locking one of them with mine. Tears streamed down her feathers, and I was starting to spill tears of my own.
“I..Ill..ia?” She croaked in between sobs.
‘’Shhh." I hushed her, empathetically. "You’re ok, you’re ok. It's gone. You’re safe now, sweetie.” I gently stroked her back with a paw, reassuring her.
She lunged forward and latched onto me, digging the side of her beak into my chest. We embraced tightly, finally reunited at last.
- - -
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(A/N: A lot has happened in this chapter, with plenty of exciting moments! Illia reencounters the human from earlier, who somehow survived, and is still on a murderous rampage! Typical humans. She reunites with the young Kiran, whom Illia saved by suppressing her flight instincts and instead threatened the human into submission! Will the pair find Orsik, or will they find something else? Stay tuned for more NoP: Sweet Vengeance!)

The tree beneath my window that fell in the storm has begun to blossom. Japanese pink.
It’s three days since the worst of the war that’s visited me so far. It came for others worse still. An explosion just two hundred metres behind my back while I was out on my walk. Then another ahead in the city centre, then another. Great thunderclaps that seemed to hit everywhere at once – as if Sloviansk were an organism and the whole body was flinching from the pain. I turned to look at the nearest infliction behind me – a plume rising above the head of the impact behind a row of homes. Just as I was about to set off to make sure there was nothing I could do – I saw it. I fucking saw it come out of the sky. Like a black bullet travelling just slow enough for you to see. Sleekly downwards. Directly down to where the last one hit. A stab from the sky. The detonation was staggering – a rip-sound piercing every living thing with fear. Squares flew up from the explosion like those that fall down on the stage in TV shows where someone who doesn’t look like a star sings their heart out and wins, except these squares weren’t silver but black – a roof-over-your-head-in-the-air.
“Fuck.” I fast-walked in that direction, two soldiers on the road to my left swearing and pointing too. Soldiers are clearly told to leave the civilian stuff to the city – and there was nothing but people’s homes flying up in the air so nothing they were allowed to do. I got near the top of the road to another crack of manmade thunder from the city down the hill behind me – then another. This was not like the other times, not in the whole eleven months I have been here. This was a bombardment, a siege. The city was being pounded from the sky and everyone I saw knew that what was happening was different. A change in military attitude. This realisation made the pounding more frightening because you had no idea if it would stop. A young couple ran down on the other side of the street towards nowhere at all – just the nearest not fucking here. The girl’s head was dipped down as she ran, half ducking, flapping brown curls as she went, boyfriend protective behind. I crossed over and passed a lady in her fifties wrapped in the completeness of an overcoat, with a tiny dog pulling her generous whole after the couple for-the-love-of-cover.
“We are walking,” I think she said directly towards my face as she was pulled past. Her own a picture of shock. She can’t have said that. She must have asked where I was going. I spluttered some meaningless back – I don’t even remember what. No, wait – “Mi gulali,” “We were walking” – that’s what she said. She must have been trying to tell me she was right by the strike when it happened, which would explain the mooniness of her mouth and her eyes and the “we’re going this way now” of her dog.
I got around the side of the old factory in the way and met directly the street leading up towards the hit. The rising road disappeared into dust. I hurried in the direction of the sound I don’t think I will ever forget – of a woman who had just three minutes ago seen the apartment with her family in it disappear. She kept calling out a name – a girl’s name. I don’t know anything for sure but I couldn’t help but think it was her daughter. People don’t scream out names like that unless it means something. Her friend’s soothing words lapped at her in the same order of futility as the lapping of her hands, as this young woman I didn’t have the courage to look at directly, not once, paced and paced around.
Dust. Two figures ahead stood out like a scene from 9/11. One was a policeman with an electric phone that kept jumping in his fingers when he tried to use it, and the guy in his ear trying to desperately tell him things sure wasn’t helping anyone back to ground.
To my left, a fire had broken out in the five story apartment block – black smoke picking up speed. But not a single person even looked at that building – it was the other on my right that carried all the grief. The strike had decimated the top floor of a residential apartment, and spiked right down through the floor beneath that. The entire area was covered in a fine film of white dust as if it were not a bomb that had gone off but a volcano, or perhaps that’s just because our baseline for understanding anything is natural, and natural this was not.
“Pomageet!” “Help” shouted the woman, not to me, not to anyone – to everyone – from somewhere in the dust an echo away. The policeman with the man in his ear and the electrified phone moved away, and for a moment I stood alone under the strike looking up. Rubble so giant around me that some came almost head height up. A giant insulated ventilation tube, and water rising in a tide around my feet, and I don’t know how or why but there was a car tyre lying on its side, filling up, and then the fluttering of pages. A homework book – with geometry – maths. A kid’s homework book. I tore my shock away and looked up…
…just as there was movement in the first room still intact along to the right on the fifth floor. A man about my age reached out of the glassless window for something to hold onto – his whole body manoeuvring to get out. There was no fire behind him – everything was still. No need to climb out of a five story window at all. None. It occurred to me that this ghost emerging, apparently unhurt, was in a state of automotive shock. He leant right out to reach for a small piece of wood jutting off the roof behind him. I could see from my position the plank was there just like him – by accident – and neither was in a state to offer support. But he had to get out – to get away from what he had just been through. Not be in there anymore.
“Ostorozhno!” I shouted “Watch out!” “Stay there. Help will come.” I am not sure if he even heard me – his hand touched the wood which immediately betrayed its uselessness by coming away with his hand, and he drew himself back inside. I looked for a way to go inside myself. There was a crooked old wood-slatted door behind the debris, broken a little from one of the giants of wired concrete that had fallen around. I used the trapped edge of the tire not to tread in the water and picked my way toward the door. The bereaved woman’s yearning and pleading and needing this not to be happening continued out like an unearthly primal call. It was no good – the door was jammed shut and it was instantly clear nothing I could do with all my strength was going to break through. Each of the windows on the ground floor was secured with metal bars – no one ever thought when fitting them how much they might want others some day to come in.
I climbed back out through the flooded rubble again, noticing the flames on the other side had turned into an inferno, and imagining others with a reason to get out. Oblivious to the utter lack of focus of my own first two minutes on the scene, I hurried over to that door. This one had a giant metal padlock on it, which I took to mean no one was in there – but I couldn’t easily write off a need for that level of help off the back of a wistful thought. More windows barred off.
An orderly guy in his late twenties appeared at my shoulder talking out his shock. “We need to get in there” I tried to articulate in deplorable Russian made worse by my own, as I pointed at the fire, black smoke pouring upward from the windows so thickly you couldn’t even breathe outside nevermind in. But the man was only interested in the building on the other side, with the flood and the top floor disappeared, about which the mother or friend or I don’t know who screamed out defiantly now – as if through her anger she could make reality choose a different end. And by his reference to “people live there - suka” I understood people didn’t in the other building with the fire, so I flicked the switch of my focus again as if it were a light in a power cut.
That guy moved off. Another emerged near an emergency van which might have been there already, I honestly don’t know. He looked like an official emergency person so I told him there was a “Man there on the fifth floor. He is not hurt but needs help.” Maybe he didn’t understand or maybe it wasn’t as important as something else because that was the end of that.
I didn’t know what else to do. More people started arriving to stop. Helplessness shows itself in a meandering towards a standstill, which you notice with a ‘do-something!’ frustration when you see it in others until you realise you are also stood in one spot. An ambulance arrived, then a giant firetruck rolled in – which I assumed from its round-curve, toy-shaped antiquity was a backup because of the other strikes in town. And I had to accept that the people actually equipped to help were here – to do what could be done – that I wasn’t needed, and my feet meandered me away.
Just as I got towards the main road, two cars swung round in front of me, one a bright coloured BMW driven by someone desperate. I had to step out of the way – all erratic swerves and foot on the pedal, the car behind him was just the same. I looked where they went and only at that moment realised what a fool I had been – of course I couldn’t get into the building from that side – it was the door that most apartment blocks never bother even opening – the main entrance was in the yard behind.
So I turned and went after the BMW, who knew this well already. The guy, youngish, with a jumper made of fine wool – was the first person I came across who was on it. Knowing what he needed to do. Was straight over to the gas wheel on the side of the building before he even looked at the damage done. Winding it off, and only then to the decimation.
On that side of the building stood many people all staring up. The bereaved lady was here too, and that name – that girl’s name she kept calling was now less bereavement or anger, and somehow more hope that a different outcome might actually emerge from what deep inside she knew could not. As I approached the crowd, an elderly lady after midnight in her years stepped bewildered from the building next to the one that was crushed. The skin on her face was heavy with age and pulled at the pink of her eyelids like cats on a curtain, made even pinker by her shock. I can’t imagine how she had stayed together through that thunderousness, nevermind her composure but her bones. She halted side-on just to step down from the curb. I extended my hand – she took it for more than the support she needed to step down. There was no one with her, and part of me thought I should stay as I let her keep my hand until she had crossed to the yard park, before I realised I would just add to her confusion not speaking in a language she understood and was better letting her get herself together alone.
Around a dozen people were standing outside looking up at the missing couple of floors. A man staggered out of the building that was hit – head to toe in dust but no sign of injury – just pure white shock – one hand out ahead of him as if it had long ago given up waiting for a piano to play. He moved past me to people who knew words that could reach him. It was only later I realised it was probably the man who was trying to climb out of the window. I looked past him to the door he had found to emerge from. All debris on the ground here too. No police or firemen were on this side whatever, which I took to mean the people up in the crushed floors had no first responders. I looked aghast at the bunch of guys barely out of their teens staring up, wondering why they were just standing there, not realising that I just hadn’t seen who had already gone in. I refused to be statically helpless, so moved toward the open door, clambering through rubble to get to the entrance, ducking below a bent lip of concrete. Some insides really are like the bellies of whales, and the sounds coming from outside father echoes from the din.
It was just a normal regular stairwell at the bottom and dust. I could hear the bereaved woman calling up to someone I was afraid was going to be the first person I’d see. The second floor was the same as the first – you couldn’t tell there was anything amiss apart from the dust. Then, as I reached the third floor, I saw from the window the elderly lady I had helped lead out come close to the building and started calling out now too – but to a lower floor and with a different name. Less desperate and more of an ‘are you okay?’ There were sets of three closed doors that I thought about knocking on, but from all I could gather there was no emergency this low down. As I started past the third floor I heard the scratch of movement above – someone alive. And then suddenly someone running – the guy who was on it from the BMW running down past me as he looked on his phone for a number to dial. I moved to what must have been the fourth floor before the floors ceased to be. A large policeman with a flack jacket and for some reason a kalashnikov was standing in the hallway looking into an apartment to the right, while others inside worked. From the look on his face and that helplessness, there was nothing I was going to be able to do even if he had let me go in.
“Can I help?” I asked, or tried, as he too looked to his phone and started coming down again, but I have always had a problem with how to say this phrase properly and right now I was far from my articulate best. He gave me enough attention to understand that he couldn’t understand, and just told me that someone was “Balliyeet” - “Hurt”. I said that I had seen an ambulance arrive – I will go and get them – and ran back down the stairs ahead of him.
Sure enough, outside, one of the ambulances had parked off down to my right, and three medics in orange suits stood in a line waiting to be used. I shouted out the same word the policemen had used, “Hurt”, adding “People” and “there” in arbitrary places, not even thinking about what others around might have felt when they heard.
“I don’t understand. What do you want?” called out the shortest in the line, a woman also on it, but for me at that moment apparently not.
I tried to repeat what was going on and she shouted back a reason why she was not going to do anything so I followed the policeman who came out behind me and sidled over towards his boss, and politely barked at him to tell the ambulance women about the injured. Either his shock didn’t know how to deal with me or it was at this point he realised it was just easiest if I was ignored – he reported to his colleagues that someone had their arm trapped – so I left them to it and went over to talk not shout to the ambulance lady, finding calm and articulacy at last.
“I am sorry. I am English and don’t speak Russian well. Someone is injured in there.”
“I understand, but we have orders to wait until the area is cleared, or the injured are brought to us” is what I think she said, or something along those lines. And we nodded out a respectful and sad conclusion to our conversation, and I moved off again so as not to be in anyone’s way. It’s all very well having the will to help, but if you can’t even communicate in situations like this, you are about as useful as a flood to a well.
The last thing I saw was the twenty-year old guys deciding it was time to see if they could do something too, and were clambering over the rubble to go up. And I just walked away because where giving help was concerned, there seemed nothing more I could do. And there was just as much likelihood of help being needed in the centre as here – a total of seven explosions I had heard.
As I descended back down towards the road, I noticed another guy at the gas wheel, and realised he could turn it back on. “A guy closed it off,” I called to him and he stopped. And then I left feeling mostly helpless as I set off down towards the centre still simmering from the shock.
____________________________
I half expected the whole city to be in a state of frantic emergency, but it huddled instead beneath the lead of a winter-like chill. I patted the dust off the hood of my hoodie and my rainproof coat, while looking out for the other points of impact. Two soldiers all warily stood drew my eyes to the location of one – I saw the crater behind them on a path near a residential garden with crude tarmac scattered around in black fist-sized clumps.
There was a smattering of debris in the town centre too – but no sign of an actual burst – and I realised by a soldier newly arrived with friend by his side and an oblivious laugh upon his face that this was not where it was worst. None of the moon-eyed shock or emergency – just the edge of alertness in some, the bowed chill in others, and a black dog running for the sake of running as if survival was not about being safe but first.
It turned out where I had been was one of the single largest losses Slovyansk had seen since the war’s beginning. I realised when I showed up the next afternoon in my work clothes to help clear up that part of me was here to help, sure, but the other felt I was wearing a suit and black tie, and it were not gloves in my hands but flowers, and the victims my kin. Press, some two score firemen, neighbours struck with grief, and World Central Kitchens serving food and hot drinks. I asked the firemen and the Kitchens people about lending a hand but they all said the same – that volunteer groups were not working the site and neither would tomorrow likely be any different. I remembered the disaster had another flank to it and went round to in the yard. I saw the elderly lady from yesterday, who was stood outside again, with a tall, ruddy descendant behind her, and no recognition when she replied to my “Zdrasty” not “Dobry den”. I stopped a passing guy, a friend of one of the surviving residents it turned out, who I saw from the dust was in the order of pall-bearer, and with my bright orange gloves in hand like a bunch of chrysanthemums, told him I was here yesterday when it happened, and he led me back up to the top of the building as if anyone here yesterday had a right to help today. Again my lack of language made it impossible to be of any use – as the guy who brought me up went off climbing on his own away from the rest of the group, leaving me with the firemen to figure out what I could possibly do– which involved standing with five mostly helmeted men in a hallway as my guy shovelled debris into the opening in front of us from above while a crane knocked down walls to our right. After the roof of the stairwell I had just came up was knocked half down, and the only two other civilians ran down it to minimise the time under its threats to collapse, I stood and waited for instruction, until four more helmeted firemen showed up with no indication that there was even a job for me to do, except I suppose not be in the way of the crane’s pounding. So I took the initiative and told the latest arrivals not to stand under the recently collapsed stairwell roof. “Newly fallen” I tried to say, which they couldn’t decrypt while casually ascending, and I realised that this was not a place to have no language, so I paid my respects to the girl’s pink winter boot, the school history book, the pack of new socks with the heels somehow removed, and hurried down the slowly roofless stairwell with the sunshine now coming through.
I never learnt who died. There are reports that as many as 15 were killed, one a child of four. And I don’t know who that lady was who was calling. Or who she was calling for.

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Contact us Facebook Twitter Tumblr Board indexTV ShowsSThe Simpsons Select Language​▼ 25x04 - YOLO Moderator: SideshowBob "The Simpsons" - set in the fictional town of Springfield - parodies American culture, society, television, and many aspects of the human condition, and is a satirical depiction of a middle class American lifestyle. 1 post • Page 1 of 1 25x04 - YOLO Post by bunniefuu » 11/11/13 17:25 (exclaiming) (school bell ringing) (Barney burps) (tires screeching) D'oh! (tires screech) Not again! (classical music playing) ♪ The Simpsons 25x04 ♪ YOLO Original Air Date on November 10, 2013 Now, I, Bart Simpson, shall send the first coaster down the track. Hmm. (Milhouse grunts) (gasping) No, for once, I want to go first. But, Milhouse, I already let you push me on the swings. And it's an honor, but I'm doing this. Ow! Knock it off, Milhouse! (grunting) (yells) Eat safety bar! (muffled): Why are we best friends? Because your seat was behind mine! (both grunting) (groans) (both crying) Feels like this playdate's gone on forever. I'll handle this. "Dear Weirdo, pick up weirdo kid." And send. Aah! (gasps) Did you eat a peanut? No, I just sniffed a nectarine. It's okay. I can breathe through my tear ducts. (whistling) Tell me if this gets annoying. (whistling continues) I think I'm gonna throw up the mac and cheese you fed me. I'm not supposed to have it. That's why I had so much. Homer: What the...?! If this kid's dad isn't here in one second, he's going in the garbage can. (car honks) Hey, guys! Who wants a whiff of New Kirk Smell? "YOLO"? You Only Live Once. Once again, cats have it better. Kirk Van Houten. I hope you're not having a midlife crisis. Please. Just 'cause I bought a new car, lost a little weight and started taking a DJ class, everyone thinks I'm having a midlife crisis. Dad! You got me a skateboard? It's for me. Now get in the back. And while you're there, use this cream to massage the leather. (leather squeaking) To the tooth-whitening kiosk! (laughing) I'm sorry, but does Kirk know how silly he looks? Look at me! I'm afraid of dying. (laughs) Oh, Homie. I'm so glad you're happy with your life just the way it is. You've had the same job, same car, same house for 20 years. And that's all you'll ever have. A cycle you'll never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever change. And you're okay with it! Like I say night after night after night... nighty-night. (birds chirping) Kent Brockman is here for your interview. So, Kent, what brings you here? The miraculous tale of how we lost, then found, our Lost and Found box? Actually, Principal Skinner, I'm here to talk about something else... cheating! (chuckles) I thought this was a puff piece. You're wearing a sweater. This journalism just turned... gotcha! (gasps) That's right, Channel 6 will uncover the truth in a five-part series two minutes a day. People, make room for your local Emmy nomination certificates. No, do not make room. Except for Mr. Largo and his diet, there's no cheating in this school. These 30 identical "What I Did This Summer" essays say different. Um... Myra, don't I have another appointment? Oh, this is your first appointment ever. Let's take a look at this monitor. This school is more corrupt than the ltalian parliament. If these children are our future, then I, for one, do not want to live. Nelson (quietly): Ha-ha. Please don't air this. I'll tell you the winners of the kickball games in advance. You can make a lot of cabbage betting on K-ball. And that's what we'll end the story with. No! This is Kent Brockman. Pleased with himself. ♪ You only ♪ ♪ Live once ♪ ♪ Or so it seems ♪ ♪ No life for yourself ♪ ♪ And none for your dreams ♪ ♪ You work ♪ ♪ Every day ♪ ♪ At a job so lame ♪ ♪ And every night ♪ ♪ The ending's the same. ♪ ♪ No dream will come true ♪ ♪ You only ♪ ♪ Live once. ♪ (deep breath) (crying to the tune of "You Only Live Twice") (higher-pitched crying) Yeah, well, at least you got your health, huh? Now let's see if I can take that away from you. Your poison. (groans) I'm tired of living once. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm starting to regret saying "YOLO." Marge, if you don't mind, I'm gonna quit complaining about my life and start wallowing in the past. Postage, marked in pesetas? Who are those letters from? My old pen pal from Spain. Eduardo. Marge: Hmm. Back in fifth grade, you either had to write to a foreigner or a prisoner. I picked a foreigner because the prisoners wrote back too fast. We'd write each other with our dreams of the future. I was gonna be King of Cheeseburger Mountain. (sighs) Did I change or did they stop making mountains out of cheeseburgers? Probably a little bit of both. So sad. (indistinct chatter) (overlapping chatter) What kind of moral example is this dump for my boy? (burps) (crowd clamoring) Please, calm down, everyone. You know, maybe this so-called cheating scandal is actually an opportunity to, uh... (clears throat) ...initiate a-a dialogue that would, uh, create a teachable moment. Uh, something, something buzz word... I got nothing. Quick, get a picture for the yearbook! (crowd clamoring) Lisa: I have a solution! You took your sweet time coming to our rescue, Lisa. Maybe the best way to keep students from cheating is to trust them not to cheat. (crowd murmuring) That's it? That's all you've got? Something I can read on a tea box? What I'm suggesting is we create an honor code. Oh, swell, more work for the teachers. The students would do it. Let her speak! If every student pledges not to cheat, and to turn in any cheater, no one will cheat the system because they'll be the system. All (chanting): Honor code! Honor code! I did it. I saved the day. The same way I won that battle in Vietnam. By fainting! (doorbell rings) If you're my wife's secret lover, come in. There's nothing I can do for her anymore. I am looking for my amigo de la pluma. Or "pen pal." (gasps) Eduardo? Is it really you? Why are you here? To save the soul of Homer Simpson. Now where is he, old man? I'm Homer Simpson! Ay, dios mio! What has happened to you? (speaking in Spanish) Did your hair burn off in a f*re that trapped you in a candy factory? I wish. Marge Simpson. It's so nice to meet a friend Homer met through the mail who isn't a sea monkey. Yes, Eduardo Barcelona. Or in English, Eddie Miami. Homie, I thought a visit from your old pen pal would cheer you up. Ah, how eagerly I would wait for a letter from the EstadosUnidos, and Homer Simpson. Homer: "Buenos días, Eduardo." Homer (continues): (chuckles) What happened to us, Eduardo? We had so many things we were going to do. And I, my friend, have been doing them. Yeah, well, listen, pal. I have my treasure-- my wife and my children. Ooh! I've had eight wives and 200 children! Among them artists, doctors and revolutionary chefs. Do you have a disrespectful son who calls you by your first name? I cannot imagine such a creature. Hey, Homer. Did you just fart? Did you just fart, sir. Bart: Whatever. Easy, easy, Homer. I want to help you fulfill some of your childhood dreams. Really? Now? I have two pizzas coming. I wanted to see who would get here first. Now, Homer! Get your coat. I asked him here to cheer you up. But I didn't think you'd drop everything to go gallivanting with some, no offense, Spaniard. I promise you one thing, madam. When I return your husband, he will be happy, bringing a new sense of adventure to your marriage... and to the bedroom. (panting) I'm not used to strange men saying the word "bedroom" around me. Would you prefer, uh, "sala deamor"? That's even worse. Could you say it one more time? Sala de amor. (gasps) Ooh! Hello, children. I hold before you a copy of the school's new honor code. (all groaning) I know if I can get the toughest kid in class to sign it, the rest of you will sign it. Milhouse? (grunts) He's not the toughest kid, I am! Mm-hmm! Now, the smartest kid. Milhouse? He's not the smartest kid. I am. Now the class nerd. Milhouse? (sighs): Oh. (snickers) Homer, are you prepared to achieve the dreams of a ten year old? I took the liberty of crossing off the, uh, stupid ones. Now, this book of your childhood drawings will come to life. Why are you doing this? Wait, are you in love with me? In love with the concept of you, yes. Woo-hoo! I'm an attractive concept like Liberty! (siren wailing) (tires screech) One more ride? All right. Don't forget to ring the bell. (bell ringing) (laughing, grunting) I'm sick of pirates off the street ruining my play! I'm going back to my old career! Care to see a dessert menu? We have the best cobbler since Daniel Day-Lewis. How much did this cost to restage? They rented everything from Comic Book Guy for ten bucks. Don't stink up the Gorn head. I need it for a Bar Mitzvah later. (birds chirping) Now don't forget, this is the first exam under the new honor code. They're doing it. They're self-proctoring. Can't you say anything in a normal way? The answer, sadly, is not yes. (crickets trilling) I don't know what it is about having all my dreams fulfilled, but I feel great! Oh, if you're happy I'm happy. What? That doesn't sound happy. I feel kind of, oh... melancholy. Mmm, melon collie. (barking) That's not helping. Well, what was your childhood dream? Jumping on the bed. But I never disobeyed my parents. Till I married you. Let's do it. Oh, I'm a little tired. Could we just snuggle again? We do that every night! Come on! Jump on the bed! (Homer giggling) Ooh, okay! (both laughing) Can I help you, stranger? I am just watching my friend and his wife innocently pleasure themselves in bed. That sounds salty, but you seem sweet. I'm gonna call you Kettle Corn. Eduardo, I haven't felt this good in years. You're like the Tooth Fairy. Except you don't collect human bones. Yes, yes. Of course I don't. Here. So, that's it? All my dreams, lived? Eh... all but one. Well, we've got to do it! I never leave a job unfinished. It's as true now as that week I worked on the high school yearbook. So much infighting. I had to get out of there. All right, Homer, we shall do this thing. The editor put in like six pictures of this girl 'cause she was his girlfriend. Everyone has a bad yearbook story. They spelled my name wrong! Get over it! Ha! D'oh! (propellers churning) So don't do what I did. That concludes our safety video. (grunts) Just step out that door and you can glide to earth like your boyhood hero... Rocky the Flying Squirrel. Uh, actually, my hero was the actress who provided Rocky's voice, June Foray. A true legend in the voice-over community. I'm just gonna stay on the plane and think about her influence. She has lived her life. Now, you must live yours. No! Do not worry! I will follow the trail of your fear! (Homer yells) Announcer: Will Homer make it? Or will he leave a crater the size of the one that destroyed the Yucatan? Find out in our next exciting installment: Fat Splat... or When You Squish Upon a Car. Mmm, it's amazing. Every day has the peace and serenity of a flu outbreak. (laughs) Guess I'll be getting some extra credit for this. Lisa, I'm afraid you've gotten all the extra credit we can give out. So Willie has been growing you a nice pumpkin. Here it is, lass. You want me to carve it into a thank-o'-lantern? No, this is good. Well, this Kn*fe's got to carve something. (menacing music playing) (grunting) Homer! (grunts thrice) You don't have to flap. Just glide on the wind. Uh, okay. Flap! Flap! Flap! Flap! Flap! Flap! (grunts twice) Yes, good, much better. (groans) I got Bart's backpack. He got a hundred on his test? That's impossible. (gasps) Is Bart cheating? Are the Pope's tweets infallible? (laughs) Bart, I'm gonna tell! No, you're not. Because if you tell people I cheated, that means your system failed. Oh, my God, you found a loophole! Why don't you put this much inventiveness into your work? Because then I'd be the one thing I swore I wouldn't. You. (whistling) I'm doing it! I'm flying like the squirrel I always knew I was. Ooh, indigo! Marge: Homer? (yells gibberish) It's me, talking in your earphone. Come down, Homie. "You only live once" also means when you die, you die! (cries out) What's going on? Hello? (goose honks) Hmm? (honks) Hmm? Hmm? (honks) Are you mocking me? You can listen to your wife when you are d*ad. Savor the moment. Majestic eagle. Just like me, unashamed of his baldness. (eagle cries) So beautiful. Aw, he probably sees a mouse he wants to tear in half. (grunts) D'oh! Stupid tallest building in Springfield! (grunting) Hmm... (grunts) (grunting) Ha! Whoa! You've presented me with quite a conundrum. A word you should know since it was on a vocabulary test you aced. (giggles) But after some thought, all my worries went away. I know the answer. I'm gonna force you to turn yourself in. Good luck with that. The only thing that'll change my mind is a sign from God. (Bart grunts) Son, it was so beautiful! I went faster than the speed of sound. (Homer yelling) (grunts) Well, Bart, is that enough of a sign for you? All right, I'll turn myself in. It'll give me a chance to work some more on the detention quilt. (humming a tune) (all grunting) This patch is for all the victims of atomic wedgies. My friend, you've lived your dreams. No matter what, Homer Simpson has done it. And soon I hope I remember who Homer Simpson is and his relationship to me. But I have no regrets. In fact, all this has given me a sense of calm I've never had before. That's the morphine. Can you give me the morphine forever? No way! A person on morphine all the time would constantly dissolve in inappropriate laughter. (laughs) (sighs) Eduardo? Eduardo! Eduardo! (grunts) Oh. It was all just a dream. Eduardo: It was not just a dream. And you said you'd drive me to the airport. Oh, yeah. Great. Um... Do I drop you at the curb or do I have to park and walk you in? Go as far as your heart will take you. You are a good friend. ♪ You only live once ♪ ♪ But that's okay ♪ ♪ You'll live quite long ♪ ♪ In the USA... ♪ ♪ But back to my point ♪ ♪ You only live once ♪ ♪ You've got years and years ♪ ♪ Unless it's just months. ♪ Shh! Top 1 post • Page 1 of 1 Return to “The Simpsons” PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online! © 2000-2023 Forever Dreaming. 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