bipeds

Quite a few have been saying:”But what about laughing?”, in the comments of my ‘Weird Human Reactions to Fear: the Singing Edition’ post. My question is: do you know why humans laugh when shit gets real?

Laughter is our brain’s Blue Screen of Death.

Where a computer would throw up an error and possibly crash, our brains go:”well, shit”, and hit the big red button labelled: ‘LAUGHTER (and possibly applause, but probably not applause)’. Since we need our brains 24/7, we don’t have the luxury of error messages. So our brains buy some time to figure out what’s going on by making us laugh in the weirdest situations.

Imminent doom? Laugh.

Absolutely livid? Laugh.

Distraught? Laugh.

Pretty sure you’re gonna die? Laugh.

I mean, we can’t be sure the aliens don’t have brains that work the same way, but seeing as other animals on Planet Earth don’t really have that either… that’d probably freak them the fuck out too.

Not only do the gangly bipeds sing when they’re scared, they could just as easily start laughing.

Random Kakashi Headcanons

A/N: This is three steps away from being a shitpost


  • Kakashi’s that friend that seems cool at first but is actually the biggest dork once you get to know em. He’s all suave in front of other people but when it’s only you two that facade just drops. 
    • “Where did your cool and aloof attitude go?” 
    • “Where all the fucks I gave went” 
    • “Fair enough”
  • You know that meme that’s like “she slapped my smirk away but luckily I was wearing a second, smaller smirk underneath” or something? That’s his mask. If someone tries to pull his mask off Kakashi has a second, equally-sized mask underneath so you still don’t see anything.
  • Steals your food tbh. No one knows how he eats it without someone seeing his face, but he does it. You suspect the mask may just be a very elaborate genjutsu
  • Got drunk and tried to teach Pakkun how to play fetch. Pakkun did fetch–he fetched Kakashi’s dignity from the trash can and then dragged him home
  • Replaced all the snacks in the jounin lounge with dog biscuits once. Was subsequently thrown out a window.
  • Reenacted Diogenes and Plato’s interaction in Plato’s Academy with Jiraiya. Jiraiya was Plato. Kakashi had the chicken.
  • Sculpted an owl’s head out of a banana. Has not done so since then
  • Would learn to play the accordion if he ever got his hands on one
  • Once fought off seven rogue nin using a carton of eggs, a plastic spoon, and a bedsheet
  • He insists the previous point is true to anyone who will listen

Imagine telepathic aliens.  Imagine aliens who have no concept of language, who maybe didn’t figure out writing or math until they were figuring out electronics, who still struggle with the entire idea of symbolic thinking, and then they find us.  And they’re going “I can see the technology and cities, and it all looks made for and by these bipeds, but where is the sapience and WHAT IS ALL THIS EFFING HOOTY MOUTH NOISE?!” until someone wonders if the hooty mouth noise has meaning in it.

Imagine aliens going “OMG they’re communicating by noise” and “OMG they’re using code naturally” and “OMG they’re using open-ended productive recursive code how is that POSSIBLE” and “OMG writing” and “OMG they have THOUSANDS of codes”, and it’s all paroxysms of academic delight and then someone discovers metaphor, and someone discovers encryption, and someone discovers slang and l33t and txting and emoji, and this entire telepathic species has its minds completely blown and the one who went “what if the hooty noise has meaning” wins the alien Nobel.

instagram

Have you ever heard the tale of the runaway ✨magical✨unicorn phallus? Yeah, me neither. I also never heard of these Bipes aka Mexican Mole Lizards until my recent trip to Baja ~ thank you 🙏 @islandsseas . Another case of truth is stranger than fiction: due to their secretive lifestyle little is understood of these unbelievably cool creatures. Found only in Mexico, these unique reptiles use their forelegs to burrow through soil like a mole. The hind legs have completely disappeared!
Why are they Pepto-Bismol pink?! What is the evolutionary advantage of this adaptation?
Do they pick up carotenoids in their diet like flamingoes? So many ’?????????????’
💕🌸🦄

#islandsandseas2017 #Bipes #amphisbaenia #curiosity #lizard #discovery #pink (at Baja California, Mexico)

Made with Instagram

Let’s talk about an Ariel who walks away—limping, mouthing inaudible sailors’ curses, a sea-brine knife in her belt.

Ariel traded her voice for a chance to walk on land. That was the deal: every time she steps, it will feel like being stabbed by knives. She must win the hand of her one true love, or she will die at his wedding day, turn to sea foam, forgotten. The helpful steward tells her to dance for the prince, even though her feet scream each time she steps. Love is pain, the sea witch promised. Devotion calls for blood.

But how about this? When the prince marries another, nothing happens. When Ariel stands over the prince and his fiance the night before their wedding, her sisters’ hard-won knife in hand, she doesn’t decide his happiness is more important than her life. She decides that his happiness is irrelevant. Her curse does not turn on the whims of this boy’s heart. 

She does not throw away the knife and throw herself into the sea. She does not bury it in the prince and break her curse—it would not have broken. She leaves them sleeping in what will be their marriage bed and limps into a quiet night, her knife clean in her belt, her heart caught in her throat. Her feet scream, but they ache, too, for the places she has yet to see. 

Ariel will not be sea foam or a queen. There is life beyond love. There is love in just living. Her true love will not be married on the morn—the prince will be married then, in glorious splendor, but he had never been why she was here.

Ariel traded her voice for legs to stand on, a chance at another life. When she poked her head above the waves, it wasn’t the handsome biped that she fell for. It was the way the hills rolled, golden in the sun. It was the clouds chasing each other across blue sky, like sea foam you could never reach.

(She does reach it, one day, bouncing around in the back of a blacksmith’s cart, signing jokes to him in between helping to tune his guitar. They crest up a high mountain pass and into the belly of a cloud. Her breath whistles out, swirls water droplets, and she reaches out a hand to touch the sky. Her feet will scream all her life, but after that morning they ache just a little bit less). 

I want an Ariel who is in love with a world, not a prince. I don’t want her to be a moral for little girls about what love is supposed to hurt like, about how it is supposed to kill you. Ariel will be one more wandering soul, forgotten. Her voice will live in everything she does. She uses her sisters’ knife to turn a reed into a pipe. She cannot speak, but she still has lungs. 

Love is pain, says the old man, when Ariel smiles too wide at sunrises. It’s pain, says the innkeeper, with pity, as Ariel hobbles to a seat, pipe in hand. At least you are beautiful, soothes the country healer who looks over her undamaged feet. The helpful steward had thought she was shy. Dance for the prince even though your feet feel stuck with a hundred knives.

Her feet feel like knives but she goes out dancing in the grass at midnight anyway. She’s never seen stars before. Moonlight reaches down through the depths, but starlight fractures on the surface. Ariel dances for herself.

She goes down to caves and rocky shores. Sometimes she meets with her sisters there. Mouths filled with water cannot speak above the sea, so she drops into the waves and they sing to her, old songs, and she steals breaths of air between the stanzas. She can drown now. She holds her breath. She opens her eyes to the salt and brine. 

Ariel uses canes and takes rides on wagons filled with hay, chickens, tomatoes—never fish. She earns coins and paper scraps of money with a conch shell her youngest sister swam up from the depths for her, with her reed pipe, with a lyre from her eldest sister which sounds eerie and high out of the water. The shadow plays she makes on the walls of taverns waver and wriggle like on the sea caves of her childhood, but not because of water’s lap and current. It is the firelight that flickers over her hands. 

When she has limped and hitched rides so far that no one knows the name of her prince’s kingdom, she meets a travelling blacksmith on the road with an extra seat in his cart and an ear for music. He never asks her to dance for him and she never does. She drops messages in bottles to her sisters, at every river and coastline they come to, and sometimes she finds bottles washed up the shore just for her. 

They travel on. When she breathes, these days, her lungs fill with air.

Some nights she wakes, gasping, coughing up black water that never comes. There is something lying heavy on her chest and there always will be.

Somewhere in the ocean, a sea witch thinks she has won. When Ariel walks, she hobbles. Her voice was the sunken treasure of the king’s loveliest daughter, and so when they tell Ariel’s story they say she has been robbed. They say she has been stolen. 

She has many instruments because she has many voices—all of them, hers; made by her hands, or gifted from her sisters’ dripping ones. Ariel will sing until the day she dies with every instrument but her vocal cords. 

She cannot win it back, the high sweet voice of a merchild who had never blistered her shoulders red with sun, who had never made a barroom rise to its feet to sing along to her strumming fingers. She cannot ever again sing like a girl who has not held a dagger over two sleeping lovers and then decided to spare them. She decided not to wither. She decided to walk on knives for the rest of her life. She cannot win it back, but even if she could, she knows she would not sound the same. 

They call her story a tragedy and she rests her aching feet beside the warming hearth. With every new ridge climbed, new river forded, new night sky met, her feet ache a little less. They call her a tragedy, but the blacksmith’s donkey is warm and contrary on cold mornings. The blacksmith’s shoulder is warm under her cheek.

Her feet will always hurt. She has cut out so many parts of her self, traded them up, won twisted promises back and then twisted them herself. She lives with so many curses under her skin, but she lives. They call her story a moral, and maybe it is.

When she breathes, her lungs fill. When she walks, the earth holds her up. There is sun and there is light and she can catch it in her hands. This is love. 

man imagine aliens w no concept of interspecies cooperation or pets

‘commander the scan of this shelter reveals three primary lifeforms’

'excellent. elaborate please’

'all mammals. two quadrupeds, one feline and one canine, as well as one biped sapien. they appear to be… relaxing and eating in a shared space’

'what the fuck’

Absolutely love this shot from the extremely talented Nicholas Buer. Reminds me of this awe inspiring quote from physicist Brian Greene about the challenge humanity faces to understand the cosmos:

“We all love a good story. We all love a tantalizing mystery. We all love the underdog pressing onward against seemingly insurmountable odds. We all, in one form or another, are trying to make sense of the world around us. And all of these elements lie at the core of modern physics. The story is among the grandest – the unfolding of the entire universe; the mystery is among the toughest – finding out how the cosmos came to be; the odds are among the most daunting – bipeds, newly arrived by cosmic time scales trying to reveal the secrets of the ages; and the quest is among the deepest – the search for fundamental laws to explain all we see and beyond, from the tiniest particles to the most distant galaxies.”
Brian Greene

Out numbered, out gunned, never out fought

My first real attempt at a humans are space orcs story. Written on my mobile, so excuse any spelling errors, I have proof read and tried to correct, but some may have slipped through the cracks.

Queen Krillix clicked her mandibles together in anticipation as he surveyed the situation upon his scanners.

The Vespula fleet consisted of five hundred dreadnoughts, two hundred heavy support vehicles, one hundred attack fighters, and one flagship; a Nova-class heavy bomber, a type aptly nicknamed by their enemies “planet smasher”.
The fleet of the United Sol fleet however, was a dozen warships, half a dozen battle cruisers, and a hundred mongrels; ships which had previously cargo haulers, research vessels, and transport ships meant to carry colonists to new worlds, all of them had been stripped down and retrofitted with heavier weapons and armour. They were not ascetically pleasing but were serviceable enough. For humans.

From her throne room aboard the planet-smasher “Iron Sting” (loosely translated into galactic common.) the queen extended her will to her army. The hive was not of mindless drones, her soldiers could think for themselves, their intelligence, their instincts, guided the hive to victory. But their will was the queens will and the queens will was their will. She guided them, drove them, gave them reason to live. The hive without their queen was a bunch of soldiers without a cause, without desire to do anything to eat and procreate. With billions of mouths that feed already the hive was running out of food in the handful of systems their already controlled. Expansion was the only key to their survival. So the queen drove them on, ever forward, ever outward, to new worlds and new foods.

So it had passed that the hive had found this small system, with an unassuming little star. Colonised worlds and strange fleshy-bipeds running around their little homes and growing food. No armies, no defences; none that bothered the hive anyway. Not even space worthy vessels.

The hive had descended and claimed this world. There had been but a paltry resistance from the bipeds. But farmers with pitchforks and lasers were no match against a single attack ship and the well trained soldiers of the Vespula when the will of the queen was behind them.

There in the ashes of the settlement, the hive had learned the name of the bipeds; humans. They had come to learn the name of their world; New Earth. They came to learn the fleshy bipeds were not born to this planet but another.

They were much like the hive, in their own primitive way. They dominated their homeworld and had spread. First across their own system and then, when they ran out of room, to others. Anywhere they found suitable they planet their two feet and claimed it for their own. Yet they also did something the hive did not. The humans called it Terraforming; to force a world to be suitable for your kind. The science caste had put their minds to this terraforming as a way for the hive to claim more worlds. But the process was slow, taking several hundred cycles. Dozens of queens would come and go before even one world was made suitable for the Vespula. An unnecessary waste of resources for too long a goal. Expansion of suitable planets was deemed the only true way forward.

The queen acknowledged a slight kinship with the humans, despite them being fleshy bipeds of dull colouring, and the Vespula were the great insectoids of the royal black and noble yellow. Like the Vespula, they were driven as the hive was driven, by the need to grow and survive.

The feeling of kinship did not make the queen stay her tarsal claw. If anything it encouraged her. These humans were not just prey, or a nuisance, they were competition. They needed worlds and food as did the hive. They had great, ever expanding numbers, as did the hive. How long before they came to battle over territory? The queen considered and decided to strike first. These humans were primitive. They had only recently discovered the means to travel faster than light. They had strange notions of peaceful exploration and learning. They took only those worlds which were not already owned by sentient beings. This was surely a hindrance. It was a weakness, if nothing else. When something stood in the way of your food you should strike it down. It was the only way to be strong. The only way for the majority to survive. No wonder they hadn’t expanded too far.

“Status?” The queen asked and the solder of the tactician caste responded.
“Scans show no other human ships in the sector.”
Then this paltry number was their whole fleet.
“Weapons appear to be high intensity lasers. Radiation signatures on the warships and battle cruisers indicate nuclear weaponry”

Primitive. Nuclear weapons, such a barbaric people. Yet effective enough in its own way. If it were not for their shield generators the queen might have been worried.

If the humans concentrated fire on one ship at a time the humans could break the shields and take down a dreadnaught or two. Such ha tactic would have even worked against the planet smashing Nova-class vessel. But during that time they would be taking fire from every other ship around them. They would surely be destroyed before any shields collapsed.

As it was, all the Vespula ships had shields and the human weapons would crash against them as they tried to attack ten times their number. The Vespula would cut through this pitiful fleet with their quantum cannons and proceed through this Sol system, claiming every inhabitable planet along the way until they reached the human homeworld. Glory to the hive!

The queen bent her will, her fighters felt her and obeyed as her will became their own. The weapons began charging, their ships took positions for attack. In a few more seconds the humans ships would be in range of their cannons.

Then there was a voice she had not expected. “My queen.”
It came from a drone of the technician caste, manning the communications station. He seemed confused, this concerned the queen. “We are receiving a message from the flagship of the human fleet.”
Thirty seconds until the ships were in range.

The queen waved a claw dismissively. “I have no patience for long speeches about how they will not be defeated how they will make their stand and-” the technician interrupted her, another unexpected thing.
“My queen, the translator states only two words.”
The queens antennae raised upwards- the equivalent of a smile to their race. “Let me guess, ‘we surrender’?”
Ten seconds and the ships would be in range.
“No my queen.”
The queen looked at him expectantly, “no?”
The technician looked again at his screen, which had translated the strange language of the humans into a written transcript. “It says, 'Leeroy Jenkins.’”
The queen’s mandibles clicked, her antennae dropped, the signs of confusion “Leeroy Jenkins?”

The ships came into range. The human ships raced at great speed. The Vespula ships fired. The human ships did not engage them?! They did not slow to attack speeds! They did not shoot. They charged onwards. Their movement was too fast. The quantum cannons missed! The targeting combat computers of the Vespula worked best on ships that had slowed to a proper attack speed. This was the speed of fleeing, but the humans were still heading toward them?! The queen was confused as were her soldiers, but their wills were found one thought, one desire; shoot the human ships.

Some ships hit, but they were only glancing blows off the armour of the speedy and agile human vessels. Then a luck shot! One human vessel, a war ship, exploded as the quantum laser caught its nacelles. The other vessels raced past, igniting their fallen comrades. They didn’t fire against the attack fighters, they ignored the cruisers and dreadnoughts. The puny human vessels penetrated into the very heart of the seam of hive ships.

Too late the queen realised their course; they were targeting the flagship, only the flagship. HER SHIP!
“All power to shields!”

Half a dozen nuclear weapons were launched at once, less than 500ft from the hull.

Just in time did the technician pour the auxiliary power into the shield generators. The shockwaves of the explosions made the shields rumble like a violent ocean. Radiation detectors signalled that the outside of the ship was already a hotbed of fallout. Their thick hull and shields were keeping the interior safe.

A second wave of missiles were launched. A third were close behind. Before those nukes even hit their shields, the ships of the first wave were in range and launching another wave.

Where was her ships? Her soldiers? Their powerful weapons? The queen already knew the answer, the hive was too afraid of the swift and agile
Human ships. They couldn’t fire upon them for the risk of hitting the flagship.

The fourth wave of missiles impacted. Alarms signalled the collapse of the shields and radiation penetrating the outer layers of the hull.

The tiny human ships were massing again, launching their fifth strike. Nuclear missiles and lasers fired simultaneously. All their fire was concentrated one one place; the bridge.

***

Far and away, across the void of space. The princess Noxi was torn from her rest in her sleeping chamber. Emerging from the warmth of her cocoon she scrambled to an opening and looked to the stars. For the hive they had always been warm and inviting, promising new planets, food and resources for the glory of The Hive. Now they looked cold and frightening. Promising unknown dangers and darkness. She felt a shiver run through her thorax.

Across the hive cries went up as the realisation dawned on each member of the Vespula race. Males, females, and larvae were all feeling as one the terrible loss and grief not only of so many brothers and sisters, but their beloved queen.

Princess Noxi felt an ache in the back of her head. There was no stopping it. It began instinctively as soon as her mother had died. She felt the ache grow in intensity, almost searing her brain, as her connection to the hive grew and solidified.

Within minutes the pain faded. Queen Noxi looked upon her hive with fresh eyes. The will of the hive was her will. Her will was the will of the hive.

These Humans. Not long ago their desire had been to destroy these fleshy bipeds. They were supposed to be primitive. They were supposed to be weak. They were supposed to fall to the hive like so many had before.

The soldiers in the sol system. Her soldiers now. Their fight was on hold. Their shock was fresh. They had just witnessed the death of their queen while they’d been stuck, helpless, lest they harm the queen they were trying to protect. They needed her guidance now, more than any other in the hive. They were waiting for it. Waiting for the will of their queen to guide them.

Queen Noxi gave her will out to all of the hive across all their worlds, the billions of minds received her, “Run. Run from the humans.”

She hoped it was enough to save them.

Democratia Aut Mors, Sed Non Imperium

Frantically posting a story I wrote a year ago (seriously, a year ago) in order to appease the people who just started following my blog (I’m alive I swear)

We were the pride of the Ytrian Imperial Fleet. Five hundred ships, more than most species had in their possession, military and civilian. Five hundred ships, tens of thousands of sailors. So we did what we do best, what empires do best, we expanded our territory.

We expanded, and our rule was benevolent. We built hypergates, expanded trade, ensured the naked were clothed and the hungry were fed. We did this for those who we conquered, and in time they came to love us. A line of emperors a hundred generations long unmarred by a succession war, a line of emperors a hundred generations long each educated from birth to know they served the people. We had perfected the rule of a monarch, we had perfected the hereditary leadership, by getting rid of the only issue it had. Unreliable monarchs.

So when we came to the edge of a Republic, we were amused. Many species that now lived and died in the borders of our great empire had experimented with democracy at one point in time, and now all had renounced such failings and were happily in servitude to our glorious leader, Emperor Ytriax'us the Forty Third of His Name, Light of the Empire, Great Servant of the People.

So when we came to the edge of a Republic, we did what we always did. We gave them a choice. Submit to us peacefully, or submit to us through war. We will give you all the boons of the empire, or grind your armies away and restructure your planets to better serve.

The first of the Republic’s planets came to us, and they accepted our benevolent offer. They were enfolded in the arms of the empire, and loved as all our people are loved. They were given boons of technology such as their planet had never seen.

Then came the second, the third, and eventually the fifteenth planet of the Republic to submit to our glorious empire. We grew ever stronger, as was our destiny, as was our duty.

The other planets of the Republic, they would not submit. So we marshaled our great fleet, our five hundred ships, and we sent them to war.

The Republic met us in combat, and the Republic fell in combat. And the Republic was absorbed into our benevolent empire as dozens of species before it had been absorbed into our empire.

That is, they were going to be. But right as our great fleet, still with four hundred and sixty six great ships of combat was about to finish off the flagship of the Republic, and bring the predictable end to this predictably tragic combat, four massive ships jumped into the system.

All four were huge ships, many times larger than any of our battleships, and all were emblazoned with similar words, hated words, words I have come to dread hearing. The Yorktown, the Waterloo, the Normandy, the Gettysburg. A pale skinned biped came onto the screen.

“You sailors, soldiers, and ships of the Ytrian Empire. You will visit no more violence upon these people. You will depart this system and all systems which did not voluntarily join your empire now, or I swear you will suffer the consequences. These ships are those of the Knights Terra, as are those that will follow, and you will visit no more war upon those peaceful stars.”

We laughed, shocked by the presumption of these four ships. What paltry force this was, to presume to issue demands to us. We were the Ytrian Empire, and we knew no master but our Emperor, may he reign forever.

So our Admiral, great Ytriax'an, cousin to the Emperor Most High, amused by their impertinence, deigned to speak to the scum.

“You who are the Knights Terra, we know not of you, but you clearly know of us. We are the ships of the Ytrian Empire, and we will not permit you to stand in the way of progress. All will come under our benevolent rule, by peace or by force the choice is yours.”

After that, after that there was violence. Sudden, immediate, overwhelming violence. We had no idea the Terrans were in range for their weapons. We had no idea their missiles were capable of destroying one of our Battleships with a single blow. We handful of survivors fled, ran for the safety of home and Empire.

As we left that system, they broadcast a single message to us.

“Democratia aut mors, sed non imperium.”

We’ve spent the last decade decrypting that message. It is in a Terran tongue that was dead a thousand years ago, but they stubbornly refuse to let go entirely. Loosely translated it means “Democracy or Death, but never Tyranny”. It is the motto of the Knights Terra, who have rained death and destruction upon our Empire.

To your battle stations now crew, the Stalingrad just warped into the system, to join her sisters the Madrid, the Bull Run and the Kursk.

Defend the Emperor, prepare to meet your ancestors with dignity, and when our Empire dies remember those who destroyed it. Remember those who shattered our rule, who would not suffer our Emperor to spread his rule throughout the galaxy.

Remember the Terrans

One-drink Shiro is cute and flushed and fun. He laughs a lot and tells jokes and smiles more easily than they’d ever seen him. He can easily be talked into dancing, although he’s still a little shy about it and keeps his eyes on his feet. He’s good at making friends one drink in, and if they’re in public will happily chat up any friendly-looking biped he sees.

Two-drink Shiro is loud. He isn’t entirely aware of how loud he can be, but his voice just naturally rises in volume once he’s at that point. He talks loud and he laughs loud and he will happily, loudly proclaim how much he loves his Paladins. The Paladins will giggle and hush him, and he’ll be quiet for about a minute before rising in volume again.

Three-drink Shiro is, admittedly, a bit of a slut. He’ll flirt back with Lance until Lance has to go sit down somewhere, because Shiro is upsettingly good at flirting. He’ll flirt with Allura if she’s around, and she’s almost always game to flirt back and tease him about it later. She’s shockingly good at flirting, and the other Paladins have sat there before in stunned silence while she slowly, methodically reduces Shiro to a blushing mess before leaving to go attend to Princess-y duties.

Four-drink Shiro is a sap. He’ll still proclaim how he loves his Paladins, but he’s quieter and he waxes poetic about all their fantastic qualities, how he’s so proud of them, how he’s so grateful that he has them around him. He’ll pull them into hugs and plant kisses on their heads and assure them that he’ll go to the ends of the Universe for them, that he’ll get them home no matter what.

Five-drink Shiro is closer to passing out and closer to his Lion. He still loves on his Paladins, but in different ways— he’s less verbal. Instead, he rubs his face against their hair, and he’ll somehow manage to purr. He’s more physical with them. If one of them wanders off, he has no qualms against grabbing them by the collar and yanking them close. He gets fiercely protective, and has been known to growl if Keith and Lance get in a spat.

Six-drink Shiro is sad. He’s usually barely conscious at this point, and he gets quiet and weepy. He won’t cry, but he’ll apologize profusely, grabbing for the other Paladins and slurring and telling them that he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so fucking sorry that he took them all the way out here. He’s sorry that they miss home. He’s sorry that they’re in a war, that they’re far too young to be in a war. He tells them he’d go back to the Galra a million times over if it would keep them safe. He tries to apologize to Pidge for what happened to her family (his fault), but Hunk will never let him.

Shiro doesn’t try to get drunk often. But it’s an unfortunate reality of their situation that alien alcohol doesn’t have exact translations for human dosages, and a significant amount of alien races involve alcohol as part of their diplomacy rituals. So he does his best to limit himself, and when he accidentally has a bit too much, the Paladins are always there— joking, and teasing him, but giving him water and getting him into bed and making sure that he’s safe and comfortable and warm. And even if he is a little obnoxious when he’s drunk, at the end of the day they still love him.

I Heard Some Crazy Thoughts on Earth

By Splungonius Moonk 

Many Galactic Citizens are curious about the inhabitants of the Federation’s newest acquisition, Earth. The planet’s dominant species are an odd bunch with a history marred by violent conflict over trivial matters such as “who has the best god,” and “who owns the black ground sludge that powers everything.” 

For the good of all Galactic citizens, and my own curiosity, I immersed myself amongst the humans, all while using my Glaarg-given telepathic abilities to eavesdrop on their thoughts. The results of my research were intriguing, but I was left with more questions than answers.

Keep reading

6

Boston Dynamics | Handle

“Handle is a research robot that stands 6.5 ft tall, travels at 9 mph and jumps 4​ ​feet vertically. ​It uses electric power to operate both electric and hydraulic actuators, with a range of about 15 miles on one battery charge. ​​​Handle uses many of the same dynamics, balance and mobile manipulation principles​ found in the quadruped and biped robots we build, but with only about 10 actuated joints, it is significantly less complex. Wheels are efficient on flat surfaces while legs can go almost anywhere: by combining wheels and legs Handle can have the best of both worlds.”