It was not a particularly auspicious beginning. Four members of four different races, ‘found’ rather than chosen, shoved onto an experimental new spacecraft and given ‘vital data’ to deliver to the other end of the galaxy. Those above saw it as a fire-and-forget solution to the increasing demand for more interspecies cooperation on official federation missions. The crew themselves reacted in their own individual ways: Starger the human officer school drop-out saw it as his last chance for glory; Vivimord the engi mechanic saw it as a form of absolution, perhaps a chance at redemption for a past filled with regrets; Zas the weapons-obsessed mantis saw it as an opportunity to maybe fire some lasers at some stuff; Bloch the rock simply shrugged and took up his post. Due to lack of communication from Command (no doubt caused by an extreme bout of apathy) no official crew roster was assigned; the arguments that followed resulted in everyone crowding around the control room while a rebel scout bore down on them. Lasers tore through the Osprey’s shields and crippled the 02 scrubbers—fortunately Vivimord had the presence of mind to fix them before everyone asphyxiated and the mission failed before it had even begun. With a clear and present threat to unite the crew—or at least inspire them to self-preservation—they each chose their posts, Zas scurrying across the ship to ensconce herself in the weapon systems, Bloch lumbering over to sit in front of the shield console, Vivimord slinking into the engine room, and Starger assigning himself the role of pilot and captain. His first command was to drain all power and redirect it to the experimental weapons system installed aboard the Osprey; the Artillery Beam. This was met with some protest from Zas, but Starger dealt with this by not caring. While Bloch patiently maintained the shields and Vivi scuttered from here to there fixing damage from the shots that got through (and Zas paced futilely around the weapons room, clicking angrily to herself), Starger sat in the control room, finger poised over the big shiny Artillery Beam button, waiting for the excruciatingly slow gauge to fill—
JL8 #70 by Yale Stewart
Based on characters in DC Comics. Creative content © Yale Stewart.
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Don’t forget to come see me September 8-9 at Baltimore Comic-Con, Table 278!
Also, the next two weeks will only have one comic update. I’m moving back to St. Louis, and that process is going to eat up a lot of time. “JL8” will return to a twice-a-week update the week of 9/23.
oh my glob
maliciousmisanthropy-deactivate asked: the clem scene in the RV. I damn near dropped my controller.
Right? That’s the bit that led to a five second mini-breakdown for me. Intellectual reaction was totally overridden by emotion. They did that part really well—with her saying she didn’t feel well beforehand and with the little quicktime event, it just hit me way too hard.
I got thoughts and I got feelings and they’re all going after the break.
I really, REALLY wish you could read this article about a father who started wearing skirts because his son likes to wear skirts and dresses and he wants his son to feel stronger
Like, holy shit, the end made me feel so happy
I took the liberty to translate the text.
Please note that it’s not a word to word translation.
Sometimes men simply have to be role models.
Because his son likes to wear skirts Nils Pickert started with it as well. After all, the little one needs a role model. And he thinks long skirts with elastic bands suit him quite well anyways. A story about two misfits in the Province of southern Germany.
My fife year old son likes to wear dresses. In Berlin Kreuzberg that alone would be enough to get into conversation with other parents. Is it wise or ridiculous? „Neither one nor the other!“ I still want to shout back at them. But sadly they can’t hear me any more. Because by now I live in a small town in South Germany. Not even a hundred thousand inhabitants, very traditional, very religious. Plainly motherland. Here the partiality of my son are not only a subject for parents, they are a town wide issue. And I did my bit for that to happen.
Yes, I’m one of those dads, that try to raise their children equal. I’m not one of those academic daddies that ramble about gender equality during their studies and then, as soon as a child’s in the house, still relapse into those fluffy gender roles: He’s finding fulfilment in his carrier and she’s doing the rest.
Thus I am, I know that by now, part of the minority that makes a fool of themselves from time to time. Out of conviction.
In my case that’s because I didn’t want to talk my son into not wearing dresses and skirts. He didn’t make friends in doing that in Berlin already and after a lot of contemplation I had only one option left: To broaden my shoulders for my little buddy and dress in a skirt myself. After all you can’t expect a child at pre-school age to have the same ability to assert themselves as an adult. Completely without role model. And so I became that role model.
We already had skirt and dress days back then during mild Kreuzbergian weather. And I think long skirts with elastic bands suit me quite well anyways. Dresses are a bit more difficult. There was either no reaction of the people in Berlin or it was positive. In my small town in the south of Germany that’s a little bit different.
Being all stressed out, because of the moving I forgot to notify the nursery-school teachers to have an eye on my boy not being laughed at because of his fondness of dresses and skirts. Shortly after moving he didn’t dare to go to nursery-school wearing a skirt or a dress any more. And looking at me with big eyes he asked: “Daddy, when are you going to wear a skirt again?”
To this very day I’m thankful for that women, that stared at us on the street until she ran face first into a street light. My son was roaring with laugher. And the next day he fished out a dress from the depth of his wardrobe. At first only for the weekend. Later also for nursery-school.
And what’s the little guy doing by now? He’s painting his fingernails. He thinks it looks pretty on my nails, too. He’s simply smiling, when other boys ( and it’s nearly always boys) want to make fun of him and says: “You only don’t dare to wear skirts and dresses because your dads don’t dare to either.” That’s how broad his own shoulders have become by now. And all thanks to daddy in a skirt.
This dad is the best dad
This stuff is just fascinating to me.