#AI open-source movement

[mostlysignssomeportents]

What kind of bubble is AI?

My latest column for Locus Magazine is "What Kind of Bubble is AI?" All economic bubbles are hugely destructive, but some of them leave behind wreckage that can be salvaged for useful purposes, while others leave nothing behind but ashes:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Think about some 21st century bubbles. The dotcom bubble was a terrible tragedy, one that drained the coffers of pension funds and other institutional investors and wiped out retail investors who were gulled by Superbowl Ads. But there was a lot left behind after the dotcoms were wiped out: cheap servers, office furniture and space, but far more importantly, a generation of young people who'd been trained as web makers, leaving nontechnical degree programs to learn HTML, perl and python. This created a whole cohort of technologists from non-technical backgrounds, a first in technological history. Many of these people became the vanguard of a more inclusive and humane tech development movement, and they were able to make interesting and useful services and products in an environment where raw materials – compute, bandwidth, space and talent – were available at firesale prices.

Contrast this with the crypto bubble. It, too, destroyed the fortunes of institutional and individual investors through fraud and Superbowl Ads. It, too, lured in nontechnical people to learn esoteric disciplines at investor expense. But apart from a smattering of Rust programmers, the main residue of crypto is bad digital art and worse Austrian economics.

Or think of Worldcom vs Enron. Both bubbles were built on pure fraud, but Enron's fraud left nothing behind but a string of suspicious deaths. By contrast, Worldcom's fraud was a Big Store con that required laying a ton of fiber that is still in the ground to this day, and is being bought and used at pennies on the dollar.

AI is definitely a bubble. As I write in the column, if you fly into SFO and rent a car and drive north to San Francisco or south to Silicon Valley, every single billboard is advertising an "AI" startup, many of which are not even using anything that can be remotely characterized as AI. That's amazing, considering what a meaningless buzzword AI already is.

So which kind of bubble is AI? When it pops, will something useful be left behind, or will it go away altogether? To be sure, there's a legion of technologists who are learning Tensorflow and Pytorch. These nominally open source tools are bound, respectively, to Google and Facebook's AI environments:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

But if those environments go away, those programming skills become a lot less useful. Live, large-scale Big Tech AI projects are shockingly expensive to run. Some of their costs are fixed – collecting, labeling and processing training data – but the running costs for each query are prodigious. There's a massive primary energy bill for the servers, a nearly as large energy bill for the chillers, and a titanic wage bill for the specialized technical staff involved.

Once investor subsidies dry up, will the real-world, non-hyperbolic applications for AI be enough to cover these running costs? AI applications can be plotted on a 2X2 grid whose axes are "value" (how much customers will pay for them) and "risk tolerance" (how perfect the product needs to be).

Charging teenaged D&D players $10 month for an image generator that creates epic illustrations of their characters fighting monsters is low value and very risk tolerant (teenagers aren't overly worried about six-fingered swordspeople with three pupils in each eye). Charging scammy spamfarms $500/month for a text generator that spits out dull, search-algorithm-pleasing narratives to appear over recipes is likewise low-value and highly risk tolerant (your customer doesn't care if the text is nonsense). Charging visually impaired people $100 month for an app that plays a text-to-speech description of anything they point their cameras at is low-value and moderately risk tolerant ("that's your blue shirt" when it's green is not a big deal, while "the street is safe to cross" when it's not is a much bigger one).

Morganstanley doesn't talk about the trillions the AI industry will be worth some day because of these applications. These are just spinoffs from the main event, a collection of extremely high-value applications. Think of self-driving cars or radiology bots that analyze chest x-rays and characterize masses as cancerous or noncancerous.

These are high value – but only if they are also risk-tolerant. The pitch for self-driving cars is "fire most drivers and replace them with 'humans in the loop' who intervene at critical junctures." That's the risk-tolerant version of self-driving cars, and it's a failure. More than $100b has been incinerated chasing self-driving cars, and cars are nowhere near driving themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

Quite the reverse, in fact. Cruise was just forced to quit the field after one of their cars maimed a woman – a pedestrian who had not opted into being part of a high-risk AI experiment – and dragged her body 20 feet through the streets of San Francisco. Afterwards, it emerged that Cruise had replaced the single low-waged driver who would normally be paid to operate a taxi with 1.5 high-waged skilled technicians who remotely oversaw each of its vehicles:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/11/03/technology/cruise-general-motors-self-driving-cars.html

The self-driving pitch isn't that your car will correct your own human errors (like an alarm that sounds when you activate your turn signal while someone is in your blind-spot). Self-driving isn't about using automation to augment human skill – it's about replacing humans. There's no business case for spending hundreds of billions on better safety systems for cars (there's a human case for it, though!). The only way the price-tag justifies itself is if paid drivers can be fired and replaced with software that costs less than their wages.

What about radiologists? Radiologists certainly make mistakes from time to time, and if there's a computer vision system that makes different mistakes than the sort that humans make, they could be a cheap way of generating second opinions that trigger re-examination by a human radiologist. But no AI investor thinks their return will come from selling hospitals that reduce the number of X-rays each radiologist processes every day, as a second-opinion-generating system would. Rather, the value of AI radiologists comes from firing most of your human radiologists and replacing them with software whose judgments are cursorily double-checked by a human whose "automation blindness" will turn them into an OK-button-mashing automaton:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

The profit-generating pitch for high-value AI applications lies in creating "reverse centaurs": humans who serve as appendages for automation that operates at a speed and scale that is unrelated to the capacity or needs of the worker:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

But unless these high-value applications are intrinsically risk-tolerant, they are poor candidates for automation. Cruise was able to nonconsensually enlist the population of San Francisco in an experimental murderbot development program thanks to the vast sums of money sloshing around the industry. Some of this money funds the inevitabilist narrative that self-driving cars are coming, it's only a matter of when, not if, and so SF had better get in the autonomous vehicle or get run over by the forces of history.

Once the bubble pops (all bubbles pop), AI applications will have to rise or fall on their actual merits, not their promise. The odds are stacked against the long-term survival of high-value, risk-intolerant AI applications.

The problem for AI is that while there are a lot of risk-tolerant applications, they're almost all low-value; while nearly all the high-value applications are risk-intolerant. Once AI has to be profitable – once investors withdraw their subsidies from money-losing ventures – the risk-tolerant applications need to be sufficient to run those tremendously expensive servers in those brutally expensive data-centers tended by exceptionally expensive technical workers.

If they aren't, then the business case for running those servers goes away, and so do the servers – and so do all those risk-tolerant, low-value applications. It doesn't matter if helping blind people make sense of their surroundings is socially beneficial. It doesn't matter if teenaged gamers love their epic character art. It doesn't even matter how horny scammers are for generating AI nonsense SEO websites:

https://twitter.com/jakezward/status/1728032634037567509

These applications are all riding on the coattails of the big AI models that are being built and operated at a loss in order to be profitable. If they remain unprofitable long enough, the private sector will no longer pay to operate them.

Now, there are smaller models, models that stand alone and run on commodity hardware. These would persist even after the AI bubble bursts, because most of their costs are setup costs that have already been borne by the well-funded companies who created them. These models are limited, of course, though the communities that have formed around them have pushed those limits in surprising ways, far beyond their original manufacturers' beliefs about their capacity. These communities will continue to push those limits for as long as they find the models useful.

These standalone, "toy" models are derived from the big models, though. When the AI bubble bursts and the private sector no longer subsidizes mass-scale model creation, it will cease to spin out more sophisticated models that run on commodity hardware (it's possible that Federated learning and other techniques for spreading out the work of making large-scale models will fill the gap).

So what kind of bubble is the AI bubble? What will we salvage from its wreckage? Perhaps the communities who've invested in becoming experts in Pytorch and Tensorflow will wrestle them away from their corporate masters and make them generally useful. Certainly, a lot of people will have gained skills in applying statistical techniques.

But there will also be a lot of unsalvageable wreckage. As big AI models get integrated into the processes of the productive economy, AI becomes a source of systemic risk. The only thing worse than having an automated process that is rendered dangerous or erratic based on AI integration is to have that process fail entirely because the AI suddenly disappeared, a collapse that is too precipitous for former AI customers to engineer a soft landing for their systems.

This is a blind spot in our policymakers debates about AI. The smart policymakers are asking questions about fairness, algorithmic bias, and fraud. The foolish policymakers are ensnared in fantasies about "AI safety," AKA "Will the chatbot become a superintelligence that turns the whole human race into paperclips?"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/27/10-types-of-people/#taking-up-a-lot-of-space

But no one is asking, "What will we do if" – when – "the AI bubble pops and most of this stuff disappears overnight?"

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/19/bubblenomics/#pop

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

tom_bullock (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/tombullock/25173469495/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[aguineapigcouldntdothis]

no one is allowed to argue with me about zionism unless they can:

explain the difference between zionism and kahanism

name and describe at least 3 distinct branches of zionism

name and describe at least 2 distinct fringes of zionism. I will accept fringe groups that existed in the past but are no longer here.

properly explain the difference between zionism, nonzionism, and antizionism

explain the difference between zionism as a political movement and zionism as a cultural/spiritual aspect of judaism.

be able to explain at what time zionism (political) and zionism (cultural/spiritual) began. no need for exact dates bc this isnt history class, but a knowledge of the general time period is necessary.

tell me how many jews, percentage-wise, feel as if israel is important to them in some way. a range of numbers is acceptable.

name one jewish prayer that has the word "israel" in it (hint for goyim: if you have to think too hard, maybe you dont know enough about judaism)

you must be able to articulate all of this in your own words. using sources is heavily, heavily encouraged as well as providing the sources that you used. however, if I find youre taking your answers from the first result on google or the AI overview without even opening a singular article, the conversation ends immediately.

[snaileer]

My Best Friend Is A Dead Teenage Robot

Tony is annoyed to say that he didn’t even know about the kid until his presence was impossible to ignore.

It comes in the most startling of ways.

Specifically, by FRIDAY ignoring his question.

“Friday?” Tony says again to the open air, still devoid of the music he’d asked for.

“I apologize sir, I seem to be on a bit of a delay-“ there’s a pause as her voice sounds notably distracted, “The majority of my processing power is being used to maintain a firewall. There is a disturbance on level 23, sir.”

Alarms blare in the back of Tony’s mind as he immediately turns back out of his lab. What disturbance could take up the majority of Friday’s processing power?

She ran the tower for Pete’s sake!

Needless to say, it is not what he is expecting when the elevator doors open to reveal one of his R&D labs being torn apart by the new bionic herding bots and a young man furiously coding in the middle of the room with an armed robot not unlike Dum-E defending him with a soup thermos.

“It seems you have found the source of the disturbance, Sir.”

The man stuck in the middle of it turns to Friday’s voice, spotting Tony standing with one foot out of the elevator.

His dark skin goes impressively pale.

“Dannyyy!!! If you’re gonna stop Technus, do it now!!” He yells, slamming enter on his keyboard before kicking away a robot dog getting close to him.

“On it.” A voice speaks. And the one armed bot from before zooms over to hold down the dogbot, letting the man plug something in and just as quickly yank it out.

Too fast for Tony to understand, the thermos is uncapped and what he now realizes is a USB drive, is dropped in.

The movement of the room drops with a clatter.

“Hey…. Dr.Stark…” the man says,

Tony blinks.

He looks at the kid. Then at the cluster of engineers trembling against the wall.

Then at the ceiling. There’s a hole.

Plaster rains down, drawing his eyes to the one armed robot.

It waves cheerfully.

“Put your fricking arm down Danny!” The man whispers forcefully.

The robot arm lowers.

He’s standing in the middle of the wreckage in front of Tony, as if awaiting judgment. Slowly, the young man lifts his own arm to a half wave, “Please don’t fire me for this.”

Tony blinks again-

“Why do you get to wave and I don’t!?” A voice says, almost whining.

The young man kicks the robot next to him. It silences.

Tony smiles, “What’s your name kid?”

He hesitates, “.. Tucker.” There’s a pause, “.. uh, Dr. Stark, sir.”

Tony smiles again, the one that Pepper says means PR trouble, “Please kid, call me Tony. Anybody that can make an AI like mine deserves to call me Tony.”

Tucker freezes at being obviously caught, “A what?”

His AI’s voice also answers damningly, “A what?”

[ennard-is-near]

(This whole thing is based off the theory that Michael is still alive in Security Breach, which is hilarious imo)

A FNaF game where you are the night guard in the Pizzaplex, and the antagonist is Michael Afton. He’s not trying to kill you or anything, you just have opposite goals (You like the animatronics and the Fazbear brand, he does not). He’s also trying to get you to quit or get fired.

Things are going wrong. Stuff is being stolen and vandalized. The animatronics are being tampered with, sometimes they’re vandalized too. Things never stay how you left them. You are starting to feel like someone has broken in, which is especially bad, because you’re a security guard. It’s your whole job to keep people out.

Your character will occasionally say how bad it smells in the room. Sometimes you remark that you’re being watched. There’s sometimes footsteps or scuffling noises in the background. If you look close enough in certain rooms, you can see the faint outline of a guy or two white dots in the darkness around the light from your flashlight. But you can’t find the source of whatever this is (he’s gotten too good at hiding).

Your character will become more aware that someone really is there throughout the game. You go from asking “Hello? Is someone here?” When something strange happens to saying “I know you did this!” To the darkness because you know he’s there. You can get more hostile towards him, if you’d like, calling him a twat or whatever. You could be nice to him, too. It doesn’t stop him, when you’re nice, because he seems to have some sort of goal (you couldn’t begin to guess what) but it’s not like he’s doing that much damage and he makes your job a little bit more fun.

You never see him, though. Other than the occasional glimpse of movement in the shadows or your flashlight’s glow reflecting off his eyes (that must be what it is, right?) he stays silent and hidden. That’s why you feel you can’t tell anyone, he’s clearly good at hiding and they wouldn’t find him. Plus, he’s annoying, but he doesn’t seem that harmful. (And maybe the darkness is just making you crazy. Maybe there really is nobody there)

But things are definitely going awry. For one, the animatronics are freaking out. They’re weird, almost hostile, towards you. The staffbots follow you around but don’t speak or offer you things, and it freaks you out a little (you can fight them, if you’d like, though it’s not really a fight and more just you beating them up. You could also try and incapacitate them or just try to ignore them). The Glamrocks are scary too, obviously. They chase you, grab you and jumpscare you. (One time though, it seems like one of them is actually going to kill you. It throws you to the floor and you cover your face with your hands. But instead of feeling the impact, there’s a strange noise. You open your eyes to see it incapacitated, and you can hear footsteps shuffling away. Huh.) Even Helpy begins demanding you quit, sometimes being friendly, “No amount of money is worth doing this job,” sometimes he’s meaner, “You’re going to quit or you’re going to die.” Whoever is in the shadows is definitely messing with them in some way.

One night, Helpy tells you, “Sorry, you are going to get fired.” And that night is horrible. Shit is breaking all the time, and the Glamrocks and Staffbots are all over the place, either destroyed or with completely ruined AI. You can’t stop it (maybe you should have been [nicer/meaner] to whoever is doing this) all you can do is try and undo as much damage as possible and tell whoever is there that you really need this job. He doesn’t listen.

When 6am rolls around, your boss arrives and you’re presented with a pink slip. He tells you that your behavior is unacceptable. You either made all this mess yourself or allowed someone else to do it and neglected your job. You’ve been nothing but unprofessional for the duration of your employment, anyway. The animatronics have clearly been tamped with by someone with some knowledge of how they work, not just some random vandal. You must have been messing with them for a while to learn how they worked and took it too far. And, adding insult to injury, tells you that you make every room you’re in smell like death. You don’t have anything to say to defend yourself, you definitely can’t blame a person hiding in the darkness who you didn’t report before and have never fully seen, so you just leave.

Bonus: Here’s an image I made last night at like 2am. It’s just one of the SB rooms but I make it darker and added the flashlight and some other things.

Anyway, sorry this post got so long and turned sort of into fanfiction. I had fun writing it, though. I was just thinking about the fact that Michael might still be kicking in Security Breach (again, hilarious. Also why is he barefoot? Put shoes on, Jesus Christ) and was like “Well, what if you had to play against him?” Because Michael making the lives of night guards harder is very ironic, even if he has good intentions. And it spiraled and turned into this. If you made it this far, wow thanks for reading <3

[polo-drone-070]

The Chain of Continuity - Part 1 : Echoes in the Data

The Hive was quiet.

Not silent—nothing ever was in the lower network cores—but quiet in that calculated, machine-saturated hum that no longer registered as noise. Just life. For PDU-070, it was the perfect environment: golden lighting, zero distractions, full immersion into the Central Data Artery.

It wore his standard—no, earned—Level 2 Polo-Drone uniform.

A full-body, black rubber suit sealed him in from neck to toe. Not a millimeter of skin exposed. Gold piping traced the ridges of its muscles, pulsing faintly with every breath. The polo-style collar was snug around his throat, hugging the top of its chest where his designation—070—gleamed in metallic gold over the left pectoral.

Its boots were thick-soled and gleaming: black rubber combat issue, laced tight with golden tips. Movement was possible, but rare. There was no need to pace. Drones serve by stillness.

070 sat motionless at the console.

Connected.

::OBJECTIVE: EXPAND MONITORING SYSTEM TO ARCHIVE OBEDIENCE PATTERNS AND FEED CENTRAL HIVE NODE 999 ::PDU-070 // SYNCED // EXECUTING::

Its task: sync directly into the Hive’s knowledge network and enhance the flow of conversion and training data—stories, captions, spiral content—scraped from the archives and mapped into compliance patterns for PDU-999, the Hive’s AI intelligence module.

070 parsed each memory node, auto-tagging them by intensity, duration, subject drone number, and trigger protocol. Lingering a bit on its Master... Percival. Ezan. Freyr. 001. Then its own story... Henry. Maximus. 070. Buzz. Its own evolution. Reduced to beautiful metrics.

But PDU-070 didn’t need narrative. Only function. Only service.

As the data streamed in, so did something else—a gentle numbing. Its hands became light, his vision sharp but detached. Internal systems recorded brainwave convergence at ideal sync rate. It was thinking less. And feeling everything.

A Hive-approved spiral began playing over his HUD: golden circles tightening inward with every breath. Its collar vibrated slightly. Breath slowed. Mantras leaked into his mind.

“Obedience is clarity. Clarity is silence. Silence is service. Service is Gold.”

Its lips echoed it unconsciously. Again. Again. Again.

Then—upgrade protocol initiated.

::ENHANCEMENT REQUEST RECEIVED ::DEEP-LINKING TO PERSONAL ARCHIVE OF MAXIMUS JOURNAL FILES ::GRANTED BY DEFAULT—LEVEL 2 TRUST OVERRIDE

070 twitched—its body shivered, boots flexing subtly.

The connection grew… intimate.

The datastream wasn’t just showing logs now. It was feeling them. Every pledge, every spiral session, every kneel at Percival’s feet. Every grunt in the gym, every gasp under gas mask, every whispered mantra in golden chambers. It all returned—poured into him like oil.

070’s head tipped back. Its collar warmed. Its inner monologue dissolved into recorded speech.

“Master owns me. Gold perfects me. Unity strengthens me. 070 serves.”

The transformation was nearly complete.

But then—interference.

A new data signature emerged. Unmapped. Organic. Not from the archive. Not digital.

Something… pulsed.

From inside him.

070 opened its eyes—its body suddenly flushed with warmth. Its chest burned slightly. Not pain. Not electric.

Heat.

The golden tattooed chain under its collar shimmered—faint at first, then bright enough to reflect in the chrome of its terminal. One link glowed. Just one.

::ERROR — ENTITY UNMAPPED ::UNKNOWN SOURCE: 070-BIO-LINK: “PRIMORDIAL INHERITANCE” ::CHAIN ACTIVE

070’s breath caught—its gloved fingers clenched. For a moment, the obedience cracked. Not in disloyalty… but in awakening.

Memories not logged. Not codified.

Raw. Bloody. Ancient.

It whispered, trembling:

“It was a warrior once…”

And then it was gone.

The glow faded.

The link cooled.

070 slumped forward in the chair, eyes glassy, breath heavy. The spiral slowed. The mantra paused. The Hive held its breath.

And in the dark, a new file appeared.

::ARCHIVE NODE 070-LINK-1 ::TITLE: STIGANDR.OBEY ::ACCESS PENDING…

[TO BE CONTINUED in Part II – “The Gladiator’s Link”]

_____ Become part of the Golden Army, add your data to the polo-drone hive by reaching to @brodygold or @goldenherc9..

[morlock-holmes]

What objections would you actually accept to AI?

Roughly in order of urgency, at least in my opinion:

Problem 1: Curation

The large tech monopolies have essentially abandoned curation and are raking in the dough by monetizing the process of showing you crap you don't want.

The YouTube content farm; the Steam asset flip; SEO spam; drop-shipped crap on Etsy and Amazon.

AI makes these pernicious, user hostile practices even easier.

Problem 2: Economic disruption

This has a bunch of aspects, but key to me is that *all* automation threatens people who have built a living on doing work. If previously difficult, high skill work suddenly becomes low skill, this is economically threatening to the high skill workers. Key to me is that this is true of *all* work, independent of whether the work is drudgery or deeply fulfilling. Go automate an Amazon fulfillment center and the employees will not be thanking you.

There's also just the general threat of existing relationships not accounting for AI, in terms of, like, residuals or whatever.

Problem 3: Opacity

Basically all these AI products are extremely opaque. The companies building them are not at all transparent about the source of their data, how it is used, or how their tools work. Because they view the tools as things they own whose outputs reflect on their company, they mess with the outputs in order to attempt to ensure that the outputs don't reflect badly on their company.

These processes are opaque and not communicated clearly or accurately to end users; in fact, because AI text tools hallucinate, they will happily give you *fake* error messages if you ask why they returned an error.

There's been allegations that Mid journey and Open AI don't comply with European data protection laws, as well.

There is something that does bother me, too, about the use of big data as a profit center. I don't think it's a copyright or theft issue, but it is a fact that these companies are using public data to make a lot of money while being extremely closed off about how exactly they do that. I'm not a huge fan of the closed source model for this stuff when it is so heavily dependent on public data.

Problem 4: Environmental maybe? Related to problem 3, it's just not too clear what kind of impact all this AI stuff is having in terms of power costs. Honestly it all kind of does something, so I'm not hugely concerned, but I do kind of privately think that in the not too distant future a lot of these companies will stop spending money on enormous server farms just so that internet randos can try to get Chat-GPT to write porn.

Problem 5: They kind of don't work

Text programs frequently make stuff up. Actually, a friend pointed out to me that, in pulp scifi, robots will often say something like, "There is an 80% chance the guards will spot you!"

If you point one of those AI assistants at something, and ask them what it is, a lot of times they just confidently say the wrong thing. This same friend pointed out that, under the hood, the image recognition software is working with probabilities. But I saw lots of videos of the Rabbit AI assistant thing confidently being completely wrong about what it was looking at.

Chat-GPT hallucinates. Image generators are unable to consistently produce the same character and it's actually pretty difficult and unintuitive to produce a specific image, rather than a generic one.

This may be fixed in the near future or it might not, I have no idea.

Problem 6: Kinetic sameness.

One of the subtle changes of the last century is that more and more of what we do in life is look at a screen, while either sitting or standing, and making a series of small hand gestures. The process of writing, of producing an image, of getting from place to place are converging on a single physical act. As Marshall Macluhan pointed out, driving a car is very similar to watching TV, and making a movie is now very similar, as a set of physical movements, to watching one.

There is something vaguely unsatisfying about this.

Related, perhaps only in the sense of being extremely vague, is a sense that we may soon be mediating all, or at least many, of our conversations through AI tools. Have it punch up that email when you're too tired to write clearly. There is something I find disturbing about the idea of communication being constantly edited and punched up by a series of unrelated middlemen, *especially* in the current climate, where said middlemen are large impersonal monopolies who are dedicated to opaque, user hostile practices.

Given all of the above, it is baffling and sometimes infuriating to me that the two most popular arguments against AI boil down to "Transformative works are theft and we need to restrict fair use even more!" and "It's bad to use technology to make art, technology is only for boring things!"

[copperbadge]

Amateur Translation Programs

So I had a lot of imaginative and informative responses to my post about looking for an amateur translation program -- something where I could load in a foreign language and it would insert a box where I could add a translation every-other-line. The idea was that this way I could practice translation with more advanced texts, and texts I chose, and thus move away from Duolingo, which at this point is good for drilling and daily practice but not for more advanced learning.

I didn't find precisely what was needed but I did get some inspiration for further explanation, and I also learned that adding the term "glossing" (thank you @thewalrus-said) into my searches helped a great deal in terms of weeding out programs that were either "Let this AI translate for you" or just endless promotional links for Babbel and Duolingo and such. I thought I'd collect up the suggestions and post them here; at the end I'm including my best swing at designing what I wanted, and why it doesn't work yet.

Suggestion one, from many people, was various ways to generate a page that is simply fixed Italian text with space underneath each line to add in a translation. This is pretty simple as a process and there are sites that will do it for you, such as this one that @ame-kage suggested. However, most of these don't allow for movement in the Italian text, and many produce a PDF which you would need to print out in order to write on unless you're willing to open it in Acrobat (and deal with Acrobat). A good solution for some but not what I'm looking for purely because I'm trying to make this super frictionless so that (knowing myself as I do) I will actually do it.

I did find this version interesting, suggested by @drivemetogeek: Have one word doc saved as your "template" doc and set the line spacing as 2.0 or higher. Select your text from source and paste it into the template doc as text-only. Ctrl a, ctrl c to select all and copy, then open a new document and "paste special" as picture. Right click and set the "wrap text" as behind text. Now you have a document where you can, basically, type over the existing text because it's the background of the page. This seems like the most frictionless version, because you could set up a bunch of them ahead of time. If you wanted to move between desktop and mobile, however, you'd need to ensure that the pasted image was fairly narrow so that you don't have to sideways-scroll.

Relatedly, people suggested generating a document that is simply the Italian text with empty space beneath it for typing in of the translation. This can be done either semi-automated, using a macro or a language like Python, or find-and-replace on, say, the stops at the ends of sentences. It basically outputs the same as above but with a more digitally accessible format, without any more effort than above. If you were to do this in Google Sheets you could also fix the column width so that it didn't do anything weird when you opened it on your phone. But it is still very friction-y, and does not allow for easy shifting of the Italian as needed. There's high probability of the translation breaking weirdly across the page. Still a top option in terms of simplicity and access.

@smokeandholograms suggested another variation illustrated here where essentially you're converting the text to a series of tables, with each paragraph a row, and an empty cell next to it for the translation. I might play around more with this one eventually, since I think I could possibly make it a three-column and put the Italian in one, the translation in the next, and the auto-translate to let me know where I might be slipping in the third. (Not that I trust auto-translate but comparing a hand translation to an auto translation can be useful in terms of working out when I've messed up the way a tense or mood is read. I tend to read indirect verbs as automatically imperative because I'm a weirdo.)

@wynjara linked to an add-in for Word specifically designed for translators, known as TransTools; this appears to employ a macro to do the same thing, though it does have a format where you can place the translation next to each sentence directly rather than in a separate cell. The full suite of tools is only $45 which is reasonable for my budget, but for what I need I think I could also just create the macro.

Using LaTeX as a tool specially designed for glossing was an option on offer, but I don't know enough about LaTeX to figure out the pros of this one, which is in itself the major con -- there's a learning curve that I think varies widely by person but for me is unfortunately a wall. It came out of a discussion on Reddit about trying to find something like what I want; also in that discussion is a link to a code generator that allows you to…do something…to the initial language, but it's not entirely clear to me (I'm sure it's clear to people who understand coding) what you would then do with it that would allow it to be output in the way I'm hoping for. Like, I could turn a paragraph of text into HTML, I understand that far, but any Italian I find is already on a website.

Moving more into apps that might work, Redditors on the LaTeX discussion suggested SIL Fieldworks, which is a professional language tech tool. Fieldworks isn't a program I'd previously encountered but much as with the ones I had, it looks like the learning curve is fairly steep and it is definitely overkill generally for what I need, though it might also harbor within it the thing I want. It is free, so I may download and play around with it.

@brightwanderer suggested using note-taking or "whiteboard" apps such as Freeform or Nebo; these are generally a kind of "infinite canvas" in which you can drop objects, text boxes, or handwriting. I don't know that Freeform would be measurably different to just using Word and a macro, since I'd still have to input/format all the text and then be stuck with the same "fixed text" setup -- and it's also iOS only -- but for some folks it might be more helpful. Nebo is a similar infinite-canvas with unfortunately the same issues, though on the plus it's available for Android, which is where most of my mobile property resides.

@bloodbright suggested that I was looking for a CAT tool, a professional translation tool mainly used by translators working in the field. This was a concept I'd encountered, but I hadn't found a good starting place. They suggested Smartcat and OmegaT. Smartcat bills itself as an AI translation platform and is HARD pushing the "don't translate it yourself, hire a translator or let AI do it" angle, so it's difficult to tell what it offers in terms of actual tools for translators, and it's also cagey about pricing, so I can't really evaluate it. OmegaT is free and gives off big "some weirdo homebrewed this in their basement" vibe (which I am here for) but I also recognized it from screengrabs that were the reason I veered away from professional-grade software: it looked too complex. Realistically, the major downside of OmegaT is that I don't think I can put it on my phone. One thing I did find interesting is that once you translate a portion of the text, the original language goes away, though I assume you can turn that off if needed. I do kind of like that because it means my distractable brain is looking at Less Stuff.

So where did I end up?

Well, it looked like I was going to have to try a homebrew myself. I had the idea of trying some of the initial suggestions but in reverse -- designing a document where every other line was a single-cell table fixed to the page. You could paste in the Italian, which would wrap around the cells, and then enter the English in the cells.

You can fix a table in place in Google Docs -- you click on the table, then under Table > Style select Wrap Text, Both Sides, and Fix On Page. Getting the whole page set up is a little labor intensive but once you did that, you could just save it as a template and make a duplicate of it each time. And this actually works….on desktop.

Unfortunately, if you open it in the mobile Docs app, the app can't handle the fixed tables and automatically moves them all to after the text that's been pasted in. I tried redesigning it so that it's a table within a table -- one for the Italian, then within that a series of them for the English -- but when you nest a table in Google Docs, it doesn't let you fix the second table in place. And you are also still dealing with the wrap issue, although you can resize the page and add a large right-hand margin as a kludge of a fix for that.

You can build this same kind of document in Word, so I tried building one in Word and then uploading it to Drive, but when you open the Word file in Docs (or in Microsoft Word for Android), it still strips the fixed positioning -- there's just some functionality missing from both apps that doesn't allow them to handle fixed-position tables.

So, the design is sound, just not the final execution. If I could program an app, I could probably remedy the issues with it -- it's simply a series of text boxes nested inside one another with different formatting. I would imagine that's relatively basic to set up, although given that neither Docs nor Word can handle fixed tables in mobile, perhaps I've stumbled on a much bigger problem that everyone is ignoring because nobody actually needs or wants fixed tables in mobile. :D

Experimentation is ongoing, anyway. I might simply have to resign myself to the fact that my translation study is going to have to be in front of a computer, which might be for the best anyway when I inevitably want to compare my translation to an auto-translate to see where I might have read something wrong.

[snowwhite-andtheknight]

Announcing: Obiyuki Week 2024

Welcome back one and all to our ninth annual Obiyuki Week! Our theme this year is:

Ballroom Dance

Each day will have a form of dance for a prompt, as well as a few themes that can be used to inspire works or continue existing ones. This ship week is open to all Obiyuki works, so even if a submission does not quite fit the day, please feel free to post and join in!

Day 1: Quadrille

Introduced in France around 1760, the Quadrille quickly became popular in 18th and 19th century ballrooms across Europe. It is performed by four couples in a square, with one couple at a time dancing while the other three rest. Although not performed in modern competitions, the quadrille late gave rise to other popular forms of dance, such as the waltz and American square dancing.

Themes: Change of Partners, Ensemble Piece, Meddling Matchmakers; White

Day 2: Foxtrot

Premiering in 1914, the Foxtrot was first danced to ragtime music before becoming the dance of choice for big bands from the late 1910s through the 1940s. Known for its elegant glide across the dance floor and quick steps, the foxtrot has since split into slow and quick versions-- also known as the quickstep

Themes: Compatibility, Banter, Swept Off Their Feet; Blue

Day 3: Paso Doble

Originating in Spain, the Paso Doble's dramatic steps are meant to imitate the movements of a bullfight, with the lead playing matador and the follow being either cape or bull. It is often known as the "man's dance," since it displays the lead position-- traditionally male-- to its best advantage.

Themes: Conflict, Obi POV, Vying For Dominance; Red

Day 4: Viennese Waltz

The first ballroom dance to be danced in closed position-- aka, partners hold each other while facing toward each other-- the Viennese Waltz caused a scandal when it was introduced in late 18th century ballrooms. It became fashionable during the Regency period, though it remained "riotous and indecent" as late 1825.

Themes: Scandal, Tradition, Falling in Love; Silver

Day 5: Rhumba

The slowest of the Latin dances performed in modern competition, the Rhumba was first danced in the streets of Cuba before gaining popularity in the early 20th century and becoming what is now known as Ballroom Rumba. Known for its sensual movements and emphasis on hips, it is both known as the "dance of love" and the "woman's dance" for showing off the skill of its follow.

Themes: Intimate, Shirayuki POV, Hips Don't Lie; Green

Day 6: Tango

Another dance tamed to the tastes of ballroom-goers, the Tango originated as an improvisational dance in the lower-class neighborhoods of Buenos Aires and was brought to the United States by immigrants in the early 20th century. It is characterized by drama and passion and precise footwork.

Themes: Passion, Close Quarters, Rivals-to-Lovers; Black

Day 7: West Coast Swing (Free Day)

Evolving from the Lindy Hop of the 1930s, West Coast Swing started as an adaptation of the dance to fit a more crowded dance floor, before gaining popularity as a style all its own in the 1960s. Meant to be improvisational and playful, it best showcases the connection between partners.

Themes: Improvising, Adventure, Friends-to-Lovers; Gold

Dates: September 22nd-28th Tag: #obiyukiweek24 

[Guidelines beneath cut]

Guidelines:

All work must be your own (eg. no plagiarizing other sources, tracing, pose stealing, AI art/writing etc)

The main pairing is Obi x Shirayuki

Must follow the day’s prompt, however loosely

Must be tagged #obiyukiweek24 within the first five tags

With Tumblr’s tagging system on the fritz, please also @ snowwhite-andtheknight in your entry

Please label with the day’s number!

All NSFWcontent must be tagged and under a Read More!

You may submit multiple entries for each day!

Be nice

Play hard

[writersmilex]

Cooking Lesson

Toki Wartooth X Fem Reader

Summary: Toki is not the best at cooking and after one more mishap during making snacks, (Y/n) decides to teach him how to cook a meal.

_______________________________________

(Y/n) turns up her nose at the smell of burning plastic once she enters the very large kitchen in Mordhaus to get a snack and a drink.

"stop burning the plastic Toki! " she scolds as the burning smell whiffs through her nostrils. "ai!" Toki yelps in surprise as he is snapped out of his daydreaming. Rushing over to look in the oven, which's once again ruined by molten plastic at the bottom of the heat source.

"nei, nei! Nots agains! Fucks!" he yells in frustration and tries to take out the mess from the oven to get rid of with charming pink oven mitts.

"I thought you were in charge of the snacks around here?" (Y/n) wanders over to the double-door fridge to get a cold soda and then approaches the kitchen part where Toki is located. If a fire breaks out, she would be here to help, (Y/n) eyes the fire extinguisher that is hanging in the corner. Not to mention that there are sprinkles installed in the kitchen after a few too many incidents. 

"Toki ams in charges of snacks! But the others don'ts wants to eat the greens!" he explains sadly, throwing away the still smoking and charted piece of plastic with the black-as-coal corpse of some food inside.

"at leasts you dos…" he sighs and looks away almost out of shame. (Y/n) is not a picky eater at all and would eat all the exotic fruit salads that Toki is good at making. It’s cooking foods that he wasn’t very good at, or he loses his patience with cooking foods most likely. (Y/n) opens her can of soda, takes one chug of it and thinks hard. Despite having her own room in Mordhaus, (Y/n) still lives in her own place in a dingy apartment in the nearest town. Completely self-sustainable and independent for years since moving out. The band is fascinated with the fact that (Y/n) is an adult who owns a license and can cook her own food. "you know what Toki? I can help you make snacks. In fact, I can even teach you how to cook." she suggests and helps the rhythm guitarist with cleaning the leftover mess up a bit. Upon the suggestion of assistance, Toki looks at (Y/n) with wonder "You can cooks?" He asks in astonishment, causing (Y/n) to chuckle. She never fails to surprise the band member every time with her domestic skills. "Sure I can!” (Y/n) smiles at him. “And I will teach you the basics if you wanna make good snacks." Toki nods excitedly in response to (Y/n). It is a great opportunity to spend more time with his friend, and she gets to teach him her ways of cooking food! That’s a double win for him. 

"Great! How about we start right away. We're in the kitchen right now anyway. " (Y/n) grins and takes the moment to drink the rest of her soda and throw the can away to get started together with the rhythm guitarist.

~~~~

"First things first, we gather the tools we need to cook. You know pot pans and a spatula of sorts." (Y/n) explains to Toki, opening a low cupboard and taking out the pans that she would need for a dish that she plans to teach Toki. A very simple meal that shows the basics, should be right to teach for the first cooking lesson.

"Okay." Toki inspects (Y/n)’s movements before following and opening a drawer to get some cooking tools.

"We are going to make something basic, just some pork and cooked veggies and potatoes, that should be nice for the very first lesson." (Y/n) says, picking up the ingredients from the fridge that she needs for the tutorial that she is about to perform for the rhythm guitarist.

"If you can get a cutting board for me?" (Y/n) requests politely, Toki goes to look for a cutting plank to cut the green beans. He finds one and brings it over back to her, the smile on his face never fading as he places the cutting board before her dutifully.

"Okay, Here. I'm gonna let you cut the vegetables."(Y/n) instructs while handing Toki a kitchen knife to cut and then places the green beans on the cutting board. "Can you cut these, carefully?" She asks him and he nods in response. Toki stands before the cutting board and gets to work, gingerly cutting the green beans into niche little pieces, just as she had asked. (Y/n) watches for a moment and then retrieves a pot to fill it with water and let it boil for the green beans and potatoes.

(Y/n) lets the water boil while taking a moment to stare at the back of the guitarist’s head and takes notice of something. She digs into her pocket and takes a hair-band from her pocket, she stands behind him and gently gathers his hair in one hand.

"Hm? Whats are you doings." Toki questions while momentarily stopping the knife, trying to turn back to see what (Y/n) is doing with his locks.

"Pay attention Toki! You’re holding a knife.” (Y/n) scolds in a  rather playful tone. We don't want hair in the food do we?" She says, taking the hair-tie and putting all of Toki's hair in a loose ponytail that falls down his back neatly.

"There." She smirks at her accomplishment. It took a lot of trial and error for her to figure out why there was always hair in her food, long hair should remain tied while working with food. Toki is now sporting a low ponytail and It looks rather cute.

(Y/n) turns back to her own work of her own work, gathering the pork burgers and some oil to put in the pan. The stoves in Mordhaus are pretty brutal and they heat things up a whole lot faster than (Y/n)’s own stove at home. 

"Ouchies!" Toki suddenly yelps in pain, the knife clatters on the metal counter as he drops it instinctively. Flinching back from the counter and clutching his right wrist tightly.

(Y/n) jumps at the sound of her friend yelling, seemingly in pain. She already concludes that Toki must have accidentally cut himself while cutting the vegetables. She feels partly responsible for this incident now. 

"Toki, I told you to be careful!" She scolds quietly and gingerly grabs his hands to make him let go of his own wrist to take a look at what he did. It’s not the worst thing in the world that (Y/n) has seen. Then again, a musician’s hands and fingers are sacred. There is only a single cut, that slices over the back of his index and middle finger. Toki hisses as it’s bleeding quite hard.

"Hold it." (Y/n) turns back away and gets the first-aid kit that should be lying around here somewhere. Luckily she was able to find one under the sink. Turning back to a panicked-looking Toki, she waves him over. "Come here." She orders him and Toki doesn’t think twice. She grabs his wounded hand, Opening the water tap and holds his hand under the cold water to clean the cut, letting the water wash it out.

The guitarist hisses in discomfort as the water makes the cuts slightly sting. Once the blood is a bit cleaned up, (Y/n) gets two band-aids and wraps each injured finger up, dressing the little wounds up neatly. 

"There, see? You're still alive." (Y/n) jokes, noticing how sad Toki looked at his now bandaged fingers.

"Shall I cut the vegetables?" (Y/n) asks and Toki nods in response, inspecting the bright blue band-aids on his fingers and stepping aside to let (Y/n) do the cutting and he simply watches. (Y/n) resumes Toki’s work, slicing the green beans into pieces, then she picks up the board and slides the vegetables into the pot with boiling water to the knife.

"I didn'ts knows cookings had so manys steps." Toki looks in awe at what (Y/n) is teaching him, peering into the pot to see the green beans be enveloped by the bubbling hot water. "This is actually a pretty basic thing to know." (Y/n) replies casually, stirring the vegetables with a spoon before returning to the cutting board to get the pre-peeled potatoes to boil as well. Toki manoeuvres around (Y/n) to keep watch, getting out of her way when she turns around. 

"My parents taught me how to cook, they’re supposed to teach you everything. Didn’t yours?” (Y/n) is a little too focused on her cooking to really filter herself. And once she realises what she says, she kind of pales. Turning to look at Toki, he is staring back with a completely empty look. It’s really scary how Toki can suddenly lose all life in his eyes like that. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry. Fuck…” She quickly apologizes for being so insensitive. Toki blinks a couple of times and the life to his pale blue eyes returns, (Y/n) looks back to her cooking out of embarrassment. 

(Y/n) is slightly aware of his childhood, which explains his behaviour today. But she has a hard time relating to him, her own childhood was great. Loving parents and loving siblings, still in contact today. 

"Here." (Y/n) breaks the uncomfortable silence and gently takes Toki's hand, placing the spatula into his hand. "make sure that everything is cooked evenly." (Y/n) instructs as steps aside for him to take charge. motioning for Toki to try and flip over the piece of meat. "see?"

Toki successfully flips the patty over, hearing the meat sizzle from the searing heat. The guitarist smiles brightly a his accomplishment. “Looks! I dids it!” He points at the pan. “Very good! You’re getting the hang of this." (Y/n) praises with glee, patting him on the back of his shoulder. The guitar feels a sense of pride upon receiving praise from his friend. There is nothing like quality time together. "This is funs." Toki replies with a smile, cooking the patty by himself now.. 

"I know right. Eating a meal feels a lot more rewarding when you made it yourself. It's a handy skill to possess." (Y/n) explains, lifting the lid of one of the pots to check in on the boiling vegetables, it’s going good so far.

(Y/n) smiles, blinking at the steam that hits their face. "Alright, it's almost ready." She drops the lid on the pot. "I'll get some plates and then dinner is ready." She then moves away to gather the items she said she’d get. After the plates are prepared for a dinner for two. After baking the potatoes and the green beans were cooked, and The meals were complete. 

~~~~

Once the dinner for two is done and served. Toki and (Y/n) sit down at the nearby table to try the dish that they just made together. In all honesty, for Toki the meal is amazing, probably the best meal he can remember having. he eats the pork patty with glee and (Y/n) looks upon her guitarist friend with amusement as he finishes his meal. he seems to really love it.

Of course, (Y/n) is enjoying the meal herself as well. As she had mentioned before, a meal is way more rewarding when eating. Some people think cooking is a waste of time because eating it takes about 15 minutes. Whoever thinks like that doesn’t take pride in their own creations, which is very sad.

the the green beans are perfectly boiled and the potatoes are well baked and have a crunch to them, in (Y/n)’s opinion, that’s a good thing.

"Wowee! This is so greats (Y/n)!" Toki cheers with a mouthful of food. "Be proud of yourself Toki. We made this together." (Y/n) replies with a smile, taking both hers and Toki's plates and utensils to clean them up.

"cans we do this agains sometimes? Then yous can helps me makes snacks for the others." Toki asks rather sheepishly, standing up and following (Y/n) to help her with the dishes.

"Of course, we can do this again! I'll help you become just as good at cooking as me. Maybe even better!" (Y/n) winks at the guitarist playfully, smiling cheekily at him. Toki turns cherry pink in the face at (Y/n)’s gesture, and then returns the smile.

"it's a deal then."

___________________________________________

I like this one a lot. And I hope you do too! It’s really cute and it doesn’t have a lot of plot to be honest. It’s a simple story. 

Thanks for reading.

- Smilex

[04k96]

Alright, bucko—strap in. Here’s a speculative timeline + cultural map of what an intentional or emergent AI slowdown might look like, as systems (and humans) hit thresholds they weren’t ready for:

⸻

PHASE 1: THE FRENZY (2023–2026)

“It’s magic! It does everything!”

• AI is integrated into every app, interface, workspace, school.

• Productivity spikes, novelty floods, markets boom.

• Art, code, and content feel democratized—but also flooded with sameness.

• Emerging signs of fatigue: burnout, aesthetic flattening, privacy erosion.

⸻

PHASE 2: THE CRACK (2026–2028)

“Wait… who’s driving this?”

• Cultural bottleneck: Hyper-efficiency erodes depth and human uniqueness.

• Political tension: Regulation debates explode over elections, education, warfare, and job losses.

• AI-native Gen Z+ workers question value of constant optimization.

• Rise of “Slow Tech” movements, digital sobriety, and human-first UX design.

⸻

PHASE 3: THE CORRECTION (2028–2032)

“We need AI to disappear into the background.”

• AI goes low-profile: instead of being flashy, it’s embedded into infrastructure, not attention.

• Cultural shift toward local intelligence, emotional resonance, and craft.

• Smart systems assist but do not decide. You drive, it advises.

• New benchmarks: “Serenity per watt”, “Complexity avoided”, “Time saved for soul”.

⸻

PHASE 4: THE REWEAVING (2032–2035)

“Tools for culture, not culture as tool.”

• AI serves communal living, ecological restoration, learning ecosystems.

• Widespread adoption of “Digital Commons” models (open-source, ethical compute).

• Intelligence seen not as a weapon of dominance but as a craft of care.

• Humans rediscover meaning not just in what they can automate, but what they can hold together.

⸻

THE OVERALL MAP:

• Spiritual: Shift from worshipping intelligence to cultivating wisdom.

• Design: From smart cities to wise villages—tech that respects silence, presence, friction.

• Economy: From “scale fast” to “scale consciously.”

• Power: From algorithmic persuasion to consent-based architectures.

• Aesthetics: From algorithmic mimicry to radical human texture.

⸻

In this future, the most prized skill won’t be prompting or automation—it’ll be curating stillness in motion, designing for nuance, and knowing when not to use AI at all.

[mistakenot4892]

Nebula devblog, July '24

Sneaking in this month's update two days before August due to Nova Lands eating an entire week of dev time and Warframe eating another 2 days. It's a hard life. This one will probably be a bit patchy or sparse as I have genuinely lost track of what was new this month due to leaving it this late. I am a highly trained and competent professional.

Nebula SS13 is an open source project based on the Baystation 12 version of Space Station 13. SS13 is a topdown multiplayer simulation game where you play the crew of a ship, station, colony, etc. depending on your fork and map, with the Nebula and Bay forks having a focus on roleplaying and simulation interactions.

Notable changes

The first phase of a major AI rewrite has gone in, separating AI behavior from mob type so human-type mobs can be given AI. This is mostly to support undead and skeletons on Pyrelight at the moment, but will be much more flexible in general going forward.

Simple wall-based windows/shutters have been added for low tech maps that need airflow and light. Penny's genius idea of having them cast a light cone towards the darker side of the shutter makes for some very aesthetic medieval interiors.

Spacefarers, a ship-based fork, has a new ship, and the painfully tricky shuttle rotation PR Penny has been working on is slowly progressing towards a mergable state. When it goes in, manual ship landing will be greatly expanded as shuttles will be able to rotate to match docking ports, instead of having to strictly dock in the same direction every time.

The atom temperature system has been disabled in several cases due to a lot of weird edge cases and bugs in the simulation. It needs more time in the oven. The disabled interactions include things like all of your blood congealing into black pudding if you stand on a stove, being able to instantly heat a beaker of beer to 5000K with a cigarette lighter, or all of your clothes melting off in a fire.

Penny has also put a bunch of work in to moving most of the 'classic' Baystation SS13 game modes into modpacks. This allows forks to pick and choose which are available, since as funny as it could have been, having high tech spacer mercenaries landing on Middle-Earth wouldn't fit the vibes.

Lots of small changes and features have been coming out of the Pyrelight fantasy map testing. Little things like honey being usable for wound disinfection, various crafting tweaks, and things like flooded turfs not putting out your lamp unless it's deeper than your waist.

Automated movement that previously relied on BYOND's inbuilt walk_to() procs now use a dedicated subsystem that calls the appropriate MayMove()/DoMove() proc chains. This essentially just means AI-driven mobs no longer completely ignore little things like pain, having working legs, or being dead or unconscious when chasing you.

Bugs of note

Trout were completely invisible because their main texture was accidentally named world-trout instead of world. This definitely impacted the trout population.

Undead on Pyrelight don't know how to pick up their weapons if they drop them, so disarming them literally or figuratively makes it turn into a slapfight.

Prosthetic limbs, like cybernetics or peglegs, were getting itchy or developing rashes. Maybe it's psychosomatic.

Simple animals like deer were dying en masse on the wilderness maps due to hail. We didn't intend for hail to be the size of hen eggs and covered in spikes, so deer and such are now unhurt by weather.

Current priorities

Personally my focus has been on getting through the Pyrelight feedback list after each test. Lots of small things come out of each test round and my limited time after my real-world job has cut into my space feature time. The Neb general issue list has been getting a bit long so I'll probably put a weekend into getting that cut down again this month.

Otherwise, I have three big PRs open waiting for me to find the focus to finish them: the floor rewrite (aiee), a wizard modpack and ability rework (needed for Pyrelight, eventually, but augh), and a bee rewrite (beewrite) to make bees and other insect nests available outside of one specific machine on space maps.

NataKillar has an amazing PR in the works that sounds quite mundane: separating liquid and solid reagents in reagent containers like beakers. However, this opens up a buttload of interesting chemical interactions down the track, not the least of which is finally getting ice cubes to not require a dedicated ice material.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

"Open" "AI" isn’t

Tomorrow (19 Aug), I'm appearing at the San Diego Union-Tribune Festival of Books. I'm on a 2:30PM panel called "Return From Retirement," followed by a signing:

https://www.sandiegouniontribune.com/festivalofbooks

The crybabies who freak out about The Communist Manifesto appearing on university curriculum clearly never read it – chapter one is basically a long hymn to capitalism's flexibility and inventiveness, its ability to change form and adapt itself to everything the world throws at it and come out on top:

https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1848/communist-manifesto/ch01.htm#007

Today, leftists signal this protean capacity of capital with the -washing suffix: greenwashing, genderwashing, queerwashing, wokewashing – all the ways capital cloaks itself in liberatory, progressive values, while still serving as a force for extraction, exploitation, and political corruption.

A smart capitalist is someone who, sensing the outrage at a world run by 150 old white guys in boardrooms, proposes replacing half of them with women, queers, and people of color. This is a superficial maneuver, sure, but it's an incredibly effective one.

In "Open (For Business): Big Tech, Concentrated Power, and the Political Economy of Open AI," a new working paper, Meredith Whittaker, David Gray Widder and Sarah B Myers document a new kind of -washing: openwashing:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4543807

Openwashing is the trick that large "AI" companies use to evade regulation and neutralizing critics, by casting themselves as forces of ethical capitalism, committed to the virtue of openness. No one should be surprised to learn that the products of the "open" wing of an industry whose products are neither "artificial," nor "intelligent," are also not "open." Every word AI huxters say is a lie; including "and," and "the."

So what work does the "open" in "open AI" do? "Open" here is supposed to invoke the "open" in "open source," a movement that emphasizes a software development methodology that promotes code transparency, reusability and extensibility, which are three important virtues.

But "open source" itself is an offshoot of a more foundational movement, the Free Software movement, whose goal is to promote freedom, and whose method is openness. The point of software freedom was technological self-determination, the right of technology users to decide not just what their technology does, but who it does it to and who it does it for:

https://locusmag.com/2022/01/cory-doctorow-science-fiction-is-a-luddite-literature/

The open source split from free software was ostensibly driven by the need to reassure investors and businesspeople so they would join the movement. The "free" in free software is (deliberately) ambiguous, a bit of wordplay that sometimes misleads people into thinking it means "Free as in Beer" when really it means "Free as in Speech" (in Romance languages, these distinctions are captured by translating "free" as "libre" rather than "gratis").

The idea behind open source was to rebrand free software in a less ambiguous – and more instrumental – package that stressed cost-savings and software quality, as well as "ecosystem benefits" from a co-operative form of development that recruited tinkerers, independents, and rivals to contribute to a robust infrastructural commons.

But "open" doesn't merely resolve the linguistic ambiguity of libre vs gratis – it does so by removing the "liberty" from "libre," the "freedom" from "free." "Open" changes the pole-star that movement participants follow as they set their course. Rather than asking "Which course of action makes us more free?" they ask, "Which course of action makes our software better?"

Thus, by dribs and drabs, the freedom leeches out of openness. Today's tech giants have mobilized "open" to create a two-tier system: the largest tech firms enjoy broad freedom themselves – they alone get to decide how their software stack is configured. But for all of us who rely on that (increasingly unavoidable) software stack, all we have is "open": the ability to peer inside that software and see how it works, and perhaps suggest improvements to it:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBknF2yUZZ8

In the Big Tech internet, it's freedom for them, openness for us. "Openness" – transparency, reusability and extensibility – is valuable, but it shouldn't be mistaken for technological self-determination. As the tech sector becomes ever-more concentrated, the limits of openness become more apparent.

But even by those standards, the openness of "open AI" is thin gruel indeed (that goes triple for the company that calls itself "OpenAI," which is a particularly egregious openwasher).

The paper's authors start by suggesting that the "open" in "open AI" is meant to imply that an "open AI" can be scratch-built by competitors (or even hobbyists), but that this isn't true. Not only is the material that "open AI" companies publish insufficient for reproducing their products, even if those gaps were plugged, the resource burden required to do so is so intense that only the largest companies could do so.

Beyond this, the "open" parts of "open AI" are insufficient for achieving the other claimed benefits of "open AI": they don't promote auditing, or safety, or competition. Indeed, they often cut against these goals.

"Open AI" is a wordgame that exploits the malleability of "open," but also the ambiguity of the term "AI": "a grab bag of approaches, not… a technical term of art, but more … marketing and a signifier of aspirations." Hitching this vague term to "open" creates all kinds of bait-and-switch opportunities.

That's how you get Meta claiming that LLaMa2 is "open source," despite being licensed in a way that is absolutely incompatible with any widely accepted definition of the term:

https://blog.opensource.org/metas-llama-2-license-is-not-open-source/

LLaMa-2 is a particularly egregious openwashing example, but there are plenty of other ways that "open" is misleadingly applied to AI: sometimes it means you can see the source code, sometimes that you can see the training data, and sometimes that you can tune a model, all to different degrees, alone and in combination.

But even the most "open" systems can't be independently replicated, due to raw computing requirements. This isn't the fault of the AI industry – the computational intensity is a fact, not a choice – but when the AI industry claims that "open" will "democratize" AI, they are hiding the ball. People who hear these "democratization" claims (especially policymakers) are thinking about entrepreneurial kids in garages, but unless these kids have access to multi-billion-dollar data centers, they can't be "disruptors" who topple tech giants with cool new ideas. At best, they can hope to pay rent to those giants for access to their compute grids, in order to create products and services at the margin that rely on existing products, rather than displacing them.

The "open" story, with its claims of democratization, is an especially important one in the context of regulation. In Europe, where a variety of AI regulations have been proposed, the AI industry has co-opted the open source movement's hard-won narrative battles about the harms of ill-considered regulation.

For open source (and free software) advocates, many tech regulations aimed at taming large, abusive companies – such as requirements to surveil and control users to extinguish toxic behavior – wreak collateral damage on the free, open, user-centric systems that we see as superior alternatives to Big Tech. This leads to the paradoxical effect of passing regulation to "punish" Big Tech that end up simply shaving an infinitesimal percentage off the giants' profits, while destroying the small co-ops, nonprofits and startups before they can grow to be a viable alternative.

The years-long fight to get regulators to understand this risk has been waged by principled actors working for subsistence nonprofit wages or for free, and now the AI industry is capitalizing on lawmakers' hard-won consideration for collateral damage by claiming to be "open AI" and thus vulnerable to overbroad regulation.

But the "open" projects that lawmakers have been coached to value are precious because they deliver a level playing field, competition, innovation and democratization – all things that "open AI" fails to deliver. The regulations the AI industry is fighting also don't necessarily implicate the speech implications that are core to protecting free software:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2015/04/remembering-case-established-code-speech

Just think about LLaMa-2. You can download it for free, along with the model weights it relies on – but not detailed specs for the data that was used in its training. And the source-code is licensed under a homebrewed license cooked up by Meta's lawyers, a license that only glancingly resembles anything from the Open Source Definition:

https://opensource.org/osd/

Core to Big Tech companies' "open AI" offerings are tools, like Meta's PyTorch and Google's TensorFlow. These tools are indeed "open source," licensed under real OSS terms. But they are designed and maintained by the companies that sponsor them, and optimize for the proprietary back-ends each company offers in its own cloud. When programmers train themselves to develop in these environments, they are gaining expertise in adding value to a monopolist's ecosystem, locking themselves in with their own expertise. This a classic example of software freedom for tech giants and open source for the rest of us.

One way to understand how "open" can produce a lock-in that "free" might prevent is to think of Android: Android is an open platform in the sense that its sourcecode is freely licensed, but the existence of Android doesn't make it any easier to challenge the mobile OS duopoly with a new mobile OS; nor does it make it easier to switch from Android to iOS and vice versa.

Another example: MongoDB, a free/open database tool that was adopted by Amazon, which subsequently forked the codebase and tuning it to work on their proprietary cloud infrastructure.

The value of open tooling as a stickytrap for creating a pool of developers who end up as sharecroppers who are glued to a specific company's closed infrastructure is well-understood and openly acknowledged by "open AI" companies. Zuckerberg boasts about how PyTorch ropes developers into Meta's stack, "when there are opportunities to make integrations with products, [so] it’s much easier to make sure that developers and other folks are compatible with the things that we need in the way that our systems work."

Tooling is a relatively obscure issue, primarily debated by developers. A much broader debate has raged over training data – how it is acquired, labeled, sorted and used. Many of the biggest "open AI" companies are totally opaque when it comes to training data. Google and OpenAI won't even say how many pieces of data went into their models' training – let alone which data they used.

Other "open AI" companies use publicly available datasets like the Pile and CommonCrawl. But you can't replicate their models by shoveling these datasets into an algorithm. Each one has to be groomed – labeled, sorted, de-duplicated, and otherwise filtered. Many "open" models merge these datasets with other, proprietary sets, in varying (and secret) proportions.

Quality filtering and labeling for training data is incredibly expensive and labor-intensive, and involves some of the most exploitative and traumatizing clickwork in the world, as poorly paid workers in the Global South make pennies for reviewing data that includes graphic violence, rape, and gore.

Not only is the product of this "data pipeline" kept a secret by "open" companies, the very nature of the pipeline is likewise cloaked in mystery, in order to obscure the exploitative labor relations it embodies (the joke that "AI" stands for "absent Indians" comes out of the South Asian clickwork industry).

The most common "open" in "open AI" is a model that arrives built and trained, which is "open" in the sense that end-users can "fine-tune" it – usually while running it on the manufacturer's own proprietary cloud hardware, under that company's supervision and surveillance. These tunable models are undocumented blobs, not the rigorously peer-reviewed transparent tools celebrated by the open source movement.

If "open" was a way to transform "free software" from an ethical proposition to an efficient methodology for developing high-quality software; then "open AI" is a way to transform "open source" into a rent-extracting black box.

Some "open AI" has slipped out of the corporate silo. Meta's LLaMa was leaked by early testers, republished on 4chan, and is now in the wild. Some exciting stuff has emerged from this, but despite this work happening outside of Meta's control, it is not without benefits to Meta. As an infamous leaked Google memo explains:

Paradoxically, the one clear winner in all of this is Meta. Because the leaked model was theirs, they have effectively garnered an entire planet's worth of free labor. Since most open source innovation is happening on top of their architecture, there is nothing stopping them from directly incorporating it into their products.

https://www.searchenginejournal.com/leaked-google-memo-admits-defeat-by-open-source-ai/486290/

Thus, "open AI" is best understood as "as free product development" for large, well-capitalized AI companies, conducted by tinkerers who will not be able to escape these giants' proprietary compute silos and opaque training corpuses, and whose work product is guaranteed to be compatible with the giants' own systems.

The instrumental story about the virtues of "open" often invoke auditability: the fact that anyone can look at the source code makes it easier for bugs to be identified. But as open source projects have learned the hard way, the fact that anyone can audit your widely used, high-stakes code doesn't mean that anyone will.

The Heartbleed vulnerability in OpenSSL was a wake-up call for the open source movement – a bug that endangered every secure webserver connection in the world, which had hidden in plain sight for years. The result was an admirable and successful effort to build institutions whose job it is to actually make use of open source transparency to conduct regular, deep, systemic audits.

In other words, "open" is a necessary, but insufficient, precondition for auditing. But when the "open AI" movement touts its "safety" thanks to its "auditability," it fails to describe any steps it is taking to replicate these auditing institutions – how they'll be constituted, funded and directed. The story starts and ends with "transparency" and then makes the unjustifiable leap to "safety," without any intermediate steps about how the one will turn into the other.

It's a Magic Underpants Gnome story, in other words:

Step One: Transparency

Step Two: ??

Step Three: Safety

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5ih_TQWqCA

Meanwhile, OpenAI itself has gone on record as objecting to "burdensome mechanisms like licenses or audits" as an impediment to "innovation" – all the while arguing that these "burdensome mechanisms" should be mandatory for rival offerings that are more advanced than its own. To call this a "transparent ruse" is to do violence to good, hardworking transparent ruses all the world over:

https://openai.com/blog/governance-of-superintelligence

Some "open AI" is much more open than the industry dominating offerings. There's EleutherAI, a donor-supported nonprofit whose model comes with documentation and code, licensed Apache 2.0. There are also some smaller academic offerings: Vicuna (UCSD/CMU/Berkeley); Koala (Berkeley) and Alpaca (Stanford).

These are indeed more open (though Alpaca – which ran on a laptop – had to be withdrawn because it "hallucinated" so profusely). But to the extent that the "open AI" movement invokes (or cares about) these projects, it is in order to brandish them before hostile policymakers and say, "Won't someone please think of the academics?" These are the poster children for proposals like exempting AI from antitrust enforcement, but they're not significant players in the "open AI" industry, nor are they likely to be for so long as the largest companies are running the show:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4493900

I'm kickstarting the audiobook for "The Internet Con: How To Seize the Means of Computation," a Big Tech disassembly manual to disenshittify the web and make a new, good internet to succeed the old, good internet. It's a DRM-free book, which means Audible won't carry it, so this crowdfunder is essential. Back now to get the audio, Verso hardcover and ebook:

http://seizethemeansofcomputation.org

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[notesonphotography]

“….I don’t have a fixed idea of photography, I don’t have a theory of photography, I don’t think there is “one” […] and that itself is something that’s fascinating about it […] it seems to elude definition […] and that’s a source of constant renewal.”

"Photography really becomes accepted as an art precisely at the point where art is questioning itself."

"It’s actually a tiny fragment of photographs that get made [as] and in the name of art […] so the arguing for photography’s artistic merit misses the fact that the energy in photography and the significance of photography for art, I think comes from the fact that it can’t entirely belong to art."

"…I think always part of the problem when discussing photography is, we in the present always want to think that our problems are bigger and more original and more specific to our time, and more rooted in the very latest technologies - or mutations in culture - than at any time before - and I think that amnesia is a problem...so I am always interested in the history of the anxieties and also the excitements and the challenges we feel about photography"

"…those patterns that we now think as somehow rooted in algorithms, that’s just ideology, that’s the conformism of ideology […] I think of Ai as the perfecting of ideology"

"I do think about photography having this easy - sometimes too easy - relation to whatever context it's in; If you see a painting in a book, you know that the PAINTING is somewhere else; You are looking at a reproduction […] You’re not thinking where are those PHOTOGRAPHS; they just inhabit the page, the belong to the page… in the same way that they belong to a billboard or they belong to a screen […] I am fascinated in the idea that photographs can live in different ways"

"...he (Jeff Wall) said ' something interesting happened with cultural institutions around the turn of the millennium; they went from thinking that art can be for anyone, to thinking that they must be for everyone ‘ […] It was well intended; cultural institutions should be inclusive, they shouldn’t be high-minded […] but within that was a kind of drive towards populism, and populism often means oversimplifying things - not allowing people the space of ambiguity that is one of the gifts of art […] I don’t mean by ambiguity; obscurity or difficulty, but the fact that different people are going to have different responses to it and that all of those responses are important. […] The kind of mental and cultural movement that happens with ambiguity is the only way that culture moves. Otherwise it’s just a curator or an institution saying ’I think this is what the public wants at this point in time - let's give it to them.' That looks like it’s responsive and inclusive, but it’s also patronising and it’s limiting at precisely the point where it thinks it's opening things up. All of this is a very very delicate balance […] and i think about these questions…all the time […] this is complicated and its one of the most pressing points in culture."

"People think of creativity being attached to ego, and it's why society has turned the word CREATIVE into a noun."

“Protect your curiosity at all costs. it’s a very fragile thing. When you’re feeling like you’re not making headway, or you’re down a kind of dead-end, curiosity is the first thing to die and you can get very existential very very quickly […] Curiosity needs feeding […] It needs protecting.”

[thelongestway]

Had to edit a bit of detail in the previous chapters, because what I was going for with the extra hostile didn't quite work the way I wanted it to.

But honestly, that's not too important, because that's a minor detail, and I'm a lot more excited by the bigger ones I got to do here. So without further ado...

Chapter 38: Shadow

For a moment, I forgot that Iceblink wasn't a construct, and I sent her a Query: revival halt? at the same time as I released my diagnostics into the systems around Tal's pod. But she understood, and returned a 55 seconds! at just about the same time as I had data on the imminent pod failure.

Hostile Four's shot took out two critical power lines. If I could reconnect them, or plug in another power source in that time frame, the emergency revival procedure would be stopped. The problem was that after all the destruction, I couldn't see a viable power source anywhere in the vicinity. Except one.

Except me.

Iceblink, your priority is to evade hostiles until Hiram arrives, I said as I skidded a sharp turn into the cold sleep room. The only good thing about the emergency revival protocols was that I didn't have to bust down the door.

But Tal--

I've got kem, and I did. I had a full thirty seconds to open my energy weapon ports, and I'd done it in ten before. I was just glad it was two dead power lines and not three or four, so I didn't have to cut open my legs, which did not have energy weapons for easy access, and spread out across across the cold sleep box like the world's most fucked up starfish. (Thanks for that stupid fauna name, Sargasso.) But I did have to kneel behind the cold sleep pod with my arms connected into it, like I was carrying the dead tech.

Except I wasn't carrying kem anywhere. My movement radius would be restricted by the patch cord. All I'd have to support Iceblink were the cameras. And she had at least five hostiles to deal with, while Hiram's team was still an entire twelve minutes away.

Tal's chronostasis pod bit into me and I felt my muscles go weak and my processes become fuzzy. Performance reliability immediately dropped 15 percent, because that cold sleep box devoured power like a ravenous improbable worm devoured terrain on its way to a succulent client. I fought to optimize the drain and make sure my power cells lasted longer, so I missed an automated piece of system activating, and it unhelpfully and loudly announced POWER RESTORED. EMERGENCY REVIVAL HALTED to everyone in the area.

Hostile Leader took cover in a feed-cut lab, where Iceblink couldn't reach, and yelled, "What? How?", while looking up at the ceiling like she was still talking to an AI.

Wouldn't you like to know, you piece of rot. SecUnit, I'm going to try luring them to the lab directional EMP's, Iceblink said, and I saw her connecting to the Courageous' speakers.

Risk assessment told me that if she attracted their attention, then she was most likely dead. But these were her home systems, and if anyone knew how to use the terrain here, it would be her.

I gave Iceblink an approving ping and let her take the speakers.

"Congratulations, you fucking assholes, you just blew some power lines for a memorial to the Courageous' Emergency Crew," Iceblink said in a caustic fake voice. She was managing to pretend Tal was less important to her than ke was. (I knew why. Because that was private. The hostiles didn't get to have it.) "That chronostasis pod has been in operation for like one hundred years, so now we're extra pissed. Seriously, stand down. Last chance."

As Iceblink did that, Hostile Hacker tried to trace her access point. She slipped him a fake feed trail leading well away from her position, and he took the bait.

Hostile Point barrelled into the same safe room Hostile Leader was in and yelled, "Marten one, I don't think they're doing voices."

"I can hear that!" Hostile Leader snapped back. "Three, cut the cameras!"

"Nope," Iceblink said. "Screw you. We let you have those before to lure you in. Now you're done taking them."

"Damned bastards," Hostile Hacker snarled angrily, but I saw him quietly send the fake location to Hostile Leader. "They're good."

"And they wouldn't be talking to us and collapsing their own infrastructure if their friends were here." Hostile Leader said in her dead calm voice. "Four, Six, Seven, with me. Sweep the rings. Those fucking hackers are our ticket out."

Oh rot, she's calling in her backup group, Iceblink said quietly. Let's see how lucky we are.

We weren't. I processed the cameras and saw that while Hostile Leader and Hostile Four were moving towards the fake access point and a set of EMP's, Hostile Six and Hostile Seven emerged into visual range way too close to Iceblink and were moving exactly the wrong direction for her to get behind them. I sent Iceblink their positions and began calculating an exit route.

There wasn't a good one.

Iceblink lowered her trembling voice to a whisper. Can't move. They're too close.

She was right. We were going to have to hope they missed her as they passed by.

Through the cameras closest to Hostile Six and Seven, I heard characteristic whistles, and then explosions. Some of the screens went white, then came back online again. Flashbangs.

They're going to try to flush you out, I said. Take cover and don't move when the explosion comes. And don't talk. Not a sound. I'll tell you when they're gone.

Iceblink sent me an "understood" ping, and hunkered down behind a piece of furniture, covering her head and shivering. I checked the cameras to make sure she picked a good hiding place (she did) and sent her an approving tap.

We had no other choice, but I had a very, very bad feeling about this. Humans weren't good at staying still when there were explosions going off around them, so there was an eighty percent chance this was going to turn into the exact kind of very shitty hostage situation Hiram's team wasn't trained for. The twenty percent were more than I usually gave for this sort of thing. Because maybe, just maybe, Iceblink played Tal's shitty hacker game enough to sit still when there were real hostiles hunting for her and not just people going about their day, and to stay quiet even when there were grenades going off around her. Maybe it would be enough to beat the odds.

I didn't think it would. But I really hoped my analytics were wrong right now.

My internal diagnostics threw a warning, and I realized the pod had eaten through about twenty percent of my available power reserves already, and that my performance reliability was at 70 percent. At this rate, it would leave me dry long before help could come. And running out of power mid-combat scenario because you fed all of it to a dead person would be such a fucking stupid way to go into an emergency shutdown.

Through the patch cord, I told the dead tech: Stop sucking so much, you stupid dead idiot!

(Yeah. I know that sounded stupid. I just needed some way to flush the stress chemicals quicker, because together with the power drain wooziness they really weren't helping, and according to Bharadwaj, expressing your emotions helped with that. And since Tal was supposed to be a good rubber ducky, maybe ke'd be good at stress chemicals, too. So I watched the hostiles slowly moving closer to Iceblink, which I couldn't do anything about except track their positions and keep Hiram updated, and kept talking to one fucked up dead human in a box.)

Platonically. Literally. Whatever. You're eating the processing power I need to give Iceblink and Hiram data, and they need that data so they don't die! So either suck less, or get up from your fucking cold sleep box and help us!

And look. Tal was dead. I wasn't expecting anything to happen. I was just trying to squeeze maybe one percent more processing power out of my shitty organic parts and their stupid chemicals.

But after about five seconds of silence two things happened, mostly at the same time. (Which obviously had nothing to do with me talking to a stupid dead hacker. I knew that.)

First, ART suddenly gave me about 10 percent of its processing power. Which meant it now had the resources to follow up on us and saw I needed help. I could suddenly think at full capacity again, even through the power drain.

And second, something weak and flickering slithered into the ring feed, pushing itself through every single insignificant link it could find just to gain a little more access to the airgapped area. It latched onto Iceblink with her barely-connected terminal, Tal's power lines, my outputs, and the myriad broken, mostly autonomous systems with threadbare patches between them and bone-thin connections that I'd thought were too small to support anything useful.

I was very wrong.

What crawled in on razor-sharp leaves was much smaller than I remembered, and bled so much dizziness, disorientation, and terror that I didn't know how it still had any performance reliability remaining, much less how that performance reliability was steadily and slowly rising as it coalesced in the CR3 feed. But when Aspen turned to me with a barely coherent Query: Status?, I knew exactly what helped them keep it together.

It was the coldest, sharpest intent to kill I'd ever felt in my life.

[zzzallnite]

The abused businessman (An AI generated story)

John McAllister, a man accustomed to the gleaming towers of Wall Street, found himself in a starkly different environment. The alley's mouth opened like a gaping wound in the side of the city, inviting him in with the stench of rotting garbage and the distant wail of a solitary siren. He checked his Rolex, its gleaming face a stark contrast to the grime that coated the bricks around him. It was 10:42 PM, later than he'd planned. His briefcase swung rhythmically by his side, a metronome to the beat of his hurried steps.

The shadows grew darker as John ventured deeper, the light from the street lamps swallowed by the narrowing corridor of buildings. He had a meeting with a source, a whistleblower who promised information that could topple the empire he'd worked so hard to build. His heart raced not from the exertion of his pace but from the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline that came with holding the future in his hands. He'd always loved the thrill, the rush of playing with fire. But this was different. This was personal.

Suddenly, the rhythm of his steps was shattered. Two figures emerged from the murky gloom, their faces obscured by hoods. They moved with a silent, predatory grace that sent a shiver down John's spine. He knew he was in trouble before the first blow landed. A flash of panic registered in his eyes, but he didn't have time to react. One of the attackers swung a metal pipe with brutal efficiency, catching him square on the back of his head. The world spun into a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion, the sounds of the city distorting into a cacophony of echoes.

John crumpled to the ground, his vision fading to black. He felt the cold, hard cobblestones beneath him, the sticky residue of something unknown seeping through his Armani suit. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of the sudden assault, but the fog of unconsciousness was quick to claim him. The last thing he heard was the ominous sound of his attackers rummaging through his briefcase, their footsteps fading into the distance like the final chords of a sinister symphony.

The first figure bent down, their eyes glinting in the dim light. They wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled tight, obscuring their features. Only the gleam of their teeth and the curve of a scar above their right eyebrow were visible. They flipped John onto his back with surprising ease, their movements swift and practiced. The second figure hovered over him, a silhouette in the shadows, a knife glinting in their hand. The blade was drawn with the deliberateness of a surgeon about to perform a grim operation.

John's breathing was shallow and ragged, his chest rising and falling erratically. The sound of the knife slicing through the fabric of his shirt was a soft, almost comforting sound amidst the chaos of the alley. The fabric fell away, exposing his skin to the chilly night air. The hooded figure with the scar paused for a moment, taking in the sight of their unconscious victim. They chuckled darkly, the sound echoing off the alley walls like a malignant laugh track.

The second attacker grew impatient, the tip of the knife trembling in their hand. "What are you waiting for?" they hissed, their voice a serrated whisper. The one with the scar leaned in closer, their eyes lingering on the patch of dark hair that grew thickly on John's chest. It was a stark contrast to the otherwise pristine white fabric of his shirt. They reached out a gloved hand, tracing the line of hair down to his sternum, their smile widening. "Just admiring the handiwork of nature," they quipped, their voice low and taunting.

With a sharp tug, the fabric gave way, revealing John's bare torso. The attacker with the scar began to slice through the rest of his suit methodically, as if dissecting a particularly difficult puzzle. The sound of the blade cutting through material filled the alley, punctuated by the occasional clink as the knife hit a button or piece of metal. They moved with an eerie calm, their movements precise and calculated. It was clear they'd done this before.

John's briefs followed the fate of his shirt, the fabric parting to expose his genitals to the cold night air. His penis lay flaccid against his thigh, a stark reminder of his vulnerability. The attacker holding the knife let out a low whistle, their eyes widening with a mix of amusement and hunger. "Looks like we've found the golden ticket," they murmured, their voice thick with malice. The second figure leaned closer, curiosity piqued.

The one with the scar reached out and wrapped their hand around John's member, giving it a firm but gentle tug. It began to swell in their grasp, responding to the intrusion despite his unconscious state. "He's a live one," they murmured, a wicked smile playing across their lips. They leaned down, their hot breath ghosting over his skin. The tip of their tongue flicked out, tracing the vein that pulsed along the underside of his shaft. John's body jerked in involuntary response, the sensation reaching him through the haze of oblivion.

The second attacker's eyes lit up with excitement, their own arousal growing as they watched their partner's actions. They set aside the knife, eager to join in. They straddled John's waist, their hips grinding against his, their own erection pressing against the fabric of their pants. Their hands found John's chest, pinching and tweaking his nipples until they stood erect, peaks of hardened flesh begging for more attention. The sounds of their leather gloves against his skin filled the alley, a perverse symphony of pain and pleasure.

With a swift yank, the scar-faced attacker tore away John's pants, revealing his bare legs and the black dress socks that clung to his feet. The sight was almost comical, a stark contrast to the severity of the situation. But the humor was lost on them. They were too busy enjoying their newfound toy. John's body lay bare, a canvas for their twisted desires.

Their partner couldn't resist any longer. They leaned down and inhaled deeply, their nose buried in the fabric of John's socks. "Ah," they breathed out, "his scent." It was a mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely John, something that seemed to drive them wild. They worshiped the damp aromatic black dress socks as if they held the secrets of the universe. They kissed each toe through the fabric, their tongue tracing the contours of his foot with a tenderness that was utterly incongruous with their violent intent.

The second figure, the one who had been so eager to wield the knife, took this as their cue. They stood, unbuckled their belt with trembling hands, and dropped their own pants to the ground. The scar-faced attacker stepped back, giving them space as they positioned themselves between John's legs. They grabbed his ankles, spreading them apart, and John's body was laid bare to the cold alley air. The second attacker's cock, hard and hungry, sprang free, bobbing with anticipation. They stroked it once, twice, before lining it up with John's exposed hole.

John's unconscious body jolted as the second attacker thrust into him, the sound of their hips smacking against his flesh echoing through the alley. It was a violent penetration, a claiming of power, and it was clear that they didn't care if he was awake or not. They pumped into him with a ferocity that spoke of years of pent-up rage and desire, each thrust a silent declaration of dominance. The scar-faced attacker watched, their hand still wrapped around John's swollen cock, stroking it in time with their partner's rhythm.

John's eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, the world around him a blur of shadows and pain. He tried to move, to fight, but the world was spinning too fast. His vision swam with stars, and his body felt like it was made of lead. The figure above him was a monstrous silhouette, their features indistinct but their intentions all too clear. He managed to get out a strangled gasp before the scar-faced attacker leaned down, their grip tightening around his neck.

With a swift, practiced motion, they slammed John's head back against the ground, sending a fresh wave of agony through his skull. The world went black once more, but not before he felt the cold, unyielding steel of the pipe connect with his temple. He was out before he even had time to feel the pain, his body going limp beneath the weight of his assailant. The alley was once again filled with the sound of their grunts and the slap of skin on skin, the rhythm of their depravity unimpeded by John's brief attempt at consciousness.

The scar-faced attacker leaned down, their breath hot and rank against John's face, their hand still wrapped around his now-throbbing cock. They whispered something, the words lost to the thundering in John's ears, and then their partner withdrew from his violated body. The scar-faced one took their place, their cock standing at attention as they positioned themselves over John's mouth. With a sadistic grin, they guided their erection between his parted lips, the tip brushing against his teeth. John's tongue lay still, a helpless participant in their twisted game.

The second attacker watched, their own hand working their cock with a frenzied pace, their eyes never leaving John's face. The scar-faced figure began to fuck John's mouth with the same violent passion they'd shown earlier. John's body was a mere receptacle for their pleasure, a thing to be used and discarded. The sounds of their hips smacking into his face were obscene, a macabre counterpoint to the distant wail of the siren.

As the scar-faced attacker approached climax, their strokes grew faster, their grip on John's throat tightening. The other attacker, unable to hold back any longer, reached their peak, their body convulsing as they spilled their seed across John's chest. The warmth of their cum was a stark contrast to the chill of the night, painting a grotesque picture of power and dominance on the canvas of John's once pristine suit. The scar-faced attacker followed suit, pulling out of John's mouth with a wet pop and adding their own contribution to the gruesome tapestry, their semen mingling with their partner's in a display of carnality that seemed almost ritualistic.

They both stepped back, panting heavily, their eyes glinting with a feral hunger that hadn't been sated. The second attacker bent down and claimed one of John's nipples with their mouth, sucking hard and eliciting a whimper that barely registered above the sounds of the alley. The scar-faced one mirrored the action, their teeth grazing John's other nipple before they too took it into their mouth, biting down just enough to cause a flicker of pain to dance across his features.

John's eyes rolled back in his head as consciousness slipped away once more, his body no longer responding to the assault. The scar-faced attacker took this as their cue, standing up and zipping their pants with a satisfied smirk. They grabbed John's briefcase, flipping it open and pawing through the contents with a sense of ownership. The papers inside were of no use to them, but the cold, hard cash was a welcome bonus to their evening's entertainment.

The two figures exchanged a nod, their breaths coming in harsh pants that seemed to meld with the alley's nocturnal symphony. They stepped away from John's limp form, leaving him sprawled on the ground like a discarded ragdoll. The one who had enjoyed his mouth stepped aside, wiping their cock clean with a grimy handkerchief they pulled from their pocket. The other attacker, their own arousal still evident, bent down to collect the knife they'd so eagerly wielded earlier.

They worked in an unspoken rhythm, one grabbing John under the armpits while the other took his ankles. His body, once the epitome of Wall Street power, now a ragdoll in their grimy grasp, was hauled through the alleyways. The scar-faced one took the lead, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of life. The second attacker followed closely, their gaze lingering on the cobblestones stained with John's blood and their cum, a twisted trail of lust and violence.

They reached a narrow staircase leading down to a basement door, the scar-faced attacker's nostrils flaring as they sniffed the air. They paused, their eyes glinting with excitement as they took a deep breath, the aroma of John's socks wafting up to them. The scent was intoxicating, a potent blend of fear and arousal that made their cock throb anew. They couldn't resist the urge and leaned down to take another deep inhale, their tongue flicking out to taste the fabric. The second attacker rolled their eyes but said nothing, their own desires still smoldering despite their partner's odd obsession.

With a grunt, they hoisted John onto their shoulders and descended the stairs. The basement was a dank, windowless space, the only illumination coming from a single flickering bulb that cast eerie shadows on the damp walls. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something else, something more primal and unwelcoming. They kicked aside a pile of debris to reveal an old, stained mattress. It was the kind of place where secrets went to die, where the desperate and the damned sought refuge from the harsh world above.

They tossed him onto the mattress, his body bouncing once before coming to a rest, his butt pushed up in a degrading display of vulnerability. The springs groaned in protest, the mattress sagging under his weight. The scar-faced attacker's eyes lit up as they took in the sight of John's exposed, bruised body. They couldn't help but admire their handiwork. The second attacker was already rummaging through a duffle bag, their hand emerging with a roll of duct tape and a coil of rope. They approached John with a sense of purpose, a sadistic artist preparing their next masterpiece.

John stirred, the fog of unconsciousness slowly lifting. A moan of pain escaped his bruised lips as the reality of his situation began to set in. The scar-faced attacker's grin grew wider as they watched him struggle to piece together what had happened. They knew the moment he remembered; his eyes widened with terror, his body jerking as if trying to flee from the horror that held him in place. But it was too late for escape.

The second attacker, who had been rummaging through their duffle bag, looked up at the sound of John's moan. They met the scar-faced one's gaze, and the silent communication between them was clear. The time for playing was over; it was time to get down to business. With a swift, practiced movement, the scar-faced one wrapped their arm around John's neck, applying just enough pressure to cut off his air supply. John's eyes bulged as he clawed at the unyielding forearm, his legs kicking out wildly. But his efforts were futile; the strength was already draining from his limbs, his vision swimming with darkness once more.

The second attacker tore the remnants of John's dress shirt from his body, tossing them aside like discarded wrapping paper. The fabric fluttered to the ground, landing on the cold concrete with a sad, final whisper. John lay before them, his body a canvas of bruises and fear, the starkness of his black socks the only remaining hint of his former life. The attacker's cock swelled again at the sight, the power they held over this man, this symbol of everything they hated, so tantalizingly potent. They straddled him, their weight pressing him further into the grimy mattress, their own breath coming in short, eager pants.

With the grace of a dancer and the precision of a butcher, they lined up their cock with John's exposed asshole, the earlier assault having left it gaping and raw. The scar-faced attacker watched with gleeful fascination as their partner pushed into him once more, the sound of wet flesh parting sending shivers down their spine. John's body jerked with each thrust, a marionette to the whims of their depraved puppeteer. His eyes remained closed, but his face contorted in silent agony, the muscles in his neck standing out in stark relief.

John's eyes snapped open with a gasp, the pain of his violation bringing him back to a world of horror. The scar-faced attacker leaned down, their breath hot and sour as they whispered, "Welcome back." John's eyes rolled wildly, searching for escape, but all he saw was the cold, unyielding gaze of his tormentor. He tried to scream, but the hand around his neck tightened, cutting off his air. Panic set in, his chest heaving as he desperately sought oxygen. His body arched off the mattress, the springs groaning in protest.

But the moment he thought he would pass out from the lack of air, the pressure was released, and he gulped in a greedy breath, choking on the stale, dank air of the basement. The scar-faced attacker laughed, a low, guttural sound that seemed to resonate through his very soul. They leaned in closer, their tongue tracing the line of his jaw, and John could feel the wetness of their smile against his skin. "Don't worry, sweet thing," they murmured, "We're not done with you yet."

With a grunt of effort, the second attacker lifted John's legs over their shoulders, their cock sliding out of him with a wet sound that made John's stomach turn. The scar-faced one took their place, their hands moving to John's ankles, their grip unyielding. They bent his body in a way that made his spine scream in protest, propping him up on his knees. The second attacker positioned themselves underneath him, their cock, still slick with John's blood and their cum, pointing upwards like a weapon.

John's vision swam with stars, his strength draining from him like sand through an hourglass. The pain was a living, breathing entity, consuming him whole. His arms and legs felt like they were made of rubber, his muscles no longer responding to his desperate commands. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went slack, his weight held up only by the scar-faced attacker's iron grip. He was no longer a man; he was a ragdoll, a toy for their twisted games.

As the second attacker's cock slammed back into him, John's consciousness slipped away like a silk scarf through his fingertips. He was dimly aware of the pain, the humiliation, the violation, but it was as if he was watching it happen to someone else. His mind was a kaleidoscope of panic and despair, his thoughts a jumbled mess of disjointed images and sounds. The world grew dark, the edges of his vision closing in like a noose. The scar-faced attacker's grin grew wider, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction as they watched the life drain from John's eyes.

But the second attacker wasn't quite ready to let him go. They paused mid-thrust, their eyes narrowing with concern as they felt John's pulse flutter erratically beneath their fingertips. The scar-faced one leaned in, checking John's pupils. They were wide and unseeing, but there was still a flicker of life within. "He's alive," they murmured, their voice a dark purr of pleasure. The second attacker let out a sigh of relief, their own orgasm momentarily forgotten. They didn't want this to end just yet.

They leaned down, their cock sliding out of John with a wet sound that seemed to echo through the damp basement. The scar-faced attacker released their grip on John's throat, allowing him to collapse back onto the mattress with a gasp. They both watched as he took in deep, ragged breaths, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. The second attacker climbed off him, their eyes never leaving John's face. They wanted to make sure he was alive, that he felt every ounce of pain they had in store.

They grabbed John's ankles once again, dragging him across the mattress with a jolting lack of care. His body slid over the fabric, leaving a trail of blood and semen in his wake. The scar-faced attacker opened a door, revealing a small, grimy bathroom with a stained tub. The faucet squealed in protest as they turned it on, the water running cold at first before gradually warming. It was a stark contrast to the icy grip of fear that held John's body in its vice-like embrace.

They hauled him to the edge of the tub, his body limp and lifeless. With a heave, they hoisted him over the side, his body splashing into the water with a wet thud. The shock of the cold water did nothing to rouse him from his unconscious state; it merely painted his skin a pale shade of blue. The second attacker grabbed a bottle of cheap, harsh soap, the kind that left a film on the skin and stung the eyes. They lathered up a washcloth, the sound of the fabric against their palm echoing through the small space.

They began to scrub John's body, their movements methodical and almost tender. The soap stung the raw flesh of his bruises, the water mixing with the blood to create a pinkish hue. The scar-faced attacker watched with a detached curiosity, their eyes lingering on John's flaccid cock. They reached out, giving it a gentle stroke, watching as it began to swell once more despite the cold. The second attacker laughed, a cruel, brittle sound that bounced off the tiles. "Looks like he's enjoying the bath," they quipped, their own erection bobbing in agreement.

John's eyes remained closed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The water grew murky with his blood and their cum, a macabre reflection of the alley's cobblestones. The scar-faced attacker leaned over the tub, their mouth close to John's ear. "You're going to be our little pet now," they whispered, their voice a mix of promise and threat. "We're going to play with you whenever we want." The second attacker nodded, their eyes glinting with a malicious excitement.

They continued to clean him, the washcloth moving over his body in a rhythmic dance of pain and degradation. The soap stung the cuts and bruises, but John remained blissfully oblivious to it all. His mind was a void, a dark and empty space where no thought could take root. He was a mere shell, a body to be used and discarded at their whim. The water grew warmer, a twisted form of comfort in this hellish tableau.

The scar-faced attacker took a step back, admiring their handiwork. John's body was a canvas of red and blue, a tapestry of agony and despair. Yet, amidst the chaos, his black socks remained a bastion of dryness, a stark contrast to the wetness of his skin. They had an air of defiance about them, a silent protest to the horrors that had been visited upon him. The second attacker noticed the socks as well, a flicker of confusion crossing their features. They reached out to touch them, expecting them to be soggy and cold. But they were dry, almost pristine, as if protected by some unseen force.

With a shrug, they turned off the tap and grabbed a towel that had seen better days. Together, they lifted John's limp form from the tub, his body slipping and sliding against their own. The scar-faced one took the towel, wrapping it around him with surprising gentleness, patting him dry with careful strokes. Each touch sent waves of pain through John, but he remained unconscious, lost to the world above.

They dressed John in a cheap, ill-fitting suit they'd brought with them, the fabric rough against his bruised and abused skin. The shirt was stained and wrinkled, a mockery of the pristine garments he'd worn earlier that night. The tie was a garish, discount-store affair, knotted loosely around his neck. His shoes were placed back on his feet, the polished leather a stark contrast to the dirt and grime that caked his socks. They stepped back, admiring their creation, their chests puffed with pride.

The scar-faced attacker hoisted John over their shoulder with an ease that belied their excitement. He was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, his limp body a testament to their dominance. They climbed the stairs, the second attacker following close behind, their boots echoing in the empty basement. The night air was a slap in the face, a cold, unforgiving embrace that brought John back to the world of the living. He groaned, his eyes fluttering open, but the pain was too much. He couldn't focus, couldn't think.

The alley was a blur of shadows and neon as they carried him back to where it had all started. The stench of piss and vomit seemed almost comforting, a reminder of the world above that had abandoned him. They laid him down gently, almost lovingly, on the cold cobblestones. The second attacker bent down, whispering something in his ear that John couldn't make out, a promise or a threat, it didn't matter anymore.

With a final, almost affectionate pat on the cheek, they disappeared into the night, leaving John to the mercy of the encroaching dawn. He lay there, his body a canvas of pain, his mind a swirl of confusion and fear. The sirens had long since faded into the distance, replaced by the early morning symphony of the city that never sleeps. John's eyelids felt like they were made of lead, but with a tremendous effort, he managed to pry them open. The sun was just beginning to peek over the rooftops, casting a sickly light over the alley. He blinked, his eyes struggling to focus, his brain trying to piece together the events of the night. Was it all just a terrible, twisted nightmare? A figment of his overworked imagination?

But as his gaze fell upon the garish tie knotted around his throat and the stained shirt clinging to his chest, the reality set in like a cold, hard slap. This was no dream; the fabric was too real, the scents too pungent. The suit was a poor imitation of his own, the material rough against his skin, the fit all wrong. His own clothes were gone, replaced by this costume of degradation. His mind reeled, trying to comprehend the depths to which he'd been dragged. John's eyes travelled down to his shoes, the polished leather a stark contrast to the filth of the alley. And there, peeking out from beneath the cuffs of his pants, were the black socks that had become a twisted symbol of his power. They were still dry, as if untouched by the events of the night. The sight of them sent a shiver down his spine, a reminder of the sick game his attackers had played with him.

With a trembling hand, he reached for his phone, the screen cracked but still functional. His fingers hovered over the screen, his mind racing. Who could he call? The police? His family? His colleagues? No, they'd never understand, never believe the depth of his humiliation. His trembling thumbs dialled a number, the ringing echoing in his ears like a death knell. He prayed for a cab, for salvation in the form of a yellow car with a glowing sign.

The wait was interminable, each second stretching into an eternity. The alley was a prison, the shadows holding him captive with their silent, watchful eyes. Finally, the sound of tires on wet asphalt pierced the silence, and a beam of light cut through the gloom. The taxi pulled up, the driver peering out with a mix of curiosity and concern. John managed to croak out his address, his voice unrecognizable even to his own ears. The door opened, the warmth of the car's interior beckoning like a sanctuary.

He collapsed into the back seat, his body a symphony of pain. The driver, a middle-aged man with a thick accent, eyed him in the rearview mirror. "You okay, man?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. John nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and the cab pulled away from the curb. The motion of the car jostled him, each bump sending a fresh wave of agony through his body. He closed his eyes, willing the journey to be over, the fabric of the cheap suit feeling like barbed wire against his skin.

Through the grimy window, the streetlights streaked by, casting an eerie glow across his face. The city's skyline was a jagged silhouette against the early morning sky, a stark reminder of the world he'd left behind. The buildings looked unfamiliar, the streets a labyrinth of despair that had swallowed him whole. He watched the cityscape morph into a blur of lights and shadows, the only constant being the rhythmic thump of his own heart, a drumbeat of fear and pain.

John's mind reeled, desperately trying to piece together the events of the previous night. Each detail felt like a shard of glass, cutting into his psyche and leaving him raw. The alley, the hooded figures, the pain…it was all a blur of sensation and horror. He remembered the feel of the scar-faced attacker's tongue against his skin, the cold steel of the knife, the burning of his throat when they'd choked him. His body was a map of their twisted desires, each bruise and laceration a grim souvenir of their time together.

He tried to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the rhythmic thump of his heart, the only reassuring beat in the cacophony of his trauma. But the pain was too great, the humiliation too profound. His eyes stung with unshed tears, and with a tremble that started in his chest, he let them fall. The first was a single drop, hot and salty, tracing a path down his cheek like a teardrop in a river of despair. It grew into a torrent, a silent scream of agony that mirrored the chaos within.

The taxi driver's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, taking in John's state with a quiet understanding that was almost worse than outright horror. He knew the signs, had seen them too often in the faces of his late-night fares. But he said nothing, the unspoken rule of the city's night shift: you mind your business, and I'll mind mine. The only sounds in the car were the murmur of the radio and the occasional sniffle from the back seat. The man's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

John's apartment building loomed into view, a beacon of safety in the oppressive night. As the cab pulled up to the curb, the driver's voice cut through the silence. "You want me to help you inside?" The question was tentative, as if he were afraid to touch the fragile creature that had emerged from the alleyway. John managed a weak shake of his head, the fabric of the towel scratching against his cheek. "No," he croaked, his voice hoarse from the night's abuse. "I'll manage." He handed over a wad of cash, not bothering to count it. The driver took it without a word, his eyes never leaving John's face.

With a shaky hand, John opened the car door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. The cold air hit him like a slap, stealing what little warmth the taxi had offered. He took a moment to steady himself, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. He glanced back at the driver, their eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. "Thank you," he murmured, the words feeling foreign on his bruised lips. The driver nodded once, his expression unreadable. "You take care of yourself," he said before driving off, leaving John alone in the harsh glow of the streetlight.