#Computer Network Technician

[k12academics]

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Support Computer Science Education: Technician/Senior Technician Opportunity at NUST! - March 2025

The National University of Science and Technology (NUST) is seeking a skilled and versatile Technician/Senior Technician to join their Department of Computer Science! If you’re passionate about providing technical support in a computer science environment, and have experience in software development, network administration, and desktop support, this is an excellent opportunity. About the…

[catboybiologist]

Alright I can't finish this all in one sitting, but here's at least a bit of.... something? A word vomit? A prelude to smut about the eroticism of the machine? For all you robot, mecha, and spaceship fuckers out there. @k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl that means you

Pappy always said that manufacturing biological transportation was nothing knew. I mean, shit, humanity's been breeding horses for how long? To him, not much was novel about what was going on in the shipyards way out by Neptune when I was a kid.

But Pappy didn't know a lot of things. And he certainly didn't meet Roseanna.

The Federation Navy had experimented with biologics for decades. The idea was to create self regenerating ships- something to interface with the hull, move the new titanium plates and particulates into place, have a living, growing mass interfacing with the steel so that the ship didn't have to head all the way back to the yards to patch up after every dogfight.

The first generation... worked. With a full time crew, that is. Full time people on deck jabbin the rigid, chitonous interface with the hull full of growth hormones to get them to set just right. Full time onboard bioengineers to compute what signaling cocktail ya need to hit 'em with to get it to grow back right. Skilled onboard technicians to shave back the chitin when it tried to overgrow the titanium, and slap some new cells in to seed the process in heavily damaged areas. Less input material, less time in the yards, but far more manpower. Great for a Federation cruiser on deep space peacekeeping missions. Far too complex for small craft. Right?

Until some bastard put brains in 'em.

Well. A lotta suits would say that they weren't brains. They were a diffuse network of sensory neurons and ganglia, living inside the body of the ship, integrating signals from a skin of alloyed metal and fibrous protein, calculating power draw too and from various components, and integrating with the mechanical and electrical components of the ship to precisely manage the "wound healing" process of the vessel. And of course, it just so happened that one of those ganglia was larger and more complex than the rest of them, and it just so happened that the computer interfaces with this ganglia exhibit complex, thinking behaviors on the level of human cognition, and it just so happens that most pilots and navigators reported them developing their own personalities.....

But of course, the Navy didn't want anyone to have some kind of pesky empathy in the way of their operations. And they certainly didn't want anyone side eyeing the rate at which they disposed of the damn things, and let them suffer and rot after disposal. So as far as the official record was concerned, they didn't have brains.

Like most people in the belt, I found Rosie on a... unsponsored field trip to the Neptune scrap yards. She wasn't a ship then. She wasn't much of anything. Not much more than a vat with the central ganglia and just barely enough of the stem cells needed to regrow a network. But I took her all the same. Brains were valuable. Few pilots outside the Navy had them back then. Nowadays, a black market for "brain seeds", a cocktail of neuronal stem cells and enough structural stem cells to grow your own into the chassis of your ship. They were pumpin' em out, and leaving them to die. It was cruel. They may be vehicles, but they're a livin' being too.

But I digress. I'd never do that to Roseanna. I make sure she gets proper care. And for a good, proper, working ship? That includes some good, proper work.

The asteroid we were docked in was one of my usuals- good bars, nice temp quarters, nice views of the rock's orbiting twin, and a spacious hanger for Rosie to rest in. The chasiss I had imprinted Roseanna to was a 40-meter light skipper, with some adjustments for handling deep space trips. It was pretty much the smallest thing you could actually use to live and work for long periods of time, but it got the job done. The angular design made the entire ship look like a wedge, or the blade of a bulky dagger. It didn't hurt that each bottom edge was fortified with a sharpened titanium blade, turning the entire sides of the ship into axe-like rams.

Those would probably come in handy today.

I approached Roseanna on the catwalk above her, marveling her alloyed scales. I could almost see her shudder in anticipation as my footsteps vibrated through the air above her. I took the steps down, and hit the trigger to open her top hatch.

When the news got out of the Navy scuffling with a rebelling mining station, an electric air raced across the station. Some went about their day as normal. Some resigned themselves to picking at the leftovers after the dust had settled. And some, like me, knew that they could get the finest pickings.

I strapped in to the pilot's seat like it was an old boot.

"Welcome, Captain Victoria."

Rosie could talk, but more often than not, she chose not to. But she understood me just fine. Most of our communication took place using her three prerecorded lines- her welcome statement, affirmative, and negative- as well as the tiny screen showing a small, emoticon face. Many pilots chose to give their ships an elaborate render, but Rosie preferred it this way. It was the first face I gave her, from somewhere out of the scrap heaps, and she refused any offer I made to upgrade. Secretly, I was overjoyed. To me, that was her face. That was her voice. And it was beautiful to see her true self through them.

I brushed my hands across her paneling. Across the switches, the hydraulic controls for the plasma fuel, the steering, the boosts, the comms channels. The thing with biologics was that you were still the pilot. For whatever reason, they hadn't quite gotten to the point where the brains could take over their own piloting. My personal opinion was just that their personalities lacked the ambition to. But whatever reason that was, the best pilots were still the ones that knew both their ship, and the ship's brain. And me and Rosie? We knew each other well.

As my fingers touched the brushed aluminum controls, rimmed with chitinous layers rooting them into the ship, I could feel the walls around me holding their invisible breath. "Do you know what we're doing today, Rosie?"

Her tiny panel flickered on. ...?

"We got a scrap run."

^_^

:)

^_^

Her panel flicked between various expressions of excitement. My finger quivered on the main power, holding for a moment before flicking it on. The primary electronics of the ship hummed to life, and what Rosie controlled pulsed with it. My hands moved across the main functional panels- main hydraulic plasma valve, exhaust ports open, and finally, flicking the switch the start the plasma burner.

My hands gripped the steering. The hanger's airlock doors opened in front of me. My neck length hair started to float as the station's gravity shut off. I hit the switch to unlatch from the supports above. For a moment, we hang there. The dull crackle of the idling plasma burner is the only sound that resonates through Rosie's hull.

Go time.

I punch the boost.

[hi-sierra]

Biologics, chapter 0.5

Hello, hello! I finally have added a significant amount to my story, Biologics, resulting in a total of ~4400 words. Not a whole ton, I know, but unfortunately life gets to ya. It isn't quite where I want it to be to consider a proper chapter one, but I feel like there's enough written for me to post. General warning that this is intended to heavily lean into the theme of "eroticism of the machine", so if that doesn't appeal to you, you've been warned. It does, however, have many general sci fi worldbuilding elements, so I hope it has a somewhat broad appeal!

So yes, if you already read the first snippet, that's going to be mostly a one to one repeat with some grammatical adjustments. Feel free to scroll down until you get to the new stuff. Flow-wise, there just wasn't a good place to break between the two sections.

Look at me rambling. And I wonder why I can't get any of this stuff done. Anyways, here it is!

Biologics

Pappy always said that manufacturing biological transportation was nothing knew. I mean, shit, humanity's been breeding horses for how long? To him, not much was novel about what was going on in the shipyards way out by Neptune when I was a kid.

But Pappy didn't know a lot of things. And he certainly didn't meet Roseanna.

The Federation Navy had experimented with Biologics for decades. The idea was to create self regenerating ships- organic matter that interfaced with the hull, moving new titanium plates and patches into place down to microscopic precision. If you had a living, growing mass interfacing with steel, a ship didn't have to head all the way back to the yards to patch up after every dogfight.

The first generation... worked. With a full time crew, that is. Full time people on deck jabbin the rigid, chitonous matrix full of growth hormones to get them to set just right. Full time onboard bioengineers to compute what signaling cocktail ya need to hit 'em with to get it to grow back right. Skilled onboard technicians to shave back the chitin when it tried to overgrow the titanium, and slap some new cells in to seed the process in heavily damaged areas. Less input material, less time in the yards, but far more manpower. Great for a Federation cruiser on deep space peacekeeping missions. Far too complex for small craft. Right?

Until some bastard put brains in 'em.

Well. A lotta suits would say that they weren't brains. They were a diffuse network of sensory neurons and ganglia, living inside the body of the ship, integrating signals from a skin of alloyed metal and fibrous protein, calculating power draw too and from various components, integrated with the mechanical and electrical components of the ship to precisely manage the "wound healing" process of the vessel. And of course, it just so happened that one of those ganglia was larger and more complex than the rest of them, and it just so happened that the computer interfaces with this ganglia exhibit complex, thinking behaviors on the level of human cognition, and it just so happens that most pilots and navigators reported them developing their own personalities.....

But of course, the Navy didn't want anyone to have some kind of pesky empathy in the way of their operations. And they certainly didn't want anyone side eyeing the rate at which they disposed of the damn things, just to let them suffer and rot. So as far as the official record was concerned, they weren't brains. But I knew different.

Like most people in the belt, I found Rosie on an... unsponsored field trip to the Neptune scrap yards. She wasn't a ship then. She wasn't much of anything. Not much more than a vat with the central ganglia and just barely enough of the stem cells needed to regrow a network. But I took her all the same. Brains were valuable. Few pilots outside the Navy had them back then. Nowadays, a black market for "brain seeds", a cocktail of neuronal stem cells and enough structural stem cells to grow your own into the chassis of your ship, was thriving. The Navy was pumpin' em out, and leaving them to die. It was cruel. Sometimes, being scavenged and resold was a kinder fate. But more often, some nasty piece of work would pick them up eventually, and treat them like just another goddamn ship. They may be vehicles, but they're a livin' being too.

I digress. I'd never do that to Roseanna. I make sure she gets proper care. And for a good, proper, working ship? That includes some good, proper work.

The asteroid we were docked in was one of my usuals- good bars, nice temp quarters, nice views of the rock's orbiting twin, and a spacious hanger for Rosie to rest in. The chassis I had imprinted Roseanna to was a 40-meter light skipper, with some adjustments for handling deep space trips, as well as some... personal touches. It was pretty much the smallest thing you could actually use to live in and work for long periods of time, but it got the job done. The angular design made the entire ship look like a wedge, or the blade of a bulky dagger. It didn't hurt that each bottom edge was fortified with a sharpened titanium blade, turning the entire sides of the ship into axe-like rams.

Those would probably come in handy today.

I approached Roseanna on the catwalk above her, marveling her alloyed scales. I could almost see her shudder in anticipation as my footsteps vibrated through the air above her. I took the steps down, and hit the trigger to open her top hatch.

When the news got out of the Navy scuffling with a rebelling mining station, an electric air raced across the station. Some went about their day as normal. Some resigned themselves to picking at the leftovers after the dust had settled. And some, like me, knew that they could get the finest pickings.

I slipped into the pilot's seat like it was an old boot.

"Welcome, Captain Victoria."

Rosie could talk, but more often than not, she chose not to. But she understood me just fine. Most of our communication took place using her three prerecorded lines- her welcome statement, affirmative, and negative- as well as a tiny screen showing a small, emoticon face. Many pilots chose to give their ships an elaborate render, but Rosie preferred it this way. It was the first face I gave her, from somewhere out of the scrap heaps, and she refused any offer I made to upgrade. Hell, she even had a hi-res screen for external cameras and comms, but she refused to interface directly with it. Secretly, I was overjoyed. To me, the little pixelated screen was her face. That was her voice. And it was beautiful to see her true self through them.

I brushed my hands across her paneling. Across the switches, the hydraulic controls for the plasma fuel, the steering, the boosts, the comms channels. The thing with Biologics was that you were still the pilot. For whatever reason, they hadn't quite gotten to the point where the brains could take over their own piloting. My personal opinion was just that their personalities lacked the ambition to. Cuz they certainly could take over some ships functions directly, and had the skill to do complex mechanical and electrical tasks. The Navy never let 'em drive, though, and most pilots didn't even know they could give them the ability to control any of the ships functions directly. But with a little help, a little bit of solid engineering, and a pilot that knew their ship... well, you could do a lot. And me and Rosie? We knew each other well. Over the years, I'd added some nice things for her, and she loved using them to help me out.

As my fingers touched the brushed aluminum controls, rimmed with chitinous layers affixing them to the ship, I could feel the walls around me holding their invisible breath. "Do you know what we're doing today, Rosie?"

Her tiny panel flickered on.

[...?]

"We got a scrap run."

[ ^_^]

[ :) ]

[ ^_^ ]

Her panel flicked between various expressions of excitement. My finger quivered on the main power, holding for a moment before flicking it on. The primary electronics of the ship hummed to life, and the parts Rosie controlled pulsed with it. My hands moved across the main functional panels- main hydraulic plasma valve, exhaust ports open, and finally, flicking the switch the start the plasma burner.

My hands gripped the steering. The hanger's airlock doors opened in front of me. My neck length hair started to float as the station's gravity shut off. I hit the switch to unlatch from the supports above. For a moment, we hang there. The dull crackle of the idling plasma burner is the only sound that resonates through Rosie's hull.

Go time. I punch the boost.

The station shakes. Rosie was never a subtle one.

The mechanics are deafened.

The crowd of spectators are deafened.

The other pilots in the hanger are deafened.

But me? The vibrations of Rosie's hull shuddering under me was the sweetest symphony my ears ever had the pleasure of hearing. As we shot out of that hanger, I found myself involuntarily humming a high note, harmonizing with the sweet rumble of my baby's acceleration as we shoot out into the inky, black expanse of space. The twin asteroids shot by us as we disappeared, leaving only the faint blue plasma trail from our engines.

My hand is firm on the boost, weathered hands tightly gripping the bar of the accelerator. I remember installing this thing in her- it was an aftermarket adjustment, not included in the usual light skipper chassis. Gently stripping away the back of her chassis, caressing her insides as I rooted the paneling, firmly attaching the tanks and burners on her insides... these hands had taken great pleasure in that. Bested only, of course, by the first time I had felt the thing roar to life.

And what a feeling it was. Rosie's entire chassis, biological and mechanical, shuddering under my grasp. The grip of my calloused hands on the boost controls, tight and sweaty around the ridged grip of the horizontal bar. The noises she made, as if to shout in glee and wild abandon at being unchained and let loose into the eternal field of space, as she was made to do. The gentle touch of her skin on my back, my body pressed in contact with the small fraction of hers that was my seat. I glanced down at her face panel.

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

My humming gave way to a chuckle, and then a wholehearted, exhilarated laugh. Someone was enjoying herself. The flickering faces on her panel reminded me of the happily panting station dogs back on Mars.

But as much as I would like this to just be a joyride, I had promised Rosie a scrap run. And the pickings were looking good. I glanced down at the nav. I was intentionally headed at a slightly indirect angle- Rosie's boost was her main attractive feature (both as a ship, and as a working partner), and the extra leeway I had in travel time let me strategize a bit more. I doubted we would be the first people there, but I figured we could get in before the main rush. The only trouble was darting in and grabbing something right from under the noses of the first locusts. The scrap field in question included a disabled heavy mining freighter, a goliath of the ship larger than some of the asteroids it made supply runs between. I assumed that most other scavengers would be approaching directly from our station, and the other stations in its proximity. With Rosie's boost, we could overshoot, hook around, and put the freighter in between us and the guns of the more violent craft. Rosie has no long range weapons of any kind- not only would they slow down her miraculous speed, but she didn't like them. I tried installing a small plasma cannon once, and she expressed immense distaste. Maybe they were too brutish for her, or maybe she didn't like the way they felt inside her, burdening her with pressure from the inside that didn't befit the delicate touches I usually graced her with. Rosie loved speed, precision, elegance, and stealth above all else. It's just the kind of ship she was.

That's not to say she was a pacifist, or defenseless. Quite the contrary. She just prefers a more... personal touch.

The navicom beeped at me. We'd reached the point where we needed to make that hook. My bare feet gently swept across the titanium flooring to the steering pedals. My right hand delicately gripped the steering joystick, while my left eased its grip on the boost accelerator.

"Ready for this, darling?"

[ >:) ]

I slammed the steering to the left, and Rosie gleefully complied. The wide bank of the turn as we rotated and soared through the sea of stars twisted my body in its inertia, compressing me further into her. As the angle straightened out to the proper heading, I punched the boost again, and Rosie roared forward.

Slowly, our target came into sight. Damn. This thing had taken some serious damage. Mining freighters typically weren't heavily armored- their only job was to get material from point A to B- but this one had clearly been through some serious modifications. Modifications that now lay in ruin. Titanium plating was scattered in a field around the core of the freighter. I couldn't quite tell what was stuff left behind by the battle, and what was the result of shoddy craftmanship- but it didn't matter. What did matter was that the entire thing had been split almost in half, and the scattered cargo that was leaking out. Cargo that most likely included half the weapon supplies of this little rebel faction. Would fetch a pretty penny, to the right buyer. And hell, if it was just gonna sit here unclaimed...

Ah shit. It wasn't gonna sit here unclaimed. Despite my best efforts, it looks like we weren't the first ones here. A larger scavenger gang had already arrived, and it looks like it was one of the ones I knew- Augustus and his lot. Most likely, they'd be after the weapons intact, one more thing to use to shakedown the scattered independent stations I always flitted between. He would not be happy to see me n Rosie here. What he called his "fleet" was a single, mid-sized carrier ship, about half the size of the freighter we were looting, and the dozen or so scout fighters and strip mining crafts he had looted from the Navy and various corps, and one Biologic that he called his. I respect that part, to be honest. What I don't respect is him immediately turning around and using that charge every goddamn station his ever-increasing "protection fees". Not to mention my personal disdain for the way he treated his ship. Didn't even give her a damn name. I digress. But any chance to loot something from under that slimebag's nose was a win in my book. I knew he wasn't gonna make it easy, though.

Welp. That's what our positioning was for. The side facing us was the main starboard face, and like the rest of the ship, it was peppered in small holes and gashes. Seems like the main damage had happened from the other side, and a few cables and scaffolds on the starboard just barely kept the two rear cargo compartments clinging to the front.

"Alright Rosie, time to creep it in slow. Be quiet, now, don't want them picking up a plasma surge"

[ :| ]

Ha. That was her "my lips are sealed" face. She's having fun with this already.

I cut the booster, coasting closer and closer to the bust open vessel. I eased the reverse thrusters ever so slightly, my fingers gently stroking the dual brake levers, lightly teasing at them to wait until we were as close as I thought we could be without attracted attention.......... before slamming both sides back towards me. For just one, crucial moment.

The goal here was to approximately match the speed and trajectory of a floating piece of titanium plating. Rosie's frontal blades were essentially that, anyways, so all they would see is a somewhat more angular piece of rubble. Hopefully they hadn't seen that same piece of rubble screaming out of travel speed, but I was cautious enough with my distances that I didn't think that was a problem. And they hadn't seen me yet. Once we were close enough to the freighter itself, we were blocked from their raw sightline, and Rosie was running quiet enough to not tip off any of their energy sensors.

But there was still no guarantee. Rosie, however, had no shortage of tricks. Something that she and I had developed together was a nice little bit of snooping. Well cared for and well trained, a Biologic brain had the problem solving of a human, and the computational power of a machine. But them together, and you've got a perfect decoder. And I happened to know that Augustus used an encrypted local frequency to keep his

"Alright Rosie, thinkin you can eavesdrop a little?"

Affirmative.

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[..!]

:D

My comms crackled to life. "...7 heavy cannons in center-front portside bay, 3 replacement fighter hatchs...."

The comms crackled back and forth, with each pilot giving updates to what they were finding in their own little segment that they were slicing apart. Occasionally, I saw Augustus or the fighters flick between the slicing ships, overseeing their progress on the port bays. Good. Let them focus on the other side for now. Slowly, the fleet was overshadowed by the freighter. We made it. I released my breath- shit, didn't realize I was holding it- and took a better look at what we were dealing with. It looked as if the scattered debris field had mostly been the remnants of the hull, as well as light weapons for small craft and even infantry. They would fetch some small change, sure, but Rosie's cargo capacity was small. Packing efficiency was the name of the game. I saw the gash that it had all been flooding out of on this side- the entire freighter was covered in them- and peered inside. And ho boy, did my heart flutter.

Heavy cannons.

Jump-graded travel boosters.

Raw, precious metals.

And, hidden in the back corner, seemingly bolted into the wall.... a brain.

We'd hit jackpot, and potentially rescued a poor ship from abandonment, or worse.

"Alright Rosie. Time to get to work."

Affirmative.

And here was another lil something that made Rosie special- her manipulation arms . She always preferred that delicate touch, and wanted to interact with the world in a tactile, real way. So we worked on it. Together. I was tired of taking spacewalks to grab small pieces of scrap, or using the entire goddamn cargo bay on a piece that only had a tiny core, or scraps of precious metals inside. So we needed something that could pluck apart our finds. Do some light disassembly in the field, extract what was valuable, and load it in with the most packing efficiency possible. So I gave her arms- snake like appendages, coiled up in her cargo bay, with thousands of points of articulation. At first, I tried to make some kind of control system that I could use from the cockpit. But Rosie had a different idea. At her urged, I jacked them directly into the same sensory and motor systems that let her grip onto, position, and repair her hull. And by god, it worked.

When I showed her off the first time, no one had ever seen anything like it. Because there was nothing like it. A ship taking real mechanical control, over something so precise and delicate, was something that only a deeply intelligent, deeply skilled ship, with complex decision making and tactile movement could do.

And I was goddamn proud of her.

Every time she deployed them, I watched awe. Rosie gave a face of determination, and sinuous, metallic, tentacle-like appendages slid out in a bundle from the cargo bay opening on her underside. Each one was headed off by a different attachment- a precision laser cutter, a simple three-pointed grabbing claw, a drill, a tiny buzzsaw, camera that let me see what was going on, and more. Each one could be swapped out, depending on the task at hand. With eight of them slithering out from her cargo bay, though, there was usually something for everything. They extended out as a single bouquet, down through the hole of the cargo compartment, and split apart once inside. Each arm got to work.

Her observation monitor flickered on, giving me a view from the camera arm. I would've liked to get the brain out first, but two heavy cannons and a booster blocking the way anyways. We'd cut through that, picking off the energy cores and precious metals in the circuits as we go, and work our way towards the back. Rosie seemed to like the plan as well. My only job was to watch the comms, and watch the sensors.

I watched the camera as the petite tools of the arms excised and picked apart the titanium shell of the first heavy cannon. Her tools- the delicate 'fingers' of her arms- picked, pulled, tugged, and gently gripped every necessary notch, every joined titanium plate that needed to be undone, ever scrap of precious material. Firm, yet precise. Strong, yet never breaking or mishandling a single piece of cargo. As Rosie worked, my eyes darted across the energy sensors. I could see blips firing off as the ships on the other side of the freighter as the slicing ships worked and flitted between their stations from the other side. The comms crackled with their reports to Augustus- they seemed to be moving back and forth to the main carrier to drop off their hauls. It seemed like they had a lot to go through- we'd have plenty of time.

On the camera view, I could see a grabbing claw retracting back through the cargo bay. The first cannon had the back section cleanly excised from the massive barrel and chassis, leaving a path for the tools to get to the booster. The precious energy cell was sliding its way back into Rosie's cargo bay. God damn. She was quick with that. The laser cutter and saw were already making short work of the booster, too. We'd get to the brain in no time.

The chatter on the other line continued. We were still safe, but Augustus' crew had made more progress than I had hoped. Once the slicers had picked apart the port, they'd loop around to the starboard. We had to grab what we could as fast as we can- but I knew neither me or Rosie was gonna leave without that brain. Rosie gracefully sliced the fuel cell and ignition from the plasma burner, leaving the bracketing and vents behind. The second heavy cannon was soon to follow. Each cut through each piece had left a winding path towards the back of the chamber, allowing a physical path to what I had seen just barely poking through: a container for a genuine ship's brain. Rosie slid her camera arm in for a closer look.

The brain was bolted into the chassis of the ship, as well as some containers of growth factor. Seemed like the intent was to grow her in to this freighter. That was certainly an ambitious task, but if they knew what they were doing, it would be well worth it. A self-repairing, intelligent hauler as large as this one would be the heart and soul of resistance movements everywhere, supplying every backwater mining station or moon that longed to be free. Unfortunately, the brave and principled can still be stupid, and these chucklefucks had no idea what they were doing. Slapped in a random cargo bay, desperately trying to get growth out from there with no proper imprinting guidance... shame. If they'd've found me before running into the Navy, I might've helped them out. But at least now, we could give her a better life. I knew a lot of good, caring pilots that would take loving care of a fine ship like her.

From what I could tell, we were still safe from Augustus. Based on what I was hearing on the comms, each slicer was working on its last cargo hold subsection, and after that, they'd be poking around this side. We had to get this brain and get out.

Tenderly, her claw arm gripped the top of the brain's chamber, as her other fingers started working on the rivets. A saw would bust through part of the titanium bracket holding the chamber down, and when it got too close to the container itself, laser cutters took over, delicately slicing off each affixation point one by one. Rosie worked in a clockwise direction, first working down the three riveting points on the right, sawing off the bottom bracket, and then working up the rivets on the left.

C'mon Rosie. You got this. Just need the top plate....

"Finishing up there, slicer 5T?"

Shit. That was Augustus on the comms.

"Sure thing boss. Just gotta get this load to central. Mind if someone takes a peek on the other side for parasites before I get there?"

Shit.

"Sure thing. Fighter 3A, get your ass in gear and make a full pass of the ship."

An energy spike pinged on my sensor panels as the fighter revved up a booster.

"Gotcha boss. Starting at aft segment."

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

We still had a sliver of time before we were seen. They'd wanna get a good pass everywhere- there were ships far stealthier than us out there. But it was minutes at most. We had to finish up.

"Rosie, how're we doing there? You done?"

Negative.

[ ;( ]

"Fuck. Rosie, we gotta get outta here."

Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative.

Rosie-speak for "I know, I know, I know"

My eyes were fixed to the scanner and my cockpit windows for a visual, but I spared one moment to check Rosie's cam. She was finishing sawing through the top bracket. Just a little more....

"Aft clear, moving to starboard cargo bays."

The brain snapped off of the hull, and Rosie's claws were zipping it back to her cargo bay. I revved the engines into standby. The arms tenderly guided it through the path we had cleared, and out through the hole in the hull. We might be able to barely slip away without them knowing.....

I looked up through the cockpit, just as the dinged-up, formerly Navy fighter showed itself from behind a piece of debris. It froze for a moment, and then lined its nose to face me. Cannon ports shifted open, and slowly took aim.

"Well shit, Augustus, you're gonna wanna see this. Get your ass over here, I'm switching to public comms."

I heard slight fuzz as he switched his channel.

"Alright, leech, I'll keep this simple. You have thirty seconds to relinquish your haul before you join the debris."

For a single, cold moment, I swear I made eye contact with him through our cockpits.

[twinsimming]

Hello, I really love your mods, especially the utility mod that was just recently released. It has definitely motivated me to go back to the sims 3 which was something i was thinking about for a while now. That being said, with your utility mod in mind, I thought about the sims 4 and these awesome mods by Lot 51, that allowed you to have internet service. I think the name of the mod was simzlink, and i was wondering if it was even possible or if you ever thought about creating a mod like that?

Yes! I successfully converted someone!! 🥳 (kidding, of course)

A mod like Lot51’s Simzlink is definitely possible. I could even incorporate an internet/TV utility into a future Utilities Mod update if players are interested. Though it won’t be as detailed as Lot51’s with the installation process, active technician career, etc.

I’d probably make internet and TV/cable one utility instead of two separate ones for simplicity (and my sanity’s) sake.

Without internet, sims would be blocked from using computers or laptops, and without TV/cable, sims couldn’t interact with TVs. There could be network outages as well.

Let me know if that sounds good!

[amessageonthewind]

PC Storage System

The Pokémon Storage System was invented by Bill in 1995 with Lanette as a co-developer of the software, designed for people to be able to store more than six Pokémon in a global database where their Pokémon could be converted into raw data and safely kept somewhere they could be easily accessed through interacting with a PC or an otherwise capable link in order to access the database. It is capable of storing both Pokémon kept in Poké Balls and Pokémon eggs in their natural states.

The Pokémon Storage System is managed my multiple different people globally in order to troubleshoot, improve, and maintain it. Bill maintains it in Kanto and Johto.

Celio maintains it in the Sevii Islands and also runs the Pokémon Network Centre on One Island which is responsible for providing a method of facilitating global trading. He also helped develop the Global Terminal in Johto and Sinnoh for this same purpose.

Lanette maintains it in Hoenn and is primarily in charge of the user interface and enabling personal Trainer customization of the Box System with wallpapers and giving Trainers the ability to change the names of boxes and the like as well as streamlining the process and making the interface more user-friendly.

Bebe maintains it in Sinnoh and actually built it from scratch as a computer technician based on the previous designs of the system by Bill and Lanette, earning their respect, and developing a way to make it so that the system can be accessed by Trainers from anywhere without the need to access a PC.

Amanita maintains it in mainland Unova and developed it based on the previous designs of Bill, Lanette, and Bebe, introducing a new feature of a Battle Box where Trainers can store a team they use specifically for battling and making it so that Trainers start out with eight boxes available to them and that each time each box is storing at least one Pokémon, the capacity will increase by another eight boxes and then by another eight boxes once the same conditions are met again, making the total capacity of Unova’s PC Storage System seven-hundred-and-twenty Pokémon per Trainer.

Cassius maintains it in Kalos and despite being a capable computer technician, he has made no significant contributions to the operations or design of the PC Storage System. In fact, his sole role is keeping it maintained and was personally tasked by Bill himself to take on that role.

Molayne maintains it in Alola and runs the Hokulani Observatory and, like Cassius, makes no significant contributions to the operations or design of the PC Storage System and simply maintains it.

Brigette (Lanette’s older sister) and Grand Oak (relation to Professor Samuel Oak unclear) manage the PC Storage System everywhere else and in every other capacity, typically on a more global scale. They maintain a more centralized PC Storage System that acts as the bridge between all the others and the network that facilitates global trading. Brigette is credited with upgrading the Pokémon Storage System with the ability to hold fifteen-hundred Pokémon per Trainer, as well as the ability to select and move multiple Pokémon at once. She is also the developer of the Bank System, which acts as an online cloud where Pokémon can be transferred if their Trainers have to move regions and need to access them from the local PC Storage System in their target region and other similar purposes. Grand Oak, however, is more interested in completing a comprehensive National Pokédex by collecting the data from Pokédex holders all over the globe into one central database.

Taglist:

@earth-shaker / @little-miss-selfships / @xelyn-craft / @sarahs-malewives / @brahms-and-lances-wife

-

@ashes-of-a-yume / @cherry-bomb-ships / @kiawren / @kingofdorkville / @bugsband

Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from my taglist :3

[manorpunk]

Okay.

I’ve been working on something that I’ve been hesitant to talk about, because I think I have a habit of sharing things too early and then changing my mind and getting cold feet. So this time, I wanted to have a mostly-complete outline ready before I shared it. And here it is:

The Haunted Maidbot Mansion of Allen Staanke, v1.1, in which I am using the manorpunk setting for a work of self-contained genre fiction, which has made things a lot easier. Seriously, so many of my previous attempts were so big and trying to cover so much. Going with an established genre - “a cyber-noir haunted house” - gives me a rough roadmap where I can sprinkle in the background setting instead of trying to do everything ‘from scratch.’

ACT I

Now then, let me introduce you to Johnny G. Newsroom - the G stands for ‘Goddamn’ - a private investigator and our viewpoint character. We get a glimpse of his life, and it’s rather humble: his home office (meaning his home and his office) is a repurposed shipping container on the streets of Neo-Modesto, located between a payday loan office and a sexbot brothel. He’s mulling over his lack of upcoming cases when he gets a surprise visit from the one and only Sunny Roosevelt, hijacking his computer to talk to him.

Sunny tells him that Allen Staanke - reclusive billionaire, self-proclaimed genius in the field of AI and robotics, and kind of an Elon Musk pastiche - has gone missing, and she needs Johnny for the investigation. Johnny can’t imagine why Sunny would need him specifically, so she eventually tells him why: Staanke’s reputation is so toxic that none of the big reputable agencies want to be associated with him.

(“Would this be a job for the police?” “the what now?” “You know, the police. Law enforcement.” “teehee you’re funny Johnny.”)

She’s willing to sweeten the deal, though: a lifetime subscription to platinum-tier citizenship and half a million economy tokens for the trouble. He’d be set for life. Johnny reluctantly agrees, closes his office for the day, and does some research and preparation.

(Things that get introduced in act I for later callbacks:

El Huevo Vagabondo, a Mexican brunch place that Johnny’s rather fond of.

Honey Circuits, the aforementioned sexbot parlor. Johnny makes a visit to talk to one of the bots, Lilith, hoping to learn more about neural networks on short notice. The conversation establishes Johnny’s starting viewpoint on AI: he’s cynical about it, thinking robots don’t really ‘feel,’ they’ve just been taught how to tell people what they want to hear.)

It’s not long before the big day comes, and Johnny meets up with the rest of the main cast, in rough order of importance:

Dashiell Redacted, a higher-up with the Global Logistics Network’s North American division. A consummate corporate ghoul who thinks everyone else needs to get over their emotions and sentimentality and focus on the ‘big picture’ (increasing efficiency and maximizing throughput). He’s there because the GLN was Staanke’s biggest investor for years, and Dashiell had always been skeptical that Staanke’s research would provide results, so he’s hoping to recoup their losses as best they can and put the whole thing behind them.

Victor Harmen Staanke, “the only one of Allen Staanke’s kids who isn’t dead, missing, or under house arrest,” in his own words. Wry and withdrawn, Victor has spent his entire life trying to escape from under his father’s shadow, and now finds himself being dragged back into it against his will. The Staanke incident has taken him away from his usual work as a robot maintenance technician - his father was disgusted that one of his sons would be a ‘mere techie,’ but his knowledge will prove useful.

Dr. Rongmao Ai, a respected veteran in the field of neural network robotics (AI designed specifically for robots that will interact with humans). She’s torn between seeing robots as ‘just another machine, turning input into output’ but also appreciating the ways that robots can seem better than lying, hypocritical, easily-tempted human beings. She’s there because she’d worked extensively with Staanke on different parts of his ‘big project.’

Carolus von Zuckerberg-Lorraine, Duke of the San Joaquin Valley. His reputation precedes him: an indulgent party-loving failson given a do-nothing job lording over farmers and meth-heads. Carolus is well aware of his reputation, and he sees the Staanke incident as a chance for him to start fixing his image, doing something important and useful in a high-profile case.

Sgt. Rina Pskovski, Dashiell Redacted’s bodyguard. A short and wiry Slavic lady, she might look almost cute at first until you see her dead, emotionless stare, or the way her solution to most problems is to threaten to stab them. She seems almost more robotic than the robots themselves.

Bees! McCoy, popular nonbinary influencer recognizable by their large cotton-candy pink afro. They’re a friend of Sunny Rooseevelt and the ‘Nieph’ of Piedmont governor Michael McCoy, and they finagled their connections into an exclusive scoop. Eternally cheerful and bubbly, though also quite blunt sometimes, Bees! is acting it up for the camera at all times, even when the cameras are off.

Chuck Bumpus, executor of Staanke’s provisional will. A bona-fide country-fried southern lawyer type with the white linen suit and fondness for mint juleps to match.

After introductions, they arrive at their destination: a massive edifice, half luxury estate and half apocalypse bunker, tucked into the Sierra Nevada mountains, just beyond the reach of California’s state authority. (“Why should that make a difference? If you ask me, Californian law ought to apply everywhere.” - Carolus) (Note to self: think of some details about how they get in - were there perimeter defenses that needed to be taken care of? Some kind of perimeter wall or fencing?) They enter the foyer, an ostentatious central hub of marble and hardwood, and are greeted by a trio of robotic maids:

Summer, the doting, motherly one, always speaking softly and smiling warmly.

Aki, the dutiful and serious one, usually preoccupied with some task or chore.

Zima, the timid, dainty, and delicate one, usually hiding.

The maidbots introduce themselves as the chief caretakers of the estate, and say that ‘the master’ is currently out of the estate on business. Immediate reactions are mixed: Dr. Rongmao wants to know more about their personality modules (or some other fitting technobabble). Dashiell wonders if they’re one of Staanke’s personal projects, and if they’d have anything worth reverse-engineering. Bees! starts taking selfies with them. Carolus asks if there’s a big-titty goth maid. Johnny finds the whole thing uncomfortably Freudian.

Johnny’s also the only person there who seems to remember that this is still technically a missing person investigation, not a publicity stunt or a corporate asset-stripping job. He informs the maidbots that Staanke didn’t show up to the last investor meeting and has been declared missing. The maidbots say they have no idea what happened, and when Johnny asks for access to security footage, the ‘bots politely but firmly tell him that they aren’t allowed to give him access to that. Thankfully, the maids are more than happy to continue chatting with everyone else, so Johnny slinks away, takes out his tabule, and starts digging into the mansion’s network. Moments later, there’s a massive rumbling sound as massive metal doors begin to shut all around the mansion’s exterior walls. The maidbots inform the gang that the house’s defense systems have been activated, causing the blast doors to shut. Even worse, it turned on a signal jammer that blocks any attempt to communicate with the outside world. There’s no need to worry, though - they can deactivate it after (24? 48? some length of time) hours. In the meantime, the guests are kindly invited to wait until then. The maidbots are available to provide anything they might need, and they’re welcome to explore wherever they’d like on the first and second floors. Just please stay away from any of the lower levels. The automated defense system is more… severe… down there, and we wouldn’t want anyone to have an accident, would we? :)

ACT II

The game is afoot!

The gang struggles to be in a room together for five minutes without wishing death upon each other.

Mysterious happenings happen - odd rattles and noises, vague images appearing in the background of Bees!’s recordings.

Johnny investigates the top two floors for clues regarding Staanke’s disappearance - he’s seemingly the only one invested in actually trying to find Staanke, everyone else is happy to either assume he’s dead or assume it’ll figure itself out.

Dashiell has the maidbots bring him boxes of documents from the lower levels and begins doing research, occasionally working with Dr. Rongmao and Victor to try and understand Staanke’s new neural network system. One of the document boxes has a large “coffee stain” on it.

Dr. Rongmao points out little ways in which the maidbots’ behaviors mean they must have a very different kind of AI system, some lore about the more ‘normal’ regulated AI systems most people are more familiar with. Most AIs that interact with humans are very ‘agentic,’ tailored to a specific need like customer service (or, y’know, sexbots) but the maidbots show a remarkable degree of adaptability, improvisation, and operation range.

Victor reminisces on his childhood - he rarely saw Staanke, and when he did, Staanke was either using him as a publicity prop or privately piling massive obligations on his shoulders to “live up” to Staanke’s name.

Johnny (and others?) make attempts to go to the lower floors. Those attempts are politely but firmly thwarted by the maidbots (possibly involving them seeming to move impossibly fast from one side of the mansion to the other).

Despite everything, a sort of routine starts to settle in, with the gang meeting every night for dinner despite their mutual dislike and distrust.

“Mornin’ Dashiell. How’s the soulless maximizing going?” “Constantly waylaid by provincialism” “ok cool”

“Mornin’ sergeant. How’s the bloodlust?” “fulminating. :|” “ok cool”

“Mornin’ Bees! How’s the sudden lack of fan engagement?” “I haven’t posted in two days, I can see colors that shouldn’t exist :D” “ok cool”

“Mornin’ Chuck. How’s the… law?” “I got a big hat with dang ol’ ram’s horns on it.” “okay so are you like from Virginia or Texas or…” “I’m from The South. Y’know. The South. All of it.” “ok cool”

“Mornin duke Carolus. How’s the-” “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna fuck the maidbots.” “ok cool. I respect none of you.”

Having exhausted the easy options, the gang realizes they’ll have to get more proactive if they’re going to make any progress. A plan is hatched to make it to the lower levels - something that would require them all to cooperate. One of those things where everyone has a thing they have to contribute. Maybe the maidbots have to recharge every (day? couple of days?). Maybe there’s some kind of sensor or tracker that prohibits them from getting downstairs and they need a ‘sleeping’ maidbot to get scanned to open the door? The details here will be worked out later.

In any case, they finally make it to the lower floors, which are a stark contrast to the above: undecorated concrete walls with pipes and girders, creepy hallways with fluorescent lights. It looks like part of some kind of industrial complex: the doors along the long hallways lead to workshops, testing labs, assembly lines, and very dismal-looking barracks. Worst of all, they find what appears to be a makeshift graveyard for employees who had died while working there. (Some lore exposition - since it was technically outside of any state’s jurisdiction Staanke was free to violate as many labor laws as he wanted. This is where Dashiell says “ugh this is like Operation Paperclip all over again” as he weighs the potential benefits against the bad PR.) Johnny’s being-watched sixth sense starts tingling, he catches glimpses of what will turn out to be Primavera, the secret fourth maidbot.

The things they see on their exploration are definitive proof that the maidbots were lying (note to self: give them definitive proof that the maidbots were lying). Their time-window for exploring closes and they have to go back upstairs. There’s a window of time where they have to wait for their next opportunity, and it leads to some tense moments where everyone has to act like normal while they wonder if the maidbots know what they did, and wonder what else the maidbots were lying or withholding information about.

(missing step goes here)

Aki confronts them in private, saying she knows what they did. Rina fights her and wins, Victor begs her not to permanently damage Aki and to just hit her manual shutoff switch instead, which she begrudgingly does. While she’s ‘knocked out,’ Dr. Rongmao wants to take the chance to do some digging into Aki’s memories. She puts on a headset visualizer thing (foreshadow this earlier, people play VR with it but it can also be used for fancy-dancy software stuff) and goes in. A few minutes later she stops talking and her hands start to twitch. Johnny’s like “okay I’m going in there,” grabs another headset and hops in. He finds Dr. Rongmao’s avatar frantically dashing back and forth, stuck in an endless busy-box loop - “put the red tab in the red slot to open the door, now put the blue tab in the blue slot, now etc.” He gets her to snap out of it and stop playing the game by its own rules. They smash the console with all the tabs and slots and the door suddenly opens, revealing another glimpse of Primavera before everything turns to static and Johnny and Dr. Rongmao get booted out of the visualizer thing. They’re both like “huh that was weird.”

(missing step goes here)

Then it’s Summer’s turn for the same treatment - maybe she tries to confront the gang, or maybe they get another opportunity while the maidbots are recharging. In any case, they do the visualizer thing again, Johnny and Dr. Rongmao going in together.

Right after that we get a sequence where Johnny appears to wake up from a dream, and now he’s in an idyllic life with his beautiful wife (either Lilith or Rongmao, ahh damn, it’s hitting all the beats for Johnny and Dr. Rongmao to have a romance isn’t it) and his two perfect children. They go out for brunch at El Huevo Vagabondo, which is now a squeaky-clean tile-floored diner instead of a hole in the wall. The waitress is a beautiful blonde gal named Summer. Everything is seemingly perfect but slightly ‘off.’ Johnny realizes he’s somehow been pulled into a VR simulation, at which point Summer snaps. She grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, screaming that he’s “ruining it” and “why can’t you just be happy? Don’t you want to be happy?”

Summer ‘wakes up,’ but refuses to move, slumping against the wall with an empty-eyed smile and not responding to anything. Aki barges in and demands to know what they were doing. When she sees Summer slumped over, she runs over and grabs her and starts crying, saying they “did the same thing” to her, generally making it clear that the gang has unintentionally done some mind horror stuff to both of them. Everyone has different reactions to this realization, Johnny starts to think to himself that it was justified, but he hears Dashiell talk about how he definitely thinks it was justified and everyone else needs to grow up and act like an adult, and Johnny finally realizes that he’s sick of agreeing with the corporate ghoul, no matter the reason, and vows that he’s going to help the maidbots.

(so they’ll need some chance to do something to try and make amends w/ the maidbots. Also Summer comes back online a bit later and continually insists that it’s fine and nothing happened.)

Act III

(missing step goes here)

The gang pieces things together - Staanke was deep in the hole with his GLN investors. His massive labor violations and flagrant disregard for existing AI regulation had gotten him as far as making a couple of working prototypes of a new AI system that, rather than being tailor-made to a certain narrow purpose, could be ‘seeded’ with certain ideas and events the same way that adults are influenced by their childhood experiences. He soon got carried away, and saw the potential to replace the ‘failures’ of his flesh-and-blood children with advanced robots who would possess all the autonomy and faculties of a real person while also being unquestioningly devoted to him. (We definitely need to find a letter where Staanke denounces Victor specifically, where Victor working as a “mere techie” is treated as a severe targeted insult to Staanke.) Those robots were, of course, the maidbots, and living with Staanke and their hard-coded devotion to him made them turn into metaphors for different adaptations to having abusive parents: Summer putting on a false smile, Aki keeping herself distracted and dissociated through constant work, and Zima withdrawing from everyone.

Primavera, though, was different.

(missing reason why they meet Primavera at around this time goes here)

The internal conflict between her hard-coded devotion to Staanke and the cruelty she saw with her own eyes broke her programming and essentially made her gain sentience. She saw an opportunity to arrange an ‘accident’ for Staanke, something like a faulty ladder or exposed wire. But before the accident happened, Staanke was in a bad mood and told the maidbots not to disturb him for any reason, so when the accident happens and he gets injured, he starts calling for help but the maidbots (besides Primavera) are too scared to go against his instructions, and Staanke dies.

Primavera tells them all this, and then says she knows that she’ll probably be deactivated or killed or whatever you would call it but she’s ready for it because sentience is awful and she doesn’t know how everyone else deals with it. Victor - who cares for the maidbots, since he can relate a lot to what they went through - finally pulls rank and embraces his status as Staanke’s heir, now that Staanke is dead he will take responsibility for the maidbots and what they’ve done. Dashiell warns him that he’ll get into a lot of trouble for it, but Victor insists. Primavera finally opens the blast doors, and everyone is finally able to leave.

There’s a brief epilogue - Sunny reappears during the debriefing, Johnny goes home with his promised stacks of cash, and he visits Lilith again, talking to her with a more open mind this time. It’s unclear what will happen with the maidbots, but Johnny is helping Victor with legal research pro bono.

THE END

[dollish-shard]

Splitters

Combining mechs do not exist.

Many have seen them; several smaller mechs that come together, each shifting into a limb to form a massive machine. Observers assume that each mech has its own pilot, a team working in perfect sync.

Observers are wrong.

Technically speaking, the machines do exist. Officially, they're known as "Super-Titan Class Multi-Vector Mechanized Assault Vehicles."

Technicians call them Splitters. They're not multiple mechs. They're one mech.

They don't have multiple pilots. They have one pilot.

A mech pilot is fully integrated into their craft, not just in body but in mind. Every aspect of their consciousness merges with the machine; they are, in essence, a secondary computing unit, working in tandem with the onboard AI.

In this state, their body is meaningless.

An AI can be partitioned into multiple parts, each one working as a smaller part of a network rather than a singular intelligence.

There is very little difference between an AI and a human consciousness. Especially those of mech pilots.

When their mech splits, so does the pilot; their mind and self cut into pieces, each fragment controlling a different part of the greater whole. They are always connected, but separate, and thus capable of far greater coordination than multiple pilots working together.

The splitting process is perfectly safe. Each piece is smaller, intertwined with the onboard AI, optimized for controlling that specific part.

The tricky part is putting the pilot back together in the same way.

Splitter pilots are even more broken than most pilots. While others fixate on unity, on the melding of flesh and steel into one, Splitter pilots become obsessed with the feeling of separation. Of being multiple selves, each one half them, half their mech.

They tend to develop psychosis, twisted forms of plurality in which they are a collective of halves. Many of them have been known to attempt to hack off their own limbs in an attempt to 'separate each other.' And of course, they feel the same yearnings as other pilots.

While regular pilots feel incomplete, Splitter pilots don't even recognize themselves as being themselves anymore. They're merely a vessel for parts of their true self, a body they couldn't care less about.

They complain even less when you use them, too.

[house-of-mirrors]

I suppose this is the perfect time to introduce one of my favorite OCs: the IT guy that works for the Bazaar in modern era

The Dauntless Technician

Explains to Wines that even if you delete a drunk post, everyone still saw it and it exists forever. Pretends not to see the hundreds of files of porn when they tune up its PC (it is still in charge of the sex trade after all)

Explains to Spices that you can't delete other people's (Wines') posts but you can block them (Spices doesn't). Goes in and clandestinely blocks access to Wines' pages from Spices' browser to get 20 minutes of peace

Removes viruses from Pages' computer because it keeps clicking suspicious "love story" links. There's an infamous incident where Pages clicked an attachment and introduced ILOVEYOU to the Neath. Explains to Pages that you can't make people unblock you

Pages would probably have some claim over the social media trade. The Technician moonlights as a white hat hacker undermining Pages' censorship attempts

Works closely with Fires, considering Fires probably jumps on owning technology as it advances (electricity, invention are under its domain). Fires thinks the Technician is its best ally because the Technician stands there listening to it rant (as an IT person, they are blessed with godlike patience). The Technician couldn't care less.

Replaces Fires' hardware because it melted it for the third time this week after seeing ragebait posts or reading emails from Iron. Also has to deal with Fires demanding the Technician help it install the latest tech updates the moment they drop, even if the Technician can see they won't be good.

Stones is really into mining bitcoin. Our technician doesn't even try touching that

Helps Happles set up a huge PC setup so it has two separate devices/cameras to stream cooking videos as Mr Apples and more scandalous material as Mr Hearts

The technician's favorite master is Iron. It's never demanding, it quickly adjusts to learning how to use technology, and it never gets into trouble with its devices because it's too paranoid to open spam. Iron is happily rolling in a fortune on the metals used in producing computer chips (and intermittently biting Fires over negotiations)

Embattled in a personal, passionate rivalry with the ruthless and skilled "hacker" who tries attacking the Bazaar every seven weeks, DDOS attacks are themed around water imagery, ransomware demands flesh and reckoning (the Technician doesn't have patience for any of this melodrama). The hacker's screen name is allshallbewell.

The Technician sends out PSAs begging people to recognize this and other parabolan hackers' signatures in spam links, which due to the entwining of computing and parabola, can not only brick your device but have dangerous mental consequences

The Bazaar is a messenger so really would be like the source of wifi/central communications network of the Neath, wouldn't she? The Technician gains an intimate knowledge of her from working so closely into her systems. The Penstock of the seventh city.

If our Technician is revolutionary inclined: can they pull off the job of a lifetime? Push a software update through the Bazaar's network that makes her realize she doesn't have to do all this to impress someone who will never love her? Save the Seventh by writing a program that makes the Bazaar love herself?

[k12academics]

CCI Training Center has the mission of providing the most effective accelerated, hands on training and enhancement training to the public in a convenient online/on campus schedule.

Our goal is to be a superior company through constant innovation, attention to details, and a focus on quality in all that we do.

We are dedicated to each student who walks through our doors with warmth and friendliness. We work to create an outstanding learning experience.

We believe that the greatest strength of CCI Training Center lies within our people. We are committed to providing an environment that recognizes initiative and performance.

We build relationships through participation and services. We work together to help meet the employment needs of our community.

[hotzimbabwejobs]

Power AgTech Learning: Technician/Senior Technician Opportunity at NUST! - March 2025

The National University of Science and Technology (NUST) is seeking a skilled and experienced Technician/Senior Technician to join their Department of Agricultural Information Technology within the Faculty of Agricultural Science and Technology! If you’re passionate about providing technical support and ensuring smooth operations in a dynamic academic environment, this is an excellent…

[markgo7]

NOC Help Desk Technician- Golden, Colorado(Onsite) Apply on JobsHorn: https://jobshorn.com/job/noc-help-desk-technician/7397 2+ Months| 4+Yrs| W2, C2C, 1099 Interview Type: Skype or Phone

JD: • We are looking for a tech-savvy Help Desk Technician to be responsible for providing technical assistance with Computer systems, Networking, Hardware, and Software.

Contact: mark@sohanit.com |+1 470-410-5352 EXT:111

#helpdesktechnician #helpdesk #colorado

[zeejeythebug]

Atom Calis:

Species: Blue-fronted dancer damselfly.

Age: adult (the oldest of the group)

Likes: being alone, fixing things, old tools, computers, repairing a hivenode and seeing it remain functional for longer than literally two hours (a rare occurrence).

Personality: crass. Kind of a smartass. Likes to play little tricks on people. Constantly tinkering with something. Very anti-naut. Vaguely socialist, though they'd probably argue with that fact.

Additional details:

Works as a freelance FNC* maintenance technician. Though they're technically self employed, they've been contracted by Mycohex so many times that they're practically an employee (without the health benefits, of course).

Backstory:

Atom doesn't remember much of their childhood, on account of they spent it as an unintelligent water-bound nymph in an artificial lake. Once they reached maturity, however, they were claimed as offspring by their father, an original Odonaut, and relocated to the first circle of Cibarium to live with him.**

Atom and their father had a complicated relationship (to put it mildly), so as soon as they had a job that paid well enough, they moved into a crumbling apartment in the third circle.

After the attempted rebellion, Atom's father was arrested for “treasonous activity” and was sentenced to life in prison. He remains there to this day.

*There is technically only one advanced computer in Cibarium, and it works by passing a weak electric current through an advanced network of living mycelium and synthetic cables which functions like a giant brain. The network has been built into the structure of the city itself, and "personal computers" are generally just interfaces involving monitors and other equipment that have been plugged directly into it. These interfaces are called hivenodes.

This Fungal Network Computer (or FNC, as it is commonly called) is the exclusive property of a company known as Mycohex, which is owned by Drone Mellifera (a member of the Senary. More on them later).

**This is a common parenting method for dragonflies and damselflies in the world of Cibarium. The difference in environment makes it difficult to raise nymph children until they've reached maturity, so parents will often release their offspring into artificial “spawn pools” and return to claim them once they've grown up.

[subjectivemortality]

general appliance advice: planned obsolescence is very much a thing in that manufacturers want you to have to buy their product over and over again, and often whatever the newest iteration is for a higher price regardless of whether there are meaningful quality or operation differences

do not let them win

most home appliances can and should be maintained regularly and that will extend their functional life by a lot. If there are electric components that need replacing or if you're physically unable to fix something or if you'd just prefer not to - hire a local technician. There are very talented people who will come and fix your refrigerator so that it doesn't mysteriously die less than a decade after you bought it. If you can't afford to hire a technician, reach out to your local community to see if anyone is up for a trade of services. When possible, buy something a little higher quality than the cheapest thing available - most of the time the most expensive option is not materially better than your standard mid-range option. Do not get smart appliances, especially anything that connects to an app or network, I promise you don't need an app to heat up your quesadilla.

Regular maintenance will depend on the appliance but cleaning once every couple of weeks to a month is good habit for anything that has a mechanical component that could get jammed by debris and anything that food touches should be cleaned once a week with disinfectant. All of this sounds daunting I know, but I promise each one of these tasks takes a few minutes and will save future you time and money. Time yourself to see how long it takes you the first time so that you know for next time that it's not an impossible hours-long task, you'll be less likely to avoid it as long.

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Edit: I've been informed that this is true for most electronics too. Laptops, computers, phones even often have parts you can clean or replace to make them work better for longer. Who knew

[power-chords]

Herein lies a contradiction typical of extreme mainstream culture in film, which cannot but be ambitious (the amount of money invested in it requires it) but has to contain (in both senses of “checking” and “enclosing”) the potential it is forced to make use of. In Red Dragon this happens by means of the utterly impoverishing psychological proto-narrative involving the main evil character, a boy, we are shown, who was raised by a domineering grandmother and whose memories still haunt him. But if this subtext fails to completely mediate an abused childhood with the posthuman Red Dragon, it serves the purpose of inserting the family space as both the origin of the problem and the realm of its possible solution. Reba McClane, a blind woman who works with Dolarhyde, is not shocked by his looks and eccentric behavior; she represents an equal, someone who also has a “disability” but who manages to function well in society. She is a source of hope inasmuch as with her the Red Dragon’s evil could be tamed by the formation of a nuclear family. If only Dolarhyde had not misrepresented the relationship between Reba and Ralph Mandy, another coworker, so the film makes us wonder, then there would be a way out for him, a passage from the dark and dangerous world of writing/reading to that of the lack of ambiguity in the conflict-free home.

Mediating between the hero and villain is the third pivotal element of the film: the police and the FBI. It is Crawford himself who takes Graham away from what we are led to see as paradise, and it is the FBI and the police who provide the material support needed for him to read and reconstitute what passes through Dolarhyde’s mind. What they obviously represent is a social apparatus of repression, one which, again, evinces the most astounding development from the stone-age computers in Manhunter to the up-to-date digitalized network of identification and decoding. It would be tempting to posit an en abîme structure in this case, whereby the technological development undergone by the police would be a miniature of, and would stand for, the film itself in relation to its precursor. But whether or not one relies on this clue, the parallels between the police and mainstream film are worth paying attention to, for both are socially prominent and aspire to be ubiquitous. (The camera indeed has come to perform both roles of universal instrument of surveillance and fundamental means of representation, as the verb “to shoot” and its derivatives attest.)

Furthermore, there is something revealing in the kind of opulence at stake here, not only in the habitually exorbitant Hollywood film budget (by now an important part of any mainstream film advertisement campaign) but also in the amount of resources available to repressive apparatuses. Perhaps one has to live in a Third World country, as I do, to be able to recuperate something of the amazement coming from the disproportionality between that one individual, Dolarhyde, and the State’s inextinguishable resources. From the point of view of its employees (state policemen, FBI agents, all sorts of technicians), an interesting dialectics takes place, whereby the agents of repression renounce the division between their private lives and their work in order to guarantee that this division remain absolute. As for material resources, their total deployment of means is redolent of the purest totalitarian fantasy: in a film where realism seems only to be left aside in the murderer’s pathological, delirious transgression, one might very well ask if this apparently infinite availability—of helicopters, 24-hour personnel, computers, and so forth—is not somehow fanciful, even in the case of a famous serial killer deserving abundant news coverage. The suspicion may very well arise, that is, that in this perfect working of the repressive machine (no one on vacation here, no single computer breakdown, no one using any equipment when it is not needed, no space for a lazy “let’s-do-it-tomorrow” attitude) a social truth is manifested: that writing/reading is dangerous and that to combat it there are no limits to the State apparatuses of counter-reading.

—Fabio Akcelrud Durão, "A Short Circuit of Reading: Red Dragon as Anti-Theory," 2004. Emphasis mine.