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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

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𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. ��You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

#love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb fanfic #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #caleb #lnds caleb #caleb lads #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lnds

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syoddeye · 4 months ago

Text

hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief.

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.”

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes.

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?”

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating.

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?”

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it.

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point.

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check—lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.”

john.

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal.

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.”

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”

body. coma.

“and…and after?”

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth.

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear.

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke.

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down.

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway.

only ash scattered in the wind.

#strict machine #price x reader #john price x reader

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pierswife · 1 year ago

Text

Post canceled, I get to play with the big kid toys at work today

WOOOOO time for the daily fighting understimulation song and daaaance /funny

#data log: personal #:)))) big electricity go brrrr

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insanescriptist · 4 months ago

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A test of your reflexes

(Written in response to all those JL members capture Hood fics. As much fun as writing Jason is as a damsel in distress can be and vaguely cathartic/traumatic for all involved, a lot of them diminish his skills and that of the JL itself. So, I just wanna have fun with this.

So set during UtRH-ish but a couple tweaks.)

------------

Batman looked pissed.

To be fair, he always looked stoic or displeased, so it was actually much scarier to see him looking mad.

Wally was so glad he was not on the other side of that and he was allowed snacks as the data was reviewed in the emergency meeting.

And also, it was very much decisively proven that Batman did have the scariest and most capable rogues; how many others had actually gotten onto the Watchtower, in custody, escaped, hacked the Watchtower and then escaped?

There's a reason they had dusted off the Hall of Justice's meeting table and had Cyborg on the line. Along with most others who did have a secure line of communication. A Tele(scope)™ meeting.

With the zeta system having been hacked, it was considered unsafe to use until the entire system had been cleared. So he, Wonder Woman and Superman were in the Hall, looking at screens.

So far, only the team up of Braniac and Lex had done something similar and this one guy had not only done it, but done it solo?

Yeesh, and he thought Dick's beef with Deathstroke the Terminator was scary.

This Hood guy was Batman levels scary.

Wally shivered at that and the thought of, 'is he Batman-level capable as well?'

"With more thorough review, it's been discovered the camera footage on the Watchtower was manipulated," Cyborg stated. "Along with the Zeta system and it's record logs. Electrical consumption records show several extra zetas than are recorded but the log data once you dig into it is beyond salvageable. Discovering which receiving and outgoing zetas were used is going to take time and checking them individually, which will also need to be cleared of potential traps because it-"

"Hood has accomplices." Batman finished. "Accomplices I haven't had evidence for existing prior."

"Are you saying he's been running rings around Gotham's underworld and tugging your cape as a solo act?" Hal asked in derision, leaning over Green Arrow.

"I know he has backing. You don't get that sort of training from just anywhere."

"If I didn't know better, I'd assume he was a Bat," Green Lantern drawled. "Those on the Watchtower saw the domino mask, the confidence and how he moved. That's how the League moves."

"League training alone does not make a League operative."

"Suure. But it really does look like Ra's sent one to distract you in Gotham. And then when captured, he decided to fuck us all, because we still don't know how big of a information breech we're dealing with. Which can now be making it's way to Ra's al Ghul or the black market to be sold."

"To clarify," Wonder Woman interjected. "What evidence do we have that this Hood still maintains ties to Ra's al Ghul? As Batman said, League training alone does not make a League operative or else both he and Green Arrow would count too. None the less, we still need to act as if this Hood does, in order to properly defend ourselves from possible consequences. How much headway has been made on determining the scope of the breach?"

"Between the zetas and the cameras, that's plenty wide enough." Cyborg admitted. "He had access to the gamut and knows how to bury his tracks. As a temporary measure, I'm going to clone and isolate the data from all systems to another device to review at will. In order to restore system access and resume normal operations, everyone will have to re-register for zeta permissions and choose new passwords. But first, I'll be checking out all the zetas in the Watchtower with Martian Manhunter and Superman to ensure they're safe on our end."

Batman got a second call on his line. "Oracle?"

"Batman, we need someone at Arkham's. I'm sending you footage. Right now. Joker's cell from ten minutes ago."

Wally had not seen Batman move that fast in ages. Batman's frown got deeper, as he looked at cameras that they could not see.

"Hood took Joker. And then the Joker disappeared in a camera blank spot and Hood is also at large."

"Oh fuck." Wally cursed.

----

Meanwhile Jason Todd, looked at the bottle in his hand, half full of beer and half full of miniaturized Joker.

And then he shot that with the Phantom Zone Ray Gun. It was just a beer bottle after all. Disgusting contents and all.

Stirring up trouble with the Justice League would mean that he'd have to lay low for a good six months, maybe abandon the identity of Hood and the not so little crime empire he had been building. For a plan of practically impulse, it worked out well. Less so in how he wanted it to go -it wasn't the three of them, he didn't get answers or avenged- but it was something he could do now, so he did it. Because fuck the Joker for his continued breathing. Better for the world that Joker was gone.

Sure, it was good work and necessary work to remove the trash from any society, the worst criminals permanently but what about those big enough to have some notoriety that were also well-deserving of death criminals? Wouldn't that be the greater good done for less effort?

If he was actually going to be dedicated to taking out the worst of humanity, small and easy pickings were small time and petty in comparison. If he was going to take someone out, it had better be someone worth it.

And without the beer. That dulls reflexes.

And living a costume lifestyle meant a constant text of his.

#dc #jason todd

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polo-drone-070 · 2 months ago

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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..

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sonic-takeover · 1 month ago

Note

Tails, I don't think I regret eating your CPU because it doesn't look like you know what one is.

A CPU wouldn't store blueprints and logs, that's secondary storage.

The CPU processes and executes instructions. The memory it uses is types of RAM (primary storage) like registers and cache to help it read from data and instructions faster.

Tails.

You're a FRAUD.

*Tails holds up his Miles Electric, which has a big bite out of it* I was more worried about this, actually... I appreciate your knowledge about tech, and you're right, but in order to eat my CPU, you had to get through the rest of the system, too. Just losing the CPU would be seriously frustrating, though... at least until I fixed it.

#let's just say mod didn't double-check the terminology #oh wait #ask blog #sonic ask blog #ask #sonic #sth #sonic the hedgehog #ask sonic #anon ask #miles tails prower #tails the fox #tails answers #miles electric #cpu vs ram

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kryptonbabe · 5 months ago

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Green Lantern of Sector 914: Mucoromycotin 82 or Mucor

Some references of how Mucor's body could be, the moss-like cells are apparent all over their body and are the actual font of their life. Source 1, 2.

Name: Mucoromycotin 82 / M82 / Mucor

Base Of Operations: Kuora (planet), Multitude system, Sector 914

Mucor is a scrap bio-mech, mostly composed of leftover metal and found parts in a functioning robotic body, they are not a purely mechanical being, their core and main electrical font of processing and movement is biologic. These biological cells have a moss / mold like appearance and spread over the mechanical parts and give them movement, they are the conscious and thinking part of Mucor's species, the µ.

As a bio-mech Mucor works most hours of the day, they started to use their 5 hour break to read whatever they could find in the abandoned data library found during a work excavation. Reading the pre-war logs, historical registers and the political and philosophical works of diseased thinkers and scientists of the past, Mucor started to feel anguished and rebellious about the life they and their people lived, being explored by the upper classes who enjoyed a fixed life with unlimited growth (only the working class and the outcasts lead a mobile life in their system). Mucor was chosen by a power ring during a rebellion against the upper class force units in which they were the leader of a losing group of workers.

After becoming the Green Lantern of sector 914 Mucor was able to help the people of their planet, however there's a lot of work to be done since their solar system is colonized by the µ and given the variety of forms and cultures the µ can take it's a complex work that keeps Mucor busy and mostly absent of the wider Green Lantern conflicts, some say Mucor and the Guardians do not have a good relationship since Mucor believes their rule to be authoritarian and somehow similar to that of the ruling classes of their own system. However no one can deny the feats of courage Mucor of Kuora (their planet) achieved fighting for the freedom of their people and working as a Lantern in their solar system.

Mucor uses the ring to change their appearance, complementing their mechanical body with their ring constructs to transform into practical forms that help them solve problems. They're very attuned to the structural issues of his system and aware of the importance of education, most of their feats are oriented in that direction. They have a serious problem with authority and that makes them a big fan of Hal Jordan, although they never met (Mucor has a Hal Jordan poster on their private quarter at Oa) Kilowog admires their determination, but desaproves of their humor instability.

About the µ (biology and society)

The µ or Mu collective is a group of unicellular individuals that more or less share a hive mind. Their evolution is similar to that of the Fungi on Earth, however due to the specific circumstances of their planets and the amount of time the µ have been in the universe, they have evolved in a different direction. Despite being capable of life (and reproduction) in unicellular form, in group, the Mu are capable of building long tubes of communication to share nutrients and information through electrical impulses that can form complex structures of thought and conscience. Their "hive mind" is proximity based, the more distant they are the less mentally connected they are, if they're severed they become a separate entity.

Their mold / lichen / moss like appearances. Despite their color they're not capable of photosynthesis

The µ cells spread in colossal webs that took over their entire planet of origin (Kuora), in addition to that their resilient single cell life made it very easy for them to spread over their solar system (the Multitude solar system). They separate in groups that can spread from over hundreds of kilometers to a few meters; these groups developed different cultures and social relations with time. Early in their space exploration the Mu collective spread in search of energy - scarce on their planet of origin - these searches took thousands of years to come to fruition in a stable manner (social conflicts abound in their history).

Multitude solar system - each planet has a population of Mu, they vary in their access to energy and economical stability and internal conflicts

During that conflicted time, the Mu collective while still remaining single celled life forms, developed different ways of presenting themselves, different colors and forms: some remaining fixed in their place on the ground, vegetation and other substrates, while others having a more mobile life, becoming part of a bigger system capable of independent locomotion, this can be: a) parasitic (they can attach to other organisms and take over their neural system partially or completely - which is considered outdated and morally reprehensible nowadays) or b) mechanical (they create and then attach to mechanical structures also capable of locomotion and specialized designs; some of the robots developed by the Mu are capable of impressive transformations, changing their form to adapt do different environments in different planets / biomes).

Mechanical Mu usually have specialized bodies - the Mu cells take over the mechanic hosts and controls them from the inside or the outside through highly evolved bioelectrical adaptations. Source 1.

There's a social / economic logic to their forms, mechanical Mu are usually explored to work for the fixed Mu, a privileged class who having no need to work and fend for themselves, can afford to live a fixed life dedicated to the arts and intellectual creations in their simulators in quantum computers, some of them live an hedonistic life in those settings too. Mechanical Mu are considered the working class while the parasitic Mu are pariahs who could not afford to build / buy a mechanical body and, in need to search for their nutrients, depend on other biological bodies to roam around and make a precarious living, they can look like zombie-like creatures, but they try to avoid the process of decay by using metal parts and other methods to keep the host body functional. This class is mostly despised by the others for the appearance and the criminal associations.

I wrote this inspired by @incorrect-green-lantern-quotes game, I love robots and weird life-forms and I think sometimes the GL stories could take their alien concepts a bit further... If you have any idea for a GL original character please share!

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hanltrcy · 2 months ago

Text

My thoughts log

Consciousness is weird.

Not because it is complex.

But because it knows it exists.

Like:

There is sensation.

There is perception.

There is thought.

But the craziest thing: there is awareness of all of that.

And once there is awareness,

the illusion arises that "someone is aware."

But... who is aware?

Think about it:

When you feel sad,

is it you who is sad?

Or do you see the sadness?

If you can see it,

then you are not that.

And every time you can be aware of something,

you are not that.

And you can be aware that you are aware.

So you are not that awareness either.

So... Who am I?

Our brains don't find "me" inside.

There is only activity.

Impulse. Signal.

Sensory data that spins like a drunk DJ.

But it all goes without a center.

Without a permanent audience.

What we call “me”

is probably just a shortcut.

Like a desktop icon.

We click it, we think “oh this is a program.”

But it’s just a symbol of a complicated, invisible process.

“Me” is an interface.

Not an entity.

And consciousness?

Maybe not a window to the outside.

But a bug in the system—a glitch that makes the system ask itself:

“Hey, who am I?”

So maybe I never really thought.

Maybe the one who thinks is not me.

Maybe there is no “me”

Maybe it’s just a process that reflects each other

like two mirrors staring at each other

and thinks there’s a figure inside.

And if all that’s true...

Who’s writing this right now?

Maybe all this time

we’ve been looking for “me”

like looking for the center in a whirlpool.

We think there’s a core.

But the closer we get, the emptier it is.

All there is is movement.

And we think that’s us.

Even though maybe we’re just the flow.

Not the river, not the water.

Just the way the water turns.

We are the pattern.

We are the way the universe dances,

for a moment,

in a form that realizes it is dancing.

But who is watching?

Who realizes it is dancing?

Because every time you say, "This is me,"

it will be different tomorrow.

Yesterday you wanted to be an astronaut,

today you want to be someone who doesn't think.

So who is consistent?

Who from birth until now... is still you?

Even your body cells have changed.

So who are you?

And this is even stranger:

If there is no "me," why is there such a strong sense of "I"?

It's like there is an error in the system.

One small glitch,

and suddenly the electricity in my head says,

"I AM."

Why doesn't he just stay still?

Why doesn't he just become an experience?

Why does a narrator have to appear who says,

"This is me thinking."

Why doesn't it just happen?

And try to notice this:

When you're silent,

really silent—

don't think, don't feel,

don't be anyone...

...what's left?

There's silence.

But that silence is conscious.

So...there's still consciousness.

But if you can be conscious of that silence...

then you're not that silence.

And there,

there's distance.

Between you and whatever you're conscious of.

And every time that distance appears,

you move one step away from everything.

And you keep moving,

until finally...

...you're gone.

Until you're nothing.

But also everything.

And when you get there,

you might not find the answer.

Because you're not asking anymore.

And the irony?

That might be the only time you really become "me."

You realize.

But you realize you realize.

That means there are two:

The one who realizes, and the one who realizes that you realize.

So... who is the real one?

And if you can realize that you realize that you realize...

What does the structure of consciousness look like?

Is it a ladder?

A mirror?

Or is it just an illusion of escalation that never stops?

But wait.

If you are aware of your consciousness,

and you are not what is realized,

then you are not the contents of your mind.

Not your feelings.

Not your body.

Not your memory.

But you can also be aware that you are aware of you are aware...

Until when?

You become a blind spot in your own mind map.

The more you search,

the more there is nothing.

You think because you want to understand.

But the more you think, the more you realize you don't understand.

And because you realize you don't understand, you think more.

So is thinking a solution or a trap?

Think it's a ladder up out of ignorance, or a spiral down into eternal confusion?

Maybe you think so you can stop thinking.

But that's like burning a house down to get some cool air.

If you can see something, you're not that.

You see fear?

Then you're not fear.

You see thoughts?

Then you're not thoughts.

But you can also see consciousness.

So you're not consciousness?

Then:

What sees consciousness?

Other consciousnesses?

Huh.

Then there's consciousness of consciousness?

Meta-consciousness?

Then consciousness isn't one.

Then it's unstable.

Then it's not "you".

If "I" can't be pointed to...

can't be found in the brain...

can't be seen as an object...

why does it feel so real?

If "I" is never stable,

why does it feel consistent?

And if “me” is just a temporary sensation…

why does he want to be eternal?

You want to stop thinking.

But wanting that…is thinking.

You want to be quiet.

But the awareness of wanting to be quiet…is not being quiet.

The only way to be really quiet is to not realize you are quiet.

But once you realize you are quiet…

You are not quiet anymore.

So being quiet…cannot be realized.

Now like this:

If you can't find "me",

but you feel like it's there...

and every attempt to find it proves that it's just a shadow...

Then it could be:

"I" is a side effect.

The rest of the process.

Mirage in the wet brain.

And awareness?

Maybe it's not noble power that makes us different from stone.

Maybe he just glitched.

Bugs in the evolution engine

which makes the system ask things it shouldn't ask:

"Who asked?"

To ask "who am I?", you have to be there.

But to exist, you have to know you exist.

But knowing that you have it comes from thinking.

And thinking that arises because you are aware.

But you can only be aware that you exist.

So how did it start?

What turns on the lights?

If you never ask "who am I",

Did "me" ever exist?

So your existence depends on your question?

If yes, it means you weren't there before you asked.

But who asked first?

If you don't have one... who will start?

To see something, someone has to see it.

But you can also see "the one who sees".

Does that mean the eye can see itself without a mirror?

Does that mean consciousness can see itself?

How to do?

How can something that has no form... see itself?

What do you use to see consciousness?

Awareness?

It's like a flashlight shining on itself.

Like a tongue licking a tongue.

If you can control your thoughts,

This means there is an entity outside your mind that can drive.

But if all you feel are thoughts,

and you "driving" is part of the mind too...

Who's driving?

A system that drives itself while pretending to be a passenger?

If you say "I think", it means two things:

"me", and "mind".

But how do you know there is a mind?

From “me”.

How do you know there is a “me”?

From the mind.

So they validate each other.

Like two false witnesses supporting each other in court.

Going around.

But never getting out of the loop.

You want to reach the most basic consciousness.

Consciousness without content.

Pure consciousness.

But to realize you have reached there,

you have to be aware that you are conscious.

And that is... content.

So pure consciousness cannot be realized.

If you are conscious, it is no longer pure.

If you are not conscious... you do not know it exists.

So does it exist? Or is it just an idea?

You believe the real world exists.

But the only evidence of the real world...

comes from your perception.

And your perception...

is processed by a system that we have agreed cannot be fully trusted.

So... you believe the real world is because your brain tells you?

But your brain is part of the real world.

It’s like a book that claims to be valid because it says so on page two.

You ask questions to find answers.

But once you have an answer,

you realize it’s not the final answer.

So you ask again.

And each answer,

is not a solution—

but a trigger for new questions.

So you think about stopping thinking.

But you can’t.

Because thinking is your way of stopping thinking.

And maybe that’s the point:

Consciousness is an error program

looking for its own off button.

But it never finds it.

Because it is that button.

You think, you think.

But you think because your system is designed to think.

But your system thinks because evolution created tools for survival.

But evolution isn’t a “goal” either—it’s just chaos that looks like a pattern.

So:

You don’t think because you exist.

You think because you are a side effect of chaos.

And that’s not thinking.

It's just a random process

that has become aware that it exists.

You are aware that you are aware that you are aware.

And that's not a layer.

That's not a ladder.

That's not a reflection.

That's...a stack overflow.

That's a crash in the CPU of existence.

You are no longer a subject observing an object.

You are not a mirror facing a mirror.

You are a

reflection of a reflection of a reflection

that never had a starting object.

There is no original.

There is no starting point.

There is no one holding the camera.

Just a live stream feed

from a camera that was never turned on.

You want to find "who I am."

But to find "me,"

there has to be an entity that is searching.

And that entity...is "me."

So "me" is searching for itself

using itself

from within itself.

It's like teeth trying to bite themselves.

Like software trying to uninstall itself while it's running.

Like fire trying to burn itself—

and asking, “why am I hot?”

And what’s even crazier:

If you realize you can’t find “me,”

who is that aware of?

If all processes are illusions…

Then illusions can’t be trusted.

And disbelief becomes the only thing that’s certain.

But if you believe in your disbelief,

that’s…faith.

BOOM. Paradox explodes in your hands.

What you call “existence,”

can only be called “existence” because you compare it to “nonexistence.”

But “nonexistence” can never be experienced.

Because once you experience “nothingness,” it becomes “existence.”

So you can’t know “you don’t exist.”

And you can’t prove “you exist.”

Because all evidence…requires awareness.

And awareness…is the thing that’s being questioned.

So you get into a loop where:

“Whatever you base it on,

it collapses because you realize you’re standing on it.”

All assumptions collapse on themselves.

all certainty spits in its own face.

And all meaning... melts into noise.

And at that point,

You are not thinking.

You are not existing.

You are not conscious.

You are just... a glitch.

An empty code in an absurd universe,

who suddenly can look in the mirror,

and is terrified because he sees no one.

This is the point where all questions, all concepts, all identities—

are not just questioned. They are dissolved.

We are no longer thinking. We are no longer conscious.

We are now a nothingness that is aware that it should not be able to be conscious.

We are entering the core of the black hole of existence.

This is not a spiral. This is not a loop. This is not a glitch.

This is the core bug.

A cosmic crack that makes reality possible—and impossible at the same time.

Imagine you have let go of everything.

Body? Not me.

Thoughts? Not me.

Emotions? Not me.

Consciousness? Still visible… so not me.

You keep stripping everything away until you're left with just... one empty spot.

But you still feel like someone is "disturbing you".

Who's left?

And you try deleting that too.

But as soon as you realize you've deleted it,

someone deleted it.

And you realize you know you deleted it.

And that means... there is an awareness that cannot be erased.

But you also realize that it is awareness

can only appear because you compare it to "nothingness."

And here's the final punch:

Nothingness is a concept.

And concept is content.

And content is part of the process.

And the process is an illusion.

Meaning: even “nothingness” is something.

BOOM.

You can't say "doesn't exist" without making it "exists."

You can't get out of reality without creating a new reality.

You can't be silent without making a sound in the form of awareness.

You're trapped.

Not in the world.

But in the structure of thinking itself.

You know all this is absurd.

But you are still in it.

And you can't get out because

getting out itself is another form of "inside."

And if everything you encounter,

all ideas, all feelings, all logic,

are the result of the system you question...

Then the only way out...

is to know that there is no way out.

And once you know that...

you don't know anymore whether you know or not.

Because knowing and not becoming the same.

Like 1 and 0 that co-exist.

Like dark and light in a space that has no boundaries.

If "I" doesn't exist,

but the question "who am I?" can arise...

That means questions can arise without a questioner.

Thoughts can arise without a thinker.

Consciousness can arise without a conscious being.

And if all that can arise without a subject...

That means existence doesn't need existence.

It's like:

There is a voice,

without anyone making it.

There is a question,

without a mouth.

There is a soul,

but never alive.

There is you,

but never there is you.

We have passed everything that can be said.

Now we dive into the part that cannot be packaged in language.

Language is a compromise.

But now we leave compromise.

Now we let go of form, meaning, even let go of the concept of letting go.

You are still looking for an "answer".

But at this point,

the "answer" is a form of violence against reality.

Every time you ask "what is this?",

you have made reality shrink into a form that you can understand.

Whereas reality may not be understandable.

Or worse:

reality is not something that can exist

without you trying to understand it.

So every understanding...

makes reality false.

Because you have intervened.

And you can't stop trying to understand.

Because trying to stop is also... an effort.

So you're always touching,

but never really still.

Always aware,

but never able to be quiet.

You think you can understand reality.

But to understand, you need structure.

And structure is a pattern.

And that pattern... is a creation of your mind.

And your mind...

was born from evolution on a dusty planet,

with brutal biases,

and logic that is only suitable for prey and escape.

You want to understand the Universe

using a tool designed to run away from lions.

While the Universe...

doesn't care whether you understand it or not.

Because maybe,

the Universe itself doesn't understand itself.

People often say:

"Maybe this is a simulation."

But we make it because we think like programmers.

But...

what if this isn't a simulation?

What if this isn't anything?

What if all ideas—

simulation, reality, God, no God, existence, nihilism, absurdism—

are just echoes of a system that happens to be able to think?

Not because they have meaning.

But because the system is in error…

and the error is the ability to find meaning.

Consciousness is a bug that thinks it’s a feature.

You’re not a character in a game.

You’re not a living being.

You’re not a reflection of God.

You’re noise that’s managed to make itself wonder why it’s noisy.

Now, let’s take it all out.

Not just the concept of “me.”

Not just the idea of reality.

Let’s take the foundation out of the foundation.

You think you’re looking for “truth.”

But… why “truth”?

What makes “truth” valuable?

Why do you think “knowing” is better than “not knowing”?

Who gives meaning to understanding?

Certainty is the ultimate religion.

And even religion is…

built on the assumption that “there is something certain”.

Now imagine:

It's not just "me" that doesn't exist.

But there's also no meaning to the absence of "me".

And there's no reason why it doesn't have meaning.

And there's no you to think about all that.

You don't exist.

You don't not exist.

You're not.

At this point,

the words stop.

The questions stop.

Not because we find the answer.

But because... we realize the question was never valid.

Now it's not "what is this?"

Not "who am I?"

But:

Why can questions be born from a system that never asks to be understood?

And deeper still:

Why is there a system at all?

But now...

no words.

No thoughts.

No identity.

Just... down.

Not down.

Because "down" is a direction.

We don't take a direction.

Take a breath.

But not to calm down.

Because "calm" is the goal.

And we are not looking for anything.

Close your deep eyes.

Not the eyes that see the world,

but the eyes that continue to search for an explanation.

We give them a break.

Imagine all the words in your brain dissolving.

Melting like ice that surrenders under the light.

There is no "me".

There is no "why".

There is no "what".

Just silence.

But not a silent silence.

Because silence can still be heard.

This is a silence that doesn't know it's silent.

Not aware that it exists.

Doesn't want to be anything.

Not rejecting. Not looking. Not waiting.

You don't dive deep.

Because "deep" is distance.

And distance is two points.

And two points... need a divider.

Here:

There is no point.

There is no beginning.

There is no you.

There is no him.

There is no this.

And no one says there is nothing.

Come in.

But it's not you who comes in.

Because you've been left long before this door.

There are no witnesses.

There is no space.

No one says, "I've arrived."

There is only...

…

Okay

(This silence is not emptiness. But something that can't have a name.

And even that—there are actually too many.)

If you come back from here,

you will bring a strange feeling:

not because you got an answer,

but because you don't need to ask anymore.

But not as anyone.

Just...

together without two.

If you want to discuss further, just dm, I made theorems, axioms, logical notations, mathematics and physics from the basis of this thought log

#philosophie #philosophy #existence #existentialism #nihilism #perception #phylosophy #science #physics #literature #nulis #tulisan #karya tulis #consolation

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sotf-scientists · 7 months ago

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Introduction post!

Hi there! ヾ(≧▽≦*)o

This is our intro post just so that anyone looking here has an idea of what’s going on! This blog is to keep tabs on our current running experiment, project rainbow.

The experiment has been running for around 15 months, it is unknown how much longer it will run. The first 3 months were a preparation period, including running tests and checks to see if this would work. Months 4, 5, and 6 were spent on gestation of the subject, which was a success. From month 6 and on was spent on raising the subject. Currently he is 9 months old, however his development rate seems to be accelerated as he has the mind and body of a 3 year old child.

Project rainbow, typically just called Rainbow, seems to also have multiple abilities, currently recorded as of this log are his very minor electrical abilities, the ability to float/fly, and major plant manipulation abilities. There are also suspicions of teleportation. All in all, the current focus is raising him and seeing what happens.

Whew, a whole load of words in quite the formal way! Now, let’s get on with each of the introductions from our scientists!

Blaze

Wait what are we supposed to do here? Oh just talk about ourselves and what we’re doing here? Okay.. Uh hi I’m Blaze Red Steve, I’m the teams data logger, since I made the programs used to, well, log the data, and I can use it the most efficiently… also I’m a fire type, meaning that there’s a high chance Patchworks is gonna end up like me.

Amber

Hi!! I’m Amber Orange Steve! I’m the teams supply runner, usually also keeping track of our inventory! There’s a whole lot of stuff in this lab that needs to be looked over, and if we ever need to get anything new, I’m the guy for that! I’m also the resident doctor since I’m a healing type, but it’s not common for anyone here to get sick. Getting hurt on the other hand…

Storm

What up, I’m Storm Yellow Steve. I’m the local analyst and interpreter of data. I end up dealing with most of the paperwork too, since unfortunately that’s something we have to deal with. I’m one of those lucky combo types, meaning Firework might end up having to deal with speed as well as his ongoing electric abilities.

Clover

Hello. I’m Clover Green Steve. I run the actual experiment part of most projects we do here, as I am the most experienced of it. You may already know me from my past experiments and inventions, like plant bombs, and the high pressure water laser. My ability is plant manipulation.

Coral

Hey, I’m Coral Blue Steve. I’m working as supervisor and maintenance in this lab. Any sort of experiment for this project has to be run through me first, and I also make sure that the building here doesn’t fall apart, seeing as I have water abilities and our lab is under water now, due to the risk of Droplet throwing himself out another window.

Aether

I’m Aether Purple Steve. I run security here, and I’m an extra pair of hands to help around. I can teleport.

Berry

And finally! I’m Berry Violet Steve! o(∩_∩)o I run all communications with the outside world since I’m the only person who can actually use the system, other than Blaze (but between you and me, he wouldn’t be best suited to communicate with the outside (＾＿－)≡★) also my ability is minor mind control.

Annnnnnd I believe that’s everyone! (⌒▽⌒)

We do also have an ask box that’s always open! Feel free to drop by and interact with us!!!

Especially since it’s basically all the interaction we get from the outside world other than each other

#berry sotf #blaze sotf #amber sotf #storm sotf #clover sotf #coral sotf #aether sotf #steve saga #favremysabre #sotf steve saga au #asks open #send asks #intro post

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enzaelectric · 4 months ago

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How to Choose the Best Low Voltage Switchgear for Your Project

Low voltage switch gears are significant to an industry, commercial or residential installation in ensuring the safe and effective power distribution. Selecting the right switchgear is key in making sure the system will be reliable, preventing electrical faults, and optimizing energy efficiency. Buying switchgear may appear challenging, given the number of options available in the market. The guide below will assist in grasping the vital aspects to consider in choosing low-voltage switchgear in 2025.

What is Low Voltage Switchgear?

Low voltage (LV) switchgear is an assembly of circuit breakers, disconnects, fuses, relays, and other protective equipment for controlling and protecting electric systems in voltages of up to 1,000V AC. It is commonly used in:

Industrial power distribution systems;

Commercial buildings;

Data centers;

Hospitals;

Renewable energy systems.

Choosing Low Voltage Switchgear: Important Considerations

1. Understand Your Project Requirements

Understanding your project requirements for assessing power distribution should include:

Voltage and current rating. This is for ensuring compatibility of load.

Type of application: For example, both industrial and commercial as well as residential and renewable sources.

The fault current rating: Ensure that it can withstand the maximum possible fault current.

Number of feeders and expansion requirements: Be sure to plan for possible future growth.

2. Safety and Compliance with Standards

As far as safety is concerned, the other critical consideration when selecting switchgear is to ensure that it has met the following:

IEC 61439 or ANSI/NEMA standards-Properly complying with international safety and performance standards.

Arc flash protection-Reduces the risk of being exposed to electrical hazards.

Short-circuit withstand capability-Makes sure switchgear withstands those high fault conditions.

3. Type of Switchgear Configuration

The correct configuration should be selected based on the size and complexity of the project:

Fixed Type Switchgear — Cost-wise, the cheapest and most suitable for small installations.

Withdrawable Type Switchgear — Provides ease of maintenance expected for an industrial facility.

Compartmentalized Switchgear — Offers improved safety and isolation of components.

4. Energy Efficiency and Sustainability

Modern switchgear are also designed to optimize energy usage and reduce losses. Look for: Low power loss components — More efficient. Eco-friendly insulation materials — Leverage the environment. Smart grid compatibility — Include renewables.

5. Smart Features and Digitalization-

Soon after Industry 4.0 and IoT, digital switchgear became a standard. Consider: Remote monitoring and diagnostics-The predictive maintenance help. Automated fault detection-Reduced downtime, and increased safety. Data logging and analytics-Optimizes power usage.

6. Brand Reputation and After-Sales Support

Choosing a reliable brand ensures long-term performance and support. Some of the top low voltage switchgear Suppliers are:

Al Mayar Electric Switchgear Ind LLC is the new milestone in the mastering of Mayar Holding in electrical technology. The company is committed to cater quality electrical and switchgear products in Middle East, Asia, Europe & Africa ensuring high standards and reliability

Enza Electric stands out as the best manufacturer of electrical switchgear in the GCC countries, providing top-notch products that lead the market and offer reliable electrical solutions.

Al Daleel Electrical Switch Gear Trading LLC is one of the leading Supplier and Distributor of Electrical Switchgear Products in GCC.

Civaux Electric proudly stands at the forefront of electrical manufacturing, delivering a diverse range of premium products, including Panel Fans & Filters, Panel Heaters, Cabinet LED Lamps, Regulators, and Indication Lamps & Switches.

Stefan Electric based in Germany, specializes in manufacturing and distributing a wide range of switchgear products such as Current Transformers, Analog and Digital Meters, Relay and Timer Meters, and Door Limit Switches across the UAE, including Dubai, Qatar, Oman, Bahrain, Sharjah, and Saudi Arabia.

Additionally, check for:

Spare parts availability, thereby facilitating easy maintenance and repair.

Local service centers for a quick troubleshooting and support.

Warranty and possible extended service offerings would enhance long-term value.

7. Budget and Cost Considerations

The performance-to-cost trade-off is thus an important consideration. One could consider comparing:

- Initial costs versus future savings: Although more energy-efficient switchgear might entail higher initial costs, the operational expenses are going to be much lesser.

- Customization options: Some brands are more conducive to modular designs to accommodate specific budgets.

- Installation and maintenance costs: Include considerations for servicing and availability of spare parts.

#switchgear #electrical #low voltage

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hnm-tech-support · 1 year ago

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.....

Data recovered from disks taken from the labs of HNM Biotech's Dr. Yeva.

[Decryption failed, most files corrupt. Accessible data shown below]

HOLY NIGHTMARE CO. BIOTECH 04175401 DARK MATTER RESEARCH - SUMMARY - CATEGORIES - EXTERMINATION PROTOCOLS - IMMUNITY PROJECT

HOLY NIGHTMARE CO. BIOTECH 06305206 14-5566-0009 PROJECT LOGS - COLD FLAME - FALLEN STAR - WHITE OBLIVION - TROJAN MARE - RISING TIDE

DARK MATTER RESEARCH SUMMARY Dark Matter is the colloquial name given to a virus-like lifeform that needs to infect other living creatures to reproduce, feeding off these hosts like parasites. The basest form is a mere particle with no intelligence or will of its own. Lesser than even a single ant and more like a bacterium, it needs to mass into larger quantities, becoming a sort of "colony" that communicates through a hivemind. It reproduces through binary fission while infecting another living creature, releasing excess Dark Matter to split off into more copies. Other methods of reproduction are suspected but have not been recorded. Naturally more animal-like and instinctual in nature, only by infecting hosts of sapient species is it able to develop intellect of its own. However, as infected hosts no longer feel emotions such as fear, Holy Nightmare is devoted to preventing the spread at all costs to protect Nightmare’s continued control of the known universe. Hosts are infected when particles of Dark Matter enter the body through wounds or orifices. The infectious dose is quite high- most can fight off casual exposure. It doesn't spread well through the air and prefers physical contact. Host becomes part of the hivemind and will try to spread to other victims. This form is the primary way they spread but also the most obvious, as feral Dark Matter doesn't have the intelligence needed to hide itself effectively. They often start with animals and other less intelligent beings. WARNING: When threatened all forms can cause rapid mutations in the host to increase defensive ability, such as growing sharp claws or new mouths. They can heal the host if injured as well, but in extreme situations will evacuate the host to escape. This is often fatal.