#Refining Slag

[shiani25]

I really love the stories and artwork here. I'm curious, could you write a story with Starscream getting a new pair job just to piss off Megatron, but not "Oh I don't like it" but more "WHY ARE YOU NEON PINK"? Everyone knows it's revenge to piss of Megatron and even Knockout was surprised he would go that far, especially knowing how hard neon colors are.

"The Neon Menace"

Starscream had had it.

This was unacceptable.

It had been three days.

Three!

And Megatron had not noticed his new paint job.

Starscream had been subtle about it at first.

A tiny shift in the hue of his plating. A bit of polish. A slight enhancement to make himself look sleek and refined—like the second-in-command of the mighty Decepticon army should.

And Megatron?

Hadn’t even looked at him.

It was his job to notice!

That was what mates were for. To complement him. To admire. To worship his beauty!

And yet!

Nothing.

Not even a glance.

So Starscream did what any reasonable bot would do.

He doubled down.

The next day, he went bolder.

Polished his wings to super shiny, if the light was in a right position he could blind someone with them. Added a subtle (but very expensive) shimmer to his finish. Enhanced the red tones to really pop against the silver.

And still.

Nothing.

"Fine!" Starscream seethed. "If he doesn’t notice this time—"

A wild, desperate thought entered his mind.

Something Megatron couldn’t possibly ignore.

The next time he strutted into the Nemesis’s war room, he was a blazing neon pink.

A color so unnatural, so obnoxiously bright, it made Knockout wince.

And that was saying something.

"Starscream," Megatron’s voice was strained. "What in pit… have you done?"

Starscream smirked, crossing his arms. "Oh? So you did notice? How fascinating—considering you were blind to my previous changes."

Megatron just stared.

Not in awe. Not in admiration.

Not in any sort of reaction that Starscream had wanted.

Just… blank, horrified silence.

And then—

"Fix it."

Starscream scoffed. "Oh? You don’t like it?"

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose. "Starscream. You look like a fragging target."

"I look fabulous," Starscream corrected, flipping a wing dramatically. "This is style, Megatron. Something you clearly wouldn’t—"

"You are a neon beacon," Megatron snarled. "You might as well paint a bullseye on your wings and scream ‘shoot me!’ to the Autobots!"

Starscream froze.

The battlefield.

His perfectly streamlined colors had always been useful in the air, blending him in with Cybertron’s skies or Earth’s storms.

But this?

This was…

A death sentence.

Slag!

Starscream clenched his fists. "Well, I—" He straightened. "I don’t need your approval, Megatron! I can be both stylish and deadly!"

Megatron was already waving him off. "Go fix it before I have you shot down myself."

Starscream bolted to Knockout.

Knockout, who had already heard the entire fiasco through the ship’s comms, was barely containing his laughter.

"I have to say, Screamer," Knockout smirked, giving him a slow, dramatic once-over. "This is… a bold look for you."

"Enough!" Starscream hissed. "Fix it."

Knockout sighed theatrically. "Oh, now you want me to fix it? You seemed so proud of it earlier."

"Knockout!"

"Fine, fine," Knockout snickered, grabbing his equipment. "Let’s see what we’re working with—"

And then—

He froze.

"Uh… Starscream."

Starscream’s wings twitched. "What?"

Knockout tapped a finger against his plating. "What… exactly did you use to repaint yourself?"

Starscream frowned. "Some extra supplies from storage. Why?"

Knockout was quiet for a long moment.

Then he exhaled.

"You used permanent industrial-grade coating. It’s embedded into your plating."

Starscream froze.

"…What."*

"It’s… deep," Knockout hummed, inspecting further. "It’s embedded into your plating. If I try to paint over it, it’s just going to bleed through."

Starscream felt his vents stutter.

"No..."

Knockout patted his wing. "Yes."

"No, no, no—this cannot be happening!" Starscream screeched. "Knockout, you have to fix it! You must—"

Knockout laughed. "Oh, now it’s a problem? But it was so fabulous a moment ago."

"KNOCKOUT!"

[dungeonmalcontent]

In d&d, goblinoids are in this weird place.

They're crafty and cunning, but most lack intelligence (representatively, at least). They're in tune with nature in a weird way, and they're technically fey, but they're almost never portrayed as fey. They're capable of industry and wickedly clever designs but are not masters of craft or artisans.

They are the creatures originally intended for cannon fodder that players of ttrpgs kinda fell in love with. They represented a lot of bad tropes, and so we tried to change them but we were not fully capable of washing away the complicated history on them.

When I run goblins as a society. They aren't lesser. They aren't stupid. They aren't bad. They just haven't been given opportunity as a culture. They're outcast as a race of beings, never welcomed in to communities where they'd learn things and have resources due to how different they are. They also tend to be what happens when you get a very diverse heritage (in a sort of roundabout description way). Elves and orcs and dwarves and gnomes and everything. You get fey pointed ears, you get darker green and brown skin tones, you get this thin figure that's surprisingly durable and hardy, they're short, they're nimble, they're good with they're hands, they can work iron. The list goes on. Heck. Sometimes I give them horns.

I also like to rule that they do the best with what they're given. They can't get access to raw materials, so they scavenge what they can. They get metal from slag dumps and pan out the useful bits. Thier cloth is a mixture of scrap hide and recycled trash. Goblin alchemy is slightly more refined because they can gather most of what they need from nature, but glassware is almost always unavailable and so they are limited in what they can make.

And this whole thing makes goblins frustrated. Why are they the ones left out? Are they just monsters to the rest of the world? They have aspects of every other type of humanoid to them, but they just don't have enough of any one thing to be welcome among the other cultures. But when given the chance to shine, goblins can really show that they're diamonds in the rough. And not really all that rough to begin with. Not rough at all. Just a diamond cut another way.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Australian Pokemon - new evolutions

Another set of my Fakemon designed for my original Goorda Region based on a combination of Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand. This time I'm designing new evolutions for older Pokemon, plus a bonus convergent line. Links to previous entries below.

Factortry, the Industry Pokemon, fire/steel type, an evolution of Torkoal. It started eating metal as well as coal and its internal heat melted the metal into slag. The slag has started covering its shell, increasing its defense, but the smoke it releases is toxic. During the industrial revolution, Factortry were used for metal refining, but the practice was banned after it produced too much pollution.

Factortry is based on a coal-burning refinery and industrial age factories, with all the pollution that came with them. Industrial pollution has been reduced thanks to regulations, such as the ones that banned Factortry for use in refining. Its name comes from "factory" and "tortoise".

Castla, the Coral Pokemon, water/rock type, an evolution of Corsola. Its branches have grown together into a fortress-like structure that is virtually unbreakable. It has a symbiotic relationship with small Pokemon that live in its fortress. It defends them from predators while they help clean it. It needs clean water to live in and the populations has dropped considerably due to pollution.

I figured that if Galarian Corsola gets an evolution, the original should too. Like the original, this Castla is based on staghorn coral, but also castles. A castle is a type of barrier and Australia famously has the great barrier reef. Reefs are famous as habitats and are essentially ecosystems based on symbiosis, just like Castla. Like the great barriier reef, pollution and global warming is signaling hard times ahead for poor Castela. Its name comes from "Corsola" and "Castle"

Glideon, the Sugar Glider Pokemon, flying type, an evolution of Eevee. Glideon live in trees and glide around their rainforest homes on flaps of skin between their legs. Using their tails as rudders, Glideon are very proficient gliders and they will perform aerial tricks to impress each other and attract mates. Trainers should be aware that Glideon are highly social and need a diet high in sugar.

Wormeon, the Velvet Worm Pokemon, Bug type, an evolution of Eevee. Wormeon are reclusive beings that live deep in the forest and are rarely seen. Their fuzzy pelt is so soft people can get addicted to petting them. Wormeon bodies are soft and fragile, so they defend themselves by spitting out sticky slime and powerful acid.

If Gamefreak won't make new Eeveeloutions then dammit I will. Glideon is based on sugar gliders and Wormeon is based on velvet worms. Sugar gliders are a type of possum that glide around on skin flaps called patagia and have a very fruit-heavy diet. They are found in Australia and have been exported as exotic pets. Unfortunately, the biggest provider of sugar gliders is pretty unethical. Velvet worms are members of a unique phylum and can be described as worms with legs. They are very soft, hence the name, and spit slime for offense and defense like Wormeon. There are many species of velvet worm in Aotearoa. I may end up revising the Wormeon design as I'm not totally sold on it. I don't think it looks enough like an Eevee for my liking.

Frozosis, the Cryptobiosis Pokemon, ice type. It was once thought to be a regional variant of Solosis, but is now known to be unrelated. These strange Pokemon are found frozen under the ice on high mountains, where the cold keeps them in stasis. Scientists believe they froze themselves possibly millions of years ago to survive a mass extinction and are only now beginning to thaw out. Those who thaw out often roll down the mountains to be found in the lowlands.

Frozosis evolves to Frozuion, the Cryptobiosis Pokemon, ice type. Despite being frozen to the point where biological activity should cease, Frozuion are still capable of moving and feeding. Scientists suspect they are in a sleepwalking-like state of half-stasis and that if one were to fully thaw out, it would have mysterious powers, though nobody knows how to do it safely.

Frozuion evolves to Reunifroz, the Cryptobiosis Pokemon, ice type. They have some strange power that allows them to levitate and act alive, despite being frozen so cold that no conventional life could exist. Scientists are unsure of what would happen if one were to thaw out as they are so cold even molten magma cannot warm them. It is possible that a thawed Reunifroz would have powers unlike any other Pokemon.

The Frozosis line is convergent to the Solosis line. They are based on cryptobiosis, a state of near-death stasis that certain living things can enter to survive extreme conditions. The Solosis line are based on embryo development and the Frozosis line are based on frozen embryos. The first successful pregnancy from a frozen embryo happened in Australia. Because it's frozen and in cryptobiosis, the cell in the Frozosis line doesn't develop like the one in the Solosis line. Frozuion and Reunifroz are based on micro-animals. Some species of micro-animal can enter cryptobiosis to survive changing conditions. Frozuion is based on a tardigrade (the poster child for cryptobiosis) while Reunifroz is based on a rotifer. Their names come from "frozen" and the Solosis line's names.

Previous entries in this series. Misc 4, misc 3, single-stages, non-natives, regional standards, creepy lines, regional variants, birds, early-game standards, misc 2, misc 1, starter variants, starters

[dreamofhircine]

FLANKER-4 had nothing to fear.

On paper the 'old school' analog pilots have longer shelf-lives, it was a lot harder to get neural decay or brain damage with mostly analog controls and contact-only neural wreaths after all. The wear and tear on the body was worse but that just left pilots with twisted spins and aching muscles, maybe a future heart attack waiting to trip way down the line. Not like the neural-hackjobs, burning through every synapse and endocrine gland in their body just to get their mech to take a few steps forward. Nervous spasms, seizures, brain death mid-maneuver. They were supposed to kill themselves before they even closed on your line. The intel said so. The reports, the briefings, the media broadcasts from a half different fronts across the system.

Cheap tricks, flashy but no substance. That's what everyone said.

The reality was currently coring FLANKER-3 with a pile-driver, reactor-gutting it before the enemy approaching alerts had even finished calling out. The head-case pilots, the brain-fucked freaks, the half-life dreamer-pilots that didn't even know what they were doing half the time had burned down hard from low-orbit and swung in like a hammer blow across the line. Just three of them, a pathetically outnumbered desperation tactic, a play to stall the advance if it had been any other unit sent in.

They were just too fast, too reckless, moved weird and fluid in a way that showed they were closer to their mech than a pilot like FLANKER-4 ever would be to hers. It didn't matter that it had flashed-in memories of piloting so fresh its brain was still tingling and she had years of real fighting, there was no chance of matching that kind of refined skill.

The enemy trio didn't move like pilots moved mechs, they moved like a dancer twirling through the air. Where most pilots trained a lifetime just to deflect shots or angle them to the heaviest parts of the frame the freaks managed to actually dodge them, ducking under and around FLANKER-2's panicked spread of shots right after pulling out of FLANKER-3'd ruined core. Thrusters across the frames of the strange frames never stopped burning, dazzlingly rapid sequences of ignition and burn and cut-off as they powered through the twists, hurtling weapon-studded limbs through space at a pace that was difficult for FLANKER-4's target assistance suite to track.

Even the numbers advantage didn't count for anything the way just one of them had closed in and cut the squad of mechs off the rest of the line already, how the second one had pushed in and started on the rest immediately, how the exo-suit support infantry usually flocking around FLANKER-4's legs were already gone and reduced to melted slag and gory puddles by laser arrays still glittering in the dark as they traced glowing patterns into FLANKER-3's descending ejection pod.

The pod landed in flaming chunks in the mud spread two hundred meters wide even as FLANKER-4 opened fire and missed every shot. Fucking headcases, she cursed, as the third cut in faster than she could traverse and slipped right behind her firing arcs.

[orbitofglass-admin]

[C::<BLUE-EXCLUSION>//CAPTAIN<SS-Kaziti-Kaze>]

[Salut, this is Captain Brana of the Kaziti Kaze, inbound from Moldoveanu Gate.

We are asking for permission to dock, with additional request for retrofit and repairs. Our particle shielding was uniformly compromised by unknown means near Annapurna Gate and will need complete replacement. We are also requesting a full diagnostic run on behalf of our sponsors in House Rasul, of Glass, who will have already wired payment for all of this.

Current cargo is 4.000.000 Megagramme of liquids and liquefied gases for industrial purposes, a majority of it refined machine oil and chemical fuel, the attached manifest has all the additional detail.

Cargo was bought near Kaletka through House Skaron, of Stone, and transferred to House Rasul, of Glass, under whoose official ownership it shall enter the Orbit.

Hope that covers everything to initialize procedures, I will be at attention on the bridge for the next 4 hours to accept follow-up inquiries.

Cpt. Brana signing off.]

[GENET-ORBIT///INITIALIZING.DELIBERATING] [QUERY:::DOCKING.APPROACH] [INTERLOCUTOR:::BRANA/KAZITI.KAZE] [VOICE:::OA04C-Livia]

Salut, Captain. You will be docking at Arc 2/Stalwart, Bay 4, on the inner edge. Approach vectors have been sent to your vessel. Traffic is slow; requests to stay within a reasonable distance are based on the state of your craft, as I have routed you through combwake to minimize damage to your craft by the Rose in lieu of working particle shielding.

OA02S-Pelte will be contacting your vessel on a direct channel to initialize docking handshake procedures when you near the station. Please note that the process will be smoothest if you pre-clear direct contact between him and the entity operating your ship's systems.

Repairs are pre-approved but please expect an additional 2-14 days in the Orbit (depending on print demand) in order to facilitate them. Working particle shielding is mandatory for operations in the Harlequin's Rose and departure prior to its replacement will be highly discouraged.

Also, as a personal aside: do you have logs from the event that slagged your shielding? I would be interested in reviewing them entirely for my own interest.

[bestworstcase]

I think your point about fanon Salem and Grimm interpretations only really reinforces just how easily people will swallow propagandistic thinking and rhetoric if they think it sounds right, and never give prior information any serious thought.

uh. no

fanon tends toward superficial and simplified readings because fandom at its core is about transformative rather than analytical engagement with the text and fandom culture is often actively hostile to the idea that the text matters. which is something i’ve discussed at length before so i won’t belabor the point but to use an example:

salem describes humanity as “strong, wise, and resourceful,” as having “passion and ingenuity,” as being capable of surviving and thriving in an “unforgiving world.” the ability to draw strength from hope is “undoubtedly mankind’s greatest asset” and “when banded together, unified by a common enemy, they are a noticeable threat.” these are all things that we have heard her directly state in soliloquies, a narrative device for conveying the internal thoughts and beliefs of a character. the story opens with salem waxing poetic about humanity’s virtues.

and yet if you suggest that salem thinks highly of humans, that she admires their passion and wisdom and ingenuity and her destructive war is undergirded by absolute faith that humanity will survive it, people get confused. because the fandom is largely uninterested in what salem actually believes—something that, again, the story has not only explicitly conveyed to us but led with—and has instead constructed an alternate characterization out of stock tropes (e.g. ‘evil cannot comprehend good’) and anti-themes (e.g. a major narrative theme is the importance of moving forward despite grief, and salem is the villain, therefore salem refuses to move on and is obsessed with getting ozma back)

likewise the story doesn’t say grimm are mindless: the characters describe them as “manifestations of anonymity,” lacking a soul, that “not every grimm is mindless,” that “although the creatures of grimm appear mindless, more delicate observation has proven contradictory,” that younger grimm “tend to be more reckless” while older grimm “learn from their experience” and “exercise caution”—all of this in combination with grimm behaving in ways that suggest intelligence and social cooperation.

the text itself is not unclear or remotely subtle about what it’s doing. the problem is that fandom is—by nature of being a community oriented around transformative engagement—not interested in the text except as raw material to mine and ‘refine’ and thus quite a lot of textual material gets dumped as slag. that’s not “propagandistic thinking,” that’s just what happens when you get a lot of people picking over a story for creative inspiration.

there IS a degree of Christian Behavior TM involved in shaping the fanon vis-a-vis salem and the grimm, but even that largely follows from the huge influence christianity has had on the development of western storytelling; this is very evident in the fanon treatment of the brothers both prior to V9 (with light cast as the benevolent God and dark as his malevolent inferior) and after (with the blacksmith cast as the benevolent God and the brothers as corrupt pretenders) but it does also play a role in the resistance to the ideas that grimm are not mindlessly evil hordes or salem is capable of genuine love and compassion.

which again is not “propagandistic thinking,” it’s people interacting with a story through a culturally christian lens because they are culturally christian.

[siberat]

*ordering fast food voice* Can I get uhhh...

Solo Phar/ma drabble?

Mayybee with him being jealous over Rat/chet and Dri/ft's relationship, specifically invested in the food and eating aspect. So he just fantasizes and imagines that he's being fed by Rat/chet or whatever while stuffing his face...

idk I just really like anthing with Phar/ma :3

( I did miss one aspect of your request, I am so sorry but here it is)

Life wasn’t fair.

 Pha/rma slammed himself back in his chair, crossed his arms over his cockpit, and pouted. The jet could obsessively spy on the other Doctor using spy cameras, and he did not like what he saw.

And just what did he see?

Rat/chet apparently took the plunge and conj/ux’ed up with some other, less deserving mech. Some ex’C/on named Dr/ift.  His love was getting all lovey-dovey with a sportscar, nonetheless. Cuddles. Kisses. His dear Rat/chet was all smiles and laughs as he spent his evenings pampering over this…this… pretty boy buy-mech.

What did Rat/chet ever do for him? Pha/rma growled, taking another massive bite of his snack.  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I won’t be able to make it to your ceremony. I have to work late,’ or ‘That was tonight?’ His personal favorite was, ‘You knew I was busy and couldn’t get the night off…’

 That line still cut deeply. Was it asking too much to have his peer with him to celebrate his achievements?

Obviously, that answer was yes. The red-and-white Doctor always seemed to have an excuse to get away from doing things with him. Slag, he doubted his colleague even cared when they were separated so far away when the whole Del/phi post came up.

Pha/rma snorted as he shoved a massive mouthful of chocolate cake and its wrapper tossed onto the floor. Optics furrowed as he angrily sucked icing off his fingers. Rat/chet never made time for him, yet tripped all over this Dr/ift douchebag. Yeah, optics rolled at that truth.

Just what did this grounder have that he didn’t? Pri/mus, he was a prestigious doctor and was from the same class! Just who wouldn’t want a refined, cultured mech such as himself hanging on your arm as you gloated around the party, boasting of one’s accomplishments? The jet’s optics furrowed as a toothy sneer appeared on his face.

One of those accomplishments should be sporting such a catch of a con/jux! He was talking of himself, mind you, not this…this silly imposter that stole his glory! The grounder wasn’t even that good-looking!

With a heavy sigh, Pha/rma blindly reached for a box of fancy chocolates as his stomach grumbled. The fancy ribbon was ripped off, and the lid was pushed aside. Without tearing his optics off the video screen, fingers idly snagged a candy and popped it into his mouth. The sweetness of the cadmium rushed across his tongue, only temporarily numbing the pain of watching his crush swoon over another mech. Even when he pinched and rubbed at his now swollen belly, the sting of anger and jealousy did not ebb. But one after the other, those candies were devoured. One by one, his gut grew taunt.

Apparently, the jet wasn’t the only one who developed a sweet tooth.

Over the spying sessions of the surveillance cameras, Rat/chet loved providing a slew of different foods for Dr/ift to taste. By the swelling of that swords/mech’s frame, Dr/ift enjoyed consuming them. So, now Pha/rma had to endure watching his medic spoon-feed the disgusting ex-C/on.

And watch in envy at all the belly rubs that ensured. Yeah, his first balking at Dr/ift getting fatter was filled with laughter and ridicule: just look how that once sleek frame rounded out! It wouldn’t take long for Rat/chet to ditch this pig and come running to where he belongs: in HIS arms!

But something must be wrong with Rat/chet’s processor, for instead of being repulsed, his servo couldn’t stop groping. Those hands- technically, his hands- kneaded and caressed that chubby belly all hours of the evening. Rolls were gently pinched and loving swats slapped the amble aft. Ratch just couldn’t get enough of that ever-softening frame.

Seeing the playful banter, love-struck smiles, and ogling optics made Pha/rma sick! This should have been him! But now, all he could do was stare at this screen in the middle of the night and watch what should have been his.

Rat/chet should be feeding him spoonful after spoonful of such fine, decadent sweets! Those hands should ghost over his frame, tickle down his cockpit, and snake into the seams of his plating! It would be sublime to lay across the CMO’s frame, having the grounder whisper how great yours truly was in his audial as warm smiles were tossed for his enjoyment! To have his godly frame worshipped….

Why did Rat/chet never touch him like that? His belly needed rubbing. His plating had long grown taunt with the onslaught of never-ending sweets shoved down his maws. His once sleek frame softened, love handles gathered along his sides, and his thighs thickened. Slag, his cockpit had more difficulty clicking back into place upon transforming back into root mode.

Everything Dr/ift had, he had. Everything Dr/ift could provide, he could offer better.

The jet grimaced, swallowing hard before banging his servo on his chest. Reaching for the fizzy ener/gon drink, Pha/rma took a hearty swig. The sting of the strong carbonation was ignored as he chugged, hoping to drown his sorrows. His chair squeaked and groaned, threatening to give out, as he leaned back to tip the rest of the beverage from the bottle.

The only thing this accomplished was making his tummy swell and churn even more. Painful quakes erupted, placing such an uncomfortable pressure on his insides. It felt like he swallowed a bomb that was on the verge of exploding. A loud, high-pitched wail emitted from his midsection as servos clutched the quivering mass.

‘Pri/mus,’ Pha/rma muttered, closing his optics as this pressure rose in his throat. His pedes shuffled uncomfortably on the floor as the jet squirmed in his seat. A fist banged on his chest again. He cleared his throat.

If only Rat/chet were here to soothe his aching belly! To feel those servo caress his belly, working out the clenching and spasming with his touch, would simply be divine. Pha/rma’s own hands rubbed tiny little circles across his angry paunch, but it wasn’t the same. It would feel- and look- so much better if Rat/chet were on his knees worshipping his stuffed belly… placing kisses along his acquired stretch marks, cooing nice words to him, and calming this grumbling monster!

“Blllooooourrrrrrrgghhhaaaaapppp!” Pha/rma’s optics shot wide open at the uncultured behavior.

The sound echoed through the empty room, reminding him of how alone he was.

Rat/chet would never be here.

Rat/chet never wanted him.

Rat/chet never took notice of him.

Now was the time to dig into that rich, red velvet cake.

[el-smacko]

So something that’s kind of funny is that a few years ago, back when I was living in California, I saw a post where someone said that Christianity is antisemitic and genocidal.

My personal experience with Christianity was neither, but I knew that Evangelical Christianity, particularly in or from the United States and Britain, certainly was, and that even the history of my church was not free from guilt, and that even a neutral reckoning of the American spiritual milieu would identify Christianity as invasive, if only because, despite Mormon and Anglo settler “Eden” mythology, no element of modern Anglo Christianity can be considered endemic. So I sent them an ask that said actually Christianity is not evil per se, because certain of its manifestations even in America or the Americas are liberating and sources of community in the context of antisocial, misanthropic Anglo industry’s war on community. You know, Christianity was a charity network before the Roman Emperor made it fit orthodoxy, canon, and hierarchy, so colonized peoples can refine away the imperial slag and find the liberating philosophy thereunder.

I got blocked, so I doubted. Maybe Christianity really was fundamentally antisemitic and even genocidal, after all because of standpoint epistemology I am not qualified to say that something is not antisemitic, even if my own experience with it didn’t involve any hatred. So I researched and researched the history of the church and of Judaism. I strengthened my knowledge of Koine and learned Hebrew. I learned about the disconnect between Paul and Peter, between indigenous and Roman, between English and Catholic, between Latin and Greek—and Aramaic! I learned why and how so much of Christianity was antisemitic and I was not at all surprised to find that the problem with Christianity, like any religion or cultural medium, was Empire. The Greeks, the Romans, the British, and the Americans all make the Kingdom of Heaven conveniently eschatological rather than, as indigenous people have clearly identified all throughout history, the immediate model of a just society. Empires disarm a philosophy of resistance by making it a religion.

But of course I do all of this defensive intellectual self-improvement rooted in self doubt because of the judgement of a person found in the Zionist block list, so their position as an arbiter of antisemitism is, to say the least, a little fragile. To them, a people’s identity is antisemitic because they will not deny their own indigeneity and roll over when a colonizer tells them to stop existing. The slogan “from the river to the sea” is threatening for correctly identifying where their people lived before they were confined to Bantustans. Violently resisting the genocidal project of an ethnostate is somehow itself antisemitic.

Yeah, no, maybe you should try to educate yourself before using your book tumblr platform to justify crimes against humanity.

[metalbergmanufacturing]

The Importance of Steel Factory in Modern Industry

Steel Factory play a pivotal role in modern infrastructure and industrial development. As the backbone of construction, manufacturing, transportation, and various other sectors, steel production is essential to creating the durable materials that shape our daily lives. From skyscrapers to automobiles, bridges to household appliances, steel is an indispensable resource that drives economic growth and innovation.

What is a Steel Factory?

A steel factory, also known as a steel mill, is a facility where raw materials such as iron ore, coal, and limestone are transformed into steel. These factories are responsible for producing different types of steel, each with varying characteristics and properties depending on its intended use. Steel factories utilize a combination of processes, including melting, casting, rolling, and shaping, to produce steel in the form of sheets, bars, coils, or beams.

There are two primary types of steel mills:

Integrated Steel Mills: These plants handle the entire production process, from refining raw materials to producing finished steel.

Mini Mills: These focus on recycling scrap steel and refining it into new steel products, contributing to sustainable manufacturing practices.

The Steel Production Process

The production of Steel Factory involves several key steps. The most common method is the Basic Oxygen Furnace (BOF) process, while the Electric Arc Furnace (EAF) method is used in mini mills for recycling scrap metal.

Ironmaking: The first step involves extracting iron from iron ore in a blast furnace. The furnace heats the ore along with coke (a carbon-rich substance derived from coal) and limestone, producing molten iron and slag (a by-product used in other industries).

Steelmaking: In the steelmaking phase, molten iron is combined with scrap metal and oxygen to reduce carbon content and impurities. This process, typically done in a basic oxygen furnace, creates liquid steel.

Casting: The liquid steel is then poured into molds to create solid shapes, which can include slabs, billets, and blooms. These are the raw forms of steel that will be further processed.

Rolling and Shaping: After cooling, the steel is rolled into thinner sheets or shaped into desired forms, such as bars or beams. These products are then ready for industrial use.

Finishing: Depending on the intended use of the steel, additional processes such as heat treatment, coating, or surface treatments may be applied to enhance durability, corrosion resistance, and aesthetic appeal.

The Role of Steel Factories in Infrastructure

Steel is a foundational material in modern infrastructure. Steel Factory supply the structural components needed for building everything from bridges to high-rise buildings. Steel’s strength, flexibility, and resilience make it the ideal material for supporting heavy loads and withstanding environmental stressors.

Construction: Steel beams, girders, and rebar are essential components in large-scale construction projects, providing stability to buildings and bridges.

Transportation: Steel factories produce materials for the automotive, shipbuilding, and railway industries. From the frames of vehicles to the tracks that trains run on, steel is integral to modern transportation systems.

Energy: Steel is used in the construction of oil rigs, wind turbines, and pipelines, playing a crucial role in energy infrastructure.

Steel Factories and Sustainability

As concerns about climate change and environmental degradation grow, steel factories are making significant strides toward sustainability. Many steel producers are shifting towards eco-friendly methods, such as using Electric Arc Furnaces to recycle scrap metal and adopting cleaner technologies that reduce emissions.

Innovations in Steel Manufacturing

Steel Factory are at the forefront of technological innovation. Advances in automation, artificial intelligence, and robotics have transformed the industry, increasing efficiency and reducing costs. Some key innovations include:

High-Strength Steel: New steel alloys are being developed that offer higher strength while using less material, making them more environmentally friendly and cost-effective.

3D Printing with Steel: The rise of additive manufacturing has introduced the possibility of 3D printing with steel, which could revolutionize industries such as aerospace and automotive engineering.

Smart Factories: The integration of IoT (Internet of Things) devices allows for better monitoring of equipment and processes in steel mills, optimizing production and minimizing downtime.

Conclusion

Steel Factory are the cornerstone of industrial progress. They provide the raw materials necessary for countless industries, from construction to transportation and energy. As technological advancements and environmental concerns shape the future of steel production, these factories continue to adapt and innovate, ensuring that steel remains a vital part of modern life.

The next time you see a skyscraper, drive a car, or walk across a bridge, remember that it all started in a steel factory—a place where raw materials are transformed into the building blocks of our world.

Metal Berg Manufacturing Company Factory

Block 16 Plot 283, Green Estate, Amuwo Odofin Estate 102102, Lagos, Nigeria

+234 803 044 2676

[phantomdoofer]

Everybody Loves a Clown

Trigger warning for blood, dismemberment, death, and abuse.

Paolo hunched in his room, fiddling with a small radio he'd snuck from the trash. After cooking, it was his favorite thing to do. He rubbed his cheek where his father had backhanded him. The imprint of his ring was visible on his cheek. He hated that ring. He'd been hit with it enough. His father Giorgio fiddled with it constantly, and never took it off.

Mama never liked it, either. His missed his mother dearly, but she'd passed away last year. His father had been very tight-lipped about what happened - one day she'd simply fallen over, shaking and convulsing, and he'd rushed her to the hospital. A few hours later, she was gone.

He dropped the tiny screwdriver, his mind drifting to her face. He missed her so much. It was one of the only things he and his father agreed on. Unfortunately, ever since she'd passed, he'd been pushing him even harder.

You're not gonna be some damned cook! You're gonna get a real job!

Paolo picked the screwdriver back up. Even though he enjoyed working on mechanical stuff, the thought that it pleased his father had started to make him hate it, too. But he knew, so long as the man lived, he had no hope of being a cook, his true passion. So he tinkered, and read, and refined his knowledge.

Maybe once I'm free of him, I can do what I really want.

He clipped the last wire into place, and carefully put the faceplate back on. He twisted the power knob, and scratchy noise came out. Well, it's got power at least. Let's see if I can get anything. Carefully he twisted the tuner, searching for a station. After several seconds, a scratchy tune squeaked out of the speaker.

Paolo smiled. Success! He twisted the knob, looking for other stations. Then he caught a new one:

"*Squark* ...reports are... Demons have turned their sup...eapon on ... Ninda... at least five cities, including the capitol, destroyed... casualties... millions..."

The radio gave a last screech and burst into flame. Paolo quickly threw a cloth over it, smothering the flames. Then the meaning of the broadcast hit him.

They destroyed our home.

Though they lived in an Allied nation, his father had been very vocal about supporting their old homeland. "'Bout time they did somethin' right," Giorgio had said, "that's right, take it all back! We deserve it!"

Paolo ran to the living room. He might hit me again, but he better hear this. As he turned the corner, he started to speak. "Dad, did you hear what-"

He stopped. The TV was on, and the news showed images of the capitol city, a melted, burning pile of slag. Giorgio sat staring at the screen, his mouth slack, completely stunned.

"D-Dad?" Paolo approached cautiously. His father could be explosive, but he'd never seen him like this. Paolo waved a hand in front of his face, but there was no reaction, not even a blink.

Paolo quietly backed away. If it meant he could just exist unmolested for a while, he'd take it. As he moved through the doorway, though, he heard Giorgio spoke. "They... that can't be right... why would... we were winning... they... they're all..."

Paolo quickly darted back to his room. He closed the door just in time to hear his father roar in rage followed by a crash that sounded suspiciously like the TV going through a window.

Paolo looked down from his bedroom just in time to see Giorgio storm out into the front yard, waving his hands and ranting at the top of his lungs. He turned, and Paolo ducked back, hoping he hadn't been seen. He'd caught just a glimpse of tears on his father's face, and he knew if Giorgio knew he'd seen it, he'd beat him red and yellow out of his own embarrassment of being seen to be "weak."

The ranting continued for several minutes, until he heard a police siren out front. Guess the neighbors called the police again. He peeped out in time to see Giorgio being loaded into a squad car, still ranting. As the car began to roll away, Giorgio looked up, and Paolo was shocked. For once, on his father's face wasn't rage, but sadness, fear, and grief.

Paolo sat against the wall, considering what he'd seen, and what he'd heard. After several minutes of turning it over in his head, he came to a conclusion. Dad thought we'd take over the world, but those Demons just wiped most of us out. How much family did we just lose? We might be an endangered species now.

While he hadn't thought he'd care, the thought chilled him. His vivid imagination, so long suppressed, provided him with gruesome images of what the Demon's weapon probanly did to the people in those cities. His thoughts filled with the smell of burnt bread and the sound of screams.

Paolo gripped his head and cried. "Stop. Please stop." He looked over at the TV, the small video player still loaded with his favorite show. He quickly went and turned it on - shortly wacky images of cartoons and clowns danced across the screen. He laughed, his fears forgotten, the images fading as he dove headfirst into the world of the cartoon.

He climbed into his bed put the video on repeat.

~~~~

"And now, please welcome to the stage, this year's valedictorian, Paolo Totino!"

The audience politely applauded as Paolo took the podium. He looked into the audience - Giorgio had actually shown up for once, but he looked at the ground, refusing to look at Paolo. Paolo had long since learned to hide his true feelings - while he seethed inside at Giorgio's indifference, outwardly he was all smiles and charm. Just play to the crowd, Paolo. Give them the show they want.

Paolo cleared his throat. "Thank you, sir. I'll try not to keep you guys waiting, it's too hot out here." The audience laughed. Paolo smiled. "It's been an experience being here at this school, and I've felt so welcomed since I moved here. I can honestly say this is the best place I've ever been." The audience cheered. Paolo smiled once again. It's just so easy! He took on a stern demeanor. "We lost so many people in the war. You can still see the scars on the land today." He gestured at the land around them - while trees and grass had grown, the craters and burned remains of trees were still visible. The audience grumbled. "But we've pressed on, and persevered! Now it's up to us to bring the world back - not just to the way it was, but even better!" They cheered again. "Thank you."

As he stepped away and the audience cheered and clapped, he waved and pretended to stumble down the stairs. Everyone laughed. Yes, yuk it up, you plebes. Don't mind ol' Paolo, he's a big clumsy clown!He sat down and waited for the principal to start handing out the diplomas. He glanced over at Giorgio. He caught the old man looking at him, and Giorgio quickly turned away. Paolo grinned. All the fire had gone out of the old bread when the Demons had committed genocide on the Ninda. Even now, there were less than a million of their kind left in the world. Which suited Paolo just fine. He'd never met another Ninda he liked. But because of Giorgio's lethargy, Paolo had had to get an after-school job to get them by. Paolo had hardly slept the last few years, between school and work. But I did it, you old crust. I'm done. I'm at the top.

Paolo heard his name called, and he walked across the podium, smiling his shiny smile for the audience, waving cheekily for the cameras as he accepted. He did a little dance on the spot to look like he was excited. The audience laughed. He made a point to ham it up whenever he could. Everybody loves a clown, after all.

He wished sometimes he felt it in his heart.

~~~~

Paolo got out of the cab at the hospital. He'd barely had time to get his day started when someone called him: your father is in the hospital. He's not expected to survive.

Paolo felt... strange about the whole thing. If anyone had asked him how he'd feel about Giorgio dying, he'd have said good riddance to the abusive old coot. But now that it looked like it was about to happen, he felt... nothing, really. He was just here for the look of it. He'd rather be in class.

He took the elevator up to the ICU, and was met by a nurse almost immediately. "Oh, Mr. Totino. Your father is in 19. He's asking about you."

Oh, is he now? He thought. Probably wants to make some deathbed confession. He thanked her, and walked to the room.

The shriveled old crust barely lifted the covers up now. The oxygen mask barely fit around his rounded face, and his features were shriveled and dry-looking. Fell far in a year, haven't you? Paolo sat next to him. "Giorgio? I'm here. The nurse said you asked for me?"

Giorgio weakly turned his head. "You actually showed up, you little bastard. Figured you'd leave me here to die alone."

It wouldn't have broke my heart. "Well, I'm here now. What did you want?"

Giorgio coughed. "Wanted to make sure you got this before I was gone. One of these nurses would probably steal it while they moved me." He held out a hand, and Paolo held his own out. Into it Giorgio dropped... a ring. That damned ring! Paolo looked at it - the perfectly round garnet stone reminded him of a pepperoni. Paolo loathed it with all of his being. Unconsciously he rubbed his cheek.

Giorgio was too far gone to notice. "Take... care of that, Paolo. It's... the symbol of our family. It's old... no one knows how old. Don't let it... out of your sight." He reached up and grabbed Paolo's collar. Paolo was surprised the old man still had the strength. "I... mean it, boy! If... you listen to... one thing... I've ever...said... don't let it... go..."

Suddenly the hand slackened and dropped. The heart monitor flatlined, and the nurses and doctors rushed in to try and save him.

Paolo stepped back. There's no point, he doesn't want to be saved. But it made them feel better to try. He walked out of the room, feeling strange. He was finally free, but he almost felt... sad. Having someone to hate had, in a strange way, been an anchor for him. Now it was gone.

He looked down at the ring. I know exactly what to do with you.

~~~~

Paolo stood before the building, his smile glossy as the sun. He held a comically large set of scissors, and he cut the ribbon blocking the doors. "Pizzaboy's Pizz-Pizza is now officially... OPEN!" He threw his hands up as confetti launchers blasted around him. "Come on in, folks!" He honked the tomato nose on his face. Everyone laughed and went through the doors, where the staff waited to help them. The animatronics were already working, singing a jaunty tune.

Paolo thought about what it had taken to get to this point. He'd pawned the ring immediately, and he'd used that to make a series of smart investments. Finally he'd decided to live his dream - he'd opened a pizzeria. Sure, he'd had to cut some corners - animatronics weren't cheap, after all - but he was happy.

Paolo bounced from table to table, acting like the clown he was dressed as. He'd studied his childhood cartoons obsessively, and could imitate them perfectly now. The kids loved it. The parents acted a bit nervous - a seven-foot-tall clown could have that effect - but they finally got into the spirit of it. Paolo was having the time of his life.

~~~~

"Boss, you can't just keep cutting corners like this. People are starting to complain about the pizza being..."

Paolo looked up angrily. "Being WHAT?" He was testy. For some reason he couldn't get that damn ring out of his head. Maybe it's guilt? But when he'd gone to get it back, it had been sold to a collector, some Italian multimillionaire, and he wanted a king's ransom for it. He was trying to save money, but the pizzeria was so expensive...

The man flinched. "One of them said it tasted like..." he gulped, "...cardboard."

"Cardboard? CARDBOARD?" Paolo stood up, knocking things off his desk. The clown outfit made his rage even more terrifying. "I've tested and tested that recipe! It's scientifically perfect! Balanced to be the ultimate combination of taste and nutrition!"

The man flinched back even more. "The recipe's not the problem, boss! It's the ingredients! The budget just don't allow for the stuff we need to make it work!"

Paolo slammed his hands down on the desk! "No excuses! You're just not trying hard enough! MAKE IT WORK!" He shoved the man out of his office and slammed the door. He flopped down in the chair, which creaked alarmingly. He brooded. I've got to get it back. Somehow.

~~~~

Outside, the manager was met by the few employees still working. Most of them had walked out by now. "So what'd he say, boss?"

The boss shook his head. "He said "make it work." Like we're not stretched to the limit as it is."

Another worker spoke up. "Make it work? We're losing customers fast! We can't keep up! If we can't improve the quality, we'll lose what few customers we got left!"

"At least the animatronics still work," a third said. "But I swear I saw the boss put something weird in them the last time he worked on 'em..."

The boss shook his head. "No, we can't do this anymore." He clapped his hands. "I'm out. Anyone staying?"

They all looked at each other, and shook their heads.

"Figured that'd be your answers. Come on, let's get out of here."

~~~~

Paolo worked furiously on a small device he thought would improve the animatronics. If they can make their own decisions, they'll be even better! I could sell the tech and make a fortune! He'd found the parts in an abandoned building, near the edge of the city. The only problem was, it looked like Old Tech. Even I can't replicate that. He held it to the light critically. I'll try it tomorrow.

He put it in a desk drawer, stood up, and tweaked his bowtie. Time to go play to the crowd! He stepped out... to an empty dining room. He looked around. No customers, no staff. He ran to the kitchen. No one. A note sat on the counter. He read it...

Boss, we can't do this anymore. We're all quitting. We all got offers from other pizza places around the city. We loved this place at first, but you're running it into the ground. If you ever decide to be your old self again - somebody who cared about quality over money - let us know. Sorry.

Paolo crumpled the note. Ungrateful bastards. He yelled at the ceiling in frustration. "Fine! I'll just do it myself! I don't need them!" He ran outside into the street, desperately playing the clown. "Come on in! Best pizza in town! You'll have a great time!" The person he'd approached cringed away, shaking their head. He ran up to a family. "Come on! Lots of fun at Pizzaboy's Pizz-Pizza!" The little girl started crying, and the father pushed Paolo away. "Back off, you freak!" He hustled them away.

Paolo went from group to group, getting more desperate with each one. Everyone was scared or disgusted. Finally, a police officer approached him. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop harassing people, we're getting complaints."

Paolo turned and grabbed his shoulders. "I'm just trying to get customers, YOU IDIOT!"

Everyone around gasped. One woman spoke up. "Well, with an attitude like that, I'll never eat there!" Cries of "For shame!" and "what a jerk!" echoed around Paolo. He looked around. His dream was falling apart. He wanted to cry.

The officer brushed him off. "Lay hands on me again and I'll arrest you. Now get inside before I have the place closed down!"

Paolo's shoulders slumped as everyone walked away.

~~~~

All he knew was he had to get it back. Nothing else mattered.

Paolo looked out the window of the plane. What am I doing? He was flying to the city where the man who'd bought the ring lived. But why? I'm broke, I can't buy it back...

As he left the airport, he walked towards the address he'd found. The man's mansion was luxuriant, covered in stonework and vines. Classical Tuscan architecture, he remembered. He pushed a button at the gate.

A stuffy voice came though. "May I help you?"

Paolo cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, I've come to see your Master. My name is Mr. Totino, I believe I had an appointment?"

"Very good, signore," the stuffy voice said. The gate opened. "Come in. The Master waits for you upstairs."

Paolo passed through the huge front doors and walked up a grand stairway. At the top, a butler bowed and opened a door. "In here, signore," the same stuffy voice said.

Paolo entered, and was greeted by a corpulent man sitting behind a deep red desk. Balding, fanning himself, he waved Paolo forward. "Come in ragazzo, come in." Paolo sat. "You said you had something to ask me? About your ring?"

"Yes, sir," Paolo said. "You know I've made several overtures to you about repurchasing that ring." He shifted uneasily in the chair. "I'm afraid I'm... no longer liquid enough to try to buy it from you. But I've come to plead. Sir, that is a family heirloom, one I'm sorry I ever let go. Would you ever consider just... letting me have it?"

The man laughed raucously. "GIVE it to you! Don't be absurd, boy! If you wanted it, you never should have sold it!"

Paolo blushed, repressing his fury at the casual dismissal. "I was desperate, sir, and young and foolish. I know better now. I'll ask again sir - will you return what's mine?"

The man's face grew red. "The cheek on you! Even if was willing to just hand such a thing over-" he twirled it in a maddeningly similar way to how Giorgio had - "I've grown attached to it. So no. I'll never part with it. Now get out of here before I have you thrown out!"

Paolo stood and bowed stiffly. He was absolutely furious. As the gate crashed shut behind him, a plan started to form. It's mine. It's MINE.

~~~~

The man grunted as he settled into his bed. His back ached. I should see if my doctor can give me anything for that. He shuffled his awkward weight around. He was always hot now. Air conditioners are crap these days!

He heard a faint noise. He whipped around and turned the light on. "Chi è là?"

No one. He was alone.

The man snorted and turned the light back off. Jumping at shadows. He closed his eyes.

Another noise. Before he could reach the light, a hand clamped down on his face with unbelievable strength. He could just see a pair of red points hovering above... a clown suit?? A glossy grin hovered between those hellish lights and a bowtie.

Then he noticed the glint of a knife.

Before he could react, the knife plunged into his belly. He screamed, the sound muffled by the glove-covered hand on his face. It plunged down, again and again, into his gut, his arms, his legs, his chest. He tasted blood. He screamed, but it couldn't get past the damned glove.

As his mind swam with pain and blood loss, he felt the figure fiddling with his hand. He shrieked as he felt his ring finger being sawed off. He trembled as they held up their prize, the round red ring glinting as his severed finger slid out of it. As his mind faded, he heard a familiar voice.

"It's mine... It's MINE..."

~~~~

Paolo slid the ring onto his finger. At last, I've got it back! He smiled happily. Now that he had it back, the world felt right again. He glanced down at the corpse. Good riddance. He stalked past the body of the butler and the gate guard. Should have hired better people!

As he stood in the dark street, he felt a strange urge to go west. He started walking, a manic grin on his face.

~~~~

He didn't know how long he'd been walking. Days, definitely. Maybe weeks. But now he was sure he was where he needed to be.

He dug through the rubble of the ruins, not entirely sure what he was searching for. You'll know it when you find it.

He wasn't sure why he was so confident. But he knew beyond a doubt he was right.

He saw a depression in a stone wall that looked no different than the hundreds of others. He pressed it, and the wall vanished. He walked inside, and the wall reappeared. He was inside some sort of structure, descending downwards. He walked down a spiral staircase, the purple stone dusty and piled with debris. As he looked around, he saw faint lights imbedded in the stone.

He walked downwards for what seemed like forever, until he found a room full of... monitors? He walked over to a control panel, and somehow knew which button to press. The screens flickered, and the lights brightened. Welcome back, the words flashed on the screen in front of him.

He sat in a stone chair, fascinated. It was more advanced than anything he'd ever seen. At first the words were incomprehensible, but suddenly they had switched to his own language. He read a list. Cloning tanks, tesseract controls, cloaking systems, weapon controls, teleportation systems, reconstruction protocols... what is this place?

Then, somehow he knew - he was home.

Pizzahead sat back and grinned. He twirled the ring on his finger.

[skaruresonic]

you can just taste the salt pouring from this man lmao. I only dismissed an entire medium as never being able to be art, why are you all whining

1.) Myst released in 1993, the same year as Sonic CD. Calling it an example of games "from the infancy of the form" following the video game market crash of the '80s is laughable

2.) "I particularly didn't want to play one right now, this moment, on demand" - uwu I just shittalked this entire-ass medium and now people are saying I should try to know what I'm talking about before I talk about it and I don't wannaaaaa

This is just. Rude? Idk how else to put it. Your friend goes to the trouble of offering to fetch a game and a console for you, installing everything necessary to set it up - even offering to send the console back to Sony when you're done so you don't have to spend a single dime - and your response is to make some excuse as to why you can't do it.

You could have just said "no," Roger.

yeah it's almost like talking out of your ass "purely on theoretical grounds" without engaging with the thing you're slagging off makes you seem too ignorant to hold a valid view on the thing you're slagging off. or something.

also "This is the gratitude you get for responding to comments at all" lol these salt levels could dry out the Dead Sea

my man has never heard of video games with linear narratives before

Billy cracked dick jokes, Ebert. Billy wrote his plays to appeal to the common people's interests, Ebert.

then why are you talking about video games if you don't want to be told to play one? real "I'm a Sonic fan who hasn't played the games, stop telling me to play the games you're picking on me" energy

The fuck is up with this weird capitalistic pitting of one art form against another? This isn't some zero-sum game where literature loses if video games win. Gamers read too, Ebert. In fact, many games take inspiration from literature, such as SH2 drawing inspiration from the themes of Crime and Punishment; The Witcher being based on Andrzej Sapkowski's book; and Metro 2033 springing from the self-published book of the same name.

I could name more. I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream (Harlan Ellison even voiced AM!). Classic RPG Parasite Eve is a spiritual successor to Hideaki Sena's 1995 sci-fi horror novel. Beev will probably want me to add Castlevania as an example as well, taking the titular character from Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Category:Video games based on novels - Wikipedia

Acting like games and literature are two disparate mediums with no overlap is... frankly, deeply disingenuous. You spoke with fucking Clive Barker, Roger, you should know this. FFS.

Besides, anti-intellectualism runs a lot deeper than New Medium Bad. It has more fascist roots than simply "The kids want to play Fortnite all day and don't want to crack open a book!"

Roger goes on this tangent about how it's difficult to find a definition of art that would preclude video games. Even the one he settles on, his view that art ought to teach him empathy for other people - which... has its limits and when taken too far, borders on requiring moral didactism in art; my man has never heard of art for art's sake - doesn't necessarily rule out games. Because video games literally require you to step into the player character's shoes.

you are such a condescending ass, oh my God. could you not?

"I don't personally know how gamers can learn about other human beings despite the entire conceit of the medium requiring you to assume the role of another person, but whatever, I'll give you guys this one because I've run out of things to say. Perhaps one day gamers will learn to have refined tastes like me, the Movie Review Man. anyway y'all losers, I got better things to do despite the fact that I typed out this wall of text poorly defending my position"

[parragone]

Anyway I'm nauseous from anxiety so I'm posting about my rarepair

I just think Mute and Fuze would pair well together, at least after a few years of knowing each other

It starts as associates, obviously, they're new to each other and the team, and Fuze has a strange fondness for Mute that Glaz can't quite make sense of until he stumbles onto the two of them working on their own projects in absolute silence. Fuze likes that he doesn't have to justify the shared space with small talk of feigned attention. Mute likes that he doesn't have to explain his work or defend himself.

Fuze doesn't ask about how someone so young got roped into Rainbow. Mute doesn't pry into Fuze's past or ask too many questions. They settle into a sort of silent agreement that they'll share each other's company when their social batteries are burnt out, merely because it takes so little to bear each other's presence.

Mute brings Fuze coffee. Fuze brings Mute tea. They learn each other's meal preference; Fuze prefers fish, Mute eats vegetarian. Both like to watch documentaries while they eat. Sharing lunch becomes a regular thing, and sometimes they're joined by the rest of the Spetsnaz or the SAS; particularly Glaz and Thatcher, whose presence is more welcome than any other between the two of them.

They don't talk much, or often, and when they do, Fuze is fairly certain that Mute seems to avoid speaking about anything regarding himself. He figures that Mute might not know the answers about personal life; he's not terribly wrong. After while, he asks what Mute listens to at lunch, but doesn't admit that he's pleased to see Mute listening to history books.

What starts as lunches moves to R&D. Hours spent refining the electrical components of the Matryoshka, trying to get the charge hot enough to put a hole through solid steel without turning the unit to slag. Not to say that Fuze and Mute don't work with others; just that they have particular fondness with each other.

Training is the same way. There's no leniency between them - neither can afford it - but Mute asks Fuze for after-hours sparring, and Fuze takes him up on the offer. Mute is young, and even though he keeps up with the pack, he doesn't hit as hard as Thatcher or Sledge. He doesn't move like Smoke. Fuze forces Mute to cover his weak spots, and Mute forces Fuze to improvise; Mute learned early that he has to fight dirty to stay even with his squad.

Glaz says it's the quiet that comforts them.

Their lunches get sparse when Mute and Smoke end up dating, but still they continue. For a year and a half, Mute can rarely get enough quiet time to spend his lunches with Fuze. Fuze doesn't take it personally; he enjoys the time they spend together, and frankly, he's just comforted by the fact they're friends.

Mute feels similar. Fuze is a good friend to have, patient and thoughtful, even if he can be difficult to work with. What time they spend together is usually just as quiet as it always was.

Except when it wasn't.

What used to be brief stints just long enough to eat became conversations that got longer with each meeting. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in a slapdash mix of the two as the pair discussed everything from culinary mishaps to training disasters. Mute can remember the first time he got Fuze to laugh over a story with utmost clarity. ( He recalls that it was a story about how he and Babdit had made Thatcher lose his mind by alternating their gadgets with his grenades. Fuze had laughed when the young man promised to do the same to him. )

Mute learns Uzbek as best as he can, and Fuze makes it easier.

They stay friends. They stay friends through multiple operations and keep quietly to themselves, even when the CTUs get hostile and the team dynamic strains. Even when their working relationship strains, they reconcile, often through silent gestures of apology that stay between them.

Fuze is there when Mute and Smoke break it off in the aftermath of Chimera, and he's one of the few to know it isn’t as clean as Mute makes it out to be. He doesn't pry, but he offers subtle insight into how to handle a messy break, and Mute is silently appreciative. It's Fuze who convinces him to spend some time learning to be just himself for himself; it's something Fuze knows well and something Mute takes to heart.

Life goes on. Friends stay friends. Operations come and go, work continues, and everyone except the two of them catch on.

Glaz catches on when he catches Fuze reading one of Mute's well-loved historical fiction books with genuine curiosity. Thatcher catches on when Mute misses a night at the pub in favor of dinner with Fuze. Everyone catches on when Fuze is spotted doing surface repairs on a Moni unit without a single complaint from Mute.

And sometimes they stay up later than they should talking about things that are far and away from where they are now. Sometimes, Mute can be spotted wearing Fuze's coat at breakfast, and sometimes, Fuze can be spotted asleep against Mute's shoulder. And sometimes, at least according to Thatcher, the two of them slip out for nighttime runs to clear their heads.

There's a betting pool on when they'll make it an official sort of thing. Thermite is running it. Everyone has different guesses, but some think it'll always be that unofficial sort of thing. Glaz refrains from betting for weeks until he finally slides Thermite a fifty and says one week.

It's not official until until Fuze asks Mute quietly in the back corner of the locker room before the week is out. Thermite loses his mind when Hlaz sweeps the pot and demands to know how he knew; Glaz is far too delighted to tell him that he'd been the one to bump Fuze into making a move. "It was about time, and they make each other happy, so why not?"

They don't behave any differently, except for occasionally waking up in each other's quarters ( Mute wakes up in Fuze's bed more often than Fuze wakes up in Mute's, simply because Fuze carries the Brit to bed more often ) and the fact they use each other's lucky charms in training ( but never on assignment ).

And if Mute carries one of Fuze's tags in his breast pocket, we'll, that's for them to know.

[bethanythebogwitch]

Original mechanical Digimon

Another one of my original Digimon lines. All members are virus-attribute. Previous originals: fish line, moth line, owl line, Aztec line, hermit crab line.

Rookie/Child level: Scrapmon. Scrapmon are born out of junk data and as a result, are born incomplete and dying. Only a very few manage to use scrap metal and machine parts to cobble together a shell that acts as life support. Scrapmon fear death and must constantly replace parts of it shell as they wear out. Because of their habit of stealing metal and machine parts, most machine Digimon view them as pests. Its moves are Rusty Drill, where it attacks with the drill on one arm, and Smokescreen, where it releases greasy, black smoke to blind its enemies while it flees.

Champion/Adult level: BigScrapmon. It has grown stable enough that it no longer needs to constantly replace parts of its body to survive, but it fears becoming weak again and so constantly steals parts to upgrade its weapons and defenses. It uses the saw on one hand to cut up metal objects and the claw on the other to shove the parts into its mouth. Things it eats have their data reconfigured into weapons and ammo. Its moves are Rust Rocket, where it launches a rocket that explodes and causes metal to rust, and Saw Steal, where it cuts up objects with its buzzsaw and devours their data.

Ultimate/Perfect level: MegaScrapmon. Out of a fear of falling apart and returning to bean weak, it used to metal and machine data it devours to upgrade itself into a living weapon. However, it lost the ability to feed itself so it keeps a group of Scrapmon in its body that come out after battles to collect and feed it scrap metal and ruined machines. It is know to work as a mercenary, serving other Digimon as a warrior in exchange for metal and data to consume. Its moves are Mega Scrap Cutter, where it cuts the enemy to sheds with the massive saw on its right side, and Hyper Rust Rocket, where it shoots rusting rockets from the launcher on its left side.

Mega/Ultimate level: GigaScrapmon. It is the epotome of junk data: a rusting colossus that breaks up everything it finds to use as fuel for its internal furnace. Whole forces of Scrapmon reside within its body, working to refine the things it devours into new materials to reinforce its rusted, patchwork body. The thundering sound if its treads and the vast cloud of toxic smoke that billow from it have heralded the fall of whole civilizations as they were broken up and devoured by GigaScrapmon. Its moves are Refinement Crusher, where it spews molten slag from the cannon in its right arm at the enemy, they rips them into pieces with its massive claw, and Rust Rocket Barrage, where it mows down its foes with rockets that rust the whole area when they explode

[flipping-the-coin]

Megatron, what are the biggest differences on Cybertron now that the war is over?? Do you think its better or worse than before the war?

Excellent questions, Anonymous one, though complicated to express in such a short space. Cybertron certainly isn’t worse than it was before the war. There are some aspects that are much better, and others that seem to be more of the same oppressive slag as before.

I’ll start with the good, for once. I do not often speak on the positives of our post-war Cybertronian society. Before the war, a mech like me never could have dreamed of owning a hab in the upper levels of Iacon, and he also never could have bonded into a hab here, either. I appreciate that in modern Iacon, this is possible. Relationships like Orion’s and mine are no longer a punishable offense. Mechs are no longer tossed to the Pit as punishments for crimes. The Hall of Records is largely open to the public now, though you can thank Orion for that. Building codes are stricter, and habs in general seem to be of a higher quality for all than they were before.

There is some room for upward social mobility, if someone gets lucky. That is better than before, but still not ideal. I don’t imagine that Orion and I would have been able to live where we do had he not been granted his position. For everyone else who lives in the Lower Levels… things are less optimal. Here is more of the same slag from before, where we start to see the truth, that the caste system still functions, it just takes a new form. Upper Iacon often siphons power from the lower levels to use in their celebrations or memorial openings, not caring that those living below their pedes are made to sacrifice for it. Sparklings have less access to educational facilities down there, and end up funneled into hard occupations. The mechs down there are sold less refined fuels for a higher cost. Law enforcement is harsher on lower lever citizens; it’s all the same old caste slag.

The government is still corrupt. Orion has caught them changing and forging military records on more than several occasions; always to make their Autobots look better than they really were and to make the Decepticons look worse. Many in the Council hold prejudice against those they are supposed to speak for. They spend far too much on frivolous memorabilia to beautify their city instead of caring for their citizens. Same old slag, different cycle. I don’t know why Orion puts so much faith in that Medic when he was part of the same slagging broken system from before.

Now, for what is worse. The New Iaconian culture is becoming dominant not due to natural influence, but due to political ones. For example, most Cybertronian states have their own cultures, many of those cultures are now mostly extinct. Those who have returned to their homes find themselves being unable to register their cultural bondings without performing new Iaconian rites. You can’t even register old ones. Even with Orion constantly complaining about these issues with property, bonding and even sparkling adoptions, the Council sees fit to retain their new standards, thus silently wiping out many lingering pieces of what made old Cybertron so beautiful.

There is far more surveillance performed on citizens now. It is subtle, usually, but I notice that there is nowhere I can go where I am not being watched in some way. Old Cybertron was like this too, of course, but back then at least, one could dart down an alley to be free of optics in the sky. Now? Everywhere is monitored. The only privacy most mechs have is inside their habs. But coming from personal experience; I don’t think that is even sacred enough to keep them from watching you if they want to.

These are, perhaps more personal, worse for ‘Megatron’ specifically issues. I fully recognize why I just do not like it. Everything I do is seen as suspicious activity. Whether it is taking donations to the lower levels or purchasing an innocent gift for Orion, it is always seen as me going ‘outside my routine.’ I am not afforded any privacy whatsoever. They know everything about my life, from my fuel preferences, to my hobbies, to my interfacing habits, and there isn’t a Primus forsaken thing I can do about it.

The biggest differences between now and then are more difficult to pinpoint. There are no more death matches for entertainment. Civilians are allowed access to historical records now. There are no restrictions on relationships anymore. Things of this nature. Though, I am uncertain if I can say that things here are better than before. For some, they are better. For others, its the same old slag.

-Megatron

[codenamehazard]

.:Blinding Light:.

Chapter 13: Blinding Light

Hey guys! I don't know if this came sooner than the last chapter or not, but who cares! I'm writing and I'm having fun! Hopefully it isn't too short and it's fun read for you guys as it was for me to write!

Bonus points if you listen to some Skyrim OST stuff while reading, hehehehe.

Without delay, here's Chapter 13!

-----

I leap off of the wire and glide gently down, landing smoothly with a roll. A grin plastered ear to ear. I arrived at Kestrel's workshop and to my surprise, found it empty. I frown at this sight, did she close up shop? I walk over to one of the windows and can't help but to scoff at the closed sign. 

“Figures…” I mutter to myself. The bird must have closed up shop so she could focus on the project that has her so worked up, she’s been acting like an idiot. Though with seeing the Warped and what they can do, I’m starting to cut the girl a little more slack. If this project’s connected to dealing with those fuckers? Well, the idiototic behavior could be excused… Not by much though.

Not like a sign's gonna stop me from coming in. I wanted to see what’s so special about the girl and her guns, what does she do to make it so that Conduits can channel their powers through these firearms. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t mind having a spectator around to watch her work, right? After all, I am going to be one of her clients. Gotta make sure her craftsmanship is up to scratch!

…And to make sure I know what her work quality is, I don’t want her screwing me over.

I jiggle the doorknob on the door to find that it’s locked. I give a small “Tch” before breaking the door itself. I’m nearly knocked back off of my feet at the massive wave of pure RFE that slammed into me. My mouth instantly waters and my stomach gnaws. What in the absolute hell is going on in there that’s producing so much energy?? God, it’s like I was back in the mines!

Whatever it was… I wanted it.

I charge into the back, following the energy’s call. My teeth are itching as I get closer, knocking over displays and signs as I barrel through the workshop proper to see what kind of goodies the bird is hiding from me. I charge through the forge doors, ready to take my prize.

What greets my ears isn’t the rock music that I remember Kestrel playing from my first time around, but something else, something sounding ancient and primal. Deep drums that reverberate through the chest. However, the thing that truly grabs my attention is the woman standing in front of the forge… And what is coming from her back. Long, shining appendages growing from the ghastly scar, glimmering like blued metal in the light of the forge. 

My eyes trail from the metallic snakes to the object in front of her, a crucible of hot metal that glows with the signature color of Rayacite. Moving slowly and deliberately, Kestrel pulls out a single Blast Shard from her backpack before carefully lowering it into the glowing pool.

As the shard melts, I watch the tendrils sway. Sometimes one of them would move to remove the skin of waste and slag from the top of the pool and absorb it. Now Kestrel’s powers made sense. She’s a Slag Conduit, but that hardly matters as I continue to watch in awe at the scene playing out.

It’s like something from a fantasy novel.

The process repeats, slag forms on the top of the pool, the tentacles remove it. The more this process happens, the stronger the energy’s strength grows. She is refining the metal, purifying it. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible and it made me wonder how much power could be absorbed from purified Rayacite sources.

It isn’t long until no more slag could be harvested from the metal. With the impurities gone, Kestrel nods before taking the clamps and grabbing the vessel. She walks over to a spherical mold that is on stand-by before pouring the molten Blast Shards inside, taking care not to spill a single drop of liquid power.

With the mold filled, the bird takes it over to a cooling trough and quickly submerges it. The water hisses and spits as steam erupts from the contact, but Kestrel seems unfazed by it.

“Take it.” I feel my vices whisper. “She’s completely clueless and those metal tentacles are a one way ticket to her spinal cord. Hell, I bet if you grabbed onto one of them, you could drain her without hassle. Drain her, get rid of her and take the super-core for yourself. Imagine all that pure energy. It’d be like taking candy from a baby.” The impulses make my lips salivate, the hunger for power roiling like the water in the trough. Yet, in this moment my mind’s too fixated by the strange sight before me. I want to see what happens next and I won’t know that if I act on my impulses now.

Killing her for that core? It would be a waste. If this is what she can do with Blast Shards… I can only imagine what she could do with a Blast Core, that thought made my mouth water even more. A purified Blast Core? That would be a prize worth taking. She’s becoming more useful to me alive then dead, even with her being an absolute thorn in my side.

Besides… She still owes me a shotgun. A deal’s a deal after all.

The water’s rage settles and the metal cools solid. The Gunsmith pulls out the mold and frees the spherical core, still glowing with power. With the ball cradled in shining threads, the missile launcher shell is grabbed and pulled towards her. Hands open the chamber made to house the newly formed power-source and tendrils rush inside, the shimmering snakes seeming to be hellbound to fill any gap it could find while the core is being lowered down. The snakes break off and fuse themselves to the gun and the core, pulling it inside. The energy of the power source changes from radiating to focused, like the once writhing slag snakes became the wiring that would channel the core’s energy and by extension, a Conduit’s power. With the source set and merged into the shell, Kestrel closes the compartment and seals it shut.

With the weapon completed. She looks it over, tendrils swarming over it and feeling for any defects or any other kinks that could hinder its functioning. Looking at how thorough she is, I can see why she got her title.

I step closer and begin to speak, but the sound startles the girl. She screams out in panic as her tendrils thrash around before retracting back into her body. The sudden hit from the event causes her to yelp in pain. She turns her head and looks me dead in the eyes before growling at me. I put up my hands.

“Woah there-” Is all I could get out before the bird snarls.

“What in the actual FUCK, MacGrath?! Didn’t you read the fu-” Her rage is cut short by a loud revving buzz that rose into a deafening mechanical wail. No doubt about what it is, the tell-tale scream of a tornado siren. I’m about to ask what was going on, but one look at Kestrel’s face and I knew. I have never seen someone lose the color in their face so quickly before, it makes the way her face drained when she learned I was the Beast look slow.

“They’re coming…” I could barely hear Kestrel over the distorted wailing of the siren. Fear, pure fear. I would be lying if I said that the emotion isn’t spreading. I can feel the terror gripping my chest like a vice, remembering the horde of Warped that came after me in the mine. This must be the “they” she’s talking about.

There was no time for questions as the girl leaps out of the window with gun in tow. Her panicked voice howling “They’re coming” over and over again as she charges though the blaring streets. I’m not far behind as I chase after her. She’s most likely rushing to meet up with the others. Fear starts to mix with adrenaline as I think of what might come. This time it might actually be a fun fight with more allies around. Who knows.

All I know is that it’s about time to see if the Warped are as dangerous out in the open as everyone is saying they are.

[agp]

hey if youre on turtle island or still tuesday and feel like trying a quick silly browser game you should check out tradle. (i think it updates at midnight based on time zones?) todays is real fun i prommy.

you get five guesses to figure out a country from its export data, and after each guess they tell you how far away you are and what direction the county youre looking for is. i know it sounds like a ridiculous challenge but this one has a bunch of easy hints and giveaways that are accessible to your average westerner

if its wednesday by now or you want to see the data presented differently check out this silly economy under the cut (bolded 'spoilers' ig)

total export value: 371b (usd)

gold: 86.7b (23%}

packaged meds: 48.5b (13%)

vaccines, blood, cultures, etc: 40.3b (11%)

base metal watches: 15.2b (4%)

nitrogen heterocyclic compounds: 14.2b (4%)

jewlery: 9.35b (2.5%)

precious metal watches: 8.97b (2.5%)

orthopedic appliances: 7.02b (2%)

hormones: 3.38b

coffee: 3.36b

electricity: 3.19b

medical instruments: 3.09b

machinery w indv functions: 3.04b

platinum: 2.54b

chemical analysis instruments: 2.27b

nucleic acids: 2.17b

valves: 2.17b

silver: 2.01b

electric motors: 1.78b

scented mixtures: 1.72b

sulfonamides: 1.71b

diamonds: 1.64b

planes, helicopters, and spacecraft: 1.63b

beauty products: 1.58b

other heating machinery: 1.43b

flavored water: 1.43b

gas turbines: 1.38b

low voltage protection eq: 1.34b

gas and liquid flow measuring inst: 1.3b

carboxyamide compounds: 1.26b

other measuring instruments: 1.24b

air pumps: 1.16b

motor vehicles, parts, and acc: 1.14b

petroleum gas: 1.12b

electrical transformers: 1.11b

aluminum plating: 1.07b

other plastic products: 1.01b

metal working machine parts: 988m

vitamins: 965m

polyamides: 963m

washing and bottling machines: 925m

chocolate: 887m

oxygen amino compounds: 885m

integrated circuits: 884m

iron fasteners: 881m

paintings: 873m

transmissions: 855m

special pharmaceuticals: 837m

insulated wire: 828m

electrical power accessories: 826m

plastic lids: 818m

cheese: 800m

antibiotics: 797m

liquid pumps: 797m

cars: 789m

ink: 752m

non mechanical removal machinery: 737m

trunks and cases: 734m

centrifuges: 730m

interchangeable tool parts: 728m

high voltage protection eq: 705m

hand saws: 693m

other edible preparations: 680m

electric heaters: 679m

electrical control boards: 672m

polyacetals: 664m

plastic pipes: 636m

electric soldering equipment: 616m

precious metal compounds: 608m

industrial fatty acids, oils, and alcohols: 608m

hot rolled iron bars: 590m

self propelled rail transport: 582m

refined petroleum: 577m

hydrazine or hydroxylamine derivatives: 565m

precious stones: 563m

rubber working machinery: 561m

unpackaged meds: 557m

other iron products: 553m

precious metal scraps 550m

computers: 545m

surveying equipment: 523m

other plastic sheetings: 519m

metal finishing machines: 516m

scrap copper: 514m

semiconductor devices: 511m

raw plastic sheeting: 494m

documents or title and stamps: 490m

rolled tobacco: 487m

malt extract: 469m

other electrical machinery: 467m

other paper machinery: 450m

oxygen heterocyclic compounds: 441m

non knit mens suits: 441m

synthetic coloring matter: 436m

locomotive parts: 432m

non knit womens suits: 428m

iron structures: 424m

leather footwear: 421m

industrial printers: 415m

lifting machinery: 415m

scrap iron: 412m

therapeutic appliances: 410m

office machine parts: 410m

other clocks and watches: 405m

metal molds: 403m

other furniture: 403m

glaziers putty: 377m

liquid dispersing machines: 376m

knitting machine accessories: 370m

other small iron pipes: 369m

broadcasting equipment: 367m

aircraft parts: 363m

industrial food prep machinery: 362m

glues: 357m

pesticides: 349m

oscilloscopes: 344m

raw aluminum: 344m

knit sweaters: 339m

optical fibers and bundles: 334m

excavation machinery: 332m

non iron/steel slag ash and residue: 319m

carboxylic acids: 315m

xray equipment: 315m

electric motor parts: 315m

watch straps: 313m

tanks and armoured vehicles: 310m

forging machines: 309m

cleaning products: 306m

metalworking transfer machines: 298m

animal food: 294m

combustion engines: 282m

engine parts: 271m

electric generating sets: 254m

scrap aluminum: 249m

laboratory reagents: 249m

perfumes: 244m

other rubber products: 241m

photo lab equipment: 240m

wheat: 236m

lubricating products: 234m

printed circuit boards: 233m

aluminum bars: 230m

explosive ammunition: 230m

brooms: 224m

lcds: 223m

refrigerators: 223m

motorcycles and cycles: 221m

large construction vehicles: 221m

coal briquettes: 221m

corn: 220m

aluminum cans: 219m

textile footwear: 217m

thermostats: 207m

coffee and tea extracts: 206m

other aluminum products: 204m

ball bearings: 203m

knives: 199m

machines for additive mnf: 195m

raw iron bars: 187m

delivery trucks: 185m

milling stones: 176m

aluminum foil: 170m

collectors items: 169m

soybean oil: 169m

wood fiberboard: 166m

other stainless steel bars: 164m

sculptures: 160m

cutting blades: 159m

baked goods: 150m

navigation equipment: 146m

hydrometers: 137m

watch cases and parts: 134m

laboratory ceramic wear: 134m

wood carpentry: 124m

mirrors and lenses: 117m