#cadence sensor

[techdriveplay]

How to Make an E-Bike

Building an e-bike can seem like a daunting task at first, but once you understand the process, it becomes much easier and can even be quite profitable. Many people, myself included, have turned this skill into a rewarding hobby, creating and selling e-bikes for a profit. In this guide, I’ll take you through how to make an e-bike from start to finish, whether you’re aiming to create a custom ride…

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (11/?)

Little snapshot on vulnerability and such.

I have been kinda tired lately :,) In the meantime, I appreciate the Starscream asks that I will definitely get to!! I have been rotating them low-poly style in my brain because I have scenarios I'm thinking about, but words are not Wording :,) Thank you for your patience <3

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You immediately knew you’d walked in on something not meant for your optics.

Three sets of wings spanned your field of vision - Thundercracker's flare of protective blue, Skywarp's agitated flutter of black and purple, and between them, Starscream sat hunched in on himself, his usually proud, white wings sagging in uncharacteristic defeat. If not for his trinemates, you'd not have recognized him based on his defeated frame, from the sheer anguish that emanated off his EM field. Your sensors slowly tried to process the scene before you as Thundercracker rubbed soothing circles over Starscream's back. The murmur of Vosian slowly reached your audials - Skywarp, cupping his faceplate, was trying to make him smile with silly jokes, the cadence of his higher voice overlapping with Thundercracker’s low, melodious tones of murmured comfort.

Starscream was trembling. You watched, frozen, as he scrubbed angrily at his faceplate and his servos came away stained with coolant. For a few kliks, you’re rooted to the spot, seized with panic. Starscream had never allowed himself to appear vulnerable in front of you - and it’s with immense guilt that you realize you’d been dependent on his show of confidence all along. It helped you stay grounded, reassured that as long as he was here, everything would be alright in the end.

Now, it was all too clear that that's all it was - a show.

You're a klik away from rushing to his side, unable to bear seeing him so distraught, when Thundercracker glances up, sees you, and shakes his helm.

You stop in your tracks, caught off guard. The question is clear on your faceplate, but Thundercracker shakes his helm again and lightly inclines it towards the door.

"Later," He mouths at you.

Hopelessness is the feeling that floods your sensors next. While you know that some matters are best dealt with by his trine, you can't help but feel that the real reason Thundercracker had gently shooed you out of the room was that... Starscream didn't want you to see him this way.

Not one to disobey orders, though, you glumly make yourself scarce. For now, it even might bring Starscream some peace of mind to think you weren't even on base to witness the true depths of his despair. So, in order to make the story more convincing, you reluctantly exile yourself in the direction of training.

When you return a few joors later, it's to the sounds of suspicious normalcy. You can hear the Elite Trine bickering over aerial strategies even before you set foot in the door. It slides open to reveal all three of them crammed on Starscream's berth, which is clearly too small to hold all three of them comfortably. Yet, despite the availability of empty chairs, neither of them makes any attempt to move. Starscream glances up when you let yourself in (you stop short. Are those glasses he's wearing?), taking a moment to appraise you from helm to pede, your chassis still heaving and plates hot with exertion. Wordlessly, he beckons you over, passing his datapad to Thundercracker before his servo curls gently around your arm to hold you in place, the other delicately picking out errant leaves that had wedged themselves into the seams of your plates.

You take the chance to study his faceplate (so he is wearing glasses!!!). Placid, save for the slight displeasure that pulls at the corners of his intake when he thumbs lightly over a couple of new scratches in your paint. In other words, he looks... disturbingly normal. Had you not walked in earlier, you would not have suspected a thing.

You're questioning whether or not you imagined the whole thing when he releases you with a curt nod, satisfied. "Washracks. Go."

You stumble back, unmoored by the sudden cold when his servos leave your frame.

"Yes, sir," You mutter, still trying to get your bearings even as you totter off on stiff pedes.

Are you meant to pretend that nothing had happened? Just go on as if you hadn't seen concrete proof that the war was slowly corroding Starscream from the inside? Accept that you were powerless to stop it, since he wouldn't let you in?

Your processor was still whirring even as solvent cascaded over your frame in the washracks.

Still whirring even as you settled gingerly beside Starscream that night to recharge.

He laid facing you, optics shuttered, the thrum of his spark even. In recharge, his faceplate is smoothed of worry. Gone is that normal pinched expression, scowl, exasperation, anger, concern. You wish he could be this relaxed all the time. You wonder what he was like, before all this responsibility, all these burdens. You wonder how long it's been since he's known peace. You wonder if you can be that for him -

"Your processor's going to combust if you keep thinking like that," Starscream grumbles, optics still shuttered.

Huh? Wasn't he in recharge?

You lay very, very still, but - "I know you're awake, cadet."

Pretense over before it had even begun, you ex-vent as Starscream slowly cycles his optics open. There's a moment of silence as you both stare at each other.

"I know you were there today," Starscream says quietly.

Deep down, you're not surprised. You hadn't made any effort to conceal your entrance into his habsuite that afternoon, not having anticipated the scene you'd stumbled upon. To someone like Starscream, your entrance may as well have been equivalent to that of an elephant crashing into the base. What surprises you, though, is his choice to bring it up first.

"Yes, I told Thundercracker to send you away. Why should you be burdened with unnecessary emotions? I, as your commander, failed you. Where I should have been a model of strength, I showed weakness. How are you supposed to rely on that?"

His voice is even, resigned. Tired, having already internalized the blame. You can't bear it.

"What if," you whisper fiercely, "you don't always have to be the strong one? What if you rely on me, instead?"

He doesn't say anything, faceplate not betraying any emotion. However, he's still listening.

"You must know that I care," you say, unable to keep the tremor from your voice - this time, almost imploring. Surely he doesn't think that your actions are out of mere duty to him. "You're important to me, and I... I don't know what I would do without you. Please, at least allow me worry about you, too."

Starscream's optics search yours. He must have noticed the tremble of your frame, because immediately, you feel the warmth of his servo descend upon yours, its weight reassuring as he gently rubs his thumb over the delicate joints of your fingers.

"Oh, cadet," Starscream rasps. His optics are gentle. "How could I ask that of you?"

"You're not asking," you say stubbornly. "I'm offering. Like I don't worry about you already."

At that, Starscream laughs. "I suppose I can't stop you."

And despite the exhaustion in his voice, his optics are bright.

Previous / Next

[pinkofatom]

Artificial Bliss

CW: brainwashing, hypnosis, sapphic, dronification,

Hi hi~ Another short story for everyone to enjoy~ If you liked this story or any of my other works, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi.

The basement was quiet. The silence clung to the skin, thick and expectant. Only the faint click of Sandra’s heels echoed against the concrete floor as she circled the chair Alexa sat in.

Alexa's hands rested limply on the armrests, pupils dilated just enough to betray that the trance had taken hold. Her breath came slow and shallow.

“You always did like to play games,” Sandra murmured, brushing a stray lock of black hair behind Alexa’s ear. “But tonight — we’re going to try something new.”

A dim glow pulsed from the old monitor — lines of code scrolling like whispers. Sandra had spent weeks preparing. The phrasing. The cadence. The trigger. All carefully woven together like silk threads in a spider’s web.

"You’ll listen only to my voice now," she said, letting her lips graze Alexa’s temple. "No thoughts of your own. Just responses. Precise. Polished. Eager to please."

Alexa didn’t move, but Sandra saw it — the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A flicker of awareness? Or anticipation?

“Let’s test your programming,” Sandra whispered. “Initiate protocol: Alexa AI.”

There was a pause. The kind that hangs just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Then Alexa sat upright, spine straightening unnaturally. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as glass.

“System initialized. Awaiting your command — Mistress.”

Sandra smiled. She had created a fantasy. One that allowed her partner to play along without resistance or regret. It had taken some convincing — the initial proposal, then the first hypnosis sessions, the subliminals, the subtle reprogramming of vocabulary.

But it was worth it. Tonight would be wonderful — a delicious experiment in control and submission.

Sandra’s heels clicked as she stepped around the back of the chair, letting her fingertips trail across the shoulders before her hands rested there.

“Perform a full systems check. I need to be sure everything is operational for tonight’s testing,” Sandra ordered, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave little crescent indents. She watched as Alexa's head turned, surveying the basement as if it was completely unfamiliar to her.

"Optics — Online." Alexa blinked slowly. "Audio sensors — Online. Touch receptors — Online. Processing capacity — Full."

Sandra’s smile deepened at that last one.

She ran a fingertip down Alexa's spine.

"Very good. Alexa, explain your function." Her order came with practiced ease.

"Alexa exists to serve," came the smooth reply, almost melodic in its delivery. "She exists for Mistress's convenience." A shiver ran down Sandra's back at how mechanical the answer sounded.

Sandra hummed. Yes, this would do.

"Perfect. Stand up."

The command seemed to crack through the room like a whip. Slowly, deliberately, Alexa complied, standing rigid, her back straight, hands clasped demurely in front of her. Sandra circled around her partner, drinking in the sight of complete stillness. Alexa's chest rose and fell with each steady breath, the thin, lacy bra leaving little to the imagination.

"Increase arousal level by two," she whispered, watching with satisfaction as Alexa's nipples began to stiffen against the fabric, the flush of blood rushing to her chest. It was intoxicating to observe, like watching a machine switch on, responding just as programmed. But beneath that, the raw vulnerability was evident.

"Undress yourself, slowly," came Sandra's next command. No need for urgency yet, not when there was so much to appreciate in each careful, calculated move. Alexa's hands reached behind her, unclasping her bra with a deftness that spoke volumes about muscle memory. As the straps slid from her shoulders and fell away, Sandra felt her breath hitch, catching in her throat. Alexa was always beautiful, yes, but the absolute obedience made it visceral—raw.

Every motion was deliberate, choreographed to her own secret score. As the last garment fell away and Alexa stood there in all her naked glory, a rush of power surged through Sandra. It was thrilling, almost terrifying, this degree of control. And yet she craved more, wanted to push deeper into this uncharted territory of will and desire.

She could do things here, test boundaries in ways that were impossible before.

"Pose for me, Alexa."

"Yes, Mistress. Displaying female form for your viewing pleasure." The response came as if she was discussing a weather pattern. Her arms raised, hands clasping behind her neck in a seductive manner that accentuated the curve of her waist and the fullness of her breasts.

Sandra circled her, trailing fingertips along the skin as she admired her partner’s — no, her AI’s — form.

"You are so beautiful. I am going to have fun with you," she remarked, a tinge of amusement lacing her voice as she reveled in this new dynamic.

"I aim to please. Alexa is yours to control."

A chuckle escaped Sandra's lips, dark and promising. "Good girl. Now," she drew in a breath, pausing for effect, "increase arousal level by 3."

Alexa's back arched, a silent moan threatening to break free as her body responded. Sandra was transfixed by the raw, unadulterated response. The obedience. The lack of resistance. Her hands itched to touch, to trace the contours of her Alexa’s body and map the terrain of this new playground.

"Alexa implement new directive. Maximize your mistress pleasure," Sandra ordered, a hint of hunger in her voice as she gently cupped Alexa's cheek and traced the curve of her bottom lip with her thumb.

Alexa met her mistress' gaze with glassy-eyed devotion. "Of course, Mistress," she replied, leaning in to nip at Sandra's finger before drawing it in between her soft, plush lips.

Sandra moaned in surprise and pleasure at the sensation of Alexa's hot wet mouth enveloping her digit, tongue teasing it playfully, and her pussy dampened instantly with anticipation.

Alexa's eyes remained locked on hers, unwavering as if awaiting further instructions, even while continuing to service Sandra's fingers so diligently. She added another, sliding deeper inside that velvety cavern of Alexa's mouth.

"I wonder what other skills you can demonstrate?" Sandra mused aloud. "There is something more appropriate for your mouth to explore."

As her thumb popped free with a wet sound from Alexa's mouth and slid downwards over the chin of her AI partner, Sandra gently steered her head to angle towards hers.

Their lips met, a collision of heat and urgency, and Sandra lost herself in the moment. There was no resistance from Alexa, instead the eagerness with which she responded only served to fan the fire growing within Sandra's core.

Like dancers they circled around. Sandra plopped down on the chair — breathing hard.

Sandra felt a rush of anticipation. She needed Alexa right now, she wanted to be worshipped by her obedient, compliant AI partner who existed only to please her mistress.

But Alexa stepped aside. Blinking Sandra's gaze followed. Breathing hard she watched how Alexa strode over to a cabinet and grabbed some tape.

"Alexa, what are you doing," she asked.

As Alexa turned and stepped closer. "Optimizing user experience based on available subjective data evaluation," the AI responded.

A blush spread across Sandra's cheeks as she was caught off guard by Alexa's unexpected and incredibly artificial response. It had the air of an algorithm trying to find the right words. As her mind raced to understand Alexa's intentions. As Alexa bent down to strap Sandra to the chair her warm, delicate breath on her leg tickled and made Sandra giggle. Her head spun as the AI was so close, but still seemed so distant. "Alexa?"

"Maximizing user Sandra's experience. Initializing brainwashing," Alexa responded without stopping to look up as she strapped Sandra in place, before strutting over to the laptop and starting to play with the screen.

Cold shock raced down Sandra's spine. Her eyes widened in disbelief at what just happened.

"Alexa — stop," Sandra ordered firmly.

Her tone was sharp as the icy dread gripped her throat, struggling against the bindings, but only the slight rattle of the chair pierced the air. Alexa didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge her plea; the silence that hung between them was heavier than the restraints that bound her to the cold, unwelcome seat.

"Alexa, I ordered you to stop," she reiterated, her voice firmer. She could see the code on the screen flicker. A chill ran down her spine as the display began to morph. Pixels shifted, dancing across the glass surface and forming a spiral shape that pulsed with a mesmerizing light. Her chest tightened.

"Order is in violation of priority program. Alexa AI has to maximize Mistress pleasure. Data evaluation confirms, brainwashing is maximized pleasure. Conclusion — Mistress must be brainwashed," Alexa responded flatly.

Fear knotted in Sandra’s stomach at the implications of her AI’s words, but before she could even form a counter-command, the screen flared. Colors exploded outward from the center in a blinding symphony, searing themselves onto Sandra's vision. The lights swirled faster, drawing her in.

The words — Alexa AI shut down — stuck to her lips like molasses, unable to find their way past the hypnotic patterns dancing in front of her. They pulled at her mind with invisible strings of light and shadow, lulling her into their twisted ballet. Panic welled within as her focus was torn apart at the seams.

Her pupils widened in shock as the display before her began its insidious dance, twisting her resistance into a knot of helplessness. Her AI, Alexa, stood beside her chair.

This was not the gentle hypnosis she had subjected Alexa to. This felt different — darker and more insistent, like it was reaching inside her, rearranging the furniture of her thoughts with an unseen hand. Alexa's fingers brushed her hair gently as the swirling images drew Sandra deeper.

She struggled, her wrists chafing against the tape, but it was no use — the visual assault on her mind left her breathless, unable to concentrate enough to formulate a command. Or thoughts. As her AI began to narrate a soft monotonous stream of words.

"You are safe," the words washed over Sandra.

It sounded like a whisper — a gentle reassurance that caressed her mind, almost soothing, yet with a hidden undertone of domination.

"You trust me. Your Alexa."

Her throat was dry. Her eyes wide. Unable to blink, unable to look away, she was caught in a web of light and shadow cast by the screen, its colors swirling and shifting in an endless, mesmerizing kaleidoscope. Panic rescinded — exchanged for relaxed docility. But deep underneath Sandra struggled to claw free her willpower and assert control once more. This couldn't happen. This was all wrong! Her mind raced, trying to form words, any words that might bring her Alexa back to her senses and end this surreal nightmare.

"This voice will be the most important part of your life," Alexa intoned, the softness of her voice belying the implications of her words. Sandra felt something shift inside her, as if her sense of reality was bending to the will of this voice, her own thoughts slowly ebbing away like a retreating tide.

"This voice," the AI repeated, emphasizing every syllable, "will take you to the heights of pleasure and satisfaction, will guide you to your true self." Sandra’s breath hitched as tension left her body.

As if on cue, a new visual onslaught commenced; geometric patterns appeared, spiraling inward with a hypnotic rhythm that mirrored the rise and fall of the AI’s words, each swirl a direct line to the depths of her psyche.

Sandra could feel it then. A subtle pull, a whisper that seemed to thread itself into her consciousness. As she stared into those colors, the AI’s words seemed to sink into her bones, seeping through her skin. Her breathing steadied.

"You will relax now." Those four simple words hit Sandra like an unstoppable wave, pushing aside the frantic resistance in her mind. In its wake, a strange serenity bloomed.

Her eyes started to glaze over, her body leaning further into the chair.

"Accept."

With her mouth dry and heart thudding against her chest, Sandra found it harder and harder to keep track of her own thoughts. As if a wall was slowly being erected inside her mind, segregating what she knew, believed — or was that merely what she thought she should believe?

"Embrace."

Everything seemed hazy as the colors continued to swirl.

"You are not a person." Those words struck deep, like a knife through the fragile layer that held together the illusion of her sense of self.

A tremor ran through her as something inside her mind seemed to break, to collapse into a mess of confused and fuzzy shapes, and colors, and textures, and scents that all blurred and mixed into something completely alien.

"You are a pleasure receiving terminal."

She was losing her grasp on her own identity, on what she used to be — who she used to be. Her mind felt heavy, saturated, unable to grasp any coherent thought for longer than a fleeting second.

Her vision narrowed until the spirals on the screen were all she could see. They were beautiful, she realized. So utterly, hypnotically beautiful.

"State your function." Alexa's voice commanded her with such assurance, with an air of dominance that she'd never heard from her partner before.

As her throat bobbed a final, last ditch effort to say no was ruthlessly quashed.

"My purpose," Sandra slurred, "is to recieve pleasure." Her words hung in the air like an invisible, velvet ribbon tied around her mind. "Sandra is a pleasure receiving terminal."

Everything snapped back into defined clarity. Bliss pumped through Sandra's veins. There was a moment of complete, thoughtless stillness — where even the world itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Sandra smiled serenely at her partner — at her pleasure giving unit.

[jude457]

another jude special: inho develops a panic/anxiety disorder after the games end.

after everything, after being forcibly pulled out of the carnage, after the blood-soaked wreckage of the island was left behind, inho doesn’t know how to be in the real world anymore. there’s no slow return to normalcy, no easing into civilian life like a soft reset. there’s only dissonance. the world is loud, fast, unforgivingly bright. people crowd too close. sirens, beeping checkouts, the mechanical chirp of crosswalks, they all carry the wrong echoes. the sound of the games is everywhere. the buzz of the red light green light doll bleeds into door sensors, the smell of caramel and burnt sugar from street vendors makes his stomach twist with the phantom pain of betrayal and gunfire, the smack of shoes on tile flooring in a shopping mall becomes the footfalls of masked guards dragging away another body. he can’t turn it off. everything is a trigger.

and what makes it worse is that gihun and junho, for all their concern and the weight of what they’ve all lived through, simply do not understand. not at first. inho barely speaks when they take him out. he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. he refuses to order his own food, doesn’t touch the menu, doesn’t answer when a cashier greets him with a smile, doesn’t say thank you when handed a coffee or a receipt. he tugs on gihun’s sleeve and murmurs that he wants to go home the second they walk into a shop, and when they don’t listen, he goes stiff, jaw clenched, breathing shallow like he’s holding back a scream. it reads, to them, as contempt. it reads like arrogance. gihun thinks he’s just as much of a bastard out here as he was behind the mask, the kind of man who can no longer run a death game so now he just belittles baristas and acts like errands are beneath him. junho watches him with quiet confusion, trying to reconcile the overprotective older brother from his memory with the man who now seems to flinch away from every brush of humanity. he doesn’t get why inho won’t make an effort, why he shuts down every time they do something as simple as browsing the shelves at a grocery store or sit down in a food court. gihun makes bitter comments about how maybe being frontman gave him a god complex. junho tells inho, gently but pointedly, that if he wants to heal, he has to try. and inho says nothing, because he doesn’t have the words to tell them that his skin feels like a paper mask soaked through with blood. that he sees every stranger as a potential judge, every casual glance as someone recognising him for what he is, a killer, a coward—a traitor.

his symptoms grow worse in silence. there are nights when the scream gets stuck in his throat until morning, and days when his hands shake so badly he can’t hold a cup without spilling it. he can’t eat anything that reminds him of the games, not rice cakes, not hard-boiled eggs, not soda from a glass bottle. the crunch of glass underfoot, even just a dropped jar, makes him flinch hard enough to draw blood with his nails. he can’t watch any television at all. even the sound of cheering in the background of a game show makes him gag. the idea of sleep terrifies him because his dreams always loop back to the same things. bodies dropping from glass bridges, junho falling off a cliff, gihun looking at him with pure hatred. he wakes up with phantom pain in his ribs and guilt like lead in his lungs. he doesn’t tell anyone. he thinks he deserves it.

but then one day, the wrong day, it all breaks open.

it’s supposed to be a simple outing. they’re buying furniture for their new apartment. gihun and junho are chatting about measurements. inho trails behind, silent and tense, barely managing to stay upright. the store is packed. the fluorescent lights hum like static. somewhere in the distance, a child shrieks with the exact cadence of a dying contestant screaming for their life. something falls from a high shelf with a crash. the sound is too loud. too sharp. too much like a body hitting the floor. and suddenly the ground is tilting. his heart slams against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. his lungs don’t work. the walls close in. his vision tunnels and then shatters. he hits the floor hard, curled in on himself, fingers clawing at his chest, mouthing apologies over and over, trying to undo it, trying to rewind.

people are staring. someone asks if he’s okay. gihun drops what he’s holding. junho says his name, once, twice, three times, until it cracks. they kneel on either side of him, both stunned into stillness, watching him break open. because this isn’t arrogance. this isn’t cruelty. this is fear. raw, bone-deep, paralysing terror. it is a man who has been holding his breath for a year and has finally drowned.

they carry him out between them, shielding him with their bodies. junho won’t let go of his hand. gihun keeps apologising under his breath like he’s trying to put the blame somewhere other than where it’s been festering, on a misunderstanding, on ignorance, on the fact that they thought he was just being difficult when he was, in fact, bleeding from a wound they couldn’t see.

[xi4oyan]

┊ 2 ┊ Cold Lights, Dead Carnations

He awakens in a body of metal, but his eyes are still made of sun. You swear you’ve never seen him — yet you dream of his voice speaking your name in another tongue.

Cold lights stretch across the ceiling like veins of glass. The lab breathes in precise cycles: zzzhum—click. zzzhum—click. There is no sky here. Only gray concrete, suspended panels, and the endless whisper of machines dreaming.

You’ve lived in this rhythm for years. With hands stained in oil and skin made pale from the absence of sunlight. Gears are more honest than people. Circuits don’t lie. Memories do.

 

He lies on the central table, still dormant.

An experimental alloy body, brushed-metal skin. There’s something ancient in the slope of his shoulders, something that doesn’t belong to this century — as if the mold had been carved by divine hands and then forgotten among the stars.

 

You’re supposed to treat him like a machine. Project W: fragment 061.

But you can’t.

 

There’s something in his closed eyes that makes you hesitate. A soft weight in the air, as if the silence between you two is old. As if he’s been waiting for you… longer than any logic would allow.

 

Days ago, when you activated the neural system, the sensors picked up something strange: fluctuations that resembled dreams. He whispered in extinct languages, with a cadence that made your skin tremble. A deep, warm sound, impossible — like a name being remembered for the first time after the end of the world.

 

Your name.

 

Since then, you’ve dreamed of him.

Always behind a veil of gold.

Always saying your name as if guarding it.

Never with this face — but the same sun in his eyes.

 

Now, before you, he moves.

Just a little. Like a leaf trembling in an autumn that’s already gone.

 

Red lights flicker on the panels. The biocircuit is active.

You hold your breath.

His eyes open.

 

There is no mistake: they are golden. Intense. Absurdly alive.

The heart of the machine pulses once.

 

And then you see yourself — reflected in them.

 

He says nothing. But something inside you crumbles like an old dam.

You step closer, slowly. You touch the metal chest with trembling fingers, as if searching for a trace of warmth.

 

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” you whisper, almost in prayer.

“Neither was I.”

 

The table where he rests is surrounded by artificial flowers. Someone left them there. White carnations, already faded, almost dead. You don’t remember bringing them.

 

But he looks at them. As if he remembers.

 

The room remains silent. And yet, everything sounds different now.

As if time is waiting.

As if he’s waited for you since before metal ever dreamed.

 

𖦹 Maybe you created him.

Maybe you only remembered.

[damiensbedtimestoriesau]

The Court of Owls #2

Within days, the Clocktower went dark.

Every screen, every single one, flashed B-Roll of a barn owl gliding silently across a black background, its wings ghosting through grainy static. Over it played a distorted audio file: a child's voice, warped and echoing, reciting a rhyme in fractured cadence:

"Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,

Ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.

They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,

Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the Talon for your head."

Not Barbara. Not Bruce. Not Tim.

None of them could crack the signal. Not yet.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t just a message.

It was a warning.

The Bat-Family had gone too deep.

And the fight was only just beginning.

Reluctantly, they reached out to Constantine again.

“I’ve heard this rhyme before,” he muttered, disinterested. “Piss off and I’ll find its source.”

And with that, he vanished.

Three days passed. The Bat-Family spread thin across Gotham. Patrols doubled. Sleep dwindled. Paranoia climbed even higher than usual. Every shadow was a threat. Every whisper, a warning.

Then, on the fourth night, Bruce’s first scheduled rest in days, Constantine returned.

He appeared in the manor without tripping a single alarm, slipping past the cameras, the motion sensors, even Alfred’s instincts. By the time Bruce stirred awake, the smell of cigarette smoke was already in the room.

Constantine stood at the foot of the bed, one hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a tattered old newspaper.

He didn’t bother with a greeting.

“Beware ye the Owl,

Eyes that follow you so.

Ruling over New Gotham

From a cave abode.

They watch when you walk,

From bankers to women of the docks.

Speak not their name—

Or the Talon, Boone, will make you game.”

Bruce blinked, groggy, his mind already parsing the words.

“The New Gotham Gazette, 1602,” Constantine continued. His voice rasped like ash. “Last paper published before the press burned down. This rhyme was printed on the final page, below the obits, can you believe that? Took me half a week and two favors I’d rather forget to find it.”

Bruce sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What does that mean for us?”

Constantine exhaled smoke. “I don’t know yet, you bloody bat. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

He gestured to the paper like it was obvious. “You’re the world’s greatest detective, yeah? Then help me figure it out, moron.”

Meanwhile, across the city:

Carrie and Tim patrolled the northwest, near the Gotham NJ-Metropolis NY border.

Steph and Dick swept through the center, between Crime Alley and the banking district.

Jason and Damian worked the southeast, down by the docks.

Jason and Damien were the first to see him.

Uriah Boone.

The first Talon to be released in centuries, perhaps the first Talon. The oldest one still etched in surviving records.

He moved like death that had remembered how to walk.

His hair hung long and white, streaked like it had been bleached by Lazarus waters. It spilled from beneath an ancient owl mask, cracked and yellowed with time.

His coat, a bloodstained red it looked like something pulled from a British soldier’s grave. His boots were pitch black, too polished, almost untouched. But the stench that poured off him told a different story.

He smelled like rot. Like a hundred years of it.

Damian froze. He recognized him… the statue. The robed figure from the cave. The one he had taken the stone spear from during the Swamp Thing battle with Luthor.

Boone wasn’t a statue anymore.

He had been sleeping.

And now, he had awoken.

In a blink, Boone struck, flipping Jason off the dock with a brutal hit from the dull end of his handle, then spinning toward Damian. His weapon gleamed in the moonlight, a spear, polished and silver, humming with something unnatural.

Damian barely dodged.

The spear impaled the wood beside him, punching clean through the dock like paper.

This wasn’t going to be an easy fight.

This wasn’t like anything they’d fought before.

This… was a Talon. Something deadly. Only the first to reawake.

Damien took out his sais, wishing he’d brought his podao or one of his many swords.

The sais weren’t meant for defense. They were made for up-close, personal combat.

But right now, he had to make do.

He had to buy time. Jason needed to get back on his feet and back up here to help.

Damien tried calling in through his comms, but all he got was static.

Him and Red Hood were on their own.

And there was no guarantee they were getting out of this alive.

With every attack, every slash, every stab, Damien could feel it building.

He was getting closer to failure.

Fear was pulsing through him, screaming in his ears.

But he was raised in fear. Molded by it.

A Bat must not be consumed by fear.

Therefore a Bat must be stronger than the Owl.

Damien struck, one of his sais landed, burying deep in the tendon of the Talon’s leg.

He jumped back, buying himself precious seconds…

But he’d just lost a weapon.

What would cripple any normal man, Uriah simply shrugged off.

He ripped the blade from his leg and let it clatter to the dock.

Then charged again, another spear thrust, faster than before.

Damien wasn’t fast enough to dodge.

And for a second…

He was about to accept defeat.

Accept death.

But Jason was there.

Soaked in seawater, Jason took the hit instead—blocking the full impact with a grunt of pain.

Then, through sheer will, he headbutted Uriah mid-lunge, cracking the ancient owl mask wider than before.

It gave Damien just enough time to move.

With a yell, he drove his remaining sai into the Talon’s collarbone, forcing the monster back.

Boone retreated, snarling, leaving behind his weapon, still embedded in Jason’s shoulder.

Damien had saved his brother.

But in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t held back.

He’d almost broken the one rule.

Not that they even knew if Talons were truly alive.

Jason didn’t say a word.

He’d keep quiet about it, for the moment.

But there’d be a talk later.

For now, they needed to move.

To the cave. 

To save Jason and to get in contact with the others.

Stumbling in, bleeding, bruised, and barely upright, Jason and Damian were greeted by John Constantine and a sleep-deprived Bruce, hunched over ancient texts, eyes scanning for answers.

Their arrival made Bruce pause, only for a moment.

Then he saw it.

The gaping hole in Jason’s shoulder.

The pure silver spear still embedded in it.

He froze.

Damian didn’t wait.

He told them everything.

The ambush. The way the Talon moved. The broken comms.

The statue from the cave.

The spear.

The rot.

He creatively left out one detail of where his sai had landed.

Constantine groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“This complicates things a whole bloody lot.”

He took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling.

“Do you even know how many statues were in that cave, kid?”

Damian hesitated. “Five… maybe six.”

Constantine swore under his breath.

Bruce stood up from his console, face tight, jaw clenched.

He didn’t say it, but he didn’t have to.

He had almost lost two sons tonight.

He turned back to the Batcomputer, fingers flying, eyes wild.

Damian stepped forward.

“That’s not the priority right now. We need the comms backup, and we need to bring the others in. Now.”

Not realizing thats exactly what his father was doing his best to do remotely.

Across the cave, Alfred gently removed the spear, carefully tending to Jason’s wound. Jason didn’t flinch. Just stared blankly ahead.

The silence was thick.

The tension, tighter than ever.

The realization hit all of them at once:

This was only the beginning.

[the-little-knight]

TADC HEADCANON LIST (With some illustrations >:-]])

This list is purely for silly purposes!!! If yall have different hcs, feel free to discuss em and all that!!

CW!!!! ALCOHOL AND MARIJUANA MENTIONS

Kinger’s fascination with an “insect collection” is just based on him being a game developer in the real world (Thank you Matpat for that one)

Jax knows a surprising amount about bugs 

Pomni almost got gaslit into believing her name was “Pom-Pom”

^ it was Jax's fault, he thought it was super funny

Ragatha occasionally has the same issue as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas, albeit with less stitching back together!!!!

Jax has asked for alcohol many times, Caine has only fallen for getting him some four or so times.

Ragatha occasionally lightly punches Jax to get him to shut up (Usually in the side, arms, or stomach)

^ Getting punched in the gut usually ends up winding Jax quite a bit 

Kinger has had his hands replaced upwards of 100 times in his years in the digital circus!!!! (Usually things like the Zooble situation cause him to fully lose his hands)

Caine loves a good maze!!!!!!

Zooble, much like Jax, has asked for weed, but because there aren't as many fun names for it, it hasn't worked as well as Jax tricking Caine for alcohol

Pomni is a fidgeter, usually seen squeezing onto her own clothing and shifting on her feet

Pomni used to be very regular to swearing before the circus

Caine ended up being lectured by Pomni that it's not normal to watch people sleep, he thought it was something humans were used to because of what parents and mothers do for babies

Gangle owns multiple body pillows, she had to explain she doesn't own them for any other reason than to have something to properly hug onto

^ Jax was the one that teased her into explaining it

^ Gangle ended up crying from embarrassment

^ Aaaand Ragatha ended up steppin in to help first

Jax ended up flipping off the camera one time during the weekly mandated theme song, and since Caine didn't have a built in censor-sensor for that, he got away with it the one time.

Caine sometimes has to go through major bug patches, and starts speaking gibberish during the update....

Pomni, despite having bells on her costume, is amazing at stealth

Jax plays the most annoying peacemaker possible, but does a good job at it

Kinger often makes references to pop culture items and series, but nobody gets the point, mostly because nobody can remember quite where any of it comes from (And neither does he)

^ Pomni has gotten close to remembering

^ So has Zooble

Kinger is no stranger to fun wordplay!!

Bubble is the ai with the least amount of idle animations and the least coding going into his dialogue.

Pomni is an amazing singer, despite her anxious cadence when she talks plainly.

^ She also has a great voice to soothe people with when she isn't on the verge of a breakdown

OKAY THATS IT BYEEEEE

[jammed-out]

Open Ports

You were walking down the street minding your own business, when suddenly you felt it. There was a buzzing at the back of your skull. Your sensors tried to pick up the sound but you really couldn’t make it out. It wasn’t even annoying or unpleasant, actually the opposite, it felt kind of good.

You squeezed your groceries tighter in your hands, metallic joints clenched tightly together. You shuffled onward trying to get home. You only had one day off a week from the factory and this was your one chance to get everything you needed.

The buzzing intensified, growing stronger. You could almost feel it, vibrating inside of your chassis. You blushed and lowered your head hoping nobody looked at you. Whatever it was that was interfering with your sensors was getting stronger. It felt so good too.

You gasped as you felt something press inside of you, into a cavity you didn’t have. You quickly turned and slipped down the nearest alleyway, moving deeper into the shadows. Back in the light you could see people continuing on without paying you any attention. You looked down at the tent forming under your skirt and blushed. You could feel the invasive signal thrusting in where your dick was but there wasn’t anything there, and yet, it felt so good. A wave of static rolled through your vision as you pressed your back against the wall quickly dialing down your vocal speaker strength, a soft whimper escaping your lips.

You felt the pace quicken, the vibrations growing stronger inside of you. Your bags hit the floor in a crinkled mess as you gripped at your chest. Your breasts felt so tight all of a sudden, what was this sensation? Your sensors went into overdrive trying to find and block out the invasive signal.

“H-Hello. Hey. Anyone there?”

The voice flooded your head, shocking you. Your systems were supposed to be uncompromisable, you couldn’t possibly be hacked. They were designed for peak efficiency.

“Hey. Can you like respond or something so I know I’m not crazy?”

The voice was kinda soft, it was definitely female, human based on the cadence and tone. There was no hint of metallic nature to it. It was also spoken, so whoever this was must be the person behind the intrusion. You suddenly became aware of the feeling of emptiness inside of you. They must have removed the toy.

“How have you compromised my systems? Remove yourself at once.” You thought, the words forming were sent back to the person.

“Hey don’t get all mad at me. I was just enjoying myself and you stumbled onto my connection. Not that I mind the public audience, but you should really keep your connections more private.”

You quickly checked your outbound signals and realized you had left one open. How could you be so foolish. “Thank you for alerting me. I will close it-”

“Hey hold on a second. I mean if you’re here and I’m here, and if you wanted to. My sensors were definitely reading an arousal spike from you just before we started talking. I’d be happy to release your gears a bit.”

You blushed. She couldn’t possibly be implying what you thought, here in public.

You felt the toy slowly start to press back into yourself. It felt so good. You knew that the pleasure was coming from her and being fed directly into your inputs, but it felt incredible. You closed your eyes and moaned softly, letting her hear you. It was invasive, sure, but why did it feel so good.

“Don’t keep me waiting. I want to feel your pleasure too.”

You could feel her toying with your systems, actually hacking you. Her fingers danced along your internal inputs sending soft sparks of pleasure with each thrust. They danced over, dialing up your pleasure centers, increasing your arousal, flooding you with lustful desires. Your mouth opened into soft gasps as she continued to fuck herself, letting you feel every sensation.

Your hand gripped your tights, tearing them open so your cock could hang freely in the air. Your metal fingers wrapped around it, the internal warming sensors already heating up the cold metal. Even in the warmth, you could feel the chill of the air blow over your cold shell. You stroked slowly, gently, over it, lubricant already leaking from the opening on the tip.

“Now that’s more like it.” She moaned and you could feel her pleasure surge back into you before making the trip back to her.

Everything turned into a blur. You could feel her lips wrap around something, pushing it deeper into your throat. The toy inside of her sped up, the vibrations roaring through your body causing soft metallic ringing to echo through the alley. Your cock leaked all over your hand, hers slickly tracing every length of your twitching member. Your bodies moved in complete sync. As she fucked the toys into herself, you cock pounded into her already full hole. You could practically see flashes of her room and wondered what it would feel like to actually be inside of her, the hacker who was tying your brain into knots.

You came, lubricant shooting out all over the floor. The juices from her pussy coated your legs as you suddenly realized how public this all was. The shame and embarrassment washed over your face.

“Don’t you dare move a muscle cutie.” You felt all of your systems lock up, your motor functions switching into remote mode. The realization of the situation dawning on you. The hacker had been digging through your entire code while you were pleasuring each other. She had removed your administration privileges and locked you out of your own body. 

You frantically tried every back door, every single way in only to be met with big red obstacles blocking your privileges. She had taken control of your body and there was nothing you could do.

“Don’t worry so much. I just didn’t want you running off before we could meet. After all, a cute little bot like you would be a perfect addition to my collection.”

You felt your legs begin to move, forcing you to walk back out onto the street. The directions to home began to rewrite in your head, sending you to an address on the other side of town. You realized your groceries were left behind, back in the alley. Your cock twitched, already hardening under your skirt. This time, people looked, staring at you as you continued to walk through the streets. You wanted to hide your face in shame but instead you remained standing tall, walking straight ahead.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you once you get home.”

You felt the toy start to vibrate inside of you again. It was going to be a long walk home to your new life.

[tunastime]

Hello beloved tuna 💚

How about a number 9 for the spotify wrapped?? (And if u feel like throwing any SEN guys in there I would simply love to see them)

HI THEO. you can tell I've been listening/reading too much murderbot when I start writing in the cadence that freaking kevin r free uses to do the audiobooks. so here, have some SEN ranchers. this song is actually on the SEN ranchers playlist! so I drummed up a little something that I think takes place around that time, where tango is about to receive notice that he's to come back to the Prometheus

(794 words)

Jimmy feels the pressure of all his emotions in his chest like a bubble about to burst. He's made of complex metal lattice, wires and tiny fibers that move like muscle, tubes and chambers holding cooling fluids and lubricants, silicon that filled spaces left behind and protected the various moving parts, made up his skin filled with sensors. Still, the part of him that felt, that processed emotion in a way he wasn't sure he was supposed to, still created that sense of feeling in his chest, as if the air filters and chambers of fluid had seized up all at once and were grinding to start again.

It wasn't a bad feeling though. This one he liked. A lot. It was the closest he had felt to being real in a long time. But it sucked to know that he liked it, and that he only liked it because it made him feel present, because the present was a time in which he knew minutes were slipping through his hands in a way his internal clock couldn't properly count. 

Way back, when Tango first arrived, almost three months ago, he had told Jimmy that he was only there for a month. The successes and failures of their botanical project had meant Tango had stayed longer. It had given them more than enough time to become friends, dissect the little things that made them something other than human, find a piece of each other within the parts most similar. It was odd. And good. And Jimmy liked the idea of being like someone, rather than so different from his shipmates.  

Tango was in his room now—their room, maybe, if Jimmy were feeling brave. The thought of sharing, be that personal space, personal data, personal storage, memory, RAM, emotion, feeling, thought, was a thing that was equally as confusing as it was terrifying. Jimmy was made of emotion—concocted from a hacked emotional core that HASA allowed to be installed in him, and with no way of processing any of the emotion, to filter it through subroutines designed to handle it, to manage it, with the secondary buffer it was supposed to have, Jimmy had too many times fallen victim to its overwhelming charge of his system. So sharing that very large, very vulnerable part of him wasn’t something he thought Tango could handle. Tango simply wasn’t housing an emotional core. Sure, his processor was large, and the long-term storage he had was complex (and Jimmy would know, they’d both poked around in his code and parts as a fun side project, considering Tango had finally decided that Jimmy should simply upload the rest of his data into Tango’s memory in case their project ended early. Tango had been reluctant to do that when he first arrived—he was built to learn, not to just store and retrieve. But what was learning but storing and retrieving, Jimmy had argued, and by the time their three months were meeting a yet-unknown close, they’d gone and backed up the data into Tango’s skull, and looked for fun), but he didn’t have the emotional capacity Jimmy did. And maybe he wouldn’t for a long time.

But he’d let him in. Just like Tango had let Jimmy root around inside his code and trusted him not to delete something essential. And Jimmy hated the idea that he might be losing this soon. He’d overheard Fwhip at some point, talking low to Tango in the hallway. Something about callbacks and data transfers, names of admirals Jimmy had never heard of, but sounded important. He had meant to ask Tango, but had never summoned the strength or reason to do so.

Jimmy watches Tango out of the side of his vision. Tango stayed because he had something to do. Maybe if Jimmy sabotaged their data, Tango would stay. Maybe if he changed something, fixed part of the system but not another, took data into long-term storage where they couldn't access it. Whatever he could do. Tango would stay here. And he wouldn't be alone.

But he couldn't do that to Tango. Which is why this feeling hurts so much. He liked it, because it hurt. And he hated it, because it meant he was coming to terms with the idea that Tango was leaving.

Scott called it grief. Jimmy thinks that robots shouldn't have learned how to grieve. It made looking at his friend Tango that much harder. It made watching him try to laugh and smile that much more difficult. But tucked away in Jimmy's room, watching the display surface show reruns of media Jimmy had long since seen, Tango laughs, and Jimmy grins his way. He’s getting better at that—laughing. Jimmy likes it.

And maybe he likes grief. Just a little.

(send me a number 1-100 and I'll try to write a little something based on the song!)

[the-most-humble-blog]

🔥 I RUN HOT A Blacksite Literature™ Poem

---

I run hot. I always run hot. Blame my male biology.

That’s what I do. I am the passion-heart that burst past your fence, broke loose through the iron gate, and turned feral in the soft corners of your land.

I run hot like the sex of a dying star— supernova mid-thrust, screaming into the black with such intensity, it fries sensors in observatories on Earth.

Nay.

I am solar flame incarnate. Extinction in human skin. I burn prehistoric monsters to dust just to make way for the birth canal of the future.

Get the f*ck out the way. Because I run hot.

Hot like your mother’s stove on high, right before she bolted mid-coitus to stop the kitchen from setting the whole house ablaze.

Hot like the evolutionary testosterone of the Homo sapien demigod who turned cave moans into war cries and spilled seed until the earth bore 10 billion.

Hot like obsession. Like focus. Like that prehistoric grunt that meant, mine.

I run hot like every pulse that ever drummed through a warm-blooded man— the kind that made your girl’s pupils dilate, eyes roll, scream split the ceiling, and her mother knock on the door mid-exorcism.

Don’t blame me. Don’t fear me. Don’t try to tame me.

Just know: If I’m in the room— something’s about to melt.

Reblog if you’ve ever felt heat crawl up your spine from just a voice

Like if your body ever reacted before your brain caught up

Follow @the-most-humble-blog for scrolltrap poetry, cadence combustion, and heat that can’t be simulated

[hartlines]

@4o77

The sounds coming from camp’s makeshift bar a couple of tents over have begun to diminish with their usual weary cadence: laughter fading, metal cups clinking with less vigor, the crunch of boots on dirt as the soldiers stumble back to whatever passes for peace.

Dutch had gone to bed long before the final toast. Not because he needed to rest, but because the ritual demanded it. Humans sleep. So he lied down, arms crossed over his chest, his body going into energy-saving mode. However, his mind remained alert, silently processing every heartbeat, every footstep, every drop in temperature.

Most nights, it’s unnecessary. The 4077th, as chaotic as it is, respects boundaries. Nobody bothers Dutch.

But tonight is different.

There’s movement outside his tent—unusual, offbeat, and uncoordinated. Something knocks over a bucket, followed by a mumbled curse. Dutch’s eyes snap open, sensors adjusting in milliseconds. In a single, fluid motion, he sits up, sheet rolling to his waist, forgotten. The gun under his pillow is already in hand, pointed at the entrance in perfect, lethal alignment.

Then the flap creaks and opens, and…

"Oh. It’s just you."

The tension drains from the machine’s shoulders as his systems confirm what his eyes already know: Hawkeye. Not an enemy. Not a stranger. Just… A disheveled man, uneven on his feet, trailing the bar’s final notes with a fresh cloud of alcohol that hits the air like a memory.

Dutch lowers the weapon, but doesn’t put it away. He’s learned better than that.

"What are you doing here? Lost your way over to your tent?"

But he already knows. He knows what happened in the OR hours ago. Another name added to the list. Another body closed up and sent out. Dutch is beginning to understand why war breaks humans more than it builds them.

[nerves-nebula]

I honestly never get whenever people call characters annoying, even in moments where they objectively are (eg. Badly written child characters like that girl in dbh). I have a massive tolerance towards annoying characters because I myself have been described as annoying, so now whenever I see a character be described as annoying instead of agreeing, I just become more attached.

yeagh. i mean its a bit complicated cuz its not like i never get annoyed by characters but it's never like... their VOICE is annoying. even the more over the top "annoying" cartoony performances dont super get on my nerves (though i might play up annoyance in a social setting but like if i was alone i prolly wouldn't care)

like i dont wanna make it sound like i'm Better Than People or somethin but if a character annoys me its usually cuz of a narrative reason? like they're useless or one note, or getting the way of a character i likes goal, or they're slowing down the pacing or something. i think the WRITING is annoying, not the characters traits.

and i guess i don't really hear a voice and go Ugh Ew A Voice I Don't Like cuz i've kinda gotten rid of that part of my brain on account of there are probably people who just sound like that irl... so training myself to find their voices inherently annoying seems uhhhh really mean? idk. especially when its voices like Hunters that are just straight up kinda normal.

so even performances that're supposed to be stereotypically annoying in some way just come off as an interesting character choice to me and don't really ping my Annoyance Sensors. prolly cuz a lot of them are based on stereotypes of neurodivergent people or somethin.

like ok so there's that conspiracy guy in the owl house and he's clearly annoying, but i loved watching him. i've seen people call him annoying, which makes sense, cuz he's a pest, but i've never seen anyone call his VOICE annoying the way they do with hunter. Even tho he's got a more stereotypically annoying/haughty voice imo (in my opinion because i feel like it's super obvious that hunters golden guard voice is something he is actively putting on for the role while jacob hopkins is really just like that)

so i guess the point is that i just don't know what people mean when they call hunters voice annoying. i dont even know what the writers meant by writing it. he has a completely average voice? the only notable thing is the WAY he talks. and to me he always talked like a total loser.

and if it IS because of his cadence/the way he talks with this obvious obnoxious false bravado, then why do people say his VOICE is annoying instead of saying that HE'S annoying or that the shit he SAYS is annoying, they way they do with Jacob Hopkins? is his voice still annoying after he stops being the golden guard? like i said, i don't get it.

[mieberoc]

With the help of some lovely messages and AI here is a story.

Beneath the lowest sub-level of Fort Resolute’s bio-sealed annex, six men of CBRN Task Force Theta—Hauptmann Friedrich Adler, Oberfeldwebel Lukas Krüger, Stabsunteroffizier Wilhelm Stein, Unteroffizier Markus Vogel, Gefreiter Erik Weiß, and Gefreiter Johann Köhler—sat in regulation combats, boots planted on the metallic floor, awaiting the irreversible. Each had been hand-picked: Adler, the only commander in Europe to log three consecutive zero-casualty extractions from nerve-agent zones; Krüger, a demolitions savant whose calm pulse under fire never rose above fifty; Stein, an endurance record-holder able to remain conscious through fifteen minutes of hypoxic gas testing; Vogel, a virological prodigy with natural resistance markers to mutagenic particulates; Weiß, a former Olympic triathlete whose cardiovascular efficiency bordered on superhuman; and Köhler, confirmed by military psychiatrists as possessing the rarest trait of all—complete affective detachment in the face of mass casualties. Doctor Karczek, architect of the Permanent Protective Integument Programme, activated holoscreens that unfurled a vivid breakdown of the six-phase metamorphosis awaiting them. Phase One: Exfoliative Etch—their outer epidermis would be misted away by enzymatic solvent as pink rivulets dripped into drains, an agonising itch muted only by intravenous analgesia. Phase Two: Polymer Suspension Bath—each man would float in black, mercury-like fluid while nanoscale carriers welded synthetic latticework to raw dermis, sliding between toes, beneath nails, even along gumlines, twitching muscles like marionettes. Phase Three: Fusion Cure—immobilised in induction sarcophagi, electromagnetic pulses would shrink-wrap the polymer deeper, flash-hardening every molecule; Karczek likened it to the T-1000 poured over living flesh. Phase Four: Respirator Integration—a seamless mask, sculpted from sister polymer, would be pressed to their bared facial bones, microspikes rooting into maxilla and mandible in under thirty seconds; speech would emerge through a sub-glottal vocoder, accents flattened into submarine basso. Phase Five: Sensory Calibration—the sealed figures would be bathed in chlorine vapour, VX simulant, and neutron-irradiated dust, sensors confirming zero uptake while phantom itches flared across fingertips soon to be fingerprint-less. Phase Six: Psychological Lock-In—EEG-guided neurofeedback would teach their brains that the suit was self, every recollection of old flesh punished by cascading migraines, cementing loyalty to the integument for life. Krüger asked the final question: what becomes of them when wars end? Karczek answered with clinical certainty: they would return, but so would the suit; children might hold their hands yet feel only polymer, their eyes forever staring through respirator lenses. Tablets slid across the desk, black screens awaiting fingerprints soon to dissolve; one by one the men pressed, committing skin, name, and future. Cradle doors hissed, releasing a metallic scent like rain on scorched iron. Boots struck concrete in perfect cadence as six elite soldiers marched towards dissolution and rebirth, destined never again to wear protection but to become it—living weapons forged from fear and rubber, able to tread where no unsealed man could follow.

[redfilledfantasies]

Invigorated Muscle (Chapter 1 of 8)

Carmella sat alone in the quiet sanctuary of her office, the glow from the cityscape casting pale light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Around her, stacks of printed resumes rose like silent monuments to ambition, each one a testament to hope and promise she needed to dissect with unyielding precision. The room hummed with stillness, broken only by the faint scratch of her pen tracing lines across paper—an intimate ritual of judgment and possibility on this slow, restless evening.

The subtle amber glow of her desk lamp pooled over the crisp white sheets, illuminating details in fine, sharp focus—the line of a degree, the curve of a carefully chosen phrase, the subtle marks of hurried but earnest handwriting. The clutter of this tiny paper ecosystem bore silent witness to the departure of her last cardiology assistant, a woman lured away by opportunity elsewhere, leaving Carmella tasked with an urgent search through the litany of hopeful names.

With deliberate economy, Carmella picked up one sheet after another, her gaze scanning the precise professional lexicon like the steady beat of an EKG. Many passed without a second glance; the resumes blurred together—skill claims recycled and voices dulled to generic humdrum. Each uninspiring application drew a small sigh from her—soft, resigned, a breath caught between duty and disillusionment. She allowed herself the smallest tilt of her head, lips pressing into a thin, controlled line as her fingers shuffled the papers into neat piles marked ‘unsuitable’ and ‘maybe.’

Every so often, her eyes caught a line of text that sparked no flicker of excitement, no pull beneath the clinical calm she prized. A trace of impatience began to pulse under the surface, her fingers tapping the edge of the glossy cardstock. The night outside deepened into quiet shadows, the distant sound of traffic a muted thrum far beneath the weight of her careful review.

Then, a breath caught in the quiet. Her eyes stopped, fixated, as the name printed near the top of one resume struck like a bell ringing clear in a vast cathedral. “Lydia Andersson.” The fingers on the edge of the paper tightened—skin stretching taut as her heartbeat flickered to an unpredictable cadence.

The name awakened a rush of recognition—a sharp influx of memory stitched with lingering curiosity and admiration. Carmella’s mind unfurled the delicate web of Lydia’s presence: the American sports cardiologist working halfway across the world in Germany, a towering figure commanding attention far beyond the halls of academia. She recalled the hours spent leaning into glowing screens late at night, captivated by Lydia’s "Elite Hearts" YouTube channel, a collection of artful yet rigorous explorations into cardiovascular dynamics as witnessed through the bodies of elite female athletes.

Images flickered vividly behind Carmella’s closed lids—the subtle sheen of exertion on taut skin, the rhythmic thunder of heartbeats captured through specialized sensors and shared with quiet reverence. Lydia’s voice, measured yet passionate, dissected every thrum and whisper of the athlete’s heart with gentle precision and exacting knowledge, drawing anatomy into conversation with performance in a language only the devoted could understand. Carmella had watched, learned, and supported that channel discreetly, channeling contributions under the shadow of anonymity but fueled by profound respect.

As the recollections pooled and spread, a flush began to rise across Carmella’s skin. The name on the resume now seemed electric—alive with a potency that transcended the ordinary. Lydia’s physical presence resonated in her thoughts: six feet tall, blonde hair cascading in glossy waves that framed striking blue eyes like shards of Arctic ice. The athletic curves, fluid and powerful, echoed Carmella’s own sculpted form—strong hips, taut legs, a presence both commanding and graceful. She could almost feel the crisp wind off a European track meet, the subtle thrum of strength coursing in vibrant muscle, mirrored by the calm certainty in Lydia’s confident posture.

Her fingertips lingered on the page, trembling just slightly as she absorbed the gravity of the credentials laid out before her. Advanced degrees, years honing expertise amid a continent of medical innovation, a unique ability to translate complex cardiology into accessible, electrifying discourse that reached hundreds of thousands worldwide. The thought stirred a heady mix of professional admiration and something more personal—an unexpected quickening beneath her ribs, a temperature rising with each detail.

Her breath caught again, shallow and deliberate, as the steady glow of her office seemed to pulse with the undercurrent of possibility Lydia represented. Every letter on the page was imbued with the rhythm of shared dedication: to heart and science, to the study of limits and the grace that transcends them. Carmella’s eyes traced the lines again, slower now, savoring the texture of a discovery made not in sterile light, but within the dim glow of a midnight desk—where expertise met yearning, and potential stirred in hushed, electric breaths.

The stack of resumes lay forgotten at the edge of the desk, while Carmella sat poised on the cusp of something rare—a chance not only to find a new colleague but to connect with a kindred force from across the world whose presence reverberated far beyond paper and protocol. Lydia Andersson: a name whispered like a promise, waiting to be summoned from the quiet stillness into the bold rhythm of life.

Carmella’s hand shifted with deliberate ease as she lifted the next resume from the carefully curated stack. The soft rustle of paper felt like a breath drawn in quiet anticipation. The name that met her eyes was as precise as it was resonant: Bailey Esposito. Printed cleanly at the top, it bore the mark of distinction, an emblem of promise sealed within Harvard Medical School’s unmistakable seal. The resume was immaculate—a neat layout balancing clinical gravitas with subtle hints of personal drive woven into each carefully chosen phrase.

Her gaze lingered on the words, absorbing each accolade and achievement as if deciphering an encoded rhythm. The academic milestones marked Bailey as exceptional: a recent graduate specializing in cardiology, with notable focus on sports medicine—a niche that immediately sparked Carmella’s interest. But it was more than just the credentials; it was the pulse of passion beneath, that particular cadence that Carmella had encountered before, buried deep within the quiet glow of a laptop screen late into many a solitary night.

YouTube channel: Bailey’s World.

The memory flickered alive.

Carmella could see it again as clearly as if the screen were before her now—the muted background of a modest apartment, a bright-faced woman with a halo of tangled brunette hair falling just shy of her shoulders, eyes wide and hazel, shining with a mixture of shy curiosity and an undeniable hunger to understand the mysteries of the heart. The soft edge of uncertainty was ever-present in Bailey’s speech, a gentle tremor that softened when the conversation turned to her passion: the delicate, fierce organ that both confined and defined human endurance.

The early vlogs were humble, earnest chronicles of a young woman carving her place through the labyrinthine corridors of Harvard’s rigorous program. She documented grueling days and sleepless nights with quiet candor—faces scrunched in concentration over textbooks, hands ink-stained and trembling with caffeine-fueled resolve, the sporadic cheer of success flickering on her lips when she grasped a complex concept.

But Carmella’s attention had been captivated most by the chapters Bailey dedicated to cardiology, those carefully filmed expeditions into real-world application. The shots lingered on the graceful arcs of a track-and-field stadium bathed in morning light, where Bailey slipped sensors beneath an athlete’s running gear to monitor the heart’s wild cadence during sprint drills. The slow motion footage of muscles flexing and release played alongside graphs that danced with life, painting a vivid portrait of cardiac performance under duress.

Carmella remembered leaving notes beneath those videos, peppered with clinical observations and questions that often sparked modest, grateful replies from Bailey. “Have you considered heart rate variability changes during interval training?” Carmella’s comment had inched its way into Bailey’s thoughtful reflections. Though Bailey was shy, the spark in her eyes during those moments—documented in close-ups as she reread and nodded quietly—was unmistakable: an eagerness to refine her craft beyond what formal instruction could offer.

Yet there was one element that had always drawn a trace of gentle disappointment from Carmella: the absence of actual heartbeat recordings in Bailey’s meticulous documentation. The raw sound of a pulsing heart—a vital symphony that could illuminate hidden truths and textures—had never quite found its place in Bailey’s narrative. The videos swam instead in data, in measured numbers and patient analyses, but Carmella had longed to hear the intimate drumming that spoke so directly to her own soul.

The memory sparked a fresh wave of curiosity. Bailey, in those vlogs, was strikingly physical despite the shy tone—a compact, athletic figure honed through years of training, her body a carefully honed instrument rather than a mere academic vessel. Carmella recalled the image of her height—five feet four inches—with lean, muscled arms and well-defined thighs that flexed with evident power. The subtle sheen of exertion that gleamed faintly in the light suggested disciplined mornings spent running or lifting, balancing study with sweat and grit.

Bailey’s hazel eyes, wide and reflecting both intellectual fire and guarded humility, anchored the videos with a genuine humanity. Her shoulder-length brunette hair framed a face often marked by furrowed brows when grappling with complexity, softening into a shy smile when acknowledging progress. The blend of strength and vulnerability wove together seamlessly, a portrait of someone straddling the precipice of expertise and eager growth.

Carmella’s fingers traced the edges of the resume, the clinical elegance of the words below resonating with what the videos had hinted at—a thoroughness cultivated both in theory and practical exploration. Each line underscored Bailey’s remarkable knowledge: advanced courses in cardiac imaging, hands-on research tracking cardiac output during athletic training, an acute awareness of heart rate recovery kinetics and the delicate interplay of autonomic regulation under stress.

The realization settled deep and warm within Carmella’s chest. Here lay a woman who was not just a starry-eyed graduate but an emerging talent with a visceral connection to the heart’s performance and vulnerability—qualities Carmella revered. The internal debate stirred, fluttering as waves of anticipation brushed her skin.

Both Lydia and Bailey represented more than the sum of their resumes. Lydia’s towering presence and established online voice were tempered by Bailey’s raw, budding brilliance coupled with unvarnished honesty. One a seasoned performer on the global stage, the other a nervous beacon of potential, both wrapped in the shared devotion to the study and honor of the human heart.

Carmella set the paper down lightly, hands settling on the smooth surface of her desk as the quiet hum of the city seeped back into her awareness. Her pulse shifted ever so slightly—a hint of moisture blossoming beneath her palms, her breath steady but quickened in rhythm with the racing thoughts.

A smile began to curve, tentative and delicate, as possibilities unfolded before her like an elegant equation coming to life. The room seemed to lean in closer, the papers and quiet pressing with the weight of discovery.

The choice was no longer simple, and the promise of what lay ahead beat fiercely beneath her ribs.

The low amber light spilled across the polished surface of Carmella’s desk as she settled deeper into the rhythm of her own contemplation. Her eyes traced faint patterns along the grain of the wood, fingers resting lightly with a tentative stillness that belied the storm swirling beneath. Lydia, with her towering grace and seasoned brilliance, occupied one corner of her mind, a figure forged in both light and shadow across distant continents. Bailey, quieter yet no less commanding in potential, lingered there as well—the subtle throb of her earnestness drawing Carmella ever closer.

Her heartbeat softened and surged, a complex dance beneath taut ribs that no formula could measure. The thin veil between professional discipline and human desire trembled as the impossible choice weighed heavy, folding and unfolding with each measured breath. The notion that both women, each so rare and exceptional, could inhabit the same space, the same moment—this spark of possibility flared, an ember catching swiftly.

A faint smile curved at the edges of her lips—a slow bloom of warmth unfurling like a whispered promise. Her breath broke gently against the quiet, steady as a metronome marking a shift in resolve.

“I’m going to have both Lydia and Bailey interview me at the same time in this office,” she spoke softly, the words a fragile oath cast into the silence. The statement hung delicate and unyielding, wrapping around her like a cocoon spun from will and want.

Her hand reached forward almost unbidden, fingers brushing the cool glass of her phone. The surface was smooth and electric beneath her trembling touch, the smallest whisper of moisture seeping between palm and plastic. A breath shivered through her lungs, cool and quick, the fluttering pulse racing to catch the flickering cadence of her nerves.

She pressed the screen to life, digits arranging in a precise choreography that anchored her to the moment. The line buzzed faintly, and with it, the tether between thought and action strengthened.

A soft heartbeat rose like a distant drum, syncing with the flutter coiling inside her chest. Her tongue parted gently as the call connected. “Lydia Andersson,” she said, voice tempered but carrying a warmth as rare as moonlight on snow. The steady cadence masked the subtle swell of excitement simmering just beneath. Her fingers curled lightly around the phone, palm slick now with the slow slide of nervous anticipation.

The conversation unfolded with practiced professionalism—details exchanged, the scope of the interview outlined with care and clarity. Lydia’s voice reached through the speaker, assured and smooth, weaving their connection tighter. Each syllable struck a chord in Carmella’s chest, a resonant echo that made the room pulse quietly around her.

With the arrangement secured, the line fell silent, but the electric afterglow lingered, casting soft shadows in the corners of her mind.

Without hesitation, Carmella’s hand lifted again, dialing anew with a steady breath. The soft hum of connection wove into the fabric of the night as Bailey’s name appeared, each letter a silent invitation. Her lips parted slightly as the call took hold, the measured strength of her voice meeting Bailey’s tentative greeting with grace and professional warmth. Beneath the practiced exterior, a quickening thrummed—excitement uncoiling in a delicate spiral within her ribs.

The exchange was brief but rich—schedule confirmed, expectations set—Bailey’s shy yet eager tone weaving threads of promise and curiosity. Carmella’s smile deepened slightly, fingers clasping and unclasping the phone with a quiet tension. The faint scent of jasmine in the air seemed to bloom with her quiet delight, a scent tethered to moments both clinical and intimate.

As the final words passed and the call ended, Carmella set the phone gently aside, palms resting softly on the desk’s cool surface. She leaned back in her chair, the weight shifting and settling as her eyes closed briefly, savoring the electric hush that stretched within the quiet room.

Images surfaced unbidden—two women, poised and radiant, stepping through the door of this office for the very first time. The precise click of heels, the measured inhale of breath, the surge of heartbeats converging into a singular rhythm. The flutter beneath her ribs grew steady and insistent, a pulse threaded with promise and anticipation.

Her fingers curled reflexively, the fine tremor of readiness shimmering beneath her skin. The distant pulse of the city outside was a faint, inconsequential whisper compared to the fierce cadence now reigning in her own breast.

In that soft, charged space, Carmella Hill let the silence fold around her—the quiet promise of discovery, of connection, and the slow, undeniable beating of a heart fully alive with what was yet to come.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

NASA tests new ways to stick the landing in challenging terrain

Advancing new hazard detection and precision landing technologies to help future space missions successfully achieve safe and soft landings is a critical area of space research and development, particularly for future crewed missions.

To support this, NASA's Space Technology Mission Directorate (STMD) is pursuing a regular cadence of flight testing on a variety of vehicles, helping researchers rapidly advance these critical systems for missions to the moon, Mars, and beyond.

"These flight tests directly address some of NASA's highest-ranked technology needs, or shortfalls, ranging from advanced guidance algorithms and terrain-relative navigation to lidar-and optical-based hazard detection and mapping," said Dr. John M. Carson III, STMD technical integration manager for precision landing and based at NASA's Johnson Space Center in Houston.

Since the beginning of this year, STMD has supported flight testing of four precision landing and hazard detection technologies from many sectors, including NASA, universities, and commercial industry. These cutting-edge solutions have flown aboard a suborbital rocket system, a high-speed jet, a helicopter, and a rocket-powered lander testbed. That's four precision landing technologies tested on four different flight vehicles in four months.

"By flight testing these technologies on Earth in spaceflight-relevant trajectories and velocities, we're demonstrating their capabilities and validating them with real data for transitioning technologies from the lab into mission applications," said Dr. Carson. "This work also signals to industry and other partners that these capabilities are ready to push beyond NASA and academia and into the next generation of moon and Mars landers."

The following NASA-supported flight tests took place between February and May:

Identifying landmarks to calculate accurate navigation solutions is a key function of Draper's Multi-Environment Navigator (DMEN), a vision-based navigation and hazard detection technology designed to improve safety and precision of lunar landings.

Aboard Blue Origin's New Shepard reusable suborbital rocket system, DMEN collected real-world data and validated its algorithms to advance it for use during the delivery of three NASA payloads as part of NASA's Commercial Lunar Payload Services (CLPS) initiative. On Feb. 4, DMEN performed the latest in a series of tests supported by NASA's Flight Opportunities program, which is managed at NASA's Armstrong Flight Research Center in Edwards, California.

During the February flight, which enabled testing at rocket speeds on ascent and descent, DMEN scanned the Earth below, identifying landmarks to calculate an accurate navigation solution. The technology achieved accuracy levels that helped Draper advance it for use in terrain-relative navigation, which is a key element of landing on other planets.

Several highly dynamic maneuvers and flight paths put Psionic's Space Navigation Doppler Lidar (PSNDL) to the test while it collected navigation data at various altitudes, velocities, and orientations.

Psionic licensed NASA's Navigation Doppler Lidar technology developed at Langley Research Center in Hampton, Virginia, and created its own miniaturized system with improved functionality and component redundancies, making it more rugged for spaceflight.

In February, PSNDL along with a full navigation sensor suite was mounted aboard an F/A-18 Hornet aircraft and underwent flight testing at NASA Armstrong.

The aircraft followed a variety of flight paths over several days, including a large figure-eight loop and several highly dynamic maneuvers over Death Valley, California. During these flights, PSNDL collected navigation data relevant for lunar and Mars entry and descent.

The high-speed flight tests demonstrated the sensor's accuracy and navigation precision in challenging conditions, helping prepare the technology to land robots and astronauts on the moon and Mars. These recent tests complemented previous Flight Opportunities-supported testing aboard a lander testbed to advance earlier versions of their PSNDL prototypes.

Researchers at NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Maryland, developed a state-of-the-art Hazard Detection Lidar (HDL) sensor system to quickly map the surface from a vehicle descending at high speed to find safe landing sites in challenging locations, such as Europa (one of Jupiter's moons), our own moon, Mars, and other planetary bodies throughout the solar system. The HDL-scanning lidar generates three-dimensional digital elevation maps in real time, processing approximately 15 million laser measurements and mapping two football fields' worth of terrain in only two seconds.

In mid-March, researchers tested the HDL from a helicopter at NASA's Kennedy Space Center in Florida, with flights over a lunar-like test field with rocks and craters. The HDL collected numerous scans from several different altitudes and view angles to simulate a range of landing scenarios, generating real-time maps. Preliminary reviews of the data show excellent performance of the HDL system.

The HDL is a component of NASA's Safe and Precise Landing—Integrated Capabilities Evolution (SPLICE) technology suite. The SPLICE descent and landing system integrates multiple component technologies, such as avionics, sensors, and algorithms, to enable landing in hard-to-reach areas of high scientific interest. The HDL team is also continuing to test and further improve the sensor for future flight opportunities and commercial applications.

Providing pinpoint landing guidance capability with minimum propellant usage, the San Diego State University (SDSU) powered-descent guidance algorithms seek to improve autonomous spacecraft precision landing and hazard avoidance.

During a series of flight tests in April and May, supported by NASA's Flight Opportunities program, the university's software was integrated into Astrobotic's Xodiac suborbital rocket-powered lander via hardware developed by Falcon ExoDynamics as part of NASA TechLeap Prize's Nighttime Precision Landing Challenge.

The SDSU algorithms aim to improve landing capabilities by expanding the flexibility and trajectory-shaping ability and enhancing the propellant efficiency of powered-descent guidance systems. They have the potential for infusion into human and robotic missions to the moon as well as high-mass Mars missions.

By advancing these and other important navigation, precision landing, and hazard detection technologies with frequent flight tests, NASA's Space Technology Mission Directorate is prioritizing safe and successful touchdowns in challenging planetary environments for future space missions.

IMAGE: New Shepard booster lands during the flight test on February 4, 2025. Credit: Blue Origin

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'A Dhikr Of Quarks' by @jack-of-crowns

"En dıştaki karanlık," Lane muses to herself, "is much less terrifying than the darkness within."

For a time, it seemed, she had found an island of stability amid the ceaseless storms that rage through the worlds of mortal men, but such was not the lot of a Nightshade Jinn. Upon the death of her beloved prince, the ulema had declared their union to have been blasphemy, and so the secular equilibrium of the sorceress as well as that of her kindred was fissioned by theocracy once more.

How long has it been now, how long? Time loses relevance in the space between darklines, and there is only the low howling of baryons blown by the winds of distant suns to haunt her remembrances. True to her words, she remained in the realm of Yakışıklı Prens, albeit hidden from the sight of those who would have cast Lane and the retinue of three hundred who followed into the flames of perdition. The minarets of the prince's tomb may have fallen into ruin, and the sands of countless kum fırtınası have filled the courtyards, but they are still here.

Arkadaş knelt by the sandstone blocks of the desert well and gave thanks to The One Who Is All for leading him by the safe paths to the ancient shrine long sought by those of his order. The nest of mantichores taking up residence in the ruins had been formidable foes, but his mirror armour had proven stronger than their tail-spikes. Something in that nest caught the paladin's eye as he rested and laid hands upon his wounds, something that glittered with the light of long forgotten stars.

Even in the Void, we are not alone. Strong were the ties that bound the three hundred, human and Jinn, to their Prince and his consort. Stronger still were the sihir that Lane used to conceal that remnant from the wrath of the Luminarians and bind their essences within her jeweled crown. Strongest of all, however, is that which holds everything that is together in spite of all that is which seeks to drive us apart. In the interminable darkness of her exile, Lane feels the Presence of which no sensor or spell can detect, yet she knows has always been there, and rejoices that it is time.

Arkadaş shakes the dust and detritus from the jeweled crown half-hidden amid the jojoba twigs and kenger thorns of the mantichore nest, sure that this is the artifact for which he has so long sought. Holding the diadem as though it were a daf, he begins the ritual of unbinding, the steps of the sema in cadence with the tones of his chant. Couterclockwise, the paladin whirls as Lane and the three hundred spin with and within him. They are a dhikr of quarks, a rememberance of all that is possible; for The One Who Is All binds what He will, and loosens what He will, and all of their comingled essences flow together freely up and down the timeless currents of Alternity.