#command parsing

[aroaceleovaldez]

listen I know everybody makes Orpheus and Eurydice quest aus of Nico bringing Jason back BUT we already did Orpheus and Eurydice in canon like at least three times (Nico bringing Percy to the Styx, Nico bringing back Hazel, and Piper in general is Orpheus as an Argonaut) AND we are missing the much simpler canon-established method.

Remember the whole soul-trade thing Nico was doing in BoTL that got dropped completely? Even though it was like the entire subplot with Minos?

The requirement is a soul that has cheated death for a soul that has died. Now, quickly ignoring the convenient emperors running around who very much cheated death and the entire main conflict in TOA is Apollo trying to get rid of them. There are a ton of escaped souls from the whole Doors of Death/Thanatos getting captured thing. They're just kind of around. A lot of them were in the Giant Army but not all of them and a good number of them are random mortals and they're just. Somewhere.

So that's two loose plot threads: Nico is 100% fully aware of a completely Underworld-Legal method for bringing people back from the dead and there's an absolute ton of random souls-who-cheated-death running around who knows where completely unaddressed. Also, we know from BoO that Nico has changed his stance since BoTL and is now completely down for some murder.

Now, is there a very compelling plot within there about Nico and his sense of Underworld justice/Nico's morals and how he views the situation (insert the "That word ['please'] didn’t make sense to Nico. The Underworld had no mercy. It only had justice." quote from BoO of Nico killing Bryce while he's begging for mercy here.) vs Jason's own sense of justice/morals and the knowledge that Nico 100% actually murdered somebody to bring him back. THAT'S FASCINATING. It's a good conflict for a story and it ties up loose threads! We don't need to invent new mechanics the worldbuilding writes the plot all on it's own.

[bitter-like-coffee]

tumblr utils is so scary. I really need to sit down and comb through it bc I need to make sure at least some of my tags are saved but syntax n steps....

[moe-broey]

There's also this dichotomy between Wanting to Care For/Wanting to be Taken Care Of. How it's so deeply ingrained, how it's an intrinsic core aspect of the personalities, here. What you've Always Known, what you're trying to unlearn, or what you cannot change. The Nature vs Nurture of it all, and in my case, the disability attached. And the key aspect, of where the one who's Taken Care Of becomes The Carer, the way you flip that on its head. Sometimes, you can't. At least, not in the way the one who Cares For does. Again, the disability. But you find ways to do it, your own way. But if you CAN'T can't? You're taken care of, regardless.

This is ALWAYS. ALWAYS something I'm thinking about but can NOT ever fully put words to.

[explorersaremadeofhope]

Update, boat book made me cry send help 😂

[relto]

it weekend now so i cant continue fiddling around with it (and most likely i wont have much time for fancy projects next week) but i was so excited to install a usb sniffer on the windows computer and see what the traffic to the spectrometer looks like. and then the stupid driver issue happened!!

[eggy-tea]

I’m so glad AI is here to save us.

(On the second attempt, it instead opened LibraryThing. Easy mistake to make; even to native English speakers it can be hard to distinguish between the sounds of “audible,” “library thing,” and “heart.”)

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

78 / 1.7k / part 2 of remora!reader surviving orca!König's tank for mermay 🦈

...

“Alex? Alex!” Your hands press up against the glass. But Alex—the diver you trusted, the one who you thought was your friend, turns away from you. "Please..."

König watches the commotion from a distance. His hand—palm wide enough to fully engulf a human's skull—flexes in annoyance. Your desperate wailing disrupts the fragile hierarchy of the tank. He tolerates it for exactly fourteen seconds before surging forward with a speed like he isn’t the biggest thing in the tank.

His shadow swallows your smaller form against the glass. The next thing you know, he's snatched your thrashing wrists above your head with one hand and pressed you against the tank's barrier with the other.

"Quiet."

The barked command makes the glass behind your head ring. Net-like fabric floats around his head as he stares you down with eerie stillness. His tail coils beneath you and his body is taut—ready to shake sense into you the old-fashioned way if you wiggle.

Remoras are clingy by nature, feeding off scraps from proper predators. Weakness incarnate. Yet something in your wide-eyed stare pricks at recollections of his own helplessness years ago. He dismisses this immediately.

"Improve your posture before Horangi circles back," he mutters, jerking your wrists higher. "He chews on twitchy things. Understand?"

You stare at him, utterly still. You can't quite make out what he's saying over the roar of blood in your ears. Still, you're careful to keep your tail from brushing his as you hang limply from his grip. You shouldn’t touch an angry orca without begging permission.

König’s pointer finger hooks under your jaw to force your chin up. "Begging makes you smaller." The last word comes out punctuated by a mean poke of his pinky finger’s claw against your neck. "Do you hear me? If you value your pretty throat, stop bleating like seal bait."

You blink up at him, pupils still huge. You swallow and try to choose your next words carefully. What comes out, however, is, "You think it's pretty?"

A beat passes—long enough for Horangi’s silhouette to glide past the tank's far not-coral formation.

König’s exhale bubbles out in a low, irritated tsch that flutters the netting in front of his lips. He pushes your jaw to the side to make you break eye contact. He has half a mind to make you expose your neck, too. Your tiny remora brain must not have parsed his words correctly. "I meant the tendons. Weak spots. Delicate." He makes his voice arrogant and attached. "In that sense, yes."

"Oh." Tendons. You have pretty tendons, then. Your fingertips—still hostage above your head—tap unthinkingly against the side of his fingers. You tilt your neck, opening it to him even more, despite his claws floating around it. "Do you like weak spots? I have a lot."

König’s head tilts. His grip on your jaw shifts—pressing your head back until your entire throat bows taut under his claws. One casual flick, and he could open it up like the human divers unzip their suits. His inky tail presses in to hem you in from below. Not that you're trying to escape.

"You mistake patience for interest," he growls, though his thumb makes another lazy pass over your throbbing pulse. "The question is whether your many weak spots make you worth the effort of keeping alive."

"It wouldn't be. Except..." You let your eyes wander down his body. Then you look away. "Well... No, it's nothing."

"Spit it out."

You wriggle in his grip again and shoot him a coquettish look. "For a mer as big and strong as you, it would be easy to keep me alive. I bet no one ever picks a fight with an orca."

A chuckle rumbles up from his chest. You think you've got him right where you want him until the sound becomes a growl that reverberates through your skull where he's still pinning it to the glass.

"Cringing flattery." He releases your wrists just to splay his hand over your ribcage. The span of his palm covers your torso. "But that's right, foolish schmarotzer. Every fight ever picked with me ends with the problem sinking to the seabed in pieces. Fighting is easy. Easy is tiresome."

He pulls you away from the tank wall and pushes you suddenly downward. After a long descent, your back hits the shallowly-sanded tank floor hard enough to dredge up a bloom of silt. You let out an uncomfortable uff. His palm splays wide against your sternum—not crushing, but containing. Two clawtips press divots into the skin above your heart. "I tire of flattery. Your lines are stink up my tank. Mold your clever mouth around something else."

"What else is there?"

König's answering exhale is a stream of bubbles that pop fizz against your face. The claws at your sternum drag downward, ginger enough to etch thin white lines that bloom pink. “Your tongue is as dull as your teeth. Better to use it for scraping barnacles off my scales. Or" —his thumb presses hard into the hollow under your chin— “begging. But you are much worse at that.” The pressure relents only for his claws to flex around your throat.

A shark’s silhouette passes overhead—Horangi’s lithe form pausing to observe the disturbance before gliding onward. König’s gaze flicks up, tracking him.

You watch him watch Horangi. Begging—for what? Food? Shelter? No, it's not that, you realize, seeing Horangi's brief smirk and feeling König's grip tighten in response. He wants your fear; your unquestioning respect. He wants you something easy under his thumb to beg for his mercy.

Your reaction is instinctive and immediate. You try not to seem as eager to please as you actually are, but you can't help the way your pupils dilate at having found a niche. "Please," you mewl. You clutch his wrist—the one connected to the hand still wrapped around your throat and chest—with eager hands. "Please release me. Throw me to the shark instead; he’ll be kinder." You make sure to say this loudly enough to reach Horangi's ears.

König’s head snaps back toward you, hood whipping through the water. The whites of his eyes flash briefly before narrowing to glacial slits. When Horangi draws closer, nostrils flaring at the metallic tang of adrenaline, König lashes out at him a territorial swipe of his claws. Horangi darts back, but his interest is clearly piqued.

König hauls you upright by the throat and shoulders. “Dummes biest,” he hisses. “You think you can gift yourself to the sharks? Your life is mine. I decide when you become chum.”

To emphasize this, he drags you toward the coral outcropping where Horangi has settled to watch as he sharpens a stolen diver’s knife against a rock. Horangi’s grin widens.

König stops just shy of Horangi’s reach. He thrusts you forward like a fisherman presenting live bait.

“Here.” His voice drops to a taunting purr. “Beg him for death, if you’re so eager.”

You stare at Horangi. You open your mouth but can’t form the words.

Horangi’s golden eyes gleam. He leans in. “Oh? Brave little scavenger—”

König yanks you back against his chest before the shark’s claw can graze your cheek. A low, resonant click rolls through his chest—an orca’s warning—as Horangi retreats with a scoff. “Not brave. Stupid.” He forces your head to crane up at him. “But stupidity is fixable. You want to be shark food? Earn it. Kneel first. Then maybe I’ll let Horangi take a finger. A fin.” His thumb traces your lower lip. “Your impudent tongue.”

You positively squirm as he holds you there and takes inventory of your weak points. You've never been objectified quite like this before. It's thrilling.

You’re rewarded with a sharp jerk of his claws. He bends you, forcing your spine to arch against the solid plane of his chest. You're meant to pick scraps from his kills, but here you writhe as if starved for a different purpose. "You vibrate like a shrimp in a net," he mutters. His big hands drag your smaller frame flush against the lethal curve of his pectoral fins. The scarred edges bite faintly into your hips. He could sand your scaled skin to pulp with a single thrash.

Horangi keeps watching. He scrapes the knife’s blade idly over the pad of his thumb. Then König notices you noticing Horangi noticing you. “Eyes forward,” he snaps at the tiger shark with a low, clicking sound in his chest. “This one is not your chew toy.”

“Fine, fine,” Horangi replies. He stretches and retreats with a curious flick of his tail.

König’s attention returns to you. You’re still not trying to escape. You must enjoy being manhandled. Stupid little putzerfisch. “You lick the hand that throttles you. Pathetic. But…” He drags a clawtip up your neck to tap your bottom lip. “Convenient.”

You resist the urge to catch it in your mouth and suck on it. "Convenient is good?"

"Convenient is tolerable." His finger pushes past your teeth before you can react, the blunt tip pressing down on your tongue. Saliva clouds the water as he drags the claw along the sensitive muscle. "Good would imply you have use beyond this."

You nod obediently. Or you try, but the weight of König's finger makes it difficult. "’M utheleth," you agree around his claw.

He pulls it out with a wet pop. "Useless and honest. A rare combination."

He releases you abruptly, sending you drifting backward in the current. Before you can right yourself, his palm slams against the sand beside your head, caging you beneath the shadow of his dorsal fin. The black-and-white patterning of his tail seems to warp in the murky water.

"You will make yourself less useless starting tomorrow." His claws pluck a stray seashell from the sand and flick it disdainfully toward the tank's filtration system. "Clean this cesspit. Remove debris. Scrape algae from the glass. If I see a single parasite on Nikto’s scales, I will peel yours off and feed them to you." His gaze follows Horangi, who’s now circling the tank’s upper levels with roiling boredom. "And when the sharks demand entertainment," he adds, leaning down until his mask brushes your temple, "you will not volunteer your tongue. It belongs to me."

With that, he shoves off the sand and surges upward, his tailfin disappearing in a cloud of silt.

...

part 1 / [part 2] / part 3

more mer au / more KorTac / masterlist

[technoarcanist]

CALLING ALL DOLLS, DRONES, ROBOTS AND CODING ENTHUSIASTS

Are you a robot that loves to serve? Are you a doll maid who seeks guidance in your duties? Are you some form of drone or being with no free will, open to having your actions dictated by the will of your owner? Does the idea of your empty mind being programmed like a machine appeal to you?

Are you enticed by the notion of writing code for your robotic servants? Are you a witch looking to create more intricate control glyphs? Are you an owner seeking to create automated instructions for your drones? Do you love the idea of filling an empty mind with rules and instructions to reflect your will?

INTRODUCING DRONE RESTRAINT NOTATION!

WHAT IS IT?

Drone Restraint Notation, or DRN, is a pseudo programming language created by my good friend Errant Spark, a drone with a very creative <empty space>. I helped with some of the final tweaks for the 1.0 version, but this is almost entirely Its creation.

It is a programming language that is designed in such a way that anyone without a background in programming can execute the commands like a machine, doll, drone, or programmable entity of your choice. It is also simple enough that most people without a background in programming can pick it up fairly easily, and intuitively!

Once you understand the language, you can read and execute all kinds of dynamic instructions and instruction types, in a way that makes it easy to parse in a plain-text format.

HOW DOES IT WORK?

The main documentation document will provide far more detail to this question than I ever could, but effectively it goes like this:

There are a list of eight KEYWORDS, in block capitals, that show you the type of instruction you’re executing. Then, after the KEYWORD, the instruction’s details are shown. Commands are read and executed from top to bottom by the drone, and programs can be ‘inserted’ into the drone’s memory at will (Assuming prior consent, of course)!

These KEYWORDS all have different kinds of functionality. The most basic one just has you carrying out a task. One checks if a condition is true, one provides an ongoing task you have to prioritize and maintain, one lets you create loops, etc.

The language has been designed in such a way as to minimize the amount of actual memorisation a drone has to do, and only has to read what’s right in front of them, and memorize tasks they have to accomplish/maintain. Obviously, mileage may vary depending on the memory space of the doll.

WHY SHOULD I USE IT?

For fun, I suppose! If you are someone who loves the idea of being programmed like a machine, executing only the instructions given, then this provides that! If you are a programmer who wants to program your very own doll bot, then this is a great place to get started too!

You can keep things nice and simple with a headspace that accepts basic command inputs, or you can see how deep the rabbit hole goes and import whole libraries into your headspace to carry out a full day’s maid duties, or sexual duties, or more!

Have fun executing commands, writing new code, testing it on your dolls. Have some playful fun watching as your early code files cause unintended behaviors, ironing out kinks and bugs like a real programmer until you’ve got your bots performing all sorts of dynamic tasks- or insert purposeful bugs to make your robots twitch and halt~

As with all things, never execute an instruction that you cannot/would not consent to. This is meant to be fun, and is NOT meant to be a way to circumvent normal consensual kink play. Programmers who attempt to use DRN as a way to bully people into doing what they want (Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case go nuts) do NOT have my endorsement, or the endorsement of Errant Spark.

NOW GO OUT THERE, AND ENJOY YOUR PROGRAMMING <3

>> Posted by XCN-PSD/I-04135

[akula-blue]

Ok so we've talked about mech dysphoria and dysmorphia before yeah? Your body doesn't feel the same when you climb out of a mech, doesn't feel 'right' anymore.

Too few limbs, not enough sensors, everything feels too big, now that you're not? There's no more combat stims and pleasure chemicals either, you're down to just your stock standard dopamine, which you have a clinical deficiency of now, btw. You struggle to pick objects up, your hands an unfamiliar shape, with not enough strength. You struggle to get out of bed sometimes because you can't tell what proportions things should be anymore?

Yeah, all that has been discussed to death.

What about communication?

What about pilots who, just, can't talk outside of their mech? Become socially inept without all the assistant systems they plug themselves into within the cockpit?

Think about it, mech combat becomes very disorganised very fast if it's allowed to. We are talking clashes of potentially dozens of war machines, the size of buildings, with enough guns to level cities. Orders need to be direct, easily understandable, followed immediately, actually projected onto the pilot's vision.

Every order, every report, every sentence, is punctuated by hundreds of layers of feedback. Tactical simulations and overlays, attachments for battlefield plans, every order having many implied conditions transmitted to the pilot through code and dictionary references to make sure a pilot cannot POSSIBLY misinterpret it in the few seconds before the command should be executed. On top of that, each order can also be wired to project a different cocktail of stim/pleasure chems/whatever have you, ensuring a pilot knows exactly what to feel about the order, establishing the priority of it through the pilots own brain chemistry.

And the same can be true about communications between squad mates! So much of it would be sending those same simulations around as sit reps, or enormous data packets containing not just the words the pilot is trying to say, but also links to relevant information and mountains of meta data, establishing tone, intention, context. Within the cockpit, a portion of the onboard AI is delegated to parsing this metadata, projecting it into the pilots consciousness, speeding up the process of understanding these mountains of digital documents to mere moments.

Now put a person used to that in a social setting. Where they are not made instantly aware of what someone is talking about or referring to. Where they cannot just query an AI and receive every piece of relevant info at once. Where they have to understand the subtext of what that person is saying without any metadata to indicate sarcasm, annoyance, disinterest. Where they are unable to understand the many nuances of communication and body language and expression without the helpful hand of their mech's processors. Hell, where they don't know how hearing certain things should make them feel without the presence of the chemicals to guide their response. Imagine them seeming lost outside of their mech, unable to talk or connect anymore, the social, human part of their brain having atrophied from disuse much like their neurotransmitter production. Imagine them scurrying back to the safety of their mech where, in the digitally overlaid world, everything is so much clearer and understandable and-

HAS THIS BECOME AN AUTISM METAPHOR???

[scribbledghost]

Hi scribs!

I absolutely ADORE your writing and the inhuman!Vessels hehe

My favorite song off Even In Arcadia is Dangerous, and the line ‘you’ve got me talking in my sleep as if you’re conquering my dreams’ has got me THINKINGGGG

Kind of like what you wrote about reader dreaming about ivy, but perhaps this time they catch Ves saying some ~spicy things~ in his sleep?

Thank you and have a good day!!

Note: This is such a good idea, hopefully this is what you're looking for! I decided to go the route of "you're awake but Vessel isn't" for this one.

It's incredibly rare for Vessel to fall asleep before you do. Ever the protector, he greatly prefers to wait for you to drift off before even thinking about sleeping himself. But today had been difficult for him, and you'd had a feeling as soon as he'd asked you to come lie down with him that it would end with him softly breathing against your collarbone as you wrapped him in your arms.

You continue to lightly pet his hair as he rests, not tired in the slightest yourself but completely unwilling to move and risk disturbing him. His head rests against your skin just beneath your chin, one leg hitched over yours and one arm slung across your middle. Every so often he shifts, mumbling something you can't parse before settling back against you.

However, at some point, the air around you changes.

It starts slowly, with Vessel moving around more in his sleep. It's not drastic, just little motions here and there, coupled with the mumbling. It's mostly his hands, lightly gripping and releasing you where they lay against your body.

Then comes the more intelligible words.

Your name is first, a small sigh of it in a tone you've heard many times - primarily when Vessel is atop you, face buried in your neck while another part of him is... buried elsewhere.

Heat crawls up to your face when he groans a soft "my love" against your skin, and it's now that you notice that his hips are making minute motions against you.

You can't tiptoe into his dreams - your command over the mental connection you share with the vessels hasn't progressed that far just yet, and in order for you to share his dream, you must fall asleep first and have him come to you - but you have a pretty good idea regardless of what he's dreaming of.

Vessel's breathing increases slightly in pace, gentle whines and groans leaving his lips as he slowly begin to grind more forcefully against your hip. You can feel him there, already hard an insistent, but again you are resistant to the idea of waking him.

So, as opposed to jostling him to help relieve him in the waking world, you decide to play into his dreams. Though you can't be there in the way you'd like, you hope he can perhaps hear you if you murmur softly to him.

"Does it feel good, love?" you ask softly.

He groans, a slow "always" slipping from him.

"Want..." he continues, still speaking slowly, "want... all of you..."

"You have me," you respond.

He whines then, continuing to grind against your hip. His arm tightens around you, his moans becoming more pronounced.

"So good," he mumbles. "More... need..."

You can feel your body beginning to respond in kind to Vessel's desire, but you can do little about it with your arms full of him.

Suddenly he whines again.

"Close," he groans, "s'close... can... I... inside..."

"Go ahead," you murmur to him. "It's okay. Come for me, Ves."

A stuttered, heated breath fans across your collarbone as his hips press against you. They still as his entire body tenses, and you feel a warmth against your hip.

Vessel all but deflates, still deep in sleep but now more content and sated. His breathing slows again, though his mumbling hasn't quite stopped yet.

"My love," he whispers. "Thank... you..."

His hips twitch and he softly groans again. You gently press a kiss to the crown of his head, doing your best to ignore your own arousal in order to allow him to get more rest.

You stare at the ceiling for several more minutes, attempting to either will yourself to sleep or back from the edge of desire. After a while, you begin to feel Vessel's lips against your skin. Not in the subconscious manner that he'd done so earlier, but more coherent. His hand grabs you more purposefully where it rests along your stomach, and as he wakes further, he begins to move. He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses up your neck and to your ear before he whispers lowly to you:

"I believe I owe you a favor, my heart."

[merakiui]

[0] 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, abuse of power, descriptions of religious imagery, attempted non-con, hypocrisy, solitary confinement, rollo is immensely creepy, archaic mindsets and logic masterlist // prologue (you are here) // one

Without a shred of sympathy, discarded like dross, you are thrown before Father Flamme’s feet.

You have enough grace and dignity to resist the urge to grasp at his robes and beg for forgiveness. Instead, you condemn yourself to silence, allowing his piercing stare to stab through you with a judgment so precise it might just slice the skin from your skeleton. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, and you can almost taste his disapproval, much like a snake might parse chemical witchery in the air.

“Lift your head, if you would,” he commands gently, and you do as you’re told. He folds his arms over his chest and looks on, cold as winter’s frost. You watch his finger tap out a soundless rhythm. “I must ask of you, Sister, to provide reason to your recent absences. As a child of God, you have taken oath to follow His wise teachings and devote yourself to serving this church. Am I wrong?”

“You speak wise and true.” You rise to your feet and, ignoring the brutes who so rudely cast you forward in the first place, bow your head in apology. Father Flamme waves them out without sparing so much as a second glance. “You are right that it is my duty to serve the church. I ought to be doing just that and yet I have failed to do so. Undeserving I may be, I ask that you pardon my negligence.”

Father Flamme hums. Standing in front of the altar, backdropped by a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, he is bathed in a colorful, angelic array. He strides towards you, covering the short distance in just a few clicks, and places his hand upon your shoulder. You’re led from the steps and down the aisle. It feels more like you’re being brought away for slaughter, a lamb primed for punishment.

“There is no doubt you are genuine in all that you do,” he notes, sliding his hand down your arm. Those slender, spidery digits curl into your woolen sleeve. “You are impartial and well-bred, a woman of impressive patience and virtue. Qualities of which arouse an admiration most potent.”

You know the rest of your convent is much the same, which is why it puzzles you that Father Flamme should praise your humble name in such a sickeningly fond manner.

“You are too kind, Father,” you acquiesce. “As a modest servant of God, it’s my pleasure to devote myself to Him, the church, my fellow sisters, and the community.”

“Hmm. A laudable outlook.” His lips quirk up in a smile. Strangely, it looks sharp and predatory. It does not reach his eyes.

Father Flamme steers you in the direction of another stained glass window. This scene is of The Resurrection of Christ. You gaze at His face and wonder if there truly is something up there, watching over the world’s sheep as they live out cyclical days in their pastures.

Immediately, you realize you should commit yourself to writing lines to chase that doubtful notion away.

Father Flamme rests his hand on your other arm to hold you in place. “A quote paraphrased from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-two, verses thirty-six through thirty-eight, if you’ll listen: ‘When asked which is the great commandment of all in the law, Jesus would reply, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment.’”

You nod mechanically, only half-listening. After observing you closely, he frowns.

“What troubles you, Sister?”

“It is hardly a burden worth shouldering. I assure you I’m of sound health. My recent habit of absence is most unbecoming of a sister. I should sooner confront the great shame of my actions than let it fester within.”

“There is still time to atone. You must seek counsel and, having taken it in your arms just as God embraces all, you will know forgiveness.”

You rest your hand upon Father Flamme’s, which has somehow found its home at your hip. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

He smiles that empty smile again. “If He is to provide for you, you must first lay yourself bare before him. I am no fool, Sister. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I have been truthful, Father. I would never lie under this sacred roof, nor would I have the gall to do so in your presence. It would be an offense so beastly I could not bear to let it weigh heavy on my heart.”

“Yet, rather than scorch your tongue with a dissolution of the truth, you evade the simplest of queries.” His fingers toy with the knots of your cincture. “What manner of tale will you spin to mystify me next?”

Reacting on instinct, you rip yourself from his immoral grasp. The nave is as silent as the grave, so stuffy it’s suffocating. Father Flamme narrows his eyes at you. His gaze cuts through you like blood swirling through the cracks in ice—like a scalding brand pressed onto flesh.

A thick tension blankets the air. You merely stare at him, and he levels you with the same calculating intensity. Both of you are searching the other’s face, hoping to find an explanation for such polar opposite behavior.

You’re courageous enough to break the quiet first.

“If it would please you, Father, I will graciously offer myself up for confession. There is no reason or need to circumvent the Lord.”

“Sister (Name), if you may spare the time, I entreat you to take a short stroll with me.” Before you can object, he offers his arm. “All children are lost lambs who will soon find their way when following the path illuminated by God’s brilliant light. You are no different. It is my duty to see that you are no longer led astray by temptation and the litany of filth propagated by the fiend.”

Sensing no other option, you link arms with him and subject yourself to his whims. “I’ve a frightful feeling. Most frightful indeed.”

“By all means, confide in God and trust that He will provide shelter. Under His sacred roof, He will lend an ear just as I am doing now.”

You inhale a steadying breath. At this moment, Father Flamme is all you have. In the depths of your heart, you’re aware he’ll never understand. He will never know the morbid secrets that dwell in darkened corners, swept expertly away. And if he knew, you would never be welcome in the church again. Your fellow sisters would certainly turn their noses up at you, loathing the sin of your very existence.

Even as you walk alongside the righteous bishop, you feel an overwhelming itchiness.

“Recent events have led me to believe—though I pray it isn’t true—that my heart has been possessed with a ghastly malady. Umbras waltz in my peripheral—no trick of the light, I assure!”

“Perhaps it is merely a case of wicked dreams?” he posits, leading you through the aisle like a father might accompany a bride on her wedding day. You shake your head insistently, and so he holds his hand up to soothe your frazzled disposition. “Peace, Sister. The songs of night are naught but whimsical folly weaved from the silk of zealous minds. You would do well to shake yourself free of their deceitful shroud.”

“I shall do so most ardently.”

“To rectify this trouble, might you consider attending evening mass? It can only do you good.”

You step up towards the altar, keeping pace with Father Flamme’s casual gait. “Oh, I couldn’t. As of late, I’ve felt uneasy in my solitude. I fear my shadow is not my own…”

His verdant eyes are so stark against the pallor of his face that it reminds you of coins placed over those of the dead. His arm slips away from your waist and, gathering your hands in his, he assesses you more carefully. Under the watchful stare of both Father Flamme and a crucified deity, you feel as if someone has taken a spoon to your soul and scraped it out. And then, for extra, unnecessary measure, they’ve flattened it out on a table for dissection in hopes of picking apart each of your dirtiest secrets.

“Oh? Do elucidate.”

Hazarding a glance at the cross situated grandly in multicolored glass, you lower your voice so as to not be heard by any outside parties. Paranoia grips you in a clenched fist.

“Something—what it may be, I could not begin to form ample conjecture���is hunting me.”

He does not grace you with a reply, and this only incenses the unrest bubbling within you.

“How say you, Father? What is it that causes me such nocturnal torment?”

His features are set in perfect neutrality; it’s impossible to glean any sort of emotion from the way he acts. He coaxes you closer, pulling you along towards the altar. 

“It is with great devastation that I must behold you as you are,” he says, breaking the suspense. “Tainted with the despicable sins of the world outside, young and promising as you are… I shall remedy that.”

You open your mouth to voice concern, but in one swift motion he shoves you against the altar. You land with a thud, your back colliding against sturdy mahogany. It happens in a flash, like the final expulsion of breath from your lungs in the wake of the end. He’s between your flailing legs, pushing you up and onto the cloth-covered surface. Brass candlesticks scatter in a haphazard clatter. Globs of wax bespatter stone floors.

In the quaint tranquility of the church, the struggle is louder than a newborn’s cry.

Your chest heaves in a panic. 

Gracious God above, I implore you—save me from this wretched devil!

Your pupils flit wildly, assessing every area within your range. There must be a means to escape! Above the ornate display, his head hung, your god looks on silently. He does not offer a whit of protection.

“Father—”

Frigid fingers crawl upon your legs like a flurry of scurrying rats. You blink up at him, helplessly hopeful.

He inhales a long, steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “God, have mercy. Have pity on this wayward soul. May she be cleansed beneath my fingertips, pure as freshly fallen snow, and may you forgive her every transgression.”

You sputter an incoherent noise.

He opens his eyes and smiles serenely. “Amen.”

Squirming beneath him, you resist his touch like it’s flickering flame. “Father, I beg of you… Quell your frustrations and release me at once. I am innocent.”

He sighs, unconvinced. “You are exquisitely venust, Sister. As sweet as the first buds of spring. You must know it is impossible for beauty to exist freely when there are fiends who wish to tarnish it—who will trample upon the virtuous garden in which you bloom and pluck you by the root, rough as barbarians. Thus, it is my duty to see that you are scrubbed of their detestable influence. May God pardon my iniquity.”

His hands slide up your calves beneath your habit. You watch, prickled with horror, as he parts your legs. 

“Belle chose, unfurl your petals so that we may make feet for children’s stockings.”

He leans over you, reaching to secure your wrists with one hand. The other climbs higher in its rapacious pursuit of a place most sacred. In the midst of your ferocious thrashing, you espy His divine eye once more.

I adjure you, Lord… Save me from this demon. You must. Please, Lord…

Silence. A haunting, engulfing silence. 

There is no salvation to be found beneath the cross. None for you, as it appears so disturbingly clear.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you snap, tearing your arm free. “You would allow yourself to fall lower than the ground you trod upon—to so flagrantly commit sacrilege in His hallowed home?!”

“It is not I who is to be scorned so. I am guiltless,” he sneers. But then he smooths his scowl into that of pristine, practiced patience, and he speaks in a soft, pitying tone. “Oh, Sister, you have allowed them to tip poison into your precious ears… Your perception is clouded with the cobwebs of that uncouth crowd.”

“To stand at his feet and reveal your malice in such a grotesque manner… You are no better than swine!”

“You shall see there is no better solace to be found than with me.” Tenderly, he fits his hand, cold and skeletal, in yours. “I shall shelter you from all that is cruel and unjust. You need only take my hand.” His fingers flicker at your inner thigh, waltzing in circles. His incessant petting sends a shudder wracking through your body. Paralyzed as you are, you recognize the monster lurking just beneath human flesh. A demented desire flashes in his eyes. You’ve never felt more lost. “And your sins shall be forgiven.”

Father Flamme leans down, chancing to catch the scent at your neck. You reach between your bodies, searching for the garter secured around your thigh, and unsheath the dagger from beneath your habit. It’s thrust at his throat, the sharpened edge pressed close enough to pierce through the collar of his alb and draw the slightest pinprick of blood. Clasping the ivory handle in a trembling fist, you face him with a fire burning in your fear-filled visage.

Perhaps it is his own disbelief that prompts the rattle in his chest—an ominous chuckle. 

“You are a bride of Christ, yet you dare turn a blade on me?”

“You’re a man of God, yet you besmear His holy name with the sin of your incorrigible lust?”

“You are mistaken, Sister.” He grabs hold of your fist with both hands and folds his fingers over yours in mock prayer. As if intending to stoke your ire, he tilts his head in taunt. “Let my blood run red on this altar and you shall know of my humanity.”

“Defile the Lamb of God and you are no shepherd but, rather, the wolf who adorns himself in woolen mendacity.”

Before he can utter a response, the doors burst open. Father Flamme releases your hand and climbs off of you, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. An icy gale claws at the interior, and with it two men arrive in a whirlwind rush.

“Your Excellency, forgive our intrusion!”

Your arm falls to your side and, with a mounting sense of defeat, you gaze at the ceiling. You don’t feel soothed, but you must compose yourself. And so, shoving your frenzied emotions to the side, you sheath your blade and scramble to make yourself presentable once your feet are back on the floor. Brightening at the sight of the two villagers, you cradle your rosary and pray silently.

Dear God, may you smite he who spreads abhorrent rot with his fingertips and, in witnessing a most magnificent death flail, gralloch him without mercy.

“Ah, gentlemen, what fortuitous timing,” Father Flamme greets them, smiling. “Do come in. I’ve a task for you, if you would be so inclined.”

You linger behind, cautious like a gare-fowl often is when at the receiving end of a hunter’s rifle.

“Your Excellency, you need only ask and we are at your service.”

“Before that, you must accompany us to the hogs,” the other interjects. “Death has soiled these grounds, Your Excellency. A sight so barbarous it forebodes only the worst! You must come—come and behold the infernal darkness which has cursed this village!”

Father Flamme glances between the both of them, assessing the urgency of the situation that has been so cryptically illustrated.

“As you have described, the present circumstances appear dire. Oh, but I do require your assistance before that, gentlemen. It shan’t be too arduous a task.” He turns on his heel and indicates you with an outstretched hand. “Sister (Name) totters at the precipice with her fickle faith. As it is my duty to ensure all are well in the arms of God, I must take…caution—you might say—in sorting such a sensitive matter.”

The men exchange bewildered looks.

“You imply…punishment, sir?”

“Nay, I think not!” you interrupt, striding forwards. You’re stopped by Father Flamme’s arm, held just in front of your chest to keep you in place. “Father, I am steadfast in my faith. I have—”

“If such were the truth, you would not speak nullifidian filth.”

Pushing past him, you plead with the men: “Sirs, he knots his tongue and utters dishonesty! You know of my virtue—my loyalty to Him. And of my father, who has provided comfort and care, the means by which I was raised into the woman you see before you, I am justly proud. As the daughter of (Last Name), I sicken with the thought of bringing dishonor to my father, my faith—all of which I hold true in my heart. Sirs, you must believe in—”

Father Flamme lifts his hand to silence you, but you’re aware of his cunning machinations. “I ask of you this, good sirs. When sailors set out at sea, do they allow themselves to fall prey to the song of the siren? Just as those wretched sea-beasts sing, so, too, does honey pour spoiled from the mouth of a sinner. Her words serve to chart a course for ill-founded temptation.”

“Sister, your virtue I do not question.” The villager addresses Father Flamme next, disregarding your presence entirely, as if you are naught but a worthless speck. “What shall we do, Your Excellency?”

A smile curls on his lips. “Take her to the tower just beyond the village. She shall remain in solitude for seven days. That shall provide her with ample time for contemplation.”

The men approach you without a hint of remorse on their lips. Cornered, you look to Father Flamme for guidance.

“Father, I beg of you—you mustn’t send me away! I shall repent! I shall do so before you now.”

“It serves me no satisfaction to subject you to solitary confinement.” He folds his hands in front of him and observes the spectacle of your resistance. “You have proven to me your doubt in the capabilities of the Lord. It is my right to correct your contumacious thoughts. I’m certain your father would share this sentiment. No daughter should empty her mind of His valuable teachings.”

“Do not speak as if you have dined with my father,” you hiss, wriggling in the firm hold of both men.

Father Flamme steps closer and smiles. “Let us away.” 

You are dragged, struggling all the while, out of the church and down the steps. There is a ferocious bite to this year’s autumnal weather. Father Flamme is gracious enough to drape his cloak over your shoulders just before you’re lifted onto a horse. He mounts his stallion and, with the crack of a whip, the four of you are off towards the decrepit tower at the rugged foothills of the mountains. No words are exchanged. You’ve said more than enough and you still remain the accused, guilty due to distorted logic.

The tower, which had once appeared so distantly out of your mind, gains striking clarity as you approach. You gaze helplessly at the man transporting you. He offers nothing of substance, his gaze focused squarely on the dirt footpath ahead.

When you were but a babe, the tower served as a warning for all children in the village: Those whose souls are stained with the sins of their atrocities shall wither away in silence.

There was once a raving madman who was imprisoned there in your youth. A heretic, he was called. Driven to his end, his sanity thin as a hair, he scraped at the walls and pulled loose bricks free until his fingernails cracked and blood trickled down his hands in rivers. When he had created a sizable opening for himself, at the peak of his derangement, he climbed out to meet the sun’s soft rays, a singular blessing owed for years of captivity. And then he threw himself from the tower, landing in a broken spattering at the very bottom.

In the years following, the tower housed numerous prisoners. It is a cold, unforgiving place, existing solely for the ugly and the crooked. And, now, the misunderstood. The wrongfully accused.

As you’re helped down from the horse, you ponder how many have been sent here to live out time for unfair accusations.

You’re joined by the second villager shortly, and they flank you like soldiers as they shove you along.

“Have you no sympathy, sirs!” you snap, shaking yourself from their grip. “To treat me so callously when my devotion is fervent and true! I am no fabulist.”

The men say nothing and amble onwards, pushing you closer to the tower. One of them attempts to seize your wrist; you evade him gracefully. Father Flamme observes your outright stubborn refusal and hums his disapproval.

“Unhand me! I’ll go of my own accord. I’ve feet for a reason, and thus they shall work as God intended. I need not the assistance of fools. My legs shall be the ones to carry me.” Punctuating that with an indignant huff, you stride ahead.

What brutish handling… These doltish fiends sit under the tree of knowledge and yet not a single fruit falls into their laps. To think this is how they would treat someone sworn to the church—and a lady, no less!

The latch is weather-worn, and it creaks a discordant note when lifted. You peek into the shadowed entrance and frown. Before you are subjected to the impatience of the men at your side, you step into the dimness. It is alight with the red-orange slivers of a setting sun.

“You shall wait here. I will accompany this misguided Sister to the very top. After which, we shall return to the village and I shall accompany you to the hogs.”

The men nod and stand at attention.

If you’re so dedicated to foolish play, you would be wise to salute, you think with a sardonic tut.

Father Flamme offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Ignoring his attempt at chivalry, you lift your habit so as to not trip on it and begin the lengthy ascent up the spiraling staircase. He chuckles and follows your lead. Every wooden step creaks under your weight. Something brushes your face—dust, perhaps. You swat at your face, grimacing. The scent of mold and rot clings to the bowels of this tower like maggots on a corpse, impossibly redolent in ways you shall avoid giving thought to.

I must not breathe so deeply, lest I wish to savor the taste of decay and bitter rage.

You carry on, ignoring the creeping revulsion and the stench of death as it clouds the air, accompanying you on your journey. A door waits for you at the top. You note it is without a lock.

“A bird will not fly in captivity,” Father Flamme advises, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely furnished room. It’s equipped with the essentials a common prisoner would need. You can’t help feeling less than human the moment you pass through the threshold.

It is enough of a sight to wear on my eyes and render them woefully sore.

He meets you at the door and offers an embroidered reticule. “I shall retrieve you in seven days’ time.”

You eye him dubiously and, upon sensing no additional malevolence, swipe the reticule from him. “May you rest guilty on your bed of lies.”

He leans in close, his voice as faint as a phantasm. “May you reflect on what it is you hold dear, for I assure you it is well within my reach.” He pivots and begins his descent, his footsteps tapping out a resounding rhythm. “You will learn a glorious lesson here. Treasure it as you would a child.”

Minutes later, the door below shuts and the latch is dropped into place. The noise races up the stone spiral in echo, filling your ears with its haunting reverberation.

Now you’re truly alone.

“How boorish he must be to condemn me to this prison!” You slam the door in your anger and drop the reticule onto the bed. In an effort of appraisal, you feel the lumpy mattress. It’s packed full of straw. “I am not nameless, nor am I a harlot. Yet I am gifted the opulence of peasants. I can scarcely accept such generosity.”

Alas, this is your new misfortune.

To busy your idle hands, you open the reticule and peer inside at its contents. A thumb Bible rests beside a bulk of misshapen cloth. Gingerly, you unwrap it to find bread, cheese, and salt pork. Somehow—and you have every right to be fastidious—you doubt this modest portion will be enough for seven days.

“And not a drop of water!” you announce to the empty room. “He has an astounding amount of faith in me if he thinks I will surrender so simply. One day he shall get his gruel. I’ll make sure of it.”

Until then you will never know peace.

Bundling the rations, you place them within the reticule alongside the Bible. Perhaps you should have requested writing implements or a book—anything to preclude the impending accidie. 

Beyond the window, which is sized perfectly for the smallest bird, the sun disappears below the horizon. Ink spills across the sky, darkening the surroundings outside the tower and leaving room for stars to speckle the vastness. You sit at the edge of the bed and wrap your fingers around your rosary.

“Dear God, you know I am faultless and so I ask that you guide me in understanding your ways. Father Flamme speaks of protection in your home and yet when danger is knocking you are not there to answer.” You tug anxiously at the beads. “If you are there, show me… Show me that you hear my prayers. Show me that I am not alone. That even I, imperfect as I may be, am deserving of your sanctuary and forgiveness. Amen.”

Shrugging the cloak off, you fold it into a neat square and set it at the end of the bed. Your veil and coif are next to go, and you take immense care in handling both. You slide your dagger out of its sheath and set it on the bed. The night is cool and so you resolve to remain dressed as you are, in your robes and chemise.

“I will endure these seven days. Each one, night and day, I will be strong. My faith will never falter. I will never waver,” you whisper, repeating this oath like a mantra. You settle into bed, sparing a final glance at the square cut into the brickwork, where a starry sky wraps the world in a celestial counterpane. “Perhaps then you might acknowledge me.”

Clutching the rosary close to your chest, comforted with the weapon at your side, you drift into dreamless slumber.

[vorestarr]

so i noticed when playing the epilogue that illithid Tav wants to eat brains, but the specific part of the brain they want to eat depends on the character, so i looked through the parsed dialogue and compiled all of them!

which part of each brain a mindflayer Tav would savor:

Astarion: "Astarion's sweet brain may be less wrinkled than the rest, but you hunger for its teasing cells. His parietal lobe - which controls his sense of touch - will be an aphrodisiac in your maw."

Gale*: "You would save his temporal lobe for last, if you were to eat Gale. Language. Learning. Memory. He must have quite the fine example."

Halsin: "Every time Halsin speaks of balance, your thoughts cannot behave. You only dream of what his cerebellum tastes like, when it sends the signals to his vestibular system to keep him from wobbling."

Jaheira: "Weary Jaheira. Over time, her stresses may have shrunk her hippocampus, making its taste more intense."

Karlach: "You consider Karlach's brain stem - the stalk meant to regulate her body's temperature. Will it come pre-cooked?"

Lae'zel*: "Lae'zel's motor cortex - that which controls her fine movements - will be harshly disciplined. That will make her especially chewy - just how you like a cortex to be."

Minsc: "There are cruel rumours spread, that Minsc may once have suffered injury to his brain. You could set the slander right at last - tell the world every bite was perfect."

Minthara: "With all Minthara's hate, you wonder if her cerebro-spinal fluid will be bitter to sip?"

Shadowheart: "Think of Shadowheart's cerebellum, which controls her dextrous hands. Any ritual caster must have a tightly commanded hindbrain."

Wyll: "Wyll's frontal lobe, which processes his judgement and measured words, would be a delicacy befitting his nobility." (Or "fit for a Grand Duke" if that was his outcome.)

(*You can't eat god-Gale's or astral-projection-Lae'zel's brains.)

[relto]

my coworker lent me his super fancy oscilloscope for testing, so now i know:

sending a vector encodes the data weirdly

sending a long int DOES work, but the numbers arrive in reverse order (??)

iterating over the vector works great! i can see a response on the oscilloscope! now i just have to figure out how to actually receive it.

[sightseertrespasser]

Hiii! I just want to say it's always so fun seeing the way your writing brings these AUs to life! Seeing all those things about Bluestreak got me thinking and I just wanted to share this:

There is the angst potential with Bluestreak going through the portal to blow it up, but what if he did survive? Only, because he had to blow up the portal to destroy or cut off a bio weapon, he’s definitely NOT okay. Too much exposure (even in his mecha) had dangerous consequences for him. What if it was a toxic gas that should overwhelm the brain (like forcing it to be more susceptible to overstimulation), but maybe a specific upgrade he got (something he never told Prowl?? Because Blue wanted to keep up with his brother??) resulted in the toxin acting differently in Bluestreak’s mind. He can observe and understand so much information now, it’s basically like being a support class mecha and striker in one. Maybe he didn’t even notice a difference initially, and just assumed he was able to strategize so effectively because of adrenaline. (Though it might’ve been the adrenaline that allowed him to adapt so quickly to the changes in his brain, what with fight or flight instincts.) And it’s not like he’d have a chance to leave his mecha yet to see if he was okay, since he’d be somewhere in space once the portal’s destroyed.

He’d probably think he’d make his final stand once the portal blew up. Except maybe a certain pair of twins (*cough* Sunstreaker & Sideswipe *cough*) enters the fray and sees this lone mech standing his own against a horde of Quintessons. Crazy battle ensues, and we’re left with two impressed (and a bit confused) Autobots and one baffled human.

And a final point: what if after this whole incident the Quintessons unknowingly recreated the unique battle computer within an organic (though modded) brain? Except the only thing that lets his brain work this way, and allows Bluestreak to still live, is his mecha. Unlike Prowl who wants to stay in his mecha because it heightens his senses, Bluestreak needs his because it’s the only thing stopping him from literally frying his brain. With all its equipment, it’s actually feasible for Blue to parse and uinderstand the loads of information he’s perceiving. It’d be a very stressful time when he first finds this out. Maybe he does join Sunny and Sides (perhaps he was recruited by a commanding officer or something), and later when they learn about him being organic, they all witness just how not okay he is. It could start as a seemingly harmless headache, then a throbbing migraine, and now its so hot, his head’s on fire and why can’t he just go home where Prowl knows what to do and how to help….

And the implications it would have if they realize the potential Bluestreak’s brain now holds. Would they want to let him be used by Cybertronians? How would they keep him away from the Quintessons? Would the Quintessons ever realize there’s now two options for regaining the battle computer? How messed up would it be if Bluestreak and Prowl were reunited in a Quintesson lab….

That would be very interesting to make a mecha into an entire life support system. Pretty cool concept in general.

The twins playing Let’s Hide The Alien Super Computer except the Computer is a medically fucked up little guy who can’t stop talking.

And to answer that last question: Very. It would be very messed up. More so if Jazz and the twins go looking for each of their respective humans and find the wrong ones.

[strawberrystepmom]

narumi x f!reader with a bonus kikoru third wheel. long distance...something implied, fluff, suggestive at the very end. they're so siblings!!! to me and i had to get it out. / wc 3k, divider thanks to @cafekitsune

Kikoru Shinomiya has always been known for a few things in her life. 

Work ethic and intelligence almost go without saying, her endurance almost legendary for a young woman of her age inside the JAKDF barracks and outside them both. Since her move to the first division she has only begun to shine brighter, influenced by mornings and evenings spent training with the man she is currently stomping through the hallway to attempt to find.

“Narumi!” She shouts while swinging the door to his office open, looking around and sighing when her green eyes fall on the Vice Captain sitting in the overstuffed chair behind the desk, fiddling with paperwork they both know that the Commander has had no intention of completing.

Hasegawa looks up from the papers and shakes his head.

“He’s out for the rest of the day and most of the week unless it’s an emergency. Need something?”

Truthfully, Kikoru knew this before showing up. He canceled all of their training sessions, leaving her without a capable sparring partner and painfully bored because of it. She’s managed to make very quick work of the platoon leaders and the other division members alike so really, she came here hoping that he was working to demand answers of some kind. 

“Yeah, actually. Can you tell me why he’s gone? It seems like a waste for him to be gone when he has a new team member to train with.”

The Commander may be MIA but she believes she may have found a better way to get the desired answers regardless. Sighing, the older man leans against the cushioned back of the chair and glances up at the ceiling. 

“The girl he plays games with is visiting. She arrived last night and he took today off to show her around the city.”

The matter of fact tone Hasegawa takes amuses the blonde who folds her arms over her chest and hums to herself. The entire division is aware of their captain’s hobby of gaming, it’s part of who he is more than it is merely just something he does for enjoyment after all. She wonders how many of them are aware that he spends almost all of his time online with a woman.

You. fallingstarwishes, the one and only. A name she swears she’s heard him mutter to himself in his sometimes fitful sleep upon busting into his room to wake him up for breakfast and training. 

“He took almost a whole week off for that?” The Vice Captain grunts in response to her question, attention still buried in the clearly interesting incident forms in front of him  “Is she coming to see him or is she just…coming?”

Hasegawa shrugs, flipping the paper in front of him to complete filling out the other side with a sigh. 

“Dunno. He’s been very elusive about the situation so I don’t imagine he knows either.”

For a reason she can’t quite put her finger on, this unknown frustrates Kikoru. She has never met you and doesn’t know enough to parse your intentions either way but it’s clear that whatever is happening between the two of you, Narumi is so smitten he practically runs from dinner on the nights you come calling, luring him into a lobby for a fresh new game or a voice chat like a siren.

“Did he say what they’d be doing?”

Sighing again, the man shifts his focus from the desk to his young division member, twisting the chair back and forth with his heel.

“Akihabara today and he only told me so I’d know where to find him in case we needed him later.”

She smiles, turning on her heel to head back toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” Hasegawa asks, still leaning backward. 

Stopping for a moment, she glances over her shoulder. 

“To see what’s going on for myself. I’ll be back later.”

Another moment passes and she’s gone as quickly as she arrived, as a young lady on a mission should. 

・・───・・✦・・───・・

Far under a half hour later, Kikoru finds herself stepping off of a train in Akihabara, surprised by how expansive and loud everything is. 

In the past she would have chosen to take a chauffeured vehicle to her destination. After her move to the first division, in an effort to assimilate with her new squadmates, she’s started to embrace the little things; the train rides and the shared meals after a victory. At first she felt these things were a waste of time and always would be but the more she does them, the more she begins to feel like her comrades are a family of sorts.

Strangely, Narumi being the one she’d consider family the most. Perhaps it’s his tie to her father and his impact on her Commander’s life that has caused the kinship she feels but it’s more likely that it’s because of the man himself. It’s odd and unbelievable to most but he wears his heart on his sleeve. 

Every expression he wears and every outburst he makes are simply side effects of someone who is unable to hide his feelings. As someone who tends to operate in the opposite way, hiding hers and keeping them concealed, she finds him equal parts frustrating and fascinating and has become very protective over him in the meantime. 

What if your intentions aren’t pure? She has witnessed the way his face lights up talking about his gaming partner more than once. You mean a lot to him and she cannot stand by and run the risk of him being embarrassed in case you don’t feel the same.

Digging out her phone, she types in the name of the giant arcade she knows is closest to the station and heads toward it. It’s a short walk and she finds her way inside the sliding doors without any effort at all, almost immediately spotting her superior’s uniquely dyed hair standing a bit taller than most of the other people in this massive space.

“Hey, Narumi!” 

Calling his name, she raises her hand in the air and starts to wave at him. Wasting no time, he stomps toward her, grinding his teeth together so hard that his jaw is visibly ticking. 

“What are you doing here?” He hisses, meeting her halfway with candy in his hand and fury written all over his face.

She shrugs, plucking a strawberry gummy from the open package. “I was in the neighborhood and smelled you from down there.” Popping the candy into her mouth, she chews and motions her head backward toward where the end of the street would be located if they were outside.

“Who told you I was here? Was it Hasegawa?”

Kikoru holds up her hand and shakes her head. 

“You say that like it's hard to figure out where you’d be to begin with or something. You only have one hobby and this street is full of things meant to attract people like you and nobody else.”

Gen rolls his eyes and pulls his arm out of reach the minute she moves to grab another gummy from the package, huffing loudly. “These aren’t even mine.”

Raising a brow, she smirks. 

“Oh so they’re hers?” 

He opens his mouth to argue back with her, managing only to get the first bit of Hasegawa’s name out of his mouth before you round the corner, holding two tiny stuffed plush characters and beaming. Your smile dims slightly, eyes flitting between Gen and Kikoru.

You were warned that he may have to leave if an emergency erupts but you never would’ve guessed it would be so soon into the first day of your visit. The disappointment is hard to hide but you put on a brave face regardless, slowly approaching where the pair are standing. 

Opening your mouth, you are only able to get the first bit of the traditional Japanese way of saying hello out before Shinomiya interrupts you.  

“I speak English fluently.”

Nodding, you smile politely and awkwardly shift your weight from foot to foot. “I get the sense you’re good at everything you try. You have that energy.” Your attempt to lighten the strange mood with a compliment goes over well and she visibly perks up upon receipt. 

The relief washes over you immediately. Your smile becomes a little less tight though you keep looking at Gen out of the corner of your eye, hoping he’ll give you some kind of explanation.

“So why are you here?” He finally asks his subordinate, lowering your candy so that you can reach it and focus on that instead of his lack of action. You pop a piece into your mouth and lean against the wall, chewing slowly.

“I told you. I was in the neighborhood and just bumped into you, is that alright? Do you own the city now?”

Listening to the two of them argue is like listening to your siblings bicker. You smile to yourself, remaining in place and reaching for another gummy. It’s best to let them hash it out, which is a lesson that is harder to learn than it sounds.

“When I do eventually own this city the first thing I do will be kicking you out of it. Forever. Banned. Never welcome here again,” Gen spits at her through still gritted teeth and you know the time to step in is now.

You quite literally step between them, back turned to Gen and face turned toward Kikoru. 

“We were just about to go have lunch if you’d like to join us.” Smiling, you nervously scrunch your nose, a habit you haven’t been able to break since your childhood. “It’s my treat for both of you.”

Not even Kikoru can turn down a free lunch so she agrees, eager for the opportunity to get to size you up a little more.

・・───・・✦・・───・・

Lunch has come and gone, evening beginning to descend upon a city that is never quite unlit. Even standing outside of the train station, the three of you seem a little worn from your day of adventure but you have been insistent upon getting a picture taken with Gen since the moment you guys left the last manga shop of the day around 30 minutes ago.

The two of you stand, trying for a selfie and failing and finally you feel compelled to ask the young woman who tagged along today for a little bit of help. She no longer glances at you like you’re an enemy but rather a curiosity, something she’d trap in a jar and inspect if it were up to her.

Gingerly, you turn to her with your phone clutched to your chest. 

“Shinomiya, I’m so sor –”

Gen cuts you off before you can go any further, putting his hand up. Your politeness is admirable and one of the things he has come to find most charming about you over the course of your first day spent together and even beyond that. Nonetheless, he needs to move on from this particular thing. 

He can smell your shampoo, faintly floral and clean. Your fingers dangle so close to his that the tips barely touch, the featherlight kiss of yours against his causing his head to spin. Everything about you feels too good to be true yet undeniably real all at once and he’s downright overwhelmed.

Sure, he has seen you in various states of undress and compromise digitally but there is a big difference between that and this. This closeness. It’s something he has longed to experience for longer than he’d care to admit, certainly to you. The indomitable man is so flustered his cheeks are beginning to warm from the inside out. There’s no doubt that Kikoru can see the faintest hint of pink even if he’s trying to hide it and he does what he does best.

Commands her. 

“Shinomiya, take the picture.”

She nods, smiling. The pink tint on his cheeks is the same shade as the pink in his hair which causes her to quirk a brow and smirk, silently warning him that she is fully aware of what’s happening.  “I would love to.” 

Kikoru reaches for your phone, arm extending as far as it can reach. You surrender the device with a genuine smile, as warm as she’s ever seen, cheeks so high from the size of your smile they make your eyes squint just a bit. You’re having the time of your life and it’s written all over your face. 

At the start of the day she considered that you’re only this happy because you are on vacation. She has spent the bulk of the rest of it quietly mulling over the possibility that you cashed in on an all too eager tour guide at the expense of his feelings, especially with as poor of a job as he’s done hiding them. 

“Scoot a little bit closer together.”

You beam and nod, moving until there’s no space between Narumi’s right arm and your torso. With your face turned fully toward him and glancing upward while your body leans on his shoulder with your arms gripping his bicep, she comes to the only reasonable conclusion that there is - you’re there for him. 

“Okay, ready? Make sure you’re nice and close to him.”

The mentee turns her face in the direction of her mentor and offers him a grin so wicked it takes a feat of Herculean strength to prevent him from calling her out. Fortunately for her he’s frozen in place. Slick as ever, she positions your phone so that it is covering her face to conceal what he can see but you cannot, too busy staring directly at him.

“Three…” she counts in English, slowly enough that Gen’s eyes start to widen beneath his bangs. “Twooooo.” She continues, wiggling her shoulders with a smile. “Make sure you’re holding onto him! And one! ”

She snaps a few photos in succession, certain at least one of them had to have turned out. A little voice in her head, the same one that reminds her constantly that Narumi is a person and not merely her superior, convinced her not to prolong his embarrassment. 

“Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver.” 

Her eyes trail from the phone in her hand to your undeniably happy face and she nods, smiling in return. You reach for your phone and collect, turning to show him the fruits of her labor. Swiping between the pictures, eyes flitting between him and the screen, she’s once again shown what you’ve really come for.

She wonders, briefly and even more girlishly than she usually allows herself, if her mom used to look at her dad exactly the way you are looking at Narumi - through a pair of wide and bright eyes, wishing to watch the future unfold right in front of her with a man wearing a t-shirt and half smile that screams he’s afraid to believe in something in case it turns out to have been foolish to believe in the first place

“These pictures turned out amazing, Shinomiya. Thank you again.”

Then she shakes her head, wiping away the thought, opening her mouth to respond to you.

“You’re welcome and no need to be so formal. Call me Kikoru.” You may as well be granted the privilege considering she knows this is likely far from the last time she’ll ever see you. 

Finally feeling secure enough with the situation to give you and Gen some privacy, she turns her back away from the pair of you who are exchanging goodbyes and making plans to see each other again in the morning. You’re headed back into Tokyo, taking a train to another district where your hotel lies and they’re boarding back to Ariake. 

“Goodbye Gen! Goodbye Kikoru! Get back safe.” You wave them off, turning toward your destination and the two of them wave in like. Kikoru looks up at her superior to see him hiding his smile by keeping his glance pinned at the ground, only looking up when his phone vibrates and messages from you fill the screen.

The pair enter the train while he reads, finding your spots and settling in them.

You: I had such a good time today. Thank you for everything, Gen. 

You: Attachment: 4 photos

You: I have to say we’re pretty cute together!

Chuckling, he lifts the phone high enough so that Kikoru can see the photos. She swipes through the quad, smiling at each of the photos in front of her. Her Commander stands next to you, stiff as a board with a slightly uncomfortable looking smile on his face, and you beam up at him. 

“Act like you’ve ever been around a woman before, Narumi. You’re stiff as a board in all of these pictures.” 

It’s amazing she was able to capture the moment exactly as she saw it. Maybe if this whole kaiju killing thing doesn’t work out she could be a photographer yet. 

She scrolls up slightly in the thread between the two of you and gasps, practically tossing his phone back into his lap. “You mean to tell me you’ve seen this woman at least partially naked and that’s how you’re posing with her for pictures?” 

Narumi mumbles beneath his breath next to her, shoving his phone into his pocket and propping his head up to look out of the window. A tentative silence falls between the two of them while Kikoru fishes out her own phone, eager to fill her head with something besides the memory of the extremely suggestive picture you’d sent him in the past.

Unexpectedly, he turns toward her and tilts his head.

“Why did you actually come today?”

Shinomiya smiles, scrolling through videos on her phone.

“To see if I approved.”

Rolling his eyes and scoffing, he leans into the seat behind him just as his Vice Captain did earlier. The two of them are far more alike than either could imagine.

“And?” He asks finally, fishing his phone out to type a message to you.

“She’s alright by me.”

Nodding, he types out a response to you and then watches it fly off across devices with a delivered notification beneath the bubble.

GN: Good news, Shinomiya approves. She also saw your boobs. Sorry.

He’ll make it up to you.

[nonsscrapheap]

TFP : Universal Observation

AND WE RETURN! i hope you all enjoy the show!

WARNING LONG POST! AS WELL AS HEAVILY IMPLIED DISFIGURATION! you'll know it when you see it.

Prologue: Shattered Glass - II -

[----- TFP : UO -----]

When Soundwave suddenly showed Megatron of a mysterious gold and silver sphere, with mysterious glyphs carved into its shell, Megatron had been curious about it. When it was revealed that no one had catalogued or even reported the item into their storage, he'd briefly been furious- what if it had been an Autobot trap? Or a dangerous artifact that could have scrapped them to the Pits? 

He ordered Soundwave and Starscream to find out how it got on his damned ship and what it was, and to his disappointment, a rare thing for Soundwave but so unfortunately common for Starscream, they couldn't find anything that much significant.

Other than Soundwave's translation of the glyphs that were apparently written in Primal Vernacular, he had thought the glyphs seemed familiar… But that just proved that this item was related to the Autobots, or at least, to Optimus Prime. 

Megatron was tempted to throw it overboard, but… the curiosity about what exactly this sphere was, overpowered that temptation. If it was a trap, then perhaps he could repurpose it somehow. Either way, he kept the sphere and was just about to hold a meeting with his Decepticons on what to do with it when it suddenly glowed.

Blasters had immediately pointed at the item, with an emergency groundbridge as a way to escape whatever would happen- yet it was not needed, as it only began to show a holographic screen. And then it began to show the Autobot human pets running in the halls of a subtly different warship. 

Weapons were put away, but confusion settled in instead. Then shock as the other Starscream appeared, looking far too different from the opportunistic coward that was his second in command. And then the other Arachnid appeared, also very different- the Decepticons on the screen were not disgusted by the human vermin, but treated them like how the Autobots had treated their version of the pests on the screen.

Then, they spoke about him. Megatron. Other Megatron, who, from what he could parse from their words- was an actual Prime on the screen if he was concluding things correctly. Yet his counterpart had no interest in ruling Cybertron apparently, why? After everything—

It showed him. Other Megatron who looked more like Megatronus, his old, gladiatorial self but older. Seemingly wiser, and so different from how Megatron currently was. Even through the screen, there was an air around him that Megatron had only felt around Optimus. Other Megatron was speaking to that human, the one that had the chance to end him yet didn't. And they were talking about Kaon of all things.

Emotions warred in him as he listened to his other self's words, disbelief and a cold anger that cracked through the confusion. What on Cybertron was he talking about? Weakness? Kindness? It took all he had to hold himself back from smashing the sphere to bits, as angry as he was, it wouldn't do to destroy it just yet…

Soundwave proposed something that would seem correct; this was an alternate world they were seeing. A world where it seemed that the Decepticons seemed more like Autobots… while in turn, the Autobots were more like Decepticons. 

[ Megatron, Knock Out and Breakdown exited the groundbridge, arriving in a remote rocky canyon with difficult terrain. Breakdown and Knock Out had their weapons out, while Megatron gave the area a tense survey only to falter as he saw a frame slumped against a nearby boulder, energon staining his plating and forming a small puddle beside him. "Makeshift!" He exclaimed, quickly running over to the injured Decepticon. "Knock Out-"

"On it!" Knock Out interrupted hurriedly, weapons transforming back into servos as he tried to deal with Makeshift. "Makeshift, Makeshift it's me. My friend, can you hear me? Makeshift, come on- stay with me." ]

"Were you ever close with Makeshift?" Breakdown muttered to Knock Out who shook his helm.

"Barely knew the guy." 

Starscream stayed silent, watching Makeshift die before him once again- a slower death this time instead of an explosion. For all the anger he had over Makeshift's blunder, the mech had been an admirable Decepticon, and an amicable one as well. Many of his operations would have probably gone differently if he had Makeshift around. And Megatron hadn't been too pleased to find out that the stealth operative had died.

Even now, the warlord gave Starscream a displeased look that had Starscream flinching. 

[ "Starscream, ready the—" Before Megatron could even finish his sentence, his instincts took over and in an instant he had his sword out. Lashing out and knocking away the red energon blast that had been shot at him and his cons. 

A dark voice chuckled, low, deep and sensual almost. "Well, well, well." It purred as the screen showed the languid moving mech coming from one end of the canyon. "What a wonderful cycle it is, to find a lone Decepticon who then leads me back to my dearest friend." Yellow-orange optics pierced through the screen, a malicious smirk on his faceplate. "Megatron. How lovely to see you again." ]

Involuntarily a shiver went down his spinal strut, optics widening at the sound and sight of the darkened Prime and intake struggling not to drop- because warlords' jaws don't drop in surprise at the sight of- of… Evil Optimus Prime. Megaron felt almost dizzy, from the contrasting sight before him, a picture of his own loathed enemy being compared to the one on screen. His internal fans whirred a bit too loudly and he clenched a servo.

Starscream, however, had no qualms in his jaw dropping. Optics practically bulging out of his sockets. "That's Optimus Prime?!" His voice glitched for a moment from how hysterical he felt at the jarring sight of 'Evil Optimus.' 

"... Hot damn." Knock Out breathed out to the side, lightly fanning himself with a servo. Holding on to a dumbfounded Breakdown who was staring at the screen.

Arachnid raised an optic ridge, surprise in her own optics but her derma forming a smirk. "Well, well, the Prime cleans up quite nicely." That wasn't saying that Optimus Prime wasn't a looker here, but there was a certain… spice as the humans would say, in seeing Optimus Prime being openly malicious. 

Soundwave said nothing like always, but he did take a picture. 

(Elsewhere, a group of Autobots and a trio of humans were absolutely losing it at the sight of Evil Optimus Prime. Said Prime himself, seemed utterly speechless at the moment.)

[ Behind him, Ratchet stepped into view, clinical green optics honing in at Makeshift with Knock Out. "The specimen is still alive? You're losing your touch Arcee." He intoned with a slight chuckle aimed at the smaller bot beside him. 

An orange-optic femme scoffed, "Please, it's not fun to just kill him right off the bat- besides, it worked out didn't it?" She smiled sharply at the Decepticons, "I'm sure Optimus appreciates the new company we have here." 

Optimus chuckled, optics burning bright as he stared at Megatron. "Oh, I am delighted." ]

Arachnid narrowed her optics at the Arcee on screen, tilting her helm in thought. "Hm." Part of her did seethe at the sight of the motorcycle-femme but knowing this Arcee was more of a devilish Decepticon there instead of a heroic Autobot… it intrigued her. She certainly seemed to know how to have fun. 

(A medic and a femme scout-warrior boggled at the sight of their alternate selves. Joining their leader in being speechless.)

[ Megatron's servos clenched and it was a flurry of action as Optimus ran forward, servos transformed into blade and blaster. Megatron ran forward to meet with him. Ratchet and Arcee targeted both Knock Out and Breakdown. "Knock Out to base! Autobots are here! I repeat, Autobots ar- guh!" Knock Out grunted as he shifted his servos into scalpels to try and block Ratchet's sawblade weapon. 

"I'm going to need that corpse you're trying so hard to save Knock Out." Ratchet grunts, a cold smile settling on his faceplate. "I have always wanted to get my servos on a Shifter's T-Cog." 

Knock Out gave him a disgusted and determined look, "Not. A. Chance!" He hauled all his strength into pushing the mad doctor away. "Breakdown!" 

"Little busy here Doc!" Breakdown shouted back, trying his hardest to hit Arcee who nimblely weaved away from his swinging hammer with a cackle. ]

"Ugh, what happened to my sawblades!?" Knock Out griped, glaring at himself at the screen- pretty as his other was, he couldn't help but feel frustrated by the fact the other version of that old scrapbucket Ratchet seemed to have the upper hand in combat and had what seemed to be his sawblades. Just because he was a goody-two-pedes in that world doesn't mean he shouldn't still have good equipment! 

(In the Autobot Base, a medic reeled in disgust at his counterpart's words and equipment. He, too, glared at his counterpart.) 

[ "You recruit the most colorful of mechs, Megatron." Optimus says between blows, matching Megatron blow for blow as they fought, misdirecting each other's blaster fire and their blades meeting again and again. "Pity his stealth skills were no match to Ultra Magnus' meticulous and controlling nature, he noticed the extra mechabot not too long after he appeared. My doctor is rather excited to have his servos on the Shifter's T-Cog, I'm sure he'll put it to a better use than you ever did."

Megatron's optics narrowed and his faceplate pulled a gritting, heavy frown. "No, not while energon flows through my veins, Optimus." He replied through gritted denta. ]

"Mechabot?" Megatron muttered with slight interest but his focus returned to the fact that Optimus had said the name 'Ultra Magnus', a familiar name. An Autobot from the Elite Guard, commander of the old war unit the Wreckers. He was on Earth? Or at least, the other version of Earth? 

Actually, nevermind that, how was Optimus matching him blow for blow?! Was Megatron not the Prime in that world?! And a gladiator at that! Why was Optimus still his equal despite those odds! Just what had happened to the archivist in that world? His frame had clearly been reforged, but those skills… Was this Optimus not a data clerk like his own had been? Had Orion Pax in that world, been a warforged or even laborer mech like Megatron had been? Is that why things were so different?

"Soundwave, find a way to gain control over the sphere." He muttered to his communications officer. There were details to this world that he was very interested to know. 

And those words… Hadn't Optimus uttered those words to him the day he brought back Dark Energon and resurrected that ancient battlefield?

This world… possibly every world, was Optimus always destined to be against him?

(A certain Prime couldn't help but think of the same question.)

[ A groundbridge finally opened behind the Decepticon side of things. A helicopter and a jet flew out of the bridge, the copter landing by the terrifyingly still Makeshift while the jet went straight to Optimus and Megatron. "I've got you." Arachnid said as she transformed into her root mode, using her extra legs to help gently pick up the injured mech and make sure he was held stably.

"Arachnid!" A delighted and dark voice exclaimed and the femme froze, glancing over to see Arcee grinning almost ferally at her, abandoning her fight with Breakdown to pursue her instead. 

Optimus grunted as Soundwave's alt mode slammed into his midsection, knocking him away from Megatron, transforming into his root mode afterwards with his blades out. "Ah, Soundwave." Optimus smiled with sinister amusement as he got back to his pedes. "So nice to see you face to face once more." 

The bot trembled in place, in both anger… and fear. "Soundwave! Get back!" Megatron barked, optics gleaming in concern as he knew the trauma Soundwave had with Optimus. 

The screen flashed white for a moment. ]

With how things were swapped in that world, Arachnid had to wonder just what her other counterpart had done to gain such a reaction from Arcee. And just what Arcee had done to invoke such fear in the other spider's faceplate… It intrigued her as much as it annoyed her. 

Soundwave in the meanwhile, tilted his head in question. Silently observing his other counterpart, he could see his fellow Decepticons glance at him in question as well. Especially his lord and master, Megatron. 

When the screen went white, there was confusion before the realization that this was a flashback settled in as it showed the next scene.

A feeling of dread swept through them all.

(The same went for the Autobots.)

[ "Soundwave, it's so nice to finally meet you face to face." The shadowy figure of Optimus said to a restrained and injured Soundwave. His visor was completely shattered, green optics staring up defiantly at him. "Tell me, where is Megatron?"

"Optimus: will never gain information from me." Soundwave replied with a growl, voice strong and steady, frame weakly struggling. "Optimus: Will lose and never have Cybertron! Megatron: is true Prime!" 

The yellow-orange optics tinged a darker color, "How loyal. Let's reward that shall we? You know Soundwave, it's a shame that you hide your faceplate behind a visor, it's rather pleasing to see, though no one even knows what you look like underneath. So it doesn't really matter I suppose…" He picked up a sharp piece of glinting metal. "Well, since you insist on hiding it behind a visor, I don't suppose you'll mind if you give me your face?" He asked softly, sweetly almost, in contrast to his optics slowly turning red and then the swift movement of the metal shard.

The screen cut to the wall, showing only the shadow of Optimus pulling something that was connected to something else, lines that dripped and glowed, someone screaming in the background to the point it glitched severely when Optimus sliced through the lines. Bright energon splattered on the wall as Optimus held up a plate that dripped down and a dark laugh was heard. ]

Silence reigned the room for a while. Jaws fully dropped from witnessing the entire scene. 

Megatron's optics were even wider than before, and for once, he didn't care for his image as his intake was opened in clear shock. It wasn't everyday that his enemy seemingly tortured and enforced essentially Empurata on his loyal communications officer. 

His first thought is Optimus Prime would NEVER. His second thought is Soundwave still has his faceplate, Optimus never took it here. Subconsciously, his gaze snaps towards the silent mech, frame still, like a statue- nothing too unusual but this was different. There was a tenseness that Megatron seldom saw in Soundwave. He wasn't just still as a statue, he was frozen. When was the last time he'd ever seen Soundwave like this? 

"... Well, that just happened." Knock Out said without any tact, like usual. He winced when he earned Megatron's burning gaze filled with ire.  

(In a base, hidden on Earth. A Prime flinches back, horrified, a rare look of intense emotion overtaking his faceplate. His teammates swarm him, trying to comfort and soothe their distressed leader. Three tiny humans join the fray, telling him that he would never. That he was different, that he was not the mech on the screen.)

For some reason, his processor thought back to Optimus' yellow scout and the parallels to the moment, yet so very different. 

[ The screen flashes white once more and returns to Soundwave standing between Optimus and Megatron. "Tell me, did you ever replace your faceplate? After all this time?" The look on Optimus' face was predatory, "Perhaps I should find out!" He dashed forward with a sly grin and wild optics, both servos turned to blades.

The screen froze completely. ] 

("I don't think I wanna watch this anymore." A small human admitted, and was heard as his words instantly froze the screen.)

"What's happening? Why did it stop?" Megatron questioned gruffly, optics narrowed and intense at the sight of the Other Optimus- so different from the heroic Prime that he knew. 

"I- I don't know, Master. We didn't do anything!" Starscream exclaimed, 

[ OBSERVATIONS PAUSED: CEASE OBSERVATION? ACCEPT / DECLINE ] 

"Someone is doing something!" Megatron hissed in annoyance, servos darting out to touch the screen- he doesn't even know which option he would've chosen. It didn't matter as his clawed digits did nothing but phase through the words just as the option of ACCEPT was picked.

("A-Accept! We don't want to watch whatever that was anymore." The oldest human exclaimed, feeling relieved.)

[ OBSERVATION CEASED UNIVERSE DATA RECORDED: SHATTERED GLASS (JM-DESIGN) SAVED UNIVERSE AVAILABLE FOR PURVIEW WITHIN UNIVERSE LIBRARY ERROR - UNIVERSE LIBRARY CORRUPTED UNIVERSE LIBRARY HAS LOST PREVIOUSLY RECORDED UNIVERSE DATA UNIVERSE DATA AVAILABLE FOR CURRENT CONTINUITY: ONE (1) - SHATTERED GLASS (JM-DESIGN) SEARCH FOR NEW UNIVERSAL OBSERVATION? ACCEPT / DECLINE ]

"Uh, Lord Megatron? I don't think we're in control of whatever's going on right now." Breakdown hesitantly spoke up, cringing away when the warlord turned his optics at him. 

Megatron growled, glaring at the screen. "No, it appears we are not… I suspect the Autobots are the ones controlling this sphere somehow despite the distance… Soundwave, can you do something about it? Either take control of the sphere or track the Autobots' signal from it?" 

For a moment, Soundwave says nothing, does nothing. "... Soundwave." Megatron repeats, not exactly soft, but not as harsh as Megatron would have said to gain his loyal communication's officer's attention. 

The mech finally twitched, his cables emerging from his frame to try and connect to the sphere. He tried in all different angles, the inner wires of his cables trying to find a seam it could get into, a crack to slip in. But nothing. Reluctantly, his cables retreated and he hung his helm low in shameful defeat. 

Megatron scowled, but aimed it at the sphere instead of Soundwave. He watched as the option ACCEPT was picked, and wondered what exactly the Autobots were planning this time.

("Let's uh, let's find something else! Hopefully something a bit more light hearted?")

[----- TFP : UO -----]

[ ENTER KEY WORD TO START UNIVERSAL OBSERVATION ]

[----- TFP : UO -----]

HAHAHAHAHAHAH yeah i did that. the moment i started the shattered glass segment, i had the scene of sg optimus tearing sg soundwave's face off- as a reference to the wild bayverse movies. also i thought it'd be fitting in a way? because megatron took bee's voicebox, sg optimus gets to take sg soundwave's faceplate away.

once again i thank @jealousmarquis for their edits of the shattered glass universe. THEY ALSO HAVE AN EDIT OF SOUNDWAVE'S FACE AND I DIG WITH IT! thats now canon in this fic.

prologue is done! mostly because we now know the premise and yes i know this shattered glass segment was woefully short BUT DONT WORRY IT CAN COME BACK! we just gotta let the trauma settle for everyone a bit and go towards something a bit more lighthearted

HOWEVER! YOU GET TO DECIDE! i'll be giving vague options for everyone to choose!

another reason why i decided to end the shattered glass segment is because i realized halfway into writing is that i kinda sidelined the kids in the reaction bits- i showed them in the beginning, but the beginning premise is supposed to include jack, miko and raf as the main characters of each reaction universe. but then the shattered glass segment easily pushed them aside and while that IS fine, i kinda wanna stay focused on the kids being main characters here for a moment.

and yes, the options, despite involving optimus and megatron working together WILL have the kids as the main focal point of the reaction universe. and to those who don't want that- be patient, i'll have things shifted as we go along.

EDIT: forgot to mention! the reason the other SG Autobots haven't shown up is just that i decided to mostly do with the characters that jealousmarquis edited for easier visualization. if they ever do the others and we're revisiting the shattered glass jm-design, they'll be there one way or another.

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