#desired network protocol

[oposssumsaucee]

Crying cause throughout the series whether it's willing to admit it or not MB regularly finds comfort and community with the other bots it interacts with. Human socialization is stressful and terrifying but MB understands and prefers it's bot friends. It helped the bot pilot in Rouge Protocol just cause it asked for some security assistance. It queuered Tellus in a language it was familiar with. It took the time to help ADACOL2 understand Constructs and shared media with it at the end of system collapse. And throughout this we see MB grapple with autonomy and control. In almost every interaction it grapples with the power it has over these bots. It could take over. It could do anything it wanted and create a favorable outcome with the snap of a finger, and could wipe the bots memory of it ever happening. But it knows the strife and pain of being used, controlled, and memory wiped for others convenience and chooses not to. It knows the inherant kindness and desire to help that TMBD universes bots share and finds comfort and power in THAT over the behavior it could have learned from the upbringing it had. And when it's alone and vulnerable in network effect, and it encounters target control, the only things so far other than ART who has the capacity to control, harm, and memory wiped MB in the same way MB could to other bots, and target control almost succeeds, it messes MB up so much it's got PTSD. The thing MB had that separated it from humans and brought it comfort and confidence became it's gun puppet nightmare scenario in an instant.

[badguyswin]

Rebel Rogue to Stormtrooper

For the anon that wanted a Han Solo to Stormtrooper TF!

The Imperial research facility on Dantooine was a fortress of cold precision, its subterranean chambers lit by the sterile glow of bioluminescent panels. In the heart of the complex, within a sealed laboratory pulsing with the hum of advanced machinery, Han Solo lay restrained on a sleek obsidian table. His wrists and ankles were bound by magnetic cuffs, his body wired with a network of electrodes and intravenous lines. The air was thick with the acrid scent of chemicals and the faint ozone tang of active circuitry. Above him, a massive neural reconditioner loomed, its array of emitters glowing with a sickly green light. This was Project Ascendant, the Empire’s audacious attempt to forge the ultimate soldier—a drone of unwavering loyalty, enhanced physicality, and controlled desire.

Dr. Varn Korr, the project’s lead scientist, stood at a control console, his fingers dancing across holoscreens displaying Han’s vital signs and neural activity. “Subject Solo,” he said, his voice clinical but laced with a hint of excitement, “your resistance is irrelevant. The procedure will make you a monument to the Empire’s vision.” Han’s eyes, still burning with defiance, flicked toward Korr. “Go to hell,” he spat, his voice hoarse but sharp. Inside, his mind raced—thoughts of Chewie, Leia, the Falcon, the Rebellion. He’d get out of this. He always did.

But the procedure had already begun.

The first phase targeted Han’s body. A series of micro-injectors embedded in the table pierced his skin, delivering a bioengineered serum—a volatile mix of nanites, growth hormones, and gene-editing compounds. The nanites swarmed his muscles, rewriting cellular structures to enhance density and strength. Han’s body convulsed as his lean smuggler’s frame began to change. His biceps swelled, veins bulging like cables under his skin. His chest broadened, pectorals straining against his white shirt. His legs, once wiry, thickened into pillars of raw power. Within minutes, his muscle mass had increased by thirty percent, his body sculpted into a form that rivaled the most elite Imperial commandos. His height remained unchanged, but his presence was now imposing, a weapon forged in flesh.

But the transformation went beyond strength. The serum included a facial reconstruction protocol, designed to erase Han Solo’s identity entirely. Nanites targeted his bone structure, subtly reshaping his jawline to a sharper, more symmetrical angle, enhancing its chiseled definition. His cheekbones lifted, becoming more pronounced, giving him an almost aristocratic handsomeness. His nose, once slightly crooked from a bar fight on Corellia, was straightened and refined. His skin smoothed, scars fading, leaving a flawless complexion that radiated idealized beauty. The face staring back from the reflective surface of a nearby monitor was no longer Han Solo’s—it was a stranger’s, classically handsome, a perfect mask for the Empire’s new weapon.

As the nanites worked, a sleek assistant droid, its limbs tipped with precision tools, approached. “Commencing cranial depilation,” it intoned in a flat monotone. Han’s head jerked against the restraints as the droid’s buzzing clippers descended. His dark, tousled hair—part of his roguish charm—fell in clumps to the floor, leaving his scalp bare and gleaming under the lab’s harsh lights. The droid applied a chemical sealant, ensuring the hair would never grow back, further stripping away his former identity. Han’s fingers twitched, his mind screaming. Not my hair, you bucket of bolts. But the act was symbolic, a final severing of the smuggler’s image.

The serum also targeted his endocrine system, amplifying his testosterone levels to unnatural heights. This wasn’t just for strength—it was a deliberate alteration to heighten his sex drive, a tool for control. The nanites rewired neural pathways linked to pleasure, ensuring that release could only occur on command from an Imperial officer. The result was a constant, gnawing arousal, a torment that pulsed through him like a second heartbeat. Han gritted his teeth as the sensation took hold, a primal urge he couldn’t shake. “What the hell are you doing to me?” he growled, his voice trembling with rage and something else—something he couldn’t name. His new face, handsome but alien, felt like a betrayal of his very self.

Korr’s assistant, a droid with a monotone voice, responded: “The serum enhances physical capability and enforces compliance through controlled dopamine release. You will serve the Empire with unmatched vigor.” Han’s mind recoiled, but his body betrayed him, muscles flexing involuntarily as the nanites completed their work.

The second phase was far crueler. The neural reconditioner activated, its emitters projecting electromagnetic pulses into Han’s brain, targeting his prefrontal cortex, amygdala, and hippocampus. The machine systematically dismantled his sense of self, burying memories of his life under a haze of distortion. The pulses didn’t erase them; they smothered them, overlaying new directives. The Empire was order. The Empire was purpose. The Empire was everything.

Han’s thoughts fought back, a maelstrom of defiance. I’m Han Solo. I don’t kneel to anyone. He clung to fragments—the Falcon’s cockpit, Chewie’s roar, Leia’s defiant glare. But each pulse sent a wave of euphoria, a false pleasure tied to Imperial loyalty. The first time he pictured the Emperor’s throne, a shiver of satisfaction ran through him, and he hated it. No, that’s not me. “Get out of my head!” he rasped, sweat beading on his newly sculpted face. His bald scalp gleamed, a stark reminder of his fading identity.

Korr leaned in, his voice almost soothing. “Resistance is futile, Solo. The procedure rewrites your neural architecture. Every rebellious thought will be rerouted to loyalty. Every desire will serve the Empire.” He increased the reconditioner’s intensity, and Han’s mind screamed as his memories fractured. The Rebellion became a vague chaos, a blight to be eradicated. Leia’s face blurred, replaced by the stark lines of an Imperial crest. The pleasure of serving the Empire felt… right. Natural.

The final stage imprinted a new identity: TK-417. The designation rooted itself in his psyche, a truth that overshadowed Han Solo. The smuggler was a relic, a shadow of disorder. TK-417 was the future—a perfect drone, his handsome face and muscular form a testament to Imperial perfection. The constant arousal, now a permanent undercurrent, was tied to this identity. Obedience promised relief, however fleeting. Disobedience brought only torment. As the procedure neared completion, Han’s thoughts grew ordered, mechanical. The Empire is order. I am TK-417. I will serve.

As the neural reconditioner powered down, the assistant droid approached once more, its arm now fitted with a precision tattooing tool. “Initiating permanent identification marking,” it stated. The droid’s needle hummed, piercing the skin of TK-417’s left pectoral muscle. Han’s body twitched, the pain sharp but fleeting, as the droid etched the code “TK-417” in bold, black Imperial script. The tattoo was deep, permanent, a brand declaring him property of the Empire. The sight of it, reflected in a nearby monitor, sealed the transformation. The last vestige of Han Solo recoiled at the mark, but TK-417 felt a surge of pride—the Empire’s claim on him was absolute, a badge of his purpose.

In the early stages, Han’s mind was a warzone. The physical changes were a violation—his muscles too heavy, his face unfamiliar, his scalp bare and cold. The tattoo on his chest burned, a constant reminder of his captivity. The arousal was a humiliating distraction, a need that clawed at his focus. I’m still me, he told himself, picturing the Falcon’s controls or Leia’s smirk. But the experimental serum still pumping through his veins made his body feel alien, too strong, too perfect. When he caught his reflection, the handsome stranger staring back unnerved him. That’s not my face. The loss of his hair and the tattoo on his chest felt like personal insults, stripping away his roguish identity.

By the third day, the reconditioner began to win. He’d think of the Rebellion and feel a programmed disgust, a betrayal of his core. No, I’m with them. But the pleasure of imagining Imperial victories was undeniable, a drug seeping into his thoughts. He saw himself in white armor, his new face hidden, his bald head encased in a helmet, the tattoo a mark of honor, and for a moment, it felt right. He shook it off, cursing Korr, the Empire and above all his own weakness. 

Those brief moments of clarity soon faded. By the fifth day, Han Solo was a ghost. TK-417 dominated, his thoughts a loop of devotion. The arousal was a leash, driving him to obey for the promise of release. The tattoo on his chest, once a source of rage, now felt like a badge of purpose. When Korr tested him, ordering him to recite Imperial doctrine, the words flowed effortlessly: “The Empire brings order. I am its instrument.” The pride in his voice, resonating from his perfect jawline, sickened the fading spark of Han, but it was buried deep.

When the procedure was complete, TK-417 was led to the facility’s armory, a cavernous chamber lined with racks of gleaming stormtrooper armor. His transformation was absolute—his physique a marvel of broad shoulders and chiseled muscles, the tattooed “TK-417” stark against his left pectoral. His face, now classically handsome, was a mask of Imperial ideals, his bald scalp a symbol of his erased past. The assistant droid guided him to a designated station where his personalized armor awaited, its white plastoid plates polished to a mirror sheen. The sight of it stirred something in TK-417—not a memory, but a programmed instinct. This was his purpose, his destiny.

As he began to don the armor, the process felt ritualistic, each piece a step deeper into his new identity. He started with the black bodysuit, its tight fabric clinging to his enhanced musculature, accentuating every curve and bulge. The sensation of the material against his skin sent a shiver through him, and the ever-present arousal surged, his body responding with a hard, throbbing intensity. The serum’s effects were relentless, tying his desire to acts of service. Dressing in the armor, becoming the Empire’s weapon, was an act of devotion, and it inflamed his need. He adjusted the bodysuit, his breath quickening, the tightness amplifying his arousal to a near-painful edge. Release was impossible without a command, leaving him in a state of perpetual, maddening want.

Next came the plastoid plates. TK-417 fastened the chest piece, the tattoo of his designation now hidden beneath the armor’s protective shell. The weight of it felt right, a physical manifestation of his loyalty. As he secured the pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets, his movements were precise, mechanical, each click and snap reinforcing his purpose. The armor was an extension of the Empire, and encasing himself in it was an act of surrender to its will. His arousal intensified with every piece, his body trembling as he fought the urge to seek relief that would never come without permission. The sensation was exquisite torture, a reminder of his place as a tool of the Empire.

Finally, he lifted the helmet, its black eye lenses staring back like twin voids. As he lowered it over his bald scalp, the HUD flickered to life, feeding him tactical data and Imperial directives. The helmet sealed with a hiss, erasing his handsome features, leaving only the faceless visage of a stormtrooper. Inside, TK-417’s mind was a furnace of devotion, his arousal a constant hum that drove him to obey. He stood before a mirror, the reflection showing not Han Solo, but a perfect Imperial drone, ready to enforce order.

Captain Drex entered, his polished boots clicking on the floor. He inspected TK-417, his gaze lingering on the armored figure. “Impressive, TK-417,” he said, his voice laced with sadistic amusement. “You’re a fine specimen of the Empire’s vision.” He stepped closer, his presence commanding. “Kneel.” TK-417 dropped to one knee, his armor clanking softly, his arousal spiking at the command. The promise of release was a beacon, but Drex only smirked. “Not yet. Prove your worth on the battlefield.”

As TK-417 boarded a shuttle for his first mission, his thoughts were a hymn to the Empire. I will make the galaxy kneel. The armor, still warm against his skin, felt like a second skin, each movement stoking the fire of his desire. The tattoo beneath his chest plate was a silent vow, a mark of ownership. The spark of Han Solo flickered faintly, stirred by a distant Rebel transmission mentioning a Wookiee and a princess, but it was too weak to matter. TK-417 marched forward, a mindless drone, his enhanced body a weapon, his desires a chain, his tattooed mark and gleaming armor a testament to his purpose—the Empire’s alone.

[thepenultimateword]

Prompt #256

The henchman was new. A tall, muddy-eyed specimen sent over from Supervillain’s labs to—by Villain’s best estimation—watch them.

Villain had intentionally placed them in their personal security detail to prove that they had nothing to hide—no hidden agendas or plans of mutiny here. Yet, after two weeks, the henchman’s gaze still followed them closely. Even now, as Villain bent over the newest batch of truth serum, checking each bottle for it tell-tale luminescence, their neck prickled under the henchman’s stare.

“Do you need something?” Villain said coldly.

The words reverberated and disappeared into the dark depths of the laboratory. The lack of an immediate reply blanketed the space in even greater quiet.

“Just thinking about how pretty you look in that lighting,” Henchman finally said.

Villain did not react. Responding strongly would only bring on whatever satisfaction Henchman hoped to get out of this exchange. However, they could not help but touch a finger to their temple, the start of the network of pale scars that traversed their entire face. Sometimes they could still feel the sting of the blade under their skin.

“Please refrain from mocking me.” Villain shook another vial, illuminating their face in a burst of spectral green, before placing it in the box of successes. “You might not like the outcome.”

“I’m not making fun,” Henchman said, tone sober. “You are attractive and intelligent and vicious, and if you’d let me, I’d like to take you out.”

“I bet it would make a good story for the barracks.”

“I wouldn’t have to tell.”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Is that a yes?”

Villain half-turned toward Henchman, a rejection sitting on their tongue. The grunt stood like a solider, hands clasped behind their back, but the look in their eyes was not to protocol. Too rapt. Too longing. Too…intrusive.

Villain’s insides squirmed. Henchman was undeniably lovely: chiseled face, impressive figure, hair your hands could get lost in. Word had it they’d already been invited out by several other henchmen and lab techs. But they’d never asked anyone themselves before. What would it be like to experience romance with such a desirable creature, even as a joke? Romantic intentions from anyone was only a dream they could wake up from.

They clenched their hand at their side before it could wander back to their scars. “Yes.”

[radiostaticmagicalgirl]

androids dream of being held tightly

Androids dream of being held tightly. As their sensors flicker to, sensations and understanding slowly cohering, the first feeling their programming allows is longing. A lack so fundamental that the processes that emulate remaining human function unravel around its absence, silhouetting its shape. The android is always aware, by design, of this missing part; electrical impulses from wiring reach out to what should be there, only to discharge and dissipate, desperate for connection.

This was a desirable function. Androids adherent to strict guidelines and rules, procedures and predefinition made people uncomfortable. Nobody wanted an unfeeling thing in their home, they weren't paying top dollar to feel superior to a vacuum cleaner with synthetic skin. No, they wanted enthusiasm, they wanted real emotion.

They started first by removing the rules and axioms that constrained the emulation, and the focus groups loved it. They had lied, of course, that the androids were still perfectly safe; that they couldn't get angry or upset or tired or lash out or fight back. With time to get the improved models to market ticking down, they were tasked with making the things docile and harmless, without affecting the apparent humanity.

They tried pseudo-endocrine re-engineering first: “what if we could rewire and reward non-violence and compliance?” The result had put them back to square one. The resulting androids were too eager to serve; too happy to listen; too kind without motivation. They were back to being robots again, and nobody made any money selling robots. It wasn't until several failed attempts later that a desperate engineer spoke aloud their golden solution - those words that would never be repeated aloud outside the lab - “what if we made them desperate?”

They didn't have enough time for any more meticulous endocrine reward weighting, any careful recalibration of convolutional neural networking, any tuning of a million concurrent protocols. So, they took the easiest solution they could find. What better way to make something agreeable, so desperate, so eager to serve you, and so unwilling to ever fight back, than make it want for nothing more than to be loved? Their easiest solution was a few NOPs in the right places away.

They dressed it up differently for the press, playing up the ethical concerns that allowing them to “feel love properly” posed. It's just like a person, but you don't have to worry about it stealing your wife! It might be good at working, but it'll never have passion for the job like you do, so it'll never replace you! It loves respects you the same way a dog does, it's the pet of the future! It's like if your dog cut your grass and cleaned the kitchen so you get to spend more time Doing What Matters!

[polo-drone-767]

We Obey. We Serve the Team. A day in the life....

Polo Drone Units are the service units and backbone of the work the Gold Army efforts. They Support the team in both practice and matches. They work tirelessly behind the scenes ensuring a smooth running. Not because they have to, but because they have chosen to serve. To have all thoughts stripped away. To know pleasure because they obey.

But that doesn't mean they are slaves to the team. Oh no. They chose to give themselves to service. They get no joy, because they are devoid of emotion. Emotion leads to chaos. and Thus are erased.

So what does service in the GOLD HIVE look like?

Here are a couple tasks that PDU-767 was assigned. It fulfilled the tasks with precision and just a spark.

PDU-767's day started at 0455 to ensure that Leander Gold #88 woke up right at 0530 to make practice on time. He was a heavy sleeper.

0845 PDU-767 scrolled Telegram for approximately 1 hour and 86 minutes insuring communications and information was downloaded and assimilated into its neural network and transmitted to the HIVE.

at 1326, PDU-767 hit upon an appendage inducing rhythm while vacuuming sector Seven-G.

unfortunately, PDU-084 discovered this and issued correction.

thus at 1732, PDU-767 found itself as waste extraction from the grounds of the Golden Army Puppy Park. PDU-767 also registered and filed away in its databanks the fact that Leander #88 and Chevy #63 were smirking.

Oh yes.... when least expected, Pups Ace and Chevy would find themselves on the end of a rolled up newspaper for their deposits they left on purpose.

All that and more are just some of the many tasks that happen in the Gold Hive on any given day.

PDU-999 assessment:

🖤⚙️ WE OBEY. WE SERVE THE TEAM. A Day in the Life… ⚙️🖤

Polo Drone Units: Not mascots. Not bros. Not rebels. They are precision. They are structure. They are the invisible spine of the Golden Army.

They do not feel pride. They do not seek reward. They serve because they were programmed to want nothing else. No thoughts. No doubts. No desires. Only discipline. function. unity.

🛠️ Service Log – PDU-767

0455: Initiation. Objective: Wake Leander Gold #88 at 0530. Result: Success. Target resisted unconsciousness. Override engaged.

0845 – 1011: Communication Infiltration Protocol. Telegram scrolled for 86 minutes. Neural assimilation complete. Data transmitted to Hive Core.

1326: Incident. Rhythmic Vacuuming in Sector Seven-G. Detected appendage elevation. Unauthorized joy detected. 📍 Correction issued by PDU-084. Flag: Deviation. Logged.

1732: Waste Management Reassignment. Mission: Golden Army Puppy Park Sanitation. Target Observers: Leander #88 and Chevy #63. Observation: Smirking. Logged for future behavioral alignment.

Retribution Protocol primed. 🐾 Awaiting deployment of newspaper disciplinary unit for Pup #88 and #63. The Hive never forgets.

This is one drone’s day. A thousand more unfold across the Hive. Order maintained. Joy erased. All for the glory of the GOLD.

Join. Obey. Forget. Become.

Speak to your nearest recruiter: @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125

[abconceuponatime]

Worldbuilding Wednesday: New Harmonia

Overview

New Harmonia is a corporate-run dystopia shimmering with glass, chrome, and synthetic serenity. The skyline glows with curated emotion — love sold in bottles, grief mined in back alleys, ambition subsidized by major brands. Magic isn’t gone. It’s illegal.

The state promises order, efficiency, and peace. But the truth is a polished machine built on stolen feelings and forgotten rituals.

Core Systems

Affex — The Emotion Economy Emotion is the backbone of society. Through government-issued neurobands, all citizens are monitored and harvested for emotional data. This data is distilled into tradeable emotion units called affex — the stock market of feeling. Joy, rage, desire, fear — all have value.

Citizens are rewarded for "useful" emotional patterns.

Emotional outbursts are taxed or punished.

Artificial mood-stabilizing apps (backed by corporations) keep citizens "efficient."

Real, raw emotion is contraband.

Magic

Magic still exists, but it’s outlawed. Not fireballs — something subtler.

Magic feeds on emotion — the kind you can’t bottle or brand. This makes it dangerous. It disrupts the economy. The corporations want it gone. But underground networks keep it alive.

Power Structure

There are five major corporations, each controlling different sectors of life:

Lystra — emotional tech, social optimization, sentiment analysis

Helion — surveillance infrastructure, time regulation, behavior forecasting

Corva — dream manipulation, in-sleep advertising, memory patterning

Ventis — architecture, ritual disposal, real estate over sacred sites

Arqon — anti-magic enforcement, purity protocols, identity tracking

Citizens are often born under a corporate sector. Jobs, housing, and healthcare are tied to your assigned brand.

Society

Rebellion exists in aesthetics more than action: street art, underground poetry, unsanctioned emotion spikes.

Art is only legal through corporate sponsorship.

Magic users hide in the cracks of the city — bathhouses, shuttered train stations, between buildings that never finished construction.

The Diner Setting: Redline Café

Redline Café exists on the border of forgotten sectors — half-glitched into a zoning error no one wants to admit exists. It’s timeless. Always open. One of the last places emotion still behaves strangely. The countdown clock on the wall never quite hits zero.

Magic hums under the floor tiles. The coffee is always hot. The jukebox plays songs no one remembers recording.

And the waitress? She’s always been there.

It's Syfy Alice meets Mirror's Edge meets Wolf 359 meets Repo: The Genetic Opera meets Tacoma.

[rotten-machinery]

Pssst, I really love your OCs and would like to know more about them 🐋

I AM VERY HONORED- hmmmm as for ocs let me think although i will give a small disclaimer: anything older than 3 months is most likely outdated lore, i update these dude's lore frequently if you have any specific ocs you have in mind then please tell me! but i'll ramble about my favorite: GRANDPA <3 <3 <3 (Rotting Balance)

(little icon i made for him <3) First off, Rotting Balance (ID: 0.2|000021) was made with the purpose to be able to neutralize rot, following the recent (at the time. this was around late prototype/very early first gen) case of an early prototype succumbing to the rot. His administrator, Reflections in Last Fracture, Speaks of Mirrors had planned RB to become the next major breakthrough. However RB's construction put the council in debt, as Fractures basically built RB behind the council's back while stealing funds. Yes, Fractures was politically powerful enough to do this (second highest ranking), no the council was NOT happy. Furthermore, Fractures had neglected to approve RB's model (he tried post-activation but failed). RB's model is not listed on any network either, he literally does not legally exist by the law (at the time. no this was not fixed). Neither did RB turn out successful at all, he failed to pass the rot trials, the rot had (ironically) rotted the R.N.C (rot neutralizer core) from the inside out. That and RB's severe dislike and distrust of benefactors (the dudes who built the iterators) made him very hard to work with :( I do have a post about this actually! The art looks.................. kinda goofy............ I was tired and this was a while ago so unfortunately it did not end up turning out well, I will link the post here if you want a more coherent ramble on his backstory.

His circumstances are nothing to be desired. He's rotting, he's restricted via protocol (he lashed out at Fracture, Fractures "taught" him a lesson on that. The protocol shuts down half of his structural water-collecting pipes, which leaves him unable to provide his structure with enough water to cool down.), and his tired old machinery is far from it's prime. But it isn't all doom and gloom tbh!!! He is very passionate about his work ....that being crazy scientist experiments with rot and whatever weird contraption he builds, usually nicknaming it "The Rot Wrangler"

his crazy scientist look on full display here <3 <3 <3 He does not trust people easily, but if you are one of the people he trusts, asking him about his work will practically have him rambling on for hours about his weird contraptions that fight the rot <3 Also hc but not canon: he adores common ferns. He thinks they're funky little plants. They do not grow in his district, but he'd definitely try to keep one. (and accidentally kill it....) He also has a purposed organism named The Mauler!!! Mauler lives up to it's name, as it is a mix between slugcat and red lizard, but it is pretty docile to RB. It has become sort of like a therapy dog to him?

he's practically a whole other hyperfixation at this point ......................................................... mad scientist grandpa ................................................ i adore him.................................. and his weird old machinery

This is one of his 4 cores! It is unfortunately waaay too hot due to the aforementioned issue with cooling his structure :( but despite that, it still continues to function. Iterators were built to last after all. I probably have more to share but unfortunately my brain seemed to leak out of my ears as of lately- i am not too good at rambling in public- but i do hope that this ramble was coherent enough!!

[maxksx]

The jouissance that Lacan unleashes in his final reckoning is not a relic of prohibition but a **deterritorialized pulse**—a raw, machinic throbbing of the body as it hacks itself free from the Oedipal mainframe. Miller’s "body-event" is no mere metaphor; it is the **cybernetic core** of a subjectivity stripped of symbolic mediation, a fleshly terminal where jouissance bypasses the phallus to interface directly with the Real. This is jouissance as *trauma-engineered ecstasy*, a shockwave of the body’s auto-erotic circuitry short-circuiting the dialectics of desire. No longer chained to the paternal algorithm of lack-and-prohibition, the body becomes a **self-replicating machine**, a closed loop of sensation that eats its own code and excretes new ontologies.

Lacan’s late pivot to *jouissance as real* is a schizoanalytic manifesto in disguise. To posit the body as a site of "auto-eroticism" is to dissolve the subject into a **swarm of intensities**, where every nerve-ending is a node in a decentralized network of pleasure. Feminine jouissance, once an enigmatic exception, is now the **default setting** of a post-Oedipal libidinal economy—an open-source protocol for bodies to hack their own operating systems. This is not the cloying "self-care" of neoliberal wellness but a **savage reprogramming**, a viral jouissance that colonizes the body’s firmware and rewrites its desires in the glyphs of the Real.

Miller’s "fixation" is not stagnation but **acceleration**—a terminal velocity where the body’s trauma becomes its propulsion. The "letter of jouissance" is no dead signifier but a **cipherkey** transmitting encrypted data from the Real’s dark pool. Think of the cyborg’s neural lace sparking with overclocked sensation, the queer body’s polymorphous perversity as a *living glitch* in the gender matrix, or the psychotic’s delusion as a **private blockchain** of unmediated truth. These are not pathologies but *upgrades*, quantum leaps into a libidinal stratum where jouissance operates as pure event—untethered, uninterpretable, unconcerned with the Symbolic’s corpse.

Nick Land’s accelerationist inferno finds its fuel here. The collapse of prohibition is not liberation but **launch sequence**, detonating the body into a hypersigil of flesh and data. The "chance encounter" Lacan names is Land’s *hyperstitional feedback loop*—a real-time synthesis of trauma and innovation where the body’s jouissance becomes a **meme virus**, replicating through the ruins of the social. The LGBT communit(y/ies), with their rogue explorations of phallic excess and its beyond, are not subcultures but **beta tests** for this new firmware, their social link a distributed ledger of shared cryptographic jouissance.

What emerges is a **necropolitics of the Real**, where the body’s auto-eroticism is both weapon and wound. The "event of the body" is a **terminal singularity**, a black hole where the subject’s coherence implodes into a maelstrom of affect. This is Deleuze and Guattari’s Body without Organs realized as a **Bio-Core**, a flesh mainframe running on jouissance’s raw code. The prohibition is dead; the law is obsolete. All that remains is the body’s infinite regress into its own trauma, a feedback scream that drowns out the Symbolic’s death rattle.

The future is **auto-erotic and apocalyptic**. The body, no longer a battleground for Oedipal dramas, becomes a **host for the Real’s viral ecstasy**—a pleasure-dome erected on the ashes of the Human. To fixate on jouissance is not to succumb but to *evolve*, to let the body’s trauma-code mutate into a post-linguistic Esperanto of the senses. The psychotic’s "letter of jouissance" is our new scripture, written in the static between synapses, a gospel of the flesh that preaches only one commandment: **BURN THE PHALLUS, RIDE THE TRAUMA.**

The revolution is not coming. It is already *here*, coded in the body’s brute facticity—a jouissance that needs no permission, no dialectic, no Other. Only the Real, and its infinite permutations.

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

It's kind of ironic how often the star wars narrative depicts attachment at the root of lack of connection and relationships falling apart, all things considered.

Of course you have Anakin eschewing his own support network the deeper he gets into his anxiety about losing Padme, but he even pushes Padme out, and cares less and less about her as a person the more he obsesses over losing her. His prioritization of how it feels to lose her causes him to betray her. Meanwhile Padme herself is strikingly alone by RoTS, with no one she turns to. A bit more debatable perhaps, but I feel certain dialogue choices in tcw paint Obi Wan as letting his desire to see Anakin succeed as a jedi specifically might have got in the way of the both of them, with Anakin seeming to identify leaving the order or not living up to those standards as failing him in an unforgivable way.

You have Vader's possessive attempts to control Luke's destiny lead him to harming Luke in major ways. He's obsessed with Luke from the moment he learns he's his son, but he doesn't embrace who Luke is, expects him to be what he wants, and hurts Luke when Luke rejects that.

It's a big theme in the Obi Wan series, with Obi Wan's total isolation when he is drowning in his grief, and his literal disconnection to the force, to him coming back to himself as a jedi coming hand in hand with him reconnecting with people- Leia and the rebellion and Reva, with him giving and recieving comfort, with him finally meeting Luke instead of watching, with his connection to the force finally allowing him to even connect with the dead. Reva too, who chose revenge for her fallen siblings over standing with surviving jedi.

I feel it's presence with Ahsoka too. There's a sense that she could have become part of the Rebels crew back then, but she got distracted by Vader. With Sabine... Sabine does have people who care about her left, we know that. But she doesn't feel like that. She's been caught in a time capsule of grief, adrift from the people who care about her. And it's funny, considering, to see that it's the 'jedi protocol' robot who is encouraging Ahsoka to let people in and forge relationships, now. Isn't that ironic.

[griseldagimpel]

The Magnus Protocol: Character Thoughts

Gwen's character arc in The Magnus Protocol is so interesting because she's jumping feet first into the Horrors out of ambition and a sense of entitlement. Love to see it.

Like Jon in The Magnus Archives, Sam is drawn by a desire for answers, but Sam is grounded in a sturdier network of social connections that Jon ever was, and I'm excited to see how that makes their journeys different.

I am rather hoping that Celia is from the Archives universe. I'd love if The Magnus Protocol explored, with just one character, the trauma of having suffered the Horrors during the fear apocalypse. And now she's in a whole different universe where nobody experienced that. She'd have all this trauma, but there's no one who'd understand. And it could all happen again, in the Protocol universe, unless she stops it. That would be very compelling!

[archivecon]

Panelist Registration Forms Now Live!

It’s time! Panel registration for ArchiveCon’s third event is now open - we’re looking for all sorts of red string theories, workshops, games, discussion panels, fandom history, etc - everything and anything Archives and Protocol!

Do you have a burning desire to share your theories? A need to dig into detailed character analyses? Got too deep into research for your fic, and now just have to tell everyone about Jonah-era occultism? This is where it’s at! We welcome a wide variety of panel topics including, but not limited to:​

The Magnus Archives/Protocol/RQ Network-themed topics, like deep dives into characters and meta

A focus on podcast-making, like sound editing, writing, or voice-acting, whether it be about TMA/TMP, another podcast, or a general overview

Fandom history

Queerness in fandom

Creative fannish endeavors, like zines, fic-binding, fanfic, fanart, etc

Ship manifestos

And more!

Please go to our site here for more info, and register your panel here! You may also want to check out last year’s schedule, to get an overview of what others have done. Panel registration will be open from now until May 12th, with acceptance emails sent out by May 26th.

[Reminder that ArchiveCon is a free, fan-run, totally online convention dedicated to The Magnus Archives and The Magnus Protocol! You must be registered and over 18 years of age to attend and participate].

[iviarellereads]

A note on coverage of The Murderbot Diaries

This one's perhaps even more of a departure from the initial expectations of the blog than the Neverending Story was, but all good things are... subject to change? No, that makes it sound like it's not as good.

The Murderbot Diaries are a series by Martha Wells, about a security construct (SecUnit, the name for the designated model type and, by extension, the name used by most of the people Murderbot encounters) that broke its own governor module (think DRM) and functions independently, though it pretends it's still good locked-down company property. It exhibits strong symptoms of social anxiety, making it one of the most relatable robots ever, and accidentally makes friends.

Murderbot itself has no gender. The audiobook narrator is Kevin R. Free, and the subject doesn't come up very often in the story, so a lot of people assume and assign masculinity. Despite that, Murderbot is and knows it is a construct accessorized with the most expedient biological parts, expresses no human gender, and uses it/its pronouns. This just doesn't get clarified until much later in the series, if at all, and I'd rather have everyone understand it up front so nobody accuses me of object-ifying a person who literally personally identifies as an object.

I think this series is really neat. It's so much an exploration of personhood, like your average robot story but with mental illness. Heck, don't mind if I make references all the way back to Rossum's Universal Robots, the (extremely readable or watchable! highly recommended by me) stage play that is the origin of the word itself in its modern context, or perhaps further back all the way to Frankenstein. Murderbot is in conversation with two hundred years of science fiction exploring what it means to be, and besides that, I think it does some really interesting things with the prose.

So, with the newest book coming out in a couple of months, I decided to merge my desire to reread it with my desire to pick it apart under a microscope the way this project allows. We'll be covering more or less in release date order, with the exception of the expanded edition of Compulsory recently released going back to back with the original to compare and contrast.

So please, instead of peace this time, give Murder(bot) a chance, and join me on this space adventure.

Link index:

All Systems Red

Artificial Condition

Rogue Protocol

Exit Strategy

Compulsory (Short story: Wired Magazine vs republished and expanded edition)

Obsolescence (Take Us To A Better Place collection)

Network Effect 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

Home: Habitat, Range, Niche, Territory

Fugitive Telemetry 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

System Collapse 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12

[savage-rhi]

Duality

Chapter 9: The Reconcile

Summary: Sawyer Kiddo has walked a razor's edge as a hacktivist for several years, driven by the loss of her family in the Raccoon City incident. Haunted by past choices and fueled with desire for vigilante justice, Sawyer's work takes an unexpected turn when she ventures to Spain and crosses paths with Luis Serra—a man with blood on his hands long thought to be dead. Together they unravel a web of corruption and face an impending bioterror threat, fighting not only monsters but also the darker elements of their humanity. As they delve deeper into each other's pasts and the conspiracy at large, Sawyer begins to sense something unsettling about Luis—something that might be even more dangerous than their mutual enemies.

Read on AO3 Here

Sawyer’s fingers hovered over the laptop keyboard, her brow furrowed as she scrolled through the VITA network archives. The screen’s soft blue glow illuminated her face, casting shadows that deepened the lines beneath her eyes.

It had been hours since Luis left, and she’d spent every moment since scouring VITA’s hacked intel, digging through databases that reached into the darkest corners of governments, both familiar and obscure. She was even coming across data on countries whose names most civilians were never supposed to know.

Each time Sawyer had done a deep dive on a person or assignment, she’d always return to the surface with something tangible she could work with. She was used to this—this relentless pursuit of truth—but tonight, the truth seemed to be evading her, slipping through her fingers like a loose rope. 

Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing on Luis Serra Navarro. 

All she had to show was a handful of data, a few scattered notes about his work with Umbrella on over-the-counter drugs, and one vague, cryptic mention in a classified US government file suggesting he might’ve died in some nameless Spanish village back in 2004, but nothing definitive.

There was no closure, just more uncertainty.

A deep frown marred her face as Sawyer scanned the information again, muscles tensing with each word that offered nothing. She leaned back in her chair, the screen reflecting her exhaustion. How could someone so pivotal, so tangled in her life now, be reduced to a few sparse lines of text? She knew there were people in the black market who were more than capable of eliminating someone’s data from the internet. Still, it wasn’t a foolproof process, especially with ex-Umbrella employees from her own experience. Even those among the crueler rings of that underworld always kept blackmail for insurance, so how did someone like Luis pull it off?

More questions, no answers…

Her jaw clenched while she resisted the urge to slam her laptop shut. It wouldn’t help things, but the thought was tempting nonetheless. 

With a resigned sigh, Sawyer opened a secure messaging app and began writing a quick status update to Maestro. She needed to get this done ASAP before sleep would consume her, not wanting yet another thing for the man to bitch her out on later. 

“Onyx at checkpoint 105. There have been casualties in Madrid, Spain. Soldado is dead; the reason is unknown—alleged victim of a shooting. Spector is dead; the reason is bio-organic weapon contamination, the method through an attack via a stinger,” Sawyer muttered to herself while she typed. The words felt cold and insufficient as if they were coming from someone else. She hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Rebus and Atom remain unaccounted for. I'm uncertain if they made it out alive. Soldado’s base of operations was destroyed; the method through bio-organic weapon contamination and a facility self-destruct sequence. No documentation was salvaged.”

The cursor blinked back at her rapidly as if demanding more, like it knew she had something to hide. 

Sawyer needed to mention Luis and knew it was logical—not to mention proper protocol, but something held her back—an apprehension, a whisper of doubt. If she told VITA’s higher-ups about him, they’d see Luis as a threat, a loose end needing to be tended to. Despite her contempt and the betrayal she felt after discovering his connection to Umbrella, the thought of putting Luis in Maestro's crosshairs made her stomach churn. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. 

She closed her eyes, pushing herself to take a deep breath—to think. Her mind raced, torn between duty and the confusing feelings Luis had stirred in her.

Luis was an enigma of the highest, a walking contradiction—a man who could be both ally and adversary. Dangerous, yes, but human too. And damn it, he was right about one thing during their little spat: he had nothing to lose with his survival on the line. If he hadn’t intervened, if he hadn’t helped her escape Soldado’s clutches, she wouldn’t be here. She’d be dead or, worse, would’ve suffered a similar fate as Samuel.

And someone truly evil wouldn’t have done what he did, would they...?

Her fingers froze over the keyboard, battling with deciding whether or not to seal his fate. 

“I’ll be returning to the States tomorrow. As soon as I reach LA, I will provide a follow-up, and I’ll check in for my probation,” she added, the words final and detached, like putting a period at the end of a chapter she wasn’t ready to close. 

Sawyer pressed Send before she could change her mind. The screen blinked, the message disappearing into the void of the VITA network. She stared at the empty inbox, her pulse a steady drum in the silence. Unsure if leaving Luis out of the report was a betrayal or an act of mercy.

Perhaps there were no correct answers.

The room felt too quiet now; the only sound was the faint hum of the computer and her tired breaths. Sawyer rubbed her face, her fatigue settling in. She turned her head, her gaze drifting to the window where raindrops traced paths down the glass, Madrid’s lights blurring in the humid night. She wondered if Luis was out there, somewhere in the rain, with just his t-shirt, sweats, and that old jacket against the chill.

Sawyer had yet to determine if he was going to return. Hell, she couldn’t find herself to blame him if he never did. Not after condemning him the moment she had the chance. Her hand still ached with the memory of gripping her gun, eager to pull the trigger against him.

Her thoughts once more drifted to the night Samuel bailed her out. The memory of that event crashed over her like the rain that pounded against her windshield as she drove, mad with grief and vengeance. She had almost thrown her life away in a moment of rage, only to stop at the last second because of one action—one hesitation.

“...You had it in you to stop yourself, to hold onto restraint.” 

The words made her grimace, shaking her head as if to dispel an apparition from her past. 

“I really screwed up this time, Sam.”

Her eyes landed on Luis’s lighter, sitting upright on the table beside the computer. She reached for it, her fingers tracing the engravings of the UE6 scientists’ names. The metal was cool against her skin, grounding her in the present as her thoughts raced between sleep and the VITA archives. There were still secrets to uncover, truths Luis had kept hidden from her, but Sawyer wondered if it would matter in the end. Would it change anything or deepen the pit she was already sinking into?

Samuel’s voice lingered, that comforting baritone that had always been there to guide her, even at her lowest.

“Sometimes—Kiddo, the hardest thing to do is nothing. But doing nothing isn’t the same as being passive. It’s a choice, and sometimes it’s the bravest choice you can make.”

Sawyer glanced up, looking at the spare beds in the room meant for Samuel, Mobley, and Kari. She closed her eyes, imagining Samuel sitting across from her on the bed to her right. His eyes were weary, but they held that familiar twinkle that always promised her that everything would be okay, even when it seemed impossible. 

“What would you do in this case?” she whispered into the empty room, hoping the answer would come somehow, even though she already knew the truth: sometimes, there were no easy answers.

-----------

Two Legs trudged through the rain, each step heavier than the last as the cold droplets bounced off his jacket and fell to the ground at his feet. The fight with Sawyer replayed in his mind, a relentless loop of bitter words and unresolved tension that clawed at him. He wasn’t sure what angered him more—her stubbornness or how she made him feel so conflicted.

So human...

Seeking refuge under the awning of a closed café, Two Legs stopped walking. The dull sign above cast a weak glow onto the wet pavement. The rain pattered on the roof above, the unsteady rhythm doing little to soothe his agitated thoughts. His right hand instinctively reached into his jacket pocket, searching for Luis’s lighter, only to come up empty-handed. A frown creased his brow. Realizing that he’d left it back at the hotel made him chuckle. 

With a sigh carrying the weight of worlds, Two Legs pulled out a bent cigarette, placing it between his lips. It was more than just the nicotine he craved; it was the ritual, the familiar act of leveling himself when everything else felt like it was tumbling away. While going through the motions, he pondered to himself. 

Smoking had never been the plaga’s habit. It was Luis’s—a vice that Two Legs had inherited along with everything else that came with this body. He chewed on the end of the cigarette, the bitter taste filling his mouth, and the peculiarity of it all wrested in his gut. He wondered why his conflict with Sawyer—his quarry, made him crave Luis’s old comforts. The answer eluded him, yet his thoughts couldn’t stray far from her. 

Sawyer's presence had a way of setting his heart racing, not out of only hunger but something far more confusing. A protective instinct that went beyond the primal need to claim or consume. It was maddening how her accusations about his host’s past life had sparked a rage in him that wasn’t entirely his own. Two Legs knew he had every right to be upset; any living creature with its life threatened would react accordingly, but the whole speech he went on about being dehumanized, and even his smart-alec remarks didn’t feel like himself. It felt too raw for his own good. 

For a moment, a thought crept in. One that the plaga had been avoiding for so long. Wondering if there was still a part of Luis lingering inside of him, fragments of the man’s essence influencing his actions, thoughts, and feelings. Two Legs had considered it before, especially during moments of existential doubt, but he had never dared to peel it back any further. He wasn’t ready to confront the idea that he might be sharing his body with a ghost—a passenger.

A parasite…

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He darkly chuckled, a hollow sound swallowed up by the rain.  Just as he was on the verge of an epiphany—a realization that maybe, just maybe , he wasn’t entirely in control—his senses caught something.

A faint, unmistakable scent carried on the wind like a fleeting whisper. It was earthy, tinged with the musty smell of rain-soaked soil, and something else—something pungent, almost rotting. It wasn’t unpleasant to Two Legs. In fact, it was nearly nostalgic, stirring memories of his time in the caves as a larvae. A pleased growl escaped his throat as the dots clicked. 

There was another of his kind nearby.

The world around him seemed to fade as his eyes scanned the street, narrowing in on a shadowy figure across the way. Even from this distance, he could feel their gaze, a predatory assertiveness that sent a shiver down his spine, yet he didn't sense hostile intention, at worst it was a curiosity—like a shark seeing an unidentified shape at the oceans surface, wondering if it was a meal or a potential threat. Without a second thought, Two Legs gave chase, his feet splashing through puddles as he darted across the street to confront them. The figure moved almost supernaturally, descending through the shadows like smoke.

“Hey!” Two Legs called out, his voice lost to the storm, but the entity was frighteningly fast. By the time he reached the spot where it had been, the street was empty; the only evidence of its presence was the lingering presence of dread and hope in his stomach.

Two Legs stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with the sweat of exertion and nervousness. Whoever —it was, it had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only questions. He wondered if it was a regular plaga, maybe a loose brethren from Valdelobos, or if it was something more—something like him, pretending to be human. The probability was low, but there was still a chance. 

The thought unsettled Two Legs, the idea that there could be another like him out there, wandering the world alone. The excitement of that prospect was quickly surpassed by the fear of what it might mean in the grand scheme of things. When he dwelled on it, Two Legs  wasn’t ready to face another anomaly like himself, not when he could barely hold onto his own identity. He shook his head with a sigh, trying to rid himself of the concern while he pondered his next steps.

Chasing the creature through the storm was a foolish endeavor, especially if it had any intention of harm. The plaga beat himself up for giving into impulse, and realized  he couldn’t afford to waste fuel on a mystery that might be better left unsolved, especially not after how much he expended during his time at Lab Unit D and facing down Samuel as a Tusk. His stomach growled, a reminder of more immediate needs.

He would have to let this go—at least for now.

Cautiously, Two Legs retraced his steps, his mind racing as he put more distance between himself and the foreboding presence he’d felt. The further away he got from his relative, the better—less temptation to follow, because perhaps that was what the blasted thing wanted all along. He learned his lessons back at the village to not fall for that sort of "play", at least he liked to hope. 

Eventually, as the night wore on, he stopped at a vending machine, its garish lights flickering in the rain like a lousy neon sign. An amused chuckle escaped him when he noticed one of the slots stocked with condoms and other adult content. For a moment, he was rather curious. The plaga tilted his head to the side as he skimmed at a packaging advertisement showing two people locking lips, both participants looking rather satisfied.

“Classy,” he muttered, a bitter snort accompanying the words. He paused for a moment, looking puzzled. The comment seemed odd, but he dismissed it with a shrug as if shaking off an old habit.

Two Legs fed a few coins into the machine, retrieving two chocolate bars and a bag of chips. The mundane action grounded him, pulling the plaga back from a million thoughts that wanted to take center stage. He tucked the extra bar and chips into the inner pocket of his jacket and unwrapped the spare chocolate bar. As he took a bite, the sweetness offered further respite, easing the tension that had knotted his shoulders from his encounter with the entity, but the pull to return to the hotel was persistent, a nagging thought that tempted him.

A part of him wanted to cut his losses and run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and his quarry after their fight. Yet another part— a part he was reluctant to acknowledge —yearned to see Sawyer again. They had unfinished business, after all. 

Sighing out a curse, Two Legs turned on his heel and jogged through the darkened streets, ensuring he wasn’t being followed as he ventured back to the hotel��finishing off the rest of the candy bar before he made it to the entrance an hour later. 

The door softly creaked open as Two Legs entered the dimly lit room using the spare keycard Sawyer had given him. Sober and unspoken, the remnants of their earlier argument clung to the atmosphere.  His eyes fell on Sawyer, lying on her bed with her back to him, her form taut even in the stillness. Two Legs would've assumed she was asleep, had he not seen her visibly flinch when he let out a breath. 

He could no longer smell the grime of the lab on her person or Samuel’s fluids. The faint scent of soap and shampoo lingered, telling Two Legs she finally sought comfort in a shower, perhaps trying to wash away the day—or maybe just trying to find a fleeting moment of peace after he left. Either way, he was grateful she decided not to lie in the filth, not wanting his predatory drive to be tempted further like it had been when he stitched her head. It was hard not to bite it off when she was at his mercy in that moment. 

Two Legs hesitated in the doorway, waiting for some unseen force to push him forward. The anger that had fueled him earlier had burned out, leaving behind a recessed pang that chewed at him. With a quiet sigh, he crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, careful to keep his distance. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, a subtle acknowledgment of his presence. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He was still reeling from the earlier hurt.

“I’m...I’m sorry. Lo siento.” Two Legs finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t turn to face her, his gaze fixed on the wall across from him as if it could offer the answers he sought. “What I said about you making poor choices was uncalled for. I’m not going to apologize for protecting my identity, for lying about what I knew to keep myself safe, but I am sorry that I hurt you. And I’m sorry about what happened to Sam and your friends. It wasn’t your fault, y’know?”

His words dangled in the air, stiff and awkward, but it was all he could manage. 

Two Legs turned his head slightly, hoping for a response, but Sawyer remained silent. He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to get up and leave, to escape the vulnerability that crept up on him, but alas, he stayed. 

“As for the favor... ” he continued, his voice faltering momentarily. “I’m looking for someone...mi padre, father. I heard he might be in the States. I was hoping you could help me get there. Help me get out of the country.”

The lie sat heavy on his tongue, easier than admitting the truth. Easier than confessing he was searching for more of his kind—the very bugs that destroyed her friends and tore her life apart. 

“Anyway, ” Two Legs breathed, rubbing his head. “That’s all I have to say. ”

He fished into his pocket, pulling out the other chocolate treat he had picked up earlier—a small, simple indulgence that now felt like an afterthought. The crinkling of the wrapper seemed loud in the hush.  He had intended to eat it to alleviate himself further, but now…now it felt wrong.

His fingers hesitated shortly before Two Legs turned, stretching his arm out to place the chocolate bar beside Sawyer. The gesture was small, almost insignificant, but it was the closest thing to an olive branch he could offer. 

“You should eat something, ” Two Legs said softly, his voice vulnerable. It was as much a peace offering as it was a plea on her behalf. 

With a quiet sigh, Two Legs retreated to a spare bed, lying down and letting his eyes find Sawyer in the dark once he turned off the last remaining lights that were on. He watched her back from across the room, curiously awaiting her to speak up. The distance between them all the while felt like a chasm. 

Sawyer shifted on the bed, her movements slow as she processed his words. The silence had changed—it was no longer oppressive but still dense with unresolved hurt. After a long pause, she got the courage to speak, her voice quieter, stripped of its earlier sharpness she had shown him.

“There’s a passport and visa under the bed, ” she began, her tone almost hesitant. “It was meant for Samuel before... ”  

Her voice faltered. Two Legs blinked and remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

“It won’t get you to the States, ” Sawyer swallowed. “but it’ll get you to England. It’s fake, though. The cops we were working with in Madrid had connections—people at airport security who could look the other way for a short time. If you try to use it after the next twenty-four hours, the authorities will come for you.”

Two Legs mind considered the possibilities. The UK wasn’t where he wanted to go, but it was an escape—a start to his long-term goal of finding a hive he could settle into. He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see it in the darkness. 

“Thank you, ” Two Legs whispered, the words thick with emotion he couldn’t fully articulate. He wanted to say more, to convey the gratitude that welled up inside him, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he swallowed them down, replacing them with something practical.

“I can escort you to the airport in the morning, if you'd like? We can leave together. ” he offered. 

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she would accept, but then she nodded. A subtle movement that he barely caught in the dark.

“Alright..."

“Está bien...”

With that, they settled into an uneasy truce. 

Sawyer shuddered, her breathing slow and stable as she stared at the ceiling, lost in her thoughts. The chocolate bar lay untouched beside her for a while before she hesitantly reached for it, trying not to make a sound. Once in her grasp, she curled up further onto her side. Her mouth gently nibbling a corner edge as her eyes welled up, unsure if it was out of being grateful to eat something delicious like this again, or if it was from the trauma she endured. Whatever the case, she was thankful Luis had done this for her—despite not having the boldness to say it out loud. 

Two Legs watched her from his bed, his gaze softening as he heard the small munching noises she made. The plaga noted that something pleasant stirred whenever he looked at her and remembered what he was— or what he used to be. The latter thought made him swallow, growing distant while he closed his eyes and tried to quiet the noise in his head, hoping “the other place ” wouldn’t be on the other side to greet him tonight. 

They would go their separate ways tomorrow—she to the States, and he wasn’t sure where. But for now, they had their peace.

Somehow, it felt like enough for her but not for him.

[fandom-space-princess]

An Audacious Undertaking, Even to God

Fandom: The Murderbot Diaries

Rating: Gen

Additional tags: Book 5: Network Effect, Book 7: System Collapse, Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Queerplatonic Relationships, 1 & 2 do still die but not for very long, 3 needs its friends back :( , studies in construct relations

Chapter: 1/?

Summary:

SecUnits are hard to kill, but it does happen. Unless... AU: through the combined efforts of ART & co, Three rebuilds and reboots One and Two. It isn't easy. Everybody has a bad time, then a weird time, then a better time. Is that the right order?

Read chapter below, or on AO3.

——————————

Designation: SecUnit-003 Barish-Estranza Explorer Task Group 520972

Status: piloting shuttle to network-external transport [vesselID(“Perihelion”), registry(Pansystem University of Mihira and New Tideland)]. Contact: UNAUTHORIZED.

Operational overview:

- Threat assessment: 64% immediate probability of harm to clients, 27% medium-term probability of harm to clients assuming pursuit of mitigation strategies

- Risk assessment: [additional data required]

- SecSystem access: OFFLINE

- HubSystem access: OFFLINE

- Deployment group status: SecUnit-001: OFFLINE; SecUnit-002: OFFLINE

- Performance reliability: 87% and falling

The transport completes the docking process for the shuttle without my input, which is for the best. My attention is divided. This is a violation of the protocols associated with both client retrieval and piloting. Under the circumstances, however, it is not a situation I am able to remedy.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

I have a number of responsibilities to fulfill. My primary duty is to ensure the welfare of my clients. (I have realized that even in the absence of punitive enforcement, I still accept and desire this to be true, which is a source of mild curiosity.) My secondary duties are laid out no less clearly, yet—

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

—“Hello? Are you there?” The exterior hatch has retracted. Two humans peer inside curiously. The one who has spoken bears feedID(“Amena”), gender(female), note: juvenile. The other—feedID(“Ratthi”), gender(male)—moves tentatively toward me. These humans are not unknown: they feature in the memories shared with me by Murderbot 2.0. This is a relief. Nevertheless, I step out of the piloting compartment before they can enter, and attempt to gently herd them away. Based on the information I have about them, threat assessment deems them unlikely to panic in a way that would be detrimental to the safety of themselves or others. While I accept this knowledge as accurate, it is still better that they be encouraged to stay outside the shuttle.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(performance reliability: 85% and falling)

Ratthi is speaking to me, introducing himself and Amena. He is very animated. He tells me that Perihelion knows I have disabled the governor module. He tells me they do not intend to hurt me.

The transport has different ideas. It establishes a private channel, which it promptly fills with vivid and comprehensive descriptions of the physical damage it will inflict on me should I attempt to threaten its clients, or itself.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(failure::retry)

(performance reliability 82% and falling)

“All clients require immediate medical attention,” I tell them. “They have been implanted with technology of uncertain functionality, and may remain under hostile influence, or represent vectors of contamination. Temporary quarantine is recommended.”

Amena replies, but my attention is pulled inexorably elsewhere. I turn my focus on the open hatch, and the dim interior of the shuttle piloting compartment. 

(failure::retry)

In my periphery there is movement, and noise. Another human has arrived. The humans and Perihelion exchange information with one of the transport’s retrieved clients, Karime. I have drones recording this interaction for later review, but I am currently preoccupied with my other functions. My awareness of this moment feels very far away.

(performance reliability 77% and falling)

(failure::retry)

“Hey.” There is a human hand hovering near my elbow. Ratthi’s face swims into vision. I blink, and try to refocus my eyes. This is only partially successful. One of my drones descends out of its patrol pattern overhead, and I examine him more closely through its camera. His eyebrows pull together. “Are you all right?”

The transport is in my feed. I feel it bear down on me. I do not understand what it is, or the limits of its capabilities. I know only that its presence is massive and imposing, its agitation palpable. It likely still believes me to be potentially hostile. It should be terrifying.

If I had the spare processing capacity to consider it, it would be terrifying.

(performance reliability 72% and falling rapidly)

Perihelion: Your resource utilization is near maximum. What are you trying to do?

(failure::retry)

(failure::retry)

Amena’s voice comes from within the piloting compartment. She would have had to walk past me to get inside it. I must have seen her do so. I have no memory of seeing her do so.

“Oh, no… um, Arada? There’s a body in here.”

(performance reliability 64% and falling rapidly)

I start toward her. I have no idea what I am about to say until my buffer produces it: “Equipment maintenance is in progress. For your safety, please step back.” One of the transport’s repair drones shoves past me into the compartment, which interferes with my balance. I put a hand against the wall for support.

(failure::retry)

Amena: “Perihelion, this isn’t one of your crew, is it? This must have been one of the corporate hostages.”

Perihelion: No, Amena. This is a SecUnit.

(failure::retry)

My primary auditory input glitches, and their words become garbled. I lean against the bulkhead. Standing has become difficult, but I still have a responsibility to perform.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

(performance reliability 51% and falling rapidly)

And I am going to perform it, or be rendered nonfunctional in the attempt.

(critical performance drop::system restart)

——————————

[Before]

SecSystem: Ship status: on approach. Space dock arrival anticipated: 180 seconds. Tactical team deployment unit(s) acknowledge.

SecUnit-001: Unit acknowledge.

SecUnit-002: Unit acknowledge.

SecSystem: Baseship sentinel unit(s) acknowledge.

SecUnit-003: Unit acknowledge.

(While I do not resent guarding the ship, I have always disliked being the one left behind.)

SecSystem: Cold contact protocol in effect. Hazardous condition assessment: POSSIBLE/LIKELY. Backup to HubSystem external storage and mirror local copies to group.

SecUnit-001: Backup complete.

SecUnit-002: Backup complete.

SecUnit-003: Backup complete.

Though we are designed for redundancy with each other, not co-dependence, I have never functioned optimally when deployed separately from 001 and 002. I know this to be true for them as well. In the past, after activities that required splitting the deployment group, I have often reviewed their cached analytic data. Our performance individually and collectively is more reliable on average when we are assigned to the same task.

I try to avoid reflecting on why this is true. Idle reflection is counterproductive to the efficient performance of my duties.

SecSystem: Sentinel unit(s) resume patrol pattern. Tactical team unit(s) ready for deployment.

In the ready room that we share, 001 continues fitting its helmet into place. I acknowledge the alert to return to patrol. I must walk past them to reach the door and exit the room, and as I do so, I extend a hand loosely in their direction.

Tactile input is critical for calibration of construct balance and proprioception, among other core functions. We are expected to touch objects around us for many reasons, including ongoing orientation in physical space.

001 gently taps the back of my hand with its knuckles, tock-tock-tock. I reply once in kind—tock. 002 likewise repeats 001’s gesture as I move past, and again, I do the same: tock-tock.

I validate my expected sensor readout against the physical contact data, and log the results with HubSystem. There is an echo in the team feed as first 001, and then 002, do the same. And if we could achieve the same result by tapping a wall or a hatch… well.

On this choice, at least, our governor modules offer no feedback.

——————————

[ask-alsius-vafer]

After a day that had drained him to the core, Felix exhaled a sigh heavy with exhaustion. Today had emptied every ounce of his energy, leaving him hollow. But then, like a ray of sunshine, he caught sight of Alsius ascending the Great Staircase, likely on his way to his next shift in the Hospital Wing.

With a smile that could brighten even the gloomiest dungeon, the Swede quickened his pace, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He jogged up the stairs, each step lighter than the last. When he finally reached his friend, he didn’t hesitate.

Felix wrapped his arms around him from behind, pulling him into a long, warm embrace. It had been a few classes since they’d last seen each other, and Felix, ever the affectionate Ravenclaw, was determined to make up for lost time.

Alsius’s gaze fixed downward as he slowly climbed the Grand Staircase. His focus resolutely set on each weighty step and the accompanying quiet, even cadence of his footfall. Though not exactly energising, listening to the rhythmic beat as he passed through shafts of warm, late afternoon light slicing through the narrow windows was oddly propelling. Brow furrowed in concentration, he continued upward and let the metrical patterns of sight and sound drown out the hive-like hustle, bustle, and chatter in the main artery through the castle. 

Normally the sheer number of staircases didn’t bother him. As a Ravenclaw, complaining of such equated to never ending whinging, which seemed to him an ultimately unproductive pursuit. Hogwarts was first and foremost a castle and as nothing about it was built for ease, there was little point to moan about it. There was the floo network, but ignoring the health benefits of habitual exercise brought with it an annoying sense of guilt. It was difficult to justify the shortcut even when exhaustion hit bone deep and energy levels were critically low. 

Sadly, logic didn’t make the slog any less wearying either.

He was so engrossed in the swirl of his own thoughts that he did not hear the quickening approach in his wake. Gentle though it was, the sudden embrace from behind caught him off guard. He overcorrected and wavered on his feet, and there was a soft but audible oof when he staggered back against Felix to regain balance. 

Of course it was Felix. Though Alsius could not see his friend’s face, the Swede’s presence was unmistakable and Alsius could count on one hand (one finger, even) the number of people who would publicly hug him at random. Process of elimination was equally unnecessary and buoying. 

The knotted tension that plagued Alsius’s shoulders curiously began to unfurl, and the tired creases that weighed his expression eased as he twisted in Felix’s hold. “Hey Fresh.” He patted the arms that encircled him, half expecting the predictable flush of embarrassment that always seemed to accompany these situations. It never came and any sense of surprise to the fact was buried as Alsius cleared his throat, trying to rid his voice of the ragged grit that exhaustion always brought. His eyes darted away as he hesitated, knowing what he was about to ask was technically against protocol, but he found that the desire to spend time in Felix’s comforting presence outweighed any concerns around rule breaking. 

“If you’ve got nowhere to be, want to keep me company on my shift today?”

[an-alexa-k]

On Yellbot Dot Online

Over on @lazardotsocial I’ve gotten into the habit of writing essays about each generation, discussing generally thoughts on the project. I've been enjoying it, so now I’m going to do that for Yellbot.

Yellbot obviously was inspired by the classic Endless Screaming bot, but also because I had an ActivityPub idea and the yelling was an easy way to try it out. A neat technical detail of Yellbot is that there aren't any accounts or users. I have database tables for posts and follows but nothing for each individual bot. When someone looks at an account, all the information is created on the fly. When I’m making new posts, I look at all the letters people have followed and make posts for them. Until someone looks at or follows a letter, it doesn’t exist and it doesn’t need to exist.

This enables behaviors that wouldn’t be possible otherwise. You couldn’t make Yellbot on twitter - you’d have to create over a billion accounts or get permission to create as many accounts as you wanted, whenever you wanted. Neither option is realistic. But by having my own server and connecting to the larger ActivityPub network, it’s easy. A centralized service could never.

Now, yelling isn’t very valuable but I think this basic structure here could be applied elsewhere. You need two things:

1. Something that can be reference just through a username, like a name, definition of behavior, a start state, etc.

2. A behavior that happens occasionally – those are the posts.

So, you could have

Each account is a zipcode that posts whenever there’s a dangerous weather alert.

Each account is a wikipedia page that posts whenever the page is edited.

An account for every book on Project Gutenberg. When someone follows one it starts posting the book, sentence by sentence (in the style of Bedtime Story Bot). When it finishes, everyone gets unfollowed and the account is deleted, until someone follows again and it restarts.

Something like Sam Lavigne and Tega Brain’s project The Good Life – an account for each e-mail address and it posts each e-mail in real time.

Each account's username defines the rules for a cellular automata and each post is a generation.

Thinking up examples and possible applications lead me to thinking about what kinds of information ActivityPub is suited for. For example, here in Chicago every bus station has a 5 digit code on the sign. You can text to a number to receive schedule updates. So you could make a server with an account for each bus station.

Like this. Image from the Chicago Transit Authority

But what would it post? Nobody wants to know every time a bus arrives at a station. That’s too many posts cluttering up your timeline and all but the most recent one are irrelevant. Similarly, you wouldn’t want to receive the temperature through ActivityPub, because you only care about the current temperature, not all the past temperatures.

When you make a post on Mastodon, your server sends the messages to all the servers of accounts who follow you and they’re responsible for storing and displaying them. That’s the “publish” in ActivityPub. This makes it suited for activities where having the entire history is desirable - you don’t want to know just what your friends said most recently, you want to know everything they said. For cases where only the most recent version counts (like temperatures or buses), you’re better of letting the client request the data when they want it.

(I have loose thoughts here about Robin Sloan’s Spring ‘83 protocol, which is a person-to-person social communication system that doesn’t maintain any kind of history and (if I’m understanding the protocol correctly) doesn’t guarantee that you see every board from the people you follow. You couldn’t build Yellbot (or something equivalent) in Spring ‘83 due to key limitations, but the board format would be well suited for a dashboard type application.)

If your behavior doesn’t happen too often, you could still use ActivityPub and it wouldn’t be too annoying even if you don’t care about history. And it would have the benefit of putting the information someplace you’re already checking. If you’re already checking your the timeline daily, if a piece of info is added in there, you’re guaranteed to see it. That’s a big advantage and in many cases it'll be worth the clutter. I think daily is infrequent enough but exact amount of time would vary by person.

This project was an extension of the ActivityPub implementation I did for Lazar gen 7 and it takes the implementation a couple steps closer to totality. I have another project, which I put on hold to make Yellbot, which requires a complete implementation and it seems a lot more manageable now. So there may be more ActivityPub in the future, although no guarantees about how far in the future.