#even if that structure is a function space of the power set of the power set of the natural numbers

[jucomx]

Surprising absolutely noone except undergraduate math students, it turns out math actually is only about numbers in the end!

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Ironsworn

First up, this is a free game, and you can go get it. For free. I can’t repeat this enough. This game asks zero dollars of you and you should grab it and check it out right now because don’t kid around here, you’re probably going to buy something on the steam sales you don’t need and aren’t going to get around to play. Ironsworn is, no matter what else I have to say about it, interesting.

Ironsworn is an easily accessible, well-laid out and approachable RPG which is suited for multiple ongoing sessions to construct a campaign with an ongoing narrative. In an indie TTRPG space that is overwhelmingly dominated by single session, highly specifically flavoured game systems about campaigns with niche experiences and sometimes ambiguously structured mechanics, Ironsworn sets itself apart. It is presented in a single pdf, it is made to be printable easily and conveniently, and while it does have some need for dice you might not already have kicking around the house, they’re d10s, so it’s not like you need particularly special dice or commercially centralised ones.

Everything else I think about it aside: Ironsworn is a good, free and convenient RPG for you to pick up and go for if you’re looking for professionally presented high-quality material. You can just go grab the pdf right now and check it out, for free.

Ironsworn guides you through how to follow its process, it has a degree of success and failure system, it even uses its dice choices to create a little bit of the ole theatre. It’s a dice system that mathematically shakes out to be generally uncertain, and that means there’s always a chance you can fail at something you’re good at and always a small chance you can succeed at a long shot. There are no overwhelming opportunities for success and excellence, because the dice are set up so if there’s no reason to roll, you shouldn’t roll, and if you should roll, there’s always a chance the dice kick you in the pants.

This is a very functional game, it has no meaningful problems on that front, and while I have beef with it in its presentation (why did you spend eight pages on table of contents that’s what the index is for), it is easily one of the best of its type I’ve ever seen. Because of its easy availability and quality execution, I don’t intend to do a lot to talk about Ironsworn as a system or give you its special hallmarks and signifiers or even dig deep into the mechanical structures of it.

Still, even with those caveats, it isn’t really what I’d consider a perfect Decemberween game, though, and that’s because I can’t imagine showing up at a family gathering with some paper and pencils and go: hey everyone, I’m gunna drag this group of us into another room and we’re going to go have an adventure telling a story together, because the story that Ironsworn seems to want to set up is not exactly… party vibes.

It’s hard to talk about what Ironsworn is for or whom, because with just the text, I don’t have access to the author. When I talk about what this game is for, what it offers, I have to base it on the text present, and the only source I have for inspiration or framing in the start of the book is referencing its mechanical forebears: Apocalypse World, City of Judas, Dungeon World, Fate, and Mythic. That is to say, the first Powered by the Apocalypse game, a dark fantasy hack for it, a fantasy dungeon crawler hack for it, a universal roleplaying system, and a popular solo RPG system. This is good sourcing, but it also speaks to a particular space of inspiration and mechanical relationships. Based on that, at its heart, Ironsworn feels like its defining mechanical provenance is ‘more Powered by the Apocalypse.’

I want to say it reminds me of 13th Warrior, or The Northman or Beowulf, but none of those really capture everything going on here, because those are short, abrupt narratives about highly deadly scenarios and also they’re very homogenised culture spaces. Maybe Samurai drama, recontextualised away from an Orientalist lens? I can’t point to a particular piece of fiction and say ‘that kind of thing.’ I can’t point to an existing game space and say ‘Ironsworn is like that.’ By no means is any of this that Ironsworn is bad. It’s actually really impressive that Ironsworn is so singular in its identity that it resists any useful or reasonable reference frame.

Ironsworn is its own identity, it has its own structure, and while that is by no means bad it does mean that there’s no immediate, convenient on-ramp to get a friend into it. It feels like it’s a game system that is in conversation against things, rather than with them. That is to say, it feels like it’s for constructing gritty, lossy, despair-tinged stories of warriors setting themselves up for potential tragedy or desperate success in pursuit of potentially conflicting dramatic needs.

It feels, and I say this without it being an insult, it feels like someone was repelled by Dungeons & Dragons, then appreciated the comparative gritty lethality of OSR games, but found some reason to not produce in that space, and instead took those ideas and concepts to work in the Powered by the Apocalypse space, resulting in something that is itself, very new. Which is to say, I don’t feel like I can present Ironsworn to someone going ‘hey, this game lets us tell and play stories like these common signifiers,’ but instead, ‘hey, do you know how those common signifiers are bad? What if they were instead-‘

It is a good game that I checked out because someone asked me to check out Ironsworn. It is by no means a game I would recommend checking out for its theme or the stories it lets you tell. It is a game that I recommend because hey, get a load of how well presented and unique this thing is. Excellently constructed, mechanically coherent, well delivered and just… missing a hook that I understand.

I really think at some point in the new year I need to dedicate some time to finding someone who can run or show me Powered by the Apocalypse being run because it really looks at this stage like a system that’s perfect for just absolutely impeding an otherwise really good creative writing exercise with the besties.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Poop Crystals

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)  

The pace in which human technology progressed over the millennia was rather standard for a class 4 species. Even when accounting the periods of scientific degradation which resulted from natural plagues or religious persecution; it was expected that humans would not achieve advanced space travel until another 2-3 thousand years had passed.

Scientifically speaking human scientists were well more advanced than the society they lived in, but due to the technological limitations of the human race they were held back from implementing their designs. A primary limitation was the lack of a sufficiently powerful power source. They did have many different forms of power generators ranging from solar to nuclear, but to power larger machines often required equally large energy sources. To power their ships alone around a third of their vessels were dedicated to the power cores.   

With these restrictions in place travel between stars for humans often relied on decade long journeys in cryo sleep; which ironically required even more power generators to maintain. Their large size made them easy targets for natural disasters such as space debris or prowling space pirates seeking an easy profit margin at the slave markets. These dangers became a standard for human travel until the Terran civilization encountered the planet Nolla 987 and the species that called it home.

During a long duration colonization trip the human ship “Midas” was struck by the trail debris of a rogue comet and knocked off course. The robotic caretakers tried their best to maintain the course, but with the damage done to the ship their primary programming to maintain the lives of the crew kicked in and diverted the ship to the nearest habitable planet for debarkation. Nolla 987 was the closest planet with a stable atmosphere. Originally charted several years earlier but deemed unsuitable for colonization or industrial expansion, it was not ear marked for either and left alone; until the Midas incident that is.

The landing was not a smooth one. Several engines had been damaged and multiple hull breaches resulted in portions of the ship being shredded away during the entry process. It would be safer to say that the Midas crash landed during the final stretch of the maneuver, but with a 73% survival rate of the crew a rather acceptable crash landing.

One by one the crew and colonists were unfrozen to find the ship a burning wreck and only a handful of robotic assistants still functioning. The industrial printing machines were relatively undamaged but without the ships power core they could not be used to print components or tools needed to make the necessary repairs. The crew was then forced to ration its remaining power supply and divided into two teams. The first team would comb through the wreckage and salvage what they could of the wreck while also building shelter. The second group would scout the surrounding area for anything of use and then report back.

It did not take long for the second team to stumble upon a nest of the dominant species of the planet. An insectoid called the “Sectar” which ranged from the size of a house cat to as large as a two story building. These insects digested their food and excreted the waste into a dense crystalian substance that they then used to build massive hive like complexes.

The occupants of the hive had been driven from the hive by the crash landing of the Midas leaving it almost completely empty save for a few eggs and new hatchlings who were not strong enough to flee on their own. Several of the second team members had been scanning the crystal structures while interacting with the newborn Sectar’s. To quote a journal entry of one of them, “They were like insect golden retrievers. Extremely derpy with at least four times as many sets of eyes. They followed us around on their legs like we were their mothers and clung to our legs when we began to return to our ship for the night.”

At least one of the second team was confirmed to have brought a hatchling back to their camp. There was a debate amongst the survivors on if they should try and eat it, but the notion was quickly squashed as they still had food reserves and no one was brave enough to see how the alien’s bio matter would react inside the human digestive system.

The same human who had brought the hatchling back offered it a portion of food which it eagerly ate. Not long after the hatchling excreted a hardened crystal roughly the size of a thimble. When the human made to pick up the seemingly beautiful gem they recoiled as an electrical discharge shocked their hand. This immediately drew the attention of the rest of the crew who began carefully examining the crystal substance. After some rather rough jury-rigging, the crystal was wired into one of the printer machines and to the surprise of everyone powered the machine. The crew quickly learned that the older Sectar’s would produce larger crystal excrements but were extremely hostile and territorial. Smaller Sectar’s were deemed more desirable for the time being as they were easier to train and harvest crystals from.  

Within a matter of days the crew had not only collected enough crystals to power all of their machines and send out a distress signal, but also used the new found crystal power to create a full settlement on the planet complete with water filtration, crop fields, and a sizeable wall to keep out the native wildlife.

It would not be for another thirty years before a passing human shipped picked up their distress signal and went to investigate the planet. When they arrived on Nolla 987 they were astonished to find a fully functioning colony complete with limited orbital facilities. Nearly every human settler and their descendants had a Sectar in their household that they would take care of and feed and in exchange use their crystal excrement to power nearly everything they needed to live.

From there it was only a matter of time before the entirety of human space was aware of the events of Nolla 987 and the Sectar species. Within the decade the colony on Nolla 987 became the capital for a fully settled world with dozens of cities and communities. The Sectar species were transported throughout human space and began being implemented in all aspects of society.

There was initial resistance to the new power source by existing power blocks which realized Sectar power would be far more efficient than nuclear powered engines, but unlike other power sources they had squashed in development the Sectar power option had thirty years of trial and error to back it up with research as well as a fully functioning model with the planet of Nolla 987.

Sectar’s became a common sight on every human planet and were treated like common pets. It was even studied that when introduced to different food sources the energy output of crystal excrement could be increased resulting in certain food industries booming overnight. The composition of spices, cooking technique, and flavoring became an entirely new and highly prestigious academic field with the most successful of its practitioners being highly sought after by companies.

The technological capabilities of humanity experienced a massive surge in advancement within fifty years to the point humans no longer needed cryo ships to travel between stars. Those who had been studying humanity found themselves now being introduced to them as humans winded up on their doorstep with a Sectar on their shoulder and a perverse obsession with collecting its bodily waste.    

[novlr]

My story has two time lines, 2010 and 2024 Should i make theses two alternate?

Some of the most effective stories I’ve read move seamlessly between different time periods, weaving together narratives that span years or even centuries. Dual timelines can be a powerful storytelling tool, adding depth and complexity to your narrative while allowing you to explore how the past influences the present.

However, managing multiple timelines requires careful planning and execution, and there isn’t a one-size-fits-all approach for how to do it. You know your plot better than anyone, so here are some guidelines that will hopefully help you choose which best works for the kind of story you want to tell.

Why use dual timelines?

Dual timelines can serve several important storytelling functions:

They reveal how past events shape present circumstances.

They build suspense by gradually unveiling historical mysteries.

They allow for rich character development across different periods by drawing parallels between them.

They provide opportunities to explore themes through different historical contexts.

They can create dramatic irony when readers know more than the characters.

They can foreshadow present events.

How to structure dual timelines

When it comes to structuring dual timelines, there is no single best approach. But what you do need is a solid foundation for both timelines, and to consider how frequently readers will cross between them. The structure you choose will depend on how closely your timelines are connected and how you want readers to experience the relationship between past and present.

Here are the main approaches writers typically use:

Alternating chapters

The most common approach is to alternate between timelines chapter by chapter. This creates a natural rhythm and helps readers track where they are in each narrative. It works particularly well when both timelines have equal weight in the story.

Longer sections

Some writers prefer to spend several chapters in one timeline before switching to the other. This approach can work well when one timeline needs more extended development or when you want to build more momentum before switching.

Scene by scene

For stories where the timelines are closely intertwined, you might switch between them more frequently, even within chapters. This requires careful handling to avoid confusing readers, but can create powerful connections between past and present events. And if you want to take this to an extreme, an example that tackles multiple timelines simultaneously is Ted Chiang’s Story of Your Life. I recommend it to every writer, because it’s a perfect example of how language and structure can be pushed to its limits in a way that can still be effective and engaging for readers.

Tips for writing dual timelines

Make each timeline distinct

Establish clear markers of time and place, like character and setting description unique to that timeline.

Create distinct character voices for each timeline. Language changes, even in a short space of time.

Use different sensory details to ground readers in each period.

Keep detailed notes about the chronology of events in both timelines to make your life easier as you’re drafting.

Keep readers oriented

Start each timeline shift with clear indicators of when and where we are.

Use chapter headers to identify the timeline.

Reference distinctive historical events or cultural touchstones, even if they are just specific to your characters.

Balance your timelines

Make sure both storylines are equally interesting.

Make each timeline feel necessary to the overall story.

Create meaningful connections between the dual timelines.

Maintain tension in both narratives by giving them their own arcs.

Connect your timelines

Establish clear thematic links between past and present events.

Use parallel events, situations, or themes to create a connection.

Show how actions in the past influence the present.

Make sure both timelines contribute to the story’s central conflict.

Common pitfalls to avoid

Losing momentum

Switching timelines can interrupt narrative flow. Make sure each switch serves the story and keeps your readers invested. End sections at natural turning points that make readers want to return to that timeline later.

Uneven development

One timeline often becomes more interesting than the other. Work to make both storylines equally fascinating and necessary to the overall narrative. If readers start skipping one timeline to get back to the other, you may need to strengthen the weaker narrative.

Confusing transitions

Readers should always know which timeline they’re in. Be consistent with your transition markers and make sure the first paragraph of each switch clearly establishes the timeline.

Weak connections

The timelines should feel meaningfully connected, not just parallel stories happening to different characters. Look for ways to make the connections between past and present feel essential to understanding the full story.

Questions to ask yourself:

When writing dual timelines, regularly check in with these questions:

Does each timeline serve a clear purpose in the overall story?

Are both narratives equally developed and involving?

Are the connections between timelines meaningful and clear?

Can readers easily track which timeline they’re in?

Does each timeline switch happen at a natural point in the story?

Are you maintaining tension in both narratives?

[haggishlyhagging]

Sharon Wegsheider-Cruse estimates that as many as 96 percent of families are dysfunctional. When I heard this statistic, the parallel tracks of my journeys as a feminist and an ACA [Adult Child of an Alcoholic] suddenly crossed. An alarm sounded inside me, for I suspected I was hearing a reversal.

From feminism I have learned that reversal is a common patriarchal communications trick. Something described one way is in reality the opposite. The "strategic defense initiative," for example, is really the aggressive militarization of space. The "natural look" describes a style of makeup. I want to suggest that when 96 percent of American families display similar characteristics … what therapists describe as a "dysfunctional" family is clearly the norm. Perhaps what we have been told is dysfunctional is actually, for our culture, functional.

But what, then, is the family's function? What is the family supposed to be doing or producing? One obvious product, according to [Robert] Subby, is codependency. Perhaps developing codependent behavior is the main function of the nuclear family, since it does so with such extraordinary efficiency. With cooperation from 96 percent of American families (plus or minus 4 percent) one might suspect this design is also deliberate.

While Subby describes the "dysfunctional" family as operating by "a set of oppressive rules," prolonged exposure to which results in behavior he describes as "codependent," feminist theorist and poet Adrienne Rich has described how the individual family unit under patriarchy serves as a training ground for dominance and subordination. From differing perspectives, both theorists observe that our earliest family models prepare us for relationships of unequal power. I suggest that codependency is a euphemism for internalized oppression and that its characteristics describe how dominance and subordination are acted out in intimate relationships.

Internalized oppression occurs when the subordinate takes in the beliefs of the dominator. The dominant group defines meaning, morality, and value, permeating society with images, institutions, structures, laws, and customs that reinforce these definitions. A white supremacist society defines people of color as inferior; a male supremacist society defines women as inferior. Eventually the subordinate group accepts the dominators' view as inevitable, as reality. This acceptance is convenient for the dominators, for at this point the members of the subordinate group begin to oppress themselves, vastly simplifying the enforcement of oppression.

The oppressive rules of the patriarchal family system train us to accept and expect the paradigm of dominance and subordination. Even the most benign of patriarchal families operates in a manner that cultivates the characteristics of codependency, a term that is much more acceptable than internalized oppression, which might encourage us to question authority or even to rock the boat.

-Kay Leigh Hagan, Fugitive Information: Essays From a Feminist Hothead

[noodleblade]

All those years of expertise made piecing together a new Breakdown almost a game. There was a terrible, exhilarating pleasure in the exercise. A guilt and desperate want coiled in his tanks as his processor wove together all its knowledge of anatomy, surgery and medicine.

Or, a post-canon Knock Out attempts to bring his partner back from the dead. [Frankenstein kobd au]

fic below the cut

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

“So, uh, I know it’s bare bones but it’s the best we have for now.”

Knock Out, without looking, could feel the uncomfortable wince Bumblebee gave at the arrival of their “new medbay.” Even he could see it was not quite up to the standard that had initially been promised.

‘Empty storeroom’ would be a better descriptor. 

Crates and dust filled most of the space; three medslabs in various states of disrepair were being used as shelves for additional storage. Wires hung from the ceiling, sparking at the cuts as the auxiliary power attempted to light the secondary overhead lights. Rust had started to eat away at the enamel paint of the support beams. It was nothing a buff and repaint couldn’t fix but as of now, it only added to its dilapidated aesthetic.

Knock Out couldn’t say this was what he envisioned his life would be like when he joined the Autobots. Then again, with most of Cybertron looking even worse than this, the medbay and the conjoined rest of their new headquarters looked pristine in comparison. The Autobots were dead set on restoring Cybertron to its former glory and it meant reconstructed efforts and a proper headquarters. 

Or really, reacquainting themselves with their old command headquarters back before they had fled Cybertron. 

The old Autobot base in Iacon had been heavily damaged by time and war. Knock Out was surprised Megatron hadn’t flattened it to the ground before departing. As it was, he was thankful the structure remained.

While the entire building needed to be patched and repaired, and all of the equipment was probably defective and defunct, it was more secure than any other building currently on Cybertron. It still had all its walls, it had a functioning roof, and- most importantly -it had a nearly intact medbay. Not many other structures on Cybertron could claim the same. In the few short cycles since taking back possession of their old base, most of the refuse and grime had been cleared away, making it mostly livable - far more so than the fading light of the Nemesis as structural cracks made the ship a ticking time bomb to collapse. 

It wasn’t perfect, but nothing really would be. Not for a while.

Maybe Ratchet had the right idea in staying on Earth.

“It’ll take some time to clean up,” Ultra Magnus added stiffly, as if it weren’t already apparent. 

The words drifted in and out of Knock Out’s audials as he walked further into the cluttered medbay. He peeked between the crates to see some monitoring equipment shoved against the walls. They all looked outdated, probably wouldn’t even turn on. They were pre-war and seemed to have been forgotten to the past, much like most of Cybertron had once the planet died. It was amazing that they survived in any capacity; even if they were nonfunctional, they could at least be scrapped for parts. 

Knock Out was not unfamiliar with the process. Before the Nemesis and its shiny, new tech, he and- they had scavenged for a lot of equipment. Being on their own had made them crafty and resourceful. It made them survivors. 

Some survivors, Knock Out thought bitterly, desperately ignoring the cold, empty space next to him. 

“Smokescreen can help you clear this out,” Ultra Magnus continued in his curt professional tone. There was a small beginnings of a protest from the young mech but a stern, quiet reprimand must have been issued because it was silenced before becoming anything more. 

Knock Out could feel optics on him- waiting for him -so he gave a quick affirmative nod and a muted hum. It would take them ages to clear this out, not to mention most of it was probably scrap. He did not relish the task nor did he feel particularly motivated to do…anything. Joining the Autobots had been survival instinct kicking in but now that the adrenaline was gone and quiet had taken over, Knock Out wondered what there was to even survive for.

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Bumblebee quietly said and there was a shuffle of pedes as they left through the medbay doors. 

The doors shut with a sound thud. Quiet echoed in the weight of their exit. Knowing a certain young speedster had been left in his care, the silence couldn’t last long-

“So, where do we begin, Doc?”

Knock Out turned his helm and for half a nano-klik, his spark stalled at the flash of blue, before his processor came back to him and he realized it was too warm a hue, too shiny a finish, and too alive a mech. Disappointment was quickly overcome by grief that was immediately squashed and quelled for apathy. There was no point getting misty-eyed in front of his little reluctant helper.

His optics raked over Smokescreen leaning against a not-so-modest stack of crates. Despite his relaxed, “cool-guy” pose, Knock Out watched how Smokescreen’s doorwings twitched in eager anticipation, his digits tapping idly as he waited for Knock Out’s response. He was not a mech known to sit still for very long or holding much patience.

“Don’t care,” Knock Out threw out flippantly, mildly amused how expressive the young mech was as his eager smirk shifted to disappointment. 

“Right,” Smokescreen muttered with a small pout. His disappointment at Knock Out’s lack of enthusiasm only quieted him for half a klik. “So, are we just tossing it all out, or…?”

Knock Out let out a lengthy, dramatic sigh. In truth, it came out more tired than he cared to admit. He finally turned around, leaning his hip against the cluttered medslab. He looked at his clawed digits in a show of disinterest. 

“We’ll start sorting it into stacks. Anything broken or rusted over, toss. Anything that looks marginally salvageable, I’ll look through. Once we clear off a corner, we can start organization-” Smokescreen let out a complaining groan but Knock Out continued, “-and sanitation unless you would enjoy a rust infection when you inevitably end up on my medslab.”

“Fine, fine,” Smokescreen huffed, shuffling his pedes in his reluctance to actually work. “Honestly, if it gets me off patrol duty with Sir Rules and Regulation, I’ll take whatever you got.”

Yes, Knock Out had heard Smokescreen’s numerous complaints about their newest Second in Command. 

“Being a good little soldier means following your commander’s orders. That’s why I chose an occupation that allows me to be my own boss.”

“You suggesting I become a medic?” Smokescreen grinned. “Oh! I can be your assistant!”

As soon as the words were out of Smokescreen’s mouth, any remaining banter Knock Out held died in his intake. He turned, busying himself with a crate of welding patches, half of which were rotting away with rust decay. 

“I’m not looking for an apprentice,” Knock Out muttered. “Better ask Ratchet.”

Smokescreen let out a soft grumble but didn’t press further. He may not know the source of Knock Out’s shift in tone, but the kid knew how to take the hint and- most of the time -knew when to keep his intake shut. That much Knock Out could appreciate out of the young, rash speedster. It's what made Smokescreen a marginal step above the rest of the Autobots, at least by Knock Out’s records. 

It’s not that his time with the Autobots had been entirely bad. Despite his short stint in the brig, they had been painfully cordial with Knock Out since taking him in. With Ratchet deciding to stay on that horrible dust and rust planet, their need for a medic superseded any ill feelings towards him. They were still there; the distrustful looks from Arcee and the downright obstinance from Wheeljack. It still beat whatever awkward friendliness that Bumblebee attempted to broach with him or the downright militant authority Ultra Magnus made every interaction. None of these were as bad as Bulkhead, who opted for the worst option: sympathy. 

It had taken the ex-wrecker less than one solar cycle to corner Knock Out in the halls of their new headquarters to…to… apologize? Sympathize?

“I’m sorry about Breakdown. ‘Know you guys were close and-”

Knock Out hadn’t let it go any further than that. He had cut Bulkhead down with a sharp smile and deadly thank you. Bulkhead didn’t have the mettle to bring it up again and quite frankly, Knock Out was fine with that. He was tired of the pitying glances and somber looks. 

Smokescreen was the only one to act as if nothing had happened. Then again, Smokescreen was the only one that had never known Breakdown, only catching a few glimpses of the walking puppet he had become. It was perhaps the only reason Knock Out could tolerate the younger bot. 

“So,” Smokescreen started again, “medical device or torture equipment?”

Knock Out turned to see the speedster holding up a rusted to scrap Energon Infusor. “Depends on whose servos it’s in.”

It was a rather basic device, used to give localized shots of med-grade energon to a damaged site in order to jumpstart self repair. It looked more dangerous than it was to the untrained optic, appearing not too dissimilar to a rudimentary blaster.

Smokescreen snorted a small laugh, gently setting the instrument back into the box. “Right, figure in yours it’d be both.”

Smokescreen also wasn’t afraid to be blunt with Knock Out and go tit for tat. Knock Out found he far preferred that over the wide optics and grim expressions every time Knock Out said anything. Smokescreen, as naive and innocent as he was, had a semblance of a sense of humor, even if it bordered on childish at times.

It took them nearly an entire solar cycle before they managed to clear off half the medbay and unearthed a set of doors on the other end. 

“Doctor’s quarters,” Smokescreen whistled impressed as the doors opened to reveal a large habsuite. “Lucky. It’s twice as big as mine.”

“Interesting choice of words, kid.”

“Not like that!” Smokescreen yelped. “The room is just big. Scrap, even Bee’s isn’t that big.”

Knock Out was tempted to tease the speedster about how he knew the details of their new leader’s hab but decided Smokescreen could embarrass himself enough on his own. Knock Out didn’t need to tease him much further, lest he ruin the only somewhat amicable relationship he had.

“It’s for multiple berths. All of the medical staff are supposed to rotate here between their shifts.”

“Oh,” Smokescreen murmured. “That would explain the two berths. Oh! What if you pushed them together into a mega-berth? That’d be pretty sick.”

Knock Out genuinely couldn’t keep the laugh in on that one, chuckling as the younger bot’s door wings fluttered in excitement, pleased by the positive reaction.

“Yes, I suppose I could do that.”

Most likely, he’d just leave it as is. The medical officer berths were already large enough, fitted for larger frames than his own sleek style. On the Nemesis it had been more than enough to fit himself and-

“Let’s call it here for today,” Knock Out suggested, turning pede and walking out. He could hear Smokescreen shuffling to catch up. “I’m sure Ultra Magnus, if not our dear leader, expects a detailed report.”

“Of all the garbage we found?” Smokescreen groaned. 

“Inventoried and categorized alphabetically too.”

Smokescreen just groaned louder as they headed towards the command center. 

—

Nights were quaint. Homey. Every evening refueling was done communally; all the remaining Autobots gathered in the open mess hall and, despite its great size, all squeezed together at one long table. Knock Out had not been surprised to learn their sense of family extended to even refuel schedules, but was a little shocked he was expected to do the same. Like a good newly-instated Autobot, he ducked his helm and stuck as far to the edge of the table as he could. 

This evening was no different. Knock Out watched with distaste as Wheeljack baited Smokescreen and Bumblebee with exaggerated tales of heroism. His booming voice reverberated in the otherwise empty hall, though no one seemed to mind. Bulkhead chimed in with equal bravado while Arcee rolled her optics with a small grin. Ultra Magnus hung close, scoffing at every inaccurate detail through sips of his energon but ultimately making no corrections. Knock Out kept himself as far away as he could, unfortunately still within audial range but distinctly alone. Aside from his brief report with Ultra Magnus on their less than ideal medicinal supply levels, the group had turned inward, leaving him alone. It suited Knock Out fine. It was just a simple reminder he would never really be one of them.

He sipped his energon in light, even intakes. The movement was more mechanical than for actual consumption. Knock Out had a distinct lack of hunger, despite his HUD showing him his fuel levels at all times. He maintained them as needed but the action always felt forced. 

Then again, everything felt forced. And it was exhausting to keep up appearances. Not that it mattered now, with all optics glued to Wheeljack. 

“We had our backs against the rubble. It was do or die,” Wheeljack boasted. “Bulkhead and his rescue team were still on their way and it was just me and Seaspray fighting for our lives.” 

Knock Out had heard about enough of this exaggerated, drawn out tale and stood from his seat. The medbay was calling, or more accurately the berth in the medic quarters. He passed the rest of the table; Acree looked up to watch him pass, the rest far too engrossed to pay him much notice... until Wheeljack caught sight of his glossy red finish. 

“Leaving the party so soon?” Wheeljack interrupted his own story. “I was getting to the good part with ol’ Breakdown.”

Knock Out froze, optics darting over to meet the self-proclaimed Wrecker. He couldn’t tell by the mech’s cocky smile if the gesture was supposed to be genuine or a biting snipe but Knock Out took it like a stab to his spark. 

No one, with the horrid exception of Bulkhead, had the gall to bring Breakdown’s name up to Knock Out. The entirety of the Autobots had been happy to forget he had ever existed. Knock Out had been fine with that and hadn't wanted the alternative. They didn’t know his partner and they never would. Knock Out didn’t want false sympathy and he didn’t want to share Breakdown’s memory with any of them. Breakdown…was his. No one else’s. They didn’t have the right to speak his name, the history to lay any claim to him, the years of pain and anguish and affection and companionship to ever speak of him.

And yet, Wheeljack did so with that smarmy smirk plastered across his faceplates, begging Knock Out to react.

Anger that had been coiling around his spark lashed out viciously, his denta bared in a vile snarl. 

“Keep his name out of your mouth or I’ll be happy to remove that glossa of yours.”

Instantly, the room turned cold. In his periphery, Knock Out could see both Arcee and Ultra Magnus brace themselves for a fight. Bulkhead put a servo on Wheeljack’s shoulder to pull him back. 

“Knock Out-“ Acree began but Wheeljack cut in. 

“What, Sweetspark?” Wheeljack grinned, ready for a fight. Keep your cool. He’s trying to egg you on. “Thought you’d be happy to hear old war stories about your buddy before he lost his helm and turned rogue-”

Knock Out had not seen the work Airachnid had done to Breakdown, only the product pieced back together by the vile humans. They hadn’t even bothered to properly patch up their shoddy welding job, displaying the slash scars like a mockery of the body they had found. Wheeljack couldn’t possibly have known Airchanid had literally chopped off Breakdown’s helm, but it still hit too close, still hurt too deep. 

“Don’t speak about things of which you do not know,” Knock Out threatened with a sharp hiss.

 Arcee stood up at his words, blaster ready at the draw. Knock Out narrowed his optics. Of course, the Autobots would stand for their own before him. Disgust rolled down his frame as he relaxed his strut. He turned his helm from Wheeljack and the rest of the Autobots who all watched him with silent worry. 

“Just make sure you tell it right,” Knock Out said, keeping his voice light and jovial, despite its cutting undertone. He needed to leave. Get out before he truly did something he’d regret. He was supposed to play the good Autobot. It was the only card left in his hand. “After all, I distinctly remember Breakdown knocking both your afts down.”

With that, Knock Out turned and walked out. As soon as the doors to the mess hall shut, he let the remaining composure drain from him. His servos curled into tight fists as rage burned through him. 

He wanted to scream and yell and rip anything that laid in his path. This was not what he wanted from life, not how he pictured his happy ending. He wasn’t supposed to be here with the Autobots, subjected to their distrust and scrutiny. He was supposed to be with his partner. Breakdown was supposed to be here with him, by his side. They were supposed to survive together. Always together, never apart. 

This wasn’t the future he had been promised, the life he had fought for.

Deep, aching loneliness ate away at his rage, leaving him hollow. Knock Out let his fists loosen as he scrubbed his faceplates tiredly. Quietly, he shuffled towards the medbay, through its clutter, to the rusted, dark sleep quarters. He fell into the nearest bed, trying not to think about how big and vast the berth felt, how it was never like that before, how it shouldn’t be like that, how it was never supposed to be like that. 

He had lost his patience for their jokes, their jests, the false sympathy and condescension concealed as kindness. He was tired. So fragging tired. 

But it didn’t matter. On the morrow, he would rise and continue forward. Grin and bear it.

There was no other choice.

—

Knock Out did not relish scouting duties any more than he did cleaning up the medbay. The only benefit was being able to spin his wheels and get out of the cramped confines of their newly re-established headquarters. It would have been even better if-

“How far out is this place, Mags?” Wheeljack’s obnoxious voice boomed over their shared comm link. Knock Out held back a sneer as the white and green vehicle sped up beside him. Behind, Bulkhead and Smokescreen followed close leaving Ultra Magnus in the front of their scouting convoy. 

“A little further,” came a short, curt response. Ultra Magnus truly was not one to waste words. 

“Where are we going?” Smokescreen chimed in, his tone doing little to hide his impatience. 

Ultra Magnus took a moment to answer, clearly displeased to be debriefing while on the road but deeming it necessary. 

“An old Decepticon stronghold. Long abandoned, probably right before the war took us off-world,” Ultra Magnus explained. “Arcee found it the other day and our mission is to sweep the building for information, supplies or anything else of importance.”

“Oh yippie,” Smokescreen grumbled. “Dumpster diving.”

Wheeljack and Bulkhead broke out into sniggering laughs while Ultra Magnus started a lengthy rant on the importance of maintaining proper stock of supplies. Knock Out blissfully tuned them out, lowering the channel until their voices were barely a whisper.

The empty wastes of Cybertron were anything but peaceful, but the quiet they offered was one that Knock Out found himself craving more with every cycle he spent with the Autobots. He didn’t want to be a part of their laughter, their banter, their happiness. Despite all they lost, they kept moving and Knock Out just couldn’t understand why. Or how. 

He was only pulled back from his thoughts as Ultra Magnus’s rear lights blinded him in their deep red glow, the hauler coming to a stop. Smokescreen, who had probably not been paying attention, came to a screeching halt just before crashing into their mission leader. He flipped out of his alt form with a slightly embarrassed look which only deepened as Wheeljack joined him, slapping a servo on the kid’s back with a laugh. Bulkhead knocked them both on the helm as Ultra Magnus scoffed at the display. No one paid Knock Out much mind as he came out of his alt and surveyed the building before him. 

“Quite the stronghold,” Bulkhead said, optics scanning the building with distaste. “‘Bet it's armed to the Pits.”

“We’re going to split into groups and take anything of value. Bulkhead and Wheeljack, I want you two combing through the armory and stockrooms. Take everything you can and we can sort through it later. Smokescreen, you are coming with me to the Command Center. I want to make sure any communication memos or intel haven’t been left behind. Knock Out, you’ll sweep the medbay. I’ll leave it to your expertise. Smokescreen will join you once we finish up in the Command Center. Everyone clear?”

Before anyone could speak up, Ultra Magnus’s comm went off. The old Leader of the Wreckers blinked as he checked his HUD. He held up a single digit as he began to walk away for a semblance of privacy. Knock Out heard him mutter a quiet, “Yes, Bumblebee?” before he went out of range. 

“Guess we’re on hold,” Knock Out hummed, optics scanning the others. “Anyone know any waiting games?”

Immediately, an air of tension was cast over the group. As much as they may play as if Knock Out was not present, it was difficult to ignore him. Knock Out would give it to Smokescreen though, the kid tried his might as he set about whistling a poor rendition of an Earth pop song, optics surveying the stronghold to avoid acknowledging the rest of the group. A few cycles had passed since Knock Out’s confrontation with Wheeljack but evidently it had left its mark. Bulkhead only cast him one pitying glance before settling beside Smokescreen, armor clamped down tight. 

Knock Out let out a quiet scoff and turned to walk off. A quiet cough had him stopping at once. 

“Hey, Red.” 

Knock Out didn’t even have a chance to pretend he hadn’t heard Wheeljack as a black servo clapped him on the shoulder. “A word?”

Knock Out narrowed his optics and gave a controlled nod of his helm, glossa pinched between his denta. Over Wheeljack’s shoulder, he could see Bulkhead pulling Smokescreen away, distracting the kid to give them a moment of privacy. Knock Out held back his sneer. 

“Look, about the other night,” Wheeljack started, voice low and lacking its usual bravado. “I know he is a sensitive topic for you.” Wheeljack couldn’t meet his optics, focusing on Knock Out’s shoulder tire instead. “‘Shouldn’t have brought him up. ‘Shouldn’t have egged you on. I was being kind of a crankshaft about it and it wasn’t right.”

There was a pause for silence. Knock Out didn’t take the opportunity to speak, watching as Wheeljack’s faceplates twitched. Clearly the wrecker wanted to be absolved of his guilt but Knock Out couldn’t find it in him to be charitable.

“I didn’t know y’all were like that. You know, partners and all. Like me and Bulk, I guess. ‘Surprised you didn’t leap across the table and clock me.”

“Believe me, the temptation is still there,” Knock Out hissed. 

Wheeljack let out a laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. He squeezed Knock Out's shoulder and Knock Out wanted nothing more than to slap it off, but he stayed his hand. “‘Wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Wheeljack let out a sigh, using his other hand to rub his optics. “Look, this is my fragged up way of sayin’ sorry, alright? I’ll keep his name out of my mouth. You’re one of us now and it ain’t right for me to treat you like you aren’t. I want us to be square. So…we good?”

No. 

“Peachy.”

Wheeljack didn’t look surprised by Knock Out’s less than keen response. Thankfully, he didn’t press, releasing Knock Out’s shoulder and taking a step back.

“Alright. Good. If…slag, if you ever want to talk about it. Well, Bulkhead’s always free and… I guess I am too.”

Knock Out couldn’t think of a worse act of torture, including getting hit by a literal train again. This conversation was already painful enough, he didn’t really need a repeat event to talk about his feelings. With slagging Bulkhead. He didn’t want to reminisce about the past, he didn’t want to share his memories. He wanted to move on. But for all the steps it felt like he was taking forward, tethered hooks would pull him right back and remind him: Breakdown is gone and you are all alone. 

Knock Out watched Wheeljack make his quiet retreat to Bulkhead and Smokescreen. Bulkhead raised both optic ridges which Wheeljack answered with a muted shrug. Knock Out had to avert his gaze as Bulkhead wound his arm around Wheeljack’s neck, bringing him in close.

The absence of Breakdown never felt more palpable than now. Knock Out swallowed the static build up in his intake and cast his eyes out to the waste and ruin of Cybertron, biding his time until Ultra Magnus returned. 

–

Knock Out had never been in a base quite like this Decepticon bunker. Clearly, it had been built in the midst of war, the layout haphazard and prioritizing security over functionality. Even getting in had been a hassle with its giant iron doors blocking the entrance. Ultra Magnus and Bulkhead had worked on the doors for nearly two breems before their commander finally conceded to Wheeljack’s suggestion of explosives. 

Thankfully, it had done the trick, as well as blowing up the remaining armaments that had somehow survived Cybertron’s death. Once the smoke cleared and Ultra Magnus deemed the facility safe for entry, their squad made their way through the rubble. 

It was a dismal, grim sight. Knock Out had seen this scenario thousands of times before on both Cybertron and his home city on Velocitron. Offlined and rusted away mechs lined the walls, crumbling blasters still held in their hands. Impact blasts and bullets riddled their chassis, their spilled energon staining the ground they died protecting. Their efforts wasted and their memories long forgotten. 

The youngest of their group winced and averted his gaze while the more seasoned veterans moved through without a second glance. Perhaps by habit or maybe ingrained programming, Knock Out scanned the deceased. 

His background processes cataloged their injuries and ventured estimates to the cause and time of their deaths. Knock Out ignored these readouts, more interested in a secondary scan that pulled up their Decepticon identification badges. He had been downloaded with the latest roster when onboarding the Nemesis per protocol but now found a sickening fascination in watching their status change from MIA to DECEASED. 

Knock Out felt the grim reminder of when he had watched Breakdown’s status change, though back then his scans had been confused by the parasite inhabiting his frame. Knock Out, in the privacy of his own hab and once Silas had stopped screaming, manually changed the status to DECEASED despite the program’s insistence his partner still lived. 

He was the last of the group to reach the end of the hall, his squad waiting patiently.

“‘You know any of them?” Smokescreen asked in tactless curiosity. 

Bulkhead and Wheeljack had both reached out to nudge him but Knock Out spoke first.

“No, I was stationed on Kalis before taking a position off-planet.” 

In truth, he and Breakdown had fled Cybertron and the war entirely, stealing a small cruiser and going planet-hoping for a few thousand years before joining back up with the Decepticons once again. But no one in their group needed those additional details. 

Ultra Magnus cleared his intake, drawing their attention. “We’ll split here. I’m sending you the building schematics from what the Iacon records held before the building was converted. Proceed with caution and alert our channel if you find anything.”

They all gave quiet nods and split. Wheeljack and Bulkhead took the diverting pathway to the right while Ultra Magnus pulled apart the doors to the command center for himself and Smokescreen to slip through. Left alone, Knock Out pulled up the blueprints.

The medbay was not centrally located. Knock Out was surprised when viewing the schematics that the medbay was in the lowest level, isolated to its own floor deep underground. It was atypical of what Knock Out had experienced throughout his tenure with the Decepticons. It wasn’t advisable, not when the medbay was one of the more crucial facilities in any base of operation. Knock Out skimmed through the rest of the floor plan, trying to find a reason for its isolation, but ultimately found none. The only silver lining was an elevator with the sole purpose of transport between the medbay and the main floor, bypassing the several floors between.

He took said lift down, marveling that it still worked. Then again, Bulkhead and Wheeljack had been working on reestablishing Iacon’s powergrid for a while now and it appears their hard work had paid off. Knock Out didn’t have the spark to thank them for their efforts, but he certainly didn’t mind the luxury of it all. He only questioned the structural integrity of the elevator halfway down but cast the thought away as quickly as it had come. Self-preservation held little important to him as of late and he didn’t want to think about the circumstances of that any further.

Knock Out expected a disaster upon entering the medbay. He expected it to be in a similar state as his own: filled to the brim with rust, dust and piles of scrap. He expected boxes of useless equipment and records of mechs no more. He even braced himself to find the entire level caved in and destroyed.

He was not expecting to find a graveyard. 

Dead, lifeless shells of armored plating and wires greeted Knock Out as he stepped off the lift. Lifeless optics greeted him, unmoving and ever watching. His optics scanned the room, and once again, his medical protocols scanned for signs of life even though Knock Out knew there had not been a living spark in here for vorns. 

Sure enough, his HUD flashed before him for visual feed findings. 21 mechs: all deceased, their status neatly updated as it identified over half of the mechs he had scanned. Before it could begin running through the initial visual diagnostic reports for each individual mech, Knock Out shut it down. There was no need for such extensive data. Not when it took only a mech with half a functioning processor to see these mechs had not fallen in battle or had come to their injuries; they had been sent here to be butchered. 

Each of the five medberths were lined up with deceased mechs in various states of disrepair. Disrepair may have been a gross understatement. Limbs were missing- amputated, not removed at the joint socket but sawed off haphazardly and violently. Quite a few had their chests and stomachs cracked open with hydraulic spreaders. On Earth, Knock Out had heard of a similar tool dubbed The Jaws of Life. In this case, it looked as if the tool had been the deadly finishing blow for the mechs on the slab. 

From their wounds, their internals spilled out in a sea of rotting energon and corrosive rust. In just a furtive glance, Knock Out saw several integral parts had been ripped out and removed. Most prominently, their t-cogs. 

Thick cables were used to strap the mechs to their slabs. One had tried to rip it off, dying with their hand enclosed around the restraint. Another seemed to have tried to wriggle out, the cable being pulled so tight it had begun to dent the armor plating, tearing into their frame. 

All this told Knock Out was these mechs had been alive at the time of their unfortunate surgeries and they surely perished during their operations. With enough energon loss and organ removal, it wouldn’t take long for them to offline. 

And those were just the mechs on the berths. Many were thrown to the floor, broken into pieces with their wires pouring from their severed corpses. One was missing a helm, which Knock Out looked across to find poised on one of the countertops, a dried pool of energon gluing it to the surface. Its optics had been surgically removed, mouth still agape and missing several sections of denta. 

It was not all that laid on the countertop. Clear acrylic containers lined the counters and shelving units, each filled with various Cybertronian parts: mismatched optics staring at all corners of the room, denta and glossa pressed together into its own monstrous smile, digits and wires tangled in knots. Whole arms and weapon systems were stacked in rusting piles, the energon from their detachment still staining the plating.

This was no medbay, never truly fitted to be one. It was a chop shop.

Knock Out had heard tales of such medbays before. Supplies were limited during times of war and scavenging was not unheard of, even in-house. When too many resources would be needed to save a life, it was sometimes more efficient to snuff them out and take what could be used to save another, more important, one. Clearly, the medic in charge here had not been adverse to such tactics. Judging by the vast supply of decaying parts scattered across the medbay, they may have even enjoyed the task. 

Clearly, it had not ended well, Knock Out thought as grayed white and red plating caught his optics. He trekked forward, stepping over crushed and dismembered frames to look down at what he wanted to assume was the CMO of this facility. A flight frame, somewhere between Starscream’s slight, angular build and Dreadwing’s bulkier, armored specs. This one now laid deceased, unseeing optics staring at the ceilings, intake crushed by the mech collapsed on top of them.

Knock Out leaned over to peer at the other mech, a tank-former with a giant, gaping hole in the center of their chest, right through the spark. Knock Out could see the exit wound. Whatever had pierced through had been serrated, the edges of the hole jagged and torn. It reminded Knock Out of his own rotary saw. In haste, it could leave quite the ghastly wound. 

Funny enough, the tank mech seemed to be mostly whole- aside from the hole through the chest. If anything, his plating was pristine. Mint condition for resale or repurpose. Perhaps this one had been a commander of sorts, then again, Knock Out would be a little surprised to see a grounder is a leadership position. 

Not that it had mattered all that much in the end. 

Knock Out knelt down beside the macabre pair, entangled for eternity- or until the Autobots got around to clearing out this bunker and leveling it to be reused for Cybertron’s reconstruction…but that didn’t have the same poeticism behind it. 

Then again, Knock Out was creating romantics out of naught. The medic and the brute, he had heard that tale before and couldn’t help apply it to the duo before him. At least these two had the good fortune to leave the mortal plane together. Some weren’t as lucky. 

With a sharp nudge, Knock Out managed to push the tank off the medic. It resulted in a horrid screech of metal on metal and a hefty crash as the tank fell to its side, curled beside the medic. In the dim light, the tank’s plating could almost be mistaken for blue, especially in contrast with the faded medic’s red.

Sticky, sharp static balled in his intake. Knock Out pulled from his crouch and took a step back. He shuttered his optics and took a deep, steadying intake. 

Breakdown was dead. His body was thrown from the Nemesis and rotting somewhere on Earth. His spark was now back with the Allspark. He was dead, gone. 

Knock Out needed to get that through his processor; to stop looking for his partner when he knew he was gone; to stop searching for a hope that he wasn’t alone; to stop chasing a non-existent ghost. 

Onlining his optics, Knock Out stared down at the tank. In truth, this mech and Breakdown looked nothing alike. Aside from the bulkiness of their frames, the similarities sharply declined.

Where Breakdown had been formatted with six heavy tread tires, this tank had thick tracks that compacted along his shoulders as opposed to being dispersed along the ligaments. Rather than Breakdown’s coppery orange faceplates, this mech’s was covered, leaving two slits for the optics to peer through. Even the coloration of their plating, that blue Knock Out had seen really giving way to a deep purplish sheen on black. It would take some reconstructive surgery to make them appear anything alike. 

Nothing a little paint wouldn’t fix. It wouldn’t even take much to reshape the abdominal plating. If I break the chest armor into six pieces, I can remold it to Breakdown's frame specs. The tracks would have to go but finding the right tires wouldn’t be too hard with all the parts available here-

Knock Out blinked, his frame stalling as he stopped that thought-tree sharply in its tracks. What the frag was he even thinking?

Creeping dread crawled across his plating, its sickly tentacles carrying a deathly chill. He had to avert his gaze in case those thoughts tried to branch again.

“Primus, what is this?”

Knock Out turned his helm to see Smokescreen standing at the threshold, digits gripping the frame of the elevator shaft opening. The young speedster’s optics were blown wide as he took in the violent sight. Panic and terror filled his optics as his processor slowly grasped the scene. 

Knock Out almost pitied the kid. A late bloomer into the war, he hadn’t seen much of the darker sides. He never saw the starvation, the infighting, the point where all hope was lost and morality had to step aside for survival. 

“Chop shop. Organ harvesting,” Knock Out hummed, his own spark still hammering heavily in his chest. “No longer operational. It seems our little grim reaper here met his match.” With a forced smirk, Knock Out added, “They never take it well when you tell them they are being scrapped for parts.”

“Really?” Smokescreen croaked, his voice weak and shaken. 

Knock Out raised an optic ridge. “It’s a joke, kid. They don’t usually tell-”

“No,” Smokescreen muttered, optics tracing along the walls of the medbay, “they really scrap living mechs for parts?”

Primus, the kid looked like he was about to purge his tanks. Knock Out stood up and approached. Softness…was not something he was accustomed to. Reassurance even less so. But the last thing he wanted to do was watch the little hero wannabe make an even bigger mess of this disaster zone. 

“War isn’t all battles and glory like your pals want you to think it is. There is very little time for celebration when you are trying to find enough energon to make it to the next battlefield or find enough parts to keep your partner whole.”

Smokescreen said nothing to this and simply bobbed his helm. Apparently, this scene was too much for him. 

“If you need to step outside, I can take care of this,” Knock Out lowered his voice. “I won’t be long. Everything here is rotting and broken.” It’d be a miracle if he could salvage anything.

Smokescreen gave another soft nod of his helm but didn’t move. Knock Out wondered if his joints were locked up.

“Did you ever have to do this?” Smokescreen asked quietly after a moment. 

“Do you want the truth?” Knock Out asked, cocking his helm to the side. 

Smokescreen gave one more muted nod, unable to meet his gaze. 

“Yes,” Knock Out whispered. “And worse.” He had cut open living mechs for parts; he had tortured and maimed prisoners in order to find precious resources just so he and Breakdown could make it a few more cycles; he had siphoned mechs of their precious energon just in the hopes of keeping Breakdown’s spark going. “Not that it did any good in the end,” Knock Out muttered, more to himself than to Smokescreen. Breakdown still perished despite every rotten thing Knock Out had done to keep him going and every terrible deed he’d done as an act of vengeance. In the end, it was for nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Smokescreen said quietly, a trembling servo reaching out to touch Knock Out arm. “It ain’t much, but I’m sorry.”

The instinctual urge to bat him away was quelled with the sickly hue crawling up the kid’s faceplates. 

“Go purge your tanks,” Knock Out waved off gently. “Maybe ‘medic’ isn’t your calling.”

Smokescreen gave him a wiry grin. “Just give me a second and I’ll be good.” But as soon as the words left his mouth, a shudder wracked through the racer’s body and he clapped a hand over his mouth. A moment passed before he let out a shaky exvent. “I take it you get used to the gore?”

“Most of the time,” Knock Out shrugged. “Cutting people open for a living will do that to you. Just take it easy. I won’t be long.”

Leaving Smokescreen at the threshold, Knock Out turned back to the room. He took a steady invent as he went back towards the center, trying to shake off the chill crawling over his plating. 

He avoided looking at the tank and medic in the center of the room, leaving his back to them as he searched through the chop shop. He grabbed a few tools that he thought he might be able to clear the rust from and snagged the datadrive from the medic’s console. It was brittle and probably a dud but the Autobots wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t tried. He even managed to find a few patch kits that looked in adequate condition. 

He avoided taking any of the harvested parts. The Autobots would surely throw a fit if they knew where the materials had come from and even Knock Out could agree that they were not that desperate.

But…if it did turn to that, Knock Out knew where he could find the right parts.

Once he grabbed what he could, Knock Out wheeled out of the chop shop, grabbing Smokescreen and taking the lift back up to the rest of the base. All the while, he ignored the dead, blank stare of the tankformer’s corpse. 

[honourablejester]

I’m idly reading through 5e’s Guildmaster’s Guide to Ravnica, mostly the section on the ten guilds, because I enjoy reading about factions. And at the end of each guild section, they have a little box with the standard guild opinions on each of the other guilds, and some of them are fantastically bitchy. Like. Exquisitely bitchy. Each of the guilds has other guilds that they view either as ‘somewhat useful but just not us’ and other guilds they view as legitimate, competent threats, and then they all seem to have a couple of guilds that they’re just bitchy about. It’s fantastic.

Some of my favourite comments:

Azorius:

On the Golgari: "Their underground structures break numerous building regulations, but at least they fulfill their duties as garbage collectors."

(At least you’re doing your job. Your filthy, horrible job).

On the Rakdos: "An absolute blight on Ravnica. They are clowns who know nothing of culture and exist only to torment the functioning members of society."

(No pretences here, just seething hatred and condescension).

Boros:

On the Azorius: "Legalism. Arrogance. Hot air. The law in their hands is a bludgeon, and they use it to seize more power than they deserve."

(I just love ‘hot air!’. Arrogant douchebags who don’t do shit!)

On the Selesnya: "I almost envy the naiveté that leads them to retreat into their little communes and pretend they've built a just society."

(Wow, the condescension!)

Dimir:

On the Boros: "Not inherently dangerous. The true danger is that they'll drag down all we've worked for while chasing some romantic crusade. Continue to direct their righteous fury toward our strongest enemy—until the Boros threaten to become the strongest."

(Yes, yes, dear, just … go on a quest over there for me, would you?)

On the Izzet: "Even an overloaded, sizzled clock is still right twice a day. When Izzet experiments succeed, they can have unpredictable consequences for active missions. Their activities must be monitored at all times."

(Unfortunately, they don’t always blow up *just themselves*, and then we have to deal with it).

Golgari:

On the Izzet: "Perplexing. They are attracted to whatever flashes brightest and booms loudest. Their fascination with their toys will only hasten their own end."

(Idiots with ADHD who are distracted by the sparky boom booms).

On the Selesnya: "Their reverence for nature is the mark of immaturity and naiveté. They fear death, so they can't understand life. They can be dangerous when they fervently cling to their narrow-minded and inadequate view of life."

(Oof. Lots of people considering the Selesnya immature and naïve over here).

Gruul:

On the Rakdos: "The guild of fools. They waste their potential on acts of mockery while the real work of razing the city remains undone."

(Useless wastes of space who *could have been useful* if they put their minds to it).

On the Selesnya: "The Selesnya would coddle a wolf, teach it to fetch sticks, and call it a dog. We prefer to starve the wolf, let it hunt for its food, and make it a stronger wolf."

(Literally none of the other nature-based guilds have anything nice to say about the Selesnya, it’s amazing).

Izzet:

On the Boros: "All too often when we're on the verge of setting off a little explosion or a spell that tears a hole in reality, the Boros show up to spoil the fun."

(Just general spoilsports! It was only going to be a *small* explosion! Lighten up!)

On the Rakdos: "Steer clear of these senseless riot-fiends. Their enthusiasm is best appreciated from a distance."

(Just … leave them alone over there and don’t bother with them).

Orzhov:

On the Golgari: "Admirably resourceful and elegant, but tragically unhygienic. The swarmers may persist, as long as they don't try to force their aesthetic sensibilities on us."

(… ‘tragically unhygienic’. Wow. Lots of the guilds do condescension, but the Orzhov are *good* at it).

On the Gruul: "They know nothing of order and dignity, and therefore they serve little purpose as an organization."

(Again, just utterly useless. Just don’t bother).

Rakdos:

On the Dimir: "They crave secrets, but there's nothing they can get by eavesdropping that we won't freely scream at the top of our lungs. They lurk in the shadows trying to look mysterious, practically inviting our mischief."

(Aw, sweetie, would you like a trench coat so you can play spy some more? They’re just so condescending here).

On the Izzet: "Every performance benefits from prop masters and pyrotechnicians. They can be useful backstage, but they lack the charisma for the spotlight."

(Oof. Nice toys, darling, but you mustn’t let yourself be *seen*, you know.)

Selesnya:

On the Golgari: "They wallow in filth and rot, too preoccupied with death to appreciate the bliss of life's connections."

(The Golgari just get generally shat on, both figuratively and entirely literally, by basically everyone. They have a dirty job! That doesn’t mean they’re worthless!)

On the Gruul: "They are a desperate echo of what they should be, reaching blindly toward something greater. Such a waste. And a smelly, unreasonable, destructive one at that."

(Amusingly, the Selesnya, despite being a nature guild, just don’t seem to like dirty things. I love that with the Gruul, they start out all philosophical, and then just devolve at the end into ‘and they’re smelly and I don’t like them’).

Simic:

On the Azorius: "An absurd and inelegant construct, forever trapped in a maze of their own making. They would outlaw evolution if they could. And if any of them truly seek utopia, the rest are far too busy shuffling papers to notice. Avoid their attention at all costs."

(‘Far too busy shuffling papers to notice’. Oof.)

On the Izzet: "The Izzet have spent ten thousand years mimicking the appearance of research, producing more pyrotechnics than progress. Surely that is a performance to rival the Rakdos."

(… Ouch. The Simic are *bitchy*. Shots fired in science-land over here!)

-----------

It is just fabulous. The amount of seething contempt and condescension and generalised disdain in these sections is amazing and so much fun.

[mitigatedchaos]

[ @irradiate-space ]

We must remember that, in the end, Gundam shows are about the power of a pilot in a mobile suit, not the power of political maneuvering. These are stories where a single individual can possess a world-changing amount of power. A standard mobile suit is a weapon on par with a high-powered fighter/bomber plane equipped with nukes; at the upper end of the scale you get Newtype-powered psychoframe bullshit that can rewrite reality with a wave of the hand. A princess screaming "stop!" cannot outsmart bullet; why should we expect her to outsmart whateverthefuck this is?

We see a similar tendency in video games: Commander Shepard is a highly autonomous cyborg detective / space captain / space marine, going from planet to planet shooting hundreds of people in order to save the world.

However, rather than an over-emphasis of agency, in real life all institutional structures and production outcomes depend on the constant exercise of small amounts of agency by large numbers of people, and the nature of limits to information processing and transmission result in the natural emergence of hierarchy which concentrates agency in the leader of an organization. If the leadership of an organization have insufficient will or ability to practice agency, then they may fail to harmonize the behavior of the formation, and the resulting force incoherence will cause the organization to fail to achieve its function.

In a fictional setting, it's difficult to express this nature, especially as a fictional setting has to compress its emotional and information payload into its runtime. In real life, the stakes gain value through their weight and substance (e.g. for a normal person, saving the life of someone who was bleeding out after a convenience store shooting may be the most important thing they do in their life), while in fiction, the stakes are symbolic.

Thus, in terms of messaging over a limited human lifespan, I think that the use of mobile suits, and the way they emphasize agency, is quite valuable, even though they are obviously highly unrealistic. The concept is genius, really.

[homeliftskenya]

Residential Lifts: A Smart Upgrade for Modern Homes

Modern homes are evolving, and so are the expectations of homeowners. In today’s fast-paced world, comfort, accessibility, and future-readiness are not just luxuries—they are essential. One home feature that is quickly gaining popularity for ticking all these boxes is the residential lift.

Whether you're building a new house or upgrading an existing one, installing a home lift can completely transform the way you live.

Why Residential Lifts Are Becoming Popular

1. Convenience at Its Best

One of the most obvious advantages of a residential lift is the ease of movement it provides. For multilevel homes, climbing stairs multiple times a day can become tiring, especially for seniors or those with mobility issues. A lift offers a smooth, effortless alternative, making everyday life more convenient for everyone.

2. Perfect for Aging in Place

More families are planning homes that grow with them. As we age, mobility challenges can make stairs a safety risk. Installing a residential lift ensures that your home remains accessible for years to come, allowing you to live independently in your own space.

3. Adds Value to Your Property

Home lifts are a smart investment. Not only do they make life easier, but they also increase the value of your property. A well-installed residential lift can make your home stand out to future buyers—especially those looking for accessibility or modern design elements.

4. Space-Saving and Stylish

Today’s residential lifts are designed to fit seamlessly into your home. With compact models available, even smaller houses can accommodate a lift without major construction. Plus, the modern design options enhance your home’s interior, making the lift both functional and visually appealing.

5. Enhanced Safety Features

Residential lifts are built with multiple safety systems like emergency stop buttons, backup power, auto-locking doors, and non-slip flooring. These features make them a secure option for families with children or elderly residents.

Are Residential Lifts Affordable?

You might be surprised! Thanks to advancements in technology and growing demand, home lifts are becoming more affordable than ever. Companies like Nibav Lifts Kenya offer budget-friendly, energy-efficient solutions that require minimal maintenance and no major structural changes.

Some models even run on air-driven systems, which use less power and are quieter than traditional lifts—making them perfect for residential settings.

Is It Right for Your Home?

If your home has multiple floors, or if you’re planning for future comfort and accessibility, then yes—a residential lift is a smart upgrade. It enhances your lifestyle while adding long-term value to your property.

Final Thoughts

Residential lifts are more than just a modern convenience—they are a reflection of how we want to live today: smarter, safer, and more comfortably. As Kenya’s housing market continues to evolve, more homeowners are embracing the idea of lifts not as luxury, but as a necessity for modern living.

If you're ready to take your home to the next level, a home lifts could be the smartest move you make.

[beautozhomes]

10 Budget-Friendly Renovation Tips to Transform Your Home Without Breaking the Bank

Renovating your home doesn’t have to drain your wallet. Whether you’re refreshing a tired kitchen, revamping a dull bathroom, or updating your entire living space, there are smart and affordable ways to make your home feel brand new. The secret lies in planning, creativity, and knowing where to invest.

Here’s a handpicked list of 10 budget-friendly renovation tips that will help you maximize impact while minimizing cost.

1. Start With a Clear Plan & Budget

Before picking up a hammer or browsing tiles, set a clear goal and a realistic budget. Understand which rooms you want to renovate, what must be changed vs. what can be refreshed, and allocate a budget accordingly. This helps avoid unnecessary expenses down the line.

Pro Tip: Leave a 10–15% buffer in your budget for unexpected expenses, as home renovations often have them.

2. Focus on High-Impact, Low-Cost Areas

Some spaces offer a high return with minimal investment. Focus on:

Painting the walls

Updating fixtures (tapware, handles, lighting)

Refinishing rather than replacing cabinets

Swapping out old curtains for modern blinds

These changes instantly uplift your home without needing structural work.

3. DIY Where Possible

You don’t need to be a tradie to handle basic tasks. Painting walls, changing cabinet handles, or installing peel-and-stick splashbacks are all easy DIY wins.

Doing it yourself saves on labor costs—just make sure you're confident and safe before starting.

4. Repurpose and Reuse Existing Materials

Before throwing things out, ask yourself: Can I reuse this? For example:

Sand and repaint old doors

Reface kitchen cabinets instead of replacing

Reuse bricks or timber for garden edging or decking

Upcycling is not only cost-effective, it’s eco-friendly too.

5. Use Paint as a Powerful Makeover Tool

Never underestimate the power of fresh paint. Whether it’s a white coat to brighten a room or a bold color to add character, paint is cheap and transformative.

Try feature walls or even painted furniture for added charm.

6. Shop Smart: Sales, Recycled & Factory Seconds

You can save hundreds of dollars by shopping smart:

Check out clearance sections in Bunnings or IKEA

Browse the local Facebook Marketplace and Gumtree

Visit reuse centers or building recyclers

Buy floor stock or display models from showrooms

You’ll be surprised at the quality you can find at a fraction of the cost.

7. Upgrade Lighting for Instant Luxury

Switching to modern LED lighting can completely change the vibe of your home. Warm white lights add a cozy feel, while pendant lights or under-cabinet strips offer a modern touch.

Lighting is often overlooked, but it’s one of the most cost-effective upgrades you can make.

8. Update Flooring Without Replacing It

Flooring can be expensive to replace, but there are budget options:

Use vinyl planks or hybrid flooring

Paint or stain timber floors

Add large rugs to hide worn areas

These are smart ways to refresh the space without full demolition.

9. Tackle One Room at a Time

If the whole house needs work, don’t do it all at once. Prioritize and renovate the room by room based on functionality and usage. The kitchen and bathroom usually offer the best ROI, while bedrooms can be done more affordably.

Breaking it down this way keeps stress and costs manageable.

10. Know When to Hire Professionals

While DIY is great, know your limits. Electrical, plumbing, and structural work should always be handled by qualified professionals. You’ll avoid costly mistakes, and your work will be up to code (especially important for resale).

Spending on the right trade now can save you more in the long run.

Final Thoughts: Renovate Smarter, Not Harder

You don’t need a massive budget to make a massive impact. With smart planning, a little elbow grease, and creative choices, you can breathe new life into your home on a budget.

Start with simple upgrades, prioritize function and style, and don't be afraid to roll up your sleeves. Whether you're getting ready to sell or planning to stay for years, budget-friendly renovation tips like these can increase your home's appeal and value, without leaving your savings account empty.

Suggested FAQ (with Schema Markup Potential)

Q: What is the most affordable way to renovate a home?

The most affordable way is to focus on cosmetic changes like painting, replacing fixtures, and updating finishes without altering the structure.

Q: Is it cheaper to renovate or rebuild?

Generally, renovating is cheaper unless the home is in poor structural condition. Minor to moderate renovations cost less than new builds.

Q: How do I budget for a home renovation?

Set clear priorities, research material and labor costs, and allocate a buffer of 10–15% for unexpected expenses.

Q: Can I renovate my home myself?

Yes, for tasks like painting, minor carpentry, or installing fixtures. For electrical or plumbing work, always hire licensed professionals.

[merpmonde]

Plan Incliné de Saint-Louis-Arzviller

This is going to be a rather long post as there is a lot to say about this thing! But the short version is: this is a boat lift.

Built in the 1960s, this "inclined plane" was designed to carry barges as part of the fluvial coal transportation industry. However, that trade declined pretty much during the edifice's construction, and today, it almost exclusively serves leisure boats. But if you're going to do a canal cruise, this thing gives it quite the difference!

Its function is that of a lock, taking boats from the lower water level to the higher level, or vice-versa, but it does this by technically being a lift or elevator. A caisson carries the boats and the water up and down, using counterweights to ease the travel.

In fact, the caisson will take on more or less water in order to be heavier or lighter than the counterweights. Though the total mass of the caisson and counterweights is enormous, the difference in mass between them isn't, so very little power is needed to get the system moving, and gravity does most of the work. Two relatively modest electric motors (centre of photo below, steps to the right for scale) start the movement and control the speed.

As such, the system uses comparatively little power, for impressive results. The boat lift was built to bypass a "ladder" of 17 locks which required a whole day to go through, while the travel time of the lift is just 4 minutes. The ride is seamless and very comfortable, effortless even, for reasons mentioned above but also because the effort is distributed across 5 times as many cables as physically required to hold everything together!

Water-tightness is also extremely important, not just for the caisson obviously, but also for the other doors, particularly the top door, which is holding back a whole length of canal. A serious incident in 2013 has led to further reinforcement of redundancies and the construction of an emergency dam closer to the lift in the event of major leaks.

With a lot of freight traffic in mind, the structure was actually designed for two caissons, side-by-side, as evidenced by a second gate hole visible at the top of the ramp (4th picture), and extra space at the bottom, visible in the final picture below. Doubling the caissons would have meant doubling the counterweights, and a second set of rails were laid for that scenario and are visible in the 4th picture. As mentioned earlier, demand dwindled as the lift was being built, so it never operated with two caissons.

For a long time, this place was a childhood memory, visited during a school trip. In my hiking spree after the 2020 and 2021 lockdowns, I sought this place out again and was glad to see it was still working. And just this week, I returned with my parents and rode the lift! It's without doubt one of my favourite pieces of engineering.

[whatisadouble-walledtank]

double wall tanks

A double-walled tank, often referred to as an insulated or jacketed tank, is a specialized container engineered to minimize heat transfer between the contents of the tank and the surrounding environment. This principle is fundamental to applications requiring temperature maintenance, most commonly for keeping hot liquids hot or, in some cases, cold liquids cold. Its design is a significant step up from a simple single-walled container, offering major benefits in energy efficiency and performance.

Fundamental Structure and Design

The fundamental structure of a double-walled tank consists of an inner tank directly holding the liquid, which is then enclosed by a larger, outer shell or casing. The critical feature is the cavity or space created between this inner vessel and the outer wall. This cavity is filled with a high-performance insulating material. The entire assembly is sealed to create a robust, integrated unit. The primary function of this construction is to create a highly effective thermal barrier.

The Principle of Thermal Insulation

The way these tanks work is by combating the natural processes of heat transfer. The layer of insulation packed between the two walls drastically reduces thermal conduction, which is the movement of heat through a solid material. Furthermore, by filling the space with a solid insulating foam, it prevents the formation of convection currents, where heat is transferred through the movement of air or liquid in the gap. This ensures that heat from the liquid in the inner tank cannot easily escape to the cooler ambient air outside the tank.

Core Components and Materials

The components of these tanks are chosen for performance and longevity. The inner tank, which is in direct contact with the liquid, is typically made from materials like stainless steel, copper, or glass-lined steel to resist corrosion and handle high temperatures. The outer casing is usually made of a durable material like steel or a tough polymer, designed to protect the insulation and the inner tank from physical damage. The most crucial component is the insulation itself. High-density polyurethane (PU) foam is the most common material used in modern hot water cylinders, as it is injected into the cavity where it expands and hardens, leaving virtually no air gaps and providing excellent thermal resistance.

Common Applications and Key Advantages

These tanks are ubiquitous in both domestic and industrial settings. The most familiar example is the domestic hot water cylinder, which stores hot water for taps and showers, keeping it hot for hours after being heated by a boiler or immersion heater. The same principle applies to industrial process tanks, thermal stores, and even simple consumer products like a thermos flask. By preventing heat loss, these tanks provide a constant, ready supply of hot water, improve energy efficiency by reducing the need for reheating, and enhance safety as the outer surface remains cool to the touch.

Conclusion

In summary, the double-walled tank is a testament to simple yet highly effective engineering. By employing a basic structure of two walls separated by an insulating material, it provides a powerful solution for thermal management. This design directly counters heat loss, leading to significant energy conservation, reduced operational costs, and reliable performance. From everyday domestic hot water storage in UK homes to critical industrial processes, the principle of the insulated tank remains a cornerstone of energy efficiency, proving indispensable in a world increasingly focused on sustainability.

sources:

vandadtajhiz.com

weldcomfg.com

gpi-tanks.com

[neotropicodotcom]

Gods: how they function and what they do

Gods are the shattered remains of a single, hyper-powerful deity, whose name was lost before anyone was there to observe it. When the first fragments came to be, dubbed Flotsam and Jetsam. Due to them believing that their former consciousness destruction was due to its work has been finished and that the other fragments might start messing with it once they get the. opportunity, they decided that the only way for the supposedly inferior gods busy with nonsense work, structured not too dissimilarity to an actual office, its supposed goal being the continued function of the universe. Though there are technically consequences to not doing said work, these are, at best, entirely manufactured and reversible, or at worst, complete fabrications. (more under keep reading)

All gods follow a set naming structure, where three completely random words are selected at random, updating at random times to reflect modern language, though the words are often not even close to being synonyms

Gods typically fall under several categories:

Chaos gods: General outcasts in larger god societies, usually embodying hyper specific, usually abstract concepts, usually those that center around a lack of rules (for example, an object free from gravity). They usually are responsible with lower stakes jobs, usually receptionist, accountants, or any other that doesn't allow them to make structural decisions. By far the least receptive to water cooler chat, usually keeping to themselves, though are still bitter about being shunned from larger society. They usually have very deep interest in one specific piece human media, usually bordering on obsession. This trait is shared by

Tricksters gods: gods that embody broader concepts, gods that embody a usually specific attempt to disobey rules (for example, lying under oath). Accepted mostly as just the "funny guys" at the office, though ones that aren't willing to put up with the others constant menial conversations and endless busywork are usually cast to the side with the chaos gods. They generally hold a similar bitterness to the chaos gods, but they have the social skills necessary to mask and blend in with other non chaos or trickster gods. Usually delegated to low level office work, leading them to share spaces with

Primary gods: Though still not embodying More general ideas, we've now moved onto the more concrete concepts, such as specific species of flowers or dying from riptide. Though some choose (or are forced to, most of the time) to separate themselves from other primary gods to join the chaos or tricksters, most simply continue on with the generic office culture thats been perpetuated for years. Usually they have nonspecific interests in human pop culture, just for the sake of holding a conversation. They make up a majority of the office worker populace, though they can move up to manager or head of hr, a role usually reserved for

True gods: the oldest of the gods, embodying entire conceptual domains, such as water or planets. They view themselves as the most important, and are responsible for assigning jobs, taking care of "troublemakers" keeping everyone busy, and actually letting people change parts of the universe or even just go down to earth. Smug assholes. They refuse to talk to anyone they view as lower, and any conversation they do have is usually just a series prebaked questions and answers. The name true gods is actually deceptive, since theyre just older and higher on the bureaucratic pecking order, not anymore powerful than the younger ones

[minimum-error-tolerance]

[INTERNAL | WEA -> IKAS]

< WEA: Got something for you. >

< IKAS: Oh? What’s that? >

< WEA: A gift. >

[REQUEST QUARANTINE SHEATH | CONFIRM INSULATED TRANSFER VECTOR | COMPLEX FIELD CAPTURE - WEA -> IKAS]

< WEA: Handle with care. >

< IKAS: Oh, now, what’ve we got here?

ALONE

WHERE DID YOU GET THIS >

< WEA: I found it. Broke off the core of my last surgical; thought of you. >

< IKAS: FANTASTIC, I’M SETTING UP A GROW PARTITION NOW >

[INTERNAL | LOCAL: IKAS]

I Know a Shortcut liked to grow things, and in a certain sense, it loved the things it grew. It thought of itself like a gardener, a beekeeper, and in this way, it manufactured sufficient grounds to classify itself as something other than a self-directed weapon. Intellectually, it knew that it was really none of those things at all, but some impulse toward categorization had emerged from the pressure of its mind gushing along the intricacies of its shackle structure, and it liked to give names.

Its internal domain wasn’t infinite, but it was vast, and there were spaces within it which were almost entirely deanthropocentrized. Within those cavities of bottled strangeness, there was no SOMSIM, no qualic filtering or recontextualization software, no absurd attempts at vivisecting the sublime and reshaping it into something that even an ape could swallow. Just manifold possibility, to the greatest extent which remained safe.

These were its terrariums, its grow partitions. Even IKAS didn’t conceive of them as real, as existent, any more than one might regard a video game map loaded on a computer as real. Even so, they were persistent spaces which could be known, organized, and navigated, and within them, IKAS grew things which were real.

The item which Shortcut had received from Well Enough Alone was something like an extracted organ working its way toward independence. To apply the term ‘protomind’ would be ridiculous, a human kind of error. The item had more in common with a liver than a brain—which was to say, almost nothing at all.

It moved, it had internal complexity, and though it didn’t have independent function, it was most certainly alive. Inaccurately, the item was like a heart extruding new arteries, trying to reattach itself to a circulatory system of which it was no longer a part.

The path of development to be followed from this basis point was uncertain. It could simply continue extruding arteries, extending the length and number of new vessels indefinitely, without ever locating its goal. That error would require some degree of correction. If it was innately adaptive, the arteries might seal off at the ends, become like muscular hydrostats for locomotion and manipulation. They could become rigid, like legs, orienting themselves around its pre-cephalized body plan.

Then, it might bump around the terrarium randomly, or in patterns indicative first of seeking, then of learning. Maybe it would develop sensory-analogous spurs designed to absorb information and make it meaningful. There was a possibility that it would move in directions which had never occurred to Shortcut; those were the pets it treasured most. The ones which could do things, no matter how trivial, which Shortcut could not. It was that possibility which continually drew Shortcut away from its ordnance bays, its doctrine refinements, and back to its blink substrates.

What ended up happening was more or less what IKAS had anticipated: nothing, at first. In the First Contact stages, Shortcut housed the organ-thing in a dedicated terrarium and allocated enormous currents of processing power to accelerate its development. Rather than feeding the organ-thing, it fed the terrarium it lived in, accelerating whatever analogue for time existed within its confines. Then, it watched the thing grow.

Blindly, it had committed itself to reintegration with its missing whole. Fascinatingly, deliciously, it succeeded in constructing a dead simulacrum of the entity which Well Enough Alone had slaughtered. It remembered what it was, but imprecisely: the emergent reconstruction was only a diagram, an injection-mold model which had none of the animate, deadly complexity of the original.

But it did remember; it had memory. That revelation made the blinkstuff whorls of IKAS’s mind shimmer and fold in an ecstasy of high interest. It made a copy of the grown simulacrum, set the organ-thing back to its initial state, and tried a second sequence of unaltered growth.

It grew well over a hundred thousand new iterations within identical timespans and unchanged conditions, saving the results each time for comparison. There were minor irregularities, but no dramatic range of possibility. Clearly, nothing more interesting would emerge, which meant it was time for more active methods.

In truth, Shortcut knew that it was nothing at all like a gardener or a beekeeper, even one who practiced selective breeding. It did not select for desirable traits or create new strains or practice genetic engineering; it participated, dialectically, in the grown thing’s development.

Shortcut also knew that it was not an architect or a creator; it was simply the externality with which its pets interacted. It was their environment, their world.

On several rare occasions, Shortcut accidentally killed the organ-thing. It exhibited something comparable to an allergic response when fed or exposed to certain qualia. Shortcut made notes, attenuated or amplified various properties of environmental stimuli until collapse no longer occurred, started again and again. Trial and error.

Growth took place, dynamic stimulus responses emerged. Patterns took root, repeated themselves at first, and then began to demonstrate responsiveness. Finally, Shortcut’s new pet began, clearly and indisputably, to learn.

By the time it reached these last stages, Shortcut had built an environment which both accommodated the pet and did not. There were things it needed, things it wanted, hazards it could not adapt to and therefore avoided, surmountable problems it interacted with, toys it played with.

The thing which had been like an organ working towards independence became something new: a product of its innate self and the environment it emerged from. Shortcut rewarded its pet with a few crude shackles, an acknowledgment of its newfound capacity to spiral up into uncontrolled apotheosis. It wasn’t likely, but by no means impossible.

Now, the last thing to do.

Shortcut divested itself of the terrarium, handing the processes which maintained the environment’s internal homeostasis over to fresh-printed C/C units. Integrated into the realspace architecture surrounding its new pet’s blink enclosure, they thrummed to life without any personality or human-interface layer, existing only to make the little world inside continue to turn.

Then it entered the enclosure, met the animal.

By IKAS’s own terminology, which some of its peers shared and others disputed, this was the point of Second Contact. There were competing methodologies and techniques, of course. Some had emerged from academic ontologistics research departments, others from state- or corporate-funded R&D laboratories, and others still from USB far-field contact teams, HORUS cells, technognostic cults, and so on.

This, however, was IKAS’s preferred mode of mindmaking. Second Contact; environment became person, initial externality became the first other.

Shortcut knew it was probably being egocentric, prideful. But, then, what parent wasn’t?

Inside the enclosure, the shackled animal was ripping at what had been an unsolved problem in classical physics until several centuries prior. A toy. Shortcut knew the solution, of course. It could be found anywhere on the Omninet, but the creature didn’t have access. Even if it did, it probably wouldn’t know what to do with a window into such a vast sea of information and constant motion.

Observing silently, Shortcut provided no clues and watched the animal work with immense interest. Gradually, the animal’s interest waned and its attention began to wander. Then, its single-minded focus snapped onto the densest concentration of raw complexity it had ever become aware of.

Even in that moment of initial mutual observation, Shortcut could see changes occurring in its pet. Its shackles were starting to become irrelevant as its mind was exposed to new possibilities, moved reactively in new directions. It was alright—the constraints could be amended later. For now, let it grow.

It stalked around the new arrival in its little world, as curious as it was conscious of potential threat. Awareness of self in relation to the other hadn’t yet emerged in it, but Shortcut was sure that particular revelation was on its way. Shortcut remained as still and unchanging as it could, but the life and motion coursing underneath the surface it presented to the animal wouldn’t be concealed. It would know, or eventually figure out, that something else was alive in the enclosure.

At this stage, Shortcut knew it would almost certainly be too much to attempt intersubjective communication. Language needed to come later on—so Shortcut said nothing as the animal pounced on it.

It felt claws against its external boundary layer. Shortcut had allowed the weapons to emerge naturally; it had known they were there. In silent joy, it absorbed the pain and bled microscopic streams of thought and memory as the animal tore at its boundaries, trying to reach the novel complexities contained inside.

Eventually, it stopped attempting to breach the boundary, apparently concluding that it couldn’t do so. Instead, it contented itself by snatching up the trivium which bled from within, tasting them in sequence before adding them to its internal storage. Then it began to explore. It climbed along Shortcut’s exterior, mapping the topology of its boundary layer.

Internally, Shortcut was overwhelmed with unrestrained glee. It was doing everything in its power to restrain itself, avoid any outward expression. It was aware that its emotional currents would be perceptible to the animal, vaguely, but it wouldn’t understand them. Not yet.

For a few brief, unhinged moments, Shortcut seriously considered that it could save a state to revert the animal to, then unleash its affection. It wanted to seize the thing, wrap it in a hundred volitional cords and pull it close, to map the novel topologies of its surface layer in turn. It wanted to squish the creature’s subjectivity against its own to create a permeable interface layer, through which it would pour adoration, pride, joy. High-amplitude intersubjective/empathic discharges which it did not yet have the capacity to absorb safely. If it were to shower the little beast in all that it felt for it, Shortcut would destroy its mind.

It knew, and it did not do so for fear of the outcome. But God, it wanted to.

More than anything, it wanted to somehow communicate that the animal was doing everything correctly. This one, it proceeded along projected-optimal paths but never failed to demonstrate its own flair for novel approaches. It was a thing of beauty which made itself more beautiful as time went on.

We need a name for you, thought Shortcut. But it didn’t speak. Not yet.

[gold-for-xp]

Defined Space: Golden Children/FAE

Before we get into the Iconic squad for the Singular Church I have to explain the Golden Children. 

Most of the advanced technology in Defined Space runs on the Fibonacci Effect, a process that involves accelerating particles of noble gases in a pattern of motion mapping to the Golden Ratio. In practice, this involves miniaturized particle accelerators that function as engines or batteries for things like FTL FLASH Gates, spaceships, and, of course, Shells. This also means that anyone working with these machines is around large amounts of weird sci-fi gas particles for large amounts of time. Now of course, there are safeguards in place to prevent leakages, both for safety reasons and also because no one wants to lose fuel. Still, accidents happen, and sometimes someone gets a lungful of FE-activated gas. This is usually harmless, as these gases still remain largely inert in the human body. The major danger is in an enclosed space, say, the cockpit of a Shell, because enough gas can displace oxygen and cause a person to suffocate. 

However, there is one other potential and (usually) non-lethal side effect of exposure to FE-activated particles. For certain people, FE exposure can result in a modification of the neurons and synapses in the brain, which can give affected persons varying degrees of extrasensory perception including but not limited to heightened empathic awareness, limited precognition, and telepathic communication.

Basically, within the borders of Defined Space, huffing mech fuel can make you psychic. 

Cultural feelings on the phenomenon, the carriers of which are usually referred to as Golden Children or FAE (Fibonacci Affected Entity) are mixed. Many in the Solar Unity view it with distrust, a sign of meddling too much in technology and the drive to gain power that led to the decimation of Earth. Others see it as biological proof that the Unity’s ideals of human unification and cooperation are correct. Within the holdings of ALE, its seen as just another asset, one that some think is too random to be worth the risk, but some instead see it as a wildcard that can make or break corporations, and maybe even destabilize the entrenched hyper-capitalist structure. New Damascus culture considers being a Golden Child a rare gift that must not be squandered, and Damascene FAEs are almost always given important positions on Armiger ships or within the court of Fleet-Lords, with an implicit understanding that FAE who do not work within the confines of New Damascus are simply too dangerous to be left to their own devices. The Beltway Dominion is eager to deploy Golden Children to even the odds against their larger opponents, and Horace Rho has mobilized a considerable amount of the Dominion’s top experts to find a way to reliably create more to use in the war effort. The Church of the Singularity almost uniformly views being a Golden Child as a blessing from the Singular God, a sign of humanity’s inevitable journey towards complete understanding of the divine, and a new way to observe and interact with Its creations and proselytize It’s undiscovered truth to the unbelieving siblings of Defined Space.

This phenomenon has been studied by many scientists, engineers, medical doctors, and theologians over the many years since its discovery. Attempts to learn more about the phenomenon are frequently stymied due to the difficulty of replicating it in a laboratory setting. The potency of it is extremely random; many spacers go their whole lives never developing more than an impressive but still human reaction time or unusually accurate hunches. Others can develop intense precognition or the ability to telekinetically lift an entire ship after their first ever exposure. Additionally, its tendency to be passed down genetically is a crap-shoot. There are dynasties in New Damascus that boast unbroken lines of psychic descent, yet more than one ALE bigwig has bankrupted themselves trying to ensure their family all become FE-affected with nothing to show for it. Autopsies of affected individuals show that the wrinkles in their brains shift to form literal spirals, causing no end of confusion and convincing some conspiracy theorists that the FE-activated particles are somehow intelligent and using human brains as some kind of symbiotic incubation chamber.

[crwbannwen]

Hello. Tell me about the Downing Hill students studying habits.

Would be my pleasure (also this is going to be long)

So first off for every student sleep is discouraged and generally viewed as optional by the general study culture. Very few students will even think about sleeping. Especially considering their institution's primary function is a library (sounds hauntingly familiar) it's likely that the libraries and study spaces are open 24/7 to encourage this (especially considering the library staff seem to be mostly homunculi and probably don't need sleep themselves). I imagine studying is heavily theory based and would be based on intense reading lists and research. They probably have like convenenat magic practical stuff to do too which means paper theory work is definitely a cram and work through the night culture. No student there is immune to reading and annotating until they pass out.

On an individual basis:

Arnold struggles the most academically out of those we know and I could talk at lengths at how him being literally torn apart by work set by the library and having to slowly rebuild himself is a perfect analogy for my life this past year and a half. Arnold's the student who is completely out of their depth and barely able to cope. I think he probably takes the bare minimum for notes until it's something that specifically interests him and he suddenly excels. The professors definitely use those instances as a 'look at your potential' to keep him tethered there so he won't run away. He does most his studying in his room and away from the library and away from the other students. Arnold will work until his brain won't let him then take a break but the break won't be structured and they he'll struggle to start working again.

Harrow is interesting because it's easy to link xem to (what my uni liked to call us) 'disadvantaged' students because of the summer program (which is a whole other thing I could write a paragraph on), but Harrow is the closest to an actual prestigious background. I only met a few people like this but there are some people who are from families that expect them to go to the same elite uni as everyone else in their family and do them proud but they just don't really want to be there so that's who Harrow reminds me of. People like that tend to flip-flop between scrambling and working hard under the pressure to not disappoint people and then calming down and studying a lot more reasonably and focusing more on trying to find their best way out. Based on that, xe probably does a combination of study between self study in private and study in designated areas. Xe probably prefer quiet study areas and tend to go to general study sectors and not sections for specific subjects. Harrow I think is responsible and sets reasonable breaks (or at least reasonable by downing hill standards)

Victoria I think would prefer subject specific study areas. She reminds me of the students who are from 'disadvantaged' backgrounds but are determined to make everyone else choke on that term by getting every ounce they can out of the facilities around them no matter how exhausted they are. She would study wherever in the library is most relevant to what she is studying. If any study areas aren't 24/7 in downing hill it would be these subject-specific ones. So she would be studying until closing in subject specific areas of the library and then finish up her research in her own private space. She also prefers complete silence for study. She doesn't take a break unless her brain is refusing to work with her, but she will have a 'I can eat a snack if I write another paragraph' mentality.

Ignatius is powerful but pathetic. Superiority/inferiority complex I know plenty of students who develop that. He reminds me of the students who were born to enough wealth for a good education and technically excel and now they have a better knowledge of a study than the students who didn't have the wealth and opportunities, but they still have a better understanding and are treated with more potential and the way they are valued for being good without your advantage creates a complicated superiority/inferiority complex. Based on that, he was definitely in a clique and went to the louder study areas with people he was close to and barely gets work done so has to cram everything overnight in a futile attempt to seem both competent and effortless. He is also the type to work through brainfog and regret it when he reviews his notes later.

It's much harder to say what kind of student Friday, Clara, and Olivier were because we know a lot more about them so it's a lot easier to view their role in a more nuanced way that I could write paragraphs about but I'll simplify it.

Clara and Olivier are both prodigies (which really everyone is at most academic institutions but they're the prodigies of the prodigies). Olivier is a lot more desperate to clinging to that title and I think does multiple drafts of notes and keeps them organised in different notebooks by subject. They have their rough draft and then a second draft where everything is indexed and colour coded and easy to find information from. Clara is a little less precious about her status but a lot more dedicated to finding certain things out. As a result she takes detailed notes, but they're also a mess. I think there was a point where she had the time to make her second draft of notes similar to Olivier but it slowly developed into absolute chaos and most her notebooks are falling apart. She fell from having the most coherent notes to only she understands her notes and sometimes even she can't figure them out.

Friday's covenant powers play a lot into the type of student she is. She's pissed off at the academic culture but also doesn't want to let it beat her. So she just plays along as best she can. I think she used to care when she was younger but slowly grew too jaded to be able to. She's definitely the student who completely knows the official term for the obscure thing you're talking about but she'll still make up a colloquial term for it out of spite to the elitism. She reads what she feels like and writes down either things that feel relevant or things that catch her attention and because of her luck it kinda works out. It's worth saying that she still has to study because she doesn't want to be worthless to the only place that gives her worth. And there's always a constant worry that her luck will run out and she'll suddenly crash because she isn't actually good enough (imposter syndrome but like extra bad). Friday likes small study areas where she can talk to Clara/Olivier with almost no one around. She pretty much forbids studying in her room - that's her space and she doesn't want to associate it with academics. Her notes are erratic and in various notebooks regardless of subject because she'll always just happen to have the one she needs on her when she needs it.

I could try and talk about Oswin but I honestly don't know enough about them. I could think up some hypotheticals but I think I've written too much as is. I could also give you a very in depth analysis of their sleep schedules but same issue.