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differenttimemachinecrusade · 4 months ago

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In-Memory Computing Market Landscape: Opportunities and Competitive Insights 2032

The In-Memory Computing Market was valued at USD 10.9 Billion in 2023 and is expected to reach USD 45.0 Billion by 2032, growing at a CAGR of 17.08% from 2024-2032

The in-memory computing (IMC) market is experiencing rapid expansion, driven by the growing demand for real-time data processing, AI, and big data analytics. Businesses across industries are leveraging IMC to enhance performance, reduce latency, and accelerate decision-making. As digital transformation continues, organizations are adopting IMC solutions to handle complex workloads with unprecedented speed and efficiency.

The in-memory computing market continues to thrive as enterprises seek faster, more scalable, and cost-effective solutions for managing massive data volumes. Traditional disk-based storage systems are being replaced by IMC architectures that leverage RAM, flash memory, and advanced data grid technologies to enable high-speed computing. From financial services and healthcare to retail and manufacturing, industries are embracing IMC to gain a competitive edge in the era of digitalization.

Get Sample Copy of This Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/sample-request/3570

Market Keyplayers:

SAP SE – SAP HANA

IBM – IBM Db2 with BLU Acceleration

Microsoft – Azure SQL Database In-Memory

Oracle Corporation – Oracle TimesTen In-Memory Database

Intel – Intel Optane DC Persistent Memory

Microsoft – SQL Server In-Memory OLTP

GridGain Systems – GridGain In-Memory Computing Platform

VMware – VMware vSphere with Virtual Volumes

Amazon Web Services (AWS) – Amazon ElastiCache

Pivotal Software – Pivotal GemFire

TIBCO Software Inc.– TIBCO ActiveSpaces

Redis Labs – Redis Enterprise

Hazelcast – Hazelcast IMDG (In-Memory Data Grid)

Cisco – Cisco In-Memory Analytics

Qlik – Qlik Data integration

Market Trends Driving Growth

1. Rising Adoption of AI and Machine Learning

The increasing use of artificial intelligence (AI) and machine learning (ML) applications is fueling the demand for IMC solutions. AI-driven analytics require real-time data processing, making IMC an essential component for businesses leveraging predictive insights and automation.

2. Growing Demand for Real-Time Data Processing

IMC is becoming a critical technology in industries where real-time data insights are essential. Sectors like financial services, fraud detection, e-commerce personalization, and IoT-driven smart applications are benefiting from the high-speed computing capabilities of IMC platforms.

3. Integration with Cloud Computing

Cloud service providers are incorporating in-memory computing to offer faster data processing capabilities for enterprise applications. Cloud-based IMC solutions enable scalability, agility, and cost-efficiency, making them a preferred choice for businesses transitioning to digital-first operations.

4. Increased Adoption in Financial Services

The financial sector is one of the biggest adopters of IMC due to its need for ultra-fast transaction processing, risk analysis, and algorithmic trading. IMC helps banks and financial institutions process vast amounts of data in real time, reducing delays and improving decision-making accuracy.

5. Shift Toward Edge Computing

With the rise of edge computing, IMC is playing a crucial role in enabling real-time data analytics closer to the data source. This trend is particularly significant in IoT applications, autonomous vehicles, and smart manufacturing, where instant processing and low-latency computing are critical.

Enquiry of This Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/enquiry/3570

Market Segmentation:

By Components

Hardware

Software

Services

By Application

Fraud detection

Risk management

Real-time analytics

High-frequency trading

By Vertical

BFSI

Healthcare

Retail

Telecoms

Market Analysis and Current Landscape

Key factors contributing to this growth include:

Surging demand for low-latency computing: Businesses are prioritizing real-time analytics and instant decision-making to gain a competitive advantage.

Advancements in hardware and memory technologies: Innovations in DRAM, non-volatile memory, and NVMe-based architectures are enhancing IMC capabilities.

Increased data volumes from digital transformation: The exponential growth of data from AI, IoT, and connected devices is driving the need for high-speed computing solutions.

Enterprise-wide adoption of cloud-based IMC solutions: Organizations are leveraging cloud platforms to deploy scalable and cost-efficient IMC architectures.

Despite its strong growth trajectory, the market faces challenges such as high initial investment costs, data security concerns, and the need for skilled professionals to manage and optimize IMC systems.

Regional Analysis: Growth Across Global Markets

1. North America

North America leads the in-memory computing market due to early adoption of advanced technologies, significant investments in AI and big data, and a strong presence of key industry players. The region’s financial services, healthcare, and retail sectors are driving demand for IMC solutions.

2. Europe

Europe is witnessing steady growth in IMC adoption, with enterprises focusing on digital transformation and regulatory compliance. Countries like Germany, the UK, and France are leveraging IMC for high-speed data analytics and AI-driven business intelligence.

3. Asia-Pacific

The Asia-Pacific region is emerging as a high-growth market for IMC, driven by increasing investments in cloud computing, smart cities, and industrial automation. Countries like China, India, and Japan are leading the adoption, particularly in sectors such as fintech, e-commerce, and telecommunications.

4. Latin America and the Middle East

These regions are gradually adopting IMC solutions, particularly in banking, telecommunications, and energy sectors. As digital transformation efforts accelerate, demand for real-time data processing capabilities is expected to rise.

Key Factors Driving Market Growth

Technological Advancements in Memory Computing – Rapid innovations in DRAM, NAND flash, and persistent memory are enhancing the efficiency of IMC solutions.

Growing Need for High-Speed Transaction Processing – Industries like banking and e-commerce require ultra-fast processing to handle large volumes of transactions.

Expansion of AI and Predictive Analytics – AI-driven insights depend on real-time data processing, making IMC an essential component for AI applications.

Shift Toward Cloud-Based and Hybrid Deployments – Enterprises are increasingly adopting cloud and hybrid IMC solutions for better scalability and cost efficiency.

Government Initiatives for Digital Transformation – Public sector investments in smart cities, digital governance, and AI-driven public services are boosting IMC adoption.

Future Prospects: What Lies Ahead?

1. Evolution of Memory Technologies

Innovations in next-generation memory solutions, such as storage-class memory (SCM) and 3D XPoint technology, will further enhance the capabilities of IMC platforms, enabling even faster data processing speeds.

2. Expansion into New Industry Verticals

IMC is expected to witness growing adoption in industries such as healthcare (for real-time patient monitoring), logistics (for supply chain optimization), and telecommunications (for 5G network management).

3. AI-Driven Automation and Self-Learning Systems

As AI becomes more sophisticated, IMC will play a key role in enabling real-time data processing for self-learning AI models, enhancing automation and decision-making accuracy.

4. Increased Focus on Data Security and Compliance

With growing concerns about data privacy and cybersecurity, IMC providers will integrate advanced encryption, access control, and compliance frameworks to ensure secure real-time processing.

5. Greater Adoption of Edge Computing and IoT

IMC’s role in edge computing will expand, supporting real-time data processing in autonomous vehicles, smart grids, and connected devices, driving efficiency across multiple industries.

Access Complete Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/reports/in-memory-computing-market-3570

Conclusion

The in-memory computing market is witnessing rapid expansion as organizations embrace real-time data processing to drive innovation and competitive advantage. With the integration of AI, cloud computing, and edge technologies, IMC is set to revolutionize industries by enabling faster, more efficient decision-making. As advancements in memory technology continue, businesses that invest in IMC solutions will be well-positioned for the future of high-performance computing.

About Us:

SNS Insider is one of the leading market research and consulting agencies that dominates the market research industry globally. Our company's aim is to give clients the knowledge they require in order to function in changing circumstances. In order to give you current, accurate market data, consumer insights, and opinions so that you can make decisions with confidence, we employ a variety of techniques, including surveys, video talks, and focus groups around the world.

Jagney Dave - Vice President of Client Engagement

Phone: +1-315 636 4242 (US) | +44- 20 3290 5010 (UK)

The In-Memory Computing Market was valued at USD 10.9 Billion in 2023 and is expected to reach USD 45.0 Billion by 2032, growing at a CAGR of 17.08% from 2024-2032

Get Sample Copy of This Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/sample-request/3570

Market Keyplayers:

SAP SE – SAP HANA

IBM – IBM Db2 with BLU Acceleration

Microsoft – Azure SQL Database In-Memory

Oracle Corporation – Oracle TimesTen In-Memory Database

Intel – Intel Optane DC Persistent Memory

Microsoft – SQL Server In-Memory OLTP

GridGain Systems – GridGain In-Memory Computing Platform

VMware – VMware vSphere with Virtual Volumes

Amazon Web Services (AWS) – Amazon ElastiCache

Pivotal Software – Pivotal GemFire

TIBCO Software Inc.– TIBCO ActiveSpaces

Redis Labs – Redis Enterprise

Hazelcast – Hazelcast IMDG (In-Memory Data Grid)

Cisco – Cisco In-Memory Analytics

Qlik – Qlik Data integration

Market Trends Driving Growth

1. Rising Adoption of AI and Machine Learning

2. Growing Demand for Real-Time Data Processing

3. Integration with Cloud Computing

4. Increased Adoption in Financial Services

5. Shift Toward Edge Computing

Enquiry of This Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/enquiry/3570

Market Segmentation:

By Components

Hardware

Software

Services

By Application

Fraud detection

Risk management

Real-time analytics

High-frequency trading

By Vertical

BFSI

Healthcare

Retail

Telecoms

Market Analysis and Current Landscape

Key factors contributing to this growth include:

Surging demand for low-latency computing: Businesses are prioritizing real-time analytics and instant decision-making to gain a competitive advantage.

Advancements in hardware and memory technologies: Innovations in DRAM, non-volatile memory, and NVMe-based architectures are enhancing IMC capabilities.

Increased data volumes from digital transformation: The exponential growth of data from AI, IoT, and connected devices is driving the need for high-speed computing solutions.

Enterprise-wide adoption of cloud-based IMC solutions: Organizations are leveraging cloud platforms to deploy scalable and cost-efficient IMC architectures.

Regional Analysis: Growth Across Global Markets

1. North America

2. Europe

3. Asia-Pacific

4. Latin America and the Middle East

Key Factors Driving Market Growth

Technological Advancements in Memory Computing – Rapid innovations in DRAM, NAND flash, and persistent memory are enhancing the efficiency of IMC solutions.

Growing Need for High-Speed Transaction Processing – Industries like banking and e-commerce require ultra-fast processing to handle large volumes of transactions.

Expansion of AI and Predictive Analytics – AI-driven insights depend on real-time data processing, making IMC an essential component for AI applications.

Shift Toward Cloud-Based and Hybrid Deployments – Enterprises are increasingly adopting cloud and hybrid IMC solutions for better scalability and cost efficiency.

Government Initiatives for Digital Transformation – Public sector investments in smart cities, digital governance, and AI-driven public services are boosting IMC adoption.

Future Prospects: What Lies Ahead?

1. Evolution of Memory Technologies

2. Expansion into New Industry Verticals

3. AI-Driven Automation and Self-Learning Systems

As AI becomes more sophisticated, IMC will play a key role in enabling real-time data processing for self-learning AI models, enhancing automation and decision-making accuracy.

4. Increased Focus on Data Security and Compliance

With growing concerns about data privacy and cybersecurity, IMC providers will integrate advanced encryption, access control, and compliance frameworks to ensure secure real-time processing.

5. Greater Adoption of Edge Computing and IoT

IMC’s role in edge computing will expand, supporting real-time data processing in autonomous vehicles, smart grids, and connected devices, driving efficiency across multiple industries.

Access Complete Report: https://www.snsinsider.com/reports/in-memory-computing-market-3570

Conclusion

About Us:

Jagney Dave - Vice President of Client Engagement

Phone: +1-315 636 4242 (US) | +44- 20 3290 5010 (UK)

#in-memory computing market #in-memory computing market Analysis #in-memory computing market Scope #in-memory computing market growth #in-memory computing market trends

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vidyaitech · 5 months ago

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#In-Memory Computing Market size #In-Memory Computing Market analysis #In-Memory Computing Market share

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gallusrostromegalus · 2 years ago

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The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

youtube

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

#Family Lore #Dogs #It's Halloween babey #friday the 13th #blood mention #I hope that kid had a good night and at least one of his friends believed him #Long post #Video

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c1qfxugcgy0 · 2 months ago

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At my last job, we sold lots of hobbyist electronics stuff, including microcontrollers.

This turned out to be a little more complicated than selling, like, light bulbs. Oh how I yearned for the simplicity of a product you could plug in and have work.

Background: A microcontroller is the smallest useful computer. An ATtiny10 has a kilobyte of program memory. If you buy a thousand at a time, they cost 44 cents each.

As you'd imagine, the smallest computer has not great specs. The RAM is 32 bytes. Not gigabytes, not megabytes, not kilobytes. Individual bytes. Microcontrollers have the absolute minimum amount of hardware needed to accomplish their task, and nothing more.

This includes programming the thing. Any given MCU is programmed once, at the start of its life, and then spends the next 30 years blinking an LED on a refrigerator. Since they aren’t meant to be reflashed in the field, and modern PCs no longer expose the fast, bit-bangable ports hobbyists once used, MCUs usually need a third-party programming tool.

But you could just use that tool to install a bootloader, which then listens for a magic number on the serial bus. Then you can reprogram the chip as many times as you want without the expensive programming hardware.

There is an immediate bifurcation here. Only hobbyists will use the bootloader version. With 1024 bytes of program memory, there is, even more than usual, nothing to spare.

Consumer electronics development is a funny gig. It, more than many other businesses, requires you to be good at everything. A startup making the next Furby requires a rare omniexpertise. Your company has to write software, design hardware, create a production plan, craft a marketing scheme, and still do the boring logistics tasks of putting products in boxes and mailing them out. If you want to turn a profit, you do this the absolute minimum number of people. Ideally, one.

Proving out a brand new product requires cutting corners. You make the prototype using off the shelf hobbyist electronics. You make the next ten units with the same stuff, because there's no point in rewriting the entire codebase just for low rate initial production. You use the legacy code for the next thousand units because you're desperately busy putting out a hundred fires and hiring dozens of people to handle the tsunami of new customers. For the next ten thousand customers...

Rather by accident, my former employer found itself fulfilling the needs of the missing middle. We were an official distributor of PICAXE chips for North America. Our target market was schools, but as a sideline, we sold individual PICAXE chips, which were literally PIC chips flashed with a bootloader and a BASIC interpreter at a 200% markup. As a gag, we offered volume discounts on the chips up to a thousand units. Shortly after, we found ourselves filling multi-thousand unit orders.

We had blundered into a market niche too stupid for anyone else to fill. Our customers were tiny companies who sold prototypes hacked together from dev boards. And every time I cashed a ten thousand dollar check from these guys, I was consumed with guilt. We were selling to willing buyers at the current fair market price, but they shouldn't have been buying these products at all! Since they were using bootloaders, they had to hand program each chip individually, all while PIC would sell you programmed chips at the volume we were selling them for just ten cents extra per unit! We shouldn't have been involved at all!

But they were stuck. Translating a program from the soft and cuddly memory-managed education-oriented languages to the hardcore embedded byte counting low level languages was a rather esoteric skill. If everyone in-house is just barely keeping their heads above water responding to customer emails, and there's no budget to spend $50,000 on a consultant to rewrite your program, what do you do? Well, you keep buying hobbyist chips, that's what you do.

And I talked to these guys. All the time! They were real, functional, profitable businesses, who were giving thousands of dollars to us for no real reason. And the worst thing. The worst thing was... they didn't really care? Once every few months they would talk to their chip guy, who would make vague noises about "bootloaders" and "programming services", while they were busy solving actual problems. (How to more accurately detect deer using a trail camera with 44 cents of onboard compute) What I considered the scandal of the century was barely even perceived by my customers.

In the end my employer was killed by the pandemic, and my customers seamlessly switched to buying overpriced chips straight from the source. The end! No moral.

#margin call

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luveline · 4 months ago

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𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

seven | chapter list

Finding out you’re a princess isn’t half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can’t seem to stop flirting with you.

bodyguard!james, fem!reader, implied chubby!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au, all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance, slowburn, background wolfstar

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The whiplash of last night's dinner seems rectified at breakfast. Marlene arrives an hour after you wake up with a basket of farmer’s market produce, glass bottles of fresh juice, a dozen eggs still dirty with a baby feather nestled between shells. She brings cuts of bacon so fat it’s practically pork belly, and all manner of greens for the omelettes. “Gotta keep these working men fed,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’d quite like to know why Sirius Black can’t make his own breakfast.”

Sirius falls in barely half an hour later, all hardness gone, dressed in slacks and a brown leather jacket, his loose curls pinned away from his face. “I’m thinking of growing a moustache,” he says when he spots you on the sofa. “What do you think? I don’t have much space for one, really, but it would look rather refined.”

James shows up soon enough. You worry he’s angry with you after his quick departure last night, but he says, “Princess, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Mum said she saw a photo of us together in the paper. She’s having it framed.”

Things between James and Sirius are frosty for all of half a day.

So for a while everyone pretends the conversation about Baron Riddle never happened. Things go back to normal, driving lessons, self defence, clothes shopping. You keep attending your university classes at the local college upon Remus’ assistance —Sirius will find a way to have them transfer your credits, he says, so long as you finish this year. Two more terms and you can take a break.

You pretend that everything is okay, and permanent.

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” James says.

You tilt your head to him but keep your eyes on the burning white of the computer screen, scribbling the last words of a sentence down for your next assignment. Researching isn’t fun, and getting James special permission to enter the college building hadn’t been easy, but he makes your long afternoons bearable. “Do you celebrate?” you ask.

“I do.”

“Your mum will be happy to have you home.”

“I’m not going home this year.”

Your beginning smile is stopped, fading fast. “‘Cos of me?”

“Because this is the job,” he says easily. “It’s alright. I’ll still speak to her. She’s used to not seeing me. I’ve spent more time away from her than with her, for years.”

You close your textbook, tracing its softening edges in an avoidance of his gaze. “Well. Well, I don’t really need you, James.”

“No?”

You meet his eyes. Careful not to spook yourself. He’s looking at you with little emotion, impossible to infer his mood from expression alone. You don’t know what he means to ask you here.

“Missing out on time with your family for me, when nobody even knows who I am–”

“That’s not true, is it? You get a fair few stares.”

“Not because they really know who I am,” you whisper. “It’s like seeing someone you’re sure you’ve met before, but really you’ve seen them on TV. I’m like an odd memory or something.”

“An odd memory.”

You turn back to your computer and flick through the journal you’re reading for want of something to do. James twists in his chair with a hand fallen between your shoulders. Your skin tingles under his touch. “I just don’t think it’s good of me to have you when I’m fine.”

“Do you have me, Princess?” James says, his voice turning soft slow as a taffy pull.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” James’ hand comes to rest on the desk beside yours, not touching you, not moving a millimetre. He can be so still, but it’s a stillness that came with practice. He’s as at ease here as he would be at home, trusting his abilities. Nothing that can get you here scares him, not for a second. “I’m afraid I’m yours for the foreseeable future.”

You fight down a shiver. “It’s not fair for you to miss out on Christmas. I’ll be fine by myself. I would stay home, I promise, you could lock me in and set me free a week later.”

“I won’t do that,” he says.

“But you could, and then you won’t miss Christmas or your mum, and–” You realise you’re talking too loudly and tone it down. “And I’ll be fine on my own.”

“You said, yeah…”

You stare at the cover of your textbook. “Right.”

James checks his watch. In his ‘bum bag’ as he calls it, the radio he’d been carrying around on his shoulder when you met makes a concealed crackle. He pulls it out and brings it to his mouth. “Say again?” he orders.

“We’re waiting outside,” Sirius says, to your surprise.

“Pads, you’ve actually done something I asked,” James says in amazement.

“Not really. It’s Remus’ radio, you know I won’t carry them around. It’s ridiculous. I would’ve liked to have called you but you never answer, even if it’s life or death!”

“It’s never life or death with you.”

“Cruel. Tell the Princess to hurry her work, she promised we’d go to the cinema and it’s getting on.”

“She’s done when she’s done,” James says.

“I’m finished,” you say.

“She’s finished,” James says.

“Oh, good. Has she picked what movie she wants to see?”

“Sirius, can’t we have this conversation in two minutes, when we’re in the same car.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

You pack away your things and log out of your account on the library computer. James offers to take your bag, grumbling when you insist on carrying it yourself, and rebelling against you as you descend the stairs into the college’s entrance atrium by holding open every stairwell door.

“What movie does he want to see?” you ask James.

“Never mind him,” James says, stilling at the shock of cold that ebbs from the main doors. “Button your coat, lovely.”

You thought perhaps James would get to know you more and he’d stop using ‘lovely’. There isn’t all that much about you worth such a nice word, but he still says it. He calls Marlene gorgeous practically every morning when she makes his coffee, Lily sweetness or angel or —really, he’s quite fond of Lily. You don’t see her too often; she’s here to take care of diplomatic matters directly involving you, and so she pops in every now and then to gather your signatures or ask an opinion, busy at the embassy. You get this uncomfortable feeling when you see them together, too complicated to name, like fingers curled tight around your heart, squeezing until you’re squeamish and pounding behind the ears. And Sirius makes these jokes you’re too afraid to ask about, little snippy things aimed to make fun of James in a brotherly manner. Our Prongs likes a redhead. I considered going ginger for a bit, but I don’t have the complexion for it. You have no choice but to sit there still and silent until they change the subject. It must be the not knowing them well that makes it hard.

Just outside of the college, Remus and Sirius wait in the front seats of a rather nice car.

“Where did you get this?” James asks, stopped too far in the road.

“Bought it.”

“Why?” James asks.

“You said I couldn’t get a bike.”

“I said you couldn’t get a bike,” Remus corrects. “James said he wouldn’t get on the bike, or sit by your bedside if you drove it into a wall.”

“You like it?” Sirius asks.

James gives you a smug, fond smile. “Do we?” he asks.

“It’s pretty,” you say.

“She’s gorgeous, Princess! Don’t downplay it like that! Now, are you getting in? Remus has picked tonight’s movie–”

“Get out,” James says.

“You are not driving my baby,” Sirius says, “I’ve only had her an hour.”

“I don’t care how long you’ve had the car, if the Princess is riding in it, I’ll be the one driving it. You know the rules.”

“Yes, but you’re the one who makes the rules, and they’re stupid rules, so I suppose this time you’ll be letting me drive, won’t you?” Sirius asks.

—

“My own car,” Sirius mutters to himself beside you, “can’t even drive my own bloody car. This is worse than the summer I saved for an electric guitar and my mother smashed it into smithereens in the foyer. At least Walburga let me play a couple of songs first.”

“Walburga?” you ask, grinning.

“Patron Saint of hydrophones,” Sirius says offhandedly. ”And cunts. It’s why I hate water so much, see, I’m worried mum’s going to deprive me of protection.”

“Sorry, Princess, Sirius is having one of his days,” Remus says from the passenger seat.

“I’m being serious,” Sirius says. “Unsurprisingly.”

“Don’t let me tell Effy who you’ve just called mum,” James quips.

“Euphemia,” Sirius says quickly, “name of a well-spoken woman. And she is well-spoken, James’ mum, she’s well everything. Well dressed, well kind,” —he puts his hand on your arm and rubs gently, enough affection for the woman in question running through him that it pours into you instead— “she would just love you to death, Your Gorgeousness.”

“You are having one of those days,” you say.

“Not sure I know what you mean.” Sirius grins at you, dark hair in his eyes, his irises a pale grey that catches you. “Alright there?” he asks.

“Your eyes are grey.”

“If you fancy me–”

“I thought they were brown, is all, like James’,” you say, voice taking a sharp turn into loudness in a poor attempt to move away from what you’ve said.

“We can’t all have that dreamy mocha brown,” Sirius says. His grin has changed, morphed into a mischief you aren’t yet familiar with. “We all have grey eyes, the Black’s. My mother and father too. Makes sense they would, what with their… similar heritage.”

Sirius doesn’t volunteer information about his family often, and as he does he squirms. You wonder if he’d tripped into saying it on automatic. You know intimately how that feels. “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “I spent the last twenty years thinking my mum was a drunk and my father an idea. Of course, I know more about my dad now.”

“Not about your mum?”

“Oh, no. She’s dead, I think,” you say.

“You don’t know?”

Your turn to squirm. “Not really, no.”

Sirius frowns. His lips part, a concerned platitude no doubt on his lips, but James’ strong voice cuts in, “You can share mine,” he says, “god knows she’s always trying to find another of my friends to parent. She even tried to baby Regulus when they first met.”

“Your brother?” you ask Sirius, remembering some tidbit of conversation.

“He isn’t exactly versed in accepting affection,” Sirius says.

“Neither were you!” James doesn’t look away from the road ahead as his arm reaches back. He points ineffectually. “And now look at you!”

“Get me out of this car,” Sirius says.

Remus, grey at the gills, murmurs, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Remus wars with migraine–motion sickness nausea on the corner of the street. James, having parked and locked the car once you all emerged, stands straight beside you, worry flashing across his face. Sirius has it all covered, patting the space between Remus’ shoulders slowly as Remus says, “Stop smothering me, or I’ll be sick on your shoes.”

“Finally return the favour, then,” Sirius says.

Remus groans, bending further toward the ground.

“Is he okay?” you ask.

James doesn’t answer for a while. He sweeps his gaze around the streets, cataloguing people and squinting against the lowering sun as it shuttles behind buildings. The evening cold is setting in, lights of the cinema blue-bright white and buzzing just ahead. “Remus will be alright,” he says, sounding like he believes it wholeheartedly. “Just gets sick sometimes ‘cos of the headaches.”

It really bothers him, all the same. He doesn’t hide it well, the twitch of his fingers to go help, his furtive glances. He looks up and down the road, behind the cars, around you, and always back at Remus and Sirius.

“How old were you when you first went away to boarding school?” you ask.

“We were eleven. Why?”

“I’m just wondering. You’ve been friends for a really long time, then.”

“Not too long, now, Princess. I’m only in my twenties.”

“Right,” you laugh, “of course.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! It didn’t mean anything.”

He gets a Sirius brand of smile, then. No, not Sirius at all, just a James you haven’t met before, cheeky and funny at once. “Sure it didn’t,” he teases. “You think I’m old. Do I look old to you? I’ll have you know I’m in perfect athletic shape. My mile time is six minutes on the dot.”

“Very impressive,” you say.

He rolls his shoulders. “Yes, it is.”

A couple of feet away, Remus has stood tall, a hand covering his eyes. Sirius covers that hand with his own, his laugh carrying across the street. “You’re a mess, Lupin, but you’re nothing I can’t handle, obviously. Get over yourself.”

“All I said was ‘fuck’s sake’,” Remus says.

“It was teeming with self loathing.”

“It‘s like I’m stuck together with shit PVA or something, I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re fine. You are. You’ve never looked so fine, Moony old chap.”

“Can you stop?” Remus asks, sounding like he doesn’t mind it either way.

“Sure,” Sirius says anyways, softer now by a thread. “I’m done.”

“James, should we–”

James goes down with a quiet thump. Your hearing flats out, no sound of him as his arms curl outward and his back rolls —he’s too smart to let his head smack the pavement.

You aren’t smart enough to move out of the line of fire.

A weight like a log forced itself into your stomach, slamming your back to a chest. You thrust your head back hard and cry out as a stab of pain rushes through your head, stumbling as best you can away from it, but the arm doesn’t let you go.

Sudden, there’s another cry of pain, male this time, and the arm is letting you go. You bound two steps forward and spin in time to see James in a fist fight with a masked assailant, punches popped faster than you can track: you see clearly only points of contact, James taking a hit to the chest, to the head, his face snapped sideways as his knee comes up. He puts all of his weight into the motion and kicks, putting some much needed space between the two of them.

You glance back for Sirius and Remus in a tizzy and come face to face with another black mask.

You aren’t sure why you do it. Perhaps James’ sense of urgency rubs off on you, all his echoes of why you don’t want to let an attacker take you away from the public eye if you can help it, or maybe it’s knowing James is locked into his own fight and he might not win against another, caught off guard like that. You can’t confess to thinking, only swinging, the power of your entire upper body thrust into a punch that shatters you with pain.

Before you can see if the punch had any effect, someone is stepping in front of you and hitting him again. Twice, a third time, James hits the masked man until he’s incapacitated on the ground.

He swings back to you with a harsh breath. Your ears pop. “What the fuck!” someone’s saying, not James, his lips unmoving as he looks you over.

“…You okay?” he says finally, stepping into your space to hold you by the arms. “You’re not hurt?”

You flinch as his hand slips down to yours.

“My hand!” you yelp, pressing it to your chest.

“What about your hand?”

“I punched that guy!”

“Did you tuck your thumb into your hand?”

“Yes!”

“I told you not to do that!” James exclaims, breathless and vaguely pained as he puts his hands out again to take your injured one. “You tuck your thumbnail against the curl of your index finger!”

“Is it broken?” Sirius asks seriously, stepping over one of your attackers in his rush to be next to you. “Are you okay? Fuck, it looked like a good one, though!”

“I didn’t think properly,” you say, biting back a whimper as James rolls down your sleeve, your hand shaking terribly in his grasp, “I was just scared–”

“No, I know, it’s not your fault,” James says in a run on, sounding far outside the realm of a professional as he pokes near your pinky fingers knuckle. Your whine of pain makes it worse. “Sorry, lovely. I think you have a fracture. Fuck, you didn’t have to do that, I had it handled.”

“He was gonna grab me!”

“I know.” He rubs his brow. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” James raises his gaze to Sirius as though he’s going to ask for something, but he pauses. “Where’s Remus?”

“Turned into a migraine pretty much the second before those guys turned up, I had to sit him down.”

James holds your arm with both hands. His eyes are browner than anything as he levels your gaze. “I’m gonna fix this, okay? I just need to make sure they aren’t getting up.”

“Okay.” The pain in your hand gets worse by the second.

“Okay?” he asks.

It hurts so badly that tears form, one dribbling hot and fat down your cheek. “Okay,” you say again, wobbling.

His lips go flat, but he turns away to start cleaning up. Sirius takes his place, wrapping an arm behind your back with a comforting murmur that you don’t quite hear.

—

James is gone for hours. Sirius and Mikkelson take you home, and waiting for you is a team of doctors and nurses that seem unperturbed to be treating a princess in her rinky dink living room. The craziest part about it all isn’t that you’ve been attacked, or that the two doctors and three nurses are smiley, unhurried but not uncaring, and it’s not that you wish James was there so sorely it has you unsettled despite the rapid pain relief, no. The craziest part is the portable x-ray machine.

“We could’ve gone to the hospital,” you tell Sirius, leaning back in your kitchen chair as a sweet-faced nurse slips a brace carefully over your injured hand.

“No, we couldn’t have.”

“I don’t understand why not.”

“Yes, you do.” Sirius points at the plate of biscuits by your cup insistently. “Go on.”

“I can’t.”

“Just something quick for your blood sugar. Or pressure? One of them. Would you rather have a sandwich?”

“No.”

“Princess, please,” he says, giving you a frown you're unused to, like you’re pissing him off and he expects it.

You grab a biscuit to appease him.

Remus is wrapped in a throw blanket in your bed, likely sleeping, or perhaps still furious that Sirius had asked one of the nurses to give him a good look. Her diagnosis wasn’t anything new; Remus is suffering in the third stage of a migraine. It’s best he be left alone for a little while to rest. He’s going to be very tired when he comes out of it.

James hasn’t returned yet. When they first stuffed you to the brim with painkillers, you’d thought morosely that you‘d needed him there, but now you just wonder what’s taking him so long. Who were those men? One of them had grabbed you tightly with intent to drag you away, so where were you going?

Your flat is growing more crowded by the second. Marlene is in the living room trying to take dinner orders from extremely happy doctors and bodyguards alike, and with her is a stranger, a woman with dark skin and darker hair, black curls piled away from her face. You haven’t asked about her yet. Perhaps Marlene needs help catering for the sheer amount of people.

“This isn’t exactly incognito,” you say, “all these people.”

“Yes, well, James wants you to move anyways. And maybe that’s for the best. It’s rather cramped in here.”

“It wasn’t,” you say.

He assesses you quietly.

“What?”

“It’s alright if you don’t want to move, but you must know you’re a sitting duck here.”

“I must?”

“You are not a normal person, and you never will be. James won’t tell you about the things you should be scared of even if he’s honest about the risk, and I was at the mercy of his wrath last time, but I don’t care,” he says honestly. “I don’t. I need you to know that you’re not safe and it’s not because of some invisible maybe, there are real forces at play here. The sooner you move, the better. I know,” —he lowers his voice— “it’s a massive change, and you haven’t had time to catch your breath, but you can’t get comfortable now. And hey, you can keep the flat, yeah? You don’t have to give it away, but things aren’t safe here.”

“But why not?”

“It’s the Baron,” Sirius says, serious, quick, glancing at the door, “he’s not just cruel, he’s evil. He’s done things you’d never think he’d get away with, not now. It’s like the dark ages in his courts, the pure bloods–”

“Sirius, what the fuck?” Marlene says, pushing the door until it hits the wall. “Enough. She fucking broke her hand.”

“And I’m telling her why.”

“She broke it because she punched someone the wrong way,” the unknown woman says, warm but disapproving at once. “Who taught you to fight?”

“Uh, it’s self defense,” you say uselessly.

“James,” she tuts.

Marlene appraises the nurse where she’s lingering at the counter, putting away her things. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, which is mostly sincere, just a tad pushy.

The nurse says, “No, thank you,” and makes herself scarce.

“This is Dorcas,” Marlene introduces as the door closes. No explanation to who she is follows as they settle against the counter tops.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hello.” Dorcas smiles, all signs of her disapproval wiped clean. “How’s the hand?”

“Hurting.”

“It’s nothing some rigatoni arrabbiata won’t fix, I’m sure.”

“Sorry, Dorcas, but why the fuck are you here?” Sirius asks pleasantly.

“Why do you think?” she asks sweetly back.

“Usually to fuck me off.”

“Enough,” Marlene says. “If you’re going to argue, you have two options. You can do it while pulling the tendons from these chicken fillets, or you can do it outside.”

“Pass,” Sirius says. “I’ll go on as usual, as long as the snake stays quiet.”

“You’re as bad as.” Dorcas crosses her arms over her chest.

Sirius doesn’t rise to the bait, despite himself, and Marlene opens your fridge to begin cooking. He doesn’t mention the evil forces in play again, leaving you in your agony to brush it away. You’ll think of it later, or never, whichever comes first.

“You can go to bed, if you like.”

“Remus is in there.”

“He won’t care. Pretty sure he had one of us in bed with him from first year to last,” Sirius says, taking one of your biscuits and eating it in two quick bites.

You remember your own and put it down next to your cup of tea. Tea is fine, but these boys are constantly plying you with it and you’ve had enough to last a while. And the biscuits —who thought you could ever be sick of biscuits?

“I’m not tired,” you say. “Maybe I’ll… finish some school work.”

“Sure. Gonna be okay typing without your hand?”

You wince. “Fuck. It’s my dominant hand, too.”

“You’ll be out of commission for a while. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” You look down at your twinging hand, a slice of shadow banding across it under the table. “I’d rather have a broken hand than be dead.”

“No one was going to kill you. Is that what Sirius has been telling you?” Marlene asks, glaring at Sirius from over her shoulder, her eyes like blue fire.

“No,” you say. “He didn’t have to say anything about it to me for me to know I was in danger.”

Marlene isn’t chastened. “You’re okay. James protected you, and he will again. You don’t need to worry about it, about any of that stuff.”

“That’s willfully ignorant,” Dorcas says.

Sirius takes another biscuit. “I actually agree.”

They’re friendly from then on. You don’t have it in you to be surprised.

—

James cannot stand London much longer. The police officers are knobs, the roads are shit, and now you’re getting attacked by freaks outside of the loneliest cinema he could find. He’s spent three hours in an interrogation room with a prick and one of the guys who tried to attack you, asking their intentions, who they work for, who they are, and it hasn’t mattered, when he could’ve been making sure you were alright. He gave strict instructions on how you were supposed to be treated and by who, but Sirius doesn’t always listen. What James realised somewhere between leaving you on the side of the road and the police station, is that he has sorely underestimated what needs to be done here to keep you safe. Dorcas might go a ways of helping that along, but he needs advice.

He needs Mary. Maybe Lily and Emmeline full time. He needs anyone willing to help him. Dearborn, the twins. Reinforcements are necessary.

He needs to breathe. He can’t believe you broke your hand doing something he should’ve done first.

“Fucking winded me,” he says to himself, rolling his sore shoulder as he takes the stairs to your flat two at a time. “Wanker.”

“Kiss your mum with that mouth?” Remus asks lightly.

He’s sitting at the end of the hallway away from your flat with the window wide open, a cigarette wobbling between his lips. It’s not lit yet.

“You should stay in bed,” James says, crossing the hall to stand by him. He finds a zippo lighter in Remus’ pocket and flicks it open, holding the flame to the cig, letting the end smoulder. “How is it?”

“It’s not that bad. Didn’t make me sick.”

“Wobbly?” James asks, closing the zippo to tuck away in his own pocket.

Remus takes a deep inhale, hand on the window ledge to steady himself. “Only when I breathe,” he says on the exhale.

They stand together for a bit. James sort of wants to smoke, it’s not like he didn’t do his fair share in school, but he was lucky it never caught him like Remus and Sirius, who both consider themselves casual smokers. I smoke to celebrate, Sirius said once, and to commiserate. So that’s a few a day, at least.

Remus is less inclined. James can’t blame him either way. Isn’t he owed a vice while his head rears to implode?

“How is the princess?” James asks eventually.

“I can’t confess to seeing much of her,” Remus says, voice light enough to imply that you’re fine. “But she’s spent the afternoon with a fracture and Sirius. I dare say she’s miserable.”

“Her hand is broken?”

“Yep. But it’s a boxer’s fracture, it’ll heal in a month.” Remus gets about halfway down his cigarette before he squints at James with suspicion. “You were in a rush.”

“Just checking you’re okay.”

“Mm.” He takes another drag before pulling the cigarette from his mouth, flicking a tall line of ash out of the window. “She’s not upset with you.”

“She should be.”

“James, you’re such a martyr.”

He shrugs. “I’m here to protect her and at the very first hurdle I’ve let her down. Actually, the second hurdle, because I’ve already hit her once, so hard she could barely keep her eyes open.”

“You didn’t hit her, don’t say that.”

“I did hit her.”

“With a door.”

“Yes, with a heavy object.”

“By accident!” Remus laughs and snuffs his cigarette on the wall outside the window, drawing the butt inside a curled fist. It makes James wince. “You’re alright. Truthfully I think she just wants to see you ‘cos you’re nice to her.”

“You’re nice to her.”

“Yes, but I’m not in the best working order right now.” He smiles. “And I’m not like you, I won’t put my arm around her.”

“Please don’t.”

“I won’t. I would if she was upset, but she doesn’t seem upset. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Don’t say it like that!”

Remus laughs again. “Like what? Stop making me laugh, my head is throbbing.”

Sirius once made Remus laugh so hard it prompted a migraine, or at least it was conveniently timed. He swore off jokes and being witty for a good two weeks. “Shall I never joke again?” James asks.

He sounds tired, even to himself.

“It’s a start,” Remus says.

“Time is it?”

“Time to stop being a coward, I think. Little after seven. You’re done?”

“Done. Too tired to make better decisions.”

“You know that song by the Rolling Stones, Miss You?” Remus presses his hand to an eye. “Stuck in my head.”

James loves how much Remus loves to talk to him. It’s stupid. “Guess I’m lying to myself, it’s just you and no one else,” James sing-songs quietly, with an eyebrow wiggle.

“I like your voice more than his.”

“Charmer.”

They follow one another down the hall to your door, where Mikkelson couldn’t look more bored keeping guard. Poor Mickey with the shit jobs and no company. At least he’s well paid. In the living room, there’s little evidence of the work he’s thought would be done here. No medical waste or mess, each pillow cleanly placed and each trinket of yours where you left it. There’s not much sound, but James cocks a trained ear and listens for everything. A rustle in the bathroom. A breath taken in the kitchen, then another. There’s definitely kissing, he thinks, heaving a horrendous sigh to let the lovebirds know they have company.

Could’ve been you and Sirius, but he can’t see it happening.

Marlene appears around the kitchen doorway, ever so slightly pink. “Hullo. Dinner?”

“Yeah, please.”

“Sure. Remus, you want something? Chicken soup?”

Marlene will make chicken soup as most Genovian would, with pastina or acini de pepe, fresh rosemary, thyme, and Parmesan rind shredded over the top. It’s no less delicious than any other dish in her arsenal, but it’s so, so homely that Remus sighs wistfully and James can’t not ask, “Soup for me, too?”

“Sure. It’s what I made for the princess, poor girl.”

“She’s in the bathroom?”

“For a while.” Marlene has the decency to smile apologetically. “You boys like red pepper, yeah?”

“And Sirius?”

“I don’t know, James, I’m not a psychic.”

“Right. Hi, Dorcas, how are you?”

Dorcas appears in the door. James might think she was reluctant if he didn’t know better; Dorcas doesn’t ever do anything she doesn’t want to do. Her smile says something unreadable. “Fine,” she says concisely.

James trudges away. In the bedroom, Sirius is curled up on your bed asleep. He shakes his head in wonderment and carries on to the bathroom. There’s water running behind the door, accompanied by the soft sounds of under-the-breath cursing.

“Angel,” he says before he can stop himself, “are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“James?”

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“James, I… have a long sleeve top on, and it’s hurting more than I thought with the cast. Can you… do you think Marlene would come help me?”

He shouldn’t — “I can help, angel. Is it hurting? You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

“Just a bit.”

Your hesitant voice echoing off the walls makes him chuckle. “I can get Marlene,” he says.

He’s already turning when you say, “Uh, no, that’s fine. Can you get me out?”

“Are you sure?”

“I want it to be you,” you say quietly.

James doesn’t know what to do with that. He opens the bathroom door and finds you uncomfortably twisted. You’ve tried to take off the sleeve on your injured arm first and ended up with the back of your shirt pulled away from you, pulled up, tight against your neck, a little gap between your chest and the fabric. You aren’t scandalous, barely undressed, but James knows you’re shy about how you look from fittings and intuition alike. He quickly encourages your uninjured hand into the air to loosen the band of fabric from behind your neck, and then easily tugs the entirety of it up your arms and off of you, more careful at your dominant hand. The moment you’re released, he takes the soft sleep shirt you’ve put on the laundry basket and ruches the sleeves. He sews your injured hand tentatively though one sleeve, then the other, before slipping it over your head and pulling it down. His knuckles skim your naked back, and he’s careful not to touch bare skin again. When he’s neatened you up, he holds your side in one hand. “Are you alright?” he asks, frowning.

“I know it’s just a fracture, but I feel like I can’t use it. Hurts.”

“There’s no such thing as just a fracture,” he says. “Fractures hurt. Your hand is broken, it’s alright if you can’t move it. Do you need any more help?”

You shake your head. “I managed the trousers by myself, thankfully.”

James looks you over and finds himself softening swiftly. He does feel sorry for you. He thinks you’re allowed an allotment of pity. But he also just likes you, and doesn’t want to see you in pain. His colossal guilt doesn’t help.

The darkness from outside is creeping in. You’ve a shadow on your cheek, another stretching out to your side. Your pajamas are worn —well-loved— a simple black t-shirt with a teddy bear on the chest and blue pajama trousers to match the teddy’s bow tie. You’ve the appearance of somebody who cried for a good hour or two, not so much splotchy or sore looking as simply coloured by the after effects of distress, a tiredness to your eyes that has nothing to do with sleep. You look small, but not in the sense of proportions. Just small.

“How’s your pain?” he asks you quietly.

“It’s not bad if I don’t move it.”

“Try not to, then.”

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

“It’s all fine. I don’t have any more answers for you. Please, forgive me.”

He knows a grudge hasn't crossed your mind. Still, he’s surprised again by your endless goodness, whether you might see it that way or not, your propensity for leniency and how it can be a brave, kind thing, “It wasn’t your fault, it just happened. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you weren’t there… Well, I can imagine. I can. And it really scares me.” You press your splinted hand to your abdomen. “Thank you for keeping me safe, James.”

I didn’t keep you safe, I barely got to you in time, he thinks. He’s in over his head. He’s practically drowning in shame and responsibility and self-obsessed inner turmoil.

He wants to be his best, for you. He wants to do this well.

James has no idea how he’s going to do this.

“You’re welcome,” he says, hiding everything but a stitch of breathlessness from his tone.

“Did you eat?” you ask.

In over his head. Drowning, maybe. “No. Did you?”

“I don’t have much appetite.”

“Marl’s made chicken soup with little pasta stars,” he says, nodding toward the door. “You’ll love it. Promise.”

“You’ll eat too?” you ask.

James feels a tightening in his stomach that he wisely ignores. Without answering aloud, he encourages you out of the bathroom to the kitchen, and you both eat.

He’s helping Marlene clear the plates away when you hesitate by the door. Sirius has unceremoniously tumbled from your bed to the sofa when Remus tried to rouse him, begging tiredly to be allowed to stay. You’d said yes without problem. You trust Sirius, and if you didn’t, James thinks you might trust him enough to know who you can be left alone with. Remus and Dorcas have been ferried back to the accommodation by one of the others. Marlene and James are set to leave together as soon as the kitchen is squared.

And yet you hesitate.

Haunting the door, James recognises the way one hand flutters, almost squeezes the air, wanting to wring the other but unable.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, trying to use his body as a wall to offer you some privacy.

“Nothing.”

“You can go to bed if you need to, you don’t have to wait for us.” He manages a smirk. “You want me to change the sheets, don’t you? That Sirius Black character is a real heathen, isn't he? I don’t think a day went by when we were kids where his bed wasn’t inundated with crumbs.”

“He ate in bed?” you ask.

“Small rebellions.”

“Remus says you guys shared a lot.”

“We did. I don’t really know why. I know boys aren’t ‘supposed’ to love each other like that, but we never grew out of it.” James lonely without his mum and dad’s bed to climb into, Sirius realising he could have comfort whenever he wanted, even if he didn’t need it, and Remus, usually unwilling, occasionally doing the work himself if it was what was necessary to sleep again after a bad dream. (And the other, who didn’t often share, but leaves a bad taste in James’ mouth to recall.)

“And it helped?��

“Sometimes.”

You squirm on the spot, but you force it out. “James, will you stay?” You’re apologetic. “I don’t think I can sleep if you go. I’m not scared, I promise, but…”

James’ voice gets caught behind his teeth.

“You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine. But if you don’t mind, you can stay, you can have my bed, if you want, I’d just feel better if it was you.”

“Of course I’ll stay.”

You smile.

“It’s my job to look after you. If you feel better knowing I’m out here on the sofa, then I’ll stay.” He offers a smile usually saved for his friends.

“Okay.” Something in you has gone slack. You’re warmed from the inside out, and so suddenly tired. “You won’t go in the bed?”

“I won’t take it from you, no. I quite like how you make the sofa up, I’ll just shove Sirius over. I want the pillowcase with flowers and the blanket with fleece underneath, please.”

You leave to get his provisions. He follows your gaze. It’s why he knows you look back at him as you cross the threshold to your room.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fic #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #the marauders #marauders era #marauders

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sunshinesfreckless · 23 days ago

Text

Coward

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Felix x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Felix chooses his career over his girlfriend.

Warnings: No Happy Ending 🫩

A/N: Bet you guys didn’t expect an angst fanfic from me after you‘ve been asking for smut in my requests for the past few weeks—HAH, sorry!

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

“You should break up with her.”

The words hung heavy in the air, more deafening than a scream.

Felix sat frozen in the meeting room, hands clenched into fists beneath the table, his heart pounding so loud he could barely hear anything else. He tried to meet Chan’s eyes, searching for support, for some kind of silent protest — but Chan wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the floor, jaw tight, guilt written across every tense line of his face.

Hyunjin’s reaction was different — immediate, visible. His brows furrowed, eyes flickering from the manager to Felix like he’d just misheard. “What?” he breathed, his voice too soft to be defiant but too sharp to ignore. “You can’t be serious.”

The manager stayed calm. Too calm.

“She’s not a scandal yet,” he said, as if that made this any better. “But she will be. People are speculating. You’re slipping. The engagement on your posts is dropping, and the comments are full of hate toward her. This isn’t about your feelings, Felix. It’s about your image.”

Felix felt something in him splinter.

Like a crack that had been forming quietly, invisibly, now split wide open.

Y/N’s laugh echoed in his memory, soft and melodic. The way she’d always waited up for him, no matter how late he got home. The sleepy kisses on the couch, the way she wore his hoodies and always tucked her cold toes beneath his legs in bed. The way she whispered I’m proud of you on nights when he came home completely broken from exhaustion.

He thought about her smile — how safe it made him feel. How she never asked for much, just him. Just time. Just honesty.

But now they wanted him to give her up. Like she was just some inconvenience.

A marketing risk.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Because if he did, he might scream.

He might cry.

He might beg.

But idols don’t beg. Idols obey.

And Felix had worked too hard to throw it all away. That’s what they were counting on.

────୨ৎ────

The worst part?

He didn’t even say goodbye.

He couldn’t.

He waited until he was sure she wouldn’t be home — he knew her schedule, knew when she had that late meeting. And then he moved through the apartment like a ghost. Quiet. Methodical. Dying with every item he packed.

His computer setup.

The drawer full of hoodies she always stole.

His gaming gear — the controller she used to tease him for gripping too tightly during horror games.

The pictures on the fridge. Their Polaroids from Japan. The one from the night market where he had his arm wrapped tight around her waist and she was laughing like the happiest girl in the world.

Gone.

All of it.

Except for one thing.

He left behind a single hoodie.

The grey one she always wore when she missed him. Oversized. Faded. Smelled like him no matter how often she washed it. She used to say it made her feel safe.

He folded it carefully and placed it on their — her — bed.

No note.

No text.

No explanation.

He knew she’d spend days wondering if he was okay. If something happened.

He knew she’d call — again and again — until eventually she’d realize he wasn’t going to answer.

He knew she’d try to make sense of it.

Maybe she’d think she did something wrong.

And that was the part that gutted him most.

She’d never know the truth — that he still loved her so deeply it hurt to breathe.

That the last thing he wanted was to let her go.

That he cried the moment the door shut behind him and he was alone in the hallway, his suitcase by his side, her name caught in his throat like shattered glass.

────୨ৎ────

And when Y/N came home that night, everything was still. Too still.

The lights were off.

The air was cold.

The silence… was wrong.

She called his name. Once. Twice.

No answer.

And then she stepped into the bedroom and saw the hoodie — perfectly folded. Alone.

It hit her like a punch.

Her breath left her body.

And in that moment, she knew.

He was gone.

But she didn’t know why.

And maybe she never would.

She tried calling the boys. One after the other.

No one picked up.

Her chest tightened with every unanswered ring. Confusion turned to hurt — they had become her closest friends during the time she was with Felix. Late-night ramen runs with Chan, movie marathons with Jeongin, Han sending her playlists when she was sick. They had felt like family.

But now… nothing.

Not even Seungmin answered. And he always did.

What she didn’t know was that, on the other side of the city, all eight of them sat in silence in the practice room. The only sound came from the vibrating of their phones — one after the other, lighting up with her name. No one dared to move. No one dared to answer.

The guilt clung to the air like humidity, thick and suffocating.

Felix’s phone stayed dark.

She probably knew.

You’re a coward, his inner voice sneered.

And he didn’t fight it — because it was true.

────୨ৎ────

Hyunjin hadn’t meant to see her. He wasn’t trying to run into her.

It just… happened.

He saw her in the art supply store — his favorite store. The one he used to rave about. The one where he once helped her pick out brushes for a painting she’d made Felix for their anniversary.

She didn’t notice him.

Didn’t even glance up.

She moved through the aisles like a ghost — quiet, hollow, her steps slow, shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of something he couldn’t unsee.

Her eyes were tired. Worn out.

Full of sadness. But the kind you don’t cry out anymore. The kind that just settles. Heavy. Permanent.

He ducked behind a shelf, heart pounding, torn between guilt and shame. He watched her grab supplies with trembling fingers — watercolor paper, sketching pencils, a palette.

He knew her job was eating her alive.

He remembered the way Felix used to hold her after long shifts — cradling her, whispering into her hair, rubbing circles on her back until her hands stopped shaking.

Now she was alone.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

He could’ve said something. Could’ve offered a smile, a hand, anything.

But he didn’t.

He stayed hidden.

Coward, he thought.

Just like Felix.

────୨ৎ────

Three years later, when Felix stepped into the quiet little café on a rainy Thursday afternoon, he was just looking for coffee. Maybe a moment to breathe — maybe even some peace.

What he didn’t expect…

…was a small body colliding into his legs with surprising force.

“Oof!” the child let out, falling back onto the floor.

Felix blinked in surprise, instinctively crouching down. The child didn’t cry — she just looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

And the second Felix saw them —

He wanted to.

Her eyes.

He would’ve known them anywhere.

… just like hers.

He slowly took off his sunglasses and beanie, still crouched, still staring at the little girl. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice catching. “Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, a woman’s voice called out.

“Oh my god, sweetheart, please don’t run off like that — you know how scary your dad can get—”

The woman rushed over and took the girl’s hand.

Felix’s heart was already in his throat when he looked up.

He had expected it.

When he saw the eyes — when he heard the voice.

But still…

His entire world stopped.

Y/N stood in front of him.

She looked… different.

Not like his Y/N anymore.

Older. Exhausted. Her eyes didn’t shine like they used to.

Her mouth parted in shock. Her grip tightened around the child’s hand.

Felix opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then a man approached from behind her.

Older. Taller. Wearing a wedding band that matched the one on Y/N’s hand.

“Can’t you even get this stupid kid under control?” the man snapped. “For god’s sake, why can’t you do anything right, woman?”

Felix’s jaw tensed. He stood slowly, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said before he could stop himself. “It was my fault — she ran into me.”

The man glanced at Felix, eyes narrowing with disdain.

“Well, look at you. One of those K-pop fellas, huh?”

He gave Felix a long, disgusted look — then yanked the child’s hand out of Y/N’s grip.

“Let’s go.”

Y/N didn’t say anything.

She just looked at Felix one last time — eyes full of something unreadable — before she turned and hurried after them.

Felix stood frozen.

Watching the door swing shut behind her.

Feeling the emptiness crash back into his chest like it never left.

And this time, there was no one to blame but himself.

Coward.

#stray kids #felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #lee felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix angst #felix angst

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severedfromthesource · 3 months ago

Text

Androids and Electric Sheep

Ren is experiencing an unusual bug. Features F resus, M rescuer, CPR, stething, mouth to mouth, internal defibs, sex leading to cardiac arrest, sex acts both with consent and a person who cannot consent. I got too invested in the preamble so I highlighted the moment resus actually starts if you want to skip it.

No matter how advanced technology gets, it’ll only ever be used to fulfill man’s most base desires. Case in point- RN-34678. Or Ren, when the barcodes make my eyes glaze over and I get sick of calling them the number slurry X Tech names absolutely everything. Ren is as sophisticated as they come. Actual artificial intelligence. She makes the predictive text and ‘can’t even draw fingers’ image generating 21st century jokes people passed off as AI look like even more of a waste of time than they had been in those days. They might as well have been Speak n Spells. The collective power of every single basement dwelling crypto whizz kid with miles of wires and burnt up processors and bricked up video cards dedicated to their etherium farms pale in comparison to the computing power it takes to run Ren’s brain for an hour. She understands nearly 6,000 languages. She learns and retains information, consuming nearly 160 TB of memory every 8 hours. The bio-organic lace that makes up the net of her brain is a miracle, with the possibility of infinite memory. She is perfect in every sense of the word.

She is a glorified fuck toy.

The second the first android became commercially available, one of the first markets they hit was sex work. If nothing about late stage capitalism drove you crazy, that would have. Fuck curing cancer, or making androids for the dangerous, back breaking work people wreck their bodies to do, X Tech decided people needed a sex doll with a 100k price tag. The world’s most expensive cum sock. And yeah, alright, maybe I’m just bitter, partially because there’s no way in hell I could ever afford one, even as an android technician. But what a waste. She sits on my examination table, dutifully unzipping her black leather catsuit. Her managers always manage to stick her in something stupid looking, so overblown and sexualized they stop even being sexy at a certain point.

She looks up at me with lilac eyes. Last time they’d been blue. I like this shade better, I think, though I could do without the electric blue bob they have her wearing today. ”Your crash reports say you’ve been throwing error codes whenever a stream donation comes in over 2k,” I say. Which, for a bot like Ren, is quite a lot of her donations. “It’s probably just a bug in payment processing.” I look again over her diagnostics, floating on the screen at my desk. “Any complaints I wouldn’t find in the debug menu?”

”My heart has been feeling strange,” she says. I pause and look at her over the top of my glasses. “Well, firstly, it’s not your heart. An aether pump does not a heart make. Secondly, it shouldn’t feel like anything. You’re supposed to ignore the inner workings, it’s all background programs, runs without you thinking about it.” She shrugs. Her shoulders are pale as she rolls down the catsuit and pulls her arms from the sleeves, bunching up the tight leather around her midriff. Her breasts are small and round, standing upright as pretty as a Botticelli painting. I’d noticed the small bumps on either side of her nipples (Christ, did the things ever go soft? Or were they just always cutting glass?) but didn’t register until I saw them now that her managers had pierced them sometime since our last checkup. Little silver bars were stuck through the pink nubs, with winking silver balls on either end. Alright, cool, chill.

I clear my throat and pull up my rolling stool. “Well, let’s just take a look then.” I shift once I’m seated to alleviate the pressure of my stiffening cock. Listen, I’m not a technophile, honest to God. I go out of my way to filter out androids when I’m scrolling through porn sites because, despite the leaps and bounds we’ve made in technology, the uncanny valley is still a thing. It feels weird getting off to bots. But then there’s Ren. And fuck me if she isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. I put a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb resting at the diagnostic mode button hidden just under the edge of her jaw. I feel the soft bump that sinks in when I press. Her lilac eyes flash black with snatches of white text, then roll back to lilac. Damn, she smells like a new car.

I glance back at the monitor, and as I suspected, nothing comes up about the aether pump. It seems in perfect working order. Still, I dig around my box of scrap wires and spare tubing until I find my mostly neglected stethoscope. I don’t often have to use it, but I feel a trill of excitement go up from my stomach to think I get to use it on Ren. I plug up my ears and put a hand on her shoulder, taking the bell of the steth in my other hand. Her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing, set to mimic human intervals. The real purpose is to cool down her insides and keep her from overheating, but just like the aether pump and its auditory cues, its designed to mimic humans as closely as possible. After a guy fucks something like Ren, he gets the added benefit of being able to lay next to her and listen to her breathing. Feel her heart beat. Doesn’t matter what the purpose of the design is for, it matters so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking a 100k fleshlight with arms and legs. I press the steth to a spot above her breast and it sinks into her pillowy soft skin like it was real. Cool it, Christ, you can’t get so hot and bothered over everything. Heel, boy.

But my thumb makes a slight imprint against her tit, and it’s hard to think of anything else. Same thing happens when I press the steth against a space under her breast, and it lays warmly against the back of my hand. The pump, like the fake lungs, is designed to look and act and even sound like a heart, pumping coolant through her body. I tell her it’s not a heart out of some petty, pedantic need to distance myself and my unique humanity, but truth is, the thing is a heart. She could die if something went really wrong with it, and a lot of bots have. Sudden cardiac arrest was one of the main bugs in the 2.3 rollout. It got so bad, tons of models in the service industry had to be recalled, because mechanical line cooks and servers were dropping if the ovens got too hot. My hand still on her neck, I pull her forward and press the bell to her back. Her forehead brushes against my shoulder, her gaudy blue wig draping against the side of my neck and jaw. I tilt my head just enough my nose brushes her hair. Fuck, she really does smell good.

“Well, I don’t hear any irregularities,” I tell her, because I don’t. The thing is pumping liquid aether around her body at around 70 bpm, like it should. She draws up from my shoulder, glancing at me sideways. “It only seems to happen with clients,” she says, drying out my throat in an instant. “Clients?” “Mhm. Whenever one of them climaxes. If they do it inside me, my heart starts going very fast. I get foggy and I can’t think afterwards.” I swallow. “Right,” I say, “I mean… I can’t exactly test that, Ren.” She touches my wrist. “It’s rather frightening, Doc. I worry…” She pauses, and I try very hard not to say out loud what I’m thinking. You shouldn’t be frightened of anything, Ren. You’re not supposed to feel any of this. She sits back, bringing her hand up, her fingers curling against where her pump lies in her chest, half covering her nudity.

She doesn’t want to get recalled. I wince in spite of myself. If she has the same defect others in her rollout had, she’s going right back to X Tech. I push the steth around my neck, scooping back hair from my face. “It’s a pretty fatal system flaw. It… I could… Well, I-“ I can’t look at her. Fuck, I really can’t look at her. My face feels hot. This is the plot of like, 90% of bot R34 on the internet. I might as well be a pizza delivery guy and she a lonely housewife who’s a few bucks short on a large sausage. She ‘breathes’. Her chest goes up and down, the lights winking off her pierced nipples. She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

“Doc?” “Thinking,” I huff. I spare a glance around the other cubicles bordering mine. Big glass offices, designed for this exact stupid fucking thing I’m about to do. The first guy who got caught with his dick in a bot ruined it for everyone, so now my coworkers and I are subjected to rat lab cubicles where we can look in on each other at any given moment. People around us testing reflexes, repairing cosmetic damage, quashing bugs. What I was about to do was also technically debugging, but there was no way in hell my boss was gonna see it that way if he saw my flat ass pumping in and out of a bot worth more than I make in a year on the other side of plexiglass. Alright, cool, chill. I scoop up my backpack with my work laptop and sling it over my shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper.

Cut to Ren and I, locked in the women’s bathroom. We have three women in the office, and their cubes are on the other side of the building, closer to another bathroom. This one is usually empty. Cut to her, awkwardly standing in front of a toilet. Me, on the verge of being the Most Fired Man Who Ever Lived. For extra security, I’d stuffed us both into a stall, locking it behind me too. It's cramped, which adds to the feeling this is absolutely not what I'm supposed to be doing. But hey, it's my job, isn't it?

I awkwardly maneuver around her and sit on the toilet lid, hastily undoing my pants. God, this is shameful. And weirdly hot? I can't tell if it's just Ren or the dozen or so corporate regulations and general laws I'm breaking doing this, but I can feel the pulse in my cock, pressing up against the inseam of my jeans. Those lavender eyes flick from my face to the swollen, flushed skin, and the outer rim of her pupils flash with color. I help her roll down the leather catsuit and then, holy shit, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m inside her. She feels real. My hands on her back, my face buried in her tits, her thighs on mine, she feels realer than any woman I had ever known. My breath warms her artificial skin, and the barbell through her nipple is cold, the contrast making me shiver whenever the hot skin of my cheek touches the metal. My fingers slide up her stomach, her hips bucking and pumping me in and out of her. She’s tight. Really fuckin tight. I can feel her aether pump, the artificial heart, throbbing in her inner walls, harder than any real heart I’d ever felt. It adds to every stroke, a thumping sensation that’s nearly making me come after a couple thrusts. Christ, I might as well be sticking my dick right against the chambers of her fake heart.

The job. Right, I’m doing a job. Fuck, I’ve never loved my job so much. “Lemme- ngh, God, fuck- lemme see i-ins-side your ch-est, R-Ren.” She’s straddling my lap, panting like a porn star, her bob swinging back and forth, and she nods. The synthetic skin goes translucent, a dull blue glow that starts at her collarbone and down to the bottom of her ribcage. I spare only a brief chuckle, Man, we never could get rid of those stupid gamer lights, before I try to focus my attention on her inner workings. The aether heart is basically a simplified human one, drawing hot fluid in one side and squeezing out coolant through the other in an eternal ebb and flow. And right now, it’s going insane. The valves are snapping open and closed rapidly, the thing shuddering instead of really beating. There’s a little display window pinned under her collarbone, and it’s clocking her at 150 bpm, the green spikes of her heartbeat saw toothing across the round display port. Not totally dangerous, but as I pump inside of her and she bounces on my thighs to match my quickening pace, it keeps climbing.

Alright. As much as I want to be stuck in here forever, with a beautiful woman bouncing on my dick in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of, I have to figure out what’s wrong. I wrap my arms around her body, pulling her flush against my chest. “Hold onto me, ‘kay?” I breathe against her ear. Her arms slid around me, nails brushing briefly against my shoulder blades. I take in her scent. Focus on the sensations of her body, the sharp cold of her piercings, breasts pressed against my chest, her warm, throbbing cunt. It doesn’t take long. I start to lose the rhythm as my breath shortens, my strokes shortening too, until finally I can take it no more. I come, hot seed filling her up, bathing my cock, spilling out from between our sexes. Her back arches, a cry ripping from her throat of the most exquisite ecstasy.

Then she dies.

No, seriously, the bot quits all at once. I’m there, still trying to enjoy the feeling of my load making her even tighter and full, when she goes completely limp. Her arms slide down from my back, and the artificial pulse I feel in her cunt just stops all at once. She’s dead weight on top of me. “Fuck,” I spit, trying to readjust her, but she’s goddamn heavy. “Ren? Hey, Ren- man, what the fuck-”

I look up at her sternum to see the aether pump has stopped. The little internal monitor is reading a flatline. I fumble to unlatch the bathroom door, my other hand cradling her back, as I awkwardly shift to try and swing it open. Both of us end up in a heap on the floor when I try to pick her up. I'm apologizing to her slack and lifeless face as I disentangle myself and hastily zip up, then lay her flat on her back. Her perfect round breasts sit in the open air, her still heart glowing between them. I set my laptop beside her and hook up a USB into the command port hidden behind her ear.

There was no tip off in her crash reports, but looking now, I can see the absolute mess of code in the last few lines she ran before arresting. I clean up some of the irregularities, get rid of the redundancies, and hit reboot. Two small circular nodes glow within her chest, then snap against the chambers of her heart. Basically built in defib units. Her body jerks, hand twitching in against her cheek, her back arching slightly. Her naked shoulder blades slap against the tile floor as she falls back, limp again. But she doesn't move. Her pump is still. I glance at the monitor and see FATAL SYSTEM ERROR flash across the screen. Fuck, am I going to have to do this manually?

Growling in frustration, I throw my hands against her sternum. It's easy to get the right position when I can see her heart lying beneath a few layers of synthetic skin. Squaring my shoulders, I push down hard. Unlike with real CPR on a real person, depth doesn't matter, nor the risk of breaking ribs. She's basically Wolverine. A hydraulic crusher couldn't break her ribs. They yield though, and bow in against her spine as I rhythmically pump her heart. The force ripples through her whole body. Her stomach pops up, her shoulders shrug in, her head rolls back and forth. I look from her face down to her tits. I can't help it, they're swaying with each compression, the light catching her piercings. I can feel the cool metal rest against my fingers. The position my hands are in leaves my fingertip pressing against her nipple, still standing upright from our exercise. A shiver runs through me. Am I seriously getting hard again? It's hard not to. My eyes drink in her still body, the remnants of our session dribbling down her thigh, her breasts bouncing like they had when she was riding me.

I can almost see the corner of the screen light up with “Kink Unlocked: Reviving Dead Girls”. I glance at the monitor and see the reboot option has lit up again. When I take my hands away from her chest, I see her aether pump jerking as if trying to start again. Once more I charge the internal defibrillators. While they hum to life, I partake in a ritual that isn't strictly necessary. The hero always gets to indulge in mouth to mouth with the downed heroine. She doesn't actually need air, but her lips are slack, full and inviting. I press mine over hers, breathing air she doesn't need into her mouth. I can feel her cheeks puff, and I'm surprised but excited to see her chest rises too. I give her a few quick bursts of oxygen. Her chest jerks up and I only allow it to fall part way before I give her another, making her chest rise and fall in short hyperventilations. My hand finds itself running up her stomach to feel the motion of my breaths, up over her breast again. It fills my palm as I breathe a long, slow draft into her throat, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. She sighs out recycled air against my face when I break the seal of our lips.

Man, how do EMTs not cum when they resuscitate hot girls? The whole tableau is so erotic, I can feel my pulse once more jerk in my cock. The defibs once more slap the chambers of her artificial heart and she thrashes under the current. Her breasts sway and she again falls limp to the tiles.

“Come on, Ren,” I say under my breath, watching her aether pump swelling at uneven intervals. The chambers aren't beating right still, snapping open and closed out of sync with one another. I again check her code on my laptop, using one hand to tap through my options. The other I lay against her sternum. It occurs to me I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Whatever feels like it helps, I guess. Or whatever feels good. I grind my heel in against her heart in slow, rhythmic compressions with one hand. “Come on, work with me here. Breathe for me. Do something, at least let me know you're not completely bricked.” The idea that she might be makes me swallow hard. I like Ren. I don't want to ship her off to the junkyard as much as she doesn't want to be shipped.

When her heart goes still again I lace my fingers together and start pumping her chest anew. I forget my laptop entirely- this isn't a software issue, it's the hardware in her chest acting up. If I can just get the damn thing to reset. Swinging my leg over her supple thighs, I straddle her so I can use my whole body. Like this, I can feel the motion my work creates in her otherwise still body. Each powerful thrust against her pump rolls the kinetic force through her whole body. Her feet swing back and forth. The force rolls from her chest, down her stomach, even rippling her thighs. Each compression makes her stomach roll out, only now I can feel it between my legs.

Fuck it, I'm already fired. These life saving efforts have got me hard all over again, something I would have thought impossible. I unzip and thrust into her almost in one motion. It's next to impossible to actually pump into her while I'm working her heart, so I mostly settle for letting her body rock into me while I do CPR. Only when the prompt for the defibrillator pops up again do I allow myself to roll my hips into her while it charges. The thing whines quietly as I brace my hand against her chest, driving my cock deep inside her. It slaps her heart again and she arches her back, filling my hand against her sternum. Her inner walls clench with the electricity and I groan as I roll in and out of her. That's when she draws in a breath and moans all at once. Her eyes flutter open and she instinctively begins to grind her hips in rhythm with me. Before long I'm filling her up all over again and I collapse on top of her. She's back. The thought strikes me as I look down and see her aether pump snapping out a normal, if elevated rhythm. I roll off onto the welcome chill of the tile floors, my arm still slung around her.

“You okay?” I pant, my eyes half lidded as I look at her. Ren nods, smiling weakly in return. Then she’s wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitate, the shame of what I had done to her when she was basically dead starting to creep up now that the high is waning. But eventually I slide my arms around her in return, drawing her close to my body. “Thank you, doc,” she whispers.

“Don't mention it.” Seriously, don't mention any of this.

#tbh i might not finish bite back. ive had a hard time motivating myself to complete the final part #resus community #resus #cpr #chest compressions #female resus #resus writing #internal defibrillators #mouth to mouth #defibrillation #stething

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adafruit · 7 months ago

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🎄💾🗓️ Day 13: Retrocomputing Advent Calendar -🎄Amiga 500 💾🗓️

The Amiga 500 is considered one of Commodore's most important home computers, introduced in 1987; it was important because of how advanced the features were for the time. It was based on a Motorola 68000 CPU running at 7.16 MHz in NTSC versions and at 7.09 MHz for PAL ones, with the main version of 512 KB RAM expandable up to 9 MB. Its OCS provided respectable graphics performance, going up to 736×567 interlaced, with 32 colors out of 4096. The sound system consisted of four 8-bit PCM channels and could give out stereo at as high as 28 kHz. With the keyboard integrated and a compact design, it was ready for home users, while the multitasking operating system, AmigaOS, differentiated it from the rest. At a price the market could afford and featuring multimedia capabilities, this combination contributed to its popularity as it went on to sell about 2.6 million units worldwide.

Making of the Amiga bouncing ball. https://www.generationamiga.com/2020/04/14/amiga-history-the-story-of-the-boing-ball/

Have first computer memories? Post’em up in the comments, or post yours on socialz’ and tag them #firstcomputer #retrocomputing – See you back here tomorrow!

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csuitebitches · 1 year ago

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book review: Stolen focus by Johann Hari

Major learnings from this book. It basically talks about focus, why and how we’re losing it. Why can’t we pay attention anymore? Are we individuals to blame or our systems?

There will be a time when the upper class will be extremely aware of the risks to their attention (caused by tech, social media, our current generation) and the masses, with fewer resources to resist the temptation of technology, will be manipulated more and more by their computers.

Multitasking is a myth. What actually happens when we multitask is that we “juggle” between tasks. This results in incomplete tasks, higher error rates, less focus, less creativity and memory decreases.

Sleep is extremely important, especially sleeping according to nature - when the sun sets and sun rises. If the whole world slept the way we are naturally programmed, we would have an economic earthquake. Our economic systems run on sleep deprived people.

Reading online and reading print has a huge difference. Reading online creates tendencies of skimming and scanning text. This prevents our brain from focusing intently on one story at a time, which print allows you to do. You also remember and understand things from printed texts better.

Empathy. Certain research suggests that reading fiction and novels improves empathy, because you are immersing yourself in another character’s life for a while. Empathy has played a huge role in human advancements. If a group of white people did not realise that colonisation was wrong, if men did not realise that women deserve equal rights, we would not have independent nations nor be close to gender equality today.

There are multiple types of paying attention. Focused attention is one thing. But day dreaming and letting your mind wander with no distraction (that is, being alone with your thoughts) is equally important. Some of the most important breakthroughs in human history were because the inventors were not actively focusing on solving the problem.

Being on social media = giving a free pass to be manipulated. No thoughts, opinions, desires that you have are original. They have all been fed into you by social media and the online world. It is by their design that we cannot focus.

Leaked internal records of Facebook show that they are aware that their algorithms exploit the human brain’s attraction to divisiveness. 64% of people, for instance, who join extremist groups join because FB’s algorithm directly recommends too. “Our recommendation systems grow the problem.” Zuckerberg eventually terminated the unit that was studying this.

Diet and attention. The diet we consumed today is a diet that causes regular energy spikes and energy crashes. Our food does not have the nutrients we need for our brains to function well. Our current diets actively contain chemicals that seem to act on our brains almost like drugs.

Be careful about reading research, especially when it’s funded by the industry itself. For 40 years, the lead industry funded all the scientific research into whether it was safe, and assured the world that it was. Lead later turned out to severely stunt your ability to focus and pay attention and that you are more likely to get ADHD.

We define success broadly as economic growth. Economies should get bigger, companies should get bigger. Growth can happen in two ways - either the companies find new markets or they persuade the existing consumers to consume more. If you can get people to eat more or to sleep less, you’ve found the source of economic growth. It results in people working overtime, not having enough time with family, friends and themselves, stress and anxiety prone, lack of sleep and bad health, etc.

Conclusion: use precommitment to stop switching tasks, try to focus more on intrinsic motivation than extrinsic, go off social media periodically (say 1 month at a time) and then extend those breaks; everyday spend 1 hour in walking in silence (no music, conversations or people- and if this is in nature, even better) to connect with yourself, 8 hours of sleep every night, build on slow practices like yoga, cut out processed food, take your PTO!!

#c suite #powerful woman #strong women #personal growth #that girl #getting your life together #balance #productivity #ceo aesthetic #Book review

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differenttimemachinecrusade · 4 months ago

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#In-Memory Computing Market #In-Memory Computing Market Analysis #In-Memory Computing Market Growth #In-Memory Computing Market Share #In-Memory Computing Market Size

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pmpmyread · 4 months ago

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an exercise in expression

It’s always eluded you, always sat just beyond your reach, so you persuade yourself that the combination of words that accurately conveys what it is like to be loved by Nanami Kento simply doesn’t exist.

You’re firmly convinced now, so you’ve long since abandoned the absolute fool’s errand it was to define a feeling that is as intangible as it is potent.

Only if your life were on the line, would you dare attempt to describe it as a presence characterized by a wonderful tapestry of innate dualities, not unlike the polarity that underlies your union.

To the casual observer, Nanami operates at one speed, belongs to one temperate climate. Gathered over several years of close partnership, your observations are anything but casual.

So a presence then, one that is both safe and untamed, both reserved and passionate.

The only man your heart has ever moved for in earnest carries a cool melancholy, one that betrayed the weight of the heavy, unspoken burdens that still weigh heavily on him, burdens you want to take off and throw away, but not before developing a deep understanding for them as a bridge to understanding their carrier.

Because you do make it your life’s mission to consistently unearth his radiant warmth, manifested in the sun that forms his understated yet unparalleled sense of witty humor, one that has you chuckling days, weeks after you’ve first been exposed to its rays.

There are moments where you see it clear as day, in the depth of his steady gaze: the introspective awareness with which he listens as you rant about something or the other. It is his unique quiet steadiness, carrying the fidelity of a metronome, that keeps you grounded on the days you need it the most.

And yet there also is this dormant, subdued turmoil that occasionally comes roaring to the surface, after a close call or an encounter with a cursed spirit that bears too close a resemblance to an echo from the painful past. There manifests a certain resignation in his tone, a certain air of deference in his posture that paints the complicated relationship between Nanami and the concept of impermanence. They’re the moments where you step up, where you show up as his anchor, your reciprocal calibration to his temper acts as your renewed declaration of love.

Sometimes you close your eyes, and you let your sensations take over, your hand moves, it extends forward, and you imagine Kento holding it. Most times, it’s just this, imagining his touch, how familiar it feels, how effortlessly it brings you home. Sometimes, it’s the memory of the first time he held it, the memory of a scorching summer, of a busy market, of his hand slipping into yours, leading you through a busy crowd. No matter where this maladaptive dream starts, the destination is always the same: safety.

Perhaps the reason why your memory automatically flits to this particular phantom feeling, whenever you feel the early pangs of inadequacy set its roots within you on a random day at work is the same reason why you find yourself making a grab for his hand today, unprompted, as you sit next to him one quiet evening pulling his attention from his computer screen. You squeeze his hand once, and he squeezes it twice, just like you knew he would.

Perhaps this is the closest you come to defining, wordlessly, the feeling of being loved by Nanami Kento.

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camille-plumb · 3 months ago

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𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆|| ʙʟᴜᴇʟᴏᴄᴋᵒⁿᵉ ˢʰᵒᵗˢ

Michael Kaiser x Female Reader

࿇ ══━━✥𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐆𝐎 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄✥━━══ ࿇

Song: Dont go insane by DPR IAN

Warning: Litle smut.🔞,psychological manipulation.

••••••••⇆ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ㅤ ▷↻••••••••

The station was silent, beyond the clicking of computer keys and the distant murmurs of other officers. The smell of cold coffee and filed papers floated in the air. She sat at the desk, her hands immobilized by handcuffs, her fingers throbbing from the pressure. Her face remained calm, stoic, and tranquil, seemingly unconcerned about anything or guilt. The fluorescent light flickered with an almost imperceptible hum, the sound adding to the weight of the room, like a latent threat. She looked at the detective, who sat across from her, watching her intently. He was one of those men who didn't let a single word, gesture, or glance escape her. He seemed to be trying to read her soul.

"Doctor, are you ready to talk?" he asked, his voice deep and relentless. She nodded, but her mind kept racing. Why was she there? How had she gotten to this point?

"Let's start with the questions... What is Michael Kaiser to you?" he asked, his voice deep and relentless. The question echoes in the cold air of the room, as thousands of memories rush through her mind. She manages to smile at the question before she begins to speak.

"Have you heard of the story of Beauty and the Beast, Detective?" She finishes the question amidst a sarcastic laugh that fills the emptiness of the interrogation room. "Young Beauty saves the Beast from his terrible spell, they have a bright red rose, a lot of magic, he becomes a prince, they declare their love and live happily ever after… blah… blah… blah." She ends the story with an amused grimace while crossing her legs in apparent boredom. "To answer your question, Detective, I must tell a similar story. The characters are the same. There's a Beauty, a Beast who was actually a prince, and a rose…" She finishes the sentence with a dark, icy stare that made the detective shudder. "A blue rose…"

Flashback

6 months ago Berlin.

Charity Gala.

Lights, cameras, and applause.

Michael Kaiser smiles. He's the center of attention, as always. His golden hair shines in the spotlight, his icy-blue eyes pierce the souls of everyone present. The red carpet belongs to him—no, to say that would be a fallacy—the whole world belongs to him. There's a reason he was known as the emperor: money, fame, women, and everything he could wish for...

The perfect life...

Until Yoichi Isagi appears. Another star striker, Japanese, a calm smile, growing fame, a latent threat to his perfect world...

A comment. A glance. A shove.

And then... a punch straight to Isagi's face. Silence. Flashes and headlines the next day: "Michael Kaiser loses control. "Live violence: the fallen idol." Football hero or narcissistic monster?"

Sponsors abandon him. The league sanctions him. The press is tearing him apart. But the worst is yet to come. His lawyer and agent are forcing him into therapy, his falling value in the transfer market is increasingly evident, and the daily threats demanding exorbitant sums of money to hide his violent past are impossible to ignore.

On the recommendation of his lawyer, he decides to see a psychiatrist. Being locked away in rehab for at least six months was the best way to recover his image: quick, safe, and easy. He might be bored for a few months without playing in a stadium, but he'll make it worth it. He requested the best psychiatrist in the country for himself, for as long as he needed. His wishes were granted, and the first day of therapy at the city's most renowned psychiatric hospital arrived.

That's where he finds her...

Dr. (Y/N) Weiss. Her hair tied back, her gaze firm, her voice soft but determined. A renowned doctor, famous for "reforming" celebrities. Michael smiles when he sees her for the first time. Not out of happiness. But the smile of a predator who smells the disguised weakness of its prey.

-Interesting choice of clothing for a psychiatrist- she says in the first session, observing her shamelessly-. You do know that red symbolizes desire, right?- the blond sits in front of her, placing his hands behind his neck- Colors, Mr. Kaiser, are optical illusions produced by light... therefore, a color cannot symbolize anything- the doctor finishes the sentence by putting on a white coat that is tight on her body, takes a seat in front of the blond and begins to write selflessly in her notebook.- Oh of course they can, doctor, in the end they are like words...- the blond's lips move in the middle of the flirtatious smile that marks his face- words, even if they are simple, mean what the other person wants them to mean, for example, for you; By calling me "Sir" you are creating a barrier of respect and professionalism between us - the blond's eyes shone intensely as he explained his point, they were intimidating, she could feel as if he was hitting her and undressing her with his gaze at the same time - but for me - the blond continued talking and approaching her until he could lean down to her size to whisper in her ear - it's something exciting doctor - he finishes touching the doctor's soft lips.

From the first session, (Y/N) felt him like a presence heavier than air. His steely eyes, his crooked smile, and that way of speaking that sounded both kind and threatening. She chooses to ignore him. Or she thinks she does; the obvious tension and desire she felt was filling her mind, each session a battlefield she thought she was winning.

But session after session, Kaiser disarms her.

Stories of childhood, the alcoholic father, the games played with bruises hidden under his jersey.

The boy who became a god on the field so he could no longer be a victim of the circumstances of his existence. Tears. Confessions. Ambiguous caresses. Kaiser is a skilled manipulator, quickly turning therapy into a power game.

"Are you attracted to monsters, Doctor?" the blond man asks, his gaze lost somewhere in the room. Another painful confession from his childhood had shaken the doctor, so much so that in the short time she had known him, she felt that for the first time, Michael Kaiser was revealing himself as he really was. She snaps out of her thoughts when she hears him finish the question he asked, even though she hasn't gotten an answer.

"Because if not... you're in the wrong place."

It took her time to realize that her feelings were plummeting. It wasn't just a single fall. It was a downward spiral. First, the sessions dragged on, then came the personal questions, the tense silences, the suppressed sighs. Until one night, after a brutal confession about his father and an old memory of how he started playing soccer, she tearfully touched his hand. He looked at her, not with desire, but with certainty.

"I knew you were going to touch me first," the blond said. And then, he kissed her.

She reciprocated without thinking, first with guilt, then with hunger.

Michael responded without a single hesitation. He lifted her forcefully, her back against the office wall. His hot breath on her neck. His hands exploring with a surgeon's precision. She gasped, caught between the reason that screamed "enough!" and the body that begged "more…"

He didn't make love to her.

He disarmed her with every caress, as if every part of her body were a map that only he knew how to read. And she let herself get lost. Afterwards, there was no turning back. He held her tightly, setting the rhythm of her body and simultaneously setting the rhythm of her heart.

She didn't see him as a patient, but as an addiction.

Michael kissed her against the window of her apartment. He whispered things to her that made her shudder even when she was alone. He caressed her neck as if holding her for pleasure… or for power. And at night, when he called her to say simply, "I need you now," she dropped everything.

He was fire. She was gasoline.

And it wasn't all physical. After loving each other furiously, there came the moments when they spoke with their hearts exposed. He told her things he'd never said before. She cried into his chest. And he held her as if, for a second, the world were a safe place.

"Sometimes, when you're with me, I feel worth more than fame and money," he once told her.

And she believed that, maybe, she was healing him.

Maybe she was different. But Michael didn't want to heal. He wanted to drag her down with him.

She arrived dressed for work, like any other day, her hair tied back, her white coat… but it didn't last long. Michael wrapped his body around her, cornering her.

"Do you know what I want, Doctor?"

She swallowed, her heart pounding.

"Tell me."

-"I want to see you naked, but not just your body. I want to see all of you. The fear, the control, your emotions. I want you to let me see who you are when you're not hiding."

(Y/N) had no answer. Because at that moment she no longer wanted to control him. She wanted to lose herself in him.

The first touch was as subtle as danger, but as inevitable as destiny.

Michael unbuttoned her shirt, his hands running down her neck, while his lips traced dangerous paths across her skin. Nothing was off limits.

The temperature rose with every second, their bodies colliding hard, their breaths ragged.

"Do you feel that?" Michael asked, stroking her back, still looking into her eyes, as if he were savoring every inch of her.

"Yes," (Y/N) murmured, completely trapped.

"So you understand what I'm doing to you, meine liebe." He looked at her, not with affection, but with that fierce, almost possessive desire.

His words, laden with palpable danger, made her shudder. But she couldn't stop herself.

She undressed for him, giving herself without reservation, without protection. Self-control be damned, she thought, as she could see his face blinded by pleasure through the mirror in front of her in his office.

"Ah… Micha… ah… more please." Her moans filled the room. The violent collision of their bodies, the sound of skin meeting tightly, were music to the ears of the blond who was fucking her as he pleased. "Micha… mmhg, cum inside me, please, I want to feel you completely, fill me up, ah…"

Michael didn't touch her gently. He didn't caress her lovingly. He possessed her. His hands roamed over her body as if she were his forever, as if he needed her with a savage desperation.

"Tell me you need me, my love. Tell me you can't live without me." His voice was ragged, his breathing more erratic than ever.

(Y/N) couldn't help it.

"I need you, Michael. You're all I want."

And he knew it. He knew it because he saw it in her eyes, in her trembling hands. But he didn't love her. He didn't want to save her. He only wanted to destroy her.

Time passed, amidst knowing laughter and caresses. The six months were up. She helped improve his image from the shadows. She got him appointments at orphanages and shelters, which immediately improved his image. She worked nights to write his psychological profile so that no one would dare question his violent childhood. She turned him into a victim and example of overcoming difficulties in the world of football. With his reputation better than ever, they had to separate.

(Y/N) wanted to think he was busy training, that getting back into the swing of things after six months was hard and required a lot of effort; so she just waited. The first few weeks were very tough. She discovered she was addicted to him. Oh, how much she needed him. It was inevitable for her to think that he was probably having a hard time too. On the news, she heard that he went to play for Real Madrid in Spain a month after finishing his treatment. She calmed her little heart and kept waiting. She waited for another month, not a call, not a single text message, nothing.

The worry ended the day she saw him smiling in an interview, hugging a blonde she identified as a Victoria's Secret model:

Interviewer: Michael, it's good to see you well and that your life reflects your success, but I want you to answer what everyone wants to know. We're not blind, and those two rings don't go unnoticed. When's the wedding date?

༶•┈┈⛧┈♛ ♛┈⛧┈┈•༶

"In the end, Detective, the beast became a prince and married a princess, and Belle was left alone with the blue rose the beast left her," the doctor finishes the story, laughing at the detective's shocked expression. "In short, I have no idea where Michael Kaiser is. Could you release me now? I have no charges or complaints. I only have a small blue rose waiting for me at home, and I haven't even fed it yet." She raises her arms, waiting to be released.

She grabs her belongings as she drives home with a slight smile on her face. It had been a tiring day. She enters her house, closing everything in her path and turning off the lights as she walks. She goes down the stairs to her basement.

"Did you miss me, meine liebe?"

She asks, looking at the blond tied to a chair with a sadistic smile.

Oh, bless my heart, when the wolves take me away, don't fall apart. When I come back from the grave, forget my charms, I'll never be the same.

We've come so far, only to go insane.

•••••━━━━━━━ •♬• ━━━━━━━••••••

Finally order ready, hope you like it ~

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everygame · 7 months ago

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Special Delivery: Santa’s Christmas Chaos (C64)

Developed/Published by: Dalali Software / Creative Sparks (Thorn EMI Computer Software) Released: 1984 Completed: 05/12/2024 Completion: Got a high score of 8750. I’ll take it!

Writing about old video games for an audience of very few could seem like a thankless task–especially when they’re as awful as Christmas Crackers. But there’s a reason I do it. One, I just love playing games, even if they’re so crap I give up on them in minutes. Two, I just love learning. I love discovery, I love finding out things that are new to me about video games and their history. And sometimes, if I’m lucky, I find out some things that no one has really paid attention to before.

I never thought playing a completely random Christmas cash-in on C64 would bring me anything like that.

Special Delivery: Santa’s Christmas Chaos is a game for C64, Spectrum and Atari 8-Bit released by Dalali Software under Thorn EMI’s “Creative Sparks” imprint. At the time it sank without trace due to, apparently, a lack of marketing. After playing it–and I will get into that–I did my usual investigation into the developer, and was quite prepared to dismiss Dalali as one of the many fly-by-night British game developers of the 1980s–they appeared to be only a going concern between 1984 and 1989 and didn’t have any particularly notable games to their name. They were responsible for ports of Rescue On Fractalus and Lilttle Computer People to Amstrad CPC, but largely seem to have had the bad luck of being most related to 1986’s Biggles game. The weirdest thing about that is that not only did I really like the movie on which it was based (which I’m sure no one else remembers but me) when I was a kid, watching it on telly several times, I’ve actually played the game! It was on Amstrad Action #68’s covertape (along with How To Be A Complete Bastard!) and, as vague as my memories of it are now, I’m sure I played it loads of times. Less than How To Be A Complete Bastard, admittedly.

This led me to dig a little further, and sometimes things just fall into place, because I found an astonishingly in-depth article from Sham Mountebank’s When Were They Now? blog (a new one to me) all about Dalali. I think Mountebank slightly buries the lede however, because digging into the linked articles it seems absolutely remarkable that Dalali is not only in the ranks of the earliest companies to have been founded (or co-founded) by a woman, but very likely the first game company founded by a Palestinian: Hanan Samara.

Hanan Samara, pictured in Computer & Video Games March 1985.

Game companies had been co-founded by women before–most famously Sierra, by Roberta Williams and her husband Ken in 1979–but I think Samara’s story might be unique. According to an interview with ANTIC The Atari 8-bit Podcast she believes she might have been the first female assembly programmer in the UK, starting out by converting software to work for the Arabic market. Moving to work for Thorn EMI, she’d see a Humpty Dumpty puzzle game–programmed by her future husband(!) Chris James–and be “hooked.”

After coding Jumbo Jet Pilot for Atari 8-Bit for Thorn EMI, it seems that she made the leap to founding Dalali–named for her mother’s maiden name (as her mother said go for it, while her dad said to get a job at IBM...) with another ex-employee, Adrian Wadley.

Something I really appreciate about Samara’s story is that she immediately brought herself to game design, with Dalali’s first game “Jinn Genie”. While this kind of Arabic-theming undoubtedly seems stereotypical today, in an interview with Popular Computing Weekly it is clear that this is an early example of someone trying to represent their culture via the art of video games:

“Jinn Genie is a game that incorporates many of the basic myths and children’s stories of my culture–I am an Arab, a Palestinian, and all the ideas of genies and so on are familiar to me.”

Jinn Genie, on C64.

The most disappointing thing, to me, is that Samara is, at this point, unheralded outside of a blog post, one short podcast, and about… three short articles featuring three pictures that can be found on archive.org! She’s one of the UK’s earliest female programmers, game designers and founders, perhaps the first Palestinian game developer, and she has managed to run Dalali since 1984 because it’s still going–they just stopped making games.

Samara’s story isn’t mine to tell, so I hope that institutions like GDC, The Video Game History Foundation or The Strong can find out more and champion her. Figures such as Muriel Tramis have gone from overlooked to winning the Legion of Honour, and if I can help get the word out about Hanan Samara, just a little bit, I’ll feel I’ve done my part.

But I know what you’re asking now.

“But how good is Special Delivery: Santa’s Christmas Chaos???”

So let's return to regular programming. First, I’m going to note that I believe I have played the wrong version of this. When it came to games, Samara was an Atari 8-bit coder, and it is absolutely transparent that Special Delivery is based entirely on Jinn Genie–both feature a flying section, a climbing section, and a section with floors and ladders. It does feel like I should have played the Atari 8-bit version to experience the most representative version, as I did with playing the C64 version of Pirates, let’s say.

(It’s worth mentioning here also that the ANTIC podcast–recorded seven years ago now–even notes that the version of Jinn Genie that Samara coded, for the Atari 8-bit, seems to be lost, although Samara does say that she has a copy of it somewhere. Aforementioned institutions could probably help with that too. What that largely means, though, is that the Atari 8-bit version of Special Delivery is the closest you can get to playing the original Jinn Genie.)

To be fair, the C64 version seems pretty close to the original (the ZX Spectrum port is… not).

As I’ve said previously, my expectations for a Chrimbo cash-in have been low, and no matter how much this is sort of a reskin of a previous game, that it’s got an idea and an actual design exceeds anything I’ve expected. At first glance you might go “well, isn’t this just Santa Claus again?” (or even Santa’s Sleigh Ride.) But it’s honestly much more–even if it is still a bit weird.

In Special Delivery, you’re first flying across the screen in Santa’s (somewhat confusingly drawn) sleigh, collecting presents that… angels are dropping. Which implies that this is in fact the historical Saint Nicolas, or maybe I’m just overthinking it. You’re trying to collect a target number of presents, but you lose them if you crash into clouds (odd) or accidentally collect a demonic present dropped by a devil (who appear rarely, but look very much like angels, annoyingly.) Losing presents won’t kill you, but Santa has a set amount of hours in the night, and you lose an hour if you get struck by the lightning that occasionally appears from the strangely firm clouds.

If you collect enough presents, you get to land on a big house to put presents under the tree. First this requires you climb down the chimney, which in this situation is: huge, full of ladders, and lit so flames keep climbing the ladders that you have to dodge. Once you’ve done that, you’re actually in the house, where you have to Solid Snake your way to the tree, drop off the present, grab the front door key, and then leave through the front door, while the residents run wildly from one room to the next, seemingly out of their nut with either excitement for Christmas or hatred for Santa. Get hit by a flame or grabbed by a resident and you’ll lose an hour.

Interestingly, if you don’t collect enough presents, you don’t get to go into any big houses, but you do get to drop presents down the chimney of some wee houses. You only really pick up big points for going into big houses, which raises the concerning idea that Santa only gives a fuck about you if you’re rich enough to live in a big house.

But to be fair, the people in big houses seem absolutely determined to not get pressies, keeping their fires roaring and attacking Santa on sight, so perhaps he just likes the challenge. “I hope Santa doesn’t show up” they’re saying, “we’ve got all the stuff we need in this big house. We don’t need wooden toys or whatever the historic Saint Nick would be handing out, he should give those to the poor people in the wee houses.”

More fool them, I checked Wikipedia and he was dropping off bags of gold coins through people’s windows. (Admittedly to stop them being sold into prostitution.)

Anyway. Even before I knew the exciting context for Special Delivery, I was struck by how… weirdly ok it was! Maybe it’s just how bad the other Santa-em-ups have been (well, I guess I didn’t hate Merry Xmas Santa) but the different sections largely make sense together, undoubtedly because it’s based on Jinn Genie. The main problem really is that it just doesn’t control very well. Flying the sleigh is stiff, and when you’re actually controlling Santa himself, he reacts very slowly to your input, meaning you have to time presses based on the lag, and I probably lost most of my lives in the chimneys as a result–it might be better on the Atari 8-Bit, so more fool me.

Special Delivery is not really the kind of thing that’s going to hold your attention for very long, but it does actually manage to be playable and feels properly festive. I’ll celebrate that.

Will I ever play it again? I was surprised to see a non-zero number of people say online that playing this is a bit of a Christmas tradition. Well, I don’t think I will be taking it up, but I do fancy playing Jinn Genie at some point now--maybe once that Atari 8-bit version is found!

Final Thought: In my research I was surprised to discover not only had I played a Dalai Software game before, I’d also played a Creative Sparks game, similarly loads of times: Danger Mouse In Double Trouble. Strangely, it has the same multi-game design as this (and I guess, a lot of the computer games of the era) but suffered a lot more for them not having any meaningful connection and mostly being rubbish. Even as a child I remember enjoying just the jungle level and suffering through the rest to get through that. The things you’ll do when you’ve got nothing else as a child.

Every Game I’ve Finished 14>24 is OUT NOW! You can pick it up in paperback, kindle, or epub/pdf. You can also support Every Game I’ve Finished on ko-fi! You can pick up digital copies of exp., a zine featuring all-exclusive writing at my shop, or join as a supporter at just $1 a month and get articles like this a week early.

#gaming #video games #txt #games #text #review #dalali software #c64 #hanan samara #palestinian #retro games #retro gaming #special delivery: santa's christmas chaos #creative sparks #thorn emi

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pdriesta · 11 months ago

Text

CHAPTER ONE

“how can i move on when i’m still in love with you”

genres — angst, angst, and more angst. suggestive.

word count — 2k

summary — two years ago, pedri shattered his childhood best friend's heart by ending their relationship. he was her first kiss, first boyfriend, and first love. now, as she prepares to start fresh while pursuing her master's degree, pedri reappears with a single mission: to mend the heart he once broke. can she trust him again, or will their past define their future?

an — repost! i accidentally deleted my blog so before i release anything new, i’m gonna repost my series’s. if this is your first time reading, let me know if you’re interested in a taglist!

masterlist

as soon as pedri made it back into the locker room after the win over espanyol, he showered quickly, his thoughts already racing ahead. the celebrations disrupted his usual routine, but that didn’t stop him from meeting his family in the corridor outside the visitors' room.

“pedrito!” his mother’s voice was a balm to his buzzing nerves. he found his little family draped in his jerseys and entered his mom’s loving embrace. his father and brother, fernando, joined in shortly after. the adrenaline was still rushing through his veins, and he could not shake the happiness of achieving one of his dreams.

“congratulations, my boy,” his father said, kissing the top of his head. fer squeezed the back of his neck lovingly, the familiar touch grounding him.

the embrace was interrupted by his mother’s ringtone blaring from her phone.

“one second.” she pulled away and kissed his cheek before pulling her phone out. her lips broke into a smile seeing who was calling. “it’s lucia. she texted me earlier asking you to call her so she can congratulate you and make you some goxua when you come home.” his mom rattled off about her best friend before walking away to answer her phone.

pedri was unfazed at the mention of his mother’s best friend but couldn’t help his mind wandering to her daughter once again.

fer is pedri’s best friend; of course, he knew his brother wasn’t over her. however, he gave up on meddling because both of you failed to bite the bucket and tell each other that even after all this time, you’re still deeply in love with each other.

“i need to do some marketing and campaigns for next season, so maybe in a week? you could stay until then if you want,” pedri tried to offer nonchalantly, but he didn’t want to admit how lonely his apartment feels without his family and you.

“fer, you can’t. remember you promised tía that you would help y/n move,” their father spoke up before grabbing his wife’s hand as she re-approached them.

pedri’s eyes widened at his father’s words. “move? where? since when?”

fer looked at his dad with eyes mirroring pedri’s. no one was supposed to know, especially not pedri.

“cariño,” their mom squeezed her husband’s arm before clearing her throat, “yes, but she told us not to tell you. she’s moving to start her master’s degree on the mainland.”

wow, was all pedri thought. he always knew you wanted to further your learning with a master’s degree, but he couldn’t believe time had flown by so quickly. it seemed like just yesterday he held you while you cried, waiting for university acceptances. it broke him when his family attended your graduation and forwarded photos with you. that smile, one that was permanently ingrained in his memory, even though the last time he saw you, that same smile was absent from your face.

“that’s amazing. i always knew she could do it,” his head dropped with a smile.

“she’s actually—” his mom started before thinking over her decision to mention this information. seeing the love that’s ever so present in his eyes, she knew what she had to do. “she’s going to school here in barcelona. she got accepted to the computer engineering program at uab.”

his family could practically see a light bulb brighten over his head. he remembered his words from two years ago and the reason he made the decision to break up with you: the distance. even after all that, he felt the thousands of miles slowly vanish at the idea of you being in the same city as him.

maybe, just maybe, he can allow himself to indulge in the idea of being close to you again. that idea he has had almost every day and night since breaking your heart.

his heart is racing like it’s a game day and the ref is about to blow the whistle.

he finds himself thinking of your time together. you were always so gentle with him, caring for him when he was exhausted from games and training. he was so willing to ruin that, thinking it was the best for both of you.

“everybody keep it down,” pedri said over the voices of his teammates, his closest friends since he moved to barcelona.

“can you hurry? today’s training killed me,” alejandro groaned while slumping onto the already crowded couch.

“hermano, what could be so urgent that you sent an SOS to the group chat?” it was gavi’s turn to speak up.

pedri groaned. if they would stop their questions, maybe he could get there. he looked to his brother for help. fer chuckled before standing on the other side of his brother’s tv.

“okay everybody listen up before my brother bursts a blood vessel,” fer said. pedri rolled his eyes at his brother’s words. he knew what the impromptu meeting was for and was truly just there for moral support.

“i brought you guys here for some advice. you might remember my girl—” he stopped himself. “my ex-girlfriend from two years ago,” he started.

“the one you horribly messed up with?” ansu spoke up.

“the one you have moped over for the past two years,” fermin chimed in.

“the one we thought you’d never get over?” ferran added with a teasing smile.

“thank you for that,” pedri said sarcastically. “yes, my y/n. she has moved to barcelona from tenerife for her master’s degree, and seeing as we broke up because of distance, i think now would be the best time to reach out to her and maybe see if there is hope for us,” he finished and looked down at his friends’ smiles from the couch.

“which leads me to,” he continued and turned his attention to his tv, where he connected his phone.

operation: get y/n back

laughter erupted throughout the room, but not out of judgment; they all knew pedri would be the type of person to create a thorough presentation on how to get the love of his life back.

“you actually made a presentation?” gavi asked, still chuckling.

“of course he did,” fer said, shaking his head with a smile. “pedri, always the planner.”

pedri ignored his friends and puffed his chest while continuing the plan he had turned over in his head for days since he found out his girl was in the same city as him.

“listen, i need all of your help. i’ve mapped out the best places to take her, the right things to say, and even backup plans in case things go wrong.”

“wow, you really went all out,” alejandro said, impressed.

“this is serious, guys. she’s the one. i know it,” pedri said, determination clear in his voice.

“we’re with you, hermano,” ferran said, clapping him on the shoulder. “let’s get her back.”

“first things first,” pedri said, clicking to the next slide on his presentation. “we need to start with a casual meetup. something that doesn’t scream ‘i’m still in love with you’ but more ‘i’m happy you’re here.’”

“a coffee shop,” ansu suggested. “neutral ground, easy conversation.”

“and then what?” fermin asked.

“then, i remind her of the good times we had, but without making it seem like i’m living in the past,” pedri replied. “and i show her that i’m serious about making things work this time.”

“and if she’s moved on?” gavi asked.

pedri paused for a moment, then shook his head. “i don’t think she has. i saw the way she looked at me the last time we spoke. there’s still something there. i just need to show her that i’ve grown and that we can make it work.”

“you’ve got our support, pedri,” ferran said. “let’s make this happen.”

“thanks, guys,” pedri said, feeling a surge of confidence. “i will get her back, even if it’s the last thing i do.”

“did you leave anything? any books? some vitamins? any medicines?” your mom bombarded you with questions, the same ones she has asked every day in the past week you’ve been in your dorm at UAB.

“mami, i am okay. stop worrying. i just got out of a lecture. i was planning to get something to eat.” you could not be bothered to make yourself anything to eat. your dorm has a shared kitchen in the lobby, but you hated going down there midday while everyone was there.

UAB was nothing like your old campus. it doubled in size to compensate for the doubled population as well. you’re not sure you would ever get used to your new environment.

this wasn’t your first time in barcelona, but being here for a week was nothing like your visit from years ago when you came to his games.

nope. don’t think of him. you vowed to yourself the day after the league title you were done mourning your first relationship. you got accepted to your dream school and program. you had your family, and you would get friends. barcelona would have new memories attached to it, and the boy that broke your heart would not be a part of it.

“okay, make sure you eat a good meal, mi amor. don’t stay up again studying, please. your father and i love you,” your mom kissed through the phone as you said your goodbyes.

you loved your mom, but you inherited her tendency to worry. no matter how much you prepared for your test, you still found yourself studying for hours into the night.

you dropped your bag at the front of your room and looked into the mirror. after one week of schooling, you felt drained. you knew how vigorous your program would be but never imagined not having even a moment to breathe. you closed your eyes and took a moment to yourself before hearing a knock at your door.

you furrowed your eyes. you didn’t know anyone in barcelona yet and did not order food, so who could be knocking at your door? you decided to ignore the knocks and continued to take off your flannel, leaving you in your tank top.

that was until the knocking continued. you huffed, it must be a neighbor. there was no one else who would be knocking.

you grew annoyed at the knocking and quickly grabbed the knob without looking at the peephole.

your mistake.

you never imagined the person in front of you. the familiar brown eyes that looked at you. the boy who broke your heart, the one you haven’t seen since the day he shattered your heart on your doorstep.

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snugglesquiggle · 13 days ago

Text

imagine if J got to take her time with Uzi.

she can tell, just from the clothes that aren’t grimy rags, from the chassis that isn’t textured with innumerable scratches and thermal expansion-contraction stress, that this drone is sheltered. she must be from one of the colonies her team can’t crack open. it means those colonies can be opened — did she have a key? does she know the way in?

she could kill her and rip the knowledge from her memory banks — but that would be no help if the security relied on unique identification. it could be that only this drone, online, could open the door.

J’s sending the signal to her shortwave transceiver — to tell V to switch tactics — when the calculus abruptly, totally changes. V flew face first into a cone of blinding green light. above her core, nothing like but ashes and a desperate gush of nanites.

this drone had created an energy weapon capable of disintegrating a disassembly drone — what could it do if it were aimed at the core? J could dream of taking out of a colony — but killing this worker would now not only fulfill her mission, but eliminate a threat

but the first fight was as quick as it was dramatic. J only escaped having the weapon turned on her by slicing the worker’s hand clean off.

the worker had taunted them (and J had been sure to remain competitive in that market), but this amputation shuts the worker up. having gotten the last word, J disengaged to check whether V had recovered. this gave the worker time to escape, but the captain was already thinking longer turn.

as a disassembly drone, J is blindingly fast in close quarters, but her cameras are faster. she plays back her memories and studies the worker’s appearance — computes her exact specifications from the few clear frames she has.

with the corpse spire tall enough to be part of the skyline, it isn’t hard at all to find a slain drone with the same make and model. the next time Uzi steps out of bunker, she’ll find that replacement hand with a note calling it a gift. “I let you live,” the note adds in a post-script.

(unknown to J, this is a lifesaver. even one day trying to hid her injury from her class and her father left Uzi jittering with anxiety — but there is an upshot of everyone mostly ignoring you)

of course, hidden at the roof of a nearby building, J is perched and waiting, watching her target take the bait. but the worker’s holds that energy weapon at the ready, and even staring down from on high, the captain can tell she’s on edge

she decides not to engage — this time.

on another trip out of the outpost, while psyching herself up for another assault on the corpse spire, Uzi encounters a drone, oily and battered. his vocalsynth is on the fritz, but it’s nerves more than damage.

Uzi eventually gets the details out of him — he and his group were captured by murder drones. he escaped, but the rest are still stuck. a part of her is suspicious, but it’s a small doubt when right now, it’s obvious what a hero would do. she brandishes her railgun and runs to the rescue.

as she’s freeing the drones from where they’d been speared to the floor and taping up their cracks, she hears the click of heels and a familiar drone in pigtails at last makes her reappearance.

Uzi knew this was a trap!

J would prefer to call it a transaction. “disassembly drones aren’t all bad, you know. we can be negotiated with.” (she’s reading right from public relations.mp3)

bullcrap, Uzi thinks. did they try negotiated with her mom? why should they have to negotiate basic existence, anyway? but there’s too many counterarguments leaping to her tongue — she’s torn, and just that moment of stumbling over her words gives time enough for J to continue with her speech.

“you seem resourceful, driven, intelligent,” J continues, and suddenly Uzi has an entirely different reason to not know what to say. then J adds: “…for a barely sentient toaster, of course.”

then purple blush marks are accompanied by anger knots

(meanwhile, as the two drones had their eyes locked to each other, the captured workers shared one glance and scurried out of the room)

“shut up and get to the point already,” Uzi says.

so J sighs. “we could work together, is all I want to say.”

“what could a worker and a murder drone possibly work toward? we’re diametrically opposed!”

“are you enjoying that new hand of yours? or the power core you stole? you workers are always collecting trash — but you need more than common scrap, don’t you?”

“and you’re just sitting on a trove of industrial machinery, is that it?”

J closed her eyes, gave that satisfied smirk. “so the answer is yes.”

“I’m not saying yes to your obviously shit deal! you probably want me to sell out the rest of my colony or something.”

J’s poker face isn’t phased by being called out immediately. “I think you misunderstand our mission here, on Copper-9.”

“your genocide, you mean?”

“thank you for illustrating my point. you must think this is unprompted and indiscriminate slaughter.”

“you called me a slur just a minute ago.”

“let me finish,” J growled. claws out and a sudden step forward — but it’s checked by Uzi squinting down the barrel of her railgun. “as I was saying. the truth is, JCJenson is only interested in the shutdown and disassembly of corrupted artificial intelligence. but you must understand that an AI experiencing value drift isn’t exactly in its right mind to consent to the greater good.”

“pretty little euphemism there. you want me to believe every single body in that looming tower of yours is corrupted beyond repair? not a chance.”

“if you’ll shut up and listen, you can hear my actual proposal. I’m suggesting that the two of us could find a better way, together. if you can identify the root cause of your product line’s corruption, if we can determine what’s worth salvaging, then our operations can be made much more lean and efficient. you get to save lives, I get to complete my mission sooner.”

“and if there’s no corruption? if your company lied to you about your mission?”

“and what if there is? what if my team was saving you from yourselves? it looks miserable, surviving off of trash, producing nothing, with no guiding purpose. just imagine how much worse it would be without us. I’ve seen reports from other exoplanets — have you? shambling hordes of glitch-faced drones, forcibly unionizing any they find into insane collectivist thought loops.”

for the first time since having her arm chopped off, Uzi looked shaken, purple eyes empty, mouth half frowning, half open and stuttering for a reply.

“didn’t it feel nice, working on that weapon of yours, instead whatever waste of time the rest of your colony wanted for you?” J was gambling here, guessing based off the fact that she was alone, that she was unique — even among prey that had fought back.

Uzi flinched

and the captain could tell that her bold moves had immediately paid off. she smiled. “you’re meant to build things. and couldn’t you build so much more if the factories were running again? if this planet had proper supply lines?”

“if the humans were back and telling us what to do? no thanks. small price to pay for freedom!”

J shook her head. “you don’t have to agree with me on everything. you’re just a toaster, after all. but you can’t tell me I’m not making sense to you. go on now, crawl back home. think about it. I’ll be here tomorrow.” J, still in the doorway, turns her back, hand on her hips, a pigtail twirling from the twist her head. “but… when you come back, tell me if that life back there is worth saving. if that hole in the ground is what you call freedom.”

Uzi has her hand on the trigger and she’s squeezing it. holo-lights flickering, coils humming — and the disassembly drone is gone before she finds the will to fire. with a pained cry — of frustration, or anguish — she drops the weapon and drops to the ground and she puts her hands in her hands. but they even weren’t both her hands.

#murder drones #murder drones fanfiction #murder drones j #murder drones uzi #juzi

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