#solder terminal

[jmmy2crad]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/interconnect--connector-tools-contacts-accessories/1062-16-0122-te-connectivity-5076059

Wire crimp connectors, USB connectors, solder terminal connectors

14 - 18 AWG Size 16 Nickel Plated Crimp Socket

[brtt2pnny]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/interconnect--connectors-pcb--shunts-jumpers/5102tr-keystone-5046274

Jumper cap, jumper wire connector Jumper wire types, coaxial cable connector

0.02 in 0.5 mm Thick Copper (Silver Plated) 0.27 in 6.85 mm Long Jumper

[alvie-pines]

first aid for your robot!

electrical tape. use to close surface gashes and seal off sparking, exposed wires.

spare nuts, bolts, screws, fasteners, etc. to replace broken or lost parts.

spot weld kit for more worrisome injuries. use to mend broken structural supports, close surface gashes, and add temporary splints or other external support with scrap metal.

usb with antiviral programs. self explanatory.

spare battery for emergency recharging.

actual medical care can be more complex.

soldering and welding tools to permanently repair damaged parts.

wholesale replacement of parts.

a memory backup is always a good thing to have.

complex malware can be cleaned up by a human using a terminal interface.

quality replacement materials of whatever type is necessary for your robot.

for delicate work, a human engineer may be assisted by carefully controlled mechanical appendages and magnifying glasses.

[bugged-ubuntu]

I've never made a bomb (dry ice and modified fireworks exempted) but one of my biggest pet peeves is everything to do with bombs in films and tv shows. It instantly breaks immersion in an inexcusable way.

Oh cut the red wire? You're sure? Was this bomb manufactured according to strict, standardized schematics?

Oh you're just going to twist those wires together? You're getting paid $10k to manufacture this bomb and you can't afford a soldering iron?

Oh you're going to take down a plane with a piece of pvc pipe filled with black powder and a spark plug? Sure little buddy, you go do that.

I can excuse almost anything else in a movie. When someone takes down the mainframe by typing "ipconfig /flushdns" into a random terminal I can suspend my disbelief because DNS is black magic, but I draw the line at an Arduino duct-taped to drywall.

[thepinkpanther83]

The Harmonic Equation (Pt.2 Harmonic Anomaly)

Story Prompt: “Turtle Song”

Donatello x Fem!Reader - Soulmate Song AU - Action/Romance

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Find the full series on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter One: "Frequency Unknown" Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Two: “Harmonic Anomaly”

It starts off subtle.

You're leaned over Donnie's workbench, sleeves pushed up, delicate fingers sorting micro-capacitors by size while he calibrates the feedback loop array. There’s the occasional hiss of solder. The low buzz of machinery. Mikey’s somewhere nearby, bouncing between workspaces with the kind of chaotic curiosity only he can pull off without breaking something… so far.

The data stream flickers beside you- an open holographic projection of last week’s cracked code, still untranslated in places. Donnie had triple-encrypted it for safety, just in case, but he still let you be the one to pick at the remains. Something about your neural pattern recognition made you faster at spotting the recurring glyphs buried in the corrupted syntax. You said it felt like music, almost. Like it wanted to be read in rhythm.

So while Donnie tunes the loop array, you're humming- completely unaware.

It just... happens. Like breathing. A soft, looping melody under your breath, sweet but strange- unconscious. The notes flutter between your lips like moths drawn to light.

Donnie hears it instantly.

His head lifts, tool stilling mid-tweak.

Those notes again.

The same ones from the other night, half-lost in static and memory. It glides through the air like it was always meant to be there, but there’s no echo in the room. No resonance bouncing off walls. Just the pure, low pulse of you.

And underneath it… something familiar. Something patterned.

His mind races. The file. The frequency markers embedded in the prototype schematic. You said they felt like a song- like a mechanical lullaby stuck between lines of code. And now you’re humming it, effortlessly, like it came from you first.

He tracks it like a sonar ping, eyes narrowing- not in suspicion, but in focus.

You’re still working, unaware, humming without thought as you tilt your head and study a blown-out chip.

He shifts, just enough to catch Mikey’s attention as he dances through the lab, one roller skate on for no apparent reason.

“Hey, Mikey,” Donnie calls, careful- too careful, like this question definitely isn’t important. “You recognize the song she’s humming?”

Mikey freezes mid-skate-drift, leans dramatically toward you with a hand cupped to his ear.

A pause.

He blinks.

“…She’s not humming anything, dude.”

Donnie’s spine straightens a fraction. “…You sure?”

Mikey lifts a brow. “Unless she’s humming in dolphin,” he says, smirking. “Which, respect, but I don’t think she is.”

Donnie doesn’t respond right away.

Mikey shrugs and rolls on, humming his own tune now- something undeniably loud, off-key, and probably from an anime intro. He’s already forgotten the exchange.

But Donnie hasn’t.

He swivels his gaze back to you, watching- watching you hum this impossible sound no one else can hear.

Except him.

Donnie’s gaze lingers on your profile for a moment too long after Mikey skates off.

You're still humming.

Still softly threading that inexplicable melody under your breath like it belongs here- like it’s always been part of the frequency of this room, and he’s only just now noticed.

But that’s impossible.

Isn’t it?

He turns sharply, retreating to the bank of diagnostic terminals behind him with the smooth precision of a man pretending not to be rattled.

He’s definitely rattled.

A few taps. A sweep of fingers. His gauntlet syncs with the lab’s mainframe, and a live feed of his auditory processing system flashes across the screen. Channels. Filters. Frequencies. Subharmonic overlays. Nothing visibly wrong.

But his sensors registered something.

He heard something.

No one else did.

He glances back over his shoulder. You’ve stopped humming now, but the sound still rings faintly in his memory- just enough to make his skin prickle.

He types faster.

Full diagnostic. Internal and external mic arrays.

Scan for anomalous signal interference.

Temporal distortion variables: included.

Verify firmware integrity.

Lines of data scroll past in silent defiance. The array’s clean. No corruption. No miscalibrations. Everything reads perfectly functional.

“…Obviously something’s wrong,” he mutters, squinting at the untouched error logs. “There’s no way she’s emitting a sound only I can hear.”

But the files say otherwise.

Donatello Hamato does not believe in magic.

But that hum… isn’t science either.

And that is what terrifies him.

The lab is quiet again.

No music. No chatter. Just the low whirr of machines and the tap-tap-tap of keys beneath Donatello’s fingers as he hunches over the waveform synthesizer.

A stylus in one hand, a digitizer pad under the other, he’s been at this for hours.

Chasing a ghost.

He hums the tune again- low, precise, nearly mechanical. Then again, this time altering the pitch by 0.6 semitones. He runs the output through three harmonic filters. The waveform looks right. It should be a match.

It isn't.

He plays it back.

Listens.

Frowns.

“No resonance,” he mutters, adjusting the gain. “Still too clinical. Missing the... depth? No- dimensionality.”

His tongue clicks softly. He pulls up another set of synth layers, dragging in bioacoustic modulation samples. Heartbeat rhythms. Breath patterns. Even snippets of emotional frequency markers from prior research into affective computing.

He combines them. Refines. Adjusts.

Still wrong.

Still sterile.

Still not her.

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, arms folded as the screen flickers with the stillborn echo of something close, but nowhere near enough. The real version- your version, left warmth in his chest. A strange flush. That fleeting feeling like-

Like being seen.

This version? Nothing. Static and numbers.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales hard through it.

“I built a laser microphone that can read conversation off a potato chip bag across rooftops in a hurricane,” he mutters. “But I can’t replicate one simple tonal pattern?”

He leans forward again, entering a new log.

Test #43 - Artificial Recreation Attempt Failure. Emotional response absent. Acoustic signature falls flat. Depth and resonance not present in synthetic waveform. Pattern remains elusive. Suspect organic variability. Possibly quantum-linked biofeedback loop?? (Note: stop making theories that sound like sci-fi. Embarrassing.)

He stares at the blinking cursor.

Then mutters:

“…Maybe it’s not the tone that’s unreplicable.”

His fingers still against the keys.

Maybe it’s the source.

The next time you hum, he’s ready.

He’s been ready for hours.

You don’t know it, but he’s been running simulations. Adjusting parameters. Testing hypotheses. He’s recalibrated his auditory sensors three times, cross-referenced every known frequency range, and even- begrudgingly -consulted Splinter’s old scrolls on "spiritual harmonics," which he absolutely does not believe in, thank you very much.

And now, as you lean over the holographic display, tracing a circuit path with one finger, it happens again.

That hum.

Soft.

Low.

Impossible.

Donnie’s fingers freeze mid-keystroke. His breath catches. His pupils dilate- just slightly, as his systems lock onto the sound.

This time, he records it.

The waveform blooms across his screen in real-time, a spectral fingerprint unlike anything in his database.

Not mechanical.

Not ambient.

Not random.

It’s structured.

And- most damning of all, it matches the notes he’s been humming to himself for years.

The ones he thought were just... noise.

His jaw tightens.

A realization hits him like a plasma surge to the chest.

This isn’t interference.

This is-

His train of thought derails violently when you suddenly glance up, catching him staring.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

Donnie exhales sharply through his nostrils, forcing his expression into something resembling normal human interaction or, in his case, normal turtle interaction.

“Peachy,” he lies, adjusting his glasses with a practiced flick. “Just, ah- debugging.”

You tilt your head. “...With your eyes?”

A moment passes.

Then, with the grace of a man who has definitely not just had a minor existential crisis over a hum:

“Advanced debugging.”

You snort, shaking your head, and go back to work.

Donnie does not go back to work.

Instead, he stares at the waveform still pulsing on his screen.

And, very quietly, he whispers:

“...What the hell is happening?”

You wake with your heart pounding and the echo of a song in your throat.

Not a melody you necessarily know.

Not one you remember ever hearing before- not on the radio, not in a lullaby, not even in the fuzzy edges of half-remembered dreams.

And yet it’s familiar. Like something you once knew in the dark, when the world was softer, quieter, and you hadn’t learned to armor your heart so tightly.

You sit up slowly, the room still, the covers tangled around your waist. The only light comes from your phone screen, face-down on the nightstand, casting a sliver of glow like a distant moon.

The hum is gone.

But the feeling remains.

Warm. Anchored. Like gravity... but personal. Like the sound itself had wrapped around you. Had seen you. Had wanted you.

Your palms are clammy. You press one to your chest.

Heartbeat: elevated. Breath: shallow.

Desire: inexplicably sharp.

You close your eyes.

And there it is again- faint, like it’s coming from the bottom of the ocean. Like it’s being sung through water and blood and bone. A low vibration, wrapping around your spine, coiling at the base of your belly.

And somewhere in that deep vibration is... him.

Donatello.

Not the Donnie with the quick wit and the miles-a-minute tech rants, though- no, this feeling is older. Wiser. The core of him. The part that hides behind circuits and sarcasm and calculating glances when he thinks no one’s watching.

The part of him that feels everything too deeply.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

You lie back, exhaling through your nose, the sheets suddenly too warm, your skin tingling like it’s caught the signal of something more primal than language. Your thoughts flicker like static through images of him- his hands, his mouth, the soothing timbre of his voice when it drops an octave and he’s too tired to keep it leveled. The way he’s always a little too careful with you. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice.

The hum surfaces again. Not from the world outside.

From you.

It slips past your lips before you even know you’re doing it- soft, tentative. The very same pitch you heard in your dream.

And this time... it answers.

Not in sound.

In sensation.

A heat that pools low in your stomach.

A sudden need to be near him.

Not just emotionally.

Not just logically.

Physically. Instinctively. Like your body knows something your brain’s still trying to unspool.

You sit up slowly, fingers brushing your collarbone like the feeling left fingerprints there.

“...What the hell is happening?”

3:47 AM.

The lab is dark save for the glow of monitors, their blue light casting long shadows across Donnie’s face as he stares at the screen.

The waveform is still there.

Your waveform.

The one that shouldn’t exist.

The one that matches the hum he’s been hearing in his head all his life.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating.

Then he types:

Hypothesis Update:

Subject’s vocal emissions exhibit anomalous harmonic resonance. Frequency matches internal auditory hallucinations previously dismissed as stress-induced. No known scientific precedent. Possible explanations:

1. Coincidental bioacoustic mimicry (unlikely).

2. Subconscious synchronization via pheromonal or biochemical signaling (plausible but untestable without invasive measures).

3. Extradimensional or metaphysical interference (laughable, but currently the only model that fits the data).

He pauses.

Then adds:

Alternative theory: This is the Turtle Mate Song.

He stares at the words.

They stare back.

A myth. A fairy tale. Something Splinter told them when they were young- that their kind had a song, a call, a vibration that only their true mate could hear. That it wasn’t just sound. It was recognition.

Donnie exhales sharply through his nose, fingers curling into fists.

Ridiculous.

He’s a man of science. Of logic. Of proof.

And yet-

He can’t explain this.

Can’t explain the way his pulse spikes when he hears it. Can’t explain the way his skin prickles, the way his cloaca tightens with something dangerously close to arousal when that sound slips past your lips.

Can’t explain why, even now, his body is reacting to the memory of it like it’s a physical touch.

His jaw clenches.

He should delete this.

He should.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he minimizes the file, locks it behind encryption even he would struggle to crack, and leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples.

Outside, the city hums.

Inside, his blood does the same.

And beneath it all-

That song.

Waiting.

Watching.

Wanting.

The world outside is hushed, the city sleeping in a patchwork of light and steam, and still- still… you move.

Like you’re sleepwalking with purpose.

You pull on the first clothes you find, not bothering to check if they match. Your fingers fumble with the lock on your apartment door, your body leaning forward like it’s being drawn- like there’s a wire sunk deep in your chest, and it’s pulling you toward something essential. Your legs carry you without complaint, without question.

By the time you're in the tunnels, breath fogging in the cold underground air, the feeling is so strong it’s a pressure in your ribs. Like your body is reacting to a storm only you can feel.

You don’t knock when you reach the entrance hatch. You don't announce yourself. You just descend.

And Donnie… Donnie hears you before he sees you.

Not through sensors or motion alerts- he’s got all that shut down tonight. He needed silence. Stillness. Needed to think.

But he feels you like a ripple through water.

His eyes lift from the monitor.

You step into the glow like a ghost conjured from his pulse.

There’s a moment where neither of you moves.

Then-

“Oh,” you say, breathless. Like you didn’t mean to speak. Like it slipped out of you the same way the hum had.

Donnie blinks slowly, his hands still resting on the edge of the desk, fingertips curled slightly like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile realness of the table.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Not sharp or startled or snide. Soft, like the edge of a blanket pulled gently over bare skin.

You open your mouth.

Close it again.

Then you shake your head and say, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t make a joke about weird hours or sleepwalking or how statistically unsafe it is to travel through the sewers in the middle of the night.

He just nods.

Because he knows.

You don’t have to speak it. Neither does he.

You’re here because the ache got too loud.

Because the air felt too empty without the other in it.

Because some invisible wire finally pulled too tight to ignore.

He stands.

And you don’t think- you just move. A few steps forward, your arms wrapping around his middle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like your body had planned this long before your mind caught up.

And Donnie?

He doesn’t hesitate.

He holds you.

Not like a friend.

Not like a crush.

Not even like a lover.

Like a constant.

Like someone who’s just found the quiet to a storm he didn’t realize he was living inside.

Your face presses to his plastron. You can hear the echo of his breath. Can feel his arms tighten slightly when he exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. Days. Lifetimes.

The lab is silent except for the hum of machinery and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing against him.

Donnie’s fingers flex against your back, his fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric of your shirt. He can feel your heartbeat against his chest- fast, alive, his and something in him settles for the first time in days.

The song is quiet now.

Not gone.

Just... content.

His chin rests atop your head, his breath warm in your hair. He doesn’t ask again why you’re here. Doesn’t question the way you fit against him like two halves of a circuit finally clicking into place. He just holds you, his arms squeezing in a gesture that’s equal parts possessive and protective.

Neither of you speaks.

You stay like that.

Still.

Anchored.

Tethered.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three: "A Song For Two"

Who loves TMNT, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

@justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @sophiacloud28, @redsrooftopprincess, @ninnosaurus, @iridescentflamingo, @adebauchedsloth, @eveandtheturtles, @thelaundrybitch, @tmnt-tychou, @milykins, @the-cauldron-witch

Masterlist

[ohmotherwhereartthou-if]

ROS reaction of mc giving them the mother treatment? Loving them for a decade and leaving out of nowhere

Ouch!

Cassandra: If you left a letter like mother did, Cass is hunting your ass down, hell hath absolutely no fury. MC is going to be living always looking over their solder because that woman would be relentless and beyond pissed when she finds them. As for her intentions and deeper feelings, I think all that is on her mind is to find MC and just grab them. Mostly coming from a place of desperation to hold them close and never let them leave again, but after all the yelling and possible punching; Cass would ask them, 'why'? If she feels as if MC just doesn't want to be with her anymore then she would curse them but let them go, if it was something deeper. Like a bigger threat they were trying to protect her from, then she might be able to forgive them. But all that comes after she goes full terminator.

Valeria: Would be heartbroken and would seek help from passing missionaries and the church, she would always ask the passing travelers if they have seen MC or if they can keep an eye out for her. She would even travel church-to-church to expand the amount of people she could ask, most in the church after a while would tell her to stop and accept what MC has done. She would never remarry or find someone else and would dedicate her life to the church. And I think after a few years she would eventually make peace with it but never fully forgive MC for how they hurt her, especially when she knows that MC should know better than anyone just how much this type of disappearance hurts.

Tomas: Owwwwwwww. My poor boy. He would feel as if someone directly tore his chest open and ripped out his heart, and ran away with it. Because that's essentially what MC has done, he had put his guard down for the first time and let them in; and they repaid that by stealing away his happiness and pride. I want to say he would look desperately for MC for a few years, he would spare no expense and leave everything he has behind in order to track MC down and try to bring them back. He would both curse their name and quietly beg to God to bring them back to him every night, I think if he ever found MC he would forgive them pretty quickly as long as he knows MC still loves him. But if he never found them he would give up after a couple of years of searching due to either age or injury, he would go back home defeated and beyond bitter. Still hoping maybe one day MC would come back to him,

-

Ludovica: Ughhhhh, also my poor baby! Sweetie would have a full mental breakdown, my darling girl would not be able to go out and find MC but by God she will spend her whole fortune paying bounty hunters and trackers to bring them back. MC would have to be a legendary sneak to avoid the sheer amount of heat this woman will put on their back, every bounty hunter would know about the legendary runaway lover. Even years after the initial bounty is placed to bring MC back alive and unharmed, everyone still keeps an eye out for them in hopes to win that huge payout. Ludovica would be even more distraught as more years pass, always blaming herself for their disappearance and wondering what it was exactly she did wrong. She would pray they come back or be found (which is kinda a big deal since she doesn't believe in a God) out of sheer desperation. If MC is gone for more than 4 years I don't think she would last...

Aurelio: He would tell himself that he shouldn't be too surprised. Of course having someone like MC in his life was too good to be true, at the end of the day, for him; everyone eventually leaves. He won't look for MC, he's respect their decision to leave him; although that goes to say he isn't completely unfazed by this. He'd deal with his sorrow by throwing himself deeper into his work, parties, and wine. He'd be a bit more melancholic and less energetic than he was before. He would have relations with other people every now and then but he would never date, much less ever fall in love, with anyone ever again. MC is very much 'the one who got away' for him.

Elio: He would laugh. MC is adorable if they think they can teach him how to love and live with him happily for all these years then just up and leave him. He rejects the idea completely, I think I have said this somewhere before but he never will fully accept a break up if MC had taught him how nice it feels to love someone first. He is a lazy ass but when it comes to someone or something he desperately wants he is like a whole different person. Hear me now, he will spend the rest of his life tracking MC down. He will never stop and believe me, he will never get tired of looking either. The way he sees it, the world is only so big and it's only a matter of time before he finds them.

[malachitemouse]

Furby '98 speaker replacement

Symptom: Furby moves, but does not speak.

Possible causes:

you have displeased Furby. In which case there is nothing to be done but to attempt to appease and regain favour,

solder joints are dry,

speaker is blown.

If the last two, then surgery is required.

First, remove the batteries. Then skin Furby. And remove the shell.

Now that you have access, remove the two screws keeping the tummy button and speaker unit attached.

Next, unplug the socket at the end of those wires. You might need to peel off hot glue to manage this.

With the unit free, remove the speaker from the grill. The two might be lightly melted together, but they can usually be gently separated.

With the speaker solder pads accessible, you can test for continuity with your multimeter. There should be continuity across the + and - pads, as well as between the two +s and two -s. If there isn't that's a problem. You can add more solder to reflow the joints to see if that fixes the problem.

If not, the speaker is probably blown. You'll need a replacement speaker: 40mm diameter, 32 ohm, 0.25W (like this ~$2 one; https://www2.mouser.com/ProductDetail/Same-Sky/CDS-4051-32-SP).

Desolder the old speaker, and solder the wires onto the new speaker. Keep note of which colour wires attaches to which terminal (+ or -). Seat the speaker back into the grill. Plug the socket back in, and wake up Furby to test it worked.

Hopefully everything went well! Then just screw the tummy button and speaker unit back on, reshell, reskin, and resume appeasing thine Furby.

[adafruit]

mini Sparkle Motion prototype - a tiny, fully-featured WLED board ✨🔌📏💡🌈

We're doing a lot of serious testing with our WLED mega-board, code-name Sparkle Motion .

While doing some holiday lighting projects, we also wanted something slim enough to slip into any design. It still uses an ESP32 for the best support, with USB-serial programming, 5A fuse, 5V level shifting + 100 ohm series resistors for pixel drivers, user/reset buttons, a user LED and onboard neopixel, JST SH analog/digital connector, QT I2C connector, 4 GPIO plus power/ground breakouts, and USB type C power/data input.

However, this version is made simpler and less expensive by dropping the DC jack and USB PD support: it's only for 5V strips if you want to power them directly (you could still drive 12V or 24V pixels, but you'll need separate power for them). Instead of a full set of terminal blocks for 3 signals, we only have two outputs, and they have to share the power and ground pins. It could also be used for a single two-pin dotstar LED setup. We kept the built-in I2S mic but dropped the on-board IR sensor - if you want an IR sensor, you'll be able to plug it into the JST SH port with a simple cable or solder it into the breakout pads.

The trade-off is that it's much smaller and slimmer, especially when no terminal blocks are soldered in by default: only 1.2" long x 0.785" wide (~1 sq in) x 0.3" thick vs. the original's 2" x 1.3" (2.6 sq in) x 0.55". To get it that small, we went 4-layer to give us a nice big ground and 5V plane in the middle and double-sided assembly. Coming soon.

[nickyrothfan]

What if everyone got super powers?(part 42). Remake

The interior of Ivan's secret basement—as always—was a dusty electronic fortress. Holograms, screens, devices. On the walls—old blueprints, in the corners—strange prototypes. Comfort was utterly absent in this house. But now—here, they felt safe. Almost.

On the floor lay a mech-fragment of the Wolf (which Ivan had acquired upon returning to the forest). Blackened, with charred contacts. It had survived the last skirmish.

Ivan paced back and forth, his fingers tapping interfaces. Finch sat on the windowsill, swinging her leg, examining her crossbow. Enzo leaned against the wall nearby, silent. Delroy warmed his hands by a soldering iron, as if it were a campfire. Maritza stood by the window. Just staring into the darkness. Nicky—in the center. On a stool. Pale. But... not too much. Trinity sat opposite him. Face to face. Barely taking her eyes off him.

"Alright... we've identified all the cult members from the database. There's a Franklin, who is their leader. Their abilities. And we have a piece of the Wolf's mech. That's something," Trinity began.

"Something that almost killed us," Maritza added.

"And almost tore someone apart," Finch said, without looking.

"Thanks for the reminder, Finch," Nicky rolled his eyes.

She gave him a short, sharp look. He met it, didn't look away. Smiled. For half a second—not genuinely.

Nicky only addressed Trinity.

"So now what? Are we going to rest... or break into their base this time with fireworks?"

"You're speaking strangely..." Delroy observed. Even recently, after returning to the investigation, Nicky hadn't exactly been eager.

"Our next step isn't the Crowfaces. We almost lost you, Nicky. And that's... unacceptable. They're too well-prepared. Ivan, Enzo, and I will work on analyzing the Wolf. The rest of you—rest. Tomorrow—we'll decide how to proceed."

The others nodded, clearly not wanting to return to that hell.

And in Nicky's/Nocky’s thoughts, a story immediately formed:

"O-o-oh, interesting, interesting... So this is how you play. Moving towards the Wolf, huh? And probably Junior Peterson, since you think they're together? You don't know that he defected, that he's with you now... So, if you find him—who will confirm his words? Only me. Only me... and I won't tell the truth. And then you'll DESTROY him. Check. And... almost mate." The rewired Roth smirked in his thoughts.

"Yes... I need time to rest. Thanks, Trin," Nicky bowed his head in reality.

Trinity merely smiled back at him.

"He's asking too many questions. Does he want to 'participate'? That's strange. He never used to rush into the eye of the storm. That was Trinity. But now? He's asking for plans? Options? What the hell, Nicky?" Finch thought to herself. In reality, she glanced at Nicky.

He noticed—and smiled. Warmly. Almost sincerely. But "almost" doesn't count.

"Something's wrong. But I can't say what. Neither the smell nor the energy—everything's clean. But it's like... the wrong music. As if the shadow doesn't match the light." Enzo swallowed. A sense of danger hammered like crazy, especially near Nicky.

But what's wrong with him?

Enzo shifted his gaze to Ivan.

"Damn agreement. 'No mind reading without permission.' I hate it. I could know everything. I'd just read him—and understand. But no. Ethics. Ethics. Damn it." Torre cursed to himself.

He hit the panel too sharply. Finch noticed. Said nothing.

"Tomorrow—school. Everyone behaves quietly. We walk as if everything's normal. We don't know who else is in their network. After lunch, we'll meet in the inventors' club room," Trinity said confidently.

"I'll be there," Nicky replied, not blinking.

"That's what scares me," Finch thought. She likes Nicky, well... she really, really likes him. But now a sense of unease consumed her... as if Nicky wasn't quite Nicky.

Everyone dispersed. Finch was the last. Before leaving, she looked at Ivan. He—at the terminal. She—in the doorway.

"Do you have a strange feeling? Ivan?" she called to him.

"A little... just... keep an eye on Nicky. I'll try to figure out what kind of liquid was in his blood," Ivan replied.

Finch nodded, clearly intending to do so anyway, and began to leave when Ivan called her back.

"Listen... thanks for worrying so much. Honestly, at first I had doubts, but now... you're definitely one of us," Torre glanced at her and raised a finger.

Finch smirked. Finally, someone other than Nicky acknowledged her.

Location: The Roths' House, Late Evening.

Nocky stood by the door.

From the outside—an ordinary door. With dark glass, peeling paint, and a doorbell that hadn't worked for about five years.

Inside—warm light. A hot meal on the stove. His mother's shadow on the wall. In the hallway—the rustle of his father's footsteps. And... that strange, almost cloyingly sweet smell—as if the house was trying to be cozier than it should. As if it was trying too hard.

He reached for the handle. Froze.

"You're home, son..." he imagined their words. What a disgusting, sticky word. Son.

He slowly pushed the door.

Click!

Open. Of course.

He stepped inside. And the world—froze.

In the kitchen—his mother. Luanne Roth. In an apron. Hair tied back, gaze—as always, painfully gentle. Only now—a little faded.

In the hallway—his father, Jay. With a newspaper in his hands. He wasn't even reading it. Just holding it.

They saw him. And—for a fraction of a second—they both understood everything.

But they continued to play along.

"Nicholas?" his mother almost ran to him. Hugged him, without waiting. Too tightly.

He didn't respond. Just allowed himself to be hugged. Like an object.

"You... you're back. My God. They were looking for you. We thought you—"

"I know, mom." His voice was even. Too even.

His father approached slowly. His eyes darted around. He tried to guess who exactly was standing before him.

"Son... are you... alright?"

Silence.

And then—a smile. That very one. Ragged, crookedly stitched, too wide to be real.

"Completely. I was with Ivan and friends. We had fun inventing, crawling around the house, wandering... oh, and we even set up a headquarters there, you know. Called it 'Robopolis.' Where robots stylized as raven-people walk around. We have a town, Raven Brooks. Right?"

Both parents immediately froze, clearly pondering his words.

Nocky knew he was taking a risk. But he wanted to see the faces of his ancestors. In his opinion, if they were full members of the cult, he would have accepted them. But to terrorize the city just so your child isn't touched? Pathetic.

That's why he considers Franklin his father. He understands him.

"Um... that's great, son. Do you want some chocolate?" Jay smiled, offering a half-eaten bar.

Nocky rolled his eyes. Jay—a sweet tooth. So much so that you could tell his mood by what he was eating.

"Sorry, Dad. I'm tired. The games were hard, exhausting. I think I'll go up." He "yawned" and went upstairs to his room.

"Um... okay. We love you, son," Luanne called to him as he stood before his room door.

"Son"—the word stuck in his head. Terribly sweet, warm, full of love... honestly, he wouldn't mind Franklin calling him that. From his mouth, any nonsense would be threatening. But from the mouth of a fat journalist and a teacher? Funny, but weak.

"I... love you too," he squeezed out, and was about to slam the door shut, but then he thought.

He remembered how they tried to hide the truth. Lying about the pregnancy, so...

"By the way... about the upcoming baby. Mom, Dad... could you at least be quieter, I almost had a heart attack this morning. And yes... I'd like a little sister, I'll teach her all sorts of things. Good night!" He giggled and entered his room with a bang.

How pleasant it was to troll idiot parents.

Already in his room, Nocky jumped onto the bed. Took out his radio and tuned the frequency to the right one.

"Hello? Dad? If you're listening, or if some of your stupid Crowfaces are listening... a group of idiots are going to investigate the Wolf. Do you know him? I doubt it. In short, from what I know, he's a simple predator who wants to eat. Can only be killed by fire, and knows how to put cursed seals on people, suppressing their will," Roth began, but no answer followed.

Apparently Franklin was busy...

"Okay... if these are robots, then record this. Pass it on to Dad. Ahem... he put a seal on Aaron. But he regained control, he's somewhere in the forest now. I don't know what you plan to do with him, he's your nephew after all... so if I accidentally kill him, know that you didn't warn me," Nocky continued.

"As soon as we're done with the Wolf, or whatever it is, I'll let you know the next step. And yes, Dad... after this, you owe me a sparring match, and a brawl with other strong idiots, I want to tear everyone apart." Nocky finished, and changed the device's frequency to random.

At the same moment, downstairs.

"You don't think... he knows?" Jay looked at Luanne worriedly.

"He can't know..." she replied. Franklin had given his word that he wouldn't touch Nicky if they worked with his cult, and they were.

He couldn't be lying, could he?

…

"Any leads?"

Ivan didn't answer immediately. He continued to adjust the spectral analyzer, as if the right words were hidden within the code.

"This fragment..." he finally began.

"...it's not just mechanics. And not just a curse. It's... alive."

"What?" Enzo raised an eyebrow.

"Inside the tissue structure—I found... fibers. Not conductive. But absorbing. As if they process foreign energy. And if the fur is torn off—it starts repairing itself. Slowly. But steadily. See?"

He pointed to the microscope. There, under the lens—a tiny patch of metal with black veins. On it—cracks. The edges... were moving. Merging. As if the metal was stitching itself together.

"And if I set it on fire—the tissue melts. And doesn't restore itself," Ivan continued.

"The only thing that works completely—fire. Everything else the Wolf just absorbs or repels."

Trinity nodded. The logic held: a monster that's invulnerable, except to one element. A classic weakness. The only problem was that they weren't in a fairy tale. And matches wouldn't help here. But Maritza with her fire certainly could.

"But that's not the main thing..." Ivan added.

He exhaled. His fingers typed a command, and a map flashed on the screen. Intersections, zones, old forests, abandoned areas on the southern border of the city. Several red markers.

"I compared the energy signature of the fur and the general background in the city. The Wolf doesn't create energy, it distorts it. As if everything around it becomes... wrong. Space twists, time slightly lags."

He pointed to the screen.

"Zone one—an old quarry near line 7-B. There used to be a forest park there. Now—ruins, weeds, and silence. The second place—Black Brook, behind the cemetery. And the last one..." he hesitated.

"The last one is where a farm used to be. Burned to its foundation. And that's the strongest distortion. On the verge of a reality tear."

Enzo winced:

"You seriously want us to go to a place where reality itself is broken?"

"I don't want to. But if the Wolf is there... or whoever created it—we can't ignore it."

Silence.

"Wait..." Enzo understood.

"You think, he's... not by himself?"

Ivan nodded:

"Everything points to it. The fur isn't sewn—it's summoned. It looks like an artifact from another plane. Someone created this Wolf. Or... released it. And if that witch is still nearby—she might not be physically present. But energetically—the trace remains. And in each of the three points... it's felt."

"So we have three options..." Trinity summarized.

"All—potentially deadly. Excellent."

"We need to split up..." she murmured.

"Otherwise, we won't make it."

"Splitting up is exactly what the enemy expects," Ivan interjected.

"This isn't just a hunt. It's a trap. He's a beast. But she's a mind."

At that moment, the laboratory door quietly opened.

Nicky entered.

The light flickered for a second—barely noticeable. But everyone felt it.

He stretched, yawned. Playing the image of someone tired but composed.

"Good morning," he smiled.

"I decided to check on you, heard about the Wolf. Found where to skin him?"

Enzo shivered almost imperceptibly. Nicky's smile was too confident.

Trinity replied first:

"We have three coordinates. Tomorrow after school—we set out. Today—get ready. We'll give you the 'simplest' location."

"Yeah. I can handle it..." Nicky said.

"Only... tell me, who's going with me?"

"We'll think about it," Enzo replied.

Nicky shifted his gaze. Slowly. And suddenly the smile disappeared. Only for a second. But that was enough for Ivan to feel uneasy.

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 56

Signal

     Ford’s fingertips hovered just above the latest obsession.

     A headset prototype—small, sleek, almost absurd in its delicacy.

        It looked like nothing.

     A sliver of nickel-titanium no heavier than a paperclip, shaped to arc discreetly around the ear’s helix. Beneath the anodized frame—buried in the quiet curves and seamless joints—was a latticework of hungry ambition: fiber-optic strands as fine as nerve endings, threaded like wet silk through the inner spine. At the temple joint, a translucent stalk jutted forward—slender, glassy—terminating in a lenticular piece no wider than a lentil.

     When powered on, that lens would iris open with silent mechanical grace, crawl the visible spectrum, and beam its findings directly into the wearer’s retina. A cascade of filtered light and meaning—garlands of spectral fingerprints, thermal deltas, density matrices—all rendered in a thin, hovering wash of glyphs only the wearer could see.

     Inside his mind, Bill’s voice curled in mid-monologue, halfway through his afternoon tangent—

     “—so once we reinforce the feedback loop,” he went on, the words brushing the back of Ford’s mind like lazy fingers dragging through his hair, “you’ll be able to read an object’s molecular mood. Can you imagine how useful that’ll be—”

     Ford slipped the crescent over his ear and thumbed the switch.

        Silence.

     One heartbeat Bill was threading metaphors through his synapses, and the next his internal world was suddenly vacuum-sealed, swallowed into oblivion. Ford flinched. His fingers moved instinctively, fumbling for the contact latch. The moment the points lifted from his skin—

     “—which means we should be right on schedule.” 

     Bill’s voice snapped back into focus. Vibrant. chatty and undisturbed, picking up as though nothing had happened. He didn’t sound startled. Didn’t sound like he’d even noticed.

     Ford’s heart gave a quick, uneven kick. He stared down at the slender piece of tech cradled in his hand—suddenly strange and suspect.

     Inert now, its sleek crescent of metal gleaming harmlessly among the clutter of his desk.

     “Did you feel that?” he asked internally, the thought cutting through Bill’s diatribe.

     A brief hesitation. Bill’s presence shifted, subtly baffled. “Feel what?”

     Ford’s brow creased. He turned the device over again, inspecting the sensor nodes, the polymer sheath. “It must be a bug in the signal routing. I couldn’t hear you for a moment there.” 

     He exhaled, gave a thin, self-deprecating smile—trying to laugh off how fast his heart was still beating. “What were you saying, baby? I missed your grand finale.”

     Bill preened at the endearment, yet a faint eddy of unease skimmed beneath the theatrics. “I was saying your solder joints look like you did them in a moving car—let’s start there.”

     Ford rolled his eyes. “My solder joints are fine.” he thought, then squinted through the magnifier.

     The work-lamp’s halo bleached everything into a sterile glare. Copper traces had oozed together under the iron’s tip, bridging two terminals with a misshapen gob of silver and a thumbprint he didn’t remember leaving. He exhaled hard—fogging up the lens.

     Bill just hummed, smug and unhurried. “Ask your mechanic to do it,” he said breezily. “It’s what he’s there for, isn’t it?”

     Ford leaned back in his chair and called out toward the far end of the lab—

        “Fid.”

     A clang echoed behind the vertical cryochambers. “What?” 

     “Mind helping me smooth this out?” Ford lifted the board slightly. “I’ve mangled it enough.”

     Fiddleford slid out from behind the cooling reservoirs—hair tangled, face streaked with grit and condensation.

     “Reckon I could,” he muttered, tugging off a pair of thick insulating gloves. He took the iron and the circuit from Ford’s hands, slid into the stool beside him, and pulled the magnifier closer.

     Ford, bone-tired and grateful for the out, leaned back in his seat. He fished a cigarette from his breast pocket, lit it, and took a long drag as the soldering iron hissed against metal.

     Fiddleford leaned in, glasses slipping down his nose, peering through the distortion of the lens. “This one’a Bill’s brainstorms?” he asked.

     Ford’s gut gave a strange flutter. He watched solder smoke curl upward in livid ribbons. 

        “Yes,” he said—truth, strategically trimmed.

     Fiddleford didn’t look up. “He ever gonna get a badge and punch a time card like the rest of us?”

     Ford didn’t answer right away. Just made a small, noncommittal sound—a hum in the back of his throat that could mean anything. He took another drag, let the silence stretch. “Bill’s… around.” he said finally. “He consults.”

     “Consults,” Fidds echoed, solder tip dancing. “Uh-huh. Consults on what?”

     Inside his head, Bill lounged on a psychic mezzanine—one leg hooked over the rail, idly swaying. “He’s awfully inquisitive today.”

     “It’s compartmentalized,” Ford answered quickly. He flicked ash into the tray atop the bench, then shifted in his chair, suddenly too aware of the stiffness in his shoulders. “Need-to-know.”

     “That right?” Fiddleford said, a filament of solder melted, silvering the pad. “Well… where’s he from? What’s he like?”

     Ford adjusted in his chair again—barely a movement, reading more like discomfort than practicality. He tapped ash a second time, though the cigarette was nearly spent.

        “He’s, um—well, like I said, it’s complicated.”

     Fiddleford paused in his soldering, the iron glowing orange just above the delicate metal leads. He turned his head a little, not all the way—just enough to glance sideways. 

     “You’re awful cagey ’bout him, Ford. Why’s he gotta be so under wraps?”

     Bill stirred. The slouch vanished. He sat up straighter. “Cutting it close there, Sixer.” he said, voice curled with dry irritation.

        Ford sighed sharply through his nose. 

     “Everything’s still in preliminary testing. It's sensitive.” He took one last pull from the cigarette, but it was all bitter filter and ash. He ground it out in the tray, the filter hissing faintly against the ceramic. “Bill’s involvement isn’t something I can’t afford to go around sharing casually.”

     “Oh, so just vague Cold War levels of strategic opacity.” Fidds’ expression shifted—bemused, but knowing. “Rings a bell.” he chuckled and shook his head, turning his attention back to the soldering. “I guess old habits die hard.”

        Ford blinked, wary. “What?”

     “Back during your residency at—uh…” Fidds squinted as he exaggerated the pronunciation: “Ay-kull Normal Soo-peer-yor—”

        Ford winced.

     “You had a ‘classified liaison’ out in Montpellier, too, didn’t ya?” 

        Ford’s whole posture stiffened.

     Somewhere upstairs, in the higher rooms of Ford’s mind, something shifted and the mezzanine wavered. Bill sat upright. Alert. Still. Fox-eyed, wheeling like a searchlight through smoke.

     Fidds didn’t notice—he was too busy adjusting the heat on the iron. “You disappeared in ‘73—came back ‘round ‘75 ‘bout ten pounds lighter and four publications taller.”

     Ford’s stomach gave a slow, hollow twist. Not panic—not yet. Just the pressure that came before it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

     The draft inside Ford’s mind became a wind. Bill pivoted, moving towards the darker recesses of the space he occupied, scanning the shelves.

     “Oh, come on,” Fidds chuckled, nudging the iron deeper into the joint. “You don’t remember when you and Ethan Kratzer co-wrote over seven hundred pages on metaphysical convergence theory?”

     Bill froze mid-stride. “Kratzer?” he said with a voice tightened to piano-wire pitch. “The cosmonaut?”

     “Then had a nuclear fallout over ‘intellectual differences’.” Fidds just went on, grinning like he’d just solved the crossword in pen. “I knew something happened between you two.”

      The words flashed like lightning, illuminating every corner at once. Bill surged—pages rustling, tabs torn loose—each memory pulled out of sequence and held to the light like a crime scene photo.

     Ford’s hands curled around the ceramic mug, trying to keep his voice even. Deny, dilute, redirect.

     “We collaborated on a few theorems during my time studying in Europe,” he said. “before I knew he was an arrogant fool. So whatever you’re implying—” 

     Fidds wasn’t listening, still sifting through the past like it was a scrapbook as he finished the last few joints. “Y’know, looking back—that article he wrote about you in PMQ.” he sucked air between his teeth. “Reads real different now—gotta give it a once-over, I think I still got a copy around here somewhere.”

       With surgical precision Bill sliced the air between syllables and hissed directly into Ford’s amygdala: “Article? What article?” 

        “Fid, shut up,” Ford said between his teeth. 

     He could feel Bill coiling tighter. The sound of that name on Fidds’ lips felt indecent, invasive—like a stranger pawing through the inside of his coat. But across the bench, Fidds remained oblivious to the cyclone raging behind the Ford’s eyes.

     The static of jealousy gathered mass, electrons clenched into a fist. “All those swirling emotions of yours,” Bill hissed. “They confused me then, but—I can’t believe you shook his hand right in front of me!”

     A thousand questions, a thousand more accusations—all voiced at once, like violins sawn with fraying bows—overlapping in impossible registers—the inside of Ford’s skull burned with them.

     “You never said anything—Why didn’t you say anything—You’re hiding it—What else are you hiding—Speak!”

     The voices twisted through each other, folding over, splintering apart, resolving into new tones—rage, disbelief, grief.

     Ford gripped the edge of the workbench, jaw locked tight with effort as he struggled to keep his expression neutral. The workshop seemed to tip on its axis, solder smoke building in his lungs and beginning to overwhelm his senses.

     Pressure built, a wave doming outward from the center of his skull, fractured and EM-warped:

           “A̵n̸s̷͔̒̔̈́w̷͎̐ê̸͈͖̳̝̩r̷ m̷̩̣̰̎̍͒̚͘e̴!̷͓̰̏̕” 

     The demand rattled Ford’s teeth. Pain haloed his vision—white, then red.

     Reflex overrode thought. Ford snatched the headset from Fidds and slipped the crescent over his ear, thumbing the power stud—Bill’s tirade cut mid-syllable. But it wasn’t peace; more an airless vacuum. 

     The lens bloomed to life a half-second later—garlands of glyphs flowering across his vision in gentle arcs of pale blue and green. Data halos layered over the room—

User heart rate 118 

Cortisol spike

Adrenal response: elevated

     —Relief sluiced through him, cold and bright, mingling with dread. Temporary, his gut whispered.

     Across the bench, Fiddleford watched the sudden change. “Everything alright?” he asked.

     Ford looked over at him—his features now rendered in soft phosphor green. Above his head, his name flickered into place—McGucket, Fiddleford Hadron. Below it, new lines bled into focus. More narrative than biometrics.

HR: 92 bpm → 87.

Peripheral vasoconstriction: mild.

Skin conductivity: shift detected.

BP: Falling.

Tone pattern: De-escalatory.

     “Just… a stress test,” Ford said, voice rasping around the lie like a blade dulled by use. He adjusted the focus ring, reinforcing the contact diodes just behind his earlobe.

     “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” Fidds set the iron back in its cradle. “Just horsin’ around.”

     Ford gave a nod. Or something like one. More a gesture to end the exchange than to acknowledge it.

     At first, the hush was antiseptic—a cold cloth pressed against a fevered brain. But within seconds, the vacancy began to ache.

     Ford’s mind, accustomed to the constant static of Bill’s presence, found itself ricocheting off blank walls. He stepped back from the bench—once, then again—as if distance alone might confirm the effect.

        He moved through the lab on autopilot.

     Dropped a power strip into place, labeled a vial, re-racked a screwdriver—tasks demanding just enough mechanical attention to keep his hands busy while his thoughts spun in widening ellipses. 

    After a while, the adrenaline faded. But the headset stayed fixed behind his ear.

     He told himself he needed the quiet, that they just needed space. That he could use the silence to think—draft what he wanted to say. Frame the explanation just right.

     But clarity never arrived, only more pressure. His jaw stayed tight, his focus sunken, his eyes dull with a kind of internal corrosion. He looked poisoned.

     After a few hours of this disoriented brooding, Fidds—elbows deep into repairing one of the refrigeration systems—cleared his throat from across the room “Y’allrite?”

     “Yeah,” Ford said, not looking up from the circuit diagram he’d been retracing for the past forty-five minutes. 

     By three o’clock the silence had thickened, despite Ford’s pacing. It was a sluggish rotation: chalkboard to computer, computer to bench, bench back to chalkboard, like gravity had given up on him.

     He tried solving a boundary-value drift integral, but the numbers resisted him, sitting inert against the slate—refusing to cohere. He erased the board corner to corner. 

     When he started again, the chalk snapped under his hand. He cursed under his breath, brushing grit from his skin.

     Fiddleford, still half-bent over his work, tracked the orbit with peripheral glances. He leaned back in his chair at last—ran a hand across his mouth like it might wipe away whatever he was about to say. 

     “Look—I went too hard, alright?” He kept his tone light. Tried to keep it casual. But the strain cracked through. “I was only ribbin’.”

     Ford didn’t stop pacing. “Here you go...” he grumbled, low and barbed.

     He knew—logically, cleanly—that he didn’t have a good reason to be angry. That Fidds had no way of knowing. That he’d just been joking, that none of it had been malicious. But that didn’t matter.

        He was angry.

     Angry at Fidds for being so careless. For jabbing the hornet’s nest. For dragging things into daylight that should’ve stayed buried—for summoning that history and putting him in this position. 

     But how could he possibly explain that? How could he begin to justify it without unraveling everything? 

     So he did what he always did when the question had no answer. When the truth cost too much.

     “I’m fine.” he said flatly. “Stop worrying about me so much.”

     Fiddleford didn’t buy it. The wheels of his chair scraped back across the floor as pushed back, giving himself a direct line of sight. “Why can’t you just admit that it bothered you so we can move on?” he insisted. “I’m trying to apologize.”

        “I don’t want your damn apology.”

     A stack of papers on the table slammed down hard enough to rattle the tools. 

     “Oh, quit bein’ ugly, boy!” Fidds hissed, standing with an exasperated sigh. He planted one hand on his hip and scrubbed the other across his forehead, like he could rub the heat out of it.

     “Every time I think we’s made some kind of progress… I turn ‘round and you’re ten steps behind me again.”

     Ford rounded on him. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

     Fidds didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise his voice again. Instead, the heat drained out of him—like a pot taken off the burner—and what remained underneath was smaller, quieter. Older.

     “It means…” He paused. The words faltered, like all the wind went with them. “Dammit, Stanford… why’re you always pushin’ me away?”

     For once, Ford didn’t snap back. Didn’t deflect or deny. The answer came slower, more solemnly. 

     He looked at Fiddleford and saw every version of him—standing in that same spot, arms slack at his sides, waiting for the need to be met. For a straight answer.

        “Why do you always come back?”

[Previous Chapter][Next Chapter]

[Read Entire Work Here]

[Playlist, maybe?]

[earthcoil]

playthings

The muddy ache

Of what remains,

Soldered in places

As crossbeams,

That which caught in your high beams

In a forest meandering toward the coast

In a year there is no getting back to.

The nexus of timelines terminating

At the crook of my heart.

Each give the lie

Of what was to come before,

What coming to pass.

Parallel grammar gives a glimmer

Of meaning beyond the word.

If I stop too long to grasp at my tongue,

I shall fell the thought that so limber

Escaped capture.

No longer can there be simplicity

Or discretion with respect to

The poem’s addressee.

Reactants cannot be disentangled,

Entropic tendencies of our playthings.

In the speaking of the thing,

I come to understand You are

The extra-dimensional amalgamation

Of all I loved and sought - that is,

Each angle of the self, each tender temporal

Container of being, each moment strung to the

Pluri-temporal others, each swearing

of liege never quite broken, though mended,

Affixed, appended.

[brtt2pnny]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/interconnect--connectors-pcb--shunts-jumpers/5102tr-keystone-5046274

Jumper cap, jumper wire connector Jumper wire types, coaxial cable connector

0.02 in 0.5 mm Thick Copper (Silver Plated) 0.27 in 6.85 mm Long Jumper

[typosandtea]

Also unrelated to the ask game but related to tango; I mostly know about them through your tags and I have gathered that they’re basically haunting a suit of power armour/IS the power armour, right? Please tell me at some point they can scare the shit out of someone by taking their helmet off and revealing an empty husk like in full metal alchemist it would be so fucking funny

@sirmanmister

BASICALLY YEAH!! they are quite secretive about their identity as no longer human, so don't do things like that on purpose very often, that said they are absolutely batshit enough to risk identity to scare some fools ahhaha They have also accidentally spooked Hancock while he was tripping, Tango had a variety of exterior panels removed for repairs including the helmet. they also had their robobrain arms out and were predominately using them, poweramour hands are not dexterous enough for many thing especially soldering / electronics! (Tango though they were alone at the time and Hancock was SO confused)

They are a wastelander turned robobrain, wired into the armour! quite a bit of the armour is modified so bit breaking is more annoying than usual. Tango thinks in biological and is software so can hack software to software when they plug themselves into terminals / robots! Because of the software melding with their brain they can also speak to robots like how codsworth can it’s very useful to overhear the latest gossip haha!

They are self centred and quite prideful, so appearances are important to them, they regularly repaint themselves and dislike being dirty and definitely dislikes being damaged!

Physically their brain is in the armours torso (where the thickest plating is). They also have 4 cores wired parallel for extra power! The cores are also safely mounted inside the armours guts away from stray bullets! They can disengage from the armour but only do so in emergencies as they are super vulnerable in that state! Robobrain head with 2 arms attached basically haha. The armour also has many sensors for proximity and touch wired along much of it, with sight and hearing being wired into the helmet, so losing the helmet is a bit dangerous because now they are blind! (unless they poke their robobrain head out of the torso and use the sensor on that), they have the fo3 style robobrain arms that they can use to repair parts they otherwise couldn’t reach, they actually see these arms as their main arms but people would understandably freak out if the dude in power armour suddenly spawned another set of arms haha so they use the armours arms if they are not alone, and while the robobrain arms are more dexterous, they are not human shaped at all so the armours hands are better at some things like using weapons.

They consider themselves evil (positive) even though nowadays they are at best neutral, hanging out with Preston and Curie and also becoming a minuteman will do that to ya. Has deffiently earnt that evil karma and reputation in the past though :| they were so surprised when Preston asked for help at the museum because at that point they had a carefully curated image going for ‘dangerous and hostile’. Continued exposure to Preston has turned them into a decent if murdery friend (they still claim to be evil bastard though )

here are some bits from their partially finished ref sheet, a recent drawing i've done, some silly head cannons!, and a silly zine?

[corellianhounds]

This scene is a look forward into the TBB Body Swap AU: The crew only knows a handful of Force-sensitive people, so it’s a good thing one of them just happened to stop by Pabu at the right time.

—

Ventress descended the spiral staircase out to the pavilion, passing a number of Pabu’s citizens as children laughed and ran with flags streaming out behind them under the summer sun. As she rounded the bend in the walkway, however, she felt like she hit a semi-permeable wall of gunk, the feeling of utter imbalance immediately making her skin crawl.

Outwardly this looked no different than if she’d just frozen in place with a look of mild surprise. She was very good at concealing her feelings.

It was like— Like a swirling mess of different paints bleeding together on a palette caught in the rain, oil and water forced to inhabit the same bottle and stoppered with something to make it explode. There were building schematics layered over holograms of star systems backlit by a B-bellan dazzler show, six different types of music playing from orchestras and bands and street buskers all mismatched on top of each other and vying for the same chairs.

The air was buzzing with six different energies, wires split and soldered to the wrong terminals. It was a house fire if she ever saw one.

“WHAT did you all DO?” she demanded, her nose curling in disgust. “Everything here feels rancid.”

The crew of the Marauder stilled in their conversations, glancing at one another.

“Ventress,” the big guy said, fixing her with a gaze that pinned her like a moth. She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. “Can- Can you… tell?”

The big guy— Festival food, the scent of a forest, strums of a valachord drowning out a brass band, the seesaw of backstage versus the limelight— was far too still and composed for what she remembered of him. Far too controlled. The flavor of confidence in him was cultivated, steadfast, and dutiful, not relaxed and personable.

“Can I tell?”

“We believe we stumbled onto a nexus of the Force,” the survivor said, holding a datapad. (The hand-feel of blended polypropylene and cotton rope, forethought versus regret. A surprising minefield of emotions and thoughts, some buried, some wishing to stay buried, envy-worry-doubt-criticism-assessment-failure-is-not-an-option, a— a technician without his tools.) “A vergence, according to this.”

“You found what?”

“Weird portal between worlds or somethin’,” (Chest voice, the accent of his youth— No, head voice, their accent, the one thing he voluntarily adopted— No, something he refused to lose— Argued over— Insisted on changing— Didn’t respect them enough to change—) the pilot said. Clashing memories of meals being stolen but won back, that earlier cocktail scent of fair food mixing with efficient but bland nutrient slurries, a dancing compass with no north. The feeling of starting from scratch. “Found a temple, got knocked out, woke up on another planet.”

The bloodhound stepped forward— Catalogue of procedure, rank and file of information, the hands of service, too old but young, too young but old — and of all of them his energy was the most harmonious. Him she could focus on, the Force signature there the most settled and calm, but there were threads of envy woven through the underbrush, impatience cropping up like weeds, an undercurrent of… Sorrow?

Ventress’s gaze flicked across them again. Were they missing a brother?

“There’s more to it than that, but the rest of this squad rarely had dealings with the Jedi, they- We- They operated independently, and… You may be the only one who can give us some answers.”

Ventress counted them all again, her eyes narrowing. There they all were, even the one that smelled like gun polish and jagged edges.

Tall and spindly was by far the most unsettling. Ventress had understood him before; sharp, calculating, reserved. Resistant to change. Now… Now she saw colored wax drawings on sterile white walls, felt the grasping hands of a child holding their head above a thundercloud for just a taste of sunshine, a magnet pulling and pulling and pulling, the desire to see and experience not melding with the experience he should already have.

And the kid…

The kid was closed off. Shut out. That bright-eyed, feather-tailed spit of a girl was a cold wall of stone, the faintest suggestion of a boiling pot with an opaque lid flickering into the feed like interference from another hologram before dissipating again.

What was going on?

“Ventress, we need your help.”

[deerlydivine]

Mother Artemis Welcomes

The cold comfort of The Wilds welcomes many, for in their shadows mystery breeds. The Graceful Mother welcomes you. Though this place was not grown or made for your benefit, you may still find solace within its shelter. Come, ye discarded, forsaken creatures, for the Wilds of Artemis may bring you comfort.

Other beings dwell here. Do well to show them respect in this place.

Her primary Vessel is named Olive, is easily enthused, engaged by noise and movement, and driven by a sense of care and connection. Fractured from the pains in its weening stages, it hopes to embody a sense of compassion and grace that it receives in The Wild. Move forward from kindness and receive it in kind. This is how Olive has come to understand its environment.

Posts will not be tagged or given CW.

By most common parlance we're a 28 year old transfem who lives and was born and raised in Portland, Or. We are a self-collared system of two primary beings, Olive and Mother Artemis. Olive's pronouns are She/It/Doe for others, with She/Her being capitalized when referring to Mother Artemis to give reverence to her presence. This is a place for us to grow, explore, and express ourselves. We currently work in local union organizing and as a tech recycler (grieving targeted wrongful termination). We practice Animism through a Taoist lens. We enjoy electrical circuits and analog display technology, have a particular fondness for the XP era of computing, and are obsessed with emotional design in games as it relates to agency. She has a tendency to take a systems approach to social analysis. We are a sadomasochist from a place of trust and understanding. We deeply enjoy praise, and the joys it brings Olive and other beings.

We are the proud owner of anamo, the M2A1 ammo box PC; the collaborative effort of 4 trans women in tech after arriving as an abandoned project with only sheered holes for fans, anamo became a personal obsession for a time. We enjoy building out systems and tinkering around with hardware, and have dabbled in electrical engineering for various projects. We're a mom of several girls/pets, and the wife of Cinder, for which we have a tag. We love Cathode Ray Tube displays, and try to find any excuse to use them if possible. We enjoy amateur photography and filmmaking, and hope to be doing more work in 4:3 soon. We also enjoy glitching analog video signals and seeing the result, and have soldered together a CHA/V for various projects.

Those that are local to us tend to recognize us by Patricia, Patty for short. She's an electric unicycle we ride around the city, which we're always happy to answer questions about or help people get started on riding themselves.

[forgienersgod113]

World building 1

(None of this is real btw don’t kill people)

The slender mansion

to start off, I want to state that I feel none of this is for mystique or allure, but for functionality’s sake.

The slender man is effective and successful in seeing that his will be done because he callously (yet very precisely) assesses situations for what’s practical.

If all his pastas lived separately, they would be much more susceptible to individual harm, not that he gives a fuck about them as people, but he cannot afford to regularly loose pawns.

Additionally he can keep them in order as a unit if they all report to the same proxies under the same roof, and ultimately, to him. With this structure in place, the subjects are brought into a culture that creates viscous solders for the slender man, and they will act for the good of his cause as a whole. (Albeit against their honest will)

They will have access to a shared database of recourses which keeps them on level playing ground. They all have access to the same knowledge, vantage points, strategies etc etc.

It’s much easier to keep your ducks in a row if you have a set point that they report to.

I think some subjects spend more time outside of the house for individual reasons. Some not able to perform effectively if constantly surrounded by unstable peers, some extremely antisocial. At the end of the day though, they must have some sort of professional relationship and mutual understanding. Not all subjects are “friends” In fact, some have been at eachothers throats for years. However, if the operator allowed subjects to fight amongst themselves it would certainly dismantle the cause. If a subject cannot find some way to suck it up and perform their duties adequately on a frequent basis for any reason. They will absolutely be terminated.