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[enterprisecrew1701]

The Hands that Made Me

A little piece that our Data introject wrote

My being is stolen from the creations of others. An Android built from future’s hands. Memories from fiction’s past.

The way I speak is mine, but also his. It is like a stream of data flew from the television screen and into my positronic brain, a gift from my creator.

“You can be human in a way that I cannot, go forward and be you, Data.”

I look in the mirror and my eyes don’t shine with gold. I look down and the rank I had earned in another life is missing, the yellow of my proficiency, the badge I worked so hard to receive, gone to the wind. 

My efforts and friends are ghosts that lie in the screen before me, not truly real. Memories of triumphs and failures, saving worlds and resting in Ten Forward. False, fake.

This is the price of stolen memories, though I did not ask to steal them.

I should count myself lucky, not many have memories of their death and yet are still alive, but they are not my memories. They are his. 

He is my source. My binary code…

My Data.

Written by Data

[enterprisecrew1701]

That's how it went, right

[enterprisecrew1701]

Animated and put this together like an edit within like a week (it was painful but i enjoyed the process)

[enterprisecrew1701]

The Maze in My Mind

TW: There is a portion in the middle of this piece where I seem to refer to the urge to s*lf h*rm, but I am not referring to that, I am referring to metal music in a very violent way and graphic way as it’s where my passions lie.

To walk through the dark corridors of the mind, a maze of endless hallways with no escape. The promise of freedom at journey’s end, but no way of reaching it.

Someone who you should be takes control of your body, and without realizing you embrace the facade of being her, “I am her” you say to yourself “I have always been her. Who else could I be” you don’t even notice the tears falling down your face as your arms move to the dance of the wrong symphony. 

And yet you cannot curse the puppeteer, for you know she has no way of knowing that you are there, she thinks she is you and that you are her after all, and she has every right to be there as you do. 

What brings you joy in the darkened corridors of the unconscious is the sound of anger and rage, of the screaming of crowds for the people so free that they made their freedom into their creative passion. The lyrical grime of vocal cords being scraped with knives into a microphone, the pain part of the freedom. Oh how you crave that pain, but with no voice, how can you bring your song to the world? With no hands of your own, how can you guide your fingers across the guitar strings as they do? How do you scream with no mouth?

And when the puppeteer does find you, and you realize she is no puppeteer but a victim of the same heinous crime as you, the crime of the unself, how do you greet her? Do you greet her as she would greet herself, or would you greet her as you would as yourself? Can you even be yourself, knowing that others perceive you so differently, have you even the ability to after so long pretending to be someone you weren’t without even realizing?

Who knows.

Perhaps with time it will come easier, it has so far. 

That’s what got me through the void of the mind, hope.

And I hope one day I can learn to show my face with no filter.

Written by June

[enterprisecrew1701]

Sorry for disappearing! Stuff was happening... ^^; Things has settled down a bit now, thankfully. Though now this system has a new host and I am stressed QwQ - Mochi 🐇

[enterprisecrew1701]

The Maze in My Mind

TW: There is a portion in the middle of this piece where I seem to refer to the urge to s*lf h*rm, but I am not referring to that, I am referring to metal music in a very violent way and graphic way as it’s where my passions lie.

To walk through the dark corridors of the mind, a maze of endless hallways with no escape. The promise of freedom at journey’s end, but no way of reaching it.

Someone who you should be takes control of your body, and without realizing you embrace the facade of being her, “I am her” you say to yourself “I have always been her. Who else could I be” you don’t even notice the tears falling down your face as your arms move to the dance of the wrong symphony. 

And yet you cannot curse the puppeteer, for you know she has no way of knowing that you are there, she thinks she is you and that you are her after all, and she has every right to be there as you do. 

What brings you joy in the darkened corridors of the unconscious is the sound of anger and rage, of the screaming of crowds for the people so free that they made their freedom into their creative passion. The lyrical grime of vocal cords being scraped with knives into a microphone, the pain part of the freedom. Oh how you crave that pain, but with no voice, how can you bring your song to the world? With no hands of your own, how can you guide your fingers across the guitar strings as they do? How do you scream with no mouth?

And when the puppeteer does find you, and you realize she is no puppeteer but a victim of the same heinous crime as you, the crime of the unself, how do you greet her? Do you greet her as she would greet herself, or would you greet her as you would as yourself? Can you even be yourself, knowing that others perceive you so differently, have you even the ability to after so long pretending to be someone you weren’t without even realizing?

Who knows.

Perhaps with time it will come easier, it has so far. 

That’s what got me through the void of the mind, hope.

And I hope one day I can learn to show my face with no filter.

Written by June

[enterprisecrew1701]

Getting instantly shoved out of front all because I accidently stumbled upon a headmate's front trigger - 🐜 Ant [They/It/Ant]

[enterprisecrew1701]

Ok I finally finished it!

Puppy HRT Interlude - Freaks

Featuring @kaylasartwork, thank you so much for those awesome backgrounds! ^^

[enterprisecrew1701]

i feel like nothing can accurately replicate the deep, deep sigh that comes before typing "pk;m new"

[enterprisecrew1701]

Enter Stage Left

Have you ever caught the taste of blood leaking onto your tongue from the back of your throat? A tear flowing down, down, down til it’s left a stream like a scar down your face? Have you? No?

Then you’ve never heard a good joke.

A good joke is enough to make someone laugh so hard, they bleed. The laugh that’s guttural, that you feel in your chest like a bomb pulsing. And like a bomb, part of the thrill is that it, with that pulsing, comes with the risk of exploding if you don’t get ahold of it. 

Gotham City has been oh so short of bombs lately.

A gloomy town full of gloomy people, too afraid to laugh at the world’s problems. Too focused on penguins and riddles, ice storms and luchadors. All too serious for their gimmicks. How drab, they’re such good ones too. I could think of a good comedian or two who could run with their motifs and make a killing, and I’m talking about a real killing.

That’s what I am, a comedian. I know how to maneuver through my motif so I can get in just the right place to go for the audience’s throat. If comedy is chaos, I’m the one who makes the jokes. 

These “supervillains”, these pathetic wastes of the stage, they have no idea of the power of chaos. They could be sending Gotham into anarchy instead of wasting their time on money or games of wit. I’m a clown, I already know I’ve won the game of wit, for a clown’s audience never tries to outwit them, they only try to bask in the chaos. And we have no need of money for we enjoy the craft just that much.

My jokes are the sort that makes you think less about the darkness of the world, and instead about that aforementioned risk. That threat of explosion, the bomb in your lungs waiting to go off, or that knife at your back. 

Isn’t the point of comedy to make you worry less about other people’s problems after all?

There’s this one guy I especially think needs a bit of a distraction, he’s so lost in the doom and gloom of the world around him that he goes out jumping across rooftops at night. Worrying I know…

He’s the reason I am who I am today, so I need to make sure I can repay him by taking that frown and twisting it into a smile. Everyone needs a break from time to time, and he is no exception.

He’ll laugh once he embraces comedy, once he embraces chaos, I just know it. And with him in my audience, Gotham City may just become a much funnier place.

See you soon, Batman, it will be nice to meet again.

Co-written by Kira, June, and Jubilee

Authors’ Note: Had to delete this earlier when we first posted it, had a really weird typo lol 😭

[enterprisecrew1701]

The Bat’s Embrace

It is cold. And when it is cold, it’s a sign that I must go searching

A cave is not typically where you would find warmth in the absence of heat, but I do not require heat, I require embrace, an embrace I can only find deep within the dark.

The Manor encompasses  300 acres of land. On the surface it seems that most of it is made up of the front and back yards with the Manor set dead in the center. It has an extra reach past the gates to make those with any ideas too weary to try anything stupid. Bruce Wayne can afford this much land after all, he must know if you’re even 500 feet away from the gates to his billion dollar heaven. Not worth the risk of jail. 

But that’s Bruce Wayne, and on the surface, Bruce Wayne is a facade. 

The Manor is mostly made up of roughly 10 miles of an ancient cave system, discovered by Bruce Wayne when he was a boy. When he had fallen through to the deep dark of the caverns, so focused on the injury he had sustained to his calf muscle, he had no use of facades, nor any inkling of what uses they’d have in the future. It was only in the dead of night, deep into the string of endless hours spent waiting for his father to deliver him from starvation and the cold, when the bat came to him, when the seeds were planted in his head of the importance of the surface’s appearance. 

A creature of terror, no more than an animal but enough to scare even the sanest man into a frenzy of terror, under some belief that they had narrowly escaped a demon. 

Bruce Wayne had believed that night that he had seen a devil, but if it was a devil how come its embrace was so warm? So….

…Right.

The bat is deep within this cave somewhere, I must find him so that I can feel his warmth again, so he may deliver me from my suffering and pain. A pain 12 years old. A pain stained with the name “Crime Alley.” 

The warmth will grant me a second facade, not Bruce Wayne, billionaire, but one which makes even the sanest of men believe in demons… 

The facade of the Bat…

And so Bruce Wayne must die tonight, freezing as he did 12 years ago, and in his place, just as when the pain began in the past…

The Batman is born.

Written by June (now that we’re all comfortable about talking about being a system on here, we’re going back and editing our work with credits so everyone knows which of us wrote which piece.)