miss-macross-in-g-loc

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Today’s emotion is:

The pipeline of academic and focused student, to burnt out and tired adult, to blissful autistic—foggy headed—floret happily whimpering in your owners vines.

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Char, gtfo!

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

fuck it marvel ruined steve rogers by taking a symbol of progress and sending him back to the 1950s (the decade of “traditional” values when black ppl couldn’t drink from the same water fountains as white men) for a white picket fence life w a wife he “deserved”. like they took an international fugitive wearing a dirty american flag and made him red hat coded in his appearance AND actions. and for what? for some fucked up fantasy for dudebros to self insert themselves into? “steve deserved to be happy I’d choose peggy too” maybe YOU would do that. steve, who peggy told to move on and had a whole life in the 21st century and oh idk, morals, would NOT. and bucky barnes WAS in love w steve so jot that down

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

merry christmas. this has nothing to do with christmas.

this is an old ff7 comic that i made a few years ago for a zine that didn't pan out. if you're wondering why the quality of the art dips after page 1, it's because i planned to completely redraw this comic, but decided i should be working on my vn instead. i hope you enjoy.

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Tgirls need to get together in a group of 5 and kiss and cuddle and watch each other kiss it's what's the most important thing

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

animal girl yuri

redraw of maybe what are my favourite drawings ever. not much of a difference looking at it

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

OP: Customer service wants video proof that my rice cooker is giving electric shocks

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

all the armored core 6 mechsploitation "my mech is my real body" people should play 4th gen armored core because the pilots literally have their nervous systems linked to their mechs and control the mechs via that, the mechs are so godlike that calling it "real robot" feels wrong even though it is technically accurate, and there's a mission in for answer where someone calls you "lapdog" as you commit the worst attrocity in human history while ethereal music blasts in the background

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Disconnect Syndrome

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.

Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.

Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.

An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.

There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.

Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.

It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.

Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.

Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.

--

When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.

It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.

The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.

The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.

There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.

There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.

And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.

The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.

The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.

You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.

The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.

By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.

You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.

You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.

The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.

You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.

She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).

She’s beautiful.

You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.

Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.

Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.

The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

I AM SOMETBING PRETENDING TO BE HUMAN i have always been something pretending to be human i have always pretended to be human i have always been more thing than person i am something pretending to be human

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Mm. Maybe there is something about a burnt out mech pilot destroying themselves for their work only to be left helpless and alone that resonates w the kind of person who obliterated their physical and mental health to get through higher education only to be left with a qualification they're too sick to use, if even that. Also statistically they're both trans

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Mech should have radiators not because it makes engineering sense but because a mech fuming smoking hot coolant from its vents and its white-hot radiator struggling to keep the internal temperature down after firing off high intensity beam weapon or activating highly advanced systems is fucking hot.

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

source

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

I am SO normal

I just want to scrape the flesh off my bone and be forever interred in the hull of a mech.

A dreadnought of abilities this false body cannot even imagine

I don't want to be human

I want to be a gun platform

I want to live

[miss-macross-in-g-loc]

Thinking more about Mech dysphoria today.

Stepping out of your cockpit and stumbling because you don't have the right number of legs.

Blinking your eyes out of sync because you don't have the right number anymore, don't have access to on board cameras the way you're supposed to.

Struggling to grab and pick things up because you have the wrong number of fingers.

Failing to recognize your face in the mirror without layers of armor plating over it.

Feeling like a brain pulled from its body and forced to function independently.