#Pal Sphere

[introverted-character-town]

Pokeballs vs. pal spheres!

[fogaminghub]

🌈 Hey gamers! Are you exploring the vibrant world of Palworld? Check out our latest blog post on how to craft your first Pal Sphere! 🎮✨ It’s your key to capturing those magical Pals and boosting your adventures. Discover the materials you need and get ready to catch 'em all!  

[iliketrainmen]

I can't believe a 30 dollar game on Steam completely and utterly consumed my life (I've spent around 50 hours in that game in the week that I've owned it send help)

Anyways here's a Roark that's been isekai'd to said game (Palworld) because there's nothing better in life than smashing together two hyperfixations like they're lego bricks

[clownaddict]

Palworld is great actually because it allows me to feel ever just slightly like Mr steal-your-everything Trazyn and let’s me utilize human slave labor whilst also pulling absolute nonsense out of my ass on command

[inspiredrawaw]

A Fae’s Magic. My take on how magic works and headcannons

And here we are!! My take on how I imagine the fairies magic working as well as my interpretation of Peris physical disability headcannon. I went with MS due to me getting optic neuritis last year and doing a shit ton of research into MS just in case! And now I get to show that research here! text below

IMAGE 1: A Faes Magic.

a fae get their magic from the Big Wand that gets stored as its own unique "information" in the fae's nervous system. Magic helps a fae's nervous syetm send signals to their wings to move and function as well as enhance the other functions of their nervous syetm. Leading to faster wound healing and immortality, gives them a 6th sense to other magic beings, greater balance and coordination when they change forms, and enhancement to their memory, learning, and thoughts.

big wand magic go into brain, magic becomes signals, magic gets stored in nervous system

IMAGE 2:

now wands, everything must be done in moderation. A wand can help a fae have control over their magic, be more precise in casting magic, and for storing extra magic. Due to this a wand becomes an extension of a fae even to a point where a wand will float with their fae.

A fae will receive a rattle wand at birth due to their immature nervous systems causing large uncontrolled magic outbursts.

IMAGE 3:

As a fae gets older it becomes more difficult to expel that magic. It's easier to control but magic back up becomes a real problem. Similar to how a nervous system can be overloaded with chronic stress, their nervous system can be overloaded with magic. This magic overflow will cause butterfly nausea, rainbow vomit, and a build up of confetti in their lungs and sinuses.

The most common occupation a fae will pursue is as a fairy godparent. Human kids wild imagination is a great way to expel extra magic. People will work in this field for selfish reasons but that's a different problem.

IMAGE 4:

what about our pal Peri? Peri has magical Multiple Sclerosis.

Magical MS or M-MS similar to human MS, the immune system will attack the protective layer on nerve fibers causing communication problems for the nervous system.

This in fae's can cause the magic a fae can store to be decrease overtime. Fae with M-MS have weaker wings typically floating lower then their peers, numbness in limbs, lack of coordination no matter their form, slower recovery time, fatigue, and increased magic back up risk.

helps with magic, coordination, nervous system can’t hold a lot of magic, bad leg gets worse of MMS flareups

IMAGE 5:

For Peri he first discovered this only a few years prior to the show after getting optic neuritis in their right eye.

Peri switched out his wand for his cane wand. A mobility and magic aid. By enclosing the star of his wand in a sphere it acts as extra storage for his magic decreasing his magic back up risk. It also helps with slowing down the process of his nervous system getting attacked by his immune system to ensure a fae's immortal life. He has an easier time floating and casting magic.

[foxgirlintestines]

I think it's really funny that the whole meme of Palworld is making unethical sweatshops to put cute little creatures in to work them to death, but doing so in game is so incredibly inefficient because they will stop doing work under those conditions and their simple ai will accidentally go on strike and force the player to build ways for them to relax and be happy in order for them to work well again.

Replacing the overworked pals isn't really a good option either. Breeding them is expensive (you need cake which takes a lot of workload and ingredients), good workers take high quality spheres to capture which needs more resources (catch rates are low for good pals). There are drugs to make them better workers and not complain, but once again it's more expensive to make drugs than it is to just give them breaks and good working conditions. Also, because of raids, you need your Pals in good condition to defend your base and weak recently caught/bred pals will just get wiped out. In the end, the optimal way to run your base is by making sure everyone is happy and healthy.

Just find it pretty funny that despite how edgy the "pokemon with guns and capitalism" game is that in the end it always boils down to love and care get things done way better than cruel slave labor.

[pinkydragon01]

Nintendo vs Pocket Pair is worse than you think

When Palworld came out, it took the gaming world by storm and became an instant hit with players who enjoy a mixture of creature collecting and survival base building. However, when a new game stirs up this much publicity, it catches both positive *and* negative attention.

There's no question about how similar Pals look to Pokemon, and there's much debate over the authenticity around Palworld's model designs. So much so, people were raising alarm to Nintendo to investigate Pocket Pair for IP infringement. Which Nintendo responded with a lukewarm, "We'll look into it."

After months of silence, Nintendo has now come forward with a lawsuit against Pocket Pair, but not for what we thought. The lawsuit is not about creature design, it's over *patent infringement.*

The patent in question is specifically over the mechanic of allowing the player to perform "an action of launching" to either "catch a field character or cause a fighting character to fight against a field character."

In simple words, the very act of throwing an item to capture a creature, or to summon a creature to fight another.

This mechanic is fundamental to nearly ALL creature collecting games.

Regardless of your personal feelings regarding Palworld vs Pokemon, this hopefully sounds wrong to you. This legal battle is little more than a billion dollar juggernaut swinging down their hammer onto an indie studio. It doesn't matter Pals *look* like pokemon. It DOES matter that they are demanding absolute control over creature collecting mechanics.

The patent in question does not even care if the item is sphere shaped like a pokeball. The item used for capture is irrelevant in this extremely broad patent.

Ultimately, Palworld is caught in this because of the massive attention it got, and this lawsuit is setting a deeply disturbing precedent. This lawsuit says, "If you look like a competitor to us, we'll sue you for daring to try."

And that's a danger to all creature collecting games, not just Palworld.

[cautious-soup]

Things I think aliens would find cute/endearing about humans: Part 5

Running

A/N: This part discusses physical activity and exercise in broad contexts regarding people. Please know that I am aware not every person can run or exercise traditionally, or at all, given any sundry factors.

Uuvadas | Log ●□°

In my language, the name we give humans translates directly to 'little runners'. Humans are quite adept at running; they evolved as such to avoid the numerous dangers on their planet. In fact, a substantial part of their cultures and languages are constructed around the concepts of locomotion.

Running is a necessary part of regular human exercise, and I thought this to be the extent of its significance. However this was before I met human crew member Farstrider, who's name translates directly to itself.

Farstrider is one of the more fit humans, and I have observed him running around the courtyard multiple times since his arrival on our vessel. Other humans run too. Humans even have small moving floors for the sole purpose of running.

He often tries to engage any and all crew members willing to participate in numerous human sports. Nearly all of them involve running. Run while rolling a sphere with your feet, run while holding a sphere with your hands, run and jump over raised sticks called 'hurdles', run around and chase each other.

The last mentioned game, tag, is the one most commonly played by the humans, and disturbs most of the non-humans on the crew. I am not disturbed by this behavior, but this is because my kind, like humans, are descendant from predators. Not long endurance predators like humans, but still the kind who partook in chase.

Most of the crew, however, evolved from prey, and politely decline Farstrider's invitations to play tag. Despite their significant stature over him and the other human crew members, some instincts just can't be erased.

In the Preparation room is a novel human invention that heats food very inefficiently by using radiation. I do not understand it, but the humans swear by it, and use it multiple times per cycle. Normally, when the radiation box has completed heating the food, it emits a very unpleasant noise. The humans seem to be aware of this, as they often run from wherever they are to the radiation box before it can emit the noise. To that end, I once watched human Murphy run out of the Preparation room after turning on the radiation box, and run back in before it went off. He pressed a button on the box and made various triumphant gestures (please see my previous logs on human Kinesics)

"Why?" I asked. I ask this question a lot around Murphy and other humans.

"I like timing myself," He says, smiling.

"Why not use a timer?"

"Oh, that thing is a timer basically. But it also has a separate timer that actually counts as a timer."

"..."

"...you're scribbling real aggressive there pal,"

As mentioned, human recreational activities revolve completely around running, both physically and digitally. Human digital entertainment is often centered around a digital render of a human or human-like character running from one place to another, and completing tasks. There is one in a world made of various cubic vectors, one about humans born from 'dragons', one about a small green-clad human who does not speak, all of which were controlled to run towards their objectives. It is also worth noting that a concerning amount of these digital entertainments are obscenely violent. Humanity's barbarous tendencies have myself and other non-humans wondering how they managed to reach Andromeda in the first place.

The answer is marginally, they were half dead when they first arrived some 80 solar cycles ago, running from problems they'd created on their own planet.

We in the coalition regard Deathworlders who have achieved intergalactic travel hesitantly. Deathworlders have been making contact at a higher frequency than ever before; we've truly entered a new era. The Great Filter has passed.

90% of Deathworlders never even achieve interstellar travel before the harsh conditions of their world render them extinct. We from worlds of steady, stable climates and non-hostile wildlife were able to evolve and advance exponentially faster than humans. Humans all assume that us old races of the Coalition have intelligence beyond measure, but really it is that our lack of need for sleep, and our ideal planets allowed us to devote more time toward advancement.

That a race like the humans were able to claw their way here is nothing short of extatraordinary. More and more I find myself fond of human ambition, and what they do not in lack of fear, but in spite of it.

"Strange little runner," I said to Murphy, who shook his head and smiled as he ate his radiated food, "Again with that nickname?"

End of log

Previous Entry

[senselessviolets]

“one step closer”

stepdad!Roman Roy x Fem. Reader

Rating E (Angst/Smut)

Word Count: 2.8k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Ass-eating, rimming, pussy-eating, smut, office sex, hate sex, fucked-up power play, humiliation (both recieving and giving), Roman is Reader’s stepdad, Reader is halfway through college & has known Rome since she was 18, POST SEASON 4, no PIV, no uses of Y/N.

!! /// SPOILER/ADDITIONAL CONTENT WARNING /// !!

Reader and Roman take photo/video during the encounter without each other's consent. It's not entirely 'revenge porn' since we don't know what happens to the footage after the fact. Still thought I'd give a heads-up, though!

Author's Notes:

Both me & @cum-a-calla operate under the notion that Roman Roy could and would eat pussy/ass—so long as things were kinky enough & he wasn’t being watched during. “Make It Wrong” still lives in my head rent-free, just sayin’.

Summary:

Three years ago, your mom married billionaire Roman Roy, making him your ‘stepdad’, much to your dismay. Being an econ major who wants as much hands-on experience as possible, you begrudgingly take him on as your mentor and shadow him around the clock at Waystar. All of this prolonged time together starts to wear thin on you, and things come to a head one late night in his office.

“What the fuck did you just say?” you beckon Roman as he stands opposite you in his chilly office.

“What? Your mom’s a cunt. You know your mom’s a cunt so what-what’s this big bad bitch attitude for? I’m just stating the facts as well as the obvious—being that your mother is a Grade A cunt,”

“Yeah? Really? Then how come you fuckin’ married her?” you say.

“If I say ‘purely for the optics,’ are you gonna cave my head in with that paperweight?” he points.

You beam down at your hand, not even realizing you’ve picked up the metal sphere mid-argument. Roman had picked today, of all days, to wind you up, as he so often enjoyed doing. Now it was after hours; just you, him, and a few other forlorn souls ruminating in the Waystar Studios office building. You taking up a major in global economics and his name belonging to one of the world’s largest media conglomerates resulted in somewhat of a cohesion between the two of you. And yet, you refused to accept him as your so-called stepfather; you refused to at the altar, and you refused to still three years after the fact. Your mom, a class action lawyer who’s helmed several of the most high-profile corporate malfeasance cases, didn’t need his money. To say it was not a huge driving force behind their decision to get hitched less than a year after meeting each other would be a complete falsehood. 

You’d suspected that a large part of it was Roman’s subconscious effort to feign normalcy after his family all but fell apart at the seams several years ago. Dad—dead. Older brother—may as well be dead. His baby sister, now beset with a baby of her own, married to Corporate America’s latest progeny. It was all so grim. You could hardly blame him for being so desperate, so willing to put up with whatever just to make do. 

Doesn’t mean he didn’t send you flying into a white-knuckled, red-eyed rage at least once a day. 

As a result of the GoJo acquisition, Roman had accepted that his role in the company was no longer what it once was. He went as far as resigning—his old COO position now being occupied by Mattsson’s pal Oskar, and Tom crowned as CEO. He orbited around Studios before winding up back where he’d started. He was the newly minted President of Distribution. It really all boiled down to the optics at the end of the day. Roman hadn’t simply handed his stepdaughter a highly sought-after internship. He merely ‘aided her in the application process’. That’s how she’d become a Multiplatform Content Strategy Trainee with practically zero experience.

“This ‘economical’ enough for you?” he’d said, tossing the paperwork outlining the internship at you.

“Wow,” you breathed, in a false amazement, “You must really not want me to go back to New York, huh?” 

Little did you know at the time what twisted scheming was behind his actions. 

You did have your suspicions, though.

“...okay, Lil’ Miss Scary…you gonna bludgeon me to death or what? Hm? Take out some of that pent-up anger you’ve been bottling all inside you for the past, what, six months? Might feel good. Might feel really good, actually.” You sigh and set it down on the teakwood desk. 

“Y’know…I know you like to joke about your dad taking a pop or a swing at you when you were younger…but you have ‘kicked puppy’ written all over your goddamn face. You’re a pathetic excuse for a person, much less a man though you’re a pretty fucking wretched excuse for one of those too. I cannot fathom a single version of reality where you are not this warped, bent version of a person. With your vapid, pretty wife who hates you and your daughter, that’s not even yours, who—shocker—also hates you. Be honest. If you performed a little magic trick and practically ‘poofed’ out of existence like your brother did, y’think anyone would actually even fucking notice—” A sharp snap whips against your cheek.

It stings in an instant, and you barely have the time to even register what’s just occurred. But then it dawns upon you; he just fucking slapped you and didn’t think twice about it.

You could scream. You could cry. And part of you kind of wishes he’d do it again—just one more time so that maybe the red is emblazoned into the details of your skin and the sting becomes a burn. His expression softens when you open your eyes. You can see him maybe even for a split-second regret his actions, rearing to give a halfhearted apology. And then you pull your hand back and strike him square in the jaw. Roman scoffs, smoothing his tussled hair back. 

“Yeah…feel better..?” he sniffs.

You move to start wailing on him, and he halts your wrists. Using all of your weight, you lurch and struggle against his grasp wildly.

“No, no, no, no—stop. Stop! We’re not doing this, we’re not—hey!” Roman is half-laughing, half-serious, “Sh-sh-shh! Hey! Enough!” 

“Let me go, you fucker! L-Let me go!” you sob, “Let me go!”

The two of you have become utterly entangled with one another, hips colliding with the edge of his desk. 

“Stop! Oh my god! D’you want someone to see this shit?! You acting like this! Like a crazy fuckin’ psycho-bitch, knock it off!”

“I hate you! I hate you!” you belt out.

He nods along with your protests and ‘mm-hms’ as if he were actively listening and considering your assertions. It’s sickeningly patronizing. The fight has just about left your body, and the resistance in your arms wanes. Your breaths are labored, and you stumble back and forth as Roman continues to hold you steady.

“...I-I hate you….god, I f-fucking hate you,” you sob bitterly.

“There, it is. There you go…let it out, sweetheart. Some big tears for such a little thing like you,” he coos, “There, there. Deep breaths, baby. Deep breaths.”

Your center of gravity has shifted, and you find yourself being compelled backwards into the edge of that hardwood desk. His pelvis follows suit, pressed against yours. Roman releases your wrists and draws you into a cold but firm embrace. His lithe hands affix themselves to the small of your back, not daring to descend any lower. Funny how the prospect of holding someone in a deep embrace and being mildly sweet to them like this would’ve sent Roman running for the hills mere years ago.

What changed?

You. You came along. 

The mere presence of ‘you’ provided him the opportunity to dabble somewhere between deplorable and despicable without consequence. Truth be told, there was a particularly wanton tension between the two of you. It emanated the most in moments of silence—gaps in your conversations. When you could feel him staring you down, and you’d refuse to give him so much as the time of day. That rejection, that repulsion. It called to him like a homing beacon. You, being his stepdaughter, of age but no blood to be shared, were the centerpiece of the whole thing. This was fucked in every sense. To the point where it would disturb Roman late into the night as he slept inches away from your mom, palming his stiffness as he imagined your face red and puffy with tears. Like now. 

“I do love you, you know,” Roman coaxes, “I do,”

“I don’t,” you insist between sniffles, “I-I won’t,”

“I know. I know.”

Roman pulls away, just as you were getting used to his closeness. He purposefully turns his back to you, and you’re left puzzled and shaking with adrenaline. 

“Tell me it’s wrong,”

“...w-what?”

“Tell me it’s wrong and that I’m going to hell and how fucked I am for getting off to you,” he goads, “Do it.”

“..I-I…I’m…R-R—”

“Should be making you call me ‘dad’ or ‘stepdad’ or some shit. That’d be something, wouldn’t it? Yeah, it would,” Roman scoffs, a breathlessness consuming his tone of voice, “Fuck.”

It’s then that you realize how his movements are conveniently obscured by his stance. His feet planted firmly, shoulder width apart, while his head began to crane back. It doesn’t take a super-sleuth to realize what he was starting to do. With his stepdaughter present in the room, no less. 

Horrible. Disgusting. Vile. What else is new?

“Door’s right there if you’re not…y’know…but if you stay…I can’t make any promises that what I’m gonna do to you will be decent in the slightest,”

Puffing a defiant breath, you brisk past Roman. In an instant, you’re standing before him, in your flattering powersuit he checked your ass out in too many times to count. It takes a Herculean amount of self-will not to look back and see him exposed like a raw nerve. Those hurried, desperate pants that fill the office with such sweet noise. You don’t recall hearing a belt be undone; you figure he’s taken to stroking himself through his slacks. 

Keep fucking walking. Don’t give him the satisfaction. 

That smarmy little fuck. Be the bigger person.

Be the bigger person.

Is it possible to be ‘the bigger person’ when the man in question is your one and only stepfather? Your stepfather, that’s taken a liking to you ever since you met him at your grad party. Your stepfather, who, whenever he’d stay over at your Mom’s for a while, you’d notice yourself missing various undergarments more and more. A bralette, some black opaque tights, and your favorite checkered ankle socks that you’d no doubt worn more than once without washing. They were never clean—the clothes you suspected him of thieving. 

But you figure, that was probably the point.

More ‘you’ on them for him to savor. 

“...well..?” he snaps you back to reality.

Your hand slowly grabs the edge of the glass door, the one connecting his office to the rest of world. Rather than carrying yourself and your dignity over the threshold, you pull that door closed until it clicks shut. Your fingers then ghost over the zipper at the front of your trousers. You’ve already shed your blazer without even realizing it, leaving a tight-fitted white blouse underneath. In a moment, you’re bare from the waist down, having just utterly pantsed yourself in your stepdad’s office. There’s still the hipster lace panties you’d been sporting underneath, but you make quick work of them, awkwardly inching them down past your hips and over the softness of your thighs.

“...I knew it,” a hoarse voice says behind you.

A pair of cold, more dexterous hands slap past your own, and he proceeds to peel your panties down the rest of the way. They remain limp around your ankles along with your pants. They sort of keep you in place, preventing you from moving around on him. You close your eyes, lips trembling with need. They part the moment you feel a faint trail of facial hair ghost up your thighs. Roman, who’s presumably on his knees at this point, has resorted to dragging his lips up and down the smooth flesh of your hamstrings. He speckles them in kisses, getting closer and closer to where you both want him.

“...pull it…pull it apart…,” he murmurs with a certain level of urgency in his tone.

His request takes a moment to rattle through your head. Once his words have sunk in, you dig your fingers into the plumpest part of your cheeks and pry them apart for Roman. The stale cool office air hits the slickness of your cunt instantly. He takes a moment to coat his fingers in your wetness, dipping them in and out of your greedy little hole. For a brief second, you feel something rigid and fleshy prod the ring of your asshole. Initially, you think it’s a finger, but then the added chill of a deep inhale there makes you come to the conclusion that it’s his nose. A hot dripping tongue drags from the bottom of your pussy back to the ring of muscle he seems so preoccupied with.

Your bullshit internship had evolved into a glorified personal assistant gig over time. That being said, as far as you were aware, ‘getting rimmed by your stepdad’ was not on the docket for today. Had your proximity to Roman “Romulus” Roy debauched you entirely? Robbing you blind of all your morals that quickly? All at once, the reality of the situation hits you and leaves you sickened and feeling all of a sudden very exposed.

“D-Da–Roman. W-Wha—what if somebody sees—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, in between licks.

“Roman—”

“Just shut the fuck up, okay? Just…just let me do this,”

“I-I’m gon-gonna trip, I can’t just stand here like—”

“Fine,” he huffs, pulling away from you entirely, “Just…I dunno. Lay down, on the sofa, over the desk, w-whatever, just…go…I’ll wait. Also, y’know…no peeking.”

“Yeah, thanks, got it,” you snark.

Without directing your gaze at him, you stumble your way over to his desk, leaning yourself over it unceremoniously. Bracing your weight entirely on your elbows while letting your middle hang limp, all the while keeping your ass propped up. The sound of his leather oxfords sashaying against the trim carpet is the only indicator of his whereabouts, like some perverted Marco Polo. 

Until the loud click of a phone’s camera shutter fills the void.

“Ah–shit–fuck!”

Instinctively, you begin to lean upwards, before a blunt force pushes you back down over the desktop roughly, his phone clattering on the wooden surface as he tosses it to the side.

“Don’t! Don’t do that, just—”

“Roman?”

“—’s fine, okay? Just don’t—it’s not—it’s not a big deal,”

“Ro—”

A glob of wet is spat onto your hole, and a semi-slick thumb pops right in. The intrusion draws a whine out of you, the sensation unfamiliar but not unwanted. His free hand hastily masturbates you from beneath, making the occasional contact with your clit. You don’t get the impression that any of this has been done with your pleasure in mind. He doesn’t care if you finish. You’re merely a vessel for his urges in this moment. The brand new toy on the playground he finally got his hands on. So yeah, he might want to see what makes you tick and what kind of batteries you run on—but it's all for his own amusement at the end of the day. 

You know it, too.

“…I-I can’t believe it…this is what it takes…what it takes to get you off nowadays,” you exhale shakily, “B-Bending your only stepdaughter over your desk, defiling her…should be fucking lucky I’m letting you touch me at all, you sick fuck,”

Roman groans against your skin, his tongue taking over for his fingers on your cunt.

“Yeah…? How many girls…how many women have you charmed into thinking you’re some…some playboy…some fucker who’d just pump and dump them for nickels….all for them to realize that you’re the worst…that you’re the most vile fucking human being they’ve ever met…how many women, Roman? Huh, how fucking many, d’you think?”

There’s the clinking of that buckle. And that zipper. 

And those breathy fucking pants and the needy little moans that follow.

“There’s something wrong with you…there really, truly is. You see this young college girl you’re told is gonna be your stepdaughter…then you just wanna do this to her…ruin her for everyone else…like whoever fucking ruined you. Shit. They did a number on you, didn’t they?” 

A hand that was fondling you in some way is removed, now having been given a new purpose.

“Such a fuck-up…such a worthless piece of nothing…let me say this, though. I do have a little confession to make…,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “I truly cannot wait until the day that she wakes the fuck up and finally fuckin’ leaves you—“

A guttural, throaty sound followed by hyperventilating is all you hear. Some warm flicks of liquid speckle the backs of your calves. Given his timely “finish”, you allow yourself to turn around and take in the view before you. What had been a proud spoiled twat of a man is now reduced to a puddle of nothing at your feet. For all the power he held over you and your mom, it was reassuring to see him like this—a reminder of just what he really is and always will be. His slacks are pulled down only enough for his cock to leak pathetically out of. He’s on his knees, where he indubitably belongs. Dress shirt soiled with sweat. His brown locks are drenched, affixed to his veiny forehead in dark tendrils. Cheeks reddened, lips that have been bathed in your pussy—his entire face stricken with an expression of relief. 

You stride over to your bottoms, which had been abandoned, and pull them up without haste, along with your blazer, also in a heap on the floor. There’s something heavy in one of your pockets—your phone. Clearing your throat, you walk over to Roman once more. He remains in disarray on the floor, the thoughts having yet to return to his head. You open your camera app, pressing the record button, that recognizable ding. You see him in his full diminished glory through the screen, savoring the view for all its worth.  

“...there, there. Deep breaths, baby,” you serenade, “Deep breaths.”

He lifts his head with an all-knowing tilt. You swear you hear him curse under his breath.

“...feel better?” 

{ Feedback is welcome! }

Follow me on twt: @endlessviolets

<3

[lancelought]

It's funny in a disturbing way how close The algorithm thinks i am to full blown nazism in a number of different spheres. Like i will engage with like swordfighting content or leatherworking content and there's a lot of people who do that who are very into norse myth and stuff and then from there the algorithm is like well it's only a short little step from there to white supremacism!! But buddy pal friend robot mr. Al Go Rhythm sir that step might be small but it is burning and filled with spikes and pits. That step is a fissure dug deep into the earth with that ominous glow of lava at the bottom. That step is an invisible wall art the end of a videogame map and you may cross it but if you do, if you do there is a popup that says RETURN TO NORMALCY WITHIN 5 SECONDS and it counts down and if you don't, oh if you don't make it out of there in time you may not die but buddy, your former friends will wish you had.

[agirlking]

The fact Nintendo can actually pull this off is bullshit

'On November 30th, 2024, we released Patch v0.3.11 for Palworld. This patch removed the ability to summon Pals by throwing Pal Spheres and instead changed it to a static summon next to the player. Several other game mechanics were also changed with this patch. As many have speculated, these changes were indeed a result of the ongoing litigation. Everyone here at Pocketpair was disappointed that this adjustment had to be made, and we fully understand that many players feel the same frustration. Unfortunately, as the alternative would have led to an even greater deterioration of the gameplay experience for players, it was determined that this change was necessary.

Furthermore, we regret to inform our players that with the implementation of Patch v0.5.5, we must make yet another compromise. From this patch onward, gliding will be performed using a glider rather than with Pals. Pals in the player's team will still provide passive buffs to gliding, but players will now need to have a glider in their inventory in order to glide.'

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Private Dances [8]

Club!Blue Jones x F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? • ko-fi • request info • series masterlist

Summary: Money goes missing.

A/N: A huge thank you to the epic @lonelyisamyw-0love for tipping my ko-fi, this series is especially for them💚

Warnings: Kissing, petnames, fingering, p in v sex, cream pie, public sex, shouting, Blue talking about having a vibrator up his ass, overuse of italics, there's some power dynamics in here because reader is a dancer (but like Blue is so lovesick), not beta read, swearing, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

There are 5 main ‘stars’ in the club: Peach, Trixie, Songbird, Sweetie Pie, and Crystal. Crystal is usually the favourite but is currently in Blue’s bad books for reasons unknown to the reader. Reader is a backup dancer that Blue has nicknamed Lion.

Word Count: 3313

“How are you doing?” Songbird’s soft voice takes you by surprise. 

You hadn’t even heard her come into the small outfit storage room, you’d been too preoccupied looking through some of last year's show props.  

She’s painfully beautiful, ethereal almost, with a dream like voice and bright eyes that make everyone stop and stare at her. Try to take in every millimetre of her beauty and commit it to memory.

You nod, and she smiles kindly. 

“You’re not busy, are you?” She pauses, and you recognise a shimmer of anxiety under her expression. “I don’t want to intrude on your time, I just… Can we talk?” 

It’s odd really. Songbird had always been kind, but she existed in a different sphere to you. She was a headline act, had been with the club for years. 

“Of course.” 

She smiles again, that little glimpse of worry dissipating slightly. “I…” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I knew exactly what I wanted to say before I found you and now,” she waves her hand in the air. “It’s like everything has disappeared.” “I get that.” You nod reassuringly. 

“Thanks.” Songbird pauses again, lightly touching some of the costumes that are hanging up on the side. “I know Blue’s been… You’ve been bearing the brunt of all of his attention.” She speaks carefully, her words precisely chosen. “I know that’s draining.” 

You stay quiet, waiting for her to continue. You know that Blue was hard, to put it mildly, with the other girls before you and he… started whatever this is. 

“If you need anything,” she takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “We’re here. I know he’s gone through phases in the past, preferred someone for a few weeks. But he’s never… I’ve never heard of him being with only one person. And for such a long period of time.” The look she’s giving you is sincere, worried. She’s trying to help. “I hope he hasn’t hurt you too much.” 

You give her hand a little squeeze back. “He’s not-” You shake your head. “I’m fine, thank you, really.” 

She nods, but it’s clear that she doesn’t believe you. “We’re all grateful, truly. And sorry, again, that you’re bearing all of this.” 

“Do you know what happened with Crystal?” You ask, the words blurting past your lips before you even have a chance to think about what you’re saying. 

A flash of surprise passes over Songbird’s face for a second before she composes herself. “Oh, yeah. Crystal is… difficult.” She says diplomatically .

It was no secret that until recently Crystal had been Blue’s favourite, and practically the most powerful person in the club for other dancers, second to him. 

“It was a silly thing really,” Songbird looks off to the side as she talks, as if replaying the past in front of her eyes. “She got mouthy with Blue, in his office, in front of someone in the local government or something. Not too much different from how she normally is, you know? But she didn’t stop when Blue gave her a warning. She got worse. Really laying it on and…” She shrugs sadly. “The outcome was not good… Has she… done anything to you?” The worry in her eyes sends a shiver down your spine. 

“I… I don’t think so?” 

Songbird nods. “You’d know if she did, she’s not subtle.” She sighs. “Vicious and…” There’s a beat where she weighs up her thoughts, deciding what to say next. “You’ve seen Trixie’s scar right?” 

You nod. Trixie’s scar was almost mythical, a story every new dancer was told, though the reason for its existence always changed. It was deep and started at her shoulder. In all her costumes it just poked out from under her short sleeves. She never wore a backless outfit. 

“Well, I was there when Crystal gave it to her. She cut her right across the back. She pretended that she fell onto Trixie, but the bottle she was holding was already broken when she came into the dressing room.” 

You swallow. 

“She’s… dangerous. You know that… I just…” Songbird closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I don’t know, she’s been quiet, I guess? Calm. I… I don’t like it. It doesn’t seem right. She likes being in control, at the top. I know she thought Blue would forgive her after a day or two, punish her and then things would go back to normal. But none of that has happened.”

She takes in a deep breath. “I know I don’t know you well, but you seem nice, kind. This place doesn’t do kind. It just breaks. I don’t want you to get broken.” 

The look she gives you is piercing, cutting. Like her emotions are slicing your skin and sinking into your heart. A wave of melancholy washes over you, but there’s a sweetness as well. A softness. 

“I-”

The door swings open, Madam Gorski sighs dramatically. 

“Songbird,” she tuts. “I’ve been wasting half an hour of my time looking for you.” 

The Madam glances at you and you stiffen, excepting the start of a chastising yourself. But she just looks you over quickly and turns back to Songbird.

“We have been waiting on you to start. Get a move on.” Her gaze claws into Songbird’s skin, practically pulling her from the room. 

Songbird gives you a sympathetic look as she leaves. 

.

You’re tucked away into one of the booths at the back of the club (hiding). This night was somehow even more exhausting than when you’d been put on backup dances straight for the whole shift. 

Blue had asked (politely demanded) you to be on his arm for practically every single second as he schmoozed and chatted and batted his eyelashes. Your jaw ached from all the fake smiles and pretend interest in the businessmen he spoke to. 

You’d slipped away fifteen minutes ago when he was distracted with some problem Gorski had. Technically, you weren’t doing anything he hadn’t asked for. He said to stay on the club floor, you were on the club floor. He said to stay in sight of the main stage and the guards. The booth had a perfect view of both. So what if you were laying down on the padded seats so that no one could really see you there without looking? It was-

“Lion.” 

You look up, Blue’s standing by your feet, arms folded, looking a little more than unimpressed. 

You put on your best smile.

“Don’t give me that.” He tuts, but sits down. He takes hold of your ankles firmly and puts your feet in his lap. 

You yelp a little when he squeezes your calves. 

“Don’t give me that either.” He says firmly, but he’s smiling. “I told you to-”

“I’m on the club floor, in view of the stage.” You sit up and give him an insincere sweet look. 

He tuts again, shaking his head, but you can see he’s thoroughly amused. “Is it so difficult to just behave for one night?” 

“Yes.” You wriggle closer so that you’re sitting next to him, your knees in his lap. 

He pouts, placing his arm on the back of the seat so he can lean closer. “After I gave you this lovely new dress.” 

“I hate it.” You grin and he mock gasps. 

“You hate my gifts?”

“It’s uncomfortable. And ugly.” 

“It is not.” He chuckles as you run your fingers down his lapel. 

“And too low cut.” 

“Nothing is too low cut on you, I’d have you walking around naked at all times and ready for my-”

You grab his cheeks as little forcefully as you kiss him, sliding your tongue down his throat to shut him up. 

He chuckles, slipping his hand under your skirt and sliding up along your leg, making you shiver.

“Are my guests really that boring?” He asks as you pull back an inch. 

You stroke his moustache with one hand while you play with the hair at the nape of his neck with the other. “Yes.” 

He snorts. 

“You look like you want to murder most of them.” 

“Hmm,” the sound rumbles through his chest as he gives you a wicked grin. 

“See?” 

He laughs, “I couldn’t possibly do that, you know how difficult it is to get blood out of his suit?” 

You give him a playful look as he nuzzles into your neck, littering your skin with light, soft kisses. 

Songbird is on stage, just starting her routine. Her voice is like silk, drifting out and wrapping around the patrons. 

“I like having you with me.” He mutters and nips at your pulse point, you can feel him grin against you when you jump. “Like having you here, it’s soothing.” 

“Soothing?” 

“Hmm.”

“Not distracting?” You tease.

“That too. But I like that.” 

“Seems like you like a lot of things.”

“When they’re connected to you, I do.” He inches his fingers higher, pulling you closer to him in the process. 

You push lightly on his chest, gently chastising him. “Blue.” 

“Hmm?” He bites at one of your dress straps and tugs it off your shoulder before going back to licking your skin as he squeezes your ass with his hand. 

“Blue,” you swallow, your voice coming out much weaker than you intend it to. 

He ignores you. 

You glance around the floor, you both are truly secluded back here. Everyone else is either captivated with Songbird’s performance or are having their own conversations. 

“Don’t you need to get back to your friends?” You tug a little at his hair. 

“I do not.” He mutters, barely breaking away from his misdirections. He moves his hand around underneath your dress, and spreads his fingers out across your mons, pressing the heel of his hand to your clit. 

You gasp weakly and he chuckles. 

“Why are you wearing underwear?” He kisses your jaw and you give him a glare that he delights in. 

“I can wear what I want.” 

“No, you can’t.” He grins and then giggles at your expression. “I’m playing, Lion.” 

“I know.” 

He bites his bottom lip as he pulls your panties to the side and slips his fingers along your folds, groaning at the wetness he finds. He presses his other hand to your back, keeping you close to him. 

You grab hold of his shoulders, bunching up his jacket but he doesn’t care. 

“You’re always so wet, Lion.” He purrs. “Always so horny.” 

You swallow. “For you.” 

He growls softly, pulling you closer as he sinks two fingers inside your heat. “Uh, Lion.” He whines, his lips parted and eyes blown wide. His breathing hitches as yours increases. 

You shouldn’t be doing this here, when anyone could look over. But his thick fingers stretch you so wonderfully and stroke so sweetly, it makes you lightheaded. 

Softly, you moan, wriggling closer to him and matching his gentle strokes with your hips. 

The thick outline of his erection presses against you as you both move languidly, sharing each other's oxygen. 

“I’m sorry for dragging you around out here.” He mutters, his voice strained as he watches you. 

“I don’t mind.” You pant, trying to keep your voice under control. 

“Work is work,” he swallows. “My reputation matters…” 

“It’s, it’s fine Blue, it’s okay.” You moan, rocking faster as he curls his fingers. Pleasure blinds your mind, controls your body as you chase it desperately. 

“Though, I think as the owner… I should be allowed to indulge.” He smiles. “Maybe next time you could parade me around, hmm? On a leash and collar?”

“Fuck,” You press your face into his neck, trying to muffle your sounds. 

“No one would say anything,” he breathes rapidly, rubbing his clothed cock against you and groaning. “Then everyone would know how I belong to you.” 

You whimper, your thighs shaking as he pushes you closer to the edge. 

He groans louder, his cock buzzing. He’s nearly there, so near to spilling himself in his trousers. He swears quietly and suddenly pulls his fingers from your pussy. 

You whine, your pleasure snatched away, but you don’t even have a second to lament the loss. 

Blue quickly pushes you onto your back against the plump cushions, most of your body now hidden by the table. You can still see the stage, upside down from how you lay. 

Hastily he pulls down your underwear, shoving them in his jacket pocket before he unzips his fly in a rush and spreads your legs. 

He leans over you quickly, and wastes little time in notching his leaking cock at your entrance. But he doesn’t thrust inside like you expect. 

Instead he catches your eyes, his own expression soft despite how painfully hard he is. 

You smile and nod, rocking your hips forward slightly. 

Blue bites his lip, groaning, as he sinks in. You spread your legs wider, hooking one over his hips as he leans forward and presses his chest up against yours. 

You claw at his back and kiss him roughly, licking into his mouth greedily and then whining when he thrusts. He rolls hard and sure, the pace hypnotic and oh so sure of itself. 

“Lion…” He groans, his eyebrows pinching together. 

“Please,” You pant, pleasure tightens in your stomach, pulling and pulling and making you shake. You want to arch your back, scream as you take him, but you clench your jaw, fighting down the cries that want to break free.

He groans your name, snapping his hips so that the table rocks. His cock rubs perfectly along your walls, the slippery friction pushing you higher and higher until you just can’t take it anymore.

“Blue!” You bury your face in his neck to muffle the sound. You come hard, convulsing in his arms as you gush on his cock. 

“Fuck!” He trusts twice, moaning as he pushes your head back so he can watch as pleasure overtakes you. Your pussy squeezes him so hard, sucking him deep and forcing him to follow you into ecstasy. He comes deep, your body milking him for every last drop. 

He collapses against you, managing to keep most of his weight off you with one arm as he breathes hard. 

When you open your eyes, he smiles down at you. You smile back, and then give a nervous glance to the rest of the club, which is more than a little awkward from the angle you’re at.

“Don’t worry,” he soothes, “No one saw.” 

You laugh softly. “How do you know?” 

“I’d kill them if they did.” He gives you such a sweet, love sick look. 

“Ever the romantic.” 

He grins. 

Slowly, he pulls out, using his pocket square to catch any mess from splashing on your dress and then wiping you clean. He helps you to sit up once he’s tucked himself away. 

His makeup is a little smudged around his eyes, a sheet of sweat on his skin and a flush to his cheeks. 

Lightly, you rub his lips, removing the traces of your lipstick. He leans into your touch, preening as you fuss over him. 

“Hmm, I need a new pocket square.” He sighs dramatically, but you can recognise the playful undercurrent. “Ah,” he raises his finger before you even get a chance to open your mouth 

He pulls your underwear from his pocket and folds them before he tucks it into his breast pocket and grinning. “Much better.” 

“Blue,” you laugh, reaching your hand out to take them back.

He tuts, shaking his head as he grabs your wrist. “Uh, uh, those are mine.”

“They’re mine.” You giggle, but you don’t try to fight his grasp. 

“Mine.” He kisses your palm and wrist. “I’ll buy you all the panties you want, but,” he gives you a cheeky look. “I would prefer it if you didn’t have any.” 

You snort, and playfully swat at him. His grin widens. 

“I could make a deal with you, Lion?” He purrs as he smoothes your dress back down your legs and lightly strokes the love bites he’s left on your neck. “You forgo wearing panties, not completely,” he adds when you give him another look. “Just, seventy percent of the time.”

“And what will you do?”

He leans closer to whisper in your ear, “I’ll put a toy… inside myself. I’ll give you the remote.” 

“The remote?” You lean back a little to look at him and he nods, smiling like the cat that got the cream. 

“I’ll leave it in the whole day, you can turn it on whenever you want, torture me all day, every day.” 

“This sounds like a reward, not torture.” 

He smiles wickedly, nodding, and you giggle and stroke his cheek.

“Is that a deal, Lion?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Maybe?” He says, all mock outrage. “Why-”

“Boss.” One of Blue’s goons appears at the table, flanked by three others and Blue’s expression shifts immediately. His gaze hardens, freezes over as he turns to stare at them.

The head goons gulps nervously. 

“Why are you here?” 

“There’s been a, erm, an issue.”

Blue looks like he’s about to rip the goon’s throat out with his teeth. 

“The days takings so far disappeared from the holding room and…”

Blue stiffens, his muscles tensing. 

“We found it, it was, erm, we found it in her,” the goon nods at you, “room.” 

You stare blankly. Dumbfounded. What the fuck?

“What?” Blue says, his voice deadly, so cold it gives you frostbite. 

“We checked all the dancer’s rooms, and, well it was in Lion’s sir. In her pillow.” One of the other men says, his voice is calmer, there’s less of a waver. But he doesn’t look Blue in the eyes. 

Blue turns to you, his expression sharp and jagged. 

“Blue-”

“Trying to steal from me?” He snarls and grabs your bicep, yanking you to your feet as he kicks the table out and back, causing a scene. 

He yells in frustration, the sound making you jump and the guards step back. A few clients look over, dancers noticing the commotion. 

You open your mouth. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He yells, but his grip on you is soft, gentle. He rubs his fingers along your skin reassuringly. 

Quickly he manhandles you off the club floor, snapping at his goons to go do ‘their fucking job’. The second you’re both out of the room, he checks over his shoulder, along the hall. There are people walking about, but not close. 

“Play along.” He whispers and then pulls you down the corridor, yelling harshly in a tight controlled rage. 

You try to resist, or at least make it look like you are, but let him lead you to his office. He pulls you inside and slams the door shut. 

“Blue-”

“I know you didn’t do it, Lion.” He says quickly, rubbing your arms soothingly. “Sorry about that, we will have to come up with a code.” 

“What? A code? What the fuck’s going on?” 

“Oh, someone ‘stole’ the money, I’m sure of that. I mean a code for when I need you to just go with what I’m doing, so you know it’s pretend.” He pauses, looking to the side as he thinks. 

“Someone stole money?” Your mind races, your heart still beating too fast.

He nods. “Yes, and planted it in your room.” He strokes your cheek. 

“But I, I haven’t been there in days, I-”

“I know,” he reassures you, “you’ve been with me. And even if you hadn’t,” he looks into your eyes firmly, “I wouldn’t believe you would have.” He gives you a soft smile. “I’d give you the money if you asked for it, why would you bother to steal it?” 

You snort weakly, anxiety still twisting in your chest. 

“I had to make any onlookers think I believed you did.” He strokes your arms and holds you close. “Someone is trying to set you up again.” 

Thank you for reading!

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[sickseeds]

From an article I read, the main things Nintendo griped about Palworld, was:

• The ability to catch and send out creatures via a sphere

• Gliding and riding the fucking pals (which is ridiculous because how many times have we seen that happen in a Pokémon game as a key feature like it was used in Palworld?)

I know there was more, but as of right now, this is what has been told publicly.

Just shows you just how fucking PETTY Nintendo truly is.

[merakiui]

speaking of riddle appreciation…….

riddle rosehearts who is doing research for a project for a journalism course he’s taking, and somehow it leads him down the true crime path. he thinks he’d like to interview someone in that sphere, whether law enforcement involved with a criminal case or someone at the center of the crime. before he knows it, he’s set up correspondence with criminal darling after reading up on their case. he’s so fascinated and thinks that this would make for a perfect source of study for his project. you agree, and within no time you’ve gained a studious pen pal.

only riddle becomes a little too attached to you. he told himself he could never sympathize with a criminal and that he would always remain impartial, dedicated to his grades, yet here he is eagerly anticipating your next letter. he’s so invested in you, so purely obsessed, that it soon becomes less about the project and more about his interest in you. in the you beyond your case and circumstances.

it’s definitely not love. rather, it’s an ugly obsession.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: SIGMA

[at the White House] Donald Trump: so as i was saying we're putting tariffs on the moon Trump: i know people like the moon Trump: it's a beautiful moon Trump: but it's not pulling its weight Trump: it's gotta go

Trump: some people on the radical left are saying Trump: the tides! what about the tides! Trump: why are you whining about the tides? Trump: i don't take responsibility for the tides

Trump: it's the biggest moon, some say its the best moon- Larry Niven: never fear, mr president! SIGMA is here! narrator: SIGMA is the secret code name for a think tank of costumed science fiction writers dedicated to advising the president on just whatever and stuff

Trump: what's this Larry Niven: we're SIGMA Niven: a think tank of costumed science fiction writers dedicated to advising the president on issues of our expertise Niven: like if you happen to need advice on how to make a dyson sphere Niven: do you need advice on how to make a dyson sphere by the way?

Niven: since the dawn of time, we've advised every US president on important matters of state Niven: for obvious security reasons, of course, we must keep our identities secret- Greg Bear: i'm Greg Bear Niven: Ben Bova: greg bear just said Niven: yes i heard Bear: I'm Greg Bear Niven: Greg could you wait in the hallway Bear: I'm Greg Bear Niven: go talk to Don Jr Donald Trump Jr: i'm donald trump jr Bear: i'm greg bear Trump Jr: i'm donald trump jr Bear: i'm greg bear

Niven: as i was saying Niven: since the dawn of time, we've advised every US president Niven: if you need some really wild ideas, just absolutely unhinged crazy ideas that no sane person would ever consider Niven: you come to SIGMA Trump: no thanks, i'm covered Trump: [into intercom] security

Niven: just give us a moment of your time, mr president! Niven: here, let me give you an example of the sort of great idea that SIGMA can provide to you Niven: so you know how healthcare is so expensive? Niven: ok so what if Niven: what if we spread rumors among the Latino community that hospitals steal your organs, so that they're too scared to seek medical treatment? Niven: eh? eh? Niven: pretty good eh? Trump: you're thinking small, larry

Trump: you're thinking small, larry Trump: way too small Trump: we're not playing passive necropolitics anymore Trump: we're playing active necropolitics now Trump: more and more people are saying it Trump: [on intercom] security we have 3 in here for disappearing Trump: bah bye

Niven: haha you wouldn't disappear us Niven: i mean c'mon Niven: we're white Trump: oh no we're disappearing white people too now Trump: it's a whole new grid

Niven: don't worry, Mr President, SIGMA's got plenty of other wild ideas to share! Niven: what if you made robots that could kill protesters? Trump: you're late to the game, larry

[therobotmonster]

"Doctor Martin, why are you an atheist?"

Director Maria Kleinheart wasn't the sort of person who asked indirect or idle questions. She was in every way a Kleinheart, the spitting image of her grandmother. Only she wasn't staring out from a yellowed ad in a back issue of Popular Science or Woman's Day, she was staring from across desk made of polished slate.

Emil Martin didn't respond immediately. That sort of question usually came with an invitation to services or a badgering about Pascal's wager. That didn't fit what he knew about the director, though that wasn't much. An intense religious conversion would explain the rumors around her distance from the rest of her family.

"Director, is this a personal or work related question?" Emil finally asked.

"Work." She replied.

"Is that appropriate?"

"Yes. This is about security clearances."

That made even less sense. Emil decided to risk a lecture on his eternal soul and answered truthfully. "Pretty standard, insufficient evidence."

"Would you rather it be true?" She asked. "Would it be comforting to know you existed for a purpose, that someone was in charge of your existence, caring for you?"

"Not really." Emil replied. "I'm rather Hitchenisan in that regard."

"Good enough. Follow me."

-

"BE NOT AFRAID."

The words seemed to come out of the air itself. The thing was at the center of the large, expansive lab that had once been a missile silo. It was a sphere, surrounded by two rings of brass-like metal. The rings were lined with hemispherical semi-translucent white glass or crystal protrusions. The inner ring spun slowly, as did the central core, though only the faintest irregularities in its glowing blue-white corona revealed that motion.

The outer ring was held in place with steel chains, each link six inches in diameter. Two chains locked the ring to the floor, while a third latched the top to the ceiling. The cuffs the chains connected to seemed to have been welded shut around it.

"BE NOT AFRAID." It 'spoke' again. Its voice was clear and musical, but wrong and artificial at the same time. It sounded like familiar voices; his mother and father, his cousins, his old school pals, his boyfriends, even Director Kleinheart, each synthesized poorly via an AI speech simulator, all speaking in perfect time.

Every time it spoke, Emil smelled his grandfather's sweet cornbread fresh from the oven.

"That looks like an angel." He finally gasped.

"Looks like." Director Kleinheart smiled. He wasn't sure she could do that. "I knew we picked the right man."

"This is why you were asking about my beliefs?"

"Yes Doctor Martin. You see, freedom of religion is an extension of the principle of innocence until proven guilty. Once one faith is shown to be correct, all others are revealed as wrong."

"And you wanted to make sure I, what, wasn't guilty of being wrong?"

"No, the mistaken are innocent of everything except the actions they directly take." Kleinheart continued. "It's the ones who would take this to mean they were right that are fifth columnists to an unaccountable alien power."

"Oh." Emil replied. He didn't know quite what else to say.

"I want you on our team that's studying it. We need to know how it works, what it's made of, what those things its made of can be used for, you know the drill."

"BE NOT AFRAID." Again came the smell of cornbread.

"Are the restraints necessary?" Emil asked. "It is telling us we don't need to be afraid of it."

"Oh, we thought that too at first." The director said. "But we've already learned quite a bit about our little intruder here, even a bit of its 'source code' for lack of a better analogue. That message isn't meant for us."

"What is it then?"

"Can't you guess, Doctor?"

Dr. Emil Martin shrugged. "I have no idea."

"It isn't giving us a warning."

Director Kleinheart smiled for the second time in Emil's memory and spoke again.

"It's repeating its orders."