#Software courses training in US

[adrianastrix]

OMG yes

It's not that I think that it's a-ok for AI to steal everything around it willy-nilly, but I really think that the current AI problem is about AI's practical aspects than a moral issue. I mean, tools and techniques are (most of the time, exceptions apply!!) relatively neutral in their existence, we are the ones giving it meaning and value. We are the ones that decide the good (cooking) and the bad (killing) use of a knife. And we are the ones who decide when the bad use might not be that bad ('citizen killing another citizen in a street' vs 'soldier killing another soldier in a war').

To me, the AI issue is a "it's not 'we' who are giving it meaning and purpose, it's a small group of people who barely even know how it works and are only interested in the profits it may or may not bring".

In a way, since AI is an intelligence that adapts with time, training it is a bit like raising a pet, isn't it? I would prefer that my pet is raised by me and people I trust, not handed to me pre-trained by a guy who has a record of using pets to steal wallets, and being required to hand it over to that guy's pet daycare every day for 'updates in the training'. Hm-hm, wallet-stealing guy, it's not suspicious at all.

ed zitron, a tech beat reporter, wrote an article about a recent paper that came out from goldman-sachs calling AI, in nicer terms, a grift. it is a really interesting article; hearing criticism from people who are not ignorant of the tech and have no reason to mince words is refreshing. it also brings up points and asks the right questions:

if AI is going to be a trillion dollar investment, what trillion dollar problem is it solving?

what does it mean when people say that AI will "get better"? what does that look like and how would it even be achieved? the article makes a point to debunk talking points about how all tech is misunderstood at first by pointing out that the tech it gets compared to the most, the internet and smartphones, were both created over the course of decades with roadmaps and clear goals. AI does not have this.

the american power grid straight up cannot handle the load required to run AI because it has not been meaningfully developed in decades. how are they going to overcome this hurdle (they aren't)?

people who are losing their jobs to this tech aren't being "replaced". they're just getting a taste of how little their managers care about their craft and how little they think of their consumer base. ai is not capable of replacing humans and there's no indication they ever will because...

all of these models use the same training data so now they're all giving the same wrong answers in the same voice. without massive and i mean EXPONENTIALLY MASSIVE troves of data to work with, they are pretty much as a standstill for any innovation they're imagining in their heads

[advanto-software]

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[keferon]

Sigh. I wasn’t strong enough to stop. I wrote a fic too

———————————

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

Organics are fragile.

Most of the ones Jazz had met were, at least. Flesh is more susceptible to environmental influences than metal. Flesh accumulates damage faster, both external and internal. It often generates it itself.

The processes and causes are often a mystery to Jazz, but he's familiar with the general concept.

Organics are fragile.

That's why Jaz isn't very surprised by the crowds of medical personnel scurrying around a human military base.

As Prowl explained to him, humans don't have the built-in ability to open a HUD and perform self-diagnostics. Most of the time all you get is a vague signal in the form of pain in the injured area or nausea or changes in body temperature and things like that.

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine. It's weird for Jazz. He's used to coming in for physical exams only when something's obviously wrong. Pilots are supposed to get checks just in case anything about them in theory could start breaking down in the future.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

He spots the scientist in purple pretty quickly. A crowd of white-haired pilots is a nightmare to identify but this particular organic catches his attention almost instantly.

He's quite...extravagant looking. And he's practically glued to Prowl. They're involved in something together that Jazz isn't sure about, but Prowl looks...wobbly...when he returns from his visits to Tarantulas. And not in a funny way.

Tarantulas holds a special interest in Prowl. Special access, too. Whenever Prowl is injured, Tarantulas is the one who must be contacted immediately. Prowl's mech system needs an upgrade - Tarantulas must be consulted.

Tarantulas slips into the crevices and oozes between the plates. His hands are all over Prowl's personal space and Jazz doesn't really know what he should do about it because Prowl apparently doesn't mind.

Tarantulas dictates what he can and can't eat. What medications he should take and what software he should use.

Tarantulas gives him these little white bracelets with the information he writes on them for the other medics, because Prowl is special for some reason and only Tarantulas has instructions for him.

Knockout wipes his hands with some kind of special napkin and jerks his head around

“If you're looking for Prowl, he's in the labs for a physical.”

Jazz pretends this information is as mundane to him as it is to everyone else on this base

“Why can't you or the other medics examine him?”

“None of us have time to deal with the creepy experiments Prowl is constantly involved in” snorts Knockout ”Last time I checked his blood could dissolve plastic. Haha figuratively of course! Don't look at me like that!”

Jazz smiles, but there's no friendliness behind that smile

“Is this scientist doing experiments on Prowl?”

“Ah. As a matter of fact. Yes. Listen...” Knockout hastily picks up the first aid kit and walks towards the med bays “You'd better ask him yourself. My shift ends in ten minutes, I'm not in the mood to start anything now.”

Jazz nods

“Suuure , no problem.”

“Can I ask what you do in there?”

Prowl has this...look. The one that shows up usually after he gets back from the labs.

In his head, Jazz calls it “'Wobbly.” It's like Prowl's little organic body's joints are coming loose. If he had joints of course (Wait, humans have joints? Right?).

Prowl squints glumly, looking up at him

“Working on improving my mobility on the field.”

Jazz lets out a quiet “oooh.”

Then pulls himself back together

“Shouldn't that involve working on your armor, and not ..uh. you?”

Prowl leans his back against the wall.

“Installing new thrusters on a mech of my class doesn't make sense. They'll increase its speed, but they'll also burn fuel faster.

And installing larger fuel tanks is something reserved for Strikers. There's no way Orion would approve such an upgrade for me.”

Jazz carefully sits down on the floor next to Prowl. It still doesn't give him a good angle on his human's face, but Prowl stares at the floor anyway so...

“And you found some kind of loophole huh?”

Prowl gives a barely perceptible shrug.

“I did some calculations and noticed that the fuel used to run the Heavy Mechs is much more efficient. It's slower to burn out, and gives significantly better performance. Which makes sense, considering it's needed to compensate for the weight of the heavy armor. Used in my mech, it would give me a ten percent increase in speed and twice as much active usage time.

Jazz glares at the top of Prowl's head.

“Sounds like an epic idea, but I'm sensing a 'but' coming...”

“But it's highly toxic.”

“It's what??”

Prowl rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers

“Only heavy mechs can run this type of fuel because there's enough room in them to insulate the cockpit well enough from any possible chemical exposure.”

Jazz nervously pulls the servo toward Prowl but hesitates at the last second and places it on the floor next to him.

“Prowl. Prowl your armor is lovely but it's anything but heavy.”

“It is” nods Prowl “There isn't enough room in my mech to shield me from any negative effects, so Tarantulas is working on making me immune to them.”

“But that....kind of...why are you letting him? I'm no expert, but sitting inside poisoned armor can't be good for you. I don't know what he told you, but if you had asked even one other medic...”

Prowl finally lifts his head and stares into Jazz's optics for a couple seconds

“He didn't convince me of anything. I asked him to do it myself.”

“Prowl...”

“People have biases against Tarantulas but I assure you, he doesn't do anything I didn't consent to him doing. He likes to go outside the box in his research. He doesn't dismiss my ideas as too harsh. We collaborate.”

“.....”

“The result will be worth it. You'll see.”

Jazz is uncomfortable admitting it, but he sees.

The result is impressive.

Prowl can not only move fast, he can do it for a long time. He's getting more efficient (again), faster (again), better (Prowl's subjective assessment).

The maintenance team wears special masks when working on the internal systems of his mech. The fuel is toxic. Not to Jazz, but even Jazz wouldn't want it to get on his plating.

And humans are fragile.

All organics tend to be fragile.

And Prowl... little flesh-and-blood Prowl gets into this poisoned armor and it's considered acceptable? Because his organic body seems to have developed enough resistance to this kind of damage he only gets a “”mild, easily treatable“” poisoning? And Tarantulas adds another white bracelet to his arm with notes on what substances Prowl needs to put in his drinks to keep his internal components from accumulating damage.

Jazz isn't sure what to think about this.

Jazz doesn't know what to do about it.

And frankly. Does he have the right to get involved if this is what Prowl has chosen for himself?

Tarantulas is a creepy, haunting shadow hanging over Prowl at the slightest opportunity. Tarantulas takes Prowl to a lab and runs poison through his veins. Tarantulas adores Prowl for allowing him to do this.

Prowl insists that Tarantulas is helping.

Jazz doesn't think Prowl is getting help.

[allaboutelearning]

Technology is an integral part of our world. Hence, there is no denying that software training is quite important. But how to conduct it in the right manner. Read more...

[romerona]

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part I

This was never supposed to happen. Your role in this operation was simple—deliver the program, ensure it reached the right hands, and let the professionals handle the breaching.

And then, of course, reality decided to light that plan on fire.

The program—codenamed Ethera—was yours. You built it from scratch with encryption so advanced that even the most elite cyber operatives couldn’t crack it without your input. A next-generation adaptive, self-learning decryption software, an intrusion system designed to override and manipulate high-security military networks, Ethera was intended to be both a weapon and a shield, capable of infiltrating enemy systems while protecting your own from counterattacks in real-time. A ghost in the machine. A digital predator. A weapon in the form of pure code. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could disable fleets, and ground aircraft, and turn classified intelligence into an open book. Governments would kill for it. Nations could fall because of it.

Not that you ever meant to, of course. It started as a little experimental security measure program, something to protect high-level data from cyberattacks, not become the ultimate hacking tool. But innovation has a funny way of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and before you knew it, Ethera had become one, if not the most classified, high-risk program in modern times. Tier One asset or so the Secret Service called it.

It was too powerful, too dangerous—so secret that only a select few even knew of its existence, and even fewer could comprehend how it worked.

And therein lay the problem. You were the only person who could properly operate it.

Which was so unfair.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be your problem. You were just the creator, the brain behind the code, the one who spent way too many sleepless nights debugging this monstrosity. Your job was supposed to end at development. But no. Now, because of some bureaucratic nonsense and the fact that no one else could run it without accidentally bricking an entire system, you had been promoted—scratch that, forcibly conscripted—into field duty.

And your mission? To install it in an enemy satellite.

A literal, orbiting, high-security, military-grade satellite, may you add.

God. Why? Why was your country always at war with others? Why couldn’t world leaders just, you know, go to therapy like normal people? Why did everything have to escalate to international cyber warfare?

Which is how you ended up here.

At Top Gun. The last place in the world you wanted to be.

You weren’t built for this. You thrive in sipping coffee in a cosy little office and handling cyber threats from a safe, grounded location. You weren’t meant to be standing in the halls of an elite fighter pilot training program, surrounded by the best aviators in the world—people who thought breaking the sound barrier was a casual Wednesday.

It wasn’t the high-tech cyberwarfare department of the Pentagon, nor some dimly lit black ops facility where hackers in hoodies clacked away at keyboards. No. It was Top Gun. A place where pilots use G-forces like a personal amusement park ride.

You weren’t a soldier, you weren’t a spy, you got queasy in elevators, you got dizzy when you stood too fast, hell, you weren’t even good at keeping your phone screen from cracking.

... And now you were sweating.

You swallowed hard as Admiral Solomon "Warlock" Bates led you through the halls of the naval base, your heels clacking on the polished floors as you wiped your forehead. You're nervous, too damn nervous and this damned weather did not help.

"Relax, Miss," Warlock muttered in that calm, authoritative way of his. "They're just pilots."

Just pilots.

Right. And a nuclear warhead was just a firework.

And now, somehow, you were supposed to explain—loosely explain, because God help you, the full details were above even their clearance level—how Ethera, your elegant, lethal, unstoppable digital masterpiece, was about to be injected into an enemy satellite as part of a classified mission.

This was going to be a disaster.

You had barely made it through the doors of the briefing room when you felt it—every single eye in the room locking onto you.

It wasn’t just the number of them that got you, it was the intensity. These were Top Gun pilots, the best of the best, and they radiated the kind of confidence you could only dream of having. Meanwhile, you felt like a stray kitten wandering into a lion’s den.

Your hands tightened around the tablet clutched to your chest. It was your lifeline, holding every critical detail of Ethera, the program that had dragged you into this utterly ridiculous situation. If you could’ve melted into the walls, you absolutely would have. But there was no escaping this.

You just had to keep it together long enough to survive this briefing.

So, you inhaled deeply, squared your shoulders, and forced your heels forward, trying to project confidence—chin up, back straight, eyes locked onto Vice Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, who you’d been introduced to earlier that day.

And then, of course, you dropped the damn tablet.

Not a graceful drop. Not the kind of gentle slip where you could scoop it back up and act like nothing happened. No, this was a full-on, physics-defying fumble. The tablet flipped out of your arms, ricocheted off your knee, and skidded across the floor to the feet of one of the pilots.

Silence.

Pure, excruciating silence.

You didn’t even have the nerve to look up right away, too busy contemplating whether it was physically possible to disintegrate on command. But when you finally did glance up—because, you know, social convention demanded it—you were met with a sight that somehow made this entire disaster worse.

Because the person crouching down to pick up your poor, abused tablet was freaking hot.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a head of golden curls that practically begged to be tousled by the wind, and, oh, yeah—a moustache that somehow worked way too well on him.

He turned the tablet over in his hands, inspecting it with an amused little smirk before handing it over to you. "You, uh… need this?"

Oh, great. His voice is hot too.

You grabbed it back, praying he couldn't see how your hands were shaking. “Nope. Just thought I’d test gravity real quick.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and his smirk deepened like he was enjoying this way too much. You, on the other hand, wanted to launch yourself into the sun.

With what little dignity you had left, you forced a quick, tight-lipped smile at him before turning on your heel and continuing forward, clutching your tablet like it was a life raft in the middle of the worst social shipwreck imaginable.

At the front of the room, Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson stood with the kind of posture that said he had zero time for nonsense, waiting for the room to settle. You barely had time to take a deep breath before his voice cut through the air.

“Alright, listen up.” His tone was crisp, commanding, and impossible to ignore. “This is Dr Y/N L/N. Everything she is about to tell you is highly classified. What you hear in this briefing does not leave this room. Understood?”

A chorus of nods. "Yes, sir."

You barely resisted the urge to physically cringe as every pilot in the room turned to stare at you—some with confusion, others with barely concealed amusement, and a few with the sharp assessing glances of people who had no clue what they were supposed to do with you.

You cleared your throat, squared your shoulders, and did your best to channel even an ounce of the confidence you usually had when you were coding at 3 AM in a secure, pilot-free lab—where the only judgment you faced was from coffee cups and the occasional system error.

As you reached the podium, you forced what you hoped was a composed smile. “Uh… hi, nice to meet you all.”

Solid. Real professional.

You glanced up just long enough to take in the mix of expressions in the room—some mildly interested, some unreadable, and one particular moustached pilot who still had the faintest trace of amusement on his face.

Nope. Not looking at him.

You exhaled slowly, centering yourself. Stay focused. Stay professional. You weren’t just here because of Ethera—you were Ethera. The only one who truly understood it. The only one who could execute this mission.

With another tap on your tablet, the slide shifted to a blacked-out, redacted briefing—only the necessary information was visible. A sleek 3D-rendered model of the enemy satellite appeared on the screen, rotating slowly. Most of its details were blurred or omitted entirely.

“This is Blackstar, a highly classified enemy satellite that has been operating in a low-Earth orbit over restricted airspace.” Your voice remained even, and steady, but the weight of what you were revealing sent a shiver down your spine. “Its existence has remained off the radar—literally and figuratively—until recently, when intelligence confirmed that it has been intercepting our encrypted communications, rerouting information, altering intelligence, and in some cases—fabricating entire communications.”

Someone exhaled sharply. Another shifted in their seat.

“So they’re feeding us bad intel?” one of them with big glasses and blonde hair asked, voice sceptical but sharp.

“That’s the theory,” you confirmed. “And given how quickly our ops have been compromised recently, it’s working.”

You tapped again, shifting to the next slide. The silent infiltration diagram appeared—an intricate web of glowing red lines showing Etherea’s integration process, slowly wrapping around the satellite’s systems like a virus embedding itself into a host.

“This is where Ethera comes in,” you said, shifting to a slide that displayed a cascading string of code, flickering across the screen. “Unlike traditional cyberweapons, Ethera doesn’t just break into a system. It integrates—restructuring security protocols as if it was always meant to be there. It’s undetectable, untraceable, and once inside, it grants us complete control of the Blackstar and won’t even register it as a breach.”

“So we’re not just hacking it," The only female pilot of the team said, arms crossed as she studied the data. “We’re hijacking it.”

“Exactly,” You nodded with a grin.

You switched to the next slide—a detailed radar map displaying the satellite’s location over international waters.

“This is the target area,” you continued after a deep breath. “It’s flying low-altitude reconnaissance patterns, which means it’s using ground relays for some of its communication. That gives us a small window to infiltrate and shut it down.”

The next slide appeared—a pair of unidentified fighter aircraft, patrolling the vicinity.

“And this is the problem,” you said grimly. “This satellite isn’t unguarded.”

A murmur rippled through the room as the pilots took in the fifth-generation stealth fighters displayed on the screen.

“We don’t know who they belong to,” you admitted. “What we do know is that they’re operating with highly classified tech—possibly experimental—and have been seen running defence patterns around the satellite’s flight path.”

Cyclone stepped forward then, arms crossed, his voice sharp and authoritative. “Which means your job is twofold. You will escort Dr L/N’s aircraft to the infiltration zone, ensuring Ethera is successfully deployed. If we are engaged, your priority remains protecting the package and ensuring a safe return.”

Oh, fantastic, you could not only feel your heartbeat in your toes, you were now officially the package.

You cleared your throat, tapping the screen again. Ethera’s interface expanded, displaying a cascade of sleek code.

“Once I’m in range,” you continued, “Ethera will lock onto the satellite’s frequency and begin infiltration. From that point, it’ll take approximately fifty-eight seconds to bypass security and assume control."

Silence settled over the room like a thick cloud, the weight of their stares pressing down on you. You could feel them analyzing, calculating, probably questioning who in their right mind thought putting you—a hacker, a tech specialist, someone whose idea of adrenaline was passing cars on the highway—into a fighter jet was a good idea.

Finally, one of the pilots—tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, and very clearly one of the cocky ones—tilted his head, arms crossed over his chest in a way that screamed too much confidence.

“So, let me get this straight.” His voice was smooth, and confident, with just the right amount of teasing. “You, Doctor—our very classified, very important tech specialist—have to be in the air, in a plane, during a mission that has a high probability of turning into a dogfight… just so you can press a button?”

Your stomach twisted at the mention of being airborne.

“Well…” You gulped, very much aware of how absolutely insane this sounded when put like that. “It’s… more than just that, but, yeah, essentially.”

A slow grin spread across his face, far too entertained by your predicament.

“Oh,” he drawled, “this is gonna be fun.”

Before you could fully process how much you already hated this, Cyclone—who had been watching the exchange with his signature unamused glare—stepped forward, cutting through the tension with his sharp, no-nonsense voice.

“This is a classified operation,” he stated, sharp and authoritative. “Not a joyride.”

The blonde’s smirk faded slightly as he straightened, and the rest of the pilots quickly fell in line.

Silence lingered for a moment longer before Vice Admiral Beau Cyclone Simpson let out a slow breath and straightened. His sharp gaze swept over the room before he nodded once.

“All right. That’s enough.” His tone was firm, the kind that left no room for argument. “We’ve got work to do. The mission will take place in a few weeks' time, once we’ve run full assessments, completed necessary preparations, and designated a lead for this operation.”

There was a slight shift in the room. Some of the pilots exchanged glances, the weight of the upcoming mission finally settling in. Others, mainly the cocky ones, looked as though they were already imagining themselves in the cockpit.

“Dismissed,” Cyclone finished.

The pilots stood, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out of the room, the blonde one still wearing a smug grin as he passed you making you frown and turn away, your gaze then briefly met the eyes of the moustached pilot.

You hadn’t meant to look, but the moment your eyes connected, something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, and frankly, you didn’t want to know.

So you did the only logical thing and immediately looked away and turned to gather your things. You needed to get out of here, to find some space to breathe before your brain short-circuited from stress—

“Doctor, Stay for a moment.”

You tightened your grip on your tablet and turned back to Cyclone, who was watching you with that unreadable, vaguely disapproving expression that all high-ranking officers seemed to have perfected. “Uh… yes, sir?”

Once the last pilot was out the door, Cyclone exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

“You realize,” he said, “that you’re going to have to actually fly, correct?”

You swallowed. “I—well, technically, I’ll just be a passenger.”

His stare didn’t waver.

“Doctor,” he said, tone flat, “I’ve read your file. I know you requested to be driven here instead of taking a military transport plane. You also took a ferry across the bay instead of a helicopter. And I know that you chose to work remotely for three years to avoid getting on a plane.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “That… could mean anything.”

“It means you do not like flying, am I correct?”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet as you tried to find a way—any way—out of this. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t need to fly the plane. I just need to be in it long enough to deploy Ethera—”

Cyclone cut you off with a sharp look. “And what happens if something goes wrong, Doctor? If the aircraft takes damage? If you have to eject mid-flight? If you lose comms and have to rely on emergency protocols?”

You swallowed hard, your stomach twisting at the very thought of ejecting from a jet.

Cyclone sighed, rubbing his temple as if this entire conversation was giving him a migraine. “We cannot afford to have you panicking mid-mission. If this is going to work, you need to be prepared. That’s why, starting next week you will train with the pilots on aerial procedures and undergoing mandatory training in our flight simulation program.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—wait, what? That’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Cyclone cut in, his tone sharp. “If you can’t handle a simulated flight, you become a liability—not just to yourself, but to the pilots escorting you. And in case I need to remind you, Doctor, this mission is classified at the highest level. If you panic mid-air, it won’t just be your life at risk. It’ll be theirs. And it’ll be national security at stake.”

You inhaled sharply. No pressure. None at all.

Cyclone watched you for a moment before speaking again, his tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re the only one who can do this, Doctor. That means you need to be ready.”

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together before nodding stiffly. “Understood, sir.”

Cyclone gave a small nod of approval. “Good. Dismissed.”

You turned and walked out, shoulders tense, fully aware that in three days' time, you were going to be strapped into a high-speed, fighter jet. And knowing your luck?

You were definitely going to puke.

Part 2???

[are-we-art-yet]

Is AWAY using it's own program or is this just a voluntary list of guidelines for people using programs like DALL-E? How does AWAY address the environmental concerns of how the companies making those AI programs conduct themselves (energy consumption, exploiting impoverished areas for cheap electricity, destruction of the environment to rapidly build and get the components for data centers etc.)? Are members of AWAY encouraged to contact their gov representatives about IP theft by AI apps?

What is AWAY and how does it work?

AWAY does not "use its own program" in the software sense—rather, we're a diverse collective of ~1000 members that each have their own varying workflows and approaches to art. While some members do use AI as one tool among many, most of the people in the server are actually traditional artists who don't use AI at all, yet are still interested in ethical approaches to new technologies.

Our code of ethics is a set of voluntary guidelines that members agree to follow upon joining. These emphasize ethical AI approaches, (preferably open-source models that can run locally), respecting artists who oppose AI by not training styles on their art, and refusing to use AI to undercut other artists or work for corporations that similarly exploit creative labor.

Environmental Impact in Context

It's important to place environmental concerns about AI in the context of our broader extractive, industrialized society, where there are virtually no "clean" solutions:

The water usage figures for AI data centers (200-740 million liters annually) represent roughly 0.00013% of total U.S. water usage. This is a small fraction compared to industrial agriculture or manufacturing—for example, golf course irrigation alone in the U.S. consumes approximately 2.08 billion gallons of water per day, or about 7.87 trillion liters annually. This makes AI's water usage about 0.01% of just golf course irrigation.

Looking into individual usage, the average American consumes about 26.8 kg of beef annually, which takes around 1,608 megajoules (MJ) of energy to produce. Making 10 ChatGPT queries daily for an entire year (3,650 queries) consumes just 38.1 MJ—about 42 times less energy than eating beef. In fact, a single quarter-pound beef patty takes 651 times more energy to produce than a single AI query.

Overall, power usage specific to AI represents just 4% of total data center power consumption, which itself is a small fraction of global energy usage. Current annual energy usage for data centers is roughly 9-15 TWh globally—comparable to producing a relatively small number of vehicles.

The consumer environmentalism narrative around technology often ignores how imperial exploitation pushes environmental costs onto the Global South. The rare earth minerals needed for computing hardware, the cheap labor for manufacturing, and the toxic waste from electronics disposal disproportionately burden developing nations, while the benefits flow largely to wealthy countries.

While this pattern isn't unique to AI, it is fundamental to our global economic structure. The focus on individual consumer choices (like whether or not one should use AI, for art or otherwise,) distracts from the much larger systemic issues of imperialism, extractive capitalism, and global inequality that drive environmental degradation at a massive scale.

They are not going to stop building the data centers, and they weren't going to even if AI never got invented.

Creative Tools and Environmental Impact

In actuality, all creative practices have some sort of environmental impact in an industrialized society:

Digital art software (such as Photoshop, Blender, etc) generally uses 60-300 watts per hour depending on your computer's specifications. This is typically more energy than dozens, if not hundreds, of AI image generations (maybe even thousands if you are using a particularly low-quality one).

Traditional art supplies rely on similar if not worse scales of resource extraction, chemical processing, and global supply chains, all of which come with their own environmental impact.

Paint production requires roughly thirteen gallons of water to manufacture one gallon of paint.

Many oil paints contain toxic heavy metals and solvents, which have the potential to contaminate ground water.

Synthetic brushes are made from petroleum-based plastics that take centuries to decompose.

That being said, the point of this section isn't to deflect criticism of AI by criticizing other art forms. Rather, it's important to recognize that we live in a society where virtually all artistic avenues have environmental costs. Focusing exclusively on the newest technologies while ignoring the environmental costs of pre-existing tools and practices doesn't help to solve any of the issues with our current or future waste.

The largest environmental problems come not from individual creative choices, but rather from industrial-scale systems, such as:

Industrial manufacturing (responsible for roughly 22% of global emissions)

Industrial agriculture (responsible for roughly 24% of global emissions)

Transportation and logistics networks (responsible for roughly 14% of global emissions)

Making changes on an individual scale, while meaningful on a personal level, can't address systemic issues without broader policy changes and overall restructuring of global economic systems.

Intellectual Property Considerations

AWAY doesn't encourage members to contact government representatives about "IP theft" for multiple reasons:

We acknowledge that copyright law overwhelmingly serves corporate interests rather than individual creators

Creating new "learning rights" or "style rights" would further empower large corporations while harming individual artists and fan creators

Many AWAY members live outside the United States, many of which having been directly damaged by the US, and thus understand that intellectual property regimes are often tools of imperial control that benefit wealthy nations

Instead, we emphasize respect for artists who are protective of their work and style. Our guidelines explicitly prohibit imitating the style of artists who have voiced their distaste for AI, working on an opt-in model that encourages traditional artists to give and subsequently revoke permissions if they see fit. This approach is about respect, not legal enforcement. We are not a pro-copyright group.

In Conclusion

AWAY aims to cultivate thoughtful, ethical engagement with new technologies, while also holding respect for creative communities outside of itself. As a collective, we recognize that real environmental solutions require addressing concepts such as imperial exploitation, extractive capitalism, and corporate power—not just focusing on individual consumer choices, which do little to change the current state of the world we live in.

When discussing environmental impacts, it's important to keep perspective on a relative scale, and to avoid ignoring major issues in favor of smaller ones. We promote balanced discussions based in concrete fact, with the belief that they can lead to meaningful solutions, rather than misplaced outrage that ultimately serves to maintain the status quo.

If this resonates with you, please feel free to join our discord. :)

Works Cited:

USGS Water Use Data: https://www.usgs.gov/mission-areas/water-resources/science/water-use-united-states

Golf Course Superintendents Association of America water usage report: https://www.gcsaa.org/resources/research/golf-course-environmental-profile

Equinix data center water sustainability report: https://www.equinix.com/resources/infopapers/corporate-sustainability-report

Environmental Working Group's Meat Eater's Guide (beef energy calculations): https://www.ewg.org/meateatersguide/

Hugging Face AI energy consumption study: https://huggingface.co/blog/carbon-footprint

International Energy Agency report on data centers: https://www.iea.org/reports/data-centres-and-data-transmission-networks

Goldman Sachs "Generational Growth" report on AI power demand: https://www.goldmansachs.com/intelligence/pages/gs-research/generational-growth-ai-data-centers-and-the-coming-us-power-surge/report.pdf

Artists Network's guide to eco-friendly art practices: https://www.artistsnetwork.com/art-business/how-to-be-an-eco-friendly-artist/

The Earth Chronicles' analysis of art materials: https://earthchronicles.org/artists-ironically-paint-nature-with-harmful-materials/

Natural Earth Paint's environmental impact report: https://naturalearthpaint.com/pages/environmental-impact

Our World in Data's global emissions by sector: https://ourworldindata.org/emissions-by-sector

"The High Cost of High Tech" report on electronics manufacturing: https://goodelectronics.org/the-high-cost-of-high-tech/

"Unearthing the Dirty Secrets of the Clean Energy Transition" (on rare earth mineral mining): https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2023/apr/18/clean-energy-dirty-mining-indigenous-communities-climate-crisis

Electronic Frontier Foundation's position paper on AI and copyright: https://www.eff.org/wp/ai-and-copyright

Creative Commons research on enabling better sharing: https://creativecommons.org/2023/04/24/ai-and-creativity/

[luckystarchild]

Learned today that the Plagiarism Machine (AKA Ch*tGPT) often incorporates em dashes into the drivel "writing" it produces, to the point people now flag em dash usage as an indicator a given bit of writing was produced by the Plagiarism Machine.

(It uses em dashes, one should note, because it was trained on material written by people who use them, AKA creative writers. See again: Plagiarism Machine.)

This is deeply distressing to me as a writer who has never-not-once used the Plagiarism Machine, because I LOVE EM DASHES SO FUCKING MUCH. I use them constantly. But since I would be MORTIFIED if someone thought I was using plagiarism software to produce my work, I caught myself momentarily contemplating striking them from my writing toolbox (or at least using them less frequently).

But here's the thing: I refuse to let a soulless, capitalist hellscape device chase me away from something I enjoy, let alone dictate the writing style I've developed over the course of two decades.

To make myself feel better about continuing on as normal—no matter what the fuck the Plagiarism Machine may say about it—I decided to do some research. The Plagiarism Machine was released in 2022. My most notable online work is Lucky Child, which began serialization in 2017. Even earlier samples of my work feature frequent em dash usage. Thus, my em dash usage predates the Plagiarism Machine by a not inconsiderable margin. For proof (and to comfort myself that no one could ever try and claim my em dash usage is indicative of the Plagiarism Machine's influence) I decided to look at the first chapter of Lucky Child, and—

I literally use one in the opening line.

I use a total of 9 in the first chapter alone.

The Plagiarism Machine owes every creative writer on the internet both a thank-you for the lesson in em dash usage AND an apology for absorbing that lesson without our consent.

[trainsinanime]

The darkly ironic thing is that if you are worried about the recent news that someone scraped Ao3 for AI research, then you're probably vastly underestimating the scale of the problem. It's way worse than you think.

For the record, a couple of days ago, someone posted a "dataset for AI research" on reddit, which was simply all publicly accessible works on Ao3, downloaded and zipped. This is good, in a way, because that ZIP file is blatantly illegal, and the OTW managed to get it taken down (though it's since been reuploaded elsewhere).

However, the big AI companies, like OpenAI, xAI, Meta and so on, as well as many you've never heard of, all probably had no interest in this ZIP file to begin with. That was only ever of interest to small-scale researchers. These companies probably already have all that data, received by scraping it themselves.

A lot of internet traffic at the moment is just AI companies sucking up whatever they can get. Wikipedia reports that about a third of all visitors are probably AI bots (and they use enormous amounts of bandwidth). A number of sites hosting software source code estimate that more than 90% of all traffic to their sites may be AI bots. It's all a bit fuzzy since most AI crawlers don't identify themselves as such, and pretend to be normal users.

The OTW hasn't released any similar data as far as I am aware, but my guess would be that Ao3 is being continuously crawled by all sorts of AI companies at every moment of the day. If you have a fanfic on Ao3, and it isn't locked to logged-in users only, then it's already going to be part of several AI training data sets. Only unlike this reddit guy, we'll never know for sure, because these AI training data sets won't be released to the public. Only the resulting AI models, or the chat bots that use these models, and whether that's illegal is… I dunno. Nobody knows. The US Supreme Court will probably answer that in 5-10 years time. Fun.

The solution I've seen from a lot of people is to lock their fics. That will, at best, only work for new fics and updates, it's not going to remove anything that e.g. OpenAI already knows.

And, of course, it assumes that these bots can't be logged in. Are they? I have no way of knowing. But if I didn't have a soul and ran an AI company, I might consider ordering a few interns to make a couple dozen to hundreds of Ao3 accounts. It costs nothing but time due to the queue system, and gets me another couple of million words probably.

In other words: I cannot guarantee that locked works are safe. Maybe, maybe not.

Also, I don't think there's a sure way to know whether any given work is included in the dataset or not. I suppose if ChatGPT can give you an accurate summary when you ask, then it's very likely to be in, but that's by no means a guarantee either way.

What to do? Honestly, I don't know. We can hope for AI companies to go bankrupt and fail, and I'm sure a lot of them will over the next five years, but probably not all of them. The answer will likely have to be political and on an international stage, which is not an easy terrain to find solutions for, well, anything.

Ultimately it's a personal decision. For myself, I think the joy I get from writing and having others read what I've written outweighs the risks, so my stories remain unlocked (and my blog posts as well, this very text will make its way into various data sets before too long, count on it). I can totally understand if others make other choices, though. It's all a mess.

Sorry to start, middle and end this on a downer, but I think it's important to be realistic here. We can't demand useful solutions for this from our politicians if we don't understand the problems.

[alcrego]

Do you ever use ai stuff? Cus like your work is really cool but it can be hard sometimes to tell if digital art has been made using ai and I was just wondering?

Sometimes, yes.

But I'd say that only about a 2-5% of the works I post.

As I already explained I use AIs to assist my work in the same way I also use cameras, computers, softwares... Of course I never 'steal' other people work, I use my own custom models trained with my own work (that is not few). And I use it locally in my own computer, so please, don't start again about this 'eco-speech' about waste of resources and blah, blah blah...

I do not support nor agree when people steal other people art to train custom models. Even so, we should start to accept that we are ALL 'trained' with other artists works (paintings, sculptures, comics, films...) Our brain is our own custom model.

Thanks for asking!

And...👀👇

And...👀👇

Thanks for asking!🙏

[iconicstoner]

i found you

gn!reader x spencer reid (fluff)

words: 1778

summary: You and Spencer have been friends for years, so it only makes sense you went to a local St. Patrick’s Day parade together. However, when he loses you at the parade he realizes how important it is that you know how much he loves you, so of course he confesses.

Spencer pushed through the crowd, fighting to find you. You had been his best friend for years. You’d helped him through the fear his work caused, and you were even there during his addiction. He thought of you as his whole world. You reminded him of why it was worth it to deal with the horrors he saw every day. You were his light in the darkness, and now you were lost in a giant crowd of people. It was packed, and there had to be thousands of people around. It was one of the biggest St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the entire country. 

Spencer’s mind started to race with different ideas. You could’ve been kidnapped, or even killed. He knew the statistics on that, but he tried not to think about them for his own sanity. His mind flashed with different victims he’d seen over the years. You could be in the same situation as any of them right now, but he prayed you weren’t. 

He called out your name as loud as he could, trying to make himself see above the crowd, but the only response he got was a disapproving side eye from a mother carrying her child. He felt embarrassed but knew he couldn’t stop till he found you. His heart was beating in his ears, and his breathing was shallow. He knew this could turn into a panic attack at any second, and as much as he wanted to break down he knew it wouldn’t help him find you. 

He quickly turned around, thinking he heard your voice, but instead found a visibly drunk man. 

“Sorry about that,” the man said as he stumbled, spilling beer all over Spencer’s shirt. The beer smelled awful, and now his shirt was uncomfortably sticky, but the thought of finding you kept him together.

“It’s fine,” Spencer responded before quickly darting off, still set on finding you unharmed. He tried to clear out the horrific images in his mind, but there was little he could do. He rushed back to where he’d last seen you, deciding maybe you hadn’t gone that far after all. The sun was starting to set, and it put him on edge. When it went dark it’d be so much harder to find you. 

He regretted walking away from you earlier. He told you that he had to go to the bathroom, but he actually wanted to surprise you with a drink he noticed you eyeing at one of the drink carts. He had to wait in an excruciatingly long line, but he thought it would be worth it because it meant getting to see your beautiful smile. When he returned to where you were supposed to be waiting for him you were already gone. Looking back, it was stupid, but in the moment he didn’t think twice. He was an intelligent and trained FBI agent who was carrying a gun, so he felt safe, but he didn’t think twice about the fact you didn’t have any experience with dangerous criminals. 

He pushed through people, standing once again in front of the drink cart. He looked around, but there was no one there. He considered calling Garcia. Maybe she’d be able to hack into the security footage and use facial recognition software to see where you went and who you were with, but Spencer knew that would take too much time. Besides, it would be way too embarrassing to admit he was freaking out so much over losing you for 20 minutes. Garcia knew all about his feelings for you, and he wasn’t sure he could handle her teasing at a time like this.

Spencer noticed the street lamps starting to flicker on. They were the only light left now that the sun had set. As embarrassing as it was, he decided maybe it actually would be a good idea to call the BAU. Or Garcia at least. 

He noticed the diner sitting on the road’s edge in front of him and decided to wait there while he called. Running around in a packed crowd clearly wouldn’t help him find you, and it definitely wasn’t making him feel better. 

The diner had a muted brown roof with big white letters that spelled out Tony’s Place. It hardly had walls at all, as most of the sides were large glass windows. There was a quaint wooden bench outside of it facing the street. It was unsuspecting and matched every other building on the street.

Spencer Walked through the door, hearing a bell ring as he did. The place was crowded, but much less crowded than the parade was. The interior looked something straight out of the ’50s. There were black and white checkered tiles, booths with red leather seats, and a bar where people sat sipping their drinks. He could smell french fries and apple pie coming from the kitchen. 

“How can I help ya, sugar?” An older waitress with dirty blonde curls asked him. She looked tired, and Spencer noticed the pack of cigarettes in her apron. Her name tag read Darlene. 

“I just need a place to sit,” he told her nervously. She smiled at him with an understanding, motherly smile. 

“Sounds great,” she told him as she ushered him over to a booth. It was next to a giant window that faced the parade. He looked around, but there was no one who even looked like you. “Can I get you anything to drink?” She asked sympathetically. It was obvious to anyone who saw him that he was upset. 

“Coffee please,” he responded quickly. She nodded and quickly left to get him a cup. He fished his phone out of his pocket and let out a sigh. He anxiously dialed Garcia’s number, almost hitting the wrong keys in a rush.

“Hello, Mighty Professor. It’s not like you to call me like this when you’re not at work,” she said joyfully. Spencer wasn’t sure how to respond. He almost felt bad telling her what was wrong. She loved you too. “What can I help you with, sweetie?” She asked again. Spencer was usually eager to ask questions and get her help, but now he wasn’t saying anything at all. 

“Well, it’s just-“ he stopped himself, not sure how to even explain it. His leg was anxiously bouncing, and every second that passed felt like an hour. Before he got the chance to explain it all to Garcia the waitress had come back with his cup of coffee. He could see the steam emitting from it and he thanked her. 

“Just doin’ my job baby,” she told him in a reassuring voice. He could tell she was used to dealing with people who were upset, and just this once he didn’t mind being treated like a kid. 

“Who’s that?” Garcia questioned from the phone.

“It’s no one, just a waitress,” he responded. “That’s not the point. I need your help, Garcia.” Even from over the phone, Garcia could tell Spencer was anxiously biting his lip.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“I need help finding-” Spencer quickly cut himself off. Across the diner he noticed you. Even though your back was to him, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind it was you. He knew everything about you like the back of his hand. It was your hair, your clothes, your body. 

“Nevermind. Thanks, Garcia. Gotta go,” he told her before quickly hanging up. He stood up and quickly ran across the diner to you. He didn’t even realize it, but he was starting to cry. “Thank God it’s you,” he said. You quickly turned around and he wrapped his arms around you.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” You asked, feeling one of his hands around your waist and the other on the back of your head. He held onto you tightly, not ready to ever let you go. 

“I couldn’t find you,” he breathed out. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“Spencer, I’d never leave you,” you respond. He nods and you look at him to see the tears running down his face. 

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about all the abduction cases I’ve seen before. All those people who died. I wasn’t ready to lose you too,” he tells you. You’ve never seen him so upset before. Working at the BAU wasn’t easy, and he was finally letting it show. You hold onto him, trying to let him know that you’re safe now. You hear his heartbeat, and it’s pounding quickly. His hands are shaky as they hold you, and his breathing is still shallow. 

“I found you,” he whispers in your ear. He pulls away from you just enough to kiss you. He keeps one hand on your waist and moves the other to your jaw, holding onto it as he kisses you passionately. He slowly pulls away, wanting to be as close to you as possible. 

“Take it outside!” An older man sitting at the bar playfully exclaimed, causing Spencer’s face to flush. He grabbed onto your hand, leaving a twenty on the table for Darlene, and led you outside to the wooden bench in front of the diner. The two of you sat down together, the soft glow from the street lamp illuminating him. A few stars could be seen shining brightly above you. There was a chilly breeze, but with how close Spencer was keeping you the two of you were plenty warm. He wasn’t crying anymore. He just sat next to you, admiring your presence. 

“I need to tell you something,” he says, gently squeezing your hand.

“What’s up?” you ask. 

“When I lost you, I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the bad things I’ve seen. I didn’t know what I’d ever do without you, and because of that, I don’t ever wanna be without you again. I know dating can be really complicated when you’re in the BAU. Plenty of relationships fail. But I love you so much, and I really think if you gave me a chance this might work, even if it’s statistically unli-” You interrupt him, softly kissing his lips. He leans into the kiss, and you can smell the aroma of coffee and leather that lingers on him. Reluctantly, you both pull away, but only by a few centimeters. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin, “did you do that because I was rambling again?”

“I did that because I love you too,” you whisper back. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he mumbles before kissing you again.

He didn’t let go of your hand the entire time. He hoped he’d never have to.

------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: Special St. Patrick's Day post lol! Also, I know I’ve been getting a lot of Twilight requests- and I’m so happy about it!! (and I am working on them)- but I wanted to take a break to write a fun Spencer Reid oneshot bc I love him sm lol

[wittywords]

𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞

Software or other computer programs designed for use as part of an educational or training course.

[tongueinatree]

et tu, brute? (Jungkook Fic)

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader (“You”)

Fandom: BTS (Bangtan Sonyeondan) 

AU: Non-idol AU, Soulmate AU, Modern/“civilian life” AU. 

Word Count: 1.6k 

Warnings: fluff, angst and heartache, no NSFW material. Profanity is used.

Description: You don’t like keeping secrets, least of all ones involving matters of the heart. But crossing the line between secrecy and an open proclamation is a daunting one, and might not leave you unscathed. 

Still, when your soulmate is calling, how can you not answer?

Author's Note: Main character is gender neutral. No use of “Y/N” but second person ("you") is used. The reader/main character’s appearance is not described, but the reader is shorter than Jungkook. The reader is referred to as “kid” despite being an adult. 

Not beta read.

The form of soulmate bond in this fic (telepathy) is drawn directly from the prompt provided by @creativepromptsforwriting. Prompt is as follows: “Sense8 - being telepathically connected to your soulmate no matter where in the world they are (and speaking and understanding their language)”. The prompt can be found at: https://creativepromptsforwriting.tumblr.com/post/708052034004385792/soulmates-au-masterpost

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and in no way connected to, or affiliated with, any of the BTS members. I do not know any members, either, and have only drawn inspiration from their public image for this fanfic. 

Comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

All my work, including this fic, is copyright protected. You do not have permission to copy, repost or translate my work! You also do not have permission to submit this work into any AI model or software. Disregarding any one of these stipulations is illegal. 

et tu brute? (Jeon Jungkook x Reader)

You don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one.

It should be that simple, too. Especially with your reputation: you’re known for being a notorious blabbermouth. You’ve never shared anything detrimental, like someone’s illness, but the mundane? That’s fair game, be it a stolen chocolate, tripping in the confectionery aisle in a store, or even a glaringly obvious crush. 

There’s something deeper to it, though, something more than just a tendency to talk and talk… ever since you were little, lying’s seemed like a – 

“Hey! Kid!” 

The call makes your train of thought dissipate, though your stomach is still churning unhappily. You’re also still a bit slow on the come-up. Slow enough for your brother to fling his dishcloth your way. The cloth hits you square in the face, and your senses are overwhelmed by the alchemical smell of dishwashing liquid, by the dampness on your forehead. 

You tug the cloth off of your forehead and hurl it back towards your brother, “Fuck off, Yoongi.” 

Yoongi’s face creases with laughter, even as he turns back to the last of the dishes, “Wake up, kid. Don’t you know that deep thinking is bad for your health?”

You shift awkwardly from where you’re standing opposite him, propped against his pantry cupboard’s door. You scowl, “What are you on about? All you do is brood.”  

Yoongi’s tone is light in response as he turns away from you and back towards the sink, “Sure. But I said your health, didn’t I?” 

You’re about to send a retort his way, but then you see the half smile upturning the corner of his mouth. He’s bulshitting – baiting you, even –  but you’ve never been one to take a provocation lying down. “I’m perfectly capable of deep thinking. I just don’t need five business days to recover from it.”

Yoongi’s smile downturns, “Mind your manners.”  

A chuckle resounds, and both you and Yoongi turn to appraise its source. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. He’s propped up on the counter alongside Yoongi, dressed in all black, swinging his legs back and forth. He looks gorgeous and unruffled and you hate him for it. 

As Yoongi starts to chastise Jungkook for his laughter, you start to take stock of the rest of the house. Jungkook’s presence has jolted you into remembering that you are, in fact, amongst others. You try to recall who’s still here. Last you saw, there were some stragglers from the party still on the patio – Taehyung, Jimin, Namjoon – but everyone else has gone home. The decorations are also still up inside. The streamers and banners scream out messages of support: Congrats! Record-breaker! Grammy, grammy, grammy! That last banner had made you cringe, but Seokjin had thought it was hilarious. Hilariously asinine maybe. 

Still, Yoongi’s success deserves to be heralded, and he’s swept awards season clean. Your older brother, the megastar producer. You clear your throat, say softly, “Well done again, Yoongi.” 

Yoongi halts his conversation with Jungkook at once, turning to you with narrowed eyes. He stares at you for a long moment, and something tells you that he sees more, looks beyond your gratitude and straight at the turmoil twisting your gut into knots. But he just nods, and his tone is equally soft in reply, “Thank you.”

Jungkook coughs, “Wow. It’s like you’re communicating just with your eyes.”

He says the words lightly, but they don’t fail to make you uneasy. Because, of course, Jungkook knows all about your secrets. 

Jungkook leans back onto his elbows. You worry for an instant whether the counter can bear his weight, before shamelessly ogling the ease with which he reclines. Jimin’s always called balletic – and he is – but there’s something breezy about the way Jungkook moves, as if he’s unmoored from the ground. 

Jungkook continues speaking, continues holding your gaze, “I’ve always thought it’s interesting when people can communicate without speaking, you know? Uncanny.”

Stop it. 

Yoongi looks at Jungkook as if he’s dense, “That’s hardly uncommon.” 

Jungkook shakes his head in agreement, “Sure. But what I mean – that level of comfort, that sort of obvious familiarity, it’s something to be admired.”

Jungkook. 

Yoongi’s pondering the statement with a tilt of his head, opening his mouth to reply, and you've never hated your brother’s tendency to turn everything into a philosophical debate more.

 “Are you referring to people who aren’t soulmates?” 

Jungkook shrugs, and the movement is glaringly practiced, “Anyone close, really. Friends. Family. Soulmates.” 

Yoongi seems puzzled, “Sure, plenty of family and friends are that close. But given that soulmates have literal telepathy, I’m not sure you can equate the types of connection.”

I’m going to skin you alive! You think this in italics, so to speak, with enough heft to make Jungkook flinch. 

The conversation continues. Stubbornly, you block it out and you turn away from them both. 

You drift from the pantry to the snacks cupboard. It’s nearly a metre clear of your head. Yoongi is convinced that if the snack cupboard’s difficult to reach, you’ll stop stealing from it; he’s even confiscated his footstool. None of this really stops any of you, though. Case in point: you’ve wrestled the door open by jumping and yanking on the handle, and now you’re jumping again, to grab the nearest bag of chips. 

Your fingers graze the bag but you don’t get a firm grip, instead, the bag’s shoved further into the cupboard. You groan aloud, then call, “Yoongi. Can you get me this bag of lime chips?”

Footsteps sound from behind you, Yoongi approaches from behind. You’re trying to shuffle out of the way so that he doesn’t have to lean over you when a hand goes to the small of your back, slips under your T-shirt and strokes a reverent circle into your skin. 

Not Yoongi. 

You turn, even as Jungkook’s hand flattens against your back and pulls you closer. A riot of emotions flares to life. Contentment at the feel of Jungkook’s hand; panic at Yoongi being across the room – 

He’s gone. 

You blink. What?

He’s gone, sweetheart. 

You crane your head around Jungkook’s chest. Yoongi is in fact gone. In your determination to evade his and Jungkook’s conversation, you clearly hadn’t noticed.

Jungkook presses closer, close enough for you to feel his breath on your brow, to smell that he’s used lemony toothpaste. Jungkook’s expression is gentle and composed, but there’s relief. “Finally,” he breathes. Been waiting for this all day.  

You can’t help teasing him, “What, just for a little closeness? You’ll say the sight of my ankle gets you going next.” 

Jungkook chuckles, and the sound is too fond for you to bear, “Well. It probably could get me going.”

“Hmm.” 

Jungkook’s gaze is piercing. This doesn’t have to be a secret. 

You suck in a breath, “It’s not that simple. You know it isn’t. You’re one of Yoongi’s oldest friends, and –”

And what? “I really doubt that he’ll hate that it’s me.” 

You bite your lip and look away from him; simultaneously, your arms come up to encircle his waist. It’s always like this with Kook. Push and pull. 

And you don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one. 

You ignore the entreaty. Jungkook’s right. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with this, or even that you don’t want him. 

It’s that – 

You’re transported to a chilly winter night. To a pained, apologetic expression. I’d rather not do this.

But Jungkook isn’t that person, is he? 

And yet… it’s hard to admit to this. To admit that you’re not as audacious as you seem. You’re just a coward, a –

Hey. Stop that.

You finally look back at him, “You deserve better than someone who loves you by halves.” 

It’s not half. It’s… green. Unripened. Shy. 

You scowl, “Bullshit.” 

Jungkook tugs you even closer; his eyes are wide, as always, and so earnest, “Well, then, just let go. Just try.”

Your gaze is riveted to him, and the knots in your stomach are settling, even as you wish they wouldn’t. 

You don’t like keeping secrets. 

Then don’t keep one. 

You like hiding from yourself even less. 

Then don’t. That thought is yours.

You clear your throat, nod, “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

You nod again, “Let me try.” 

Jungkook’s face lights up. 

He’s kissing you before either of you are fully cognizant of his head even moving. You kiss him back, fiercely and with some of that audaciousness you’d been opining about. The world dissolves, so that it’s just you and Jungkook.  

You only part when a soft cough comes from behind you. 

Yoongi’s staring at both of you with his eyebrows raised, looking wholly unimpressed. 

You don’t bother to respond, just lean into Jungkook’s side. Jungkook stays calm, too, though his grip on you tightens a little. 

Yoongi looks from you to Jungkook. 

His mouth pulls as he says, “Finally realised you’re made for each other, huh?” 

You jolt; beside you, Jungkook laughs in relief.

“Yoongi? How long have you –”

Yoongi chuckles, leaves the kitchen with a dismissive wave of his hand, “It’s about time.”

Time seems to stretch interminably in the moment between Yoongi’s back entering the door frame and disappearing through the door frame.

Throughout it all, you and Jungkook stay rooted to one another. 

[eueuphoriaz]

Finally had time to do this. Thanks to levihansackerman from IG, the Railway Investigation voice drama is out!

I tried to translate using Google translate but am too lazy to type it out. Cos I realised the translation into English for this software makes the dialogue feel a bit weird.

There are 4 parts. The first one is on the railway station, where Hange saw a unique car and wanted to sketch it. Levi then poked her saying that she is not feeding the car carrot and that ahe had grown a little.

Hange then exclaim her happiness that she is seeing so many new things like the railway, not just the car. Levi then comment she is such a happy guy. And proceeded to comment on how the railway tracks are like nets, and the complexity and efficiency of the train. Then he compared it with the railway track at Paradise Island and said it is imcomparable.

Levi then said the investigation is different from their usual expeditions but is back to the basis of the Scouts original purpose.

Hange then saw shops near the railway station and commented on the variety of items and the crowd there. A mixture of cultures. Levi then commented on her heart of discovery again, and something about the Scouts being happy this summer, like in the past it is always painful news they hear. (I think he mean he is feeling pain in the ears listening to her being happy). Hange then apologise for her happiness and commented on all the stuff that they can find on the shopping street that caters to the needs of everyone.

She then commented that the street is like underground with a ceiling but the feeling and atmosphere is different. Levi talked a little about selling and buying and the underground likeness of the shopping street, the difference in the atmosphere. (I think Levi was thinking about the selfishness and harshness of the underground)

Hange then caught him and said she is leaving. And of course Levi sighed and had to follow her.

The other parts are really cute too! I have to put a disclaimer. I am not a native Japanese. This is just me trying to interpret this using google translate and piecing the sentence structure together.

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3][Part 4]

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Women pulling Lever on a Drilling Machine, 1978 Lee, Howl & Company Ltd., Tipton, Staffordshire, England photograph by Nick Hedges image credit: Nick Hedges Photography

* * * *

Tim Boudreau 

About the whole DOGE-will-rewrite Social Security's COBOL code in some new language thing, since this is a subject I have a whole lot of expertise in, a few anecdotes and thoughts.

Some time in the early 2000s I was doing some work with the real-time Java team at Sun, and there was a huge defense contractor with a peculiar query: Could we document how much memory an instance of every object type in the JDK uses? And could we guarantee that that number would never change, and definitely never grow, in any future Java version?

I remember discussing this with a few colleagues in a pub after work, and talking it through, and we all arrived at the conclusion that the only appropriate answer to this question as "Hell no." and that it was actually kind of idiotic.

Say you've written the code, in Java 5 or whatever, that launches nuclear missiles. You've tested it thoroughly, it's been reviewed six ways to Sunday because you do that with code like this (or you really, really, really should). It launches missiles and it works.

A new version of Java comes out. Do you upgrade? No, of course you don't upgrade. It works. Upgrading buys you nothing but risk. Why on earth would you? Because you could blow up the world 10 milliseconds sooner after someone pushes the button?

It launches fucking missiles. Of COURSE you don't do that.

There is zero reason to ever do that, and to anyone managing such a project who's a grownup, that's obvious. You don't fuck with things that work just to be one of the cool kids. Especially not when the thing that works is life-or-death (well, in this case, just death).

Another case: In the mid 2000s I trained some developers at Boeing. They had all this Fortran materials analysis code from the 70s - really fussy stuff, so you could do calculations like, if you have a sheet of composite material that is 2mm of this grade of aluminum bonded to that variety of fiberglass with this type of resin, and you drill a 1/2" hole in it, what is the effect on the strength of that airplane wing part when this amount of torque is applied at this angle. Really fussy, hard-to-do but when-it's-right-it's-right-forever stuff.

They were taking a very sane, smart approach to it: Leave the Fortran code as-is - it works, don't fuck with it - just build a nice, friendly graphical UI in Java on top of it that *calls* the code as-is.

We are used to broken software. The public has been trained to expect low quality as a fact of life - and the industry is rife with "agile" methodologies *designed* to churn out crappy software, because crappy guarantees a permanent ongoing revenue stream. It's an article of faith that everything is buggy (and if it isn't, we've got a process or two to sell you that will make it that way).

It's ironic. Every other form of engineering involves moving parts and things that wear and decay and break. Software has no moving parts. Done well, it should need *vastly* less maintenance than your car or the bridges it drives on. Software can actually be *finished* - it is heresy to say it, but given a well-defined problem, it is possible to actually *solve* it and move on, and not need to babysit or revisit it. In fact, most of our modern technological world is possible because of such solved problems. But we're trained to ignore that.

Yeah, COBOL is really long-in-the-tooth, and few people on earth want to code in it. But they have a working system with decades invested in addressing bugs and corner-cases.

Rewriting stuff - especially things that are life-and-death - in a fit of pique, or because of an emotional reaction to the technology used, or because you want to use the toys all the cool kids use - is idiotic. It's immaturity on display to the world.

Doing it with AI that's going to read COBOL code and churn something out in another language - so now you have code no human has read, written and understands - is simply insane. And the best software translators plus AI out there, is going to get things wrong - grievously wrong. And the odds of anyone figuring out what or where before it leads to disaster are low, never mind tracing that back to the original code and figuring out what that was supposed to do.

They probably should find their way off COBOL simply because people who know it and want to endure using it are hard to find and expensive. But you do that gradually, walling off parts of the system that work already and calling them from your language-du-jour, not building any new parts of the system in COBOL, and when you do need to make a change in one of those walled off sections, you migrate just that part.

We're basically talking about something like replacing the engine of a plane while it's flying. Now, do you do that a part-at-a-time with the ability to put back any piece where the new version fails? Or does it sound like a fine idea to vaporize the existing engine and beam in an object which a next-word-prediction software *says* is a contraption that does all the things the old engine did, and hope you don't crash?

The people involved in this have ZERO technical judgement.

[affinibureaucrat]

Hi, "domesticated" feralist here

Please halt any motions you may or may not have made to cure me of my blushy disposition, as I've grown to... appreciate it, in an entirely feralist way, of course!

As well, my captor seems to have it in her head that I am "in love" with one of these "domesticated" individuals simply because I [used up all the pink crayons] expended a negligible amount of my provided stationary during drawing said individual in my end-of-day log [because pink is a pretty color and she was pretty!] simply due to concerns of accuracy!

How do I desuade her from continuing down this ridiculous train of "logic"?

Ps: pay no mind to the text included between brackets. [Stupid transmission software won't let me delete those parts] they were erroneously added to my message after the fact.

Hi feralist ;)

Glad to hear you are getting along well with your Affini and her floret. There is no need to hide your feelings about her floret, we all love to share. I recommend scheduling more dates.

P.S. your blushing is cute

[anneapocalypse]

I encourage all creators on AO3 to do what feels right for themselves and their work. As for me, my work isn't locked and I'm not going to lock it. I simply assume at this point that if something is posted publicly online (including everything I post here on tumblr), it's going to be or already has been scraped for training datasets. I don't like it, I'm opposed to it, but I can't individually change it right now.

At the moment, the only way to ensure that something isn't scraped is not to post it online in any form. I enjoy sharing my creative work online so I won't be doing that.

As I see it, the only things that are going to stop this are either legislation, or the economic bubble simply popping when corporate execs and shareholders realize that what they have been sold as "revolutionary tech that's going to massively disrupt their industry" is in fact shitty chatbot software that can't even reliably answer customer questions any better than a human, the market for these services crashes, and maintaining the server farms becomes unprofitable. Unless the latter happens first, I think doing what I can to influence the former is probably a better use of my time.

For me, locking my fanfiction will not stop the proliferation of generative AI nor will it improve anything materially for me personally. It simply feels like punishing myself and my readers by making my fics harder to access. It feels like cutting off my nose to spite my face.

(Again, if other creators want to lock their works for any reason I of course support them in this; the access we allow to our own creative work is a personal choice and there isn't a wrong answer. This is just mine.)