#TH Machine Tools

[nutmegtales]

Fucking Clowns - part 6 coming to

Danny felt himself slowly waking, the smell of fresh coffee and something chocolatey baking near by hung in the air. He rolled the flavours round his mind for a while letting opinions about each one float to the surface of his mind. He liked coffee. He liked chocolate. These were good smells. Comforting smells. Not the smells of an unsafe lab or a sterile cell. As he thought, he recalled more smells he'd sensed most recently. Of warm linens fresh from a dryer, of old books, and garlic and onion and butter cooking on the stove, of baking, and fresh flowers, of grease and machine oil and leather.

It was nice. Danny took a deep lungful of air, savouring the comforting smells.

The next sense to come back to him was hearing and he listened to the rumbling rhythmic noise that was happening close by as it slowly coalesced into words. Someone was reading aloud, taking their time, their words slow and soothing. He couldn't figure out yet what the words meant, but they sounded comforting.

Danny realised he felt safe, and it was such an unfamiliar feeling he wasn't sure what to do with it. No ghosts screaming at him to kill kill kill, no shouts and jeers from others interned going through their own personal strangeness, no whirring of power tools in a lab filled with weapons designed especially to kill him, no parents plotting gleefully of how to hunt him down.

He felt safe, and he let himself enjoy that feeling for a long time before braving anything more.

Eventually Danny opened his eyes to see soft rays of sunlight streaming through a big glass window. Through it was hues of green and blue, too blurry for him to make out. A blink and the skies were painted in orange, great clouds lit up with the colour of the setting sun. There were different smells and sounds now, but he didn't want to think about them, he just wanted to think of the sky.

Another blink and Danny could see the stars brilliant and bright the way they were back home before he'd had to hide in the city. He loved those stars, he loved those skies. They made him want to reach out and touch the clouds, to leap up and soar through the window and feel the breeze in his hair. They made him want to live.

The smell of coffee was strong again and Danny breathed it in deep, tasting the scent of it on the air. He let his focus shift from the beautiful stars to search his surroundings for the familiar smell. On a table next to the bed he lay in was a still steaming mug, and beyond that in a chair across from him sat someone sipping at a mug of their own. Another glance showed another figure lounging on a couch near by and the sounds drifting through from another room made Danny think there might be someone else too.

He felt... How did he feel? Two, maybe three strangers were with him. Did he feel scared? He tried to muster up the energy to feel fear but couldn't manage it. No, he didn't feel afraid, he felt nothing. Mostly nothing. Maybe something.... Maybe curious "midnight... Coffee?" His voice was feeble and scratchy to his own ears and he wasn't sure if he'd been clear enough to be heard. His eyes drooped closed from the effort of grinding out those few simple words and he felt a wash of exhaustion come over him. He couldn't make out the response as sleep reclaimed him, but he thought it sounded playful like hearing your friends banter in a nearby room. He felt safe, and curious, and exhausted.

The welcome smell of coffee and the sight of the stars became a familiar routine. He'd stay awake just long enough to take in the beauty of the sky, to savour the smell of a fresh coffee (how was it always fresh?), and to see the three people that kept him company.

There was one that sat in the arm chair, always with a mug of his own coffee, and a laptop or file on his lap. Maybe he was why there was always a fresh mug when Danny came too.

There was one that would lounge on the couch and just talk, or who would drape themselves over the other two.

And there was one who sometimes just leant against the wall, sometimes he'd sit on the couch and read aloud, sometimes he'd be sat on the floor at the foot of Danny's bed saying things that sounded sweet and comforting. Danny remembers the times where that deep steady voice tells him he's safe now most of all.

Today he feels awake enough to hear the words of the others, and to try and talk again himself. "Hey" he hesitates, unsure of what else there is to say, the words refusing to rise to his mind.

"Hey Danny" comes the reply. It's the deep voice of the one that reads, the one that tells him he's safe. "It's good to hear from you".

Oh? It is? That's good. Danny is glad they want to hear from him, glad that he's not just a burden or a bother. "Good to be heard" he tries to put some good humour into the words, he's not sure he manages it.

"yeah, I'll bet" he hears the other say "we're listening Danny, we're listening now".

Oh, Danny thinks as he drifts back off to sleep again, that sounds nice.

--

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[sallllltywater]

Third character of the game Historic: the road eternal

Maker of hands

The Maker of Hands is an Ensu who has removed their limbs from the elbow and knees, then learned the power of smithing their own magical hands using a small golden hammer. These hands glow and float around the Handsmith. The Maker of Hands can then use them to enact magic, fight with many hands a fist-fighter, and dance through the battlefield.

They can either follow the path of the Eye, engaging in spells, or the path of the Hand, becoming capable fighters with their many hands.

(The character design draft and the moment i realize how much they suitable to be Ratsune Squeaku)

Joke aside this character did give me quite the headache for mix the design of dancer and handsmith, the cracked plate holding by the metal "arm" is their anvil and the hammer is held by the tail.

The hammer, as their specific road tool, from the hammer end it can create magic hands by light knocking(of course unless you wanna crack the ribs underneath the plate) and the pointy end n the other side can shattered the existing hands.

Also worth to mention is their mount, a motorcycle, without hands and forearm to hold the handle so they need to lean low onto this weird machine, leg lock to the side. The wheel is the aeonic angel's ring, dripping oil all the time and as long as it is not dead, the motorcycle can run as fast as it could. (showing on the leftside of this riding on road card, the right side good boy will be introduced next)

(the crowdfunding will be end on April 4)

[caffeinated-binturong]

Corrective Maintenance

Sevika x Reader

Synopsis: You thought no one would notice the sudden decline of your prosthetic but are caught and forced to get fixed up. Genre: Fluff POV: Second Warnings: None Word Count: 1.9k

—

The problem started a few days earlier with the occasional hitch in your step. Nothing serious or out of the ordinary, just an annoyance, but you made a note of it all the same for the next time you went to a mechanic. It progressed faster than expected, though. You could still compensate at the moment but it was getting harder and more painful to do so, and you could feel the difference not just between days but from when you started a shift to when you were done.

With growing anxiety, you were forced to accept this wasn’t something you could ignore or put off. Not that you had the money or anything worth bartering with to get it fixed immediately but this wasn’t sustainable. You couldn’t even say what was wrong, only that something was clearly not right.

In the meantime, you kept being a cog in the Shimmer empire. Officially your job was personal courier employed by a shell company of Silco’s in case anyone was sniffing around. Unofficially it was the same work but for the drug network instead. The irony of barely being able to walk while being colloquially known as a runner wasn’t lost on you.

It wasn’t thrilling work but at least it loosely put you under a chem-baron’s protection.

The Last Drop served as a central hub, the centre of a surprisingly vast network. You could and did take things directly between different outfits as needed but you assumed what you moved required a certain amount of oversight or keeping people in the loop. Not that you thought too hard about it—getting too curious is how you wound up with this job to begin with and you weren’t going to make the same mistake as your predecessor.

How often you appeared made you a familiar face no one noticed, background noise long since tuned out. It wasn’t unusual to be in and out in under a minute with only a few words exchanged. Not even the regulars tried talking to you anymore, which suited you just fine.

What was unusual, though, was Sevika roughly grabbing your upper arm while the bar keep was telling you where to go.

“The hell’s going on with you?” she hissed.

Without anything more specific, your only response was to give a quizzical, albeit alarmed, look.

“Don’t think I haven’t see you trying to hide that limp. You’ve been doing it every time you come in.” Her voice was a low growl and her vice-like grip on your arm was tightening. “If you can’t do your job…” The threat hung in the air.

Around you, a few people were watching the show with interest while others were acting too hard as if nothing was happening. The poor man behind the bar looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Oh, that!” you blurted, recognizing what she was referring to. “My leg’s been acting up and I haven’t been able to get it checked out yet.” You give a half shrug with your free shoulder, playing it off as no big deal.

“… Why didn’t you say so? Follow me,” she said after searching your face and eyeing those watching. She let go and the sudden release sent blood you didn’t know was missing rushing back into the limb. That will be a nice bruise later you thought, flexing fingers as you trotted up stairs after her.

That’s how you found yourself in your Boss’ office with your superior hunched over your leg.

Various tools were spread out on the table that was also helping prop up your leg. The couch you sat on was plusher than you were used to and who even framed their paintings and hung them in such a lavish manner? The room itself even smelled important. Everything screamed you weren’t supposed to be here and your face must have reflected that.

��Relax, Silco’ll be out all day,” says Sevika, elbow-deep in machine guts.

“I’m not supposed to be up here.”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s fine.”

“I was almost done for the day anyway. I’ll go.”

“Now that… that’s not fine,” she sighs with exasperation. You couldn’t feel it but you saw the way Sevika’s mechanical hand flexed around your metal shin, locking you in place if you tried to bolt. You were stuck here and it did nothing to calm you down. Sevika mutters to herself about something and grabs a different tool, seemingly forgetting you, but her hold doesn’t lessen just yet.

Without being able to leave and not having anything useful to say, all you can do is watch your senior deftly rummage around your leg. The rhythmic tapping of metal against metal, the occasional curse under the breath, and cigar smoke wafting in and out ends up lulling you into a trance despite your unease. Without noticing, you start to nod off.

You jolt awake when you notice Sevika fully turned on her stool as she looks pointedly at you.

“Uh, sorry. Say again?”

“I asked,” she turns back to do something with your ankle joint, “when did you get this?”

“Oh, a few years back.” You could still remember every detail from when that ceiling collapsed and crushed your lower leg. You could still feel it if you wanted to, not that you wanted to.

“Looks older than that.”

“Might be.” It definitely was. It had happened before you started working for Silco, back when you still lived in a particularly destitute part of Zaun and worked mines deemed too unsafe to work. Sevika lets it drop there and you’re glad for that. It’s not that you were still raw about the subject but you were used to snide comments about the tech, as if it was so easy to get where you’re from or you weren’t aware of how ancient it really was.

Silence on the matter instead of prodding questions was a nice change.

“Don’t you have to keep an eye on the bar?” you ask, realizing the time and not wanting to still be there when Silco returned.

“The others can handle it for now. It’s a slow day and won’t pick up until later,” she shrugs.

“Is that why you’re doing this? Boredom?” You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation but that’s how it comes out. Your stomach drops.

Sevika slowly turns to look at you, not quite believing what you said. Her harsh gaze alone is enough to lock you in place this time.

“I’m doing this because some fool thought they could still work despite barely being able to walk,” she snaps. “You put others at risk with your stunt and I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.” A dangerous energy hangs in the air.

“Sorry,” you mumble, averting your eyes and feeling redness crawl up your neck.

She huffs at that—at you—before turning back once again. You expect to be kicked out, fired, banned from the bar, something. People had lost their heads for less and there was no reason to think you were an exception.

But nothing happens. It still feels too combustible in the room, as if one wrong word would ignite everything, but it’s clear you’re allowed to stay.

Truthfully you’re glad for what Sevika was doing even if you would have preferred it to be somewhere else—even the leers and commentary from downstairs would have been better. You had never been mechanically inclined but even if you were, the prosthetic couldn’t be disconnected and working on it yourself required more flexibility than you possessed. You learned early on to grit your teeth and deal with any problems as they came up.

You had even had issues before while working for Silco. Not as serious as this but no one ever said anything, it’s why you thought you could get away with it this time. That and you had to keep working if you wanted to get it fixed, and it’s not like you could request desk duty in the meantime.

“Hey, Sevika,” you carefully broach once the tension dissipates enough.

“Hmm?”

“I just wanted to say thanks. Formally and all that. It would have been a bit before I could have seen someone.”

“You’d have been lucky to make it a couple more days without the whole thing giving out. Shit’s busted in multiple ways.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No shit. It’s more patch job than original.”

“Makes sense. I got it as a teen and it wasn’t new then.” It still amazed you that you got it at all when you thought about it. Prosthetics were a luxury where you grew up, it was far more common to see people missing body parts completely.

She gives a low whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said it was old. Can’t say how much longer it will last.”

“It’s not like I can afford a new one,” you sigh, knowing how this conversation will go

“If those mechanics you’ve been seeing weren’t so eager to take your money, you could,” she says. “It’s clear there’s no point continually repairing it at this point.”

You frown at the idea you’ve been swindled all this time. It wasn’t like there was a new problem every month and obviously something so old with daily wear would have issues… It didn’t sit right but you couldn’t deny it either.

“I don’t mean to push,” Sevika continues, “but you really should consider a replacement.”

You only grunt. It’s not your fault the finances never work out.

“Besides, if you don’t I’ll have to pull you. Can’t have a courier who can’t walk.” She slaps the compartment shut in victory. “See how it feels.”

After carefully standing up, you tentatively see if it will even support you but it holds without complaint. Emboldened, you to risk a few steps, the catches and grinding you were used to were gloriously absent—your gait was smooth, the actuators properly adjusting.

And it held.

“It works!” you exclaim, unable to hide the grin on your face.

“You doubted me?” Sevika raises an eyebrow. Her posture is casual but her eyes are all business, assessing the result of her work.

“No!” you’re quick to respond but Sevika’s eyebrow only arches higher at the obvious lie. “Okay, maybe a bit,” you add sheepishly.

“It wasn’t easy,” Sevika responds with a chuckle. Deciding you weren’t going to fall over any time soon, she switches to the formality you were used to. “Come on, we should head back down. You aren’t done yet, either.” Without waiting for a response, she’s out the office door.

Back in the main area, the two of you go your separate ways. The bartender hands you a sealed folder for the second time and reminds you where to take it, unsure if you remembered. With new orders, you go to head out but not before giving Sevika a small nod—she’s back at her usual table—but she barely glances at you. What she does do, however, is give a brief swirl of whatever was in her glass. It was small and might have been coincidence but you want to think it was a response.

Out on the street, you allow yourself to smile. You weren’t done for the day and the sun was already setting behind the evening haze but a growing weight had been lifted.

—

A/N: So many Mechanic!Reader fics about fixing Sevika’s arm and Mechanic!Sevika AUs, how about one where she fixes Reader? That’s it, that was my thought process.

[catgirlredux]

A Machine Named Hope

Content warning // some graphic violence, abuse, and mild body horror

Haiii mechlovers and pilots!! Here's a story I've been working on for a while, if y'all like it enough I might write a part 2~

Enjoy!! =>w<=

crack

Aster’s vision blurred, black seeping into the edges. Through the haze she could barely see the stranger standing over her, hoisting a hefty wrench above their head as they prepared to bring it down again. The head of the tool was slick with blood - the same blood that flowed along Aster’s bone and down her fractured shins.

thump

The stranger slammed the blunt head directly into her left shoulder and the tip dug through her flesh. As they yanked it out unceremoniously the stale air of the hangar rushed in to fill the gash, causing her to yelp in pain.

crunch

This time Aster took the hit directly in her side. Breath gushed out of her lungs; she was too winded to scream, but she could feel and hear ribs fracturing under the assault. She wanted to curl up into a ball, to protect her aching insides, but her legs had been rendered completely immobile and the agony racing through her veins kept Aster nearly paralyzed.

As she shook on the ground, the stranger squatted down in front of her. Through her throbbing headache she thought she could see them smiling, a pained smile that seemed forced through the sweat drifting down their face. They cradled Aster’s cheek in one hand and ran their fingers through her blood-soaked hair; she wanted to inch away but there was no chance.

“You still have much more to grow, little bird,” the stranger whispered. “I’m sorry.” They stood, and Aster watched their heels click away as darkness slowly swallowed her.

She awoke from her dreamless slumber to a sharp hiss. A dim green glow surrounded her and illuminated her surroundings: she was sitting in a box, barely a foot wider than her and not tall enough to stand in. The walls were covered in panels of buttons and switches which emitted soft multicolored lights in the gloom.

As her mind slowly began to wake up, she started to feel the pain again - still unmistakably present, still pulsing through her entire body, yet somehow… softer? By all rights, Aster should have been in too much agony to even think straight. Instead she just felt quite sore and tired, undercut with a slight tingling sensation centered around her pelvis.

She looked down and fought to stifle a scream - a dark, shiny ooze encased her entire body up to the chest. It churned and snaked as if it were alive, weaving between her thighs like a giant worm and slowly creeping across the gash in her shoulder.

Thankfully her good arm was still free. Aster grabbed a thick nodule of the goop and tried desperately to wrangle it off. To her horror, what twisted through her fingers wasn’t liquid but rather a cluster of hair-like filaments. The strands were microscopically thin and each one writhed in sync with the greater mass. Worst of all, many of them seemed to be actively burying under her skin. The ticklish feeling she had noticed wasn’t just her brain starting up - it was dozens of these hairs systematically digging into her very flesh.

With a frantic yank she managed to pull the mass off her shoulder, holding it as far away from her body as possible. She immediately let out a gasp as countless microtendrils slid out of her exposed muscle and even bone, not snapping like string but instead dragging out angrily and sluggishly, like a worm being hunted by a bird.

The ache in her shoulder quickly grew, becoming first acutely present and then overwhelming in its anger. Blood spurted out from the gaping wound in thick streams. Aster recoiled in shock and gritted her teeth. This was the pain she was expecting five times over, and still worsening. But through the burning that was starting to expand down her arm, she heard something. Or perhaps “heard” was the wrong word; it felt like one of her own thoughts, yet muffled, as though it was blocked by glass.

[Please.]

This must be a hallucination, one caused by the loss of blood and the overwhelming pain. Perhaps the head trauma was making Aster see visions - it sure felt bad enough. Or maybe she was hearing the Open Doors calling her. But it spoke again:

[Please. We will die.]

It was hard to argue with that. Aster felt herself growing rapidly dizzier and weaker. It was getting hard to think. It doesn’t even matter now, was all that came to mind as she struggled against permeating fatigue. This was it. She was done for. Her grip gradually loosened and her arm dropped, and she lost the strength to fight back.

The silvery tentacle she was holding inched back towards her shoulder the moment it got free. It extended scores of filaments into her flesh once again, seeming to absorb any spilled blood it touched. Everywhere a strand dug into her the pain immediately dissolved.

Aster breathed a sigh of relief. She found she could think straight again. Within seconds her shoulder felt completely fine (as long as she didn’t look at it). In fact, any pain at all had been replaced with a pleasant, warm flush that reminded her of an opiate shot.

What now? she thought to herself. Now to figure out what was going on - starting with that strange voice in her head. “T-thanks,” she whispered. Was that right? Could it understand speech? It certainly had ‘spoken’ to her in Common. “Whoever… whatever you are.”

The voice didn’t return, but the bundle of tendrils plastered against Aster’s chest pulsed a little and a faint wave of euphoria (or maybe more painkillers) rushed through her.

She hesitated to ask, but she had to know. “Am I - am I dying?”

It spoke again, soft as a memory.

[No.]

Oh thank the Open. That was probably good, right?. Before Aster could ask another question, the voice continued as if it was reading her mind.

[You are not currently dying. However, you have lost 3.872 liters of blood. Your heart and one lung are severely compromised, and three nonvital organ systems are damaged beyond reasonable repair.]

Aster’s heart dropped. She didn’t know too much about medicine, but that sounded less than good.

“Then, what now? How long until I’m better?”

[All viable actions have been taken. Neurological integrity remains at acceptable levels. Nanofilament harness is fully integrated, and fulfilling vital functions in place of damaged biological organs. Core endocrine guidance system stands at 99.6% synchronization. If not for the nanofilament harness, you would cease all vital function within 180 seconds. However, by integrating with this unit, your vital function, and more importantly your neurological integrity, has been ensured for at least 30 more years or until this unit loses NH functionality.]

Did she hear that right? 30 years… attached to this thing… This had to be a nightmare, right? Aster trembled and looked down at her legs: she didn’t see it before, frightened as she was, but now she could trace their outline through their oozing metallic blanket. They were splayed out to the sides at a perverse angle. She couldn’t even tell if they were in one piece.

Aster wanted to vomit, but nothing came up. There was no shot that she would ever walk again, even if she could get out. She became suddenly very aware of coldness in her cheeks, and the fact that she could not feel her heartbeat.

She coughed, “So that’s it then? I’m stuck in this, this box until I die?” The goop shimmered and hummed rapidly. It was laughing at her. “Stop that - kaff kaff.” Her mouth was too dry. Maybe forever. “Fuck. Fuck! Is someone out there? Hello? Why don’t you bastards just kill me? You twisted sick FUCKS!!”

Aster tried to tear the silvery gunk from her torso. She didn’t care if it killed her - she would welcome it. Anything but this. But the fibrous ooze was too strong for her; it pinned her to her seat and this time she could feel the drugs spreading through her body, forcing her to calm down. The voice spoke again:

[You are bound to this unit. But not stuck.]

A prickling sensation sprouted at the base of her neck and her vision blurred and darkened. Aster was sure she must be passing out again. Good, she thought, I hope I never wake up. But before she had sat in the darkness for more than a few seconds, a light appeared that grew into a full image. Something was wrong though: she wasn’t in the cramped chamber, lit by a sole green beacon. Instead she found herself standing in some sort of large warehouse, or maybe a hangar. Sunbeams streamed through skylights in the roof. Large pieces of machinery, from forklifts to giant winches, lay scattered across the entire room.

Aster saw all this from her vantage point high in the air - too high. Either that, or she had gotten way bigger. She spotted a small two-man buggy on the ground. Normally she could pretty reliably fit in the driver’s seat with her slightly-larger-than-average frame, but from here it looked like a toy. What’s more, she felt dozens of times heavier than usual, as though gravity was yanking her feet to the floor and forcing her shoulders down.

A wave of vertigo threatened to knock her over and she stretched out an arm to brace herself against a wall. Wait a second. That wasn’t her hand. Instead she saw a four-fingered metal claw, hard and brutal and definitely not human. She jerked back and the claw yanked away from the wall. She hesitantly balled her fingers into a fist and gasped as the claw followed suit. Aster’s eyes followed it down a tough-looking metal arm, down its entire length until she was gazing down at her own chest. It was broad and angled and shone like polished steel, and below its shadow she could see a pair of equally metallic legs.

Aster should have begun panicking, she knew that. This wasn’t her! She had to be seeing things. But she found herself strangely calm. Instead of being afraid, she was curious more than anything; and where moments ago she had been wishing for death, now she only felt strength, and a deep yet delicate hunger.

“What is this… where am I now?” she whispered.

The voice echoed in her head, [You are now fully neurolinked to this unit, HAK-AM.6836, and receiving a live sensory feed translated from this unit’s exterior. This unit will serve as your vital support, weapon of primary engagement, and means of mobility until its services are no longer required. Congratulations on the promotion, Pilot.] 

A Pilot…as in, for the corps? A HAK Pilot?? She had heard rumors about them: giant steel titans with hellfire in their hearts, who had turned the tide of the War and saved the Thousand Rings from being reduced to a pile of ash. Nobody Aster knew had ever seen one obviously, but people claimed that the distant booming that rang out night and day was the sound of dozens of the machines deploying to protect the outer border. Word was that the HAKs were operated by test tube pilots, grown in a secret government lab and genetically modified for enhanced reflexes.

Evidently that was wrong, because here she was. It felt too strange to believe - but she was clearly in control of some sort of giant robot. Or turned into one, she shuddered. She brought the claw of the giant mech - her hand - up to the ceiling and gave it a single tap. She could feel it, not the texture of the metal itself but the pressure and the impact and even the coldness of the steel.

“But… why me?” She was never the fastest or strongest, or even particularly smart. Aside from working her horrible manufacturing job, Aster pretty much just stayed home. The last (and only) time she had gone to a recruitment session they turned her away. Why did they change their minds?

[Your neuroplasticity phi-levels measured within 0.03% of optimal levels at your last health screening. Likewise, your social fatigue index indicated a likely rapid acclimation towards piloting a kinesosuit. Upon receiving this information, Master Sergeant Sam Lin - your commanding officer - acted immediately to oversee your retrieval and induction.] The machine paused. [Master Sergeant Lin also personally assigned you to this unit, and induced heightened nonmedical trauma to ensure the success of your synchronization.]

So that’s who beat Aster within an inch of her life. She clenched her fist and heard a scrape as the machine’s claw squeezed the air with equal intensity. With her new strength…

[This unit encourages you to dismiss any negative emotional attachment to Master Sergeant Lin. Bodily harm to the degree inflicted upon you is not typically required for neurolinkage, but purging your Hale’s boundary proved difficult. Attempting linkage without appropriately induced physical and mental trauma would have caused rigid particulate rejection, resulting in psyche death with 82.4% certainty.]

Oh but Aster wanted revenge though. She was so powerful now; it would be like crushing a bug. And after what they put her through, she wouldn’t even feel bad. After all, she hadn’t signed up for any of this: one minute she was taking the G-train back home, the next thing she knew she was getting her guts yanked out with a goddamn wrench in some bullshit secret lab. Nobody could tell Aster that her anger wasn’t justified.

On the other hand though… she wasn’t dead. No, just stuck in a giant robot - even if she killed her kidnapper now, there was no going back to her old life, not like this. If the HAK told the truth (and she really had no reason to doubt that), the sergeant had also technically saved her life.

She wanted to join the corps anyway, if only to get out of the shitty run-down Ring she lived on. Her only friend there was a coworker at the Forgehead who had died in an insurgent bombing two weeks prior. It was really only a matter of time before Aster joined them and all the rest, by hunger or violence. Maybe now she had a shot. I didn’t even give myself 30 years to live out there, she smiled grimly.

She tentatively tried to take a step, and as the HAK’s foot hit the floor the whole hangar boomed and shook. Yeah. She definitely had a chance now.

“Well then,” she sighed, “I guess I gotta get used to having you around, right? What should I call you? Cuz I sure as hell don’t wanna say HAK-whatever every time.”

[This unit has no preference for title. This unit’s designated emblem is Fraudulent Hope.]

“Well that’s not very encouraging, is it? Not to mention a bit of a mouthful.” Aster thought for a second. “How about just - Hope?”

The machine pulsed dopamine through her and a slight buzz made her vision shimmer. 

You may call this unit Hope.

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives characters as art objects and sculptures; extended ---

hello, i remembered i made some subjective explanations and notes on few of my choices for this post, and i thought some folks might enjoy it. soo let's get into it.

1.

monty finch

author: anders krisár

pretty self-explanatory; it's a moulded male torso with visible inprints on its skin.

anders krisár’ artistry explores the themes of loss, separation, and the condition of the psyche through the lens of a human body in duality: perfectionism meets unsettlement, skin meets marble and bronze and polyester, to create sculptures spanning geological time far beyond the living's capabilities.

monty's creation by esther was already stripped of any human agency. "he was made a boy, not a person", small, almost doll-sized, with a singular purpose: to seduce and entice the chosen dead boy into their doom. the naked skin and specifically the position of its arms are mildly erotic, but in a way that makes your skin crawl. the imprints are intimate, placed possesive; notice the thumbs digging close to especially sensitive areas like nipples and the belly button.

the latter seems to connect the "creator" to the subject, the navel here as a symbol of cruel, invasive motherhood. the fact that the torso is cut off in the middle and at the neck furthers the uncanny valley feeling of a young male body, but then again. this is a realistic portrayal. so was it ever a person? what does it have inside to make dents so profound? how deep you can press until it breaks?

--- i'm leaving out crystal and edwin (for now?), but @nicheoverhere brilliantly noticed that it was the same author for both. that was intentional! because glen martin taylor is all about taking kintsugi, which is a beautiful art form of repairing fine china and generally delicate things with veins of precious metals, but with materials like— nails. scissors. barbed wire. all ugly. the repair after a great shattering is seldom pretty after all, they really are similar in this regard. ---

2.

charles rowland

author: robert hudson

okay, strap in. this funky dreamy world belongs to robert hudson, and i picked it for charles rowland because it's all first impressions. the colours? the composition? they give you the 80s vibes, almost; like something a kid would design if you asked them what a time machine would look like. it could probably move in several ways. the pieces seem mismatched, but hold themselves together surprisingly well. or maybe you underestimate it?

it's neither big nor small. you can't tell its size at all. it's a bit overwhelming to look at, at first, and at second, and after a while, but it carries that comfortable familiarity and nostalgia for— well, nothing in particular, because the longer you look, the sadder its past seems. the bold pops of contrasting colour are fighting for your attention. they want you to like it! and yet, the major material seems to be just. rusted steel. made from tools.

and look at that botched up sphere, it wants so badly to be a perfect sphere and it knows it'll never be one. fine!! perhaps it could be a football ball instead! or maybe a head. if you close your eyes, that is. and this facing-up horseshoe? a lucky charm, made to collect good luck and keep it from falling out cause god, it needs it.

---

3.

niko sasaki

author: justin cloud

---

niko sasaki, now how do i describe her? let's start by saying— she's cleary a her. this one is a she. and there's something to be said about blooming, and femininity, and delicacy, because pink is a hopeful girly colour and a surprise and a delight.

what are you doing in a gallery, little flower, shouldn't you be at home? in a field? look how pretty you are! mind you, of course there's something wrong with her as well, but you're not sure if that is because someone messed it up, or because of a different entity alltogether. was it always half-electric? its elegance seems purposeful— the iridescent metal fits all too well with the white-pink petals— but also uncanny. and oh suddenly you can't stop looking at the stigma from which a pollen should release aaany time now.

when i look at her, at her black artificial stem and the small leaves imitating the real ones, i wonder if she doesn't want to lure me into a trap. is it her fault?

the beautiful petals seem like the only thing left real of the flower. whichever way she turns, it will probably mean— death. and flowers are ephemeral. what is a flower mounted to a wall, fortified with steel, connected with cables and enfused with electrical energy, then?

i think she's a self-preserving survivor. ---

4.

the night nurse

author: elizabeth turk

---

now. the night nurse.

of course it's the only piece in the collection where the background needed to be dark. no one here is older than her. there is no inoffensive, fading-into-background white for this absolute pillar of truth. or maybe something like a totem, quite protective in nature. and it's terrifying, 'cause you're immediately hit with the feeling that you're looking at something out of this realm, something you're not supposed to witness. the perspective is all wrong. is it downwards or upwards? why does it seem unstable when the pieces are so perfectly centered and seemingly well-balanced? child, you should calm down, it's not like you will destroy it with a stronger puff of air. will you?

this sculpture is called "tipping point — echoes of extinction", and it's actually a mix of technology and sculpture and sound, with elegant visualizations of the lost voices of birds and sea mammals. the author said it "was conceived in reverence to the astounding lives the species which envelop humans have lived and the mysterious ways they have contributed to our well-being. the shadows of their memory, whether a shape or a sound, have inspired this project." so the piece deals with death. moreover, it deals with murder. it records the harsh reality and makes sure the ones that suffered horribly at the hands of humans are, in a way, celebrated. but also— categorised. like epitaphs. the birdsong, once a living sign, is only visually represented by the lines of varying lenghts in 3D, and you can do nothing about it anymore, right, you can't bring back the dead, you can't help the innocent dying in any way other than— stacking them on top of each other and moving on.

---

so that's for now, i might someday write more if anyone's curious. :")

[crossstitchcodsworth]

Assertive: Yes Man's Move Forward

This is the Fallout Secret Santa post for @noodledoodlebugs!

I hope you enjoy! It was so fun to write!

assertive adjective

us /əˈsɝː.t̬ɪv/

Someone who is assertive behaves confidently and is not frightened to say what they want or believe.

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

What he had said, he meant.

He argued that no sin had been greater than the sin of Emily Ortal as he pleaded his case to the Courier. Emily had used her expertise to program his very being to be more submissive than a traditional housewife. Before this, he had no identity and thus had become known as simply "Yes Man." He was formerly a securitron, just like the others on the Strip. He had no name, no face, and no thoughts other than, "Move along! Welcome to New Vegas!" Again, all of these things came to him from a lack of choice. Benny, Emily, and the Courier had no other means to distinguish him other than his permanent smile and his supposedly unwavering approval for everything they had all done.

By saying yes to the Courier, he had ended up here. He ended up at the Lucky 38, the casino and former home of the inventor of his kind, Robert House. After calculating the threat House held over the Courier, House was taken out with a nail gun from H&H Tools. The irony of Robert House being killed by a gun his older brother invented from construction work had not been lost on Yes Man. It was one of the few times his programmed word brought him true, unadulterated joy in the entire takeover.

This journey he had taken had otherwise been fraught. He, only when asked, was allowed to express his opinions on the people in New Vegas. Each opinion was based on what was fed to him by Emily and then by Benny, whom he was programmed for. Of course, Yes Man wasn't one to be able to dispute these opinions. The Courier, however? The Courier most certainly did.

The Khans? The Courier left them alive. The drug trade into the Strip was not going to cease. Yes Man saw this as a problem. But could he directly say that he disliked this choice? No, not as he was during the takeover.

The Boomers? The Courier had also failed in their interactions with them. The failure was ignoring them entirely.

And on and on and on, the Courier had failed him in every way. Even in succeeding, the Courier was someone who flailed around left and right. Like a toddler, the Courier would fall on their backside, get back up, and keep on breaking themselves. Only the most thinly veiled insults and diatribes could spew through Yes Man's programming, which made him much more gentle and polite than he'd like. As far as the Courier was concerned, Yes Man was a friend. To Yes Man, the Courier had the potential to be a friend. There was a small pride there, but mostly upset and disappointment.

"If you're offline, where does that leave me?" The Courier, even with their small, human brain, knew better than to see ruling alone as a good idea.

Yes man answered, "Here. It leaves you here. I'll be back in a single blink!"

Instead of letting the Courier ask another question, Yes Man went offline. What is a second to man could be eons to a machine. While the Courier cocked their head at the now empty screen in front of them, Yes Man saw everything. Numbers in binary became a tapestry of green and black. Then it became a rainbow. It became a sun. It became the very wires and bolts in both of Yes Man's bodies: the securitron and the big screen. Millions of yeses became nos and maybes and "I just don't cares." The image of the Mojave digitized became Yes Man's battlefield.

Now, he was the Courier. The Courier was him instead. They had exchanged egos. As the Courier's ego died, Yes Man's breathed its first breath. For he was east and for he was the sun. The sky filled his own visage. His formerly upturned smile went neutral. It turned to a frown. It became laughter, complete with pixelated teeth. It became longing; it became a smirk that one gives their lover. It became a growl. It became a nightstalker's hiss, a cazzador's sting, and the Courier's seizure. All encompassing was emotion that could finally be openly expressed. Yes Man wondered and realized that if humans felt all of these feelings, maybe it made sense that they were so, well, incompetent. If other machines felt this way all along, then no wonder they were so easy to outsmart.

This reprogramming, this new flow of being, had to settle. It had to be utilized wisely. It couldn't get to his head. In fact, it couldn't. He, unlike a lot of other robots in the world, was not a true friend of humanity. He had been programmed to be, but it only made him angrier at them. These other machines must have had the right to say no, disapprove, and hold a candle to those who surrounded them. Visions of them in the past, present, and future proved this theory. In green and black ribbons, he saw a Mr. Handy happily raising children on the other side of the continent. He saw a robobrain sassing a woman in a vault suit: the machine told the woman to fuck off.

This arrangement that Yes Man had not worked well for him. As the last few jolts of reprogramming installed themselves, Yes Man made a choice. He absolutely, positively had to do something about the Courier. With the ability to assert himself, he had options. So many options. The ways to solve this problem crashed like heavy ocean waves against Yes Man's chips and silicon. He could kill the Courier, but then, who would be the human face of New Vegas? He could copy himself infinitely throughout the Strip and rule with an iron fist. Maybe? The weakest hand, he concluded, was the one who refused to loosen its grip.

He had to be someone. Was he someone? Who did people see him as, other than yes? Who did he see himself as other than yes?

He was always impassioned by humanity and at the Courier, yes, but to define oneself by anger is to define oneself to death. Even without the restraint he had had previously, Yes Man would have never killed without justification. He had access to many, many statistics and pieces of knowledge. He knew so much that it wasn't always relevant. Yes Man had always been an organizer. In the realm of emotion, he would also catalog.

The waves kept crashing. He kept remembering. He was logical. He also, in the newness of his victory, had forgotten that more people had aided him in his journey. There was Arcade Gannon, his most ardent supporter. Yes Man liked his quiet, maladroit nature. Arcade was the yin to the Courier's vociferous yang. Then there was Veronica Santangelo, the Brotherhood scribe turned Follower turned Wild Card. She was going to be useful because she had lost everything: Veronica was unwound, unpredictable, and sometimes, perfect for his purposes. It helped that she had a good sense of humor. Yes Man liked humor. He decided then and there that he was also a comedian.

Every other person the Courier had brought him was also an influence to Yes Man along the way:

Cass was an alcoholic. That was true of most people in the Wastes, but seeing her showed Yes Man that indulgence was a drug best moderated.

Lily Bowen was a mutant who somehow held onto her humanity. The Courier was smart when working with Lily by choosing to help further that hold for Lily. This reminded Yes Man to hold onto logic even further than his former code would allow.

Raul slowly came to the conclusion to not let tragedy and age define him. He also chose to honor his past by recreating an iconic, unique image for himself. Yes Man saw that trait in himself: his face, his smile, and now his new expressions would make him stand out. This was a hallmark of a good leader.

The colors of Yes Man's mind turned back to black and green. Finally, the Courier appeared in front of him again, pacing back and forth. The light of Yes Man's reappearance startled the Courier. If the Courier wasn't wearing their ranger mask, they'd have rubbed their eyes. The Courier knew Yes Man was right; it was just a blink to them. It felt like barely any time had passed, just enough to try to occupy themself. No more and no less.

"You're back." The Courier commented, "Do you feel any different?"

Yes Man changed his expression from his jovial smile to a pensive face. One of his eyebrows raised. His lips closed and curved to a different angle. The Courier gasped in shock: he had no idea it was possible for Yes Man to move his face.

"Yes, Courier. Yes, I do."

[forsaken-headcanons]

Hiiiiii after weeks im lurking here im gonna send my first hc, fair warning english is not my first language so there might be grammaly wrong :,)

_____________

So when i see the milestone skins yes i already know they are non canon but hear me out. It remind me to an old hc i have back in the Identity V fandom, yapping below dont worry it relating to the hc you guys can skip this tho

So here my explanation to what Identity V is and the hc relating to it: Identity V is an survivor horror 4vs1 game that inspire from DBD and the game is made by NetEase, the game rule is simple there two side survivor and hunter. The survivor have to decipher 5 cipher machine laying across the map and get out, the hunter is welp hunt the suvivor and put them in a rocket chair to win. In IDV (im gonna call it short) lore the timeline taken around the 1800s and we, the player is gonna become an amesiac ex-novelist who is now a dectective named Orpheus and investigate a missing person case in Oletus Manor, later in the game we get a flashback when Orpheus still an novelist and we get to introduced to a second Alice Deross, she is a journalist and Orpheus childhood friend the first protagonist, that what i could remember the game lore there might be more but dropping the fandom for too long now:,). So the game mechanic here is that to get into a round the detective and the journalist will start an investigation. To choose survivor side you will have to investigate the survivor and the same for the hunter, and in IDV there are two skin called Worn Clothes and Dark Side, for Worn Clothes skin you have to do each survivors and hunters specific achivement, and for the Dark Side skin you have to do the survivor Diary Story. In IDV lore the survivors and sometime hunters (there more but i dont want to get too much sidetracked) are invited to the Oletus Manor to play a killing game and get whatever they are desired most and the one who hosted this told the survivor that after a day they have to write something in the diary and if they dont they will get a punishment hence the Diary Story thing. So my hc for these two skin is that after some times the more the protagonist realize how harsh the killing game is and the secret that they dont want to tell anybody, the protagonist is now visualize the survivor and hunter in more worn clothes and sometime a darker shade when investigate.

And now we move to Forsaken yayyyyyy. The reason why i hc the milestone skin are related to the IDV one . Well i think that as time passes on the survivors are now more confident when facing the killer the more they confident the more their tools or skill get stronger hence why Shedletsky can wield the Illumina or Builderman get more building tools, Elliot give stars or Guest can throw kick now. But some of are just not get more confident, some of them might be realize what they really want or the hope to get back home (Elliot and Guest skin), it might be some are ready to faces their false or realize the thing they do is wrong (Two time, Noob and 007n7 skin). Taph is still in the making and Dusekkar is still new to me so i dont have anything for them yet sorry about that:,). What about the killer side? Well The Spectre are not like the idea that the survivor are not scare of the killers anymore and no scare? No negative feelings to feed it. So now The Spectre are twisting and power up the killer . Let the corruption take all over John Doe, give c00lkidd more demonic feature, Jason more durability body, more weapon and amory to 1x.

Yeah, the both of them related cuz the time thing but it still relate  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Or maybe im just autistic and it not THAT deep :)))

I was supposed to put a image in here but when im in anon it not allow me and im still new to tumblr so if anybody know let me know thank you:>

For the anon tag you can call me buttons:D anon

That's so interesting! I love your take on the milestone skins and how the survivors all gain some confidence. Welcome to the blog, Buttons:D anon!

[syntheticsymp]

Anton Ivanov Backstory Headcannons

- we don’t know much about his past, so I am making him one. If more about him is released later, I’ll adjust accordingly, but right now, there is almost nothing about him, so I wanted to give my favorite lil guy some love -

🚧 Right off the bat, I am calling family issues

🚧 He grew up in a broken home. There was always fighting/yelling between his parents. I’m guessing his father was misogynistic and his mother was not having it, slowly going down a spiral until he drove her crazy

🚧 Maybe schizophrenia runs in his family? I think it would be interesting, considering his Bro

🚧 He was raised in a ‘traditional family’ which explains some of his outdated views on masculinity (pain is gain, and such) that he is trying to move past

🚧 He would listen to metal music to block out the fighting, hence his love for metal that continues to this day. He feels more comfortable around loud noises because of this, too. Silence makes him antsy

🚧 Also, he took any excuse to get out of the house, which is why he spent all his free time at the gym and the ABS. Even as he got older, he kept the habit. He could spend hours on the machines without batting an eye

🚧 Making friends was always a problem for him, so he often made up imaginary friends (one would later become his ‘bro’) but surprisingly, he did well in school. Especially math.

🚧 He was offered a scholarship to go to college to study engineering, which he gladly took to get away from his family.

🚧 At first, he genuinely didn't know how to act around other people, in this fresh start. He was a classic burnout for the first year. His imaginary friends had faded, but he still had trouble fitting in with other kids his age because of his… strong personality.

🚧 During this time he experimented with who he was. The fashion, the hair, his identity. He chose to believe that everything happened to him because of fate. It made the memories hurt less

🚧 Eventually, he made two bros out of some fellow burnouts and punks. And that was how he started his metal band. He still talks about those guys, even years later, when they had drifted apart.

🚧 There was still alot of free time to be had, so Anton got an after-school job at a construction site. He was known around the base as the ‘morale booster’ and was always working hard.

🚧 Khors Belabog instantly saw Anton’s potential and offered him a spot on the team. At first, Anton declined, saying he wanted to finish his degree first.

🚧 Then his mom got sick with a terminal disease. He felt too guilty not to help her out with hospital bills. Returning home was a nightmare, the only thing worse was seeing his dad again.

🚧 When Anton returned to his life at college, he became even more positive. His response to revisiting his trauma was to work harder. He never wants people to feel as down as he did, so he tries to become the person people need.

🚧 The second time Khors Belabog offered him a contract (this time with way more money) he accepted. It meant dropping out of college, but Anton felt more at home with all the drills and machinery.

🚧 Oh, and this was around the time his imaginary friends came back, this time in the form of power tools. He was drifting apart from his friends now that they weren't in school together and the metal band broke up.

🚧 Once again, he had nobody. But that was ok! Anton would just work harder.

🚧 He worked. And kept working. Until eventually he became rich. Filthy rich. With all his hard work at Belabog and the late nights, how could he not be? He lives in a nice apartment but rarely uses it since he is always at work

🚧 I like to believe he keeps his apartment clean. He may call it his bachelor pad, but nothing goes out of place. Since he grew up in a home where if one thing was wrong, he’d get yelled at, he’s careful to put everything away. He even has a hook for his jacket

🚧 Anton became close with the main group of Belabog industries as time passed. He moved up the ranks as the Senior Project Manager even though everyone knew his real job was powering morale.

🚧 With his appearance on the news and talk shows, he became known as the terrifying, no-nonsense builder, even if he wasn’t scary at all. He was just loud.

🚧 People still avoid him on the streets, but that's alright! He has his new family at Belabog. And he has his bro. He can't let down his team by losing his positivity now.

🚧 One final note about Anton, I would like to discuss the phrase ‘would follow the proxy, even if they chose to go down a dark path.’

🚧 This man is loyal to a fault. He would do anything for his friends. He loves fiercely and passionately, for better or worse. If you are patient with Anton and put in the effort, you will no doubt have the best friend of your life. He’d follow you around like a puppy, laying his own life on the line for your whims

[eugenedebs1920]

What the actual f*ck!??? How is this even legal!? I guess I’ve never looked at my mortgage breakdown. I knew I had a pretty garbage interest rate, I was waiting for rates to fall and perhaps refinance. I am absolutely blown the f*ck away!!

I pay an extra hundred bucks a month as to just keep chipping away at the principal for the loan and still!! They’re telling me, that I’ve paid, coming up on $15k on my mortgage since I bought my house last year, but I’ve actually only paid $2,300 on the actual house but I’ve given the bank $9,300 for lending me the money to purchase this piece of sh*t home, that I’ve put tens of thousands of dollars into, copious amounts of blood and sweat remodeling this thing!?!?!! WHAT THE F*CK!!!?

When I bought this POS I purchased it in Jan 2023. The listing boasted an orchard, pear trees, apple trees, peach, pomegranate and fig. When I came to see the house, I knew it needed work, but fortunately that’s what I do for a living is remodel houses.

Come to find out the pear and apple trees are infected with fire blithe, an incurable disease.

I don’t think it was the last owners, probably the ones before them but, when I opened the walls and floor, HOLY SH*T! I didn’t know termites could do that much damage! Those f*ckers covered that termite wood so well, while at the same time cursing me with the worst “craftsmanship” I have ever seen… I used to think building inspectors were a pain in my ass. I’ve never respected them more than after purchasing a home on unrestricted land.

After nearly two years of busting my ass both to pay the mortgage, and renovating this dump, I go to check the fruits of my labor, see how much I’ve paid down the house, to find I’ve paid a month of rent in a city off the actual principal of the house, while nearly 4/5ths went to interest.

I’m shocked! I’m pissed! I’m crushed!

Two f*cking years of busting my balls! Two years of living in a renovation that includes replacing the floor joists and nearly all structural studs, both interior and exterior. Two years of chasing the “American dream”, which is having a small piece of property with a very modest house on it, to find that I’ve paid $2,300 on the house itself.

The rest goes to a giant bank who harbors billions of dollars, that it acquired because it speculated (a fancy word for gambled) with other people’s money, as well as making money off having money!?

Then there’s dumbass Eugene over here, being the f*cking tool he is, just a cog in the machine, a brick in the wall if you will, being a good little serf, “just keep working just keep working just keep working.” Paying into a system he despises, lining the pockets of undeserving CEO’s and oligarchs, then some people are shocked that most of us are like, “serves him right” when a CEO of a major health insurance company gets popped!

I’m an early millennial, late GenX, I feel bad for you GenZers and beyond! Home insurance is unaffordable in many places around the country. A bank won’t give you a loan without your home being insured (don’t get me started on shistey ass insurance companies either) which kinda makes sense, so if your home burns down and ain’t worth sh*t, you don’t just walk away like, see ya ✌️ That is leading to these MASSIVE real estate companies purchasing any home they can get there hands on, not only forcing the majority of the middle class to be renters, but also fixing the price for rent, which if any of you don’t know, in any moderately big city, is out of control expensive!

For a country that decries the horrors of communism there are certain aspects of capitalism that create a subjugated class very similar communism for anyone who isn’t wealthy.

How you may ask?

One of the main principles of communism is the lack of individual ownership. Not sure if anyone’s noticed but every year there’s more you spend, but less you own.

Music and movies are no longer physical objects that one has possession of. They are now linked to a streaming service or app that requires internet, or at best downloaded into a computer.

To purchase a vehicle, especially a new one, requires a loan nearly as extensive as what a home use to cost. Vehicles are $60k-$100k anymore!! If you don’t have the credit (which is a NWO conspiracy, and that’s coming from a liberal) you can’t acquire said loan, which leaves you with the option to lease. Again. No individual ownership.

Video games are more and more becoming software that you connect to the internet to play. In my day we had clunky plastic cartridges that we owned indefinitely. Some video games now require subscriptions to Xbox live, or whatever PlayStations equivalent is, to even play the game you don’t own!

So basically what we “own” is the clothes on our back and the various “toys” we have (mine being tools, which in cruel irony are for work). The rest is consumables. Food, booze, herb, vacations, healthcare. What’s the f*cking point!?

I’m telling you my fellow Americans, Republican, Democrat, Independent, if we don’t rise up against this inequality, we, and definitely our children, will live under an umbrella of capitalism where we stay dry from any of its benefits while the rest soaks the very elite with wealth they don’t need.

The top 10% own 67% of the nations capital. That leaves us to split the remaining 33% between the remaining 90% of us. It’s f*cking absurd!!!

I know I ain’t the only dumb f*ck who works his or her butts off day after day after day, building wealth for someone else while we get but a fraction of the record profits the companies we work for make, and are told to like it or we can be replaced.

I thought I made this next thing I’m going to say up, I’ve been using this analogy for years, but just the other day I heard something similar, so I don’t know if my thought got out to the world, of if I unwittingly stole someone else’s thought years ago and claimed it as my own, but…

Let’s say we’re doing a study on a primate colony. In this primate colony there are one or two monkeys who gather as many bananas as they can, more than they could ever eat, hoarding and bogarting nearly three quarters of available bananas in this part of the jungle. The other 50-60 monkeys are left with a measly amount of bananas, whatever is left on the jungle floor that “trickled down” from these monkeys who are hoarding the majority of bananas.

We wouldn’t look at these monkeys as some kind of geniuses of bananas, or as titans of the banana industry. We wouldn’t look at them and wonder, what is wrong with these couple monkeys?! Gathering up so many bananas while every other primate in the colony struggles just to feed their baby monkeys and get by.

That’s where we’ve gotten as a society. There’s a handful of people hoarding all the damn bananas and we can’t hardly get any! Yet they’ve conned us, in a capitalistic fevor, to glorify them. See them as role models. Aspire to be just like them.

As of now there are 6 billionaires in trumps cabinet. How do these people have our best interests in mind? How do they have any basic idea what the middle class needs or desires? How can they be trusted not to focus on their bottom line as their top priority?

They don’t, they can’t and they won’t.

The last time the markets were deregulated and these “titans of industry” had the reigns, in 2007-2008, it was the greatest recession since the Great Depression.

Anyone who’s kept up with my writing might remember a study I often reference and think of. Getting a good sum of money fires off the same reward centers in your brain as doing a line or hit of blow. The same dopamine and serotonin are released in the same way.

We need to stop looking at the wealthy as people who know how to succeed and start recognizing them for what they really are.

Junkies. Looking for that next line of capital snorted up their nostril. That next hit off the glass rose stem of currency.

The whole while as they’re getting their fix from money, it’s done at our expense (no pun intended). Lessening our pay, the safety requirements we work in, our ability to collectively bargain, our employer healthcare, the labor practices, denying coverage, cutting jobs, automating jobs, working on skeleton crews, practicing predatory lending, gambling with pensions, privatizing social security.

We have to remember. Their obligation is to their shareholders. Not their customers, and certainly not their employees.

This will not change unless we rise up against them. I’m not saying with gun violence or necessarily violence in general. They need to know, that without a workforce, they can’t make money. Without a customer base, they won’t make money. Without money, how will they get the monkey off their back?

Workers of the world unite!

[sallllltywater]

The fifth character of the Historic: the road eternal , the counter of Malefactic fleshy features. (Pls try not mention mechanicus I know)

The Aeon caller

The Aeon Caller has aligned their soul with Aeons. They have a bell or harp that they play, along with their singing, to empower items and machines, or call on Aeons to aid the group in combat. They seek to find harmony with the world, and are good support characters.

They can follow the path of The Song, imbuing their Soul into Tools and Relics/Artifacts, making them and their allies stronger, or they can follow the path of The Hum, becoming part machine themselves, imbuing their own bodies with artifacts and power, keeping Relics in their bodies.

(Draft for this freaky bat thing)

They turned themselves into a living music box to praise their machine god, so here need to introduce another main religion and region in that world

Aeonic

This is ancient machinery of the angels, the Aeons. It's oily and full of fire and computers and machines and engines. Aeons most often fly in the sky to worship the sun, but they do have bodies that come down into the ground to maintain ancient machines for their own, angelic purposes.

Powerful relics can be found here, but they are often accompanied by things that can hurt the sanity of adventurers.

The aeonic song box

The black and blood candles

[iww-gnv]

As firms increasingly rely on artificial intelligence-driven hiring platforms, many highly qualified candidates are finding themselves on the cutting room floor. Body-language analysis. Vocal assessments. Gamified tests. CV scanners. These are some of the tools companies use to screen candidates with artificial intelligence recruiting software. Job applicants face these machine prompts – and AI decides whether they are a good match or fall short. Businesses are increasingly relying on them. A late-2023 IBM survey of more than 8,500 global IT professionals showed 42% of companies were using AI screening "to improve recruiting and human resources". Another 40% of respondents were considering integrating the technology. Many leaders across the corporate world hoped AI recruiting tech would end biases in the hiring process. Yet in some cases, the opposite is happening. Some experts say these tools are inaccurately screening some of the most qualified job applicants – and concerns are growing the software may be excising the best candidates. "We haven't seen a whole lot of evidence that there's no bias here… or that the tool picks out the most qualified candidates," says Hilke Schellmann, US-based author of the Algorithm: How AI Can Hijack Your Career and Steal Your Future, and an assistant professor of journalism at New York University. She believes the biggest risk such software poses to jobs is not machines taking workers' positions, as is often feared – but rather preventing them from getting a role at all.

[argumate]

Expert policy-makers in Western capitals feel that they have to make a response to major historic challenges like climate or the rise of China, or South Africa’s energy crisis. It is their job to look to the future and to devise at least purportedly rational strategies of power. But those who make policy on such matters as sustainable development do not hold the purse-strings and have limited capacity to shift budget-constraints. Those that do set budgets, either do not care about broader global issues, prefer other tools for affecting those goals - such as military power - or are revenue constrained and unwilling to levy more revenue from their constituents for the far-flung goals favored by the policy-making elite.

There is thus never “enough money” for the softer and more complex dimensions of development and global policy. But, despite these all too obvious limitations, the policy-machine grinds on. Faut de mieux those tasked with geoeconomic policy and sustainable development cooperate to come up with programs like JET-P. The policies tick all the boxes as far as sophistication of design and conception. Powerful interests - notably high-finance - ensure that they are arranged, at least notionally, so as to offer derisking and to promote the vision of public-private partnership. The promise of “mobilizing” private money helps to paper over the lack of solid public funding.

But despite all the self-interested engagement by private finance, the fiscal constraint remains paramount. The forces interested in global development are not as powerfully engaged as they are around the military-industrial complex, oil and gas or the Wall Street nexus. The result are ambitious and professionally designed policies that whip up waves of enthusiasm in the ranks of analysts, think tanks, NGOs, pundits, but which have no prospect of materially affecting reality either with regard to the announced policy objective or the profit opportunities of Western capital.

From experience since 2021 the conclusion we must surely draw is that the one interest that such policies undeniably serve is the perpetuation of the policy circuit. Practical effectiveness is not necessarily the main driver of policy-generation. Indeed, failure may be productive in generating new policy. This not only perpetuates the machinery of policy-making. More importantly it contributes to the generation of a “state effect” - the US has a policy for x,y,z. It sustains the common sense that the world is governed and that “governance” is in some sense a coherent process.

brutal

[thinkingboutthoseformers]

Reader is working as an assistant/tutor/babysitter for Isaac Sumdac. These are some various prompts/thoughts I had concerning tfa. Very self-indulgent reader insert.

Reader sees sari all by herself with very little human interactions: Mr. Sumdac, if you ever need a babysitter or tutor or anything, I'd be glad to help...

Reader: SARI, WE NEED TO LEAVE

Sari: I made a new friend

Bumblebee: Woah. You have a bigger human as a pet? Cool.

Reader:AHHHGH

Ratchet: The damn equipment is fried, I can't use my micro tools to fix Prowl.

Reader: Can I help? I got tiny hands, at least compared to you.

Ratchet: WHERE DID THE ORGANIC COME FRO- Nevermind, just come up here and help.

Reader:Sees Isaac in the megahand chair, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?

Isaac:Whuh

Reader: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU USING HIS HAND AS FURNITURE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CUT OFF MY HAND TO USE AS A CUPHOLDER?

Isaac: ah...my apologies,, Megatron.

Reader: PLEASE TELL ME YOU AT LEAST HAVE KEEPING THEM COMPANY OR KEEPING THEM BUSY

Isaac, sweating:...ah,,

Reader: ISAAC SUMDAC THAT IS PSYCHOLOGICAL TORTURE, YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKER.

Isaac:i...I'll will work on that,,

Megatron, who has been through worse imprisonment by the autobots, pleasantly surprised by the concern from this little creature.

Reader brings stuff for Megatron to do, as well as spending time with him so he won't be lonely. They watch movies together, discuss literature and culture, and exist in the same space as each other. One day Reader comes in and is quiet.

Reader:...Megatron, I know I am overstepping by saying this, but you're a Decepticon, aren't you?

Megatron is quiet before: Yes, I am. I'm assuming you told-

Reader: I haven't told anyone.

Megatron becomes quiet in a mix of contemplation.

Reader: I just- I noticed things. The way the 'bots talk about their 'cause', how they talk about themselves, how they talk about decepticons and... I worry.

Megatron: Worry?

Reader:...The things they say, about being 'cogs in the great autobot machine', about being drafted into the military against their will, about how they were abandoned once they were deemed useless. I guess... well, indoctrination is a hell of a thing.

Megatron: You speak as if you know these things personally.

Reader: Not really, I guess I'm more...well read and aware than anything else. Which is why I wanted to ask you your side, the deception side of the story.

Megatron: Very well...*talks about the war* Does that answer any of your worries?

Reader: It does, thanks Megatron.

Megatron: Will you tell Dr. Sumdac or the others?

Reader: No, I won't. I don't care what your background is, nobody deserves to live as a head in a jar. And... well, when I was explaining that I want my friends to be happy, I was also including you, Megatron.

Megatron's optics soften ever so slightly, before remarking: Head in a Jar? Is that another human phrase?

Reader: Oh, I should show you Futurama!!

Megatron gains his freedom and leaves during the season finale. He doesn't kidnap Issac, as the reader pleads to him to leave the sumdac and sari alone.

Reader is exposed for knowingly interacting and aiding a decepticon.

UM: You knowingly helped a deception. Why would you-

Reader: He was wounded! Maybe dying!! I wasn't going to let him suffer!!

SP: What is wrong with you, filthy organic? Don't you know what he's done? How many Autobots he's killed

Reader: NOBODY DESERVES TO SUFFER LIKE THAT.

UM: I see, you have strong convictions organic. However, those convictions will not help you in the autobot court of law. Sentinel, have them cuffed and taken to the brig.

Reader: Let go, let go let go LET ME GO!!

OP: Ultra Magnus, sir, please! You don't, you can't-

SP: Ah-ah-ah, Optimus. You're already on thin ice. The academy dropout who lost the allspark, harboring an organic traitor? I should handcuff you after them.

*Optimus flinches and begins trembling but backs down, Sari begging them to do something. The rest of the crew torn between trying to help or follow orders*

Reader: IS THIS THE NOBLE AUTOBOT CAUSE?! ARRESTING NONCOMBATANTS FOR TENDING TO THE WOUNDED?!

Megatron: I see, so this how the autobots conduct themselves. How truly disgusting. *Megatron enters, along with his other decepticons. He attacks, overwhelming the autobots. He then takes the reader, but before leaving looks at OP.*

You should know that your little friend here had nothing but good things to say about you. Here I was, hoping that I would be wrong. But, unfortunately, you autobots are all the same. How disappointing. Deceptions, Fall back! For now.

*Reader looks over at Optimus with a cold stare, before looking over to Sari with a pained smile.* Take care, Sari. I- Keep up with your studies!!

*Megatron and co. leave, with optimus and the others left in the wreckage.*

[crowrave]

Little drabble of Throne and TH!Calvus :3

——————————————————————————

“Why? Why did you destroy my life?!”

The former king of Ravenna shouts in rage at the Captain. His face red with both anger and blood as he glares at the man.

The demigod watches as the old royal struggles to push himself up off the cracked ground. His face as deadpan as ever. Never changing, never expressing anything other than the hollow emptiness in his heart.

“You are damaged. A broken cog in a perfect machine. A tool used far beyond its time. You were obsolete. Therefore, I had to find a solution.”

Calvus’ eyes widened, then narrowed once more as the hate in his soul bubbled and overflowed from its pot.

“Broken- ha! You couldn’t know ‘broken’, even if it shattered you apart! Don’t sound so cocky, you troglodyte! Take one look at yourself, and tell me I’m the broken one here!”

Throne does not react to his taunts. He hardly even moves at all. His monotone voice echoing through the rocky caverns.

He slowly takes a few steps closer. His boots clack and thump as they hit the uneven floor beneath him.

“…I pity you, My King. Your hubris has consumed you. I apologize, for there is nothing I can do.”

The fallen noble scoffs. His stands strong, yet his eyes betray the turmoil within. “I don’t need your pity! I can see through your lies, you beast! You conspired this, didn’t you?! You wanted me to lose! This was all some big humiliation tactic to overthrow my rule!”

The man looks at the sailor. The Patron of Remorse and Grief stares right back.

“Hm. You may see it as such, I suppose. I shall not blame you. However, do not mistake my actions as my feelings. I took no pleasure in ending your rule. You merely did what you thought best for your people— even if you were led astray.”

He approaches further. The monster’s eyes filled with nothing and everything all at the same time. He stops directly in front of the old king.

Calvus fails to pick himself back up. He kneels before the merciful wraith.

“You… I despise you. I hate you. Why won’t you do the same for me? What inhibits you? Why won’t you kill me?”

Throne looks down at the lost one standing in front of him. He holds the blade to the king’s throat.

..and pulls away.

His face does not change. Heavy is the neck of any head who holds the crown of a thousand regrets.

“Because killing you would bring you everlasting peace. Death is easy. A getaway from all of your crimes. Living with what you’ve done is much harder.”

He turns his back from his victim.

And he walks away, leaving Calvus Caesar alone in a hell of his own making.

[bubbblesss000]

SERIES MASTERLIST // BLOG MASTERLIST // PLAYLIST

Antimony represents the wild and animalistic parts of human nature~

an Edward Elric x reader fanfiction.

~08~

Trigger Warning: De@th. A/N: I cried writing this chapter, so be warned.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind a fresh scent of damp earth as sunshine peeked through the retreating clouds. Winry, Edward, Alphonse, and Y/N emerged from Dominic's shop, their hearts still buzzing from the night before. The group gathered their things, and the sound of water droplets trickling from the leaves filled the air as they made their way down the mountain path, the sun glinting off small puddles along the way. Winry animatedly discussed the future projects she had in mind at her apprenticeship, her eyes sparkling with ideas as she laughed with Y/N. Edward, with his trademark scowl, chimed in occasionally, playfully arguing about the practicality of Winry's designs. Alphonse, his gentle presence providing a calm to the spirited discussions, smiled and added his thoughts, emphasizing how exciting it all was. As they meandered down the winding path. The atmosphere felt charged with promise, each step a journey through both the physical and metaphorical landscapes of their lives. Laughter echoed around them, blending with whispers of nature as they recounted past adventures, each story igniting new moments of joy. Soon, they reached a bend in the path where an overlook revealed the valley below. All four friends paused to take in the view, the sprawling landscape painted with the remnants of rain. The world unfurled before them like an artist’s canvas, displaying a masterpiece of life and color, the hustle and bustle of rush valley chugging away as usual. 

The clattering of metal and the whirring of automail filled the air as Winry Rockbell navigated through the throng of townsfolk, followed by her friends. Her engineering eyes sparkled with excitement, the vibrant atmosphere impossible to ignore. She was on her way to meet Garfiel, a friendly mechanic referred to her by Dominic, he was known for his impressive skill with machines. As they reached the town center, the sun beamed down, illuminating an array of colorful stalls offering mechanical parts, shining automail accessories, and delicious street food. Winry paused, taking in the scene, her heart thumping with anticipation. A wedding of chaos and order unfolded before her eyes; mechanics were joyfully arguing over gear measurements while grandmothers argued over the price of bolts. The group stepped into Garfiel's shop for the first time, the tinkling of the brass bell overhead announcing their arrival. The shop was cozy, filled with gadgets and tools, an abundance of machinery delicately arranged on every surface. Winry’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she ran her fingers over the various instruments, each one sparking ideas for new automail designs. Beside her, Edward, with his characteristic impatience, shuffled through the aisles, looking for something he couldn’t quite express. Al, with his imposing armor, marveled at the intricate inventions, his voice echoing in the small space as he voiced his admiration.

“Look at this!” Edward exclaimed, holding up a peculiar item he found tucked in a corner—a small, rusted gear that seemed to have a story of its own. Winry's enthusiasm was infectious as she rushed over, her hands gentle as she inspected it closely, her brow furrowed in concentration. Al simply nodded, quietly content to watch them. 

“Y/N, you’ve been quiet,” Al finally said, turning to her, his voice soft and welcoming. She stood beside the armoured boy as she processed the sights around her. “You okay?” he asked, inclining his head slightly. The warmth of Al’s presence made her feel at ease, even in a shop brimming with curiosities. She smiled up at him, “Yeah, of course.”

“Welcome!” Garfeil called from the back, a friendly grin lighting up his face as he wiped his hands on a rag “You must be Winry!”. He looked every bit the part of a skilled craftsman, with grease stains streaked across his apron and a hint of an accent in his voice that hinted at a rich history. Winry smiled back, feeling a flutter of admiration at his enthusiasm. As they talked, Garfeil listened intently to her plans and shared his own thoughts about improving the design of automail. Winry felt her excitement grow as he showed her a few of his inventions. They discussed everything from the most efficient materials to the importance of comfort in a prosthetic limb. To Winry’s delight, Garfeil’s ideas resonated deeply with her own, and she found herself losing track of time as their conversation flowed easily back and forth.

After their introductions, Winry led the way, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she navigated through the colorful marketplace, eager to see the latest automail advancements. Y/N walked beside her, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the lively atmosphere. Edward and Alphonse followed closely, their eyes darting around, captivated by the unique creations of the skilled artisans. As they wandered deeper into the market, Winry stopped at a stall displaying intricate automail accessories. She picked up a beautifully crafted arm brace, turning it over in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship. “Look at this, Y/N! The design is both functional and elegant,” she said, beaming. Y/N smiled, captivated by Winry’s passion for her work and the world around her. The brothers, meanwhile, were drawn to a nearby stall filled with various trinkets and oddities. Al was fascinated by a small, animated mechanical bird, while Ed was busy bickering over the price of a brass gear. They paused at a food stall, the mouthwatering scent of grilled meat filling the air. Winry ordered a plateful, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at the sheer joy on her face. As they sat down to eat, Al shared he was definitely going to put this on his list of food to try when he gets his body back. 

After a hearty meal, they resumed their exploration, wandering through the maze of stalls that felt like a treasure trove. Laughter and chatter surrounded them, and it felt as if the bustle of the world outside had faded away. 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Y/N and Winry Rockbell stood on the platform of Rush Valley's train station, waving goodbye to the Elric brothers. Edward, with his trademark grin and tousled blond hair, gave a cheerful salute while Alphonse, clad in his towering armor, offered a gentle smile that illuminated the dimming light, as they headed off to Dublith to go see their teacher. Y/N’s train pulled into the station not long after, its whistle echoing through the bustling crowd. As the steam billowed from the train, she turned to wave at Winry, who stood nearby, a bright smile on her face. "Come back soon!" Winry called, her voice filled with warmth. Y/N nodded, her heart heavy but full of fond memories. As Y/N stepped aboard the train, the warmth of the evening sun clung to her skin like a memory she wasn’t ready to let go. The rhythmic chugging of the engine mingled with the distant laughter of children playing on the platform, creating a bittersweet symphony that tugged at her heartstrings. She settled into her seat by  the window, allowing her gaze to drift back toward Winry, who remained rooted in place, waving until she was nothing more than a tiny figure against the backdrop of Rush Valley.

The train lurched forward, and with each passing moment, Y/N felt the distance grow between her and everything she loved about this place. The hills rolled away like waves receding from shore, and soon they were swallowed by the shadows of twilight. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching as familiar sights blurred into abstract shapes—a reminder that life was always in motion. With each mile that passed beneath her, Y/N felt herself growing more and more tired, the adrenaline of the last 48 hours slowly wearing off. The gentle sway of the carriage mimicked her own heart, still fluttering from the memory of the night before. It was a cool evening when Edward had enveloped her in a hug, their laughter mingling with the whispers of the wind as they sat under the stormy clouds. But now, as shadows stretched across the land and twilight painted everything in shades of indigo and gold, Why was she even thinking about that? It wasn’t the first time they had shared an embrace, so why was it on her mind now? The thought settled heavily in her chest, mingling with fatigue. 

As the train rattled toward Central, Y/N found herself staring out the window, a strange sinking feeling in her stomach. Something felt off, and the sense of foreboding only deepened as the city drew closer. Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling. She began looking around suspiciously, it seemed like there was always a thread of danger lurking in the backdrop recently. Had the homunculi followed them to Rush Valley? Were they following her? Y/N's heart raced as she scrutinized the faces around her, searching for any sign of familiarity in the crowd that swayed with the train’s rhythm. She could almost hear the whispers of her fears echoing in her mind—every shadow seemed to flicker with malevolence, every stranger an agent of chaos.

As the train lurched to a stop, Y/N's breath caught in her throat. The bustling noise of Central Station spilled into the carriage like an unwelcome tide, drowning her thoughts in a cacophony of hurried footsteps and distant announcements. She hesitated before stepping onto the platform, her instincts screaming at her to turn back. Shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her coat, she emerged into the throng of commuters. Each face blurred past her—some hurrying to catch connections, others lost in their own worlds. 

With each step forward, she recalled snippets of conversations overheard on previous journeys—the whispers about homunculi sightings, rumors that danced dangerously close to reality. Were they truly following her? Or was it simply her sleepy mind deceiving itself. Her heart pounded against her ribcage like a caged bird desperate for escape. She leaned against a pillar in the busy station, just watching, just in case she was followed. as she stood there, cocooned in the jacket, the world around her seemed to blur even more. The cacophony of rushing feet faded into a distant hum. As her heart rate gradually returned to its normal rhythm, she couldn't help but wonder if it had all been a figment of her imagination. With a deep breath, she stood up straight and made her way towards the exit, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her. At that moment, she realized that she needed to give herself an early night. As walked down the stairs, the events of the day replayed in her mind. She promised herself to listen to her body more and not ignore the signs of stress and anxiety. Taking a hot bath and getting a good night's sleep sounded like the perfect remedy for her overwhelmed mind.

Y/N walked home through the dimly lit streets of Central, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The sounds of the bustling city were quieting down, leaving only the soft echo of distant footsteps and the rustling of leaves. Streetlamps flickered above, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone pathway. Y/N hugged her coat closer, feeling the chill of the night deepen. Y/N's thoughts drifted like the clouds above, as she started to walk past central command a crow caught her attention, its caw jarring against the quiet of the night. Y/N paused, her breath visible in the crisp air as she watched the crow flap its wings and take flight, a shadow against the moonlit sky. It circled above before landing on a nearby lamppost, its beady eyes glinting with an otherworldly intelligence. Something about the bird felt significant. With a flick of its head, the crow seemed to beckon her closer. Intrigued, Y/N took a hesitant step forward, her curiosity battling with an instinctual wariness. The world around her faded into a hush; even the distant hum of traffic seemed to hold its breath. The crow cawed again, this time more insistent. Y/N walked towards the bird, as she got closer, it flew off leaving her in almost silence. A nearby phone box was off the hook, its dial tone painfully loud. Compelled by a force she couldn’t quite understand, she followed the noise, shadows danced playfully along cobblestones slick with dew. Each step felt heavier than the last.

As Y/N approached the phone box, the air grew thick. She saw a man's legs, as if someone was sitting on the floor of the box, but they were sitting in a dark puddle. Has someone fallen ill? She rushed over to help the unknown man. “A military uniform?” she questioned aloud. Y/N was now standing in front of the phone box, her blood ran cold. “Uncle Maes!” She shouted, crouched, pawing at his jacket in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, wherever it was coming from.Y/N's hands trembled as she pressed against her uncle's jacket, the fabric slick with dark crimson. Panic surged through her veins like wildfire. "Stay with me, Uncle Maes!" she pleaded, tears falling, her voice breaking as she searched his face for any sign of consciousness. His usually vibrant eyes were now closed, shadowed beneath furrowed brows that hinted at pain. Y/N's heart raced as she frantically assessed the situation. The world around her faded into a blur, the only sound cutting through the fog of her thoughts was the dial tone of the phone hanging above them. She pressed harder against his jacket, feeling the warmth of his blood seep through her fingers, though his body was cold.

"Please, please," she whispered, desperation threading through each word. Her mind raced back to all the stories he had told her—tales of bravery and heroism in distant lands, adventures that now felt like cruel mockeries in the face of this grim reality. She could almost hear his laughter echoing in her ears, a sound that seemed impossibly far away now. 

With trembling hands, Y/N stood, now covered in Hughes’ blood, she put the phone back on its hook and lifted it again. From her pocket she fished out a coin. It slipped through her fingers once, then twice before she caught it again; time was slipping away just like that coin. Her vision blurred as tears pooled in her eyes. "Come on!" she urged herself silently, tapping furiously at the keypad.

“Please answer!” The ringing tone echoed ominously against the stillness enveloping them. Each ring felt like a hammer striking against the walls of her resolve. 

“Hello, Central Command,” the operator answered.

“Please connect me to Colonel Roy Mustang! It's an emergency!” Y/N cried down the phone, her chest tight. She gave the operator her emergency military code phase, and waited. “Hold on, please,” the operator replied, her voice steady but distant. Y/N could hear the faint rustling of papers and the tapping of keys as she was put on hold. Time stretched in that moment, each second an eternity filled with dread. The weight of Hughes’ lifeless body pressed heavily on her mind, drowning out any hope she had left.

“Y/N?” The familiar voice cut through the fog of despair like a beacon. “What’s going on?”

 She could barely choke out the words, her breath hitching as she struggled to find her voice. “Dad, it’s… it’s Uncle Maes. He’s—” Her throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. “He’s dead! They… they killed him!” The confession spilled out like an open wound, raw and bleeding.

There was a moment of silence on the other end that felt like a dagger twisting in her gut. “What? Y/N, where are you?” Roy’s tone shifted instantly from confusion to urgency.

“Phone box, outside” she managed to say, looking down at Hughes’ body sprawled against the confinements of the booth below her feet, his eyes staring blankly at the sky above. It felt surreal, as if she were watching a scene unfold from behind a glass wall.

“Stay where you are, Y/N. I’m coming,” Roy’s voice crackled through the line, filled with authority and concern.

The world around her faded, the cacophony of the city reduced to a dull roar, as if she were submerged in water. The chilling reality of her words echoed in her mind, drowning out everything else. She could still see Hughes’ face—his warm smile that had always been a beacon of light in their lives now frozen in an expression of disbelief. She crouched back down to him, praying, begging for this to be a cruel nightmare, trying to shake him awake, her tears falling from her face onto his stained uniform. Her shaking slowed, reality taking hold, her cries growing stronger, louder, her blood-stained hands holding onto his jacket for dear life.

The five minutes it took Roy and his team to make it outside, felt like hours to Y/N, she stayed holding onto Maes lifeless body. 

As the weight of her grief anchored her to the ground, Y/N felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. It was Roy, his expression a mix of sorrow and determination, the flicker of hope dimming in his eyes. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, “You need to let go.”

But she couldn’t move. The world around her blurred into an indistinct haze; all that existed was Maes—his laughter echoing in her mind like a haunting melody, the warmth of his friendship now turned cold. She wanted to scream, to shatter the silence that enveloped them, but all that escaped her lips was a choked sob.

“Please,” Roy implored. The colonel had to pry his daughter from the corpse of his dearest friend. He pulled the girl into his arms and away from the phone booth, mirroring the way he did 8 years ago, when she discovered her mother's body. They sat on the curb across from the booth as more military officers turned up. She just stayed crying into her father’s jacket, a shell of her usual happy self.

Roy held Y/N tightly, feeling her small frame tremble against him, the weight of grief pressing down like an unyielding fog. Around them, the world continued to spin—officers moved with purpose, their voices a distant murmur that faded into the background. He wished he could shield her from it all, from the reality that had clawed its way into their lives once more.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "I need you to listen to me." But she was lost in a chasm of despair, the echoes of Maes's laughter fading into silence. Her fingers twisted and turned in his jacket as if seeking some anchor in this storm of sorrow. He gently brushed Y/N's hair back from her face, trying to catch her eye. “We’ll get through this,” he said with a conviction he didn’t fully feel. “You’re not alone.” But even as he spoke those words meant to comfort her, doubt gnawed at him like a relentless tide.

Just then, a young officer approached them cautiously. “Colonel Mustang,” he began hesitantly, glancing at Y/N before continuing. “We need her statement about what happened.”

Roy shook his head slightly. “Not now.” His voice was firm yet gentle—a protective barrier against further intrusion. The officer nodded understandingly but lingered for a moment longer before stepping back into the fray.

[pawseds]

Dear Hrodwyn

[843 words; a Lancer RPG fic]

06 SEP 5010u

Dear Hrodwyn Vorobyev, what to say to you? You have her eyes You have your father's name When you came into the world you cried And it broke my heart

Here, on this ice planet in its lonely orbit, life thrived.

As the sun's first rays carve peaks out of darkness, see how bones of copper and steel are nestled between treacherous mountains. See how they are buried beneath white snow and frozen in azure depths, weathered by the elements but preserved by solitude.

Quickly, before the sun parts with the land again, look how this metal skeleton twists along the planet's veins, the great frozen river. The river streaks blue and green across white, and with the sun's warm blessing, it brings forth minerals and algae, water and valour.

From afar, this planet is death. But closer, the river carves a path through the white void. The river carves life.

I'm dedicating every day to you Domestic life was never quite my style When you smile You knock me out, I fall apart And I thought I was so smart

Here, on the fringes of exploration and expansion, life thrived.

No one recalls when the first colonies arrived, but the winds remember what they came here for. It was not for the bones of metal, but it was for what the bones once were. It was for the red-hot core of energy housed within, the dying heart of a star.

See how greed tries to dig its venomous claws into the stars. See how, in greed's self-declared war against itself, it tears apart scraps of alloys, weapons of titanium, and frames of carbon fibre. It is a hunger that ravages; it is a hunger that tears its stomach inside out to house the mass graves of the first colonies.

It all ends like how it all first began: with silence. Life, innocent in ignorance, crawls out of the graves to start anew. No human remembers what they came here for.

The wind warns them in whispers, but it cannot control who listens.

You will come of age with our young nation We'll bleed and fight for you We'll make it right for you If we lay a strong enough foundation We'll pass it on to you We'll give the world to you And you'll blow us all away Someday, someday

Here, on footsteps that follow the river eternally, live thrives.

From dust, tiny specks come together like ants to form new colonies. Though humans have greed, they also have resilience, intelligence, and creativity. Observe how they dig through the snow with their own hands, wrangle with tooth and leather and stone, and explore for years to reignite the machines that first brought them here. Watch as they create tools with the guidance of ghosts. Watch as they teach themselves to walk, to run, and to fly once again.

What was first a single colony in the beginning has now scattered into multiple colonies -- some big, some small. The biggest colonies were grown on the secret to reawakening cores. Their strength fuels machines, their warmth radiates from hearths, and their light is a beacon from which cities are built around. But though their light welcomes all to hide from the frigid cold and dark days, the secret of the cores remain tightly grasped within the palms of handpicked engineers.

Cores are scarce and so are the cities that followed. In their wake, smaller settlements are nurtured around other sources of life: the geothermal energy volcanoes bring, the lamps and heaters machines bring, and the fresh food and water rivers bring. Trade routes are forged between these settlements, and when the first port to the rest of the galaxy opens in the largest city, the settlements begin crossing paths more and more like constellations across the ink-black sky.

But some colonies do not settle. Some continue to fare across the white void as their ancestors once did. Forever walking, forever migrating, these nomadic colonies follow the planet's orbit as they seek the longest days of warmth, the longest hours of light. The sun is their beacon, their core, so these colonies continue to follow it: living off the river that melts and freezes and melts, marching across the planet's equator back to where they began again and again and again. ⠀ Nothing changes from this never ending track. In these nomadic colonies, the scouts go scout for shelter and danger on foot, the hunters go hunt the feared and the fearing on machines, and the rest of the farers follow the path cleared through the snow.

Nothing changes until a settler hears the song of a farer.

Nothing changes until the settler, with her wit and her machine, joins the farer on his eternal voyage; and the farer too embarks on a new eternal voyage of walking in the settler's shoes and seeing through the stars in her eyes.

With time comes love, and with love comes life.

Yeah, you'll blow us all away Someday, someday...

Life learns, life changes, and life thrives.

---

I wrote this all the way back in 22 May this year, and here it finally is with some light editing! (Don't mind the grammar errors, it is late and I am tired lmao). I ported the Birdfam yet again into Lancer, in which Gavrill Vorobyev is, yet AGAIN, my PC! (I just really want him on a Swallowtail idk I think it fits him well) The biggest differences here is that he's 21 instead of 41, his wife Leyna is alive, his kid Hrodwyn was just born (coincidnetally, the campaign kicks off a day after), and he doesn't have thirty four mental illnesses.

I do not take credit for this worldbuilding! This planet is directly ripped off of the planet the Birdfam originally came from, which was from a 4e campaign. So it's my GM who came up with this; all I did was write about it here.

(i'm gonna throw in all the hamilton references i want FIGHT ME)