#Test-Terminal-Blocks

[artbyblastweave]

Draft a proposal to fix the x-men.

To the extent that the X-Men need to be fixed, the problem, more than probably any other superhero, is that they never fucking end; they can't end. Every civil rights movement they've ever been pegged as a metaphor for has made some kind of forward progress over the decades, but the people who can fly are somehow stuck on a treadmill. We're on the sixth or seventh "mutants on the brink of extinction" scenario; McKay just did, what, the fourth instance of Xavier Fucking Off Forever, For Real This Time, Pinkie Promise? Even if it was objectively incredibly well written it can't claw its way out from under the weight of the fact that it's all been done. And it'll be done again. Making it a single, finite story that fucking ends, or at least advances the fucking setting, is all that actually needs to happen. X-Men: Evolution but it runs for five seasons and gets to tie everything up. Claremont took a stab at this with X-Men: The End, although I haven't read it and can't attest to its quality one way or another. And, of course, Ultimate Marvel made them a finite property in its own roundabout, widely despised way.

Option two, (really option 1.5 since these aren't mutually exclusive) is to make the story an explicit period piece, ideally either in the 1960s or the 1980s. The 1980s would allow you to tap into and play with the zeitgeist that produced the version of the team that people actually give a shit about (which, come to think of it, is what X-Men 97 is already doing;) it's also the point at which the Marvel timeline really started to terminally arrest into comic-book time; the ANAD lineup have been around for fifty years but they're still the New Guys, to me. Positioning the X-Men as the comparative New Kids on the Block compared to the old guard of the Avengers, Fantastic Four and so on lets you pin the disparity in their public treatment of mutant and non-mutant heroes as the result of the increased saliency of mutants from the mid-70s onward. Claremont's run was already deliberately plugged into the politics of the back half of the cold war in a lot of different ways; Magneto as an aging concentration-camp survivor turned mutant Zionist, Storm having been orphaned by French Bombers during the Suez crisis, evil televangelists as antagonists, a whole mess of stuff with a lot of historical specificity.

If not the 1980s, my other pick would be to set the thing in the 60s. Mutants are fundamentally a product of the atomic age, fleetingly and hand-wavingly identified as the delayed byproduct of the testing and use of nuclear weaponry, but 60s X-Men really weren't engaging with the politics of any of that; or really any kind of complicated politics at all; it wasn't a civil rights metaphor except retroactively. But in this pitch it could be more directly plugged into that political moment, ideally in tactful and non-stupid ways. There's tons of ways in which the non-metaphorical minorities at the heart of the civil rights movement bore the brunt of American nuclear testing and similar scientific misadventures; the idea that mutants were created by the same government now frantically trying to oppress the cat back into the bag is a pitch with a lot of legs. Ultimate Marvel understood this, although the idiom was filtered through the lens of genetic engineering is the new nuke, and nobody liked the punchline because Jeff Loeb delivered it in the trainwreck that was Ultimatum. Deniz Camp has implemented similar ideas to what I'm talking about here on the Hulk side of things, with the New Ultimate She-Hulk being the byproduct of illicit gamma bomb testing on Pacific Islanders. To cap this all off I've mentioned before that a 1960s retrofuturistic nuclear age X-Men would act as a great foil to a 1930s-situated first wave of heroes- Teenaged Rebels and Heartthrobs on the heels of the Greatest Generation. It could be made to rhyme.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 28 all chapters

⚠⚠Trigger warning: mention of past terminated pregnancy, NOT Reader. If details of this will bother you skip the section that starts with “One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows.” You can pick up again at “-He gives you run of the house.”  I’ll give you the brief gist of the plot point in the end notes.  Also mention of possible suicide, NOT Reader.

-As he prepares dinner you sit at the island, you are enjoying a glass of wine and watching him cook. His hands are like poetry, no matter the task at hand. He is slicing peppers, and offers you a piece from across the island. After your previous experience, you should be wary accepting any tidbit that color from this man, but in an act of trust you take it, your lips brushing the tips of his fingers.

It is sweet and crisp and juicy between your teeth, and you sigh to yourself.

This is what you could have had, all along.

Watching you with a small smile, he twirls the knife in his hand absently like it is an extension of his body.

You do not take it as a threat. He simply seems…content, and you wonder if you dare trust any of this at face value.

He goes back to cooking, and you watch him with your wine in hand. It is a tasty Cabernet from Chilé, and maybe you shouldn’t drink too much of it, but then again…what do you have to lose at this point?

Your eyes cast around the cavernous room while John bustles at the stove. The scene is so domestic you could cry, because you realize this is what you’d hoped to share with him before it all went to hell.

You cast your eyes down, to find the razor-sharp Japanese paring knife is now sitting in the middle of the island by the cutting board, easily within reach.

It's really the first mistake he's made in the keeping of you, since he let his guard down enough to let you whomp him with War and Peace.

You stare at it, thinking.

Is it an opportunity? What exactly would you do with it, that would achieve any sort of useful end? It hits you like a ton of bricks for some reason, when you realize that despite what he’s done to you, you have zero interest in hurting John.

You hadn’t even liked hitting him with a book.

The thought of stabbing him makes you physically ill.

Frowning at the thought, you cross your arms and sit back on the stool, glaring at the thing as though it had called you a filthy name.

Belatedly, you realize John is watching you from over at the stove.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was a test.

You transfer your glare to him as he approaches, picking up the tiny but potentially deadly blade.

He says nothing, just washes and dries it before replacing it in the knife block, not the locked drawer.

You guess you passed.

-Later, over dinner, he asks, “Why didn't you pick it up?” 

“Because the thought of hurting you makes me sick.”

He actually smirks at you. “That’s nice to hear.”

You’re not sure if he’s baiting you on purpose, but your temper starts to rise. So much for a quiet evening.

“That’s not how I’m going to get out of here,” you declare, feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Hearing this amuses him heartily.

“Yeah?”

“Someday, you're going to let me go, because you'll realize it's the right thing to do.” 

He leans his elbows on the table, fixing you with that dark stare that pins you in your seat. “I already told you, kitten, I'm never going to let you go.” He says it sweetly this time, but you sense he is still absolutely serious in his conviction.

-The week that follows is a series of halcyon days, filled with the affection and attention from Mr. Wick that you'd craved all along. Something has shifted in him, and you're still not sure exactly what, or how to make it stay.

 You cook meals together in the mornings and evenings. He teaches you things about haute cuisine and international dishes that you'd never had any inkling or access to. The things you make for dinner some nights you've only heard of on tv or in magazines. He's tasted these things in their original countries, and tells you what stories he can, that don't involve disclosing the details of multiple homicides committed for astronomical pay.

You know he must be showing off for you. A man with a waistline like that does not eat like this regularly. A small part of you dares to wonder, is he actually trying to woo you?

You fill your days with time in the studio, and with him.

The brightly colored Dolce and Gabbana sundresses you’d coveted in Italy mysteriously start appearing at the foot of the bed every day. Floral prints in pink and red, and bright majolica-inspired designs with yellow acanthus curls and blue accents, as well as the dreamy azure and white azulejo tile patterns. You marvel at what he spent, to lay these at your feet. You don’t even care that he’s picking out your outfits, dressing you like a feminine doll—because they make you happy. You even go so far as to wear them in your studio, not caring if you get a smudge of paint or pastel on the brightly printed fabric. What does it matter now?

What does anything matter?

-One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows. You discover he likes old children’s books best and he has dozens on his shelves. Something about missing out on a real childhood of his own, you reckon, and undoubtedly the artistry that went into them.

This is the day he tells you that he was almost a father himself once. That when he’d been a foolish young man (his words), he’d fallen in love with one of the ballerinas at the school for assassins where he’d been raised. When the inevitable this led to that with hormone-charged youths with no access to birth control, they planned to run away together.

He’d wanted nothing more at that time, but to just live a simple life with his little family. He just knew in his heart, that the baby would be a girl. He’d already named her, Irina, his little Irinushka. But the night they meant to leave they were intercepted by the other students, and separated by The Director of the school. Tatiana was forced to terminate her pregnancy, because a principal ballerina bearing baby weight was of no use to The Theater at all.

When finally they were allowed to see each other young fire-eyed Jardani wanted to try to leave again. He was willing to kill anyone who got in their way this time, brothers or not. But Tatiana was changed, a shadow of the girl he’d known, and she refused to go with him. She said it had all been a stupid mistake, and he heard the Director’s indoctrination echoing through his lover’s mouth. She began numbing her pain with pills, and wouldn’t stop, despite his pleading. She pushed him away, and a year later she died in a car crash during a mission running drugs across the city. John never knew if it had been an accident, or if she’d given up to the sorrow eating at her heart.

He tells you all this in quiet, almost impersonal tones as he weaves the kettle stitch binding on the book, as though it happened to someone else. The man he had been, you suppose, this Jardani Jovonovich. You imagine what he must have been like as a young man. You suspect he must have been heartbreakingly beautiful, and probably could have had women eating out of his palm and tucking their panties into his pocket at every turn.

Yet, all he’d really wanted was his little ballerina, and his baby Irinushka.

He did leave The Theater soon after, to become the notorious Baba Yaga, the infamous assassin John Wick who could kill three men with naught but a pencil. You listen to all this with horror and tears in your eyes, feeling as though your own heart has been run through a shredder, understanding even further exactly why this steadfast man finally cracked to pieces.

You doubt your own state of mind could have fared so well, for so long.

-He gives you run of the house, reasoning correctly that you won’t be able to get past the locks and bulletproof windows anyway. One day, when you cannot find him, you wander into the garage.  He is tinkering with his motorcycle, in a grease stained white t-shirt and ratty jeans that cross the wires in your brain a little. 

The sight of the machine fills your heart with what is perhaps an irrational amount of hope.

“Can we go for a ride?” you ask, thinking of that perfect day you once spent together. You have not been outside once since returning to Clear Forks, though you can tell from looking out the window that you've had a series of beautiful sunny days. They’re a thing not to be wasted in the mountains; fall will come quickly, and then winter before you can blink.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he sighs, actually sounding apologetic, wiping his hands on a rag.

You pout silently, but do not push the issue. You are learning to pick your battles. If you keep poking here and prodding there, someday, you will find a weakness to exploit. You must be patient.

When he is sweet to you, patience is not so difficult to come by. You know that is dangerous, but not quite what to do about it.   

The garage is a massive space, and you take the opportunity to look around. You should be scoping out possible tools for escape, but mostly...you're just curious. 

Is he succeeding in training you? You ask yourself this with what should be an alarming amount of detachment.

Looking past the Land Rover in the middle bay, you see something underneath a cover. Feeling emboldened by his mild mood that day, you walk over to peek underneath. 

The sight makes a quiet exclamation slip from your lips. 

“Is this the car?”

It is a matte gray Mustang with subtle black racing stripes. You don't know much about classic cars, but it looks fast as hell. 

“The car?”

You turn to find he is directly behind you. You didn't hear or sense him move at all. You wonder belatedly if maybe this is a sore spot you should have left well alone. 

“Um...never mind.”

“It's OK. You like classics?” 

“I...guess? It’s very pretty.”

He pulls off the cover, unveiling the machine in all its glory. “It’s a ’69 Boss 429. 375 horsepower, 450 pound-foot of torque.” 

You smile, having no inkling what that really means, but you can tell it makes him happy. 

“Can we take this for a ride?”

Luckily, he just chuckles at your transparency. 

“Maybe.” It would be harder for you to escape from a car, than from off the back of the bike, after all. He kisses your forehead, not replacing the cover, before going back to the bike. 

Somewhat heartened, you wander back up to your studio.

-On the third day, you start to dream about Helen.

It’s actually nothing new for you, communing with the dead through your dreams. You’ve never really thought it more than your own overactive imagination, visiting with your grandmother or your great uncles, even sometimes an old boyfriend who had since passed away. But this feels like something more, and frankly, it gives you the creeps.

At first, you are simply sitting together, an uncomfortable silence between the two of you. You can hardly blame her—you are fucking her husband, after all, if not entirely of your own choice.

But one night, she comes to you in a field of daisies. Extending one to you, she offers you a tired if not slight smile. There is a pleading in her caramel-colored eyes, and maybe regret too. She only says two words. “I’m sorry.” You wake with the haunted feeling that she knows she made him into this version of himself with the trauma of her loss, but she’s still passing the keeping of him on to you.

What does she want you to do? Save him? You start to cry quietly to yourself, because the dangerous man who was her husband is laying asleep behind you with his arms tight around you like you are his teddy bear, and you don’t know how.

.

.

Author’s note: The general gist of the TW section was that young John/Jardani and one of the ballerinas became pregnant and were going to run away from the Tarkovsky theatre. But they got caught and The Director wouldn’t allow it. She separated them, made Ballerina terminate the pregnancy, and Ballerina died the next year possibly of suicide.  Obviously, this left an impression on John.

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

“Dark Water”

Chapter Six: Shadows on the Balcony

The Bad Batch x Reader

Artificial jungle. Simulated heat. Humidity just this side of unbearable. Wind generators hissed softly in the corners of the chamber, fluttering camouflage netting over raised duracrete structures and pushing foliage like real air would.

This was one of the advanced sim environments — designed to test full squad cohesion, field communication, stealth, and objective retrieval under combat stress.

In the command observation deck above, a half-circle of instructors and squad leaders leaned over the rail or watched through datapads, your own arms crossed as the training scenario for Clone Force 99 loaded.

“Map variant Cresh-four,” announced the Kaminoan technician flatly. “Objective: recover target payload. Hostile AI resistance. Five active zones. Timer begins upon drop.”

You watched the four boys get into position at the sim pad. They didn’t speak.

Hunter tilted his head just slightly — listening.

He always did that.

“Still no squad leader assigned?” asked Mij Gilamar beside you.

“Officially? No,” you answered. “Unofficially? Hunter’s stepped into it more than once.”

Gilamar nodded, clearly observing the boy on the screen. “He reads the terrain like it’s talking to him.”

“That’s because it is,” murmured Kal Skirata from behind. “He’s a sensor net with legs.”

The sim lights blinked green. The clone cadets dropped into the terrain.

Crosshair broke left without speaking, vanishing into the trees with sniper rifle slung low. Wrecker stomped forward like a bulldozer, low and eager, muttering gleefully under his breath.

Tech paused at the first terminal node, already halfway through slicing the enemy defense grid. He didn’t ask. He just did it.

And Hunter… stood still for three full seconds.

He turned his head, nose twitching slightly, fingers flexing, then snapped out a short series of hand signals. No one saw them.

But they worked.

You frowned.

“They’re working in parallel,” you murmured. “But not as a team.”

“Each one’s exceptional,” said Vau. “But they’re four lines heading in different directions. The other squads are braids. These boys are wires — frayed ones.”

“Not wires,” Skirata muttered. “Knives.”

Wrecker crashed through a barricade, scattering enemy droids like toy blocks. One turned to fire and got flattened by a flying crate hurled by the laughing giant.

“Boom!” he howled. “Oh, I like this sim!”

Tech’s voice crackled through the static. “Wrecker, you’ve compromised the noise profile! They’ll triangulate your—”

“Already did,” came Crosshair’s bored voice over the comm. “Took the shot. Six hostiles. All down.”

“You could say thank you,” Tech muttered.

Hunter’s voice cut in. “Payload’s two clicks north. Wrecker, fall back. Crosshair, cover the ridge. Tech — get me surveillance on heat signatures near the extraction zone.”

“Copy,” Tech said, not even hesitating.

They moved like instinct.

But not like a unit.

Wrecker hit obstacles that wouldn’t exist if Tech had warned him. Crosshair was perfect on his own but didn’t relay updates. Hunter gave orders — good ones — but the others didn’t always acknowledge them. There was no feedback loop. No cohesion.

They won.

They retrieved the payload. Cleared hostiles. Exfiltrated under the time limit.

But it wasn’t pretty.

“Well,” Vau said, hands behind his back, “they’re efficient. I’ll give them that.”

“No,” Skirata countered. “They’re effective. Not the same thing.”

Your eyes stayed on the screen as Hunter was the last to exit the sim zone, checking the others before letting the simulation drop. His hand lingered near the wall, like he was still half in the trees.

“They rely too much on instinct,” you said. “No fallback plans. No squad formation. Hunter’s trying to keep it together, but… they don’t know how to be a team. Not yet.”

“You think they will?” Gilamar asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But if they do — if they ever do — none of our squads will be able to touch them.”

Skirata snorted. “That’s a big if.”

The boys had just left the sim chamber.

“Did we pass?” Tech asked, breath slightly fast. “Because the mission objective was completed, and Crosshair’s kill ratio was optimal—”

“You were late to exfil,” Crosshair muttered.

“Because I had to reroute the—”

“Because you talk too much,” Wrecker added with a grin, pulling his helmet off.

Hunter leaned against the wall, towel draped around his neck, silent.

You entered a moment later, arms folded.

“Briefing room. Ten minutes. We’re going to talk about the difference between winning and working together.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes.

Wrecker groaned. “Are there snacks?”

You looked at him. “If you work as a team next time? Maybe.”

Wrecker lit up. “Then I call first crack at the next droid squad.”

Hunter exhaled slowly.

Maybe — just maybe — they’d get there.

⸻

Kamino — Briefing Room D-17

White walls. Metal chairs. A flickering holo-display throwing blue shadows across the dull grey table.

The boys filed in, still in their simulation blacks, tracking mud across the floor that no one even pretended to care about. Wrecker was humming. Crosshair dropped into his seat like it owed him something. Tech didn’t sit — just stood by the console, inspecting the data readout you’d uploaded five minutes ago.

Hunter was last. Always was.

He leaned against the wall at the back, arms crossed, head bowed. Listening.

You waited until they were still. Or, close enough.

You dropped the holopad onto the table.

“Objective completed,” you said. “Target secured. Hostiles neutralized.”

Wrecker fist-pumped. “Boom! Told ya we nailed it.”

“But,” you said flatly, “team cohesion was… let’s say theoretical at best.”

Crosshair huffed.

Wrecker slouched in his chair. “What’s co-hee-shun mean again?”

“It means,” Tech said sharply, “that we operated as four vectors intersecting briefly under shared mission parameters without centralized communication.”

Wrecker blinked at you. “So we… did good?”

“Tech means you all acted like stray blaster bolts,” you said, dropping into the chair opposite. “You hit the target — but you nearly shot each other in the process.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Wrecker raised his hand.

You stared at it. “…What?”

“Permission to say something dumb.”

You sighed. “Granted.”

He grinned. “You looked really cool when you were yelling at Crosshair last time. Like—your vein was doing that thing again.”

You stared at him. Crosshair rolled his eyes. Tech pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hunter… almost smiled.

Almost.

You leaned forward. “Listen to me. You four are better than most squads your age. You’re better than a lot of commandos. But you are not a squad. Not yet.”

Hunter met your eyes. “We’re not them,” he said quietly. “We’re not like Delta. Or Omega. We don’t… slot in.”

“No one’s asking you to slot in,” you replied. “But if you want to survive what’s coming, you’d better learn how to lean on each other. Really lean.”

Wrecker frowned. “We do that. I carry Crosshair’s ammo sometimes!”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Crosshair muttered.

“You also threw a droid leg at me once,” Tech added.

“It was a strategic distraction.”

“Your idea of strategy is throwing things and seeing what explodes.”

“Guys,” you warned.

Hunter uncrossed his arms. “They’re not wrong. We… work. Just not… together.”

“And that’s what we’re going to fix,” you said, rising. “Starting tomorrow. Team drills. Shared targets. Coordinated strikes. No more lone-wolfing it. Not unless I say so.”

Crosshair looked unimpressed.

Tech nodded reluctantly.

Hunter said nothing, just watching you like he always did — like he was weighing your words and the weight of something deeper underneath them.

Wrecker raised his hand again. “Do we get more snacks if we work together?”

You blinked. “Yes. But that wasn’t the point of the—”

“Teamwork!” he yelled, springing up and throwing an arm around a very annoyed Crosshair and a startled Tech. “I love this plan!”

Tech squirmed. “Please refrain from crushing me.”

“You weigh, like, a twig. I could carry all three of you in one hand.”

Hunter finally stepped forward, arms still crossed. “We’ll try.”

You nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

Then Wrecker suddenly grabbed your wrist.

You stiffened slightly — instinct. The others tensed.

But all he did was pull you into the chaos of the group hug, wrapping one arm around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“She’s one of us,” he said firmly. “Even if she doesn’t throw grenades.”

“I could throw grenades,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

Crosshair scoffed. “You’d probably miss.”

Tech added, “Statistically speaking, your coordination isn’t ideal.”

“I will end you both.”

Hunter chuckled under his breath. “Good luck with that.”

And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like they weren’t four parts of a broken code.

It felt like the beginning of something real.

Something whole.

⸻

Tipoca City – Training Dome 3C

The weather outside the transparisteel dome pounded with relentless rain, as always. But inside, the sim environment was set to urban combat: tight alleys, low visibility, multiple vertical levels. Tactical nightmare. Perfect test bed.

The entire dome was filled with cadets in neat ranks. Delta. Omega. The Nulls — lounging as usual. Dozens of standard units. And off to the side, Clone Force 99. Restless. Unimpressed.

Wrecker was bouncing on his heels. Crosshair leaned against a wall, picking at the sight of his training rifle. Tech was muttering to himself about probability ratios. Hunter was doing that quiet-hover thing again — watching everything. Especially you.

You stepped into the sim ring, adjusting your vambraces.

Flanking you: Kal Skirata, grumbling already; Walon Vau, silent and tense as always; and Mij Gilamar, calm and relaxed like he wasn’t about to enter a live-fire exercise.

The point of this exercise and demonstration was to show the cadets — especially the Bad Batch — that their trainers aren’t just instructors. They’re warriors. And some of them have killed in more wars than these cadets have had meal rations.

“Simulation parameters uploaded,” came the Kaminoan announcer’s voice. “Objective: hostage retrieval and enemy suppression. Teams will engage twenty droid-class AI units, mixed terrain, time limit: seven minutes.”

A snort echoed from the cadet ranks.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Twenty droids,” Crosshair muttered, just loud enough. “Should we bring them bandages, too?”

Wrecker snickered.

“Think she can even lift one?” Tech asked, tilting his head.

“Maybe she’ll try diplomacy,” Crosshair said dryly.

“I like her,” Wrecker defended. “She’s cool!”

“Quiet,” Hunter muttered.

But you heard it all.

Good.

Let them underestimate you.

You dropped into the zone with your team.

No words.

Skirata went high. Gilamar low. Vau ghosted into the side alleys like a shadow.

You took center.

The droids came fast — faster than sim standards, someone had clearly tweaked the AI — and you welcomed it.

Your vibroblade met the first one’s carbine mid-swing. It hit the ground in two pieces.

Your boot crushed its headplate an instant later.

You didn’t slow down.

You slid under the next volley, planted a sonic charge against the wall, and vaulted off the falling rubble to land clean behind a cluster of enemies.

They turned.

Too late.

Flash.

Pop.

Smoke filled the corridor.

Your HUD blinked red, orange, then clear.

Three droids down before the cloud cleared.

Above, you heard Skirata bark a command in Mando’a.

A sniper dropped from the scaffolding — Vau’s shot.

Gilamar moved like liquid across the rubble, twin blades flashing.

You swept into the last hallway, slamming your elbow into a droid’s neck servos and using its collapsing weight to vault over a barricade.

Target in sight.

You raised a pulse blaster, fired twice, and dragged the “hostage” — a weighted dummy — into extraction.

Timer: 5 minutes, 12 seconds.

Not just under time.

Crushed it.

Clone Force 99 was quiet.

Wrecker’s jaw was open.

Crosshair stared at the screen, frowning.

“She was invisible in the smoke,” Tech whispered. “Did you see that targeting pattern? That was intentional chaos. Planned.”

“She moved like Skirata,” Hunter said, quiet and thoughtful.

Wrecker beamed. “Told you she was cool.”

You pulled off your helmet, still breathing steady.

The cadets watched in near silence as you rejoined the others. Skirata just grunted at you approvingly. Gilamar patted your shoulder. Vau didn’t say anything, but his nod was enough.

The Kaminoan tech droid buzzed overhead. “Simulation complete. Performance exceeds baseline instructor metrics. Efficiency rating: 91%.”

You stepped to the edge of the platform.

“All of you think because we train you, we’re past our prime. That we’re just barking voices behind blasters.”

You scanned the cadets — all of them — before letting your eyes settle on your squad.

“We were killing before you were breathing,” you said. “We didn’t inherit our skills. We bled for them. If you want to survive what’s coming, start learning from the ones who already did.”

Hunter held your gaze.

You nodded once.

He nodded back.

Not approval. Not yet.

But respect?

Maybe.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[ajaxbleachishere]

Testing out different brushes with these two :DD trying to recreate a more Chinese calligraphy texture so I can work to integrate it with my style but idt it's working out that well lmao 😭😭

Closeups 👀

Putting in this edit here because I just got some comments with some weird ableist undertones so to burn some incense, rebalance the vibes and clear the air: CHARACTERS CAN BE DISABLED AND CHARACTER DESIGNS NO MATTER HOW "OVERUSED" YOU THINK THEY ARE (which is absurd to think anyways like-) CAN AND SHOULD BE ABLE TO REPRESENT THEM!!!

People should always have a safe space to be themselves and have representation in including disabled people! Suggesting that "Viper should have arms for a change" implies that these disabilities shouldn't be represented because YOU THINK they need to be quieter, inherently silencing their voices and that disabled people and their struggles don't deserve to be represented. AND THAT IS ASTRONOMICALLY IMMORAL???

I'm just saying if people like you can get the ability to bully minors on the internet, then disabled people deserve to have characters they can relate to and be represented by - whether as viper the canon character herself in the movies, or a piece of fan media from an artist who just wants continue to convey that important characterization and representation through his art to create a safe space for all kinds of people which is what is prompting me to reply to the comments despite knowing I already have YOUR ASS BLOCKED. TERMINATED. REMOVED.

So no I won't be "drawing viper with arms for a change" thank you and good night :)

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

I have a 2007 Chevy Avalanche and the headlights and taillights come on and it tries to turn over and it doesn’t, it’s weak. Can it be the battery?

Yes, a weak or failing battery is the most likely cause of your symptoms in a 2007 Chevy Avalanche. Here's a breakdown of why, along with troubleshooting steps:

Why the Battery is Suspect Symptom Match:

"Lights come on but won't crank/cranks weak": Headlights/taillights require minimal power (5–15 amps), while the starter needs 400–600+ amps. A weak battery might power lights but fail under high-load demands.

"Tries to turn over but weak": Indicates low voltage reaching the starter. Avalanche-Specific Factors:

Leaky Batteries: Older batteries (3+ years) lose cranking power.

Corroded Terminals: Common on GM trucks; causes voltage drop.

Parasitic Drain: Faulty modules or aftermarket accessories slowly drain the battery.

Troubleshooting Steps Check Battery Voltage:

Use a multimeter on battery terminals (key off).

Healthy: 12.4V–12.7V.

Weak: Below 12.2V → Needs charging/replacement.

Critical Failure: Below 11.8V → Will not crank. Test Under Load:

Have an assistant crank while monitoring voltage.

Voltage Drops Below 9.6V: Battery can't hold charge → Replace.

Voltage Drops Below 10.5V: Weak/starter struggling → Jump-start test. Clean Battery Terminals:

Remove cables → Scrape corrosion off terminals/posts with a wire brush → Reattach tightly. Try Jump-Starting:

If jumps successfully starts the truck → Bad battery or charging issue.

Fails even when jumped? → Bad starter, ground, or wiring.

Other Possible Causes (If Battery Tests Fine) Component Symptoms Overlapping w/Battery How to Check

Starter Motor Slow/weak cranking, clicks/no crank Tap starter lightly with a hammer while cranking; if starts → Replace. Ground Connections Voltage drops under load Inspect chassis ground near battery/starter → Clean corrosion. Alternator Battery not recharging while driving Test charging voltage at idle → Should be 13.5–14.8V. Starter Solenoid/Relay No crank/single click Swap starter relay with identical one (e.g., horn relay).

Quick Avalanche Checks Fuse Box: Inspect underhood fuse/relay center (common failure).

Ignition Switch: Faulty switch can cut power to starter circuit.

Fuel Pump: Listen for hum at key-on (no hum = fuel problem).

Recommendation

Start with the battery → 90% of "weak crank with lights on" cases are due to battery issues. If the battery is 3–5+ years old, replace it (use a group 75 battery with ≥700 CCA).

If newer, charge it fully and have it load-tested at any auto parts store (free service).

If a new battery doesn't fix it, suspect a starter or corroded ground cable at the engine block. For wiring checks, see an Avalanche-specific wiring diagram (https://gmt800parts.com/wiring-guides). Safety Tip: Always disconnect the negative cable first and reconnect last to avoid shorts!

[adafruit]

mini Sparkle Motion prototype - a tiny, fully-featured WLED board ✨🔌📏💡🌈

We're doing a lot of serious testing with our WLED mega-board, code-name Sparkle Motion .

While doing some holiday lighting projects, we also wanted something slim enough to slip into any design. It still uses an ESP32 for the best support, with USB-serial programming, 5A fuse, 5V level shifting + 100 ohm series resistors for pixel drivers, user/reset buttons, a user LED and onboard neopixel, JST SH analog/digital connector, QT I2C connector, 4 GPIO plus power/ground breakouts, and USB type C power/data input.

However, this version is made simpler and less expensive by dropping the DC jack and USB PD support: it's only for 5V strips if you want to power them directly (you could still drive 12V or 24V pixels, but you'll need separate power for them). Instead of a full set of terminal blocks for 3 signals, we only have two outputs, and they have to share the power and ground pins. It could also be used for a single two-pin dotstar LED setup. We kept the built-in I2S mic but dropped the on-board IR sensor - if you want an IR sensor, you'll be able to plug it into the JST SH port with a simple cable or solder it into the breakout pads.

The trade-off is that it's much smaller and slimmer, especially when no terminal blocks are soldered in by default: only 1.2" long x 0.785" wide (~1 sq in) x 0.3" thick vs. the original's 2" x 1.3" (2.6 sq in) x 0.55". To get it that small, we went 4-layer to give us a nice big ground and 5V plane in the middle and double-sided assembly. Coming soon.

[historyofguns]

The article "10mm Ballistic Gel Testing" by Yamil Sued on The Armory Life website discusses the performance and capabilities of the 10mm Auto cartridge, a powerful round designed in the mid-1980s. Conducting ballistic gelatin tests with a Springfield Armory Range Officer Elite Operator 10mm 1911, Sued tested three different 200-grain full-power 10mm loads: Federal Personal Defense HST, Speer Gold Dot Personal Protection Gold Dot Hollowpoint, and CCI Blazer FMJ range ammunition. The tests revealed that both the Federal and Speer hollowpoints achieved approximately 18 inches of penetration with substantial expansion, whereas the Blazer FMJ overpenetrated by passing through all 32 inches of gelatin. The article highlights the impressive stopping power of the 10mm cartridge, validating its efficacy in both self-defense and hunting scenarios.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #15: Lux Solaris

Prompt: deodate (free write) || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: Spoilers for Dawntrail.

---

It was in the heart of the Meso Terminal, before the throne of the Queen Eternal, that Synnove discovered just what the fuck had been going on with her Dreadwyrm Protocol.

The Protocol was the most strictly-maintained of all her spells, the one most rigidly bound off from every array in her grimoire with pages of page-blocks to ensure its core programming didn’t leak into any of the carbuncles. It was also the spell that had seen the fewest modifications—in fact, beyond locking out Galette and then ensuring the smooth linking between it and her Phoenix Protocol, it was otherwise unaltered from what Prin had given her years ago. It was a perfectly functional spell, did exactly what it needed to rain down untold destruction, and if Synnove never had to manipulate the Dreadwyrm’s aether again in her life, it would be too soon.

(Too, there was the fact Synnove was still mad as hell that Prin hadn’t exactly divulged just what the spell it had gifted her had been. The coding had been so alien to her eyes that she hadn’t recognized it not being a mere variation on Allagan egis, and, well, she always did her initial testing with Galette—

IDENTIFY THE ENEMY YOU WISH TO ANNIHILATE.

—suffice to say it was a good thing she’d gone out to test the damned thing on Seal Rock when the island wasn’t being used for wargames. Bad enough both she and Galette had spent the next sennight coming down from the resulting panic attack.)

But that meant she was keenly aware of when the Protocol began to behave oddly. It was how she had first noticed Phoenix’s aether beginning to strengthen, back on the First, which in turn had led to her and Urianger and Alphinaud and Alisaie losing their collective minds as they build out a demi-primal array from scratch.

The past few moons hadn’t seen quite as a drastic change in the Protocol as had been on the First. No, it had been far more subtle; strange bits of…not stagnation, but frequent shifts toward umbral polarity, even a faint hint of Light at some points. Less rage had filtered through the Protocol, that millennia of hatred barely tempered by its filtering through a mere demi-primal that always accompanied an activation of the Dreadwyrm Protocol, instead more of a cool, calculating regard.

And now, here in this space made of levin and electrope, Synnove had activated the Protocol, and what had answered was not the lesser form of the Dreadwyrm.

This demi-primal was white as Light, and its draconic shape was more closely aligned with what a son of the First Brood would have looked like, and not the warped abomination he become under Ascian influence. Its head lacked eyes, however, and strange crenellations crested its head and neck. A crown of Light wheeled above that crest, and its wings—

—its wings were gods-be-damned fucking SWORDS.

It was only a heartbeat between the activation of the Protocol and Ivar becoming the control core of the demi-primal. Synnove could feel her youngest son’s bafflement in the back of her mind, and knowing he was all right was about the only way she didn’t panic in the middle of a battle.

And then, in a cool, crisp voice, echoing with multiple tones through her mind like clarion bells:

LIGHTWYRM SUBROUTINE NOW ONLINE. SUMMONER PRIME LOCATED. DESIGNATION: SYNNOVE GREYWOLFE. REFULGENT LUX GRANTED TO SUMMONER PRIME. SUNFLARE GRANTED TO SUMMONER PRIME.

“What,” Synnove said intelligently, “the fuck.”

The demi-primal stretched its right wing, and one the Queen Eternal’s attendant drones slammed into and broke into pieces. Synnove, jolted back to awareness, dodged through the chaos to return to the safety of Heron’s back and rejoin the battle properly.

“Synnove, what the fuck?!” Rere somehow made the question a part of the ballad she was weaving to bolster their attacks.

“I don’t know!”

ANNHILATION TARGET DETECTED. QUERY: SUMMONER PRIME, DOES THIS UNIT HAVE PERMISSION TO ENGAGE?

“Yes,” Synnove said, already casting a Ruin III spell. “With extreme prejudice!”

The strange not-quite-a-dragon seemed to regard the Queen Eternal. And then it opened its mouth, and R O A R E D.

PROTOCOL: EXODUS ACTIVATED.

Light filled the Interphos, the same brilliant radiance that had answered Hydaelyn’s call during Her test, deep in the aetherial sea. And then it exploded, and the Queen Eternal howled her rage.

“SYNNOVE WHAT THE FUCK.”

“I DON’T KNOW!”

--

“So, I think I know what the fuck.”

Nearly a moon after successfully saving the world—again—the mages of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn (sans Urianger, who was still off somewhere with Thancred, and he was going to be outraged he’d missed this) clustered around the table in one of the conference rooms of the Baldesion Annex. Synnove sat cross-legged on the table itself, fist propping up her cheek, Galette around her neck, and Ipomoea primly loafed in her lap. The Highlander knew she looked as she always did after a research binge: hair a disaster, clothes wrinkled from being slept in, circles beneath her eyes.

The only thing missing was chalk dust, and that was only because she’d been up to her eyeballs in unspooled carbuncles for the past damned moon.

Krile reached forward and tapped at an Allagan projection device built into the table. It lit up immediately, copies of a subset of arcanima array now floating in the air for easy view.

“Let the record show we’ve got a segment of the Dreadwyrm Protocol on display,” Synnove said tonelessly.

G’raha, acting as the meeting scribe, chuckled quietly, but did as requested.

“This bit is the manifestation coding, it’s basically the mathematical image of the Dreadwyrm that the Allagans put together. What’s on display now is what Prin gave me. And this—”

Ipomoea blinked her eyes with an audible shuttering sound. The array changed.

“—is what it looks like as the Lightwyrm Protocol.”

“Well, that’s a significant change,” Alphinaud said slowly, his eyes wide. “I can see the similarities that we can assume are for ‘dragon,’ but what commands for unaspected aether are now for Light.”

“I want the bits that make the sword wings,” Alisaie said. “That is inspired work.”

Alphinaud barely restrained a sigh, glancing heavenward instead for strength as everyone else chuckled.

“I can see where the commands are branching off to affect spells like Astral Flow,” Y’shtola murmured thoughtfully. “Still following the framework you created for demi-primals. But you can still access the Dreadwyrm Protocol?”

“Mmm,” Synnove said. “But have to do this one first. Then in sequence, it’s Dreadwyrm, back to Lightwyrm, then Phoenix, then the cycle repeats. I can’t say I’m not too mad about that, s’nice not to have my trauma shoved in my face whenever we need some extra firepower.”

“Probably has to do with balancing the Light aether, though I can’t figure out how just yet,” Krile said.

Synnove inclined her head. “That’s my theory at the moment, but I’ll need to do more testing. Regardless, that brings me to this.”

Ipomoea blinked again. A different array now floated above the table, causing everyone to frown.

“Is that a message array?” Alisaie said. “Like the Arcanists’ Guild uses for courier work on their carbuncles.”

“It is very similar,” Synnove said, and gently tapped Ipomoea’s head. The sapphire carbuncle twitched her left ear a perfect fifteen degrees, and the array display zoomed in. “You all see this bit of sigilwork and equation here?”

Murmurs of ascent.

“The one time I saw this,” Synnove said, enunciating clearly, “was in Elpis. When Venat sat down with me and the girls, and showed us the full spell frame for her traveler’s ward.”

Five pairs of eyes just stared at her. Synnove raised her eyebrows, waiting. She’d had her moment of garbled cursing three days ago when she’d found that damn signature.

“Are you telling us,” Y’shtola said slowly, “that this new Protocol was made by Hydaelyn Herself?”

“My dearest, darling friend and partner in magical crime,” Synnove drawled, “that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

Krile was covering her face with her hands. “Oh, great good gods, we’re going need to put this under the strictest lock they have in Noumenon,” she groaned.

G’raha was still frantically writing. “I’m not wholly sure I’d trust it to stay safe even there,” he said. “My vote would be to store it up at Bestway Burrows, or perhaps with the Watcher.” He glanced up at Synnove. “This is more for my own amusement than any record keeping, but what did Rereha say about this particular revelation?”

“She said, quote: ‘Oh, cool, Mom decided as a last hurrah that she could get in a last round of one upmanship on the Ascians and design a better dragon.’”

Alisaie and Krile were both giggling before Synnove had even finished talking. Alphinaud didn’t try to stifle his sight this time, while Y’shtola and G’raha exchanged rueful looks.

Synnove merely shrugged, ignoring Galette’s resulting grumble. “She’s probably not wrong.”

“Oh, the loporrits are going to adore that,” Krile said around her giggles. “Sword wings.”

“Sword wings,” Synnove said. And grinned.

[witchexia]

Dr.Arias/Paradox/Pair of Ducks analysis/headcanons ! (oh my god this was REALLY HARD TO MAKE because NOBODY talks about paradox and theres almost NO info about them ! ill split these into two for Paradox and Pair of Ducks! also know, that these are just my headcanon and theories! they may not be close to the ACTUAL canon!!)

DR. ARIAS/PARADOX:

him and simon were close childhood friends! then, they also became eachothers coworkers! at that time, paradox was the head of psychology and simon was the 2nd best therapist in the site!

they both shared two interests: ducks and psychology! ducks, because of their symbolism and their various number of species!

I AGREE WITH THIS HEADCANON, but paradox smells like poisonous flowers! im thinking of belladonna!

his fashion style is dark academia! its the opposite of simon's; light academia!

he probably listens to someone like Gesaffelstein!

his birthday: October 8th, 1985 (39)

but in secret, outside of the foundation, paradox was a member of the serpent's hand!

one day though, during an experiment with scp-914, he was watching the test, BUT a d-class got scared/angry and shoved him into 914 ... ->

this incident caused him to become two ducks, but both of the ducks have his mind and soul in them! he was STILL proven to be able to work for the foundation for his human-changing trait (and the fact kain pathos is a dog and he still works)

DR. PAIR OF DUCKS

after the incident and him becoming two mallard ducks (one female, one male), obviously people were VERY confused to see two ducks coming in to work! even more confused when they saw his ability to turn into a human with both of them!

this earned his nickname: Pair Of Ducks!

but, 4 months later, he causes a containment breach that involves turning the cameras off, takes advantage of the situation to go steal scp-268 (it originally belonged to the Serpent's Hand, so they told him to go get it!) but then Simon catches him while running to a breach shelter, seeing him with the hat and Pair of Ducks attempts to convince him to leave with him to the Serpent's hand ! this doesn't work, so Simon panics and tries to convince him to defect from the Serpent's Hand last minute! They are both caught, and Pair of Ducks suddenly risks being terminated, but Simon manages to convince the higher ups to not kill him, and the higher ups agree because he's both an anomaly and important asset to the Foundation . But then he manages to fake his death, by Simon and other higher ups helping to spread the word that an MTF killed him, and another rumor that Kondraki confirmed he died. Then, after he faked his death and defected from the Serpent's Hand, L.S took over and suceeded in stealing SCP-268.

after this, the Foundation doesn't completely trust Pair of Ducks anymore, so they separate his two ducks to block his anomaly of turning into a human! Pair of Ducks is two ducks; one of them is a female mallard duck in SCP-765, the other one is a male mallard now known as Maverick; Simon's therapy pet!

When people ask him about the new unique choice of therapy animal, Simon pretends that he's grieving the death of Paradox by getting a pet that reminds him of Paradox.

a little bit about Maverick: now we know that Maverick is anomalous, but also that he's part of Paradox. Maverick can understand people, and during therapy, he helps patients by comforting them when they cry (by going on their lap for example). Paradox WAS an amazing therapist, and forever will be in his Maverick form.

and now a little bit about the other mallard duck: Paradox's other half of him is in SCP-765 (duck pond), it would make sense for this half of him to be there, since the pond has therapeutic effects, and Paradox is determined to be a good therapist even in his separated duck forms!

[kalpeavaris]

MD: Echo Info Post #1 (Character Edition)

So I reblogged this image about wanting to (over) share about OCs... and then I got a mysterious message telling me to speak about my OCs... 👀(*cough* @inkyprince I said I'd tag you hehe *cough*)

So I've decided to just do it, lmao. I love sharing stuff about my OCs, stories and whatnot and this is my blog, imma do what I want!

Gotta lay out some trivia & information about my Murder Drones AU, Echo! Wether it be characters or concepts, because maybe it'll get some people interested :D All of the info is below the cut, and for the first iteration of this I've chosen Kira, aka "ZWEI", for this!

Kira - "ZWEI" - White Witch

A lot of her information can also be viewed on her ToyHouse Profile (logged in user only, sorry!)

Playlist - Pinterest - Voice Claim - Theme Song

Content Warnings: Mentions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts (non-explicit), chronic (terminal) illness (in... robot-terms?)

(older art, but it does the trick lmao)

Kira was one of the Drones that were tested and infected with the Absolute Solver code back in the 3040s and 50s in the Cabin Fever Lab Cathedral with her number being 24.

As a Communication Drone the Solver's abilities affected her in a different way than her fellow Worker Drones, causing the humans to become aware of certain powers that she exhibited which weren't displayed in other Drones.

Her "exorcism" (or, well, patch) was botched as Kira's OS wasn't capable of adapting to the patch version, causing it to corrupt and allow for a vunerability that lead to Echo (a mutated version of the AS) planting it's own code inside of Kira's, which jump-started Echo's influence on Communication Drones.

Kira's Solver is always active - that's why her eye doesn't return to normal and only ever displays the emblem. She overheats extremely easily all the time and is prone to physical pain and tinnitus due to her being unable to block out inbound signals if she picks them up.

This has her health deteriorating quickly over the course of the MD: Echo story, slowly succumbing from it, though she keeps on pushing forward to stop ECHO and it's hosts. She needs actual medication to keep the pain at bay and constantly consumes Oil at a high rate to stop overheating. If her Solver was to deactivate she'd most likely pass away within a few days.

Her secondary name, "ZWEI" means "Two" (or could also be interpreted as "the second") in German. It is a reference to her part in the story, as well as her connection to ECHO. (won't be spoilered for now 8D) She associates alot of trauma with it and doesn't like being referred by it.

Personality wise Kira seems fairly withdrawn from everyone around her except her friends and partner/family. If she's in a good headspace she's fairly open and confident, almost fierce in the way she appears to others. Kira's keen on keeping up a strong facade to not show strangers her weaknesses or true condition.

"But what are Communication Drones?"

I'm glad you asked! Communication Drones look like normal Workers, though the one thing that sets them apart are the two antennas on their head which can vary in size & style depending on their desired function (short-range, long-range, ground signals, air signals etc.)

These antennas function as ears for them, so if they're removed, their hearing is damaged (not entirely deaf, but definitely worsened). So if a "normal" CD loses their antennas they're having a harder time adapting as their intake of sound is greatly reduced.

As an AS user/host, Kira's able to pick up on stronger signals from far away or even sending out signals to stun/manipulate others around her in a short radius. This effect doesn't stay though, it'll wear off over time and actively consume energy from the Drone using it.

Disassembly Drones can also have the subtype of a Communication Drone as shown in the sketch below (left DD) - their antennas are usually shorter and made for short-range and aerial signals as they're capable of flight, too.

(I almost made them a polycule not going to lie they all hot as fuck) wish that was me-)

--

(Kira on her way to cast 'gun, prepare to meet god' in the face of a fucking angel-robot-AI that believes to be god itself)

Kira plays a big part in the MD: Echo universe next to some minor characters & canon characters. Her main motivation is to help stop Echo, as it also tries to infect her via the unstable Solver code in her OS.

--

Crucifix Symbolism

(the power of christ compels you!)

Something very important to Kira is her botched patch / "exorcism". She's obsessed with crucifix looking symbolism which continues to haunt her almost 30 years later during MD: Echo's timeline.

She's desperate to break free from this, but cannot help herself. She compulsively collects cross-shaped imagery and in the first few months after her escape from the Lab she actively built crosses from all sorts of materials.

It's mainly coming from her OS being overwhelmed by the botched patch and the crucifix imagery of the USB burning itself in her memory files as some sort of "salvation" she has yet to achieve. Luckily, this started to fade out over the years, especially after meeting T who helped her to overcome the trauma of the incident.

--

(CW: Mentions of Self-Harm)

After being infected by the Absolute Solver, Kira desperatly tried more than once to remove her antennas to keep the voices from appearing. It talked to her from the inside, but she didn't realize this yet. Like almost all other AS Users however she kept on regenerating, unable to escape the inner turmoil of the Solver's possession and Echo trying to get inside of her OS as well.

--

Effects of the AS on her psyche

(holy shit have you ever seen a centipede that big? what is this? australia?)

Haunted by visions of the Solver, it's communications with the other Drones and later on the landing pods of the Disassembly Drones Kira had a hard time to tune out these visions she got from time to time. Similar to Nori in that regard Kira wrote everything down she heard through these intercepted signals, amassing hundreds of pages of logs she was able to get.

--

Meeting her partner

("Girl I swear I have normal hands too don't be distracted by my sexy claws")

In the 3060s, she stumbled upon one of the Disassembly Drone squads outside of the colony's Outpost she was seeking shelter in. She had intercepted their landing pods signals and was "curious" to seek out whoever had arrived, trying to solve the mystery of whatever the Solver had her experience.

That's when she found Serial Designation T - the navigator of the squad, who at first attempted to kill her like he'd been tasked to do. After all, Kira was a Solver Host that couldn't be fully mind-controlled anymore. But in the middle of him attacking her T's code was halted by Cyn herself, deactivating his executive task to kill the Host he had infront of him. He himself didn't know why exactly the Solver did this, but in hindsight it was due to the fact that Kira was still able to be of use to it later on.

(POV: you deleted system32 from your PC because some random kid on roblox told you to)

Now neutral, T got curious about Kira whom he tried to speak to with her Kira (driven by curiosity on why he had stopped being aggressive all of a sudden, being able to intercept the communication he had with Cyn) staying to talk to him.

Over the following weeks the two grew acustomed with each other, slowly building a friendship that later on evolved into a more romantic nature. Kira hid him in the Outpost and brought in food for the two of them as she constantly needed oil as well.

[morgan5451]

BREAKING! SCOTUS UNLEASHES TRUMP — DEEP STATE DECAPITATED, EXECUTIVE POWER RESTORED The Supreme Court just detonated the legal firewall shielding the Deep State. In a landmark ruling, SCOTUS confirmed that President Trump can now REMOVE heads of independent federal agencies at will — no approval, no process, no delays. The unelected fourth branch of government is DEAD. Trump now holds the sword. Gwynne Wilcox (NLRB) and Cathy Harris (MSPB) are first in line — and that’s just the beginning. This decision doesn’t tweak policy. It rewrites the battlefield. Trump isn’t navigating bureaucracy anymore. He’s crushing it. THE RULING: The President can now terminate federal agency heads without cause. No longer “independent,” no longer protected. Every agency once weaponized against Trump is now exposed. Every puppet of Biden’s shadow network is on notice. NO SHIELD. NO DELAY. NO MERCY. This is the death blow to lawfare — the strategy that used obscure agencies, legal traps, and hostile boards to sabotage Trump. The plan was always to strangle his presidency from the inside. SCOTUS just lit that plan on fire. TRUMP RECLAIMS COMMAND. All executive agencies are now fully accountable to the President. No more hiding behind red tape. No more rogue directors blocking orders. No more silent mutiny inside the machine. A top constitutional advisor made it clear: “This is presidential power, undiluted.” This is a direct return to Article II of the Constitution — total executive control over the apparatus of government. The Deep State bet everything on legal insulation. Now their fortress is ash. THE PURGE BEGINS. Expect immediate terminations. Entire departments will be restructured. Internal loyalty tests are coming. The administrative coup that hijacked America ends right now. This is GITMO-level cleanup. The mask is off. The sword is swinging. And Trump is holding it.

[shaotie]

What D.I.D I Do Wrong? - Short 2

A Little 'Adventure' - Chapter 2

At some point while they were walking down the road (the slider wasn't quite sure when) Leo had put his new headphones on to cover his ears and pulled his hood up over his head; and now he and Raph were both entering a way too bright waiting room inside a big building along Sapphire Street.

Leo snapped his head up off his unicorn keychain, gazing around in surprise at everything around him.

When had they left the terminal?

He didn't even remember walking up the stairs to get to street level.

In addition to the bright overhead lights, the room itself was a far too bright white, and any colors - like the rainbow sign behind the front desk - were also far too bright shades for his sensitive eyes.

It was likely this stark contrast from the duller street outside where they had been walking in the shadows of tall buildings was what pulled Leo out of his own mind to be hyper aware of his surroundings.

After all, any change in the prison dimension meant Krang Prime was the coming.

And Krang Prime coming always meant...

Leo shook his head for the physical sensation it gave him as he fought to chase that memory away (if only it was as simple as shaking those bad thoughts right out of his head).

And now that he was aware dread filled up his heart and made his stomach churn from the realization of exactly where they were and why they were here.

Was he going to be asked to try and use his ninpo?

Did the testing services hurt?

What were they going to do to him?

He didn't know and all the unknowns added to the already overwhelming atmosphere.

A female voice spoke to him but Leo didn't pay the yokai behind the desk in front of him any mind at first as his eyes flitted around the blindingly bright (to him) whiteness all around him.

"Do you have an appointment?" the squirrel yokai repeated.

Raph squeezed his shoulder as a cue that the receptionist was talking to him because he knew Leo didn't like it when others spoke for him (if he was capable of speaking for himself, that was).

"Uhhh . . . yeah."

Leo blinked a few times, forced his wandering eyes to settle on the yokai smiling at him from behind the desk, and pulled himself the rest of the way out of his reeling mind to be present enough for this interchange to tell her: "My name's Leo."

The squirrel manipulated some sort of fuchsia mystic orb with her fingers, and then thanked him and told him to take a seat.

Leo's motions were robotic after that. He didn't know who was in control as Raph helped him find a place to sit where there were chairs big enough for his oversized snapping turtle frame. The only thing he did know was that he wasn't in charge anymore because his vision was going hazy and the sounds around him were becoming muffled as he slowly succumb to the numbing silence of the void.

🔹🔹🔹

~Around Twenty Minutes Later~

"Leonardo Hamato?" came a loud voice from across the room.

"That's us bud," Raph told Leo, gently elbowing him to get his attention and then standing - only to frown down on his little brother who didn't stand with him or in any way respond.

Leo had been quiet all while they sat, but Raph thought at the time that he had been making use of one of his coping strategies by quietly indulging in his imagination to block out the sensory stimulation all around him.

It wasn't until now that he realized Leo had fully retracted into his mind for an escape from all of this and was possibly catatonic at the moment.

Crouching down to kneel in front of him, Raph picked up Leo's hand to hold it up, looked at his little brother's face that was pointed down on his lap, and sweetly asked: "Hey buddy, can you tell me what number you are?"

Raph kept looking at Leo's face, holding up his hand and waiting nervously for a response to his question. A couple of months after the invasion Donnie had either thought up or researched a technique that let Leo tell his family how grounded he was in the moment without having to speak.

A zero (closed fist) meant he wasn't grounded at all - which happened when he was either just coming out of or coming close to slipping into the void. '1' was one up above that, up to '4', which was the highest number possible using a single three-fingered hand - meaning he was fully grounded like he was pretty much all the time before the invasion.

Raph was hopeful he would get a reaction - even if he was a zero that was better than nothing. But as the seconds ticked by and Leo's name was called again he got exactly what he dreaded most of all.

Absolutely nothing.

"We're here!" Raphael chimed up, popping his head up enough to point his face at the nurse before looking at his unresponsive brother to tell him: "Alright bud, Raph's gonna help you up now," despite the fact they all knew Leo didn't register anything going on around him when he was in a full-blown catatonic state of dissociation.

As if he was some sort of fleshy drone and Raph was the controller, Leo was pulled up to his feet by the big snapper, who then took his hand, protectively wrapped his other arm around him, and anxiously led him past numerous yokai in the waiting room (some of whom looked up at them out of curiosity), up to the puffin nurse who was holding a clipboard and was waiting for them at the entrance to the hallway that led to the exam rooms where mystic energy testing was done.

The understanding nurse gave a gentle smile to Leo, but when the slider kept his head down with his face obscured by his hood she smiled at Raph and asked: "Is this Leonardo?"

In response, Raph nervously scratched the back of his head and replied: "Uh, yeah, but he..." "Don't worry about it," the experienced puffin nurse interrupted, before turning to lead them down the hall toward their waiting room.

"He has dissociative identity disorder, doesn't he?" she questioned along the way, indicating she had read Leo's chart.

"Uh yeah, he does, and he's kinda outta it," Raph replied, wondering if they were going to have to reschedule Leo's appointment because he was unresponsive and neither one of them knew what they did to test for mystical health issues.

"He doesn't have to be mentally present for the tests we're going to run, and we see all sorts of ailments here," the puffin nurse kindly reassured. "A number of our patients have mystical problems because of underlying physical or mental health disorders, now please sit here..." she gestured to two chairs in a room they just walked into, "...and the doctor will see you shortly."

🔹🔹🔹

~Just Under Two Hours Later~

The feminine voice of the train's automatic system announcing their arrival at the Hidden City train station was what roused Leo out of his catatonic state into partial awareness.

Regardless of how slight it was, Raph noticed when Leo moved his head so he wrapped a comforting arm around him in addition to the hand he had kept on Leo's shoulder from the time they left the mystic testing office until now.

Hunching down to get at ear level with his disoriented brother, Raph gently whispered in Leo's ear: "You did good buddy, we're all done now. Can you tell me what level you're at?"

He looked down to watch when Leo held up one finger with his right hand before rubbing the side of his forehead with his left because of the groggy tiredness he was overcome by.

"That's good, we're almost home now," Leo's big brother reassuringly told him - with the joy he felt that Leo was a one (instead of the zero he was expecting) coming through in his tone of voice.

Leo felt the pressure of gravity on his body when the train slowed to a stop - feeling he would stumble and fall on the floor if not for his protective big brother holding him steady - and then the walk off the train all the way through the station and to the Hidden-City-to-New-York portal felt like a dream to him.

He wasn't quiet sure if he had slipped back down to a zero or not during that time, but it was the comforting sound of his brothers voices who had come to greet them, the dripping of sewage water, and the stuffy humidity of the familiar (safe) sewer tunnels they were in that roused him all the way into the moment, so he could say with confidence that he was at least a solid two now.

Leo raised his head for the first time since looking at the receptionist in the GEM-METS facility, wondering how they got from the train to the sewers without going through one of the above ground portals (because there weren't any Hidden City portals leading directly to the sewer tunnels).

"How'd we get here?" Leo mumbled because of the grogginess that was begging him to take a nap after their little adventure.

(An 'adventure' that before the invasion would have been nothing more than a mundane task that would have preceded exploring around in a new-to-them yokai city to take in the unique sights and foods).

"You came through the portal," Mikey chimed up with a smile for his blue-clad bro (doing a really good job at masking the sadness he felt because of the ample experience he now had hiding behind a smile for Leo's benefit). "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Leo answered honestly, feeling too dull mentally for him mind to be able to grasp on to any other sensation, whether physical or emotional.

He felt totally drained, like after they came home from their victory against the Shredder and they all collapsed into a turtle pile in the living room and fell asleep, with a Jupiter Jim movie playing in the background and their mostly uneaten victory pizza going cold.

Since when were normal outings such a drain on him?

Why couldn't things just go back to the way they were before?

Why'd he have to be so broken?

Why couldn't he just go out and enjoy life like the energetic extrovert he was?

Sigh.

Like the energetic extrovert he used to be.

But not anymore.

. . .

Why did people have to amplify his insecurities by staring at him like he was some kind of circus sideshow freak if he did anything in public that even slightly deviated from what was considered the 'norm'?

All because . . .

*blink, blink, blink*

When did he black out again?

Leo came into awareness, noticing he was in the rec room cuddled up in his blue bean bag chair and squished in between Mikey and Donnie, who were each eating a slice of pizza and chatting away with April and Raph - who were sitting opposite them, facing them.

And there were two bites taken out of his pizza, indicating he ate some of it either on his own or with a little prompting from his brothers.

Ok, so he hadn't gone full-on catatonic.

Perhaps Orado took over, got him to the rec room, and made sure he got the sustenance he needed.

The fact that the conversation happening around him carried on as if he wasn't getting their attention by coming into awareness from the void lent heavily to the thought that Orado protectively had been present and aware for him.

And apparently he had spoken on Leo's behalf - or at least had asked a question - because when Leo mumbled: "What did the doctor say?" the room fell silent and everyone looked at him for a second.

"We just told you, Leo," Mikey volunteered, answering Leo's unasked question regarding why everyone seemed surprised by his inquiry.

Leo promptly shoved Boo into the front and pulled back into the mindscape a little because of his embarrassment - but not so much that he couldn't speak for himself.

Boo's insecurity and shyness made Leo curl in on himself, and then from behind his child-like alter-ego Leo softly said: "I forgot," as his excuse for (apparently) asking the same question twice, so that he didn't have to get into the mentally exhausting details that someone else was in control and he was tucked away inside his subconscious the first time he asked.

Luckily after being awake on high alert from her fear of Leo's mystic energy testing, Cleo was currently getting the sleep she needed - which meant he wasn't at risk of lashing out from an emotional breakdown.

"The short story is that everything's fine with your ninpo," Donnie told him in his factual sounding voice that carried a hint of loving concern for his one and only twinsie - and answered his question in the most direct way possible, which was exactly what his tired mind needed right now.

(It seemed that ever since the invasion - especially after they found out exactly how long he was in the prison dimension - his entire loving family were more in tuned to his needs than ever before)

"Mmm," Leo hummed in acknowledgement as he stared down on his pizza - not having an appetite but knowing he should eat something because he had a long, stressful day and hadn't put anything in his mouth since early that morning when he scarfed down a bowl of cereal for breakfast (at least as far as he could remember).

Despite his somewhat numbed senses telling him he wasn't hungry, Leo took a bite of his food in the hopes that eating something would help clear his head a little, and he listened to the overall quiet conversation of his family (who knew he was likely overstimulated and needed some down time after his busy day).

Then when he raised the slice to his mouth another time he stopped himself just short of taking a bite to instead gaze around, searching for Casey and Splinter.

"Where's daddy?" Leo asked, with his voice coming out a little more high-pitched than usual because of the way that question was really coming from the insecure little Boo, who was still sharing the front with Leo (mostly because they were eating ooey gooey cheesy pizza that was supper yummy, and because he felt safe and secure cuddled up with Leo's family)

"Splints is showing Casey some of the Hamato scrolls," April casually told him, before taking a bite of her pizza.

Everyone knew 'future boy' had an aptitude for learning and since he had practically been raised by future Leonardo and his brothers that basically made him a Hamato - just like April. So he was more than eager to learn about their Hamato heritage through the ancient scrolls that had been destroyed early on in the invasion of his timeline.

Leo - or rather Boo - visibly curled in on himself and picked at the slice on his plate without eating any of it.

"I wanna go to bed," came the unexpected comment that really came more from Leo than Boo because of how Boo's sadness over feeling rejected by their dad (who was voluntarily choosing to spend time with Casey instead of him) bled into Leo's emotions.

"Do you wanna finish that slice first buddy?" Raph gently asked him as his way of saying 'I want you to finish your meal' - and once again sweetly referring to Leo as 'buddy' - something he had been doing a whole lot more since the invasion, which Leo was good with because of the grounding sense of familiarity that came with it from the times Raph lovingly used that word when they were little.

Leo and Boo kept picking at the slice, going so far as to pinch off some cheese to put in his mouth, before Boo asked: "Can I eat it in my room?" - asking his parental-like big brother for permission instead of just saying 'I'll eat it in my room' like what Leo would have said if he had been the one taking control with talking.

Nobody knew Leo (and Boo) was feeling sad because their dad was with Casey instead of being here with them - they all thought he was just tired from his little adventure. So the big brother of the family reassured him it was ok to take his food to his room as long as he finished it before falling asleep, and Leo grabbed the pizza off his plate as he rose, opting to just take the slice because he didn't want to be bothered with bringing his plate out to the kitchen later.

And that was how that day went for him.

He went to his room, finished his slice, drew comfort from Penelope who replaced Boo in the front with him after the pizza was gone, cuddled into his fluffy stuffed unicorn (the big one, not the keychain he got that day), and chowed down on his green sour apple candy his protective big brother bought for him in the Gemstone Haven train station while scrolling through videos on his phone before taking a long, well deserved nap. Then when he woke up later he was feeling better than he had all day and spent some one-on-one time watching old Lou Jitsu reruns with his dad, feeling happy when his brothers joined them and they all cuddled up together - warm and cozy and safe.

🔹🔹🔹

Notes:

I got some of my inspiration for this au from little kid with a big death wish by remorse on ao3

🔹🔹🔹

<<previous

🔹What D.I.D I Do Wrong? Masterpost

🔹My Main Masterpost

[lair-of-the-white-worm]

"Frequency Jammed"

Tox (c) @industrial-tox

Wittly & written text (c) Me

Artwork (c) @this-game-has-themes

Static crackled, monitors flickered, and tangled wires ran across the floor like vines in a jungle. That is, if jungles ran on outdated surge protectors and anti-mindwave insulation foam.

Wittly hunched over low at his console, his helmet of wire mesh and tinfoil sliding slightly down over one eye. He pushed it up with a jittery hand, muttering curses under his breath. His setup—a bizarre laboratory of scavenged monitors, jerry-rigged radio antennae, and several “mindwave dampeners” (old soup cans, mostly)—pulsed dimly in the stale air. The light came from a bulb overhead wrapped in aluminum foil “to block out satellite brain-zaps.”

“Alright, alright.. okay.. we got—hold on—fifteen, no, seventeen distinct encryption layers here, okay?” Wittly jabbed frantically at a terminal, his fingers clacking against a keyboard with keys labeled in duct tape and marker. “Why’s a basic packet of Magog freight shipping logs—allegedly—protected like it's an executive toilet blueprint?! Huh?! That’s not regulation! That's not even paranoia, that’s fact!”

His right eye twitched. He spun around in his bucket-seat, goggles bouncing on the bridge of his snout as he turned to the tall, dark figure lounging near the far wall. “You seeing this?! You seeing what I’m seeing?! Firewall on top of firewall! It's a Firewall Layer Cake, and I'm being force-fed!”

Tox, who had been leaning coolly against a rack of network equipment, let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. His gas mask tilted just slightly in Wittly’s direction, the black lenses gleaming with subtle judgment.

“You’re using a toothbrush to cut steel,” Tox said, voice muffled and metallic. “You’re not even in the right root directory. You’re poking at sandboxed dead data while the real files are one layer deeper. But sure—blame the mind-control microwaves.”

Wittly’s throat gurgled as he turned back to the screen, sweat forming beneath the rim of his colander helmet. “Pshhh.. I knew that. Was testing you. See if you were paying attention. You passed. Good job. For a brainwashed technocrat. No offense.”

He blinked hard at the monitor, squinting like it might suddenly spit answers at him. A new firewall slammed down over the interface. A little Magog Cartel logo popped up, flashing red and saying “ACCESS DENIED”

Wittly slammed his fist onto the desk. “That’s the fifth one! The FIFTH! That’s.. that’s not protection, that’s obfuscation! That’s deliberate! That’s Cartel psy-op design! They’re laughing at me, Tox. Somewhere, some Vykker in a bathrobe is sipping swamp gin and giggling into a test tube marked ‘Wittly’s Limit.’ And he’s gonna find out I DON’T HAVE ONE!”

Another long sigh from Tox.

Then he stepped forward.

Click.

The first sound was the heel of one boot hitting the metal floor—a precise, sharp tap that sliced through Wittly’s thoughts like a razor. The second was the way Tox’s hips shifted as he leaned down next to the terminal, arching his back with vamp-like elegance. The bodysuit—pitch grey latex—clung like it was vacuum-sealed, shimmering faintly under the low lighting. Tox bent at the waist, knee shifting forward for balance, one hand bracing against the desk.

Click.

Another step closer. Another click of those modded neon heels. The green glow from the soles lit up the wires at their feet like zappflies.

Wittly’s goggles fogged over.

“Now pay attention,” Tox muttered, fingers flying over the keys. “You didn’t isolate the sandbox. You brute-forced it into recursive loop mode. The system isn’t stopping you. You’re stopping yourself. Like usual.”

Wittly didn’t hear a single word of that.

His mind was screaming at him in a half-dozen frequencies. Part of him was analyzing the movement of Tox’s body, noting the sway, the tension in the suit’s material, the shimmer on his thighs. Another part was screaming that this wasn’t right, that something was being pumped into the air—pheromones, maybe, or electromagnetic lust radiation. Maybe there was a frequency hidden in Tox’s voice. A sultry sub-harmonic.

‘Oh no. No, no, no,’ Wittly thought to himself, backing slightly in his rolling chair-bucket. “This is a trap. This is bio-hacking. Pheromonal seduction tech. Vykker bio-sedu—seducto—brainwave.. sauce. That’s what this is. I knew that suit looked too.. sleek. It’s not fashion. It’s TACTICAL. He’s got some.. some slinky stealth enchantment running!”

Tox arched an eyebrow—not that Wittly could see it—but the beat of silence was telling.

“Something you don’t understand? Do I need to dumb it down more?” Tox asked, voice cool and dangerous.

Wittly jumped. “NOPE! Nope. I’m focused. Hyper-focused. Just gotta.. realign the.. quantum interface.” He jabbed randomly at some buttons. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to see. No distractions. Not a single one.”

Tox looked at him for a long moment, the lenses of his mask unreadable. Then he slowly stood upright, the latex creaking softly as he pulled away from the desk. The glowing heels clicked twice more on the bunker floor as he returned to his leaning position. Wittly exhaled so hard his helmet shifted again.

He spun back to his terminal, face flushed beneath his goggles. “Focus, Wittly,” he whispered to himself. “This is how they get you. First they mock you. Then they send in the sleek agent provocateurs with nice hips and death stares and suspiciously high-quality shoes. It’s all a distraction. A honeypot. A latex honeypot. Classic strategy. Saw this in the 2184 Slog Rebellion. Or.. maybe that was a dream. BUT THE POINT STANDS.”

Behind him, Tox crossed his arms. “You’re mumbling again.”

“No, I’m not,” Wittly snapped, typing gibberish just to look busy. “I’m composing mental countermeasures. Thought shields, if you will.”

Tox chuckled under his breath—a sound that Wittly swore echoed too well in the acoustics of the bunker. ‘They redesigned my bunker to amplify mocking laughter,’ he thought. ‘Vykker architectural psy-warfare. They thought I wouldn’t notice.’

As Tox turned away, presumably to check something on his own portable setup, Wittly stared at the encrypted file still flashing on his screen. The Magog Cartel logo had dissapeared. A new prompt had appeared.

“ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.”

Wittly narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t think I’m falling for that,” he whispered. “That’s bait. That’s code for ‘admit your thoughts are clogged and you have fallen out of focus.’”

He reached for another tin can. Just in case.

[techav]

As I've mentioned before, the ultimate goal for my 68030 homebrew systems is to run a proper multi-user operating system. Some flavor of System V or BSD or Linux. I am not there yet. There is still so much I need to learn about programming in general and the intricacies of bringing up one of those systems, plus my hardware does not yet have the ability to support multiple users.

I've toyed with several ideas as to how to get the hardware to support multiple users, but ultimately decided to leverage what I have already. I have a fully-functional modular card-based system. I can easily build new cards to add the functionally I need. And to make development and debugging easier, I can make each card simple, dedicated to a single function.

The catch is I've already run into some stability issues putting everything on the main CPU bus. So what I really need is some kind of buffered peripheral bus I can use for developing the new I/O cards I'll need.

So that's where I started — a new 8-bit I/O bus card that properly buffers the data and address signals, breaks out some handy I/O select signals, and generates the appropriate bus cycle acknowledge signal with selectable wait states.

It wasn't without its problems of course. I made a few mistakes with the wait state generator and had to bodge a few signals.

With my new expansion bus apparently working I could set out on what I had really come here for — a quad serial port card.

I have it in my head that I would really like to run up to eight user terminals on this system. Two of these cards would get me to that point, but four is a good place to start.

I forgot to include the necessary UART clock in the schematic before laying out the board, so I had to deadbug one. I'm on a roll already with this project, I can tell.

So I get it all wired up, I fire up BASIC, attach a terminal to the first serial port, and get to testing.

Nothing comes across.

Step-by-step with the oscilloscope and logic analyzer, I verify my I/O select from the expansion bus card is working, the I/O block select on the UART card is working, the individual UART selects are working. I can even see the transmitted serial data coming out of the UART chip and through the RS-232 level shifter.

But nothing is showing up in the terminal.

I've got the terminal set for 9600bps, I've got my UART configured for 9600bps, but nothing comes across.

I did note something strange on the oscilloscope though. I could fairly easily lock onto the signal coming out of my new serial card, but the received data from the terminal wasn't showing up right. The received data just seemed so much faster than it should be.

Or maybe my card was slower than it should be.

Looking at the time division markings on the oscilloscope, it looked like each bit transmitted was around ... 1.25ms. Huh. 9600bps should be more like 0.1ms. This looks something more like 800bps.

I set the terminal for 800bps and got something, but it wasn't anything coherent, it was just garbage. I wrote a quick BASIC program to sweep through the UART baud rate generator's clock divider setting and output a string of number 5 for each setting until I got a string of 5s displaying on the terminal.

So then I tried sending "HELLORLD".

I got back "IEMMOSME".

No matter what I changed, I couldn't get anything more coherent than that. It was at least the right number of characters, and some of them were even right. It's just that some of them were ... off ... by one.

A quick review of the ASCII chart confirmed the problem.

'H' is hex 0x48, but 'I' is 0x49. 'E' is 0x45, but was coming across correctly.

... I have a stuck bit.

The lowest-order bit on my expansion bus is stuck high. That's why I wasn't seeing any coherent data on the terminal, and it also explains why I had to go hunting for a non-standard baud rate. The baud rate generator uses a 16-bit divisor to divide the input clock to the baud rate. When I tried to set the divisor to 0x0018 for 9600bps, it was getting set to 0x0118 — a difference of 256.

Another quick BASIC program to output the ASCII chart confirmed this was indeed the problem.

Each printed character was doubled, and every other one was missing.

That sounds like it could be a solder bridge. The UART chip has its D0 pin right beside a power input pin. A quick probe with the multimeter ruled that out.

Perhaps the oscilloscope would provide some insight.

The oscilloscope just raised more questions.

Not just D0, but actually several data bus pins would immediately shoot up to +5V as soon as the expansion bus card was selected. As far as the scope was concerned, it was an immediate transition from low to high (it looked no different even at the smallest timescale my scope can handle). If the UART was latching its input data within the first third of that waveform then it certainly could have seen a logic 1, but it doesn't make sense why only the one data pin would be reading high.

I thought maybe it could just be a bad bus transceiver. The 74HCT245 I had installed was old and a little slow for the job anyway, so I swapped it out for a newer & much faster 74ACT245.

And nothing changed.

It's possible the problem could be related to the expansion bus being left floating between accesses. I tacked on a resistor network to pull the bus down to ground when not active.

And nothing changed.

Well ... almost nothing.

This was right about the time that I noticed that while I was still getting the odd waveform on the scope, the output from the terminal was correct. It was no longer acting like I had a stuck bit and I was getting every letter.

Until I removed the scope probe.

Too much stray capacitance, maybe? That waveform does certainly look like a capacitor discharge curve.

I had used a ribbon cable I had laying around to for my expansion bus. It was long enough to support a few cards, but certainly not excessively so (not for these speeds at least). It was worth trying though. I swapped out the ribbon cable for one that was just barely long enough to connect the two cars.

And finally it worked.

Not only was I able to print the entire ASCII set, I could program the baud rate generator to any value I wanted and it worked as expected.

That was a weird one, and I'm still not sure what exactly happened. But I'm glad to have it working now. With my hardware confirmed working I can focus on software for it.

I've started writing a crude multi-user operating system of sorts. It's just enough to support cooperative multitasking for multiple terminals running BASIC simultaneously. It may not be System V or BSD or Linux, but I still think it would be pretty darn cool to have a line of terminals all wired up to this one machine, each running their own instance of BASIC.

[canarydarity]

(mooooooooooore DL rancher angst. because what else am I good for </3 /j)

No matter how you looked at it, the knock was startlingly out of place; it was late, late enough that a truce-like state should have fallen over the players, late enough that no one would want to risk running into more mobs than they could handle; it was peaceful, they hadn’t accrued more than a single pair of red names so far, and he didn’t think they’d given Ren and Bigb a reason to come after them—at least, not more than anyone else had; it was also them, all season people had been coming and going from the ranch as they pleased, not an ounce of courtesy in sight. If someone really wanted to come in, they woulda just done it. 

So, all in all…a knock?

Tango was already up and halfway across the room by the time his brain had synthesized these as the reasons why. 

Behind him, Jimmy called a wobbly and worried “Tangooo?” 

“Just,” Tango threw a hand backward towards the bed in hopes of staving off Jimmy’s shadow until he figured out what was going on. “Stay there, for a second.” 

Like some cut-off had been reached, the second he was close enough to wrap his hand around the handle all haste had vanished—the feeling of urgency holding a negative association with his proximity to the door. He’d had the nerve to get up, to get himself there, but getting his hand to turn and push was an entirely different thing. 

The door not yet having been opened, the possibility of what was waiting for him on the other side yawned and stretched towards endless. In a way, not knowing but speculating was worse than just opening the damn thing and facing the one singular scenario that was, but that was why he struggled to do it. Schrodinger’s danger—this was stupid; Tango opened the door. 

No one was there. 

He blinked in the face of its emptiness for a moment. Of all the situations he had considered, absolutely zero of them included opening the door to nothing. The one definite thing a knock spoke to was the presence of someone—something. So, what, they risked the middle of the night in peace times to come to the ranch they all loved barging into anyway to ding-dong ditch? That seemed, like, a gazillion times more unlikely.  

Tango moved to shut the door, trying to shake off the adrenaline, the too-familiar feeling of someone else being a step ahead of him and bemused by it. He ducked to turn back to Jimmy, play the brave one, laugh it off in hopes Jimmy would follow, and then, he saw: just a glint in the corner of his eye, something small and shiny on the doorstep. 

A golden apple. 

Tango stared at it the way you’d stare at a car crash you hadn’t the chance to get out of the way of in time, the look a doctor had in their eye when they announced your prognosis was bad, abysmal, terminal. It was the brightest thing for yards—a glowing, unignorable fixed point; the kind of bright that in tree frogs usually indicated poisonous, the kind of glowy cartoonists made chemicals when they wanted you to know falling in would reduce you to bones. And it just sat there. 

“Tango,” behind him, the bed creaked. “What is it?” 

Urgency returned, and, with renewed purpose, Tango moved once more. Fear flooded his senses again—it hadn’t really gotten very far to begin with—but this time it was of a different breed, born from someplace else. He tried to both square himself in the doorway, block the view out, and regain nonchalance, affecting some sort of behavior that would convince Jimmy to just leave things be. “Nothing, don—”

But Jimmy was already behind him, and Tango wasn’t tall enough to obstruct his line of sight. 

“Oh.”

And it sort of felt like Tango had failed. Failed what he didn’t know but by the stone in his stomach he knew that he had. He tracked the feeling all the way down his throat and through his middle, getting hooked and snagging on his organs as it went, pulling them with it until he was completely out of alignment, rearranged all wrong; the moment where you opened a test booklet and realized you didn’t know a single answer. 

He shook his head, an aborted no becoming no more than a breath that passed his lips at just the right angle to whistle or whine. He bent down and picked up the apple, and, no sooner than he stood again, lobbed it down the hill towards the ravine in some effort to rectify even a modicum of his uselessness. The apple thunked hard into the dewy late-night grass, probably rolled somewhere out of the way; he didn’t know, he couldn't see it anymore—he’d have to grab it and dispose of it at some point, but he could do that in the morning. He had other things to attend to. 

Tango shut the door and turned to assess the damage. 

Jimmy’s arms were goosebumped where they were exposed—just his white undershirt left on to sleep in—and his head was tilted down, the top of it visible to Tango more than anything else, his hair not mused enough yet to be called bedhead though it was certainly a start. Tango took a step towards him, crowded him just a little, placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s waist, skin warmth bleeding through the thin cotton, and the other on the junction where his shoulder met his neck. Jimmy stayed looking down. 

Tango couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say. 

After a few seconds, Jimmy sniffled, pulled up one of his hands and ran it across his nose, mushed it into his cheek. 

“Hey,” he ventured softly, in the absence of any other thought. Jimmy only glanced up slightly. “Let's…go back to bed, yeah?”

If it hadn’t already been clear that all chances of sleep had been banished by the panic of a late-night knock, it was by the way they both responded to that statement by sitting on the side of the bed rather than lying back down. A haze had fallen over the room, a trance-like state prompting them to move in the way they thought they should, in the way it seemed they were being directed; their actions pre-determined, someone else's hand on the joystick. Robotically, they maneuvered onto the bed side-by-side, silence still reigning, eye contact (from one party) still vehemently denied.  

And it just…wasn’t fair. The way there was no period of wondering between the discovery and the understanding, the way Tango didn’t see the apple and question why it was there, but rather knew, innately, what was being poked, prodded at. He hadn’t stopped to doubt, he hadn’t been confused, and maybe that’s what was the most upsetting—not the presence of the apple alone, but the way the person who left it was confident its message would be interpreted without fail. The way Tango was complicit by letting it.

It was the fact that he hadn’t opened the door to a trap or an ambush, but to a taunt; the apple not left behind as some sort of distraction, someone waiting to break in the back while they looked out the front, but as something else entirely, something completely unrelated to the game and its progression. There were no hidden motives, no ulterior plans—only the sadistic amusement that came with throwing a rock into a pond just to see the fish scatter. It didn’t put whoever did it ahead, it didn’t force them to fall any more behind. It just was, and it was cruel. 

Jimmy was still silently staring at the opposing wall, the both of them not even bothering to pretend they weren’t dwelling, and the more Tango sat in the discomfort that had fallen over the ranch, the more he thought, the angrier he got. He couldn’t just be here anymore and not do a single fucking thing about it. He leaned nearly entirely off the bed in his reach for his shoes, shoved his feet into them without precision or care about their security, and was up, diverting on his way towards the door to scrunch the fabric of his vest and pull it off the back of the chair it rested on, before turning on his heel and then he was off—

He was stopped with a hand gripping his forearm in its passing by, came to with Jimmy shouting “Tango!” for what he knew likely wasn’t the first time. 

Tango looked. Jimmy hadn’t gotten off the bed, but he’d leaned forward to latch onto Tango and stop his campaign, his eyebrows raised in misery, his lips downturned in upset. He wasn’t looking away, just around; his eyes landing on the wall behind where Tango was standing, on the door that had remained quiet since they’d shut it again, on Tango’s chest, or his hand around Tango’s arm. It was the closest Tango had gotten to eye contact in minutes. 

“What are you gonna walk around in the dark ‘til you find who put that there?”

Yes, if he had to—if that’s what it took. But before he could even begin to open his mouth, Jimmy pled, “Tango…” like he hadn’t really been asking, like he’d been hoping saying it would confirm Tango knew that idea was nonsense, not that Tango had been meaning to try regardless. It begged for common sense, it betrayed its wish to concede. 

Tango let out all the air he’d reserved for his returning argument as a heavy breath, almost a sigh, a huff. Its frustration was clear. He knew he wasn’t going to find them, he knew there was no conclusion to be had, he knew the joke had already hit and the moment had already ended. He knew that. But he also knew that complacency wasn’t the answer, and that Jimmy deserved to be fought for. 

He could’ve gone out anyway, walked around until the sun started coming up and all the mobs turned to ash—hell, he could’ve knocked on goddamn doors, inspired the same kind of fear in everyone else that a late night interruption in a game like this did them, and then demanded answers, no more Mr. nice guy. At least that way, he wouldn’t have had to lay back down, to have the conversation he hadn’t stopped thinking about since. 

But Jimmy said, “Can we just go back to bed? Please?” And knew it was a request that couldn’t be denied, knew the power in this interaction that being the victim afforded him, and knew how to play his cards to get Tango to fold. 

Tango took his shoes off, again, kicked them out of the way of the bed, gestured behind Jimmy with the hand that wasn’t being detained. Jimmy scooted backward on the bed, Tango’s forearm still in hand like the moment he let go Tango would dash immediately out the door, or dematerialize entirely, maybe; or even…run down the hill in search of something shimmering gold, and find himself unable to resist just one sweet bite. Tango followed him, nudged his shoulder until he complied and laid back down, allowing Tango to pull him closer as he did too. 

Jimmy still didn’t look at him. They were nearly eye to eye, only one pillow to share between them both, face to face in the dark; their foreheads leaning against one another, shifting away only to find each other again after any and all movement. 

Tango watched the sentence form on Jimmy's lips, watched his face rearrange throughout the composing of the question, the stringing of the words in a line, packaging them to be delivered. He swallowed as he awaited its transmission. 

“If it weren’t against the rules, would you…?”

And Tango said, “It is against the rules,” before that could get any further. The wrong answer. He knew immediately after he said it that it was, and he’d kick himself for it if he could any feasibly at all without getting Jimmy in the crossfire. He knew better than to give a non-answer, but he hadn’t been responding to the actual question, his first thought only stop—a futile hope he could head off Jimmy’s negative feedback loop by undermining it at its core. Another failure on his part. 

Jimmy closed his eyes, shook his head, “But if it weren’t—”

“No.” 

Tango placed one of his hands on Jimmy’s cheek, tilted his head back up towards his, but Jimmy’s eyes remained trained down. “No,” he repeated—he insisted. He didn’t need the eye contact to know Jimmy didn’t believe him. 

He leaned up and kissed Jimmy on the forehead, slid his hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and held him closer, but neither of them fell asleep for a while.

[poeticlark]

Doll Au Part Two - Part One

Everyone is a cyborg, retro-futurist, heavily inspired by the cyberpunk franchise.

1800~ words

Trigger Warning for panic attack and discussions of sexual assault -.-.-

“Jack in, Captain. This won’t take long, so you can get back to standing around and looking busy.”

“Har har har. Very funny.”

“Why, thank you.”

Curly unwinds a spool of cabling from his wrist, the end of it cradled between his fingers. The Pony Express Diagnostic Terminal sitting on her desk, an off-white block probably older than her which computes like the Antikythera mechanism, is whirring and humming. Every few minutes, its coolant fan coughs out more dust and hair.

Diagnostic check ups have gone smoothly. No neural viruses, no significant bugs, no circuit failures. Everyone so far has come to sit in the creaky patient chair, plug their jack into the terminal’s ancient mechanisms, and chat idly for the duration of the diagnostic. Anya’s questions are brief, their responses concise. Minimal hassle.

“Please don’t fry my brain?”

Anya huffs, as Curly plugs the end of his cable directly into the terminal’s port, shuffling nervously.

“I’m not even sure this fossil can generate the voltage for that. You'll be fine, Captain.”

It’s doubtless that his test will take longer, but what Anya worries about isn’t the condition of his cyberware. They're clean, flawless, well-installed pieces.

No, Anya’s chief concern is how she’s supposed to politely bring up the Morpheus. Is it like a sexuality or disease? Is it within her scope of treatment to ask?

Is Anya being a bad person for wondering if Curly’s fit to serve as captain, if he has one?

Red walls of texts, checks on every box, flick past the screen. Nothing’s being flagged as faulty, and Curly sits there quietly with his eyes flashing blue and a timid look on his face.

Maybe he knows. Well, surely he knows. He had it installed. Specifically, he knows that Anya would do preliminary research on her crewmates before conducting the first diagnostic session. And that the process of having a Morpheus installed would appear in his files.

Anya breathes in and out, deep and heavy breaths, like she can contain what’s wrong with the entire situation through meditative training.

Small talk drifts back and forth between them. Casual but somewhat stinted. Curly looks like he wants to peel off his skin and clean out every enhancement he’s ever had installed.

“Are you prepared for a physical inspection, Captain?”

“Physical?”

He echoes it nervously, picking at the edges of his nails absently, eyes flashing cerulean. She wonders absently what he's seeing in his far more advanced opticware: if there's none of the permanent fizz around the edges, if the alerts are clearer. Maybe, he can't see her at all, boxes and bubbles floating into his vision to report on the functioning of his own mind to him.

“Your neural processor. Are you prepared for me to do a brief physical inspection?”

The terminal beeps loudly, a flat attempt at a musical tone, and the diagnostic is done. No complications. His shoulders unwind finally, tight knots of stress sagging as he huffs out a sigh of relief. Unplugging his cable from the terminal, he watches it spool and disappear back into his forearm.

“Of course, Nurse Anya.”

The resignation in his voice, quiet obedience, rings hollow and sour with context. Her gut twists and swirls, unpleasantly nauseous. What sort of conditions lead a man to accept a Morpheus, to accept handing over his very body and mind for a profit?

Was he a soldier of the war? No, surely too young to serve like her father. Maybe, a more recent conflict. In the American forces, maybe. Taking on programming to march through the apocalypse or fly overhead with kiloton payloads, oblivious to anything he did. Only taking orders. 

A worker in the sex industry, maybe. A million words come to mind - all derogatory, all demeaning - and she swallows, a knot in her throat like she was about to bark them at him. It pays well, and there's nothing as profitable as serving anonymous clients a living toy who feels no pain. It pays better than a Pony Express Captain could ever dream of, so why leave it?

Pulling on her gloves, watching Curly heave himself into the medical gurney and start to strip, she scolds herself for letting her mind wander. Frankly, it's none of her business why he'd have one installed. That's private. It’s not impacted his work so far. She doesn’t know this man as a friend, and she’d have never known if it wasn't for the updated policy.

The upper part of his overalls hanging around his hips, Pony Express shirt lying folded on the cot beside him, he looks small and weak. Like a child, lost and scared. His lower lip is red and flaky, bitten down. He hates this.

“Are you alright, Captain? I can have someone else present, if it-”

“No. No, thank you. That won't be necessary, I'm just cold.”

He coughs, awkwardly, like it can smother his outburst. Her smile tightens, as he turns away from her. Hands clutching the edge of the gurney, Curly tilts his head forward and exposes the back of his neck.

Skin, usually freckled and pockmarked by overexposure to the sun, gives away to plates of painted titanium in a poor approximation of white skin, an off-cream stretching into his shoulder blades and neck. It’s only bracing the exposed neuralware, embedded deep into his upper spine and stretching down in interlocking plates.

Reaching out with her gloved hands, she prods around the edges of it for any swelling or complications. Nothing feels unusual to her, and Curly isn’t hiding flinches of pain as she squeezes around the seams. No overheating, no buildup of fluid, or signs of infection.

“How do you clean it, Captain?”

“Isopropyl alcohol and a toothbrush.”

Noting the angry inflammation and dry skin around the metal plates, at the seam where flesh has started to curl around titanium, she hums.

“I can see that’s causing irritation as it dries out your skin. Good thinking, but it can lead to infection as the skin breaks from the exposure.”

His shoulders lift halfway to his ears, hands clenched around the sleeves of his jumpsuit. She’s never seen him look so genuinely upset over a light chastising.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Pursing her lips tightly, she inspects the implant for any rust or corrosion. The sooner she can stop touching him, the better. His discomfort is making her stomach roll, tight with nausea. Her fingers ghost over the ports behind his right here, two slots for memory chips and other information downloads, and a thick circular port for cabling. That would be used to upload behavioural programs. 

“I have some products that won’t damage the implant, but may treat your skin a bit kinder. Moisturiser would help too, you know,” she mentions offhandedly, hoping to distract herself from the lingering thoughts.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Have you been experiencing dizziness, mood swings or lapses in memory?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Have you felt anxiousness, paranoia, or felt a sense of disconnect from yourself?” “No, ma’am.”

“Have you felt like you haven’t been acting like yourself, or that something else is dominating your actions?”

The silence stretches on like hot elastic, awkward and tight. It’s not a standard screening question, but by God, she’d hoped he would brush it off as a rephrasing. A mundane question for a mundane test for cyberpsychosis.

Curly’s shoulders are trembling, his breaths short and shallow. Whistling through his teeth, shoulders wound up like he’s ready to spring away.

“You know?”

Anya pulls her hands away, looks away from his bare back and faintly quivering curls. The sticky sound that snaps through the air as she tugs off the gloves makes Curly’s shoulders twitch like he’s holding himself back from bolting for the door.

“You know about it, Anya? The chip?”

She tosses them in the bin and stands. She needs distance, needs feet between her and Curly as he’s falling apart on the gurney. Throwing the gloves in the waste bin, she sighs heavily.

“Yes, Captain. I know about the Morpheus implant.”

In his scramble to get away from her, he almost knocks the gurney over. His breaths are thin and tight, rabbit-like as he presses his back up against the wall furthest from the desk.

“It’s alright, Curly.”

Grabbing his Pony Express shirt and tugging it over himself like a shield, he shudders at something unseen, ghosting over the back of his neck like her hands. Anya watches with a deepening pit of suspicion in her gut.

“I’ll leave you to dress, Captain. We can continue the check later.”

Making for the door, hoping to camp out in the kitchen until Curly’s regained his composure and calmed enough so that she can complete her diagnostic report, Anya feels the anxiousness start to unravel in her chest.

“You can't tell anyone, Anya.”

His fingers are tight around her wrist, bones aching at the sides where his hand squeezes. Trying to pull away only makes her stumble, his grip unyielding. The anxiousness beats and kicks.

“Let go of me.”

He finally looks at her, makes the eye contact that she’d been dreading. His eyes are near manic, a feral sort of fear only found in dogs about to bite. Flicking to the medical bay door, opening to the corridor and the lounge beyond that. To the rest of the ship, and to the crew.

“Please Anya, please? Don’t tell anyone about it, please.”

Stomach rolling, Anya distantly notes that his terror at the thought of it induces some sort of pity reaction. Maybe he fears faith in the Captaincy to crumble with the reveal. Maybe he fears judgement for the implication.

Maybe Anya will finally connect every single red flag and symptom he’s basically been screaming at her, the entirety of this diagnostic session. Maybe Anya is actually being a cunt right now. This is more than “my coworkers won’t like me”.

“Captain Curly. Let go of me.”

He drops her wrist like it burns, stumbling back and pressing it to his abdomen like he’s holding it away from her. Face pallid, chest heaving with his attempts to suck in full breaths of air.

“No one can know. What they’ll do to me… trips up here can get lonely. People can get lonely. Please, Anya? Please don’t tell anyone, I’ll… I'll do anything.”

The heavy implication lingers like a foul smell, sour when it hits the back of her throat with the sting of unshed tears. This is so awful, and God how she can’t bear it. The wreck he’s been reduced to, the way he says anything like his very survival depends on how much gravity he can impose onto it, how Anya interprets the word.

“I will tell no one, Curly. Your medical records are entirely confidential. No one has to know.”

Eventually, Curly gives up on floundering for words. Wriggles back into the top half of his jumpsuit, almost falling over as he scrambles to get himself presentable again. Anya just stares at the floor and thinks about taking anti-emetics on her lunch break. If the deducted payroll is worth it.

Curly rushes out of the room, collar popped high to hide that processor on his neck, and the dead pixel flashes, in a sea of cool blue.