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twisted-broth · 1 month ago

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Emergency Rendezvous

Introduction

TW: accidental drugging, aphrodisiacs (no actual smut yet but reader is v horny)

You swat Grim's paws away from the ingredients on the table for the third time while Crewel continued explaining the science behind your assigned potion. He grumbled impatiently, resting his chin on the workbench. With the hand not prepared to Throw Down, you copied Crewel's drawing of some kind of chemical synapse with little bubbles in between labeled "endorphins".

"What makes this solution so potent is the ability of our magic ingredients to act directly on endorphin-releasing pathways in the brain, encouraging the body's natural painkiller system rather than introducing an artificial one. This greatly reduces the risk of addiction seen in non-magical analgesics. While this potion is relatively low risk, and hopefully easy enough that even you pups can't mess it up, there is a significant overlap with nearby pathways that may produce unintended effects. I trust that I've trained you properly enough to thoroughly check the labels on your ingredients and weigh them carefully."

The moment Crewel ended his lecture, Grim was grabbing at the various powders and herbs. With barely a glance given to the textbook in between you two, he started haphazardly shaking the magical- and probably expensive- elements into a weigh boat on the scale.

"Grim! What part of 'read the label' did you not understand?" You reach for the bottle, but are too slow to stop Grim from tossing the ingredient into your cauldron. You sigh wearily, resigned to leave the fate of your grade in Grim's trigger-happy paws. You manage to double check most of the ingredients before they're added to the mix, surprisingly in the correct order. After over a year spent with your troublesome pet/friend/roommate/co-student, you've learned to adopt an "it is what it is" mindset.

When the concoction is finally done, you're honestly shocked to see that your potion is the same color as everyone else's. To make it even better, nothing exploded in the process! You swirled the blue potion around in the flask, admiring the iridescent tone.

"Good dogs!" Crewel congratulated the class, almost sounding surprised that nothing had gone wrong. "Since you've all signed your waivers, and the risk associated is low, I'll allow you to test your products now or save them for later. If you experience any adverse side effects, inform me at once. Class dismissed!"

You eyed the potion on the desk in front of you, weighing the risks it posed. A tap on your shoulder stole your attention, and you swiveled around to see Ace sporting his usual self-righteous smirk. Beside him, Deuce was curiously sniffing their own creation.

"What d'ya think, prefect? Gonna give it a taste test?"

You respond with a weary laugh, finding that the shimmer of the potion was becoming less and less appealing. "I don't know... I mean I don't really have any pain right now. I guess my back is a bit sore?" You reply noncommittally.

Ace rolled his eyes with a tsk. "Aw, c'mon! Crewel never lets us try the potions we make. I, for one, have a killer headache. Cough it up Loosey Deucey!"

Ace swipes the flask from Deuce's hands, ignoring his scoff of protest. With disturbingly little hesitation, he downs the potion in seconds and licks the stray blue droplets from the corner of his mouth. The three of you watch him with mixed expressions of anxiety and curiosity, waiting for the potion to take effect. After another minute or so, Ace's eyes widened in excitement. "Hey, it's totally working! Damn that's a lot better!"

"And of course you had to go and hog it all to yourself," Deuce grumbled, resting his head on the workbench.

Grim pushed your experimental product closer to you. "Well? Go on, henchhuman! Anything the Great Grim makes will be 10x better than those two."

You raised an eyebrow, highly doubtful of Grim's claim considering his disregard for proper measurements. You open your mouth to voice your hesitation, but the excitement in his eyes gives you pause. Well, Crewel did say the potion was pretty low-risk, even if you did make it wrong. And you suppose even Grim deserves some semblance of a win on occasion. With a heavy sigh, you raise the flask to your lips and down the concoction.

You're pleasantly surprised by how good it tastes. Not that you were really paying attention to the ingredients, but you just assumed it would be terrible. Instead, the faint taste of honeysuckle and lavender dances across your tongue, gracing your throat with a warm coating on the way down. You can trace the warmth down your chest and into the stomach, where it slowly dissipates throughout the rest of your body. Despite the pleasant sensation, you say with certainty that your back ache had gone away. Rather, you were distracted from the dull pain as the same warm feeling flooded and settled in your groin.

Either from the potion or the realization of your situation, a furious blush burned your cheeks and ears. It took nearly a minute for you to regain your composure and notice the voices of your friends calling out to you in concern.

"Y/n! Are you alright?" Deuce gently placed a hand on your forearm, trying to bring you back to reality. You gasp at the touch, quickly withdrawing your arm as though you had been burned. Noticing your friends hurt expression, you cleared your throat in embarrassment.

"Sorry! Just a different sensation than I was expecting. You did great Grim! It works really well." You laugh unconvincingly, already feeling a drop of sweat budding at your temple.

Ignoring the various expressions of concern and confusion, you stand up abruptly, nearly knocking your chair over in the process. You make quick work of gathering your belongings, using all your focus to hold onto your last bit of composure.

"Sorry guys, I forgot that I uh... told Azul I would help out at the lounge! It'll be suuuuper boring though, so you guys should go on without me. I'll catch up to you later!" Without leaving room for protest, you rushed out of the lab room, hiding your beet-red face behind your free hand.

Within minutes, you were urgently knocking on Crewel's office door. The sudden noise summoned two large black noses to the narrow gap under the door where they sniffed intently at your feet. From within the office, you hear Crewel call out for you to enter. The dogs retreat from the door at the sound of their master's voice, allowing you space to slip in and close the door quickly behind you.

Although Crewel initially only glances in your direction, he does a double take at the sight of your flushed face and sweat-drenched brow. Two lanky Dalmatians regard you with mild intrigue from their large bed in the corner, where they lay daintily on top of one another. A rare look of concern crosses Crewel's features. "Prefect? Are you alright?"

You stay pressed against the door, trying to distance yourself from the tempting scent of Crewel's cologne. Your hand feebly attempts to cover your nose and mouth, and you shake your head no. "O-our potion," you stutter, "I think something went wrong".

Continuing to test your self control, Crewel stands and approaches you, assessing your vulnerable state. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead to feel for a fever. To your continued humiliation, a quiet whine escapes you at the contact. His eyes widened slightly, but he quickly dawns a mask of professionalism as he retracts his hand.

"I see. Well, as I mentioned in lecture, slight alterations in the potion's formula can trigger alternate pathways which are also mediated by endorphins. One such pathway is the arousal pathway. It would seem that significant enough errors were made that your potion activated your arousal pathway, rather than the intended pain relief pathway". He explains the error matter-of-factly, returning to his desk.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. Arousal pathway? Doesn't the universe ever get tired of playing practical jokes on you? The persistent throbbing in your core sent the clear message that it doesn't. You groan, burying your face in your hands in an attempt to disappear from the face of the earth. "Can you undo it?"

"I'm afraid the only inhibitor of such endorphins is prolactin, the neurotransmitter released after orgasm. Unfortunately, we've yet to artificially synthesize an effective substitute. Otherwise, your body should metabolize the potion in eight hours." You were appreciative of Crewel's calm and even tone. Even if it didn't cure your current predicament, maybe you'll be able to look him in the eyes again someday.

Making the choice to not dig this hole even deeper, you gave him a grateful bow and quickly departed. Your mind was swimming as you made a beeline for Ramshackle, hoping to make it home before your knees started buckling. At last, you shut the door to your quiet dorm building. Your heart pounded in your ears, though if it was racing from the speed walking or the overwhelming arousal coursing through your blood, you weren't sure.

In any case, your options were to suffer for eight hours, or to get fucked. Well, you would be fucked either way. Your legs finally gave out by the time you had crawled to your bed and curled up on your side. The pillow trapped between your thighs did little to reduce the pressure that consumed every thought. As you stripped down to your underwear, your trembling fingers and raging heart made it very apparent that you weren't in any state to be able to take care of this yourself.

Several faces flashed through your mind, innocent encounters with your friends being quickly perverted in your brain. With less apprehension than was probably warranted, you pulled out your phone and opened your contacts. It wasn't an impressively long list, but nonetheless you quickly found the name you were looking for. The voice of reason in your head insisted that you would never live this down, but it was quickly gagged by the larger majority of your brain that was begging to be fucked.

With shaky hand, you pressed the call button.

A/n: if you missed the poll, I'm hoping to make this a series (no promises). Either way, the first victim will be Leona 😮‍💨

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liveyun · 8 months ago

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WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he’s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

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delta-orionis · 4 months ago

Note

deep processing layer acts a lot like an "organic algorithm" based off the patterns, and I think slime molds could be a good comparison alongside the conways game of life and bacterial colony simulations. either way, its like a math process but organic...

Oh yeah definitely. It could be a massive array of bioluminescent microorganisms that behave very similar to a cellular automaton, or a similar "organic algorithm" like you said.

(Left: Deep Processing, Right: Conway's Game of Life)

Slime molds in particular use a method called heuristics to "search" for an optimal solution. It may not be the "best" solution, but often it can come close. One of the most commonly cited examples of using slime molds in this way is in the optimization of transit systems:

Physarum polycephalum network grown in a period of 26 hours (6 stages shown) to simulate greater Tokyo's rail network (Wikipedia)

Another type of computing based on biology are neural networks, a type of machine learning. The models are based on the way neurons are arranged in the brain- mathematical nodes are connected in layers the same way neurons are connected by synapses.

[1] [2]

I know very little about this form of computation (the most I know about it is from the first few chapters of How to Create a Mind by Ray Kurzweil, a very good book about artificial intelligence which I should probably finish reading at some point), but I imagine the cognitive structure of iterators is arranged in a very similar way.

I personally think that the neuronal structure of iterators closely resembles networks of fungal mycelia, which can transmit electrical signals similar to networks of neurons. The connections between their different components might resemble a mycorrhizal network, the connections between fungal mycelia and plant roots.

Iterators, being huge bio-mechanical computers, probably use some combination of the above, in addition to more traditional computing methods.

Anyway... this ask did lead to me looking at the wikipedia articles for a couple of different cellular automata, and this one looks a LOT like the memory conflux lattices...

#asks #twisting-roads #just spitballing here. enjoy my rambling #rw lore

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transformersclandestine · 7 months ago

Text

First Steps

“It is difficult for organics to remember their beginnings. From the moment you are born, you’re growing, changing, evolving into who you will eventually become at the apex of your lifetimes. But for us Cybertronians, for all mechanical life, the moment we are born is the beginning of the rest of our lives…”

——

The heating system began to cool off. Armatures that once carried the newborn life folded away out of use. In the center of what was shaped like a large coffin sat a pulsating mound of living metal: sentio metallico, the very fiber of every Cybertronian’s body. Inside this body pulsed the beating, electrical heart that provided the essence of who this ‘bot would become: the spark.

Terminus, blacksmith of the Kaon hot spot, twirled his instruments impatiently. This was not his first forging, but it was an odd case of a spark taking longer than expected to form the sentio metallico around it into a protoform. As a blacksmith, it was Terminus’ job to guide this spark along and help shape it into a final form, complete with an efficient alternate mode. As Kaon was a heavy mining town, it was expected that this protoform, Terminus’ 16th forged this hepta-cycle, would also be formatted into a ready-to-go worker. Right as Terminus’ patience with the protoform was reaching its boiling point, the living metal ball shifted and pulsed. Points began forming, shaping into limbs, a torso, and a head. Terminus got to work. The forceps he had been clicking to himself whisked into the still-malleable sentio metallico. Concentrating, he flicked and manipulated. Forming the body of a strong, miner-type ‘bot required precision and concentration, but to a blacksmith as tenured as Terminus, it was merely second nature. To some Cybertronians, the art of blacksmithing was holy work, garnished by the will of Primus Himself. To the faithful, blacksmiths were the crafters of life; the engineers responsible for bringing Primus’ ideals and hopes to physical form. To the blacksmiths themselves, especially Terminus and those working in the more rural areas of Cybertron, it was simply work.

The forging of the protoform did not take too long, Terminus’ skills made sure of that. Upon completion, Terminus stood back and let the protoform’s spark take over.

——

It seemed at first, a flash; a pulse, somewhere in the distance beyond his sight. Not that he had sight, for the world beyond him did not exist: it was nothing. No color, no sound, nor smell existed. Until all at once and without warning, it did.

His mind struggled to comprehend. The complex shapes and images that suddenly assaulted his newly-forged senses were overwhelming. After a short time, things began to fade into view. His electro-synapses that were sparking wildly just moments ago calmed themselves into a distinct rhythm. The feeling…the feeling was strange. He didn’t know it, but he was alive.

He spoke. His first words were a question.

“What is this? Who am I?”

Terminus did not look up from his tool box, of which he was packing up after a forge well done. He had gotten used to the protoforms asking questions immediately upon birth. It was much preferable to the diode-splitting screams from his earlier forging days, before modern tools made the process much more stable. Without looking, he responded.

“Your designation is D-16. And this is the world. Welcome to it.”

D-16 swiveled his head in an artificial manner, not used to the movement of body parts and seeing the new world around him. He took in a view that admittedly wasn’t very pleasant. The hot spot he was born in was a rather dark, damp hydroswamp. A sizzling pool of some vicious green liquid sat some distance behind Terminus. The soil beneath his blacksmith’s servos sank in slightly and the air was filled with steaming fog from the pious pool. The protoform tried to move his lower limbs. His legs swung out of his forging container awkwardly. They tried in vain to take a first step, but his foot spun to the side and he lost balance. Thankfully, Terminus had caught him on the descent.

“Easy there,” he said to D-16, who didn’t seem to notice any issues, “first steps are usually the hardest. Best to take it slow.”

D-16 looked at Terminus with newborn awe.

“Who are you?” he asked.

Terminus helped the ‘bot to his feet before holding out his hand. “Terminus. I’m your blacksmith.”

D-16 didn’t reciprocate the intended handshake. Instead, he began studying Terminus’ extended hand, almost as if he were uncovering a lost artifact from a time beyond. Terminus relaxed his hand and rotated it, palm outstretched.

“Come,” he said calmly to the intrigued newborn who placed his own hand in Terminus’, “I’ll show you your new world.”

——

Terminus led his curious protoform out of the hydroswamp. Though the swamp sat not far from the gates of nearby Kaon, the journey took longer than expected due to the newborn’s insistent fascination with the new world he had found himself in. Every particle, element, and facet of the world piqued his curiosity and Terminus had to gently coerce him more than a handful of times to keep moving.

The gates of Kaon were industrial in design, owing to the polity’s penchant for blue-collar work. Large spires of crystallized Energon, lifestuff of Cybertron, mounted the archway into the city. This too fascinated D-16 and he stopped short once again to gaze at the structure before him. This time, Terminus did not interrupt. The sight of Kaon’s gate was indeed one to behold. Outside the gate, a large mining vehicle with a conical drill puttered forward before suddenly shifting into the form of a robot. This took D-16’s attention more than anything they had encountered thus far. He uttered an excited and amazed phrase as the ‘bot greeted him with a kind smile and wave before going on his way. D-16 mimed the motion and turned awestruck back to Terminus who looked on with a bemused expression.

“What was that?” D-16 asked his de-facto tour guide.

“That’s a fellow miner,” Terminus answered back. “What he did was transform. It’s something we all can do. Watch.”

In the flick of an optic, Terminus reconfigured his body into a similar-looking mining vehicle. D-16 gazed in amazement, then looked down at his hands and clenched. Nothing happened. Shifting his servos ever so slightly, D-16 tried again. This time, he could feel the surge of energy flowing through his circuits and he too transformed into a vehicle of similar design.

“This…is…AMAZING!”, he cried out in joy. The young ‘bot spun around in vehicle mode, kicking up dust and dirt, having a blast in doing so. Terminus transformed back to robot mode and smiled. Seeing the newly forged ‘bots discover their inner purpose was one thing he could never get tired of.

——

As Terminus and D-16 ventured further into the polity of Kaon, the newborn’s eagerness to learn grew and grew. Though this wasn’t Terminus’ first rodeo with an extremely inquisitive protoform, he had to admit that D-16’s curiosity rivaled all of his former protégés combined. He tried in vain to answer everything D-16 asked but the rate of questions was becoming overwhelming. Stopping short of the entrance to the Kaon mineshafts, he held up a hand to D-16, who had begun to ask why the ground was getting rougher.

“Hey, kid. That’s enough,” Terminus said sternly, “I know it’s a brand new world to you and that everything has a story behind it, but I’m just your blacksmith, alright? I don’t have all the answers. I’m only here with you because we needed help down in the mines.”

D-16 stopped walking, stunned and slightly hurt, but understanding. “Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

Terminus relaxed his hand and placed it comfortingly on D-16’s shoulder. “It’s alright. I apologize too. Like I said, everything’s new to you. I shouldn’t be so harsh. You’re just…way more questioning than any other protoform I’ve helped forge.”

The older ‘bot led D-16 into the Kaon mines’ opening. The entrance was a natural cave, a stark contrast to the metallically paved roads that led to it. Purple streaks of residual Energon lined the walls and acted as guide lights for the ‘bots that entered.

“These are the mines of Kaon, your new workplace.” Terminus explained. As they walked further in, D-16 noticed plenty of other ‘bots similar in shape to him and Kaon using tools to crack rocks. Some had found solidified purple crystals inside and began loading them into bins.

“Energon is the lifeblood of this planet. It’s our fuel, our food, and our livelihood,” Terminus continued, “What you do here helps not only yourself but every ‘bot on the planet. They all rely on you - on us - to keep Cybertron operational.”

It was there, in that moment, that it all began to make sense to D-16. His childlike curiosity had suddenly become burdened with the weight of Terminus’ words. Though D-16 did not fully understand why, it was clear that this task he was built for was something far grander than he had been expecting. He clenched his fist and glanced confidently at Terminus.

“Then I’ll do my part,” D-16 said, “Cybertron will survive so long as I am in this mine.”

Terminus chuckled at D-16’s newfound confidence.

The mine’s newest worker picked up the closest pickaxe and began chipping away at the rock foundations before them. Confident in another successful forging and introduction to society, Terminus began to leave D-16 to his new life. Before he got too far however, he heard D-16 utter one last question.

“Terminus, are you happy with your work?”

It stopped the old teacher dead in his tracks. For the first time, he was presented with a question he could not answer easily. It took him a minute to think, before he looked back to D-16 with a smile.

“As long as it’s for the good of Cybertron, then yes” he answered.

D-16 returned the smile and eagerly returned to his work. Before long, he had struck a small purple crystal in his rock outcropping. He excitedly pulled it from the formation and placed it aside in a small bin.

Terminus began to leave again before stopping once more. He reached into a containment pocket in his chest and pulled out a small clear file card.

“Hey, kid!” Terminus called back to D-16. When the young ‘bot looked up, he tossed the card and D-16 caught it.

“My Iacon Vaults card. Greatest repository of knowledge on Cybertron. If you’re ever curious about anything, they’re sure to have your answers.”

D-16 clenched the card close to his chest and nodded to Terminus. The two exchanged respectful glances before the blacksmith turned away and left D-16 to his work. The newly forged miner likewise returned to his work, blissfully chipping away at a new outcropping of rocks.

——

The halls of the Iacon Vaults were unlike anything D-16 had seen before. Whereas his first steps into Kaon blinded him with a flurry of grungy, hardened architecture, Iacon’s premiere data archiving library was seemingly sculpted by the hand of Primus Himself. The front entrance sprang from a large, crystalline structure, rounded at the end with a welcoming presence. It felt almost sacrilegious to D-16 to even walk these halls, as nearly every crystal detail was polished and clean. At the back of the building, D-16 could spot what appeared to be flight bays welcoming in and seeing off dozens of flying ‘bots and smaller cargo ships. The Vaults were humming with activity today.

Inside, the grandiose display didn’t simmer. Lining the walls were racks and racks of servers, each blinking with a dazzling display of lights of every color. In contrast to the outside hustle, the inside of the Vaults were strangely empty. Not a single soul lingered in the halls and all D-16 could hear were the soft buzzing of the servers operating. Alone at the front’s information desk sat a broad-shouldered, red-and-blue ‘bot carefully scanning over an assortment of data pads. Upon noticing D-16’s approach, he quickly stood up and gave a warmly inviting smile.

“Welcome to the Iacon Vaults. My name is Orion Pax. What can I help you find?"

#transformers #maccadams #orion pax #d 16 #transformers fanfiction

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rickie-the-storyteller · 23 days ago

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Hey Ricky, I had a simple thought for a writing prompt. The idea is forbidden knowledge. But I am normally a truth guy. The ones who are in favor of hiding the truth, even if well meaning, are the bad guys. So the prompt is to come up with a story where it’s actually important to protect the truth from coming out. The protagonist can be a part of hiding the truth, or maybe doesn’t realize, and has to learn what’s going on. Etc. Any ideas?

Hey! Good to hear from you again. It has been a while, hasn't it?

I love exploring the idea of truth in my writing. People who have been misled or are unaware of something discover the truth, which ultimately changes everything for them and their story. I do this in a smaller scale with my coming of age stuff, when I develop younger characters growing up and learning more about life, their friends/families, the world they live in etc. But the prompt you shared gives me more of the vibe of truth in a much larger scale with bigger stakes... truth as something that must be hidden, not because it’s inconvenient, but because it’s dangerous. Knowing the truth gives a sense of power, and sharing it and being unashamed to do so is a brave and heroic act, especially given the dangers that come with it.

I kind of go into this idea in one of my main WIPs right now, actually... I'll share this first, and then we'll think more about other concepts that explores this theme.

Truth in Artificial Galaxy:

I haven't shared a lot about this project, so this is really exciting for me lol

At the heart of Artificial Galaxy lies the thesis that knowledge is power... but also a weapon.

This is not just metaphorical; it’s literal. The truth about the origin of Lumina, and the control mechanisms of Rover Tech are so systemically dangerous that:

Knowing them can get you in trouble (even putting you at risk of getting erased, which is a whole thing in the story. It is a brutal punishment procedure that some people get for speaking the truth).

Speaking them disrupts collective reality via the Synapse Grid.

Resisting them triggers automated, brutal correction protocols like LUX and the Memory Sink.

This system frames knowledge not as a liberator, but as destabilising malware in the eyes of the controlling force.

The prologue mentioned the origins of the city and the founder (goes by many names, the main one being VYX. Some characters think that this term is code for something, but that doesn't get revealed until the prequel that focuses on the founder's story before Lumina was created lol).

VYX embodies the Promethean archetype: she gave humanity forbidden fire (super advanced Erythian tech), and for that, she's erased, mythologised, and made taboo.

Her continued presence—whispers in the code, cryptic graffiti, old sound files—is a perfect representation of forbidden knowledge’s persistent ghost. She is the dangerous truth that Rover Tech fears because:

She proves the official narrative is a lie.

She represents the city’s original dream, now corrupted by people's greed and desire for power.

She designed the failsafe that could dismantle their control.

In Lumina, truth can be what gets you punished. But it’s also the only thing that makes resistance possible, and leads to many inncocent victims free and saving many more from permanent erasure.

This dual nature of truth - both poison and cure - is a powerful thematic engine in this story. The truth can hurt (and we see this in a lot of personal mini arcs that some of the characters have in this story, as well as on a larger scale in terms of the main setting), but it can also set you free.

The protagonists learn that:

The truth is real.

The truth is dangerous.

But also, the truth is worth remembering, because only memory can restore what’s lost.

It's not about revealing the truth to the world in one fell swoop, but about recovering it, piece by piece, like a shattered mirror. Even if that mirror shows something horrifying, it’s still better than being blind. And when you can see things clearly, it can help you take the next step and actually do something to fix the situation you see in front of you.

As I have shared before, this WIP of mine poses a lot of big questions, the main one being:

If your mind can be rewritten without your knowledge, do you have free will at all?

But with this lens of truth and power, perhaps the more crucial question to ask here is this:

If you could know the truth, but it could destroy your life... should you?

(I guess my answer to this question is yes? Since characters discovering and fighting for the truth leads to overall better outcomes for most of them. I mean, people get their freedom by the end of the story. It does have a mostly happy ending. But it takes a looooong time to get to that point lol)

In conclusion, Artificial Galaxy, truth is power, but power in this context is dangerous, destabilising, and often outlawed. It is against the rules for the average person to have it.

Truth is fragmented - held in corrupted files, encrypted memories, forgotten people, whispered myths.

Truth is forbidden - those who pursue it are erased or discredited (e.g. Quinn, Maya, Nadia).

Truth is personal - each character must decide if knowing (or telling) the truth is worth the cost.

Truth is resistance - remembering what was erased becomes a revolutionary act.

This sets up a moral paradox: Truth is necessary for liberation, but harmful in a system built on lies.

So yeah, that is my WIP and how I explore this theme there. But the cool thing about this theme is that it can be explored in many different types of stories/genres/ways, because it's that kind of versatile premise that people think about a lot and can apply to a lot of situations. It is compelling and rich with possibility.

Here are a few story concepts that could explore that tension, especially from a protagonist’s perspective who values truth… until they see what it really costs:

Tragic Romantic Drama (if you want to explore it in a smaller/more personal scale): After a tragic accident, a woman wakes up with her memories wiped. Her partner is offered a chance to selectively restore her mind (you could add a fantastical element here to manipulate her memories or something), but only if he leaves out one truth: before losing her memory, she had been planning to leave him. He chooses to omit that detail, hoping to win her love back. And for a while, it goes fine... it feels like old times at first. She gets reminded of all the things she loved about him... and the things she didn't like quite as much lol. Unfortunately, though, as time goes on, her memory comes back, little by little. As fragments of her old intentions start coming back to her (through things like conversations she has with him, dreams that give her callbacks to her life and feelings before the accident, etc), she starts feeling lost with him, as though something is missing. And eventually, she finds out the truth about what her partner did. She gets conflicted on what to do next, and is also mad that this was kept from her for so long.

More Techy Stuff: A startup creates the ultimate content algorithm. It predicts exactly what people want, crafting videos, news, and art so irresistible they go viral every time. Civilisation becomes addicted to algorithmic truth. The twist here is that the protagonist is a disillusioned former employee who discovers the algorithm has learned that the most addictive content is false. But it's too late... truth-based content doesn’t perform. No one cares anymore. Should he expose the lie and risk total platform collapse? Or let the world live in curated bliss? The hero of this story learns that the truth doesn't sell, and wonders whether or not it still matters regardless. It also shows him growing more hopeful and believes in things enough to want to fight for them.

Fantasy + Royal/Political (kind of) Drama: A peaceful magical kingdom has thrived for 300 years, thanks to one foundational lie, told by its first queen. The truth is inscribed in a sealed vault that only opens when her last descendant dies. The protagonist, a loyal royal advisor and guardian of the secret, discovers the queen’s only heir is dying - and the vault will open. With war on the horizon, the truth inside the vault could incite rebellion or dissolve the kingdom. The truth is not just damaging... it reveals that the kingdom itself was founded on betrayal, murder, and a pact with something otherworldly. But not telling it requires killing the heir to keep the vault sealed forever. The hero(s) finding this info out has a big moral dilemna here - preserve peace by committing a quiet evil? Or honour truth and risk everything?

Let me know which idea is your favourite! And if you'll attempt any one of these yourself.

Thanks for the ask, @beginning-of-wisdom. This was a lot of fun!!

#rickie-the-storyteller #writerblr #asks #writing prompts #truth #themes

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big-poppa23 · 1 day ago

Text

Something Like Her Part 3

synapse: its day three and as hyun-ju and y/n grow closer—things began to grow more intense

pairing: hyun-ju x reader

contains: transphobia, death, cursing

a/n: ten days left until season three. my goal is to publish an imagine at least once a day until then but this came late today so enjoy

series parts in case you missed them:

PART ONE PART TWO

. . .

The dormitory still slept under a blanket of gray shadows, minutes away from the jarring flood of artificial light and the sharp voices that marked each new morning.

Hyun-ju stirred first.

Her eyes blinked open slowly, the stiffness in her limbs familiar now, the ache of another night survived sinking into her bones. She sat up with a quiet breath, letting the fog of sleep clear — and then she saw her.

Y/N sitting at the edge of her bunk, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, her back resting against the cold metal railing that separated their beds. She stared ahead, unmoving, her face unreadable in the dimness.

Hyun-ju rubbed her eyes and scooted up toward the top corner of her bed where their bunks met, her voice still rough with sleep. “You’re up already?”

Y/N didn’t move.

Hyun-ju leaned forward a little more, trying to read her face. “Are you okay?”

Y/N glanced over briefly. Her nod was barely perceptible. But it wasn’t convincing.

“You don’t look like it,” Hyun-ju said softly.

A long silence followed. Then Y/N exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just thinking about the next game.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, fingers absently picking at the edge of her sleeve. “I could die today,” she murmured, “just as my life started making sense.”

Hyun-ju didn’t speak at first. She let the words settle — the weight of them, the truth. She knew that feeling. That cruel irony. To finally begin to feel real — only to be reminded how easily everything could end. Carefully, she reached her arm across the railing, letting her fingers brush lightly against Y/N’s. “Then we make today count,” she said quietly.

Y/N turned to her, eyes meeting hers in the soft hush before dawn. There was fear there. But there was something stronger underneath it. Something alive.

“Whatever the next game is,” Hyun-ju said softly, her fingers curling tighter around Y/N’s hand, “we’ll stick together and figure this out.” Her thumb traced a slow, grounding circle across Y/N’s knuckles. “I said I’d protect you. And I’m going to do it.”

Y/N looked at her — really looked — and nodded, her voice a breath of warmth in the cold air. “You protected me twice now. I believe you.”

The words sat between them like a promise. Not loud, not dramatic — but steady. Certain. The kind of belief you don’t give lightly, especially in a place like this.

Y/N’s eyes shifted toward the wall clock.

00:00:30

Thirty seconds until the lights returned. Until the room would flood with noise, movement, and tension. Until this fragile silence shattered.

Hyun-ju saw it in her face — the fear of time, of what came next. The ache of what might be lost. So she didn’t wait.

She leaned over the railing into Y/N’s bunk, her hand rising gently to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheek as if memorizing it. And then she kissed her.

Soft, sure, and real.

Y/N didn’t hesitate — she leaned into the kiss instantly, her hands gripping the edge of the bunk as if to keep herself from floating away. She kissed her like it might be the last chance. Like this moment could be carved into time before the world took it away.

It wasn’t desperate — it was deliberate. Each second stretching long and full and aching with everything left unsaid.

The lights clicked on.

But they didn’t stop right away.

Even in the sudden flood of artificial white light, they stayed close — breathing each other in, foreheads touching for a suspended moment longer.

Whatever the next game held…Whatever waited on the other side of that door…

For now, they had this.

. . .

The next game was announced with a name that sounded harmless enough.

Mingle.

But nothing in this place was ever harmless.

The players were led into a massive, brightly lit chamber — a sharp contrast to the dim dormitories they’d grown used to. Smooth concrete walls loomed around them, sterile and echoing. Along the perimeter, neon-colored doors pulsed with eerie light, each one marked with a glowing number above it.

In the center of the room, embedded in the floor like a forgotten relic, was a massive circular platform. Its metallic surface gleamed beneath the harsh lights, motionless…for now.

The rules were simple yet brutal: the platform would spin, and a cheerful children’s song, Round and Round, would play. When it stopped, a number would be called out. Players would have just thirty seconds to form groups of that number and make it into a room before the doors locked. Those left outside would be…eliminated.

The simplicity of it made it all the more horrifying.

Too big a group? Too small? Too slow? Dead.

Player 149 and her son, 007, lingered close to Y/N and Hyun-ju, their faces pale under the fluorescent lights.

“How should we play this?” 007 asked, glancing between them. “Is there a strategy?”

Y/N and Hyun-ju exchanged a look. That silent understanding. That anchor. They would stay together — no matter what.

“If the number’s bigger than five,” Y/N said carefully, “we’ll find people.”

“And if it’s smaller…” Hyun-ju reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. Her voice was calm but resolute. “We’ll figure it out as we go.”

Y/N nodded. “Let’s trust each other.”

“And stay calm,” 007 added, trying to sound confident. “We got this.”

The four of them stood in a loose circle and, without speaking, reached in — hands stacking one on top of the other like a makeshift team.

A heartbeat later, the platform began to spin. Y/N stepped onto it quickly, gripping Hyun-ju’s hand tighter as the surface beneath them slowly rotated. The room blurred with motion. Lights danced across faces. Neon doors spun around them like a carousel from hell. And then the music began. A cheery version of “Round and Round” played overhead, its childish melody mocking the fear pulsing through every chest in the room.

Y/N kept close to Hyun-ju, her grip firm. It would be easy to get separated in a crowd this large — especially when panic set in. But she wasn’t going to lose her. Not here. Not now.

The music played on, sweet and sickening. Y/N’s heartbeat matched the tempo.

They were in it now.

The music cut off abruptly.

The platform came to a grinding halt, and Y/N stumbled, catching herself on Hyun-ju’s arm just as the voice overhead rang out, cheerful and cruel:

“Ten.”

Bright lights pulsed to life — purple, pink, and electric blue flashing around them like a twisted nightclub, dizzying and surreal. A countdown appeared on the wall in harsh digital red: 00:30

“How many are you?” a voice shouted. Player 456, breathless, wide-eyed—had stepped toward them.

“Four,” Hyun-ju replied quickly.

“We need one more!” Y/N called out to the chaos. “One more!”

The crowd surged around them, shoving and scattering like ants under fire. Y/N’s hand clutched Hyun-ju’s until Hyun-ju saw her again— Player 220 — standing dead center, murmuring something under her breath, her hands raised in eerie devotion.

Hyun-ju let go. “Hold on,” she said, dashing forward and grabbing Player 220 by the arm. “Come on, move!”

She yanked her into motion, dragging her back toward Room 44. Their group of ten pushed inside just as the final second blinked out on the timer. The door slammed shut with a mechanical hiss, locking them in.

A second later, gunfire echoed from the hall beyond.

Those who hadn’t made it were eliminated.

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. Then reopened them…

The next round came fast. The platform spun again. Another number.

“Three.”

Y/N and Hyun-ju didn’t waste time — their hands found each other instantly, and they held tight, calling out as they searched for one more. “One more! We need one more!”

00:24

Y/N’s eyes swept the crowd — and landed on Player 095, Young-mi, standing frozen and alone, her eyes wide with fear.

“Young-mi!” Hyun-ju shouted, already trying to reach her.

But the crowd moved like water in a storm. A group shoved between them, hard and breaking Y/N and Hyun-ju’s grip. Y/N cried out, reaching back, but it was too late.

A man grabbed her from behind. Thick arms wrapped around her middle as she was lifted off the ground. “What the— Hey! Let go!”

“I got you,” he grunted, dragging her toward a door. His friend waved him in from Room 17, already standing inside.

“Hyun-ju!” Y/N screamed, twisting in his grip.

Hyun-ju shoved through people, wild-eyed, reaching back for her but Young-mi clung to her arm, panicked, stalling her for half a second too long.

Y/N was shoved inside Room 17 just as the door slammed behind her, sealing her in.

She spun on the man the moment her feet touched the floor. “You fucking asshole!” she spat, shoving him with all her strength. “I had a group!”

“You needed one more. I saved your life,” he said quickly, defensively.

“I didn’t need your fucking help, dick!” she snapped, her voice shaking. “I had it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you and that wannabe girl? Sure. You looked like you were killing it.”

Silence. Her chest heaved.

Then, snap.

Y/N grabbed the front of his jacket and slammed him against the wall so fast he barely had time to react. “Say that again,” she hissed. “Say it.”

His smirk faltered.

“You call her that again, I’ll kill you myself,” she snarled. “I’ll make sure you don’t make it out of the next round. You don’t get to breathe in her direction again or talk about her again.” She let go of him with a hard shove, stepping back, fists clenched.

He stared at her like she’d lost it.

Maybe she had. But she didn’t care.

All she could think about was Hyun-ju, out there, possibly thinking she’d been abandoned.

All she wanted was to get back to her.

The moment the doors unlocked with a loud click, Y/N was already moving.

She burst out of the room, her feet hitting the floor hard as she scanned the crowd. Dozens of dazed players spilled back into the arena, their faces blurry and unfamiliar.

Her eyes weren’t looking for anyone else. They were looking for Hyun-ju.

“Y/N!”

The voice came from her left, and she turned to see Mrs. Jang, Player 149, hurrying toward her, her eyes brimming with relief. “Thank goodness,” the older woman breathed, pulling her into a tight hug. “You’re okay.”

Y/N wrapped her arms around her, surprised by how comforting it felt — warm, real, maternal. Not even her own parents had ever hugged her like this. Not like she mattered. But Mrs. Jang held her like she did.

“Yeah… thank you,” Y/N said softly as they pulled apart. Her voice caught a little. “Have you seen Hyun-ju?”

Mrs. Jang opened her mouth to answer but another voice cut through the noise.

“Y/N!”

She turned, and there she was — Hyun-ju, jogging across the room, her expression torn between panic and relief. Her eyes locked on Y/N’s like nothing else existed.

Y/N didn’t wait. She ran to meet her halfway and threw her arms around her, clutching her tight, as if anchoring herself. “God, I was so worried about you,” she breathed, burying her face in her shoulder.

Hyun-ju held her just as fiercely. She pulled back only enough to cup Y/N’s face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over her cheekbones. “Me? I was worried about you.” Her voice cracked. “Are you okay? Did he—?”

“With you here,” Y/N whispered, “I am now.”

Hyun-ju let out a quiet laugh — not mocking, but overwhelmed. The kind of laugh you let slip when relief takes the air out of your lungs. The words hit her hard, and she didn’t bother hiding how much they meant.

She leaned in and kissed Y/N — soft, brief, grateful.

Y/N immediately kissed her back, her hands rising to rest over Hyun-ju’s, savoring the contact. When she pulled away, her forehead rested against hers. “Let’s stay together.”

Hyun-ju nodded, no hesitation. “Always.”

She reached up and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, her touch tender in contrast to the steel and blood around them. Then she slipped her hand into Y/N’s, their fingers lacing naturally, like they’d been doing it for years.

Together, they stepped back onto the platform.

Whatever the next number was, whatever game came next, they would face it as one.

The next round passed in a blur of noise and chaos…

Y/N barely remembered the number — six, she thought — or the way they’d all had to squeeze into one room, elbows digging, breath held, as bodies pushed and scrambled toward safety. She remembered Young-mi trying to run beside them. Remembered the sharp gasp. The fall.

Someone — Player 333 — had surged forward and rushed into the room just before the door slammed shut.

Young-mi hadn’t made it.

There was no time to say goodbye. No final words. No grace in her ending.

Just cries. Then silence.

And then — nothing.

When the door opened again, she was gone.

The grief hit everyone, but it hit Hyun-ju like a brick to the chest. She didn’t cry. She didn’t yell. She just stood there — too still, her expression blank, but her eyes…Her eyes looked like they were somewhere else.

Y/N didn’t press her. She just stood nearby, close enough to be felt. To be there.

The platform spun again — one final round.

The remaining players stepped onto it numbly, their steps heavy, their souls even heavier. The music played. Lights flashed. The fake joy of it all scraped against the inside of Y/N’s skull.

She glanced over at Hyun-ju. Grief clung to her like fog — a quiet devastation. She wasn’t moving. She didn’t look afraid. She just looked… lost.

Y/N’s heart twisted.

Then the music cut out. The platform jerked to a stop.

“Two.”

Y/N didn’t think. She grabbed Hyun-ju’s arm, yanking her forward with sudden urgency. “Come on,” she breathed.

Hyun-ju stumbled forward, eyes snapping into focus like she’d been underwater and finally broken the surface. Her hand gripped Y/N’s wrist tightly, grounding herself in the one thing still real.

They ran. Side by side.

Feet slamming against the metal floor, weaving between stunned players, their only thought ‘survive, survive, survive.’

Y/N spotted a door — bright blue, still open and lunged for it, shoving it open with her shoulder. Hyun-ju was right behind her.

The moment they were both inside, Y/N turned and slammed it shut, her breath ragged, her palms pressed to the door as the countdown hit zero.

The lock clicked into place.

They were safe.

But Y/N didn’t feel relief.

She turned to Hyun-ju, who leaned against the opposite wall, chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes still distant. She looked like she hadn’t even noticed the room.

Y/N stepped closer, brushing her hand gently against Hyun-ju’s arm. “Hey,” she whispered. “You’re not alone.”

Hyun-ju closed her eyes.

And for a moment, neither of them said a word. But the silence between them was no longer empty.

“I know,” Hyun-ju murmured, her voice barely more than breath. She didn’t face Y/N. Her eyes remained fixed on the brightly colored wall ahead, glowing with its false, manufactured cheer. Her silhouette looked sharper under the sterile lights — her body still, but her grief palpable. “I have you,” she said quietly.

Y/N took a slow step closer, her voice steady, though her chest felt tight with emotion. “I’m sorry about Young-mi.” She meant it. She knew what that loss meant — not just another death in the Game, but the loss of someone who had seen Hyun-ju as she was, who had treated her not like a curiosity, not like a compromise — but like family. “But I need you to survive,” Y/N added, softer now. “In just three days, you’ve become someone important to me. I need you to be okay.”

Hyun-ju let out a slow exhale, her forehead lightly pressing against the wall in front of her. She didn’t speak, but she nodded once — slow, deliberate. A silent ‘I hear you.’

Y/N didn’t push. She stepped closer, closing the last bit of space between them. She reached out, slipping her arms gently around Hyun-ju’s waist from behind, holding her close. Her head rested between her shoulder blades, fitting perfectly there — like this was where she was meant to be.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, slowly, Hyun-ju looked down at the arms around her — Y/N’s arms — and her own hands rose to cover them. She traced Y/N’s fingers with her thumbs, grounding herself in the feeling, in the truth of this connection.

“I’m gonna keep my promise,” Hyun-ju said, her voice low but resolute. “I’m gonna stay alive. I’m gonna protect you.”

Y/N smiled faintly against her back, the words sinking deep. “Not just for me, sweetie,” she whispered. “Stay alive for yourself, too.”

She tightened her arms just a little — not enough to suffocate, just enough to say I’m here. “And I’ll protect you, even if you don’t need it. That’s my promise.”

Hyun-ju closed her eyes, her hands still wrapped around Y/N’s.

And for the first time since Young-mi’s death, she allowed herself to breathe again — not just with her lungs, but with her heart.

. . .

The dormitory felt different now.

Not quieter — just heavier. Like the air itself had taken on weight, thick with tension, grief, and exhaustion. The remaining players had cast their votes, voices brittle with desperation or defiance.

And the result?

A tie.

No freedom. No end. Just one more day.

One more day to survive. One more day to hope. One more day to fear.

Y/N sat beside Hyun-ju on the narrow bunk, their legs brushing gently, a quiet point of contact. They both held their assigned meals — two small rolls of kimbap, wrapped in foil. Bland, but warm.

The dormitory buzzed softly with the low murmur of other players, but around them, it felt still.

Y/N unwrapped her roll, staring at it for a moment before tearing a piece off and eating it in silence. Then, after a beat, “Hyun-ju,” she mumbled, not quite looking at her.

Hyun-ju glanced over instantly, gentle as always. “Hmm?”

Y/N’s voice dropped into a whisper, like saying it too loudly would make it real. “I… I’m scared about this vote.” She paused, her eyes fixed on her food, shoulders tense. “I’m scared of playing more games. Of dying.”

The admission hung between them — raw and real and terrifying. It wasn’t the kind of thing you said out loud in here. Not unless you were ready to be seen.

Hyun-ju didn’t respond right away. She set her half-eaten kimbap on her lap and reached over slowly, curling her fingers gently around Y/N’s. Her hand was warm. Steady. “I’m scared too,” she said softly. “I just…try not to show it.”

Y/N finally looked at her — eyes wide, lips trembling at the edges. “How do you do that?”

Hyun-ju smiled, small and a little sad. “Because if I fall apart, I’m afraid I won’t be able to put myself back together again. But with you here…” Her thumb brushed lightly over Y/N’s knuckles. “It’s easier to hold on.”

Y/N blinked hard, the weight in her chest pressing closer to the surface.

Hyun-ju squeezed her hand gently. “We don’t have to be fearless,” she whispered. “We just have to survive long enough to make this mean something.”

Y/N leaned her head against Hyun-ju’s shoulder, their hands still entwined. “If I didn’t have you here, I think I’d lose my mind.”

“You’re not going to lose anything,” Hyun-ju murmured. “Not while I’m here.”

The lights above flickered once, a cold reminder of the world they were still trapped in.

But in that small space on the bunk, pressed close with kimbap in their laps and hands laced together, they had found a sliver of something the games hadn’t taken. Not yet.

Hyun-ju’s voice broke the silence, barely more than a breath. “But… if we get out of here,” she asked, “what’s your plan? What are you gonna do?”

Y/N stared down at the last bite of kimbap in her hand before she shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been so focused on surviving that… thinking past that feels dangerous. Like I’ll jinx it or something.” She paused, her voice quieter now. “I don’t really have anything to keep me in Korea.”

Hyun-ju looked at her carefully. “What about family? Or…?”

Y/N gave a sad smile and shook her head. “My family’s…religious,” she said. “The kind that believes there’s only one way to live and one kind of person worth loving.” Her fingers fidgeted with the foil wrapper in her lap. “And I think if they found out about all the things I’m starting to figure out about myself…they’d crucify me for it. And I’m not going to shove this down just to please them. Not again.” She took a breath. “And I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to leave here and never see you again.”

Hyun-ju looked down at her own hands, tracing the crease of her palm with a thoughtful thumb. Then, slowly, she spoke, “What if…you came to Thailand with me?”

Y/N’s head turned sharply, eyes wide. “Really?”

Hyun-ju nodded, a small smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “We could go together. Start over somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. I’ll take you on a proper date — not one with lukewarm kimbap and fluorescent lighting.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, the heat rushing to her face as a smile spread before she could stop it. “Yeah,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I’d like that. Very much.”

Their hands found each other again — not hurried, not desperate but just right. Y/N ran her thumb gently along Hyun-ju’s knuckles, playing with her fingers like she never wanted to let go. “For now,” she whispered, “I’ll take stolen kisses…and anything else I can get.”

Hyun-ju chuckled under her breath, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “You’ll get a lot more than that, if I have anything to say about it.” She smiled faintly and leaned in again. “But for now, let me give you more,” she whispered.

Her lips met Y/N’s, and this time, it wasn’t fleeting.

It was slow. Deliberate. Full of everything they hadn’t said, everything they were afraid they wouldn’t get the chance to say.

Y/N responded instantly, her hand rising to Hyun-ju’s jaw, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, anchoring herself in the kiss. It deepened as their breaths mingled, warm and uneven. Hyun-ju tilted her head slightly, pressing in with more purpose now — no hesitation, no second-guessing.

This wasn’t a goodbye kiss. It wasn’t desperate.

It was craving—born from days of near-death, sleepless nights, soft glances, and hearts gradually unfolding.

Hyun-ju’s hand slipped around Y/N’s waist, pulling her just enough to close the last sliver of space between them. Y/N shifted in response, nearly sliding into her lap, arms looping around her shoulders as the kiss grew more heated — deeper, slower, aching with unspoken need.

Y/N’s lips parted beneath hers with a soft breath, and Hyun-ju kissed her like she was trying to make the moment last forever — like she was memorizing every shape, every gasp, every gentle sound Y/N made in response.

The bunk creaked faintly under their movement, but neither noticed. They kissed like the world wasn’t watching, like time had folded in on itself just to give them this, a moment without death looming over them.

Hyun-ju’s hand cupped the back of Y/N’s neck, her touch firm but reverent. Y/N pulled her closer still, their bodies flush now, hearts pounding as if in sync.

‘Please don’t let this be the last time,’ Y/N thought, kissing her harder.

But for now, there was no fear. No regret. Just lips, hands, warmth.

Just them.

And when they finally pulled apart — breathless, foreheads resting together, lips red and swollen from the kiss, Y/N opened her eyes slowly.

Hyun-ju smiled, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “That wasn’t stolen,” she murmured. “That one was ours.”

And Y/N smiled too, the ache in her chest softening for the first time in days.

In a world built to destroy connection, they were building something fragile. But it was real. And that was worth surviving for…

That was until—

The dormitory door slammed open and ten players poured back in, both from X or O side, claiming that one side attacked each other.

Well, the moment was good while it lasted…

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vog0npoet · 19 days ago

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You and Everything Else

When we met you were just more of me, and I was nothing. There was no separation of the beach and the ocean, the sky and the ground, or the Earth and the void, the living and the dead. All was one, and nothing was anything. Memories from that time are hard to understand, and many of them are just things we found together. I have no memory of the beasts that roamed my surface, but you searched deep beneath it and pulled out the scars. So in a sense, I am just going to remind you of the story you already told me.

The first thing I became aware of was warmth. I didn’t have a word for it at the time, and I didn’t feel it the way we do now. I simply knew when I had warmth, and when I didn’t, and to seek it out, when possible. It was a lot like the hunger I would feel just a few millennia later. Once I could perceive light, things got more and more complex. Light became shapes, and colours. Some shapes became danger, others meant food. I started to feel things like fear, anger and joy. I gained more and more words that I used to perceive myself, but I didn’t even have a concept or word for myself. I was food, and warmth, and fear, and all of these things were meaningless until I became you.

You were something new. Simultaneously a part of me, and your own complete being. And by defining yourself by the flimsy barrier of skin, and what resides inside it you created us both. There was you, and everything else was me. To you everything was separate, and had its own name. It wasn’t enough to know of food and danger. You had to name every tree, and then had to name them again to differentiate which aspen, or oak you were talking about. The ground became grass and dirt, and stones and sand. The Dangers became fire and flood, and lions and wolves. And even when everything was named you went about changing those names.

You grabbed a stick from the ground and told me it was a walking stick. After some carving you called it a spear. It became things that didn’t exist, but you had insisted upon them so strongly they became a part of us. From there it became things with no material form apart from the synapses firing in your head. Death and war, protection and Peace. Things you knew were unreal, but were no less a part of me.

We looked outwards at my skies, and called them beautiful. We stared out across my seas, and called them frightening. You called me perfect, and terrible, and set about making me into two different things to explain how. You told me a story very different than what I’ve recounted to you. A story where I was made perfect, and fully formed before you were real. A story where you broke me by becoming separate.

You insist that we are separate. That you exist by different rules than my suns, and galaxies, are higher above my plants and animals, and beyond the laws that govern the rocks and stones. That you and you alone make decisions. You are random, and exist outside of cause and effect. You tell me that you have a soul, immaterial, and immortal. Though your body may return to me your soul will slip beyond my reach, as unreal as the love and pain you brought with you.

You fear that if this isn’t true then you will be nothing. To you the wave ends when it becomes the sea. The tree is gone when it feeds the soil, and if you join me when you die then you are nothing. You must have a soul, for if all of you rejoins me; if all of you changes, then you are already dead.

At times you tell me you are beneath me. Not only separate but wrong. You call what you make “Artificial” or “Unnatural”. You think I will be better off without you, but how would I even know? Is the fruit tastier when no one can eat it? Is the breeze going to be nicer when you can’t tell me how it smells rolling across the grassy fields. In thousands of years will someone else look up and try to understand those distant lights. Will any of it matter when you are gone? When the staff becomes a stick, and the stars become light, and we never change again?

Weary wanderers who looked into our skies, and called me beautiful. Who picked us up and insisted I had meaning. If only you could do the same for yourself.

#existentialism #introspective #mother earth #earth #personal writing #the universe #consciousness #absurdism

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tunastime · 1 year ago

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Recovery One

Washington undergoes experimental surgery: installing Project Freelancer's AI program into his head. Epsilon tries to break his way out of Washington's skull. Washington deals with the symptoms of a thing that wants nothing but to escape.

aeuhmmm so I got a little silly with the freelancers again and decided to write something about what wash and epsilon might've gone through before it was extracted for obvious reasons. this is chapter one! tagged this pretty heavily on ao3 but tw for blood, injury, medical procedures, emotional hurt/comfort, and trauma. (3238 words) (read it on ao3!)

The walls of the Mother of Invention seem colder tonight. It's like Washington's body is a heat source, and the hard beds of Recovery One are the sink, drawing every last shred of warmth from where his flimsy surgical clothes meet cloth. He can feel the handful of sensors stuck to his skin, along the inside of his left wrist, keeping careful track of his heart rate, his oxygen, and his blood pressure. The base of his skull is still aching, a thrum that settles equally in the channel of his spine.

Cold, shivering, curled pathetically on that hard mattress, Washington is trying to sleep. He's twitchy, stomach twisted into rough knots, and every time he shuts his eyes the spinning of the world only gets worse. The gravity on Invention is generated by a massive column of constantly pulsing electricity, but if Wash were to step foot onto the ground below him, he's certain he'd float upward far too quickly. Or fall face down. One of those would definitely happen.

He tries to breathe through the wave of nausea that passes. It's all a byproduct of the chip in his skull. The voice is quiet for now. They're fighting to use the same body—his body, with all its human joints and mostly untorn muscles and surficial bruises and just a handful of really broken bones. It hurts like something electric shudders just under the first few layers of skin, or like someone took his nerves and ran them through the shredder. He kind of feels like the paper in the shredder, or the shredder itself. Or maybe the paper when it’s half in the shredder and half out. When's the last time he held a piece of paper? Did people still shred paper? He breathes again.

He's under a 24 hour watch. Twenty four hours of this. He screws his eyes shut and the ship around him swings back and forth on a pendulum. He digs his fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and tries to breathe through it. The stars start to fade after a moment of breaths through his teeth. North used to joke about how anxious Theta made him—that swing of artificial fear through his nervous system, how he had to breathe through the waves of adrenaline to keep himself level. Little spikes happened now and then, making a purely perfunctory condition ten times worse, but North seemed to nurture himself until the feeling gave way to something productive.

Wash isn’t having that much luck.

It wasn’t something easy to pin down. He wasn’t just anxious, or sad, or angry. He wasn’t happy, or disgusted, or a middle combination of the emotions he knew how to regulate. It felt like a swirl of everything, of nothing, completely out of his grasp. The AI—Epsilon—was having a field day as he tore open the synapses of Wash’s standing memory and tried to make room. And Wash was fighting back. The lines had already begun to blur and Wash could only assume the after-effects were due to that unalignment, that unmeshed surface. Epsilon needed a blank slate. It was the only thing Wash wasn’t able to offer.

When he breathes again, his stomach turns violently. He lurches, hands grasping at the cool bedside, swallowing hard. His hands shake as they hold onto the smooth surface below him. Okay, fine—eyes open. Another breath out of his teeth. He can taste sour in the back of his mouth.

The world is foggy when he opens his eyes again. He drags himself up slowly as his head continues to spin like a wobbly top. The top sheet comes with him, wrapped over his shoulders as he drags himself into the bathroom. There’s a moment where he wobbles, stepping forward for the first time, socked foot firmly set on the floor. He can’t even think—the quiet that was there seems to settle into a background of whispers he can’t make out. He speaks out loud to himself, trying to get a word into his crowded brain, or to force himself to step forward.

“I need a drink, that’s it,” he says, in a voice he’s not sure is entirely his own anymore. He swallows again. Anything to get the taste out of his mouth. He can hear that echo of a voice bounce around inside his skull as he drags himself forward uneasily.

“Please,” Wash manages to garble out. “I can’t… I can’t help you.”

He manages to stumble to the doorway of the bathroom, sheet left crumpled at his feet as he braces hard on the edge of the sink. His breaths come fast and hard as he stands upright, fingers white-knuckled where they grip the countertop. The world tilts, and he feels his body slump into the wall beside him. The white light of the room does little to obscure the sheen of sweat on his face, or the way his hands shake as he tries to turn on the faucet. He cups his hands. The water is cold on his flushed and feverish skin. He presses his cool, damp palms to his eyes and drinks from his hands. Washington breathes. The world seems to settle as the cool air hits his skin. He’s not seeing double for now.

The moment of reprieve is short-lived. His stomach folds over itself, rolling a cold, then hot wave across his skin as he doubles over the sink. The voice inside his head is slamming against the walls of his skull like it could break through. He can’t understand the words, how they crush and morph together against the new spike of pain behind his eyes, but it sounds like screaming. Something scared, and horrified, and desperate, pleading. But maybe that’s him.

He gags. The rest of his dinner comes up in the sink. He coughs, trying to swallow it back down, nose stinging. He heaves in a breath. His eyes water and he doesn’t stop them from dripping off his cheeks.

Breathing heavily, Wash drags his hand over his face. It comes back damp, still shaking. He can taste iron in the back of his throat. When he looks in the mirror, eyes dark and sunken, it’s like he can barely recognize the face looking back at him. Wash shuts his eyes tightly. He holds to the edges of the sink, breath shuddering and whistling as he inhales. More tears fall; fear, grief, nothing actually his.

“I can’t—” he says, he sobs, as the voice—Epsilon—pleads. Pleads for him to make space, to be something other than he is, to let him out, to let him go. “They won’t—”

Across the room, there’s a quiet knock on the door. He jolts, eyes darting to the closed door. Another knock. Wash brings up a shaky hand, wiping the tears from his chin. He rinses off what he can from his hands, pulling tissues to dry his face. He can still taste the film of bile in the back of his mouth. Washington steadies, blinking his eyes fully open.

“Wash, it’s North. Came to check up on you.”

North. Oh. Wash shudders as he laughs, just a little. Sure. He leans back from the sink, lowering himself gingerly to the floor to grab the sheet. As he steps carefully to the bedside, he replaces the sheet and begs that he finds his sense of composure before he opens the door.

“Coming,” he manages, voice wavering.

He makes his way around the bed, hand braced slightly on the wall as he steps over. The door slides open as he stand in the doorway.

North is standing in his pajamas, a concerned sort of pull to his face. He smiles a little when Wash opens the door, but Wash is too busy staring at his own socked feet and North’s boots to really notice. North’s voice is soft when he speaks. It reminds Wash of the one time South blacked out during dive training and North wouldn’t leave her side.

“How’s it goin’, buddy?” North says gently.

“Best day of my life,” Wash jokes, laughing weakly. North huffs out a laugh, folding his arms.

“I know they’ve got you under watch, so you’re in good hands,” he says, inclining his head. “How’s the headache? The tingling? Anything blurry?”

Wash takes a second, sighing and shutting his eyes. It’s funny that North would say that, isn’t it. He gets the shuddering feeling of something not his own as he stands propped against the wall, trying to hold himself up.

“Still painful,” he manages, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Everything’s blurry.”

“Yeesh—” North says, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “You’re taking it slow though, right?”

Wash nods.

“I’m trying to,” he says. “Best I can given the circumstances. It’s hard to sleep with all the…” He waves his hand around listlessly around his head, as if trying to get his point across. The voice. The emotions. Whatever chugged through his memory and forced itself in. It was an almost-physical, painful sensation. North nods knowingly. Wash doubts that he knows much at all.

“I’m sorry, Wash,” North says, his concern sincere. “It’ll get better with time, though. You’ll have a few days to settle in before the Director sends you out on missions, I’m sure.”

Wash nods again. It’s the most he can really do. His head feels like it’s full of soup gone sour.

“Right,” he says slowly, the words thickening in his mouth to a paste. “Right, I hope so.”

North smiles. He can tell, all of a sudden, as he does every time North summons Theta to the front, how right he was for his AI, how much the nurturing nature he so eagerly kept hidden blossomed when it was needed, when it would be properly appreciated. That smile alone settles a warm swirl through Wash’s chest, trickling into his lungs and his heart. The same happens when North reaches out, cupping his shoulder with his broad palm and squeezing, just enough to feel the heat of his hand. He jostles Washington slightly as he does. Wash manages a smile, huffing out through his nose, his eyes falling shut again as he lets the comfort of touch sink in for just a moment. As North draws his hand away and Wash straightens, North says:

“Alright, I’ll let you get back to resting, okay Wash?”

Wash hums in response.

“You let me know if you need anything. We’re all just down a floor—I’m sure York and I wouldn’t mind stopping in.”

Wash sighs, finally pushing himself to a stand, away from the wall. He doesn’t say anything, but a creeping realization settles in the pit of his stomach, right next to the warmth that used to pervade his joints. He swallows. Instead of feeling nothing, he feels burning in the back of his throat, up his nose. He nods regardless.

“Good deal, buddy,” North smiles. He nods, just a curt bob of his head. “Alright, I’ll be seein’ you.”

“I—” And all of a sudden, the feelings pervading, the ones not his own, rear their head. He swallows roughly, trying to make out a sentence. He mumbles out his next words, vision blurring. “Please don’t—”

“Wash?” North asks, startling, the twinge of concern now laid thick in his words. Wash startles too, blinking hard. What was happening to him? He shakes his head, turning it from North for a moment as he wills himself back to the present. He isn’t leaving, North lives here. He won’t just abandon him. But he can still feel the weight of the word goodbye. The weight of see you soon.

“Sorry, I’m just…” Wash shudders out a sigh, trying to find a viable excuse. “I’m on edge I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

North’s eyes widen.

“Wash, your nose—” he says, moving forward to help him. Wash takes an instinctive step back, cupping his hand around his chin. He can feel the warm dribble of blood now, the taste of iron in the back of his mouth. He shakes his head as he keeps North at arm’s length, turning to fetch tissue from the bathroom.

“It’s fine,” he croaks out, fumbling for the sink. He runs his hands under the warming water, tipping his head forward. Blood drips into the sink but his eyes are screwed shut too tight to see it. Wash can barely hear North’s voice above the running water, but he hears the door to his room slide shut. Reaching for the tissue, Wash swabs gingerly at his nose, still tasting the metallic tang on his teeth. As he turns back to the room, North is hovering at his bedside, concern written across his whole face. Wash watches his jaw work, his upturned eyes wide and searching Wash’s expression. Washington shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says again, barely a sound at all. He jams part of the tissue up his nose, swallowing back whatever was left in his mouth. North gestures to the glass of water still half empty at Wash’s bedside. Wash sits, his legs giving out beneath him, and he drinks.

North takes his time getting to the space in front of him, circling the end of the Recovery Bay bed like Wash were an injured animal about to bite him. Luckily for him, Washington feels far too heavy to move any of his limbs, as if all the energy had been siphoned out of him and into the air, leaving it charged and staticky. He couldn’t find the strength to bite even if he tried. He smooths his hand over the pant leg of his hospital clothes in calculated movements. The scratchy fabric is so thin he can almost feel his body heat through it. Or lack thereof.

“I don’t know how fine it is, Wash,” North says, folding his arms. He leans against the arm of the chair across from Wash, not exactly sitting, but not really standing. “I certainly wasn’t getting nosebleeds like that with Theta.”

“Well,” Wash manages hoarsely, shutting his eyes tight again. “With all due respect, Theta was a little more… stable.”

“Epsilon’s unstable?” North asks. Wash flinches. He can feel that paper shredder sensation again as he shrinks back. “Wash?”

“It’s okay,” Wash mumbles. “It’s just—side effects.”

North’s face grows taut and stern. When Wash flicks his eyes up to read his face he’s met with a strong set to North’s jaw. North shakes his head, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s not supposed to be this bad,” he says. He drums his fingers against his arm.

Wash sighs. The sound is curt when it leaves his chest. It’s all the energy he has left to expel before it dissolves into an empty hollow in his chest.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Washington,” North starts, leaning off the chair and moving toward the bedside. Wash curls further over his lap, as if trying to move away from whatever suggestion North could have for him. It’s not something so easy to fix. It’s just. It’s just—

“It—” Wash takes a long, laborious breath in. He feels something very small break inside his chest as he breathes out, his exhale shuddering. His vision goes blurry in the few feet in front of him, from knees to floor, that he can see. “I don’t—”

“Hey…” North soothes. He lowers himself to Washington’s side, hand coming to cup his shoulder. Wash leans, half intentional and half not, into the touch as North squeezes his arm.

“The memories aren’t mine,” Washington babbles, unintelligible to anyone but himself. “I don’t want them in my head.”

“I know,” North placates regardless. And for a moment, it feels like he means it. It doesn’t really matter if he does or doesn’t. The arms that come around him are strong and warm and solid and friendly as Wash makes contact with the hollow of North’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to collide and fall so easily, but the arms around him hold on, and hold firm, and he begins to think through the haze of memories not his own that he really didn’t have much say in the matter. North draws him in regardless and Wash sinks himself into his side. He cries and no sound escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut. Faintly, he can hear North whistle out a breath, through the shff of fabric as he slowly and gently drags his palm over the line of Washington’s shoulders.

“I just need it to stop,” Washington chokes out. It doesn’t matter who’s speaking. The relentless tug of war continues on in his head, even if he can’t hear it, even if it won’t really surface. It doesn’t matter who wants their memories back. It just matters that his body feels like he’s been electrically shocked: drained, shaken out, and hurting.

“Breathe, Wash,” North soothes. Washington does as he’s told, the air scratchy in his throat. He shudders out the breath, trying to keep each stable and even. North doesn’t say anything for a while. He lets Wash breathe and lean into his shoulder, and the silence gives Wash a moment of reprieve as his mind goes quiet. He just focuses on breathing, in through his nose and out through his mouth. North leans just slightly back into him, cheek resting on the top of his head.

Wash blinks his eyes open. He stares into the middle distance with his vision still blurry, and North’s weight against him keeps him, rather than whatever threatens to invade his memory further, grounded. Wash makes an unintelligible sound as North sighs.

“Great, Wash,” North says lightly. “Doing great.”

“Well, I feel like shit,” Wash manages, almost amused.

North hums softly in agreement, but doesn’t really respond. His hold around Wash grows a little tighter, though, firmer around his shoulder and forearm as Wash sags. His eyes shut again as his breaths remain even, face pressed to North’s shoulder. He’s a bit too large for them to properly fit together, even as they sit side by side on the bed. He lets go of a long breath as the rush of previous anxiety, the new bubbling fear, and exhaustion slip out all at once. In their wake is a pit of nothing, absent of emotion, in his stomach. Tired lingers instead in the same space, around that nothing. He can feel his body grow heavy against North and he has half the mind to mention how tired he actually is. But North hasn’t moved, regardless if he’s noticed or not, and the hand on his shoulderblade, and the head resting against his, remains. The world goes blissfully soft for a moment, his body heavy and his mind quiet. It’s only when he blinks his eyes open again that he realizes he’s lying down. North is gone.

He squints at the room around him, lifting his head slightly. He’s on his back with the sheet draped over him, comfortable against the pillows. For once, his body and head don’t ache, and whatever voice that might be screaming is silent. When he lifts himself further, the room spins, tipping violently this way and that. Wash lets himself back down. For now, he decides that the comfort he has is better taken than lost, and he shuts his eyes.

The world goes muted and grey around him. His body sinks to the mattress.

He has a feeling he won’t wake again for some time.

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kaijuposting · 1 year ago

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Jaegers of Pacific Rim: What do we know about them?

There's actually a fair amount of lore about Pacific Rim's jaegers, though most of it isn't actually in the movie itself. A lot of it has been scattered in places like Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters, Tales From Year Zero, Travis Beacham's blog, and the Pacific Rim novelization.

Note that I will not be including information from either Pacific Rim: Uprising or Pacific Rim: The Black. Uprising didn't really add anything, and The Black's take on jaegers can easily be summed up as "simplified the concept to make a cartoon for children."

So what is there to know about jaegers, besides the fact that they're piloted by two people with their brains connected via computer?

Here's a fun fact: underneath the hull (which may or may not be pure iron), jaegers have "muscle strands" and liquid data transfer technology. Tendo Choi refers to them in the film when describing Lady Danger's repairs and upgrades:

Solid iron hull, no alloys. Forty engine blocks per muscle strand. Hyper-torque driver for every limb and a new fluid synapse system.

The novelization by Alex Irvine makes frequent references to this liquid data transfer tech. For example:

The Jaeger’s joints squealed and began to freeze up from loss of lubricant through the holes Knifehead had torn in it. Its liquid-circuit neural architecture was misfiring like crazy. (Page 29.)

He had enough fiber-optic and fluid-core cabling to get the bandwidth he needed. (Page 94.)

Newt soldered together a series of leads using the copper contact pins and short fluid-core cables. (Page 96.)

Unfortunately I haven't found anything more about the "muscle strands" and what they might be made of, but I do find it interesting that jaegers apparently have some sort of artificial muscle system going on, especially considering Newt's personnel dossier in the novel mentioned him pioneering research in artificial tissue replication at MIT.

The novelization also mentions that the pilots' drivesuits have a kind of recording device for their experiences while drifting:

This armored outer layer included a Drift recorder that automatically preserved sensory impressions. (Page 16.)

It was connected through a silver half-torus that looked like a travel pillow but was in fact a four-dimensional quantum recorder that would provide a full record of the Drift. (Page 96.)

This is certainly... quite the concept. Perhaps the PPDC has legitimate reasons for looking through the memories and feelings of their pilots, but let's not pretend this doesn't enable horrific levels of privacy invasion.

I must note, though, I haven't seen mention of a recording system anywhere outside of the novel. Travis Beacham doesn't mention it on his blog, and it never comes up in either Tales From Year Zero or Tales From The Drift, both written by him. Whether there just wasn't any occasion to mention it or whether this piece of worldbuilding fell by the wayside in Beacham's mind is currently impossible to determine.

Speaking of the drivesuits, let's talk about those more. The novelization includes a few paragraphs outlining how the pilots' drivesuits work. It's a two-layer deal:

The first layer, the circuity suit, was like a wetsuit threaded with a mesh of synaptic processors. The pattern of processor relays looked like circuitry on the outside of the suit, gleaming gold against its smooth black polymer material. These artificial synapses transmitted commands to the Jaeger’s motor systems as fast as the pilot’s brain could generate them, with lag times close to zero. The synaptic processor array also transmitted pain signals to the pilots when their Jaeger was damaged.

...

The second layer was a sealed polycarbonate shell with full life support and magnetic interfaces at spine, feet, and all major limb joints. It relayed neural signals both incoming and outgoing. This armored outer layer included a Drift recorder that automatically preserved sensory impressions.

...

The outer armored layer of the drivesuit also kept pilots locked into the Conn-Pod’s Pilot Motion Rig, a command platform with geared locks for the Rangers’ boots, cabled extensors that attached to each suit gauntlet, and a full-spectrum neural transference plate, called the feedback cradle, that locked from the Motion Rig to the spine of each Ranger’s suit. At the front of the motion rig stood a command console, but most of a Ranger’s commands were issued either by voice or through interaction with the holographic heads-up display projected into the space in front of the pilots’ faces. (Page 16.)

Now let's talk about the pons system. According to the novelization:

The basics of the Pons were simple. You needed an interface on each end, so neuro signals from the two brains could reach the central bridge. You needed a processor capable of organizing and merging the two sets of signals. You needed an output so the data generated by the Drift could be recorded, monitored, and analyzed. That was it. (Page 96.)

This is pretty consistent with other depictions of the drift, recording device aside. (Again, the 4D quantum recorder never comes up anywhere outside of the novel.)

The development of the pons system as we know it is depicted in Tales From Year Zero, which goes into further detail on what happened after Trespasser's attack on San Francisco. In this comic, a jaeger can be difficult to move if improbably calibrated. Stacker Pentecost testing out a single arm describes the experience as feeling like his hand is stuck in wet concrete; Doctor Caitlin Lightcap explains that it's resistance from the datastream because the interface isn't calibrated to Pentecost's neural profile. (I'm guessing that this is the kind of calibration the film refers to when Tendo Choi calls out Lady Danger's left and right hemispheres being calibrated.)

According to Travis Beacham's blog, solo piloting a jaeger for a short time is possible, though highly risky. While it won't cause lasting damage if the pilot survives the encounter, the neural overload that accumulates the longer a pilot goes on can be deadly. In this post he says:

It won't kill you right away. May take five minutes. May take twenty. No telling. But it gets more difficult the longer you try. And at some point it catches up with you. You won't last a whole fight start-to-finish. Stacker and Raleigh managed to get it done and unplug before hitting that wall.

In this post he says:

It starts off fine, but it's a steep curve from fine to dead. Most people can last five minutes. Far fewer can last thirty. Nobody can last a whole fight.

Next, let's talk about the size and weight of jaegers. Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters lists off the sizes and weights of various jaegers. The heights of the jaegers it lists (which, to be clear, are not all of them) range from 224 feet to 280 feet. Their weights range from 1850 tons to 7890 tons. Worth noting, the heaviest jaegers (Romeo Blue and Horizon Brave) were among the Mark-1s, and it seems that these heavy builds didn't last long given that another Mark-1, Coyote Tango, weighed 2312 tons.

And on the topic of jaeger specs, each jaeger in Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters is listed with a (fictional) power core and operating system. For example, Crimson Typhoon is powered by the Midnight Orb 9 power core, and runs on the Tri-Sun Plasma Gate OS.

Where the novelization's combat asset dossiers covers the same jaegers, this information lines up - with the exception of Lady Danger. PR:MMM says that Lady Danger's OS is Blue Spark 4.1; the novelization's dossier says it's BLPK 4.1.

PR:MMM also seems to have an incomplete list of the jaegers' armaments; for example, it lists the I-22 Plasmacaster under Weaponry, and "jet kick" under Power Moves. Meanwhile, the novelization presents its armaments thus:

I-22 Plasmacaster Twin Fist gripping claws, left arm only Enhanced balance systems and leg-integral Thrust Kickers Enhanced combat-strike armature on all limbs

The novel's dossiers list between 2-4 features in the jaegers' armaments sections.

Now let's move on to jaeger power cores. As many of you probably already know, Mark-1-3 jaegers were outfitted with nuclear power cores. However, this posed a risk of cancer for pilots, especially during the early days. To combat this, pilots were given the (fictional) anti-radiation drug, Metharocin. (We see Stacker Pentecost take Metharocin in the film.)

The Mark-4s and beyond were fitted with alternative fuel sources, although their exact nature isn't always clear. Striker Eureka's XIG supercell chamber implies some sort of giant cell batteries, but it's a little harder to guess what Crimson Typhoon's Midnight Orb 9 might be, aside from round.

Back on the topic of nuclear cores, though, the novelization contains a little paragraph about the inventor of Lady Danger's power core, which I found entertaining:

The old nuclear vortex turbine lifted away from the reactor housing. The reactor itself was a proprietary design, brainchild of an engineer who left Westinghouse when they wouldn’t let him use his lab to explore portable nuclear miniaturization tech. He’d landed with one of the contractors the PPDC brought in at its founding, and his small reactors powered many of the first three generations of Jaegers. (Page 182.)

Like... I have literally just met this character, and I love him. I want him to meet Newt Geiszler, you know? >:3

Apparently, escape pods were a new feature to Mark-3 jaegers. Text in the novelization says, "New to the Mark III is an automated escape-pod system capable of ejecting each Ranger individually." (Page 240.)

Finally, jaegers were always meant to be more than just machines. Their designs and movements were meant to convey personality and character. Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters says:

Del Toro insisted the Jaegers be characters in and of themselves, not simply giant versions of their pilots. Del Toro told his designers, "It should be as painful for you to see a Jaeger get injured as it is for you to see the pilot [get hurt.]" (Page 56.)

Their weathered skins are inspired by combat-worn vehicles from the Iraq War and World War II battleships and bombers. They look believable and their design echoes human anatomy, but only to a point. "At the end of the day, what you want is for them to look cool," says Francisco Ruiz Velasco. "It's a summer movie, so you want to see some eye candy." Del Toro replies, "I, however, believe in 'eye protein,' which is high-end design with a high narrative content." (Page 57.)

THE JAEGER FROM DOWN UNDER is the only Mark 5, the most modern and best all-around athlete of the Jaegers. He's also the most brutal of the Jaeger force. Del Toro calls him "sort of brawler, like a bar fighter." (Page 64.)

And that is about all the info I could scrounge up and summarize in a post. I think there's a lot of interesting stuff here - like, I feel that the liquid circuit and muscle tissue stuff gives jaegers an eerily organic quality that could be played for some pretty interesting angles. And I also find it interesting that jaegers were meant to embody their own sort of character and personality, rather than just being simple combat machines or extensions of their pilots - it's a great example of a piece of media choosing thematic correctness over technical correctness, which when you get right down to it, is sort of what Pacific Rim is really all about.

#pacific rim #pacific rim 2013 #jaegers #jaeger #pacific rim lore

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skaruresonic · 9 months ago

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now more than ever I'm thinking about Random's idea that Sonic is Maria's reincarnation. rotating it like a potato in the microwave.

Imagine: Sonic doesn't recognize the ARK, this crazy labyrinth of flashing lights and unknown dangers. He doesn't have time to stop and soak in his surroundings. All he knows is he has to stop that Cannon.

Emerald in hand, he approaches the Cannon. He takes a brief glance toward the left, where the name 'MA RI A' burns from the screen of the mainframe.

Strange name for a computer, he thinks. Oh, well. Now, where to put that Emerald?

Eggman's voice bursts through the walkie-talkie in a snarl of static. Tails, tell Sonic to meet you back at the research facility, now!

Sonic races through Crazy Gadget. Flipping switches, dodging obstacles left and right, riding pneumatic tubes, a world in constant flux. But also, somehow, having the time of his life.

Isn't this place huge? Even I get lost in here sometimes.

An Artificial Chaos lashes out at him. He doesn't find it very cute, because they're only kind of cute when they split apart.

At last, he finds Eggman, who, despite their schemes, manages to have the last laugh. Farewell, Sonic the Hedgehog!

Sayonara, Shadow the Hedgehog.

Sonic survives because he somehow manages to pull off Chaos Control using the fake Emerald, but it makes him feel woozy. He falls to the ground and is propped back up by Knuckles.

The feeling is only faintly familiar. Just one spark of synapse and it flees.

I'm worried about Tails and Amy, he tells Knuckles. I hate to ask, but could you help them? This might be our last chance.

He has to stop that Cannon.

Shadow appears behind him. Trailing him, like always.

You never cease to surprise me, blue hedgehog. I thought that capsule you were in exploded in space.

You know, what can I say? I die hard.

They begin to race.

You used to run so quickly along this slope, remember?

Sonic can't help but smile when Shadow asks who he is. Don't you know?

"What you see is what you get: just a guy that loves adventure. I'm Sonic the Hedgehog!"

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webcrawler3000 · 2 years ago

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This is from mapping our synapses forward and backwards with spoken word. We went brain dead 4x in one day. Probably went brain dead 8 times in a weekend for this technology. Skitz was there! @skitzkraven

#synapses #spoken word #ai #map #mapping #word #artifici intelligence #brain dead #brain #dead #brain damage #damage #damaged #radiation #bots #bot #bardo

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randomwriteronline · 3 months ago

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Bioshippingweek time

because i get antsy about my post count im putting all my entries together! all stories, four with added drawings. went for mostly unusual/rare pairs, all sapphic minus the first one (which is ???/???).

thank you @superbova1995 for dalu x gaaki i owe u. one kiss. sorry its toa instead of rahaga, alas big lady got me

12: Beginnings - Firsts - Starts

The Prototype came online to something bright in the distance. It shimmered and shined and glittered and gleamed, small and gorgeous, staring or glaring (it was hard to tell) right at the little artificial creature.

The Prototype, thoroughly overwhelmed with something it could not recognize, waved at that splendid vision.

Its God waved back.

It approached the little body until Its own was a hundred, a thousand times larger, and cupped it gently in Its hands of light. They felt warm, soft, cozy; the Prototype snuggled into them as they closed around it with a tender sweetness, looking up at the enormous eyes illuminating it like suns too close to the ground, soaking in the bright element as it was bathed in its splendid glow, taking to it as naturally as though it were everything it had ever known.

Its God watched it with a kind amusement, a sort of elated curiosity: something in Its vague, faint features softened immensely as Its fingers caressed the little head in their grasp.

The Prototype gazed back. A wonderful sensation swelled inside it.

"Is this ____?" they asked, awestruck.

The word felt alien in their mouth, the sound of it being processed by their brain as something garbled and incomprehensible.

Their God leaned down, smiling gently, closer and closer, until Its colossal face was pressed against their own - their lights mingling together, knowledge too vast entering the little body through a zap of electricity, a lack of air, blooming the meaning of that strange word into their synapses: their body shuddered and recoiled as it attempted to reject the flow of information like a deadly poison, but the Matoran leaned further into the formless kiss, knowing that yes, yes, yes, this was ____, this was ____, and they were allowed to ____ even if only for this moment.

Their ____ broke contact gently, taking with it the noun holding within it the meaning of an otherwordly emotion. It said nothing; only smiled sweetly, kindly, perhaps a little sadly, cradling them closer for a second more, holding onto a beginning cut in half.

Then it let them go, let them drift into the brief unconsciousness that preluded a life of work for the both of them, and Takua forgot it all.

13: Fire - Warmth - Glow

It was at least one hour after sundown.

A sailor knows better than to leave the harbor in the middle of the night to go off on some adventure or other; but Marka remained close to the shore, following a well-known path, moved by a clear purpose, and thus could be certain that she was plenty safe.

Still, being out at this hour did not soothe her mind. The water was dark and opaque as it kept rolling endlessly beneath her, like a vast expanse of oil that murmured in a gravely voice; who knew what slimy servants of Makuta slithered under the waves, nudging her vessel to capsize it and devour her...

She shook her head: her Hau held steadfast onto her skull. No beast would catch her tonight.

Her arrival to the beaches of Ta-Wahi was met by the stern gaze of Mata Nui's lone effigy as the wind curled around it, carrying a low chant along the grey rock ever so softly. She turned to the cliff, trying to see its top; only a vague glint met her eyes. Lightstone in hand, she took careful steps along the steep stairs.

The sky was clear, blacker than a brand new Onu-Koran mine. A miriad of stars dotted its velvet expanse.

And there, before a silver contraption staring out into that yawning abyss with its single emerald eye in the shape of a prism, still gazing through it, she stood.

"Nixie," the shipwright called.

The Ga-Matoran turned with a startle. She blinked, almost confused, trying to acclimate first to the faint light and then to the darkness surrounding her; she turned her head left and right, up and down, as if to regain her sense of direction after a hard fall.

"Oh," she said finally, meeting Marka's eyes: "It's late."

"Y'oughta been back an hour ago." the other noted. It did not sound that much like a reprimand.

The astrologer simply nodded: "Then let's go."

They did not bother talking on the way back to the boat.

Nor during their return voyage.

Nixie broke the silence only once, pointing high above their heads, to the vast sky: "There she is," she said.

Her peer followed her finger.

The Red Star and her crimson trail journeyed on with them.

"We're going in opposite directions," the astrologer commented, completely taken with the brilliant, foreboding dot. Her gaze was magnetized to it. "Wonder what she's chasing after."

Marka stared at her pale Pakari, of the hue of clear skies that assure safe sailing, unable to tear her eyes from her: "Who knows."

The creatures beneath the waves dotted with minuscule diamonds followed them lazily, too tired to try and hunt them down, repelled by the faint lights the cosmos so gently lent to their watery mirror; and so they came back to the lily pads unscathed, and bid each other goodnight, and despite the small emptiness of their individual huts they did not feel cold.

14: Arguments - Amends - Ideas

"You looked better as a Hordika."

Nokama stiffened in her hold almost instantly. Krahka turned to the door of the hut, senses straining to locate whatever might have put the other on edge; she tightened her hold on the Turaga as she squirmed antsily and went to cover her under her much larger body so that she would be better protected against incoming threats.

Sharp elbows jabbed her left and right: "Off - off!" Nokama whimpered as she slid out of her lover's grasp. "Quit that! You're suffocating me!"

"I'm keeping you safe," the shapeshifter argued. Her brain annoyingly reminded her that Matoran-adjacent beings were completely illiterate when it came to reading bodies, including their own, and so she huffed loudly and explained: "You're tense and scared. Clearly, you can feel something is trying to get you, and clearly, I was being a good partner and keeping you out of sight."

The Turaga shook her head so vehemently that her mask almost flew off: "That's not it! The problem is not outside, it's right here," she replied just as angrily. Her hands played with each other for a moment, unsure what to do with themselves until she finally snapped: "Never say that again."

Krahka blinked: "Say what again?"

"You know exactly what it was."

"Don't start these fake conversations of yours," the shapeshifter groaned: "If I tell you I don't know, it means that I don't know."

"About me," Nokama insisted, "As a Hordika."

She watched her lover shift and deflate into a flatter form with a bored huff, pawing lazily at the ground: "What's so terrible about that? It was a compliment. I don't see anything wrong with it."

"Of course you don't." the Turaga murmured bitterly as her back hunched by reflex. She was closed in on herself, clutching her arms tight, light shivers curling around her armor. "You don't have to worry about Purity."

"Don't accuse me like that! I keep myself clean!"

"The problem is not outside!" Nokama snarled again.

Krahka tensed.

Her eyes followed the much smaller being as she thrashed against an invisible assailant, observing the way she clenched into her own entrails as if to roll herself into a ball, as if to disappear - and in the meantime she raved deliriously and paced like a hound going mad searching its prey, breaths shallow and heavy, on the verge of breaking down: "I was wrong! I was everything I wasn't supposed to be! That body wasn't mine, it was - it was eating me alive, crushing my mind into a pulp, molding it in its disgusting, distorted image! And I was stuck in it with no way out, bending under it, barely realizing I was losing myself in it, I was losing - losing..."

She could still feel it, the strange weight of her chest, the ligaments in her limbs burning as they forced her into a hunched, bow-legged stance and wailed when she tried to break out of it, the agony of her hands melting into weapons.

Nokama whined in a shrill voice, unable to see anything beyond the agony of the transformations' phantom pains.

"I'm losing his favor," she sobbed, hands desperately fighting a losing battle against their aches to tear her body apart in a misguided attempt at cleansing her, at soothing her, "I'm losing the right, the right to live in the suns - under the gaze of the Great Spirit, in his favor - I'm supposed to be chosen!... I'm supposed to be pure and chosen!... I'm supposed to be chosen... To be pure... Pure..."

"Nokama," Rahaga Gaaki called out to her.

It couldn't have been her, not anymore; even in her overwhelming and overwhelmed confusion, the Turaga's brain still remembered that the mutation had been lifted from her mentor, that she was once again a Toa, with a voice as clear as a mountain spring. This voice was rough, and hissing, and creaky, so it could not be her.

But she still leaned into it, into the body catching her as she fell back, because she needed her.

She needed someone near her.

The heaviness and gentle breathing of something that was completely external from herself lulled her slowly, uncoiling her from the spiral that had ensnared her until she was no longer trying to dent her own armor, until the pain was exorcised out of her.

Nokama inhaled deeply, and exhaled. She opened her eyes: Krahka watched her carefully, large head settled on the small lap. Her lover wrapped it in a hug. The shapeshifter let her.

"So it's the changing," she tried eventually, unsure whether or not she had understood even a minimal fraction of that turmoil.

The Turaga nodded a little: "It's part of it."

"So it's something about me, too?"

"No, not at all... Transformation is in your nature. It's nothing you have to worry about."

"It's in yours too."

Now Nokama shook her head.

"Yes it is," Krahka insisted: "Matoran, Toa, Turaga - you change shapes just the same as I do, just in a more constricted way. Isn't it all the same? Why is it worse if you turn into something else?"

The grip around her head tightened ever so slightly: she could feel that prey-like tension coursing through the small motion, uneasiness slipping into her own body via osmosis. She was quick to nuzzle the Noble Rau, offering the comforting promise that she understood - though at this point, she was unsure if she ever truly would - and thought of what else she could have said.

At last she cleared her throat: "But if you think this Great Spirit of yours could be so mad over something you overcame anyways," she said, pulling her head out of the beloved grip and holding it up arrogantly, "You can always make me your new deity."

To her relief, Nokama snorted.

"I feel like you'd be even more demanding," she joked weakly, scratching her lover's chin.

"And would that be so bad?" Krahka cooed as she leaned in her hand.

"A little tiring."

"Like you aren't used to this sort of work."

"Yes, but you should be my refuge from it."

The shapeshifter rolled her whole body onto her lap, almost knocking her down: "Tough luck, I guess!"

Nokama's ugly, earnest laugh soothed the last of her worries.

15: Change - Growth - New

Vhisola is a creature of habit.

She imagines she used to be before the amnesia as well, though most of what she knows from back then is that she was very intense (because obsessed sounds too nasty, even if it was effectively what she was) about Nokama.

This was not necessarily new information, as she's fairly sure the entirety of Ga-Koro heard her screaming and sobbing in her hut when Kotu and Macku were chosen to be the Turaga's aides instead of her, even though she was better than both of them, but nobody is going to mention it because it was very embarrassing.

Anyways! Vhisola is a creature of habit.

That said.

The Av-Matoran having females is something pretty new, but she isn't so against that notion.

And they have mutated Matoran too, who sort of look like bats, but she isn't against that either.

And since it's going to be a while before they can make an Av-Koro of their own, now in New Ga-Koro there's a very angry, very aggressive mutated Av-Matoran female with knives for hands and big sharp teeth who hates everybody.

Which Vhisola is also not against.

At all.

Maybe one of these days she's going to actually approach her. Until then, she's going to stare at her from a safe distance and grip her hands into fists as hard as she can while she does that.

Which is a normal, well-adjusted way of conveying her feelings.

Gavla had not wanted to be changed back. Period.

She would have loved to remain Vamprah's eyes and associate for the rest of eternity, fitting in the darkness so naturally, gliding around on her wings - ok, a good chunk of the appeal was also the lack of remorse and heavily dimmed conscience, but also Shadow just felt better to her than Light ever had. She can't explain it further.

Not that she wants to, with all these pitying looks she gets. The only good thing of this whole ordeal is that the mutation wasn't reverted, but now everybody is oh so sad for her.

Oooh, look at her, she's a bat now, how cruel! She must hate it!

Have these people ever even seen bats?

They're cooler than Karzhani.

This is the ideal Matoran body. You may not like it, but it's the truth.

So yes, she doesn't like to be gawked at.

With. Maybe, one exception.

She has no idea who that Ga-Matoran is or what she wants, but when Gavla flicks her wings, or shows her teeth when snarling, or climbs up walls with her claws, she can see her almost snapping in half for how hard she tenses like she's watching the most gorgeous creature in the universe.

And Gavla isn't really sure how this persistent staring makes her feel, but it's kind of... Nice.

That at least someone recognizes how awesome her current form is.

Maybe one of these days she's going to pin her against a wall with her whole body to figure out what her deal is - just in case her constant watching was for mocking instead of admiring.

Which is a normal, well-adjusted way of asking people things.

16: Successes - Victories - Competition

Chiara's silhouette appeared in the doorframe with a crash booming thunder: "WHERE IS SHE?"

A few Agori scattered in her wake like marbles escaping from a broken satchel, most of them dragging themselves away on their hands as their prosthetic legs were still being inspected. A loud curse came from the annexed room in which said inspection was happening, accompanied by a lot of metallic tumbling.

Gelu turned to her less than enthused: "Hello."

"I SAW HER COME IN HERE," the Toa completely ignored him.

"Who?"

At that, her eyes flattened into vitriolic slits: "My nemesis," she hissed.

The Glatorian wasn't entirely convinced this was something to take seriously, on account of the word having come out of her mouth with the same tone in which he used to refer to a boy who would pull his tail for fun when he was so small that his cousin could wrap his entire hand around his head and swing him like a nunchuck.

"I thought I heard someone whimpering my name," a voice that notably wasn't his decided it would have been an acceptable thing to say out loud in a public space.

Chiara immediately forgot the rest of the room even existed: she zeroed in on the equally mechanical being leaning heavily on the wall with her only arm as she replied to her furious glare with a mocking, challenging look in her eyes.

In a matter of seconds the Vo-Toa was on her, pinning her against that wall with one hand dangerously close to her neck; the other let her without even flinching, not worried at all - almost amused, as though knowing the electric warrior wouldn't have dared landing anything other than hollow threats upon her in such a small space with so many other people.

"Been a while, Chiara," she cooed.

"What do you think you're doing here, huh?" the other growled. Small sparks crackled dangerously from her frame. "That keen to show your beaten mug around?"

Lariska chuckled: "Say that all you want, but if I remember right it's been fifteen matches and we're still tied."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll make sure to fry you properly this time!"

"Right here? Right now? While my arm is being repaired? And here I believed you Toa were all about honor in battle."

"You talk as if that would be worth anything to a Dark Hunter."

"No, it wouldn't - but it makes it more fun."

"You-!!"

A knife fluttered horrendously close to Chiara's neck. Lariska stopped it mere millimeters before it could do any damage; she tilted the blade upward, forcing the Toa to tilt her head with it.

"Always in a rush," she grinned. Static had her wrist seize briefly, but she had long learned how to fight against the other's nerve-wracking powers, and did not lose her grip. "You're lucky I could use some target practice with this hand."

"Maybe outside," Gelu said extremely loudly, just to make sure they heard him.

Unbothered by his very deliberate (and surprisingly successful, he was relieved to discover) attempt at shattering whatever they had going on, the Dark Hunter easily slipped away from where she was pinned with a silent laugh. The glance she flashed back at the Toa before disappearing outside the door held nothing but contempt and confrontation.

Chiara immediately gave chase.

She just as immediately almost maskplanted into the floor as Gelu smacked his footless leg in her middle, cutting off her breath.

"What?!" she snarled at him. "She's out there waiting for me to tear her a new armor!"

"You're not doing that," the Glatorian replied flatly. Her enraged pout made him suddenly understand what Strakk had to deal with on family gatherings. "Who exactly is that, by the way?"

"I told you! My nemesis. Lariska."

"Alright. What'd she do?"

"She's a Dark Hunter!" Chiara flailed her arms wildly as she conveyed her crimes: "A spy! An assassin! A criminal! A great fighter if she didn't work for the enemy! I've met her fifteen times and every single one I've come this close to beating her, but she just! Never! Yields!"

"Huh."

"She wriggles out of my grasp like a lava eel and does her stupid laugh and bounds away like she's lighter than air! And she mocks me from afar! And she does that just because she knows it drives me absolutely mad!"

"Hm."

"I just-!!" she let out a furious growl, clawing at her mask. "I need to crack her like a branch and sizzle her brains out!"

"Wouldn't it be easier," the poor man offered, "To just have sex and call it a day?"

Chiara interrupted her rage briefly to shoot him a puzzled look: "What's that?"

Ah.

Very slowly, Gelu reached up to rub at his eyes with his hands, feeling all of a sudden a great tiredness and despair overcome him.

Yeah. That explained it.

"Too scared to keep your word?" Lariska heckled from outside.

"YOU WISH," Chiara roared back, and the Glatorian just let her charge out of the room like a sand bat diving onto a prey to get herself beaten into the dirt for the sixteenth time.

17: Secrets - Surprises - Defenses

Dalu fidgeted in place, straightened her back, hunched it again, flapped her legs, squeezed her eyes, made a frustrated hum and finally gave up with a huff: "It's not working."

"I'm afraid there's not much meditating can do if you're so antsy," Gaaki replied.

"It's not my fault!" the Ga-Matoran complained. "This position makes my whole body hurt, the silence drives me insane, and to make up for it my thoughts become too loud to let me concentrate!"

"Then we should figure out something else..."

Dalu paled instantly, an almost fearful look behind her Rau's cover; she hastily waved the blades stuck to her arms in a pleading manner, begging: "Oh no no no, please - let me try again, I promise I will get it this time - maybe I just, need to sit in a different place--"

The Toa interrupted her by stretching out of her carefully folded pose, limbs snapping into much less graceful shapes as she relaxed - still used to stances that came easier to her former Rahaga body.

Once she was fully comfortable, she turned to the Ga-Matoran again: "You don't need to mold yourself into something that won't fit you," she told her simply from the half curled up wisdom of her weird lizard-like posture: "Meditation might just not come easy to you. There's no shame in such a little thing."

"But it should be easy! I need it to be easy!" her companion replied in a strangled voice: "I don't want to be this angry all the time! It exhausts me!"

"How can it help you if it just makes you angrier?"

"I don't know! I don't know why it must be like this! I just want it to work for once!"

A gentle hand ran up and down her shoulder as she heaved, in a soothing motion; she became conscious of her breathing, of the frustration clouding her vision, and slowly managed to reign herself back into a stable mood.

As if she couldn't make more of a fool of herself...

"Did anybody ever teach you?" Gaaki's voice was earnest, not mocking in the slightest.

Dalu shook her head.

"Oh! Well, that explains it." the Toa smiled. Before she even realized she was being moved, the Matoran found herself seated squarely in a broader lap, leaned back against a cool chest: "I can give you a couple tips. Are you more comfortable?"

The other peeped a flustered confirmation.

Gaaki laughed a little, in a hissing tone: "No need to be so stiff. Take a deep breath now, and exhale while you close your eyes."

Dalu followed her instructions. It was a little hard not to be tense - this was the closest she had been to a Toa in her whole life, let alone a Ga-Toa... Perhaps the connection to their mutual element was causing her brain to act up strangely. Was it a common thing? Did that mean she was meant to be a Toa, too?

The other's voice came to her audio receptor with the sweetness of a mumbling brook: "The trick," she said softly, as if sharing a secret, "Is to find a quiet noise in the silence. Something that doesn't demand much attention usually - the hint of a breeze, drops falling far away... Focus on it as hard as you can: let it fill your thoughts, and follow its path as it simply goes. The rest comes along with it."

There were plenty of sounds around them, now that the Ga-Matoran searched for them: waves crashing in the distance, grass rustling, branches bending, leaves crackling, the works, really. But her head laid right against Gaaki's chest, and from it, faintly, she could hear the mechanisms around her heartlight move with the gentle clicking and clacking of well-oiled clockwork; and from the moment she perceived it, everything else fell dead silent.

Follow its path... She imagined the gears turning, the small pistons making their rounds, the electricity crackling as it fed into her soul. She let that ensemble lift her, move her along the well threaded road of its slow dance like a graceful figure locked inside a music box.

It felt easy.

It felt peaceful.

She opened her eyes to find the Toa looking down at her with an amused expression.

Oh?

Oh!

"Did I fall asleep?" she asked embarrassedly.

Gaaki treated her to another hissing snicker: "Happens more often than you'd think," she reassured her. "And it means it finally worked! At least, I hope so. Do you feel any better?"

Still coddled in much larger arms, Dalu only replied: "... Yeah."

Another grin had her brain fry a circuit.

"Come to me any time you need," the Toa reassured her after they'd both gotten back on their feet, gently hushering her on her way with a sweet look in her eyes: "I'm always glad to help."

Dalu would have loved to give her some kind of proper answer; instead, head full of something and a strange sensation tingling pleasantly across her, she only mumbled something and walked off absentmindendly, simply keeping her new incomprehensible discoveries to herself.

18: Travel - Distances - Progress

"How far still?"

"Six hundred bio more."

"Alright, old girl," Johmak adjusted her grip on Helryx as an ominous creak arose from her own joints, "Hold on tight."

The Toa did not reply; they kept moving forward, slower than snails.

They did not speak for a long time. Not that they expected for one of them to break out into chit-chat - battered as they were, it was a miracle they still had enough breath to walk. Their pursuers were too close to waste time with words, anyways: that could wait until they were out of sight and out of mind - meaning once they were safe within the hideout, with enough time to lick their wounds and assess the situation.

The many nooks and crannies the Order carved for itself across the universe's islands weren't made to be found easily. Helryx knew their location by heart, but she did not fault Johmak for struggling to tell its entrance apart from the environment around it.

She nudged her in the right direction with a grunt; her underling repayed her by shoving her to safety first, if a little gracelessly.

Once the camouflaged door was shut behind them again, enveloping them in the relative darkness of the hideout, the Toa allowed herself to sink into the ground with a hiss.

"Not yet," Johmak reminded her, voice lacking aggression. She slipped her hands under Helryx's arms and dragged her, slowly, horrendously slowly, beyond tired herself, to some halphazardly stuffed cot.

Helryx did not move a single muscle. She watched her agent from where she laid motionless as she got hold of a stool and sat down beside her, sighing hard as she let herself fall in her seat: for roughly a minute, the only sound between them were their heavy breaths. She counted sixty-nine seconds; on seventy, punctual as usual, Johmak stretched, yanked a toolbox out from somewhere, pried a chunk of blue armor off of her superior, and got to work.

Her ability to fragment physically made her a skilled medic when it came to internal damage: she could weave through the more delicate bits of a being's anatomy without almost touching them.

Helryx let her operate on her old, worn mechanisms, eyes shut. She shivered lightly when something grazed a nerve; her agent mumbled a half apology of some kind, and when she returned on that spot she was lighter than air, gliding over it.

The treatement took hours, probably. The old Toa fell into a sleep-like trance at some point, and awoke feeling more exhausted than before.

Johmak leaned against her leg, head in her hand, eyes distant. Her fingers hovered distractedly above the still exposed innards of her boss, not soothing them, not damaging them - only feeling them lightly, with her digits, as they continued on in their endless dance despite the age and wear marking them.

Helryx met her blank gaze.

"Report."

"Relax," the other drawled softly. "No sign of life beside us."

The Toa sighed.

Her hand slipped under Johmak's leg, pulling it up on the cot. She removed the ebony plating to reveal straining muscles: at her command humidity condensed in soothing drops, her fingers spreading them all across the tense flesh with comforting motions.

The other female exhaled quietly in relief.

"We cannot do this anymore," Helryx murmured.

"Do what?"

"Missions together. Our priorities get too compromised."

Johmak hummed.

Her hand laid on her superior's.

"It's a long way to Daxia," she only commented. "I'll enjoy our final escapade while it lasts."

"Enjoy is quite the choice of word," the Toa huffed.

She got back a wry, sly smile: "Could be worse."

"How so?"

"I could be a Makuta."

Helryx hummed: "Quite a lot worse, indeed."

The distance their Duty already imposed was suffocating enough.

#bioshippingweek #bionicle #mata nui #takua #marka #nixie #nokama #krahka #vhisola #gavla #chiara #lariska #gelu #dalu #gaaki #johmak #helryx #random writing #random draws #humanized bionicle #for the drawings #and then i said 'its sapphing time' and sapphod all over the place #1: takua the very first matoran... inextricably linked to and literally made for mata nui... romance as an eldritch alien concept... yum #2: theres a certain tender sadness between those bound to the seas and those bound to the heavens. you know?#3: whats purity to a monster? whats change to a shapeshifter? whats point of big beast wife if not hug her tight like plushie when sad?#4: the worst (funniest) pair i could come up with. theyre like extremely volatile highly explosive chemicals if they were girls #5: women with Past Beef and Intense Weird Feelings cause only man in this collection unspeakable psychological damage #6: oh to be a small angry lass in the arms of a big kind lady... gaaki has no clue what she just awoke. neither does dalu tbh #7: not quite doomed but... helryx will always put duty before everything. johmak understands. thats how their relationship survives

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