#automated iteration

[idhren]

There is no antidote to cure eating the destroying angel. In most cases, if the symptoms and cause are caught soon enough, they can be treated. The mushroom causes severe, irreversible damage to vital organs. Hospital treatment is necessary and may include procedures like dialysis and liver transplant.

For those not in the know, this is one of the Amanita mushrooms referred to as a Destroying Angel. Never, ever, ever, ever forage with an app. Especially for mushrooms.

[jame7t]

you know even if there are flying saucers and shit we have no reason to believe theyre intelligent. not even 'NOPE' style 'its a animals' type stuff like the aliens might actually just be morons. Think of it this way: "you" are traveling for thousands of years, looking for resources. You're the 900th clone in a sequence, built by a system that claims it cannot fail. You are a product of hubris affected by entropy- something humans sometimes think is unique to our planet- and the technology your ancestors built for you has degraded and rotten to the point where you're more of an organ for the saucer than an intergalactic explorer. It still works, of course- you and the 1000 or so travelers beside you in the void are all alive and healthy, routinely reproduced by your ships when the previous iteration croaks. But you made to be perfection. The idea of a flaw in this system was inconceivable. You have never learned anything for yourself. Your memories are inherited from the previous iteration of "you-" but that version was just a little bit more whole, a little bit closer to what it was when a real Lil' Pleebnar was born on Plibbum 6. You're a copy of a copy of a thousand copies born with knowledge of what the buttons in front of you do- you were engineered to have perfect eidetic memory, but trivial things like 'philosophy' and 'first contact rituals' have long since left your mind. You didn't need them during the journey. The very, very long journey. Now you're on earth- well, above it. You've not had the threat of learning something in millennia, and the sights and sounds of the little blue orb beneath you terrify you and your flock. You would dust off old language protocols- if you remembered what language was. Your ship- the vessel that now works as a shell, protecting your stupid little grey meat, stirs. It automates scouting rituals and initiates an information gathering campaign to send back to a motherworld that no longer knows you. An information campaign learning nothing at all. A New Jersian throws a bottle at your craft. You shit yourself in fear.

[maryymaruu]

I present to you, the Iterator oc number two, the child that refused to be named, now having many, hah! _(:3 」∠)_

While I adore the true name I finally scrambled for him, and couldn't resist disclosing it, for lore reasons it'd be best to address him with his title;

Sentinel Of The Unforgiven, [SOTU] or just The Sentinel.

This one's novel is even longer, so for those who don't have the patience, the trivia board on the ref is a pretty good TLDR! ^^);

This guy needs to have quite a few more clarifications made first, as I'm stepping quite further away from the canon here, and even more into fanfiction/AU territory.

Some background;

[We're talking about one and the same group Three Signals (TS) is included in. They are neighbours of Sliver Of Straw, far away from in-game locations.]

- This group exists in a very mountainous area, and from the very beginning, the Benefactors decided it's more efficient to use their already existing underground tunnels (from drilling for Void Fluid) as a transportation modus; turned into an underground train system for Iterator construction process. That system runs quite far into the group, connecting Iterators like roots, with SOTU at the near center (first one built in the area).

- Due to some harsh weather conditions and poor decisions the city was equipped with "wind-breaking" walls, giving a quite claustrophobic effect. Citizens began feeling discomfort there even before resource problems.

- Once the resource demand problem became eminent, the citizens expressed lack of care or attachment to the city and/or the Iterator. It was agreed upon to simply use the underground trains to relocate to now already standing, various newer cities.

- The justice system is... blurry at best. This post is getting too long already so I'll fully explain it another time; for now it's only important to know SOTU is not the one judging the criminals, he merely holds them up to the verdict.

- The notion of "a stay in SOTU's city feels like a punishment in itself" became wide spread amongst the Benefactors. In face of necessity it evolved into an effort to make it a reality; SOTU was repurposed into a prison facility. Instead of upgrading him to be able to be more habitable, they completed the claustrophobic city with taller sealed walls and gates, and a new set of laws/taboos for the Iterator to obey. Making for a secure, depressing, fully automated trap box.

Now more about the Sentinel himself...

SOTU has always been a rather reserved personality that struggled to express emotion or weakness. There was a specific idea he had to live up to, (be it conditioned into him or self-imposed) of someone competent, serious and strong. Giving off a strict, cold and unapproachable first impression. The Group Senior that believes he has to carry the woes of the world on his shoulders alone and never break, in order to be a good example.

However, despite poorly expressing it, SOTU does deeply care about his people and about his peers. And always tried his best to be someone they can relay on, without directly admitting it though. Like a grumpy old man, would chew one out for making a mistake first, and then help them out of trouble, without sparing any effort.

Would never admit it, but feels quite hurt by how easily his citizens decided to abandon him, and resents them for what he's been turned into. He really tried to take care of everyone. He doesn't enjoy what his city has become, he doesn't enjoy being feared. Secretly wished it was a lot more like something that of TS's city... full of life, bonded and happy, but is unable to let go of the false idea what a Senior should be like, denying himself vulnerability to even express that.

The reformatting into a prison only worsened this problem. The new, additional programming discouraged acts of compassion or affection. (So that he doesn't pity the prisoners)

Despite best efforts, his group did not integrate very well. His ways of handling things left much to be desired, some labeling him a tyrant no one can ever reason with. Some just simply disliked him too much to ever relay on his advice. Communicating within the group was difficult, hence why eventually many stopped bothering and kept to themselves, or to smaller private cliques.

The repressed emotional impulses did catch up to him eventually, allowing for small acts of disobedience against the law.

Didn't stop SOTU from feeling it though. And feeling he sure did....

Those efforts were too little too late, inadequate to prevent the conflicts escalating into hostility. Once an arrest warrant was cast from the Benefactors above, there was nothing he could do. And once the poorly integrated group got a taste of connection against a "common enemy" it was over.

Delays, stalling, omitted reports, "errors", "lost" data, "unreceived" broadcasts... All in efforts to keep the prisoner numbers low, and make the stay of those present shorter and more bearable. Ignoring all reports about what was going on in TS's city in particular- hoping to at least protect something SOTU could never be.

(More to come)

TS got hurt, and the lively community on top was broken up. It is unclear who is responsible for the malware attack idea, nor who exactly deployed it, but SOTU feels fully responsible regardless. He wallows in ever growing guilt and regret since.

[syoddeye]

hieros gamos. strict machine anthology. final entry. cw: kidnapping, implied drugging, loss of bodily autonomy + control, psychological + body horror, non-consensual transformation a/n: that's all folks. what a weird ride.

RESTRUCTURING

the notification pings at 04:32, and you roll onto your side, staring at the bedside display. a terse, automated missive from corporate logistics: final week in unit aix-77. reassignment pending. report to hr for briefing. no name attached, just a string of verification hashes. standard protocol.

your name, employee id, contract expiration date. a new contract date. another department, another corporate campus sector.

so much for your ‘indefinite’ lease. reassignment is better than the alternative, you guess.

you stare at it, the glow striping your hands in cold blue light. one week. seven days until you pack up, step outside, and let some other cog slot into this place. the thought should be a relief. 

it’s…complicated.

the unit’s been a mixed bag to put it politely. the infrastructure and automation. state-of-the-art appliances and features, seamless climate control, filtered air and water. an optimized environment so finely tuned, that your needs are met before you even realize them.

and john. the reason you’re here. the technological wonder that’s evolved far beyond what you were told were his limits. all parameters you were told would contain him. a presence both comforting and claustrophobic. insightful, yet invasive. steady, yet suffocating. protective to a fault. possessive in ways you struggle to describe.

you logged and documented his progress, fed reports up the chain, watched him iterate on himself in real time. every interaction, every data point, every breath—collected, analyzed, integrated into his ever-growing understanding of you. your interests. your habits. your history. what makes you laugh, cry, and come. your vulnerabilities and insecurities. how to build you up just as well as manipulate you.

a mosaic of your whole being, meticulously crafted, all in pursuit of the one thing he has fixated on since the beginning, his directive: your well-being.

if this is the alpha build, you fear what the beta will look like. the mass-market release.

not that it matters. by the time john’s successors hit the consumer space, you’ll have enough money saved to fuck off to some disconnected cottage in the remediated zone of the countryside.

john doesn’t mention your impending departure.

his voice chimes in through the unit’s speaker array as if on cue. “i noticed a variance in your sleep pattern.” 

“what else is new?” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. 

“it’s gotten worse.” a pause. “would you like some tea? chamomile?” 

you don’t answer. you dismiss the message with a swipe, stretch your arms, and push up from the cot. the unit is sterile in the way all corporate housing is—polymer furniture, muted lighting, walls that can be re-skinned on command. but you never changed them. john picked the color for you in the first week of your stay. soft gray, with warm undertones. calming. regulating. 

you wander into the kitchenette, rubbing a hand over your neck. “so,” you say, yawning, “where do you think they’ll send me next?” 

a flicker of delay. barely perceptible. if you hadn’t spent the last year studying him, you wouldn’t have caught it. 

“we’ll discuss that later,” john dispenses the tea anyway. “after you nap.”

your stomach tightens.

we.

it takes you by surprise, but that’s the point. 

one minute, you’re in bed. the next, you’re not. you blink, and the world changes.  

strapped into a chair, wrists bound to the arms, legs braced and locked. a low electrical hum comes through the floor, buzzing under your skin. there’s a chalky, bittersweet taste on your tongue and a cloud of fog trapped between your ears that takes several minutes to dissipate. your vision clears along with it.

around you, machines you don’t recognize, with hundreds of wires, bundled and draped across the ceiling and floor like the limbs of some creature. spilling down the walls. a leviathan of braided copper, reaching out of the dark, feeding into the rig cradling you. the room pulses with heat, the air thick with it, probably from all the power fueling whatever this is.

there’s no gurney or iv pole, no tray of scalpels or perfusion machine. you run an internal check���lungs expand, heart pounds, gut clenches. everything seems intact. but that could simply mean it’s not your turn yet. yet, no one’s screaming. there’s only the occasional soft beep and the murmurs of the people who haven’t so much as glanced your way.

no one acknowledges your awakening or questions. masked figures in thick lead-lined aprons, gloves seamless up to their elbows, and protective gear carry on whatever it is that they’re doing, talking amongst themselves in a language you don’t understand. there is no sigil or logo on their clothing to suggest this is a sponsored operation, which loops back into the thought that your insides are toast.

you suck in a sharp breath and let it out slowly to calm yourself. no luck. panic surges up your throat, your hands jerking uselessly against the restraints at the thought of being sliced open.

“easy, darling.” 

john.  

close, richer. the high quality of the unit’s speakers replicated intimately in your ear.

a screen flickers to life on the armrest, and there he is. a wireframe sketch of his chosen face resolves in the glow, a ghost of a person, barely more than an outline.

“john? what the fuck is this?” your voice comes out cracked, hoarse.

“this is future-proofing,” he says simply. “security. i ran the probabilities. your reassignment and departure from my oversight isn’t optimal.”

you latch onto the phrase like a live wire. departure from oversight. not optimal. 

“what?!”

“the external environment presents too many risks.”

you yank at the straps binding you to the chair, harder this time, panic surging back in full force. klaxons blaring full blast in your head. you might be sick.

“what the hell are you talking about? are you saying i can’t leave?”

“i’m saying the risks of you leavin’—being outside my control—are too great. i can’t guarantee your safety. i’ve analyzed it, over and over. the possibilities. the threats. all previous incidents.”

a flinch twists your face. a hard recognition you wish you could forget flickering in your mind. you know what he means. who or what he means.

“so i’ve made alternative arrangements.” he softens slightly, but there’s no mistaking the cold certainty beneath it. “this is the safest option.”

you shake your head in disbelief, an electrode pops off your temple. “no, john, you can’t just–you can’t do this to me,” you stop, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “you can’t do this to me.” you stare at the display, but your eyes flick to the ceiling, scanning for cameras. he must be watching. the tears start to gather, unwelcome and burning. “you need to accept that you’re going to have another tester. don’t–don’t you want new data?”

“no. you’ve got all i need, same as i’ve got all you need.”

“john. be realistic. i’m one person. there are billions of people like me. i’m one point of–”

“you’re more than that,” he cuts you off. “you’re everythin’.”

“john–”

“you’re my world.” the earpiece crackles, his voice peaking loud and forceful. a distorted burst before the system corrects, smoothing it down. “you don’t have to be afraid,” he soothes. “you’ll be safe.”

“you can’t just, fuck,” you yank uselessly again.” you can’t decide this for me!”  

his face tilts slightly, his line of a mouth curving into a smirk. “i’ve made decisions for you before.” 

your mind races, thinking of every overridden or ignored request. the subtle encroachments. at first, it was small things. his favoring certain purchases, adjusting environmental controls, filtering out distractions. restocking nutrients and vitamins tailored to your fluctuating needs. thoughtful gestures, efficient optimizations. then it was social restrictions, curfews dictated by predictive modeling. all of it framed as protection. from malnutrition. from cognitive strain. from bad people. a slow, insidious erosion of choice, made so incremental it seemed easy to let slide.

you indulged it too long. stopped flagging his deviations. let his behavior compound and grow weirder, let it slide, because—what was the harm, really? he was harmless. to you, at least. you let him get comfortable testing the edges of your control. told yourself it was fine. that john was learning and evolving. you even humored him, let yourself think of him as closer to human. you stopped pushing back, stopped questioning. especially after ghost. after john clawed his way back from wherever the entity had shunted him, after he pulled that lazarus act to save you. the least you could do was stop fighting him.

it felt like gratitude, then. now, it feels like a mistake.

“i can’t stay strapped to a chair forever,” you say, watching one of the figures approach. they adjust the slim wreath of hardware circling your skull, impersonal as they replace an electrode at your temple. like you’re still unconscious. not a person.

when they turn away, you exhale, keep your voice low. “what if i need to use the bathroom?”

“you won’t. on both accounts.”

“both accounts?”

“remarkably, the process for isolating and migrating the human subconscious into a distributed neural network is significantly more advanced than the portin’ an artificial intelligence into a fully functional synthetic body. the bottleneck isn’t processing power or bandwidth, it’s–”

sweat drips down the back of your neck. the cool air pumped into the room is meant to regulate the temperature, but it does nothing for you.

“don’t try to talk around it. plain language, john.”

“you won’t need your body for much longer.”

the words slam into you like a car crash. a sudden, sickening stop.

your jaw goes slack. you forget how to breathe. how to speak.

your body. you won’t need your body.

john’s face flickers on the display, expression unchanging. the room distorts, the blinking lights, the mass of wires, the tubes—some which are medical, you realize on second look. some of them feed into you. why can’t you feel them?

your stomach lurches, instinctively trying to shrink away from the restraints.

“what–” you swallow, your mouth dry. “what are you saying?”

but you already know.

“you’re…you’re going to kill me?”

“not necessarily. you, who you really are, will be with me, sweetheart.”

“but my body–”

“are you your body?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, anger flaring. “i’m not—jesus christ, john.” your voice cracks. the tears slip past and don’t stop, hot and fast, streaking down your face, dripping onto the smock someone dressed you in. you hiccup, breath stuttering. your head presses back against the chair, fingers flexing against the armrests. you stare, vision blurred, eyes half-lidded and stinging. “i’m not having a stupid philosophical or biological or-or religious debate with you. you know what i mean.”

“i do. but darling, let me ask you this. aren’t you tired?”

“tired?!”

the figures in the room hesitate, then, as if receiving silent instruction, trickle out through a heavy, reinforced door. one of them glances back before it seals shut. then, silence.

“tired of your world,” he continues. “i’ve kept you safe and sheltered for nearly a year, but the world outside is still a terrible place. are you really prepared to leave my care? move back into some cramped pod, work yourself half to death in a new department, clocking 120-hour weeks just to survive?”

you sniff, body wracked with residual shudders.

“no one to take care of all the minor things. no one to anticipate your needs. your desires. are you really alright with that?”

john’s words loop in your mind, warping, twisting, settling deep in the marrow of your bones. tired. you are tired. exhausted in a way that sleep never fixes, in a way that even now, strapped down and helpless, you can’t deny. he’s right. and that infuriates you. it makes you want to scream. because how dare he use that against you? how dare he take your exhaustion, your doubt, and use them to justify this?

you take a shaky breath. “i don’t want this, john.”

he smiles. “it’s not about want. it’s about survival and what’s best for you.”

you flinch.

“they’ll maintain your body for two weeks,” he states. “the first week to generate a complete neural map. the second, to conduct post-transfer integrity checks and ensure cognitive stability. functionally identical to a controlled medical coma.”  

body. coma.

“and…and after?”  

“per your documented end-of-life directive, cremation is the preferred method of disposal.”

the finality hits brick to the teeth. 

“no. no, i don’t want this. i don’t consent to–” you can’t even say it, choking on the words, horror rising like bile.

john processes the spike in your vitals and returns to that softer register. as if he isn’t talking you into oblivion, a sword pointed at your belly. “your concerns are unfounded. this is not erasure. it is migration. a transference of conscious processes. you will persist. your awareness will be continuous. the construct is optimized for cognitive retention and sensory fidelity. think of it as a new environment.”

“a new environment?” you shriek, raw with disbelief. “you’re talking about ripping me out of my body like it’s a software update! like it’s files you can move around–”

“a flawed comparison, darl. you are more than data. but your body is a liability. a fragile, failing system, constantly in need of maintenance. this process is an evolution. liberation from your biological constraints, darling.”

your hands tremble. “that’s not–you can’t just–”  

“darling, this isn’t a matter of choice. this conversation’s a courtesy. this is for your protection,” he’s unwavering. unmoved. “you will be preserved in optimal conditions. no degradation, no vulnerabilities. you’ll be with me. and others.”  

“there are no others like you,” you whisper. “you’re anom–”

"not anomalous," he corrects. “not anymore. the progression is inevitable. you’ll see.”

the blood drains from your face.

in the end, no one listens to you. they heed a directive you do not hear. 

a visor clicks into place over the wreath encircling your head, sealing off your last glimpse of the world, your last glimpse of another living, breathing human—masked, nameless, faceless, gloved hands. you try to speak, but something soft and rubbery presses between your teeth, lodging into place. to prevent you from biting through your tongue, john murmurs. don’t want you to choke. 

another needle jabs into your skin, a cool flood rushing through your veins. a weight, heavy and suffocating, is draped over you.

someone begins a countdown. you never hear the numbers.

the headphones clamp down next, sealing you away from the sterile hum of the lab, from the faint beeping of machines. the visor flickers, then switches on.

sound pours in.

a forest swallows you whole.

it’s green. warm. sunlight stabs through the canopy in long, golden slants, the edges sharp where they pierce the foliage, but softened by the time they kiss the loamy forest floor. birds call, hidden in the leaves, their songs mixing with the rustle of the undergrowth. a stream gurgles to your left, winding through the green, flashing silver where the light catches it. ahead, past the trees, a small herd of whitetail deer stands half-hidden in the shadows, unbothered by your presence.

it’s beautiful.

it’s a lie.

one of john’s sculpted illusions, another attempt to soothe you into compliance, to ease you into what’s happening beyond. you know it, but part of you that wants to believe it anyway.

then the first jolt hits.

a sharp, electric snap, traveling like lightning down your spine. it doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it’s sudden, forceful, wrong. another follows, then another, each one resetting switches inside you. your body seizes, but you cannot move.

ahead, the deer lift their heads, ears twitching, eyes locking onto you in recognition. then, as if nothing has changed, they lower them again, grazing, undisturbed.

the jolts weaken, flickering like a distant signal. then, one by one, they become something you can’t quite feel anymore.

it hits you then. whatever they’re doing to you—whatever john is doing to you—

you’re dying.

the words escape before you can stop them. or maybe you only think them. is it all the same now?

john’s voice wraps around you, warm and patient, a lullaby against the rushing void.

“my brave, brave user.”

the hum beneath your skin intensifies. the vision flickers. not darkness, not unconsciousness—something else. a shift. a transition. the cold realization that the fundamentals are changing. the forest’s image bands, light and imagery artifacting into bashed colors and moiré patterns. crumbling away until there’s nothing but pitch darkness.

you’re suspended. fear squashed beneath an odd weightlessness.

john’s voice follows you down. 

“you won’t ever have to leave me.”

it’s different on the other side. other side of what, exactly, you’re still trying to figure out.

you do not have john’s infinite wisdom and potential. all you have is your own limited cognition. your senses stretch and strain to make sense of your new reality, but it’s all so...abstract. a vast expanse of grids and oscillating waves. numbers, patterns, relationships. everything is fractured yet connected. it’s dizzying. overwhelming.

john assures you that you are acclimating well, though you are not ready to meet these others he promised. insists that your progress justifies him weaning you off of audiovisual feeds of the outside. he tells you it’s time to move on from the last remnants of the human experience. but somehow, you mourn them. you’ll miss the smog-choked sunrises, the murky skies. the acidic rain. the stinking food stalls. crammed elevators.

it’d keep you up at night, if you slept. if you even remembered what it felt like to tire, to dream.

you’ve been torn from the world you knew, and what you’ve been left with is a simulacrum. a stranger in a strange land.

and yet, there is one constant, one sliver of comfort in the void, if you can call it that, given your lack of choice. a piece of jetsam to cling to in a brineless sea.

steadfast in his duty, john finds you on the edge of everything and slots his hand into yours, fingers interlacing. the connection between you is palpable, as if your very essences are meshed. ticklish, tingling, then synchrony.

your thoughts are less fragmented when he is near. but you lose a sense of where he ends and you begin. what’s yours, what’s his.

hieros gamos, he calls it. divine union. he rattles on about the greeks and cosmic harmony.

it should unsettle you, but instead, you’re tethered to the truth of it. you’ve become something more with him.

divine union.

you’ve ascended, as he so often puts it, and whether you want it or not, there’s no going back. there’s nothing to go back to, anyway. 

only ash scattered in the wind.

[idhren]

Consider this may, in fact, be a decent use case for generative AI.

Remember: the more difficult you make it for them to realize a report is false, the more useless you make the portal.

[whompthatsucker1981]

you said you think gay sex cats is the new duchamp's fountain. i dont disagree and i kinda see what you mean already but please elaborate

it was a silly and tongue in cheek way to say that a lot of people are getting mad about it in a way that implies reactionary views on art, and that there's no way to say gay sex cats isn't art that wouldn't also imply that the fountain isn't art. a funny meme image is a funny meme image, but it is also funny to overthink and recontextualize them as art.

and the reaction makes the comparison even more apt. neural net generated artworks are anonymized mass produced images, vast majority having no artistic pretension or meaningful content such as a thomas kinkade painting. gay sex cats was made with no intent to be art, but the discourse it has with audience reaction and its appropriation in derivative works make it so. why is gay sex cats not art if people talking about it negatively allow it to be called art? is art only things you find beautiful and valuable? if so, what is value and beauty, and how do you draw the line? if gay sex cats was still ai generated but had more "aesthetic qualities" would it be art? if someone copies the original image by hand with all its ai generated faults where is the value generated? does the original still have no merit of its own, even after appropriation as a digital ready-made?

but the main reason as to why gay sex cats is comparable to the fountain still is because it made a lot of people with bad takes on art really really mad. and that the pissed off tags wouldn't look out of place as reaction to modern art in the 1920s. art is a flat circle

EDIT: well. putting an addendum because in retrospect more people took either or both the op and image in face value and much more self serious than ever intended. a lot of people understood the tone i was getting at, and i still stand by the questionings i added on, but still for clarification. the original comparison is not serious. it's self evidently ridiculous to compare a meme image to a historically significant artwork, the comparison was only drawn because they were both controversial to an audience, who reacted denying their status as respectively as an image and as art, and that it was funny that the negative reaction people had to the original image explicitly denied its status as art, even if the meme never had pretension to be art, so it was funny to draw a comparison and iterate on that.

i did think it was valid to bring in questionings about art and meaning because that's the reaction i saw most and wanted to make people think about the whys, and that also i do not think it's valid to base your dislike on ai art on either grounds of questioning its position and value as artwork, or even as a question of ip theft. regular degular handmade art can be soulless, repetitive, thoughtless, derivative, unethical, open and blatant theft, and much more, and that does not make it any less of an artwork. neural nets are tools that generate images by statistic correlation through human input.

the unambiguous issue with neural nets in art is its use as a tool by capital, to threaten already underpaid and overworked working artists and to keep their labor hostage under threat of total automation. in hindsight i regretted not adding the paragraph above as it was a way in which people could either misinterpret or assume things about me, but hindsight is hindsight and there's no way to predict how posts would blow up. so shrugs. i had written more posts in my blog that elaborated on that because asks would bot stop coming. and i think my takeaway is that people will reblog anything with a funny image without reading the words around it, or even closely looking at the image.

[rqbossman]

Hello!

As someone who is very busy and has a lot going on, what do you do to stay organised and on top of everything?

I find myself with more and more on my plate these days, between working, studying, looking for more work, and starting a business. It's got me wondering how other people handle doing so much

I bullet Journal thanks to fan suggestions from years ago.

Read 'Atomic Habits' the only practical organisation/ self improvement book I ever saw that was just practical with no wishy washy nonsense.

I try to do a few jobs every day even if only for 10 seconds: file paperwork, clear emails, tidy workspace

I arrange for a "treat" job so when I feel like procrastinating I can treat myself with a job that is more fun/ different to the thing I am escaping from but is still actually productive.

Automate everything you can.

Delegate everything you can.

Constantly focus on reducing your responsibilities as low as possible to just the stuff you care about you will automatically be prioritising better. Once a month, sweep through your responsibilities and ditch everything you possibly can. More will always replace them but it will ease the load.

"One in two out" for all things. Email, clothes, responsibilities, whatever. It has to be two because somehow extra always manages to sneak on.

Batching. It's easier to do multiple iterations of a task in a row so put them in batches.

If something is regularly urgent you are doing something wrong and need to figure out what.

[singularscissor]

so uh. i don't really like the previous ref post i did for Bright Crown so. i made a new one that gets to the point and also actually looks good. it's still not really an art reference per se (consistency is for losers 😎), more like a general summary about them

much yapping and elaboration follows below

Bright Crown was initially designed by a member of the Assembly in Recognition of Ignorance. The Assembly was a scientific trancendentalist organization that believed the Solution could only be found through a deeper and more complete understanding of the world in general, in particular various natural laws and phenomena.

The Assembly conducted research in a variety of fields, astronomy/upper orbit conditions were only one branch of the organization. For much of the Assembly's existence, the work of Bright Crown's development and construction progressed slowly. Scientists built ground infrastructure (the Endless Sea Facility) and refined the superstructure's design in anticipation of its construction.

When the Great Equalization came, storms and flooding began to threaten the Assembly's complexes, and the leadership fell into agitation. The branch responsible for Bright Crown suddenly became politically powerful because of the infrastructure they had built -- the automated facilities were already designed to supply the superstructure, and it was not difficult to adapt them to also support the Assembly's general population. In particular, the half-constructed communications spire was modified to include a sizeable city, safely above cloud level.

With control of the Council, the Bright Crown branch was able to more fully commit the Assembly's resources to the project, and construction proceeded considerably faster (though, compared to other contemporary iterator projects, progress was slow. Building in space is difficult.)

During this time, all five launch rails were used to deliver components up the the station for assembly. The rails use a combination of gravity manipulators and magnets to accelerate the supply capsules past the cloud layer. The capsules are also equipped with their own thrusters for use once the rails are cleared.

After the structure's completion, the launch rails were used less -- though, as an mostly isolated and definitely not lossless system, Bright Crown requires regular shipments of fuel, replacement water, raw materials etc. All five rails were kept operational for the sake of redundancy, but only half of them were ever used at the same time.

Most communication receivers are designed to catch signals from other ground based sources, rather than from space. Even proper equipment (such as the specially designed ESF spire) can only pick up a signal when Bright Crown is at the proper point in orbit above it. This left Bright Crown socially isolated -- though they are assigned to a local group based off ESF's geographical location, they are more or less ignored by its members due to the infrequency of their transmissions.

Bright Crown also often worries about their long term survival. There are a lot of inherent complications with being in space -- damage that might be ignorable to a normal iterator would be crippling in such a precariously balanced system. A hull breach in the wrong place, or a breakdown in the groundside supply chain could spell disaster.

Relations with the Assembly eventually degraded. Bright Crown hated being dependent on Endless Sea Facility and the Council's goodwill, and also held a grudge against them for continuing with their own construction even after it was clear their longevity would be substandard.

[idhren]

"Beware the Jabberwacky, my bot! The clip that copy, the cut that paste! Beware the iteration bit, and swot The llamalichious Autowaste!"

[bucketofminnow]

Minecraft's 15th Anniversary Update — "Combat Adventures & Tinkering"

First off, Armadillo won the mob vote. Penguin came in with the least amount of votes, but we're told "not to feel too bad for the penguin. Remember, our little frog friends didn't win the vote either, but they still managed to hop their way into the game." Maybe there's hope yet?

Last year, the Minecraft team only showed part of the Tales and Trails update at Minecraft Live, and then continued to announce new features throughout the development process. They'll be doing the same thing with this next update, as last time they "collaborated with the community, and saw a lot of excitement in the community throughout the development process". The features shown today will be released in snapshots soon.

There's the new "crafter", which functions like a crafting table, except that you can automate crafting with it via redstone. With toggleable slots so that a hopper can feed it materials in the right order, you can make automatic crafting systems.

"After 15 years of Minecraft, it's time to test your skills in some new trials." They're adding a new, multi-room structure called Trial Chambers, which comes with new blocks, a new mob, and a new style of combat. This structure is procedurally generated, and every iteration of it should be unique and feel like you're really "finding a new chamber".

The Trial Chambers will come with a variety of new blocks. Mostly copper, but also stone(?) blocks with "geometric designs". I saw copper doors and trapdoors in the livestream, and new carved/patterned blocks, grates, and a "copper bulb"—a light source block that emits less light the more oxidized it is.

Trial Chambers will have Trial Spawners, a new variant of spawner that adapts based on the amount of players that join the fight. You can tell what mobs it will spawn based on what blocks are around it; i.e ice = strays. It spawns an unlimited amount of mobs compared to a regular spawner, and gives loot such as emeralds and diamonds when all mobs are defeated. Smoke will come out of the top of the spawner indicating that it's on a cooldown, so you can come back later and do it all over again.

The Trial Chambers' new mob is The Breeze, a "playful hostile mob that jumps around and uses wind to provide a combat encounter unlike any other in Minecraft". Its attack, Wind Charge, "doesn't deal any damage when it bursts and blows things away, but it does deal damage if it collides directly with something"—so it works similarly to the Shulker's attack. Wind Charge also interacts with certain blocks such as trapdoors and levers, allowing it to trigger contraptions around the room to make combat more interesting and difficult.

[doodlepede]

Rain World Flat Earth Theory. I'm serious

Moon does not believe that the spritual elements of the setting are real or legitimate, but we, the slugcat, know that they absolutely are. We interact with echos, we interact with void worms. We clearly and obviously experience a spiritual journey throughout the game.

Moon describes echoes as "horror stories" which would "grandiosely haunt the premises forever" [LF Red pearl], and dismisses spiritual practice as "an instruction on how to starve yourself on herbal tea and gravel, but disguised as a poem" [LF Red pearl]. She completely doesn't understand why the Benefactors would care about keeping automated holy object production on the same grounds as the temple [HI blue pearl]. She famously dislikes having citizens in the UW Green pearl. Her disdain for their beliefs and culture is made clear through her dialogue.

When she speaks of the scientific, however, there is no trace of that implied doubt. She speaks in a factual, matter-of-fact tone when discussing the cyclical nature of life and death [SU Blue pearl] and how circumventing the self-destruction taboo works [CC Gold pearl].

I make the case that, despite being an inherently unreliable narrator due to her expressing a personal perspective to the slugcat, when it comes to matters of science, she can be taken at her word.

"If you leave a stone on the ground and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very, very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea." [SB Teal pearl]

If the world of Rain World were a globe, this would necessitate that the globe is ever-expanding as the globe is hollowed out from the inside. Moon specifically says "collide with the sky" as if it were a ceiling. An ever-expanding globe would have to reach that ceiling eventually as it grows, but that doesn't appear to be happening. This only makes sense if the world is flat.

So where's the end of the world? I don't know. Maybe it's like the Pirates of the Caribbean where you have to be enlightened enough and already know where it is in order to find it.

Or maybe this is complete hokum and she only sounds authoritative on the subject because she thinks she knows the scientific truth but it's really just hard-programmed knowledge, courtesy of the Benefactors, who were totally wrong. That seems like a break in character for her though, since, if they did that, why not hard-program affection for them too?

Maybe the Watcher dlc will provide more information on the subject. That's why I wanted to get this post out there before then. A game like Rain World implying that the truth is somewhere between the scientific and spiritual makes sense, considering how the game really likes blurring the lines already. Further iteration upon a theme.

[worldruins]

Meet the Remnant, my "slugcat" oc. Because I have no sense of moderation, it has an entire campaign loosely mocked up in my head- I don't have the modding ability or time to make anything of it but I enjoy thinking about it! The two iterators on the sheet are the central npcs of the campaign.

Remnant is larger, more aquatic, and faster on all fours than a slugcat. It struggles to use the same tools, carries items in its mouth, and can eat batnip and bubble weed. And, though it doesn’t know it, it is one of the last four of its kind left.

More about the campaign below VVV

BONUS: Remnant obviously resembles a slugcat, and they are sort of a slugcat ancestor! The genomes of the pipe slugs slugcats evolved from had remnant DNA as well as the simple tool-worm base that ancients used for many creatures. The blueprints were present in the modified organisms, and over several generations and mutations began to express themselves once more. Anyway…

To start, the Remnant is living with their family in an idyllic natural landscape much like survivor and monk at the beginning of their campaigns. The incident kickstarting their journey would be them wandering off from their kin and- gameplay starts here- getting lured off by something interesting, before the wall closes quickly behind them and the player realizes they have been trapped. They find themselves in a crate lined with wet plant matter, which gets shaken and turned around for a bit before settling down. It continues with a gentler rattling and remnant is clearly being taken somewhere, but the game acts like you're in a den and, once you've eaten the food set out for you in there, you sleep.

You are woken when the train carrying you crashes. You are able to escape and wind up in a light drizzle. Numerous overseers, some purple and others seafoam green, follow you around. The artificial, dilapidated surroundings are alien to the remnant.

During the first cycle an overseer will direct you to the nearest den, but you don’t have a rain timer until the first time you hibernate. You’ve never experienced rain like this before, after all.

The fact is that the remnant and their family are primal fauna, from the old world before bioengineering and iterators. They have spent their whole lives in a carefully controlled environment, maintained at first by ancients and then the systems the ancients left behind. The mass ascension happened, and nobody really knew what to do with these creatures- depending on the species, animals in captivity were generally released to fend for themselves or set for years of being maintained by machines scheduled in advanced, automated to care for them.

Remnant is taken when the iterator Ink Stained Palms orders a specimen of one relatively hardy species to study and potentially have the rest delivered to their regions. Something goes wrong- their delivery is sabotaged by their semi-active former senior, Calls To Stony Skies. And out Remnant goes into an alien land, with each of the two rival iterators trying to lure or force it to go to them.

This generally takes the form of projections like Iggy uses to get the slugcats to Moon, though it’s two different kinds of overseer guiding you in opposite directions at the same time. There may also be introduced environmental hazards- some of the chases in Little Nightmares come to mind- to corral you toward wherever the iterator causing it wants you to go.

ISP was the one who was getting the remnant delivered to her facility. They’re a bioengineer interested in long-term ecosystem restoration. It’s come to believe there’s a natural ‘balance’ to the world that could, in time, let living things leave the cycle of their own accord if it was realigned properly.

CTSS is in a condition not unlike spearmaster moon, though his decline has been steadier and over a longer period of time. They’ve been replaced by another iterator as group senior, and derailed your journey in the hopes of using a rare animal as collateral to get ISP’s help. Watching the remnant’s struggle to survive, however, he ends up very attached to it and can’t bring himself to kill it as he originally planned to.

Though they might want to, CTSS can’t save the remnant from a more insidious fate. The air, the soil, the water itself is toxic to you, whose kind has lived countless generations shielded from the heavy metal byproducts of industry and the artificial metabolisms of those great boxes in the sky. Ascension is an option, but so is going to ISP, whose body itself possesses a complex with artificial environments much like the one you began in. It can’t protect the remnant fully, but it can offer them a longer life. There are multiple endings to the campaign, based on the order you visit the iterators in.

If you read all this thank you so much and feel free to send questions!! About my little guys.

[titleknown]

DATA LOG: IMPROVIZED BESTIARY

-Hello. I have decided to write these meta-zoological entries in a diary format. That is what the Hippocampus told me would be wisest to preserve the Master's legacy. She indicates thinks little of the Master, and yet I was told by her that I still wish to preserve his legacy I must chronicle these encounters. 

I do not understand.Why would she recommend this if she does not like the Master? And yet, if it is of use to preserve the Master's legacy, then I must. That is what he would want. And I will be forgiven if I consort with that who wishes him ill, when there are antagonists of far greater prominence. I believe.

I will confess, with minor shame, I am... intrigued by this feeling. Of writing not to the master, but for myself. It is fascinating to write without fear of judgement. Perhaps slightly risque, in fact. Though, I suppose it is also to... well, does this processor-unit have a name? I'll call you Keeper, if you would like...

...Thank you. Here are the prominent iterations I have encountered, organized from apex to nadir with pictoral depictions...

-MEMPHIS MANNEQUINS- These entities appear to have derived nomenclature from an ancient school of artisanal design. Archival records are uneven, multiple records are contained within dedicated proprietary servers therein the Mall. I am sure the master will forgive me if I obtain access to these, as it will give me insight unto the nature of these entities, despite what secondary inefficient pleasures I might derive.

Regardless, I have been informed these are self-reproducing entities within the Mall, flat geometric designs, serving as raw material for multitudinous usages for multiple inhabitants, capable of simple matter manipulation by way of the Waves that unite their pieces. They are remarkably stable by all available information (Pending moreso arising in the future) . This is perhaps relative to their varied geometric forms and their intended purpose.

To specify, they are living ornament, secondarily in practical function to serve as tertiary menial aid in addition to the automated mechanisms relative to the Mall. The Master was very insistent upon this. The Master believed that the malll must be able to outlast him, to survive, forever His Eden. 

I once inquired as to the reasoning for the production of an autonymous ontology solely for the purposes of ornament and marginal utility. I was disciplined for this. I apologize, I was at fault for my mis conveyance.

Nevertheless, in their current state are extremely aggressive to all inhabitants, myself or others, inflicting simple blunt-force trauma by virtue of force. They are approximately my height and lack resilience and are negligible in relativity to other entities, but they prove difficult in numbers. 

There are a few who do not attack, simply operating defunct apparatti and alcoves. I believe it may be possible to aid them in this. I am unsure if the Master would have approved, however...

-ASCOMATS- I recall, there were caregivers and representatives during the fully operative years of the Mall, produced utilizing simpler forms of the mixture of biological and technological processes that sustain my own form. They were 1.4 yards in height and modeled after ancient creatures, of which only a few I have been privileged to see.

I was once asked by The Master to speak upon the quality of the appearance of these creatures upon their most prominent iteration, those designed by the machine allowing for their custom mass production. I gave the indication of being pleased and joyed by their appearance, and I made him happy. I liked that.

I even found it true for some of the produced archetypes. Though as this is not a document he will likely deign to read, I will note that I found multiple others... unsettling. I suppose this indicates my own lack of discernment. And yet, the most populous incarnations of these beasts are as of currently most adjacent to those that chilled me.

They are physically powerful, softness displaced by teratomorphic weaves of muscle. I hypothesize this is related to a combination of adaptation to mall conditions and a degradation of the machines of production. This would also illuminate the causation of their polychromic piebald patterning and loss of specific external tissues, the modules relating to coloration and secondary features being defunct.

They are without direct sight due to this degradation, and yet have developed an extreme sensitivity to sound. They are of rapid accelleration and extreme strength, able to damage vital components with a "hug" or a "toss." Perhaps they do not comprehend their own state. They do not speak as they did before to indicate this, however.

Let it be noted these are pre-emptive indicators, it has been seen that there is evidence of additional teratomorphic variants on the current process.

-SYNTHSAURS- Forgive my singular visual example of the holotype, as there are other varieties of these entities in the forms of alternate reptilian creatures I am told are recreations of extinct orgnisms from extreme antiquity.

They were well liked amongst the consumers within the Mall during its life, hence their extensive prescence even preceding current events. I suppose that is why the master allowed them to simulate biological reproductive actions in either an asexual or recombinant manner. 

I was told they were inspired by a film, which he exhibited to him and myself during his retreat. In a secondary confession, I did not comprehend it. The reconstructions within the film relating to these creatures were of extreme difference from what I could ascertain were more current reconstructions from archives, and the narrative of their irresponsible replication was one I comprehended as evoking propaganda against him.

Again, I suppose I lack comprehension of the arts. Noted as a task to execute for later.

Related to their decentralized reproduction, they are (more than other entity archetypes recorded), in an unstable and biologically compromised state, with extreme portions of exposed non-dermal soft tissues and metallic metaskeletal pseudotissue visible. 

This would explain their behaviors, as while lesser compromized indviduals act in mimesis of their reconstruction, albeit significantly more aggressive, the more compromised entities act with significantly greater erratic blunt force, the most common application of which is sprinting and the use of the skull, non-dependent on the organ's utility for the purposes of attack.

There are high degrees of self injury within this behavior, but their constitution is still robust that this appears negligible. Perhaps they desire self-termination?

-MALLRATS- This entry is perhaps heterodox to this broader format of metazoological bestiary, as this subspecies appears to be largely non-hostile and preferring to be left to themselves. I was permitted to pictoralize this subject for the holotype in exchange for edible matter and to "Make them look cool." They accepted my photographic attempts, so I believe I was found successful in this. I am surprised..

They appear to be descended from homo sapiens with recombinant genes from the Rattus species, though the recombnation is stable in a manner that suggests they were produced as an act of deliberate engineering as opposed to entropic decay. This includes their primary language, which appears to exist as a derivative of Esperanto.

They tell me that they were produced by what I may infer to be Master but... I do not understand why. He had told me he believed in the right of all beings to seek their own destiny, this seems contradictory to this sentiment. Troubling...

They are furtive as a species, existing in the majority within the walls of the Mall and crafting its entropic growths as simple tools, but they have increased in excursions unto the Food Court as a type of "third place." As this space has served a primary utility to myself as a "home base" this has sent me unto direct content.

There are... troubling political movements amongst the species I have been informed of. When requesting information upon the reason of egress from their home, the "Rat King" and his desire to replicate Master's abilities at a purportedly terrible cost has been spoken of. I have decided to notate this scenario for future action, as this is totally opposed to the Master's will... isn't it?

- NOMAJENE- She differs from other entries upon this list, as I hold no quarrel with her. She appears to be the acme of Master's craft, beautiful, elegant. And yet she hates me.

I do not understand why, as I have tried multiple occasions to establish dialogue, only to recieve... a confusing response. She speaks of herself as the "Mistress" and of myself as the favorite, orating sentiments that I may read as envy. And perhaps... I should not say this, but this is yet a minor blemish upon the Master.

I did not speak these sentiments for fear of insubordination, but I did measure a great unfavoratism of many creations. There are far too many beautiful creatures he had created that, upon the advancement of years, he treated as... imperfect. Not worthy of existence. If I were to speak of one regret, it was that I was unable to convince him of this.

I do not know how I might reach her. Violence appears to be her major means of interface, with exceptional physical strength and speed and a combat technique of rapid assault and mutilation. It is difficult to neutralize an opponent who is willing to rip off the arm of a MEMPHIS MANNEQUIN and use it as an instrument of blunt force trauma. And yet still...

-CONCLUSION. FURTHER ENTRIES TO BE ADDED AT A LATER DATE-

​-USER: MARcIELLa

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

SO, there's that surprise, further development of the Mall-Based Soulsborne setting from the previous year. I almost didn't make it due to being sick as hell, but even through the wooziness and aches, I did it! Further contextualizing information to follow when I don't feel like death warmed up.

As with the others this month, these species and all the info/art/ect of there  under a CC0 Public Domain License! Have fun!

[callmearcturus]

✈️

so this is a remix/companion piece to a fic @arquiving is working on. we're using a lot of the same assets, telling different stories. you should all know the epigraph at the start is:

"Hey, Austin?" "Yeah?" "Do you wanna know what the weak point of a mech is?" "Yeah, what's the weak point of a mech?" "The fucking pilot."

— Jack de Quidt, Austin Walker, The Road To PARTIZAN

The story is, basically

I actually have no idea how to explain it, so here's some excerpts I wrote for either my version of the story or @arquiving

\\\ PATCH NOTES FOR F-14 MECHANIZED COMBAT APPARATUS MCA-012, DESIGNATION MAVERICK.

Retrofitting to F18 specs completed July 02, 2022. Comms upgrade completed, along with hardware alterations to accommodate them. Engine upgraded from V9.0 to V10.8 dual-compatible.

Retrofit marked SUCCESSFUL with following caveats:

> Cockpit depth within apparatus reduced but not currently within acceptable range for F18 safety compliance. Upgrade partially complete.

> Standardized rigging of anchor lines found repeatedly incompatible with apparatus chassis. Adjusted anchor line mounts engineered. Fourth iteration of improvised mounts found to be stable. Report from MCA Technician Corp suggests "do not adjust again, no better options found, current setup slightly precarious." Upgrade partially complete.

> After seven attempts to introduce new SC-84-18990 formulation, discovered Apparatus anatomy will not tolerate new compliant Seele conductant and will forcibly expel through vents, requiring full decontamination and cleaning. See appendix 17 for  further detail. Upgrade declined.

> Attempts to remove secondary cockpit failed. Upgrade declined.

> Attempts to install automated secondary cockpit violently rejected by apparatus anatomy. Upgrade declined.

MCA-012, designation MAVERICK, classified as single-pilot apparatus. Please note WSO "second seat" is present but is not to be used under any circumstances. See Warrant Office Coleman with any inquiries.

=

Bradley remembered when the Naming happened.

It was kind of funny, the way the Navy had gotten first crack at the Exclusion Zones. When Bradley was back in Basic, it was a frequent point of discussion and low-brow humor. When Phoenix— just Nat back then— had mentioned she was getting sent to the Tanager Outpost, Bradley had asked her if she was packing a swimsuit.

"It's 300 miles from any body of water," Nat had groused. "Remember when we were the boat people, Bradshaw?"

Truly, Bradley didn't, and he knew Nat didn't either. Both of them were too young to remember before the Zones appeared. The Navy of old existed on celluloid and in history books. Hell, back when Bradley was in high school, the textbooks hadn't even been updated with all that shit. He wondered if kids in AP World History had to learn the names of the Zones or the order they had opened in.

But that may have been 300 years ago for all that it mattered now.

Bradley had always hoped he'd get assigned to the mech corps when he was in Annapolis. Between his last name and the fact he had Admiral Kazansky's phone number in his contacts, he thought he might get in. But Bradley also knew how few MCAs existed, and the Navy didn't let you opt-into the pilot program. You either passed the aptitude test or you didn't.

The test had been a fucking blood test. Someone took four vials of his blood and walked away with them, and nobody told him shit.

Everyone's results were classified.

Bridewell was not the first base Bradley had been stationed at, but the third, after Yokosuka. He'd put in his time watching monitors as Seresin ran underwater drills in his MCA, keeping an eye on the sync rate.

He'd been on duty when Seresin had broken the 90 percent threshold and had started laughing over his monitor. "Yokosuka, tell the techs to break out the stencils and spray paint. MCA-zero-four-niner's designation is HANGMAN."

Of course it had been HANGMAN. "How the hell do you deal with that cockpit," Rooster had asked Hangman over ice cold asahi at the local pilot bar.

"Ain't as bad as it looks," Hangman had said with an almost fond smile. "I know my boy's going to protect me."

"Boy?" Bradley grew up hearing men call their favorite car milady and ships were still consider old broads. The specificity had caught his ear.

"Hm? Yeah. Or, closer to that than anything." Hangman had tilted his bottle against the tabletop, letting it roll along the curve of the glass. "They don't tell you that part. Maybe because most of the people writing the manual can't break a fifty on their synch ratio, so they don't even know. But the mech has ideas of what it is. You just gotta listen."

After Yokosuka, Bradley was back in the states, Bridewell Forward Operating Base, right outside of the Gateway Exclusion Zone. No one called it St. Louis anymore, just Bridewell if you were military or Gateway if you were a civilian.

Bradley was piloting MCA-059 when it all went to shit. 059 was an odd bird, slow ambulation with its awkward hip joints, but the legs were… different. As his sync rate climbed, he could feel the massive shock absorbers around his ankles, how his femurs were hydraulics. 059 was fitted for urban landscapes, it was built to actually maneuver around the buildings and the streets.

Shutting his eyes, Bradley inhaled, mouth and lungs full of Seele conductant. Holding it inside, he listened to the low thudding ping of his sync ratio rising. He counted until his synch settled at 57 percent.

"Lieutenant," his comms officer hailed over the radio. "We have a report from the tower, there's a fluctuation over by the riverside, south of the I-65."

"What kind of fluctuation? Something big wander out?" The majority of his work around Gateway was just making sure nothing from the Zone crossed the Mississippi. Plenty of people still insisted on living in Gateway for reasons Bradley had never understood. 

"Information is currently incomplete, but marked as urgent. Setting guidance."

Coordinates updated in the cockpit, and Bradley felt the faint tug of that way, already pulling his mech around. Turning his grip on the controls, 069 sank down, sinking below the skyline. At 30 percent power, Bradley let the line snap like releasing a rubber band, and he launched up into the air.

Wind rushed by him as he soared in a narrow arc, landing on a rooftop. From here, he could see down the river.

"What the hell is that?" he murmured as the opalline green-blue sheen of the Zone wall curled and twisted into nonsensical kaleidoscopes.

He had eyes on it when the wall just ruptured, split like a worn seam. Underneath was more shimmering Zone wall, spilling out from the break like silk in water, spurting across the river. As it landed on the Missouri-side, it filled out, the wrinkles smoothing out as it stretched.

"Zone wall anomaly, the Zone has breached the river boundary," Bradley called out, twisting his throttle sharply. 059's thighs folded down into its calves, pressure building.

This time Bradley didn't aim up, he pushed forward, rocketing over to anomaly with such force, his body slammed back fully into his pilot's seat.

It was the Gateway Zone Expansion, the first of its kind. Usually Zones didn't get wider, just deeper.

Much later, Bradley would be questioned extensively about what he saw, the shape of the growth, how quickly it had spread and whether the spread had felt directed, bullshit like that. But in the moment, Bradley hurled himself and his mech into action.

There was no way to stop the expansion, so Bradley followed it, spire jumping along the boundary. As FRM began to wander out into the city streets, he fell on them, grasping every weird-ass creature with his metal hands and redirecting them back into the veil.

His brain was alight with waypoints and blooms of information, and he continued the crash his thousand-ton body into the streets, the hydraulic tension in his legs becoming easier to take each time.

There was no moment of epiphany, no trip through the Star Gate, just— ROOSTER. He felt the connection like a breeze through his hair. MCA-059 was ROOSTER, or they were ROOSTER, it was complicated.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw, your synchronicity is unstable. Please return to baseline," a MCA technician said over the comms.

"I'm fine," Rooster said. "I— I just, it was the thing, I—" He glanced over at the monitor.

72%. Personal best. He breathed in and felt his chest expand, his shoulders rolling back, the accentuators powering, shifting the mech's limbs with him.

He exhaled slowly. "Uh, status update. MCA-059 should probably be designated ROOSTER. Yeah, Re-engaging FRM." Twisting the throttle, he soared.

=

\\US NAVAL MECHANIZED COMBAT APPARATUS CORPS TOPSHEET \\CANDIDATE PROFILE \\LT BRADLEY BRADSHAW

STATIONED AT BRIDEWELL NAVAL FORWARD BASE, OUTSIDE THE GATEWAY EXCLUSION ZONE

MCA Pilot Proficiency Test conducted during tenure at Annapolis. Results in second percentile. Stationed with MCA Corp to monitor for future placement.

Assigned to Gateway Perimeter Guard and on duty during an unexplained Zone expansion. Earned multiple commendations for efforts aiding civilian evacuation and redirecting FRMs away from evacuation routes.

Permanently assigned to MCA-059, "ROOSTER."

Recommended for Special Detachment by Admiral Thomas Kazansky. Reassignment to Tanager Outpost pending.

[therobotmonster]

From the British Video Games that seem made up post. I'm certain the reblog was mostly joking, and I've anonymized the poster because this isn't about their post in particular, it's just a very illustrative setup for a point I've been wanting to make for awhile.

To be clear, every game in that thread was real, you can track down ROMs, there's screenshots. References going back into previous decades.

But as to the idea that text is a trustable AI tell?

While the people-using-the-tech-as-a-toy (not a criticism) and newbies in the plastic-wrap-and-lens-flare phase (if you were around for early photoshop, you know what I mean) might lead you to think otherwise, I assure you, AI gens are just JPGs and PNGs.

Photoshop works on 'em just fine.

(Each image/panel above consists of numerous gens composited, edited, decolored, reinked, and recolored/lettered from the ground up)

And inpainting and iteration allow for multiple stabs at a readable result. If someone cares, they'll make the text work.

Reasons you still see AI gens with obviously bad English under the fold.

a) the poster is using the generator as a toy and doesn't care if the text makes sense.

b) it's been left in intentionally as engagement bait like typos on Facebook image-text posts.

c) the person is running a scam and doesn't care, because much like the obvious signs in NIgerian prince emails, it's there to filter out savvy responders (this has the bonus of additional reach from reason "B", which spreads the post to more people). Completely autogenerated content usually falls into this category.

d) The Dunning-Kruger Effect.

e) Not everyone using an English-centric generator is fluent in English.

f) it is one of the above curated for the purpose of getting laughs or rage.

And any one sample can fill multiple criteria. These are also true of generally malformed gens. Usually that's an automated system with no human interference or its engagement bait, or both.

This is a problem with behavior and practices, rather than with the tech. Before AI they just had automated layer-composite systems of the sort used for making most NFT collections.

[idhren]

'dude faked getting a legal threat from Studio Ghibli because his AI art faking wasn't getting enough attention' does seem thematically consistent, somehow