#but like. that's a CORE PIECE of the operating system

[emcapi-gaming]

does anyone know if modded ffxiv works alright on linux

i am so sick of microsoft's bullshit and i want to punt windows 11 into the fucking sun. they put AI garbage under an "advanced features" paywall in Notepad. NOTEPAD. they are trying to MONETIZE FUCKING NOTEPAD.

[redflagshipwriter]

Mamabat 10 part 2/2

masterpost

Sam craned to listen to secondhand sounds of combat. It was all filtered through Val’s headset, so it was vaguely electronic.

“Up!” Said a female voice. Was that Robin? Sam tried to piece it together. The little one had been Robin, she'd thought. Could have been a boy or a girl. Robin looked around Dani's size. 

Ah, hell. She pushed down the recurring dread that thoughts of Dani brought up. 

Dani was probably fine. She just wasn't answering them because she was fabulously busy in Malaysia or Guam or somewhere else gorgeous and fascinating. She wasn't in one of those labs. They hadn't left her in a lab for a month. Sam’s hands were shaking. She squeezed them hard, angry with herself. Good thing she wasn’t in that fight, she’d be useless like this. Useless!

The percussive sounds of fast, expert violence came through Val's sound system. “Damn,” Val said. “Nice swing.” 

The answer was a feminine laugh. Man, who was that? “Not half bad yourself,” said the unknown girl.

Sam untensed, a little. They didn’t sound stressed. It was probably going fine.

There was a groan. “Spoiler, please,” said Red Robin, in a tone he probably thought was too soft to be overheard. Ha. Val was using Vlad's creepertech, and Vlad was one of the best creeps out there. Sam felt weirdly proud of him for a moment. It bordered patriotism. Their freak was the best freak in the business. Eat your heart out, Batjerk.

“Like you're the only one who can pick up girls on the job?” The girl who had to be Spoiler said. 

Sam snorted. Good luck with that one! Val was spectacularly unavailable. She should know, she had tried. 

“Spoiler, Red Robin, and Robin.” Sam listed aloud for Tucker. “What do we know?” 

“All known associates of Batman, Gotham operatives, estimated active dates are at least a couple years each. Robin is clearly an inherited role, but this current one… been in for two years, I think.” Tucker listed off. “I think Spoiler and Red Robin were both former Robins, that's not too subtle.” 

Sam snorted. Her breath fanned out as visible moisture in the cold night air. 

“Likely older teens or early twenties, both of them. Robin is obviously pre puberty. 13 at the oldest.” 

Val made a subvocal grunt that meant she agreed with Tucker's assessment 

That fit. And she really didn't like it. Sam felt her hackles rise up. What was wrong with Gotham? Her group was all child vigilantes, sure, but they'd had no adult help. They'd also all been 14 or older when they got involved. Except for Dani. God, Dani, please don't be in that building. Sam had to relax her grip on the bazooka handle because she squeezed it so hard that the metal creaked. 

Danny was older now. But she didn't like that this was who he'd ended up with. Sam gritted her jaw hard and tried to keep her temper on a low simmer. She didn't have enough facts to think Batman would put Danny in danger. 

“Clear.” 

“Clear.”

The operation inside seemed to continue smoothly. 

“That should be all the staff members on the premises,” Red Robin said. “First lab, coming up.”

“Behind me.” Batman practically growled the order.

A door opened. Sam held her breath. 

“...Are those samples?” 

Val grunted slightly. Why? What was going on? “Cores,” Val said. “Basically, people who have been injured into a coma. Left like that, they're gonna die slowly. Starvation.” 

“What do we do?” Spoiler cut in. “I mean- what can we do?” 

“Is there a way to transport them?” Val dodged the question. “I don't- yeah, that's good.” 

“Can you provide treatment?” Batman pushed. “Where will you take them?”

Val let out a long, annoyed sigh. “I don't trust you enough to go into the details.”

“Why should we trust you, vixen?” Spat a very young voice.

“Vixen?” Spoiler repeated quietly, incredulously. 

“Robin, you can't say things like that!” Red Robin hissed. “Ow- little asshole.” 

“Enough. Thank you.” Batman cut off the chatter. “Let's clear the facility.” 

They found more cores in the labs. Sam felt her stomach condense tighter and tighter into a knot as they came across research areas time and time again. 

They hadn't taken the GIW seriously enough. They'd thought they were incompetent and funny. How long had scientists been experimenting on captured ghosts here? How many of them had totally withered away? 

“Fuck,” Sam said quietly, and wiped her eyes off with her arm. 

They were clearly finished. No Dani, not unless she was one of the cores rolling around on GIW shelves like she wasn't a person.

Batman and crew came out. She could hear Batman clearly making some kind of call to…. To a Green Lantern, she thought, to pick up the GIW agents. 

Oh. That…

“Probably legit,” Tucker said on the line. He let out a big sigh and his chair clicked when he leaned back, no doubt crossing his arms behind his head. “I guess we should talk to ‘em. Should I come out there?” 

“Yeah, do it,” Sam said. “You want a pick up?” She moved the bazooka from a ready position to rest across her back instead.

Tucker hummed. “That would probably be a little cooler than using my bike.” 

Val snorted, but didn't chime in. Sam dipped back to town and let Tucker climb on behind her. He crouched to hold onto the board with both hands, because he was a sweaty nerd with no balance. 

“The bike might have been cooler,” Sam teased, and then she accelerated hard. She met them back in the field where Batman had landed his plane. As soon as she veered into sight, all of the bats looked at her, clearly ready for a fight.

“Calm down,” Val ordered. “You're all so jumpy.” 

Sam snorted and came to a sharp stop. She braced against Tucker's weight (she knew he'd be jostled.) She aimed her hardest glare at Batman. Fuck everyone else. “Danny said you wanna talk.” 

Behind them, unseen, Val double-checked the straps of a new black bag. Sam had no doubt it was full of helpless cores. 

Batman frowned at her slightly. “...Samantha Manson.” He looked behind her. “And Tucker Foley.” He didn't seem surprised, exactly,  but he didn't seem happy to see them either.

“Old man,” she shot back. “You've got half an hour. But first off, what the hell kinda game are you playing with Danny? Because this-” she waved a hand at his child soldier platoon. “is some bullshit, okay. What's going on?” 

Val shot vertically up with a whoosh of air that blew Spoiler’s hair out. All four bats whirled in time to see her blast off into the distance. 

“Focus!” Sam snapped her fingers. “Why are you here?” 

A muscle twitched in Batman's jaw. “My only intention with Danny is to ensure his safety. I have some concerns about the GIW and about his home situation that I want to look into.” 

Sam scoffed. “Bit late.” She wound some hair around her finger. “They're gone. All of them. You saw what's left of the GIW. The Fentons disappeared the day after the GIW did.” 

She heard the first hint of urgency and upset in his voice when he pressed, “Jasmine Fenton?” 

“Gone.” 

[techav]

On Celebrating Errors

Isn't it beautiful? The lovely formatted tables of register and stack contents, the trace of function addresses and parameters, the error message ... it's the most beautiful kernel panic I have ever seen.

Why on earth would I be so excited to see a computer crash? What could possibly be beautiful about a kernel panic?

This kernel panic is well-earned. I fought hard to get it.

This kernel panic came from a current NetBSD kernel, freshly compiled and running on Wrap030, my 68030 homebrew computer. It is the result of hours upon hours of work reading through existing code, scattered documentation and notes, writing and rewriting, and endless compiling.

And it's just the start.

As I've said before, a goal of this project has always been to build something capable of running some kind of Unix-like operating system. Now that I finally have all the necessary pieces of hardware, plus a good bootloader in ROM, it's time to give it a shot. I'm not that great with this type of programming, but I have been getting better. I might just be able to brute force my way through hacking together something functional.

It is hard.

There is some documentation available. The man(9) pages are useful, and NetBSD has a great guide to setting up the build environment for cross-compiling the kernel. There are some published papers on what some people went through to port NetBSD to this system or that. But there's nothing that really explains what all these source code files are, and which parts really need to be modified to run on a different system.

I had a few false starts, but ultimately found an existing 68k architecture, cesfic, which was a bare minimum configuration that could serve well as a foundation for my purposes. I copied the cesfic source directory, changed all instances of the name to wrap030, made sure it still compiled, then set about removing everything that I didn't need. It still compiled, so now it's was time to add in what I did need.

... how ... do I ... ?

This is where things get overwhelming very quickly. There is documentation on the core functions required for a new driver, there's documentation on the autoconf system that attaches drivers to devices in the tree, and there's plenty of drivers already to reference. But where to start?

I started by trying to add the com driver for the 16550 UARTs I'm using. It doesn't compile because I'm missing dependencies. The missing functions are missing because of a breaking change to bus.h at some point; the com driver expects the new format but the cesfic port still uses the old. So I needed to pull in the missing functions from another m68k arch. Which then required more missing functions and headers to be pulled in. Eventually it compiled without error again, but that doesn't mean it will actually run. I still needed to add support for my new programmable timer, customize the startup process, update hardware addresses, make sure it was targeting 68030 instead of 68040 ...

So many parts and pieces that need to be updated. Each one requiring searching for the original function or variable declaration to confirm expected types or implementation, then searching for existing usages to figure out what it needs ... which then requires searching for more functions and variable types.

But I got something that at least appeared to have all the right parts and compiled without error. It was time to throw it on a disk, load it up, and see what happened.

Nothing happened, of course. It crashed immediately.

I have no debugging workflow I can rely on here, and at this stage there isn't even a kernel console yet. All I could do was add little print macros to the locore startup code and see where it failed. Guess, test, and revise.

I spent a week debugging the MMU initialization. If the MMU isn't properly configured, everything comes to an abrupt halt. Ultimately, I replaced the cesfic machine-specific initialization code and pmap bootstrapping code with functions from yet another m68k arch. And spent another day debugging before realizing I had missed a section that had comments suggesting it wasn't for the 68030 CPU, but turned out to be critical for operation of kernel memory allocation.

Until this point, I was able to rely on the low-level exception handling built into my bootloader if my code caused a CPU exception. But with the MMU working, that code was no longer mapped.

So then came another few hours learning how to create a minimal early console driver. An early console is used by the kernel prior to the real console getting initialized. In this case, I'm using the MC6850 on my mainboard for the early console, since that's what my bootloader uses. And finally the kernel was able to speak for itself.

It printed its own panic.

The first thing the kernel does is initialize the console. Which requires that com driver and all the machine-specific code I had to write. The kernel is failing at its step #1.

But at least it can tell me that now. And given all the work necessary to get to this point, that kernel panic data printing to the terminal is absolutely beautiful.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Ok I know this sounds specific, but do you know any good investigation/mystery games that AREN'T Eureka?

THEME: Non-Eureka Mystery Games.

Hello friend! I've got quite a few recommendations for you, especially at the end of this post! I hope that one way or another, your mystery game craving is sated!

Delta Green, by Arc Dream Publishing.

WELCOME TO THE APOCALYPSE

Born of the U.S. government’s 1928 raid on the degenerate coastal town of Innsmouth, Massachusetts, the covert agency known as Delta Green spent four decades opposing the forces of darkness with honor, but without glory. Stripped of sanction after a disastrous 1969 operation in Cambodia, Delta Green’s leaders made a secret pact: to continue their work without authority, without support, and without fear. Delta Green agents slip through the system, manipulating the federal bureaucracy while pushing the darkness back for another day—but often at a shattering personal cost.

In Delta Green: The Role-Playing Game, you are one of those agents. You’re the one they call when unnatural horrors seep into the world. You fight to keep cosmic evil from claiming human lives and sanity. You conspire to cover it all up so no one else must see what you’ve seen—or learn the terrible truths you’ve discovered.

I don't think I can do a better job of recommending Delta Green than Quinns from Quinns Quest, but since his review is an hour long, I'll summarize: Delta Green is a heavy trad game that takes much of the horror of Call of Cthulhu and revitalizes the genre by turning you into everyday government workers pulled into investigations at the cost of their peace of mind. The rules of the game seem to be pretty down-to-earth and detailed, but the mundanity of the core of the game is what allows the horror of the adventures to well and truly pop. In his review, Quinns mentions that for much of the investigative parts of the game, a well-built crew will hardly ever have to roll to gather clues - which means that solving the mystery is doable, smooth, and makes room for plenty of interesting story once you start putting the pieces together.

Detect Or Die, by silkandstone.

Discover who you were. Decide who you are. Solve the Case. A tabletop RPG of neo-noir empiricism, unstable detectives, and total ego death & resurrection. Inspired by science fiction stories of memory and detection like Blade Runner (1982) and Disco Elysium (2019), Detect or Die places the players as the various inner voices of the Detective, collectively embodying the fractured psyche of an amnesiac protagonist attempting to solve the Case - whatever that entails.

One player takes on the role of the World, laying out the setting and mystery for the rest, using a bespoke variation of the Powered by the Apocalypse game engine influenced by Blades in the Dark and Bluebeard's Bride. The rest play Personality Components, the fragments of the Detective's Ego who combine investigative competencies with erratic coping mechanisms, trading off control and emotional stamina to make it through the Case to the ultimate revelations - about the World and about the Detective.

I'm intrigued about the pattern of mystery games and their attachment to systems that encourage you to inflict negative changes to your character as they discover more and more about the truth over the course of play. Detect or Die is unique in that all of the players are technically embodying the same character, or rather, fractured pieces of them. The pull from Disco Elysium gives you some really unique and iconic terminology, such as Exofamiliarity (a skill), Heartbleed (a skill), and Egghead (an archetype). I think it's also fascinating that Detect or Die pulls threads from Bluebeard's Bride, which is also about many facets of a personality inhabiting one person, but is a much different, very horrific kind of game.

The creator of this game has released a free case: The Case of the Signal Fire, as well as an example of play for folks who might want to get a taste of what the game is about. I still feel a little bit out of my depth with this game, and I suspect that's because I'm unfamiliar with much of Disco Elysium, but the combination of PbtA and Blades in the Dark rules certainly has me intrigued.

Elementary, by Black Armada Games.

Elementary is an Agatha Christie-esque game of convoluted relationships, seemingly insoluble mysteries and quirky detectives who solve them. It is GM-less: you take turns to introduce clues one at a time, building up a picture of the murder and who might have done it. And, it's competitive. You each have a preferred suspect and you try to introduce clues that will implicate them. At the end, like the movie Clue, you each create an alternate ending where the detective accuses your target suspect.

If you really like watching mysteries with friends and trying to guess who the murderer is before they are actually revealed, you might enjoy Elementary. It feels like the GM-less format is meant to allow you to play the game competitively if you wish, and GM-less games also typically spread out the burden of rules-knowledge, which means that this game might be easier to pick up if your group has a hard time deciding who should be the GM. Judging by the store page, you might be able to learn how to play Elementary in a way similar to how you might learn a board-game, and that's another strong point in its favor in my book.

Red Harvest: Mystery on Mars, by fuzztech.

RED HARVEST: MYSTERY ON MARS is a one-shot tabletop roleplaying game based on the 1929 novel RED HARVEST by Dashiell Hammett.

Play as a private investigator from the Galactic Detective Agency. You have been hired to investigate a mining colony on Mars. It looks like it’s going to be a routine case. That is, until your client turns up dead at the dig site. It’s up to you to solve the case, and unravel the mystery of the mine.

Includes Player Manual (1 page) with rules for character creation and taking actions, and Game Master Manual (3 pages) with a pre-written mystery scenario and supplemental materials.

Mysteries… in space!

Red Harvest is a relatively simple mystery game with four basic backgrounds for your character, with two skills per background. The game is meant to be a one-shot, with the mystery and setting laid out for the GM, as well as a map for the players to move through and investigate. Equal parts mystery, sci-fi and horror, this is a great game for folks who want a one-and-done taste of roleplay, and might even be a great introduction to the hobby!

Unravelled Knots, by Emily Cambias.

Each Saturday, a rag-tag group convenes in a dusty tea-room to discuss the criminal cases detailed in their local newspaper. Their leader is the mysterious Old Man in the Corner, whose knowledge of each case (and the true perpetrators of each crime) seems unmatched. From each newspaper headline, he extrapolates the truth of What Really Happened to these victims, and the missing pieces of each case that escaped the bumbling authorities—aided by his eager listeners and his trusty piece of string. Based on the book Unravelled Knots and The Old Man in the Corner by Baroness Orczy.

Instead of dice or cards, Unravelled Knots uses a piece of string as a measuring tool for when your story is coming to an end. It's less like a traditional mystery game and more a collaborative storytelling exercise, with each player taking turns adding clues to the mystery as well as offering up reasons as to why those clues bring you closer to the real answer. You take turns playing The Old Man in the Corner, who acts as a sort of Poirot or Sherlock, in that he presumably holds the knowledge about What Really Happened. You also pick up other roles that are meant to introduce new clues, such as the details of the crime scene, the gossip surrounding various suspects, and the real state of the deceased's finances. If you like Agatha Christie novels, you might enjoy Unravelled Knots.

The Road Ahead, by WendigoWorkshop.

In The Road Ahead… you play as a group of young adults returning to their hometown for a summer of fun, parties and nostalgia. After one of their close friends suddenly disappears, new and old feelings stir, eventually getting them involved in the case. Through the carefree lens of an eighteen-something, uncover the truth and make sure it is the best summer of your life!

This game uses a deck of playing cards to provide resources for the characters, as well as dice to help resolve decisive actions. Built on the Songs and Sagas SRD, it's meant to be inspired be OSR-style play, with a flowchart to help the GM put a story together - a kind of adventure-builder, if you will.

The Road Ahead doesn't feel like it's solely a mystery game: your character is probably going to get into dire situations that they need to fight themselves out of, and if the right consequences happen, it feels like there's also personal fallout that each character might have to deal with, which feels very iconic of games about teens and young adults.

Haunted Echoes, by gaa_txt.

Have you ever wondered who died when the echo of a bell toll reached your ear?

Who died when the masked man descended from their black church to burn the flesh of the forgotten? Some say there aren’t enough of them to give names to the bodies, find the culprit. Even worse when you slip through their fingers, the only thing you can do is return as the worst memory you ever had, hoping your loved ones aren’t a part of it.

HAUNTED ECHOES is a lightweight TTRPG focused on one-shots and short term games where we play as weird detectives in the rainy streets of a fantasy Victorian city. Use your talents to gather clues, solve cases, banish ghosts, deal with elemental demons and ruthless scoundrels while trying to search for an answer to the question that haunts your very being.

This game combines mystery with the paranormal, giving your investigators technical and/or supernatural abilities that will help them try to solve a mystery of using a clock that is reminiscent of the same mystery clock found in games such as Bump in the Dark, or Brindlewood Bay. The game is a stripped-down Forged in the Dark rule-set, with play-sheets that are less differentiated than a typical playbook, a brief overview on how to run the game, and plenty of cases, questions, and details to help put together a mystery as well as flavorful characters to learn about as you play.

Some Days, You Just Can't Get Rid of a Body, by C.R. Legge.

You have received a letter that you hoped to never get. The one person that could ruin your life has invited you to a party, and wishes to discuss things…

As you arrive at the old mansion, they find you and ask that you meet them in a side room at a specific time. When the time comes you see a few others moving towards the room as well. Cautiously, you all enter the room and see them standing in front of the fireplace, arm against the wall. Before anyone can say anything, your host falls backwards onto the floor, dead.

You all had a reason to want them out of the picture. Unless you find out who really killed them, any of you could be framed for the murder…

This game is unique in that everyone who sits down to play must embody someone who had a reason to kill the central character. What I think is absolutely hilarious about this little game is the fact that since all of your characters are suspects, you as a group must carry the body of the victim with you around the house, to prevent NPCs from discovering their death. I can think of so many shenanigans a crew could get up to in trying to solve the crime while also keeping the key piece of evidence out of everyone else's hands.

Games I've Recommended in the Past...

One More Thing, by Nathan D. Paoletta.

Brindlewood Bay, by The Gauntlet.

After the Mind, the World Again, by Aster F.

Grandmothership, by Armanda.

Film Noir Game Recommendations

Mysteries Recommendation Post

If you like what I do and want to leave a tip, you can check out my Ko-Fi!

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Thomas, Engineer

Part 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The klaxon call of the alarms.

Electrical shorts all around.

Sparks raining down as equipment blew.

The temperature rising as the last of the protective shields failed.

Burning-

Thomas woke up. He was still in bed and not in the CORE control room about to be incinerated. His quarters were still dark, and the air was cool. Almost hesitantly, he touched his arms, his chest, and finally his face. His skin wasn’t searing away as he had feared, however, it was slick with a layer of cold sweat. Inversely his throat was dry as bone.

Thomas kicked his damp blankets to the foot of the bed and swung his legs over the side. In the dark, the room looked… alien, for lack of a better word. The walls looked ugly with little variance in the shadows, and for the first time he was thankful there wasn’t a window to look out of. Thomas thought if he saw any more dark looking back at him he might be sick.

The single point of comfort was the soft yellow light coming from Roomba’s eyes as he sat atop Thomas’s desk on the quick-rigged charging platform they’d made. The little droid was recharging, napping as Thomas had joked, during the ship’s night cycle. In the low light Thomas thought he saw Roomba twitch, but decided it was just the dark and his mind playing tricks.

Water. Thomas needed water, something to drink to wash away the taste of dried saliva in his mouth. He pulled a hoodie over his head and stepped barefoot out into the hall to go hit the nearest Vending Machine. He swiped up his ear piece translator as an afterthought, not because he thought he’d have any conversations at 0400 hours ship time, but purely as trained reflex. One floor down and a hundred feet later, Thomas was chugging down a second glass of ice water when he felt the little tug on his pant leg. Looking down in surprise, he saw it was his mechanical companion, standing only a few inches taller than his ankle. Roomba looked up at him with bright eyes and lifted his little arms up towards him.

“Beep”

[Inquiry: are you experiencing a malfunction as well?]

“Nah buddy, I’m okay,” Thomas leaned down and scooped the small robot up from the floor, carrying him in the crook of his arm like a small child. “What about you? Seeing things again while you’re offline?”

“Beep.”

[Affirmative, this unit is experiencing a persistent malfunction of unknown complexity]

“Beep.”

[Diagnostics show zero fault anywhere in internal systems, and externally there were zero changes as well]

“Well don’t worry buddy, we’ll go see Miss Liz tomorrow after the shift, okay? If the two of us didn’t catch anything, a third pair of eyes might. You’ll be okay.” Thomas pat the little robot on top of his head twice before heading back to their quarters.

He sat Roomba down beside his charging plate again and half sat-half flopped onto his bed with a weary sigh. The idea of going back into his traumatic dreamscape wasn’t exactly relaxing. If the lights had been on he’d have been able to see the bags under his eyes in the mirror.

“Good night Roomba,” Thomas said, head on his pillow.

“Beep.”

[Good night Human Thomas]

A moment passed, then another. Thomas was about to take his ear piece off but stopped at the next-

“Beep.”

[I hope our malfunctions are repaired soon]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That’s him, that’s the human,” whispered one of the crew, a young Mondonian woman in a Operations Management uniform, the blue suit conflicting with her crimson skin. She was whispering, unsuccessfully, to a Zilgrat from communications as they hid around a corner a ways away from Thomas. He’d noticed them the moment he’d stepped off the lift, as they’d immediately stopped their conversation to watch him start his work.

“You’re sure that’s the human from the CORE room failure?” the Zilgrat squeaked. Thomas tried not to pay any attention to it, choosing instead to think how nice it must’ve been for them in their home system. The Zilgrats and the Mondonians had actually evolved on sister planets in the same solar system, not even separated by an asteroid belt. How nice it must’ve been for their species to have always known they weren’t alone. It was no wonder you always saw both species on the same crews in the GAIL fleets. The Mondonians looked humanoid, but with dark cherry skin and something akin to rams horns growing out the sides of their heads. Zilgrats however were almost identical to Terran ferrets, just bigger, about as big as a mid sized dog.

Thomas gave up on ignoring them and decided to wave with a small smile. They startled briefly before sheepishly approaching.

“Apologies,” said the Zilgrat, “we didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… we had never met a human before, and you’re famous.”

“I’m what?” Thomas almost shorted out the panel he was fixing in surprise.

“Famous!” said the Mondonian. “Sorry, is the word not translating? I was just saying we’ve heard of you from the rest of the crew, they all said you’re a hero.”

Aw damnit, Thomas thought. That’s still going around.

“No, no, I got the translation,” Thomas feigned a laugh, “I was just surprised. You’re talking about the CORE breach right? That wasn’t anything too serious. I was just doing my job.”

“You are in maintenance yes?” The Mondonian asked. “Your job is to repair, not risk your life. I was wondering how you even overcame the fear, it must’ve been very frightening.”

“Well you know, adrenaline kicks in, you don’t really think about how scary it is, you just do it,” Thomas shrugged, wishing he was back on the lower decks right now.

“Adrenaline?” This time it was the Zilgrat. “You had a wartime stimulant injection during this?”

“What? No,” Thomas was confused, “no, just a normal, everyday adrenaline response, no injections.”

“You are saying that humans simply produce a level 3 restricted enhancement naturally?” The Mondonian woman questioned, concerned.

“I suppose I am, yeah. It’s a survival reflex, I think most of the creatures on Earth can make the stuff no problem.”

“E24 sounds like a truly terrifying place if all your creatures can produce such a dangerous chemical unrestricted. It’s highly regulated in our home galaxy.”

“Beep.”

[Warning: threat approaching]

Thomas, confused and alarmed, looked down at Roomba by his feet, the small droid half in half out of the wall panel they were working on. He was pointing back down the hall to the lift, the doors of which were closing behind someone in a white custodian uniform, with a rocky exterior.

“Roomba, what do you mean?” Thomas asked quietly as the two crew-mates they’d been speaking to made themselves scarce.

“Beep.”

[Explanation: a scan of the security chief’s logs list this individual as a security risk]

“When did you scan his logs?!” Thomas whisper shouted, concerned.

“Beep.”

[When task queue was updated to: protect Noah]

“Beep.”

[New Task parameters dictated more information was required, so this unit downloaded necessary archives from the Security consoles]

“Fucking how?” Thomas was so certain that Chief Ducane would kill them that he wasn’t even paying attention to the Sed man walking toward them anymore. That was, until the man in question intentionally stayed course and shoulder checked Thomas into the wall.

“What the hell dude, watch where you’re going!” Thomas cried out, understandably pissed.

“Be silent, human-AHH!” The Sed man howled in pain, confusing Thomas further. He hadn’t touched the guy. Thomas looked down, eyes widening in shock. Roomba had activated the soldering torch in his finger and grabbed onto the Sed’s foot, carving a little chunk of exoskeleton off with the miniature flame. He must’ve hit flesh down there too because Thomas smelt burned meat.

“INSOLENT LITTLE SCRAP METAL!” The Sed roared.

“Roomba, stop!” Thomas called, but it was too late. The Sed man cocked back his leg and kicked the little droid into the wall with a heavy metal KLUNK!

From down on the floor came a little-

“Beep.”

[Protect the Noah]

“Beep.”

[Protect Human Thomas]

“Roomba!” Thomas shoved the Sed away will all his might, sending him sprawled to the floor, and dove down to the droid, scooping him up and making a break for it back into the lift, leaving his tools and the bastard Sed behind, who was now leaning against the wall staring death in Thomas’s direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t know what to tell you Hardware,” Liz shrugged, “every internal diagnostic I’ve run said the little guy is running perfectly. Better than perfect.”

Roomba was sitting on the table as Liz from Biotech scanned over him with multiple pieces of equipment. Thomas stood beside her fretting, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“You’re sure he’s okay?” Thomas was wringing his hands together so much his skin had turned pale.

“Totally no damage,” Liz confirmed. “These little guys were designed to withstand massive blunt force, like the kind from getting run over by heavy machinery. Grite’s foot won’t do a thing to him.”

“Grite?”

“Yeah, at least that’s who I assume it was. Sed guy, white janitors uniform, right? Same guy who cost me an arm,” Liz folded her arms in front of her. “That guy sucks, in my professional opinion.”

“He’s that guy?” Thomas was incredulous. “How the hell is he still working here?”

“Political bullshit,” Luz said dryly. “The GAIL doesn’t want to deal this any more than we do, so we gotta wait till at least half the mission is over before we get relief personnel. At least, that’s what Danny told me.”

Danny, Thomas thought. Aw crap!

“Oh hell I’m in so much trouble!” Thomas whined. “Yeah the guy shoved me, but Roomba actually set the guy on fire! Ducane is gonna kill me.”

“God I wish I’d seen that,” Liz laughed.

“Beep.”

[Sed Grite was exhibiting hostility and violent behavior, use of force was warranted]

“Buddy, you can’t just do that, okay?” Thomas tapped the droid’s little head.

“Beep.”

[Human Thomas was threatened. Action was required]

“That’s really sweet, but you gotta be smart about it,” Thomas said, “you can’t just assault people.”

“Oh please, Grite deserved way worse,” Liz tutted, “fucker owes me an arm, but I’ll take a foot. Good job Roomba you little masterpiece.”

“Beep.”

[Affirmative, Human Liz, this unit will acquire a foot for you]

“No, no no, do not do that,” Thomas chided. “Remember, sometimes people joke buddy, don’t always take it seriously.”

“Beep.”

[Confirmed]

Thomas leaned over to whisper in Liz’s ear.

“That being said, I am going to rip that fucker apart with my teeth” Thomas said quietly, to which Liz laughed out loud.

“I’ll shoot a link to Jane, see if she can leave him in the waiting room afterwards.”

“You’re a good person,” Thomas joked. He glanced to Roomba and back again, before taking a half step further from the table, turning his back to it.

“And about that other thing we talked about? Is he okay okay?”

Liz too glanced toward the little droid before dropping her voice lower.

“As far as I can tell, he’s perfectly functional. But his code is rapidly evolving, changing its structure in a matter of nanoseconds. It’s like he’s a Padrino, but he doesn’t have any of their base directives.”

“What, so he’s got their code, but he doesn’t have to follow their rules?”

“Kind of,” Liz shrugged. “Every Padrino is a copy of the original AI construct downloaded into a mobile unit, that’s the guys we have on board. Once they’re copied, they become independent people with different experiences and perceptions. The big difference here is that eventually their base directives are to upload their memories back I to the original AI on their home planet. Follow so far?”

“Yeah, I know all this,” Thomas scoffed. “I might not have studied AI at the academy but I know how the Padrino operate.”

“Okay smart guy, here’s the kicker.” Liz pointed to Roomba. “When the Padrino on board upgraded him, they downloaded their own code into him too, without any of those directives. The Padrino might be individuals right now, but they’re all Pinocchios. I won’t deny their sentience, but they’re all following orders from the big momma back home. But your boy there doesn’t have any strings.”

“So you’re saying-”

“I’m saying he’s got a perfectly unique little mind in there, and he’s getting smarter. We’re essentially watching consciousness come into being in real time.”

“He’s been dreaming,” Thomas said softly, barely a whisper. “They aren’t malfunctions, he’s just evolving.”

“Exactly,” Liz was grinning now. “He’s gonna be a real boy soon I think.”

“You hear that buddy?” Thomas picked up the little robot. “Liz said you got a real good brain in there!”

“Beep.”

[This is accurate, yes]

“Beep.”

[Inquiry: can this unit make a request?]

“Uh, sure buddy, what do you need?”

“Beep.”

[Request: game pad please]

“Oh, sure,” Thomas pulled the tablet from his back pocket and gave it over. “But you know you don’t have to follow that task queue anymore if you don’t want to, okay?”

“Beep.”

[Acknowledged]

A short pause before the next-

“Beep.”

[The games are enjoyable]

“Beep.”

[This unit-

“Beep.”

[I like them]

“I think, if I’m right of course, that he might end up being the second fully confirmed conscious AI in the entire galaxy,” Liz said, after Thomas told her all Roomba said. “He’s showing signs of empathy, protectiveness, likes and dislikes. I could write like fifty papers on Roomba, just to start with.”

“Beep.”

[I could assist]

“My god I love him,” Liz cooed.

“I know right?” Thomas said delighted. “No more nightmares for you buddy, you’re gonna be just fine.”

Something trilled, and it took Thomas a second to realize it was his comm-link. He set Roomba down on the table and checked the message.

It was from the captain.

“Well, that was fun while it lasted, but I gotta go get fired now, so…” Thomas let the sentence drag.

“Oh, just tell him what happened, it’ll be fine. Skitch hates the guy too.”

“Can you watch Roomba for me while I go deal with this?”

“Sure. I can even watch him a little longer if you want, maybe give you some time to go see Jane maybe,” Liz seemed more serious now. Thomas turned back around and looked at her, eyebrow raised like it got caught with a fishhook.

“Why would I go see Jane?”

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe because you’ve missed your last two mandatory sessions with her?”

Thomas could feel his face getting pink.

“What makes you think so?”

“Dude, your therapy is right after mine, I pass by you in the waiting room. You haven’t seen her in weeks, and you look like you haven’t slept since then too.”

Thomas, now in a full on blush, tried to shrug it off.

“I’m sleeping fine,” he lied, hopefully convincingly, but the bags under his eyes told the truth to everyone who looked him in the eyes. “Just watch him for me, okay? I’ll think about it.”

“Just because you got a degree in psychology doesn’t mean you can do the sessions yourself.” Liz held out her cybernetic arm. “Just because I know how this works doesn’t mean I can avoid putting in the work.”

“Beep.”

[Human Thomas needs maintenance]

“I don’t know what he said, but he probably agreed with me.” Liz folded her arms again, ending the discussion.

“He did, actually, yes,” Thomas sighed. “Fine, after this if I still have my job, I’ll go to therapy.”

“Good.” Liz patted Roomba. “Now go, keep your job first.”

Thomas waved from the door and finally left. Roomba looked around the room from his perch on the table, settling on the tank of baby creatures in the wall. Liz sat down at her desk and watched him, delighted at the chance to observe.

Thomas made his way through the ship, occasionally catching stares, wondering what the future held for himself and his friends.

[esotericimagesforredpilledpeople]

In the late 1990s, Enron, the infamous energy giant, and MCI, the telecom titan, were secretly collaborating on a clandestine project codenamed "Chronos Ledger." The official narrative tells us Enron collapsed in 2001 due to accounting fraud, and MCI (then part of WorldCom) imploded in 2002 over similar financial shenanigans. But what if these collapses were a smokescreen? What if Enron and MCI were actually sacrificial pawns in a grand experiment to birth Bitcoin—a decentralized currency designed to destabilize global finance and usher in a new world order?

Here’s the story: Enron wasn’t just manipulating energy markets; it was funding a secret think tank of rogue mathematicians, cryptographers, and futurists embedded within MCI’s sprawling telecom infrastructure. Their goal? To create a digital currency that could operate beyond the reach of governments and banks. Enron’s off-the-books partnerships—like the ones that tanked its stock—were actually shell companies funneling billions into this project. MCI, with its vast network of fiber-optic cables and data centers, provided the technological backbone, secretly testing encrypted "proto-blockchain" transactions disguised as routine telecom data.

But why the dramatic collapses? Because the project was compromised. In 2001, a whistleblower—let’s call them "Satoshi Prime"—threatened to expose Chronos Ledger to the SEC. To protect the bigger plan, Enron and MCI’s leadership staged their own downfall, using cooked books as a convenient distraction. The core team went underground, taking with them the blueprints for what would later become Bitcoin.

Fast forward to 2008. The financial crisis hits, and a mysterious figure, Satoshi Nakamoto, releases the Bitcoin whitepaper. Coincidence? Hardly. Satoshi wasn’t one person but a collective—a cabal of former Enron execs, MCI engineers, and shadowy venture capitalists who’d been biding their time. The 2008 crash was their trigger: a chaotic moment to introduce Bitcoin as a "savior" currency, free from the corrupt systems they’d once propped up. The blockchain’s decentralized nature? A direct descendant of MCI’s encrypted data networks. Bitcoin’s energy-intensive mining? A twisted homage to Enron’s energy market manipulations.

But here’s where it gets truly wild: Chronos Ledger wasn’t just about money—it was about time. Enron and MCI had stumbled onto a fringe theory during their collaboration: that a sufficiently complex ledger, powered by quantum computing (secretly prototyped in MCI labs), could "timestamp" events across dimensions, effectively predicting—or even altering—future outcomes. Bitcoin’s blockchain was the public-facing piece of this puzzle, a distraction to keep the masses busy while the real tech evolved in secret. The halving cycles? A countdown to when the full system activates.

Today, the descendants of this conspiracy—hidden in plain sight among crypto whales and Silicon Valley elites—are quietly amassing Bitcoin not for profit, but to control the final activation of Chronos Ledger. When Bitcoin’s last block is mined (projected for 2140), they believe it’ll unlock a temporal feedback loop, resetting the global economy to 1999—pre-Enron collapse—giving them infinite do-overs to perfect their dominion. The Enron and MCI scandals? Just the first dominoes in a game of chance and power.

[doberbutts]

beginning to really feel like the ubiquitous hatred of men IS inherently tied to racism. just look at the things people point to as why PoC are "scary" and it's usually because of a perceived proximity to "mannishness" and all that entails. it's getting harder and harder to not see a desire to protect the "fragile and feminine" as inherent to whiteness and white supremacy especially when taking into account how femininity is defined. like even setting aside how casting All Men as inherently dangerous or threatening will ultimately cast men of color and other marginalized men as these things, thus reducing their access to spaces, safety, resources, and rights. but i just can't convince myself that "all men are bad" isn't inherently rooted in racism itself, not just a consequence of racism because it might hit men of color as collateral

when you consider then also how in fundamentalist and evangelical christianity (and just christianity in general) male desire is seen as inherently evil and to be regarded with suspicion, the erection is the work of the devil, etc., and how core to white supremacist culture that christianity is... idk this isn't very coherent but i hope it makes some sense

i just really think systems of race require gender segregation to operate as they do and so any reinforcement of ANY gender segregation is going to ultimately further racist causes

Well, my belief is that all oppression circles back onto itself like a giant ouroboros. White supremacy, patriarchy, ableism, classism, all of these hook back together in both obvious and also very subtle ways. I was talking with a Jewish friend last night about how I don't think I've ever heard an antisemite speak that wasn't also antiblack. Including black antisemites. I don't think I've heard an antiblack person speak that also wasn't filled to the brim with sexism. I don't think I've heard a sexist person speak that wasn't also ableist. I don't think I've heard an ableist person speak who wasn't also classist. And I don't think I've ever heard a classist person speak who wasn't also antisemitic. They're all connected. Every single one. Most homophobes are deeply misogynistic, most misogynists are also transphobic, and so on.

I think this also hooks directly back into the theories of intersectionality and CRT, because for so long we have stagnated discussing how these are all completely separate and individual social phenomena when really most of the time where one stinks they all reek. These are all systems upon which society has built itself up in layers, and the reason it's so difficult to fix is because they are all hooked into each other and so you can't wiggle one piece free without toppling the whole tower. The tower still has to come down, but it's sure as hell going to put up a fight getting there.

[cgtg]

looking @ all of this godtier stuff, i wanna say i dont rlly think classpecting is all that. it's a fun analytical tool for exploring a character's themeing and role in a narrative. but it's fundamentally impossible to assign an "arc" 2 a living person, & within sburb itself the godtier system has a very questionable view of what its characters arcs mean/should be. like. you can 100% interpret classpects as bullshit within the text.

that being said, again, they're still a fun narrative tool to bring outside of homestuck itself, & if you remove them from the intelligence/structure of SBURB they are rlly fun for vibes-based introspection. they aren't made up of nothing, they have clear inspiration & meaning to hussie.

i view classes like roles in a play. anyone can pick any of them for any reason, multiple at different times even, but you only know for sure if one fits you by playing it. my perspective on it is rly close to funk mclovin's theory.

i view aspects as a bit more immutable bc i feel like they speak to more core traits rather than the shit u operationalise, which is much more up to personal choice.

i have always felt a distinct calling to the space aspect, for well over a decade. i relate heavily to a lot of the core themes it portrays. i could ramble for ages abt that, legit.

the course of picking "witch" has been a progression to me. "seer" encapsulates how i am/was when trapped in passivity both internally & externally. relegated to a problem solver, advice friend, helper. a role which i perform well but am deeply unfulfilled & drained in.

the "witch" class encapsulates my fundamental need to have my own autonomy, function, control, freedoms in my life for myself & not for others. that is ultimately what i desire to be, & i feel that the "witch" encapsulates it well. i also fuck heavily with the archetypal "lonesome magician who is feared & revered for their wisdome and power" character. kid me would've fuckin *loved* being a wicked witchman.

like, i think it's worthwhile to work backwards from what you think of yourself & *then* put the godtier jammies on. bc fundamentally it is impossible to put humanity in all these little boxes, especially when we don't have enough evidence to prove the true validity of those boxes or their limitations. & they purely operate within the limitations of a piece of fiction made by one person.

this is why, although i don't put much stock in the actual system of classpects, my classpect is deeply personal to me. bc it culminates from extensive introspection. i also find it incredibly interesting 2 see how others classpect themselves, bc it is a fundamental expression of the self to place yourself in these grids, & *requires* personal interpretation of the system by a means that *also* says something about you as a person. like, it's a net gain if you're interested in how people live their lives & define themselves, which i am.

uh... basically have fun & be yourself

[overtaken-stream]

Chrollo Lucilfer.. the devil himself

0bserve And C0nnect

Chrollo Lucilfer x F!Hunter!Reader

I'm truly sorry to the person who requested the plot because I've lost the original request, so I have been going off on this from my memory! I deeply apologize! Also it's been a long time since I have watched hxh so if this seems ooc I'm sorry for that too!

Summary: The man feels both familiar and unknown, as if he exists in the space between memories and the midnight, his effortless charm draws you in so that just a single word from him sends you spiraling into a chasm beyond madness, beyond reason—into a place where no words can truly capture what you feel.

Warnings: incorrect mechanical stuff, mild tempering of memories, untidiness.

The door makes a clicking sound as you jammed the key into the keyway, twisting it and opening the gate to the comfort of your own house. Your legs tremble as you step inside the abandoned apartment. Every breath you take is loud in the stillness of the room, like the melodies of bugs in the company of the midnight sky. The planks creak under your weight as you slowly make your way toward the bedroom, if one might call it that. You don't often see the familiar tears of dull wallpaper. Each room is devoid of a human presence. Your absence let the thin layer of dust cover each surface your eyes can see. It's not your main source of worry. The untidiness does not compare to your most shameful traits.

Quiet drips continue to fall on the metal sink, unbeknownst to your consciousness.

Nudging the door open, you're met with the sight of a mattress tossed on the ground, dented in a place where one might sit, the color worn away, just as you'd left it.

On top of it rests a closed piece of technology, a futile computer and you barely take in the sight of a tiny Ladybug USB tossed unconcernedly, the haze of liqour still in your system. The blanket is on the floor, soaking in the liquid leaking from a place only you could find it. Its clear base covering the wooden floor boards.

To anyone else it's a mess they couldn't find the beggining or the end of, to you it's a masterpiece that ever was.

Countless wires lead from it to a wall opposite the bed, and the quiet hum of hard disks and fans fills the air.

You move to sluggishly grab the USB and then take careful steps towards one of the two brains that the computer holds, remaining mindful of the wires you wouldn't want to pull. You've done this innumerable times, to the point that you can do it with your eyes closed. Perhaps a reason for this habit is the fact that ever since you built it you've never tried to move anything out of place.

No amount of intoxication can make you forget the layout of this room.

The soles of your shoes stick to the ground so everytime you take a step you can't help but grimace at the obnoxious and the disgusting sound of two different surfaces seperating.

Drip.

You get in an awkward crouching position next to the core, sticking the USB between the wall and the massive fan inside, your hands instinctively find the hidden opening.

The design of your masterpiece does not need eyes for the builder to use. The hidden crevices between metal and deadly operating systems are your playground, unlike someone who might try something.

Plugging in the USB, you sigh out the air you were withholding.

Drip.

You slugglishly make your way over to where the makeshift screen is, instructing and letting the information be sucked out and stored in the USB.

All it needs is a minute now.

Drip.

You've always known what led you to work in this profession, work in a field next to Hunters and the bottom of the barrel alike.

Every job has it's pros and cons. It just so happened that the upside to being an info-broken is the financial side, a river of money that never truly slows down and only continues forward, info-brokers such as you have to catch each banknote with a rod and a hook.

If you take a gamble you might even be able to pull out a cash strip if you're lucky.

For some, the risk of losing a livelihood is a horrifying thought, and they can't be blamed for disagreeing with the gray morality and equal exchange of this world. For you, though, the risk and money are different sides of the same golden coin.

So why don't people try their luck for once in their miserable lives?

You can't be intimidated by a couple of eyes that follow and observe your every movement, not now anyway. Years ago, you got used to them pretty quickly, made the uncomfortable gazes your turf. You won't be intimidated.

What you're doing now is just speeding up the job, wishing for it to end quickly before the case got too out of your hands.

Drip.

Many long for your sufforage, however they could never murder a valuable source of information such as you.

Including whoever was it that followed you in the bar an hour or so ago.

Drip.

You never seem ready during these situations.

A soft beep makes you snap out from the screen, making your way over to the side and unplugging the USB you let the red colored technology rest in your palm, your eyes squeezing shut as you tightly grip it's surface. You can only hope that the protection the insect symbolizes graces you and the machine you've built.

Listening to the quiet hum of the machine, mouthing along with its robotic voice as it bids you farewell.

"M. O.

N. S.

T. E.

R. at youur servii-ce."

Multi-brained Omnipresent Network System, your masterpiece.

You need a window for your next step.

(It's tough outpacing polished criminals in this day and age.)

Walking out of the room and into the kitchen, listening to the stomach-twisting noise comings from the sticky oil on your shoes, you grab at the handle, pulling back the glass and setting the tiny machine on the glass.

pressing one of the digits on a singular black dot on the USB, you watch as it snaps its wings out of hiding before softly flying to its destination.

It's only a harmless little Ladybug now.

The tap drips as you drag your feet to a wooden chair, the sound echoing in your mind. Now in an almost sober state, you sit down on it with a groan like that of an elderly man. A sigh leaves your lips as your head tilts back toward the ceiling, where the damp patches are still visible. How is it that the neighbor above still hasn't had their pipes fixed, despite it being the subject of complaints for almost a decade before your visits to this apartment became rare?

You'll have to move soon, judging from how much Jenny's one job can get you—maybe a comfortable three-bedroom apartment for you and all the extra projects you can't bring yourself to deem useless. It would be hell to reconnect MONSTER, or to rebuild it in a different house.

"Such a hassle..." Your eyes remain half-closed, the invisible mist of sleepiness overcomes your being.

(This ordeal is no joke. It would have elicited a reaction from you and left you agasp at the hands of those who watched you today, if only you weren't so drained and surrendered to laziness.)

That is, if your goddess of luck blesses you with another day to live after this encounter... Your choice to bring a double aged sword to a gun fight is a miscalculation that makes you regret ever trying the Hunters exam in the first place.

Drip.

Perhaps this is the worst decision you've made, no this is definitely the worst decision you've made. Letting in an unknown man in your house who claims to be called by your neighbor to check out the broken pipes and practically dig your own grave has never felt this stretched out nor this mentally draining.

(Build Yourself A House Out Of Straw)

You're left to watch his back as he meddles with the pipes under the tap. He's built for agility and strength, muscles showing for moments as he moves his arms and therefore flexes his shoulder. He is no pipefitter.

And you are no fool.

Leaning against the entrance with your arms crossed, you answer any questions he may have, keeping your responses brief and tight-lipped under his hidden sidelong glance. The way he talks is interesting, his expressions are unshackled as he touches on the topic of your neighbor.

"How long has this been going on? The leak is quite bad."

"For a while." You haven't been living here, and there's not a single timeline in this universe where your lazy neighbor actually called someone to fix his pipes, and what are the chances that you happened to be in your house when the plumber knocked on the door. The coincidences aren't believable.

He is natural, a professional at his job. Any unsuspecting prey may fall into his trap without even knowing it was there in the first place. He is ordinary to the point of suspicion. He is unnatural.

Thieves aren't known for their patience; you're dealing with someone worse. There's a chance you've already interacted with him, though your gut tells you that you might not have been on the same side.

Your hooded eyes watch as he stands to his feet, turns toward you, and lets you get a good look at his face. The black eyes and dark hair would do him well to blend in with the shadows. The clothes seem ordinary and well-maintained, the kind that no one truly likes to wear. His facial features are as sharp as his jaw, captivating for maidens such as you.

"Would you mind if I take a look at the bathroom?" You squint at the thick wraps around his forehead. Familiar, very familiar. Attractive too.

"Sure." Was any effort put in a disguise?

You're not sure of the reason he'd want to see your bathroom, but what do you have to lose? That room ain't anything special.

You hear his footsteps following as you turn and lead the way. His lack of reaction to the untidiness is another suspicious behavior.

"Have you not been in the house, miss?" You stop in the hallway, lightly turning your head until his face is visible. The man who gave you the probably-false name remains unbothered, unjudgemental despite his question. He seems to be thinking, eyes pointing downwards as he silently follows.

"No, I haven't." You continue to trudge along the familiar walls. He is as quiet as a cat, his footsteps making no noise, similar to the paws of a calculating feline, his eyes ghost over and soak in everything in view. He remains behind you, out of sight.

The man lowers his gaze to a single door that you didn’t bat an eye at, passing by it without breaking your stride. The smell of oily odor is stronger now that he is closer to the source. It’s incredible how you don’t seem to be in hiding. He quickly returns his gaze to your back, he no longer needs to arouse any more suspicion, so he keeps up with you.

The smell is nostalgic, reminding him of the unpleasantness that clings to him and that place from the past. It seems that you are used to the metallic odor, no doubt, spending time with such technology does that to a person, numbing their valuable senses so these meager details. If you knew him, truly had him memorized, prioritized, you would not have opened the door. You would have slipped through the window and ended up in his hands all the same.

The troupe left no way for you to evade him.

There's only one word to describe a man such as him: beautiful. Beautiful in a way one might consider a dark, chilling forest, or a black-feathered crow that brings a bad omen with the flap of its wings. Similar to a redback spider, his beauty is poisonous. His bite is worse than his bark, his venom makes you sweat at the red wound and spill your pain along with your sanity. He possesses all the charm and resources needed to ensnare his victims, leaving them helpless in his web of deceit.

(Let It Be Blown Away By A Wolf)

His beauty is alluring, much like elements of nature that can captivate yet harm. It makes you salvate, the itch that his unassuming clothes leave is impossible to ignore. On the surface, he is naught but a simple worker, one who wishes to get paid quickly as he twist the pipes and steps away from the source of his curiosity hidden behind a washed down door. You're sure he must have his assumptions, however the man doesn't act on it. It's the only fact that gives you some security under his observing gaze.

He's good at hiding in plain sight.

It's exhausting just waiting for him to come out.

You've never been a good host to the guests anyway.

Thieves can only uphold a half-assed disguise for so long before curiosity will get the best of them.

It's unclear even to you whether you expected to be locked in the bathroom. You know that a thief's fingers are nimble and light, it wouldn't take much for him to lock the door handle behind you and disappear into the smoke. They would buy time for whatever crime they're planning to commit. Besides, it's not like you own anything luxurious, except MONSTER. But even then, its system doesn't have gold and emeralds embedded inside, not to mention that you programmed the network to be understood only by you. Whatever information he might be after won't be found because, first, you haven't gathered it, and second, the network isn't designed to retain any digital information for this exact reason.

(And Watch It Be Burned)

If he's not after any information, well, MONSTER is made of junk from that horrid place. You had to rebuild and redesign any purchased parts to avoid raising suspicion. Overall, MONSTER doesn't cost much (technically, it shouldn't cost any money), but if the man decides to destroy it for whatever reason, you wouldn't be too affected. Its messy blueprints are safe and sound somewhere far from this apartment, the heartache would only come from the time you spent building your masterpiece.

But no, he doesn't make his move yet, only staring and meddling with the pipes present, forcing the stillness and anxious mood onto you.

You try not to look too intensely at his face, half hidden by the hair and the bandages on his forehead. It's quite a ridiculous detail that makes him stand out, it makes you think that maybe you are still somewhat drunk, otherwise why would you want to speak more to this beast in here's den?

"Those bandages." He hums in acknowledgement and you can't hold back your smirk, so instead your hand comes up to hide it away.

"You slipped and hit your head or something?"

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." His tone was... Unnaturally lighthearted.

Perhaps you were the one who slipped and hit your head, because this is no place for jokes.

Your eyes glance at the forgotten place, swiftly moving to the mirror before the man moves to stand.

You have to give him credit, because in the aftermath that lasted for only a second, the weak shield you've put up shatters as if it never existed.

He holds the door open before lightly bowing.

"Ladies first." And you turn your back to him, there's no going back now.

There's a sense of dread as you wake, your mind immediately going haywire, searching for the last moments as if the memories have slipped through your fingers as you tried to grasp them. An itch crawls beneath your skin, and the goosebumps make it uncomfortable for you to stand on the thick oil coating the floor.

(Into Ashes)

"Are you aware that the neighbors below have been complaining about a mysterious liquid leaking from this room for quite some time?"

No. No, you are not aware, because you haven't been living here.

The man in front of you has his back turned, staring at your masterpiece, captivated by its brilliance. Yet, despite this, his commanding presence holds your attention, stealing the answers from your mind.

"Such work you've put into this. Neither my abilities nor Shalnark have been able to figure it out."

You can’t see clearly through the numb feeling settling in your gut. You can’t tell if he's caressing the screen or even looking at it—his presence in this room is too confusing, almost as if he doesn't belong.

"Tell me how did you do it?" You try not to get hang up on his tone.

You can't help but feel pride at his fascination. After all this time, you finally have the satisfaction of someone else complimenting your life's work. It brings a feeling beyond euphoria—a sensation like standing in the sunset, letting its warmth wash over you before the sunshine disappears for hours. It's the peace of sitting on a balcony after a long day of research, gazing at the hanging constellations in the dark blue sky.

You search for an answer, your tongue swiping across the inside of your cheek. Yet, as his torso turns toward you, your mind fixates on one thing, or maybe a couple of things, the slick dark hair, the orb earrings framing his long face, and the tattoo of a cross—an unusual detail you wouldn’t find on the average person. His sense of fashion isn't impressive, but his captivating physique makes up for it. Lastly, your eyes linger on his mouth, the corners tilted upward in a quiet smile as he waits for your answer. His smile, you'd say, is beautiful.

"How did I do it?" you repeat, but he doesn't confirm.

"... Why don't I..." Your tongue tastes iron as you swallow nervously, flustering you further. Your heartbeat quickens as you open your mouth again.

He seems like the kind of man who would enjoy a cup of tea.

"Inform you of that... on a date?" You can tell he wasn’t expecting it. No normal person would expect such a question at this moment, though he shows no visible surprise.

"I'll tell you everything about it."

You eyes gloss over a crushed red bug held between his middle finger and his thumb.

Covering your red cheeks becomes the priority.

[felassan]

Story elements, Campaign Map, and Garrus character sheet from the Mass Effect The Board Game - Priority: Hagalaz Rulebook [source]

bonus: move names of Garrus' and Wrex' that just made me happy :)

Text version of first three images under cut -

Opening blurb:

"In the year 2186, the civilizations of the galaxy are at war with a relentless, artificial enemy called the Reapers. Commander Shepard’s warnings of their arrival were all ignored, and now the Reapers have invaded the galaxy in force, crushing all resistance. Earth has fallen. Palaven, the turian homeworld, is under siege, and their military might barely holds the enemy at bay. The Reapers are pressing into the galaxy on all fronts, and it is only a matter of time before the races of Citadel Space are crushed beneath their onslaught. But there is still hope. Commander Shepard has assembled a crew of trusted allies aboard the Systems Alliance stealth frigate, the Normandy. They have the schematics for the mysterious Prothean superweapon, the Crucible, but constructing it alone will not be enough. Shepard and the Normandy crew are racing to forge alliances, build a unified front capable of defeating the Reapers before they overtake the galaxy and complete their harvest of all biological life. All the while, the insidious terrorist organisation Cerberus advances their own agenda of human supremacy at any cost, led by the mysterious Illusive Man and his army of ruthless operatives."

Note from Admiral Hackett:

"“Commander Shepard, Since you took out the Cerberus lab on Sanctum, N7 Special Forces have hit every other lab we could find. Cerberus has caught on and moved their research efforts off-world. They’ve retrofitted one of their cruisers as a mobile research facility and now keep it on the move. I’ve received reports of more abductions, like the one you stopped on Benning, and several refugee ships have unexpectedly dropped off the grid. Cerberus could be holding those abductees on that cruiser as hostages, or worse, as test subjects. Their latest hiding place was the storm above Hagalaz. Taking a page out of the Shadow Broker’s book, I suppose. We only found them because the cruiser appears to have suffered a massive systems failure and crashed on the night side of the planet. Although these nights are a lot longer than Earth’s, unfortunately it’s almost morning and daybreak will bring the most powerful storm on the other side of the Attican Traverse. The Normandy is the only Alliance ship in range. I need you to see what Cerberus was up to. Interference from the storm is degrading comms, so there’s no way Cerberus can get their research off-planet except by portable data transfer. We have recovery assets on the way, but they won’t arrive until after the storm hits and tears that ship to pieces. Shepard, your orders are: Whatever you do, keep that research data out of Cerberus’ hands. When the storm is over, I don’t want them to recover their work from the wreckage. Denying them those assets will be a major blow. Retrieve the research if possible, or destroy it if there’s no other choice. Alternatively, find a way to fortify the ship until the fleet arrives. If you find prisoners along the way, get them out of there. The storm is coming, Shepard. Get it done.” – Admiral Hackett"

Note from EDI:

"“Shepard, analysis of the crashed cruiser has isolated three primary objectives. The reactor, the research data core, and the kinetic barrier generator. You only have time to reach one of those before the storm arrives. Accessing the data core will allow us to steal Cerberus’ research, but they could salvage the ship’s wreckage after the storm has passed. Overloading the reactors will destroy the ship – and all hope of any data recovery or salvage. I am also detecting signs of the captives Admiral Hackett mentioned. By diverting power from the research core, you can boost the ship’s kinetic barriers long enough to preserve it and protect the prisoners until the Alliance arrives. However, if you do this, the data banks will be lost. The storm is only a few hours away, Shepard. I recommend moving fast. Displaying potential routes to each objective. The mission is yours.” – EDI"

[amassimgwires]

Good Afternoon everyone! Wires here!

I am hear to dicuss HORUS pattern groups and how maintenance on them tends to be. For most of them, they are highly personalized machines — either designed this way by the pilot or manifested in such way. Because of this, there isn't really any standardization for many of these frames, a mechanics nightmare.

However, due to our constant salvaging and occasional fight with HORUS frames, we noticed a few patterns with various pattern groups, as well as some basic dos and don'ts when handling such equipment. If you operate outside of the core worlds, I heavily recommend giving this a read if you find yourself deep into Frames internals frequently.

First of all, DO NOT, under any circumstances, Treat electronic systems as 'Off'. This practice will save your equipment and lives, especially if handling a BALOR. Keep an automated defense system using basic electromagnetic pulses and other relatively non damaging e warfare equipment on hand.

Second, Always identify the pattern group of EACH subsystem. Not just the frame, or the weapons- every piece of it. An Manticore frame is already dangerous, but knowing it has //SCORPION derivative installed or an H0R_OS system installed will massively effect what you have to do to make sure the system is running smoothly after repair work is finished. This may also affect how you run diagnostics — it is heavily recommended to reinstall your diagnostic tools OS after every run through to begin with, but Metahooms and Mimic Meshes often times have inbuilt viruses to prevent study of the frame. If not purged, this can ruin equipment or infect your entire shop if you aren't careful.

And the third and final one for now, never, under any circumstances, assume that there is NOT HORUS systems on anything when you are out in the Long Rim. Even the most well kept ISP-N and Harrsion Legionnare forces can, and eventually will, encounter HORUS systems manifesting upon their printed frames, and some keep the systems. And for those who aren't attached to regulatory superiors? They are far more likely to have them without knowing. So please, be diligent.

[prokopetz]

I have a pinned post for my games in development, but it doesn't really describe what they're about, and apparently this is something we're doing today, so:

My games in development, in rough order of priority:

(Note: all of these have public playtest drafts behind the links.)

Eat God

A game about weird little anarchist muppets with reality-warping powers themed after classic Looney Tunes gags wandering around a classic sword-and-sorcery fantasy setting stirring up trouble. Roughly 50% character creation rules by volume, with provisions for randomising every part of it; the linked draft, above, includes an online character generator if you want to play with it. The mechanics are a sort of elaborated spiritual successor to Costume Fairy Adventures, a game whose development I headed up about a decade ago.

Current status: actively writing, hopefully zeroing in on a feature-complete playtest draft within the next month or two.

Tiny Frog Wizards

One of my customarily literal titles, this is a game where you play as wizards who are tiny frogs. Features elaborate semi-freeform rules for casting spells, lots of big stupid random tables for when spells go off the rails, and absolutely no mechanics for anything that isn't casting a spell; it's a very focused sort of game. Narratively, it's a game about being an overpowered little twerp sticking your nose into other people's problems and offering solutions no-one asked for. Portions of the rules crib shamelessly from @jennamoran's Nobilis 3rd Edition, for which I offer acknowledgement but no apologies.

Current status: development of the text has been set aside for the moment to work on visual identity, with an eye toward crowdfunding an expanded hardcover edition later in the year.

Space Gerbils

A tactical mecha combat game with a very silly twist: the entirety of the tactical positioning occurs inside the mecha, because the game's premise is basically "what if instead of the Big Reveal at the end of Metroid (1986) being that Samus Aran is secretly a girl, Samus Aran was secretly 3–5 small gerbil-like creatures operating a person-size mech suit?" Players engage in positional jockeying and resource management to determine which stations they're crewing within the suit, which is boiled down to a single roll of the dice to determine what happens outside the suit. Includes papercraft minifigs.

Current status: essentially feature-complete, apart from some character creation options and a planned random mission generator; this will likely be the next game I crowdfund after Tiny Frog Wizards.

Indie RPG Prompt Generator [working title]

Essentially a joke that got out of hand, this is a big set of random tables of common indie RPG tropes that you can roll on to generate a description of a hypothetical game, complete with specific rules toys and setting beats. I probably could have finished this up already, but I decided to include examples of each rolled element, which turned into this big hairy research project I'm not able to give adequate attention to right now. If you've got a game of your own that you think would be a good fit for a presently unfilled example slot, please, let me know!

Current status: plugging away at it in bits and pieces as I'm able.

Three Raccoons in a Trenchcoat

This is an anthology consisting of three minigames: the eponymous Three Raccoons in a Trenchcoat, which is self-explanatory; Unfamiliar, in which you play as uncooperative wizards' familiars; and System Crash, in which you play as malfunctioning robots. More a series of formal experiments in character creation and group composition than proper full-featured games, all share the same core mechanics, with milieu-specific addons of varying practicality; for example, System Crash has specific rules for which senses each player is allowed to use when asking the GM for information, because it's completely possible to have a group in which only one of the robots can see. Large portions of Unfamiliar were later re-used in Eat God, above.

Current status: I have a list of notes as long as your arm on planned changes to integrate into the text, and I'm confident I'll get around to doing so one of these years.

Gone to Hell

Literally a Doom (2016) pastiche as a Belonging Outside Belonging game, which is just as silly an idea as it sounds; grown out of an earlier 24-hour RPG called Doomguy. The central conceit is that there's only a single player character, with players taking turns assuming the role of the Slayer, while everyone else takes ownership of the various hostile factions comprising the game's conspiratorial twelve-car pileup of a plot. Lots of pontificating about the implicit power structures of tabletop RPG groups. This one probably needs a full rewrite in order to lend a bit more formal structure to the "one player character, many GMs" conceit than out-of-the-box BOB offers.

Current status: I have not looked at this game in three years, which is actually a really long time for me.

Rotate Bird

Another of my "is this a formal experiment or a real game" titles, this one revolves around constructing characters out of abstract symbols, which are interpreted during play to retroactively define what your character is actually capable of doing. Even the title seen above is an interpretive approximation; strictly speaking, the game is called 🔄🐦. Possibly the most shitposty game I've ever written, which is saying something, but based on playtest feedback it seems functional.

Current status: the only reason this is listed as lower in priority than Gone to Hell is because I genuinely don't know what to do with it. It's probably publishable, with some cleanup editing and graphic design, but it feels like there's something missing. I'm open to suggestions!

Get in the Fucking Robot

A pamphlet-size, competitive, GMless title that's at least as much a board game as it is a tabletop RPG, this one is about a bunch of dysfunctional candidate mecha pilots competing to be the first to pilot the titular giant robot. The game is played under misère conditions: while each character's IC goal is to pilot the robot, each player's OOC goal is to avoid that fate, with the player whose character actually Gets in the Fucking Robot being accounted the loser.

Current status: playtesting suggests the current framework of play doesn't actually work – like, at all – so this one needs to go all the way back to the drawing board; I don't feel like doing that any time soon, which puts it squarely at the bottom of the list.

[ikroah]

I have reached the breaking point, the point of no return, it’s very clear to see a fool like me will never, ever learn. I have reached the breaking point, I hear the drums of doom, I’m gonna flip my wig in one great big atomic boom! —“The Breaking Point,” Bobby Darin (1966)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #27 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding VI

Collaborative Issue! Guest Artist: @sas-afras

Archive Links

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Read IKROAH on Archive of Our Own

Notes / Transcript:

Notes

Huge thanks to Monty over at @sas-afras for getting this one done! I handled the original layout and lettering, but the rest was all them. Layouts like this can seem simple and easy because of how straight-forward and repetitive they are, but when all you've got are a dozen and one reaction shots, every single one of those reaction shots needs to be as perfect as you can get them. And Monty did a hell of a job. Especially on the coloring! Monty, if you're reading this, you're a hell of a good colorist (on top of everything else). Thanks again!

Another note about this issue is that it, along with the previous one, were some of the most difficult to write in this whole damn comic so far. I really hate repeating in-game dialogue verbatim without good reason, but there's really not much else I could do here. It's a very necessary part of the story that is also literally a part in the game where your character is fixed in place listening to a monologue. I took some liberties, did some punch-up, not just for its own sake but to really drive home what I find most interesting and vital here about Mr. House as a character.

Anyway, Agnes is in trouble. And there's only one issue left in Volume 2! The next one closes out this arc of the story, at long last. Stay tuned.

Transcript

INT. LUCKY 38 BASEMENT. From an observation deck of sorts, AGNES SANDS watches several SECURITRON robots position themselves in a testing area, containing several sandbags, dummies, and makeshift fortifications. A voice booms from an unseen speaker.

MR. HOUSE: You're well familiar with my Securitron police force. But have you ever wondered: what exactly makes them the marquee option in perimeter security and pacification?

AGNES glances in the direction of the voice, uncomfortable.

MR. HOUSE: Well to start, the reinforced titanium alloy housing of each unit, which protects its electronic core, easily deflects small arms and shrapnel.

MR. HOUSE: As for its offensive capabilities, its X-25 gatling laser—produced to spec by Glastinghouse, Inc.—is deadly against soft targets at medium range.

SFX: BZZTZZTZZTZZTZZT

AGNES recoils as a red glow washes over her from the testing area.

MR. HOUSE: And then for close-range suppression or crowd control, the Securitron is also armed with a 9mm sub-machinegun.

SFX: DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA

AGNES shuts her eyes, wincing from the crack of gunfire.

MR. HOUSE: These features have been sufficient for keeping the peace within Vegas, but with the NCR and Legion closing in on Hoover Dam, and sizing up my city like a piece of prize cake, more than ever we need to be prepared for, well...external conflict. Policing is one thing, but when geopolitical powers are involved, my Securitrons can only pose so much of a threat.

MR. HOUSE: That is...if they're forced to rely exclusively on their secondary weapons--as they have been, all this time!

AGNES looks upward, surprised.

MR. HOUSE: Remember, the Great War interrupted a pivotal moment for RobCo's work. Consequently, all extant Securitrons have been stuck, running on a mere Mark I operating system—the first production version of the OS—which has simply lacked the software drivers for the use of their primary weapons all this time!

AGNES looks around, as if HOUSE were in the room somewhere and she could find him, in a panic.

MR. HOUSE: The platinum chip, you see, was never just a token. At a time when industrial espionage ran rampant, it was minted as a high capacity, proprietary, and uniquely irreplicable data storage device. In a way, it's more like a computer chip. And now—with the data from the platinum chip finally installed onto my nextwork—it's time for a very crucial software update. Behold: the new Mark II Securitrons!

AGNES gawks downward at the testing area, eyes wide. Oh no.

MR. HOUSE: Their newly accessible M-235 Missile Launcher gives them the ability to engage ground and air targets at significantly longer ranges...

SFX: PSSSSSHHH KTHOOM THOOM THOOM THOOM

AGNES flinches, covering her face for protecting, and screams as explosions rip apart the testing area below.

MR. HOUSE: ...and their rapid-fire G-28 grenade launching system, another part of the Mark II, makes them much more powerful in close-range engagements as well.

SFX: THMP THMP THMP KRRSSH KRAKTK KABOOM

AGNES, nearly frozen, watches the bombardment with horror.

MR. HOUSE: It also includes rewritten drivers for the Securitrons' auto-repair systems—although always sophisticated, the new optimizations render them inexhaustible in even the most protracted and attritious of engagements. Altogether, the Mark II upgrade confers a 235% total increase in combat effectiveness per unit—and it's all because of you!

AGNES lowers her arm slowly, jaw slack, mortified.

MR. HOUSE: Vegas finally has an army—worthy to protect not just the city itself, but the best interests of all of mankind, at home and abroad. Which is to say: this simple display of might remains a mere teaser for what I can, and what I will, accomplish, in an illustrious new epoch.

AGNES sinks further into a paralytic terror.

MR. HOUSE: What we will accomplish, Agnes—should you accept my offer, of employment. Ah—but I digress. I'm certain that you've had a long day. You can rejoin Miss Cassidy in the presidential suite for the night, if you'd like to, as they say, "sleep on it."

MR. In fact...say for as long as you'd like. However long you may need, to think everything over. And you'll be very well provided for in the meantime, consider it a taste of what could be...should you make the right choice before you.

MR. HOUSE: That reminds me—I've already sent Victor to collect your belongings from the Vault 22 Hotel, so no need to exhaust yourself further by making that trip on your own, hm? There's much about your future to consider, Agnes—and I would like you to think of it as our future.

AGNES stares straight ahead with a deadened expression.

The testing area in the basement has been reduced to smithereens. Fires rage on the rubble of obliterated structures, gnarled steel, and collapsed walkways. The dummies have been dismembered entirely.

MR. HOUSE: ...Goodness, what a mass. With friends like these, I sure wouldn't envy my enemies.

MR. HOUSE: Wouldn't you agree?

[theresattrpgforthat]

Do you have recommendations for working class sci fi/space opera games?

I've been enjoying reading through Traveller and Orbital Blues and reading books like The Expanse about just regular people making ends meet IN SPAAAACE. So I'm curious if you know of any other games matching that regular people doing regular things but also exciting things threaten the status quo.

THEME: Working Class Sci-Fi

Hello, I hope you find something in here that suits your fancy!

Comet Express, by Dice Doctor Games.

Inter-galactic delivery is perilous

Dangerous people need dangerous goods transported to dangerous places.

This is where Comet Express gets in. The safety of our delivery crew is secondary to the successful delivery of your precious cargo.

Why would anyone in their sane mind do this job? Three reasons. One Money. Two Thrill. And Three, who said you were sane?

Comet Express is all about just trying to get your job done and go home - alive. You're all part of a trading company that values its cargo over its crew, with a successful job being determined with the condition your cargo is in by the end of the job.

What's interesting to me is that I don't see anything on the page that says that you can fail. Your roll determines whether or not you avoid risk; but from what I can see, you can do well, do poorly, or somewhere in between. It's typically assumed that at least some of your cargo makes it to your final destination.

What's also interesting is that your character dying is no excuse to get the job done. Character creation is meant to be quick and simple, so if you die, just roll a few d6 and you'll have a new grunt to move the payload.

I think that perhaps the biggest weakness of Comet Express is the lack of roll-tables for the GM. There's a few in this brochure-sized game, but most of the outcomes are rather vague, and still require a lot of improv. If you're a GM that likes to come up with everything on your own, this won't be an issue, but a new GM might struggle.

Pressure: Industrial Science Fiction, by Osprey Publishing.

A science fiction roleplaying game of bringing law and order to the dark and dangerous corners of the universe.

Pressure: Industrial Science Fiction Roleplaying is a rules-light, story-focused game of facing the darkness at the heart of humanity’s fragile and claustrophobic existence – both on Earth and among the stars. An entirely standalone title, Pressure also develops and expands upon the mechanics and setting introduced in the Those Dark Places roleplaying game.

As highly skilled agents of Special Operations Squads, players are tasked with cleaning up after the Corporations – investigating links to organized crime, neutralizing rogue weapons research, negotiating with rebel leaders on orbital stations, and hunting down whatever that black-budget excavation team ‘awoke’ out in the Procyon Sector…

The universe is a dangerous and hostile place; the Hypercities and the Deep Black alike hide powerful foes. But you have the tools, the training, and the resources to face these dangers… you hope.

Pressure has a unique game system, although pieces of it sound familiar. There's Attributes and Skills that will add modifiers to your basic dice roll, as well as a stress mechanic called Pressure, which you will have to test yourself against every time your character suffers something shocking or disturbing. Already this sounds like a much better mechanic to me than a sanity or madness degeneration!

Thematically, this definitely looks like very hard sci-fi, with trained military operatives in space being the core focus. This is a space-horror game, although what kind of horror that is feels like it's up to whatever the table is interested in.

If you want to read a full review of the game, check out what Lowell Francis has to say about it on his blog, Age of Ravens.

Transit: The Spaceship RPG, by Fiddleback Productions.

TRANSIT takes place beyond our home planet, allowing you to traverse the unlimited depths of space and explore worlds outside our own galaxy.

Your role as an Artificial Intelligence is to inhabit an interplanetary vessel, manage your resources, and direct your crew. You’ll deploy your ship’s officers into the field, hunt down criminals, engage in interstellar combat, and deliver supplies and colonists to remote settlements.

You must rely on your resources to complete missions by acting through your ship, tech, and crew. Three different AI types – Combat, Command, and Support – lend themselves to varied and interesting game play, but it’s when an AI is paired with a ship that the real diversity in character creation comes to the fore.

TRANSIT is more than just an intergalactic skirmish game. When your interests and those of your crew are aligned, things can go very well, but when you and your crew come into conflict, they turn from asset to liability. They’ll think you’re insane, but you’re just trying to survive and complete your mission. How did it come to this? What will you do next?

While skimming the reviews for this game, I came across a big fountain of praise for TRANSIT's index. I love a good index, and am often saddened when a game has a poorly organized index, or doesn't have one at all. A book that you can reference well is infinitely easier to use.

On top of this, TRANSIT feels like a really unique combination, as it's both a skirmish game and Powered by the Apocalypse. Those are two things I don't normally think would be put together! It's also got a really unique perspective, since you are playing ships, rather than the people inside them. Is your AI going to be human-like, or something completely different? Find out in TRANSIT.

Voidhunters, by Fox Tale Games.

It has been forty years since the end of the last Great War, in which the Espiri Empire consolidated victory against Salvatori forces. The war was hard-won – planets were bombarded, resources were leashed to build grand war engines and vast voidborn battleships, and though the embers are slowly burning out, the winds of rebellion are relentless in stirring dissent.

But the war is of no concern of you and your crew. You are voidhunters, freelancers tasked by government and private clients to search for treasure in the depths of space. It’s dangerous work, but it pays the bills, and it’s always interesting.

From empty war hulks drifting powerless through space, to locked-down laboratories hiding unfinished weapons, tech and viruses, to the ruins of the Asar, the ancient space-faring civilization that came before your own, every episode of Voidhunters can take you and yours somewhere new.

Voidhunters feels a little closer to science fantasy, because it describes itself as a soft sci-fi setting, with magic and mechs. It's inspired by media such as Cowboy Bebop, Rogue One, and Firefly, where danger is supposed to be constantly present, while opportunities to be a hero are still around the corner.

The game uses d20 dice pools, and characters are a collection of Abilities, Skills and Talents. Ability scores determine your target number to roll under. Attributes & Skills give you dice. Talents are special things your character (and only your character) can do.

An interesting extra detail in Voidhunters is that matching your target number is even better than rolling under; it reduces the number of threats the GM can roll at you, and allows you to set yourself up for a better chance for the next time you roll as well. Otherwise, the GM will be able to collect threat dice to make things harder to do, or even more dangerous if they feel like it.

If you want a bit of action movie pulp in your space drink, maybe consider Voidhunters.

Free Spacer, by Christoph Sapinsky.

Free Spacer is a contemporary science fiction tabletop roleplaying game. It leverages the newest space sciences, takes into account biotechnology, and brings the internet to the rim of the quadrant.

As a Free Spacer, you’re a crew member on a small starship, an outsider, and a contractor. You’ll explore new worlds, investigate dangers, negotiate contracts, operate your starship, and do science!

As the Game Master, you have a wealth of tools at your disposal to build whole worlds and manage the machinations of sector factions in the ongoing Cold War. You’ll be able to easily run conflicts, spaceflight, fabrication projects, and other challenges, while quickly generating new locations and characters.

Play to find out how the crew gets the job done, the choice they make, the rules they break, and the length will go for their Patrons.

The author of Free Spacer says his principal purpose of the game was to make it feel like science fiction, and everything I'm seeing from it looks like hard sci-fi. The setting is a deeply imperfect future; no faster-than-light communication, a sector-wide cold war, and the need to negotiate contracts for every job.

The game uses 2 different kinds of dice: d10's and d6's. d10's contribute to your chances of success, while d6's contribute to your chances of failure. All of the rolls are player-facing, with the GM contributing threats and complications, which definitely feels a little reminiscent of Star Wars FFG, down to the non-binary dice results. You can succeed, you can miss, but you can also have a little bit of both worlds, which I think has the potential for nuanced storytelling.

Space Ambulance, by Bully Pulpit Games.

Space is a huge inconvenience. It’s big, it’s dangerous, and it is between you and anywhere interesting.

Once upon a time it was so outrageously hazardous that people traveling through it were killed now and then just for being there. Of course today spaceships are safe and sensible and no one dies in old-fashioned ways like “hull depressurization” or “reactor explosion”. Today spaceships are smart - smarter than you and me - and they are carefully built with safety in mind. You are far, far more likely to be killed by falling out of bed than you are by a spaceship failure.

And yet.

Sapient beings are amazingly fragile and incompetent. We touch things we are told not to touch. We eat too much, or too little. We make poor choices about who to make friends with. We fall out of bed. Sometimes, through no fault of our friendly and safe spaceships, we get in trouble in space.

When this happens, every second counts. You need to call an ambulance - a space ambulance.

Space Ambulance is a game about the dedicated professionals of the space ambulance services. You will explore the lives and loves of the crews, both on the job and off, as they perform dramatic (and not so dramatic) rescues, fill out paperwork, and await their next thrilling (or not so thrilling) call.

Space Ambulance advertises itself as focused on the drama between the characters, so I'm guessing it might be something like Grey's Anatomy - in space! Bully Pulpit Games in general intrigues me with a lot of the concepts they put forward, so I think that whatever you pick up from them, you're in for a solidly good time.

Xenopolitan, by Willy Elektrix.

Xenopolitan is an RPG about everyday life in an alien metropolis. Live the life of an extraterrestrial person with real world problems. Play as a human or extraterrestrial entrepreneur, student, artist, social worker, politician, reporter, criminal, detective, or anything else, and experience life in this galactic future-scape.

Setting: The year is 2099. Ingress is a city with 90 million people from thousands of different species and planets. It flies in the skies above Earth and is a hub for extraterrestrials conducting business with various Earthling corporations and governments. Players are denizens of this sprawling, cosmopolitan city, and their backgrounds and goals can be as diverse as the city’s population.

Xenopolitan really does feel like an alien slice-of-life rpg. The entire book is dotted with in-world excerpts, like newspaper obituaries, reviews of various artists, and even dating profiles for NPCs!

The game uses Fudge Dice, also known as Fate Dice, if I'm not mistaken. It also uses a d10 as a Luck die, which doesn't really contribute to success or failure, but ether adds a benefit or a complication. The things you'll be rolling for appear to be rather mundane things, like figuring out how to break up with your girlfriend, or trying to pass your driver's test.

At it's core, Xenopolitan is about making it in a big, big city. Each character will have personal weaknesses and drawbacks that they'll have to work to accommodate or overcome, such as a criminal record, a responsibility to take care of someone else, an undocumented immigration status, etc. If you want to mix the speculative, goofy elements of sci-fi with the mundane, everyday struggles of modern life, you might like Xenopolitan.

Additional Cool Things...

Last Fleet, by Black Armada Games.

Arkyvr, a toolkit for Mothership that has players cast as a documentary crew.

Holdfast Station, by Lampblack and Brimstone.

Space And Stars Rec Post

Space Adventures Rec Post

Space Westerns Rec Post

Space Fantasy Rec Post

If you like what I do, you can always leave a token of appreciation at my Ko-Fi!

[rockheadcd]

@electrivolt said:

He should've known this mission sounded too easy to be good, didn't it? Rush in, blow up some mining equipment, get out, no care for whether or not any additional damage was done to the competition— he should've known damn well that it was too good to be true.

It's too late to think about it now. After watching the equipment explode it only takes seconds, the moment Volkner lets out that sigh of relief, for the coral to burst out of the ground, and everything just spirals from there.

"Shit—!" the entire AC shakes and rattles around him as the first rush of coral hits it, alarms blaring and systems malfunctioning, and Volkner— Volkner can't get it under control, or even just think, sharp spikes of searing pain shooting up his spine through his link to the machine, spots of black across his vision and the coral feels angry and it's burning—

( it hurts it hurts it hurts— )

He thinks he hears a scream, and he's not sure it's his own. Volkner doesn't know if or how he's moving, barely able to register the increasing heat and all the alarms and screens flashing errors at him, barely able to even just hope his AC will stay in one piece for long enough to get the hell out of there and maybe just a bit closer to safety for a little while. Somehow, through the constant jolts of pain, his body on fire and feeling the sparks against his neck, Volkner manages to pilot his way out of the columns of flames and coral— at least he's somewhat sure he did, if the lack of searing white against optics doesn't mean that system shut down entirely. The interior of the core doesn't entirely feel like it's on fire anymore, so that must be a good thing, right? Even when there's residual coral still so stubbornly clinging to his machine and the bits of metal against his spine, and he feels ready to pass out while his head feels split in half and his body struggles to move... he has to have done something right if he's still alive, right? ... Right?

He tries to take a deep breath, wincing when the air feels like fire against his throat, and tries as best as he can to start just processing what's around him again. What's that green blinking light... oh. Autopilot. That might explain his survival, even when it feels like the last thing he might've wanted in a moment like this. Suddenly, the AC rattles and shakes before going completely still, and when the screen in front of him works again through the static, all Volkner sees is blurry white and grey, squinting, a long moment of silence before it hits him. Snow, the cloudy sky. The AC couldn't keep itself flying anymore, huh...

( that's not good... )

Instead of the quick way out, he gets to slowly starve to death here, then. That's not what he would've picked.

Volkner groans to himself, absently wiping at his nose when he feels something wet dripping from it. He looks at his hand, dazed and confused when he finds something sticky, warm and dark, staring at it.

( ... right, that's blood. that's his blood. )

Before he can keep mulling over the wonder that is having put together the fact that there's blood outside of his body and that's generally considered a bad thing, a new shock of electricity rips another pained scream out of him, AC's systems blaring at him once again before quietening down to their usual hum. As unwelcome as it is, the newfound pain brings him new awareness, enough to come back to his senses, even if just a little. Right, as unwilling as he is, he's still alive and unfortunately kicking, stranded and in dire need of getting the hell out.

... But how? Even when the systems are somehow operating and responding, that doesn't solve the issue of enough structural damage it's a miracle the AC hasn't collapsed on his head, and getting out by himself in this state and in the middle of the snowy fields is hardly an option...

( this is really it then, isn't it? not that anyone would care, but... )

( but that's not true, is it? )

... they've only chatted and met up at the hangars, no matter how much time they've really spent together, he doesn't even know if he can really trust him, let alone if he would want to come at all— no one would really have a reason to want to, much less for Volkner of all the people, but...

( it's worth a shot before figuring out which one will be the real cause of death, right...? )

Volkner is already convinced this will go nowhere, he doesn't even know if a distress signal will make it anywhere to begin with, let alone make it out of the totaled AC at all, there's really no point in even trying, no one even likes the stupid suicidal pilot that causes more damage than what he's even worth paying, hell, there might be some people celebrating finding his frozen over AC out here whenever someone from this corp makes it out here—

"Hey—" his trembling hands move to keys before he can really think much. Volkner's not even sure he's really feeling them at the moment, his brain just as scrambled as his machine, hissing through the pain and trying to focus on just stringing the words together. "I— I could— really use s-some help right now—" the words are barely scraped out of his throat, and Volkner's just trying to fight the black spots dancing across his vision long enough to hit the send prompt. If he's lucky, he managed to attach his current coordinates and send it to the right person, and if by any reason fate really has decided he'll make it through this, Roark will decide to come find him and get there in time.

And if he dies here, alone, bleeding and frozen to death, at least he gave life a shot, right? / when the kool-aid touches back. ( LONG LONG post warning. i went ham. )

Roark has an inkling of doubts that settle in his stomach the wrong way—something seems awfully quiet. Well, not that it's uncommon to see empty hangars. This temporary excursion to a different planet to take on some contracts pertaining to Coral was lucrative for them, so naturally, it wasn't much of a surprise to see him around. As long as the PCA didn't catch them on the way out, Roark could go back to sleeping in an actual bed than a cot. Still… it's freezing here in this wasteland. He's seen Volkner bundle up and still rub his arms to try to get some more heat. Hopefully, he's not too cold.

He frowns some—Volkner did say it was going to be quick, or something of the sort. He's managed to at least get Volkner's frequency saved for comms, if worse comes to worst. Whether or not Volkner was actually going to take him up on it, well. He couldn't force him. When they were on sorties together, it was easier to convince him to stay on the line.

The sigh comes out with a puff of air in the chill of Rubicon 3. Might as well distract himself with some routine maintenance, right? Roark jogs up to the upper layer to access the core of his unit, rasping the entry hole for permission and squeezing in. "Wonder if we'll see Volk today? Lemme know what's going on out there while I mess with the radars," he hums, actually speaking to the AC as if it could respond back. With a press of a button and a few switches, the power generator whirs to life beneath the cockpit, various panels and lights flickering on as each surveillance piece runs their respective start-up checks before going online completely. Soon, a visual of the hangar takes up the majority of his vision, lighting the cockpit with an eerie pale blue overlay. "Perfect. I was wondering if the temps here would mess anything up."

Roark settles into his seat, fingers running across the inlaid keyboard to manually edit the radars that are perched inside the head of his AC. Long range communications frequency… tune it a few megahertz up, switch on low noise amplifier.. Roark idly hums to himself until a flat buzz comes through on the speakers, his emergency channel list blinking while the active transmission comes through. That's weird.. it's a MAYDAY message.. not uncommon, but that's not out on the public waves.

"Switch active to emergency channel two."

When he realizes it's Volkner's voice, dazed and exhausted, Roark finds himself in a panic. This is bad, bad. Where the fuck is that signal origin—ah, there it is. The connection is awful there, as if the interference is intentional. Something must have happened. Roark mashes his finger on the PTT switch. "—I'll be there as fast as I can—hang tight!" When he releases, he quickly switches to one of the operator channels. "AC STONE EDGE requesting launch ASAP. Responding to a MAYDAY signal—" Ugh, he doesn't have the time to get his actual flight suit on, either, he'll just have to deal with this. Whatever. It's pretty warm in here.

"Launch service ready in five minutes. These aren't necessary, Roark, you can't go saving people on Rubicon all the time." The operator in the command tower has become unfortunately familiar with Roark's antics. There was a reason why he was being contracted to escorts.

"This one's important."

"If you insist.. Elevator D12 is ready. Armaments attaching."

Roark gets himself comfy in the tight space, strapping in and continuing the rest of the start-up sequence. Surely, if he was augmented, this could be done with just a thought or two, couldn't it? Ah, oh well. He liked the tactile aspect more. Besides, some of these parts utilized Coral anyway—the AC could sustain some sort of natural feeling if he focused hard enough. The whirring of machinery outside of the AC alerts him that his shoulder weapons are attached, and using the dual joysticks on each side, takes a hold of both arm weapons and locks them in place. The AC's core shuts and seals, and the HUD overlay begins to populate and fill in blank spots between the communication statuses with health information and ammunition loads. "All systems okay. System switch to combat mode."

"Elevator D12 ready to launch. Ready to fly?"

"Let's go."

Roark switches back to the channel the distress call was on, leaving the PTT hot—"I'm on the way, Volk—don't die on me!"

AC STONE EDGE pops up from underground, and once the locks on it's feet are released, Roark immediately ignites the boosters and heads far enough away from the hangar before working on determining what direction to go. "Post waypoint for friendly callsign Thunderfang." The HUD populates the radar's minimap with a blue dot, in addition to the range-bearing tile. "Thanks, you're doing great." He presses a button on the side, and the AC rumbles as the boosters gather additional energy. Powered by Coral, the overboost on his AC is effective with the weight that it carries often. It knows well that this sortie was much more valuable than others. Seconds later, STONE EDGE blasts off into the white expanse of the icefield, deep reds and bright yellow lights obscuring as he sets out into the fog.

Roark has long gotten used to the pressure and the forces. The headaches that ensue are just a part of the job for him, and the years of working up to being somewhat of a name back home has helped the adjustment. Still, he's not under this kind of pressure as he is now. Wishing fervently the speedometer could go higher doesn't change the fact that it's capped at a steady 360—Volkner's posted coordinates are still incredibly far away, and every stop to cool off the generated heat makes Roark more and more antsy. On the plus side, if Volkner didn't warn him of hostiles, then the vicinity should be clear, right? Unfortunately, his tendencies to bring all manner of weaponry is part of the reason why he's slower than he could be—pulse shield be damned, he never knew when he needed a Songbird.

Anyway, where are his supplies.. ah, here. Good, they're still tucked away in one of the few compartments that wasn't crammed with wiring. It was a necessity for an unaugmented pilot like him. He can't help but sigh, eventually toggling the PTT back to push only. Out here in the Central Icefields, there was little to wonder about except along the outer perimeter. Maybe billions of years ago, there used to be enough heat to sustain a biome here, but it was difficult to picture this planet with color on the surface. Thankfully, the underground hangars were littered about the planet, some closer to the hypothetical Coral convergence that existed on the planet. After all, there was no other reason independents flocked along with the corporations for some fast cash. The search for remnants may not even be for remnants at all, really, given the amount of loose Coral that he could see in the stratosphere ever since they both snuck in behind PCA security. These outposts… they couldn't remain dead forever—there was no way. If there's anything he's seen in the way the Coral in his AC parts behave, it was erratic and infinite. He opted to call what was out here free range, so to speak, given what he's learned over the time of working on his AC and speaking with parts manufacturers that were lucky enough to have transported any off Rubicon 3 before the embargo. If the Dosers could continue to dose, there were ways to obtain Coral. If there was Coral, there must have been a way to obtain it en masse.

These outposts… now that Roark is closer, the map of the local area, his radars pull up some historical data from excursions nearby. Supposedly, this area and others like it were abandoned after the Fires had vanquished much of humanity back then… but was it really empty? If Volkner was sent here, clearly something was up. Eyes flick to the estimated distance as it rolls down. Another fifteen minutes. Surely, he can hold out.

The plume of smoke that lingers around a certain spot in the sea of white tells him something more than simply an ambush occurred. The abandoned tunnel looks to have been scorched from within, but not by any manufactured weaponry and blunt explosive force. The way the metal pipes running out of the hole that was buried in ice are scarred, glowing a gentle level of bright red immediately tells him that Coral was, in fact, involved. A surge, by the looks of it—this stuff didn't exist much on the surface unless it was scraped up by the Liberation Front long ago, surely. AC WILDVOLT kneels in the thin layer of snow, all but some of it's cobalt blue paint scorched off after neglect and Volkner's inability to pay for any cosmetic repairs. It's the least of the AC's problems, as Roark approaches and makes a cursory investigation over the damages of the rest of the AC. "You awake, Volk?" he asks over the local, short range communication, voice echoing off of the entrance into the chasm and nothing else. No response. He must be passed out by now, and Roark refused to believe he was a casualty. WILDVOLT is in less than stellar condition, heat sinks barely hanging out from the back to dissipate the overloading that must have occurred and effectively evaporated any coolant that had remained in any of the normal AC parts. Half an arm was missing, but the condition of the shoulder made the entire piece effectively dead weight—some panels that melted off exposed enough wiring that they're simply an amalgamation of conductive metals, the labor would be far too much to try to untangle that, assuming trace amounts of Coral weren't remaining in the globs. The fact Volkner's AC is still somewhat complete otherwise is a miracle, but Roark is still identifying the parts that need to be removed before they can go anywhere.

For a moment, he considers reaching out to begin the process, but stops—he's augmented, right. Older gen. His body must be connected to his AC, still, given there is still enough power to broadcast, if only barely. He needs to unhook him first. Right…

Roark leans his AC forward, kneeling, and setting down one of his guns to use the arm like a bridge and locking the joints in place. Rubicon is a cold place, so there isn't much time to fiddle around before his fingers start to hurt. He preemptively zips up his jacket for an extra layer, lamenting his decision to not jump into his pilot suit before rushing out—well, here goes nothing. Roark pulls back on a lever overhead, the sealed cabin hissing as it opens up and he feels the bite of the windchill against his nose and cheeks. Before he forgets, he reaches over to the supply bag and pulls out a roll of gauze and medical tape. After unstrapping himself, he crawls out, precariously stepping onto the forearm and dashing his way to the other core once he has his footing. It's no hangar, and there's no rails to keep his balance if he moves too fast, but there are the remnants of bright red decals on the side of WILDVOLT's core indicating the manual release. The surface of the metal is icy, slippery from sitting here for some hours, and trying to pull the panel off takes extra time Roark does not feel he has. After his fingers start to hurt, it finally gives, hinging open, and Roark punches down on the switch, the core creaking open under the unsteady distribution of weight. Ah, right, the HUD is only half-visible now with the seal broken. But there is Volkner, slumped over and injured—Roark catches the sight of blood that has slowly crawled down from his forehead to his chin, some blond stained and tinting messy roots a shade of sanguine. There are wires connected directly to his body, with the thickest ones emerging from the seat to the back of his neck, holding up most of his weight.

There's a small gap of space around the pilot seat and the rest of the chamber proper, so Roark opts to precariously pull himself over, swinging a leg over the edge for leverage and managing his way into the cramped space, even if it can only handle just his feet and legs. The command and control panels are different than his own, likely from some of the controls being innate to the brain, but the jist of what he needs is there—namely the augmentation neural link and system power. Roark looks back at Volkner before eventually cutting the neural link first, and watching the wires detach and recede, if weakly. Volkner slumps forward under his own weight, and Roark catches him and eases him to one side to make sure he's okay, checking over what visible skin he can for other signs of injury. When he checks the augments that stick out from his back, he follows a trail of glowing red under the skin, something like a lightning pattern—he realizes soon after it's scar tissue, although he's unsure if it was from this incident or one prior, given how much Volkner covers up from the cold. The glow fades in and out in time with his shallow breathing, and Roark's lips flatten together in realization. He took the full brunt of a Coral surge, and the traces are coursing through his veins—he must have had a hell of a time when he lost parts of his arm, huh? If that's all he can see right now, then it's probably worse under all of that clothing. "Fuck, I gotta get this AC moving.." Roark grimaces as he carefully sets Volkner back into his seat properly, tightening up on the seat restrains for the inevitably bumpy ride back to the hangar. With most of his body held in place, he tears a strip of gauze and folds it up, locating the origin of his head wound and pressing it into his hair to keep the fresh from bleeding out everywhere. With two fingers he holds the edge of the medical tape and twirls a few rotations around his head and sets it in place, holding the gauze and hopefully keeping some blood on the inside of his body.

It takes a moment for Roark to find which button on the joysticks that allow him to drop off the remaining weapons—after all, ammunition were the easiest to obtain, and the laser blade was light enough that it could stay. Once pressed, the shoulder attachments drop to the ground with a muffled thump, vapor and dust rising up before being blown away by the infrequent gust that brushes by. That takes care of most of the problems, but now there's the arm and the heat dissipation.. but that was part of the core. He gives himself a moment to quietly think—the coils should be attached to a harness so that it can move fluidly when it needs to release extra heat… if he can take that out, that would remove some considerable weight and give some space to tie the AC to his… okay. There is a gameplan after all. Thank goodness. He doesn't have a lot of time before Volkner freezes out here, too.

Finally, he cuts the AC's power entirely, and any hums and crackles from the console and the radars completely dies out. Any discharge should dissipate by the time Roark gets around to lopping off limbs. Carefully, he makes his way back around outside of the seating area of the core, returning to the manual switch and sealing the core shut again. Internal power was enabled for more vital functions, such as powering the pneumatic pistons—pilot safety was solid on these modular systems, much to his relief. Once he's certain Volkner is sealed safely, Roark bounds back up the arm of his AC and hops back in the core, seat unbearably cold as he seals up and regains control of STONE EDGE. The bazooka often carried is stowed to a shoulder augmentation that allows storage for firearms, and Roark gets to work on shedding the extra weight. The process is gruesome to look at, but realistically, no one would bat an eye at the disposed and damaged parts littering this desolate land. MTs, ACs, and other PCA models could be found in heaps practically everywhere, especially as the Coral War brought in an influx of bodies from the neighboring planets, much like him and Volkner. There wasn't an ecosystem to preserve here, so Roark was free to do what he wanted, which included prying his AC's fingers into the shoulder socket of WILDVOLT, looking for the mechanical release that allowed for the easy swapping of parts as ACs were known for. Eventually, he finds several latches that needed to be undone before metal creaks at the changing weight being thrust upon only a couple remaining attachments. He doesn't have the dexterity to disconnect many of the smaller wires that are likely for augmented pilots to feel the AC as an extension of themselves, and they tear and snap when the weight falls on their fragile lengths, with no primary cable tubes for generator power and coolant to support as the bones of the part. The half-frayed arm falls to the ground like the shoulder weaponry before it, and Roark doesn't see any sparks coming from the shoulder socket—looks like some coolant and oil at the most, and the Coral that may have lingered either slipped out well before Roark got there or coagulated in a different part of the AC that was still contained.

He moves around to the back, stepping around the littered pieces and leans in to evaluate how to best remove the now nonfunctional heat sinks. The radiator fins are warped and bent, some sagging from thermal damage and others disfigured from enough sorties and inevitably forgotten. It takes some scrutiny before Roark traces back to the primary hinges the rails sit on, reaching in and yanking on the joints, jostling the other AC as he pulls and pulls until the weak points finally give and bend, eventually allowing Roark to rip the cluster of heat sinks off of WILDVOLT, leaving an empty cavity of bent rods that allowed an air gap between the generated heat and the walls of the core. The cover hangs limply open, and Roark does his best to cover the cavity to minimize the drag it could capture. The legs seem relatively fine, if not for some minor damage on the joints—not terribly difficult to swap out, but they were more likely to be salvageable than the head on the AC. There was no way half of those radars didn't get fried on the way out, but… no, he shouldn't. If Volkner managed to wake up, he would need to talk to him somehow, right? A sigh.

"I need to get him back.. where is that cable spool—"

He walks around to the other side, eyeing a spool of cable that he was looking for. Despite RaD turning junk into something usable, there were auxiliary items that weren't ever removed from their designs. Thankfully, this was one of them. Carefully, he grabs the loose end and brings it around the lower half of STONE EDGE's core, like a belt, to fix into place, adjusting where to stand and going behind the AC. It takes up most of the length available with little to spare, but just enough to affix a slip knot to the open railing on the opposite side of the core. Arms affix themselves to the undersides of the core, helping distribute the additional weight across Roark's AC. A little boost is slower than anticipated, but works well enough. He could make far better use of sliding across the ice on the way back instead of outright flying. Yeah… that should make the trek a little easier.

"Hold on, Volk, we'll getcha home.."

The ride is somewhat clunky as Roark tries to make sure the limp legs don't catch on any obstacles, the average temperature on the generator is higher than normal as it strains under the additional weight. The breaks between are more frequent, with each one making Roark more and more nervous about the state of his fellow pilot, but slowly, agonizingly, he eventually makes it back to the hangar with half of an AC in tow.

"AC STONE EDGE requesting medical personnel," Roark sighs into the operator frequency channel, stepping onto one of the vertical pads that lead down underground. "AC WILDVOLT in need of plenty of repairs—callsign Thunderfang unconscious but alive. I need someone ASAP—"

"10-4, loud and clear. Surprised you came back so fast." Ah, it's the operator from earlier. Maybe the shifts haven't rotated yet. It's only been a few hours.

"I'm a little frazzled. I need to check on Volkner—"

"Hold on tight, the mechanics will be out shortly. Don't freak out."

"Not helping—"

Various servo arms descend to help manage the weight and balance of the ACs, and Roark spots a couple of operators in a control box manning the panels and bringing the arms to hoist up WILDVOLT. Roark carefully lets go of the other AC with one hand, finagling with the cable tie and finally undoing it with enough struggling. The second level rafters rotate to extend towards the loading bay as WILDVOLT is carefully moved into a slot proper next to STONE EDGE. Once there's enough clearance, Roark nearly leaps out of his AC before the safety bridges are even locked in position, unable to contain his worry and panting his way across the rafters over to Volkner's AC, fumbling with the manual release, and then nearly plummeting down the two stories trying to jump back into the cockpit.

Volkner is still there, albeit with his head slumped uncomfortably. Roark props him up by the chin, feeling for a pulse with his other hand, and can barely feel it under his own. There's little else he can do besides unhook his seat belts and wait for a proper stretcher to come by, helping to lift him out and carefully on. While WILDVOLT can get maintenance determined, Roark doesn't have much else he can do besides follow the medical personnel as far as they allow him, barred from sterile rooms and shooed away soon after. Roark, the lost dog he is, stares as double doors latch shut, as Volkner is simply gone within minutes of getting back to the hangar.

( well. i'll have to bide my time one way or another with the ACs, i guess… )

There's no reason to rest, either, as nervous as he is. Not knowing the extent of the damages Volkner experienced doesn't particularly help—and maybe the operators are right, he shouldn't care this much, but.. he seemed like a decent person that other mercs didn't really interact with. Something about not wanting others around, that he could be mean, and just generally unappealing to be around. But really? After enough sorties and bothering him and even finding him snoozing in his AC, Volkner really wasn't bad. He was quiet and despondent at times, uncaring even, but Roark didn't pick up any real malice from him. As Roark heads back up to the ACs, he finds himself back at WILDVOLT, taking a look at the empty seat. There's not much by way of blood stains, but he finds a few dried droplets around the joysticks and wayward ridges. The least he can do is clean it up, he figures, frowning as he rummages the storage spaces as politely as he can for some kind of cleaning wipes or anything of the sort. Instead, he finds snack bars and chips pushed into weird places, some shelf stable juice and energy drinks that look older than they should have been, before finally finding something useful to try to clean up with. Really, it's busy work before he finds himself spiraling in whatever time he has to mind by himself between the two ACs. In his insanity, the traces of blood and any other spec of grime around the cockpit are cleaned up at the mercy of several dirty wet wipes. "Man.."

Roark sits on the edge of the AC core, gazing at the missing arm. If it weren't for his rush, it could probably have stayed, even if it was partial… Maybe he ought to cover the costs for all the repairs, especially with the heat sinks that he ripped out. His gaze naturally drifts towards STONE EDGE, his comrade in arms. "What should I do…?" Roark asks softly, not expecting an answer in return and eventually looking back at the AC he was currently sitting on. He could identify the parts used in WILDVOLT relatively easily. Having finagled with enough in the hangar, as some mercenaries often did as well, and occasionally taking on mechanical repairs himself, the identification was second nature. Well. He can probably find the parts guys around and see what they have available. While they had a set schedule, pilots didn't. The Rubiconians here weren't too keen one letting people run loose, but, with ALLMIND running the distribution of parts, those orders could go in. Yeah…. maybe that's the best he can do for now, isn't it? He's not sure when Volkner will wake up, either, but as long as he hangs around, maybe one of the medical staff could inform him…? Okay, first, he needs to find a parts catalog and one of those tablets for ordering… oh, and Volkner's registration number.

☆

The hours that passed felt like agony—the parts and repair were slated to be underway within the next couple of days, mostly due to the transport time between landmarks on Rubicon 3. Roark foot the bill without hesitation, knowing full well that their contracts would replenish what extra he needed to spend to cover rebuilding half an AC. Besides, most of his own personal costs was heavy artillery ammunition. He had some extra to spare. The lead time, however, was not doing much for his worries, and it took some nagging about Volkner before the medical staff posted at the hangar finally caved once Volkner was stable, albeit unconscious. The metal folding chair is much less comfortable, Roark feeling the cold through his pants. He sighs, sitting on it backwards, perching his chin over folded arms and leaning into the back of the chair, staring at Volkner. He's breathing at least, but there's far more bandages on him than he remembered there being. The Coral surge affected his implants after his AC took the brunt of the impact—after asking about what happened ( knowing full well volkner would ask ), the doctor on site looked at him with some confusion.

"You didn't know he's a gen four this whole time?"

"…No? I didn't want to ask. I know about the implants, though."

"Modern generations look nearly indistinguishable from unaugmented pilots these days. I'm surprised," the doctor regards Roark with a level of disbelief, arms folding. He's middle-aged, stress lines on the crease of his brows—really, just a normal guy in a white lab coat. Whether or not he gets paid like the doctors back home.. Roark isn't sure, but he is sure about the doctor's knowledge on treating humans and their augments. "Generation four is the last of the Coral generation. It's a miracle he survived a surge without any irreversible complications to his brain. There is likely to be some minor complications when he wakes up, but they should be temporary. Unfortunately, what those complications are depends on the person. Augmentation surgery affects the recipient differently depending on their experiences and biological development. We siphoned as much excess energy we could from his augmentations to allow the Coral in his body to reach homeostasis again. The human side of his body needs to rest from the trauma. I'll check back at the end of the day before handing his charts over to the night shift."

"I see.. I'll let you know if anything seems different with him. Thanks a lot," Roark responds, mulling over the summary he was given as the doctor makes some notes for the hour and eventually leaves to take care of other cases. Roark slumps, exhausted sigh draining out of him slowly and deflating his shoulders further. He's so tired, but he can't nap now.. what if Volkner wakes up soon? He can't be of any use asleep, right? Ugh, he can barely keep his eyes open now that he doesn't need to actively pay attention. A groan eventually slips out, Roark burying his face into his arms and only his safety glasses remain visible at the top of his head. This! Sucks!

[randomlywanderingmoth]

Part of the problem with Fate Grand Order is the core gameplay is fundamentally flawed, and it's very difficult to restore "a fun game" around a flawed core.

Quick and Buster and Arts were all interesting notions, and could have mapped into action gameplay (if we were to merge FGO's ideas with FSR's gameplay I would equate them to fast attacks, heavy attacks, and weaker attacks meant to charge your special bar, but I digress).

As it is, though, it just makes for unpleasant feelings in gameplay, demanding optimizations (I would point out that in the international release we only recently got the ability to combo all three together, and made Quick chains strong enough to consider independently). Those optimizations rise up around every aspect of the game; only a select few Servants have the ability to AoE without accessing their Noble Phantasm, and they haven't even made it to international. There's a wide range of Craft Essences, but only a few that ever matter. Creativity in builds is tamped down around increasingly narrowed build notions as the devs design with over-optimized teams in mind.

The end result is a game that, optimally, advises you to use your super rare fully powered optimized support, your friends' identically super rare fully powered optimized support, and a high power damage Servant, and repeatedly fire the damage dealer's Noble Phantasm to either clear waves or kill bosses.

Speaking of which, from a lore perspective, this is also completely messed up. By the lore of the Nasuverse, a Noble Phantasm is a Servant's super secret ultimate move, only meant for the final hour. This is fully incongruous with the gameplay, where you typically throw the same world-ending mythology-defining techniques three times in a row and call it a day. (Entertainingly, in the International release, we've also made it to Traum, where we see faceless Servants fire their Noble Phantasms like simple artillery, but that's its own commentary.)

Like, it's so effortless to imagine better systems than this! Servants deployed on a chessboard-like map, heralding back to the themes of Fate Apocrypha; suddenly we don't need anything as mechanically obtuse as Class Advantages when we could organically differentiate each Class by how they navigate the board or how they fight each other (Riders can leap over enemies like knight pieces in chess; Archers can attack at range without moving; Lancers do really well on Attack but have poor Defense; and Berserkers can be the units of terror that lore implies!)

Alternatively, the Grail Battlefronts we've already seen- rework the entire game to operate more organically like that; maybe Servants can use skills without entering combat, but it exhausts their actions. Then different forms of gameplay can exist beyond just "mulch the enemy"; like "defend this location" or "collect these resources" or "defeat This Particular Foe".

Or, even if we had to work with just the system we have! Change THAT! Rather than select three cards from a set of five, have it go down the list; each Servant gets One Action to either pick from "Quick, Buster, Arts, Use A Skill".

As for Servant Customization, walk it all the way back, all the way back up to the Attack/HP boosting. Make it so that players can individually optimize Servant performance in different ways- this Servant has better output in Arts, that Servant has higher Crit Star generation. And for folks who'd already spent their Fous, you could just say "right, so anybody with Fous spent can now allocate those points into these new Stats! No harm done!"

Of course, in order to do this, they would likely need to construct a whole new framework for their game, whilst preserving the progress people have made until now.

Then again, they are presently building castles in the sand during the rising tide with one hand and bandaging bullet wounds with the other, so maybe a long shot like that is what they need.