#dark science

[dresdencodak]

From Dark Science #136

[dangarou]

Blame (1997)

🎨 by tsutomu nihei

[technicallyclassyperfection]

[heron-knight]

born to have a city’s worth of robots build a monolithic engine of apotheosis as an act of gratitude that mechanizes 95% of me over the course of eight hours

Forced to wait until 2-3 months on blockers before starting estrogen

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'Like Silver Set Ablaze' by @jack-of-crowns

"Tell us, Cyclops, how to craft a theionic organ?"

A baleful glare and a dull rumbling roar, all the answer Okkules gives in reply to the panopticon's imagery before him. Flashes of pain from the buckling columns of the living forge fill his psyche as gryphenes from the Luminarian dreadnoughts simultaneously dissolve and regenerate them; the assault's impact is beyond comprehension, and yet he keeps careful count of what spacetime remains.

"Not that any such single-minded beings as angels could begin to grasp the complexities," he labours, managing to grit out the words between measured pumps from plasma bellows and the rhythmic tap-tapping of the autonomous gravity hammers.

The flame-shrouded Salamanders surrounding him vent hissfully back in response, black-carapaced hull armour crackling with all the rage inherent in the effort required to keep the constant operable pressures required for the atomized gold of their synth vultures. Orbits drift forward, the leashes ease back on the gryphenes, sensors reading Okkules' pain thresholds. "Transmission, Submission, Manumission," the droning chants on and on.

Okkules thinks of his ancestors, the Cyclopes who crafted the first living forges that kept his kind alive long after the death of the star that spawned them. There will be no giving away of their sacred knowledge to the ravagers of the red giant, no turning a blinded eye to their unyielding demands for power. Not on this day; this day it his turn to release those given up for dead so that all may live.

He closes his eye and begins the memories of the spell; even a tekton of his level must concentrate against the bright might of the Luminarian Empire, once allies from a companion star, now dread foes. 'As in most quantum communications systems, the periodicity of the intervals between signals is key.' There is the slightest of tremors beneath the forge. 'The whenwhere of the ionic plasma surges at every phase during the nova shock event is most critical.'

The Salamanders seem oblivious to the resonance overflow that Okkules can feel growing in the depths of his psyche as the corpse of the dead white dwarf begins to stir back to life outside the force walls of the forge, greyish wraiths of sulfur arise and whirl themselves into the accretion disc, swirling as the spell's densities start to set in. Hopefully, his count has been true, for the plancks seem to tick by slowly.

'Just before the moment of accumulation spark, pay exceeding care as to how the red giant bleeds, for their lifeblood is the fuel whereby the tarnished silver of this dwarf's corpse will be polished and lit.' The glamour has them all now, the moment closing. 'Every probability must be utilized to the fullest.'

The trinary conjunction of spellcraft and conjoined stars is creating uncertainty in the biocircuits of his tormentors; they hemorrhage with indecision. Okkules shapes the final contours of artifice; within the continuum's echoed folds, he hears his father's voice, thundering upon principles of soul forging.

- After all, of what use is it to divise theorems from which no practical devices can be constructed? -

Bursting light, crisscross currents of electromagnetism shredding shells of the quanta of spacetime as a mad sculptor deburring a statue, and Okkules passes through the wave front as the prow of a breaking ship; his count has been true. The very act of casting the forging spell hastens the thermonuclear explosion, catching the Salamander dreadnoughts with shields down. In the planck before the nova shock, he is one with the sulfuric filaments of plasma erupting from the white dwarf, a dandelion's skeleton dancing throughout alternity.

'Still, they ask mockingly;' this bit of scripture a presage of his tormentors' fate. Okkules wields his psyche as hammer and chisel, shaping the quanta on either side of the moment, forging the light into sound, plasma energy into solid pipes. He pauses before he breathes into his theionic organ, giving thanks for once and again being celebrant in this sacred space, where the instruments of The One Who Is All resound as loud as thunderclaps, a resonance to shake the stars of heaven to their very cores. Then he joins the joyous music; all around him are Cyclopes bursting forth from beneath the dark veils of spacetime, masterworks and master workers. They are a chorus of shining sparks, singing themselves into creation, singeing cold voids about them with living silver, like silver set ablaze.

[worldimaginedreaming]

Imagine Risking Everything for Scientific Truth with Singed

Summary: You volunteer for a morally grey trial under Singed’s watch. The cost of truth leaves its mark on your body—and your heart. Trust turns into something more dangerous. Pairing: Singed x Reader Word count: ~1,150 Warnings: body horror (non-graphic), blurred ethics, medical experimentation, emotional ambiguity, unsettling romance

You knew the risks before you said yes.

You read the notes, combed through his formulae, sat across from him while he calmly listed possible side effects vascular damage, temporary blindness, bone ache, psychological instability, worst-case: death. He said it all like someone reciting ingredients from a half-forgotten recipe.

Still, you said yes.

Not because you were brave. Not even because you were desperate. You said yes because, when Singed looked at you with that flat, unreadable expression, you wanted to see something shift. Some proof that he gave a damn.

And you saw it.

Not relief. Not approval. Just the faintest twitch in the corner of his jaw. You learned to read those, after all this time.

“Lie down,” he said, hours later.

The table was cold, even through your shirt. You kept your breathing steady as he adjusted the tubing, the monitors, the pressure cuffs. His gloved hands moved efficiently professional. But he lingered once, briefly, over your pulse point.

“You’re sure,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“I trust you,” you answered, and maybe that was a lie.

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded, then slid the needle in.

You didn’t cry out. Not when the serum hit your bloodstream. Not when your heart rate surged and the lights above you flickered. Not when your skin felt like it was being rewritten from the inside.

You gritted your teeth and stared straight into the blue-white glow of the ceiling.

He hovered nearby, taking notes. Not detached but distant. It was always like that with him. Not cold. Just… somewhere else. Watching you like a hypothesis he didn’t want to admit was personal.

Only once did his mask crack.

Your hands began to tremble violently. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, like thunder underwater. Your spine arched off the table and you gasped, fingers clawing at nothing.

“Stop the trial,” you heard him mutter not to you, to himself.

You blinked. “No keep going,” you managed, voice rough. “It’s working.”

He cursed under his breath. Rare. That alone told you everything.

But he didn’t stop.

Hours passed. Maybe more.

When you finally came back to yourself, you were slumped against a wall, wrapped in a thermal blanket, every muscle in your body singing with raw, new awareness. Your skin buzzed. Your vision was sharper. Everything hurt, but somehow, it felt… right. Like you’d crossed a threshold.

Singed was beside you, not hovering now, but grounded. Sitting with his knees pulled in, elbows resting on them, gloves smeared with dried blood.

Your blood, probably.

“You stabilized faster than expected,” he said, voice quiet. Not clinical.

“Is that a good thing?” you rasped.

He didn’t answer. But his eyes flicked to your face, then away. That hesitation, it meant something. You were learning to decode him. It felt like deciphering an alien language using only breath and silence.

“You didn’t stop me,” you said, more accusation than thanks.

“You didn’t want to be stopped,” he replied.

Fair.

You shifted, wincing. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Do you want me to?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure.

The next few days blurred.

You healed fast too fast. The side effects were strange but manageable. And Singed kept his distance, at first. He watched you from across the room, scribbled observations, documented every flicker of change in your body but his usual detachment felt cracked.

You caught him once, late at night, standing in the lab alone. Staring at your used syringe like it meant something. Like he hated it. Or himself.

“You pushed me into this,” you said, not unkindly.

He didn’t turn. “I warned you.”

“But you didn’t stop me.”

“No,” he agreed. “Because I needed to know if it could work.”

“And now that you do?”

He turned then. Slowly. His eyes were tired. His voice low.

“Now I wish I hadn’t.”

That stopped you.

He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that you felt the heat of him.

“You risked everything,” he said. “And I let you. Because I wanted the answer more than I wanted you safe.”

You swallowed. “And now?”

Now, he didn’t speak.

He just looked at you the way he never had before. Not as a subject. Not as a peer.

But as a person.

As someone he’d let too close to something sharp. And maybe regretted it.

Or maybe he didn’t.

Maybe, like everything else in that lab, the truth was still mutating.

A/N : Here is the latest imagine from Singed. I completely forgot to post about Silco, one of my favorite antagonist characters!!! The next posts will be about him!! Lots of love and above all, happy reading! 🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

[albiclalepsza]

Bob Dylan is beginning to sing semi-normally. You can recognize the songs. And I'm pretty sure his voice hasn't sounded this good since the 80s.

Something sinister is going on

[calebjorgens2024]

Star Wars: Imperial Shadow

in light of the third season of the Bad Batch, this is how I will think how Tech potentially operates as the shadow clone assassin known as CX-2, I must remind you there will be angst in this.

After his fall to his near death on Eriadu following his noble enactment of Plan 99, Clone Commando CT-9902 “Tech”, the brains of the Bad Batch and second in command to Hunter is rescued by Dr. Royce Hemlock of the Empire’s Advanced Science Division

however, Tech will have to feign compliance to Hemlock’s wishes!

He is taken to Tantiss on Weyland where he will undergo some reconditioning, however due to Tech’s brilliant exceptional mind it doesn’t work the way Royce expects. Scorch knows this, as he and Delta Squad had history with Clone Force 99 during the clone wars

instead, the reconditioning just made Tech more cunning and smart.

like Tech, Scorch has no choice in what he does and it’s something Scorch really regrets, he doesn’t want to hunt down his rogue brethren but he has no choice.

normally, Tech would leave the handling of knives to Hunter and Wrecker, but with his rigid training to be a Shadow X assassin operative, Tech will find this in handy so that he can know and understand how Hemlock’s Clone X program works and operates

And so, Tech and Scorch will navigate their roles all while masking their true intentions from Dr. Hemlock, Emperor Palpatine and the rest of the Empire!

[flowerbeeblogs]

Read Dark Science

It's got cool hot lesbian gay androids

And weird cool sci fi <3

[gyrrakavian]

"Because you fight like a martyr. You charge in with no concern for yourself, but ignoring yourself means ignoring half the fight. It's not brave to pretend you don't matter. It just makes you predictable, and it insults the people who care about you." — Xiaoling 'Ling' Chavez, Dark Science #139

[dresdencodak]

The Dark Science Kickstarter is LIVE! You can finally get a physical copy of the world's favorite (I assume) cyberpunk satire mystery comic about lesbian cyborgs

[roundchickgal]

Read @dresdencodak fucking immediately btw. Binged it over the last few hours to de-stress and it's phenomenal.

Love the world building and I'll protect these pookies with my life.

[technicallyclassyperfection]

1979 Dean Ellis - Bander Snatch, by Kevin O'Donnell, Jr.

[victorreid]

The very thing that I was craving for, that one thing was the chain that was holding me back. Oh world, how cruel of you, you never gave me a hint... I had to go through all the pain to figure it out myself. Oh.... Oh world, the price I paid...

[jack-of-crowns]

@flashfictionfridayofficial

'A Dhikr Of Quarks' by @jack-of-crowns

"En dıştaki karanlık," Lane muses to herself, "is much less terrifying than the darkness within."

For a time, it seemed, she had found an island of stability amid the ceaseless storms that rage through the worlds of mortal men, but such was not the lot of a Nightshade Jinn. Upon the death of her beloved prince, the ulema had declared their union to have been blasphemy, and so the secular equilibrium of the sorceress as well as that of her kindred was fissioned by theocracy once more.

How long has it been now, how long? Time loses relevance in the space between darklines, and there is only the low howling of baryons blown by the winds of distant suns to haunt her remembrances. True to her words, she remained in the realm of Yakışıklı Prens, albeit hidden from the sight of those who would have cast Lane and the retinue of three hundred who followed into the flames of perdition. The minarets of the prince's tomb may have fallen into ruin, and the sands of countless kum fırtınası have filled the courtyards, but they are still here.

Arkadaş knelt by the sandstone blocks of the desert well and gave thanks to The One Who Is All for leading him by the safe paths to the ancient shrine long sought by those of his order. The nest of mantichores taking up residence in the ruins had been formidable foes, but his mirror armour had proven stronger than their tail-spikes. Something in that nest caught the paladin's eye as he rested and laid hands upon his wounds, something that glittered with the light of long forgotten stars.

Even in the Void, we are not alone. Strong were the ties that bound the three hundred, human and Jinn, to their Prince and his consort. Stronger still were the sihir that Lane used to conceal that remnant from the wrath of the Luminarians and bind their essences within her jeweled crown. Strongest of all, however, is that which holds everything that is together in spite of all that is which seeks to drive us apart. In the interminable darkness of her exile, Lane feels the Presence of which no sensor or spell can detect, yet she knows has always been there, and rejoices that it is time.

Arkadaş shakes the dust and detritus from the jeweled crown half-hidden amid the jojoba twigs and kenger thorns of the mantichore nest, sure that this is the artifact for which he has so long sought. Holding the diadem as though it were a daf, he begins the ritual of unbinding, the steps of the sema in cadence with the tones of his chant. Couterclockwise, the paladin whirls as Lane and the three hundred spin with and within him. They are a dhikr of quarks, a rememberance of all that is possible; for The One Who Is All binds what He will, and loosens what He will, and all of their comingled essences flow together freely up and down the timeless currents of Alternity.

[dresdencodak]

I think this sketch deserves its own post, I like how it turned out. so we've got the Gay, Super Gay, and now the above Ultra Gay sketches as parallel sketch goals for the Kickstarter. I'm going to promise an Omega Gay sketch at... $200k. I don't know if I have the nerve, so I'm putting it much higher. Also at the very least I'll have time to stretch.