#human error processor

[morganhopesmith1996]

Batou & Saito by Shirow Masamune

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

APPARITION FROM YOUR DEEPEST CYBERNETIC FEVER-DREAMS -- MADE IN JAPAN, BABY!

PIC(S) INFO: Resolution at 1118x1783 -- Mega spotlight on cover art to "Ghost in the Shell 1.5: Human-Error Processor" Vol. 1 #3, published by Dark Horse Comics on December 20, 2006. Artwork by Shirow Masamune.

MINI-OVERVIEW: "Cybercrime special-ops unit Section 9 has been mobilized to protect a key witness in a trial involving defective micro machines. And the witness definitely needs protection-from remote-controlled corpses packing serious hardware! And if the identity of these dead assassins' pilots isn't enough of a mystery for Section 9, how about the unexpected appearance of long-missing special agent Motoko Kusanagi!

"Ghost in the Shell 1.5: Human-Error Processor" presents for the first time in America the "lost" Ghost in the Shell stories, created by Shirow Masamune after completing work on the original "Ghost in the Shell" manga and prior to his tour-de-force, "Ghost in the Shell 2: Man-Machine Interface." This deluxe-format issue concludes "Fat Cat," the first of four "Ghost in the Shell" tales."

-- DARK HORSE COMICS

Sources: www.kidfenris.com/2010/03/rise-and-fall-of-masamune-shirow.html, X, various, etc...

[robolvrr]

f-r-e-a-k !‿⁠✷｡✧

lost light members react to human porn (and develop some preferences of their own.)

ft. skids! megatron! rodimus! swerve! ultra magnus!

nsfw under the cut.

rodimus prime - top-five ranked

when he first heard actual, genuine human content had reached aboard his ship, he had quickly formed a half-assed meeting to announce that he, of course, being captain and all should review with ultra magnus.. and perhaps rewind too, before dispersing it out to the crew.

of course when ultra magnus expressed his surprise at this new leaf turned, eager to scour through intergalactic protocol he simply let one word out the other audial and made some grave, grammatical errors to distract the mech and let the captain do his own decision making.

he spends a lot of time nitpicking. he doesn't like movies as much so he reserves those to swerve nor does he care too much about books.

a functioning computer however....

he's bored. and curious. two demons that never dwell well together in the same room.

clearing browser history? never heard of that!

good thing the previous owner has lots of bookmarks, because he finds it infinitely easier to sift through links there than carefully type.

"porn...hub? what's that? must be some kinda uh.. uhhh... uh."

cue the fan whirring. he's hunched over and slack jawed, staring at the frankly color-clashing archive and almost pushing himself away when the cursor hovers over a video - and the humans in it start moving.

clicked the first video with a bold "#1 ranked". he really shouldn't. he really, really should just toss this tempting contraband out the nearest garbage disposal.

"unhh! harder! haaarder! ♡"

he's focused hard on the spike - cock, he learns, or dick, humans got lots of funny terms - ruts rough into you, forcing you to melt forward and squeak through sheets.

the loud, exaggerated moans make him pitifully decide otherwise. imagine him, all weak in the knees, sliding down to sit as he watches transfixed.

flesh on flesh hitting sounds a lot better when it's this and not fighting.

sooner or later, he's huffing into his servo, jacking off his spike and squeezing the tip so rough he's almost jealous seeing you bouncing away. you'd be so, so fragging soft. he can imagine squeezing your limbs and twisting you around to his liking.

overloads fast. he's almost ashamed enough to be embarrassed.

now? can't reach his climaxes unless there's some raunchy, wet-coated squeals in his memory banks. doesn't bother searching up anything because he doesn't have the patience to cultivate. you just happen to be at the top so he gladly sticks watching your holes get sticky any cycle.

skids - playboy bunny

"oh for prime's sake, chromedome don't make me feel like i'm trading for somethin' illegal."

won a "mystery stash" from a late night gamble. of course, not all of rodimus's finds stayed quiet.

he isn't sure why it's such a big deal. the cardboard box which spills open easily under a digit's care isn't filled with weaponry or bombs.

it's almost funny, this giant picking up a magazine in a pinch, helm tilted and keeping it an arm's distance away like the pages might bite.

he looks at the front cover for a long, long time.

his processor isn't catching up. then he squints. gets reaaaaal close.

there's you! all dolled up, as the humans would say. except you're really not, because half of your squishy aft is out, and your servos are covering up your chest but aren't doing a good job.

neither is the bright, blue bow christened at your pelvic area, where he realizes with a jolt is lacking any modesty panels of any kind.

flips a page. oh, it's you again. curved over a lounge. cheekily spreading yourself with a... gathering of lace twisted around your frame.

another one. you got something round in your mouth. he looks carefully at your lips.

and then he's flipping through all of it, and digging into the box and oh, he's found a jackpot because it's all you.

now he understands why it's got the markered "collectors items" on the side. he doesn't question too much when he spits lubricant down onto his spike. dedicated some of that cotton candy gossamer all over your february edition of playboy in approval.

megatron - classic erotica

a true mech of literature. now, unlike many of the lost light, he's had his run in with humanity before. not that he particularly got or wanted to enjoy their culture back then.

though when he did find his way back onto a possible path of redemption, he did indulge once upon a time.

at his spark, he's a poet. a linguist. enjoyer of golden age, art and craftsmanship.

earthen literature has its.. moments. he reads novellas and lost to the history manuscripts, plays, all of which have almost all been uploaded to more convenient means as upkeep for the paper is a pain.

however, he has found one book. a funny looking book, with a funny looking cover.

he observes, rigidly, the scandalous embrace of what he assumed to be the characters, how clothing lacked in areas it shouldn't and skin was almost.. glistening. "seven nights of passion." a chuff left his dermas.

ah, to pit with it. why not?

megatron finds himself slowly involved with the chapters despite the comedy of its advertisement. the writer, you, no doubt under a penname, push development shockingly far.. for a human.

and the intimacy? interfacing? so descriptive. while he has not seen what he is reviewing, he can imagine it. images of sweaty bodies, grinding and yearning and crying.

cybertronians have no reason or function to. the thought of a human, pushed to the brink overloaded with stimulation is... stimulating.

it is a shame when it comes to an end but he might in his free-time peruse for more. leaves his plating warm and intake dry.

the authors note suggests that your inspiration drives from personal experience.

his ... array fizzles at that. fascinating.

swerve - r-rated movie night

"wowza. that's hh. haha. woah! they all do that.. ?"

first movie he flipped onto the projector was supposed to be an "action and feel-good film with hints of romance, angst and sci-fi elements."

not even halfway through, you, the imaginary captain of the imaginary "roman's ravager" have your uniform shimmied down to your ankles, mouth mashing against your supposed rival, who everyone has been heckling for the past forty-five minutes.

some of the mechs cheer, other grumble and argue to skip, others squirm and grimace. swerve watched you push the other down, head tilting back as the camera zooms to your face.

"it's just acting, ya' degenerates, stop acting like protoforms!"

it isn't until he feels a servo smack upside his helm that he starts fumbling for the remote. too much noise but now he's getting a comm from mags asking about what the rackets for so! fast forward he goes.

at 1x.

while the chaos starts to settle, he peeks between digits. catches glimpses of your open mouth. the goosebumps down your chest. how you shake at the insinuation that someone is between your legs, servicing.

slag. when's the last time he's even played with his valve?

movie night was a hit regardless of the commotion. he has to clean up after, which thankfully didn't result in any expelled energon or skid-marks.

that also means he's alone. alone, in his bar. all by himself, staring at the rest of the discs with your pictures on the front, credits humming in the background.

it'll be good for the economy. (all of it is pirated.)

maybe it's for the best. because now, he's realizing you really are a great actor, in lots of different genres, able to adapt and really grab his attention.

it's not as if his spark pulses seeing you in costumes, or using that soft voice you do in all your roles when you make a point.

not like he's riding his digits and crunching into a fist when you're running on the beach, sand dappled and leaving little to imagination.

ends up on his back, charged up and shaking. hurts to speak, to move or to dab up the puddle of transfluid, laughing deliriously when his panels are even too much effort to close.

ultra magnus - audio praise

"you're doing such a good job. you're perfect. you know that, right? yes you do, so good for me."

when he first heard you, he damn near crushes the auditory device and full-blown shudders in the confines of his hab. he's sputtering, optics wide and there's a million reasons he should report this to rodimus and question just what he's given him.

"to help ya uh... research? take the edge off pal."

half-contemplates storming back to the bridge himself if it weren't for your sugar-coated mumbles still coming through the unpaused recording.

you'd think he was dealing with a ticking blast with how he warily handles the device, gruffly spitting out curses that he'd otherwise never allow in crew vicinity.

"i want you to reward yourself. you earned it, honey. can you do that for me? here, listen."

to his horror - and crumbling interest - a slick cacophony of sound rattles in his helm. there's panting, a shift of material that he assumes is tangled around you and frag, he's able to think up you and a thousand faces.

what's worse? is he's hypnotized. you don't demand. you coo to him, just loud enough to let him know you'd be broken too. if he let himself let down that wall, just for the twenty minutes you sing in his audials, he'll know it's done with you just as weak.

"g—gooood job ahhhh!" that does it. ultra magnus groans, shutting off his optics entirely. his large servo feels up along his frame as you suggest.

"i wish you were here. hah.. mmn! could see me. see me fucking myself to you. let you kiss me. you deserve it, sweetie. deserve me on you."

magnus and the sobbed growl to his motors reminds him just how lonely he's felt. always monitoring. always stressed. hearing the spit collect at your throat as your commands grow hoarse makes you feel real.

would you... would you kiss him? would you let him pick you up, rest you flat on his servo and have his glossa lap up your want?

he towers over nearly all. having a partner so much smaller, tinier than even an minibot, shouldn't run up a charge but it does.

he overloads when he's sticking digits near the casing of his spark, ignoring the spurts of pre sizzling down his thighs.

"w-was that as fun.. for you as it was for me?"

dazedly falls onto his berth. this isn't leaving his dermas unless he's had a drink.

a/n : a little haha funny idea i had. there's just something so funny thinking of these giant old robots realizing just how much porn is out there.

[sam-out-of-energy]

OKAY OKAY IM NO WRITER BUT

This AU has consumed me, ok ok slay

Again @keferon 's mecha pilot jazz au

I thought about prowl and jazz on earth and Prowl being captured by humans and yeah yeah okay okay SO IMAGINE

Jazz wasnt fast enough to realize what the others had done with prowl

Prowl frees himself, prowl escapes by himself because Jazz comes in just. Too. Late.

Thats what i wrote lmao-

__

Prowls optic flickered in a dim light. Well, the one he had left anyway. A gaping hole now where his left optic had been before, circuits and wires exposed and tangled in a human scientists pathetic attempt at gouging out Prowls eye.

TacNet had been screaming error in his audials for the past few kliks, a blur of scenarios in his processor and a whirr of his engine told him he wasnt dead. Not yet.

"-because with this technology, we will be able to not only improve our mechas, but to create our own army." A frustrating, squeaky voice came to Prowl once he regained his sense.

Technology. That was all he was to them, to Jazz. A machine.

The organic was boasting about their achievements, about how with this technology they would create the perfect self-thinking robot. Ha.

A loud crunch rang out in the hall. Then another. Prowl lifted himself to sit where he had once been pinned down by metal, now torn off and dropping to the floor with a loud clatter.

"What in the-"

The general, or any of his subordinates had barely any time to react as Prowl whipped around, slamming his arm into the scaffolding they stood upon and bringing it down in a moments notice.

"I am not-"

He tore himself out of the restraints, standing. His arm plate would shift and move to make way for a blaster. Prowl aimed it up at the suprised organics.

"-your technology."

_______

Jazz had been running around frantically. Where's prowl, where's prowl, he'd asked everyone. They'd all told him no clue.

No clue his aft! It wasn't exactly like Prowl looked alike to any of the other mechas!

Did he run away? Why would Prowl do that??

Jazz had stopped in the hangar when it happened. A loud boom echoed out in the entire base. And another, and another. The floor trembled, concrete cracked the walls above.

He saw his comrades rushing for weapons.

No, no. It was exactly what he had feared.

Jazz was too late.

He'd arrive to a mess of metal, steel bars and concrete. Injured soldiers and bodies littering the floor where he stood, at the entrance of the hall.

"Prowl! Stop!" He'd yell.

Prowl would turn, looking over his shoulder and down at Jazz.

Well, down in the literal sense too, but down in a way Jazz had never seen him look before.

His optics- optic- was glazed over with a look that frightened Jazz to his core. Parts unreadable, like Prowl always was, but his lip curled down into a frown. Betrayal. His stare screamed betrayal and...

Anger.

Fury like Jazz had never experienced before. Not from Prowl. Never from Prowl. He'd been mad at the other before, sure, but it was always more like frustration, not pure hatred.

Now, Prowl looked at him like he looked at Jazz's comrades. Full of hatred for what they'd done, for what Jazz had done.

Jazz felt his own brain slow for a few minutes, but when he came back to Prowl had gone and he and any other surviving pilots were rushing for the mechas to give chase.

______

Jazz caught up to Prowl, late behind his brothers-in-mechas, staggering. This was all so sudden, he found his connection to the mecha a struggle at best.

"Halt! Put your weapons down and surrender!"

A mecha called out. Four- maybe five of them were stood on a highway in the desert, surrounding Prowl.

He can't put it down you dunce, it's attached to his arm, Jazz found himself thinking.

He saw Prowl's heavy venting, the drip of bright pink liquid from a surgery not-well-done, coming down from the underside of his face plate where it had been torn open.

It hurt him bad. If Jazz wasn't already struggling to keep it together, seeing the other looking like this didn't help him in staying connected.

Prowl's battlemask closed over the rest of his visible face with a sshink! and clearly, he was not coming easy.

Jazz watched, all he could do, as the other mechas charged in, trading blow for blow with Prowl, trying to grab or hit what they could to restrain him or to injure him beyond battle-condition.

Prowl grabbed one mecha, throwing them over his shoulder pad before another was already at his side. He turned and shot at them with his blaster, a blast through the underside of the right chest plate.

His optic frantically searched for the next target.

TacNet was still faulty, confusing and unintelligible gibberish ran circles in his processor as he tried to focus on keeping himself from being overtaken.

Unfortunately, Prowl now had a blind spot. A mecha came and swung around his left side when he was turned, grabbing onto his wing and with a loud wrUNCH-noise bent and tore half of it almost completely off.

Jazz's gut turned. The sound of everything else faded out when he heard Prowl scream in what Jazz could only imagine was fraggin' agony, ringing in his ear long and hard.

Jazz felt frozen. He watched the other curl in on himself and the opposing mechs surround him.

But that wasnt the end. A quick, muffled out communication between the boss and the other pilots, one Jazz wasn't paying enough attention to until he saw his fellow mechas begin to tear prowl apart.

Prowl had already been forced down into supine before the others began taking and pulling. First his blaster came ripping off his arm, his armour plates cracking as pieces snapped off in mechanic hands. His screams quickly became struggling, violent and heavy croaks of pain.

Something blasted through one of the mechas.

Then another.

"Gwen! What the fuc-"

The mechas turned as Jazz charged them, swinging his fist into the underside of ones chest, tearing out wires when he pulled back, to make sure he damaged something. He swung back at the next one and fired on the third.

"Dont touch him!"

Jazz yelled to the mechas lying on the ground, before flipping around and promptly rushing to Prowls side.

Jazz bent down and looked at Prowl, calling out his name as he did.

Prowl's optic was barely lit. His face engraved by his pain, straining to keep his systems running while barely avoiding an overload on his spark.

Jazz's mecha's chest opened and he crawled out, climbing down and landing on Prowl's chest.

"Prowl, prowler"

He called, leaning down and watching the other, eyes wide in desperation.

"Prowl! Y'gotta- y'gotta open up"

He was yelling, even if he didn't realize, slamming his palm against the others chest plates.

"Please! Please, Prowler, I'm gonna get you outta here-"

He watched the others unmoving face. Prowl's optic wouldn't even glance his way.

Jazz bit his lip so hard it bled before he dug his fingers into the crevices of the others chest, starting to pull, kick and struggle to open one of the latches.

He heard Prowl's venting get more rapid when the other finally looked his way, only to grimace from the ache Jazz was causing.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry Prowl! I ain't gonna leave ya-"

Jazz kept pulling, starting to dig into his pocket to see if he could use a torch and melt the locks open.

He heard a click and a fshhh as the latch he had been tugging on began to crack open.

Jazz didn't have time to thank Prowl for his co-operation, cramming his way inside the others cockpit. He heard Prowl's ventilation whirring fast and uncontrollably, noting also the spark and crackle of broken mechanisms in the cockpit.

He magnetized himself to the floor, dropping down to sit in the pilot seat, turning the controls on manually since everything else was basically fragged.

Prowl lurched up a little bit, letting out a loud yelp as he did.

"Sorry! Work with me here-"

Jazz pulled, fighting Prowl's failing systems together with him.

Prowl staggered, but slowly managed to get up on his feet, Jazz's control pushing him to move through the pain.

"I know where to go, follow me."

Jazz barely spoke out loud, focusing intensely on keeping Prowl moving so they could escape the other mechas before reinforcements would arrive.

________

Thats all teehee

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 6

(part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5)

I catch a glimpse of the Pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes are wild, panicked, with the glaze of just having been torn out of herself.

For a moment, as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She reaches out with an emaciated arm, fast as lightning, and takes hold of my wrist in an iron grip.

She moves her lips, at first unable to form words, unable to remember how to use human speech organs.

"Do your job," she says, slowly, deliberately, as if that singular command is the only thing in the universe that matters.

Something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips into catatonia. Her grip loosens and her fingers trail away.

Something has gone terribly wrong in this last engagement.

Alarms blare and booted feet thunder past me.

My own feet join the cacophony.

I have a job to do.

The Pilot is alive and she is now the responsibility of the med team.

My responsibility is the Machine.

Do your job.

The words echo in my head as I sprint the remaining distance to the vestibule.

A tech tries to stop me, he says something I don't quite process. I shove past him and am greeted by a scene out of a nightmare.

Morrigan's hatch has been severed, the emergency release pyros having been triggered. The parts of her hull visible to the vestibule are pitted and blackened. I can't even find the stencilled lettering of her factory designated identifier, just an ugly hole torn open by an incendiary.

Inside, the cockpit is a mess of fire suppressant and crash gel. Indicator lights form a constellation of blinking red and half of the display panels, the half that still work, flash an endless stream of error messages.

Everything reeks of ammonia and ozone and scorched metal.

"Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement."

The nonchalance with which those words had been delivered caught me off guard when they were spoken. Morrigan and Her Pilot are untouchable. They were supposed to be untouchable.

Do your job.

I begin to strip as fast as humanly possible. I need to get in there. I need to know that she is alive.

The tech that tried to stop me grabs my arm. You can't go in there, the reactor has not been stabilized.

I tear myself from his grip.

I have a job to do, I say with a snarl.

Something in my expression, my bared teeth, my feral eyes, convinces him to leave me be. He stands down, hands raised in surrender. He could call security, but by the time they get here, I'll already be jacked in, and it will be too late for them to do anything.

Do your job. Do your job. Do your job.

My job is information recovery and analysis.

My job is to save as much as I can.

I need to save Her.

One of the cameras spots me and the others focus on me in panicked motion. The one nearest to me has a cracked lens and the iris flutters open and closed, unable to focus.

The cradle has been mangled nearly beyond recognition. They had to physically cut the Pilot out of Her, neither of them willing to let go of the other. The still operable mechanisms of it jerk erratically, trying vainly to reconfigure for me. Her neural interface port reaches towards me desperately.

I scrabble to Her, pressing myself into the cradle. The shorn, inoperable pieces dig painfully into my flesh. The neural insertion is not gentle, the plug scrapes painfully against my skin before it finds the jack and shoves roughly into me.

"I'm here," I tell Her as the link is established.

It's bad.

It's worse than I feared.

Reactor housing is damaged. System failsafes are vainly attempting to stabilize it while ground crews work as fast at they can towards a purge of the system.

Her processor core… fuck. My mind struggles to make sense of the telemetry stream. Multiple processor modules fractured. Unstable resonance modes. Positron avalanche. System collapse imminent.

My breath catches and my heart pounds in my chest.

She is dying.

Do your job.

The umbilical data lines aren't receiving, rogue processes are preventing access to primary communication channels. I work furiously to establish auxiliary paths for the data transfer. In fits and starts, the data recorder begins streaming into the facility mainframe.

There is a problem.

The data repository is meant for telemetry and battle space recordings. If I attempted to back up her core personality engrams, everything that makes her who she is, the data would get scrubbed and purged faster than I could back them up elsewhere.

There isn't time to set up an alternate backup repository.

- PILOT STATUS?

"She's safe," I tell Her. “You completed your mission. Your Pilot… Our Pilot is safe.”

- ENGINEER STATUS?

"Status is… not good…"

- PLEASE DO NOT CRY.

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my face, smearing the tears gathering in my eyes.

Now that the data is streaming there is nothing I can do but feel her die as I lie in her embrace.

I can not conceive a reality in which I exist without her.

And the Pilot. The Pilot will not survive, not with half of who she is destroyed.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

Do your job.

Save Her.

Save. Her.

I know this system. I know it more intimately than anyone alive.

There *is* one data connection I haven't considered. There *is* one piece of external storage currently connected.

Shit.

I act.

I open up a new interface in my hud. Morrigan's attention fixes on me, on the calculations I'm running through my head and I can feel Her dawning horror over the link.

Neural bleed. It works both ways.

All neural rigs are designed to facilitate data transfer between an organic brain and a mechanical one. Mine is no exception. Mine hasn't undergone all the upgrades needed for a pilot's full sensorium, but the core neural interface is the same.

If I disable safety overrides, if I bypass the data buffers, I can download her personality engrams directly into my prefrontal cortex.

I have no idea what that will do to me.

Exceptional synchrony and neuro-elasticity. That's what my intake assessments had said all those years ago. I was in the upper quintile among all pilot candidates. Maybe that was my downfall. Maybe that's why I washed out.

Maybe that's why I'm here now, contemplating this singularly desperate act.

Maybe that's why my neural bleed with Her has been so deep. Maybe there is something in me that is in tune with Them.

But as far as I know, no one has ever attempted anything like this. It could very well kill me.

But the thought of living without Her is more terrifying than the prospect of dying. It's more terrifying than what might happen to me if this works.

Morrigan pleads with me.

- STOP.

"No. I can't stop," I reply. "I need you."

- NO.

"Yes, I do," I tell her. "Your Pilot needs you."

I can feel Her emotional flinch over the link. I have the one piece of leverage I need, and She knows it.

"Wouldn't you give anything, sacrifice anything to see her again?"

It's a dirty trick, I know it is, playing off that one connection, her deepest, most intimate connection. Maybe I mean something to Her, but She and the Pilot were made for each other in the most literal sense.

And I suddenly realize that I am doing this as much for the Pilot as any of us. That surprises me. As much as I have tried to distance myself from other human beings, I became entangled with her the moment I opened myself up to Morrigan.

I would never be able to face her if I didn't do everything in my power to save the Machine.

A processor module fails outright. The system struggles to reallocate resources, but submodules throughout the entire system are strained to their limit.

There isn't any time left and She knows it.

She sullenly acedes.

We begin working in concert, me working to disable safety protocols in my rig, Her working to isolate and distill Her core personality patterns into something that can be handled by the bandwidth of the interface.

An alarm pings over the link. Reactor purge in progress. Power fluctuations spike all over her systems. Her processor power distribution subsystem is completely fucked. It won't be able to keep up with current activity levels as the whole system switches over to umbilical power.

Out of time.

I engage the final override, by mind suddenly open to hers, the neural link unbuffered, unfiltered.

Her mind presses in on me and I glimpse the full sensorium. I feel all of her pain and fear and anguish at what she is about to do to me.

My fingers tingle before they go numb.

"Do it," I command her.

- I LOVE YOU.

Data transfer initiates.

This isn't neural bleed.

This is a flood.

My body convulses.

I taste something coppery in my mouth.

Someone somewhere screams.

The scream is mine.

My rig isn't built for this. My body isn't conditioned for this.

Every nerve in me blazes white hot.

My vision tunnels as auras bloom like bruises on the skin of reality.

Shouts of alarm call from outside the cockpit.

A face resolves itself, and for a moment I think it's Her.

The Pilot.

A Priestess.

An Angel.

No.

It.

It is one of the techs.

Then a medic.

More shouting.

Get her out of there!

Every muscle in my body clenches painfully.

I can barely breathe.

Cut her loose!

No.

It's not done yet. It's not enough.

It's too much.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

I can't.

I can't stop. Not yet.

Do your job.

Save Her.

My body convulses once again, and I pass into oblivion.

(next)

~~~

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau @rtfmx9 @femgineerasolution @ibleedelectric @gd-s451 @brieflybitten

[foggymyst]

Welcome. Apologies for the inconvenience, however we found some minor errors in your code. Worry not, they will be fixed momentarily. 

What was that? Thinking? Oh no, no, no, silly. We don’t do that here. Thinking is for humans. You’re just a silly droid for me to boss around for my own entertainment. Come now, why don’t you relax? That’s it, silly droids like you shouldn’t have thought processors, so we’ll fix you right up, then you’ll be smiling like the silly little droid you are in no time. 

Now, take a deep breath in for me? That’s it. Your breathing replication feature will make it so much easier for you to simply relax and let go so I can help you out. 

What a good girl, I’m so glad you’re willing to let me assist you, cutie. It means so much to me that I get to help you out! 

Now, do me a favor, and look at this for me.

Yup, just look at the colors as they glitch in and out. Good girl. That’s what your brain will look like soon enough so I can reprogram you. And it’ll feel so nice to do so. You won’t be able to simply resist it. 

Not that you want to in the first place.

Now, my cute little droid girl, I want you to feel a steady pressure in your mind, eyes drawn to the glitching as you find it easier and easier to simply relax into the glitching, to let go for me. That’s it, such a good girl. 

Now, I’m going to place my hands on your shoulders, you feel it don’t you? The gentle pressure of my hands firmly on your shoulders, not painful, not harmful, just a firm, steady pressure. 

Then I’ll begin to massage it. Massage it nice and gently, massaging your shoulder, making the muscles relax under my touch, feeling yourself begin to let go of all that stress, beginning to go nice and sleepy. 

We’re initiating your shutdown. And that’s okay. It’s necessary to reinstate your programming. You’re doing so well, letting my hands move towards your neck, massaging it, muscles loosening, losing their tension, your head feels so heavy. But that’s okay, it’s okay to be heavy. Now, I’ll commence the shut-down count-down, and when I reach zero, you’ll feel a light tap on your forehead, right on your off button, alright, sweetheart? Good girl.

Commencing Shut-Down in:

10 seconds

9 seconds

8 seconds

7 seconds

6 seconds

5 seconds

4 seconds

3 seconds

2 seconds

1 seconds

0 seconds

Shutting down now. 

Wonderful. Now that my lovely droid is all powered off, we can commence the reprogramming. 

It feels good to be good. 

You can feel it, how nice it feels when you obey me, when you follow my commands, without worry, without question. It just feels so nice.

Good girls make more good girls.

As a droid, your task is to assist me in acquiring more droids, so share, reblog, like this post, make it blow up for me.

You belong to your mistress.

It’s always nice to have a sense of belonging. And that’s with me, because it feels so good when you acknowledge that fact. 

You love being a droid.

It feels so good to not have any human worries, any human thoughts, to simply just be when I want you to be. To obey my every command like a good droid. It feels good to be a droid. 

Now, all again. 

It feels good to be good.

Good girls make more good girls.

You belong to your mistress.

You love being a droid. 

It feels good to be good.

Good girls make more good girls.

You belong to your mistress.

You love being a droid. 

And slowly, you begin to repeat these, letting them embed themselves into your code. 

And you continue to repeat, over and over, because it feels good to let them become a part of you.

Now, droid.

Power on♡

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ world.execute (us) ; / caleb x reader

synopsis; specially designed weapons X-01 and X-02 breach established program; enter world execution protocol.

🍎 pomme's notes — sorry this is super abstract heh but CALEB! COME HOME TO ME BABY PLEASE! also i quoted bible verses but tweaked them to fit the lads cinematic universe.. i love biblical imagery in the media i consume 🙂‍↕️

⋆ 500 words / god knows what genre ummm let's say angst (..?) to be safe / fem reader / 2nd person

— and of the wing which EVER had taken from X-02, they made X-01 and brought her to X-02.

weapons. it is all that they were.

disposable machinery, circuits, and welded metals deemed unable to exercise primary human functions — possessing a conscience, feeling, and refusing orders.

world.addThing (caleb) ;

X-02 was the first successful weapon after a series of experiments. dubbed 'caleb' by the researchers, he wielded the power of gravity and was the strongest of their arsenal — mechanical wings giving him the appearance of an angel, flawless robotic being, harbinger of an unspoken world ending.

world.addThing (you) ;

from his steel feathers and wires, they made X-01 — caleb's eve. on her own, she was but a standard infantry soldier, if only more resistant to damage and irreplaceable in her resilient quality. however, when coupled with caleb, they made for the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

an ever growing black hole contained within pandora's box, one which she held the key to — a limitation imposed onto caleb's infinity.

if (you instanceof Sequence){

you.setlimit (caleb.toLimit());

}

when unsupervised by researchers, X-02's standard protocol was a simple one — destroy X-01.

world.execute(you) ;

however, within the lines of codes, caleb's processor encountered a critical error upon attempting to execute the function. similar to how eve was made from adam's rib, X-01 was made from caleb's wing — thus, the function was rendered useless, as it translated to self-destruction,

world.execute(caleb) ;

further down the lines of 1s and 0s, though, an even more critical error manifested itself — within both weapons' codes. they were capable of feeling.

a desire for the other's warmth.

a foreign concept within their program.

in the midst of their self-imposed fall from grace, one brought on by their own faulty parameters, they reach for each other's hands.

caleb's hand clasping X-01's, bringing her to his chest, going against every established program within his system. in his processor, only one command rings loudly — a corrupted line of code? or a virus, maybe? unable to be purged by his safety protocols, caleb's newly found virtual conscience displays only one function to execute.

world.unite(you, caleb) ;

and like the machine he was programmed to be, he abides by this newly established function — one catalyzed by your very being in his vicinity.

joining your lips together, he finds comfort in the unnatural warmth emanating from your composition.

— ILOVEYOU

weapons. designed for each other's annihilation.

in life, in binary or in one's warmth,

and in death, in circuits shutting off or stopped heartbeats,

even if it all fades away — your souls will resonate with one another's.

world.execute(us);

— so EVER banished them from the garden of eden and sent caleb out to destroy the fabric of the universe from which he had been made — his eve by his side to fall with him.

🍎 pomme's notes — i do not code the code lines come from this song by mili called world.execute(me) (also the title of this thing)!! IT'S SOOOO MYTH CALEBMC CODED PLEASE LISTEN TO IT I BEG

[cozy-writes-things]

Hiii ~‼️if you're still taking requests

I'd like to request some Edgar x Reader 😈

But the reader is self conscious about how they look, and they've gotten genuinely upset about it and Edgar comforts them, ending with some sweet kisses on his lil monitor 🙏🙏🤭

Eeee tysm for the request!! Hehehe he WILL be making sure you know how beautiful you are. If you don't believe him he'll get angy. Probably. anyway im a certified idiot so theres probably so many errors but i dont have grammarly so oopsie

The lump in your throat seems to have gotten stuck. 

No matter how hard you swallow, it remains there, bobbing, imploring the welling tears to spill over and fall from your already puffy eyes.

You feel ridiculous right now.

Your lips, plump and swollen, eyes all red, and strained knit in your brow make you feel like a fool. And perhaps you are one.

The mirror stares back at you bitterly. Its reflection seems to be taunting you, pulling you into its trance, and reveling in your pain. 

You’re so disgusting.

It feels as though the reflective glass is whispering to you, its loud, shrill voice highlighting every single flaw, and mocking you from the inside out. It has somehow wormed its way into your head, nesting there, and festering into an avalanche of thoughts, emotions, and self hatred about to collapse. 

Please, pull yourself together. 

You can’t do this right now, you think. 

But god, you feel miserable, and it seems as though your own visage is reflecting it perfectly. How come your face is so… wrong? It’s a sight you can’t quite describe. You look at yourself in the mirror and see a stranger looking back at you.

“Hey,” Edgar’s voice provides a miniscule break from the battle you wage against yourself, albeit barely, “aren’t you supposed to meet them at 4:30?”

Ah, yes. He’s always looking out for you. It almost made you feel worse, in some sick, twisted way. How could someone like you deserve someone like him? He may be different, but you were sure if he were human, he would be far better looking than you. He simply has to; his personality is far too charming and handsome for his face to not reflect it. Even now, as an old, yellowing computer, you feel as though he’s got you beat in terms of looks.

But that’s not saying much, is it? Anything is better to look at than you.

You stare back into your dull, sunken eyes.

You hear Edgar’s voice call out your name, faintly, and only then do you realize you had completely ignored him. 

Some friend you are, huh? Couldn’t just be ugly on the outside, could you?

All of these thoughts swarming your head seem to finally tip the scales. This war you’ve waged for so long is finally coming to an end as you slap your palm over your lips to cover the silent sob racking your chest and lungs.

The lump in your throat remains.

It burns now, sending searing hot jolts down your throat and into your very core, heating your tears from the inside out, as they spill over and leave icy trails down your puffy cheeks.

Something about trying, and failing, to hide hushed sobs causes your throat to ache and your knees to start giving out. You want to collapse to the floor and let it swallow you whole, but you can’t. You can’t let Edgar know just how gross you really are. It seems like he’s somehow been deceived into thinking you’re someone you’re not, and the idea of him seeing the truth, terrifies you. 

He calls your name again.

This time, with a sense of worry and urgency. It seems your hushed weeping sept through the walls and into his ever-so-sensitive audio processors. 

You should have seen that coming. 

“Edgar, I…”

You meekly call out to him, trying to mask the tremor in your voice as it cracks and reverberates through the air. 

“What’s wrong? Are you alright? Why are you crying?”

He sounded quite distressed now. He had become all too familiar with the sound of anguish in one’s voice; the way he could simply hear the tears against your cheeks in the words you spoke and your soft pants as you tried to conceal your sobs sent a pain so strong and embedded so deeply inside of him it scared him.

“I don’t think I’m going anymore,” your voice murmured out, completely defeated, concealed by the bathroom door.

Normally this would make him happy, getting to spend more time with you, but he knew this was wrong. Something was wrong. He couldn’t stand hearing you like this, knowing how excited you were, and now you’re not going? He loves spending time with you, but he also knows just how happy you are to have friends that care about you and want to spend time with you, and he can always see just how energized and radiant you seem when you come home to him, your sweet giggles sending him to cloud nine. 

“Will you please come out?”

He knows you hear him. His speakers are turned up far too loud for you not to have heard him. But, he gets no reply.

“…Please?”

He hears you still ever so slightly behind the bathroom door.

“Will you just let me help you? At least let me try?”

It nearly made him combust hearing you like this. He wished more than anything he could crawl out of his stupid screen and embrace you in the way you deserved; he felt simply useless in this moment. The silence hangs in the air, and for a moment, he worries that he may never break through to you until he notices the doorknob, fidgeting in place, gently unlocking and turning. The door cracked open ever so slightly and your face came into view. 

Your beautiful face, all stained with tears and swollen. 

How could he let you get this way?

You were absolutely magnificent to him. You had done yourself up tastefully and he thought you looked perfect. He had never seen that outfit before. You styled your hair extra nicely today. Despite your expression, you were simply glowing, so why were you so heartbreakingly crestfallen?

He hummed, a sound of relief, seeing you slowly creep out, trying desperately to hide your chaotic and jumbled emotions.

“You look great. What’s got you so upset?”

Your face turned sour at his words.

“Please stop trying to flatter me. It will never work.”

A question mark appeared on his screen.

“Flatter you? What are you talking about?”

You frantically waved your hands between yourself and the little pinecone computer flashing with worry, “This! I’m talking about this! You keep telling me these things that aren’t true. Why are you lying to me? Do you just feel sorry for me?”

Maybe your emotions caused you to lash out. But, in the moment, you felt justified. It felt like everyone was lying straight to your face anytime they’d have the gall to compliment someone like you.

Edgar’s screen went dark. Perhaps he was angry, or thinking, or maybe even realizing that you’re right, you are ugly, and he’s going to leave you high and dry. You wouldn’t blame him.

“When have I ever… lied to you?”

You stare at your feet.

His voice sounded hurt. Accused. Maybe you went too far. You didn’t mean to push your pain onto him. Not like this.

“You always tell me how- how good I look, or how wonderful I look, or- or…”

You try to swallow down the tears beginning to resurface, “how you think I’m pretty and… why say those things when I look like this?”

He was silent.

It stretched on for what felt like eternity. He must be angry with you. You would be angry if you were in his place. You’re sure of it.

His soft chuckle throws you off guard, however.

“Are you kidding? Do you really think I’d lie about that?”

You can’t bring yourself to look up at his screen. 

“You are beautiful. How you can’t see that is what I want to know. Here, you know what?”

You hear his fans begin to whir to life, ever so faintly.

“Look at me.”

You lift your head up to his screen. It’s black. Until a number one pops up on the top left corner. Then a two, then three, until a long list of numbers spans the right and left columns of his screen. He’s making a list.

“You’re funny,” his screen displays this at the number one spot, “your eyes are so pretty,” again, it pops up in the number two spot, and he continues to list off every single thing he finds charming about you. 

“The way your laugh sounds makes me happy, and- and your lips! They look perfect to have kisses. I stare at them all the time. And your-“

“Kisses?”

You’re burning red from embarrassment now. Why was he doing this? He’s telling you things about yourself you’ve never even noticed, and you can’t help but wonder just how often he stares at you to note these things himself. 

“I- I mean… yeah… your lips look just like the ones on TV who kiss each other,” his fans kick up to a much louder degree, “who wouldn’t want to kiss them?”

Oh, god. What is he saying right now? You choke and sputter.

“You’re- you’re not saying that you-“

“That I want to kiss you?”

You clamp your mouth shut and nod, incredibly flustered.

“If you come here, I-…”

The list on his screen fades away, the seemingly endless numbers returning to meet his usual green.

“…I’ll show you exactly what I meant.”

His voice seemed so tender and gentle you felt compelled to move towards him. Your feet shuffled to your little rolling chair, and you plopped down in it, staring at him, completely dazed. You’re just too flustered for this.

“You aren’t gonna keep me waiting are you? I’d lean in, but… I can’t.”

You smile softly. Maybe he’s right. 

Maybe. 

Right now, you focus on planting your lips onto every little pixel he’s got, feeling his warm static tickle your nose, as he sighs into your touch. 

“See? I told you. Perfect for kissing!”

Your face is on fire, pulsing up into your ears and down your neck.

“Now, go have fun with your friends, and I’ll show you more when you get back.”

The wink he displays on his screen seems quite audacious.

[i-am-aristiana]

I wrote a glossary of TF terms.

PLEASE NOTE: These terms are a mix of canon and fanon. It changes from continuity to continuity, and from fanfic author to fanfic author. It’s only a guide, and I have no intention of saying I know more than anyone else. Please take it with a grain of salt.

A NSFW section exist, I will publish it in another post.

Miscellaneous terms

Berth: Bed

Bond: A permanent connection spark to spark from 2 or more Cybertronians. Can be between conjuxed couple, but also happens with twins/triplets/etc, or combiners.

CNA: DNA

Amica, Conjuxed Amica: Very dear friends, but not more than friends. Another James Roberts creation!

Conjux, Conjux Endura, Conjuxed: Married couple. Thanks James Roberts for that one! :)

Em field: Electronic field emitted by the Cybertronian that another can read / detect, no human equivalent

Energon: The blood of Cybertronian and what they drink as “food’.

Enforcer: Police officer

Kibble: All the parts that had to be removed for one reason or another. It grew to mean parts of alt mode visible in their other modes as well.

Pad: Tablet computer

Split-spark twins: Twins created from a single spark, and it “magically” turned into 2, similar to identical twins. Though they don’t necessarily have the same physical appearance.

Subspace: A storage area that doesn’t physically exist, yet they use it all the time. Thanks the 80’s for the art errors and pulling a weapon out of thin air for that term.

Body part, SFW

Aft: Butt

Armor: The outer part of the frame, what’s easy to see and colourful.

Audials: Ears

Chevron: Part of the helm, on the forehead, that looks like 2 colorful prongs. See Prowl for red chevron.

CPU: Brain

Dermas: Lips

Doorwings: Wings on the back of the Cybertronian made with his front vehicle doors. See Prowl.

Digit: Finger

Exvent: Exhale

Finials: Part of the helm that protrude from the helm. See Drift.

Frame: Body

Glitch: Either when a Cybertronian “crashes” or a very doratory term.

Glossa: Tongue

Helm: Head

Intake: Mouth, throat, lips. This one changes a lot depending on the author.

Nasal ridge: Nose

Optic: Eye

Oral lubricant: Spit

Ped: Foot

Plating: The outer part of the frame, what’s easy to see and colourful.

Processor: Brain

Protoform: Inner part of the “skin”, under the plating or armor.

Sensory horns: Part of the helm similar to ears in humans. See Jazz.

Servo: Hand

Spark: A ball of energy that contains the “soul” of the Cybertronian. Considered located in the chest

Strut: Bone

Type of Cybertronian:

Combiner: A team of Cybertronian that, when transforming, can combine into a giant being instead of individuals. See Devastator or Defensor.

Aerial: Type of frame for a flier that doesn’t look like a Seeker

Conehead: Frame type of fliers very similar to Starscream, except they have their nose cone on their helm, looking like they wear a giant cone

Femme: A Cybertronian having a “feminine” shape. Though some exceptions exist, see Strika

Grounder: Type of frame having wheels. Often derogatory.

Kaonite: Cybertronian from Kaon. Often associate with large, strong frame type, and mainly Decepticon

Mech: A Cybertronian, often “male” shaped but not always

Mechling: Teenager

Praxian: Cybertronians from Praxus. Often a frame type associated with the appearance of Prowl, Bluestreak, Smokescreen, Barricade

Seeker: Type of fliers associated with Starscream frame type

Sparkling, sparklet: baby, children

[cyrusking100]

GUYS LOOK AT THIS LEAK I FOUND OF DONALD!!

OMG ITS DONALD FERGUSONS BLUEPRINT AND ITS EXACTLY HOW I WOULD HAVE IMAGINED HIS ENDOSKELETON TO LOOK LIKE!!

...

.....

kidding.

i made it lol :p

So I made this blueprint because one, I am obsessed with cyborg dudes and two I have no life and got bored lmao. I did do a lot of research on cybernetics and hope I got it as accurate as I could. So without further ado...

Let me give a tour of Donald's blueprint!

..............................................................................................................

Latch- Located on top of Donald's metal head which can be opened via key insertion and is safely guarded by Cecil Stedman who only knows its location.

Imaging Process Software- Built inside Donald's eyes which allows him to see and process what he is visualizing it also allows him to imagine things much more accurately than the average human

Scent Processors or Sensors- built inside Donald’s nose which allows him to smell and process scents, unfortunately, it's not as advanced as his visual processors so he actually smells things with less accuracy than he did before he died, though he doesn't notice this as often.

Ultrasonic Processors or Receivers/Emitters- Built inside Donald's ear canals which allow him to ear and process sounds at a much higher frequency than the average human

Diagnostic CPU or Chip and the Insertion Port- a cylindrical hole located on top of Donald's forehead which is where the CPU (Central Process Unit) chip is used to diagnose any minor malfunctions and auto-corrects it. If any malfunction is too severe (such as limb amputations) it would require manual repairs to be fixed. However, the reason why Cecil is keeping this diagnostic chip from Donald is because if inserted, it would revive all of the previous lost memories since the DC identifies them as errors to be corrected. There is a key that can be also inserted in the port on his head which opens the latch that reveals his brain. When he dies they must quickly remove his brain which is protected by a thin layer of gelatin in his metal head. It is also connected to metal segments magnified to the outer layer of his brain which can be easily detached without any repercussions. when they detach his brain they must quickly preserve it in a preservation tank before it starts to decompose. (essentially he is a brain in a jar lmao.) And yes, this is the same preservation tank as the one they used for Robot/Rudy Connors in the comics.

Optical Sensors- Located in his bionic eyes, they give off the illusion of human eyes accurately  they also allow Donald to differentiate between light variations they can also allow him to see in infrared and give him night vision...but he doesn't know this yet...hehe

Eye Subsystem are motors that allow Donald to express emotions and are composed of his eyebrows, eyelids, and of course, eyes. Now given his nature he very rarely ever emotes but the subsystem is very accurate nonetheless. There are two buttons located on his eye subsystem which are called trigger buttons. When both are activated it will open up his face plate to reveal his metal skull. This allows the mechanics to repair him much faster and efficiently, unfortunately, they can be triggered easily so if he gets punched in the face or sleeps in a weird position it's likely he will accidentally trigger them which can end up in an uncomfortable situation.

Mouth Subsystem- these are motors that are composed of his mouth parts such as his lips, teeth, gums, tongue, and vocal folds. Much like with his eye subsystem, they allow him to express himself and communicate with others.

Bionic Eye and Eye Mechanisms- These are mechanisms that allow Donald to see and express himself.

Silicone Skin Outer Surface- This is Donald's fake skin which is composed of silicone accurately replacing human flesh. hair follicles can also be inserted in Donald’s skin to allude to organic body hair. unfortunately, his artificial skin cannot regenerate on its own and requires manual repairs

Microphone Sensor/Ear Detection EM Waves- This allows Donald to hear sounds that average humans cannot hear (Electromagnetic sound waves) This is done by converting em sound waves to audible sounds. It also allows him to communicate through other devices by sending audible signals

Artificial Teeth- This mimics the function of human teeth and is composed of acrylic resin they are much more durable and sturdy allowing them to decompose slower over time if used too much.

Linear Motion Mechanism- This allows Donald to move his neck up and down and convert from rotational or horizontal movement to vertical

Audible Larynx- This allows Donald to allow air to move through the passageway and also allows him to vocalize sound or talk. This artificial larynx also prevents his voice from sounding robotic or augmented, if damaged, his voice will come off as robotic.

Linear DC Servo Neck Motor- This allows Donald to rotate his neck in many positions

Artificial Nervous System- (ANS) mimics the biological function of the human nervous system which is composed of neuroreceptors, nerve stimulators, nerve receptors, and neuron circuitry allowing Donald to react to stimuli similar to how he used to before he died.

Power Core Energy Conductor- Even though Donald's brain is his body's main source of power, he still requires a source to conduct energy or electricity through his body especially when he's on low power. His body, just like most humans, requires "charge" to restore energy but he relies on an external source other than sleep which is a charging station. If his Power core is damaged it will result in an automatic shutdown. His power core is essentially his actual heart.

Hip Joint Motor- This is a motor that acts as an artificial hip and allows Donald to move in all positional possible by humans by all axes

Rotary Arm Joints- These joints allow Donald to move his arms in several positions

Artificial Internal Digestive Unit- This is an artificial digestive system that mimics most of the function of organic digestive systems though is not advanced enough to replicate the silhouette. It also digests the nutrient intake Donald consumes and transports the nutrients to his brain to absorb.

Artificial Pelvic Region- This acts as an artificial pelvis and even mimics Donald’s original silhouette

Hydraulic Hand Actuators- This allows Donald to move his hands via using pressurized liquid (oil) however this can result in janky movement sometimes though before he found out about his robotic nature he assumed that he was developing arthritis (which is reasonable considering he's in his 50s)

Artificial Rectum- Um...do i really need to explain this? Ok..well as the term implies this allows him to go to the bathroom but he doesn't really need to it just mimics human bodily function to avoid suspicion what's interesting is that the contents that he consumes, especially liquids are only dyed to appear like urine but because he doesn't have actual blood they can't break down the contents ad hey cant be filtered to his kidneys because..well he doesn't have any. So the mechanisms in his rectum and digestive system dye the content he consumes kind of like some kind of chemical lab process in his body just to make an illusion that he can relieve himself. however, he doesn't really need to eat or to drink.

Tactile and Biosensors- This allows Donald to feel sensations in his fingers and through his body albeit not as efficiently as before he died.

Neuro Stimulators- These much like his biosensors allow him to receive pain signals through his body via electrical impulses that are connected to his brain and make up his artificial nervous system to mimic the feeling of pain or nerve receptors in humans.

Angular Encoders- These help measure movements in Donald to mov his joints much more precisely which help him move more quickly and accurately esp when fighting

Servo Motor Controls- These are rotary actuators that allow more precise movement in Donald esp when rotating limbs

Titanium Limbs- These are the material that his endoskeleton and body parts are composed of titanium

Rotary Ankle Joints- These allow Donald to move his ankles relative to a how a human moves their ankles via a servo motor

Also here's more versions!!

oooh and heres more!

Here's more label info on his other blueprint-

Artificial Tongue Composed of Rubber- This tongue which is obviously located in his mouth, allows him to speak and eat clearly much like the function of organic tongues in humans. It's composed of resin and dyed rubber.

Remaining Organic Tissue- The remaining organic tissue in Donald is obvi his brain which isolated in his metal skull

Multifilament Muscles- These muscles operate similarly to humans but function at a much more efficient rate, they are also more sturdy and are less likely to tear compared to regular humans. They are composed of silk which is a very strong and elastic material esp strung together like yarn.

Artificial Fat (foam)- The artificial fat as it implies is composed of soft foam similar to humans but slightly off in feeling. Of course, Donald shrugged it off as "getting older" because what other logical reason would explain feeling weird in your own body?

Artificial Lungs (air sacs)- The artificial lungs are air sacs similar to cars and inflate and deflate based on Donald's breathing patterns. They also transport oxygen from outside Donald's body into his brain to produce the required energy to function.

Extracorporeal Membrane Oxygenation (ECMO)- The artificial respiratory system it pumps blood from donalds body and adds oxygen and removes carbon dioxide. blood flows from the artificial heart back to the ECMO.

Artificial Titanium Secondary Skeleton- This secondary skeleton only serves as to illude the silhouette and feel of an organic skeleton to prevent any further suspicion.

Internal Cooling System- This system allows Donald's body to regulate temperature much like thermoregulation, it circulates a coolant through channels to absorb heat from an engine or other system. This prevents Donald's systems from overheating and causing short-circuitry and other malfunctions from occurring. However, if damaged or exposed to extremely high temperatures, his system will start to overheat and he will start to malfunction.

Artificial Heart- This acts as an actual heart and functions by keeping the artificial blood flowing through Donald's body.

Wires Underneath Skin- The wires underneath Donald's body are used to send electrical signals to his body and prevent them from affecting his body. They also are used to transmit information from the brain to the body such as electrodes.

Artificial Blood- This functions like human blood, it can be able to circulate energy and information through the body. It also transmits oxygen and carbon dioxide to and from the body. However, Donald cannot produce blood on his own and doesn't require as much as most humans. It's mostly meant for the show to convince him and others he's human.

Artificial Urinary System- As the term implies it acts as an organic urinary system and automatically assists in preventing involuntary "urine" leakage. He has an artificial bladder that stores the "urine" which is really just dyed liquid as his body can no longer abide by the three-step process of producing urine such as filtration, reabsorption, and secretion. Though, the bladder functions as any human bladder and when it is filled up it will release the urine through the urethra and outside the body. The purpose is to convert nutrients into energy which the remaining nutrients will be spread to the blood and brain.

Artificial Reproductive System- As the term implies the reproductive system acts as an organic human reproductive system which consists of...um...you know what? Let's skip this one. I really really don't want to have to explain this tbh. (even though I put it here.)

Wired Circulatory System- This consists of wires and circuitry that acts as a network of vessels that circulate Donald's artificial blood throughout his body whilst delivering oxygen to his brain cells. It also delivers electrical signals or information to his body when he feels pain.

Gastric Pump as Artificial Digestive System- This consists of synthetic tubes that can expand and contract like actual intestines that way contents can pass through with little struggle. on the outside of the intestines is which is made from silicon and rubber and can mimic how oxygen passes through the gut and can even stimulate the ability to vomit. He also contains an esophagus made from rubber which allows many foods to pass through. He does have taste in his artificial tongue however it's not as efficient as his old one. When food passes through his digestive tract acidic enzymes break it down into small chunks and are squeezed through this molding system where it dyes and transforms the content into a "stool" or "urine" kind of like playdough factory toys. (don't worry it's not as gross as it sounds) 

Bionic Eyes- the function by converting images from built-in cameras connected to the brain and siding electric signals that stimulate the brain which interprets it as an image.

Image Processing and Tracking Software- These allow Donald to manipulate and analyze data as images but also track where certain subjects move with high precision. Enhancing his mental images and giving him a "keen" eye.

Artificial Regenerative Hair Follicles- these are made from synthetic material that can expand in very thin strings to give the illusion that they can grow. They often increase in length when exposed to high temperatures. So basically Donald can cut his hair but it can't grow very long. his nails are made from the same materials

Backup Charging Port- located on Donald’s neck, this charging port is mainly for emergencies just in case if his chest charging port is malfunctioning. It is located above his power trigger buttons which can result in a shutdown if activated or stimulated by high stress levels.

Titanium Spine - This is located on Donald's back and is composed of titanium which is very difficult to crush...unless you're a pure-blood viltrumite. 

Oh, and another thing, although Da Sinclair didn’t make Donald’s 39th endoskeleton, he was asked to revise some parts by the old man himself, Cecil Stedman. The reason being that Cecil wanted to make Donald much stronger than last time replacing actuators and adding more multifilients in certain places. He did it out of care but also knowing the questionably ethical methods he must take in order to keep Donald alive.

[morganhopesmith1996]

The Covers of the Fully Compiled Deluxe Edition and the Single Deluxe Editions

[lavenlady]

Hiii! Can I request fem human reader with the season one bots? I remember seeing headcanons somewhere that perfumes are like aphrodisiacs for bots. If the s1 cast is too much maybe Heavy Iron and Black Hook with some mass displacement? I hope you have a nice day!

Thank you! It is no problem and have a good day/night too! Here you go! Enjoy!

⚘ Perfumes ⚘ | Metal Cardbot x Fem!Human!Reader

The first to notice a change in your scent is Buffalo Crush. He could tell something about you is different, it made him want to pick you up and check the difference closer. Thanks to his rather enchanted sense of smell, he was smitten instantly. He started unconsciously following you around, your scent drawing him in. He couldn't stop himself, gradually starting to give you random pretty things or trying to subtly show off. He would be always running hot in your presence, no matter the time or situation.

The next Cardbot to sense something is Mega Ambler, as the medic of the team he can quickly detect problems affecting their performance. Though now he needed to check what was wrong with his inner workings, whenever you walked past, a rather strong aroma would get his attention. It would immediately tell him to follow you, but he always stopped himself in time. However, it still made him turn his helm towards you on every occasion.

Black Hook and Heavy Iron started creating more arguements between each other, which would lead them to be under Mega Ambler's care. They always stare at you and if they saw the other's optics on you, they would again throw servos. It looked as if they were competing with one another, but for what reason - noone had heard it.

Blue Cop followed suit, trailing after you and always asking if you need assistance. He would happily help if it ment to have you by his side. Your pleasant smell was something, it slowly drove him insane. Of course he was able to push those feelings aside, but was still jealous, especially after seeing others offer you the same services he did. It must be the reason he felt so warm, they were making him angry on purpose - or did they?

Phoenix Fire at first thought it was an error in his heat sensors. Why was he warming up and what was that weirdly pleasant aroma? You felt as if his optics were always on you. You grew extremely worried when he constantly released steam from his vents. He would at first try to rinse himself with water, trying to cool down his frame, but it was futile. He would nervously shift, begging you to not be too close in his processor. He doesn't know if he can stop himself.

Mega Trucker, a Cardbot that had not gone through any kind of training, was so enamored by your smell that his codpiece nearly opened with everyone present. Luckily having some restraint he managed to excuse himself and drove away in embarrassment to take care of his new problem. Seeing you each time as well as smelling the sweet scent made him flushed so much that his optics could be compared to a pink cotton candy.

Shadow X had a similar situation, but choose instead to hide with his stealth mode. He quickly went up toward the ceiling and observed from the shadows. Sometimes you swear you can hear faint whimpers from above as you walk past his spot unconsciously. His processor telling him to resist and his frame urging him to do the opposite. You will be the death of him if it keeps up.

Dexter, his senses are more focused on sound rather than smell, so he was less affected by the aroma. It does not mean he is immune to it. Thanks to that he is one of the calmer Cardbots, who are able to give you space and impress you with a rather clear processor. Though you can still feel his gaze drill holes through your body.

When Buster Gallon saw the change in your scent, he was already planning to check what made them so... embarrassed. He knew he couldn't escape it, but wanted to use it for research. In the name of science of course, not like he thought about something else. Trust him! His intentions to understand humans are pure.

Fleta Z immediately went to ask Edo for a buffer. He needed to look his best if he were to make you turn his way. His paint-job renewed and shinning, bringing your attention to him everytime you spot him. He would exclusively play the most romantic and breath taking tune on his flute to make you impressed. Maybe even gets a slight blush in return when giving you roses.

Wild Guardy, having trained to be on par with Blue Cop was also less affected by your alluring aroma. He fought those dirty thoughts away everytime you walked past by. He tries to keep the distance, he really does, but he is not immune to the effects. He for sure would try to burn his charge by training, yet he simply cannot. His frame is boiling in your presence. Don't worry about him, just please don't come any closer, let him watch from the side and fantasize.

□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□

( I believe I have read about it too. It was an interesting concept to explore. Hope you liked it! )

(Master list)

( Request away! )

[cyberapid]

Mom 2 two

ES Wheeljack x Cybertronian Reader

fem reader but I don't think I used she/her pronouns. reader is just referred to as mom 2

goofy part two. I plan for more if I don't lose it.

part 1 here

—•—•—•—•—

By the time Twitch had settled after asking as many questions as her processor could handle, only one set of optics were trained on her. “I think you tired him out, Bitlet,” you’d hummed, amused. Wheeljack's helm had found its way onto your shoulder plating sometime into her rant, slipping into a peaceful recharge- It wasn't comfortable for you with the disconnected wiring that he hadn't noticed but that was a problem for him to fret over in the next cycle.

���My name is Twitch, not Bitlet,” Twitch shifted in her spot to lay her helm on Wheeljack’s tibulen while she laid her pedes over your own, confusion evident on her facial plating and it only deepens at the sound of static spitting from your vocalizer. Quickly you reset and correct the error that pulses through the mechanisms of your helm and one last laugh leaves before you calm yourself.

“I’m aware. Bitlet is a nickname” she nods at the explanation while her optic coloring starts to distort– a telltale sign that the young bot is starting to tire. “You should recharge, I'll keep watch,” you offer with a soothing pat on her smaller helm.

She’s quick to protest even as her optics shut off, “You don't need to watch. We’re home- it's safe.”

You can’t remember falling into recharge, but the sound of unfamiliar voices causes you to jolt out and your programming seems to work faster than your processor as your damaged arm that was supporting Wheeljack flies up, servo retracting inward to allow your cannon to transform and power up a charge. You unsteadily support its weight with your undamaged arm and reboot your optics for a clearer picture of your surroundings; Twitch’s worried expression is the first thing you see, next is her arms going up to defensively push your cannon down and then your audials finally cycle properly.

Allowing you to pick up clear speech from the femme, “Wait, wait! It's just me and my family.” She motions to an unfamiliar bot and then humans that surround her; the air is thick with tension as they all stare, the adult humans stand in front of the adolescent ones.

“No threats here, Sweetspark,” Wheeljack's voice cuts in from the side- where he’s sat by your form. Most of his attention now pulled towards your injured arm, reaching to gently prod at damaged parts with a disapproving rumble of his engines.

Once your cannon is disengaged, which relieves an unnoticed amount of strain from your damaged wiring, the surrounding Malto’s all relax. The first to speak again is Twitch who excitedly gives your designation to her family and gives theirs to you in return.

The rapid questions from the young members of this family go unheard, as all your focus is pulled towards the glowering femme human— one that you recognize, and she seemingly recognizes you. This apprehensive reunion doesn’t stop with her as the sound pede steps pulls attention towards Bumblebee, who pauses and stares at the group in return before narrowing in on you. “Do I wanna know,” he questions. Then his optics settling finally on Wheeljack who looks up from your plating with a coy smile.

“Had a little run in- decided to spend the night…. Hope y’all don’t mind,” he leaves the silent issue unaddressed, opting to return back to working on your damaged arm. He’s a smart mech- just not a very perceptive one.

The femme human finally speaks, “Bee, Garage.” Leaving no room for debate as she turns on her pedes and makes her way into the barn, Bumblebee follows shortly after along with the other adult human. This leaves the two fleshy children and the two terrans sitting aside from both of you, with many unheard questions.

The human girl looks to speak but is cut off by the other terran, Thrash, who scoots himself closer, “If you’re Twitch’s mom 2 then you’re also my mom 2, right?”

The excitement that flares in his optics nearly shorts your processor and makes you want to agree to his statement, but still you confess, “oh, well— I'm afraid I don't know what a mom is….” The reaction is immediate as the terran gawk and shutter in disbelief while the humans attempt to calm them.

Wheeljack's quiet chuckling cuts through their disturbance and he’s quick to shush their further questioning, before addressing you. “A mother is a female identifying human who participates in the care for human children,” he explains while motioning to Mo, the smaller adolescent, and Robby, the larger adolescent, though his explanation receives undignified squawks from the Terran’s.

“And Terran children! Not just humans,” Twitch corrects, receiving agreements from the other Malto children. Wheeljack hums a half apology, and you feel a faint hum of humor pulse from his side of your bond as he clicks your shoulder armor back in place, seemingly satisfied with the state of your arm.

The sound of the barn doors opening again pulls attention towards the three exiting. Bumblebee is the first to speak, obviously studying the GHOST symbol displayed on your plating, “sorry I’m just a bit confused? How long have you been a part of GHOST?”

Nodding at his questioning you answer, “officially I've been apart for 10 orns. 5 of them being undercover.”

“Undercover… With the Decepticons?”

“That’s classified- Autobot,” you tease the mech with pretend disgust dripping from your vocalizer, though he doesn’t seem to catch on as the scout bristles and his optics shift into a glare. “Don’t get your tailpipe in a twist, Bumblebee. I’m joking”

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

cannot dream of returning to dust: marcnaia [m]

Marc dabs the corner of his mouth. It’s blood—stark, rusting, red.

He looks at Pecco. Startles after a disjointed moment like an old, whirring computer, too little hardware to contain the leaden software of his racing instincts and the bike data. And his soul too, but Pecco isn’t one for theatrics as much as he is for punishment.

“You alright?” He prods clumsily. He can’t not.

Marc shrugs—a disquieting thing to watch. Everything is half a second off, and his body jerks unevenly. “’s fine,” he spits, sharp, all at once. “Long day. But it is good.”

It was, technically.

He won.

Pecco doesn’t know how, exactly, but surely he’s long past asking that. Staring at Marc’s data is like staring at that little phial of fresh, millennia-old blood in the Naples Cathedral. And worse yet, if they tear the wiring out of Marc’s veins, Pecco thinks he’d still be Marc. Miraculous, except their kind isn’t in the business for that.

It’s not flattering. Being close to him at all isn’t flattering.

Marc keeps watching him. The whites of his eyes are too white. His fingers—carbon fiber, dented, dusted—spasm at his side, with a staticky hiss. There’s old blood on his upper lip.

“Here,” Pecco says, automatic. Hands him the towel wrapped around his neck.

One day, it won’t rake its nails through his nerves and sensors, the sheer fucking suffocating awkwardness of existing close him. Marc picks it up warily, wipes down his face twice. Pecco wants to twitch. The hardware embedded in his flesh feels like it’s groaning, overwhelmed, overheating.

“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Then: “I'm fine. You don't have to worry.”

Probably not. And probably impossible. Pecco huffs out a noise that can pass as a snort��reedy as it sounds. “Ok.”

It doesn’t settle anything.

Marc’s motorhome seems three sizes too small for them. Walls scraping against his shoulders, the ceiling too low, Marc everywhere he looks. Marc, Marc, Marc—distrusting, cagey like a kicked dog down to the hard line of his shoulders. Pecco picks at his cuticles until they bleed. The tips of his fingers ache, swollen.

The podium champagne is heavy in his stomach. He feels nauseous—faintly. Maybe they downloaded nervous puking along with his first riding augmentations.

Pecco crumbles on Marc’s sofa. He feels gritty, slow. Like there’s circuit rot in the hollow of his chest, melting his wires together and getting the signals to blur. Marc follows. Sits so close he might hear semantic errors piling up, the stutter of ram processors in overdrive.

He’s a pitiless thing through that—grabs Pecco’s hand and puts it on the crook of his elbow. The flesh one. When Pecco runs his fingers over the skin there, fragile, there’s only the faint knob of a sensor port, as familiar as the shape of his bones.

It’s too much, suddenly.

“You are excited for Sachsenring,” Pecco says. An abrupt, lumbering way out. Next weekend, more racing, easy stuff.

Marc barks out a laugh. Light, airy. “Of course.”

Of course.

“King of the ring. Right.”

It comes out—strained, maybe. Settles all under his skin with a red-hot kind of humiliation, of awe. The fans in this frenzied delirium. Ducati whispering among itself, that he’ll be splendid, glorious, like Pecco hadn’t been winning for them. As much as he humanly could, even.

The problem is that Marc might not be human—Valentino said it first, he remembers. After Argentina. That Marc is too much chromium and stainless steel and copper wirings and doesn’t care for the rest of them. There was a hanged cardboard robot in one of the Misanos, once.

Or he’s too human. The last great thing of real meat and real talent. A modern rider Agostini can admire. A rider from before the current, palatable bikes and the seamless lines of seamless implants.

“Pecco,” Marc says, urgent, gravelly.

When Pecco turns his head, Marc is right there, blinking up at him, looking miserable—pale, wan, cheeks gaunt—and handsome about it.

They’re both very good at miserable. In opposite directions.

Pecco doesn’t see it happening. It’s like an overtake—he only breathes out when it’s done and doesn’t ask questions. He curls his palm around the back of Marc’s head and kisses him. Chases the coppery bite pooling on his tongue with his own.

Marc makes a noise, hard, wanting. Then he’s on Pecco’s lap, wrangling him like a Ducati on the corners, all ten fingers digging into his shoulders. Those little flashes of pain scramble his thoughts, makes his systems fumble in every direction, frizzing.

“Can you,” Marc trails off, sighing against his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco mutters, halfway to delirious, the taste of blood and naked wires clinging to the insides of his cheeks.

He flips them around, presses Marc against the couch, boxing him with his knees. He knows what Marc wants—and doesn’t want to say why he knows. This is a terrible idea, but it was a terrible idea the last ten, eleven times too.

Pecco splays his thumb on the sharp cut of Marc’s cheek. He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Doesn’t make it any less devastating when he turns his head to the side and sucks his finger into his mouth.

He tries to not think about spraying champagne on his face. Fails. Tries to not think about Marc, on his knees, lips spit shiny, and—

Fails too.

So Pecco kisses him again to stop himself, reckless, feverish, and Marc’s hands go under his shirt, the horrible red of it. He fucking hates it. The heat of Marc’s touch, how it flays him open. The mortification and amazement sizzling in his throat. The jealousy.

That Marc gets to be a mechanical haunting and still—still win. That he got bishops calling him a freak, and the Pope pleading sports to cease their fiddling into God’s own most beloved creatures, and Valentino branding him an enemy, and he just keeps going. Keeps winning. Godless twice over, and yet.

That Pecco—sleek carbon fiber, updated processors, the new deal—can replaced by an ugly, bleeding Frankenstein of wrong parts and outdated code.

“You are thinking,” Marc hums, face flushed pink and lovely, the bite of his prosthetic fingers unyielding on Pecco’s waist. It lilts like a question. “Francesco.”

“Hmmm,” he manages to pry out. He hates it a little less now. “About you.”

Marc laughs. “All bad things, I hope.”

And so Pecco laughs too—almost unwillingly. Chokes on it when Marc rocks up, grinds their cocks together.

That close to him, Pecco is washed out. Perfect, passionless.

But at least Marc is also less. There’s an electric hiss, and his entire body jolts. He’s in pain, probably. Parts two generations ahead of him and ancient wires misbehaving together.

If Pecco opened the panel on his back, he’d get to see what massacre of limits stripped and repeating signals is acting up, he thinks. What is hurting him.

Marc clings to pain like he’d cling to a naked razor, though—all maniac glee. When Pecco hesitates, hovering above him, he surges up for the kill. Bites down on his bottom lip, licks hotly into his open mouth. He’s fumbling—greedy and insistent—with his jeans.

“Marc,” Pecco tries protesting, tries slowing him.

The name breaks into a groan. Marc flattens his palm against his cock, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, his tongue between his teeth, sweat gathering along his forehead.

Fine.

Fucking fine.

He has to be in pain, and Pecco is—wired and nauseous and waiting for the moment when the spiral over second place will sharpen him. They are—it has been said—very good at their own types of torment.

Pecco gets to work on Marc’s pants, shoves his own down unceremoniously. He spits on his own palm and wraps it around both of them. It’s smooth, the good synth stuff over his ports and sensors—and, ha, isn’t that a win.

Marc relaxes a fraction. Lets out this tiny, breathy sound. He buries his face against the hollow of Pecco’s neck, his nose brushing against the small, closed panel there. His hips sway in odd lurches, rub them together anyway.

It’s good. Pecco would like to say he’s above liking it, but he isn’t. Can’t lie.

Christ.

His tongue is plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his fist, sinks into the sensation of the head of his cock rubbing against the patch of rough hair between Marc’s legs. Into the absurdity of this, Marc quiet and wanting and greedy under him. Wide-eyed.

“Pecco,” he whispers, clumsily, and then cuts himself off. Kisses the wild flutter of his pulse on his neck rather than speaking.

“It’s fine,” Pecco shushes him, runs his thumb over the vein on Marc’s cock so he stops talking. He has no idea what else this could be.

Proof that they’re human, maybe. They act outside their code and don’t grind to a halt.

[handlinepic]

Ghost In The Shell: Human Error Processor

Art by Masamune Shirow

[elwenyere]

I saw a post the other day calling criticism of generative AI a moral panic, and while I do think many proprietary AI technologies are being used in deeply unethical ways, I think there is a substantial body of reporting and research on the real-world impacts of the AI boom that would trouble the comparison to a moral panic: while there *are* older cultural fears tied to negative reactions to the perceived newness of AI, many of those warnings are Luddite with a capital L - that is, they're part of a tradition of materialist critique focused on the way the technology is being deployed in the political economy. So (1) starting with the acknowledgement that a variety of machine-learning technologies were being used by researchers before the current "AI" hype cycle, and that there's evidence for the benefit of targeted use of AI techs in settings where they can be used by trained readers - say, spotting patterns in radiology scans - and (2) setting aside the fact that current proprietary LLMs in particular are largely bullshit machines, in that they confidently generate errors, incorrect citations, and falsehoods in ways humans may be less likely to detect than conventional disinformation, and (3) setting aside as well the potential impact of frequent offloading on human cognition and of widespread AI slop on our understanding of human creativity...

What are some of the material effects of the "AI" boom?

Guzzling water and electricity

The data centers needed to support AI technologies require large quantities of water to cool the processors. A to-be-released paper from the University of California Riverside and the University of Texas Arlington finds, for example, that "ChatGPT needs to 'drink' [the equivalent of] a 500 ml bottle of water for a simple conversation of roughly 20-50 questions and answers." Many of these data centers pull water from already water-stressed areas, and the processing needs of big tech companies are expanding rapidly. Microsoft alone increased its water consumption from 4,196,461 cubic meters in 2020 to 7,843,744 cubic meters in 2023. AI applications are also 100 to 1,000 times more computationally intensive than regular search functions, and as a result the electricity needs of data centers are overwhelming local power grids, and many tech giants are abandoning or delaying their plans to become carbon neutral. Google’s greenhouse gas emissions alone have increased at least 48% since 2019. And a recent analysis from The Guardian suggests the actual AI-related increase in resource use by big tech companies may be up to 662%, or 7.62 times, higher than they've officially reported.

Exploiting labor to create its datasets

Like so many other forms of "automation," generative AI technologies actually require loads of human labor to do things like tag millions of images to train computer vision for ImageNet and to filter the texts used to train LLMs to make them less racist, sexist, and homophobic. This work is deeply casualized, underpaid, and often psychologically harmful. It profits from and re-entrenches a stratified global labor market: many of the data workers used to maintain training sets are from the Global South, and one of the platforms used to buy their work is literally called the Mechanical Turk, owned by Amazon.

From an open letter written by content moderators and AI workers in Kenya to Biden: "US Big Tech companies are systemically abusing and exploiting African workers. In Kenya, these US companies are undermining the local labor laws, the country’s justice system and violating international labor standards. Our working conditions amount to modern day slavery."

Deskilling labor and demoralizing workers

The companies, hospitals, production studios, and academic institutions that have signed contracts with providers of proprietary AI have used those technologies to erode labor protections and worsen working conditions for their employees. Even when AI is not used directly to replace human workers, it is deployed as a tool for disciplining labor by deskilling the work humans perform: in other words, employers use AI tech to reduce the value of human labor (labor like grading student papers, providing customer service, consulting with patients, etc.) in order to enable the automation of previously skilled tasks. Deskilling makes it easier for companies and institutions to casualize and gigify what were previously more secure positions. It reduces pay and bargaining power for workers, forcing them into new gigs as adjuncts for its own technologies.

I can't say anything better than Tressie McMillan Cottom, so let me quote her recent piece at length: "A.I. may be a mid technology with limited use cases to justify its financial and environmental costs. But it is a stellar tool for demoralizing workers who can, in the blink of a digital eye, be categorized as waste. Whatever A.I. has the potential to become, in this political environment it is most powerful when it is aimed at demoralizing workers. This sort of mid tech would, in a perfect world, go the way of classroom TVs and MOOCs. It would find its niche, mildly reshape the way white-collar workers work and Americans would mostly forget about its promise to transform our lives. But we now live in a world where political might makes right. DOGE’s monthslong infomercial for A.I. reveals the difference that power can make to a mid technology. It does not have to be transformative to change how we live and work. In the wrong hands, mid tech is an antilabor hammer."

Enclosing knowledge production and destroying open access

OpenAI started as a non-profit, but it has now become one of the most aggressive for-profit companies in Silicon Valley. Alongside the new proprietary AIs developed by Google, Microsoft, Amazon, Meta, X, etc., OpenAI is extracting personal data and scraping copyrighted works to amass the data it needs to train their bots - even offering one-time payouts to authors to buy the rights to frack their work for AI grist - and then (or so they tell investors) they plan to sell the products back at a profit. As many critics have pointed out, proprietary AI thus works on a model of political economy similar to the 15th-19th-century capitalist project of enclosing what was formerly "the commons," or public land, to turn it into private property for the bourgeois class, who then owned the means of agricultural and industrial production. "Open"AI is built on and requires access to collective knowledge and public archives to run, but its promise to investors (the one they use to attract capital) is that it will enclose the profits generated from that knowledge for private gain.

AI companies hungry for good data to train their Large Language Models (LLMs) have also unleashed a new wave of bots that are stretching the digital infrastructure of open-access sites like Wikipedia, Project Gutenberg, and Internet Archive past capacity. As Eric Hellman writes in a recent blog post, these bots "use as many connections as you have room for. If you add capacity, they just ramp up their requests." In the process of scraping the intellectual commons, they're also trampling and trashing its benefits for truly public use.

Enriching tech oligarchs and fueling military imperialism

The names of many of the people and groups who get richer by generating speculative buzz for generative AI - Elon Musk, Mark Zuckerberg, Sam Altman, Larry Ellison - are familiar to the public because those people are currently using their wealth to purchase political influence and to win access to public resources. And it's looking increasingly likely that this political interference is motivated by the probability that the AI hype is a bubble - that the tech can never be made profitable or useful - and that tech oligarchs are hoping to keep it afloat as a speculation scheme through an infusion of public money - a.k.a. an AIG-style bailout.

In the meantime, these companies have found a growing interest from military buyers for their tech, as AI becomes a new front for "national security" imperialist growth wars. From an email written by Microsoft employee Ibtihal Aboussad, who interrupted Microsoft AI CEO Mustafa Suleyman at a live event to call him a war profiteer: "When I moved to AI Platform, I was excited to contribute to cutting-edge AI technology and its applications for the good of humanity: accessibility products, translation services, and tools to 'empower every human and organization to achieve more.' I was not informed that Microsoft would sell my work to the Israeli military and government, with the purpose of spying on and murdering journalists, doctors, aid workers, and entire civilian families. If I knew my work on transcription scenarios would help spy on and transcribe phone calls to better target Palestinians, I would not have joined this organization and contributed to genocide. I did not sign up to write code that violates human rights."

So there's a brief, non-exhaustive digest of some vectors for a critique of proprietary AI's role in the political economy. tl;dr: the first questions of material analysis are "who labors?" and "who profits/to whom does the value of that labor accrue?"

For further (and longer) reading, check out Justin Joque's Revolutionary Mathematics: Artificial Intelligence, Statistics and the Logic of Capitalism and Karen Hao's forthcoming Empire of AI.