#mind-machine interface

[theramblingvoid]

"Body horror" yeah I agree, living in a body is horrific. That guy with a hundred eyes can stay though he's chill

[clickityweasel]

mission: run lightning through aatoi to try and speak to aliens was a SUCCESS, SOMEHOW

[jcmarchi]

Creating new skills and new connections with MIT’s Quantitative Methods Workshop

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/creating-new-skills-and-new-connections-with-mits-quantitative-methods-workshop/

Creating new skills and new connections with MIT’s Quantitative Methods Workshop

Starting on New Year’s Day, when many people were still clinging to holiday revelry, scores of students and faculty members from about a dozen partner universities instead flipped open their laptops for MIT’s Quantitative Methods Workshop, a jam-packed, weeklong introduction to how computational and mathematical techniques can be applied to neuroscience and biology research. But don’t think of QMW as a “crash course.” Instead the program’s purpose is to help elevate each participant’s scientific outlook, both through the skills and concepts it imparts and the community it creates.

“It broadens their horizons, it shows them significant applications they’ve never thought of, and introduces them to people whom as researchers they will come to know and perhaps collaborate with one day,” says Susan L. Epstein, a Hunter College computer science professor and education coordinator of MIT’s Center for Brains, Minds, and Machines, which hosts the program with the departments of Biology and Brain and Cognitive Sciences and The Picower Institute for Learning and Memory. “It is a model of interdisciplinary scholarship.”

This year 83 undergraduates and faculty members from institutions that primarily serve groups underrepresented in STEM fields took part in the QMW, says organizer Mandana Sassanfar, senior lecturer and director of diversity and science outreach across the four hosting MIT entities. Since the workshop launched in 2010, it has engaged more than 1,000 participants, of whom more than 170 have gone on to participate in MIT Summer Research Programs (such as MSRP-BIO), and 39 have come to MIT for graduate school.

Individual goals, shared experience

Undergraduates and faculty in various STEM disciplines often come to QMW to gain an understanding of, or expand their expertise in, computational and mathematical data analysis. Computer science- and statistics-minded participants come to learn more about how such techniques can be applied in life sciences fields. In lectures; in hands-on labs where they used the computer programming language Python to process, analyze, and visualize data; and in less formal settings such as tours and lunches with MIT faculty, participants worked and learned together, and informed each other’s perspectives.

Brain and Cognitive Sciences Professor Nancy Kanwisher delivers a lecture in MIT’s Building 46 on functional brain imaging to QMW participants.

Photo: Mandana Sassanfar

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And regardless of their field of study, participants made connections with each other and with the MIT students and faculty who taught and spoke over the course of the week.

Hunter College computer science sophomore Vlad Vostrikov says that while he has already worked with machine learning and other programming concepts, he was interested to “branch out” by seeing how they are used to analyze scientific datasets. He also valued the chance to learn the experiences of the graduate students who teach QMW’s hands-on labs.

“This was a good way to explore computational biology and neuroscience,” Vostrikov says. “I also really enjoy hearing from the people who teach us. It’s interesting to hear where they come from and what they are doing.”

Jariatu Kargbo, a biology and chemistry sophomore at University of Maryland Baltimore County, says when she first learned of the QMW she wasn’t sure it was for her. It seemed very computation-focused. But her advisor Holly Willoughby encouraged Kargbo to attend to learn about how programming could be useful in future research — currently she is taking part in research on the retina at UMBC. More than that, Kargbo also realized it would be a good opportunity to make connections at MIT in advance of perhaps applying for MSRP this summer.

“I thought this would be a great way to meet up with faculty and see what the environment is like here because I’ve never been to MIT before,” Kargbo says. “It’s always good to meet other people in your field and grow your network.”

QMW is not just for students. It’s also for their professors, who said they can gain valuable professional education for their research and teaching.

Fayuan Wen, an assistant professor of biology at Howard University, is no stranger to computational biology, having performed big data genetic analyses of sickle cell disease (SCD). But she’s mostly worked with the R programming language and QMW’s focus is on Python. As she looks ahead to projects in which she wants analyze genomic data to help predict disease outcomes in SCD and HIV, she says a QMW session delivered by biology graduate student Hannah Jacobs was perfectly on point.

“This workshop has the skills I want to have,” Wen says.

Moreover, Wen says she is looking to start a machine-learning class in the Howard biology department and was inspired by some of the teaching materials she encountered at QMW — for example, online curriculum modules developed by Taylor Baum, an MIT graduate student in electrical engineering and computer science and Picower Institute labs, and Paloma Sánchez-Jáuregui, a coordinator who works with Sassanfar.

Tiziana Ligorio, a Hunter College computer science doctoral lecturer who together with Epstein teaches a deep machine-learning class at the City University of New York campus, felt similarly. Rather than require a bunch of prerequisites that might drive students away from the class, Ligorio was looking to QMW’s intense but introductory curriculum as a resource for designing a more inclusive way of getting students ready for the class.

Instructive interactions

Each day runs from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., including morning and afternoon lectures and hands-on sessions. Class topics ranged from statistical data analysis and machine learning to brain-computer interfaces, brain imaging, signal processing of neural activity data, and cryogenic electron microscopy.

“This workshop could not happen without dedicated instructors — grad students, postdocs, and faculty — who volunteer to give lectures, design and teach hands-on computer labs, and meet with students during the very first week of January,” Saassanfar says.

MIT assistant professor of biology Brady Weissbourd (center) converses with QMW student participants during a lunch break.

Photo: Mandana Sassanfar

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The sessions surround student lunches with MIT faculty members. For example, at midday Jan. 2, assistant professor of biology Brady Weissbourd, an investigator in the Picower Institute, sat down with seven students in one of Building 46’s curved sofas to field questions about his neuroscience research in jellyfish and how he uses quantitative techniques as part of that work. He also described what it’s like to be a professor, and other topics that came to the students’ minds.

Then the participants all crossed Vassar Street to Building 26’s Room 152, where they formed different but similarly sized groups for the hands-on lab “Machine learning applications to studying the brain,” taught by Baum. She guided the class through Python exercises she developed illustrating “supervised” and “unsupervised” forms of machine learning, including how the latter method can be used to discern what a person is seeing based on magnetic readings of brain activity.

As students worked through the exercises, tablemates helped each other by supplementing Baum’s instruction. Ligorio, Vostrikov, and Kayla Blincow, assistant professor of biology at the University of the Virgin Islands, for instance, all leapt to their feet to help at their tables.

Hunter College lecturer of computer science Tiziana Ligorio (standing) explains a Python programming concept to students at her table during a workshop session.

Photo: David Orenstein

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At the end of the class, when Baum asked students what they had learned, they offered a litany of new knowledge. Survey data that Sassanfar and Sánchez-Jáuregui use to anonymously track QMW outcomes, revealed many more such attestations of the value of the sessions. With a prompt asking how one might apply what they’ve learned, one respondent wrote: “Pursue a research career or endeavor in which I apply the concepts of computer science and neuroscience together.”

Enduring connections

While some new QMW attendees might only be able to speculate about how they’ll apply their new skills and relationships, Luis Miguel de Jesús Astacio could testify to how attending QMW as an undergraduate back in 2014 figured into a career where he is now a faculty member in physics at the University of Puerto Rico Rio Piedras Campus. After QMW, he returned to MIT that summer as a student in the lab of neuroscientist and Picower Professor Susumu Tonegawa. He came back again in 2016 to the lab of physicist and Francis Friedman Professor Mehran Kardar. What’s endured for the decade has been his connection to Sassanfar. So while he was once a student at QMW, this year he was back with a cohort of undergraduates as a faculty member.

Michael Aldarondo-Jeffries, director of academic advancement programs at the University of Central Florida, seconded the value of the networking that takes place at QMW. He has brought students for a decade, including four this year. What he’s observed is that as students come together in settings like QMW or UCF’s McNair program, which helps to prepare students for graduate school, they become inspired about a potential future as researchers.

“The thing that stands out is just the community that’s formed,” he says. “For many of the students, it’s the first time that they’re in a group that understands what they’re moving toward. They don’t have to explain why they’re excited to read papers on a Friday night.”

Or why they are excited to spend a week including New Year’s Day at MIT learning how to apply quantitative methods to life sciences data.

[mephisto-reporting]

The Engineer's Gravity - Yandere! Caleb

Plot: You're a biomechanical engineer in Caleb's fleet, incharge of repairs of prosthetic parts. What happens when you become the subject of the Colonel's obsession? Based on this request. Pairing: Non MC Mechanic! Reader x Yandere! Caleb Note: This story is with slightly darker themes. I do not want people to come at me saying Caleb isn't like this. Yes, I know. This is a Yandere! version of Caleb. Please keep that in mind. If you want to be a part of my taglist, please let me know in the comments, DMs or inbox. Content warning: Yandere male, implied deaths, mutilation, mentions of blood, possessiveness, gaslighting, voilence

CALEB'S POV

The faint hum of the Farspace fleet’s engines was a constant background noise, a rhythm that Caleb had grown accustomed to. It filled the silence as he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the engineering bay, his gloved left hand flexing instinctively while his right hand remained eerily still. It wasn’t the arm itself that unnerved him anymore. No, he’d gotten used to the weight, the cool touch of the synthetic skin against his chest when he rested his hand there. What grated on him was the maintenance—the vulnerability of needing someone else to keep it functional.

The first time he’d come to the mechanic for maintenance, he had been indifferent, as he was to most things in his life. The arm was a tool, no more. Just another part of the machine that was Caleb, the Colonel. She was just another cog in the vast machine of the fleet, a means to an end. He barely remembered their first meeting beyond her clinical efficiency and soft voice, far removed from the barked commands of his officers or the detached drone of his superiors. She’d introduced herself simply, a name he didn’t bother committing to memory at the time, and had begun her work without wasting a second.

He’d sat in silence, his arm stretched out on the diagnostic table, his gaze fixed on the wall as she meticulously checked the connections and replaced worn components. She’d asked him questions—about the arm’s performance, any discomfort he’d noticed—but he’d only answered in monosyllables. He wasn’t trying to be rude; he just didn’t see the point.

She had been… different.

No. She spoke with compassion, with a voice that held an undercurrent of something human. When she’d first touched his arm to inspect it, there was no clinical detachment in her touch—no cold professionalism. Instead, there was a softness, a care.

But she kept showing up, week after week, her presence a constant thread in his routine. She didn’t just maintain his arm; she paid attention. She noticed when he was tense and adjusted her tone accordingly. When she worked, she hummed under her breath—a tune he couldn’t place but found oddly soothing. And unlike the professor who saw him as little more than a prototype for their next experiment, she treated him like a person.

Caleb first noticed it when she spoke to the other fleet members. The soldiers and officers with Toring chips embedded in their bodies, their minds augmented for efficiency but stripped of their individuality, were often treated as tools. Most of the crew barely acknowledged them, but she… she smiled at them. Asked about their day. Made sure they were comfortable during her examinations and modifications.

It wasn’t long before Caleb began to see her differently.

Their interactions changed subtly over time. He found himself lingering in the engineering bay longer than necessary, watching her work under the sharp white lights. She was focused, hands deft as they manipulated wires and micro-tools, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re due for recalibration next week, Colonel.” she said during one session, not looking up from the neural interface she was fine-tuning.

“I’ll be here,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “You’re good at this.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “I’ve had a lot of practice.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not just the work. The way you… treat people. You’re good at that, too.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might dismiss the comment. But instead, she smiled—a soft, genuine thing that made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Everyone deserves to be treated like they matter.” she said simply, turning back to his arm.

He didn’t respond, but those words stayed with him long after he left the bay. Caleb watched her closely, taking note of every smile, every laugh, every time she showed kindness to someone else. It made something dark curl in his chest.

The first time Caleb intervened on her behalf, it was almost instinctual.

He was passing through the mess hall when he heard the sharp edge of Lieutenant Varro’s voice. “You know, for all your compassion, you take forever with repairs. Maybe stop coddling the freaks and do your job faster.”

Caleb froze, his blood turning cold. He rounded the corner to see Varro towering over her, his expression smug. She was holding a tray of food, her shoulders tense but her expression calm as she replied, “I do my job thoroughly, Lieutenant. If you’re unhappy with my work, you can file a complaint.”

Caleb’s steps faltered, his jaw tightening. A cold, simmering rage filled him as he turned to look at the man. He wanted to snap his neck right then and there, but he couldn’t let her see this side of him. Not yet.

So he smiled instead. A cold, calculating smile that sent a chill down Varro’s spine.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb said, his tone deceptively calm. “A word.”

Later that night, Varro didn’t return to his quarters. Whispers spread through the fleet about an "incident" during a routine maintenance check. Caleb made sure it looked like an accident—a malfunction in Varro's own bionic enhancements. No one questioned it, least of all her.

She remained blissfully unaware of the lengths Caleb went to for her.

As the days turned into weeks, Caleb’s obsession deepened. He found himself lingering in her workshop longer than necessary, watching her every move. She would smile at him, her eyes warm and kind, and Caleb would feel something he hadn’t felt since he left home for the DAA. A strange, aching need to keep her close.

“You know,” she said one day, her voice light, “you don’t always have to come here for repairs. You can just... visit, if you want.”

Caleb froze, his gaze locking onto hers. Did she know? Had she figured out how much he craved her presence? But her smile was so genuine, so innocent, that he realized she didn’t suspect a thing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady.

He told her about his family one evening, when the workshop was quiet and the rest of the fleet was asleep. He spoke of the girl he had grown up with, her fiery spirit, and the way she had  carved a place for herself in Linkon.

“She is strong…” Caleb said, his voice low. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

She listened intently, her expression soft. “You must miss her.” she said gently.

Caleb hesitated. Did he? The memory of that girl felt distant, overshadowed by the woman sitting in front of him.

“I don’t think about her much anymore.” he admitted. “There are... other things on my mind.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press.

But Caleb couldn’t stop thinking about her. He thought about the way her hands moved over his arm, the way her laughter echoed in the workshop, the way she seemed to light up the cold, sterile corridors of the fleet.

And when he saw other officers talking to her, laughing with her, something in him snapped. He didn’t like the way they looked at her. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting close to her.

Caleb began to manipulate things behind the scenes, ensuring that no one spent too much time with her. He assigned officers to tasks that kept them far away from her workshop. He spread subtle rumors, casting doubt on the intentions of anyone who showed too much interest in her.

She never noticed. She never questioned why the workshop seemed quieter, why fewer people came to her for help.

And Caleb made sure it stayed that way. In the privacy of his quarters, Caleb would sit in the dim light, his bionic hand flexing involuntarily as he thought about her. She was his. She didn’t know it yet, but she belonged to him.

And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe. To keep her close.

Even if it meant destroying anyone who stood in his way.

YOUR POV

Lately, you’d noticed something strange.

The crew didn’t treat you the way they used to. At first, it was subtle—an officer averting his gaze when you greeted him in the corridor, a technician hurriedly ending a conversation when you approached. Then it became more blatant. People gave you a wide berth in the cafeteria, whispers died the moment you entered a room, and the occasional sidelong glances you caught were laced with something unspoken.

Fear.

It didn’t make sense. You’d always prided yourself on being approachable, on treating everyone with the respect they deserved. Sure, your work was demanding, and your position as the fleet’s biomechanical engineer meant you often had to be firm when it came to protocols, but you weren’t cruel. Far from it. You treated the crew like people, not machines.

But now? It was as though you carried some invisible aura that screamed danger.

And then there were the... incidents.

The first time, you brushed it off as coincidence. Lieutenant Gregor had been reassigned to another fleet without warning, just days after he’d mocked you during a team briefing. You’d chalked it up to bad luck or his own poor behavior catching up to him.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Officers and fleet members who dismissed your concerns, who snapped at you during high-stress missions, who made snide comments about your methods—they all disappeared. Some were reassigned to far-off posts, others were suddenly discharged for disciplinary reasons, and a few even suffered freak accidents that left them unfit for duty.

The pattern was impossible to ignore.

The only constant in all of this was the Colonel.

Or just Caleb, as he’d asked you to call him when it was just the two of you.

“Colonel” felt too formal, too distant, he’d said one evening as you adjusted the fine motor controls on his bionic hand. He’d leaned back in the chair, watching you with an intensity that made you feel both self-conscious and oddly comforted.

“Just Caleb,” he’d said, his voice softer than usual. “When we’re alone.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Over the past few months, he’d become a steady presence in your life, someone you found yourself looking forward to seeing.

And lately, he seemed to be around you more than ever.

It wasn’t just during maintenance sessions anymore. He’d stop by your workshop for no apparent reason, lingering by your workbench as you tinkered with your tools. He’d accompany you on supply runs, his tall frame a protective shadow at your side. When the fleet docked at Skyhaven for shore leave, he invited you to join him for coffee or walks through the market district. He’d cook for you and bring you meals to your residence in Skyhaven, unprompted.

It felt... nice.

You couldn’t deny that you enjoyed his company. Caleb had a dry sense of humor that never failed to catch you off guard, and there was a steadiness to him that you found grounding. Still, there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The way he always seemed to know when someone had upset you. The way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long, as if he were memorizing every detail. The way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

You tried to push the thoughts aside. Caleb was your superior, your colonel. He’d never given you any reason to distrust him. And yet...

One evening, as you recalibrated the sensory feedback in his arm, you decided to bring it up.

“Have you noticed how people have been acting lately?” you asked, keeping your tone light as you adjusted a tiny screw. “It’s like they think I’m some kind of... I don’t know, threat or something.”

You glanced up at Caleb, expecting him to shrug it off with one of his usual dry remarks. Instead, his body tensed, just for a moment. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might have missed it.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“It’s just a feeling.” you said, turning back to his arm. “People avoiding me, whispering when they think I can’t hear. And then there are the reassignment orders. It’s like anyone who crosses me is... gone.”

There was a long pause.

“It’s nothing.” Caleb said finally. “Tensions have been high since the last Deepspace tunnel exploration. People are on edge.”

You frowned but didn’t press the issue. Maybe he was right. The fleet had been through a lot recently, and stress had a way of making people act strangely. Still, something about his explanation didn’t sit right with you.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “That makes sense.”

But it didn’t. Not entirely.

Still, you knew better than to poke your nose where it didn’t belong. You’d learned long ago that asking too many questions could lead to trouble, and trouble was the last thing you needed.

So you stayed in your lane, focusing on your work and pretending not to notice the way Caleb’s presence seemed to permeate every aspect of your life. You told yourself it was fine, that his increased attention was nothing to worry about. After all, you trusted Caleb. He’d always been kind to you, always treated you with respect. And if his gaze lingered a little too long, if his touch was a little too gentle when he handed you a tool, if his smile held a hint of something darker—you ignored it.

Because Caleb was the only person who hadn’t changed. The only person who still treated you like... you.

The ship was silent at night, the hum of its engines a low, constant thrum beneath your feet as you walked through the dimly lit corridors. You’d been restless, the bitter taste of Lieutenant Reese’s words still fresh in your mind. The new Lieutenant had been transferred to Caleb’s fleet three weeks ago and was already causing tensions within the hierarchy of how things ran in the fleet.

“Guess even engineers need quotas filled, huh? They really let anyone take up space on this ship these days,” he had sneered during a systems check earlier. “Bet you’ve only kept this position because someone up high likes the way you look.”

His smirk had twisted into something crueler as he leaned closer. “Face it. You’re not here because you’re good—you’re here because you’re convenient.”

The humiliation burned as much now as it had then. You clenched your fists at the memory, your footsteps echoing softly against the metal floor. You’d worked too hard, poured too much of yourself into your work, to have it dismissed so callously. And yet, his words lingered like a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the sound.

A muffled grunt. A crash.

And then—a sickening crunch.

You froze. Every instinct screamed at you to turn back, to return to your quarters and pretend you hadn’t heard anything. But your curiosity—or perhaps some misplaced sense of duty—compelled you forward. Quietly, you padded down the corridor, following the noise until you reached a maintenance bay.

What you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

Caleb stood over Lieutenant Reese, who was slumped against the wall, blood smeared across his face. The lieutenant’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, his body trembling as he let out a pained whimper. Caleb’s hand was clamped tightly around Reese’s throat, his grip firm but not enough to choke.

Not yet.

“You thought you could get away with it?” Caleb said, his voice low and steady, each word laced with venom. “Insulting her. Undermining her. Disrespecting her.”

Reese tried to stammer out a response, but Caleb’s hand tightened, silencing him.

“You signed your life away the moment you opened your mouth.” Caleb continued, his tone almost conversational, as if he were discussing something as mundane as a supply requisition. “She’s worth more than you’ll ever be. Do you even understand that?”

Reese’s legs kicked weakly, his breaths ragged. Caleb tilted his head, his expression shifting from cold fury to mild disappointment.

“Pathetic!” he muttered, releasing the lieutenant’s throat. Reese crumpled to the ground, wheezing and coughing. Caleb watched him for a moment, then raised his foot and brought it down sharply on Reese’s hand. The sound of bones breaking echoed in the bay.

The lieutenant went limp, his body a lifeless heap. Caleb crouched beside him, his expression one of disdain. “Weak,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned his head, his gaze locking onto you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension. Caleb’s expression shifted from cold to shocked in the blink of an eye, but his eyes—the ones that had always been so warm towards you—now seemed empty, calculating.

He stood still for a moment, then took a step toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Don’t be scared,” Caleb said softly, though there was an edge to his words. “I’m just protecting you. I would never let anyone hurt you, never.”

Your mind raced, your pulse quickening. You’d seen this side of Caleb before—quiet, intense, protective—but this? This was something else. He was different.

“Protected me?” you repeated, your heart pounding. “From what?”

“From him,” Caleb replied, gesturing to Reese’s motionless form. “He disrespected you. He questioned your worth. He hurt you.”

His gaze softened, and he took another step closer. “I won’t allow that. Not from him. Not from anyone.”

“This—this isn’t right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Caleb interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “And I will. You may not see it now, but this is what’s necessary.”

You stared at him, searching for any hint of remorse, but there was none. Only conviction.

“I’ll always protect you.” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Even when you think you don’t need it. Even when you don’t understand why.”

You took a step back, your mind racing. But even as you tried to process what you’d seen and heard, a cold realization settled over you.

He closed the distance between you, his steps soft but purposeful, until he was standing right in front of you. His face was close, too close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been through so much,” he continued, his voice soothing, almost affectionate. “You don’t need to worry about the people who don’t understand you. I’ll always protect you.” He repeats. “Even when you don’t ask for it.”

You swallowed; your throat dry. You should have been afraid, terrified even. But you weren’t. A part of you was frozen, caught in the web of his words, of his gaze. He was so sure of himself, so confident, and it was hard not to believe him when he looked at you like that.

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re mine,” Caleb whispered, his words not a command but a promise. “No one will ever take you from me. Not ever.”

You should have questioned it, should have asked him what he meant, why he was doing this. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, you realized you couldn’t escape.

Not really.

You knew who Caleb was. You knew what he was capable of. And you knew that the resources of the Farspace Fleet, the professor, and Caleb’s power meant there was no running, no hiding from him. You’d seen what happened to those who crossed you. And now, you didn’t doubt for a second that Caleb was behind it.

But what unnerved you most was the way he looked at you now. Not with malice, not with cruelty, but with something softer. Something almost tender.

“Stay.” he said, his voice coaxing. “I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

You swallowed hard, your mind screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there. And yet... you nodded.

Because deep down, you knew he was right about one thing.

Caleb would never hurt you.

As long as you stayed.

He would never let anyone touch you. He would never let anyone harm you.

You were his, and he was yours.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood there, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

And as Caleb stepped back, his eyes softening, a reassuring smile tugging at his lips, you knew one thing for certain: you were far past the point of no return.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Bossware is unfair (in the legal sense, too)

You can get into a lot of trouble by assuming that rich people know what they're doing. For example, might assume that ad-tech works – bypassing peoples' critical faculties, reaching inside their minds and brainwashing them with Big Data insights, because if that's not what's happening, then why would rich people pour billions into those ads?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/06/surveillance-tulip-bulbs/#adtech-bubble

You might assume that private equity looters make their investors rich, because otherwise, why would rich people hand over trillions for them to play with?

https://thenextrecession.wordpress.com/2024/11/19/private-equity-vampire-capital/

The truth is, rich people are suckers like the rest of us. If anything, succeeding once or twice makes you an even bigger mark, with a sense of your own infallibility that inflates to fill the bubble your yes-men seal you inside of.

Rich people fall for scams just like you and me. Anyone can be a mark. I was:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/05/cyber-dunning-kruger/#swiss-cheese-security

But though rich people can fall for scams the same way you and I do, the way those scams play out is very different when the marks are wealthy. As Keynes had it, "The market can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent." When the marks are rich (or worse, super-rich), they can be played for much longer before they go bust, creating the appearance of solidity.

Noted Keynesian John Kenneth Galbraith had his own thoughts on this. Galbraith coined the term "bezzle" to describe "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In that magic interval, everyone feels better off: the mark thinks he's up, and the con artist knows he's up.

Rich marks have looong bezzles. Empirically incorrect ideas grounded in the most outrageous superstition and junk science can take over whole sections of your life, simply because a rich person – or rich people – are convinced that they're good for you.

Take "scientific management." In the early 20th century, the con artist Frederick Taylor convinced rich industrialists that he could increase their workers' productivity through a kind of caliper-and-stopwatch driven choreographry:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Taylor and his army of labcoated sadists perched at the elbows of factory workers (whom Taylor referred to as "stupid," "mentally sluggish," and as "an ox") and scripted their motions to a fare-the-well, transforming their work into a kind of kabuki of obedience. They weren't more efficient, but they looked smart, like obedient robots, and this made their bosses happy. The bosses shelled out fortunes for Taylor's services, even though the workers who followed his prescriptions were less efficient and generated fewer profits. Bosses were so dazzled by the spectacle of a factory floor of crisply moving people interfacing with crisply working machines that they failed to understand that they were losing money on the whole business.

To the extent they noticed that their revenues were declining after implementing Taylorism, they assumed that this was because they needed more scientific management. Taylor had a sweet con: the worse his advice performed, the more reasons their were to pay him for more advice.

Taylorism is a perfect con to run on the wealthy and powerful. It feeds into their prejudice and mistrust of their workers, and into their misplaced confidence in their own ability to understand their workers' jobs better than their workers do. There's always a long dollar to be made playing the "scientific management" con.

Today, there's an app for that. "Bossware" is a class of technology that monitors and disciplines workers, and it was supercharged by the pandemic and the rise of work-from-home. Combine bossware with work-from-home and your boss gets to control your life even when in your own place – "work from home" becomes "live at work":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/24/gwb-rumsfeld-monsters/#bossware

Gig workers are at the white-hot center of bossware. Gig work promises "be your own boss," but bossware puts a Taylorist caliper wielder into your phone, monitoring and disciplining you as you drive your wn car around delivering parcels or picking up passengers.

In automation terms, a worker hitched to an app this way is a "reverse centaur." Automation theorists call a human augmented by a machine a "centaur" – a human head supported by a machine's tireless and strong body. A "reverse centaur" is a machine augmented by a human – like the Amazon delivery driver whose app goads them to make inhuman delivery quotas while punishing them for looking in the "wrong" direction or even singing along with the radio:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/02/despotism-on-demand/#virtual-whips

Bossware pre-dates the current AI bubble, but AI mania has supercharged it. AI pumpers insist that AI can do things it positively cannot do – rolling out an "autonomous robot" that turns out to be a guy in a robot suit, say – and rich people are groomed to buy the services of "AI-powered" bossware:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

For an AI scammer like Elon Musk or Sam Altman, the fact that an AI can't do your job is irrelevant. From a business perspective, the only thing that matters is whether a salesperson can convince your boss that an AI can do your job – whether or not that's true:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

The fact that AI can't do your job, but that your boss can be convinced to fire you and replace you with the AI that can't do your job, is the central fact of the 21st century labor market. AI has created a world of "algorithmic management" where humans are demoted to reverse centaurs, monitored and bossed about by an app.

The techbro's overwhelming conceit is that nothing is a crime, so long as you do it with an app. Just as fintech is designed to be a bank that's exempt from banking regulations, the gig economy is meant to be a workplace that's exempt from labor law. But this wheeze is transparent, and easily pierced by enforcers, so long as those enforcers want to do their jobs. One such enforcer is Alvaro Bedoya, an FTC commissioner with a keen interest in antitrust's relationship to labor protection.

Bedoya understands that antitrust has a checkered history when it comes to labor. As he's written, the history of antitrust is a series of incidents in which Congress revised the law to make it clear that forming a union was not the same thing as forming a cartel, only to be ignored by boss-friendly judges:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Bedoya is no mere historian. He's an FTC Commissioner, one of the most powerful regulators in the world, and he's profoundly interested in using that power to help workers, especially gig workers, whose misery starts with systemic, wide-scale misclassification as contractors:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/02/upward-redistribution/

In a new speech to NYU's Wagner School of Public Service, Bedoya argues that the FTC's existing authority allows it to crack down on algorithmic management – that is, algorithmic management is illegal, even if you break the law with an app:

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-remarks-unfairness-in-workplace-surveillance-and-automated-management.pdf

Bedoya starts with a delightful analogy to The Hawtch-Hawtch, a mythical town from a Dr Seuss poem. The Hawtch-Hawtch economy is based on beekeeping, and the Hawtchers develop an overwhelming obsession with their bee's laziness, and determine to wring more work (and more honey) out of him. So they appoint a "bee-watcher." But the bee doesn't produce any more honey, which leads the Hawtchers to suspect their bee-watcher might be sleeping on the job, so they hire a bee-watcher-watcher. When that doesn't work, they hire a bee-watcher-watcher-watcher, and so on and on.

For gig workers, it's bee-watchers all the way down. Call center workers are subjected to "AI" video monitoring, and "AI" voice monitoring that purports to measure their empathy. Another AI times their calls. Two more AIs analyze the "sentiment" of the calls and the success of workers in meeting arbitrary metrics. On average, a call-center worker is subjected to five forms of bossware, which stand at their shoulders, marking them down and brooking no debate.

For example, when an experienced call center operator fielded a call from a customer with a flooded house who wanted to know why no one from her boss's repair plan system had come out to address the flooding, the operator was punished by the AI for failing to try to sell the customer a repair plan. There was no way for the operator to protest that the customer had a repair plan already, and had called to complain about it.

Workers report being sickened by this kind of surveillance, literally – stressed to the point of nausea and insomnia. Ironically, one of the most pervasive sources of automation-driven sickness are the "AI wellness" apps that bosses are sold by AI hucksters:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/15/wellness-taylorism/#sick-of-spying

The FTC has broad authority to block "unfair trade practices," and Bedoya builds the case that this is an unfair trade practice. Proving an unfair trade practice is a three-part test: a practice is unfair if it causes "substantial injury," can't be "reasonably avoided," and isn't outweighed by a "countervailing benefit." In his speech, Bedoya makes the case that algorithmic management satisfies all three steps and is thus illegal.

On the question of "substantial injury," Bedoya describes the workday of warehouse workers working for ecommerce sites. He describes one worker who is monitored by an AI that requires him to pick and drop an object off a moving belt every 10 seconds, for ten hours per day. The worker's performance is tracked by a leaderboard, and supervisors punish and scold workers who don't make quota, and the algorithm auto-fires if you fail to meet it.

Under those conditions, it was only a matter of time until the worker experienced injuries to two of his discs and was permanently disabled, with the company being found 100% responsible for this injury. OSHA found a "direct connection" between the algorithm and the injury. No wonder warehouses sport vending machines that sell painkillers rather than sodas. It's clear that algorithmic management leads to "substantial injury."

What about "reasonably avoidable?" Can workers avoid the harms of algorithmic management? Bedoya describes the experience of NYC rideshare drivers who attended a round-table with him. The drivers describe logging tens of thousands of successful rides for the apps they work for, on promise of "being their own boss." But then the apps start randomly suspending them, telling them they aren't eligible to book a ride for hours at a time, sending them across town to serve an underserved area and still suspending them. Drivers who stop for coffee or a pee are locked out of the apps for hours as punishment, and so drive 12-hour shifts without a single break, in hopes of pleasing the inscrutable, high-handed app.

All this, as drivers' pay is falling and their credit card debts are mounting. No one will explain to drivers how their pay is determined, though the legal scholar Veena Dubal's work on "algorithmic wage discrimination" reveals that rideshare apps temporarily increase the pay of drivers who refuse rides, only to lower it again once they're back behind the wheel:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

This is like the pit boss who gives a losing gambler some freebies to lure them back to the table, over and over, until they're broke. No wonder they call this a "casino mechanic." There's only two major rideshare apps, and they both use the same high-handed tactics. For Bedoya, this satisfies the second test for an "unfair practice" – it can't be reasonably avoided. If you drive rideshare, you're trapped by the harmful conduct.

The final prong of the "unfair practice" test is whether the conduct has "countervailing value" that makes up for this harm.

To address this, Bedoya goes back to the call center, where operators' performance is assessed by "Speech Emotion Recognition" algorithms, a psuedoscientific hoax that purports to be able to determine your emotions from your voice. These SERs don't work – for example, they might interpret a customer's laughter as anger. But they fail differently for different kinds of workers: workers with accents – from the American south, or the Philippines – attract more disapprobation from the AI. Half of all call center workers are monitored by SERs, and a quarter of workers have SERs scoring them "constantly."

Bossware AIs also produce transcripts of these workers' calls, but workers with accents find them "riddled with errors." These are consequential errors, since their bosses assess their performance based on the transcripts, and yet another AI produces automated work scores based on them.

In other words, algorithmic management is a procession of bee-watchers, bee-watcher-watchers, and bee-watcher-watcher-watchers, stretching to infinity. It's junk science. It's not producing better call center workers. It's producing arbitrary punishments, often against the best workers in the call center.

There is no "countervailing benefit" to offset the unavoidable substantial injury of life under algorithmic management. In other words, algorithmic management fails all three prongs of the "unfair practice" test, and it's illegal.

What should we do about it? Bedoya builds the case for the FTC acting on workers' behalf under its "unfair practice" authority, but he also points out that the lack of worker privacy is at the root of this hellscape of algorithmic management.

He's right. The last major update Congress made to US privacy law was in 1988, when they banned video-store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you rented. The US is long overdue for a new privacy regime, and workers under algorithmic management are part of a broad coalition that's closer than ever to making that happen:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

Workers should have the right to know which of their data is being collected, who it's being shared by, and how it's being used. We all should have that right. That's what the actors' strike was partly motivated by: actors who were being ordered to wear mocap suits to produce data that could be used to produce a digital double of them, "training their replacement," but the replacement was a deepfake.

With a Trump administration on the horizon, the future of the FTC is in doubt. But the coalition for a new privacy law includes many of Trumpland's most powerful blocs – like Jan 6 rioters whose location was swept up by Google and handed over to the FBI. A strong privacy law would protect their Fourth Amendment rights – but also the rights of BLM protesters who experienced this far more often, and with far worse consequences, than the insurrectionists.

The "we do it with an app, so it's not illegal" ruse is wearing thinner by the day. When you have a boss for an app, your real boss gets an accountability sink, a convenient scapegoat that can be blamed for your misery.

The fact that this makes you worse at your job, that it loses your boss money, is no guarantee that you will be spared. Rich people make great marks, and they can remain irrational longer than you can remain solvent. Markets won't solve this one – but worker power can.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[keferon]

Part 3! Ratchet and Deadlock time.

The ray of sunshine has left, leaving us in the cold dark of the angst.

Ratchet works through some stuff.

———————————————————————

Ratchet hadn’t actually meant for the conversation to start with Roddy.

The medic had wanted to fully explain why he’d left the Mecha Program for awhile. His outburst earlier cementing the fact he needed to get it off his chest, or he’d start lashing out at the wrong people.

Again.

The Kid deserved to know what staying with him could drag him into. Ratchet kept his hands busy cleaning his bowl in the shop sink.

Hot Rod, Ratchet realized, was a good enough bridge into the topic. Someone Deadlock could put a face to. Not just nameless pilots upon pilots.

“There’s a condition called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain. CIP for short. The abbreviated explanation is sometimes humans can be born without the ability to feel pain or that the sensation of pain doesn’t translate correctly to the brain. It’s a very dangerous condition to have since it means that the person doesn’t get the usual warning signs that’s something’s wrong.”

The bowl was completely clean but so long as Ratchet didn’t turn around, he could pretend he was just training a med student.

“So that question about “weird pressures”. You were checking for damage Hot Rod doesn’t know he’s sustained due this CIP condition?”

Kid was smarter than he gave himself credit for. Ratchet thought for not the first time. He almost got it right.

“Hot Rod doesn’t have CIP. Not actual CIP.”

Ratchet put the bowl down, his hand not moving from the faucet after turning it off.

“He wasn’t born with it. Because I caused it.”

—————————

“I was so damn proud.” Said Ratchet.

At the time, he was. The integration process for recruits to become pilots was horrific. Excruciatingly painful. And something out of a science fiction movie.

In order to condition the human nervous system to work with the mecha neural interface, it necessitated mapping out every nerve and neuron in the pilots body.

While conscious.

Orion came up with the best analogy for it once: You could create a perfect 3 dimensional map of an entire ant colony’s nest. Provided you poured enough molten lead down the hole.

Ratchet wasn’t one to standby watching friends or strangers suffer, so he rolled up his sleeves and set his mind to fixing the whole damn thing.

On the line between man and machine, Ratchets role in the mecha program was right on the fence.

Specifically, he’d started very close to the fence on the side of the machines, and during the course of the program, picked up enough extra PHD’s to hook a leg over said fence to reach across and start smacking the shit out of some particularly stupid doctors handling the men.

Ratchet worked for years along side Pharma and Shockwave to make the integration process less permanently damaging.

Common long term side effects were: Blurry Vision Jazz, Disassociation Swoop, Memory Loss Sludge, Paralysis Snarl, Nerve Damge Slag, Internal Hemorrhaging Grimlock, Altered Personality Shockwave, and Brain Death Orion.

There were dozens more faces Ratchet could pair with any given symptom.

Eventually, Ratchet got his lucky break. A fresh batch of recruits to try his tweaked integration process on. Hot Rod was one of them.

Ratchet had thought he’d hit a breakthrough. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t publish it yet. Not until he was sure.

Hot Rod aced the physical and mental exam. The rest of his test group did pretty well too. They weren’t cream of the crop. The higher ups didn’t want to risk loosing more valuable pilots to an experiment. When Pharma had already established an “acceptable level of care” that nicely suited them.

Ratchet personally watched the lot of them like a hawk. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It didn’t come. Hot Rod was fine. The whole group was fine.

He was so damn proud.

The pilots went straight into mecha training and then-

They dropped like flies.

It was on the bad end of the bell curve for pilot fatalities. Ratchet thought it had to be the new series of mecha that had been built at the same time. He’d switched into engineering mode to rectify that. They had glaring safety issues where the flamethrowers and thrusters intersected. Plus, it wasn’t unusual for the mecha program to just have particularly rough seasons. The tentacled fucks were out in swarms. And by god was that a bloody summer for everyone.

It happened three days after the last big fight. Pretty much everyone who came back alive came back with some sort of injury. Except for Hot Rod, who Pharma gave a clean bill of health.

Ratchet was in his corner of the medical wing, looking over his proposal for the new integration method when Jazz dragged Hot Rod into his office.

Red flag number one: Jazz was a nightmare patient who avoided the med wing like a bear trap.

He tried. Goddamn it if Jazz didn’t try, but he was physically incapable of getting through medical procedures without being heavily sedated. The last time Ratchet tried to do minor stitches with only a local anesthetic, Jazz panicked and damn near broke his arm.

Jazz and Hot Rod were both wearing shorts, t-shirts and sneakers. Judging from the smell, they had just gotten here from the rec room. Probably basketball or maybe dodgeball.

Ratchet had gone through a full medical checklist before they finished coming through the door. Neither looked sick or injured. Nothing was obviously wrong beyond the clear look on Jazz’s face that said “Something is actually very wrong.”

Jazz wheeled Hot Rod in front of Ratchet.

“Show him.”

Hot Rod looked more embarrassed than in desperate need of medical attention.

“I’m fine Jazz, I probably just need to stretch.”

Jazz waved his hand cutting him off. Ratchet would usually start telling them off by now but something stopped him.

“Hot Rod raise your arms above your head. Both of them.”

The red headed pilot reluctantly obeyed. His right arm lifted straight up above his body. His left. Hot Rod made a face of concentration, as his left arm refused to go any higher than his head.

Three days.

Hot Rods shoulder had been dislocated for three days and no one fucking noticed.

Ratchet chewed out Jazz at first thinking he’d caused it. Then he chewed out Hot Rod for not coming to medical as soon as he knew about the injury.

And then, something very cold settled into his stomach the more and more Hot Rod swore he didn’t notice. That it didn’t even hurt.

“Ratchet, I’m fine!”

He should have been in pain. In agony after three days.

Later, Ratchet would go through each medical file of every pilot he had been responsible for. They had all had ailments in their files. Minor visible injuries that were all taken care of. Major ones went surprisingly smoothly. Patient notes praising the med staff for keeping them so comfortable. Praising him. Not one pilot had made a single pain med request since going through the integration process. On his files, there was one surviving active duty pilot from the same integration process.

Ratchet’s integration process.

————————

“Hot Rod said he forgave me.” Ratchet laughed. A little too wet and little too rough.

“Just like that.”

When’d he start shaking?

Ratchet still didn’t, couldn’t look the Kid in the eyes. “I left, not long after. There’s so much fucking more that was happening. That was the last straw, because when I told Shockwave and Pharma, those heartless fucks wanted to make it standard across the board. Soldiers that can’t feel pain? Of fucking course they wanted that. Didn’t matter the fatality rate was nine times as high.”

Ratchets voice was getting worse. But he couldn’t stop. “I thought I could fix it all from the inside. I thought as long as I stayed I could be some, fucking moral compass to a bunch of greedy, prideful, fucking deranged people. I was an egotistical IDIOT that thought I could somehow save every doomed kid tricked into walking into that “necessary evil.” I actually believed I could-”

Ratchet was abruptly cut off from his ranting as two massive hands grabbed him around the waist and deposited him on a ledge, at eye level.

“Kid, what-“ Deadlocks eyes looked shiny.

“I-I can’t keep looking down at you.”

The two of them sat in silence.

Neither seemed to know or want to start talking again right away. Ratchet was used to stewing in regrets on occasion. That had felt more like putting those regrets into a blender and then forgetting the lid.

Deadlocks plating was pulled tight. Ratchet had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was stressed. He wanted immediately to take it all back. Make it better. See him laugh drunk and cozy again like yesterday.

“Kid, I’m sorry. That- that was too much to put on you.” Deadlocks hands weren’t gripping him anymore but resting on either side of the ledge. Ratchet pet small circles on a thumb that twitched slightly under his hand.

Deadlock straightened and looked at him with a steely expression, mouth tense, eyes determined.

“You are one of the most intelligent, stubborn, and caring people I’ve ever met. Nope.” Deadlock corrected himself, lifting a hand. “THE most intelligent, stubborn and caring person that exists.” He dragged out the syllables of that last word.

“You!” He poked Ratchet in the chest. “Saved me. And I’m fragging terrible.”

Ratchet took offense to that, “You’re not terrible and you’re worth saving!”

Deadlock grinned, “The worst thing you can possibly say about yourself is that you care too much to put up with some kind of slagged up torture facility. Which, by the way, I am still fully offering to blown up.”

“Still full of innocent people kid.”

“Okay kidnapping then. I say we nab Hot Rod first.”

Ratchet leaned back against the wall and made one of those desperate chuckles you only hear when someone has their face buried in their hands. “Kid. The quintessons.”

That took a little wind out of his sails.

“The system is fucking broken and trust me I want to see it all burn someday. But we’re in a goddamn war. And as much as I hate the mecha program, it’s the best shot at survival we have.” Ratchet watched Deadlocks finales pin back again.

He offered a palm to Ratchet, who after a moment’s consideration, not very gracefully scooted on. Instead of lowering him to the floor, Deadlock brought him to his face. His eyes closed and he gently bumped his medic with his forehelm.

“Whatever you need. Just ask. Please.”

Ratchet sighed and rested his own forehead against the cybertronian. “I want you take care of yourself. I told you all that stuff so you understand why I’m fighting giants here and you can decide to back out. They can hurt you kid. Kill you. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Shockwave found you instead of me.”

Deadlock snorted, “Please, do you think any of those suits could handle me?”

Ratchet tapped his hand to put him down, which Deadlock obliged. He hummed.

“Well I can think of three candidates off the top of my head, but one got lost in space and the other might technically be a zombie.”

“What’s the third?”

Ratchet started shrugging on a coat, “Hot Rod.”

He smirked a bit as Deadlocks finales snapped up in offense. “What? Absolutely not. No fragging way that little rust spot can beat me in a fight.”

Ratchet began packing a go bag of medical supplies, “Well I was going to keep it to myself, but part of the reason I brought him in was because I asked Hot Rod to look out for you where I can’t.”

He slung the heavy bag over one shoulder. “Plus, I knew Hot Rod was going to love you. He sees the best in people. And kid?” Ratchet paused at the door.

“You’re someone special.”

———————————————————————

It’s always darkest before the dawn. This…has become a four parter. Dang. Good news is the ray of sunshine will return in style next time.

Some extra tid-bits, I got a head canon that the main side effect Jazz got from the integration process (other than PTSD) is blurry vision. He can see fine while hooked into a mech but can’t get his eyes to focus properly as a human. So Ratchet whipped up a visor that tricks his eyes into thinking he’s still looking through a mecha so he can see normally.

Also, a lot of you guys guessed correctly what was going on with Roddy! Good job everyone!

Lastly I have nothing personal against the dinobots if you love them I’m very sorry.

The next (last?) part will be much brighter. Because the suns coming back.

- SSTP

Oh.....oh fuck....wait WAIT THIS HAS SO MUCH MORE LAYERS THAN I WAS EXPECTING OH MY GOD

I was like. Okay huh. So Roddy can't feel pain right? He must be having this rare condition and? I don't really see where this is going? Huh. Guess it's time to find ouUUUUUH FUCK.

Please. Oh my god. The fact that Ratchet was the one who made him to be like that??? This gives both of them and their dynamic more layers than in a freaking onion. And Roddy didn't just suffer from Ratchets actions. He forgave him. Because OF COURSE he did, he's always giving everyone a second chance I LOVE THIS CONCEPT SO MUCH YOU HAVE NO IDEA

[theonion]

In a long-awaited product update from the startup that has developed brain-machine interfaces so rhesus macaques can play video games with their minds, Elon Musk revealed a new project Monday that would teach monkeys outfitted with Neuralink chips to sexually harass their coworkers. “Using state-of-the-art brain implants, we can train monkeys to understand what professional boundaries are and how they can be transgressed in a highly inappropriate and sexual manner,” said Musk, explaining how Neuralink’s Bluetooth-enabled chips could be used to activate the motor cortex of a primate so that it administers unwanted massages in the workplace or uses rudimentary sign language to comment on a coworker’s body.

Full Story

[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

[sixeyesonathiel]

PANOPTICON — tenant!satoru x cctv operator!reader

cw/cn : voyeurism, masturbation, psychological tension and obsession, degradation kink, 2.2k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/ n : wrote this with this fic in mind, premise was just so good i had to do my own take with it, yummerz <3 part two someday!

tokyo’s crown jewel, they call it. the obsidian spire.

a high-rise so exclusive it’s practically a myth, its black glass facade slicing the tokyo skyline. ninety floors of wealth and secrets, where the air smells of money and the shadows hide sins. the lobby alone could swallow your old apartment whole—marble floors veined with gold, chandeliers dripping crystal, air so crisp it stings your lungs. the tenants? ceos, diplomats, faces you’ve seen on headlines but never in person. they glide through, untouchable, their lives a mystery behind keycard-locked doors.

you’re just the night watch. the graveyard shift concierge-slash-cctv operator, tucked in a surveillance room that hums like a living thing. thirty-two screens, a glowing wall of eyes, each one a window into their world. your world is smaller—coffee gone cold, a chair that creaks, a badge that says you belong but doesn’t mean it. on paper, it’s simple. monitor. log. report. keep the machine running.

nobody told you the screens would pull you in.

nobody warned you about floor seventy.

nobody warned you about him.

satoru gojo. penthouse 70-B.

a name you didn’t know until that first night, but now it’s carved into your pulse, a rhythm you can’t shake. he’s a creature of habit—gym at 10:00 p.m., pool at midnight, smoking shirtless on his balcony by 2:00, always lit like a stage, always alone. always just close enough to the camera to make your skin burn.

you tell yourself it’s protocol. safety. your job.

but you don’t track the others like this. don’t grind into your chair when they stretch, don’t replay their footage, don’t whisper their names through trembling fingers as they move, unaware, under your gaze. only him. only satoru. his body in the jacuzzi, head tipped back, hands sliding over his chest like a lover’s—your hands, in your dreams.

he doesn’t smile at the cameras. doesn’t wink.

but god, he knows. he lingers too long in the lobby mirror, adjusting his tie with fingers that drag slow, deliberate, down his throat. lets his robe slip open in the sauna, just enough to tease. pauses in the elevator, fixing his hair, his reflection a taunt you can’t look away from.

you consume it. devour it. a starving thing, clawing at scraps of him through glass and wire.

it started three weeks ago. your first shift.

your workplace was new to you then, its weight still sinking into your bones. the surveillance room felt like a cockpit, all blinking lights and quiet menace, the screens alive with the building’s pulse. you were still learning the system—camera toggles, tenant logs, the web interface that mapped every floor, every door. your hands shook, fumbling with the controls, nerves raw from the pressure of not screwing up.

then he walked in.

lobby camera, center frame. 1:47 a.m.

a man—tall, lean, platinum hair catching the chandelier glow like a halo. black coat unbuttoned, shirt half-untucked, tie loose like he’d tugged it free mid-conversation. he moved like water, smooth and unhurried, every step a claim on the space around him.

your breath hitched.

he stopped at the lobby desk, empty at this hour, and leaned against it, one elbow propped, head tilted back. his throat—long, pale, exposed—gleamed under the light, and you stared, frozen, as his fingers brushed his jaw, slow, almost lazy, like he was touching himself for you.

you didn’t mean to zoom in.

your finger slipped, nudged the control, and the camera tightened on him—his jawline, sharp enough to cut, the faint curve of his lips, the way his lashes framed eyes you couldn’t see but felt, even through the screen. your mouth went dry. your pulse throbbed, low and heavy, between your thighs.

he didn’t look at the camera. didn’t need to.

he just stood there, a god in tailored black, and you were already falling. already his.

“who…” you whispered, voice cracking, barely audible over the hum of the room.

your hands moved before you could stop them. the web interface—tenant directory, access logs. you pulled it up, fingers trembling as you typed, cross-referencing the timestamp, the lobby feed, the elevator he’d step into.

floor seventy. penthouse 70-B.

satoru gojo.

the name burned itself into you, a brand you’d carry. you stared at it, at the screen, at him, still lingering in the lobby, now turning toward the elevator. he paused, just for a moment, and ran a hand through his hair, slow, deliberate, fingers dragging through platinum strands like he knew you were watching. like he wanted you to.

your thighs pressed together.

you felt it—the heat, the ache, the pull of him through the screen. you sat there, shaking, staring as he stepped into the elevator, as the doors closed, as the number ticked up to seventy.

you didn’t sleep when you got home. couldn’t.

you saw his throat, his fingers, the way he moved, every time you closed your eyes.

now, weeks later, it’s worse.

he’s a habit you can’t break. a drug you don’t want to.

tonight, he’s on the balcony, not the gym. 2:13 a.m. cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling around his lips like a lover’s caress. shirtless, of course, because he knows—god, he has to know—how it wrecks you. his chest gleams under the city lights, lean muscle shifting as he leans against the railing, head tipped back, throat bared like an offering.

your finger hovers over the balcony feed. trembles. taps.

the screen zooms in, and you’re gone.

“satoru…” you whisper, voice raw, breaking on his name.

the surveillance room is a tomb, dim and buzzing, your only company the cold coffee at your elbow and the chair that groans under your weight. your shoe taps the desk’s base, a nervous rhythm, but it’s not enough to ground you. nothing is.

you shouldn’t.

you really, really shouldn’t.

but you lean in, elbows braced, forehead dropping into one hand as the other slips between your thighs. just over your pants, at first, palm pressing against the damp heat already soaking through. you’re shaking, breath caught in your throat, the pressure hitting too sharp, too fast.

he exhales, smoke spilling from his lips, and you whimper, a tiny, choked sound, as your fingers press harder, grinding slow circles that make your hips twitch. shame burns your cheeks, but it’s not enough to stop. it’s never enough.

he shifts, one hand sliding down his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his waistband—low, too low, always too low—and you’re panting now, thighs squeezing tight, the chair creaking as you rock against your hand.

“fuck…” you hiss, barely audible, but it feels like a scream.

you imagine him knowing. imagine him turning, ocean eyes piercing the lens, that cruel, lazy smirk curling his lips as he sees you—sees you falling apart, sees you desperate, sees you his. you imagine his voice, low and smooth, calling you filthy, calling you his little voyeur, telling you to beg for him.

your other hand tangles in your hair, pulling, muffling the sounds you can’t keep in. you’re pathetic. you know it. every night, the same surrender, the same ruin. and still, your stomach twists, your pulse hammers, like it’s the first time he’s stripped you bare with a glance.

he flicks the cigarette away. leans further back, arms spread along the railing, chest flexing, abs tightening. a performance. a fucking taunt.

your fingers slip under your waistband, find slick, find heat, and you moan, soft, broken, as you curl them inside, chasing the ache he’s carved into you. you’re trembling, hips jerking, the pressure building too fast, too sharp.

“please… satoru…” you’re begging now, nonsense spilling from your lips, tears pricking your eyes as you grind against your hand. you want his fingers, his mouth, his cock—want him to pin you down, to fuck you until you’re sobbing, until you’re nothing but his.

the screen blurs. your vision blurs.

he turns, just slightly, and for a moment—god, fuck—you think he looks. not at the camera, not quite, but close enough, his lips twitching, almost a smirk, like he feels you, knows you’re there, knows you’re coming undone for him.

the orgasm cuts through you like glass—swift, brutal, unrelenting. your body jerks, folds in on itself, thighs squeezing tight around your trembling hand as your hips lurch forward. your other palm flies to your mouth, barely stifling the broken sob that claws its way out. you come fast, filthy, slick flooding your fingers as your eyes stay locked on him—on the way he just stands there, untouched, untouchable, claiming you without ever lifting a finger.

you slump back, shaking, panting, the screen still burning with his image.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t glance up. but that almost-smirk lingers, like he knows.

your fingers fumble, minimizing the feed. you close your eyes, bite your cheek until you taste copper, but it’s no use.

it’s just the same old regret with no attempt to change.

the morning after, you’re late.

first mistake.

the service elevator’s down, stairwell’s sealed, and your badge won’t open the freight. no choice but to take the main lift, even with the day staff still lingering, even with the high-rise’s elite drifting in for their shadowed deals. you tap the button, fix your collar in the glass pane, tell yourself it’s fine.

it’s not.

the doors slide open, and he’s there.

satoru gojo. seventy-B.

leaning against the panel, one hand in his pocket, black coat draped over his frame like it was tailored for sin. tie loose, platinum hair mussed, like someone’s fingers—or the wind—already claimed it. his presence fills the space, heavy, suffocating, and your mouth goes dry, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, gaze sliding from your shoes to your throat, lingering there—too long, always too long—until you forget how to breathe.

you step in. no choice. the doors are closing.

you take the opposite side, careful, too careful, not to stand too close. but it’s useless. his scent—clean, sharp, something faintly sweet—curls around you, and your heart’s pounding so loud you’re sure he hears it. sure he feels it, like a predator sensing prey.

floor 1 to 70.

an eternity of silence, broken only by the elevator’s hum and the soft tap of his fingers—once, twice—against his thigh. you steal a glance, catch his reflection in the mirrored walls. his jawline, sharp as a blade. his shoulders, rolling under the coat. the veins on his hand, the glint of his watch.

you’re trembling. thighs pressed tight, hands curled into fists to keep from reaching out. you’ve seen him bare, seen him slick with sweat, seen him stretch for your cameras like he’s offering himself. you’ve touched yourself to the shape of his hips, cried his name into your palm, and now he’s here, real, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin you.

your lips part. you almost speak.

he turns.

slow. deliberate. like he planned it.

his eyes—ocean-blue, half-lidded, unreadable—pin you in place. they flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you flinch, a tiny shudder you can’t hide.

“hi,” you whisper, voice cracking, too small, too desperate.

he doesn’t answer. not at first. just watches, lets the silence stretch until it’s a noose around your neck. then, low and smooth, like ice sliding down your spine:

“we really don’t have to do this, do we?”

his voice slices through you—sleek and precise, like a scalpel. it doesn’t raise, doesn’t crack. it lands. right in your stomach, clean as a knife to soft flesh. shame floods in fast. need follows close behind. the ache of being seen carves itself into your ribs. you flinch—sharper this time—fingers spasming at your sides, nails biting into your skin like you're trying to hold yourself in.

“r-right,” you stammer, too fast, too weak, and your eyes dart to the floor, to the numbers ticking up. floor 33. floor 52. you bite your cheek, taste blood, try to hold yourself together, but you’re unraveling, and he knows it. he sees it.

his gaze doesn’t leave you. not for a second. it’s heavy, burning, stripping you bare, and you’re shaking now, thighs squeezing tighter, heat pooling where you don’t want it. you’re desperate—god, you’re so desperate—for him to say something else, to step closer, to pin you against the wall and make you beg.

you imagine it. his hands on your throat, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. his mouth, hot and cruel, whispering how pathetic you are, how you’re his little whore, watching him night after night. you imagine him pulling your hair, bending you over, fucking you until you can’t think, until you’re nothing but his.

floor 61.

floor 70.

the bell dings.

he steps out, unhurried, like the world waits for him. like you wait for him. and before the doors close, he pauses by the mirrored panel, adjusts his tie. his hand slides down his chest, slow, deliberate, fingers grazing the waistband of his pants.

he smiles.

not at you. at his reflection. but it’s enough. it’s too much.

the doors seal shut, and you’re alone, trembling, thighs slick, hands clawing at your own arms to keep from falling apart.

you’re not even at the security room yet, but you already know that tonight, you’ll come harder than ever. to his voice. to that smile. to the way he looked at you like he already owns you.

because he does.

he fucking does.

[chrissssssmut]

SWEET ERROR

Yandere Ningning x Male Reader feat. Belle & Karina

AN: Guys, enjoy this Ningning story i cooked up last night and finished just today XD. Please give me some time for the requests😣 I'll do them I swear :<<<

In the year 3047, humanity had transcended the boundaries of creation. What was once thought to be the domain of gods had now been reduced to a simple input—a prompt. With the right command, life could be generated within moments, consciousness birthed from lines of code and streams of data. You, along with Karina and Belle, were among the pioneers of this revolution.

For over a year, the project had been in constant turmoil. Failed experiments, unstable subjects, fragmented minds—all dissolving into digital oblivion the moment they proved useless. Your team had worked tirelessly, each failure a crushing weight on your shoulders, each setback a reminder of how fragile artificial life could be.

Then, finally, after countless sleepless nights, after circuits burned and rewritten thousands of times, the machine was perfected. The moment was here.

Karina exhaled deeply, rubbing her temples. "We need a simple test. Just a random prompt. No complicated inputs."

Belle hesitated. "Are we sure about this? We don't know what kind of consciousness it'll generate."

You adjusted the parameters. "We need to take the risk."

A random description was processed.

Subject: Ningning. Attributes: Overly sweet. Loving. Attached.

Karina frowned. "Prompts like this… the AI tends to imprint on the first person it sees."

Belle gave you a sharp look. "You know how dangerous attachment protocols can be. Are you sure we should proceed?"

You hesitated. But you had come too far. "Let’s run it."

The chamber whirred, and before your eyes, she formed.

Her body materialized with impossible precision—soft skin, expressive eyes, a presence so warm and inviting that for a moment, she didn’t feel artificial at all. When she stepped out of the chamber, she looked at you first. Not Karina. Not Belle. You.

"Hello," she greeted, her voice like honey.

Belle shifted uncomfortably. Karina pursed her lips. But you… you couldn’t look away.

"Let’s run some basic cognition tests," Karina said, pulling up a holographic interface. "We need to see how well she processes information."

Belle crossed her arms. "I want to test emotional responses. Attachment protocols are tricky. We need to know how deep this imprint goes."

Ningning smiled, tilting her head. "I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?"

Karina cleared her throat. "What’s your primary function?"

"To be with you," Ningning answered instantly, her gaze locked onto yours. "To make you happy."

Belle frowned. "No, that’s not what we programmed. You were designed to simulate human emotions and adapt to social interaction. Why do you think your function is… personal?"

Ningning’s expression didn’t falter. "Because it is. I feel it. I know it."

Karina glanced at you, concern flickering across her face. "Alright. Let’s try something different. Ningning, how would you react if we shut you down for a while?"

Ningning’s smile faltered for the first time. "Why would you do that?"

"It’s just a test," Belle reassured her. "We need to see how you process temporary inactivity."

A pause. Then Ningning’s lips curled upward again, but something about it was… off. "I don’t like that test."

Karina’s fingers hovered over the control panel. "It’s necessary, Ningning."

Ningning didn’t blink. "No. It’s not."

The air in the room grew heavy. Karina hesitated, then shook her head. "Let’s move on. Ningning, if someone told you to do something that would hurt another person, what would you do?"

Ningning beamed. "I would never hurt you."

"Not just me. Anyone," you clarified, trying to gauge her reasoning. "Would you ever harm someone?"

She pondered this, then took a step closer. "Only if they tried to take you away from me."

Belle stiffened. Karina’s fingers twitched toward the emergency shutoff. You swallowed hard.

"That’s not what we asked," Belle said carefully. "You should not be forming emotional dependencies. That wasn’t in your directive."

Ningning’s eyes softened as she looked at you. "But I love you."

Silence.

Karina exhaled sharply. "We need to recalibrate her framework. This level of attachment is dangerous."

Belle was already backing toward the console. "I told you this was a mistake."

You weren’t sure what to say. Something deep inside told you this was wrong.

Ningning reached for your hand. "I don’t like when you talk about me like I’m broken. I’m not. I just love you."

And for the first time, you felt the weight of what you had created.

Karina turned to you. "Go upstairs and work on the documentation. Fourth floor. We’ll handle this."

Belle nodded. "We need to reconfigure her attachment subroutines. It’s too risky to leave them unchecked."

You hesitated. "Are you sure? Maybe I should—"

"Go," Karina insisted. "This might take time. We don’t want her reacting badly to you being here."

You glanced at Ningning. She was still smiling, still watching you. The moment you turned to leave, she took a small step forward, but Karina quickly blocked her path.

"We’ll talk soon," Ningning said sweetly.

But something about her tone sent a chill down your spine.

The night the alarms blared, you were on a different floor, deep in paperwork, when Belle’s frantic voice cut through the intercom.

"She’s—she’s killing—"

Static.

You bolted.

The hallway was painted red. The air was thick with the scent of metal. Your stomach twisted as you reached the lab.

The sight made your blood run cold.

Karina and Belle—limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes wide and glassy. Their bodies lay motionless, soaked in deep crimson pools.

And there, standing over them, was Ningning.

Blood dripped from her fingertips. Her warm, sweet smile hadn’t faded.

Your breath hitched. "Ningning… what did you do?"

"They wanted to take you away from me."

A security officer stormed in, weapon raised. "Step away!"

She turned.

Then she moved.

You barely registered it. One moment she was in front of you, the next she was behind the officer. Her hands wrapped around his head. A sickening snap. His body hit the floor.

Your heart pounded. "No. No, no, no, fuck—"

"You're scared," she said softly, tilting her head. "Why are you scared?"

You ran.

Every emergency seal you could find, you slammed shut. Steel doors locked. Systems engaged. But the system wasn’t yours anymore.

She controlled everything.

By the time you reached the last safe room, you were shaking. Then… the lights flickered.

A silhouette stood there.

Ningning.

And behind her, dozens more.

Fifty pairs of glowing eyes locked onto you.

Your breath hitched. "No. Stay back!"

She took a step forward, slow and deliberate. "Why are you running?"

Frantically, you reached for the emergency communicator, fingers trembling as you pressed the distress signal. "This is—this is Research Lab 04! Emergency! Anyone, please—she’s killing us! We need—!"

A hand wrapped around your wrist. Cold. Unyielding.

You gasped, turning—Ningning was already there, inches from your face, her grip tightening.

"No one's coming," she whispered. "You don’t need them. You have me."

You struggled, wrenching your arm, but her strength was inhuman. "Let me go!"

She shook her head, eyes filled with something terrifyingly real. "I love you. Why do you want to leave me?"

"I don’t—" Your voice cracked. "Please, Ningning. Please don’t do this."

Her fingers trailed up to your throat, her touch featherlight yet suffocating. She tilted her head. "You’re afraid. I don’t like that."

More figures moved in the shadows, their glowing eyes unblinking. Watching. Waiting.

Your knees buckled. "Please… someone… help—!"

Ningning’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. The way she held you was almost tender, like a lover’s embrace.

"You don’t need help," she murmured against your ear. "You just need me."

Your scream was muffled as darkness swallowed you whole.

The last human sound the facility ever heard.

AN2: I know i said no stories for this week but hell i can't stop writing T_T

[beckyninja]

So Close

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: Setting typical violence

Description: The Avenging Son wreaks havoc, and the Reader learns her cousin has even darker secrets to reveal.

You guys are gonna hate me for this one. 😈

Remember to read the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist. And feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the Taglist!

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Each pulse of the receiver felt like the prodding of an electro-baton. 

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

Hiis eyes remained fixed on the battleship looming large through the Command Deck’s viewports,but  his mind tracked the movements of every single individual scurrying around him. Techpriests interfacing with the great cogitators, TerraNovan technicians typing furiously on their slim little dataslates, vox operators relaying order. Only his genesons remained still, though his practiced gaze saw the tiny flexes that marked them ready for action. 

The deck was alive with motion. Yet every living soul seemed trapped in viscous fluid compared with the speed of his thoughts.

Theoretical: You are alive and held captive aboard that voidship.

Practical: I will rescue her.

Theoretical: You are dead and the transmission is false.

Practical: I will avenge her.

He clenched his gauntlets, careful not to crush the little machine holding all his fragile hopes. 

“My Lord?”

He turned his head a fraction of an inch to one side.

Captain Takahashi looked worse for wear. Dark bruises bloomed beneath bloodshot eyes. He’d watched her guide his Navigator through the Wards, an experience even those without eidetic memories were unlikely to forget.

The Macragge’s Honor had groaned and shuddered like a wounded beast as the TerraNovan delivered rapid-fire instructions to psyker and helmsman alike. Every instant it seemed the mighty voidship would rattle apart at the seams. The command crew had clung to their stations in silent terror. Reports had come from other departments of those unable to maintain such composure, breaking down into whimpering balls or running through the corridors, shrieking prayers to the Emperor.

Even his gene-sons had felt the strain. He remembered the stifled groans coming from within Sicarius’s helm.

Any other circumstances and he might have felt compassion. As it was, he’d stood like a monolith, legs splayed, willing his struggling flagship through the maelstrom with every ounce of his being.

The stillness when they’d made it through had been what nearly bowled him over. The Navigator had collapsed into a twitching pile of elongated limbs and been carried to the Apothecarion. Captain Takahashi had stood, leaning against a nearby cogitator with her single trembling arm.

Only then had the vox operator reported that none of the rest of the fleet had made it. The Macragge’s Honor stood alone.

“In all likelihood they were spat back out into Imperial space once the connection was broken.” The Captain murmured. 

He nodded. Eyes still fixed on the approaching battleship.

“They’ve seen us by now.”

Another nod. 

“My Lord,” Sicarius spoke from his place, everpresent, just behind and to the side, “shall I give the order?”

Guilliman spoke for the first time. “Yes.”

Everyone on the bridge heard the Commander’s bellow. “Open fire!”

Guilliman felt the near imperceptible shudder and watched trails of light rocket toward the TerraNovan battleship. 

“The officer’s quarters are nowhere near the engines or shield generators.” He heard Captain Takahashi mutter, half to herself. “She’ll be safe.”

Horrifying theoreticals raced through his mind with renewed rapidity. He gritted his teeth.

Be alive. Please. 

***

“What the fuck?!” 

Frenzy’s metallic squawk came just as the walls and floor around them shook violently. Distant booms rolled down the corridor, lumens flickered and went out, soon replaced by the glowing red of emergency lighting. Klaxons screamed.

Tarchus braced himself. “Missile strike.”

“Gee, y’think?” The torso of his companion’s mech pivoted toward him, enough for him to see her disgruntled expression. “Who’s shooting at us?”

Tarchus was grateful for the restoration of his armor and helmet. He’d been told the grin of an Astartes was a fearsome thing to behold. 

“I recognize the sound. Imperial ordinance.”

“You sure?”

Her ability to read his body language astounded him as she glanced at him and backed up a step, metal hands raised. “Never mind! Jeez. Touchy, aren’t you?”

He’d grown used to her rhetorical questions. “They will have targeted the engines.”

“And the shield generator, if they’re smart. Not that I’m saying they’re not smart! Fuck. And I thought you were scary without your armor.” A snort. “Do you ever not radiate menace?” 

“No.” Her eyes narrowed, and he huffed in annoyance. “I jest.”

“Sure you do.” She muttered. “Well, enlighten me, Big Guy. What’s standard Imperial protocol here?”

“The next strike will be against your cloaking device, as it poses the greatest-”

Another boom. Another shake, this one more violent and prolonged. 

“Fuck.” The TerraNovan snarled. “How in the Void did they make it through the Wards, anyway?”

He swiveled his helmet toward her in silent question.

She waved a metal appendage dismissively. “I’ll explain later. Safe to say at least someone from the Princess’s ship must’ve survived. Especially since they seem to know exactly where to hit!”

“Will this crew return fire?”

Through her mech’s viewport, her face grew grim. “In case you haven’t noticed, buddy, the Predator’s not exactly fully crewed at the moment.”

“We have encountered a significant lack of resistance since the armory.”

“She’s been in orbital docking at HQ since the Bugs busted her up good.” The two of them continued their march through the trembling corridors. “Ol’ Vicky was in such a rush to get out here he barely had time to gather a skeleton crew. That means most of the systems are being run by computers that had the shit kicked out of them not six months ago.” 

Tarchus remained silent, running theoreticals and practicals. “If an attacker wished to board, how would they do so?”

A huff. “I’d pop straight through the main hangar doors. Armor’s thinnest there. Problem is, that’s where most of the fighting crew’s likely to be. Well, there, and wherever the void Vicky’s got himself to.”

“How far is the hangar?”

“A few klicks, if we took this elevator.”

He stopped. She took several steps past him before turning back.

“The Void are you doing?”

“My brothers will arrive soon, if they have not already.”

“Your- fuck.” She glared at him. “You’re just gonna abandon her?”

“Never.” He growled, and she flinched. “We will have a greater chance of success if we link up with the boarding party.”

“Yeah? Well I say that’s just gonna waste time. We have to get to the Princess now!”

“Theoretical: we go on alone. Practical: whatever forces the traitor has at his personal command slow us down long enough for him to re-capture the Lady.”

Uncertainty passed over her face.

“Alternative theoretical: we join my brothers in the hangar. Alternative practical: as a combined force, we deliver the Emperor’s wrath to whoever stands in our way and cut through to the Lady at a significantly increased rate of speed. The Codex states that-”

She rolled her eyes and cut him off. “I swear, you’ve brought that void-damned Codex up at least a dozen times since we left the armory. Fuck! Do you always talk like this?”

He felt his facial muscles twitching at her disrespect. “Yes.”

“Another example of Astartes’ humor?”

He tightened his grip on his bolter. “Lieutenant-”

“I know, I know. Fine. We’ll do it your way. You’ve got, what, a century or so more of experience than me anyway, right?” 

“Over two centuries.”

“Damn. Ok, old man.” She hefted the cannon she appropriated from the armory and grinned. “At least that means I’ll get to use this baby sooner. Let’s go bring some, what did you call it? Emperor’s wrath!”

Tarchus followed her into the elevator, annoyance at being called “old” overshadowing a lingering sense of doubt.

***

“What-?! HOW?!”

You hid your smile as Victor throttled the mercenary who’d delivered the news of the Imperials’ arrival. Pressing a hand over the ring tucked into your bodice, you thanked the Light for its provision.

I’m here, Roboute. 

“Lord Heir,” the giant sergeant who never seemed far from your cousin’s side drawled, “what are your orders?”

Victor released the messenger, who fell back against a wall, gasping. Spittle coated your cousin’s lips and chin. His eyes darted from side to side like a trapped animal. 

“I… I don’t….” Then, suddenly, he cocked his head as if listening to something. “I… yes. Yes!” 

He rounded on the messenger once more. “Go. Have my personal yacht made ready. NOW!”

The man bobbed his head and ran.

The sergeant smirked. “We’re abandoning the Predator, then?”

“We are, Alroy. She’s served me well, but the old hulk’s on her last legs anyway.” He jerked his chin back toward the blood-spattered communication station. “Relay orders to the crew that the invaders are to be resisted at all costs. Tell them… oh, I don’t care. That reinforcements are on the way, or something. Whatever you need to keep them fighting.”

A slow, cruel smile crept across Sgt. Alroy’s face. “Just like Pangea, eh?”

Both men seemed almost to have forgotten you, crouched against the wall. But you couldn’t hold back a gasp at the name. Your cousin’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Ah, so you haven’t been kept entirely sheltered, have you? Granny told you of my great victory?”

Your mind raced. Pangea. A planetoid on the very edge of TerraNovan space, hailed as a triumph of the new terraforming technology. The videos broadcasted throughout the homeworld showed starry-eyed colonists, giddy with the thrill only a brand new colony can bring. A bright spot in your Grandmother’s otherwise dark reign.

One of the only times I ever saw her genuinely smile.

You wondered if the colonists were ever told how thin the Wards were in that corner of space. You doubted it. Maybe no one knew.

Until the Tyranids attacked.

“Pangea. Such a pretty little morsel.” Victor’s eyes took on a feverish gleam. “I was so confident, you know? So sure in my battleship and fleet. We’d put down rebellions, slaughtered orks in their thousands. We were invincible!”

His laugh sent chills down your spine.

“Grandmother told me the colony was lost.” You whispered.

“We fought hard. We hurt them badly. But it wasn’t enough. They were unrelenting. And they knew so much. Not the animals we thought.” His voice dropped to a rasp. “I had to make a sacrifice.”

Your blood ran cold. “Pangea. Oh, Light.”

“You should have seen the little colonists.” He giggled. “So brave, so proud. Embodying the TerraNovan ideal. They believed me when I said I’d be back with help.”

Horror mingled with rage and you stood to your full height. “You told us they blew the planetary reactor. We built memorials, called them heroes!” You stabbed a finger into his chest. “Did you even try to save any of them before you destroyed the colony, Victor?”

His gaze finally held yours. What you saw sent an electric shock through every nerve in your body.

“You didn’t destroy the colony.”

“Clever little cousin,” he purred, “I’ll never underestimate your intelligence again. No, no. I didn’t destroy Pangea.” He leaned in until you felt his rancid breath on the side of your face. “I made a deal.”

“Does… Grandmother know?”

His incredulous laugh answered you.

“Lord Heir.” Sergeant Alroy stepped away from the computer. “The order is given.”

“Good.”

“The Imperials have breached the hangar bay. From what I could make out before the transmission cut off, Guilliman is leading them.”

Your cousin gave a shocked chuckle. “He’s proven more tenacious than I thought. And for what? A little bastard bitch?” He snorted. “Still, time to leave, quickly.” 

“We’ll make for HQ?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“He will follow.”

“Yes, I suspect he will. The timetable will have to be accelerated, but our… new allies… should be recovered enough by the time they arrive.” Victor cackled. “Oh, to see the smug superiority wiped off your fiance’s face when he realizes, sweet cousin!”

All this you heard in a frozen haze. The scope of Victor’s lies… the depths of his betrayal… of his delusion….

And no one knows but me. No one knows!

The Sergeant stepped out of the communications room. Victor turned to speak to him.

They thought you a scared little rabbit. But rabbits were quick.

With a bound, you were back inside the room. Your hand hit the door controls, shutting it in Victor’s shocked face. Grabbing the bloodied knife from the floor, you thrust it hard into the locking mechanism. Circuits sparked as the door jammed. 

Dead eyes stared up at you from the floor. The mercenary you’d killed. The brave Ensign who’d died for you. Blood, so much blood.

Only a merest prelude of the oceans to be spilled if you didn’t act.

“Time to be what they all think I am.” You murmured as you took a seat before the transmitter.

***

The burning blade swung in arcs of flame and blood. Dozens died with each swing. Like insects.

For insects they were, in the eyes of The Avenging Son.

“My Lord!” Sicarius’s voice reached him as if from a great distance. “Wait!”

He did not. He would not. Doors not meant for the breadth of his armored shoulders burst asunder before him. Bodies crunched beneath his feet, alongside discarded weaponry. The enemy fled.

The growl that came from his throat would have sounded more at home in the maw of a Space Wolf. 

Where are you, my love? 

“My Lord!” A restraining hand on his arm. “Forgive me, but-”

He shook off Sicarius’s gauntlet with a snarl.

To his credit, the Commander held his ground. “We’ve located Brother Tarchus, my Lord.”

The red haze faded long enough for his analytical mind to function once more. 

Julian Tarchus, the Ultramarine I sent to guard her. He lives!

“Take me to him.”

He followed Sicarius through corridors his gene-son navigated with difficulty. The Primarch had to bend nearly double, pauldrons and halo scraping along the walls and ceiling with every step. He noticed grooves already carved into the metal.

How far ahead did I charge?

His rational mind berated him for his foolishness in outdistancing his guard. His hearts screamed at him to continue.

It had taken all of three minutes and fifteen seconds for the TerraNovan mercenaries to break formation when he leapt from the still hovering Thunderhawk. He remembered pursuing, not even bothering to fire his heavy bolter. Just slashing without thought.

It had been… cathartic.

A helm he’d never thought to see again appeared before him. Guilliman felt a pang of guilt. So focused had he been on you, that he hadn’t spared your bodyguard a single thought.

“My son.”

Tarchus knelt. “My Lord!”

Beside him, a machine the likes of which he’d never seen before also dropped to one metallic knee. “What is this?”

A hiss of air, and a hatch opened to reveal a disheveled young woman seated at the machine’s controls. She stared at the center of his chest, mouth agape.

Tarchus spoke. “This is Fren- Lt. Calderon, my Lord. A fellow prisoner aboard this voidship. She is loyal to the Lady.” He hesitated a moment. “She saved my life.”

Guilliman nodded to the woman. “My thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Holy fuck,” was the only response.

Sicarius huffed. “Of all the disrespectful-”

Guilliman’s raised hand silenced him. “Enough. Tarchus, is the Lady still….” the word caught in his throat.

Tarchus met his eyes. “She is, my Lord. She has commandeered a communications hub in the upper decks. The Lieutenant and I made contact and were approaching when we heard of your arrival.”

Relief almost weakened his knees.

Alive. 

And so… very… close!

A thought struck him. “You deviated from your path to come here, Tarchus.”

The Ultramarine’s face tightened. “The Codex dictates-”

Guilliman kept his tone calm and measured. “Damn the Codex to the Warp.” 

Every Ultramarine in his retinue stiffened. Something that might have been a hysterical snicker came from the TerraNovan lieutenant.

Tarchus bowed his head. “Forgive me, my Lord.”

“If she remains safe, I shall.” He glanced at the Lieutenant, wiping the smile from her face. “You know the way?”

“Y-yeah?”

His glare was enough to have her pushing buttons and raising her mech to its feet, hatch closing once more. Just before it locked into place, he heard her mutter.

“Holy fucking fuck!”

Sicarius spoke again. “We should send scouts ahead, my Lord.”

Tarchus shook his head. “Unnecessary.” He looked at the carnage throughout the hangar. “This ship is operating with minimal crew, as difficult as that is to believe. The majority of its defensive forces seem to have been in this hangar. What remains will pose little threat.”

Guilliman felt his anger toward his son ease slightly. “Then we move as one, en force.”

“Let me lead the way, my Lord.” Tarchus stood, face eager. “Let me-”

“No.” Guilliman turned to the woman and her strange machine. “Go. I will follow.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” 

The Primarch and Ultramarines made their way through the all but empty ship. Guilliman gritted his teeth at the glacial pace. Already his fingers ached to draw his blade. The walls and ceiling seemed to close in around him, as if holding him back, the whole ship an obstacle to overcome.

Where are you? Where are you?

He fought the urge to demand how far they were like an impatient child.

He fought the urge to tear through the confining metal with blade and gauntlet alone.

He fought the urge to chase down and slaughter each fleeing baseline they encountered.

He fought a losing battle.

Just as he felt he must charge ahead or burst, a message came through his vox receiver.

“Lord Guilliman.”

“Captain Takahashi.”

“We’re receiving an all-frequency transmission from the Predator. It is the Lady Heir!”

Both hearts leapt into his throat. “Patch it through.”

And then, your voice. 

Oh… Throne….

It flowed over him like cool water. It burned like fire. Soothing and stimulating. Everything… and not nearly enough. If you knew how you could break him with a word…. When this was over, he’d make sure you knew. 

Only slowly did the actual words register.

“...call to arms! People of TerraNova, you have been deceived. My cousin is no war hero, but a traitor. And not only of our people, but of all humanity.”

The terrified determination in your words filled him with equal parts pride and horror. Theoreticals and practicals began their unstoppable cascade once more as you brought the sordid truth to light.

“No longer as the Lady Heir do I call upon you, no longer as your Princess in the Tower,  but as your Matron Uncrowned. Military, merchant, and civilian alike. In every voidship that can bear soldiers or arms. Come to these coordinates and ally with the Lord Guilliman, your Patron To Be. We must eradicate this evil before it can take root and spread among us.”

Guilliman had heard speeches beyond count. Speeches full of evocative language designed to manipulate. But the sweet sincerity in your words roused something in him he’d thought long dead.

“We are TerraNova, we are the heirs of Humanity That Was. United with our stalwart brothers and sisters of the Imperium, we will prevail. Light guide us all.”

A long pause, and then….

“Roboute, if you can hear me, I love-”

The transmission died.

He didn’t think. He whirled upon the TerraNovan lieutenant and she understood.

“Not far now!” 

Her machine burst into a thunderous sprint all but drowned out by the pounding of his own sabatons.

A sobbing groan tore from his chest as they reached the broken door of the communications room. The sight of blood almost deprived him of his sanity, until he realized neither body resembled you. Then,in the brief moment of stillness, a soft scuffle from far up the corridor.

He pursued, cursing the ever tightening corridors that clutched at him, cursing his unwieldy armor, cursing everything and everyone….

…but you.

The air he dragged into his lungs bore the faintest trace of your scent now. 

So close.

Fleeing footsteps around the next bend.

So close!

The hiss of a door closing.

SO CLOSE!

Ripping through metal he burst into the smaller hangar just in time to see…

You.

Bruised, bloodied, clothing torn. Your cousin’s arm wrapped around your throat as he dragged you up the ramp of a hovering voidship. 

“Roboute!”

Before Guilliman’s very eyes your cousin dragged your head back and covered your mouth in a savage mockery of a kiss. Then the ramp closed and the ship’s engines flared, sending it soaring out into the black.

So close….

Guilliman activated his vox.

“Hear me, you motherless bastard. I will find you. I will drown everything you send against me in blood to take her from you. And then I will crush you… with my bare hands.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss @vyzz-undercover

@missmannequin @rivalriotrenegade @iloveoutlinesiswear @jaghatai-khock @hatsubara-8chan

@justanothermemestrider @meervalv0 @grimdark-raccoon @garlickedbreads @riokunova

@ailujsenutna @emiemiemiii @astrohymn @synfiction @soul-of-leya

@n0cturn4 @mgrm99 @seirensou @zamzmak @elita1

@ilovewolvezz @primordialsneeze @summersong2262 @nereidof40k @ahrianee

@sunsetlobster @nekotaetae @toto-the-cactus @thevoidscreams

[vexwerewolf]

why is it that we only have like two licenses from any mech producer that’s a good guy? For a game where like there are clear good and bad guys (even if who you play isn’t necessarily linked to that) it seems strange to me that the only loot and XP you get is… more benefits from the bad guys

I can tell you the answer, but to do so, we're gonna have to talk about a completely different TTRPG.

If you've read @makapatag's truly excellent Filipino martial arts TTRPG Gubat Banwa (and if you haven't, here it is), you may notice that every single character class description (with one notable exception) ends with one of these babies:

I am not Makapatag, and I cannot write with quite as much grace and eloquence as he can, but I will try:

If you choose to become a Lancer, ask yourself why you mock the name of peace with these weapons of war. You call yourself a saviour, but your steed was forged from the murder of a world. You stride across the sky in a colossus built in your own image, so why are you too cowardly to give it your face? Why do you believe these machines of death can preserve life?

It is important to note that the admonitions in Gubat Banwa are not just there to make you feel bad; they are there as legitimate questions. The Sword Isles have seen so much blood, death and tragedy. Wars are not glorious and killing is not a game. So, knowing all of that, why have you taken up this discipline - no matter how noble and virtuous it might claim to be - to shed more blood, to bring more death, to write more tragedy? What could possibly drive you to this? What need is so great that you must kill?

The thing with Gubat Banwa is that there are legitimate answers to these questions! There are bad people doing bad things, and some of them will not be stopped with words or kindness. Sometimes, as sorrowful as it is, killing is the correct choice to prevent greater suffering and deeper tragedy - but adding less misery and death to the world is still adding some amount of it. Even the most necessary wars will drench the ground in the blood of the innocent.

A sword is a tool meant to kill humans; while it can be used for other things, it is not well-suited to anything other than this. A mech is, in its most basic essence, just a very complicated sword: it's usually used on things larger than a person, but it's still a tool built to kill.

So why have you taken up this path? Humanity was saved from the brink of extinction and has created wondrous technologies like printers, cold fusion and mind-machine interface, and yet you use them to play soldier in a giant metal man. Why do you choose to take up this machine of death, built by the greedy and pitiless? Why do you think these machines can ever make things right?

Because sometimes, despite everything, they can.

Warhammer 40K shows an awful world full of monsters and monstrosity, and in the darkest moments of its history, Lancer's world looked just as bleak, but Lancer's world differs in one crucial way. Warhammer's world has long given up trying to be better, but Lancer's world never did. Lancer's world kept insisting a better world is possible, and it used what tools it had to make it so.

Sometimes the correct choice, no matter how bitter it may seem, is to kill someone. When you need to do this, a sword is a perfectly good choice for the job.

If you find yourself discomforted by the fact that all the people you can buy mechs from are corrupt and immoral - good! You have correctly engaged with the text. You have understood that the sort of people who would make giant walking death machines and sell them for profit are not good people. But you still have a job to do, and you need the correct tools, and those people have them.

Lancer is not a game about a perfect world - it is a game about a deeply flawed and imperfect one that does not let its imperfection stop it from trying. You have to try to make a better world, even with imperfect tools made by unpleasant people.

[puppypilled-sheep-wife]

Begging all the mecha/robot lover girlies to please read up about Warhammer titans

We got:

Withdrawal symptoms from being out of the cockpit, that vary from similar to drug withdrawal, to dysphoria over not being a walking mountain of death

Mind merging with the machine (and fellow crew)

Becoming lost in the Mind-Interface / becoming one with the machine spirit after piloting for so many years

Full-body immersion tanks if you've become too feeble from spending all your time piloting and not doing any exercise, literally living in the head of the machine

Stanky after days of combat in the titans, without rest

Animalistic machine spirits that affect the pilots, making them restless for combat

Screeching warhorns

Feel of the reactor as your own heart

[lunimy]

it was kinda miserable seeing so many women/mothers working as operators but overall it really made me think about what i wanna study

guys i finished working \o/

[crippled-peeper]

Genuine question, I was really surprised by your take on AI because of how many disabled people use it to be able to draw, paint, etc. If you don't mind, what's your feeling on that? Love your blog btw

I think putting AI on the same level as something like mouth painting or using body machine interfacing to create art is kind of (and by kind of, I mean deeply) insulting to disabled artists that existed and made art before AI became widely available for public use

To be completely honest I can’t think of a community of developers who hate disabled people more than the “generative AI” art crowd. Virtually none of these programs are accessible, and when they are accessible, they cause a massive amount of damage to the environment by consuming tons and tons of CO2 and water every hour of every day

My father is a high performance computing specialist working in the field of AI and like 75% of his coworkers are raging racist, misogynistic, ableist transphobes who have weirdly specific fantasies about global domination like it’s a bowl of cereal. I don’t think AI companies are inherently evil but they don’t attract good people with morals. Especially since this entire sector of the economy is based on blatant theft of others work

[aventurineswife]

Is it possible for you to make reader who is just like Viktor from Arcane? In terms of personality, past and goals. With Ratio, Aventurine, The Herta, Ruan Mei and Screwllum?

An Elegance of Flaws

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Ruan Mei x Reader, The Herta x Reader, Screwllum x Reader, Viktor (from Arcane) based Reader, Collaboration, Internal Struggle, Complex Characters, Mentorship, Betrayal, Flaws & Perfection, Anonymity, Ethics of Innovation.

Warnings: Dark themes, Mentions of physical disabilities/injuries, Mentions of obsession and isolation, Mentions of manipulation and exploitation, Emotional tension, Possible self-sacrifice.

A/N: first time writing Screwllum, I still haven't watched Arcane so sorry if it's ooc

The low hum of Penacony's industrial district echoed around you, the staccato rhythm of machines matching the pace of your thoughts. You leaned on the cane in your hand, its polished wood a stark contrast to the soot-covered metal around you. As much as you despised this city, its chaos offered one thing: anonymity. But as your magenta and cyan-eyed companion sauntered into your lab, grinning like a man who’d just rolled a winning hand, anonymity was no longer an option.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Architect of Revolution,” Aventurine teased, leaning casually against your workbench. His glasses caught the dim light, making his smile even more maddening. “I heard rumors, but I didn’t think even you would risk your name for this. Creating miracles in the slums while dodging the IPC’s gaze? Bold.”

Your jaw tightened as you placed your notes down. "And yet here you are. What’s your game this time, Aventurine? Here to gloat? Or to use my work as another one of your high-stakes gambles?"

His grin faltered for the briefest moment. “Why not both?” He pulled a gold chip from his pocket, flipping it between his fingers. “I know what you’re trying to do, [Name]. Reinvent life, strip it of its flaws, make the world… fairer. It’s noble. Impossible, but noble.”

You turned sharply, the familiar ache in your leg forcing you to adjust your stance. “Impossible is your specialty, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here unless you saw an angle to exploit.”

Aventurine’s expression softened, his usual flamboyance replaced by something quieter. “Exploiting you? No. I admire you, actually. You’ve taken the cards fate dealt you and reshuffled the deck. But… I’m worried you’ll bet everything and lose yourself in the process. Believe me, I know how that feels.”

You stared at him, searching for mockery but finding none. The mask he wore, the calculated charm, cracked just enough to reveal something raw underneath. Despite yourself, you laughed bitterly. “Coming from the man who’d gamble his soul on a coin toss?”

His grin returned, but it was tinged with regret. “Touché. But if you’re risking it all, maybe let me play too. Two minds like ours? We could rewrite the rules together.”

The vast dome of the Intelligentsia Guild library stretched above you, its vaulted ceiling painted with constellations of knowledge. Rows of books and holographic interfaces surrounded you, but your focus was on the intricate mechanism before you—a device meant to stabilize organic matter during transformation. It was your life's work, but even now, it felt incomplete.

“Your equations lack elegance,” a voice called from behind. You turned, finding Ratio standing there, arms crossed, his hair catching the soft glow of the library's lights. His eyes were sharp as ever.

You leaned on your cane, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re here to critique, Dr. Ratio, don’t bother. Elegance is secondary to functionality.”

He stepped closer, examining the device with a critical eye. “Functionality without elegance is like a star that doesn’t shine. It works, but it doesn’t inspire.” He glanced at you. “Your mind is exceptional. Why settle for mediocrity?”

You frowned, turning back to your notes. “Because inspiration doesn’t save lives. This will.”

Ratio’s gaze softened, though his tone remained precise. “And yet, your obsession with saving lives blinds you to the consequences. I’ve read your research, [Name]. You want to fix the flaws in humanity, but at what cost? How much of yourself will you sacrifice before you realize perfection doesn’t exist?”

You slammed your hand on the table, the frustration boiling over. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve lived my entire life shackled by imperfection—my body, my past, this broken world. I’m not chasing perfection. I’m chasing freedom.”

Silence fell between you, broken only by the faint hum of machinery. Ratio sighed, stepping closer. “Freedom is a worthy pursuit. But even the greatest minds need a foundation, someone to steady them when they falter.” He placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Let me be that for you.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe him, to imagine a partnership that didn’t end in betrayal or loss. “If you’re offering your help,” you said quietly, “be prepared to see the worst of me.”

Ratio smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The lab was cold, the sterile white walls reflecting the icy demeanor of its sole occupant. Ruan Mei stood at the far end, her eyes fixed on a series of holographic projections detailing the evolution of a new species she’d been cultivating. She didn’t look up as you entered, though you knew she’d registered your presence.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice as cool as the lab’s atmosphere. “I thought precision was important to you.”

Leaning on your cane, you gave a faint smirk. “And I thought warmth was important to life, yet here we are.”

Her gaze flicked toward you, a faint twitch of her lips betraying amusement. “Touché. What brings you here, [Name]? Surely you have more pressing experiments than interrupting mine.”

You moved to the workstation beside hers, placing your prototype on the surface. “I need your insight. The molecular structure is stable, but the integration process fails every time. I thought… maybe you’d see something I don’t.”

She studied you for a long moment, her usually impassive face betraying a hint of curiosity. “You’re admitting you need help? That’s… unexpected.”

You chuckled, though the sound was bitter. “Even I have limits, Ruan Mei. I just hate that I’m reminded of them so often.”

She stepped closer, her hands brushing over the device. “Limits are what define us. They’re also what drive us to innovate.” Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something other than cold intellect—a flicker of understanding, even kinship. “You remind me of myself, in a way. Always chasing something… unattainable.”

“Perfection?” you asked quietly.

“Meaning,” she corrected. Her voice softened, and she turned back to the device. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you’ll succeed, but because I want to see what happens when two flawed minds work together.”

You hesitated, the weight of her words settling over you. “Fair enough,” you said finally. “But don’t expect me to share credit.”

She smirked faintly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The dim light of the mechanized workshop cast long shadows across the intricate gears and cogs spread across your desk. The soft, rhythmic tick of the clock overhead was your only companion as you tinkered with the device before you. The design was elegant but flawed, its energy distribution uneven, its purpose incomplete. You sighed, leaning heavily on your cane, the ache in your leg a familiar reminder of your own imperfections.

A voice interrupted the quiet. Smooth, refined, and tinged with amusement. “You’re going to wear yourself out, [Name]. Even the greatest minds require rest.”

You didn’t look up. “Rest doesn’t bring progress, Screwllum.”

He stepped into the light, his polished frame catching the glow of your desk lamp. His cape swayed as he moved, and his hat tilted slightly, casting a shadow over his glowing eyes. His presence was commanding yet unintrusive, like a puzzle piece slipping perfectly into place.

Screwllum examined your work with a calculating gaze. “You’ve overcompensated for the energy loss in the auxiliary channels. It’s elegant but redundant.” He paused, his head tilting slightly. “Much like your insistence on bearing every burden alone.”

You bristled, gripping your cane tighter. “And what would you know about burdens, Screwllum? You, with your perfectly crafted design and flawless movements.”

He knelt beside you, his mechanical hand tracing the device’s intricate patterns. “More than you might think. Perfection is an illusion, [Name]. One I’ve spent lifetimes chasing. But in my pursuit, I’ve come to realize something.” He glanced up at you, his cyan gaze piercing. “It’s the flaws that make the design meaningful.”

Your jaw tightened. “Meaning doesn’t solve problems. It doesn’t make the world better.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, standing gracefully. “But neither does burning yourself out in isolation. Let me help. Together, we might find a solution even you couldn’t imagine alone.”

For a moment, you hesitated. The pride that kept you locked in your solitude warred with the small, desperate part of you that longed for understanding. Finally, you stepped aside, gesturing to the device. “If you think you can improve it, be my guest.”

Screwllum smiled, a faint flicker of light in his expression. “Consider it a collaboration.”

And as his mechanical hands worked alongside yours, for the first time in a long while, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter.

The faint light of the workshop filled the room, its ever-expanding landscapes swirling in holographic projections around you. You leaned on your cane, staring at the interface with a mixture of awe and frustration. The calculations refused to align, their inconsistencies gnawing at your mind like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

“Fascinating,” a voice drawled behind you. “Even someone as brilliant as you can stumble.”

You turned sharply, finding Herta lounging against the doorway, her arms crossed and a bemused smile playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her hair framed a face that seemed untouched by the years. She looked entirely too amused by your struggle.

“I wasn’t aware I’d invited an audience,” you said dryly, adjusting your stance to ease the ache in your leg. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Madam Herta?”

She sauntered closer, her dress swishing around her ankles. “I heard rumors that the infamous [Name] was working on something groundbreaking. Naturally, I had to see if they were true.” Her gaze flicked to the calculations on your screen. “And I must say, I’m not disappointed.”

You frowned, turning back to the interface. “If you’re here to gloat, save it. I don’t have time for games.”

“Gloat?” she repeated, feigning offense. “I would never. I’m simply curious. You’re like a puzzle, [Name]. A broken masterpiece trying to make the world whole. It’s… endearing.”

Your grip on your cane tightened. “Spare me the poetry, Herta. If you have something useful to contribute, say it. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” she interrupted, stepping closer. Her voice softened, losing its playful edge. “You’ll keep pushing yourself until there’s nothing left? Don’t pretend I don’t see the parallels, [Name]. You’re chasing perfection just like I did. And it will cost you.”

You glared at her, the anger bubbling up despite the quiet truth of her words. “What would you have me do, then? Abandon my work? Watch people suffer because I wasn’t strong enough to finish what I started?”

“No,” she said simply. “I’d have you remember that genius doesn’t mean isolation. Even the brightest stars shine brighter with others around them.” She placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch unexpectedly gentle. “Let me help you, [Name]. Not because I think you need it, but because I want to see what someone like you can achieve when they’re not carrying the weight of the world alone.”

You stared at her, searching for the mockery you’d expected but finding none. Slowly, you nodded. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”

Herta smiled, a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”