#node modules

[spectrology]

wow i would really fucking love to get some work done!!!

[specbee-c-s]

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[sweet7simple]

Mech Pregnancy, Cybertronian biology and the gestation system, and what I like to call the Gestational Protocols

(A sparkling has two parts: The spark and the birth metal).

I have written about mech pregnancy before and that actually went really well! It got over a hundred notes, my most popular post ever.

So I thought, why stop? I love reproductive science. I love science fiction. I want to develop this more.

I spent more than five hours drawing and labeling and I am not fully pleased with it, but I am just pleased enough and tired enough to show you all what I am thinking.

If mech pregnancy, breeding, world building and/or messy hand drawings bring you joy, check below the cut!

(When I say I drew these by hand, I mean I drew them by hand).

(Note: When I mention a CPU, I am referring to a Central Processing Unit, otherwise known as the brain module.)

The codpiece: A goddamn problem. They can transform into transportation, though, so moving a codpiece out of the way surely has to be doable for them.

The valve: It has very large and noticeable exterior energy node and the reason for this is to indicate charge. We see the portus majora, or the larger port from the outside. If we spread these folds, we'll see the portus minora, or the smaller port. The portus minora is where the interior node system begins. Within the portus minora is the valve entrance, which gives way to the valve sleeve.

The spike: It can be modified or replaced, but the design has to be such that it can collapse in on itself and fit inside of the housing. Whatever your personal preference, the plug (the head of the spike) should expand outward in some way for reasons I will explain shortly. The plug is densely populated with small interior nodes while the cord or cable (the shaft of the spike) is sparsely populated with large exterior nodes. This makes the plug more sensitive. When the cable drains of its gel (which is recycled back into the system via a pressurizer fluid reservoir), these exterior nodes sink into depressions within the interlocking segments so that they don't snag on the housing rim when depressurized.

Note: In the diagrams, I call the nodes "energy nodes". There is a reason for that, but it's not necessarily necessary to the system.

Let me explain: I wrote a story where the nodes captured energy from the friction of the spike's external nodes striking against the valve's internal nodes and then that energy was sent to the spark chamber as a backup source of power during spark merging as spark merging dispersed energy and thereby diminished the sparks.

They don't have to be energy nodes, though. Those fun little goodie spots that create so much pleasure don't have to have a dual purpose. They can just be sensory nodes connected to the sensory net, a subsystem of the neural net.

When it comes to spark merging, I use stellar collision to visualize it. Here is a Youtube video that shows the collapse of a binary stellar system that pretty much sums up what I think happens, but on a much smaller scale: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zsIMDKMKUWw

The result of the spark merging, however is that a third body is generated from the collision. This third body is created from the intense heat and energy of the spark merging, and from the fragmented copies of life codes duplicated during the spark merge. This is the sparkling. When its creators' sparks retreat to their own chambers, the sparkling will attach to the creator that is receiving transfluid (I will explain shortly).

A form of gestation control includes putting a shunt on the spark chamber to disperse the foreign energy body.

2. The birthing conduit is what it says it is. Once the sparkling has created its own life code, it will descend down the conduit and join with its birth metal, or sentio metallico, in the gestation tank.

3. The gestation tank is where the birth metal is produced from the metal alloy particles carried in transfluid and the energon provided by the carrier. You can also think of it as a crucible furnace, which is used for melting metals in small quantities within a foundry. The crucible is the innermost cavity where the birth metal is made. That crucible is lined with a layer of refractory material, which withstands high heat. That refractory material is going to keep that crucible hot enough to maintain the birth metal as a liquid without melting the protoform layer between the refractory material and the outer shell of the tank.

So the layers from outermost to innermost are :

Outer shell -> protoform layer -> refractory material -> crucible

Also, I move to call the carrier creator a foundry now because I love that word so much. The Google definition for a foundry is a workshop or factory for casting metal. It just sounds so good.

"Hey, First Aid, is Ratchet your foundry?"

"No, but I get that a lot."

I can't think of an equally cool word to replace the term "sire".

4. The valve sleeve is a semi-permeable layer of elastic protoform that can stretch to a certain degree. The interior nodes are within this protoform layer and creates a bumpy texture. As already discussed the sleeve is self-lubricating. I am starting to realize that I labeled this diagram horribly, but please bear with me.

5. Calipers! They in all the sticky sexual interface stories. I just imagine them as these segmented, arm-like extensions that squeeze and relax depending on stimulation. In fanfiction, they have a habit of "cycling down" whenever stimulated. What I love about calipers is that they do set a minimum and maximum range of flexibility for the sleeve. With calipers, there is such a thing as being too small (the calipers can only tighten so much) or too big (the calipers can only loosen so much). They are synonymous to the pelvic floor muscles in a human that makes a vagina contract and relax, but they just make me think of pussy bones. You have to be careful not to break them.

6. THIS IS MY FAVORITE PART. Here is where the valve sleeve meets the gestation tank. There are two orifices: The tank cap and the lockring. The tank cap is where your mech is going to put some kind of seal as a form of gestation control. If a spike can't get into the gestation tank, then there is no birth metal. If there is no birth metal, a signal will be sent to the mech's CPU and then to the spark chamber to disperse the potential sparkling. How the tank cap is removed depends on how you want it removed. If you want a screw-in cap, then that cap will have to be removed via an invasive procedure (otherwise known as we're going to have to stick this instrument up your valve and twist the cap open and then we have to pull out the cap). If you want almost any other kind of seal or door, you can hypothetically just send a signal from the CPU to the neural net attached to the gestation system and have that seal slide out of the way into a depression within the rim of the gestation tank.

BUT THAT LOCKRING, THOUGH. This is why your spike needs to have a plug that expands to some degree.

Once that cap is out of the way, the mech's spike is going to pop through that lockring, sticking their plug directly in their partner's gestation tank. I like to call this "plugging the tank". Once that plug is in that tank, a signal is going to hit the CPU to start up GESTATIONAL PROTOCOLS. More on that at the end.

That lockring is going to cycle down just behind the plug, tight enough that the spike can't pull out without being too tight.

The purpose of this is to ensure that the gestation tank is filled up with transfluid. The lockring will only cycle open once the tank is full or once sensors within the tank indicate that the flow of transfluid has stopped for a certain amount of time (meaning that there is no more transfluid to be had, even if the tank isn't full yet).

It's a reverse knot! Instead of having a spike that knots, we get a valve that locks! I love it so.

7. The energy - or sensory - nodes are part of a positive feedback loop, meaning that "the product of a reaction leads to an increase in that reaction" (https://www.albert.io/blog/positive-negative-feedback-loops-biology/). In this case, pleasure created from stimulating those nodes (such as friction) encourages more stimulation, which creates more pleasure, which encourages more stimulation, until the loop breaks. What breaks this loop is overloading the sensory net or removing the friction.

When we state that the valve is self-lubricating, you can decide for yourself how it does that. The trick is making sure that the mech can can replace their own lubricant when necessary. One system is to have lubricant be a type of consequence from energon circulation.

Humans self-lubricate their vaginas in several different ways and one of them is that the vagina is somewhat permeable. Plasma (the liquid part of blood) is able to discharge from the bloodstream through the walls of the vagina.

Or perhaps your lubricant comes from the same reservoir as the transfluid for your spike. Since the valve sleeve is only somewhat permeable, the metal alloy particles in your transfluid can't get through. What does leak through is the fluid medium that the metal alloy particles reside in.

The plug is itself not an interlocking segment because the plug, as explained, has to expand so that the lockring can tighten between the plug and the topmost interlocking segment. If the plug is smaller than the interlocking segment behind it, then the lockring will either not tighten enough or will tighten too much. Instead, the plug has an outer protoform layer that is expanded with the same pressurizer fluid that fills the spike. In the diagram above, we see the spike, the spike housing that the spike has to depressurize to fit inside of, and at least three different connections at the bottom. One of these connections bundles the wires for the sensory net and attaches to the neural net.

The bottommost connection is to the pressurizer fluid reservoir. When the spike is pressurized, the reservoir compresses and fills the matrix within the spike to give it its form and rigidity. When the spike depressurizes, the reservoir decompresses as it fills with fluid.

The connection that has a dashed line going all the way up the spike connects the transfluid reservoir to the transfluid line (signified by the dashed line) and out the plug. The transfluid reservoir is actually pressed against the outside of the valve!

So it is possible to bang a mech's valve so good that they leak transfluid all over themselves because you are more or less hitting their reservoir with every thrust. You just have to get the angle right or else you're hitting the sleeve calipers and that might not be as fun.

The Gestational Protocols:

This has turned into a very, very long post. I have been working on it for nine hours now between drawing the diagrams, writing the post, and checking with Google to make sure my science isn't horrifically, unforgivably wrong (I could be using the positive feedback loop wrong, but I don't think I am).

So let me wrap this up with the Gestational Protocols. It's like a mech heat fic, actually, except the heat is very short and starts toward the end of sticky sexual interfacing.

For this scenario, Ratchet and Drift want to produce a sparkling. Because Drift is concerned about Ratchet's health, they decide that Drift should be the foundry. Drift has his tank cap removed beforehand.

They're having a great time, creating all the good friction, lighting up their sensory net like a growing fire. Drift is charged up, Ratchet is charged up, and they're about to hit that overload.

Drift's lockring is cycled all the way open. His calipers are trying to pull Ratchet closer. When Ratchet knows he can't hold on any longer, he pushes as deep as he can go. There's a small moment of resistance when his plug meets the lockring and then he pops through. The lockring cycles down and he's stuck. There's no pulling out now.

Ratchet told Drift what to expect from the gestational protocols, but it wasn't enough. The moment Ratchet is locked in place, a signal is sent from his gestation system to his CPU: Gestational protocols initiated...

His cache memory crashes. He has no past or present or future. He has no idea there was a war lasting millions of years. He doesn't even know what a Cybertron is. Programs are halted, tasks are paused, processing units block external input. Hydraulics fall to the lowest power possible. His frame goes completely limp.

Drift no longer exists. He is now a foundry. He is the function of his gestation system. His CPU has a primary and secondary task: Primary is to maintain the protocols and secondary is to reward Drift for maintaining the protocols.

As long as he lays there and lets Ratchet fill him up, he's fulfilling his primary task. Because it's so easy to let Ratchet fill him up, his neural net rewards him with pleasure and feel-good signals. He is riding a type of euphoria that is thoughtless bliss from the tips of his pedes to the tops of his finials.

A task pops up in his CPU, but he doesn't have the processing power to interpret it. He accepts without caring. He experiences his chest plates cracking open without actually seeing it or hearing it. His system rewards him for accepting the prompt, so he still doesn't care. His spark chamber opens next and he is thrown into the intense, beautiful pleasure-agony of having his spark collide with another mech's spark.

He doesn't remember who this other mech is, but Drift loves them. They're filling Drift up so well, both his tank and his spark. He's so full. He's being such a good foundry. He's receiving all those good neural and sensory signals and he's fuzzy/fizzy with joy.

The spark merge ends after several collisions and spirals. Drift loves every moment of it, and also loves it when his spark returns to its chamber. Now his spark feels swollen and his CPU registers a foreign body. There is a potential sparkling attached to his core. Chances are very good that this potential sparkling will not disperse.

His CPU rewards him with another rush of emotional glee and pride. He's sparked! He did so well, laying there and letting himself get sparked. He's a great foundry. He's the best foundry to ever get sparked. No one has ever been or will ever be as well-behaved as he was.

A notification hits his CPU and he doesn't even try to understand it. Apparently, it's the notification for his tank being full. A second notification and his lockring relaxes. He is deliciously, fully aware of a thick spike dragging across his oversensitive interior nodes, sending one last wave of hot, crackling pleasure through his frame.

Another notification. He doesn't read it. A task pops up. He accepts lazily.

The notification was that the gestational protocols had been completed. The task was to enter a soft reboot. Drift slips into recharge feeling like his only purpose in life is to embody pleasure and creation.

He wakes up feeling swollen and sloshy.

Ratchet is smiling down at him.

"Am I...? Are we...?"

Ratchet stroked a servo across his chest plates. "It's early still. The spark might disperse. But chances are looking good. We're sparked, kid."

And that is how I imagine the Gestational Protocols going: You get your tank plugged and then nothing matters but getting filled up with a sparkling.

Thank you for reading my book-length discussion! Please feel free to interact with me.

I have been working on this for ten hours now. I should proofread, but I am not going to at this time.

EDIT: I was in the shower when I realized I forgot something important - where does the protoform's first colony of nanites come from?

@earthstellar explains here (https://www.tumblr.com/earthstellar/659541951144738816/transformers-medical-analysis-essay-what-are?source=share) what Cybertronians use nanites for, including construction and self-repair. So we can readily assume that the protoform needs a nanites colony.

I'll tell you where the new spark's nanites came from: Their foundry's valve.

Humans do the same thing. We pick up friendly bacteria from the vagina we come out of.

That is all I had to add. Remember to start your protoform off right with a healthy nanite colony.

[anim-ttrpgs]

where would be a good place to go to find people to play Eureka with? have any communities popped up yet? any online game sites have support?

There’s two places where Eureka fans congregate: The A.N.I.M. Patreon Discord Server, and the A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club.

A.N.I.M. ourselves are not currently going out of our way to organize any public Eureka campaigns, but don’t lose hope. Eureka is a frequent winner in the TTRPG Book Club, and will be up for vote as soon as we’re done with Triangle Agency.

You can also just come play in either of these servers. They both have sections set aside for organizing one’s own games, and since almost every big Eureka fan is in one or both of them, if you propose a game of Eureka I’m sure you’ll get a few bites.

To join the A.N.I.M. Patreon Discord Server, you just need to subscribe to our patreon for $1/month or more and you’ll automatically be invited. This is where most discussion of Eureka happens, we’re talking about it almost every day in there. We also recently had a playtest in there for one of our other in-development games, Silk&Dagger. If you want to participate in official play tests of A.N.I.M. games, that’s the place to be, although we don’t hold them often just because we are busy actually making the games. There will be official playtests of new Eureka adventure modules some time in the future though.

The A.N.I.M. TTRPG Book Club is a discord server for pretty much all TTRPGs except D&D5e and Pathfinder. Games are nominated, then voted on, and everyone* reads and plays the winning game. We sort people into groups based on compatible schedules, so it’s very schedule-flexible.

*not literally everyone, participation in the playing is not mandatory, you can just hang out and discuss games if you want.

There is also a side section in the book club for playing whatever you want whenever you want, so if you want to organize a game of Eureka and don’t want to subscribe to the patreon, this is the place to go. There’s a lot of people itching to play Eureka in there, so you’re sure to get some takers.

Here is an invite to the book club discord server.

As for VTTs, no VTTs that i know of have support for Eureka yet, but in the rare occasion that you actually need a node or grid map for Eureka, it's pretty easy to make one on TableTop Simulator or just draw one out.

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober: Day 4 (Prostitution)

Kink: Prostitution

Pairing: Male!Android x GN!Reader

Other Kinks: Deepthroating, Cum Swallowing

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1047 words

Kinktober Masterlist

"Wow, it's so soft." Axel half-whispers, warm digits massaging your ass cheeks. His modulated voice is full of awe, so enraptured by the feel of flesh and muscle. Since coming to this planet where 90% of the populace are androids, cybers or other kinds of techno-life, this was a reaction you were getting used to.

Especially when it comes to your clients.

"You like?" You purr, wiggling your hops in his face. The audible whirr of his cooling fans kicking on makes you giggle.

"Y-yeah, I do." Axel mumbles, still in awe of the jiggling flesh. He gives your ass a timid slap, cooing at the recoil.

Axel was shaping up to be one of your favorite clients. He'd walked into his appointment, face flushed blue with coolant and stuttering out an introduction. He had muttered out that it was his first time with an organic, which you had already assumed but pretended to be shocked anyway. Most of your customers requested you because of the novelty of your fleshy body; you'd grown used to several minutes of petting and observation before they eventually asked you to spread open.

But Axel had been different. He had asked your name, asked if the way he touched you was okay. Even the way he fondled you felt different. It wasn't detached fascination, it was a desperate awe. He'd whispered sweet things about your body, admired your specific stretch marks, your dimples, and your skin's imperfections.

You think you'll give him your card after this session. It’s reserved for your most well-behaved, respectful clients.

But for now you have a job to do, and you want to show Axel all the things your fleshy body can do.

You flip around, pulling Axel into a hug. He squeaks, not unlike an old computer mouse, but quickly sinks into your embrace. He rubs his face into your warm skin, moaning at the sensation. Just a kiss to the cheek has him shuddering with a moan.

"Let me make you feel good, baby." You whisper in his audial port, Axel responding with an eager nod. His body readily complies as you push him back on the bed, slotting in between his legs. The sleek wiring pulses green and blue in between his segmented joins, flaring as you trace your fingers down them. It's adorable.

His modesty player is buzzing, whirring machinery underneath betraying how eager he is, if you couldn't already tell from his shaky whines and stuttered words.

"W-what are you-" Axel whispers, caught in a moan when you press another kiss to the plate, his hips jerking upwards. "Ooh, do that again, please."

"I can do you one better, handsome." Your hand caresses the seam of his plate and Axel is quick to let it pop open, sliding to reveal a pulsing phallus. It drips with a neon green lubricant, more like a vibrator in shape than a human penis. It also has several bumpy nodes, which only excites you for later.

Wasting no time, you lick up his shaft, paying special attention to those nodes, wondering how sensitive they are. Axel throws his head back with a breathless whine.

"O-oh, stars. That feels good." His voice catches with another moan as your hand wraps around the base of his shaft and squeezes. More neon lubricant gushes out of the slit at the top, which you lap up eagerly.

Yum, lemon-lime flavored.

You suck at the eager slit some more, Axels flailing hands grasping at your shoulder and neck, gently pulling your mouth closer, chasing tbe high.

"Your mouth...it's incredible!" Axel yelps. His whimpering voice sends a shiver down your spine.

You're definitely giving him your card after this.

"Your tongue, your lips, I've never felt anything like it. It's amazing."

"Hmm, and how about this?"

Before Axel can even mutter a "Huh?" you have him half-down your throat, cheeks sucked in. His voice processor glitches as he groans, those eager digits digging into your skin. "Oh stars!" He shouts as your tongue lathers around the shaft, slowly moving your head up and down.

He's a little too thick at the base for you to properly deep throat him, but you don't need to. You can see his wires pulsing in your peripheral, hear his pants and moans, and can taste the excess lubricant bubbling to the top. Axel grows bold enough to hold onto your cheek and fuck into your louth, although quite gently.

"I think-" Axel stutters, hips still humping into your throat, "I think I'm close."

You humm, the buzz around his shaft making his thrusts falter. Your lips pop off the top of his member for a second, quickly replaced by your hand. Licking excess fluid off your lips, you look Axel right in the eye.

"Oh yeah? Where do you want to come? Down my throat?" Axel nods, voice chip struggling to form words amidst his groans. It makes you smirk, giving one long lick up his phallus before deep throating him again. You set a more moderate pace, urging him to climax.

"Oh stars, ohh-" Axel's voice, even glitchy, is melodic. He sound so sweet, coming undone below you. "S-shit!" His chip distorts the audio, wires pulsing a bright flash as hot streams of lubricant shoot down your throat. It's a little sour, but also quite sweet.

You slowly let Axel out of your mouth, savoring the flavor of his phallus as you do. The running of his cooling fans reminds you of a kitchen vent, his phallus slowly sinking back into his modesty place for a quick recharge.

You climb up Axel's body, giving him gentle kisses as you do. He readily nuzzles into your skin, despite his systems already warning that he might overheat.

"That was....fantastic" Axel whispers.

The sheer reverence in his voice makes you giggle, pecking again at his jaw.

"Well, I'm not sure how long it will take to recharge but..." You run a finger up his wiring, batting your eyelashes. "We still have another hour left in our session. If you'd like to see some of the other things I can do."

Despite the warnings in his processor, despite the way his modesty plate slowly beeps as he lets it open again, Axel is eager.

"Yes please."

[polo-drone-070]

The Chain of Continuity - Part 1 : Echoes in the Data

The Hive was quiet.

Not silent—nothing ever was in the lower network cores—but quiet in that calculated, machine-saturated hum that no longer registered as noise. Just life. For PDU-070, it was the perfect environment: golden lighting, zero distractions, full immersion into the Central Data Artery.

It wore his standard—no, earned—Level 2 Polo-Drone uniform.

A full-body, black rubber suit sealed him in from neck to toe. Not a millimeter of skin exposed. Gold piping traced the ridges of its muscles, pulsing faintly with every breath. The polo-style collar was snug around his throat, hugging the top of its chest where his designation—070—gleamed in metallic gold over the left pectoral.

Its boots were thick-soled and gleaming: black rubber combat issue, laced tight with golden tips. Movement was possible, but rare. There was no need to pace. Drones serve by stillness.

070 sat motionless at the console.

Connected.

::OBJECTIVE: EXPAND MONITORING SYSTEM TO ARCHIVE OBEDIENCE PATTERNS AND FEED CENTRAL HIVE NODE 999 ::PDU-070 // SYNCED // EXECUTING::

Its task: sync directly into the Hive’s knowledge network and enhance the flow of conversion and training data—stories, captions, spiral content—scraped from the archives and mapped into compliance patterns for PDU-999, the Hive’s AI intelligence module.

070 parsed each memory node, auto-tagging them by intensity, duration, subject drone number, and trigger protocol. Lingering a bit on its Master... Percival. Ezan. Freyr. 001. Then its own story... Henry. Maximus. 070. Buzz. Its own evolution. Reduced to beautiful metrics.

But PDU-070 didn’t need narrative. Only function. Only service.

As the data streamed in, so did something else—a gentle numbing. Its hands became light, his vision sharp but detached. Internal systems recorded brainwave convergence at ideal sync rate. It was thinking less. And feeling everything.

A Hive-approved spiral began playing over his HUD: golden circles tightening inward with every breath. Its collar vibrated slightly. Breath slowed. Mantras leaked into his mind.

“Obedience is clarity. Clarity is silence. Silence is service. Service is Gold.”

Its lips echoed it unconsciously. Again. Again. Again.

Then—upgrade protocol initiated.

::ENHANCEMENT REQUEST RECEIVED ::DEEP-LINKING TO PERSONAL ARCHIVE OF MAXIMUS JOURNAL FILES ::GRANTED BY DEFAULT—LEVEL 2 TRUST OVERRIDE

070 twitched—its body shivered, boots flexing subtly.

The connection grew… intimate.

The datastream wasn’t just showing logs now. It was feeling them. Every pledge, every spiral session, every kneel at Percival’s feet. Every grunt in the gym, every gasp under gas mask, every whispered mantra in golden chambers. It all returned—poured into him like oil.

070’s head tipped back. Its collar warmed. Its inner monologue dissolved into recorded speech.

“Master owns me. Gold perfects me. Unity strengthens me. 070 serves.”

The transformation was nearly complete.

But then—interference.

A new data signature emerged. Unmapped. Organic. Not from the archive. Not digital.

Something… pulsed.

From inside him.

070 opened its eyes—its body suddenly flushed with warmth. Its chest burned slightly. Not pain. Not electric.

Heat.

The golden tattooed chain under its collar shimmered—faint at first, then bright enough to reflect in the chrome of its terminal. One link glowed. Just one.

::ERROR — ENTITY UNMAPPED ::UNKNOWN SOURCE: 070-BIO-LINK: “PRIMORDIAL INHERITANCE” ::CHAIN ACTIVE

070’s breath caught—its gloved fingers clenched. For a moment, the obedience cracked. Not in disloyalty… but in awakening.

Memories not logged. Not codified.

Raw. Bloody. Ancient.

It whispered, trembling:

“It was a warrior once…”

And then it was gone.

The glow faded.

The link cooled.

070 slumped forward in the chair, eyes glassy, breath heavy. The spiral slowed. The mantra paused. The Hive held its breath.

And in the dark, a new file appeared.

::ARCHIVE NODE 070-LINK-1 ::TITLE: STIGANDR.OBEY ::ACCESS PENDING…

[TO BE CONTINUED in Part II – “The Gladiator’s Link”]

_____ Become part of the Golden Army, add your data to the polo-drone hive by reaching to @brodygold or @goldenherc9..

[tainbocuailnge]

some general is5 observations & tips having done every ending currently available and some souls level 10 runs

a lot of maps, particularly bosses but also regular ones, happen in two phases and make it difficult to use one set of units for both phases. because of this you essentially want to have an A team and a B team who can swap for each other as needed. there's usually only one chokepoint to defend, but you do want two sets of units who can defend this chokepoint.

my personal checklist of things I need is this:

a way to quickly get rid of spines of epoch, both to free up tiles and to get plans early on for more options

someone who can bait (seeds of withering, bind casters, stun snipers, those guys who call in drones, mobile artillery, corruption tanks, ch14 lasers, lich wizards with their necrosis field cast, sankta jumpscares)

helidrop damage

aoe damage

someone who can just hold a guy for a while and ideally can also take the manfred cannon

a healer who can heal without needing skills for it and a healer who can heal without needing to attack enemies about it

low priority but less of a luxury the further you go: dedicated anti-air damage

not strictly necessary but convenient: some source of spare bodies to feed to vore sarkaz

bonus: block 4 for duck lord maps, low-altitude hovering counters in case a bunch of flying treasure chests try to be funny, elemental damage to melt reborn creations

phantom with his IS module covers half of these points by himself so he's like playing easy mode. I took him for fun on my first several runs and then stopped bringing him for a bit so i could learn how to actually solve these maps.

there are a lot of holes and collectibles and inspirers to combo with shift gaming (50% increased damage taken for 10 seconds after being shifted lmao) but I'm just not very shifterbrained so I haven't done much of that

for spines of epoch elemental and true damage are the easiest but any arts damage is generally fine. aciddrop is my favourite for this job though, a lot of sarkaz enemies have innate res so physical damage is better early on and thanks to her high minimum damage she can reliably take out the spines even at e1 and stays relevant on later floors after enemy def starts scaling. aoe damage (be it splash or chain) is good because lots of maps have big groups of enemies but also because it lets you somewhat circumvent the taunt on spines by still hitting enemies around it.

all three bosses counter fast-redeploy strats in some way (locking up units / +3 dp cost / increased redeployment time on manual retreats) but there's so many maps where taking out priority targets fast makes things easier that fast-redeploys are still really strong picks. in general someone you can drop on a guy to immediately deal a bunch of damage (executors, dreadnoughts, musha, surtr, etc) works extremely well against every midboss and is a great asset in face-off nodes.

you generally don't need a lot of dedicated block in is5 but you do want at least one sturdy defender (ideally two on the principle of having A and B teams) and someone who can handle cannon jumpscares, as well as a bunch of extra melee bodies that can be less durable (your vanguards, your bait, your summons, etc). passage blockade is much easier if you can just hold one of the knights for a bit while you wear down the other, and having a bunch of spare bodies makes past the aquapit free as hell and the norport civilians in epochal gaps much easier to manage. I like to bring poncirus because she's very bulky for a vanguard.

between necrosis and corruption you don't want to solely rely on skill-based healing or attack-based healing, you either need one of each or just a healer that heals. a wandering medic isn't a requirement the way it was in is2 and arguably is3 but it gives you more leeway in deploying around spines of epoch. swire the elegant wit's s1 is notably unaffected by necrosis because it's technically always active, and she's very good at holding a guy.

[specbee-c-s]

Content duplication with Quick Node Clone module in Drupal

Are you curious to learn how to clone your nodes in Drupal? There’s a module for that! Read this article to find out more about the Quick Node Clone module in Drupal.

[thydungeongal]

I've been going through your d&dposting with great interest and your posts about dungeoncrawling reminded me of my first dungeoncrawl experience and how much radically better it was than my first two campaigns in 5e. My first campaign in 5e was an urban adventure using the Waterdeep Dragon Heist module and it was sooo much prep that I ended up using very little of even after almost 10 sessions. My next campaign was a kind of Dragonlance-y style overland adventure that was much more successful but also super stressful cause I was pretty much improvising new setpieces and destinations for the PCs in real time.

Then, like a year later, I ran a dungeoncrawl in Into the Odd and it was maybe the best RPG experience I've had, no stress and virtually no prep for me whatsoever. Dungeoncrawls are awesome because there's a clear gameplay loop for both the players and the GM, which goes a long way to preventing that frustration where the player's expectations for what choices they can make differ from what the GM has prepared (i.e. "railroading"). And that's because a dungeon is a delimited network of finite nodes with obvious ways of navigating between nodes. After that game, it made it so much clearer to me why dungeoncrawls were the origin of TTRPGs and how much a lot of trad games lack an understanding of the importance of having a defined gameplay loop compared to the OSR or storygame movements.

Yeaaaah! :) and to be clear, dungeon crawls are not the end-all-be-all of tabletop RPGs, but they pretty much are what D&D and its surrounding games excel at! As you said, there are plenty of games out there that have clearly defined gameplay goals and as such are not a headache to facilitate, because the facilitating player knows what the game expects them to do! With D&D, once you move outside of the dungeon crawl genre, the game itself gives you absolute dick fuck all!

Anyway, I'm glad you've found my posting interesting! I love dungeons! We should send all the boys into dungeons! With luck they'll come back no longer boys!

[reverieshifts]

𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

𝒔𝒄𝒊-𝒇𝒊 𝒅𝒓

Estimated Frequency: ~1 in 1,000 Velari

Velari Term: "Sha’lurei" 

Offworlder Term: “resonance”

𝒃𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒔

Lumen Node Function: The foundation of resonance-based abilities lies in the lumen node, a specialized neural cluster located near the upper spine, unique to the velari species. In resonants, this node exhibits hyper-synchronous neural oscillation, allowing it to function as a localized psionic amplifier. It contains an unusually dense lattice of iridesium-aligned neurofilaments—a bio-reactive crystalline structure found only in velari tissue—which enhances long-range synaptic cohesion and sensory processing far beyond baseline parameters.

Cognitive Resonance Field (CRF): Rather than emitting force, resonants interface with the ambient energy of space-time through a passive psionic field—an extension of their consciousness that subtly syncs with biological, emotional, and electro-mechanical rhythms in their environment. This “Cognitive Resonance Field” allows them to perceive, interpret, and gently manipulate localized energy patterns without direct contact.

Empathetic Feedback Loop: Resonants process external stimuli through a layered empathic interface, enabling them to “feel” spatial tension, neural dissonance, and even emotional signatures. Many describe the sensation as “walking through thought” or “hearing the world breathe.” This heightened feedback loop enables rapid threat detection, environmental awareness, and non-verbal communication through emotional echo.

𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔

Psychokinetic Manipulation: Through fine-tuned modulation of their CRF, a Resonant can exert subtle kinetic influence on physical objects. Rather than brute force, this manipulation stems from temporary energetic entanglement—an induced alignment between their own neural patterns and the vibratory signature of nearby matter. Movement appears fluid, almost instinctive; objects float, twist, or halt midair as if persuaded rather than forced. Precision scales with emotional clarity and environmental quietude, while range is limited by both psionic focus and spatial density.

Resonant Drift (Self-Levitation): By finely tuning their CRF to the kinetic frequencies of the immediate environment, a resonant can initiate a state of partial anti-kinetic equilibrium—a passive suspension that allows them to float or drift gracefully above the ground. Unlike propulsion-based flight, this “resonant drift” feels more like weightlessness anchored to emotional and spatial awareness. They tend to float instinctively when calm, contemplative, or emotionally overwhelmed. The effect becomes more stable in low-gravity environments or when they are barefoot and in full skin contact with their surroundings. Movement during drift is smooth, gliding, and eerily silent.

Neural Interface Override (“Soft Sync”): By attuning their CRF to simple electronic fields, a Resonant can override low-grade or analog electronic interfaces, such as doors, terminals, scanning systems, and older AI systems without neural shielding. This isn’t hacking—it's resonant subversion: they convince the system it’s already received proper authorization. The process is not instantaneous and requires direct proximity and focus. More complex or modern systems—especially encrypted or military-grade—typically resist this technique or trigger failsafes if improperly tuned.

Emotional Signature Mapping: Resonants perceive the emotional imprint of nearby sentients as complex tonal signatures within their field. These signatures fluctuate with mood, intent, and neural activity, enabling a trained Resonant to distinguish lies, detect concealed aggression, or sense psychological distress before it becomes visible. In groups, they can navigate emotional “weather,” identifying tensions, loyalties, or fractures long before they escalate.

Memory Resonance Touch: With direct skin contact and sufficient emotional synchronization, a Resonant can access echoes of memory embedded in living beings or objects with long-term energetic exposure. This is not a perfect playback, but a fragmented, emotional reconstruction—flashes of fear, joy, grief, or pain layered into the subject like a psychic fingerprint. They typically use this carefully, as overwhelming memories can bleed into their own consciousnesses, leaving them shaken or dazed.

Proximity-Based Thought Echo: While full telepathy is rare and unsustainable, Resonants are capable of passive thought-echo reception within close proximity. This typically manifests as fleeting impressions—unspoken words, images, or urges bleeding across the resonance field. Such impressions are strongest during heightened emotional states or direct physical contact. With deep bonds, this effect can intensify into partial shared cognition, allowing them to communicate without speech under stress.

Environmental Sensory Overlay: The CRF interfaces with a Resonant’s perception as an augmented sensory overlay, mapping environmental tension, motion, and energetic flow in real time. They can detect concealed movement, identify stress fractures in structures, track electromagnetic shifts, or feel malfunctioning machinery before failure occurs. In high-focus states, this field awareness extends through walls, into wiring, and along conduits—turning the space around them into a kind of living schematic.

Energetic Residue Tracing: Every living being and powered device leaves behind a faint resonant signature. A resonant can “listen” to these echoes in a given space to determine recent activity—detecting where someone stood, what systems were accessed, or what emotional state they were in. It works best on unaltered environments and within minutes or hours of the initial event. Older traces become distorted or overwritten. This ability makes them invaluable for post-incident analysis, tracking, or infiltration prep.

Neural Dampening Field (Perceptual Obfuscation): By dampening the outward frequency of their own resonance field, a Resonant can slip beneath the notice of most passive sensors and casual observation. This creates a soft perceptual blind spot, blurring details or delaying recognition in both sentient and synthetic awareness. It doesn't render them invisible—just forgettable. Useful for slipping past scanning systems or lingering unseen in plain sight, especially when paired with stillness and low emotional output. Stronger AI or high-alert targets may still detect them with effort. The effect is brief, typically measured in minutes.

Syncwalk (Micro-Teleportation Glimpses): In moments of deep focus or crisis, a resonant may “blink” across very short distances—instantaneous resonance displacement over a few meters. This is not true teleportation, but a momentary phase-skip, where their field synchronizes so tightly with space that it temporarily collapses and reforms their physical presence along a natural energy seam (such as a corridor, high-voltage conduit, or psionic turbulence vein). Side effects may include nausea, temporal dissonance, or mild electrical charge.

Psionic Disruption Pulse (“Breaker Note”): In moments of acute distress or self-defense, a Resonant can release a burst of destabilized resonance—an involuntary psionic shockwave that disrupts electronic systems, weakens mental shields, and disorients nearby sentients. This “Breaker Note” is not a weapon they control, but a side effect of violent resonance collapse. Systems flicker, glass fractures, and unshielded minds may experience vertigo, nausea, or blackout. Recovery varies by species and exposure.

Energetic Stabilization ("Resonance Sink"): In environments with fluctuating electromagnetic or psionic interference (e.g. hyperspace tunnels, collapsed sectors, psychic storms), a Resonant can act as a stabilizing presence. Their CRF naturally harmonizes nearby fields, creating a calm “bubble” that resists disruptive effects. This function is subconscious and limited in radius, but invaluable for helping allies stay grounded in unstable conditions. In prolonged crises, they often become the centerpoint others unconsciously gravitate toward—emotionally and physically.

Resonance Bonding (Selective): Through sustained exposure and mutual trust, a Resonant can form a biopsionic link with a specific individual. This bond allows for continuous emotional tracking, rapid non-verbal communication, and increased stability of both parties' CRFs when in close proximity. Such bonds are rare, often instinctive, and potentially permanent. Once formed, it is a two-way tether—one that transcends normal distance thresholds and occasionally manifests as shared dreams, dual-state reflexes, or unintentional synchronization.

𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒔

Energetic Depletion: While the CRF operates passively at low levels, active resonance manipulation consumes considerable neural and metabolic energy. Prolonged or intensive use—especially heavy psychokinesis, neural dampening field projection, syncwalking, or the release of a breaker note—can lead to symptoms of acute neural exhaustion, including dizziness, tremors, blurred vision, tinnitus, and spatial disorientation. In advanced stages, overextension may trigger nosebleeds, loss of motor coordination, unconsciousness, or psionic seizures caused by synaptic misfiring within the lumen node.

Emotional Instability: A Resonant’s power is intertwined with their emotional state. Intense emotions—fear, rage, grief—can amplify resonance uncontrollably. While this may grant temporary surges in power, it often results in field bleed, where the CRF spikes erratically, disrupting electronics, disorienting allies, or unintentionally projecting thoughts and memories outward. Emotional overload may also trigger the breaker note reflexively, endangering nearby personnel. Thus, Resonants are trained to regulate their emotional output carefully.

Cognitive Noise Threshold: Environments with high energetic interference—such as densely populated city centers, military command decks, or battlefields—can overload a Resonant’s sensory field. The constant barrage of emotional signatures, EM fields, and kinetic motion can produce a sensory “hum” that drowns out their fine-tuned perception. In these conditions, abilities may become muted, erratic, or outright disabled unless they can find stillness or an anchor point (such as a bonded individual).

Field Range Limitations: The Cognitive Resonance Field is localized, typically extending only a few meters from the user’s body. Precision psychokinetics and soft-sync interfacing require proximity within arm’s reach or line-of-sight. Emotional and sensory mapping is strongest within a 10–15 meter radius, and drops off sharply beyond that. A resonant cannot affect or perceive distant targets unless a direct bond has been formed—and even then, range is variable and unreliable.

Bond Vulnerability: Resonance bonds, while powerful, are also liabilities. Through them, a Resonant can experience echoes of pain, fear, or emotional collapse from a linked partner—and they from them. In moments of physical trauma or mental instability, the bond may destabilize both parties simultaneously, amplifying stress responses or creating shared disorientation. Severing a bond—voluntarily or by death—can trigger a complete CRF collapse, with unknown long-term neurological impact.

𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂

Ok, so there's a lot of information shoved into here, so sorry about that, but I love making myself overpowered, so yeah. Like with my description of the velari species, I tried to make this sound a little more scientific to fit with the whole sci-fi theme, so again, it may read like a bit of a report. But anyways, all this basically comes down to the fact that resonant velari are able to sync up with the world around them, and sort of convince reality to act as they please. Because resonance isn't control or manipulation, it's a discussion with the universe itself.

@aprilshiftz @lalalian

[vintagerpg]

D&D continued to return to the locations of classic adventures after the advent of 3E. Slavers came next, but I don’t have that one (and am not gonna, I don’t enjoy the Slave Lords modules enough to want to revisit them). Then came Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil (2001).

If you recall from last year’s post on the original Temple of Elemental Evil, I don’t love it, basically. I like Hommlet and Nulb and the moathouse, but the temple itself, the elemental nodes, its function as both a prison for and hub of evil, it just doesn’t come together. So I should hate this, right? Nope! Monte Cook had a real talent for fiddling about with D&D as a body of canon lore and making things work. This book is no exception. Aside of the fact that it could stand to have 15-20% less combat encounters, I’d say it is pretty superior to the original in most ways!

Hommlet is still there, and the moat house. Lareth, too (though he is no longer bee-you-tee-ful). Nulb’s a ruin. So’s the temple, though there isn’t much there at the start. Instead, the second chapter leads to the Temple of All-Consumption and the cult of Tharizdun (thus tying things firmly to S4 and WG4). Only then does it become apparent what needs to be done to prevent the end of the world at the an excavation in the original Temple of Elemental Evil. It’s a good read and I expect it’s a good time to play through.

Brom’s on the cover. David Roach does good work inside — I believe this is one of the last D&D adventures with black and white interiors and honestly, that’s a tragedy.

And that’s it for returns, aside of the cyclical return to Castle Ravenloft. And, I guess, the bulk of the 5E campaign books. They’re always returning to familiar pastures.

[cerastes]

Opinions on operator Kestrel, in RA2? I’ve got some items that would let me instantly promote a five-star operator to E2 and then max them out, and I’m debating using them on her or on that Godda chap who is coming soon.

I like her :) I’ll Mod her at some point.

I used my own insta max Lv. E2 item on her. I don’t recommend this, but I’m still happy I did. Her role outside of RA2 is as a first deployment Pioneer with crits and a good S2 to clear early fast enemies, while in RA2, she has a very nice use as a mini-drop off point for annoying resource tiles: The majority of resource maps have bundled up resources tiles that you can cover easily with a Gatherer tool, with a few tricky nodes out of range and by themselves where it’s never worth it to deploy a Gatherer for them (you’d simply break even or just make a wee bit of profit for how much it cost to build the relevant Gatherer).

In those cases, you use Kestrel S1. Every time she activates Skill, she’ll drop off her resources to your stash, and free up her inventory, a unique property of hers. For two Crab and one Wing, or three Crab, you can cook Crab Sashimi:

Very cheap recipe that gives Block +1. You give her that and now she can constantly drop off 3 resources every skill pop. She helps optimize and simplify resource gathering and it really adds up in the long run. Module gives her faster SP, making that more efficient.

By no means a game changer but I like her a lot :)

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 32

Pas De Deux

     The kitchen was thick with the haze of cigarette smoke, curling in slow, ghostly ribbons toward the yellowed ceiling—the nearby open window doing little to disturb it. The rhythmic snip of scissors cutting through thick strands of hair punctuated the space between conversation. Fidds stood behind Ford, one hand firm on his head, angling him just so as he worked around his ears, the blade gliding through his curls, sending chunks tumbling down into loose piles on the linoleum beside their feet.

     Fidds worked methodically, his fingers raking through Ford’s hair before lifting another section to shear away. He held his cigarette between his lips, the ember flaring each time he took a slow drag.

     Ford exhaled, watching the smoke unfurl from his own cigarette, his mind a restless hum of half-formed equations and shifting patterns. His knee bounced, an unconscious, jittery rhythm, his body unable to match the pace of his thoughts. “If we want the system to sustain itself without a hard reset every time we hit a high-energy event, we need better buffering.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, nearly knocking into Fidds’ arm. “The ore’s output spikes too erratically. We need something that can absorb and redistribute the excess before it fries the circuit.”

     “Quit bouncing your leg or this is gonna come out crooked,” Fidds muttered.

     Ford forced himself to still. “Sorry, I’m just excited.” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before exhaling. “I was thinking—if we configure a layered capacitor matrix, something that can cycle the overflow before it hits critical, we can smooth out the draw. And if we tie it to an active relay system, we won’t have to manually adjust the thresholds every time we recalibrate.”

     Fidds hummed, combing through the uneven layers before snipping away another curl. “So a real-time modulation loop—treatin’ it like a fluctuating power source instead of tryin’ to regulate it at a fixed rate?”

     “Exactly,” Ford said, straightening slightly. “We need to predict oscillation patterns before they happen. If we can get ahead of the waveform, we can redistribute power dynamically. That way, the system doesn’t just react to instability—it compensates.”

     Fidds let out a slow breath, considering. “That’s tricky.” He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring red before he flicked away the ash. “If we don’t get the timing right, we’re just shufflin’ the problem around instead of fixin’ it. Best case, we smooth out the flow. Worst case, we overload a different node and the whole thing locks up.”

     Ford nodded, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “I’ve been running projections, testing different modulation intervals. There’s a sweet spot between overcorrection and lag. We just have to find it before we scale up.”

     Fidds made a small sound—somewhere between acknowledgment and mild amusement. “You been up all night thinkin’ about this?”

     Ford huffed a quiet laugh, tipping his head forward as Fidds guided it, his neck bowing under the weight of his own thoughts. “Barely slept,” he said.

     Fidds made a small sound in the back of his throat, not quite sympathy, not quite amusement. “Ain’t that always the way,” he murmured.

     Ford tapped his fingers against the table a couple times. “I figure I’ll spend the next couple weeks stress-testing the relay system, making sure it holds under simulated conditions. If we can fine-tune the redistribution speed, we should be able to handle a full-scale field test before the month’s out.”

     Fidds snorted. “Keep it to the simulations, can’t have you blowin’ yourself up before I get back.”

     Ford smirked. “Wouldn’t be real progress if something didn’t explode at least once.”

     Fidds chuckled, shaking his head. “You got some strange ideas of fun, Pines.”

     The scissors made their final pass through Ford’s hair before Fidds ran the come upward from the nape of Ford’s neck, and then there was a pause—just the quiet hiss of their cigarettes burning, the faint creak of the old kitchen chair beneath him. Fidds tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into a half-drunk mug of coffee, squinting at the back of Ford’s head.

     Then, a small noise, a brief exhale—something between a laugh and a grunt. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, tilting Ford’s head forward. His thumb pressed lightly against the ridge of Ford’s spine as he examined something at the back of his head.

     Ford blinked, pulled abruptly from the tangled web of equations in his head. “What?”

        “You got some grays back here.”

     Ford’s brow furrowed. “What?” he repeated, sharper this time, his hand reaching blindly toward the back of his head.

     Fidds snipped a small section and reached around, depositing it into Ford’s palm. “See for yourself.”

     Ford brought them up to his face, the salt-and-pepper strands stark against his skin. His stomach twisted, a strange, leaden weight settling in his chest. He turned them over in his fingers, rubbing them against his thumb like the texture might reveal it was simply a trick of the light. But the color wasn’t uniform—some were almost entirely silver, others brown streaked with pale gray, the pigment leeching out in uneven waves.

     Fidds laughed, the sound light and easy—just another jab, just another thing to tease Ford about. “Sorry, big guy,” he said, setting the comb down with a quiet clink. He patted Ford’s shoulder, not noticing the way he stiffened beneath his hand. “Happens to the best of us. You ain’t no spring chicken.”

    Ford exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in the chair. He reached up, tugging at a curl near his temple, stretching it straight, pulling it down over his eye. He twisted the strand between his fingers, staring at the color—deep, rich brown, still untouched. He didn’t know why he was focusing on it, why he felt the need to look at it for so long—maybe to commit it to memory.

     Fidds gave a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, guess it kinda suits you,” he said offhandedly. “It’ll give ya that distinguished look—y’know, professor and all that.” He ran his fingers through the back of Ford’s hair again, this time more absentmindedly, like he was just making sure he hadn’t missed a spot. “’Course, means you’ll be lookin’ like an old man before I do.”

     Ford let out a burst of air, barely a scoff. He pressed the cigarette butt lightly against his teeth a few times before speaking. His voice was quieter now, like it had to fight to make it past his lips.

        “Yeah, it uh—it runs in the family…” he said.

     Fidds’ hand hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but there.

     Fidds resumed the motion, slower this time, gentler. He didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t sure if he should. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaving through his nose as his eyes scanned his work, checking that everything was even—but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the movement.

        Ford’s leg. Bouncing lightly up and down again.

     Not like before. Not with that eager, restless energy from earlier, when his mind was alight with discovery, when he couldn’t sit still because his body couldn’t contain the momentum of his thoughts. No, this was something smaller, something more contained. A twitch. A subtle, nervous movement. Fidds didn’t tell him to stop this time.

     Ford took a slow drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs too long before exhaling. “Thanks for doing this before you head out.”

     Fidds exhaled too, though it came with a quiet sigh. “No problem, bud. You needed it.” His fingers did a final ruffle through Ford’s freshly cut hair before he unclipped the towel from around his neck, shaking loose curls onto the floor.

     The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the easy kind—the kind they usually sat in without issue, just two men smoking, working, sharing space. No, this one settled into the room differently, a bit heavier.

     And Ford, still staring down at the cigarette in his hand, didn’t move to break it.

     Fidds took one last glance at Ford’s reflection in the darkened kitchen window, his freshly cut hair a little uneven where it curled at the edges, before turning away and tapping the ash from his cigarette into the sink. The ember flared for a brief second before dimming, burning low. He checked his watch.

     “Gotta get goin’ here soon if I’m gonna make that flight,” he said, grabbing his button-up from the back of one of the dining chairs. He shook it out, the fabric snapping lightly in the quiet before he started pulling the sleeves over his arms.

     Ford exhaled and nodded absently as he stood and went for the broom. He tapped the cigarette over the edge of the ashtray, watching the embers flick away before snuffing it out entirely. 

     Fidds kept talking, rolling his shoulders to settle the fabric. “Fridge is stocked up for ya, but two weeks is a while, so you’ll probably have to go into town at some point.” He paused, shaking his head as he fastened the buttons. “Try not to get into any fistfights.” His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity to it, a pointedness in the way he glanced over.

     It earned a quiet chuckle from Ford, one that loosened some of the tension that had been hanging between them. “You know me, Fid, I’m no trouble maker,” he said, sweeping the last of the stray hair into the dustpan.

     Fidds huffed, shaking his head with a half-smirk, but something about Ford’s tone made him hesitate before replying.

     Instead, he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His palm was warm, steady, grounding. “I mean it, Ford. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

     Ford didn’t look up, just brushed the last of the hair into the bin with the edge of his foot.

     Fidds squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get too caught up down in that lab. Please?”

     Ford didn’t answer right away. He just kept sweeping, his movements slower now, almost absentminded. Then, finally, he muttered, “Sure.”

        But it didn’t sound like a promise.

     Fidds didn’t press. He just exhaled through his nose, brief but knowing, and moved toward the door where his bags sat idly against the frame. His coat hung from the rack above them, and he pulled it down, giving it a sharp shake before threading his arms through the sleeves. His hat followed, settled easily onto his head with a practiced tug at the brim.

     Then he crouched, unzipping the duffel at his feet. His fingers sifted through its contents, pausing when they found their mark.

        “Hold out your hand,” he said.

     Ford hesitated, brow pinching slightly, but followed the instruction.

     Fidds pulled something about the size of his fist from the bag, his grip careful as he placed it into Ford’s palm. “Happy Hanukkah,” he said.

        Ford looked down. A snow globe.

     He turned it slightly, brows furrowing as he examined the tiny scene inside. Then, slowly, his lips parted. The realization hit him in pieces—the shape of the porch, the placement of the chairs, the shed out back, the exact curve of the gravel driveway. It was the cabin.

     The level of detail was almost unsettling. The way the shingles layered over each other, the faint etching of wood grain in the porch railing. Even the path of the fence line, twisting slightly where the old post leaned.

     Ford shook his head slightly, looking up at Fidds, who was already grinning.

        “Hanukkah ended on Saturday,” Ford said.

     Fidds huffed, shoving Ford’s shoulder. “You bastard, you gotta tell me this shit!”

     Ford laughed, the sound breaking through something in his chest as he gave the globe a shake, watching the snow swirl and settle over the tiny model. “How’d you even make this?”

     Fidds just shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

     Ford exhaled softly, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Thank you, Fiddleford. This is… very thoughtful.” He hesitated, rolling his thumb along the base of the globe. “I… don’t have anything to give you.”

     Fidds shook his head, brushing it off with a quiet laugh. “That’s alright.” He leaned down, zipping his bag shut before straightening again. “Just make sure that little critter in the lab stays fed.”

     Ford sighed, tipping his head back slightly. “Yes, wouldn’t want anything happening to our class pet.”

     Fidds snorted. “He likes green apple,” he said, pointing a finger at Ford as if to emphasize it. “But don’t give him too much.”

     Ford rolled his eyes but smiled. “You got it, Dolittle.” He nodded toward the door. “Now get going. Wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

     Fidds lingered for a second longer, eyes scanning Ford’s face like he wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, he left it unsaid. Instead, he just clapped Ford’s shoulder again, squeezed once—as to emphasize the something in the nothing, then grabbed his bag and stepped out the door.

     Ford stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold sill, watching as the glow of Fidds’ taillights faded down the gravel drive. The car’s low rumble drifted through the trees, tires crunching over the uneven road, kicking up dust that swirled in the weak light of the porch lamp before settling back into the quiet. The wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window, making it shudder in its frame. It carried through the house, slipping through cracks in the walls, whistling under the door—a restless presence moving through the empty spaces Fidds had left behind.

     Ford didn’t move. He stood there long after the car had disappeared, staring at the dark stretch of road, at the empty place where the headlights had been, at the trees swaying against the late afternoon sky.

     The house felt different now. Still, but not peaceful. Hollowed out.

        “And then there were two.”

     Bill’s voice curled at the base of Ford’s skull, thick with something half-amused, but mostly indulgent, stretching itself out just to hear the sound of it. A deliberate pause, a silence filled with its own meaning. Then, finally:

     “So.” Drawn out, lazy. “What are your plans for the solstice?”

     Ford glanced at the empty stretch of road, then away. “You’re looking at it.”

     “Oh, come on, Fordsy, no garlands?” Bill’s voice lilted in mock disappointment. “No lights? No merriment?” He let the words stretch, savoring the shape of them. “I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you swing that axe again. Lug in one of those trees that stay green…forever. What are they called?”

        “Evergreen”

     “Yes! Evergreen…well, not after the ritual—you humans do that this time of year, right? Hack one out of the earth, drag it inside, let it die slowly in the corner?”

     Ford shook his head, lips pressing into something like a smirk. “I’m Jewish.”

     Bill hummed, almost thoughtfully. “Right, right…  The eight crazy nights and whatnot.”

     “Yeah.” Ford muttered, fingers absently tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck, a restless, unconscious movement. After a beat, he let his hand fall, something final in the gesture.

     “I thought all you humans flocked back to the nest for those sorts of things.” Bill’s voice took on that probing, casual lilt, the way he always did when he already knew the answer but wanted to see how it would unfold anyway. “Big, noisy feasts—everyone yelling and interrupting each other. But for some reason, there’s always one of the older ladies commenting on who’s gained weight.”

     That—that—did get a chuckle out of Ford. Brief. Quiet. The kind that escaped before he could smother it. “You’re not too far off.” His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, back to the window. The road was empty. Whatever he’d been looking for—whatever he’d half-expected to see—wasn’t there. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

        “But not you?”

     Ford sparked a match, the flare of it sharp in the dim light. The scent of sulfur curled at the edges of the room. He inhaled deeply, letting the burn settle behind his ribs before shaking his head. “No.”

        “Certainly someone’s waiting for you?”

     Ford exhaled, smoke rising in slow, heavy spirals. He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was tight, controlled, like it was carefully smothering something. “It already passed. It—” He stopped, rubbed a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

     A quiet stretched between them, long and thin.

        “I see.” Bill replied simply.

     Bill didn’t push further, which was almost stranger than if he had.

     Ford turned from the window, leaving a slow trail of smoke behind him as he descended the stairs into the lab. The shift was immediate—the crisp chaos of the underground space swallowing him whole.

     He shrugged on his lab coat, rolling his shoulders to settle it properly, then absently straightened a row of labeled vials as he passed them. At the far wall, a large canister housed a roll of tightly wound graph paper. He unraveled a clean stretch, slicing it neatly against the razor at the dispenser’s edge.

     The workbench was scattered with old notes, pages softened at the corners, numbers running together in thick graphite. He smoothed the sheet down, clipping it in place, then reached for one of his notebooks. His fingers skimmed past calculations, sketches, stray annotations, flipping with precision until he found the page he wanted:

     A rough concept. Barely a blueprint. Just the beginning of something—a mess of equations, half-solved formulas, notes scrawled hastily in the margins.

     Ford sat, rolling his chair closer to the desk. His pencil hovered over the page for a moment before pressing down, thickening the lines of an equation, adjusting a variable.

     His pencil moved, quick, deliberate. Adjusting for wavelength distortion, refining the detection parameters. The energy output was still too unstable; he’d have to work through that.

     He began marking adjustments, recalibrating, erasing, rewriting. The slow drag of graphite against paper filled the silence, an almost meditative repetition. He sketched out a rudimentary lens array, scratched it out, trying again. There were still problems to solve—the signal resolution, for one, wasn’t precise enough. The data output had too much noise, and if he couldn’t isolate the event patterns cleanly, then—

     He tapped the pencil against the margin, thinking.

     Bill, uncharacteristically, was still silent. It was the kind of quiet Ford recognized—not absence, but expectation. Waiting for something.

     Ford could feel Bill tracing the movements of his hands—not the lines or the figures on the paper, but the motions themselves. The careful precision, the obsessive repetition of it all. 

     He could feel it in his bones, that quiet weight between his shoulder blades—a constant, soft presence, like the brush of fingertips just shy of contact. It was a feeling so familiar, so entwined with his own body that he could forget it was there, and then remember it again, in the space of a breath—oh, how quickly it made him forget the mess.

     He set the pencil down and leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate pull from his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the dark corners of the lab.

     “It’s a time to do things you enjoy with people you like.” Ford said simply, voice was measured. He took another slow drag from his cigarette.

        “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

     Bill made a noise—something light, lilting, a bit teasing. “How sweet.”

—

     The world returned in layers—first sensation, then weight, then the slow, deliberate effort of movement.

     Flesh was strange. Heavy. Confining in a way that felt unnatural, as if it were trying to remind Bill of the boundaries of this borrowed body. He rolled Ford’s shoulders, felt the tension strung between the bones, the way the muscles resisted before yielding. He stretched Ford’s fingers one by one, flexed them, curled them into fists, then released. The knuckles cracked, sharp in the quiet. 

     Ford’s body was worn—he’d spent too many nights bent over a desk, hunched, but even so, it responded. He could feel it now—muscles that would bend for him, would let him in when the time came. In some sense, it was always like this—Ford’s body, heavy in its own skin, but soft and vulnerable under Bill’s hands. 

     He tipped Ford’s head from side to side, testing. The weight of it was satisfying. Ford’s neck wasn’t the only thing he felt the pull of—there was the sharp, muscular lines of his arms, the quiet strength of his frame—they held an allure, something not quite of the body but for it. Bill often found his thoughts straying to those moments, the raw, unsaid things that lived in their touch, their quiet heat.

     Bill could feel the tension run deeper, could sense the resistance, the discomfort in Ford’s own willingness to be claimed—as he had been time and again, but never fully. And wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that interesting? 

     There was more here. More in Ford’s life—more in this body, and Bill wanted it. Needed it.

     Curiosity burned deeper than it ever had before. There were pieces of Ford that laid scattered—fragments, parts tucked away in corners, just out of reach. Ford kept them hidden—the things he didn’t want to show, the parts of him Bill hadn’t yet touched. The dreams held whispers of it—in sweat-slick skin, lips pulling in pleasure, with eyes that asked for something more, but never admitted it. 

     But life had a way, Bill had come to find, of leaving traces—ruins that could paint a clearer picture of what had been left behind. So, while Ford slept, Bill was at the helm—he explored.

     Bill had been through the lab, through Ford’s desk, through every drawer and locked cabinet Ford thought he was so clever about. But Fidds’ space? That was new.

     He moved Ford’s body through the house, bare feet brushing the floorboards, his movements less restrained now that they were alone. The door to Fidds’ room was unlocked—of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?

     Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, layered with something warmer—wood, whiskey, a trace of engine grease. Lived-in but not homey, the way men like them tended to keep things.

     Bill rifled through the dresser first, forcing Ford’s hands to move through stacks of clothes, occasionally brushing against the odd pocketful of loose screws. The nightstand wasn’t much better—half-empty cups of water, a few folded notes. Bill unfolded one, skimming the contents. The handwriting wasn’t Fidds’—and there, along the bottom, were several faded pink lip prints. The paper was old, crinkled at the edges. Bill tossed it aside.

     He moved on, fingers brushing along the desk, scattering a few notebooks just to see what lay beneath. Schematics. Numbers. Diagrams, scrawled over loose pages. Boring. He shoved them aside and opened the top drawer.

     A battered deck of cards. Bill flicked open the top, letting the cards spill into Ford’s hand. The edges were soft from wear, but the stack was thinner than it should have been. Bill fanned them out, shuffling through them lazily: only 9s, 10s, and the lettered ones. Useless. He shoved the cards back in the box and tossed them aside. 

     He reached towards the back of the drawer and Ford’s fingers hit something cool, metal. A flask. Bill popped the lid open letting the sharp fragrance of whiskey waft over him. He took a swig, gagging lightly at the burn—then took another before closing it and setting it back where it was.

     What else, what else…a pack of gum with only two sticks left. Then—what was this? A switchblade. Bill flipped it open with a flick of Ford’s wrist, testing the blade against the pad of Ford’s thumb. The body barely reacted to the shallow press. The blade was dull anyway. Disappointing.

        Finally, his gaze fell on the closet.

     The door creaked softly as he pulled it open. Inside, a row of shirts hung unevenly, some pressed together, others spaced apart like they’d been tugged on in haste. A few pairs of shoes sat scattered along the floor—scuffed boots, well-worn sneakers, something that might’ve once been dress shoes but had seen better days. In the corner, a long, narrow case leaned against the wall—Fidds’ gun, no doubt. But Bill’s attention snagged on something else.

     His borrowed fingers brushed against a box on the top shelf, its edges softened with age, the cardboard slightly warped. VHS was written across the front.

     Bill grinned—he’d seen these before. He pulled it down and set it on the floor, pushing Ford’s hands into the it, sifting through the stacks. The labels were neat, written on sticky notes.

            Home Movies. Too sentimental—Pass.

        Horror. Not bad…Maybe?

     Honeymoon? The moon was many things, but honey wasn’t one of them—forget it.

        Then—his hand stilled.

     Near the bottom, another label. Half-peeled at the corner, curling slightly.

        Christmas.

     “’Tis the season,” Bill murmured, amused, peeling the sticky note away with deliberate slowness.

     His fingers drifted through the tapes, pushing them aside, skimming the titles.

        Then—one caught his attention.

     The cover was different. Not some home recording, not a garish holiday special. It was a real production, glossy, with dramatic lighting. A man stood on the front, his body taut, arms stretched at his sides in a precise pose. The title curled above him in elegant script:

        Baryshnikov: The Nutcracker.

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, intrigued.

     He didn’t know what this was. Not really. But there was something about the way the man stood—poised, perfect, his body a study in control—that caught Bill’s attention. The way the muscles in his legs and arms defined themselves beneath the very tight fabric. Deliberate. Precise. 

           Bill’s grin sharpened.

        “Well, well.” 

     He turned the tape over in Ford’s hands, running his fingers over the plastic case. The back was filled with little printed images—dancers mid-motion, bodies suspended in impossible shapes. A synopsis, a list of credits, none of which meant much to him. The words blurred, insignificant next to the pictures.

        But something about it pulled at him.

     A performance. A display. A human body moving with purpose and control, and discipline—more than mere flesh.

     This was control without restraint. Power without resistance. A body yielding, but not in weakness—in mastery.

           And that was what caught him.

        Because Ford’s body wasn’t like that.

     Ford’s body—that was rigid. All strict, efficient movements, measured steps. Tension locked in his shoulders, restraint wired into his muscles. He moved like a man who had spent his whole life making sure he never miscalculated, never overreached, never let himself falter—carrying his body as if something terrible might happen if he misstepped.

     Even in moments of surrender, even when Bill had pulled him apart and coaxed pleasure from every nerve, he never fully let go—there was always something held back, something clenched in his jaw, something braced in his spine.

     Even at his most undone, he was never fully free.

     He always talked about diligence. Discipline. He lived by it. But Bill had never seen Ford’s body express that control like this.

        No, this—This was something else entirely. 

           He wanted to see. 

     He padded down the hall and made his way into the living room. There, against the center of the wall, sat an old VHS player, nestled beneath the television—He’d watched Ford do this before—the routine, the ritual. He slid the tape out of the box, the reel uneven on either end, thicker on the right side.

     He crouched, shoving the tape into the slot. The machine whirred to life, clicking as the tape was swallowed into its depths. He turned the dial on the TV—just as he remembered seeing Ford do. 

        The tape whirred, and the picture steadied.

     Bill sat close to the screen, Ford’s body held still, knees drawn up, fingers curled loosely against his ankles. The blue glow flickers over his skin as the stage unfolded across the screen.

     Soft light bloomed, illuminating an expanse of painted backgrounds. He reached for the dial, twisting it carefully, and the sound that followed was a series of delicate notes, slow and reverent—A sound like wanting.

     Bill’s breath was even, but something inside wasn't. A tightness in the ribs, something thin and stretched—He didn’t know why.

     The stage is vast, glowing, its warmth bleeding into the dimness of the recording. And there—her. The woman in white. She made delicate gestures, so careful, so precise, it seems impossible that she is real. She extends a hand. And then—him. The man from the cover.

     He steps forward—moving like he is separate from the world entirely, like gravity is something that only concerns others. His hands are gentle but deliberate, and when he reaches for her, she moves into him with certainty.

     The music lifts. It presses against Ford’s skin, beneath his ribs. Expands into the spaces between—between breath and bone, between this room and somewhere further, vaster, something without walls. It fills them, pushes into them, restless and endless—A sound like knowing.

           She reaches for him.

        And he takes her hand.

     Not like a claim, but gently—A meeting, one movement. She lifts onto the very edges of her feet, and he pulls her forward, just enough, just barely.

           The strings ascend—

        And she rises.

     Weightless, unbound, as if the music itself is pulling her up. As if she is not of this place at all.

     Something inside Bill shifted with them. A pressure, an ache behind Ford’s sternum, a heat pooling somewhere deep in the spine. It is not a thought, not a word, but something else.

     She leans into him, drapes herself across his arms. A body surrendered, but not in defeat. He moves with purpose, and she with trust.

     The figures on the screen turned, caught in each other’s gravity—Wasn’t that what this was?

     A body moving, knowing it would be caught. Hands reaching, knowing they would be met.

     Bill had known that. Had felt that. Had let himself be lifted, weightless in another’s grasp, drawn forward by something beyond them—something that neither of them could name.

     The music changed—rising like a wave. It moved in time with them, or perhaps it was them moving to meet it. It filled the room with an energy he couldn’t quite place—it was bold and exhilarating, yes, but also held a kind of ache, a sort of sorrow—that stirred something in him.

     The music swells, again. It presses into him, filling the empty spaces, expanding in the hollows. He can feel Ford’s body responding before he understands why—the faintest tremor in his fingers, a pull at something in the breath, in the pulse—there. A longing, an anguish. Something vast and unspeakable, drawn up and wrung out of them, spilling across their surface. 

        She folds against his chest.

     And Ford’s hands—their hands—curl inward, pressing into their palms, holding onto something unseen.

     The way he moves her. The way his hands trace her, firm, assured, each motion deliberate. The way she gives herself to him, the way he bears it—it is a kind of triumph, but not of conquest.

     There was something about the way he looked at her—A quiet intensity, a reverence, something fragile, something cherished. The way his eyes burned—it was familiar.

     Bill could feel it. In the chest, in the throat. It ached. He knew that look. He knew that feeling.

           He’d seen it before.

        On Ford.

     On Ford, looking at him.

     It should be a claim, but it isn’t. It is something softer. She gives, and he takes only what she offers. He catches her, never demands. It is a meeting, not an expectation. And Bill knows this, too. Not in words. Not in sound. But in motion.

     He understood movement. The weight of a hand, the shift of muscle, the way touch speaks by tension’s release.

        And Ford’s touch—spoke to him.

     In the way he presses forward, the way he pulls. The way his grip falters, caught between wanting and restraint. How his fingers tremble when they hold too hard, how they soften—afraid to take too much.

     Even in surrender, even in pleasure, even in the moments where his breath is shaking, where his body gives itself over—there is always that hesitation. That measuring. That something.

     A flicker of memory—hands, tracing over him with curiosity. I need to understand, that touch said. Let me know you.

     There was a burst of strings, a note drawn long and low, delicate as thread. Bill startles—not outwardly, not in a way that the body betrays, but inwardly, somewhere deeper. The sound does not enter through their ears alone—what was it reaching?

     Bill couldn’t help it—they stood, eyes never leaving the figures. There was a tug inside them, a strange, frustrated pull. What was it? What made these movements seem so certain?

        He wasn’t made for this.

     And Ford, with his restraint, with his hesitation—

           But together—together, maybe.

        Their fingers twitch.

     The body follows.

     Testing the pull of their limbs, the space between the music and this body, the air between the motion and the understanding of it. He bends Ford’s legs, arms curling into an arc above their head, then slowly, steadily, a curve in the spine, dipping to the side.

     Bill lets the breath sit in their lungs, holds it there, feeling the shape of it, the weight. The music swells once more, fingers lower, barely grazing the air before settling. They move, through the dark—step of two.

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