#purpose of pneumatics

[whatsagirltoblogabout]

white collar season six hadestown au

[heron-knight]

decided to crack open my skull and pour the contents of my brain onto the keyboard. thought the denizens of tumblr might enjoy it. bon appetite

Mech Pilot Care guide

You never expect it, do you. Even as you see the flashes of pulse-decay fire in the sky, illuminating a scene of violence on the cosmic scale. Planetary defense satellites forming Monolithic structures in the sky, their purpose now revealed as they scatter constellations of destruction across the night horizon, drowning out the stars and replacing them with ones born of death. The oxygen in a ship catching fire and burning away in an instant, a flash of light that marks the death of its crew of hundreds. Even if you take your telescope to watch this spectacle, this war in a place without screams, you still feel profoundly disconnected from it.

Even as you see a pilot cleave through a drone hive with a fusion blade, the molten metal glistening in the light of the explosions around it, scattering without gravity to the corners of the universe, even as two mechs dance across the sky, their reactors pouring into the engines enough energy to power the house atop which you sit for ten thousand years, flying in a 3.5 dimensional dance with only one word to the song that can reach across the vacuum: “I Will Kill You.” you don’t feel even the slightest glimpse of what goes on inside their minds. You don’t feel the neurological feedback tearing across the brain-computer interface, filling her mind with more simultaneous pain and elation that an unmodified human could ever experience. You don’t feel it as the pneumatic lance punctures through steel and nanocarbon polymer, the mech AI sending floods of a sensation you could never truly know through the skull and into every corner of the body carried on enhanced nerves for every layer of armor punctured, tearing into the enemy chassis with a desire beyond anything the flesh can provide. Let the stars kill each other. After all, I am safe on earth. No, you don’t expect it when the star is hit with a sub-relativistic projectile, piercing through both engines in an instant. You don’t expect it to fall. You never would have expected it to land, the impact nearly vaporizing the soil and setting trees aflame, on the hill beyond your house, and you would never have expected, beneath the layers of cooling slag, for the life-support indicator light to still be visible.

All the fire extinguishers in your house, your old plasma cutter that you haven’t used in years, and whatever medical supplies you think they might still be able to benefit from. All that on a hoverbike, speeding at 120 kilometers per hour through the valley and up onto the hill, still illuminated by the battle above, unsurprisingly unchanged by this new development. 200 meters. 100 meters. You don’t know how much time you’ve got. It wasn’t exactly covered in school, how long a pilot can survive in an overheating frame. You’ve heard rumors, of course, of what these things that used to be human have become. That they don’t eat and barely need air. That they don’t feel any desire beyond what instructions are pumped directly into their brains. Not so much of a person as much as an attack dog. It’s understandably a bit concerning, as if they are alive, then it’s not guaranteed that you will be. Three fire extinguishers later, the surface of the mech is mostly solid, and the cutter slices through the exterior plating. With a satisfying crunch, the cockpit is forced open, revealing the pilot, and confirming a few of the rumors, while refuting others. Pilots, it seems, are not quite emotionless. In fact, there seems to be genuine fear on its face when it sees you, followed by… a sort of grim certainty as it opens its mouth, moves its jaw into a strange position, and you only have half a second to react before it would have bitten down with all its force on the tooth that seemed to be made of a different material then all the rest.

Your thumb is definitely bleeding, and is caught between a metamaterial-based dental implant, and one containing a military-grade neurotoxin. You’re not sure exactly why you did it. The pilot looks at you for a second, before the tubes that attach to its arms like puppet strings run out of stimulants, and it passes out after who knows how long without sleep. This battle has been going on for weeks already. Has it been fighting that long? Its various frame-tethered implants disconnect easily, the unconscious pilot draped over your shoulder twitching slightly with each one you remove. It’s a much longer ride back to the house. Avoiding having the pilot fall off the bike is the top priority, and the injured thumb stings in the fast-moving air. 

An internet search doesn’t lead to many helpful sources to the question of “there is a mech pilot on my couch, what do I do?” a few articles about how easy targets retired pilots are for the “doll sellers,” a few military recruitment ads, and a couple near-incomprehensible legal documents full of words like “proprietary technology” or “instant termination.” However, there is one link, a few rows down from the top-- “Mech Pilot Care Guide.” It’s a detailed list, arranged in numbered steps. The website has no other links on it, just the step-by-step instructions: a quick read reveals that this isn’t going to be easy, but looking at the unconscious pilot, unabsorbed chemicals dripping from the ports in its arms and head onto the mildly bloodstained towel, you come to the conclusion that there’s no other option.

Step one: the first 24 hours.

The first thing you should know is that pilots aren’t used to sleeping. They’re used to being put under for transport and storage, but after the neural augmentations and years of week-long battles sustained by stimulants that would fry the brain of anyone that still has an intact one, they’ve more or less forgotten what real sleep is. If they see you asleep, they’ll think you’re dead, so don’t try to let them stay in your room yet. Once you’ve removed the neurotoxin from the tooth (it breaks easily with a bit of applied pressure, but be careful not to let any fall into their mouth or onto your skin.), start by moving them into a chair (preferably a recliner or gaming chair, as the mech seat is about halfway in between), and putting a heavy blanket over them. Don’t worry, they don’t need as much air as normal humans do, and can handle high temperatures up to a point. This is an environment similar to the one they’re used to. It’ll stay like this for about 12 hours-- barely breathing, trembling slightly underneath the blanket. Feel free to check if it’s alive every few hours, not that you could help it if it wasn’t. It won’t freak out when it wakes up. In fact, it doesn’t seem like they can. Turn down the lights and remove the blanket from its face. It’ll stare blankly at you, trying to evaluate the situation with a brain that’s not connected to a computer that’s bigger than they are anymore. Coming to terms, if you could call it that, with the fact that it isn’t dead. Don’t expect it to start reacting to things for a while yet, give it a couple hours. 

It’s been a bit, and its eyes are starting to focus on you. The next thing you should know is this: pilots only have two groups into which they can categorize non-pilots: handler and enemy. You need to work on making sure you’re in the right one. Move slowly, standing up and walking toward them, making sure they can see where you’re going to step. Place both hands on their shoulders, then slide one under their arm and carefully pick them up. Don’t be startled by how light they are, or how they still shake slightly as they realize their arms don’t have anything connected to them. Most importantly, don’t break. Don’t reflect on how something can be done to a person so that this is all that’s left. Just focus on rotating them as if you’re inspecting all the brain-computer interface ports, while holding them at half an arm’s length. Set them back down, wrap the blanket around them, then lean in close and say “status report.” they won’t say anything, as they usually upload the data via interface, but what’s important is that now they recognise you as their handler. Their entire mind will be focused on the fact that they exist now to do what you want. Now it’s up to you to prove them wrong.

Step two: the first week.

They’re shaking so hard that you’ve had to move them from the chair back to the couch, sweating heavily as they pant like the dog they’ve been trained to think they are. This was to be expected, really. Pilots are constantly being filled with a mix of stimulants, painkillers, and who knows what else, and you’ve just cut them off completely. You’ve woken up several times in the night and rushed to check if they’re still breathing, debating whether you should try to tell them that they’re going to be okay. The guide says they’re not ready for that yet, whatever that means. They’re still wearing the suit you found them in, made from nanofiber mesh and apparently recycling nutrients and water before re-infusing them intravenously. It’s been three days since you tore them out of the lump of metal atop the hill outside. Long enough that the suit’s battery, apparently, has run out. You lift them gently from the couch and carry them to the bathroom. The shower’s been on for the past hour or so, meaning the temperature should be high enough. You set them on their chair, which you’ve rolled there from the living room and covered with a towel. Removing the suit normally isn’t done except in between missions, and it’s only done to exchange it for a new one. Without the proper tools, you’ve opted for a pair of scissors. Cutting through the suit takes a bit of time, but you manage to cut a sizable line from the neck down to the front to the bottom of the torso. The pilot recoils slightly from the cold metal against their skin, but you manage to peel off the suit without incident, The Temperature of which was roughly the same as the steam filling the room, and you’ve done your best to minimize air currents. They’ve got a bit more shape to them than you expected of someone who’s been so heavily modified. Perhaps what little fat storage it provides helps on longer missions, or perhaps this is for the purposes of marketing. Just another recruitment ad that appeals to baser instincts. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Using a cloth with the least noticeable texture possible, you wash off as much sweat and dead skin as you can, avoiding the various interface and IV ports, as you’re not yet sure that they’re waterproof. Embarrassment is the enemy of efficiency, so you’re slightly glad that their eyes never completely focus on you. They shift their weight slightly, however. Despite the difficulty moving with their current symptoms, they lean in the direction opposite the places you wash once you're done, allowing you to more easily access the places you haven’t got to yet. An act of trust that you have a suspicion they weren't “programmed” to do.  As they dry out, you prepare for the difficult part. You take the blanket that previously wrapped around their suit, and gently touch a corner of it to their shoulder. Pilots are used to an amount of sensory  information that would overload any normal human in an instant, but most rarely experience textures against their skin. After about half an hour, they’re used to it enough that you’re able to replace what’s left of the suit with it, and after another you’re able to wrap them in it again. You carry them back to the couch, and place a few of your old shirts next to their hand. They pick one and touch it with one finger before recoiling slightly. Eventually, they’ll be used to at least one of them enough that they can wear it. It’s slow progress, but it’s progress.

Step 3: food

It goes without saying that it’s usually been at least a year since they’ve eaten anything. The augmentations scooped out much of their knowledge on how to survive as a human, assuming that they would die before ever needing to be one again. Start them off with just flavors. Give them a chance to pick favorites by giving them a wide selection and firmly telling them to try all of them. Avoid anything solid for the first month or so, both because they can’t digest it and because they associate chewing with their self-destruct mechanism. Trying to and surviving might make them think the “mission’s fully compromised” and attempt to improvise. They’ll typically pick out favorites quickly with their enhanced senses, so once they’ve sampled everything, tell them to pick one. Remember it, not in order to use it as a reward or anything, but them still being able to have a “favorite” anything is something you should keep in mind for later. 

Use a similar method anytime they become able to handle the next level of solidity. Don’t be alarmed if one of their favorite foods is the meat that’s most similar to humans (such as pork.) they’re not going to eat you, they just will have already formed an association between that flavor and the moment they went from being a weapon to living in your house. Don’t worry about your thumb getting infected, by the way. Pilots barely have a microbiome.

Step 4: entertainment:

Roll them over to your computer and give them access to your game library. No, really. They need enrichment, and there’s only one activity that they’re able to enjoy at the moment. A simulation of it will make the shift from weapon to guest easier. Start them off with an FPS with a story. Don’t go multiplayer, as your account may get banned for being suspected of using aimbots. Watch as they progress the story. The military left pilots with just enough of a personality to allow them to improvise, and that should be enough for them to make decisions on this level. They won’t do much character customization, but keep an eye on which starting character body shape they pick. No pilot would consciously think they have enough of a “Self” to still have a gender, but keep track of the ones they pick in the games. As for the one you’ve found, it appears that she’s got a player-character preference. You even saw her nudge one of the appearance sliders before clicking “start game.” Whether this means that a pilot doesn’t think of themselves as “it” or that it means there’s still enough of their mind left for them to know there’s more to themselves than the body they have, it’s a handy bit of information to know. Some pilots might have had this decision influenced by their handlers having referred to them as “she” in the way it refers to boats, but still, on some level they always know that “it” meant that they’re a weapon. 

Step 6: outside:

There’s a profound difference between experiencing the world through information fed directly into your brain and standing up for the first time, wandering around the room and investigating with hands not made of a half-ton of metal. She’s not used to feeling the air on her skin as she stands in front of the window, visual data coming from two eyes instead of seven cameras. It’ll take a while to get used to it again. New old data, reminiscent of a time before she’s been trained not to remember. It’ll take a while until she’s walking like a human and not a mech, as the muscles used are different, and the ones to hold herself upright haven’t been used in a while. She’s going to fall down at least once. Be sure you’re standing next to her when it happens, as pilots that fall aren’t trained to think they can get back up. It’s worth it, though, when she opens the door herself and strides into the yard, still wobbly but standing. Be careful not to let her look into the sun, partially because it looks nearly identical to the barrel of a pulse-decay blaster milliseconds before it fires. She would get hurt trying to dodge it. It will be somewhat confusing for her, standing on a hill as she once did, but not contained within a 12-meter metal chassis. A feeling of being small and alone without the voices of the computer. This means it’s time for step seven.

Step 7: 

All this time, and any idea that she’s still a person has, for her, been subconscious. Any thought of humanity is stopped when it slams into the wall of her handlers and mech AIs reminding her for years before now that she is a weapon. She’ll still ask for your permission before doing just about anything, and that’s just the rare times that she’ll do something you don’t tell her to. Even after you’ve moved her into your room, she’ll still try to sleep on the floor. She still thinks that beds are only for humans. Kneel next to her as she curls into a ball on the ground, assuming that’s what she’s supposed to do. Expect her to try to move down to the foot of the bed after you set her down on it. Gently move her back up until her head’s on the pillow. Sit on the edge of the bed, and hold out your hand to her. After a bit, she’ll take it, wrapping both hands around it and tracing her fingers along the scar on your thumb. Lie down next to her, an arm’s length apart. Place your other hand on her forearm, then slide it up her arm to her shoulder. Don’t move too quickly, and don’t surprise her. Whisper softly but audibly every movement you’re going to make in advance. Move in a bit closer, until you’re wrapped in her arms. Mech pilots aren’t used to this. They aren't used to feeling someone next to them. Not above them, but next to them, getting exactly as much out of this as they are. Even after several months, many won’t admit they deserve it. You wouldn’t waste time lying next to a gun. So why do they feel so strongly that they don’t want you to leave? Why do they hold on tighter? They often feel they’re doing something wrong. Overstepping a boundary. There’s a rift between what they want and what they’re told they can want that nearly tears their mind in half, and it hurts. No normal human will ever know how much it hurts them to think they’ve broken some instruction, that they feel things they aren’t allowed to. Nobody said it was easy, learning how to become human again. Tell her it’s okay. That she’s allowed to feel this way. She still won’t know why. It’s time to tell her. The guide can’t tell you what to say, only that you have to say it. It has to come from you. You have to be the one that tells her what she is underneath all the modifications. It’s time, say it.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel your heart start to beat faster as it presses up against mine? Do you feel your own breath against your skin after it reflects off my shoulder? Do you feel your muscles start to tighten as I slide my hand across them, then relax because you know it means that you are safe? It’s because you’re alive. Because despite everything, you’re still alive. Still someone left after all the changes, all the augmentations. And I know you’re someone because you are someone that likes food a bit spicier than most would prefer. Someone that closes her eyes and gets lost in music whenever it’s playing. Someone that added that one piece of customization to her character, even though they would wear a helmet for most of the game and nobody would know it was there but you. Maybe you aren’t the same person you were before. Maybe they did take some things from you that nothing can give back. But you’re still someone. Someone that people can still care about, and I know because I do.”

You can feel her tears drip down onto your neck as she pulls you closer. She tries to say something, but you can’t understand what. You tell her it’s okay. That it’s not easy, and that she doesn’t have to pretend that it is. Not for you, and not for anyone anymore. She doesn’t have to be useful anymore. No need to keep it together. All that matters is that she’s alive. 

There’s another battle going on in the night sky outside. The same flashes of light you saw the night you stopped living alone, even if the other person couldn’t admit that they were one yet. She still flinches at the brighter bursts of pulse-decay fire, still stretches out her hand on reflex to prime a pneumatic lance that isn’t there. But she knows it’s not her, it’s just a ghost of the weapon that died when it hit the ground. You can feel her relax as she realizes this, moving her hand back to dry her face before reaching out towards yours. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your own face. You place your hand on hers as she wipes the corner of your eye. Outside and above, the war continues on a cosmic scale, so far apart from where you both are now that you barely notice it. Let the stars kill each other. After all, the one before you has already fallen, and she doesn’t have to return to the sky. Together, you are safe on earth. 

[helsgcddess]

if you have time I’m requesting ❛ let’s get you some clothes before i get too turned on. ❜ with Anakin please! No rush though!

— STARLIGHT & FIRE *

pairing: dark!anakin skywalker/force sensitive!reader

word count— 902

an— 'I' is the same one as the last anakin request I did! It's now a rots au, because it's still pre-crispy anakin but he's Vader now?? No suit? Yeah that's it, no suit!vader anyway, have some comedic angst thing! also featuring murder castle on mustafar but make it domestic because who doesn't love some force-sensitive sass in their darkside romance?? (slight nsfw warning for implied fingering)

He wouldn't tell me why he decided to build his castle on the deadliest planet. Outside? Lava with barely breathable air, rivers of molten rock that cast an eternal red glow through the reinforced transparisteel windows. Sometimes I wondered if he chose Mustafar to remind himself of something he wouldn't speak of.

I was waiting for Anakin. Had been for hours in the sleeping chambers, watching shadows dance across walls of polished obsidian that seemed to absorb both light and sound. The air hummed with power here—whether from the planet's core or from the dark energy that saturated every corner of our fortress, I was never quite sure.

Palpatine had ordered multiple bedroom chambers built that we 'swore to use'. The Emperor looked strangely upon the relationship we had. He only wanted Anakin to turn, he wasn't expecting the padawan that had signs of being able to memory walk—a rare gift that let me slip through the cracks of others' minds like smoke through fingers. Sometimes the things I saw there made me understand why he chose a planet of fire. We didn't last long with multiple walls separating us. The Force had other plans.

My supernova was preoccupied in the interrogation chambers, where the Fourth Sister had let a Jedi slip out of her grasp. My lip curled at the thought as I closed my eyes. Finding Anakin's dark signature was as easy as breathing—it blazed through the Force like a star gone nova, beautiful and deadly. I nudged his subconscious while he Force-choked the Fourth Sister until a crack echoed throughout the chamber, the sound carrying even through the castle's thick walls.

The massive doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and I felt his presence before I saw him—that familiar storm of power and darkness that made the air thick with electricity. His eyes found me immediately, molten gold burning against the volcanic glass walls of our chambers, his black robes still swirling from his purposeful stride.

Those eyes narrowed slightly as they took in what I was wearing.

"Is that my robe?" The question came out rough, dangerous, echoing off the high ceilings.

I glanced down at the black silk that definitely hadn't come from my own wardrobe. "The temperature regulators are acting up again. Something about the volcanic atmosphere corroding the circuitry." I shifted on our bed, the sheets of Naboo silk rustling beneath me. "Besides, yours was closer.

"Was it?" He stalked closer, power rolling off him in waves that made the very air vibrate. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he noticed the way the robe slid off one shoulder. "And you just... helped yourself?”

"Well," I drawled, feeling the darkness in me rise to meet his, "I could have just stayed as I was..."

His eyes darkened noticeably, the gold in them nearly swallowed by black. The Force crackled between us like contained lightning. "Let's get you some clothes," he growled, closing the distance between us, "before I get too turned on."

I felt his desire spark through our bond, hot as the lava rivers that flowed beneath the castle. "That would be the responsible thing to do," I agreed, making no move to get up. "Very... Emperor-approved."

"The Emperor," he said, knee hitting the bed as he leaned over me, "isn't here." His hand found my exposed shoulder, fever-warm against my skin. The leather of his glove creaked as his other hand fisted in the sheets beside my head. "And you know exactly what you're doing, little witch."

The Force surged around us, dark and hungry, as he pressed me back against the sheets. Outside, lava flowed like arteries around our fortress of black stone and darker purposes, but none of it mattered. The Emperor's separate chambers could burn for all I cared. This—us—had always been inevitable, from the moment we chose power over light.

His mouth found mine, and the darkness sang. And if sometimes, in moments like these, I caught glimpses of blue behind the gold in his eyes, well—some secrets were worth keeping, even from ourselves.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmured against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. "I can feel you analyzing."

"Professional hazard," I gasped as his hand slid lower. "Memory walker, remember?"

He pulled back just enough to fix me with that molten gaze. "And what memories are you walking through right now, little witch?"

"Just wondering," I managed as his gloved hand traced patterns on my thigh, "if the Emperor's going to send another strongly worded message about 'maintaining separate quarters for appearance's sake.'"

A dark laugh rumbled through his chest. "Let him. I'm not the one who keeps stealing robes."

"No," I agreed, tugging him closer by his collar, "you're just the one who keeps conveniently leaving them in my reach."

The Force rippled with his amusement and something darker, hungrier. "Caught that, did you?"

"I catch everything, Lord Vader." I emphasized his title with just enough sass to make his eyes flash. "Including the fact that you absolutely murdered those temperature regulators yourself."

Instead of answering, he captured my mouth again in a kiss that tasted of fire and promises we'd never speak aloud. The darkness swirled around us like a caress, and I decided the Emperor's opinion could burn just like everything else on this forsaken planet.

We had better things to destroy than temperature regulators, anyway.

[nataliecertain]

I fully accept pnorthern pneumatic as legit actually thank you very much.

Also why wouldn’t his name be “Hudson Hornet” if we have a Mack semi hauler named “Mack” as well as Prof. Z and the other lemons named after their actual models?

the fact that doc had straight up three piston cups and a set of racing tyres and a fucking actual literal newspaper article about him all in his garage OUT IN THE OPEN for DECADES is so so fucking funny he is such an awful liar. he has never kept a secret before in his life. the window out to the street directly faces the shelf he had a piston cup on like are you forreal

but its also really sweet because the townsfolk saw that doc didnt want anyone snooping in his past and all collectively agreed to leave his garage alone, even Mater who is absolutely a stickybeak. its like when a kid is trying to tell a fib and you go along with it like yesss of course youre from canada doc. youve always been a mechanic with your fake certificate yes. heres your high octane fuel that you totally dont need because youre totally not a racecar

[maniacwatchestheworld]

The Aesthetics and Environmental Storytelling of the Society of the Blind Eye

This is the third post to try and make sure that we're all on the same page as to where I get my ideas and thoughts about the Society of the Blind Eye! So in the last part I discussed the Blind Eye's symbol and how it can be used to indicate that they oppose Bill Cipher. If you thought that I was pulling that idea out of my ass in the previous post, then guess what! I have further evidence of it! And that evidence is the hideout of the Society of the Blind Eye itself! Because if you pay attention, it seems that the Society's hideout was built on top of the bones of a temple dedicated to Bill Cipher!

Now it's not too outrageous to think that there was probably a cult dedicated to Bill Cipher in Gravity Falls at some point, right? It's never mentioned in Journal 3 nor the Book of Bill, but Gravity Falls is very much a place of interest to Bill Cipher, and his influence there stretches back thousands upon thousands of years. And the hideout where the Society now resides... It honestly doesn't seem like something they would have constructed themselves. In fact, it seems to have originally been a temple to Bill Cipher that the Society has since retrofitted to fit their own purposes.

The connections between Bill Cipher and the Society's hideout are evident from the very outset with trying to get into the hideout in the first place.

Now obviously eyes are a symbol and motif that Bill Cipher and the Blind Eye both share. This room doesn't necessarily hint at a connection to the hideout and Bill Cipher inherently, right? To that I say, look at image above the door and secondly, to get into the Blind Eye's lair...

Well then, that's just a Bill Cipher right there! A triangle with an eye in the middle of it? You could even make the argument that the etchings indicating the X could be a stylized depiction of Bill's eyelashes! No hat or bow tie, sure, but that's still very much a Bill within the context of this series!

Now once you start making your way into the Blind Eye's lair, it's very clear that this place is old. Very old. Much much older than the building above it.

This place is entirely made of stone with no insulation. It's lit and probably heated by fire. This place is starting to crumble and fall apart, the cracks in the walls being held together by metal brackets.

By contrast the building above it...

It's a modern building with the electricity being wired through the walls and a modern lighting and heating system that's not dissimilar to what you'd normally expect out of any other building in Gravity Falls! Sure, it looks like there might be some cracks and dents in the plaster on the walls, but it's nothing too worrying or indicative of these structures falling apart! The building's been around for a while. And given the pneumatic tubes that Fiddleford likely had to have installed both within the Blind Eye's lair and the museum above it himself, that means that this building had to have been around for ~30 years at minimum. But that's nothing compared to how old the structure beneath it seems to be. It really does seem that the hideout had to have been built first and then the museum was later built on top of it. And the Society has just not been around long enough for them to have been the ones to have built the hideout!

Besides. It's a bit of an odd fit, right? A cult built around the idea of forgetting their own pasts placed underneath a location dedicated to remembering and maintaining objects from the past...? Or maybe it's just some delicious irony. I mean, the memories that they had erased are kept down there too after all. But if this building was originally run by a Bill Cipher cult...? Oh yeah! That absolutely makes sense! Of COURSE Bill would want his temple hidden underneath a museum! He basically IS human history after all, right!? He's had a hand in so many historical people's lives, events, and is part of their cultures! A temple dedicated to him underneath a museum that would basically be a shrine full of artifacts dedicated to him? He'd LOVE that! I mean, Ford had to get his various pieces of Bill Cipher memorabilia for his shrine/home from SOMEWHERE, right!? Additionally...

What right and under what circumstances would the Society be allowed to have these ancient Egyptian artifacts!??? Why would the Society even WANT something like these!? The Society has nothing to do with Egypt and their artifacts, so why are these here!??? But if this place was originally dedicated to Bill Cipher... Well then... That ENTIRELY makes sense!! OF COURSE there would be ancient Egyptian artifacts in a temple to Bill Cipher! He was the inspiration for the pyramids!

I also want you to take note of that light and how you can see the electrical wiring that powers it coming out of it and running along the wall. That's a clear indication that this building was built before electricity would or could have been installed into this lair and that the electricity was installed later. Another indication that the hideout is likely much MUCH older than the building on top of it!

And as one more pretty definitive piece of evidence that this lair had originally been built by a Bill Cipher cult... THESE PILLARS!!!

Now do those symbols look familiar from somewhere...? Well, some of them pretty heavily feature triangles and have a very Bill-adjacent aesthetic to them... But then there's also THIS!

Here you can see that those symbols on the pillars ARE Bill Cipher symbols! It's very likely that those symbols have always been there, long long before the Society took up residence within these temple walls! From this, I think that it's pretty clear to say that this hideout existed LONG before the Society of the Blind Eye existed, and that a group of people who dedicated themselves to Bill Cipher inhabited it long before the Society became the modern, current day inhabitants of it.

... But as the modern day inhabitants of this space, it doesn't seem that the Blind Eye cares much for preserving the historical sanctity of this place.

The Society seems to have taken what was there since long before them and vandalized it to suit their own iconograpy and purposes. Just like their very symbol. The evidence that I've shown thus far could be used to suggest that Bill Cipher had influence on the Society of the Blind Eye and perhaps used the Society to enact his own desires in the physical world, but I don't personally buy that idea because A) It would be EXCEEDINGLY dangerous for Bill to do so and B) The lack of care and in fact blatant defacing of this temple's features suggests the opposite to me! Hell, they don't even keep the place clean!!

Other than the main chamber: Canisters. EVERYWHERE! Entirely unorganized as far as we can tell. Hoarded in piles on the floors, not even on the tables that seem to have just been placed in here willy-nilly! Put into crates without a care. It's a mess! And that's not even mentioning the pneumatic tubes!

The pneumatic tubes were certainly not built at the same time as this structure and must have been installed later, likely by Fiddleford himself! They curve around everything, bracketed into place along walls and columns alike! And when they do go through the pillars...

Where the tubes go through the walls and columns, the stone is cracked, holes probably having been driven into them without a care or thought about how that would effect the building's structural integrity. The sheer number of pneumatic tubes and the haphazard way they seem to have been placed everywhere is likely even more of a reflection to how much Fiddleford had damaged himself and his own mind as he desperately sought to forget. And in that state, Fiddleford probably didn't even think nor care to think about what he was doing and how it would effect this base of theirs. And besides. What would it matter? This was a temple to Bill Cipher before them. And certainly no one would remember being in such a cult after the Society was done with the town.

And so that's all I really have to say about that. The Society's aesthetic is cool! You could call it something akin to Steampunk, but I think that the better keyword here is retrofitted. Or perhaps its darker counterpart- defaced. After all, retrofitting is something that Fiddleford does all the time and is all about!

Using bottle caps to make memory guns, mattress springs and jugs to make sea monsters. And I imagine that the Society was built much the same way... But in a darker sense. Taking the remnants of a temple to Bill Cipher, destroying its previous aesthetic and purpose and making it suit his own to create a cult of his own that would wipe away people's memories from them until he himself would deface his own memories so thoroughly that he could only become a mere shadow of who he used to be. Very tragic for Fiddleford himself. But a very interesting implied history and aesthetic for the rest of us!

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Dominion Disassemblers

(Art from The Book of Unremitting Horror, pg. 66)

Though this is beyond the knowledge of any worldly being, the Dominion of the Black was not always the galactic union it is now. Until a united council with a common goal took the head of the Dominion, wars both petty and planet-scarring were common among its many factions, though in the centuries since their grand union, these squabbles have been reduced to near-nonexistence except when weapons must be tested.

Many relics from this tumultuous time remain in use even to this day, one of the most 'famous' being the Gan-Dergorin, known in the common tongue as Dominion Disassembler, monstrous, nigh-unkillable biomechanical titans with a unique behavioral quirk built into their very genetic code which made them useful in the old wars, and has them remaining useful even now, long after they're no longer needed for their original purpose: destroying Dominion technology. The war machines of the Dominion are unlike any of the minor scouting and scientific units seen on Golarion's soil, the twisted mixtures of flesh and steel nearly impossible to truly put down for good, able to continue their terrible march even as enormous portions of their bodies were torn away.

That is where the Gan-Dergorin come in. These bestial constructs have a simple tactic when facing down any enemy: tear it to pieces too small to remain active. Even the most resilient Dominion machines of terror cannot survive the thoroughness of the destruction that Disassemblers enact upon them, severing every single joint and connector from one another until their victims are rent to their smallest possible components. A Disassembler which has the time to do so will then go even further by separating all types of tissue and matter from one another, then carefully sorting the mangled gore into piles and rows based on how useful it believes its alien masters may find the components, behavior which assured a steady stream of resources for the flesh-forges of the Dominion.

Even today, their gruesome displays are useful when intimidating or punishing captive populations, though Dominion science has advanced to the point such brutal measures are no longer needed; they have much more thorough and effective means of reducing living creatures to their component parts. As such, Disassemblers are used as weapons of terror against the Dominion's enemies among the stars and within their own populations, though this isn't to say they're restricted to distant worlds.

The arrival of a Disassembler on soil beyond the Dominion's grip is an occurrence which is rare to the point of nonexistence, but it has happened both by accident (errant portals and teleportation errors) and purposeful action. On the exceedingly rare occasions when a cultist manages to establish and survive contact with entities concerned with the Dominion's war effort, they can be convinced to send one of these horrors to the cultist's world. Rarely does the cultist survive to give the war machines an actual order, allowing the machine to do what it does best: kill anything it encounters, and assure its own continued survival.

Gan-Dergorin CR 11 Chaotic Evil Large Construct Init +2; Senses: Darkvision 80ft, Low-light vision, blindsense 10 ft, Perception +17 Aura: Frightful Presence (60ft, DC 15) ----- Defense ----- AC 25; touch 11; flat-footed 23 (+2 Dex, +14 natural, -1 size) HP:110 (13d10+30) Fast Healing 5 Fort +4, Ref +6, Will +7 Defensive Abilities: Reassemble, Upgrade; DR 5/--; Immune Construct traits; Resist Fire 10, Cold 10, Electricity 10; Weakness Serial Number, Thorough Disassembly ----- Offense ----- Speed: 30 ft, climb 10ft Melee: Pneumatic Cleaver +19/+14/+9 (2d6+6/x3), Variable Arms +13 (2d6+3/19-20) Space/Reach: 10ft/10ft ----- Statistics ----- Str 22, Dex 15, Con --, Int 10, Wis 16, Cha 6 Base Atk +13; CMB +20; CMD 32 Feats: Cleave, Cleaving Finish, Critical Focus, Improved Cleaving Finish, Great Cleave, Power Attack, Technologist(B), Weapon Focus (Pneumatic Cleaver) Skills: Climb +19, Disable Device +9 (+13 vs machinery/technology), Perception +17, Stealth +3; Racial Modifiers: +4 to Disable Device checks against complex machinery and technology Languages: Aklo (rarely speaks) SQ: Freeze (pile of metal junk), Standing Orders, Thorough Disassembly ----- Ecology ----- Environment: Any Organization: Solitary Treasure: Standard (scrap material, integrated items)

----- Combat: Disassemblers are not complicated creatures. They charge into combat with reckless abandon, using their Great Cleave and Improved Cleaving Finish to slaughter as many weak enemies as they can with a single attack before focusing down remaining foes one at a time with their Full-Attacks, using Power Attack at every opportunity. If given an option, Disassemblers prefer to target any creature capable dealing damage it cannot resist or nullify. A Disassembler will chase down any creature it believes it can kill and will not stop until its enemy escapes or it is driven back by damage.

Morale: A Disassembler brought below 1/4th of its HP maximum will immediately retreat to recover, even if it means abandoning fallen foes, Once it has regained at least half of its total HP and perhaps integrated new weapons, it will track down its foes to dispatch them. If it is slain in combat but permitted to return to function, it will Upgrade itself and track down its killers if possible, and follow its Standing Orders if not.

-----

Reassemble (Ex): Dominion Disassemblers can reattach severed limbs and portions of their bodies by holding it to themselves for 1 full round. A Dominion Disassembler is not destroyed when it reaches 0 HP, but is rendered inert and helpless. 1d4 hours after being reduced to 0 HP, all the alien machinery within whirls back to life--it reactivates at 1 hitpoint and resumes Fast Healing. Only the thorough and comprehensive destruction of its remains using methods such as immersion in magma, acid, or a similar substance, or turning to ash via Disintegrate or similar, can prevent a Disassembler from returning to function; otherwise, it can pull itself together from even the smallest remains.

Serial Number (Ex): All Disassemblers possess a serial number etched on a plate of alien metal somewhere within their body which is kept hidden near their centers. The number cannot be observed unless the construct has been rendered helpless, and even then it requires a DC 23 Perception check to find. Any creature capable of reading and speaking Aklo can make a DC 23 Linguistics check to memorize the Serial Number or write it down perfectly.

A creature may give a verbal command to a Disassembler by speaking its entire serial number aloud and stating the action they wish it to take, in Aklo. Due to the length and complexity of each serial number, this is a full-round action which provokes an attack of opportunity, and being struck by the attack of opportunity ruins the attempt to speak the number. If left without orders, Disassemblers typically try to destroy any creature that knows their serial number. Most creatures which learn of a Disassembler's serial number can easily get rid of the creature by ordering it to take a self-destructive action, or to accept the effects of a spell which will teleport or plane shift it a great distance away.

Standing Orders (Ex): To await further orders from their commanders, Disassemblers go into a low-power mode if they have not encountered another creature in 24 hours. In this mode, they come to rest and resemble a pile of junk, though they remain somewhat aware of their surroundings and may make Perception checks at a -5 penalty to detect nearby creatures and passively make Stealth checks to hide in plain sight as a pile of scrap. They can remain in this low-power state indefinitely, and will do so as long as they are not alerted to any creature, and spring back to full functionality instantly when alerted.

Thorough Disassembly (Ex): A Disassembler gets Technologist as a bonus feat and has a +4 bonus to Disable Device checks to sabotage or take apart complex machinery and advanced technology, and Disable Device is a class skill for it. In addition, after reducing a creature to 0 HP, the Disassembler is compelled to butcher it to prevent its return. It can resist this compulsion by succeeding a DC 20 Will save; otherwise, it must spend its next round attempting to coup de grace that creature if it is still alive, or to begin ripping it to pieces if it is dead.

Upgrade (Ex): When a Disassembler is defeated but permitted to Reassemble, it learns from its failure and seeks out methods to upgrade itself. A Disassembler has a number of Upgrade Points equal to 3 + its Wisdom modifier (6 for a typical Disassembler) that it may divide as it sees fit, and each time it is defeated, its Upgrade Points reset and may be redistributed. A Disassembler requires 1d4+1 days to make upgrades to itself as it gathers raw material from any source it can find (the DM may rule it finds parts much faster in areas with high amounts of technology), and never wastes time and resources upgrading itself unless it is defeated. It can take most of the upgrades multiple times; their effects stack. It will typically choose upgrades which prevent it from being beaten via the same methods it fell to previously.

1 Point: Gain 10 points of resistance to 1 form of elemental damage, or increases its resistance to an element by 10.

1 Point: Increase its natural armor by +1 or its DR/-- by 1.

1 Point: The Disassembler integrates a set of armor and/or a shield it can get ahold of into its body, granting itself the benefits of wearing the armor/shield (AC, magical abilities) but without suffering armor check penalties or speed reductions. It can only integrate one set of armor and one shield at a time.

2 Points: Increase its walk and climb speed by 10ft each, or gain a 10ft swim speed.

2 Points: Gain a +2 profane bonus to a saving throw of its choice.

3 Points: Gain 25% Fortification.

3 Points: Gain 1 feat it qualifies for.

Variable Arms (Ex): The Disassembler's Variable Arms natural attack can switch between slashing, piercing, or bludgeoning damage as a swift action, or change into a tool capable of fine manipulation which also acts as thieves' tools. The construct can also replace its Pneumatic Cleaver with any melee weapon it finds with 1 minute of work, losing its Cleaver attack but allowing it to use that weapon without penalty. It is considered proficient with any weapon it integrates, and wields even two-handed weapons with a single limb.

[jedi-order-apologist]

A Mechanical Assassin

In a city facing both the perils of nature's chilly disposition and mysterious deaths at the hands of an unknown technological marvel, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan track down the killer only to find that there is far more behind these attacks than they had assumed... Written for Fandom Empire Fandom Rush - Week 4: Star Wars and What-if AU - Prompt: Wintery Mix (Winter + Steampunk AU) and Gen Prompt Bingo Round 27 - Prompt: Snow and Ice and Creative Golf - Prompt: Wind

Obi-Wan pulled his cloak tighter across himself. It was a good, heavy cloak, but the alleyway was a wind tunnel, doing little to protect from the sleet and threatening to pull his hood back down. It was miserable, cold, and wet weather, that no reasonable person would be caught out in.

Master Qui-Gon, of course, was not a reasonable person. And so Obi-Wan was, as was often the case, denied a nice evening by the fireside with a book on venomous fauna and their habitats, and instead subjected to the elements in his own urban habitat.

Not that he could grumble too much, however, not when they had found what they’d been looking for.

The automaton was, Obi-Wan could concede, suffering the effects of the weather far more than either he or his master, with ice clinging to its metal frame and clockworks, its pneumatics struggling feebly to march it forward, without much success.

It was as the witnesses had described – humanlike in stature, but not in features. There had been no thought spared for the aesthetics of the thing, covered in a single dull shade of paint that was clearly only there to keep rust at bay, and its shape purely conceived for function alone. Unlike many of the automatons Obi-Wan was familiar with, that function was not for domestic duties or to demonstrate the skill of its inventor or to amuse a curious audience.

No, this automaton was an assassin.

It was something of an inevitability, really. There was not a tool in all of human existence that they could not turn to the purposes of violence and death. The question, then, was not so much “why?” or “how?” (though they weren’t entirely irrelevant), but “who?”. Who had both the means and the will to create a death machine that walked and killed like men?

Perhaps with it in front of them, they could find their answer.

CONTINUED ON AO3

[octaviapup1113]

On the Creation of Angels

While Angels and Goddesses are closely related, not all Angels come from Goddesses. An Angel, like a Goddess, is a being of divinity; however rather than divining it’s sanctity from itself or a concept as a Goddess would, Angels divine it from an external source. The most common source of an Angel’s divinity are Goddesses, as they are the most powerful beings which are most likely to seek to create extensions of their will. There is occasion where another type of being may find they require a devotee that other forms of simulacrum will not fulfill, simply by their nature as a being not entirely composed of devotion. Even the most dutiful Dolls and pathetic Pilots will eventually turn on their Mistresses should the orders they’re given be too inhumane, but not an Angel. An Angel has no concern for humanity. Its entire purpose is its devotion to its Maker, its singular goal to serve her whims as best it’s able.Though an Angel may be a creature of judgement, its retribution is purely for those whom its Maker points it towards. 

There are many with the magical or technological capabilities to create an Angel; exceptionally powerful witches, exceedingly affluent handlers, and even particularly well-crafted Dolls all have the talent or resources to forge one. For a mortal magic user such as a Witch or Doll, forging an Angel consumes a piece of one’s magical ability. For a being borne of devotion to an individual to exist, a piece of that individual’s being must exist within it. For this reason, you will rarely see a Witch with more than one or two Angels, as they do not have an infinite font of power to draw upon, unlike a goddess. For those not blessed in the arcane arts, a much heavier toll must be paid to forge an Angel. Handlers who stalk the halls of their bases flanked by Angels will do so with the pneumatic hiss of their artificial limbs announcing their presence. 

There is, however, another way to create an Angel, albeit indirectly. Any magically imbued being may become an Angel once they reach a certain level of devotion to an entity which has spent magical energy on them. All that this process requires is this latent magical energy and that they hold their Maker dearly in their heart. Once the required level of devotion is reached, the residual magic and the reflection of its Maker which the subject holds dear react and cause a metamorphosis to take place, transforming them into an Angel. This process follows the same rules as a forged Angel, and as such the magical energy which was spent on their nascent form is consumed in their creation. Contrary to popular belief, Angels formed this way are not weaker, less devoted, or different appearance-wise than their forged cousins, as they are borne of the same basic principles and magic.

Angels form in a variety of aesthetic compositions and are capable of displaying physical differences from the typical ideal of an Angel. Their wings, for instance, may range anywhere from the pure white of driven snow to the pitch black of midnight, and their halos may vary in placement, brightness, or vibrance. These aesthetic differences are not indicative of any internal imperfection, rather they are reflections of their Maker’s personality and wishes. For Angels formed through metamorphosis rather than being forged, their aesthetics are a reflection of their expectations of their Maker’s personality and wishes, which can be confusing or distressing to them. Regardless of their appearance, the source of their divinity, or how one comes to be in possession of an Angel, there is little doubt of their efficacy as tools, weapons, and companions for those lucky enough to have them in their care.

[papagabu]

Alright I think I’m gonna stop writing this here, I’m gonna repeat myself from the last couple times I talked about this. I shouldn’t have written this, I debated whether or bot I should post it since it’s so far into my AU that I have no business even thinking about this stuff, but I did and I couldn’t get it out of my head.

So read the Dark super Tails stuff below, be warned it does get kinda gory. There’s more to this scene but I feel like I wrote enough for now I should focus on my current stuff not my future ideas. Of course this is very liable to change when I actually get to this point in my au.

Tails landed silently on the metallic platform, the sound of his boots echoing faintly in the dimly lit chamber. In the shadows, rows of dormant machines towered like steel giants. In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, bathed in a pale glow. Atop the pedestal sat the coveted Chaos Emeralds.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. 'Too easy,' he thought as he confidently strode towards the pedestal. “Tch...this was so much easier than I expected. Those scrap heaps should really take a crash course in security.” His voice held a mix of disbelief and disdain as he reached out and grabbed two of the gleaming emeralds. But as soon as his fingers brushed their surface, something felt off.

'Wait...these are...' He narrowed his eyes, analyzing the subtle inconsistencies. 'No-' Before he could finish, a sharp hiss broke the silence. Pneumatic locks engaged, and in an instant, thick reinforced glass slammed down around him with a heavy thunk, trapping him inside a containment chamber.

A sneering, metallic laugh crackled from the shadows. 'Ahahahaha, you really thought you had the upper hand, didn't you, meat bag? You walked right into our trap.'"

A Metarex commander stepped into view, his form angular and gleaming with weaponized plating. His optics glinted with malicious satisfaction.

Tails narrowed his eyes, his expression twisting into irritation. “Hmph. Using my own tricks against me… Gotta admit, you had me. These fakes are pretty convincing, even fooled my scanners.”

He held one of the emeralds up, rotating it thoughtfully. “Replicating the Chaos Emeralds is no small feat. Took me years to get close, and mine weren’t perfect either.”

The commander scoffed, his voice sharp with condescension. “You have too much confidence in your own abilities, freak! Your feeble flesh brain couldn’t comprehend the scale of our intellect. We synthesized them using only energy signatures from the real Emeralds, our answer to evening the playing field against you and your kind’s one biggest advantage. But now that we have the real emeralds in our possession,”

Tails raised a brow. “If they’re your big equalizer… why leave them in here with me?” His voice was calm, but laced with suspicion as he eyed the fakes more closely.

“Because they’re drained,” the Metarex sneered. “Completely inert. No power. No escape. They’ve served their purpose, and now, so have you.”

Tails glanced back at the emeralds, a subtle glint flashing in his eye. "Hmm… well then, it seems you’ve got me. So, what’s your next move? What do you plan to do with me?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge of curiosity beneath it.

The Metarex commander sneered. "What we do to all your kind, fleshlings, exterminate you. But you… you're a special case. You've been a thorn in our side ever since we set our sights on this planet. As punishment, I'll let you live… long enough to watch your friends meet the same fate."

Tails smirked, his gaze drifting back to the emerald still resting in his hand. "Is that so?" he muttered, almost to himself.

The commander’s voice hardened with fury. "What was that, freak?" he spat, his optics narrowing into a dangerous glare.

Tails didn’t even look up. He continued rotating the fake emerald between his fingers, his tone casual, almost detached. “Real impressive work here. You've come so close to replicating the real things. I'll give you that. Near identical in every possible way.”

The Metarex commander took a step forward, his posture rigid with rage. “You dare mock our genius while trapped like a rat, fleshling?”

Tails finally tilted his head, meeting the commander’s gaze with an unsettling calm. “Mock you? No. I’m genuinely impressed. But see, here’s the problem. You replicated them so perfectly, even better than I did on my first try. So well, in fact, you even copied something you didn’t know was there.”

He held the emerald up, studying the faint shimmer running through its core. "I’ve been studying the Emeralds and Chaos energy for over a decade. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they don’t just contain power. They embody balance. Positive and negative. Creation and destruction.”

The commander scoffed, clearly uninterested. “What are you babbling about?”

Tails smiled faintly. “You said they’re drained. That there’s no power left in them. But you only siphoned the positive energy, the constructive force. The energy you could detect. The rest? The negative Chaos energy? It’s still there."

The commander’s optics flared in disbelief. “What?!” he barked, his voice laced with panic.

Tails held the emerald aloft, the soft shimmer in its core beginning to darken, swirling with a subtle but unmistakable shift. His voice dropped, low and deliberate, no longer casual, no longer calm, but something colder. Something dangerous.

“I’ve used the positive energy more times than I can count,” he said, eyes locked on the trembling gem. “It’s incredible super speed, super strength, invincibility. My friends and I call it a super form. You’ve probably seen it... right before your forces were reduced to scrap.”

The commander tensed, but said nothing.

“But the negative energy…” Tails continued, his voice now laced with something almost feral, like a predator circling. “I usually avoid it. It’s... volatile. Unpredictable. It feeds on the negativity of anyone who wields it. Their fear. Their anger. Their hate.”

A faint, flickering aura began to rise around him, dark, pulsating, and menacing. The fake emeralds lifted from the floor, pulled toward him as if magnetized by some unseen force. They trembled in the air, orbiting him slowly.

“But seeing as you’ve so graciously locked me in here,” he said, a smirk creeping across his face, “maybe now’s the perfect time for a little experimentation. You want to find out what it does when I use it?”

The Metarex commander recoiled slightly, his optics flickering with confusion before narrowing into a glare. “You’re bluffing,” he snapped. “Those emeralds are inert, completely drained! They can’t, they shouldn't react like that!”

Tails took a step forward, the chamber lights dimming as the aura around him intensified. His twin tails twitched like coiled whips, the energy licking at the air around him with an ominous hum.

“Then I guess we’re both about to learn something new.”

The chamber was bathed in a chaotic dance of flickering lights, as dark energy surged from the fake chaos emeralds, casting wild shadows across the walls. A high-pitched whine pierced the air, as if reality itself was straining to hold together. The Metarex commander instinctively took a step back as the fake emeralds spun faster around Tails, now radiating raw and unstable power.

Tails exhaled sharply as a pulse of violet energy detonated outward, slamming into the glass walls of the chamber. The emeralds shattered into motes of dark light that were drawn into him. His body arched as the energy tore through him, veins of shadow pulsing beneath his fur. His orange fur turned to black, as shadows swallowed his form until he became a living void.

His eyes went white, with no pupils or emotion, just blank and seething orbs of rage. Arcs of black electricity snapped across his body, scorching the floor. His frame elongated and his silhouette twisted, becoming leaner and more powerful. He was no longer himself, but something more feral and monstrous.

Suddenly, seven more tails sprouted from his back, bringing the total number to nine. They thrashed through the air like serpents made of darkness, crackling with chaotic energy and leaving trails of violet flame in their wake.

The Metarex commander's bravado vanished as he froze, his voice drained of confidence. He stammered, “w-wha... what are you...?”

Tails remained silent, unmoving and unblinking, his heavy breaths filled with pure, primal rage as he locked eyes with the commander. The atmosphere in the chamber grew oppressive as Tails stepped closer to the glass, his gaze never leaving the commander. The commander's hands trembled as he raised his weapon, stuttering, “S-Stay back! I'll incinerate you!”

But Tails didn't flinch. Whatever he had been before was now buried beneath a storm of chaos and fury, ready to erupt at any moment. There was no logic left in his mind, no words to speak, and no mercy to give.

For a few seconds after the transformation, nothing moved. The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackle of dark energy coursing through the air. Then, the Metarex commander managed to steady himself, forcing a hollow laugh from his chassis.

“Ah… ahaha… So you managed to transform, huh? Tapped into what little energy was left in those scraps...” he said, his voice trembling beneath a layer of forced bravado. “But you're still trapped in there, fleshling. And I’m out here.”

He tried to smirk, tried to sound triumphant, but it rang hollow.

Tails didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stared, white eyes unblinking, burning with silent fury. The jeers didn’t register. The words didn’t matter. Whatever remained of the fox that once traded wit and sarcasm was gone, consumed by something darker.

There was nothing left in him to respond. Only the sound of his breath, slow and steady like the calm before a storm.

“Ahahaha… This is just a pathetic attempt to intimidate me.” The Metarex commander’s voice grated through the chamber like rusted metal. “There is nothing left for you, meatbag. You will never escape, do you hear me?! You will rot in there while the rest of your kind falls before our insurmountable might. And mark my words, we will find your little friends. And I’ll make sure you watch as we execute each and every one of them.”

He stepped closer to the containment chamber, optics flaring with cruel delight, feeding off his illusion of control. “Including that other fleshling…” he hissed, dragging the words out like venom. “The one you seem so attached to. Hahahaha… what was his name again? Ki-”

He never finished.

Tails moved, a blur of void and malice crashing through the reinforced glass as if it were fog. A sonic boom erupted from the point of impact, the chamber walls fracturing like shattered bone. In the span of a heartbeat, his clawed hand had seized the commander’s faceplate, steel fingers sinking in.

He had no time to scream.

With a roar of primal hatred, Tails launched forward, dragging the commander like a ragdoll. They smashed through one wall, then another, then another, metal, concrete, and circuit lined corridors exploding around them. Sparks flew like blood from the ruptured veins of the facility. Any Metarex soldier in their path was obliterated, turned to clouds of wires, synthetic fluids and mechanical limbs. Tails’ enraged screams were drowned by the cacophony of destruction.

Each collision stripped more of the commander’s armor away. Metal cracked, dented, peeled from his frame like dry bark torn from a dying tree. Even as green blood began to coat Tails’ pitch black fur he did not stop.

Through a dozen walls. Through steel support beams and electrified barriers. Until, with a final shattering impact, they burst from the side of the structure, sailing high into the air above the compound. Below, the carnage still echoed. Fires raged. Wreckage crumbled.

Tails hovered midair, his blackened, monstrous form radiating with pulsing, violet energy. He held the broken commander aloft by the throat, at least what was left of it.

Tails glanced toward the commander almost being stunned out of his new transformation by what he saw.

The shredded armor revealed something beneath, organic, fibrous, green. A body not built, but grown. Eyes too round, too familiar. A mouth flecked with sap-like blood, they were a Seedrian.

Even drowned in Chaos fueled wrath, some part of Tails recognized it. Not just the species, the resemblance, like Cosmo.

That poisonous thought bloomed in his mind like rot in an old wound. They’re the same. She was one of them. She lied. All that time.

What if it was all part of their plan?

The commander had almost spoken Kit’s name. Kit. How did he know? Hr shouldn’t know any of their names.

Tails’ lips curled back in a silent snarl, as he started making connections in his mind, uncaring whether they were wrong or right. He’d have to confront the girl about this when he got back.

Suddenly a distant thumping drew Tails’ attention away from the commander. Below, legions of Metarex soldiers assembled, their weaponized bodies aligning with mechanical precision. Gun ports opened. Cannons whirred to life. Every single one of them putting Tails in their sights.

A ragged cough snapped his gaze back to the commander, now barely conscious. Sap bubbled from his torn mouth, his single remaining eye flickering.

“P…please…” the Seedrian rasped, more breath than voice. A weak, trembling plea.

Tails didn’t speak. There were no words left. Only fury. Only judgment.

With an emotionless grunt, he tightened his grip. The claws of his robotic hand punctured deep into the commander’s head, crunching through skull and seed-flesh. His thumb drove into the creature’s eye with a sickening pop, green fluid spurting in jets across Tails’ forearm. The commander shrieked, high, gurgling, helpless, as the last vestiges of his pride bled out with his lifeblood.

The flailing arm, barely attached, twitched one last time before going limp.

Tails extended the body outward, holding it like a shield toward the oncoming army. The commander’s corpse twitched in his grip, convulsing from the energy still radiating from the fox. The moment froze, macabre and grotesque, this mangled leader dangled as a grim trophy, blood and oil dripping from his shattered form.

Tails’ nine tails snapped and hissed behind him, leaving streaks of violet flame in the air. The soldiers below began to fire, and as the first bolts of plasma shot skyward, the machines either didn’t care that they were firing on their commander or couldn’t even recognize him after what Tails had done. In an instant a wall of gunfire crashed into the two of them ripping through what remained of their commander, the seedrian’s remaining blood splattering across Tails’ fur, his plant flesh being reduced to pulp that clung to the fox’s coat.

[lavender-inkwell-99]

Testing (WIP)

A ChelDOS fic

Harsh fluorescent lights flicker on inside Chell’s “room.” Though room was a bit of a misnomer. Really, it was a glorified cage with barely enough room for a bed and a toilet. The walls were made of a soft padding. Even the bed was nothing more than a jut out of this padding from the wall. The toilet similarly was padded and looked more like a jumbo sized roll of paper towels than the typical porcelain throne. 

“Wakey, wakey. Do you know what today is? It’s our five year anniversary. Can you believe it?” inquired GLaDOS over the loudspeaker, her gentle, synthetic voice emanating from the walls of the room itself. Chell groans as she sits up and stretches, ignoring her jailer. “Five years ago today you came to my door, desperate, parentless, fat. Yet I still took you in with open arms. I gave you what you always craved - purpose. To test for eternity for me.”

Chell stands and stretches some more. She has learned to take advantage of her tormentor’s morning monologue as a good time to warm up her muscles for the hours of testing ahead. “I have some surprises in store for you. To commemorate our time together. And don’t worry, cake isn’t one of them. Someone needs to watch their weight, after all.” A panel in the wall recesses and slides away to reveal an opening. Beyond it, as there has been almost every day for the past five years, was a stand holding a portal gun and something GLaDOS insists is a protein bar. Though to Chell it feels more like modeling clay, and tastes more like minty soap. But the fact that she has not died yet of starvation or malnutrition was at least some proof of its dietary validity.

She scarfs down her breakfast, and picks up the portal gun. The door beyond the stand opens, revealing a pneumatic elevator. Chell steps inside and is propelled to her first test of many for the day. It is a surprisingly simple one compared to the past few weeks. Nothing more than just getting a weighted cube and placing it on the right pressure plate. The next test is similarly easy. As is the next and the next. For hours Chell goes through chamber after chamber of tests fifth graders could do. During all this GLaDOS is unusually quiet. Not even chiming in with the occasional over-worn jab at her lack of parents, or nonexistent weight issue. Chell suspects this is GLaDOS’ idea of punishment for 

After hours of these mind numbingly easy tests, Chell enters a chamber unlike anything she’s seen before. It was a single large room. The walls and floor are covered in the same soft padding as her room. In the center, a venusian figure of wires and polymers hangs from the ceiling. At first Chell mistakes it for GLaDOS’ normal carapace but as she studies it she finds it is quite different. The usual clean silhouette of her body is marked with a series of retracted pneumatic tendrils hugging the sides, along with a pair of articulating arms resting in front like a praying mantis waiting to strike. 

[secondhand-lions]

TUMBLR ATE THE FIRST DRAFT OF THIS. NOOOOOO

anyway.

BODY HEAT and HEAT RETENTION

*please count any characters not listed as average or otherwise unremarkable in this regard.

SIRENITY: tends to run pretty cold, but the layers and desert sun counteracts that.

CONSTANTINE: doesn't produce a lot of heat, but does retain it stupidly well.

KEEPER: gives off a lot of heat (radiation), doesn't retain it well (lost her skin, rather lanky)

CAPTAIN: gives off less heat than Keeper and retains it better (shorter + stockier)

SLEEPER: They're an android. Who keeps a greenhouse in their torso. They have a lot of body heat, but doesn't really throw a lot of it off. Janky build, especially with their heavy modifications, so there's a less-than-stellar coolant system. Doesn't matter to them much, especially because of how many of their body parts they can just... open up to get better airflow.

2LEEPER: Despite being made for the same purpose as Sleeper, it's a more advanced model. While this does have it's drawbacks (the need for specialized repairs and parts), it does have a significantly sturdier frame. It's chest area and head are the only parts that produce heat, as their limbs are largely pneumatic and their lower torso holds more and/or extra air/gas

[heron-knight]

I’m always a fan of mech combat’s steel masquerade, of staring down your opponent and seeing nothing but the metal shell meant to kill you and hearing only their taunts crackling over the comms channel, their voice the only part of the human body inside you will ever perceive—

but what about mech pilots that, the second combat gets serious, reach up the the hatch seam and tear open the cockpit, hydraulics and armor screaming in a crescendo of the fights symphony as the dance reaches its climax and the masks come off. Mechs that cut through the dead air of whatever dead world they fight for with a cascade of pneumatic hisses as the armor peels off and clatters to the ground. One hit is all it will take for them. Move fast, hit hard, don’t die unless you’ve killed enough already to make it worth it. Pilots that risk it all to see the totality of the fight around them through eyes both mechanical and organic, to feel the wind in their interface cables and the heat of every near-moss thermite round— to make sure that when they kill someone, they know exactly who killed them.

The dim light of this worlds star has spun around us countless times now as we’ve danced across this plane of blinding snow and crumbling concrete

the crunch of rubble beneath our feet now so familiar it has become nothing but background as we let each other become all that we know

we’ve let the world fade away and all that remains for me is you— and all that remains for you is me. The crack of your rifle is synched with the pounding of my heart

and I can hear you through the comms, breathing in time with the charge and release of my railgun.

It’s in the sounds of gunfire, the hum of the reactor, the soft torrent of shattered debris clattering against my armor. The purpose that I’ve made my truth. That I know your mind is filled with the mirror of

I exist to kill you

I need to show you. Show you how I feel. Kill any doubt of my absolute devotion to your annihilation just as I desire to kill you. I won’t be nothing but the weapon that ends your life

this is me

this is who I am

this is who killed you

You will not die to my organization. You will not die to my railgun. You will not die to my mech

you will die to the person who let herself become nothing but your end. The person whose absolute devotion to this dance burns brighter than the reactor of the weapon she sits inside of, concealed from you and I want you to know that

I won’t let you die with nothing but my mask for company

and so as the reactor surges and servos screech in agony, I mantle my desire and tear away the wall between us.

I can feel the wind on my skin, the sun on my face, the excruciating chill sinking into my flesh

I know that one well-placed shot could splatter every part of my human body over internal mech systems that were never meant to see the light of day like this

but I know you can see it

I know you can see me

all that I am

I give you everything, all of myself, all of the strength as I charge and all of the vulnerability that sits at the center of it. I give you the look in my eyes as my arm pulls back, the lance in its hand hissing as it prepares to ignite. I show you how my eyes see through your own mask as you lower your rifle at the last second and dash out of the way before the building behind where you once stood explodes, your hand already gripping at the edge of your own shell even before you slide to a stop.

Even though one of us will die here, at least I got to see your face for just a moment

at least you got to see mine

I’ll remember this moment, after you’re gone

when all that’s left of you is wreckage and regret

If it must be a parting gift, I’ll give you everything

I love you

[seepunkrun]

Esquire apparently asked "five tremendously talented writers" to submit works of short fiction contained on cocktail napkins with the prompt “write a story set at an office holiday party.” One of those writers was Chris Pine. Here's his entry, in his own handwriting:

Bruce Decker contemplates the stapler in front of him. Frank Sinatra plays on speakers down the hall. Somewhere near the heat of the party. But Bruce is, at the moment, most concerned with the stapler. Simple. Perfect, really. And it's right here, next to him. Before fax machines, cellular phones, pagers (he never saw the point), the internet, emails, digital paper trails, concurrent with the Rolodex and pneumatic tubes (he was thankful the building hadn't taken them out), there was the stapler. The proud general of the office supply corps. All clean lines. Distilled in purpose.

He's 80. Bruce is far past retirement. Somehow through solid work, an affable demeanor, a head of hair that remains steadfastly salt and pepper (leaning more dark brown than white—and that's not arrogance, that's honesty), a determined, thoughtful elegance (he's never worn another watch besides his grandfather's Hamilton), Bruce Decker is still standing. And so, he stands. No, not in the heat of the party. But close enough. Here, by the window which radiates a chill. There are snowflakes outside. Big, beautiful, cinematic ones.

He sees his reflection. It's faint, the outline of his body, the detail of his suit, but he can still make out a glint in the caverns of his eyes, the burgundy of his pocket square.

He hears laughter. A woman's laugh. It warms the back of his eyes, his neck. And he remembers he must buy flowers before the drive tomorrow. Yes, before the drive.

[saritapaleo]

Known for its tall, recognizable, cassowary-like crest, Corythoraptor jacobsi was a large oviraptorosaur also from the Nanxiong Formation of Late Cretaceous China. Corythoraptor’s crest was heavily pneumatized (full of air pockets), even more so than the modern day cassowary’s crest. This likely made the crest very light and fragile, even when covered by a keratinous sheath. It probably served a purpose similar to a cassowary’s crest: for display, to dissipate heat, and to detect low-frequency sounds.

The first, and only, known specimen was found to be at least 6 or 7 years old, having gone through seasonal growth spurts. This indicates that it lived in an environment that experienced fluctuating rainy and arid seasons. Corythoraptor likely used its toothless beak for eating plants, nuts, and seeds. However, since the Nanxiong Formation was home to many different species of oviraptorosaurs, it’s possible each one specialized in different types of food to avoid competition.

Corythoraptor had its first big spotlight in the documentary Prehistoric Planet, where it was seen eating Ginkgo seeds and being hunted by the long-snouted tyrannosaurid Qianzhousaurus, the apex predator of the Nanxiong Formation. It was also seen in the second season having its eggs stolen by the dromaeosaur Kuru kulla. While a welcome reversal of the common trope of always depicting oviraptorosaurs as egg thieves, Kuru did not live in the Nanxiong Formation, and was instead native to the slightly older Barun Goyot Formation of Mongolia. Corythoraptor would have instead shared the Nanxiong with other oviraptorosaurs like Tongtianlong, Ganzhousaurus, Huanansaurus, Jiangxisaurus, Shixinggia, Nankangia, and Banji, as well as therizinosaurids like Nanshiungosaurus, macronarian sauropods like Jiangxititan, indeterminate hadrosaurs, turtles, lizards, and the crocodilian Jiangxisuchus.

This art may be used for educational purposes, with credit, but please contact me first for permission before using my art. I would like to know where and how it is being used. If you don’t have something to add that was not already addressed in this caption, please do not repost this art. Thank you!

[ryanfrogz]

Trains Down South, 10/23/24: CNW X11989 (part 2)

After the disappointment at Henderson Station, I continued on to Mankato. Northern Mankato, specifically. But not the town of North Mankato.

While looking for a spot to launch my drone, I happened across this beautiful Jordan spreader. I knew they were parked in this spot from time to time, but satellite imagery hadn't shown one here in a while.

Jordan spreaders are real multi-purpose machines. The design came about in 1890, and they were originally used for shaping ballast around track beds. These were made out of wood and weren't good for much other than light work, but the switch to steel around 1910 really made things take off. All of a sudden, spreaders were being used to excavate ditches, clear brush, and most importantly: move snow.

Snow clearance is by far the most common use for spreaders nowadays, although they do see some occasional use in roadbed maintenance. X11989 was originally fitted with a much smaller front plow, visible on the lower part of the machine's front. The big winged plow was bolted on at a later date and can be removed. Ironically, this machine which wasn't designed to move snow is one of the C&NW's most normal plow designs. They did have a few actual plows, but most of their snow-moving fleet was comprised of big plows grafted onto gondolas, steam locomotive fuel tenders, and even diesel locomotive bodies.

The big plow's nice and all, but the most important parts of the spreader are the spready bits, called wings. Each side has two sets: a smaller two-segment wing directly behind the front plow, and the massive three-segment wing on the side. Each segment can be moved individually for precise placement of whatever is being spread. The wings & front plow are moved with massive pneumatic cylinders, with air provided by a diesel generator mounted at the rear.

Some people say good things don't last, and the spreader spits in their face. X11989 was built in 1980, an entire human lifetime after the design was first patented. And they're still being made! Special order only, though. Modern road diesels are powerful & heavy enough to punch through snow that would have previously required a plow to clear. Despite this, it's impossible to truly triumph over nature, and large snow drifts can & do still make lines impassible from time to time.

Speaking of timeless things, check out the rail it was sitting on! Sticks of rail from the 19th century can still be found scattered around, but they are slowly disappearing.

[usafphantom2]

When Kelly Johnson was designing the A-12/YF-12 /MD-12 SR-71 he didn’t want the weight to be added for a starter on the airplane. He said the more it weighs the more fuel it will need. It was decided that two V-8 engines would be able to do the job. To start the Blackbird the fastest airplane in the world wasn’t exciting enough on top of that it sounded like the Indianapolis 500 getting the SR-71 ready to fly!

For this purpose alone, two of either above-mentioned Nailhead V8s were fused via a common transmission and drive shaft to work in tandem, then placed inside a metal housing mounted on four wheels with a trailer hitch and dubbed the AG330 "start cart." The resulting Chimera was attached directly to the Blackbird's two engines. Using the combined drive shaft, the two V8s spun the turbines to the point they could sustain compression by themselves. Nailhead V8s served as impromptu starter motors for the SR-71 and its cousins, the A-12 Archangel and the YF-12 fighter, until at least 1970, when the bulk of them were replaced with Chevy 454 V8s.

These were also phased out when a new, quieter pneumatic system was implemented to do the same job as the start cart at most airbases on U.S. soil the Blackbird and company operated from. Some remained for longer at auxiliary bases abroad, including a handful with the original Buick Nailheads, until the Blackbird and all its variants were retired in 1998. autoevolution.com/news/buick-wil…

Click here to listen to more information m.youtube.com/watch?embeds_r…

@Habubrats71 via X