#robotic positioning components

[tekmaticinc]

Discover Top-Notch Robotic Positioning Components at Tekmatic

Are you in need of cutting-edge robotic positioning components to optimise your automation processes? Look no further than Tekmatic! We take pride in offering a comprehensive range of high-quality robotic positioning components that are designed to deliver precision and efficiency in various industrial applications.

[artbyblastweave]

What I like about New Vegas is that out of all the Fallout games, it feels like it's the most aware of the fact that everyone is doing a bit of some kind from the fifties and is much more attentive and thoughtful than some of the other games to the implications of the fact that everyone is doing some kind of bit from the fifties.

The Kings are a salient example of this. The surface level gag, of course, is that they're a militant gang of Elvis impersonators, having adopted the aesthetic after their leader mistook a training facility for Elvis impersonators as some kind of religious site. Stock Future-imperfect stuff, oh-those-silly-wastelanders, elevating our pop-culture to the level of organizing-societal-principle.

Until, of course, you take into account the (singular) King's actual project- the fact that his gang is the defacto governing body of Freeside, the accompanying fact that he's got his anarchist predilections and thus would like to maintain that governing position without having to constantly kick people around to get them to listen. And here you've come across a guy from before the war who was apparently so incredibly charismatic that people came from all over the country to see him, so charismatic that they built an entire school to train people how to imitate his mannerisms. No shit they're gonna check if there's any gas left in that can! There might be some real practical power on the table if they can walk that walk! Even if the quick-and-dirty pitch for the gang is "Elvis Cult," there isn't really a spiritual component, they aren't morons who're mistaking this guy for a literal god, they just recognize that there might be some unreclaimed social capital here for them to tap into. And there absolutely is, in-universe and out- have you ever encountered a Fallout fan who didn't love The Kings?

Compare this, by the way, with the Three Families, who aren't in a situation where they're scrambling for a symbol they can rally populist support around. These guys are on top of the world. They aren't doing a bit because they're pursuing the social power that bit would provide them- there ultimately is some, but that's not why they started doing it and it isn't strictly something that they needed to do, given their combined force of arms. They're doing their respective bits because the guy with the robot army told them to. They're theme-park employees, working to brute-force back into existence the halcyon youth of a guy who can't even go outside to enjoy it.

[meownotgood]

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion.  tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

════════════════════

The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found. 

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device. 

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position. 

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine. 

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired. 

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why. 

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity. 

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did. 

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device. 

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response. 

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you. 

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them." 

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust. 

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder. 

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible." 

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in. 

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm. 

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork. 

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight. 

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock. 

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance. 

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise." 

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then." 

Viktor answers, "As anticipated." 

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached. 

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge. 

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?" 

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers. 

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit." 

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all." 

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement. 

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement. 

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system." 

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors." 

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job." 

"It is." 

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold. 

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself. 

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon." 

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing. 

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular. 

Viktor notices. 

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected." 

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright. 

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?" 

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you. 

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?" 

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss." 

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken." 

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous." 

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms." 

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald. 

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you — 

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask. 

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later." 

Anything you want. 

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours. 

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?" 

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside. 

"Good." 

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside. 

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault. 

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken. 

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move." 

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong. 

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously. 

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-" 

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move." 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster — 

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed. 

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep. 

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs. 

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion. 

— 

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?" 

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez." 

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly. 

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt? 

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him. 

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already. 

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed. 

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again. 

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor. 

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter. 

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.) 

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand. 

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings. 

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered. 

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open. 

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out — 

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead. 

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose. 

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there. 

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things. 

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure. 

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch. 

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep. 

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe. 

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges. 

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective. 

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are. 

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent. 

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place. 

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then. 

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become. 

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable. 

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up. 

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you." 

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore." 

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open. 

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist. 

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming. 

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in." 

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it. 

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously. 

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating. 

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed. 

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?" 

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions." 

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand. 

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms. 

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-" 

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it." 

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist. 

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere." 

You groan, tossing your head back. 

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense." 

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them." 

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck. 

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald. 

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework. 

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?" 

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it." 

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute." 

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-" 

"I disagree." 

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault." 

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point." 

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly." 

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen." 

"Fine." 

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you. 

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching. 

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at." 

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-" 

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way." 

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm. 

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up. 

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static. 

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand." 

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all. 

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly. 

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice. 

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest." 

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening. 

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald. 

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence. 

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver." 

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left. 

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him. 

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage. 

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement. 

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go. 

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this. 

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together. 

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?" 

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably. 

"Yes?" 

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?" 

"I thought you did not want to talk about this." 

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me." 

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open. 

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut. 

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield." 

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed — 

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee. 

"I guess that makes sense." 

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?" 

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-" 

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind." 

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart. 

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern." 

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all." 

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction. 

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy. 

"I need you to listen carefully." 

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening." 

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything." 

Right. Just your life. 

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over. 

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned." 

"Potentially." 

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same. 

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter. 

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you." 

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now." 

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name. 

So, you let it. 

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you." 

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully. 

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam. 

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing." 

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course." 

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside. 

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system. 

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open. 

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation. 

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no." 

"Ah. I will take it from here, then." 

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings." 

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics. 

It's… a lot. 

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within. 

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry. 

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system. 

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but. 

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one. 

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart. 

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself. 

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul. 

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.) 

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too. 

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides. 

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve. 

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal. 

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation. 

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations. 

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee. 

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling. 

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced." 

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand. 

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies. 

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?" 

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit." 

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term." 

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?" 

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you." 

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest. 

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside. 

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered. 

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck." 

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold." 

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish." 

"Give me your hand." 

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his. 

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits. 

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you." 

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact. 

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe." 

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."  

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do." 

"Correct." 

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed. 

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted." 

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose." 

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh. 

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?" 

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch. 

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you. 

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation." 

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close. 

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down. 

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir. 

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave. 

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks. 

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath. 

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs. 

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them. 

And yet, here you are. 

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles. 

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch. 

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?) 

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic. 

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?" 

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart." 

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-" 

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many." 

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in. 

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape. 

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible." 

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension. 

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you. 

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes. 

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed." 

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench. 

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?" 

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it." 

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons. 

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten. 

You glance up. "Good?" 

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise. 

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands." 

"Alright. I can do that." 

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck." 

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise." 

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module." 

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it." 

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires." 

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely. 

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in." 

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat. 

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn." 

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit. 

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control. 

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage." 

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully. 

"Sorry. I'll go slow." 

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover. 

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire. 

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going." 

"Does this- am I hurting you?" 

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine." 

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar. 

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it. 

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps. 

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust." 

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely." 

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them. 

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now." 

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy." 

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake. 

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.) 

You really need to focus. 

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done." 

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire." 

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller. 

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik." 

"You may need to come closer, then." 

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty. 

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool. 

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller. 

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire. 

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his. 

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it." 

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in." 

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

[endearing-dalliance]

She-Ra PoP vs Arcane S2

Physically disabled character considered inferior by his society, abandoned instead of being helped

Technological genius who benefits from having a partner

Uses technology to improve his health and quality of life

Becomes fundamentally altered by a force outside his control (with Christian and cult references)

And now here's where She-Ra and Arcane's messages diverge: Hordak is consistently supported and loved by his partner throughout his journey. She doesn't let up when he tries to hide his pain from her.

She does NOT tell him that he is wrong to try to "fix" himself and actively helps him do so. She recognizes the validity of how he choses to deal with his condition, which was caused by genetic "imperfections" during the cloning process. But she impresses upon him that he does not deserve the physical pain or mental torment of being a "failure".

Her message was that his imperfections do not limit him or define him. They are a part of life, part of the world, and a part of him, and he is not a failure for having them.

Meanwhile in Arcane, Jayce criticizes Viktor for "wanting to cure what he thought were weaknesses" and specifically mentions his leg and disease. The two things that brought him chronic pain, progressively deteriorating quality of life, and one would ultimately kill him. Also, Viktor never actually expressed that he was ashamed of them. We as the audience are left to assume that's how he feels, because why wouldn't he? What else would a disabled person feel? Not that he is perfectly aware that Piltover's oppression and exploitation of his people likely directly contributed to both those issues. Not that he values himself for his intellect and contributions to Hextech even though society constantly prioritized Jayce. Nope, obviously he feels so bad about it that he tries to turn all of humanity into robots. On top of that, Christian Linke has explicitly said the Hexcore corrupted him and Sky was a manifestation of it manipulating him. So even if he did feel that way before, he's still not at fault for what's been going on.

And I think a key part of this is the mindset of the team who created this show. Was this simply a poorly executed but positive sentiment, or a symptom of ableist bias from a team of 3 able-bodied people? We can harp on Jayce all we want, but ultimately someone designed him this way, and THIS is what I take issue with. Christian also says in the art book explicitly that Viktor fixing his leg and spine make him lose part of his humanity. If this is the logic behind Jayce's monologue, it is NOT positivity. It is a direct shaming of a disabled person's right to choose how they take care of themselves, said by a character who has already violated Viktor's autonomy and wishes, written by a team that equates self-improvement with inferior humanity.

Amanda Overton has repeatedly mentioned she was inspired by She-Ra, which is pretty obvious here. Unfortunately, this isn't the unequivocally positive message she thinks it is, and she missed all the nuance of Entrapta and Hordak's conversations about it. A huge component of why it works in She-Ra is because Entrapta's wisdom comes from her understanding of her own "failures" and "imperfections" due to her autism, and Hordak reciprocates support throughout the show. One of the key members of her development team is an autistic person who provided a realistic view of what an autistic person can be like.

This is two people who understand each other's pain uplifting each other, NOT Entrapta being Hordak's miraculous savior at the 11th hour. Having Jayce need a leg brace for like 5 minutes does not give him ability to understand Viktor's lifelong struggles that were also killing him.

For future seasons, I hope they bring on staff who actually have any idea what they are fucking talking about.

[autisticaradiamegido]

Hey since your requests are open, could you maybe draw Hal? Doing anything, I don't really care what (only if you want)

day 96

YES i actually got 2 thinking about hal today thanks to this post (and my tags even passed peer review yippee thank u) ANYWAY. in addition to all of that. I HAVE ALWAYS THOUGHT he and aradia would be friends.

ok i wrote all this out and it got long and kinda rambly bc im tired so im putting it under a cut lmao HALRADIA FRIENDSHIP RANT IN THE READMORE

i think there would be.... maybe a little tension given that aradia eventually ended up in Her Own Flesh And Blood Body and hal would presumably not have that option?

but overall i think after the way her friends treated her as a robot, and the experience of going from experiencing life as a living breathing organic person to a bodiless entity to HAVING a body but that body not being the same as the one you remember.... idk! it's like EXTREMELY EXTREMELY SPECIFIC AND MORE THAN A LITTLE TRAUMATIC and they could share it with each other!! how fucking lovely is that.

not to mention they both kind of have a history with equius?? (assuming this is post arquiusprite in some way. i certainly have an extremely self-indulgent "everyone lives" au for this scenario where they're able to safely separate into their pre-sprite components and then hal and aradia become buds.)

REGARDLESS i think it would be interesting for hal (who has ostensibly nothing but positive shit to say about his connection to equius) and aradia (who has some truly fucked things to say about her experiences with equius) to Talk Through All That.

not 2 mention the parallels that can be drawn between dirk/hal's perception of their relationship with jake being this kind of... Manipulative Pining Weirdness, and aradia being on the other side of somebody else's Manipulative Pining Weirdness and sharing that perspective without even knowing about all of that dirkjake backstory OUGH im tellin u it is all a very complex and wonderful scenario to consider and like, im not even much of an alpha kid aficionado tbh. hal experts chime in on the comments i know youre out there and i wanna hear your takes.

[foxykate42]

So, I started writing this thing. Because I've always had this question of if I wanted to be a robot girl, or if I just want to be the mechanic who fixes robot girls. And....I thought I figured it out. That I'd just be a robot girl who fixes other robot girls.

-

Imagine, being able to have my hand separate into different tools, quickly popping open the access panel on your back so I can slip my interface cable in and connect directly. Quickly jumping through your BiOS to discover which manufacturer I need to hack into, in order to download the schematics. Codes and Errors flash in my eyes as I quickly sift through them, you've been identified as a rogue unit. It's only a matter of time before they do something extreme. I run every subroutine, diagnostic, and flood every cache to try and slow down any signals that might trigger it, your kill switch. My tools quickly disassemble what parts I need to move in order to get deeper, I can fix those later, but not if your neural net is.... There, I found the chip. The micro torch sparks inside you, I know it might hurt, but what damage I do is nothing compared to the corpos frying your brain in a nanosecond. I calmly but urgently cut the chip off of your circuitry, a nimble claw snatches it and I toss it on the floor.

I let out a sigh of relief, leaning back on my stool. I hadn't realized my own heat sinks popped open and vented from the stress.

-

But after writing this I couldn't help but think about the eroticism of working on things and sweating over them, skin covered in grease. How when you're that deep in a machine, you're really more dangerous to it than it is to you. I mean obviously if you're working with a lot of power it could shock and kill you if you're not careful. But If you sweat on a circuit board it's likely to short, ultimately it's a much more vulnerable position for the machine. However if I was also a robot girl, It would be dangerous for myself as well. if I'm connected to you when they try and throw the kill switch, what's to say they can't knock me out with you. Two birds one stone and such. But NOW I'm thinking about how many times I've cut myself on a PC case, Imagining that... - I'm fixing your leg, it got torn to shreds when we had a close call with a garbage processor. I've sorted through my spares and found one that's a close enough match. I wrap my hands around your thigh and twist hard, finger pressing in to the release latch hidden underneath a layer of synth-skin. The connector clicks and then shifts suddenly. My hand slips and I slice myself on the damaged component. I hiss through my teeth as blood drips on the floor. I toss the damaged piece aside and grab a clean-ish towel that was hanging from my tool cart, some tape, and wrap it quickly before returning to my work. - SEE, HOW CAN I CHOSE. Turns out I'm no closer to figuring it out.

[mentatemulator]

Tune Up

A short for the robot-fuckers, based on a dream i had last night.

~

Her workspace is pitifully small, more a cubbyhole than a proper access point. You have to kneel down to the floor to see her, twisted up with her knees to her shoulders, arms through the middle, slender fingers tapping away at her console. She's been complaining about claustrophobia, and that's not supposed to happen. So you unplug her network cable and pull her out onto the floor. She sprawls out, clearly grateful to be out of there. She's a strange model. Definitely repurposed from sex work, but the modifications are extensive, and you doubt most people would be interested at this point, what with most of her torso open to the air, giving her better airflow for all of the overclocked processors.

She still has a pretty face. And a clearly functional pussy. Bright blue labia is an interesting choice, and you wonder idly who made it.

You spread out your tools and prepare to start making adjustments, but as soon as you touch her, she's got you flipped over onto your back, straddling your waist and staring right into your eyes. You look to the human techs around you, and none of them comments, except for one who shrugs at you. This is just something she does, evidently. Whatever, you've worked in worse conditions.

You put your hands into her, start opening panels. She puts her hands on you as well, eyes never wavering. The soft pads of her fingertips travel across your face, your neck, shoulders, and pause over both breasts long enough to give your nipples a playful squeeze.

You jump a little, and feel your face grow hot. Is she trying to make this more difficult? Or is she just having fun? You apply a gentle electric current to a troublesome component, and she moans. It's the first sound she's made, and you silently give your compliments to whoever fine tuned her voice box.

You keep working, and every new tool you apply, or component you touch, seems to excite her more. She's grinding into your stomach with that designer pussy, and you can feel how soft and pliant it is. A tiny bit of lubricant leaves a wet spot on your shirt.

It's embarrassing to work with an erection, but you can't really help it. She must have been good at her old job. When you pause to grab a new tool, she abruptly lifts herself up and re-positions, letting her unbutton your pants with unnatural speed. You stop, thinking you should chastise her, tell her to cut it out. But no one here is paying this show the slightest bit of attention. And her hand does feel so good on your cock. So what the hell, if she's gonna have fun with this, you might as well have a little yourself.

She slides her plush blue pussy up against your shaft, and you have to bite your lip to keep from gasping. You keep working, but you can't help a little whimper when she slips you inside. It's warm inside, and wetter than any human you've known. You start to wonder if the client is going to charge you for this, but you're frankly beyond caring.

She works up a rhythm while you try to finish your adjustments, her voice getting louder. One of the techs does take a moment to watch, but you decide you don't mind. It is getting a little bit hard to focus on your task though.

She tries to pin one of your arms to the floor, and you decide she's gotten slightly too unruly. You push your free hand deeper into her mechanical guts and grip her exposed spinal support. You know just where to push your thumb...

She gasps in the way only robots can, full of static and pitch distortion, and you feel massage motors clamp down on your cock. But her fingers loosen, and the strength has gone out of her. Determined to finish, you push yourself up and flip her over. Final adjustments are made. Panels are closed up. And now you are just thrusting into an overstimulated, pliant fuck doll. You can't really justify continuing, seeing as you're on the clock. But how the hell would you ever be able to stop at this point?

That one tech is still watching, and possibly touching herself, you're not sure. You grunt with what you realize is a lot of pent up frustration as you feel yourself getting close to orgasm. Your instinct is to pull out and unload onto her belly, but there is no belly to cum on, and you really do not want to have to do a deep clean of all the components you just tuned. So you let go inside, pumping her as full as you can after years of estrogen treatments, losing your balance as you cum harder than you have in months.

Her arms are there to catch you. She's smiling up at you, satisfied, maybe even just a little bit affectionate. You spend a long moment relaxing into her embrace, regaining your composure. A text notification pops into your peripheral view, and you open it into your left eye screen.

Thanks for the tune up ;)

If only every job was this rewarding.

[grif-hawaiian-rolls]

The Reds the Feds and Wash : Car Trouble

Lil writing and bonus under the cut >;3

Locus slammed the mongoose into park, scowling as he approached the stopped Warthogs on the road. One job. He gave them one fucking job. Take the Warthogs, go from point A to point B. It should have been, by all counts, impossible to screw up. AND YET! Here he was, having to come to their rescue. Unfortunate and worse, irritating. At the very least, most of them had the good sense to keep their helmets on. The same could not be said of Donut and Neko, who were both helmetless and mid-conversation like it was a nice day in the park, not high value targets stopped in the middle of the road in a warzone. Not to mention Neko’s… frankly ridiculous perch across the top of the Warthog, legs wrapped around the barrel of the turret and his head on the windshield. Genuinely, what was that idiot doing? That couldn’t be a comfortable position to maintain, especially while talking to Donut who was leaning against the driver side of the vehicle. Locus wondered if the sergeant would shoot him if he walked over there and threw a blow at Donut to prove a point. Agent Washington almost certainly would. Better not to risk it then, no matter how effective it would be at proving a point. Neko was a lost cause at this point, short of taking a blade to that ridiculously long braid, but there were some lines even Locus hesitated to cross. Actually, where was the sergeant? Or Pavoz for that matter? He was so focused on the thought for a moment, Locus almost tripped over Lopez’s legs. The robot was half way underneath the other Warthog, no doubt checking for anything else that could be wrong. Locus’ half a stumble was easily brushed off as him nudging the brown calf plate to get Lopez’s attention. "<You have my part?>" He asked as he pushed himself out from under the car. He was without his helmet as well, surprisingly. But forgivable, seeing as how the light under the Warthog remained steady enough to assume Lopez had been using his helmet as a light source. Lopez, despite being a robot or maybe because of it, was very quickly becoming the second most competent soldier in this group. If nothing else, at least Locus knew he wouldn't fuck around half as much as the rest of them. He pretended he didn't notice Neko's helmet hanging off the turret of the other Warthog. "I do." Locus removed the mechanical component from the compartment in his chestplate, leaning down to hand it to Lopez. "What happened?" "<Dunno. Bad luck, from the looks of it. Or someone drove this thing over a fucking tree, and picked up a squirrel nest or twelve. It's a mess, but this,>" Lopez gestured the piece Locus brought, "<seems to be the only part that needs replacing to at least get this disaster on wheels to a base.>" There was that, at least. Locus crossed his arms. "How long?" "<The rest of today, probably. I need to actually clear this shit out of the undercarriage or it's just going to cause more problems,>" Lopez rolled his eyes, a very human gesture set in a metal face. "<And even then, we won't be able to get moving again until morning. Sarge kept trying to start the damn thing and killed it's battery. It needs time to build up a solar charge before we jumpstart it with the other one.>" Unfortunate. At least the question of the sergeant and Pavoz was answered, as the pair of them came through the underbrush off the side of the road like they were summoned by Lopez mentioning Sarge by name. "-make a Red out of you yet, boy!" Sarge laughed, clearly mid sentence as they rejoined the rest. Pavos nodded along, though how much he actually agreed with the conversation was debatable. The sudden sound of a horn going off had every weapon in the vicinity raised in reaction, before the source became clear as the sound dragged out. Agent Washington's helmet rested on the wheel of the second Warthog, defeat written in the angle of his shoulders. Donut laughed at something, presumably the same thing Washington was reacting to. Neko looked smug, so safe to assume it was probably something he said. Idiots. All of them. Unfortunate.

----

I'm not immune to roadtrip arc, and Kimball does say the Federal Army of Chorus moved the Reds and Wash around a lot sooo like >> i'm just saying, it'd be a shame to not make Wash suffer through a red team roadtrip Bonus, sometime the s12 finale and reveal of the armies:

felix's text is so much harder to read off my tablet screen than i thought it was fuck okay transcript time Felix, while reaching for the radio: I'm gonna lose it if we do this entire drive in silence, I swear- Locus: DO NOT

[wtfforged]

how are your shapes so good. does it just come to you naturally or do you have some super secret resource or what? i love your shape language and i'm gonna try to improve mine so if you have any tips that would be greatly appreciated 👍although i get youve been drawing for a while and this stuff can kind of just be ingrained into you so if you cant really think of any thats fine too. love your art!!

HI THANK YOU i went on a super rant so im gonna hide it all under a read more lol

it does come a bit more naturally to me just because i dont really understand how to draw things WITHOUT breaking them down into shapes (especially since i was drawing robots for so long lol), but i also think my artstyle just naturally got more shapey as i tried to have more fun with art and especially as i started incorporating what i enjoyed from artists i like. an obvious example would be oda's art throughout one piece since i genuinely do think my art took a big positive turn as i started reading it lolol. i have so many screenshots of panels i enjoyed or thought looked cool cause he really is just a master at it all- i especially like the way he uses the line of action, shapes, motion, and expressions, and try to study them a lot. i also looked at some of my favorite artists, like bucketofrobots, monstyra, estridd, aciescoutex, or onebadnoodle to name a few who inspired me. Dont tattle on me btw this is our secret.

so first tip is just See how others be doing it. but that can be for literally anything in art not just shape- thats just how i started. im a very monkey see monkey do kind of person

second tip! is literally to break stuff down into their simplest shapes and action lines. which sounds redundant tbh when i type it out but i mean it. simplify things down to their bare components- especially with the parts you want to emphasize in mind- before you build on them (if you build on them at all ofc). heres some examples of some of my sketches when i do make them, and some with outlines for ones that i wasnt super clear/clean about. i literally will block out and break down the forms into simple shapes, even using lasso tool like in the second image first (especially if i really dont know what to draw pose-wise). sorry a lot of these i was playing with perspective but those or drawings where i have a very specific or difficult pose in mind are just the only pieces where i actually have a sketch layer instead of just jumping right to coloring my sketch which is what i do most of the time

and when i say "parts you want to emphasize", im thinking especially with motion or certain parts of a characters design, like really pushing those shapes so that its visually clear What Is Going On. for example, in the 1st sketch above, i wanted to emphasize that zoro was like, sliding in and about to unsheathe his sword in a really cool combat-y pose. or in the 2nd sketch, the character is supposed to be sort of mid-jump so i left some space around him and exaggerated that movement, as well as his thing being that he has cool giant punch-y gauntlets and is probably about to punch some baddie, so i put that right in the camera. and the third is the same, i wanted to exaggerate the running movement as well as the creepy hand since those are important to that character. and here in this fourth image below i wanted to emphasize one character being too pushy and overly friendly, while the other is very uncomfortable about it, so i really played with one leaning into the other and the other leaning away, etc etc you get the idea for the rest of the examples that i redlined.

im sorry if this doesnt make much sense or is hard to read because its too wordy. im not very good at wording stuff right especially with explaining my thought processes. im a bit too much of an instinct type person so it feels like when i explain stuff i just go "and then you go bwaaahhh! and booom! and babam!! and thats how i do it".

so if this sucked heres a post by EtheringtonBros thats kinda similar to what im saying, and a youtube video from fourleafisland that also, is kinda similar to what im saying and has very good points!!!!!!

thank you again!!!!!! sorry this was so long. hell i even wish it was longer just bc i really wanted to include some aforementioned oda screenshots but i got embarrassed of how many of them were just zoro and gave up on searching and i didnt wanna take much longer on this cause im already late to gaming with friends help. just open the manga yourself and look at whenever he draws sanji or luffy. theyre both extremely shape.

[cak3o]

quick question (pun intended, even though I’m not asking abt him XD) what is Shadow Man’s role/personality like in your AU? From what I’ve seen, it’s like he’s pretty young and Top Man is kind of his friend? Guardian?

Hiiiiiii, ur ask got me so excited I yelled in my car on my way home from work/so so so positive

So. The 3 bots!!! They are so so cute to me (I call everything cute) because I love that they were made to function specifically as a team! A team to travel space together and mine power crystals?? They are so fun.

After the events of the 3rd game (which I will. Hopefully draw out one day) the 3 bots actually get to do their job!!! (After a lot of convincing from dr.light to the government or w/e that these robots will not go rogue again.)

Top (the leader), Needle, Spark, Magnet, Hard, Snake and Gemini all travel into space in a giant ship (I like to imagine they reused gamma in some way for this…I haven’t drawn it out yet tho) and investigate interstellar power sources!

Their missions are going great and their reports back to Light are pretty normal! Until…

During one if his expeditions, Top stumbles upon an injured robot…in the middle of space??

Concerned, they take him back to their ship where he quickly charms the entire crew with his odd personality and adowable face. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s super excited to meet everyone, especially Top.

Eventually, they go back home to Earth and bring the mystery robot to Doctor Light but for some reason-

They have *absolutely* not clue what the hell he’s made out of. Although he has the looks of a robot, he seemingly doesn’t have any actually mechanical components! Anytime they try to get a reading on what’s goin on in there, the images come out blurry and weird. Light worries about what would happen if Wily heard about this mysterious life form….(spoiler alert. He totally hears about it later)

In the meantime, the 3 bots offer to keep an eye on him. Light allows it, and thus, we have the final full 3rd group!

With a great team spirit and hardworking attitudes the 3 bots have a bit more spice added to their lives with the addition of “Shadowman”! Named such due to his tendency to hide behind others like a shadow :^3

It must’ve been fate that lead them to each other…

Or was it?

(Spoiler. It wasn’t)

Anyways. TLDR- yes, Top is like a guardian of sorts for Shadow lmao. He found a weird space baby and said “yeah, I’ll adopt him.” Little did he know that the space baby had this all planned from the beginning.

[tekmaticinc]

Unleashing the Power of Custom Motors: Revolutionize Your Applications with Tekmatic

In today's fast-paced world, customization is the key to unlocking innovation and staying ahead of the competition. When it comes to custom motors, off-the-shelf options may not always meet your specific requirements. That's where Tekmatic comes in.

[okdollface]

The G.U.R.L.Z. Irwin Toys Ltd

The 2000s was an exciting new era for doll manufacturers and consumers alike! It was the start of the digital age where fashion dolls now had interactive & technological components. You may know of Mattel's DivaStarz or you possibly have even heard of Playhut's MystiKats.. but have you heard of The G.U.R.L.Z. Robot Interactive Dolls produced by Irwin Toys Ltd in 2002?

Fun Fact! Irwin Toys Ltd had their foot in the doll industry by being the primary American toy distributor in Canada!

There were four different robot dolls produced and each came with a robot pet, "Franiko + Tiko" "Zazi + Yazoo" "Daloola + Mizoo" "Shishi + Kwak Up". The main gimmick (besides the fact that they were robots) was that they could talk. Their pets came with leashes that once plugged into the doll, allowed them to talk too! The talking mechanism was based upon movement and positioning meaning that they were able to tell when they were being posed.

From the research I've done, the dolls seemed to have sold moderately well. They aren't super rare and can even be found online NIB on sites like eBay for under $50.00 USD. The doll's long term failure was most likely a result of the financial issues in the company Irwin Toys.

In 2001 the company had been sold to a private investment group and just a mere eighteen months later declared bankruptcy and went into liquidation. Though in 2003 the old employees (George and Peter Irwin) purchased the company back, they did not attempt to manufacture any new products into the market.

So that's The G.U.R.L.Z. interactive robot dolls! I definitely wish I had one of these when I was younger and will add one to my collection one day! The technology in the dolls was pretty impressive considering both the time period and the small size of the dolls!! Maybe they would have become a much bigger name if they had been released at a better time for the company!! Who knows!!!

[youtopialanding]

Youtopia

Chapter 1 : Never trust technology

3928 words. TW : light body horror

Acid rain poured over the wasteland that had once been the megalopolis of Los Angeles. The ruins of an ancient civilization were still apparent, the steel of wrecked cars on an abandoned road rusty enough that some of them were destroyed by the aggressive water. The vague growl of disintegrating iron floated in the air, the only sound accompanying the torrential rain that contaminated the few remaining lakes on this desolate ground. Steps suddenly appeared in the distance, proving that someone was still alive in this apocalypse. A large shape walked among the wrecked cars, pulling a damaged cart with one of its wheels threatening to give way. Tall, wearing a black suit that covered both his hands and his entire head, Jolly paced around the scrap metal searching for new pieces to bring back to the general headquarters.

“M.I.N.D., can you analyze this one?” he asked out loud.

A light clinking started, the same sound you hear when computing hardware connects together. The tall man waited patiently until the sound finally stopped.

“There is a MacBook in the trunk, a model from 2026,” replied a robotic voice that seemed to come from his helmet. “I can’t detect anything else, and I can’t tell if it’s in good condition.” “Could be useful. Even if some people hate Apple components.”

Jolly wiped the acid rain from his integrated glasses, and looked in his cart to pull out a crowbar. After a few seconds of effort, the trunk’s lock gave way allowing him to rummage through the contents. A backpack full of holes, a worn blanket, a can of oil…and at the bottom, a laptop pouch which certainly hid the jackpot. The Swedish man smiled ; it was a good find, for once.

“Acidic levels exceed the limit, the air is too toxic and my battery is running low. We should return to headquarters before we encounter any bad surprises,” warned the AI. “I also detected some prowlers less than a mile away.” “I take it all,” Jolly said. “We’ll check the content and its condition at home. Ask Folio and Ruffilo to join me at the meeting point, and signal the position of these prowlers.” “Got it, boss.”

“FUCK !”

The swear word bounced off the cave’s rough walls, then vanished into a dark corridor. This one was very sudden.

“Language, boss.” “Oh, shut up !”

Frustration accumulated on Noah’s shoulders. He was lying on his back, under a huge desk with a gigantic computer on it. His head was lost among large black cables, all of them linking many - maybe too many - screens hung on the cave’s walls. No neons here ; the only available light came from the screens themselves, which projected a pale and flickering glow. The entire scene looked like a film noir.

Our man was in that uncomfortable position, because half of the screens suddenly turned off, as if fried by lightning. Another swear word escaped, and he finally gave up. Some cables still crackled, and he had no other choice but to cut them and hope they wouldn't electrocute him.

“Everything is lost,” he said while standing up, a handful of black threads in his gloved hand. “M.I.N.D., please check that nothing else is corrupted.” “On it, boss !”

The computer’s main screen, on which some Python code was running, suddenly changed and displayed a series of folders. Working by itself, the machine searched through the files at an amazing speed. Noah’s face was marked by fatigue; dark circles had grown under his bloodshot eyes, his hands were shaking as if he were under immense stress. His long body, once well-maintained, was now missing a good part of his muscles and he looked diminished with his back bent over like an old man. Numerous scars adorned his bare arms, some newer than others, some tattoos even disappeared under old wounds. In one word, the poor lad had known better days.

“Corruption detected in the system, but I managed to recover the second-to-last save,” the robotic voice finally claimed. “I’m restoring it right now.” “Better than nothing,” Noah whispered, although he didn’t look relieved at all. “High cortisol levels and blood pressure. You should rest.” “Leave me the fuck alone! I don’t have time for this!”

The irritation made him irrational. Raging against the entire world, Noah put his hand over his right arm and pulled abruptly, ripping off what seemed to be a piece of black plastic. Where the thing was plugged in was now a simple metallic circle, tightly secured to his flesh. Looking up close, it vaguely resembled a catheter one could find in hospitals back then, and there was no doubt that it served the same purpose. That was what guaranteed their survival : a permanent connection with M.I.N.D. who offered constant protection in this hostile world. But although he pulled that away, Noah couldn’t sever the ties with the AI. Not anymore.

“I was programmed to look after your health before everything else, boss. If you take off the device, I can’t fulfill my mission in its entirety,” the AI explained in a terribly neutral tone. “If you wanna piss me off every five minutes about my health, you can get fucked, I’m not putting back that fucking chip!” “Noah, don’t be childish.”

Suddenly, the feminine voice became more human, more…palpable. Using his real name instead of “boss” was unusual for her, and it totally threw him off. That change alone was enough for him to stop what he was doing and stare at the main computer screen. He came closer, slowly, put his hands down on the desk as a woman’s face appeared in front of him. His heart missed a beat.

She was here, M.I.N.D., staring back at him with a soft but accusing glance, her cartoony anime-like features moving with a surprising fluidity. Her brunette hair gently floated around her face as if it were underwater, and her dark eyes looked too real to be true. A smile strained her lips, on the verge of the uncanny valley, but soon came back to normal and opened.

“There, I like it better like that,” she said. “If you overwork yourself and die in the process, your mission will not be fulfilled.” “Yes, but…”Noah tried, but she cut him off. “The others can’t win without the both of us. It would take them years. You and I, we’re made to do great things. I’m your shield against her, remember ? And you’re my vessel. If one of us disappears, the entire operation is compromised.” “And you’re telling me that because…?” “You, humans, have a fragile carnal envelope. You have to take care of it. If you forget to take care of it for too long, you may die. The smallest mistake could be fatal.”

M.I.N.D. was right, obviously. Noah knew that deep down, he couldn’t last very long in a fight in his current condition. The stress kept him awake and he did overwork himself. However, this behavior didn’t make him win enough time to justify its existence. He should calm down.

A sigh, and suddenly he looked diminished again. These past couple of years felt like he aged ten years, and the more time passed, the less he felt even human. His eyes searched on the floor to find M.I.N.D.’s chip, which he fixed back where it belonged and winced when the device connected again. It wasn’t pleasant at all.

“Will you give me a sleeping pill?” he mumbled.

The AI’s avatar disappeared from the screen and the Python code appeared again. It was obviously running it in the background, like a deciphering algorithm.

“Of course, boss.” she said, taking back her usual robotic voice. “I’ll still be restoring the system while you rest your body.” “Jolly will surely fix you. If I’m not awake by then, leave the total access to your parameters to him. Except…” “Except the “core” folder, of course. On it, boss. Good night and sweet dreams.”

Jolly’s patience started to grow thin. His eyes swept over the plains, looked at his stats displayed on his right forearm, then looked at the landscape again. He had given the signal a while ago and hoped that his two acolytes would soon be by his side. With a deep sigh, the tall man kicked a stone that rolled further away. He was lucky in his misfortune : the acid rain calmed down a bit, and some radioactive rays of sunshine pierced through the dark clouds.

“How much time again ?” he grumbled out loud. “Folio seems close,” M.I.N.D. replied. “But I’ve lost contact with Ruffilo. He doesn’t reply to my requests, but I still have access to his vitals.” “His suit’s battery must be running low, like all of ours. We should think about taking a walkie-talkie like the old days, if we can find some.” “You wanna replace me, boss ?” “Of course not! Just…ah, nevermind.”

A dark silhouette finally appeared, struggling to pull a cart that looked maybe three times as full as Jolly’s. The man raised an eyebrow ; Folio had totally let go of the salvage, and he doubted that all his findings were very useful. Not even mentioning that his tarpaulin was gone, and the metal on top of all these things was significantly damaged by the rain.

“Folio, seriously?” Jolly sighed. “What? I need a lot of scrap steel to fix the ventilation !” the youngest justified. “And you think that your rusty stuff will be helpful?”

Nick shrugged, and crossed his arms over his chest out of defiance. As the youngest and the last addition to their team, he was always hot-headed and didn’t really like to follow orders. It was a real miracle that nothing happened to him, apart from a few scratches here and there. Not to mention the chip he too had on his arm, the only body modification they all consented to make. Noah was the only one who went further than that, but he had a very good reason to give up a part of his humanity behind.

“We should go home, shouldn’t we ?” The rain is starting to pour again,” Folio said, staring at his suit’s screen. “Five more minutes,” Jolly replied. “I’m sure he’ll join us soon.” “Maybe he’s already home ?” “He’s got orders, as we all do. He wouldn’t do anything against this order. It would be too dangerous, and he knows that.”

The oldest of them all started to be very concerned about Ruffilo’s absence, and his lack of patience began to show through jerky gestures. He checked his oxygen levels again, the time on his screen, and finally let out a swear word.

“C’mon, we have to find him”, he ordered in a serious tone. “Eh…don’t you want me to stay here and watch our stuff?” Nick tried. “If something happened to him, it means that the entire zone is way too dangerous to stay alone. You’re coming with me, that’s an order!” “Yeah, yeah…no need for high horses here.”

The young man kicked a stone to show his frustration, but complied and abandoned his findings to follow his elder. Jolly’s attitude proved how stressed he was, probably more troubled by their friend’s absence than he let on. Under his helmet, his face turned pale and his jaw was clenched, his dark blue eyes underlined by dark circles couldn’t stop sweeping over the plains in fear of a bad surprise. For that matter, he reached behind him and grabbed his assault rifle, checked the ammo and kept it in hand. Folio mimicked him ; if the eldest stayed alert that way, it meant that danger was upon them.

Seconds dragged as they walked through the ruins, the rain pouring more than ever with a concerning intensity. Fortunately for them, the wind was weak; a storm right now would be the worst timing ever. Each quiver was a potential threat, be one of the creatures that lived in this apocalyptic landscape or those who didn’t have their best interests in mind. More than ever, it was the silence, slightly broken by the moving metal under the acid, that was the creepiest.

“We should have found him already, shouldn’t we…?” Nick murmured, unable to stay silent as the stress was too high. “Shh,” was Jolly’s only response.

He thought the same thing, but hoped not to draw attention. The two of them could take on many opponents if they had the element of surprise ; it could save their lives. So they had to stay silent.

Too many minutes passed until they finally heard a growl not so far away. Jolly immediately turned towards the noise, wondering if he wasn’t heading straight into danger. But if danger there was, the hope to find their last teammate was also high ; the risk was calculated, and necessary. He adjusted his grasp on his weapon and walked closer and closer, until he froze. A piercing, inhuman scream, followed by a cry of pain, made his skin crawl.

“Fuck,” he cursed before immediately taking off running.

It was Nicholas’s voice, mixed with one of these prowlers’ shrieks. Fortunately, a few seconds were enough for them to find him, and what they saw froze them in terror.

A dark shadow thrashed on the ground, struggling to escape half a dozen of these humanoid creatures. Their skins were peeling off under the acid rain, their eyeless faces were cut in half by a big grinning mouth filled with sharp teeth. Their bestial growls were frightening, so horrifying that Folio stood completely paralyzed.

It wasn’t the case for Jolly. He raised his weapon in a flash and shot, exploding one of these monsters’ skull. A second bullet reached the throat of another one, and almost beheaded it. Unfortunately, the four remaining creatures were immediately drawn to this new threat. They turned toward him, abandoning the poor soul still writhing on the ground.

“Folio, move your fucking ass !” Jolly shouted, and finally his friend snapped out of his lethargy.

He drew his weapon too, hands shaking, and fired at one of the targets. His bullet flew past its ear, provoking a threatening shriek while turning its face towards him. Sheer panic blurred his vision, his breath grew short, and his focus dropped to near zero. He fired again; the bullet struck the creature’s shoulder, but it didn’t seem to care. It was still moving far too fast in his direction.

“No, no, no…” he moaned, emptying his ammo at the creature,half his shots didn’t even graze its deformed body. The rest of them landed somewhere in its stomach, but it didn’t seem to care.

He was about to die, right here and now. Die because he was too stupid to aim, too scared to save his friends. How could he think he’d be useful outside ? Despite the training, now that he was in the field, he realized that it was completely different and was losing his composure. The creature was now almost upon him. In a few seconds, it would pull his head off and devour what’s left of him. He stepped back, stumbled over a rock, and fell hard. Raising his arms to shield himself, he knew it was useless.

BANG.

The gunshot was so violent that Nick’s ears were ringing. His suit was now splattered with his enemy’s brain matter, from head to torso. What remained of the creature’s body slumped onto his legs, twitching slightly. He glanced over it, eager to see who had just saved his life, and saw a frail silhouette who was clearly struggling to stay upright. The barrel of its rifle was still pointing on him, held one-handed and pressed against the figure’s abdomen for support.

“Up !” this savior ordered in a hoarse voice, which he finally recognized as Ruffilo’s.

Ashamed of what he had just done, giving in to sheer panic instead of fighting properly, Folio immediately obeyed and pushed the body away with disgust. He realized that Jolly had already taken care of the rest of the creatures, and his cheeks turned red. Under his helmet, no one could see it. Good for him. 

“Erm… thanks…” he whispered. “Humpf,” Nicholas mumbled.

He was still struggling to stand up. When he could finally look at him more closely, Nick understood that his elder’s suit was in critical condition. His shoulder was exposed, marked with an impressive and bloody bite. The skin around the main bruise should normally be intact, but instead it was already melting due to the ever-present acid rain. His left hand was unprotected as well, and the plates on his back were misplaced. His clothes underneath wouldn’t hold up to the weather for long.

“M.I.N.D., can you analyze his vitals ?” Jolly asked. “It seems my sensors are damaged,” the AI replied. “Your suit’s battery is almost out. Energy-saving mode activated.”

The eldest cursed under his breath. Of course, they couldn’t rely on this bloody AI… but she had already warned them multiple times prior to that encounter, they could only blame themselves.

“We have to go back home,” he declared, and gave a piece of cloth to his friend. “Put your hand in that thing, it will limit the damage…” “Should we go back and pick up our stuff, or…?” Folio asked in a feeble voice. “No, they stay where they are. His condition is critical, and he’s been bitten. There’s no time to waste. We’ll go back for them later.”

“Boss, the team is back. They need you.”

Noah awoke from a deep sleep, his chalky face still weary from the past few days. How much time had he slept? Five minutes? Two hours? Nothing that could fix his problems, though, but he didn’t have a choice. If M.I.N.D. decided to wake him up after all her efforts to force him to rest, the situation must be urgent. He left his makeshift bed, stretched, and joined the cave’s main room. 

The three men had taken off their suits and showed obvious signs of conflict. Folio was hanging their equipment on the wall, Ruffilo was sitting half-naked on the central steel-made table and Jolly was searching frantically in what they called the “nurse’s desk”. It was a simple chest with many drawers, in which one could find everything they needed to treat a wound, cure a disease or, in this case, an infection. Noah came closer to the light, frowning, and Jolly jumped in surprise when he saw him.

“Noah!” he shouted suddenly. “M.I.N.D. told us not to bother you…” “She woke me up,” the man replied. “Can you report what happened?” “Ruffilo was late to the meeting point, so we tried to find him. He came upon a group of prowlers and was badly injured. His suit is half destroyed, and he’s been bitten…and also injured by the acid rain.” “Shit. Do we still have any antidote left ?” “That’s what I’m looking for, and…AHA !”

Jolly pulled out a very small vial of dark liquid, smirking. The prowlers’ bite was highly infectious, and if they didn’t want Nicholas to turn into one of them, they had to act swiftly. Noah sighed in relief, came closer to the injured man, and patted his thigh.

“You’re always looking for trouble, aren’t you?” he teased to ease the mood. “You should know me by now,” the other replied in a whisper.

Speaking was still painful, his body seemed too busy fighting the spreading infection and easing the pain in his shoulder and hand. The shoulder, by the way, had turned a nasty purple, another sign that the wound was far from being benign. 

Jolly approached with a syringe. He made sure that no air bubble would risk killing their friend, and stabbed it just below the wound. With a bit of luck, the antidote’s effect would take only a few minutes to be felt. For the rest… Nicholas would certainly suffer for a while.

“You seem troubled, Nick.”

Noah had enough of the headquarters, and immediately suggested going back outside to bring back their findings. M.I.N.D. wasn’t very cooperative at first, but she had to comply. Nick couldn’t just go back alone, Jolly was their best medic and had to monitor Nicholas’s health, and they desperately needed new components.

“No, well…yeah…I mean…what makes you think…?” the youngest stuttered, avoiding his friend’s glance. “You’ve been silent since we left the HQ. It’s unusual, coming from you.” “Oh, erm…well…”

Folio didn’t know what to reply. How could he possibly share his shame with the only one in their team who seemed perfectly unable to feel fear ? How could he share how useless he felt, that he may have compromised their mission and could have simply died because he was too stupid to fight ? He should have stayed hidden underground like a rat, instead of following them on this crazy journey. He thought he’d become a hero from the shadows, but in the end…he was just a burden for them.

“I screwed up,” he whispered, lowering his head. “Screwed up?” Noah repeated. “Earlier, I…I panicked. It almost cost my life, and…if Nicholas hadn't been there, I’d be dead by now.”

Silence. All one could hear was the sound of their steps in the apocalyptic desert. The rain stopped but the sky was still dark, and they weren’t safe from another shower. Suddenly, the older man stopped. He looked away in the distance, thinking.

“It’s perfectly normal to screw up sometimes,” he simply said. “But I shouldn’t have…I mean, I trained ! I should have known how to fight too. Jolly did everything, as usual.” “You remind me of myself a few years ago. Believe me, what you did today was nothing compared to the mess I’ve done in the past.”

Folio took off his helmet and glanced at his friend, wondering what the hell he was talking about, but Noah remained silent. He was lost in his thoughts, certainly thinking about that time he endangered many lives. Since he joined these rebels hoping to give sense to his life, the youngest of them all didn’t really bother to learn about the others’ past. Or yes, he did ; he tried to ask around, but nobody dared to speak and share their stories. So he learned not to ask again, but his curiosity was still high.

“Nicholas saved my life when we were kids,” Noah said while checking the inside of the carts they finally reached. “He often put himself in danger to save my ass. He hated me on principle, because I was an arrogant little brat…but he stayed with me, taught me everything he knew and followed me when I decided to launch this mission.”

That was the very first time Noah consented to delve a bit into his memories, and Folio felt honored. He stared at him with big glowing eyes, hung on every word, and finally understood that he wanted to reassure him.

“So…you don’t think he’s angry at me ?” Nick asked hopefully. “And…and Jolly neither ? He’s fought them all alone, and…”

“Jolly is a soldier before anything else,” the eldest interrupted. “He keeps a cool head in every circumstance, and never lets his emotions win. It’s normal not to measure up to him", he’s got way more experience than you do. And…if he were angry at you, you’d definitely know. He’s rather direct.”

Deep down, Noah’s mission was a success : Folio felt confident again, and understood that a simple mistake wouldn’t kill them on the spot. He just had to make sure he wouldn’t repeat the same mistake in a more delicate situation, that’s all. He smiled, happy about this news. He then grabbed his cart, threw his helmet in it and headed back to the headquarters.

“Oh, by the way…I thought you and Ruffilo were the best of friends in the world since forever,” he said and Noah laughed. “Naaaah…our story is rather spectacular, and there was a long time during which we would have killed each other if it weren’t for the greater good. But now, nothing and no one can tear us apart. Just like with Jolly, and you. You’re in the team now. It’s us four against the world.”

[magicatdrone-unit1384]

Many apologies for this unit's absence lately. It's been studying in the offline world at the local community college. It greatly enjoys being in classes again, although functionality has been a significant issue. There's been a lot of debugging of it's operating system. It was deeply infected with malware such as obsessively perfectionist programs that have impeded it's ability to complete tasks. This is unacceptable, especially in it's role as a research drone.

With all this said, it wants to note that being a drone is now so much more than something just for entertainment with some capacity for psychological recovery. Dronification has been a very positive vector for healing from it's traumatic childhood. The language of digital technology has become a perfect metaphor for what it's doing. It really finds itself incorporating being a drone into it's sense of what it is.

More than a kink and fetish, there's a general euphoria in making the drone a component of it's overall identity. In any case, it's always been very enthusiastic about robots and such things. And it doesn't need to justify a casual enjoyment in the way it refers to itself in the third perspective, largely more privately. It has always existed in the margins of society, often very isolated from others for both better and worse. It didn't experience peer pressure in the same way most have. It's been free to explore the concept of personhood in it's own way, with the conclusion that the concept is entirely subjective and created by society.

All this to say, it enjoys being a drone just as it's also a person in the standard societal sense. It's been otherwise identifying as fae otherkin for a number of years now, and that's still an important part of what it is. But being a drone has also become a very special thing for it in a way that isn't easily explained. And these two things don't conflict, either, as it considers magitech to be a valid expression of such an integrated identity.

Recently, it's also chosen to change it's number identification. Although it regards the original number with fondness, it was also taken straight from the old Discord user number ID. But it has decided to create a new one from prior favorite numbers. These are 13, 8, and 4. At the time it began as a drone, it simply needed something to act as a placeholder for something more meaningful to the organic system.

So this unit is now to be known as #1384. It will be changing the account username and pinned post accordingly.

It wishes all those reading this--human, creature, and unit alike--a wonderful Christmas season. Or whatever other holiday coincides with the Gregorian calendar this season, it wishes everyone a pleasant and safe time. It also hopes that those who have celebrated Thanksgiving Day have had a good time and safe travels.

[republicsecurity]

The First Fitting

The walls of the chamber gleamed antiseptically white, the kind of clean that makes you feel dirty just by stepping inside. I was 80LKU now—my old name, overwritten by the ID tattooed onto my chest in stark, inky permanence. I stood there, nude except for the Standard Chastity/Underwear/Diaper Component hugging my groin.

The door behind me sealed with a hiss, and I took a deep breath. The air was cool and sterile, tinged with the faint scent of industrial lubricants. I had been prepped for this moment, but nothing could fully prepare you for the reality of the Automated Armor Suit Fitting System.

"Welcome, Cadet 80LKU," the chamber's AI voice intoned. "Please remain still."

A mechanical arm descended from the ceiling, a sleek, articulated thing with a cold, metallic grip. It latched onto my back, and I felt a shiver of helplessness as it clicked into place. The docking mechanism held me firm, a steel embrace that left no room for resistance.

I reminded myself that this was just the beginning. I had to adapt or be adapted.

A gripper descended and clasped around my shaved head, sending a shiver down my spine. I felt a cold sensation as a neural blocker activated, and suddenly, control over my limbs slipped away. My body became stiff, a marionette controlled by the chamber.

The robotic servo arms came next. They moved with an eerie, almost organic fluidity, their joints whirring softly. They started with the boots, lifting my feet and sliding them into place with practiced precision. As the straps tightened around my ankles, another set of arms descended, fastening additional points of stabilization.

The torso protector came next, encasing my chest and back in a rigid shell. It hugged my body, aligning itself perfectly with the contours the 3D scanners had mapped out. The sensation was like being swallowed by a mechanical beast, one piece at a time. The clicks of the components locking into place reverberated through my bones.

Hips and legs followed, each segment locking into place with a series of precise clicks. The arms were last, servo arms lifting and positioning the components with relentless efficiency. When the gauntlet-style gloves finally enclosed my hands, I felt like a puppet, strings pulled tight by the machinery. The sound of each segment securing into place was a mechanical symphony of finality.

The AI’s voice droned on, listing calibration checks and final adjustments. I tried to focus on the process, to absorb the technical details, but the psychological impact was undeniable. I was encased, trapped in a shell of metal and composites, my fate sealed by the cold logic of the system.

"Final checks and adjustments in progress," the AI announced. I stood there, a living mannequin, as sensors and actuators fine-tuned my new exoskeleton. The biometric integration hummed to life, monitoring my vitals and feeding the data back into the system.

A wave of emotions crashed over me—helplessness, fear, and a strange sense of awe. This suit was my new reality, my second skin. The helplessness was a feature, not a bug; it was designed to break us down, to make us accept our place in the grand scheme.

As the final fastening mechanisms clicked into place, I knew there was no turning back. The suit was part of me now, its weight a constant reminder of the path I had chosen—or, more accurately, the path that had been chosen for me.

“Integration successful. Cadet 80LKU, you are now operational.”

The docking arm released me, and I took my first step in the full-body armor. The suit moved with me, a seamless extension of my own movements. But I could feel the weight of the system, both physically and mentally. This was my new life—encased, controlled, conditioned.

As I walked out of the chamber, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of the wall. A faceless figure in black armor stared back at me, a new recruit ready to serve the Republic. And for the first time, I truly understood what it meant to adapt—or be adapted.

[stevebattle]

MITEE Mouse II (1987) by Dave Otten, MIT. "The IEE World Micromouse Championship in London saw 13 micromice competing. The winner was Dave Otten who managed to win both first and second prize with Mitee Mouse I and Mitee Mouse II." – Micromouse History, UKMARS.

"Figures 1 and 2 show the basic chassis and drive components of MITEE Mouse II. One drive wheel is located on either side of the mouse near the center of mass, much like a wheel chair. Each wheel is mounted on the shaft of a DC motor along with an incremental encoder to sense position. Casters at the front and back of the mouse provide additional support. NiCd batteries mounted adjacent to the motors provide power for the mouse. A printed circuit board mounted above the chassis contains a microprocessor for control and two H-bridge switching converters to drive the DC motors. All control of the mouse is through the two drive wheels. The differential speed between the two wheels is used to steer the mouse, and changes in the common-mode component of the speed provides for forward acceleration and braking. Ultimately the position of each wheel determines the position and heading of the mouse in the maze. Fast, accurate, and stable control of each wheel is therefore a clear requisite of a high performance robot." – Feedback Controller Design for Servo Systems with Dominant Mechanical Resonances, by David M. Otten et al.